“Mrs. Orme,” she said, speaking with a singular quiescence of tone after the violence of her last words, “it seems to me that I care more for his soul than for my own. For myself I can bear even that. But if he were a castaway—!”
I will not attempt to report the words that passed between them for the next half-hour, for they concerned a matter which I may not dare to handle too closely in such pages as these. But Mrs. Orme still knelt there at her feet, pressing Lady Mason’s hands, pressing against her knees, as with all the eagerness of true affection she endeavoured to bring her to a frame of mind that would admit of some comfort. But it all ended in this:—Let everything be told to Lucius, so that the first step back to honesty might be taken—and then let them trust to Him whose mercy can ever temper the wind to the shorn lamb.
But, as Lady Mason had once said to herself, repentance will not come with a word. “I cannot tell him,” she said at last. “It is a thing impossible. I should die at his feet before the words were spoken.”
“I will do it for you,” said Mrs. Orme, offering from pure charity to take upon herself a task perhaps as heavy as any that a human creature could perform. “I will tell him.”
“No, no,” screamed Lady Mason, taking Mrs. Orme by both her arms as she spoke. “You will not do so: say that you will not. Remember your promise to me. Remember why it is that you know it all yourself.”
“I will not, surely, unless you bid me,” said Mrs. Orme.
“No, no; I do not bid you. Mind, I do not bid you. I will not have it done. Better anything than that, while it may yet be avoided. I have your promise; have I not?”
“Oh, yes; of course I should not do it unless you told me.” And then, after some further short stay, during which but little was said, Mrs. Orme got up to go.
“You will come to me tomorrow,” said Lady Mason.
“Yes, certainly,” said Mrs. Orme.
“Because I feared that I had offended you.”
“Oh, no; I will take no offence from you.”
“You should not, for you know what I have to bear. You know, and no one else knows. Sir Peregrine does not know. He cannot understand. But you know and understand it all. And, Mrs. Orme, what you do now will be counted to you for great treasure—for very great treasure. You are better than the Samaritan, for he went on his way. But you will stay till the last. Yes; I know you will stay.” And the poor creature kissed her only friend;—kissed her hands and her forehead and her breast. Then Mrs. Orme went without speaking, for her heart was full, and the words would not come to her; but as she went she said to herself that she would stay till the last.
Standing alone on the steps before the front door she found Lucius Mason all alone, and some feeling moved her to speak a word to him as she passed. “I hope all this does not trouble you much, Mr. Mason,” she said, offering her hand to him. She felt that her words were hypocritical as she was speaking them; but under such circumstances what else could she say to him?
“Well, Mrs. Orme, such an episode in one’s family history does give one some trouble. I am unhappy—very unhappy; but not too much so to thank you for your most unusual kindness to my poor mother.” And then, having been so far encouraged by her speaking to him, he accompanied her round the house on to the lawn, from whence a path led away through a shrubbery on to the road which would take her by the village of Coldharbour to The Cleeve.
“Mr. Mason,” she said, as they walked for a few steps together before the house, “do not suppose that I presume to interfere between you and your mother.”
“You have a right to interfere now,” he said.
“But I think you might comfort her if you would be more with her. Would it not be better if you could talk freely together about all this?”
“It would be better,” he said; “but I fear that that is no longer possible. When this trial is over, and the world knows that she is innocent; when people shall see how cruelly she has been used—”
Mrs. Orme might not tell the truth to him, but she could with difficulty bear to hear him dwell thus confidently on hopes which were so false. “The future is in the hands of God, Mr. Mason; but for the present—”
“The present and the future are both in His hands, Mrs. Orme. I know my mother’s innocence, and would have done a son’s part towards establishing it;—but she would not allow me. All this will soon be over now, and then, I trust, she and I will once again understand each other. Till then I doubt whether I shall be wise to interfere. Good morning, Mrs. Orme; and pray believe that I appreciate at its full worth all that you are doing for her.” Then he again lifted his hat and left her.
Lady Mason from her window saw them as they walked together, and her heart for a moment misgave her. Could it be that her friend was treacherous to her? Was it possible that even now she was telling everything that she had sworn that she would not tell? Why were they two together, seeing that they passed each other day by day without intercourse? And so she watched with anxious eyes till they parted, and then she saw that Lucius stood idly on the terrace swinging his stick as he looked down the hill towards the orchard below him. He would not have stood thus calmly had he already heard his mother’s shame. This she knew, and having laid
