THE LAST DAY

Mrs. Orme was up very early on that last morning of the trial, and had dressed herself before Lady Mason was awake.  It was now March, but yet the morning light was hardly sufficient for her as she went through her toilet.  They had been told to be in the court very punctually at ten, and in order to do so they must leave Orley Farm at nine.  Before that, as had been arranged over night, Lucius was to see his mother.

“You haven’t told him! he doesn’t know!” were the first words which Lady Mason spoke as she raised her head from the pillow.  But then she remembered.  “Ah! yes,” she said, as she again sank back and hid her face, “he knows it all now.”

“Yes, dear; he knows it all; and is it not better so?  He will come and see you, and when that is over you will be more comfortable than you have been for years past.”

Lucius also had been up early, and when he learned that Mrs. Orme was dressed, he sent up to her begging that he might see her.  Mrs. Orme at once went to him, and found him seated at the breakfast-table with his head resting on his arm.  His face was pale and haggard, and his hair was uncombed.  He had not been undressed that night, and his clothes hung on him as they always do hang on a man who has passed a sleepless night in them.  To Mrs. Orme’s inquiry after himself he answered not a word, nor did he at first ask after his mother.  “That was all true that you told me last night?”

“Yes, Mr. Mason; it was true.”

“And she and I must be outcasts for ever.  I will endeavour to bear it, Mrs. Orme.  As I did not put an end to my life last night I suppose that I shall live and bear it.  Does she expect to see me?”

“I told her that you would come to her this morning.”

“And what shall I say?  I would not condemn my own mother; but how can I not condemn her?”

“Tell her at once that you will forgive her.”

“But it will be a lie.  I have not forgiven her.  I loved my mother and esteemed her as a pure and excellent woman.  I was proud of my mother.  How can I forgive her for having destroyed such feelings as those?”

“There should be nothing that a son would not forgive his mother.”

“Ah! that is so easily spoken.  Men talk of forgiveness when their anger rankles deepest in their hearts.  In the course of years I shall forgive her.  I hope I shall.  But to say that I can forgive her now would be a farce.  She has broken my heart, Mrs. Orme.”

“And has not she suffered herself?  Is not her heart broken?”

“I have been thinking of that all night.  I cannot understand how she should have lived for the last six months.  Well; is it time that I should go to her?”

Mrs. Orme again went up stairs, and after another interval of half an hour returned to fetch him.  She almost regretted that she had undertaken to bring them together on that morning, thinking that it might have been better to postpone the interview till the trial should be over.  She had expected that Lucius would have been softer in his manner.  But it was too late for any such thought.

“You will find her dressed now, Mr. Mason,” said she; “but I conjure you, as you hope for mercy yourself, to be merciful to her.  She is your mother, and though she has injured you by her folly, her heart has been true to you through it all.  Go now, and remember that harshness to any woman is unmanly.”

“I can only act as I think best,” he replied in that low stern voice which was habitual to him; and then with slow steps he went up to his mother’s room.

When he entered it she was standing with her eyes fixed upon the door and her hands clasped together.  So she stood till he had closed the door behind him, and had taken a few steps on towards the centre of the room.  Then she rushed forward, and throwing herself on the ground before him clasped him round the knees with her arms.  “My boy, my boy!” she said.  And then she lay there bathing his feet with her tears.

“Oh! mother, what is this that she has told me?”

But Lady Mason at the moment spoke no further words.  It seemed as though her heart would have burst with sobs, and when for a moment she lifted up her face to his, the tears were streaming down her cheeks.  Had it not been for that relief she could not have borne the sufferings which were heaped upon her.

“Mother, get up,” he said.  “Let me raise you.  It is dreadful that you should lie there.  Mother, let me lift you.”  But she still clung to his knees, grovelling on the ground before him.  “Lucius, Lucius,” she said, and she then sank away from him as though the strength of her muscles would no longer allow her to cling to him.  She sank away from him and lay along the ground hiding her face upon the floor.

“Mother,” he said, taking her gently by the arm as he knelt at her side, “if you will rise I will speak to you.”

“Your words will kill me,” she said.  “I do not dare to look at you.  Oh!  Lucius, will you ever forgive me?”

And yet she had done it all for him.  She had done a rascally deed, an hideous cut-throat deed, but it had been done altogether for him.  No thought of her own aggrandisement had touched her mind when she resolved upon that forgery.  As Rebekah had deceived her lord and robbed Esau, the first-born, of his birthright, so had she robbed him who was as Esau to her.  How often had she thought of that, while her conscience was pleading hard against her!  Had it been imputed as a crime to Rebekah that she had loved her own son well, and loving him had put a crown upon his head by means of her matchless guile?  Did she love Lucius, her babe, less than Rebekah had loved Jacob?  And had she not striven with the old man, struggling that she might do this just thing without injustice, till in his anger he had thrust her from him.  “I will not break my promise for the brat,” the old man had said; ­and then she did the deed.  But all that was as nothing now.  She felt no comfort now from that Bible story which had given her such encouragement before the thing was finished.  Now the result of evil-doing had come full home to her, and she was seeking pardon with a broken heart, while burning tears furrowed her cheeks, ­not from him whom she had thought to injure, but from the child of her own bosom, for whose prosperity she had been so anxious.

