She had been there above an hour and was in truth ill with the cold when she heard—and scarcely heard—a light step come quickly along the passage towards her door. Her woman’s ear instantly told her who owned that step, and her heart once more rose with hope. Was she coming there to comfort her, to speak to the poor bruised sinner one word of feminine sympathy? The quick light step stopped at the door, there was a pause, and then a low, low knock was heard. Lady Mason asked no question, but dropping from the bed hurried to the door and turned the key. She turned the key, and as the door was opened half hid herself behind it;—and then Mrs. Orme was in the room.
“What! you have no fire?” she said, feeling that the air struck her with a sudden chill. “Oh, this is dreadful! My poor, poor dear!” And then she took hold of both Lady Mason’s hands. Had she possessed the wisdom of the serpent as well as the innocence of the dove she could not have been wiser in her first mode of addressing the sufferer. For she knew it all. During that dreadful hour Sir Peregrine had told her the whole story; and very dreadful that hour had been to her. He, when he attempted to give counsel in the matter, had utterly failed. He had not known what to suggest, nor could she say what it might be wisest for them all to do; but on one point her mind had been at once resolved. The woman who had once been her friend, whom she had learned to love, should not leave the house without some sympathy and womanly care. The guilt was very bad; yes, it was terrible; she acknowledged that it was a thing to be thought of only with shuddering. But the guilt of twenty years ago did not strike her senses so vividly as the abject misery of the present day. There was no pity in her bosom for Mr. Joseph Mason when she heard the story, but she was full of pity for her who had committed the crime. It was twenty years ago, and had not the sinner repented? Besides, was she to be the judge? “Judge not, and ye shall not be judged,” she said, when she thought that Sir Peregrine spoke somewhat harshly in the matter. So she said, altogether misinterpreting the Scripture in her desire to say something in favour of the poor woman.
But when it was hinted to her that Lady Mason might return to Orley Farm without being again seen by her, her woman’s heart at once rebelled. “If she has done wrong,” said Mrs. Orme—
“She has done great wrong—fearful wrong,” said Sir Peregrine.
“It will not hurt me to see her because she has done wrong. Not see her while she is in the house! If she were in the prison, would I not go to see her?” And then Sir Peregrine had said no more, but he loved his daughter-in-law all the better for her unwonted vehemence.
“You will do what is right,” he said—“as you always do.” Then he left her; and she, after standing for a few moments while she shaped her thoughts, went straight away to Lady Mason’s room.
She took Lady Mason by both her hands and found that they were icy cold. “Oh, this is dreadful,” she said. “Come with me, dear.” But Lady Mason still stood, up by the bed-head, whither she had retreated from the door. Her eyes were still cast upon the ground and she leaned back as Mrs. Orme held her, as though by her weight she would hinder her friend from leading her from the room.
“You are frightfully cold,” said Mrs. Orme.
“Has he told you?” said Lady Mason, asking the question in the lowest possible whisper, and still holding back as she spoke.
“Yes; he has told me;—but no one else—no one else.” And then for a few moments nothing was spoken between them.
“Oh, that I could die!” said the poor wretch, expressing in words that terrible wish that the mountains might fall upon her and crush her.
“You must not say that. That would be wicked, you know. He can comfort you. Do you not know that He will comfort you, if you are sorry for your sins and go to Him?”
But the woman in her intense suffering could not acknowledge to herself any idea of comfort. “Ah, me!” she exclaimed, with a deep bursting sob which went straight to Mrs. Orme’s heart. And then a convulsive fit of trembling seized her so strongly that Mrs. Orme could hardly continue to hold her hands.
“You are ill with the cold,” she said. “Come with me, Lady Mason, you shall not stay here longer.”
Lady Mason then permitted herself to be led out of the room, and the two went quickly down the passage to the head of the front stairs, and from thence to Mrs. Orme’s room. In crossing the house they had seen no one and been seen by no one; and Lady Mason when she came to the door hurried in, that she might again hide herself in security for the moment. As soon as the door was closed Mrs. Orme placed her in an armchair which she wheeled up to
