But he would not permit her to leave him thus. He could not let the poor, crushed, broken creature wander forth in her agony to bruise herself at every turn, and to be alone in her despair. She was still the woman whom he had loved; and, over and beyond that, was she not the woman who had saved him from a terrible downfall by rushing herself into utter ruin for his sake? He must take some steps in her behalf—if he could only resolve what those steps should be. She was moving to the door, but stopping her, he took her by the hand. “You did it,” he said, “and he, your husband, knew nothing of it?” The fact itself was so wonderful, that he had hardly as yet made even that all his own.
“I did it, and he knew nothing of it. I will go now, Sir Peregrine; I am strong enough.”
“But where will you go?”
“Ah me, where shall I go?” And she put the hand which was at liberty up to her temple, brushing back her hair as though she might thus collect her thoughts. “Where shall I go? But he does not know it yet. I will go now to Orley Farm. When must he be told? Tell me that. When must he know it?”
“No, Lady Mason; you cannot go there today. It’s very hard to say what you had better do.”
“Very hard,” she echoed, shaking her head.
“But you must remain here at present;—at The Cleeve I mean; at any rate for today. I will think about it. I will endeavour to think what may be the best.”
“But—we cannot meet now. She and I;—Mrs. Orme?” And then again he was silent; for in truth the difficulties were too many for him. Might it not be best that she should counterfeit illness and be confined to her own room? But then he was averse to recommend any counterfeit; and if Mrs. Orme did not go to her in her assumed illness, the counterfeit would utterly fail of effect in the household. And then, should he tell Mrs. Orme? The weight of these tidings would be too much for him, if he did not share them with someone. So he made up his mind that he must tell them to her—though to no other one.
“I must tell her,” he said.
“Oh yes,” she replied; and he felt her hand tremble in his, and dropped it. He had forgotten that he thus held her as all these thoughts pressed upon his brain.
“I will tell it to her, but to no one else. If I might advise you, I would say that it will be well for you now to take some rest. You are agitated, and—”
“Agitated! yes. But you are right, Sir Peregrine. I will go at once to my room. And then—”
“Then, perhaps—in the course of the morning, you will see me again.”
“Where?—will you come to me there?”
“I will see you in her room, in her dressing-room. She will be downstairs, you know.” From which last words the tidings were conveyed to Lady Mason that she was not to see Mrs. Orme again.
And then she went, and as she slowly made her way across the hall she felt that all of evil, all of punishment that she had ever anticipated, had now fallen upon her. There are periods in the lives of some of us—I trust but of few—when, with the silent inner voice of suffering, we call on the mountains to fall and crush us, and on the earth to gape open and take us in. When, with an agony of intensity, we wish that our mothers had been barren. In those moments the poorest and most desolate are objects to us of envy, for their sufferings can be as nothing to our own. Lady Mason, as she crept silently across the hall, saw a servant girl pass down towards the entrance to the kitchen, and would have given all, all that she had in the world, to have changed places with that girl. But no change was possible for her. Neither would the mountains crush her, nor would the earth take her in. There was her burden, and she must bear it to the end. There was the bed which she had made for herself, and she must lie upon it. No escape was possible to her. She had herself mixed the cup, and she must now drink of it to the dregs.
Slowly and very silently she made her way up to her own room, and having closed the door behind her sat herself down upon the bed. It was as yet early in the morning, and the servant had not been in the chamber. There was no fire there although it was still midwinter. Of such details as these Sir Peregrine had remembered nothing when he recommended her to go to her own room. Nor did she think of them at first as she placed herself on the bedside. But soon the bitter air pierced her through and through, and she shivered with the cold as she sat there. After a while she got herself a shawl, wrapped it close around her, and then sat down again. She bethought herself that she might have to remain in this way for hours, so she rose again and locked the door. It would add greatly to her immediate misery if the servants were to come while she was there, and see her in her wretchedness. Presently the girls did come, and being unable to obtain entrance were told by Lady Mason that she wanted the chamber for the present. Whereupon they offered to light the fire, but she declared that she was not cold. Her teeth were shaking in her head, but any suffering was better than the suffering of being seen.
She did not lie down, or cover herself further than she was covered with that shawl, nor did she move from her
