“So you are leaving tomorrow, Mr. Mason,” said Sophia.
“Yes. I go home tomorrow after breakfast; to my own house, where for some weeks to come I shall be absolutely alone.”
“Your mother is staying at The Cleeve, 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 about her. I cannot tell you how I grieve for her.”
“It is very sad; very sad. But I wish she were in her own house. Under the circumstances as they now are, I think it would be better for her to be there than elsewhere. Her name has been disgraced—”
“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 so. 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 Furnival, I know that she is innocent. I know it as surely as I know the fact of my own existence—”
“And we all feel the same thing.”
“But if you were in my place—if it were your father whose name was so bandied about in people’s mouths, you would think that it behoved him to do nothing, to go nowhere, till he 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 chambers, and he rebuked me.”
“Rebuked you, Mr. Mason! He did not do that intentionally I am sure. I have heard him say that you are an excellent son.”
“But nevertheless he did rebuke me. He considered that I was travelling beyond my own concerns, in wishing to interfere for the protection of my mother’s name. He said that I should leave it to such people as the Staveleys and the Ormes to guard her from ignominy and disgrace.”
“Oh, he did not mean that!”
“But to me it seems that it should be a son’s first duty. They are talking of trouble and of cost. I would give every hour I have in the day, and every shilling I own in the world to save her from one week of such suffering as she now endures; but it cuts me to the heart when she tells me that because she is suffering, therefore she must separate herself from me. I think it would be better for her, Miss Furnival, to be staying at home with me, than to be at The Cleeve.”
“The kindness of Mrs. Orme must be a great support to her.”
“And why should not my kindness be a support to her—or rather my affection? We know from whom all these scandals come. My desire is to meet that man in a court of law and thrust these falsehoods down his throat.”
“Ah! but you are a man.”
“And therefore I would take the burden from her shoulders. But no; she will not trust to me. The truth, Miss Furnival, is this, that she has not yet learned to think of me as a man. To her I am still the boy for whom she is bound to provide, not the son who should bear for her all her cares. As it is I feel that I do not dare again to trouble her with my advice.”
“Grandmamma is dead,” shouted out a shrill small voice from the card-table. “Oh, grandmamma, do have one of my lives. Look! I’ve got three,” said another.
“Thank you, my dears; but the natural term of my existence has come, and I will not rebel against fate.”
“Oh, grandmamma—we’ll let you have another grace.”
“By no means, Charley. Indeed I am not clear that I am entitled to Christian burial, as it is.”
“A case of felo de se, I rather think,” said her son. “About this time of the night suicide does become common among the elders. Unfortunately for me, the pistol that I have been snapping at my own head for the last half-hour always hangs fire.”
There was not much of lovemaking in the conversation which had taken place between young Mason and Sophia; not much at least up to this point; but a confidence had been established, and before he left her he did say a word or two that was more tender in its nature. “You must not be in dudgeon with me,” he said, “for speaking to you of all this. Hitherto I have kept it all to myself, and perhaps I should still have done so.”
“Oh no; do not
