“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 Mary. I’ve somethink to say.” And Mary opened the door. “I’ve 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 stern 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 gen’leman, 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?”
“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 I’ll come for the answer when you’re settling the room after breakfast tomorrow?” said the girl.
“No; I don’t know. I shan’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 read 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 the 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 she thought, she read the letter again. “Angel of light! but cold as your own fair name.” Alas, alas! it was very sweet to her!
XXXIV
Mr. Furnival Looks for Assistance
“And you think that nothing can be done down there?” said Mr. Furnival 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 suffer a good deal, but she will be the safer for it afterwards.”
“Mr. Furnival, 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, he doesn’t know the least that the offer came from our side. But I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Furnival—. I suppose I may speak my mind.”
“Oh, 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 be.”
“Well, Mr. Furnival—I don’t know.”
“In such matters, I am tolerably well able to form an opinion.”
“Oh, certainly!”
“And that’s my opinion. Now I shall be very glad to hear yours.”
“My opinion is this, Mr. Furnival, that Sir Joseph never made that codicil.”
“And what makes you think so?”
“The whole course of the evidence. It’s quite clear there was another deed executed that day, and witnessed by Bolster and Kenneby. 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. You’ll find we’ve got our hands quite full again—almost too full.” Then he turned round to his table, and to the papers upon it; whereupon, Crabwitz took the hint, and left the room.
But when he had gone, Mr. Furnival 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 Hamworth attorney, tallied with his own opinion. Yes; it was his own opinion. He had never said as much, even to himself, with those inward words 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 should 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 resolution.
How beautiful had she looked while she stood in Sir Peregrine’s library, leaning on the old man’s arm—how