Then she slowly arose and allowed him to place her upon the sofa.  “Mother,” he said, “it is all over here.”

“Ah! yes.”

“Whither we had better go, I cannot yet say, ­or when.  We must wait till this day is ended.”

“Lucius, I care nothing for myself, ­nothing.  It is nothing to me whether or no they say that I am guilty.  It is of you only that I am thinking.”

“Our lot, mother, must still be together.  If they find you guilty you will be imprisoned, and then I will go, and come back when they release you.  For you and me the future world will be very different from the past.”

“It need not be so, ­for you, Lucius.  I do not wish to keep you near me now.”

“But I shall be near you.  Where you hide your shame there will I hide mine.  In this world there is nothing left for us.  But there is another world before you, ­if you can repent of your sin.”  This too he said very sternly, standing somewhat away from her, and frowning the while with those gloomy eyebrows.  Sad as was her condition he might have given her solace, could he have taken her by the hand and kissed her.  Peregrine Orme would have done so, or Augustus Staveley, could it have been possible that they should have found themselves in that position.  Though Lucius Mason could not do so, he was not less just than they, and, it may be, not less loving in his heart.  He could devote himself for his mother’s sake as absolutely as could they.  But to some is given and to some is denied that cruse of heavenly balm with which all wounds can be assuaged and sore hearts ever relieved of some portion of their sorrow.  Of all the virtues with which man can endow himself surely none other is so odious as that justice which can teach itself to look down upon mercy almost as a vice!

“I will not ask you to forgive me,” she said, plaintively.

“Mother,” he answered, “were I to say that I forgave you my words would be a mockery.  I have no right either to condemn or to forgive.  I accept my position as it has been made for me, and will endeavour to do my duty.”

It would have been almost better for her that he should have upbraided her for her wickedness.  She would then have fallen again prostrate before him, if not in body at least in spirit, and her weakness would have stood for her in place of strength.  But now it was necessary that she should hear his words and bear his looks, ­bear them like a heavy burden on her back without absolutely sinking.  It had been that necessity of bearing and never absolutely sinking which, during years past, had so tried and tested the strength of her heart and soul.  Seeing that she had not sunk, we may say that her strength had been very wonderful.

And then she stood up and came close to him.  “But you will give me your hand, Lucius?”

“Yes, mother; there is my hand.  I shall stand by you through it all.”  But he did not offer to kiss her; and there was still some pride in her heart which would not allow her to ask him for an embrace.

“And now,” he said, “it is time that you should prepare to go.  Mrs. Orme thinks it better that I should not accompany you.”

“No, Lucius, no; you must not hear them proclaim my guilt in court.”

“That would make but little difference.  But nevertheless I will not go.  Had I known this before I should not have gone there.  It was to testify my belief in your innocence; nay, my conviction ­”

“Oh, Lucius, spare me!”

“Well, I will speak of it no more.  I shall be here to-night when you come back.”

“But if they say that I am guilty they will take me away.”

“If so I will come to you, ­in the morning if they will let me.  But, mother, in any case I must leave this house to-morrow.”  Then again he gave her his hand, but he left her without touching her with his lips.

When the two ladies appeared in court together without Lucius Mason there was much question among the crowd as to the cause of his absence.  Both Dockwrath and Joseph Mason looked at it in the right light, and accepted it as a ground for renewed hope.  “He dare not face the verdict,” said Dockwrath.  And yet when they had left the court on the preceding evening, after listening to Mr. Furnival’s speech, their hopes had not been very high.  Dockwrath had not admitted with words that he feared defeat, but when Mason had gnashed his teeth as he walked up and down his room at Alston, and striking the table with his clenched fist had declared his fears, “By heavens they will escape me again!” Dockwrath had not been able to give him substantial comfort.  “The jury are not such fools as to take all that for gospel,” he had said.  But he had not said it with that tone of assured conviction which he had always used till Mr. Furnival’s speech had been made.  There could have been no greater attestation to the power displayed by Mr. Furnival than Mr. Mason’s countenance as he left the court on that evening.  “I suppose it will cost me hundreds of pounds,” he said to Dockwrath that evening.  “Orley Farm will pay for it all,” Dockwrath had answered; but his answer had shown no confidence.  And, if we think well of it, Joseph Mason was deserving of pity.  He wanted only what was his own; and that Orley Farm ought to be his own he had no smallest doubt.  Mr. Furnival had not in the least shaken him; but he had made him feel that others would be shaken.  “If it could only be left to the judge,” thought Mr. Mason to himself.  And then he began to consider whether this British palladium of an unanimous jury had not in it more of evil than of good.

