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"!•■

600069683

ORLEY FARM.

1--

■^^iiy

CiUJiV FAHM.

ORLEY FARM

ANTHONY TROLLOPE,

AUTHOR OF
" OOOTOB THORNE," " UABCIlEnEB TOWEBS," " FKAMLET PARSOIIAOE," ETC.

WXIi Pnstmtions

BY J. E. MILL A IS.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193 PICCADILLY.

1862.

[7^ rigU of Translation i» r«erte<I.^

CONTENTS.

I. — THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE QRSAT ORLET FABM CASE

II. — LADY MASON AND HER SON
m. — ^THE CLEEVE
IV. — ^THE PERILS OF YOUTH ..

V. — SIR PEREaRINE MAKES A SECOND PROMISE
VI. — ^THE COMMERCIAL ROOM, BULL U^N, LEEDS
VII. — THE MASONS OF GROBY -PiTRk. ..

• ■

Vin. — MRS. mason's HOT LUNCHEON
IX. — A CONVIVIAL MEETING ...**...
X. — MR., MRS., AND MESS FURNIVAL
XI. — MRS. FURNIVAL AT HOME.
XII. — MR. FURNIVAL's CHAMBERS
XIIL — GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY
XIV. — DINNER AT THE CLEEVE
XV. — A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA
XVI. — MR. DOCKWRATH IN BEDFORD ROW
XVn. — VON BAUHR
XVIIL — THE ENGLISH VON BAUHR

PAGK
1

105

113

121

129

137

CONTENTS.

CHAPTKK

XIX. — THE 8TAVELKY FAMILY ..
XX. — MR. DOCKWRATH IN HIS OWN OFFICE ..
XXI. — CHRISTMAS IN HARLEY STREET ..
XXII.— CHRISTMAS AT NONINGSBY
XXIU. — CHRISTMAS AT GROBY PARK
XXIV. — CHRISTMAS IN GREAT ST. HELENS
XXV. — MR. FUR?WVAL AGAIN AT HIS CHAMBERS
XXVI. — ^WHY SHOULD I NOT? ..
XXVU. — COMMERCE

XXVm. — MONKTON GRANGE

XXIX. — BREAKING COVERT

XXX. — ANOTHER FALL ..

XXXI. — FOOTSTEPS IN THE CORRIDOR

XXXII. — WHAT BRIDGET BOLSTER HAD TO SAY .

XXXIII, — THE ANGEL OF LIGHT ..

XXXIV — MR. FURNIVAL LOOKS FOR ASSISTANCE .

XXXV. — LOVE WAS STILL THE LORD OF ALL

XXXVI. — WHAT THE YOUNG MEN THOUGHT ABOUT IT ..
XXXVII. — ^peregrine's ELOQUENCE

xxxvm. — OH, indeed!

XXXIX. — WHY SHOULD HE GO ? ..
XL. — I CALL IT AWFUL

PACK

143
154
161
169
180
186

193
201
210
216
225
232
240
246
257
265
271
281
289
296
302
315

ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOLUME I.

ORLET FARM

SIR PEREGRINE AND HIS HEIR

Frontispiece,

PACK

(«

THERE WAS SORROW IN HER HEART, AND DEEP THOUGHT IN HER

mind" ..

*' THERE IS NOTHING LIKE IRON, SIR; NOTHING"

AND THEN THEY ALL MARCHED OUT OF THE ROOM, EACH WITH HIS
OWN GLASS

MR. FURNIVAL's WEI^'OME HOME .

YOUR SON LUCIUS DID SAY — SHOPPING

>»

OVER THEIR WINE .,

VON BAUHR's DREAM

THE ENGLISH VON BAUHR AND HIS PUPIL

CHRISTMAS AT NONINGSBY. — MORNING

CHRISTMAS AT NONINGSBY. — EVENING

*' WHY SHOUI.D I NOT?" ..

MONKTON GRANGE

FELIX GRAHAM IN TROUBLE

PijOTSTEPS IN THE CORRIDOR

8*?

98
111
136
141
169
175
201
216
227
240

Vm ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAOB

the anoel of light .. .. .. .. 267

lucius mason in his study .. ., .. .. .. 283

peregrine's eloquence .. .. .. .. .. .. 289

lady 8taveley interrufflng her son and sophia furnival .. 306

ORLEY FARM.

CHAPTEB I.

THE COMM£NCEBfENT OF THE GBEAT OBLEY FABM CJkSS.

- •

It 18 not true that a rose by any other name will nnell as sweet.
Were it true, I should call this story * The Great Orley Fann Case.'
Bnt who would ask for the ninth number of a serial work bur-
thened with so very uncouih an appellation? Thenoe, and there-
fore,— Orley Farm.

I say so much at con;Lmencing in order that I may have an oppor-
tunity of explaining that this book of mine will not be devoted in
any speciid way to rural delights. The name migjht lead to the
idea that new precepts were to be given, in the pleasant guise of a
novel, as to oream-oheeses, pigs with small bones, wheat sown in
drills, or artificial manure. No such aspirations are mine. I make
no attempts in that line, and declare at once that agriculturists
will gain nothing from my present performance. Orley Farm, my
readers, will be our scene during a portion of our present sojoiun
together, but the name has been chosen as having been intimately
connected with certain legal questions which made a considerable
stir in our courts of law.

It was twenty years before the date at which this story will be
supposed to commence that the name of Orley Farm first became
known to the wearers of the long robe. At that time had died an
old gentleman, Sir Joseph Mason, who left behind him a landed
estate in Yorkshire of considei*able extent and value. This he be-
queathed, in a proper way, to his eldest son, the Joseph Mason, Esq.,
of our date. Sir Joseph had been a London merchant ; had made
his own money, having commenced the world, no doubt, with half
a crown ; had become, in turn, alderman, mayor, and knight ; and
in the fulness of time was gathered to his fathers. He had pur-
chased this estate in Yorkshire late in life — we may as well
become acquainted with the name, Groby Park — and his eldest
son had lived there with such enjoyment of the privileges of an

VOL. I. B

2 ORLEY FARM.

English country gentleman as he had been able to master for him-
self. Sir Joseph had also had ^hree daughters, full sisters of Joseph
of Qroby, whom he endowed suflSciently and gave over to three
respective loving husbands. And then shortly before his death,
three years or so, Sir Joseph had married a second wife, a lady
forty-five years his junior, and by her he also left one son, an infant
only two years old when he died.

For many years this prosperous gentleman had lived at a small
country house, some five-and-twenty miles from London, called
Orley Farm. This had been his first purchase of land, and he had
never given up his residence there, although his wealth would
have entitled him to the enjoyment of a larger establishment. On
the birth of his youngest son, at which time his eldest was nearly
forty years old, he made certain moderate provision for the infant,
as he had already made moderate provision for his young wife ;
but it was then clearly understood by the eldest son that Orley
Farm was to go with the Groby Park estate to him as the heir.
When, however, Sir Joseph died, a codicil to his will, executed
with due legal formalities, bequeathed Orley Farm to his youngest
son, little Lucius Mason.

Then conmienced those legal proceedings which at last developed
themselves infx) the great Orley Farm Case. The eldest son con-
tested the validity of the codicil; and indeed there were some
grounds on which it appeared feasible that he shoald do so. This
codicil not only left Orley Farm away from him to baby Lucius,
but also interfered in another respect with the previous will. It
devised a sum of two thousand pounds to a certain Miriam Usbech,
the daughter of one Jonathan Usbech who was himself the attorney
who had attended upon Sir Josepb for the making out of this very
will, and also of this very codicil. This sum of two thousand
pounds was not, it is true, left away from the surviving Joseph,
but was to be produced out of certain personal property which had
been left by the first will to the widow. And then old Jonathan
Usbech had died, while Sir Joseph Mason was still living.

All the circumstances of the trial need not be detailed here. It
was clearly proved that Sir Joseph had during his whole life
expressed his intention of leaving Orley Farm to his eldest son ;
that he was a man void of mystery, and not given to secrets in his
money matters, and one very little likely to change his opinion on
such subjects. It was proved that old Jonathan Usbech at the
time in which the will was made was in very bad circumstances,
both as regards money and health. His business had once not been
bad, but he had eaten and drunk it, and at this period was feeble and
penniless, overwhelmed both by gout and debt. He had for many
years been much employed by Sir Joseph in money matters, and it
was known that he was so employed almost up to the day of his

THE GREAT OBLET FARM CASE. 3

death. The question was whether he had been employed to make
this codiciL

The body of the will was in the handwriting of the widow, as
was also the codicil. It was stated by her at the trial that the
words were dictated to her by Usbech in her hnsband's hearing,
and that the docnment was then signed by her husband in the
presence of them both, and also in the presence of two other per-
sons— a yonng man employed by her husband as a clerk, and by a
servant-maid. Th^se two last, together with Mr. Usbech, were the
three witnesses whose names appeared in the codicil. There had
been no secrets between Lady Mason and her husband as to his
will. She had always, she said, endeavoured to induce him to
leave Orley Farm to her child from the day of the child's birth, and
had at last succeeded. In agreeing to this Sir Joseph had explained
to her, somewhat angrily, that he wished to provide for Usbech^s
daughter, and that now he would do so out of moneys previously
intended for her, the widow, and not out of the estate which would
go to his eldest son. To this she had assented without a word, and
had written the codicil in accordance with the lawyer's dictation,
he, the lawyer, suffering at the time from gout in his hand. Among
other things Lady Mason proved that on the date of the signatures
Mr. Usbech had been with Sir Joseph for sundry hours.

Then the young clerk was examined. He had, he said, wit-
nessed in his time four, ten, twenty, and, under pressure, he con-
fessed to as many as a hundred and twenty business signatures on
the part of his employer, Sir Joseph. He thought he had witnessed
a hundred and twenty, but would take his oath ho had not wit-
nessed a hundred and twenty-one. He did remember witnessing
a signature of his master about the time specified by the date of tho
codicil, and he remembered the maid-servant also signing at the
same time. Mr. Usbech was then present ; but ho did not remem-
ber ^Lr. Usbech having the pen in his hand. Mr. Usbech, he
knew, could not write at that time, because of tho gout ; but ho
miglit, no doubt, have written as much as his own name. He
swore to both the signatures — his own and his master's ; and in
cross-examination swore that he thought it probable that they
might bo forgeries. On re-examination he was confident that his
own name, as there appearing, had been written by himself ; but
on re-cross-examination, ho felt sure that there was something
wrong. It ended in the judge informing him that his word was
worth nothing, which was hard enough on the poor young man,
seeing that he had done his best to tell all that he remembered.
Then tho servant-girl came into the witness-box. She was sure it
was her own handwriting. She remembered being called in to
write her name, and seeing the master write his. It nad all been
explained to her at the time, but she admitted that she had not

4 OBLEY FARM.

understood the explanation. She had also seen the clerk write his
name, but she was not sure that she had seen Mr. Usbech write.
Mr. Usbech had had a pen in his hand ; she was sure of that.

The last witness was Miriam Usbech, then a very pretty, simple
girl of seventeen. Her father had told her once that he hoped Sir
Joseph would make provision for her. This had been shortly before
her father's death. At her father's death she had been sent for to
Orley Farm, and had remained there till Sir Joseph died. She had
always regarded Sir Joseph and Lady Mason as her best friends.
She had known Sir Joseph all her life, and did not think it unnatural
that he should provide for her. She had heard her father say more
than once that Lady Mason would never rest till the old gentleman
had settled Orley Farm upon her son.

Not half the evidence taken has been given here, but enough
probably for our purposes. The will and codicil were confirmed,
and Lady Mason continued to Hve at the farm. Her evidence was
supposed to have been excellently given, and to have been conclu-
sive. She had seen the signature, and written the codicil, and could
explain the motive. She was a woman of high character, of great
talent, and of repute in the neighbourhood; and, as the judge
remarked, there could be no possible reason for doubting her word.
Nothing also could be simpler or prettier than the evidence of
Miriam Usbech, as to whose fate and destiny people at the time
expressed much sympathy. That stupid young clerk was responsible
for the only weak part of the matter ; but if he proved nothing on
one side, neither did he prove anything on the other.

This was the commencement of the great Orley Farm Case, and
having been then decided in favour of the infant it was allowed to
slumber for nearly twenty years. The codicil was confirmed, and
Lady Mason remained undisturbed in possession of the house,
acting as guardian for her child till he came of age, and indeed for
some time beyond that epoch. Li the course of a page or two I
shall beg my readei*s to allow me to introduce this lady to their
acquaintance.

Miriam Usbech, of whom also we shall see something, remained
at the farm under Lady Mason's care till she married a young
attorney, who in process of time succeeded to such business as her
father left behind him. She sufifered some troubles in life before
she settled down in the neighbouring country town as Mrs. Dock-
wrath, for she had had another lover, the stupid yoimg clerk who
had so villainously broken down in his evidence -^ and to this other
lover, whom she had been unable to bring herself to accept. Lady
Mason had given her favour and assistance. Poor Miriam was at
that time a soft, mild-eyed girl, easy to be led, one would have said ;
but in this matter Lady Mason could not lead her. It was in vain
to tell her that the character of young Dockwrath did not stand

THE OBEAT OBLEY FABM CASE. 5

high, and that yonng Kenneby, the clerk, should be promoted to
all manner of good things. Soft and mild-eyed as Miriam was.
Love was still the lord of all. In this matter she would not be
persuaded ; and eventually she gave her two thousand pounds to
Samuel Dockwrath, the young attorney with the questionable
character.

This led to no breach between her and her patroness. Lady
Mason, wishing to do the best for her young friend, had favoured
John Kenneby, but she was not a woman at all likely to quarrel on
such a ground as this. ' Well, Miriam,' she had said, ' you must
judge for yourself, of course, in such a matter as this. You know
my regard for you.'

' Oh yes, ma'am,' said Miriam, eageriy.

* And I shall always be glad to promote your welfare as Mrs. Dock-
wrath, if possible. I can only say that I should have had more
satisfEU^tion in attempting to do so for you as Mrs. Kenneby.' But,
in spite of the seeming coldness of liiese words. Lady Mason had
been constant to her friend for many years, and had attended to
her with more or less active kindness in all the sorrows arising
from an annual baby and two sets of twins — a progeny which before
the commencement of my tale reached the serious number of six-
teen, all living.

Among other solid benefits conferred by Lady Mason had been
the letting to Mr. Dockwrath of certain two fields, lying at the
extremity of the farm property, and quite adjacent to the town of
I lam worth in which old Mr. Usbech had resided. These had been
let by the year, at a rent not considered to bo too high at that
period, and which had certainly become much lower in proportion
to the value of the land, as the town of Ilamworth had increased.
i)n these fields Mr. Dockwrath expended some money, though pro-
bably not so much as ho aven*ed ; and when noticed to give them
up at the period of young Mason's coming of age, expressed hunself
tenibly aggrieved.

* Surely, 3Ir. Dockwrath, you are very ungrateful,' Lady Mafion
had said to him. But he had answered her with disrespectful
words ; and hence had arisen an actual breach between her and
poor Miriam's husband. * I must say, Miriam, that Mr. Dockwrath
is unreasonable,' Lady Mason had said. And what could a poor
wife answer ? * Oh ! Lady Mason, pray let it bide a time till it all
comes right.' But it never did come right ; and the affair of those
two fields created the great Orley Farm Case, which it will be our
business to unravel.

And now a word or two as to this Orley Farm. In the first place
let it be understood that the estate consisted of two farms. One, called
the Old Farm, was let to an old farmer named Greenwood, and had
been let to him and to his father for many years antecedent to tho

6 OSLEY FABM.

days of the MasoiiB. Mr. Greenwood held about three hundred
acres of land, pa^dng with admirable punctuality over four hundred
a year in rent, and was regarded by all the Orley people as an
institution on the property. Then there was the fEtrm-house and the
land attached to it. This was the residence in which Sir JoB&pbi
had lived, keeping in his own hands this portion of the property.
When first inhabited by him the house was not fitted for more
than the requirements of an ordinary fiumer, but he had gradually
added to it and ornamented it till it was commodious, irregular,
picturesque, and straggling. When he died, and during the ooca-
pation of his widow, it consisted of three buildings of yarioufi
heights, attached to each other, and standing in a row. The lower
contained a large kitchen, which had been the living-room of the
farm-house, and was surrounded by bakehouse, laundry, dairy, and
servants' room, all of fair dimensions. It was two stories high,
but the rooms were low, and the roof steep and covered with tiles.
The next portion had been added by Sir Joseph, then Mr. Mason,
when he first thought of living at the place. This also was tiled,
and the rooms were nearly as low ; but there were three stories,
and the building therefore was considerably higher. For five-and-
twenty years the farm-house, so arranged, had sufficed for the
common wants of Sir Joseph and his fEimily ; but when he deter-
mined to give up his establishment in the City, he added on another
step to the house at Orley Farm. On this occasion he built a good
dining-room, with a drawing-room over it, and bed-room over that ;
and this portion of the edifice was slated.

The whole stood in one line fronting on to a large lawn which
fell steeply away from the house into an orchard at the bottom.
This lawn was cut in terraces, and here and there upon it there
stood apple-trees of ancient growth ; for here had been the garden
of the old farm-house. They were large, straggling trees, such as
do not delight the eyes of modem gardeners ; but they produced
fruit by the bushel, very sweet to the palate, though probably
not so perfectly round, and large, and handsome as those which the
horticultural skill of the present day requires. The face of the
house from one end to the other was covered with vines and passion-
flowers, for thd aspect was due south ; and as the whole of the
later addition was faced by a verandah, which also, as regarded the
ground-fioor, ran along the middle building, the place in summer
was pretty enough. As I have said before, it was irregular and
stn^ling, but at the same time roomy and picturesque. Such was
Orley Farm-house.

There were about two hundred acres of land attached to it,
together with a large old-fashioned farm-yard, standing not so fax
from the house as most gentlemen farmers might perhaps desire.
The farm buildings, however, were well hidden, for Sir Joseph,

THE GIl£A;r OBLEY FARM CASE. 7

though he would at no time go to the expense of constructing all
anew, had spent more money than such a proceeding would have
cost him in doctoring existing evils and omameoting tlie standing
edifices. In doing tiiis he had extended the walls of a hrewhouse,
and covered them with creepers, so as to shut out from the hall
door the approach to the fjEum-jard, and had put up a quarter of a
mile of high ornamental palmg for the same purpose. He had
planted an extensive shrubbery along the brow of the hill at one
side of the house, had built summer-houses, and sunk a ha-ha fence
below the orchard, and had contrived to give to the place the
immistakable appearance of an English gentleman's coiuxtry-house.
Kevertheless, Sir Joseph had never bestowed upon his estate, nor
had it ever deserved, a more grandiloquent name than that which
it had possessed of old.

Orley Farm-house itself is somewhat more than a mile distant
from the town of Hamworth, but the land runs in the direction of
the town, not skirting the high road, but stretching behind the
cottages which stand along the pathway ; and it terminates in
those two fields respecting which Mr. Dockwrath the attorney
became so irrationally angry at the period of which we are now
immediately about to treat. These fields lie on the steep slope of
Hamworth Hill, and through them runs the public path from the
hamlet of Eoxeth up to Hamworth church ; for, as all the world
knows, Hamworth church stands high, and is a landmark to the
world for miles and miles around.

Within a circuit of thirty miles from London no land lies more
beautifully circumstanced with regard to scenery than the country
about Hamworth ; and its most perfect loveliness commences just
beyond the slopes of Orley Farm. There is a little village called
Coldharbour, consisting of some half-dozen cottages, situated im-
mediately outside Lady Mason's gate, — and it may as well be stated
here that this gate is but three hundred yards from the house, and
is guarded by no lodge. This village stands at the foot of Cleevo
Hill. The land hereabouts ceases to be fertile, and breaks away
into heath and common ground. Hound the foot of the hill there
are extensive woods, all of which belong to Sir Peregrine Orme, the
lord of the manor. Sir Peregiine is not a rich man, not rich, that is,
it being borne in mind that he is a baronet, that he represented liis
county in parliament for three or four sessions, and that his
ancestors have owned The Cleeve estate for tlie last four hundred
years ; but be is by general repute the greatest man in these parts.
"VV'e may expect to hear more of him also as the story makes its way.

I know many spots in England and in other lands, world-famous
in regard to scenery, which to my eyes are hardly equal to Cleeve
Hill. From the top of it you are told that you may see into seven
counties ; but to me that privilege never possessed any value. I

8 OBLET FABM.

Bbould not care to see into seventeen connties, nnless tlio couniiy
which spread itself before my view was fair and lovely. The
country which is so seen from Cleeve Hill is exquisitely fair and
lovely ; — ^very fair, with glorious fields of unsurpassed fertility, and
lovely with oak woods and brown open heaths which stretch away,
hill after hill, down towards the southern cosist. I could greedily
fill a long chapter with the well-loved glories of Cleeve Hill ; but
it may be that we must press its heather with our feet more than
once in the course of our present task, and if so, it will be well to
leave something for those coming visits.

' Ungrateful ! I'll let her know whether I owe her any grati-
tude. Haven't I paid her her rent every half-year as it came due ?
what more would she have ? Ungrateful, indeed ! She is one of
those women who think that you ought to go dovra on your knees
to them if they only speak civilly to you. 1*11 let her know
whether I'm ungrateful.'

These words were spoken by angry Mr. Samuel Dockwrath to his
wife, as he stood up before his parlour-fire after breakfast, and the
woman to whom he referred was Lady Mason. Mr. Samuel Dockwrath
was very angry as he so spoke, or at any rate he seemed to be so.
There are men who take a delight in abusing those special friends
whom their wives best love, and Mr. Dockwrath was one of these.
He had never given his cordial consent to the intercourse which
had hitherto existed between the lady of Orley Farm and his
household, although he had not declined the substantial benefits
which had accompanied it. His pride had rebelled against the
feeling of patronage, though his interest had submitted to the
advantages thence derived. A family of sixteen children is s
heavy burden for a country attorney with a small practice, even
though his wife may have had a fortune of two thousand pounds :
and thus Mr. Dockwrath, though he had never himself loved
Lady Mason, had permitted his wife to accept all those numberless
kindnesses which a lady with comfortable means and no children is
always able to bestow on a favoured neighbour who has few means
and many children. Indeed, he himself had accepted a great
favour with reference to the holding of those two fields, and had
Acknowledged as much when first he took them into his hands
some sixteen or seventeen years back. But all that was forgotten
now ; and having held them for so long a period, he bitterly felt the
loss, and resolved that it would ill become him as a man and an
attorney to allow so deep an injury to pass unnoticed. It may be,
moreover, that Mr. Dockwrath was now doing somewhat better in
the world than formerly, and that he could afford to give up Lady
Mason, and to demand also that his wife should give her up>
Those trumpery presents from Orley Farm were very well while
he was struggling for bare bread but now, now that he had

THE GBEAT OBLET FABH CASE. 9

tQm€d tho comer, — now that by his divine art and mystery of law
he had managed to become master of that beautiful result of British
perseverance, a balance at his banker's, he could afiford to indulge
his natural antipathy to a lady who had endeavoured in early life to
divert from him the little fortune which had started him in the world.
Miriam Dockwrath, as she sat on this morning, listening to her
husband's anger, with a sick little girl on her knee, and four or
five others clustering round her, half covered with their matutinal
bread and milk, was mild-eyed and soft as ever. Hers was a
nature in which softness would ever prevail ; — softness, and that
tenderness of heart, always leaning, and sometimes almost
crouching, of which a mild eye is the outward sign. But her
comeliness and prettiness were gone. Female beauty of the
sterner, grander sort may support the burden of sixteen children,
all living, — and still survive. I have known it to do so, and to
survive with much of its youthful glory. But that mild-eyed, soft,
round, plumpy prettiness gives way beneath such a weight as that :
years alone tell on it quickly; but children and limited means
combined with years leave to it hardly a chance.

* I'm sure I'm very sorry,' said the poor woman, worn with her
many cares.

' Sorry ; yes, and I'll make her sorry, the proud minx. There's
an old saying, that those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw
stones.'

* But, Samuel, I don't think she means to be doing you any

harm. You know she always did say . Don't, Bessy; how

can you put your fingers into the basin in that way ?'

* Sam has taken my spoon away, mamma.*

* I'll let her know whether she's doing any harm or no. And
what signifies what was said sixteen years ago ? Has she anything to
show in writing ? As far as I know, nothing of the kind was said.'

* Oh, I remember it, Samuel ; I do indeed !'

' Let me tell you then that you had better not try to remember
anything about it. If you ain't quiet, Bob, I'll make you, pretty
quick; d'ye hear that? The fact is, your memory is not worth a
curse. Where are you to get milk for all those children, do you
think, when the fields are gone ?'

* I'm sure I'm very sorry, Samuel.'

* Sorrj^ ; yes, and somebody else shall be sorry too. And look
here, Miriam, t won't have you going up to Orley Farm on any
pretence whatever ; do you hear that?' and then, having given that
imperative command to his wife and slave, the lord and master of
that establishment walked forth into his oflBce.

On the whole Miriam Usbech might have done better had she
followed the advice of her patroness in early life, and married the
stupid clerk.

CHAPTER n.

UkDY MASON AND HEB SON.

I TBUBT that it IB already perceived by all persistent novel readers
that very much of the interest of this tale will be centred in the
person of Lady Mason. Such educated persons, however, will
probably be aware that she is not intended to be the heroine. The
heroine, so called, must by a certain fixed law be young and mar-
riageable. Some such heroine in some future number shall be
forthcoming, with as much of the heroic about her as may be found
convenient; but for the present let it be understood that the
person and character of Lady Mason is as important to us as can
be those of any young lady, let her be ever so gracious or ever so
beautiful.

In giving the details of her history, I do not Ipiow that I need
go back beyond her grandfather and grandmother, who were
thoroughly respectable people in the hardware line ; I speak of
those relatives by the faither's side. Her own parents had risen in
the world, — had risen from retail to wholesale, and considered
themselves for a long period of years to be good representatives of
the commercial energy and prosperity of Great Britain. But a fall
had come upon them, — as a fall does come very often to our ex-
cellent commercial representatives — and Mr. Johnson was in the
* Gazette.' It would be long to tell how old Sir Joseph Mason
was concerned in these affairs, how he acted as the principal
assignee, and how ultimately he took to his bosom as his portion of
the assets of the estate, young ]|ary Johnson, and made her his wife
and mistress of Orley Farm. Of the family of the Johnsons there
were but three others, the father, the mother, and a brother. The
father did not survive the disgrace of his bankruptcy, and the
mother in process of time settled herself with her son in one of the
Lancashire manufEicturing towns, where John Joh^on raised his
head in business to some moderate altitude, Sir Joseph having
afforded much valuable assistance. There for the present we will
leave them.

I do not think that Sir Joseph ever repented of the perilous deed
he did in marrying that young wife. His home for many years had
been desolate and solitary ; his children had gone from him, and

LADY MASOK AND HEB SON. 11

did not come to visit him very freqnentlj in his poor home at the
farm. Thej had become grander people than him, had been
gifted with aspiring minds, and in every turn and twist which thej
took, looked to do something towards washing themselves dean
from the dirt of the counting-house. This was specially the case
with Sir Joseph's son, to whom the father had made over lands and
money sufficient to enable him to come before the world as a
countff gentleman with a coat of arms on his coach -paneL It
would be inconvenient for us to run ofif to Groby Park at the present
moment, and 1 will therefore say no more just now as to Joseph
junior, but will explain that Joseph senior was not made angry by
this neglect. He was a grave, quiet, rational man, not however
devoid of some folly; as indeed what rational man is so devoid?
fie was burdened with an ambition to establish a family as the
result of his success in life ; and having put forth his son into the
world with these views, was content that that son should act upon
them persistently. Joseph Mason, Esq., of Groby Park, in Yorkshire,
was now a county magistrate, and had made some way towards a
footing in the county society around him. With these hopes, and
ambition such as this, it was probably not expedient that he should
spend much of his time at Orley Farm. The three daughters were
circumstanced much in the same way : they had all married gentle-
men, and were bent on rising in the world : moreover, the steadfast
resolution of purpose which characterized their father was known
by them all, — and by their husbands : they had received their
fortunes, with some setlled contingencies to be forthcoming on
their father's demise; why, then, trouble the old gentleman at
Orley Farm ?

Under such circumstances the old gentleman married his young
wife, — to the great disgust of his four children. They of course
declared to each other, corresponding among themselves by letter,
that the old gentleman had positively disgraced himself. It was
impossible that they should make any visits whatever to Orley Farm
while such a mistress of the house was there ; — and the daughters did
make no such visits. Joseph, the son, whose monetary connection
with his father was as yet by no means fixed and settled in its
nature, did make one such visit, and then received his father h
assurance— so at least he afterwards said and swore — that this
marriage should by no means interfere with the expected inherit-
ance of the (kley Farm acres. But at that time no young son had
been bom, — nor, probably, was any such young son expected.

llie farm-house became a much brighter abode for the old man,
for the few years which were left to him, after he had brought his
young wife home. She was quiet, sensible, clever, and unremitting
in her attention. She burthened him with no requests for gay
society, and took his home as she found it, making the best of it

12 OBLEY FARM.

for herself, and making it for him much better than he had ever
hitherto known it. His own children had always looked down
upon him, regarding him merely as a coffer from whence money
might be had ; and he, though he had never resented this contempt,
had in a certain measure been aware of it. But there was no such
feeling shown by his wife. She took the benefits which he gave
her graciously and thankfully, and gave back to him in return,
certainly her care and time, and apparently her love. For herself,
in the way of wealth and money, she never asked for anything.

And then the baby had come, yotmg Lucius Mason, and there was
of course great joy at Orley Farm. The old father felt that the
world had begun again for him, very delightfully, and was more than
ever satisfied with his wisdom in regard to that marriage. But tlu>
very genteel progeny of his early youth were more than ever
dissatisfied, and in their letters among themselves dealt forth
harder and still harder words upon poor Sir Joseph. What terrible
things might he not be expected to do now that his dotage was coming
on ? Those three married ladies had no selfish fears — so at least
they declared, but they united in imploring their brother to look
after his interests at Orley Farm. How dreadfully would the young
heir of Groby be curtailed in his dignities and seignories if it should
be found at the last day that Orley Farm was not to be written in
his rent-roll !

And then, while they were yet bethinking themselves how they
might best bestir themselves, news arrived that Sir Joseph had
suddenly died. Sir Joseph was dead, and the will when read
contained a codicil by which that young brat was made the heir to
the Orley Farm estate. I have said that Lady Mason during her
married life had never asked of her husband anything for herself;
but in the law proceedings which were consequent upon Sir Joseph's
death, it became abundantly evident that she had asked him for
much for her son, — and that she had been specific in her requests,
urging him to make a second heir, and to settle Orley Farm upon
her own boy, Lucius. She herself stated that she had never done
this except in the presence of a third person. She had often done
so in the presence of Mr. Usbech the attorney, — as to which Mr.
Usbech was not alive to testify ; and she had also done so more
than once in the presence of Mr. Fumival, a barrister, — as to which
Mr. Fumival, being alive, did testify — very strongly.

As to that contest nothing further need now be sai4» It resulted
in the favour of young Lucius Mason, and therefore, also, in the
favour of the widow ; — in the favour moreover of Miriam Usbech,
and thus ultimately in the favour of Mr. Samuel Dockwrath, who
is now showing himself to be so signally ungrateful. Joseph
Mason, however, retired from the battle nothing convinced. His
father, he said, had been an old fool, an ass, an idiot, a vulgar^

LADT MASON AND HEB SON. 13

ignorant fool ; but he was not a man to break his word. That
signature to the codicil might be his or might not. If his, it had
been obtained by fraud* What could be easier than to cheat an old
doting fool ? Many men agreed with Joseph Mason, thinking that
Usbech the attorney had perpetrated this villainy on behalf of his
daughter ; but Joseph Mason would believe, or say that he believed
— a belief in which none but his sisters joined him, — that Lady
Mason herself had been the villain. He was minded to press the
case on to a Court of Appeal, up even to the House of Lords ; but
he was advised that in doing so he would spend more money than
Orley Farm was worth, and that he would, almost to a certainty,
spend it in vain. Under this advice he cursed the laws of his
country, and withdrew to Groby Park.

Lady Mason had earned the respect of all those around her by
the way in which she bore herself in the painful days of the trial,
and also in those of her success, — especially also by the manner in
which she gave her evidence. And thus, though she had not been
much noticed by her neighbours during the short period of her
married life, she was visited as a widow by many of the more
respectable people round Ham worth. In all this she showed no
feeling of triimiph ; she never abused her husband's relatives, or
spoke much of the harsh manner in which she had been used.
Indeed, she was not given to talk about her own personal affairs ;
and although, as I have said, many of her neighbours visited her,
she did not lay herself out for society. She accepted and returned
their attention, but for the most part seemed to be willing that the
matter should so rest. The people around by degrees came to
know her ways ; they spoke to her when they met her, and
occasionally went through the ceremony of a morning call ; but did
not ask her to their tea-parties, and did not expect to see her at
picnic and archery meetings.

Among those who took her by the hand in the time of her great
trouble was Sir Peregrine Orme of The Cleeve, — for such was the
name which had belonged time out of mind to his old mansion and
park. Sir Peregi'iue was a gentleman now over seventy years of ago,
whose family consisted of the widow of his only son, and the only
«on of that widow, who was of course the heir to his estate and
title. Sir Peregrine was an excellent old man, as I trust may
hereafter be acknowledged ; but his regard for Lady Mason was
perhaps in the first instance fostered by his extreme dislike to her
stepson, Joseph Mason of Groby. Mr. Joseph Mason of Groby was
quite as rich a man as Sir Peregrine, and owned an estate which
was nearly as large as The Cleeve property ; but Sir Peregrine
would not allow tliat ho was a gentleman, or that he could by any
possible transformation become one. He had not probably ever
said so in direct words to any of the Mason family, but his opinion

14 OBLET FABM.

on the matter liad in some way worked its way down to YorkBhire,
and therefore there waa no Ioyo to spare between these two county
magistrates. There had been a slight acquaintance between Sir
Peregrine and Sir Joseph ; but the ladies of the two fiunilies had
nerer met till after the death of the latter. Then, while that trial
was still pending, Mrs. Orme had come forward at the instigation of
her £ither-in-law, and by degrees there had grown up an intimacy
between the two widows. When the first offers of assistance were
made and accepted. Sir Peregrine no doubt did not at all dream of
any such result as this. His family pride, and especially the pride
which he took in his widowed daughter-in-law, would probably
hare been shocked by such a surmise ; but, nevertheless, he had
seen the friendship grow and increase without alarm. He himself
had become attached to Lady Mason, and had gradually learned to
excuse in her that want of gentle blood and early breeding which
as a rule he regarded as necessary to a gentleman, and from whicn
alone, as he thought, could spring many of those excellences which
go to form the character of a lady.

It may therefore be asserted that Lady Mason's widowed life
was successful. That it was prudent and well conducted no one
could doubt. Her neighbours of course did say of her that she would
not drink tea with Mrs. Arkwright of Mount Pleasant villa because
she was allowed the privilege of entering Sir Peregrine's drawing-
room ; but such little scandal as this was a matter of course. Let
one live according to any possible or impossible rule, yet some
offence will be given in some quarter. Those who knew anything
of Lady Mason's private life were aware that she did not encroach
on Sir Peregrine's hospitality. She was not at The Cleeve as much
as circumstances would have justified, and at one time by no means
so much as Mrs. Orme would have desired.

In person she was tall and comely. When Sir Joseph had
brought her to his house she had been very fair, — tall, slight,
fair, and very quiet, — not possessing that loveliness which is
generally most attractive to men, because the beauty of which she
might boast depended on form rather than on the brightness of her
eye, or the softness of her cheek and lips. Her face too, even at
that ago, seldom betrayed emotion, and never showed signs either of
anger or of joy. Her forehead was high, and though somewhat
narrow, nevertheless gave evidence of considerable mental faculties ;
nor was the evidence false, for those who came to know Lady
Mason well, were always ready to acknowledge that she was a
woman of no ordinary power. Her eyes were large and well
formed, but somewhat cold. Her nose was long and regular. Her
mouth also was very regular, and her teeth perfectly beautiful;
but her lips were straight and thin. It would sometimes seem that
she was all teeth, and yet it is cei-tain that she never made an effort

LADT MASON AND HEB SON. 15

to show them. The great firalt of her face was in her chin, which
was too small and sharp, thns giving on occasions something of
meanness to her conntenance. She was now forty-seyen years of
age, and had a son who had reached man's estate ; and yet perhaps
she had more of woman's beauty at this present time than when she
stood at the altar with Sir Joseph Mason. The qnietness and
repose of her manner snited her years and her position ; age had
given fnlness to her tall form ; and the habitnal sadness of her connte
nance was in fair accordance with her condition and character.
And yet she was not really sad, — at least so said those who knew
her. The melancholy was in her face rather than in her character,
which was fall of energy, — if energy may be quiet as well as assured
and constant.

Of course she had been accused a dozen times of matrimonioL
prospects. What handsome widow is not so accused ? The world of
Hamworth had been very certain at one time that she was intent on
marrying Sir Peregrine Orme. But she had not married, and I think
I may say on her behalf that she had never thought of marrying.
Indeed, one cannot see how such a woman could make any effort in
that line. It was impossible to conceive that a lady so staid in her
manner should be guOty of flirting ; nor was there any man within
ten miles of Hamworth who would have dared to make the attempt.
Women for the most part are prone to love-making — as nature has
intended that they should be ; but there are women from whom all
such follies seem to be as distant as skittles and beer are distant
from the dignity of the Lord Chancellor. Such a woman was Lady
Mason.

At this time — the time which is about to exist for us as the period
at which our narrative will begin — Lucius Mason was over twenty-
two years old, and was living at the farm. lie had spent the last
three or four years of his life in Germany, where his mother had
visited him every year, and had now come homo intending to bo the
master of his own destiny. Ilis mother's caro for him during his
boyhood, and up to the time at which ho became of age, had been
almost elaborate in its though tfulness. She had consulted Sir
Peregrine as to his school, and Sir Peregrine, looking to the fact of
the lad's own property, and also to the fact, known by him, of
Lady Ma.son*s means for such a purpose, had recommended Harrow.
But the mother had hesitated, had gently discussed the matter, and
had at last persuaded the baronet that such a step would bo in-
JTidicious. The boy was sent to a private school of a high
character, and Sir Peregrine was sure that he had been so sent at
his own advice. * Looking at the peculiar position of his mother,'
said Sir Peregrine to his young daughter-in-law, * at her very peculiar
position, and that of his relatives, I think it will be better that he
should not appear to assume anything early in life ; nothing can be

IG OBLET FABM.

better condncted than Mr. Crabfield's establishment, and after
much consideration I have had no hesitation in recommending her to
send her son to him.' And thus Lucius Mason had been sent to
Mr. Crabfield, but I do not think that the idea originated with Sir
Peregrine.

' And perhaps it will be as well/ added thp baronet, * that he and
Perry should not be together at school, though I have no objection
to their meeting in the holidays. Mr. Crabfield's vacations are
always timed to suit the Harrow holida3n3.* llie Perry here men-
tioned was the grandson of Sir Peregrine — the young Peregrine
who in coming days was to be the future lord of The Cleevo.
When Lucius Mason was modestly sent to Mr. Crabfield*s esta-
blishment at Great Marlow, young Peregrine Orme, with his prouder
hopes, commenced his career at the public school.

Mr. Crabfield did his duty by Lucius Mason, and sent him home
at seventeen a handsome, well-mannered lad, tall and comely to the
eye, with soft brown whiskers sprouting on his cheek, well grounded
in Greek, Latin, and Euclid, grounded also in French, and Italian,
and possessing many more acquirements than he would have
learned at Harrow. But added to these, or rather consequent on
them, was a conceit which public-school education would not
have created. When their mothers compared them in the holidays,
not openly with outspoken words, but silently in their hearts,
Lucius Mason was found by each to be the superior both in manners
and knowledge ; but each acknowledged also that there was more of
ingenuous boyhood about Peregrine Orme.

Peregrine Orme was a year the younger, and therefore his com-
parative deficiencies were not the cause of any intense sorrow at The
Cleeve ; but his grandfather would probably have been better satisfied
— and perhaps also so would his mother — had he been less addicted
to the catching of rats, and better inclined towards Miss Edge worth's
novels and Shakspeare's plays, which were earnestly recommended
to him by the lady and the gentleman. But boys generally are
fond of rats, and very frequently are not fond of reading; and
therefore, all this having been duly considered, there was not much
deep sorrow in those days at The Cleeve as to the boyhood of the
heir.

But there was great pride at Orley Farm, although that pride was
shown openly to no one. Lady Mason in her visits at The Cleeve
said but little as to her son's present excellences. As to his futui*e
career in life she did say much both to Sir Peregrine and to Mrs.
Orme, asking the council of the one and expressing her fears to the
other ; and then. Sir Peregrine having given his consent, she sent
the lad to Germany.

He was allowed to come of age without any special signs of
manhood, or aught of the glory of property ; although, in his case,

SIR PEREGRINE AND HIS HEIR.

LADY MASON AND HER SON. 17

that coming of i^e did put him into absolute poBsession of his inherit-
ance. On that day, had he been so minded, he could have turned
his mother out of the farm-house, and taken exclusive possession of
the estate; but he did in iact remain in Germany for a year
beyond this period, and returned to Orley Farm only in time to be
present at the celebration of the twenty-first birthday of his friend
Peregrine Orme. This ceremony, as may be surmised, was by no
means slurred over without due rejoicing. The hoir at the time
was at Christchurch ; but at such a period a slight interruption
to his studies was not to bo lamented. There had been Sir
Peregrine Ormes in those parts ever since the days of James I. ;
and indeed in days long antecedent to those there had been knights
bearing that name, some of whom had been honourably beheaded for
treason, othera imprisoned for heresy ; and one made away with on
account of a supposed royal amour, — to the great glorification of
all his descendants. Looking to the antecedents of the family, it
waa only proper that the coming of age of the heir should be
duly celebrated; but Lucius Mason had had no antecedents; no
great-great-grandfjEtther of his had knelt at the feet of an improper
princess ; and therefore Lady Mason, though she had been at The
Cleeve, had not mentioned the fiict that on that very day her son
had become a man. But when Peregrine Orme became a man —
though still in his manhood too much devoted to rats — she gloried
greatly in her quiet way, and whispered a hope into the baronet's
car that the young heir would not imitate the ambition of his
ancestor. ' No, by Jove ! it would not do now at all,' said Sir
Peregrine, by no means displeased at the allusion.

And then that question as to the future life of Lucius Mason
became one of great importance, and it was necessary to consult,
not only Sir Peregrine Orme, but the young man himself. His
mother had suggested to him first the law : the great Mr. Fumival,
formerly of the home circuit, but now practising only in London,
was her very special friend, and would give her and her son all
possible aid in this direction. And what living man could give better
aid than the great Mr. Fumival ? But Lucius Mason would have none
of the law. This resolve he pronounced very clearly while yet in
Germany, whither his mother visited him, bearing with her a long
letter written by the great Mr. Furnival himself. But nevertheless
young Mason would have none of the law. * I have an idea,* he said,
* that lawyers are all liars.' Whereupon his mother rebuked him
for his conceited ignorance and want of charity ; but she did not gain
her point.

She had, however, another string to her bow. As ho objected to
be a law^^or, he might become a civil engineer. Circumstances had
made Sir Peregrine Orme very intimate with the great Mr. Brown.
Indeed, Mr. Brown was under great obligations to Sir Peregrine,

VOL. I. c

18 OBLET FABK.

and Sir Peregrine liad promised to use liis influence. But Lucius
Mason said that civil engineers were only tradesmen of an upper
/ class, tradesmen vitli intellects ; and lie, lie said, wished to use his
intellect, but he did not choose to be a tradesman. His mother
rebuked him again, as he well deserved that she should, — and then
asked him of what profession he himself had thought * Philo-
logy,' said he; 'or as a profession, perhaps literature. I shall
devote myself to philology and the races of man. Nothing con-
siderable has been done with them as a combined pursuit.' And
with these views he returned home, — while Peregrine Orme at
Oxford was still addicted to the hunting of rats.

But with philology and the races of man he consented to combine
the pursuit of agriculture. When his mother found that he wished
to take up his abode in his own house, she by no means opposed
him, and suggested that, as such was his intention, ho himself
should farm his own land. He was very ready to do this, and had
she not represented that such a step was in every way impolitic, he
would willingly have requested Mr. Greenwood of the Old Farm to
look elsewhere, and have spread himself and his energies over the
whole domain. As it was he contented himself with desiring' that
Mr. Dockwrath would vacate his small holding, and as he was im-
perative as to that his mother gave way without making it the
cause of a battle. She would willingly have left Mr. Dockwrath in
possession, and did say a word or two as to the milk necessary for
those sixteen children. But Lucius Mason was ducal in his ideas,
and intimated an opinion that he had a right to do what he liked
with his own. Had not Mr. Dockwrath been told, when the fields
were surrendered to him as a favour, that he would only have them
in possession till the heir should come of age ? Mr. Dockwrath had
been so told ; but tellings such as these are easily forgotten by men
with sixteen children. And thus Mr. Mason became an agricul-
turist with special scientific views as to chemistry, and a philologist
with the object of making that pursuit bear upon his studies with
reference to the races of man. He was convinced that by certain
admixtures of ammonia and earths he could produce cereal results
hitherto unknown to the farming world, and that by tracing out the
roots of words he could trace also the wanderings of man since the
expulsion of Adam from the garden. As to the latter question his
mother was not inclined to contradict him. Seeing that he would
sit at the feet neither of Mr. Fumivalnor of Mr. Brown, she had no
objection to the races of man. She could endure to be talked to
about the Oceanic Mongolidae and the lapetidas of the Indo-Ger-
manio class, and had perhaps her own ideas that such matters,
though somewhat foggy, were better than rats. But when he
came to the other subject, and informed her that the properly
plentiful feeding of the world was only kept waiting for the

LADY MAfiON AND HEB SON. 19

cuemists, she certainly did have lier fears. Chemical agriculture
is ezpenaive ; and though the results may possihly be remunera-
tive, still, while we are thus kept waiting by the backwardness of
the chemists, there must be much risk in making any serious ex-
penditure with such views.

* Mother,' he said, when he had now been at home about three
months, and when the fiat for the expulsion of Samuel Xkxskwrath
had already gone forth, * I shall go to Liverpool to-morrow.'

* To Liverpool, Lucius?*

* Yes. That guano which I got from Walker is adulterated. I
have analyzed it, and find that it does not contain above thirty-two

and a half hundredths of of that which it ought to hold in a

proportion of seventy-five per cent, of the whole.*

•Does it not?*

* Ko ; and it is impossible to obtain residts while one is working
with such fictitious materials. Look at that bit of grass at the
bottom of Greenwood's Hill.'

' The fifteen-acre field ? Why, Lucius, we always had the
heaviest crops of hay in the parish off that meadow.*

* That's all very well, mother ; but you have never tried, —
nobody about here ever has tried, what the land can really produce.
I will throw that and the three fields beyond it into one ; I will get
Greenwood to let me have that bit of the hill-side, giving him com-
pensation of course *

* And then Dockwrath would want compensation.'

* Dockwrath is an impertiuent rascal, and I shall take an oppor-
tunity of telling bim so. But as 1 was saying, I will throw those
seventy acres togotlier, and thou I will tr}- what will be the relative
effects of guano and the patent blood. But I must have real guano,
and so I shall go to Liverpool.'

* I think I would wait a little, Lucius. It is almost too late for
any change of that kind this year.'

* Wait ! Yes, and what has como of waiting? We don't wait at
all in doubling our population every thirty-three years ; but when
wo come to the feeding of them we are always for waiting. It is
that waiting which has reduced the intellectual development of ono
half of the human race to its present teiTibly low stiite — or rather
prevented its rising in a degree propoilionate to the increase of tho
population. Ko more waiting for me, motlier, if I can help it.'

* But, ijucius, should not such now attempts as that be made by
men with large capital ?* said tlio mother.

' Capital is a bugbear,' said the son, speaking on this matter quite
ex cathedra, as no doubt he was entitled to do by his extensive
reading at a German university — * capital is a bugbear. The capital
that is really wanting is thought, mind, combination, knowledge.*

* But, Lucius — '

C 2

20 OBLEY FARM.

* Yes, I know what you are going to say, mother. 1 don't boast
that I possess all these things ; but I do say that I will endeavour
to obtain them.'

* I have no doubt you will ; but should not that come first?*

* That is wailing again. We all know as much as this, that good
manure will give good crops if the sun be allowed full play upon
the land, and nothing but the crop be allowed to grow. That is
what I shall attempt at first, and there con be no great danger in
that.' And so he went to Liverpool.

Lady Mason during his absence began to regret that she had
not left him in the undisturbed and inexpensive possession of the
Mongolidse and the lapetidae. His rent from the estate, including
that which she would have paid him as tenant of the smaller farm,
would have enabled him to live with all comfort ; and, if such had
been his taste, he mighthave become a philosophical student, and lived
respectably without adding anything to his income by the sweat of
his brow. But now the matter was likely to become serious enough.
For a gentleman farmer determined to wait no longer for the
chemists, whatever might be the results, an immediate profitable
return per acre could not be expected as one of them. Any rent
from that smaller farm would now be out of the question, and it
would be well if the payments made so punctually by old Mr.
Greenwood were not also swallowed up in the search after un-
adulterated guano. Who could tell whether in the pursuit of
science he might not insist on chartering a vessel, himself, for the
Peruvian coast ?

CHAPTER m.

THE CLEEYE.

I HATE said that Sir Peregrine Orme was not a rich man, meaning
thereby that he was not a rich man considering his acknowledged
position in the connty. Such men not imcommonly have their tens,
twelves, and twenty thousands a year ; but Sir Peregrine's estate
<Lid not give him ^boTe three or four. He was lord of the manor
of Hamworth, and possessed seignorial rights, or rather the skeleton
and remembrance of such rights with reference to a very large dis*
trict of coimtry ; but his actual property — ^that from which he still
Teceived the substantial benefits of ownership— was not so large as
those of some of his neighbours. There was, however, no place
within the coimty which was so beautifully situated as The Gleeve,
or which had about it so many of the attractions of age. The house
itself had been built at two periods, — a new set of rooms having been
added to the remains of the old Elizabethan structure in the time of
Charles II. It had not about it anything that was peculiarly
grand or imposing, nor were the rooms large or even commodious ;
but everything was old, venerable, and picturesque. Both the
dining-room and the library were panelled with black wainscoating ;
and though the drawing-rooms were papered, the tall, elaborately-
worked wooden chimney-pieces still stood in them, and a wooden
band or belt round the rooms showed that the panels were still
there, although hidden by the modem paper.

But it was for the beauty and wildness of its grounds that The
Cleeve was remarkable. The land fell here and there into narrow,
wild ravines and woody crevices. The soil of the park was not
rich, and could give but little assistance to the chemists in supply-
ing the plentiful food expected by Mr. Mason for the coming mul-
titudes of the world ; it produced in some parts heather instead of
ji^rass, and was as wild and unprofitable as Cleeve Common, which
stretched for miles outside the park palings ; but it seemed admirably
adapted for deer and for the maintenance of half- decayed venerable
oaks. Young timber also throve well about the place, and in this
respect Sir Peregrine was a careful landlord. There ran a river
through the park, — the River Cleeve, from which the place and
parish are said to have taken their names ; — a river, or rather a

22 ORLEY FABM.

stream, very narrow and inconsiderable as to its Tolnme of water,
but whicli passed for some two miles throngh so narrow a passage
as to give to it the appearance of a clefL or fissure in the rocks. The
water tumbled over stones through this entire course, mulriTig it seem
to be fordable almost everywhere without danger of wet feet ; but
in truth there was hardly a spot at which it could be crossed with*
out a bold leap from rock to rock. Narrow as was the aperture
through which the water had cut its way, nevertheless a path had
been contrived, now on one side of the stream and now on the
other, crossing it here and there by slight hanging wooden bridges.
The air here was always damp with spray, and the rocks on both
sides were covered with long mosses, as were also the overhang-
ing boughs of the old trees. This place was the glory of The
Cleeve, and as far as picturesque beauty goes it was very glorious.
There was a spot in the river from whence a steep path led down
from the park to the water, and at this spot the deer would come to
drink. I know nothing more beautiful than this sight, when tliree
or four of them could be so seen from one of the wooden bridges
towards the hour of sunset in the autumn.

Sir Peregrine himself at this time was an old man, having
passed his seventieth year. He was a fine, handsome English
gentleman with white hair, keen gray eyes, a nose slightly aqui-
line, and lips now too closely pressed together in consequence of
the havoc which time had made among his teeth. He was tall, but
had lost something of his height from stooping, — ^was slight in his
form, but well made, and vain of the smaUness of his feet and the
whiteness of his hands. Ho was generous, quick tempered, and
opinionated ; generally very mild to those who would agree with
him and submit to him, but intolerant of contradiction, and conceited
as to his experience of the world and the wisdom which he had
thence derived. To those who were manifestly his inferiors he
was affable, to his recognized equals he was courteous, to women he
was almost always gentle ; — but to men who claimed an equality
which he would not acknowledge, he could make himself par-
ticularly disagreeable. In judging the position which a man should
hold in the world, Sir Peregrine was very resolute in ignoring all
claims made by wealth alone. Even property in land could not in
his eyes create a gentleman. A gentleman, according to his ideas,
should at any rate have great-grandfathers capable of being traced
in the world's history ; and the greater the number of such, and the
more easily traceable they might be on the world's surface, the more
xmqucstionable would be the status of the claimant in question.
Such being the case, it may be imagined that Joseph Mason, Esq.,
of Groby Park did not rank high in the estimation of Sir Per^rine
Orme.

I have said that Sir Peregrine was fond of his own opinion ;

\n^ imffmt&iAem hd-wtm ^ mmk -wfaem it mm hy bo xnanB difflsdt
to load. In ih» fint plaes he wm nugnlaKty devoid of mgficaaaL.
Th^nrotd of' a ami oar of a ivoiimkii ivie te Idm alwajB ondiUe,
'uilil fliB ptoof bad oonie home to bim thai it warn mtleify Wr
imthj of eredit Alter Hiat eooh a mail or wonan im^^ as well
apareall epeeoli aaiegaida^e hope ef aajr effeot on the mind of
Sbr Peregrine Qnne. He^dnoteaaSfybeUeveAfeUow-eveatiize to
1iea]iar9lmtalittrtolkimoDoewaaA]|aralim7& And than lie was
«DMnal]ieto flattoij, and few tiiat ao:^ eo lire ptoof againet the lead-
mg wirfiigpi of their flatte»<ewL AS tfaii waa well nndentood of ffir
Fereg^rine hy flioee ahcml hinL His gavdener, his groom, and his
woodman all knew. Mb finblea. They all loved him, respeoted
Mm, and worked fnr him feUhfalfy ; hot eadi of ibem hid his own
way in his own Ivanoh.

And there was another person at Hie CSeeve who took into her
own hands a oonsldeimble share of the managMnent and leading of
fifar Peregrine^ tho«^ in trafli, she made no efforts in that dxreo-
iion. This WIS Mm. Orme^ 1h^ widow of Ins only duld, and the
moOier of his heir. Mrs. Ornie was a younger woman than Mrs.
Msaon of Qrl^ Flaxm hy nearfy ftre yean, tiion^ her son was hot
fwBlfoniontejnni<»r to Laoine Mason. She had been the daughter
of a brother banmet, whose &mily was nearly as old as that of the
Qrmes; and flierelbre, though she had ecnso penniless to her
hosband, S^ P«egrinehid oensidered that his son had married
well. S9ie had been a great beauty, veiy nnall in size and delioate
of limb, fifdr haired, with soft blue wondering eyes, and a dimpled
cheek. Snch she had been when young Peregrine Orme brought
her home to The Cleeve, and the bride at once became the darling
of her &ther-in-law. One year she had owned of married joy, and
then all the happiness of Ihe family had been utterly destroyed,
and for the few following years ihere had been no sadder household
in all the conntiy-eide than that of Sir Peregrine Orme. His son,
his only son, the pride of all who knew him, the hope of his po-
litical party in the county, the brightest among the bright ones of
the day for whom the world was just opening her richest treasures,
fell from his horse as he was crossing into a road, and his lifeless
body was brought home to The CleoTe.

An this happened now twenty years since, but the widow still
wears the colours of mourning. Of her also the world of course
said that she would soon console herself with a second love ; but
she too has given the world the lie. From that day to the present
she has never left the house of her father-in-law ; she has been a
true child to him, and she has enjoyed all a child's privileges.
There has been but little favour for any one at The Cleeve who
has been considered by the baronet to disregard the wishes of
the mistress of the establishment. Any word from her has been

24 OBLEY FABM.

law to him, and he has of oonrBe expected alao that her word
ahonld be law to othen. He has yielded to her in all thin^B, and
attended to her will as though she were a little qneen, recog-
nizing in her feminine weakness a sovereign power, as some men
can and do; and having thus for years indulged himself in a
quixotic gallantry to the lady of his household, he has demanded of
others that they also should bow the knee.

During the last tweniy years The Cleeve has not been a gay
house. During the last ten those living there have been contented,
and in the main happy ; but there has seldom been many guests in
the old hall, and Sir Per^rine has not been fond of going to other
men's feasts. He inherited the property very early in life, and
then there were on it some few encumbrances. While yet a yoimg
man he added something to these, and now, since his own son's
death, he has been setting his house in order, that his grandson
should receive the funily acres intact. Every shilling due on the
property has been paid off; and it is well that this should be so,
for there is reason to fear that the heir will want a helping hand
out of some of youth's difficulties, — ^perhaps once or twice before his
passion for rats gives place to a good English gentlemanlike resolve
to hunt twice a week, look after his timber, and live well within
his means.

The chief fault in the character of young Per^rine Orme was
that he was so young. There are men who are old at one^and-
twenty, — are quite fit for Parliament, the magistrate's bench, the
care of a wife, and even for that much sterner duty, the care of a
balance at the bankers ; but there are others who at that age are still
boys, — whose inner persons and characters have not begun to clothe
themselves with the * toga virilis.' I am not sure that those whose
boyhoods are so protracted have' the worst of it, if in this hurry-
ing and competitive age they can be saved from being absolutely
trampled in the dust before they are able to do a little trampling
on their own account. Fruit that grows ripe the quickest is not the
sweetest ; nor when housed and garnered will it keep the longest.
For young Peregrine there was no need of competitive struggles.
The days have not yet come, though they are no doubt coming,
when ' detur digniori ' shall be the rule of succession to all titles,
honours, and privileges whatsoever. Only think what a lift it
would give to the education of the country in general, if any lad
from seventeen to twenty-one could go in for a vacant dukedom ;
and if a goodly inheritance could be made absolutely incompatible
with incorrect spelling and doubtful proficiency in rule of three !

Luckily for Peregrine junior these days are not yet at hand, or
I fear that there would be little chance for him. While Lucius
Mason was beginning to think that the chemists might be hurried,
and that agriculture might be beneficially added to philology, our

THE CLEEVE. 25

friend Peregrine bad just been rusticated, and tbe bead of bis college
bad intimated to tbe baronet tbat it would be well to take tbe
young man's name off tbe collie books. Tbis accordingly bad
been done, and tbe beir of Tbe Gleeve was at present at bome witb
bis motber and grandfatber. Wbat special act of grace bad led
to tbis severiiy we need not inquire, but we may be sure tbat tbe
frolics of wbicb be bad been guilty bad been essentially young in
tbeir nature. He bad assisted in driving a £Etrmer*s sow into tbe
man's best parlour, or bad daubed^ tbe top of tbe tutor's cap witb
wbite paint, or bad perbaps given liberty to a bag full of rats in
tbe college ball at dinner-time. Sucb were tbe youth's academical
amusements, and as tbey were pursued witb unremitting energy it
was tbougbt well tbat be sbould be removed from Oxford.

Tben bad come tbe terrible question of bis university bills. One
after anotber, balf a score of tbem reacbed Sir Peregrine, and tben
took place tbat terrible interview, — sucb as most young men bave
had to imdergo at least once, — in wbicb be was asked bow be
intended to absolve bimself from tbe pecuniary liabilities wbicb be
bad incurred.

* I am sure I don't know,' said young Orme, sadly.

' But I sball be glad, sir, if you will favour me witb your
intentions,' said Sir Peregrine, witb severity. ' A gentleman does
not, I presume, send bis orders to a tradesman without having some
intention of paying him for bis goods.'

' I intended that they should all be paid, of course.'

* And how, sir? by whom?'

* Well, sir, — I suppose I intended that you should pay them ;'
and the scapegrace as he spoke looked full up into the baronet's
face with his bright blue eyes, — not impudently, as though defying
bis grandfather, but with a bold confidence which at once softened
the old man's heart.

Sir Peregrine turned away and walked twice the length of the
library ; then, returning to the spot where the other stood, he put his
hand on his grandson's shoulder. * Well, Peregrine, I will pay
them,' he said. * I have no doubt that you did so intend when you
incurred them ; — and that was perhaps natural. I will pay them ;
but for your own sake, and for your dear mother's sake, 1 hope that
they are not very heavy. Can you give me a list of all that you owe ?*

Young Peregrine said that he thought he could, and sitting down
at once he made a clean breast of it. With all his foibles, follies,
and youthful ignorances, in two respects he stood on good ground.
He was neither false nor a coward. He continued to scrawl down
items as long as there were any of which he could think, and then
handed over the list in order that his grandfather might add them
up. It was the last he ever heard of the matter ; and when ho re-
visited Oxford some twelve months afterwards, the tradesmen whom

26 ORLET FABX.

be bad bononred witb bis cufltom bowed to bim as low as tbongb
be bad already inberited twenty tbonsand a year.

Per^rine Onne was abort in stature as was bis motber, and be
also bad bis motber^s wonderfhUj brigbt bine eyes ; bat in otber
lespectB be was Tory like bis fatber and gnind&tber ; — reiy like
all tbe Ormes who bad lived for ages past. His bair was li^t ; bis
lorebead was not large, but well formed and somewbat prominent ;
bis nose bad something, tbongb not mncb, of the ease's beak ; bis
month was handsome in its cnrre, and bis teetb were good, and bis
chin was divided by a deep dimple. His fignre was not only short,
bnt stonter than that of the Ormes in generaL He was very strong
on bis legs ; be conld wrestle, and box, and nse the sin^e-stick
with a quickness and precision that was the terror of all tbe fresh-
men who had oome in bis way.

Mrs. Onne, bis mother, no donbt thonght that be was perfect.
Looking at the reflex of her own eyes in his, and seeing in bis &ce
so sweet a portraiture of the nose and month and forehead of him
whom she had loved so dearly and lost so soon, she conld not bat
think him perfect. When she was told that the master of Lasams
had desired that her son should be removed from his college, she
bad accused the tyrant of unrelentii^, persecuting tyranny ; and
the gentle arguments of Sir Peregrine had no effect towards changing
her ideas. On that disagreeable matter of the bills little or nothing
was said to her. Indeed, money was a subject with which she was
never troubled. Sir Peregrine conceived that money was a man's
business, and that the softness of a woman's character should be pre-
served by a total absence of all pecuniary thoughts and cares.

And then there arose at The Cleeve a question as to what should
immediately be done with the heir. He himself was by no means so
well prepared with an answer as had been his friend Lucius Mason.
When consulted by his grandfather, he said that he did not know.
He would do anything that Sir Peregrine wished. Would Sir
Peregrine think it well that he should prepare himself for the
arduous duties of a master of hounds ? Sir Peregrine did not think
this at all well, but it did not appear that he himself was prepared
with any immediate proposition. Then Peregrine discussed the
matter with his mother, explaining that he had hoped at any rate
to get the next winter's hunting witb the H. H. ; — which letters
have represented the Hamwortb Fox Hunt among sporting men
for many years past. To this his mother made no objection, ex-
pressing a bope, however, that he would go abroad in the spring.
* Home-staying youths have ever homely wits,' she said to him,
smiling on him ever so sweetly.

• That's quite true, mother,' he said. • And that's why I should
like to go to Leicestershire this winter.' But going to Leicester-
shire this winter was out of the question.

CHAPTEB IV.

THE PERILS OF TOUTU.

Gk>iKO to Leicestershire was quite out of the question for young
Orme at this period of his life, but going to London unfortunately
was not so. He had become acquainted at Oxford with a gentle-
man of great skill in his peculiar line of life, whose usual residence
was in the metropolis ; and so great had been the attraction found
in the character and pursuits of this skilful gentleman, that onr
hero had not been long at The Cleeve, after his retirement from
the university, before he visited his firiend. Cowcross Street,
Smithfield, was the site of this professor's residence, the destruction
of rats in a barrel was his profession, and his name was Carroty
Bob. It is not my intention to introduce the reader to Carroty Bob
in person, as circumstances occurred about this time which brought
his intimacy with Mr. Orme to an abrupt conclusion. It would
be needless to tell how our hero was induced to back a certain
terrier, presumed to bo the pride of Smithfield ; how a great match
came off, second only in importance to a contest for the belt of
England; how money was lost and quarrels arose, and how
Peregrine Orme thrashed one sporting gent within an inch of his
life, and fought his way out of Carroty Bob's house at twelve
o'clock at night. The tale of the row got into the newspapers, and
of course reached The Cleeve. Sir Peregrine sent for his grandson
into his study, and insisted on knowing everything ; — how much
money there was to pay, and what chance there might be of an
action and damages. Of an action and damages there did not seem
to be any chance, and the amount of money claimed was not large.
Bats have this advantage, that thoy usually come cheaper than
race-horses; but then, as Sir Peregrine felt sorely, they do not
sound so well.

• Do you know, sir, that you are breaking your mother's heart ?'
said Sir Peregrine, looking very sternly at the young man — as
sternly as he was able to look, let him do his worst.

Peregrine the younger had a very strong idea that he was not
doing anything of thejcind. ITo had left her only a quarter of an
hour since ; and though she had wept during the interview, she
had forgiven him with many caresses, and had expressed her

28 ORLEY FARM.

opinion that the chief fault had lain with Carroty Bob and those
other wretched people who had lured her dear child into their
villainous den. She had altogether fetiled to conceal her pride at his
having fought his way out from among them, and had ended by sup
plying his pocket out of her own immediate resources. * I hope not,
sir,' said Peregrine the younger, thinking over some of these things.

* But you will, sir, if you go on with this shameless career. I
do not speak of myself. I do not expect you to sacrifice your
tastes for me ; but I did think that you loved your mother !'

' So I do ; — and you tpo.'

' I am not speaking about myself, sir. "When I think what your

father was at your age ; — how nobly ' And then the baronet

was stopped in his speech, and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.
* Do you think that your father, sir, followed such pursuits as
these ? Do you think that he spent his time in the pursuit of —
Tats?'

* Well ; I don't know ; I don't think he did. But I have heard
j^ou say, sir, that you sometimes went to cockfights when you
were young.'

* To cockfights ! well, yes. But let me tell you, sir, that I
always went in the company of gentlemen — that is, when I did go,
which was verj' seldom.' The baronet in some after-dinner half-
hour had allowed this secret of his youth to escape from him, im-
prudently.

* And I went to the house in Cowcross Street with Lord John
Fitzjoly.'

' The last man in all London with whom you ought to associate !
But I am not going to argue with you, sir. If you think, and will
<;uutinue to think, that the slaughtering of vermin is a proper
pursuit '

* But, sir, foxes are vermin also.'

' Hold your tongue, sir, and listen to me. You know very well
what I mean, sir. If you think that — rats are a proper pursuit for a
^gentleman in your sphere of life, and if all that I can say has no
effect in changing your opinion, — I shall have done. I have not
many years of life before me, and when I sball be no more, you
oan squander the property in any vile pursuits that may be pleasing
to you. But, sir, you shall not do it while I am living ; nor, if I
can help it, shall you rob your mother of such peace of mind as is
left for her in this world. I have only one alternative for you, sir

.' Sir Peregrine did not stop to explain what might be the

other branch of this alternative. * W^ill you give me your word of
honour as a gentleman that you will never again concern yourself
in this disgusting pursuit ?'

* Never, grandfather !' said Peregrine, solemnly.

Sir Peregrine before he answered bethought himself that any

THE PERILS OP YOUTH. 29

pledge given for a whole life-time must be foolish; and he
bethought himself also that if he could wean his heir from rats for a
year or so, the taste would perish from lack of nourishment. • I
will say for two jeara/ said Sir Peregrine, still maintaining his
austere look.

* For two years !' repeated Peregrine the younger ; * and this is
the fourth of October.'

* Yes, sir ; for two years,* said the baronet, more angry than
ever at the young man's pertinacity, and yet almost amused at his
grandson's already formed resolve to go back to his occupation at
the first opportunity allowed.

* Couldn't you date it from the end of August, sir ? The best of
the matches always come off in September.'

* No, sir ; I will not date it from any other time than the
present. Will you give me your word of honour as a gentleman,
for two years ?'

Peregrine thought over the proposition for a minute or two in
sad anticipation of all that he was to lose, and then slowly gave
his adhesion to the terms. ' Very well, sir ; — for two years.' And
then he took out his pocket-book and wrote in it slowly.

It was at any rate manifest that he intended to keep his word,
and that was much ; so Sir Peregrine accepted the promise for
what it was worth. * And now,' said he, * if you have got nothing
better to do, we will ride down to Crutohley Wood.'

*■ 1 should like it of all things,' said his grandson.

' Samson wants me to cut a new bridle-path through from the
larches at the top of the hill down to Crutchley Bottom ; but I
don't think I'll have it done. Tell Jacob to let us have the nags ;
ni ride the gray pony. And ask your mother if she'll ride with us.'

It was the manner of Sir Peregrine to forgive altogether when
he did forgive ; and to commence his forgiveness in all its integrity
from the first moment of the pardon. There was nothing he
disliked so much as being on bad terms with those around him,
and with none more so than with his grandson. Peregrine welt
knew how to make himself pleasant to the old man, and when duly
encouraged would always do so. And thus the family party, us
they rode on this occasion through the woods of The Cleeve,
discussed oaks and larches, beech and birches, as though there
were no such animal as a rat in existence, and no such place
known as Cowcross Street.

* Well, Perr\', as you and Samson are both of one mind, I
suppose the path must be made,' said Sir Peregrine, as he got off
his horse at the entrance of the stable-yard, and prepared to give his
feeble aid to Mrs. Orme.

Shortly after this the following note was brought up to Tho
Cleeve by a messenger from Orley Farm : —

30 OSLET FABM.

* Mr DEiLR Sm Peregrine,

* If you are qnite disengaged at twelve o'dlook to-morrow^
I will walk over to The Cleeve at that hour. Or if it would suit
70U better to call here as you are riding, I would remain within
till you come. I want your kind advice on a certain matter.

* Most sincerely yours,

* Thursday.^ * Mary Mason.

Lady Mason, when she wrote this note, was well aware that it
would not be necessary for her to go to The Cleeve. Sir Peregrine's
courtesy would not permit him to impose any trouble on a lady
when the alternative of taking that trouble on himself was given to
him. Moreover, he liked to have some object for his daily ride ; he
liked to be consulted ' on certain matters ;' and he especially liked
being so consulted by Lady Mason. So he sent word back that he
would be at the farm at twelve on the following day, and exactly at
that hour his gray x>ony or cob might have been seen slowly walking
up the avenue to the £»rm-house.

The Cleeve was not distant from Orley Farm more than two miles
by the nearest walking-path, although it could not be driven much
under five. With any sort of carriage one was obliged to come
from The Cleeve House down to the lodge on the Hamworth and
Alston road, and then to drive through the town of Hamworth, and
so back to the farm. But in walking one would take the path along
the liver for nearly a mile, thence rise up the hill to the top of
Crutchley Wood, descend through the wood to Crutchley Bottom,
and, passing along the valley, come out at the foot of Cleeve Hill,
just opposite to Orley Farm Gate. The distance for a horseman
was somewhat greater, seeing that there was not as yet any bridle-
way through Crutchley Wood. Under these circumstances the
journey between the two houses was very frequently made on foot ;
and for those walking from The Cleeve House to Hamworth the
nearest way was by Lady Mason's gate.

Lady Mason'a drawing-room was very pretty, though it was by
no means fashionably furnished. Lideed, she eschewed fashion in
all things, and made no pretence of coming out before the world
as a great lady. She had never kept any kind of carriage, though
her means, combined with her son's income, would certainly have
justified her in a pony-chaise. Since Lucius had become master of
the house he had presented her with such a vehicle, and also with
the x>ony and harness complete ; but as yet she had never used it,
being afhdd, as she said to him with a smile, of appearing ambitious
before the stem citizens of Hamworth. * Nonsense, mother,' he had
replied, with a considerable amount of young dignity in his face.

* We are all entitled to those comforts for which we can afibrd to

THE F£BII^ OF YOUTH. 31

pay without injury to any one. I shall take it ill of you if I do
not see you using it.'

* Oh, Sir Peregrine, this is so kind of yon,' said Lady Mason,
coming forward to meet her friend. She was plainly dressed,
without any full exuberance of costume, and yet everything about
her was neat and pretty, and everything had been ike object of
feminine care. A very plain dress may occasion as much study as
the most elaborate, — and may be quite as worthy of the study it
has caused. Lady Mason, I am inclined to think, was by no means
indifferent to the subject, but then to her belonged the great art of
hiding her artifice.

* Kot at all ; not at all,' said Sir Peregrine, taking her hand and
pressing it, as he always did. ' What is the use of neighbours if
they are not neighbourly ?' This was all veiy well from Sir Pere-
grine in the existing case ; but he was not a man who by any means
recognized the necessity of being civil to all who lived near him.
To the great and to the poor he was neighbourly ; but it may be
doubted whether he would have thought much of Lady Mason if
she had been less good looking or less clever.

' Ah ! 1 know how good you always are to me. But 111 toll you
why I am troubling you now. Lucius went off two days since to
LiverpooL'

* My grandson told me that he had left home.'

* He is an excellent young man, and 1 am sure that I have every
reason to bo thankful.' Sir Peregrine, remembering the affair in
Cowcross Street, and certain other affairs of a somewhat similar
nature, thought that she bad ; but for all that he would not have
exchanged his own bright-eyed lad for Lucius Mason with all his
virtues and all his Icaining.

* And indeed I am tliankful,' continued the widow. * Nothing can
be better than his conduct and mode of life ; but '

* I hope ho has no attraction at Liverpool, of which you dis-
approve/

* No, no ; there is nothing of that kind. His attraction is ;

but perhaps I had better explain the whole matter. Lucius, you
know, has taken to farming.

' lie has taken up the land which you held yourself, has lio
not ?'

' Yes, and a little more ; and ho is anxious to add oven to that.
Ho is very energetic about it, Sir Peregrine.'

* Well ; the life of a gentleman farmer is not a bad one ; tliough
in his special circumstances I would certainly have recommended a
profession.'

' Acting npon your advice I did urge him to go to the bar. But
he has a will of his own, and a mind altogether made up as to the
lino of lifo which ho thinks will suit him best. "What I fear now

32 ORLET FABM.

is, that he will spend more money npon experiments that he can
afford.'

* Experimental farming is an expensive amusement/ said Sir
Peregrine, with a very serious shake of his head.

* I am afraid it is ; and now he has gone to Liverpool to buy

guano,' said the widow, feeling some little shame in coming to

so inconsiderable a conclusion after her somewhat stately prologue.

* To buy guano ! Why could he not get his guano from Walker,
as my man Symonds does T

' He says it is not good. He analyzed it, and '

* Fiddlestick I Why didn't he order it in London, if ho didn't
like Walker's. Gone to Liverpool for guano ! I'll tell you what it
is, Lady Mason ; if he intends to farm his land in that way, he
should have a very considerable capital at his back. It will be a
long time before he sees his money again.' Sir Peregrine had been
farming all his life, and had his own ideas on the subject. He
knew very well tliat no gentleman, let him set to work as he might
with his own land, could do as well with it as a faumer who
must make a living out of his farming besides paying the rent ;
— who must do that or else have no living ; and he knew also that
such operations as those which his young friend was now about to
attempt was an amusement fitted only for the rich. It may be also
that he was a little old fashioned, and therefore prejudiced against
new combinations between agriculture and chemistry. ' He must
put a stop to that kind of work very soon, Lady Mason ; he must
indeed ; or he will bring himself to ruin — and you with him.'

Lady Mason's face became very grave and serious. ' But what
can I say to him. Sir Peregrine ? In such a matter as that I am
afraid that he would not mind me. If you would not object to
speaking to him ?'

Sir Peregrine was graciously pleased to say that he would not
object. It was a disagreeable task, he said, that of giving advice
to a young man who was bound by no tie either to take it or even
to receive it with respect.

' You will not find him at all disrespectful ; I think I can
promise that,' said the frightened mother: and that matter was
ended by a promise on the part of the baronet to take the case
in hand, and to see Lucius immediately on his return from Liver-
pool. * He had better come and dine at The Cleeve,' said Sir
Peregrine, * and we will have it out after dinner.' All of which
made Lady Mason very grateful.

OHAPTEEV.

801 SSBBaUNK MAXES A 8SCX)SD VBOMISE.

We hift Ladj Mason Teiy giatefal at tlie end of tha last chapter
for the promiae made to her bj Sir Peregrme with referenoe to her
eon; bat there was still a weight on Lady Mason's jniiid. ' Tbfiiy
aaj that the pith of a lady's letter is in the postscript^ and it may
be that that which remained for Lady Mason to say, was after all
the matter as to which she was most anxious for assistance. * As
70a aiEe- herer she said to the baronet, * would you let .me mention
anodiear sabject?*

* Sardy/ said he, again putting down his hat and riding-etiok.
Sir Peregrine was not given to dose observation of those around

kim, or he mi|^ have seen by the heightened colour of the lady's
fiftoe, aed by the slight nervous hesitation with which she hpgm to
mpoakt that she was much in earnest as to this other matter* « ibid
had he been clever in his powers of observation he might have seen
also that die was anxious to hide this feeling. * You remember the
eiioamBtanoeB of that terrible lawsuit?* she said, at last

' What ; as to Sir Joseph's will p Tes ; I remember them welL'

* I kuow that I shall never forget all the kindness that you
showed me,' said she. ' I don't know how I should have lived
through it without you aud dear Mrs. Orme.'

* But what about it now ?'

* I fear I am going to have further trouble.'

^ Do you mean that the man at Groby Park is going to try the
case again ? It is not possible after such a lapse of time. I am no
lawyer, but I do not think that he can do it.'

* I do not know — I do not know what he intends, or whether he
intends anything ; but I am sure of this, — that he will give me
trouble if he can. But I will tell you the whole story, Sir Pere-
grine. It is not much, and perhaps after all may not be worth
attention. You know the attorney in Ham worth who married
Miriam Usboch?'

' What, Samuel Dock wrath? Oh, yes ; I know him well enough ;
and to tell the truth I do not think very well of him. Is he not a
tenant of yours ?'

* Not at present.' And then Lady Mason explained the manner
in which the two fields had been taken out of the lawyer's hands by
her son's order.

VOL. I. D

34 OBLEY FABM.

* Ah I he was wrong there/ said the baronet. • "When a man has
held land so long it should not be taken away from him except
under pressing circumstances ; that is if he pays his rent'

Mr. Dockwrath did pay his rent, certainly ; and now, I fear, ho
is determined to do all he can to injure us.'

* But what injury can Mr. Dockwrath do you ?'

* I do not know ; but he has gone down to Yorkshire, — to Mr.
Mason's place ; I know that ; and he was searching through some
papers of old Mr. Usbech's before he went. Indeed, I may say that
I know as a fact that he has gone to Mr. Mason with the hope that
these law proceedings may be brought on again/

* Tou know it as a fact?" •
' I think I may say so.'

' But, dear Lady Mason, may I ask you how you know this as a
fact?'

' His wife was with me yesterday,* she said, with some feeling
of shame as she disclosed ike source from whence she had obtained
her information.

* And did she tell the tale against her own husband ?

* Not as meaning to say anything c^inst him. Sir Peregrine ; yon
must not think so badly of her as that ; nor must yon think that I
would willingly obtain information in such a manner. But yon
must understand that I have always been her finend ; and when she
found that Mr. Dockwrath had left home on a matter in which I
am so nearly concerned, I cannot but think it natural that she
should let me know*'

To this Sir Peregrine made no direct answer. He could not
quite say that he thought it was natural, nor could he give any
expressed approval of any such intercourse between Lady Mason and
the attorney's wife. He thought it would be better that Mr. Dock-
wrath should be allowed to do his worst, if he had any intention of
doing evil, and that Lady Mason should pass it by without con-
descending to notice the circumstance. But he made allowances for
her weakness, and did not give utterance to his disapproval in words.

* I know you think that I have done wrong,' she then said, ap-
pealing to him ; and there was a tone of sorrow in her voice which
went to his heart.

' No, not wrong ; I cannot say that you have done wrong. It
may bo a question whether you have done wisely.'

* Ah ! if you only condemn my folly, I will not despair. It is
probable I may not have done wisely, seeing that I had not you to
direct me. But what shall I do now ? Oh, Sir Peregrine, say that
you will not desert mo if all this trouble is coming on me again !'

* No, I will not desert you. Lady Mason ; you may be sure of that.'

* Dearest friend !'

* But I would advise you to take no notice whatever of Mr.

SIB PEBEQBIKE KAKES A SECOND PROMISE. S5

Dodcwrath and Yub proceedings. I regard him as a person entirely
beneath ycnxr notice, and if I were 70a I should not move at all in
this matter unless I received some legal summons which made it
necessarj for me to do so. I have not the honour of any personal
acquaintance with Mr. Mason of Groby Park.' It was in this way
that Sir Peregrine always designated his friend's stepson — ' but
if I understand the motives by which he may probably be actuated
in this or in any other matter, I do not think it likely that he will
expend money on so very tmpromising a case.'

* He would do anything for vengeance.'

* I doubt if ho would throw away his money even for that, unless
he were very sure of his prey. And in this matter, what can he
possibly do ? He has the decision of the jury against him, and at
the time he was afiraid to carry the case up to a court of appeal.'

* But, Sir Peregrine, it is impossible to know what documents he
may have obtained since that.'

* What documents can do you any harm;— xmless, indeed, there
should turn out to be a will subsequent to that under which your
son inherits the property ?'

* Oh, no ; there was no subsequent will.'

* Of course there was not ; and therefore you need not frighten
yourself. It is just possible that some attempt may be made now
that your son is of age, but I r^ard even that as improbable.'

* And you would not advise me then to say anything to Mr.
Fumival?'

' No ; certainly not — unless you receive some legal notice which
may make it necessary for you to consult a la^vyer. Do nothing ;.
and if Mrs. Dockwrath comes to you again, tell her that you are not
disposed to take any notice of her information. Mrs. Dockwrath is,
I am sure, a very good sort of woman. Indeed I have always
heard so. But, if I were you, I don't think that I should feel
inclined to have much conversation with her about my private
affairs. What you tell her you tell also to her husband.' Ana then
the baronet, having thus spoken words of wisdom, sat silent in his
arm-chair; and Lady Mason, still looking into his face, remained
silent also for a few minutes.

* I am so glad I asked you to come,' she then said.

* I am delighted, if I have been of any service to you.

' Of any service ! oh. Sir Peregrine, you cannot understand what
it is to live alone as I do, — for of course I cannot trouble Lucius
with these matters ; nor can a man, gifted as you are, comprehend
how a woman can tremble at the very idea that those law proceed-
ings may possibly bo repeated.'

Kir Peregrine could not but remember as he looked at her that
during all those law proceedings, when an attack was made, not
only on her income but on her honesty, she had never seemed to

D 2

36 OKLEY FARM.

tremble. She bad always been coDstant to herself, even when
things appeared to be going against her. But years passing over
ber head since that time had perhaps told npon her courage.

' But I will fear nothing now, as yon have promised that you will
still be my friend.'

' You may be very snre of that, Lady Mason. T believe that I
may fairly boast that I do not easily abandon those whom I have
once regarded with esteem and affection ; among whom Lady
Mason will, I am sure, allow me to say that she is reckoned as by no
means the least.' And then taking her hand, the old gentleman
bowed over it and kissed it

*■ My dearest, dearest friend !' said she ; and lifting Sir Peregrine's
beautifully white hand to her lips she also kissed that. It will be
remembered that the gentleman was over seventy, and that this
pretty scene could therefore be enacted without impropriety on
either side. Sir Peregrine then went, and as he passed out of the
door Lady Mason smiled on him very sweetly. It is quite true that
be was over seventy ; but nevertheless the smile of a pretty woman
still had charms for him, more especially if there was a tear in her
eye the while ; — for Sir Peregrine Orme had a soft heart.

As soon as the door was closed behind him Lady Mason seated
herself in her accustomed chair, and all trace of the smile vanished
from her face. She was alone now, and could allow her countenance
to be a true index of her mind. If such was the case her heart
surely was very sad. She sat there perfectly still for nearly an
■hour, and during the whole of that time there was the same look of
agony on her brow. Once or twice she rubbed her hands across
her forehead, brushing back her hair, and showing, had there been
any one by to see it, that there was many a gray lock there mixed
with the brown hairs. Had there been any one by, she would, it
may be surmised, have been more careful.

There was no smile in her face now, neither was there any tear
in her eye. The one and the other emblem were equally alien to
her present mood. But there was sorrow at her heart, and deep
thought in her mind. She knew that her enemies were conspiring
against her, — against her and against her son ; and what steps might
she best take in order that she might baffle them ?

' I have got that woman on the hip now.' Those were the words
which Mr. Dockwrath had uttered into his wife's ears, after two
days spent in searching through her father's papers. The poor
woman had once thought of burning all those papers — in old days
before she had become Mrs. Dockwrath. Her friend, Lady Mason^
had counselled her to do so, pointing out to her that they were
troublesome, and could by no possibility lead to profit; but she
had consulted her lover, and he had counselled her to bum nothing.
* Would tbat she bad been guided by her friend !' she now said to

SIR PEREQKINE MAKES A SECOND FBOMISE. 37

herself with regard to that old trunk, and perhaps occasionally with
regard to some other things.

* I have got that woman on the hip at last !* and there had been
a gleam of satisfBM^tion in Samnel's eye as he uttered the words
which had convinced his wife that it was not an idle threat. She
knew nothing of what the box had contained ; and now, even if
it had not been kept safe from her under Samuel's private key, the
contents which were of interest had of course gone. ' I have business
in the north, and shall be away for about a week,' Mr. Dockwrath
had said to her on the following morning.

' Oh, very well ; then I'll put up your things,' she had answered
in her usual mild, sad, whining, household voice. Her voice at
home was always sad and whining, for she was overworked, and
had too many cares, and her lord was a tyrant to her rather than a
husband.

* Yes, I must see Mr. Mason immediately. And look here,
Miriam, I positively insist that you do not go to Orley Farm, or
hold any intercourse whatever with Lady Mason. D'ye hear ?'

Mrs. Dockwrath said that she did hear, and promised obedience.
Mr. Dockwrath probably guessed that the moment his back was
turned all would be told at the farm, and probably also had no real
objection to her doing so. Had he in truth wished to keep his
proceedings secret from Lady Mason he would not have divulged
them to his wife. And then Mr. Dockwrath did start for the north,
bearing certain documents with him ; and soon after his departure
Mrs. Dockwrath did pay a visit to Orley Farm.

Lady Mason sat there perfectly still for about an hour tbinkiug
what she would do. She had asked Sir Peregrine, and had the
advantage of his advice ; but that did not weigh much with her.
AVhat she wanted from Sir Peregrine was countenance and absoluto
assistance in the day of trouble, — not advice. She had desired to
renew his interest in her favour, and to receive from him his assur-
ance that he would not desert her; and that she had obtained. It
was of course also necessary that she should consult him ; but in
turning over within her own mind this and that line of conduct, she
did not, consciously, attach any weight to Sir Peregrine's opinion.
The great question for her to decide was this; — should she put
herself and her case into the hands of her friend Mr. Furnival now
at once, or should she wait till she had received some certain
Kymptora of hostile proceedings? If she did see Mr. Furnival, what
could she tell him? only this, that Mr. Dockwrath had found sonu^
document among the papers of old Mr. Usbech, and had gone oil*
with the same to Groby Park in Yorkshire. What that document
might be she was as ignorant as the attorney's wife.

When the hour was ended she had made up her mind that she
would do nothing more in the matter, at any rate on that da}'.

CHAPTER VI.

THE GOMMERCIAL BOOM, BULL INK, LEEDS.

Mb. Samuel Dockwbath was a little man, with sandy hair, a pale
&oe, and stone-blue eyes. In judging of him by appearance only
and not by the ear, one would be inclined to doubt that he could be
a very sharp attorney abroad and a very persistent tyrant at home.
But when Mr. Dookwrath began to talk, one's respect for him
began to grow. He talked well and to the point, and with a tone of
voice that could command where command was possible, persuade
where persuasion was required, mystify when mystification was
needed, and express with accuracy the tone of an obedient humble
servant when servility was thought to be expedient. We will
now accompany him on his little tour into Yorkshire.

Groby Park is about seven miles from Leeds, and as Mr. Dock-
wrath had in the first instance to travel from Hamworth up to
London, he did not reach Leeds till late in the evening. It was
a nasty cold, drizzling night, so that the beauties and marvels of
the large manufacturing town offered him no attraction, and at nine
o'clock be had seated himself before the fire in the commercial
room at The Bull, had called for a pair of public slippers, and was
about to solace all his cares with a glass of mahogany-coloured
brandy and water and a cigar. The room had no present occupant
but himself, and therefore he was able to make the most of all its
comforts. He had taken the solitary arm-chair, and had so placed
himself that the gas would fiarll direct from behind his head on to
that day's Leeds and Halifax Chronicle, as soon as he should choose
to devote himself to local politics.

The waiter had looked at him with doubtful eyes when he asked
to be shown into the commercial room, feeling all but confident
that such a guest had no right to be there. He had no bulky
bundles of samples, nor any of those outward characteristics of a
commercial 'gent' with which all men conversant with the
rail and road are acquainted, and which the accustomed eye of a
waiter recognizes at a glance. And here it may be well to explain
that ordinary travellers are in this respect badly treated by the
customs of Englemd, or rather by the hotel-keepers. All inn-
ipers have commercial rooms, as certainly as they have taps and

TH£ OOMHEBCIAL BOOMy BULL INN, LEEDS. 39

ban, but all of. them do not have commeroial rooms in the properly,
exclusive sense. A stmnger, therefore, who has asked for and
obtained his mutton-chop in the commeroial room of The Dolphin*
The Bear, and The Gieoxge, not nnnatorally asks to be shown, into
the same chamber at the King's Head. But the King's Head does a
business with real oommeroiah^ and the stranger finds himself —
out of his element.

"Mercial, sir?* said the waiter at The Boll Inn, Leeds, to Mr.
Dockwrath, in that tone of doubt which seemed to cany an answer
to his own question. But Mr. Dockwrath was not a man to be put
down by a waiter. ' Yes,' said he. ' Didn't you hear me say so 7*
And then the waiter gave way. None of those lords of the road
were in the house at the moment, and it might be that none would
come that night.

Mr. Dockwrath had arrived by the 8*22 p.m. down, but the 8*45 P.1C.
up &om the north followed quick upon his heels, and he had hardly
put his brandy and water to his mouth before a rush and a soimd
of many voices were heard in the halL There is a great diffexence
between the entrance into an inn of men who are not known there
and of men who are known. The men who are not known are ehy,
difiSdent, doubtful, and anxious to propitiate the chambermaid by
great courtesy. The men who are known are loud, jocular, and
assured ;— or else, in case of deficient accommodation, loud, angiy,
and fiill of thieats. The guests who had now arrived weie well
known, and seemed at present to be in the former mood. ' Well,
Mary, my dear, what's the time of day with you?' said a rough,
bass voice, within the hearing of Mr. Dockwrath. 'Much about
the old tune, Mr. Moulder,* said the girl at the bar. * Time to
look alive and keep moving. Will you have them boxes up stairs,
]\Ir. Kantwise ?' and then there wore a few words about the luggage,
and two real commercial gentlemen walked into the room.

^Ir. Dockwrath resolved to stand upon his rights, so he did not
move his chair, but looked up over his shoulder at the now comers.
The first man who entered was short and very fat ; — so fat that he
could not have seen his own knees for some considerable time past.
His face rolled with fat, as also did all his limbs. His eyes were
large, and bloodshot. He wore no beard, and therefore showed
plainly the triple bagging of his fat chin. In spite of his over-
whelming fatness, there was something in his face that was
masterful and almost vicious. His body had been overcome by
eating, but not as yet his spirit, — one woidd be inclined to say.
This was Mr. Moulder, well known on the road as being in the
grocery and spirit line ; a pushing man, who understood his
business, and was well trusted by his firm in spite of his habitual
intemperance. What did the firm care whether or no he killed
himself by eating and drinking .^ He sold his goods, collected his

40 OBLEY FARM.

money, and made bis remittances. If he got drank at night that
was nothing to them, seeing that he always did his quota of work
the next day. But Mr. Moulder did not get drunk. His brandy
and water went into his blood, and into his eyes, and into his feet,
and into his hands, — but not into his brain.

The other was a little spare man in the hardware line, of the name
of E^twise. He disposed of fire-irons, grates, ovens, and kettles,
and was at the present moment heavily engaged in the sale of certain
newly-invented metallic tables and chairs lately brought out by
the Patent Stoel Furniture Company, for which Mr. Kantwise did
business. He looked as though a skin rather too small for tho
purpose had been drawn over his head and face, so that his forehead
and cheeks and chin were tight and shiny. His eyes were small
and green, always moving about in his head, and were seldom
used, by Mr. Kantwise in the ordinary way. At whatever he
looked he looked sideways ; it was not that he did not look you in
the face, but he always looked at you with a sidelong glance, never
choosing to have you straight in front of him. And the more eager
he was in conversation — the more anxious ho might be to gain his
point, the more he averted his face and looked askance ; so that
sometimes he would prefer to have his antagonist almost behind his
shoulder. And then as he did this, ho would thrust forward his
chin, and having looked at you round the comer till his eyes were
nearly out of his head, he would close them both and suck in his
lips, and shake his head with rapid little shakes, as though he
were saying to himself, * Ah, sir ! you're a bad un, a very bad
un.* His nose — for I should do Mr. Kantwise injustice if I did
not mention this feature — seemed to have been compressed almost
into nothing by that skin-squeezing operation. It was long
enough, taking the measurement down the bridge, and projected
sufficiently, counting the distance from the upper lip ; but it had all
the properties of a line; it possessed length without breadth.
There was nothing in it from side to side. If you essayed to pull
it, your fingers would meet. When I shall have also said that the
hair on Mr. Slantwise s head stood up erect all round to the height
of two inches, and that it was veiy red, I shall have been accurate
enough in his personal description.

That Mr. Moulder represented a firm good business, doing tea,
coffee, and British brandy on a well-established basis of capital and
profit, the travelling commercial world in the north of England
was well aware. No one entertained any doubt about his employ-
ers. Hubbies and Grease of Houndsditch. Hubbies and Grease
were all right, as they had been any time for the last twenty years.
But I cannot say that there was quite so strong a confidence felt in
the Patent Steel Furniture Company generally, or in the individual
operations of Mr. Kantwise in particular. The world in Yorkshire

THE OOMMEBCIAL BOOH, BULL DTN, LEEDS. 41

and Lancashire was doubtfdl about metallio tables, and it was
thought that Mr. Eantwise was too eloquent in their praise.

Mr. Moulder when he had entered the room, stood still, to enable
the waiter to peel off from him his greatcoat and the large shawl
with which his neck was enveloped, and Mr. Eantwise performed
the same operation for himself, carefully folding up the articles of
clothing as he took them off. Then Mr. Moulder fixed his eyes on
Mr. Dockwrath, and stared at him very hard. • Who's the party,
James?* he said to the waiter, speaking in a whisper that was
plainly heard by the attorney.

* Gen*elman by the 8*22 down,* said James.

* Commercial ?' asked Mr. Moulder, with angry frown.

* He says so himself, anyways,' said the wcdter.

* Gammon !' replied Mr. Moulder, who knew all the bearings of a
commercial man thoroughly, and could have put one together if he
were only supplied with a little bit— say the mouth, as Professor
Owen always does with the Dodoes. Mr. Moulder now began to
be angry, for he was a stickler for the rights and privileges of his
class, and had an idea that the world was not so conservative in
that respect as it should be. Mr. Dockwrath, however, was not to
be frightened, so he drew his chair a thought nearer to the fire,
took a sup of brandy and water, and prepared himself for war if
war should be necessary.

* Cold evening, sir, for the time of year,' said Mr. Moulder,
walking up to the fireplace, and rolling the lumps of his forehead
about in his attempt at a frown. In spite of his terrible burden of
flesh, Mr. Moulder could look angry on occasions, but he could
only do so when he was angry. He was not gifted with a command
of his facial muscles.

* Yes,' said Mr. Dockwrath, not taking his eyes from off the
Leeds and Halifax Chronicle. * It is coldish. Waiter, bring me a
cigar.'

This was very provoking, as must be confessed. Mr. ^Moulder
had not been prepared to take any step towards turning the gentle-
man out, though doubtless ho might have done so had he chosen
to exercise his prerogative. But he did expect that the gentleman
would have acknowledged the weakness of his footing, by moving
himself a little towards one side of the fire, and he did not expect
that he would have presumed to smoke without asking whether the
practice was held to be objectionable by the legal possessors of tho
room. Mr. Dockwrath was free of any such pusillanimity. * W^aiter,*
he said again, ' bring me a cigar, d'ye hear?'

The great heart of Moulder could not stand this unmoved. He
had been an accustomed visitor to that room for fifteen years, and
had always done his best to preserve the commercial code unsullied.
He was now so well known, that no one else ever presumed to tako

42 OBL£T FABSI*

tiia chair at the fintr o'dock commercial dinner i£ he were present.
It was incumbent on him to stand, forwazd and make a fight, more
especially in the presence of Santwiaei who was by no means
stanch to his order. Eantwise would at ail times have been glad
to have outsiders in the room, in order that he might puff his
tables, and if possible e£fect a sale ; — a mode of proceeding held in
much aversion by the upright, old-fieishioned, commercial mind.

^ Sir,' said Mr. Moulder, haviug become very led about the cheeks
and chin, ' I and this gentleman are going to have a bit of supper,
and it aint accustomed to smoke in commercial rooms during
moals. You know the rules no doubt if you're commercial yourself;
— as I suppose you are, seeing you in this room.'

Now Mr. Moulder was wrong in his law, as he himself was very
weU aware. Smoking is aUowed in aU commeicial rooms when
the dinner has been some hour or so off the table. But then it was
necessary that he should hit the stranger in some way, and the
chances were that the stranger would know nothing about com-
mercial law. Nor did he ; so he merely looked Mr. Moulder hard
in the face. But Mr. Kantwise knew the laws well enough, and
as he saw before him a possible purchaser of metallic tables, he came
to the assistance of the attorney.

' I think you are a little wrong there, Mr. Moulder; eh; aint
you ?' said he.

' Wrong about what ?' said Moulder, turning very sharply upon
his base-minded compatriot.

* WeU, as to smoking. It's nine o'clock, and if the gentleman '

* I don't care a brass feurthing about the clock,' said the other,
* but when I'm going to have a bit of steak with my tea, in my own
room, I chooses to have it comfortable.*

*• Goodness me, Mr. Moulder, how many times have I seen you
sitting there with a pipe in your mouth, and half a dozen gents
eatiug their teas the while in this very room ? The rule of the case
I take it to be this ; when *

* Bother your rules.'

* Well ; it was you spoke of them.*

' The question I take to be this,' said Moulder, now emboldened
by the opposition he had received. ' Has the gentleman any right
to be in this room at all, or has he not ? Is he commercial, or is he
miscellaneous ? That's the chat, as I take it.'

' You*re on the square there, I must allow,' said Kantwise.

* James,' said Moulder, appealing with authority to the waiter,
who had remained in the room during the controversy ; — and now
Mr. Moulder was determined to do his duty and vindicate his pro-
fession, let the consequences be what they might. ' James, is that
gentleman commercial, or is he not ?'

It was clearly necessary now that Mr. Dockwrath himself should

THE COMMERCIAL BOOM, BULL INK, LEEDS. 43

tftke lu9 own port, and fight his own battle. ' Sir,' said he, tnming
to Mr. Moulder, ' I ihink jonll find it'exteemeiy diffionit to define
that word; — extremely di£Boult. In this enterprising countrj all
men are more or less commerciaL'
' Hear ! hear !' said Mr. Eantwise.

* That's gammon,' said Mr. Moulder.

< Gammon it may be,' said Mr. Dookwrath, ' but nevertheless it's
right in law. Taking the word in its broadest, strictest, and most
intelligible sense, I am a oommercial gentleman ; and as such I do
luaintaiu that I have a full right to the accommodation of this
public room.'

* That's veiy well put,' said Mr. Eantwise.

* Waiter,' thimdored out Mr. Moulder, as though he imagined that
that functionary was down the yard at the taproom instead of
litanding within three feet of his elbow. * Is this gent a commer-
cial, or is he not ? Because if not, — then I'll trouble you to send
Mr. Crump here. My compliments to Mr. Crump, and I wish to see
him.' Now Mr. Crump was the landlord of the Bull Inn.

' Master's just stepped out, down the street,' said James.

* Why don't you answer my question, sir ?* said Moulder, be-
coming redder and still more red about his shirt-collars.

' The gent said as how he was 'mercial,' said the poor man.
* Was I to go to contradict a gent and tell him he vrasn't when ho
said as how he was ?'

' If you please,' said Mr. Dockwraih, ' we will not bring the
waiter into this discussion. I asked for the commercial room, and
he did his duty in showing me to the door of it. The fact I take to
be this ; in the south of Enghwid the rules to which you refer are
not kept so strictly as in these more mercantile localities.*

' I've always observed that,' said Kantwise.

* I travelled for three years in Devonshire, Somersetshire, and
Wiltshire,' said Moulder, ' and the commercial rooms were as well
kept there as any I ever see.'

' I alluded to Surrey and Kent,' said Mr. Dockwrath.

' They're uncommonly miscellaneous in Surrey and Kent,' said
Kantwise. ' There's no doubt in the world about that.'

' If the gentleman means to say that he's come in here because
ho didn't know the custom of the country, I've no more to say, of
course,' said Moulder. * And in that case, I, for one, shall be very
happy if the gentleman can make himself comfortable in this room as
a stranger, and I maj' say guest ; — paying his own shot, of course.'

' And as for me, I shall be delighted,' said Kantwise. * I never
did like too much exclusiveness. What's the use of bottling oneself
np? that's what I always say. Besides, there's no charity in it. We
gents as are always on the road should show a little charity to them
as aint so well accustomed to the work.'

44 ORLEY FARM.

At this allnsion to charity Mr. Moulder snuffled through his nose
io show his gi-eat disgust, but he made no further answer. Mr.
Dockwrath, who was determined not to yield, but who had nothing
to* gain by further fighting, bowed his head, and declared that he
felt very much obliged. Whether or no there was any touch of irony
in his tone, Mr. Moulder's ears were not fine enough to discover. 80
they now sat round the fire together, the attorney still keeping his
seat in the middle. And then Mr. Moulder ordered his little bit of
steak with his tea. ' With the gravy in it, James,' he said, solemnly.
* And a bit of £sit, and a few slices of onion, thin mind, put on raw,
not with all the taste fried out ; and tell the cook if she don't do it
as it should be done, I'll be down into the kitchen and do it myself.
Youll join me, Eantwise, eh ?'

* Well, I think not ; I dined at three, you know.'

' Dined at three ! What of that ? a dinner at three won't last a
man for ever. You might as well join me.*

' No, I think not. Have you got such a thing as a nice red
herring in the house, James ?'

* Get one round the comer, sir.'

' Do, there's a good fellow ; and I'll take it for a relish with my
tea. I'm not so fond of your solids three times a day. They heat
the blood too much.'

* Bother,' gnmted Moulder ; and then they went to their evening
meal, over which we will not disturb them. The steak, we may
presume, was cooked aright, as Mr. Moulder did not visit the
kitchen, and Mr. Kantwise no doubt made good play with his un-
substantial dainty, as he spoke no further till his meal was altogether
finished.

* Did you ever hear anything of that Mr. Mason who lives near
Bradford ?' asked Mr. Eantwise, addressing himself to Mr. Moulder,
as soon as the things had been cleared from the table, and that
latter gentleman had been fainished with a pipe and a supply of
cold without.

* I remember his father when I was a boy,' said Moulder, not
troubling himself to take his pipe from his mouth. ' Mason and
Mai took in the Old Jewry ; very good people they were too.*

* He's decently well off now, I suppose, isn't he ?' said Kantwise,
turning away his face, and looking at his companion out of the
comers of his eyes.

* I suppose he is. That place there by the road-side is all his
own, I take it. Have you been at him with some of your rusty,
rickety tables and chairs ?'

* Mr. Moulder, you forget that there is a gentleman here who
won't understand that you're at your jokes. I was doing business
at Groby Park, but I found the party uncommon hard to deal with.'

' Didn't complete the transaction ?'

THE COMMEBCIAL BOOM, BULL INN, LEEDS. 45

* Well, no ; not exactly ; but I intend to call again. He*s close
enough himself, is Mr. Mason. But his lady, Mrs. M.I Lord
love you, Mr. Moulder ; that is a woman !'

* She is ; is she ? As for me, I never have none of these private
dealings. It dou*t suit my book at all; nor it aint what I've
been accustomed to. If a man's wholesale, let him be wholesale.'
And then, having enunciated this excellent opinion with much
eneigy, he took a long pull at his brandy and water.

* Yeiy old fashioned, Mr. Moulder,' said Kantwise, looking round
the comer, then shutting his eyes and shaking his head.

' May be,' said Moulder, * and yet none the worse for that. I call
it hawking and peddling, that going round the country with your
goods on your back. It aint trade.' And then there was a lidl in
the conversation, Mr. Slantwise, who was a very religious gentle
man, having closed his eyes, and being occupied with some internal
anathema against Mr. Moulder.

* Begging your pardon, sir, I think you were talking about
one Hr. Mason who lives in these parts,' said Dockwrath.

* Exactly. Joseph Mason, Esq., of Groby Park,' said Mr. Kant-
wise, now turning his face upon the attorney.

* I suppose I shall be likely to find him at home to-morrow,
if I call ?'

' Certainly, sir ; certainly ; leastwise I should say so. Any
personal acquaintance with Mr. Ihlason, sir ? If so, I meant nothing
offensive by my allusion to the lady, sir; nothing at all, I can
assure you.'

* The lady's nothing to me, sir ; nor the gentleman either ; — only
that I have a little business with him.'

* Shall be very happy to join you in a gig, sir, to-morrow, as far
as Groby Park ; or fly, if more convenient. I shall only take a few
patterns with me, and they're no weight at all ; — none in the least,
sir. They go on behind, and you wouldn't know it, sir.' To this,
however, Mr. Dockwrath would not assent. As ho wanted to see
Mr. Mason very specially, he should go early, and preferred going
by himself.

* No offence, I hope,' said Mr. Kantwise.

* None in the least,' said Mr. Dockwrath.

* And if you would allow me, sir, to have the pleasure of showing
you a few of my patterns, I'm sure I should be delighted.' This he
said observing that Mr. Moulder was sitting over his empty glass
with the pipe in his hand, and his eyes fast closed. * I think, sir, I
could show you an article that would please you very much. You
see, sir, that new ideas are coming in every day, and wood, sir, is
altogether going out, — altogether going out as regards furniture.
In another twenty years, sir, there won't be such a thing as a
wooden table in the country, unless with some poor person that

46 OBLET FAKM.

can't afford to refumish. Believe me, sir, iron's the thing now-
a-days.'

' And indian-rubber,' said Dockwrath.

* Yes ; indian-rttbber's wonderful too. Are yon'in that line, sir ?'

* Well ; no ; not exactly.'

* It's not like iron, sir. Yon can't make a dinner-table for fonr-
teen people ont of indian-rubber, that will shnt np into a box 3 — 6
by 2 — 4 deep, and 2 — 6 broad. "Wby, sir, I can let yon have a set
of drawing-room furniture for fifteen ten that you've never seen
equalled in wood for three times the money ; — ornamented in the
tastiest way, sir, and fit for any lady's drawing-room or boodoor.
The ladies of quality are all getting them now for their boodoors.
There's three tables, eight chairs, easy rooking-chair, mnsic-stand,
stool to match, and pair of stand-np screens, all gilt in real Loney
catorse ; and it goes in three boxes 4 — 2 by 2 — 1 and 2 — 3. Think
of that, sir. For fifteen ten and the boxes in.' Then there was a
pause, after which Mr. Kantwise added — * If ready money, the
carriage paid.' And then he turned his head very much away,
and looked back very hard at his expected customer.

' I'm afraid the articles are not in my line,' said Mr. Dockwrath.

* It's the tastiest present for a gentleman to make to his lady that
has come out since — since those sort of things have come out at all.
You'll let me show you the articles, sir. It will give me the sin-
cerest pleasure.' And Mr. Kantwise proposed to leave the room
in order that he might introduce the three boxes in question.

* They would not be at all in my way,' said Mr. Dockwrath.

* The trouble would be nothing,' said Mr. Kantwise, • and it
gives me the greatest pleasure to make them known when I find any
one who can appreciate such nndoubted luxuries ;' and so saying
Mr. Kantwise skipped out of the room, and soon returned with
Jamos and Boots, each of the three bearing on his shoulder a
deal box nearly as big as a coflBn, all of which were deposited in
different pai*ts of the room Mr. Moulder in the mean time snored
heavily, his head falling on to his breast every now and again. But
nevertheless he held fast by his pipe.

Mr. Kantwise skipped about the room with wonderful agility, un-
fastening the boxes, and taking out the contents, while Joe the
boots and James the waiter stood by assisting. They had never yet
seen the glories of these chairs and tables, and were therefore not
tmwilling to be present. It was singular to see how ready Mr.
Kantwise was at the work, how recklessly he throw aside the
whitey-brown paper in which the various pieces of painted iron
were enveloped, and with what a practised hand he put together
one article after another. First there was a round loo-table, not
quite so large in its circumference as some people might think
desirable, but, nevertheless, a round loo-table. The pedestal with

THE COHMEBCIAL BOOH^ BULL INN, LEEDS. 47

its three daws was all together. With a knowing touch Mr. Kant-
wise separated the bottom of what looked like a yellow stick, and,
lo ! there were three legs, which he placed carefully on the ground.
Then a small bar was screwed on to the top, and over the bar was
screwed the leaf, or table itself, which consisted of three pieces
unfolding with hinges. These, when the screw had been duly
fastened in the centre, opened out upon the bar, and there was the
table complete.

It was certainly a • tasty ' article, and the pride with which Mr.
Eantwise glanced back at it was quite delightful. The top of the
table was blue, with a red bird of paradise in the middle ; and the
edges of the table, to the breadth of a couple of inches, were yellow.
The piDar also was yellow, as were the three legs. * It's tibe real
Louey catorse,' said Mr. Elantwise, stooping down to go on with
table number two, which was, as he described it, a ' chess,' haviDg
the proper number of blue and light-pink squares marked upon it ;
but this also had been made Loucy catorse with reference to its
legs and edges. The third table was a ' sofa,' of proper shape, but
rather small in size. Then, one after another, he brought forth
and screwed up the chairs, stools, and sundry screens, and within a
quarter of an hour he had put up the whole set complete. The red
bird of paradise and the blue ground appeared on all, as did also the
yellow legs and edgings which gave to them their peculiarly
fashionable character. ' There,' said Mr. Kantwise, looking at tbem
with fond admiration, • I don't mind giving a personal guarantee
that there's nothing equal to that for the money either in England
or in France.'

* They are very nice,' said Mr. Dockwrath. When a man has
had produced before him for his own and sole delectation any article
or articles, how can he avoid eiilogium? Mr. Dockwrath found
himself obliged to pause, and almost feared that he should find
himself obliged to buy.

' Nice ! I should rather think they are,' said Mr. KantwLso,
becoming triumphant, — * and for fifteen ten, delivered, boxes in-
cluded. There's nothing like iron, sir, nothing ; you may take my
word for that. They're so strong, you know. Look here, sir.' And
then Mr. Kantwise, taking two of the pieces of whitey-brown paper
which had been laid aside, carefully spread one on the centre of the
round table, and the other on the seat of one of the chairs. Then
lightly poising himself on his toe, he stepped on to the chair, and
frv)m thence on to the table. In that position he skilfully brought
his feet together, so that his weight was directly on the leg, and
gracefully waved his hands over his head. James and Boots stood
by admiring, with open mouths, and Mr. Dockwrath, with his hands
in his pockets, was meditating whether ho could not give the order
without complying with the terms as to ready money.

48 ORLEY FABM.

' Look at tliat for strength,' said Mr. Kantwise ^m his exalted
position. ' I don*t think any lady of yonr acquaintance, sir, would
allow you to stand on her rosewood or mahogany loo table. And
if she did, you would not like to adventure it yourself. But look at
this for strength,* and he waved his arms abroad, still keeping his
feet skilfully together in the same exact position.

At that moment Mr. Moulder awoke. * So you've got your iron
traps out, have you ?' said he. * What ; you're there, are you ?
Upon my word I'd sooner you than me.'

' I certainly should not like to see you up here, Mr. Moulder.
I doubt whether even this table would bear five-and-twenty stone.
Joe, lend me your shoulder, there's a good fellow.' And then Mr.
Kantwise, bearing very lightly on the chair, descended to the ground
without accident.

' Now, that's what I call gammon,' said Moulder.

' What is gammon, Mr. Moulder T said the other, beginning to be
angry.

* It's all gammon. The chairs and tables is gammon, and so is
the stools and the screens.'

' Mr. Moulder, I didn't call your tea and coffee and brandy
gammon.'

* You can't ; and you wouldn't do any harm if you did. Hubbies
and Grease are too well known in Yorkshire for you to hurt them.
But as for all that show-off and gimcrack- work, I tell you fairly it
aint what I call trade, and it aint fit for a commercial room. It's
gammon, gammon, gammon! James, give me a bedcandle.' And so
Mr. Moulder took himself off to bed.

* I think I'll go too,' said Mr. Dookwrath.

* You'll let me put you up the set, eh ?' said Mr. Kantwise.

* Well ; I'll think about it/ said the attorney. * I'll not just give
you an answer to night. Good night, sir; I'm very much obliged
to you.' And he too went, leaving Mr. Kantwise to repack his
chairs and tables with the assistanoe of James the waiter.

CHAPTER VII.

THE MASONS OF OR06Y PARK.

Grobt Park is about seven miles from Leeds, in ^e direction of
Bradford, and thither on the morning after the scene described in
the last chapter Mr. Dockwrath was driven in one of the gigs
belonging to the Bnll Inn. The park itself is spacious, but is flat
and uninteresting, being surrounded by a thin belt of new-looking
fir-trees, and containing but very little old or handsome timber.
There are on the high road two very important lodges, between
which is a large ornamented gate, and from thence an excellent
road leads to the mansion, situated in the very middle of tho
domain. The house is Greek in its style of architecture, — at least so
the owner says ; and if a portico with a pediment and seven lonio
columns makes a house Greek, the house in Groby Park undoubtedly
is Greek.

Here lived Mr. and Mrs. Mason, the three Misses Mason, and
occasionally the two young Messrs. Mason ; for the master of Groby
Park was blessed with five children. He himself was a big, broad,
heavy-browed man, in whose composition there was nothing of
tenderness, nothing of poetry, and nothing of taste ; but I cannot
say that he was on the whole a bad man. He was just in his
dealings, or at any rate endeavoured to be so. He strove hard to
do his duty as a county magistrate against very adverse circum-
stances. He endeavoured to enable his tenants and labourers to
live. He was severe to his children, and was not loved by them ;
but nevertheless they were dear to him, and ho endeavoured to do
his duty by them. The wife of his bosom was not a pleasant woman,
but nevertheless he did his duty by her ; that is, he neither deserted
her, nor beat her, nor locked her up. I am not sure that he would
not have been justified in doing one of these three things, or even
all the three ; for ^Irs. Mason of Groby Park was not a pleasant
woman.

But yet he was a bad man in that he could never forget and
never forgive. His mind and heart were equally harsh and hard
and inflexible. He was a man who considered that it behoved him
as a man to resent all injuries, and to have his pound of flesh in all
cases. In his inner thoughts he had ever boasted to himself that ho
VOL. I. E

50 OBLEY FABM.

had paid all men all that he owed. He had, so he thought, injured
no one in any of the relations of life. His tradesmen got their money
regularly. He answered every man's letter. He exacted nothing
from any man for which he did not pay. He never ill used a
servant either by bad language or by over work. He never amused
himself, but devoted his whole time to duties. He would fain eVen
have been hospitable, could he have gotten his neighbours to come
to him and have induced his wife to put upon the table sufiBcient
food for them to eat.

Such being his virtues, what right had any one to injurefiim?
When he got from his grocer adulterated coffee, — he analyzed the
coffee, as his half-brother had done the guano, — he would have flayed
the man alive if the law would have allowed him. Had he not
paid the man monthly, giving him the best price as though for the
best article ? When he was taken in with a warranty for a horse,
he pursued the culprit to the uttermost. Maid-servants who would
not come &om their bedrooms at six o'clock, he would himself
disturb while enjoying their stolen slumbers. From his children he
exacted all titles of respect, because he had a right to them. He
wanted nothing that belonged to any one else, but he could not
endure that aught should be kept from him which he believed to
be his own. It may be imagined, therefore, in what light he
esteemed Lady Mason and her son, and how he regarded their
residence at Orley Farm, seeing that he firmly believed that Orley
Farm was his own, if all the truth were known.

I have already hinted that Mrs. Mason was not a delightful
woman. She had been a beauty, and still imagined that she had
not lost all pretension to be so considered. She spent, there-
fore, a considerable portion of her day in her dressing-room,
spent a great deal of money for clothes, and gave herself sundry
airs. She was a little woman with long eyes, and regular eyelashes,
with a straight nose, and thin lips and regular teeth. Her faco
was oval, and her hair was brown. It had at least once been all
brown, and that which was now seen was brown also. But, never-
theless, although she was possessed of all these charms, you might
look at her for ten days together, and on the eleventh you would
not know her if you met h^r in the streets.

But the appearance of Mrs. Mason was not her forte. She had
been a beauty ; but if it had been her lot to be known in histoiy, it
was not as a beauty that she would have been famous. Parsimony
was her great virtue, and a power of saving her strong point, I
have said that she spent much money in dross, and some people
will perhaps think that the two points of character are not com-
patible. Such people know nothing of a true spirit of parsimony.
It is from the backs and bellies of other people that savings are
made with the greatest constancy and the most satisfactory residts.

THE MASONS OF QBOBT PABK. 51

The paTBimonj of a misiapeas of a household is best displayed on
matteis eatable ; — on matters eatable and drinkable; for there is a
fine scope for domestio savings in tea, beer^ and milk. And in
such matters chiefly did llilrs. Mason operate, going as fiur as she
dared tovards starving even her husband. Bat nevertheless she
would feed herself in the middle of the day, having a roast fowl
with bread sauce in her own room. The miser who starves himself
and dies without an ounce of flesh on his bones, while his skinny
head lies on a bag of gold, is, after all, respectable. There has been
a grand passion in his life, and that grandest work of man, self-
deniaL You cannot altogether despise one who has clothed him-
self with rags and fed himself with bone-scrapings, while broad-'
cloth and ortolans were within his easy reach. But there are
women, wives and mothers of iiunilies, who would give the bone-
scrapings to their husbands and the bones to their servants, while
they hide the ortolans for themselves ; and would dress their chil-
dren in rags, while they cram chests, drawers, and boxes with silks
and satins for their own backs. Such a woman one can thoroughly
despise, and even hate ; and such a woman was Mrs. Mason of
Groby Park.

I shall not trouble the reader at present with much desoription of
the young Masons. The eldest son was in the army, and the
younger at Cambridge, both spending much more money than their
Either allowed them. Not that he, in this respeot, was specially
close-fisted. He ascertained what was sufficient, — amply sufficient
as he was told by the colonel of the regiment and the tutor of the
college, — and that amount he allowed, assuring both Joseph and
John that if they spent more, they would themselves have to pay
for it out of the moneys which should enrich them in future years.
But how could the sons of such a mother be other than spend-
thrifts? Of course they were extravagant; of course they spent
more than they should have done ; and their father resolved that
he would keep his word with them religiously.

The daughters were much less fortunate, having no possible
means of extravagance allowed to them. Both the father and
mother decided that they should go out into the county society,
and therefore their clothing was not absolutely of rags. But any
young lady who dooB go into society, whether it be of coimty or
town, will fully understand the difference between a liberal and
a stingy wardrobe. Girls with slender provisions of millinery
may be fit to go out, — quite fit in their father's eyes ; and yet all
such going out may be matter of intense pain. It is all very well
for the world to say that a girl should be happy without reference
to her clothes. Show me such a girl, and I will show you one
whom I should be very sorry that a boy of mine should choose as
his sweetheart*

E 2

52 OBLEY FABM.

The three Misses Mason, as they always were called by the
Groby Park people, had been christened Diana, Creusa, and Pene*
lope, their mother having a passion for classic literature, which she
indulged by a use of Lempri^re's dictionary. They were not
especially pretty, nor were they especially plain. They were well
grown and healthy, and quite capable of enjoying themselves in
any of the amusements customary to young ladies, — if only th&
opportunities were afforded them.

Mr. Dockwrath had thought it well to write to Mr. Mason, ac-
quainting that gentleman with his intended visit. Mr. Mason, he
said to himself, would recognize his name, and know whence h&
came, and under such circumstances would be sure to see him,
although the express purpose of the proposed interview should not
have been explained to him. Such in result was exactly the case.
Mr. Mason did remember the name of Dockwrath, though he had
never hitherto seen the bearer of it ; and as the letter was dated
from Hamworth, he felt sufficient interest in the matter to await at
home the coming of his visitor.

' I know your name, Mr. Mason, sir, and have known it long,*
said Mr. Dockwrath, seating himself in the chair which was offered
to him in the magistrate's study ; *• though I never had the pleasure
of seeing you before, — ^to my knowledge. My name is Dockwrath,
sir, and I am a solicitor. I live at Hamworth, and I married the
daughter of old Mr. Usbech, sir, whom you will remember.'

Mr. Mason listened attentively as these details were uttered
before him so clearly, but he said nothing, merely bowing his head
at each separate statement. He knew all about old Usbech's
daughter nearly as well as Mr. Dockwrath did himself, but he was
a man who knew how to be silent upon occasions.

* I was too young, sir,' continued Dockwrath, • when you had
that trial about Orley Farm to have anything to do with the
matter myself, but nevertheless I remember all the circumstances
as though it was yestei'day. I suppose, sir, you remember them
also?'

* Yes, Mr. Dockwrath, I remember them very well.'

* Well, sir, my impression has always been that ' And then

the attorney st'pped. It waa quite his intention to speak out
plainly before Mr. Mason, but he was anxious that that gentleman
should speak out too. At any rate it might be well that he should
be induced to express some little interest in the matter.

* Your impression, you say, has always been * said Mr. Mason,

repeating the words of his companion, and looking as ponderous
and grave as ever. His countenance, however, expressed nothing
but his usual ponderous solemnity.

* My impression always was that there was something that

had not been as yet foimd out.'

THE MASONS OF QBOBY PABK. 53

* What Bort of thing, Mr. Dockwrath ?'

* Well ; some secret. I don't think that your lawyers managed
the matter well, Mr. Mason.'

* You think you would have done it better, Mr. Dockwrath ?'

* I don't say that, Mr. Mason. I was only a lad at the time, and
could not have managed it at all. But they didn't ferret about
enough. Mr. Mason, there's a deal better eyidence than any that is
given by word of mouth. A clever counsel can turn a witness
pretty nearly any way he likes, but he can't do that with little facts.
He hasn't the time, you see, to get round them. Your lawyers, sir,
didn't get up the little facts as they should have done.'

* And you have got them up since, Mr. Dockwrath ?'

* I don't say that, Mr. Mason. You see all my interest lies in
maintaining the codicil. My wife's fortune came to her imder that
deed. To be sure that's gone and spent long since, and the Lord
Chancellor with all the judges couldn't enforce restitution; but,
nevertheless, I wouldn't wish that any one should have a claim
against me on that account.'

* Perhaps you will not object to say what it is that you do
wish?'

* I wish to see right done, Mr. Mason ; that's all. I don't think
that Lady Mason or her son have any right to the possession of
that place. I don't think that that codicil was a correct instrument ;
and in that case of Mason versus Mason I don't think that you and
your friends got to the bottom of it.' And then Mr. Dockwrath
leaned back in his chair with an inward determination to say
nothing more, until Mr. Mason should make some sign.

That gentleman, however, still remained ponderous and heavy,
and therefore there was a short period of silence — * And have you
got to the bottom of it since, Mr. Dockwrath ?' at last he said.

* I don't say that I have,' said the attorney.

* Might I ask then what it is you purpose to effect by the visit
with which you have honoured me ? Of course you are aware that
these are very private matters ; and although I should feel myself
under an obligation to you, or to any man who might assist mo to
arrive at any true facts which have hitherto been concealed, I am
not disposed to discuss the affair with a stranger on grounds of
mere suspicion.'

* I shouldn't have come here, Mr. Mason, at very great expense,
and personal inconvenience to myself in my profession, if I had not
some good reason for doing so. I don't think that you ever got to
the bottom of that matter, and I can't say that I have done so now ;
1 haven't even tried. But I tell you what, Mr. Mason ; if you wish
it, I think I could put you in the way of — trying.'

* My lawyers are Messrs. Bound and Crook of Bedford Row.
Will it not be better that you should go to them, Mr. Dockwrath ?'

56 OBLET FABM.

1 866 that the dates are th6 same ; — ^the 14th of July in theaame
year.'

* Well«' aaid Mr. IXxskwrath, looking Teiy keenly into the
magistrate's face.

* Well,' said Mr. Mason, looking over the paper at his hoot

* John Kennehy and Bridget Bolster were ¥ritne8Be8 to hoth the
instmments,' said the attorney.

* So I see,' said the magistrate.

* But I don't rememher that it came ont in eyidence that either
of them recollected haying heen called on for two signatures on the
same day.'

* No ; there was nothing of that came ont ;— or was OTen hinted
at.'

* No ; nothing even hinted at, Mr. Mason, — as you justly ob-
serve. That is what I mean by saying that Boimd and Crook's
people didn't get up their little facia. Believe me, sir, there are
men in the profession out of London who know quite as much as
Bound and Crook. They ought to have had those facts, seeing that
the yQTj copy of the document was turned over by their hands.'
And Mr. Dockwroth hit the table heavily in the warmth of his
indignation against his negligent professional brethren. Earlier in
the interview Mr. Mason would have been made very angry by such
freedom, but he was not angry now.

' Yes ; they ought to have known it,' said he. But he did not
even yet see the point. He merely saw that there was a point
worth seeing.

* Known it ! Of course they ought to have known it. Look here,
Mr. Mason ! If I had it on my mind that I'd thrown over a client of
mine by such carelessness as that, I'd — I'd strike my own name off
the rolls ; I would indeed. I never could look a counsel in the
face again, if I'd neglected to brief him with such facts as those.
I suppose it was carelessness ; eh, Mr. Mason ?

' Oh, yes ; I'm afraid so,' said Mr. Mason, still rather in the
dark.

* They could have had no object in keeping it back, I should
say.'

* No ; none in life. But let us see, Mr. Dockwrath ; how docs
it bear upon us ? The dates are the same, and the witnesses the
same.'

' The deed of separation is genuine. There is no doubt about
•that.'

* Oh ; you're sure of that 7*

' Quite certain. I found it entered in the old office books. It
was the last of a lot of such documents executed between Mason and
Martock after the old man gave up the business. You see she was
.always with him, and know all about it.'

V OBOBT FUK. C7

"^ Al»ut the partnersliip deed ?'

' Of oonrse she did. She's a derm woman, Hr. Mmoo ; veoy
clever, and it's almost » pity that aho ahonld ooms to gnet, fibe ■
has carried it on eo well ; hasn't sha?*

Mr. Mason's face now became "nrj blaok. ' Wltj,' nid li6, * If
what you seem to allege be true, alie mult bft a — Mr—*—. THiat do
yon mean, eir, by pity ?'

Mr. Dockwrath shrugged hia thotildMB. ' It ii TSiy Uoe,* aaid

* Bba mnit be « nrindler j » n™^™^ nrtndler, Na^, woim tbn
that'

* Ob, jtm, m deal woem than that, ib. Ibaoa. And m tat
coamtm.$—tootaiwg to iqy my of thmting thare'a nothing at aQ
vurnmum tixmt it, I loc^ npon it h ahont ths heat got-np plant I
erer nmmbat to lm« baud oL I do, indaed, Hr. Haaon.' Th»
aWnanej doring tik* )aat ten minntea ctf the oonTonation had quite
aUwed hia tane,iuKUratanding that he had already aohiered a great
partfrf hiaolijeoti hot Hr. Haaoa in hia intenae anxiety did not
ehaoTS tiiia. Had Hr. Dookwndi, in oomnenoing the ocniTena-
tisB, 'toUed about 'planta' and *Une,' lii. Uaaon wotild probably
haive zmg hie bell fbr the oerrant. ' If it'a anything, it^s forgeiy,'
aoid Hr. Ztookviath, locdung hia oompanion fbll in the face.

^ I al«i^ felt onie that n^ &ther never intended to sign andi a
«odioa aa that.'

* He never did ngn it, Hr. Moacm.'

* And, — and the witneosos I' aaid Mr. Haaon, still not enlightened
as .to the troe extent of the attorney's suspicion.

' They signed the other deed ; that is two of them did. There
is no dinbt about that;— on that very day. Thoy certainly did
witness a signature made hy the old gentleman in bis own room on
that 14th of July. The original of that document, with the dote
and their names, will be forthcoming soon enough.'

' Well,' said Mr. Mason.

' But they did not witness two Bigoatores.'

' You think not, eh !'

' I'm sure of it. The girl Bolster would have remembered it,
and would have said so. She was sharp enough.'

' Who wrote all the names then at the foot of the will 7* said Mr.
Mason.

' Ah I that's the question. Who did write them? We know very
well, Mr. Mason, you and I that is, who did not. And having come
to tliat, I think we may give a veiy good guess who did.'

And then they both sat silent for some three or four minutes.
Ur. Dookwrath was quite at his ease, rubbing bis cbin. with his
band, playing with a paper-knife which he had taken from the
jstody table, and waiting till it should please Mr. Mason to renew

58 ORLEY FARM.

the conversation. Mr. Mason was not at his ease, though all idea
of affecting any reserve before the attorney had left him. He was
thinking how best he might confonnd and destroy the woman who
had robbed him for so many years ; who had defied him, got the
better of him, and put him to terrible cost ; who had vexed his
spirit through his whole life, deprived him of content, and had
been to him as a thorn ever present in a festering sore. He had
always believed that she had defrauded him, but this belief had
been qualified by the unbelief of others. It might have been, he
had half thought, that the old man had signed the codicil in his
dotage, having been cheated and bullied into it by the woman.
There had been no day in her life on which he would not have
ruined her, had it been in his power to do so. But now — ^now, new
and grander ideas were breaking in upon his mind. Could it be
possible that he might live to see her, not merely deprived of her
ill-gained money, but standing in the dock as a felon to receive
sentence for her terrible misdeeds ? If that might be so, would he
not receive great compensation for all that he had suffered ? Would
it not be sweet to his sense of justice that both of them should thus
at last have their own? He did not even yet understand all that
Mr. Dock wrath suspected. He did not fully perceive why the
woman was supposed to have chosen as the date of her forgery, the
date of that other genuine deed. But he did understand, he did
perceive — ^at least so he thought, — that new and perhaps conclusive
evidence of her villainy was at last within his reach.

* And what shall we do now, Mr. Dockwrath T he said at last.

* Well ; am I to understand that you do me the honour of asking
my advice upon that question as being your lawyer?*

This question immediately brought Mr. Mason back to business
that he did imderstand. • A man in my position cannot very well
change his legal advisers at a moment's notice. You must be
very well aware of that, Mr. Dockwrath. Messrs. Bound and
Crook '

' Messrs. Round and Crook, sir, have neglected your business in a
most shameful manner. Let me tell you that, sir.'

* Well ; that's as may be. Ill tell you what 111 do, Mr. Dock-
wrath ; I'll think over this matter in quiet, and then I'll come up
to town. Perhaps when there I may expect the honour of a further
visit from you.'

* And you won't mention the matter to Round and Crook?'

* I can't undertake to say that, Mr. Dockwrath. I think it will
perhaps be better that I should mention it, and then see you after-
wards.'

* And how about my expenses down here ?'

Just at this moment there came a light tap at the study door, and
before the master of the house could give or withhold permission

ms XASQHB OF GBOBT PABK. 69

abBvAAnm of tiie hoaae entered fhe loom. * My dear,' she said,
* I didn't know that joa irere engaged.'

* Te% I ain engaged/ said the genHeman*

*Oh^ Tm mm I beg paxdon. Perhaps this is the genfleman
firom Hamwoiili ?*

* Tea, ma'am,' said Mr. Dookwrath. * I am the gentleman from
"BmawardL, 1 hope I have the pleasure of seeing yon Tery well,
ma'amf ijid getting up from his ohair he bowed poHtelj.

* Mr. Dockwtath, Mrs. Mason^' said the lady's hnsbuid, intro-
dociiii; them; and then Ite. Mastmourfiried to the stranger. She
too was feny anxious to know what might be the news fr^ Ham-
worth*

^ Mr. Docikwiath will Innoh with ns, my dear,' said Mr. Mason.
.&nd tiJMm iiie ladyi on hos^iaUe oazes intent^ kft them agidn to

CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. MASOK's hot LUNCHEON.

Though Mr. Dockwrath was somewhat elated by this invitation to
lunch, he was also somewhat abashed by it. He had been far from
expecting that Mr. Mason of Groby Park would do him any such
honour, and was made aware by it of the great hold which he must
have made upon the attention of his host. But nevertheless he
immediately felt that his hcmds were to a certain degree tied. He,
having been invited to sit down at Mr. Mason's table, with Mrs. M.
and the family, — having been treated as though he were a gentle^
man, and thus being for the time put on a footing of equality with
the county magistrate, could not repeat that last important question :
* How about my expenses down here ?' nor could he immediately
go on with the grand subject in any frame of mind which would
tend to further his own interests. Having been invited to lunch
he could not haggle with due persistency for his share of the
business in crushing Lady Mason, nor stipulate that the whole
concern should not be trusted to the management of Hound and
Crook. As a source of pride this invitation to eat was pleasant
to him, but he was forced to acknowledge to himself that it inter-
fered with business.

Nor did Mr. Mason feel himself ready to go on with the conver-
fiation in the manner in which it had been hitherto conducted.
His mind was full of Orley Farm and his wrongs, and he could
bring himself to think of nothing else ; but he could no longer talk
About it to the attorney sitting there in his study. ' Will you take
a turn about the place while the lunch is getting ready ?' he said.
So they took their hats and went out into the garden.

* It is dreadful to think of,' said Mr. Mason, after they had twice
walked in silence the length of a broad gravel terrace.

* What ; about her ladyship ?' said the attorney.

* Quite dreadful !' and Mr. Mason shuddered. ' I don't think I
«ver heard of anything so shocking in my life. For twenty years,
Mr. Dockwrath, think of that. Twenty years !' and his face as he
«poke became almost black with horror.

J| UBS. MASOH'S hot LmrCHEOH. 61

* It k yery thookixig,* said Mr. Dookwiath ; * very fthocking.
Wbftt on Mxth will be her fiite if it be proved Ugainst her? She
has broog^ it on henelf ; that is all that one can say of her.'

« D her I d her!' exclaimed the other» gnashing his

teeth wifli conoenteated wraAh. *No punishment will be bad
enough fer her. Hanging would not be bad enough.'

* They can't hang her, Mr. Mason,' said Mr. Dockwrath, almost
frightened by the violence of his companion.

* No; they have altered the laws, giving every enconmgement to
forgers, villains, and pexjnrers. Bnt they can give her penal
servitude for life. They mnst do it.'

* She is not convicted yet, yon know.'

* D her!' repeated the owner of Orol^ Park again, as he

thought of his twenly 3rears of loss. Eight hnndred a year for
twenly years had been taken away from him; and he had been

worsted before the world after a hard fig^t. * D her!' he

continued, in a growl between his teeth. Mr. Dockwrath when he
had first heard his companion say how horrid and dreadful the
affiur vras, had thought that Mr. Mason was alluding to the con-
dition in which the lady had placed herself by her assumed guilt.
But it was of his own condition that he was speaking. The idea
which shocked him was the thought of the treatment which he
•hiffMiftlf had undeigone. The dreadM thing at which he shud-
dered was his own ill usage. As for her ; — pily for her ! Did a
man ever pity a rat that had eaten into his choicest dainties ?

* The lunch is on the table, sir,' said the Groby Park footman in
the Groby Park livery. Under the present household arrangement
of Groby Park all the servants lived on board wages. Mrs. Mason
did not like this system, though it had about it certain circrim-
stances of economy which recommended it to her; it interfered
greatly with the stringent aptitudes of her character and the
warmest passion of her heart ; it took away from her the delicious
power of serving out the servants' food, of locking up the scraps
of meat, and of charging the maids with voracity. But, to tell the
truth, Mr. Mason had been driven by sheer necessity to take this
step, as it had been found impossible to induce his wife to give out
sufficient food to enable the servants to live and work. She knew
that in not doing so she injured herself; but she could not do it.
The knife in passing through the loaf would make the portion to
be parted with less by one third than the portion to be retained.
Half a pound of salt butter would reduce itself to a quarter of a
pound. Portions of meat would become infinitesimal. When
standing with viands before her, she had not free will over her
hands.. She could not bring herself to part with victuals, though
she might ruin herself by retaining them. Therefore, by the oider
of the master, were the servants placed on board wages.

62 OSLEY TABM. r

Mr. Dookwrath soon found himself in tlie dining-room, where the
three young ladies with their mamma were already seated at the
tahle. It was a handsome room, and the furniture was handsome ;
but nevertheless it was a heavy room, and the furniture was heavy.
The table was large enough for a party of twelye, and might have
borne a noble banquet ; as it was the promise was not bad, for there
were three large plated ooyers conoealing hot yiands, and in some
houses lunch means only bread and cheese.

Mr, Mason went through a form of introdnction between Mr.
Dookwrath and his daughters. * That is Miss Mason, that Miss
Creusa Mason, and this Miss Penelope. John, remove the covers.'
And the covers were removed, John taking them from the table
with a magnificent action of his arm which I am inclined to think
was not innocent of irony. On the dish before the master of the
house, — a large dish which must I fiwcy haye been selected by the
cook with some similar attempt at sarcasm, — ^there reposed three
scraps, as to the nature of which Mr. Dookwrath, though he looked
hard at them, was unable to enlighten himself. But Mr. Mason
knew them well, as he now placed his eyes on them for the third
time. They were old enemies of his, and his brow again became
black as he looked at them. The scraps in fact consisted of two
drumsticks of a fowl and some indescribable bone out of the back
of the same. The original bird had no doubt first revealed all its
glories to human eyes, — ^presuming the eyes of the cook to be in-
human— in Mrs. Mason's ' boodoor.' Then, on the dish before the
lady, there were three other morsels, black-looking and yery
suspicious to the eye, which in the course of conversation were
proclaimed to be ham, — ^broiled ham. Mrs. Mason would never
allow a ham in its proper shape to come into the room, because it
is an article upon which the guests are themselves supposed to
operate with the oarving-knife. Lastly, on the dish before
Miss Creusa there reposed three potatoes.

The face of Mr. Mason became very black as he looked at the
banquet which was spread upon his board, and Mrs. Mason, eyeing
him across the table, saw that it was so. She was not a lady who
despised such symptoms in her lord, or disregarded in her yalour
the violence of marital storms. She had quailed more than once
or twice under rebuke occasioned by her great domestic virtue,
and knew that her husband, though he might put up with much as
regarded his own comfort and that of his children, could be very
angry at injuries done to his household honour and character ab a
hospitable English country gentleman.

Consequently the lady smiled and tried to look selfnsatisfied as
she invited her guest to eat. * This is ham,' said she with a little
simper, * broiled ham, Mr. Dookwrath ; and there is chicken at the
other ; end I think they call it — devilled.'

MBS. mason's hot LUNCHEON. 63

* Shall I assist tlie young ladies to anything fiist?' said the
attorney, wishing to be polite.

' Nothing, thank you/ said Miss Fenelox>e» with a very stiff
bow. She also knew that Mr. Dockwrath was an attorney from
Hamworth, and considered herself by no means boond to hold any
sort of conversation with him.

*■ My daughters only eat bread and butter in the middle of the
day,' said the lady. * Creusa, my dear, will you give Mr. Dock-
wrath a potato. Mr. Mason, Mr. Dockwrath will probably take a
bit of that chicken.'

* I would recommend him to follow the girls' example, and
confine himself to the bread and butter,' said the master of the
house, pushing about the scraps with his knife and fork. * There
is nothing here for him to eat.'

* My dear !' exclaimed Mrs. Mason.

* There is nothing here for him to eat,* repeated Mr. Mason.
* And as &r as I can see there is nothing there either. What is it
you pretend to have in that dish ?*

* My dear !' again exclaimed Mrs. Mason.

* What is it ?' repeated the lord of the house in an angry tone.

* Broiled ham, Mr. Mason.'

* Then let the ham be brought in,' said he. * Diana, ring the
belL' •

* But the ham is not cooked, Mr. Mason,' said the lady. * Broiled
ham is always better when it has not been first boiled.'

* Is there no cold meat in the house T he asked.

' I am afraid not,' she replied, now trembling a little in anticipa-
tion of what might be coming after the stranger should have gone.
^ You never like large joints yourself, Mr. Mason ; and for ourselves
we don't eat meat at luncheon.'

* Nor anybody else either, here,' said Mr. Mason in his-anger.

* Pray don't mind me, Mr. Mason,* said the attorney, ' pray don't,
Mr. Mason. * I am a very poor fist at lunch ; I am indeed.'

* I am sure I am very sorry, very sorry, Mr. Mason,' continued
the lady. * If I had known that an early dinner was required, it
should have been provided; — although the notice given was so
very short.'

' I never dine early,' said Mr. Dockwrath, thinking that some
imputation of a low way of living was conveyed in this supposition
that he required a dinner under the pseudonym of a lunch. • I
never do, upon my word — we are quite regular at home at half-
past five, and all I ever take in the middle of the day is a biscuit
and a glass of sherry, — or perhaps a bite of bread and cheese.
Don't be uneasy about me, Mrs. Mason.'

The three young ladies, having now finished their repast, got up
from the table and retired, following each other out of the room in

64 OBLEY FARK.

a line. Mrs. Mason remained for a minute or two longer, and tben
she also went. * The carriage has been ordered at three, Mr. M./
she said. * Shall we have the pleasure of your company?' ' No,'
growled the husband. And then the lady went, sweeping a low
curtsy to Mr. Dockwrath as she passed out of the room.

There was again a silence between the host and his guest for
some two or three minutes, during which Mr. Mason was en-
deavouring to get the lunch out of his head, and to redirect his
whole mind to Lady Mason and his hopes of vengeance. There is
nothing perhaps so generally consoling to a man as a well-
established grievance ; a feeling of having been injured, on which
his mind can brood from hour to hour, allowing him to plead his
own cause in his own court, within his own heart, — and always to
plead it successfully. At last Mr. Mason succeeded, and he could
think of his enemy's fraud and forget his wife's meanness. • I
suppose I may as well order my gig now,' said Mr. Dockwrath, as
soon as his host had arrived at this happy frame of mind.

* Your gig ? ah, well. Yes. I do not know that I need detain
you any longer. I can assure you that I am much obliged to you,
Mr. Dockwrath, and I shall hope to see you in London very
shortly.'

* You are determined to go to Bound and Crook, I suppose T
' Oil, certainly.'

* You are wrong, sir. They'll throw you over again as sure as
your name is Mason.'

* Mr. Dockwrath, you must if you please allow me to judge of
that myself.'

' Oh, of course, sir, of course. But I'm sure that a gentleman
like you, Mr. Mason, will imderstand '

* I shall understand that I cannot expect your services, Mr.
Dockwrath, — your valuable time and services, — without remu-
nerating you for them. That shall be fully explained to Messrs.
Bound and Crook.'

* Very well, sir ; very well. As long as I am paid for what I
do, I am content. A professional gentleman of course expects that.
How is he to get along else ; particular with sixteen children ?'
And then Mr. Dockwrath got into the gig, and was driven back to
the Bull at Leeds.

CHAPTEB IX.

A CONVIVIAL MEETING.

On the whole Mr. Dockwrath was satisfied with the results of his
trip to Ghrobj Park, and was in a contented firame of mind as he was
driven back to Leeds. No doubt it would have been better could
he have persuaded Mr. Mason to throw over Messrs. Round and
Crook, and put himself altogether into the hands of his new ad-
viser ; but this had been too much to expect. He had not expected
it, and had made the suggestion as the surest means of getting the
best terms in his power, rather than with a hope of securing the
actual advantage named. He had done much towards impressing
Mr. Mason with an idea of his own sharpness, and perhaps some-
thing also towards breaking the prestige which surrounded the
names of the great London firm. He would now go to that fiim
and make his terms with them. They would probably be quite as
ready to acquiesce in the importance of his information as had be^u
Mr. Mason.

Before leaving the inn after breakfast he had agreed to join the
dinner in the commercial room at five o'clock, and Mr. Mason's hot
lunch had by no means induced him to alter his purpose. ' I shall
dine here,' he had said when Mr. Moulder was ^scussing with the
waiter the all-important subject of dinner. * At the commercial
table, sir ?' the waiter had asked, doubtingly. Mr. Dockwrath had
answered boldly in the aflSrmative, whereat Mr. Moulder had
growled; but Mr. Kantwise had expressed his satisfaction. *We
shall be extremely happy to enjoy your company,' Mr. Kantwise
had said, with a graceful bow, making up by his excessive courtesy
for the want of any courtesy on the part of his brother-traveller.
With reference to all this Mr. Moulder said nothing : the stranger
had been admitted into the room, to a certain extent even with his
own consent, and he could not now be turned out ; but he resolved
wiihin his own mind that for the future he would be more firm
in maintaining the ordinances and institutes of his profession.

On his road home Mr. Dockwrath had encountered Mr. Kantwise
going to Groby Park, intent on his sale of a drawing-room sot of the
metallic furniture ; and when he again met him in the commercial
room he asked after his success. ' A wonderful woman that, Mr.

VOL. I. F

66 OBLEY FARM.

Dockwrath,' said Mr. Kantwise, * a really wondeifol woman ; no par-
ticular friend of yours I tliink you say ?'
*• None in the least, Mr. Kantwise.'

* Then I may make bold to assert that for perseyering sharpness
she beats all that I ever met, even in Yorkiiire ;' and Mr. Kant-
wise looked at his new friend over his shoulder, and shook his head
as though lost in wonder and admiration. * What do you think
fihe's done now ?*

* She didn't give you much to eat, I take it*

* Much to eat ! I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Dockwrath ; my belief
is that that woman would have an absolute pleasure in starving a
Christian; I do indeed. I'll tell you what she has done; she has
made me put her up a set of thorn things at twelve, seventeen, six I
I z^eedn't tell you that they were never made for the money*'

* Wliy, then, did you part with them at a loss ?'

* WeU ; that's the question. I was 90ft, I suppose. She got
round me, badgering me, till I didn't know where I was. ^le
wanted them aa ^ present for the curate's wife, she said. Whatover
should induce her to make a present I'

'She got them for twelve, seventeen:, six; did she?* said Dock*
wrath, thinking that it might be &a well to remember this, if he
should feel inclined to make a purchase himself.

i But they was strained, Mr. Dockwrath ; I must admit they wae.
strained, — particularly the loo.'

* You had gone through your gymnastics on it a little too often?'
asked the attorney. But this Mr. Kantwise would not acknowledge.
The strength of that table vraa such that he Could stand on it for
ever without injury to it ; but nevertheless, in some other way it
had become strained, and therefore he had sold the set to Mrs. Mason
for 121. 178. 6d., that lady being minded to make a costly present to
the wife of the curate of Groby.

When dinner-time c€^me Mr. Dockwrath found that the party was
swelled to the number of eight, five other imdoubted commercials
having brought themselves to anchor at the Bull Inn during the day.
To all of these Mr. Kantwise introduced him. ' Mr. Gkipe, Mr.
Dockwrath,' said he, gracefully moving towards them the palm
of his hand, and eyeing them over his shoulder. ' Mr. Gape is in
the stationery line,' he added, in a whisper to the attorney, * and
does for Gumming and Jibber of St. Paul's Churchyard. Mr.
Johnson, Mr. Dockwrath. Mr. J. is from Sheffield. Mr. Snong-
keld, Mr. Dockwrath ;' and then he imparted in another whisper
the necessary information as to Mr. Snengkeld. 'Soft goods, for
Brown Brothers, of Snow Hill,' and so on through the whole fra-
ternity. Each member bowed as his name was mentioned ; but they
did not do so very graciously, as Mr. Kantwise was not a great
man among them. Had the stranger been introduced to them by

A CONVIVIAL MEETING. 67

Moulder, — Moulder the patriiurcli, — his reoeption among them wotild
have been much warmer. And then they sat down to dinner, Mr.
Moulder taking the chair as president, and Mr. Eantwise sitting
opposite to him, as being the longest sojourner at the inn. Mr.
Dockwrath sat at the right hand of Eantwise, discreetly avoiding
the neighbourhood of Moulder, and the others ranged themselves
aooording to fancy at the table. ' Come up along side of me, old
fellow,' Moulder said to Snengkeld. ' It aint the first time that you
and I have smacked our lips together over the same bit of roast
beef.' 'Nor won't, I hope, be the last by a long chalk, Mr.
Moulder,' said Snengkeld, speaking with a deep, hoarse voice which
seemed to ascend from some region of his body far below his chest.
Moulder and Snengkeld were congenial spirits; but the latter,
though the older man, was not endowed with so large a volume
of body or so highly dominant a spirit. Brown Brothers, of Snow
Hill, were substantial people, and Mr. Snengkeld travelled in strict
accordance with the good old rules of trade which Moulder loved
so well.

The politeness and general good manners of the company were
something very pretty to witness. Mr. Dockwrath, as a stranger,
was helped first, and every courtesy was shown to him. Even
Mr. Moulder carved the beef for him with a loving hand, and Mr/
Eantwise was almost subservient in his attention. Mr. Dockwrath
lliought that he had certainly done right in coming to the com-
mercial table, and resolved on doing so on all occasions of future
journeys. So far all was good. The commercial dinner, as lie had
ascertained, would cost him only two shillings, and a much inferior
repast eaten by himself elsewhere would have stood in his bill for
three. So far all was good ; but the test by which he was to bo
tried was now approaching him.

When the dinner was just half over, — Mr. Moulder well knew
how to mark the time — that gentleman called for the waiter, and
whispered an important order into that functionary's ears. The
functionary bowed, retired from the room, and reappeared again in
two minutes, bearing a bottle of sherry in each hand ; one of these
he deposited at the right hand of Mr. Moulder, and the other at the
right hand of Mr. Eantwise.

* Sir,* said Mr. Moulder, addressing himself with great ceremony
to Mr. Dockwrath, ' the honour of a glass of wine with you, sii,* and
the president, to give more importance to the occasion, put dowTi his
knife and fork, leaned back in his chair, and put both his hands
upon his waistcoat, looking intently at the attorney out of his little
eves.

Mr. Dockwrath was immediately aware that%i crisis had come
upon him which demanded an instant decision. If he complied
with the president's invitation ho would have to pay his proportion

F 2

68 OBLEY FABM.

of all tlie wine bill that might be incurred that eveniDg by the
seven commercial gentlemen at the table, and he knew well
that commercial gentlemen do sometimes call for bottle after
bottle with a reckless disregard of expense. But to him, with his
sixteen children, wine at an hotel was terrible. A pint of beer and
a glass of brandy and water were the luxuries which he had pro-
mised himself, and with manly fortitude he resolved that he would
not be coerced into extravagance by any president or any Moulder.

* Sir,' said he, ' I'm obliged by the honour, but I don't drink wine
to my dinner.' Whereupon Mr. Moulder bowed his head very
solemnly, winked at Snengkeld, and then drank wine with that
gentleman.

* It's the rule of the room,' whispered Mr. Eantwise into Mr*
Dockwrath*s ear ; but Mr* DockwraUi pretended not to hear him»
and the matter was allowed to pass by for the time.

But Mr. Snengkeld asked him for the honour, as also did Mr.
Ghtpe, who sat at Moulder*s left hand ; and then Mr. Dockwrath
b^an to wax angry. * 1 think I remarked before that I don't drink
wine to my dinner,' he said ; and then the three at the president's
end of the table all looked at each other very solemnly, and
they all winked ; and after that there was very little conversation
during the remainder of the meal, for men knew that the goddess of
discord was in the air.

The cheese came, and with that a bottle of port wine, which was
handed roimd, Mr. Dockwrath of course refusing to join in the convi-
viality ; and then the cloth was drawn, and the decanters were put
before the president. * James, bring me a little brandy and water,'
said the attorney, striving to put a bold face on the matter, but yet
speaking with diminished voice*

* Half a moment, if you please, sir/ said Moulder ; and then he
exclaimed with stentorian voice, 'James, the dinner bill.' 'Yes,
sir,' said the waiter, and disappeared without any thought towards
the requisition for brandy-and-water from Mr. Dockwrath.

For the next five minutes they all remained silent, except that
Mr. Moulder gave the Queen's healtli as he filled his glass and
pushed the bottles from him. ' Gentlemen, the Queen,' and then
he lifted his glass of port up to the light, shut one eye as he looked
at it, and immediately swallowed the contents as tiiough he were
taking a dose of physic* * I'm afraid they'll chaige you for the
wine,' said Mr. Eantwise, again whispering to his neighbour. But
Mr. Dockwrath paid no apparent attention to what was said to him.
He was concentrating his energies with a view to the battle.

James, the waiter, soon returned. He also knew well what was
about to happen, aftd he trembled as he handed in the document to
the president. ' Let's have it, James,' said Moulder, with much
pleasantry, as he took the paper in his hand. 'The old ticket

A CONVIVIAL MEETING. 69

I suppose ; five bob a head.* And then lie read out the bill, the
total of 1171110)1, wine and beer included, came to forty shillings.
^ Five i?i>iil1iTig« a head, gentlemen, as I said. You and I can
make a pretty good guess as to the figure ; eh, Snengkeld 7* And
then he put down his two half-crowlis on the waiter, as also did
Mr. Snengkeld, and then Mr. Qape, and so on till it came to Mr.
Kantwise.

* I think you and I will leave it, and settle at the bar,' said
£antwise, appealing to Dockwrath, and intending peace if peace
were still possible.

* No,' shouted Moulder, from the other end of the table ; * let the
man have his money now, and then his troubles will be over. If
there's to be any fuss about it, let's have it out. I like to see t^
dinner bill settled as soon as the dinner is eaten. Then one gets
an appetite for one's supper.'

* I don't think I have the change,' said Kantwise, still putting off
the evil day.

* I'll lend it yon,' said Moulder, putting his hand into his trousers-
pockets. But the money was forthcoming out of Mr. Kantwise's
own proper repositories, and with slow motion he put down the
£ve shillings one after the bther.

And then the waiter came to Mr. Dockwrath. * What's this?'
said the attorney, taking up the bill and looking at it. The whole
matter had been sufiiciently explained to hi^i, but nevertheless
Mr. Moulder explained it again. * In commercial rooms, sir, as no
doubt you must be well aware, seeing that you have done us the
honour- of joining us here, the dinner bill is divided equally among
all the gentlemen as sit down. It's the rule of the room, sir. You
has what you like, and you calls for what you like, and con-
-wiviality is thereby encouraged. The figure generally comes to
five shillings, and you afterwards gives what you like to the waiter.
That's about it, aint it, James T

* That's the rule, sir, in all commercial rooms as I over see,' said
the waiter.

The matter had been so extremely well put by Mr. Moulder, and
that gentleman's words had carried with them so much conviction,
that Dockwrath felt himself almost tempted to put down the money ;
as far as his sixteen children and general ideas of economy were
concerned he would have done so ; but his legal mind could not
bear to be beaten. The spirit of litigation Avithin him told him
that the point was to be carried. Moulder, Gape, and Snengkeld
together could not make him pay for wine he had neither ordered
nor swallowed. His pocket was guarded by the law of the land,
and not by the laws of any special room in which he might chance
to find himself. * I shall pay two shillings for my dinner,' said he,
* and sixpence for my beer ;' and then he deposited the half-crown.

72 0BLE7 FARM.

room, and there was silence for a -while, daring which the bottles
made their round of the table.

* Hadn't we better send back the pint of wine which Mr. Dock-
wrath hasn't used ?* suggested Kantwise.

* I'm d if we do !' replied Moulder, with much eneigy ; and

the general silence was not again broken till Mr. Crump made his
appearance ; but the chairman whispered a private word or two to
his friend Snengkeld. * I never sent back ordered liquor to the
bar yet, unless it was bad ; and I'm not going to begin i)ow.'

And then Mr. 'Crump came in. Mr. Crump was a very dean-
looking person, without any beard ; and dressed from head to foot
in black. He was about fifly, with grizzly gray hair, which stood
upright on his head, and his fiEtce at the present moment wore on it
an innkeeper's smile. But it could also assume an innkeeper^s
frown, and on occasions did so — ^when bills were disputed, or un-
reasonable strangers thought that they knew the distance in post-
ing miles round the neighbourhood of Leeds better than did he,
Mr. Crump, who had lived at the Bull Inn all his life. But
Mr. Crump rarely frowned on commercial gentleman, from whom
was derived the main stay of his business and the main prop of his
house.

* Mr. Crump,' began Moulder, • here has occurred a very un-
pleasant transaction.'

' I know all about it, gentlemen,' said Mr. Crump. * The waiter
has acquainted me, and I can assure you, gentlemen, that I am
extremely sorry that anything should have arisen to disturb the
harmony of your dinner-table.*

* We must now call upon you, Mr. Crump,' began Mr. Moulder,
who was about to demand that Dockwrath should be turned bodily
out of the room.

* K you'U allow me one moment, Mr. Moulder,' continued
Mr. Crump, * and I'll tell you what is my su^estion. The
gentleman here, who I understand is a lawyer, does not wish to
comply with the rules of the commercial room.'

' I certainly don't wish or intend to pay for drink that I didn't
order and haven't had,' said Dockwiuth.

* Exactly,' said Mr. Crump. • And therefore, gentlemen, to get out
of the difficulty, we'll presume, if you please, that the bill is paid.'

* The lawyer, as you call him, will have to leave the room,' said
Moulder.

* Perhaps he will not object to step over to the coflfee-room on
the other side,' suggested the landlord.

* I can't think of leaving my seat here imder such circumstances, '
said Dockwrath.

* You can't,' said Moulder. * Then you must be made, as I
take it'

1 with CM own el»5s-

A CONVIVIAL MEETING. 73

* Let me see the man that will make me,' said Dockwrath.

Mr. Gnmip looked very apologetic and not very comfortable.
* There ia a diflELcnlty, gentlemen ; there is a difficulty, indeed,*
he aaid. * The &ot is, the gentleman should not have been showed
into the room at all;* and he looked very angrily at his own
servant, James,

* He said he was *meroial,* said James. * So he did. Now he
says as how he's a lawyer. \Vhat*s a poor man to do ?*

* I'm a commercial lawyer/ said Dockwrath.

*He must leave the room, or I shall leave the house/ said
Moulder.

* Gentlemen, gentlemen !' said Crump. * This kind of thing does
not happen often, and on this occasion I must try your kind
patience, if Mr. Moulder would allow me to suggest that the
oommercial gentlemen should take their wine in the lai^e drawing-
room up stairs this evening, Mrs. 0. will do her best to make it
oomfortable for them in five minutes. There of course they can be
private.*

There was something in the idea of leaving Mr. Dockwrath alone
in his glory which appeased the spirit of the great Moulder. He
had known Crump, moreover, for many years, and was aware that
it would be a dangerous, and probably an expensive proceeding to
thrust out the attorney by violence. * If the other gentlemen are
agreeablot I am,' said he.- The other gentlemen were agreeable,
and, with the exception of Eantwise, they all rose from their chairs.

* 1 must say I think you ought to leave the room as you don't
choose to abide by the rules,' said Johnson, addressing himself to
Dockwrath.

♦ That's your opinion,' said Dockwrath.

• Yes, it is,' said Johnson. * That's my opinion.*

• My own happens to be different,' said Dockwrath ; and so ho
kept his chair.

• There, Mr. Crump,' said Moulder, taking half a crown from his
pocket, and throwing it on the table. ' I shan't see you at a loss.'

• Thank you, sir,' said Mr. Crump ; and he very humbly took up
Uie money.

* I keep a little account for charity at home,* said Moulder.

• It don't run very high, do it ?' asked Snengkeld, jocosel}'.

* Not out of the way, it don't. But now I shall have the pleasure
of writing down in it that I paid half a crown for a lawyer who
couldn't afford to settle his own dinner bill. Sir, we have the
pleasure of wishing you a good night'

• I hope you'll find the large dra^ving-room up stairs quite com-
fortable,' said Dockwrath.

And then they all marched out of the room, each with his own
glass. Mr. Moulder leading the way with stately step. It was

76 ORLEY FARM.

broad slioulders and a large bodj. His bead also was large ; bis
forebead was bigb, and marked strongly by signs of intellect ; bis
nose was long and straigbt, bis eyes were very gray, and capable to
sxi extraordinary degree botb of direct severity and of concealed
sarcasm. Witnesses bave been beard to say tbat tbey could endure
all tbat Mr. Fumival conld say to tbem, and continue in some sort
to answer all bis questions, if only be would refrain from looking
at Ibem. But be would never refrain ; and tberefore it was now
well understood bow great a tbing it was to secure tbe services of
Mr. Fumival. ' Sir/ an attorney would say to an unfortunate
client doubtful as to tbe expenditure, * your witnesses will not be
able to stand in tbe box if we allow Mr. Fumival to be engaged on
tbe otber side.' I am inclined to tbink tbat Mr. Fumival owed to
tbis power of bis eyes bis almost unequalled perfection in tbat
peculiar brancb of his profession. His voice was powerful, and
not unpleasant wben used witbin tbe precincts of a court, tbougb
it grated somewbat barsbly on tbe ears in tbe smaller compass of a
private room. His flow of words was free and good, and seemed to
come from bim witbout tbe slightest effort. Sucb at least was
always tbe case with bim wben standing wigged and gowned before
a judge. Latterly, however, be bad tried bis eloquence on another
arena, and not siltogether ¥nith equal success. He was now in
Parliament, sitting as member for tbe Essex Marshes, and be bad
not as yet carried either the country or the House with bim,
although he had been frequently on his l^s. Some men said that
with a little practice he would yet become very serviceable as an
honourable and learned member ; but others expressed a fear tbat
be had come too late in life to these new duties.

I bave spoken of Mj*. Fumival's great success in tbat brancb of
bis profession which required from him the examination of evidence,
but I would not have it thought that be was great only in this, or
even mainly in tbis. There are gentlemen at the bar, among whom
I may perhaps notice my old friend Mr. Chaffanbrass as the most
conspicuous, who bave confined their talents to the browbeating of
witnesses, — greatly to their own profit, and no doubt to the advan-
tage of society. But I would have it understood that Mr, Fumival
was by no means one of these. He had been no Old Bailey lawyer,
devoting himself to the manumission of murderers, or the security
of the swindling world in general. He had been employed on
abstruse points of law, had been great in will cases, very learned as
to tbe rights of railways, peculiarly apt in enforcing the dowries of
married women, and successful above all things in separating
liusbands and wives whose lives had not been passed in accord-
ance with the recognized rules of Hymen. Indeed there is no
branch of the Common Law in which he was not regarded as great
and powerful, though perhaps bis proficiency in damaging the

MB., MBS., AND MISS FUBNIVAL. 77

general oharacteis of his opponents has been recognized as his
especial forte. Under these cironmstanees I should grieve to
have him confounded with such men as Mr. Chafianbrass, who ia
bardlj known bj the profession beyond the precincts of his own
peculiar eouzt in the Giiy. Mr. Fumival's reputation has
spread itself wherever stuff gowns and horsehair wigs are held in
estimation.

Mr. Fumival when dothed in his forensic habiliments certainly
possessed a solemn and severe dignity which had its weight even
with the judges. Those who scrutinized his appearance critically
might have said that it was in some respects pretentious ; but the
ordinary jurymen of this country are not critical scrutinizera of
appearance, and by them he was never held in light estimation*
IVhen in his addresses to them, appealing to their intelligence*
education, and enlightened justice, he would declare that the pro-
perty of his clients was perfectly safe in their hands, he looked to be
such an advocate as a litigant would fain possess when dreading the
soundness of his own cause. Any cause was sound to him when once
he had been feed for its support, and he carried in his countenance
his assurance of this soundness, — and the assurance of unsoundness
in the cause of his opponent. Even he did not always win ; but on
the occasion of his losing, those of the uninitiated who had heard the
pleadings would express their astonishment that he should not have
been successfuL

When he was divested of his wig his appearance was not so per-
fect. There was then a hard, long straightness about his head and
face, giving to his countenance the form of a parallelogram, to which
there belonged a certain meanness of expression. He wanted the
roimdness of forehead, the short linos, and the graceful curves of
fiEK)e which are necessary to unadorned manly comeliness. His
whiskers were small, grizzled, and ill grown, and required the ample
relief of his wig. In no guise did he look other than a clover man ;
but in his dress as a simple citizen he would perhaps be taken as a
dever man in whose tenderness of heart and cordiality of feeling
one would not at first sight place implicit trust.

As a poor man Mr. Fumival had done his duty well by his wife
and family, — for as a poor man he had been blessed with four
children. Three of those had died as they were becoming men and
women, and now, as a rich man, he was left with one daughter, an
only child. As a poor man Mr. Fumival had been an excellent
husband, going forth in the morning to his work, stmggling
through the day, and then returning to his meagre dinner and his
long evenings of imremitting drudgery. The bodily strength which
had supported him through his work in those days must have been
immense, for he had allowed himself no holidays. And then
success and money had come, — and Mrs. Fumival sometimes found

T8 OBLET FABM.

herself not quite so bappy as she had been when watching beside
him in the days of their poverty.

The equal mind, — as mortal Delins was bidden to remember, and
as Mr. Fumival might also have remembered had time been allowed
him to cnltivate the classics, — the equal mind shonld be as sedn-
lously maintained when things ran well, as well as when they ran
hardly ; and perhaps the maintenance of such equal mind is more
difficult in the former than in the latter stage of life. Be that as it
may, Mr. Fumival could now be very cross on certain domestic
occasions, and could also be very unjust. And there was worse
than this, — ^much worse behind. He, who in the heyday of his
youth would spend night after night poring over his books, copy-
ing out reports, and never asking to see a female habiliment brighter
or more attractive than his wife's Sunday gown, he, at the age of
fifty-five, was now running after strange goddesses 1 The member
for the Essex Marshes, in these his latter days, was obtaining for
himself among -other successes the character of a Lothario ; and
Mrs. Fumival, sitting at home in her genteel drawing-room near
Gavendish Square, would remember with regret the small clingy
parlour in Keppel Street.

Mrs. Fumival in discussing her grievances would attribute them
mainly to port wine. In his early days Mr. Fumival had been
essentially an abstemious man. Toung men who work fifteen hours
a day must be so. But now he had a strong opinion about certain
Portuguese vintages, was convinced that there was no port wine in
liondon equal to the contents of his own bin, saving always a certain
green cork appertaining to his own club, which was to be extracted
at the rate of thirty shillings a cork. And Mrs. Fumival attributed
to these latter studies not only a certain purple hue which was
suffusing his nose and cheeks, but also that unevenness of character
and those supposed domestic improprieties to which allusion has
been made. It may, however, be as well to explain that Mrs. Ball,
the old family cook and housekeeper, who had ascended with the
Fumivals in the world, opined that made-dishes did the mischief.
He dined out too often, and was a deal too particular about his
dinner when he dined at home. If Providence would see fit to
visit him with a sharp attack of the gout, it would — so thought
Mrs. Ball — be better for all parties.

Whether or no it may have been that Mrs. Fumival at fifly-five—
for she and her lord were of the same age — ^was not herself as
attractive in her husband's eyes as she had been at thirty, I will
not pretend to say. There can have been no just reason for any
such change in feeling, seeing that the two had grown old together.
She, poor woman, would still have been quite content with the
attentions of Mr. Fumival, though his hair was grizzled and his nose
was blue ; nor did she ever think of attracting to herself the admira-

MB., UB&y AND MISS FURKIVAL. 79

tion of any swain whose general oomeliness might be ^nore free
from all taint of age. Why then should he wander afield— at the
age of fiftj-fiye ? That he did wander afield, poor Mrs. Fumival
felt in her agony convinced ; and among those ladies whom on this
acconnt she most thoroughly detested was our friend Lady Mason
of Orley Fann* Lady Mason and the lawyer had first become
acquainted in the days of the trial, now long gone by, on which
occasiosx Mr. Fumival had been employed as the junior counsel ; and
that acquaintance had ripened into friendship, and now flourished
in full vi^ur, — to Mrs. Fumival's great sorrow and disturbance.

Mrs. Fumival herself was a stout, solid woman, sensible on most
points* but better adapted, perhaps, to the life in Keppel Street than
that to which she had now been promoted. As Kitty Blacker she
had possessed feminine charms which would have been famous had
they been better known. Mi\ Fumival had fetched her from
&rther East — ^from the region of Qreat Ormond-street and the
neighbourhood of Southampton Buildings. Her cherry cheeks, and
her round eye, and her fall bust, and her fresh lip, had conquered
the hard-taskecl lawyer ; and so they had gone forth to fight the
world together. Her eye was still round, and her cheek red, and her
bust fuIl,-*-there had certainly been no falling off there ; nor will I
say that her lip had lost all its freshness. But the bloom of her
charms had passed away, and she was now a solid, stout, motherly
woman, not bright in converse, but by no means deficient in mother-
wit, reoognizing well the duties which she owed to others, but
recognizing equally well those which others owed to her. All the
charma of her youth — had they not been given to him, and also all
her solicitude, all her anxious fighting with the hard world ? When
they had been poor together, had she not patched and turned and
twisted, sitting silently by his side into the long nights, because
she would not ask him for the price of a new dress ? And yet now,
now that they were rich — ? Mrs. Fumival, when she put such
questions within her own mind, could hardly answer this latter
one with patience. Others might be afraid of the great Mr.
Fumival in his wig and gown ; others might be struck dumb by
his power of eye and mouth ; but she, she, the wife of his bosom,
she could catch him without his armour. She would so catch him
and let him know what she thought of all her wrongs. So Hlie isaid
to herself many a day, and yet the great deed, in all its cxplosive-
ness, had never yet been done. Small attacks of words there had
been many, but hitherto the courage to speak out her griefs openly
had been wanting to her.

I can now allow myself but a small space to say a few words of
Sophia Fumival, and yet in that small space must be confined all
the direct description which can bo given of one of the principal
personages of this story. At nineteen Miss Fumival Wiis in all

80 OBLEY FARM.

respects a young woman. She was forward in acquirements, in
manner, in general intelligence, and in powers of conversation.
She was a handsome, tall girl, with expressive gray eyes and dark-
brown hair. Her mouth, and hair, and a certain motion of her
neck and turn of her head, had come to her from her mother, but
her eyes were those of her father : they were less sharp perhaps, less
eager after their prey ; but they were bright as his had been bright,
and sometimes had in them more of absolute command than he was
ever able to throw into his own.

Their golden days had come on them at a period of her life
which enabled her to make a better use of them than her mother
oould do. She never felt herself to be struck dumb by rank or
fashion, nor did she in the drawing-rooms of the great ever show
signs of an Eastern origin. She could adapt herself without an
effort to the manners of Cavendish Square ; — ay, and if need were,
to the ways of more glorious squares even than that. Therefore was
her father never ashamed to be seen with her on his arm in the houses
of his new friends, though on such occasions he was willing enough
to go out without disturbing the repose of his wife. No mother
oould have loved her children with a warmer affection than that
which had warmed the heart of poor Mrs. Fumival ; but under such
circumstances as these was it singular that she should occasionally
become jealous of her own daughter?

Sophia Fumival was, as I have said, a clever, attractive girl,
handsome, well-read, able to hold her own with the old as well as
with the young, capable of hiding her vanity if she had any, mild
and gentle to girls less gifted, animated in conversation, and yet
possessing an eye that could fall softly to the ground, as a woman's
eye always should fall upon occasions.

