A WOMAN’S IDEA OF FRIENDSHIP

Sir Peregrine after the hour that he had spent with his daughter-in-law, ­that terrible hour during which Lady Mason had sat alone on the bed-side, ­returned to the library and remained there during the whole of the afternoon.  It may be remembered that he had agreed to ride through the woods with his grandson; but that purpose had been abandoned early in the day, and Peregrine had in consequence been hanging about the house.  He soon perceived that something was amiss, but he did not know what.  He had looked for his mother, and had indeed seen her for a moment at her door; but she had told him that she could not then speak to him.  Sir Peregrine also had shut himself up, but about the hour of dusk he sent for his grandson; and when Mrs. Orme, on leaving Lady Mason, went down to the library, she found them both together.

They were standing with their backs to the fire, and the gloom in the room was too dark to allow of their faces being seen, but she felt that the conversation between them was of a serious nature.  Indeed what conversation in that house could be other than serious on that day?  “I see that I am disturbing you,” she said, preparing to retreat.  “I did not know that you were together.”

“Do not go, Edith,” said the old man.  “Peregrine, put a chair for your mother.  I have told him that all this is over now between me and Lady Mason.”

She trembled as she heard the words, for it seemed to her that there must be danger now in even speaking of Lady Mason, ­danger with reference to that dreadful secret, the divulging of which would be so fatal.

“I have told him,” continued Sir Peregrine, “that for a few minutes I was angry with him when I heard from Lady Mason that he had spoken to her; but I believe that on the whole it is better that it should have been so.”

“He would be very unhappy if anything that he had done had distressed you,” said Mrs. Orme, hardly knowing what words to use, or how to speak.  Nor did she feel quite certain as yet how much had been told to her son, and how much was concealed from him.

“No, no, no,” said the old man, laying his arm affectionately on the young man’s shoulder.  “He has done nothing to distress me.  There is nothing wrong ­nothing wrong between him and me.  Thank God for that.  But, Perry, we will think now of that other matter.  Have you told your mother anything about it?” And he strove to look away from the wretchedness of his morning’s work to something in his family that still admitted of a bright hope.

“No, sir; not yet.  We won’t mind that just now.”  And then they all remained silent, Mrs. Orme sitting, and the two men still standing with their backs towards the fire.  Her mind was too intent on the unfortunate lady up stairs to admit of her feeling interest in that other unknown matter to which Sir Peregrine had alluded.

“If you have done with Perry,” she said at last, “I would be glad to speak to you for a minute or two.”

“Oh yes,” said Peregrine; ­“we have done.”  And then he went.

“You have told him,” said she, as soon as they were left together.

“Told him; what, of her?  Oh no.  I have told him that that, ­that idea of mine has been abandoned.”  From this time forth Sir Peregrine could never endure to speak of his proposed marriage, nor to hear it spoken of.  “He conceives that this has been done at her instance,” he continued.

“And so it has,” said Mrs. Orme, with much more of decision in her voice than was customary with her.

“And so it has,” he repeated after her.

“Nobody must know of this,” ­said she very solemnly, standing up and looking into his face with eager eyes.  “Nobody but you and I.”

“All the world, I fear, will know it soon,” said Sir Peregrine.

“No; no.  Why should all the world know it?  Had she not told us we should not have known it.  We should not have suspected it.  Mr. Furnival, who understands these things; ­he does not think her guilty.”

“But, Edith ­the property!”

“Let her give that up ­after a while; when all this has passed by.  That man is not in want.  It will not hurt him to be without it a little longer.  It will be enough for her to do that when this trial shall be over.”

“But it is not hers.  She cannot give it up.  It belongs to her son, ­or is thought to belong to him.  It is not for us to be informers, Edith ­”

“No, no; it is not for us to be informers.  We must remember that.”

“Certainly.  It is not for us to tell the story of her guilt; but her guilt will remain the same, will be acted over and over again every day, while the proceeds of the property go into the hands of Lucius Mason.  It is that which is so terrible, Edith; ­that her conscience should have been able to bear that load for the last twenty years!  A deed done, ­that admits of no restitution, may admit of repentance.  We may leave that to the sinner and his conscience, hoping that he stands right with his Maker.  But here, with her, there has been a continual theft going on from year to year, ­which is still going on.  While Lucius Mason holds a sod of Orley Farm, true repentance with her must be impossible.  It seems so to me.”  And Sir Peregrine shuddered at the doom which his own rectitude of mind and purpose forced him to pronounce.