Young Peregrine Orme again met his mother at the door of the court, and at her instance gave his arm to Lady Mason.  Mr. Aram was also there; but Mr. Aram had great tact, and did not offer his arm to Mrs. Orme, contenting himself with making a way for her and walking beside her.  “I am glad that her son has not come to-day,” he said, not bringing his head suspiciously close to hers, but still speaking so that none but she might hear him.  “He has done all the good that he could do, and as there is only the judge’s charge to hear, the jury will not notice his absence.  Of course we hope for the best, Mrs. Orme, but it is doubtful.”

As Felix Graham took his place next to Chaffanbrass, the old lawyer scowled at him, turning his red old savage eyes first on him and then from him, growling the while, so that the whole court might notice it.  The legal portion of the court did notice it and were much amused.  “Good morning, Mr. Chaffanbrass,” said Graham quite aloud as he took his seat; and then Chaffanbrass growled again.  Considering the lights with which he had been lightened, there was a species of honesty about Mr. Chaffanbrass which certainly deserved praise.  He was always true to the man whose money he had taken, and gave to his customer, with all the power at his command, that assistance which he had professed to sell.  But we may give the same praise to the hired bravo who goes through with truth and courage the task which he has undertaken.  I knew an assassin in Ireland who professed that during twelve years of practice in Tipperary he had never failed when he had once engaged himself.  For truth and honesty to their customers ­which are great virtues ­I would bracket that man and Mr. Chaffanbrass together.

And then the judge commenced his charge, and as he went on with it he repeated all the evidence that was in any way of moment, pulling the details to pieces, and dividing that which bore upon the subject from that which did not.  This he did with infinite talent and with a perspicuity beyond all praise.  But to my thinking it was remarkable that he seemed to regard the witnesses as a dissecting surgeon may be supposed to regard the subjects on which he operates for the advancement of science.  With exquisite care he displayed what each had said and how the special saying of one bore on that special saying of another.  But he never spoke of them as though they had been live men and women who were themselves as much entitled to justice at his hands as either the prosecutor in this matter or she who was being prosecuted; who, indeed, if anything, were better entitled unless he could show that they were false and suborned; for unless they were suborned or false they were there doing a painful duty to the public, for which they were to receive no pay and from which they were to obtain no benefit.  Of whom else in that court could so much be said?  The judge there had his ermine and his canopy, his large salary and his seat of honour.  And the lawyers had their wigs, and their own loud voices, and their places of precedence.  The attorneys had their seats and their big tables, and the somewhat familiar respect of the tipstaves.  The jury, though not much to be envied, were addressed with respect and flattery, had their honourable seats, and were invariably at least called gentlemen.  But why should there be no seat of honour for the witnesses?  To stand in a box, to be bawled after by the police, to be scowled at and scolded by the judge, to be browbeaten and accused falsely by the barristers, and then to be condemned as perjurers by the jury, ­that is the fate of the one person who during the whole trial is perhaps entitled to the greatest respect, and is certainly entitled to the most public gratitude.  Let the witness have a big arm-chair, and a canopy over him, and a man behind him with a red cloak to do him honour and keep the flies off; let him be gently invited to come forward from some inner room where he can sit before a fire.  Then he will be able to speak out, making himself heard without scolding, and will perhaps be able to make a fair fight with the cocks who can crow so loudly on their own dunghills.

The judge in this case did his work with admirable skill, blowing aside the froth of Mr. Furnival’s eloquence, and upsetting the sophistry and false deductions of Mr. Chaffanbrass.  The case for the jury, as he said, hung altogether upon the evidence of Kenneby and the woman Bolster.  As far as he could see, the evidence of Dockwrath had little to do with it; and alleged malice and greed on the part of Dockwrath could have nothing to do with it.  The jury might take it as proved that Lady Mason at the former trial had sworn that she had been present when her husband signed the codicil and had seen the different signatures affixed to it.  They might also take it as proved, that that other deed, ­the deed purporting to close a partnership between Sir Joseph Mason and Mr. Martock, ­had been executed on the 14th of July, and that it had been signed by Sir Joseph, and also by those two surviving witnesses, Kenneby and Bolster.  The question, therefore, for the consideration of the jury had narrowed itself to this:  had two deeds been executed by Sir Joseph Mason, both bearing the same date?  If this had not been done, and if that deed with reference to the partnership were a true deed, then must the other be false and fraudulent; and if false and fraudulent, then must Lady Mason have sworn falsely, and been guilty of that perjury with which she was now charged.  There might, perhaps, be one loophole to this argument by which an escape was possible.  Though both deeds bore the date of 14th July, there might have been error in this.  It was possible, though no doubt singular, that that date should have been inserted in the partnership deed, and the deed itself be executed afterwards.  But then the woman Bolster told them that she had been called to act as witness but once in her life, and if they believed her in that statement, the possibility of error as to the date would be of little or no avail on behalf of Lady Mason.  For himself, he could not say that adequate ground had been shown for charging Bolster with swearing falsely.  No doubt she had been obstinate in her method of giving her testimony, but that might have arisen from an honest resolution on her part not to allow herself to be shaken.  The value of her testimony must, however, be judged by the jury themselves.  As regarded Kenneby, he must say that the man had been very stupid.  No one who had heard him would accuse him for a moment of having intended to swear falsely, but the jury might perhaps think that the testimony of such a man could not be taken as having much value with reference to circumstances which happened more than twenty years since.

