“I got your letter this morning,” he said, by way of beginning the conversation.
“Yes,” she said; and then, finding that it was not possible that he should hear her through her veil, she raised it. She was very pale, and there was a look of painful care, almost of agony, round her mouth. He had never seen her look so pale—but 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, yes,” 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 Cleeve the other day.”
“Because I thought that you were angry with me.”
“And I was so.”
“Oh, Mr. Furnival!”
“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 understand 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 purpose. “Because,” said he, “under no other circumstances could I—”
“Stop, Mr. Furnival. 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 marry him,” she went on to say. “I have resolved to tell him so. That 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 thought 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 this moment!”
“It is of him I am thinking;—of him and Lucius. Mr. Furnival, they might do their worst with me, if it were not for that thought. My boy!” And then she rose from her chair, and stood upright before him, as though she were going to do or say some terrible thing. He still kept his chair, for he was startled, and hardly knew what he would be about. That last exclamation had come from her almost with a shriek, and now her bosom was heaving as though her heart would burst with the violence of her sobbing. “I 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 passive. “I do not know why you should be so much moved now.” But he did know. He did understand the very 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. He was now standing, and for the moment did not speak to her. Indeed he could not bring himself to break the silence, for he saw her tears, and could still hear the violence of her sobs. And then she was the first to speak. “If it were not for him,” she said, raising her head, “I could bear it all. What will he do? what will he do?”
“You mean,” said Mr. Furnival, 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?” And she took hold of his arm with both her hands, and looked up eagerly—oh, with such terrible eagerness!—into his face.
Would it not have been natural now that he should have asked her to tell him the truth? And yet 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. Furnival,” she 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 courage. “Mr. Furnival, 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 occurred to him that she might attempt to compass her escape by death. But he did