Nevertheless she was not altogether charming. ^I don't feel
quite sure that she is real,' Mrs. Orme had said of her, when on a
cortain occasion Miss Fumival had spent a day and a night at The
Cleeve.

CaiAPTEB XI.

MBS. FURNIVAL AT UOME.

LiTcnjs Mason on liis road to Liverpool had passed through London,
and had found a moment ,to oall in Harley Street. Since his return
&om Qermany he had met Miss Fnmival both at home at his
mother's house— or rather his own — and at the Cleeve. Miss Fur-
nival had been in the neighbourhood, and had spent two days with
the great people at the Cleeve, and one day with the little x)eople
at Orlej Farm. Lucius Mason had found that she was a sensible
girl, capable of discussing great subjects with him ; and had possibly
found some other charms in her. Therefore he had called in Harley
Street.

On that occasion he could only call as he passed through
liOndon without delay; but he received such encouragement as
induced him to spend a night in town on his return, in order that
he might accept an invitation to drink tea with the Fumivals.
* We shall be very happy to see you,' Mrs. Fumival had said,
backing the proposition which had come from her daughter without
any very great fervour ; * but I fear Mr. Fumival will not be at
home. Mr. Fumival very seldom is at home now.* Young Mason
did not much care for fervour on the part of Sophia's mother, and
therefore had accepted tlie invitation, though he was obliged by
so doing to curtail by some hours his sojourn among the guano
stores of Liverpool.

It was the time of year at which few people are at home in
London, being the middle of October; but Mrs. Fumival was a
lady of whom at such periods it was not very easy to dispose.
Sh(3 could have made herself as happy as a queen even at Margate,
if it could have suited Fumival and Sophia to be happy at Margate
with her. But this did not 8uit Fumival or Sophia. As regards
money, any or almost all other autumnal resorts were open to
her, but she could be contented at none of them because Mr.
Fumival always pleaded that business — law business or politi-
cal business — took him elsewhere. Kow Mrs. Fumival was a
woman who did not like to be deserted, and who could not,
in the absence of those social joys which Providence had vouch-
safed to her as her own, make herself happy with the society
of other women such ,as herself. Fumival was her husband, and

VOL. I. a

82 OBLEY FABK.

Bhe wanted him to carve for her, to sit opposite to her at the break-

fast table, to tell her the news of the day, and to walk to church

with her on Sundays. Thej had been made one flesh and one

bone, for better and worse, thirty years since ; and now in her

latter days she conld not put up with dissoTeration and dislocation.

She had gone down to Brighton in August, soon after the House

broke up, and there fo^nd that very handsome apartments had

been taken for her — ^rooms that would have made glad the heart

of many a lawyer's wife. She had, too, the command of a fly»

done up to look like a private brougham, a servant in liveiy, the

•"nm of the public aneml^^^rooiBs, « mtth^ in the centre cf ihe

* most ^Mahioiialile dbnrdi in Bri^bton— all iSbeA iihe heaort of woman

'•«ould desire. AH but the one thing was there ; but, -tizat oneiiiing

hmao^ absent, she came moodily back ix> town at the end of Septe^-

'lier. She woiM hare exchanged them all wi& t^ lusppy heart fbr

"wmy moderate accommodation at Margate, coold iSbe have seen

' Mr.'Fnmival's bine seBOontkeotiier side of 'fiieiable ^rrexy morning

(jhmL «nraniBg as she sttt over her shnmps and tea.

Men who hmSL nsenin the world as Mr.l^nTnivd had done do

find it sometimes difficult to dispose of their wives. It is not that

Hbe kdifls am in "themselves more mifitfor rising^tium iiieir lords,

Mor that if oeoasicn demanded they would not as Tcaffiiy adapt them

•elves to new iq^heres. But they do not rise, and occasion does

•aot demand it A man elevates his wife to his own rank, and

.iwhen Mir. Brown, on becoming solicitor-general, becomes Sir Jacob,

Mrs. Brown also becomes my lady. But the whole set among whom

Brown must be more or less throvni do not want her iadydbdp. On

Srown's promotion she did not become part of ihe bai^gaan. Brown

must henceforth have two existences — a public and a piivale ezist-

enoe ; and it will be well for Xiady Brown, and well also for Sir

^aoob, if the latter be not allowed to dwindle dovni to a minimum.

If Lady B. can raise herself also, if she can make her own

^mccasion — if she be handsome and can flirt, if she be impudent and

-can force her way, if she have a daring mind and can commit great

. expenditure, if she be clever and can make poetry, if she can in

«ny way create a separate glory for herself, then, indeed, Sir Jacob

with his blue nose may follow his own path, and all will be well.

Bir Jacobus blue nose seated opposite to her will not be her summum

•bonum.

But worthy Mrs. Fumival — and she was wor&y — ^had created for
herself no such separate glory, nor did she dream of creating it ;
«and therefore she had, as it were, no footing left to her. On this
ixx^ision she had gone to Brighton, and had returned from it sulky
and wretched, bringing her daughter back to London at the period of
London's greatest desolation. Sophia had returned uncomplaining,
.lememboring that good things were in store lor her. She had been

MliS. FUKNIVAL AT HOME. 83

QiBked to upend her Christmas wiih the StaveleTS at Noningsby
— the fEunily of Judge Stareley, who lives near Alston, at a very
prataky ooniitry place ao called. Mr. Fnmival had been for many
yean M)qii«iixted with Judge Btaveley — had known the jud^ge when
he was a ieading eounflel ; and now that Mr. Fnniival ¥ra8 a rising
jnaii, and now that he had a pretty daughter, h was natural that the
yovng Staveleys and Sophia FumiTal should know each other. But
poor Mrs. FumiTal was too ponderous for this mounting late in life,
•tnd she had not been Baked to Noningiiby. 8he was muoh too ffood
a mother to repine at her daughter's promised gikiety. So^^bia was
weloome to go; but by all the laws of Grod and man it would
bebove her lord and husband to eat his minoepie atliame.

* Mr. Fumival was to be back in town this evening,' 4ie lady
eaid, ae tibou^ apologudng to young Mason for her liusband's
•beonoe, when he entered the drawing-room, * but he has iKyt-come,
«nd I dace laj will not eome now.'

Maaon did not oaie a straw for Mr. Fumivdl. '*0h! won't he ?*
aaid he. * I mKppoee business keeps him.'

* Papa is yery busy about politics just at present,' said 8ophia,
wishing to make matters smooth in her mother's mind. ' He was
obliged io be et Bomford in the beginning of the week, and then he
want down io Birmingham. There is some congress going on there,
is there not T

* All that must take a groat deal of time,' said Lucius.

^ Yes ; and it is a terrible boro,' said Sophia. * I know papa finds

it 80.*

* Your papa likes it, I believe,' said Mrs. Fumival, who would not
hide even her grievances under a bushel.

* I don't think he likes being so much from home, mamma. Of
course he likes excitement, and success. All men do. Do they not,
Mr. ^iason ?'

* They all ought to do so, and women also.'

* Ah ! but women have no sphere, Mr. Mason.'

* They have minds equal to those of men,' said Lucius, gallantly,
*and ought to be able to make for themselves careers as biilliant.'

* Women ought not to have any spheres,' said Mrs. Fumival.

* T don't know that I quite agree with you there, mamma.'

* The world is becoming a great deal too fond of what you call
excitement and success. Of course it is a good thing for a man to
make money by his profession, and a very Lard thing when he can't
do it,' added Mrs. Fumival, thinking of the olden days. * But if
success in life means rampaging about, and never knowing what it
is to sit quiet over his own fireside, I for one would as soon manage
to do without it.'

* But, mamma, I don't see why success should always be ram-
ps^ous.'

G 2

84 OBLEY FARM.

' Literary women who have aohieyed a name bear their honoais
quietly/ said Lncins.

*I don't know,* said Mrs. Fnmival. *I am told that some of
them are as fond of gadding as the men. As regards the old maids,
I don't care so much about it ; people who are not married may
do what they like with themselves, and nobody has anything to say
to them. But it is very different for married people. They have
no business to be enticed away from their homes by any success.*

< Mamma is all for a Darby and Joan life,' said Sophia, laughing.

* No I am not, my dear ; and you should not say so. I don't
advocate anything that is absurd. But I do say that life should
be lived at home. That is the best part of it. What is the meaning
of home if it isn't that ?'

Poor Mrs. Fumival I she had no idea that she was complaining to
a stranger of her husband. Had any one told her so she would
have declared that she was discussing general world-wide topics ;
bat Lucius Mason, young as he was, knew that the marital shoe was
pinching the lady's domestic com, and he made haste to change the
subject.

' You know my mother, Mrs. Fumival ?'

Mrs. Fumival said that she had the honour of acquaintance with
Lady Mcison; but on this occasion also she exhibited but little
fervour.

* I shall meet her up in town to-morrow,' said Lucius. * She is
coming up for some shopping.'

' Oh I indeed,' said Mrs. Fumival.

*• And then we go down home together. 1 am to meet her at the
chyroist*8 at the top of ChaAcery Lane.'

Mow this was a very unnecessary communication on the part of
young Mason, and also an unfoi'tunate one. *0h! indeed,' said
Mrs. Fumival again, throwing her head a little back. Poor woman !
she could not conceal what was in her mind, and her daughter knew
all about it immediately. The truth was this. Mr. Fumival had
been for some days on the move, at Birmingham and elsewhere,
and had now sent up sudden notice that he should probably be at
home that very night He should probably be at home that night,
but in such case would be compelled to return to his friends at
Birmingham on the following afternoon. Now if it were an ascer-
tained fact that he was coming to London merely with the view ci
meeting Lady Mason, the wife of his bosom would not think it
necessary to pro\'ide for him the warmest possible welcome. This
of course was not an ascertained fact ; but was there not terrible
grounds of suspicion ? Mr. Fumival's law chambers were in Old
Square, Lincoln's Inn, close to Chancery Lane, and Lady Mason
had made her appointment with her son within five minutes' walk
of that locality. And was it not in itself a strange coincidence that

MRS. FUBNIYAL AT HOME. 85

Lady Mason, who came to town so seldom, sbould now do so on the
Tery day of Mr. FumiTars sudden return ? She felt sure that they
were to meet on the morrow, but yet she could not declare even to
herself that it was an ascertained fact.

*0h! indeed,' she said; and Sophia understood all about it,
ihou^ Lucius did not.

Then Mrs. Fumival sank into silence ; and we need not follow,
word for word, the conversation between the young lady-and the
young gentleman. Mr. Mason thought that Miss Fumival was a
very nice girl, and was not at all ill pleased to have an opportunity
of passing an evening in her company; and Miss Fumival thought — •
What she thought, or what young ladies may think generally
about young gentlemen, is not to be spoken openly ; but it seemed
as though she also were employed to her own satisfaction, while her
mother sat moody in her own arm-chair. In the course of the
evening the footman in livery brought in tea, handing it round on
a big silver salver, which also added to Mrs. Fumival*s unhappiness.
She would have liked to sit behind her tea-tray as she used to do in
the good old hard-working days, with a small pile of buttered toast
on the slop-bowl, kept warm by hot water below it. In those dear
old hard-working days, buttered toast had been a much-loved
delicacy with Fumival ; and she, kind woman, had never begrudged
her eyes, as she sat making it for him over the parlour fire. Nor
would she have begrudged them now, neither her eyes nor the
work of her hands, nor all the thoughts of her heart, if he would
have consented to accept of her handiwork ; but in these days Mr.
Fumival had learned a relish for other delicacies.

She also had liked buttered toast, always, however, taking the
pieces with the upper crust, in order that the more luscious morsels
might be left for him ; and she had liked to prepare her own tea
leisurely, putting in slowly the sugar and cream — skimmed milk it
had used to be, dropped for herself with a sparing hand, in order
that his large breakfast-cup might be whitened to his liking ; but
though the milk had been skimmed and scanty, and though the tea
itself had been put in with a sparing hand, she had then been
mistress of the occasion. She had had her own way, and in stinting
herself had found her own reward. But now — the tea had no
flavour now that it was made in the kitchen and brought to her,
cold and vapid, by a man in livery whom she half feared to keep
waiting while she ministered to her own wants.

And so she sat moody in her arm-chair, cross and sulky, as her
daughter thought. But yet there was a vein of poetry in her heart
as she sat there, little like a sibyl as she looked. Dear old days, in
which her cares and solicitude were valued ; in which she could do
something for the joint benefit of the firm into which she had been
taken as a partner ! How happy she had been in her struggles, how

86 OULEY FABH.

piteously liad her heart yearned towarda him when ithe thought that
he was straggling too fiercely, how biave and oonatant he had
been ; and how she had loved him as he sat steady as a rock at his
grinding work I Now had come the gxeat tfucoess of which they had
both dreamed together, of whicb they had talked as ann in arm they
were taking the exercise that was so needful to him, walking quickly
round Russell Square, quickly round Bloomsbury Square and Bedford
Squaie, and so back to the grinding work in- Keppel Street. It had
opme now-^^ of which they had dreamed^ and more than alLthey
had dared to hope. But of what good was it ? Was he happy ?
No ; he ixM fretful,, bilious, and worn with toil w^uoh was hard to ,
him because' he ate and drank too much; he was ill at ease iiL
public^ only half understanding the political Ufe whick he was
o&liged to assume in his new ambition ; and he was sick ia hia
conscienoe-*'^hewass«rethat must beso: he could noithua negieet
her, his loving,, eenstant wi£i, without some pang of remozae* And
was she happy ? She migjrt ha^ revelled in silka and satins, if
sdks aiE^ satins would have done her old heart good. But they^
would do her no good^ How she had joyed in a new dress, when it
had been so hard to cooie by^ so slow in coming, and when he
>^uld gp with her to the dioosing.of it I But her gowns now were
hardly of more interest to her than the joints of meat which thet
butcher brought to the door with the utmost regularity. It behoved
the butcher to send g^ood beefand the milliner to send good silk»
and there was an end of it.

Not but what she could hovts been eastatio about a full skirt oaa*
smart body if he would hove cared to look at it^ In truth she was
still soft and young enough within, though stout, and solid, and
somewhat aged without. Though ^looked cross and surly that
night, there was soft poetry within her heart. If Piovidence, who
had bountifully given, would now by ehaaoe mercifully take away
those gifts, would she not then forgive eveiythmg and toil for him
again with the same happiness as before? Ak! yes; she could
forgive everything, anytldng, if he would only return and be con<>
tented to sit opposite to her once again. * 0 mortal Delius, dearest
lord and huslMtnd!* she exclaimed within her own breast, in
language somewhat differing front that of the Itoman poet, ' why
hast thou not remembered to nudntain a mind equal in prosp^ty
as it was always equal and well poised in adversity? Oh I my
Delius, since prosperity has been too mneh for thee, may the Lord .
bless thee once more with the adversity which thou canst bear —
which thou canst bear, and I with thee !' Thus did she sing sadly
within her own bosom — sadly, but with true poetic cadence ; while
Sophia and Lucius Mason, sitting by, when for a moment they
turned their eyes upon her, gave her credit only for the cross
solemnity supposed to be incidental to obese and declining years.

Ur. FMTmval'e welcome home.

MB& FURBTIVAI* AT HOME. 87 •

And then thoro came a ling at Uie bell and a knodc at the door,
and a ineh along ihfb nedier paaeagee, and the lady knew that he of
whom she had been thinking had arrrred. In olden days she had •
eirer met Mm in. the narrow passage, and, indiflferent to the maid,
she had Imng ahout.hia neok and kioaod him in^ the hall. Bnt now .
she did not stir from her dhair. She oonld foigiTe hiin all and nm
a^Edn at the aonnd of hia footstep, bnt she most first knowthat saeh
foigiTeness and sodh. nmBDing would be welcome,

,« That's papa,' said Sophia.

* Don't £(irgetthatXluKf«a not meet han sum I hava been home'
from Grermany/ said Lucins. ' Ton mnst inteodnee ma.*

In a minute or iimo. Mt-F^andwaL opened the door and walked
into the room. Meuwiien ^ey amve tram their travels nom^
daya hm/m no atarippnigs of gfeatesaits » no depoaitst te make of dnefc
Bhaw4banddoaUi^gioflres,no absolnfcely Mciseenswy ehangw of lameBft;
Sacht had beenrtha ease when be had nsedto^oome baok cold
weaxy finom tiie- einoiii^ but now he* had left Birmingham
dinner bgptha late espmssi had ea|oyed bis nap in tha train for tvwa
hewBs er so, and walked into- hia ewn drawinc^^oom as ka wofjtkt-
have done had he dined in his own dining-room.

^"-How aie yOtt,.Sittgr^ bo said, to hia wile^ handing to her tlte
forefinger of his right hand by way of greeting. ' Well, Sophy; my.
love;' and ba kissed his daagihter.* *0h! Lndna Mason. I aHi
Tory glad to see you. Tcan't say I dumld b«fe remsmbexnd ycte
unless I had' been told. Yon are yery welcome in Harl^ Street,
and I hope yon will ofton be hero.'

* It's not yery often he'd find yon at home, Mr. Fomiyal,' said
the aggrieved wife.

* Not so often as I oould wish juat at present ; bnt things will be
more settled, I hope, before very longi. How's your mothor,
Liicins ?'

* She's pretty well, thank you, sir. I've to meet her in to¥m to-
morrow, and go down home with her.'

Ther^ was then silence in the room for a few seconds, during-
which Mrs. Fumival looked veiy sharply at her kosband. *0h!
she's to 1)e in town, is she ?' said Mr. Fumival, after a moment's
consideration. Ho was angry with Lady Ma8on at the moment for
having put him into this position. Why had she told her son that
she was to be up in London, thus producing conversation and tittle-
tattle which made deceit on his part absolutely necessary ? Lady
Mason's business in London was of a nature which would not be«r
much open talking. She herself, in her earnest letter summoning
Mr. Fumival up from Birmingham, bad besought him that ber visit
to bis chambers might not be made matter of discussion. New
troubles might bo coming on her, but also they might not ; and she
was very anxious that no one should know tliat she was seeking a

88 OBLET

Iswjer^s adTioe on Hie Bwtler. To aU tibis Mr. FimdTil bad giTen
in his adhesion; and jet she had pat it into her 8on*8 power to
come to his dxawii^-iooia and chatter there of her whereabonts.
For a moment or two he doubted; bat at the ezpirstum of those
momentif he saw that the deceit was neoessaiy. 'She's to be in
town, is she T said he. The rsader will of coarse obserre that
this deceit was prsctiaed, not as between hasband and wife with
reference to an assignation with a ladj, bat between the lawyer
and the outer woiid with reference to a priTate meeting with a
client Bat then it is sometimes so diffionlt to make wives look at
soch matters in the rig^t lig^

' She's coming ap for some shopping/ said Laefais.

*0h! indeed/ said Mrs. FamiraL fibe woald not have spoken if
she could have helped it, bat she ooald not help it; and then there
was silence in the room for a minnte or two, which Locias vainl j
endeavoured to break by a few indifferent obeervati<ms to Miss
FomivaL The words, however, which he ottered would not take
the guise of indifferent observations, bat fell flatly on their ears, and
at the same time solemnly, as though spoken with the sole purpose
of creating sound.

* I hope you have been enjoying youxaelf at Birmingham/ said
Mrs. Fnmival.

*' Enjoyed myself 1 I did not exactly go there for enjoyment.'

* Or at Romford, where yon were before V

* Women seem to think that men have no purpose but amuse-
ment when they go about their daily work,* said Mr. Fumival ;
and then he threw himself back in his arm-chair, and took up the
last Quarterly.

•Lucius Mason soon perceived that all the harmony of the evening
had in some way been marred by the return of the master of the
house, and that he might be in the way if he remained ; he therefore
took his leave.

*■ I shall want breakfast punctually at half-past eight to-morrow
morning/ said Mr. Fumival, as soon as the stranger had withdrawn.
* I must be in chambers before ten / and then he took his candle and
withdrew to his own room.

Sophia rang the bell and gave the servant the order ; but Mrs.
Fumival took no trouble in the matter whatever. In the olden
days she would have bustled down before she went to bed, and have
seen herself that everything was ready, so that the master of the
house might not be kept waiting. But all this was nothing to her
now.

CHAPTER XIL

HB. FDBNIYAL's CHAMBXRS.

Mb. Fi7BNiyAL*8 ohamben were on the first floor in a Texy dingy
edifice in Old Square* Lincoln's Inn. This square was always
dingy, even when it was comparatively open and served as the
approach from Chancery Lane to the Lord Chancellor's Court ; but
now it has been bnilt np with new shops for the Yice-Chancellor,
and to my eyes it seems more dingy than ever.

He there occupied three rooms, all of them sufficiently spacious for
the purposes required, but which were made oppressive by their
general dinginess and by a smell of old leather which pervaded
them. In one of them sat at his desk Mr. Crabwitz, a gentleman who
had now been with Mr. Fumival for the last fifteen years, and who
considered that no inconsiderable portion of the barrister's success
had been attributable to his own energy and genius. Mr. Crabwitz
was a genteel-looking man, somewhat over forty years of age,
very careful as to his gloves, hat, and umbrella, and not a little
particxdar as to his associates. As he was unmarried, fond of ladies'
society, and presumed to be a warm man in money matters, he had
his social successes, and looked down from a considerable altitude
on some men who from their professional rank might have been
considered as his superiors. He had a small bachelor's box down at
Barnes, and not unfrequently went abroad in the vacations. The
door opening into the room of Mr. Crabwitz was in the comer front-
ing you on the left-hand side as you entered the chambers.
Immediately on your left was a large waiting-room, in which an
additional clerk usually sat at an ordinary table. He was not an
authorized part of the establishment, being kept only from week to
week ; but nevertheless, for the last two or three years he had been
always there, and Mr. Crabwitz intended that he should remain,
for he acted as fag to Mr. Crabwitz. lliis waiting-room was very
dingy, much more so than the clerk's room, and boasted of no furni-
ture but eight old leathern chairs and two old tables. It was
surrounded by shelves which were laden with books and dust, which
by no chance were ever disturbed. But to my ideas the most dingy
of the three rooms was that large one in which the great man him-
self sat ; the door of which directly fronted you as you entered.

90 OBLET FABM.

The fdmiture was pTo1>ably better than that in the other chambers,
and the place had certainly the appearance of warmth and life which
comes from frequent nse ; but nevertheless, of all the rooms in which
I ever sat I think it was the most gloomy. There were heavy
curtains to the windows, which had once been ruby but were now
brown ; and the ceiling was brown, and the thick carpet was brown,
and the books which covered every portion of the wall were brown,
and the painted wood- work of the doora and windows was of a dark
brown. Here, on the morning with which we have now to deal,
sat Mr. Fumival over his pi^rs from tan to twelve, at which latter
hour Lady Mason was to come to him. The holidays of Mr. Crab-
witat. had tlii» year been ettt tiboH in canseqaciw*- of hit patiDn'a
attendaace al the great congress whicit wag npw attMijg, and althcwighi
all London waa a dasevi* as be faad.pkeossly oompleiaed to a lady o£
hie acqiieaiteaoe wbom he iMMb left ai Bodcgne^
madat of tike desert^, aad on. this raeming was OBtlBig, inattendaneev
at his usual desk.

Why Mr-Fvnmli ahovikk have bseaklaated by hiiBaalf at half-
peat eight IB ecdeir tbali he migfast be at: hie chambeie at ten, seeing,
that the engtugweent to which he had- come^to town wae tmed finr
twelye,. I will Bot pieteBd to my. He did not aek hia wife to jfun
him, and coBseqnentlyahe did not come down. tiU hex ueoaltime.
Mr. Fumival breakfaeted by himself,. and at ten o'clock he was in
his QhambexSi. Tboogih alone fbrtwo hoers he wae not idle, and
ezaetly at twelve Msr^ GxabwitB- opened his door sod aBnounced
Lady MiwotIt

When we last parted witk her afler hex interview with. Sir Peve-'
grine Orme, she had resolved not to communicate with her friend
the lewyer^-^^it any rate not to do se immediately. Thinking o&
that resolve she had- tried to sleep thai ni^^ ;. but her mind was
altogether disturbed, and she oould get no rest* What, if after
twenty years of tranquillity all her treublea must now be recom*
menced ? What if the battle were again to be fimgbt,t— with such,
termination as the dhances of war mi^t send to her? Why waait
tikat ahe was so much greater a coward now than she had be^t then?
Then she had oKpected defeat^fbr her friends had bade her not to be
sanguine ; but in spite of that she had borne up and gone gallantly
through the ordeaL But now she felt that if Orley Farm were hers-
to give she would sooner abandon it than renew the contest. Then^
at that fSarmer period of her life, she had prepared her mind to do
or die in the eause. She had wrought herself up for the work, and
had cazried it through. But having done that wooi^ having aocomr
plished her terrible task, she had hoped that rest might be in store
for her. i

As she rose frt)m her bed on the morning after her interview witk
Sir Peregrine, she determined that she would seek counsel from him

MB. fubniyal's chambebs. &1

in wbo§e ooiuuel ahe conld trust. Sir Peregrine's friendfihip was
more valuable to her than that of Mr. FnnuTal, bat a woid of advioe
ftooL Mr. FonuTal waa worth all the spoken wisdom of the baronet,
ten times over. Therefoie she wrote her letter, and proposed an
appointment ; and Mr. Fnmival, tempted as I have said hj some
evil spirit to stray after strange g^oddesses in these his bine-nosed
days, had left his learned brethren at their congress in Bixmingluan,
and had hurried np to town to assist the widow. He^ had left that
congrestt, thongh the wisest Bustums of the law front all the oivi^
lized countries of Europe were there assembled,, with Boaaeiiges at
their head, that great, old, valiant, learned, British Bnstmn, in-
qniring with energy, solemnity, and cantion, with nmch shaking of
pcmdsroiis heads and many sarcasms from those which were not
pqnderoas,. whethec^ any and what changpes might be made in the
ipodea of answering that great qfoestion, * Gkiiky or not gnilly P' and
that other equally great q]aesti<my * Is it menm or is it tanm ?
^o answer whicl^ jqnestion. justly ahould be the end and object
of every lawyer's work.^ OSieie wer» great men there from Paris,
very capable^ the U^iansi Tribonions, and Papinians of the new
empire,, armed with the purest sentiments expressed in antithetical.
ayid magBiloqpent phrases,, ravishing to the ears,, and aimed also
with a code which, taken in its integrity, would necessarily, as
the logical oansequeace of its olaoses,. drive all injustice from the
fiiee of tha earth* And there were great practitioners from Qeir-*
many, men very skilled in the use of questions, who profbss that
the tongue of msai, if adequately skilful, may always prevail on
gnilt to disclose itself; who believe in the power of their own
craft to produce truth, as our fbrefathere believed in torture ; and
sometimes with the same result. And of course all that was great
on the British bench, and all that was fiEMDOus at the British bar was
there, — men very unlike thoir German brethren, men who thought
that guilt never should be asked to tell of itself, — men who were
customarily but unconsciously shocked whenever unwary guilt did
tell of itselfr Men these were, mostly of high and noble feeling, bom
and bred to live with upright hearts and clean hands, but taught
by the peculiar tenets of their profession to think that that which
was hi^ and noble in their private intercourse with the world need
not also bo so esteemed in their legal practice. And there were Italians
there, good-humoured, joking, easy €&llows, who would laugh their
clients in and out of their difficulties ; and Spaniards, very grave
and Berious, who doubted much in their minds whether justice might
not best be bought and sold ; and our brethren from the United .
{States were present also, very eager to show that in this country
law, and justice also, were clouded and nearly buried beneath their
wig and gown.
All these and all this did Mr. Fumival desert for the space of

.DA 4»LBY rAinc.

fOouiiBel he dbonld gzve ker onglit ki any "imj to be based on the
possibility of her Jiaving been ihas guilty. Nothing ^migbt be ab
^ft.im>»Tig to ber eaoae j« that he ahauid make sine of her inoooence,
if she were not innocent ; and yet he would not ask her the question.
If innocent, why was it that she was now so much mered, after
twenty yeaas of qniet poflseasion P

'*' It was a pity/ he catd, at latt, "* iiiat Ij«ei«8 idioald haTe dis-
turbed that fellow in ike poaaeaaioiL of Ins ^fielda/

* It was; it waarahesaad. ^Svtl didBOtih3i&-itpo68H>le that
Miriam's hnaband abauld tnm agatnatiiie. IW'^ald it %e ^wise, do
you think, to let him ha^^ the land againf

^ No, I do not think that, it would be telling him,iMid telling
otiMsa also, that you are alraid ^ iiim. If be have obtained any
infonnation ihat may be eonaidaFed of ^ralue by Joseph Mason, he
can sell it at* higher priee than the ludding of these fields is worth.'

^ Would it be well-*-^?* &ie ivaa asking a goestion and then
cbaoked beiaell

* Would what be 'Wen r

* I am BO hssassed that I hardly know what I am saying. Would
it be wise, do you think, if I-were to pay him anyfliing, «o as to
keep him quiet ?'

' What; buy him off, you mean^

* Well, yes ; — >if yon call it ao. Give hha some aom of money in
compensation for his land ; and on the understanding, you know
«— ,' and then she paused.

^ That depends on what he may hvre to sell,' said Mr. FumiTal,
hardly daring to look at her.

* Ah ; yes,' said the widow. And then ihere was another
paiwe.

* I do not think that that would be at all disoreet,' said Mr.
Fumiyal. * After all, the chances axe that it is all moonshine.'

•You think so?'

* Yes ; I cannot but thiuk so. What can that man possibly have
found among the old attorney's papers that may be injurious to your
interests?'

* Ah ! I do not know ; I imderstand so little of these things. At
the time they told me, — ^yon told me that the law might possibly go
against my boy's rights. It would have been bad then, but it
would be ten times more dreadftil now.'

* But there were many questions capable of doubt then, which
were definitively 'settled at the trial. As to your husband's intellect
on that day, for instance.'

* There could be no doubt as to that.'

* No ; 80 it has been proved ; and they will not raise that point
t^ain. Could he possibly have made a later will P'

* No ; I am sure he did not. Had he done so it could not have

MB. fitxnival's ghambebs. 95

boon fimndionaDg Mr. Usbeoh's papers ; for, uafta bbI remember,
iihe poor num xiever attended to any bosineas after that day.*
' What daj ?'

* The 14th of July, the day on whaoh he was with Sir Joaeph.*
It waa aingwlar, ihonght ihe baxxister, with how mnch preciakm

she remembered the dates and ommmatanoea. That llie circum-
atanoes of the trial should be fresh on her memory was sot wonder-
ful ; but how was it that she knew so acourately things whioh had
. ooonrred befose the trial, — ^when no trial could hava been ex-
pected ? But as to this he said nothing.
' And yon are aurelie went to Groby Park ?'

* Oh, yes ; I have no doubt of it. I am quite aore.'

* I do not know that we can do anything but vmtL Have you
^BMsntioiied this to Sir Peregrine?' It immediately oooorred to

Lady Mason's mind &at it would be by no means expedient, even
if it were poBsH>le, to keep Mr. Fumival in ignoranee of anything
that ahe really did ; and she therefore explained that fihe had seen
•jSir Peregrine. * 1 was so troubled at the fixat moment ihat Ibardly
knew where to torn,' she said.

* Tou were quite right to go to Sir Peregrine.'

* I am BO glad yon ava not angry with me as to that:'
'* And did he say anything— anything partioular ?*

* He promised that he would not deaart me, should Uwro Iw any
"Hew diffioultgr.'

* That is well. It is always good to have the coantenance of vuoly
a neighbour as he is.'

*' And the advice of such a friend as you are.' And she again put
out her hand to him.

* Well ; yes. It is my trade, you know, to give advice,' and he
smiled as he took it.

* How should I live through such troubles without you ?'

* We lawyers are very much abused now-a-days/ said Mr. Fur-
nival, thinking of what was going on down at Birmingham at that
very moment ; * but I hardly know how the world would get on
without us.'

* Ah ! but all lawyers are not like you.'

* Some perhaps worse, and a great many much better. But, as I
was saying, I do not think I would take any steps at present. The
man Dockwrath is a vulgar, low-minded, revengeful fellow ; and
I would endeavour to forget him.*

* Ah, if I could !'

* And why not? What can he possibly have learned to your
injury ?* And then as it seemed to Lady Mason that Mr. Fumival
expected some reply to this question, she forced herself to give him
one. * I suppose that he cannot know anything.'

* I tell you what I might do,' said Mr. Fumival, who was still

96 OBLEY FABH.

moBing. * Bound himself is not a bad fellow, and I am acquainted
with him. He was the junior partner in that house at the time of
the trial, and I know that he persuaded Joseph Mason not to appeal
to the Lords. I will contrive, if possible, to see him. I shall be
able to learn from him at any rate whether anything is being done.'

* And then if I hear that Uiere is not, I shall be comforted.'

* Of course ; of course.

* But if there is '

* I think there will be nothing of the sort,* said Mr. Fumival,
leaving his seat as he spoke.

* But if there is I shall have your aid ?' and she slowly rose

from hor chair as she spoke.

Mr. Fumival gave her a promise of this, as Sir Peregrine had
done before; and then with her handkerchief to her eyes she
thanked him. Her tears were not false as Mr. Fumival well saw ;
and seeing that she wept, and seeing that she was beautiful, and
feeling that in her grief and in her beauty she had come to him for
aid, his heart was softened towards her, and he put out his arms as
though he would take her to his heart — as a daughter. ' Dearest
friend,' he said, ' trust me that no harm shall come to you.'

* I will trust you,' she said, gently stopping the motion of his
arm. * I will trust you, altogether. And when you have seen Mr.
Bound, shall I hear from you ?'

At this moment, as they were standing close together, the door
opened, and Mr. Crabwitz introduced another lady — ^who indeed
had advanced so quickly towards the door of Mr. Fumival's room,
that the clerk had been hardly able to reach it before her.

* Mrs. Fumival, if you please, sir,' said Mr. Crabwitz.

CHAPTER XIU.

GUILTY, OR NOT GUII^TY.

Unfortunately for Mr. Fumival, the intruder was Mrs. Fnmival
— whether he pleased or whether he did not please. There she
was in his law chamber, present in the flesh, a sight pleasing neither
to her husband nor to her husband^s client. She had knocked at the
outside door, which, in the absence of the fag, had been opened by
Mr. Crabwitz, and had immediately walked across the passage towards
her husband*s room, expressing her knowledge that Mr. Fumival
was within. Mr. Crabwitz had all the will in the world to stop
her progress, but he found that he lacked the power to stay it for
a moment.

The advantages of matrimony are many and great — so many and
so great, that all men, doubtless, ought to marry. But even matri-
mony may have ' its drawbacks ; among which unconcealed and
undeserved jealousy on the part of the wife is perhaps as dis-
agreeable as any. What is a man to do when he is accused before
the world, — before any small fraction of the world, of making love to
some lady of his acquaintance ? What is he to say ? What way is he
to look? * My love, I didn't. I never did, and wouldn't think of
it for worlds. I say it with my hand on my heart. There is
Mrs. Jones herself, and I appeal to her.* He is reduced to that !
But should any innocent man be so reduced by the wife of bis
bosom ?

I am speaking of undeserved jealousy, and it may therefore
be thought that my remarks do not apply to Mrs. Fumival. They
do apply to her as much as to any woman. That geuenvl idea as
to the strange goddesses was on her part no more than a suspicion :
and all women who so torment themselves and their husbands ma^-
plead as much as she could. And for this peculiar idea as to Lady
Mason she had no ground whatever. Lady ]\Iason may have had hei-
faults, but a propensity to rob Mrs. Fumival of her husband's aftbc-
tions had not hitherto been one of them. Mr. Fumival was a
clever lawyer, and she had gre^t need of his assistance ; therefon-
she had come to his chambers, and therefore she had placed hci
hand in his. That Mr. Furnival liked his client because she ^va.s
good looking may be true. I like my horse, my picture, the viow

VOL. I, il

98 ORLEY FARM.

from my study window for the same reason. I am inclined ta
think that there was nothing more in it than that.

* My dear I' said Mr. Fumival, stepping a little back, and letting
his hands fall to his sides. Lady Mason also took a step backwards,
and then with considerable presence of mind recovered hei'self and
put out her hand to greet Mrs. Fumival.

* How do you do, Lady Mason ?* said Mrs. Fumival, without any
presence of mind at all. • I hope I have the pleasure of seeing yon
very well. I did hear that you were to be in town — shopping ; but
I did not for a moment expect the — gratification of finding you
here.* And every word that the dear, good, heart-sore woman
spoke, told the tale of her jealousy as plainly as though she had
flown at Lady Mason's cap with all the bold demonstrative energy
of Spitalfields or St. Giles.

* I came up on purpose .to see Mr. Fumival about some unfor-
tunate law business,' said Lady Mason.

*• Oh, indeed ! lYour son Lucius did aay — shopping.'

* Yes ; I told him so. When a lady is unfortunate enough to be
driven to a lawyer for advice, she does not wish to make it known.
I should be very sorry if my dear boy were to guess that I had this
new trouble ; or, indeed, if any one were to know it. I am sure
that I shall be as safe with you, dear Mrs. Fumival, as I am with
your husband.' And she stepped up to the angry matron, looking
earnestly into her face.

To a true tale of woman's sorrow Mrs. Fumival's heart could be
as soft as snow under the noonday sun. Had Lady Mason gone to
her and told her all her fears and all her troubles, sought counsel
and aid from her, and appealed to her motherly feelings, Mrs.
Fumival would have been urgent night and day in persuading her
husband to take up the widow's case. She would have bade
him work his very best without fee or reward, and would herself
have shown Lady Mason the way to Old Square, Lincoln's Inn.
She would have been discreet too, speaking no word of idle gossip
to any one. When he, in their happy days, had told his legal
secrets to her, she had never gos8iped,-^had never spoken an idle
word concerning them. And she would have been constant to her
&iend, giving great consolation in the time of trouble, as one woman
can console another. The thought that all this might be so did
come across her for a moment, for there was innocence written in
Lady Mason's eyes. But then she looked at her husband's face ;
and as she found no innocence there, her heart was again hardened.
The woman's face could lie ; — ' the faces of such women are all lies,'
Mrs. Fumival said to herself ;— but in her presence his face had
been compelled to speak the truth.

* Oh dear, no ; I shall say nothing of course,' she said. * I am
quite sorry that I intruded. Mr. Furnival, as I happened to be in

" YoQi son Lucius did say— shopinng."'

GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY. 99

Holbom — at Mudie's for somo books — I thought I would come down
and aak whether you intend to dine at home to-day. You said
nothing about it either last night or this morning ; and nowadays
one really does not know how to manage in such matters.'

' I told you iliat I should return to Birmingham this afternoon ;
I shall dine there,' said Mr. Fumival, very sulkily.

' Oh, very well. 1 oertaiuly knew that you were going out of
town. I did not at all expect that you would remain at home ; but
I thought that you might, perhaps, like to have your dinner before
you went. Good morning. Lady M'ason ; I hope you may be suc-
cessful in your — lawsuit.' And then, curtsying to her husband's
client, she prepared to withdraw.

* I believe I have said all that I need say, Mr. Fumival,' said
Lady Mason; * so that if Mrs. Fumival wishes — ,' and she also
gathered herself up as though she were ready to leave the room.

' I hardly know what Mrs. Fumival wishes,* said the husband.

' My wishes are nothing,' said the wife, * and I really am quite
sorry that I came in.' And then she did go, leaving her husband
and the woman of whom she was jealous once more alone together.
Upon the whole I think that Mr. Fumival was right in not going
home that day to his dinner.

As the door closed somewhat loudly behind the angry lady —
Mr. Crabwitz having rushed out hardly in time to moderate the
violence of the slam — Lady Mason and her imputed lover were left
looking at each other. It was certainly hard upon Lady Mason,
and so she felt it. Mr. Fumival was fifty-five, and endowed with a
bluish noso ; and she was over forty, and had lived for twenty years
as a widow without incurring a breath of scandal.

* I hope I have not been to blame,' said Lady Mason in a soft,
sad voice ; ' but perhaps Mi*s. Furnival specially wished to find you
alone.'

' No, no ; not at all.'

* I shall be so unhappy if I think that I have been in the way.
If Mrs. Furnival wished to speak to you on business I am not sur-
])rised that she should be angry, for I know that barristers do not
iiBually allow themselves to be troubled by their clients in their own
chambers.'

* Nor by their wives,' Mr. Furnival might have added, but he
did not.

* Do not mind it,' he said ; * it is nothing. She is the bcst-tem-
])orcd woman in tlie world ; but at times it is impossible to answer
oven for tlie best tempered.'

* I will trust you to make my peace with her.'

* Yes, of course ; she will not think of it after to-day ; nor must
you. Lady Mason.'

* Oh, no ; except that I would not for the world be the cause of

n 2

100 OBLEY FARM.

onnojanoe to my friends. Sometimes I am almost inclined to think
that I will never trouble any one again with my sorrows, but let
things come and go as they may. Were it not for poor Lucius I
should do so.'

Mr. Fumival, looking into her face, perceived that her eyes were
full of tears. There could be no doubt us to their reality. Her
eyes were full of genuine tears, brimming over and running down ;
and the lawyer's heart was melted. ' I do not know why you
should say so,' he said. ' I do not think your friends begrudge any
little trouble they may take for you. I am sure at least that I may
so say for myself.'

* You are too kind to me ; but I do not on that account the less
know how much it is I ask of you.'

* " The labour we delight in physics pain," ' said Mr. Fumival
gallantly. * But, to tell the truth, Lady Mason, I cannot un-
derstand why you should be so much out of heart. I remember
well how brave and constant you were twenty years ago, when
there really was cause for trembling.'

* Ah, I was younger then.*

' So the almanac tells us ; but if the almanac did not teU us I
should never know it. We are all older, of course. Twenty years
does not go by without leaving its marks, as I can feel myself

' Men do not grow old as women do, who live alone and gather
rust as they feed on their own thoughts.'

' I know no one whom time has touched so lightly as yourself.
Lady Mason ; but if I may speak to you as a friend '

' If you may not, Mr. Fumival, who may?'

* I should tell you that you are weak to be so despondent, or
rather so unhappy.'

* Another lawsuit would kill me, I think. You say that I was
brave and constant before, but you cannot understand what I
suffered. I nerved myself to bear it, telling myself that it was the
first duty that I owed to the babe that was lying on my bosom. And
when standing there in the Court, with that terrible array around
me, with the eyes of all men on me, the eyes of men who thought
that I had been guilty of so terrible a crime, for the sake of that
child who was so weak I could be brave. But it nearly killed me.
Mr. Fumival, I could not go through that again ; no, not even for
his sake. If you can save me from that, even though it be by the
buying off of that uugrateful man '

' You must not think of that'

* Must I not? ah me!'

* Will you tell Lucius all this, and let him come to me ?'

* No ; not for worlds. He would defy every one, and glory in tho
fight ; but after all it is I that must bear the bmut. No ; he shall
not know it j— unless it becomes so public that he must know it.'

GUILTY, OB NOT GUILTY. 101

And tiben, with some further pressmg of the hAnd» and farther
words of encouragement which were partly tender as from the man,
and partly forensic as from the lawyer, Mr. Fumival permitted her
to go, and she found hereon at the chemist's shop in Holbom as she
had appointed. There were no traces of tears or of sorrow in her
&oe as she smiled on Lucius while giving him her hand, tod then
when they were in a cab together she asked him as to his success at
LiTerpooL

* I am very glad that I went,' said he, * very glad indeed. I
saw the merchants there who are the real importers of the article,
and I have made arrangements with them.'

' Will it be cheaper so, Lucius?'

' Cheaper ! not what women generaUy call cheaper. If there be
anything on earth that I hate, it is a bargain. A man who looks
for bargains must be a dupe or a cheat, and is probably both.'

* Both, Lucius. Then he is doubly unfortunate.'

* He is a cheat because he wants things for less than their Yalue ;
and a dupe because, as a matter of course, he does not get what he
wants. I made n6 bargain at Liverpool, — at ledst, no cheap baigain ;
but I have made arrangements for a sufficient supply of a first-rate
unadulterated article at its proper market price, and I do not foar
but the results will be remunerative.' And then, as they went
home in the railway carriage the mother talked to her son about his
fiBirming as though she had forgotten her other trouble, and she ex«
plained to him how he was to dine with Sir Peregrine.

* I shall be delighted to dine with Sir Peregrine/ said Lucius,
« and very well pleased to have an opportunity of talking to bim
about his own way of managing his land ; but, mother, I will not
promise to be guided by so very old-fashioned a professor.'

Mr. Fumival, when he was left alone, sat thinking over the
interview tliat had passed. At first, as was most natural, he be-
thought himself of his wife ; and I regret to say that the love
which he bore to her, and the gratitude which he owed to her, and
the memory of all that they had suffered and enjoyed together, did
not fill his heart with thoughts towards her as tender as they sliould
have done. A black frown came across his brow as he meditated
on her late intrusion, and he made some sort of resolve that that
kind of thing should be prevented for the future. He did not
make up his mind how he would prevent it, — a point which hus-
bands sometimes overlook in their marital resolutions. And then,
instead of counting up her virtues, he counted up his own. Had
lio not given her everything ; a house such as she had not dreamed
of in her younger days? servants, carriages, money, comforts, and
luxuries of all sorts ? He had begrudged her nothing, had let her
liave her full share of all his hard-earned gains ; and yet she could
be ungrateful for all this, and allow her head to be filled with

102 OBLEY FARM.

vrliims and fanciee as though she were a yomig girl, — to his great
annoyance and confusion. He would let her know ihat his cham-
bers, his law ohambers,' should be prirate even from her. He
would not allow himself to become a laughing-stock to his own
clerks and his own brethren through the impertinent folly of a
woman who owed to him everything ;— and so on I I regret to say
that he never once thought of those lonely evenings in Harley
Street, of those long days which the poor woman was doomed to
pass without the only companionship which was valuable to her.
He never thought of that vow which they had both made at the
altar, which she had kept so loyally, and which required of him a
cherishing, comforting, enduring love. It never occurred to him
that in denying her this he as much broke his promise to her as
though he had taken to himself in very truth some strange goddess,
leaving his wedded wife with a cold ceremony of alimony or such-like.
He had been open-handed to her as regards' money, and therefore
she ought not to be troublesome ! He had done his duty by her, and
therefore he would net permit her to be troublesome ! Such, I
r^ret to say, were his- thoughts and resolutions as he sat thinking
and resolving about Mf». Fumival.

And then, by degrees, his mind turned away to that other lady,
and they became much more tender. Lady Mason was certainly
both interesting and comely in her giief. Her colour could still
come and go, her hand was still soft and small, her hair was still
brown and smooth. There were no wrinkles in her brow though
oare had passed over it ; her step could still fall lightly, though it
had borne a heavy weight of sorrow. I fear that he made a wicked
oompanson--^ companson that was wicked although it was made
unconsciously.

But by degrees he ceased to think of the woman and began to
think of the client, as he was in duty bound to do. ^Vhat was the
real truth of all this? Was it possible that she should bo alarmed
in that way because a small country attorney had told his wife
that he had found some old paper, and because the man had then
gone off to Yorkshire? Nothing could be more natural than her
anxiety, supposing her to be aware of some secret which would
condemn her if discovered ; — but nothing more unnatural if there
were no such secret. . And she must know ! In her bosom, if in no
other, must exist the knowledge whether or no that will were just.
If that will were just, was it possible that she should now tremble
so violently, seeing that its justice had been substantially proved in
various courts of law ? But if it were not just — if it were a forgery,
a forgery made by her, or with her oognizance — and that now this
truth was to be made known ! How terrible would that be ! But
terrible is not the word which best describes the idea as it entered
Mr. Pumivars mind. How wonderful would it be ; how wonderful

GUILTY, OB KOT OUILTT. lOS

ffonld it an have heeal By whose hand in andh case had thoee
dgnatOFBaheen traced? Oonld it be poaaible that she,- aaft, heautUDlv
^raoefnl as she was now, all but a girl as she had then been, ooald
hmve done jt, tmaided', — ^by herself? — that she ooaM hare 8at*down
in the still honr of the night, with that old nuui on* one sideband her
baby in his cradle on the other, and foiged that wffl, signatures and
all, in snob a manner as to have carried her point for 'twien'fyjrears,
— 00 ddlfiilly as to hare baffled lawyers and jnrynen and resisted the
«ager greed of her cheated kinsman^? If so, was it oiot all wondesfcQI
Had not she been a woman worthy = of wonder !

And then Mr. Fumival's mind, keen and almost mierring at
aeizing legal points, went eagerly to work^ considering what new
evidence might now be forthcoming. He remembered- at ouoe'the
oiToamstanoes of those two chief witnesses, the^derkwho had been so
mnddle-headed, and the servant-girl who had beeu so clear.- TIray
had certainly- witnessed some deed; and 'they h)id done so on that
special day. If there had been a fitand, if there* hluk been a foigeiy,
it had been so clever as almost to merit' proteodon ! But if there
had been such fraud, the nature of the means by which it might be
detected became plain to the mind of the barrister,^ — plainer to
Um without knowledge of any ciroumstanoes-than it had done to
Mr. Mason after many of such^ cireomBtaaoeS'^ had 'been explained
to him.

But it was impossible. So said Mr. Fumrralt^' himself: out
loud ; — speaking out loud in order that he might convince himself.
It was impossible, he said again ; but he did not convince himself.
Should he ask her ? No ; it was not on the cards that he should do
that. And perhaps, if a further trial were forthcoming, it might be
better for her sake that he should be ignorant. And then, having
declared again that it was impossible, he rang his belL * Crabwitz,'
said lie, without looking at the man, ' just step over to Bedford
Bow, with my compliments, and Icam what is Mr. Bound's present
address ;^-old Mr. l^ound, you know.'

Mr. Crabwifz stood for a moment or two with the door in his
hand, and Mr. Fumival, going back to his own thoughts, was ex-
pecting the man's departure; ' Well,' he said,^ looking up and- seeing
that his myrmidon still stood there.

Mr. Crabwitz was not in a very good humour, and had almost
made up his mind to let his master know that such was the case.
Looking at his cvvn general importance in the legal world, and the
inestimable services which he had rendered to Mr. Fumival, he did
not think that that gentleman was treating him well. He had been
Buramoned back to his dingy chamber almost without an excmse,
and now that he was in London was not permitted to join even
for a day the other wise men of the law who were assembled at the
grc at congress. For the last four days his heart had been yearning

104 ORLEY FARM.

to go. to Birmingham, but had yearned in vain; and now his
master was sending him about town as though he were an errand-
lad.

' Shall I step across to ihe lodge and send the porter's boy to
Hound and Crook's T asked Mr. Crabwitz.

• The porter's boy! no ; go yourself; you are not busy. Why
should I send the porter's boy on my business?* The fact probably
was, that Mr. Fumival forgot his clerk's age and standing. Crab-
witz had been ready to run anywhere when his employer had first
known him, and Mr. Fumival did not perceive the change.

' Very well, sir; certainly I will go if you wish it; — on this
occasion that is. But I hope, sir, you will excuse my saying *

' Saying what ?'

' That I am not exactly a messenger, sir. Of course I'll go now^
as the other clerk is not in.'

• Oh, you're too great a man to walk across to Bedford How, are
you ? Give me my hat, and 111 go.'

' Oh, no, Mr. Furnival, I did not mean that. I'll step over to
Bedford Row, of course : — only I did think *

• lliink what T

• That perhaps I was entitled to a little more respect, Mr. Fur-
nival. It's for your sake as much as my own that I speak, sir ; but
if the gentlemen in the Lane see me sent about like a lad of twenty,
sir, they'll think '

• What will they think ?'

' I hardly know what they'll think, but I know it will bo very
disagreeable, sir ; — very disagreeable to my feelings. I did think,
sir, that peihaps '

' I'll tell you what it is, Crabwitz, if your situation here does not
suit you, you may leave it to-morrow. I shall have no difficulty
in finding another man to take your place.'

' I am sorry to hear you speak in that way, Mr. Fumival, very
sorry — after fifteen years, sir .'

• You find yourself too grand to walk to Bedford Eow !'

' Oh, no. I'll go now, of course, Mr. Fumival.' And then
Mr. Crabwitz did go, meditating as he went many things to himself.
He knew his own value, or thought that he knew it ; and might it
not be possible to find some patron who would appreciate his sei*vices
more justly than did Mr. Fumival ?

UHAFTEB XIV.

DINHEB AT THE CLEETB.

Ladt Mason on her retam £rom London found a note from Mn.
Orme asking both her and her son to dine at The Cleeve on the
following day. Ab it had been already aettled between her and
Sir Peregrine that Lucina shonld dine there in order that he might
be talked to respecting his mania for guano, the invitation coold not
be refused ; but, as for Lady Mason herself she would much have
preferred to remain at home.

Indeed, her uneasiness on that guano matter had been so out-
weighed by worse uneasiness from another source, that she had
become, if not indifferent, at any rate tranquil on the subject. It
might be well that Sir Peregrine should preach his sermon, and well
that Lucius should hear it ; but for herself it would, she thought,
have been more comfortable for her to eat her dinioer alone. She
felt, however, that she could not do so. Any amount of tedium
would be better tlian the danger of offering a slight to Sir Peregrine,
and therefore she wrote a pi*etty little note to say that both of
them would be at The Cleeve at seven.

* Lucius, my dear, I want you to do me a great favour,' she said
as she sat by her son in the Hamworth fly.

' A gieat favour, mother ! of course I will do anything for you
that I can.'

* It is that you will bear with Sir Peregrine to-night.'

* Bear with him ! I do not know exactly what you mean. Of
course I will remember that he is an old man, and not answer him
as I would one of my own age.'

*• I am sure of that, Lucius, because you are a gentleman. As
much forbearanco as that a young man, if he be a gentleman, will
always show to an old man. But what I ask is something more
that that. Sir Poregiine has been fanning all his life.'

' Yes ; and see what are tlie results ! Ho has three or four hun-
dred acres of uncultivated land on his estate, all of which would
grow wheat'

* I know nothing about that,' said Lady Mason.

* Ah, but tliat's the question. My trade is to be that of a farmer.

106 onLEir farm.

and yoTi are sending me to schooL Then comes the question, Of
what sort is the schoolmaster ?'

* I am not talking about farming now, Lucius.'
' But he will talk of it.'

* And cannot you listen to him without contradicting him — for
my sake ? It is of the greatest consequence to me, — of the very
greatest, Lucius, that I shoidd have the benefit of Sir Peregrine's
friendship.'

* If he would quarrel with you because I chanced to disagree
with him about the management of land, his friendship would not
be worth having.'

* I do not say that he will do so ; but I am sure you can under-
stand that an old man may be tender on such points. At any rate
I ask it from you as a favour. Yon cannot guess how important it
is to me to be on good terms with such a neighbour.'

* It is always so in England,' said Lucius, after pausing for a
while. * Sir Peregrin© is a man of fitmily, and a baronet ; of course
all the world,' the world of Ham worth that is, should bow down at
his feet. And I too must worship the golden image which Nebu-
chadnezzar, the King of Fashion,' has set up !'

* Lucius, you are unkind to me.'

^ No, mother, not unkind ; but like all men, I would fain act in
such matters as my own judgment may direct me.'

* My friendship with Sir Peregrine Orme has nothing to do with
his rank ; but it is of importance to me that both you and I should
stand well in his sight.' There was nothing more said on tho
matter ; and then they got down at the front door, and were
ushered through the low wide hall into the drawing-room.

The three generations of the family were there, — Sir Peregrine,
his daughter-in-law, and the heir. Lucius Mason had been at The
Cleeve two or three times since his return from Germany, and on
going there had always declared to himself that it was the same to
him as though he were going into the house of Mrs. Arkwright, the
doctor's widow at Hamworth, — or even into the kitchen of Farmer
Greenwood. He rejoiced to call himself a democrat, and would
boast that rank could have no effect on him. But his boast was
an untrue boast, and he could not carry himself at The Cleeve as ho
would have done and did in Mrs. Arkwright's little drawing-room.
There was a majesty in the manner of Sir Peregrine which did awe
him ; there were tokens of birth and a certain grace of manner about
Mrs. Orme which kept down his assumption ; and even with young
Peregrine he found that though he might be equal he could by no
means be more than equal. He had learned more than Peregrine
Orme, had ten times more knowledge in his head, had read books
of which Peregrine did not even know the names and probably
never would know them ; but on his side also young Orme possessed

DINNER AT THE OLEBVE. 107

sometbing whSob thb ofCheriraated; What that soxiieihing migbt to
Lnohifl Mason did not at -all undantand.

Mnb' Orme' got tip fron ber comer on ULe 80& io greet htor friand;
aad with a aoft smile and two or three all bat wluBperediwoMUi*
led ber fonvard to the fire. Mrs. Qrme'iras not a woman given to
mncb speeob or endowed with ontwavd wanath of manners; bdi'ahe
ooald make ber few words go yery fear; and then the pressure of
ber band, when it' was gnreny told more theaii a whole embraoe flram
some other women. There aie ladies who alwajs'ldssiiieir ftmale -
friends, and aiwaya call them * dear/ In «iieh oases one oaanot bat
pity ber'wbo is so bekissedj Mrs. Orme did not kiss Lady Mason,
nor did she oi^l ber dear-; Imt she' smiled' sweetly aa ste uttered
ber greeting, aad looUsd kindness onttDfber maryelloaslybltteeyes;
and lAmins Masoflr, leokingon over bis 'mother^' Bfa»aid^t% thooght
that be wotdd lite ^to have ber fbr bis Mend-inr spite' of ber raak.
If Mrs.- Orme would give bim sleottve onfitfrniiig it mig^t be
possible to listen, to it- without* contradietlon ; but there w«s no*
chance for bim in that respect. Mrs. Ormo' never gave leetmres to
any one on any svbject:

* 86, Masterlmoiusi you bave beev t« liverpool, I. bear/ 'said Sir
Pen^rine.

* Yes, sir^— Z returned yestsiday/ '

* And what is'the worM(d6ingiit Livetpoolf

* The world iswide awake tbsre, sir.*

* Oh, no doubt; when the world has to make money it isalwmya
wide awake. But men sometimes may be wide awake and yet
make no money ; — may be wide awake, or at any rate think Ibat
they are so.'

' Better that. Sir Peregrine, than wilfully go to sleep when there
is so much work to be done.'

' A man when he's asleep does no harm,' said Sir Peregrine.

' What a comfortable doctrine to think of when the servant comes
with the hot water at eight o'clock in the morning!' said bis
grandson.

* It is one that you study very constantly, I fear,' said the old
man, who at this time was on excellent terms with his heir. There
bad been no apparent hankering after rats since that last compact
had been made, and Peregrine had been doing great things witb
the n. H. ; winning golden opinions from all sortS' of sportsmen,
and earning a great reputation for a certain young mare which had
been bred by Sir Peregrine himself. Foxes are vermin as -well
as rats, as Perry in his wickedness had remarked ; Imt a young man
who can break an old one's heart by a predilection for rat<^»ktcbing
may win it as absolutely and irretrievably by prowess after a fox.
Sir Peregrine had told to four different neighbours bow a fox had
been nm into, in the open, near Alston, after twelve desperate miles.

108 O&LEY FAIi^L.

and how on that occasion Peregrine had been in at the death
with the huntsman and only one other. * And the mare, you know,
is only four years old and hardly half trained,' said Sir Peregrine,
with great exidtation. ' The young scamp, to have ridden her in
that way!* It may be doubted whether he would have been a
prouder man or said more about it if his grandson had taken
honours.

And then the gong sounded, and Sir Peregrine led Lady Mason
into the dining-room. Lucius, who as we know thought no more
of the Ormes than of the Joneses and Smiths, paused in his awe
before he gave his arm to Mrs. Orme ; and when he did so he led
her away in perfect silence, though he would have given anything to
be able to talk to her as he went. But he bethought himself that
unfortunately he could find nothing to say. And when he sat down
it was not much better. He had not dined at The Cleeve before,
and I am not sure whether the butler in plain clothes and the two
men in livery did not help to create his confusion, — in spite of his
well-digested democratic ideas.

The conversation during dinner was not very bright. Sir Pere-
grine said a few words now and again to Lady Mason, and she
rejiliod with a few others. On subjects which did not absolutely
appertain to the dinner, she perhaps was the greatest talker ; but
oven she did not say much. Mrs. Orme as a rule never spoke
unless she were spoken to in any compsmy consisting of more than
herself and one other ; and young Peregrine seemed to imagine that
carving at the top of the table, asking people if they would take
stewed beef, and eating his own dinner, were occupations quite suffi-
cient for his energies. ' Have a bit more beef. Mason ; do. If you
will, I will.' So far he went in conversation, but no farther while
his work was still be 'ore him.

When the servants were gone it was a little better, but not
much. ' Mason, do you mean to hunt this season ?' Peregrine
asked.

' No,' said the other.

* Well, I would if I were you. You will never know the fellows
about here unless you do.'

' In the first place I can't afford the time/ said Lucius, ' and in
the next place I can't afford the money.' This was plucky on his
part, and it was felt to be so by everj-body in the room ; but perhaps
had he spoken all the truth, he would have said also that he was not
accustomed to horsemanship.

' To a fellow who has a place of his own as you have, it costs
nothing,' said Peregrine.

* Oh, does it not?' said the baronet ; ' I used to think differently.'

* Well ; not so much, I mean, as if you had everj'tbing to buy.
Besides, I look upon Mason as a sort of a Croesus. What on earth

DINNER AT THE CLEEVE. 109

has ho got to do with his money ? And then as to time ; — ^npon my
word I don't understand what a man means when he says he has
not got time for hunting.*

' Lucius intends to be a farmer,* said his mother.

* So do 1/ said Peregrine. * By Jove, I should think so. If I
had two hundred acres of land in my own hand I should not want
anything else in the world, and would never ask any one for a
shilling.*

* If that be so, I might make the best bargain at once that ever
a man made,' said the baronet. * If I might take you at your word.
Master Perry .*

' Pray don't talk of it, sir,* said Mrs. Orme.

* You may be quite sure of this, my dear — that I shall not do more
than talk of it.' Then Sir Peregrine asked Lady Mason if she
would take any more wine ; after which the ladies withdrew, and
the lecture commenced.

But we will in the first place accompany the ladies into the
drawing-room for a few minutes. It was hinted in one of the first
chapters of this story that Lady Mason might have become more
intimate than she had done with Mrs. Orme, had she so pleased it ;
and by this it will of course be presumed that she had not so pleased.
All this is perfectly true. Mrs. Orme had now been living at The
Cleeve the greater portion of her life, and had never while there
made one really well-loved friend. She had a sister of her own,
and dear old friends of her childhood, who lived far away from her
in the northern counties. Occasionally she did see them, and was
then very happy ; but this was not frequent with her. Her sister,
who was married to a peer, might stay at The Cleeve for a fortnight,
perhaps once in the year ; but Mrs. Orme herself seldom left her
o\m home. She thought, and certainly not without cause, that Sir
l^eregriue was not happy in her absence, and therefore she never
left him. Then, living there so much alone, was it not natural that
her heart should desire a friend?

But Lady Mason had been living much more alone. She had no
sister to come to her, even though it were but once a year. She
had no intimate female friend, none to whom she could really speak
with the full freedom of friendship, and it would have been de-
lightful to have bound to her by ties of love so sweet a creature as
Mrs. Orme, a widow like herself, — and like herself a widow Avith
one only son. But she, warily picking her steps through life, had
learned the necessity of being cautious in all things. The Coun-
tenance of Sir Peregrine had been invaluable to her, and might it
not he possible that she should lose that countenance ? A word or
two spoken now and then again, a look not intended to be noticed,
an altered tone, or perhaps a change in the pressure of the old
man's hand, had taught Lady Mason to think that he might dis-

110 ORLST FARM.

approve such intimacy. Pzobably at the moment she was right,
for 8he was quick at reading such small signs. It behoved her to
be very careful, and to indulge in no pleasure which might be
costly ; and therefore she had denied herself in this natter, — as in
so many others.

But now it had occurred to her that it might be well to change her
conduct. Either she felt that Sir Peregrine's friendship for her was
too confirmed to be shaken, or perhaps she fiuicied that she might
strengthen it by means of his daughter-in-law. At any rate dbe
resolved to accept the offer which had once been tacitly made to
her, if it were still open to her to do so.

* How little changed your boy is !' she said when they were seated
near to each other, with their coffee-cups between them.

' No ; he does not change quickly ; and, as you say, he is a boy
still in many things. I do not know whether it may not be better
that it should be so.*

' I did not mean to call him a boy in that sense,' said Lady
Mason.

' But you might ; now your son is quite a man.'

' Poor Lucius I yes ; in his position it is necessary. His little bit
of property is already his own ; and then he has no one like Sir
Peregrine to look out for him. Necessity makes him manly.'

' He will be marrying soon, I dare say,' suggested Mrs. Oime.

* Oh, I hope not. Do you. think that early marriages are good for
young men ?'

* Yes, I think so. Why not ?' said Mrs. Orme, thinking of her own
year of married happiness. ' Would you not wish to see Lucius
marry?'

' I fancy not. I should be eifraid lest I should become as nothing
to him. And yet I would not have you think that I am selfish.'

' I am sure that you are not that. I am sure that you love him
better than all the world besides. I can feel what that is myself.'

* But you are not alono with your boy as I am. If he were to
send me from him, there would be nothing left for me in this
world.*

* Send you from him ! Ah, because Orley Farm belongs to him.
But he would not do that ; I am sure he would not.'

' He would do nothing unkind ; but how could ho help it if his
wife wished it ? But nevertheless I would not keep him single for
that reason ; — no, nor for any reason if I knew that he -vNdshed to
marry. But it would be a blow to me.'

' I sincerely trust that Peregrine may marry early,' said Mrs.
Orme, perhaps thinking that babies were preferable either to rats
or foxes.

' Yes, it would be well I am sure, because you have ample means,
and tljo house is large*; and you would have his wife to love.'

Over theit Win

DINNER AT THE OLEEVE. Ill

* If she were nice it would be so sweet to have her for a daugh-
ter. I also am very much alone, though perhaps not bo much as
you are, Lady Mason.'

' I hope not — for I am sometimes very lonely.'
*■ I have often thought that.'

* Bnt I should be wicked beyond everything if I were to com-
plain, seeing that Providence has given me so much that I had no
right to expect. What should I have done in my loneliness if Sir
Peregrine's hand and door had never been opened to me 7* And
then for the next half-hour the two ladies held sweet converse
together, during which we will go back to the gentlemen over
their wine.

' Are you drinking claret ?' said Sir Peregrine, arranging himself
and his bottles in the way that was usual to him. He had ever
been a moderate man himself, but nevertheless he had a business-
like way of going to work after dinner, as though there was a good
deal to be done before the drawing-room could be visited.

' No more wine for me, sir,' said Lucius.

' No wine !' said Sir Peregrine the elder.

* Why, Mason, youll never get on if that's the way with you,'
said Peregrine the younger.

' I'll try at any rate,' said the other.

* Waternirinker, moody thinker,* and Peregrine sang a word or
two from an old drinking-song.

* I am not quite sure of that. Wo Englishmen I suppose are tho
moodiest thinkers in all the world, and yet we are not so much
given to water-drinking as our lively neighbours across tho
Channel.'

Sir Peregrine said nothing more on the subject, but he i)robably
thought that his young friend Avould not be a very comfortable
neighbour. His present task, however, was by no means that of
teaching him to drink, and ho struck ofif at once upon the business
he had undertaken. * So your mother tells me that you are going
to devote all your energies to farming.'

' Hardly that, I hope. There is the land, and I mean to see what
I can do with it. It is not much, and I intend to combine some
other occupation with it.'

* You will find that two hundred acres of land will give you a
good deal to do ; — that is if you mean to make money by it.'

* I certainly hope to do that, — in the long run.'

* It seems to me tho easiest thing in the world,' said Peregrine.

* You'll find out your mistake some day ; but with Lucius Mason
it is very important that ho should make no mistake at the com-
mencement. For a country gentleman I know no prettier amuse-
ment than experimental farming ; — but then a man must give up
all idea of making his rent out of the laud.'

112 OBLEY FARM.

' 1 can't aiford that,' said Lucius.

* No ; and tliut is why 1 take the liberty of speaking to yon. I
hope that the great fiiendship which 1 feel for your mother will be
allowed to stand as my excuse.'

' 1 am very much obliged by your kindness, sir ; 1 am indeed.'

* The truth is, I think you are beginning wrong. You have now
been to Liverpool, to buy guano, I believe.'

' Yes, that and some few other things. There is a man there who
has taken out a patent '

* My dear fellow, if you lay out your money in that way, you will
never see it back again. Have you considered in the first place
what your journey to Liverpool has cost you ?'

* Exactly nine and sixpence per cent, on the money that 1 laid
out there. Now that is not much more than a penny in the pound
on the sum expended, and is not for a moment to be taken into
consideration in comparison with the advantage of an improved
market.'

There was more in this than Sir Peregrine had expected to en-
counter. Ho did not for a moment doubt the truth of his own
experience or the folly and danger of the young man's proceedings ;
but he did doubt his own power of proving either the one or tlio
other to one who so accurately computed his expenses by per-
centages on his outlay. Peregrine opened his eyes and sat by,
wondering in silence. What on earth did Mason mean by an im-
proved market ?

* I am afraid then,' said the baronet, * that you must have laid
out a large sum of mone3^'

* A man can't do any good. Sir Peregiinc, by hoarding his capital.
I don't think very much of capital myself — '

* Don't you ?'

* Not of the theory of capital ; — not so much as some people do ;
but if a man has got it, of course it should be expended on the trade
to which it is to be applied.'

* But some little knowledge — some experience is perhaps desirable
before any great outlay is made.'

* Yes ; some little knowledge is necessary, — and some great
knowledge would be desirable if it were accessible ; — but it is not,
as I take it.'

* liong years, perhaps, devoted to such pursuits '

* Yes, Sir Peregrine ; I know what you are going to say. Expe-
rience no doubt will teach something. A man who has walked
thirty miles a day for thirty years will probably know what sort of
shoes will best suit his feet, and perhaps also the kind of food that
will best support him through such exertion ; but there is very littlo
chance of his inventing any quicker mode of travelling.'

* But he will have earned his wages honestly,' said Sir Peregrine,

A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA. 113

almost angrily. In his heart he was ver}- angry, for he did not love
to be inten-upted.

' Oh, yes ; and if that were sufficient we might all walk our
thirty miles a day. But some of us must earn wages for other
people, or the world will make no progress. Civilization, as I take
it, consists in efforts made not for oneself but for others.'

• If you won't take any more wine we will join the ladies,' said
the baronet.

' He has not taken any at all,' said Peregrine, filling his own
glass for the last time and emptying it.

* That young man is the most conceited puppy it was ever my
misfortune to meet,' said Sir Peregrine to Mrs. Orme, when she
came to kiss him and to take his blessing as she always did before
leaving him for the night.

' I am sorry for that,' said she, * for I like his mother so much.'

• I also like her,* said Sir Peregrine ; * but I cannot say that I shall
ever be very fond of her son.*

' I'll tell you what, mamma,' said young Peregrine, the same
evening in his mother's dressing-room. ' Lucius Mason was too
many for the governor this evening.'

' I hope he did not tease your grandfather.'

* He talked him down regularly, and it was plain enough that
the governor did not like it'

And then the day was over.

CHAPTER XV.

A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VJLLA.

On the following day Lady Mason made two visits, using her new
vehicle for the first time. She would fain have walked had she
dared ; but she would have given terrible offence to her son by doing
so. He had explained to her, and with some ti*uth, that as their
joint income was now a thousand a year, she was quite entitled to
such a luxury ; and then he went on to say that as ho had bought
it for her, he should be much hurt if she would not use it. She had
put it off from day to day, and now she could put it off no longer.

Her first visit was by appointment at The Cleeve. She had pro-
mised Mrs. Orme that she would come up, some special purpose
having been named ; — but with the real idea, at any rate on the part
of the latter, that they might both be more comfortable together
than alone. The walk across from Orley Farm to The Cleeve had
always been very dear to Lady Mason. Every step of it was over
beautiful ground, and a delight in scenery was one of the few plea-

vou L I

114. OELEY FAKir.

sores which her lot in life had permitted her to enjoy. Bat to-day
she could not allow herself the walk. Her pleasui-e and delight
must be postponed to her son*s wishes ! But then she was used to
that.

She found Mrs. Orme alone, and sat with her for an hour. I do
not know that anything was said between them which deserves to
be specially chronicled. Mrs. Orme, though she told her many
things, did not tell her what Sir Peregrine had said as he was going
up to his bedroom on the preceding evening, nor did Lady Mason
say much about her son's farming. She had managed to gather
from Lucius that he had not been deeply impressed by anything
that had fallen from Sir Peregrine on the subject, and therefore
thought it as well to hold her tongue. She soon perceived also,
from the fact of Mrs. Orme saying nothing about Lucius, that he
had not left behind him any very favourable impression. This was
to her cause of additional sorrow, but she knew that it must be
borne. Nothing that she could say would induce Lucius to make
himself acceptable to Sir Peregrine.

When the hour was over she went down again to her little car-
riage, Mrs. Orme coming with her to look at it, and in the hall they
met Sir Peregiine. •

* Why does not Lady Mason stop for lunch ?' said he. * It is past
half-past one. I never knew anything so inhospitable as turning
her out at this moment.'

' I did ask her to stay,' said Mrs. Orme.

* But I command her to stay,' said Sir Peregrine, knocking his
stick upon the stone floor of the hall. * And let me eee who will
dare to disobey me. John, let Lady Mason's carriage and pony
stand in the open coach-house till she is ready.' So Lady Mason
went back and did remain for lunch. She was painfully anxious to
maintain the best-possible footing in that house, but still more
anxious not to have it thought that she was intruding. She had
feared that Lucius byhisi)£fence might have estranged Sir Peregrine
against herself ; but that at any rate was not the case.

After lunch she drove herself to Uamworth and made her second
visit. On this occasion she called on one Mrs. Arkwright, who was
a very old acquaintance, though hardly to be called an intimate
friend. The late Mr. Arkwright — Dr. Arkwright as he used to be
styled in Ham worth — had been Sir Joseph's medical attendant for
many years, and therefore there had been room for an intimacy.
No real friendship, that is no friendship of confidence, had sprung
up ; but nevertheless the doctor's wife had known enough of Lady
Mason in her younger days to justify her in speaking of things
which would not have been mentioned between merely ordinary
acquaintance. * I am glad to see you have got promotion,' said the
old lady, looking out at Lady Mason's little phaeton on the gravel

A MOKNINQ CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA* 115

sweep which divided Mrs. Arkwright*s house from the street. For
Mrs. Arkwright's house was Mount Pleasant Villa, and therefore waa
entitled to a sweep.

* It was a present from Lucius/ said the other, ' and as such must be
used. But I shall never feel mj'^self at home in my own carriage.'

* It is quite proper, my dear Lady Mason, quite proper. With his
income and with yours I do not wonder that he insists upon it. It
is quite proper, and just at the present moment peculiarly so.'

Lady Mason did not understand this ; but she would probably
have passed it by without understaudiug it, had she not thought
that there was some expression more than ordinary in Mrs. Ark-
wrights fiace. ' Why peculiarly so at the present moment?' she
aaid.

* Because it shows that this foolish report which is going about
has no foundation. People won't believe it for a moment when they
see you out and about, and happy-like.'

* What rumour, Mrs. Arkwright ?' And Lady Mason's heart sunk
within her as she asked the question, ^he felt at once to what it
must allude, though she had conceived no idea as yet that there was
any rumour on the subject. Indeed, during the last forty-eight houns^
since she had left the chambers of Mr. Fumival, she had been
more at ease within herself than during the previous days which
had elapsed subsequent to the ill-omened visit made to her by
Miriam Dockwrath. It had seemed to her that Mr. Fumival anti-
cipated no danger, and his manner and words had almost given her
confidence. But now, — now that a public rumour was spoken of,
her heart was as low again as ever.

* Sure, haven't you heard ?' said Mrs. Arkwright. * Well, I
wouldn't be the first to tell you, only that I know that there is no
truth in it.'

* You might as well tell me now, as I shall be apt to believe
worse than the truth after what you have said.'

And then Mrs. Arkwright told her. * People have been saying
that Mr. Mason is again going to begin those law proceedings about
the farm ; but I for one don't believe it.'

•People have said so!' Lady Mason repeated. She meant
nothing ; it was nothing to her who the people were. If one said
it now, all would soon be saying it. But she uttered the words
because she felt herself forced to say something, and the power of
thinking what she might best say Avas almost taken away from
her.

* I am sure I don't know where it came from,' said Mrs. Ark-
wright ; ' but I would not have alluded to it if I had not thought
that of course you had heard it. I am very sorry if my saying it
has vexed you.'

* Oh, no,' said Lady Mason, tr}'ing to smile.

' As I said before, we all know that there is nothing in it ; and
your having the pony chaise just at this time will make everybody
see tliat you are quite comfortable yourself.'

' Thank you, yes ; good-bye, Mrs. Arkwright.' And then she
made a great effort, feeling aware that she was betraying herself,
and that it behoved her to say something which might remove the
suspicion which her emotion must have created. *■ The very name
of that lawsuit is so dreadful to me that I can hardly bear it. The
memory of it is so terrible to me, that even my enemies would
hardly wish that it should commence again.'

* Of course it is merely a report,' said Mrs. Arkwright, almost
trembling at what she had done.

' That is all— at least I believe so. I had heard myself that some
such threat had been made, but I did not think that any tidings
of it had got abroad.'

* It was Mrs. Whiting told me. She is a great busybody, you
know.' Mrs. Whiting was the wife of the present doctor.

• Dear Mrs. Arkwright, it does not matter in the least. Of course
T do not expect that people should hold their tongue on my account.
Good-bye. Mrs. Arkwright.' And then she got into the little car-
riage, and did contrive to drive herself home to Orley Farm.

• Dear, dear, dear, dear!' said Mrs. Arkwright to herself when
she was left alone. ' Only to think of that; that she should be
knocked in a heap by a few words— in a moment, as we may say.'
And then she began to consider of the matter. * I wonder what
there is in it ! There must be something, or she would never have
looked so like a ghost. What will they do if Orley Faiin is taken
away from them after all !' And then Mrs. Arkwright hurried out
on her daily little toddle through the town, that she might talk
about this and be talked to on the same subject. She was by no
means an ill natured woman, nor was she at all inclined to direct
against Lady Mason any slight amount of venom which might alloy
her disposition. But then the matter was of such importance !
The people of Ham worth had hardly yet ceased to talk of the
last Orley Farm trial ; and would it not be necessary that they
should talk much more if a new trial were really pending ? Look-
ing at the matter in that light, would not such a trial be a godsend to
the people of Hamworth ? Therefore I beg that it may not be im-
puted to Mrs. Arkwright as a fault that she toddled out and sought
eagerly for her gossips.

Lady Mason did manage to drive herself home ; but her success
in the matter was more owing to the good faith and propriety of her
pony, than to any bkilful workmanship on her own part. Her first
desire had been to get away from Mrs. Arkwright, and having
made that effort she was for a time hardly able to make any other,
it was fast coming upon her now. Let Sir Peregrine say what

A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA. 117

comforting words he might, let Mr. Fumival assure her that she
vras safe with ever so much coufideuce, nevertheless she could not
but believe, could not but feel inwardly convinced, that that which
she so dreaded was to happen. It was written in the book of her
destiny that there should be a new trial.

And now, from this very moment, the misery would again begin.
People would point at her, and talk of her. Her success in obtain-
ing Orley Farm for her own child would again be canvassed at
every house in Hamworth; and not only her success, but the
means al«o by which that success had been obtained. The old
people would remember and the young people would inquire ; and,
for her, tranquillity, repose, and that retirement of life which had
been so valuable to her, were all gone.

There could be no doubt that Dockwrath had spread the report
immediately on his return from Yorkshire; and had she well
thought of the matter she might have taken some comfort from this.
Of course he would tell the story which he did tell. His confidence
in being able again to drag the case before the Courts would by no
means argue that others believed as he believed. Jn fact the
enemies now arraigned against her were only those whom she
already knew to be so arraigned. But she had not sufficient command
of her thoughts to be able at first to take comfort from such a refec-
tion as this. She felt, as she was being earned home, that the
world was going from her, and that it would be well for her, were
it possible, that she should die.

But she was stronger when she reached her own door than she
had been at Mrs. Arkwright's. There was still within her a great
power of ^elf-maintenance, if only time were allowed to her to look
about and consider how best slic might support herself. Many
women are in this respect as she was. With forethought and
summoned patience they can endure great agonies ; but a sudden
pang, unexpected, overwhelms them. She got out of the pony
can iago with her ordinary placid face, and walked up to her own
room without having given any sign that she was uneasy ; and
then she bad to determine how she should bear herself before her
son. It had been with her a great object that both Sir Peregiine
and Mr. Furnival should first hear of the tidings from her, and
that tliey should both promise her their aid when they had heard
the story as she would tell it. In this she had been successful;
and it now seemed to her that prudence would require her to act
in tlie same way towards Lucius. Had it been possible to keep
this matter from him altogether, she would have given n)uch to do
so ; but now it would not be possible. It was clear that Mr. Dock-
wrath had chosen to make the matter public, acting no doubt with
forethought in doing so ; and Lucius would be sure to hear woi ds
which would become common in Hamworth. Difficult as tlie task

118 OBLEY FABH.

would bo to her, it would be best that she should prepare Uim. So
she sat alone till dinner-time planning how she would do this.
She had sat alone for hours in the same way planning how she
would tell her story to Sir Peregrine ; and again as to her second
story for Mr. Fumival. Those whose withers are unwrung cau
hardly guess how absolutely a sore imder the collar will embitter
every hour for the poor jade who is so tormented !

But she met him at dinner with a smiling £Bice. He loved to see
her smile, and often told her so, almost upbraiding her when she
would look sad. Why should she be sad, seeing that she had every-
thing that a woman could desire ? Her mind was burdened with no
heavy thoughts as to feeding coming multitudes. She had no con-
tests to wage with the desultory chemists of the age. His purpose
was to work hard during the hours of the day, — hard also during
many hours of the night; and it was becoming that his mother
should greet him softly during his few intervals of idleness. He
told her so, in some words not badly chosen for such telling ; and
she, loving mother that she was, strove valiantly to obey him.

During dinner she could not speak to him, nor immediately after
dinner. The evil moment she put off from half-hour to half-hour,
siill looking as though all were quiet within her bosom as she sat
beside him with her book in her hand. Ho was again at work
before she began her story : he thought at least that he was at
work, for he had before him on the table both Prichard and Latham,
and was occupied in making copies from some drawings of skulls
which purposed to represent the cerebral development of certain of
our more distant Asiatic brethren.

' Is it not singular,' said he, * that the jaws of men bom and
bred in a hunter state should be differently formed from, those of the
agricultural tribes ?'

* Are they ?' said Lady Mason.

* Oh yes ; the maxillary profile is quite different. You will see
this especially with the Mongolians, among the Tartar tribes. It
teems to me to be very much the same difference as that between a
man and a sheep, but Prichard makes no such remark. Look here
at this fellow ; he must have been intended to eat nothing but flesh ;
and that raw, and without any knife or fork.'

' I don't suppose they had many knives or forks.'
' By close observation 1 do not doubt that one could tell from a
single tooth not only what food the owner of it had been accustomed
to eat, but what language he had spoken. I say close observation,
you know. It could not be done in a day.'

' I suppose not.' And then the student again bent over his
drawing. * You see it would have been impossible for the owner of
such a jaw as that to have ground a grain of com between his teeth,
or to have masticated even a cabbage.'

A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA. 119

* Lucius/ said Lady Mason, becoming courageous on the spur of
the moment, ' I want you to leave that for a moment and speak
to me.'

' Well/ said he, putting down his pencil and turning round.
* Here I am.'

* You have heard of the lawsuit which I had with your brother
when you were an infant ?'

* Of 'jourse I have heard of it ; but I wish you would not call that
man my brother. He would not own me as such, and I most cer-
tainly would not own him. As far as I can learn he is one of the
most detestable human beings that ever existed.'

* You have heard of him from an unfavourable side, Lucius ; you
should remember that. He is a hard man, I believe ; but I do not
know that he would do anything which he thought to be unjust.'

* Why then did he try to rob me of my property ?

*• Because he thought that it should have been his own. I cannot
see into his breast, but I presume that it %v^as so.'

' I do not presume anything of the kind, and never shall. I was-
an infant and you were a woman, — a woman at that time without
many friends, and he thought that he could rob us under cover of
the law. Had he been commonly honest it would have been enough
for him to know what had been my father's wishes, even if the will
had not been rigidly formal. I look upon him as a robber and a
thief.'

* I am sorry for that, Lucius, because I differ from you. What
I wish to tell you now is this, — that he is thinking of trying the
question again.'

* What! — thinking of another trial now?* and Lucius Mason
pushed his dmwings and books from him with a vengeance.

* So 1 am told.'

* And who told you ? I cannot believe it. If he intended any-
thing of the kind I must have been the first person to hear of it.
It would bo my business now, and you may be sure that he would
have taken care to let me know his purpose.*

* And then by degrees she explained to him that the man himself,
jMr. Mason of Groby, had as yet declared no such purpose. She had
intended to omit all mention of the name of IMr. Dockwrath, but
fihe was unable to do so without Kceminjij to make a nivsterv w^ith
her son. When she came to exi)lain how the nimour had arisen and
why she had thought it necessary to tell him this, she was obliged
to say that it had all arisen from the wrath of the attorney. ' He
has been to Groby Park,' she said, ' and now that he has returned
he is s])reading this report.'

* I shall go to him to-morrow, said Lucius, very sternly.

* Ko, no ; you must not do that. You must promise me that yoii
will not do that.'

120 ORLET FABtf.

' But I rbalL Ton cannot suppose that' I shall allow such a man
as that to tamper with mj name without noticing it! It is my
business now.'

* No, Lucins. The attack will be against me rather than yon ; —
that is, if an attack be made. I have told yon because I do not like
to have a secret from you.'

^ Of course you have told me. If yon are attacked who should
defend yon, if I do not T

* The best defence, indeed the only defence till they take some
active step, will be silence. 3Io6t probably they will not do any-
thing, and then we can afford to live down such reports as these.
Yon can understand, Lucius, that the matter is grievous enough to
me ; and I am sure that for my sake you will not make it worse by
a personal quarrel with such a man as that.'

* I sliall go to Mr. Fumival,' said he, * and ask his advice.'

' I have done that already, Lucius. I thought it best to do so,
when first I heard that Mr. Dockwrath was moving in the matter.
It was for that that I went up to town.'

* And why did you not tell me ?'

* I then thought that yon might be spared the pain of knowing
anything of the matter. I tell you now because I hear to-day in
Ilam worth that people are talking on the subject. You might
Ix) annoyed, as I was just now, if the first tidings had reached you
from some stranger.'

lie sat silent for a while, turning his pencil in his hand, and
looking as though ho were going to settle the matter off hand by
liis own thoughts. * I* tell you what it is, mother ; I shall not let
Iho burden of this fall on your shoulders. You carried on the battle
before, but I must do so now. If 1 can trace any word of scandal
to that fellr)w Dockwrath, I shall indict him for a libel.*

* Oh, Lucius!'

' 1 shall, and no mistake !*

What would ho have said had he kno vn that his mother had
absolutely proposed to Mr. Fumival to buy off Mr. Dock wrath's
animueii ty, almost at any price ?

CHAPTER XVL

MR. tOCKWRATH IN BEDFORD ROW.

Mr. Dockwrath, as he left Leeds and proceeded to join the bosom
of his family, was not discontented with what he had done. It
might not improbably have been the case that Mr. Mason would
altogether refuse to see him, and having seen him, Mr. Mason
might altogether have declined his assistance. He might have
been forced as a witness to disclose his secret, of which he could
make so much better a profit as a legal adviser. As it was, Mr.
Mason had promised to pay him for his services, and would no doubt
be induced to go so far as to give him a legal claim for paj^ment.
Mr. Mason had promised to come up to town, and had instructed
the Hamworth attorney to meet him there; and under such cir-
cumstances the Hamworth attorney had but little doubt that time
would produce a considerable bill of costs in his favour.

And thcu ho thought that he saw his way to a gi'eat success. I
should bo painting the Devil too black were I to say that revenge
was his chief incentive in that which he was doing. All our
motives are mixed ; and his wicked desire to do evil to Lady Mason
in return for the evil which she had done to him was mingled with
professional energy, and an ambition to win a cause that ought to
be won — especially a cause which others had failed to win. He
said to himself, on finding those names and dates among old
Mr. Usbech's papers, that there was still an opportunity of doing
something considerable in this Orley Farm Case, and he had made
up his mind to do it. Professional energy, revenge, and money
considerations would work hand in hand in this matter ; and there-
fore, as ho left Leeds in the second-class railway carriage for
London, he thought over the result of his visit with considerable
satisfaction.

He had left Leeds at ten, and Mr. Moulder had come down in
the same onmibiis to the station, and was travelling in the j-amo
train in a first-class carriage. Mr. Moulder was a man who despised
the second-class, and was not slow to say so before other com-
mercials who travelled at a cheaper rate than he did. ' Hubbies
and Grease/ he said, * allowed him respectably, in order that ho
might go about their business lespectablo; and ho wasn't going to

122 OSLEY FABM.

give the firm a bad name by being seen in a second-class carriage,
although the difference would go into his own pocket. That
wasn't the way he had begun, and that wasn't the way he was
going to end.' He said nothing to Mr. Dockwrath in the morning,
merely bowing in answer to that gentleman's salutation. * Ilope
you were comfortable last night in the back drawing-room,' said
Mr. Dockwrath ; but Mr. Moulder in reply only looked at him.

At the Mansfield station, Mr. Eantwise, with his huge wooden
boxes, appeared on the platform, and he got into 'the same carriage
with Mr. Dockwrath. He had come on by a night train, and had
been doing a stroke of business that morning. ' Well, Eantwise/
Moulder holloaed out from his warm, well-padded seat, ' doing it
cheap and nasty, eh ?'

' Not at all nasty, Mr. Moulder,' said the other. * And I find
myself among as respectable a class of society in the second-claas
as you do in the first; quite so; — and peibaps a little better,'
Mr. Eantwise added, as he took his seat immediately opposite to
Mr. Dockwrath. ' I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you pretty
bobbish this morning, sir.' And he shook hands cordially with the
attorney.

* Tidy, thank you,' said Dockwrath. * My company last night
did not do me any harm ; you may swear to that.'

' Ha! ha I ha I I was so delighted that you got the better of
Moulder ; a domineering party, isn't he ? quite terrible ! For
myself, I can't put up with him sometimes.'

* I didn't have to put up with him last night.'

* No, no ; it was very good, wasn't it now ? very capital, indeed.
All the same I wish you'd heard Busby give us '^ Beautiful Venice,
City of Song !" A charming voice has Busby ; quite charming.'
And there was a pause for a minute or so, after which Mr. Eantwise
resumed the conversation. *• You'll allow me to put you up one
of those drawing-room sets ? he said.

* Well, I am afraid not. I don't think they are strong enough
where there are children.'

* Dear, dear ; dear, dear ; to hear you say so, Mr. Dockwrath !
^Vlly, they are made for strength. They are the very things for
children, because they don't break, you know.'

* But they'd bend terribly.'

* By no means. They're so elastic that they always recovers
themselves. I didn't show you that ; but you might turn the backs
of them chairs nearly down to the ground, and they will come
straight again. You let me send you a set for your wife to look at.
If she's not charmed with them I'll — I'll — I'll eat them.'

' Women are charmed with anything,' said Mr. Dockwrath. ' A
new bonnet does that.'

' They know what they are about pretty well, as I dare say you

MR. DOCKWRATH IN BEDFORD ROW. 123

have found oat. I'll send express to Sheffield and have a com*
pletelj new set put np for you.'

* For twelve seventeen six, of course V

* Oh! dear no, Mr. Dock wrath. The lowest figure for ready
money, delivered free, is fifteen ten.'

' I couldn't think of paying more than Mrs. Mason.'

* Ah ! but that was a damaged sot ; it was, indeed. And she
merely wanted it as a present for the curate's >vife. The table was
quite sprung, and the music-stool wouldn't twist.'

* But you'll send them to me new ?' i,

* New from the manufactory ; upon my word we will.'

* A table that you have never acted upon — have never shown off
on ; standing in the middle, you know ?'

* Yes ; upon my honour. You shall have them direct from the
workshop, and sent at once ; you shall find them in your drawing*
room on Tuesday next'

* We'll say thirteen ten.*

* I couldn't do it, Mr. Dockwrath — ' And so they went on, bar-
gaining half the way up to town, till at last they came to terms for
fourteen eleven. * And a very superior article your lady will find
them,' Mr. Kantwise said as he shook hands with his new friend
at parting.

One day Mr. Dockwratli remained at home in the bosom of his
fiunily, saying all manner of spiteful things against Lady Mason^
and on the next day he went up to town and called on Roimd and
Crook. That one day he waited in order that Mr. Mason might
have time to write ; but Mr. Mason had written on the very day
of the visit to Groby Park, and Mr. Round junior was quite ready
for Mr. Dockwrath when that gentleman called.

Mr. Dockwrath when at home had again cautioned his wife to
have no intercourse whatever * with that swindler at Oiley Farm,'
wishing thereby the more thoroughly to imbue poor Miiiam with
a conviction that Lady Mason had committed some fraud with
reference to the will. * You had better say nothing about the
matter anywhere; d' you hear? People will talk; all the world
will be talking about it before long. But that is nothing to you.
If people ask you, say that you believe that I am engaged in the
case professionally, but that you know nothing further.' As to all
which Miriam of course promised the most exact obedience. But
Mr. Dockwrath, though he only remained one day in Hamworth
before he went to London, took care that the curiosity of his
neighbours should be sufficiently excited.

Mr. Dockwrath felt some little trepidation at the heart as he
w. liked into the office of Messrs. Round and Crook in Bedford Row.
Messrs. Round and Crook stood high in the profession, and were
mm who in the ordinary way of business would have had no

124 OBLEY FARM.

personal dealings with sach a man as Mr. Dockwrath. Had any
such intercourse become necessary on commonplace subjects Messrs.
Bound and Crook's confidential clerk might have seen Mr. Dock-
wrath, but even he would have looked down upon the Hamworth
attorney as from a great moral height. But now, in the matter
uf the Orley Farm Case, Mr. Dockwrath had determined that he
would transact business only on equal terms with the Bedford Bow
people. The secret was his — of his finding ; he knew the strength
uf his own position, and he would use it. But nevertheless he
did tremble inwardly as he asked whether Mr. Bound was within ; —
or if not Mr. Bound, then Mr. Crook.

There were at present three members in the firm, though the old
name remained unaltered. The Mr. Bound and the Mr. Crook
of former days were still working partners ; — the very Bound and
the very Crook who had carried on the battle on the part of
Mr. Mason of Gruby twenty years ago ; but to them had been added
another Mr. Bound, a son of old Bound, who, though his name did
not absolutely appear in the nomenclature of the firm, was, as a
working man, the most important person in it. Old Mr. Bound
might now be said to be ornamental and communicative. He was a
hale man of nearly seventy, who thought a great deal of his peaches
up at Isle worth, who came to the office five times a week — not
doing very much hard work, and who took the largest share in the
profits. Mr. Bound senior had enjoyed the reputation of being a
sound, honourable man, but was now considered by some to be not
quite sharp enough for the practice of the present day.

Mr. Crook had usually done the diity work of the firm, having
been originally a managing clerk ; and he still did the same — in a
small way. He had been the man to exact penalties, look after
costs, and attend to any criminal business, or business partly crimi-
nal in its nature, which might chance find its way to them. But
latterly in all great matters Mr. Bound junior, Mr. Matthew Bound
— his father was Richard — was the member of the firm on whom
the world in general placed the greatest dependence. Mr. Mason*s
letter had in the ordinary way of business come to him, although it
had been addiessed to his father, and he had resolved on acting on
it himself.

When Mr. Dockwrath called Mr. Bound senior was at Birming-
ham, Mr. Crook was taking his annual holiday, and Mr. Bound
junior was reigning alone in Bedford Bow. Instructions had been
given to the clerks that if Mr. Dockwrath called he was to be
shown in, and therefore he found himself seated, with much less
trouble than he had expected, in the private room of Mr. Bound
junior. He had expected to see an old man, and was therefore
somewhat confused, not feeling quite sure that he was in company
with one of the principals ; but nevertheless, looking at the room,

MB. DOCKWBATH IK BBDFOBD BOW. 12C

ftiid espeoially at the arm-chair and carpet, he was aware that the
legal gendeinan who motioned him to a seat could he no ordinaiy
clerk.

The manner of this legal gentleman was not, as Mr. Dookwrath
thought, quite ao oeremoniouBly civil as it might he» conaidering
the important nature of the bnsineas to he transacted hetween
them. Mr. Dookwrath intended to treat on equal terma, and ao
intending would have been glad to have shaken hands with his
new ally at the commencement of their joint operations* But
the man before him — a man younger than himself too— did not
even rise from his chair. * Ah ! Mr. Dookwrath/ he said, taking
up a letter from the table, 'will you have the gpoodness to sit
down?* And Mr. Matthew Bound wheeled his own arm-chair
towards the firci stretching out his l^pi comfortably, and pointing
to a somewhat distant seat as that intended for the accommodation
of his visitor. Mr. Dookwrath seated himself in the somewhat
distant seat, and deposited his hat upon the floor, not being as yet
quite at home in his position ; but he made up his mind as he did
so that he would be at home before he left the room.

* I find that you have been down in Torkshire with a client
of ours, Mr. Dookwrath,' said Mr. Matthew Bound.

* Yes, I have,* said he of Hamworth.

* Ah ! well — ; you are in the profession yourself^ I believe ?*

* Tes ; I am an attorney.*

* Would it not have been well to have come to us first T

* No, I think not. I have not the pleasure of knowing your
name, sir.'

* My name is Bound — Matthew Bound.'

* I beg your pardon, sir ; I did not know,' said Mr. Dookwrath,
bowing. It was a satiBfaction to him to learn that he was closeted
with a Mr. Bound, even if it were not the Mr. Bound. * Ko,
Mr. Bunnd, I can*t say that I should have thought of that. In the
first place I didn't know whether Mr. Mason employed any lawyer,
and in the next '

* Well, well ; it does not matter. It is usual among the pro-
fession ; but it does not in the least signify. Mr. Mason has written
to us, and he says that you have found out something about that
Orley Farm btl^^ines8.'

* Yes ; 1 have found out something. At least, I rather think so.'

* Well, what is it, Mr. Dookwrath?*

* Ah ! that's the question. It's rather a ticklish business,
Mr. Bound : a family affair, as I may say.'

* Whose family ?'

* To a cei-tain extent my family, and to a certain extent
Mr. Mason's family. I don't know how far I should be justified
in laying all the facts before you — wonderful facts they are too—

126 OBLEY FAB^

in an off-hand way like that. These matters have to be considered
a great deal. It ia not only the extent of the property. There ia
much more than that in it, Mr. Hound.'

*• If you don*t tell me what there is in it, I don't see what we are
to do. I am sure you did not give yourself the trouble of coming
up here from Hamworth merely with the object of telling us that
you are going to hold your tongne.'

* Certainly not, Mr. Bound.'

* Then what did you come to say ?*

* May I ask you, Mr. Hound, what Mr. Mason has told yon with
referenoe to my interview with him T

' Yes ; I will read you a part of his letter — " Mr. Dockwrath is of
opinion that the will under which the estate is now enjoyed is
absolutely a forgery." I presume you mean the codicil, Mr. Dock-
wrath?'

' Oh yes ! the codicil of course.'

* *' And he has in his possession documents which I have not seen,
but which seem to me, as described, to go far to prove that this
certainly must have been the case." And then he goes on with a
description of dates, although it is clear that he does not understand
the matter himself — indeed he says as much. Now of course we must
see these documents before we can give our client any advice,' A
certain small portion of Mr. Mason's letter Mr. Round did then
read, but he did not read those portions in which Mr. Mason
expressed his firm determination to reopen the case against Lady
Mason, and even to prosecute her for forgery if it were found that
be had anythiug like a fair chance of success in doing so. * I know
that you were convinced,' he had said, addressing himself personally
to Mr. Hound senior, * that Lady Mason was acting in good faith.
I was always convinced of the contrary, and am more sure of it now
than ever.' This last paragraph, Mr. Hoxmd junior had not thought
it necessary to read to Mr. Dockwrath.

* The documents to which I allude are in reference to my confi-
dential family matters; and I certainly shall not produce them
without knowing on what ground I am standing.'

* Of course you are aware, Mr. Dockwrath, that wo could compel
you.'

* There, Mr. Hound, I must be allowed to differ.'

* It won't come to that, of course. If you have anything worth
showing, you'll show it ; and if we make use of you as a witness, it
must be as a willing witness.'

' I don't think it probable that I shall be a witness in the matter
at all.'

'Ah, well; perhaps not. My own impression is that no case
will be made out ; that there will be nothing to take before a jury.'

* There again, I must differ from you, Mr. Hound.'

MR, DOCKWRATH IN BEDFORD ROW. 127

' Oh, of course ! I suppose tbo real fact is, that it is a matter of
money. You want to be paid for what information you have got.
That is about the long and the short of it ; eh, Mr. Dockwrath?*

* I don't know what you call the long and the short of it, Mr.
Boo^d ; or what may be your way of doing business. As a profes-
sional man, of course I expect to be paid for my work ; — and I have
no doubt that you expect the same.'

* No doubt, Mr. Dockwrath ; but — as you have made the com-
parison, I hope you will excuse me for saying so — we always wait
till our clients come to us.'

Mr. Dockwrath drew himself up with some intention of becoming
angry ; but he hardly knew how to carry it out ; and then it might
be a question whether anger would serve his turn. ' Do you mean
to say, Mr. Bound, if you had found documents such as Uiese, you
would have done nothing about them — that you would have passed
them by as worthless ?'

' I can't say that till I know what the documents are. If I found
papers concerning the client of another firm, I should go to that
firm if I thought that they demanded attention.'

* I didn't know anything about the firm ; — how was I to know ?'

* Well ! you know now, Mr. Dockwrath. As I understand it, our
client has referred you to us. If you have any anything to say,
we are ready to hear it. K you have anything to show, we are
ready to look at it. If you have nothing to say, and nothing to
show — '

* Ah, but I have ; only — '

* Only you want us to make it worth your while. We might as
well have the truth at once. Is not that about it ?*

' I want to see my way, of course.'

* Exactly. And now, Mr. Dockwrath, I must make you under-
stand that we don't do business in that way.'

' Then 1 shall see Mr. Mason again myself.'

* That you can do. He will bo in town next week, and, as I
believe, wishes to see you. As regards your expenses, if you can
show us that you have any communication to make that is worth
our client's attention, we will see that you are paid what you are
out of pocket, and some fair remuneration for the time you may have
lost ; — not as an attorney, remember, for in that light we cannot
regard you.'

* I am every bit as much an attorney as you are.'

* No doubt ; but you are not Mr. Mason's attorney ; and as long
as it suits him to honour us with his custom, you cannot be so
regarded.'

' That's as he pleases.'

* No ; it is not, Mr. Dockwrath. It is as he pleases whether he
employs you or us ; but it is not as he pleases whether he employs

128 ORLEY FABX.

both on businem of tbo same daaB. He may gi^e us bis confidence,
or be may withdraw it.'

* Looking at the way the matter was managed before, perhaps the
latter may be the better for him.'

* Excuse me, Mr. Dockwrath, for saying that that is a question 1
shall not discnss with yon.'

Upon this Mr. Dockwrath jumped from his chair, and took up
his hat. * Good morning to you, sir,' said Mr. Bound, without
moving from his chair ; * 1 will teU Mr. Mason that you have declined
making any communication to us. He will probably know your
address — if he should want it'

Mr. DockwiaCh paused. Was he not about to sacrifice substantial
advantage to momentary anger ? Would it not be better that he
should carry this impudent young London lawyer with him if it
were possible ? ' Sir/ said he, * I am quite willing to tell you all
that I know of this matter at present, if you will have the patience
hear it'

*' Patience, Mr. Dockwrath ! Why I am made of patience. Sit
down again, Mr. Dockwrath, and think of it.'

Mr. Dockwrath did sit down again, and did think of it ; and it
ended in his telling to Mr. Hound all that he had told to Mr. Mason.
As he did so, he looked closely at Mr. Boiind's fisu^e, but there he
could read nothing. * Exactly,' said Mr. Bound. * The fourteenth
of July is the date of both. I have taken a memorandum of that.
A final deed for closing partnership, was it ? I have got that down.
John Kenneby and Bridget Bolster. I remember the names, — wit-
nesses to both deeds, were they ? I understand ; nothing about this
other deed was brought up at the trial ? I see the point — such as it is.
John Kennedy and Bridget Bolster; — both believed to be living.
Oh, you can give their address, can you? Decline to do so now?
Very well ; it does not matter. I think I understand it all now,
Mr. Dockwrath ; and when we want you again, you shall hear from
us. Samuel Dockwrath, is it? Thank you. Good morning. If
Mr. Mason wishes to see you, he will write, of course. Good day,
Mr. Dockwrath.'

And 60 Mr. Dockwrath went home, not quite contented with his
day's work.

CHAPTEBXVn.

YON BAUHB.

It will be remembered that Mr. Grabwits was sent acroaa from
Lincoln's Inn to Bedford Bow to ascertain the present address of old
Hr. Round. ' Mr. Koimd is at Birmingham/ he said, coming back.
-* Every one connected with the profession is at Birmingham,
except *

* The more fools they/ said Mr. Fumival.

* I am thinking of going down myself this evening/ said Mr.
C/rabwitz. ' As yon will be out of town, sir, I suppose I can be
jqpared?*

* You too!'

* And why not me, Mr. Fumival? When all the profession is
meeting together, why should not I be there as well as another ?
I hope you do not deny me my right to feel an interest in the great
cnbjects which are being discussed.'

* Not in the least, Mr. Crabwitz. I do not deny you your right
to be Lord Chief Justice, if you can accomplish it. But you can-
not be Lord Chief Justice and my clerk at the same time. Kor can
you be iu my chambers if you are at Birmingham. I rather think
I must trouble you to remain here, as I cannot tell at what moment
I may be in town again.'

* ITien, sir, I'm afraid ^ Mr. Crabwitz began his speech and

then faltered. He was going to tell Mr. Fumival that he must
suit himself with another clerk, when he remembered his fees, and
paused. It would be -very pleasant to him to quit Mr. Fumival,
but where could he get such another place? He knew that he
himself was invaluable, but then he was invaluable only to Mr. Fur-
nival. Mr. Fumival would be mad to part with him, Mr. Crabwitz
thought ; but then would he not be almost more mad to part with
Mr. Fumival ?

* Eh ; well ?' said Mr. Fumival.

* Oh ! of course ; if you desire it, Mr. Fumival, I will remain.
But I must say I think it is rather hard.'

' Look here, Mr. Crabwitz ; if you think my service is too hard
upon you, you had better leave it. But if you take upon yourself
to tell me so again, you must leave it. Eemember that.' Mr. Fur-

VOL. I. K

130 * OBLET FABM.

niyal possessed the master mind of the two ; and Mr. Crabwitz felt
this as he slunk back to his own room.

So Mr. Eonnd also was at Birmingham, and could be seen there.
This was so far well ; and Mr. Fumival, having again with ruthless
malice sent Mr. Crabwitz for a cab, at once started for the Euston
Square Station. He could master Mr. Crabwitz, and felt a certain
pleasure in having done so ; but could he master Mrs. F. ? That
lady had on one or two late occasions sliown her anger at the
existing state of her domestic affairs, and had once previously gone
80 far as to make her lord imderstand that she was jealous of his
proceedings with reference to other goddesses. But she had never
before done this in the presence of other people ; — she had never
allowed any special goddess to see that she was the special object
of such jealousy. Now she had not only committed herself in this
way, but had also committed him, making him feel himself to be
ridiculous ; and it was highly necessary that some steps should be
taken ; — if he only knew what step ! All which kept his mind
active as he journeyed in the cab.

At the station ho found three or four other lawyers, all bound for
Birmingham. Indeed, during this fortnight the whole line had
been alive with learned gentlemen goirg to and fro, discussing
weighty points as they rattled along the iron road, and shaking
their ponderous heads at the new ideas which were being venti-
lated. Mr. Fumival, with many others — indeed, with most of those
who were so far advanced in the world as to be making bread by
their profession — was of opinion that all this palaver that was
going on in the various tongues of Babel would end as it began — in
words. ' Vox ot praeterea nihil.' To practical Englishmen most of
these international congresses seem to arrive at nothing else. Men
will not be talked out of the convictions of thoir lives. No living
orator would convince a grocer that coffee should be sold without
chicory ; and no amount of eloquence will make an English lawyer
think that loyalty to tnith should come before loyalty to his client.
And therefore our own pundits, though on this occasion they went
to Birmingham, summoned by the greatness of the occasion, by the
dignity of foreign names, by interest in the question, coid by the
influence of such men as Lord Boanerges, went there without any
doubt on thoir minds as to the rectitude of their own practice, and
fortified with strong resolves to resist all idea of change.

And indeed one cannot understand how the bent of any man's
mind should be altered by the sayings and doings of such a congress.

* Well, Johnson, what have you all been doing to-day?* asked
Jlr. Fumival of a special friend whom he chanced to meet at the
club which had been extemporized at Birmingham.

' We have had a paper read by Von Bauhr. It lasted tliree
hours.'

TON BAUHB. 181

* Thxee horns ! heavens I Yon Banhr is, I think, from

* Yes; he and Dr. Slotaoher* Slotaoher is to read his paper the
day after to«monow.*

* Then I think I shall go to London again. Bnt what did Yos
Banhr say to you during those three houis?*

* Of course it was all in (3erman, and I don't suppose that any
one understood him, — ^unless it was Boanerges. But I beliere it was
the old stoiy, going to show that the same man might be judge*
advocate, and jury.'

* No doubt ; — ^if men were machines, and if yon could find such
machines perfect at all points in their machinery.*

* And if the machines had no hearts?'

* Machines don't have hearts,' said Mr. Fumival ; * especially
those in Germany. And what did Boanezges say? His answer
did not take three hours more, I hope.'

' About twenty minutes ; but what he did say was lost on Yon
Bauhr, who understands as much English as I do German. He
said that the practice of the Prussian courts had always been to him
a subject of intense interest, and that the general justice of their
verdicts could not be impugned.'

* Nor ought it, seeing that a single trial for murder will occupy
a court for three weeks. He should have asked Yon Bauhr how
much work he usually got through in the course of a sessions. I
don't seem to have lost much by being away. By-the-by, do yoa
happen to know whether Boimd is here?*

* What, old' Hound? I saw him in the hall to-day yawning as
though he would burst' And then Mr. Fumival strolled off to look
for the attorney among the various purlieus firequented by the
learned strangers.

* Fumival,' said another barrister, accosting him — an elderly man,
small, with sharp eyes and bushy eyebrows, dirty in his attire and
poor in his general appearance, * have you seen Judge Staveley ?*
This was Mr. Chaffanbrass, great at the Old Bailey, a man well able
to hold his own in spite of the meanness of his appearance. At
such a meeting as this the English bar generally could have had no
better representative than Mr. Chafianbrass.

* No ; is he here ?*

* lie must be here. He is the only man they could fijid who
knows enough Italian to understand what that fat fellow from
Florence will say to-morrow.'

* We're to have the Italian to-morrow, are we ?'

* Yes ; and Staveley afterwards. It's as good as a play ; only, like
all plays, it's three times too long. I wonder whether anybody here
believes in it 7*

* Yes, Felix Graham does.'

* He believes everything — unless it is the Bible. He is one of

K 2

132 OBLET FABM.

those young men who look for an instant millennium, and who regard
themselves not only as the prophets who foretell it, but as the
preachers who will produce it. For myself, I am too old for a new
gospel, with Felix Graham as an apostle.'

• They say that Boanerges thinks a great deal of him.'

• That can't be true, for Boanerges never thought much of any
one but himself. Well, I'm off to bed, for I find a day here ten
times more fatiguing than the Old Bailey in July.'

On the whole the meeting was rather dull, as such meetings
usually are. It must not be supposed that any lawyer could get up
at will, as the spirit moved him, and utter his own ideas ; or that all
members of the congress could speak if only they could catch the
speaker's eye. Had this been so, a man might have been sup-
ported by the hope of having some finger in the pie, sooner or
later. But in such case the congress would have lasted for ever.
As it was, the names of those who were invited to address the
meeting were arranged, and of course men from each country were
selected who were best known in their own special walks of their
profession. But then these best-known men took an imfair advan-
tage of their position, and were ruthless in the lengthy cruelty
of their addresses. Von Bauhr at Berlin was no doubt a great
lawyer, but he should not have felt so confident that the legal pro-
ceedings of England and of the civilized world in general could be
reformed by his reading that book of his from the rostrum in the
hall at Birmingham I The civilized world in general, as there
represented, had been disgusted, and it was surmised that poor
Dr. Slotacher would find but a meagre audience when his turn came.

At last Mr. Fumival succeeded in hunting up Mr. Round, and
found him recruiting outraged nature with a glass of brandy and
water and a cigar. • Looking for me, have you ? Well, here I am ;
that is to say, what is loft of me. Were you in the hall to-day ?*

• No ; I was up in town.'

• Ah ! that accounts for your being so fresh. I wish I had been
there. Do you ever do anything in this way?' and Mr. Hound
touched the outside of his glass of toddy with his spoon. Mr. Fur-
nival said that he never did do anything in that way, which was
true. Port wine was his way, and it may bo doubted whether on
the whole it is not the more dangerous way of the two. But
Mr. Fumival, though he would not drink brandy and water or
smoke cigars, sat down opposite to Mr. Hound, and had soon
broached the subject which was on his mind.

' Yes,' said the attorney, * it is quite true that I had a letter on
tho subject from Mr. Mason. The lady is not wrong in supposing
that some one is moving in the matter.*

• And your client wishes you to take up the case again ?'

• No doubt he does He was not a man that I ever greatly liked,

VON BAUHB. 133

Mr. Fnmival, though I belieTo he meaus well. He thinks that he
has been ill used ; and perhaps he was ill used — by his father.'

' But that can bo no possible reason for badgering the life out
of his father's widow twenty years after his father's death !*

* Of coarse he thinks that he has some new oTidence. I can't say
I looked into the matter much myself. I did read the letter ; but
that was all, and then I handed it to my son. As fi&r as I remem-
ber, Mr. Mason said that some attorney at Ham worth -had been to
him.'

* Exactly ; a low fellow whom you would be ashamed to see in
your office ! He fancies that young Mason has injured him ; and
though he has received numberless benefits from Lady Mason, this
is the way in which he chooses to be revenged on her son.*

* We should have nothing to do with such a matter as that, you
know. It's not our line.'

* No, of course it is not ; I am well aware of that. And I am
equally well aware that nothing Mr. Mason can do can shake Lady
Mason's title, or rather her son's title, to the property. But, Mr.
Hound, if he be encouraged to gratify his malice '

* If who be encouraged ?'

* Your client, Mr. Mason of Groby ; — there can be no doubt that
he might harass this unfortunate lady till he brought her nearly to
ihe grave.'

* That would bo a pity, for I believe she's still an uncommon
pretty woman.' And the attorney indulged in a little fat inward
chuckle ; for in these days Mr. rurnival's taste with reference to
strange goddesses was beginning to be understood by the profession.

* She is a very old friend of mine,' said Mr. Fumival, gravely, * a
very old friend indeed ; and if I were to desert her now, she would
have no one to whom she could look.'

* Oh, ah, yes ; I'm sure you re veiy kind ;' and Mr. Round altered
his face and tone, so that they might be in conformity with those
of his companion. * Anythinj^ I can do, of course I shall be very
happy. I should be slow, myself, to advise my client to try the
matter again, but to tell the tnith anything of this kind would go
to my son now. I did read Mr. Mason's letter, but I immediately
handed it to Matthew.'

* I will tell you how you can oblige me, Mr. Hound.'
' Do tell me ; I am sure I shall be very happy.'

* Look into this matter yourself, and talk it over with Mr. Mason
before you allow anything to be done. It is not that I doubt your
son's discretion. Indeed we all know what an exceedingly good
man of business ho is.'

* Matthew is sharp enough,' said the prosperous father.

* But then young men are apt to be too sharp. I don't know
whether you remember the case about that Orley Farm, Mr. Round.*

134 OBLET FARM.

* As well as if it were yesterday,' said the attorney.

* Then you must recollect how thoroughly you weix3 convinced
that your client had not a leg to stand upon.'

' It was I that insisted that he should not carry it before the
Chancellor. Crook had the general management of those cases
then, and would have gone on ; but I said, no. I would not see my
client's money wasted in such a wild-goose chase. In the first
place the pnJporty was not worth it ; and in the next place there
was nothing to impugn the will. If I remember nght it all turned
on whether an old man who had signed as witness was well enough
to write his name.'

* That was the point.*

' And I think it was shown that he had himself signed a receipt
on that very day — or the day after, or the day before. It was some-
thing of that kind.'

* Exactly ; those were the facts. As regards the result of a new
trial, no sane man, I fancy, could have any doubt You know as
well as any one living how great is the sti*ength of twenty years of
possession '

* It woidd be very strong on her side, certainly.'

* He would not have a chance ; of counse not But, Mr, Hound,
he might make that poor woman so wretched that death would be
a relief to her. Now it may be possible that something looking
like fresh, evidence may have been discovered ; something of this
kind probably has been found, or this man would not be moving ;
he would not have gone to the expense of a journey to Yorkshire
had he not got hold of some new story.'

* He has something in his head ; you may be sure of that.'

* Don't let your son be run away with by this, or advise your
client to incur the terrible expense of a new trial, without knowing '
what you are about. I tell you fidrly that I do dread such a trial
on this poor lady's account. Eeflect what it would be, Mr. Hound,
to any lady of your own family.' ^

' I don't think Mrs. Hound would mind it much ; that is, if she
were sure of her case.'

* She is a strong-minded woman ; but poor Lady Mason .*

* She was strong-minded enough too, if I remember right, at the
last trial. I shall never forget how composed she was when old
Bennett tried to shake her evidence. Do you remember how
bothered he was ?'

* He waa an excellent lawyer, — ^was Bennett. There are few
better men at the bar now-a-days.'

* You wouldn't have found liim down here, Mr. Fumival, listening
to a Grerman lecture three hours' long. I don't know how it is, but
I think we all used to work harder in those days than the young
men do now.' And then these eulogists of past days went back to

VON BAUHB. 135

the memories of their youths, declaring how in the old glorious
years, now gone, no congress such as this would have had a chance
of success. Men had men's work to do then, and were not wont
to play the fool, first at one provincial town and then at another, but
stuck to their oars and made their fortunes. * It seems to mo,
Mr. Fumival/ said Mr. Kound, * that this is all child's play, and to
tell the truth I am half ashamed of myself for being here.'

* And youll look into that matter yourself, Mr. Kound ?'

* Yes, I will, certainly.'

* I shall take it as a great favour. Of course you will advise
your client in accordance with any new facts which may be brought
before you ; but as I feel certain that no case against young Mason
can have any merits, I do hope that you will be able to suggest to
Mr. Mason of Groby that the matter should be allowed to rest.*
And then Mr. Fumival took his leave, still thinking how far it might
be possible that the enemy's side of the question might be supported
by real merits. Mr. Bound was a good-natured old fellow, and if
the case could be inveigled out of his son's hands and into his own,
it might be possible that even real merits should avail nothing.

' I confess I am getting rather tired of it,' said Felix Graham
that evening to his friend yoimg Staveley, as he stood outside his
bedroom door at the top of a narrow flight of stairs in the back part
of a large hotel at Birmingham.

* Tired of it ! I should think you are too.'

* But nevertheless I am as sure as ever that good will come from
it. I am inclined to think that the same kind of thing must be
endured before any improvement is made in anything.'

* ITiat all reformers have to undergo Yon Bauhr?'

* Yes, all of them that do any good. Von Bauhr's words were
veiy dry, no doubt.'

* You don't mean to say that you understood them ?'

* Not many of them. A few here and there, for the first half-
hoiir, came trembling home to my dull compreherusiun, and then — '

* You went to sleep.'

* The sounds became too difficult for my ears ; but dry and dull
and hard as they were, they will not absolutely fall to the ground.
He had a meaning in them, and that meaning will reproduce itself
in some shape.'

* Heaven forbid that it should ever do so in my presence ! All
the iniquities of which the English bar may be guilty cannot be so
intolerable to humanity as Yon Bauhr.'

*Well, good-night, old fellow; your governor is to give us liis
ideas to-morrow, and perhaps he will be as bad to the Germans as
your Yon Bauhr was to us.'

* Then I can only say that my governor will be veiy cruel to the
Germans.' And so they two went to their dreams.

136 ORLET FARM.

In the moan time Yon Banlir was sitting alone looking btck on
the past hours with ideas and views very dilTerent from those of ihe
many English lawyers who were at that time discussing his-
demerits. To him the day had been one long triumph, for his.
voice had sounded sweet in his own ears as, period after period, ho
had poured forth in full flowing language the gathered wisdom and
experience of his life. Public men in England have so much to do*
that they cannot give time to the preparation of speeches for such
meetings as these, but Von Bauhr had been at work on his pamphlet
for months. Kay, taking it in the whole, had he not been at work
on it for years ? And now a kind Providence had given him th&
opportunity of pouring it forth before the assembled pundits-
gathered from all the nations of the civilized world.

As he sat there, solitary in his bedroom, his hands dropped down
by his side, his pipe hung from his mouth on to his breast, and his.
eyes, turned up to the ceiling, were lighted almost with inspiration^
Men there at the congress, Mr. Chafianbrass, young Staveley, Felix
Graham, and others, had regarded him as an impersonation of dull-
ness ; but through his mind and brain, as he sat there wrapped in.
his old dressing-gown, there ran thoughts which seemed to lift him
lightly from the earth into an elysium of justice and mercy. And
at the end of this elysium, which was not wild in its beauty, \mt
trim and orderly in its gracefulness — as might be a beer-garden at
Munich — there stood among flowers and vases a pedestal, grand
above all other pedestals in that garden ; and on this there was a
bust with an inscription : — * To Von Bauhr, who reformed the laws-
of nations.'

It was a grand thought ; and though there was in it much of
liuman conceit, there was in it also much of liuman philanthropy.
If a reign of justice could be restored through his efforts — through,
those efforts in which on this hallowed day ho had been enabled to
make so great a progress — how beautiful would it be ! And then
as he sat there, while the smoke still curled from his unconscious,
nostrils, he felt that he loved all Germans, all Englishmen, even
all Frenchmen, in his very heart of hearts, and especially those
who had travelled wearily to this English town that they might
listen to the results of his wisdom. He said to himself, and said
truly, that he loved the world, and that he would willingly spend
himself in these great endeavours for the amelioration of its law&
and the perfection of its judicial proceedings. And then he betook
himself to bed in a frame of mind that was not unenviable.
, I am inclined, myself, to agree with Felix Graham that such

efforts are seldom absolutely wasted. A man who strives honestly
to do good will generally do good, though seldom perhaps as mucK
I as he has himself anticipated. Let Von Bauhr have his pedestal

I . among the flowers, even though it be small and humble !

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE ENGLISH YON BAUHR.

On the following morning, before, breakfast, Felix Graham and
Augustus StaTcloy prepared themselves for the labours of tho
coming day by a walk into the country ; for even at Birmingham, by
perseverance, a walk into the country may be attained, — and very
pretty cotmtry it is when reached. These congress meetings did
not begin before eleven, so that for those who were active time for
matutinal exercise was allowed.

Augustus Staveley was the only son of the judge who on that day
was to defend the laws of England from such attacks as might be
made on them by a very fat advocate from Florence. Of Judge
Staveley himself much need not be said now, except that he lived
at Noningsby near Alston, distant from The Cleeve about nine miles,
and that at his house Sophia Fumival had been invited to pass the
coming Christmas. His son was a handsome clever fellow, who had
nearly succeeded in getting the Newdegate, and was now a member
of the Middle Temple. He was destined to follow the steps of his
father, and become a light at the Common Law bar ; but hitherto ho
had not made much essential progress. The world had been toe
pleasant to him to allow of his giving mfiny of his hours to work.
His father was one of the best men in the world, revered on the
bench, and loved by all men; but he had not suflScient parental
sternness to admit of his driving his son well into harness. He
himself had begun the world with little or nothing, and had therefore
succeeded ; but his son was already possessed of almost everything
that he could want, and therefore his success seemed doubtful. His-
chambers were luxuriously furnished, he had his horse in Piccadilly,,
his father's house at Noningsby was always open to him, and the
society of London spread out for him all its allurements. Under
such circumstances how could it be expected that he should work?
Nevertheless he did talk of working, and had some idea in his head
of- the manner in which he would do so. To a certain extent he
had worked, and he could talk fluently of the little that he knew..
The idea of a far niente life would have been intolerable to him ;
but there were many among his friends who began to think that
such a^ life would nevertheless be his ultimate destiny. Nor did

138 ORLEY FARM.

it much matter, they said, for the judge was known to have made
money.

But his fiiend Felix Graham was rowing in a very diiferent
boat ; and of him also many prophesied that he would hardly be
able to push his craft up against the strength of the stream. Kot
that he was an idle man, but that he would not work at his oars in
the only approved method of making progress for his boat. He
also had been at Oxford ; but he had done little there except talk at
a debating society, and make himself notorious by certain ideas on
religious subjects which were not popular at the University. He
had left without taking a degree, in consequence, as it was believed,
of some such notions, and had now been called to the bar with a
fixed resolve to open that oyster with such weapons, o£fensivo and
defensive, as natiire had given to him. But here, as at Oxford, he
would not labour on the same terms with other men, or make
himself subject to the same conventional rules ; and therefore it
seemed only too probable that he might win no prize. He had
ideas of his own that men should pursue their labours without
special conventional regulations, but should be guided in their work
by the general great rules of the world, — such for instance as those
given in the commandments : — Thou shalt not bear false witness ;
Thou shalt not steal ; and others. His notions no doubt were
great, and perhaps were good ; but hitherto they had not led him
to much pecuniary success in his profession. A sort of a name he
had obtained, but it was not a name sweet in the ears of practising
attorneys.

And yet it behoved Felix Graham to make money, for none was
coming to him ready made from any father. Father or mother he
had none, nor uncles and aunts likely to be of service to him. He
had begun the world with some small sum, which had grown smaller
and smaller, till now there was left to him hardly enough to create
an infinitesimal dividend. But he was not a man to become down-
hearted on that account. A living of some kind he could pick up,
and did now procure for himself, from the press of the day. He
wrote poetry for the periodicals, and politics for the penny papers
with considerable success and sufficient pecuniary residts. He
would sooner do this, he often boasted, than abandon his great ideas
or descend into the arena with other weapons than those which he
regarded as fitting for an honest man's hand.

Augustus Staveley, who could be very prudent for his friend,
declared that marriage would set him right. If Felix would marry
he woidd quietly slip his neck into the collar and work along with
the team, as useful a horse as ever was put at the wheel of a coach.
But Felix did not seem inclined to marry. He had notions about
that also, and was believed by one or two who knew him intimately
to cherish an insane afifection for some unknown damsel, whose

THE E^'GLISH YON BAUHB. 139

parentage, education, and future were not likely to assist his views
in the outer world. Some said that he was educating this damsel
for his wife, — moulding her, so that she might be made fit to suit
his taste ; but Augustus, though he knew the secret of all this, was
of opinion that it would come right at last. ' He'll meet some girl
in the world with a hatful of money, a pretty face, and a sharp
tongue; then he'U bestow his moulded bride on a neighbouring
baker with two hundred pounds for her fortune ; — and everybody
will be happy.*

Felix Graham was by no means a handsome man. He was tall
and thin, and his face had been slightly marked with the small-pox.
He stooped in his gait as ho walked, and was often awkwaod with
his hands and legs. But he was full of enthusiasm, indomitable, as
&r as pluck woidd make him so, in contests of all kinds, and when
ho talked on subjects which were near his heart there was a radi-
ance about him which certainly might win the love of the pretty
girl with the sharp tongue and the hatful of money. Staveley,
who really loved him, had already selected the prize, and she was
no other than our friend, Sophia Fumival. llie sharp tongue and
the pretty face and the hatful of money would all be there ; but
then Sophia Fumival was a girl who might perhaps expect in
return for these things more than an ugly face which could occa-
sionally become radiant with enthusiasm.

The two men had got away from the thickneiSs of the Birmingham
smoke, and were seated on the top rung of a gate leading into a
stubble field. So far they had gone with mutual consent, but further
than this Staveley refused to go. He was seated with a cigar in his
mouth. Graham also was smoking, but he was accommodated with
a short pipe.

• A walk before breakfast is all very well,' said Staveley, * but I
am not going on a pilgrimage. AVe are four miles from the inn this
minute.'

' And for your energies that is a good deal. Only think that you
should have been doing anything for two hours before you begin
to feed.*

• I wonder why matutinal labour should always be considered as
so meritorious. Merely, I take it, because it is disagreeable.'

• It proves that the man can make an effoi*t.'

* Every prig who wishes to have it believed that lie does more
than his neighbours either bums the midnight lamp or gets up at
four in the morning. Good wholesome work between breakfast and
dinner never seems to count for anything.'

* Have you ever tried T

* Yes ; I am tiying now, here at Birmingham.'

• Not you.'

* That's so like you, Graham. You don't believe that anybody is

140 ORLET FABIC

attending to what is going on except yonnelf. I mean to-day to
take in the whol<^ thooiy of Italian jurisprudence.'

* I have no doubt that you may do so with advantage. I do not
suppose that it is veiy good, but it must at any rate be better
than our own. Come, let us go back to the town; my pipe is
finished.'

* Fill another, there's a good fellow. I can't afford to throw away
my cigar, and I hate walking and smoking. You mean to assert
that onr whole system is bad, and rotten, and imjust ?'

* I mean to say that I think so.'

* And yet we consider ourselves the greatest people in tlie world,
—or at .any rate the honestest.'

* I think we are ; but laws and their management have nothing to
do with making people honest. Good laws won't make people
honest, nor bad laws dishonest.'

' But a people who are dishonest in one trade will probably be
dishonest in others. Now, you go so far as to say that all English
lawyers are rogues.'

* I have never said so. I believe your father to be as honest a
man as ever breathed.'

* Thank you, sir,' and Staveley lifted his hat

' And 1 would fain hope that I am an honest man myself.'

* Ah, but you don t make money by it.'

' What I do mean is this, that from our love of precedent and
ceremony and old usages, we have retained a system which contains
many of the barbarities of the feudal times, and also many of its lies.
We try our culprit as we did in the old days of the ordeal. If luck
will carry him through the hot ploughshares, we let him escape
though we know him to be guilty. We give him the advantage of
every technicality, and teach him to lie in his own defence, if nature
has not sufficiently so taught him already.'

' You mean as to his plea of not guilty.'

* No, I don't ; that is little or nothing. We ask him whether or
no he confesses his guilt in a foolish way, tending to induce him to
deny it ; but that is not much. Guilt seldom will confess as long
as a chance remains. But we teach him to lie, or rather we lie for
him during the whole ceremony of his trial. We think it merciful
to give him chances of escape, and hunt him as we do a fox, in
obedience to certain laws framed for his protection.'

* And should he have no protection ?'

* None certainly, as a guilty man ; none which may tend
towards the concealing of his guilt. Till that be ascertained, pro-
claimed, and made apparent, every man's hand should be against
him.'

* But if he is innocent?*

* Therefore let him be tried with every possible care. I know

THE ENQLISU VON BAUHB. 141

yon understand what I mean, thongli you look as though yon did
not. For the protection of his innocence let astute and good men
work their best, but for the concealing of his guilt let no astute or
good man work at all/

* And you would leave the poor victim in the dock without
defence ?*

' By no means. Let the poor victim, as you call him, — ^who in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred is a rat who has been preying
in our granaries, — let him, I say, have his defender, — the defender
of his possible innocence, not the protector of his probable guilt.
It all resolves itself into this. Let every lawyer go into court with
a mind resolved to make conspicuous to the light of day that which
seems to him to be the truth. A lawyer who does not do that — who
does the reverse of that, has in my mind undertaken work which is
unfit for a gentleman and impossible for an honest man.'

* What a pity it is that you should not have an opportunity of
rivalling Von Bauhr at the congress !*

' I have no doubt that Yon Bauhr said a great deal of the same
nature ; and what Von Bauhr said will not wholly be wasted, though
it may not yet have reached our sublime understandings.'

' Perhaps he vnll vouchsafe to us a translation.'

* It would be useless at present, seeing that we cannot bring our-
selves to believe it possible that a foreigner should in any respect
be wiser than ourselves. If any such point out to us our follies,
we at once claim those follies as the special evidences of our wisdom.
We are so self-satisfied with our own customs, that we hold up our
hands with surprise at the fatuity of men who presume to point out
to us their defects. Those practices in which we most widely
depart from the broad and recognized morality of all civilized ages
and countries are to us the Palladiums of our jurisprudence. Modes
of proceeding which, if now first proposed to us, would be thought
to come direct from the devil, have been made so sacred by time
that they have lost all the horror of their falseness in the holiness
of their age. We cannot understand that other nations look upon
such doings as we regard the human saciifices of the Brahmins ;
but the fact is that we drive a Juggernaut's car through every a^sizo
town in the country, three times a year, and allow it to be dragged
rutlilessly through the streets of the metropolis at all times and
seasons. Now come back to breakfast, for I won't wait here any
longer.' Seeing that these were the ideas of Felix Graham, it is
hardly a matter of wonder that such men as Mr. Fumival and Mr.
Bound should have regarded his success at the bar as doubtful.

* Uncommon bad mutton chops these are,' said Staveley, as they
sat at their meal in the cofl*eeroom of tho Imperial Hotel.

* Are they ?' said Graham. * They seem to me much the same as
other mutton chops.*

142 OBLET FABM.

' They aro uneatable. And look at this for coffee I Waiter, take
this away, and have*8ome made fresh/

* Yes, sir,' said the waiter, striving to escape without further
comment.

* And, waiter — '

* Yos, sir ;' and the poor overdriven functionary returned.

* Ask thorn from me whether they know how to make coffee. It
does not consist of au unlimited supply of lukewarm water poured
over an infinitesimal proportion of chicory. That process, time-
honoured in the hotel line, will not produce the beverage called
coffee. Will you have the goodness to explain that in the bar as
coming from me ?'

' Yes, sir,' said the waiter ; and then he was allowed to disappear.
' How can you give yourself so much trouble with no possible
hope of an advantageous result V said Felix Qraham.

* That's what you weak men always say. Perseverance in such a
course will produce results. It is because we put up with bad
things that hotel-keepers continue to give them to us. Three or
four Frenchmen were dining with my father yesterday at the King's
Head, and I had to sit at the bottom of the table. I declare to you
that I literally blushed for my country; I did indeed. It was
useless to say anything then, but it was quite clear that there was
nothing that one of them could eat. At any hotel in France you'll
get a good dinner ; but we're so proud that we are ashamed to take
lessons.' And thus Augustus Staveley was quite as loud against
his own country, and as laudatory with regard to others, as Felix
Graham had been before breakfast.

And so the congress went on at Birmingham. The fat Italian
from Tuscany road his paper ; but as he, though judge in his own
country and reformer here in England, was somewhat given to
comedy, this morning was not so dull as that which had been
devoted to Von Bauhr. After him Judge Staveley made a very
elegant, and some said, a ver}" eloquent speech ; and so that day was
done. Many other days also wore themselves away in this process ;
numerous addresses were read, and answers made to them, and the
newspaper for the time wore full of law. The defence of our own
system, which was supposed to be the most remarkable for its
pertinacity, if not for its justice, came from Mr. Fumival, who
rouseil himself to a divine wrath for the occasion. And then the
famous congross at Birmingham was brought to a close, and all the
foreigners returned to their own countries.

GHAFTEB XIX.

IHE STAVELET FIMILT.

The next two montha pasfied by without any erents whibh doaoiva
our special notice^ tinlesa it be that Mr. Joseph Mason and Mr.
Dookwrath had a meetix^ in the room of Mr. Matthew Bound, in
Bedford Bow. Mr. Dookwrath struggled hard to effect this without
tiie presence of the London attorney; bat he struggled in vain.
Mr. Bound was not the man to allow any stranger to tamper with
his client| and Mr. Dookwrath was forced to lower his flag before
him. The result was that the document or docnments which had
been discovered at Hilmworth were brought up to Bedford Bow ;
and Dookwrath at last made up his mind that as ha could not
supplant Matthew Bound, he would consent to fl^t under him as his
lieutenani--or cTen as his sergeant or corporal, if no higher position
might be allowed to him.

* There is something in it, certainly, Mr. Mason,' said young
Boxmd ; * but I cannot tmdertake to say as yet that we are in a
position to prove the point.'

* It will be proved,' said Mr. Dookwrath.

* I confess it seems to me very clear,' said Mr. Mason, who by this
time had been made to understand the bearings of the question. ' It
is evident that she chose that day for her date because those two
persons had then been called upon to act as witnesses to that other
deed.'

* That of course is our allegation. I only say that we may have
some difficulty in proving it.

' The crafty, thieving swindler !' exclaimed Mr. Mason.

* She has been sharp enough if it is as we think,' said Bound,
laughing ; and then there was nothing more done in the matter
for some time, to the great disgust both of Mr. Dookwrath and
3Ir. Mason. Old Mr. Bound had kept his promise to Mr. Fumival ;
or, at least, had done something towards keeping it. He had not
himself taken the matter into his own hands, but he had begged
his son to be cautious. • It's not the sort of business that we care
for. Mat.,' said he^; * and as for that fellow down in Yorkshire, I
never liked him.' To this Mat. had answered that neither did he
like Mr. Mason ; but as the case had about it some very remarkable

144 ORLET FABM.

points, it was necessary to look into it; and then tlie matter was
allowed to stand over till after Christmas.

We will now change the scene to Noningsby, the judge's country
seat, near Alston, at which a party was assembled for the Christmas
holidays. The judge was there of coiirse, — without his wig; in
which guise I am inclined to think that judges spend the more com
fortable hours of their existence : and there also was Lady Staveley,
her presence at home being altogether a matter of course, inasmuch
as she had no other home than Noningsby. For many years past,
ever since the happy day on which Noningsby had been acquired,
she had repudiated London ; and the poor judge, when called upon
hy his duties to reside there, was compelled to live like a bachelor,
in lodgings. Lady Staveley was a good, motherly, waim-hearterl
woman, who thought a great deal about her flowers and fruit,
believing that no one else had them so excellent, — much also about
her butter and eggs, which in other houses were, in her opinion,
generally unfit to be eaten ; she thought also a great deal about her
children, who were all swans, — though, as she often observed with
a happy sigh, those of her neighbours were so imconimonly like
geese. But she thought most of all of her husband, who in her eyes
was the perfection of all manly viilues. She had made up her
mind that the position of a puisne judge in England was tlie highest
which could fall to the lot of any mere mortal. To become a Lord
Chancellor, or a Lord Chief Justice, or a Chief Baron, a man must
dabble with Parliament, politics, and dirt ; but the bench- fellows
of these politicians were selected for their wisdom, high conduct,
knowledge, and discretion. Of all such selections, that made
by the late king when he chose her husband, was the one which
had done most honour to England, and had been in all its results
most beneficial to Englishmen. Such was her creed with reference
to domestic matters.

The Staveley young people at present were only two in number,
Augustus, namely, and his sister Madeline. The eldest daughter
was married, and therefore, though she spent these Christmas holidays
at Noningsby, must not be regarded as one of the Noningsby
family. Of Augustus we have said enough ; but as I intend that
Madeline Staveley shall, to many of my readers, be the most inte-
resting personage in this storj', I must paiise to say something of
her. I must say something of her ; and as, with all women, the
outward and visible signs of grace and beauty are those Avhich are
thought of the most, or at any rate spoken of the oftenest, I will
begin with her exterior attributes. And that the muses may assist
md in my endeavour, teaching my rough hands to draw with some
accuracy the delicate lines of female beauty, I»now make to them
my humble but earnest praj'er.

Madeline Staveley was at this time about nineteen years of age.

THE 8TAVXLBT FAMILY. 145

Thftt she mui perieofc in lier beant j I cannot ask tlie mtuws to aay^
Imt that she will some daybeoome so, I think the goddesses may be
xeqnested to prophesy. At present she iras Tory slight, snd mp-
peared to be almost too tall for her form. She was indeed above
tfao aversge height of women, and fiom her brother enoonntersd
same ridioole on this head; but not the less were all her morements
soft, graceful, and fownlike as should be those of a yoong girL She
was still at this time a child in heart and spirit, and oonld have
played as a child had not the instinct of a woman taught to her the
expediency of a staid demeanour. There is nothing among the
wonders of womanhood more wonderful than this, that the young
mind and young heart— hearts and minds young as youth can
make them, and in their natures as gay,— can assume the gravity
and discretion of threescore years and maintain it successfully
before all comers. And this is done, not ss a lesson that has been
taught, but ss the result of an instinct implanted fiom the birth.
Let us remember the mirth of our sisters in our homes, and their
altered demeanours when those homes were opened to strangers ;
and remember also that this change had come from the inward
working of their own feminine natures I

But I am altogether departing firom Madeline Staveley's external
graces. It was a pity almost that she should ever have become
grave, because with her it was her smile that was so lovely. She
smiled with her whole foce. There was at such moments a peculiar
laughing light in her gray eyes, which inspired one with an earnest
desire to be in her confidence : she smiled with her soft cheek, the
light tints of which would become a shade more pink from the
excitement, as they softly rippled into dimples ; she smiled with her
forehead which would catch the light from her eyes and arch itself
in its glory ; but above all she smiled with her mouth, just showing,
but hardly showing, the beauty of the pearls within. I never saw
the face of a woman whose mouth was equal in pure beauty, in
beauty that was expressive of feeling, to that of Madeline Staveley.
Many have I seen with a richer lip, with a more luxurious curve,
much more tempting as baits to the villainy and rudeness of man ;
but never one that told so much by its own mute eloquence of a
woman's happy heart and a woman's happy beauty. It was lovely
as I have said in its mirth, but if possible it was still moi-e lovely
in its woe ; for then the lips would separate, and the breath would
come, and in the emotion of her suffering the life of her beauty
would be unrestrained.

Her face was oval, and some might say that it was almost too
thin ; they might say so till they knew it well, but would never say
so when they did so know it. Her complexion was not clear, though
it would be wrong to call her a brunette. Her face and forehead
were never brown, but yet she could not boost the pure pink and

VOL. I. L

146 OSLST FABM.

the pearly white which go to the formation of a clear complexion.
For myself I am not sore that I love a clear, complexion. Pink
and white alone will not giro that hue which seems best to denote
light and life, and to tell of a mind that thinks and of a heart that
feels. I can name no colour in describing the soil changing tints
of Madeline StaTeley's &oe, but I will make bold to say that no
man ever found it insipid or inexpressive.

And now what remains for me to tell? Her nose was Grecian,
but perhaps a little too wide at the nostril to be considered per-
fect in its diiselling. Her hair was soft and brown, — that dark
brown whidi by some lights is almost black ; but she was not a
girl whose loveliness depended much upon her hair. AVith some
women it is their great charm, -*-Keaeras who love to sit half sleep-
ing in the shade, — but it is a charm that possesses no ]X)wcrful
eloquence. All beauty of a high order should speak, and Madeleine's
beauty was ever speaking. And now that I have said that, I believe
that I have told all that may be necessary to place her outward
form before the inward eyes of my readers.

In commencing this description I said that I would begin with
her exterior ; but it seems to me now that in speaking of these I
have sufficiently noted also that which was within. Of her actual
thoughts and deeds up to this period it is not necessar}'^ for our
purposes that an3rthing should be told; but of that which she
might probably think or might possibly do, a fair guess may, I hope,
be made from that which has been already written.

Such was the Staveley &mily. Those of their guests whom it is
neoessary that I should now name, have been already introduced
to us. Miss Fumival was there, as was also her father. He had
Hot intended to make any prolonged stay at Noningsby, — at least
80 he had said in his own drawing-room ; but nevertheless ho had
now been there for a week, and it seemed probable that he might
stay over Christmas-day. And Felix Graham was there. He had
been asked with a special purpose by his friend Augustus, as we
already have heard ; in order, namely, that he might fall in love
with Sophia Fumival, and by the aid of her supposed hatful of
money avoid the evils which would otherwise so probably be the
consequence of his highly impracticable turn of mind. The judge
was not averse to Felix Graham ; but as he himself was a man
essentially practical in all his views, it often occurred that, in his
mild kindly way, he ridiculed the young barrister. And Sir Pere-
grine Orme was there, being absent from home as on a verj- rare
occasion ; and with him of course were Mrs. Orme and his grandson.
Young Perry was making, or was prepared to make, somewhat of
a prolonged stay at Noningsby. He had a horse there %villi him
for the hunting, which was changed now and again ; his groom
going backwards and forwards between that place and The Cleeve.

THE STATELST TAIflLT. 147

Sir Pexegrine, however, intended to return bofore GhristmaSy and
MiB. Qrme would go with him. He had come ioir four days, whidli
for him had been a hmg absence from home, 'and at the end of fhe
fonr days he would be gone.

They were all sitting in the dining-room round the Imicheon-
table on a hopelessly wet morning, listening to a lecture from the
judge on the abomination of eating meat in the middle of the day,
when a senrant came behind young Orme*s chair and told hhn
that Mr. ICason was in the breakfiwt-parlour and wished to see
him.

* Who wishes to see you?' sidd the buronet in a tone of surprise.'
He had caught the name, and thought at the moment that it was
the owner of Groby Park.

* Lucius Mason,* said Peregrine, getting up. * I wonder what he
ean want me for ?*

■* Oh, Lucius Mason,' said the grand&ther. Since the discourse
about agriculture he was not personally much attached even to'
Lucius ; but for his mother's sake he could be forgiTcn«

* Pray ask him into lunch,' said Lady Staveley. Something had
been said about Lady Mason since the Onnes had been at No-
ftingsby, and the StaTeley family were prepared to regard her with
sympathy, and if necessary with the right hand of followship.

* He is the great agriculturist, is he not?' said Augustus. *Bxing
him in by all means ; there is no knowing how much we may not
learn before dinner on such a day as this.'

* He is an ally of mine ; and you must not laugh at him,' said
Miss Fumival, who was sitting next to Augustus.

But Lucius Mason did not come in. Toxmg Ormo remained with
him for about a quarter of an hour, and then returned to the room,
declaring with rather a serious face, that he must ride to Hamworth
and back before dinner.

* Are you going with young Mason ? asked his grandfather.

' Yes, sir ; he wishes me to do something for him at Hamworth,
and I cannot well refuse him.'

' You are not going to fight a duel !' said Lady Staveley, holding
np her hands in horror as the idea came across her brain.

* A duel !' screamed Mrs. Orme. * Oh, Peregrine !'

* There can be nothing of the sort,' said the judge. * I shoidd
think that young Mason is not so foolish ; and I am sure that Pere-
grine Ormo is not'

' I have not heard of anything of the kind,' said Peregrine,
laughing.

' Promise me, Peregrine,' said his mother. ' Say that you pro-
mise me.*

' * My dearest mother, I have no more thought of it than you
haye ; — ^indeed I may say not so much.'

148 OBLET FABM.

* Ton will be back to dinner T said Lady Stavelej.

* Oh yes, certainly.'

* And tell Mr. Mason,* said tbe judge, ' ibat if be will return with
you we sball be deligbted to see bim.'

The errand wbicb took Peregrine Orme off to Hamwortb will be
explained in the next cbapter, but bis going led to a discussiour
among the gentlemen after dinner as to tbe position in wbicb Lad}**
Mason was now placed. Tbere was no longer any possibility of
keeping tbe matter secret, seeing tbat Mr. Dockwratb bad takenr
great care tbat every one in Hamwortb should hear of it. He bad
openly declared tbat evidence would now be adduced to prove tbat
Sir Joseph Mason's widow bad herself forged the will, and had
said to many people that Mr. Mason of Groby had determined tOr
indict her for forgery. This bad gone so far that Lucius bad
declared as openly tbat he would prosecute tbe attorney for a libel,
and Dockwratb had sent him word tbat he was quite welcome to do
60 if be pleased.

* It is a scandalous state of things,* said Sir Peregrine, speaking:
with much enthusiasm, and no little temper, on the subject. * Here
is a question which was settled twenty years ago to the satisfaction!
of every one who knew anything of the case, and now it is brought
up again that two men may wreak their vengeance on a poor widow..
They are not men ; they are brutes.*

* But why does she not bring an action against this attorney ?"
said young Staveley.

* Such actions do not easily lie,' said bis father. ' It may b^
quite true that Dockwratb may have said all manner of evil thingsi
against this lady, and yet it may be very difficult to obtain evidence
of a libel. It seems to me from what I have heard that the main
himself wishes such an action to be brought.'

* And think of the state of poor Lady Mason !' said Mr. Fumival^
* Conceive the misery which it would occasion her if she were
dragged forward to give evidence on such a matter I'

* I believe it would kill her,' said Sir Peregrine.

* The best means of assisting her would be to give her some
countenance,' said the judge ; ' and from all tbat I can Hear of her,,
she deserves it.'

* She does deserve it,' said Sir Peregrine, ' and she sball have it.
The people at Hamwortb shall see at any rate that my daughter
regards her as a fit associate. I am happy to say that she is coming,
to The Cleeve on my return home, and that she will remain there
till after Christmas.'

* It is a very singular case,' said Felix Graham, who bad been
thinking over ^e position of the lady hitherto in silence.

* Indeed it is,' said the judge ; * and it shows how careful men
should be in all matters relating to their wills. Tbe vdll and the

THK STATELET FAMILY. 149

eodicil, as it appean, are both in the liandwriting of the widow,
who acted as an amanuensis not only fbr her hnshand hat for the
mttomej. That fiust does not in mjxnind produce snapicion; hat
I do not doubt that it has produced all this suspicion in the mind
of the claimant. The attorney who advised Sir Joseph should have
known better.'

*It is one of those cases,* continued Graham, *in which the
«nfEiBrer should be protected by the Tory &ct of her own innocence.
So lawyer should consent to take up the cudgels against her.'

* I am afraid that she will not escape persecution from any such
|»rofessional chiyaliy/ said the judge.

* All that is moonshine/ said Mr. FumiyaL

' And moonshine is a very pretty thing if you were not too much
mSaad of the night air to go and look at it. If the matter be
«s you all say, I do think that any gentleman would disgrace him*
aelf by lending a hand against her.'

* Upon my word, sir, I fully agree with you,* said Sir Peregrine,
l)Owing to Felix Graham over his glass.

* I will take permission to think, Sir Peregrine,* said Mr. FumiTal,
* that you would not agree with Mr. Graham if you had given to
the matter much deep consideration.'

* I have not had tiie advantage of a professional education,' said
€ir Peregrine, again bowing, and on this occasion addressing him-
self to the lawyer; * but I cannot see how any amount of learning
ahoald alter my views on such a subject.'

* Truth and honour cannot be altered by any professional arrange-
ments,' said Graham ; and then the conversation turned away from
Lady Mason, and directed itself to those great corrections of legal
veform which had been debated during the past autumn.

The Orley Farm Case, though in other forms and different
language, was being discussed also in the drawing-room. ' I have
not seen much of her,' said Sophia Fumival, who by some art had
usurped the most prominent part in the conversation, ' but what I
^id see I liked much. She was at The Cleove when I was staying
there, if you remember, Mrs. Orme.' Mrs. Orme said that she did
remember.

* And we went over to Orley Farm. Poor lady ! I think evor}'-
t)ody ought to notice her under such circumstances. Papa, I know,
would move heaven and earth for her if he could.'

'I cannot move the heaven or the earth either,' sadd Lady
Staveley ; ' but if I thought that my calling on her would be any
ktisfaction to her '

' It would, Lady Staveley,' said Mrs. Orme. ' It would be a great
intisfaction to her. I cannot tell you how warmly I regard her^
nor how perfectly Sir Peregrine esteems her.'

* We ^vill drive over there next week, Madeline.'

160 OSLXT FASX.

'Do, nunnnia. Ereiybodj flays thai she is Tetj nice.*

* It win be so kind of jon, lady StaTeley/ said Sophia FonuTal.

* Next wedk she will be staying with ns,'said Mis. Orme. ' And
Hmt would sare yoa three miles, yoa know, and we should be fio
f^ad to see yoa/

Lady Staveley declai^ that she wonld do both« She would call
at The Cleere, and again at Orley Farm after Lady Mason's retnm
home. She well understood, though she oonld not hexself then say
so, that the greater part of the adrantage to be reoeived from her
kindness would be deriyed from its being known at Hamworth that
the Staveley carriage had been driven np to Lady Mason's door.

' Her son is very clever, is he not?* said Madeline, addressing
herself to Miss FnmivaL

Sophia shm^ed her shoulders and put her head on one side with
a pretty grace. * Yes, I believe so. People say so. But who is to
tell whether a young man be clever or no ?'

* But some are so much more clever than others. Don't you
think so T

' Oh yes, as some girls are so much prettier than others. But
if Mr. Mason were to talk Greek to you, you would not think him
clever/

' I should not understand him, you know.'

* Of course not ; but you would understand that he was a block-
head to show off his learning in that way. You don't want him
to bo clever, you see ; you only want liim to be agreeable.'

* I don't know that I want either the one or the other.*

* Do you not ? I know I do, I think that young men in society
are bound to be agreeable, and that they should not be there if
they do not know how to talk pleasantly, and to give something in
return for all the trouble we take for them/

* I don't take any trouble for them/ said Madeline laughing.

* Surely you must, if you only think of it. All ladies do; and so
they ought. But if in return for that a man merely talks Greek
to me, I, for my part, do not think that the bargain is fairly carried
out/

* 1 declare you will make me quite afmid of Mr. Mason.'

* Oh, he never talks Greek : — at least he never has io me. 1
rather like him. But what I mean is this, tliat I do not think a
man a bit more likely to be agreeable because he has the reputation
of being very clever. For my part I rather think that I like stupid
young men.'

* Oh, do you ? Then now I shall know what you think of Aur
gustns. We think he is very clover ; but I do not know any man
who makes himself more popular with young ladies.'

* Ah, then ho is a gay deceiver.'

* lie is gay enough, but I am sure he is no deceiver. A man may

THE STAYIUCY FAMILY. 151

make himself nice to yom^^ ladies without ddoetring ty of them;
may he not ?"

* You most not take me *' aa pied de k lettrey** Miss Staveley^or
I shall bo lost Of course he may* Bat when yonsg gentlemen
are so very nioe» young ladies are so iq[>t to *

* To whatr

* Not to fidl in love with them exactly » hot to be ready to he fidlen
in love with ; and then if a man does do it he is a deoeiTer. I deelaie
it seems to me that we don't allow them a chance of gokig right.'

' I think that Augustas manages to steer throagih soch difficaltieB
veiy cleverly.'

* He sails about in the open sea, teaching at all the most loveliy
capes and promontories, and is ncTer driven on shove by stress of
weather ! What a happy sailor he must be I'

' I think he is happy, and that he makes others so.'

* He ought to be made an admiral at once. But we shall hear
some day of his coming to a terrible shipwreck.'

'Oh, I hope not r

* He will return home in desperate pli^it, with only two plaaka
left tc^ther, with all his glory and beauty broken and crumpled to
pieces against some rock that he has despised in his pride.'

* AVhy do you prophesy such terrible things for him?*

* I mean that he will get manied.'

* Get manied I of course he wilL That's just what we all wasit*
You don't call that a shipwreck ; do you ?

' It's the sort of shipwreck that these very gallant barks have to^
encounter.'

' You don't mean that he'll marry a disagreeable wife !'

* Oh, no ; not in the least. I only mean to say that like other
sons of Adam, he will have to strike his colours. I daro say, if the
truth were known, he has done so already.'

' I am sure he has not'

' I don't at all ask to know his secrets, and I should look upoi>
you as a very bad sister if you told them.'

' But I am sure he has not got any, — of that kind.'

« Would he tell you if he had ?'

' Oh, I hope so ; any serious secret I am sure he ought, for I
am always thinking about him.'

* And would you tell him your secrets ?'

* I have none.'

* But when you have, will you do so ?*

' Will I ? Well, yes ; I think so. But a girl has no such socrot,*^
she continued to say, after pausing for a moment. ' I^'odc, generally,
at least, which she tells, even to herself, till the time comes in
which she tells it to all whom she really loves.' And then there:
was another pause for a moment ;

152 ORLKT FABtf.

« I am not quite so sore of that,' said Miss FumiyaL After which
the gentlemen came into the drawing-room.

Augostns Staveley had gone to work in a manner which he con-
oeived to he quite 83r8iemat]c, having before him the praiseworthy
object of making a match between Felix Graham and Sophia Fur-
nival. * By George, Graham/ he had said, * the finest girl in
London is coming down to Noningsby; upon my word I think
she is.'

' And brought there expressly for your delectation, I suppose.'

* Oh no, not at all ; indeed, she is not exactly in my style ; she is
too, — too, — too — in point of fact, too much of a girl for me. She
has lots of money, and is very clever, and all that kind of thing.'

' I never knew you so humble before.'

* I am not joking at all. She is a daughter of old Fumival's,
whom by-the-by I hate as I do poison. Why my governor has
liim down at Noningsby I can't guess. But I tell you what, old
-fellow, he can give his daughter five-and-twenty thousand pounds.
Think of that, Master Brook.' But Felix Graham was a man who
•eould not bring himself to think much of such things on the spur of
•the moment, and when he was introduced to Sophia, he did not
seem to be taken with her in any wonderful way.

Augustus had asked his mother to help him, but she had laughed
at him. * It would be a splendid arrangement,' he had said with
-energy. * Nonsense, Gus/ she had answered. * You should always
let those things take their chance. All I >vill ask of you is that
you don't fall in love with her yourself; I don't think her famOy
^would be nice enough for you.'

But Felix Graham certainly was ungrateful for the friendship
«pent upon him, and so his friend felt it. Augustus had contrived
io whisper into the lady's ear that Mr. Graham was the cleverest
young man now rising at the bar, and as far as she was concerned,
«ome amount of intimacy might at any rate have been produced ;
but he, Graham himself, would not put himself forward. * I will
pique him into it,' said Augustus to himself, and therefore when on
this occasion they came into the drawing-room, Staveley imme-
diately took a vacant seat beside Miss Funiival, with the very
friendly object which he had pix>posed to himself.

There was great danger in this, for Miss Fumival was certainly
handsome, and Augustus Staveley was very susceptible. But what
will not a man go through for his friend ? * I hope we are to have
the honour of your company as far as Monktou Grange the day
we meet there,' he said. The hoimds were to meet at Monkton
Grange, some ^ven miles from Noningsby, and all the sportsmen
from the house were to be there.

* I shall be delighted,' said Sophia, ' that is to say if a seat in the
carriage can be spared for me.'

THE STAYSLXT FAXILT. 158

* Bat well mount yon. I know tliat yon are a hoxeewomaa.'
In answer to whioh Mias Fumiyal oonfessed that she was a hoxve-
woman, and owned also to having brought a habit and hat with her.

^ * That will be delightfoL Madeline will ride also, and yon will
meet the Miss Tristxams, They are the fiunons horsewomen of this
part of the oountry /

* Yon don*t mean that they go after the dogs, across the hedges.*

* Indeed they do.*

' And does Miss Staveley do that?*

* Oh, no— -Madeline is not good at a fiTO-barred gate, and would
make but a vexy bod hand at a double ditch. If you are inclined
to remain among the tame people, she will be true to your side.'

* I shall certainly be one of the tame people, Mr. Staveley.'

* I rather think I shall be with you myself; I have only one
horse that will jump well, and Graham will ride him. By-the-by,
Miss Fumival, what do you think of my friend Graham?*

* Think of him I Am I bound to have thought anything about
him by this time?*

* Of course you are;— or at any rate of course you have. I have
no doubt tl^it you have composed in your own mhid an essay on the
character of everybody here. People who think at all always do.'

* Do they? My essay upon him then is a very short one.'

* But perhaps not the less correct on that account You must
allow me to re^d it.'

* Like all my other essays of that kind, Mr. Staveley, it has been
composed solely for my own use, and will be kept quite private.'

* I am so Sony for that, for I intended to propose a bargain to
you* If you would have shown me some of your essays, I would
have been equally liberal with some of mine.' And in this way,
before the evening was over, Augustus Staveloy and Miss Fumival
became very good friends.

* Upon my word she is a very clever girl,' he said afterwards, as
young Orme and Graham were sitting with him in an outside room
which had been fitted up for smoking.

* And uncommonly handsome/ said Peregrine.

* And they say she'll have lots of money,' said Graham. ' After
all, Staveley, perhaps you could not do better.'

* She*s not my style at all,' said he. * But of course a man is
obliged to be civil to girls in his own house.' And then they all
went to bed.

CHAPTEB XX.

MR. DOCKWEATH IK HIS OWN OFFICE.

Ix the conversation whicb had taken place after dinner at N^o-
ningsby with regard to the Masons Peregrine Orme took no part,
but his silence had not arisen from any want of interest on the
subject. He had been over to Hamworth that day on a very special
mission regarding it, and as he was not inclined to speak of what he
had then seen and done, he held his tongue altogether.

' I want you to do me a great favour,' Lucius had said to him,
when the two were together in the breakfast-parlour of Noningsby ;

• but I am afraid it will give you some trouble.'

* I sha*n*t mind that,' said Peregrine, * if that's all.'

' Ton have heard of this row about Joseph Mason and my mother ?
It has been so talked of that I fear you must have heard it.'

* About the lawsuit? Oh yes. It has certainly been spoken of
at The Cleeve.'

* Of course it has. All the world is talking of it. Now there is
a man named Dockwrath in Hamworth — ;' and then he went on
to explain how it had reached him from various quarters that
Mr. Dockwrath was accusing his mother of the crime of forgery ;
how he had endeavoured to persuade his mother to indict the man
for libel ; how his mother had pleaded to him with tears in her eyes
that she found it impossible to go through such an ordeal; and
how he, therefore, had resolved to go himself to Mr. Dockwrath,

* But,' said he, ' I must have some one with me, some gentleman
whom I can trust, and therefore I have ridden over to ask you to
accompany me as far as Hamworth.'

* I suppose he is not a man that you can kick,' said Peregrine.

* I am afraid not,' said Lucius ; • he*s over forty years old, and
has dozens of children.'

* And then he is such a low besust,' said Peregrine.

* I have no idea of kicking him, but I think it would be wrong to
allow him to go on saying these frightful things of my mother,
without showing him that we are not afraid of him.' Upon this the
two young men got on horseback, and riding into Hamworth, put
their horses up at the inn.

MB. DOCKWRATH DC HIS OWN OfTIOE. 155

. * And now Isnx>po8ewe might m well go at onoe,' said Peregrine,
with a Teiy ■erions fooe.

* YeOi' said the other ; * there's nothisg to deky ns. I oamioi
tell you how much obliged I am to yon for coming with me.'

* Ohy don't say anything about that; of conrae l*m only toe
happy.' Bnt all the same he felt that his heart was beating, and
that he was a little nervous. Had he been oaUed npon to go in and
thrash somebody, he would have been ^te at home; but he did
not feel at his ease in making an inimical Tiaii to an attorney's
cAce*

It would have been wise, perhaps, if in this matter Lnoius had
aobmitted himself .to Lady Mason's wishes* On the previous
evening they had talked the matter over with muoh seruyui enexgy.
Lucius had been told in the streets of Hamworth by an inters
meddling little busybody of an iy>otheoary that it behoved him- to
do something, as Mr. Dookwrath was making greviona aoeosationi
against his mother. Luoius had replied hanghtily, that he and hia
mother would know how to protect themselvea, and the apothecaiy
had retreated, resolving to i^read the report eveiywhese. Lueina
on his return home had declared to the unfortunate lady that she
had now no alternative left to her.. She must bring an action against
the man, or at any rate put the matter into the haAds of ^ a lawyer
with a view of ascertaining whether she ooulddo sO with any chance
cf success. If she could not, she must then make known her reason
for remaining quiet. In answer to this. Lady Mason had begun by
praying her son to allow the matter to pass by.

* Bnt it will not pass by,' Luoius had said.

' Yes, dearest, if we leave it, it will, — in a month or two. We
can do nothing by interference. Semember the old saying. You
cannot touch pitch without being defiled.'

'But Lucius had replied,' almost with anger, that the pitch had
already touched him, and that he was defiled. ' I cannot consent
to hold the property,' he had said, * unless something be done.'
And then his mother had bowed her head as she sat, and had covered
her face with her hands.

* I shall go to the man myself,' Lucius had declared with energy^

* As your mother, Lucius, I implore you not to do so,' she had said
to him through her tears.

' I must either do that or leave the countiy. It is impossible
that I should live hero, hearing such things said of you, and doing
nothing to clear your name.' To this she had made no actual reply,
and now he was standing at the attorney's door about to do that
which he had threatened.

They found Mr. Dockwrath sitting at his desk at the other side
of which was seated his clerk. He had not yet promoted himself to
the dignity of a private o£9ce, but generally used his parlour- as

156 OBLET rABH.

auch wKen he was deBirous of seeing his clients without cUsturbance.
On this occasion, howeyer, when he saw young Mason enter, he
made no offer to withdraw. His hat was on his head as he sat on
his stool, and he did not even take it off as he returned the stiff
oalntation of his visitor. * Keep your hat on your head Mr. Orme,'
he said, as Peregrine was about to take his off. * Well, gentlemen,
%vhat can I do for you V

Lucius looked at the clerk, and felt that there would be great
difficulty in talking about his mother before such a witness. * Wo
wish to see you in private, Mr. Dockwrath, for a few minutes — ^if it
be convenient.*

* Is not this private enough ?* said Dockwrath. * There is no one
here but my confidential clerk.'

* If you could make it convenient———' began Lucius.

* Well, then, Mr. Mason, I cannot make it convenient, and there
is the long and the short of it. You have brought Mr. Orme with
you to hear what you've got to say, and I choose that my clerk
shall remain by to hear it also. Seeing the position in which you
etand there is no knowing what may come of such an interview
as this.'

* In what position do I stand, sir ?'

* If you don't know, Mr. Mason, I am not going to tell you. I
feel for you, I do upon my word. I feel for you, and I pity you.'
Mr. Dockwrath as he thus expressed his commiseration was sitting
with his high chair tilted back, with his knees against the edge of
his desk, with his hat almost down upon his nose as ho looked at
his visitors from under it, and he amused himself by cutting up
a quill pen into small pieces with his penknife. It was not pleasant
to be pitied by such a man as that, and so Peregrine Orme con-
ceived.

' Sir, that is nonsense,' said Lucius. * I require no pity from you
or from any man.'

* I don't suppose there is one in all Hamworth that does not feel
for you,' said Dockwrath.

* He means to be impudent,' said Peregrine. * You had better
come to the point with him at once.'

' No, I don't mean to be impudent, young gentleman. A man
may speak his own mind in his own house I suppose without any
impudence. You wouldn't stand cap in hand to me if I were to go
down to you at Tho Cleevo.

' I have come here to ask of you,' said Lucius, * whether it be
true that you are spreading these reports about the town with
reference to Lady Mason. If you are a man you will tell me the
truth.'

* Well ; I rather think I am a man.'

* It is necessary that Lady Mason should be protected from such

HB. DOOKWRATH IN HI8 OWN OVFICX. 157

Infiuniyiis fiJaehoods, and it may be neoemxy to bring tbe matter

into a court of law *

* Ton may be quite eai^ about that, Ifr. Ifaion. It irill be

' Ab it may be neoeasaiy, I vndi to know whether you will ao»
knowledge that these reports haye come from you ?*

* You want me to give evidence against myself. Well, for once
in a way I don't mind if I do. The reports have come from me.
Now, is that manly f And Mr. Dockwrath, as he spoke, pushed his
hat somewhat off his nose, and looked steadily across into the &oe
of his opponent.

Lucius Mason was too young for the task which he had under-
taken, and allowed himself to be disconcerted. He had expected
that the lawyer would deny the chaige, and was prepared for
what he woidd say and do in such a case ; but now he was not
prepared.

* How on earth could you bring yourself to be guilty of such
villainy?* said young Orme.

* Highty-tighty ! What are you talking about, young man? The
fieu^t is, you do not know what you are talking about But as I have
a respect for your grandfather and for your mother I will give you
and them a piece of advice, gratis. Don't let them be too thick
with Lady Mason till they see how this matter goes.'

* Mr. Dockwrath,' said Lucius, * you are a mean, low, vile
scoundrel.'

* Veiy well, sir. Adams, just take a note of that Don't mind
vrhat Mr. Orme said. I can easily excuse him. He'll know the
truth before long, and then he'll bog my pardon.'

* I'll take my oath I look upon you as the greatest miscreant that
ever I met,' said Peregrine, who was of course bound to support his
friend.

* You'll change your mind, Mr. Orme, before long, and then you'll
find that you have met a worse miscreant than I am. Did you put
down those words, Adams ?'

* Them as Mr. Mason spoke ? Yes ; I've got them down.'

* Head them,' said the master.

And the clerk read them, * Mr. Dockwrath, you are a mean, low^
vile Bcoundrel.*

* And now, young gentlemen, if you have got nothing else to
observe, as I am rather busy, perhaps you will allow me to wish yon
good morning.'

* Very well, Mr. Dockwrath,' said Mason ; • you may be sure that
you will hear further from me.'

* We shall be sure to hear of each other. There is no doubt iu
the world about that,' said the attorney. And then the two young
men withdrew with an imexpressed feeling in the mind of each of

158 OBLET FABH.

them, that they had not so completely got the better of their anta-
gonist as the justice of their case demanded.

They then remounted their horses, and Orme accompanied his
firiend as far as Orley Farm, from whence he got into the Alston
road through Tlie ClecTe grounds. • And what do you intend to do
now ?' said Peregrine as soon as they were mounted.

* I shall employ a lawyer,* said he, * on my own footing ; not Iny
mother's lawyer, but some one else. Then I suppose I shall be
guided by his advice.' Had he done this before he made his visit to
Mr. Dockwrath, perhaps it might have been better. All this sat
very heavily on poor Peregrine's mind ; and therefore as the company
were talking about Lady Mason after dinner, he remained silent,
listening, but not joining in the conversation.

The whole of that evening Lucius and his mother sat together,
saying nothing. There was not absolutely any quarrel between
them, but on this terrible subject there was an utter want of ac-
cordance, and almost of sympathy. It was not that Lucius had ever
for a moment suspected his mother of aught that was wrong. Had
he done so he might perhaps have been more gentle towards her
in his thoughts and words. He not only fully trusted her, but he
was quite fixed in his confidence that nothing could shake either
her or him in their rights. But under these circumstances he could
not understand how she coidd consent to endure without resistance
the indignities which were put upon her. * She should combat
them for my sake, if not for her own,' he said to himself over and
over again. And he had said so also to her, but his words had had
no effect.

She, on the other hand, felt that he was cruel to her. She was
weighed down almost to the ground by these sufferings which had
&llen on her, and yet he would not be gentle and soft to her. She
could have borne it all, she thought, if he would have borne with
her. She still hoped that if she remained quiet no further trial
would take place. At any rate this might be so. That it would be
60 she had the assurance of Mr. Fumival. And yet all this evil
which she dreaded worse than death was to be precipitated on her
oy her son ! So they sat through the long evening, speechless ; each
seated with the pretence of reading, but neither of them capable of
the attention which a book requires.

He did not tell her then that he had been with Mr. Dockwrath,
but she knew by his manner that he had taken some terrible step.
She waited patiently the whole evening, hoping that he would tell
her, but when the hour came for her to go up to her room he had
told her nothing. If he now were to turn against her, that would
be worse than all ! She went up to her room and sat herself down
to think. All that passed through her brain on that night I .ma}'-
not now teU ; but the grief which pressed on her at this moment

MB. DOCKWBATH HT HIB OWN OFFIOK. 169

xriSi peculiar weight waa the adf-will and obatiiiaoy of lier boy;
She aaid to herself that she would be willing now to die,-^to give
back her life at <»ee, if anch might be God'a pleaaure ; bat that
her son should bringKlown her hairs with dliame and sonow to the

grave ! In that thought there was a bitterness of agony which

ahe knew not how to endurel

The next morning at breakfast he still remained silent, and his
brow was still black. * Lucius/ she said, ' did you do anything in
that matter yesterday ?*

* Yes, mother ; I saw Mr. Dockwrath.'
•WeU?*

* I took Peregrine Orme with me that I might have a witness^
and I then asked him whether he had spread these reports. He ac-
knowledged tb»t ne had done so, and I tdd him that he was a
Tillain/

Upon hearing this she uttered a long, low sigh, but she said
nothing. "What use could there now be in her saying aught ? Her
look of agony went to the young man's heart, but he still thought
that he had been right. * Mother,' he continued to say, ' I am Tery
sorry to griere you in this way ; — ^veiy sorry. But I could not hold
np my head in Hamworth, — I could not hold up my head anywhere,
if I heard these things said of you and did not resent it.'

