Orley Farm

from him for years that which was his own, should he not be there to see? Should he not be a witness to her disgrace? Should he not be the first to know and feel his own tardy triumph? Pity! Pity for her! When such a word was named to him, it seemed to him as though the speaker were becoming to a certain extent a partner in her guilt. Pity! Yes; such pity as an Englishman who had caught the Nana Sahib might have felt for his victim. He had complained twenty times since this matter had been mooted of the folly of those who had altered the old laws. That folly had probably robbed him of his property for twenty years, and would now rob him of half his revenge. Not that he ever spoke even to himself of revenge. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” He would have been as able as any man to quote the words, and as willing. Justice, outraged justice, was his theme. Whom had he ever robbed? To whom had he not paid all that was owing? “All that have I done from my youth upwards.” Such were his thoughts of himself; and with such thoughts was it possible that he should willingly be absent from Alston during such a trial?

“I really would stay away if I were you,” Mat Round had said to him.

“I will not stay away,” he had replied, with a look black as a thundercloud. Could there really be anything in those suspicions of Dockwrath, that his own lawyer had wilfully thrown him over once, and was now anxious to throw him over again? “I will not stay away,” he said; and Dockwrath secured his lodgings for him. About this time he was a good deal with Mr. Dockwrath, and almost regretted that he had not followed that gentleman’s advice at the commencement of the trial, and placed the management of the whole concern in his hands.

Thus Alston was quite alive on the morning of the trial, and the doors of the courthouse were thronged long before they were opened. They who were personally concerned in the matter, whose presence during the ceremony would be necessary, or who had legal connection with the matter in hand, were of course not driven to this tedious manner of obtaining places. Mr. Dockwrath, for instance, did not stand waiting at the door, nor did his friend Mr. Mason. Mr. Dockwrath was a great man as far as this day was concerned, and could command admittance from the doorkeepers and others about the court. But for the outer world, for men and women who were not lucky enough to be lawyers, witnesses, jurymen, or high sheriff, there was no means of hearing and seeing the events of this stirring day except what might be obtained by exercise of an almost unlimited patience.

There had been much doubt as to what arrangement for her attendance at the court it might be best for Lady Mason to make, and some difficulty too as to who should decide as to these arrangements. Mr. Aram had been down more than once, and had given a hint that it would be well that something should be settled. It had ended in his settling it himself⁠—he, with the assistance of Mrs. Orme. What would Sir Peregrine have said had he known that on any subject these two had been leagued in council together?

“She can go from hence in a carriage⁠—a carriage from the inn,” Mrs. Orme had said.

“Certainly, certainly; a carriage from the inn; yes. But in the evening, ma’am?”

“When the trial is over?” said Mrs. Orme, inquiring from him his meaning.

“We can hardly expect that it shall be over in one day, ma’am. She will continue to be on bail, and can return home. I will see that she is not annoyed as she leaves the town.”

“Annoyed?” said Mrs. Orme.

“By the people I mean.”

“Will there be anything of that, sir?” she asked, turning pale at the idea. “I shall be with her, you know.”

“Through the whole affair, ma’am?”

“Yes, through the whole affair.”

“They’ll want to have a look at her of course; but⁠—Mrs. Orme, we’ll see that you are not annoyed. Yes; she had better come back home the first day. The expense won’t be much; will it?”

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Orme. “I must return home, you know. How many days will it be, sir?”

“Well, perhaps two⁠—perhaps three. It may run on all the week. Of course you know, Mrs. Orme⁠—”

“Know what?” she asked.

“When the trial is over, if⁠—if it should go against us⁠—then you must return alone.”

And so the matter had been settled, and Mr. Aram himself had ordered the carriage from the inn. Sir Peregrine’s carriage would have been at their disposal⁠—or rather Mrs. Orme’s own carriage; but she had felt that The Cleeve arms on The Cleeve panels would be out of place in the streets of Hamworth on such an occasion. It would of course be impossible that she should not be recognised in the court, but she would do as little as possible to proclaim her own presence.

When the morning came, the very morning of the terrible day, Mrs. Orme came down early from her room, as it was necessary that she should breakfast two hours before the usual time. She had said nothing of this to Sir Peregrine, hoping that she might have been able to escape in the morning without seeing him. She had told her son to be there; but when she made her appearance in the breakfast parlour, she found that his grandfather was already with him. She sat down and took her cup of tea almost in silence, for they all felt that on such a morning much speech was impossible for them.

“Edith, my dear,” said the baronet, “you had better eat something. Think of the day that is before you.”

“Yes, father, I have,” said she, and she lifted a morsel of bread to her mouth.

“You must take something