Orley Farm

but now the nature of the accusation had been made plain, and it was evident to him that at any rate that farsighted lawyer believed in the truth of his own statement. Could it be possible that Lady Mason had forged the will⁠—that this deed had been done by his mother’s friend, by the woman who had so nearly become Lady Orme of The Cleeve? The idea was terrible to him as he rode home, but yet he could not rid himself of it. And if this were so, was it also possible that his grandfather suspected it? Had that marriage been stopped by any such suspicion as this? Was it this that had broken the old man down and robbed him of all his spirit? That his mother could not have any such suspicion seemed to him to be made clear by the fact that she still treated Lady Mason as her friend. And then why had he been specially enjoined not to speak to his grandfather as to the details of the trial?

But it was impossible for him to meet Sir Peregrine without speaking of the trial. When he entered the house, which he did by some back entrance from the stables, he found his grandfather standing at his own room door. He had heard the sounds of the horse, and was unable to restrain his anxiety to learn.

“Well,” said Sir Peregrine, “what has happened?”

“It is not over as yet. It will last, they say, for three days.”

“But come in, Peregrine;” and he shut the door, anxious rather that the servants should not witness his own anxiety than that they should not hear tidings which must now be common to all the world. “They have begun it?”

“Oh, yes! they have begun it.”

“Well, how far has it gone?”

“Sir Richard Leatherham told us the accusation they make against her, and then they examined Dockwrath and one or two others. They have not got further than that.”

“And the⁠—Lady Mason⁠—how does she bear it?”

“Very well I should say. She does not seem to be nearly as nervous now, as she was while staying with us.”

“Ah! indeed. She is a wonderful woman⁠—a very wonderful woman. So she bears up? And your mother, Peregrine?”

“I don’t think she likes it.”

“Likes it! Who could like such a task as that?”

“But she will go through with it.”

“I am sure she will. She will go through with anything that she undertakes. And⁠—and⁠—the judge said nothing⁠—I suppose?”

“Very little, sir.”

And Sir Peregrine again sat down in his armchair as though the work of conversation were too much for him. But neither did he dare to speak openly on the subject; and yet there was so much that he was anxious to know. Do you think she will escape? That was the question which he longed to ask but did not dare to utter.

And then, after a while, they dined together. And Peregrine determined to talk of other things; but it was in vain. While the servants were in the room nothing was said. The meat was carved and the plates were handed round, and young Orme ate his dinner; but there was a constraint upon them both which they were quite unable to dispel, and at last they gave it up and sat in silence till they were alone.

When the door was closed, and they were opposite to each other over the fire, in the way which was their custom when they two only were there, Sir Peregrine could restrain his desire no longer. It must be that his grandson, who had heard all that had passed in court that day, should have formed some opinion of what was going on⁠—should have some idea as to the chance of that battle which was being fought. He, Sir Peregrine, could not have gone into the court himself. It would have been impossible for him to show himself there. But there had been his heart all the day. How had it gone with that woman whom a few weeks ago he had loved so well that he had regarded her as his wife?

“Was your mother very tired?” he said, again endeavouring to draw near the subject.

“She did looked fagged while sitting in court.”

“It was a dreadful task for her⁠—very dreadful.”

“Nothing could have turned her from it,” said Peregrine.

“No⁠—you are right there. Nothing would have turned her from it. She thought it to be her duty to that poor lady. But she⁠—Lady Mason⁠—she bore it better, you say?”

“I think she bears it very well⁠—considering what her position is.”

“Yes, yes. It is very dreadful. The solicitor-general when he opened⁠—was he very severe upon her?”

“I do not think he wished to be severe.”

“But he made it very strong against her.”

“The story, as he told it, was very strong against her;⁠—that is, you know, it would be if we were to believe all that he stated.”

“Yes, yes, of course. He only stated what he has been told by others. You could not see how the jury took it?”

“I did not look at them. I was thinking more of her and of Lucius.”

“Lucius was there?”

“Yes; he sat next to her. And Sir Richard said, while he was telling the story, that he wished her son were not there to hear it. Upon my word, sir, I almost wished so too.”

“Poor fellow⁠—poor fellow! It would have been better for him to stay away.”

“And yet had it been my mother⁠—”

“Your mother, Perry! It could not have been your mother. She could not have been so placed.”

“If it be Lady Mason’s misfortune, and not her fault⁠—”

“Ah, well; we will not talk about that. And there will be two days more you say?”

“So said Aram, the attorney.”

“God help her;⁠—may God help her! It would be very dreadful for a man, but for a woman the burden is insupportable.”

Then they both sat silent for a while, during which Peregrine was engrossed in thinking how he could turn his grandfather from the conversation.

“And you heard no one express any opinion?” asked Sir Peregrine,