* Ah, Lucius, if you knew the weakness of a woman !*

* And therefore you should let me bear it all. There is nothing
I would not suffer ; no cost I would not imdei^ rather than you
should endure all this. If you would only say that you would leave
it to me !'

* But it cannot be loft to you. I have gone to a lawyer, to Mr.
Fumival. Why will you not permit that I should act in it as he
thinks best ? Can you not believe that that will be the best for both
of us?'

* If you wish it, I will see Mr. Fumival ?'

Lady Mason did not wish that, but she was obliged so far to yield
as to say that he might do so if he would. Her wish was that he
should bear it all aud say nothing. It was not that she was indif-
ferent to good repute among her neighbours, or that she was careless
as to what the apothecaries and attorneys said of her ; but it was
easier for her to bear the evil than to combat it. The Ormes and
the Fumivals would support her. They and such-like persons
would acknowledge her weakness, and would know that from her
would not be expected such loud outbursting indignation as mighi
be expected from a man. She had calculated the strength of her
own weakness, and thought that she might still be supported by
that, — if only her son would so permit.

It was two days after this that Lucius was allowed the honour of
a conference by appointment with the great lawyer ; and at the ex-

160 OBLEY FABM.

piration of an hour's delay lie was shown into the room hy Mr. Crab-
witB, • And, Crabwitz/ said the barrister, before he addressed him-
self to his young friend, * just run your eye over those papers, and let
Mr. Bideawhile have them to-morrow moming ; and, Crabwitz .'

* Yes, sir.'

* That opinion of Sir Bichard's in the Ahatualpaca Mining Con>
pany — I have not seen it^ have I ?'

* It's all ready, Mr. Fumival/

* I will look at it in five minutes. And now, my young friend,
what can I do for you ?'

It was quite clear from Mr. Fumival's tone and manner that ho
did not mean to devote much time to Lucius Mason, and that he
was not generally anxious to hold any conversation with him on the
subject in question. Such, indeed, was the case. Mr. Fumival
was determined to pull Lady Mason out of the sea of trouble into
which she had fallen, let the e£fort cost him what it might, but ho
did not wish to do so by the instrumentality, or even with the aid,
of her son.

* Mr. Fumival,' began Mason, • I want to ask your advice about
these dreadful reports which are being spread on every side in
Hamworth about my mother.*

* If you will allow me then to say so, I think that the course
which you should pursue is very simple. Indeed there is, I think,
only one course which you can pursue with proper deference to
your mother's feelings.'

* And what is that, Mr. Fumival ?'

* Do nothing, and say nothing. I fear from what I have heard
that you have already done and said much more than was prudent.'

* But how am I to hear such things as these spoken of my own
mother?'

* That depends on the people by whom the things are spoken. In
this world, if we meet a chimney-sweep in the path we do not hustle
with him for the right of way. Your mother is going next week
to The Cleeve. It was only yesterday that I heai-d that the
Noningsby people are going to call on her. You can hardly, I
suppose, desire for your mother better friends than such as these.
And can you not understand why such people gather to her at this
moment ? If you can understand it you will not trouble yourself to
interfere much more with Mr. Dockwrath.*

There was a rebuke in this which Lucius Mason was forced to
endure; but nevertheless as he retreated disconcerted from the
barrister's chambers, he could not bring himself to think it right
that such calumny should be borne without resistance. He knew
but little as yet of the ordinary life of gentlemen in England ; but
he did know, — so at least he thought, — that it was the duty of a son
to shield his mother from insult and libel.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHRISTMAS IN HARLEY STREET.

It seems singular to me myself, considering tbe idea which I have
in my own mind of the character of Lady Staveley, that I should
be driven to declare that about this time she committed an unpar-
donable offence, not only against good nature, but also against the
domestic proprieties. But I am driven so to say, although she
herself was of all women the most good-natured and most domestic ;
for she asked Mr. Fumival to pass his Christmas-day at Noningsby,
and I find it impossible to forgive her that offence against the poor
wife whom in that case he must leave alone by her desolate hearth.
She knew that ho was a married man as well as I do. Sophia, who
bad a proper regard for the domestic peace of her parents, and who
could have been happy at Noningsby without a father's care, not
unfrequently spoke of her, so that her existence in Harley Street
might not be forgotten by the Staveleys — explaining, however, as
fihe did so, that her dear mother never left her own fireside in
winter, so that no suspicion might be entertained that an invitation
was desired for her also ; nevertheless, in spite of all this, on two
separate occasions did Lady Staveley say to Mr. Fumival that he
might as well prolong his visit over Christmas.

And yet Lady Staveley was not attached to Mr. Fumival with
any peculiar warmth of friendship ; but she was one of those women
whose foolish hearts will not allow themselves to be controlled in
the exercise of their hospitality. Her nature demanded of her that
she should ask a guest to stay. She would not have allowed a dog
to depart from her house at this season of the year, without suggest-
ing to him that he had better take his Christmas bone in her yard.
It was for Mr. Fumival to adjust all matters between himself and
his wife. He was not bound to accept the invitation because she
gave it ; but she, finding him there, already present in the house,
did feel herself bound to give it ; — for which offence, as I have said
before, I cannot bring myself to forgive her.

At his sin in staying away from home, or rather — as far as the
story has yet carried us — in thinking that he would do so, I am by
no means so much surprised. An angry ill-pleased wife is no plea-
stmt companion for a gentleman on a long evening. For those who

VOL, I. H

162 OBLEY FARM.

have managed tliat things shall run smoothly over the domestic rug
there is no happier time of life than these long candlelight hours of
home and silence. No spoken content or uttered satisfaction is
necessary. The fact that is felt is enough for peace. But when
the fact is not felt ; when the fact is by no means there ; when the
thoughts are running in a direction altogether different; when
bitter grievances from one to the other fill the heart, rather than
memories of mutual kindness ; then, I nay, those long candlelight
hours of home and silence are not easy of endurance. Mr. Fumival
was a man who chose to be the master of his own destiny, « so at
least to himself he boasted ; and therefore when he found himself
enoountered by black looks and occasionally by sullen words, he
ddolared to himself that he was ill-used and that he would not bear
it. Since the domestic rose would no l(»iger yield him honey, he
would seek his sweets from tiie stray honeysuckle on which there
gzew no Ukasna^

Mr. Fnmival was no coward. He waa not one of those men who
wrong their wives by their absence, and then prolong their absence
because they are afcaid to meet th^ wives. His resolve was to
be &ee himaelf, and to be free without complaint from her. He
would have it so, that he might remain out of his own house for a
month at the time and then return to it £Dr a week — at any rate
without outward bickerings. I have known other men who have
dreamed of sack a state of things, bat at this moment I can remember
mone who have brought their dream to bear.

Mr. Furnival had written to his wife, — not from Noningsby, but
from some provincial town, probably situated among the Essex
marshes, — saying various things, and among others that he should
not, as he thought, be at home at Chrifitma6-day. Mrs. Fumival
had remarked about a fortnight since that Christmas-day was
nothing to her now ; and the base man, for it was base, had hung
upon this poor, sore-hearted word an excuse for remaining away
from home. * There are lawyers of repute staying at Noningsby,'
he had said, * with whom it is very expedient that I should remain
at this present crisis.* — When yet has there been no crisis present to
a man who has wanted an excuse ? — * And therefore I may probably
stay,' — ^and so on. "Who does not know the false mixture of excuse
and defiance which such a letter is sure to maintain ; the crafty words
which may be taken as adequate reason if the receiver be timid
enough so to receive them, or as a noisy gauntlet thrown to the
ground if there be spirit there for the picking of it up ? Such letter
from his little borough in the Essex marshes did Mr. Fumival write
to the partner of his cares, and there was still sufficient spiiit left for
the picking up of the gauntlet. * I shall be home to-morrow,* the
letter had gone on to say, * but I will not keep you waiting for
dinner, as my hours are always so unceiiain. I shall be at my

GHBISTICAS JX HABLBT 8TBEST. 16&

ohaoiben till late, and will be -with 70a before tea. I will tben
retam to Akton on the fbUowiag moning/ There was at any xatar
good ooonige in this on the part of Mr. Fnni^;: — great commge;
but with it coldnem of heart, diahonesty of purpose, and b]iA)k
ingratitude. Had she not given eTerjthing to him ?

M 18. Famiral when she got the letter was not alone. * TherOr'
said she, throwing it over toa lady who^uit on the other side of the,
firepkee hsndling a loose sprawling masa of not veiy dean
cvochet-work. * I knew he woold stay away on Chriatmae-day.
I told yon so.*

* I didn't think it possible,' said Miss Biggs, rolling up the big
ball of soiled eotton, that she mig^ read Mr. Fnznival's letter at
her leisure. * I didn't really think it posBihle--*on Christmassy I
Snrely, Mn. Frnnival, he oan't mean Chnstmas-day ? Dear, deaae;
dear! and then to throw it in your £Ma in thai way that yon sail
yott didn't care about it'

*Qf oonrse I said so,' answered Mm. FnmiTal. * I.was not going
to ask him to come home a»a &vonr.'

* Not to make a fitvoor of it, of oonrse not.' This was Miss Biggs

from . I am afi»id if Itell the truth I mnst say that she came

from BedLion Sqnsze! And yet nothing ooidd bemore respectable
than Miss B^ggs. Her &ther had been a partner with an nnde of
Mrs-FomiTal's; and when Kitty Blacker had given herself and her
yoong prettinesses to the hardworking lawyer, Martha Biggs had
stood at the altar with her, then just seventeen years of age, and
had promised to her all manner of success for her coming life.
Martha Biggs had never, not even then, been pretty ; but she had
been veiy faithful. She had not been a favourite, with Mr. Fur-
nival, having neither wit nor grace to recommend her, and therefore
in the old happy days of Keppel Street she had been kept in the
background ; but now, in this present time of her adversity, Mrs.
Fumival found the benefit of having a trusty fiiend.

* If he likes better to be with these people down at Alston, I am
sure it is the same to me,' said the injured wife.

' But there's nobody special at Alston, is there T asked Miss Biggs,
whose sold sighed for a tale more piquant than one of mere general
neglect She know that her friend had dreadful suspicions, but
Mrs. Fumival had never as yet committed herself by uttering the
name of any woman as her rival. Miss Biggs thought that a time
had now come in which the strength of their mutual confidence
demanded that such name should be uttered. It could not be-
expected that she should sympathize with generalities for ever. She
longed to hate, to reprobate, and to shudder at the actual name of
the wretch who had robbed her friend of a husband's heart. And
therefore she asked the question, * There's nobody special at Alston,
is there ?'

164 OBLET FABM.

Now Mrs. Fumival knew to a furlong the distance from
Noningsby to Orley Farm, and knew also that the station at Ham-
worth was only twenty-five minutes from that at Alston. She gave
no immediate answer, but threw up her head and shook her nostrils,
as though she were preparing for war ; and then Miss Martha Biggs
knew that there was somebody special at Alston. Between such
old friends why should not the name be mentioned ?

On the following day the two ladies dined at six, and then waited
tea patiently till ten. Had the thirst of a desert been raging within
, that drawing-room, and had tea been within immediate call, those
ladies would have died ere they would have asked for it before his
return. He had said he would be home to tea, and they would have
waited for him, had it been till four o'clock in the morning ! Let
the female married victim ever make the most of such positive
wrongs as Providence may vouchsafe to her. Had Mrs. Fumival
ordered tea on this evening before her husband's return, she would
haye been a woman blind to the advantages of her own position.
At ten the wheels of Mr. Fumival's cab were he€u*d, and the faces of
both the ladies prepared themselves for the encounter.

• Well, ELitty, how are you?* said Mr. Fumival, entering the room
with his arms prepared for a premeditated embrace. * What, Miss
Biggs with you ? I did not know. How do you do. Miss Biggs ?'
and Mr. Fumival extended his hand to the lady. They both looked
at him, and they could tell from the brightness of his eye and
from the colour of his nose that he had been dining at his club,
and that the bin with the precious cork had been visited on his
behalf.

• Yes, my dear ; it's rather lonely being here in this big room all
by oneself so long ; so I asked Martha Biggs to come over to me.
I suppose there*s no harm in that.'

• Oh, if I'm in the way,* began IMiss Biggs, * or if Mr. Fumival is
going to stay at home for long '

• You are not in the way, and I am not going to stay at home for
long,' said Mr. Fumival, speaking with a voice that was perhaps a
littlo thick, — only a very little thick. No wife on good terms with
her husband would have deigned to notice, even in her own mind,
an amount of thickness of voice which was so very inconsiderable.
But Mrs. Fumival at the present moment did notice it.

• Oh, I did not know,' said Miss Biggs.

• You know now,' said Mr. Fumival, whose ear at once appreciated
the hostility of tone which had been assumed.

' You need not be rude to my friend after she has been waiting
tea for you till near eleven o'clock,' said Mrs. Fumival. * It is
nothing to me, but you should remember that she is not used to it.'

• I wasn't rude to your friend, and who asked you to wait tea till
near eleven o'clock ? It is only just ten now, if that signifies.'

CHBISniAS m HABLXT 8TBSET. 165

* Ton ezpreaaly desired me to wait tea, Mr. FundvaL I have got
jcmr letter, and will show it yoa if yon wish it.'
' * Nonaeiifle ; I just said I ahould be homo » *

* Of oonzse you just said yoa would be home, and 00 we

and it's not nonsense ; and I declare 1 Neyer mind, "Mar^h^^

don't mind me, there's a good creature. I shall get over it soon-;'
and then &t, solid, good-humoured Mrs. Fumival burst out into
an hysterical fit of sobbing. There was a welcome for a man on
his return to his home after a day's labour !

Miss Biggs immediately got up and came round behind the
drawing-room table to her friend's head. * Be calm, Mrs. Fumival,'
she said ; * do be cahn, and then you will be better soon. Here is
the hartshorn.'

* It doesn't matter, Martha : never mind : leave me alone,' sobbed
the poor woman.

* May I be excused for asking what is really the matter?" said
Mr. Fumival, ' for 111 be whipped if I know.' Miss Biggs looked
at him as if she thought that he ought to be whipped.

* I wonder you ever come near the place at all, I do,' said
Mrs. FumivaL

* What place ?* asked Mr. FumivaL

* This house in which I am obliged to live by myself, vnthout at
soul to speak to, unless when Martha Biggs comes here.'

' Which would be much more frequent, only that I know I am.,
not welcome to everybody.*

* I know that you hato it. How can I help knowing it? — and
you hate me too ; I know you do ; — and I believe you would be
glad if you need never come back hero at all ; I do. Don't,
Martha ; leave me alone. I don't want all that fuss. There ;• I can.,
hear it now, whatever it is*. Do you choose to have your tea,
Mr. Fumival ? or do you wish to keep the servants waiting out of. •
their beds all night ?'

« X) the servants,' said Mr. Fumival.

' Oh laws !' exclaimed Miss Biggs, jumping up out of her chair
vtrith her hands and fingers outstretched, as though never, never in
her life l>cfore, had her ears been wounded by such wicked words
as those.

* Mr. Fumival, I am ashamed of you,' said his wife with gathered
calmness of stem reproach.

^Ir. Fumival was very wrong to swear ; doubly wrong to swear
before his wife ; trebly wrong to swear before a lady visitor ; but it
must be confessed that there was provocation. That he was at this
present period of his life behaving badly to his wife must be
allowed, but on this special evening he had intended to behave well.
The woman had sought a ground of quarrel against him, and had
driven him on till he had forgotten himself in his present after* ..

166 OXLCr FABM.

dixmcr humour. Wlien a man is maintaining a whole hoosehold on
hia own shoulders, and working hard to maintain it well, it is not
right that he should be brought to book because he keeps the
servants up half an hour later than usual to wash the tea-things.
It is Tory proper that the idle members of the establishment should
conform to hours, but these hours must give way to his require-
ments. In those old dajs <^ which we have spoken so often he
might have had his tea at twelve, one, two, or throe without a
murmur. Though their staff of servants then was scanty enough,
there was never a difficulty then in supplying any such want for
him. If no other pair of hands could boil the kettle, there was one
pair of hands there which no amount of such work on his behalf
could tire. But now, because he had come in for his tea at ten
o'clock, he was asked if he intended to keep the servants out of
their beds all night I

* Oh laws !' said Miss Bi^s, jumping up from her chair as though
she had been electrified.

Mr. Pumival did not think it consistent with his dignity to keep
up any dispute in the presence of Miss Bi^^, and^ therefore sat
himself down in his accustomed chair without further speech.
* Would you wish to have tea now, Mr. Fumival ?* asked his wife
again, putting considerable stress upon the word now.

* I don't care about it,' said he.

* And I am stPro I don't at this late hour,* said Miss Biggs. * But
so tired as you are, dear — '

* Never mind me, Martha ; as for myself, I shall take nothing
now.' And then they all sat without a word for the space of some
five minutes. * If you like to go, Martha/ said Mrs. Fumival, * don't
mind waiting for me.*

* Oh, very well,' and then Miss Biggs took her bed-candle and
left the room. Was it not hard upon her that she should be forced to
absent herself at this moment, when the excitement of the battle was
about to begin in earnest? Her footsteps lingered as she slowly re-
treated from the drawing-room door, and for one instant she absolutely
paused, standing still with eager ears. It was but for an instant,
and then she went on up stairs, out of hearing, and sitting herself

• down by her bedside allowed the battle to rage in her imagination.
Mr. Fumival would have sat there silent till his wife had gone
also, and so the matter would have terminated for that evening, —
had she so willed it But she had been thinking of her miseries ;
and, having come to some sort of resolution to speak of then openly,
what time could she find more appropriate for doing so than the
present ? * Tom,* she said, — and as she spoke there was still a
twinkle of the old love in her eye, * we are not going on together as
well as we should do, — not lately. Would it not be well to make a

. change before it is too late V

CHBISTUAB IH HASBdrr BTB£JBT« ICT

' Wliatctumger 1m asked; notexmetlyiiimflllnBonr, Imtwidi
•ft bnfikj, thiok wwoe. He ^ireiild bave preierred now thmt ahe
diiould have followed ker friend to "bed,

* I do not want to diotate to yon, Tosi, Iwt — ! Ok Tern, if yoa
knew how wretohed I am !'

* What makes you wretched T

* Because you leave me aH akme ; beoauae yoa oare men fSnr
other people than yo« do to me ; because yoa ne«ier like to be at
home, jkGver if yoa can possibly help it. You know yoit don^
You are always away now upon soaM exoase or other; you know
you are. I don't have yon home to diaaer sot one day im the
week through the year. That can't be right, and you know it is
not. Oh Tom ! you are breaking my heart, and decdiving me, —
you are. Why did I go down and find that woman in yoor
chamber with you, when you were ashamed to own to me that she
was coming to see you ? If it had been in the proper way cf law
business, you wouldn't have been ashamed. Oh Tom !'

The poor woman had begun her plaint in a manner that waa not
altogether devoid of a diaoreet eloquence. If *only ahe oould have
maintained that tone, if she could have confined her words to the tab
of her own grievances, and have been contented to dedare that ahe
was unhappy, only because he was not with her, it might have
been well. She might have touched hia heart, or at any rate bia
oonscienoe, and there might have been some enduring resBlt te
good. But her feeluigs had been too many for her, and as her
wrongs came to her mind, and the words heaped themselves upon
her tongiie, she could not keep herself from the one subject whioih
she should have left untouched. Mr. Fumival was not the man to
bear any interference such as this, or to permit the privacy of
Lincoln's Inn to be invaded even by his wife. His brow grew
very black, and his eyes became almost bloodshot. The port wine
which might have worked him to softness, now worked him to
anger, and he thus burst forth with words of marital vigour :

* Let me tell you once for ever, Kitty, that I vrill admit of no
interference with what I do, or the people whom I may choose to
see in my chambers in Lincoln's Inn. If you are such an in&tn-
ated simpleton as to believe — *

* Yes ; of course I am a simpleton ; of course I am a fool ; women
always arc.'

* Listen to me, vrill you T

* Listen, yes ; it's my business to listen. Would you like that I
should ^ve this house up for her, and go into lodgings somewhere ?
I shall have very little objection as matters are going now. Oh
dear, oh dear, that things should ever have come to this !'

* Cume to what?'

' Tom, I could put up with a great deal, — more I think than most

188 OBLET FABM.

women; I could slave for you like a dnidge, and think nothing
about it. And now that you have got among grand people, I could
Bee you go out by yourself without thinking much about that
either. I am very lonely sometimes, — very ; but I could bear that.
Nobody has longed to see you rise in the world half so anxious as I
have done. But, Tom, when I know what your goings on are with
a nasty, sly, false woman like that, I won't bear it ; and there's an
end.' In saying which final words Mrs. Fumival rose from her
seat, and thrice struck her hand by no means lightly on the loo
table in the middle of the room.

' I did not think it possible that you should be so silly. I did
not indeed.'

' Oh, yes, silly ! very well. Women always are silly when they
mind that kind of thing. Have you got anything else to say, sir ?*

* Yes, I have ; I have this to say, that I will not endure ihia sort
of usage.'

' Nor I won't,' said Mrs. Fumival ; * so you may as well under-
stand it at once. As long as there was nothing absolutely wrong,
I would put up with it for the sake of appearances, and because of
Sophia. For myself I don't mind what loneliness I may have to
bear. If you had been called on to go out to the East Indies or
even to China, I could have put up with it. But this sort of thing
'I won't put up with ; — nor I won't be blind to what I can't help
seeing. So now, Mr. Fumival, you may know that I have made up
my mind.' And then, without waiting further parley, having
wisked herself in her energy near to the door, she stalked out, and
went up with hurried steps to her own room.

Occurrences of a nature such as this are in all respects unplear
sant in a household. Let the master be ever so much master, what
is ho to do ? Say that his wife is wrong from the beginning to the
end of the quarrel, — that in no way improves the matter. His
anxiety is that the world abroad shall not know ho has ought amiss
at home ; but she, with her hot sense of injury, and her loud revolt
against supposed wrongs, cares not who hears it. 'Hold your
tongue, madam,' the husband says. But the wife, bound though she
be by an oath of obedience, will not obey him, but only screams
the louder.

All which, as Mr. Fumival sat there thinking of it, disturbed his
mind much. That Martha Biggs would spread the tale through
all Bloomsbury and St. Pancras of course he was aware. * If she
drives me to it, it must be so,' he said to himself at last. And then
he also betook himself to his rest. And so it was that preparations
for Christmas were made in Harley Street.

Chnstmu Bt Ncmmasb;.— Uor

CHAPTER XXII.

CHRISTMiLS AT KONINGSBY.

The house at Noningsby on Christmas-day was puite full, and
yet it was by no means a small house. Mrs. Arbuthnot, the judge's
married daughter, was there, with her three children ; and Mr.
Funival was there, having got over those domestic difficulties in
which we lately saw him as best he might ; and Lucius Mason was
there, having been especially asked by Lady Staveley when she
heard that his mother was to be at The Cleeve. There could be
no more comfortable country-house than Noningsby ; and it was,
in its own way, pretty, though essentially different in all respects
from The Cleeve. It was a new house from the cellar to the
ceiling, and as a house was no doubt the better for being so. All
the rooms were of the proper proportion, and all the newest
appliances for comfort had been attached to it. But nevertheless
it lacked that something, in appearance rather than in fact, which
age alone can give to the residence of a gentleman in the country.
The gardens also were new, and the grounds around them trim,
and square, and orderly. Noningsby was a delightful house ;
no one with money and taste at command could have created for
himself one more delightful; but then there are delights which
cannot bo created even by money and taste.

It was a pleasant sight to see, the long, broad, well-filled
breakfast table, with all that company round it. There were
some eighteen or twenty gathered now at the table, among whom
the judge sat pre-eminent, looming large in an arm-chair and
having a double space allotted to him ; — some eighteen or twenty,
children included. At the bottom of the table sat Lady Staveley,
who still chose to preside among her ovni tea cups as a lady
should do; and close to her, assisting in the toils of that pre-
sidency, sat her daughter Madeline. Nearest to them were
gathered the children, and the rest had formed themselves into
little parties, each of which already well knew its own place at the
board. In how very short a time will come upon one that pleasant
custom of sitting in an accustomed place ! But here, at these
Noningsby breakfasts, among other customs already established,
there was one by which Augustus Staveley was always privileged

170 ORLEY FABM.

to sit by the side of Sophia Fumival. No doubt his original object
was still tmchanged. A match between that lady and his friend
Graham was still desirable, and by perseverance he might pique
Felix Graham to arouse himself. But hitherto Felix Graham had
not aroused himself in that direction, and one or two people among
the party were inclined to mistake young Staveley's intentions.

*Gus,* hifl sister had said to him the night before, *I declare
I think you are going to make love to Sophia Fumival.*

' Do you ?' he had replied. * As a rule I do not think there is any
one in the world for whose discernment I have so much respect as
I have for yours. But in this respect even you are wi'ong.'

* Ah, of course you say so.^

* If you won't believe me, ask her. What more can I say ?

* I certainly shan't ask her, for I don't know her well enough.'

' She's a very clever girl ; let me tell you that, whoever fieJls in
love with her.'

' I'm sure she is, and she is handsome too, very ; but for all that
ahe is not good enough for our Gus.'

' Of course she is not, and therefore I am not thinking of her.
And now go to bed and dream that you have got the Queen of the
Fortunate Islands for your sister-in-law.'

But although Staveley was himself perfectly indifferent to all the
charms of Miss Fumival, nevertheless he could hardly restrain his
dislike to Lucius Mason, who, as he thought, was disposed to
admire the lady in question. In talking of Lucius to his own
&mily and to his special friend Graham, he had called him con-
ceited, pedantic, uncouth, nnenglish, and detestable. His own
family, that is, his mother and sister, rarely contradicted him in
anything ; but Graham was by no means so cautious, and usually
contradicted him in everything. Indeed, there was no sign of
sterling worth so plainly marked in Staveley's character as the full
conviction which he entertained of the superiority of his friend
Felix.

* You are quite wrong about him,' Felix had said. * He has not
been at an English school, or English university, and therefore is
not like other young men that you know ; but he is, I think, well
educated and clever. As for conceit, what man will do any good
who is not conceited ? Nobody holds a good opinion of a man who
has a low opinion of himself.'

' All the same, my dear fellow, I do not like Lucius Mason.'

* And some one else, if you remember, did not like Dr. Fell.'

* And now, good people, what are you all going to do about
church?' said Staveley, while they were still engaged with their
rolls and eggs.

* I shall walk,' said the judge.

' And I shall go in the carriage,' said the judge's wife.

CHBISTHA8 AT K0NING8BY. 171

* That disposes of two ; and now it will take half an hour to settle
for the rest. Miss Fnmival, yon no donbt will accompany my
mother. As I shall be among the walkers you will see how mnclL
I sacrifice by the snggestion/

It was a mile to the chnrch, and Miss FumiTal knew the advantage
of appearing in her seat nnfatigned and withovt subjeotion to wind,
mud, or rain. ' I must confess,' she said, ' that nnder all the cir-
cumstances, I shall prefer your mother's company to yours ;' where-
upon Staveley, in the completion of his arrangements, assigned the
other places in the carriage to the married ladies of the company.

' But I liave taken your sister Madeline's seat in the carriage,'
protested Sophia with great dismay.

* My sister Madeline generally walks.*

• ' Then of course I shall walk with her ;* but when the time came
Miss Fumival did go in the carriage whereas Miss Siaveley went
on foot.

It so fell out, as they lErtarted, that Graham found himself walking
at Miss Staveley's side, to the great disgust, no doubt, of half a
dozen other aspirants for that honour. ' I cannot help thinking,'
he said, as they stepped briskly oyer the crisp white frost, ' that this
Christmas-day of ours is a great mistake.'

' Oh, Mr. Graham I' she exclaimed.

* You need not regard me with horror, — at least not with any
special horror on this occasion.'

* But what you say is very horrid.'

* Tliat, I flatter myself, seems so only because I have not yet said
it. That part of our Christmas-day which is made to bo in any
degree sacred is by no means a mistake.'

* I am glad you think that.*

' Or rather, it is not a mistake in as far as it is in any degree made
sacred. But the peculiar conviviality of the day is so ponderous !
Its roast-boefiness oppresses one so thoroughly from the first mo-
ment of one's waking, to the last ineffectual effort at a bit of fried
pudding for supper !*

* But you need not eat fried pudding for supper. Indeed, here, I
am afraid, you will not have any supper offered you at all.'

' IS'o ; not to me individually, under that name. I might also
manage to guard my ownself under any such offers. But tliero is
always the flavour of the sweetmeat, in the air, — of all the sweet-
meats, edible and non edible.'

* You begrudge the children their snap-dragon. That's what it
all means, Mr. Graham.'

' No ; I deny it ; unpremeditated snap-dragon is dear to my sotd ;
and I could expend myself in blindman's buff.'

* You shall then, after dinner ; for of course you know that we all
dine early.'

172 OBLEY FABM.

* Bnt blindman's buff at three, witli snap-dragon at a quarter to
four — charades at five, with wine and sweet cake at half-past six,
is ponderous. And that's our mistake. The big turkey would be
very good ; — capital fun to see a turkey twice as big as it ought to
be ! But the big turkey, and the mountain of beef, and the pudding
weighing a hundredweight, oppress one*s spirits by their combined
gravity. And then they impart a memory of indigestion, a halo as
it were of apoplexy, even to the church services.*

' I do not agree with you the least in the world,'

' I ask you to answer me fairly. Is not additional eating an

ordinary Englishman's ordinary idea of Christmas-day?'

' I am only an ordinary Englishwoman and therefore cannot say.

It is not my idea.'

* I believe that the ceremony, as kept by us, is perpetuated by
the butchers and beersellers, with a helping hand from the grocers.
It is essentially a material festival ; and I would not object to it
even on that account if it were not so grievously overdone. How
the sun is moistening the frost on the ground. As we come back the
road will be quite wet.'

* AVe shall be going home then and it will not signify. Eemem-
ber, Mr. Graham, I shall expect you to come forward in great
strength for blindman's buff.' As he gave her the required promise,
he thought that even the sports of Christmas-day would be bearable,
if she also were to make one of the sportsmen ; and then they en-
tered the church.

I do not know anything more pleasant to the eye than a pretty
country church, decorated for Christmas-day. The effect in a city
is altogether different. I will not say that churches there should
not bo decorated, but comparatively it is a matter of indifference.
No one knows who does it. The peculiar munificence of the squire
who has sacrificed his holly bushes is not appreciated. The work of
the fingers that have been employed is not recognized. The efforts
made for hanging the pendent wreaths to each capital have been of no
special interest to any large number of the worshippers. It has been
done by contract, probably, and even if well done has none of the
grace of association. But here at Noningsby church, the winter flowers
had been cut by Madeline and the gardener, and the red berries had
been grouped by her own hands. She and the vicar's wife had
stood together with perilous audacity on the top of the clerk's desk
while they fixed the branches beneath the cushion of the old-
fashioned turret, from which the sermons were preached. And all
this had of course been talked about at the house ; and some of the
party had gone over to see, including Sophia Fumival, who had
declared that nothing could be so delightful, though she had
omitted to endanger her fiuQgers by any participation in the work.
And the children had regarded the operation as a triumph of all

CHBISTMAS AT KONHrOSBT. 173

tliat was wonderful in decoration; and thus muaj of tbem bad been
made bappy.

On tbeir reinm from obnrcb. Miss FumiTal insisted on walking,
in order, as sbe said, tbat Miss Staveley migbt not bave all tbe
fatigue ; but Miss Staveley wonld walk also, and tbe oairiage* after
a certain amount of expostulation and delay, went off witb its load
incomplete.

* And now for tbe plnm-pndding part of tbe arrangement,' said
Felix Grabam.

* Tes, Mr. Grabam,' said Madeline, * now for tbe plum-pudding
— and tbe blindman's buff.'

* Did you ever see anytbing more perfect tban tbe dburcb, Mr.
Mason ?' said Sopbia.

* Anytbing more perfect? no ; intbatsort of way, perbaps, never.
I bave seen tbe cboir of Cologne.'

' Come, come ; tbat's not fair,' said Ghrabam. ' Bon't import
Cologne in order to crusb ns bere down in our little Englisb vil-
lages. You never saw tbe cboir of Cologne brigbt witb bolly berries.'

* No ; but I bave witb cardinal's stockings, and bisbop's robes.'

* I tbink I sbould prefer tbe bolly,' said Miss FnmivaL * And
wby sbould not onr cburcbes always look like tbat, only cbanging
ibe flowers and tbe foliage witb tbe season? It would make tbe
service so attractive.'

* It would bardly do at Lent,' said Madeline, in a serious tone.

* No, perbaps not at Lent exactly.'

Peregrine and Augustus Staveley were walking on in front, not
perbaps as well satisfied witb tbe day as tbe rest of tbe party.
Augustus, on leaving tbe cburcb, bad made a little effort to assume
bis place as usual by Miss Fumival's side, but by some accident of
war, Mason was tbere before bim. He bad not cared to make one
of a party of tbree, and therefore bad gone on in advance witb
young Orme. Nor was Peregrine bimself mucb more bappy. He
did not know wby, but be felt witbin bis breast a growing aversion
to Felix Graham. Grabam was a puppy, be thought, ai^d a fellow
tbat talked too much ; and then he was such a confoundedly ugly
dog, and — and — ^and — ^Peregrine Orme did not like bim. He was
not a man to analyze bis own feelings in such matters. He did not
ask himself why he should have been rejoiced to bear that instant
business had taken Felix Graham off to Hong Kong ; but Jie knew
that ho would have rejoiced. He knew also tbat Madeline Staveley

was . No ; he did not know what sbe was ; but when be was

alone, he carried on with her all manner of imaginary conversations,
though when he was in her company he had bardly a word to say
to her. Under these circumstances he fraternized with her brother;^
but even in tbat be could not receive mucb satis£ftction, seeing tbat
be could not abuse Grabam to Graham's special friend, nor could

174 OBLSY WAKUL

he breathe a sigh ae to Madeline's perfections into the ear of

3iad6linc'8 brother.

The children, — and ih&n were three or fonr assembled there
besides those belonging to Mrs. Arbnthnot, were by no means
inclined to agree with Mr. Graham's strictmres as to the amusements
of Christmas-day. To them it appeared that they oonld not hnrry
fast enough into the vorvex of its dissipations. The dinner was a
serious consideration, e(q>ecially with refesenoe to certain illu-
minated mince-pies which were the crowning glory of that ban*
qnet ; but time for these was almost b^rodged in order that the
&st handkerchief might be tied over the eyes of the fust Uindman.

* And now well go into the schoolroom,' said Marian Arbnthnot,
jumping up and leading the way. ' Come along; Mr. Felix ;' and
Felix Graham followed her.

Madeline had declared that Felix Giraham shonld be blinded first,
and such was his doom. *' Now mind you catch me, Mr. Felix ;
pray do,' said Marian, when she had got him seated in a comer of
the room. She was a beautiful foir little thing, with long, soft
curls, and lips red as a rose, and laige, bright blue eyes, all soft
and happy and laughing; loving the friends of her childhood with
passionate love, and fully expecting an equal devotion from them.
It is of such children that our wives and sweethearts should be
made.

' But how am 1 to find you when my eyes are blinded?'

* Oh, you can feci, you know. You can put your hand on the top
of my head. I mustn't speak, you know; but I'm sure I shall
laugh ; and then you must guess that it's Marian.' That was her
idea of playing blindman's buff according to the strict rigour of the
game.

* And you'll give me a big kiss ?' said Felix.

* Yes, when we've done playing,* she promised with great seri-
ousness.

And then a huge white silk handkerchief, as big as a small sail,
was broil gjit down from grandpapa's dressing-room, so that nobody
should SCO the least bit ' in the world,' as Marian had observed
with groat energy ; and the work of blinding was commenced.

* 1 ain*t big enough to reach round,' said Marian, who had made
an eifort, but in vain. * You do it, aunt Mad.,' and she tendered the
handkerchief to Miss Staveley, who, however, did not appear very
eager to undertake the task.

* 111 be the executioner,' said grandmamma, ' the more espe-
cially as I shall not take any other share in the ceremony. This
shall bo the chair of doom. Come hero, Mr. Graham, and submit
yourself to me.' And so the first victim was blindeS. * Mind you
remember,' said Marian, whispering into his ear as he was led away.

• Green spirits and white; blue spirits and gray — ,' and then he

Chn«lroa« •t Noningsbr —Evening.

CHRISTMAS AT NONIKGSBT. 175

was twirled round in the room and left to commence his search as
best ho might.

Marian Arbnthnot was not the only soft little laughing darling
that wished to be caught, and blinded, so that there was great
pulling at the blindman's tails, and mnch grasping at his ont-
stretched arms before the desired object was attained. And he
wandered round the room skilfully, as though a thought were in his
mind false to his treaty with Marian, — as though he imagined fi^r a
moment that some other prize might be caught. But if so, the other
prize evaded him carefully, and in due progress of play, Marian's
soft curls were within his grasp. ' I'm sure I didn't speak, or say a
word,' said she, as she ran up to her grandmother to have the hand-
kerchief put over her eyes. * Did I, grandmamma T

*' There are more ways of speaking than one,' said Lady Staveley.
' Yon and Mr. Graham understand each other, I think.

* Oh, I was caught quite fairly,* said Marian — * and now lead me
round and round.' To her at any rate the festiTities of Christmas-
day were not too ponderous for real enjoyment.

And then, at last, somebody caught the judge. I rather think it
was Madeline ; but his time in truth was come, and he had no
eiiance of escape. The whole room was set upon his capture, and
though he barricaded himself with chaiirs and children, he was duly
apprehended and named. ' That's papa ; I know by his watch-
diain, for I made it.'

* Nonsense, my dears,' said the judge. * I will do no such
thing. I should never catch anybody, and should remain blind
for ever.'

* But grandpapa must,' said Marian. • It's the game that he
should be blinded when he's caught.'

* Suppose the game was that we should bo whipped when we are
caught, and I was to catch you,' said Augustus.

* But I would not play that game,' said Marian.

* Oh, papa, you must,' said Madeline. ' Do — and you shall catch
Mr. Fumival.'

* That would be a temptation,' said the judge. * I've never been
able to do that yet, tliough I've been tiying it for some years.'

* Justice is blind,' said Graham. * Why should a judge be ashamed
to follow the example of his own goddess ?' And so at last the
owner of tho ermine submitted, and the stem magistrate of the
bench was led round with tho due incantation of tho si)irits, and dis-
missed into chaos to seek for a new victim.

One of the rules of blindman's bnif at Noningsby was this, that
it should not bo played by candlolight, — a rule that is in every
way judicious, as thereby an end is secured for that which might
otherwise be unendino:. And therefore when it became so dark in
the schoolroom that there was not much difference between the

176 OBLEY FARM.

blind man and tbe others, the handkerchief was smuggled awaj,
and the game was at an end.

* And now for snap-dragon,' said Marian.

* Exactly as you predicted, Mr. Graham,' said Madeline : * blind-
man's bnff at a quarter past three, and snap-dragon at five.'

* I revoke every word that I uttered, for I was never more
amused in my life.'

* And you will be prepared to endure the wine and sweet cake
when they come.'

* Prepared to endure anything, and go through everytfiing. We
shall be allowed candles now, I suppose.'

* Oh, no, by no means. Snap-dragon by candlelight ! who ever
heard of such a thing ? It would wash all the dragon out of it, and
leave nothing but the snap. It is a necessity of the game that it
should be played in the dark,^-or rather by its own lurid light.'

* Oh, there is a lurid light ; is there ?'

' You shall see ;' and then she turned away to make her pre-
parations.

To the game of snap-dragon, as played at Noningsby, a ghost was
always necessary, and aunt Madeline had played the ghost ever since
she had been an aunt, and there had been any necessity for such
It part. But in previous years the spectators had been fewer in
number and more closely connected with the family. * I think we
must drop the ghost on this occasion/ she said, coming up to her
brother.

* You'll disgust them all dreadfully if you do,' said he. * The
young Sebrights have come specially to see the ghost.'

' Well, you can do ghost for them.'

'I! no; I can't act a ghost. Miss Fumival, you'd make a
lovely ghost.'

* I shall be most happy to be useful,' said Sophia.

' Oh, aunt Mad., you must be ghost,' said Marian, following her.

* You foolish little thing, you ; we are going to have a beautiful
ghost — a divine ghost,' said uncle Gus.

' But we want Madeline to be the ghost,' said a big Miss Sebright,
ten or eleven years old.

* She's always ghost,' said Marian.

*To be sure; it will be much better,' said Miss Fumival. *I
only offered my poor services hoping to be useful. No Banquo
that ever lived could leave a worse ghost behind him that I
should prove.*

It ended in there being two ghosts. It had become quite impos-
sible to rob Miss Fumival of her promised part, and Madeline
could not refuse to solve the difficulty in this way without making
more of the matter than it deserved. The idea of two ghosts was
delightful to the children, more especially as it entailed two large

CHBISTMAS AT K0KING8BT» 177

difilies full of raisins, and two blue fires blazing np from burnt
brandy. So the girls went out, not without proflFered assistance
from the gentlemen, and after a painfullj^ long interval of some
fifteen or twenty minutes, — for Miss Fumival's back hair would not
come down and adjust itself into ghostlike lengths with as much
readiness as that of her friend — they returned bearing the dishes
before them on large trays« In each of them the spirit was lighted
as they entered the schoolroom door, and thus, as they walked in,
they were illuminated by the dark-blue flames which they carried*
' Oh, is it not grand ?* said Marian, appealing to Felix Graham.

* Uncommonly grand,' he replied.

* And which ghost do you think is the grandest ? I'll teU yott
which ghost I like the best, — in a secret, you know ; I like aimt
Mad. the best, and I think she's the grandest too.'

*• And I'll tell you in a secret that I think the same. To my
mind she is the grandest ghost I ever saw in my life.'

* Is she indeed V asked Marian, solemnly, thinking probably that
her new friend's experience in ghosts must be extensive. However
that might be, he thought that as far as his experience in women
went, he had never seen anything more lovely than Madeleine
Staveley dressed in a long white sheet, with a long bit of white
cambric pinned round her face.

And it may be presumed that the dress altogether is not unbe-
coming when accompanied by blue flames, for Augustus Staveley
and Lucius Mason thought the same thing of Miss Fumival,
whereas Peregrine Orme did not know whether he was standing on
his head or his feet as he looked at Miss Staveley. Miss Fumival
may possibly have had some inkling of this when she offered to
undertake the task, but I protest that such was not the case with
Madeline. There was no second thought in her mind when she
first declined the ghosting, and afterwards undertook the part. No
wish to look beautiful in the eyes of Felix Graham had come to
her — at any rate as yet ; and as to Peregrine Orme, she had hardly
thought of his existence. * By heavens !* said Peregrine to himself,
* she is the most beautiful creature that I ever saw ; ' and then ho
began to s])eculate within his own mind how the idea might be
received at The Cleeve.

But tliere was no such realized idea with Felix Graham. Ho
saw that Madeline Staveley was very beautiful, and ho felt in an
unconscious manner that her character was very sweet. He may
have thought that he might have loved such a girl, had such love
been a thing permitted to him. But this was far from being the
case. Felix Graham's lot in this life, as regarded that share which
his heart might have in it, was already marked out for him ; —
marked out for himself and by himself. The future wife of his
bosom had already been selected, and was now in course of prepara-

VOL. L N

178 OELET FABM.

tion for the duties of her fatme life. He waa one of those few wise
men who have determined not to take a partner in life at haeard,
bat to mould a joung mind and chaiaoter to those pursuits and
modes of thought which may best fit a woman for the duties she
will have to perform. What little it may be neoeasary to know of
the earlier years of Mary Snow shall be told hereafter. Here
it will be only neoessary to say that she was an orphan, that as yet
she was little more than a child» and that she owed her main-
tenance and the advantage of her education to the charity and love
of her destined husband. Therefore, as I have said, it was manifest
that Felix Graham could not think of &lling in love with M'iss
Staveley, even had not his very low position, in reference to
worldly affairs, made any such passion on his part quite hopeless^
But with Peregrine Orme the matter was different. There could
be no possible reason why Peregrine Orme should not win and
wear the beautiful girl whom he so much admired.

But the ghosts are kept standing over their flames, the spirit is
beeoming exhausted, and the raisins will be burnt. At snap-dragon,
too, the ghosts here had something to do. The law of the game is
this — a law on which Marian would have insisted had not the
flames been so very hot — that the raisins shall become the prey of
those audacious marauders only who dare to £atce the presence of
the ghost, and to plunge their hands into the burning dish. As
a rule the boys do this, clawing out the laisins, while the girls
pick them up and eat them. But here at Noningsby the boys were
too little to act thus as pioneers in the face of the enemy, and the
raisins might have remained till the flames were burnt out, had not
the beneficent ghost scattered abroad the richness of her owe
treasures.

' Now, Marian,' said Felix Graham, bringing her up in his aims.

* But it will bum, Mr. Felix. Look there ; see ; there are a great
many at that end. You do it.'

' I must have another kiss then.'

* Very well, yes ; if you get five.' And then Felix dashed his
hand in among the flmnes and brought forth a fistful of fruit,
which imparted to his fingers and wristband a smell of brandy for
the rest of the evening.

' If you take so many at a time I shall rap your knuckles with
the spoon,' said the ghost, as she stirred up the flames to keep them
alive.

' But the ghost shouldn't speak,' said Marian, who was evidently
unacquainted with the best ghosts of tragedy.

' But the ghost must speak when such large hands invade the
caldron ;' and then another raid was effected, and the thi-eatened
blow was given. Had any one told her in the morning that she
would that day have rapped Mr. 6raham's knuckles with a kitchen

CSBIBHUS AT SOVINGSBT. 179

qpooD^sbewoiiId not have believed tiHtperBon; bat it istboilfait
haaiti aire loet and won.

And Peregrine Qrme lodked on from a diatanoe, thinking of il
alL That he should have been etridken dumb hy the beauty of any
girl was surprising even to himself; far though young and almost
boyish in his manners* he had never yet fesred to speak out in ai^
presence. The tutor at his coll^;e had though ham frfol^nt
beyond parallel ; and his grandftther, though he knvad him fiir his
efen fiKse and plain outspoken words, finmd them somerimw afanosl
too n&udh for him. But now he stood there looking and longing,
and oould not summons courage to go vp and address a f&w words
to this young girl even in the midst of their sports. Twice or
tittioe during the last few days he had essayed to speak to her, but
bis words had been dull and vapid, and to himself they had lypeaied
childish. Ho was quite conscious of his own weakness. More
thanonoe during that period' of the snap-dragon, did he say to
himself that he would descend into the lists and break a lance in
that toumay ; but still he did not descend, and, his lance remained
inglorious in its rest.

At the other end of the long tablo the ghost also had two
attendant knights, and neither of them refrained from the battle.
Augustus Staveley, if he thought it worth his while to keep the
lists at all, would not be allowed to ride through them unopposed
from any backwardness on the part of his rivaL Lucius Main was
not likely to become a timid, silent, longing lover. To him it was
not possible that he should fear the girl whom he loved. He could
not worship that which he wished to obtain for himself. It may be
doubted whether he had much faculty of worshipping anything in
the truest meaning of that word. One worships that which one
feels, through the inner and unexpressed conviction of the mind,
to bo greater, better, higher than oneself; but it was not probable
that Lucius Mason should so think of any woman that he might
meet.

Nor, to give him his due, was it probable that he should be in
any way afraid of any man that he might encounter. He would
fear neither the talent, nor the rank, nor the money influence, nor
the dexterity of any such rival. In any attempt that he might
make on a woman*s heart he would regard his own chance as
good against that of any other possible he. Augustus Staveley was
master here at Noningsby, and was a clever, dashing, liandsome,
fashionable yoting fellow; but Lucius Mason never dreamed of
retreaiing before such forces as those. He had words with which
to speak as fair as those of any man, and flattered himself that he as
well knew how to use them.

It was pretty to see with what admirable fact and judicious
management of her smiles Sophia received the homage of the two

180 OBLSr FABM.

young men, answering the compliments of both with ease, and so
conducting herself that neither conld &irly accuse her of undue
fitvour to the other. But un&irly, in his own mind, Augustus did
BO accuse hen And why should he have been so venomous, seeing
that he entertained no regard for the lady himself? His object was
still plain enough, — that, namely, of making a match between his
needy friend and the heiress.

His needy friend in the mean time played on through the long
evening in thoughtless happiness ; and Peregrine Orme, looking at
the game from a distance, saw that rap given to the favoured
knuckles with a bitterness of heart and an inner groaning of the
spirit that will not be incomprehensible to many.

* I do so love iliat Mr. Felix !* said Marian, as her aunt Madeline
kissed her in her little bed on wishing her good night ' Don't
you, aunt Mad. T

And so it was that Christmas-day was passed at Noningsby.

CHAPTEB XXin.

CHRISTMAS AT QROBT PARK,

Christmas-DAT was always a time of very great trial to Mrs. Mason
of Groby Park. It behoved her, as the wife of an old English
country gentleman, to spread her board plenteously at that season^
and in some sort to make an open house of it. But she could not
bring herself to spread any board with plenty, and the idea of an
open house would almost break her heart. Unlimited eating!
There was something in the very sounds of such words which was
appalling to the inner woman.

And on this Christmas-day she was doomed to go through an
ordeal of very peculiar severity. It so happened that the cure of
souls in the parish of Groby had been intrusted for the last two or
three years to a young, energetic, but not very opulent curate.
"Why tiie rector of Groby should be altogether absent, leaving the
work in the hands of a curate, whom he paid by the lease of a
cottage and garden and fifty-five pounds a year, — thereby behaving
as he imagined with extensive liberality, — it is unnecessary here to
inquire. Such was the case, and the Eev. Adolphus Green, with
Mrs. A. Green and the four children, managed to live with some
difficulty on the produce of the garden and the allotted stipend ;
but could not probably have lived at all in that position had not
Mrs. Adolphus Green been blessed with some small fortime.

It had so happened that Mrs. Adolphus Green had been instru-
mental in impcirting some knowledge of singing to two of the Miss

GHBISTMAS AT GBOBY PABK. 181

Masons, and had continued her instractions over the last three years.
This had not been done in any preconcerted way, but the lessons
had grown by chance. Mrs. Mason the while had looked on with a
aatifified eye at an arrangement that was so much to her taste.

* There are no regular lessons you know,' she had said to her
iiufiband, when he suggested that some reward for so mucJi work
would be expedient. ' Mrs. Green finds it convenient to have the
use of my drawing-room, and would never see an instrument from
year's end to year's end if she were not allowed to come up here.
Depend upon it she gets a great deal more than she gives.'

But after two years' of tuition Mr. Mason had spoken a second
time. * My dear,' he said, ' I cannot allow the girls to accept so
great a favour from Mrs. Green without making her some com-
pensation.'

* I don't see that it is at all necessary,' Mrs. Mason had answered ;
* but if you think so, we could send her down a hamper of apples, —
that is, a basketful.' Now it happened that apples were very plen-
tiful that year, and that the curate and his wife were blessed with
AS many as they could judiciously consume,

* Apples ! nonsense !' said Mr. Mason.

* If you mean money, my dear, I couldn't do it. I wouldn't so
offend a lady for all the world.'

' You could buy them something handsome, in the way of furni-
ture. That little room of theirs that they call the drawing-room
has nothing in it at all. Get Jones from Leeds to send them some
things that will do for them.' And hence, after many inner mis-
givings, had arisen that purchase of a drawing-room set from
Mr. Kantwise, — that set of metallic * Louey Catorse furniture,' con-
taining three tables, eight chairs, &c. &c., as to which it may be
remembered that Mrs. Mason made such an undoubted bargain,
getting them for less than cost price. That they had been * strained,'
as Mr. Kantwise himself admitted in discoursing on the subject to
Mr. Dock wrath, was not matter of much moment. They would do
extremely well for a curate's wife.

And now on this Christmas-day the present was to be made
over to the happy lady. Mr. and Mrs. Green were to dine at Groby
l*ark, — leaving their more fortunate children to the fuller festivities
of the cottage ; and the intention was that before dinner the whole
drawing-room set should be made over. It was with grievous pangs
of heart that Mrs. Mason looked forward to such an operation. Her
own house was plonieously furnished from the kitchens to the
attics, but still she would have loved to keep that metallic set of
painted trumpery. She knew that the table would not screw on ;
fche knew that the pivot of the music stool was bent; she knew
that there was no place in the house in which they could stand ;
she must have known that in no possible way could they be of use

182 OBLET F^BX.

to ker or hexB, — and yet she could not part Tnth them without an
agony. Her knsbaad was in&taated in this matter of compensation
for the nse of Mrs. Ghreen's idle hours ; no compensation could be
necessary ; — and then she paid another visit to the metallic furni-
ture. She knew in her heart of hearts that they could never be
of use to smybody, and yet she made up her mind to keep bac^
two out of tiie eight chaLrs. Six chairs would be quite enough for
Mrs. Green's small room.

As there was to be feasting at five, real roast beef, plum-pudding
and minoe-pies ; — ' Mince-pies and plum-pudding together are
vulgar, my dear,' Mrs. Mason had said to her husband; but in
spite of' the vulgarity he had insisted ; — the breakfeuBt was of course
Boanly. Mr. Mason liked a slice of cold meat in the morning, or
the leg of a fowl, or a couple of fresh eggs as well as any man ;
:but the matter was not worth a continual fight. ' As we are to dine
an hour earlier to-day I did not think you would eat meat,' his
wife said to him. * Then there would be less expense in putting it
.on the table,' he had answered ; and after that there was nothing
more said about it. He always put off till some future day that
great contest which he intended to wage and to win, and by which
'he hoped to bring it about that plenty should henceforward be the
law of the land at Groby Park. And then they all went to church.
Mrs. Mason would not on any account have missed church on
Christmas-day or a Sunday. It was a cheap duty, and therefore
rigidly performed. As she walked from her carriage up to the
church-door she encountered Mrs. Green, and smiled sweetly as she
wished that lady all the compliments of the season.

*' We shall see you inmiediately after church,' said Mrs. Mason.

' Oh yes, certainly,* said Mrs. Green.

* And Mr. Green with you ?'

* He intends to do himself the pleasure,' said the curate's wife.

* Mind he comes, because we have a little ceremony to go through
before we sit down to dinner ;' and Mrs. Mason smiled again ever
so graciously. Did she think, or did she not think, that she was
going to do a kindness to her neighbour ? Most women would
have sunk into their shoes as the hour grew nigh at which they
were to show themselves guilty of so much meanness.

She stayed for the sacrament, and it may here be remarked that
on that afternoon she rated both the footman and housemaid because
they omitted to do so. Sho thought, we must presume, that she
was doing her duty, and must imagine her to have been ignorant
that she was cheating her husband and cheating her friend. She
took the sacrament with admirable propriety of demeanour, and then
on her return home, withdrew another chair from the set. There
would still be six, including the rocking chair, and six would be
quite enough for that little hole of a room.

CHRISTMAS AT GROBT PARK. 183

Tliere was a large chamber tip stairs at Groby Park which had
been used for the children's lessons, bnt which now was generally
deserted. There was in it an old worn out pianoforte, — and though
Mrs. Mason had talked somewhat grandly of the use of her drawing-
room, it was here that the singing had been taught. Into this room
the metallic furniture had been brought, and up to that Christmas
morning it had remained here packed in its original boxes. Hither
immediately after breakfeist Mrs. Mason had taken herself, and had
spent an hour in her efforts to set the things forth to view. Two
of the chairs she then put aside into a cupboard, and a third she
added to her private store on her return to her work after church.

But, alas, aJas ! let her do what she would, she could not get the
top on to the table. ' It's all smashed, ma'am,' said the girl whom
she at last summoned to her aid. ' Nonsense, you simpleton ; how
can it be smashed when it's new,' said the mistress. And then she
tried again, and again, declaring as she did so, that she would have
the law of the rogue who had sold her a damaged article. Never-
theless she had known that it was damaged, and had bought it.
cheap on that account, insisting in very urgent language that the^
table was in fact worth nothing because of its injuries.

At about four Mr. and Mrs. Green walked up to the house and
were shown into the drawing-room. Here was Mrs. Mason sup-
ported by Penelope and Creusa. As Diana was not musical, and
therefore under no compliment to Mrs. Green, she kept out of the
way. Mr. Mason also was absent. He knew that something very
mean was about to be done, and would not show his faco till
it was over. He ought to have taken the matter in hand himself,
and would have done so had not his mind been full of other things.
He himself was a man tenibly wronged and wickedly injured, and
could not therefore in these present months interfere much in tho
active doing of kindnesses. His hours were spent in thinking how
ho might best obtain justice, — how he might secure his pound of
flesh. He only wanted his own, but that he would have ; — his
own, with due punishment on those who had for so many years
robbed him of it. He therefore did not attend at the presentation
of the furniture.

* And now well go up stairs, if you please,' said Mrs. Ma.son, with
that gracious smile for which she was so famous. * Mr. Green, you
must come too. Dear Mrs. Green has been so very kind to my two
girls ; and now I have got a few articles, — they are of tho very
newest fosbion, and I do hope that Mrs. Green will like them.'
And so they all went up into the schoolroom.

* There's a new fashion come up lately,' said Mrs. !Ma.son as she
walked along the corridor, * quite new : — of metallic furniture. I
don't know whether you have seen any.' Mrs, Green said she had
not seen any as yet.

^ The Patcoi Siael Foniilioe Compmy makes it, and it has got
Teijpeatlj into Togoe lor onalliooiiia. I thonght that peihapa jog,
woiild allow me to preaeot joa with s aet fbfr joitr dnwing room."

^ Vm mtn it ia Teij kind of joa to think of it,' aaid Mi& Green.

* UnoonuDonlj ao/ aaid Mr. Green. Bot both Mr. Greoi and
Mta. Green knew the ladj, and their hopes did not ran hi^

And then the door waa opened and there atood the foinitnre to
Tiew« There atood the furniture, except the three anbtracted
ehaira, and the ko table. The claw and leg of the table indeed
were standing there, bat the top waa folded np and lying on the
floor beside it. * I hope joall like the pattein,' b^an Mrs. Mason.
* I'm told that it ia the prettiest that has yet been brought oat.
There has been some little accident aboat the screw of the table,
bat the smith in the Tillage will pat that to ri^ts in five minates.
He lires so close to yoa that I didn't think it worth while to have
bim ap here/

' If s very nice,* said Mrs. Green, looking n>and her almost in
dismay*

* Very nice indeed,' said Mr. Green, wondering in his mind for
what pnrpose such utter trash could have been manufaetared, and
endeavouring to make up his mind as to what they might possibly
do with it. Mr. Green knew what chairs and tables should be, and
was well aware that the things before him were absolutely useless
for any of the ordinary purposes of furniture.

* And they are the most convenient things in the world/ said
Mrs. 3Ia8on, ' for when you are going to chauge house you pack
them all up again in these boxes. Wooden furniture takes up so
much room, and is so lumbersome.'

* Yos, it is/ said Mrs. Green.

' I'll have them all put up again and sent down in the cart to-
morrow.*

* Thank you ; that will be very kind,' said Mr. Green, and then
tho ceremony of the presentation was over. On the following day
the boxes were sent down, and Mrs. Mason might have abstracted
even another chair without detection, for the cases lay unheeded
from month to month in tho curate's still unfurnished room. ♦ Tho
fact is thoy cannot afford a carpet,' Mrs. 3Iason afterwards said to
one of her daughters, ' and with such things as those they are quite
right to keep them up till they can be used with advantage. I
always gave Mrs. Green credit for a good deal of prudence.'

And then, when tho show was over, they descended again into the
drawing- room, — Mr. Green and Mrs. Mason went fii-st, and Creusa
followed. Penelope was thus so far behind as to be able to speak to
her friend without being heard by the others.

' You know mamma,' she said, with a shrug of her shoulders and
a look of scorn in her eye.

CHBISTMAS AT OBOBY PABK. J 85

« The things are verj nice.'

' No, they are not, and you know they are not. They are worth-
less ; perfectly worthless.'

• But we don*t want anything.'

' No ; and if there had been no pretence of a gift it would all
have been very well. What will Mr. Green think ?*

* I rather think he likes iion chairs ;' and then they were in
the drawing-room.

Mr. Mason did not appear till dinner-time, and came in only
just in time to give his aim to Mrs. Green. He had had letters to
write, — a letter to Messrs. Hound and Crook, very determined in
its tone ; and a letter also to Mr. Dockwrath, for the little attorney
had so crept on in the affair that he was now corresponding vrith
the principal. * 111 teach those fellows in Bedford Bow to know
who I am,* he had said to himself more than once, sitting on hia
high stool at Ham worth.

And then came the Groby Park Christmas dinner. To speak the
truth Mr. Mason had himself gone to the neighbouring butcher,
and ordered the surloin of beef, knowing that it would be useless to
trust to orders conveyed through his wife. He had seen the piece
of meat put on one side for him, and had afterwards traced it on to
the kitchen dresser. But nevertheless when it appeared at table it
had been sadly mutilated. A stake had been cut off the full breadth
of it — a monstrous can tie from out its fair proportions. The lady
had seen the jovial, thick, ample size of the goodly joint, and her
heart had been imable to spare it. She had made an effort and turned
away, saying to herself that the responsibility was all with him.
But it was of no use. There was that within her which could not
do it. * Your master will never be able to carve such a mountain of
meat as that,* she had said, turning back to the cook. • *Deed, an'
it's he that will, ma*am/ said the Iriuh mistress of the spit ; for Irish
cooks are cheaper than those bred and bom in England. But
nevertheless the thing was done, and it was by her own fair hands
that the envious knife was used. *I couldn't do it, ma'am,* the
cook had said ; * I couldn't railly.*

Mr. Mason's face became very black when he saw the raid that
had been effected, and when he looked up across the table his wife's
eye was on liim. She knew what she had to expect, and she knew
also that it would not come now. Her eye stealthily looked at his,
quivering with fear; for Mr. Mason could be savage enough in his
anger. And wliat had she gained? One may as well ask what
does the miser gain who hides away his gold in an old pot, or what
does that other madman gain who is locked up for long long years
because he fancies himself the grandmother of the Queen of
lCnp;land ?

But there was still enough beef on the table for all of them

186 GBIiET FABM.

to eat, and as Mrs. Mason was not intmstod with tiie oarving of it,
-their plates were filled. As £ur as a suffioienc^ of beef can make a
good dinner Mr. and Mrs. Green did have a good dinner on that
Christmas-day. Beyond that their comfort was limited, for no one
was in a humour for haj^py oonTorsstion.

And over and beyond the beef there was a plnm-pndding and
three minoe-pies. Four minoe-pies had originally graced the dish,
but before dinner one had been conveyed away to some upstairs re-
ceptacle for such spoils, l^e pudding also was small, nor was it
black and rich, and laden with good things as a Christmas pudding
«hould be laden. Let us hope that what the guests so lost was
made up to them on the following day, by an absence of those ill
effects which sometimes attend upon the consumption of rich viands.

* And now, my dear, we'll have a bit of bread and cheese and a
glass of beer,' Mr. Green said when he arrived at his own cottage.
And BO it was that Christmas-day was passed at Groby Park.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHRISTMAS IN GBEAT ST. HELENS.

We will now look in for a moment at the Christmas doings of
our fat friend, Mr. Moulder. Mr. Moulder was a married man
living in lodgings over a wine-merchant's vaults in Great St. Helens.
He was blessed — or troubled, with no children, and prided himself
greatly on the material contort with which his humble home was
surrounded. * His wife,' he often boasted, ' never wanted for plenty
of the best of eating ; and for linen and silks and such-like, she
oould show her drawers and her wardrobes with many a great
lady from Bussell Square, and not be ashamed, neither ! And then,
as for drink, — * tipple,' as Mr. Moulder sportively was accustomed to
name it among his friends, he opined that he was not altogether
behind the mark in that respect. * He had got some brandy —
he didn't caro what anybody might say about Cognac and eau de
vie ; but the brandy which he had got from Betts' private establish-
ment seventeen years ago, for richness of flavour and fullness of
strength, would beat any French article that anybody in the city
could show. That at least was his idea. If anybody didn't like it,
they needn't take it. There was whisky that would make your
hair stand on end.' So said Mr. Moiilder, and I can believe him ;
for it has made my hair stand on end merely to see other people
drinking it.

And if comforts of apparel, comforts of eating and drinking, and
comforts of the feather-bed and easy-chair kind can make a woman

CHRISTMAS XH 6BBAT BT. HELEM8. 1B7

liftffy, lin. Moulder ivm no doubt -i^ hsppj woian. She had
quite fiiUen in to the mode of life laid ovfe £ar her. filie badaJitlli
fait of faot Iddney for Iweakfiut at about ten; oriie dined at thiw^
IwniigaeeiibesBelf totbeaooDrateeooking of bcrioait fral, orlwr
tit tf aweet^iiread, and aihrayB bad ber pint of Seetob ale. Bhe
ttaned over all ber dotbee almost evexy di^. In tbe evening ahe
mad Beynolda's MiaceUany* bad bar tea and battered maiBna» took
a tbimblefol of biaadj and water at nine* and then went te bed.
Tbe work of ber life conaiated in aewang bnttena en te IConlderia
iUrtey and aeeing that bia things wexe pxapnly got iqi'^en be waa
at bome. No donbt abe wonld have done bflftter aa te tbe dntiea of
the woorld, bad tbe world's dntiea oometeber. Aa it waa, Yery Sbw
aocb bad come in ber dixeotion. Her bnahand was away fnm
'home Ibrae-firartbs of tbe year, and abe bad no ohildiM tbat la-
qnired attention. Aa fcnr aooiety, aome fonr or five timea a year aba
.wonld drink tea with Mra. HnbUea at dapbam. Mxa. Hnbblaa
was tbe wife of tbe senior partner in tiie Bxm, and on snob oeoaakna
Mn. Moulder dressed beraelf in ber beet, and baviag travelled t»
Clapimm in an omnibua, spent tbe ereniag in dnll poEopciety on ana
comer of Mxa. Hubbles's aofe. Wben I bave added to tbia that
Moulder e(vexy year took ber to Broadsteixa fer a fertnigibt, Itbixd:
that I bave deaoribed witb anfficiient aocnraoy the oonne- of "Mjol
Moulder's life.

On tbe oooaskm of this preaent C9iristBiaa-day Mr. Moidder enter-
tained a small party. And be delighted in auob oooaaional enter-
taixmients, taking extraordinary paixis that tbe eateblea abould be <ii
tbe Teiy best ; and be would maintain an bospiteble good bnmoar
to tbe last, — unless anyibing went wrong in tbe eookery, in wbicb
case be could make bimself extremely unpleasant to Mrs. M.
Indeed, proper cooking for Mr. M. and the proper starching of tbe
bands of his shirts were almost the only trials that Mrs. Moulder
was doomed to suffer. * What tbe d — are you for ?' be would say,
almost throwing ihe displeasing viands at ber bead across the
table, or tearing the rough linen from off bis throat. ^ It ain't
much I ask of you in return for your keep ;' and then be would
soowl at her with bloodshot eyes till she shook in ber shoes. But
this did not happen often, as experiences had made her careful.

But on this present Christmas festival all went swimmingly
to the end. * Now, bear a hand, old girl,' was the harshest word
be said to her ; and he enjoyed himself like Duncan, shut up in
measureless content. Ho had three guests with him on tbia
auspicious day. There was his old friend Snengkeld, who had
dined with him on every Christmas since his marriage ; there waa
his wife's brother, of whom we will say a word or two just now ;— •
and there was our old friend, Mr. Kantwiso. • Mr. Kantwise waa
not exactly the man whom Moulder would have chosen as bia

188 OBLEY FABM.

guest, for they were opposed to each other in all their modes of
thought and action ; but he had come across the travelling agent of
the Patent Metallio Steel Furniture Company on the previous day,
and finding that he was to be alone in London on this geneial
holiday, he had asked him out of sheer good nature. Moulder
<^ould be very good natured, and full of pity when the sorrow to be
pitied arose from some such source as the want of a Christmas
dinner. So Mr. Eantwise had been asked, and precisely at ifour
o'clock he made his appearance at Great St. Helens.

But now, as to this brother-in-law. He was no o^er than that
John Kenneby whom Miriam Usbech did not many, — whom Miriam
Usbech might, perhaps, have done well to marry. John Kenneby,
after one or two attempts in other spheres of Hfe, had at last got
into the house of Hubbies and Grease, and had risen to be their
book-keeper. He had once been tried by them as a traveller, but
in that line he had fJEoled. He did not possess that rough, ready,
«elf-confident tone of mind which is almost necessary for a man
who is destined to move about quickly from one circle of persons to
another. After a six months' trial he had given that up, but during
the time, Mr. Moulder, t]^e seniqp traveller of the house, had married
his sister. John Kenneby was a good, honest, painstaking fellow,
and was believed by his friends to have put a few poimds together
in spite of the timidity of his character.

When Snengkeld and Kenneby were shown up into the room,
they found nobody there but Kantwise. That Mrs. Moulder should
be down stairs looking after the roast turkey was no more than
natural ; but why should not Moulder himself be there to receive his
guests ? He soon appeared, however, coming up without his coat.

* Well, Snengkeld, how are you, old fellow ; many happy returns,
and all that ; the same to you, John. I'll tell you what, my lads ;
it's a prime 'un. I never saw such a bird in all my days.'

* What, the turkey ?' said Snengkeld.

* You didn't think it'd be a ostrich, did you ?*

* Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Snengkeld. • No, I didn't expect nothing
but a turkey hero on Christmas-day.'

* And nothing but a turkey you'll have, my boys. Can you eat
turkey, Kantwise?*

Mr. Kantwise declared that his only passion in the way of eating
was for a turkey.

* As for John, I'm sure of him. I've seen him at the work before.'
Whereupon John grinned but said nothing.

* I never see such a bird in my life, certainly.*

« From Norfolk, I suppose,' said Snengkeld, with a great appear-
ance of interest.

* Oh, you may swear to that. It weighed twenty -four pounds, for
I put it into the scales myself, and old Gibbetts let me have it for

CUBISTHAS IN QBEAT 8T, HBLKBTS. 180

k guinea. The price marled on it was five-and-twenfy, for I saw
it He's had it hanging for a fortnigiht, and Tre been to aee
it wiped down with vinegar regular eveiy morning. And now,
my bqy% if s done to a tarn* IVe been in the kitchen most of the
time myaelf; and either i or Mrs. H. has never left it fiir a single
moment.

* How did you manage ahont divine service ?* said Kantwise; and
then, when he had spoken, dosed his eyes and sacked his lips.

Mr. Moulder looked at him for a minute» and thai said,
^Gkonmon.'

* Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Snengkeld. And then Mrs. Moulder ap-
peared, bringing the turkey with her; for she would trost it to
no hands less careful than her own.

* By George, it is a bird,' said Snengkeld, standing over it and
eyeing it minutely.

* Uncommon nice it looks,' said Eantwise.

* All the same, I wouldn't eat none, if I were you,' said Moulder,
* seeing what sinnera have been a basting it.* And then they all
sat down to dinner. Moulder having first resumed his coat.

For the next three or four minutes Moulder did not speak a word.
The turkey was on his mind, with the stuffing, the gravy, the livei;
the breast, the wings, and the 1^^ He stood up to carve it, and
while he was at the work he looked at it as though his two eyes
were hardly sufficient. He did not help first one person and then
another, so ending by himself ; but he cut up artistically as much
as might probably be consumed, and located the fragments in small
heaps or shares in the hot gravy ; and then, having made a partition
of the spoils, he served it out with unerring impartiality. To have
robbed any one of his or her fair slice of the breast would, in his mind,
have been gross dishonesty. In his heart he did not love Eantwise,
but he dealt by him with the utmost justice in the great afi*aiz of the
turkey's breast. When he had done all this, and his own plate was
laden, he gave a long sigh. * I shall never cut up such another
bird as that, the longest day that I have to live,' he said ; and then
he took out his large red silk handkerchief and wiped the perspira-
tion from his brow.

* Deary mo, M. ; don't think of that now,' said the wife.

* What's the use ?* said Snengkeld. * Care killed a cat'

* And perhaps you may,' said John Kenneby, tiying to comfort
him ; * who knows ?*

* It's all in the hands of Providence,' said Kantwise, ' and we
should look to him.'

' And how does it taste ?' asked Moulder, shaking tho gloomy
ihougbts from his mind.

* Uncommon,' said Snengkeld, with his mouth quite fuU. ' 1
never cat such a turkey in all my life.'

190

« Like melted dimnmniii,' nid Mn. MoBldor, who was not without
a touch of poetiy.

* Ah, there fl nothing like hanging of 'emlong enoogh,
ing of 'em wdL It's thai Tinegar as done it ;' and tiien thej
seirioasly to work, and there wis nothing^nore aaid of may import-
ance until the eating was nearly over.

And now Mxa. M. had taken awaj the doth, and thej were
mtting cozil J orer ih/m port wine. The Tory apple of the e je of
the evening had not arrived even yet. That would not oome till
the pipes were brought out, and the brandy was put on the table;
and the whi^cy was there that made the people's hair stand on
end. It was then that the floodgates of convivial eloquence would
be unloosed. In the mean time it was necessary to saorifioe some-
thing to gentility, and therefore they sat over their port wine.

* Did you bring that letter with 3'ou, John ?' said his sister. John
replied that he had done so, and that he had also received another
latter that morning from another party on the same subject.

* Do show it to Moulder, and ask him,* said Mrs. M.

* I've got 'em both on purpose,' said John ; and then he brought
forth two letters, and handed one of them to his brother-in-law. It
contained a request, very civilly worded, from Messrs. Bound and
Crook, begging him to call at their office in Bedford Bow on the
earliest possible day, in order that they might have some conver-
sation with him regarding the will of the late Sir Joseph Mason,
who died in 18 — .

' Why, this is law business,' said Moulder, who liked no business
of that description. ' Don't you go near them, John, if you ain't
obliged.'

And then Kenneby gave his explanation on the matter, telling
how in former years, — many years ago, he had been a witness in a
lawsuit. And then as he told it he sighed, remembering Miriam
Usbech, for whose sake he had remained immarried even to this
day. And he went on to narrate how he had been bullied in the
oourt, though he had valiantly striven to tell the truth with exact-
ness ; and as he spoke, an opinion of his became manifest that old
Usbech had not signed the document in his presence. * The girl
signed it certainly,' said he, * for I handed her the pen. I recollect
it, as though it were yesterday.'

* They are the very people we were talking of at Leeds,' said
Moulder, turning to Kantwise. ' Mason and Martock ; don't you
remember how you wont out to Groby Park to sell some of them
iron gimcracks ? That was old Mason's son. They are tho same
people.'

* Ah, I bhouldn't wonder,' said Kantwise, who was listening all
the while. He never allowed intelligence of this kind to pass by
him idly.

CHBI8THAS DT CD3SAT 0r. HELSNS. 191

' And who's the other letter fixsm?* aiked Monlder. * But, diuh
my wigii, it's past six o'dook. Gome* old girl, why dom'i yoa ghre
U8 ih0 tohftcoo and stuff?*

,* It ain't fiff to fetoh/ said Mrs. Honlder* And then she put itw
tohaooo and ' stuff' npon the table.

* The other letter is from an enemy of mine,' said John Kennehy,
speaking very solemnly ; *an enemy of mine, named Dookwrath,
who lives at Hamworth. He's an attorney too.'

'Dockwrath!' saidMonlder.

Mr. Kantwise said nothing, hut he lodced loond over his shoulder
at Eenneby, and then shut his eyes*

'That was the name of the man whom we left in the ooniaeicial
xoomat the Bull,' said Snengkeld.

*' He went out to Mason's at Gioby Park that same day,' aaid
Moolder.

* Then ifs the same man/ said Kennehy ; and there was as rnnoh
solemnity in the tone of his voiee as th<mgh the unravelment of
all the mysteries of the iron mask was now> about to take pJaoe.
Mr. Kantwise still said nothing, but he also peroeived that it was.
the same man.

* Let me tell you, John Eenneby,' said Moulder, with the air of
one who understood well the snbjeot that he was discussing, * if
ihey two be the same man, then the man who wrote that letter to
yon ia as big a blackguard as there ia ficom this to hisselL' And
Mr. Moulder in the excitement of the moment puffed hard ai hia
pipe, took a long pull at his drink, and dragged open his waistooat.
* I don't know whether Kantwise has anything to say upon that
subject,' added Moulder.

' Kot a word at present,' said Kantwise. Mr. Kantwise was a
very careful man, and usually calculated with accuracy the value
which he might extract from any circumstance with reference io
his own main chance. Mr. Dockwrath had not as yet paid him for
the set of metallic furniture, and therefore he also might well have
joined in that sweeping accusation; but it might be that by a
judicious use of what he now heard he might obtain the payment
of that little bill, — and perhaps other collateral advantages.

And then the letter from Dockwrath to Kenneby was brought
forth and read. * My dear John,' it began, — for the two had
known each other when they wore lads together, — and it went
on to request Konneby's attendance at Hamworth for the 'short
space of a few hours, — * I want to have a little conversation with
you about a matter of considerable interest to both of us ; and
a& I cannot expect 3'ou to undertake expense I enclose a money
order for thirty shillings.'

* IIo*s in CHTncst at any rate,' said Mr. Moulder.

* No mistake about that,' said Snengkeld.

192 OBLEY FABM«

But Mr. EantwiBe spoke never a word.

It was at last decided that John Kenneby should go both to Ham«
worth and to Bedford Bow, but that he should go to Hamworth
first. Moulder would have counselled him to have gone to neither,
but Snengkeld remarked that there were too many at work to let
the matter sleep, and John himself observed that * anyways he
hadn't done anything to be ashamed of.'

* Then go,' said Moulder at last, * only don't say more than yoa
are obliged to.*

* I does not like these business talkings on Christmas night,* said
Mrs. Moulder, when the matter was arranged.

* What can one do ?' asked Moulder.

* It's a tempting of Providence in my mind,' said Eantwise, as he
replenished his glass, cmd turned his eyes up to the ceiling.

* Now that's gammon,' said Moulder. And then there arose
among them a long and animated discussion on matters theological.

* m tell you what my idea of death is,' said Moulder, after a
while. ' I aint a bit afeard of it. My &ther was an honest man
as did his duty by his employers, and he died with a bottom of
brandy before him and a pipe in his mouth. I sha'n't live long
myself—*

* Gracious, Moulder, don't !' said Mrs. M.

* No, more I sha'n't, 'cause I'm fat as he was ; and I hope I may
die as he did. I've been honest to Hubbies and Grease. They've
made thousands of pounds along of me, and have never lost none.
Who can say more than that ? When I took to the old girl there,
I insured my life, so that she shouldn't want her wittles and
drink '

* Oh, M., don't I'

* And I aint afeard to die. Snengkeld, my old pal, hand us the
brandy.'

Such is the modem philosophy of the Moulders, pigs out of the
sty of Epicurus. And so it was they passed Christmas-day in Great
St. Helens.

CHAPTEB XXV.

aiR. FOBNIVAL AGAIN AT HIS GHAXBBBS.

Tab CIiristxiiaB doings at the Cleeve were not very gay. There
was no yisitor there, except Lady Mason, and it was known that
she was in tronble. It must not, however, be supposed that she
constantly bewailed herself while there, or made her friends mise*
lable by a sncoession of hysterical tears. By no means. She made
an effort to be serene, and the effort was snocessfiil — as such efforts
nsnally are. On the morning of Christmas-day they dnly attended
church, and Lady Mason was seen by all Hamworth sitting in the
Cleeye pew. In no way cotdd the baronet's friendship have been
shown more plainly than in this, nor conld a more significant maik
of intimacy have been given ; — all which Sir Peregrine well nnder-
stood. The people of Hamworth had chosen to talk scandal about
Lady Mason, but he at any rate would show how little attention he
paid to the felsehoods that there were circulated. So he stood by
her at the pew door as she entered, with as much deference as
though she had been a duchess ; and the people of Hamworth, look-
ing on, wondered which would be right, Mr. Dockwrath or Sir
Peregrine.

After dinner Sir Peregrine gave a toast. * Lady Mason, we will
drink the health of the absent boys. God bless them ! I hope they
are enjoying themselves.'

* God bless them !' said Mrs. Orme, putting her handkerchief to
her eyes.

* God bless them both !' said Lady Mason, also putting her hand-
kerchief to her eyes. Then the ladies left the room, and that was
the extent of their special festivity. ' Robert,' said Sir Peregrine
immediately afterwards to his butler, ' let them have what port wine
they want in the servants' hall — within measure.'

* Yes, Sir Peregrine.'

* And, Bobert, I shall not want you again.*

* Thank you, Sir Peregrine.'

From all which it may be imagined that the Christmas doings at
the Cleeve were chiefly maintained below stairs.

* 1 do hope they are happy,' said Mrs. Orme, when the two ladies

VOL. I. 0

194 OBLET ITABM.

were together in the drawing-room. * They have a very nice party
at Noningsby.'

• Your boy will be happy, I*m sure/ said Lady Mason.

• And why not Lncins also T

It was sweet in Lady Mason's ear to hear her son called by his
Christian name. All these increasing signs of interest and intimacy
were sweet, but especially any which signified some favour shown
to her son. * This trouble weighs heavy on him,' she replied. ' It
is only natural that he should feel it.'

* Papa does not seem to think much of it,' said Mrs. Orme. ' If
1 were you, I would strive to forget it.'

' I do strive,' said the other ; and then she took the hand which
Mrs. Orme had stretched out to her, and that lady got up and kissed
her.

' Dearest friend,' said Mrs. Orme, ' if we can comfort you we
will.' And then they sobbed in each other's arms.

In the mean time Sir Peregrine was sitting alone, thinking. He
sat thinking, with his glass of claret untouched by his side, and with
ihid biscuit which he had taken lying untouched upon the table.
As he sat he had raised one leg upon the other, placing his foot on
his knee, and he held it there with his hand upon his instep. And
so he sat without moving for some quarter of an hour, trying to use
all his mind on the subject which occupied it. A^ last he roused
himself, almost with a start, and leaving his chair, walked three or
four times the length of the room. ' Why should I not ? at last he
said to himself, stopping suddenly and placing his hand upon the
table. ' Why should I not, if it pleases mo ? It shall not injure
him — nor her.' And then he walked again. * But I will ask Edith,'
he said, still speaking to himself. ' If she says that she disapproves
of it, I will not do it.' And then he left the room, while the wine
still remained untasted on the table.

On the day following Christmas Mr. Fumival went up to town,
and Mr. Eoimd junior — Mat Round, as he was called in the pro-
fession— came to him at his chambers. A promise had been made
to the barrister by Round and Crook that no active steps should be
taken against Lady Mason on the part of Joseph Mason of Groby,
without notice being given to Mr. Fumival. And this visit by
appointment was made in consequence of that promise.

* You see,' said Matthew Round, when that visit was nearly
brought to a close, ' that we are pressed very hard to go on with
this, and if we do not, somebody else will.'

* Nevertheless, if I wore you, I should decline,' said Mr. Fumival.

• You're looking to your client, not to ours, sir,' said the attorney.
• The fact is that the whole case is very queer. It was proved on
the last trial that Bolster and Kenneby were witnesses to a deed on
the 14th of July, and that was all that was proved. Now we caa

XB. FUBNIYAL AOAIN AT HIS OHAXBEBS. 188

pnrfe that they were on that day witneisea to onotiher deecL Waro
tliay witnowoo to two ?'

* Why fihonld they not bef

* That is for ns to see. We hare written to tham both to oonia
up to iis,«nd inorderthatwemi^^heqiiiteon thesqnara I thought
it right to tell jou.*

* Thank yon; yea; I cannot oomplam of yon. And what fimn
do yon think that yonrprooeedinga will take ?*

* Joseph Mason tallra of indicting her for— Ibrgo^/ said the*
attorney, panaing a moment hefiyre he dared to pmunmoe the dread
word*

* Indict her lor forgery r said FnmiTal, with a start Andyettka
idea waa one which had been for aomedayapraaenttohiB mind'aeya.

* I do not say so/ said Bonnd. * I have aa yet aaen none of tha
witnesses myself. If they are prepared to pzore that they did sign
two separate documents on that day, the thing most pass o£F.' It
was clear to Mr. FnmiTal that even Mr. Bonnd junior would be
glad that it should pass o£El And then he also sat thinking. Mi|^
it not be probable that, witk a little jndioiooa ezennae of ih«
memoiyy those two witnesses would remember that they had sigpMd
two documents ; or at any rate, looking to the lapse of the time,
that they might be induced to forget altogether whether they had
signed one, two, or three ? Or even if they oould be mystified ao
that nothing could be proved, it would still be well with his elient.
Indeed no magistrate would commit such a person as Lady Maaon,
especially after so long an interval, and no grand jury would find a
bill against her, except upon evidence that was clear, well defined,
and almost indubitable. If any point of doubt oould be shown, she
might be brought off without a trials if only she would be true to
herself. At the former trial there was the existing codicil, and
tho fact also that the two surviving reputed witnesses would not
deny their signatures. These signatures— if they were genuine
signatures — had been attached with all proper formality, and the
form used went to state that the testator had signed the instrument
in the presence of them all, they all being present together at the
same time. The survivors had both asserted that when they did
affix their names the three were then present, as was also Sir
Joseph ; but there had been a terrible doubt even then as to the
identity of the document ; and a doubt also as to there having been
any signature made by one of the reputed witnesses — by that one,
namely, who at the time of that trial was dead. Now another
document was forthcoming, purporting to have been vritncssed, on
the same day, by these two surviving witnesses I If that document
were genuine, and if these two survivors should be clear that they
had written their names but once on that 14th of July, in such caM
could it be possible to quash farther public inquiry? The criminal

0 2

196 ORLET FARM.

proseoation miglit not be possible as a first proceeding, but if the
estate were recovered at common law, would not the criminal pro-
secution follow as a matter of course? And then Mr. Fumival
thought it all over again and again.

If this document were genuine — this new document which the
man Dockwrath stated that he had found — this deed of separation
of partnership which purported to have been executed on that i4th
of July 1 That was now the one important question. If it were
genuine ! And why should there not be as strong a question of the
honesty of that document as of the other ? Mr. Fumival well knew
that no fraudulent deed would be forged and produced without a
motive ; and that if he impugned this deed he must show the
motive. Motive enough there was, no doubt. Mason might have
had it forged in order to get the property, or Dockwrath to gratify
his revenge. But in such case it would be a forgery of the present
day. There could have been no motive for such a forgery twenty
years ago. The paper, the writing, the attested signature of
Martock, the other party to it, would prove that it had not been
got up and manufactured now. Dockwrath would not dare to bring
forward such a forgery as that. There was no hope of any such
result.

But might not he, Fumival, if the matter were pushed before a
jury, make them think that the two documents stood balanced
against each other ? and that Lady Mason's respectability, her long
possession, together with the vile malignity of her antagonists, gave
the greater probability of honesty to the disputed codicil? Mr.
Fumival did think that he might induce a jury to acquit her ; but
he terribly feared that he might not be able to induce the world to
acquit her also. As he thought of all the case, he seemed to put him-
self apart from the world at large. He did not question himself as
to his own belief, but seemed to feel that it would suffice for him
if he could so bring it about that her other friends should think her
innocent. It would by no means suffice for him to secure for her
son the property, and for hor a simple acquittal. It was not that
he dreaded the idea of thinking her guilty himself; perhaps he did
80 think her now — ho half thought her so, at any rate ; but he
greatly dreaded the idea of others thinking so. It might be well to
buy up Dockwrath, if it were possible. If it were possible ! But
then it was not possible that he himself could have a hand in such
a matter. Could Crabwitz do it ? No ; he thought not. And then,
at this moment, he was not certain that he could depend on Crabwitz.

And why should he trouble himself in this way ? Mr. Fumival
was a man loyal to his friends at heart. Had Lady Mason been a
man, and had he pulled that man through great difficulties in early
life, he would have been loyally desirous of carrying him through
the same or similar difficulties at any after period. In that cause

MR. FURNIYAL AGAIN AT HIS CHAMBEB8. 197

which he had once battled he was always ready to do battle, without
reference to any professional consideration of triumph or profit. It
was to this feeling of loyalty that he had owed mnch of his success
in life. And in such a case as this it may be supposed that that
feeling woiQd be strong. But then such a feeling presumed a case
in which he could sympathize-^in which he could believe. Would
it be well that he should allow himself to feel the same interest in
this case, to maintain respecting it the same personal anxiety, if he
ceased to believe in it ? He did ask himself the question, and he
finally answered it in the afifirmative. He had beaten Joseph
Mason once in a good stand-up fight ; and having done so, having
thus made the matter his own, it was necessary to his comfort that
he should beat him again, if another fight were to be fought.
Lady Mason was his client, and all the associations of his life taught
him to be true to her as such.

And as we are thus searching into his innermost heart we must
say more than this. Mrs. Fumival perhaps had no sufficient
grounds for those terrible fears of hers ; but nevertheless the mis-
tress of Orley Farm was very comely in the eyes of the lawyer.
Her eyes, when full of tears, were very bright, and her hand, as it
lay in his, was very soft. He laid out for himself no scheme of
wickedness with reference to her; he purposely entertained no
thoughts which he knew to be wrong ; but, nevertheless, he did
feel that he liked to have her by him, that he liked to be her adviser
and friend, that he liked to wipe the tears from those eyes — not by
a material handkerchief from his pocket, but by immaterial manly
sympathy from his bosom ; and that he liked also to feel the
pressure of that hand. Mrs. Fumival had become solid, and heavy,
and red ; and though ho himself was solid, and heavy, and red also
— more so, indeed, in proportion than his poor wife, for his redness,
as I have said before, had almost reached a purple hue ; neverthe-
less hifl eye lovod to look upon the beauty of a lovely woman, his
ear loved to hear the tone of her voice, and his hand loved to meet
the soft ripeness of her touch. It was very wrong that it should
have been so, but the case is not without a parallel.

And therefore ho made up his mind that he would not desert
Lady Mason. He would not desert her ; but how would he set
about the fighting that would be necessary in her behalf? He
was well aware of this, that if he fought at all, he must fight now.
It would not do to let the matter go on till she should be summoned
to defend herself. Stops which might now be available would be
altogether unavailable in two or three months* time — would be so,
perhaps, if he allowed two or three weeks to pass idly by him.
Mr. Konnd, luckily, was not disposed to hurry his proceedings ; nor,
as far as ho was concerned, was there any bitterness of antagonism.
But with both Mason and Dockwrath there would be hot haste, and

198 0BL2Y FABK.

liotter malice. Fikhh tlnase wlio weie really her enemieB she oonld
expect no quarter.

He was to return on that evening to Noningshj, and on the fol-
lowing day he would go over to The Cleeve. He knew that Lady
Mason was staying there ; but his object in making that visit would
not be merely that he might see her, but also that he might speak
to Sir Peregrine, and learn how far the baronet was inclined to
support his neighbour in her coming tribulation. He would soon
be able to ascertain what Sir Peregrine really thought — whether
he suspected the possibility of any guilt ; and he would ascertain
also what was the general feeling in the neighbourhood of Ham-
wortL It would be a great thing if he could spread abroad a con-
viction that she was an injured woman. It would be a great thing
even if he could make it ^own Ihat the great people of the neigh-
bourhood so thought The jurymen of Alston would be mortal men ;
and it might be possible that they shoiQd be imbued with a favour-
able bias on the subject before they assembled in their box for its
consideration.

He wished that he knew the truth in the matter ; or rather he
wished he could know whether or no she were innocent, without
knowing whether or no she were guilty. The fight in his hands
would be conducted on terms so much more glorious if he could feel
sure of her innocence. But then if he attempted that, and she
were not innocent, all might be sacrificed by the audacity of his
proceedings. He could not venture that, unless he were sure of his
ground. For a moment or two he thought that he would ask her
the question. He said to himself that he could forgive the fault.
That it had beeii repented ere this he did not doubt, and it would
be sweet to say to her that it was very grievous, but that yet it
might be forgiven. It would be sweet to feel that she was in his
hands, and that he would treat her with mercy and kindness. But
then a hundred other thoughts forbade him to think more of this.
If she had been guilty — if she declared her guilt to him — would not
restitution be necessaiy ? In that case her son must know it, and
all the world must know it. Such a confession would be incom-
patible with that innocence before the world which it was necessary
that she should maintain. Moreover, he must be able to proclaim
aloud his belief in her innocence ; and how could he do that, know-
ing her to be guilty — knowing that she also knew that he bad such
knowledge ? It was impossible that he should ask any such ques-
tion, or admit of any such confidence.

It would be necessary, if the case did come to a trial, that she
should employ some attorney, llie matter must come into the
barrister's hands in the usual way, through a solicitor's house, and
it would be well that the person employed should have a firm fetith
in his client. What could he say — he, as a barrister — if the attor-

MB. FUBNIVAL AGAIN AT HIS CHAMBEBS. 199

iMj Bnggested to him that the lady might possibly be guilty ? As
he thought of all these things he almost dreaded the difficulties
before him.

He rang the bell for Crab^tz — the peculiar bell which Crabwitz
was bound to answer — ^having first of all gone through a little cere-
mony with his cheque-book. Crabwitz entered, still sulky in his
demeanour, for as yet the old anger had not been appeased, and it
was still a doubtful matter in the clerk's mind whether or no it
might not be better for him to seek a master who would better
appreciate his services. A more lucrative position it might be
difficult for him to find ; but money is not eyerything, as Crabwitas
said to himself more than once. '

* Crabwitz,' said Mr. Fumival, looking with a pleasant &ce at his
derk, ^ I am leaving town this evening, and I shall be absent for
the next ten days. If you like you can go away for a holiday.'

' It's rathor late in Ihe season now, sir,* said Crabwitz, gloomily,
as though he were determined not to be pleased.

' It is a little late, as you say ; but I really could not manage it
earlier. Come, Crabwitz, you and I should not quarreL Your
work has been a little hard, but then so has mine also.'

* I fancy you like it, sir.'

* Ha ! ha ! Like it, indeed I But so do you like it — ^in its way.
Gome, Crabwitz, you have been an excellent servant to me ; and I
don't ^nk that, on the whole, I have been a bad master to you.*

* I am making no complaint, sir.'

* But you're cross because I've kept you in town a little too long.
Come, Crabwitz, you must forget all that. You have worked very hard
this year past. Here is a cheque for fifty pounds. Get out of town
for a fortnight or so, and amuse yourself.*

* I'm sure I'm very much obliged, sir,' said Crabwitz, putting out
his hand aud taking the cheque. He felt that his master had got
the better of him, and he was still a little melancholy on that
account. He would have valued his grievance at that moment almost
more than the fifty pounds, especially as by the acceptance of it ho
surrendered all right to complain for some considerable time to come.

' By-tbe-by, Crabwitz,' said Mr. Fumival, as the clerk was
about to leave the room.

* Yes, sir,' said Crabwitz.

* You have never chanced to hear of an attorney named Dock-
wrath, I suppose?'

' What! in London, Mr. Fumival?'

* Ko ; I fancy he has no place of business in town. He lives I
know at Ilamworth.*

* It's lie you mean, sir, that is meddling in this affair of Lady
Mason's.'

* What ! you have heard of that ; have you T

200 OBLET FABM.

* Oh ! yes, sir. It*s being a good deal talked about in the pro-
£M8ion« Messrs. Bound and Crook*s leading young man was up
here with me the other day^ and he did say a good deal about ii»
He's a very decent young man, considering his position, is Smart.'

* And he knows Dockwrath, does he T

* Well, sir, I can't say that he knows much of the man ; but
Dockwrath has been at their place of business pretty constant of
late, and he and Mr. Matthew seem thick enough together.'

*0h! they do; do they?'

* So Smart tells me. I don't know how it is myself, sir. I don't
suppose this Dockwrath is a very '

* No, no ; exactly. I dare say not. You've never seen him
yourself, Crabwitz?'

* Who, sir ? I, sir ? No, sir, I've never set eyes on the man,,
sir. From all I hear it's not very likely he should come here ; and
I'm sure it is not at all likely that I should go to him.'

Mr. Fumival sat thinking awhile, and the clerk stood waiting
opposite to him, leaning with both his hands upon the table. ' You
don't know any one in the neighbourhood of Hamworth, I suppose V
Mr. Fumival said at last.

* Who, sir ? I, sir ? Not a soul, sir. I never was there in my life.*

* 111 tell you why I ask. I strongly suspect that that man
Dockwrath is at some very foul play.' And then he told to hi»
clerk so much of the whole story of Lady Mason and her affairs a&
he chose that he should know. ' It is plain enough that he may
give Lady Mason a great deal of annoyance,' he ended by saying.

* There's no doubting that, sir,' said Crabwitz. * And, to tell the
truth, I believe his mind is made up to do it.'

' You don't think that anything could be done by seeing him ?
Of course Lady Mason has got nothing to compromise. Her son's
estate is as safe as my hat ; but ^

* The people at Round's think it isn't quite so safe, sir.'

' Then the people at Boimd's know nothing about it. But Lady
Mason is so averse to legal proceedings that it would bo worth her
while to have matters settled. You imderstand?'

* Yes, sir ; I imderstand. Would not an attorney be the best
pei*son, sir?'

* Not just at present, Crabwitz. Lady Mason is a very dear
friend of mine-^— '

* Yes, sir ; we know that,' said Crabwitz.

* If you could make any pretence for running down to Hamworth
— change of air, you know, for a week or so. It's a beautiful
country ; just the place you like. And you might find out whether
anything could be done, eh T

Mr. Crabwitz was well aware, from the first, that he did not get
fifty pounds for nothing.

CHAPTEB XXVI.

WHY SHOULD I NOT?

A DAY or two after his conversation with Crabwitz, as described in
the last chapter, Mr. Funiival was driven up to the door of Sir Pere-
grine Orme*s house in a Hamworth fly. He had come over by train
finom Alston on purpose to see the baronet, whom he found seated
in his library. At that very moment he was again asking himself
those questions which he had before asked as he was walking up
and dow^n his own dining-room. '* Why should I not?' he said to
himself, — * unless, indeed, it will make her unhappy.' And then
the barrister was shown into his room, muffled up to his eyes in his
winter clothing.

Sir Peregrine and Mr. Fumival were well kno^!^ to each other,
and had always met as friends. They had been interested on the
same side in the first Orley Farm Case, and possessed a topic of sym-
pathy in their mutual dislike to Joseph Mason of Groby Park. Sir
Peregrine therefore was courteous, and when he learned the subject
on which he was to be consulted ho became almost more than
courteous.

• Oh I yes ; she's staying here, Mr. Fumival. Would you like to
see her ?*

* Before I leave I shall be glad to see her, Sir Peregrine ; but if I
am justified in regarding you as specially her friend, it may perhaps
be well that I should first have some conversation with you.' Sir
Peregrine in answer to this declared that Mr. Fumival certainly
would be so justified ; that he did regard himself as Lady Mason^s
special friend, and that he was ready to hear anything that the
barrister might have to saj*^ to him.

Many of the points of this case have already been named so often,
and will, I fear, bo necessarily named so often again that I will
spare the repetition when it is possible. Mr. Fumival on this
occasion told Sir Peregrine — not all that he had heard, but all that
he thought it necessary to tell, and soon became fully aware that in
the baronet's mind there was not the slightest shadow of suspicion
that Lady Mason could have been in any way to blame. He, the
baronet, was thoroughly convinced that Mr. Mason was the great
sinner in this matter, and that he was prepared to harass an inno-
cent and excellent lady from motives of disappointed cupidity and

202 OBLEY FABU.

long-sustained malice, which made him seem in Sir Peregrine's
eyes a being almost too vile for humanity. And of Dockwrath he
thought almost as badly — only that Dockwrath was below the level
of his thinking. Of Lady Mason he spoke as an excellent and
beautiful woman driven to misery by unworthy persecution ; and
80 spoke with an enthusiasm that was surprising to Mr. Fumival.
It was very manifest that she would not want for friendly counte-
nance, if friendly countenance could carry her through her diffi-
culties.

There was no suspicion against Lady Mason in the mind of Sir
Peregrine, and Mr. Fumival was careful not to arouse any such
feeling. When he found that the baronet spoke of her as being
altogether pure and good, he also spoke of her in the same tone ;
but in doing so his game was very difficult. ' Let him do his worst,
Mr. Fumival/ said Sir Peregrine ; ' and let her remain tranquil ;
that is my advice to Lady Mason. It is not possible that he can
really injure her.'

' It is possible that he can do nothing — ^very probable that he
can do nothing ; but nevertheless, Sir Peregrine '

* I would have no dealing with him or his. I would utterly dis-
regard them. If he, or they, or any of them choose to take steps to
annoy her, let her attorney manage that in the usual way. I am no
lawyer myself, Mr. Fumival, but that I think is the manner in
which things of this kind should be arranged. I do not know
whether they have still the power of disputing the will, but if so,
let them do it*

Gradually, by very slow degrees, Mr. Fumival made Sir Peregrine
xmderstand that the legal doings now threatened were not of that
nature ; — ^that Mr. Mason did not now talk of proceeding at law for
the recovery of the property, but for the punishment of his father's
widow as a criminal ; and at last the dreadful word * forgery '
dropped from his lips.

' Who dares to make such a charge as that?' demanded the
baronet, while fire literally flashed from his eyes in his anger. And
when he was told that Mr. Mason did make such a charge he called
him ' a mean, unmanly dastard.' ' I do not believe that he would
dare to make it against a man,' said Sir Peregrine.

But there was the fact of the charge— the fact that it had been
placed in the hands of respectable attorneys, with instructions to
thorn to press it on— and the fact also that the evidence by which
that charge was to be supported possessed at any rate a primd fade
appearance of strength. All this it was necessary to explain to Sir
Peregrine, as it would also be necessary to explain it to Lady Msison.

• Am I to understand, then, that you also think ?' began Sir

Peregrine.

' You are not to understand that I think anything injurious to

WHY SHOULD I NOT? 203

the lady ; but I do fear tliat she is in a position of much jeopardy,
and that great care will be necessary.'

* Good heavens ! Do you mean to say that an innocent persoii
can under such circumstances be in danger in this country T

* An innocent person, Sir Peregrine, may be in danger of very
great annoyance, and also of very great delay in proving that inno-
cence. Innocent people have died under the weight of such charges.
We must remember ih&t she is a woman, and therefore weaker than
you or 1/

* Yes, yes ; but still . You do not say that you think she can

be in any real danger ?' It seemed, from the tone of the old man's
voice, as though he were almost angry with Mr. Fumival for sup-
posing that such could be the case. ' And you intend to tell her all
this ? he asked.

* I fear that, as her friend, neither you nor I will be warranted in
keeping her altogether in the dark. Think what her feelings would
be if she were summoned before a magistrate without any prepara-
tion!*

* No magistrate would listen to such a charge,' said Sir Peregrine.
' In that he must be guided by the evidence.'

' I would sooner throw up my conmiission than lend myself in
any way to a proceeding so iniquitous.'

This was all very well, and the existence of such a feeling
showed great generosity, and perhaps also poetic chivalry on the
part of Sir Peregrine Orme ; but it was not the way of the world,
and so Mr. Fumival was obliged to explain. Magistrates would
listen to the charge — would be forced to listen to the charge, — if the
evidence were apparently sound. A refusal on the part of a magis-
trate to do so would not be an act of friendship to Lady Mason, as
Mr. Fumival endeavoured to explain. * And you wish to see her?'
Sir Peregrine asked at last.

* I think she should be told ; but as she is in your house, I will,
of course, do nothing in which you do not concur.' Upon which
Sir Peregrine rang the bell and desired the servant to take his com-
pliments to Lady Mason and beg her attendance in the library if it
were quite convenient. * Tell her,' said Sir Peregrine, ' that Mr.
Fumival is here.*

When the message was given to her she was seated with Mrs.
Orme, and at the moment she summoned strength to say that she
would obey the invitation, without dif>playing any special emotion
while the 8er\'ant was in the room ; but when the door was shut,
her friend looked at her and saw that she was as pale as death. She
was pale and her limbs quivered, and that look of agony, which now
so often marked her face, was settled on her brow. Mrs. Orme had
never yet seen her with such manifest signs of suffering as she wore
at this instant.

201 OSLSY FABIL

* I suppofie I miLst go to them/ she said, slowly rising from her
seat ; and it seemed to Mrs. Orme that she was forced to hold by
the table to support herself.

* Mr. Fumival is a friend, is he not ?*

* Oh, yes I a kind friend, but '

* They shall come in here if you like it better, dear.'

' Oh, no ! I will go to them. It would not do that I should seem
so weak. What must you think of me to see me so ?'

* I do not wonder at it, dear,' said Mrs. Orme, coming round to
her; 'such cruelty would kill me. I wonder at your strength
rather than your weakness.' And then she kissed her. What was
there about the woman that had made all those fond of her that
came near her ?

Mrs. Orme walked with her across the hall, and left her only at
the library door. There she pressed her hand and again kissed her,
and then Lady Mason turned the handle of the door and entered
the room. Mr. Fumival, when he looked at her, was startled by
the pallor of her face, but nevertheless he thought that she had
never looked so beautiful. * Dear Lady Mason,' said he, ' I hope
you are well.'

Sir Peregrine advanced to her and handed her over to his own
arm-chair. Had she been a queen in distress she coiQd not have
been treated with more gentle deference. But she never seemed to
count upon this, or in any way to assume it as her right. I should
accuse her of what I regard as a sin against all good taste were I to
say that she was humble in her demeanour ; but there was a soft
meekness about her, an air of feminine dependence, a proneness to
lean and almost to cling as she leaned, which might have been felt
as irresistible by any man. She was a woman to know in her deep
sorrow rather Hian in her joy and happiness ; one with whom one
would love to weep rather than to rejoice. And, indeed, the present
was a time with her for weeping, not for rejoicing.

Sir Peregrine looked as though he were her father as he took her
hand, and the barrister immediately comforted himself with the
remembrance of the baronet's great age. It was natural, too, that
Lady Mason should hang on him in his own house. So Mr. Fumival
contented himself at the first moment with touching her hand and
hoping that she was well. She answered hardly a word to either of
them, but she attempted to smile as she sat down, and murmured
something about the trouble she was giving them.

' Mr. Fumival thinks it best that you should be made aware of
the stops which are being taken by Mr. Mason of Groby Park,'
began Sir Peregrine. * I am no lawyer myself, and therefore of
course I cannot put my advice against his.'

* I am Kure that both of you will tell me for the best,' she said.

' In such a matter as this it is right that you should be guided by

WHY SHOULD I HOT? 205

That he is as finnly your friend as I am ihexe can he no
donht'

*I helieve Lady Mason trosts me in that,' said the lawyer.

* Indeed I do ; I would trust you both in anything/ she ssid.

* And there osn be no doubt that he must be able to direct you
for the best I say so much at the first, because I myself so
thoroughly despise ^t man in Toxkshire, — ^I am so conTinoed that
anything which his malice may prompt him to do must be futile,
that I could not myself have thought it needful to pain you by what
must now be said.'

This was a dreadful commencement, but she bore it, and CTen
was relieved by it. Indeed, no tale that Mr. Fumival could haTe
to tell after such an exordium would be so bad as that which she
had feared as the possible result of his visit. He might have come
there to let her know that she was at once to be carried away —
immediately to be taken to her trial — perhaps to be locked up in
giol. In her ignorance of the law she could only imagine what
might or might not happen to her at any moment, and therefore the
words which Sir Peregpine had spoken relieved her rather than
added to her fears.

And then Mr. Fumival b^^an his tale, and gradually put before
ber the facts of Hie matter. This he did with a choice of language
and a delicacy of phraseology which were admirable, for he made
her clearly understand the nature of the accusation which was
brought against her without using any word which was in itself
harsh in its bearing. He said nothing about fraud, or forgery, or
&lse evidence, but he made it manifest to her that Joseph IkUson
had now instructed his lawyer to institute a criminal proceeding
against'her for having forged a codicil to her husband's will.

* I must bear it as best I may,' she said. * May the Lord give me
strength to bear it !*

* It is terrible to think of,' said Sir Peregrine ; * but nobody can
doubt how it will end. You are not to suppose that Mr. Furnival
intends to express any doubt as to your ultimate triumph. What
we fear for you is the pain you must endure before this triumph
comes.'

Ah, if that werQ all! As the baronet finished speaking she
looked furtively into the lawyer's face to see how far the meaning
of these smooth words would be supported by what she might read
there. Would ho also think that a final triumph did certainly
await her ? Sir Peregrine's real opinion was easily to be learned,
either from his countenance or from his words ; but it was not so
with Mr. Fumival. In Mr. Fumival's face, and from Mr. Fumival's
words, could be learned only that which Mr. Fumival wished to
declare. He saw that glance, and fully understood it ; and he knew
instinctively, on the spur of the moment, that he must now either

206 OBLEY FABM.

asBore her by a lie, or break down all her hopes bj the truth. That
final triumph was not certain to her — was very far from certain !
8hoald he now be honest to his friend, or dishonest ? One great
object with him was to secure the support which Sir Peregrine
oould give by his weight in the county; and therefore, as Sir
Peregrine was present, it was needful that he should be dishcnest.
Arguing thus he looked the lie, and Lady Mason . derived more
comfort from that look than from all Sir Peregrine's words.

And then those various details were explained to her which
Mr. Fumival understood that Mr. Dockwrath had picked up. They
went into that matter of the partnership deed, and questions were
asked as to the man Eenneby and the woman Bolster. They might
both, Lady Mason said, have been witnesses to half a dozen deeds
on that same day, for aught she knew to the contrary. She had
been present with Sir Joseph, as far as she could now remember,
during the whole of that morning, ' in and out. Sir Peregrine, as
you can understand.* Sir Peregrine said that he did understand
peifectly. She did know that Mr. Usbech had been there for many
hours that day, probably from ten to two or three, and no doubt
therefore much business was transacted. She herself remembered
nothing but the affair of the will ; but then that was natural,
seeing that there was no other aSair in which she had specially
interested herself.

' No doubt these people did witness both the deeds,' said Sir
Peregrine. * For myself, I cannot conceive how that wretched man
can bo so silly as to spend his money on such a case as this.'

* Ho would do anything for revenge,' said Mr. Fumival.

And then Lady Mason was allowed to go back to the drawing-
room, and what remained to be said was said between the two
gentlemen alone. Sir Peregrine was very anxious that his own
attorneys should be employed, and he named Messrs. Slow and
Bidea while, than whom there wei-e no more respectable men in the
whole profession. But then Mr. Fumival feared that they were
too respectable. They might look at the matter in so straight-
forward a light as to fancy their client really guilty ; and what
might happen then ? Old Slow would not conceal the truth for all
the baronets in England — no, nor for all the pretty women. The
touch of Lady Mason's hand and the tear in her eye would be
nothing to old Slow. Mr. Fumival, therefore, was obliged to
explain that Slow and Bideawhile did not undertake that sort of
business.

' But I should wish it to be taken up through them. There must
be some expenditure, Mr. Fumival, and I should prefer that they
should arrange about that.'

Mr. Fumival made no further immediate objection, and consented
at last to having an interview with one of the firm on the subject.

WHY SHOULD I HOT? 207

pronded, of ocmrae, that that xnember of the firm came to him at his
bhambezB. And then he took hia leave. Nothing poaitiTe had
heen done, or even lettled to be done, on this morning; hut the
pezBona most interested in the matter had been made to understand
that the afiair was taking an absolute palpable substance, and that
steps must be taken — indeed, would be taken almost immediatdTi
Ifr. Funival, as he left the house, resolved to employ the attorneyB
-whom he might think best adapted for the pnipose. He mrald
settle that matter with Slow and Bideawhile afterwiards.

And then, as he returned to Noningsl^, he wondered at his pei^
sistenoe in the matter. He believed that his dient had been
guilty; he believed that this codicil was no real instrument made
bj Sir Joseph Mason. And so believing, would it not be better for
him to wash his hands of the whole afBur ? OtheiB did not think
so, and would it not be bettor that such others should be her
advisers? Was he not taking up for himself endless trouble and
annoyance that could have no useful purpose ? So he argued with
himself, and jet by the time that he had reached Noningsby he had
determined tiiat he would stand by Lady Mason to the last. He
hated that man Mason, as he dedaxed to himself when providing
himself with reasons for his resolve, and regarded his bitter,
malicious justice as more criminal than any crime of which Lady
Mason might have been guilty. And then as he leaned back in the
railway carriage he still saw her pale face before him, still heard
the soft tone of her voice, and was still melted by the tear in her
eye. Young man, young friond of mine, who art now filled to the
overflowing of thy brain with poetry, with chivalry, and love, thou
seest seated opposite to thee there that grim old man, with long
snufiy nose, with sharp piercing eyes, with scanty frizzled hairs.
He is rich and cross, has been three times married, and has often
quarrelled with his children. He is fond of his wine, and snores
dreadfully after dinner. To thy seeming he is a dry, withered
stick, from which all the sap of sentiment has been squeezed by the
rubbing and friction of years. Foetry, the feeling if not the words
of poetry, — is he not dead to it, even as the pavement is dead over
which his wheels trundle? Oh, my young friend I thou art
ignorant in this — as in most other things. He may not twitter of
sentiment, as thou doest ; nor may I trundle my hoop along the
high road as do the little boys. The fitness of things forbids it.
But that old man's heart is as soft as thine, if tbou couldst but read
it The body dries up and withers away, and the bones grow old ;
the brain, too, becomes decrepit, as do the sight, the hearing, and
the soul. But the heart that is tender once remains tender to the last.

Lady Mason, when she left the library, walked across the hall
towards the drawing-room, and then she paused. She would fain
remain alone for a while if it were possible, and therefore she

208 OBLKY FABK.

tamed aside into a small breakiiEist parionr, which was used everj
nuyming, but which was rarely yisited afterwards during the day.
Here she sat, leaving the door slightly open, so that she might
know when Mr. Fnmival left the baronet. Here she sat for a full
hoar, waiting — waiting — waiting. There was no sofa or lounging-
chair in the room, reclining in which she could remain there half
sleeping, sitting comfortably at her ease ; but she placed herself near
the table, and leaning there with her face upon her hand, she
waited patiently till Mr. Fumival had gone. That her mind was
full of thoughts I need hardly say, but yet the hour seemed very
long to her. At last she heard the libraiy door open, she heard
8ir Peregrine's voice as he stood in the hall and shook hands with
his departing visitor, she heard the sound of the wheels as the fly
moved upon the gravel, and then she heard Sir Per^rine again
shut the library door behind him.

She did not immediately get up from her chair ; she still waited
awhile, perhaps for another period of ten minutes, and then she
noiselessly left the room, and moving quickly and silently across
the hall she knocked at Sir Peregrine's door. This she did so
gently that at first no answer was made to her. Then she knocked
again, hardly louder but with a repeated rap, and Sir Peregrine
summoned her to come in. * May I trouble you once more — for one
moment ?' she said.

* Certainly, certainly ; it is no trouble. 1 am glad that you are
here in the bouse at this time, that you may see me at any moment
that you may wish.'

* I do not know why you should be so good to me.'

* Because you are in great grief, in undeserved giief, because .

Lady Mason, my services are at your command. I will act for you
as I would for a — daughter.'

' You hear now of what it is that they accuse me.'
' Yes,' he said ; * I do hear :' and as he spoke he came round so
that he was standing near to her, but with his back to the fire-
place. * I do hear, and I blush to think that there is a man in
England, holding the position of a county magistrate, who can so
forget all that is dua to honesty, to humanity, and to self-respect.'

* You do not then think that I have been guilty of this thing ?'

* Guilty — I think you guilty ! No, nor does he think so. It is
impossible that he should think so. I am no more sure of my own
innocence than of yours ;' and as he spoko he took both her hands
and looked into her face, and his eyes also were full of tears. * You
may be sure of this, that neither I nor Edith will ever think you
guilty.'

' Dearest Edith,' she said ; she had never before called Sir
Peregrine's daughter-in-law by her Christian name, and as she now
did BO she almost felt that she had sinned. But Sir Peregrine took

WHY SHOULD I NOT? 209

it in good part ' She is deaieat/ he said; * and be snre of this,
that she will be trne to yon through it alL'

And 80 they stood for a while without further speech* He still
held both her hands, and the tears stall stood in his eyes. Her eyes
were turned to the ground, and from them the tears were running
fieist. At first they ran silently, without audible sobbing, and Sir
Peregrine, with his own old eyes full of salt water, hardly knew
that she was weeping. But gradually the drops fell upon his hand,
one by one at first, and then &8ter and faster ; and soon there came
a low sob, a sob all but suppressed, but whioh at last forced itself
tbrth, and then her head fell upon his shoulder. ' My dear,' he
said, himself hardly able to speak; *my poor dear, my ill-used
dear !' and as she withdrew one hand from his, that she might press
a handkerchief to her fBice, his vacant arm passed itself round her
waist. * My poor, ill-used dear !' he said again, as he pressed her to
his old heart, and leaning over her he kissed her lips.

So she stood for some few seconds, feeling that she was pressed
dose by the feeble pressure of his arm, and then she gradually sank
through frx>m his embrace, and fell upon her knees at his feet. She
knelt at his feet, supporting herself with one arm upon the table,
and with the other hand she still held his hand over which her
head was bowed. * My friend,' she said, still sobbing, and sobbing
loudly now ; * my friend, that God has sent me in my trouble.*
And then, with words that were wholly inaudible, she murmured
some prayer on his behalf.

* I am better now,' she said, raising herself quickly to her feet
when a few seconds had passed. * I am better now,' and she stood
erect before him. ' By God's mercy I will endure it ; I think I
can endure it now.'

* If I can lighten the load — *

* You have lightened it — of half its weight ; but. Sir Fer^ine, I
will leave this — '

' Leave this ! go away from The Cleeve I'

* Yes ; I will not destroy the comfort t)f your home by the
%vrctchodnes8 of my position. I will not — *

* Lady Mason, my house is altogether at your service. If you
will be led by me in this matter, you will not leave it till this
cloud shall have passed by you. You will be better to be alone
now ;' and then before she could answer him further, he led her to
the door. She folt that it was better for her to be alone, and she
hastened up the stairs to her own chamber.

* And why should I not ?' said Sir Peregrine to himself, as he
again walked the length of the library.

VOL. I.

CHAPTER XXVIL

OOMKEBCR.

Lucius Mason was still staying at Noningsby when Mr. FomiTal
made his Tisit to Sir Peregrine, and on that afternoon he reoeived a
note from his mother. Indeed, there were three notes passed between
tiiem on that afternoon, for ho wrote an answer to his mother, and
tiien received a reply to that answer. Lady Mason told him that
she did not intend to retom home to the Farm quite immediately,
and explained that her reason for not doing so was the necessity
that she should have assistance and advice at this period of her
trouble. She did not say that she misdoubted the wisdom of her
son's counsels ; but it appeared to him that she intended to signify
to him that she did so, and he answered her in words that were
sore and almost bitter. *• I am sorry,' he said, * that you and I can-
not agree about a matter that is of such vital concern to both of us ;
but as it is so, we can only act as each thinks best, you for yourself
and I for myself. I am sure, however, that you will believe that my
only object is your happiness and your fair name, which is dearer
to me than anything else in the world.' In answer to this, she
had written again immediately, filling her letter with sweet words
of motherly love, telling him that she was sure, quite sure, of his
aflfection and kind spirit, and excusing herself for not putting the
matter altogether in his hands by saying that she was forced to
lean on those who had supported her from the beginning — through
that formej" trial which had taken place when he, Lucius, was yet a
baby. ' And, dearest Lucius, you must not be angry with me,' she
went on to say ; * I am suffering much under this cruel persecution,
but my sufferings would be more than doubled if my own boy
quarrelled with me.' Lucius, when he received this, flung up his
head. 'Quarrel with her,' ho said to himself; 'nothing on earth
would make me quarrel with her ; but I cannot say that that is
right which I think to be wrong.' His feelings were good and
honest, and kindly too in their way ; but tenderness of heart was
not his weakness. I should wrong him if I were to say that he
was hard-hearted, but he flattered himself that he was just-hearted,
which sometimes is nearly the same — as had been the case with his
father before him, and was now the case with his half-brother
Joseph.

OOMHEBCB. 211

The d*7 after this was his last act NoningBby. He Iiad tolfl Lady
Steveley that he intended to go, and thongli fliie had' pressed his
ikaiher stay, remarking that none of the young people intended to
move till after twelfthrnight, nerertheleBS ho persisted. Willi the
ytrang people of the house themselves he had not nnidi adnmoed
himself; and altogether he did not find himself thoroughly hi^ppj
in the judge's house. They were more thoughtless than he — as he
thought; they did not understand him, and Iherefore he wonldf
leanre them. Besides, there was a great d*y of hunting ooming on,
ai which everybody was to take a part, and as he did not hunt that
gave him another reason for going. * They have nothing to do but
amnse themselves,' he said to himself; ^but I have a man's work
before me, and a man's misfortunes. I will go home and&ce both.*

In all this there was much of conoeit, much of pride, mu(£ of
deficient education — deficiency in that special braneh of educa*
tion which England has imparted to the best of her sons, but
which is now becoming out of fashion. He had never learned to
measure himself against others, — ^I do not mean his knowledge or
his book-acquirements, but the evexy-day conduct of his lilb,—
and to perceive that that which is insigniflcant in others must be
insignificant in himself also. To those around him at Noningsby
his extensive reading respecting the lapetides recommended him
not at all, nor did his agricultural ambitions ; — ^not even to Felix
Cknham, as a companion, though Felix Graham could see fbrther
into his character than did the others. He was not such as they
were. He had not the unprctuntious, self-controlling humour, per-
fectly free from all conceit, which was common to them. Life did
not come easy to him, and the effort which he was ever making was
always vitdble. All men should over bo making efforts, no doubt ;
but those efforts should not bo conspicuous. But yet Lucius Mason
was not a bad fellow, and young Staveley showed much want of dis-
cernment when he called him empty-headed and selfish. Thoso
epithets were by no means applicable to him. That he was not
ompty-hcadod is certain ; and he was moreover capable of a great
self-sacrifice.

That his talents and good qualities were appreciated by one person
in the house, seemed evident to Lady Staveley and the other married
ladies of the party. Miss Fumival, as they all thought, had not
found him empty-headed. And, indeed, it may bo doubted whether
Lady Staveley would have pressed his stay at Noningsby, had Miss
Fumival been less gracious. Dear Lady Staveley was always living
in a fever lest her only son, the light of her eyes, should fall irrevo-
cably in love with some lady that was by no means good enough for
him. Bevocably in love be was daily falling ; but some day he
would go too deep, and the waters would close over his well-loved
head. Now in her dear old &vouring eyes Sophia Fumival was by

P 2

212 OBLEY FABX.

np means good enough, and it had been quite clear that Attgnatas
had become thoroughly lost in his attempts to bring about a match
between Felix Graham and the barrister's daughter. In preparing
the bath for his friend he had himself fallen bodily into the water.
He was always at Miss Fumival's side, as long as Miss Fumival woidd
permit it. ' Bat it seemed to Lady Staveley that Miss Fumival,
luckily, was quite as fond ^f haying Lucius Mason at her side ; — that
of the two she perhaps preferred Lucius Mason. That her taste
and judgment should be so bad was wonderful to Lady Staveley ;
but this depravity though wonderful was useful; and therefore
Lucius Mason might have been welcome to remain at Noningsby.

It may, however, be possible that Miss Fumival knew what she
was doing quite as well as Lady Staveley could know for her. In
the first place she may possibly have thought it indiscreet to admit
Mr. Staveley's attentions with too much freedom. She may have
doubted their sincerity, or feared to give offence to the &mily, or
Mr. Mason may in her sight have been the preferable suitor. That
his gifts of intellect were at any rate equal to those of the other
there can be no doubt. Then his gifts of fortune were already his
own, and, for ought that Miss Fumival knew, might be equal to any
that would ever appertain to the other gentleman. That Lady
Staveley should think her swan better looking than Lady Mason's
goose was very natural ; but then Lady Mason would no doubt
have regarded the two birds in an exactly opposite light. It is only
fjEor to conceive that Miss Fumival was a better judge than either of
them.

On the evening before his departure the whole party had been
playing commerce ; for the rule of the house during these holidays
was this, that all the amusements brought into vogue were to be
adapted to the children. If the grown-up people could adapt them-
selves to them, so much the better for them ; if not, so much the
worse; they must in such case provide for themselves. On the
whole, the grown-up people seemed to live nearly as jovial a life as
did the children. Whether the judge himself was specially fond of
commerce I cannot say ; but he persisted in putting in the whole
pool, and played through the entire game, rigidly fighting for the
same pool on behalf of a very small grandchild, who sat during the
whole time on his knee. There are those who call cards the devil's
books, but we will presume that the judge was of a different way of
tliinking.

On this special evening Sophia had been sitting next to Augustus,
— a young man can always arrange these matters in his own house, —
but had nevertheless lost all her lives early in the game. ' I will
not have any cheating to-night,' she had said to her neighbour ; * I
ivill take my chance, and if I die, I die. One can die but once.'
And so she had died, three times indeed instead of once only, and

OOKMEBOE. 213

liad left the table. Luoins Mason also liad died. He generally did
die the first, having no aptitude for a collection of kings or aoes, abd
eo they two came together over the fire in the second drawing-roo^
&r away from the card-playerB. There was nothing at all remaik-
able in this, as Mr. Fomival and one or two others who did not
play commerce were also there ; bnt nevertheless they were sepa-
rated from those of the party who were most inclined to oritioise
their conduct.

* 80 yon are leaving to-morrow, Mr. Mason,* said Sophia.

* Yes. I go home to-morrow after breakfiut ; to my own honse,
where for some weeks to come I shall be abeolntely alone.'

* Yonr mother is staying at The Gleeve^ I think.'

* Yes, — and intends remaining there as she tells me. I wish with
all my heart she were at Orley Farm.'

' Papa saw her yesterday. He went over to The Cleeve on
purpose to see her ; and this morning he has been talking to me
abont her. I cannot tell yon how I grieve for her.'

* It is very sad ; veiy sad. Bnt I wish she were in her own
house. Under the ciromnstances as they now are, I tlunk it wotdd
be better for her to be there than eLsewhere. Her name has been

* No, Mr. Mason ; not disgraced.'

* Yes ; disgraced. Mark you ; I do not say that she has been
disgraced ; and pray do not suppose it possible that I should think
ao. But a great opprobrium has been thrown on her name, and it
would be better, I think, that she should remain at home till she
has cast it off from her. Even for myself, I feel it almost wrong to
be here ; nor would I have come had I known when I did come as
much as I do know now.'

' But no one can for a moment think that your mother has done
anything that she should not have done.'

* Then why do so many people talk of her as though she had
committed a great crime ? Miss Fumival, I know that she is inno-
cent. I know it as surely as I know the flEict of my own exist-
once — '

* And we all feel the same thing.'

' But if you wore in my place, — if it were your fiither whose
name was so bandied about in people's mouths, you would think that
it behoved him to do nothing, to go nowhere, till ho had forced the
world to confess his innocence. And this is ten times stronger with
regard to a woman. I have given my mother my counsel, and I
regret to say that she differs from me.'

* Why do you not speak to papa ?

* I did once. I went to him at his chambors, and he rebuked me.'
' Kobukcd you, Mr. Mason ! He did not do that intentionally I

am sure. I have heard him say that you are an excellent son.'

CHAPTER XXVUL

MONKTON GEAKGE.

During these days Peregrine Orme — ^though lie was in love up to
his very chin, seriously in love, acknowledging this matter to
himself openly, pulling his hair in the retirement of his bedroom,
and resolving that he would do that which he had hitherto in life
always been successful in doing — ask, namely, boldly for that he
wanted sorely — ^Per^rine Orme, I say, though he was in this
condition, did not in these days neglect his hunting. A proper
attendance upon the proceedings of the H. H. was the only duty
which he had hitherto undertaken in return for all that his grand-
father had done for him, and I have no doubt that he conceived
that he was doing a duty in going hither and thither about the
county to their most distant meets. At this period of the present
season it happened that Noningsby was more central to the
proceedings of the hunt than The Cleeve, and therefore he was
enabled to think that he was remaining away from home chiefly on
business. On one point, however, he had stoutly come to a reso-
lution. That question should be asked of Madeline Staveley before
he returned to his grandfather's house.

And now had arrived a special hunting morning — special, because
the meet was in some degree a show meet, appropriate for ladies, at
a comfortable distance from Noningsby, and affording a chance of
amusement to those who sat in carriages as well as to those on
horseback. Monkton Grange was the well-known name of the
place, a name perhaps dearer to the ladies than to the gentlemen of
the country, seeing that show meets do not always give the best
sport. Monkton Grange is an old farm-house, now hardly used as
such, having been left, as regards the habitation, in the hands of a
head labourer ; but it still possesses the marks of ancient respect-
ability and even of grandeur. It is approached from the high
road by a long double avenue of elms, which still stand in all their
glory. The road itself has become narrow, and the space between
the side row of trees is covered by soft turf, up which those coming
to the meet love to gallop, trying the fresh metal of their horses.
And the old house itself is surrounded by a moat, dry indeed now
for the most part, but nevertheless an evident moat, deep and well
preserved, with a bridge over it which Fancy tells us nnist once

MOHKTON aBAHGE. 217

liave heea a drawbridge. It is here, in front of the bridge, that ilie
old bounds sit upon their hannchee, resting quietly round the
horses of the huntsmen, while the yoipig dogs more abodt, and
would wander if the whips allowed them — one of the fidrest si^ts
to my eyes that this fair oottntry of ours can show* And here the
sportsmen and ladies oongregate by d^prees, men from a distance in
di^-carts generally arriving first, as being less able to oalculate the
time with acouraoy. There is room here too in the open space for
carriages, and there is one spot on which always standa old Lord
Alston's chariot with the four posters; an ancient sportsman he,
who still comes to some few fEtvourite meets ; and though Alston
Court is but eight miles from the Grange, the post-horses always
look as though they had been made to do their bfMst, for his lordship
likes to move fast even in his old age. He is a tall thin man, bent
much with age, and apparently too weak for much walking ; he
is dressed from head to foci in a sportsman's garb, with a broad
stiffly starched coloured handkerchief tied rigidly round his neck*
One would say that old as he is he has sacrificed in no way to
comfort. It is with difficulty that he gets into his saddle, his
servant holding his rein and stirrup and giving him perhaps soJooe
other slight assistance ; but when he is there, there he will remain
all day, and when his old blood warms he will gallop along the
road with as much hot fervour as his grandson. An old friend he
of Sir Peregrine's. ' And why is not your grandfother here to-day?'
he said on this occasion to young Orme. * TeU him from me that
if he fails us in this way, I shall think he is getting old.' Lord
Alston was in truth five years older than Sir Peregrine, but
Sir Peregrine at this time was thinking of other things.

And then a very tidy little modem carriage bustled up the road,
a brougham made for a pair of horses, which was well known to all
hunting men in these parts. It was very unpretending in its colour
and harness ; but no vehicle more appropriate to its purpose ever
carried two thorough-going sportsmen day after day about the
country. In this as it pulled up under the head tree of the avenue
were seated the two Miss Tristrams. The two Miss Tristrams were
well known to the Hamworth Hunt — I will not merely say as
fearless riders, — of most girls who hunt a^ much can be said as Ihat;
but they were judicious horsewomen ; they knew when to ride hard,
and when hard riding, as regarded any necessary for the hunt, would
be absolutely thrown away. They might be seen for half the day
moving about the roads as leisurely, or standing as quietly at the
covert's side as might the seniors of the field. But when ^e time
for riding did come, when the hounds were really running — when
other young ladies had begun to go home — then the Miss Tristrams
were always there ; — ^there or thereabouts, as their admirers would
warmly boast.

2]8 OBLET FABH.

Nor did they commenoe their day's work as did other girls who
cune out on hnnting mornings. With most sach it is clear to see
that the object is pretty inttch the same here as in the ballroom.
* Spectatum veniunt ; Toniimt spectentnr nt ipsse,* as it is proper,
natural, and desirable that they shonld do. By that word *• spec
tatum ' I would wish to signify something more than the mere use
cf the eyes. Perhaps an occasional word dropped here and there
into the ears of a cavalier may be included in it ; and the ^ spec-
tentur' also may include a word so received. But the Miss
Tristrams came for hunting. Perhaps there might be a slight shade
of affectation in the manner by which they would appear to come
liar that and that only. They would talk of nothing else* at any
XHte during the earlier portion of the day, when many listeners
were by. They were also well instructed as to the country to bo
drawn, and usually had a word of import to say to the huntsman.
They were good-looking, &ir-haired girls, short in size, with bright
gray eyes, and a short decisive mode of speaking. It must not be
imagined that they were altogether indifferent to such matters as
are dear to the hearts of other girls. They were not careless as to
admiration, and if report spoke truth of them were willing enough
to establish themselves in the world ; but all their doings (k that
kind had a reference to their favourite amusement, and they would
as soon have thought of flirting with men who did not hunt as
some other girls would with men who did not dance.

I do not know that this kind of life had been altogether successful
with them, or that their father had been right to permit it. He
himself had formerly been a hunting man, but he had become fat
and lazy, and the thing had dropped away from him. Occasionally
he did come out with them, and when he did not do so some other
senior of the field would have them nominally under charge ; but
practically they were as independent when going across the country
as the young men who accompanied them. I have expressed a
doubt whether this life was successful with them, and indeed such
doubt was expressed by many of their neighbours. It had been said
of each of them for the last three years that she was engaged, now
to this man, and then to that other ; but neither this man nor that
other had yet made good the assertion, and now people were begin-
ning to say that no man was engaged to either of them. Hunting
young ladies are very popular in the hunting-field ; I know no plaoo
in which girls receive more worship and attention ; but I am not
sure but they may carry their enthusiasm too far for their own
interests, let their horsemanship be as perfect as it may be.

The two girls on this occasion sat in their carriage till the groom
brought up iheir horses, and then it was wonderful to see with what
ease they placed themselves in their saddles. On such occasions
they admitted no aid from the gentlemen around them, but each

M OirKTOSr OBAHOS. 219

-stoppnig far an initent on a servanfa liand, setiled heraalf m a
aMxnent on hozaebaok. Nothing ooold be more perfect than the
-ivliole thing, bat the wonder waa that Mr. Txistnon ahonld hofe
aUowedit.

The party from Noningsby oonaiBted of six or aeven en hone-
Isok, beaidea those in the carriage. Among the Ibfmer there were
tiie two youig ladies, Miss FnmiTal and Misa Stavelej, and ovr
friends Felix Graham, Augustus Stavelej, and Peregrine Oime.
Eelix Graham was not by custom a hunting man, as he posMSsed
neither time nor money for such a pursuit; but to-day he was
mounted on his friend Staveley's seoond horse, hairing expressed hia
determination to ride him as long aa they two, the man and the
horse, could remain together.

' I give you £ur warning,' Felix had said, * if I do not spsxe my
own neck, you cannot expect me to apare your horse's legs.'

' You may do your worst,' Staveley had answered. * If you give
him his head, and let him have his own way, he won't come to
grief, whatever you may do.'

On their road to Monkton Grange, which was but three miles
ftom Noningsby, Peregrine Orme had ridden by the side of Miss
Staveley, thinking more of her than of the affidn of the hunt, pro-
minent as they were generally in his thoughts. How should he do
it, and when, and in what way ahonld he oommence the deed ? He
had an idea that it might be better for him if he oould engender
some closer intimacy between himself and Madeline before he
absolutely asked the fatal question ; but the closer intimacy did not
seem to produce itself readily. He had, in truth, known Madeline
Staveley for many years, almost since they were children together ;
but lately, during these Christmas holidays especially, there had
not been between them that close conversational alliance which so
often facilitates such an overture as that which Peregrine was now
desirous of making. And, worse again, he had seen that there was
such closo conversational alliance between Madeline and Felix
Graham. He did not on that accoimt dislike the young barrister,
or call him, even within his own breast, a snob or an ass. He
knew well that he was neither the one nor the other ; but he knew
as well that he could be no fit match for Miss Staveley, and, to tell
the truth, he did not suspect that either Graham or Miss Staveley
would think of such a thing. It was not jealousy that tormented him, so
much as a diffidence in his own resources. He made small attempts
which did not succeed, and therefore he determined that he would
at once make a grand attempt. He would create himself an oppor-
tunity before he left Noningsby , and would do it even to-day on
horseback, if he could find sufficient opportunity. In taking a
determined step like that, he knew ihat he would not lack the
courage.

220 ORLET FABM.

* Do yon mean to ride to-day/ he said to Madeline, as they were
approaching the bottom of the Grange avenue* For the last half-
mile he had been thinking what he would say to her, and thinking
in vain ; and now, at the last moment, he could summon no words to
his assistance more potent for his purpose than these.

* If you mean by riding, Mr. Orme, going across the fields with
you and the Miss Tristrams, certainly not. I should come to grief,
as you call it, at the first ditch.'

' And that is just what I shall do,* said Felix Graham, who was at
her other side.

* Then, if you take my advice, youll remain with us in the wood,
and act as squire of dames. What on earth would Marian do if
aught but good was to befall you ?'

' Dear Marian ! She gave me a special commission to bring her
the fox's tail. Foxes' tails are just like ladies.'

* Thank you, Mr. Graham. I've heai'd you make some pretty
compliments, and that is about the prettiest.'

' A faint heart will never win either the one or the other, Miss
Staveley.*

* Oh, ah, yes. That will do very welL Under these circum-
stances I will accept the comparison.'

All of which very innocent conversation was overheard by Pere-
grine Orme, riding on the other side of Miss Staveley's horse. And
why not ? Neither Graham nor Miss Staveley had any objection.
But how was it that he could not join in and take his share in it ?
He had made one little attempt at conversation, and that having
failed ho remained perfectly silent till they reached the large circle
at the head of the avenue. ' It's no use, this sort of thing,' he said
to himself. * I must do it at a blow, if I do it at all ;' and then he
rode away to the master of the hounds.

As our party arrived at the open space the Miss Tristrams were
ftepping out of their carriage, and they came up to shake hands
witli Miss Staveley.

* I am 80 glad to see you,' said the eldest ; ' it is so nice to have
same ladies out besides ourselves.'

* Do keep up with us,' said the second. * It's a very open
oountry about here, and anybody can ride it.' And then Miss
Furnival was introduced to them. * Does your horse jump. Miss
Fumival?'

* I really do not know,' said Sophia ; * but I sincerely trust that
if he does, he will refrain to-day.' [

' Don't say so,' said the eldest sportswoman. * If you'll only
begin it will come as easy to you as going along the road ;' and
then, not being able to spare more of these idle moments, they both
went oflf to their horses, walking as though their habits were no
impediments to them, and in half a minute they were seated.

* MONKTOH GBAVQK. 221

^Wliat is Harriet on to-day ?* asked Staveleyof a oonstant member
of the hunt. Now Harriet was the eldest Miaa Tristram.

* A little brown mare she got last week. That was a terrible
brush we had on Friday, Yon weren't ont» I think. We killed in
the open, jnst at the edge of Botherham Common. Harriet was one
of the few that was np, and I don't think the chestnut hone will be
the better of it this season.'

* That was the horse she got from Griggs T

* Yes; she gave ahundred and fifty for him ; and I'm told he was
as nearly done on Friday as any animal you ever put your eyes
on. They say Harriet cried when she got home.' Now tibie gentle-
man who was talking about Harriet on this occasion was one with'
whom she would no more have sat down to table than with her own
groom.

But though Harriet may have cried when she got home on that
fatal Friday evening, she was full of the triumph of the hunt on
this morning. It is not often that the hounds run into a fox and
absolutely surround and kill him on the open ground, and when
this is done after a severe run there are seldom many there to see
it. If a man can feirly take a fox's brush on such an occasion as that,
let him do it ; otherwiso let him leave it to the huntsman. On the
occasion in question it seems that Harriet Tristram might have done
so, and some one coming second to her had been gallant enough to
do it for her.

* Oh, my lord, you should have been out on Friday,' she said to
Lord Alston. ' We had the prettiest thing I ever saw.'

* A great deal too pretty for me, my dear.'

* Oh, you who know the roads so well would certainly have been
up. I suppose it was thirteen miles from Cobbleton's Bushes to
Botherham Common.'

* Not much less, indeed,' said his lordship, unwilling to diminish
the lady's triumph. Had a gentleman made the boast his lordship
would have demonstrated that it was hardly more than eleven.

* I timed it accurately from the moment he went away,' said
the lady, * and it was exactly fifty-seven minutes. The first part
of it was awfully fast. Then we had a little check at Moseley
Bottom. But for that, nobody could havo lived through it. I never
shall forget how deep it was coming up from there to Cringleton.
I saw two men get off to ease their horses up the deep bit of
plough ; and I would have done so too, only my horse would not
have stood for me to get up.'

' I hope he was none the worse for it,' said the sporting character
who had been telling Staveley just now how she had cried when
she got home that night.

* To tell the truth, I fear it has done him no good. He would
not feed, you know, that night at all.'

222 OBLSY FABtf. '

' And broke out into cold sweated' said the geniieman.

* Exactly,' said the ladj, not quite liking it, but still enduring
with patience.

* Bather groggy on hia pins the next morning ? suggested her
friend.

'Very groggy,' said Harriet, regarding the word as one belonging
to fair sporting phraseology.

* And inclined to go very much on the points of his toes. I know
all about it. Miss Tristram, as well as though I'd seen him.'

' There's nothing but rest for it, I suppose.'

^ Best and regular exercise — that's the chief thing ; and I should
give him a mash as often as three times a week. He'll be all right
again in three or four weeks, —that is if he's sound, you know.'

* Oh, as sound as a bell,' said Miss Tristram.

* H^'U never be the same horse on a road though,' said ihQ sport-
ing gentlemen, shaking his head and whispering to Staveley.

And now the time had come at which they were to move. They
always met at eleven; and at ten minutes past, to the moment*
Jacob the huntsman would summons the old hounds from off their
haunches. *' I believe we may be moving, Jacob,' said Mr. Williams*
the master.

* The time be up,' said Jacob, looking at a ponderous timekeeper
that might with truth be called a hunting- watch ; and then they all
moved slowly away back from the Grange, down a farm-road which
led to Monkton Wood, distant from the old house perhaps a quarter
of a mile.

* May we go as far as the wood ?' said Miss Fumival to Augustus.
* Without being made to ride over hedges, I mean.'

* Oh, dear, yes ; and ride about the wood half the day. It will
be an hour and a half before a fox will break — even if he ever
breaks.'

' Dear mo ! how tired you will bo of us. 2sow do say something
pretty, Mr. Staveley.'

* It's not my metiei\ We shall be tired, not of you, but of the
thing. Galloping up and down the same cuts in the wood for an
hour and a half is not exciting ; nor does it improve the matter
much if we stand still, as one should do by lights.'

* That would be very slow.'

' You need not bo afraid. They never do here. Everybody will
be rushing about as though the very world depended on their
galloping.'

* I'm so glad ; that's just what I like.'

' Everybody except Lord Alston, Miss Tristram, and the other
old stagers. They will husband their horses, and come out as fresh
at two o'clock as though they were only just out. There is nothing
60 valuable as experience in hunting.'

HovKTOK eBANas. 223

* Bo jou think it nice seeing a young lady witii so much hiuiting
knowledge ?

*' Now yon want me to talk slander, but I won't do it. I admire
ihB Min Tristrams exceedingly, and eapeoially Jnlia.'

* And which is Julia?'

* The youngest; that one riding by herselL'

* And why don't you go and ezpreas your admiration?'

' Ah, me ! why don't we all express the admiration tiiat we fiael,
and pour sweet praises into the eaiB of the lady that excites it?
Because we are cowards, Miss Fumiyal, and are a&aid eyen of such
A weak thing as a woman.'

* Dear me I I should hardly have thought that you would sufiar
from such terror as that.'

* Because you don't quite know me, Misa FumivaL'

* And Miss Julia Tristram is the lady that has excited it?*

* If it be not she, it is some other fieur Totazy of Diana at present
riding into Monkton Wood.'

*• Ah, now you are giving me a riddle to guess, and I never guesa

riddles. I won't even try at it. But they all seem to be stopping.'

. * Yes, they are putting the hounds into covert. Now if you want

to show yourself a good sportnnan, look at your watch. You see

that Julia Tristram has got hers in her hand.'

« What's that for ?'

* To time the hounds; to see how long they'll be before they find.
It!s very pretty work in a small gorse, but in a great wood like this
I don't care much for being so accurate. But for heaven's sake
don't tell Julia Tristram ; I should not have a chance if she thought
I was so slack.'

And now the hounds were scattering themselves in the wood, and
the party rode up the centre roadway towards a gpreat circular
opening in the middle of it. Here it was the recognized practice
of the horsemen to stand, and those who properly did their duty
would stand there ; but very many lingered at the gate, knowing
that there was but one other exit from the wood, without over-
coming tho difiBcxilty of a very intricate and dangerous fence.

' There bo a gap, baint there?' said one farmer to another, as
they were entering.

* Yes, there be a gap, and young Grubbles broke his 'orso's back
a getting over of it last year,' said tho second farmer.

' Did he though?* said tho first; and so they both remained at
the gate.

And others, a numerous body, including most of the ladies, gal-
loped up and down the cross ways, because the master of the

hounds and tho huntsman did so. * D those fellows riding up

and down after me 'wherever I go,' said the master. ' I believe
they think I*m to be hunted.' This seemed to be said more espe-

226 OBLEY FABM.

the leap. He also got well over. But, alas ! in spite of sncli early
success be was destined to see nothing of the hunt that day ! Feliz
Graham, thinking that he would obey instructions by letting his
horse do as he pleased, permitted the beast to come close upon
Orme's track, and to make his jump before Orme*s horse had taken
his second spring.

* Have a care,' said Peregrine, feeling that the two were together
on the bank, * or you'll shove me into the ditch.' He however got
well over.

Felix, attempting to ' have a care ' just when his doing so could
be of no avail, gave his horse a pull with the curb as he was pre-
paring for his secoud spring. The outside ditch was broad and
deep and well banked up, and required that an animal should have
all his power. It was at such a moment as this that he should
have been left to do his work without injudicious impediment from
his rider. But poor Graham was thinking only of Orme's caution,
and attempted to stop the beast when any positive and absolute
stop was out of the question. The horse made his jump, and,
crippled as he was, jumped short. He came with his knees against
the further bank, threw his rider, and then in his struggle to right
himself rolled over him.

Felix felt at once that he was much hurt — that he had indeed
come to grief ; but still he was not stunned nor did he lose his
presence of mind. The horse succeeded in gaining his feet, and
then Felix also jumped up and even walked a step or two towards
the head of the animal with the object of ^king the reins. But
ho found that he could not raise his arm, and he found also that he
could hardly breathe.

Both Peregiine and Miss Tristram looked back. ' There's nothing
wrong I hope,' said the lady ; and then she rode on. And let it be
imderstood that in hunting those who are in advance generally do
ride on. The lame and the halt and the wounded, if they cannot
pick themselves up, have to be picked up by those who come after
them. But Peregrine saw that there was no one else coming that
way. The memory of young G nibbles' fate had placed an interdict
on that pass out of the wood, which nothing short of tho pluck and
science of Miss Tristram was able to disregard. Two cavaliers she
had carried with her. One she had led on to instant slaughter, and
the other remained to look after his fallen brother-in-arms. Miss
Tristram in the mean time was in the next field and had settled well
down to her work.

*Are you hurt, old fellow?' said Peregrine, turning back his
horse, but still not dismounting.

* Not much, I think,' said Graham, smiling. ' There's someihing
wrong about my arm, — but don't you wait' And then he found
that he spoke with difficulty.

BREAKINa OOTKBT. 227

' (jbn yoQ. mount again f

* I don't think 1*11 mind that. Perhaps Fd better sit down.*
Then Peregprine Orme knew that Graham was hurt, and jumping
off his own horse he gaTo up all hope of the hunt.

' Here, you fellow, come and hold these horses.' So invoked a
boy who in following the sport had got as fiur as this ditch did as
he was bid, and scrambled over. *Sit down, Graham; there; I'm
afraid you are hurt. Did he roll on you?* But Felix merely
looked up into his &ce, — still smiling. He was now veiy pale,
and for the moment could not speak. Peregrine came dose to
him, and gently attempted to raibe the wounded limb ; whereupon
Qraham shuddered, and shook his head.

' I fear it is broken,' said Peregrine. Graham nodded his head,
and raised his left hand to his breast; and Peregrine then knew
that something else was amiss also.

I don't know any feeling more disagreeable than that produced
by being left alone in a field, when out hunting, with a man who
has been very much hurt and who is inca|)able of riding or walking.
The hurt man himself has the pririlege of his infirmities and may
remain quiescent ; but you, as his only attendant, must do somen
thing. You must for the moment do all, and if you do wrong the
whole responsibility lies on your shoulders. If you leave a
wounded man on the damp ground, in the middle of winter, while
you run away, five miles perhaps, to the next doctor, he may not
improbably— as you then think — be dead before you come back.
You don't know the way ; you are heavy yourself, and your boots
are very heavy. You must stay therefore; but as you are no
doctor yon don't in the least know what is the amount of the injury.
In your great trouble you begin to roar for assistance; but the
woods re-echo your words, and the distant sound of the huntsman's
horn, as he summons his hounds at a check, only mocks your
agony.

But Peregrine had a boy with him. ' Get upon that horse,' he
said at last ; * ride round to Farmer Griggs, and tell them to send
somebody here with a spring cart. He has got a spring cart I
know ; — and a mattress in it.'

' But I haint no gude at roiding like,' said the boy, looking with
dismay at Orme's big horse.

* llien nm ; that will be better, for you can go through the
wood. You know where Farmer Griggs lives. The first farm the
other side of the Grange.*

* Ay, ay, I knows where Farmer Griggs lives well enough.'

' Hun then ; and if the cart is here in half an hour I'll give you a
sovereign.'

In8pirited by the hopes of such wealth, golden wealth, wealth
for a lifetime, the boy was quickly back over the fence, and Pere-

228 OBLET FABH.

grine was left alono with Felix Graham. He was now sitting
down, with his feet hanging into the ditch, and Peregrine was
kneeling behind him. * I am sorry I can do nothing more,* said
he ; * but 1 fear we must remain here till the cart comes/

'I am— so— vexed— about your hunt,' said Felix, gasping as he
spoke. He had in fact broken his right arm which had been
twisted under him as the horse rolled, and two of his ribs had
been staved in by the pommel of his saddle. Many men have been
worse hurt and have hunted again before the end of the season, but
the fracture of three bones does make a man uncomfortable for the
time. * Now the cart — is — sent for, couldn't you — go on ?' But it
was not likely that Peregrine Orme would do that. * Never mind
me,' he said. ' When a fellow is hurt ho has always to do as he's
told. You'd better have a drop of sherry. Look here : I've got a
flask at my saddle. There ; you can support yourself with that
arm a moment. Did you ever see horses stand so quiet. I've got
hold of yours, and now I'll fasten them together. I say, AVhitefoot,
you don't kick, do you?* And then he contrived to picket the
horses to two branches, and having got out his case of sherr}%
poured a small modicum into the silver mug which was attached to
the apparatus, and again supported Graham while he drank.
* You'll be as right as a trivet by-and-by ; only you'll have to
make Noningsby your head-quarters for the next six weeks.' And
then the same idea passed through the mind of each of them ; — how
little a man need be pitied for such a misfortune if Madeline
Staveley would consent to be his nurse.

No man could have less surgical knowledge than Peregrine
Orme, but nevertheless he was such a man as one would like to
have with him if one came to grief in such a way. He was cheery
and up-hearted, but at the same time gentle and even thoughtful.
His voice was pleasant and his touch could be soft. For many
years afterwards Felix remembered how that sherry had been held
to his lips, and how the young heir of The Cleeve had knelt behind
him in his red coat, supporting him as he became weary with
waiting, and sajdng pleasant words to him through the whole.
Felix Graham was a man who would remember such things.

In running through the wood the boy first encountered three
horsemen. They were the judge, with his daughter Madeline and
Miss Fumival. * There be a mon there who be a'most dead,' said
the boy, hardly able to speak from want of breath. * I be agoing
for Farmer Griggs' cart.' And then they stopped him a moment
to ask for some description, but the boy could tell them nothing to
indicate that the wounded man was one of their friends. It might
however be Augustus, and so the three rode on quickly towards the
fence, knowing nothing of the circumstances of the ditches which
would make it out of their power to get to the fallen sportsman.

BREAXma COVEBT. 229

But Peregrine beard the sound of the horses and the voices of
the horsemen. * By Jove, there's a lot of them coming down here/
said he. * It's the judge and two of the girk. Oh, Miss Staveley,
I'm so glad youVe come. Graham has had a had fall and hurt
himself. Yon haven't a shawl, have yon ? the ground is so wet
under him.'

*' It doesn't signify at aU,' said Felix, looking round and seeing
the faces of his friends on the other side of the bank.

Madeline Staveley gave a slight shriek which her fittber did not
notice, but which Miss Fumival beard very plainly. ' Ob papa,'
she said, * cannot you get over to him ?' And then she began to
bethink herself whether it were possible that she should give up
something of her dress to protect the man who was hurt from the
damp muddy ground on which he lay.

* Can yon hold my horse, dear,' said the judge, slowly dismount-
ing ; for the judge, though he rode every day on sanitary oonsiden^
tions, bad not a sportsman's celerity in leaving and recovering bis
saddle. But be did get down, and burdened as be was with a great-
coat, he did succeed in crossing that accursed fence. Accursed it
was from henceforward in the annals of the H. H., and none
would ride it but dare-devils who professed themselves willing to
go at anything. Miss Tristram, however, always declared that there
was nothing in it — though she avoided it herself, whispering to her
friends that she had led others to grief there, and might possibly do
so again if she persevered.

' Could you bold the horse ?' said Madeline to Miss Fumival ;
' and I will go for a shawl to the carriage.' Miss Fumival declared
that to the best of her belief she could not, but nevertheless the
animal was left with her, and Madeline turned round and galloped
back towards the carriage. She made her horse do his best though
her eyes were nearly blinded* with tears, and went straight on for
the carriage, though she would have given much for a moment to
hide those tears before she reached it

* Oh, mamma ! give me a thick shawl ; Mr. Graham has hurt
himself in the field, and is lying on the grass.' And then in some
incoherent and quick manner she had to explain what she knew of
the accident before she could get a carriage-cloak out of the
carriage. This, however, she did succeed in doing, and in some
manner, very unintelligible to herself afterwards, she did gallop
back with her burden. She passed the cloak over to Peregrine,
who clambered up the bank to get it, while the judge remained on
the ground, supporting the young barrister. Felix Graham, though
he was weak, was not stunned or senseless, and he knew well who
it was that had procured for him that comfort.

And then the carriage followed Madeline, and there was quite a
concourse of servants and horses and ladies on the inside of the

230 OBLST YABX.

fence. Bat tbe wonnded man was still nnfortaiiately on the other
side. No cart from Farmer Griggs made its appearance, though it
was now more than half an hour since the hoy had gone. Carts,
when they are wanted in such sudden haste, do not make their
i^pearance. It was two miles through the wood to Mr. Griggs's
farm-yard, and more than three miles back by any route which the
oart could take. And then it might be more than probable that in
Farmer Griggs*6 establishment there was not always a horse ready
in harness, or a groom at hand prepared to yoke him. Peregrine
had become very impatient, and had more than once invoked a
silent anathema on the fanner^s head ; but nevertheless there was
no appearance of the cart.

' We must get him across the ditches into the carnage,' said the
judge.

* If Lady Staveley will let us do that,' said Peregrine.

* The difficulty is not with Liady Staveley but with these nasty
ditches,' said the judge, for he had been up to his knees in one of
them, and the water had penetrated his boots. But the task was at
last done. Mrs. Arbuthnot stood up on the back seat of the
carriage so that she might hold the horses, and the coachman and
footman got across into the field. * It would be better to let me lie
here all day,' said Felix, as three of them struggled back with their
burden, the judge bringing up the rear with two hunting-whips
and Peregrine's cap. * Uow on earth any one would think of riding
over such a place as that !' said the judge. But then, when he had
been a young man it had not been the custom for barristers to go
out hunting.

Madeline, as she saw the wounded man carefully laid on the back
seat of the carriage, almost wished that she could have her mother's
place that she might support him. Would they be careful enou^
with him? Would they remember how terrible must be the pain
of that motion to one so hurt as he was ? And then she looked
into his face as he was made to lean back, and she saw that he still
smiled. Felix Graham was by no means a handsome man; I
should hardly sin against the truth if I were to say that he was
ugly. But Madeline, as she looked at him now, lying there utterly
without colour but always with that smile on his countenance,
thought that no face to her liking had ever been more gracious.
She still rode close to them as they went down the grassy road,
saying never a word. And Miss Fumival rode there also, some-
what in the rear, condoling with the judge as to his wet feet.

* Mi8s Fumival,' he said, * when a judge forgets himself and goes
out hunting he has no right to expect anything better. What
would your father have said had he seen me clambering up the bank
with young Orme's hunting-cap between my teeth ? I positively did.*

* He would have rushed to assist you,' said Miss Fumival, with

BBEAUNG OOVSBT. 231

a litile bimt of enthusiasm wbioh was h«rdl 7 needed on the ooda-
sion. And then Peregrine oame after them leading Graham's
horse. He had been compelled to return to the field and ride boHi
the horses back into the wood, one alter the other, while the
&otman held them. That riding back over fences in cold blood is
the work that really tries a man's nerve. And a man has to do it
too when no one is looking on. How he does crane and &lteir
and look about for an easy place at snch a moment as that ! B«t
when the blood is cold no places are easy.

The procession got back to Noningsby withont adventure, and
Qiaham as a matter of course was taken up to his bed. One ol
llie servants had been despatched to Alston for a surgeon, and in aa
hour or two the extent of the misfortune was known. The tight
aim was broken — ^^ very favourably,* as the doctor observed. But
two ribs were broken — * rather un&vourably.' There was some talk
of hflBmorrhage and inward wounds, and Sir Jacob tern Saville Bow
was suggested by Lady Staveley. But the judge, knowing the
extent of Graham's means, made some further preliminary inquiries,
and it was considered that Sir Jacob would not be needed — at any
rate not as yet.

* Why don't they send for him T said Madeline to her mother
with rather more tlian her wonted energy.

* Your papa does not think it necessary, my dear. It would be
very expensive, you know.'

* But, mamma, would you let a man die because it would cost a
few pounds to cure him t

* My dear, we all hope that Mr. Graham won't die — at any rate
not at present. If there be any danger you may be sure that your
papa will send for the best advice.'

But Madeline was by no means satisfied. She could not under-
stand economy in a matter of life and death. If Sir Jacob's coming
would have cost fifty pounds, or a hundred, what would that have
signified, weighed in such a balance? Such a sum would be nothing
to her father. Had Augustus fallen and broken his arm all the
Sir Jacobs in London would not have been considered too costly
could their joint coming have mitigated any danger. She did not
however dare to speak to her mother again, so she said a word or
two to Peregrine Orme, who was constant in his attendance on
Felix. Peregrine had been very kind, and she had seen it, and her
heart therefore warmed towards him.

* Don't you think he ought to have more advice, Mr. Orme T

* Well, no ; I don't know. He's very jolly, you know ; only he
can't talk. One of the bones ran into him, but I believe he's all
right.'

* Oh, but that is so frightful 1' and the tears were again in her
eyes.

232 OBLET FARM.

* If I were him I should think one doctor enonghi Bnt it*s easy
enough having a fellow down from London, you know, if you
like it.'

• If he should get worse, Mr. Orme .' And then Peregrine

made her a sort of promise, hut in doing so an idea shot through his
poor heart of what the truth might really he. He went hack and
looked at Felix who was sleeping. * If it is so I must hear it,' he
said to himself; *but I'll fight it on;' and a quick thought ran
through his brain of his own deficiencies. He knew that he was
not clever and bright in talk like Felix Graham. He could not
say the right thing at the right moment without forethought. How
he wished that he could ! But still he would fight it on, as he
would have done any losing match, — to the last. And then he sat
down by Felix's head, and resolved that he would be loyal to hia
new fiiend all the same — loyal in all things needfuL But still he
would fight it on.

CHAPTER XXX.

ANOTHER FALL.

Felix Graham had plenty of nurses, but Madeline was not one of
them. Augustus Staveley came home while the Alston doctor was
still busy at the broken bones, and of course he would not leave his
friend. He was one of those who had succeeded in the hunt, and
consequently had heard nothing of the accident till the end of it.
Miss Tristram had been the first to tell him that Mr. Graham had
fallen in leaving the covert, but having seen him rise to his legs
she had not thought he was seriously hurt

* I do not know much about your friend,' she had said ; * but I
think I may comfort you by an assurance that your horse is none
the worse. I could see as much as that.'

* Poor Felix !' said Staveley. * He has lost a magnificent run. 1
suppose we are nine or ten miles from Monkton Grange now ?'

* Eleven if we are a yard,' said the lady. * It was an ugly
country, but the pace was nothing wonderful.' And then others
dropped in, and at last came tidings about Graham. At first there
was a whisper that he was dead. He had ridden over Orme, it was
said ; had nearly killed him, and had quite killed himself. Then
the report became less fatal. Both horses were dead, but Graham
was still living though with most of his bones broken.

* Don t believe it,* said Miss Tristram. ' In what condition Mr,
Graham may be I won't say ; but that your horse was safe and
sound after he got over the fence, of that you may take my word.*

ANOTHER FALL. 283

And ihru^ in a state of tmcertainty, obtainiDg fresli ramonn from
every person be passed, Staveley hurried home. * Bight arm and
two ribs/ Peregrine said to him, as he met him in the halL * Is
Hhat all ?' said August!^. It was clear therefore that he did not
think -so mnch abont it as his sister.

' If you'd let her have her head she'd never have come down
like that,' Augustus said, as he sat that evening by his Mend's bed-
side.

*' But he pulled off, I fanoy, to avoid riding over me,' said Fere*
grine.

* Then he must have come too quick at his leap,* said Augustus.
* You should have steadied him as he came to it' From all which
Gbaham perceived that a man cannot learn how to ride any par-
ticular horse by two or three words of precept.

* If you talk any more about the horse, or the htmt, or the acci-
dent, neither of you shall stay in the room,' said Lady Staveley,
who came in at that moment. But they both did stay in the room,
and said a great deal more about the hunt, and the horse, and the
accident before they left it; and even became so far reconciled to
the circumstance that they had a hot glass of brandy and water
each, sitting by Graham's fire.

* But, Augustus, do tell me how he is,' Madeline said to her
brother, as she caught him going to his room. She had become
ashamed of asking any more questions of her mother.

' He's all right ; only lie*ll be as fretful as a porcupine, shut up
there. At least I should be. Are there lots of novels in the house ?
Mind you send for a batch to-morrow. Novels are the only chance
a man has when he's laid up like that.' Before breakfast on the
following morning Madeline had sent off to the Alston circulating
library a list of all the best new novels of which she could remember
the names.

No definite day had hitherto been fixed for Peregrine's return to
The Cleove, and under the present circumstances he still remained
at Noningsby assisting to amuse Felix Graham. For two days after
the accident such seemed to be his sole occupation ; but in truth he
was looking for an opportunity to say a word or two to Miss Stave-
ley, and paving his way as best he might for that great speech
which he was fully resolved that he would make before he left the
house. Once or twice he bethought himself whether he would not
endeavour to secure for himself some confidant in the family, and
obtain the sanction and special friendship either of Madeline's
mother, or her sister, or her brother. But what if after that she
should reject him ? Would it not bo worse for him then that any one
should have known of his defeat ? He could, as he thought, endure
to suffer alone ; but on such a matter as that pity would be imen-
durable. So as he sat there by Graham's fireside, pretending to

231 OBLET FABX.

read one of poor Madeline's novels for the sake of companionship,
he determined that he would tell no one of his intention ; — no one
till he oould make the opportunity for telling her.

And when he did meet her, and find, now and again, some moment
for sa3ring a word alone to her, she was very gracious to him. He
had heen so kind and gentle with Felix, there was so much in him
that was sweet and good and honest, so much that such an event
as this hrought forth and made manifest, that Madeline, and indeed
the whole family, could not hut he gracious to him. Augustus
Would declare that he was the greatest hrick he had ever known,
r^>eating all Graham's words as to the patience with which the
emhryo haronet had knelt hehind him on the cold muddy ground,
supporting him for an hour, till the carriage had come up. Under
such circumstances how coold Madeline refrain front heing gradous
to him?

* But it is all fixnn favour to Graham !' Peregrine would say to him-
self with hittemess; and yet though he said so he did not quite
believe it. Poor fellow ! It was all from &vour to Graham. And
oould he have thoroughly believed the truth of those words which
he repeated to himself so often, he might have spared himself much
pain. He might have spared himself much pain, and possibly some
injury ; for if aught could now tend to mature in Madeline's heart
an affection which was but as yet nascent, it would be the offer of
some other lover. But such reasoning on the matter was much too
deep for Peregrine Orme. * It may bo,' he said to himself, * that
she only pities him because he is hurt If so, is not this time
better for me than any other ? K it be that she loves him, let me
know it, and be out of my pain.' It did not then occur to him that
circumstances such as those in question could not readily be made
explicit ; — that Madeline might refuse his love, and 3'et leave him
no wiser than he now was as to her reasons for so refusing ; — per-
haps, indeed, leave him less wise, with increased cause for doubt
and hopeless hope, and the gi*een melancholy of a rejected lover.

Madeline during these two days said no more about the London
doctor ; but it was plain to all who watched her that her anxiety as
to the patient was much more keen than that of the other ladies of
the house. ' She always thinks everybody is going to die,' Lady
Staveley said to Miss Fumival, intending, not with any consum-
mate prudence, to account to that acute young lady for her
daughter's solicitude. ' We had a cook here, three months since,
who was very ill, and Madeline would never be easy till the doctor
assured her that the poor woman's danger was altogether past'

• She is so very warm-hearted,' said Miss Fumival in reply. * It
is quite delightful to see her. And she will have such pleasure
when she sees him come down from his room.'

Lady Staveley on this immediate occasion said nothing to iier

AKOTHEB TAIAb 285

daughter, but Mn. Arbnthnot oon&idered that a mabmelj word might
perhaps be spoken in due season.

* The doctor says he is doing quite well now,' Mrs. Arbnthnot
said to her, as they were sitting alone.

* But does he indeed? Did yon hear him?* said Madeline, who
was snspioions.

* He did so, indeed. I heard him mysel£ Bnt he says also that
he ought toi remain here, at any rate for the next fortnight, — if
mamma can permit it without inoonyenienoe.'

* Of oourse she can permit it. No one would torn any person out
of their house in such a condition as that !'

' Papa and maTniria both will be very happy that he should stay
here ; — of course they would not do what you call turning him out.
But, Mad, my darling,' — and then she came up dose and put her
arm round her sister's waist * 1 think mamma would be more com-
fortable in his remaining here if your charity towarda him were-*
what shall I say ? — less demonstrative.'

' What do you mean, Isabella T

* Dearest, dearest; you must not be angiy with me. Nobqdy has
hinted to me a word on the subjeot, nor do I mean to hintanything
that can possibly be hurtful to you.'

* But what do you mean ?"

* Don't you know, darling? He is a yoong man — and — and—
people see with such unkind eyes, and hear with such scandal-loring
ears. There is that' Miss Fumival '

' If Miss Fumival can think such things, I for one do not oare
what she thinks.'

* No, nor do I ; — not as r^ards any important result. But may
it not be well to be careful? You know what I mean, dearest?'

^ Yes — I know. At least I suppose so. And it makes me know
also how very cold and shallow and heartless people are I I won't
ask any more questions, Isabella ; but I can't know that a fellow-
creature is suffering in the house, — and a person like him too, so
clever, whom we all regard as a friend, — ^the most intimate friend
in the world that Augustus has, — and the best too, as I heard papa
himself say — without caring whether he is going to live or die.'

* There is no danger now, you know.'

* Very well ; I am glad to hear it. Though I know very well
that there must be danger after such a terrible accident as that.'

' The doctor says there is none.'

* At any rate I will not ' And then instead of finishing her

sentence she turned away her head and put up her handkerohief
to wipe away a tear.

' You are not angry with me, dear ?' said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

* Oh, no,' said Madeline ; and then they parted.

Tor some days after that Madeline asked no question wliatever

236 OBLEY FABM.

about Felix Graham, but it may be doubted whether this did not
make the matter worse. Even Sophia Fumival would ask how he
was at any rate twioe a day, and Lady Staveley continued to pay
him regular visits at stated intervals. As he got better she would
sit with him, and brought back reports as to his sayings. But
Madeline never discussed any of these ; and refrained alike from
the conversation, whether his broken bones or his unbroken wit
were to be the subject of it. And then Mrs. Arbuthnot, knowing
that she would still be anxious, gave her private bulletins as to the
state of the sick man's progress ; — all which gave on air of secrecy
to the matter, and caused even Madeline to ask herself why this
should be so.

. On the whole I think that Mrs. Arbuthnot was wrong. Mrs. Ar-
buthnot and the whole Staveley family would have regaided a
mutual attachment between Mr. Graham and Madeline as a great
funily misfortune. The judge was a considerate father to his
children, holding that a father's control should never be brought to
bear unnecessarily. In looking forward to the future prospects of
his son and daughters it was his theory that they should be free to
choose their life's companions for themselves. But nevertheless
it could not be agreeable to him that his daughter should fall in
love with a man who had nothing, and whose future success at his
own profession seemed to be so very doubtful. On the whole 1
think that Mrs. Arbuthnot was wrong, and that the feeling that did
exist in Madeline's bosom might more possibly have died away,
had no word been said about it — even by a sister.

And then another event happened which forced her to look into
her own heart. Peregrine Orme did make his proposal. He waited
patiently during those two or three days in which the doctor's visits
were frequent, feeling that he could not talk about himself while
any sense of danger pervaded the house. But then at last a
morning came on which the surgeon declared that he need not call
again till the morrow ; and Felix himself, when the medical back
was turned, suggested that it might as well be to-morrow week.
He began also to scold his friends, and look bright about the eyes,
and drink his glass of sherry in a pleasant dinner-table fashion, not
as if he were swallowing his physic. And Peregrine, when he saw
all this, resolved that the moment had come for the doing of his
deed of danger. The time would soon come at which he must
leave Noningsby, and he would not leave Noningsby till he had
learned his fate.

Lady Staveley, who with a mother's eye, had seen her daughter's
solicitude for Felix Graham's recovery, — had seen it, and animad-
verted on it to herself — had seen also, or at any rate had suspected,
that Peregrine Orme looked on her daughter with favouring eyes.
Now Peregrine Orme would have satisfied Lady Staveley as a son-

ANOTHER FIlL. 237

in-law. She liked lus ways and manners of thongtit — in spite of
tliose rumonrs as to the rat-catching which had reached her ears.
8he regarded him as quite clever enough to be a good hnsbaAd, and
no doubt appreciated the fact that he was to inherit his title and
The Cleeve from an old grandfather instead of a middle-aged &ther.
She therefore had no objection to leave Peregrine alone with her
one ewe-lamb, and therefore the opportunity which he sought was
at last found.

' I shall be leaving Noningsby to-morrow, Miss Staveley,' he said
one day, having secured an interview in the back diuwing-room — ^in
that happy half-hour which occurs in winter before the world
betakes itself to dress. Now I here profess my belief, that out of
every ten set offers made by ten young lovers, nine of such offers
are commenced with an intimation that the lover is going away.
There is a dash of melancholy in such tidings well suited to the
occasion. If there be any spark of love on the other side it will be
elicited by the idea of a separation. And then, also, it is so fre-
quently the actual fact. This making of an offer is in itself a hard
piece of business, — a job to be postponed from day to day. It is so
postponed, and thus that dash of melancholy, and that idea of
separation are brought in at the important moment with so much
appropriate truth.

* I shall be leaving Noningsby to-morrow, Miss Staveley,* Pere-
grine said.

* Oh dear ! we shall be so sorry. But why are you going ? What
will Mr. Graham and Augustus do without you? You ought to
stay at least till Mr. Graham can leave his room.*

* Poor Graham ! — not that I think he is much to be pitied either ;
but ho won't be about for some weeks to come yet.*

* You do not think he is worse ; do you ?*

* Oh, dear, no ; not at all.' And Peregrine was unconsciously
irritated against his friend by the regard which her tone evinced.
* He is quite well ; only they will not let him be moved. But,
IMiss Staveley, it was not of Mr. Graham that I was going to
Bpeak.'

* No — only I thought he would miss you so much.' And then
she blushed, though the blush in the dark of the evening was lost
upon him. She remembered that she was not to speak about Felix
Graham's health, and it almost seemed as though Mr. Orme had
rebuked her for doing so in saying that he had not come there to
speak of him.