“It is not she that has it,” said Mrs. Orme.  “It was not done for herself.”

“There is no difference in that,” said he sharply.  “All sin is selfish, and so was her sin in this.  Her object was the aggrandisement of her own child; and when she could not accomplish that honestly, she did it by fraud, and ­and ­and .  Edith, my dear, you and I must look at this thing as it is.  You must not let your kind heart make your eyes blind in a matter of such moment.”

“No, father; nor must the truth make our hearts cruel.  You talk of restitution and repentance.  Repentance is not the work of a day.  How are we to say by what struggles her poor heart has been torn?”

“I do not judge her.”

“No, no; that is it.  We may not judge her; may we?  But we may assist her in her wretchedness.  I have promised that I will do all I can to aid her.  You will allow me to do so; ­you will; will you not?” And she pressed his arm and looked up into his face, entreating him.  Since first they two had known each other, he had never yet denied her a request.  It was a law of his life that he would never do so.  But now he hesitated, not thinking that he would refuse her, but feeling that on such an occasion it would be necessary to point out to her how far she might go without risk of bringing censure on her own name.  But in this case, though the mind of Sir Peregrine might be the more logical, the purpose of his daughter-in-law was the stronger.  She had resolved that such communication with crime would not stain her, and she already knew to what length she would go in her charity.  Indeed, her mind was fully resolved to go far enough.

“I hardly know as yet what she intends to do; any assistance that you can give her must, I should say, depend on her own line of conduct.”

“But I want your advice as to that.  I tell you what I purpose.  It is clear that Mr. Furnival thinks she will gain the day at this trial.”

“But Mr. Furnival does not know the truth.”

“Nor will the judge and the lawyers, and all the rest.  As you say so properly, it is not for us to be the informers.  If they can prove it, let them.  But you would not have her tell them all against herself?” And then she paused, waiting for his answer.

“I do not know.  I do not know what to say.  It is not for me to advise her.”

“Ah, but it is for you,” she said; and as she spoke she put her little hand down on the table with an energy which startled him.  “She is here ­a wretched woman, in your house.  And why do you know the truth?  Why has it been told to you and me?  Because without telling it she could not turn you from that purpose of yours.  It was generous, father ­confess that; it was very generous.”

“Yes, it was generous,” said Sir Peregrine.

“It was very generous.  It would be base in us if we allowed ourselves to forget that.  But I was telling you my plan.  She must go to this trial.”

“Oh yes; there will be no doubt as to that.”

“Then ­if she can escape, let the property be given up afterwards.”

“I do not see how it is to be arranged.  The property will belong to Lucius, and she cannot give it up then.  It is not so easy to put matters right when guilt and fraud have set them wrong.”

“We will do the best we can.  Even suppose that you were to tell Lucius afterwards; ­you yourself! if that were necessary, you know.”

And so by degrees she talked him over; but yet he would come to no decision as to what steps he himself must take.  What if he himself should go to Mr. Round, and pledge himself that the whole estate should be restored to Mr. Mason of Groby, on condition that the trial were abandoned?  The world would probably guess the truth after that; but the terrible trial and the more terrible punishment which would follow it might be thus escaped.  Poor Sir Peregrine!  Even when he argued thus within himself, his conscience told him that in taking such a line of conduct, he himself would be guilty of some outrage against the law by aiding a criminal in her escape.  He had heard of misprision of felony; but nevertheless, he allowed his daughter-in-law to prevail.  Before such a step as this could be taken the consent of Lady Mason must of course be obtained; but as to that Mrs. Orme had no doubt.  If Lucius could be induced to abandon the property without hearing the whole story, it would be well.  But if that could not be achieved, ­then the whole story must be told to him.  “And you will tell it,” Mrs. Orme said to him.  “It would be easier for me to cut off my right arm,” he answered; “but I will do my best.”

And then came the question as to the place of Lady Mason’s immediate residence.  It was evident to Mrs. Orme that Sir Peregrine expected that she would at once go back to Orley Farm; ­not exactly on that day, nor did he say on the day following.  But his words made it very manifest that he did not think it right that she should under existing circumstances remain at The Cleeve.  Sir Peregrine, however, as quickly understood that Mrs. Orme did not wish her to go away for some days.

“It would injure the cause if she were to leave us quite at once,” said Mrs. Orme.

