“Ah! then I shall be in my grave. A few months will do that.”
“Oh, sir!”
“Why should I not save her from such a life as that?”
“From that which she had most to fear she has been saved.”
“Had she not so chosen it herself, she could now have demanded from me a home. Why should I not give it to her now?”
“A home here, sir?”
“Yes;—why not? But I know what you would say. It would be wrong—to you and Perry.”
“It would be wrong to yourself, sir. Think of it, father. It is the fact that she did that thing. We may forgive her, but others will not do so on that account. It would not be right that you should bring her here.”
Sir Peregrine knew that it would not be right. Though he was old, and weak in body, and infirm in purpose, his judgment had not altogether left him. He was well aware that he would offend all social laws if he were to do that which he contemplated, and ask the world around him to respect as Lady Orme—as his wife, the woman who had so deeply disgraced herself. But yet he could hardly bring himself to confess that it was impossible. He was as a child who knows that a coveted treasure is beyond his reach, but still covets it, still longs for it, hoping against hope that it may yet be his own. It seemed to him that he might yet regain his old vitality if he could wind his arm once more about her waist, and press her to his side, and call her his own. It would be so sweet to forgive her; to make her sure that she was absolutely forgiven; to teach her that there was one at least who would not bring up against her her past sin, even in his memory. As for his grandson, the property should be abandoned to him altogether. ’Twas thus he argued with himself; but yet, as he argued, he knew that it could not be so.
“I was harsh to her when she told me,” he said, after another pause—“cruelly harsh.”
“She does not think so.”
“No. If I had spurned her from me with my foot, she would not have thought so. She had condemned herself, and therefore I should have spared her.”
“But you did spare her. I am sure she feels that from the first to the last your conduct to her has been more than kind.”
“And I owed her more than kindness, for I loved her;—yes, I loved her, and I do love her. Though I am a feeble old man, tottering to my grave, yet I love her—love her as that boy loves the fair girl for whom he longs. He will overcome it, and forget it, and some other one as fair will take her place. But for me it is all over.”
What could she say to him? In truth, it was all over—such love at least as that of which his old heart was dreaming in its dotage. There is no Medea’s cauldron from which our limbs can come out young and fresh; and it were well that the heart should grow old as does the body.
“It is not all over while we are with you,” she said, caressing him. But she knew that what she said was a subterfuge.
“Yes, yes; I have you, dearest,” he answered. But he also knew that that pretence at comfort was false and hollow.
“And she starts on Thursday,” he said; “on next Thursday.”
“Yes, on Thursday. It will be much better for her to be away from London. While she is there she never ventures even into the street.”
“Edith, I shall see her before she goes.”
“Will that be wise, sir?”
“Perhaps not. It may be foolish—very foolish; but still I shall see her. I think you forget, Edith, that I have never yet bidden her farewell. I have not spoken to her since that day when she behaved so generously.”
“I do not think that she expects it, father.”
“No; she expects nothing for herself. Had it been in her nature to expect such a visit, I should not have been anxious to make it. I will go tomorrow. She is always at home you say?”
“Yes, she is always at home.”
“And, Lucius—”
“You will not find him there in the daytime.”
“I shall go tomorrow, dear. You need not tell Peregrine.”
Mrs. Orme still thought that he was wrong, but she had nothing further to say. She could not hinder his going, and therefore, with his permission she wrote a line to Lady Mason, telling her of his purpose. And then, with all the care in her power, and with infinite softness of manner, she warned him against the danger which she so much feared. What might be the result, if, overcome by tenderness, he should again ask Lady Mason to become his wife? Mrs. Orme firmly believed that Lady Mason would again refuse; but, nevertheless, there would be danger.
“No,” said he, “I will not do that. When I have said so you may accept my word.” Then she hastened to apologise to him, but he assured her with a kiss that he was in nowise angry with her.
He held by his purpose, and on the following day he went up to London. There was nothing said on the matter at breakfast, nor did she make any further endeavour to dissuade him. He was infirm, but still she knew that the actual fatigue would not be of a nature to injure him. Indeed her fear respecting him was rather in regard to his staying at home than to his going abroad. It would have been well for him could he have been induced to think himself fit for more active movement.
Lady Mason was alone when he reached the dingy little room near Finsbury Circus, and received him standing. She was the first to speak, and this she did before she had even touched
