A second bed had been prepared in Lady Mason’s room, and into this chamber they both went at once. Mrs. Orme, as soon as she had entered, turned round and held out both her hands in order that she might comfort Lady Mason by taking hers; but Lady Mason, when she had closed the door, stood for a moment with her face towards the wall, not knowing how to bear herself. It was but for a moment, and then slowly moving round, with her two hands clasped together, she sank on her knees at Mrs. Orme’s feet, and hid her face in the skirt of Mrs. Orme’s dress.
“My friend—my friend!” said Lady Mason.
“Yes, I am your friend—indeed I am. But, dear Lady Mason—” And she endeavoured to think of words by which she might implore her to rise and compose herself.
“How is it you can bear with such a one as I am? How is it that you do not hate me for my guilt?”
“He does not hate us when we are guilty.”
“I do not know. Sometimes I think that all will hate me—here and hereafter—except you. Lucius will hate me, and how shall I bear that? Oh, Mrs. Orme, I wish he knew it!”
“I wish he did. He shall know it now—tonight, if you will allow me to tell him.”
“No. It would kill me to bear his looks. I wish he knew it, and was away, so that he might never look at me again.”
“He too would forgive you if he knew it all.”
“Forgive! How can he forgive?” And as she spoke she rose again to her feet, and her old manner came upon her. “Do you think what it is that I have done for him? I—his mother—for my only child? And after that, is it possible that he should forgive me?”
“You meant him no harm.”
“But I have ruined him before all the world. He is as proud as your boy; and could he bear to think that his whole life would be disgraced by his mother’s crime?”
“Had I been so unfortunate he would have forgiven me.”
“We are speaking of what is impossible. It could not have been so. Your youth was different from mine.”
“God has been very good to me, and not placed temptation in my way;—temptation, I mean, to great faults. But little faults require repentance as much as great ones.”
“But then repentance is easy; at any rate it is possible.”
“Oh, Lady Mason, is it not possible for you?”
“But I will not talk of that now. I will not hear you compare yourself with such a one as I am. Do you know I was thinking today that my mind would fail me, and that I should be mad before this is over? How can I bear it? how can I bear it?” And rising from her seat, she walked rapidly through the room, holding back her hair from her brows with both her hands.
And how was she to bear it? The load on her back was too much for her shoulders. The burden with which she had laden herself was too heavy to be borne. Her power of endurance was very great. Her strength in supporting the extreme bitterness of intense sorrow was wonderful. But now she was taxed beyond her power. “How am I to bear it?” she said again, as still holding her hair between her fingers, she drew her hands back over her head.
“You do not know. You have not tried it. It is impossible,” she said in her wildness, as Mrs. Orme endeavoured to teach her the only source from whence consolation might be had. “I do not believe in the thief on the cross, unless it was that he had prepared himself for that day by years of contrition. I know I shock you,” she added, after a while. “I know that what I say will be dreadful to you. But innocence will always be shocked by guilt. Go, go and leave me. It has gone so far now that all is of no use.” Then she threw herself on the bed, and burst into a convulsive passion of tears.
Once again Mrs. Orme endeavoured to obtain permission from her to undertake that embassy to her son. Had Lady Mason acceded, or been near acceding, Mrs. Orme’s courage would probably have been greatly checked. As it was she pressed it as though the task were one to be performed without difficulty. Mrs. Orme was very anxious that Lucius should not sit in the court throughout the trial. She felt that if he did so the shock—the shock which was inevitable—must fall upon him there; and than that she could conceive nothing more terrible. And then also she believed that if the secret were once made known to Lucius, and if he were for a time removed from his mother’s side, the poor woman might be brought to a calmer perception of her true position. The strain would be lessened, and she would no longer feel the necessity of exerting so terrible a control over her feelings.
“You have acknowledged that he must know it sooner or later,” pleaded Mrs. Orme.
“But this is not the time—not now, during the trial. Had he known it before—”
“It would keep him away from the court.”
“Yes, and I should never see him again! What will he do when he hears it? Perhaps it would be better that he should go without seeing me.”
“He would not do that.”
“It would be better. If they take me to the prison, I will never see him again. His eyes would kill me. Do you ever watch him and see the pride that there is in his eye? He has never yet known what disgrace means; and now I, his mother, have brought him to this!”
It was all in vain as far as that
