“You mean about Lady Mason?” And Peregrine began to perceive that his mother was right, and that it would have been well if possible to avoid any words about the trial.
“Do they think that she will—will be acquitted? Of course the people there were talking about it?”
“Yes, sir, they were talking about it. But I really don’t know as to any opinion. You see, the chief witnesses have not been examined.”
“And you, Perry, what do you think?”
“I, sir! Well, I was altogether on her side till I heard Sir Richard Leatherham.”
“And then—?”
“Then I did not know what to think. I suppose it’s all right; but one never can understand what those lawyers are at. When Mr. Chaffanbrass got up to examine Dockwrath, he seemed to be just as confident on his side as the other fellow had been on the other side. I don’t think I’ll have any more wine, sir, thank you.”
But Sir Peregrine did not move. He sat in his old accustomed way, nursing one leg over the knee of the other, and thinking of the manner in which she had fallen at his feet, and confessed it all. Had he married her, and gone with her proudly into the court—as he would have done—and had he then heard a verdict of guilty given by the jury;—nay, had he heard such proof of her guilt as would have convinced himself, it would have killed him. He felt, as he sat there, safe over his own fireside, that his safety was due to her generosity. Had that other calamity fallen upon him, he could not have survived it. His head would have fallen low before the eyes of those who had known him since they had known anything, and would never have been raised again. In his own spirit, in his inner life, the blow had come to him; but it was due to her effort on his behalf that he had not been stricken in public. When he had discussed the matter with Mrs. Orme, he had seemed in a measure to forget this. It had not at any rate been the thought which rested with the greatest weight upon his mind. Then he had considered how she, whose life had been stainless as driven snow, should bear herself in the presence of such deep guilt. But now—now as he sat alone, he thought only of Lady Mason. Let her be ever so guilty—and her guilt had been very terrible—she had behaved very nobly to him. From him at least she had a right to sympathy.
And what chance was there that she should escape? Of absolute escape there was no chance whatever. Even should the jury acquit her, she must declare her guilt to the world—must declare it to her son, by taking steps for the restoration of the property. As to that Sir Peregrine felt no doubt whatever. That Joseph Mason of Groby would recover his right to Orley Farm was to him a certainty. But how terrible would be the path over which she must walk before this deed of retribution could be done! “Ah, me! ah, me!” he said, as he thought of all this—speaking to himself, as though he were unconscious of his grandson’s presence. “Poor woman! poor woman!” Then Peregrine felt sure that she had been guilty, and was sure also that his grandfather was aware of it.
“Will you come into the other room, sir?” he said.
“Yes, yes; if you like it.” And then the one leg fell from the other, and he rose to do his grandson’s bidding. To him now and henceforward one room was much the same as another.
In the meantime the party bound for Orley Farm had reached that place, and to them also came the necessity of wearing through that tedious evening. On the mind of Lucius Mason not even yet had a shadow of suspicion fallen. To him, in spite of it all, his mother was still pure. But yet he was stern to her, and his manner was very harsh. It may be that had such suspicion crossed his mind he would have been less stern, and his manner more tender. As it was he could understand nothing that was going on, and almost felt that he was kept in the dark at his mother’s instance. Why was it that a man respected by all the world, such as Sir Richard Leatherham, should rise in court and tell such a tale as that against his mother; and that the power of answering that tale on his mother’s behalf should be left to such another man as Mr. Chaffanbrass? Sir Richard had told his story plainly, but with terrible force; whereas Chaffanbrass had contented himself with browbeating another lawyer with the lowest quirks of his cunning. Why had not someone been in court able to use the language of passionate truth and ready to thrust the lie down the throats of those who told it?
Tea and supper had been prepared for them, and they sat down together; but the nature of the meal may be imagined. Lady Mason had striven with terrible effort to support herself during the day, and even yet she did not give way. It was quite as necessary that she should restrain herself before her son as before all those others who had gazed at her in court. And she did sustain herself. She took a knife and fork in her hand and ate a few morsels. She drank her cup of tea, and remembering that there in that house she was still hostess, she made some slight effort to welcome her guest. “Surely after such a day of trouble you will eat something,” she said to her friend. To Mrs. Orme it was marvellous that the woman should even be alive—let alone that she should speak and perform the ordinary functions of her daily life. “And now,” she said—Lady Mason said—as soon as that ceremony was over, “now as we