* Lady Staveley 's house has been turned up side down since this
alTair, and it is time now that some part of the trouble should cease.'

' Oh ! mamma does not mind it at all.*

* 1 know how good she is ; but nevertheless. Miss Staveley, I
must go to-morrow.* And then he paused a moment before he

238 CftLKY TAsau

qpoke again. * It will depend entiiely npon jon/ he said, * whether
I may have the happiness of retaining soon to Noningsby/

* Onrme, Mr. Orme V

* Tes, on yoo. I do not know how to speak property that which
I have to say ; bat I belioTe I may as well say it oat at once. I
have come here now to tell yon that I love yon and to ask yon to
be my wife.' And then he stopped as thoogh there were nothing
more for him to say npon the matter.

It wonld be hardly extraTagant to declare that Madeline's breath
was taken away by the very sndden manner in which yonng Orme
had made his proposition. It had never entered her head that she
had an admirer in him. Previonsly to Graham's accident she had
thought nothiDg about him. Since that event she had thought
about him a good deal ; but altc^ther as of a friend of Graham's.
He had been good and kind to Graham, and therefore she bad liked
him and had talked to him. He had never said a word to her that
had tau^t her to regard him as a possible lover ; and now that he
was an actual lover, a declared lover standing before her, waiting
£>r an answer, she was so astonit^ed that she did not know how to
speak. All her ideas too, as to love, — such ideas as she had ever
formed, were confounded by thia abruptness. She would have
thought, had she brought herself absolutely to think upon it, that
all speech of love should be very delicate ; that love should grow
slowly, and then be whispered softly, doubtingly, and with infinite
care. Even had she loved him, or had she been in the way towards
loving him, such violence as this would have frightened her and
scared her love away. Poor Peregrine ! His intentions had been
so good and honest I He was so true and hearty, and free from all
conceit in the matter ! It was a pity that he should have marred
his cause by such ill judgment.

But there he stood waiting an answer, — and expecting it to be as
open, definite, and plain as though he had asked her to take a walk
with him. *■ Madeline,' he said, stretching out his hand when ho
perceived that she did not speak to him at once. * There is my
hand. If it be possible give me yours.*

* Oh, Mr. Orme !'

* I know that I have not said what I had to say very, — very
gracefully. But you will not regard that I think. You are too
good, and too true.'

She had now seated herself, and he was standing before her. She
had retreated to a sofa in order to avoid the hand which he had
ofiered her ; but he followed her, and even yet did not know that
he bad no chance of success. * Mr. Orme,' she said at last, speaking
hardly above her breath, * what has made you do this ?*

* What has made me do it ? W hat has made me tell you that I
love you?'

iLXOTHEB FALL. 2S9

*T<m cannot Im in earnest P

*Not in euneati By Ixea^ena, Miw Siarelegr, no man wlio haa
said the same words was eTer more in eaineai Do joa doubt me
wlien I tell 70a that I loTe 70a?*

« Oh» I am BO 80x17 !' And then ahe hid her fuse npon the aim of
the 80& and bazst into tears.

Peregrine stood there, like a prisoner on his trial, iraating ftr a
Yerdiot. He did not know how to plead his canse with an7 fbrthar
language; and indeed no further lan£^nage coidd have been of any
avflll. The judge and jur7 were clear against him, and he should
have known the sentence without waiting to have it pronounced in
set terms. But in plain words he had made his offer, and in plain
words he required tibat an answer should be given to him. * Well,*
he said, ' will^ou not speak to me? Will 70U not tell me whether
it shall be so ?'

* No, — no, — ^no,' she said.

* You mean that 7on cannot lore me.' And as he said this the
agon7 of his tone sbuck her ear and made her feel that he was suf-
fering. Hitherto she had thought onl7 of herself^ and had hardty
recognized it as a &ot that he could be thozoiighl7 in earnest.

'Mr. Orme, I am Tery sony. Do not speak as though 70a wwe
angr7 with me. But—'

* But 70U cannot love me?' And then he stood again silent, Hor
there was no Tepl7. *Is it that, Miss Stavele7, that 70a mean to
answer? If yon sa7 that with positxre aaanranoe, I will trouide
70U no longer.' Poor Peregrine! He was but an unskilled
lover I

* No !' she sobbed forth through her tears ; but he had so framed
his question that he hardly knew what No meant.

' Do you mean that you cannot love me, or may I hope that a day
will come . May I speak to you again ?'

* Oh, no, no I I can answer you now. It grieves me to the
heart. I know you are so good. But, Mr. Orme '

* Well—'

* It can never, never be.'

* And I must take that as answer ?

* I can make no other.' He still stood before her, — ^with gloomy
and almost angry brow, could she have seen him ; and then he
thought he would ask her whether there was any other love which
had brought about her scorn for him. It did not occur to him, at
the first moment, that in doing so he would insult and injure her.

' At any rate I am not flattered by a reply which is at once so
decided,' he began by saying.

' Oh ! Mr. Orme, do not make me more unhappy *

*But perhaps I am too late. Perhaps ' Then he remem-
bered himself and paused. 'Never mind,' he said, speaking to

2x0 OBLEY FAItH.

himiitilf rather than to ber. ' Qood-bye, Miss Staveloy. Yoi
at any rate aay good-bye to mo. I shall go at once now.'

' (io at onoe I Go away, Mr. Orme f

• Yes ; why ahould I stay here ? Do you think that I con
down to tablo with you all after that? I will ask your brotj
explain my going; I Hhull find him in his room. Good-bye.'

Sbu took his hand mechanically, and then he left her. ^
■ho oamo down to dinner she looked furtively round to this
and saw that it was vacant.

CHAPTER XXXI.

FOOTSTEPS IN THE CORHITOO.

' ITpov my word I am very sorrow,' said the judge. ' But
uindo him )p) off bo suddenly ? 1 hoi>e there's nobody ill at
Oleovo !* And then the judge took his firiit spoonful of soup.

'No. no: there is nothing of that sort,' said Augustus,
grandfather wants him, and Orme thought he might as well sti
i>neo. lie was always a sudden harum-scanim fellow like thai

'Ilea a voi^- pleasant, nice young man.' said Lady Stay<
'and never gives himself any airs. I like him exceedingly.'

I'tHir Madeline did not dare to look cither at her mother oi
brother, but she wuuld have given much to know whether eiil
thoni were aware of the i-aiise whii-h had sent Peregrine Cm
suddenly away fivm the bouse. At firet she thought that Aug
surely did kui'W, and she was wn'tched as she thi^ught that he n
jmiUbly i-iieak to her on the subject. But he wont on tal
atvnit t'mio and his abrupt departure till she K'came convi
that ho knew nothinjc and suspeeteil Doihing uf what hod occni

But her iui«lier said nvver a wotJ after that iuli«:ium whieb
Ikul utti'iVil. and Madeline >vaJ that ouK-jrium altogether ai
li siiid to her ««re that if ever youn? (Vme .-should again come
«T»rd w!;h his stiit> her mother would be prepared to receive
as a sui:or : aud il said, tu^'n>ovt''r. that if th^i suitor had been air
sen; aw^v by any harsh answer, ^he would no: sympathize wiUi
baR-hnet.-'i.

Tr.e dinner went on ma.-h as usual, rut Madeline oimld not 1
hoTVrlf to ssy a word. ^L:e sat tv::ween her brother-in-law,
Atbiithiio:, or. one side. .«..'i *n ,M iViend of her f.tther's, of i!
vpatn" Mand;;-.;:. on the ithir. Tht ^ Id :'r!tnd talked exclusive
"ijiiiy S*\<U» . AiJ Mr. Ar'faihr.o:. sh tij;h he n-w aiid iec nv

U»: ;V.Tve cr f.:;:^ dayi sie hid »: ai diK;;tr tiit :.> Ter^i

foo'jLets m the comj,

FOOTSTEPS IN THB OOBBIDOB. 241

Onne, and it seemed to her now tliat she always had been able to
talk to him. She had liked him so much too! Was it not a pify
thkt he should have been so mistaken I And then as she sat after
dinner, eating five or six grapes, she felt that she was nnable to
recall her spirits and look and speak as she was wont to do : a thing
had happened which had knocked the ground from under her — ^had
thrown her from her equipoise, and now she lacked the strength to
recover herself and hide her dismay.

After dinner, while the gentlemen were still in the dining-room;
she got a book, and nobody disturbed her as she sat alone pretend-
ing to read it. There neyer had been any intimate friendship
between her and Miss Fumival, and that young lady was now em-
ployed in taking the chief part in a general conyersation about
wools. Lady Staveley got through a good deal of wool in the coune
of the year, as also did the wife of the old thiriy-yeara' friend ; but
Miss Fumival, short as her experienoe had been, was able to give
a few hints to them both, and did not throw away the occasion.
There was another lady there, rather deaf, to whom Mrs. Arbuth-
not devoted heraelf, and therefore Madeline was allowed to be
alone.

Then the men came in, and she was obliged to come forward and
officiate at the tea-table. The judge insisted on having the teapot
and urn brought into the drawing-room, and liked to have his cup
brought to him by one of his own daughters. So she went to work
and made the tea, but still she felt that she scarcely knew how to
go through her task. What had happened to her that she should be
thus beside herself, and hardly capable of refraining from open
tears ? She knew that her mother was looking at her, and that
now and again little things were done to give her ease if any ease
were possible.

' Is anything the matter with my Madeline T said her father,
looking up into her face, and holding the hand from which ho had
taken his cup.

' No, papa ; only I have got a headache.'

* A headache, dear ; that's not usual with you.*

' I have seen that she has not been well all the evening,' said
Lady Staveley ; ' but I thought that perhaps she might shake it off.
You had better go, my dear, if you are suffering. Isabella, I'm sure,
will ])our out the tea for us.*

And 80 she got away, and skulked slowly up stairs to her own
room. She felt that it was skulking. Why should she have been
so weak as to have fled in that way ? She had no headache — nor
was it heartache that had now upset her. But a man had spoken
to her openly of love, and no man had ever so spoken to her before.

She did not go direct to her own chamber, but passed along the
corridor towards her mother's dressing-room. It was always her

VOL. I. R

242 OBLEY FABH.

otistom to remain iliere some lialf-honr before she went to bed,
doing little things for her mother, and chatting with any other girl
who might be intimate enough to be admitted there. Now she
might remain there for an hour alone without danger of being
disturbed ; and she thought to herself that she would remain there
till her mother eame, asd then nnburthen herself of the whole
story.

As she went along the corridor she would have to pass the room
which had been given up to Felix Graham. She saw that the door
was ajar, and as she came close up to it, she found the nurse in the
act of coming out from the room. Mrs. Baker had been a very old
servant in the judge's family, and had known Madeline from the
day of her birth. Her chief occupation for some years had been
nursing when there was anybody to nurse, and takii^ a general care
and surveillance of the family's health when there was no special
invalid to whom she could devote herself. Since Graham's acci-
dent she had been fully employed, and had greatiy ^oyed the
opportunities it had given her.

Mrs. Baker was in the doorway as Madeline attempted to pass
by on tiptoe. * Oh, he's a deal better now, Miss Madeline, so that
you needn't be afeard of disturbing ; — ain't you, Mr. Graham ? So
she was thus brought into absolute contact with her friend, £[>r the
first time since he had hurt himself.

* Indeed I am,' said Felix ; ' I only wish they*d let me get up
and go down stairs. Is that Miss Staveley, Mrs. Baker T

' Yes, sure. Come, my dear, he's got his dressing-gown on, and
you may just come to the door and ask him how he does.'

*■ I am very glad to hear that you are so much better, Mr. Graham,'
said Madeline, standing in the doorway with averted eyes, and
speaking with a voice 8o low that it only just reached his ears.

* Thank yon. Miss Staveley ; I shall never know how to express
what 1 feel for you all.*

* And there's none of 'em have been more anxious about you than
she, I can tell you ; and none of 'em aint kinderhearteder,' said
Mrs. Baker.

* I hope you will be up soon and be able to come down to the
drawing room,' said Madeline. And then she did glance round,
and for a moment saw the light of his eye as he sat upright in the
bed. He was still pale and thin, or at least she fancied so, and her
heart trembled within her as she thought of the danger he had
passed.

* I do so long to be able to talk to you again ; all the others come
and visit me, but I have only heard the sounds of your footsteps as
you pass by.*

' And yet she always walks like a mouse,' said Mrs. Baker.

* But I have always heard them,* he said. * I hope Marian

FOOTSTEPS nr THB GOBBIDOB. 248

thanked you forthe books. She told me how yon had gotten them
for me.'

* She should not have said anything ahont them ; it was At^^natos
who thought of them/ said Madeline.

^Marian comes to me fonr or five times a day/ he oontinned; 'T
do not know what I should do without her.*

* I hope Hhe is not noisy,' said Madeline.

* Laws, miss, he don*t care for noise now, only he aint good at
moving yet, and #on*t be for some while.'

' Pray take care of yourself, Mr. Graham,* she said ; * I need not
tell yon how anxious we all are for your recovery. Good nighty
Mr. Graham.' And then she passed on to hef mother's dressing-
room, and sitting herself down in an arm-chair opposite to the fire
began to think — to think, or else to try to think.

And what was to be the subject of her thoughts? Begarding
Peregrine Orme there was very little room for thinking. He had
made her an offer, and she had rejected it as a matter of course,
seeing that she did not love him. She had no doubt on that head,
and was well aware that she could never accept such an offer. On
what subject then was it necessary that she should think ?

How odd it was that Mr. Graham's room door should have been
open on this especial evening, and that nurse should have been
standing there, ready to gplve occasion for that conversation \ That
was the idea that first took possession of her brain. And then she
recounted all those few words which had been spoken as though
they had had some special value — although each word had been
laden with interest. She felt half ashamed of what she had done in
standing there and speaking at his bedroom door, and yet she
would not have lost tho chance for worlds. There had been nothing
in what had passed between her and the invalid, llie very words,
spoken elbewherc, or in the presence of her mother and sister, would
have been insipid and valueless; and yet she sat there feeding on
them as though they were of flavour so rich that she could not let
the sweetness of them pass from her. She had been stunned at the
idea of poor Peregrine's love, and yet she never asked herself what
was this new feeling. She did not inquire — not yet at least—
whether there might be danger in such feelings.

She remained there, with eyes fixed on the burning coals, till
her mother came uj). 'What, Madeline,' said Lady Staveley»
' are you here still ? I was in hopes you would have been in bed
before this.'

' My headache is gone now, mamma ; and I waited because — '

* Well, dear ; because what ?' and her mother came and stood
over her and smoothed her hair. ' I know very well that something
has been the matter. There has been something ; eh, Madeline V

' Yes, mamma.'

244 OBLEY FABU.

* And 70U have remained up that we may talk about it Is tliai
it, dearest ?'

* I did not quite mean that, but perhaps it will be best I can't
be doing wrong, mamma, in telling you.'

* Well ; you shall judge of that yourself ;' and Lady Staveley sat
down on the sofa so that she was close to the chair which Madeline
still occupied. ' As a general rule I suppose you could not be doing
wrong ; but you must decide. If you have any doubt, wait till to-
morrow.' . g

' No, mamma ; I will tell you now. Mr. Orme — *

* Well, dearest. Did Mr. Orme say anything specially to yoii
before he went awaji ?'

« He— he— '

* Come to me, Madeline, and sit here. We shall talk better
then.' And the mother made room beside her on the sofa for her
daughter, and Madeline, running over, leaned with her head upon
her mother's shoulder. * Well, darling ; what did he say ? Did he
tell you that he loved you ?

' Yes, mamnui.'

' And you answered him — '

* I could only tell him — '

* Yes, I know. Poor fellow ! But, Madeline, is he not an excel*
lent young man; — one, at any rate, that is lovable? Of course
in such a matter the heart must answer for itself. But I, looking
at the oflfer as a mother — 1 could have been well pleased — '

' But, mamma, I could notX-'

* Well, love : there shall be an end of it ; at least for the present.
When I heard that ho had gone suddenly away I thought that
something had happened.'

* I am so sorry that he should be unhappy, for I know that he is
good.'

* Yes, he is good ; and your father likes him, and Augustus. In
such a matter as this, Madeline, I would never say a word to
persuade you. I should think it wrong to do so. But it may be,
dearest, that he has flurried you by the suddenness of his offer ;
and that you have not yet thought much about it.'

* But, mamma, I know that I do not love him.'

* Of course. That is natural. It would have been a great mis-
fortune if you had loved him before you had reason to know that
he loved you ; — a great misfortune. But now, — now that you can-
not but think of him, now that you know what his wishes are>
perhaps you may learn — '

' But I have refused him, and he has gone away.'

* Young gentlemen under such circumstances sometimes come
back again.'

* He won't come back, mamma, because — because I told him

FOOTSTEPS IN THE COBBIDOB. 245

80 plainly — I am sure ho understands that it is all to be at an
endL'

* But if ho should, and if yon should then think differently
towards him — '

* Oh, no I*

' But if you should, it may be well that you should know how all
your friends esteem him. In a worldly view the marriage would
be in all respects prudent : and as to disposition and temper, which
I admit are much more important, I oonifess I think that he has all
the qualities best adapted to make a wife happy. But, as I said
before, the heart must speak for itself.'

' Yes ; of course. And I know that I shall never love him ; — not
in that way.'

' You may be sure, dearest, that there will be no constraint put
upon you. It might be possible that I or your papa should forbid
a daughter's marriage, if she had proposed to herself an imprudent
match ; but neither he nor I would ever use our influence with a
child to bring about a marriage because we think it prudent in a
worldly point of view.' And then Lady Staveley kissed her daughter.

* Dear mamma, I know how good you are to me.' And she
answered her mother*s embrace by the pressure of her arm. But
nevertheless she did not feel herself to be quite comfortable. There
was something in the words which her mother had spoken which
grated against her most cherished feelings ; — something, though she
by no means knew what. Why had her mother cautioned her in
that way, that there might be a case in which she would refuse her
sanction to a proposed marriage? Isabella's marriage had been
concluded with the full agreement of the whole family ; and she,
Madeline, had certainly never as yet given cause either to father
or mother to suppose that she would be headstrong and imprudent.
Might not the caution have been omitted? — or was it intended to
apply in any way to circumstances as they now existed ?

* You had better go now, dearest,' said Lady Staveley, * and for
the present we will not think any more about this gallant young
knight.' And then Madeline, having said good night, went off
rather crestfallen to her own room. In doing so she again had to
pass Graham's door, and as she went by it, walking not quite on
tiptoe, she could not help asking herself whether or no he would
really recognize the sound of her footsteps.

It is hardly necessary to say that Lady Staveley had conceived to
liersclf a recognized purpose in uttering that little caution to her
daughter; and she would have been quite as well pleased had
circumstances taken Felix Graham out of her house instead of
reregrinc Orme. But Felix Graham must necessarily remain for the
next fortnight, and there could be no possible benefit in Orme's
return, at any rate till Graham should have gone.

CHAPTER XXXn.

WHAT BBIDeST BOLSTER HAD TO SAT.

It lias been said in the earlier pages of tJiis story that there was no
prettier scenery to be found within thirty miles of London than
that by which the little town of Hamworth was surrounded. This
was so truly the case that Hamworth was full of lodgings which in
the autumn season were always full of lodgers. The middle of
winter was certainly not the time for seeing the Hamworth hills to
advantage ; nevertheless it was soon after Christmas that two
rooms were taken there by a single gentleman who had oome down
for a week, apparently with no other view than that of enjoying
himself. He did say something about London confinement and
change of air; but he was manifestly in good health, had an ex-
cellent appetite, said a great deal about fresh ^gs, — which at that
time of the year was hardly reasonable, and brought with him his
own pale brandy. This gentleman was Mr. Crabwitz.

The house at which he was to lodge had been selected with con-
siderable judgment. It was kept by a tidy old widow known as
Mrs. Trump ; but those who knew anything of Hamworth affairs
were well aware that Mrs. Trump had been left without a
shilling, and could not have taken that snug little house in Para-
dise How and furnished it complete y, out of her own means. No.
Mrs. Trump's lodging-huuse was one of the irons which Samuel
Dock^vrath ever kept heating in the fire, for the behoof of those
fourteen children. Ho had taken a lease of the house in Paradise
Kow, having made a bargain and advanced a few pounds while it
was yet being built; and he then had furnished it and put in
Mrs. Trump. Mrs. Trump received from him wages and a per-
centage ; but to him were paid over the quota of shillings per
week in consideration for which the lodgers were accommodated.
All of which Mr. Crabwitz had asceilained before he located himself
in Paradise Row.

And when he had so located himself he soon began to talk to
Mrs. Trump about Mr. Dockwrath. He himself, as he told her in
confidence, was in the profession of the law ; he had heard of
Mr. Dockwrath, and should be very glad if that gentleman would
come over and take a glass of bi^andy and water with him some
eveniDg.

WHAT BRIDGET BOLSTSB HAD TO SAT. 217

* And a very clever eharp gentleman be is/ aaid Mrs. Tmmp.

* With a tolerably good business, I suppose T asked Crabwite.

* Pretty fair for that, sir. But he do be taming hia hand to
everything. He's a mortal long &mily of his own, and he has need
of it all, if it's ever so much. But he'll never be poor for the want
of looking after it'

But Mr. Dockwrath did not oome near his lodger on the first
evening, and Mr. Crabwitz made acquaintance with Mrs. Dock-
wrath before he saw her husband. The care of the fourteen
children was not supposed to be so onerous but that she could find
a moment now and then to see whether Mrs. Trump kept the
furniture properly dusted, and did not infringe any of the Dock-
wrathian rules. These were very strict ; and whenever they were
broken it was on the head of Mrs. Dockwrath that the anger of the
ruler mainly fell.

* I hope you find everything comfortable, sir,' said poor Miriam,
having knocked at the sitting-room door when Crabwita had just
finished his dinner.

' Yes, thank you ; very nice. Is that Mrs. Dockwrath?*

* Tes, sin I'm Mrs. Dockwrath. As it's we who own the room
I looked in to see if anything's wanting.'

' You are very kind. No ; nothing is wanting. But I should
be delighted to make your acquaintance if you would stay for a
moment Might I ask you to take a diair?' and Mr. Crabwitz
handed her one.

* Thank you ; no, sir. I won't intrude.*

* Not at all, Mrs. Dockwrath. But the feet is, I'm a lawyer
myself, and I should be so glad to become known to 3'our husband.
I have heard a great deal of his name lately as to a rather famous
case in which ho is employed.'

* Not the Orley Farm case ?' said Mrs. Dockwrath immediately.

* Yes, yes ; exactly.'

' And is he going on with that, sir ?' asked Mrs. Dockwrath with
great interest

* Is he not ? I know nothing about it myself, but I always
supposed that such was the case. If I had such a wife as you, *
Mrs. Dockwrath, I should not leave her in doubt as to what I was
doing in my own profession.'

* I know nothing about it, Mr. Cooke ;' — for it was as Mr. Cooke
that he now sojourned at Hamworth. Not that it should be sup-
posed he had received instructions from Mr. Fumival to come down
to that place under a false name. From Mr. Fumival he had
received no further instructions on that matter than those conveyed
at the end of a previous chapter. * I know nothing about it,
Mr. Cooke ; and don't want to know generally. But I am anxious
about this Orley Farm case. I do hope that he's going to drop it.^

248 OBLEY FABH.

And ilien Mr. Crab^vitz elicited her view of the case with great
ease.

On that evening, about nine, Mr. Dockwrath did go over to
Paradise Row, and did allow himself to be persuaded to mix a
glass of brandy and water and light a cigar. ' My missus tells me,
sir, that you belong to the profession as well as myself.'

* Oh yes ; I'm a lawyer, Mr. Dockwrath.*

* Practising in town as an attorney, sir ?'

Not as an attorney on my own hook exactly. I chiefly emploj'
my time in getting up cases for barristers. There's a good deal
done in that way.'

* Oh, indeed,' said Mr. Dockwrath, beginning to feel himself the
bigger man of the two ; and from that moment he patronized his
companion instead of allowing himself to be patronized.

This went against the grain with Mr. Crabwitz, but, having an
object to gain, he bore it. ' We heax a great deal up in London
just at present about this Orley Farm case, and I always hear your
name as connected with it. I had no idea when I was taking these
lodgings that I was coming into a house belonging to that Mr. Dock-
wrath.'

* The same party, sir,' said Mr. Dockwrath, blowing the smoke
out of his mouth as he looked up to the ceiling.

And then by degrees Mr. Crabwitz drew him into conversation.
Dockwrath was by nature quite as clever a man as Crabwitz, and in
such a matter as this was not one to be outwitted easily ; but in
truth he had no objection to talk about the Orley Farm case. * I
have taken it up on public motives, Mr. Cooke,' he said, ' and I mean
to go through vrith it.'

* Oh, of course ; in such a case as that you will no doubt go
through with it ?'

* That's my intention, I assure you. And I tell you what ; young
Mason, — that's the son of the widow of the old man who made the
will '

* Or rather who did not make it, as you say.'

* Yes, yes ; ho made the will ; but he did not make the codicil — and
that young Mason has no more right to the property than you have/

* Hasn't he now?'

* No ; and I can prove it too.'

* Well ; the general opinion in the profession is that Lady Mason
will stand her ground and hold her own. I don't know what the
points are myself, but I have heard it discussed, and that is cer-
tainly what people think.'

* Then people will find that they are very much mistaken.'

* I was talking to one of Hound's young men about it, and I fancy
they are not very sanguine.'

*' I do not care a fig for Bound or his young men. It would bo

WHAT BRIDGET BOLSTER HAD TO SAT. 249

quito as well for Joseph Mason if Bound and Crook gave up the
matter altogether. It lies in a nutshell, and the truth must come
out whatever Bound and Crook may choose to say. And Til tell
you more — old Fumival, big a man as he thinks himself, cannot

save her.'

' Has he anything to do with it?' asked Mr. Cooke.

* Yes ; the sly old fox. My belief is that only for him she'd give
up the battle, and be down on her marrow-bones asking for mercy.'

' She'd have little chance of mercy, from what I hear of Joseph
Mason.'

* She'd have to give up the property of course. And even then I
don't know whether he'd let her off. By heavens ! he couldn't let
her off imless I chose.' And then by degrees he told Mr. Cooke
some of the circumstances of the case.

But it was not till the fourth evening that Mr. Dockwrath spent
with his lodger that the intimacy had so &r progressed as to enable
Mr. Crabwitz to proceed with his little scheme. On that day Mr.
Dockwrath had received a notice that at noon on the following
morning Mr. Joseph Mason and Bridget Bolster would both be at
the house of Mestfrs. Bound and Crook in Bedford Bow, and that he
could attend at that hour if it so pleased him. It certainly would
so please him, he said to himself when he got that letter ; and in
the evening he mentioned to his new friend the business which was
taking him to London.

* If I might advise you in the matter, Mr. Dockwrath,' said Crab-
witz, ' I should stay away altogether.'

* And why so ?'

' Because that's not your market. This poor devil of a woman —

for she is a poor devil of a woman '

' She'll be poor enough before long.'

* It can't be any gratification to you running her down.'

* Ah, but the justice of the thing.'

* Bother. You're talking now to a man of the world. Who can
say what is the justice or the injustice of anything after twenty
years of possession ? I have no doubt the codicil did express the
old man's wish, — even from your own story. But of course you are
looking for your market. Now it seems to me that there's a thousand
pounds in your way as clear as daylight.'

* I don't see it myself, Mr. Cooke.'

* No ; but I do. The sort of thing is done every day. You have
your father-in-law's office journal ?'

* Safe enough.'

* Burn it ; — or leave it about in these rooms like ; — so that some-
body else may bum it.'

* I'd like to see the thousand pounds first.'

* Of course you'd do nothing till you knew about that ; — nothing

250 OBLET FABM.

except keeping away from Bound and Crook to-morrow. The
money would be forthcoming if the trial were notorioufily dropped
by next assizes.'

Dockwrath sat thinking for a minute or two, and every moment
of thought made him feel more strongly that he could not now
succeed in the manner pointed out by Mr. Cooke. * But where
would be the market you are talking of?' said he.

* I could manage that,' said Crabwita.

* And go shares in the bufiinesB T

* No, no ; nothing of the sort.' And then he added, remembering
that he must show that he had some personal object, ' If I got a
trifle in the matter it would not oome out oi your allowance.'

The attorney again sat silent for a while, and now he remained
so for full five minutes, during which Mr. Ciabwits puffed the smoke
from between his lips with a look of supreme satisfiKStion. * May I
ask,' at last Mr. Dockwrath said, * whether you have any perscmal
interest in this matter ?'

* None in the least ; — ^that is to say, none as yet.'

* You did not come down here with any view *

* Oh dear no ; nothing of the sort But I see at a glance that it
18 one of those cases in which a compromise would be the most
judicious solution of difficulties. I am well used to thia kind of thing,
Mr. Dockwrath.'

' It would not do, sir,' said Mr. Dockwrath, after some further
slight period of consideration. ' It wouldn't do. Round and Crook
have all the dates, and so has Mason too. And the original of that
partnership deed is forthcoming ; and they know what witnesses to
depend on. No, sir; I've begun this on public grounds, and I
mean to carry it on. I am in a manner bound to do so as the repre-
sentative of the attorney of the late Sir Joseph Mason ; — and by
heavens, Mr. Cooke, I'll do my duty.'

* I dare say you're right,' said Mr. Cxabwits, mixing a quarter of
a glass more brandy and water.

^ I know I'm right, sir,' said Dockwrath. ' And when a man
knows he's right, he has a deal of inward satisfaction in the feeling.'
After that Mr. Crabwitz was aware that he could be of no use at
Hamworth, but he stayed out his week in order to avoid su^icion.

On the following day Mr. Dockwrath did proceed to Bedford
Row, determined to carry out his original plan, and armed with that
inward satisfaction to which he had alluded. He dressed himself
in his best, and endeavoured as far as was in his power to look as
though he were equal to the Messrs. Round. Old Crook he had
seen once, and him he already despised. He had endeavoured to
obtain a private interview with Mrs. Bolster before she could be
seen by Matthew Round ; but in this he had not succeeded. Mrs.
Bolster was a prudent woman, and, acting doubtleBS under advice.

WHAT BBIDGBT BOL8TEB HAD TO 8AT. 251

htd wzitieii to him, saying that ihe had heen^ ■rnnmoped to the
office of Messn. Bovad and Crook, and would there declare all that
she knew about the matter. At the same time she xetimied to him
a Bioney order which he had sent to her.

Punctually at twelve he was in Bedford fiow, and there he saw a
leapectable-looking £amale sitting at the fire in the inner part of the
onter office. This was Bridget Bolster, hat he wonld by no means
have recognized her. Bridget had risen in the world and was now
head chambermaid at a large hotel in the west of England, in tbat
capacity she had laid aside whatever diffidence may have afflicted
her earlier years, and was now aUe to speak out her mind before any
jndge or jury in the land. Indeed she had never been much afflicted
by such diffidence, and had spoken ont her evidence on that former
occasion, now twenty years sinoe, very plainly. Bat as she now
explained to the head derk, she had at that time been only a poor
Ignorant slip of a girl, with no more than eight pounds a year wages.

Dockwrath bowed to the head clerk, and passed on to Mat Bound's
private room. * Mr. Matthew is inside, I sappose,' said he, and
hardly waiting for permission he knocked at the door, and then
entered. There he saw Mr. Matthew Bound, sitting in his comfort-
able arm-chair, and opposite to him sat Mr. Mason of Groby Park.

Mr. Mason got up and shook hands with the Hamworth attorney,
but Bound junior made his greeting withoat rising, and merely
motioned his visitor to a chair.

* Mr. Mason and the young ladies are quite well, I hope T said
Mr. Dockwrath, with a smile.

^ Quite well, I thank you,' said the county magistrate.

' This matter has pn^essed since I last had the pleasure of
seeing them. You begin to think I was right ; eh, Mr. Mason T

^ Don't let us triumph till we are out of the wood ?' said Mr.
Bound. ' It is a deal easier to spend money in such an afifair as
this than it is to make money by it. However we shall hear
to-day more about it'

* I do not know about making money,' said Mr. Mason, very
solemnly. ' But that I have been robbed by that woman out of my
ju.st rights in that estate for the last twenty years, — that I may say
I do know.'

' Quite true, Mr. Mason ; quite true,' said Mr. Dockwrath with
considerable energy.

' And whether I make money or whether I lose money I intend
to proceed in this matter. It is dreadful to think that in tiiis free
and enlightened country so abject an offender should have been able
to hold her head up so long without punishment and without dis-
grace.'

' That is exactly what I feel,' said Dockwrath. ' The very stones
and trees of Hamworth cry out against her.'

252 OBLEY FABM.

' Gentlemen,' said Mr. Bound, ' we have first to see whether there
has been any injustice or not. If jou will allow me I will explain
to you what I now propose to do.'

* Proceed, sir/ said Mr. Mason, who was by no means satisfied
with his young attorney.

^ Bridget Bolster is now in the next room, and as far as I can
understand the case at present, she would be the witness on whom
your case, Mr. Mason, would most depend. The man Eenneby I
have not yet seen ; but from what I understand he is less likely to
prove a willing witness than Mrs. Bolster.'

^ I cannot go along with you there, Mr. Bound,' said Dockwrath.

' Excuse me, sir, but I am only stating my opinion. K I should
find that this woman is unable to say that she did not sign two
separate documents on that day — that is, to say so with a positive
and point blank assurance, I shall recommend you, as my client, to
drop the prosecution.'

' I will never drop it,' said Mr. Mason.

* You will do as you please,' continued Bound ; * I can only say
what under such circumstances will be the advice given to you by
this firm. I have talked the matter over very carefully with my
father and with our other partner, and we shall not think well of
going on with it unless I shall now find that your view is strongly
substantiated by this woman.'

Then outspoke Mr. Dockwrath, * Under these circumstances, Mr.
Mason, if I were you, I should withdraw from the house at once.
I certainly would not have my case blown upon.*

' Mr. Mason, sir, will do as he pleases about that. As long as the
business with which he honours us is straightforward, we will do
it for him, as for an old client, although it is not exactly in our own
line. But we can only do it in accordance with our own judgment. I
will proceed to explain what I now propose to do. The woman Bolster
is in the next room, and I, with the assistance of my head clerk,
will take down the headings of what evidence she can give.'

* In our presence, sir,' said Mr. Dockwrath ; * or if Mr. Mason
should decline, at any rate in mine.'

* By no means, Mr. Dockwrath,' said Bound.

' I think Mr. Dockwrath should hear her story,' said Mr. Mason.

* He certainly will not do so in this house or in conjunction with
me. In what capacity should he be present, Mr. Mason ?'

' As one of Mr. Mason's legal advisers,' said Dockwrath.

* If you are to be one of them, Messrs. Bound and Crook cannot
be the others. I think I explained that to you before. It now
remains for Mr. Mason to say whether he wishes to employ our
firm in this matter or not. And I can tell him fairly,' Mr. Bound
added this after a slight pause, * that we shall be rather pleased than
other wiijo if he will put the case into other hands.'

^VHAT BRIDGET BOLSTER HAD TO BAY. 253

* Of oonrse I wish you to conduct it/ said Mr. Mason, who, with
all his bitterness against the present holders of Orley Fann, was
afraid of throwing himself into the hands of Dockwrath. He was
not an ignorant man, and he knew that the firm of Bound and Crook
bore a high reputation before the world.

* Then,' said Hound, *• I must do my business in accordance with
my own views of what is right. I have reason to believe that no
one has yet tampered with this woman,' and as he spoke he looked
hard at Dockwrath, ' though probably attempts may have been made.'

*I don't know who should tamper with her,' said Dockwrath,
' unless it be Lady Mason — ^whom I must say you seem very anxious
to protect.'

* Another word like that, sir, and I shall be compelled to ask you
to leave the house. I believe that this woman has been tampered
with by no one. I will now learn from her what is her remem-
brance of the circumstances as they occurred twenty years since,
and I will then read to you her deposition. I shall be sorry,
gentlemen, to keep you here, perhaps for an hour or so, but you
will find the morning papers on the table.' And then Mr. Bound,
gathering up certain documents, passed into the outer office, and
Mr. Mason and Mr. Dockwrath were left alone.

' He is determined to get that woman ofif,' said Mr. Dockwrath,
in a whisper.

*' I believe him to be an honest man,' said Mr. Mason, with some
sternness.

* Honesty, sir ! It is hard to say what is honesty and what is
dishonesty. Would you believe it, Mr. Mason, only last night 1 had
a thousand pounds offered me to hold my tongue about this affair ?'

Mr. Mason at the moment did not believe this, but he merely
looked hard into his companion's face, and said nothing.

* By the heavens above us what I tell you is true I a thousand
pounds, Mr. Mason ! Only think how they are going it to get this
thing stifled. And where should the offer come from but from thoso
who know I have the power ?*

* Do you mean to say that the offer came from this firm ?'

* Hush — sh, Mr. Mason. The very walls hear and talk in such a
place as this. I'm not to know who made the offer, and I don't
know. But a man can give a very good guess sometimes. The
party wlio was speaking to me is up to the whole transaction, and
knows exactly what is going on here — here, in this house. He let
it all out, using pretty nigh the same words as Bound used just now.
He was full about the doubt that Bound and Crook felt — that they'd
never pull it through. I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Mason, they
don't mean to pull it through.'

* What answer did you make to the man ?'

' What answer I why I just put my thumb this way over my

256 OBLET FABH.

* Did yon ever see anything like that, sir ? said Mr. Docktv
* fer by heavens I never did.'

' Like what ?* said Mr. Mason.

' Like that fellow there ; — that Bonnd. It is my opinion th
deserves to have hie name struck from the rolls. Is it not
that he is doing all in his power to bring that wretched womai
And ril tell yon what. Sir. Mason, if yon let him play his
game in that way, be will bring her ofil'

* But he expressly admitted that this woman Bolster's evi<
is oonolusive.'

' Yes ; he was so driven into a comer that he conld not
admitting that. The woman had been too many for him, an
fonnd that he couldn't cushion her. But do yon mind my w
Mr. Mason. He intends that you shall be beaten. It's as pis
the nose on your face. Yon can read it in the very look of
and in every tone of his voioe. At any rate I can. I'll tell
what it is' — and then he squeezed very close to Mr. Mason-
and old Fnmiral nnderatand each other in this matter like
brothers. Of course Konnd will have his bill against you.
or lose, he'll get his oosts out of your pocket. But he can uu
denced pretty thing out of the other side as well. Let mt
3'ou, Mr. Mason, that when notes for a thousand pounds are f
here and there, it isn't every lawyer that will see them paf
him without opening his hand.'

* I do not think that Mr. Bonnd would take a bribe,' said
Mason very stiffly.

' Wouldn't he? Just as a hound would a pat of butter,
your own look-out, you know, Mr. Mason. I haven't got an e
of twelve hundred a year depending on it. But remember th
if she escapes now, Orley Farm is gone for ever,'

All this was extremely disagreeable to Mr. Mason. In the
place he did not at all like the tono of equality which the Hamv
attorney had adopted; he did not like to acknowledge thii'
afiaira were in any degree dependent on a man of whom he the
fa badly as he did of Mr. Dockwrath ; he did not like to be told
Konnd and Crook were rogues, — Bound and Crook whom he
known all hiu life ; but least of all did be like the feeling of
picion with which, in spite of himself, this man had imbued
or the fear that hia victim might at last escape him. Excel
therefore, as had been tlio evidence with which Bridget Bolstei
declared herself ready to give in his favour, Mr. Mason was i
contented man when he sat down to his solitary b
Square.

CHAPTER XXXm,

THE ANGEL OF LIGHT.

In speaking of the character and antecedents of Felix Graham 1
have said that he was moulding a wife for himself. The idea of a
wife thus moulded to fit a man's own grooves, and educated to suit
matrimonial purposes according to the exact views of the future
hushand was hy no means original with him. Other men have
moulded their wives, hut I do not know that as a rule the practice
has heen found to answer. It is open, in the first place, to this
ohjectiou, — that the moulder does not generally conceive such idea
very early in life, and the idea when conceived must necessarily he
carried out on a young suhject. Such a plan is the result of much
deliherate thought, and has generally arisen £rom long ohservation,
on the part of the thinker, of the unhappiness arising from
marriages in which there has been no moulding. Such a frame of
mind comes upon a bachelor, perhaps about his thirty-fifth year,
and then he goes to work with a girl of fourteen. The operation
takes some ten years, at the end of which the moulded bride
regards her lord as an old man. On the whole I think that
the ordinary plan is the better, and even the safer. Dance with a
girl three times, and if you like the light of her eye and the tone
of voice with which she, breathless, answers your little questions
about horseflesh and music— about affairs masculine and feminine, —
then take the leap in the dark. There is danger, no doubt ; but
the moulded wife is, I think, more dangerous.

With Felix Graham the matter was somewhat different, seeing
that ho was not yet thirty, and that the lady destined to be the
mistress of his family had already jjassed through three or four
years of her noviciate. He had begim to bo prudent early in life ;
or had become prudent rather by force of sentiment tlian by force
of thought. Mary Snow was the name of his bride-elect ; and it is
probable that, had not circumstances thrown Mary Snow in his way,
ho would not have gone out of his way to seek a subject for his
experiment. Mary Snow was the daughter of an engraver, — not of
an artist who receives four or five thousand pounds for engraving
the chef-d'oeuvre of a modem painter, — but of a man who executed
flourishes on ornamental cards for tradespeople, and assisted in the

VOL. I. s

258 OBLET FABM.

iUiifitration of drcos playbillB. With this man Graham had become
acquainted through certain transactions of his with the press, and
had found him to be a widower, drunken, dissolute, and generally
drowned in poverty. One child the man had, and that child was
Maiy Snow.

How it came 'to pass that the young barrister first took upon
himself the charge of maintaining and educating this poor child
need not now be told. His motiTes had been thoroughly good, and
in the matter he had endeavoured to act the part of a kind
Samaritan. He had found her pretty, half starved, dirty, ignorant,
and modest; and so finding her had made himself responsible for
feeding, cleaning, and teaching her, — and ultimately for marrying
her. One would ha^e said that in undertaking a task of such
imdonbted charity as thai comprised in the three first charges, he
would have encountered no difiicolty from the drunken, dissolute,
impoverished engraver. But the man from the beginning was
canning; and before Graham had succeeded in obtaining the
oustody of the child, the father had obtained a written undertaking
from him that he would marry her at a certain age if her conduct
up to thai age had been becoming. As to this latter stipulation no
doubt had arisen ; and indeed Graham had so acted by her that
had she fallen away the fault would have been all her own. There
wanted now but one year to the coming of that day on which
he was bound to make himself a happy man, and hitherto he
himself had never doubted as to the accomplishment of his under-
taking.

Ho had told his frieuds, — those with whom he was really
intimate, Augustus Staveley and one or two others, — ^what was to
bo his matrimonial lot in life ; and they had ridiculed him for his
quixotic chivalry. Staveley especially had been strong in his
conviction that no snch marriage would ever tako place, and had
already gone so far as to plan another match for his friend.

* Yon know you do not love her,' he had said, since Felix had
boon staying on this occasion at Nuningsby.

' I know no such thing,* Felix had answered, almost in anger.
* On the contrary I know that I do love her.'

* Yes, as I lovo my niece Maria, or old Aunt Bessy, who always
supplied me mth sugar-candy when I was a boy.'

* It is I that have supplied Mary with her sugar-candy, and the
love thus engendered is the stronger.'

' Nevertheless you are not in love with her, and never will be,
and if you marry her you will commit a great sin.'

* How moral you have grown !*

* No, rm not. I*m not a bit moral. But I know very well when
a man is in love with a girl, and I know very well that you're not
in lovo with Mary Snow. And I tell you what, my friend, if you

THE ANGEL OF LIGHT. 259

do many lier yon are done font life. There will absohxtelj be an
end of JOB.'

* Tou mean to say tbat yonr royal higliness will drop me.*

* I mean to say nothing about myself. My drop^g yon or not
dropping you won't alter yonr lot in life. I know veiy well
what a poor man wants to gi^e him a start ; and a fellow like you
who has such quaint ideas on so many things requires all the assist-
ance he can get. You should look out for money and connection.'

* Sophia Fumival, for instance.'

* No ; she would not suit you. I perceive that now.'

* So I supposed. Well, my dear fellow, we shall not come to
loggerheads about that. She is a very fine girl, and you are
welcome to the hatful of money — if you can get it/

* That's nonsense. I'm not blinking of Sophia Fumival any more
than you are. But if I did it would be a proper marriage. Now — '
And then he went on with some farther very sage remarks about
Miss Snow.

AH this was said as Felix Graham was lying with his broken
bones in the comfortable room at Noningsby ; and to tell the truth,
when it was so said his heart was not quite at ease about Mary
Snow. Up to this time, having long since made up his mind that
Mary should be his wife, he had never allowed his thoughts to be
diverted from that purpose. Nor did he so allow them now, — as
long as he could prevent them from wandering.
r But, lying there at Noningsby, thinking of those sweet Christmas
evenings, how was it possible that they should not wander? His
friend had told him that he did not love Mary Snow ; and then, when
alone, ho asked himself whether in truth he did love her. He had
pledged himself to marry her, and he must carry out that pledge.
But nevertheless did he love her? And if not her, did he love
any other ?

Mary Snow knew very well what was to be her destiny, and
indeed had known it for the last two years. She was now nineteen
years old, — and Madeline Staveley was also nineteen ; she was
nineteen, and at twenty she was to become a wife, as by agreement
between Felix Graham and Mr. Snow, the drunken engraver.
They knew their destiny, — the future husband and the future
wife, — and each relied with perfect faith on the good faith and
affection of the other.

Graham, while ho was thus being lectured by Staveley, had
under his pillow a letter from Mary. He wrote to her regularly —
on every Sunday, and on every Tuesday she answered him.
Nothing could bo more becoming than the way she obeyed all
his behests on such matters ; and it really did seem that in his
case the moulded wife would turn out to have been well moulded.
Vilien Staveley left him he again read Maiy's letter. Her letters

s 2

260 OBLET FABM.

wore always of the same length, filling completely the four sides
of a sheet of note paper. They were excellently well written ;
and as no one word in them was ever altered or erased, it was
manifest enough to Felix that the original composition was made on
a rough draft. As he again read through the four sides of the little
sheet of paper, he could not refrain from conjecturing what sort of
a letter Maiieline Staveley might write. Mary Snow's letter ran as
follows : —

* 3 Bloomfield Terrace, Peckham,

•Tuesday, 10 January, 18 — .

• My dearest Felix ' — she had so called him for the last twelve-
month by common consent between Graham and the very discreet
lady under whose charge she at present lived. Previously to that
she had written to him as, My dear Mr. Graham.

* My dearest Felix,

* I am very glad to hear that your arm and your two ribs are
getting so much better. I received your letter yesterday, and was
glad to hear that you are so comfortable in the house of the very
kind people][with whom you are staying. If I knew them I would
send them my respectful remembrances, but as I do not know them
I suppose it would not bo proper. But I remember thom in my
prayers.' — This last assurance was inserted under the express
instruction of Mrs. Thomas, who however did not read Mary's
letters, but occasionally, on some subjects, gave her hints as to
what she ought to say. Nor was there hypocrisy in this, for under
the instruction of her excellent mentor she had prayed for the kind
people. — * I hope you will be well enough to come and pay me a
visit before long, but pray do not come before you are well enough
to do so without giving yourself any pain. I am glad to hear that
you do not mean to go hunting any more, for it seems to mo to be a
dangerous amusement.* And then the first paragraph came to an end.

' My papa called here yesterday. He said he was very badly off
indeed, and so he looked. I did not know what to say at first, but
he asked me so much to give him some money, that I did give him
at last all that I had. It was nineteen shillings and sixpence.
Mrs. Thomas was angry, and told me I had no right to give
away your money, and that I should not have given more than
half a crown. I hope you will not be angry with me. I do not
want any more at present. But indeed he was very bad, especially
about his shoes.

* I do not know that I have any more to say except that I put
back thirty lines of T616maque into French every morning before
breakfast. It never comes near right, but nevertheless M. Grigaud
says it is well done He says that if it came quite right I should

THE ANGEL OP LIGHT. 261

compose Frencli as well as M. Fenelon, which of course I cannot
expect.

* I will now say good-bye, and I am yours most afifectionately,

•Mart SnoW.*

There was nothing in this letter to give any offence to Felix
Graham, and so he acknowledged to himself. He made himself so
acknowledge, because on the first reading of it he had felt that he
was half angry with the writer. It was clear that there was
nothing in the letter which wonld justify censure ; — nothing which
did not, almost, demand praise. He would have been angry with
her had she limited her filial donation to the half-crown which
Mrs. Thomas had thought appropriate. He was obliged to her for
that attention to her French which he had specially enjoined.
Nothing could be more proper than her allusion to the Staveleys ;
— and altogether the letter was just what it ought to be. Never-
theless it made him unhappy and irritated him. Was it well that
he should marry a girl whose father was * indeed very bad, but
especially about his shoes ?' Staveley had told him that connection
would be necessary for him, and what sort of a connection would
this be ? And was there one word in the whole letter that showed
a spark of true love ? Did not the footfall of Madeline Staveley's
step as she passed along the passage go nearer to his heart than all
the outspoken assurance of Mary Snow's letter ?

Nevertheless he had undertaken to do this thing, and ho would
do it, — let the footfall of Madeline Staveley*s step be ever so sweet
in his ear. And then, lying back in his bed, he began to think
whether it would have been as well that he should have broken his
neck instead of his ribs in getting out of Monkton Grange covert.

Mrs. Thomas was a lady who kept a school consisting of three
little girls and Mary Snow. She had in fact not been altogether
successful in the line of life she had chosen for herself, and had
hardly been able to keep her modest door-plate on her door, till
Graham, in search of some home for his bride, then in the first
noviciate of her moulding, had come across her. Her means were
now far from plentifid ; but as an average number of three children
still clung to her, and as Mary Snow's seventy pounds per annum —
to include clothes — were punctually paid, the small house at
Peckham was maintained. Under these circumstances Mary Snow
was somebody in the eyes of Mrs. Thomas, and Felix Graham was
a very great person indeed.

Graham had received his letter on a Wednesday, and on the
following Monday Mary, as usual, received one from him. Those
letters always came to her in the evening, as she was sitting over
her tea with Mrs. Thomas, the three children having been duly
put to bed. Graham's letters were very short, as a man with a

262 oitLxrr fabx.

broken riglit arm B&d two broken ribs is not fltient wrtb bis pen.
But still a word or two did come to ber. * Dearest Mary, I am
dping better and better, and I bope I shall see yon in about a
fortnight* Quite tigbt in giving the money. Stick to the French.
Your own F. G.' But as he signed himself her own, his mind
misgave him that be was lying.

* It is very good of bim to write to you wbile be is in such a
state,' said Mr& Thomas.

* Indeed it is,' said Mary — ^very good indeed.* And then she
went on with the history of ** Hasselas " in his happy valley, by
which study Mrs. Thomas intended to initiate her into that course
of novel-reading which has become necessary for a British la^.
But Mrs. Thomas had a mind to improve the present occasion. It
was her duly to inculcate in her pupil love and gratitude towards
the beneficent man who was doing so much for ber. Gratitude for
iEivours past and love for favours to come ; and now, while that
scrap of a letter wius lyiAg on the table, the occasion for doing so
was opportune^

' Mf^, I do hope you love Mr. Graham with all your heart and
all your strength*' She would have thought it wicked to say
more ; but so far she thought she might go, considering the sacred tie
whicb was to exist between her pupil and the gentleman in question.

* Oh, yes, indeed I do ;' and then Maiy^s eyes fell wisbfully on the
cover of the book which lay in her lap while her finger kept the
place. Basselas is not very exciting, but it was more so than
Mi's. Thomas.

* You would be very wicked if you did not. And I bope you
think sometimes of the very responsible duties which a wife owes
to her husband. And this will be more especially so witbyou than
with any other woman — almost that I ever heard of.'

There was something in this that was almost depressing to
poor Mary's spirit, but nevertheless she endeavoured to bear up
against it and do her duty. ' I shall do all I can to please bim,
Mrs. Thomas ; — and indeed I do try about the French. And he says
I was right to give papa that money.'

* But there will be many more things than that when you've
stood at the altar with him and become his wife ; — bone of his bune,
Mary.' And she spoke these last words in a very solemn tone,
shaking her head, and the solemn tone almost ossified poor Mary's
heart as she heard it.

* Yes ; I know there will. But I shall endeavour to find out
what he likes.'

' I don't think he is so particular about his eating and drinking
as some other gentlemen ; though no doubt he will like his things
nice.'

* I know be is fond of strong tea, and I sha'tft forget that'

THE ANGEL OF LIGHT. 263

* And about dress. He is not very rieh yoa Icnow, Hasy ; hnt it
will make '^™ imliappy if jou are not always tidy. And his own
ahirts— I fjemcy he has no one to look after them now, for 1 00 often
see the buttons off. You should neyer let one of them go into bis
drawers without feeling them all to see that they're an ti^rt.'

* ni remember that,' said Mary, and then she made aBO&er fittta
fortiye attempt to open the book.

' And about your own stockings, Mary. Notlnng is so nsefol 4o
a young woman in your position as a habit of darning neait I'm
sometimes almost afraid that you don't Hke damxBg.'

* Oh, yes I do.' That was a fib ; hut what oould die do, poor
^1, when so pressed ?

* Because I thought you would look at Jane Sohinaoii's and
Julia Wright's which are lying there in ih» iMslcet I did
Bebecca's myself before tea, tiQ my old eyes were sore.'

^ Oh, I didnt know,' said Mary, with some siiglbt offenee in her tone.
* Why didn't you ask me to do them downright if you wanted ?*

* It's only for the practice it will give you.'

* Practice ! I'm always practising something.' Butne'verthelen
she laid down the book, and dragged the badLet of work up on to
the table. 'Why, Mrs. Thomas, it's impossible to mend these;
they're aH dam.'

* Give them to me,' said Mrs. Thomas. And &km. there was
silence between them for a quarter of an hour during which Masy^
thoughts wandered away to the erents oC her Mure life. Would
his stockings be so troublesome as these ?

But Mrs. Thomas was at heart an honest woman, and as a nde
was honest also in practice Her conscience told her that
Mr. Graham might probably not approve of this sort of practice for
conjugal dirties, and in spite of her failing eyes she resolved to do
her duty. * Never mind them, Mary,' said she. * I remember now
that you were doing your own before dhmer.*
^ * Of course I was,' said Mary sulkfly. • And as for practice, I
don't suppose hcUl want me to do more of that than anything else.'

* Well, dear, put them by.' And Miss Snow did put them by,
resuming Bassolas as she did so. "V^lio darned the stockings of
Basselas and felt that the buttons were ti^t on his shirts ? What
a happy valley must it have been if a bride expectant were free
from all such cares as these !

' I suppose, Mary, it will be some time in the spring of next
year.' Mrs. Thomas was not reading, and therefore a little oon-
yersation from time to time was to her a solace.

* What will be, Mrs. Thomas ?

* Why, the marriage.*

* I suppose it will. He told father it riiould be early in 18—,
and I shall be past twenty then.'

2M OBLET

' I wonder wbere jcnll go to lire.'
' I doti*t know. He has nerer eaid an3rflii]ig about thai.'
' I ani^Kwe not ; but Fm sine it will be a loi^ way away from
Peckham.' In answer to this Idiaiy said nothing, bat could not
hdp wishing that it mi^t be so. Peckham to her had not been a
place bri^t with h^^iness, althon^ she had become in so maiked
ft way a child of good fortone. And then, moreoTer, ^he had a deep
cars on her mind with which the streets and honses and pathways
of Peckham were closely connected. It would be Teiy expedient
thai she should go far, far away from Peckham when she had
become, in actual feci, the very wife of Felix Graham.

* Miss Mary/ whispered the red-armed maid of all work, creeping
up to Mary's bedroom door, when they had all retired for the
night, and whispering through the chink. ' Miss Maiy. I've
somethink to say/ And Mary opened the door. ' IVe got a letter
from him :' and the maid of all work absolutely produced a little
note enclosed in a green envelope.

* Sarah, I told you not,' said Mary, looking very stem and
hesitating with her finger whether or no she would take the letter.

* But he did so beg and pray. Besides, miss, as he says hisself
he must have his answer. Any genleman, he says, 'as a right to a
answer. And if you'd a seed him yourself I'm sure you'd have took
it. He did look so nice with a blue and gold hankercher round his
neck. He was a-going to the the-a-tre he said.'

* And who was going with him, Sarah T

' Oh, no one. Only his mamma and sister, and them sort. He's
all right — he is/ And then Mary Snow did take the letter.

* And ni come for the answer when you're settling the room after
breakfast to-morrow T said the girl.

' No ; I don't know. I sha'n't send any answer at all. But,
Sarah, for heaven's sake, do not say a word about it !'

* Who, I ? Laws love you, miss. I wouldn't ; — not for worlds
of gold.' And then Mary was left alone to read a second letter
from a second suitor.

* Angel of light !* it began, * but cold as your own fair name/
Poor Mary thought it was very nice and very sweet, and though
she was so much afraid of it that she almost wished it away, yet she
road it a score of times. Stolen pleasures always are sweet. She
had not cared to read those two lines from her own betrothed lord
above once, or at tho most twice ; and yet they had been written
by a good man, — a man superlatively good to her, and written too
with considerable pain.

She sat down all trembling to think of what she was doing ; and
then, as 8ho thought, she read tho letter again. * Angel of light !
but cold as your own fair name.' Alas, alas I it was very sweet to
her!

CHAPTER XXXrV.

MR. FUBNIYAL LOOKS FOB ASSISTANCE.

' And you think that notliiog can be done down there ?' said Mr.
Fumiyal to his clerk, immediately after the return of Mr. Crabwitz
from Hamworth to London.

' Nothing at all, sir,' said Mr. Crabwitz, with laconic significance.

* Well ; I dare say not. If the matter could have been arranged
at a reasonable cost, without annoyance to my friend Lady Mason,
I should have been glad ; but, on the whole, it will perhaps be
better that the law should take its course. She will su£fer a good
deal, but she will be the safer for it afterwards.'

* Mr. Fumival, I went so far as to offer a thousand pounds !'

* A thousand pounds ! Then they'll think we're afraid of them.'
^Not a bit more than they did before. Though I offered the

money, ho doesn't know the least that the offer came from our side.
But rU tell you what it is, Mr. Fumival — . I suppose I may
speak my mind.'

*0h, yes! But remember this, Crabwitz; Lady Mason is no
more in danger of losing the property than you are. It is a most
vexatious thing, but there can be no doubt as to what the result
will bo.'

' Well, Mr. Fumival, — I don't know.*

' In such matters, I am tolerably well able to form an opinion.'

'Ob, certainly!'

•And that's my opinion. Now I shall be very glad to hear
yours.'

* My opinion is this, Mr. Fumival, that Sir Joseph never made
that codicil.'

* And what makes you think so ?'

' Tlio whole course of the evidence. It's quite clear there was
another deed executed that day, and witnessed by Bolster and
Konneby. Had there been two documents for them to witness, they
would have remembered it so soon after the occurrence.'

' Well, Crabwitz, I differ from you, — differ from you in toto
But keep your opinion to yourself, that's all. I've no doubt you
did the best for us you could down at Hamworth, and I'm much
obliged to you. Youll find we've got our hands quite full again, —

266 OBLEY FABM.

almost too fnlL' Then He turned round to liis table, and to the
papers upon it; whereupon, Crabwitz took the hint, and left the
room.

Bnt when he had gone, Mr. Fnmiyal again raised his eyes from the
papers on the table, and leaning back in his chair, gave himself up to
further consideration of the Orley Farm case. Crabwitz he knew was
a sharp, clever man, and now the opinion formed by Crabwitz, after
having seen this Hamwoitk atteni^, ia^ed with his own opinion.
Tes ; it was his own opinion. He had never said as much, even to
himself, with thoee inwmrd woids which a man uses when he
assures himself of the result of his own thoughts ; but he was aware
that it was his own opinion. In his heart of hearts, he did believe
that that codicil had been fraudulently manufactured by his friend
and client. Lady Mason.

Under these circumstances, what diould he do? He had the
handle of his pen between his teeth, as was his habit when he
was thinking, and tried to bring himself to some permanent resolu-
tion.

How beautiful had she looked while she stood in Sir Peregrine^s
library, leaning on the old man*s arm — ^how beautiful and how
innocent! That was the form which his thoughts chiefly took.
And then she had given him her hand, and he still felt the soft
nlken touch of her cool fingers. He would not be a man if he
could desert a woman in such a strait. And such a woman I If
even guilty, had she not expiated her guilt by deep sorrow ? And
then he thought of Mr. Mason of Groby Park ; and he thought of
Sir Peregrine's strong conviction, and of Judge Staveley's belief;
and he thought also of the strong hold which public opinion and
twenty years of possession would still give to the cause he favoured.
He would still bring her through ! Yes ; in spite of her guilt, if
she were guilty; on the strength of her innocency, if she were
innocent ; but on account of her beauty, and soft hand, and deep
liquid eye. So at least he would have owned, could he have been
honest enough to tell himself the whole truth.

But he must prepare himself for the battle in earnest. It was
not as though he had been briefed in this case, and had merely to
perform the duty for which ho had been hired. He was to under-
take the whole legal management of the affair. He must settle
vrbAt attorney should have the matter in hand, and instruct that
attorney how to reinstruct him, and how to reinstruct those other
banisters who must necessarily be employed on the defence, in a
case of such magnitude. He did not yet know under what form the
attack would be made ; but he was nearly certain that it would be
done in the shape of a criminal charge. He hoped that it might
take the direct form of an accusation of forgeiy. The stronger and
more venomous the charge made, the stronger also would be publio

MB. FUBKIYAL LOOKS FOB ASSISTANCE. 267

opinion in favottr of lihe accused, and the greater the chance of
an acquittal. Bnt if she were to be found gniltj on an j charge, it
iironld matter little on -vih&t. Any such Texdict of guilty would be
ntter ruin and obliteration of her existence.

He must consult with some one, and at last he made up his mind to
go to his Tory old friend, Mr. Chaffanbrass. Mr. Chaffimbrass was
safe, and he might speak ont his mind to him without fear of
damaging the cause. Not that he could bring himself to speak out
his real mind, even to Mr. Cha&nbrass. He would so speak that
Mr. Chaffanbrass should clearly understand him ; but still, not even
to his ears, would be say that he really believed Lady Mason to
have been guilty. How would it be possible that he idiould feign
before a jury his assured, nay, his indignant oonviction of his
clients innocence, if he had ever whispered to any one his oon-
viction of her guilt ?

On that same afternoon he sent to make an appointment witli
Mr. Chaf&nbrass, and immediately after break&st, on the following
morning, had himself taken to that gentleman's chambers. The
chambers of this great guardian of iSie innocence— or rather not-
guiltiness of the public — ^were not in any so-named inn, but con-
sisted of two gloomy, daik, panelled rooms in Ely Place. The
course of our stoiy, however, will not cause us to make many visits
to Ely Place, and any closer description of them may be spared. I
have said that Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Fumival were very old
friends. So they were. They had known each other for more than
thirty years, an^ each knew the whole history of the other's rise
and progress in the profession ; but any results of their friendship
at present were but scanty. They might meet each other in the
streets, perhaps, once in the year; and occasionally — ^but very
seldom — might be brought together on subjects connected with
their profession; as was the case when they travelled together
down to Birmingham. As to meeting in each other's houses, or
coming together for the sake of the friendship which existed, — the
idea of doing so never entered the head of either of them.

All the world knows Mr. Chaffanbrass — either by sight or by
reputation. Those who have been happy enough to see the face
and gait of the man as, in years now gone, he used to lord it at the
Old Bailey, may not have "bought much of the privilege which was
theirs. But to those who have only read of him, and know of his
deeds simply by their triumphs, he was a man very famous and
worthy to be seen. * Look ; that's Chaffanbrass. It was he who

cross-examined at the Old Bailey, and sent him howling out of

London, banished for ever into the wilderness.' • Where, where ?.
Is that Chaffanbrass ? What a dirty little man 1'

To this dirty little man in Ely Place, Mr. Fumival now went in
his difiSculty. Mr. Furmval mig^t fedl himself sufficient to secuxe

268 OBLET FABM.

ibe acquittal of an imiooent pereon, or even of a gnilty person, under
oidinaiy circomstanoes ; but if any man in England conld secure
the acquittal of a gnilty person under extraordinary circumstances, it
would be Mr. Chafianbrass. This had been his special line of work
for the last thirty years.

Mr. Chafianbrass was a dirty little man ; and when seen without
his gown and wig, might at a first glance be thought insignificant.
But he knew well how to hold his own in the world, and could
maintain his opinion, unshaken, agafaist all the judges in the land.
* Well, Fumival, and what can I do for you ?* he said, as soon as the
member for the Essex Marshes was seated opposite to him. * It
isn't often that the light of your countenance shines so fax east as
this. Somebody must be in bt)uble, I suppose V

' Somebody is in trouble,' said Mr. Fumival ; and then he b^an
to tell his story. Mr. Chafianbrass listened almost in silence
throughout. Now and then he asked a question by a word or two,
expressing no opinion whatever as he did so ; but he was satisfied
to leave the talking altogether in the hands of his visitor till the
whole tale was told. * Ah,* he said then, ' a clever woman !'

' An uncommonly sweet creature too,' said Mr. FumivaL

• I dare say,' said Mr. Cha£EjEuibrass ; and then there was a pause.
' And what can I do for you T said Mr. ChafiEanbrass.

' In the first place I should be very glad to have your advice ;
and then — . Of course I must lead in defending her, — unless it
were well that I should put the case altogether in your hands.'

' Oh no ! don't think of that. I couldn't give the time to it My
heart is not in it, as yours is. Where will it be ?'

« At Alston, I suppose.'

*At the Spring assizes. That will be — . Let me see; about
the 10th of March.'

'I should think we might get it postponed till the summer.
Bound is not at all hot about it.'

• Should we gain anything by that ? If a prisoner be innocent
why torment him by delay. He is tolerably sure of escape. If he
be guilty, extension of time only brings out the facts the clearer.
As far as my experience goes, the sooner a man is tried the better,
— always.'

• And you would consent to hold a brief?'

•Under you? Well; yes. I don't mind it at Alston. Any-
thing to oblige an old friend. I never was proud, you know.'

• And what do you think about it, Chafianbrass ?'

• Ah ! that's the question.*

• She must bo pulled through. Twenty years of possession !
Think of that.'

' That's what Mason, the man down in Yorkshire, is thinking of.
There's no doubt of course about that partnership deed ?'

MIL FUBNIYAL LOOKS FOB ASSISTANOE. 269

* I fear not. Bound would not go on with it if that were not all
true.'

' It depends on those two witnesses, Fumival. I remember the
case of old, though it was twenty years ago, and I had nothing to
do with it. I remember thinking that Lady Mason was a Tery
clever woman, and that Kound and Crook were rather slow.'

* Ho*8 a brute ; is that fellow, Mason of Groby Park.'

' A brute ; is he ? We'll get him into the box and make him say
as much for himself. She's uncommonly pretty, isn't she?"

* She is a pretty woman.'

' And interesting ? It will all tell, you know. A widow with
one son, isn't she ?'

*• Yes, and she has done her duty admirably since her husband's
death. You will find too that she has the sympathies of all the best
people in her neighbourhood. She is staying now at the house of
Sir Peregrine Orme, who would do anything for her.'

* Anything, would he ?'

* And the Staveleys know her. The judge is convinced of her
innocence.'

' Is he ? He'll probably have the Home Circuit in the summer.
His conviction expressed from the bench would be more useful to
her. You can make Staveley believe everything in a drawing-room
or over a glass of wine ; but I'll be hanged if I can ever get him to
believe anything when he's on the bench.'

* But, Chaffanbrass, the countenance of such people will be of
great use to her down there. Everybody will know that she's been
staying with Sir Peregrine.'

* IVe no doubt she's a clover woman.'

* But this new ti'ouble has half killed her.'

* I don't wonder at that either. Those sort of troubles do vex
people. A pretty woman like that should have everything smooth ;
shouldn't she ? Well, we'll do the best we can. You'll see that
I'm properly instructed. By-the-by, who is her attorney ? In such
a case as that you couldn't have a better man than old Solomon
Aram. But Solomon Aram is too far east from you, I suppose ?'

* Isn't he a Jew ?'

* Upon my word I don't know. He's an attorney, and that's
enough for me.'

And then the matter was again discussed between them, and it
was agreed that a third counsel would be wanting. ' Felix Graham
is vorj' much interested in the case,' said Mr. Fumival, ' and is as
firmly convinced of her innocence as — as I am.' And he managed
to look his ally in the face and to keep his countenance firmly.

' Ah,' said Mr. Chafianbrass. * But what if he should happen to
change his opinion about his own client ?'

* We coidd prevent that, I think.'

270 OBIiET TAS,yL

* I'm xMt so Bora. And then be'd tlurow her over as sure as jonr
name's Fumival.*

* I haidlj think he'd do that'

*' I believe he*d do anything.' And Mr. Chaffanbrass was quite
moved to enthusiasm. ' I've hettvd that man talk more nonsense
about the profession in one hour, than I ever heard before since I
first put a cotton gown on mj back. He does not understand the
nature of the duty which a professional man owes to his client'

' But he'd work well if he had a case at heart himself. I don't
like him, but he is clever.'

* You can do as you like, of course. I shall be out of my ground
down at Alston, and of course I don't care who takes the &g of the
work. But I tell you this fairly ; — ^if he does go into the case
and then turns against us or drops it, — I shall turn against him and
drop into him.'

* Heaven help him in such a case as that I' And then these two
great luminaries of the law shook hands and parted.

' One thing was quite clear to Mr. Fumival as he had himself
carried in a cab from Ely Place to his own chambers in Lincoln's
Inn. Mr. Chaffanbrass was fully convinced of Lady Mason's guilt.
He had not actually said so, but he had not even troubled himself
to go through the little ceremony of expressing a belief in her inno-
cence. Mr. Fumival was well aware that Mr. ChafRnnbrass would
not on this account be less likely to come out strongly with such
assurances before a jury, or to be less severe in his cross-examination
of a witness whose evidence went to prove that guilt ; but never-
theless the conviction was disheartening. Mr. Chaffanbrass would
know, almost by instinct, whether an accused person was or was
not guilty ; and he had already perceived, by instinct, that Lady
Mason was guilty. Mr. Fumival sighed as he stepped out of his
cab, and again wished that he could wash his hands of the whole
afiBftir. He wished it very much ; — but he knew that his wish could
not be gratified.

' Solomon Aram !' he said to himself, as he again sat down in
his arm-chair. * It will sound badly to those people down at Alston.
At the Old Bailey they don't mind that kind of thing.' And then
he made up his mind that Solomon Aram would not do. It would
be a disgrace to him to take a case out of Solomon Aram's hands.
Mr. Chaffanbrass did not understand all this. Mr. Chaffanbrass
had been dealing with Solomon Arams all his life. Mr. Chaffanbrass
could not see the effect which such an alliance would have on the
character of a barrister holding Mr. Fumival's position. Solomon
Aram was a good man in his way no doubt ; — perhaps ijie best man
going. In taking every do^ge to prevent a conviction no man could
be better than Solomon Aram. All this Mr. Fumival felt ; — but he
felt also that he could not afford it. * It would be tantamount to a

LOVE WAS STILI. THS LOBD OF ALL. 271

oonfeaiion of gnilt io'take sndi a mftn as that down into A0 oountiy,*
he nid to himaelfy trying to excnae himselfl

And then he also made np his mind that he ivotild eonnd Felix
Graham. If Felix Graham could be induced to take «p the case
thoroughly believing in the innocence of his client, no man would
be more useful as a junior. Felix Graham went the Home Cireait
on whifih Alston was one of the assize towns.

CHAPTEB XXXV.

LOTS WAS STILL THS LOBD OF ALL.

Why should I not ? Such had been the question whioh Sir Pere-
grine Orme had asked himself over and over again, in these latter
days, since Lady Mason had been staying at his house ; and the
purport of the question was this : — ^Why should he not make Lady
Mason his wife ?

I and my readers can probably see very many reasons why he
should not do so ; but then we are not in love with Lady Mason.
Her charms and her sorrows, — her soft, sad smile and her more
lovely tears have not operated upon us. We are not chivalrous old
gentlemen, past seventy years of age, but still alive, keenly alive,
to a strong feeling of romance. That visit will perhaps be remem-
bered which Mr. Fumival made at The Cleeve, and the subsequent
interview between Lady Mason and the baronet. On that day he
merely asked himself the question, and took no further step. On
the subsequent day and the day after, it was the same. He still
asked himself the question, sitting alono in his library ; but he did
not ask it as yet of any one else. When he met Lady Mason in
these days his manner to her was full of the deference duo to a lady
and of the affection due to a dear friend ; but that was all. Mrs.
Ormo, seeing this, and cordially concurring in this love for her
guest, followed the lead which her father-in-law gave, and threw
herself into Lady Mason's arms. They two were fast and bosom
friends.

And what did Lady Mason think of all this ? In truth there was
much in it that was sweet to her, but there was something also that
increased that idea of danger which now seemed to envelop her
whole existence. Why. had Sir Peregrine so treated her in the
library, behaving towards her with such tokens of close affection ?
Ho had put his arm roimd her waist and kissed her lips and pressed
her to his old bosom. Why had this been so ? He had assured her
that ho would bo to her as a father, but her woman's instinct had
told her that the pressure of his hand had been warmer than that

272 OHLET FJLBIL

which a fistther acoords to his adopted daughter. No idea of anger
had como upon her for a moment ; but she had thought about it
much, and had thought about it ahnost in dismay. What if the old
man did mean more than a father^s love ? It seemed to her as
though it must be a dream that he should do so ; but what if he
did ? How should she answer him ? In such circumstances what
should she do or say ? Could she afford to buy his firiendahip,—
even his warmest love at the cost of the enmity of so many others?
Would not Mrs. Orme hate her, Mrs. Orme, whom she truly, dearly,
eagerly loved ? Mrs. Orme's affection was, of all personal gratificar
tions, the sweetest to her. And the young heir, — would not he
hate her ? Nay, would he not interfere and with some strong hand
prevent so mean a deed on the part of his grandfather ? And if so,
would she not thus have lost them altogether? And then she
thought of that other friend whose aid would be so indispensable
to her in this dreadful time of tribulation. How would Mr. Pur-
nival receive such tidings, if it should come to pass that such tidings
were to be told ?

Lady Mason was rich with female charms, and she used them
partly with the innocence of the dove, but partly also with the wis-
dom of the serpent. But in such use as she did make of these only
weapons which Providence had given to her, I do not think that she
can be regarded as very culpable. During those long years of her
young widowhood in which nothing had been wanting to her, her
conduct had been free from any hint of reproach. She had been
content to find all her joy in her duties and in her love as a mother.
Now a great necessity for assistance had come upon her. It was
necessary that she should bind men to her cause, men powerful in
the world and able to fight her battle with strong arms. She did so
bind them with the only chains at her command, — but she had no
thought, nay, no suspicion of evil in so doing. It was very painful
to her when she found that she had caused unhappiness to Mrs.
Furnival ; and it caused her pain now, also, when she thought of
Sir Peregrine's new love. She did wish to bind these men to her
by a strong attachment ; but she would have stayed this feeling at
a certain point had it been possible for her so to manage it.

In the mean time Sir Peregrine still asked himself that question.
He had declared to himself when first the idea had come to him,
that none of those whom he loved should be injured. He would
even ask his daughter-in-law's consent, condescending to plead his
cause before her, making her understand his motives, and asking her
acquiescence as a favour. He would be so careful of liis grandson
that this second marriage — if such event did come to pass — should
not put a pound out of his pocket, or at any rate should not hamper
the succession of the estate with a pound of debt. And then ho
made excuses to himself as to the step which he proposed to take,

LOVE WAS STILL THE LORD OF ALL. 273

thinking bow lie would meet his friends, and how he woidd cany
himself before bis old servants.

Old men have made more silly marriages than this which he
then desired. Gentlemen such as Sir Per^rine in age and station
have married their housemaids, — have married young girls of
eighteen jeaxB of age, — have done so and faced their friends and
servants afterwards. The bride that he proposed to himself was a
lady, an old friend, a woman over forty, and one whom by such a
marriage he could greatly assist in her deep sorrow. Why should
he not do it ?

After much of such thoughts as these, extended over nearly a
week, he resolved to speak his mind to Mrs. Orme. If it were to
be done it should be done at once. The incredulous unromantio
readers of this age would hardly believe me if I said that his main
object was to render assistance to Lady Mason in her difi&cully ;
but so he assured himself, and so he believed. This assistance to
be of true service must be given at once ; — and having so resolved
he sent for Mrs. Orme into the library.

' Edith, my darling,' he said, taking her hand and pressing it
between both his own as was often the wont with him in his more
affectionate moods. 'I want to speak to you — on business that
concerns me nearly ; may perhaps concern us all nearly. Can yon
give me half an hour ?

* Of course I can — what is it, sir ? I am a bad hand at business ;
but you know that.*

* Sit down, dear ; there ; sit there, and I will sit here. As to
this business, no one can counsel me as well as you.'

' Dearest father, I should be a poor councillor in anything.*

* Not in this, Edith. It is about Lady Mason that I would speak
to you. We both love her dearly ; do we not ?'

* I do.'

' And are glad to have her here ?'

* Oh, so glad. When this trial is only over, it wiU be so sweet,
to have her for a neighbour. We really know her now. And it
will bo so pleasant to see much of her.*

There was nothing discouraging in this, but still the words in
some slight degree grated against Sir Peregrine's feelings. At the
present moment he did not wish to think of Lady Mason as living at
Orley Farm, and would have preferred that his daughter-in-law
should have spoken of her as being there, at The Cleove.

' Yes ; we know her now,' he said. ' And believe me in this,.
Edith; no knowledge obtained of a friend in happiness is at all
equal to that which is obtained in sorrow. Had Lady Mason been
prosperous, had she never become subject to the malice and avarice
of wicked people, I should never have loved her as I do love her.'

* Kor should I, father.'

vo^ I. T

274 OBLB¥ FABU.

* She is a cruelly ill-used woman, and a woman worthy of ihe
kindest usage. I am an old man now, but it has never before
been my lot to be so anxious for a fellow-ereature as I am for her.
It is dreadful, to think that innooenoe in this- ocmntry should be
fflibject to snoh attacks.'

' Indeed it is ; but you do not think that there is any danger?'

This'waa all very well, and showed that Mrs* Orme*s mind was

well disposed towards the woman whom he loved« But he had

known that before, and he began to feel that he was not approaching

the object which he bad in view. '■ Edith,' at last ho said abruptiy,

* I love her with my whole heart. I would' fain make her — my wife.'
Sir Peregrine Orme had never in hia cosroe through life failed in
aonyihing for laok of oourage ; and when the idea- came home to
him. that he waa trembling at the task which he had imposed on
himself, he dashed at it at onoe. It is so thai forkmrhopeaare ledV
aoid become not forlorn ; it is so. that breaohes are taken.

' Tour wife I' sud Mrs. Orme. She would not' have breathed a
syllable to pain him if she could have helped it, but the suddenneaa
of the announcement overcame her for a moment.

' Yes, Edith, my wife; Let^ ua- disenss. the matter before yon
•condemn it. But in the first place I would have yon to understand,
this — I will not marry her if yo« say that it will make yon unhappy.
I have not spoken to her as yet, and she knowa nothing of thia
project.' Sir Peregrine, it may be preaamed,. had not himself
thought much of that kiss which he had given^ her. * You,' he
oontinucd to say, * have given up your v^le life to me. You are
my angel. If this thing will make you. unhappy it shall not be
done.'

Sir Peregrine had not so considered it» but with such a woman a&
Mrs. Orme this was, of course, the surest way to overcome oppo*
sition. On her own behalf, thinking only of herself, she would
stand in the way of nothing that could add to Sir Peregrine's
happiness. But nevertheless the idea was strong in her mind that
such a marriage would be imprudent. Sir Peregrine at preecnt
stood high before the world. Would he stand so high if he did this
thing ? His gray hair and old manly bearing were honoured and
revered by all who knew him. Would this still be so if he made
himself the husband of Lady Mason?' She loved so deaiiy, ake
valued so highly the honour that was paid to himJ She was so
proud of her own boy in that he was the grandson of so perfect a-
gentleman ! Woxdd not this be a sad ending to such a career ?
Such wei*e the thoughts which ran through, her mind at thet
moment.

' Make me unhappy !' she said getting up foid going over< to him..

* It is your happineaa of which Lwonld. think. ^Vdll it make yom
more happy ?'

LOYE WAS STILL THX LOBD OF ALL. 275

* It will enable me to befriend her more^ effectually.'

''But, dearest father, you must be the firet consideration to us,*—
to me and Peregrine. Will it make you more happy f

* I think it will,' he answered slowly.

* Then I, for one, will say nothing i^ainsi it/ she answered.
She was very weak, it will be said. Yes, she was weak. Many of
the sweetest, kindest, best of women are weak in this way. It is
not every woman that can bring herself to say hard useful, wise
words in opposition to the follies of those they love best. A
woman to be usef^il and wise no doubt lE^iould have such power.
For myself I am not so sure ^at I like useflil and wise women.
* Then I for one will say nothing against it,' said Mrs. Orme,
deficient in utility, wanting in wisdom, but f^iU of the sweetest
affection.

* You are sure tliat you will not love her the less yourself?* saiff
Sir Peregrine.

*' Yes ; I am sure of that If it were to be so, I should endeavour
to love her the more.'

' Dearest Edith. I have only one other person to telL'
' Do you mean Peregrine ?' she said in her softest voice.

* Yes. Of course he must be told. But as it would not be well
to ask his consent, — as I have asked yours — ' and then as he said
this she kissed his brow.

* But you will let him know it P

* Yes ; that is if she accepts my proposition. Then he shall
know it immediately. And, Edith, my dear, you may be sure of
this ; nothing that I do shall be allowed in any way to injure his
prospects or to hamper him as regards money when I am gone. If
this marriage takes place I cannot do very much for her in the way
of money ; she will imderstand that. Something I can of course.'

And then Mrs. Orme stood over the fire, looking at tho hot coals,
and thinking what Lady Mason's answer would be. She esteemed
Lady Mason very highly, regarding her as a woman sensible and
conscientious at all x)oints, and she felt by no means certain that
the offer would be accepted. What if Lady Mason should say that
such an arrangement woxdd not be possible for her. Mrs. Orme
felt that under such circumstances she at any rate would not
withdraw her love from Lady Mason.

' And now I may as well speak to her at once,' said Sir Peregrine.
• Is she in the drawing-room ?*

* I left her there.'

* Will you ask her to come to me — ^with my love ?'

* I had better not say anything I suppose ?'

Sir roregrine in his heart of hearts wished that his daughter-in-
law could say it all, but he would not give her such a commission.
•No ; perhaps not.' And then Mrs. Orme was going to leave him.

T ^

276 OBLEY FABM.

* One word more, Edith. Yon and I, darling, bave known each
other ao long and loved eaoh other so well, that I should be nn-
happy if I were to fall in your estimation.'

* There is no fear of that, father.'

* Will you believe me when I assure you that my great object in
doing this is to befriend a good and worthy woman whom I regard
as ill used — beyond all ill usage of which I have hitherto known
anything ?

She then assured him that she did so believe, and she assured him
truly ; after that she left him and went away to send in Lady Mason
for her interview. In the mean time Sir Peregrine got up and stood
with his back to the fire. Ho would have been glad that the
ooming scene could be over, and yet I should be wronging him to
say that he was afraid of it. There would be a pleasure to him in
telling her that he loved her so dearly and trusted her with such
absolute confidence. There would be a sort of pleasure to him
in speaking even of her sorrow, and in repeating his assurance
that he would fight the battle for her with all the means at his
command. And perhaps also there would be some pleasure in the
downcast look of her eye, as she accepted the tender of his love.
Something of that pleasure he had known already. And then ho
remembered the other alternative. It was quite upon the cards
that she should decline his offer. Ho did not by any means shut
his eyes to that. Did she do so, his friendship should by no means
be withdrawn from her. He would be very carefal from the onset
that she should understand so much as that. And then he heard
the light footsteps in the hall ; the gentle hand was raised to the
door, and Lady Mason was standing in the room.

' Dear Lady Mason,' he said, meeting her half way across the
room, * it is very kind of you to come to me when I send for you in
this way.'

* It would be my duty to come to you, if it were half across the
kingdom ; — and my pleasure also.'

' Would it ?' said ho, looking into her face with all the wishful-
ness of a young lover. From that moment she knew what was
coming. Strange as was the destiny which was to be offered to
her at this period of her life, yet she foresaw clearly that the offer
was to bo made. What she did not foresee, what she could not
foretell, was the answer which she might make to it !

' It would certainly be my sweetest pleasure to send for you if
you were away from us, — ^to send for you or to follow you,' said he.

* I do not know how to make return for all your kind regard to
me ; — to you and to dear Mrs. Orme.'

* Call hor Edith, will you not? You did so call her once.'

* I call her so often when we are alone together, now ; and yet 1
feel that I have no right.*

LOVE WAS STILL THE LORD OP ALL. 277

* You have every right. You shall have every right if you will
accept it. Lady Mason, I am an old man, — some would say a very
old man. But I am not too old to love you. Can you accept the
love of an old man like me ?'

Lady Mason was, as we are aware, not taken in the least by suiprise ;
but it was quite necessary that she should seem to be so taken. This
is a little artifice which is excusable in almost any lady at such a
period. * Sir Peregrine,' she said, * you do not mean more than the
love of a most valued friend ?*

' Yes, much more. I mean the love of a husband for his wife ;
of a wife for her husband.'

* Sir Peregrine I Ah me ! You have not thought of this, my
friend. You have not remembered the position in which I am
placed. Dearest, dearest friend ; dearest of all friends/ — and then
she knelt before him, leaning on his knees, as he sat in his
accustomed large arm-chair. 'It may not be so. Think of the sorrow
that would come to you and yours, if my enemies should prevail.'

* By they shaU not prevail !* swore Sir Peregrine, roundly;

and as he swore the oath he put his two hands upon her shoulders.

'No; wo will hope not. I should die here at your feet if I
thought that they could prevail. But I should die twenty deaths
were I to drag you with me into disgrace. There will be disgrace
even in standing at that bar.'

* Who will dare to say so, when I shaU stand there with you ?
said Sir Peregrine.

There was a feeling expressed in his face as he spoke these words,
which made it glorious, and bright, and beautiful. She, with her
eyes laden with tears, could not see it ; but nevertheless, she knew
that it was bright and beautiful. And his voice was full of hot
eager assurance, — that assurance which had the power to convey
itself from one breast to another. Would it not be so ? If he stood
there with her as her husband and lord, would it not be the case
that no one would dare to impute disgrace to her ?

And yet she did not wish it Even yet, thinking of all this as
she did think of it, according to the truth of the argument which
he himself put before her, she would still have preferred that it
should not be so. If she only knew with what words to tell him
so ; — to tell him so and yet give no offence ! For herself, she woidd
have married him willingly. Why should she not? Nay, she
could and would have loved him, and been to him a wife, such as
ho could have found in no other woman. But she said within her
heart that she owed him kindness and gratitude — that she owed
them all kindness, and that it would be bad to repay them in such
a way as this. She also thought of Sir Peregrine's gray hairs, and
of his proud standing in the county, and the respect in which men
held him. Would it be well in her to drag him down in his last

Ji78 OBLEY FARM.

tdajB from the noble pedestal on whicli he stood, and repaj' him
thus for all that he was doing for her?

* Well,* said he, stroking her soft hair with his hands — the hair
which appeared in front of the quiet prim cap she wore, * shall it
be so ? Will you give me the right to stand there with you and
defend you against the tongues of wicked men ? We each have om*
own weakness, and we also have each our own strength. There I
may boast that I should be strong.'

She thought again for a moment or two without rising from her
knees, and also without speaking. Would such strength suffice?
And if it did suffice, would it then be well with him ? As for her-
self, she did love him. If she had not loved him before, she loved
him now. Who had ever l)een to her so noble, so loving, so
gracious as he? In her ears no young lover *s vows had ever
sounded. In'her heart such love as all the world knows had never
l>een known. Her former husband had been kind to her in his
way, and she Tiad done her duty by him carefully, painfully, and
with full acceptance of bier position. But there had been nothing
there that was bright, and grand, and noble. 'She would have
.served Sir Peregrine on her knees in the smallest offices, and
delighted in sucli services. It was not for lack of love that she
must refuse him. But still she did not answer him, and still lie
stroked her hair.

* It would be better that you had never seen me,' at last she
said ; and she spoke with truth the thought of her mind. That
she must do his bidding, whatever that bidding might be, she had
in a certain way acknowledged to herself. If "he would have it so,
so it must be. How could she refuse him anything, or be dis-
obedient in aught to one to whom she owed so much ? But still
it would be wiser otherwise; wiser for all — unless it were for
herself alone. ' It would be better that you had never seen me^'
she said.

• Nay, not so, dearest. That it would not be better for me, — for
me and Edith I am quite sure. And I would fain hope that for
you '

' Oh, Sir Peregrine ! you know what I mean. You know how
1 value your kindness. What should I be if it were withdrawn
£rom me ?'

• It shall not be withdrawn. Do not let that feeling actuate 3"ou.
Answer me out of your heart, and however your heart may answer,
remember this, that my friendship and support shall bo the same.
If you will take me for your husband, as your husband will I stand
by you. If you cannot, — then I will stand by you as your father.'

What could she say? A word or two she did speak as to
Mrs. Onne and her feelings, delaying her absolute reply — and as to
Peregrine Orme and his prospects ; but on both, as on all other

LOVE WAS STILL THE LOBD OF ALL. 279

points, the bazonet was armed with his answer. He had spoken to
his darling Edith, and she had gladly given her consent To her
it would be everj^thingto have so sweet a £riend. And then as to
his heir, every oare should be tahen that no injury should be done
to him ; and speaking of this, Sir Peregrine began to say a Saw
words, plaintively, about money. But then Lady llason 'Stopped
him. ' No,' she said, ' she eould not, and would not, listen to that.
She would have no settlement. Ko consideration as to money
should bo. made to weigh with her. It was in no degree for that

' And then she wept there till she would have fallen had he

not supported her.

What more is there to be told. Of course she aceepted him. As
far as I can see into such afiairs no alternative was allowed to her.
She also was not a wise woman at all points. She was one whose
feelings wore sometimes too many for her, and whoee feeHngs on
this occasion had been much too many for her. Had she been able
to throw aside from her his offer, she would have done -so ; but she
had felt that she was not able. ' If you wish it. Sir Peregrine,*
she said at last.

' And can you love on old man?* he had asked. Old men some-
times will ask questions suoh as these. She did not answer hiu,
but stood by his side; and then again he kissed her, and was
happy.

Ho resolved from that moment that Lady Mason should no longer
be regarded as the widow of a cit}^ knight, bat as the wife elect of
a country baronet Whatever ridicule he might incur in this
matter, ho would inour at once. Men and women had dared to
speak of her cruelly, and they should now learn that any such future
speech would be spoken of one who was ezclusivoly his property.
Lot any who chose to be speakers under such circumstances look
to it. He had devoted himself to her that he might be her knight
and bear her scathless through the fury of this battle. With God's
help ho would put on his armour at once for that fight Let them
who would now injure her look to it. As soon as might bo she
should bear his name : but all the world should know at once what
was her right to claim his protection. He had never been a
coward, and he would not now be guilty of tho cowardice of hiding his
intentions. If there were those who chose to fimile at the old man's
fancy, let them smile. There would be many, he knew, who
would not understand an old man's honour and an old man's
chivalry.

* My own one,' ho then said, pressing her again to his side, * will
you tell Edith, or shall I? She expects it' But Lady ISIason
begged tliat he would tell the tale. It >vas necessary, she ^aid, that
she should be alone for a while. And then, escaping, she went to
her o^^'n chamber.

280 OBLEY FABM.

* A«V Mrs, Onno if she will kindly step to me/ said Sir Peregrine,
having rang his bell for the servant.

Lady Mason escaped across the hall to the stairs, and succeeded
in reaching her room without being seen by any one. Then she sat
herself down, and began to look her future world in the face. Two
questions she had to ask. Would it be well for her that this
marriage should take place ? and would it be well for him ? In an
off-hand way she had already answered both questions ; but she
had done so by feeling rather than by thought. x

No doubt she would gain much in the coming struggle by such a
position as Sir Peregrine would give her. It did seem to her that
Mr. Dockwrath and Joseph Mason would hardly dare to bring such
a charge as that threatened against the wife of Sir Peregrine Orme.
And then, too, what evidence as to character would be so sub-
stantial as the evidence of such a marriage? But how would
Mr. Fumival bear it, and if he were offended would it be possible
that the fight should be fought without him? No; that would
be impossible. The lawyer's knowledge, experience, and skill
were as necessaiy to her as the baronet's position and character.
But why should Mr. Fumival be offended by such a marriage?
' She did not know,' she said to herself. ' She could not see that
there should be cause of offence.' But yet somo inner whisper
of her conscience told her that there would be offence. Must
Mr. Fumival be told ; and must he be told at once ?

And then what would Lucius say and think, and how should she
answer the strong words which her son would use to her? He
would use strong words she knew, and would greatly dislike this
second marriage of his mother. What grown-up son is ever pleased
to hear that his mother is about to marry ? The Cleeve must be
her home now — that is, if she did this deed. The Cleeve must be
her home, and she must be separated in all things from Orley
Farm. As she thought of this her mind went back, and back to
those long gone days in which she had been racked with anxiety
that 'Orley Farm should be the inheritance of the little baby that
was lying at her feet. She remembered how she had pleaded to
the father, pointing out the rights of her son — declaring, and with
justice, that for herself she had asked for nothing ; but that for him
— instead of asking might she not demand ? Was not that other
son provided for, and those grown-up women with their rich
husbands? * Is ho not your child as well as they?' she had
pleaded. * Is he not your own, and as well worthy of your love ?*
She had succeeded in getting the inheritance for the baby at her
feet ; — ^but had his having it made her happy, or him ? Tlion her
child had been aU in all to her ; but now she felt that that child
was half estranged from her about this very property, and would
become wholly estranged by the method she was taking to secure

WHAT THE YOUNO MEN THOUGHT AB0T7T IT. 281

it! 'I liave toiled for liim,' she said to herself, 'rising up earlj,
and going to bed late; but the thief cometh in the night and
despoileth it.' Who can gaess the bitterness of her thoughts as she
said this?

But her last thoughts, as she sat there thinking, were^ of him —
Sir Peregrine. Would it be well for him that he should do this ?
And in thus considering she did not turn her mind chiefly to the
usual view in which such a marriage would be regarded. Men
might call Sir Peregrine an old fool and laugh at him ; but for that
she would, with Qod's help, make him amends. In those matters,
he could judge for himself; and should he judge it right thus to link
his life to hers, she would be true and leal to him in all things.

But then, about this trial. If there came disgrace and ruin, and
an utter overthrow? K— — ? Would it not be well at any rate
that no marriage should take place till that had been decided ? She
could not find it in her heart to bring down his old gray hairs with
utter sorrow to the grave.

CHAPTEB XXXVL

WHAT THE YOUNG MEN THOUGHT ABOUT IT.

Lucius Mason at this time was living at home at Orley Farm, not
by any means in a happy frame of mind. It will be perhaps remem-
bered that he had at one time had an interview with Mr. Fumival
in that lawyer's chambers, which was by no means consoling to him,
seeing that Mr. Fumival had pooh-poohed him and his pretensions
in a very oflf-hand way ; and he had since paid a very memorable
visit to Mr. Dockwrath in which he had hardly been more success-
ful. Nevertheless, he had gone to another lawyer. He had felt it
impossible to remain tranquil, pursuing the ordinary avocations of
his life, while such dreadful charges were being made openly
again his mother, and being so made without any authorized con-
tradiction. He knew that she was innocent. No doubt on that
matter ever perplexed his mind for a moment. But why was she
such a coward that she would not allow him to protect her innocence
in the only way which the law permitted? He could hardly
believe that he had no power of doing so even without her sanction ;
and therefore he went to another lawyer.

The other lawyer did him no good. It was not practicable that
he, the son, should bring an action for defamatory character on the
part of the mother, without that mother's sanction. Moreover, as
this new lawyer saw in a moment, any such interference on the part
of Lucius, and any interposition of fresh and new legal proceedings

JOiOLBS ITABIC.

•woiild*cngple and inipecle tke Jidvisers to whom Lady Mason had
herself confided iiorown case. The new lawyer could do nothing,
and thus Lucius, Jig^ain repukod, betook himself to Orley Farm in
no happy frame of mind.

Por some day or .two after this he did not see his mother. He
would Jiot go down to The Cleere, though they sent up and asked
him; and she was almost afiaid to go across to the house and visit
him. * He will be in church on Simday,' she had tuiid to Mrs. Orme.
But he was not in church on Sunday, and then on Sunday after-
noon she did go to him. This, it will be understood, was before
fiir Peregrine had made his offer, and therefore as to that, there was
as yet no embarraaonent on the widow's jnind.

* I cannot help feelix^, mother,' he said, after she had sat there
with him for a short ^ime* *.that for the present there is a divL^iion
between ^ou and me.'

'Oh, Ludas !'

* It is no use our denying it to ourselves. It is so. You are in
trouble, and you will not listen to my advice. You leave my house
and take to the roof of anew and an untried friend.'

* No, Lucius ; not that.'

* Yes. I say a new -friend. Twelve months ago, though yon
might call there, you never did more than that — and even that but
seldom. They are new Iriends ; and yet, now that you are in trouble,
you choose to live with them.'

' Dear Lucius, is 'there any reason why I should not visit at The
Cleeve ?'

* Yes ; if yon ask «me — yes ;' and now ho spoke very sternly.

* There is a cloud upon you, and you should know nothing of visit-

ings and of new friendships till that cloud has been dispersed.

While these things are being said of you, you should set at no other

table than this, and drink of no man's cup but mine. I know your

innocence,' and as he went on to speak, he stood up before her and

k>oked donpm folly into her face, * but others do not. I know how

imworthy are these falsehoods with which wicked men strive to

tsmsh you, but others believe that they are true accusations. They

fcannot bo disregarded, and now it seems, — now that you have

JBllowed them to gather to a head, they will result ^n a trial,

during 'whidh yon ^11 have to stand at the bar chained with a

dreadful crime.'

* Oh, Lucius !' and she hid her eyes in her hands. ' I could not
have helped it. How could I have helped it T

'• Well ; it must be so now. And till that trial is over, hero should
lie your place. Here, at my right hand ; I am he who am bound to
-stand by you. It is I "Whose duty it is to see that your name be
made white again, though I spend all I have, ay, and my life in
•doing it. I wok Hie one onan on whose arm yon have a right to

WHAT THE YOUKO MEN 5DH0UGHT ABOUT IT. 263

lean. And yet, in snoh da^ as ikoae, yon Jfiave my iiouso and go
io that of a Btranger.'

' He is not a stranger, Lnciue.'

' He cannot be to yon as a son slionld be. .However, it is for yon
to judge. I have no control in this matter, bat 1 think it right that
yon shoidd know what are my thoughts.'

And then she had orept back again to The Cleeva. Xet Lucins
^flay what he might, let this additional sorrow bo ever so bitter, she
could not obey her son's behests. If she did so in one thing she
must do so in all. She had diosen her adviseis with her best dis-
cretion, and by that choice she must abide — even though it sepa-
rated her from her son. She could not abandon Sir Peregrine Orxne
land Mr. Fumival. So she crept back and told all this to Mrs. Orme.
Her heart would have utterly sunk within her could she not have
ispoken openly to some one of this sorrow.

* But he loves you,' Mrs. Orme had said, comforting her. '.It is
not that he does not love you,'

' But he is so stem to me.' And then Mrs. Orme had kissed hei;,
and promised that none should be stem to her, there, in that house.
On i^e morning after this Sir Peregrine had made lus offer, and then
she felt that the division between her and her boy would be wider
than ever. And all this had come of that inheritance which she
had demanded so eagerly for her child.

And now Lucius was sitting alone in his Toom at Orley Fann,
having, for the present, given up all idea of attempting anything
himself by jneans of the law. He had made his way into Mr. Dock-
wrath's office, and had there insulted the attorney in the presence
of witnesses. His hope now was that the attorney might bring an
action against him. If that were done ho would thus have the
means of bringing out all the facts of the case before a jury and a
judge. II was fixed in his mind that if ho could once drag that
reptile before a public tribunal, and with loud voice declare the
wrong that was being done, all might be well. The public would
nndei-stand and would speak out, and the reptile would be scorned
and trodden under foot. Poor Lucius ! It is not always so easy to
catch public sympathy, and it will occur sometimes that the wrong
reptile is crushed by the great public heel.

He had his books before him as he sat there — his Latham and his
Pritchard, and he had the jawbone of one savage and the skull of
another. His Liverpool bills for unadidterated guano were lying
on the table, and a philosophical German treatise on agriculture
which he had resolved to study. It became a man, he eaid to him-
self, to do a man*8 work in spite of any sorrow. But, nevertheless,
as he sat there, his studies were but of little service to him. How
many men have declared to themselves the same thing, but have
failed when the trial came ! Who can command the temper and the

284 ORLEY FARM.

mind? At ten I will strike the lyre and begin my poem. Bnt at
ten tlie poetic spirit is under a dark cloud — because the water for
the tea had not boiled when it was brought in at nine. And so the
lyre remains imstricken.

And Lucius found that he could not strike his lyre. For days he
had sat there and no good note had been produced. And then he
had walked over his land, having a farming man at his heels, think-
ing that he could turn his mind to the actual and practical working
of his land. But little good had come of that either. It was
January, and the land was sloppy and half frozen. There was no
usefal work to be done on it. And then what farmer Greenwood
had once said of him was true enough, * The young maister*s spry
and active surely ; but he can't let unself down to stable doong and
the loik o' that/ He had some grand idea of farming— a conviction
that the agricultural world in general was very backward, and that
he would set it right. Even now in his sorrow, as he walked
through his splashy, frozen fields, he was tormented by a desire to
do something, he knew not what, that might be great.

He had no such success on the present occasion and returned
disconsolate to the house. This happened about noon on the day
after that on which Sir Peregrine had declared himself. He
returned as I have said to the house, and there at the kitchen door
he met a little girl whom he knew well as belonging to The Cleeve.
She was a favourite of Mrs. Ormo's, was educated and clothed by
her, and ran on her messages. Now she had brought a letter up to
Lucius from his mother. Curtsying low she so told him, and he at
once went into the sitting-room where he found it lying on his
table. His hand was nervous as he opened it ; but if he could have
seen how tremulous had been the hand that wrote it ! The letter
was as follows : —

• Dearest Lucius,

* I know you will be very much surprised at what I am going
to tell you, but I hope you will not judge me harshly. If I know
myself at all I would take no step of any kind for my own advantage
which could possibly injure you. At the present moment we unfor-
tunately do not agree about a subject which is troubling us both,
and I cannot therefore consult you as I should otherwise have done.
I trust that by God's mercy these troubles may come to an end, and
that there may be no further differences between you and me.

' Sir Peregrine Orme has made me an offer of marriage and 1 have

accepted it ' Lucius Mason when he had read so far threw

down the letter upon the table, and rising suddenly from his chair
walked rapidly up and down the room. ' Marry him !' he said out
loud, * marry him !' The idea that their fathers and mothers should
marry and enjoy themselves is always a thing horrible to be

WHAT THE YOUNG MEN THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 285

thought of in the minds of the rising generation. Lncins Mason
now began to feel gainst his mother the same sort of anger which
Joseph Mason had felt when his father had married again. ' Many
him !' And then he walked rapidly about the room, as though some
great injury had been threatfltoied to him.

And so it had, in his estimation. Was it not her position in life
to be his mother ? Had she not had her young days ? But it did
not occur to him to think what those young days had been. And
this then was the meaning of her receding from his advice and from
his roof! She had been preparing for herself in the world new
hopes, a new home, and a new ambition. And she had so prevailed
upon the old man that he was about to do this foolish thing I Then
again he walked up and down the room, injuring his mother much
in his thoughts. He gave her credit for none of those circumstances
which had truly actuated her in accepting the hand which Sir
Peregrine had offered her. In that matter touching the Orley
Farm estate he could acquit his mother instantly, — ^with acclama-
tion. But in this other matter he had pronounced her guilty before
she had been allowed to plead. Then he took up the letter and
finished it.

^ Sir Peregrine Orme has made me an offer of marriage and I
have accepted it. It is very difficult to explain in a letter all the
causes that have induced me to do so. The first perhaps is this,
that I feel myself so bound to him by love and gratitude, that I
think it my duty to fall in with all his wishes. He has pointed out
to me that as my husband he can do more for me than would be
possible for him without that name. I have explained to him that
I would rather perish than that ho should sacrifice himself; but he
is pleased to say that it is no sacrifice. At any rate he so wishes it,
and as Mrs. Orme has cordially assented, I feel myself bound to fall
in with liis views. It was only yesterday that Sir Peregrine made
his offer. I mention this that you may know that I have lost no
time in telling you.

* Dearest Lucius, believe that I shall be as ever

* Your most affectionate mother,

' Mary Mason,'

* The little girl will wait for an answer if she finds that you are
at the farm.'

* No/ ho said to himself, still walking about the room. * She can
never bo to me the same mother that she was. I would have sacri-
ficed everything for her. She should have been the mistress of my
house, at any rate till she herself should have wished it otherwise.

But now ' And then his mind turned away suddenly to Sophia

Fumival.

I cannot myself but think that had that affair of the trial been set

286 QBLBY KASK.

ai rest Lady Mascot/wouid huve been piudant to look for anotfaer
home. The fact that Orley FarnL was. Ida house and not hers
occurred almost too frequently to Lnoms Maison^; and I am not
certain that it would have been altogether oomfortable as a perma*
nent residence for his mother after he ^ould have brought home to
it some such bride as her he now proposed to himselE

It was necessary that he should writo an. answer to his mother,
which ho did at onceu.

•* Orky Farm, — January.

* Dear Mothiss^

' It is I fear too Itoto for me to offer any counsel on the subject
o£ your letter I oannot say that I think you are right,

* Your affectionate son,

• Lucius Mason/

And then, having filnidied this, he again walked the room. * It is
all up between me and her,' he said, ' as real fiiends in life and
hearts She shall still have the respect of a son, and I shall have
the regard of a. mother- But how can I trim my course to suit the
welfare of the wife of Sir Peregrine Orme ?* And then he lashed
himself into anger at the idea that his mother should have looked
for other solaoo than that which he could have given.

Nothing more from The Cleeve reaohed him that day ; but early on
the follo^^ing morning he had a visitor whom he certainly had not
expected. Before he sat down to his breakfast he heard the sound
of a horse's feet before the door, and immediately after>vards Pere-
grine Orme entered the sitting-room. Ho was duly shown in by
the servant, and in his ordinary way came forward quickly and
shook hands. Then he waited till the door was closed, and at once
began upon the subject which had brought him there,

* Masun, he said, ^ you have heard of tliis that is being done at
The Cleeve ?

Lucius immediately fell back a step or two, and considei^d for a
moment how he should answer. He had pressed v^ry heavily on
his mother in his own thoughts, but he was not prepared to hear
her harshly spoken of by another.

* Yes,' said he, * I have heard.'

' And I understand from your mother that you do not approve
of it.'

' Approve of it ! No ; I do not approve of it.'

* Nor by heavens do I!'

' I do not approve of it,' said Mason, speaking with deliberation ;

* but I do not know that»I can take any stepa toin^rds preventing it.'

' Cannot you see her, and talk to her, and tell her how wrong
it is ?•

* Wrong! I do not. know that sbe is wiving in that sense. I do

WHAT THE YOUNa MEN THOUBHT ABOUT IT. 28T

not know iiiat yon hare any rig^ to bBime her. WBy do not you
speckk to your grandfather T

' So I have— as far as it was possible for me. But yon do not
know Sir Peregrine. No one has any influence over him, but my
mother ; — and now also your mother.'

* And what does Mrs. Orme say?*

' She will say nothing. I know well that she disapproves of it.
She must disapprove of it, though she will not say so. She would'
rather bum off both her hands than displease my grand&ther. She
says that he asked her and that she consented.'

' It seems to me that it is for her and you to pievcnt this.'

* No ; it is for your mother to prevent it. Only think of it,
Mason. He is over seventy, and, as he says himself, he will not
burden the estate with a new jointure. Why diould she do it ?'

' You are wronging her there. It is no aflair of monoy. She is
not going to marry him for what she can get.'

* Then why should she do it V

' Because he tells her. These troubles about the liawsnit have
turned her head, and she has put herself entirely into his hands.
I think she is wrong. I could have protected her from all thi9
evil, and would have done so. I could have done more, I think,
than Sir Peregrine can do. But she has thought otherwise, and I
do not know that I can help it'

* But will you speak to her ? Will make her perceive that she is
injuring a family that is treating her with kindness ?'

* If she will come here I will speak to her. I cannot do it there.
I cannot go down to your grandfather's house with such an object as
that;

* All the world will turn against her if she marries him,' said
Peregrine. And then there was silence between them for a moment
or two.

* It seems to me,' said Lucius at last, * that you wrong my mother
very much in this matter, and lay all the blame where but the
smallest part of the blame is deserved. She has no idea of money
in her mind, or any thought of pecuniary advantage. She is moved
solely by what your grandfather has said to her, — and by an insane
dread of some coming evil which she thinks may be lessened by his
assistance. You are in the house with them, and can speak to him,
— and if you please to her also. I do not see that I can do either.'

' And you will not help me to break it off?'

* Certainly, — if I can see my way.'

* Will you write to her T

* Well ; I will think about it.'

' Whether she be to blame or not it must be your duty as well as
mine to prevent such a marriage if it be possible, lliink what
people will say of it ?'

288 OBLET FABM.

After some farther discnssion Peregrine remounted his horse, and
rode back to The Cleeve, not quite satisfied with young Mason.

' If you do speak to her, — ^to my mother, do it gently.' Those
were the last words whispered by Lucius as Peregrine Orme had
his foot in the stirrup.

Toung Peregrine Orme, as he rode home, felt that the world was
usiDg him very unkindly. Everything was going wrong with him,
and an idea entered his head that he might as well go and look for
Sir John Franklin at the North Polo, or join some energetic tra-
veller in the middle of Central A£rica. He had proposed to
Madeline Staveley and had been refused. That in itself caused a
load to lie on his heart which was almost unendurable ; — and now
his grandfather was going to disgrace himself. He had made his
little effort to be respectable and discreet, devoting himself to the
county himt and county drawing-rooms, giving up the pleasures of
London and the glories of dissipation. And for what ?

Then Peregrine began to argue within ^himself as some others
have done before him —

* Were it not better done as others use * he said to himself, in

that or other language ; and as he rode slowly into the courtyard of
The Cleeve, he thought almost with regret of his old friend Carroty
Bob.

E'eitgTiiic'i EioquEtiM.

CHAPTER XXXVn.

pereobine's eloquence.

In the last oliapter Peregrine Mason called at Orley Farm with the
view of discussing with Lucius Mason the conduct of their respeo-
tive progenitors ; and, as will be remembered, the young men
agreed in a general way that their progenitors were about to make
fools of themselves. Poor Peregrine, however, had other troubles
on his mind. Not only had his grand&ther been successful in love,
but he had been unsuccessful. As he had journeyed home from
Noningsby to The Cleeve in a high-wheeled vehicle which he
called his trap, he had determined, being then in a frame of mind
somewhat softer than was usual with him, to tell all his troubles to
his mother. It sounds as though it were lack-erdaisical — such
a resolve as this on the part of a dashing young man, who had
been given to the pursuit of rats, and was now a leader among the
sons of Nimrod in the pursuit of foxes. Young men of the present
day, when got up for the eyes of the world, look and talk as though
they (jould never tell their mothers anything, — as though they were
harder than flint, and as little in want of a woman's counsel and a
woman's help as a colonel of horse on the morning of a battle. But
tlie rigid virility of his outward accoutrements does in no way alter
the man of flesh and blood who wears them ; the young hero, so
stern to the eye, is, I believe, as often tempted by stress of senti-
ment to lay bare the sorrow of his heart as is his sister. On this
occasion Peregrine said to himself that he would lay bare the sor-
row of his heart. He would find out what others thought of that
marriage which he had proposed to himself; and then, if his
mother encouraged him, and his grandfather approved, he would
make another attack, beginning on the side of the judge, or perhaps
on that of Lady Staveley.

But he foimd that others, as well as he, were labouring under a
stress of sentiment ; and when about to tell his own talc, he had
learned that a tale was to be told to him. He had. dined with Lady
Mason, his mother, and his grandfather, and the dinner had been
very silent. Three of the party were in love, and the fourth was
burdened with the telling of the tale. The baronet himself said
nothing on the subject as he and his grandson sat over their wine ;

vou I. n

290 ORLEY FARM.

but later in the evening Peregrine was summoned to his mother's
room, and she, with considerable hesitation and much difiSdence»
informed him of the coming nuptials.

* Marry Lady Mason !' he had said.

* Yes, Peregrine. W'hy should he not do so if they both wish
it?'

Peregrine thought that there were many causes and impediments
sufficiently just why no such marriage should take place, but he
had not his arguments ready at his fingers* ends. He was so
stunned by the intelligence that he could say but little about it
on that occasion. By the few words that he did say, and by the
darkness of his countenance, he showed plainly enough that he
disapproved. And then his mother said all that she could in the
baronet's favour, pointing out that in a peconiaiy way Peregrine
would receive benefit rather than injury.

* Fm not thinking of the money, mother.'

* No, my dear ; but it is right that I should tell yon how con-
siderate your grandfather is.'

* All the same, I wish be would not marry this woman.'

' Woman, Peregrine ! You should not speak in that way of a
fiiend whom I dearly love.'

* She is a woman all t^e same.' And then he sat sulkily, looking
at the fire. His own stress of sentiment did not admit of free dis-
cussion at the present moment, and was necessarily postponed. On
that other affair he was told that his grandfather would be glad to
see him on the following morning ; and then he left his mother.

'Your grandfather. Peregrine, asked for my assent,* said Mrs.
Orme ; * and I thought it right to give it.* This she said to make
him understand that it was no longer in her power to oppose the
match. And she was thoroughly glad that this was so, for she
would have lacked the courage to oppose Sir Peregrine in any-
thing.

On the next morning Peregrine saw his grandfather before
breakfast. His mother came to his room door while he was dress-
ing to whisper a word of caution to him. * Pray, be courteous to
him,* she said. ' Remember how good he is to you — ^to us both I
Say that you congratulate him.'

* But I don*t,' said Peregrine.

* Ah, but, Peregrine '

* 111 tell you what 1*11 do, mother. Pll leave the house alto-
gether and go away, if you wish it.*

* Oh, Peregrine! How can you speak in that way? But he's
waiting now. Pray, pray, be kind in your manner to him.*

He descended with the same sort of feeling which had oppressed
him on his return home after his encounter with Carroty Bob in
Smithfield. Since then he had 1 ecu ou enduring good terms with

febeqbine's eloquence. 291

his grandfather, bat now again all the disoomforts of war were im-
minent.

* Good morning, sir/ he said, on going into his grand&ther's
drossing-ioom.

' Good morning, Peregrine.' And then there was silence for a
moment or two.

' Did you see your mother last night ?*

* Yes ; I did see her.'

* And she told you what it is that I propose to^lo?*

* Yes, sir ; she told me.'

' I hope you understand, my boy, that it will not in any way
affect your own interests ix^uriously.'

' I don't care about that, sir— ono way or the other.'

* But I do, Peregrine. Having seen to that I think that I have
a right to please myself in this matter.'

* Oh, yes, sir ; I know you have the right.'

* Especially as I can benefit others. Are yon aware that your
mother has cordially given her consent to the marriage ?'

* She told me that you had asked her, and that she had agreed to
it. She would agree to anything.'

* Peregrine, that is not the way in which you should speak of
your mother.'

And then the young man stood silent, as though there was
nothing more to be said. Indeed, he had nothing more to say. He
(lid not dare to bring forward in words all the arguments against
the marriage which were now crowding themselves into his memory,
but he could not induce himself to wish the old man joy, or to say
any of those civil things which are customary on such occasions.
The baronet sat for a while, silent also, and a cloud of anger was
coming across his brow; but he checked that before ho spoke.
* Well, my boy,' he said, and his voice was almost more than
usually kind, * I con understand your thoughts, and we will say
nothing of them at present. All I will ask of you is to treat Lady
!Mason in a manner befitting the position in which I intend to place
her.'

* If you think it will be more comfortable, sir, I will leave The
Cleeve for a time.'

* I hope that may not be necessary — Why should it ? Or at any-
rate, not as yet,' he added, as a thought as to his wedding day
o<:curred to him. And then the interview was over, and in ouothcr
half-hour they met again at breakfast.

In the breakfast-room Lady Mason was also present. Peregrine
was the last to enter, and as he did so his grandfather was already
standing in his usual place, with the book of Prayers in his hand,
waiting that the servants should arrange themselves at their chairs
before he knelt down. There was no time then for much greeting,

292 OBLEY FABM.

but Peregrine did elhake hands with her as he stept across to his
acoostonied comer. He shook hands with her, and felt that her
hand was very cold ; but he did not look at her, nor did he hear
any answer given to his few muttered words. When they all
got up she remained close to Mrs. Orme, as though she might thus
be protected from the anger which she feared from Sir Peregrine's
other friends. And at breakfast also she sat close to her, far
away from the baronet, and almost hidden by the urn from his
grandson. Sitting there she said nothing ; neither in truth did she
eat anything. It was a time of great suffering to her, for she knew
that her coming could not be welcomed by the young heir. • It
must not be,' she said to herself over and over again. * Though he
turn me out of the house, I must tell him that it cannot be so.'

After breakfast Peregrine had ridden over to Orley Farm, and there
held his consultation with the other heir. On his returning to The
Cleeve, he did not go into the house, but having given up his horse
to a groom, wandered away among the woods. Lucius Mason had sug-
gested that he. Peregrine Orme, should himself speak to Lady Mason
on this matter. He felt that his grandfather would be very angiy,
should he do so. But he did not regard that much. He had filled
himself full with the theory of his duties, and he would act up to
it. He would see her, without telling any one what was his pur-
pose, and put it to her whether she would bring down this destruc-
tion on so noble a gentleman. Having thus resolved, he returned to
the house, when it was already dark, and making his way into the
drawing-room, sat himself down before the fire, still thinking of his
plan. The room was dark, as such rooms are dark for the last hour
or two before dinner in January, and he sat himself in an arm-chair
before the fire, intending to sit there till it would be necessary that
he should go to dress. It was an unaccustomed thing with him so
to place himself at such a time, or to remain in the drawing-room
at all till he came down for a few minutes before dinner ; but he
did so now, having been thrown out of his usual habits by the cares
upon his mind. He had been so seated about a quarter of an
hour, and was already nearly asleep, when he heard the rustle of a
woman's garment, and looking round, with such light as the fire
gave him, perceived that Lady Mason was in the room. She had
entered very quietly, and was making her way in the dark to a
chair which she frequently occupied, between the fire and one of
the windows, and in doing so she passed so near Peregrine as to
touch him with her dress.

' Lady Mason,' he said, speaking, in the first place, in order that
she might know that she was not alone, ' it is almost dark ; shall I
ring for candles for you ?'

She started at hearing his voice, begged his pardon for disturbing
him, declined his offer of light, and declared that she was going up

PEBEGBINE*S ELOQUENCE. 2U3

again to lier own room immediately. But it occnrred to him that
if it would be well that he should speak to her, it would be well that
he should do so at once ; and what opportunity could be more fitting
than the present ? ' If you are not in a hurry about anything,' he
said, ' would you mind staying here for a few minutes ?'

* Oh no, certainly not.' But he could perceive that her voice
trembled in uttering even these few words.

' I think I*d better light a candle,' he said ; and then he did light
one of those which stood on the comer of the mantelpiece, — a
solitaiy candle, which only seemed to make the gloom of the large
room visible. She, however, was standing close to it, and would
have much preferred that the room should have been left to its
darkness.

' Won't you sit down for a few minutes?' and then she sat down.
' 111 just shut the door, if you don't mind.' And then, having done
so, he returned to his own chair and i^in faced the fire. He saw
that she was pale and nervous, and he did not like to look at her
as he spoke. He began to reflect also that they might probably
be interrupted by his mother, and he wished that they could
adjourn to some other room. That, however, seemed to be im-
possible ; so he summoned up all his courage, and began his task.

' I hope you won't think me imcivil, Lady Mason, for speaking
to you about this affair.'

' Oh no, Mr. Orme ; I am sure that you will not be uncivil to
me.'

* Of course I cannot help feeling a great concern in it, for it's
very nearly the same, you know, as if he were my father. Indeed,
if you come to that, it's almost worse ; and I can assure you it is
nothing about money that I mind. Many fellows in my place
would be afraid about that, but I don't care twopence what he does
in that respect. He is so honest and so noble-hearted, that I am
sure he won't do me a wrong.'

* I hope not, Mr. Orme ; and certainly not in respect to me.'

* I only mention it for fear you should misunderstand me. But
there are other reasons, Lady Mason, why this marriage will make
me — make me very unhappy.'

' Are there ? I shall be so unhappy if I make others unhappy.'

* You will then, — I can assure you of that. It is not only me,

but your own son. I was up with him to-day, and he thinks of it

the same as I do.'

' What did he say, Mr. Orme ?'

* AVhat did he say? Well, I don't exactly remember his words ;
but he made me understand that your marriage with Sir Peregrine
would make him very unhappy. He did indeed. Why do you not
see him youi-self, and talk to him ?'

' I thought it best to write to him in the first place.'

294 OBLET fabm:

* Well, now jovL have written ; and don't jon think it wonM be
well that jon should go np and see him ? Yon will find that he is
quite as strong against it as I am,— qnite/

Peregrine, had he known it, was nsing the argoments which were
of all the least likely to induce Lady Mason to pay a visit to Orley
Farm. She dreaded the idea of a quarrel with her son, and wonld
have made almost any sacrifice to prevent snch a misforttme ; bnt at
the present moment she feared the anger of his words almost more
than the anger implied by his absence. If this trial conld be got
over, she wonld return to bim and almost throw herself at his feet ;
bat till that time, might it not be well that they should be apart ?
At any rate, these tidings of his discontent conld not be efficacious
in inducing her to seek him.

' Dear Lucius !' she said, not addressing herself to her companion,
but speaking her thoughts. ' I would not willingly give him cause
to be discontented with me.'

* He is, then, veiy discontented. I can assure you of that.'

* Yes ; he and I think differently about all this.'

' Ah, but don't you think you had better speak to him before you
quite make up your mind ? He is your son, you know ; and an
imcommon deyer fellow too. Hell know how to say all this much
better than I do.'

* Say what, Mr. Orme ?'

* Why, of course you can't expect that anybody will like such a
marriage an this ; — that is, anybody except you and Sir Peregrine.'

* Your mother does not object to it.'

* My mother I But you don't know my mother yet. She would
not object to have her head cut off if anybody wanted it that she
cared about. I do not know how it has all been managed, but I
suppose Sir Peregrine asked her. Then of course she would not
object. But look at the common sense of it, Lady Mason. What
does the world always say when an old man like my grandfather
marries a young woman ?'

•But I am not .' So far she got, and then she stopped

herself.

* Wo have all liked you very much. Fm sure I have for one ;
and 111 go in for you, heart and soul, in this shameful law business.
When Lucius asked me, I didn't think anything of going to that
scoundrel in Hamworth ; and all along I've been delighted that Sir
Peregrine took it up. By heavens! I*d be glad to go down to
Yorkshire myself, and walk into that fellow that wants to do you
this injury. I would indeed ; and 111 stand by you as strong as
anybody. But, Lady Mason, when it comes to one's grandfather

marrj'ing, it it it . Think what people in the county

will say of him. If it was your father, and if he had been at the
top of the tree all his life, how would you like to see him get a fall.

PEB£GBINE*8 ELOOUENCE. 295

and be laughed at as though he were im the mod just whan he waa
too old ever to get xip again T

I am not anre whether Lucius Mason, with all his olevemess,
could haTe put tiie matter much better, or have used a style of
oratory more efl&cacious to the end in view. Peregrine had drawn
his picture with a coarse pencil, but he had drawn it strongly, and
with graphic effect. And then he paused; not with self-con-
fidence, or as giving his companion time to see how great had been
his art, but in want of words, and somewhat confused by the
stiwigth of his own thoughts. So he got up and poked the fiiie»
turned his back to it, and then sat down again. 'It is such a deuoe
of a thing, Lady Mason,' he said, ' that you most not be angry with
me for speaking out.'

* Oh, Mr. Orme, I am not angry, and I do not know what to say
to you.*

* Why don't you speak to Lucius ?'

* What could he say more than you have said ? Dear Mr. Orme,
I would not injure him, — ^your grandfiither, I mean, — for all that
the world holds.'

* You will injure him ; — ^in the eyes of all his friends.'

* Then I vnll not do it. I will go to ham, and b^ him tiiat it
may not be so. I will tell him that I eaanot. Anything will be
better than bringing him to sorrow or dii^graoe.'

\By JoTo ! but will yoa really ? Peregrine was startled and
almost frightened at the effect of his own eloquence. What would
the baronet say when he leaiiied that he had been talked out of his
wife by his grandson ?

* Mr. Oime,' continued Lady Mason, • I am sure you do not under-
stand how this matter has been brought about. K you did, however
much it might grieve you, you would not blame me, even in your
thoughts. From the first to the last my only desire has been to
obey your grandfather in eveiything.'

' But you would not marry him out of obedience ?*

* I would — and did so intend. I would, certainly ; if in doing so
I did him no injury. You say that your mother would give her life
for him. So would I; — that or anything else that I could give,
without hurting him or others. It was not I that sought for this
marriage ; nor did I think of it. If you were in my place, Mr.
Orme, you would know how difficult it is to refuse.'

Peregrine again got up, and standing with his back to the fire,
thought over it all again. His soft heart almost relented towards
the woman who had borne his rough words with so much patient
kindness. Had Sir Peregrine been there then, and could he have
condescended so far, he might have won his grandson's consent
without much trouble. Peregrine, like some other generals, liad
expended liis energy in gaining his vietory, and was more ready

296 OBUBT

Wfw to oome to' eMj tenm Umi lie wofold haTe been bad be
nffiBred in tbc oombet.

* Well/ be Mid after a wbile, ' Pm rare Fm Teiy modi obliged
to joa for tbe maimer in wbicb joa bave taken wbat I said to jon.
Nobod J known about it jet, I mppoee ; and peibapa, if joa will
tdk to the goremor '

* I will talk to bim, Mr. Orme.'

*Tbank yon ; and tben perbape' all tbinga may tnm ont rigbt.
ini go and dreffi now/ And so saying be took bis departnie,
tearing ber to consider bow best sbe mi^t act at tbis crisis of ber
life, so tbat things mi^t go rigbt, if soch were possible. The
more sbe thought of it, the less possible it seemed tbat ber
abonld be made to go right.

CHAPTER XXXVm.

OH, indeed!

The dinner on that day at The Cleeve was not very dnll. Peregrine
bad some hopes that the idea of the marriage might be abandoned,
and was at any rate mnch better disposed towards Lady Mason
than he had been. He spoke to her, asking her whether she had
been out, and suggesting roast mutton or some such creature
comfort. This was lost neither on Sir Peregrine nor on Mrs.
Orme, and they both exerted themselves to say a few words in a
more cheery tone than had been cnstomary in the house for the last
day or two. Lady Mason herself did not say mnch ; but she had
snfficient tact to see the effort which was being made ; and though
sbe spoke but little she smiled and accepted graciously the courtesies
tbat were tendered to her.

Then the two ladies went away, and Peregrine was again left
with his grandfather. * That was a nasty accident that Graham
bad going out of Monkton Grange/ said he, speaking on the mo-
ment of bis closing the dining-room door after his mother. ' I
snppose you heard all about it, sir?* Having fought his battle so
well before dinner, he was determined to give some little rest to his
half- vanquished enemy.

* The first tidings we beard were that be was dead,' said Sir Pere-
grine, filling his glass.

• No ; he wasn't dead. But of course you know that now. He
broke an arm and two ribs, and got rather a bad squeeze. He was
just behind me, you know, and I had to wait for him. I lost the
mn, and had to see Harriet Tristram go away with the best lead any
one has had to a fitst thing this year. That's an uncommon nasty
plaoe at the baok of Monkton Grange.'

OH, IKDSSD I 297

* I hope. Peregrine, yoa dant think too mnoh aboat Haniet
TriBtram.*

* Think of her I who? I? Think of her in what sort of a ingr?
I think ehe goes imoommonly well to hounds/

* That may be, bat I ahonld not wiah to aee yon pin your happi-
ness on any lady that was celebrated ohiefly for going well to

hounds.'

* Do you mean marry herf and Peregrine immediately made ft
strong comparison in his mind between Hiss Tristram and Madeline
Stavdey.

* Tea ; that's what I did mean.'

* I wouldn't have her if she owned erexy fiix-oover in the county.
No, by Jove! I know a trick worth two of thai It^s jolly enon^
to see them going, but as to being in love with them — ^in that soyt
of way — *

* You are quite right, my bqy ; quite right. It is not that that a
man wants in a wife.'

* No,' said Peregrine, with a melancholy oadenoe in his voice,
thinking of what it was that he did want And so they sat sipping
their wine. The turn which the conversation had taken had for the
moment nearly put Lady Mason out of the young man's head.

* Tou would be very young to many yet,' said the baronet.

* Yes, I should be young ; but I don't know that there is any
harm in that'

' Quite the contrary, if a young man feels himself to be sufficiently
settled. Your mother I know would be very glad that you should
marry early ; — and so should I, if you married well.'

What on earth could all this moan? It could not be that his
grandfather knew that he was in love with Miss Staveley ; and had
this been known his grandfather would not have talked of Harriet
Tristram. ' Oh yes ; of course a fellow should marry welL I don't
think much of marrying for money.'

* Nor do I, Peregrine ; — I think very little of it.*

* Nor about being of very high birth.'

*• Well ; it would make me unhappy — ^vexy unhappy if yon were
to marry below your own rank.'

* What do you call my own rank ?'

' I mean any girl whose &ther is not a gentleman, and whose
mother is not a lady; and of whose education among ladies yon
could not feel certain.'

' I could be quite certain about her,' said Peregrine, veiy inno-
cently.

* Her ! what her ?'

* Oh, I forgot that we were talking about nobody.*

* You don't mean Harriet Tristram ?'

* No, certainly not'

296 OBLET FASK.

' Of whom were yon thinking, Peregrine? May I ask — if it be
not too close a secret ?' And then again there was a pause, dnrii^
which Peregrine emptied his ghun and filled it again. He had no
objection to talk to his grand&ther abont Miss Starelej, but he
felt ashamed of haiing allowed the matter to escape him in this sort
of way. * I will tell you why I ask, my boy,' continued the baronet.
* I am going to do that which many people will call a veiy foolish
thing.'

« You mean about Lady Mason.'

* Yes ; I mean my own marriage with Lady Mason. We will not
talk about that just at present, and I only mention it to explain
that before I do so, I shall settle the property permanently. If you
were married I should at once divide it with you. I should like to
keep the old house myself, till I die ^

* Oh, sir r

* But sooner than give you cause of offence I would give that up.'

* I woxdd not consent to live in it unless I did so as your guest.'

* Until your marriage I think of settliug on you a thousand a
year ; — but it would add to my happiness if I thought it likely that
you would marry soon. Now may I ask of whom were you thinking V

Peregrine paused for a second or two before he made any reply,
and then he brought it out boldly. * I was thinking of Madeline
Staveley.'

* Then, my boy, you were thinking of the prettiest giil «tnd the
best-bred lady in the county. Here's her health;' and he filled
for himself a* bumper of claret. * You couldn't have named a woman
whom I should be more proud to see you bring home. And your
mother's opinion of her is the same as mine. I happen to know
that ;' and with a look of triumph he drank his glass of wine, as
though much that was very joyful to him had been already settled.

* Yes,' said Peregrine mournfully, • she is a vorj' nice girl ; at
least I think so.'

* The man who can win her. Peregrine, may consider himself to
be a lucky fellow. You were quite right in what you were saying
about money. No man feels more sure of that than I do. But if I
am not mistaken Miss Staveley will have something of her own. I
rather think that Arbuthnot got ten thousand pounds.'

* I'm sure I don't know, sir,' said Peregrine ; and his voice was
by no means ds much elated as that of his grandfather.

* I think he did ; or if he didn't get it all, the remainder is settled
on him. And the judge is not a man to behave better to one child
than to another.'

* I suppose not.'

And then the conversation fiagged a little, for the enthusiasm was
all one side. It was moreover on that side which naturally would
have been the least enthusiastic. Poor Peregrine had only told

es, mnoEDt 299

half Yob secret ae yet,, sad that not tbe moet importmt halL To
Sir Feregxine ^e tidingi, as fw m lie had hsaid tbam, wsre Taij
pleasant "Bb did sot s^r to himself that he would pnrdiaae his
grandson'B assent to his own marriage hj gi:Ting his oonsent to tarn
grandson's marriage. But it did seem, to him {hat the two a&v%
acting upon eadi other, migjht both he made to cam smooth* His
heir could have made no bettor dunce in selecting the ladj of hie
lore. Sir Peregrine had feared mnoh that Bome Miss lU^xam or
the like might have been tendered to him as the fntim Lady Onn%
and he was agreeably smprised to find that a new mistxess £» The
Cleeve had been so well diosen. He woald be all kindness to hia
grandson and win from him, if it might be possiUe, zecipiocal
courtesy and oomplaisancfi. * Tour mother will he Tory pleased
when fihe heais tids,' he said.

* I meant to tell my mother/ said Peregrine, still -wegj dolefnUyv
* but I do not know that there is anything in it to plMise her. I
only said that I— I admired Miss Staveley.'

* My dear boy, if yonfll take my adrice yoiAl propose to her al
once. Touhaire been atnyiag in the same house with her, and —*>'

< But I haTo.'
« Have what ?*

* I have proposed to her/
•WeU?'

* And she has reftisedme. Yea know all shout it now, and therens
no such great canse fin* joy/

* Oh, you have proposed to her. Have yon q^okea to her h&et
or mother?'

^ What was tixa use when she told me plainly that she did not
care for me ? Of course I should have asked her fiither. As to Lady
Staveley, she and I got on uncommonly welL I'm almost inclined
to think that she would not have objected.'

* It would be a very nice match for them, and I dare say she
would not have objected.' And then lor some ten minutes they sat
looking at the fire. Peregrine had nothing more to say about it,
and tho baronet was thinking how best he might encourage his
grandson.

*' You must try again, you know/ at last he said.

' Well ; I fear not I do not think it would be any good. I'm
not quite sure she does not care for some one eke ?'

'Who is he?'

' Oh, a fellow thaf s there. The man who broke his arm. I don't
say sho does, you know, and of course you won't mention it.'

Sir Peregrine gave the necessary promises, and then endeavoured
to give encouragement to the lover. He would himself see the
judge, if it were thought expedient, and explain what liberal settle-
m^t would be made on the lady in the event of her altering her

800 OBLEY FABM.

mind. * Yoting ladies, you know, are very prone to alter their
minds on such matters,' said the old man. In answer to which
Peregrine declared his conviction that Madeline Staveley would not
alter her mind. Bnt then do not all despondent lovers hold that
opinion of their own mistresses ?

Sir Peregrine had been a great gainer by what had occurred, and
so he felt it At any rate all the novelty of the question of his own
marriage was over, as between him and Peregrine ; and then he had
acquired a means of being gracious which must almost disarm his
grandson of all power of criticism. When he, an old man, was
ready to do so much to forward the views of a young man, could it
be possible that the yoimg man should oppose his wishes? And
Peregrine was aware that his power of opposition was thus lessened.

In the evening nothing remarkable occurred between them.
Each had his or her own plans ; but these plans could not be fur-
thered by anything to be said in a general assembly. Lady Mason
had already told to Mrs. Orme all that had passed in the drawing-
room before dinner, and Sir Peregrine had determined that he would
consult Mrs. Orme as to that matter regarding Miss Staveley. He
did not think much of her refusal. Young ladies always do refuse
— at first.

On the day but one following this there came another visit from
Mr. Fumival, and he was for a long time closeted with Sir Pere-
grine. Matthew Hound had, he said, been with him, and had felt
himself obliged in the performance of his duty to submit a case
to counsel on behalf of his client Joseph Mason. He had not as yet
received the written opinion of Sir Hichard Leatheram, to whom he
had applied ; but nevertheless, as he wished to give every possible
notice, he had called to say that his firm were of opinion that an
action must be brought either for forgery or for perjury.

* For perjury !* Mr. Fumival had said.

* Well ; yes. We would wish to be as little harsh as possible.
But if we convict her of having sworn falsely when she gave
evidence as to having copied the codicil herself, and having seen
it witnessed by the pretended witnesses; — why in that case c^
course the property would go back.'

' I can't give any opinion as to what might be the result in such
a case,' said Mr. Fumival.

Mr. Bound had gone on to say that he thought it improbable
that the action could be tried before the summer assizes.

* The sooner the better as &r as we are concerned,' said Mr. Fur-
nival.

* If you really mean that, I will see that there shall be no un-
necessary delay.' Mr. Fumival had declared that he did really
mean it, and so the interview had ended.

Mr. Fumival had really meant it, fully ooncurring in the opinion

OH, ihdjeudI 801

ivbiob Mr. CluiflanbraM had ezpreflsed on this omtter; but nereiv
iheless the inoreosiiig mgencj of the case hid almost made him
tremble. He still oarried himself with a hraTe outside befbze
Mat Bound, piotesting as to the utter absurdity as well as cruelty
of the whole prooeeding ; but his oonsoienoe told him that it was
not absurd. * Peijuiy t* he said to himself, and then he rang the
bell for Crabwitz. The upshot of that interview was that Mr. Orab-
witz received a commission to arrange a meeting between that
great barrister, the member for the Essex Manhes, and Mr. Solomon
Aram.

* Won't it look rather, rather — ^rather — ; yon know what I mean,
sirf Crabwitz had asked.

*We must fight these people with their own weapons,' said
Mr. Fumival ; — ^not exactly with justice, seeing that Messrs. Bound
and Crook were not at all of the same calibre in the proiSdssion as
Mr. Solomon Aram.

Mr. Fumival had already at this time seen Mr. Slow, of the
firm of Slow and Bideawhile, who were Sir Per^rine's solicitors.
This he had done chiefly that he might be able to tell Sir Peregrine
that he had seen him. Mr. Slow had declared that the case was
one which his firm wonld not be prepared to conduct, and he
named a firm to which he should recommend his client to apply.
But Mr. Fumival, careftilly considering Ihe whole matter, had
resolved to take the advice and benefit by the experience of
Mr. Chaffanbrass.

And then he went down once more to The Cleeve. Poor
Mr. Fumival ! In these days he was dreadfully buffeted about both
as regards his outer man and his inner conscience by this un-
fortunate case, giving up to it time that would otherwise have
turned itself into heaps of gold ; giving up domestic conscience —
for Mrs. Fumival was still hot in her anger against poor Lady
Mason ; and giving up also much peace of mind, for he felt that
he was soiling his hands by dirty work. But he thought of the
lady's pale sweet face, of her tear-laden eye, of her soft beseeching
tones, and gentle touch; he thought of these things — as he should
not have thought of them ; — and he persevered.

On this occasion he was closeted with Sir Peregrine for a couple
of hours, and each heard much from the other that surprised him
very much. Sir Peregrine, when he was told that Mr. Solomon
Arson from Bucklersbury, and Mr. Chafianbrass from the Old
Bailey, were to be retained for the defence of his future wife, drew
himself up and said that he conld hardly approve of it. The
gentlemen named were no doubt very clever in criminal concerns ;
he could understand as much as that, though he had not had great
opportunity of looking into affidra of ihtkt sort. But surely, in
Lady Mason's case, assistance of snob a deaoription would hardly

302 QBLEX FABIL

be needed. Would it not be better to consult Messis. Slow and
Bideawhile ?

And then it tamed out that Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile had
been consnlted; and Mr. Fumival, not altogether successfully,
endeavoured to throw dust into the baronet's eyes, declaring that
in a combat with the devil one must use the devil's weapons. He
assured Sir Peregrine that he had given the matter his most matured
and indeed most painful professional consideration; there were
unfortunate circumstances which required peculiar care; it was
a matter which would depend entirely on the evidence of one or
two persons who might be suborned ; and in such a case it would
be well to trust to those who knew how to break down and crush
a lying witness. In such work as that Slow and Bideawhile
would be innocent and ignorant as babea. As to breaking down
and crushing a witness anxious to speak the truth, Mr. Furnival
at that time said nothing.

' I will not think that falsehood and fraud can prevail/ said
Sir Peregrine proudly.

' But they do prevail sometimes,' said Mr. Furnival. And then
with much outer dignity of demeanour, but with some shame-faced
tremblings of the inner man hidden under the guise of that outer
dignity, Sir Peregrine informed the lawyer of his great purpose.

•Indeed!' said Mr. Furnival, throwing himself back into his
chair with a start.

*Ye8, Mr. Furnival. I should not have taken the liberty to
trouble you with a matter so private in its nature, but for your
close professional intimacy and great friendship with Lady Mason.'

• 0\ indeed !' said Mr. Furnival ; and the baronet could under-
stand from the lawyer's tone that even he did not approve.

CHAPTEE XXXIX.

WHY SHOULD HE 60?

* I AM well aware, Mr. Staveley, that you are one of those gentle-
men who amuse themselves by frequently saying such things to
girls. I had learned your character in that respect before I had
been in the house two days.'

• Then, Miss Furnival, you learned what was very false. May
I ask who has blackened me in this way in your estimation?'/ It
will be easily seen fr-om this that Mr. Augustus Staveley and Miss
Furnival were at the present moment alone together in one of the
rooms at Noningsby.

• My informant,* she replied, . * has been no one especial sinner
whom you can take by the throat and punish. Indeed, if you

WBY BHaULD HE GO ? 803

•

must shoot anybody, it ahoxild be chiefly yoarael^ and after that
your father, and mother, and BisterGu But yon need not talk of
being black. Snch Bms are venial now-a-days^ and convey nothing
de^er than a light shade of brown.'

* I regard a man who can act in snch a way tm very base.'

* Such a way as what, Mr. Staveley ?'

* A man who can win a girl's heart for his own amusement.'

* I said nothing about the winning of hearts. That is treachery
cxf the worst dye ; but I acquit yon of any such attempt. When
there is a question of the winning of hearts men look so different.'

'I don't know how they look,' said Augustas, not altogether
satisfied as to the manner in which he was being treated — *biit
such has been my audacity, — my too great audacity on the present
occasion.'

^ You are the most audacious of men, for your audacity would
carry you to the feet of another lady to-morrow without the slightett
check/

* And that is the only answer I am to receive from you?'

* It is quite answer enough. What would you have me do ?
Get up and decline the honour of being Mrs. Augustas Staveley
with a curtsy ?*

* No — I would have you do nothing of the kind. I would have
you get up and accept the honour, — ^with a kiss.'

' So that you might have the kiss, and ' I might have the — ; I
was going to say disapiKnntment, only that would be untrue. Let
me assure you that 1 am not so demonstrative in my tokens of
regard.*

' I wander whether you mean that you are not so honest ?'

* Kg, Mr. Staveley ; I mean nothing of the kind ; and you are
very impertinent to express such a supposition. What have I done
or said to make you suppose that I have lost my heart to you ?

* As you have mine, it is at any rate human nature in me to hope
that I might have yours.'

' Psha ! your heart I You have been making a shuttlecock of
it till it is doubtful whether you have not banged it to pieces. I
know two ladies who carry in their caps two feathers out of it. It
is so easy to see when a man is in love. They all go cross-gartered
like Malvolio; — cross-gartered in their looks and words and
doings.'

' And there is no touch of all this in me ?'

* You cross-gartered ! You have never got so far yet as a lack-a-
daisical twist to the comer of your mouth. Did you watch
Mr. Orme before ho went away ?'

* Why ; was ho cross-gartered ?*

* But you men have no eyes ; you never see anything. And
your idea of love-making is to sit xmder a tree wishing, wondering

904 OBUET FABM.

wliether the ripe fniit will fistU down into your mouth. Bipe fruit
does sometimes £eJl, and then it is all well with you. But if it
won't, you pass on and say that it is sour. As for climbing — *

* The fruit generally feills too £sist to admit of such exercise/ said
Staveley, who did not choose that all the sharp things should be
said on the other side.

' And that is the result of your very extended experience ? The
orchards which have been opened to you have not, I fear, been of the
first quality. Mr.Staveley, my hand will do very well by itself. Such
is not the sort of climbing that is required. That is what I call
stooping to pick up the fruit that has fallen.' And as she spoke,
she moved a little away from him on the sofa.

' And how is a man to climb ?'

* Do you really mean that you want a lesson ? But if I were to
tell you, my words would be thrown away. Men will not labour
who have gotten all that they require without work. Why strive
to deserve any woman, when women are plenty who do not care
to be deserved ? That plan of picking up the fjedlen apples is so
much the easier.'

The lesson might perhaps have been given, and Miss Fumival
might have imparted to Mr. Staveley her idea of ' excelsior ' in the
matter of love-making, had not Mr. Staveley's mother come into
the room at that moment. Mrs. Staveley was beginning to fear that
the results of her Christmas hospitality would not be satisfactory.
Peregrine Orme, whom she would have been so happy to welcome
to the warmest comer of her household temple as a son, had been
sent away in wretchedness and disappointment. Madeline was
moping about the house, hardly making an effort to look like
herself ; attributing, in her mother's ears, all her complaint to that
unexpected interview with Teregrine Orme, but not so attributing
it — as her mother fancied — with correctness. And there was
Felix Graham still in the room upstairs, the doctor having said
that he might be moved in a day or two ; — ^that is, such movement
might possibly be effected without detriment; — ^but having said
also that another ten days of iminterrupted rest would be very
desirable. And now, in addition to this, her son Augustus was
to be foimd on every wet morning closeted somewhere with Sophia
Fumival ; — on every wet morning, and sometimes on dry mornings
also!

And then, on this very day, Lady Staveley had discovered that
Felix Graham's door in ^e corridor was habitually left open. She
knew her child too well, and was too clear and pure in her own
mind, to suppose that there was anything wrong in this;-^that
clandestine talkings were arranged, or anything planned in secret.
What she feared was that which really occurred. The door was
left open, and as Madeline passed Felix would say a word, and then

WHY SHOULD HE GO?^ 305

Madeline wonld pause and answer him. Snch words as they were
might have been spoken before all the honsehold, and if so spoken
would have been free from danger. But they were not free from
danger when spoken in that way, in the passage of a half-closed
doorway ; — all which Lady Staveley understood perfectly.

' Baker,* she had said, with more of anger in her voice than wbb
usual with her, ' why do you leave that door open ?'

* I think it sweetens the room, my lady ;' and, indeed, Felix
Graham sometimes thought so too.

* Nonsense ; every sound in the house must be heard. Keep it
shut, if you please.*

* Yes, my lady,' said Mrs. Baker — ^who also understood perfectly.

* He is better, my darling,' said Mrs. Baker to Madeline, the same
day ; ' and, indeed, for that he is well enough as regards eating and
drinking. But it would be cruelty to move him yet. I heard what
the doctor said.'

* \\ ho talks of moving him ?*

'Well, he talks of it himself; and the doctor said it might be
possible. But I know what that means.'
' What does it mean ?*

* Why, just this : that if we want to get lid of him, it won't quite
be the death of him.*

* But who wants to get rid of him ?'

* I'm sure I don*t. I don't mind my trouble the least in life.
He's as nice a young gentleman as ever I sat beside the bed of; and
he's full of spirit — he is.'

And then Madeline appealed to her mother. Surely her mother
would not let Mr. Graham be sent out of the house in his present
state, merely because the doctor said it might be possible to move
him without causing his instant death ! And tears stood in poor
Madeline's eyes as she thus pleaded the cause of the sick and
wounded. This again tormented Lady Staveley, who found it
necessary to give further caution to Mrs. Baker. ' Baker,' she said,
* how can you be so foolish as to be talking to Miss Madeline about
Mr. Graham's arm?'

' Who, my lady ? I, my lady ?'

' Yes, you ; when you know that the least thing frightens her.
Don't you remember how ill it made her when Koger * — Eoger was
an old family groom — *when Roger had that accident?' Lady
Staveley might have saved herself the trouble of the reminiscence as
to Koger, for Baker knew more about it than that. When Roger's
scalp had been laid bare by a fall. Miss Madeline had chanced to see
it, and had fainted ; but Miss Madeline was not fainting now.
Baker knew all about it, almost better than Lady Staveley herself.
It was of very little use talking to Baker about Roger the groom.
Baker thought that Mr. Felix Graham was a very nice yoimg man,

VOL. I. X

306 OBLET FAEM.

in spite of liis ' not beiDg exactly handsomelike about the phjs-
gognomy/ as she remarked to one of the younger nudds, who much
preferred Peregrine Orme.

Coming away from this last interview with Mrs. Baker, Lady
Staveley interrupted her son and Sophia Fumival in the back
drawing-room, and b^an to feel that her solicitude for her children
would bo almost too much for her. Why had she asked that nasty
girl to her house, and why would not the nasty girl go ai^fty ? As
for her going away, there was no present hope, for it had been
arranged that she should stay for another fortnight. Why could
not the Fates have been kind, and have allowed Felix Graham and
Miss Fumival to fall in love with each other ? * I can never make
a daughter of «her if he does many her,' Lady Staveley said to her-
self, as she looked at them.

Augustus looked as though he were detected, and stammered out
some question about his mother and the carriage ; but Miss Fumival
did not for a moment lose her easy presence of mind. * Lady Staveley,*
said she, ' why does not your 'son go and hunt, or shoot, or fish,
instead of staying in the house all day ? It seems to me that his
time is so heavy on his hands that he will almost have to hang
himself.'

' I'm sure I can't tell,' said Lady Staveley, who was not so perfect
an actor as her guest.

' I do think gentlemen in the house in the morning always look
80 unfortunate. You have been endeavouring to make yourself
agreeable, but you know you've been yawning.'

' Do you suppose then that men never sit still in the morning ?'
said Augustus.

' Oh, in their chambers, yes ; or on the bench, and perhaps also
behind counters ; but they very seldom do so in a drawing-room.
You have been fidgeting about with the poker till you have
destroyed the look of the fireplace.'

' Well, 111 go and fidget t^ stairs with Graham,' said he ; and so
he left the room.

* Nasty, sly girl,' said Lady Staveley to herself as she took up
her work and sat herself down in her own chair.

Augustus did go up to his friend and found him reading letters.
There was no one else in the room, and the door when Augustus
reached it was properly closed. < I think I shall be off to-morrow,
old boy,' said Felix.

* Then I think you'll do no such thing,' said Augustus. ' What's
in the wind now T

* The doctor said this morning that I could be moved without
danger.'

' He said that it might possibly be done in two or three days —
that was all. What on earth makes you so impatient? You've

WHT 6H0UIJ> Hfi GO ? .307

nothing to do. Nobody elfio wants to aee jon ; and nobodj here
wants to get rid of yon.'

' You're wrong in all joar three statements.'
' The deuoe I am I 'Vlho wants to get rid of 701^?*
' That shall oome last. I have something to do, and somebody
else does want to see me. I've got a letter from Mury here,
and another from Mrs. Thomas ;' and he held up to view two
letters which he had received, and which had, in. truth, startled
him.

* Mary's duenna ; — the artist who is supposed to be moulding the
wife.'

' Yes ; Maty's duenna, or Mary's artist, whichever you please.'

* And which of them wants to see you ? It's just lUke a woman,
to require a man's attendance exactly when he is unable to move.'

Then Felix, though he did not give up the lettero to be read,
described to a certain extent their contents. ' I don't know what
on earth has happened,' he said. < Mary is praying to be forgiven,
and saying that it is not her fault; and Mrs. Thomas is fiill of
apologies, declaring that her conscience forces her to tell eveiy-
thing; and yet, between ihem both, J do not know what has
happened.'

' Miss Snow has probably lost the key of the workbox you gave
her.'

* I have not given her a wodkbox.'

* Then the writing-desk. That's what a man has to endure when
he will make himself head schoolmaster to a young lady. And so
you'ro going to look after your charge with your limbs still in
bandages ?'

' Just 60 ;' and then he took up the two letters and read them
again, while Staveley still sat on the foot of the bed. * I wish I
knew what to think about it,' said FeHx.

* About what?' said the other. And then there was another
pause, and another reading of a portion of the letters.

' There seems something — something almost fri^tful to me,' said
Felix gravely, * in the idea of marrying a girl in a few months'
time, who now, at so late a period of our engagement, writes to me
in that sort of cold, formal way.'

* It s the proper moulded-wife style, you may depend,' said
Augustus.

* I'll tell you what, Staveley, if you can talk to m© seriously ibr
five minutes, I shall be obliged to you. If that is impossible to
you, say so, and I will drop the matter.'

* Well, go on ; I am serioas enough in Vi4uit I intend to express,
.even though I may not be so in my words.'

•I'm beginning to have my doubts about this dear giri.*

* Fve had my doubts for some time.'

808 0BLET FABK.

* Not, mark jon, wifli leggrd to mjselfl The question is not now
whether I can love her sufficiently for my own happiness. On that
side I have no longer the ri^t to a doubt.'

* But you wouldn't marry her if you did not love her.*

* We need not discuss that. But what if she does not lore me ?
What, if she would think it a release to be freed firom this engage-
ment ? How am I find that out ?

Augustus sat for a while silent, for he did feel that the matter
was serious. The case as he looked at it stood thus : — His friend
Graham had made a very foolish baigain, from which he would
probably be glad to escape, though be could not now bring himself
to say as much. But this bargain, bad for him, would probably be
very good for the young lady. The young lady, having no shilling
of her own, and no merits of birth or early breeding to assist h^
outlook in the world, might probably regard her ready-made
engagement \o a clever, kind-hearted, highnspirited man, as an
advantage not readily to be abandoned. Staveley, as a sincere
friend, was very anxious that the match should be broken off ; but
he could not bring himself to tell Graham that he thought that the
young lady would so wish. According to his idea the young lady
must undergo a certain amount of disappointment, and receive a
certain amount of compensation. Graham had been very foolish,
and must pay for his folly. But in preparing to do so, it would be
better that ho should see and acknowledge the whole truth of the
matter.

* Are you sure that you have found out your own feelings V
Staveley said at last ; and his tone was then serious enough even
for his friend.

* It hardly matters whether I have or have not,* said Felix.

* It matters above all things ; — above all things, because as to
them you may come to something like certainty. Of the inside
of her heart you cannot know so much. The fiact I take it is this —
that you would wish to escape from this bondage.*

' No ; not unless I thought she regarded it as bondage also. It
may be that she does. As for myself, I believe that at the present
inom&ni such a marriage would be for me the safest step that I
could take.'

' Safe as against what danger ?

* All dangers. How, if I should learn to love another woman, —
some one utterly out of my reach, — while I am still betrothed to her ?'

* I rarely flatter you, Graham, and don't mean to do it now ; but
no girl ought to be out of your i-each. You have talent, position,
birth, and gifts of nature, which should make you equal to any
lady. As for money, the less you have the more you should look
to get. But if you would cease to be mad, two years would give
you command of an income.'

WHY SHOULD HS 00? 809

^ But I shall never cease to be mad.'

* Who is it that cannot be serious, now ?

< Well, I will be serious — ^serious enough. I can afford to be so,
as I have received my medical passport for to-morrow. No girl,
you say, ought to be ought of my reach. If the girl were one Miss
Staveley, should she be regarded as out of my reach ?'

* A man doesn't talk about his own sister,' said Staveley, having
got up from the bed and walked to the window, * and I know yon
don't mean anything.'

' But, by heavens I I do mean a great deal.'

< What is it you mean, then ?'

' I mean this — What would you say if you learned that I was a
suitor for her hand ?'

Staveley had been right in saying that a man does not talk about
his own sister. When he had declared, with so much affectionate
admiration for his friend s prowess, that he might aspire to the
hand of any lady, that one retiring, modest-browed girl had not
been thought of by him. A man in talking to another man about
women is always supposed to consider those belonging to himself
as exempt from the incidents of the conversation. The dearest
friends do not talk to each other about their sisters when they have
once left school ; and a man in such a position as that now taken by
Graham has to make fight for his ground as closely as though there
had been no former intimacies. My friend Smith in such a matter
as that, though I have been hail fellow with him for the last ten
years, has very little advantage over Jones, who was introduced to
the house for the first time last week. And therefore Staveley felt
himself almost injured when Felix Graham spoke to him about
Madeline.

* \Vhat would I say ? Well — that is a question one does not
undersUind, unless — unless you really meant to state it as a fact
that it was your intention to propose to her.'

' But I mean rather to state it as a fact that it is not my intention
to propose to her.*

* Then we had better not speak of her.'

' Listen to me a moment. In order that I may not do so, it will
be better for me — ^better for us all, that I should leave the house.'
' Do you mean to say T

* Yes, I do mean to say I I mean to say all that your mind is
now suggesting to you. I quite understand your feelings when
you declare that a man does not like to talk of his own sister, and
therefore we will talk of your sister no more. Old fellow, don't
look at me as though you meant to drop me.'

Augustus came back to the bedside, and again seating himself, put
his hand almost caressingly over his friend's shoulder, ^ I did not
think of this.' he said.

^^ffo

810 eSLBT FARK.

* No ; one never does think of it,* Graham replied.

* And she ?*

* She knows no more aC it than that bed-post,* said Graham. ' The
mjfn7, such as there is, is all on one side. Bat 111 tell yon who
siu^pects it.

'Baker?' '='

* Your mother. I am mndi mistaken if yoa will not fbod that
she, with all her hospitality, would jwefer that I should recover
my strength elsewhere.'

' But you have done nothing to betray yourself.'

* A mother's ears are very sharp. I know that it is so. I cannot
explain to you how. Do you tell her that I think of getting up to
London to-morrow, and see how she will take it. And, Stavdby,
do not for a moment suppose that I am reproaching her. She is
quite right. I believe that I have in no way committed myself —
ihat I have said no word to your sister with which Lady Staveley
has a right to feel herself aggrieved ; but if she has had the wit to
read the thougjita of my bosom, she is quite right to wish that I
were out of the hoose/

Poor Lady Staveley had been possessed of no such wit at alL
The sphynx which she had read had been one much more in hei
own line. She had sunply read the thoughts in her daughter's
bosom— or rather, the feelings in her daughter's heart.

Augustus Staveley hardly knew what he ought to say. He was
not prepared to tell his friend that he was the very brother-in-law
for whose connection he would be desirous. Such a marriage for
Madeline, even shottld Madeline desire it, would not be advantageous.
When Augustus told Graham that he had gifts of nature which
made him equal to any lady, he did not include his own sister.
And yet the idea of acquiescing in his friend's sudden departure
was very painful to him. * There can be no reason why you should
not stay up here, you know,* at last he said ; — and in so saying he
pronounced an absolute verdict against poor Felix.

On fow matters of moment to a man's own heart can he speak out
plainly the whole truth that is in him. Graham had intended so
to do, but had deceived himself. He had not absolutely hoped that
his friend would say, * Come among us, and be one of us ; take
her, and be my brother.' But yet there came upon his heart a black
load of disappointment, in that the words which were said were the
exao^opposite of these. Graham had spoken of himself as unfit to
match with Madeline Staveley, and Madeline Staveley's bn)ther bad
taken him at his word. The question which Augustus asked him-
self was this — Was it, or was it not practicable that Graham should
rsmain there without danger of intercourse with his sister ? To
Felix the question came in a very different shape. After having

ken ad he had spoken — might ho be allowed to remain thore.

WHY movuci BX GO? 811

•njo3riQg %u6k mt6TOoiirae» or mi§^t be not ? Thftt Tiaa the ques^
tion to which ho had unoonscioiialy demanded an answer; — a«d
nnooBsoionslj he had atill hoped that the question might be answered
in his favour. He had so hoped; although he was burdened with
Mary Snow, and although he had spoken of his engpagement with
that hbdy in so rigid a spirit of self-martyrdoiiQu But the question
had been answered against him. The offer of a further asylum in
the seolusion of that bedroom had been made ta him by his friead
with a sort of proriso that it would not be well that he should go
forther than the bedroom, and his inner feelings vt onoe grated
against each other, making him wretched and almost angry.

* Thank you, no ; I understand how kind jcn are, but 1 will not do
that. I will write up to-night, and shaU certainly start to-monomJ

* My dear fellow *

* I should get into a fever, if I were to remain in this house siter
what I have told you. I oould not endure to see yon, or your
mother, or Baker, or Marian, or any one else. Don't talk about
it. Indeed, you ought to leel that it is not possible. I have made
a confounded ass of myself, and the soon^ I get away the better.
I say — perhaps you would not be angry if I was to adc you to let
me sleep for an hour or so now. After that I'll get up sad write
my letters.'

Ho was very sore. He knew that he was sick at heart, and ill si
ease, and cross with his friend ; and knew also that he was un-
reasonable in being so. Staveley's words and manner had been full
of kindness. Graham was aware of this, and was therefore the
more irritated with himself. But this did not prevent his being
angry and cross with his friend.

*' Graham,' said the other, ' I see clearly enough that I have
annoyed you.'

' Not in the least. A man falls into the mud, and then calls to
another man to come and see him. Tho man in the mud of course
is not comfortable.'

' But you have called to me, and I have not been able to help
you.'

* I did not suppose you would, so there has been no disappoint-
ment. Indeed, there was no possibility for help. I shall follow
out tho lino of life which I have long since chalked out for myself,
and I do not expoot that I shall be more wretched than other poor
devils around me. As far as my idea goes, it all makes very little
diflferenco. Now leave me ; there's a good fellow.*

* Dear old fellow, I would give my right hand if it would make
you happy !•'

* But it won't. Your right hand will make scnnebody else happy,
I hope.'

* I'll come up to you again b^ore dinner.*

312 OBLBir FABX.

♦ Very well. And, Staveley, what we have now said cannot be
forgotten between ns ; but when we next meet, and ever after, let it
be as though it were forgotten.' Then he settled himself down on
the bed, and Augustus left the room.

It will not be supposed that Graham did go to sleep, or that he
had any thought of doing so. When he was alone those words of
his friend rang over and over again in his ears, ^ No girl ought to
be out of your reach.' Why should Madeline Staveley be out of his
reach, simply because she was his friend's sister? He had been
made welcome to that house, and therefore he was bound to do
nothing unhandsome by the family. But then he was bound by
other laws, equally clear, to do nothing unhandsome by any other
family — or by any other lady. If there was anything in Staveley's
words, they applied as strongly to Staveley's sister as to any other
girl. And why should not he, a lawyer, marry a lawyer's daughter ?
Sophia Fumival, with her hatful of money, would not be con-
sidered too high for him; and in what respect was Madeline
Staveley above Sophia Fumival ? That the one was immeasurably
above the other in all those respects which in his estimation tended
towards female perfection, he knew to be true enough ; but the
fruit which he had been forbidden to gather hung no higher on
the social tree than that other fruit which he had been specially
invited to pluck and gamer.

And then Graham was not a man to think any fruit too high for
him. He had no overweening idea of his own deserts, either socially
or professionally, nor had he taught himself to expect great things
from his own genius ; but he had that audacity of spirit which bids
a man hope to compass that which he wishes to compass, — that
audacity which is both the father and mother of success, — that
audacity which seldom exists without the inner capability on which
it ought to rest.

But then there was Mary Snow ! Augustus Staveley thought but
little of Mary Snow. According to his theory of his friend's future
life, Mary Snow might be laid aside without much difficulty. If
this were so, why should not Madeline be within his reach ? But
then was it so ? Had he not betrothed himself to Mary Snow in
the presence of the girl's father, with every solemnity and assurance,
in a manner fixed beyond that of all other betrothals ? Alas, yes ;
and for this reason it was right that he should hurry away from
Noningsby.

Then he thought of Mary's letter, and of Mrs. Thomas's letter.
What was it that had been done ? Mary had written as though she
had been charged with some childish offence ; but Mrs. Thomas
talked solemnly of acquitting her own conscience. What could
have happened that had touched Mrs. Thomas in the conscience ?

But his thoughts soon ran away from the little house at Peckham,

WHY SHOULD HE GO ? 818

and settled themselves again at Noningsby, Shoxdd he hear more
of Madeline's footsteps ? — and if not, why should they have been,
banished fron^ the corridor ? Should he hear her voice again at the
door, — and if not, why should it have been hushed ? There is a
silence which may be more eloquent than the sounds which it fol-
lows. Had no one in that house guessed the feelings in his bosom,
she would have walked along the corridor as usual, and spoken a
word with her sweet voice in answer to his word. He felt sure
that this would be so no more ; but who had stopped it, and why
should such sounds be no more heard ?

At last he did go to sleep, not in pursuance of any plan formed
for doing so ; for had he been asked he would have said that sleep
was impossible for him. But he did go to sleep, and when he
awoko it was dark. He had intended to have got up and dressed
on that afternoon, or to have gone through such ceremony of
dressing as was possible for him, — in preparation of his next day's
exercise ; and now he rose up in his bed with a start, angry with
himself in having allowed the time to pass by him.

* Lord love you, Mr. Graham, why how you have slept !' said
Mrs. Baker. * If I haven't just sent your dinner down again to
keep hot. Such a beautiful pheasant, and the bread sauce'll be
lumpy now, for all the world like pap,'

* Never mind the bread sauce, Mrs. Baker ; — ^the pheasant's the
thing.'

* And her ladyship's been here, Mr. Oraham, only she wouldn't
have you woke. She won't hear of your being moved to-morrow,
nor yet won't the judge. There was a rumpus down stairs when
Mr. Augustus as much as mentioned it. I know one who — '

* You know one who— you were saying ?'

* Never mind. — It aint one more than another, but it's all. You
aint to leave this to-morrow, so you may just give it over. And
indeed your things is all at the wash, so you can't; — and now 111
go down for the pheasant.'

Felix still declared very positively that ho should go, but his
doing so did not shake Mrs. Baker. The letter-bag he knew did
not leave till eight, and as yet it was not much past five. He
would see Stiaveley again after his dinner, and then he would wiite.

When Augustus left the room in the middle of the day he en-
countered IVIadeline wandering about the house. In these days
she did wander about the house, as though there were something
always to be done in some place apart from that in which she then
was. And yet the things which she did were but few. She neither
worked nor read, and as for household duties, her share in them
was confined almost entirely to the morning and evening teapot.

' It isn't true that he's to go to-morrow morning, Augustus, is
it? said she.

814 OKLET 9,

*Who, GnftflB? Well; lie njrs tksi lie wilL H» is T617
maaooim to ^ to IjcmHtm ; and bo doabt lie fiads it stiqnd ^m^m^
Ijing theie and doing nodung.'

' But he can do ae smell tiieve aa lie can lying bj himaelf in hie
own ehambexB, wliere I don^t an^oae lie wonld bave anjbod j to
look after him. He tiunka lie^s a tronMe and all that, and therefbvo
he wants to go. But yon know mainma doesnt mind about trouble
of that kind ; and what should we think of it aflerwaida if anything
bad was to happen to jroor friend becanae we allowed him to leare
the house before he was in a fit state to be mored? Of ooiirae
Mr. Pottingar a^s so—' Mr. Pottinger was the doctor. ' Of courBe
Mr. Pottinger says so, because he thinks he has been so long here,
and he doesn't nndenttand.'

* But Mr. Pottinger would like to keep a patient.'

* Oh no ; he's not at all that sort of man. He*d think <^ mamTnm,
— the trouble I mean of having a stranger in the house. But yon
know mamma would think nothing of that, especially for such an
intimate friend of yours.*

Augustus turned slightly roxmd so as to look more fiilly into
his sister^s face, and he saw that a tear was gathered in the comer
of her eye. She pereerred his glance and partly shrank under it,
bat she soon recovered herself and answered it. ' I know what yoo
mean,' she said, * and if you choose to think so, I can't help it.
But it is horrible — horrible — ' and then she stopped herself, finding
that a little sob wonld become audible if she trusted herself to
farther words.

* You know what I mean, Mad ?* he said, putting his arm affeo*
tionatoly round her waist. * And what is it that I mean ? Come ;
you and I never have any secrets ; — ^you always say so when you
want to get at mine. Tell me what it is that I mean.'

* I haven't got any secret.'

* But what did I mean ?'

* You looked at me, because I don't want you to let them send
Mr. Graham away. If it was old Mr. Fumival I shouldn't like them
to turn him out of this house when he was in such a state as that.'

* Poor Mr. Fumival ; no ; I think he would bear it worse than
Felix.'

* Then why should he go ? And why — should you look at mo
in that way T

•Did I look at you, Mad? Well, I believe I did. We aro to
have no secrets ; aro we ?*

* No,' said she. But she did* not say it in the same eager voice
with which hitherto she had declared that they would always tell
each other everything.

* Felix Graham is my friend,' said he, • my special friend ; and
I hope you will always like my friends. But— ^ — *

I CALL IT AWFUL. 315

« Well ? filie said.

* You know what I mean, Mad.*

* Yes/ she said.

' That is all, dearest.' And then she knew that he also had
cautioned her not to fall in love with Felix Graham, and she fblt

angry with him for the cantion. *Why — why — ^why T But

she hardly knew aa yet how to frame the question which she desiied
to ask herself

CHAPTER XK

I CALL IT AWFUL.

• Oh indeed !' Those had been the words with which Mr. FvmiTBl
had received the announcement made by Sir Peregrine as to hia
proposed nuptials. And as he uttered them the lawyer drew hinH
self up stiffly in his chair, looking much more like a lawyer and
much loss like an old family friend than he had done the moment
before.

Whereupon Sir Peregrine drew himself up also. ' Yes,' he said.

• I should be intrusiTe if I were to trouble you with my moti¥ea^
and therefore I need only say further ao regards the lady, that I
trust that my support, standing as I shall do in the position of ker
husband, will be more serviceable to her than it comld otherwise
have been in this trial which she will, I presume, be forced to
undergo.*

* No doubt ; no doubt,' said Mr. Fumival ; and then the inter-
view nad ended. The lawyer had been anxious to see his client,
and had intended to ask permission to do so ; but he had felt on
hearing Sir Peregrine's tidings that it would be useless now to
make any attempt to see her alone, and that he could speak to her
with no freedom in Sir Peregrine's presence. So he left The
Cloeve, having merely intimated to the baronet the fact of hia
having engaged the services of Mr. Chafianbrass and Mr. Solomon
Aram. ' You will not see Lady Mason ?* Sir Peregrine had asked.

• Thank you : I do not know that I need trouble her,' Mr. Furnival had
answered. ' You of course will explain to her how the case at pre-
sent stands. I fear she must reconcile herself to the feet of a trial.
You are aware, Sir Peregrine, that the offence imputed is one for
which bail will be taken. I should propose yourself and her son.
Of course I should be happy to lend any own name, but as I shall be
on the trial, perhaps it may be as well that this should be avoided.'

Bail will be taken ! These words were dreadful in the ears of
the expectant bridegroom. Had it come to this ; that there was
a question whether or no she should be locked up in a prison, like

316 OBLET TABK.

a felon ? But nievertlieless liis heart did not mifigiye him. Seeing
how terribly she was injured by others, he felt himself bound by
the stronger law to ding to her himselfl Snch was the special
duvalry of the mam

Mr. Fumival on his retam to London thought almost more of
Sir Peregrine than he did either of Lady Mason or of himself. Was
it not a pity ? Was it not a thousand pities that that aged noble
gentleman should be sacrificed? He had felt angiy with Sir
Peregrine when the tidings were first communicated to him ; but
now, as he journeyed up to London this feeling of anger was
transferred to his own client. This must be her doing, and such
doing on her part, while she was in her pi^scnt circumstances, was
very wicked. And then he remembered her guilt, — her probable
guilt, and his brow became very black. Her supposed guilt had
not been horrible to him while he had regarded it as affecting
herself alone, and in point of property affecting Joseph Mason and
her son Lucius. He could look forward, sometimes almost trium-
phantly, to the idea of washing her— so far as this world's washing
goes — from that guilt, and setting her up again clear before the
world, even though in doing so he should lend a hand in robbing
Joseph 3Iason of his estate. But this dragging down of another —
and such another — head into the vortex of ruin and misery was
horrible to him. He was not straitlaced, or mealy-mouthed, or
overburthened with scruples. In the way of his profession he
could do many a thing at which — I express a single opinion with
much anxious deference — at which an honest man might be scan-
dalized if it became beneath his judgment unprofessionally. But
this ho could not stand. Something must be done in the matter.
The marriage must be stayed till after the trial, — or else he must
himself retire from the defence and explain both to Lady Mason
and to Sir Peregrine why he did so.