“But how can she stay here, my dear, ­with no one to see her; with none but the servants to wait upon her?”

“I should see her,” said Mrs. Orme, boldly.

“Do you mean constantly ­in your old, friendly way?”

“Yes, constantly; and,” she added after a pause, “not only here, but at Orley Farm also.”  And then there was another pause between them.

Sir Peregrine certainly was not a cruel man, nor was his heart by any means hardened against the lady with whom circumstances had lately joined him so closely.  Indeed, since the knowledge of her guilt had fully come upon him, he had undertaken the conduct of her perilous affairs in a manner more confidential even than that which had existed while he expected to make her his wife.  But, nevertheless, it went sorely against the grain with him when it was proposed that there should still exist a close intimacy between the one cherished lady of his household and the woman who had been guilty of so base a crime.  It seemed to him that he might touch pitch and not be defiled; ­he or any man belonging to him.  But he could not reconcile it to himself that the widow of his son should run such risk.  In his estimation there was something almost more than human about the purity of the only woman that blessed his hearth.  It seemed to him as though she were a sacred thing, to be guarded by a shrine, ­to be protected from all contact with the pollutions of the outer world.  And now it was proposed to him that she should take a felon to her bosom as her friend!

“But will that be necessary, Edith?” he said; “and after all that has been revealed to us now, will it be wise?”

“I think so,” she said, speaking again with a very low voice.  “Why, should I not?”

“Because she has shown herself unworthy of such friendship; ­unfit for it I should say.”

“Unworthy!  Dear father, is she not as worthy and as fit as she was yesterday?  If we saw clearly into each other’s bosom, whom should we think worthy?”

“But you would not choose for your friend one ­one who could do such a deed as that?”

“No; I would not choose her because she had so acted; nor perhaps if I knew all beforehand would I open my heart to one who had so done.  But it is different now.  What are love and friendship worth if they cannot stand against such trials as these?”

“Do you mean, Edith, that no crime would separate you from a friend?”

“I have not said that.  There are circumstances always.  But if she repents, ­as I am sure she does, I cannot bring myself to desert her.  Who else is there that can stand by her now; what other woman?  At any rate I have promised her, and you would not have me break my word.”

Thus she again gained her point, and it was settled that for the present Lady Mason should be allowed to occupy her own room, ­her own room, and occasionally Mrs. Orme’s sitting-room, if it pleased her to do so.  No day was named for her removal, but, Mrs. Orme perfectly understood that the sooner such a day could be fixed the better Sir Peregrine would be pleased.  And, indeed, his household as at present arranged was not a pleasant one.  The servants had all heard of his intended marriage, and now they must also hear that that intention was abandoned.  And yet the lady would remain up stairs as a guest of his!  There was much in this that was inconvenient; but under circumstances as they now existed, what could he do?

When all this was arranged and Mrs. Orme had dressed for dinner, she again went to Lady Mason.  She found her in bed, and told her that at night she would come to her and tell her all.  And then she instructed her own servant as to attending upon the invalid.  In doing this she was cunning in letting a word fall here and there, that might teach the woman that that marriage purpose was all over; but nevertheless there was so much care and apparent affection in her mode of speaking, and she gave her orders for Lady Mason’s comfort with so much earnestness, that no idea could get abroad in the household that there had been any cause for absolute quarrel.

Late at night, when her son had left her, she did go again to her guest’s room, and sitting down by the bed-side she told her all that had been planned, pointing out however with much care that, as a part of those plans, Orley Farm was to be surrendered to Joseph Mason.  “You think that is right; do you not?” said Mrs. Orme, almost trembling as she asked a question so pertinent to the deed which the other had done, and to that repentance for the deed which was now so much to be desired.

“Yes,” said the other, “of course it will be right.”  And then the thought that it was not in her power to abandon the property occurred to her also.  If the estate must be voluntarily surrendered, no one could so surrender it but Lucius Mason.  She knew this, and felt at the moment that of all men he would be the least likely to do so, unless an adequate reason was made clearly plain to him.  The same thought at the same moment was passing through the minds of them both; but Lady Mason could not speak out her thought, and Mrs. Orme would not say more on that terrible day to trouble the mind of the poor creature whose sufferings she was so anxious to assuage.

And then Lady Mason was left alone, and having now a partner in her secret, slept sounder than she had done since the tidings first reached her of Mr. Dockwrath’s vengeance.