“Stronger! Why should I wish to be stronger? How will he bear it?”
“It will be a blow to him, of course.”
“It will strike him to the ground, Mrs. Orme. I shall have murdered him. I do not think that he will live when he knows that he is so disgraced.”
“He is a man, and will bear it as a man should do. Shall I do anything for you before I go?”
“Stay a moment. Why must it be tonight?”
“He must not be in the court tomorrow. And what difference will one day make? He must know it when the property is given up.”
Then there was a knock at the door, and a girl entered with a decanter, two wineglasses, and a slice or two of bread and butter. “You must drink that,” said Mrs. Orme, pouring out a glass of wine.
“And you?”
“Yes, I will take some too. There. I shall be stronger now. Nay, Lady Mason, you shall drink it. And now if you will take my advice you will go to bed.”
“You will come to me again?”
“Yes; directly it is over. Of course I shall come to you. Am I not to stay here all night?”
“But him;—I will not see him. He is not to come.”
“That will be as he pleases.”
“No. You promised that. I cannot see him when he knows what I have done for him.”
“Not to hear him say that he forgives you?”
“He will not forgive me. You do not know him. Could you bear to look at your boy if you had disgraced him forever?”
“Whatever I might have done he would not desert me. Nor will Lucius desert you. Shall I go now?”
“Ah, me! Would that I were in my grave!”
Then Mrs. Orme bent over her and kissed her, pressed both her hands, then kissed her again, and silently creeping out of the room made her way once more slowly down the stairs.
Mrs. Orme, as will have been seen, was sufficiently anxious to perform the task which she had given herself, but yet her heart sank within her as she descended to the parlour. It was indeed a terrible commission, and her readiness to undertake it had come not from any feeling on her own part that she was fit for the work and could do it without difficulty, but from the eagerness with which she had persuaded Lady Mason that the thing must be done by someone. And now who else could do it? In Sir Peregrine’s present state it would have been a cruelty to ask him; and then his feelings towards Lucius in the matter were not tender as were those of Mrs. Orme. She had been obliged to promise that she herself would do it, or otherwise she could not have urged the doing. And now the time had come. Immediately on their return to the house Mrs. Orme had declared that the story should be told at once; and then Lady Mason, sinking into the chair from which she had not since risen, had at length agreed that it should be so. The time had now come, and Mrs. Orme, whose footsteps down the stairs had not been audible, stood for a moment with the handle of the door in her hand.
Had it been possible she also would now have put it off till the morrow—would have put it off till any other time than that which was then present. All manner of thoughts crowded on her during those few seconds. In what way should she do it? What words should she use? How should she begin? She was to tell this young man that his mother had committed a crime of the very blackest dye, and now she felt that she should have prepared herself and resolved in what fashion this should be done. Might it not be well, she asked herself for one moment, that she should take the night to think of it and then see him in the morning? The idea, however, only lasted her for a moment, and then, fearing lest she might allow herself to be seduced into some weakness, she turned the handle and entered the room.
He was still standing with his back to the fire, leaning against the mantelpiece, and thinking over the occurrences of the day that was past. His strongest feeling now was one of hatred to Joseph Mason—of hatred mixed with thorough contempt. What must men say of him after such a struggle on his part to ruin the fame of a lady and to steal the patrimony of a brother! “Is she still determined not to come down?” he said as soon as he saw Mrs. Orme.
“No; she will not come down tonight, Mr. Mason. I have something that I must tell you.”
“What! is she ill? Has it been too much for her?”
“Mr. Mason,” she said, “I hardly know how to do what I have undertaken.” And he could see that she actually trembled as she spoke to him.
“What is it, Mrs. Orme? Is it anything about the property? I think you need hardly be afraid of me. I believe I may say I could bear anything of that kind.”
“Mr. Mason—” And then again she stopped herself.
How was she to speak this horrible word?
“Is it anything about the trial?” He was now beginning to be frightened, feeling that something terrible was coming; but still of the absolute truth he had no suspicion.
“Oh! Mr. Mason, if it were possible that I could spare you I would do so. If there were any escape—any way in which it might be avoided.”
“What is it?” said he. And now his voice was hoarse and low, for a feeling of fear had come upon him. “I am a man and can bear it, whatever it is.”
“You must be a man then, for it is very terrible. Mr. Mason, that will, you know—”
“You mean the codicil?”
“The will that gave you the property—”
“Yes.”
“It was not done by your father.”
“Who says so?”
“It is too sure. It