And then he thought of the woman herself, and his spirit within
him became very bitter. Had any one told him that he was jealous
of the preference shown by his client to Sir Peregrine, he would
have fumed with anger, and thought that he was fuming justly.
But such was in truth the case. Though he believed her to have
been guilty of this thing, though he believed her to be now guilty
of the worse offence of dragging the baronet to his ruin, still he
was jealous of her regard. Had she been content to lean upon him,
to trust to him as her great and only necessary friend, he could
have forgiven all else, and placed at her service the full force of
his professional power, — even though by doing so he might have
lowered himself in men's minds. And what reward did he expect ?
None. He had formed no idea that the woman would become his
mistress. All that was as obscure before his mind's eye, as though
she had been nineteen and he five-and-twenty.

I CALL IT AWFUL. 817

He was to dine at home on this day, that being the first occasion
of his doing so for — as Mrs. Fumival declared — the last six months.
In truth, however, the interval had been long, though not so long
as that. He had a hope that having announced his intention, he
might find the coast clear and hear Martha Biggs spoken of as a
dear one lately gone. But when he arrived at home Martha Biggs
was still there. Under circumstances as they now existed Mrs. Fur-
nival had determined to keep Martha Biggs by her, unless any
special edict for her banishment should come forth. Then, in case
c^ such special edict, Martha Biggs should go, and thence should
arise the new casus belli. Mrs. Fumival had made up her mind
that war was expedient, — nay, absolutely necessary. She had an
idea, formed no doubt from the reading of history, that some allies
require a smart brush now and again to blow away the clouds of
distrust which become engendered by time between them; and
that they may become better allies than ever afterwards. If the
appropriate time for such a brush might ever come, it had come
now. All the world, — so she said to herself, — was talking of
Mr. Fumival and Lady Mason. All the world knew of her
injuries.

Martha Biggs was second cousin to Mr. Crook's brother^s wife—
I speak of that Mr. Crook who had been professionally known for
the last thirty years as the partner of Mr. Bound. It had been
whispered in the office in Bedford Eow — such whisper I fear
originating with old Bound — that Mr. Fumival admired his ffiur
client. Hence light had fallen upon the eyes of Martha Biggs,
and the secret of her friend was known to her. Need I trace the
course of the tale with closer accuracy ?

* Oh, Kitty/ she had said to her friend with tears that evening —
* I cannot bear to keep it to myself any more ! I cannot when I
see you suffering so. It's awful.'

* Cannot bear to keep what, Martha?'

' Oh, 1 know. Indeed all the town knows it now.'

* Knows what ? You know how I hate that kind of thing. If
you have anything to say, speak out.'

This was not kind to such a faithful friend as Martha Biggs ; but
^Martha knew what sacrifices friendship such as hers demanded,
and she did not resent it.

* Well then ; — if I am to speak out, it's — Lady Mason. And I
do say that it's shameful, quite shameful; — and awful; I call it
awful.'

Mrs. Fumival had not said much at the time to encourage the
fidelity of her friend, but she was thus justified in declaring to
herself that her husband's goings on had become the talk of all
the world ; — and his goings on especially in that quarter in which
she had long regarded them with so much dismay. She was not

ma OWUEY FASM.

therefore prepared to welcome him on thiB occasion of his coming
home to dinnar by such tokens of friendly feeling as the diea&isnl
id her friend to Bed Lion Square. When the moment for absolnie
war should come Martha Biggs should be made to depart.

Mr. Fumival when he arrived at his own house was in a thought-
ful mood, cold disposed for quiet and domestio meditation. Had
Miss Biggs not been there he could have found it in his heart to
tell everything about Lady Mason to his wife, asking her counsel
as to what he should do with reference to that marriage. Could
lie have done so, all would have been well ; but this was not
possible while that red-fBU3ed lump of a woman from Bed Lion
Square sat in his drawing-room, making everything uncomfortable.

The three sat down to dinner together, and very little was said
between them. Mr. Fumival did try to be civil to his wife, but
wives sometimes have a mode of declining such civilities without
oommitting themselves to overt acts of war. To Miss Biggs Mr.
Fnmival could not bring himself to say anything civil, seeing that
be lated her ; but such words as he did speak to her she received
with grim griifin-like austerity, as though she were ever meditating
on the awfulness of his conduct. And so in tmth she was. Why his
eonduct was more awful in her estimation since •she had heard
Lady Mason's name mentioned, than when her mind had been
8incq)ly filled with general ideas of vague conjugal infidelity, I
cannot say ; but such was the case. ' I call it awfiil,' wore the first
words she again spoke when she found herself onoo more alone
with Mrs. Fumival in the drawing-room. And then she sat down
over the fire, thinking neither of her novel nor her knitting, witii
her mind deliciously filled with the anticipation of coming
catastrophes.

* If I sit up after half-past ten would you mind going to bed?'
said Mrs. Fumival, when they had been in the drawing-room about
ten minutes.

* Oh no, not in ihe least,' said Mies Biggs. * 1*11 be sure to go.*
But she thought it very unkind, and she felt as a child does who is
deceived in a matter of being taken to the play. If no one goes
ihe child can bear it. But to see others go, and to be left behind,
IB too much for the feelings of any child, — or of Martha Biggs.

Mr. Fumival had no inclination for sitting alone over his wine
on this occasion. Had it been possible for him he would have pre-
'ferred to have gone quickly up stairs, and to have taken his cup of
coffee from his wife's hand with some appreciation of domestic
•eomf[yrt. But ^ere could be no such comfort "to him while Martha
Siggs was there, so he sat down stairs, sipping his port according
ie his custom, and looking into the fire for a solution of his diffi-
■oolties about Lady Mason. He began to wish that he had never
neen Lady Mason^ and to reflect that the intimate friendship of

I GiXL IT AWPUh. S19

pretty women often InringB witiki it much tfonUe. Be was fesolved
<m one thing. He would not go down into oonrt and fight that
battle for Lady Orme. Were he to do so the m&tbeir would have
taken quite a different jdiase, — one that he had not at all antioipated.
In case that his present client should then have beoome Lady Onne«
Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Solomon Aram might oany on the battle
between them, with such assistance as they might be aUe to get
from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile. He beoame angry as he drank
his port, and in his anger he swove that it should be so. And then
as his anger became hot at the olose of his libations, he remembered
that Martha Biggs was up stairs, and became more angry still. And
thus when he did go into the drawing-room at some time in the
evening not much before ten, he was not in a inma of mind likely
to bring about domestic comfort.

He walked across the drawing-«oom, sat down im an arm-ohair by
the table, and took up the last number of a review, without ^Making
to either of them. Whereupon Mrs. Fumival began te ply her
needle which had been lying idly enough upon her work, and
Martha Biggs fixed her eyes intently upon her book. So they sat
twenty minutes without a word being -apoken, and then Mrs. Fns^
nival inquired of her lord whether he -choae to have tea.

* Of course I shall, — ^when you have it«' «aid he.

* Don't mind us,' said Mrs. FumivaL

* Fray don't mind me,' said Martha Biggs. ' Don't let me be in
ihe way.'

* No, I won't,' said Mr. Fumival. Whereupon Miss Biggs again
jumped up in her chair as though she had been electrified. It may
be remembered that on a former occasion Mr. Fumival had sworn
at her — or at least in her presence.

' You need not be rude to a lady in your own house, because she
is my friend,' said Mrs. Fumival.

' 13othor,' said Mr. Fumival. ' And now if wo are going to have
any tea, let us have it.'

' I don't think I'll mind about tea to-night, Mrs. Fumival,' said
Miss Biggs, having received a notice from her friend's eye that it
might be well for her to depart *■ My head aches dreadful, and I
shall be better in bod. Good-night, Mrs. Fumival.' And then she
took her candle and went away. ,

For the next five minutes there was not a word said. No tea had
been ordered, although it had been mentioned. Mrs. Fumival had
forgotten it among the hot thoughts that were running through
her mind, and Mr. Fumival was indifferent upon the subject He
knew that something was coming, and he resolved that he woidd
have the upper hand let that something be what it might He was
being ill used, — so he said to himself— and would not put up
with it.

ORLEY FARM

ANTHONY TROLLOPE,

AUTHOR or

" iKxrron tiioiuie," " darcuesteb towers," " rRAiiLEr parsoxaoe," kto.

WA\ Pnstrattons

BY J. E. MILLAIS.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193 riCCADILLY.

1862.

[TTie riijU of TVantlaUon {« re»en)e<l.'\

LOVDOV: TUnntD BT ITILLIAX CLOWBS AKD SOXI, STAMFOBD STREBT AKD OHA&IWO CSOflB.

CONTENTS.

C HAFTS R

I. — HOW CAN I SAVE HIM?

II. — JOHN KENNKBY GOES TO HAMWORTH

ni, — JOHN Kennedy's courtship

IV. — showing how lady MASON COULD BE VBRY NOBLE

V. — SHOWING HOW MRS. ORMB COULD BE VERY WEAK-MINDED

Vi. — A WOMAN S IDEA OF FRIENDSHIP ..

VII. — THE GEM OF THE FOUR FAMILIES ..

VIII. — THE ANGEL OF LIGHT UNDER A CLOUD

IX. — MRS. FURNIVAL CAN T PUT UP WITH IT

X. — IT IS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE

XI. — MRS. FURNIVAL's JOURNEY TO HAMWORTH

Xn. — SHOWING HOW THINGS WENT ON AT NONINGSBY ..

XIII. — LADY MASON RETURNS HOME

XIV. — TELLING ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP-POST

XV. — WHAT TOOK PLACE IN HARLEY STREET

X7I. — HOW SIR PEREGRINE DID BUSINESS WITH MR. ROUND

XVII. — THK LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT FITZALLEN

XVIII.— MISS STAVELKY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VKAh

Txom
1

15
22
83

• 48

106

114

122

129

136

VI CONTENTS.

CaAFTIK PACK

XIX. — NO SURRENDER .. .. .. .. .. 145

XX. — WHAT REBEKAH DID FOR HER SON .. .. 153

XXI. — ^THE STATE OF PUBLIC OPINION .. ..*.. .. 161

XXII. — WHAT THE FOUR LAWYERS THOUGHT ABOUT IT ..169

XXni. — ^THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL .. .. .. 176

XXIV, — ^THE FIRST JOURNEY TO ALSTON .. .. .. 185

XXV. — FELIX GRAHAM RETURNS TO NONINGSBY .. .. 193

XXVI. — HOW MISS FURNIVAL TREATED HER LOVERS .. .. 202

XXVU. — MR. MOULDER BACKS HIS OPINION .. .. .. 210

XXVIII. — ^THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL .. .. .. ..216

XXIX.— THE TWO JUDGES .. .. .. .. 225

XXX. — HOW ▲M I TO BEAR IT? .. .. .. .. 231

XXXI. — SHOWING HOW JOHN KENNEBY AND BRIDGET BOLSTER

BORE THfilMSELVES IN COURT .. .. .. .. 240

XXXII. — MR. FURNIVAL's SPEECH .. ,. .. .. 250

XXXIIL — MRS. ORME TELLS THE STORY .. .. .. .. 257

XXXIV. — YOUNG LOCHINVAR .. ., .. .. .. 266

XXXV. — ^THE LAST DAY .. .. .. .. .. .. 273

XXXVI. — I LOVE HER STILL .. .. .. .. ..281

XXXVII. — JOHN KENNEBY's DOOM .. .. .. .. .. 289

XXXVIII. — ^THE LAST OF THE LAWYERS .. .. .. .. 296

XXXIX. — ^FAREWELL .. .. .. ., .. .. 305

XL. — SHOWING HOW AFFAIRS SETTLED THEMSELVES AT

NONINGSBY 314

ILLUSTEATIONS TO VOLUME II.

PAGB

LADY MASON LEAVING THE COUUT .. .. .. FrOflttSpiece.

JOHN KENNEBY AND MIRIAM BOCKWRATH .. .. „ .. 11

GUILTY •• •• •• •• •• •• •• •• oJ/

LAOY MASON AFTER HER CONFESSION ,. ,. .. .. 40

BREAD SAUCE IS SO TICKLISH .. .. .. .. .. 48

"NEVER IS A VERY LONG WORD " .. „ .. .. 77

"TOM," SHE SAID, "l HAVE COME BACK " .. .. .. 89

LADY MASON GOING BEFORE THE MAGISTRATES .. .. .. 97

SIR PEREGRINE AT MR. ROUND's OFFICE .. .. .. ..120

"TELL ME, MADELINE, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW " .. .. .. 144

NO SURRENDER .. .. .. .. .. .. .. HQ

MR. CHAFFAN brass AND MR. SOLOMON ARAM .. .. .. 172

THE COURT .. .. .. .. .. .. „ 191

THE DRAWING ROOM AT N0N1NG8BY .. .. .. .. 202

**AND HOW ARE THEY ALL AT NONINGSBY V'* .. .. .. 206

HOW CAN I BEAR IT? .. ., .. .. .. .. 240

BRIDGET BOLSTER IN COURT .. .. .. .. _ *IVl

VIU UliUSTBAXIOMS.

TACK

UJdVS M1805, AS HE LCA5ED OH THE OATE THAT WA8 KO L0S6EE

HIS own • •• .. 265

FAREWELL •• •• «Hld

VAREWELL •• •• •• Ol^

ORLEY FARM.

CHAPTER I.

HOW CAN I SAVE HIM ?

* I WILL not consent to live with yon while such deeds as these are
being done.' Such were the last words which Mrs. Fumival spoke
as she walked out of her own drawing-room, leaving her husband
still seated in his arm-chair.

"What was he to do ? Those who would hang by the letter of the
law in such matters may say that he should have rung the bell, sent
for his wife, explained to her that obedience was a necessary duty
on her part, and have finished by making her understand that she
must and would continue to live wherever he chose that she should
live. There be those who say that if a man be anything of a man,
ho can always insure obedience in his own household. He has the
power of the purse and the power of the law ; and if, having these^
he goes to the wall, it must be because he is a poor creature. Those
who so say have probably never tried the position.

Mr. Fumival did not wish to send for his wife, because by doing
so ho would have laid bare his sore before his servants. He could
not follow her, because he knew that he should not find her alone in
her room. Nor did ho wish for any further parley, because he
know that she would speak loud, and probably sob — nay, very
possibly proceed to a fainting fit. And, moreover, he much doubted
whether he would have the power to keep her in the house if it
should be her pleasure to leave it. And then what should he do ?
Tlie doing of something in such a catastrophe, was, ho thought,
indispensable.

Was ever a man so ill treated ? Was ever jealousy so groundless ?
Here was a woman, with whom he was on the point of quarrelling,
who was engaged to be married to another man, whom for months
past he had only seen as a client ; and on her account he was to be
told by his wife that she would not consent to live with him ! Yes ;
it was quite indispensable that he should do something.

VOL. u. D

2 OBLET FARM.

At last ho went to bed, and slept upon it ; not sharing the marital
couch, but occupying his own dressing-room. In tho morning,
however, as he sat down to his solitary breakfast, he was as far as
ever from having made up his mind what that something should be.
A message was brought to him by an elderly female servant with a
grave face, — the elderly servant who had lived with them since
their poorer days, — saying that ' Missus would not come down to
breakfast this morning.' There was no love sent, no excuse as to
illness, no semblance of a peaceable reason, assumed even to deceive
the servant. It was clear to Mr. Fumival that the servant was
intended to know all about it. * And Miss Biggs says, sir, that if
you please youVe not to wait for her.'

'Very well, that'll do,' said Mr. Fumival, who had not tho
slightest intention of waiting for Miss Biggs ; and then ho sat him-
self down to eat his bacon, and bethink himself what step ho would
take with this recreant and troublesome spouse.

"While he was thus employed the post came. The bulk of his
letters as a matter of course went to his chambers ; but there were
those among his correspondents who wrote to him at Harloy Street.
To-day he received three or four letters, but our concern will be
with one only. This one bore the Hamworth post-mark, and he
opened it the first, knowing that it came from Lady Mason. It
was as follows : —

• Private. * The Cleeve, 23rd January, 18 — .

* My deah Mr. Furnhval,

* I am so very sorry that I did not see you to-day ! Indeed,
your leaving without seeing me has made me unhappy, for I cannot
but think that it shows that you are displeased. Under these cir-
cumstances I must write to you and explain to you how that came
to pass which Sir Peregrine told you. I have not let him know that
I am writing to you, and I think for his sake that I had better not.
But he is so good, and has shown to me such nobleness and affection,
that I can hardly bring myself to have any secret from him.

* You may conceive what was my surprise when I first understood
that he wished to make me his wife. It is hardly six months since
I thought that I was almost exceeding my station in visiting at his
house. Then by degrees I began to be received as a friend, and at
last I found myself treated with the warmest love. But still I had
no thought of this, and I knew that it was because of my great
trouble that Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Orme were so good to me.

* AVhcn he sent for me into his library and told me what he
wished, I could not rcfiLse him anything. I promised obedience to
him as though I were a child ; and in this way I found myself engaged
to bo his wife. A>'hen he told mo that he would have it so, how
could 1 refuse him, knowing as I do all that he has done for me, and

HOW OAN I SATE HIH? S

thinking of it as I do eveiy minnte ? As for loying him, of comse
I love hiin. "VVho that knows him does not love him ? He is made
to be loved. No one is so good and so noble as he. Bat of love of
that sort I had never dreamed. Ah me, no ! — a woman burdened
as I am does not think of love.

* He told me l£at he would have it so, and I said that I would
obey him ; and he tried to prove to me that in this dreadful trial it
would be better for me. But I would not wish it on that acoount.
He has done enough for me without my causing him such injury.
When I argued it with him, trying to say that others would not
like it, he declared that Mrs. Ormoiwould be well pleased, and,
indeed, so she told me afterwards herself. And thus I yielded to
him, and agreed that I would be his wife. But I was not happy,
thinking that I should injure him ; and I promised only because I
could not deny him.

* But the day before yesterday young Mr. Orme, his grandson,
came to me and told me that such a marriage would be very wrong.
And 1 do believe him. He said that old family friends would look
down upon his grandfather and ridicule him if he were to make this
marriage. And I can see that it would be so. I would not haye
such injury come upon him for the gain of all the world to myself.
So I have made up my mind to tell him that it cannot be, even
though I should anger him. And I fear that it will anger him, for
he loves to have his own way, — especially in doing good ; and he
thinks that our marriage would rescue me altogether from the
danger of this trial.

* So 1 have made up my mind to tell him, but I have not found
courage to do it yet ; and I do wish, dear Mr. Fumival, that I might
SCO you fii*st. I fear that I may have lost your friendship by what
has already been done. If so, what will become of me ? When I
hoard that you had gone without asking for me, my heart sank
witliin me. I have two friends whom I so dearly love, and I would
fain do as both direcf me, if that may be possible. And now I
propose to go up to London to-morrow, and to be at your chambers
about one o'clock. I have told Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Orme that I
am going ; but he is too noble-minded to ask questions now that he
thinks 1 may feel myself constrained to tell him. So I will call in
Lincoln's Inn at one o'clock, and I trust that if possible you will
see inc. I am greatly in want of your advice, for in truth 1 hardly
know what to do.

* Pray believe me to be always your attached friend,

* Mary Mason.*

There was hardly a word, — I believe not a word in that letter that
was not true. Iler acceptance of Sir Peregrine had been given
exactly in the manner and for the reasons there explained; and

4 OBLEY FABM.

since she had accepted him she had been sorry for having done
00, exactly in the way now described. She was quite willing to
give up her husband if it was thought best, — ^but she was not
willing to give up her friend. She was not willing to give up
either friend, and her great anxiety was so to turn her conduct that
she might keep them both.

Mr. Fumival was gratified as he read the letter — gratified in spite
of his present frame of mind. Of course he would see her ; — and of
course, as he himself well knew, would take her again into favour.
But he must insist on her carrying out her purpose of abandoning
the marriage project. If, arising from this abandonment, there
should be any coolness on the part of Sir Peregrine, Mr. Fumival
would not regret it. Mr. Fumival did net feel quite sure whether
in the conduct of this case he was not somewhat hampered by the
— energetic zeal of Sir Peregrine's line of defence.

When he had finished the perusal of his letter and the considera-
tion which it required, he put it carefully into his breast coat pocket,
envelope and all. What might not happen if he left that envelope
about in that house ? And then he took it out again, and observed
upon the cover the Hamworth post-mark, very clear. Post-marks
now-a-days are very clear, and everybody may know whence a letter
comes. His letters had been brought to him by the butler ; but was
it not probable that that ancient female servant might have seen
them first, and have conveyed to her mistress intelligence as to this
post-mark? If so — ; and Mr. Fumival almost felt himself to be
guilty as he thought of it.

While he was putting on his greatcoat in the hall, the butler
assisting him, the ancient female servant came to him again. ITiere
was a look about her face which told of war, and declared her to be,
if not the chief lieutenant of his wife, at any rate her colour-
serjeant. Martha Biggs no doubt was chief lieutenant. * Missus
desires me to ask,' said she, with her grim face and austere voice,
* whether you will be pleased to dine at home to-day ?' And yet the
grim, austere woman could be afiectionate and almost motherly in
her ministrations to him when things were going well, and had
eaten his salt and broken his bread for more than twenty years.
All this was very hard I * Because,' continued the woman, ' missus
says she thinks she shall be out this evening herself.'

* Where is she going ?*

* Missus didn't tell me, sir.'

He almost determined to go up-stairs and call upon her to tell
him what she was going to do, but he remembered that if ho did it
would surely make a row in the house. Miss Biggs would put her
head out of some adjacent door and scream, ' Oh laws !' and he
would have to descend his own stairs with the consciousness that all
his household were regarding him as a brute. So he gave up that

HOW CAN I SAVE HIM? 6

project. ' Ncl** he said, ' I shall not dine at home ;' and then he
went his way.

* Missus is very aggravating,' said the hutler, as soon as the door
was closed.

* You don't know what cause she has, Spooner,' said the house*
keeper very solemnly.

* Is it at his age ? I believe it's all nonsense, I do ; — feminine
fancies, and vagaries of the weaker sex.'

' Yes, I dare say ; that's what you men always say. But if he
don't look out he'll find missus'll be too much for him. What'd he
do if she were to go away from him ?

*Do? — why live twice as jolly. It would only be the first
rumpus of the thing.*

I am afraid that there was some truth in what Spooner said. It
is the first rumpus of the thing, or rather the fear of that, which
keeps together many a couple.

At one o'clock there came a timid female rap at Mr. Fumival's
chamber door, and the juvenile clerk gave admittance to Lady
Mason. Orabwitz, since the affair of that mission down at Ham-
worth, had BO far carried a point of his, that a junior satellite
was now permanently installed ; and for the future the indignily
of opening doors, and 'just stepping out' into Chancery Lane,
would not await him. Lady Mason was dressed all in black, — but
this was usual with her when she left home. To-day, however,
there was about her something blacker and more sombre than
usual. The veil wliich she wore was thick, and completely hid her
face ; and her voice, as she asked for Mr. Fumival, was low and
plaintive. But, nevertheless, she had by no means laid aside the
charm of womanhood; or it might be more just to say that the
charm of womanhood had not laid aside her. There was that in her
figure, step, and gait of going which compelled men to turn round
and look at her. We all know that she had a son some two or
three and twenty years of age, and that she had not been quite a
girl when she married. But, notwithstanding this, she was yet
young; and though she made no effort — no apparent effort— to
maintain the power and influence which beauty gives, yet she did
maintain it.

He came forward and took her by the hand with all his old affec-
tionate regard, and, muttering some words of ordinary salutation,
led her to a chair. It may be that she muttered something also,
but if so the sound was too low to reach his ears. She sat down
where he placed her, and as she put her hand on the table near her
arm, he saw that she was trembling.

* 1 g^^ your letter this morning,' he said, by way of beginning
the conversation.

* Yes,' she said ; and then, finding that it was not possible that

6 ORLET FABX.

he should hear her through her Teil, she raised it. She was Terj
pale, and there was a look of painful care, almost of agon j, raond
her mouth. He had never seen her look so pale, — ^hut he said
to himself at the same time that he had never seen her look so
beautiful.

' And to tell you the truth. Lady Mason, I was very glad to get
it. You and I had better speak openly to each other about this ; —
had we not?*

* Oh, j-es,' she said. And then there was a struggle within her
not to tremble — a struggle that was only too evident She was
aware of this, and took her hand off the table.

* I vexed you because I did not see you at The Clecve the other
dav.'

* Because I thought that yon were angry with me.'

* And I was so.*

* Oh, Mr. Fumival !'

* Wait a moment. Lady Mason. I was angry ; — or rather sorry
and vexed to hear of that which I did not approve. But your letter
has removed that feeling. I can now imderstand the manner in
which this engagement was forced upon you ; and I understand also
— do I not ? — that the engagement will not be carried out ?*

She did not answer him immediately, and he began to fear that
she repented of her pui-pose. * Because,' said he, * under no other
circumstances could I '

' Stop, Mr. Fumival. Pray do not be severe with me.* And she
looked at him with eyes which would almost have melted his wife,
— and which he was quite unable to withstand. Had it been her
wish, she might have made him promise to stand by her, even
though she had persisted in her engagement.

' No, no ; I will not be severe.'

' I do not wish to many him,' she went on to say. * I have re-
solved to tell him so. Tliat was what I said in my letter.'

* Yes, yes.'

* I do not wish to marry him. I would not bring his gray hairs

with sorrow to the grave — no, not to save myself from ' And

then, as she 1 bought of that from which she desired to save herself,
she trembled again, and was silent.

* It would create in men's minds such a strong impression against
you, were you to marry him at tliis moment!'

* It is of him I ara thinking ; — of him and Lucius. Mr. Fumival,
they might do their worst Tvith me, if it were not for that thought.
My lx)y !' And then she rose from her chair, and stood upright
bef()re him, as though she were going to do or say some terriblo
thing. He still kept his chair, for he was startled, and hardl}^ knew
what ho would bo about. That last exclamation had come from her
almost with a shriek, and now her bosom was heaving as though

HOW CAK I gATE HIM? 7

her heart would burst with the violence of her sobbing. • 1 will go,'
she said. ' I had better go.' And she hurried away towards the
door.

* No, no ; do not go yet.' And he rose to stop her, but she was
quite x)a88iye. • I do not know why you should be so much moved
now.' But he did know. He did understand the veiy essence and
core of her feelings ; — as probably may the reader also. But it was
impossible that he should allow her to leave him in her present
state.

She sat down again, and leaning both her arms upon the table,
hid her face within her hands, lie was now standing, and for the
moment did not speak to her. Indeed he could not bring himseU
to break the silence, for he saw her tears, and could still hear tbe
violence of her sobs. And then she was the first to speak. * If it
were not for him,' she said, raising her head, * 1 oould bear it alL
"What will he do ? what will he do V

' You mean,* said Mr. Fumival, speaking very slowly, * if the
— verdict — should go against us.'

* It will go against us,* she said. * Will it not ? — tell me the
truth. You are so clever, you must know. Tell me how it will go.
Is there anything I can do to save him T And she took hold of his
arm with both her hands, and looked up eagerly-— oh, with such
terrible eagerness ! — into his fiEice.

Would it not have been natural now that he should have asked
her to tell liim the truth ? And vet he did not dare to ask her. He
thought that he knew it. He felt sure, — almost sure, that he could
look into her very heart, and read there the whole of her secret.
But still there was a doubt, — enough of doubt to make him wish to
ask the question. Nevertheless he did not ask it.

* Mr. Fumival,' Bhe said ; and as she spoke there was a hardness
came over the soft lines of her feminine face ; a look of courage
which amounted almost to ferocity, a look which at the moment
recalled to his mind, as though it were but yesterday, the attitude
and countenance she had borne as she stood in the witness-box at that
other trial, now so many years since, — ^that attitude and countenance
which had impressed the whole court with so high an idea of her
<;oiirage. * Mr. Fumival, weak as I am, I could bear to die here on
the spot, — now — if I could only save him from this agony. It is
not for myself I suffer.* And then the terrible idea occuned to him
that she might attempt to compass her escape by death. But he did
not know her. That would have been no escape for her son.

* And you too think that I must not marrj* him ?' she said,
puttinp; up her hands to her brows as though to collect her
thoughts.

* N o ; certainly not, Lady Mason.'

* No, no. It would be wrong. But, Mr. Fumival, I am so

8 OBLET JFABM.

driven that I know not how I should act. What if I should lose
my mind ?' And as she looked at him there was that about her
eyes which did tell him that such an ending might be possible.

* Do not speak in such a way/ he said.

* No, I will not. I know that it is wrong. I will go down there,
and tell him that it must not, — must not be so. But I may stay at
The Cleeve ; — may I not?'

* Oh, certainly— if he wishes it, — after your understanding with
him.'

' Ah ; he may turn me out, may he not ? And they are so kind
to me, so gentle and so good. And Lucius is so stem. But I will
go back. Sternness will perhaps be better for me now than love
and kindness.'

In spite of everything, in the teeth of his almost certain convic-
tion of her guilt, he would now, even now, have asked her to come
to his own house, and have begged her to remain there till the trial
was over, — if only he had had the power to do so. What would it
be to him what the world might say, if she should be proved
guilty ? Why should not he have been mistaken as well as others ?
And he had an idea that if he could get her into his own hands he
might still bring her through triumphantly, — ^with assistance from
Solomon Aram and Ghaffanbrass. He was strongly convinced of
her guilt, but by no means strongly convinced that her guilt could
be proved. But then he had no house at the present moment that
he could call his own. His Kitty, the Kitty of wliom he still
sometimes thought with affection, — that Kitty whoso soft motherly
heart would have melted at such a story of a woman's sorrows, if
only it had been rightly approached, — that Kitty was now vehe-
mently hostile, hostile both to him and to this very woman for
whom he would have asked her care.

' May God help me !* said the poor woman. * I do not know
where else to turn for aid. Well ; I may go now then. And, in-
deed, why should I take up your time further ?'

But before she did go, Mr. Fumival gave her much coxmsel. He
did not ask as to her guilt, but he did give her that advice which
he would have thought most expedient had her guilt been declared
and owned. He told her that very much would depend on her
maintaining her present position and standing ; that she was so to
carry herself as not to let people think that she was doubtful about
the trial ; and that above all things she was to maintain a composed
and steadfast manner before her son. As to the Ormes, he bade
her not to think of leaving The Cleeve, unless she found that her
remaining there would be disagreeable to Sir Peregrine after her
explanation with him. That she was to decline the marriage
engagement, he was very positive ; on that subject there was to be
no doubt.

JOHN KENNEBY GOES TO HAMWOBTH. 9

And then she went ; and as she passed down the dark passage
into the new square by the old gate of the Chancellor's court, she
met a stout lady. The stout lady eyed her savagely, but was not
quite sure as to her identity. Lady Mason in her trouble passed
tiie stout lady without taking any notice of her.

CHAPTER II.

JOHN KENNEBY GOES TO HAMWORTH.

When John Kenneby dined with his sister and brother-in-law on
Christmas-day he agreed, at the joint advice of the whole party
there assembled, that he would go down and see Mr. Dockwrath
at Hamworth, in accordance with the invitation received from that
gentleman ; — his enemy, Dockwrath, who had carried off Miriam
Usbech, for whom John Kenneby still sighed, — in a gentle easy
manner indeed, — but still sighed as though it were an affair but
of yesterday. But though he had so agreed, and though he had
never stirred from that resolve, he by no means did it immediately.
He was a slow man, whose life had offered him but little excite-
ment ; and the little which came to him was husbanded well and
made to go a long way. He thought about this journey for nearly
a month before he took it, often going to his sister and discussing
it with her, and once or twice seeing the groat Moulder himself.
At last he fixed a day and did go down to Hamworth.

Ho had, moreover, been invited to tho offices of Messrs. Hound
and Crook, and that visit also was as yet unpaid. A clerk from
the house in Bedford Row had found him out at Hubbies and
Grease's, and had discovered that he would be forthcoming as a
witness. On the special subject of his evidence not much had then
passed, the clerk having had UD discretion given him to sift the
matter. But Kenneby had promised to go to Bedford Row, merely
stipulating for a day at some little distance of time. That day was
now near at hand ; but ho was to see Dockwrath first, and hence
it occurred that he now made his journey to Hamworth.

But another member of that Christmas party at Great St. Helen's
had not been so slow in carrying out his little project. Mr. Kant-
Avise had at once made up his mind that it would be as well that
ho should see Dockwrath. It would not suit him to incur the
expense of a journey to Hamworth, even with the additional view
of extracting payment for that set of metallic furniture ; but he
wrote to the attorney telling him that he should be in London in
the way of trade on such and such a day, and that he had tidings
of importance to give with reference to the great Orley Farm case.

10 UBLEY FABM.

Dockwrath did see bim, and the result was that Mr. Kantwise got
his money, fourteen eleven ; — at least he got fourteen seven six, and
had a very hard fight for the three odd half-crowns, — and Dock-
wrath learned that John Kenneby, if duly used, would give
evidence on his side of the question.

And then Konneby did go down to Ilaniworth. He had not
seen Miriam Usbech since the days of her marriage. He had
remained hanging about the neighbourhood long enough to feast
liis eyes with the agony of looking at the bride, and then he had
torn himself away. Circumstances since that had carried him one
way and Miriam another, and they had never mot. Time had
changed him very little, and what change time had made was
perh^>8 for the better. He hesitated less when he spoke, he was
less straggling and imdecided in his appearance, and had about
him more of manhood than in former days. But poor Miriam had
certainly not been altered for the better by years and circumstances
as far as outward appearance went.

Kenneby as he walked up from the station to the house, — and
from old remembrances he knew well where the house stood, — gave
np his mind entirely to the thought of seeing Miriam, and in his
memories of old love passages almost forgot the actual business
which now brought him to the place. To him it seemed as though
he was going to meet the same Miriam he ' had left, — the Miriam
to whom in former days he had hardly ventured to speak of love,
and to whom he must not now venture so to speak at all. He
almost blushed as he remembered that he would have to take her
hand.

There are men of this sort, men slow in their thoughts but very
keen in their memories ; men who will look for the glance of a
certain bright eye from a window-pane, though years have rolled
on since last they saw it, — since last they passed that window.
Such men will bethink themselves, after an interval of weeks, how
they might have brought up wit to their use and improved an
occasion which chance had given them. But when the bright eyes
do glance, such men pass by abashed ; and when the occasion offers,
their wit is never at hand. Kevertheless they are not the least
happy of mankind, these never-readies ; they do not pick up sudden
prizes, but they hold fast by such good things as the ordinary run
of life bestows upon them. There was a lady even now, a friend
of Mrs. Moulder, ready to bestow herself and her fortune on John
Kenneby, — a larger fortune than Miriam had possessed, and one
which would not now probably be neutralized by so large a family
as poor Miriam had bestowed upon her husband.

How would Miriam meet him ? It was of this he thought, as he
approached the door. Of course he must call her Mrs. Dockwrath,
though the other name was so often on his tongue. He had made up

JOHN KENNEBY GOES TO HAMWOBTH. 11

liifi mind, for the last week past, that he would call at the private door
of the house, paeeing by the door of the office. Otherwise the chances
were that he would not see Miriam at alL His enemy, Dookwrath,
would be sure to keep him from her presence. Dockwrath had
ever been inordinately jealous. But when he came to the office-
door he hardly had the courage to pass on to that of the private
dwelling. His heart beat too quickly, and the idea of seeing
Miriam was almost too much for him. But, nevertheless, he did
carry out his plan, and did knock at the door of the house.

And it was opened by Miriam herself. He knew her instantly
in spito of all the change. He knew her, but the whole course of
his feelings were altered at the moment, and his blood was made
to run the other way. And she knew him too. * La, John,' she
said, * who'd have thought of seeing you?* And she shifted the
baby whom she carried from one arm to the other as she gave him
her hand in token of welcome.

' It is a long time since we met,' he said. He felt hardly any
temptation now to call her Miriam. Indeed it woidd have seemed
altogellicr in opposition to the common order of things to do so.
She was no longer Miriam, but the maternal Dockwrath; — the
mother of that long string of dirty children whom he saw gathered
in the passage behind her. He had known as a fiEU)t that she had
all the children, but the fact had not made the proper impression
on his mind till he had seen theuL

* A long time ! 'Deed then it is. Why we've hardly seen each
other since you used to be a courting of me ; have we ? But, my 1
Juhii ; why haven't you got a wife for yourself these many years ?
But come in. I'm glad to see every bit of you, so I am ; though
I've hardly a place to put you to sit down in.' And then she
opened a door and took him into a little sitting-room on the left-
hand side of the passage.

His feeling of intense enmity to Dockwrath was beginning to
wear away, and one of modified friendship for the whole family
was supervening. It was much better that it should be so. He
could not understand before how Dockwrath had had the heart to
write to him and call him John, but now he did understand it.
He felt that he could himself bo friendly with Dockwrath now,
and forgive him all the injury ; he felt also that it would not go
so much against the grain with him to marry that friend as to
whom his sister would so often solicit him.

* I think you may venture to sit down upon them,' said Miriam,
* though I can't say that I have ever tried myself.' This speech
referred to the chairs with which her room was supplied, and
which Kenneby seemed to regard with suspicion.

' They are very nice I'm sure,' said ho, * but I don't think I ever
saw any like them.'

12 OBLEY FARM.

* Nor nobody else either. Put don't you tell him go,' and she
nodded with her head to the side of the house on which the office
stood. * I had as nice a set of mahoganys as ever a woman could
want, and bought with my own money too, John ; but he's took
them away to furnish some of his lodgings opposite, and put them
things here in their place. Don't, Sam ; you'll have *em all twisted
about nohows in no time if you go to use 'em in that way.'

* I wants to see the pictur' on the table,' said Sam.

* Drat the picture,' said Mrs, Dockwrath. * It was hard, wasn't
it, John, to see my own mahoganys, as I had rubbed with my own
hands till they was ever so bright, and as was bought with my own
money too, took away and them things brought here ? Sam, if you
twist that round any more, I'll box your ears. One can't hear
oneself speak with the noise.'

' They don't seem to be very useful,' said Kenneby.

' Useful ! They're got up for cheatery ; — that's what they're got
up for. And that Dockwrath should be took in with 'em — he that's
80 sharp at everything, — that's what surprises me. But laws, John,
it isn't the sharp ones that gets the best off. You was never sharp,
but you're as smirk and smooth as though you came out of a band-
box. I am glad to see you, John, so I am.' And she put her apron
up to her eyes and wiped away a tear.

* Is Mr. Dockwrath at home ?' said John.

* Sam, run round and see if your father's in the office. He'll be
home to dinner, I know. Molly, do be quiet with your sister. I
never see such a girl as you are for bothering. You didn't come
down about business, did you, John?' And then Kenneby ex-
plained to her that he had been summoned by Dockwrath as to the
matter of this Orley Farm trial. While he was doing so, Sam
returned to say that his father had stepped out, but would be back
in half an hour, and Mrs. Dockwrath, finding it impossible to make
use of her company sitting-room, took her old lover into the family
apartment which they all ordinarily occupied.

*You can sit down there at any rate without it all cninching
under you, up to nothing.' And she emptied for him as she spoke
the seat of an old well-worn horse-hair bottomed arm-chair. * As
to them tin things I wouldn't trust myself on one of them ; and so
I told him, angry as it made him. But now about poor Lady

Mason . Sam and Molly, you go into the garden, there's good

children. They is so ready with their ears, John ; and he contrives
to get everything out of 'em. Now do tell me about this.'

Kenneby could not help thinking that the love match between
Miriam and her husband had not turned out in all respects well^
and I fear that ho derived from the thought a certain feeling of
consolation. * He ' was spoken about in a manner that did not
betoken imfailing love and perfect confidence. Perhaps Miriam

JOHN KENNEBY GOES TO HAMWORTH. 13

was at thiB moment thinking that she might have done hetter with
her youth and her money! She was thinking of nothing of the
kind. Her mind was one that dwelt on the present, not on the
past She was nnhappy about her furniture, unhappy about the
frocks of those four younger children, unhappy that the loaves of
bread went faster and faster every day, very unhappy now at the
savageness with which her husband prosecuted his anger against
Lady Mason. But it did not occur to her to be unhappy because
she had not become Mrs. Kenneby.

Mrs. Dockwrath had more to tell in the matter than had Kenneby,
and when the elder of the children who were at home had been
disposed of she was not slow to tell it. * Isn't it dreadful, John, to
think that they should come against her now, and the will all
settled as it was twenty year ago ? But you won't say anything
against her ; will you now, John ? She was always a good friend
to you ; wasn't she ? Though it wasn't much use ; was it ?* It was
thus that she referred to the business before them, and to the love
passages of her early youth at the same time.

* It's a very dreadful afifair,' said Kenneby, very solemnly ; ' and
the more I think of it the more dreadful it becomes.'

* But you won't say anything against her, will you ? You won't
go over to his side ; eh, John ?*

' I don't know much about sides,' said he.

* He'll get himself into trouble with it ; I know he will. I do
so wish you'd tell him, for he can't hurt you if you stand up to him.
If I speak, — Lord bless you, I don't dare to call my soul my own
for a week afterwards.'

* Is he so very *

' Oh, dreadful, John. He's bid me never speak a word to her.
But for all that I used till she went away down to The Cleeve
yonder. And what do you think they say now^ And I do
believe it too. They say that Sir Peregrine is going to make her
his lady. If he does that it stands to reason that Dockwrath and
Joseph Mason will get the worst of it. I'm siire I hope they will ;
only he'll be twice as hard if he don't make money by it in some
way.'

* Will he, now ?'

' Indeed he will. You never knew anything like him for hard-
ness if things go wrong awhile. I know he's got lots of money,
because he's always buying up bits of houses; besides, what has
he done with mine ? but yet sometimes you'd hardly think he'd let

me have bread enough for the children — and as for clothes !'

Poor Miriam ! It seemed that her husband shared with her but few
of the spoils or triumphs of his profession.

Tidings now came in from the office that Dockwrath was there.
* You'll come round and eat a bit of dinner with us ?' said she,

14 OBLET FABX.

hemtatiDgly. He felt thai she hesitated, and hesitated himself in his
reply. * He must say something in the way of asking yon, yon
know, and then say you'll come. His manner's nothing to yon,
yon know. Do now. It does me good to look at you, John ; it
does indeed.' And then, without making any promise, he left her
•od went ronnd to the office.

Kenneby had made np his mind, talking over the matter with
Moulder and his sister, that he would be very reserved in any com*
munication which he might make to Dockwrath as to his possible
ervidence at the coming trial ; but nevertheless when Dockwrath
had got him into his office, the attorney made him give a succinct
account of everything he knew, taking down his deposition in a
Tegular manner. • And now if you'll just sign that/ Doc-kwrath
•aid to him when he had done.

* I don't know about signing,' said Kenneby. * A man should
never write his own name unless ho knows why.'

* You must sign your own deposition ;' and the attorney frowned
at him and looked savage. ' What would a judge say to you in
court if you had made such a statement as this, affecting the cha-
racter of a woman like Lady Mason, and then had refused to sign
it? You'd never be able to hold up your head again.'

* Wouldn't I ?' said Kenneby gloomily ; and he did sign it. This
was a great triumph to Dockwrath. Mat Bound had succeeded in
getting the deposition of Bridget Bolster, but he had got that of
John Kenneby.

* And now,' said Dockwrath, ' I'll tell you what we'll do ; — we'll
go to the Blue l*osts — you remember the Blue Posts? — and I'll
stand a beef steak and a glass of brandy and water. I suppcso
you'll go back to London by the 3 p.m. train, W'e shall have lots
of time.*

Kenneby said that he should go back by the 3 p.m. train, but ho
declined, with considerable hesitation, the beef steak and brandy
and water. After what had passed between him and Miriam he
could not go to iho Blue Posts with her husband.

* Nonsense, man,' said Dockwrath. * You must dine somewhere.'
But Kenneby said that ho should dine in London. Ho always

preferred dining late. Besides, it was a long time since he had
been at Ham worth, and he was desirous of taking a walk that ho
might renew his associations.

' Associations!' said Dockwrath with a sneer. According to his
ideas a man could have no pleasant associations with a place unless
he had made money there or been in some way successful. Now
John Kenneby had enjoyed no success at Hamworth. ' Well then,
if you prefer associations to the Blue Posts I'll say good-bye to you.
I don't understand it myself. AVe shall see each other at the trial
you kno\v.' Kenneby with a sigh said that he supposed they should.

JOHN eenneby's coubtship. 15

' Are you going into the house/ said Dockwrath, ' to see her
again?* and he indicated with his head the side on which his wife
was, as she before had indicated his side.

* Well, yes ; I think 1*11 say good-bye.'

* Don't be talking to her about this affidr. She understaada
nothing about it, and everything goes up to that woman at Orley
Farm.' And so they parted.

* And he wanted you to go to the Blue Posts, did he ?* scdd
Miriam when she heard of the proposition. * It's like him. If
there is to be any money spent it*s anywhere but at home.*

' But I aint going,* said John.

^ He*ll go before the day's out, though he mayn*t get his dinner
there. And he'll be ever so free when he's there. He'll stand
brandy and water to half Uamworth when he thinks he can get
anything by it ; but if you'll believe me, John, though I've all the
fag of the house on me, and all them children, I can't get a pint of
beer — not regular — betwixt breakout and bedtime.* Poor Miriam I
Why had she not taken advice when she was yotmger ? John Een-
neby would have given her what beer was good for her, quite
regularly.

Then he went out and took his walk, satmtering away to the gate
of Orley Farm, and looking up the avenue. He ventured up some
way, and there at a distance before him he saw Lucius Mason
walking up and down, from the house towards the road and back
again, swinging a heavy stick in his hand, with his hat pressed
down over his brows. Kenneby had no desire to speak to him ; so
he returned to the gate, and thence went back to the station,
escaping the town by a side lane ; and in this way he got back to
London without holding further communication with the people of
Hamworth.

CHAPTER nL

JOHN KENNEBY's courtship.

' She's as sweet a temper, John,' as ever stirred a lump of sugar in
her tea,' said Mrs. Moulder to her brother, as they sat together over
the fire in Great St. Helen's on that same evening, — after his return
from Hamworth. * That she is, — and so Smiley always found her.
" She's always the same," Smiley said to me many a day. And
what can a man want more than that ?'

* That's quite true,' said John.

' And then as to her habits — I never knew her take a drop too
much since first I set eyes on her, and that's nigh twenty years ago*

16 ORLEY FAIiM.

She likes things comfortable ; — and why shouldn't she, with two
hundred a year of her own coming out of the Kingsland Road brick*
fields ? As for dress, her things is beautiful, and she is the woman
that takes care of 'em! Why, 1 remember an Irish tabinet as
Smiley gave her when first that venture in the brick-fields came up
money ; if that tabinet is as much as turned yet, why, 1*11 eat it.
And then, the best of it is, she'll have you to-morrow. Indeed she
will ; or to-night, if you'll ask her. Goodness gracious ! if there
aint Moulder 1' And the excellent wife jumped up from her seat,
poked the fire, emptied the most comfortable arm-chair, and hurried
out to the landing at the top of the stairs. Presently the noise of
a loudly wheezing pair of lungs was heard, and the commercial
traveller, enveloped from head to foot in coats and comforters, made
his appearance. He had just returned from a journey, and having
deposited his parcels and packages at the house of business of
Hubbies and Grease in Houndsditch, had now returned to the
bosom of his family. It was a way he had, not to let his wife know
exactly the period of his return. Whether he thought that by so
doing he might keep her always on the alert and ready for marital
inspection, or whether he disliked to tie himself down by the obli-
gation of a fixed time for his return, Mrs. Moulder had never made
herself quite sure. But on neither view of the subject did she
admire this practice of her lord. She had on many occasions
pointed out to him how much more snug she could make him if he
would only let her know when he was coming. But he had never
taken the hint, and in these latter days she had ceased to give it.

' Why, I'm uncommon cold,' he said in answer to his wife's in-
quiries after his welfare. ' And so would you be too, if you'd come
up from Leeds since you'd had your dinner. What, John, are you
there ? The two of you are making yourself snug enough, I sup-
TDOse, with something hot ?'

* Not a drop he's had yet since he's been in the house,' 'said
Mrs. Moulder. * And he's hardly as much as darkened the door
since you left it.' And Mrs. Moulder added, with some little hesi-
tation in her voice, * Mrs. Smiley is coming in to-night. Moulder.'

* The d she is I There's always something of that kind when

I gets home tired out, and wants to be comfortable. I mean to
have my supper to myself, as I likeS it, if all the Mother Smileys in
London choose to come the way. What on earth is she coming
here for this time of night ?'

' Why, Moulder, you know.'

* Ko ; I don't know. I only know this, that when a man's used
up with business he don't want to have any of that nonsense under
his nose.'

* If you mean me ' began John Kenneby.

' I don't mean you ; of course not ; and I don't mean anybody.

JOHN kenkeby's courtship. 17

Here, take my ooats, will you ? and let me have a pair of slippers.
If Mrs. Smiley thinks that I'm going to change my pants, or pat
myself about for her *

^ Laws, Moulder, she don't expect that.'

' She won't get it any way. Here's John dressed up as if he waa
going to a box in the the-atre. And you — why should you be going
to expense, and knocking out things that costs money, because
Mother Smiley's coming ? 1*11 Smiley her.'

' Now, Moulder — ' But Mrs. Moulder knew that it was of no
use speaking to him at the present moment. Her task should be
this, — to feed and cosset him if possible into good humour before
her guest should arrive. Her praises of Mrs. Smiley had been very
fairly true. But nevertheless she was a lady who had a mind and
voice of her own, as any lady has a right to possess who draws in
her own right two hundred a year out of a brick-field in the Kings-
land Eoad. Such a one knows that she is above being snubbed, and
Mrs. Smiley knew this of herself as well as any lady ; and if
Moulder, in'his wrath, should call her Mother Smiley, or give her
to understand that he regarded her as an old woman, that lady
would probably walk herself off in great dudgeon, — herself and her
share in the brick-field. To toll the truth, Mrs. Smiley required
that considerable deference should be paid to her.

Mrs. Moulder knew well what was her husband's present aiboent.
He had dined as early as one, and on his journey up from Leeds to
London had refreshed himself with drink only. That last glass of
bmndy which he had taken at the Peterborough station had made
him cross. If she could get him to swallow some hot food before
Mrs. Smiley came, all might yet bo well.

' And what's it to be, M. ? she said in her most insinuating voice
— * there's a lovely chop down stairs, and there's nothing so quick
as that.'

* Chop !' he said, and it was all he did say at the moment.

* There's a 'am in beautiful cut,' she went on, showing by the
urgency of her voice how anxious she was on the subject.

For the moment he did not answer her at all, but sat facing the
fire, and running his fat fingers through his uncombed hair. * Mrs.
Smiley !' he said ; * I remember when she was kitchen-maid at old
Tott's.'

* She aint nobody's kitchen-maid now,' said Mrs. Moulder, almost
prepared to be angry in the defence of her friend.

' And I never could make out when it was that Smiley married
her, — that is, if he ever did.'

* Now, Moulder, that's shocking of you. Of course he married
her. She and I is nearly an age as possible, though I tliink she is
a year over me. She says not, and it aint nothing to me. But I
remember the wedding as if it was yesterday. You and I had never

VOL. II. C

18 OBLET FABM.

set eyes on each other then, M.' This last she added in a plaintive
tone, hoping to soften him.

' Are 5'ou going to keep me here all night without anything ? he
then said. * Let me have some whisky, — hot, with; — and don't
stand there looking at nothing.'

' But you'll take some solids with it. Moulder ? AVhy it stands
to reason you'll be famished.'

* Do as you're bid, will you, and give me the whisky. Are you
going to tell me when I'm to eat and when I'm to drink, like a
child ?' This he said in that tone of voice which made Mrs. Moulder
know that he meant to be obeyed ; and though she was sure that he
would make himself drunk, she was compelled to minister to his
desires. She got the whisky and hot water, the lemon and sugar,
and set the things beside him ; and then she retired to the SO&.
John Kenneby the while sat perfectly silent looking on. Perhaps
he was considering whether he would be able to emulate the
domestic management of Dockwrath or of Moulder when he should
have taken to himself Mrs. Smiley and the Kingsland l^rick-field.

* If you've a mind to help yourself, John, I suppose you'll do it,'
said Moulder.

' None for me just at present, thank'ee,' said Kenneby.

* I suppose you wouldn't swallow nothing less than wine in them
togs ?' said the other, raising his glass to his lips. * Well, here's
better luck, and I'm blessed if it's not wanting. I'm pretty well
tired of this go, and so I mean to let 'em know pretty plainly.'

All this was understood by Mra. Moulder, who knew that it only
signified that her husband ^'as half tipsy, and that in all proba-
bility he would be whole tipsy before long. There was no help
for it. Were she to remonstrate with him in his present mood, he
would very probably fling tlie bottle at her head. Indeed, remon-
strances were never of avail with him. So she sat herself down,
thinking how she would run down when she heard Mrs. Smile^-'s
step, and beg that lady to postpone her visit. Indeed it would be
well to send John to convey her home again.

Moulder swallowed his glass of hot toddy fast, and then mixed
another. His eyes were very bloodshot, and he sat staring at the
fire. His hands were thrust into his pockets between the periods

of his drinking, and be no longer spoke to any one. * I'm if

I stand it,' he growled forth, addressing himself. * I've stood it a

deal too long.' And then he finished the second glass. There

was a sort of understanding on the part of his wife that such inter-
jections as these referred to Hubbies and Grease, and indicated a
painfully advanced state of drink. There was one hope ; the double
heat, that of the fire and of the whisky, might make him sleep ;
and if so, he would be safe for two or three hours.

' I'm blessed if I do, and that's all,' said Moulder, grasping the

JOHN KENNEDY'S COURTSHIP, 19

whifiky-bottle for the third time. His wife, sat behind hhn very
anxious, but not daring to interfere. / It's going over the table^
M.,' she then said.

* D the table I' he answered ; and then his bead fell forward

on his.breast, and he was fast asleep with the bottle in his hand.

* Put your hand to it, John/ said Mrs. Moulder in a whisper. But
John hesitated. The lion might rouse himself if his prey were touched.

* IIe*ll let it go easy if you put your hand to it. • He's safe
enough now. There. If we could only get him back from the fire
a little, or his facell be burnt off of him.'

' But you wouldn't move him ?

* Well, yes ; we'll tiy. I've done it before, and he's never stirred.
Come here, just behind. The casters is good, I know. Laws ! aint
he heavy ?' And then they slowly dragged him back. He granted
out some half-pronounced threat as they moved him ; but he did
not stir, and his wife knew that she was again mistress of the room
for the nexj; two hours. It was true that he snored horribly, but
then she was used to that.

' You won't let her come up, will you V said John.

* AVhy not ? She knows what men is as well I do. Smiley wasn't
that way often, I believe ; but he was awful when lie was. He
wouldn't sleep it off, quite innocent, like that ; but would break
everj'thing about the place, and then cry like a child after it. Now
Moulder's got none of that about him. The worst of it is, how am
I ever to get him into bed when he wakes T

AVhile the anticipation of this great trouble was still on her mind,
the ring at the bell was heard, and John Eonncby went down to the
outer door that he might pay to Mrs. Smiley the attention of waiting
upon her up stairs. And up stairs she came, bristling with silk —
the identical Irish tabinet, perhaps, which had never been turned —
and conscious of the business which had brought her.

* AVhat — Moulder's asleep is ho ?' she said as she entered the room.
* I suppose that's as good as a pair of gloves, any way.'

' Ho aint just very well,' said Mrs. Moulder, winking at her
friend ; * he's tired after a long journey.'

* Oh — h ! ah — h !' said Mrs. SmUey, looking down upon the
sleeping beauty, and understanding everything at a glance. • It's
uncommon bad for him, you know, because he's so given to flesh.*

* It's as much fatigue as anything,' said the wife.

* Yes, I dare say ;' and Mrs. Smiley shook her head. < If he
fatigues himself so much as that often he'll soon be off the hooks.'

Much was imdoubtedly to be borne from two hundred a year in a
brick-field, especially when that two hundred a year was coming so
very near home ; but there is an amount of impeiftinent familiarity
which must be put down even in two hundred a year. • I've known
worse cases than him, my dear; and that ended worse.'

20 OSUET FABM.

^ Oh, I dare wkj. But you're mistook if joa mean Smilej. It
WM 'tepilus M took him off, as eTerybodj knows.'

* Well, my dear, I'm sure I'm not going to say anything against
that. And now, John, do help her off with her bonnet and shawl,
while I get the tea-things.'

Mrs. Smiley was a firm set, healthy-looking woman of— about
Ibrty. She had large, dark, glassy eyes, which were bright without
sparkling. Her cheeks were very red, haTing a fixed settled colour
that never altered with circumstances. Her black wiry hair was
ended in short crisp carls, which sat close to her head. It almost
collected like a wig, but the hair was in truth her own. Her mouth
was small, and her lips thin, and they gave to her fiu^e a look of
sharpness that was not quite agreeable. Neyertheless she was not
a bad-looking woman, and with such advantages as two hundred
a year and the wardrobe which Mrs. Moulder had described, was
no doubt entitled to look for a second husband.

* Well, Mr. Kenneby, and how do you find yourself this cold
weather ? Dear, how he do snore ; don't he ?*

* Yes,' said Kenneby, very thoughtfully, * he does rather.' He
was thinking of Miriam Usbech as she was twenty years ago, and
of ^Irs. Smiley as she appeared at present. Not that he felt inclined
to grumble at the lot prepared for him, but that he would like to
take a few more years to think about it.

And then they sat down to tea. The lovely chops which Moulder
had despised, and the ham in beautiful cut which had failed to
tempt him, now met with due appreciation. Mrs. Smiley, though
she had never been known to take a drop too much, did like to have
thingH comfortable; and on this occasion she made an excellent
meal, with a large pocket-handkerchief of Moulder's — brought in for
the occasion — stretched across the broad expanse of the Irish
tabinet. ' We sha'n't wake him, shall we V said she, as she took her
last bit of muffin.

* Not till he wakes natural, of hisself,' said Mrs. Moulder. * When
he's worked it off, he'll rouse himself, and I shall have to get him to
bed.'

* He'll be a bit patchy then, won't he?'

* Well, just for a while of course he will,' said Mrs. Moulder.
* But there's worse than him. To-morrow morning, maybe, he'll be
just as sweet as sweet. It don't hang about him, sullen like. That'
what I hate, when it hangs about 'em.' Then the tea-things were
taken away, Mrs. Smiley in her familiarity assisting in the removal,
and — in spite of the example now before them — some more sugar
and some more spirits, and some more hot water were put upon the
table. ' Well, I don't mind just the least taste in life, Mrs. Moulder,
as we're quite between friends ; and I'm sure you'll want it to-night
to keep yourself up.' Mrs. Moulder would have answered these last

JOHN kenneby's coubtship. 21

words with some severity had she not felt that good hamour now
might be of great value to her brother.

* Well, John, and what is it youVe got to say to her ?* said Mrs.
Moulder, as she put down her empty glass. Between friends who
understood each other so well, and at their time of life, what was
the use of ceremony ?

* La, Mrs. Moulder, what should he have got to say ? Nothing
I*m sure as I'd think of listening to.*

* You try her, John.*

* Not but what I*ve the greatest respect in life for Mr. Kenneby,
and always did have. If you must have anything to do with men, I've
always said, recommend me to them as is quiet and steady, and hasn't
got too much of the gab ; — a quiet man is the man for me any day.'

* Well, John ?* said Mrs. Moulder.

* Now, Mrs. Moulder, can't you keep yourself to yourself, and we
shall do very well. Laws, how he do snore ! "When his head goee
bobbling that way I do so fear he*ll have a fit.'

* No ho won't ; he*s coming to, all right. Well, John ?'

* I'm sure I shall be very happy,' said John, * if she likes it. She
says that she respects me, and I'm sure I've a great respect for her.
I always had — oven when Mr. Smiley was alive.'

* It's very good of you to say so,' said she ; not speaking however
as though she were quite satisfied. What was the use of his
remembering Smiley just at present ?

* Enough's enough between friends any day,' said IMrs. Moulder.
* So give her your hand, John.'

' I tliink it'll be right to say one thing first,' said Kenneby, with
a solemn and deliberate tone.

' And what's that ?' said Mrs. Smiley, eagerly.

* In such a matter as this,' continued Kenneby, * where the hearts
are concerned '

* You didn't say anything about hearts yet,' said Mrs. Smiley,
with Kome measure of approbation in her voice.

* Didn't I,' said Kenneby. ' Then it was an omission on my
part, and I beg leave to apologize. I'ut what I was going to say is
this : when the hearts are concerned, everything should be honest
and above-board.'

* Oh of course,' said Mrs. Moulder ; * and I'm sure slie don't
Kuspect nothing else.'

' You'd better let him go on,' said Mrs. Smiley.

* My heart has not been free from woman's lovely image.'

* And isn't free now, is it, John ?' said Mrs. Moulder.

* I'vo liad my object, and though she's been another's, still I've
kept her image on my heart.'

' But it aint there any longer, John? He's speaking of twenty
years ago, Mrs. Smiley.'

22 OBLEY FAfiH.

• It's quite beautiful to hear him,' said Mrs. Smiley. * Go on, Mr.
Kenneby.'

• The years are gone by as though ihey was nothing, and still I've
had her image on my heart. IVe seen her to-day.'

• Her gentleman's still alive, aint he ?' asked Mrs. Smiley.

• And likely to live,' said lilrs. Moulder.

• I've Been her to-day,' Kenneby continued ; * and now the
Adriatic's free to wed another.'

Neither of the ladies present exactly understood the force of the
quotation ; but as it contained an appropriate reference to marriage,
and apparently to a second marriage, it was taken by both of them
in good part. He was considered to liave made his offer, and Mrs.
Smiley thereupon formally accepted him. * He's spoke quite hand-
some, I'm sure,' said Mrs. Smiley to his sister ; *and 1 don't know that

any woman has a right to expect more. As to the brick-fields .'

And then there was a slight reference to business, with which it
will not be necessary that the readers of this story should embarrass
themselves.

Soon after that Mr. Kenneby saw Mrs. Smiley home in a cab,
and poor Mrs. Moulder sat by her lord till he roused himself from
his sleep. Let us hope that her troubles with him were as little
vexatious as possible ; and console ourselves with the reflection that
at twelve o'clock the next morning, after the second bottle of soda
and brandy, he was * as sweet as sweet.'

CHAPTER IV.

SHOWIXO HOW LADY il.VSON COULD BE VERY NOBLE.

Lady Mason returned to The Cleeve after her visit to Mr. Fumival's
chambers, and nobody asked her why she had been to London or
whom she had seen. Nothing could be more gracious than the
deference which was shown to her, and the perfect freedom of action
which was accorded to her. On that very day Lady Staveley had
called at The Cleeve, explaining to Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Ormo
that her visit was made expressly to Lady Mason. * I should have
called at Orley Farm, of course,' said Lady Staveley, ' only that I
hear that Lady Mason is likely to prolong her visit with you. I
must trust to j^ou, Mrs. Omie, to make all that understood.' Sir
Peregrine took upon himself to say that it all should bo understood,
and then drawing Lady Staveley aside, told her of his own intended
marriage. * I cannot but be aware,' he said, ' that I have no
business to trouble you with an affair that is so exclusively our
own ; but I have a winh, which perhaps you may understand, that
there should be no Fccret about it. I tliink it better, for her sake.

SHOWING now LADY MASON COULD BE VERY NOBLE. 23

that it should be known. If Iho connection can be of any service to
her, bhe should reap that benefit now, when some people are treating
her name with a barbarity which I believe to be almost unparalleled
in this country.' In answer to this Lady Staveley was of course
obliged to congratulate him, and she did so with the best grace in
her power ; but it was not easy to say much that was cordial, and
as she drove back with Mrs. Arbuthnot to Noningsby the words
which were said between them as to Lady Mason were not so kindly
meant towards that lady as their remarks on their journey to The
Cleeve.

Lady Staveley had hoped, — though she had hardly expressed her
hope even to herself, and certainly had not spoken of it to any one
else, — that she might have been able to say a word or two to Mrs.
Orme about young Peregrine, a word or two that would have shown
her own good feeling towards the young man, — her own regard, and
almost affection for him, even though this might have been done
without any mention of Madeline's name. She might have learned
in this way whether young i)rme had made known at home what
liad been his hopes and what his disappointments, and might have
formed some opinion whether or no he would renew his suit. She
would not have been the first to mention her daughter's name ; but
if Mrs. Orme should speak of it, then the subject would be free for
her, and she could let it be known that the heir of The Cleeve
should at any rate have her sanction and good wilL What happi-
ness could bo so great for her as that of having a daughter so settled,
within eight miles of her ? And then it was not only that a marriage
between her daughter and Peregrine Orme would be an event so
fortunate, but also that those feelings with reference to Felix
Graham were so unfortunate I That young heart, she thought, could
not as yet be heavy laden, and it might be possible that the whole
affair should be made to run in the proper course, — if only it could
bo done at once. But now, that tale which Sir Peregrine had told
her respecting himself and Lady Mason had made it quite impossible
that anything should be said on the other subject. And then again,
if it was decreed that the Noningsby family and the family of The
Cleeve should bo connected, would not such a marriage as this
between the baronet and Lady Mason be very injurious ? So that
Lady Staveley was not quite happy as she returned to her own house.

Lady Stavcley's message, however, for Lady Mason was given
with all its full force. Sir Pcregi'ine had felt grateful for what had
been done, and Mrs. Orme, in talking of it, made quite the most of
it. Civility from the Staveleys to the Ormes would not, in the ordi-
nary course of things, be accounted of any special value. The two
families miglit, and naturally would, know each other on intimate
terms. But the Ormes would as a matter of course stand the
highest in general estimation. Now, however, the Ormes had to

24 OBLEf FARM.

bear tip Lady Mason with them. Sir Peregrine had so willed it,
and Mrs. Orme had not for a moment thought of contesting the wish
of one whose wishes she had never contested. No words were
spoken on the subject ; but still with both of them there was a feel-
ing that Lady Staveley's countenance and open friendship would be
of value. When it had come to this with Sir Per^rine Orme, he
was already disgraced in his own estimation, — already disgraced,
although he declared to himself a thousand times that he was only
doing his duty as a gentleman.

On that evening Lady Mason said no word of her new purpose.
She had pledged herself both to Peregrine Orme and to Mr. Fumival.
To both she had made a distinct promise that she would break off
her engagement, and she knew well that the deed should be done at
once. But how was she to do it ? With what words was she to
tell him that she had changed her mind and would not take the
hand that he had offered to her ? She feared to be a moment alone
with Peregrine lest he should tax her with the non-fulfilment of her
promise. But in truth Peregrine at the present moment was
thinking more of another matter. It had almost come home to him
that his grandfather's marriage might facilitate his own ; and though
he still was far from reconciling himself to the connection with Lady
Mason, he was almost disposed to put up with it

On the following day, at about noon, a chariot with a pair of post-
horses was brought up to the door of The Cleeve at a very fast pace,
and the two ladies soon afterwards learned that Lord Alston was
closeted with Sir Peregrine. Lord Alston was one of Sir Pere-
grine's oldest friends. He was a man senior both in age and
standing to the baronet ; and, moreover, he was a friend who came
but seldom to ITie Cleeve, although his friendship was close and
intimate. Nothing was said between Mrs. Orme and Lady Mason,
but ea(;h dreaded that Lord Alston had come to remonstrate about
the marriage. And so in truth he had. The two old men were
together for about an hour, and then Lord Alston took his departure
without asking for, or seeing any other one of the family. Lord
Alston had remonstrated about the marriage, using at last very
strong language to dissuade the baronet from a step which he
thought so unfortunate ; but he had remonstrated altogether in vain.
Every word he had used was not only fruitless, but injurious ; for
Sir Peregrine was a man whom it was very difficult to rescue by
opposition, though no man might be more easily led by assumed
acquiescence.

* Orme, my dear fellow,* said his lordship, towards the end of the
interview, * it is my duty, as an old friend, to tell you this.'

* Then, Lord Alston, you have done your duty.'

* Not while a hope remains that I may prevent this marriage.'

* There is ground for no such hope on your part; and permit me

SHOWIKG HOW LADY MASON GOULD BE VERY NOBLE. 25

to say that the expression of such a hope to me is greatly wanting
in courtesy.'

* You and I,' continued Lord Alston, without apparent attention
to the last words which Sir Peregrine had spoken, * have nearly
come to the end of our tether here. Our careers have been run ;
and I think I may say as regards both, but I may certainly say as
regards you, that they have been so run that we have not disgraced
those who preceded us. Our dearest hopes should be that our
names may never be held as a reproach by those who come after
us.'

' With God's blessing I will do nothing to disgrace my family.'

* But, Orme, you and I cannot act as may those whose names in
the world are altogether unnoticed. I know that you are doing
this from a feeling of charity to that lady.'

* I am doing it, Lord Alston, because it so pleases me.'

* But your first charity is due to your grandson. Suppose that
he was making an offer of his hand to the daughter of some noble-
man,— as he is so well entitled to do, — how would it affect his hopes
if it were known that you at the time had married a lady whose
misfortune made it necessary that she should stand at the bar in a
criminal court?'

* Lord Alston,' said Sir Peregrine, rising from his chair, * I trust
that my gi*andson may never rest his hopes on any woman whose
heart could be hardened against him by such a thought as that.'

* But what if she should bo guilty ?' said Lord Alston.

* Permit me to say,' said Sir Peregrine, still standing, and stand-
ing now bolt upright, as though his years did not weigh on him a
feather, ' that this conversation has gone far enough. There are
some surmises to which I cannot listen, even from Lord Alston.'

Then his lordship shrugged his shoulders, declared that in speak-
ing as he had spoken he had endeavoured to do a friendly duty by
an old friend, — certainly the oldest, and almost the dearest friend
lie had, — and so he took his leave. The wheels of the chariot were
heard grating over the gravel, as he was carried away from the
door at a gallop, and the two ladies looked into each other's faces,
saying nothing. Sir Peregrine was not seen from that time till
dinner ; but when he did come into the drawing-room his manner
to Lady Mason was, if possible, more gracious and more affectionate
than ever.

* So Lord Alston was here to-day,' Peregrine said to his mother
that night before he went to bed.

* Yes, he was here.'

' It was about this marriage, mother, as sure as I am standing
here.'

* I don't think Lord Alston would interfere about that, Perry.'

* Wouldn't he ? He would interfere about anything he did not

26 OBLEY VABIL

like ; that is, as £Eur as the pluck of it goes. Of course he can*t like
it. Who can ?'

* Perry, your grandfatlier likes it ; and surely he has a right to
please himseUl'

* I don't know about that. You mi^t say the same thing if he
wanted to kill all the foxes about the place, or do any other out-
landish thing. Of course he might kill them, as fiEU* as the law goes,
but where would he be afterwards ? She hasn't said anything to
him, has she ?'

' I think not.'

« Nor to you V

' No ; she has not spoken to me ; not about that.'

* She promised me positively that she would break it off.*

* You must not be hard on her. Perry.*

Just as these words were spoken, there came a low knock at
Mrs. Orme's dressing-room door. This room, in which Mrs. Ormo
was wont to sit for an hour or so eyery night before she went to
bed, was the scene of all the meetings of affection which took place
between the mother and the son. It was a pretty little apartment,
opening from Mrs. Orme's bed-room, which had at one time been
the exclusive property of Peregrine's father. But by d^rees it had
altogether assumed feminine attributes ; had been fumibhed with
soft chairs, a sofa, and a lady's table ; and though called by the
name of Mrs. Orme's dressing-room, was in fact a separate sitting-
room devoted to her exclusive use. Sir Peregrine would not for
worlds have entered it without sending up his name beforehand,
and this he did on only very rare occasions. But Lady Mason had
of late been admitted here, and Mrs. Orme now knew that it was
her knock.

* Open the door. Perry,' she said ; ' it is Lady Mason.' Ue did
open the door, and Lady Mason entered.

* Oh, Mr. Orme, I did not know that you were here.'
' I am just off. Good night, mother.'

' But I am disturbing you.'

* No, we had done ;* and he stooped down and kissed his mother.
' Good night, Lady Mason. Hadn't I better put some coals on for
you, or the fire will be out?* He did put on the coals, and then
he went his way.

Lady Mason while ho was doing this had sat down on the sofa,
close to Mrs. Orme ; but when the door was closed Mrs. Orme was
the first to speak. ' Well, dear,' she said, putting her hand caress-
ingly on the other's arm. I am inclined to think that had there
been no one whom Mrs. Orme was bound to consult but herself,
she would have wished that this mamago should have gone on. To
her it would have been altogether pleasant to have had Lady Mason
ever ¥rith her in the house; and she had none of those fears as

SHOWING HOW LADY MASON COULD BE VERY NOBLE. 27

to future family retrospections respecting which Lord Alston had
spoken with so much knowledge of the world. As it was, her
manner was so caressing and affecticmate to her gneet, that she did
much more to promote Sir Per^rine's wishes tiian to oppose them.
' Well, dear,' she said, with her sweetest smile.

* I am so sorry that I have driven your son away.*

' lie was going. Besides, it would make no matter ; he would
stay here all night sometimes, if I didn't drive him away myself.
He comes here and writes his letters at the most unconscionable
hours, and uses up all my note-paper in telling some horsekeeper
what is to be done with his mare.'

'Ah, how happy you must be to have him I '

' Well, I suppose I am,' she said, as a tear came into her eyes.
' We are so hard to please. I am all anxiety now that he should be
married ; and if ho were married, then I suppose I should grumble
because I did not see so much of him. He would be more settled if
he would marry, I think. For myself I approve of early marriages
for young men.* And then she thought of her own husband whom
she had loved so well and lost so soon. And so they sat silent for a
whUo, each thinking of her own lot in life.

* But I must not keep you up all night,' said Lady Mason.

' Oh, I do so like you to be here,' said the other. Then again she
took hold of her arm, and the two women kissed each other.

* But, Edith,' said the other, * I came in here to-night with a
pui-posc. I have something that I wish to say to you. Can you
listen to me ?'

* Oh yes,' said Mrs. Orme ; * surely.'

* lias your son heen talking to you about — about what was said
between him and me the other day ? I am sure he has, for I know
he tells you everything, — as he ought to do.'

' Yes, ho did speak to me,' said Mrs. Orme, almost trembling with
anxiety.

' I am so glad, for now it will be easier for me to tell you. And
since that I have seen Mr. Fumival, and ho says the same. I tell
you because you are so good and so loving to me. I will keep
nothing from you ; but you must not tell Sir Peregrine that I talked
to Mr. Fumival about this.'

IMrs. Orme gave the required promise, hardly thinking at the
moment whether or no she would be guilty of any treason against
Sir Peregrine in doing so.

' I think I should have said nothing to him, though he is so very
old a friend, had not Mr. Orme '

' You mean Peregrine ?'

* Yes ; had not ho been so — so earnest about it. He told me that
if I married Sir I'eregrine I should be doing a cruel injury to him
—to his grandfather.'

28 OBLKT FABX.

*• He should not hsre nid that.'

' Yes, Edith, — if he thinks it. He told me that I shoold be taming
all his friends against him. So 1 promised him that I would speak
to Sir Peregrine, and break it off if it be possible.*

* He told me that.'

*■ And then I spoke to Mr. FnmiTal, and he told me that I should
be blamed by all the world if I were to many him. I cannot tell
yon all be said, bat he said this : that if — if '

* If what, dear ?

* if in the ooart they should say '

' Say what 'f

*• Say that I did this thing, — ^then Sir Peregrine would be crushed,
and would die with a broken heart.'

' But they cannot say that ; — it is impossible. You do not think it
possible that they can do so ?* And then again she took hold of
Lady ^lason's arm, and looked up anxiously into her face. She
looked up anxiously, not suspecting anything, not for a moment
presuming it possible that such a verdict could be justly given, but
in Older that she might see how far the fear of a fate so horrible
was operating on her friend. Lady Mason's face was pale and woe-
worn, but not more so than was now customary with her.

' One cannot say what may be possible,' she answered slowly. ' I
suppose they would not go on with it if they did not think they had
some chance of success.'

* You mean as to the property ?'

* Yes ; as to the property.'

* But why should they not try that, if they must try it, without
dragging you there ?*

' Ah, I do not understand ; or at least I cannot explain it Mr.
Fumival says that it must be so; and therefore I shall tell Sir
Peregrine to-morrow that all this must be given up.' And then
they sat together silently, holding each other by the hand.

* Good night, Edith,' Lady Mason said at last, getting up ijx)m her
seat.

* Good night, dearest.'

* You will let me be your friend still, will you not ?' said Lady
Mason.

*My friend! Oh yes; always my friend. WTiy should this
interfere between you and me ?*

* But he will be verj' angr}' — at least I fear that he will. Kot
that — not that he will liave anything to regret. But the very
strength of his generosity and nobleness will make him angry. He
will bo indignant because 1 do not let him make this sacrifice for
me. And then — and then — I fear I must leave this house.'

* Oh no, not that ; I will si)eak to him. He will do anything for
me.*

SHOWING HOW LADT MASON C0X7LD BE YEBT NOBLE. 29

* It will be better perhaps tbat I should go. People will think
that I am estranged from Lucius. But if I go, you will come to
me ? He will let you do that ; will he not ?

And then there were warm, close promises given, and embraces
interchanged. The women did love each other with a hearty, true
love, and each longed that they might be left together. And yet
how different they were, and how different had been their lives !

The prominent thought in Lady Mason's mind as she returned to
her own room was this : — that Mrs. Orme had said no word to
dissuade her from the line of conduct which she had proposed to
herself. Mrs. Orme had never spoken against the marriage as
Peregrine had spoken, and Mr. Fumival. Her heart had not been
stem enough to allow her to do that. But was it not clear that her
opinion was the same as theirs? Lady Mason acknowledged to
herself that it was clear, and acknowledged to herself also that no
one was in favour of the marriage. • I will do it immediately after
breakfast,' she said to herself. And then she sat down, — and sat
through the half the night thinking of it.

Mrs. Orme, when she was left idone, almost rebuked herself in
that she had said no word of counsel against the undertaking which
Lady Mason proposed for herself. For Mr. Fumival and his
opinion she did not care much. Indeed, she would have been angry
with Lady Mason for speaking to Mr. Fumival on the subject, were
it not that her pity was too deep to admit of any anger. That the
truth must be established at the trial Mrs. Orme felt all but con-
fident. AVhen alone she would feel quite sure on this point, though
a doubt would always creep in on her when Lady Mason was with
her. But now, as she sat alone, she could not realize the idea that
the fear of a verdict against her friend should offer any valid reason
against the marriage. The valid reasons, if there were such, must
be looked for elsewhere. And were these other reasons so strong in
their validity ? Sir Peregrine desired the marriage ; and so did
Lady Mason herself, as regarded her own individual wishes. Mrs.
Orme was sure that this was so. And then for her own self, she —
Sir Peregrine's daughter-in-law, the only lady concerned in the
matter — she also would have liked it. But her son disliked it, and
she had yielded so far to the wishes of her son. Well ; was it not
right that with her those wishes should be all but paramount ? And
thus she endeavoured to satisfy her conscience as she retired to
rest.

On the following morning the four assembled at breakfast. Lady
Mason hardly spoke at all to any one. Mrs. Orme, who knew what
was about to take place, was almost as silent; but Sir Peregrine
had almost more to say than usual to his grandson. He was in good
spirits, having firmly made up his mind on a certain point ; and he
showed this by telling Peregrine that he would ride with him

80 OBLEY FABM.

immediately afler breakCast. ' What has made you so slack about
your hunting during the last two or three days ?' he asked.

* I shall hunt to-morrow,' said Peregrine.

^ Then you can afford time to ride with me through the woods
after breakfast' And so it would have been arranged had not Lady
^lason immediately said that she hoped to be able to say a few words
to Sir Peregrine in the library after break&st. ' Place cntx dames^'
tiaid he. * Peregrine, the horses can wait.' And bo the matter was
arranged while they were still sitting over their toast.

Peregrine, as this was said, had looked at his mother, but she had
not ventured to take her eyes for a moment from the teapot. Then
he had looked at Lady Mason, and saw that she waa, as it were,
going through a fashion of eating her breakfast. In order to break
the absolute silence of the room he muttered something about the
weather, and then his grandfather, with the same object, answered
him. After that no words were spoken till Sir Per^rine, rising
from his chair, declared that he was ready.

He got up and opened the door for his guest, and then hurrying
across the hall, opened the library door for her also, holding it till
she had passed in. Then he 'took her left hand in his, and passing
his right arm round her waist, asked her if anything disturbed
her.

* Oh yes,' she said, 'yes ; there is much that disturbs me. I haTe
done very wrong.'

* How done wrong, Mary ?' She could not recollect that he had
called her Mary before, and the sound she thought was very sweet ;
— was very sweet, although she was over forty, and he over seventy
years of age.

* I have done very wrong, and I have now come here that I may
undo it. Dear Sir Peregrine, you must not be angry with me.'

* I do not think that I shall be angry with you ; but what is it,
dearest ?'

But she did not know how to find words to declare her purpose.
It was comparatively an easy task to tell Mrs. Orme that she had
made up her mind not to marry Sir Peregrine, but it was by no
means easy to tell the baronet himself. And now she stood there
leaning over the fireplace, with his arm round her waist, — as it
behoved her to stand no longer, seeing the resolution to which she
had come. But still she did not speak.

* Well, Mary, what is it ? I know there is something on your
mind or you would not have summoned me in here. Is it about
the trial ? Have you seen Mr. Fumival again ?'

' No ; it is not about the trial,' she said, avoiding the other
question.
. * What is it then ?'
*■ Sir Peregrine, it is impossible that we should be married.' And

SnOWING HOW LADY MASON COULD BE VERY NOBLE. 31

thus she brought forth her tidings, as it wore at a gasp, speak-
ing at the moment with a Toico that was almost indicative of
anger.

* And why not ?' said he, releasing her from his arm aiid looking
at her.

* It cannot be,' she said.

* And why not, Lady Mason ?'

' It cannot be,' she said again, speaking with more emphasis, and
with a stronger tone.

* And is that all that 3'ou intend to tell me? Have I done any-
thing that has offended you ?'

* Offended me I No. 1 do not think that would bo possible.
The offence is on the other side—*

' Then, my dear, '

* But listen to me now. It cannot be. I know that it is wrong.
Everything tells me that such a marriage on your part would be
a sacrifice, — a terrible sacrifice. You would be throwing away your
great rank '

* No,* shouted Sir Peregrine ; * not though I married a kitchen-
maid, — ^instead of a lady who in social lifb is my equal.'

' Ah, no ; I should not have said rank. You cannot lose that ; —
but your station in the world, the respect of all around you, the —
the— the '

* "WTio has been telling you all this ?

* I have wanted no one to tell me. Thinking of it has told it
me all. My own heart which is full of giatitude and love for you
lias told me.'

* You have not seen Lord Alston ?*

* Lord Alston ! oh, no.'

' Has Peregrine been speaking to you T
' Peregrine ! '

* Y^os ; Peregrine ; my grand.son ?'

* He has spoken to me.'

' Telling you to say this to me. Then he is an ungrateful boy ;
— a very ungrateful boy. 1 would have done anything to guard
him from wrong in this matter.'

' Ah ; now 1 see the evil that I have done. Why did I ever
come into the house to make quarrels between j'ou ?'

* There shall bo no quarrel. 1 will forgive him even that if you
will be guided by me. And, dearest Mary, you must be guided by
mo now. This matter has gone too far for you to go back — unless,
indeed, you will say that personally you have an aversion to tho
marriage.*

' Oh, no ; no ; it is not that,' she said eagerly. She could not
help sfvying it with eagerness. She could not inflict the wound on
his feelings which her silence would then have given.

32 ORLEY FABM.

'Under those circumstaaces, I liave a right to say that the
marriage must go on.'

* No ; no.*

* But I say it mnst. Sit down, Mary.* And she did sit down,
while he stood leaning over her and thus spoke. ' You speak of
sacrificing me. I am an old man with not many more years before
me. If I did sacrifice what little is left to me of life with the
object of befriending one whom I really love, there would be no
more in it than what a man might do, and still feel that the balance
was on the right side. But here there will be no sacrifice. My
life will be happier, and so will Edith's. And so indeed will that
boy's, if he did but know it. For the world's talk, which will last
some month or two, I care nothing. This I will confess, that if I
were prompted to this only by my own inclination, only by love

for you * and as he spoke ho held out his hand to her, and she

could not refuse him hers — 'in such a case I should doubt and
hesitate and probably keep aloof from such a step. But it is not
so. In doing this I shall gratify my own heart, and also serve you
in your great troubles. Believe me, I have thought of that.*

' I know you have, Sir Peregrine, — and therefore it cannot be.'

* But therefore it shall bo. The world knows it now ; and were
we to be separated after what has past, the world would say that
I — I had thought you guilty of this crime.'

' I must bear all that.' And now she stood before him, not
looking him in the face, but with her face turned down towards
the ground, and speaking hardly above her breath.

* By heavens, no ; not whilst I can stand by your side. Not
whilst I have strength left to support you and thrust the lie down
the throat of such a wretch as Joseph Mason. No, Mary, go back
to Edith and tell her that you have tried it, but that there is no
escape for you.' And then he smiled at her. His smile at times
could be very pleasant !

But she did not smile as she answered him. * Sir Peregrine,'
jhe said ; and she endeavoured to raise her face to his but failed.

* Well, my love.'

* Sir Peregrine, I am guilty.'

' Guilty ! Guilty of what ?' he said, startled rather than in-
structed by her words.

* Guilty of all this with which they charge me.' And then she
threw herself at his feet, and wound her arms round his knees.

CHAPTER V.

SHOWING HOW MRS. ORME COULD BE VERY WEAK MINDED.

I VENTURE to think, I may almost say to hope, that Lady Mason's
confession at the end of the last chapter will not have taken any-
body by surprise. If such surprise be felt I must have told my
talc badly. I do not like such revulsions of feeling with regard to
my characters as surprises of this nature must generate. That
Lady Mason had committed the terrible deed for which she was
about to be tried, that Mi*. Fumival's suspicion of her guilt waa
only too well founded, that Mr. Dockwrath with his wicked
ingenuity had discovered no more than the truth, will, in its open
revelation, have caused no surprise to the reader; — ^but it did
cause terrible surprise to Sir Peregrine Orme.

And now we must go back a little and endeavour to explain how
it was that Lady Mason had made this avowal of her guilt. That
she had not intended to do so when she entered Sir Peregrine's
library is very certain. Had such been her purpose she would not
have asked Mi*s. Orme to visit her at Orley Farm. Had such a
course of events been in her mind she would not have spoken of
lier departure from The Cleeve as doubtful. No. She had in-
tended still to keep her terrible secret to herself; still to have
leaned upon Sir Peregrine's arm as on the arm of a trusting friend.
But he had overcome her by his generosity ; and in her fixed
resolve that he should not be dragged down into this abyss of misery
the sudden determination to tell the truth at least to him had come
upon her. She did tell him all ; and then, as soon as the words
were out of her mouth, the strength which had enabled her to do
so deserted her, and she fell at his feet overcome by weakness of
body as well as spirit.

But the words which she spoke did not at first convey to his
mind their full meaning. Though she had twice repeated the
assertion that she was guilty, the fact of her guilt did not come
liome to his understanding as a thing that he could credit. There
was something, ho doubted not, to surprise and harass him, —
something which "when revealed and made clear might, or might
not, affect his purpose of marrying, — something which it behoved
this woman to tell before she could honestly become his wife,

VOL. u. h

34 ORLEY FARM.

something which was destined to give his heart a hlow. But ho
was very far as yet from understanding the whole truth. Let us
think of those we love hest, and ask ourselves how much it would
take to convince us of their guilt in such a matter. That thrusting
of the lie down the throat of Joseph Mason had become to him
so earnest a duty, that the task of believing the lie to be on the
other side was no easy one. The blow which he had to suffer was
a cruel blow. Lady Mason, however, was merciful, for she might
have enhanced the cruelty tenfold.

He stood there wondering and bewildered for some minutes of
time, while she, with her face hidden, still clung round his knees.
* What is it ?' at last he said. ' I do not understand.' But she had
no answer to make to him. Her great resolve had been quickly
made and quickly carried out, but now the reaction left her power-
less. He stooped down to raise her; but when he moved she
fell prone upon the ground ; he could hear her sobs as though her
bosom would burst vrith them.

And then by degrees the meaning of her words began to break
upon him. * I am guilty of all this with which they charge me.*
Could that be possible ? Could it be that she had forged that will ;
that with base, premeditated contrivance she had stolen that pro-
perty; stolen it and kept it from that day to this; — through all
these long years ? And then he thought of her pure life, of her
womanly, dignified repose, of her devotion to her son, — such devo-
tion indeed! — of her sweet pale face and soft voice! He thought
of all this, and of his own love and friendship for her, — of Edith's
love for her ! He thought of it all, and ho could not believe that
she was guilty. There was some other fault, some much lesser
fault than that, with which she charged herself. But there she lay
at his feet, and it was necessaiy that he should do something
towards lifting her to a seat.

He stooped and took her by the hand, but his feeble strength
was not sufficient to raise her. * Lady Mason,' ho said, * speak to
mo. I do not understand you. AVill you not lot mo seat 3'ou ou
the sofa ?'

But she, at least, had realized the full force of the revelation sho
had made, and lay there covered with shame, broken-hearted, and
unable to raise her eyes from the ground. AVith what inward
struggles she had played her part during the last few months, no
one might ever know ! But those struggles had been kept to herself.
The world, her world, that world for which she had cared, in which
she had lived, had treated her with honour and respect, and had
looked upon her as an ill-used innocent woman. But now all that
would be over. Every one now must know what she was. And
then, as she lay there, that thought came to her. Must every one
know it? Was there no longer any hope for her? Must Lucius

SHOWING HOW MRS. DRUE COULD BE VERY WEAK MINDED. 85

be told ? She could bear all the rest, if only he might be ignorant
of his mother's disgrace ; — he, for whom all had been done ! But
no. He, and every one must know it. Oh ! if the beneficent
Spirit that sees all and pities all would but take her that moment
£rom the world I

When Sir Peregrine asked her whether he should seat her on the
sofa, she slowly picked herself up, and with her head still crouch-
ing towards the ground, placed herself where she before had been
sitting. He had been afraid that she would have fainted, but she
was not one of those women whose nature easily admits of such
relief as that. Though she was always pale in colour and frail
looking, there was within her a great power of self-sustenance.
She was a woman who with a good cause might have dared any-
thiug. With the worst cause that a woman could well have, she
had dared and endured very much. She did not faint, nor gasp as
though she were choking, nor become hysteric in her agony ; but
she lay there, huddled up in the comer of the sofa, with her h/ce
hidden, and all those feminine graces forgotten which had long
stood her in truth bo roysJly. The inner, true, living woman was
there at last, — that and nothing else.

But he, — what was he to do? It went against his heart to
harass her at that moment ; but then it was essential that he should
know the truth. The truth, or a suspicion of the truth was now
breaking upon him; and if that suspicion should be oonfiimed,
what was he to do ? It was at any rate necessary that everything
slioiild bo put beyond a doubt.

* Lady Mason/ he said, * if you are able to speak to me *

' Yes,* she said, gradually straightening herself, and raising her
Jiead though she did not look at him. * Yea, I am able.' But
tliere was something terrible in the sound of her voice. It was
Huch a sound of agony that he felt himself unable to persist.

* If you wish it I will leave you, and come back» — say in an
hour.'

* No, no ; do not leave me.' And her whole body was shaken
with a tremour, as though of an ague fit. * Do not go away, and I
will tell you everything. I did it.'

* Did what ?'

* I — forged the will. I did it all. — I am guilty.*

There was the whole truth now, declared openly and in the
most simple words, and there was no longer any possibility that he
should doubt. It was very terrible, — a terrible tragedy. But to
him at this present moment the part most frightful was his and her
jiresent position. What should ho do for her? How should he
counsel her ? In what way so act that he might best assist her
without compromising that high sense of right and wrong which
in him was a second nature. He felt at the moment that he would

I) 2

36 OBLEY FARM.

still give his last shilling to rescue her, — only that there was the
property ! Let the heavens fell, justice must be done there. Even
a wretch such as Joseph Mason must have that which was clearly
hifl own.

As she spoke those last words, she had risen from the sofe, and
was now standing before him resting with her hands upon the
table, like a prisoner in the dock.

' What !' he said ; ' with your own hands ?'

* Yes ; with my own hands. AVhen he would not do justice to
my baby, when he talked of that other being the head of his house,
I did it, with my own hands, — during the night.'

* And you wrote the names, — yourself?*

•Yes; I wrote them all.' And then there was again silence in
the room ; but she still stood, leaning on the table, waiting for
him to speak her doom.

He turned away from the spot in which he had confronted her
and walked to the window. What was he to do ? TIow was he to
help her ? And how was he to be rid of her ? How was he to
save his daughter from further contact with a woman such as this ?
And how was he to bid his daughter behavo to this woman as one
woman should behave to another in her misery ? Then too he had
learned to love her himself, — ^had yearned to call her his own ; and
though this in truth was a minor sorrow, it was one which at the
moment added bitterness to the others. But there she stood, still
waiting her doom, and it was necessary that that doom should be
spoken by him.

* if this can really be true '

* It is true. You do not think that a woman would falsely tell
such a tale as that against hei'self !'

* Then I fear — that this must be over between you and me.'
There was a relief to her, a sort of relief, in those words. The

doom as so far spoken was so much a matter of course that it con-
veyed no penalty. Her story had been told in order that that
result might be attained with certainty. There was almost a tone
of scorn in her voice as she said, * Oh ves ; all that must be over.'

* And what next would you have me do ?* he asked.

* I have nothing to request,' she said. ' If you must tell it to all
the world, do so.'

* Tell it ; no. It will not be my business to be an informer.'

* But you must tell it. There is Mi's. Oime.'
'Yes: to Edith!'

* And I must leave the house. Oh, where shall I go when he
knows it ? And where will he go ?' Wretched miserable woman,
but yet so worthy of pity ! AVhat a tenible retribution for that
night's work was now coming on her !

He again walked to the windo%v to think how he might answer

SHOWING HOW MBS. ORME COULD BE VEBY WEAK MINDED. 37

these questioiis. Must he tell his daughter ? Must he banish this
oriminal at once from his house ? Every one now had been told of
his intended marriage ; every one had been told through Lord
Alston, Mr. Fumival, and such as they. That at any rate must
now be untold. And would it be possible that she should remain
there, living with them at The Cleeve, while all this was being
done ? In truth he did not know how to speak. He had not hard-
ness of heart to pronounce her doom.

' Of course I shall leave the house,' she said, with something
almost of pride in her voice. * If there be no place open to me but
a gaol I will do that. Perhaps I had better go now and get my
things removed at once. Say a word of love for me to her ; — a
word of respectful love.' And she moved as though she were going
to the door.

But ho would not permit her to leave him thus. He could not
let the poor, crushed, broken creature wander forth in her agony to
bruise herself at every turn, and to be alone in her despair. She
was still the woman whom he had loved; and, over and beyond
that, was she not the woman who had saved him from a terrible
downfall by rushing herself into utter ruin for his sake? He must
take some steps in her behalf — if he could only resolve what those
steps should be. She was moving to the door, but stopping her, he
took her by the hand. ' You did it,' he said, * and he, your hus-
band, knew nothing of it ?* The feet itself was so wonderfol, that he
had hardly as yet made even that all his own,

' I did it, and he knew nothing of it. I will go now, Sir Pere-
grine ; 1 am strong enough.'

' But where will you go ?'

' Ah rao, where shall I go ?' And she put the hand which was at
liberty up to her temple, brushing back her hair as though she
might thus collect her thoughts. * Where shall I go ? But he does
not know it yet. I will go now to Orley Farm. \Vhen must he be
told ? Tell me that. When must he know it ?'

* No, Lady Mason ; you cannot go there to-day. It's very hard
to Bay what you had better do.*

* Very hard,' she echoed, shaking her head.

* But you must remain here at present ; — at The Cleeve I mean ;
at any rate for to-day. I will think about it. I will endeavour to
think what may bo the best.'

* But — we cannot meet now. She and I ; — Mrs. Orme ?' And
then again he was silent; for in truth the difficulties were too
many for him. Might it not be best that she should counterfeit
illness and be confined to her own room ? But then ho was averse
to recommend any counterfeit ; and if Mrs. Orme did not go to her
in her assumed illness, the counterfeit would utterly fail of eflfect in
the household. And then, should he tell Mrs. Orme ? The weight

40 ORLEY FARM.

dering. Bui the guilt of twenty years ago did not strike her senses
80 vividly as the abject misery of the present day. There was no
pity in her bosom for Mr. Joseph Mason when she heard the story,
but she was full of pity for her who had committed the crime. It
was twenty years ago, and had not the sinner repented ? Besides,
was she to be the judge ? * Judge not, and ye shall not be judged/
she said, when she thought that Sir Peregrine spoke somewhat
harshly in the matter. So she said, altogether misinterpreting the
Scripture in her desire to say something in favour of the poor
woman.

But when it was hinted to her that Lady Mason might return to
Orley Farm without being again seen by her, her woman's heart at
once rebelled. * K she has done wrong,* said Mrs. Orme

* She has done great wrong — fearful wrong,' said Sir Peregrine.

* It will not hurt me to see her because she has done wrong.
Not see her while she is in the house ! If she were in the prison,
would I not go to see her T And then Sir Peregrine had said no
more, but he loved his daughter-in-law all the better for her un-
wonted vehemence.

* You will do what is right,' he said — * as you always do.' Then
he left her ; and she, after standing for a few moments while she
shaped her thoughts, went straight away to Lady Mason's room.

She took Lady Mason by both her hands and found that they
were icy cold. * Oh, this is dreadful,' she said. * Come with me,
dear.' But Lady Mason still stood, up by the bed-head, whither
she had retreated from the door. Her eyes were still cast upon the
ground and she leaned back as Mrs. Orme held her, as though by her
weight she would hinder her friend from leading her from the room.

* You are frighfully cold,' ssdd Mrs. Orme.

* Has ho told you ?' said Lady Mason, asking the question in the
lowest possible whisper, and still holding back as she spoke.

* Yes ; he has told me ; — but no one else — no one else.' And then
for a few moments nothing was spoken between them.

* Oh, that I could die !' said the poor wretch, expressing in words
that terrible vnsh that the mountains might fall upon her and
crush her.

* Yoii must not say that. That would be wicked, you know. He
can comfort you. Do you not know that lie will comfort you, if
you are sorry for your sins and go to Him ?*

But the woman in her intense suffering could not acknowledge
to herself any idea of comfort. * Ah, me !' she exclaimed, with a
deep bursting sob which went straight to Mi*s. Orme's heart. And
then a convulsive fit of trembling seized her so strongly that Mrs.
Orme could hardly continue to hold her hands.

* You are ill with the cold,' she said. * Come with me, Lady
JMason, you shall not stay here longer.'

Lady Umod after her Coofeamon.

SHOWING HOW MRS. ORME COULD BE VERY WEAK MINDED. 41

Lady Mason then permitted herself to be led out of the room, and
the two went quickly down the passage to the head of the front
stairs, and from thence to Mrs. Orme*s room. In crossing the house
they had seen no one and been seen by no one ; and Lady Mason
when she came to the door hurried in, that she might again hide
herself in security for the moment. As soon as the door was closed
Mrs. Ormo placed her in an arm-chair which she wheeled up to the
front of the fire, and seating herself on a stool at the poor sinner's
feet, chafed her hands within her own. She took away the shawl
and made her stretch out her feet towards the fire, and thus seated
close to her, she spoke no word for the next half-hour as to the
terrible fact that had become known to her. Then, on a sudden, as
though the ice of her heart had thawed from the warmth of the
other's kindness, Lady Mason burst into a flood of tears, and flinging
herself upon her friend's neck and bosom begged with earnest
piteousness to be forgiven.

And Mrs. Oime did forgive her. Many wiU think that she was
wrong to do so, and I fear it must be acknowledged that she was
not strong minded. By forgiving her I do not mean that she
pronounced absolution for the sin of past years, or that she en-
deavoured to make the sinner think that she was no worse for her
sin. Mrs. Orme was a good churchwoman but not strong, indivi-
dually, in points of doctrine. All that she left mainly to the
woman's conscience and her own dealings with her Saviour, —
merely saying a word of salutary counsel as to a certain spiritual
pastor who might be of aid. But Mrs. Onne forgave her, — as
regarded herself. She had already, while all this was unknown,
taken this woman to her heart as pure and good. It now appeared
tliat the woman had not been pure, had not been good ! — And then
slie took her to her lieait again ! Criminal as the woman was,
disgraced and debased, subject almost to the heaviest penalties of
outraged law and justice, a felon against whom the actual hands
of the law's myrmidons would probably soon prevail, a creature
doomed to bear the scorn of the lowest of her fellow-creatures, — such
as she was, this other woman, pure and high, so shielded from the
world's impurity that nothing ignoble might touch her, — this lady
took her to her heart again and promised in her ear with low sweet
words of consolation that they should still be friends. I cannot
say that Mrs. Ormo was right. That she was weak minded I feel
nearly certain. But, perhaps, this weakness of mind may never
be brought against her to her injury, either in tliis world or in the
next.

T will not ])retend to give the words which passed between them
at that interview. After a while Lady Mason allowed herself to
l)u guided all in all by her friend s advice as though she herself
had been a child. It was decided that for the present, — that is for

42 ORLEY FARM.

the next day or two — ^Lady Mason should keep her room at The
Cleeve as an invalid. Counterfeit in this there would be none
oertainly, for indeed she was hardly fit for any place but her own
bed. If inclined and able to leave her room, she should be made
welcome to the use of Mrs. 0rme*8 dressing-room. It would only
be necessarj'^ to warn Peregrine that for the present he must abstain
from coming there. The servants, Mrs. Orme said, had heard of
their master's intended marriage. They would now hear that this
intention had been abandoned. On this they would put their own
construction, and would account in their own fashion for the fact
that Sir Peregrine and his guest no longer saw each other. But
no suspicion of the truth would get abroad when it was seen that
Lady ^lason was still treated as a guest at The Cleeve. As to such
future steps as might be necessary to be taken, Mrs. Orme would
consult with Sir Peregrine, and tell Lad}' Mason from time to time.
And as for the sad truth, the terrible truth, — that, at any rate for the
present, should be told to no other ears. And so the whole mom-
iDg was spent, and Mrs. Orme saw neither Sir Peregrine nor her
son till she went down to the library in the first gloom of the
winter evening.

CHAPTER VI.

A woman's idea of friendship.

Sm Peregkine after the hour that ho had spent with his daughter-
in-law, — that terrible hour during which Lady Mason had sat alone
on the bed-side — returned to the librar}' and remained there during
the whole of the afternoon. It maybe remembered, that ho 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 shxit himself up, but about the hour
of dusk ho sent for his grandson ; and when Mre. Orme, on leavinj^
Lady Mason, went down to the librar}^, 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

A woman's idea of friendship. 43

said, preparing to retreat. • I did not know that you were
together/

* Do not go, Edith,' said the old man. • Peregrine, pnt a chair
for your mother. I have told him that all this is over now between
mo 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 Ladj 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.'

' Ho would be very unhappy if anything that ho 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 tho 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 Gk)d 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 tliat 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 upstairs to admit of her feeling interest
in that other unknown matter to which Sir Peregrine had alluded.

* If you have done with Perr}-,' she said at last, ' I would be glad
to speak to you for a minute or two.'

* Oh yes,' said Peregrine ; — * wo 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,' ho continued.

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

* And so it lias,' 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 tho world, I feai', will know it soon/ said Sir Peregrine.

44 ORLEY FARM.

•No; no. Wliy should all the world know it? Had she not
told us we should not have known it. We should not have
suspected it. Mr. Fumival, 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 bo 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 bo informers. AVe 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, — ^tliat admits of no restitution, may
admit of repentance. We may leave that to the sinner and his
conscience, hoping that ho 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 i«
selfish, and so was her sin in this. Her object was the aggiaiidize-
ment 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. Yon
talk of restitution and repentance. Eepentance 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. Wo may not judge her ; may wo ? But wo
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,

A woman's idea of friendship. 45

lio had neTer 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
purposo 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. Fumival thinks she will gain the day at this
trial.'

* But Mr. Fumival does not know the truth.'

' J^or 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 wotdd 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 yoii 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 w as very generous. It would be base in us if we allowed
ourselves to forgot 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 after-
wards.'

' 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. Bound, and pledge himself that the whole
estate should bo restored to Mr. Mason of Groby, on condition that

46 OSLEY FARM.

the trial were abandoned? The world would probably gtiess the
truth after that ; but the terrible tiial and the more terrible punish-
medat which would follow it might be thus escaped. I^oor Sir
Peregrine I Even when he az^ed thus within himself, bis con-
science told him that in taking such a line of conduct, be 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
neTcrtbeless, be allowed bis daughter-in-law to prevail. Before
such a step as this oould be taken the consent of Lady Mason must of
course be obtained ; but as to that Mrs. Orme had no doubt. If
Lucius oould be induced to abandon the property without bearing 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 ofif m}"
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 onoe 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 "\^^sh 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 iho grain with him when it was
proposed that there should still exist a dose 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 be 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

A WOMAN S IDEA OF FBIENDSHIP. 47

blessed Ills hearth. It seemed to him as thovgfa she were a sacred
thing, to be guarded by a shrine, — to be prot^ected 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 necessaiy, 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 T

' Because she has shown herself unworthy of such friendship ; —
\m£t for it I should say.'

* Unworthy ! Dear father, is she not as worthy and as fit as ahc
was yesterday? If we saw clearly into each other's bosoms, whom
should we tlunk worthy V

' 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 axe 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. Orrao
perfectly understood that the sooner such a day could bo 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, Avhat
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 bod, 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 Avas so much care and apparent
a flection in her mode of speaking, and she gave her orders for Lady

48 ORLEY FARM.

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 bedside 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 light ; do you not ?* said Mi*s. 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 sufiferings 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. Dockwi-ath's vengeance.

CHAPTER VII.

THE GEM OF TH*: FOUR FAMILIES.

And now wo will go back to Noningsby. On that evening Graham
ate his pheasant Avith a relish although so many cares sat heav}" on
his mind, and declared, to Mrs. Baker's great satisfaction, that the
cook had managed to preserve the bread sauce uninjured through all
the perils of delay which it had encoimt^red.

* Bread sauce is so ticklish ; a simmer too much and it's clean done
for,' Mrs. Baker said with a voice of great solicitude. But she had
been accustomed perhaps to patients whose appetites were fasti-
dious. The pheasant and the bread sauce and the mashed potatoes,
all prepared by Mrs. Baker's own hands to be eaten as spoon meat,
disappeared with great celeritj' ; and then, as Graham sat sipping
the solitary glass of sherr}^ that was alloAved to him, meditating that
he would begin his letter the moment the glass was empty, Augustus
Staveley again made his appearance.

THE GEM OF THE FOUB FAMILIE& 49

* Well, old fellow/ said he, ' how are you now ? and he was
particularly careful so to speak as to show by his voice that his
affection for his friend was as strong as ever. But in doing so he
showed also that there was some special thought still present in his
iiiind, — some feeling which was serious in its nature if not absolutely
painful.

' Staveley,' said the other, gravely, ' I have acquired knowledge
to-day which I trust I may cany with me to my grave.'

' And what is that ?' said Augustus, looking round to Mrs. Baker
as though he thought it w^U that she should be out of the iXKna
before the expected communication was made. But Mrs. Baker's-
attention was so riveted by her patient's earnestness, that she made^
no attempt to go.

Mt is a wasting of the best gifts of Providence,' said Graham, ' io-
eat a pheasant after one has really done one's dinner.'

* Oh, that's it, is it?* said Augustus.

' So it is, sir,' said Mrs. Baker, thinking that the subject quite-
justified the manner.

^ And of no use whatsoever to eat only a little bit of one as a man
does then. To know what a pheasant is you should have it all to.
yourself.'

' So you should, sir,' said Mrs. Baker, quite delighted and very-
much in earnest.

' And you should have nothing else. Then, if the bird be good
to begin with, and has been well hung '

' There*s a deal it that,' said Mrs. Baker.

* Then, I say, you'll know what a pheasant is. That's the lesson
wliich 1 have learned to-day, and I give it you as an adequate return
for the pheasant itself.'

* 1 was almost afeard it would be spoilt by being brought up the
second time,' said Mrs. Baker. ' And so I said to my lady ; but she
wouldn't have you woke, nohow.' And then Mrs. Baker, having
hoard the last of the lecture, took away the empty wine-glass and
shut the door behind her.

' And now I'll write those two letters,' said Graham. * What I've
'v\Titten hitherto I wrote in bed, and I feel almost more awkward
now 1 am up than I did then.'

' But what letters are they ?'

* Well, one to my laundress to tell her I shall be there to-morrow,
and one to Mary Snow to say that I'll see her the day after.*

* Then, Felix, don't trouble yourself to write either. You posi-
tively won't go to-morrow '

' Who says so ?'

' The governor. He has heard from my mother exactly what
the doctor said, and declares that he won't allow it. He mean.s.
to seo the doctor himself before you stir. And he wants to see

VOL. II. E

50 OKLEY FABM.

you also. I am to tell yon he'll come to you directly after break-
&st.*

* I shall be delighted to see your father, and am yery much gratified
by his kindness, but *

* But what '

* I'm a free agent, I suppose, — to go when 1 please ?*

* Not exaot^f . The law is unwritten ; but by traditional law a
man laid up in his bedroom is not free to go and oome. No action
for &lse imprisonment would lie if Mrs. Baker kept all your clothes
away from you.*

* I should like to try the question.*

* You will have the opportunity, for you may be sure that you*ll
not leave this to-morrow.*

' It would depend altogether on the evidenoe of the doctor.*
' Exactly so. And as the doctor in this case would clearly be on
the side of the defendants, a verdict on behalf of the plaintiff would
not be by any means attainable.* After that the matter was pre-
sumed to be settled, and Graham said no more as to leaving
Noningsby on the next day. As things turned out afterwards he
remained there for another week.

* I must at any rate write a letter to Mary Snow,* ho said. And
to Mary Snow he did write some three or four lines, Augustus
sitting by the while. Augustus Staveley would have been very
j^lad to ^ow the contents, or rather the spirit of those lines ; but
nothing was said about them, and the letter was at lajst sealed up
and intrusted to his care for the post-bag. There was very little in it
that could have interested Augustus Staveley or any one else. It
contained the ordinary, but no more than the ordinary terms of
affection. He told her that he found it impracticable to move
himself quite immediately. And then as to that cause of displea-
•sure, — that cause of supposed displeasure as to which both Mar}-
and Mrs. Thomas had written, he declared that he did not believe
that anything had been done that^ ho should not find it easy to
forgive after so long an absence.

Augustus then remained there for another hour, but not a word
was said between the yoimg men on that subject which was nearest,
at the moment, to the hearts of both of them. Each was thinking
of Madeline, but neither of them spoke as though any such subject
were in their thoughts.

' Heaven and earth !' said Augustus at last, pulling out his watch.
' It only wants three minutes to seven. I shall have a dozen
messages from the judge before I get down, to know whether he
shall come and help me change my boots. I'll see you i^in before
I go to bed. Good-bye, old fellow.' And then Graham was again
alone.

If Lady Staveley were really angry with him for loving her

THE OEM OF THE FOITB FAMILIES. 51

daughter, — ^if his friend Staveley were in very truth determined that
snch love must under no circumatances he sanctioned, — would they
treat him as they were treating him ? Would they under such cir-
cumstances make his prolonged stay in the house an imperative
necessity? He could not help asking himself this question, and
answering it with some gleam of hope. And then he acknowledged
to himself that it was ungenerous in him to do so. His remaining
there, — the liberty to remain there which had been conceded to
him, — had arisen solely from the belief that a removal in his present
state would be injudicious. He assured himself of this over and
over again, so that no false hope might linger in his heart. And
yet hope did linger there whether false or true. Why might he not
aspire to the hand of Madeline Staveley, — he who had been assured
that he need regard no woman as too high for his aspirations ?

* Mrs. Baker,' he said that evening, as that excellent woman was
taking away his tea-things, ' I have not heard Miss Staveley's voice
these two days.'

* Well, no ; no more you have,' said she. * There's two ways, you
know, Mr. Graham, of going to her part of the house. There's the
door that opens at the end of the passage by her mamma's room.
She's been that way, and that*s the reason, I suppose. There aint
no other, I'm sure.'

' One likes to hear one's friends if one can't see them ; that* s all.'
< To be sure one does. I remember as how when I had the
measles — I was living with my ladj'^s mother, as maid to the young
ladies. There was four of 'em, and I dressed *em all — God bless
'em. They've all got husbands now and grown families — only there
aint one among *em equal to our Miss Madeline, though there's some
of 'em much richer. When my lady married him, — the judge, yon
know, — he was the poorest of the lot. They didn't think so much
of him when he came a-courting in those days.'

* Ho was only a practising barrister then.*

* Oh yes ; ho knew well how to practise, for Miss Isabella — as
she was then — very soon made up hor mind about him. Laws, Mr.
Graham, she used to tell me everything in them days. They didn't
want her to have nothing to say to Mr. Staveley at first ; but she
made up her mind, and though she wasn't one of them as has many
Avords, like Miss Fumival down there, there was no turning her.'

* Did she marry at last against their wish ?'

* Oh dear, no ; nothing of that sort. She wasn't one of them
flighty ones neither. She just made up her own mind and bided.
And now I don't know whether she hasn't done about the best of
'em alL Them Oliphants is full of money, they do say — full of
money. That was Miss Louisa, who came next. But, Lord love
you, Mr. Graham, he's so crammed with gout as he can't ever put a
foot to the ground; and as cross; — as cross as cross. Wo goes

52 OBLET FABM.

there sometimes, you know. Then the girls is all plain ; and
young Mr. Oliphant, the son, — why he never so much as speaks to
his own father ; and though they're rolling in money, they say ho
can't pay for the coat on his back. Now our Mr. Augustus, unless
it is that he won't come down to morning prayers and always keeps
the dinner waiting, I don't think there's ever a black look between
him and his papa. And as for Miss Madeline, — she's the gem of
the four families. Everybody gives that up to her.'

K Madeline's mother married a barrister in opposition to the
wishes of her family — a barrister who then possessed nothing but
his wits — ^why should not Madeline do so also ? That was of course
the line which his thoughts took ? But then, as he said to himself,
Madeline's &ther had been one of the handsomest men of his day,
whereas he was one of the ugliest ; and Madeline's father had been
encumbered with no Mary Snow. A man who had been such a
fool as he, who had gone so far out of the regular course, thinking
to be wiser than other men, but being in truth much more silly,
could not look for that success and happiness in life which men
enjoy who have not been so lamentably deficient in discretion f
'Twas thus that he lectured himself; but still he went on thinking
of Madeline Staveley.

There had been some disagreeable confusion in the house that
afternoon after Augustus had spoken to his sister. Madeline had
gone up to her own room, and had remained there, chewing the
cud of her thoughts. Both her sister and her brother had
warned her about this man. She could moreover divine that her
mother was . sufiFering under some anxiety on the same subject.
^Vhy was all this ? Why should these things be said and thought ?
"Why should there be uneasiness in the house on her account in this
matter of Mr. Graham? She acknowledged to herself that there
was such uneasiness ; — and she almost acknowledged to herself the
cause.

But while she was still sitting over her own fire, with her needle
untouched beside her, her father had come home, and Lady Staveley
had mentioned to him that Mr. Graham thought of going on the
next day.

* Nonsense, my dear,' said the judge. ' He must not think of
such a thing. He can hardly be fit to leave his room yet.'

* Pottinger does say that it has gone on very favourably,' pleaded
Lady Staveley.

* But that's no reason he should destroy the advantages of his
healthy constitution by insane imprudence. He's got nothing to
do. He wants to go merely because he thinks he is in your way.'

Lady Staveley looked wishfully up in her husband's face, longing
to tell him all her suspicions. But as yet her grounds for them
were so slight that even to him she hesitated to mention them.

THE GEM OF THfi FOUR FAMILIES. 53

* His being here is no trouble to me, of course/ she said.

' Of course not. You tell him so, and he'll stay,' said the judge.
* I want to see him to-morrow myself; — about this business of poor
Lady Mason's.'

Immediately after that he met his son. And Augustus also told
him that Graham was going.

* Oh no ; he's not going at all,' said the judge. ' I've settled that
with your mother.'

* He's very anxious to be off,' said Augustus gravely.

* And why ? Is there any reason ?*

' Well ; I don't know.* For a moment he thought he would tell
his father the whole story ; but he reflected that his doing so would
be hardly fair towards his friend. ' I don't know that there is any
absolute reason ; but I'm quite sure that he is very anxious to go.'

The judge at once perceived that there was something in the
wind, and during that hour in which the pheasant was being dis-
cussed up in Graham's room, he succeeded in learning the whole
from his wife. Dear, good, loving wife I A secret of any kind
from him was an impossibility to her, although that secret went
no further than her thoughts.

' The darling girl is so anxious about him, that— that I'm afraid,'
said she.

* He's by no means a bad sort of man, my love,' said the judge.
' But he's got nothing — literally nothing,' said the mother.

* Neither had I, when I went a wooing,' said the judge. ' But,
nevertheless, I managed to have it all my own way.*

* You don't mean really to make a comparison ?' said Lady
Staveley. * In the first place you were at the top of your pro-
fession.'

' Was I ? If so I must have achieved that distinction at a very
early age.' And then he kissed his wife very affectionately.
Nobody was there to see, and under such circumstances a man may
kiss his Avifo even though he be a judge, and between fifty and
sixty years old. After that he again spoke to his son, and in spite
of the resolves which Augustus had made as to what friendship
required of him, succeeded in learning the whole truth.

Late in the evening, when all the party had drunk their cups
c»f tea, when Lady Staveley was beginning her nap, and Augustus
was making himself agreeable to Miss Fumival — to the great
aunoyance of his mother, who half rousing herself every now and
then, looked sorrowfully at what was going on with her winking
eyes, — the judge contrived to withdraw with Madeline into the
small drawing-room, telling her as he put his arm round her waist,
that he had a few words to say to her.

* Well, papa,' said she, as at h!s bidding she sat herself down
beside him on the sofa. She was frightened, because such sum-

OSLKT FABM.

monses wera Teiy uniiMisl ; but neTertiieleflB her father's maimer
towards her was always so fnll of lore that even in her fear she
felt a comfort in being with him.

* My darling/ he said, *• I want to ask yon one or two questions
— about onr goest here who has hnrt himself, — Mr. Graham.'

* Tes, papa.' And now she knew that she was trembling with
nenrons dread.

^ Ton need not think that I am in the least angry with yon, or
that I suspect yon of having done or said, or even thought anything
that is wrong. I feel quite confident that I have no cause to do so.'

* Oh, thank yoo, papa.'

* But I want to know idiether Mr, Gxaham has ever spoken to
you — as a lover.'

* Never, papa.'

* Because under the circumstances of his present stay here, his
doing so would, I think, have been ungenerous.'

* He never has, papa, in any way — ^not a single word.'

* And you have no reason to regard him in that light.'

* No, papa.' But in ihe speaking of these last two words there
was a slight hesitation, — ^the least possible shade of doubt conveyed,
which made itself immediately intelligible to the practised ear of
the judge.

♦Tell me all, my darling; — ever3rthing that there is in your
heart, so that we may help each other if that may be possible.'

* He has never said anything to me, papa.'

' Because your mamma thinks that you are more anxious about
him than you would be about an ordinary visitor.'

* Does she ?'

* Has any one else spoken to you about Mr. Graham ?'

* Augustus did, papa ; and Isabella, some time ago.'

* Then I suppose they thought the same.'

* Yes ; I suppose they did.*

* And now, dear, is there anything else you would like to say to
me about it ?'

* No, papa, I don't think there is.'

' But remember this always ; — that my only wishes respecting
you, and your mother's wishes also, are to see you happy and good.'

* I am very happy, papa.'

* And very good also to the best of my belief.' And then he
kissed her, and they went back again into the large drawing-room.

Many of my readers, and especially those who are old and wise, —
if I chance to have any such — will be inclined to think that the
judge behaved foolishly in thus cross-questioning his daughter on
a matter, which, if it were expedient that it should die away,
would die away the more easily the less it were talked about.
But the judge was an odd man in many of the theories of his life.

THE ANGEL OV UQHT inPEB A CLOUD. 55

One of them, with reference to his children, was Tery odd, and
altogether oppoaod to the moal pxaotioe of the world. It was
thia, — ^thot they ahoald he allowed, aa £yr aa waa praetksable, to do
what Hiey liked. Now the general opiniasi of Ihe woild la cer-
tainly quite the reverse — namely this, that children, aa long aa
they are tinder the control of their parents, should be hindered and
prevented in thoee things to which they are most uiolined. Of
course the world in general, in carrying out this practioe, exonaea
it by an assertion,—- made to themaelTea or othen — ^tbat children
customarily like those things which they oug^t not to like. Bui
the judge bad an idea quite opposed to this. Children, he said, if
properly trained would like those things which were good for
them. Now it may be that he {bought his danghtcg had bean
properly trained.

* He is a very clever young man, my dear; you may be aare oi
that,' were the last words which the judge said to his wife that
night.

* But then he has got nothing,' ahe replied ; ' and he is so un-
commonly plain.'

The judge would not aay a word more, but he could not help
thinking that this last point waa one whieh migjht certainly be left
to the young lady.

CHAPTER Vm.

THE ANGEL OP LIGHT UNIMSB A OLOUD. .

On the following morning, according to appointment, the judge
visited Felix Graham in his room. It was only the second occasion
on which he had done so since the accident, and he was therefore
more inclined to regard him as an invalid than thoee who had seen
him from day to day.

' I am delighted to hear that your bones have been so amenable,'
said the judge. ' But you must not try them too &a. We'll get
you down stairs into the drawing-room, and see how you get on
there by the next few days.'

' I don't want to trouble you more than I can help,' said Felix,
sheepishly. He knew that there were reasons why he should not
go into that drawing-room, but of course he could not guess that
those reasons were as well known to the judge as they were to
himself.

*■ You sha'n't trouble us — more than you can help. I am not one
of those men who tell my friends that nothing is a trouble. Of
course you give trouble.'

56 ORLEY FARM.

* I am 80 sorry !'

* There's your bed to make, my dear fellow, and your gruel to
warm. You know Shakspeare pretty well by heart I believe, and
he puts that matter, — as he did every other matter, — in the best
and truest point of view. Lady Macbeth didn't say she had no
labour in receiving the king. ** The labour we delight in physics
pain," she said. Those were her words, and now they are mine.*

' With a more honest purpose behind,' said Felix.

* Well, yes ; I've no murder in my thoughts at present. So that
is all settled, and Lady Staveley will be delighted to see you down
stairs to-morrow.'

* I shall be only too happy,* Felix answered, thinking within his
own mind that he must settle it all in the course of the day with
Augustus.

' And now perhaps you will be strong enough to say a few words
about business.'

' Certainly,' said Graham.

* You have heard of this Orley Farm case, in which our neigh-
bour Lady Mason is concerned.'

* Oh yes ; we were all talking of it at your table ; — I think it was
the night, or a night or two, before my accident.'

' Very well ; then you know all about it. At least as much as
the public knows generally. It has now been decided on the part
of Joseph Mason, — the husband's eldest son, who is endeavouring
to get the property — that she shall be indicted for perjurj'.'

* For perjury !'

' Yes ; and in doing that, regarding the matter from his point
of view, they are not deficient in judgment.'

* But how could she have been guilty of perjury ?'

* In swearing that she had been present when her husband and
the three witnesses executed the deed. If they have any ground
to stand on — and I believe they have none whatever, but if they
have, they would much more easily get a verdict against her on
that point than on a charge of forgery. Supposing it to be the
fact that her husband never executed such a deed, it would be
manifest that she must have sworn falsely in swearing that she saw
him do so.'

* Why, yes ; one would say so.'

*But that would aflford by no means conclusive evidence that
she had forged the surreptitious deed herself.'

* It would be strong presumptive evidence that she was cognizant
of the forgery.'

* Perhaps so, — ^but imcorroborated would hardly bring a verdict
after such a lapse of years. And then moreover a prosecution for
forgery, if unsuccessful, would produce more painful feeling.
Whether successful or unsuccessful it would do so. Bail could not

THE ANOEL OP LIGHT UNDEB ▲ CLOUD. 57

be taken in the first instance, and such a prosecution would create
a stronger feeling that the poor lady was being persecuted.'

* Those who really understand the matter will hardly thank
them for their mercy.'

' But then so few will really understand it. The fact however
is that she will be indicted for perjury. I do not know whether
the indictment has not been already laid. Mr. Fumival was with
me in town yesterday, and at his very urgent request, I discussed
the whole subject with him. I shall be on the Home Circuit
myself on these next spring assizes, but I shall not take the
criminal business at Alston. Indeed I should not choose that this
matter should be tried before me under any circumstances, seeing
that the lady is my near neighbour. Now Fumival wants you to
be engaged on the defence as jimior coimsel.'

* With himself?'

' Yes ; with himself, — and with Mr. Chaffanbrass.'

* With Mr. Chaffanbrass !* said Graham, in a tone almost of
horror — as though he had been asked to league himself with all that
was most disgraceful in the profession ; — as indeed perhaps he had
been.

* Yes — with Mr. Chaffanbrass.'

* Will that be well, judge, do you think ?'

' Mr. Chaffanbrass no doubt is a very clever man, and it may be
wise in such a case as this to have the services of a barrister
who is perhaps unequalled in his power of cross-examining a
witness.'

* Does his power consist in making a witness speak the truth, or
in making him conceal it ?*

* Perhaps in both. But here, if it be the case as Mr. Fumival
suspects, that witnesses will be suborned to give fedse evidence '

' But surely the Bounds would have nothing to do with such a
matter as that ?'

' No, probably not. I am sure that old Richard Bound would
abhor any such work as you or I would do. They take the evidence
as it is brought to them. I believe there is no doubt that at any
rate one of the witnesses to the codicil in question will now swear
that the signature to the document is not her signature.'

* A woman — is it ?'

' Yes ; a woman. In such a case it may perhaps be allowable to
employ such a man as Mr. Chaffanbrass ; and I should tell you also,
such another man as Mr. Solomon Aram.'

' Solomon Aram, too I Why, judge, the Old Bailey will be left
bare.'

' The shining lights will certainly be down at Alston. Now
under those circumstances will you undertake the case ?'

* Would you ; — in my place ?'

* T<s; if I went iaUj eunrneed «f ibe '■"r* Tf of mj client mt
the b^rghnriiig,'

* Bat wmi if I were dziran to rhm^ my opiaioa m xbe thing
progmaedr

^ Yon most go on, ia sach a case, ai * sutter of okhdib.*
' I mppoje 1 cut faxre a dsj or two to thiak of it 3^
*0h Tea. I Acmld not mjaelf be the beeier to tou of Mr.
FwrniYsl's mtmMBt, wen it not that I think that Ladr Mason is
beiag Terj cm^ljr med in the matter. If I were a joang man in
yonr poaitioo, I should take np the caae ooa aawrv; lor the sake of
beautj and womanhood. I don't aaj that that Quixotism is Ttrj
wise ; Int still I don't think it can be wrong to join jooreelf eren
with soch men as Chafianbrsss and Mr. Solomon Aram, if yon can
feel cr^nfident that von hare jnstioe and tmth on jonr side.* Then
after a few more words the intenriew was over, and the judge lefl
the room making aome farther observation as to his hope of seeing
Graham in the drawing-room on the next day.

On the following morning there came fhxn Peckham two more
letters lor Graham, one of course from Mary Snow, and one from
3In!. Thoma8. We will first gire attention to that from the elder
lady. She commenced with moch awe, declaring that her pen
trembled within her fingers, bnt that neTerthelcas she felt bomid by
her conscience and that daty which she owed to Mr. Graham, to
tell him everything that had occurred, — ' word by word/ as she
expressed it. And then Felix, looking at the letter, saw that he
held in hiH hand two sheeta of letter paper, quite foil of small
writing, the latter of which was crossed. She went on to say that
her care had been unremitting, and her solicitude almost maternal ;
that Mary's conduct had on the whole been such as to inspire her
with ' imdeviating confidence ;' bnt that the guile of the present age
was such, especially in respect to female servants — who seemed, in
MrH. Iliomas's oi)inion to he sent in these days express from a very
bad place for the express assistance of a very bad gentleman — that
it was iDipossible for any woman, lot her be ever so circumspect, to
say * what was what, or who was who.' From all which Graham
learned that Mrs. Thomas had been * done ;' but by the middle of
the third page he had as yet learned nothing as to the manner of
the doing.

But by degrees the long reel unwinded itself; — angel of light,
and all. Mary Snow had not only received but liad answered a
lover's letter. She had answered that lover's letter by making an
apprnntmcnt with him ; and she had kept that appointment, — ^with
the aHsisf anco of the agent sent express from that very bad gentle-
roan. All this Mrs. Thomas had only discovered afterwards by
finding the lover's letter, and the answer which the angel of light
had written. Both of these she copied verbatim, thinking probably

THE A17GEL OF LIGHT UNPEB A CLOUD. 59

that the original doonments were too precious to he intrusted to the
post ; and then ended hy saying that an additional year of oelihaoy,
passed under a closer espionage, and with more severe moral train-
ing, might still perhaps make Mary Snow fit for the high destiny
which had been promised to her.

The only part of this letter which Felix read twice was that
which contained the answer from the angel of light to her lover,
" You have been very wicked to address me,' the angel of light said
severely. * And it is almost impossible that I shotdd ever foi^ve
you !' If only she could have brought herself to end there 1 But
her nature, which the lover had greatly belied in likening it to her
name, was not cold enough for this. So she added a few more
words very indiscreetly. * As I want to explain to you why I can
never see you again, I will meet you on Thursday afternoon, at
half-past four, a little way up Clapham Lane, at the comer of the
doctor's wall, just beyond the third lamp.' It was the first letter
she had ever written to a lover, and the poor girl had betrayed her-
self by keeping a copy of it.

And then Graham came to Mary Snow s letter to himself, which,
as it was short, the reader shall have entire.

' My dear Mr. Graham,

* I never was so tmhappy in my Kfe, and I am sure I don't know
how to write to you. Of course I do not think you will ever see
me again unless it be to upbraid me for my perfidy, and I almost
hope you won't, for I should sink into the ground before your eyes.
And yet I didn't mean to do anything very wrong, and when I did
meet him I wouldn't as much as lot him take me by the hand ; —
not of my own accord. I don't know what shehas said to you, and
I think she ought to have let mo read it ; but she speaks to me now
in such a way that I don't know how to bear it. She has rum-
maged among everything I have got, but I am sure she could find
nothing except those two letters. It wasn't my fault that he wrote
to me, though I know now I ought not to have met him. • He is
quite a genteel young man, and very respectable in the medical
line ; only I know that malvcs no difierence now, seeing how good
you have been to me. I don't ask you to forgive me, but it nearly
kills me when I think of poor papa.

' Yours always, most unhappy, and very sorry for what I have
done, Mary Snow.'

Poor Mary Snow! Could any man under such circumstances
have been angry with her? In the first place if men will mould
their wives, they must expect that kind of thing ; and then, after
all, was there any harm done? If ultimately he did marry Mary
Snow, would she make a worse wife because she had met the
apothecary's assistant at the comer of the doctor's waU, under the

60 ORLET FABM.

third lamp-post ? Gnduun, as he sat with the letters before him,
made all mamier of excuses for her; and this he did the more
eagerly, because he felt that he would have willingly made this
afiair a cause for breaking off his engagement, if his conscience
had not told him that it would be unhandsome in him to do so.

When Augustas came he could not show the letters to him.
Had he done so it would have been as much as to declare that now
the coast was clear as far as he was concerned. He could not now
discuss with his friend the question of Mary Snow, without also
discussing the other question of Madeline Staveley. So he swept
the letters away, and talked almost entirely about the Orley Farm
case.

' I only wish I were thought good enough fur the chance,' said
Augustus. ' By heavens ! I would work for that woman as I never
could work again for any fee that could be offered me.'

' So would I ; but I don't like my fellow-labourers.'

* I should not mind that.'

* I suppose,' said Graham, ' there can be no possible doubt as to
her absolute innocence ?'

'None whatever. My fJEither has no doubt. Fumival has no
doubt. Sir Peregrine has no doubt, — who, by-the-by, is going to
marry her.'

'Nonsense!'

' Oh, but he is though. He has taken up her case con amore with
a vengeance.'

* I should be sorry for that. It makes me think him a fool, and
her — a very clever woman.'

And so that matter was discussed, but not a word was said
between them about Mary Snow, or as to that former conversation
respecting Madeline Staveley. Each felt then there was a reserve
between them ; but each felt also tliat there was no way of avoiding
this. *The governor seems determined that you sha'n't stir yet
awhile,' Augustus said as he was preparing to take his leave.

* I sfiall be off in a day or two at the furthest all the same,' said
Graham.

' And you are to drink tea down stairs to-night. I'll come and
fetch you as soon as we're out of the dining-room. I can assure
3'ou that your first appearance after your accident has been duly
announced to the public, and that you are anxiously expected.'
And then Staveley left him.

. So ho was to meet Madeline that evening. His first feeling at the
thought was one of joy, but he soon brought himself almost to wish
that ho could leave Noningsby without any such meeting. Thero
would have been nothing in it, — nothing that need have called for
observation or remark, — had he not told his secret to Augustus.
But his secret had been told to one, and might be known to others

THE ANGEL OP LIGHT UNDER A CLOUD. 61

in the house. Indeed he felt snre that it was 8n£(peoted by Lady
Staveley. It could not, as he said to himself, have been suspected
by the judge, or the judge would not have treated him in so friendly
a manner, or have insisted so urgently on his coming down among
them.

And then, how should he carry himself in her presence ? If he
were to say nothing to her, his saying nothing would be remarked ;
and yet he felt that all his powers of self-control would not enable
him to speak to her in the same manner that he would speak to her
sister. He had to ask himself, moreover, what line of conduct he
did intend to follow. If he was still resolved to marry Mary Snow,
would it not be better that he should take this bull by the horns
and upset it at once ? In such case, Madeline Staveley must be no
more to him than her sister. But then he had two intentions. In
accordance with one he would make Mary Snow his wife ; and in
following the other he would marry Miss Staveley. It must bo
admitted that the two brides which he proposed to himself were
very different. The one that he had moiilded for his own purposes
was not, as ho admitted, quite equal to her of whom nature, educa-
tion, and birth had had the handling.

Again he dined alone ; but on this occasion Mrs. Baker was able
to elicit from him no enthusiasm as to his dinner. And yet she
had done her best, and placed before him a sweetbread and dish of
sea-kale that ought to have made liim enthusiastic. * I had to fight
with the gardener for that like anything,* she said, singing her own
praises when he declined to sing them.

* Dear mo ! They'll think that I am a dreadful person to have in
the house.*

* Not a bit. Only they sha*n*t think as how I*m going to be said
' no ' to in that way when I*ve set my mind on a thing. I know
what's going and I know what's proper. Why, laws, Mr. Graham,
there's heaps of things there and yet there's no getting of *em ; —
unless tliere's a party or the like of that. What's the use of a
garden I say, — or of a gardener neither, if you don't have garden
stuiT? It's not to look at. Do finish it now ; — after all the trouble
I had, standing over him in the cold while he cut it.'

* Oh dear, oh dear, Mrs. Baker, why did you do that ?'

* IIo thought to perish me, making believe it took him so long to
get at it ; but I'm not so easy perished ; I can tell him that ! I'd
have stood there till now but what I had it. Miss Madeline see'd
me as I was coming in, and asked me what I'd been doing.'

* I hope you didn't tell her that I couldn't live without sea-kale ?'
' I told her that I meant to give you your dinner comfortable as

long as you had it up here ; and she said ; but laws, Mr. Graham,

you don't care what a young lady says to an old woman like mo.
You'll see her yourself this evening, and then you can tell her

62 OBLET FARM.

whether or no the 6e»-kale was worth the eating ! It's not so badly
biled ; I will say that for Hannah Cook, thongh she is rampagious
sometimes.' He lotted to ask her what words Madeline had used,
even in speaking on such a subject as this ; bnt he did not dare to
do so. Mrs. Baker was very fond of talking about Miss Madeline,
bnt Graham was by no means assured that he should find an ally in
Mrs. Baker if he told her all the truth.

At last the hour arrived, and Augustus came to convoy him
down to the drawing-room. It was now many days since he had
been out of that room, and the very fiact of moving was an excite-
ment to him. He hardly knew how he might feel in walking down
stairs, and could not quite separate the nervousness arising from his
shattered bones from that other nervousness which came from his
— shattered heart. The word is undoubtedly a little too strong,
but as it is there, there let it stay. When he reached the drawing-
room, he almost felt that he had better decline to enter it. The
door however was opened, and he was in the room before he could
make up his mind to any such step, and he found himself being
walked across the floor to some especial seat, while a dozen kindly
anxious f&ces were crowding round him.

* Here's an arm-chair, Mr. Graham, kept expressly for yoi\, near
the fire,' said Lady Staveley. ' And I am extremely glad to see
yon well enough to fill it.'

* Welcome out of your room, sir,' said the judge. * I compli-
ment you, and Pottinger also, upon your quick recovery : bnt allow
me to tell you that you don't yet look like a man fit to rough it
alone in London.'

* I feel ver}' well, sir,' said Graham.

And then Mrs. Arbuthnot greeted him, and Miss Fumival, and
four or five others who were of the party, and he was introduced to
one or two whom he had not seen before. Marian too came up to
him, — very gently, as though he were as brittle as glass, having
been warned by her mother. * Oh, Mr. Felix,' she said, * I was so
unhappy when your bones were broken. I do hope they won't
break again.'

And then ho perceived that Madeline was in the room and was
coming up to him. She had in truth not been there when he first
entered, having thought it better, as a matter of strat^y, to follow
upon his footsteps. He was getting up to meet her, when Lady
Staveley spoke to him.

• Don't move, Mr. Graham. Invalids, you know, are chartered.*
I am very glad to see you once more downstairs,' said Madeline,
as she frankly gave him her band, — not merely touching kis —
' very, very glad. But I do hope you will get stronger before you
venture to leave Noningsby. You have frightened us all very
much hy j'our terrible accident.'

THE ANGEL OF LIGHT UNDER A CLOUD. 03

All this sbo said in her peculiarly sweet silver voice, not speaking
as though she were dismayed and beside herself, or in a hurry to
get through a lesson which she had taught herself. She had her
secret to hide, and had schocled herself how to hide it. But in so
schooling herself she had been compelled to acknowledge to herself
that the secret did exist. She had told herself that she must meet
him, and that in meeting him she must hide it. This she had done
with absolute success. Such is the peculiar power of women ; and
her mother, who had listened not only to every word, but to every
tone of her voice, gave her exceeding credit.

' There's more in her than I thou^t there was,' said Sophia
Fumival to herself, who had also listened and watched.

' It has not gone very deep with her/ said the judge, who on thia
matter was not so good a judge as Miss Fumival.

* She cares about me just as Mrs. Baker does,' said Oraham to
himself, who was the worst judge of them all. He muttered some-
thing quite xmintelligible in answer to the kindness of her words ;
and then Madeline, having gone through her task, retired to the
further side of the round table, and went to work among the
teacups.

And then the conversation became general, turning altogether on
the affairs of Lady Mason. It was declared as a fact by Lady
Staveley that there was to be a marriage between Sir Peregrine
Orme and his guest, and all in the room expressed their sorrow*
The women were especially indignant. ' I have no patience with
her/ said Mrs. Arbuthnot. ' She must know that such a marriage
at his time of life must be ridiculous, and injurious to the whole
family.*

The women were very indignant, — all except Miss Fumival, who
did not say much, but endeavoured to palliate the crimes of Lady
Mason in that which she did say. * I do not know that she is more
to blame than any other lady who marries a gentleman thirty years
older than herself.'

* I do then,' said Lady Staveley, who delighted in contradicting
^liss Furnival, * And so would you too, my dear, if you had known
Sir Peregrine as long as I have. And if —if— if — but it does not
matter. I am very sorry for Lady Mason, — very. I think she is a
woman cruelly used by her own connections ; but my sympathies
with her would be warmer if she had refrained from using her
^ower over an old gentleman like Sir Peregrine, in the way she
has done.' In all which expression of sentiment the reader will
know that poor dear Lady Staveley was wrong from the beginning
to the end.

* For my part,' said the judge, * I don't see what else she was to
do. If Sir Peregrine asked her, how could she refuse V

* My dear !' said Lady Staveley.

64 OBLET FARM.

* According to tliat, papa, every lady must marry any gentleman
that asks her,' said Mrs. Arbathnot.

* AVhen a lady is under so deep a weight of obligation I don't
know how she is to refuse. My idea is that Sir Peregrine should
not have asked her.'

* And mine too,' said Felix. * Unless indeed he did it under an
impression that he could fight for her better as her husband than
simply as a friend.'

* And I feel sure that that is what he did think,' said Madeline,
from the further side of the table. And her voice sounded in
Graham's ears as the voice of Eve may have sounded to Adam. Ko ;
let him do what he might in the world ; — whatever might be the
form in which his future career should be fashioned, one thing was
clearly impossible to him. He could not marry Mary Snow. Had
he never learned to know what were the true charms of feminine
grace and loveliness, it might have been possible for him to do so,
and to have enjoyed afterwards a fair amount of contentment. But
now even contentment would be impossible to him under such a lot
as that. Not only would he be miserable, but the woman whom he
married would be wretched also. It may be said that he made up
his mind definitely, while sitting in that arm-chair, that he would
not marry Mary Snow. Poor Mary Snow! Her fault in the
matter had not been groat.

When Graham was again in his room, and the servant who was
obliged to undress him had left him, he sat over his fire, wrapped
in his dressing-gown, bethinking himself what he would do *. I
will tell the judge everything,' he said at last. * Then, if he will
let mo inio hie house after that, I must fight my own battle.' And
so he betook himself to bed.

CHAPTEE rX.

MRS. FURXIVAL CAN'T PUT UP WITH IT.

When Lady Mason last left the chambers of her lawyer in Lincoln's
Inn, she was watched by a stout lady as she passed throngh the
narrow passage leading from the Old to the New Square. That
fact will I trust bo remembered, and I need hardly say that the
stout lady was Mrs. Fumival. She had heard betimes of the
arrival of that letter with the Hamworth postmark, had felt assured
that it was written by the hands of her hated rival, and had at
once prepared for action.

* I shall leave this house to-day, — immediately after breakfast,*
she said to Miss Biggs, as they sat disconsolately at the table with
the urn between them.

* And I think you will be quite right, my dear,' replied Miss
Biggs. * It is your bounden duty to put down such wicked iniquity
as this ; — not only for your own sake, but for that of morals in
general. What in the world is there so beautiful and so lovely
as a high tone of moral sentiment ?' To this somewhat transcen-
dental question Mrs. Fumival made no reply. That a high tone of
moral sentiment as a thing in general, for the world's use, is very
good, she was no doubt aware ; but her mind at the present moment
was fixed exclusively on her own peculiar case. That Tom Fumival
should be made to give up seeing that nasty woman who lived at
Hamworth, and to give up also having letters from her, — that at
present was the extent of her moral sentiment. His wicked iniquity
she could forgive with a facility not at all gratifying to Miss Biggs,
if only she could bring about such a result as that. So she merely
grunted in answer to the above proposition.

* And will you sleep away from this T asked Miss Biggs.

* Cei-tainly 1 will. I will neither eat here, nor sleep here, nor
stay here till I know that all this is at an end. I have made up my
mind what I will do.'

* Well ?' asked the anxious Martha.

* Oh, never mind. I am not exactly prepared to talk about it.
There are things one can't talk about, — not to anybody. One feels
as though one would burst in mentioning it. I do, I know.'

VOL. II. F

66 OBLEY FABIL

Martha Biggs could not bat feel that this was hard, but she knew
that friendship is nothing if it be not long enduring. 'Dearest
Kitty!' she exclaimed. 'If true sympathy can bo of service to
you '

'I wonder whether I could get respectable lodgings in the
neighbourhood of Red Lion Square for a week?' said Mrs. FumivaJ,
once more bringing the conversation back from the abstract to the
concrete.

In answer to this Miss Biggs of oonrse offered the use of her own
bedroom and of her father's house ; but her father was an old man,
and 3Ir8. Fumival positively refused to agree to any such arrange-
ment. At last it was decided that Martha should at once go off
and look for lodgings in the vicinity of her own home, that
Mrs. Fumival should proceed to carry on her own business in her
own way, — ^the cruelty being this, that she would not give the
least hint as to what Uiat way might be, — and that the two ladies
should meet together in the Bed Lion Square drawing-room at the
dose of the day.

* And about dinner, dear T asked Miss Biggs.

' I will get something at a pastrycook's,' said Mrs. Fumival.

' And your clothes, dear ?'

' Hachel will see about them ; she knows.' Now Rachel was the
old female servant of twenty years' standing ; and the disappoint-
ment experienced by poor Miss Biggs at the ignorance in which
she was left was greatly enhanced by a belief that Rachel knew
more than she did. Mrs. Fumival would tell Rachel but would
not tell her. This was very, very hard, as Miss Biggs felt. But,
nevertheless, friendship, sincere friendship is long enduring, and
true patient merit will generally receive at last its appropriate
reward.

Then Mrs. Fumival had sat down, Martha Biggs having been
duly sent forth on the mission after the lodgings, and had written
a letter to her husband. This she intrusted to Rac;hel, whom she
did not purpose to remove from that abode of iniquity from which
she herself was fleeing, and having completed her letter she went
out upon her own work. The letter ran as follows : —

* Harley Street — ^Friday.
*My dearest Tom,

• I cannot stand this any longer, so I have thought it best to

leave the house and go away. I am very sorry to be forced to such

a step as this, and would have put up with a good deal first ; but

there are some things which I cannot put up with, — and .won't.

I know that a woman has to obey her husband, and I have always

obeyed you, and thought it no hardship even when I was left so

much alone ; but a woman is not to see a slut brought in under her

MBS. FURNIVAL CAN'T PUT UP WITH IT. 67

very nose, — and I wont put np with it. WeVe been married now
going on over twenty-five years, and it's terrible to think of being
driven to this. I almost believe it will drive me mad, and then,
when I'm a lunatic, of oonrse yon can do as yon please.

* I don't want to have any secrets from yon. Where I shall go
I don't yet know, bnt I've asked Martha Biggs to take lodgings for
me somewhere near her. I mnst have somebody to speak to now
and again, so you can write to 23 Bed Lion Square tUl you bear
further. It's no use sending for me, for I wnCt come ; — ^not tiU I
know that you think better of your present ways of going on. I
dont know whether you have the power to get the police to "come
after me, but I advise you not. If you do anything of that sort
the people about shall hear of it.

* And now, Tom, I want to say one word to you. You can't
think it's a happiness to me going away from my own home where
I have lived respectable so many years, or leaving you whom I've
lovod with all my whole heart. It makes me very very unhappy, <flo
that I could sit and cry all day if it weren't for pride and becamse
the servants shouldn't see me. To think that it has come to this
after all ! Oh, Tom, I wonder whether you ever think of the old
days when we used to be so happy in Keppel Street I There wasn't
anybody then that you cared to see, except me ; — I do believe that
And 3'ou'd always come home then, and I never thought bad of
it though you wouldn't have a word to speak to me for hours.
Because you were doing your duty. But you aint doing your duty
now, Tom. You know you aint doing your duty when you never
dine at home, and come home so cross with wine that you curse
and Bwear, and have that nasty woman coming to see you at your
chambers. Don't tell me it's about law business. Ladies don't
go to barristers' chambers about law business. All that is done by
attorneys. I've heard you say scores of times that you never would
see people themselves, and yet you see her.

* Oh, Tom, you have made me so wretched ! But I can forgive
it all, and will never say another word about it to fret you, if you'll
only promise me to have nothing more to say to that woman. Of
course I'd like you to come home to dinner, but I'd put up with that.
You've made your own way in the world, and perhaps it's only
right you should enjoy it. I don't think so much dining at the
club can be good for you, and I'm afraid you'll have gout, but I
don't want to bother you about that. Send me a line to say that
you won't see her any more, and I'll come back to Harley Street
at once. If you can't bring yourself to do that, you — and — I —
must — part. I can put up with a great deal, but I can't put up
with that ; — and worCt,

* Your affectionate loving wife,

•C. FCRNIVAL.'

68 OBLEY FARM.

* I wonder whether you ever think of the old days when we used
to be 80 happy in Eeppel Street ?' Ah me, how often in after life,
in those successful days when the battle has been fought and won,
when all seems outwardly to go well, — how often is this reference
made to ihe happy days in Keppel Street ! It is not the prize that
can make us happy : it is not even the winning of the prize, though
for the one short half-hour of triumph that is pleasant enough.
The struggle, the long hot hour of the honest fight, the grinding
work — when the teeth are set, and the skin moist with sweat and
rough with dost, when all is doubtful and sometimes desperate,
when a man must trust to his own manhood knowing that those
around him trust to it not at all, — that is the happy time of life.
There, is no human bliss equal to twelve hours of work with only
six hours in which to do it. And when the expected pay for that
work is worse than doubtful, the inner satisfaction is so much the
greater. Oh, those happy days in Keppel Street, or it may be over
in dirty lodgings in the Borough, or somewhere near the Mary-
lebone workhouse ; — anywhere for a moderate weekly stipend.
Those were to us, and now are to others, and always will be to
many, the happy days of life. How bright was love, and how full
of poetry I Flashes of wit glanced here and there, and how they
came home and warmed the cockles of the heart. And the un>
frequent bottle I Methinks that wine has utterly lost its flavour
since those days. There is nothing like it ; long work, grinding
weary work, work without pay, hopeless work ; but work in which
the worker trusts himself, believing it to be good. Let him, like
Mahomet, have one other to believe in him, and surely nothing
else is needed. * Ah me ! I wonder whether you over think of the
old days when we used to be so happy in Keppel Street ?*

Nothing makes a man so cross as success, or so soon turns a
pleasant friend into a captious acquaintance. Your successful man
eats too much and his stomach troubles him ; he drinks too much
and his nose becomes blue. He wants pleasure and excitement,
and roams about looking for satisfaction in places where no man
ever found it. He frets himself with his banker's book, and ever}^-
thing tastes amiss to him that has not on it the flavour of gold. Tho
straw of an omnibus always stinks ; the linings of the cabs are fllthy.
There are but three houses round London at which an eatable
dinner may be obtained. And yet a few years since how delicious
was that cut of roast goose to be had for a shilling at the eating-
house near Golden Square. Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Green, Mrs.
Walker and all the other mistresses, are too vapid and stupid and
humdrum for endurance. The theatres are dull as Lethe, and
politics have lost their salt. Success is the necessary misfortune
of lil'e, but it is only to the very unfortunate that it comes early.

Mrs. Fumival, when she had finished her letter and fastened it.

MRS. PURNIVAL CAN'T PUT UP WITH IT. 69

drew one of the b^avy dining-room arm-cliaira over against the fire, and
sat herself down to consider her past life, still holding the letter in
her lap. She had not on that morning been very oarefnl with her
toilet, as was perhaps natural enough. The cares of the world
were heavy on her, and he would not be there to see her. Her
hair was rough, and her face was red, and she had hardly had the
patience to make straight the collar round her neck. To the eye
she was an untidy, angry, cross-looking woman. But her heart
was full of tenderness, — full to overflowing. She loved him now
as well as ever she had loved him : — almost more as the thought
of parting from him pressed upon her ! Was he not all in all to
her ? Had she not woi'shipped him during her whole life ? Could
she not forgive him ?

Forgive him I Yes. Forgive him with the fullest, frankest,
freest pardon, if he would only take forgiveness. Should she bum
that letter in tho fire, send to Biggs saying that the lodgings were
not wanted, and then throw herself at Tom's feet, imploring him
to have mercy upon her. All that she could do within her heart,
and make her words as passionate, as soft, and as poetical as might
be those of a young wife of twenty. But she felt that such words,
— though she could frame the sentence while sitting there — could
never get themselves spoken. She had tried it, and it had been of
no avail. Not only should she be prepared for softness, but he also
must be so prepared and at the same moment If he should push
her from him and call her a fool when she attempted that throwing
of herself at his feet, how would it be with her spirit then ? No.
She must go forth and the letter must be left. If there were any
hope of union for the future it must come from a parting for the
present. So she went upstairs and summoned Bachel, remaining
with her in consultation for some half-hour. Then she descended
with her bonnet and shawl, got into a cab while Spooner stood at
the door looking very serious, and was driven away, — whither,
no one knew in Harley Street except Mrs. Fumival herself, and
that cabman.

* She'll never put her foot inside this hall door again. That's my
idea of tlie matter,' said Spooner.

* Indeed and she will,' said Hachel, * and be a happier woman
than ever she's been since the house was took.'

* If I know master,' said Spooner, * he's not the man to get rid of
an old woman, easy like that, and then 'ave her back agin.'
Upon licaring which words, so very injurious to the sex in general,
Kacbel walked into the house not deigning any further reply.

And then, as we have seen, Mrs. Fumival was there, standing
in the dark shadow of the Lincoln's Inn passage, when Lady
Mason left the lawyer's chambers. She felt sure that it was Lady
Mason, but she could not be quite sure. The woman, though she

70 OBLET IS ABM.

came out £rom the entry which led to her husband's chambers,
might have come down from some other set of rooms. Had she
been quite certain she would have attacked her rival there, laying
bodily hands upon her in the purlieus of the Lord Chancellor's
Ck>urt. As it was, the poor bruised creature was allowed to pass
by, and as she emerged out into the light at the other end of the
passage Mrs. Fumival became quite certain of her identity.

* Never mind,' i^ said to herself. * She sha'n't escape me long.
Him I could forgive, if he would only give it up ; but as for her — !
Let what come of it, come may, I will tell that woman what I think
of her conduct before I am many hours older.' Then, giving one
look up to the windows of her husband's chambers, she walked forth
through the dusiy old gate into Chancery Lane, and made her way on
foot up to No. 23 Bed Lion Square. * I'm glad I've done it,' she
said to herself as she went ; * very glad. There's nothing else for
it, when things come to such a head as that.' And in this frame of
mind she knocked at her friend's door.

* Well 1' said Martha Biggs, with her eyes, and mouth, and arms,
and heart all open.

* Have you got me the lodgings?* said Mrs. FumivaL

' Yes, close by ; — in Orange Street. I'm a&aid you'll find them
very dull. And what have you done ?'

^ I have done nothing, and I don't at all mind their being dulL
They can't possibly be more dull than Harley Street'

* And I shall be near you ; sha'n't I ?' said Martha Biggs.

* Umph,' said Mrs. Fumival. * I might as well go there at once
and get myself settled.' So she did, the affectionate Martha of
course accompanying hor; and thus the aflOairs of that day were
over.

Her intention was to go down to Hamworth at once, and mako
her way up to Orley Farm, at which place she believed that Lady
Mason was living. Up to this time she had heard no word of the
coming trial beyond what Mr. Fumival had told her as to his
client's * law business.' And whatever he had so told her, she had
scrupulously disbelieved. In her mind all that went for nothing.
Law business! she was not so blind, so soft, so green, as to be
hoodwinked by such stuff as that. Beautiful widows don't have
personal interviews with barristers in their chambers over and over
again, let them have what law business they may. At any rate
Mrs. Fumival took upon herself to say that they ought not to have
such interviews. She would go down to Orley Farm and she would
have an interview with Lady Mason. Perhaps the thing might be
stopped in that way.

On the following morning she received a note from her hus-
band the consideration of which delayed her proceedings for that
day.

MRS. FURNIVAL CAN'T PUT UP WITH IT. 71

^ Dear Kitty/ the note ran.

* I think jou are -very foolish. If regard for me had not
kept you at home, some consideration with reference to Sophia
should have done so. What you say about that poor lady at Orley
Farm is too absurd for me to answer. If yon would have spoken to
me about her, I would have told yon that which would have set
your mind at rest, at any rate as regards her. I cannot do this in
a letter, nor could I do it in the presence of your &iend, Miss
Biggs.

*■ I hope you will come back at once ; but I shall not add to the
absurdity of your leaving your own house by any attempt to bring
you back again by force. As you must want money I enclose a
check for fifty pounds. I hope you will be back before you want
more ; but if not I will send it as soon as you ask for it.

* Yours a&ctionately as always,

* T. FURNIVAL.*

There was about this letter an absence of sentiment, and an
absence of threat, and an absence of fuss, which almost overset
her. Could it be possible that she was wrong about Lady Mason,?
Should she go to him and hear his own account before she abso-
lutely declared war by breaking into the enemy's camp at Orley
Farm? Then, moreover, she was touched and almost overcome
about the money. She wished he had not sent it to her. That
money difGlculty had occurred to her, and been much discussed in
hor own thoughts. Of course she could not live away from him if
ho refused to make her any allowance, — at least not for any con-
siderable time. He had always been liberal as regards money since
money had been plenty with him, and therefore she had some
supply with her. She had jewels too which were her own; and
though, as she had already determined, she would not part with
them without telling him what she was about to do, yet she could,
if pressed, live in this way for the next twelve months ; — perhaps,
with close economy, even for a longer time than that. In her
present frame of mind she had looked forward almost with gratifi-
cation to being pinched and made uncomfortable. She would wear
her ordinary and more dowdy dresses; she would spend much of
her time in reading sermons ; she would get up very early and not
care what she ate or drank. In short, she would make herself as
uncomfortable as circumstances would admit, and thoroughly enjoy
her grievances.

But then this check of fifty pounds, and this offer of as much more
as she wanted when that was gone, rather took the ground from
under her feet. Unless she herself chose to give way she might go
on living in Orange Street to the end of the chapter, with every
material comfort about her, — keeping her own brougham if she

V2 OBLEY FARM.

liked, for the checks she now knew would come without stint.
And he would go on living in Harley Street, seeing Lady Alason as
often as he pleased. Sophia would be the mistress of the hoiiso ;
and as long as this was so, Lady Mason would not show her face
there. Now this was not a course of events to which ]\Irs. Fumival
could bring herself to look forward with satisfaction.

All this delayed her during that day, but before she went to bed
she made up her mind that she would at any rate go down to Plam-
worth. Tom, she knew, was deceiving her ; of that she felt morally
sure. She would at any rate go down to Hamworth, and trust to
her own wit for finding out the truth when there.

CHAPTER X.

IT IS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE.

All was now sadness at The Cleeve. It was soon understood
among the servants that there was to be no marriage, and the tidings
spread from the house, out among the neighbours and into Ham-
worth. But no one knew the reason of this change ; — none except
those three, the woman herself who had committed the crime and
the two to whom she had told it. On that same night, the night of
the day on which the tale had been told. Lady Mason wrote a
line, — almost a single line to her son.

* Dearest Lucius.

* All is over between me and Sir Peregrine. It is better
that it should be so. I write to tell you this without losing an
hour. For the present I remain here with my dear — dearest friends.

* Your own affectionate mother,

* M. Mason.'

This note she had written in obedience to the behests of Mrs.
Orme, and even under her dictation — with the exception of one or
two words, * I remain here with my fiiends,' Mrs. Orme had said ;
but Lady Mason had put in the two epithets, and had then declared
her own conviction that she had now no right to use such language.

* Yes, of me you may, cei-tainly,' said Mrs. Orme, keeping close
to her shoulder.

* Then I will alter it,' said Lady Mason. * I will write it again
and say I am staying with you.'

But this Mrs. Orme had forbidden. * No ; it will be better so,'
she said. * Sir Peregrine would wish it. I am sure ho would.

He quite agrees that ' Mrs. Orme did not finish her sentence,

but the letter was despatched, written as above. The answer

IT IS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE. 73

which Lucius sent down before breakfeust the next morning was
still shorter.

* Dearest Mother,

« I am greatly rejoiced that it is so.

* Your affectionate son,

' L. M.'

He sent this note, but he did not go down to her, nor was there
any other immediate communication between them.

All was now sadness at The Cleeve. Peregrine knew that that
marriage project was over, and he knew also that his grandfather and
Lady Mason did not now meet each other ; but he knew nothing of
the cause, though he could not but remark that he did not see her.
On that day she did not come down either to dinner or during the
evening ; nor was she seen on the following morning. He, Pere-
grine, felt aware that something had occurred at that interview in
the library after breakfast, but was lost in surmising what that
something had been. That Lady Mason should have told his
grand&ther that the marriage must be given up would have been
only in accordance with the promise made by her to him ; but he
did not think that that alone would have occasioned such utter
sadness, such deathlike silence in the household. Had there been
a quarrel Lady Mason would have gone home ; — but she did not go
home. Had the match been broken off without a quarrel, why
should she mysteriously banish herself to two rooms so that no one
but his mother should see her ?

And he too had his own peculiar sorrow. On that morning Sir
Peregrine had asked him to ride through the grounds, and it had
been the baronet's intention to propose during that ride that
he should go over to Noningsby and speak to the judge about
Madeline. We all know how that proposition had been frustrated.
And now Peregrine, thinking over the matter, saw that his grand-
father was not in a position at the present moment to engage him-
self ardently in any such work. By whatever means or whatever
words he had been induced to agree to the abandonment of that
marriage engagement, that abandonment weighed very heavil}'- on
his spirits. It was plain to see that he was a broken man, broken
in heart and in spirit. He shut himself up alone in his library
all that afternoon, and had hardly a word to say when he came
out to dinner in the evening. He was veiy pale too, and slow and
weak in his step. He tried to smile as he came up to his daughter-
in-law in the drawing-room ; but his smile was the saddest thing
of all. And then Peregrine could see that he ate nothing. He
was very gentle in his demeanour to the servants, very courteous
and attentive to Mrs. Orme, very kind to his grandson. But
yet his mind was heavy, — brooding over some sorrow that oppressed

74 OBIiEY FABSL

jL. On tJie following morning it was the same, and the grandson
knew that he conld look to his grandfather for no assistance at
Noningsby.

Immediately after breakfast Peregrine got on his horse, without
speaking to any one of his intention, — almost without having
formed an intention, and rode off in the direction of Alston. He
did not take the road, but went out through The Cleeve woods, on to
the common, by which, had he turned to the left, he might have
gone to Orley Farm ; but when on the top of the rise &om Crutchley
Bottom he turned to the right, and putting his horse into a gallop,
rode along the open ground till he came to an enclosure into which
he leaped. From thence he made his way through a farm gate into
a green country lane, along which he still pressed his horse, till he
£>und himself divided from tlie end of a lai^ wood by but one
field. He knew the ground well, and the direction in which he
was going. He conld pass through that wood, and then down by
an. old £Buin-house at the other end of it, and so on to the Alston
road, within a mile of Noningsby. He knew the ground well, for
he had ridden over every field of it. When a man does so after
tiiirty he forgets the spots which he passes in his hurry, but when
be does so before twenty he never forgets. That field and that
wood Per^pine Orme would never forget. There was the double
ditch and bank over which Harriet Tristram had ridden with so
mnch skill and courage. There was the spot on which he had knelt
so long, while Felix Graham lay back against him, feeble and
almost speechless. And thoro, on the other side, had sat Madolino
on her horse, pale with anxiety but yet eager with hope, as she
asked question after question as to him who had been hurt.

Peregrine rode up to the ditch, and made his horse stand
while he looked at it. It was there, then, on that spot, that he had
felt the first pang of jealousy. The idea had occurred to him that
he for whom he had been doing a friend's offices with such zealous
kindness was his worst enemy. Had he, — he. Peregrine Orme —
broken his arms and legs, or even broken his neck, would she have
ridden up, all thoughtless of herself, and thrown her very life into
her voice as she had done when she knew that Felix Graham had
fallen from his horse ? And then ho had gone on with his work,
aiding the hurt man as zealously as before, but still feeling that he
was bound to hate him. And afterwards, at Noningsby, he had
continued to minister to him as to his friend, — zealously doing a
friend's offices, but still feeling that the man was his enemy. Not
that he was insincere. There was no place for insincerity- or
treacherj' within his heart. The man had done no ill, — was a good
fellow — was entitled to his kindness by all the social laws which he
knew. They two had gone together from the same table to the
same spot, and had been close together when the one had come to

IT IS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE. 75

sorrow. It was his duty to act as Graham's friend ; and yet how
oonld he not feel that he must hate him ?

And now he sat looking at the fence, wishing, — wishing ; — ^no,.
certainly not wishing that Graham's hurt had been more serious ;
but wishing that in falling from his horse ho might utterly have
fallen out of favour with that sweet young female heart ; or rather
wishing, could he so have expressed it, that he himself might have
had the fall, and the broken l)ones, and all the danger, — so that he
might also have had the interest which those eyes and that voice
had shown.

And then quickly he turned his horse, and without giving the
beast time to steady himself he rammed him at the fence. The leap
out of the wood into the field was difficult, but that back into the
wood was still worse. The up-jimip was higher, and the ditch
which must be first cleared was broader. Nor did he take it at the
easiest part as he had done on that day when he rode his own horse
and then Graheim's back into the wood. But he pressed his animal
exactly at the spot from which his rival had fallen. There were
still the marks of the beast's strug^e, as he endeavoured to save
himself before he came down, head foremost, into the ditch. The
bank had been somewhat narrowed and paired away, and it was
clearly the last place in the face of the whole opening into the
wood, which a rider with his senses about him would have selected
for his jump.

The horse knowing his master's humour, and knowing also, —
which is so vitally important, — the nature of his master's courage,
jumped at the bank, without pausing. As I have said, no time had
been given him to steady himself, — not a moment to see where his
feet should go, to understand and make the most of the ground that
he was to use. Ho jumped and jumped well, but only half gained
the top of the bank. The poor brute, urged beyond his power,
could not get his hind feet up so near the surface as to give him a
fulcrum for a second spring. For a moment he strove to make good
his footing, still clinging with his fore feet, and then slowly came
down backwards into the ditch, then regained his feet, and dragging
himself with an effort from the mud, made his way back into the
field. Peregrine Orme had kept his seat throughout. His legs
were accustomed to the saddle and know how to cling to it, while
there was a hope that he might struggle through. And now that
ho was again in the field ho wheeled his horse to a greater distance,
striking him with his whip, and once more pushed him at the fence,
ITie gallant beast went at it bravely, slightly swei*ving from the
fatal spot to which Peregrine had endeavoured once more to guide
him, leaped with a full spring from the unworn turf, and, barely
touching the bank, landed himself and his master lightly within
the precincts of the wood.

76 OBLEY FARM.

' Ah-h !' said Peregrine, shouting angrily at the horse, as though
the brute had doiie badly instead of well. And then he rode down
slowly through the wood, and out by Monkton Grange farm, round
the moat, and down the avenue, and before long ho was standing at
Noningsby gate.

He had not made up his mind to any plan of action, nor indeed
had he determined that he would ask to see any of the family or
even enter the place. The woman at the lodge opened the gate,
and he rode in mechanically, asking if any of them were at home.
The judge and Mr. Augustus were gone up to London, but my lady
and the other ladies were in the house. Mr. Graham had not gone,
the woman said in answer to his question ; nor did she know when
he was going. And then, armed with this information. Peregrine
Orme rode round to the stables, and gave up his horse to a groom.

' Yes, Lady Staveley was at home,' the servant said at the door.
' Would Mr. Orme walk into the drawing-room, where he would find,
the young ladies ?' But Mr. Orme would not do this. He would
go into a small book-room with which he was well acquainted, and
have his name taken up to Lady Staveley. ' He did not,' he said,
* mean to stay very long; but particularly wished to see Lady
Staveley.' Li a few minutes Lady Staveley came to him, radiant
with her sweetest smile, and with both her hands held out to greet
him.

* My de«u: Mr. Orme,' she said, ' I am delighted to see you ; but
what made you run away from us so suddenly ?' She had considered
her words in that moment as she came across the hall, and had
thought that in this way she might best enable him to speak.

* Lady Staveley,' he said, * I have come here on purpose to toll
you. Has your daughter told you anything ?*

* Who— Madeline ?'

* Yes, Madeline. I mean Miss Staveley. Has she said anything
to you about me ?'

* Well ; yes, she has. Will you not sit down, Mr. Orme, and
then we shall be more comfortable.' Hitherto he had stood up, and
had blurted out his words with a sudden, determined, and almost
ferocious air, — as though ho were going to demand the girl's hand,
and challenge all the household if it were refused him. But Lady
Staveley understood his manner and his nature, and liked him almost
the better for his abruptness.

* She has spoken to me, Mr. Orme ; she has told me of what
passed between you on the last day that you were with us.'

* And yet you are surprised that I should have gone ! I wonder
at that, Lady Staveley. Y'ou must have known '

* Well ; perhaps I did know ; but sit down, Mr. Ormo. I won't
let you get up in that restless way, if we arc to talk together. Tell
me frankly ; what is it you think that I can do for you ?'

IT IS QUITE IMPOSSIBI^. 77

* I don't suppose you can do anything ; — but I thought I would
come over and speak to you. I don't suppose I've any chance ?'
He had seated himself far back on a sofa, and was holding his hat
between his knees, with lus eyes fixed on the ground ; but as he
spoke the last words he looked round into her fieice with an anxious
inquiring glance which went direct to her heart

' What can I say, Mr. Orme V

' Ah, no. Of course nothing. Good-bye, Lady Staveley. I
might as well go. I know that I was a fool for coming here. I
knew it as I was coming. Indeed I hardly meant to come in when
I found myself at the gate.'

*■ But you must not go from us like that.'

' I must though. Do you think that I could go in and see her ?
If I did I should make such a fool of myself that I could never
again hold up my head. And I am a fool. I ought to have known
that a fellow like me could have no chance with her. I could
knock my own head off, if I only knew how, for having made such
an ass of myself.'

' No one here thinks so of you, Mr. Orme.'

* No one here thinks what ?'

* That it was— unreasonable in you to propose to Madeline. We
all know that you did her much honour.'

* Fsha !' said he, turning away from her.

* Ah I but you must listen to me. That is what we all think —
Madeline herself, and I, and her fiEither. No one who knows you
could think otherwise. We all like you, and know how good and
excellent you are. And as to worldly station, of course you stand
above her.'

* Psha!' he said again angrily. How could any one presume to
talk of the worldly station of his goddess ? For just then Madeline
Staveley to him was a goddess !

* lliat is what we think, indeed, Mr. Orme. As for myself^ had
my girl come to me telling me that you had proposed to her, and
telling me also that — that — that she felt that she might probably like
you, I should have been very happy to hear it.' And Lady Staveley
as she spoke, put out her hand to him.

* But what did she say ?' asked Peregrine, altogether disregarding
the hand.

* Ah, she did not say that. She told me that she had declined
the honour that you had offered her ; — that she did not regard you
as she must regard the man to whom she would pledge her heart.'

* But did she say that she could never love me ?' And now as
he asked the question he stood up again, looking down with all his
eyes into Lady Staveley *s face, — that face which would have been
so friendly to him, so kind and so encouraging, had it been possible.

* Never is a long word, Mr. Orme.'

78 OniiEY FABK.

* Ah, but did she say it ? Come, Lady Staveley ; I know I have
heen a fool, bnt I am not a cowardly fool. K it be so ; — if I have
no hope, tell me at once, that I may go away. In that case I shall
be better anywhere out of the county.'

* I cannot say that you should have no hope.'

* You think then that there is a chance ? and for a moment he
looked as though all his troubles were nearly over.

* If you are bo impetuous, Mr. Orme, I cannot speak to you. If
jou will sit down for a minute or two I will tell you exactly what
I think about it* And then he sat down, trying to look as though
he were not impetuous. * I should be deceiving you if I were not
to tell you that she speaks of the matter as though it were all over,
— as though her answer to you was a final one.'

* Ah ; I knew it was so.'

' But then, Mr. Orme, many young ladies who have been at the
first moment quite as sure of their decision have married the gentle-
men whom they refused, and have learned to love them with all
their hearts.'

* But she isn't like other girls,' said Peregrine.

* I believe she is a great deal better than many, but nevertheless
she may be like others in that respect. I do not say that it will be
so, Mr. Orme. I would not on any account give you hopes which
I believed to be false. But if you are anxious in the matter '

* I am as anxious about it as I am about my soul !'

* Oh fie, Mr. Orme ! You should not speak in that way. But if
you are anxious, I would advise you to wait.'

* And see her become the wife of some one else.'

* Listen to me, Mr. Orme. Madeline is very young. And so
indeed are you too ; — almost too young to marry as yet, even if my
girl were willing that it should be so. But we all like you very
much ; and as you both are so very young, I think that you might
wait with patience, — say for a year. Then come to Noningsby
again, and try your fortune once more. That is my advice.'

