“I suppose the fact is he don’t like to see you there,” said the other.
“And is that a reason?” said our Martha. “Had I been in her place I would not have put my foot in his house again till I was assured that my friend should be as welcome there as myself. But then, perhaps, my ideas of friendship may be called romantic.”
But though there were heartburnings and war in Red Lion Square, there was sweet peace in Harley Street. Mrs. Furnival had learned that beyond all doubt Lady Mason was an unfortunate woman on whose behalf her husband was using his best energies as a lawyer; and though rumours had begun to reach her that were very injurious to the lady’s character, she did not on that account feel animosity against her. Had Lady Mason been guilty of all the sins in the calendar except one, Mrs. Furnival could find it within her heart to forgive her.
But Sophia was now more interested about Lady Mason than was her mother, and during those days of the trial was much more eager to learn the news as it became known. She had said nothing to her mother about Lucius, nor had she said anything as to Augustus Staveley. Miss Furnival was a lady who on such subjects did not want the assistance of a mother’s counsel. Then, early on the morning that followed the trial, they heard the verdict and knew that Lady Mason was free.
“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Furnival; “and I am sure it was your papa’s doing.”
“But we will hope that she was really innocent,” said Sophia.
“Oh, yes; of course; and so I suppose she was. I am sure I hope so. But, nevertheless, we all know that it was going very much against her.”
“I believe papa never thought she was guilty for a moment.”
“I don’t know, my dear; your papa never talks of the clients for whom he is engaged. But what a thing it is for Lucius! He would have lost every acre of the property.”
“Yes; it’s a great thing for him, certainly.” And then she began to consider whether the standing held by Lucius Mason in the world was not even yet somewhat precarious.
It was on the same day—in the evening—that she received her lover’s letter. She was alone when she read it, and she made herself quite master of its contents before she sat herself to think in what way it would be expedient that she should act. “I am bound to relinquish to my brother-in-law my title to Orley Farm.” Why should he be so bound, unless—? And then she also came to that conclusion which Mr. Round had reached, and which Joseph Mason had reached, when they heard that the property was to be given up. “Yes, Sophia, I am a beggar,” the letter went on to say. She was very sorry, deeply sorry;—so, at least, she said to herself. As she sat there alone, she took out her handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. Then, having restored it to her pocket, after moderate use, she refolded her letter, and put that into the same receptacle.
“Papa,” said she, that evening, “what will Mr. Lucius Mason do now? will he remain at Orley Farm?”
“No, my dear. He will leave Orley Farm, and, I think, will go abroad with his mother.”
“And who will have Orley Farm?”
“His brother Joseph, I believe.”
“And what will Lucius have?”
“I cannot say. I do not know that he will have anything. His mother has an income of her own, and he, I suppose, will go into some profession.”
“Oh, indeed. Is not that very sad for him, poor fellow?” In answer to which her father made no remark.
That night, in her own room, she answered her lover’s letter, and her answer was as follows:—
Harley Street, March, 18—.
My dear Mr. Mason,
I need hardly tell you that I was grieved to the heart by the tidings conveyed in your letter. I will not ask you for that secret which you withhold from me, feeling that I have no title to inquire into it; nor will I attempt to guess at the cause which induces you to give up to your brother the property which you were always taught to regard as your own. That you are actuated by noble motives I am sure; and you may be sure of this, that I shall respect you quite as highly in your adversity as I have ever done in your prosperity. That you will make your way in the world, I shall never doubt; and it may be that the labour which you will now encounter will raise you to higher standing than any you could have achieved, had the property remained in your possession.
I think you are right in saying, with reference to our mutual regard for each other, that neither should be held as having any claim upon the other. Under present circumstances, any such claim would be very silly. Nothing would hamper you in your future career so much as a long marriage engagement; and for myself, I am aware that the sorrow and solicitude thence arising would be more than I could support. Apart from this, also, I feel certain that I should never obtain my father’s sanction for such an engagement, nor could I make it, unless he sanctioned it. I feel so satisfied that you will see the truth of this, that I need not trouble you, and harass my own heart by pursuing the subject any further.
My feelings of friendship for you—of affectionate friendship—will be