The charge took over two hours, but the substance of it has been stated.  Then the jury retired to consider their verdict, and the judge, and the barristers, and some other jury proceeded to the business of some other and less important trial.  Lady Mason and Mrs. Orme sat for a while in their seats ­perhaps for a space of twenty minutes ­and then, as the jury did not at once return into court, they retired to the sitting-room in which they had first been placed.  Here Mr. Aram accompanied them, and here they were of course met by Peregrine Orme.

“His lordship’s charge was very good ­very good, indeed,” said Mr. Aram.

“Was it?” asked Peregrine.

“And very much in our favour,” continued the attorney.

“You think then,” said Mrs. Orme, looking up into his face, “you think that ­” But she did not know how to go on with her question.

“Yes, I do.  I think we shall have a verdict; I do, indeed.  I would not say so before Lady Mason if my opinion was not very strong.  The jury may disagree.  That is not improbable.  But I cannot anticipate that the verdict will be against us.”

There was some comfort in this; but how wretched was the nature of the comfort!  Did not the attorney, in every word which he spoke, declare his own conviction of his client’s guilt.  Even Peregrine Orme could not say out boldly that he felt sure of an acquittal because no other verdict could be justly given.  And then why was not Mr. Furnival there, taking his friend by the hand and congratulating her that her troubles were so nearly over?  Mr. Furnival at this time did not come near her; and had he done so, what could he have said to her?

He and Sir Richard Leatherham left the court together, and the latter went at once back to London without waiting to hear the verdict.  Mr. Chaffanbrass also, and Felix Graham retired from the scene of their labours, and as they did so, a few words were spoken between them.

“Mr. Graham,” said the ancient hero of the Old Bailey, “you are too great for this kind of work I take it.  If I were you, I would keep out of it for the future.”

“I am very much of the same way of thinking, Mr. Chaffanbrass,” said the other.

“If a man undertakes a duty, he should do it.  That’s my opinion, though I confess it’s a little old fashioned; especially if he takes money for it, Mr. Graham.”  And then the old man glowered at him with his fierce eyes, and nodded his head and went on.  What could Graham say to him?  His answer would have been ready enough had there been time or place in which to give it.  But he had no answer ready which was fit for the crowded hall of the court-house, and so Mr. Chaffanbrass went on his way.  He will now pass out of our sight, and we will say of him, that he did his duty well according to his lights.

There, in that little room, sat Lady Mason and Mrs. Orme till late in the evening, and there, with them, remained Peregrine.  Some sort of refreshment was procured for them, but of the three days they passed in the court, that, perhaps, was the most oppressive.  There was no employment for them, and then the suspense was terrible!  That suspense became worse and worse as the hours went on, for it was clear that at any rate some of the jury were anxious to give a verdict against her.  “They say that there’s eight and four,” said Mr. Aram, at one of the many visits which he made to them; “but there’s no saying how true that may be.”

“Eight and four!” said Peregrine.

“Eight to acquit, and four for guilty,” said Aram.  “If so, we’re safe, at any rate, till the next assizes.”

But it was not fated that Lady Mason should be sent away from the court in doubt.  At eight o’clock Mr. Aram came to them, hot with haste, and told them that the jury had sent for the judge.  The judge had gone home to his dinner, but would return to court at once when he heard that the jury had agreed.

“And must we go into court again?” said Mrs. Orme.

“Lady Mason must do so.”

“Then of course I shall go with her.  Are you ready now, dear?”

Lady Mason was unable to speak, but she signified that she was ready, and then they went into court.  The jury were already in the box, and as the two ladies took their seats, the judge entered.  But few of the gas-lights were lit, so that they in the court could hardly see each other, and the remaining ceremony did not take five minutes.

“Not guilty, my lord,” said the foreman.  Then the verdict was recorded, and the judge went back to his dinner.  Joseph Mason and Dockwrath were present and heard the verdict.  I will leave the reader to imagine with what an appetite they returned to their chamber.