* Will you tell me one thing. Lady Staveley ?'

* What is that, Mr. Orme ?'

' Does she care for any one else ?'

Lady Staveley was prepared to do anj'thing she could for her
young friend except to answer that question. She did believe that
Madeline cared for somebody else, — cared very much. But she did
not think that any way would be opened by which that caring
would be made manifest ; and she thought also that if wholly im-
gratified by any word of intercourse that feeling would die away.
Could she have told everything to Peregrine Orme she would have
explained to him that his best chance lay in that liking for Felix
Graham ; or, rather, that as his rejection had been caused by that
liking, his chance would be good again when that liking should

IT IS QUrraS IMPOSSIBLE. 79

have perished from starvation. Bnt all this Lady Staveley could
not explain to him; nor would it have been satisfactory to her
feelings had it been in her power to do so. Still there remained
the question, * Does she care for any one else ?'

' Mr. Orme,' she said, ' I will do all for yon that a mother can do
or onght to do ; but I must not admit that yon have a right to ask
such a question as that If I were to answer that now, you would
feel yourself justified in asking it again when perhaps it might not
be so easy to answer.'

' I beg your pardon, Lady Staveley ;' and Peregrine blushed up
to his eyes. • I did not intend '

' No ; do not beg my pardon, seeing that you have given me no
offence. As I said just now, all that a mother can and ought to do
I will do for you. I am very frank, and tell you that I should be
rejoiced to have you for my son-in-law.' •

* I*m sure I'm very much obliged to you.'

* But neither by me nor by her fitther will any constraint ever be
put on the inclinations of our child. At any rate as to whom she
will not accept she will alwa^ s be allowed to judge for herself. I
have told you that to us you would be acceptable as a suitor ; and
after that I think it will be 'best to leave the matter for the present
without any further words. Let it be understood that you will
spend next Christmas at Noningsby, and then you will both be
older and perhaps know your own minds better.'

* That's a year, you know.'

* A year is not so very long — at your time of life.' By which
latter remark Lady Staveley did not show her knowledge of human
nature.

* And I suppose I had better go now ?' said Peregrine sheepishly.

* L£ you like to go into the drawing-room, I'm sure they will all
be very glad to see you.'

But Peregrine declared that he would not do this on any account.

* You do not know. Lady Staveley, what a fool I should make

myself. It would be all over with me then.'

' You should be more moderate in your feelings, Mr. Orme.'

' It's all very well saying that ; but you wouldn't be moderate if

Koningsby were on fire, or if you thought the judge was going to die.'

* Good gracious, Mr. Orme !'

' It's the same sort of thing to me, I can tell you. A man can't
be moderate when he feels that he should like to break his own
ueck. I declare I almost tried to do it to-day.

* Gh, Mr. Orme !'

' Well ; I did. But don't suppose I say that as a sort of threat.
I'm safe enough to live for the next sixty years. It's only the
happy people and those that are some good in the world that die.
Good-bye, Lady Staveley. I'll come back next Christmas ; — that is

80 OBLEY.FABM.

if it isn^t all settled before then ; but I know it will be no good.'
Then he got on his horse and rode very slowly home, along the
high road to The Cleeve.

Lady Staveley did not go in among the other ladies till luncheon
was announced, and when she did so, she said no word about her
visitor. Nevertheless it was known by them all that Peregrine
Orme had been there. ' Ah, that's Mr. Orme's roan-coloured horse/
Sophia Fumival had said, getting up and thrusting her face close to
the drawing-room window. It was barely possible to see a portion
of the road from the drawing-room, but Sophia's eyes had been sharp
enough to see that portion.

* A groom has probably come over with a note,' said Mrs.
Arbuthnot.

* Very likely,' said Sophia. But they all knew from her voice
that the rider was n« gi*oom, and that she did not intend it to be
thought that he was a groom. Madeline said not a word, and kept
her countenance marvellously; but she knew well enough that
Peregrine had been with her mother ; and guessed also why he had
been there.

Madeline had asked herself some serious questions, and had
answered them also, since that conversation which she had had with
her father. He had assured her that he desired only her happiness ;
and though in so saying he had spoken nothing of marriage, she
had well understood ibAt he had referred to her future happiness, —
at that time when by her own choice she should be leaving her
father's house. And now she asked herself boldly in what way
might that happiness bo best secured. Hitherto she had refrained
from any such home questions. Latterly, within the last week or
two, ideas of what love meant had forced themselves upon her
mind. How could it have been otherwise? But she had never
dared to tell herself either that she did love, or that bhe did not.
Mr. Orme had come to her with his offer, plainly asking her for the
gift of her heart, and she had immediately been aware that any
such gift on her part waa impossible, — any such gift in his favour.
She had known without a moment's thought that there was no
room for hesitation. Had he asked her to take wings and fly away
with him over the woods, the feat would not have been to her more
impossible than that of loving him as his wife. Yet she liked
him, — liked him much in these latter days, because he had been so
good to Felix Graham. When she felt that she liked him as she
refused him, she felt also that it was for this reason that she liked
him. On the day of Graham's accident she had thought nothing of
him, — had hardly spoken to him. But now she loved him — with a
sort of love, because he had been so good to Graham. Though in
her heart she knew all this, she asked herself no questions till her
father had spoken to her of her future happiness.

IT IS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE. 81

Then, as she wandered abont the house alone, — for she still went
on wandering, — she did ask herself a question or two. What was
it that had changed her thus, and made her gay quick step so
slow ? what had altered the happy silver tone of her voice ? what
had created that load within her which seemed to weigh her down
during every hour of the day ? She knew that there had been a
change ; that she was not as she had been ; and now she asked
herself the question. Not on the first asking nor on the second did
the answer come ; not perhaps on the twentieth. But the answer
did come at last, and she told herself that her heart was no longer
her own. She knew and acknowledged to herself that Felix Graham
was its master and owner.

And then came the second question. Under those circumstances
what had she better do ? Her mother had told her, — and the words
had &llen deep into her ears,— that it would be a great misfortune
if she loved any man before she had reason to know that that man
loved her. She had no such knowledge as regarded Felix Graham.
A suspicion that it might be so she did feel, — a suspicion which
would grow into a hope let her struggle against it as she might.
Baker, that injudicious Baker, had dropped in her hearing a word
or two, which assisted this suspicion. And then the open frank
question put to her by her father when he demanded whether
Graham had addressed her as a lover, had tended towards the same
result. What had she better do ? Of one thing she now felt per-
fectly certain. Let the world go as it might in other respects, she
could never leave her father's house as a bride unless the bride-
groom were Felix Graham. A marriage with him might probably
be impracticable, but any other marriage would be absolutely
impossible. If her father or her mother told her not to think of
Felix Graham, as a matter of course she would obey them ; but not
oven in obedience to father or mother could she say that she loved
any one else.

And now, all these matters having been considered, what should
she do ? Her father had invited her to tell everything to him, and
she was possessed by a feeling that in this matter she might possibly
find more indulgence with her father than with her mother ; but
}'et it was more natural that her mother should be her confidante
and adviser. She could speak to her mother, also, with a better
courage, even though she felt less certain of sympathy. Peregrine
Oime had now been there again, and had been closeted with Lady
Staveley. On that ground she would speak, and having so resolved
she lost no time in carrying out her purpose.

* Mamma, Mr. Orme was here to-day : was he not ?'

* Yes, my love.' Lady Staveley was sorry i*ather than otherwise
that her daughter had asked her, but would have been puzzled to
explain why such should have been the case.

VOL. II. a

*tM he my j^j Aim; tiuns mhcm wfcg ht -— i i^il' j, to mt

' WM^ ILdMm: ke dii. EU did wf mmaMa^ <n tbar nb-
JMt; Iwl 1 iMd ttX nUflia^ to tefl jM vzlIcm jm kod

trnffp^m-^ — ilMtt IS if be docs vast it bov?
^Ife do«« wiAi it eertuslj, sqr dtar.*
^ Tben 1 l^pe j€m UAd lum tbait it eaai newer be? I Iwpe j<m

* Hm why uhaeild ycm be wo cerUun eboot it, nj lore ? He does
wd inieoi t// trr/uble joa with bis snit, — nor do L Wbj not lesTe
tliet ir> time ? There can be no reaeon why joa ihoald not see him
n$^n mi e friendlj fo(Am% when this embememeBt between yon
i»bill hsre psMed away/

* 'Hiero wofild li<5 no reaton, mamma, if he were quite sore thst
f hero ium\t\ nover be any other footing/

* Snisw in a very h/ng wonL'

* Hilt it in the only true word, mamma. It wonld be wrong in
you, it wouM indee^l, if you were to tell him to como again. I
like Mr. Onno vory much m a friend, and I should be very ghid
Up know liini,— thiit \n if he choHe to know me.* And Madeline
UN n\\^^ iniMlo \\\\H littlo provi»o wa« thinking what her own worldly
]Mwition miglit bo as tlio wife of Felix Graham. *• But as it is quite
itiilioNMiblo that ho and i Hhould ever be anything else to each other,
h<i nhould not l>n aifkod to oome here with any other intention.'

* Hut, MiMltUine, 1 do not hoo that it is so impossible.*

* Miiiiunii, it \H impoNMible; quite impossible!* To this assertion
\m\y Htnvnlfty nmdo no uiiswor in words, but thore was that in her
0()Uiit4itiat)n(i whioh nmdo her daughter imdorstand that she did not
qui to ii|cro0 ill this ANsorticm, or understand this impossibility.

* Miiiiuim. it IM quite, (luito impossible!' Madeline repeated.

* hut why NO?' Hiiid hudy »Stuvoley, frightened by her daughter's
luiiuuor, and lihuoKt iivaring that something furthor was to come
whioh hud \\y far bettor Im loft unsaid.

* ihtmuNo, mumuiiv, I havo no love to give him. Oh, mammu,
do nof iu» luigry with nio ; do not push mo away. You know who

MRS. FURNTVAL'S JOURNEY TO HAMWORTH. 83

it is that I love. Yoa knew it before.' And then she threw herself
on her knees, and hid her &ce on her mother's lap.

Lady StaTelej had known it, but np to that moment she had
hoped that that knowledge might have remained hidden as though
it were imknown.

CHAPTEB XL

MRS: FURNIVAL's JOURNEY TO HAMWORTH.

When Peregrine got back to The Cleeve he learned that there was
a lady with his mother. He had by this time partially snooeeded
in reasoning himself out of his despondency. He had learned ' at
any rate that his proposition to marry into the Staveley family had
been regarded with faToar by bII that family ezoept the one whose
Tiews on that subject were by far the most important to him ; and
he had learned, as he thought, that Lady Staveley had no suspicion
that her daughter's heart was preoccupied. But in this respect
Lady Staveley had been too cunning for him. • Wait!* he said to
himself as he went slowly along the road. * It's ail Tery well to
say wait, but there are some things which won't bear waiting for,
A man who waits never gets well away with the hounds.' Never-
theless as he rode into the court-yard his hopes were somewhat
higher than they had been when he rode out of it.
' A lady ! what lady ? You don't mean Lady Ma8(m ?*
No. The servant did not mean Lady Mason. It was an elderly
stout lady who had come in a fly, and the elderly stout lady was
now in the drawing-room with his mother. Lady Mason was still
upstairs. We all know who was that elderly stout lady, and we
must now go back and say a few words as to her journey from
Orange Street to Hamworth.

On the preceding evening Mrs. Fumival had told Martha Biggs
what was her intention ; or perhaps it would bo more jusi to say
that Martha Biggs had worked it out of her. Now that Mrs. Fur-
nival had left the fashionable neighbourhood of Cavendish Square,
and located herself in that eastern homely district to which Miss
Biggs had been so long accustomed, Miss Biggs had been almost
tyrannical. It was not that she was less attentive to her friend,
or less willing to slave for her with a view to any possible or
impossible result. But the friend of Mrs. FumivaJ's bosom could
not help feeling her opportunity. Mrs. Fumival had now thrown
herself veiy much upon her friend, and of course the friend now
expected unlimited privileges ; — as is alwaj*? the case with friends
in such a position. It is very well to have friends to lean upon,
but it is not always well to lean upon one's friends,

G 2

86 ORLEY FARM.

Tho woman was Mrs. Dockwrath. On that day Samuel Dock-
wrath had gone to London, hut hefore starting he had made known
to his wife with fiendish glee that it had heen at List decided hy all
the persons concerned that Lady Mason shonld be charged with
perjury, and tried for that offence.

' Yott don't mean to say that the jndges have said so?* asked poor
Miriam.

' I do mean to say that all the judges in ibigland could not save
her from having to stand her trial, and it is my belief that all the
lawyers in the land cannot save her from conviction. I wonder
whether she ever thinks now of those fields which she took away
from me !*

Then, when her master's back was turned, she put on her bonnet
and walked np to Orley Farm. She knew well that Lady Mason
was at The Cleeve, and believed that she was about to become the
wife of Sir Peregrine ; but she knew also that Lucius was at home^
and it might be well to let him know what was going on. She had
just seen Lucius Mason ; when she was met by Mrs. Fumival's fly.
She had seen Lucius Mason, and the angry manner in which he
declared that he could in no way interfere in his mother's affairs
had frightened her. ' But, Mr. Lucius,' she had said, ' she ought
to be doing something, you know. There is no believing how bitter
Samuel is about it.'

* He may be as bitter as he likes, Mrs. Dockwrath,' young Mason
had answered with considerable dignity in his manner. ' It will
not in the least affect my mother's interests. In the present
instance, however, I am not her adviser.' Whereupon Mrs. Dock-
wrath had retired, and as she was afraid to go to Lady Mason at
The Cleevo, she was about to return home when she opened the
gate for Mrs. Fumival. She then explained that Lady Mason was
not at home and had not been at home for some weeks ; that she
was staying with her friends at The Cleeve, and that in order to get
there Mrs. Fumival must go back through Ham worth and round by
the high road.

* 1 knows the way well enough, Mrs. Dockwrath,* said the driver.
* I've been at The Cleeve before now, I guess.'

So Mrs. Fumival was driven back to Hamworth, and on going
over that piece of ground she resolved that she would follow Lady
Mason to Tho Cleeve. Why should she be afraid of Sir Peregrine
Orme or of all the Ormes ? WTiy should she fear any one while
engaged in the performance of so sacred a duty ? I must confess
that in truth she was very much afraid, but nevertheless she had
herself taken on to The Cleeve. When she arrived at the door,
she asked of course for Lady Mason, but did not feel at all inclined
to follow the servant uninvited into the house as recommended bv
Miss Biggs. Lady Mason, the man said, was not very well, and

MRS. FURNIVAL'S JOUBNEY TO HAMWORTH. 87

after a certain amount of parley at the door the matter ended in her
being shown into the diawing-room, where she was soon joined by
Mrs. Onne.

* I am Mrs. Fumival/ she began, and then Mrs. Ormo begged her
to sit down. * I have come here to see Lady Mason — on some
business — some business not of a very pleasant nature. I'm sure I
don't know how to trouble you with it, and yet — ' And then even
Mrs. Orme coiild see that her visitor was somewhat confused.

* Is it about the trial ?' asked Mrs. Orme.

' Then there is really a lawsuit going on T

* A lawsuit I' said Mrs. Orme, rather puzzled.

* You said something about a trial. Now, Mrs. Orme, pray do
not deceive me. I'm a very unhappy woman ; I am indeed.'

* Deceive you ! "Why should I deceive you ?'

* No, indeed. "Why should you ? And now I look at you I do
not think you will.'

* Indeed I will not, Mrs. Fumival.*

' And there is really a lawsuit then ?' Mrs. Fumival persisted in
asking.

* I thought you would know all about it,' said Mrs. Orme, * as
Mr. Fumival manages Lady Mason's law business. I thought that
perhaps it was about that that you had come.'

Then Mrs. Fumival explained tLat she knew nothing whatever
about Lady Mason's afiairs, that hitherto she had not believed that
there was any trial or any lawsuit, and gradually explained the
cause of all her trouble. She did not do this without sundry inter-
ruptions, caused both by her own feelings and by Mrs. Orme's
exclamations. But at last it all came forth; and before she had
done she was calling her husband Tom, and appealing to her
listener for sympathy.

* But indeed it's a mistake, Mrs. Fumival. It is indeed. There
are reasons which make me quite sure of it.' So spoke Mrs. Orme.
How could Lady Mason have been in love with Mr. Fumival, — if such
a st<ite of things could be possible under any circumstances, — seeing
that she had been engaged to marry Sir Teregrine ? Mrs. Orme did
not declare her reasons, but repeated with very positive assurances
her knowledge that Mrs. Fumival was labouring under some veiy
grievous error.

' But why should she always be at his chambers ? I have seen
her there twice^ Mrs. Orme. I have indeed ; — with my own eyes.'

Mrs. Orme would have thought nothing of it if Lady Mason had
been seen there every day for a week together, and regarded
Mrs. Furnivars suspicions as an hallucination bordering on in-
^Janity. A woman be in love with Mr. Fumival ! A very pretty
wuman endeavour to entice away from his wife the affection of
such a man as that f As . these ideas passed through Mrs. Orme's

88 OBLEY FABBL

mind she did not perhaps remember that Sir Peregrine, who was
more than ten years Mr. Fnmival's senior, had been engaged to
marry the same lady. Bnt then she herself loved Sir Peregrine
dearly, and she had no such feeling with reference to Mr. Fumival.
She however did what was most within her power to do to allay the
sn£fering under which her visitor laboured, and explained to her
the position in which Lady Mason was placed. * I do not think
she can see you,' she ended by saying, ' for she is in very great
trouble.'

* To be tried for perjury V said Mrs. Fumival, out of whose heai-t
all hatred towards Lady Mason was quickly departing. Had she
heard that she was to be tried for murder, — that she had been con-
victed of murder, — it would have altogether softened her heart
towards her supposed enemy. She could forgive her any offence
but the one.

* Yes indeed,' said Mrs. Orme, wiping a tear away from her eye
as she thought of all the troubles present and to come. * It is the
saddest thing. Poor lady ! It would almost break your heart if
you were to see her. Since first she heard of this, which was before
Christmas, she has not had one quiet moment.'

' Poor creature I' said Mrs. Fumival.

* Ah, you would say so, if you knew all. She has had to depend
a great deal upon Mr. Fumival for advice, and without that I don't
know what she would do.' This Mrs. Orme said, not wishing to
revert to the charge against Lady Mason which had brought Mrs.
Fumival down to Ham worth, but still desirous of emancipating her
poor friend completely from that charge. * And Sir Peregrine also
is very kind to her, — very.' This she added, feeling that up to that
moment Mrs. Fumival could have heard nothing of the intended
marriage, but thinking it probable that she must do so before
long. * Indeed anybody would be kind to her who saw her in her
suffering. I am sure you would, Mrs. Fumival.'

* Dear, dear I' said Mrs. Fumival who was beginning to entertain
almost a kindly feeling towards Mrs. Orme.

* It is such a dreadful position for a lady. Sometimes I think
tliat her mind will fail her before the day comes.'

* But what a very wicked man that other Mr. Mason must be !'
said Mrs. Fumival.

Tliat was a view of the matter on which Mrs. Orme could not say
much. She disliked that Mr. Mason as much as she could dislike a
man whom she had never seen, but it was not open to her now to
say that he was very wicked in this matter. * I suppose he thinks
the property ought to belong to him,' she answered.

* That was settled years ago,' said Mrs. Fumival. * Horrid, cniel
man ! But after all I don't see why hho should mind it so much.'

* Oh, Mrs. Fumival ! — to stand in a court and be tried.'

ic tai>i, '■ 1 hare eoas back."

MBS. FURNIVAL's JOURNEY TO HAMWORTH. 89

' But if one is innocent ! For my part, if I knew myself innocent
I could brave them all. It is the feeling that one is wrong that
cows one.' And Mrs. Fumival thought of the little confession
which she would be called upon to make at home.

And then feeling some difficulty as* to her last words in such an
interview, Mrs. Fumival got up to go. ' Perhaps, Mrs. Ormo,' she
said, * I have been foolish in this.'

' You have been mistaken, Mrs. Fumival. I am sure of that.'

* I begin to think I have. But, Mrs. Orme, will you let me ask
you a favour ? Perhaps you will not say anything about my coming
here. 1 have been very unhappy ; I have indeed ; and — * Mrs.
FuinivaVs handkerchief was now up at her eyes, and Mrs. Orme's
heart was again full of pity. Of course she gave the required
promise ; and, looking to the character of the woman, we may say
that, of course, she kept it.

' Mrs. Fumival ! \Vhat was she here about ? Peregiine asked of
his mother.

' I would rather not tell you, Perry,' said his mothei:, kissing
him ; and then there were no more words spoken on the subject.

Mrs. Fumival as she made her journey back to London began to
dislike Martha Biggs more and more, and most unjustly attributed
to that lady in her thoughts the folly of this journey to Hamworth.
The journey to Hamworth had -been her own doing, and had the
idea originated with Miss Biggs the journey would never have been
made. As it was, while she was yet in the train, she came to the
strong resolution of returning direct from the London station to her
own house in Harley Street. It would be best to cut the knot at
once, and thus by a bold stroke of the knife rid herself o*f the
Orange Street rooms and Miss Biggs at the same time. She did
drive to Harley Street, and on her arrival at her own door was
informed by the astonished Spooner that, * Master was at home, —
all alone in the dining-room. He was going to dine at home, and
seemed very lonely like.' There, as she stood in the hall, there was
nothing but the door between her and her husband, and she con-
ceived that the sound of her arrival must have been heard by him.
For a moment her courage was weak, and she thought of hurrying
up stairs. Had she done so her trouble would still have been all
before her. Some idea of this came upon her mind, and after a
moment's pause, she opened the dining-room door and found herself
in her husband's presence. He was sitting over the fire in his
avni-chair, very gloomily, and had not heard the arrival. He too
had some tenderness left in his heart, and this going away of his
wife had distressed him.

• Tom,' she said, going up to him, and speaking in a low voice,
* I have come back again.' And she stood before him as a sup-
pliant.

CHAPTER XIL

mowtsa BOW Tmsos west ok ir soxi5G£Bt.

Tbi, Ladj StftTeUij bad known it before. Sbe bad given a fairly
cc/rrect giieM at tbe atate of ber daughter's aifectioiis, tbou^ she bad
not perhaps acJmowledged to htaeif tbe intensitj of ber dan^ter's
feelings. But the fact might not have mattered if it bad nerer
bean told* Madeline mig^ baiTe overcome this lore for Mr.
Graham, and all might have been well if she had never mentioned
it Hut now the mischief was done. She bad acknowledged to
ber mother, — and, whidi was perhaps worse, she bad acknowledged
to bemelf, — ^that her heart was gone, and Lady Staveley saw no core
fSor iho eviL Had this happened bat a few bonis earlier she wonld
bave spoken with much less of encooragement to Peregrine Qrme.
And Felix Orabam was not only in the honse, bnt was to remain
there for yet a while longer, spending a very considerable portion
of his time in the drawing-room. Ho was to come down on this
rtry <lay at throe o*(;iock, afU^r an early dinner, and on the next
day ho was to bo promr^ted to the dining-room. As a son-in-law he
was qiiiUj inoLigihlo. Ho had, as Lady Staveley understood, no
private) furttino, and he belonged to a profession which he wonld
not follmv in the only way by which it was possible to earn an
incomes by it. Such being the case, her daughter, whom of all girls
she know to l>o the most retiring, the least likely to speak of such
feelingM nnlcHs driven to it by great stress, — her daughter had
])0sitivfdy duolarod to her that »ho was in love with this man!
(^onld anything bo more hopeless? Could any position be more
txying?

• Oh doar, oh dear, oh dear !' she said, almont wringing her hands
in hor voxation, — * No, ray darling I am not angry,* and she kissed
her child and Minoothod her hair. • I am not angry; but I must
•ay I think it vory unfortunate. ITo has not a shilling in the
world.'

• I will do nothing that yon and papa do not approve,' said Made-
liiu\ holding down hor head.

• And th<»n you know ho doosn*t think of such a thing himself —
of courNO ho dooM not. Indood, 1 don't think he's a marrying man
ut ull.*

SHOWING HOW THINGS WENT ON AT NONINGSBY. 91

*■ Oh, mamma, da not talk in that way ; — as if I expected anything.
I could not bnt tell yon the truth when you spoke of Mr. Obrme as
you did.'

* Poor Mr. Orme ! he is such an excellent young man.*

' I don't suppose he's better than Mr. Graham, mamma, if yon
speak of goodness.'

• I'm sure I don't know,' said Lady Staveley, very much pirt
beside herself. ' I wish there were no such things as young men at
all. There's Augustus making a fool of himself.' And she walked
twice the length of the room in an agony of maternal anxiety.
Peregrine Orme had suggested to her what she would feel if
Noningsby were on fire ; but could any such fire be worse than
these pernicious love fiames ? He had dso suggested another cala-
mity, and as Lady Staveley remembered that, she acknowledged to
herself that the Fates were not so cruel to her as they might have
been. So she kissed her dau^ter, again assured her that she was
by no means angry with her, and then they parted.

This trouble had now come to such a head that no course was any
longer open to poor Lady Staveley, but that one which she had
adopted in all the troubles of her married life. She would tell the
judge everything, and throw all the responsibility upon his
back. Let him decide whether a cold shoulder or a paternal
blessing should be administered to the ugly yoxmg man up stains,
who had tumbled oif his horse ihe first day he went out hunting,
and who would not earn his bread as others did, but thought
himself cleverer than all the world. The feelings in Lady Staveley's
breast towards Mr. Graham at this especial time were not of a
kindly nature. She could not make comparisons between him and
Peregrine Orme without wondering at her daughter's choice. Pere-
grine was fair and handsome, one of the curled darlings of the
nation, bright of eye and smooth of skin, good-natured, of a sweet
disposition, a young man to be loved by all the world, and — inci-
dentally— the heir to a baronetcy and a good estate. All his people
were nice, and ho lived close in the neighbourhood! Had Lady
Staveley been set to choose a husband for her daughter she could
have chosen none better. And then she counted up Felix Graham.
His eyes no doubt were bright enough, but taken altogether he
was, — at least so she said to herself — hideously ugly. He was by
no means a curled darling. And then he was masterful in mind,
and not soft and pleasant as was 3*oung Orme. He was heir to
nothing, and as to people of his own he had none in particular.
Who could say where he must live ? As likely as not in Patagonia,
having been forced to accept a judgeship in that new colony for the
sake of bread. But her daughter should not go to Patagonia with him
if she could help it f So when the judge came home that evening,
she told him all before she would allow him to dress for dinner.

92 OBLEY FARM.

* He certainly is not very handsome,* the jndge said, when Lady
Staveley insisted somewhat strongly on that special feature of the
case.

* I think he is the ugliest yonng man I know,' said her ladyship.
. * He looks very well in his wig,' said the judge.

* Wig I Madeline would not see him in his wig ; nor anybody
else very often, seeing the way he is going on about his profession.
What are we to do about it r'

* WelL I should say, do nothing.'

* And let him propose to the dear girl if he chooses to take the
fancy into his head ?'

* I don*t see how we are to hinder him. But I have that impres-
sion of Mr. Graham that I do not think he will do anything un-
handsome by us. He has some singular ideas of his own about
law, and I grant you that he is plain '

* The plainest young man I ever saw,' said Lady Staveley.

' But, if I know him, he is a man of high character and much
more than ordinary acquirement.'.

* I cannot understand Madeline,' Lady Staveley went on, not
oaring overmuch about Felix Graham's acquirements.

* Well, my dear, I think the key to her choice is this, that she
has judged not with her eyes, but with her ears, or rather with her
imderstanding. Had she accepted Mr. Orme, I as a father should of
course have been well satisfied. He is, I have no doubt, a fine
young follow, and will make a good husband some day.'

* Oh, excellent!' said her ladyship; ' and The Cleeve is only
seven miles.'

' But I must acknowledge that I cannot feel angry with Madeline/

* Angiy ! no, not angry. Who would be angry with the poor

child r

* Lideed, I am somewhat proud of her. It seems to me that she
prefers mind to matter, which is a great deal to say for a young
kdy.'

* Matter!' exclaimed Lady Staveley, who could not but feel that
the term, as applied to such a young man as Peregrine Orme, was
very opprobrious.

* Wit and intellect and power of expression have gone further
with her than good looks and rank and worldly prosperity. If
that be so, and I believe it is, I cannot but love her the better
for it.'

' So do I love her, as much as any mother can love her daughter.'
' Of course you do.' And the judge kissed his wife.

* And I like wit and genius and all that soii of thing.'
' Otherwise you would have not taken me, my dear.'

* You were the handsomest man of your day. That's why I fell
in love with you.*

SHOWING HOW THINGS WENT ON AT NONINGSBT. 93

* The compliment is a very poor oue/ said the judge.

' Never mind that. I like wit and genius too ; but wit and genius
are none the better for being ugly : and wit and genius should know
how to butter their own bread before they think of taking a wife.'

* You forget, my dear, that for aught we know wit and genius may
be perfectly free from any such thought.' And then the judge made it
understood that if he were left to himself he would dress for dinner.

When the ladies left the parlour that evening they found Graham
in the drawing-room, but there was no longer any necessity for
embarrassment on Madeline's part at meeting him. They had been
in the room together on three or four occasions, and therefore she
coidd give him her hand, and ask after his arm without feeling that
every one was watching her. But she hardly spoke to him beyond
this, nor indeed did she speak much to anybody. The conversation,
till the gentlemen joined them, was chiefly kept up by Sophia
Fumival and Mrs. Arbuthnot, and even after that the evening did
not pass very briskly.

One little scene there was, during which poor Lady Staveley's
eyes were anxiously fixed upon her son, though most of those in the
room supposed that she was sleeping. Miss Fumival was to return
to London on the following day, and it therefore behoved Augustus
to be very sad. In truth he had been rather given to a melancholy
humour during the last day or two. Had Miss Fumival accepted
all his civil speeches, making him answers equally civil, the matter
might very probably have passed by without giving special trouble
to any one. But she had not done this, and therefore Augustus
Staveley had fancied himself to be really in love with her. What
the lady*8 intentions were I will not pretend to say ; but if she was
in truth desirous of becoming Mrs. Staveley, she certainly went
about her business in a discreet and wise manner.

' So you leave us to-morrow, immediately after breakfiEwt,' said
he, having dressed his face with that romantic sobriety which he
had been practising for the last three days.

' I am sorry to say that such is the fact,' said Sophia.

* To tell you the truth I am not sorry,' said Augustus ; and he
turned away his face for a moment, giving a long sigh.

* I dare say not, Mr. Staveley ; but you need not have said so
to me,' said Sophia, pretending to take him literally at his word.

' Because I ceamot stand this kind of thing any longer. I suppose
I must not see you in the morning, — alone ?'

' Well, I suppose not. If I can get down to prayers after having
all my things packed up, it will be as much as I can do.'

* And if I begged for half an hour as a last kindness '

* I certainly should not grant it. Go and ask your mother
whether such a request would be reasonable'

* Tsha !'

94 OBLET FABM.

* Ab, but it's not pihal Half-hoars between young ladies and
jtmng gentlemen before breakfast are very serious tbxngB.'

' And I mean to be serious,' said'Aogustus.

* But I don't,' «aid Sophia.

* I am to Tmderstand then that under no possible circumstances

* Bless me, l£r. Sta^eley, how solemn you are.*

* There are oooasioBB in a man's life when he is bound to be
solemn. You are going away from us. Miss Fumiyal '

* One would think I was going to Jeddo, whereas I am going to
HjKTley Street'

* And I may oome and see you there !'

' Of oourse you may if you like it. According to the usages of
the world you would be reckoned very uncivil if you did not. For
myself I do not much care about suc^ usages, and therefore if you
omit it I will forgive you.'

* Very well ; then I will say good-night, — and good-bye.* These
last words he uttered in a strain which should have melted her
heart, and as he took leave cf her he squeezed her hand with an
affBction that was almost painfuL

It may be remarked that if Augustus Staveley was quite in earnest
with Sophia Fumival, he would have asked her that all-important
question in a straightforward manner as Per^rine Orme had asked it
of Madeline. Perhaps Miss Fumival was aware of this, and, being so
aware, considered that a serious half-hour before break£ust might not
as yet be safe. If he were really in love ho would find bis way to
Harley Street. On the whole I am inclined to think that Miss
Fumival did understand her business.

On the following morning Miss Fumival went her way without
any further scenes of tenderness, and Lady Staveley was thoroughly
glad tbat she was gone. ' A nasty, sly thing,' she said to Bakor.
* Sly enough, my lady,' said Bakor ; * but our Mr. Augustus will be
one too many for her. Deary me, to think of her having the
imperanco to think of him.' In all which Miss Fumival was I
think somewhat ill used. If young gentlemen, such as Augustus
Staveley, are allowed to amuse themselves with young ladies, surely
young ladies such as Miss Fumival should be allowed to play their
oivn cards accordingly.

On that day, eso-ly in the morning, Felii Graham sought and
obtained an interview with his host in the judge's own study. * I
have come about two things,' he said, taking the easy chair to which
he was invited.

' Two or ten, I shall be very happy,' said the judge cheerily.

• I will take business first,' said Graham.

* And then pleasure will be the sweeter afterwards,' said the
judge.

SHOWING HOW THINGS WENT ON AT NONINGSBY. 95

' I kave been tliinking a great deal about thie case of Lady
Mason's, and I have read all the papers, old and new, which Mr.
Fumival has sent me. I cannot bring myself to snppofle it possible
that she can have been guilty of any fraud or deception.'

^ I believe her to be free from all guilt in the matter — as I told
you before. But then of course yoa will take that as a private
opinion, not as one legally formed. I have never gone nuto the
matter as you have done.'

*• I confess that I do not like having dealings with Mr. GbaSan-
brass and Mr. Aram.'

' Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Aram may not be so bad as you, per-
haps in ignorance, suppose them to be. Does it not occur to yon
that we should be very badly off without sucdi men as Chafifanbrass
and Aram ?'

' So we should without chimney-«weepers and scavengers.'

' Graham, my dear fellow, judge not that you be not judged- I
am older than you, and have seen more of these men. Believe me
that as you grow older and also see more of them, your opinion
will be more lenient, — and more just. Do not be angry with me
for taking this liberty with you.'

' My dear judge, if you knew how I value it ; — ^how I should
value any mark of such kindness that you can show me ! However
I have decided that I wUl know something more of these gentlemen
at once. If I have your i^probation I will let Mr. Fumival know
that I will undertake the case.'

The judge signified his approbation, and thus the first of those
two matters was soon settled between them.

' And now for the pleasure,' said the judge.

' I don't know much about pleasure,' said Graham, fidgeting in
his chair, rather imeasily. *• I'm afraid there is not much pleasure
for either of us, or for anybody else, in what I'm going to say.'

' Then there is so much more reason for having it said quickly.
Unplea«ant things should always be got over without delay.'

' Nothing on earth can exceed Lady Staveley's kindness to me,
and yours, and that of the whole family since my unfortunate
accident.'

' Don't think of it. It has been nothing. We like you, but we
should have done as much as that even if we had not.'

' And now I'm going to tell you that I have fallen in love with
3'our daughter Madeline.' As the judge wished to have the tale
told quickly, I think he had reason to be satisfied with the VGry
succinct terms used by Felix Graham.

* Indeed !' said the judge.

* And that was the reason why I wished to go away at the earliest
possible time — and still wish it.'

* You are right there, Mr. Graham. I must say you are right

96 OBLET FABX.

there. Under all the circmnstaiices of the case I think yon were
right to wish to leaTe ns.'

* And therefore I shall go the first thing to-morrow morning * — in
saying which last words poor Felix conld not refrain from showing
a certain uneTenness of temper, and some disappointment.

^ Gently, gently, Mr. Graham. Let ns have a few more words
before we accede to the necessity of anything so sndden. Have you
spoken to Madeline on this subject ?*

* Not a word.'

' And I may presume that you do not intend to do so.'

For a moment or so Felix Graham sat without speaking, and then,
getting up from his chair, he walked twice the length of the room.
* Upon my word, judge, I will not answer for myself if I remain
here,' he said at last.

A softer-hearted man than Judge Staveley, or one who could
make himself more happy in making others happy, never sat on the
English bench. Was not this a gallant young fellow before him, —
gallant and clever, of good honest principles, and a true manly
heart ? Was he not a gentleman by birth, education, and tastes ?
What more should a man want for a son-in-law? And then his
daughter had had the wit to love this man so endowed. It was
almost on his tongue to tell Graham that he might go and seek the
girl and plead his own cause to her.

But bread is bread, and butcher's bills are bills ! The man and
the father, and the successful possessor of some thousands a year,
was too strong at last for the soft-hearted philanthropist. There-
fore, having collected his thoughts, he thus expressed himself upon
the occasion : —

* Mr. Graham, I think you have behaved very well in this matter,
and it is exactly what I should have expected from you.' The
judge at the time knew nothing about Mary Snow. * As regards
youi-solf personally I should be proud to own you as my son-in-law,
but I am of course bound to regard the welfare of my daughter.
Your means I fear are but small.'

* Very small indeed,' said Graham.

* And though you have all those gifts which should bring you on
in your profession, you have learned to entertain ideas, which
hitherto have barred you from success. Now I tell you what you
shall do. Kemain here two or three days longer, till you are fit to
travel, and abstain from saying anything to my daughter. Come to
mo again in three months, if you still hold the same mind, and I
will pledge myself to tell you then whether or no you have my
leave to address my child as a suitor.'

Felix Graham silently took the judge's hand, feeling that a strong
hope had been given to him, and so the interview was ended.

CHAPTEB Xni.

LADY MASOX BETURNS HOME.

Lady Mason remained at The Cleeve for something more than a
week after that day on which she made her confession, during
which time she was folly committed to take her trial at the next
assizes at Alston on an indictment for perjury. This was done in a
manner that astonished even herself by the absence of all pabliciiy
or outward scandal. The matter was arranged between Mr.
Matthew Ronnd and Mr. Solomon Aram, and was so arranged in
accordance with Mr. Fnmivars wishes. Mr. Fumival wrote to
say that at such a time he would call at The Cleeve with a post-
chaise. This he did, and took Lady Mason with him before two
magistrates for the county who were sitting at Doddinghurst, a
village five miles distant from Sir Peregrine's house. Here by
agreement they were met by Lucius Mason who was to act as one
of the bailsmen for his mother's appearance at the trial. Sir Pere-
grine was the other, but it was brought about by amicable manage-
ment between the lawyers that his appearance before the magistrates
was not required. There were also there the two attorneys, Bridget
Bolster the witness, one Torrington from London who brought
with him the absolute deed executed on that 14th of July with
reference to the then dissolved partnership of Mason and Martock ;
and there was Mr. Samuel Dockwrath. I must not forget to say
tliat there was also a reporter for the press, provided by the special
care of the latter-named gentleman.

The arrival in the village of four different vehicles, and the sight
of such gentlemen as Mr. Fumival, Mr. Bound, and Mr. Aram,
of course aroused some excitement there ; but this feeling was kept
down as much as possible, and Lady Mason was very quickly
allowed to return to the carriage. Mr. Dockwrath made one or
two attempts to get up a scene, and to rouse a feeling of public
anger against the lady who was to be tried ; but the magistrates
put him down. They also seemed to be fully impressed with a
sense of Lady Mason's innocence in the teeth of the evidence which
was given against her. This was the general feeling on the minds
of all people, — except of those who knew most about it. There was
an idea that affairs had so been managed by Mr. Joseph Mason and
Mr. Dockwrath that another trial was necessary, but that the un-

VOL. II. H

98 OBLEY FARM.

fortttnate victim of Mr. Mason's cupidity and Mr. Dockwratli's
malice wonld be washed white as snow when the day of that trial
came. The chief performers on the present occasion were Hound
and Aram, and a stranger to such proceedings would have said
that they were acting in concert. Mr. Eound pressed for the indict-
ment, and brought forward in a very short way the evidence of
Bolster and Torrington. Mr. Aram said that his client was advised
to reserve her defence, and was prepared with bail to any amount.
Mr. llound advised the magistrates that reasonable bail should bo
taken, and then the matter was settled. Mr. Fumival sat on a
chair close to the elder of those two gentlemen, and whispered a
word to him now and then. Lady Mason was provided with an
arm-chair close to Mr. Fumival's right hand, and close to her right
hand stood her son. Her fasuie was covered by a deep veil, and she
was not called upon during the whole proceeding to utter one
audible word. A single question was put to her by the presiding
magistrate before the committal was signed, and it was imdorstood
that some answer was made to it ; but this answer reached the ears
of those in the room by means of Mr. Fumivars voice.

It was observed by most of those there that during the whole of
the sitting Lady Mason held her son's hand ; but it was observed also
that though Lucius permitted this he did not seem to return the
pressure. He stood there during the entire proceedings without
motion or speech, looking veiy stem. He signed the bail-bond,
but even that he did without saying a word. Mr. Dock'vvrath
demanded that Lady Mason should be kept in custody till the bond
shoidd also have been signed by Sir Peregrine ; but upon this
Mr. Bound remarked that he believed Mr. Joseph Mason had
intrusted to him the conduct of the case, and the elder magistrate
desired Mr. Dockwrath to abstain from further interference. * All
right,' said he to a person standing close to him. ' But I'll be too
many for them yet, as you will see when she is brought before a
judge and jury.' And then Lady Mason stood committed to take
her trial at the next Alston assizes.

When Lucius had come forward to hand her from the post-chaise
in which she arrived Lady Mason had kissed him, but this was all
the intercourse that then passed between the mother and son.
Mr. Fumival, however, informed him that his mother would return
to Orloy Farm on the next day but one.

* She thinks it better that she should be at home from this time
to the day of the trial,' said Mr. Fumival ; ' and on the whole Sir
Peregrine is inclined to agree with her.'

* I have thought so all through,' said Lucius.

' But you are to understand that there is no disagreement between
your mother and the family at The Clecve. The idea of the
marriage has, as I think very properly, been laid aside.'

LADY MASON RETURNS UOME. 90

* Of course it was proper that it should be laid aside.'
' Yee ; but I must beg you to understand that there has been no
quarreL Indeed you will, I have no doubt, perceive that, as
Mrs. Orme has assured me that she will see your mother constantly
till the time comes.'

' She is very kind,' said Lucius. But it was evident from the
tone of his voice that he would have preferred that all the Oimes
should have remained away. In his mind this time of suffering to
his mother and to him was a period of trial and probation, — a
period, if not of actual disgrace, yet of disgrace before the world ;
and he thought that it would have best become his mother to have
abstained from all friendship out of her own family, and even from
all expressed sympathy, till she had vindicated her own purity and
innocence. And as he thought of this he declared to himself that
he would have sacrificed everything to her comfort and assistance
if she would only have permitted it. He would have loved her,
and been tender to her, receiving on his own shoulders all those
blows which now fell so hardly upon hers. Every word should
have been a word of kindness ; every look should have been soft
and full of affection. He would have treated her not only with
all the love which a son could show to a mother, but with all the
respect and sympathy which a gentleman could feel for a lady in
distress. But then, in order that such a state of things as this
should have existed, it would have been necessary that she should
have trusted him. She should have leaned upon him, and, — though
he did not exactly say so in talking over the matter with himself,
still he thought it, — on him and on him only. But she had declined
to lean upon him at all. She had gone away to strangers, — she,
who should hardly have spoken to a stranger during these sad
months ! She would not have his care ; and under those circum-
stances he could only stand aloof, hold up his head, and look
sternly. As for her innocence, that was a matter of course. He
know that she was innocent. He wanted no one to tell him that
his own mother was not a thief, a forger, a castaway among the
world's worst wretches. He thanked no one for such an assurance.
Every honest man must sympathize with a woman so injured.
It would be a necessity of his manhood and of his honesty ! But
he would have valued most a sympathy which would have abstained
from all expression till after that trial shoidd be over. It should
have been for him to act and for him to speak during this terrible
period. But his mother who was a free agent had willed it other-
wise.

And there had been one other scene. Mr. Fumival had intro-
duced Lady Mason to Mr. Solomon Aram, having explained to her
that it would bo indispensable that Mr. Aram should see her, pro-
bably once or twice before the trial camo on.

Ji 2

100 OILBr F

* But ctatDf Ah he 3ooeihrafUf^j€mT audLttdjMama. 'llioiigh
of eonne I thould not expect that joa eui eo McrHice jovr Tahiafale

*Fii^ beliere me tbat thai is not the ccMBsideimtioii,' said Mr.
FnniiTaL *We hare en^n^Bd the serrioes of Mr. Aram because
he Is snpposed to nnderBtand difficulties of this sort better than an^*
odber man in the prolesffion, and his chance of rescuing yoo ftam
this tn»nUe will be mnch better if jon can bring yourself to have
oonfidenoe in him — foil confidence.' And Mr. FnmiTal looked
into her &ce as he spoke with an expression of coontenance that
ifis very eloquent. * You most not sappose that I shall not do all
in my power. In my proper capacity I shall be actii^ for you
with all the eneigy that I can nse ; bat the case has now aasimied
an aipect which requires that it should be in an attorney's handtt.'
And then Mr. FnmiTal introduced her to Mr. Solomon Aram.

Mr. Solomon Aram was not, in outward appearance, such a man
as Lady ^lason, Sir Peregrine Orme, or others quite ignorant in
snob matters would have expected. He was not a dirty old Jew
with a hooked nose and an imperfect pronunciation of English
consonants. Mr. ChafiiEUibrass, the barrister, bore more resemblance
to a Jew of tliat ancient type. Mr. Solomon Aram was a good-
looking man about forty, perhaps rather over-di-essed, but beaiing
about him no other sign of vulgarity. Nor at first sight would it
probably have been discerned that he was of the Hebrew per-
suasion. IIo had black hair and a well -formed face ; but his eyes
were cloKcr than is common with most of us, and his nose seemed to
l>e somowlmt swollen about the bridge. When one knew that he was
a Jew one saw that he was a Jew ; but in the absence of such
previous knowledge ho might have been taken for as good a ChrLs-
tian as any other attorney.

Mr. Aram mised his hat and bowed as Mr. Fumival performcl
the ceremony of introduction. This was done while she was still
seated in the carriage, and as Lucius was waiting at the door to
liand her down into the house where the magistrates were sitting.
* I am delighted to have the honour of making your acquaintance,*
said Mr. Aram.

Lady Mason essayed to mutter some word ; but no word was
audible, nor was any necessaiy. * I have no doubt,* continued the
attorney, * that we shall pull through this little difficulty without
any ultimate damage whatsoever. In the mean time it is of course
disagn^oable to a lady of your distinction.* And then he made
another bow. * We are peculiarly happy in having such a tower
of strength ns Mr. Fumival,* and then he bowed to the barrister.
And my old friend Mr. Chaffanbrass is another tower of strength.
Eh, Mr. Fumival ?* And so the introduction was over.

Lady Mason had quite understood Mr. Fumival; — had under-

LADT MASON BETUBKS HOME. 101

stood both his words and his &oe, when he told her how indis-
pensable it was that she should have full confidenoe in this attorney.
He had meant that she should tell him all. She must bring herself
to oonfess everything to this absolute stranger. And then — for the
first time — she felt sure that Mr. Fumival had guessed her secret.
He also knew it, but it would not suit him that any one should
know that he knew it ! Alas, alas ! would it not be better that all
the world should know it and that there might be an end ? Had
not her doom been told to her? Even if the paraphernalia of
justice, — the judge, and the jury, and the lawyers, could be induced
to declare her innocent before all men, must she not confess her
guilt to him, — to that one, — for whose verdict alone she cared?
If he knew her to be guilty what matter who might think her
innocent? And she had been told that all must be declared to
him. That property was his, — but his only through her guilt ; and
that property must be restored to its owner ! So much Sir Pere-
grine Oime had declared to be indispensable, — Sir Peregrine Orme,
who in other matters concerning this case was now dark enough
in his judgment. On that point, however, there need be no dark-
ness. Though the heaven should fall on her devoted head, that
tardy justice must be done !

AVhen this piece of business had been completed at Doddinghurst,
Lady Mason returned to The Cleeve, whither Mr. Fumival accom-
panied her. He had offered his seat in the post-chaise to Lucius,
but the young man had declared that he was unwilling to go to The
Cleeve, and consequently there was no opportunity for conversation
between Lady Mason and her son. On her arrived she went at once
to her room, and there she continued to live as she had done for the
last few days till the morning of her departure came. To Mrs.
Orme she told all that had occurred, as Mr. Fumival did also to
Sir Peregrine. On that occasion Sir Peregrine said very little to
the barrister, merely bowing his head courteously as each different
point was explained, in intimation of his having heard and under-
stood what was said to him. Mr. Fumival could not but see that
his manner was entirely altered. There was no enthusiasm now,
no violence of invective against that wretch at Groby Park, no
positive assurance that his guest's innocence must come out at the
trial bright as the day ! He showed no inclination to desert Lady
Mason's cause, and indeed insisted on hearing the particulars of all
that had been done ; but he said very little, and those few words
adverted to the terrible sadness of the subject. He seemed too to
be older than he had been, and less firm in his gait. That terrible
sadness had already told greatly upon him. Those about him had
observed that ho had not once crossed the threshold of his ball door
since the morning on which Lady Mason had taken to her own
room.

102 OIOiEY FARM.

* He has altered his mind,* said the lawyer to himself as ho was
driven back to the Hamworth station. • He also now believes her
to be guilty.' As to his own belief, Mr. Fumival held no argument
within his own breast, but we may say that ho was no longer per-
plexed by much doubt upon the matter.

And then the morning came for Lady Mason's departure. Sir
Peregrine had not seen her since she had left him in the library
after her confession, although, as may be remembered, he had
undertaken to do so. But he had not then known how Mrs. Ormo
might act when she hoard the story. As matters had turned out
Mrs. Orme had taken upon herself the care of their guest, and all
intercourse between Lady Mason and Sir Peregrine had passed
through his daughter-in-law. But now, on this morning, ho
declared that he would go to her upstairs in Mrs. Orme's room, and
himself hand her down through the hall into the carriage. Against
this Lady Mason had expostulated, but in vain.

* It will be better so, dear,' Mrs. Onne had said. * It will teach
the servants and people to think that he still respects and esteems
you.'

* But he does not !' said she, speaking almost sharply. * How
would it be possible ? Ah, me — respect and esteem are gone from
me for ever I*

* No, not for ever,' replied Mrs. Orme. * Tou have much to bear,
but no evil lasts for ever.'

* Will not sin last for ever ; — sin such as mine ?'

* Not if you repent ; — repent and make such restitution as is
possible. Lady Mason, say that you have repented. Tell me that
you have asked Him to pardon you!* And then, as had been so
often the case during these last days, Lady Mason sat silent, with
hard, fixed eyes, with her hands clasped, and her lips compressed.
Never as yet had Mrs. Orme induced her to say that she had asked
for pardon at the cost of telling her son that the property which
he called his own had been procured for him by his mother's
fraud. That punishment, and that only, was too heav}' for her
neck to bear. Her acquittal in the law court would bo as nothing
to her if it must be followed by an avowal of her guilt to her
own son !

Sir Peregrine did come upstairs and handed her down through
the hall as he had proposed. When he came into the room she did
not look at him, but stood loaning against the table, with her eyes
fixed upon the ground.

* I hope you find yourself better,' he said, as he put out his hand
to her. She did not even attempt to make a reply, but allowed him
just to touch her fingers.

* Perhaps I had better not come down,' said Mrs. Orme. * It will
bo easier to say good-bye here.*

LADT MA80K BETUBNB HOME. 108

* QoodAyje,* said Lady Mason, and her voice sounded in Sir
Peregrine's ears like a voice from the dead.

' Gk>d bless yon and preserve you/ said Mrs. Orme, ' and restore
yon to yonr son. God will bless you if you will ask Him. No ;
you shall not go wiiiiout a kiss.' And she put out her arms that
Lady Mason might come to her.

The poor broken wretch stood for a moment as though trying to
determine what she would do ; and then, almost with a shriek, she
threw herself on to the bosom of the other woman, and burst into a
flood of tears. She had intended to abstain from that embrace ; she
had resolved that she would do so, declaring to herself that she was
not fit to be held against that pure heart ; but the tenderness of the
offer had overcome her, and now she pressed her friend convulsively
in her arms, as though there might yet be comfort for her as long
as she could remain close to one who was so good to her.

* I shall come and see you very often,* said Mrs. Orme, — * almost
daily.'

* No, no, no,' exclaimed the other, hardly knowing the meaning
of her own words.

' But I shall. My father is waiting now, dear, and yon had
better go.'

Sir Peregrine had turned to the window, where he stood shading
his eyes with his hand. When he heard his daughter-in-law's last
words he again came forward, and offered Lady Mason his arm.
* Edith is right,' he said. * You had better go now. When you
are at homo you will be more composed.' And then he led her
forth, and down the stairs, and across the hall, and with infinite
courtesy put her into the carriage. It was a moment dreadful to
Lady Mason ; but to Sir Peregrine, also, it was not pleasant. The
servants were standing round, officiously offering their aid, — those
very servants who had been told about ten days since that this lady
was to become their master's wife and their mistress. They had
been told so with no injunction as to secrecy, and the tidings had
gone quickly through the whole country. Now it was known that
tho mateh was broken off, that the lady had been living upstairs
secluded for the last week, and that she was to leave tbe house this
moming, having been committed during the last day or two to stand
her trial at the assizes for some terrible offence I He succeeded in
his task. He handed her into the carriage, and then walked back
through his own servante to tho library without betraying to them
the depth of his sorrow ; but he knew that the last task had been
too heavy for him. When it was done he shut himself up and sat
there for hours without moving. He also declared to himself that
tlie world was too hard for him, and that it would be well for him
that he should die. Never till now had he come into close contact
with crime, and now the criminal was one whom as a woman he

had karned to lore, ttid wlioa he had propoaed to the wotld aa lila
wife ! The criBunal waa ooe who had dedaied her cnaaa in order
to protect him, aad whoa dietefiire he waa adll hoand in lioooiir to

When Lad J Maaon anired at Orley Fann her aon waa wmitiii^ nt
die door to leeeiTe her. It ahonld have been aaid that dnrin^ the
laat two daja, — that ia erer ainoe the oommittal, — ^Mra. Oime had
nqped npon her Tery atrangl j that it would be well lor her to tell
everjthii^ to her aon. ' l^'hat ! now, at oncer' the poor woman
had aaid. ' Yea, dear, at once,' Mn. Omie had answered. * He
wiD. IbigiTe you, £»r I know he is good. He will £oigiTe jon, and
then the wont of jour aonow will be orer.* But towards doing
tida Lad J Maaon had made no progress OTen in her mind. In the
'nc^ence of her own reaolatkxD she had broo^t heiaelf to ieU her
goilt to Sir Per^rine. That effort had nearlj destzoyed her, and
now Ae knew that the oonld not frame the words ^«Hii<^ ahoold
declare the tmth to Lncins. What ; tell him that tale ; wbereas
her whole life had been spent in an effort to conceal it froia huxk ?
No. She knew that she conld not do it. But the idea of doing so
made her tremble at the proepect of meeting him.

* I am Terj glad yon have come home, mother,' said Lnoina, as
he leceiTcd her. * BelioTe me that for the present this will be the
beat place fiur both of us,' and then he led her into the boose.

* Dear Lncins, it wonld always be best for me to be with yon, if
it were possible.'

He did not accuse her of hypocrisy in saying this ; but he could
not bat think that had she really thought and felt as she now spoke
nothing need have prevented her remaining with him. Had not
his honse ever been open to her? Had he not been willing to
make her defence the first object of his life ? Had he not longed to
prove himself a good son ? But she had gone from him directly
that troubles came upon her, and now she said that she wonld fain
be with him always — if it were possible! Where had been the
impediment ? In what way had it been not possible ? He thought
dT this with bitterness as he followed her into the house, but he aaid
not a word of it. Ho had resolved that he would be a pattern aon^
fliyl even now he would not rebuke her.

She had lived in this house for some four-and>twenty years, but it
seemed to her in no way like her home. Was it not the property
of her enemy, Joseph Mason ? and did she not know that it must
go back into that enemy's hands ? How then could it be to her
like a home ? The room in which her bed was laid was that very
room in which her sin had been committed ? There in the silent
boors of the night, while the old man lay near his death in the adjoin-
ing chamber, had she with infinite care and much slow preparation
dime that deed, to undo which, were it possible, she would now give

LADT XASOK BBTUBNS HOME. 105

away her existence, — ay, her veiy body and soul. And yet for
years she had slept in that room, if not happily at least tranquilly*
It was matter of wonder to her now, as she looked back at her past
life, that her guilt had sat so lightly on her shoulders. The black
unwelcome guest, the spectre of coming evil, had ever been present
to her; but she had seen it indistinctly, and now and then the
power had been hers to close her eyes. Never again could she
close them. Nearer to her, and still nearer, the spectre came; and
now it sat upon her pillow, and put its claw upon her plate ; it
pressed upon her bosom with its fiendish strength, telling her that
all was over for her in this world ;— ay, and telling her worse even
than that. Her return to her old home brought with it but little
comfort.

And yet she was forced to make an effort at seeming glad that
she had come there, — a terrible effort ! He, her son, was not gay
or disposed to receive from her a show of happiness ; but he did
think that she should compose herself and be tranquil, and that she
should resume the ordinary duties of her life in her ordinarily quiet
way. In all this she was obliged to conform herself to his wishes,
— or to attempt so to conform herself, though her heart should
break in the struggle. If he did but know it all, then he would
suffer her to be quiet, — suffer her to lie motionless in her misery I
Once or twice she almost said to herself that she would make the
effort ; but then she thought of him and his suffering, of his pride,
of the respect which he claimed from all the world as the honest
son of an honest mother, of his stubborn will and stiff neck, which
would not bend, but would break beneath the blow. She had done
all for him, — to raise him in the world ; and now she could not
bring herself to undo the work that had cost her so dearly !

That evening she went through the ceremony of dinner with him,
and he was punctilious in waiting upon her as though bread and
meat could comfort her or wine could warm her heart. There was
no warmth for her in all the vintages of the south, no comfort
though gods should bring to her their banquets. She was heavy
laden, — laden to the breaking of her back, and did not know where
to lay her burden down.

' Mother,' he said to her that night, lifting his head from the
books over which he had been poring, * There must be a few words
between us about this affair. They might as well be spoken now/

* Yes, Lucius ; of course — if you desire it.'

' There can be no doubt now that this trial will take place.'
' No doubt ;' she said. ' There can be no doubt'

* Is it your wish that I should take any part in it ?

She remained silent for some moments before she answered him,
thinking, — striving to think, how best she might do him pleasmew
' What part T she said at last.

106

* A man's part, and'a floix's part Sball I see these lawyers and
leaTafrom them what thay^are at ? Have I your leave to tell them that
you want no subterfoga, no legal quibbles, — that yon stand firmly
on yonr own clear innooenoe, and that you defy your enemies to
sully it? Mother, those who have sent you to such men as that
cunning attorney have sent you wrong, — ^have counselled you
wrong.*

' It cannot be changed now, Lucius.'

* It can be changed, if you will tell me to change it.'

And then again, die paused. Ah, think of her anguish as she
sought for words to answer him I ' No, Lucius,' she said, ' it
cannot be changed now.'

* So be it, mother ; I wiU not ask again,' and then he moodily
retomed to his books, while she rstumed to her thoughts. Ah,
think of her misaiy I

CHAPTEB XIV.

TELLING ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP^POST.

When Felix Graham left Noningsby and made his way up to
London, he came at least to one resolution which ho intended to bo
an abiding one. That idea of a marriage with a moulded wife
should at any rate bo abandoned. Whether it might bo his great
destiny to be the husband of Madeline Staveley, or whether he
mi^t fail in achieving this purpose, he declared to himself that
it would be impossible that he should ever now become the husbaml
of Mary Snow. And the ease with which his conscience settled
itself on this matter as soon as he had received from the judge that
gleam of hope astonished even himself. He immediately declared
to himself that he could not marry Mary Snow without perjury !
How could he stand with her before the altar and swear that ho
would love her, seeing that he did not love her at all, — seeing that
he altogether loved some one else ? He acknowledged that he had
made an ass of himself in this a£fair of Mary Snow. This moulding
of a wife had failed with him, he said, as it always must fail with
every man. But he would not carry his folly further. He would
go to Mary Snow, tell her the truth, and then bear whatever injury
her angry father might be able to inflict on him. Independently
of that angry father he would of course do for Mary Snow all that
his circumstances would admit.

Perhai>8 the gentleman of a poetic turn of mind whom Marj- had
consented to meet beneath the lamp-post might assist hira in his
views ; but whether this might be so or not, he would not throw

TELIilNG ALL THAT HAPPENED BEKEATH THE LAMP-POST. 107

that meeting trngeneronsly in her teeth. He wonld not Utive
allowed that offenoe to tarn him from his proposed marris^ had
there been nothing else to tarn him, and therefore he wonld not
plead that offence as the excuse for his broken troth. That the
breaking of that troth wonld not deeply wound poor Mary's heart —
so much he did permit himself to belieye on tlio evidence of that
lamp-post.

He had written to Mra. Thomas telling her when he would be
at Peckham, but in his letter ho had not said a word as to those
terrible tidings which she had communicated to him. He had
written also to Mary, assuring her that he accused her of no injury
against him, and almost promising her forgiyeness ; but this lettor
Mar}' had not shown to Mrs. Thomas. In these days Mary's anger
against Mrs. Thomas was ver}'- strong. That Mrs. Thomas should
have used all her vigilance to detect such goings on as those of the
lamp-post was only natural. What woman in Mrs. Thomas's posi-
tion,— or in any other position, — would not have done so ? Mary
Snow knew that had she herself been the duenna she would have
left no comer of a box imtumed but she would have found those
letters. And having found them she would have used her power
over the poor girl. Sho knew that. But she would not have
betrayed her to tbe man. Truth between woman and woman
should have prevented that. Were not tho stockings which sho
had darned for Mrs. Thomas legion in number ? Had sho not con-
sented to eat the veriest scraps of food in order that those threo
brats might bo fed into sleekness to satisfy their mother's eyes ?
Had she not reported well of Mrs. Thomas to her lord, though that
house of Peckham was nauseous to her ? Had she ever told to
Mr. Graham any one of those little tricks which were carried on
to allure him into a belief that things at Peckham were prosperous?
Had she ever exposed the boiTowing of those teacups when he
camo, and tho fact that those knobs of white sugar were kept
expressly on his behoof? No ; sho would have scorned to betray
any woman ; and that woman v/hom sho had not beti*ayed should
have shown tho same feeling towards her. Therefore there was
enmity at Peckham, and the stockings of those infants lay un«
mended in the basket.

* Mary, I have done it all for the best,' said Mrs. Thomas, driven
to defend herself by the obdurate silence of her pupil.

* No, ]\Irs. Thomas, you didn't. You did it for the worst,' said
Mary. And then there was again silence between them.

It was on the morning following this that Felix Graham was
driven to the door in a cab. He still carried his arm in a sling,
and was obliged to be somewhat slow in his movements, but other-
wise he was again well. His accident however was so far a god-
send to both the women at Peckham that it gave thorn a subject on

108 OBLST FABM.

whioh they were oalled upon to speak, before that other subject
waa introdnced. Mary was veiy tender in her inqniries, — ^but
tender in a bashful retiring way. To look at her one would have
said that she was afraid to touch the wounded man lest he should
be again broken.

' Oh, I'm all right,' said he, trying to assume a look of good-
humour. ' I shaVt go hunting again in a hurr^*^ ; you may be
sure of that.'

' We have all great reason to be thankfal that Frovidence inter-
posed to save you,' . said Mrs. Thomas, in her most serious tone.
Had Providence interposed to break Mrs. Thomas's coUar-bone,
or at least to do her some serious outward injury, what a comfort
it would be, thought Mary Snow.

' Have you seen your father lately ?' asked Graham.

* Not since I wrote to you about the money that he — borrowed,'
said Mary.

* I told her that she should not have given it to him,' said Mrs.
Thomas.

* She was quite right,' said Graham. * Who could refuse assist-
ance to a father in distress?' Whereupon Mary put her hand-
kerchief up to her eyes and began to cry.

* That's true of course,' said Mrs. Thomas ; ' but it would never
do that he should be a drain in that way. He should feel that if he
had any feeling.'

* So he has,' said Mary. * And you are driven close enough your-
self sometimes, Mrs. Thomas. There's days when you'd like to
borrow nineteen and sixpence if anybody would lend it you.'

•Very well,' said Mrs. Thomas, crossing her hands over each
other in her lap and assuming a look of resignation ; * I suppose
all this will be changed now. I have en^deavoured to do my duty,
and very hard it has been.'

Felix felt that the sooner he rushed into the middle of the sub-
ject which brought him there, the better it would be for all parties.
That the two ladies were not very happy together was evident, and
then he made a little comparison between Madeline and Mary.
Was it really the case that for the last three years he had con-
templated making that poor child his wife? Would it not be
better for him to tie a miUstone round his neck and cast himself
into the sea? That was now his thought respecting Mary Snow.

* Mrs. Thomas,' he said, * I should like to speak to Mary alone
for a few minutes if you could allow it.'

' Oh certainly ; by all means. It will be quite _ proper.' And
gathering up a bundle of the unfortunate stockings she took herself
out of the room.

Mary, as soon as Graham had spoken, became almost pale, and
sat perfectly still with her eyes fixed on her betrothed husband.

TELLINa ALL THAT HAPPBNED BBNSATH THE LAKP-POST. 109

While Mrs. Thomas was there she was prepared for war and hier
spirit was hot within her, but all that heat fled in a moment when
she found herself alone with the man to whom it belonged to speak
her doom. He had almost said that he wonld fi>rgiYe her, bat
yet she had a feeling that that had been done which could not
altogether be forgiven. If he asked her whether she loved the
hero of the lamp-post what wonld she say? Had he asked her
whether she loved him, Felix Graham, she would have sworn that
she did, and have thought that she was swearing tmly ; but in
answer to that other question if it were asked, she felt that her
answer must be false. She had no idea of giving up Felix of her
own accord, if he were still willing to take her. She did not even
wish that he would not take her. It had been the lesson of her
life that she was to l)e his wife, and, by becoming so, provide for
herself and for her wretched father. Nevertheleas a dream of
something different from that had come across her young heart,
and the dream had been so pleasant ! How painfully, but yet with
what a rapture, had her heart palpitated as she stood for those ten
wicked minutes beneath the lamp-post !

* Mary,' said Felix, as soon as they were alone, — and as he spoke
he came up to her and took her hand, ' I trust that I may never
be the cause to you of any unhappiness ; — ^that I may never be ttie
means of making you sad.'

* Oh, Mr. Graham, I am sure that you never will. It is I that
have been bad to you.'

* No, Mary, I do not think you have been bad at all. I should
have boon sorry that that had happened, and that I should not
have known it.'

* I suppose she was right to tell, only * in truth Mary did

not at all understand what might be the nature of Graham's thoughts
and feelings on such a subject. She had a strong woman's idea
that the man whom she ought to love would not be gratified by her
meeting another man at a private assignation, especially when that
other man had written to her a love-letter ; but she did hot at all
know how far such a sin might be regarded as pardonable accord-
ing to the rules of the world recognized on such subjects. At fii>>t,
when the letters were discovered and the copies of them sent off to
yoningxby, bho thought that all was over. Accoi-ding to her ideas,
us existing at that moment, the crime was conceived to be one
admitting of no pardon ; and in the hours spent under that con-
viction all her consolation came from the feeling that there was
still one who regarded her as an angel of light. But then she had
received Graham's letter, and as she began to understand that
pardon was possible, that other consolation waxed feeble and dim.
If Felix Graham chose to take her, of course she was there for him
to take. It never for a moment occun*ed to her that she could

110

4# la^ u» <*» dear fur «f c^ou

^ Im# ttCiC tkmk, Hmnr^ dut 1 am going so jocyd jov, c? eri
I MM «a«nj wish J4W.'

^iAf Utt I knov joa ni be aognr.*

^ IftikfS:^! 1 «» iKiL If I pkdge mjieif to tell jua. stk& ST::ii izi
mnswyikaat^ viD foa le «)ittllj ibnk wisk me?*

^ luw,* Mid llttj. Bet it WM much cmmt IIdt FeHx lo tell iLs
trstlt tlM& C^iT lf«rf to be liaiiilL I belicre tbas achorih^teteis cn^n
t»ll fibft to flM^x4b^«, altboci^ it would be «> e^gj' far utezi 'u, 't^
Ife trnth. But hum diflknlt it is for the tcboolboj alwmys to tell
dia troth to his master! Marv Snow was now ss a schoolboT before
h«r ioUir, sad it msj shncst be said that the telli&g cf the irmh
was it* hfiT impossible. But of oonne she made the promise. Wkkj
tiwer said that she would, not tell the tmth when so a*ked ?

* Ha%'e jr/n ever thoogfat, 3Iarj, that joa acd I would not make
eaeb «it}ier happjr if we were married ?'

* Xo ; I \inre never thooght that,' said Hary innocenilj. She
meant to say exaetlj that ^Hiioh ahe thought Graham would wbh
her to say, but slie was slow in following his lead.

^ It has never rjoonrred to you that though we might love each
frther Vf;ry warmly as friends — and so I am sure we idways shall —
yet we mi(;fat n//t suit each other in all respects as man and wife V

* I unAU t/i do the very bcHt 1 can ; that is, if — if — if you are not
too much ofTeuded with me now/

* But, Mnry\ it should not be a question of doing the best yon can.
JUii^t^uu man and wife there should bo no need of imch e^ort. It
should }h; a lalxiur of love/

*Ho it will ; — and Tm sure 1*11 labour as hard as I can/

Felix Uf^an to perceive that the lino he had taken would not
atiswer the reffuired purpose, and tliat he must be somewhat moi-e
abnipt with her,— perhaps a little less delicate, in coming to the
desin;d* point. ' Mary/ he said, * what is the name of that gentle-
man whom— whom you met out of doors you know?*

« AllHjri Fiteallon,' said Mary, hesitating very much as she pro-
nounced the name, but nevertheless rather proud of the sound.

' And you are — fond of him ?' awked Graham.

Poor girl I W hat was she to say ? ' Ko ; Tm not very fond of
him/

* Are you not ? Then why did you consent to that secret
meeting?'

* Oil, Mr. Graham — I didn't mean it ; indeed I didn't. And I
didn't tell him to write to mo, nor yet to come looking after rae.
Upon my word 1 didn't. But thou 1 thought when he sent me that
letter that ho didn't know ;— about you I mean ; and so I tlioiight

TELLING ALL THAT HAFPXNXD BESTEATH THE LAKP-POST. Ill

I'd better tell liiiu; and that's why I went. Indeed tliat kvbs the
reason.'

* Mrs. Thomas could have told him that.'

^ But I don*t like Mrs. Thomas, and I wduldli't for worlds that
she should have had anything to do Y(ith it. I think Mrs. Thomas
has behaved very bad to me ; so I do. And yon don't half know her ;
— that you don't.'

' I will ask you one more question, Mary, and before answering
it I want to m£^e you believe that my only object in asking it is to
ascertain how I may make you happy. When you did meet Mr. —
this gentleman *

* Albert Fitzallen.'

' When you did meet Mr. Fitzallen, did you tell him nothing else
except that you were engaged to me ? Did you say nothing to him
as to your feelings towards himself?'

' I told him it was very wrong of him to write me that letter.*

* And what more did you tell him ?*

' Oh, Mr. Graham, I won't see him any more ; indeed I won't. I
give you my most solemn promise. Indeed I won't. And I will
never write a line to him, — or look at him. And if he sends any-
thing I'll send it to you. Indeed I will. There was never anything
of the kind before ; upon my word there wasn't. I did let him take
my hand, but I didn't know how to help it when I was there. And
he kissed me — only once. There ; I've told it all now, as though
you were looking at me. And I aint a bad girl, whatever she may
say of me. Indeed I aint.' And then poor Mary Snow burst out
into an agony of tears.

Felix began to perceive that he had been too hard upon her. He
had wished that the first overtures of a separation should come
&om her, and in wishing this he had been unreasonable. Ho
walked for a while about the room, and then going up to her ho
stood close by her and took her hand. ' Mary,' he said, * I'm sure
you're not a bad girl.

* No ;' she said, * no, I aint ;' still sobbing convulsively. * I
didn't mean anything wrong, and I couldn't help it.'

* I am sure you did not, and nobody has said you did.' ^

* Yes, they have. She has said so. She said that I was a bad
girl. She told me so, up to my face.'

* She was very wrong if she said so.*

* She did then, and 1 couldn't bear it.'

* I have not said so, and I don't think so. Indeed in all this
matter I believe that I have been more to blame than you.'

* No ; — I know I was wrong. I know I shouldn't have gone to
see him.'

' I won't even say as much as that, Mary. What you should have
done ; — only the task would have been too hard for any young girl

112 OBUBT FABK.

-^was to have told me openly that you — liked this young
gpentleman.'

' Bnt I don't want ever to see him again.'

'Look here, Maiy,' he said. But now he had dropped her hand
and taken a ohair opposite to her. He had begun to find that the
task whioh he had proposed to himself was not so easy eyen for him.
' Look here, Mary. 1 take it that you do like this young gentle-
man. Don't answer me till I have finished what I am going to say.
I suppose you do like him, — and if so it would be very wicked in
yon to marry me,'

* Oh, Mr. Graham '

* Wait a moment, Mary. But there is nothing wicked in your
liking him.' It-may be presumed that Mr. Graham would hold such
an opinion as this, seeing that he had allowed himself the same
latitude of liking. * It was perhaps only natural that you should
leam to do so. You have been taught to regard me rather as a
master than as a lover.'

*0h, Mr. Graham, I'm sure I've loved you. I have indeed.
And I will. I won't even think of Al '

* Bnt I want you to think of him, — that is if he be worth thinking
of.'

^He's a very good yoimg man, and always lives with his
mother.'

* It shall be my business to find out that. And now Mary, tell
me truly. If he be a good young man, and if he loves you well
enough to marry you, would you not be happier as his wife than
you would as mine ?'

There t The question that he wished to ask her had got itself
asked at last. But if tho asking had been difficult, how much more
difficult must have been the answer ! He had been thinking over
all this for the last fortnight, and had hardly known how to come
to a resolution. Now he put the matter before her without a
moment's notice and expected an instant decision. * Speak tho
truth, Mary ; — what you think about it ; — without minding what
anybody may say of you.' But Mary could not say anything, so
she again burst into tears.

' Surely you know the state of your own heart, Mary ?'

* I don't know,' she answered.

* My only object is to secure your happiness ; — the happiness of
both of us, that is.'

* m do anything you please,' said Mary.

* Well then, 111 tell you what I think. I fear that a marriage
between us would not make either of us contented with our lives.
I'm too old and too grave for you.' Yet Mary Snow was not
younger than Madeline Staveley. * You have been told to love me ;
and you think that you do love me because you wish to do what

TELUQ^Q ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP-POST. 118

you think to be your duty. But I believe that people can never
really love each other merely because they are told to do so. Of
course I cannot say what sort of a young man Mr. Fitzallen may
be ; but if I find that he is fit to take care of you, and that he has
means to support you, — ^with such little help as I can give, — ^I shall
be very happy to promote such an arrangement.'

Everybody v^ill of course say that Felix Graham was base in not
telling her that all this arose, not from her love affair with Albert
Fitzallen, but from his own love affair with Madeline Staveley.
But I am inclined to think that everybody will be wrong. Had he
told her openly that he did not care for her, but did care for some
one else, he would have left her no alternative. As it was, he did
not mean that she should have any alternative. But he probably
consulted her feelings best in allowing her to think that she had a
choice. And then, though he owed much to her, he owed nothing
to her father ; and had he openly declared his intention of breaking
off the match because he had attached himself to some one else, he
would have put himself terribly into her father's power. He was
willing to submit to such pecuniary burden in the matter as his
conscience told him that he ought to bear ; but Mr. Snow's ideas on
the subject of recompense might be extravagant ; and therefore, — as
regarded Snow the father, — he thought that he might make some
slight and delicate use of the meeting under the lamp- post. ' In
doing so he would be very careful to guard Mary from her father^s
anger. Indeed Mary would be surrendered, out of his own care,
not to that of her father, but to the fostering love of the gentleman
in the medical line of life.

' I'll do anything that you please,' said Mary, upon whose mind
and heart all these changes had come with a suddenness which pre-
vented her from thinking, — much less speaking her thoughts.
' Perhaps you had better mention it to Mrs. Thomas.'

* Oh, Mj. Graham, I'd rather not talk to her. I don't love her
a bit.'

* Well, I will not press it on you if you do not wish it And have
I your pennission to speak to Mr. Fitzallen ; — and if he approves to
speak to his mother ?'

* I'll do anything you think best, Mr. Graham,' said poor Mary.
She was poor Mary ; for though she bad consented to meet a lover
beneath the lamp-post, she had not been without ambition, and had
looked forward to the glory of being wife to such a man as Felix
Graham. She did not however, for one moment, entertain any idea
of resistance to his will.

And then Felix left her, having of course an interview with Mrs.
Thomas before he quitted the house. To her, however, he said
nothing. ' When anything is settled, I^Irs. Thomas, I will let
you know.' The words were so lacking in confidence that Mrs.

VOL. II. I

114 OBUKY PASM.

Thomaa whea she heard them knew that the verdict had gone
against her.

Felix for many months had been accustomed to take leave of
Mary Snow with a kiss. But on this day he omitted to kiss her,
^md then Mary knew that it was all over with her ambition. But
love still remained to her. ' There is some one else who will be
proud to kiss me,' she said to herself, as she stood alone in the room
when ho closed ^e door behind him.

CHAPTER XV.

WHAT TOOK FLACB IIT HABLBT STRBET.

* Tom, I've oome back again,' said Mrs. Fumival, as soon as the
dining-room door ^Fas closed behind her back.

• I'm very glad to see you ; I am indeed,' said he, getting up and
putting out his hand to her. ' But I really never knew why you
went away.'

• Oh yes, you know. I'm sure you know why I went. But—'
« I'll be shot if I did then.'

• I went away because I did not like Lady Mason going to your
ohambers.'

« Tsha !'

• Yes ; I know I was wrong, Tom. That is I was wrong — about
that.'

• Of course you were, Kitty.'

• Well ; don't I say I was ? And I'vo come back again, and I beg
your pardon ; — that is about the lady.'

• Very well. Then there's an end of it.'

• But Tom ; you know I've been provoked. Haven't I now ?
How often have you been homo to dinner since you have been
member of Parliament for that place ?'

• I shall be more at homo now, Kitty.*

• Shall you indeed? Then 111 not say another word to vex you.
What on earth can I want, Tom, except just tliat you should sit at
home with me sometimes on evonings, as you used to do always in
the old days ? And as for Martha Biggs '

' Is she come back too ?'

• Oh dear no. She's in Red Lion Square. And I'm sure, Tom, I
never ha<l her here except wlicn you wouldn't dine at home. I
wonder whether you know how lonely it is to sit down to dinner all
by oneself!*

• Why ; I do it every other day of my life. And I never think
.of sending for Martha Biggs ; I promise you that.'

WHAT TOOK PLACE IV HARLEY STREET. 115

* She isn't veiy nice, I know,' said Mrs. FumiTal — * diat is, for
gentlemen.'

' I sbonld say not,' said Mr. Fumival. Then the leoonoiliation
had been effected, and Mrs. Fumival went upstairs to prepare for
dinner, knowing that her h'osband would be present, and that
Martha Biggs would not. And just as she was taking her accus-
tomed place ait the head of the table, abnost ashamed to look up lest
she should catch Spooner's eye who was standing behind his
master, Bachel went off in a cab to Orange Street, commissioned to
pay what might be due for the lodgings, to bring back her mistress's
boxes, and to convey the necessary tidings to Miss Biggs.

* Well I never !' said Martha, as she listened to Rachers stoiy.

* And they're quite loving I can assure you,' said Bachel.

* It'll never last,* said Miss Biggs triumphantly — * never. It's
been dono too sudden to last.'

* So I'll say good-night if you please, Miss Biggs,' said Bachel,
who was in a hurry to get back to Harley Street.

' I think she might have come here before she went there ;
especially as it wasn't anything out of her way. She couldn't have
gone shorter than Bloomsbury Square, and Bussell Square, and over
Tottenham Court Road.'

* Missus didn't think of that, I dare say.'

* She used to know the way about these parts well enough. But
give her my love, Rachel.' Then Martha Biggs was again alone,
and she sighed deeply.

It was well that Mrs. Fumival came back so quickly to her own
house, as it saved the scandal of any domestic quarrel before her
daughter. On the following day Sophia returned, and as harmony
was at that time reigning in Harley Street, there was no necessity
that she should be presumed to know anything of what had occurred.
That she did know, — know exactly what her mother had done, and
why she had done it, and how she had come back, leaving Martha
Biggs dumfounded by her return, is very probable, for Sophia
Fumival was a clover girl, and one who professed to understand
the inns and outs of her own family, — and perhaps of some other
families. But she behaved very prettily to her papa and mamma
on tlie occasion, never dropping a word which could load either of
them to suppose that she had interrogated Rachel, been confidential
with the housemaid, conversed on the subject — even with Spooner,
and made a morning call on Martha Biggs herself.

There arose not unnaturally some conversation between tho
motile r and daughter as to Lady Mason ; — not as to Lady Mason's
visits to Lincoln's Inn and their impropriety as formerly presumed;
— not at all as to that ; but in respect to her present lamentable
position and that engagement which had for a time existed between
her and Sir Peregrine Orme. On this latter subject Mrs, E>\TKC5'5i5s.

^•1

116 OALET FAltM.

had of course heard nothing during her interview with Mrs. Orme
at Noningsby. At that time Lady Mason had formed the si^le
subject of conversation ; but in explaining to Mrs. Fumival that
there certainly could be no imhallowed feeling between her husband
and the lady, Mrs. Orme had not thought it necessary to allude to
Sir Peregrine's past intentions. Mrs. Fumival, however, had heard
the whole matter discussed in the railway carriage, had since
interrogated her husband, — learning, however, not very much from
him,— and now inquired into all the,details from her daughter.

* And she and Sir Peregrine were realTjr to be married ?' Mrs.
Fumival, as she asked the question, thought with confusion of her
own imjust accusations against the poor woman. Under such
circumstances as those Lady Mason must of course have been inno-
cent as touching Mr. Fumival.

* Yes,' said Sophia. ' There is no doubt whatsoever that they
were engaged. Sir Peregrine told Lady Staveley so himsell'

* And now it's all broken ofif again ?'

* Oh yes ; it is all broken ofif now. I believe the fact to be this.
Lord Alston, who lives near Noningsby, is a very old friend of
Sir Peregrine's. When he heard of it he went to The Cleeve —
I know that for certain ; — and I think he talked Sir Peregrine out
of it.'

* But, my conscience, Sophia after he had made her the

offer I'

* I fancy that Mrs. Orme arranged it all. Whether Lord Alston
saw her or not I don't know. My belief is that Lady Mason be-
haved very well all through, though they say very bitter things
against her at Noningsby.'

* Poor thing!' said Mrs. Fumival, the feelings of whose heart
were quite changed as regarded Lady Mason.

* I never knew a woman so badly treated.' Sophia had her own
reasons for wishing to make the best of Lady Mason's case. * And
for myself I do not see why Sir Peregrine should not have married
her if he pleased.'

* He is rather old, my dear.'

* People don't think so much about that now-a-days as they used.
If he liked it, and she too, who had a right to say anything ? My
idea is that a man with any spirit would have turned Lord Alston
out of the house. What business had he to interfere ?'

* But about the trial, Sophia ?'

* That will go on. There's no doubt about that. But they all
Eay that it's the most unjust thing in the world, and that she must
be proved innocent. I heard the judge say so myself.*

* But why are they allowed to try her then ?'

* Oh, papa will tell you that.*

* I never like to boUier your papa about law business.* Partica-

WHAT TOOK PLACE IN HABLEY STBEET. 117

larly not, Mrs. Fumival, when he has a pretty woman for liis
client !

' My wonder is that she shonld make herself so nnhappy about
it,' continued Sophia. ' It seems that she is qnite broken down.'

* But won't she have to go and sit in the conrt, — with all the
people staring at her ?'

' That won't kill her,' said Sophia, who felt that she herself wonld
not perish under any such process. * If I was sure that I was in
the right, I think that I could hold up my head against all that.
But they say that she is crushed to the earth.'

' Poor thing !' said I^aiap4§mtmL ' I wish that I could do any-
thing for her.' And in this way they talked the matter over very
comfortably.

Two or three days after this Sophia Fumival was sitting alone in
the drawing-room in Harley Street, when Spooner answered a
double knock at the door, and Lucius Mason was shown upstairs.
Mrs. Fumival had gone to make her peace in Bed Lion Square, and
there may perhaps be ground for supposing that Lucius had cause
to expect that Miss Fumival might be seen at this hour without
interruption. Be that as it may, she was found alone, and ho was
permitted to declare his purpose immolested by father, mother, or
family friends.

* You remember how we parted at Noningsby,' said he, when
their first greetings were well over.

* Oh, yes ; I remember it very well. I do not easily forget words
such as were spoken then.'

* You said that you would never turn away from me.'

* Nor will I ; — that is with reference to the matter as to which
we were speaking.'

* Is our friendship then to bo confined to one subject ?'

* By no means. Friendship cannot be so confined, Mr. Mason.
Friendship between true friends must extend to all the afiairs of

life. What I meant to say was this But I am quite sure that

you understand me without any explanation.'

Ho did understand her. She meant to say that she had promised
to him her sympathy and friendship, but nothing more. But then
ho had asked for nothing more. The matter of doubt within his
own heart was this. Should he or should he not ask for more ; and
if he resolved on answering this question in the affirmative, should
ho ask for it now ? He had determined that morning that he would
come to some fixed purpose on this matter before ho reached Harley
Street. As he crossed out of Oxford Street from the omnibus he
had determined that the present was no time for love-making : —
walking up Kegent Street, he had told himself that if he had one
faithful heart to bear him company he could bear his troubles
better; — as he made his way along the north side of Cavendish

118 OBLEY FAHM.

Square lie piotored to himself "what would be the wound to hig
pride if he were rejected ; — and in passing the ten or twelve houses
which intervened in Harley Street between the corner of the square
and the abode of his mistxBBs, he told himself that the question
must be answered by circumstances.

* Yes, I understand you,' he said. ^ And beliove me in this — I
would not for worlds encroach on your kindness. I knew that
when I pressed your hand that night, I pressed the hand of a friend,
— and nothing more.'

' Quite so,' said Sophia. Sophia's wit was usually ready enough,
but at that moment she could not resolve with what words she
might make the most appropriate reply to her — ^friend. What ahe
did say was rather lame, but it was not dangerous.

* Sinoe that I have sufifered a great deal,' said Lucius. * Of course
you know that my mother has been staying at The Cleeve T

' Oh yes. I believe she left it only a day or two since.'

* And you heard perhaps of her— -« I hardly know how to tell
you, if you have not heard it'

' If you mean about Sir Peregrine, I have heard of that.'

* Of course you have. All the world has heard of it.' And Lucius
Mason got up and walked about the room holding his hand to his
brow. ' All the world are talking about it. Miss Fumival, you
have never known what it is to blush for a parent.'

Miss Fumival at the moment felt a sincere hope that Mr. Mason
might never hear of Mrs. Fumival's visit to the neighbourhood of
Orange Street and of the causes which led to it, and by no means
thought it necessary to ask for her friend's sympathy on that
subject. * No,* said she, * I never have ; nor need you do so for
yours. "Why should not Lady Mason have married Sir Peregrine
Orme, if they both thought such a marriage fitting ?'

' What ; at such a time as this ; with these dreadful accusations
running in her ears ? Surely this was no time for marrying ! And
what has come of it ? People now say that he has rejected her and
sent her away.'

* Oh no. They cannot say that.'

* But they do. It is reported that Sir Peregrine has sent her
away because he thinks her to be guilty. That I do not believe.
No honest man, no gentleman, could think her guilty. But is it
not dreadful that such things should be said ?'

* Will not the trial take place very shortly now ? When that is
once over all those troubles will be at an end.'

* Miss Fumival, I sometimes think that my mother will hardly
have strength to sustain the trial. She is so depressed that I almost
fear her mind will give way ; and the worst of it is that I am alto-
gether unable to comfort her.^

* Surely that at present should specially be your task

WHAT TOOK PLACE IN HABLCY STREET. 119

* I cannot do it. What should I say to her? I think that she is
wrong in what she is doing ; thoroughly, absolutely wrong. She
has got about her a parcel of lawyers. I beg your pardon. Miss
Fumival, but you know I do not mean such as youi* father.'

* But has not he advised it ?'

' If so I cannot but tbink he is wrong. They are the very SGum
of the gaols ; men who live by rescuing felons from the punishment
they deserve. AVhat can my mother require of such services as
theirs ? It is they that frighten her and make her dread all manner
of evils. Why should a woman who knows herself to be good and
just fear anything that the law can do to her ?*

' I can easily understand that such a position as hers must be very
dreadful. You must not be hcurd upon her, Mr. Mason, because she
is not as strong as you might be.'

* Hard upon her ! Ah, Miss Fumival, you do not know me. If
she would only accept my love I would wait upon her as a mother
does upon her infant. No labour would be too much for me.; no
care would be too close. But her desire is that this afl'air should
never be mentioned between us. We are living now in the same
house, and though I see that this is killing her yet I may not speak
of it.' Then he got up from his chair, and as he walked about the
room he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.

* I vrish I could com{bi*t you,' said she. And in saying so she
spoke the truth. By natui*e she was not tender hearted, but now
bho did s}Tnpathizo with him. By nature, too, she was not given
to any deep affection, but she did foel some spark of love for Lucius
Mason. ' I wish I could comfort you.' And as she spoke she also
got up from her c|jiair.

' And you can,' said he, suddenly stopping himself and coming
close to her. * You can comfort me, — in some degree. Y'^ou and
vou only can do so. I know this is no time for declarations of love.
Wore it not that wo are already so much to each other, I would not
indulge myself at such a moment with such a wish. But I have
no one whom I can love ; and — it is very haid to bear.' And then
he stood, waiting for her answer, as though he conceived tliat he
hud offered her his hand.

But Miss Furnival well knew that she had received no offer. ' If
my warmest sympathy can be of service to you *

* It is your love I want,' he said, taking her hand as ho spoke.
' Your love, so that I may look on you as my wife ; — your accept-
ance of my love, so that we may be all in all to each other. Them
is my hand. I stand before you now as tad a man as there is in all
London. But there is my hand — will you take it and give me yours
in pledge of your love.'

1 should be unjust to Lucius Mason were I to omit to say that ho
played his part with a becoming air. Unhappiness and a melancholy

120 OBLET FABM.

mood suited him perhaps better than the world's ordinary good-
humour. He was a man who looked his best when under a cloud,
and shone the brightest when everything about him was dark. And
Sophia also was not unequal to the occasion. There was, however,
this difference between them. Lucius was quite honest in all that
he said and did upon the occasion ; wheretis Miss Fumival was only
half honest. Perhaps she was not capable of a higher pitch of
honesty than that.

* There is my hand/ said she ; and they stood holding each other,
palm to palm.

* And with it your heart ?' said Lucius.

* And with it my heart,' answered Sophia. Nor as she spoke did
Bhe hesitate for a moment, or become embarrassed, or lose her com-
mand of feature. Had Augustus Staveley gone through the same
ceremony at Noningsby in the same way I am inclined to think
that she would have made the same answer. Had neither done so,
she would not on that account have been unhappy. What a blessed
woman would Lady Staveley have been had she known what was
being done in Harley Street at this moment I

In some short rhapsody of love it may be presumed that Lucius
indulged himself when he foimd that the affair which he had in
hand had so far satisfactorily arranged itself. But he was in truth
too wretched at heart for any true enjoyment of the delights of a
favoured suitor. They were soon engaged again on that terrible
subject, seated side by side indeed and somewhat close, but the
tone of their voices and their very words were hardly different from
what they might have been had no troth been plighted between
them. His present plan was that Sophia should^visit Orley Farm
for a time, and take that place of dear and bosom friend which a
woman circumstanced as was his mother must so urgently need.
AVe, my readers, know well who was now that loving friend, and
we know also which was best fitted for such a task, Sophia Fur-
nival or Mrs. Orme. But we have had, 1 trust, better means of
reading the characters of those ladies than had fallen to the lot of
Lucius Mason, and should not be angry with him because bis eyes
were dark.

Sophia hesitated a moment before she answered this proposition,
— not as though she were slack in her love, or begrudged her ser-
vices to his mother; but it behoved her to look carefully at the
circumstances before she would pledge herself to such an arrange-
ment as that. If she went to Orloy Farm on such a mission would
it not be necessary to tell her father and mother, — nay, to tell all
the world that she was engaged to Lucius Mason ; and would it bo
wise to make such a communication at the present moment?
Lucius said a word to her of going into court with his mother, and
sitting with her, hand in hand, while that ordeal was passing by.

WHAT TOOK PLAGE IN HABLEY STUEET. 121

In the publicity of sucli sympathy there was something that suited
the bearings of Miss Fumival's mind. The idea that Lady Mason
was guilty had never entered her head, and therefore, on this she
thought there could be no disgrace in such a proceeding. But
nevertheless — might it not be prudent to wait till that trial were
over ?

* If you are my wife you must be her daughter ; and how can you
better take a daughter's part ?* pleaded Lucius.

* No, no ; and I would do it with my whole heart But, Lucius,
does she know me well enough ? It is of her that we must think.
After all that you have told me, can we think that she would wish
me to be there ?'

It was his desire that his mother should learn to have such a
wish, and this he explained to her. He himself could do but little
at home because he could not yield his opinion on those matters of
importance as to which ho and his mother differed so vitally ; but if
she had a woman with her in the house, — such a woman as his own
Sophia — then he thought her heart would be softened and part of
her sorrow might be assuaged.

Sophia at last said that she would think about it. It would be
improper, she said, to pledge herself to anything rashly. It might
be that as her father was to defend Lady Mason, he might on that
account object to his daughter being in the court Lucius declared
that this would be unreasonable, — ^unless indeed Mr. Fumival
should object to his daughter's engagement And might he not do
so? Sophia thought it very probable that he might It would
make no difference in her, she said. Her engagement would be
equally binding, — as pennanently binding, let who would object to
it. And as she made this declaration, there was of course a little
love sceSe. But, for the present, it might be best that in this
matter she shoidd obey her father. And then she pointed out how
fatal it might be to avert her father from the cause while the trial
was still pending. Upon the whole she acted her part very pru-
dently, and when Lucius left her she was pledged to nothing but
that one si in pie fact of a marriage engagement.

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itM; imMAgr ifi,\\\ wm flat Ladr ILfffoa tboold be acqnhtied : — as
t^fm^j Wf ftftwim wfcwj th#fr V/th IHie^cd her to be ss crdMess as
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itff wmh it, iVfit hf! dtd ann^/nnoe hw opinion to hi* danchter-in-law
Ihsti tli^ #?riiU //f jijjitice wcmld i50 be beirt promoted, and that if the
inatl^r w#;r^ flrtrim Ut a trial it wonld not be for the honoor cf the
r/mri f h;»t a falji#j v#;rriict ulir/nld bo given. Xor would he believe
tfiat nW'M ft fn\mi vijrtVud cr^nld bo obtained. An English jndge and
an Kvp^ltnh jury woro to him the Palladinm of diiiceming trath. In
an Kfi^Jmff oofirl tff Jaw mwh a nmtter could not remain dark ; — nor
trttflfti it, hd wbiifovcr mmsry Ix'tidc. It wa« strange how that old
timti nhoiiM hav<j lived my n#jar the world for seventy rears, should
Imvii liiken \i'iH j>l.v;e in rarliament and on the bench, should have
rtt\t\Hu\ \nn «JioiiI<lerM mo coiiMt^intly against those of his neighbours,
iitid yt}i. have retfiine.d Mr> strong a reliance on the purity of tho
worhl in j^^irieml. lien? and thr^re such a man may still be found,
hiii ih<« munlMir is l>eeoming veiy few.

Ah i'ttr I ho property, that must of necessity bo abandoned. Lady
Miwon h/ul Mi^nified her iigreomont to tliis ; and therefore he was so
fur wiWiu^f (hat hi in should bo saved from further outward punish-
ninnl, if Ih/if. vven« still possible. His plan was this; and to his
ihhikiiif!; it wm the only plan that was feasible. Let the estate bo

HOW SIB PEBEQBINE DID BUSINESS WITH MB. BOUND. 128

at onoe given up to ihe proper owner,— even now, before the day of
trial should come ; and then let them trost, not to Joseph Mason,
bnt to Joseph Mason's advisers to abstain from prosecuting the
offender. Even this course he knew to be surrounded by a thousand
difficulties; but it might be possible. Of Mr. Bound, old Mr.
Eound, he had heard a good report. He was a kind man, and even
in this very matter had behaved in a way that had shamed bis
client. Might it not be possible that Mr. Bound would engage to
drop the prosecution if the immediate return of the property wero
secured ? But to effect this must ho not tell Mr. Bound of the
woman's guilt? And could he manage it himself? Must he not
tell Mr. Fumival ? And by so doiug, would he not rob Lady Mason
of her sole remaining tower of strength ? — for if Mr. Fumival knew
that she was guilty, Mr. Fumival must of course abandon her oauae.
And then Sir Peregrine did not know how to turn homself, m he
thus argued the matter within his own bosom.

And then too his own disgrace sat very heavy on hhn. Whether
or no the law might pronounte Lady Mason to have been guilty, a^l
the world would know her guilt When that property should be
abandoned, and her wretched son turned out to earn his bread, it
would be well imderstood that she had been guilty. And this was
the woman, this midnight forger, whom he had taken to his bosom,
and asked to bo his wife ! He had asked her, and she had con*
sented, and then he had proclaimed the triumph of his love to all
the world. When ho stood there holding her to his breast he had
been proud of her affection. When Lord Alston had come to him
with his caution he had scorned his old friend and almost driven
him from his door. Wben his grandson had spoken a word, not to
him but to another, he had been full of wrath. He had let it be
known widely that he would feel no shame in showing her to the
world as Lady Orme. And now she was a forger, and a perjurer,
and a thief; — a thief who for long years had lived on the proceeds
of her dexterous theft. And yet was he not under a deep obligation
to her — under the very deepest ? Had she not saved him from a
woreo disgrace ; — saved him at the cost of all that was left to her-
self? Was he not still bound to stand by her? And did he not
still lovohcr?

Poor Sir Peregrine ! May we not say that it would have been
well for him if the world and all its trouble could have now been
ended so that he might have done with it ?

^Ii-s. Ormo was his only counsellor, and though she could not be
brought to agree with him in all his feelings, yet she was of infinite
^ouifort to him. Had she not shared with him this terrible secret
liis mind would have given way beneath the burden. On the day
after Lady Mason*s departure from The Cleeve, he sat for an hour
in the library considering what he would do, and then he sent for

124 OBLEY FABM.

his daughter-in-law. If it behoved him to take any step to stay the
trial, he must take it at once. The matter had been pressed on by
each side, and now the da^rs might be counted up to that day on
which the judges would arrive in Alston. That trial would lie very
terrible to him in every way. He had promised, during those
pleasant hours of his love and sympathy in which he had felt no
doubt as to his friend's acquittal, that he would stand by her when
she was arraigned. That was now impossible, and though he had
not dared to mention it to Lady Mason, he knew that she would not
expect that he should do so. But to Mrs. Orme he had spoken on
the matter, and she had declared her purpose of taking the place
which it would not now become him to fill ! Sir Peregrine had
started from his chair when she had so spoken. What ! his daughter !
She, the purest of the pure, to whom the very air of a court of law
would be a contamination ; — she, whose whiteness had never been
sullied by contact with the world's dust ; she set by the side of that
terrible criminal, hand in hand with her, present to all the world as
her bosom friend ! There had been but few words between them on
the matter ; but Sir Peregrine had felt strongly that that might not
be permitted. Far better than that it would be that he should
humble his gray hairs and sit there to be gazed at by the crowd.
But on all accounts how much was it to be desired that there should
be no trial !

* Sit down, Edith/ he said, as with her soft step she came up to
him. * I find that the assizes will be here, in Alston, at the end of
next month.'

* So soon as that, father ?'

* Yes ; look here : the judges will come in on the 25th of March.'

* Ah me — that is very sudden. But, father, will it not be best for
her that it should be over ?'

Mrs. Orme still thought, had always thought that the trial itself
was unavoidable. Indeed she had thought and she did think that
it afforded to Lady Mason the only possible means of escape. Her
mind on the subject, if it could have been analyzed, would probably
have been this. As to the property, that question must for the present
stand in abeyance. It is quite right that it should go to its detest-
able owners, — that it should be made over to them at some day not
very distant. But for the present, the trial for that old, long-distant
crime was the subject for them to consider. Could it be wrong to
wish for an acquittal for the sinner, — an acquittal befoi-e this
world's bar, seeing that a true verdict had undoubtedly been given
before another bar ? Mrs. Orme trusted that no jury would convict
her friend. Let Lady Mason go through that ordeal ; and then,
when the law had declared her innocent, let restitution be made.

* It will bo very terrible to all if she be condemned,' said Sir
Peregrine.

now SIB PISBEOBINE DID BUSINESS WITH MB. BOUND. 125
* Very terrible I But Mr. Fumival-

Edith, if it comes to that, she will be condemned. Mr. Fumival
is a lawyer and will not say so ; but from his countenance, when'he
speaks of her, I know that he expects it !'

* Oh, father, do not say so.'

* But if it is so My love, what is the purport of these courts
of law if it be not to discover the truth, and make it plain to the
light of day ?' Poor Sir Peregrine I His innocence in this respect
was perhaps beautiful, but it was very simple. Mr. Aram, could he
have been induced to speak out his mind plainly, would have
expressed, probably, a different opinion.

*• But she escaped before,' said Mrs. Orme, who was clearly at
present on the same side with Mr. Aram.

* Yes ; she did ; — by perjury, Edith. And now the penalty of
that further crime awaits her. There was an old poet who said that
the wicked man rarely escapes at last. I believe in my heart that
he spoke the truth.'

* Father, that old poet knew nothing of our faith.'

Sir Peregrine could not stop to explain, oven if he knew how to
do so, that the old poet spoke of punishment in this world, whereas
the faith on which his daughter relied is efficacious for pardon
beyond the grave. It would be much, ay, in one sense every-
thing, if Lady Mason could be brought to repent of the sin she had
committed ; but no such repentance would stay the bitterness of
Joseph Mason or of Samuel Dockwrath. If the property were at once
restored, then repentance might commence. If the property were at
once restored, then the trial might b© stayed. It might be possible
that Mr. Kound might so act. lie felt all this, but he could not
argue on it. * I think, my dear,' he said, * that I had better see Mr.
Round.'

' But you will not tell him ?' said Mrs. Orme, sharply.

* No ; I am not authorized to do that.'

* But ho will entice it from you ! He is a lawyer, and he will
wind anything out from a plain, chivalrous man of truth and
honour.'

* My dear, Mr. Eoimd I believe is a good man.'

' But if he asks you the question, what will you say ?'

* I will tell him to ask me no such question.*

* Oh, father, be careful. For her sake be careful. How is it thav
you know the truth ;--or that I know it? She told it here because
in that way only could she save you from that marriage. Father,
she has sacrificed herself for — for us.'

Sir Peregrine when this was said to him got up from his chair
and walked away to the window. He was not angry with her that
she 80 spoke to him. Kay ; he acknowledged inwardly the truth
of her words, and loved her for her constancy. But nevertheless

126 OELXT FARXL

they were very bitter. How bad it come to pass that be was thus
indebted to so deep a oiiminal ? What had he done for her bnt good ?

' Do not go from me,' she said, following him. ' Do not think me
unkind.'

' No, no, no,' he answered, striving almost ineffidctnally to repress
a sob. * You are not unkind.'

For two days after that not a word was spoken between them on
the subject, and then he did go to Mr. Bound. Not a word on the
subject was spoken between Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Orme ; but she
was twice at Orley Farm during the time, and told Lady Mason of
the steps which her father-in-law was taking. • He won't betray
me !' Lady Mason had said. Mrs. Orme had answered this with
what best assurance she should give ; but in her heart of hearts she
£9ared that Sir Peregrine would betray the secret.

It was not a pleasant journey for Sir Per^rine. Indeed it may
be said that no journeys could any longer be pleasant for him. He
was old and worn and feeble ; very much older and much more
worn than he had been at the period spoken of in the commence-
ment of this story, though but a few months had passed over his
head since that time. For him now it would have been preferable
to remain in the arm-chair by the fireside in his own library,
reoeiving such comfort in his old ago as might come to him from
the affection of his daughter-in-law and grandson. But he thought
that it behoved him to do this work ; and therefore, old and feeble
as he was, ho set himself to his task. He reached the station in
London, had himself driven to Bedford Eow in a cab, and soon
foimd himself in the presence bf Mr. Bound.

There was much ceremonial talk betAveen thorn before Sir Pere-
grine could bring himself to declare the pm-port which had brought
him there. Mr. Bound of course protested that ho was very sorry
for all this affair. The case was not in his hands personally. Ho
had hoped many years since that the matter was closed. His client,
Mr. Mason of Groby Park, had insisted that it should be reopened ;
and now ho, ]\Ir. Bound, really hardly knew what to say about it.

* But, Mr. Bound, do you think it is quite impossible that the trial
should oven now be abandoned ?' asked Sir Peregrine very carefully.

' Well, I fear it is. Mason thinks that the property is his, and is
determined to make another struggle for it. I am imputing nothing
wrong to the lady. I really am not in a position to have any
opinion of my own '

' No, no, no ; I understand. Of course your firm is bound to do
the best it can for its client. But, Mr. Bound; — I know I am
quite safe with you.'

* Well ; safe in one way I hope you are. But, Sir Peregrine, you
must of courfio remember that I am the attorney for the other side,
— for the side to which you are opposed.'

frcgnoc Bt Mt. Wqmti4'» ■

HOW SIR PEREGRINE DID BU»INK8S WITH MR. ROUND. 12T

« But still ; — all that you can want is your client's interest*

* Of course we desire to serve his interest.'

' And with that view, Mr. Bound, is it not possible that we might
come to some compromise ?*

* What ; — ^by giving up part of the property ?

« By giving up all t^ie pn^rty^,' said Sir Peregrine, with con-
siderable emphasis.

' Whew — w — w.* Mr. Bound at the moment made no other
answer than this, which terminated in B0 low whistle.

* Better that, at once, than that she should die broken-hearted,'
said Sir rcregrine.

There was then silence between them for a minute or two, after
which Mr. Bound, turning himself round in his chair so as to face
his visitor more fully, spoke as follows. * I told you just now. Sir
Peregrine, that I was Mr. Mason's attorney, and I must now tell
you, that as regards this interview between you and me, I will not
hold myself as being in that position. What you have said shall
be as though it had not been said ; and as I am not, myself, taking
any part in the proceedings, this may witii absolute strictness be
the case. But *

* If I have said anything that I ought not to have said — ' began
Sir Peregrine.

* Allow me for one moment,' continued Mr. Bound. • The fault
is mine, if there be a fault, as I should have explained to you that
the matter could hardly be discussed with propriety between us.*

* ]\Ir. Bound, I offer you my apology from the bottom of my
heart.'

* No, Sir Peregrine. You shall offer me no apology, nor will I
accept any. I know no words strong enough to convey to you my
esteem and respect for your character.*

SSir!*

* But I will ask you to listen to me for a moment. If any com-
promise 136 contemplated, it should be arranged by the advice of
IMr. Furnival and of Mr. Chaffanbrass, and the terms should be
settkul between Mr. Aram and my son. But I cannot myself say
that I See any possibility of such a result. It is not however for
me to advise. If on that matter you wish for advice, I think that
YOU had better see Mr. Furnival.*

' Ah !* said Sir Peregrine, telling more and more of the story by
cveiy utterance he made.

* Aud now it only remains for me to assure you once more that
tlic words which have been spoken in this room shall be as though
they had uot been spoken.' And then Mr. Bound made it very
clear that there was nothing more to be said between them on the
subject of Lady Mason. Sir Peregrine repeated his apology, col-
lected liis hat and gloves, and with slow step made his way down

128 OELET PABM.

to his cab, while Mr. Bound absolntelj waited upon him till he saw
him seated within the Tehicle.

* So Mat is right after all,' said the old attorney to himself as he
stood alone with his hack to his own fire, thnrsting his hands into
his trousers-pockets. * So Mat is ri^t after all !' The meaning
<^ this exclamation will he plain to my readers. Mat had dedaved
to his father his conviction that Lady Mason had forged the codicil
in question, and the ^Either was now also convinced that she had
done so. * Unfortunate woman I' he said ; ' poor, wretched woman !'
And then he began to calculate what might yet be her chances of
escape. On the whole he thought that she would escape. ' Twenty
years of possession,' he said to himself; 'and so excellent a cha-
xacter !' But, nevertheless, he repeated to himself over and over
again that she was a wretched, miserable woman.

We may say that all the persons most concerned were convinced,
or nearly convinced, of Lady Mason's guilt. Among her own
friends Mr. Fumival had no doubt of it, and Mr. Chaffanbrass and
Mr. Aram but very little ; whereas Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Orme of
course had none. On the other side Mr. Mason and Mr. Dockwrath
were both fully sure of the truth, and the two Rounds, father and
son, were quite of the same mind. And yet, except with Dock-
Mrrath and Sir Peregrine, the most honest and the most dishonest of
the lot, the opinion was that she would escape. Those were five
lawyers concerned, not one of whom gave to the course of justice
credit that it would ascertain the truth, and not one of whom
wished that the truth should be ascertained. Surely had they beeu
honest- minded in their profession they would all have so wished ; —
have so wished, or else have abstained from all professional inter-
course in the matter. I cannot understand how any gentleman can
be willing to use his intellect for the propagation of imtruth, and to
be paid for so using it. As to Mr. Chaifanbrass and Mr. Solomon
Aram, — to them the escape of a criminal under their auspices would
of course be a matter of triumph. To such work for many years
had they applied their sharp intellects and legal knowledge. But
of Mr. Fumival ; — what shall we say of him ?

Sir Peregrine went home very sad at heart, and crop* silently
back into his own library. In the evening, wheji he was alone
with Mrs. Orme, he spoke one word to her. * Edith,' he said, ' I
have seen Mr. Hound. We can do nothing for her there.'

* I feared not,' said she.

* No ; we can do nothing for her there.'

After that Sir Peregrine took no step in the matter. What step
could he take ? But he sat over his fire in his library, day after
day, thinking over it all, and waiting till those terrible assizes
should have come.

CHAPTER XVII.

the: loves and hopes of albebt fitzallen.

Felix Graham, when he left poor Mary Snow, did not go on im-
mediately to the doctor's shop. He had made up his mind that
Mary Snow should never be his wife, and therefore considered it
wise to lose no time in making such arrangements as might be
necessary both for his release and for hers. But, nevertheless, he
had not the heart to go about the work the moment that he left her.
He passed by the apothecary's, and looking in saw a young man
working sedulously at a pestle. If Albert Fitzallen were fit to be
her husband and willing to be so, poor as he was himself^ he would
still make some pecuniary sacrifice by which he might quiet his
own conscience and make Mary's marriage possible. He ertill had
a sum of 1,200/. belonging to him, that being aU his remaining
capital ; and the half of that he would give to Mary as her dower.
So in two days he returned, and again looking in at the doctor's
shop, again saw the young man at his work.

' Yes, sir, my name is Albert Fitzallen,' said the medical aspirant,
coming round the counter. There was no one else in the shop, and
Felix hardly knew how to accost him on so momentous a subject,
while he was still in charge of all that store of medicine, and liable
to be called away at any moment to relieve the ailments of Clapham.
Albert Fitzallen was a pale-faced, light-haired youth, with an in-
cipient moustache, with his hair parted in equal divisions over his
forehead, with elaborate shirt-cuflfs elaborately turned back, and
with a white apron tied round him so that he might pursue his
vocation without injury to his nether garments. His face, however,
was not bad, nor mean, and had there not been about him a little
air of pretension, assumed perhaps to carry off the combined apron
and beard, Felix would have regarded him altogether with favour-
able eyes.

* Is it in the medical way ? asked Fitzallen, when Graham sug-
gested that he should step out with him for a few minutes. Graham
explained that it was not in the medical way, — that it was in a way
altogether of a private nature ; and then the young man, pulling off
his apron and wiping his hands on a thoroughly medicated towel,
invoked the master of the establishment from an inner room, and in

VOL. n. K

130 OBLEY FABM.

a few minutes Mary Snow's two lovers were walking together, side
by side, along the causeway.

* I believe you know Miss Snow/ said Felix, rushing at once into
the middle of all those delicate circumstances^

Albert Fitzallen drew himself up, and declared that he had that
honour.

* I also know her,' said Felix. * My name is Felix Graham '

* Oh, sir, very well,' said Albert The street in which they were
standing was desolate, and the young man was able to assume a look
of decided hostility without encountering any other eyes than those
of his rival * If you have anything to say to me, sir, I am quite
prepared to listen to you — to listen to you, and to answer you.
I have heard your name mentioned by Miss Snow.' And Albert
Fitzallen stood his ground as though he were at once going to cover
himself with his pistol arm.

* Yes, I Imow you have. Mary has told me what has passed be-
tween you. You may regard me, Mr. Fitoallen, as Mary's best and
surest firiend.'

' I know you hare been a friend to her ; I am aware of that.
But, Mr. Graham, if you will allow me to say so, friendship is one
thing, and the warm love of a devoted bosom is another.'

* Quite so,' said Felix.

* A woman's heart is a treasure not to be bought by any efforts of
friendship,' said Fitzallen.

' I fully agree with you there,' said Graham.

* Far be it from me to make any boast,' continued the other, * or
oven to hint that I have gained a place in that lady's affections. I
know my own position too well, and say proudly that I am existing
only on hope.* Here, to show his pride, he hit himself with his closed
fist on his shirt-front. ' But, Mr. Graham, I am free to declare,
even in your presence, though you may be her best and surest
friend,' — and there was not wanting, from the tone of his voice a
strong flavour of scorn as he repeated these words — * that I do
exist on hope, let your claims be what they will. K you desire to
make such hope on my part a cause of quarrel, I have nothing to
say agsdnst it.' And then he twirled all that ho could twirl of that
incipient moustache.

* By no means,' said Graham.

* Oh, very well,' said Fitzallen. * Then we understand that the
arena of love is open to us both. I do not fail to appreciate the
immense advantages which you enjoy in this struggle.' And then
Fitzallen looked up into Graham's ugly face, and thought of his
own appearance in the looking-glass.

* What I want to know is this,' said Felix. * If you marry
Mary Snow, what means have you of maintaining her? Would
your mother receive her into her house ? I presume you are not a

THE LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT PIT2ALLEN. 131

partner in that shop ; but would it be possible to get you in as a
partner, supposing Mary were to many you and had a little money
as her fortune ?'

* Eh !* said Albert, dropping his look of pride, allowing his hand
to fall from his lips, and standing still before his companion with
his mouth wide open.

* Of course you mean honestly by dear Mary.*

* Oh, sir, yes, on the honour of a gentleman. My intentions, sir,

are . Mr. Graham, I love that young lady with a devotion of

heart, that — that — that — . . Then you don't mean to marry her
yourself; eh, Mr. Graham?'

* No, Mr. Fitzallen, I do not. And now, if you will so far
confide in me, we will talk over your prospects.'

* Oh, very well. I'm sure you are very kind. But Miss Snow
did tell me *

' Yes, I know she did, and she was quite right. But as you said
just now, a woman's heart cannot be bought by friendship. I have
not been a bad friend to Mary, but I had no right to expect that I
could win her love in that way. Whether or no you may be able to
succeed, I will not say, but I have abandoned the pursuit.' In all
which Graham intended to be exceedingly honest, but was, in truth,,
rather hypocritical.

* Then the course is open to me,' said Fitzallen.

* Yes, the course is open,' answered Graham.

' But the race has still to be run. Don't you think that Miss
Snow is of her nature very — very cold?'

Felix remembered the one kiss beneath the lamp-post, — the one
kiss given, and received. Ho remembered also that Mary's acquaint-
ance with the gentleman must necessarily have been short ; and he
made no answer to this question. But he made a comparison.
Wliat would Madeline have said and done had he attempted such
an iniquity? And he thought of her flashing eyes and terrible
scorn, of the utter indignation of all the Staveley family, and of
tlio wretched abyss into which the offender would have fallen.

He brought back the subject at once to the young man's means,
to his mother, and to the doctor's shop ; and though he learned
nothing that was very promising, neither did he Icam anything
that was the reverse. Albert Fitzallen did not ride a very high
horse when he learned that his supposed rival was so anxious to
assist him. He was quite willing to be guided by Graham, and, in
that matter of the proposed partnership, was sure that old Balsam,
the owner of the business, would be glad to take a sum of money
down. * Ho has a son of his own,' said Albert, * but he don't take
to it at all. He's gone into wine and spirits; but he don't sell half
as much as he drinks.'

Felix then proposed that he should call on Mrs. Fitzallen, and to

K 2

132 OBL£Y FARM.

this Albert gave a blushing consent. 'Mother has heard of it/
said Albert, ' but I don't exactly know how.' Perhaps Mrs. Fitz-
alien was as attentive as Mrs. Thomas had been to stray documents
packed away in odd places. ' And I suppose I may call on — on —
Mary?' asked the lover, as Graham took his leave. But Felix
could give no authority for this, and explained that Mrs. Thomas
might be found to be a dragon still guarding the Hesperides. Would
it not be better to wait till Mary's iather had been informed ? and
then, if all things went well, he might prosecute the affair in due
^ form and as an acknowledged lover.

All this was very nice, and as it was quite unexpected, Fitzallen
could not but regu-d himself as a fortunate young man. Ho had
never contemplated the possibility of Mary Snow being an heiress.
And when his mother had spoken to him of the hopelessness of his
passion, had suggested that he might perhaps marry his Mary in
five or six years. Now the dearest wish of his heart was brought
close within his reach, and he must have been a happy man. But
yet, though this certainly was so, nevertheless, there was a feeling
of coldness about his love, and almost of disappointment as he again
took his place behind the counter. The sorrows of Lydia in the
play when she finds that her passion meets with general approba-
tion are very absurd, but, nevertheless, are quite true to nature.
Lovers would be great losers if the path of love were always to run
smooth. Under such a dispensation, indeed, there would probably be
no lovers. The matter would be too tame. Albert did not probably
bethink himself of a becoming disguise, as did Lydia, — of an amiable
ladder of ropes, of a conscious moon, or a Scotch parson ; but he did
feel, in some undefined manner, that the romance of his life had
been taken away from him. Five minutes under a lamp-post with
Mary Snow was sweeter to him than the promise of a whole bevy of
evenings spent in the same society, with all the comforts of his
jnother's drawing-room around him. Ah, yes, dear readers — my
.male readers of course 1 mean — were not those minutes under the
lamp-post always very pleasant ?

But Graham encountered none of this feeling when he discussed
ihe same subject with Albert's mother. She was sufficiently alive
to the material view of the matter, and know how much of a man's
anarried happiness depends on his supplies of bread and butter.
j3ix hundred pounds ! Mr. Graham was very kind — very kind
indeed. She hadn't a word to say against Mary Snow. She had
seen her, and thought her very pretty and modest looking. Albert
was certainly warmly attached to the young lady. Of that she was
quite certain. And she would say this of Albert, — that a better-
disposed yoTing man did not exist anywhere. He came home quite
regular to his meals, and spent ten hours a day behind the counter
in Mr. Balsam's shop — ten hours a day, Sundays included, which

THE LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT FITZALLEN. 133

Mrs. Fitzallen regarded as a great drawback to the medical line —
as shoald I also, most xmdonbtedly. But six htindred pounds would
make a great difference. Mrs. Fitzallen little doubted but that sum
would tempt Mr. Balsam into a partnership, or perhaps the five
hundred, leaving one hundred for furniture. In such a case
Albert would spend his Sundays at home, of course. After that, so
much having been settled, Felix Qraham got into an omnibus and
took himself back to his own chambers.

So far was so good. This idea of a model wife had already become
a very expensive idea, and in winding it up to its natural conclusion
poor Graham was willing to spend almost every shilling that he
could call his own. But there was still another difficulty in his
way. What would Snow pfere say ? Snow p^re was, he knew, a
man with whom dealings would be more difficult than with Albert
Fitzallen. And then, seeing that he had already promised to give
his remaining possessions to Albert Fitzallen, with what could he
bribe Snow pere to abandon that natural ambition to have a bar-
rister for his son-in-law ? In these days, too. Snow pere had dero-
gated even from the position in which Graham had first known
him, and had become but little better than a drunken, begging
impostor. What a father-in-law to have had! And then Felix
Graham thought of Judge Staveley.

He sent, however, to the engraver, and the man was not long in
obeying the summons. In latter days Graham had not seen him
frequently having bestowed his alms through Mary, and was shocked
at the unmistakable evidence of the gin-shop which the man's appear-
ance and voice betrayed. How dreadful to the sight are those
watery eyes ; that red, uneven, pimpled nose ; those fallen cheeks ;
and that hanging, slobbered mouth I Look at the uncombed hair,
the beard half shorn, the weak, impotent gait of the man, and the
tattered raiment, all eloquent of gin ! You would fain hold your
nose when he comes nigh you, he carries with him so foul an
evidence of his only and his hourly indulgence. You would do so,
had you not still a respect for his feelings, which he himself has
entirely forgotten to maintain. How terrible is that absolute loss
of all personal dignity which the drunkard is obliged to undergo !
And then his voice ! Every tone has been formed by gin, and tells
of the havoc which the compound has made within his throat. I
do not know whether such a man as this is not the vilest thm<r
which grovels on God's earth. There are women whom we affect
to scorn with the full power of our contempt ; but I doubt whether
any woman sinks to a depth so low as that. She also may be a
drunkard, and as such may more nearly move our pity and affect
onr hearts, but I do not think she ever becomes so nauseous a thing
as tho man that has abandoned all the hopes of life for gin. You
can still touch her; — ay, and if the task be in one's way, can

134 ORLET FABK.

toudi ber gently, ttrivii^ to Imng lier back to deoenc j. But the
othflr ! Well, one liiovld be willing to toucb bim too, to make tbat
attempt of bringing bade nponbim also. I can only aaj that tbe task
is both nanaeona and nnpromiaing. Look at bim as be stands tbere
before the fonl, reeking, sloppy bar, with the glass in his band,
which he baa jnat emptied. See the grimace with which he puts
it down, as though the dram bad been almost too unpalatable. It
is the last touch of hypocrisy with which he attempts to cover the
offence ; — as thong^ be were to say, * I do it for my stomach's sake ;
but yon know bow I abhor it' Then he skulks sullenly away,
speaking a word to no one, — shuffling with his feet, shaking him-
self in his foul rags, pressing himself into a heap — as though striving
to drive the warmth of the spirit into his extremities ! And there
he stands lounging at the comer of the street, till his short
patience ia exhausted, and he returns with his last penny for tbo
other glass. When that has been swallowed the policeman is bis
guardian.

Beader, such as you and I have come to that, when abandoned by
the respect which a man owes to himself. May God in his mercy
watch over us and protect us bodi !

Such a man was Snow p^re as he stood before Graham in bis
chambers in the Temple. He could not ask him to sit down, so he
himself stood up as he talked to him. At first the man was civil,
twirling his old hat about, and shifting from one foot to the other ; —
very civil, and also somewhat timid, for he knew that he was half
drunk at the moment But when ho began to asoertain what was
Graham's object in sending for him, and to understand that the
gentleman before him did not propose to himself the honour of being
his son-in-law, then bis civility left him, and, drunk as he was, be
spoke out his mind with sufficient freedom.

* You mean to say, Mr. Graham ' — and under the effect of gin he
turned the name into Gorm — * that you are going to throw that
young girl over T

* I mean to say no such thing. I shall do for her all that is in
my power. And if that is not as much as she deserves, it will, at
any rate, be more than you deserve for her.'

* And you won't marry her ?'

' No ; I shall not marry her. Nor does she wish it. I trust that
ahe will be engaged, with my full approbation '

* And what the deuce, sir, is your full approbation to me ? Whose
child is she, I should like to know ? Look here, Mr. Grorm ; per-
haps you forget that you wrote me this letter when I allowed you
to have the charge of that young girl ?' And he took out from' his
breant a very greasy pocket-book, and displayed to Felix his own
much- worn letter, — holding it, however, at a distance, so that it
should not be torn from his hands by any sudden raid. ' Do you

THE LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT FITZALLEN. 135

thinky sir, I would have given up my child if I didn't know she was to
be married respectable ? My child is as dear to me as another man's.'

* I hope she, is. And you are a very lucky fellow to have her so
well provided for. I've told you all I've got to say, and now you
may go.'

* Mr. Gorm I'

* I've nothing more to say ; and if I had, I would not say it to you
now. Your child shall be taken care of.'

* That's what I call pretty cool on the part of any gen'leman.
And you're to break your word, — a regular breach of promise, and
nothing aint to come of it ! I'll tell you what, Mr. Gorm, you'll
find that something will come of it What do you think I took this
letter for ?'

* You took it, I hope, for Mary's protection.'

* And by she shall be protected.'

* She shall, undoubtedly ; but I fear not by you. For the present
I will protect her ; and I hope that soon a husband will do so who
will love her. Now, Mr. Snow, I've told you aU I've got to say,
and I must trouble you to leave me.'

Nevertheless there were many more words between them before
Graham could find himself alone in his chambers. Though Snow p^re
might be a thought tipsy — a sheet or so in the wind, as folks say, he
was not more tipsy than was customary with him, and knew pretty well
what he was about ' And what am I to do with myself^ Mr. Gorm V
he asked in a snivelling voice, when the idea began to strike him
that it might perhaps be held by the courts of law that his intended
son-in-law was doing well by his daughter.

'Work,' said Graham, turning upon him sharply and almost
fiercely.

* That's all very well. It's very well to say ** Work !" '

* You'll find it well to do it, too. Work, and don't drink. You
hardly think, I suppose, that if I had married your daughter I should
have found myself obliged to support you in idleness ?'

* It would have been a great comfort in my old age to have had
a daughter's house to go to,' said Snow, naively, and now reduced
to lachrymose distress.

But when he found that Felix woidd do nothing for him ; that he
would not on the present occasion lend him a sovereign, or even
half a crown, he again became indignant and paternal, and in this
state of mind was turned out of the room.

* Heaven and earth !' said Felix to himself, clenching his hands
and striking the table with both of them at the same moment. That
was the man with whom he had proposed to link himself in the
closest ties of family connection. Albert Fitzallen did not know
Mr. Snow;' but it might be a question whether it would not be
Graham's duty to introduce them to each other.

CHAPTER XVni.

MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL.

The house at Noningsby was now very quiet. All the visitors hnd
gone, inclndixig even the Arbnthnots. Felix Graham and Sophia
Fomival, that terrible pair of gnests, had relieved Mrs. Stavelej of
their presence; but, alas! the misohief they had done remained
behind them. The house was very quiet, for Augustus and thv
judge were up in town diMing the greater part of the week, and
Madeline and her mother were alone. The judge was to come back
to Noningsby but once before he commenced the circuit which was
to terminate at Alston ; and it seemed to be acknowledged now on
all sides that nothing more of importance was to be done or said in
that locality untU after Lady Mason's trial.

It may be imagined that poor Madeline was not very happy.
Felix had gone away, having made no sign, and she knew that her
mother rejoiced that he had so gone. She never accused her mother
of cruelty, even within her own heart. She seemed to realize to
herself the assurance that a marriage with the man she loved was a
happiness which she had no right to expect. She knew that her
father was rich. She was aware that in all probability her own
fortune would be considerable. She was quite sure that Felix
Graham was clever and fit to make his way through the world.
And yet she did not think it hard that she should be separated from
him. She acknowledged from the very first that he was not the
sort of man whom she ought to have loved, and therefore she was
prepared to submit.

It was, no doubt, the feust that Felix Graham had never whis-
pered to her a word of love, and that therefore, on that ground,
she had no excuse for hope. But, had that been all, she would
not have despaired. Had that been all, she might have doubted,
but her doubt would have been strongly mingled with the sweet-
ness of hope. He had never whispered a syllable of love, but she
had heard the tone of his voice as she spoke a word to him at his
chamber door ; she had seen his eyes as they fell on her when he
was lifted into the carriage ; she had felt the tremor of his touch
on that evening when she walked up to him across the drawing-
room and shook hands with him. Such a girl as Madeline Staveley
does not analyze her feelings on such a matter, and then draw lier
conclusions. But a conclusion is drawn ; the mind does receive an

MISS STAVBLEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL. 137.

impression ; and tlie conolnsion and impression are as true as though
they had been reached by the aid of logical reasoning. Had the
match been such as her mother would have approved, she would
have had a hope as to Felix Graham's love — strong enough for
happiness.

AiB it was, there was no use in hoping ; and therefore she resolved
— having gone through much logical reasoning on this head — that
by her all ideas of love must be abandoned. Ab r^arded herself, she
must be content to rest by her mother's side as a flower imgathered.
That she could marry no man without the approval of her father
and mother was a thing to her quite certain; but it was,* at any
rate, as certain that she could marry no man without her own
approval. Felix Graham was beyond her reach. That verdict she
herself pronounced, and to it she submitted. But Peregrine Orme
was still more distant from her; — ^Peregrine Orme, or any other of
the curled darlings who might come that way playing the part of a
suitor. She knew what she owed to her mother, but she also knew
her own privileges.

There was nothing said on the subject between the mother and
child during three days. Lady Staveley was more than ordinarily
affectionate to her daughter, and in that way made known the
thoughts which were oppressing her ; but she did so in no other
way. All this Madeline understood, and thanked her mother with
the sweetest smiles and the most constant companionship. Nor
was she, even now, absolutely unhappy, or wretchedly miserable ;
as under such circiunstanoes would be the case with many girls.
She knew all that she was prepared to abandon, but she imderstood
also how much remained to her. Her life was her own, and with
her life the energy to use it. Her soul was free. And her heart,
though burdened with love, could endure its load without sinking.
Let him go forth on his career. She would remain in the shade,
and be contented while she watched it.

So strictly wise and philosophically serene had Madeline become
within a few days of Graham's departure, that she snubbed poor
Mrs. Baker, when that goodnatured and sharp-witted housekeeper
said a word or two in praise of her late patient

* We are very lonely, aint we, miss, without Mr. Graham to look
after ?* said Mrs. Bsiker.

* I'm sure we are all very glad that he has so far recovered as to
be able to be moved.'

* That's in course, — though I still say that he went before he
ought. He was such a nice gentleman. Where there's one better,
there's twenty worse ; and as full of cleverness as an egg's full of
meat.' In answer to which Madeline said nothing.

* At any rate, Miss Madeline, you ought to say a word for him,'
continued Mrs. Baker ; ' for he used to worship the sound of your

138 OBUBY FABK.

Toioe. IVe known him laj tkere and listen, listen, listen, lor your
TBiy fbotfalL'

^ How can yon talk anck atnff, Mre. Baker ? Yon hare never
known anything of the kind— -and even if he had, how could yon
know it ? Ton shonld not talk such nonsense to me, and I heg ytni
won't again.' Then she went away, and began to read a paper
about sick x>eople written by Florence Nightingale.

But it was by no means Lady Stareley's desire thai her daughter
shonld take to the Florence Nightingale line of life. The charities
of Noningsby were done on a large scale, in a quiet, handsome,
methodical manner, and were regarded by the mistress of the
mansion as a very material part of her life's duty ; but she wonld
have been driven distracted had she heen told that a daughter of
hem was about to devote herself exclusively to chanty. Her ideas
of general religion were the same. Morning and evening prayers,
chnroh twice on Sundays, attendance at the Lord's table at any
zmie once a month, were to herself — and in her estimation for her
own fEunily — essentials of life. And they had on her their prac-
tical effects. She was not given to backbiting — though, when
stirred by any motive near to her own belongings, she would aay
an illnatnied word or two. She was mild and f(»:bearing to her
inferiors. Her hand was open to the poor. She was devoted to
her husband and her children. Li no respect was she self-seeking
or self-indulgent. But, nevertheless, she appreciated thoroughly
the comforts of a good income — for herself and for her children.
She liked to see nice-dressed and nice-mannered people about her,
preferring those whose &thers and mothers were nice before them.
She liked to go about in her own carriage, comfortably. She liked
the feeling that her husband was a judge, and that he and she were
therefore above other lawyers and other lawyers' wives. She wonld
not like to have seen Mrs. Fumival walk out of a room before her,
nor perhaps to see Sophia Fumival when married take precedence
of her own married daughter. She liked to live in a large place
like Noningsby, and preferred country society to that of the
neighbouring town.

It will be said that I have drawn an impossible character, and
depicted a woman who served both Qod and Mammon. To this
accusation I will not plead, but will ask my accusers whether in
their life's travail they have met no such ladies as Lady Staveley ?

But such as she was, whether good or bad, she had no desire
whatever that her daughter should withdraw herself from the
world, and give up to sick women what was meant for mankind.
Her idea of a woman's duties comprehended the birth, bringing up,
education, and settlement in life of children, also due attendance
upon a husband, with a close regard to his special taste in cooker^^.
There was her granddaughter Marian. She was already thinking

MISS STAYELEY DB0LDIE8 TO EAT MINCED VEAL. 189

what sort of a wife she would make, and what commeacements of
education would best fit her to be a good mother. It ia hardly too
much to aay that Marian's future childien were already a sobject
of care to her. Such being her diqwaition, it was by no means
matter of joy to her when she found that Madeline was laying out
for herself little ways of life, tending in some slight degree to the
monastic. Nothing was said abo«it it, bat she fiuicied that Madeline
had doffed a ribbon or two in her usual evening attire. That she
read during certain fixed hours in the morning was very manifest
As to that daily afternoon service at four o'clock — she had very
often attended that, and it was hardly worthy of remark that she
now went to it every day. But there seemed at this time to be a
monotonous regularity about her visits to the poor, which told to
Lady Staveley's mind — she hardly knew whaifc tale. She hesMlf
visited the poor, seeing some of them almost daily. K it was fool
weather they came to her, and if it was £ur weather she went to
them. But Madeline, witbont saying a word to any one, had
adopted a plan of going out exactly at the same hour with exactly
the same object, in all sorts of weather. All this made Lady
Staveley uneasy ; and then, by way of counterpoise, she talked of
balls, and offered Madeline carte bkmcht as to a new dress for liiat
special one which would grace the assines. * I don't think I shall
go,' said Madeline ; and thus Lady Stsveley became really unhappy.
Would not Felix Graham be betlier than no son-in-law? When
some one had once very strongly praised Florence Nightingale in
Lady Staveley 's presence, she had stoutly declared her opinion that
it was a young woman's duiy to get numried. For myself, I am
inclined to agree with her. Then came the second Friday after
Graham's departure, and Lady Staveley observed, as she and her
daughter sat at dinner alone, that Madeline would eat nothing but
potatoes and seakale. ' My dear, you will be ill if yon don't eat
some meat.'

* Oh no, I shall not,' said Madeline with her prettiest smile.

* But you always used to like minced veal.'

* So I do, but I won't have any to-day, mamma, thank you.'
Then Lady Staveley resolved that she would tell the judge that

Felix Graham, bed as he might be, might oome there if he pleased.
Even Felix Graham would be better than no son-in-law at sdl.

On the following day, the Saturday, the judge came down with
Augustus, to spend his last Sunday at home before the beginning of
his circuit, and some little conversation respecting Felix Graham
did take place between him and his wife.

* If they are both really fond of each other, they had better marry,*
said the judge, curtly.

' But it is terrible to think of their having no income,' said his

wife.

140 OELET FABK.

* We must get them an income. Tonll find that Graham will
ftll <m his legs at last*

* He'a a rerj loDg time before he begins to nse them,' said Lady
StaTeley. ' And then yon know The Cleeve is snch a nice property,
and Mr. Orme is *

*' Bnt, my lore, it seems that she does not like Mr. Orme.'

* No, she doesn'ty' said the poor mother in a tone of voice that
was very lachrymose. * Bnt if she wonld only wait she might liko
him, — ^might she not now ? He is snch a very handsome young
man.'

* If yon ask me, I don't think his beanty will do it.'

' I don't suppose she cares for that sort of thing,' said Lady
Staveley, almost crying. ' But I'm sure of this, if she were to go
and make a nun cdf herself, it wonld break my heart, — it would,
indeed. I should never hold up my head again.'

What could Lady Staveley's idea have been of the sorrows of
some other mothers, whose daughters throw themselves away after
a different fashion ?

After lunch on Sunday the judge asked his daughter to 'walk
with him, and on that occasion the second church service was
abandoned. She got on her bonnet and gloves, her walking-boots
and winter shawl, and putting her arm happily and comfortably
within his, started for what she knew would be a long walk.

* Well get as fiur as the bottom of Oleeve Hill,' said the judge.
Now the bottom of Cleeve Hill, by the path across the fields and

the common, was five miles from Noningsby.

* Oh, as for that, I'll walk to the top if you like,' said Madeline.

* If you do, my dear, youll have to go up alone,' said the judge.
And so they started.

There was a crisp, sharp enjoyment attached to a long walk
with her father which Madeline always loved, and on the present
occasion she was willing to' be very happy ; but as she started,
with her arm beneath his, she feared she knew not what. She had
a secret, and her father might touch upon it ; she had a sore, though
it was not an unwholesome festering sore, and her father might
probe the wound. There was, therefore, the slightest shade of
hypocrisy in the alacrity with which she prepared herself, and in
the pleasant tone of her voice as she walked down the avenue
towards the gate.

But by the time that they had gone a mile, when their feet had
left the road and were pressing the grassy field-path, there was no
longer any hypocrisy in her happiness. Madeline believed that no
human being could talk as did her father, and on this occasion he
camo out with his freshest thoughts and his brightest wit. Nor did
he, by any means, have the talk all to himself. The delight of Judge
Staveley's conversation consisted chiefly in that — that though he

MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL. 141

might bring on to the carpet all the wit and all the information
going, he rarely uttered mnch beyond his own share of words. And
now they talked of pictures and politics — of the new gallery that
was not to be built at Charing Gross, and the great onslaught which
was not to end in the dismissal of Ministers. And then they
got to books — ^to novels, new poetry, magazines, essays, and re-
views ; and with the slightest touch of pleasant sarcasm the judge
passed sentence on the latest efforts of his literary contemporaries.
And thus at last they settled down on a certain paper which had
lately appeared in a certain Quarterly — a paper on a grave subject,
which had been much discussed — and the judge on a sudden stayed
his hand, and spared his raillery. ' You have not heard, 1 suppose,
who wrote that?* said he. No; Madeline had not heard. She
would much like to know. When young people begin their world
of reading there is nothing so pleasant to them as knowing the
little secrets of literature ; who wrote this and that, of which folk
are then talking ; — who manages this periodical, and puts the salt
and pepper into those reviews. The judge always knew these
events of the inner literary world, and would communicate them
freely to Madeline as they walked. No ; there was no longer the
slightest touch of h3rpocrisy in her pleasant manner and eager
voice as she answered, ^ No, papa, 1 have not heard. Was it Mr.
So-and-so ?* and she named an ephemeral literary giant of the day.
* No,' said the judge, • it was not So-and-so ; but yet you might
guess, as you know the gentleman.' Then the slight shade of
hypociisy came upon her again in a moment. ' She couldn't
guess,* she said ; ' she didn't know.' But as she thus spoke the tone
of her voice was altered. ' That article,' said the judge, ' was
written by Felix Graham. It is uncommonly clever, and yet there
are a great many people who abuse it.'

And now all conversation was stopped. Poor Madeline, who
had been so ready with her questions, so eager with her answers,
so communicative and so inquiring, was stricken dumb on the
instant. She had ceased for some time to lean upon his arm, and
therefore he could not feel her hand tremble; and he was too
generous and tx)o kind to look into her &ce ; but he knew that he
had touched the fibres of her heart, and that all her presence of
mind had for the moment fled from her. Of course such was the
case, and of course he knew it. Had he not brought her out there,
that they might be alone together when he subjected her to the
violence of this shower-bath ?

* Yes,' he continued, * that was written by our friend Graham.
Do you remember, Madeline, the conversation which you and 1 had
about him in the library some time since ?'

* Yes,* she said, * she remembered it.'

^ And so do I,* said the judge, ' and have thought much about it

OBLEY FABIL

nnoe. A very clever fellow is Felix Graham. There can be no
doubt of that.'

* l8 be r said Madeline.

I am inclined to think that the judge also bad lost something of
bis presence of mind, or, at least, of his nsnal power of conversation.
He had broo^t his daogbter out there with the express purpose of
saying to her a special word or two ; he had beat very wide about
the bni^ with the Tiew of mentioning a certain name ; and now
that his daughter was tbere, and the name had been mentioned, it
sesMsd that he haidl j knew how to proceed.

* Yes, he is clerer enoagh,* repeated the judge, *■ clever enongb ;
and of high principles and an honest pnrpose. The &Tilt wbich
people find witb him is this, — that be is not practical. He won't
take the world as he finds it. If he can mend it, well and good ; we
all ought to do eomething to mend it ; bat while we are mending it
we mast live in it.'

' Yes, we most live in it,' said Madeline, who hardly knew at the
moment whether it wonld be better to live or die in it Had her
£ftther remarked that they mnst all take wii^ and fly to heaTen,
she wonld have assented.

Then the jndge walked on a few paces in silence, bethinking
bimself that he might as well speak out at once the words whicb he
had to say. ' Madeline, my darling,' said he, ' have you the
coorage to tell me openly i^iat yon think of Felix Graham ?*

* What I think of him, papa T

* Yes, my child. It may be that yon are in some difficulty at this
moment, and that I can help you. It may be that your heart is
sadder than it would bo if you knew all my thoughts and wishes
respecting you, and all your mother's. I have never had many
secrets from my children, Madeline, and I should be pleased now if
yon could see into my mind and know all my thoughts and wishes
as they regard you.'

* Dear papa!'

* To see you happy — you and Augustus and Isabella — that is now
our happiness ; not to see you rich or great. High position and a
plentiful income are great blessings in this world, so that thej*
be achieved without a stain. But even in this world they are not
the greatest blessings. There are things much sweeter than them.*
As he said this, Madeline did not attempt to answer him, but she
put her arm once more within his, and clung to his side.

' Money and rank are only good, if every step by which they are
gained bo good also. I should never blush to see my girl the wife
of a poor man whom she loved ; but I should be sta^cken to the
core of my heart if I knew that she had become the wife of a rich
man whom she did not love.'

* Pi^pa I' she said, clinging to him. She had meant to assure hiui

MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL. 143

that that sorrow Bhould never be his, but she oould not get beyond
the one word,

' If jou love this man, let him come/ said the judge, carried by
his feelings somewhat beyond the point to which he had intended to
go. * I know no harm of him. I know nothing but good of him.
If you are sure of your own heart, let it be so. He shall be to- me
as another son, — to me and to yotir mother. Tell me, Madeline,
shall it be so ?'

She was sure enough of her own heart ; but how was she to be
sure of that other heart ? ' It shall be so,' said her father. But a
man could not be turned into a lover and a husband because she
and her father agreed to desire it ; — not even if her mother would
join in that wish. She had confessed to her mother that she loved
this man, and the confession had been repeated to her &ther. But
she had never expressed even a hope that she was loved in return.
^ But he has never spoken to me, papa,' she said, whispering the
words ever so softly loss the winds should carry them.

' No ; I know he has never spoken to you,' said the judge. • He
told me so himself. I like him the better for that'

So then there had been other communications made besides that
which she had made to her mother. Mr. Graham had spoken to her
father, and had spoken to him about her. In what way had he
done this, and how had he spoken ? What had been his object, and
when had it been done ? Had she been indiscreet, and allowed him
to read her secret? And then a horrid thought eame across her
mind. Was he to come there and offer her his hand because he
pitied and was sorry for her ? The Friday fastings and the evening
church and the sick visits would be better fiu: than that. She could
not however muster courage to ask her father any question as to
that interview between him and Mr. Graham.

* Well, my love,* he said, * I know it is impertinent to ask a
young lady to speak on such a subject ; but fathers are imperti-
nent. Be frank with me. I have told yon what I think, and your
mamma agrees with mo. Young Mr. Orme would have been her
favourite '

* Oh, papa, that is impossible.'

' So I perceive, my dear, and therefore we will say no more
about it. I only mention his name because I want you to imder-
Ktand that you may speak to your mamma quite openly on the
.subject. Ue is a fine young fellow, is Peregrine Orme.'

* I'm sure he is, papa.'

' But that is no reason you should marry him if you don't like
him.'

* I could never like him, — in that way.'

* Very well, my dear. There is an end of that, and I'm sorry for
liimT I think that if I had been a young man at The Cleeve, I

144 OBLEY FARM.

Bhould have done jnst the same. And now let ns decide this im-
portant question. When Master Graham's ribs, arms, and collar
bones are a little stronger, shall we ask him to come back to
Noningsby ?'

' K you please, papa.*

* Very well, well have him here for the assize week. Poor
fellow, he*ll have a hard job of work on hand just then, and woo't
have much time for philandering. With Chafianbrass to watch him
on his own side, and Leatherham on the other, I don*t envy him hia
position. I almost think I should keep my arm in the sling till the
assizes were over, by way of exciting a little pity.'

^ Is Mr. Graham going to defend Lady Mason ?*

* To help to do so, my dear.'

' But, papa, she is innocent ; don't you feel sure of that ?'

The judge was not quite so sure as he had been once. However,

he said nothing of his doubts to Madeline. ' Mr. Graham's task on

that account will only be the more trying if it becomes difficult to

establish her innocence.'

' Poor lady !' said Madeline. * You won't be the judge ; will you,

papa?'

* No, certainly not. I would have preferred to have gone any
other circuit than to have presided in a case affecting so near a
neighbour, and I may almost say a friend. Baron Maltby will sit in
that court.'

* And will Mr. Graham have to do much, papa ?'

' It will be an occasion of very great anxiety to him, no doubt.'
And then they began to return home, — Madeline forming a little
plan in her mind by which Mr. Fumival and Mr. Chaffanbrass were
to fail absolutely in making out that lady's innocence, but the fact
was to be established to the satisfaction of the whole court, and of
all the world, by the judicious energy, of Felix Graham.

On their homeward journey the judge again spoke of pictures and
books, of failures and successes, and Madeline listened to him
gratefully. But she did not again take much part in the conver-
sation. She could not now express a very fluent opinion on anj-
subject, and to tell the truth, could have been well satisfied to have
been left entirely to her own thoughts. But just before they came
out again upon tlic road, her father stopped her and asked a direct
question. * Tell me, Madeline, are you happy now ?'

* Yes, papa.'

' That is right. And what you are to understand is this ;
Mr. Graham will now be privileged by your mother and me to
address you. He has already asked my permission to do so, and
I told him that I must consider the matter before I either gave it or
withheld it. I shall now give him that permission.' Whereupon
Madeline made her answer by a slight pressure upon his arm. *

->".:..«, „p„ub.„p„„

*.1

NO 6URRENDEB. 145

' But you may be sure of this, my dear ; I shall be very disorbet,
and commit you to nothing. If he should choose to ask you any
question, you will be at liberty to give him any answer that you
may think fit' But Madeline at once confessed to herself that no
such liberty remained to her. If Mr. Graham should choose to ask
her a certain question, it would be in her power to give him only
one answer. Had he been kept away, had her &ther told her that
such a marriage might not be, she would not have broken her
heart. She had already told herself, that under such circumstances,
she could live and still live contented. But now, — ^now if the siege
were made, the town would have to capitulate at the first shot.
Was it not an understood thing that the governor had been recom-
mended by the king to give up the keys as soon as they were asked
for?

' You will tell your mamma of this my dear,' said the judge, as
they were entering their own gate.

' Yes,' said Madeline. But she felt that, in this matter, her
father was more surely her friend than her mother. And indeed
she could understand her mother's opposition to poor Felix, much
better than her fBither's acquiescence.

' Do, my dear. What is anything to us in this world, if we aie
not all happy together ? She thinks that yon have become sad, and
she must know that you are so no longer.'

' But I have not been sad, papa,' said Madeline, thinking with
some pride of her past heroism.

When they reached the hall-door she had one more question to
ask ; but she could not look in her father's face as she asked.

* Papa, is that review you were speaking of here at Noningsby 7*

' You will find it on my study table ; but remember, Madeline,
I don*t above half go along with him.'

The judge went into his study before dinner, and found that the
review had been taken.

CHAPTER XIX.

NO SURRENDER.

Sir Peregrine Orme had gone up to London, had had his interview
with Mr. Round, and had failed. He had then returned home, and
hardly a word on the subject had been spoken between him and
Mrs. Orme. Indeed little or nothing was now said between them
as to Lady Mason or the trial. What was the use of speaking on a
subject that was in every way the cause of so much misery ? He
had made up his mind that it was no longer possible for him to

VOL. n. L

146 6flIiEY FABK.

.td» nay active step in the matter. He bad become ieSl "fixr lier
fl^ipeantnoe in comt, and that ww ihe last trifling act of friendaldp
^ddoh he eonld ebinr hat? Hew was it any longer posBiUe tliait he
oonld befriend ber? He could not speak up on ber behalf with
eager Toice, asid atrei^ indignation against ber enemiea, as bad
fionnerly beoa bis piactiee. He could grre ber no ootmBeL His
oenneel wonld bare tao^bt ber to abandon the property in ihe first
instance, let the resolt be what it might He bad made bis fittle
eibrt in that diiection by seeing the attorney, and bis Httle effort
bad been nseless. It was quite dear to bim that there was nothing
further for him to do ;«— nothing further for him, who but a week or
two since was so actively putting bamself forwaid and letting the
world know that he was Lady Mason's champion.

Would he have to go into court as a witness ? His mind was
troubled much in his endeavour to answer that question. He bad
been her great friend. For years be bad been her nearest neigli-
boor. His daughter-in-law etill chmg to her. She bad Hved at his
kouse. She had been chosen to be his wife. Who could speak to
ber eharacter, if he could not do so ? And yet, what could be say,
if so called on ? Mr. Fumival, Mr. Obaffiaoibrass — all those who
would have the selection of the witnesses, believing themaehres in
their client's innocence, as no doubt they did, would of course
imagine that he believed in it also. Gould be tell them tiiat it
would not be in his power to utter a single word in her fiivour ?

In these days Mrs. Onne went daily to the Farm. Indeed, she
never missed a day from that on whidi Lady Mason left The
Cleeve up to the time of the trial.' It seemed to Sir Fer^rine that
his daughter's affection for this woman had grown with ihe know-
ledge of her guilt ; but, as I have said before, no discussion on the
matter now took place between them. Mrs. Orme would generally
take some opportunity of saying that she had been at Orley Farm ;
but that was all.

Sir Peregrine during this time never left the house once, except
for morning service on Sundays. He hung his hat up on its accus-
tomed peg when he returned from that ill-omened visit to Mr. Round,
and did not move it for days, ay, for weeks, — except on Sunday morn-
ings. At first his groom would come to him, suggesting to him that
he should ride, and the woodman would speak to him about the
young coppices ; but after a few days they gave up their efforts.
His grandson also strove to take him out, speaking to him more
earnestly than the servants would do, but it was of no avail. Pere-
grine, indeed, gave up the attempt sooner, for to him his grandfather
did in some sort confess his own weakness. ' I have had a blow,'
said he ; ' Peregrine, I have had a blow. I am too old to bear up
against it ; — too old and too weak.* Per^rine knew that he alluded
in some way to that pressed marriage, but he was quite in the

uo UBSSMBomJi. 147

dark aa to fhei naDMr Ib whUklm fp9auiisiilB«r haA hem afiMted
b^ it

* Peopla fhiak:iM»thag a£ H^t mum^ obr/ aaid ke, gropiag; iikibe
dark aa ha atooTa to admmiwtafr naawain tiotu

'PeaplawiU thittkof it? niriiltkbk<<it But norar lUMi,
o^ boy. I have lirad mjlifav ^ad ant coKlBBiad ifiA iL I hwre
lived my life» aad have gvMfc joj that aaak aa jo« are kft baUndito
lake my place. If I had xeally iojmed yoa lehoald have hoakisi
my htsat — have krokeBt my hooart>*

Peregrine of oourse aasuied hdm Ibat let vdnik wenU. cone to ham
the pride wkick ha had in hia giandfiiUiar wouM almaya wnpart
kin. * I don't know anybody dae that I oonld be ao proud cf^' aaid
Peregrine; * for nobody alaa thai I aae thinka so mneh abont oAar
people. And I alwaya mWyOven whan I didnt Mooft to thinksMieh
about it ; — always.'

Poor Peregrine ! Cii uanatMidfiS bad aomawkafc alterod him amce
that day, new not mosa than six manlhAago, in which he had pledged
himself teaband(m the delights of Clowoxeea Street. Aakmgaa there
was a hope for him with Madetine Staveley all this mig^ beiteay
well. He piefea»dMadeliflaatoiC3ewrflfosa Street with all its delights.
But when there ahonld be no k>ngsv any hcqpe— and indeed, aa
things went now» there was bat UtUe gzoud for hoping — what
then ? Might it not be that hia trial had oome on him too eady in
life, and that he would aolaoe hims^ in his disappointment; if not
with Carroty Bob, with companionships and puzsaits which would
be as objectionable, and perh^is more expensive ?

On three or foisc occaaiona hia grand&ther asked him how things
were going at Noningsby, striving to interest himself in something
as to which the out-look was not altogether dismal, and by degrees
learned, — ^not exactly all the truth — ^but aa much of the truth aa
Peregrine knew.

^ Do as she tells you,' said the grandfather, reforring to Lady
Staveley*s last worda.

' I suppose I must,' said Peregrine, sadly. ' There's nothing eko
ibr it. But if there's anything that I hate in this world^ it's
waiting.'

' You are both very youn&' said his grandfather.
' Yes ; we are what people call young, I suppose. But I don't
understand all that. Why isn't a fellow to be happy when he's
young as well as when he's old T

Sir Peregrine did not answer him, but no doubt thought that he
might alter his opinion in a few years. There is great doubt as to
what may be the moat enviable time of life with a man. I am
inclined to think that it is at that period when his children have
all been bom but have not yet began to go astray or to vex him
with disappointment; when his own pecuniary prospects are

148 OBLJBY FABM.

settled, and he knows pretty well what his tether will allow him ;
when the appetite is still good and the digestive organs at their
fall power ; when he has oeased to care as to the length of his
girdle, and hefore the doctor warns him against solid hreakfEtsts and
port wine after dinner; when his affectations are over and his
infirmities have not yet come npon him ; while he can still walk
his ten miles, and feel some little pride in being able to do so ;
while he has still nerve to ride his horse to hoimds, and can look
with some soom on the ignorance of younger men who have hardly
yet learned that noble art. As regards men, this, I think, is the
happiest time of life ; but who shall answer the question as regards
women ? In this respect their lot is more liable to disappointment.
With the choicest flowers that blow the sweetest aroma of their
perfection lasts but for a moment. The hour that sees them at their
fullest glory sees also the beginning of their fall.

On one morning before the trial Sir Peregrine rang his bell and
requested that Mr. Peregrine might be asked to come to him.
Mr. Peregrine was out at the moment, and did not make his appear-
ance much before dark, but the baronet had fully resolved upon
having this interview, and ordered that the dinner should be put
back for half an hour. ' Tell Mrs. Orme, with my compliments,'
he said, * that if it does not put her to inconvenience we will not
dine till seven.' It put Mrs. Orme to no inconvenience ; but I am
inclined to agree with the cook, who remarked that the compliments
ought to have been sent to her.

' Sit down. Peregrine,' he said, when his grandson entered his
room with his thick boots and muddy gaiters. ' I have been thinking
of something.'

^ I and Samson have been cutting down trees all day,' said Pere-
grine. ' You've no conception how the water lies down in the
bottom there ; and there's a Ml every yard down to the river. It's
a sin not to drain it.'

' Any sins of that kind, my boy, shall lie on your own head for
the future. I will wash my hands of them.'

' Then I'll go to work at once,* said Peregrine, not quite under-
standing his grand£Ekther.

' Tou must go to work on more than that. Peregrine.' And then
the old man paused. ' Tou must not think that 1 am doing this
because I am unhappy for the hour, or that I shall repent it when
the moment has gone by.'

* Doing what?' asked Peregrine.

* 1 have thought much of it, and I know that I am right. I can-
not get out as I used to do, and do not care to meet people about
business.'

* I never knew you more clear-headed in my life, sir.'

* Well, perhaps not. Well say nothing about that What I

NO SUBBBNDEB. 149

intend to do is this ; — ^to glTO up the property into your hands at
Lady-day. Yon shall be master of The Cleeve firom that time
forth.'

'Sir?

' The tmth is, yon desire employment, and I don't. The property
is small, and therefore wants the more looking after. I have never
had a regular land steward, bnt have seen to that myself. If yon'll
take my advice you'll do the same. There is no better employment
for a gentleman. So now, my boy, you may go to work and drain
wherever you like. About the Crutchley bottom I have no doubt
you're right. I don't know why it has been neglected.' These last
words the baronet uttered in a weak, melancholy tone, asking, as it
were, forgiveness for his fault ; whereas he had spoken out the pur-
port of his great resolution with a clear, strong voice, as though the
saying of the words pleased him well.

' I could not hear of such a thing as that,' said his grandson, after
a short pause.

' Bnt you have heard it, Perry, and you may be quite sure that
I should not have named it had I not fully resolved upon it. I have
been thinking of it for days, and have quite made up my mind*
You won't turn me out of the house, I know.'

* All the same. I will not hear of it,' said the young man,
stoutly.

* Peregrine !'

' I know very well what it all means, sir, and I am not at all
astonished. You have wished to do something out of sheer good-
ness of heart, and you have been balked.'

^ We will not talk about that. Peregrine.'

* But I must say a few words about it. All that has made you

unhappy, and — and — and ' He wanted to explain that his

grand&ther was ashamed of his baffled attempt, and for that reason
was cowed and down at heart at the present moment ; but that in
the three or four .months when this trial would be over and the
wonder passed away, all that would be forgotten, and he would be
again as well as ever. But Peregrine, though he understood all
this, was hardly able to express himself.

* My boy,' said the old man, • I know very well what you mean.
What you say is partly true, and partly not quite true. Some day,
perhaps, when we are sitting here together over the fire, I shall be
better able to talk over all this ; but not now, Perry. God has
been very good to me, and given me so much that I will not repine
at this sorrow. I have lived my life, and am content.'

' Oh yes, of course all that's true enough. And if God should
choose that you should — die, you know, or I either, some people
would be sorry, but we shouldn't complain ourselves. But what I
say is this : you should never give up as long as you live« There's

150

a sort of feeling whami it irUbk I chd^ ezflanu One shovld
alwsya fl^y to <ineeel( No airreDdec.' And Peregrine, as lie i^mke^
fltood op from his cbair, thrust his hands into his tronsers-podbetB,
and shook his head.

Sir Peregrine aniled as he auaifmed him. * B«t Peny, mj boy,
-we oan'i always say thai. VThea ^Lb heart and the spirit and the
hocty have ail aamndeied, why ahoold tha Toice tell a Ibolnii
fidaehoodr

* Bq£ it siMmldn't he a fidsehood,' said PevegriMu ' l^body
ihcmld ever knock aader <^lii8 own aocoid.'

* Yoa are qnite rig^ there, my hoy; yon axe ^pite ri^it there.
Stick to tiiat yoonelfL Bat, reaiemher, that yoa are not to knoc^
under to any of yoor eneadea. The wont that yov will meat witk
are folly, and vice, and eztraTagBnoeJ*

* That* 8 of conTse,' said Pei^rine, hy ao awana widnng an tlia
proaent oocaaion to bring tinder diacnaaicm his fvtare contests with
any such enemies as those now named by his grandfather.

'And now, aappose you dress for dinner,' aaid the baronet. * Pve
got ahead of yon ihare yoa eee. What IVe told yon to-day I have
aheady told yonr mother.'

' I'm sure she doesn't itdak yon ri^l'

* 1£ die thinks ma wrong, she is too kind and wdl-hehaved ta say
so, — ^which is n^ore than I can say for her son. Your mother, Peny*
never told me that I was wrong yet, though she has had many occa-
sions ; — too many, too mxny« But, oome, go and dress for dmner.'

* You are wrong in this, sir, if ever yoa were wrong in your li£a,*
said Peregrine, leaving the room, fiis grand&ther did not answwr
him again, but followed him out of the door, and walked briskly
across the hall into the drawing-room.

' There's Peregrine beea lectming me about draining,' he aaad to
his daughtcr-in4aw, striving to speak in a haif-baatering tone c^
Toice, as though things were going weU with him.

* Lecturing you V said Mrs. Oime.

'And he's right, too. There'^ nothing like it Hell make a
better fietnaer, I tak« it, than Lociiis Mafion. Youll live to see hiia
know the value of an acre of land as veell as any man in tha
county. It's the very thing that he's fit for. Hell do better with
the property than ever I ^d.'

There was something beautifal in the effort which the old laaa
was making when watched by the eyes of one who knew him as
well as did his daughter-in-law. She knew him, and understood
all the workings of his mind, and the deep sorrow of his heart. la
Tery tmlh, the star of his life was going out darkly under a olond ;
bat he was battling against his sorrow and ehame — not that he
might be rid of them himself, but that others might not have to
share them. That doctrine of * No snxrender ' was strong within

NO 8UBBEKDEB. 161

his bosom, and he understood the motto in a finar aenae than tint
in which his grandson had vsed it. fie wonld not tell them that
his heart was broken, — not if he oonld help it. He woald mot
display his wound if it might be in his power to hide it. He
would not confess that lands, and houses, and seignorial fonotiona
were no longer of value in his eyes. As &r as might be posriUa
ho would bear his own load till that and the memory of his last
folly might be hidden t^ether in the grave.

But he knew that he was no longer fit for a man's woiic, and tkat
it would be well that he should abandon it. He had made a
terrible mistake. In his old age he had gambled for a large steka^
and had lost it all. He had ventured to love ; — to increase the small
number of those who were nearest and dearest to him, to add one
to those whom he regarded as best and purest, — and he had heea
terribly deceived. He had for many years almost worshipped iiie
one lady who had sat at his table, and now in his old age he had
asked her to share her place of honour with another. What Hiat
other was need not now be told. And tke world knew that tUa
woman was to have been his wile ! He had boasted loudly that ke
would give her that place and those rights. He had ventured hki
all upon her innocence and her purify. He had ventured his all,—
and he had lost.

I do not say that on this account there was any need thai he
should be stricken to the ground, — ^that it behoved him as a man
of high feeling to be broken-hearted. He would have been a
greater man had he possessed the power to bear up agaiust all tins,
and to go forth to the world bearing his burden bravely on Ida
shoulders. But Sir Peregrine Orme was not a great man, and poa-
sessed few or none of the elements of greatness. He was a man
of a singularly pure mind, and endowed with a strong feeling of
chivalry. It had been everything to him to be spoken of by the
world as a man free from reproacli,^who had lived with dean
hands and with clean people around him. All manner of delin-
quencies he could forgive in his dependents which did not tett of
absolute baseness ; but it would have half killed him had he ever
learned that those he loved had become falae or fraudulent. When
his grandson had come to trouble about the rats, he had acted, not
over-cleverly, a certain amount of paternal anger; but had Pere-
grine broken his promise to him, no acting would have been neces-
sary. It may therefore be imagined what were now his feelings
as to Lady Mason.

Her he could forgive for deceiving him. Ho had told his
daughter-in-law that he would forgive ier; and it was a thing
done. But he could not forgive himself in that he had been de-
ceived. He could not forgive himself for having mingled with the
sweet current of his Edith's life the foul waters of that criminal

152 OBLET FABM.

tragedy. He could not now bid her desert Lady Mason ; for was
it < not true that the woman's wickedness was known to them two,
through her resolve not to injure those who had befriended her ?
But all this made the matter worse rather than better to him. It
18 all Tery well to say, * No surrender ;' but when the load placed
upon the back is too heavy to be borne, the back must break or
bend beneath it.

His load was too heavy to be borne, and therefore he said to
himself that he would put it down. He would not again see Lord
Alston and the old friends of former days. He would attend no
more at the magistrates' bench, but would send his grandson out
into his place. For the few days that remained to him in this
world, he might be well contented to abandon the turmoils and
troubles of life. *• It will not be for long,' he said to himself over
and over again. And then he would sit in his arm-chair for hours,
intending to turn his mind to such solemn thoughts as might befit
a dying man. But, as he sat there, he would still think of Lady
Mason. He would remember her as she. had leaned against his
breast on that day that he kissed her ; and then he would remem-
ber her as she was when she spoke those horrid words to him —
' Tes ; I did it ; at night, when I was alone.' And this was the
woman whom he had loved I This was the woman whom he still
loved, — if all the truth might be confessed.

His grandson, though he read much of his grand&ther's mind»
had &iled to read it all. He did not know how often Sir Peregrine
repeated to himself those words, *" No Surrender/ or how gallantly
he strove to live up to them. Lands and money and seats of
honour he would surrender, as a man surrenders his tools when
he has done his work ; but his tone of feeling and his principle he
would not Surrender, though the maintenance of them should crush
him with their weight. The woman had been veiy vile, despe-
rately false, wicked beyond belief, with premeditated villany, for
years and years ; — and this was the woman whom he had wished to
make the bosom companion of his latter days I

' Samson is happy now, I suppose, that he has got the axe in his
hand,* he said to his grandson.

* Pretty well for that, sir, I think.*

* That man will cut down every tree about the place, if you'll
let him.' And in that way he strove to talk about the afiSedrs of the
property.

}

• 1

CHAPTEB XX.

WHAT REBEKAH DID FOR HEB SON.

Evert day Mrs. Orme went up to Orley Farm and sat for two hours
with Lady Mason. We may say that there was now no longer any
secret between them, and that ehe whose life had been so innocent,
so pure, and so good, oonld look into the inmost heart and soiil of
that other woman whose career had been supported by the proceeds
of one terrible life-long iniqnity. And now, by degrees. Lady
Mason would begin to plead for herself, or, rather, to pat in a plea
for the deed she had done, acknowledging, however, that she, the
doer of it, had fallen almost below forgiveness through the crime.
' Was he not his son as much as that other one ; and had I not
deserved of him that he should do this thing for me ?' And again
* Never once did I ask of him any favour for myself from the day
that I gave myself to him, because he had been good to my &ther
and mother. Up to the very hour of his death I never asked him to
spend a shilling on my own account. But I asked him to do this
thing fbr his child ; and when at last he refused me, I told him that
I myself would cause it to be done.'

* You told hhn so V

*• I did ; and I think that he believed me. He knew that I was one
who would act up to my word, I told him that Orley Fann should
belong to our babe.'

* And what did he say ?*

He bade me beware of my soul. My answer was very terrible,
and I will not shock you with it. Ah me ! it is easy to talk of
repentance, but repentance will not come with a word.'

In these days Mrs. Orme became gradually aware that hitherto
she had comprehended but little of Lady Mason's character. There
was a power of endurance about her, and a courage that was almost
awful to the mind of the weaker, softer, and better woman. Lady
Mason, during her sojourn at The Cleeve, had seemed almost to
sink under her misfortune ; nor had there been any hypocrisy, any
pretence in her apparent miseiy. She had been very wretched ; —
as wretched a human creature, we may say, as any crawling Qod's
earth at that time. But she had borne her load, and, bearing it,
had gone about her work, still striving with desperate courage as
the ground on which she trod continued to give way beneath her

154 OBLET FABH.

feet, inch by inch. They had known and pitied her misery ; they
had loved her for misery — as it is in the natm'e of snch people to
do ; — ^but they had little known how great had been the cause for it.
They had sympathized with the female weakness which had sno-
cnmbed when there was hardly any necessity for snccnmbing.
Had they then known all, they would have wondered at the
strength which made a straggle possible under snch circumstances.

Even now she would not yield. I have said that there' had been
no hypocrisy in her misery during those weeks last past ; and I
have said so truly. But there had perhaps been some pretences,
some acting of a part, some almost necessary pretenoe as to her
froakness. Was dbe not bouBcl to account to those around her far
her great sorrow ? Aad was it not above all things needi^ that
she shovld ealist ^kmr sympathy ani obtain their aid? She had
been obliged to cry to thma for help, though obliged also to oonf eas
that there was little reasoK for sa6ii cayiug. * I am a woman, and
weak,' she had said, 'and i^ierefore cannot walk alone, now that
the way isatony/ Bntwhst had been the tradi w^ her? How
would she have cried; had it been possible for her to utter Hi^ shaip
cry of her heart? The watsrs had been closii]^ over her head, and
she had clutched at a hand to eave her ; but the owner of that hand
might not know how immineiit, how close was the danger.

But in these days, as she sat in her own room with M2S. Onne,
the owner of that band aaight know ev^ything. The aeoret had
been told, aad there was no longer need £or pretence. Aa she
eoold now expose to view the whole load of her wretchedness,
so also could she make known the strength that was still le& for
endurance. And these two women who had become endeared to
each other under such terrible circumstances, came together at
these meetings with more of the equality of friendship than had
ever existed at The Cleeve. It may seem strange that it should be
so — strange that the acknowledged forger of her husband's wrill
should be able to maintain a better claim for equal friendship than
the lady who was believed to be innooent and true I But it was
so. Now she stood on tree ground ; — now, as she sat there with
Mrs. Orme, she could speak from her heart, pouring £Drth the real
workings of her mind. From Mm. Orme she had no longer ang^
to fear ; nor from Sir Peregrine. Eveiything was known to them,
and she could now tell oi every incident of her crime with an outr
spoken boldness that in itself was incompatible with the humble
bearing of an inferior in the presence of one aibove her.

And she did still hope. The one point to be gained was this ;
that her son, hra: only son, the child on whose behalf this crime
had been committed, should never know her shauie, or live to be
disgraced by her guilt If she could be punished, she would say,
aad he left in ignorance of her punishment, d» would not caxe

WHAT BEBESAH BID lOR HEB SON. 155

wliat indigmtMB they might heap upon her. Shm had heazd of
penal servitude, of jwn, tmibly kng, pawed in all the miaerf of
vile companionship ; of solitary confinement, and the didl madness
which it engenders ; of all the terrors of a life spent under cu^
cnmstances bearable only by the uneducated, tiie rude, said the
vile. But all this was as nothing to her compared with the loss of
honour to her son. * I should livt^,' she would say ; * but he would
die. You cannot ask me to became his murderer!'

It was on this point that tliey diftared always. Ifn. Onae would
have had her confess everything to Ludus, and strovte to make her
undeiBtand that if he were so told, the blow would frU less heavily
than it would do if the knowledge oame to him from bar conviction
at the triaL But the mother v^ould not bring heiaelf to beliepfia
that it vras absolutely neoessaiy that he tdiould evur know it.
* There was the property 1 Tes; but let the trial come, and if she
were acquitted, then let some an-angemeut be made about that.
The lawyers might find out stme cause why it should be mnv
lendered.' But Mrs. Orme feared that if the trial were <rwr, and
the criminal saved from justice, the propeity virauld AOt be sAf*
rendered. And then how would Hiat wish cif repentaaoe be poasible ?
After all vras not Ihat the one Hong ueoessaxy f

I will not say that Mis. Onne in these days «ver Tegnrfted tint
her sympathy and friendship had been thus bedewed, but she
frequently acknovTledged to heraelf tftiat the pessden waa too
difficult for her. lliere was no one wiM)se asBistanee idie could
ask ; for she felt that she could not in this matter ai^ counsel fiom
Sir Peregrine. She herself was good, and pme, and stxaight-
minded, and simple in her perception of right and wrong; but
Lady Mason was greater than d&e in fbrce of c^raoter,— 4t stronger
woman in every way, endowed with more force of will, with mora
power of mind, with greater energy, and a swifter iow of words.
Sometimes she almost thought it would be better that she should
stay away from Orley Farm; but then she had promised to be troe
to her wretched friend, and the mother's solicitude for her son still
softened the mother's heart.

