“He would be very unhappy if anything that he had done had distressed you,” said Mrs. Orme, hardly knowing what words to use, or how to speak. Nor did she feel quite certain as yet how much had been told to her son, and how much was concealed from him.
“No, no, no,” said the old man, laying his arm affectionately on the young man’s shoulder. “He has done nothing to distress me. There is nothing wrong—nothing wrong between him and me. Thank God for that. But, Perry, we will think now of that other matter. Have you told your mother anything about it?” And he strove to look away from the wretchedness of his morning’s work to something in his family that still admitted of a bright hope.
“No, sir; not yet. We won’t mind that just now.” And then they all remained silent, Mrs. Orme sitting, and the two men still standing with their backs towards the fire. Her mind was too intent on the unfortunate lady upstairs to admit of her feeling interest in that other unknown matter to which Sir Peregrine had alluded.
“If you have done with Perry,” she said at last, “I would be glad to speak to you for a minute or two.”
“Oh yes,” said Peregrine;—“we have done.” And then he went.
“You have told him,” said she, as soon as they were left together.
“Told him; what, of her? Oh no. I have told him that that—that idea of mine has been abandoned.” From this time forth Sir Peregrine could never endure to speak of his proposed marriage, nor to hear it spoken of. “He conceives that this has been done at her instance,” he continued.
“And so it has,” said Mrs. Orme, with much more of decision in her voice than was customary with her.
“And so it has,” he repeated after her.
“Nobody must know of this,”—said she very solemnly, standing up and looking into his face with eager eyes. “Nobody but you and I.”
“All the world, I fear, will know it soon,” said Sir Peregrine.
“No; no. Why should all the world know it? Had she not told us we should not have known it. We should not have suspected it. Mr. Furnival, who understands these things;—he does not think her guilty.”
“But, Edith—the property!”
“Let her give that up—after a while; when all this has passed by. That man is not in want. It will not hurt him to be without it a little longer. It will be enough for her to do that when this trial shall be over.”
“But it is not hers. She cannot give it up. It belongs to her son—or is thought to belong to him. It is not for us to be informers, Edith—”
“No, no; it is not for us to be informers. We must remember that.”
“Certainly. It is not for us to tell the story of her guilt; but her guilt will remain the same, will be acted over and over again every day, while the proceeds of the property go into the hands of Lucius Mason. It is that which is so terrible, Edith;—that her conscience should have been able to bear that load for the last twenty years! A deed done—that admits of no restitution, may admit of repentance. We may leave that to the sinner and his conscience, hoping that he stands right with his Maker. But here, with her, there has been a continual theft going on from year to year—which is still going on. While Lucius Mason holds a sod of Orley Farm, true repentance with her must be impossible. It seems so to me.” And Sir Peregrine shuddered at the doom which his own rectitude of mind and purpose forced him to pronounce.
“It is not she that has it,” said Mrs. Orme. “It was not done for herself.”
“There is no difference in that,” said he sharply. “All sin is selfish, and so was her sin in this. Her object was the aggrandisement of her own child; and when she could not accomplish that honestly, she did it by fraud, and—and—and—. Edith, my dear, you and I must look at this thing as it is. You must not let your kind heart make your eyes blind in a matter of such moment.”
“No, father; nor must the truth make our hearts cruel. You talk of restitution and repentance. Repentance is not the work of a day. How are we to say by what struggles her poor heart has been torn?”
“I do not judge her.”
“No, no; that is it. We may not judge her; may we? But we may assist her in her wretchedness. I have promised that I will do all I can to aid her. You will allow me to do so;—you will; will you not?” And she pressed his arm and looked up into his face, entreating him. Since first they two had known each other, he had never yet denied her a request. It was a law of his life that he would never do so. But now he hesitated, not thinking that he would refuse her, but feeling that on such an occasion it would be necessary to point out to her how far she might go without risk of bringing censure on her own name. But in this case, though the mind of Sir Peregrine might be the more logical, the purpose of his daughter-in-law was the stronger. She had resolved that such communication with crime would not stain her, and she already knew to what length she would go in her charity. Indeed, her mind was fully resolved to go far enough.
“I hardly know as yet what she intends to do; any assistance that you can give her must, I should say, depend on her own line of conduct.”
“But I want your advice as to that. I tell you what I purpose. It is clear that Mr. Furnival thinks she will gain the day at this trial.”
“But
