“Nor will the judge and the lawyers, and all the rest. As you say so properly, it is not for us to be the informers. If they can prove it, let them. But you would not have her tell them all against herself?” And then she paused, waiting for his answer.
“I do not know. I do not know what to say. It is not for me to advise her.”
“Ah, but it is for you,” she said; and as she spoke she put her little hand down on the table with an energy which startled him. “She is here—a wretched woman, in your house. And why do you know the truth? Why has it been told to you and me? Because without telling it she could not turn you from that purpose of yours. It was generous, father—confess that; it was very generous.”
“Yes, it was generous,” said Sir Peregrine.
“It was very generous. It would be base in us if we allowed ourselves to forget that. But I was telling you my plan. She must go to this trial.”
“Oh yes; there will be no doubt as to that.”
“Then—if she can escape, let the property be given up afterwards.”
“I do not see how it is to be arranged. The property will belong to Lucius, and she cannot give it up then. It is not so easy to put matters right when guilt and fraud have set them wrong.”
“We will do the best we can. Even suppose that you were to tell Lucius afterwards;—you yourself! if that were necessary, you know.”
And so by degrees she talked him over; but yet he would come to no decision as to what steps he himself must take. What if he himself should go to Mr. Round, and pledge himself that the whole estate should be restored to Mr. Mason of Groby, on condition that the trial were abandoned? The world would probably guess the truth after that; but the terrible trial and the more terrible punishment which would follow it might be thus escaped. Poor Sir Peregrine! Even when he argued thus within himself, his conscience told him that in taking such a line of conduct, he himself would be guilty of some outrage against the law by aiding a criminal in her escape. He had heard of misprision of felony; but nevertheless, he allowed his daughter-in-law to prevail. Before such a step as this could be taken the consent of Lady Mason must of course be obtained; but as to that Mrs. Orme had no doubt. If Lucius could be induced to abandon the property without hearing the whole story, it would be well. But if that could not be achieved—then the whole story must be told to him. “And you will tell it,” Mrs. Orme said to him. “It would be easier for me to cut off my right arm,” he answered; “but I will do my best.”
And then came the question as to the place of Lady Mason’s immediate residence. It was evident to Mrs. Orme that Sir Peregrine expected that she would at once go back to Orley Farm;—not exactly on that day, nor did he say on the day following. But his words made it very manifest that he did not think it right that she should under existing circumstances remain at The Cleeve. Sir Peregrine, however, as quickly understood that Mrs. Orme did not wish her to go away for some days.
“It would injure the cause if she were to leave us quite at once,” said Mrs. Orme.
“But how can she stay here, my dear—with no one to see her; with none but the servants to wait upon her?”
“I should see her,” said Mrs. Orme, boldly.
“Do you mean constantly—in your old, friendly way?”
“Yes, constantly; and,” she added after a pause, “not only here, but at Orley Farm also.” And then there was another pause between them.
Sir Peregrine certainly was not a cruel man, nor was his heart by any means hardened against the lady with whom circumstances had lately joined him so closely. Indeed, since the knowledge of her guilt had fully come upon him, he had undertaken the conduct of her perilous affairs in a manner more confidential even than that which had existed while he expected to make her his wife. But, nevertheless, it went sorely against the grain with him when it was proposed that there should still exist a close intimacy between the one cherished lady of his household and the woman who had been guilty of so base a crime. It seemed to him that he might touch pitch and not be defiled;—he or any man belonging to him. But he could not reconcile it to himself that the widow of his son should run such risk. In his estimation there was something almost more than human about the purity of the only woman that blessed his hearth. It seemed to him as though she were a sacred thing, to be guarded by a shrine—to be protected from all contact with the pollutions of the outer world. And now it was proposed to him that she should take a felon to her bosom as her friend!
“But will that be necessary, Edith?” he said; “and after all that has been revealed to us now, will it be wise?”
“I think so,” she said, speaking again with a very low voice. “Why, should I not?”
“Because she has shown herself unworthy of such friendship;—unfit for it I should say.”
“Unworthy! Dear father, is she not as worthy and as fit as she was yesterday? If we saw clearly into each other’s bosom, whom should we think worthy?”
“But you would not choose for your friend one—one who could do such a deed as that?”
“No; I would not choose her because she had so acted; nor perhaps if I knew all beforehand would I open my heart to one who had so done. But it is different now. What are love and friendship worth if they cannot stand