In these days, till the evening came, Luchis Mason iieyer made
his way into his mother's sitting-room, vdiich indeed was the
drawing-room of the house, — and he and Mrs. Orme, as a rule,
hardly ever met each other. If he saw her as she entered or left
the place, he would lift his hat to her and pass by without speaking.
He was not admitted to those eouncils of his mother^s, and would
not submit to ask after his mother's welfare or to inquire as to her
affairs from a stranger. On xio o6her fiubjeot was it possible that
he should now speak to the da9y visitor and the only Tisitor at
Orley Farm. All tins Mrs. Oxme understood, and saw that the
yoimg man was alone and ccmfottlesB. He passed his honrs below,

156 OBLET FABM.

in liis own room, and twice a day bis mother found him in the
parlour, and then they sat through their silent, miserable meals.
She would then leave him, always saying some soft words of
motherly love, and putting her hand either upon his shoulder or
his arm. On suoh occasions he was never rough to her, bat he
would never respond to her caress. She had ill-treated him, pre-
ferring in her trouble the assistance of a stranger to his assistance.
She would ask him neither for his money nor his counsel, and as
she had thus chosen to stand aloof from him, he also would stand
aloof from her. Not for always, — as he said to himself over and
over again ; for his heart misgave him when he saw the lines of
care so plainly written on his mother's brow. Not for always
should it be so. The day of the trial would soon be present, and
the day of the trial would soon be over ; then again would they
be friends. Poor young man ! Unfortunate young man I

Mrs. Orme saw all this, and to her it was very terrible. What
would be the world to her, if her boy should frown at her, and look
black when she caressed him ? And she thought that it "was the
fatllt of the mother rather than of the son ; as indeed was not all
that wretchedness the mother's &idt ? But then again, there was
the one great difficulty. How could any step be taken in the
right direction till the whole truth had been confessed to him ?

The two women were sitting together in that upstairs room ; and
the day of the trial was now not a fall week distant from them,
when Mrs. Orme again tried to persuade the mother to introst her
son with the burden of all her misery. On the preceding day Mr.
Solomon Aram had been down at Orley Farm, and had been with
Lady Mason for an hour.

* He knows the truth !' Lady Mason had said to her friend. * 1
am sure of that.'

* But did he ask you ?'

* Oh, no, he did not ask me that. He asked of little things that
happened at the time ; but from his manner I am sure he knows it
all. He says that I shall escape.'

* Did he say escape ?'

* No ; not that word, but it was the same thing. He spoke to
Lucius, for I saw them on the lawn together.'

* You do not know what he said to him ?'

* No ; for Lucius would not speak to me, and 1 could not ask
him.' And then they both were silent, for Mrs. Orme was thinking
how she could bring about that matter that was so near her heart.
Lady Mason was seated in a large old-fashioned arm-chair, in
which she now passed nearly all her time. The table was by her
side, but she rarely turned herself to it. She sat leaning with her
elbow on her arm, supporting her face with her hand ; and opposite
to her, so close that she might look into her face and watch every

WHAT BBBEKAH DID FOB HEB 80K. 157

movement of her ejes, sat Mrs. Orrne^ — intent upon that one thing,
that the woman before her should be brought to repent the evil
she had done.

' And you have not spoken to Luoius ?

' No/ she answered. ' No more than I have told you. What
could I say to him about the man ?

' Not about Mr. Aram. It might not be neoessaiy to speak of him.
He has his work to do ; and I suppose that he must do it in his
own way?'

' Yes ; he must do it, in his own way. LuoiuB would not under-
stand.'

' Unless you told him everything, of course he could not under-
stand.'

' That is impossible.'

* No, Lady Mason, it is not impossible. Dear Lady Mason, do
not turn from me in that way. It is for your sake, — ^because I love
you, that I press you to do this. If he knew it all '

' Could you tell your son such a tale ?' said Lady Mason, turning
upon her sharply, and speaking almost with an air of anger.

Mrs. Orme was for a moment silenced, for she could not at once
bring herself to conceive it possible that she could be so circum-
stanced. But at last she answered. *Yes,' she said, 'I think I
could, if .' And then she paused.

' If you had done such a deed I Ah, you do not know, for the
doing of it would be impossible to you. You can never understand
what was my childhood, and how my young years were passed. I
never loved anything but him; — ^that is, till I knew you, and —

and .' But instead of finishing her sentence she pointed down

towards The Cleeve. • How, then, can I tell him? Mrs. Orme, I
would let them pull me to pieces, bit by bit, if in that way I could
save him.'

' Not in that wtty,' said Mrs. Orme ; * not in that way.'

But Lady Mason went on pouring forth the pent-up feelings of
her bosom, not regarding the faint words of her companion. ' Till
he lay in my arms I had loved nothing. From my earliest yeai's I
had been taught to love money, wealth, and property ; but as to
myself the teachings had never come home to me. When they bade
me marry the old man because he was rich, I obeyed them, — not
caring for his riches, but knowing that it behoved me to relieve
them of the burden of my support. He was kinder to me than they
had been, and I did for him the best I could. But his money and
his wealth were little to me. He told me over and over again that
when he died I should have the means to live, and that was enough.
I would not pretend to him that I cared for the grandeur of his
children who despised me. But then came my baby, and the world
was all altered for me. What could I do for the only thing that I

166

oDedaqrom? ¥flfyiii ri Aw 1^^ i^d told

« But Umbj had told jok wra^' aud Mn. Oime. ai
tean firom her ejca.

•Thefi^dlDldsefidnlr. I^d hB«d ill' g Imi
fiuin iiij riuifli ii|>wiiii1i/ iilii ■!!■ wul ftjiiaij ^Forwpnlf Ikad
aoioKad for tiiaM dui«i ; bat n^ Aoold ant ha >— > Miiy lad
zidbea and kad? ffia frtiw bad tiiea «• gm orv «ad
liad alieadj made liioae aoiia and dao^^iteiB ao zidi
WhjahosldiMiiawetfiercUdalaolekiifrlfai'akBir? Wmhb
not aaweU bomaB tiiej? waa he not » £ur adiild? WkaftdU
Babekahdo^MnLOnne? Bid Asnotdo wone; anddidiiBoi iH
go well with her? l^lij should mj boy be an Tahmael? ¥AEf
ahoold I be treated aa the Ixmdwoman, az^aaaajlitfttmaperidi
cf thint in ftib wodfcff a wildnraf ?

« No SaTiov had lired Md died ibr ilw iMdd im tiMM di9%* a^
Mrs. Omie.

«Andno£km«rkidliTed«addiadfarBe,' MidAewrotehed
woman, ahaoat rfiriftkhig in her deapait> Theliaeaof her iaoDiPBm
terrible to be aeen aa ahe tkna qwloa* and wm agoii j of a^guh
loaded her brow i^Mm which Mn^ Oime waa firighftBaad to
8he km on her kneee before the wieldied woman, and tilting
by both her hands strore all aha oonld to find aome oomfiurt

* Ah^donotaayao. Do not aagr tiusL Whatever may eoma, tfiat
miaery — ^that woxst of miaenee need not of^meaa you. If tiiat
indeed were tme V

*■ It waa true ; — and how ahoold it be otherwise?'

* Bnt now, — now. It need not be tme now. Lady Maann, iir
yonr sool'a sake aay that it la ao now.'

' Mrs. Orme,' ahe said, speaking with a aingalar qniesoenoe of tone
after the Tiolence of her last words, ' it seems to me thni I caie
more for hia soul than for my own. For myadf I can boar even
that Bat if he were a castaway •—— !'

I will not attempt to r^xurt the words thai passed between them
for the next half-honr, for they concerned a matter which I majf
not dare to handle too closely in such pages aa thesa Bnt Mn. Onne
still knelt there at her feel^ pressing Lady Mason's hands, poreasing
against her knees, as with all the eagerness of tme affection ahe
endeavoored to bring her to a frame of mind that wonld admit of
some comfort. But it all ended in this : — Let everything be told
to Lucius, so that the first step back to honesty might be taken* —
and then let them trust to Him whose mercy can ever temper the
wind to the shorn lamb.

But, as Lady Mason had once said to herself, repentance will not
come with a word. * I cannot tell him,' she said at last ^ It is a thing
impossible. I should die at his foet before the worda were spoken.'

WHAT BEBEKAH DID VOB H£B SOK. 159

< I vfiH do it for yos,' sttd Hm Qimd, oSmng fiom fme ohArity
to take upon hexaelf a task perhapa as hesvj as any tbat a Iraman
creature oodid petfoorm. * I will tell bim.'

' No, no,' screamed Lady Mason, taking Mrs. Orme by hcA her
avma as she spoke. * Yon will not do so : awy thai yoa will not.
Bememher your proaiae to »e. Sememiber why it is thai yoa
know it all yoniBeH'

* I will not, surely, unless yon bid me,' said Mrs. Orme.

* No, Bo; I do not bad yotL Mind, I do not 1^ yon. I wiU not
have it dc»ie. Better anything than thai, while it may yet be
avoided. I have your promiae ; haTO I not?*

' Oh, yes ; of course I should not do it unless yon told me.' And
then, after some lBrther.ihort stay, during wbdoh but Mttie was said,

Mrs. Onne got iqptogo-

* You will come to me to-monrarw/ said Lady MsaoD.

* Yes, oestainly,' said Mza. Orme.

* Because I feared that I had offended you.*

* Oh, no ; I will take no offionoe from yoa.'

* You should not, for you know what I hare to bear. You know,
and no one else knows. Sir Peregrino does not know. He cannot
understend. But you know and understaDd zi alL And, Mrs. Orme,
what you do now will be counted to yon lor great tzeasure, — ^for
very great treasure. You are bettor than the Samaritan, for he
went on his way. But yoawill stay till the kst. Yes; I know you
will stay.' And the poor creature kissed her only Mend ; — kissed
her hands and her forehead and her breast Then Mrs. Onne went
without speaking, for her heart was fbU, and the words would not
come. to her; but as she went she said to herself that she woidd
stay till the last.

Standing alone on the steps before the £rant door she found
Lucius Mason all alone, and some feeling moved her to speak a word
to him as she passed. * I hope all this does not trouble you much,
Mr. Mason/ she said, offering her hand to him. She felt that her
words were hypocritical as she was speaking them ; but imder such
circumstances what else could she say to him ?

' Well, Mrs. Orme, such an episode in one's family history does
give one some trouble. I am unhappy, — very xmhappy ; but not
too much so to thank you for your most unusual kindness to my
poor mother.' And then, having been so far encouraged by her
speiEiking to him, he accompanied her round the house on to the
lawn, from whence a path led away through a shrubbery on to the
road which would take her by the village of Coldharbour to The
Cleave.

' Mr. Mason,' she said, as they walked for a few steps together
before the house, ' do not suppose that I presume to interfere
between you and your mother.'

160 OBLET FABM.

' You have a right to interfere now/ he said.

* But I think you might comfort her if you would be more 'with
her. Would it not be better if you could talk freely together about
allthifl?'

' It would be better/ he said ; * but I fear that that is no longer
possible. When this trial is over, and the world knows that she
is innocent; when people shall see how cruelly she has been
used '

Mrs. Orme might not tell the truth to him, but she could with
difficulty bear to hear him dwell thus confidently on hopes which
were so fiedse. ' The future is in the hands of Gk>d, Mr. Mason ; but
for the present '

' The present and the future are both in His hands, Mis. Orme.
I know my mother's innocence, and would have done a son's part
towards establishing it; — but she would not allow me. All this will
soon be over now, and then, I trusti she and I will once again under-
stand each other. Till then I doubt whether 1 should be v^iaeto
interfere. Good morning, Mrs. Orme; and pray believe that I
appreciate at its full worth all that you are doing for her.' Then he
again lifted his hat and left her.

Lady Mason from her window saw them as they walked together,
and her heart for a moment misgave her. Could it be that her
friend was treacherous to her ? Was it possible that even now she
was telling everything that she had sworn that she would not
tell ? Why were they two together, seeing that they passed each
other day by day without intercourse ? And so she watched with
anxious eyes till they parted, and then she saw that Lucius stood
idly on the terrace swinging his stick as he looked down the hill
towards the orchard below him. He would not have stood thus
calmly had he already heard his mother's shame. This she knew,
and having laid aside her immediate fears she retreated back to her
chair. No ; she would not tell him : at any rate till the trial should
be over.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE STATE OF PUBLIC OPINION.

The day of the trial was now quickly coming on, and the London
world, especially the world of lawyers, was beginning to talk much
on the subject. Men abont the Inns of Court speculated as to the
verdict, offering to each other very confident opinions as to the
result, and offering, on some occasions, bets as well as opinions*
The younger world of barristers was clearly of opinion that Lady
Mason was innocent ; but a portion, an unhappy portion, was in-
clined to fear, that, in spite of her innocence, she would be found
guilty. The elder world of barristers was not, perhaps, so de-
monstrative, but in that world the belief in her innocence was not
so strong, and the fear of her condemnation much stronger. The
attorneys, as a rule, regarded her as guilty. To the policeman's
mind every man not a policeman is a guilty being, and the
attorneys perhaps share something of this feeling. But the
attorneys to a man expected to see her acquitted. Great was
their &ith in Mr. Fumival ; great their faith in Solomon Aram ;
but greater than in all was their faith in Mr. Chaffanbrass. If
Mr. Chaffanbrass could not pull her through, with a prescription of
twenty years on her side, things must be very much altered indeed
in our English criminal court. To the outer world, that portion of
the world which had nothing to do with the administration of the
law, the idea of Lady Mason having been gnilty seemed prepos-
terous. Of course she was innocent, and of course she would be
found to be innocent. And of course, also, that Joseph Mason of
Groby Park was, and would be found to be, the meanest, the lowest,
the most rapacious of mankind.

And then the story of Sir Peregrine's attachment and proposed
maiTiage, joined as it was to various hints of the manner in which
that marriage had been broken off, lent a romance to the whole
affair, and added much to Lady Mason's popularity. Everybody
had now heard of it, and everybody was also aware, that though the
idea of a marriage had been abandoned, there had been no quarrel.
The friendship between the &milies was as close as ever, and
Sir Peregrine, — so it was understood — had pledged himself to an
acquittal. It was felt to be a public annoyance that an affair of so
exciting a nature should be allowed to come off in the little town of

VOL. II. M

, m tfe streets «f HMawwth, k» ms boc sLm:!: in
kk TJewcf ti» qwtMM He iiftd bd doabt, lie aid,
like GM6 woold pic He lad BD dcNibt* aldKM^ Ifeo v»» iwBil
diet Mr. Mewm e cpwb kewyen woidd de ell they could ta
dsoir oter Umst own dient. But k» me too itne^, lie eeid, even
tetibet TU fiMti ee he woeld Ui^ tkem forvud wrmld oon-
iMDDdSoand end Crodk, end ooBpel enj juijto find a -verdict <if
fgsEikj. IdoBot«jtlHdeUHeBWiKlkbdievedinI)oGkwiel2i,b«t
kk energy end oonfidence did heTe its eSect, end LedyMeeoss
eeee wee not nf^ield eo etrangly in her own nei^ibomhood ee elee-
wheve.

The wihicweri in theee days veae of oomse ^exy imfwrtHBt
penofift, and could not but feel the wei^i of that attention w^hich
the world woidd certainly pay to them. There woold be lonr <sliief
witncwies for the prosecntkm ; Dockwiath himseU^ who woold he
jprepared to upeak at to the papen left behind him by old Uabech ;
the man in whose posseesion now remained that deed respecting the
partnervhip which was in tmth executed by old Sir Joseph on that
ibnrteenth of July ; Bridget Bolster : and John Kenneby. Of the
manner in whidi Mr. Dockwrath used his position we already
know enough. The man who held the deed, one Tonington,
was a relative of jMartock, Sir Joseph's partner, and had been
one of his executors. It was not much indeed that he had te say,
but that little sent him np high in the social scale during those
dayH. He lived at Eennington, and he was asked out to dinner in
that neighbonrhood every day for a week running, on the score of
his connection with the groat Orley Farm case. Bridget Bolster
was still down at the hotel in the West of England, and being of a
solid, sensible, and somewhat nnimaginatiye torn of mind, probably
wont through hor duties to the last without much change of manner.
But the effect of the coming scenes upon poor John Kenneby was
terrible. It was to him as though for the time they had made of
him an Atlas, and compelled him to bear on his wecik fihouldere the
weight of the whole world. Men did talk much abont Lady Mason
and the coming trial ; but to him it seemed as though men talked of

THE STATS OF PUBUEC OPINIOK. 163

notbiBg else. At fiubbles and <ihr6ase'« it was fdirnd useless to pot
figures into his hands till all this dMJuld Ipie ov^. Indeed it wsb
doubted by many whether lie would ever secover his ordinaiy toad
of nmid. It seemed to be understood that lie would be cross-es-
amined by Ghaffanbrass, and there were those who thought tibait
John Kenneby would never again be equal to a day's work after
that which be would then be made to endure. That he would have
been greatly relieved could the whole thing have been wiped saway
from him there )Can be no manner of doubt ; but I £iKncy that hb
would also have been disappointed. It is muoh to be greait £or
a day, even thou^ that day's greatness should •oause the shipwreck
of a whole life.

* I shall endeavour to speak the truth,' said John EiOnneby^
solemnly.

' The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,' said
Moulder.

' Yes, Moulder, that will be my endeavour-; and Ihcoi I may la^
my hand upon my bosom and think that I have done my 4uty bj
my country.' And as Kenneby spoke he suited the aotioB to the woffd^

' Quite right, John,' said Mrs. Smiley. ^ Thetn's the sentuftents
of a man, and I, as a woman having a right tofipeak where you 9t^
concerned, quite approve of them.'

' They'll g&t nothhig but the truth out of John,' said Mrs. MooUer .;
* not if he knows it.' These last words she added* aotuated hy adU
miration of what she had heard of Mr. GhaffimbjasB, and parhi^
with some little doubt as to her brother's firmness.

' That's where it is,' said Moulder. * Lord bless you, John,
they'll turn you round their fiinger Hke a bit of red tape. Truth !
Gammon ! What do they care for truth ?'

*■ But I care, Moulder,' said Kenneby. ' I don't fiuppoae they can
make me tell falsehoods if I don't wish it.'

< Not if you're the man I take you to be,' sidd Mrs. Smiley.

^ Gammon !' said Moulder.

' Mr. Moulder, that's an objectionable word,' said Mrs. Smiley.
' K John Kenneby is the man I take him to be, — mid who's a right
to speak if I haven't, seeing that I aon going to oommit myseK for
this world into his hands ?' — and Mrs. Smiley, as she spoke, .sim-
pered, and looked down with averted head on the fiilness of her
Irish tabinet — * if he's the man that I take him to be, he won't say
on this thrilling occasion no more than the truths nor yet no less.
Now that isn't gammcm — if I know what gammon is.'

It will have been already seen that the party in question were
assembled at Mr. Moulder's room in Great BL Helen's. There had
been a little supper party there to oommemorate the fined arrange-
ments as to the coming marriage, and the four were now sitting
round the fire with their glasses of hot toddy at their elbows.

M 2

164 OBLET FABM.

Moulder was anned with his pipe, and was enjoying himself in
that manner which most delighted him. When last we saw him
he had somewhat exceeded discretion in his onps, and "was not
oomfortable. But at the present nothing ailed him. The sopper
had been good, the tobacco was good, and the toddy was good.
Therefore when the lovely Thais sitting beside him, — ^Thais how-
erer on this occasion having been provided not for hiTn«»f^|f bat
for his brother-in-law, — ^when Thais objeoted to the use of his
&voiirite word, he merely chuckled down in the bottom of his &t
throat, and allowed her to finish her sentence.

Poor John Eenneby had more — ^mnch more, on his hands than
this dreadful triaL Since he had declared that the Adriatic was
&ee to wed another, he had fomid himself devoted and given up to
Mrs. Smiley. For some days after that suspicions evenin|^ there
had been considerable wrangling between Mrs. Moulder and
Mrs. Smiley as to the proceeds of the brick-field; and on this
question Moulder himself had taken a part. The Moulder interest
had of course desired that all right of management in the brick-field
should be vested in the husband, seeing that, according to the
usages of this coimtry, brick-fields and their belongings appertain
rather to men than to women ; but Mrs. Smiley had soon made it
evident that she by no means intended to be merely a sleeping
partner in the firm. At one time Eenneby had entertained a hope
of escape ; for neither would the Moulder interest give way, nor
would the Smiley. But two hundred a year was a great stake, and
at last the thing was arranged, very much in accordance with the
original Smiley view. And now at this most trying period of his
life, poor Kennedy had upon his mind all the cares of a lover as well
as the cares of a witness. ~

* I shall do my best,' said John. * I shall do my best and then
throw myself upon Providence.*

* And take a little drop of something comfortable in your pocket,'
said his sister, ' so as to sperrit you up a little when your name's
called.'

' Sperrit him up !' said Moidder ; ' why I suppose he'll be stand-
ing in that box the best part of a day. I knowed a man was a
witness ; it was a case of horse-stealing ; and the man who was the
witness was the man who'd took the horse.'

' And he was witness against hisself !' said Mrs. Smiley.

* No ; he'd paid for it. That is to say, either he had or he hadn't.
That was what they wanted to get out of him, and I'm blessed if he
didn't take 'em till the judge wouldn't set there any longer. And
then they hadn't got it out of him.'

* But John Eenneby aint one of that sort,' said Mrs. Smiley.

' I suppose that man did not want to unbosom himself,' said
Eenneby.

THE STATE OP PTJBLIO OPINION. 165

' Well ; no. The likes of him seldom do like to unbosom them-
selves,' said Moulder.

^ But that will be my desire. If they will only allow me to speak
freely whatever I know about this matter, I will give them no trouble.'

* You mean to act honest, John,' said his sister.
*' I always did, Mary Anne.'

' Well now, 111 tell you what it is,' said Moulder. ' Ab
Mrs. Smiley don't like it I won't say anything more about gammon ;
— not just at present, that is.'

' I've no objection to gammon, Mr. Moidder, when properly used,'
said Mrs. Smiley, ' but I look on it as disrespectful ; and seeing the
position which I hold as regards John Eenneby, anything dis-
respectful to him is hurtful to my feelings.'

' All right,' said Moulder. ' And now, John, I'll just tell you
what it is. You've no more chance of being allowed to speak freely
there than — than — than — no more than if you was in church.
What are them fellows paid for if you're to say whatever you
pleases out in your own way ?'

' He only wants to say the truth, M.,' said Mrs. Moulder, who
probably knew less than her husband of the general usages of courts
of law.

' Truth be ,' said Moulder.

* Mr. Moidder !' said Mrs. Smiley. • There's ladies by, if you'll
please to remember.'

' To hear such nonsense sets one past oneself,' continued he ; * as
if all those lawyers were brought together there — the cleverest and
sharpest fellows in the kingdom, mind you — to listen to a man like
John here telling his own story in his own way. You'll have to
tell your story in their way ; that is, in two different ways. There'll
be one fellow '11 make you tell it his way first, and another fellow
'11 make you tell it again his way afterwards ; and its odds but
what the first '11 be at you again after that, till you won't know
whether you stand on your heels or your head.'

' That can't be right,' said Mrs. Moulder.

* And why can't it be right ?' said Moulder. • They're paid for it ;
it's their duties ; just as it's my duty to sell Hubbies and Grease's
sugar. It's not for me to say the sugar's bad, or the samples not
equal to the last. My duty is to sell, and I sell ; — and it's their duty
to get a verdict.'

' But the truth, Moulder !' said Kenneby.

* Gammon !' said Moulder. ' Begging your pardon, Mrs. Smiley,
for making use of the expression. Look you here, John ; if you're
paid to bring a man oflf not guilty, won't you bring him oflf if you
can? I've been at trials times upon times, and listened till I've
wished from the bottom of my heart that I'd been brought up a
barrister. Not that I think much of myself, and I mean of course

166 OBLET FAXSL

with education and all that accoidm^j. Ifa beantifnl to hear
tlieni. Youll see a little fellow in a wig, and hell gst np; and
Hierell be a man in ihe box before him, — eome swell dreaeed up to
his eyes, who thinks no end of strong beer of himself; and in ahovtt
ten minutes hell be as flabby as wet paper, and he'll aaiy — an his
oath, mind yon, — jnst anything that that little fellow wants liim to
any. That's power, mind yon, and I call it beantifiiL'

' Bnt it aint jnstice,' said Mrs. Smiley.

' Why not ? I say it is jnstiee. Yon can haver it if yon eiiooae to
pay for it, and so can I. If I buy a greatcoat against the winter, and
yon go out at night without haying one, is it injustice becanse yo«i're
perished by the cold while I'm as warm as a toast? I saj- it's a
grand thing to live in a oomntry where one can boy a greatcoat.'

The argmnent had got so &r, Mr. Moolder certainly having the
best of it, when a ring at ihe enter door was heard.

* Now who on earth is that ? said Moulder.

' Snengkeld, I shooldn't wonder,' said his wife.

' I hope it aint no stranger,' said Mrs. Smiley. * Situated as
John and I are now, strax^rs is so disagreeable.' And then the
door was opened by the maidnservant, and Mr. Slantwise was ailown
into the room.

^ Halloo, Eantwise !' said Mr. Moulder, not rising from ha» chair,
or giving any very decided tokens of welcome. * I thou^t yon were
down somewhere among the iron fonndries T

* So I was, Mr. Moulder, bnt I came up yesterday. Mrs. Monlder,
allow me to have the honour. I hope I see you quite well ; but
looking at you I need not ask. Mr. Kenneby, sir, your very htonbie
servant The day's coming on fast ; isn't it, Mr. Kenneby ? Ma'am,
your very obedient I believe I haven't the pleasure of being
acquainted.'

* Mrs. Smiley, Mr. Kantwise. Mr. E[antwise, Mrs. Smiley,' said
the lady of the house, introducing her visitors to each other in ihe
appropriate way.

* Quite delighted, I'm sure,' said Kantwise.

* Smiley as is, and Kenneby as will be this day three weeks,'
ssdd Moulder ; and then they all enjoyed that little joke, Mrs. Smiley
by no means appearing bashful in tibe matter although Mr. Kantwise
was a stranger.

* I thought I should find Mr. Kenneby here,' said Kantwise,
when the subject of the coming nuptials had been sufficiently
discussed, * and therefore I just stepped in. No intrusion, I hope,
Mr. Moulder.'

* All right,' said Moulder ; * make youi-self at home. There's ths
stuff on the table. You know what the tap is.'

* I've just parted from — Mr. Dock wrath,' said Kantwise, speak-
ing In a tone of voice which implied the great importance of the

THE STATE OP PUBLIC OPINION. 187

cominunicatioxi, and looking xoimd the tal^Le to see the effect of it
upon the circle.

' Then you've parted from a very low-lived party, let me tell you
that/ said Moulder. He had not forgotten Dockwrath's oonduct iB
the commercial room at Leeds, and was fully resolved that he never
would forgive it.

* That's as may be/ faid Kantwise. *' I say nothing on that
subject at the present moment, either one way or the other. Bat
I think you'll all agree as to this: that at the present m<»nent
Mr. Dockwrath fills a conspicuoua plaee in the public eye.'

' By no means so conapicuous as John Kenneby,' said Mrs. Smiley,
' if I may be allowed in my position to hold an opinion.'

' That's as may be, ma'am. I say nothing aboat that. What
I hold by is, that Mr. Dockwrath does hold a conspicuous place m
the public eye. I've just parted with him in Gray's Trm Lane) aoaS
he says— that it's all up now with Lady Mason.'

* Gammon !' said Moulder. And on this eccasion Mrs. SttniEey
did not rebuke him. * What does he know about it more thiui«
any one else? Will he bet two to one? Becaosev if so, 111 take
it ; — only I must see the money down.'

' I don't know what he'U bet, Mr. Monldbr ; only he says it's all
up ^vith her/

* Will he back his side, even handed ?'

* I aint a betting man, Mr. Moulder. 1 dont think ill's tijghf .
And on such a matter as this, touching the liberty and almost life' of
a lady whom I've had the honour of seeing, and acquainted as I am
with the lady of the other party, Mrs. Mason that ia of Groby
Park, I should rather, if it's no offence to you, decline ike subject 6f
— ^betting.'

* Bother!'

* Now M., in your own house, you know !' said his wife.

' So it is bother. But never mind that. Go on, Kantwise.
What is this you were saying about Dockwrath ?

' Oh, that's about all. I thought you would like to know what
they were doing, — particularly Mr. Eenneby. I do hear that they
mean to be uncommonly hard apon him.'

The unfortunate witness shifted uneasily in hi» seait, but at ^tte
moment said nothing Mmself.

* Well, now, I can't understand it,' said Mrs. Smiley, sitlmg
upright in her chair, and tackling herself to the discussion as though
she meant to express her opinion, let who might think differently.
' How is any one to put words into my mouth if I don't choose to
speak then ? There's John's waistcoat is silk.' Ui)on which they
all looked at Kcnneby's waistcoat, and, with the exception of
Kantwise, acknowledged the truth of the assertion.

168 OBLEY FABM.

* That's as may be/ said he, looking lonnd at it from the comer
of his eyes.

' And do you mean to say that all the banisterB in London will
make me say that it*s made of cloth? It's ridiclous — nothing short
of ridiclous.'

* You've never tried, my dear,' said Moulder.

* I don't know about being your dear^ Mr. Moulder '

* Nor yet don't I neither, Mrs. Smiley,' said the wife.

' Mr. Kenneby's my dear, and I aint ashamed to own him, — before
men and women. But if he allows hisself to be hocussed in that
way, I don't know but what I shall be ashamed. I call it hocussing
— just hocussing.'

•So it is, ma'am,' said Kantwise, * only this, you know, if I
hocus you, why you hocus me in return ; so it isn't so very unfair,
you know.'

* Unfair I' said Moulder. ' It's the £urest thing that is. It's the
bulwark of the British Constitution.'

* What ! being badgered and browbeat ?' asked Kenneby, who
was liiinking within himself that if this were so he did not care if
he lived somewhere beyond the protection of that blessed ^gis.

* Trial by jury is,' said Moulder. ' And how can you have trial
by jury if the witnesses are not to be cross-questioned ?*

To this position no one was at the moment ready to give an
answer, and Mr. Moulder enjoyed a triumph over his audience.
That he lived in a happy and blessed country Moulder was well
aware, and with those blessings he did not wish any one to tamper.
* Mother,' said a fastidious child to his parent, * the bread is gritty
and the butter tastes of turnips.' 'Turnips indeed, — and gritty!'
said the mother. ' Is it not a great thing to have bread and butter
at all ?' I own that my sympatJiies are with the child. Bread and
butter is a great thing ; but I would have it of the best if that be
possible.

After that Mr. Kantwise was allowed to dilate upon the subject
which had brought him there'. Mr. Dockwrath had been summoned
to Bedford Kow, and there had held a council of war together with
Mr. Joseph Mason and Mr. Matthew Bound. According to his own
stoiy Mr. Matthew had quite come round and been forced to ac-
knowledge all that Dockvirrath had done for the cause. In Bedford
Row there was no doubt whatever as to the verdict. ' That
woman Bolster is quite clear that she only signed one deed,' said
Kantwise.

* I shall say nothing — nothing here,' said Kenneby.

Quite right, John,' said Mrs. Smiley. ' Your feelings on the
occasion become you.'

* 111 lay an even bet she's acquitted,' said Moulder. ' And I'll
do it in a ten-p'und note.'

CHAPTEB XXIL

WHAT THE FOUR LAWYERS THOUGHT ABOUT IT.

I HAYE spoken of the state of public opinion as to Lady Mason's
coming trial, and haYe explained that for the most part men's
thoughts and sympathies took part with her. But I cannot say
that such was the case with the thoughts of those who were most
closely concerned with her in the matter, — ^whatever may haYO
been their sympathies. Of the state of Mr. FumiYal's mind on the
matter enough has been said. But if he had still entertained any
shadow of doubt as to his client's guilt or innocence, none what-
eYer was entertained either by Mr. Aram or by Mr. ChafiEanbrass.
Fi-om the day on which they had first gone into the real circum-
stances of the case, looking into the OYidence which could be adduced
against their client, and looking also to their means of rebutting that
OYidence, they had noYer felt a shadow of doubt upon the subject.
But yet neither of them had eYer said that she was guilty. Aram,
in discussing with his clerks the work which it was necessary that
they should do in the matter, had neYOr expressed such an opinion ;
nor had Chafianbrass done so in the consultations which he had
held with Aram. As to the Yerdict they had Yery often expressed
an opinion, — diflfering considerably. Mr. Aram was strongly of
opinion that Lady Mason would be acquitted, resting that opinion,
mainly on his great confidence in the powers of Mr. Chafianbrass.
But Mr. Chafianbrass would shake his head, and sometimes say that
things were not now as they used to be.

^ That may be so in the City,' said Mr. Aram. * But you won't
find a City jury down at Alston.'

' It's not the juries, Aram. It's the judges. It usedn't to be so,
but it is now. When a man has the last word, and will take the
trouble to use it, that's cYerything. If I were asked what point
I'd best like to haYe in my faYour, I'd say, a deaf judge. Or if not
that, one regularly tired out. I' Ye sometimes thought I'd like to
be a judge myself, merely to haYe the last word.'

* That wouldn't suit you at all, Mr. Chaffanbrass, for you'd be
sick of it in a week.'

* At any rate I'm not fit for it,' said the great man meekly. ' I'll
tell you what, Aram, I can look back on life and think that Tyb
done a deal of good in my way. I'yc proYented unnecessary blood-

170 OBLST FABM.

fihed. I've saved tke conntiy thousands of pounds in the mainte-
nance of men who've shown themselves well able to maintain
themselves. And I've made the Crown lawyers very careful as to
what sort of evidence they would send up to the Old Bailey. But
my chances of life have been such that they haven't made me fit to
be a judge. I know that.'

* I wish I might see you on the bench to-morrow ; — only that ivo
shouldn't know what to do without you,' said the civil attorney. It
was no more than the &ir every-day flattery of the world, for the
practice of Mx» Solomon Aram in his profession was quite as surely
attained as was that of Mr. ChaffiuibnuBS. And it could hardly be
called flattery^ for Mr. Solomon Aram much valued the services of
Mr. Chaffanbrass, and greasy appreciated the peculiar turn .of that
gentleman's mind.

The above oonveisation took place in Mr. Solomon Aram's private
room in Buckleisbury. In that much-noted city thoroughfare
Mr. Aram rented the first floor of a house over an eating establish-
ment. He had no great paraphernalia of books and boxes and
clerks' desks, as are apparently necessary to attorneys in generaL
Three clerks he did employ,, who sat in one room, and he himself
•at in that behind it. So at least they sat when they were to be
found at the parent establishment; but, as regarded the attorney
himself and his senior assistant, the work of their lives was carried
on chiefly in the courts of law. The room in which Mr. Aram: w«8
now sitting was furnished with much more attention to comfort
than is usual in lawyers' chambers. Mr. Chaffanbrass was at
present lying, with his feet up, on a Bof& against the wall, in a
position of comfort never attained by him elsewhere till the after-
dinner hours had come to him ; and Mr. Aram himself filled an easy
lounging-chair. Some few law papers there were scattered on the
library table, but none of those piles of dusty documents "which.
give to a sti-anger, on entering an ordinary attorney's room, so
terrible an idea of the difSculty and dreariness of the profession.
There were no tin boxes with old names labelled on them ; there
were no piles of letters, and no pigeon-holes loaded with old memo-
randa. On the whole Mr. Aram's private room was smart and
attractive; though, like himself, it had an air rather of pretence
than of steady and assured well-being.

It is not quite the thing for a barrister to wait upon an attorney,
and therefore it must not be supposed that Mr. Chaffanbiass had
come to Mr. Aram with any view to immediate business ; but never-
theless, as the two men understood each other, they could say what
they had to say as to this case of Lady Mason's, although their
present positions were somewhat irregular. They were both to
meet Mr. Fumival and Felix Graham on that afternoon in Mr. Fur-
nival's chambers with reference to the division of those labours

WHAT THE FOUB ILJfeWlKEBS THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 171

wliick vr&n to be comaneneed »fc Alston on tke day bat one follow-
iiig, and they both thought that it might be as -well thaik ihey shonld
say a word to eacih other on the snbjeot before tbey went there.

' I suppose yon know nothing abont the panel down there, eh?^
said Cha&nbrass.

' Well, I haTO madi» some inquiries; bnt I don't tbink there's
anything especial to know ; — ^nothing thlat matters. If I were you;
Mr. Cha&nbrass, I wonldn^t ha^e any Hamworth' people on the
jury, for they saiy that a prophet is nerer a prophet in his own
country.'

* But do yon know the Hamworth peo]^ ?

^ Oh, yes ; I can telL yon as much as that. But I don't thmk It
will matter much who ia or is not on the jnryJ

* And why not ?'

If those two witnesses break down — ^thot is, Kenneby and Boliiter,
no jury can convict her. And if they don't——'

* Then no jury can acquit her. But let me tell yov, Aram^ tfaatt
it's not every man put into a juzy^box who* can tell whether a
witness has broken down or not.'

*' But from what I hear, Mr. ChadShnbrass, I don^t think either of
these can stand a chance; — that is,, if they both come into your
hands.'

' But they won't both come into my hands,' said the anedous hexo
of the Old Bailey.

' Ah ! that's where it is. That's- where we shall fidL Mr. Fur-
nival is a great man, no doubt.'

' A very great man, — in his way,' said Mr. Chafi&mbrass.

^ But if he lets one of those two slip through his fingers the
thing's over.'

* You know my opinion,' said Chaffanbraas, * I think it is all over.
If 3'ou're right in what you say, — that they're both ready to swear
in their direct evidence that they only signed one deed on that day,
no vacillation afterwards would have any effect on the judge. It's
just possible, you know, that their memory might deceive them,'

'Possible! I should think so. I'll tell you what, Mr. Chaffanbrass,
if the matter was altogether in your hands I should have no fear,'-**
literally no fear.'

* Ah, you're partial, Aram.'

* It couldn't be so managed, could it, Mr. Chaffanbrass ? It would
be a great thing ; a very great thing.' But Mr. Cha£Suibrass said that
he thought it could not be managed. The success or safety of a
client is a very great thing ; — in a professional point of view a very
great thing indeed. But there iS' a matter which in legal eyes is
greater even than that. Professional etiquette required that the
cross-examination of these two most important witnesses should not
be left in the hands of the same barrister*

172

And ffaen the special rnktribatem of Kemiebjr and Bridget Bolster
wefe ditmTd between them, and it was manifiest that Aram knew
with great accoracj the chancten of the persons with whom he
had to deal. HuU Kenneby mi^t be made to saj almost anything
was taken for granted. With him there would be rerj great scope
£ofr that peculiar skill with which Mr. Chaffanbraas was so wonder-
fnllj gifted. In the hands of Mr. ChaiSanbrass it was not impro-
bable that Kennebj might be made to swear that he had signed two,
tlireey four — anj number of documents on that fourteenth of July,
although he had before sworn that he had only signed one.
Mr. Chafianbrass indeed might probably make him say anything
that he pleased. Had Kenneby been unsupported the case would
hare been made safe, — so said Mr. Solomon Aram, — ^by leaving
Kenneby in the hands of Mr. Cbaffanbrass. But then Bridget
Bolster was supposed to be a witness of altogether a different class
of character. To induce her to say exactly the reverse of that
which she intended to say might, no doubt, be within the power
of man. Mr. Aram thought that it woidd be within the power of
Mr. Cbaffanbrass. He thought, however, that it would as certainly
be beyond the power of Mr. Fumival ; and when the great man
Ijdog on the sofa mentioned the name of Mr. Felix Graham,
Mr. Aram merely smiled. The question with him was this: —
Which would be the safest course ? — to make quite sure of Kenneby
by leaving him with Cbaffanbrass ; or to go for the double stake by
handing Kenneby over to Mr. Fumival and leaving the task of diffi-
culty to the great master ?

* When so much depends upon it, I do detest all this etiquette
and precedence/ said Aram with enthusiasm. ^ In such a case
Mr, Furnival ought not to think of himself.'

* My dear Aram,' said Mr. Cbaffanbrass, ' men always think of
themsolvos first. And if wo wore to go out of the usual course, do
you conceive that the gentlemen on the other side would fail to
notice it?*

* Wliich sliall it be then ?'

* I'm quite indifferent. If the memory of either of these two
persons is doubtful, — and after twenty years it may be so, —
Mr, Fumival will discover it,'

* Then on the whole I'm disposed to think that I'd let him take
the man.'

* Just us you please, Aram. That is, if he's satisfied also.'

* I'm not going to have my client overthrown, you know,' said
Aram. • And then you'll take Dockwrath also, of course. I don't
know that it will have much effect upon the case, but I shall like to
see Dockwrath in your hands ; I shall indeed.'

' I doubt ho*ll be too many for me.'

* Ua, ha, ha!' Aram might well laugh; for when had any

WHAT THE POUB LAWTEBS THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 173

one shown himself able to withstand the powers of Mr. Chafian-
brass?

* They say he id a sharp fellow/ said Mr. Chaffanbrass. ' Well, we
must be off. When those gentlemen at the West End get into Par-
liament it does not do to keep them waiting. Let one of yonr
fellows get a cab.' And then the barrister and the attorney started
from Bucklersbory for the general meeting of their forces to be held
in the Old Square, Lincoln's Inn.

We have heard how it came to pass that Felix Graham had been
induced to become one of that legal phalanx which was employed
on behalf of Lady Mason. It was now some days since he had left
Koningsby, and those days with him had been very busy. He had
never yet undertaken the defence of a person in a criminal court,
and had much to learn, — or perhaps he rather fiuicied that he had.
And then that affair of Mary Snow's new lover was not found to
arrange itself altogether easily. When he came to the details of his
dealings with the different parties, every one wanted from him twice
as much money as he had expected. The chemist was very willing
to have a partner, but then a partnership in his business was, ac-
cording to his view of the matter, a peculiarly expensive luxury.
Snow p^re, moreover, came forward with claims which he rested on
such various arguments, that Graham found it almost impossible to
resist them. At first, — that is immediately subsequent to the inter-
view between him and his patron described in ^ preceding chapter,
Graham had been visited by a very repulsive attorney who had
talked loudly about the cruel wrongs of his ill-used client This
phasis of the affair would have been by far the preferable one ; but
the attorney and his client probably disagreed. Snow wanted im-
mediate money, and as no immediate money was forthcoming
through the attorney, he threw himself repentant at Graham's
feot, and took himself off with twenty shillings. But his penitence,
and his wants, and his tears, and the thwarted ambition of his
parental mind were endless ; and poor Felix hardly knew where
to turn himself without seeing him. It seemed probable that every
denizen of the courts of law in London would be told before long
the sad tale of Mary Snow's injuries. And then Mrs. Thomas
wanted money, — more money than she had a right to want in
accordance with the terms of their mutual agreement. ' She had
been very much put about,' she said, — * dreadfully put about. She
had had to change her servant three times. There was no knowing
the trouble Mary Snow had given her. She had, in a great measure,
been forced to sacrifice her school.' Poor woman ! she thought she
was telling the truth while making these false plaints. She did not
mean to be dishonest, but it is so easy to be dishonest without mean-
ing it when one is very poor ! Mary Snow herself made no claim on
her Ic^t lover, no claim for money or for aught besides. When he

174 OBUBT r ABBC

parted from her on tliat ^j without Idssusg her, Iftuy Snow know
that all that was over. But not the less did Graham recognize her
claim. The veay hosmet which ahe rnnat wear whan «he atood before
the altar with Eitzallen umat be paid for out of Orahaxn's pocket.
Thftt hobby of moulding a young lady is perhaps of all hobbies the
anoet expensive to which a young gentleman can apply himself.

And in these -days he hea^ no word iram Noningsby. Augustus
Staveley was up in town, and once or twdoe they saw each other.
Sat, as may easily be imagined, nothing was said between them
about Madeline. As Augustus had once declared, a man does not
ilalk to his friend about lids own sister. And then hearing nothing
•—as indeed how could he have heard anything? — Graham en-
deavoured to assure himself that that was «!! over. His hopes
had ran high ai that moment when his last interview with the
judge had taken plaoe; but after all to what did that amount?
fie had never even asked Madeline to Icvte him. fie had been
aiioh a fool that he had made no use of those opporfaonities which
chance had thrown in his way. He had been teld Ihat he might
fairly aspire to the hand of any lady. And yet whem he had -really
lo-ved, and the girl whom he had loved had been olose to him, he
had not dared to speak to her ! How could he now expect that she,
in his absence, should case for him ?

With all these little troubles «round him he wBut to work on
liady Mason's case« and at first felt thoroughly well inclined to
g^\e her all the aid in his power. He saw Mr. Fumival on different
oocasions, and did much to charm that gentleman by his enthusiafini
in this matter. Mr. Fumival himself could no longer be as enthusi-
astic as he had been. The skill of a lawyer he would still give if
necessary, but the ardour of the loving iriend was waxing colder
j&om day to day. Would it not be better, if such might be possible,
that the whole affair should be given up to the hands of Chaffan-
brass who could be energetic without belief, and of Gxaham who
was energetic because he believed ? So he would say to himself
frequently. But then he would think again of her pale £Bkce and
admowledgo that this was impossible. He must go <m till the end.
But, nevertheless, if this youx^g man could believe, would it not be
well that he should bear the brunt of the battle ? That fighting of a
battle without belief is, I think, the sorriest task which ever falls to
the lot of any man.

But, as the day grew nigh, a shadow of unbelief, « dim passing
shade — a shade which would pass, and thesi return, and then pass
again — ^flitted also across the mind of Felix Graham. His theory
had been, and still was, that those two witnesses, Konneby and
Bolster, were suborned by Dockwrath to swewr falsely. He had
commenced by looking at the matter with a full confidence in his
client's innocence, a confidence which had ocme from th^ enter

WHAT THE FOUR LAWTEB8 THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 175

world, from tas flocud oonTictioiiyB, and tlie knowledge which he had
of the oonfideuoe of others. Then it had been neoessary for him to
reooncUe the stories which Kennefoy and Bolster were prepared to
tell wi(th ^iuB strong eonfidenoe, and he conld only do so by be-
lieving that they were both false and had been thus snbonied.
But what if they were not false? What if he were jndging
them wrongfully ? I do not say that he had oeased to believe
in Lady Mason ; but a shadow of doubt would occasionally cross
his mind, and give to the whole affair an aspect which to him was
very tragical.

He had reached Mr. Fumival's chambers on this day some few
minutes before his new allies, and as he was seated there discussing
the matter which was now so interesting to them all, he blurted
out a question which nearly confounded the elder barrister

* I suppose these oan really be no doubt as to her ianooence ?
What was Mr. FumivaJl to say ? Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Axtm.

had asked no soch question. Mr. Bound had asiked no AMoh
question when he had discussed the whole matter confidentially
with him. It was a sort of question never put to professional mec^
and one which Felix Graham should not have asked. Nevertheless
it must be answered.

* Eh ?» he said.

* I suppose we may take it for granted that Lady Mason is really
innocent, — ^that is, free from all falsehood or fraud in this matter ?

* Eeally innocent I Oh yes ; I presume we take that for granted,
as a matter of coxmse.'

* But you yourself, Mr. Fumival ; you have no doubt about it ?
You have been concerned in this matter from the beginning, and
therefore I have no hesitation in asking you.'

But that was ezactiy the reason why he should have hesitated !
At least so Mr. Fumival thought. ' Who ; I ? No ; I have no
doubt ; none in the least,' said he. And thus the lie which he had
been trying to avoid, was at last told.

The assurance thus given was very complete as £aj as the words
were concerned ; but there was something in the tone of Mr. Fsr-
nival*s voice, which did not quite satisfy Felix CMbam. It was Bot
that he thought that Mr. Fumival had spoken liEdsely, but the
answer had not been made in a manner to set his own mind at rest.
Why had not Mr. Fumival answered him with enthusiasm ? Why
had he not, on behalf of his old friend, shown something like
indignation that any sueh doubt should have been expiiessed ? His
words had been words of assurance ; but, considering the subject, hifi
tone had contained no assurance. And thus the shadow of doubt
flitted backwards and forwards before Graham's mind.

Then the general meeting of the four lawyens was
variou8 arrangements necessary for the coming contest

176 OBLET rABM.

No such impertinent qnestionB were asked then, nor were there any
oommunicationa between them of a confidential nature. Mr. Ohaffiui-
hnas and Solomon Aram might whisper together, as might also
Mr. FnmiYal and Felix Graham ; but there could be no whispering
when all the four were assembled. The programme of their battle
was settled, and then they parted with the understanding that they
were to meet again in the court-house at Alston.

CHAPTER XXm.

THE EVENING BETORE THE TRIAL.

The eve of the trial had now come, and still there had been no
confidence between the mother and the son. No words of kindness
had been spoken with reference to that terrible event which was so
near at hand. Lucius had in his manner been courteous to his
mother, but he had at the same time been very stem. He liad
seemed to make no allowance for her sorrows, never saying to her
one of those soft words which we all love to hear from -ttiose around
ns when we are suffering. Why should she suffer thus ? Had she
chosen to lean upon him, he vrould have borne on her behalf all this
trouble and vexation. As to her being guilty — as to her being
found guilty by any twelve jurymen in England, — no such idea
ever entered his head. I have said that many people had begun to
suspect ; but no such suspicions had reached his ears. What man,
imless it should be some Dockwrath, would whisper to the son the
possibility of his mother's guilt ? Dockwrath had done more than
whisper it ; but the words of such a man could have no avail with
him against his mother's character.

On that day Mrs. Orme had been with Lady Mason for some
hours, and had used all her eloquence to induce the mother even
then to divulge her secret to her son. Mrs. Orme had suggested
that Sir Peregrine should tell him ; she had offered to tell him her>
self ; she had proposed that Lady Mason should write io Lucius.
But all had been of no avail. Lady Mason had argued, and had
argued with some truth, that it was too late to tell him now, with
the view of obtaining from him support during the trial. If he
were now told, he would not recover from the first shock of the
blow in time to appear in court without showing on his brow the
perturbation of his spirit. His terrible grief would reveal the secret
to every one. * When it is over,' — she had whispered at last, as
Mrs. Orme continued to press upon her the absolute necessity that
Lucius should give up the property, — ' when it is over, you shall
do it.'

THE EVENING BEFOBE THE TRIAL. 177

With this Mrs. Orme was obliged to rest contented. She had not
the heart to remind Lady Mason how probable it was that the truth
might be told out to all the world during the next two or three
days; — that a verdict of Guilty might make any further telling
imnecessary. And indeed it was not needed that she should do so.
In this respect Lady Mason was fully aware of the nature of the
ground on which she stood.

Mrs. Orme had sat witL her the whole afternoon, only leaving
herself time to be ready for Sir Peregrine's dinner ; and as she left
her she promised to be with her early on the following morning to
go with her down to the court. Mr. Aram was also to come to the
Farm for her, and a closed carriage had been ordered from the inn
for the occasion.

* You won't let him prevent you ?' were the last words she spoke,
as Mrs. Orme then left her.

* He will not wish to do so,' said Mrs. Orme. ' He has already
given me his permission. He never goes back from his word, you
know.'

This had been said in allusion to Sir Peregrine. When Mrs. Orme
had Erst proposed to accompany Lady Mason to^the court and to sit
by her side during the whole tnal, he had been much startled. He
had been startled, and for a time had been very unwilling to accede
tx> such a step. - The place which she now proposed to fill was one
which he had intended to fill himself ; — but he had intended to stand
by an innocent, injured lady, not a perpetrator of midnight foi^ry.
He had intended to support a spotless being, who would then be his
wife, — not a woman who for years had lived on the proceeds of
fraud and felony, committed by herself !

* Edith,' he had said, ' you know that I am unwilling to oppose
you ; but I think that in this your feelings are carrying you too
far.'

' No, father,' she answered, not giving way at all, or showing
herself minded to be turned from her purpose by anything he might
say. *Do not think so; think of her misery. How could she
endure it by herself?'

* Think of her guilt, Edith !'

* I will leave others to think of that. But, father, her guilt will
not stain me. Are we not bound to remember what injury she
might have done to us, and how we might still have been ignorant
of all this, had not she herself confessed it — for our sakes — for our
sakes, father ?'

And then Sir Peregrine gave way. When this argument was
used to him, he was forced to yield. It was true that, had not that
woman been as generous as she was guilty, he would now have been
bound to share her shame. The whole of this afifair, taken together,
had nearly laid him prostrate ; but that which had gone the farthest

VOL. II. N

178 OltLET FARM.

towards effeoting this ruin, was tho feeling that he owed so mnch
to Xiady Mason. As regarded the outer world, the injury to him
would have been much more terrible had he married her; men
would then have declared that all was over with him; but aa
regards the inner man, I doubt whether he would not hare borne
that better. It was easier for him to sustain an injury than a
favour, — ^than a fstivour from one whom his judgment compelled him
U> disown as a friend.

But he had given way, and it was understood at The Cleeve that
Mrs. Orme was to remain by Lady Mason's side during the trial.
To the general household there was nothing in this that was
wonderful. They knew only of the old friendship. To them the
question of her guilt was still an open question. As others had
begun to doubt, so had they ; but no one then presumed that Sir
Peregrine or Mrs. Orme had any doubt. That they were assured
of her innocence was the conviction of all Hamworth and its neigh-
bourhood.

* He never goes back from his woid, you know,' Mrs. Orme haH
said ; and then she kissed Lady Mason, and went her way. She
had never left her without a kiss, had never greeted her without a
warm pressure of the hand, since that day on which the secret had
been told in Sir Peregrine's library. It would be impossible to
describe how great had been the worth of this affection to Lady
Mason ; but it may almost be said that it had kept her alive. She
herself had said but little about it, uttering but few thanks ; but not
the less had she recognized tho value of what had been done for her.
She had even become more free herself in her intercourse with Mrs.
Orme, — more open in her mode of speech, — had put herself more on
an equality with her friend, since there had ceased to be anything
hidden between them. Previously Lady Mason had felt, and had
occasionally expressed the feeling, that she was hardly fit to asso*
oiate on equal terms with Mrs. Orme ; but now there was none of
this, — now, as they sat together for hours and hours, they spoke,
and argued, and lived together as though they were equal. But
nevertheless, could she have shown her -love by any great deed,
there was nothing which Lady Mason would not have done for
Mrs. Orme.

She was now left alone, and according to her daily custom would
remain there till tho servant told her that Mr. Lucius was waiting
for her in the dining-room. In an early part of this story I have
endeavoured to describe how this woman sat alone, vnih deep
sorrow in her heart and deep thought on her mind, when she first
learned what terrible things were coming on her. The idea, how-
ever, which the reader will have conceived of her as she sat there
will have come to him from the skill of the artist, and not from the
words of the writer. K that drawing is now near him, let him go

THE EVENING BEFOBX THE TBIAL. 179

baok to it. Lady Mason was again sitting in the same room — tliafc
pleasant room, looking ont through the verandah on to the sloping
lawn, and in the same chair ; one hand again rested open on the arm
of the chair, while the other supported her face as she leaned upon
her elbow; and the sorrow was still in her heart, and the deep
thought in her mind. But the lines of her face were altered, and
the spirit expressed by it was changed. There was less of beauty,
less of charm, less of softness ; but in spite of all that she had gone
through there was more of strength, — ^more of the power to resist
all that this world oould do to her.

It would he wrong to say that she was in any degree a hypoorite.
A man is no more a hypoorite because his manner and gait when he
is alone are different from those which he assumes in company, than
he is for wearing a dressing-gown in the morning, whereas he pxtte
on a black coat in the evening. Lady Mason in the present crisia
of her life endeavoured to be true in all her dealings with Mm.
Orme ; but nevertheless Mrs. Onne had not yet read her character..
As she now sat thinking of what the morrow would bring upon her^
— ^thinking of all that the malice of that man Dookwrath had
brought upon her, — she resolved that she would still struggle on
with a bold front. It had been brought home to her that he, her
son, the being for whom her soul had been imperilled, and all her
hopes for this world destroyed, — ^that he must be told of his mother's
guilt and shame. Let him be told, and then let him leave her
while his anguish and the feeling of his shame were hot upon him.
Should she be still a free woman when this trial was over she
would move herself away at once, and then let him be told. Bnt
8till it would be well — well for his sake, that his mother should not
be found guilty by the law. It was still worth her while to
struggle. The world was very hard to her, bruising her to the very
soul at every turn, allowing her no hope, offering to her no drop of
cool water in her thirst. But still for him there was some fliture
career ; and that career perhaps need not be blotted by the public
notice of hj^ mother's guilt. She would still fight against her foes,
^still show to that court, and to the world that would then gaze at
her, a front on which guilt should not seem to have laid its hideous,
defacing hand.

There was much that was wonderful about this woman. While
»sho was with those who regarded her with kindness she could bo
80 soft and womanly ; and then, when alone, she could be so stem
and hard ! And it may be said that she felt but little pity for her-
self. Though she reoognized the extent of her misery, she did not
complain of it. Even in her inmost thoughts her plaint was this, —
that ho, her son, should be doomed to suffer so deeply for her sin !
Sometimes she would utter to that other mother a word of wailing,
in that ho would not be soft to her ; but even in that she did not

X o

ISO ORLET FABM.

mean to oomplain of him. She knew in her heart of hearts ihrni she
had no ri^t to expect such softness. She knew that it was better
that it should be as it now was. Had he stajed with her from mom
till erening, speakii^ kind words to her, how conld she have £uled
to tell him ? In sickness it maj irk as because we are not allowed
to take the oool drink that wonld be gratefnl ; bat what man in his
senses woold willingly swallow that by which his very life would
he endangered ? It was thns she thoo^t of her son, and what his
lore might have been to her.

Yes ; she woold still bear ap, as she had borne ap at that other
triaL She would dress herself with care, and go down into the
court with a smooth brow. Men, as they looked at her, shonld not
at once say, ' Behold the face of a gailty woman !' There was atill
a chance in the battle, though the odds were so tremendously
against her. It might be that there was but little to which she
could look forward, even though the verdict of the jury should be
in her &your ; but all that she regarded as removed from her hy a
great interval. She had prooused that Lucius should know all
after the trial, — that he should know all, so that the property might
be restored to its rightful owner ; and she was fully resolved that
this promise should be kept. But nevertheless there was a Iod^
interval. If she could battle through this first danger, — if by the
skill of her lawyers she could avert the public declaration of her
guilt, might not the chances of war still take some further torn in
her &vour ? And thus, though her £su3e was pale with suffering and
thin with care, though she had realized the fsict that nothing
short of a miracle could save her, — still she would hope for that
miracle.

But the absolute bodily labour which she was forced to endure
was so hard upon her ! She would dress herself, and smooth her
brow for the trial ; but that dressing herself, and that maintenance
of a smooth brow would impose upon her an amount of toil which
would almost overtask her physical strength. 0 reader, have
you ever known what it is to rouse yourself and go ,out to the
world on your daily business, when all the inner man has revolted
against work, when a day of rest has seemed to you to bo worth a
year of life ? If she could have rested now, it would have been
worth many years of life, — worth all her life. She longed for rest,
— to be able to lay aside the terrible fatigue of being ever on
the watch. From the burden of that necessity she had never
been free since her crime had been first committed. She had
never known true rest. She had not once trusted herself to sleep
without the feeling that her first waking thought would be one of
horror,, as the remembrance of her position came upon her. In
every word she spoke, in every trifling action of her life, it was
necessary that she should ask herself how that word and action

THE EYEKING BEFOBE THE TRIAL. 181

might tell npon her chances of escape. She had striven to be troe
and honest, — true and honest with the exception of that one deed.
But that one deed had commnnicated its poison to her whole life.
Truth and honesty — fair, unblemished truth and open-handed,
fearless honesty, — ^had been impossible to her. Before she could
be true and honest it would be necessary that she should go back
and cleanse herself from the poison of that deed. Such cleansing
is to be done. Men have sinned deep as she had sinned, and, lepers
though they have been, they have afterwards been clean. But that
task of cleansing oneself is not an easy one ; — the waters of that
Jordan in which it is needful to wash are scalding hot. The cool
neighbouring streams of life's pleasant valleys will by no means
suffice.

Since she had been home at Orley Farm she had been very
scrupulous as to going down into the parlour both at breakfast and
at dinner, so that she might take her meals with her son. She had
not as yet omitted this on one occasion, although sometimes the task
of sitting through the dinner was very severe upon her. On the
present occasion, the last day that remained to her before the trial —
perhaps the last evening on which she would ever watch the sun set
from those windows, she thought that she would spare herself.

* Tell Mr. Lucius,' she said to the servant who came to summon
her, ' that I would be obliged to him if he would sit down without me.
Tell him that I am not ill, but that I would rather not go down to
dinner !' But before the girl was on the stairs she had changed her
mind. Why should she now ask for this mercy? What did it
matter? So she gathered herself up from the chair, and going
forth from the room, stopped the message before it was delivered.
She would bear on to the end.

She sat through the dinner, and answered the ordinary questions
which Lucius put to her with her ordinary voice, and tiien, as was
her custom, she kissed his brow as she left the room. It must be
remembered that they were still mother and son, and that there had
been no quarrel between them. And now, as she went up stairs,
he followed her into the drawing-room. His custom had been to
remain below, and though he had usually seen her again during the
evening, there had seldom or never been any social intercourse
between them. On the present occasion, however, he followed her,
and closing the door for her as he entered the room, he sat himself
down on the sofa, close to her chair.

' Mother,' he said, putting out his hand and touching her arm,

* things between us are not as they should be.'

She shuddered, not at the touch, but at the words. Things were
not as thoy should be between them. * No,' she said. * But I am
sure of this, Lucius, that you never had an unkind thought in your
heart towards me.'

182 OBUR F.

* Xerer, modier. How oosld I, — to wj own iBodier, wbo
over been to good tome? Bot for the leit tiiFee months we lisne
bean to eedk otber neerhr ae Ihnn^ we. were stm^petB.'

« But we haTe loved «adi other ell the auke.' aaid ahe.

« Bat lore ahould b^et doae eodel intunacj, and eboTe ell cloee
eoBfidenoein tuneaoCaonow. There haa befn none such between

'What could ahe aay to hian? It waa on her lipa to pitnaiae
him that audi lore dboold a^ain prerail between them aa eoon
aa thia trial ahoold be orer ; bat the woida atnck in her throat. She
did not dare to ^Te him ao ^ulae an aaaoianoe. ^ Dear Locioa,' ahe
aaid, * if it baa been mj &alt, I have aofiered ibr it.'

* I do not aaj that it is your iaolt ; — nor willl ttaj that it has been
n^ own. If I have aeemed harah to joa, I beg joor pardon.'

' Xo, Locioa, no ; joa have not been harsh. I hare onderatood
joa throogh it alL'

' I have been grieved becanae yoa did not aeem to tmat me ; — bat
let that pasa now. Mother, I wiah that there may be no onpleanant
fteling between na when yoa entor on thia ordeal to-morrow.'

* There ia none ; — there shall be none.'

* No one can feel more keenly, — no one can feel ao keenly as I do,
the craelty with which yoa are treated. The sight of your soxrow
haa made me wretched.'

* Oh, Laciijs !'

^ I know how pore and innocent yoa are '

* No, Lncius, no.'

* Bat I say yes ; and knowing that, it has cut me to the quick to
see them going about a defence of your innocence by quips and
quibbles, as though they were struggling for tho escape of a
criminal.'

* Lucius !* And she put her hands up, praying for mercy,
though she could not explain to him how terribly severe were bis
words.

^ Wait a moment, mother. To me such men as Mr. Chafianbrass
and his comrades are odious. I will not, and do not believe that
their services are necessary to you *

* But, Lucius, Mr. Fumival '

* Yes ; Mr. Fumival ! It is he that has done it all. In my heart
I wish that you had never known Mr. Fumival ; — never known him
us a lawyer that is,' he added, thinking of his own strong love for
tho lawyer's daughter.

* I)o not upbraid me now, Lucius. Wait till it is all over.'

* Upbraid you ! Ko. 1 have come to you now that we may bo
friends. As things have gone so far, this plan of defence must of
courae bo carried on. I will say no more about that. But, mother,
I will go into tho court with you to-morrow. That suppoit I can

THE EVENING BEFOEE THE TBIAL, 183

at any rate give yon, and they shall see that there is no quarrel be-
tween MB.'

But Lady Mason did nc^t desire this. She would have wished
that he might have been miles away from the court had that been
possible. ' Mrs. Orme is to be with me/ she said.

Then again there came a black frown upon his brow, — a frown
such as there had often been there of late. * And will Mrs. Orme's
presence make the attendance of your own son improper ?'

* Oh, no ; of course not. I did not mean that, Lucius.'

* Do you not like to have me near you ?' he asked ; and as he
spoke he rose up, and took her hand as he stood before her.

She gazed for a moment into his face while the tears streamed
down from her eyes, and then rising from her chair, she threw her-
self on to his bosom and clasped him in her arms. ' My boy ! my
boy !' she said. * Oh, if you could be near me, and away from this
— away from this !'

She had not intended thus to give way, but the temptation had
been too strong for her. When she had seen Mrs. Orme and Pere-
grine together, — ^when she had heard Peregrine's mother, with words
expressed in a joyful tone, affect to complain of the inroads which
her son made upon her, she had envied her that joy. ' Oh, if it
could be so with me also !' she always thought ; and the words too
had more than once been spoken. Now at last, in this last moment,
as it might be, of her life at home, he had come to her with kindly
voice, and she could not repress her yearning.

* Lucius,' she said ; * dearest Lucius I my own boy !' And then
the tears from her eyes streamed hot on to his bosom.

* Mother,' he said, ' it shall be so. I will be with you.'

But she was now thinking of more than this — of much more.
Was it possible for her to tell him now ? As she held him in her
arms, hiding her face upon his breast, she struggled hard to speak
the word. Then in the midst of that struggle, while there was
still something like a hope within Iter that it might be done, she
raised her head and looked up into his face. It was not a fieice
pleasant to look at, as was that of Peregrine Orme. It was hard in.
its outlines, and perhaps too manly for his age. But she was his
mother, and she loved it well. She looked up at it, and raising her
hands she stroked his cheeks. She then kissed him again and
again, with warm, clinging kisses. She clung to him, holding him
close to her, while the sobs which she had so long repressed came
forth from her with a violence that terrified him. Then again she
looked np into his face with one long wishful gaze ; and after that
she sank upon the sofa and hid her face within her hands. She
had made the struggle, but it had been of no avail. She could not
tell him that tale with her own voice.

* Mother,' he said, ' what does this mean ? I cannot understand

184 ORLET FABM.

such grief as this/ Bat for a while she was quite unable to answei
The flood-gates were at length opened, and she oonld not restian
the torrent of her sobbings.

' You do not understand how weak a woman can be,* she said i
last.

Bnt in tmth he understood nothing of a woman's strengtL H(
sat down by her, now and then taking her by tbe band when abc
would leave it to him, and in his way endeavonred to comfort ha.
All comfort, we may say, was out of the question ; bot by d^re«
she again became tranquiL ' It shall be to-morrow as you wOl
have it. You will not object to her being with me also ?*

He did object, but ho could not say so. He 'woold bare mwA
preferred to be the only friend near to her, bnt be felt ^i^»^ ht
could not deny her the solace of a woman's aid and a woombii
countenance. * Oh no,' he said, * if you wish it.' He would km
found it impossible to define even to himself tbe reason for In
dislike to any assistance coming from the fomily of tbe Ormss; htA
the feeling was there, strong within his bosom.

' And when this is over, mother, we will go away/ be ma^. '11
you would wish to live elsewhere, I will sell the property. It inll
be better perhaps after all that has passed. We will go abroad fin
a while.*

She could make no answer to this except pressing bis band. Ak,
if he had been told — if she bad allowed Mrs. Orme to do that kind-
ne8« fur her, how much better for her would it now bave beeo!
Sell the property ! Ah, me ! Were they not words of fearful sound
in her ears, — words of terrible import?

* Yes, it shall be so,' she said, putting aside that last propositioii
of his. * We will go together to-morrow. Mr. Aram said that he
would sit at my side, but ho cannot object to your being then
between us.' Mr. Aram's name was odious to Lucius Mason. His
close presence would be odious to him. But he felt that be coM
urge nothing against an arrangement that had now become neoes-
sar}'. Mr. Aram, with all his quibbles, had been engi^ed, and the
trial must now bo carried through with all tho Aram tactics.

After that Lucius left his mother, and took himself out into the
dark night, walking up and down on the road between bis boose
and tho outer gate, endeavouring to understand why his mothei
should bo so despondent. That she must fear the result of tbe trial,
he thought, was certain, but ho could not bring himself to bare an\
such fear. As to any suspicion of her guilt,— no such idea bad even
for one moment cast a shadow upon his peace of mind.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE FIUST JOURNEY TO ALSTON.

At that time Sir Richard Leatborham was the Solicitor*genera1,
and he had been retained as leading counsel for the prosecu-
tion. It was quite understood by all men who did understand
what was going on in the world, Ihat this trial had been in truth
instituted by Mr. Mason of Groby with the hope of recovering the
property which had been left away from him by his fieither's will.
The whole matter had now been so much discussed, that the true
bearings of it were publicly known. If on the former trial Lady
Masou had sworn fiaJsely, t^en there could be no doubt that that
will, or the codicil to the will, was an imtrue document, and the
property would in that case revert to Mr. Mason, after such further
legal exercitations on the subject as the lawyers might find neces-
sary and profitable. As far as the public were concerned, and as
far as the Masons were concerned, it was known and acknowledged
that this was another struggle on the part of the Groby Park family
to regain the Orley Farm estate. But then the question had become
much more interesting than it had been in the days of the old trial,
through the allegation which was now made of Lady Mason's guilt.
Had the matter gone against her in the former trial, her child would
have lost the property, and that would have been all. But the
present issue would be very different. It would be much more
tragical, and therefore of much deeper interest.

As Albton was so near to London, Sir Richard, Mr. Pumival,
Mr. Chafianbrass, and others, were able to go up and down by train,
— which arrangement was at ordinary dssizes a great heartsore to the
hotel-keepers and owners of lodging-houses in Alston. But on this
occasion the town was quite full in spite of this facility. The
attorneys did not feel it safe to run up and down in that way, nor
did the witnesses. Mr. Aram remained, as did also l^lr. Mat Round.
Special accommodation had been provided for John Kenneby and
Bridget Bolster, and Mr. Mason of Groby had lodgings of his
own.

Mr. Mason of Groby had suggested to the attorneys in Bedford
Row that his services as a witness would probably be required, but
they had seemed to think otherwise. • We shall not call yon,'

186 OBLET FABX.

Mr. Bound had nid, * and I do not guppoee that the other side wiD
do so. They can't if thej do not first serre yon.' Bnt in spite of
this Mr. ilamm had determined to be at Alston. If it inrere true
tiiat this woman had robbed hun ; — if it oonld be proved that she had
really foiiged a will, and then by crime of the deepest dye taken
from hun lor years that which was his own, shoold he not be there
to see? Shonld he not be a witness to her disgrace? Should be
not be the first to know and feel his own tardy trimn]^? Pity !
Pity for her ! When such a word was named to him, it seemed to
him as thongh the speaker were becoming to a certain extent s
partner in her gnilt. Pity I Tea ; sach pity as an EngUshnian who
had canght the Nana Sahib might have felt for his rictim. He bad
complained twenty times since this matter had been mooted of the
fi>lly of those who had altered the old laws. That folly had probably
robbed him of his property for twenty years, and woold now rob
him of half his revenge. Not that he ever spoke even to liit»^iff>>f of
revenge. * Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.' He would have
been as able as any man to qnote the words, and as willing. Justice,
outraged jostioe, was his theme. Whom had he ever robbed ? To
whom had he not paid all that was owing ? * All that have I done
from my youth upwards.' Such were his thoughts of himself; and
with such thoughts was it possible that he should willingly be absent
from Alston during such a trial ?

' I really would stay away if I were you,' Mat Bound had said to
him.

' I will not stay away,' he had replied, with a look black as a
thundercloud. Could there really be anything in those suspicions
of Dockwrath, that his own lawyer had wilfully thrown him over
once, and was now anxious to throw him over again ? ' I will not
stay away/ ho said ; and Dockwrath secured his lodgings for him.
About this time he was a good deal with Mr. Dockwrath, and almost
regretted that he had not followed that gentleman's advice at the
commencement of the trial, and placed the management of the whole
concern in his hands.

Thus Alston was quite alive on the morning of the trial, and the
doors of the court-house were thronged long before they were
opened. They who were personally concerned in the matter,
whoso presence during the ceremony would be uecesaary, or who
had legal connection with the matter in hand, were of course not
driven to this tedious manner of obtaining places. Mr. Dockwrath,
for instance, did not stand waiting at the door, nor did his friend
Mr. Mason. Mr. Dockwrath was a great man as for as this day was
concerned, and could command admittance from the' doorkeepers and
others about the court. But for the outer world, for men and women
who were not lucky enough to be lawyers, witnesses, jurymen, or
high sheriff, thcro was no means of hearing and seeing the events of

THE FIB6X JOUBNSY TO ALSTON. 187

thin stirring day except what might be obtained by exeroise of an
almost unlimited patience.

There had been much doubt as to what arrangement for her at-
tendance at the court it might be best for Lady Mauon to make, and
some difficulty too as to who should decide as to these arrangements.
Mr. Aram had been down more than once, and had given a hint
that it would bo well that something should be settled. It had
ended in his settling it himself, — ^he, with the assistance of Mrs. Orme.
VThat would Sir Peregrine have said had he known that on any
subject these two had been leagued in council together ?

* She can go from hence in a carriage — a carriage from the inn/
Mrs. Orme had said.

' Certainly, certainly ; a carriage &om the inn ; yes. But in the
* evening, ma'am ?*

' When the trial is over ?' said Mrs. Orme, inquiring from him his
meaning.

' We can hardly expect that it shall be over in one day, ma'&m.
She will continue to be on bail, and can return home. I will see
that she is not annoyed as she leaves the town.'

* Annoyed?' said Mrs. Orme.

* By the people I mean.*

* Will there be anything of that, sir T she asked, turning pale at
the idea. * I shall be with her, you know.'

* Through the whole affair, ma'am ?'

* Yes, through the whole afiair.'

* They'll want to have a look at her of course ; but, — Mrs. Orme,
we'll see that you are not annoyed. Yes; she had better come
back home the first day. The expense won't be much ; will it ?*

* Oh no,' said Mrs. Orme. 'I must return home, you know.
How many days will it be, sir ?'

* Well, perhaps two, — ^perhaps three. It may run on all the week.
Of course you know, Mrs. Orme '

< Know what ?' she asked.

* When the trial is over, if — if it should go against us, — then you
must return alone.*

And so the matter had been settled, and Mr. Aram himself had
ordered the carriage from the inn. Sir Peregrine's carriage would
have been at their disposal, — or rather Mrs. Orme's own carriage ;
but she had felt that The Cleove arms on The Cleeve panels would
be out of place in the streets of Hamworth on such an occasion. It
would of course be impossible that she should not be recognized in
the court, but she would do as little as possible to proclaim her own
presence.

When the morning came, the very morning of the terrible day,
Mrs. Orme came down early from her room, as it was necessary
that she should breakfast two hours before the usual time. She had

188 ORLET FARM.

said nothing of this to Sir Peregrine, hoping that she might have
been able to escape in the morning without seeing him. She had
told her son to be there ; bnt when she made her appearance in the
breakfast parlonr, she foimd that his grand&ther was already with
him. She sat down and took her cnp of tea almost in silence, for
they all Mt that on such a morning much speech was impossible
for them.

* Edith, my dear,' said the baronet, * jou had better eat some-
thing. Think of the day that is before yon.*

* Yes, father, I have,' said she, and she lifted a morsel of bread to
her mouth.

' You must take something with you,' said he, ' or yon will be
funt in the court. Have you thought how many hours yon will be
there?*

* I will see to that,' said Peregrine, speaking with a stem deoision
in his voice that was by no means natural to him.

* Will you be there. Perry ?' said his mother.

* Of course I shall. I will see that you have what you want.
You will find that I will be near you.'

* But how will you get in, my boy ?' asked his grand&ther.

* Let me alone for that. I have spoken to the sheriff already.
There is no knowing what may turn up ; so if anything does torn
up you may be sure that I am near you.'

Then another slight attempt at eating was made, the cap of
tea was emptied, and the breakfast was finished. ' Is the carriage
there, Perry ?* asked Mrs. Orme.

* Yes ; it is at the door.'

* Good-bye, father ; I am so sorry to have disturbed you.'

* Good-bye, Edith ; God bless you, and give you strength to bear
it. And, Edith '

< Sir ?' and she held his hand as he whispered to her.

* Say to her a word of kindness from me ; — a word of kindness.
Tell her that I have forgiven her, but tell her also that man's for-
giveness will avail her nothing.'

* Yes, father, I will.'

' Teach her where to look for pardon. But tell her all the same
that I have forgiven her.'

And then he handed her into* the carriage. Per^rine, as he
stood aside, had watched them as they whispered, and to his mind
also as he followed them to the carriage a suspicion of what the
truth might be now made its way. Surely there would be no need
of all this solemn mourning if she were innocent. Had she been
esteemed as innocent. Sir Peregrine was not the man to believe
that any jury of his countrymen could find her guilty. Had this
been the reason for that sudden change, — for that breaking off of the
intended marriage ? Even Peregrine, as he went down the steps

THE FIBST JOURNEY TO ALSTON. 189

after his mother, had begun to suspect the truth ; and we may $ajr
that he was the last within all that household who did so. During
the last week eveiy servant at The Cleeve had whispered to her
fellow-servant that Lady Mason had forged the will.

' I shall be near you, mother/ said Peregrine as he put his haild
into the carriage ; ' remember that. The judge and the other fellows
will go out in the middle of the day to get a glass of wine : 111 have
something for both of you near the court.'

Poor Mrs. Orme as she pressed her son's hand felt much relieved
by the assurance. It was not that she feared anything, but she was
going to a place that was absolutely new to her, — to a place .in
which the eyes of many would be fixed on her, — ^to a place in which
the eyes of all would be fixed on the companion with whom she
would be joined. Her heart almost sank within her as the carriage
drove away. She would be alone till she reached Orley Farm, and
there sho would take up not only Lady Mason, but Mr. Aram also.
How would it be with them in that small carriage while Mr. Aram
was sitting opposite to them? Mrs. Orme by no means regretted
this act of kindness which she was doing, but she began to feel that
the task was not a light one. As to Mr. Aram's presence in the
carriage, she need have been under no uneasiness. He imderstood
very well when his presence was desirable, and also when it was
not desirable.

When she arrived at the door of Orley Farm house she found
Mr. Aram waiting there to receive her. * I am sorry to say,' said
he, raising his hat, ' that Lady Mason's son is to accompany us.'

* She did not tell me,' said Mrs. Orme, not imderstanding why
this should make him sorry.

* It was arranged between them last night, and it is very unfor-
tunate. 1 cannot explain this to her ; but perhaps '

* Why is it unfortunate, sir ?'

* Things will be said which — which — which would drive me mad
if they were said about my mother.' And immediately there was a
touch of 83nnpathy between the high-bred lady and the Old Bailey
Jew lawyer.

* Yes, yes,' said Mrs. Onne. ' It will be dreadful.'

* And then if they find her guilty I It may be so, you know.
And how is he to sit there and hear the judge's charge ; — and then
the verdict, and the sentence. If he is there he cannot escape.
I'll tell you what, Mrs. Orme ; he should not be there at all.'

But what could she do ? Had it been possible that she should be
an hour alone with Lady Mason, she would have explained all this
to her, — or if not all, would have explained much of it. But now,
with no minutes to spare, how could she make this understood ?
' But all that will not come to-day, will it, sir ?'

* Not all, — not the charge or the verdict. But he should not be

190 OBLEY FABH.

there even to-day. He should have gone awaj ; or if he remained
at home, he should not hare shown himself out of the house.*

But this was too late now, for as they were still speaking Lady
Mason appeared at the door, leaning on her son's arm. She was
dressed from head to foot in black, and over her face there was a
thick black veiL Mr. Aram spoke no word further as she stepped
up the steps from the hall door to the carriage, but stood back,
holding the carriage-door open in his hand. Lucius merely bowed
to Mrs. Orme as he assisted his mother to take her place ; and then
following her, he sat himself down in silence opposite to them.
Mr. Aram, who had carefully arranged his own programme, shut
the door, and mounted on to the box beside the driver.

Mrs. Orme had held out her own hand, and Lady Mason having
taken it, still held it after she was seated. Then they started, and
for the first mile no word was spoken between them. Mrs. Orme
was most anxious to speak, if it might only be for the sake of
breaking the horrid stillness of their greeting ; but she could think
of no word which it would be proper on such an occasion to say,
either to Lucius, or even before him. Had she been alone with
Lady Mason there would have been enough of words that she oould
have spoken. Sir Peregrine's message was as a burden upon hei
tongue till she could deliver it ; but she could not deliver it while
Lucius Mason was sitting by her.

Lady Mason herself was the first to speak. * I did not know
yesterday that Lucius would come,' she said, ' or I should have
told you.'

' I hope it does not inconvenience you,' he said.

* Oh no ; by no means.'

' I could not let my mother go out without me on such an occa-
sion as this. But I am grateful to you, Mrs. Orme, for coming
also/

* I thought it would be bettor for her to have some lady with
her,' said Mrs. Orme.

* Oh yes, it is better — much bettei*.' And then no further word
was spoken by any of them till the carriage drove up to the court-
house door. It may be hoped that the journey was less painful to
Mr. Aram than to tiie others, seeing that he solaced himself on the
coach-box with a cigar.

There was still a great crowd round the front of the court-house
when they reached it, although the doors were open, and the court
was already sitting. It had been arranged that this case — the great
case of the assize — should come on first on this day, most of the
criminal business having been completed on that preceding ; and
Mr. Aram had promised that his charge should be forthcoming
exactly at ten o'clock. Exactly at ten the carriage was driven up
to the door, and Mr. Aram jumping from his seat directed certain

THE FIRST JOUBNEr TO ALSTON. 191

policemen and sherifiTs Bsrvants to make a way for the ladies up to
the door, and through the hall of the court-house. Had he lived in
Alston all his life, and spent his days in the purlieus of that court,
he could not have been more at home or haye been more promptly
obeyed.

' And now I think we may go in,' he said, opening the door and
letting down the steps with his own hands.

At first he took them into a small room within the building, imd
then bustled away himself into the court. * 1 shall be back in half
a minute,' he said ; and in half a dozen half-minutes he was back,
* We are all ready now, and shall have no trouble about our places.
If you have anything to leave, — shawls, or things of that sort, —
they will be quite safe here : Mrs. Hitcham will look after them.*
And then an old woman who had followed Mr. Aram into the room
on the last occasion curtsied to them. But the; had nothing to
leave, and their little procession was soon made,

Lucius at first offered his arm to his mother, and she had taken
it till she had gone through the door into the halL Mr. Aram also
had, with some hesitation, offered his arm to Mrs. Orme ; but she,
in spite of that touch of sympathy, had managed, without speaking,
to decline it. In the hall, however, when all the crowd of gazers
had turned their eyes upon them and was only kept off from pressing
on them by the policemen and sheriff's officers. Lady Mason remem-
bered herself, and suddenly dropping her son's arm, she put out her
hand for Mrs. Orme. Mr. Aram was now in front of them, and thus
they two followed him into the body of the court. The veils of
both of them were down ; but Mrs. Orme's veil was not more than
ordinarily thick, and she could see everything that was aroimd her.
So they walked up through the crowded way, and Lucius followed
them by himself.

They were very soon in their seats, the crowd offering them no
impediment. The judge was already on the bench, — not our old
acquaintance Justice Staveley, but his friend and colleague Baron
Maltby. Judge Staveley was sitting in the other court. Mrs. Orme
and Lady Mason soon found themselves seated on a bench, with a
slight standing desk before them, much as though they were seated
in a narrow pew. Up above them, on the same seat, were the three
barristers employed on Lady Mason's behalf ; nearest to the judge
was Mr. Fumival ; then came Felix Graham, and below him sat
Mr. Chaffanbrass, somewhat out of the line of precedence, in order
that he might more easily avail himself of the services of Mr. Aram.
Lucius found himself placed next to Mr. Chaffanbrass, and his
mother sat between him and Mrs. Orme. On the bench below them,
immediately facing a large table which was placed in the centre of
the court, sat Mr. Aram and his clerk.

Mrs. Orme as she took her seat was so confused that she could

192 ORLEY FARM.

hardly look aronnd her ; and it may be imagined that Lady Mason
mxust have suffered at any rate as mnch in the same way. Bnt they
who were looking at her — and it may be said that every one in the
conrt was looking at her — were surprised to see that she raised her
veil as soon as she was seated. She raised her veil, and never
lowered it again till she left the court, and repassed out into the
hall. She had thought much of this day, — even of the little inci-
dents which would occur, — and she was aware that her identifi-
cation would be necessary. Nobody should tell her to unveil
herself, nor would she let it be thought that she was afraid to face
her enemies. So there she sat during the whole day, bearing the
gaze of the court

She had dressed herself with great care. It may be said of most
women who could be found in such a situation, that they would
either give no special heed to their dress on such a morning, or that
they would appear in garments of sorrow studiously unbecoming
and lachiymose, or that they would attempt to out&ce the world,
and have appeared there in bright trappings, fit for happier dayB.
But Lady Mason had dressed herself after none of these feshions.
Never had her clothes been better made, or worn with a better
grace ; but they were all black, from her bonnet-ribbon down to her
boot, and were put on without any attempt at finery or smartness.
As regards dress, she had never looked better than she did now ;
and Mr. Fumival, when his eye caught her as she turned her head
round towards the judge, was startled by the grace of her appear-
ance. Her face was very palo, and somewhat hard ; but no one on
looking at it could say that it was the countenance of a woman
overcome either by sorrow or by crime. She was perfect mistress
of herself, and as she looked round the court, not with defiant gaze,
but with eyes half raised, and a look of modest but yet conscious
intelligence, those around her hardly dared to think that she could
be guilty.

As she thus looked her gaze fell on one face that she had not
seen for years, and their eyes met. It was the fiEU5e of Joseph Mason
of Groby, who sat opposite to her ; and as she looked at him her
own countenance did not quail for a moment. Her own counte-
nance did not quail ; but his eyes fell gradually doi^nti, and when
he raised them again she had averted her &ce.

CHAPTER XXV.

FEUX GRAHAM BETUBNS TO NONINGSBT.

* If you love the man, let him come.' It was thus that the judge
had declared to his daughter his opinion of what had better be done
in that matter of Felix Graham. Then he had gone on to declare
that he had given his permission to Felix Graham to say anything
that he had got to say, and finally had undertaken to invite Felix
Graham to spend the assize week at Noningsby. Of course in the
mind of the judge all this amounted to an actual giving away of his
daughter. He regarded the thing now as done, looking upon the
young people as betrothed, and his reflections mainly ran on the
material part of the business. How should Graham be made to
earn an income, and what allowance must be made to him till he
did so ? There was a certain sum set apart for Madeline's fortune,
but that would by no means suffice for tlie livelihood of a married
barrister in London. Graham no doubt earned something as it
was, but that was done by his pen rather than by his wig, and the
judge was inclined to think that the pen must ^ye abandoned before
the wig could be made profitable. Such were the directions which
his thoughts took regarding Madeline's lot in life. With him the
next week or two, with their events, did not signify much ; whereas
the coming years did signify a great deal.

At that time, on that Sunday afternoon, there still remained to
Madeline the best part of a month to think of it all, before Felix
should reappear upon the scene. But then she could not think of It
hy herself in silence. Her father had desired her to tell her mother
what had passed, and she felt that a great difficulty still lay before
her. She knew that her mother did not wish her to marry Felix
Graham. She knew that her mother did wish her to marry Pere-
grine Orme. And therefore though no mother and phild had ever
treated each other vdth a sweeter confidence, or loved each other
with warmer hearts, there was as it were a matter of disunion
between them. But nevertheless she must tell her mother, and
the dread of this telling weighed heavy upon her as she sat that
night in the drawing-room reading the article which Felix had
written.

But she need not have been under any alarm. Her father, when
he told her to discuss the matter with her mother, had by no means

VOL. II. 0

194 OBLEY FABM.

intended to tlirow on her shonlders the bnrden of converting Lady
Staveley to the Graham interest. He took care to do this himself effec-
tnally, so that in &ct there should be no burden left for Madeline's
shoulders. * Well, my dear,' he said that same Sunday evening to
his wife, * I have had it all out with Madeline this afternoon.'

* About Mr. Graham, do you mean ?

* Yes ; about Mr. Graham. I have promised that he shall come
here for the assize week.'

* Oh, dear !' •

* It's done, my love ; and. I believe we shall find it all for the
. best The bishops' daughters always marry clergymen, and tibe

judges' daughters ought to many lawyers.'

' But you can't give him a practice. The bishops have livings to
give away.'

' Perhaps I may show him how to make a practice for hims^f,
which would be better. Take my word for it that it will be best
ibr her happiness. Tou would not have liked to' be disc^ypointed
yourself, when you made up your mind to be marrield.'

* No, I should not,' said Lady Staveley.

* And she will have a will of her own quite as strong as ytm had.'
And then there was silence in the room for some time.

' Youll be kind to him when he comes T said the judge.

*• Oh, yes,' said Lady Staveley, in a voice that was by no means
devoid of melancholy.

' Nobody can be so kind as you when you please. And as it is
to be '

* I always did like him,' said Lady Staveley, ' although he is so
very plain.'

* You'll soon get used to that, my dear.'

* And as for poor young Mr. Orme ■'

' As for poor young Mr. Orme, as you call him, he will iK>t die of
a broken heart. Poor young Mr. Orme has all the world before
him and will soon console himself.'

*' But he is so attached to her. And then The Gleeve is so near.'

* We must give up all that, my dear.*

' Very well,' said Lady Staveley ; and from that moment it may
be said that she had given in her adhesion to the Graham oonneo-
tion. When some time after she gave her orders to Baker as to
preparing a room for Mr. Graham, it was made quite clear to that
excellent woman by her mistress's manner and anxiety as to the
airing of the sheets, that Miss Madeline was to have her own way
in the matter.

But long previous to these preparations Madeline and her mother
had discussed the matter fully. * Papa says that Mr. Graham is to
oome hero for the assize week,' said Lady Staveley.

* Yes ; so he told me,' Madeline replied, very bashfully.

FELIX GRAHAM BETUBNS TO NONINQSBY, 195

* I suppose it's all for the best'

* I hope it is,' said Madeline. What conld she do but hope so ?

* Your papa uaderstands everything so very weU that I am snre
he would not let him come if it were not proper/

* I SHppose not,' said Madeline.

' And ttow I look upon the matter as all settled.'

* What matter, mamma T

* That he — that he is to come here as year lover.'

* Oh, no, mamma. Pray don't imagine that It isnat 80«t all.
What should I do if you were to say anything to make him think
so?'

' But you told me that you loved him.'

* So I do, mamma.'

* And he told your papa that he was desperately in love with
yon.'

* I don't know, mamma.'

' But ho did ; — ^yonr x>apft told me so, and that's why he «Bked him
to come down here again. He never would have done it without.'

Madeline had her own idea about this, believing that her &ther
had thought more of her wants in the matter than he had of these
of Felix Graham ; but as to this she said nothing. * Nevertheless,
mamma, you must not say that to any one,' she answered. *■ Mr.
Graham has never spoken to me, — not a word. I should of course
have told you had he done so.'

* Yes, I am sore of that. But^ Madeline, I suppose it's all the
same. He asked papa for permission to speak to you, and your
papa has given it.'

* I'm sure I don't know, mamma.'

It was a quarter of an hour after that when Ladj Stavi^y again
returned to the sabjeot. * I am sure Mr. Gzaham .is very clever,
and all that.'

* Papa says that he is very clever indeed.'

' I'm quite sure he is, and he makes himself very nice in the
house, i^ays talking when there are j^eople to dinner. Mr. Ar-
buthnot never will talk when there are peoj^ to dinner. But
Mr. Arbuihnot has got a very nice place in Warwidkahire, and they
say he'll come in for the county some day.'

' Of course, mamma, if there should be anything of that sort, we
should not be rich people, like Isabella and Mr. Arbuthnot'

' Not at first, dear.*

' Neither first nor last. But I don't care about that. If you and
papa will like him, and — and— if it shoinld come to that! — Oh,
mamma, ho is so good, and so clever, and he uHderstands things,
and talks about things as though he knew how to make himself
master of them. And he is honest and proud. Oh, mamma, if it
should be so, I do hope you will love him.'

0 2

196 ORLET FAHM.

moment mofe.' And so Felix was harried on «p ia his bediw
— ^the old bedroom in which he had passed so manjr hoarse ami bees
^ very nneasj. As he entered the room all that oonrenatifni wiOi
Angostns Stavelej returned npon his memorj. He had sees hk
friend in London, and told him that he was going down ta Koa>
ingsbj. Augustus had looked grave, bat had said nothijigahoii
Madeline. Augustus was not in his father's confidence in tisi
matter, and had nothing to do hot to look grave. On tliai waj
morning, moreoT^, some cause had been given to himself forgiavi^
of demeanour.

At the door of his room ho met Mrs. Baker, and, hnrried thoi^
he was bj the judge's strict injunction, he could not but shake
hands with his old and very worthy friend.

* Quite strong again,' said he, in answer to her tender inqnizies.

' 80 yon are, I do declare. 1 will say this, Mr. Graham, for
wholesomeness of flesh you beat anything 1 ever come nigh. There's
a many would have been weeks and weeks before they ooold have
been moved.'

' It was your good nursing, Mrs. Baker.'

' Well, 1 think we did take care of you among ns. Do yon
remember the pheasant, Mr. Graham?'

' Kemember it! I should think so; and hpw I improved the
occasion.'

*Yes; you did improve fast enough. And the sesr-kale, Mr.
Grahaoi. Laws! the row I had with John Gardener about that!
And, Mr. Graham, do you remember how a certain friend used to
come and ask after you at the door ? Dear, dear, dear ! I nearly
caught it about that.'

But Graham in his present frame of mind could not well endure
to discuss his remembrances on that subject with Mrs. Baker, so he
good-humouredly pushed her out of the room, saying that the judge
woald be mad if he delayed.

* That's true, too, Mr. Graham. And it wont do for you to take
up Mr. Augustus's tricks in the house yet ; will it ?' And then she
left the room. * What does she mean by " yet " ?' Felix said to himself
as he went through the ceremony of dressing with all the haste in
his power.

He was in the drawing-room almost within the fifteen minutes,
and there he fouxid none but the judge and his \^ife and daughter.
He had at first expected to find Augustus there, but had been told
by Mrs. Baker that he was to come down on the following morning.
His first greeting from Lady Staveley was something like that he
had already received up stairs, only made in less exuberant lan-
guage. He was congratulated on his speedy recovery and made
welcome by a kind smile. Then he shook hands with Madeline,
and as he did so he observed that the judge was at the trouble to

FELIX GBAHAM SKIUBMB TO NONINGSBT. 109

turn away, so that he should not watoh the greeting. This he did
see, but into Madeline's face he hardlj ventured to look. He
touched her haiid, however, and said aiword; and she also mar*-
mured something about his injury. ' And now we*ll go to dinner,'
said the judge. ' Give your arm that is not broken to Lady
Staveley.' And so the meeting wa^j ovev. ' Augnstoa will be in
Alston to-morrow when the court is opened,' said the judge. ' That
is to say if he finds it possible to get up so soon; but to-day he had
some engagements in town.' The truth however was that the
judge had chosen to be alone with Felix after dinner.

The dinner was very pleasant, but the judge talked for the whole
party. Madeline hardly spoke at all, nor did Lady Staveley say
much. Felix managed to put in a few words occasionally, as it
always becomes a good listener to do, but the brunt of the battle lay
with the host. One thing Felix observed painfully, — that not a
word was spoken about Lady Mason or Orley Farm. Whien he had
been last there the judge had spok^i of it openly before the whole
party, expressing his opinion that she was a woman much injured ;
but now neither did he say anything nor did Lady Staveley. He
would probably not have observed this had not a feeling crept upon
him during the last fortnight, that that thorough conviction whioll
men had felt as to her innocence^ waa giving way. While the ladies
were there, however, he did not himself allude to the subject.

AVhen they had left the room and the door had been closed behind
them, the judge began the campaign — began it, and as fares he was
concerned, ended it in a very few minutes. ' Gxaham,' said he, ' I
am glad to see you.'

' Thank you, judge,' said he.

' Of course you ]uu>w, and I know, what that amounts to now.
My idea is that you acted as an honest man when you were last
here. You are not a rich man '

* Anything but that.'

' And therefore I do not think it would have been well had you
endeavoured to gain my daughter's affections without speaking to
me, — or to her mother.' Judge Staveley always spoke of his wife as
though she were an absolute part of himself. * She and I have dis-
cussed the matter now, — and you are at liberty to address youxeelf
to Madeline if you please.'

' My dear judge '

* Of course you imderstand that I am not answering for her ?^

* Oh, of course not.'
' That's your look out. . You most fight your own baitle

What you are allowed, to understand is this, — that her father
mother will give their consent to an engagement^
ske can bring herself to give hers. If you are
you may do so.'

202 (mLMt TASM.

Stavelcy, fast asleep certainlj; bat with a wendrooB power of
hearing even in her sleep. And yet how was he to talk to his
love unless he talked of love? He wished that the' judge would
help them to converse; he wished that some one else waa thera;
he wished at last that he himself was awaj. Madeline sat perfeotly
tranqnil stitching a collar. Upon her there was incumbent no datj
of doing anything beyond that. But he was in a measure bovmd to
talk. Had he dared to do so he also would have taken up a book;
but that he knew to be impossible.

* Your brother will be down to morrow/ he said at last.

' Yes ; he is to go direct to Akton. He will be here in tils'
evening, — to dinner.'

^ Ah^ yes ; I suppose we shall all be late to-morrow.'

' Papa always is late when the assizes ara going one/ said
Madeline.

' Alston is not very far/ said Felix.

* Only two miles,' she answered.

And during the whole of that long evening Ihe oonvexaatioir
between ihdif, did not reach a more interesting pitch than that^

^ She must think me an utter fool,' said Felix to himself, aaka
staring at the fire. ' How well her brother would hava made
ntoat of such an opportunity !' And then he went to bed^ bjr.
means in a good humour wilh himself.

On the next morning he again met her at break&st,. but oa thai
occasion there was no possible opportunity for private converaatLon.
The judge was all alive, and talked enough for the whole party
during the twenty minutes that was allowed to them before they
started for Alston. ' And now we must be off. We'll say half-part
seven for dinner, my dear.' And then they also made their joaiiMgr
ta Alston.

CHAPTER XXVI.

SHOWINQ HOW MISS FURNIVAL TREATED HEB LOVSBS.

It is a great thing for young ladies to live in a hous^old in whick
free correspondence by letter is permitted. * Two for mamma, four
for Amelia, three for Fanny, and one for papa.' When the postman,
has left his budget they should be dealt out in that way, and na
more should be said about it, — except what each may choose to say.
Papa's letter is about money of course, and interests nobodj»
Mamma's contain the character of a cook and an invitation to
dinner, and as they interest everybody, are public property. Bnt
Fanny 8 letters and Amelia's should be private ; and a well-bred

li'.:

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,ii

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I'll

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mil

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HOW MISS FUBNIVAL TBBATED HEB LOYEBS. 203

yruvTiiTnA of the present day scoma even to look at the faAndwriting
of the addresses. Now in Harley Street things were so managed
that nobody did see the handwriting of the addresses of Sophia's
letters till they came into her own hand, — that is, neither her
father nor her mother did so. That both Spooner and Mrs» Ball •
examined them closely is probable enough.

This was well for her now, for she did not wish it to be known
as yet that she had accepted aa offer from Lucins Mason, and she
did wish to have the privilege of receiving his letters. She &ncied
that she loved him. She told herself over and over again that she
did 80. She compared him within her own mind to Augustus
Stavelcy, and always gave the preference to Lucius. She liked
Augustus also, and could have accepted him as well, had it been
the way of the world in England for ladies to have two accepted
lovers. Such is not the way of the world in England, and she
therefore had been under the necessity of choosing one. She had
taken the better of the two, she declared to herself very often ; but
nevertheless waa it absolutely necessary that the other should be
abandoned altogether ? Would it not be well at any rate to wait
till this trial should be over ? But then the young men themselves
were in such a hurry !

Lucius, like an honest man, had proposed to go at once to Mr.
Furnival when he was accepted ; but to this Sophia had objected.
' The peculiar position in which my father stands to your mother at
the present moment,' said she, * would make it very difficult for him
to give you an answer now.' Lucius did not quite understand the
reasoning, but he yielded. It did not occur to him for a moment
that either Mr. or Miss Furnival could doubt the validity of his title
to the Orley Farm property.

But there was no reason why he should not write to her. * Shall
I address here ?' he had asked. ' Oh yes,' said Sophia; * my letters
are quite piivate.' And he had written very frequently, and she had
answered him. His last letter before the trial I propose to publish,
together with Sophia's answer, giving it as my opinion tiiat the
gentleman's production affords by no means a good type of a lover's
letter. But then his circumstances were peculiar. Misa Fumival's
answer was, I think, much better.

* Orley Fann, .

' My own Sophia,

* My only oomfbrt — I may really say my only comfort now
— is in writing to you. It is odd that at my age, and having begun
the world early as I did, I should now find myself so much alone.
Were it not for you, I should have no friend. I cannot describe to
you the sadness of this house, nor the wretched state in which my
mother exists. I sometimes think that had she been really guilty

whfjm fe womld mcA liiiflf tnt

wurm Ccc Uxk cf «■. I ice ber «t breakfial ad at
mmHiimnit vX wtAk. htr for aa boar m the ereaiD^; hmt ev^en then
we bkr<; ]y> <x«fTetastk«i. The end cf it is I tzvit soun coainz;
iod then I fa^4M; that the ami will agun be hr^lit. In these days it
ieeaa aa thon^ there were a cloud orer the whole earth.

*' I wiAh with all mj html that joa coold hare been here with
her. I think ^lai jcmr tone and atiei^;th of mind would bare
enabled her to bear up againat theae txooblea with more fortitode.
ilAer all, it ia but the ahadow of a nadofrtaae which has come
mcrom her, if ahe would but allow heraelf so to think. As it ia,
Mra. Orme ia with her dailj, and nothing I am snre can be more
kind« Bat I can coofeaa to jon, thoo^ I conld do ao to no one
elue, that I do not willin^j aee an intimacj kcfit up between my
mother and The Cleere. Wl^ was there that atrai^ proposition
aa itf her marriage ; and why, when it was once made, was it aban-
doned ? I know that my mother baa been not only goiltless, but
gailelesa, in tbeae matters aa to which she is accused ; but never-
thelesa her aflairs will have been so managed that it will be almosst
im[Kifwible for her to remain in this neighbourhood.

* W'hc'ri all this ia over, I think I shall sell this place. What is
thoro to bind mo, — to bind me or you to Orley Farm ? Sometimes I
havo thought that I could be happy here, devoting myself to agri-
cultiiro,'- -* Fiddlesticka V Sophia exclaimed, as she read this, — * and
doing Momcthing U) lessen the dense ignorance of those around me ;
but for MiK'h work as that a man should be able to extend himself

' over a larger surface than that which I can influence. My dream of
ha})pineMS now carries mo away from this to other countries, — to the
•unny south. Could you bo happy there ? A friend of mine whom
J well knew in Oormany, has a villa on the Lake of Como,' — ' In-
dood, sir, Til do no such thing,' said Sophia to herself, — ' and there
1 think wo might forgot all this annoyance.

* 1 mIuiU not writo again now till the trial is over. I have made
up my mind that I will bo in court during the whole proceedings.
If my mothor will admit it, 1 will remain thore close to her, as her
sou slioiild do in such an emergency. If she will not have this, still
I will bo there. No one shall say that I am afraid to see my mother
in any ixmition to which fortune can bring her, or that I have ever
doubtrd hor innoconco.

* (iod blcKs you, my own one.

' Yours,

' L. Al.*

HOW MISS FUBNIVAL TREATED HEB LOVEBS. 205

Taking this letter as a whole perhaps we may say that there was
not as much nonsense in it lus young gentlemen generally put into
their love-letters to young ladies ; but I am inclined to think that
it would have been a better love-letter had there been more non-
sense. At any rate there should have been less about himself, and
more about the lady. He should have omitted the agriculture alto-
gether, and beei^ more sure of his loved one's tastes before he sug*
gested the sunny south and the Como villa. It is true that he was
circumstanced as few lovers are, with reference to his mother ; but
still I think he might have been less lachrymose. Sophia's answer,
which was sent after the lapse of a day or two, was as follows : —

• Harley Street, .

' My dear Lucius,

* I AM not surprised that yon should feel somewhat low-
spirited at the present moment ; but you will find, I have no doubt,
that the results of the next week will cure all that. Your mother
will be herself again when this trial is over, and you will then
wonder that it should ever have had so depressing an influence
either upon you or upon her. I cannot but suppose that papa has
done the best as to her advisers. I know how anxious he is about
it, and they say that he is very clever in such matters. Pray give
your mother my love. I cannot but think she is lucky to have
Mrs. Orme with her. What can be more respectable than a con-
nection at such a time with such people ?

' As to your future residence, do not make up your mind to any-
thing while your spirits are thus depressed. If you like to leave
Orley Farm, why not let it instead of selling it ? As for me, if it
should be fated that our lots are to go together, I am inclined to
think that I should still prefer to live in England. In London
papa's position might probably be of some service, and I should like
no life that was not active. But it is too early in the day to talk
thus at present. You must not think me cold hearted if I say that
what has as yet been between us ^ust not be regarded as an
absolute and positive engagement. I, on my part, hope that it may
become so. My heart is not cold, and I am not ashamed to own
that I esteem you favourably ; but marriage is a very seriotus thing,
and there is so much to be considered I I regard myself as a free
agent, and in a great measure independent of my parents on such a
matter as that ; but still I think it well to make no positive promise
without consulting them. When this trial is over I will speak to
my father, and then you will come up to London and see us.

* Mind you give my love to your mother ; and — if it have any
value in your eyes — ^accept it yourself.

* Your affectionate friend,

• Sophia Furnival.'

206 OKLBT FABM.

I feel Teiy confideiit that Mn. Fnniival was T%lit in decliniDg
to inquire very cloeely into the ciroioiistaiioeB oC her danghter's
oorrespondence. A yonng lady who conld write each a letter to
her lover as that requires bat little looking after; and in thoee
points as to which she may reqoire it, will — ^if she be so minded —
elode it. Snoh as Miss Fomival was, no care on her nx>ther's part
would, I think, have made her better. Much caie might have
made her worse, as, had die been driven to each resources, she
would have Tecesved her letters under a fake nane at the baker s
shop round the comer.

But the last letter was not written liiroughout without interrup-
tion. She was just declaring how on her part she hoped that her
present uncertain tenure of her lever's hand might at some future
time become certain, when AuguKtus Staveley was announced.
Sophia, who was alone in the drawing-room, rose &em her table,
gracefully, slipped her note under the cover of the desk, and ooar-
teously greeted her visitor. * And how are they all at dear No&-
ingsby P' she aAed,

* Dear Nonsngsby is neaily deserted. Theve is no one there but
my mother and Madeline.'

*And who more would be wanting to make it still dear, —
unless it be the judge? I declare, Mr. Staveley, I was quite in
love with your father when I left. Talk of honey fiilling firom
people's mouths ! — he drops nothing less than champagne and pine-
apples.'

* How very diflScult of digestion his conversation must be!*

*• By no means. If the wine be good and .the fruit ripe, nothii^
can be more wholesome. And is everj'body else gone ? Let me
see ; — ^Mr. Graham was still there when I left.'

' He came away shortly afterwards, — as 80<m, that is, as his arm
would allow him.'

* What a happy accident that was for him, Mr. Staveley!'

* Happy ! — breaking three of his ribs, his arm, and his collar-
bone ! I thought it very unhappy.'

' Ah, that's because your character is so deficient in true chivalry.
I call it a very happy accident which gives a gentleman an oppor*
tunity of spending six weeks xmder the same roof with the lady of
his love. Mr. Graham is a man of spirit, and I am by no meaoEis
sure that he did not break his bones on purpose.'

Augustus for a moment tiiought of denying the imputation with
regard to his sister, but before he had spoken he had changed his
mind, lie was already aware that his friend had been again invited
down to Noningsby, and if his father chose to encourage Graham,
why should he make diflSculties ? He had conceived some general
idea that Felix Graham was not a guest to be welcomed into a rich
man's family as a son-in-law. He was poor and crotchety, and

:i :

■ M

■ 1

f
.1

• t

It-

HOW MISS FURNIYAL TBSATED HEB LOYEBS. 207

as regards professional matters luxsteady. But all that was a
matter for his father to consider, not for him. So he held his peace
as touching Graham, and contrived to change the subject, veering
round towards that point of the compass which had brought him
into Harley Street.

' Perhaps then, Miss Fumival, it might answer some purpose if I
were to get myself run over outside there. I could get one of
Pickford's vans, or a dray from Barclay and Perkins', if that might
be thought serviceable.'

* It would be of no use in the world, Mr. Staveley. Those very
charitable middle-aged ladies opposite, the Miss Mac Codies, would
have you into theii: house in no time, and when you woke from your
first swoon, you woidd find yourself in their best bedroom, with one
on each side of you.'

* And you in the mean time — *

* I should send over every morning at ten o'clock to inquire
after you — in mamma's name. " Mrs. Fumival's compliments, and
hopes Mr. Staveley will recover the use of his legs." And the man
would bring back word : " The doctor hopes he may, miss ; but his
left eye is gone for ever." It is not everybody that can tumble dis-
creetly. Now you, I fancy, would only disfigure yourself.'

* Then I must try what fortune can do for me without the brewer's
dray.*

* Fortune has done quite enough for you, Mr. Staveley ; I do not
advise you to tempt her any furlier.'

* Miss Fumival, I have oome to Harley Street to-day on purpose to
tempt her to the utmost. There is my hand '

' Mr. Staveley, pray keep your hand for a while longer in your
own possession.'

' Undoubtedly I shall do so, unless I dispose of it this morning.
When we were at Noningsby together, I ventured to tell you what
I felt for you *

* Did you, Mr. Staveley ? If your feelings were anything beyond
the common, I don't remember the telling.'

* And then,' he continued, without choosing to notice her words,
' you affected to believe that I was not in .earnest in what I said to
you.'

' And you must excuse me if I affect to believe the same thing of
you still.'

Augustus Staveley had come into Harley Street with a positive
resolve to throw his heart and hand and fortune at the feet of Miss
Fumival. I fear that I shall not raise him in the estimation of my
readers by saying so. But then my readers will judge him un-
fairly. They will forget that they have had a much better oppor-
tunity of looking into the character of Miss Fumival than he had
had ; and they will also forget that they have had no such oppor-

208 OBLET FAHM.

tonity of being inflnenced by her personal cbanoB. I think I
remarked before that Miss Fnmiyal well understood how best to
fight her own battle. Had she shown herself from the first anxious
to regard as a definite offer the first words tending that way which
Augustus had spoken to her, he would at once have become indif>
ferent about the matter. As a consequence of her judicious conduct
he was not indifferent. We always want that which we can't get
easily. Sophia had made herself difficult to be gotten, and therefore
Augustus fancied that he wanted her. Since he had been in town
he had been frequently in Harley Street, and had been arguing with
himself on the matter. What match could be more discreet or
better ? Not only was she very handsome, but she was clever also.
And not only was she handsome and clever, but moreover she was
an heiress. What more could his friends want for him, and what
more could he want for himself? His mother did in truth regard
her as a nasty, sly girl ; but then his mother did not know Sophia,
and in such matters mothers are so ignorant !

Miss Fumival, on his thus repeating his offer, again chose to
affect a belief that he was not in earnest. I am inclined to think
that she rather liked this kind of thing. There is an excitement
in the game ; and it is one which may be played without great
danger to either party if it be played cautiously and with some
skill. As regards Augustus at the present moment, I have to sa^'
— with some regret — that he abandoned all idea of caution, and that
he showed very little skill.

* Then,' said he, * I must beg you to lay aside an affectation which
is so veiy injurious both to my honour and to my hopes of happi-
ness.'

* Your honour, Mr. Staveley, is quite safe, I am certain.'

* I wish that my happiness were equally so,' said he. * But at
any rate you will let me have an answer. Sophia *

And now he stood up, looking at her with something really like
love in his eyes, and Miss Furnival began to understand that if she
80 chose it the prize was really within her reach. But then was it
a prize? Was not the other thing the better prize? The other
thing was the better prize ; — if only that affair about the Or ley
Parm were settled. A\igustus Staveley was a good-looking hand-
some fellow, but then there was that in the manner and gait of
Lucius Mason which better suited her taste. There are ladies who
prefer Worcester ware to real china ; and, moreover, the order for
the Worcester ware had already been given.

* Sophia, let a man be ever so light-hearted, there will come to
him moments of absolute and almost terrible earnestness.'

* Even to you, Mr. Staveley.'

* I have at any rate done nothing to deserve your scorn.'

* Fie, now ; you to talk of my scorn ! You come here with soft

HOW MISS FUBNIVAL TREATED HEB LOYEBS. 209

words wbich run easily from your tosgne, feeling sure tliat I sball
be proud in heart when I hear them whispered into my ears ; and
now you pretend to be angry because I do not show you that I am
elated. Do you think it probable that I should treat with scorn
anything of this sort that you might say to me seriously ?'

' I think you are doing so.'

' Have you generally found yourself treated with scorn when yofl
have been out on this pursuit?'

'By heavens! you have no right to speak to me so. In what
way shall I put my words to make them soimd seriously to you?
Do you want me to kneel at your feet, as our grandfathers used to do ?*

*0h, certainly not. Our grandmothers were v6ry stupid in
desiring that.'

* If I put my hand on my heart will you believe me better ?

* Not in the least.*

' Then through what formula shall I go ?'

* Go through no formula, Mr. Staveley. In such affairs as these
very little, as I take it, depends on the words that are uttered.
When heart has spoken to heart, or even head to head, very little
other speaking is absolutely necessary.'

' And my heart has not spoken to yours ?*

'Well; — no; — not with that downright plain open language
which a heart in earnest always knows how to use. I suppose you
think you like me ?'

' Sophia, I love you well enough to make yon my wife to-
morrow.'

* Yes ; and to be tired of your bargain on the next day. Has it
ever occurred to you that giving and taking in marriage is a very
serious thing ?'

' A very serious thing ; but I do not think that on that account it
should be avoided.'

' No ; but it seems to me that you are always inclined to play at
marriage. Do not be angry wiUi me, but for the life of me I can
never think you are in earnest.'

' But I shall be angry — ^very angry — if I do not get from you some
answer to what I have ventured to say.'

' What, now ; to-day ; — this morning ? If you insist upon that,
the answer can only be of one sort. If I am driven to decide this
morning on the question that you have asked me, great as the
honour is — and coming from you, Mr. Staveley, it is very great — I
must decline it. I am not able, at any rate at the present moment,
to trust my happiness altogether in your hands.' When we think
of the half-written letter which at this moment Miss Fumival had
within her desk, this was not wonderful.

And then, without having said anything more that was of note,
Augustus Staveley went his way. As he walked up Harley Street,

VOL. II. P

21C OBLEY FABH*

he haitlly knew whether or no he was to consider himself as bound
to Miss Fumival ; nor did he feel quite sure whether or no he
wished to he so hound. She was handsome, and clever, and an
heiress; hut yet he was not certain that she possessed all those
womanly charms which are desirable in a wife. He could not but
reflect that she had never yet said a soft word to him.

CHAPTER XXVn.

MB. MOULDER BACKS HIS OPINION.

As the day of the trial drew nigh, the perturbation of poor John
Kenneby's mind became very great. Moulder had not intended to
frighten him, but had thought it well to put him up to what he
believed to be the truth. No doubt he would be badgered and
bullied. * And,' as Moulder said to his wife afterwards, ' wasn't it
better that he should know what was in store for him ?' The conse-
quence was, that had it been by any means possible, Kenneby
would have run away on the day before the trial.

But it was by- no means possible, for Dockwrath had hardly left
him alone for an inst^mt. Dockwrath at this time had crept into a
sort of employment in the case from which Matthew Round had
striven in vain to exclude him. Mr. Round had declared once or
twice that if Mr. Mason encouraged Dockwrath to interfere, he,
Round, would throw the matter up. But professional men cannot
very well throw up their business, and Round went on, altliough
Dockwrath did interfere, and although Mr. Mason did encourage
him. On the eve of the trial he went down to Alston with Kennebv
and Bolster ; and Mr. Moulder, at the express instance of Kenneb^',
accompanied them.

' What can I do ? I can't stop the fellow's g'ab,' Moulder bad said.
But Kenneby pleaded hard that some friend might be near him in
the day of his trouble, and Moulder at last consented.

* I wish it was me,* Mrs. Smiley had said, when they talked the
matter over in Great St. Helens; 'I'd let the barrister know what
was what when ho came to knock me about.' Kenneby wished it
also, with all his heart.

Mr. Mason went down by the same train, but he travelled b}' the
first class. Dockwrath, who was now holding his head up, would
have gone with him, had he not thought it better to remain with
Kenneby. * He might jump out of the carriage and destroy him-
self,' he said to Mr. Mason.

* If he had any of the feelings of an Englishman within his breast,*
said Mason, * he would be anxious to give assistance towards tho
punishment of such a criminal as that

MB. K0X3LDEB BACKS HIS OPINIOy. 211

* He has only tho feelings of a tomtit/ said Dockwratli.

Lodgings had been taken for the two chief witnesses together,
and Moulder and Dockwrath shared the accommodation with them.
As they sat down to tea together, these two gentlemen doubtless felt
that Bridget Bolster was not exactly fitting company for them. But
the necessities of an assize week, and of such a trial as this, level
much of these distinctions, and they were both prepared to conde-
scend and become affable.

' Well, Mrs. Bolster, and how do you find yourself?* asked Dock-
wrath.

Bridget was a solid, square-looking woman, somewhat given to
flesh, and now not very quick in her movements. But the nature of
her past life had given to her a certain amount of readiness, and an
absence of that dread of her fellow-creatures which so terribly
afflicted poor Kenneby. And then also she was naturally not a
stupid woman, or one inclined to be muddle-headed. Perhaps it
would bo too much to say that she was generally intelligent, but
what she did understand, she understood thoroughly.

' Pretty well, I thank you, Mr. Dockwrath. I aha'n't be soiTy to
have a bit of something to my tea.*

Bridget Bolster perfectly understood that she was to be well fed
when thus brought out for work in her country's service. To have
everything that she wanted to eat and drink at places of public enter-
tainment, and then to have the bills paid for her behind her back,
was to Bridget Bolster the summit of transitory human bliss.

'And you shall have something to your tea,' said Dockwrath.
* What's H to be?*

*A steak's as good as anything at these places,' suggested
Moulder.

* Or some ham and eggs,' suggested Dockwrath.
' Kidneys is nice,' said Bridget.

* What do you say, Kenneby T asked Dockwrath.

*It is nothing to me,' said Kenneby; 'I have no appetite. I
think I'll take a little brandy-and-water.'

Mr. Moulder possessed the most commanding spirit, and the
steak was ordered. They then made themselves as comfortable as
circumstances would admit, and gradually fell into a general con-
versation about the trial. It had been understood among them since
they first came together, that as a matter of etiquette the witnesses
were not to be asked what they had to say. Kenneby was not to
divulge his facts in plain language, nor Bridget Bolster those which
belonged to her ; but it was open to them all to take a general view
of the matter, and natural that at ih& present moment they should
hardly bo able to speak of anything else. And there was a very
divided opinion on the subject in dispute ; Dockwrath, of course,
expressing a strong conviction in favour of a verdict of guilty, and

p 2

212 ORLET FABM.

Moulder being as certain of an acquittal. At first Moulder had been
very unwilling to associate with Dockwrath ; for he was a man who
maintained his animosities long within his breast ; but Dockwrath
on this occasion was a great man, and there was some slight reflec-
tion of greatness on the associates of Dockwrath ; it was only by the
assistance of Dockwrath that a place could be obtained within the
court, and, upon the whole, it became evident to Moulder that during
such a crisis as this the society of Dockwrath must be endured.

* They can't do anything to one if one do one*s best ?* said
Kenneby, who was sitting apart from the table while the others
were eating.

* Of course they can't,' said Dockwrath, who wished to inspirit
the witnesses on his own side.

* It aint what they do, but what they say,* said Moulder ; * and then
everybody is looking at you. I remember a case when I was young
on the road ; it was at Nottingham. There had been some sugyrs
delivered, and the rats had got at it. I'm blessed if they didn't ask
me backwards and forwards so often that I forgot whether they was
seconds or thirds, though I'd sold the goods myself. And then the
lawyer said he'd have me prosecuted for perjury. Well, I was that
frightened, I could not stand in the box. I aint so green now b^^^ a
good deaL'

* I'm sure you're not, Mr. Moulder,' said Bridget, who well under-
stood the class to which Moulder belonged.

* After that I met that lawyer in the street, and was ashamed to
look him in the face. I'm blessed if he didn't come up and shake
hands with me, and tell me that he knew all along that his client
hadn't a leg to stand on. Now I call that beautiful.'

* Beautiful !' said Kenneby.

* Yes, I do. He fought that battle just as if he was sure of
winning, though he knew ho was going to lose. Give me the man
that can fight a losing battle. Anybody can play whist with four
by honours in his own hand.'

* I don't object to four by honours either,' said Dockwrath ; • and
that's the game we are going to play to-morrow.'

* And lose the rubber after all,' said Moulder.

* No, I'm blessed if we do, Mr. Moulder. If I know anything of
my own profession '

* Humph !' ejaculated Moulder.

* And I shouldn't be here fa such a case as this if I didn't ; — ^but

if I do. Lady Mason has no more chance of escape than — than —

than that bit of muffin has.' And as he spoke the savoury morsel

in question disappeared from the fingers of the commercial tra*
veller.

For a moment or two Moulder could not answer him. The por-
tion of food in question was the last on his plate ; it had been con*

MB. MOULDSB BA0K8 HIS OPIHIOK. 213

adorable in size, and required attention in mastication. Then the
remaining gravy bad to be picked up on the blade of the knife, and
the particles of pickles collected and disposed of by the same pro-
cess. But when aeU this had been well done, Moulder replied —

* That may be your opinion, Mr. Dockwrath, and I dare say yon
may know what you^re about.'

' Well ; I rather think I do, Mr. Moulder.*

'Mine's different Now when one gentleman thinks one thing
and another thinks another, there's nothing for it in my mind but for
each gentleman to back his own. That's about the ticket in this
coimtry, I believe.'

' That's just as a gentleman may feel disposed,' said Dockwrath.

' Ko it aint. What's the use of a man having an opinion if he
won't back it? He's bound to back it, or else he should give way,
and confess he aint so sure about it as he said he was. There's no
coming to an end if you don't do that Now there's a ten-pound
note,' and Moulder produced that amount of the root of all evil ;
* I'll put that in John Kenneby's hands, and do you cover it.' And
then he looked as though there were no possible escape from the
proposition which he had made.

* 1 decline to have anything to do with it,' said Eenneby.

* Gammon,' said Moulder ; ' two ten-pound notes won't bum a
hole in your pocket'

* Suppose I should be asked a question about it to-morrow ; where
should I be then ?'

* Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Kenneby,' said Dockwrath ; ' I'm not
going to bet'

' You aint, aint you ?* said Moulder.

' Certainly not, Mr. Moulder. K you understood professional
matters a little better, you*d know that a professional gentleman
couldn't make a bet as to a case partly in his own hands without
very great impropriety.' And Dockwrath gathered himself up,
endeavouring to impress a sense of his importance on the two wit-
aesses, even should he ful of doing so upon Mr. Moulder.

Moulder repocketed his ten-pound note, and laughed with a long,
low chuckle. According to his idea of things, he had altogether got
the better of the attorney upon that subject As he himself put it so
plainly, what criterion is there by which a man can test the validity
of his own opinion if he be not willing to support it by a bet ? A
man is bound to do so, or else to give way and apologize. For
many years he had insisted upon this in commercial rooms as a fun-
damental law in the character and conduct of gentlemen, and never
yet had anything been said to him to show that in such a theory he
was mistaken.

During all this Bridget Bolster sat there much delighted. It was
not necessary to her pleasure that she should say much herself.

214 ORLET FARM.

There she was eeated in the society of gentlemen and of men of the
world, with a cup of tea heside her, and the expectation of a littlo
drop of something warm afterwards. What more could the world
offer to her, or what more had the world to offer to anyhody ? As
for as her feelings went she did not care if Lady Mason were tried
every month in the year! Not that her feelings towards Lady
Mason were cruel. It was nothing to her whether Lady Masou
should be convicted or acquitted. But it was much to her to sit
quietly on her chair and have nothing to do, to eat and drink of the
best, and be made much of; and it was very much to her to hear tho
conversation of her betters.

On the following morning Dockwrath breakfiwted by appointment
with Mr. Mason, — promising, however, that he would return to his
friends whom he left behind him, and introduce them into the
court in proper time. As I have before hinted, Mr. Mason's confi-
dence in Dockwrath had gone on increasing day by day since they
had first met each other at Groby Park, till he now wished that he
had altogether taken the advice of the Ham worth attorney and put
this matter entirely into his hands. By degi-ees Joseph Mason had
learned to understand and thoroughly to appreciate the strong points
in his own case ; and now he was so fully convinced of the truth of
those surmises which Dockwrath had been the first to make, that no
amount of contrary evidence could have shaken him. And whyliad
not Round and Crook found this out when the matter was before
investigated ? Why had they prevented him from appealing to the
Lord Chancellor when, through their own carelessness, the matter
had gone against him in the inferior court ? And why did they
now, even in these latter days, when they were driven to reopen the
case by the clearness of the evidence submitted to them, — why did
they even now wound his cars, irritate his temper, and oppose tho
warmest feelings of his heart by expressing pity for this >vicked
criminal, whom it was their bounden duty to prosecute to the very
utmost ? Was it not by their fault that Orley Farm had been lost
to him for the last twenty years ? And yet young Bound had told
him, with the utmost composure, that it would be useless for him to
look for any of those monej's which should have accrued to him
during all those years! After what had passed, young Round
should have been anxious to grind Lucius Mason into powder, and
make money of his very bones ! Must he not think, when he con-
sidered all these things, that Round and Crook had been wilfully
dishonest to him, and that their interest had been on the side of
Lady Jlason ? He did so think at last, under the beneficent tutelage
of his now adviser, and had it been possible would have taken tho
case out of tlie hands of Round and Crook even during the week
before the trial.

♦ We mustn't do it now,' Dockwrath had said, in his triumph. * If

MB. MOULDER BACKS HIS OPINION. 215

we did, the whole thing wonld be delayed. Btit they shall be so
watched that they shall not be able to throw the thing over. I've
got them in a vice, Mr. Mason ; and 1*11 hold them so tight that
they must convict her whether they will or no.*

And the nature and extent of Mr. Dockwrath's reward had been
already settled. When Lucius Mason should be expelled from Orley
Farm with ignominy, he, Dockwrath, should become the tenant.
The very rent was settled with the understanding that it should be
remitted for the first year. It would be pleasant to him to have
back his two fielda in this way ; — his two fields, and something else
beyond ! It may be remembered that Lucius Mason had once gone
to his ofiice insulting him. It would now be his turn to visit
Lucius Mason at his domicile. He was disposed to think that such
visit would be made by him with more effect than had attended that
other.

' Well, sir, we're all right,' he said, as he shook hands with
Mr. Mason of Groby ; * there's no screw loose that I can find.'

^ And will that man be able to speak T Mr. Mason was alluding
to John Kenneby.

*• I think he will, as corrobomting the woman Bolster. That's all
we shall want. We shall put up the womaD first ; that is, after I
have done. I don't think they'll make muoh of her, Mr. Mason.'

' They can't make her say that she signed two deeds if she is
willing to tell the truth. There's no danger, you think, that she's
been tampered with, — that she has taken money.*

* No, no ; there's been nothing of that.'

* They'd do anything, you know,' said Mr. Mason. * Think of
such a man as Solomon Aram ! He's been used to it all his life, you
know.'

* They could not do it, Mr. Mason ; I've been too shai*p on them.
And I toll you what, — they know it now. There isn't one of them
that doesn't know we shall get a verdict.' And then for a few
minutes there was silence between the two friends.

* I'll tell you what, Dockwrath,* said Mr. Mason, after a while ;
' I've so set my heart upon this — upon getting justice at last — that I do
think it would kill me if I were to be beaten. I do, indeed. I've
known this, you know, all ray life ; and think what I've felt ! For

twenty-two years, Dockwrath ! By ! in all that I have read I

don't think I ever heard of such a hardbhip ! That she should have
robbed me for two-and-twenty years! — And now they say that she
will be imprisoned for twelve months !'

' She'll get more than that, Mr. Mason.*

' I know what woidd have been done to her thirty years ago,
when the country was in earnest about such matters. What did they
do to Fauntleroy T

' Things are changed since then, aint they ?' said Dockwrath,

216 OBLET FABBL

with a laugh. And then ho went to look up his flock, and take
them into court. ' 1*11 meet you in the hall, Mr. Mason, in twenty
minutes from this time.'
And so the play was beginning on each side.

CHAPTER XXVIIl.

THE FIRST DAT OF THE TRIAL.

And now the judge was there on the bench, the barristers and
the attorneys were collected, the prisoner was seated in their
presence, and the trial was begun. As is usual in cases of much
public moment, when a person of mark is put upon his purgation,
or the offence is one which has attracted notice, a considerable
amount of time was spent in preliminaries. But we, who are not
bound by the necessities under which the court laboured, will pass
over these somewhat rapidly. The prisoner was arraigned on the
charge of perjury, and pleaded 'not guilty' in a voice which,
though low, was audible to all the court. At that moment the hum
of voices had stayed itself, and the two small words, spoken in a
clear, silver tone, reached the ears of all that then were there
assembled. Some had surmised it to be possible that she would
at the last moment plead guilty, but such persons had not known
Lady Mason. And then by slow degrees a jury was sworn, a con-
siderable number of jurors having been set aside at the instance of
Lady Mason's counsel. Mr. Aram had learned to what part of the
county each man belonged, and upon his instructions those ivho
came from the neighbourhood of Ham worth were passed over.

The comparative lightness of the offence divested ihe commence-
ment of the trial of much of that importance and apparent dignity
which attach themselves to most celebrated criminal cases. The
prisoner was not bidden to look upon ihe juror, nor the juror to
look upon the prisoner, as though a battle for life and death were to
be fought between them. A true bill for perjury had come down
to the court from the grand jury, but the court officials could not
bring themselves on such an occasion to open the case with all
that solemnity and deference to the prisoner which they would
liave exhibited had she been charged with murdering her old
husband. Nor was it even the same as though she had been
accused of forgery. Though forgery be not now a capital crime, it
was so within our memories, and there is still a certain grandeur in
the name. But perjury sounds small and petty, and it was not
therefore till the trial had advanced a stage or two that it assiuned
that importance which it afterwards never lost. That this should

THE FIBST DAT 07 TBE TBIAL. 217

be 80 cut Mr. Mason of Groby to the very soul. Even Mr. Dook-
wxaiti had been unable to make him nnderatand that hia chance of
T^ainii^ flie property was nnder the pre§eDt cmmmstaaoes mnoh
greater than it would have been had Lady Mason been arrugned
for forgery. He wonld not believe that the act of fbrgeiy might
possibly not have been proved. Coold ehe have been first whipped
through the street for the miBdemeanour, and then hang for the
felony, his spirit wonld not have been more than sufficiently
appeased.

The case was opened by one Mr. Steelyard, the junior counsel for
the proeecntion ; but his work on this occasion was hardly more
than formal. He merely elated the nature of the accusation
against Lady Hason, and the issue which the jury were called
upon to tiy. Then got up Sir Bichard Leatherham, the solicitor-
general,' and at great length and with wonderful perspicuity
explained all the ciroumatances of the case, beginning with the
undoubted will left by Sir Joseph Mason, the will independently
of the codicil, and coming down gradually to the discovery of that
document in Mr. Dockwrath's office, which led to the surmise that
the signature of those two witnesses had been obtained, not to a
codicil to a will, hut to a deed of another character. In doii^ this
Sir Richard did not seem to lean veiy heavily upon Lady Mason,
nor did he say much as to the wrongs sufTered by Mr. Mason of
Groby. When he alluded to Mr. Dockwrath and his part in these
transactiotis, he paid no compliment to the Hamworth attorney;
but in referring to his learned friend on the other side he protested
his conviction that the defence of Lady Mason would be condnctod
not only with zeal, but in that spirit of justice and truth for which
the gentlemen opposite to him were so conspicuous in their pro-
fession. All this was wormwood to Joseph Mason ; but neverthe-
less, though Sir Richard was so moderate as to his own aide, and so
courteous to that opposed to him, he made it very clear before he
sat down that if those witnesses were prepared to swear that which
he was instmoted they would swear, either they must be utterly
unworthy of credit — a fact which hia learned friends opposite were
as able to elicit as any gentlemen who had ever graced tti6 English
bar — or else the prisoner now on her trial must have been guil^ of
the crime of perjury now imputed to her.

Of all those in court now attending to the proceedings,
listened with greater core to the statement made by Sir T'
than Joseph Mason, Lady Masiin horsclf, and Fclis Qn
Joseph Mason it appeared that hia counsel was betraying |i
Richard and Sound were in a boat together and were deta
throw him over yet once again. Had tt|ia^^possibla J
have stopped the proceedings, and
wrath. To Joseph Mason it would J

^18 ORLET FARM.

Richard should begin by holding np Lady liason to the scorn and
indignation of the twelve honest jnrymen before him. Mr. Dock-
wrath, whose intelligence was keener in such matters, endeavonred
to make his patron understand that he w«ub wrong ; bat in this he
did not succeed. ' If he lets her escape me,' said Mason, * I think
it will be the death of me.'

To Lady Mason it appeared as thon^ the man who was now
showing to all the crowd there assembled the chief scenes of her
past life, had been present and seen everything that she had ever done.
He told the jury of all who had been present in the room when
that true deed had been signed ; he described how old Usbech had
sat there incapable of action ; how that afilEur of the paitnership had
been brought to a close ; how those two witnesses had thereupon
appended their name to a deed; how those witnesses had been
deceived, or partially deceived, as to their own signatures when
called upon to give their testimony at a former trial ; and he told
them also that a comparison of the signatures on the codicil with
those signatures which were undoubtedly true would lead an expert
and professional judge of writing to tell them that the one set of
signatures or the other must be forgeries. Then he went on to
describe how the pretended codicil must in truth have been
executed — speaking of the solitary room in which the bad work had
been done^ of the midnight care and terrible solicitude for secrecy.
And then, with apparent mercy, he attempted to mitigate the
iniquity of the deed by telling the jury that it had not been done
by that lady with any view to solf-aggrandisement, but had been
brought about by a lamentable, infatuated, mad idea that she might
in this way do that justice to her child which that child's father
had refused to do at her instance. He also, when he told of this,
spoke of Rebekah and her son ; and Mrs. Orme when she heard him
did not dare to raise her eyes from the table. Lucius Mason, when
ho had listened to this, lifted his clenched hand on high, and
brought it down with loud violence on the raised desk in front of
him. ' I know the merits of that young man,' said Sir Kichard,
looking at him ; *' I am told that he is a gentleman, good, indus-
trious, and high spirited. I wish he were not here ; I wish with
all my heart he were not here.' And then a tear, an absolute and
true drop of briny moisture, stood in the eye of that old experienced
lawyer. Lucius, when ho heard this, for a moment covered his
face. It was but for a moment, and then he looked up again,
turning his eyes slowly round the entire court, and as he did so
grasping his mother by the arm. * Hell look in a different sort of
fashion by to-morrow evening, I guess,' said Dockwrath into his
neighbour's ear. During all this time no change came over Lady
Mason's face. When she felt her son's hand upon her arm her
muscles had moved involuntarily ; but she recovered herself at the

THE PIKST DAY OF THE TRIAL. 219

moment, and then went on enduring it all with abselnte composure.
Nevertheless it seemed to her as though that man who stood before
her, telling his tale so calmly, had read the secrets of her very soul.
What chance could there be for her when everything was thus
known?

To every word that was spoken Felix Grahemi gave all his mind.
While Mr. ChaffiEmbrass sat fidgeting, or reading, or dreaming,
oaring nothing for all that his learned brother might say, Graham
listened to every fact that was stated, and to eveiy surmiae that
was propounded. To him the absolute truth in this affair was
matter of great moment, but yet he felt that he dreaded to know
the truth. Would it not be better for him that he should not know
it ? But yet he listened, and his active mind, intent on the various
points as they were evolved, would not restrain itself from forming
opinions. With all his ears he listened, and as he did bo Mr.
Ohaffanbrass, amidst his dreaming, reading, and fidgeting, kept an
attentive eye upon him. To him it was a matter of course that
Lady Mason should be guilty. Had she not been guilty, he,
Mr. Chaffanbrass, would not have been required. Mr. Chatfanbrass
well understood that the defence of injured innocence was no part
of his mission.

Then at last Sir Richard Leatheram brought to a close his long
tale, and the examination of the witnesses was commenced. By
this time it was past two o'clock, and the judge went out of court
for a few minutes to refresh himself with a glass of wine and a
sandwich. And now young Peregrine Orme, in spite of all
obstacles, made his way up to his mother and led her also out of
court. He took his mother's arm, and Lady Mason followed with
her son, and so they made their way into the small outer room
which they had first entered. Not a word was said between them
on the subject which was filling the minds of all of them. Lucius
stood silent and absorbed while Peregrine offered refreshment to
both the ladies. Lady Mason, doing as she was bid, essayed to eat
and to drink. What was it to her whether she ate and drank or
was a-hungered ? To maintain by her demeanour the idea in men's
minds that she might still possibly be innocent — that was her work.
And therefore, in order that those two young men might still think
so, she ate and drank as she was bidden.

On their return to court Mr. Steelyard got up to examine Dock-
wrath, who was put into the box as the first witness. The attorney
produced certain documents supposed to be of relevancy, which he
had found among his father-in-law's papers, and then described how
he had found that special document which gave him to understand
that Bolster and Eenneby had been used as witnesses to a certain
signature on that 14th of July. He had known all the circumstances
of the old trial, and hence his suspicions had been aroused. Acting

220 OBLET FABM.

upon this he had gone immediately down to Mr. Maaon in Yorkshiie,
and the present trial was the resnlt of his care and intelligence.
This was in effect the purport of his direct evidence, and then he .
was handed over to the tender mercies of the other side.

On the other side Mr. GhafiiEUibrass rose to begin the battle.
Mr. Fnmival had already been engaged in sundry of thoee pre-
liminary skirmishes which had been found necessary before the
fight had been commenced in earnest, and therefore the turn bad
now come for Mr. Chaffiinbrass. All this, however, had been
arranged beforehand, and it had been agreed that if possible Dock-
wrath should be made to DeJI into the clutches of the Old Bailey
barrister. It was pretty to see the meek way in which Mr.
Chaffanbrass rose to his work; how gently he smiled, how he
fidgeted about a few of the papers as thou^ he were not at first
quite master of his situation, and how he arranged his old wig in a
modest, becoming manner, bringing it well forward over bis fore-
head. His voice also was low and soft ; — so low that*it was hardly
heard through the whole court, and persons who had oome far to
listen to him began to feel themselves disappointed. And it was
pretty also to see how Dockwrath armed himself for the encounter, —
how he sharpened his teeth, as it were, and felt the points of his
own claws. The little devices of Mr. Chaffanbrass did not deceive
him. He knew what he had to expect ; but his pluck was good,
as is the pluck of a terrier when a mastiff prepares to attack him.
Let Mr. Chaffanbrass do his worst ; that would all be over in an
hour or so. But when Mr. Chaffanbrass had done his worst, Orley
Farm would still remain.

*I believe you were a tenant of Lady Mason's at one time,
Mr. Dockwrath T asked the barrister.

* I was ; and she turned me out. If you will allow me I will
tell you how all that happened, and how I was angered by the
usage I received.' Mr. Dockwrath was determined to make a clean
breast of it, and rather go before his tormentor in telling all that
there was to be told, than lag behind as an unwilling witness.

' Do,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass. * That will be very kind of you.
When I have learned all that, and one other little circumstance of
the same nature, I do not think I shall want to trouble you any
more.* And then Mr. Dockwrath did tell it all ; — how he had lost
the two fields, how he had thus become very angry, how thisanger
had induced him at once to do that which he had long thought of
doing, — search, namely, among the papers of old Mr. Usbech, with
the view of ascertaining what might be the real truth as regarded
that doubtful codicil.

* And you found what you searched for, Mr. Dockwrath ?'

* I did/ said Dockwrath.

* Without very much delay, apparently ?*

THE FIRST DAY OP THE TBIAL. 221

* I was two or three days over tlie work.'

* But you found exactly what you wanted ?*
' I found what I expected to find.'

* And that, although all those papers had been subjected to the
scrutiny of Messrs. Round and Crook at the time of that other trial
twenty years ago T

' I was sharper than them, Mr. Chaffianbrass, — a deal sharper.'

' So I perceive,' said Chafifanbrass, and now hid had pushed back

his wig a little, and his eyes had begun to glare with an ugly red

light. *Yes,' he said, *it will be long, I think, before my old

friends Bound and Crook are as sharp as you are, Mr. Dockwrath.'

* Upon my word I agree with you, Mr. Chafifanbrass.'

*• Yes ; Bound and Crook are babies to you, Mr. Dockwrath ;' and
now Mr. ChafiEanbrass began to pick at his chin with his finger, as
he was accustomed to do when he warmed to his subject. ' Babies
to you ! You have had a good deal to do with them, I should say,
in getting up this case.'

' I have had something to do with them.'

*And very much they must have enjoyed your society, Mr.
Dockwrath I And what wrinkles they must have learned from
you ! What a pleasant oasis it must have been in the generally
somewhat dull course of their monotonous though profitable
business ! I quite envy Bound and Crook having you alongside
of them in their inner council-chamber.'

' I know nothing about that, sir.'

'No; I dare say you don't; — but they'll remember it Well,
when you'd turned over your father-in-law's papers for three days
you found what you looked for?'

* Yes, I did.'

* You had been tolerably sure that you would find it before you
began, eh ?'

' Well, I had expected that something would turn up.'
' I have no doubt you did, — and something has turned up. That
gentleman sitting next to you there, — who is he ?'

* Joseph Mason, Esquire, of Groby Park,' said Dockwrath.

* So I thought It is he that is to have Orley Farm, if Lady
Mason and her son should lose it?'

* In that case he would be the heir.'

' Exactly. He would be the heir. How pleasant it must be to
you to find yourself on such afifectionate terms with— the heir!
And when he comes into his inheritance, who is to be tenant ? Can
you tell us that?'

Dockwrath here paused for a moment. Not that he hesitated as
to telling the whole truth. He had fully made up his mind to do
so, and to brazen the matter out, declaring that of course he was to
lie considered worthy of his reward. But there was that in tfa|gH^

222 OBLEY FABM.

manner and eye of Chaffimbraas which stopped him for a moment,
and his enemy immediately took advantage of this hesitation.
'Come, sir/ said he, * out with it. If I don't get it from you, I
shall from somebody else. YotiVe been very plain-spoken hitherto.
Don't let the jury think that your heart is failing you at last.'

* There is no reason why my heart should fail me,* said Dock-
wrath, in an angry tone.

* Is there not ? I must differ from you there, Mr. Dock wrath.
The heai-t of any man placed in such a position as that you now
huld must, I think, fail him. But never mind that. Who is to be
the tenant of Orley Farm when my client has been deprived of it "

* I am.*

* Just so. You were turned out from those two fields when young
Mason came home from Germany?*

* 1 was.*

* You immediately went to work and discovered this document ?*
' I did.*

' Yoa put up Joseph Mason to this trial T

* I told him my opinion.*

' Exactly. And if the result be successful, you are to be put in
possession of the land.'

* I shall become Mr. Mason's tenant at Orley Farm.'

* Yes, you will become Mr. Mason*s tenant at Orley Farm. Upon
my word, Mr. Dockwrath, you have made my work to-day uncom-
monly easy fur me, — uncommonly easy. I don't know that I have
anything else to ask you.* And then Mr. Chaffanbrass, as he sat
down, lociked up to the jury with an expi*ession of countenance
which was in itself worth any fee that could be paid to him for that
day's work. His face spoke as plain as a face could speak, and what
his face said was this: 'After that, gentlemen of the jur}', very
little more can be necessary. Y'^ou now see the motives of our
opponents, and the way in which those motives have been allowed
to act. We, who are altogether upon the square in what we arc
doing, desire nothing more than that.* All which Mr. Chaffanbrass
said by his look, his shrug, and his gesture, much more eloquently
than he could have done by the use of any words.

Mr. Dockwrath, as he left the box and went back to his seat — in
doing which he had to cross the table in the middle of the court —
endeavoured to look and move as though all were right with him.
He knew that the eyes of the court were on him, and esp^tially the
eyes of the judge and jury. He knew also how men's minds are
unconsciously swayed by small appearances. He endeavoured
therefore to seem indifferent ; but in doing so he swaggered, and was
conscious that he swaggered ; and he felt as he gained his seat that
Mr. Chaffanbrass had been too much for him.

Then one Mr. Torrington from London was examined by Sir

THE FIRST DAY 07 THE TRIAL. 223

Richard Leactherham, and he proved, apparently beyond all donht,
that a certain deed which he prodnced was genuine. That deed
bore the same date as the codicil which was now questioned, had
been executed at Orley Farm by old Sir Joseph, and bore the signa-
tures of John Kenneby and Bridget Bolster as witnesses. Sir
Hichard, holding the deed in his hands, explained to the jury that
he did not at the present stage of the proceedings ask them to take
it as proved that those names were the true signatures of the two
persons indicated. (' I should think not/ said Mr. Fumival, in a
loud voice.) But he asked them to satisfy themselves that the
document as now existing purported to bear those two signatures.
It would be for them to judge, when the evidence brought before
them should be complete, whether or no that deed were a true docu-
ment. And then the deed was handed up into the jury-box, and
the twelve jurymen all examined it. The statement made by this
Mr. Torrington was very simple. It had become his business to
know the circumstances of the late partnership between Mason and
!Martock, and these circiunstances he explained. Then Sir Bichard
handed him over to be cross-examined.

It was now Graham's turn to begin his work ; but as he rose to de
so his mind misgave him. Not a syllable that this Torrington had
said appeared to him to be unworthy of belief. The man had not
uttered a word, of the truth of which Graham did not feel him-
self positively assured ; and, more than that, — the man had clearly
told all that was within him to tell, all that it was well that the
jury should hear in order that they might thereby be assisted in
coming to a true decision. It had been hinted in his hearing, both
by Chaffanbrass and Aram, that this man was probably in league
with Dockwrath, and Aram had declared with a sneer that he was
a puzzle-pated old fellow. He might be puzzle-pated, and had
already shown that ho was bashful and unhappy in his present
position ; but he had shown also, as Graham thought, that he was
anxious to tell the truth.

And, moreover, Graham had listened with all his mind to the

cross-examination of Dockwrath, and he was filled with disgust

with disgust, not so much at the part played by the attorney as at
that played by the barrister. As Graham regarded the matter, what
had the iniquities and greed of Dockwrath to do with it ? Had
reason been shown why the statement made by Dockwrath was in
itself unworthy of belief, — that that statement was in its own essence
weak, — then the character of the man making it might fairly affect
its credibility. But presuming that statement to bo strong, — pro-
sumiug that it was corroborated by other evidence, how could it bo
affected by any amount of villainy on the part of Dockwrath ? All
that Chaffanbrass had done or attempted was to prove that Dock-
wrath had had his own end to servo. Who had over doubted it?

224 OBLEY FABM.

Bnt not a word had been said, not a spark of evidence elicited, to
sliow that the man had used a falsehood to further those views of
his. Of all this the mind of Felix Graham had been foil ; and now,
as he rose to take his own share of the work, his wit was at work
rather in opposition to Lady Mason than on her behalf.

This Torrington was a little old man, and Graham had watched
how his hands had trembled when Sir Richard first addressed him.
But Sir Richard had been very kind, — as was natural to his own wit-
ness, and the old man had graduallj regained his courage. But now
as he turned his face round to the side where he knew that he might
expect to find an enemy, that tremor again came upon him, and the
stick which he held in his hand was heard as it tapped gently
against the side of the witness-box. Graham, as he rose to his work,
saw that Mr. Chaffanbrass had fixed his eye upon him, and his
courage rose the higher within him as he felt the gaze of the man
whom he so much disliked. Was it within the compass of his heart
to bully an old man because such a one as Chaffanbrass desired it
of him ? By heaven, no !

He first asked Mr. Torrington his age, and having been told that
he was over seventy, Graham went on to assure him that nothing
which could be avoided should be said to disturb his comfort. And
now, Mr. Torrington,' he asked, * will you tell me whether.you are
a friend of Mr. Dockwrath's, or have had any acquaintance with
him previous to the affairs of this trial ? This question he repeated
in vai-ious forms, but always in a mild voice, and without the
appearance of any disbelief in the answers which were given to
him. All these questions Torrington answered by a plain negative.
He had never seen Dockwrath till the attorney had come to him on
the matter of that partnership deed. He had never eaten or drunk
with him, nor had there ever been between them any conversation
of a confidential nature. * That will do, Mr. Torrington,' said
Graham ; and as he sat down, he again turned round and looked
Mr. ChaffEmbrass full in the face.

After that nothing further of interest was done that day. A few
unimportant witnesses were examined on legal points, and then
the court was adjourned.

OHAPTEB XXIX.

THE TWO JUDGES.

Felix Graham as he left the Alston court-house on the dose of the
first day of the trial was not in a happy state of mind. He did not
actually accuse himself of having omitted any duty which he owed
to his client ; but he did accuse himself of having undertaken a
duty for which he felt himself to be manifestly unfit. Would it not
have been better, as he said to himself, for that poor lady to have
had any other possible advocate than himself? Then as ho passed
out in the company of Mr. Fumival and Mr. Ohafianbrass, the latter
looked at him with a scorn which he did not know how to return.
In his heart he could do so ; and should words be spoken between
them on the subject, he would be well able and willing enough to
defend himself. But had he attempted to bandy looks with Mr.
Chaffanbrass, it would have seemed even to himself that he was
proclaimiug his resolution to put himself in opposition to his col-
leagues.

He felt as though he were engaged to fight a battle in which truth
and justice, nay heaven itself must be against him. How can a
man put his heart to the proof of an assertion in the truth of which
}io himself has no belief ? That though guilty this lady should be
treated with the utmost mercy compatible with the law ; — for so
much, had her guilt stood forward as acknowledged, he could have
pleaded with all the eloquence that was in him. He could still
pity her, sympathize with her, fight for her on such ground as that ;
but was it possible that he, believing her to be false, should stand
up before the crowd assembled in that court, and use such intellect
as God had given him in makiug others think that the false and the
giiilty one was true and innocent, and that those accusers were false
and guilty whom he knew to be true and innocent ?

It had been arranged that Baron Maltby should stay that night
at Noningsby. The brother-judges therefore occupied the No-
ningsby carriage together, and Graham was driven back in a dog-
cart by Augustus Staveley,

* Well, old boy,' said Augustus, * you did not soil your conscience
much by bullying that fellow.*

' No, I did not/ said Graham ; and then lie was silent.

' Chaffanbrass made an uncommonly ugly j?how of the Hamworth

VOL. II. Q

226 OBLET FABX.

attorney/ Mid AvgiistiiBy after a paoae ; bat to this Graham at first
made no answer.

* If 1 were on tlie jury/ oontinned Hie other, * I woold not beliere
a single word that came from that fellow's month, nnless it were
folly supported by other testimony. Nor will the jnry believe him.'

*■ I tell you what, Staveley/ said Graham, * yon will oblige me
greatly in this matter if joa will not speak to me of the trial till it
is OTer.'

' I beg yonr pardon.'

* No ; don't do that. Nothing can be more natmal than that yon
and I should discuss it tc^ether in all its bearings. But there are
reasons, which 1 will ezpUdn to you afterwards^ why I would xatber
not do so/

* All ri^bt,' said Augustus. * HI not say another worcL'

* And for my part, I laill get ihrou^ the work as well as I may.'
And then they both sat silent in the gig till they came to the c<»ner
of Noningsby wan.

* And is that other subject tabooed also ? said Augustus.
« What other subject r

* That as to which we said something when you were last heroi —
touching my sister Madeline.*

Graham felt that his feoe was on fire, but he did not knowhorw to
answer. ' In that it is for you to decide whether or no there slumld
be silence between xu,' he said at last

' I certainly do not wish that there should be any secret bet¥reen
us,' said Augustus.

* Then there shall be none. It is my intention to make an offer
to her before I leave Noningsby. I can assure you for your satis-
fection, that my hopes do not run very high.'

' For my satisfection, Felix ! I don't know why you should 8up>
pose me to be anxious that you should fail.' And as he so spoke ho
stopped his horse at the hall-door, and there was no time for farther
speech.

* Papa has been home a quarter of an hour,' said Madeline,
meeting them in the hall.

* Yes, he had the pull of us by having his carriage ready,' said her
brother. * We had to wait for the ostler.'

* He says that if you are not ready in ten minutes he will go to
dinner without you. Mamma and I are dressed.' And as she spoke
she turned round with a smile to Felix, making him feel that both
8he and her fether were treating him as though he were one of the
family.

* Ten minutes will be quite enough for me,' said he.

* If the governor only would sit do^vn,' said Augustus, * it would
he all right. But that's just what he won't do. Mad, do send
somebody to help me to unpack.' And then they all bustled away.

THB TWO JtTDQES. 227

fio that the pair of judges might not be kept waitixig for fheir
food.

Felix Graham harried up stairs, three steps at a time, as though
all his future sncoess at Noningsbj depended on his being down in
the drawing-room within the period of minutes stipulated by the
judge. As he dressed himself wi& the utmost rapidity, thinking
perhaps not so much as he should haye done of bis appearance in
the eyes of his lady-love, he endeavoured to come to some resolve
as to the task which was before him. How was be to find an
opportunity of speaking his mind to Madeline, if, during the short
period of his sojourn at Noningsby, he left the house every morning
directly after breakfast, and returned to it in the evening only just
in time for dinner?

When he entered the drawing-room both the judges were there,
as was also Lady Staveley and Madeline. Augustus alone was
wanting. ' Hing the bell, Graham,' the judge said, as Felix took
bis place on the comer of the rug. ^ Augustus will be down about
eupper-time.' And then the bell was rung and the dinner ordered.

' Papa ought to remember,' said Madeline, * that he got his car-
iiage fiist at Alston.'

' I heard the wheels of the gig,' said tbe judge. * They were just
two minutes after us.*

* I don't think Augustus takes longer than other young men/ said
Lady Staveley.

' Look at Graham there. He can't be supposed to have the use
of all his limbs, for he broke half a dozen of them a month ago ; and
yet he's ready. Brother Maltby, give your arm to Lady Staveley.
Graham, if you'll take Madeline, I'll follow alone.' He did not call
ber Miss Staveley, as Felix specially remarked, and so remarking,
pressed the little hand somewhat closer to his side. It was the first
sign of love he had ever given her, and he feared that some mark of
anger might follow it There was no return to his pressure ; — not
the slightest answer was made with those sweet finger points ; but
there was no anger. ' Is your arm quite strong again ?' she asked
him as they sat down, as soon as the judge's short grace bad been
uttered.

' Fifteen minutes to the second,' said Augustus, bustling into the
room, ' and I think that an unfair advantage has been taken of me.
But what can a juvenile barrister expect in the presence of two
judges T And then the dinner went on, and a very pleasant little
dinner-party it was.

Not a word was said, either then or during the evening, or on
the following morning, on that subject which was engrossing so
much of the mind of all of them. Not a word was spoken as to that
trial which was now pending, nor was the name of Lady Mason
mentioned. It was understood even by Madeline that no allusion

280 OBLEir FABM.

instance, boweTer, she bad been wrong, for when Felix reached the
door of bis own room, Mrs. Baker was coming out of it.

* I was just looking if everytbing was rigbt,' said sbe. * It seems
natural to me to come and look after you, you know.'

^ And it is qnite as natural to me to be looked after.'

' Is it tbougb? But the worst of you gentlemen wben you get

well is tbat one bas done with you. You go away, and then there's

no more about it. I always begrudge to see you get well for tbat

reason.'

*• Wben you have a man in your power you like to keep him there.'

* That's always the way with the women you know. I hope wo
shall see one of them tying you by the leg altogether before long.'

' I don't know anything about that,' said Felix, sheepishly*
•Don't you? Well, if you don't I suppose nobody don't. But

neTertheless I did hear a little bird say eh 1 Mr. Graham.'

' Those little birds are the biggest liars in the world.'

* Are they now ? Well perhaps they are. And how do you think
our Miss Madeline is looking? She wasn't just well for one short
time after you went away.'

*' Has she been ill ?

' Well, not ill ; not so tbat she came into my bands. She's looking
herself again now, isn't sbe ?'

*• She is looking, as she always does, uncommonly well.'

* Do you remember how she used to oome and say a word to you
standing at the door? Dear heart I I'll be bound now I care
more for her than you do.'

* Do you ?' said Graham.

' Of course I do. And then how angry her ladyship was with mc^
— as though it were my fault. I didn't do it. Did I, Mr. Graham ?
But, Lord love you, what's the use of being angry ? My lady ought
to have remembered her own young days, for it was just the same
thing with her. She had her own way, and so will Miss Madeline/
And then with some further inquiries as to his fire, his towels, and
his sheets, Mrs. Baker took herself off.

Felix Graham had felt a repugnance to taking the gossiping old
woman openly into his confidence, and yet he had almost asked her
whether ho might in truth count upon Madeline's love. Such at
any rate bad been ih^ tenour of his gossiping ; but nevertheless he
was by no means certified. He had the judge's assurance in allow-
ing him to be there ; he had the assurance given to him by Augustus
in the few words spoken to him at the door that evening ; and he
ought to have known that he had received sufficient assurance from
Madeline herselfl But in truth he knew nothing of the kind.
There are men who are much too forward in believing that they are
regarded with favour ; but there are others of whom it may be said
that they are as much too backward. The world beam most of the

THE TWO JUDOES. 231

former, and talks of them the most, bat I doubt whether ihe latter
are not the more nnmerons.

The next morning of course there was a huny and fuss at break-
fast in order that they might get off in time for the oourts. The
judges were to take their seats at ten, and therefore it was necessary
that they should sit down to breakfiast some time before nine. The
aohievement does not seem to be one of great difficully, but neyer-
theless it left no time for loTemaking.

But for one instant Felix was able to catch Madeline alone in
the broakfast-parlour. ' Miss Staveley,' said he, * will it be pos-
sible that I should speak to you alone this eyening; — for five
minutes?'

' Speak to me aloue ?' she said, repeating his words ; and as she
did so she was conscious that her whole face had become suffused
with colour.

* Is it too much to ask ?'
*0h, nor

* Then if I leave the dinmg-room soon after you have done
so '

* Mamma will be there, you know,' she said. Then others came
into the room and he was able to make no further stipulation for
the evening.

Madeline, when she was left alone that morning, was by no means
satisfied with her own behaviour, and accused herself of having been
unnecessarily cold to him. She knew the permission which had
been accorded to him, and she knew also^knew well — what answer
would be given to his request. In her mind the matter was now
fixed. She had confessed to herself that she loved him, and she
could not now doubt of his love to her. Why then should she have
answered him with coldness and doubt ? She hated the missishness
of young ladies, and had resolved that when he asked her a plain
question she would give him a plain answer. It was true that the
question had not been asked as yet ; but why should she have left
him in doubt as to her kindly feeling ?

' It shall be but for this one day,' she said to herself as she sat
alone in her room.

CHAPTEB XXX,

HOW AM I TO BKJlB IT?

When the first day's work was over in the court. Lady Mason and
Mrs. Orme kept ^eir seats till the greater part of the crowd had
dispersed, and the two young men, Lucius Mason and Peregrine,

232 OBLEY FABM.

remained with them. Mr. Aram also remained, giving them sundry
little instructions in a low voice as to the manner in which they
should go home and return the next morning, — telling them the
hour at which they must start, and promising that he would meet
them at the door of the court To all this Mrs. Ormo endeavoured
to give her hest attention, as though it were of the lost importance ;
but Lady Mason was apparently much the more collected of the
two, and seemed to take all Mr. Aram's courtesies as though they
were a matter of course. There she sat, still with her veil up, and
though all those who had been assembled there during the day
turned their eyes upon her as they passed out, she bore it all with-
out quailing. It was not that she returned their gaze, or affected
an effrontery in her conduct ; but she was able to endure it without
showing that she suffered as she did so.

* The carriage is there now,' said Mr. Aram, who had left the
couit for a minute; 'and I think you may get into it quietly.*
This accordingly they did, making their way through an avenue of
idlers who still remained that they might look upon the lady who
was accused of having forged her husband*s will.

* I will stay with her to-night,' whispered Mrs. Orme to her son
as they passed through the ootu-t.

* Do you mean that you will not come to the Cleeve at all ?'

' Not to-night ; not till the trial be over. Do you remain with
your grandfather.'

* I shall be here to-morrow of course to see how you go on.'

* But do not leave your grandfather this evening. Give him my
love, and say that I think it best that I should remain at Orley
Farm till the trial be over. And, Peregrine, if I were you I would
not talk to him much about the trial.'

* But why not ?'

* I will tell you when it is over. But it would only harass him
at the present moment' Ajid then Peregrine handed his mother
into the carriage and took his own way back to the Cleeve.

As he returned he was bewildered in his mind by what he had
heard, and he also began to feel something like a doubt as to Lady
Mason's innocence. Hitherto his belief in it had been as fixed and
assured as that of her own son. Indeed it had never occurred to
him as possible that she could have done the thing with which she
was charged. He had hated Joseph Mason for suspecting her, and
had hated Dockwrath for his presumed falsehood in pretending to
suspect her. But what was he to think of this question now,
after hearing the clear and dispassionate statement of all the
oircumstances by the solicitor-general ? Hitherto he had understood
none of the particulars of the case ; but now the nature of the accusa-
tion had been made plain, and it was evident to him that at any
rate that far-sighted lawyer believed in the truth of his own state-

HOW AM I TO BSAB IT? 283

ment. Conld it be possible tliat Lady Mason bad forged tbe will, —
that ibis deed bad been done by bis motber's friend, by the woman
wbo bad so nearly become Lady Orme of the Cleeve ? Tbe idea
was terrible to bim as be rode bome, bnt yet be could not rid bimself
of it. And if tbis were so, was it also possible ibat bis grandfather
suspected it? Had that marriage been stopped by any sucb
suspicion as tbis ? Was it tbis. that bad broken tbe old man down
and robbed bim of all bis spirit ? That bis mother could not have
any such suspicion seemed to bim to be made dear by the fact that
she still treated Lady Mason as her friend. And then why had he
been specially enjoined not to speak to his grandfather as to the
details of tbe trial ?

But it was impossible for him to meet Sir Peregrine without
speaking of the trial. When he entered the house, which he did by
some back entrance from the stables, he found his grandfather
standing at his own room door. He had heard the sounds of the
horse, and was unable to restrain his anxiety to learn.

* Well,' said Sir Peregrine, ' what has happened ?

* It is not over as yet. It will last, they say, for three days.'

« But come in, Peregrine ;' and be shut the door, anxious rather
that the servants should not witness bis own anxiety than that they
should not bear tidings which must now be common to all the
world. * They baye begun it Y

* Oh, yes ! they have begun it.'

* Well, how far has it gone ?'

' Sir Hichard Leatberham told us the accusation they make
against her, and then they examined Dockwrath and- one or two
others. They have not got further than that.'

* And the — Lady Mason — how does she bear it ?'

' Very well I should say. She does not seem to be nearly as
nervous now, as she was while staying with us.'

* Ah ! indeed. She is a wonderful woman, — a very wonderful
woman. So she bears up ? And your mother. Peregrine ?'

^ I don't think she likes it.' ^

' Likes it ! Who could like such a task as that ?'
' But she will go through with it'

* I am sure she will. She will go through with anything that she
undertakes. And — and — the judge said nothing — I suppose ?'

* Very little, sir.'

And Sir Peregrine again sat down in his arm-cbair as though the
work of conversation were too much for him. But neither did he
dare to speak openly on the subject ; and yet there was so much
that he was anxious to know. Do you think she will escape?
That was the question which he longed to ask but did not dare to
utter.

And then, after a while, they dined together. And Peregrine

284 OBLST FABX.

detenniiied totttlkof olher things; botit wasinvaixL While the
Berrmts were in the room nothing was said. The meat was cenred
and the plates were handed round, and yonng Orme ate his dinner ;
but thero was a constraint npon them both whioh. they were qtdte
unable to dispel, and at last they gave it up and sat in aQenoe till
they were alone.

When the door was closed, and they were opposite to each other
oyer the fire, in the way which was their custom when they two
only were there, Bir Fer^rine could restrain his desire no longer.
It must be that his grandson, who had heard all that had passed
in court that day, should have formed some opinion of what was
going on, — should have some idea as to the chance of that battle
which was being fou^t. He, Sir Peregrine, oould not haye gone
into the court "hiTnaAlf It would baye been impossible for him to
show himself there. But there had been his heart all the day.
How had it gone with that woman whom a few weeks ago he had
loyed so well that he had regarded her as his wife ?

* Was your mother yety tired T he said, again endeayouring to
draw near the subject.

* She did look fegged while sitting in court'

* It was a dreadful task for her, — ^yeiy dreadfoL*

* Nothing could haye turned her from it,' said Peregrine.

* No, — ^you are right there. Nothing would haye turned her from
it. She thought it to be her duty to that poor lady. But she —
Lady Mason — she bore it better, you say T

* I think she bears ityery well,— considering what her position is.'
*■ Yes, yes. It is yery dreadful. The solicitor-general when he

opened, — was he yery seyere upon her T

* I do not think he wished to be seyere.'

' But he made it yery strong against her.'

* The story, as he told it, was yery strong against her ; — that is,
you know, it would be if we were to belieye all that he stated.'

' Yes, yes, of course. He only stated what he has been told by
others. You could not see how the jury took it ?

' I did not look at them. I was thinking more of her and of
Lucius.'

* Lucius was there ?'

* Yes ; he sat next to her. And Sir Eichard said, while he was
telling the story, that he wished her son were not there to hear it.
Upon my word, sir, I almost wished so too.'

* Poor fellow, — ^poor fellow ! It would haye been better for him
to stay away.'

' And yet had it been my mother *

*■ Your mother. Perry ! It could not haye been your mother. She
could not have been so placed.'
' If it be Lady Mason's misfortune, and not her &ult '

HOW AM I TO BEkSL IT? 235

* Ahy well ; we will not talk about that. And there will be two
dayB more you say ?'

* So said Aram, the attorney.'

* God help her ; — ^may God help her ! It would be very dreadful
for a man, but for a woman the burden is insupportable.'

Then they both sat silent for a while, during which Peregrine
was engrossed in thinking how he could turn his grandfather from
the conyersation.

' And you heard no one express any opinion T asked Sir Pere-
grine, after a pause.

* You mean about Lady Mason T And Peregrin^ began to per-
ceive that his mother was right, and that it would have been well
if possible to avoid any words about the triaL

' Do they think that she will, — will be acquitted ? Of course tho
people there were talking about it ?'

* Yes, sir, they were talking about it. But I really don't know
as to any opinion. You see, the chief witnesses have not been
examined.'

^ And you. Perry, what do you think?'

* I, sir ! Wei], I was altogether on her side till I heard Sir
Bichard Leatherham.'

'And then ?

*' Then I did not know what to think. I suppose it's all right ;
but one never can imderstand what those lawyers are at. When
Mr. Chafibnbrass got up to examine Dockwrath, he seemed to
be just as confident on his side as the other fellow had been on
the other side. I don't think I'll have any more wine, sir, thank
you.'

But Sir Peregrine did not move. He sat in his old accustomed
way, nursing one leg over the knee of the other, and thinking of the
manner in which she had &llen at his feet, and confessed it all.
Had he married her, and gone with her proudly into the court, — as
he would have done, — and had he then heard a verdict of guilty
given by the jury ; — ^nay, had he heard such proof of her guilt as
would have convinced himself^ it would have killed him. He felt,
as he sat there, safe over his own fireside, that his safety was due to
her generosity. Had that other calamity fallen upon Mm, he could
not have survived it. His head would have fallen low before the
eyes of those who had known him since they had known anything,
and would never have been raised again. In his own spirit, in his
inner life, the blow had come to '^™ ; but it was due to her effort on
his behalf that he had not been stricken in public. When he had
discussed the matter with Mrs. Orme, he had seemed in a measure
to forget this. It had not at any rate been the thought which rested
with the greatest weight upon his mind. Then he had considered
how she, whose life had been stainless as driven snow, should bear

2S6 ORLEY FARM.

herself in the presence of such deep gnilt. But now, — no'w as he
sat alone, he thought only of Lady Mason. Let her be ever so
guilty, — and her guilt had been very terrible, — she had behaved
veiy nobly to him. From him at least she had a right to sympathy.

And what chance was there that she should escape? Of ab-
solute escape there was no chance whatever. Even should the jur^*
acquit her, she must declare her guilt to the world, — must declare
it to her son, by taking steps for the restoration of the property.
As to that Sir Peregrine felt no doubt whatever. That Joseph
Mason of Groby would recover his right to Orley Farm was to
him a certainty. But how terrible would be the path over which
she must walk before this deed of retribution could be done ! * Ah,
me ! ah, me !' he said, as he thought of all this, — speaking to him-
self, as though he were unconscious of his grandson's presence.
' Poor woman ! poor woman !' llien Peregrine felt sure that she had
been guilty, and was sure also that his grandfather was aware of it.

* Will you come into the other room, sir ?' he said.

' Yes, yes ; if you like it.' And then the one leg fell from the
other, and he rose to do his grandson's bidding. To him now and
henceforward one room was much the same as another.

In the mean time 4;he party bound for Orley Farm had reached
that place, and to them also came the necessity of wearing through
that tedious evening. On the mind of Lucius Mason not even yet
had a shadow of suspicion fallen. To him, in spite of it all, his
mother was still pure. But yet he was stem to her, and his manner
was very harsh. It may be that had such suspicion crossed his
mind ho would have been less stem, and his manner more tender.
As it was he could understand nothing that was going on, and
almost felt that he was kept in the dark at his mother's instance.
Why was it that a man respected by all the world, such as Sir
Bichard Leatherham, should rise in court and toll such a tale as that
against his mother ; and that the power of answering that tale on
his mother's behalf should be left to such another man as Mr. Chaif-
anbrass ? Sir Richard had told his story plainly, but with terrible
force; whereas Chaffanbrass had contented himself with brow-
beating another lawyer with the lowest quirks of his cunning.
Why had not some one been in court able to use the language
of passionate truth and ready to thrust the lie down the throats of
those who told it ?

Tea and supper had been prepared for them, and they sat down
together; but the nature of the meal may be imagined. Lady
Mason had striven with terrible effort to support herself during
the day, and even yet she did not give way. It was quite as neces-
sary that she should restrain herself before her son as before all
those others who had gazed at her in court. And she did sus-
tain herself. She took a knife and fork in her hand and ate a few

HOW AM I TO BEAB. IT? 237

iDorsels. She drank her cup of tea, and remembering that there
in that house she was still hostees, she made some slight effort to
welcome her guest. * Surely after such a day of trouble you will
eat something/ she said to her friend. To Mrs. Orme it was mar-
vellous that the woman should even be alive, — let alone that she
should speak and perform the ordinary functions of her daily life.
' And now,' she said — Lady Mason said — as soon as that ceremony
was over, ' now as we are so tired I think we will go up stairs.
Will you light our candles for us, Lucius ?' And so the candles
were lit, and the two ladies went up stairs.

A second bed had been prepared in Lady Mason's room, and into
this chamber they both went at once. Mrs. Orme, as soon as she
had entered, turned round and held out both her hands in order
that she might comfort Lady Mason by taking hers; but Lady
Mason, when she had closed the door, stood for a moment with her
face towards the wall, not knowing how to bear herself. It was but
for a moment, and then slowly moving round, with her two hands
clasped together, she sank on her knees at Mrs. Orme's feet, and hid
her face in the skirt of Mrs. Orme's dress.

* My friend — ^my friend !' said Lady Mason.

* Yes, I am your friend — indeed I am. But, dear Lady Mason — '
And she endeavoured to think of words by which she might implore
her to rise and compose herself.

' How is it you can bear with such a one as 1 am ? How is it
that you do not hate me for my guilt ?'

' He does not hate us when we are guilty.'

' I do not know. Sometimes I think that all will hate me, — here
and hereafter — except you. Lucius will hate me, and how shall 1
bear that? Oh, Mrs. Orme, I wish he knew it !'

* I wish he did. He shall know it now, — to-night, if you will
allow me to tell him.'

* No. It would kill me to bear his looks. I wish he knew it,
and was away, so that he might never look at me again.'

' He too would forgive you if he knew it all.'

* Forgive ! How can he forgive ?' And as she spoke she rose
again to her feet, and her old manner came upon her. * Do you
think what it is that I have done for him ? I, — his mother, — for my
only child ? And after that, is it possible that he should foigivo
me?

^ You meant him no harm.'

