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 confirmed, what was he to do? It was at any rate necessary that everything should be 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 head though she did not look at him. “Yes. I am able.” But there was something terrible in the sound of her voice. It was such 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 present position. What should he 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 still give his last shilling to rescue her—only that there was the property! Let the heavens fall, justice must be done there. Even a wretch such as Joseph Mason must have that which was clearly his own.
As she spoke those last words, she had risen from the sofa, 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. When 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? How 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 behave 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 herself!”
“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 conveyed 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 yes; 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 Mrs. Orme.”
“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! What a terrible retribution for that night’s work was now coming on her!
He again walked to the window to think how he might answer these questions. Must he tell his daughter? Must he banish this criminal at once from his house? Everyone now had been told of his intended marriage; everyone had been told through Lord Alston, Mr. Furnival, 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 hardness 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
