In the meantime 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 his 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 he made excuses to himself as to the step which he proposed to take, thinking how he would meet his friends, and how he would carry himself before his old servants.
Old men have made more silly marriages than this which he then desired. Gentlemen such as Sir Peregrine in age and station have married their housemaids—have married young girls of eighteen years 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 unromantic readers of this age would hardly believe me if I said that his main object was to render assistance to Lady Mason in her difficulty; 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 you 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 will be so sweet, to have her for a neighbour. We really know her now. And it will be 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 Cleeve.
“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.”
“Nor should I, father.”
“She is a cruelly ill-used woman, and a woman worthy of the kindest usage. I am an old man now, but it has never before been my lot to be so anxious for a fellow-creature as I am for her. It is dreadful to think that innocence in this country should be subject to such attacks.”
“Indeed it is; but you do not think that there is any danger?”
This was 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 had in view. “Edith,” at last he said abruptly, “I love her with my whole heart. I would fain make her—my wife.” Sir Peregrine Orme had never in his course through life failed in anything for lack of courage; and when the idea came home to him that he was trembling at the task which he had imposed on himself, he dashed at it at once. It is so that forlorn hopes are led, and become not forlorn; it is so that breaches are taken.
“Your wife!” said Mrs. Orme. She would not have breathed a syllable to pain him if she could have helped it, but the suddenness of the announcement overcame her for a moment.
“Yes, Edith, my wife. Let us discuss the matter before you condemn it. But in the first place I would have you to understand this—I will not marry her if you say that it will make you unhappy. I have not spoken to her as yet, and she knows nothing of this project.” Sir Peregrine, it may be presumed, had not himself thought much of that kiss which he had given her. “You,” he continued to say, “have given up your whole life to me. You are my angel. If this thing will make you unhappy it shall not be done.”
Sir Peregrine