* But I have ruined him before all the world. He is as proud as
your boy ; and could he bear to think that his whole life would be
disgraced by his mother's crime ?'

* Had I been so unfortunate he would have forgiven me.'

* We are speaking of what is impossible. It could not have been
so. Your youth was different from mine.'

288 OBLET FABIL

* God has been veiygood to me, and not placed temptation in my
way ; — ^temptation, I mean, to grMt&nlts. But little faults reqmiie
repentance as much as great ones.'

' But then repentance is easy ; at any rate it is possible/

* Oh, Lady Mason, is it not possible for yon T

' * Bat I will not talk of that now. I will not hear you oompai^
yonrself with snoh a one as I am. Do yon know I was thiziking
to-day that my mind would fail me, and that I should be mad before
this is OTor ? How can I bear it ? how can I bear it T And rising
from her seat, she walked rapidly through the room, holding back
her hair from her brows with botii her hands.

And how was she to bear it ? The load on her back was too
much for any shoulders. The burden with which she had laden
herself was too heavy to be borne. Her power of endnrance was
very great. Her strength in sopportii^ the extreme bittemees of
intense sorrow was wonderfhL But now she was taxed beyond her
power. * How am I to bear it?* she said again, as still holding
her hair between her fingers, she drew her hands back over her head.

* You do not know. You have not tried it. It is impossible,' she
said in her wildness, as Mrs. Orme endeavoured to teach her the
only source from whence oonsolation might be had. * I do not
believe in the thief on the cross, xmless it was that he had prepared
himself for that day by years of contrition. I know I shock
you,' she added, after a while. * I know that what I say will be
dreadful to you. But innocence will always be shocked by guilt.
Go, go and leave me. It has gone so far now that all is of no use.'
Then she threw herself on the bed, and burst into a oonvulsive
passion of tears.

Once again Mrs. Orme endeavoured to obtain permission from her
to undertake that embassy to her son. Had Lady Mason acceded,
or been near acceding, Mrs. Orme's courage would probably have
been greatly checked. As it was she pressed it as though the task
were one to be performed without difficulty. Mrs. Orme was very
anxious that Lucius should not sit in the court throughout the trial.
She felt that if he did so the shock, — the shock which was inevitable,
— ^must fall upon him there ; and than that she could conceive nothing
more terrible. And then also she believed that if the secret were
once made known to Lucius, and if he were for a time removed
from his mother's side, the poor woman might be brought to a
calmer perception of her true position. The strain would be
lessened, and she would no longer feel the necessity of exerting so
terrible a control over her feelings.

* You have acknowledged that he must know it sooner or later,*
pleaded Mrs. Orme.

' But this is not the time, — not now, dun&g the trial. Had h^
known it before '

HOW AM I TO BEAB IT? 239

* It would keep liim away from the court.'

^ Yes, and I should neyer see him again ! What will he do when
he hears it? Perhaps it would be better that he should go without
seeing me.'

' He would not do that.'

* It would be better. If they take me to the prison, I will never
see him again. His eyes would kill me. Do you ever watch him
and see the pride that there is in his eye? He has never yet
known what dii^race means ; and now I, his mother, have brought
him to this !'

It was all in vain as &r as that night was concerned. Lady
Mason would give no such permission. But Mrs. Orme did exact
from her a kind of promise that Lucius should be told on the next
evening, if it then appeared, from what Mr. Aram should say, that
the result of the trial was likely to be against them.

Lucius Mason spent his evening alone; and though he had as yet
heard none of the truth, his mind was not at ease, nor was he
happy at heart. Though he had no idea of his mother's guilt,
he did conceive that after this trial it would be impossible that
they should remain at Orley Farm. His mother's intended mar-
riage with Sir Peregrine, and then the manner in which that
engagement had been broken off; the course of the trial, and its
celebrity ; the enmity of Dockwrath ; and lastly, his own inability
to place himself on terms of friendiship with those people who were
still his mother's nearest friends, made him feel that in any event
it would be well for them to change their residence. What could
life do for him there at Orley Farm, after all that had passed ? He
had gone to Liverpool and bought guano, and now the sacks were
lying in his bam unopened. Be had begun to drain, and the ugly
unfinished lines of earth were lying across his fields. He had no
further interest in it, and felt that he could no longer go to work
on that ground as though he were in truth its master.

But then, as he thought of his future hopes, his place of resi-
dence and coming life, there was one other beyond himself and his
mother to whom his mind reverted. What would Sophia wish that
he should do ? — his own Sophia, — she who had promised him that
her heart should be with his through all the troubles of this trial ?
Before he went to bed that night he wrote to Sophia, and told her
what were his troubles and what his hopes. * This will be over in
two days more,* he said, * and then I will come to you. You will
see mo, I trust, the day after this letter reaches you ; but neverthe-
less I cannot debar myself from the satisfaction of writing. I am
not happy, for I am dissatisfied with what they are doing for my
mother ; and it is only when I think of you, and the assurance of
your love, that I can feel anything like content. It is not a pleasant
thing to sit by and hear one's mother charged with the f<

oak|p^>^

240 OBLEY FABM.

frauds tliat practised viUains can conceive ! Yet I have bad to
bear it, and have heard no denial of the charge in true honest lan-
guage. To-day, when the solicitor-general was heaping falsehoods
on her name, I could hardly refrain myself from rushing at his
throat. Let me have a line of comfort from you, and then I 'will be
with you on Friday.'

That line of comfort never came, nor did Lucius on the Friday
make his intended visit. Miss Fumival had determined, some dav
or two before this, that she would not write to Lucius again till
this trial was over ; and even then it might be a question whether
a correspondence with the heir of Noningsby would not be more to
her taste.

CHAPTER XXXL

SHOWINa HOW JOHN KENNEBY AND BRIDOET BOLSTER BOBE THEMSKLVSa

IN COURT.

On the next morning they were all in their places at tea o^olock,
and the crowd had been gathered outside the doors of the ooort
from a much earlier hour. As the trial progressed the interest in
it increased, and as people began to believe that Lady Mason had
in truth forged a will, so did they the more regard her in the ligiht
of a heroine. Had she murdered her husband after forging hift
will, men would have paid half a crown apiece to have touched her
garments, or a guinea for the privilege of shaking hands with her.
Lady Mason had again taken her seat with her veil raised, with
Mrs. Orme on one side of her and her son on the other. The
counsel were again ranged on the seats behind, Mr. FnmiTal
sitting the nearest to the judge, and Mr. Aram again occupied the
intermediate bench, so placing himself that he could commmiicate
either with his client or with the barristers. These were now their
established places, and great as was the crowd, they found no dif-
ficulty in reaching them. An easy way is always made for the chief
performers in a play.

This was to be the great day as regarded the evidence. * It is a
case that depends altogether on evidence,' one young lawyer said
to another. ' If the counsel know how to handle the witnesses, I
should say she is safe.* The importance of this handling was felt
by every one, and therefore it was understood that the real game
would be played out on this middle day. It had been all very well
fi)r Chaflfanbrass to bully Dockwrath and make the wretched attorney
miserable for an hour or so, but that would have but little bearin«»-
on the verdict. There were two persons there who were prepared

JOHN KENNEBY AND BRIDGET B0L8TEB IN COTJKT. 241

to swear that on a certain day they had only signed one deed.
So much the solicitor-general had told them, and nobody doubted
that it would be so. The question now was this, would Mr.
Fumival and Mr. Chaffanbrass succeed in making them contradict
themselves when they had so sworn ? Could they be made to say
that they had signed two deeds, or that they might have done so ?

It was again the duty of Mr. Fumival to come first upon the
.stage, — that is to say, he was to do so as soon as Sir Eichard had
performed his very second-rate part of eliciting the evidence in
chief. Poor John Kenneby was to be the first victim, and he was
placed in the box before them all very soon after the judge had
taken his seat. Why had he not emigrated to Australia, and escaped
all this, — escaped all this, and Mrs. Smiley also ? That was John
Kenneby's reflection as he slowly mounted the two steps up into
the place of his torture. Near to the same spot, and near also to
Dockwrath who had taken these two witnesses under his special
cliarge, sat Bridget Bolster. She had made herself very comfortable
that morning with buttered toast and sausages ; and when at Dock-
^vrath's instance Kenneby had submitted to a slight infusion of
Dutch courage, — a bottle of brandy would not have sufficed for the
purpose, — Bridget also had not refused the generous glass. * Not
that I wants it,' said she, meaning thereby to express an opinion
that she could hold her own, even against the great Chafianbrass,
without any such extraneous aid. She now sat quite quiet, with
her hands crossed on her knees before her, and her eyes immovably
fixed on the table which stood in the centre of the court. In that
position she remained till her turn came ; and one may say that
there was no need for fear on account of Bridget Bolster.

And then Sir Richard began. What would be the nature of
Kenneby's direct evidence the reader pretty well knows. Sir
Richard took a long time in extracting it, for he was aware that it
would be necessary to give his witness some confidence before he
came to his main questions. Even to do this was difficult, for
Kennedy would speak in a voice so low that nobody could hear
him ; and on the second occasion of the judge enjoining him to
speak out, he nearly fainted. It is odd that it never occurs to
judges that a witness who is naturally timid will be made more so
by being scolded. When I hear a judge thus use his authoiity, I
always wish that I had the power of forcing him to some veiy un-
congenial employment, — ^jumping in a sack, let us say ; and then
when he jumped poorly, as he certainly would, I would crack my
whip and bid him go higher and higher. The more I so bade him,
the more he would limp ; and the world looking on, would pity him
and execrate me. It is much the same thing when a witness is
sternly told to speak louder.

But John Kenneby at last told his plain story. He remembered

VOL. IL R

212 ORLEY FABM.

the day on which he had met old Usbech and Bridget Bolster and
Lady Mason in Sir Joseph's chamber. Ho had then witnessed a
signature by Sir Joseph, and had only witnessed one on that day ; —
of that he was perfectly certain. He did not think that old Usbech
had signed the deed in question, bat on that matter he declined to
swear positively. He remembered the former triaL He had not
then been able to swear positively whether Usbech had or had not
signed the deed. As £eu: as he could remember, that was tbe point
to which his cross-examination on that occasion had chiefly been
directed. So much John Kenneby did at last say in language that
was sufficiently plain.

And then Mx, Fumival arose. The reader is acquainted with the
state of his mind on the subject of this triaL The enthusiasm on
behalf of Lady Mason, which had been aroused by his belief in her
innocence, by his old friendship, by his ancient adherence to her
cause, and by his admiration for her beauty, had now greatly &ded.
It had faded much when he found himself obliged to call in snch
feUow-labourers as Chaffanbrass and Aram, and had all but perished
when he learned from contact with them to r^ard her guilt as
certain. But, nevertheless, now that he was there, the old fire
returned to him. He had wished twenty times that he had been
able to shake the matter from him and leave his old client in the
hands of her new advisers. It would be better for her, he had said
to himseUl But on this day — on these three days — seeing that he
had not shaken the matter off, he rose to his work as thongb he
still loved her, as though all his mind was still intent on pre-
serving that ill-gotten inheritance for her son. It may almost be
doubted whether at moments during these three days he did not
again persuade himself that she was an injured woman. Aram, as
may bo remembered, had felt misgivings as to Mr. FumivalB
powers for such cross-examination; but Ohafianbrass had never
doubted it. He knew that Mr. Fumival could do as much as him-
self in that way ; the difference being this,— -that Mr. Fumival could
do something else besides.

' And now, Mr. Kenneby, 111 ask you a few questions/ he said :
and Kenneby turned round to him. The barrister spoke in a mild
low voice, but his eye transfixed the poor fellow at once ; and though
Kenneby was told a dozen times to look at the jury and speak to the
juiy, he never was able to take his gaze away from Mr. Fumivals face»

' You remember the old trial,' he said ; and as he spoke he held
in his hand what was known to be an account of that transaction.
Then there arose a debate between him and Sir Richard, in whicli
Chaffanbrass, and Graham, and Mr. Steelyard all took part, as to
whether Kenneby might be examined as to his former eiamination ;
and on this point Graham pleaded very volubly, bringing up pre-
cedents without number, — striving to do his du^*^ to his client on a

JOHN KENNEBY AND BBIDGET BOLSTER IN GOUBT. 243

point with which his own conscience did not interfere. And at last
it was ruled by the judge that this examination might go on ; —
whereupon both Sir Bichard and Mr. Steelyard sat down as though
they were perfectly satisfied. Kenneby, on being again asked, said
that he did remember the old trial.

' It is necessary, you know, that the jury should hear you, and if
you look at them and speak to them, they would stand a better
chance.' Kenneby for a moment allowed his eye to travel up to
the jury box, but it instantly fell again, and fixed itself on the
lawyer's face. * You do remember that trial ?*

* Yes, sir, I remember it,' whispered Kenneby.

* Do you remember my asking you then whether you had been
in the habit of witnessing Sir Joseph Mason's signature ?'

* Did you ask me that, sir ?

' That is the question which I put to you. Do you remember my
doing so ?'

* I dare say you did, sir.'

* I did, and I will now read your answer. We shall give to the
jury a copy of the proceedings of that trial, my lord, when we have
proved it, — as of course we intend to do.*

And then there was another little battle between the barristers.
But as Lady Mason was now being tried for perjury, alleged to
have been committed at that other trial, it was of oourse indis-
pensable that all the proceedings of that trial should be made
known to the juiy.

' You said on that occasion,' continued Fumival, * that you were
sure you had witnessed three signatures of Sir Joseph's that sum-
mer,— that you had probably witnessed three in July, that you
were quite sure you had witnessed three in one week in July, that
you were nearly sure you had witnessed three in one day, that
you could not teU what day that might have been, and that you
had been used as a witness so often that you really ^d not remember
anything about it. Can you say whether that was the purport of
the evidence you gave then ?*

* If it's down there ' said John Kenneby, and then he stopped

himself.

* It is down here ; I have read it.'

*• I suppose it's all right,' said Kenneby.

^ I must trouble you to speak out,' said the judge ; ' I cannot hear
you, and it is impossible that the jury should do so.' The judge's
words were not imcivil, but his voice was harsh, and the only per-
ceptible consequence of the remonstrance was to be seen in the
thick drops of perspiration standing on John Kenneby's brow.

* That is the evidence which you gave on the former trial ? May
the jury presume that you then spoke the truth to the best of your
knowledge ?'

244 ORLEY FABM.

* I tried to speak the truth, sir.'

' You tried to speak the truth? But do you mean to say that
you failed ?*

' No, I don't think I failed.'

* When, therefore, you told the jury that you were nearly Hure
that you had witnessed three signatures of Sir Joseph's in one day,
that was truth ?

* I don't think I ever did.'
' Ever did what?*

* Witness three papers in one day.'

* You don't think you ever did V
' I might have done, to be sure.'

' But then, at that trial, about twelve months afleV the man's
death, you were nearly sure you had done so.'
'Was I?'

* So you told the jnry.'
' Then I did, sir.'

* Then you did what ?'

* Did witness all those papers.'

* You think then now that it is probable you witnessed three sig-
natures on the same day ?'

* No, I don't think that'

' Then what do you think T

' It is so long ago, sir, that I really don't know.*

* Exactly. It is so long ago that you cannot depend on your
memory.'

* I suppose I can't, sir.'

* But you just now told the gentleman who examined you on the
other side, that you were quite sure you did not witness two deeds
on the day he named, — the 14th of July. Now, seeing that yon
doubt your own memor}% going back over so long a time, do you
wish to correct that statement ?'

* I suppose I do.'

* What correction do you wish to make ?*

* I don't think I did.'

' Don't think you did what ?'

* I don't think I signed two '

* I really cannot hear the witness,' said the judge.

* You must speak out louder,' said Mr. Fumival, himself speaking
very loudly.

* I mean to do it as well as I can,' said Kenneby.

* I believe you do,* said Fumival ; * but in so meaning you miu»t
l>e very cai'eful to state nothing as a certainty, of the certainty of
which you are not sure. Are you certain that on tliat day you did
not witness two deeds?'

* I think so.'

JOHN KENNEBY AND BRIDGET BOLSTER IN COURT. 245

* And yet you were not certain twenty years ago, wben the &ei
was 80 much nearer to you ?'

* I don't remember.'

' You don't remember whether you were certain twelve months
after the occurrence, but you think you are certain now.'

* I mean, I don't think 1 signed two.'

' It is, then, only a matter of thinking ?'

* No ;— only a matter of thinking.'

*■ And you might have signed the two P'

* I certainly might have done so.'

* What you mean to tell the jury is this : that you have no remem-
brance of signing twice oh that special day, although you know that
you have acted as witness on behalf of Sir Joseph Mason more than
twice on the same day?'

* Yes.'

' That is the intended purport of your evidence ?'

' Yes, sir.'

And then Mr. Fumival travelled ofif to that other point of
Mr. Usbech's presence and alleged handwriting. On that matter
Kenneby had not made any positive assertion, though he had ex-
l^ressed a very strong opinion. Mr. Fumival was not satisfied with
this, but wished to show that Kenneby had not on that matter even
a strong opinion. He again reverted to the evidence on the former
trial, and read various questions with their answers ; and the
answers as given at that time certainly did not, when so taken,
express a clear opinion on the part of the person who gave them :
although an impartial person on reading the whole evidence would
have found that a very clear opinion was expressed. When first
asked, Kenneby had said that he was nearly sure that Mr. Usbeoh
liiod not signed the document. But his very anxiety to be tme had
brought him into trouble. Mr. Fumival on that occasion had
taken advantage of the word ' nearly,' and had at last succeeded in
making him say that he was not sure at all. Evidence by means
of torture, — thumbscrew and such-like, — we have for many years
past abandoned as barbarous, and have acknowledged that it is of
its very nature useless in the search after truth. How long will
it be before we shall recognize that the other kind of torture is
equally opposed both to truth and civilization ?'

* But Mr. Usbech was certainly in the room on that day ?' con-
tinued Mr. Fumival.

* Yes, he was there.'

' And knew what you were all doing, I suppose ?'

* Yes, I suppose he knew.'

* I presume it was he who explained to you the nature of the deed
you were to witness ?'

^ I dare say he did.'

216 OBLET FABM.

' As he was the lawyer, that would be natural.'

* I suppose it would.'

* Aud you don't remember the nature of that special deed, as
explained to ^'ou on the day when Bridget Bolster was in the room ?'

* No, I don't'

* It might have been a will T

*' Yes, it might. I did sign one or two wills for Sir Joseph, 1
think.'

' And as to this individual document, Mr. Usbech might have
signed it in your presence, for anything you know to the contraiy ?*

* He might have done so.'

* Now, on your oath, Kenneby, is your memory strong enough to
enable you to give the jury any information on this subject upon
which they may firmly rely in convicting that xmfortunata lady of
the terrible crime laid to her charge.' Then for a moment Ken-
i^ehj glanced round and fixed his eyes upon Lady Mason's face.
^ Think a moment before you answer ; and deal with her as you
would wish another should deal with you if you were so situated.
Can you say that you remember that Usbech did not sign it T

* Well, sir, 1 don't think he did.'
' But he might have done so ?'

* Oh, yes ; he might.'

* You do not remember that he did do so ?"

* Certainly not.*

* And that is about the extent of what you mean to say ?'

* Yes, sir.'

* Let me understand,' said the judge — and then the perspiration
became more visible on poor Eenneby's fEu;e ; — ' do you mean to say
that you have no memory on the matter whatever? — that you
simply do not remember whether Usbech did or did not sign it ?*

' I don't think he signed it.'

' But why do you think he did not, seeing that his name is there ?'

' I didn't see him.'

* Do you mean,' continued the judge, • that you didn't see him, or
that you don't remember that you saw him ?"

* I don't remember that I saw him.'

' But you may have done so ? He may have signed, and you may
have seen him do so, only you don't remember it?*

* Yes, my lord.'

And then Kenneby was allowed to go down. As he did so,
Joseph Mason, who sat near to him, turned upon him a look black as
thunder. Mr. Mason gave him no credit for his timidity, but
believed that he had been bought over by the other side. Dock-
wrath, however, knew better. * They did not quite beat him about
his own signature/ said he ; * but I knew all along that we must
depend chiefly upon Bobter.'

JOHN KENNEBT AND BRIDGET BOLSTEB IN COURT. 247

Tlien Bridget Bolster was put into tlxe box, and sho was examined
by Mr. Steelyard. She had heard Eenneby instructed to look up,
and she therefore fixed her eyes upon the canopy over the judge's
seat. There she fixed them, and there she kept them till her
examination was over, merely turning them for a moment on
to Mr. Chaffanbrass, when that gentleman became particulaily
severe in his treatment of her. What she said in answer to
jVIr. Steelyard, was very simple. She had never witnessed but one
signature in her life, and that she had done in Sir Joseph's room.
The nature of the document had been explained to her. ' But,' as
she said, ' she was young and giddy then, and what went in at one
year went out at another.' She didn't remember Mr. Usbech
signing, but he might have done so. She thought he did not. As
to the two signatures purporting to be hers, she could not say
whioh was hers and which was not. But this she would swear
positively, that they were not both hers. To this she adhered
firmly, and Mr. Steelyard handed her over to Mr. Chaffiuibrass.

Then Mr. Chaffanbrass rose from his seat, and every one knew
that his work was cut out for him. Mr. Fumival had triimiphod.
It may be said that he had demolished his witness ; but his triumph
had been very easy. It was now necessary to demolish Bridget
Bolster, and tiie opinion was general that if anybody could do it
Mr. Chaffanbrass was the man. But there was a doggedness about
Bridget Bolster which induced many to doubt whether even Chaffan-
brass would be successful. Mr. Aram trusted greatly ; but the bar
would have preferred to stake their money on Bridget.

Chaffanbrass as he rose pushed back his small ugly wig from his
forehead, thrusting it rather on one side as he did so, and then, with
his chin thrown forward, and a wicked, ill-meaning smile upon his
mouth, he looked at Bridget for some moments before he spoke to
her. She glanced at him, and instantly fixed her eyes back upon
the canopy. She then folded her hands one on the other upon the
rail before her, compressed her lips, and waited patiently.

* I think you say you're — a chambermaid ?' That was the first
question which Chaffanbrass asked, and Bridget Bolster gave a little
start as she heard his sharp, angry, disagreeable voice.

* Yes, I am, sir, at Palmer's Imperial Hotel, Plymouth, Devon-
shire ; and have been for nineteen years, upper and under.'

* Upper and under ! What do upper and under mean ?'

* When I was under, I had another above me ; and now, as I'm
upper, why there's others under me.* So she explained her position
at the hotel, but she never took her eyes from the canopy.

* You hadn't begun being — chambermaid, when you signed these
documents ?'

* I didn't sign only one of 'em.'

* Well, one of them. You hadn't begun being chambermaid then V

248 ORLEV FAllM.

* No, I hadii'l; ; I was housemaid at Orley Faiin.'

* Were you upper or under there ?*

' Well, I believe I was both ; that is, the cook was upper in the
house.'

* Oh, the cook was upper. Why wasn't she called to sign her
nam^ ?'

* That I can't say. She was a very decent woman, — that I can say,
— and her name was Martha Mullens.'

So £sur Mr. Chaffanbrass had not done much ; but that was only
the preliminary skirmish, as fencers play with their foils before they
begin.

* And now, Bridget Bolster, if I understand you,' he said, * you
have sworn that on the 14th of July you only signed one of these
documents.'

* I only signed once, sir. I didn't say nothing about the 14th of
July, because I don't remember.'

* But when you signed the one deed, you did not sign any other?'

* Neither then nor never.'

* Do you know the offence for which that lady is being tried —
Lady Mason ?'

' Well, I aint sure ; it's for doing something about the will/

* No, woman, it is not.' And then, as Mr. ChafiGEuibrass raised
his voice, and spoke with savage earnestness, Bridget again started,
and gave a little leap up from the floor. But she soon settled
herself back in her old position. * No one has dared to accuse
her of that,' continued Mr. Chaffanbrass, looking over at the lawyers
on the other side. * The charge they have brought forward against
her is that of perjury — of having given false evidence twenty year»
ago in a court of law. Now look here, Bridget Bolster ; look at me,
I say.' She did look at him for a moment, and then turned her eyes
back to the canopy. * As sure as you're a living woman, you shall
be placed there and tried for the same offence, — for perjury, — if you
tell me a falsehood rcKpecting this matter.'

' I won't say nothing but what's right,' said Bridget.

* You had better not. Now look at these two signatures ;' and he
handed to her two deeds, or rather made one of the servants of the
court hold them for him ; * w^hich of those signatures is the one
which you did not sign ?'

* I can't say, sir.'

* Did you write that further one, — that with your hand on it ?'

* I can't say, sir.'

* Look at it, woman, before you answer me.'

Bridget looked at it, and then repeated the same words —
' I can't say, sir.'

* And now look at the other.' And she again looked down for a
moment. * Did vou write that ?'

JOHN KENNEBt AND BBIDGET BOLSTER IK COURT. 249

* I can't say, sir.'

* Will you swear that yon wrote either?

* I did write one once.'

* Don't prevaricate with me, woman. Were either of those sig-
natures there written by you ?

* I suppose that one was.'

* Will you swear that you wrote either the one or the other ?*

* I'll swear I did write one, onoe.'

' Will you swear you wrote one of those you have before you ?
You can read, can't you ?'

* Oh yes, I can read.'

' Then look at them.' Again she turned her eyes on them for
half a moment. ' Will you swear that you wrote either of those ?'

* Not if there's another anywhere else,* said Bridget, at last.

' Another anywhere else,' said Chaffanbrass, repeating her words ;
* what do you mean by another ?'

' If you've got another that anybody else has done, I won't say
which of the three is mine. But I did one, and I didn't do no
more.'

Mr. Chaffanbrass continued at it for a long time, but with very
indifferent success. That affair of the signatures, which was indeed
the only point on which evidence was worth anything, he then
abandoned, and tried to make her contradict herself about old
Usbech. But on this subject she could say nothing. That Usbeck
was present she remembered well, but as to his signing the deed, or
not signing it, she would not pretend to say anything.

* I know he was cram full of gout,' she said ; ' but I don't
remember nothing more.'

But it may be explained that Mr. Chaffanbrass had altogether
altered his intention and the very plan of his campaign with
reference to this witness, as soon as he saw what was her nature
and disposition. He discovered very early in the affair that he
could not force her to contradict herself and reduce her own
evidence to nothing, as Fumival had done with the man. Nothing
would flurry this woman, or force her to utter words of which she
herself did not know the meaning. The more he might persevere
in such an attempt, the more dogged and steady she would become.
He therefore soon gave that up. He had already given it up when
he threatened to accuse her of perjury, and resolved that as he
could not shake her he would shake the confidence which the jury
might place in her. He could not make a fool of her, and therefore
he would make her out to be a rogue. Her evidence would stand
alone, or nearly alone ; and in this way he might turn her firmness
to his own purpose, and explain that her dogged resolution
to one plain statement arose from her having been sp<
structed so to do, with the object of ruining his client.

250 GBLEt WAS3L.

than half an hour he persisted in asking her questioiia with this
object; hinting that she was on friendly ienns with l>odkwimth;
asking her what pay she had received for her evidenoe ; making' her
acknowledge that she was being kept at free qnarten, and <m the
fat of the land. He even produced from her a list of the ^ood
things she had eaten that morning at breakfiist, and at last suc-
ceeded in obtaining information as to that small but indiscreet glan
of spirits. It was then, and then only, that poor Brid^t became
discomposed. Bee&teaks, sausages, and pigs' fry, thou^ they were
taken three times a day, were not di^raoefnl in her line of life ;
but that little thimbleful of brandy, taken after much pressingr and
in the openness of good fellowship, went sorely against the grain
with her. * When one has to be badgered like this, one wants a
drop of something more than ordinaxy,' she said at last. And they
were the only words which she did say which proved any triom{^
on the part of Mr. Chaffanbrass. But neyerthelefls Mr. ChaffanfarasB
was not dissatisfied. Triumph, inunediaie triun^th over a poor
maid-servant could hardly have been the object of a man who had
been triumphant in such matters for the last thirty years. Would
it not be practicable to make the jury doubt whether that veoman
could be believed ? That was the triumph he desired. As for him-
self^ Mr. Ghaffimbrass knew well enough that she had spoken
nothing but the truth. But had he so managed that the truth mi^it
be made to look like falsehood, — or at any rate to have a doahtfal
air ? If he had done that, he had succeeded in the occupation of his
life, and was indifferent to his own triumph.

CHAPTER XXXII.

MR. FDRNIVAL's speech.

All this as may be supposed disturbed Felix Graham not a little.
He perceived that each of those two witnesses had made a great
effort to speak the truth ; — ^an honest, painful effort to speak the
truth, and in no way to go beyond it. His gall had risen within
him while he had listened to Mr. Fumival, and witnessed his sncoeBB
in destroying the presence of mind of that weak wretch who was
endeavouring to do his best in the cause of justice. And again,
when Mr. Chaffanbrass had seized hold of that poor dram, and
used all his wit in deducing from it a self-condemnation from the
woman before him ; — when the practised barrister had striven to
show that she was an habitual drunkard, dishonest, unchaste, evil in
all her habits, Graham had felt almost tempted to get up and take
her part No doubt he had evinced this, for Chaffimbrass had
understood what was going on in his colleague's mind, and h^

MB. FUBNIYAL8 fflE'EEOH. 251

looked round at him from time to time with an air of soom that had
been almost unendurable.

And then it had become the duty of the proseoutors to prove the
circumstances of the former trial. This was of course essentiallj
necessary, seeing that the offence for which Lady Mason was now
on her defence was peijury alleged to have been committed at
that trial. And when this had been done at considerable length
by Sir Richard Leatherham, — ^not without many interruptions from
Mr. Fumival and much assistance from Mr. Steelyard, — it fell upon
Felix Graham to show by cross-examination of Cbrook the attorney,
what had been the nature and effect of Lady Mason's testimony.
As he arose to do this, Mr. Chaffanbrass whispered into his ear, * If
you feel yourself unequal to it I'll take it up. I won't have her
thrown over for any etiquette, — nor yet for any squeamishness.'
To this Graham vouchsafed no answer. He would not even reply
by a look, but he got up and did his work. At this point his con-
science did not interfere with him, for the questions which he asked
referred to facts which had really occurred. Lady Mason's testi-
mony at that trial had been believed by everybody. The gentleman
who had croas-examined her oft the part of Joseph Mason, and who
was now dead, had failed to shake her evidence. The judge who
tried the case had declared to the jury that it was impossible to dis-
believe her evidence. That juc^ was still living, a poor old bed-
ridden man, and in the course of this latter trial his statement was
given in evidence. There could be no doubt that at the time Lady
Mason's testimony was taken as worthy of all credit. She had
sworn that she had seen the three witnesses sign the codicil,
and no one had then thrown discredit on her. The upshot of all
was this, that the prosecuting side proved satisfactorily that such
and such things had been sworn by Lady Mason ; and Felix Graham
on the side of the defence proved that, when she had so sworn,
her word had been considered worthy of credence by the judge
and by the jury, and had hardly been doubted even by the counsel
opposed to her. All this really had been so, and Felix Graham
used his utmost ingenuity in making clear to the court how high
and unassailed had been the position which his client then held.

All this occupied the court till nearly four o'clock, and then as
the case was over on the part of the prosecution, the question arose
whether or no Mr. Fumival should address the jury on that evening,
or wait till the following day. ' If your lordship will sit till seven
o clock,' said Mr. Fumival, 'I think I can undertake to finish what
remarks I shall have to make by that time.' * I should not mind
sitting till nine for the pleasure of hearing Mr. Fumival/ said the
judge, who was very anxious to escape from Alston on the day but
one following. And thus it was decided that Mr. Fumival should
commenoe his speech.

252 OBLET FABM.

I have said that in spite of some previous hesitation his old fii-e
had returned to him when he began his work in court on behalf of
his client If this had been so when that work consisted in the
cross-examination of a witness, it was much more so w^ith him now
when he had to exhibit his own powers of forensic eloquence.
When a man knows that he can speak with ease and energy, and
that he will bo listened to with attentive ears, it is all bat impos-
sible that he should fail to be enthusiastic, even though his cause
be a bad one. It was so with him now. All his old fire came back
upon him, and before he had done he had almost brought himself
again to believe Lady Mason to be that victim of persecution as
which he did not hesitate to represent her to the jury.

* Gentlemen of the jury,' he said, ' I never rose to plead a client s
cause with more confidence than I now feel in pleading that of my
friend Lady Mason. Twenty years ago I tCas engaged in defending
her rights in this matter, and I then succeeded. I little thought at
that time that I should be called on after so long an interval to
renew my work. I little thought that the pertinacity of her oppo-
nent would hold out for such a period. I compliment him on the
firmness of his character, on that equable temperament which has
enabled him to sit through all this trial, and to look without dismay
on the unfortimate lady whom he has considered it to be his duty to
accuse of perjury. I did not think that I should live to fight this
battle again. But so it is ; and as I had but little doubt of victorr
then, — so have I none now. Gentlemen of the jury, I must occupy
some of your time and of the time of the court in going through the
evidence which has been adduced by my learned fi iend against my
client ; but I almost feel that I shall bo detaining you unneces-
sarily, so sure I am that the circumstances, as they have been
already explained to you, could not justify you in giving a verdict
against her.'

As Mr. Fumival's speech occupied fully three hours, I will not
trouble my readera with the whole of it. He began by de-
scribing the former trial, and giving his own recollections as to
Lady Mason's conduct on that occasion. In doing this, he fully
acknowledged on her behalf that she did give as evidence that
special statement which her opponeuUi now endeavoured to prove
to have been false. ' If it were the case,' he said, * that that codicil
— or that pretended codicil, was not executed by old Sir Joseph
Mason, and was not witnessed by Usbech, Kenneby, and Bridget
Bolster, — then, in that case. Lady Mason has been guilty of per-
jury.' Mr. Furnival, as he made this acknowledgment, studiously
avoided the face of Lady Mason. But as he made this asser-
tion, almost everybody in the court except her own counsel did
look at her. Joseph Mason opposite and Dockwrath fixed their gaze
closely upon her. Sir Richard Leatherham and Mr. Steelyard

ME. furnival's speech. 253

ttiiiiecl thoir eyes towards her, probably without meaning to do so.
The judge looked over his spectacles at her. Even Mr. Aram glanced
round at her surreptitiously ; and Lucius turned his face upon his
mother's, almost with an air of triumph. But she bore it all without
flinching; — ^bore it all without flinching, though the state of her
mind at that moment must have been pitiable. And Mrs. Orme,
who held her hand all the while, knew that it was so. The hand
which rested in hers was twitched as it were convulsively, but the
culprit gave no outward sign of her guilt.

Mr. Fumival then read much of the evidence given at the former
trial, and especially showed how the witnesses had then failed to
prove that Usbech had not been required to vmte his name. It was
quite true, he said, that they had been equally unable to prove that he
had done so ; but that amounted to nothing ; the ' onus probandi *
lay with the accusing side. Thbre was the signature, and it was for
them to prove that it was not that which it pretended to be. Lady
Mason had proved that it was so ; and because that had then been
held to be sufficient, they now, after twenty years, took this means
of invalidating her testimony. From that he went to the evidence
given at the present trial, bc^ginning with the malice and interested
motives of Dockwrath. Against three of them only was it needful
that he should allege anything, seeing that the statements made by
the others were in no way injurious to Lady Mason, — if the state-
ments made by those three were not credible. Torrington, for
instance, had proved that other deed ; but what of that, if on the
feital 14th of July Sir Joseph Mason had executed two deeds?
As to Dockwrath, — that his conduct had been interested and mali-
cious there could be no doubt ; and he submitted to the jury that he
had shown himself to be a man unworthy of credit. As to Kenneby,
— that poor weak creature, as Mr. Fumival in his mercy called him,
— he, Mr. Fumival, could not charge his conscience with saying
that he believed him to have been guilty of any falsehood. On the
contraiy, he conceived that Kenneby had endeavoured to tell the
tmth. But he was one of those men whose minds were so inconse-
quential that they literally did not know truth from falsehood. He
had not intended to lie when he told the jury that he was not quite
sure he had never witnessed two signatures by Sir Joseph Mason on
the same day, nor did he lie when he told them again that he had
witnessed three. He had meant to declare the truth ; but he was,
unfortunately, a man whose evidence coidd not bo of much service
in any case of importance, and could be of no service whatever in a
criminal charge tried, as was done in this instance, moro than
twenty years after the alleged commission of the offence. With
regard to Bridget Bolster, he had no hesitation whatever in telling
the jury that she was a woman unworthy of belief, — unworthy of that
credit which the jury must place in * her before they could convict

254 OBLE7 FABM.

any one on her unaided testimony. It mnBt have been clear to
them all that she had come into oonrt drilled and instructed to
make one point-blank statement, and to stick to that. She had
refused to give any eyidence as to her own signature. She would
not even look at her own name as written by herself; but had con-
tented herself with repeating over and over again thoae few words
which she had been instruoted so to say ; — the statement namely*
that she had never put her hand to more than one deed.

Then he addressed himself, as he concluded his speech, to that
part of the subject which was more closely personal to Lady Mason
herseUl ' And now, gentlemen of the jury,' he said, ' before I can
dismiss you &om your weaiy day's work, I must ask you to regard
the position of the lady who has been thus accused, and the amoont
of probability of her guilt which you may assume from the nature
of her life. I shall call no witnesses as to her character, for I will
not submit her friends to the annoyance of those questions which
the gentlemen opposite might feel it their duty to put to them.
Circumstances have occurred — so much I will tell you, and so
much no doubt you all personally know, though it is not in evi-
dence before you;— oircumstanoes have occurred which would
make it cruel on my part to place her old friend Sir Peregrine Orme
in that box. The story, could I tell it to you, is one full of ro-
mance, but full also of truth and affection. But though Sir Pere-
grine Orme is not here, there sits his daughter by Lady Jfason'a
side, — there she has sat through this tedious trial, giving comfort
to the woman that she loves, — and there she will sit till your
verdict shall have made her further presence here unnecessaiy.
His lordship and my learned friend there will tell you that you
cannot take that as evidence of character. They will be justified
in so telling you ; but I, on the other hand, defy you not to take
it as such evidence. Let us make what laws we will, they cannot
take precedence of human nature. There too sits my client's son.
You will remember that at the beginning of this trial the solicitor-
general expressed a wish that he were not here. I do not know
whether you then responded to that wish, but I believe I may take
it for granted that you do not do so now. Had any woman dear to
either of you been so placed through the malice of an enemy, would
you have hesitated to sit by her in her hour of trial ? Had you
doubted of her innooence you might have hesitated ; for who could
endure to hear annoimced in a crowded court like this the guilt
of a mother or a wife ? But he has no doubt. Nor, I believe, has
any living being in this court,— unless it be her kinsman opposite,
whose life for the last twenty years has been made ^vretchcd by a
wicked longing after the patrimony of his brother.

' Gentlemen of the jury, there sits my client with as loving a
friend on one side as ever woman had, and with her only child on

MR. fubniyal's speech. 255

the other. Durmg the incidents of this trial the nature of the life
she has led during the last twenty years, — since the period of that
terrible crime with which she is charged, — has been proved before
yon. I may fearlessly ask yon whether so fadr a life is compatible
with the idea of goilt so foul ? I have known her intimately during
all those years, — not as a lawyer, but as a friend, — and I ooxifess that
the audacity of this man Dockwrath, in assailing such a character
with such an accusation, strikes me almost with admiration. AVhat I
Forgery ! — for that, gentlemen of the jury, is the crime with which
she is substantially charged. Look at her, as she sits there I That
she, at the age of twenty, or not much more, — she who had so well
performed the duties of her young life, that she should have forged a
will, — have traced one siguature after another in such a manner aa
to have deceived all thdse lawyers who were on her track imme-
diately after her husband's death ! For, mark you, if this be true,
with her own hand she must have done it ! There was no aocom-
plice there. Look at her ! Was she a forger ? Was she a woman
to deceive the sharp bloodhounds of the law? Could she, with
that young baby on her bosom, have wi*ested from such as him ' —
and as he spoke he pointed with his finger, but with a look of
unutterable scorn, to Joseph Mason, who was sitting opposite to
him — ' that fragment of his old father's property which he coveted
so sorely ? Where had she learned such skilled artifice? Oentle-^
men, such ingenuity in crime as that has never yet been proved in
a court of law, even against those who have spent a life of wretch-
edness in acquiring such skill ; and now yon are asked to believe
that such a deed was done by a young wife, of whom all that you
know is that her conduct in every other respect had be«i beyond
all praise t Gentlemen, I might have defied you to believe ihie
accusation had it even been supported by testimony of a high cha-
racter. Even in such case you would have felt that there was more
behind than had been brought to your knowledge. But now,
having seen, as you have, of what nature are the witnesses on
whose testimony she has been impeached, it is impossible that you
should believe this story. Had Lady Mason been a woman steeped
in guilt from her infancy, had she been noted for cunning and frau-
dulent ingenuity, had she been known as an expert forger, you
would not have convicted her on this indictment, having had
before you the malice and greed of Dockwrath, the stupidity — I may
almost call it idiocy, of Eenneby, and the dogged resolution to con-
ceal the truth evinced by the woman Bolster. With strong evidence
you could not have believed such a charge against so excellent a
lady. With such evidence as you have had before you, you could
not have believed the charge against a previously convicted felon.

* And what has been the object of this terrible persecution, — of
the dreadful punishment which has been inflicted on this poor lady ?

256 ORLEY FA1{M.

For remember, though you cannot pronounoo her guilty, her «uf-
ferings have been terribly severe. Think what it must have been
for a woman with habits such as hers, to have looked forwaiti for
long, long weeks to such a martyrdom as this ! Think what she
must have suffei^ in being dragged here and subjected to the gaze
of all the county as a suspected felon ! Think what must have
been her feelings when I told her, not knowing how deep an inge-
nuity might be practised against her, that I must counsel her to
call to her aid the tuiequalled talents of my friend Mr. Chaffiui-

brass' 'Unequalled no longer, but far surpassed,' whispered

Ohaffanbrass, in a voice that was audible through all the centre of
the court. ' Her punishment has been terrible,' continued Mr.
Fumival. * After what she has gone through, it may well be
doubted whether she can continue to reside at that sweet spot
which has aroused such a feeling of avarice in the bosom of her
kinsman. You have heard that Sir Joseph Mason had promised his
eldest son that Orley Farm should form a part of his inheritance.
It may be that the old man did make such a promise. If so, he
thought fit to break it. But is it not wonderful that a man wealthy
as is Mr. Mason — for his fortune is large ; who has never wanted
anything that money can buy ; a man for whom his father did so
much, — that he should be stirred up by disappointed avarice to
carry in his bosom for twenty years so bitter a feeling of rancour
against those who are nearest to him by blood and ties of famih' !
Gentlemen, it has been a fearful lesson ; but it is one which neither
you nor I will ever forget !

* And now I shall leave my client's case in your hands. Aa to
the verdict which you will give, I have no apprehension. You
know as well as I do that she has not been guilty of this terrible
crime. That you will so pronounce I do not for a moment doubt.
But I do hope that that verdict will be accompanied by some ex-
pression on your part which may show to the world at large how
great has been the wickedness displayed in the accusation.'

And yet as he sat down he knew that she had been guilty ! To
his ear her guilt had never been confessed ; but yet he knew that
it was so, and, knowing that, he had been able to speak as though
her innocence were a thing of course. That those witnesses had
spoken truth he also knew, and yet he had been able to hold them
up to the execration of all around them as though they had com-
mitted the worst of crimes from the foulest of motives ! And more
than this, stranger than this, worse than this, — ^when the legal world
knew — as the legal world soon did know — ^that all this had been so,
the legal world found no fault with Mr. Fumival, conceiving that
he had done his duty by his client in a manner becoming an
English barrister and an English gentleman.

CHAPTER XXXIIL

MRS. ORME TELLS THE STORT.

It was late when iliat second day's work was over, and when Mrs.
Orme and Lady Mason again found themselves in the Hamworth
carriage. They had sat in conrt from ten in the morning till past
seven, with a short interval of a few minntes in the middle of the
day, and were weary to the very sotll when they left it. Lncins
again led out his mother, and as he did so he expressed to her in
strong language his approval of Mr. FumivaVs speech. At last
some one had spoken out on his mother's behalf in that tone which
should have been used from the first. He had been very angry
with Mr. Fumival, thinking that the barrister had lost sight of his
mother's honour, and that he was playing with her happiness. But
now he was inclined to forgive him. Now at last the truth had
been spoken in eloquent words, and the persecutors of his mother
had been addressed in language such as it was fitting that they
should hear. To him the last two hours had been two hours of
triumph, and as he passed through the hall of the court he whis-
pered in his mother's ear that now, at last, as he hoped, her troubles
were at an end.

And another whisper had been spoken as they passed through
that hall. Mrs. Orme went out leaning on the arm of her son, but
on the other side of her was Mr. Aram. He had remained in his
seat till they had begun to move, and then he followed them. Mrs.
Orme was already half way across the court when he made his way
up to her side and very gently touched her arm.

' Sir ?' said she, looking roimd.

• Do not let her be too sure,' he said. * Do not let her be over
confident. All that may go for nothing with a jury.' Then he
lifted his hat and left her.

All that go for nothing with a jury ! She hardly understood this,
but yet she felt that it all should go for nothing if right were done.
Her mind was not argumentative, nor yet perhaps was her sense of
true justice very acute. When Sir Peregrine had once hinted that
it would be well that the criminal should be pronounced guilty,
because in truth she had been guilty, Mrs. Orme by no means
agreed with him. But now, having heard how those wretched
witnesses had been denounced, knowing how true had been the
words they had spoken, knowing how false were those assurances of
innocence with which Mr. Fumival had been so fluent, she felt

VOL. II s

258 OBLEY FABM.

something of that spirit which had actuated Sir Per^rine, and had
almost thought that justice demanded a verdict i^ainst her friend.

' Do not let her he oYer-confident/ Mr. Aram had said. But in
truth Mrs. Orme, as she had listened to Mr. Fumival's speech, had
become almost confident that Lady Mason would be acquitted. It
had seemed to her impossible that any jury should pronounce her
to be guilty after that speech. The state of her mind as she
listened to it had been very painful. "Lady Mason's hand had
rested in her own during a great portion of it ; and it would have
been natural that she should give some encouragement to her com-
panion by a touchy by a slight pressure, as the warm words of
praise fell from the lawyer's mouth. But how could she do so,
knowing that the praise was*£eklse ? It was not possible to her to
show her friendship by congratulating her friend on the success of a
lie. Lady Mason also had, no doubt, felt this, for after a while her
hand had been withdrawn, and they had both listened in silence,
giving no signs to each other as to their feelings on the smbject.

But as they sat together in the carriage Lucius did give vent to
his feelings. ' I cannot understand why all that should not have
been said before, and said in a manner to have been as convincing
as it was to-day.'

* I suppose there was no opportunity before the trial,* said Mrs.
Orme, feeling that she must say something, but feeling also how
impossible it was to speak on the subject with any truth in the
presence both of Lady Mason and her son.

* But an occasion should have been made,' said Lucius. * It is
monstrous that my mother should have been subjected to this
accusation for months and that no one till now should have spoken
out to show how impossible it is that she should have been guilty.'

* Ah ! Lucius, you do not understand,' said his mother.

* And I hope I never may,' said he. * Why did not the jury get
up in their seats at once and pronounce their verdict when Mr.
Fumivars speech was over ? AVhy should they wait there, giving
another day of prolonged trouble, knowing as they must do what
their verdict will be ? To me all this is incomprehensible, seeing
that no good can in any waj" come from it.'

And so he went on, striving to urge his companions to speak
upon a sul^ject which to them did not admit of speech in his
presence. It was very painful to them, for in addressing Mrs.
Orme he almost demanded from her some expression of triumph.
* You at least have believed in her innocence,' he said at last, * and
have not been ashamed to show that you did so.'

' Lucius,' said his mother, * we are very weary ; do not speak to
ns now. Let us rest till we are at home.' Then they closed their
eyes and there was silence till the carriage drove up to the door of
Orley Farm House.

MRS. OBME TELL8 TUE STOBT. 259

The two ladies immediately went tip-stairs, but Lucius, with
morej cheerfulness about him than he had shown for months past,
remained below to give orders for their supper. It had been a
joy to him to hear Josej^ Mason and Dockwrath exposed, and to
listen to those words which had so clearly told the truth as to his
mother's history. All that torrent of indignant eloquence had been
to him an enumeration of the simple facts, — of the facta as he knew
them to be, — of the facts as they would now be made plain to all
the world. At last the day had come when the cloud would bo
blown away. He, looking down from the height of his superior
intellect on the folly of those below him, had been indignant at the
great delay ; — ^but that he would now forgive.

They had not been long in the house, perhaps about fifteen
minutes, when Mrs. Orme returned down stairs and gently entered
the dining-room. Ho was still there, standing with his back to the
fire and thinking over the work of the day.

* Your mother will not come down this evening, Mr. Mason.'

* Not come down ?'

* No ; she is very tired, — very tired indeed. I fear you hardly
know how much she has gone through.'

* Shall I go to her ?* said Lucius.

' No, Mr. Mason, do not do that I will return to her now. And
— but ; — in a few minutes, Mr. Mason, I will come back to you
again, for I shall have something to say to you.'

* You will have tea here ?

' I don't know. I think not. When I have spoken to you I will
go back to your mother. I came down now in order that you might
not wait for ns.' And then she left the room and again went up-
stairs. It annoyed him that his mother should thus keep away
from him, but still he did not think that there was any special
reason for it. Mrs. Orme's manner had been strange:; but then
everything aroimd them in these days was strange, and it did not
occur to him that Mrs. Orme would have aught to say in her pro-
mised interview which would bring to him any new cause for sorrow.

Lady Mason, when Mrs. Orme returned to her, was sitting
exactly in the position in which she had been loft. Her bonnet
was off and was lying by her side, and she was seated in a large
arm-chair, again holding both her hands to the sides of her head.
No attempt had been made to smooth her hair or to remove the dust
and soil which had come from the day's long sitting in the court.
She was a woman very careful in her toilet, and scrupulously nice
in all that touched her person. But now all that had been neglected,
and her whole appearance was haggard and dishevelled.

' You have not told him ? she said.

' No ; I have not told him yet ; but I have bidden him expect
me. He knows that I am coming to him.'

s 2

269 ORLEY FARM.

' And how did he look ?'

' I did not see his face.' And then there was silence between
them for a few minntes, dnring which Mrs. Orme stood at the back
of Lady Mason's chair with her hand on Lady Mason*s shoulder.
* Shall I go now, dear V said Mrs. Orme.

* No ; stay a moment ; not yet. Oh, Mrs. Orme !'

* Yon will find that you will be stronger and better able to bear
it when it has been done.'

' Stronger ! Why should I wish to be stronger ? How will ho
bear it ?'

* It will be a blow to him, of course.'

'It will strike him to the ground, Mrs. Orme. I shall have
murdered him. I do not think that ho will live when he knows
that he is so disgraced.'

* He is a man, and will bear it as a man should do. Shall I do
anything for you before I go P'

* Stay a moment. Why must it be to-night ?'

' He must not be in the court to-morrow. And what difference
will one day make? Ho must know it when the property is
given up.'

Then there was a knock at the door, and a girl entered with a
decanter, two wine-glasses, and a slice or two of bread and butter.
'You must drink that,' said Mrs. Orme, pouring out a glass of
wine.

' And you ?'

* Yes, I will take some too. There. I shall be stronger now.
Nay, Lady Mason, you shall drink it. And now if you will take
my advice you will go to bed.'

' You will come to me again ?'

'Yes; directly it is over. Of course I shall come to you. Am I
not to stay hero all night ?'

* But him ; — I will not see him. He is not to come.'

* That will be as he pleases.'

•No. You promised that. I cannot see him when he knows
what I have done for him.'

* Not to hear him say that ho forgives you ?'

' He will not forgive me. You do not know him. Could you
bear to look at your boy if you had disgraced him for ever ?'

* Whatever I might have done he would not desert me. Nor
will Lucius desert you. Shall I go now ?'

* Ah, me ! Would that I were in my grave !'

Then Mrs. Orme bent over her and kissed her, pressed both her
hands, then kissed her again, and silently creeping out of the room
made her wa}' once more slowly down the stairs.

Mrs. Orme, as will have been seen, was sufficiently anxious to
perform the task which she had given herself, but yet her heart

MBS. OBME TELLS THE STOKY. 261

Hank within her as she descended to the parlour. It was indeed a
tcn-iblo commission, and her readiness to undertake it had come not
from any feeling on her own part that she was fit for the work and
could do it without difficulty, but from the eagerness with which
8ho had persuaded Lady Mason that the thing must be done by
some one. And now who else could do it? In Sir Peregrine's
present state it would have been a cruelty to ask him ; and then
his feelings towards Lucius in the matter were not tender as were
those of Mrs. Orme. She had been obliged to promise that she
herself would do it, or otherwise she could not have urged the
doing. And now the time had come. Immediately on their return
to the house Mrs. Orme had declared that the story should be told
at once ; and then Lady Mason, sinking into tho chair from which
she had not since risen, had at length agreed that it should be so.
Tho time had now come, and Mrs. Orme, whose footsteps down the
stairs had not been audible, stood for a moment with tho handle of
tho door in her hand.

Had it been possible she also would now have put it off till the
morrow, — would have put it off till any other time than that which
was then present. All manner of thoughts crowded on her during
those few seconds. In what way should she do it ? What words
should she use? How should she begin? She was to tell this
young man that his mother had committed a crime of the very
blackest dye, and now she felt that she should havo prepared her-
self and resolved in what fashion this should be done. Might it not
bo well, she asked herself for one moment, that she should take the
night to think of it and then see him in the morning ? The idea,
however, only lasted her for a moment, and then, fearing lest she
might allow herself to bo seduced into some weakness, she turned
the handle and entered the room.

He was still standing with his back to the fire, leaning against
the mantelpiece, and thinking over tho occurrences of the day that
was past. His strongest feeling now was one of hatred to Joseph
^lason, — of hatred mixed with thorough contempt. What must
men say of him after such a struggle on his part to ruin the fame
of a lady and to steal the patrimony of a brother I • Is she still do-
tennined not to come down ?' he said as soon as he saw Mi-s. Orme.

* No ; she will not come down to-night, Mr. Mason. I have
something that I must tell you.'

* What ! is she ill ? Has it been too much for her ?'

* Mr. Mason,' she said, * I hardly know how to do what I havo
undertaken.' And he could see that she actually trembled as she
spoke to him.

* What is it, Mrs. Orme ? Is it anything about the property ? I
tliink you need hardly be afraid of me. I believe I may say L
could bear anything of that kind.'

262 OBLEY FABK.

*Mr. Mason ' And then again she stopped herself. How

was she to speak this horrible word ?

* Is it anything about the trial ?* He was now beginning to be
frightened, feeling that something terrible was coming ; but still of
the absolute truth he had no suspicion.

* Oh! Mr. Mason, if it were possible that I could spare you I
would do so. If there were any escape, — any way in which it might
be avoided.'

* What is it ?* said he. And now his voice was hoarse and low,
for a feeling of fear had come upon him. * I am a man and can bear
it, whatever it is.'

* You must be a man then, for it is veiy terrible. Mr. Mason, that
wm, you know '

* You mean the codicil ?

* The will that gave you the property '

' Yes.'

* It was not done by your father.'
< Who says so ?'

* It is too sure. It was not done by him, — nor by them, — tlioso
other people who were in the court to-day.'

* But who says so ? How is it known ? If my father did not
sign it, it is a forgery ; and who forged it ? Those wretches have
bought over some one and you have been deceived, Mrs. Orme. It
is not of the property I am thinking, but of my mother. If it were
as you say, my mother must have known it ?'

* Ah ! yes.'

* And you mean that she did know it ; that she knew it was a
forgery T

* Oh ! Mr. Mason.'

* Heaven and earth ! Let me go to her. If she were to tell mo
so herself I would not believe it of her. Ah ! she has told you ?'

* Yes ; she has told me.'

* Then she is mad. This has been too much for her, and her
brain has gone with it. Let me go to her, Mrs. Orme.'

* No, no ; you must not go her.' And Mrs. Orme put herself
directly before the door. * She is not mad,— not now. Then, at
that time, we must think she was so. It is not so now.'

* I cannot undei-stand you.' And he put his left hand up to hLs
forehciid as though to steady his thoughts. * I do not understand
you. If the will bo a forgciy, who did it ?*

This question she could not answer at the moment. She was
still standing against the door, and her eyes fell to the ground.
* Who did it ?' he repeated. * Whose hand wrote my father's name ?*

* You must be merciful, Mr. Mason.'

* Merciful ; — to whom ?'

* To your mother.'

MBS. OBHS TELLS THJB STOBY. 263

' Merciful to my mother ! Mrs. Orme, speak out to me. If the
will was foi^d, who forged it ? You cannot mean to tell me that
she did it !'

She did not answer him at the moment in words, but coming
close up to him she took both his hands in hers, and then looked
steadfastly up into his eyes. His £em^ had now become almost
convidsed with emotion, and his brow was very black. 'Do you
wish me to believe that my mother forged the will herself?'
Then again he paused, but she said nothing. ' Woman, it's a lie,'
he exclaimed ; and then tearing his hands from her, shaking her
off, and striding away with quick footsteps, he threw himself on a
sofa that stood in the farthest part of the room.

She paused for a moment and then followed him very gently.
She followed him and stood over him in silence for a moment, as he
lay with his face from her. ' Mr. Mason,' she said at last, ' you
told me that you would bear this like a man.'

But he made her no answer, and she went on. 'Mr. Mason,
it is, as I tell you. Years and years ago, when you were a baby,
and when she thought that your father was unjust to you— for
your sake, — to remedy that injustice, she did this thing.'

' What ; foTg^d his name ! It must be a lie. Though an angel
camo to tell me so, it would be a lie I What ; my mother 1' And
now he turned round and faced her, still however lying on the so&.

* It is true, Mr. Mason. Oh, how I wish that it were not ! But
you must forgive her. It is years ago, and she has repented of it,
Sir Peregrine has forgiven her, — and I have done so.'

And then she told him the whole story. She told him why the
marriage had been broken off, and described to him the manner in
which the truth had been made known to Sir Peregrine. It need
hardly be said, that in doing so, she dealt as sofUy as was possible
with his mother's name ; but yet she told him everything. * She
wrote it herself, in the night.'

' What all ; all the names herself?'

* Yes, all.'

' Mrs. Orme it cannot be so. I will not believe it. To me it is
impossible. That you believe it I do not doubt, but I cannot.
Let me go to her. I will go to her myself. But even should she say
so herself, I will not believe it'

But she would not let him go up-stairs even though he attempted
to move her from the door, almost with violemce. • No; not till you
say that you will forgive her and be gentle with her. And it must
not bo to-night We will be up early in the morning, and you can
see her before we go ;— if you will bo gentle to her.'

He still persisted that he did not believe the story, but it
became clear to her, by degrees, that the meaning of it all had at
last sunk into his mind, and that he did believe it. Over and over

264 OBLET FABM.

again she told him all that she knew, explaining to Him what his
mother had suffered, making him peroeive why she had removed
herself out of his hands, and had leant on others for advice. And
she told him also that though they still hoped that the jnry might
acquit her, the property must be abandoned.

' I will leave the house this night if you wish it,' he said.

* When it is all over, when she has been acquitted and shall have-
gone away, then let it be done. Mr. Mason, you will go with her ;
will you not T and then again there was a pause.

' Mrs. Orme, it is impossible that I should say now what I may do.
It seems to me as though I could not live through it. I do not
believe it. I. cannot believe it.'

As soon as she had exacted a promise from him that he would not
go to his mother, at any rate without further notice, she herself
went up stairs and found Lady Mason lying on her bed. At first
Mrs. Orme thought that she was asleep, but no such comfort had
come to the poor woman. * Does he know it?' she asked.

Mrs. Orme's task for that night was by no means yet done.
After remaining for a while with Lady Mason she again returned
to Lucius, and was in this way a bearer of messages between them.
There was at last no question as to doubting the story. He did
believe it. He could not avoid the necessity for such belief.
'Yes,' he said, when Mrs. Orme spoke again of his leaving the

place, * I will go and hide myself ; and as for her *

. ' But you will go with her, — if the jury do not say that she was
guilty '

*0h, Mrs. Orme I'

* If they do, you will come back for her, when the time of her
punishment is over ? She is still your mother, Mr. Mason.'

At last the work of the night was done, and the two ladies went
to their beds. The understanding was that Lucius should
see his mother before they started in the morning, but that he
should not again accompany them to the court. Mrs. Orme's
great object had been, — her great object as regarded the present
moment, — to prevent his presence in court when the verdict should
be given. In this she had succeeded. She could now wish for an
acquittal with a clear conscience ; and could as it were absolve the-
sinner within her own heart, seeing that there was no longer
any doubt as to the giving up of the property. AVhatever might bo
the verdict of the jury Joseph Mason of Groby would, without
doubt, obtain the property which belonged to him.

' Good-night, Mr. Mason,' Mrs. Orme said at last, as she gave hin>
her hand.

* Good-night. I believe that in my madness 1 spoke to you to-
night like a brute.'

* No, no. It was nothing, I did not think of it.'

t™... u^™, ., ,.. „„M .. „, o... n„ ,.. „„ ,„,„ ^

HBS. OBME TELLS THE STOBT. 265

• Whon you think of how it was with me, yon will forgive me.'

She pressed his hand and again told him that she had not thought
of it. It was nothing. And indeed it had been as nothing to her.
There may be moments in a man's life when any words may be
forgiven, even though they be spoken to a woman.

When Mrs. Orme was gone, he stood for a while perfectly motion-
less in the dining-room, and then coming out into the hall he opened
the front door, and taking his hat, went out into the night. It was still
winter, but the night, though cold and very dark, was fine, and the
air was sharp with the beginning frost. Leaving the door open he
walked forth, and passing out on to the road went down from thence
to the gate. It had been his constant practice to walk up and down
from his own hall door to his own gate on the high road, perhaps
comforting himself too warmly with the reflection that the ground on
which he walked was all his own. He had no such comfort now,
as he made his way down the accustomed path and leaned upon the
gate, thinking over what he had heard.

A forger ! At some such hour as this, with patient premeditated
care, she had gone to work and committed one of the vilest crimes
known to man. And this was his mother! And he, he, Lucius
Mason, had been living for years on the fruit of this villainy ; — had
been so living till this terrible day of retribution had come upon
him ! I fear that at that moment he thought more of his own misery
than he did of hers, and hardly considered, as he surely should
have done, that mother's love which had led to all this guilt. And
for a moment he resolved that he would not go back to the house.
His head, he said to himself, should never again rest under a roof
which belonged of right to Joseph Mason. He had injured Joseph
Mason ; — had injured him innocently, indeed, as far as he himself
was concerned ; but he had injured him greatly, and therefore now
hated him all the more. ' He shall have it instantly,' he said, and
walked forth into tho high road as though he would not allow his
feet to rest again on his brother's property.

But he was forced to remember that this could not be so. His.
mother's trial was not yet over, and even in tho midst of his own
personal trouble ho remembered that tho verdict to her was still
a matter of terrible import. He would not let it be known that ho
had abandoned the property, at any rate till that verdict had been
given. And then as he moved back to the house he tried to think
in what way it would become him to behave to his mother. * She
can never bo my mother again,' ho said to himself. They wero
terrible words ; — but then was not his position very terrible ?

And when at last he had bolted the front door, going through the
accustomed task mechanically, and had gone up stairs to his own
room, he had failed to mako up his mind on this subject. Perhaps
it would bo better that he should not see her. What could he say

266 OBLEY FASU.

to her ? What word of oomfbrt could he speak ? It was not only
that she had beggared him ! Nay; it was not that at all ! Bnt she
had doomed him to a life of disgrace which no effort of his own could
wipe away. And then as he threw himself on his bed he thought
of Sophia FornivaL Would she share his disgrace with him ? Was
it possible that there might be solace there ?

Quite impossible, we should say, who know her welL

CHAPTER XXXIV.

YOUNG LOCHmVAB.

Judge Stayeley, whose court had not been kept siting to a late
hour by any such eloquence as that of Mr. Fumival, had gone home
before the business of the other court had closed. Augustas, who
was his father's marshal, remained for his friend, and had made his
way in among the crowd, so as to hear the end of the speech.

* Don't wait dinner for us,' he had said to his father. * If you do
you will be hating us all the time ; and we sha'n't be there till
between eight and nine.'

* I should be sorry to hate you,' said the judge, * and so I won't.'
When therefore Felix Graham escaped from the court at about half-
past seven, the two young men were able to take their own time
and oat their dinner together comfortably, enjoj-ing their bottle of
champagne between them perhaps more thoroughly than they would
have done had the judge and Mrs. Staveley shared it with them.

But Felix had something of which to think besides tho cham-
pagne— something which was of more consequence to him even
than the tiial in which he was engaged. Madeline had promised
that she would meet him that evening; — or rather had not so
promised. When asked to do so she had not refused, but even
while not refusing had reminded him that her mother would be
there. Her manner to him had, he thought, been cold, though ehe
had not been imgracious. Upon the whole, he could not make up
his mind to expect success. * Then ho must have been a fool !' the
reader learned in such matters will say. The reader learned in
such matters is, I think, right. In that respect he was a fool.

* I suppose wo must give tho governor the benefit of our company
over his wine,' said Augustus, as soon as their dinner was over.

* 1 suppose wo ought to do so.'

' And why not ? Is there any objection ?'

* To tell the truth,' said Graham, * I have an appointment which
I am very anxious to keep.'

' An appointment? Where? Hero at Noningsby, do you mean?*

YOUNG LOCHIKVAK. 267

' In this house. Bat yet I cannot say that it is absoutoly «an
appointment. I am going to ask your sister what my fate is to be.'

* And that is the appointment I Very well, my dear fellow ; and
may God prosper you. If you can convince the governor that it i^
all right, I shall make no objection. I wish, for Madeline's sake,
that you had not such a terrible bee in your bonnet.'

' And you will go to the judge alone T

* Oh, yes. I'll tell him . What shall I teU him?'

* The truth, if you will. Good-bye, old fellow. You will not see
me again to-night, nor yet to-morrow in this house, unless I am
more fortunate than I have any right to hope to be.'

' Faint heart never won fedr lady, you know,' said Augustus.
' My heart is fednt enough then ; but nevertheless I shall say
what I have got to say.' And then he got up from the table.

* If you don't come down to us,' said Augustus, * I shall come up
to you. But may God speed you. And now 111 go to the governor.'

Felix made his way from the small breakfast-parlour in which
they had dined across the hall into the drawing-room, and there he
foimd Lady Staveley alone. * So the trial is not over yet, Mr. Gra-
ham?' she said.

* No ; there will be another day of it'

' And what will be the verdict ? Is it possible that she really
forged the will ?'

* Ah ! that I cannot say. You know that I am one of her counsel,
Lady Staveley ?

* Yes ; I should have remembered that, and been more discreet.
If you are looking for Madeline, Mr. Graham, I think that she is in
the library.'

' Oh I thank you ; — in the library.' And then Felix got himself
out of the drawing-room into the hall again not in the most graceful
manner. He might have gone direct from the drawing-room to
the library, but this he did not remember. It was very odd, he
thought, that Jjady Staveley, of whose dislike to him he had felt
sure, should have thus sent him direct to her daughter, and have
become a party, as it were, to an appointment between them. But
he had not much time to think of this before he found himself in
the room. There, sure enough, was Madeline waiting to listen to
his story. She was seated when he entered, with her back to him ;
but as she heard him she rose, and, after pausing for a moment, she
stepped forward to meet him.

* You and Augustus were very late to-day,' she said.

' Yes. I was kept there, and he was good enough to wait for me.'

* You said you wanted to speak to me,' she said, hesitating a

little, but yet very little ; ' to speak to me alone ; and so mamma
said I had better come in here. I hope you are not vexed that I
should have told her.'

268 OBLEY FABV.

* Certainly not, Miss Staveley.'

' Because I have no secrets from mamma.'

' Nor do I wish that anything should bo secret. I hate all secre-
cies. Miss Staveley, your father knows of my intention.'

On this point Madeline did not feel it to be necessaiy to say any-
thing. Of course her father knew of the intention. Had she not
received her father's sanction for listening to Mr. Graham she wou]d
not have been alone with him in the library. It might be that the
time would come in which she would explain all this to her lover,
but that time had not come yet. So when he spoke of her £Efcther
she remained silent, and allowing her eyes to fall to the ground she
stood before him, waiting to hear his question.

' Miss Staveley,' he said ; — and he was conscious himself of l)eing
very awkward. Much more so, indeed, than there was any need,
for Madeline was not aware that he was awkward. In her eyes
he was quite master of the occasion, and seemed to have every-
thing his own way. He had already done all that was difficult in
the matter, and had done it without any awkwardness. He had
already made himself master of her heart, and it was only necessary
now that he should enter in and take possession. The ripe fruit
had fallen, as Miss Fumival had once chosen to express it-, and there
he was to pick it up, — if only he considered it worth his trouble to do
60. That manner of the picking would not signify much, as Madeline
thought. That he desired to take it into his gamer and preserve it
for his life's use was everything to her, but the method of his words
at the present moment was not much. He was her lord and master.
He was the one man who had conquered and taken possession of her
spirit; and as to his being awkward, there was not much in
that. Nor do I say that he was awkward. He spoke his mind in
honest, plain terras, and I do not know he could have done better.

* Miss Staveley,' ho said, * in asking you to see me alone, I have
made a great venture. I am indeed rislring all that I most value/
And then he paused, as though he expected that she would speak.
But she still kept her eyes upon the ground, and still stood silent
before him. * I cannot but think you must guess my purpose,' he
said, 'though I acknowledge that I have had nothing that cai>
wan-ant me in hoping for a favourable answer. There is my hand ;
if- you can take it you need not doubt that you have my heart with
it.' And then he held out to her his broad, right hand.

Madeline still stood silent before him and still fixed her eyes
upon the ground, but very slowly she raised her little hand and
iillowed her soft slight fingers to rest upon his open palm. It was
as though she thus affixed her legal signature and seal to the deed
of gift. She had not said a word to him ; not a word of love or a
word of assent ; but no such word was now necessary.

* riladeline, my own Madeline,' he said ; and then taking unfair

YOUNG LOCHINVAR. 269

advantage of the fingers which she had given hiin he drew her to his
breast and folded her in his arms.

It was nearly an hour after this when he returned to the drawing-
room. * Do go in now/ she said. ' You must not wait any longer ;
indeed you must go.'

* And you ; you will come in presently.*

' It is already nearly eleven. No, I wiU not show myself again
to-night. Mamma will soon come up to me, I know. Good-night,
Felix. Do you go now, and I will follow you.' And then after
some further little ceremony he left her.

When he entered the drawing-room Lady Staveley was there, and
the judge with his teacup beside him, and Augustus standing with
his back to the fire. Felix walked up to the circle, and taking a
chair sat down, but at the moment said nothing.

' You didn't get any wine after your day's toil, Master Graham,'
said the judge.

' Indeed I did, sir. We had some champagne.'

' Champagne, had you ? Then I ought to have waited for my
guest, for I got none. You had a long day of it in court.'

' Yes, indeed, sir.'

' And I am afiraid not very satisfactory.' To this Graham made
no immediate answer, but he could not refrain from thinking that
the day, taken altogether, had been satisfactory to him.

And then Baker came into the room, and going close up to Lady
Staveley, whispered something in her ear. ' Oh, ah, yes,' said Lady
Staveley. ' I must wish you good nighty Mr. Graham.' And she
took his hand, pressing it very warmly. But though she wished
him good night then, she saw him again before he went to bed. It
was a family in which all home affairs were very dear, and a new
son could not be welcomed into it without much expression of
affection.

* Well, sir I and how have you sped since dinner ?' the judge
asked as soon as the door was closed behind his wife.

' I have proposed to your daughter and she has accepted me.'
And as he said so he rose from the chair in which had just now
seated himself.

* Then, my boy, I hope you will make her a good husband ;' and
the judge gave him his hand.

' I will try to do so. I cannot but feel, however, how little right
I had to ask her, seeing that I am likely to be so poor a man.'

* Well, well, well — we will talk of that another time. At present
we will only sing your triumphs —

' So faithful in love, and 80 dauntless in war.
There never was knight like the young Loohinvar.*

* Felix, my dear fellow, I congratulate you wiih all my heart,'
said Augustus. • But I did not know you were good as a warrior.'

270 OBLEY FABK.

* Ah, but he is though,' said the judge. * What do you think of
his wounds ? And if all that I hear be true, he has other battles on
hand. But we must not speak about that till this poor lady's trial
is over.'

' I need hardly tell you, sir,' said Graham, with that sheep-like
air which a man always carries on such occasions, ' that I regard
myself as the most fortunate man in the world.'

* Quite unneoessary,' said the judge. ' On such occasions that is
taken as a matter of course.' And then the conversation between
them for the next ten minutes was rather dull and flat

Up-stairs the same thing was going on, in a manner somewhat
more animated, between the mother and daughter, — ^for ladies on
such occasions can be more animated than men.

* Oh, mamma, you must love him,' Madeline said.

* Tes, my dear ; of course I shall love him now. Your papa says
that he is very clever.'

' I know papa likes him. I knew that from the very first. I
think that was the reason why—'

* And I suppose clever people are the best, — ^that is to say, if they
are good.'

' And isn't he good ?'

' Well — I hope so. Indeed, I'm sure he is. Mr. Orme was a
very good young man too ; — ^but it's no good talking about him now.'
' Mamma, that never could have come to pass.'

* Very well, my dear. It's over now, and of course all that I
looked for was your happiness.'

* I know that, mamma ; and indeed I am very happy. I'm sure
I could not ever have liked any once else since I first Imew him.*

Lady Staveley still thought it very odd, but she had nothing else
to say. As regarded the pecuniary considerations of the afijEtir she
left them altogether to her husband, feeling that in this way she
could relieve herself from misgivings which might otherwise make
hor unhappy. ' And after all I don't know that his ugliness sig-
nifies,' she said to herself. And so she made up her mind that she
would be loving and aff^ptionate to him, and sat up till she heard
his footsteps in the passage, in order that she might speak to him,
and make him welcome to the privileges of a son-in-law.

* Mr. Graham,' she said, opening her door as he passed by.

* Of course she has told you,' said Felix.

* Oh yes, she has told me. We don't have many secrets in this
house. And I'm sure I congratulate you with all my heart ; and I
think you have got the very best girl in all the world. Of course
I'm hor mother ; but I declare, if I was to talk of her for a week, I
could not say anything of her but good.'

* I know how fortunate I am.'

* Yes, you are fortunate. For there is nothing in the world equal

YOUNG LOCHINVAR- 271

to a loving wife who will do her duty. And I'm sure youll be good
to her.'

* I will endeavour to be so.'

* A man must be very bad indeed who would be bad to her, — and
I don't think that of you. And it's a great thing, Mr. Graham, that
Madeline should have loved a man of whom her papa is so fond. I
don't know what you have done to the judge, I'm sure.' This she
said, remembering in the innocence of her heart that Mr. Arbuthnot
had been a son-in-law rather after her own choice, and that the
judge always declared that his eldest daughter's husband had seldom
much to say for himselfl

' And I hope that Madeline's mother will receive me as kindly
as Madeline's father,' said he, taking Lady Staveley's hand and
pressing it.

* Indeed I will. I will love you very dearly if you will let me.
My girls' husbands are the same to me as sons.' Then she put up
her face and he kissed it, and so they wished each other good night.

He found Augustus in his own room, and they two had hardly sat
themselves down over the fire, intending to recall the former scenes
which had taken place in that very room, when a knock was heard
at the door, and Mrs. Baker entered.

' And so it's all settled, Mr. Eelix,' said she.

' Yes,' said he ; ' all settled.'

' Well now ! didn't I know it from the first?'

' Then what a wicked old woman you were not to tell,' said
Augustus.

' That's all very well. Master Augustus. How would you like
me to tell of you ; — for I could, you Imow ?'

* You wicked old woman, you couldn't do anything of the kind.'

* Oh, couldn't I ? But I defy all the world to say a word of Miss
Madeline but what's good, — only I did know all along which way
the wind was blowing. Lord love you, Mr. Graham, when yon
came in here all of a smash like, I knew it wasn't for nothing.'

* Yon think he did it on purpose then,' said 8taveley.

* Did it on purpose ? What ; make upj» Miss Madeline ? Why,
of course he did it on purpose. He's be^i a-thinking of it ever
since Christmas night, when I saw you, Master Augustus, and a
certain young lady when you came out into the dark passage
together.'

* That's a downright falsehood, Mrs. Baker.'

*0h — ^very well. Perhaps I was mistaken. But now, Mr.
Graham, if you don't treat our Miss Madeline well '

* That's just what I've been telling him,' said her brother. * If
he uses her ill, as he did his former wife— breaks her heart as he
did with that one '

' His former wife I' said Mrs. Baker.

272 OBLET FARM.

* Haven't you heai*d of that? Why, he's had two already-.'

* Two wives already ! Oh now, Master Augustus, what an old
fool I am ever to helieve a word that comes out of your mouth.'
Then having uttered her blessing, and having had her hand cor-
dially grasped by this now scion of the Staveley fiunily, the old
woman lefb the young men to themselves, and went to her bed.

* Now that it is done ,' said Felix.

* You wish it were undone.'

* No, by heaven ! I think I may venture to say that it will never
come to me to wish that. But now that it is done, I am astonished
at my own impudence almost as much as at my success. Why
should your father have welcomed me to his house as his son-in-law*
seeing how poor are my prospects 7*

' Just for that reason ; and because he is so different from other
men. I have no doubt that he is proud of Madeline for having
liked a man with an ugly face and no money.'

' If I had been beautiful like you, I shouldn't have had a chance
with him.'

* Not if you'd been weighted with money also. Now, as for
myself, I confess I'm not nearly so magnanimous as my father, and.
for Mad's sake, I do hope you will get rid of yotir vagaries. An
income, I know, is a very commonplace sort of thing ; but when a
man has a family there are comforts attached to it.'

' 1 am at any rate willing to work,' said Qraham somewhat-moodily.

* Yes, if you may work exactly in your own way. But men in
the world can't do that. A man, as I take it, must through life
allow himself to be governed by the united wisdom of others around
him. He cannot take upon himself to judge as to every step by his
own lights. If he does, he will be dead before he has made up his
mind as to the preliminaries.' And in this way Augustus Staveley
from the depth of his life's experience spoke words of worldly
wisdom to his future brother-in-law.

On the next morning before he started again for Alston and his
now odious work, Graham succeeded in getting Madeline to himself
for five minutes. * I saw both your father and mother last night/
said he, ' and I shall never forget their goodness to me.'

* Yes, they are good.'

' It seems like a dream to me that they should have accepted me
as their son-in-law.'

* But it is no dream to me, Felix ; — or if so, I do not mean to wake
any more. I used to think that I should never care very much for

anybody out of my own family ; — but now * And she then

pressed her little hand upon his arm.

* And Felix,' she said, as he prepared to leave her, * you are not
to go away from Noningsby when the trial is over. I wanted
mamma to tell you, but she said I'd better do it'

CHAPTER XXXV

TUE LAST DAY.

Mrs. Orme was up very early on that last morning of the tiial, 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! ho 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 ; ho knows it all ; and is it not better so ? He will
come and see you, and when that is over you will be more comfort-
able than 3'ou 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 ho might see her.
Mrs. Orme at onco wont to him, and found him seated at the break-
fast 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 slecplcKS night in them. To Mi*s. Orme's
inquiry after himself ho 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 sho and I must be c»utcasts 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 corao 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 ?'

VOL, IL T

274 OBLEY FABM.

' There should be nothiDg that a son would not forgive Lis
mother/

* Ah ! that is so easily spoken. Men talk of forgiveness when
their anger rankles deepest in their heai*ts. 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 brc^en ?'

' 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
i^ 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 stem voice
which was habitual to him ; and then with slow steps ho went up
to his mother's room.

When ho entered it she was standing with her eyes fixed upon
the dour 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 I' she said. And then she lay there
bathing his feet with her tears.

' Oh ! mother, what is this that she has told me V

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, lot 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 1 will speak to you.'

THE LAST DAT. 275

' Tonr 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 Bebekah had de-
ceived her lord and robbed Esau, the first-bom, 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 I Had it been imputed as a crime to Bebekah 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 Bebekah 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 oome 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 whea
they release you. For you and me the future world will be very
diflferent 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

276 OBLET FABK.

Mason cotild 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 hift
mother's sake as absolutely as conld they. Bnt to some is given
and to some is denied that erase of heavenly balm with which alt
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 yon 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 ahnost better for her that he should have
upbraided her for her wickedness. She would then have fidlen
again prostrate before him, if not in body at least in spirit, and her
weakness would have stood for her in the 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 abso-
lutely 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 tlirougli
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. Orrae 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.'

* K so I will come to you, — in the morning if they will lot roe.
But, mother, in any case I must leave this house to-morrow.* Then
again he gave her his hand, but ho 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

THE LAST DAY. 277

kis absence. Both Dookwrath 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.
Fumival's speech, their hopes had not been very high. Dockwrath
had not admitted with words that he feared defoat, 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,' ho had said. But he had not
said it with that tone of assured conviction which he had always
used tiU Mr. Fumival*s speech had been made. There could have
been no greater attestation to the power displayed by Mr. Fumival
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. Fumival 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
<:ourt, and at her instance gave his arm to Lady Mason. Mr. Aram
was also there; but Mr. Aram had great tact, and did not ofier 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-
<lay,* he said, not bringing his head suspiciously close to hers, but
£till 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, bo that the whole court
jnaight notice it. The legal portion of the court did notice it and
were much amused. * Good morning, Mr. Chafianbrass,' 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

278 OBLEY FABIC

sell. But we may give the same praise to the hired bravo whc
goes through with truth and courage the task which he has under-
taken. I knew an assassin in Ireland who professed that daring
twelve years of practice in Tipperary he had never fbiled when he
had once engaged himself For truth and honesty to their cus-
tomers— which are great virtues — I would hraoket that man and
Mr. Chaffanbrass together.

And then the judge commenced his charge, and as he -went on
with it he repeatcMl all the evidence that was in any way of moment,
pulling the details to pieces, and dividing that which bote 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 dissect-
ing 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 boie
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 proseoutor 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 fiJee 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 owti 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 bo scowled at and scolded by the judge, to be
browbeaten and accused falsely by tlio 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 bo gently invited to come forward from some inner
room where ho can sit before a fire. Then ho 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

THE LAST DAT. 279

aside the froth of Mr. Fnmival's eloquence, and upsetting the
sophistry and false deductions of Mr. Chaffanbraas. The case for the
jury, as he said, hung altogether upon the OYidenoe of Kenneby and
the woman Bolster. As far as he could see, the evidence of Dock-
wrath had little to do with it ; and alleged malice and greed on the
part of Dockwrath conld have nothing to do with it The jnry
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 pur-
porting 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 tiie
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 &lse 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 groimd had been shown for
charging Bolster with swearing fiilsely. 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 her-
self 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

280 ORLET FABM.

court, they retired to the sittmg-room in which they had first heen
placed. Here Mr. Aram accompanied them, and here thej were of
course met hy Peregrine Ormo.

* His lordship's charge was very good — very good, indeed,' said
Mr. Aram.

' Was it?' asked Peregrine.

* And very much in our fovour,' continued the attorney.

*' You think then/ said Mrs. Orme, looking up into hia face, ' jon

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 hefore Lady Mason if my opinion was not veiy
strong. The jury may disagree. That is not improbable. But 1
cannot anticipate that the verdict will be against us.'

There was some comfort in this; but how wretched was the
nature of the comfort ! Bid 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. Fumival there, taking his friend by the band and
congratulating her that her troubles were so nearly over? Mr.
Fumival at this time did not come near her ; and had he done oo,
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. Chaffanbniss also, and Felix Graham retired from the
scene of their labours, and as they did so, a few words were spoken
between ihem.

* 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 w^ould
keep out of it for the future.*

' I am very much of the same way of thinking, Mr. Chaffanbra^,'
said the other.

* If a man undertakes a duty, ho should do it. That's my
opinion, though I confess it's a little old fashioned ; especifdly if ho
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 ? Ilis answer would havo 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. Ohafianbrass went on his way. He will
now pass out of our sight, and we will say of him, that he did bis
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 ihem, remained Peregrine.
Some sort of refreshment was procured for them, but of the three

I LOYE HEA STILL. 281

days they passed in the court, that, perhaps, was the most oppres-
sive. 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 mode
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
fiafe, 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 retum to court at
onoe when he heard that the jury had agreed.

' And must we go into court again ?' said Mrs. Oime.

* 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 wan
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.

CHAPTEJB XXXVI.

I LOVE HER STILL.

It was all over now, and as Lucius had said to his mother, there
was nothing left for them but to go and hide themselves. The
verdict had reached him before his mother's return, and on the
moment of his hearing it he sat down and commenced the following
letter to Mr. Fumival : —

* Orley Fann, March — , 18 — .

* Dear Sra,

* I b^ to thank you, in my mother's name, for your great
exertions in the late trial. I must acknowledge that I have been
wrong in thinking that you gave her bad advice, and am now con-
vinced that you acted with the best judgment on her behalf. May I

282 OBLET FABM.

beg that yon will add to your great kindness by indnoin^ tlie gen-
tlemen who undertook the management of the case as my mother*!
attorneys to let me know as soon as pospible in what som I am
indebted to them ?

*■ I belieye I need tronUe yon with no preamble as to my xeasons
when I tell yon that I have resolved to abandon immediately any
title that I may have to the possession of Orley Farm, and to make
over the property at onoe, in any way that may be most effioaoioQi,
to my half-brother, Mr. Joseph^Mason, of Qroby Park. I so atron^y
feel the necessity of doing this at once, without even a day's delay,
that I shall take my mother to lodgings in London to-moirow, and
shall then decide on what steps it may be best that we shall take.
My mother will be in possession of about 2002. a year, subject to
such deduction as the cost of the trial may make frcoD, it.

' I hope that you will not think that I intrude upon you too hr
when I ask yon to communicate with my brother's lawyers on the
subject of this surrender. I do not know how else to do it ; and of
course you will understand that I wish to screen my mother's name
as much as may be in my power with due regard to honesty. I
hope I need not insist on the fact, — for it is a fact, — ^that nothing will
change my purpose as to this. If I cannot have it done throng
you, I must myself go to Mr. Bound. I am, moreover, aware that
in accordance with strict justice my brother should have upon me a
claim for the proceeds of the estate since the date of our £i,ther's
death. If he wishes it I will give him such claim, making myself
his debtor by any form that may be legal. He must, however, in
such case be made to understand that his claim will be against
^ heggar ; but, nevertheless, it may suit his views to have such a
claim upon mo. I cannot think that, under the circumstances, I
should bo justified in calling on my mother to surrender her small
income ; but should you be of a different opinion, it shall be done.

* I write thus to you at once as I think that not a day should be
lost. I will trouble you with another line from London, to let you
know what is our immediate address.

• Pray believe me to be

* Yours, faithfully and obliged,

* Lucius Mason.

• T. Furnival, Esq.,

* Old Square, Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

As soon as he had completed this letter, which was sufficiently
good for its purpose, and clearly explained what was the writer*
will on the subject of it, he wrote another, which I do not think was
equally efficacious. The second was addressed to Miss Fumival,
and being a love letter, was not so much within the scope of the
writer's peculiar powers.

I LOVE HBB STILL. 283

*' Dearest Sophia,

* I hardly know how to address yon ; or wliat I should tell
yon or what conceal. Were we together, and was that promise re-
newed which you once gave me, I should tell you all ; — ^but this I
cannot do by letter. My mother's trial is over, and she is acquitted ;
but that which I have learned during the trial has made me feel
that I am bound to relinquish to my brother-in-law all my title to
Oriey Farm, and I have already taken the ^first steps towards doing
so. Yes, Sophia, I am now a beggar on the face of the world. I
have nothing belonging to me, save those powers of mind and body
which God has given me ; and I am, moreover, a man oppressed
with a terribly heavy load of grief. For some short time I must
hide myself with my mother ; and then, when I shall have been
able to braoe my mind to work, I shall go forth and labour in. what*
ever field may be open to me.

' But before I go, Sophia, I wish to say a word of farewell to
you, that I may understand on what tenns we part. Of course I
make no claim. I am aware that that which I now tell you must
be held as giving you a valid excuse for breaking any contract that
there may have been between us. But, nevertheless, I have hope.
That I love you very dearly I need hardly now say ; and I still
venture to think that the time may come when I shall again prove
myself to be worthy of your hand. If you have ever loved me you
cannot cease to do so merely because I am imfortunate ; and if you
love me still, perhaps you will consent to wait. If you will do so, —
if you will say that I am rich in that respect, — I shall go to my
banishment not altogether a downcast man.

* May I say that I am still your own

* Lucius Mason?'

No ; he decidedly might not say so. But as the letter was not
yet finished when his mother and Mrs. Orme returned, I will not
anticipate matters by giving Miss Fumival's reply.

Mrs. Orme came back that night to Orley Farm, but without the
intention of remaining there. Her task was over, and it would be
well that she should return to the Cleeve. Her task was over ; and
as the hour must come in which she should leave the mother in the
hands of her son, the present hour would be as good as any.

They again went together to the room which they had shared for
the last night or two, and there they parted. They had not been
there long when the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel, and
Mrs. Orme got up from her seat * There is Peregrine with the
carriage,' said she.

' And you are going?* said Lady Mason.

* If I could do you good, I would stay,' said Mrs. Orme.

284 OBLEY FARM.

* No, no ; of course you must go. Oh, my darling, ob, my friend,
and she threw herself into the other's arms.

* Of course I will write to you,' said Mrs. Orme. * I will do sc
regularly.'

' May God bless you for over. But it is needless to ask for
blessings on such as you. You are blessed.'

* And you too ; — if you will turn to Him you will be blessed.'

' Ah me. Well, I can try now. I feel that I can at any rate
try.'

* And none who try ever fiedl. And now, dear, good-bye.*

* Good-bye, my angel. But, Mrs. Orme, I have one word I must
first say ; a message that I must send to him. Tell him this, that
never in my life have I loved any man as well as I have loved him
and as I do love him. That on my knees I beg his pardon for the
wrong I have done him.'

* But he knows how great has been your goodness to him.*

* When the time oame I was not quite a devil to drag him down
vrith me to utter destruction !'

* He will always remember what was your conduct then.*

* But tell him, that though I loved him, and though I loved you
with all my heart, — with all my heart, I knew through it all, as I
^ow now, that I was not a fitting friend for him or yon. No ;
do not interrupt me, I always knew it; and though it was so sweet
to me to see your £EU)es, I would have kept away ; but that he would
not have it. I came to him to assist me because he was great and
strong, and he took mo to his bosom with his kindness, till I
destroyed his strength ; though his greatness nothing can destroy.*

* No, no ; ho does not think that you have injured him.'

* But tell him what I say ; and tell him that a poor braised,
broken creature, who knows at least her own vileness, will pray for
him night and morning. And now good-bye. Of my heart towards
you I cannot speak.'

* Good-bye then, and, Lady Mason, never despair. There is
always room for hope ; and where there is hope there need not be
nnhappiness.'

Then they parted, and Mrs. Orme went down to her son.

* Mother, the carriage is here,' he said.

* Yes, I heard it. Where is Lucius ? Good-bye, Mr. Mason.*

* God bless you, Mrs. Orme. Believe me I know how good you
have been to us.'

As sh,e gave him her hand, she spoke a few words to him. * My
last request to you, Mr. Mason, is to beg that you will be tender to
your mother.'

* I will do my best, Mrs. Orme.'

* All her sufferings and your own, have come from her great love
for you.'

I LOVE HEB STILL. 285

' That I know and feel, but had her ambition for me been less it
would have been better for both of ns.' And there he stood
bare-headed at the door while Peregrine Orme handed his mother
into the carriage. Thns Mrs. Orme took her last leave of Orley
Farm, and was parted from the woman she had loved with so much
tmth and befriended with so mnch loyalty.

Very few words were spoken in the carriage between Peregrine
and his mother while they were being taken back through Ham worth
to the Cleeve. To Peregrine the whole matter was unintelligible.
He knew that the verdict had been in favour of Lady Mason, and
yet there had been no ^igns of joy at Orley Farm, or even of con-
tentment. He had heard also from Lucius, while they had been
together for a few minutes, that Orley Farm was to be given up.

' You'll let it I suppose,' Peregrine had asked.

• It will not be mine to let. It will belong to my brother,*
Lucius had answered. Then Peregrine had asked no further
question ; nor had Lucius offered any further information.

But his mother, as he knew, was worn out with the work she had
done, and at the present moment he felt that the subject was one
which would hardly bear questions. So he sat by her side in
silence ; and before the carriage had reached the Cleeve his mind
had turned away from the cares and sorrows of Lady Mason, and
was once more at Noningsby. After all, as he said to himself,
who could be worse off than he was. He had nothing to hope.

They found Sir Peregrine standing in the hall to receive them,
and Mrs. Orme, though she had been absent only three days, could
not but perceive the havoc which this trial had made upon him.
It was not that the sufferings of those three days had broken him
down, but that now, after that short absence, she was able to
perceive how great had been upon him the effect of his previous
sufferings. He had never held up his head since the day on which
Lady Mason had made to him her first confession. Up to that time
he had stood erect, and though as he walked his steps had shown
that he was no longer young, he had walked with a certain air
of strength and manly bearing. Till Lady Mason had come to
the Cleeve no one would have said that Sir Peregrine looked as
though his energy and life had passed away. But now, as ho put
his arm round his daughter's waist, and stooped down to kiss her
cheek, he was a worn-out, tottering old man.

During these three days he had lived almost altogether alone, and
had been ashamed to show to those around him the intense interest
which he felt in the result of the trial. His grandson had on each
day breakfasted alone, and had left the house before liis grandfather
was out of his room ; and on each evening he had returned late, —
as he now returned with his mother, — and had dined alone. Then
ho had sat with his grandfather for an hour or two, and had been

286 ORLBT FABIC

oonstrained to talk over the eyents of the day without being aUcnred
to ask Sir Peregrinef's opinion as to Lady Mascm's innocence or to
express his own. These three days had been dreadful to Sir Pere-
grine. He had not left the house, but had crept about from room to
room, ever and again taking up some book or paper and putting it
down unread, as his mind reverted to the one subject iivliich noir
for him bore any interest On the second of these three days a
note had been bronght to him fix)m his old friend Liord Alston.
' Dear Orme,' the note had run, ' I am not quite happy as I think of
the manner in which we parted the other day. If I offended in any
d^ree, I send this as a peacemaker, and beg to shake your hand
heartily. Let me have a line from you to say that it is all ri^it
between us. Neither you nor I can afford to lose an old friend at
our time of life. Yours always, Alston.' But Sir Peregrine had
not answered it. Lord Alston's servant had been dismissed with a
promise that an answer should be sent, but at the end of the three
days it had not yet been written. His mind indeed was still soro
towards Lord Alston. The counsel which his old friend bad given
him was good and true, but it had been neglected, and its vezy
truth and excellence now made the remembrance of it unpalatable.
He had, nevertheless, intended to write ; but the idea of such exer-
tion from hour to hour had become more distressing to him.

He had of course heard of Lady Mason's acquittal ; and indeed
tidings of the decision to which the jury had come went througjb
the country very quickly. There is a telegraphic wire for such
tidings which has been very long in use, and which, though, always
used, is as yet but very little understood. How is it that informa-
tion will spread itself quicker than men can travel, and make its
way like water into all parts of the world? It was known all
through the country that night that Lady Mason was acquitted ; and
before the next night it was as well known that she had acknow-
ledged her guilt by giving up the property.

Little could be said as to the trial while Peregrine remained in
the room with his mother and his grandfather ; but this he had the
tact to perceive, and soon left them together. * I shall see you,
mother, up stairs before you go to bed,' he said as he sauntered out.

* But you must not keep her up,' said his grandfather. * Re-
member all that she has gone through/ With this injunction he
went off, and as he sat alone in his mother's room he tried to come
to some resolution as to Noningsby. He knew he had no ground
for hope; — no chance, as he would have called it And if so,
would it not be better that he should take himself off? Neverthe-
less he would go to Noningsby once more. He would not be such
a coward but that he would wish her good-bye before he went, and
hear the end of it all from her own lips.

When he had left the room Lady Mason's last message was given

I LOVE HER STILL. 287

to Sir Feregrino. * Poor soul, poor soul!' be said, as Mrs. Orme
begau her stoiy. ' Her son knows it all then now.'

' I told him last night, — with her consent ; so that he should not
go into the court to-day. It would have been very bad, you know,
if they had — found her guilty.'

* Yes, yes ; very bad — very bad indeed. Poor creature I And so
you told him. How did he bear it ?'

* On the whole, well. At first he would not believe me.'

' As for me, I could not have done it. I could not have told him.'

* Yes, sir, you would ; — you would, if it had been required of you.*

* I think it would have killed me. But a woman can do things
for which a man's courage would never be sufficient. And he bore
it manfully.'

* He was very stem.'

' Yes ; — and he will be stem. Poor soul ! — I pity her from my
very heart. But he wUl not desert her ; he will do his duty by her.'

* I am sure he will. In that respect he is a good young man.'

* Yes, my dear. He is one of those who seem by nature created
to bear adversity. No trouble or sorrow would I think crush him.
But had prosperity come to him, it would have made him odious to
all around him. You were not present when they met ?'

* No — ^I thought it better to leave them.'

* Yes, yes. And he will give up the place at onoe.'

* To-morrow he will do so. In that at any rate he has true spirit.
To-morrow early they will go to London, and she I suppose will
never see Orley Farm again.' And then Mrs. Orme gave Sir Pere-
grine that last message. — ^ I tell you everything as she told me.'
Mrs. Orme said, seeing how deeply he was a£fected. ' Perhaps I
am wrong.'

* No, no, no,' he said.

' Coming at such a moment, her words seemed to be almost
sacred.'

* They are sacred. They shall be sacred. Poor soul, poor soul !'

* She did a great crime.*

* Yes, yes.'

* But if a crime can be forgiven, — can be excused on account of
its motives '

* It cannot, my dear. Nothing can be forgiven on that ground.'

* No ; we know that ; we all feel sure of that. But yet how can
one help loving her ? For myself, I shall love her always.'

' And I also love her.' And then the old man made his confession.
• I loved her well ; — better than I had ever thought to love any one
again, but you and Perry. I loved her very dearly, and felt that I
should have been proud to have called her my wife. How beautiful
she was in her sorrow, when we thought that her life had been
pure and good I'

288 ORLET FARH.

* And it had been good, — for many yean past.'

* No ; for the stolen property was still there. Bnt yet how
gp-aceful she was, and how well her sorrows sat upon her ! What
might she not have done had the world used her more kindly, and
not sent in her way that sore temptation ! She was a 'woman for a
man to have loTed to madness.'

* And yet how little can she have known of love I*

* I loved her.' And as the old man said so he rose to his feet
with some show of his old energy. * I loved her, — -witli all my
heart ! It is foolish for an old man so to say ; but I did love her ;
nay, I love her still. But that I knew that it would be wrong, — fur

your sake, and for Perry's ' And then he stopi)ed himself, as

though he would fain hear what she might say to him.

' Yes ; it is all over now,' she said in the softest, sweetest, lowest
voice. She knew that she was breaking down a last hope, but she
knew also that that hope was vain. And then there was silence in
the room for some ten minutes' space.

* It is all over,' he then said, repeating her last words.

* But you have us still, — ^Perry and me. Can any one love you
better than we do T And she got up and went over to him and
stood by him, and leaned upon him.

* Edith, my love, since you came to my house there has been an
angel in it watching over me. I shall know that always ; and when
I turn my face to the wall, as I soon shall, that shall be my last
earthly thought.' And so in tears they parted for that night. Bnt
tlio sorrow that was bringing him to liis gmve came from the love
of which he had spoken. It is seldom that a young mnii may die
from ;i broken heart ; but if an old man have a heart still left to
him, it is more fragile.

CHAPTER XXXVn.

JOHN EEXmSBY's DOOM.

On the evening bnt one after the trial was over Mr. Moulder enter-
tained a few friends to snpper at his apartments in €b*eat St. Helen's,
nnd it was generally understood that in doing so he intended to
celebrate the triumph of Lady Mason. Through the whole affair
he had been a strong partisan on her side, had expressed a very
loud opinion in &vour of Mr. Fumival, and had hoped that that
scoundrel Dockwrath would get all that he deserved from the hands
of Mr. Chaffanbrass. When the hour of Mr. Dockwrath's punish-
ment had come he had been hardly contented, but the inadequacy
of Kenneby's testimony had restored him to good humour, and the
verdict had made him triumphant

*' Didn't I know it, old fellow?' he had said, slapping his friend
Snengkeld on the back. When such a low scoundrel as Dockwrath
is pitted gainst a handsome woman like Lady Mason he'll not find
a jury in England to give a verdict in his fiEtvour.' Then he asked
Snengkeld to come to his little supper; and Eantwise also he
invited, though Eantwise had shown Dockwrath tendencies through*
out the whole affair; — but Moulder was fond of Kantwise as a butt
for his own sarcasm. Mrs. Smiley, too, was asked, as was natural,
seeing that she was the betrothed bride of one of the heroes of the
day; and Moulder, in the kindness of his heart, swore that he never
was proud, and told Bridget Bolster that she would be welcome to
take a share of what was going.

' Laws, M.,' said Mrs. Moulder, when she was told of this. ' A
chambermaid from an inn ! What will Mrs. Smiley say ?'

* I aint going to trouble myself with what Mother Smiley may
say or think about my friends. If she don't like it, she may do the
other thing. What was she herself when you first knew her ?'

* Yes, Moulder ; but then money do make a difference, you know.'
Bridget Bolster, however, was invited, and she came in spite of

the grandeur of Mrs. Smiley. Eenneby also of course was there,
but he was not in a happy frame of mind. Since that wretched
hour in which he had heard himself described by the judge as too
stupid to be held of any account by the jury he had become a
melancholy, misanthropic man. The treatment which he received
from Mr. Fumival had been very grievous to him, but he had borne
voi^ u. u

290 OBLET FABM.

with that, hoping that some word of eulogy from the jndge would
set him right in the public mind. But no such word had come, and
poor John Kenneby felt that the cruel hard world was too much for
him. He had been with his sister that morning, and words had
dropped &om him which made her fear that he would "v^ish to post-
pone his marriage for another space of ten years or so. *• Brick-
fields !' he had said. ' What can such a one as I have to do with
landed property ? I am better as I am.'

Mrs. Smiley, however, did not at all seem to think so, and wel-
comed John Kenneby back from Alston very warmly in spite of the
disgrace to which he had been subjected. It was nothing to her
that the judge had called her future lord a fool ; nor indeed was it
an3rthing to any one but himsel£ According to Moulder's views it
was a matter of course that a witness should be abused. For what
other purpose was he had into the court ? But deep in the mind
of poor Kenneby himseK the injurious words lay festering. He had
struggled hard to tell the truth, and in doing so had simply proved
himself to be an ass. * I aint fit to live with anybody else but
myself' he said to himself, as he walked down Bishopsgate Street.

At this time Mrs. Smiley was not yet there. Bridget had arrived^
and had been seated in a chair at one comer of the fire. Mra. Moulder
occupied one end of a sofa opposite, leaving the place of honour at
the other end for Mrs. Smiley. Moulder sat immediately in £rant
of the fire in his own easy chair, and Snengkeld and Kantwise were
on each side of him. They were of course discussing the trial "when
Mrs. Smiley was announced ; and it was well that she made a diver*
sion by her arrival, for words were beginning to run high.

* A jury of her countrymen has foimd her innocent,' Monlder had
said with much heat ; ' and any one who says she's guilty after that
is a libeller and a coward, to my way of thinking. K a jury of her
countrymen don't make a woman innocent, what does T

* Of course she's innocent,' said Snengkeld ; * from the very
moment the words was spoken by the foreman. If any newspaper
was to say she wasn't she'd have her action.'

' That's all very well,' said Kantwise, looking up to the ceiling
with his eyes nearly shut. *But you'll see. Whafll you bet
me, Mr. Moulder, that Joseph Mason don't get the property T

' Gammon !' answered Moulder.

* Well, it may be gammon ; but you'll see.*

* Grentlemen, gentlemen !' said Mrs. Smiley, sailing into the room ;
* upon my word one hears all you say ever so far down the street.*

* And I didn't care if they heard it right away to the Mansion
House,' said Moulder. • We aint talking treason, nor yet highway
robbery.'

Then Mrs. Smiley was welcomed ; — ^her bonnet was taken from
her and her umbrella^ and she was encouraged to spread herself oat

JOHN KXllKEBY'S DOOM. 291

over the sofa. * Oh, Mn. Bolster ; the witness !' she said, when Mrs.
Moulder went through some little ceremony of introduction. And
from the tone of her Yoice it appeared that she was not quite sati»<
fled that Mrs. Bolster should he there as a companion for herself.

' Yes, ma*am. I was the witness as had ne^er signed but once,'
said Bridget, getting up and curtsying. Then she sat down again,
folding her hands one over the other on her lap.

' Oh, indeed !' said Mrs. Smiley. ' But where's the other witness,
Mrs. Moulder? He's the one who is a deal more interesting to me.
Ha, ha, ha ! But as you all know it here, what's the good of not
telling the truth? Ha, ha, ha !'

* John's here,' said Mrs. Moulder. * Come, John, why don't you
show yourself T

' He's just alive, and that's about all you can say for him,' said
Moulder.

' Why, what's there been to kill him?' said Mrs. Smiley. ' Well,
John, I must say you're rather backward in coming forward, con-
sidering what there's been between us. Tou might have come and
taken my shawl, I'm thinking.'

* Yes, I might,' said Kenneby gloomily. * I hope I see you pretty
well, Mrs. Smiley.'

' Pretty bobbish, thank you. Only I think it might have been
Maria between friends like us.'

' He's sadly put about by this trial,' whispered Mrs. Moulder.
* You know he is so tender-hearted that he can't bear to be put
upon like another.'

* But you didn't want her to be found guilty ; did you, John ?'

' That I'm sure he didn't,' said Moulder. ' Why it was the way
he«gave his evidence that brought her ofif.'

' It wasn't my wish to bring her oflf,' said Kenneby; * nor was it
my wish to make her guilty. All I wanted was to teU the truth and
do my duty. But it was no use. I believe it never is any use.'

' I think you did veiy well,' said Moulder.

' I'm sure Lady Mason ought to be very much obliged to you,'
said Kantwise.

* Nobody needn't care for what's said to them in a court,' said
Snengkeld. ' I remember when once they wanted to make out that
I'd taken a parcel of teas '

* Stolen, you mean, sir,' suggested Mrs. Smiley.

* Yes ; stolen. But it was only done by the opposite side in
court, and I didn't think a halfporth of it. They Imew where the
teas was well enough.'

* Speaking for myself,' said Kenneby, * I must say I don't like it.'

' But the paper as we signed,' said Bridget, ' wasn't the old
gentleman's will, — no more than this is;' and she lifted up her
apron. * I'm rightly sure of that.'

292 OBLEY FABM.

Then again the battle raged hot and furiona, and Moulder becmie
angry with his guest, Bridget Bolster. Kantwise finding himself
supported in his views by the principal witness at the trial todc
heart against the tyranny of Moulder and expressed his opinion,
while Mrs. Smiley, with « woman's customary dislike to another
woman, sneered ill-naturedly at the idea of Lady Mason's inno-
cence. Poor Eenneby had been forced to take the middle seat on
the sofiBt between his bride and sister ; but it did not appear that ^o
honour of his position had any effect in lessening his gloom or miti-
gating the severity of the judgment which had been passed on him.

' Wasn't the old gentleman's will I' said Moulder, turning on poor
Bridget in his anger with a growl. * But I say it was the old
gentleman's wilL You never dared say as much as that in conrL'

* I wasn't asked,' said Bridget.

* You weren't asked I Yes, you was asked often enough.'

* I'll tell you what it is,' said Kantwise, ^ Mrs. Bolster's right in
what she says as sure as your name's Moulder.'

* Then as sure as my name's Moulder she's vrrong. I suppose
we're to think that a chap like you knows more about it than the
jury ! Wo all know who your friend is in the matter. I haven't
forgot our dinner at Leeds, nor sha'n't in a hurry.'

* Now, John,' said Mrs. Smiley, * nobody can know the tmth of
this so well as you do. YouVe been as close as wax, as was aU
right till the lady was out of her troubles. That's done and over,
and let us hear among friends how tho matter really 'was.' And
then there was silence among them in order that his words might
come forth freely.

* Come, my dear,' said Mrs. Smiley with a tone of encouraging
love. ' There can't be any harm now ; can there?'

* Out with it, John,' said Moulder. * You're honest, anyways.'
^ There aint no gammon about you,' said Snei^^keld.

* Mr. Kenneby can speak if he likes, no doubt,' said Kantwise ;
* though maybe it mayn't be very pleasant to him to do so after all
that's come and gone.'

' There's nothing that's come and gone that need make onr John
hold his tongue,' said Mrs. Moulder. • He mayn't be just as bright
as some of those lawyers, but he's a deal more true-hearted.'

' But he can't say as how it was the old gentleman's will as wo
signed. I'm well assured of that,' said Bridget.

But Kenneby, though thus called upon by the imited strength of
the company to solve all their doubts, still remained silent. * Come,
lovey,' said Mrs. Smiley, putting forth her hand and giving his arm
a tender squeeze.

* If you've anything to say to clear that woman's character,' said
Moulder, ' you owe it to society to say it ; becauses she is a woman,
and because her enemies is villains.' And then again there was
silence while they waited for him.

JOHK KENNEBY*S DOOM. 293

* I think it will go with him to his graTe,' said Mrs. Smiley, very
solemnly.

*■ I shouldn't wonder/ said Snengkeld.

' Then he must give np all idea of taking a wife/ said Moulder*

* He won*t do that Fm sure/ said Mrs. Smiley.

* That he won't. Will you, John ?* said his sister.

* There's no knowing what may happen to me in thjs world/ said
Kenneby, 'but sometimes I almost think I aint fit to live in it,
along with anybody else.'

* You'll make him fit, won't you, my dear ?' said Mrs. Moulder.

* I don't exactly know what to say about it,' said Mrs. Smiley. * If
Mr. Kenneby aint willing, I'm not the 'woman to bind him to his
word, because I've had his promise over and ever again, and could
prove it by a number of witnesses before any jury in the land.
I'm a independent woman as needn't be beholden to any man, and I
should never think of damages. Smiley left me comfortable before
all the world, and I don't know but what I'm a fool to think of
changing. Anyways if Mr. Kenneby '

* Come, John. Why don't you speak to her T said Mrs. Moulder.
' And what am I to say ?' said Kenneby, thrusting himself forth

from between the ample folds of the two ladies' dresses. ' I'm a
blighted man ; one on whom the finger of soom has been pointed.
His lordship said that I was stupid ; and perhaps I am.'

* She don't think nothing of that, John.'

* Certainly not,' said Mrs. Smiley.

* As long as a man can pay twenty shillings in the pound and a
trifle over, what does it matter if all the judges in the land was to
call him stupid ?' said Snengkeld.

* Stupid is as stupid does,' said Kantwise.

* Stupid be d , ' said Moulder.

* Mr. Moulder, there's ladies present,' said Mrs. Smiley,

* Come, John, rouse yourself a bit/ said his sister. 'Nobody
here thinks the worse of you for what the judge said.'

' Certainly not,' said Mrs. Smiley. ' And as it becomes me io
speak, I'll say my mind. I'm accustomed to speak freely before
friends, and as we are all friends here, why should I be ashamed ?'

' For the matter of that nobody says you are,' said Moulder.

* And I don't mean, Mr. Moulder. Why should I ? I can pay my
way, and do what I like with my own, and has people to mind mo
when I speak, and needn't mind nobody else myself; — and that's
more than everybody can say. Here's John Kenneby and I, is en-
gaged as man and wife. He won't say as it's not so, I'll be bound.'

* No,' said Kenneby, ' I'm engaged I know.'

' When I accepted John Kenneby's hand and heart, — and well I
remember the beauteous language in which ho expressed his
feelings, and always shall, — I told him, that I respected him as

•^

294 OBLsnr vabx.

man that wotdd do his doty by a woman, thongli perhaps he mightn't
be so cute in the way of having much to say for himself as some
others. '* What's the good," said I, ** of a man's talking, if so be he's
ashamed to meet the baker at the end of the week ?** So I listened
to the vows he made me, and have considered that he and I was as
good as one. Now that he's been pnt npon by them lawyers, I m
not the woman to torn my back upon him.'

* That you're not/ said Moulder.

*' No I aint, Mr. Moulder, and so, John, there's my hand agam,
and you're free to take it if you like.' And so saying she pnt forth
her hand almost into his lap.

* Take it, John !' said Mrs. Moulder. But poor Kenneby himself
did not seem to be veiy quick in availii^ himself of the happiness
offered to him. He did raise his right arm slightly; but then
he hesitated, and allowed it to fall again between him and his
sister.

^ Come, John, you know you mean it,' said Mrs. Moolder. And
then with both her hands she lifted his, and placed it bodily within
the grai^ of Mrs. Smiley's, which was still held forth to receive it.

' I know I'm engaged,' said Kenneby.

* There's no mistake about it,' said Moulder.

* There needn't be none/ said Mrs. Smiley, softly blushing ; * and I
will say this of myself— as I have been tempted to give a promise,
I'm not the woman to go back from my word. There's my hand,
John; and I don't care though all the world hears me say so.'
And then they sat hand in hand for some seconds, during which
poor Kenneby was unable to escape from the grasp of his bride
elect. One may say that all chance of final escape for him was
now gone by.

' But he can't say as how it was the old gentlemen's will as we
signed,' said Bridget, breaking the silence which ensued.

' And now, ladies and gentlemen,' said Kantwise, ' as Mrs. Bolster
has come back to that matter, I'll tell you something that will
surprise you. My friend Mr. Moulder here, who is as hospitable a
gentleman as I know anywhere wouldn't just let me speak before.'

' That's gammon, Kantwise. I never hindered you from speaking.'

'How I do hate that word. If you knew my aversion, Mr.
Moulder — '

* I can't pick my words for you, old fellow.'

* But what were you going to tell us, Mr. Kantwise ? said Mis.
Smiley.

' Something that will make all your hairs stand on end, I think.*
And then he paused and looked round upon them all. It was at
this moment that Kenneby succeeded in getting his hand once more
to himself. ^Something that will surprise you all, or I'm very
much mistaken. Lady Mason has confessed her guilt.'

JOHN KENNEBI'S DOOM. 295

He kad surprised them all. * You don't say so/ exclaimed
Mrs. Moulder.

' Confessed her guilt/ said Mrs. Smiley. ' But what g^t, Mr.
Kantwise ?*

' She forged the will/ said Kantwise.

' I knew that all along/ said Bridget Bolster.

' I*m d if I believe it/ said Moulder.

* You can do as you like about that/ said Kantwise ; ^ but she hasl
And 1*11 tell you what's more : she and young Mason have already
left Orley Farm and given it all up into Joseph Mason's hands.'

' But didn't she get a verdict ?' asked Snengkeld.

' Yes, she got a verdict There's no doubt on earth about that.'

* Then it's my opinion she can't make herself guilty if she wished
it ; and as for the property, she can't give it up. The jury has
foimd a verdict, and nobody can go beyond that. K anybody tries
she'll have her action against 'em.' That was the law as laid down
by Snengkeld.

' I don't believe a word of it/ said Moulder. * Dockwrath has told
him. I'll bet a hat that Kantwise got it from Dockwrath.'

It turned out that Kantwise had received his information from
Dockwrath ; but nevertheless, there was that in his manner, and in
the nature of the story as it was told to them, that did produce
belief. Moulder for a long time held out, but it became clear at
last that even he was shaken ; and now, even Kenneby acknow-
ledged his conviction that the signature to the will was not his
own.

' I know'd very vrell that I never did it twice,' said Bridget Bolster
triumphantly, as she sat down to the supper table.

I am inclined to think, that upon the whole the company in
Great St Helen's became more happy as the conviction grew upon
them that a great and mysterious crime had been committed,
which had baffled two courts of law, and had at last thrust itself
forth into the open daylight through the workings of the criminal's
conscience. When Kantwise had completed his story, the time had
come in which it behoved Mrs. Moulder to descend to the lower
regions, and give some aid in preparation of the supper. During
hor absence the matter was discussed in every way, and on-her return,
when she was laden with good things, she found that all the party
was contented except Moulder and her brother.

* It's a very terrible thing,' said Mrs. Smiley, later in the evening,
as she sat with her steaming glass of rum and water before her.
* Very terrible indeed ; aint it, John ? I do wish now I'd gone down
and seo'd hor, I do indeed. Don't you, Mrs. Moulder ?

* If all this is true I should like just to have had a peep at her.'

* At any rate we shall have pictures of her in all the jmpers/ said
Mrs. Smiley.

*.■

CHAPTER XXXVin.

THE LAST OP THE LAWYERS,

' I SHOULD have done my duty by you, Mr. Mason, which thoto
men have not, and you would at this moment have been the ownes
of Orley Farm.'

It will eafiily be known that these words were spoken by Mr.
Dockwrath, and that they were addressed to Joseph Mason. The
two men were seated together in Mr. Mason's lodgings at Alstoi,
late on the morning after the verdict had been given, and Mr.
Dockwrath was speaking out his mind with sufficient freedom. On
the previous evening he had been content to put np ivith the
misery of the unsuccessful man, and had not added any reproaches
of his own. He also had been cowed by the verdict, and the two
had been wretched and crestfiEillen together. But the attorney sinoe
that had slept upon the matter, and had bethought himself that heat
any rate would make out his little bill. He could show thai Mr.
Mason had ruined their joint affairs by his adherence to those liondoo
attorneys. Had Mr. Mason listened to the advioe of his new
adviser all would have been well. So at least Dockwrath was
prepared to declare, finding that by so doing he would best pave
the way for his own important claim.

But Mr. Mason was not a man to be bulUed with tame endurance.
* The firm bears the highest name in the profession, sir,' he said ;
' and I had just grounds for trusting them.'

* And what has come of your just grounds, Mr. Mason?
"Where are you ? That's the question. I say that Round and
Crook have thrown you over. They have been hand and glove witlv
old Furnival through the whole transaction ; and I'll tell you what's
more, Mr. Mason. I told you how it would be from the beginning.'

* I'll move for a new trial.'

* A new trial ; and this a criminal prosecution ! She's free of you
now for ever, and Orley Farm will belong to that son of hers till he
chooses to sell it It's a pity ; that's all. I did my duty by yoa
in a professional way, Mr. Mason ; and you won't put the loss on
my shoulders.'

* I've been robbed ; — damnably robbed, that's all that I know.'

' There's no mistake on earth about that, Mr. Mason ; you havo
been robbed ; and the worst of it is, the costs mil be so heavy *
You'll be going down to Yorkshire soon I suppose, sir.'

* I don't know where I shall go?' said the squire of Groby,
not content to be cross-questioned by the attorney from Humworth^

THE LAST OF THE LAWYERS. 297

( Because it's as well, I suppose, that we should setde something
about the costs before yon leave. I don't want to press for my
money exactly now, but I shall be glad to know when I'm to get it.'

* If you have any claim on me, Mr. Dockwrath, you can send it to
Mr. Bound.'

< If I have any claim ! What do yor^ mean by that, sir ? And I
shall send nothing in to Mr. Bound. I have had quite enough of
Mr. Bound already. I told you from the beginning, Mr. Mason, that
I would have nothing to do vnth this afbir as connected 'witii
Mr. Bound. I have devoted myself entirely to this matter since
you were pleased to engage my services at Groby Park. It is not
by my fault that you have failed. I think, Mr. Mason, you will do me
the justice to acknowledge that.' And then Dockwrath was silent
for a moment, aj9 though waiting for an answer.

' I have nothing to say upon the subject, Mr. Dockwrath,' said
Mason.

* But, by heaven, something must be said. That won't do at all,
Mr. Mason. I presiune you do not think that I have been working
like a slave for the last four months for nothing.'

Mr. Mason was in truth an honest man, and did not wish that
any one should work on his account for nothing ; — much less did he
wish that such a one as Dockwrath should do so. But then, on the
other side, in his present frame of mind he was by no means willing
to yield anything to any one. ' I neither deny nor allow your
claim, Mr. Dockwrath,' said he. * But I shall pay nothing except
through my regular lawyers. You can send your account to me if you
please, but I shall send it on to Mr. Bound without looking at it'

* Oh, that's to be the way, is it? That's your gratitude. Very
well, Mr. Mason ; I shall now know what to do. And I think you'll
find '

Here Mr. Dockwrath was interrupted by the lodging-house -ser-
vant, who brought in a note for Mr. Mason. It was from Mr.
Fumival, and the girl who delivered it said that the gentleman's
messenger was waiting for an answer.

* Sir,' said the note,

' A communication has been made to me this morning on
the part of your brother, Mr. Lucius Mason, which may make it
desirable that I should have an interview with you. If not incon-
venient to you, I would ask you to meet me to-morrow morning at
eleven o'clock at the chambers of your own lawyer, Mr. Bound, in
Bedford Bow. I have already seen Mr. Bound, and find that he
can meet us.

* I am, sir,
' J. Maaon. Esq., J.P. * Your very obedient servant,

(of Groby Park).* « ThomaS FURNIT-

.298 ORLET FABM.

•

Mr. Fumival when he wrote thia note had already been over to
Orley Farm, and had seen Lucius Mason. He had been at the Bun
almost before daylight, and had come away witb the assured can-
yiction that the property mnst he abandoned by bis client.

* We need not talk about it, Mr. Fumival,' Lucius had said. ' It
aust be so.'

* You have discoBsed the matter with your mother ?*

* No discussion is necessary, but she is quite aware of my intoh
tion. She is prepared to leave the place — for ever.*

* But the income '

* Belongs to my brother Joseph. Mr. Fumival, I think you may
understand that the matter is one in which it is necessaxy that I
should act, but as to which I trust I may not have to say many
words. If you cannot arrange this for me, I must go to Mr. Boond.'

Of course Mr. Fumival did understand it alL His client had
been acquitted, and he had triumphed ; but he had known for many
a long day that the estate did belong of right to Mr. Mason of
Groby ; and though he had not suspected that Lucius would have
been so told, he could not be surprised at the result of such tellisg.
It was clear to him that Lady Mason had confessed, and that resti-
tution would therefore be made.

* I will do your bidding,' said he.

* And, Mr. Fumival, — if it be possible, spare my mother.' Thea
the meeting was over, and Mr. Fumival returning to fiamworth
wrote his note to Mr. Joseph Mason*

Mr. Dockwrath had been interrupted by the messenger in the
middle of his threat, but he caught the name of Fumival as the
note was delivered. Then he watched Mr. Mason as he read it and
read it again.

* If you please, sir, I was to wait for an answer,' said the girl.
Mr. Mason did not know what answer it would behove him to

give. He felt that he was among Philistines while dealing with all
these lawyers, and yet he was at a loss in what way to reply to one
without leaning upon another. * Look at that,' he said, sulkily
handing the note to Dockwrath.

*You must see Mr. Fumival, by all means,' said Dockwrath.
• But '

* But what ?'

* In your place I should not see him in the presence of Mr.
Bound, — unless I was attended by an adviser on whom I could
i*ely.' Mr. Mason, having given a few moments' consideration to
the matter, sat himself down and wrote a line to Mr. Fumival,
saying that he would be in Bedford Row at the appointed time.

* I think you are quite right,' said Dockwrath.

* But I shall go alone,' said Mr. Mason.

' Oh, very well ; you will of course judge for yoursel£ 1 cannot

THE LAST OF THE LAWTEBS. 299

say what may be the nature of the commnnicatioD to be made ; but
if it be anything touching the property, yon will no doubt jeopardize
your own interests by your imprudence.'

^ Good morning, Mr. Dockwrath,' said Mr. Mason.

* Oh, very well. Good morning, sir. You shall hear from me very
shortly, Mr. Mason ; and I mnst say that, considering everything, I
do not know that I ever came across a gentleman who behaved
himself worse in a peculiar position than you have done in yours.'
And so they parted.

Punctually at eleven o'clock on the following day Mr. Mason was
in Bedford Row. * Mr. Fumival is with Mr. Bound,' said the clerk,
' and will see you in two minutes.' Then he was shovm into the
dingy office waiting-room, where he sat with his hat in his hand,
for rather more than two minutes.

At that moment Mr. Bound was describing to Mr. Fumival the
manner in which he had been visited some we^m since by Sir
Peregrine Orme. • Of course, Mr. Fumival, I knew which way the
wind blew when I heard that.'

' She must have told him everything.'

* No doubt, no doubt. At any rate he knew it all.'

* And what did you say to him V

* I promised to hold my tongue ; — and I kept my promise. Mat
knows nothing about it to this day.*

The whole history thus beccune gradually clear to Mr. Fumival s
mind, and he could understand in what manner that marriage had
been avoided. Mr. Bound also understood it, and the two lawyers
confessed together, that though the woman had deserved the punish-
ment which had come upon her, her character was one which might
have graced a better destiny. • And now, I suppose, my fortunate
client may come in,' said Mr. Bonnd. Whereupon the fortunate
client was released from his oaptivify, and brought into the sitting-
room of the senior partner.

' Mr. Mason, Mr. Fumival,' said the attorney, as soon as he had
shaken hands virith his clients * Yon know each other very well by
name, gentlemen.'

Mr. Mason was very stiff in His bearing and demeanour, but
remarked that he had heard of Mr. Fnmival before.

* All the world has heard of him,' said Mr. Bound. • He hasn't
hid his light under a bushel.' "Whereupon Mr. Mason bowed, not
quite understanding what was said to him.

' Mr. Mason,' began the barrister, * 1 have a communication to
make to you, very singular in its nature, and of great importance.
It is one which I believe you will regard as being of considerable
importance to yourself, and which is of still higher moment to
my — my friend. Lady Mason.'

* Lady Mason, sir — ' began the other ; but Mr. Fumival stopped him.

300 ORLET FABM.

* Allow me to interrupt yon, Mr, Mason. I think it will bt
better that yon should kear me before you commit yoimelf to aojr
expression as to your relative.'

* She is no relative of mine.'

* But her son is. However, — if you will allow me, I will go on.
Having this communioation to make, I thought it expedient for
your own sake that it should be done in the presence of your own
legal adviser and friend.'

* Umph !' grunted the disappointed litigant.

* I have already explained to Mr. Bound that which I am about
to explain to you, and he was good enough to express himself ai
satisfied with the step which I am taking.'

* Quite so, Mr. Mason. Mr. Fumival is behaving, and I belieTv
has behaved throughout, in a manner becoming the yrery hi^ pofii«
tion which he holds in his profession.'

' I suppose he has done his best on his side,' said Mason.

* Undoubtedly I have, — as I should have done on yours, had it to
chanced that I had been honoured by holding a brief firom your
attorneys. But the communication which I am going to make now
I make not as a lawyer but as a friend. Mr. Mason, my client Ladr
Mason, and her son Lucius Mason, are prepared to make over to
you the full possession of the estate which they have held under the
name of Orley Farm.'

The tidings, as so given, were far from conveying to the
sense of the hearer the full information which they bore. H«
heard the words, and at the moment conceived that Orley Farm wae
intended to come into his hands by some process to which it was
thought desirable that he should be brought to agree. He was to
be induced to buy it, or to be bought over from further opposition
by some concession of an indefinitely future title. But that the
estate was to become his at once, without purchase, and by the
mere free will of his hated relatives, was an idea that he did not
realize.

* Mr. Fumival,' ho said, * what fnture steps I shall take I do not
yet know. That I have been robbed of my property I am as
firmly convinced now as ever. But I tell you fairly, and I tell Mr.
Bound so too, thajk I will have no dealings with that woman.*

' Your father's widow, sir,' said Mr. Fumival, * is an unhappy
lady, who is now doing her best to atone for the only fault of
which I believe her to have been guilty. - If you were not un-
reasonable as well as angry, you would imderstand tliat the propo-
sition which T am now making to you is one which should force
you to forgive any injury which she may hitherto have done to
you. Your half-brother Lucius Mason has instructed me to make
over to you the possession of Orley Farm.* These last words Mr.
t-nrnival uttered very slowly, fixing his keen grey eyes full upon

THE LAST OF THE LAWYEBS. .801

the face of Joseph Mason as he did so, and then turning round to
the attorney he said, * I presmne your client will understand me
now.'

* The estate is yours, Mr. Mason,' said Bound. * You hare nothing
to do but to take possession of it.'

' What do you mean ? said Mason, turning round upon Fur-
nival.

' Exactly what I say. Your half brother Lucius surrenders to you
the estate.'

* Without payment ?'

'Yes; without payment. On his doing so you will of course
absolve him from all liability on accoimt of ike pix>coeds of the
property while in his hands.'

' That will be a matter of course,' said Mr. Hound.

' Then she has robbed me,' said Mason, jumping up to his feet.
• By , the will was forged after all.'

' Mr. Mason,' said Mr. Bound, ' if you have a spark of generosity
in you, you will accept the offer made to you without asking any
question. By no such questioning can you do yourself any good, —
nor can you do that poor lady any harm.*

' I knew it was so,' he said loudly, and as he spoke he twice
walked the length of the room. * I knew it was so ; — twenty years
ago I said the same. She forged the will. I ask you, as my lawyer,
Mr. Bound, — did she not forge the will herself?'

' I shall answer no such question, Mr. Mason.'

' Then by heavens I'll expose you. If I spend the whole value of
the estate in doing it 111 expose you, and have her punished yet.
The slippery villain ! For twenty years she has robbed me.'

' Mr. Mason, you are forgetting yourself in your passion,' said
Mr. Fumival. • What you have to look for now is the recovery of
the property.' But here Mr. Fumival showed that he had not
made himself master of Joseph Mason's character.

* No,' shouted the angry man ; — * no, by heaven. AVhat I have
first to look to is her punishment, and that of tliose who have
assisted her. I knew she had done it, — and Dockwrath knew it.
Had I trusted him, she would now have been in gaol.'

Mr. Fumival and Mr. Bound were both desirous of having the
matter quietly arranged, and with this view were willing to put up
with much. The man had been ill used. When he declared for
the fortieth time that he had been robbed for twenty years, they
could not deny it When with horrid oaths he swore that that will
had been a forgery, they could not contradict him. When he reviled
the laws of his countiy, which had done so much to facilitate the
escape of a criminal, ikej had no arguments to prove that he was
wrong. They bore with him in his rage, hoping that a sense of his
own self-interest might induce him to listen to reason. But it was

802 OBLEY FABM.

all in vain. The property was sweet, but that sweetness was taste-
less when compared to the sweetness of revenge.

' Nothing shall make me tamper with justice ; — nothing/ said ha
' But even if it were as you say, you cannot do anything to h^,'
said Bound.

' m try,' said Mason. * You have heen my attorney, and what
you know in the matter you are bound to tell. And I'll make
you tell, sir.'

* Upon my word,' said Bound, * this is beyond bearing. Mr.
Mason, I must trouble you to walk out of my office.' And then he
rang the bell. * Tell Mr. Mat I want to see him.' Bat before that
younger partner had joined his father Joseph Mason had gone.
' Mat/ said the old man, ' I don't interfere with you in many things^
but on this I must insist. As long as my name is in the firm Mr.
Joseph Mason of Groby shall not be among our customers.'

* The man's a fool,' said Mr. Fumival. * The end of all that will
be that two years will go by before he gets his property ; and, in
the meantime, the house and all about it vrill go to ruin.'

In these days there was a delightful family concord between
Mr. Fumival and his wife, and perhaps we may be allowed to hope
that the peace was permanent. Martha Biggs had not been in
Harley Street since we last saw her there, and was now walking
round Bed Lion Square by the hour with some kindred spirit, com-
plaining bitterly of the return which had been made for her firiend-
Bhip. * What I endured, and what I was prepared to endnre for
that woman, no breathing creature can ever know,' said Martha
Biggs, to that other Martha ; * and now *

*■ I suppose the feMst is he don't like to see you there,' said the
other.

* And is that a reason ?' said our Martha. * Had I been in her
place I would not have put my foot in his house again till I was
assured that my friend should be as welcome there as myself. But
then, perhaps, my ideas of friendship may be called romantic'

But though there were heart-burnings and war in Bed Lion
Square, there was sweet peace in Harley Street. Mrs. Fumival had
learned that beyond all doubt Lady Mason was an unfortunate
woman on whose behalf her husband was using his best energies as
a lawyer ; and though rumours had begun to reach her that were
very injurious to the lady's character, she did not on that account
feel animosity against her. Had Lady Mason been guilty of all the
sins in the calendar except one, Mrs. Fumival could find it within
her heart to forgive her.

But Sophia was now more interested about Lady Mason thaa was
her mother, and during those days of the trial was much more eager
to learn the news as it became known. She £ad said nothing to her
mother about Lucius, nor had she said anything as to Augustus

THE LAST OF THE LAWYERS. 308

Staveley. Miss Fumival was a lady who on such subjects did not
want the assistance of a mother's counsel. Then, earjy on the
morning that followed the trial, they heard the verdict and knew
that Lady Mason was free.

' I am so glad,' said Mrs; Fumival ; * and I am sure it was your
papa's doing.'

* But we will hope that she was really innocent,' said Sophia.

* Oh, yes ; of course ; and so I suppose she was. I am sure I hope
so. But, nevertheless, we all know that it was going very much
against her.'

* I believe papa never thought she was guilty for a moment.'

* I don't know, my dear ; your papa never talks of the clients for
whom he is engaged. But what a thing it is for Lucius I He
would have lost every acre of the property.'

* Yes ; it's a great thing for him, certainly.' And then she began
to consider whether the standing held by Lucius Mason in the world
was not even yet somewhat precarious. ^

It was on the same day — in the evening — ^that she received her
lover's letter. She was alone when she read it, and she made her-
self quite master of its contents before she sat herself to think in
what way it would be expedient that she should act. • I am bound
to relinquish to my brother-in-law my title to Orley Farm.* Why
should he be so bound, unless — ? And then she also came to that
conclusion which Mr. Bound had reached, and which Joseph Mason
had reached, when they heard that the property was to be given up.
• Yes, Sophia, I am a beggar,' the letter went on to say. She was
very sorry, deeply sorry ; — so, at least, she said to herself. As she
sat there alone, she took out her handkerchief and pressed it to
her eyes. Then, having restored it to her pocket, after moderate
use, she refolded her letter, and put that into the same re-
ceptacle.

' Papa,' said she, that evening, ' what will Mr. Lucius Mason do
now ? will he remain at Orley Farm ?'

* No, my dear. He will leave Orley Farm, and, I think, will go
abroad with his mother.'

* And who will have Orley Farm T

* His brother Joseph, I believe.'

* And what will Lucius have ?

* I cannot say. I do not know that he will have anything. His
mother has an income of her own, and he, I suppose, will go into
some profession.'

*0h, indeed. Is not that very sad for him, poor fellow?' In
answer to which her father made no remark.

That night, in her own room, she answered her lover's letter, and
her answer was as follows : —

304 OBLEY FABM.

Harlej Street, March. 18-%
* Mt dear Mr. Mason,

* I need hardly tell you that I was grieved to the heart

by the tidings conveyed in yonr letter. I will not ask you for

that secret which you withhold from me, feeling that I have no title

to inquire into it ; nor will I attempt to guess at the cause whidi

induces you to give up to your brother the property 'which you were

always taught to regard as your own. That you are actuated by

noble motives I am sure ; and you may be sure of this, that I shall

respect you quite as highly in your adversity as I have ever done

in your prosperity. That you will make your way in the world,

I shall never doubt ; and it may be that the labour which you will

now encounter will raise you to higher standing than any you could

have achieved, had the property remained in your possession.

' I think you are right in saying, with reference to our mutual

regard for each other, that neither should be held as having any

claim upon the other. Under present circumstances, any sudi

claim would be very silly. Nothing would hamper you in yom*

future career so much as a long marriage engagement; and for

myself, I am aware that the sorrow and solicitude thence arising

would be more than I could support. Apart from this, also, I feel

certain that I should never obtain my father's sanction for such an

engagement, nor could I make it, unless he sanctioned it. I feel so

satisfied that you will see the truth of this, that I need not trouble

you, and harass my own heart by pursuing the subject any further.

* My feelings of friendship for you — of affectionate friendship^
will be as true as ever. I shall look to your future career with great
hope, and shall hear of your success with the utmost satisfaction.
And I trust that the time may come, at no very distant date, when
we may all welcome your return to London, and show you that our
regard for you has never been diminished.

* May God bless and preserve you in the trials which are before
you, and carry you through them with honour and safety. Wher-
ever you may be I shall watch for tidings of you with anxiety, and
always hear them with gratification. I need hardly bid you re-
member that you have no more affectionate friend

* Than yours always most sincerely,

* Sophia Furnival.

* P.S. — I believe that a meeting between us at the present moment
would only cause pain to both of us. It might drive you to speak
of things which should be wrapped in silence. At any rate, I am
sure that you will not press it on me.'

Lucius, when he received this letter, was living with his mother
in lodgings near Finsbury Circus, and the letter had been redirected
from Hamworth to a post-office in that neighbourhood. It was his

FAREWELL. 305

intention to take his mother with him to a fimall town on one of tho
rivers that feed the Bhine, and there remain hidden till he conld
find some means by which he might earn his bread. He was
sitting with her in the evening, with two diill tallow candles on the
table between them, when his messenger brought the letter to him.
He read it in silence very deliberately, then crushed it in his hand,
and threw it from him with violence into the fire.

* I hope there is nothing further to distress you, Lucius,' said his
mother, looMng up into his face as though she were imploring his
confidence.

' No, nothing ; nothing that matters. It is an affair quite private
to myself.*

Sir Peregrine had spoken with great truth when he declared that
Lucius Mason was able to bear adversity. This last blow had now
come upon him, but he made no wailings as to his miseiy, nor did
lie say a word further on the subject. His mother watched the
paper as tho fiame caught it and reduced it to an ash ; but she
a^ked no further question. She knew that her position with him did
not permit of her asking, or even hoping, for his confidence.

* I had no right to expect it would be otherwise,' he said to him-
self. But even to himself he spoke no word of reproach against
Miss Fumival. He had realized the circumstances by which he
was surrounded, and had made up his mind to bear their result.

As for Miss Fumival, we may as well declare here that she did
not become Mrs. Staveley. Our old firiend Augustus conceived that
he had received a sufficient answer on the occasion of his last visit
to ITarley Street, and did not repeat it immediately. Such little
scenes as that which took place there had not bfeen imcommon in
his life ; and when in after months he looked back upon the affair,
he counted it up as one of those miraculous escapes which had
marked his career.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

FAREWELL.

* That letter you got this morning, my dear, was it not from Lady
Mason ?'

' It was from Lady Mason, father ; they go on Thursday.'
' On Thursday ; so soon as that.' And then Sir Peregrine, who
had asked the question, remained silent for a while, llie letter,
according to the family custom, had been handed to Mrs. Orme over
the breakfast-table ; but he had made no remark respecting it till
they were alone together and free from tho servants. It had been a
farewell letter, full of love and gnttitude, and full also of repentance.
VOL. u X

306 OBLET FABIL

Lady Mason had now been for three weeks in London, and onoe
during that time Mrs. Orme had gone up to Tisit her. She had then
i-emained with her friend for hours, greatly to Liady Masons
comfort, and now this letter had come, bringing a last adieu.

^ You may read it, sir, if you like,' said Mrs. Orme, banding him
the letter. It was evident, by his face, that he was gratified by the
privilege ; and he read it, not once only, but over and over again.
As he did so, he placed himself in the shade, and sat with bis back
to Mrs. Orme; but nevertheless she could see that from tintie to time
he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and gradually raised
his handkerchief to his &ce.

' Thank you, dearest,' he said, as he gave the letter back to hen
' I think that we may forgive her now, even all that she baa done,'
said Mrs. Orme.

* Yes — ^yes — ^yes,' he answered. • For myself, I forgave ber from
the first.'

* I know you did. But as regards the property, — it baa been
given up now.' And then again they were silent.

* Edith,' he said, after a while, • I have forgiven her altogether.
To me she is the same as though she had never done tbat deed.
Are we not all sinners T

* Surely, father.*

' And can I say because she did one startling thing that tbe total
of her sin is greater than mine ? Was I ever tempted as she was
tempted? Was my youth made dangerous for me as was hers?
And then she did nothing for herself; she did it all for another.
We may think of ^hat now.'

* I have thought of it always.'

' It did not make the sin the less ; but among her fellow-mortals

' And then he stopped himself, wanting words to express his

meaning. The sin, till it was repented, was damning; but now
that it was repented, he could almost love the sinner for the sin.

* Edith,' he said, again. And he looked at her so wishfully ! She
knew well what was the working of his heart, and she knew also
that Bhe did not dare to encourage him.

* I trust,' said Mrs. Orme, * that she will bear her present lot for a
few years ; and then, perhaps '

* Ah ! then I shall be in my grave. A few months will do that.'

* Oh, sir !'

' \Miy should I not save her from such a life as that ?'
' From that which she had most to fear she has been saved.'
*' Had she not so chosen it herself, she could nowiiave demanded
from me a home. Why should I not give it to her now ?'

* A home here, sir ?'

* Yes ; why not ? But I know what you would say. It would
be wrong, — to you and Parry.'

FA££W£LL. 307

* It would be wrong to yourself, sir. Think of it, father. It is
the fact that she did that thing. We maj forgive her, but others
will not do so on that account. It would not be right that you
should bring her here.'

Sir Peregrine knew that it would not be right. Though he was
old, and weak in body, and infirm in purpose, his judgment had not
altogether left him. He was well aware that he would offend all
social laws if he were to do that which he contemplated, and ask
the world around him to respect as Lady Ofme — as his wife, the
woman who had so deeply disgraced hersell But yet he could
hardly bring himself to coi^ess that it was impossible. He was as a
child who knows that a coveted treasure is beyond his reach, but
still covets it, still longs for it, hoping against hope that it may yet
be his own. It seemed to him that he might yet regain his old
vitality if he could wind his arm once more about her waist, and
press her to his side, and call her his own. It would be so sweet to
forgive her ; to make her sure that she was absolutely forgiven ; to
teach her that there was one at least who would not bring up against
her her past sin, even in his memory. As for bis grandson, the
property should be abandoned to him altogether. 'Twas thus he
ai^ed with himself; but yet, as he argued, he knew that it could
not be 60.

* I was harsh to her when she told me,' he said, after another
pause — * cruelly harsh.'

' She does not think so.'

' No. If I had spumed her from me with my foot, she would not
have thought so. She had condemned herself, and therefore I should
have spared her.'

* But you did spare her. I am sure she feels that from the first
to the last your conduct to her has been more than kind.'

'And I owed her more than kindness, for I loved her; — ^yes, I
loved her, and I do love her. Though I am a feeble old man, totter-
ing to my grave, yet I love her — ^love her as that boy loves the fair
girl for whom he longs. He will overcome it, and forget it, and
some other one as fair will take her place. But for me it is all
over.'

What could she say to him ? In truth, it was all over, — such love
at least as that of which his old heart was dreaming in its dotage,
lliere is no Medea's caldron from which our limbs can come out
young and fresh; and it were well that the heart should grow old
as does the body.

' It is not all over while we are with you,' she said, caressing
him. But she knew that what she said was a subterfuge.

' Yes, yes ; I have you, dearest,' he answered. But he also knew
that that pretence at comfort was false and hollow.

' And she starts on Thursday,' he said ; ' on next Thursday.'

308 OBLET FABH.

' Yes, on Thursday. It will be mnoh better for her to be avar
from London. While she is there she never ventures even into tk

street.'

' Edith, I shall see her before she goes.'

* Will that be wise, sir?*

*' Perhaps not. It may be foolish, — very foolish ; but stiU I shall
see her. I think yon forget, Edith, that I havo never yet bidden
her farewell. I have not spoken to her since that day when she
behaved so generously.'

* I do not think that she expects it, father.'

* No ; she expects nothing for herself. Had it been in her nature
to expect such a visit, I should not have been anxious to make it I
will go to-morrow. She is always at home you say V

' Yes, she is always at home.'

* And, Lucius '

* You will not find him there in the daytime.'

* I shall go to-morrow, dear. You need not tell Peregrine.'
Mrs. Orme still thought that he was wrong, but she had nothing

farther to say. She could not hinder his going, and therefore, with
his pennission she wrote a line to Lady Mason, telling her of hi&
purpose. And then, with all the care in her power, and with infinite
softness of manner, she warned him against the danger which she
so much feared. What might be the result, if, overcome by tender-
ness, he should again ask Lady Mason to become his wife ? Mrs.
Orme firmly believed that Lady Mason would again refuse ; but,
nevertheless, there would be danger.

* No,' said he, * I will not do that. When I have said so you may
accept my word.' Then she hastened to apologize to him, but ho
assured her with a kiss that he was in nowise angry with her.

He held by his purpose, and on the following day he went up ti>
London. There was nothing said on the matter at breakfast, nor
did she make any further endeavour to dissuade him. lie was
infirm, but still she knew that the actual fatigue would not be of a
nature to injure him. Indeed her fear respecting him was rather
in regard to his staying at home than to his going abroad. It would
have been well for him could ho have been induced to think himself
fit for more active Inovement.

Lady Mason was alone when he reached the dingy little room
near Finsbury Circus, and received him standing. She was the fii«t
to speak, and this she did before she had even touched his hand.
She stood to meet him, with her eyes turned to the ground, and her
hands tightly folded together before her. ' Sir Peregrine,' she said,
* I did not expect from you this mark of your — ^kindness.'

' Of my esteem and affection. Lady Mason,' he said. • We havo
known each other too well to allow of our parting without a wonL
I am an old man, and it will probably be for ever.'

FAREWELL. 309

t Tlien she gave him her hand, and gradually lifted her eyes to his
I fiwo. * Yes,' she said ; * it will be for ever. ■ There will be no
ooming back for me.'

* Nay, nay ; we will not say that. That's as may be hereafter.
But it will not be at once. It bad better not be quite at once.
£dith tells me that you go on Thursday.'

* Yes, sir ; we go on Thursday.'
She had still allowed her hand to remain in his, but now she

withdrew it, and asked him to sit down. * Lucius is not here,' she
jsaid. ' He never remains at home after breakfast He has much to
■settle as to our journey ; and then he has lawyers to see.'

Sir Peregrine had not at all wished to see Lucius Mason, but he
^id not say so. * You will give him my regards,' he said, ' and tell
him that I trust that he may prosper.'

* Thank you. I will do so. It is very kind of you to think of
Jbim.'

' I have always thought highly of him as an excellent young
man.*

* And ho is excellent. Where is there any one who could suffer
without a word as he suffers ? Ko complaint over comes from him ;
4Uid yet — I have ruined him.'

* No, no. He has his youth, his intellect, and his education. If
49uch a one as he cannot earn his bread in the world — ay, and more
.than his bread — who can do so ? Nothing ruins a young man but
ignorance, idleness, and depravity.'

' Nothing ; — unless those of whom he should be proud disgTace
iiim before the eyes of the world. Sir Peregrine, I sometimes
wonder at my own calmness. I wonder that I can live. But,
believe me, that never for a moment do I forget what I have done.
I would have poured out for him my blood like water, if it would
have served him ; but instead of that I have given him cause to
•ourse me till the day of his death. Though I still live, and eat,
-and sleep, I think of that always. The remembrance is never
away from me. They bid those who repent put on sackcloth, and
cover themselves with ashes. That is my sackcloth, and it is very
49ore. Those thoughts are ashes to me, and they are very bitter
between my teeth.'

He did not know with what words to comfort her. It all was as
4Bhe said, and he could not bid her even try to free herself from that
sackcloth and from those ashes. It must be so. Were it not so
•with her, she would not have been in any degree worthy of that
love which he felt for her. ' God tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb,' he said.

* Yes,' she said, * for the shorn lamb — ' And then she was silent
tigain. But could that bitter, biting wind be tempered for
4volf wbio, in the dead of night, had broken into the fold,

•thejllj^^

310 OBLET FABM.

prowling steps and cunning clntoli liad stolen the fodder from tbe
sheep ? That was the question as it presented itself to her ; but
she sat silent, and refrained from putting it into words. St^e at
silent, but he read her heart. ' For the shorn lamb — ' alie had said
and he had known her thoughts, as they followed, quick, one upon
another, through her mind. * Mary,' he said, seating himself mom
close beside hor on the sofa, ' if his heart be as true to yon as mine,
he will never remember these things against you.'

* It is my memory, not his, that is my punishment,' she said.
Why could ho not take her home with him, and comfort her, and

heal that festering wound, and stop that ever-running ^nsh of her
heart's blood ? But he could not. He had pledged his word and
pawned his honour. All the comfort that could be his to bestow
must be given in those few minutes that remained to him in that
room. And it must be given, too, without falsehood. He could
not bring himself to tell her that the sackcloth need not he sore to
her poor lacerated body, nor the ashes bitter between her teetb.
He could not tell her that the cup of which it was hers to drink
might yet be pleasant to the taste, and cool to the lips I What
could he tell her ? Of the only source of true comfort others, he
knew, had spoken, — others who had not spoken in vain. He oouU
not now take up that matter, and press it on her with aTailable
strength. For him there was but one thing to say. He had for-
given her ; he still loved her ; he would have cherished her in his
bosom had it been possible. He was a weak, old, foolish man ; and
there was nothing of which he could speak but of his own heart.

' Mary,' he said, again taking her hand, ' I wish — I "wish that I
could comfort you.*

* And yet on you also have I brought trouble, and misery — ^and —
all but disgrace !'

* No, my love, no; neither misery nor disgrace, — except this
misery, that I shall be no longer near to you. Yes, I Vill tell yoa
all now. Were I alone in the world, I would still beg you to go
back with me.'

* It cannot be ; it could not possibly be so.*

* No ; for I am not alone. She who loves you so well, has told
me so. It must not be. But that is the source of my misery. I
have learned to love you too well, and do not know how to part
with you. If this had not been so, I would have done all that an
old man might to comfort you.*

* But it has been so,' she said. • I cannot wash out the past.
Knowing what I did of myself, Sir Peregrine, I should never have
put my foot over your threshold.'

* I wish I might hear its step again upon my floors. I wish I
might hear that light step once again.*

* Never, Sir Peregrine. No one again ever shall rejoice to hear

FABEWELL. 311

either my step or my voice, or to see my form, or to grasp my hand.
The world is over for me, and may God soon grant me relief from
my sorrow. But to yon — in return for your goodness '

* Eor my love.'

* la return for your love, what am I to say ? I could have loved
you with all my heart had it been so permitted. Nay, I did do so.
Had that dream been carried out, I should not have sworn falsely
when I gave you my hand. I bade her tell you so^ from me, when I
parted with her.'

* She did tell me.'

* I have kpown but little love. He — Sir Joseph — ^was my master
rather than my husband. He was a good master, and I served him
truly — except in that one thing. But I never loved him. But I
am wrong to talk of this, and I will not talk of it longer. May God
bless you. Sir Peregrine I It will be well for both of us now that
you should leave me.'

' May God bless you, Mary, and preserve you, and give back to
you the comforts of a quiet spirit, and a heart at rest I Till you
hear that I am under the ground you will know that there is one
living who loves you well.' Then he took her in his arms, twice
kissed her on the forehead, and left the room without further speech
on either side.

Lady Mason, as soon as she was alone, sat herself down, and her
thoughts ran back over the whole course of her life. Early in her
days, when the world was yet beginning to her, she had done one
evil deed, and from that time up to those days of her trial she had
been the victim of one incessant struggle to appear before the world
as though that deed had not been done, — to appear innocent of it
before the world, but, beyond all things, innocent of it before her
son. For twenty years she had striven with a labour that had been
all but unendurable ; and now she had failed, and every one knew
her for what she was. Such had been her life; and then she
thought of the life which might have been hers. In her earlier days
she had known what it was to be poor, and had seen and heard those
battles after money which harden our hearts, and quench the poetry
of our natures. But it had not been altogether so with her. Had
things gone differently with her it might afterwards have been said
that she had gone through the fire unscathed. But the beast had
set his foot upon her, and when the temptation came it was
much for her. Not for herself would she have sinned, or
robbed that old man, who had been to her a kind master. B
when a child was bom to her, her eyes were blind, and she could
not see that wealth ill gotten for her child would be
curse as wealth ill gotten for herself. She remembe:
and with the cunning of a second Bebekah she fild
blessing for her baby. Now she thought of all thii

L DO ag nure a ^

312 OBLET FABM.

that life wliich might have been hers passed before her mixid'^
eye.

And they were pleasant pictures, had they not burnt into her
very soul as she looked at them. How sweet had been that dmw-
ing-room at the Cleeve, as she sat there in luxurious qniet with her
new fiiend ! How sweet had been that friendship with a woman
pure in all her thoughts, graceful to the eye, and deHoate in all her
ways ! She knew now, as she thought of this, that to her had been
given the power to appreciate such delights as these. How full
of charm to her would have been that life, in which thore had been
so much of true, innocent affection ; — had the load ever been absent
from her shoulders ! And then she thought of Sir Peregrine, with
his pleasant, ancient manner and truth of heart, and told herself
that she could have been happy with the love of even so old a
man as that, — had that burden been away from her ! Bat the
burden had never been away — never could be away. Then she
thought once more of her stem but just son, and as she bow^ed her
head and kissed the rod, she prayed that her release might come to
her soon.

And now wo will say farewell to her, and as we do so the chief
interest of our tale will end. I may, perhaps, be thought to owe
an apology to my readers in that I have asked their sympathy for a
woman who had so sinned as to have placed her beyond the general
sympathy of the world at large. K so, I tender my apology, and
perhaps feel that I should confess a fault. But as I have told her
story that sympathy has grown upon myself till I have learned to
forgive her, and to feel that I too could have regarded her as a
friend. Of her future life I will not venture to say anything. But
no lesson is truer than that whicli teaches us to believe that God
does temper the wind to the shorn lamb. To how many has it not
seemed, at some one period of their lives, that all was over for
them, and that to them in their afflictions there was nothing left but
to die ! And yet they have lived to laugh again, to feel that the air
was warm and the earth fair, and that Grod in giving them ever-
springing hope had given everything. How many a sun may seem
to set on an endless night, and yet rising again on some morrow —

* He tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the mormng sky t'

For Lady Mason let us hope that the day will come in which she
also may once again trick her beams in some modest, unassuming
way, and that for her the morning may even yet be sweet with a
glad warmth. For us, here in these pages, it must be sufficient to
say this last kindly farewell.

As to Lucius Mason and the arrangement of his afiairs with hir>
step-brother a very few concluding words will suffice. "When Joseph
Mason left the office of Messrs. Eoimd and Crook he would gladly

FAREWELL. 313

Lave sacrificed all hope of any eventual pecuniary benefit from the
possession of Orley Farm could he by doing so have secured the
condign punishment of her who had so long kept him out of his
inheritance. But ho soon found that he had no means of doing this.
In the first place he did not know where to turn for advice. He
had quarrelled absolutely with Dock wrath, and though he now
greatly distrusted the Rounds, he by no means put implicit trust in
him of Ham worth. Of the Hounds he suspected that they were
engaged to serve his enemy, ^of Dockwrath he felt sure that he was
anxious only to serve himself. Under these circumstances he was
driven into the arms of a third attorney, and learned from him, after
a delay that cut him to the soul, that he could take no further
criminal proceeding against Lady Mason. It would be impossible
to have her even indicted for the forgery, — seeing that two juries,
at the interval of twenty years, had virtually acquitted her, — unless
new evidence which should be absolute and positive in its kind
should be forthcoming. But there was no new evidence of any
kind. The ofler made to surrender the property was no evidenoe
for a jury whatever it might be in the mind of the world at large.
' And what am I to do ?' asked Mason.

*Take the goods the gods provide you,' said the attorney.
* Accept the offer which your half-brother has very generously
made you.*

* Grenerously !' shouted Mason of Groby.

' Well, on his part it is generous. It is quite within his power
to keep it ; and were he to do so no one would say he was wrong.
"Why should he judge his mother?'

llien Mr. Joseph Mason went to another attorney ; but it was of
no avail. The time was passing away, and he learned that Lady
Mason and Lucius had actually started for Germany. In his agony
for revenge he had endeavoured to obtain some legal order that
«hould prevent her departure ; — * ne exeat regno,' as he repeated
over and over again to his advisers learned in the law. But it was
of no avail. Lady Mason had been tried and acquitted, and no
judge would interfere.

*We should soon have her back again, you know, if we had
evidence of forgery,' said the last attorney.

' Then, by ! we will have her back again,' said Mason.

But the threat was vain; nor could he get any one even to
promise him that she could be prosecuted and convicted. And by
degrees the desire for vengeance slackened as the desire for gain
resumed its sway. Many men have threatened to spend a property
•upon a lawsuit who have afterwards felt grateful that their threats
were made abortive. And so it was with Mr. Mason. After
remaining in town over a month he took the advice of the first of
those new lawyers and allowed that gentleman to put himself in

314 OBLET FABM.

commimication with Mr. Famival. The resnlt was that hj the
end of six monthB he again came out of Yorkshire to take upon
himself the duties and privileges of the owner of Orley Farm.

And then came his great fight with Dockwrath, which in
the end rained the Hamworth attorney, and cost Mr. Masem
more money than he ever liked to confess. Dockwrath claimed to
be put in possession of Orley Farm at an exceedingly moderate rent,
as to the terms of which he was prepared to prore that Mr. Masoo
had already entered into a contract with him. Mr. Mason ntteiiy
ignored such contract, and contended that the words contained in a
certain note produced by Dockwrath amonnted only to a propon-
tion to let him the land in the event of certain circnmstances and
results — which circumstances and results never took place.

This lawsuit Mr. Joseph Mason did win, and Ifr. Samnel Bod-
wrath was, as I have said, ruined. What the attorney did to' make
it necessary that he should leave Hamworth I do not know; M
Miriam, his wife, is now the mistress of that lodging-honae to
which her own mahogany furniture was so ruthlessly removed.

CHAPTER XL.

SHOWING HOW AFFAIBS SETTLED THEMSELVES AT NOimraflBr.

We must now go hack to Noningshy for one condudinK dutpCfll^
and then our work will be completed.

* You are not to go away from Noningshy when the trial i
you know. Mamma said that I had better tell yon 8o.' It
thus that Madeline had spoken to Felix Graham as he vrai
out to the judge's carriage on the last morning of the oelehratii
great Orley Farm case, and as she did so she twisted one of iijf
little fingers into one of his buttonholes. This she did wilk-f^^
prettiness of familiarity, and the assumption of a right to giye Vit:
orders and hold him to obedience, which was almost intoxicataM fj^
its sweetness. And why should she not be familiar with iami
Why should she not hold him to obedience by his buttonbalaif
Was he not her own ? Had she not chosen him and taken ^lim xm
to the exclusion of all other such choosings and takings ?

' I shall not go till you send me,' he said, putting up his hand if
though to protect his coat, and just touching her fingers as he
did 60.

* Mamma says it will be stupid for you in the mornings, but it
will not be worse for you than for Augustus. He stays till after
Easter.'

* And I shall stay till after Whitsuntide unless I am turned oat.*

^x^

HOW AFFAIBS SETTLED THEICSELYES AT NOHINGSBY. 315

*01il 'but yon will be turned out. I am not going to make
myself anjBwerable for any improper amount of idleness. Papa saye
you have got all the law courts to reform.'

'There must be a double Hercules. for such a set of stables as
that/ said Felix ; and then with the slight ceremony to which I
have before adverted he took his leave for the day.

* I suppose there will be no use in delaying it/ said Lady Staveley
on the same morning as she and her daughter sat together in the
drawing-room. They had already been talking over tho new
Gi^g^ement by the hour, together ; but that is a subject on which
mothers with marriageable daughters never grow tired, as all
mothers and marriageable daughters know i^ill well.

' Oh ! mamma, I think it must be delayed.'

' But why, my love ? Mr. Graham has not said so ?*

' You must call him Felix, mamma. I'm sure it's a nice name.'

* Very well, my dear, I will.'

' No ; he has said nothing yet. But of course he means to wait
till, — till it will be prudent.'

* Men never care for prudence of that kind when they are really
in love ;— and I'm sure he is.'

' Is he, mamma ?

* He will marry on anything or nothing. And if you speak to
him he tells you of how the young ravens were fed. But he always
forgets that he's not a young raven himself.'

* Now you're only joking, mamma.'

* Indeed Fm quite in earnest But I think your papa means
to make up an income for you, — only you must not expect to
be rich.*

* I do not want to be rich. I never did.'

' I suppose you will live in London, and then you can come down
here when the courts are up. I do hope he won't ever want to
take a situation in the colonies.'

* Who, Felix ? Why should he go to the colonies T

* They always do, — the clever young barristers who marry before
they have made their way. That would be very dreadful. I really
think it would kill me.'

' Oh I mamma, he sha'n't go to any colony.'

* To be sure there are the county courts now, and they are better
I suppose you wouldn't like to live at Leeds or Merthyr-Tydvil?*

* Of course I shall live wherever he goes ; but I don't know why
you should send him to Merthyr-TydviL'

* Those are the sort of places they do go to. There is young
Mrs. Bright Newdegate, — she had to go to South Shields, and httr
babies are all dreadfully delicate. She lost two, you
think the Lord Chancellor ought to think about that.
Maidstone, or anywhere about Great Marlow would

316 OBLEY FAB]£.

And in this way they discussed the coimng event and the bappj
future, while Felix himself was listening to the judge's change and
thinking of his client's guilt.

Then there were two or three days passed at Noningshy of almost
unalloyed sweetness. It seemed that they had all agreed that
Prudence should go by the board, and that Love "with sweet pro-
mises, and hopes bright as young tiees in spring, should have it
all hor own way. Judge Staveley was a man who on such an
occasion — knowing with whom he had to deal — could allow ordinaiy
prudence to go by the board. There are men, and excellent men
too, from whose minds the cares of life never banish themselves,
who never seem to remember that provision is made for the young
ravens. Thoy toil and spin always, thinking sternly of the wont
and rarely hoping for the best. They are ever making provision
for rainy days, as though there were to be no more sunshine. So
anxious are they for their children that they take no pleasure in
them, and their fear is constant that the earth will cease to produce
her fruits. Of such was not the judge. 'Dulce est desipere in
locis,' he would say, ' and let the opportunities be frequent and the
occasions many.' Such a love-making opportunity as this snrelv
should be one.

So Graham wandered about through the dry March winds with
his future bride by his side, and never knew that the blasts came
from the pernicious east. And she would lean on his arm as though
he had been the friend of her earliest years, listening to and trost-
ang him in all things. That little finger, as they stood together,
would get up to his buttonhole, and her bright frank eyes would
settle themselves on his, and then her hand would press closely
upon his arm, and he knew that she was neither ashamed nor afraid
of her love. Ilor love to her was the same as her religion. When
it was once acknowledged by her to be a thing good and trust-
worthy, all the world might know it. Was it not a glory to her
that he had chosen her, and why should she conceal her glory ?
Had it been that some richer, greater man had won her love, — some
one whose titles were known and high place in the world approved,
— it may well be that then she would have been less free with him.

* Papa would like it best if you would give up your writing,
and think of nothing but the law,' she said to him. In answer to
which ho told her, with many compliments to the special fox in
question, that story of the fox who had lost his tail and thought it
well that other foxes should dress themselves as he was dressed.

* At any rate papa looks very well without his tail,* said Madeline
with somewhat of a daughter's pride. * But you shall wear yours
all the same, if you like it,' she added with much of a young
maiden's love.

As they were thus walking near the house on the afternoon of

HOW AJTAIBS SETTLED THEMSELVES AT KOKINGSBT. 317

the third or fourth day after the trial, one of the maids came to
them and told Madeline that a gentleman was in the house who
wished to see her.

' A gentleman !' said Madeline.

* Mr. Orme, miss. My lady told me to ask you up if you were
anywhere near.'

* I suppose I must go/ said Madeline, from whom all her pretty
freedom of manner and light happiness of face departed on the
moment. She had told Felix everything as to poor Peregrine in
return for that story of his respecting Mary Snow. To her it
seemed as though that had made things equal between them, — for
she was too generous to observe that though she had given nothing
to her other lover, Felix had been engaged for many months to
marry his other love. But girls, I think, have no objection to
this. They do not desire first fruits, or even early fruits, as men
do. Indeed, I am not sure whether experience on the part of a
gentleman in his use of his heart is not supposed by most young
ladies to enhance the value of the article. Madeline was not in the
least jealous of Mary Snow ; but with great goodnature promised
to look after her, and patronize her when she should have become
Mrs. Albert Fitzallen. • But I don't think I should like that Mrs.
Thomas,' she said.

' You would have mended the stockings for her all the same.'

* 0 yes, I would have done that ; — and so did Miss Snow.
But I would have kept my box locked. She should never have
seen my letters.'

It was now absolutely necessary that she should return to the
house, and say to Peregrine Orme what words of comfort might be
possible for her. If she could have spoken simply with her heart,
she would have said much that was friendly, even though it might
not be oomfortable. But it was necessary that she should express
herself in words, and she felt that the task was very difficult. * Will
you come in ? she said to Felix.

* No, I think not. But he's a splendid fellow, and to me was
a stanch friend. If I can catch him as he comes out I will speak
to him.' And then Madeline, with hesitating steps, with her
hat stiU on her head, and her gloves on her hands, walked
through the hall into the drawing-room. There she foimd her
mother seated on the sofa, and Peregrine Orme standing before her.
Madeline walked up to him with extended hand and a kindly
welcome, though she felt that the colour was high in her cheeks.
Of course it would be impossible to come out from such an inter-
view as this without having confessed her position, or hearing it
confessed by her mother in her presence. That, however, had
been already done, and Peregrine knew that the prize was gone.

* How do you do, Miss Staveley ?' said he. • As I am going to

318 OSLST VABIC.

leave the Cleeve for a long time, I have oome over to sajr good-bje
to Lady Staveley — and to yon.'

• Are yon going away, Mr. Orme T

' Yes, I shall go abroad, — to Central Africa, I think. It seems a
wild sort of place with plenty of animala to kill.'

• But isn't it very dangerous ?'

' No, I don't think so. The people always come back alive.
I've a sort of idea that nothing will kill me. At any xate I couldn't
stay here.'

' Madeline, dear, Fve told Mr. Orme that yon have accepted Mr.
Graham. With a friend such as he is I know that you will not be
anxious to keep this a secret'

' No, mamma.'

' I was sure of that ; and now that your papa has consented to it,
and that it is quite fixed, I am sure that it is better that he should
know it. We shall always look upon him as a very dear friend —
if he will allow us.'

Then it was necessary that Peregrine should speak, which he
did as follows, holding Madeline's hand for the first three or four
seconds of the time : — * Miss Staveley, I will say this of myself^
that if ever a fellow loved a girl truly, I loved yon; — and I do so
now as well or better than ever. It is no good my pretending to
be contented, and all that sort of thing. I am not contented, but
very unhappy. I have never wished for but one thing in my life ;
and for that I would have given all that I have in the world.
I know that I cannot have it, and that I am not fit to have it.'

• Oh, Mr. Orme, it is not that.'

' But it is that. I knew you before Graham did, and loved you
quite as soon. I believe — though of course I don't mean to ask any
questions — but I believe I told you so before he ever did.'

' Marriages, they say, are planned in heaven,' said Lady Staveley.

' Perhaps they are. I only wish this one had not been planned
there. I cannot help it, — I cannot express my satisfaction, though
I will heartily wish for your happiness. I knew from the firet
how it would be, and was always sure that I was a fool to love
you. I should have gone away when I first thought of it, for 1
used to feel that you never cared to speak to me.'

' Oh, indeed I did,' said poor Madeline.

' No, you did not. And why should you when I had nothing to
say for myself ? I ought to have fallen in love with some foolish
chit with as little wit about her as I have myself.'

• I hope you will fall in love with some very nice girl,' said
Lady Staveley ; * and that we shall know her and love her very much.'

• Oh, I dare say I shall marry some day. I feel now as though
I should like to break my neck, but I don't suppose I shalL Good-
bye, Lady Staveley.'

HOW AFFAIBS SETTLED THEMSELVES AT K0NINGSB7. 319

* €kK)d-bye, Mr. Oime ; and may God send that yon may be happy.'
' Good-bye, Madeline. I shall never call yon so again,— except to

myself. I do wish you may be happy, — I do indeed. As for him, —
he has been before me, and taken away all that I wanted to win.'

By this time the tears were in his eyes, and his voice was not
free from their effect. Of this he was aware, and therefore,
pressing her hand, he turned upon his heel and abruptly left the
room. He had been unable to say that he wished also lliat Felix
might be happy ; but this omission was foi^ven him by both the
ladies. Poor Madeline, as he went, muttered a kind fEirewell, bnt
her tears had mastered her also, so that she could hardly speak.

He went directly to the stables, there got upon his horse, and
then walked slowly down the avenue towards the gate. He had
got the better of that te€kr-compelling softness as soon as he found
himself beyond the presence of the girl he loved, and was now
stem in his mood, striving to harden his heart. He had confessed
himself a fool in comparison with Felix Graham; but yet, — he
asked himself, — in spite of that, was it not possible that he would
have made her a better husband than the other ? It was not to his
title or his estate that he trusted as he so thought, but to a feeling
that he was more akin to her in circumstances, in ways of life, and
in tenderness of heart. As all this was passing through his mind,
Felix Graham presented himself to him in the road.

* Orme,' said he, ' I heard that you were in the house, and have
come to shake hands with you. I suppose you have heard what has
taken place. Will you not shake hands with me ?'

' No,' said Peregrine, • I will not.'

' I am sorry for that, for we wera good friends, and I owe you
much for your kindness. It was a fair stand-up fight, and you
ahould not be angry.'

* I am angiy, and I don't want your friendship. Go and tell her
that I say so, if you like.'

* No, I will not do that.'

' I wish with all my heart that we had both killed ourselves at
that bank.'

* For shame, Orme, for shame !'

' Very weU, sir ; let it be for shame.' And then he passed on,
meaning to go through the gate, and leaving Graham on the grass
by the road-side. But before he had gone a hundred yards down
the road his better feelings came back upon him, and he returned.

' I am unhappy/ he said, ' and sore at heart You must not
mind what words I spoke just now.'

' No, no ; I am sure you did not mean them,' said Felix, putting
his hand on the horse's mane.

' I did mean them then, but I do not mean them now. I won't
say Miything about wishes. Of course Jrou will be happy with

o20 OBLET FABIL

Anybody would be bappy with her. I suppose you won't die, and
give a fellow another chance/

' Not if I can help it,' said Grabam.

• Well, if you are to live, I don't wish you any evil. I do wish
you hadn't' come to Noningsby, that's all. Good-bye to yon.' And
he held out his hand, which Graham took.

' We shall be good friends yet, for all that is come and gone,' said
Graham ; and then there wore no more words between tliem.

Peregrine did as he said, and went abroad, extending his travels
to many wild countries, in which, as he used to say, any one else
would have been in danger. No danger ever came to him, — so at
least he frequently wrote word to his mother. Gorillas he slew by
scores, lions by hundreds, and elephants sufficient for an ivory
palace. The skins, and bones, and other trophies, he sent home in
various ships ; and when he appeared in London as a lion, no man
doubted his word. But then he did not write a book, nor even give
lectures ; nor did he presume to knowmuch about the huge brutes
he had slain, except that they were pervious to powder and ball.

Sir Peregrine had endeavoured to keep him at home by giving
up the property into his hands ; but neither for grandfather, nor for
mother, nor for lands and money would he remain in the neigh-
bourhood of Noningsby. • No, mother,' he said ; • it will bo better
for me to be away.' And away he went.

The old baronet lived to see him return, though with plaintive
wail ho often declared to his daughter-in-law that this was impossible.
He lived, but he never returned to that living life which had been
his before he had taken up the battle for Lady Mason. He would
8oraetimes allow Mrs. Orme to drive him about tho grounds, but
otherwise he remained in the house, sitting solitary over his fire, —
with a book, indeed, open before him, but rarely reading. Ho was
waiting patiently, as he said, till death should come to him.

Mrs. Orme kept her proniif?e, and wrote constantly to Lady
]\Iason, — hearing from her as constantly. When Lucius liad been
six months in Germany, he decided on going to Australia, leaving
his mother for the present in the little* Grerman town in which they
wore staying. For her, on the whole, the change was for the
bettor. As to his success in a thriving colony, there can be but
little doubt.

Felix Graham was soon married to Madeline ; and as yet I have not
heard of any banishment either to Patagonia or to Merthyr-Tydvil.

And now I may say, Farewell.

tOrDOJf. PRISTCD IT W. CLOVE.J A!fD £0X8, STAUPOUD STnEET XTD CBASING €»•*»•

*r*. ■■"

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