“My dear!” said Mr. Furnival, stepping back a little, and letting his hands fall to his sides. Lady Mason also took a step backwards, and then with considerable presence of mind recovered herself and put out her hand to greet Mrs. Furnival.
“How do you do, Lady Mason?” said Mrs. Furnival, without any presence of mind at all. “I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you very well. I did hear that you were to be in town—shopping; but I did not for a moment expect the—gratification of finding you here.” And every word that the dear, good, heartsore woman spoke, told the tale of her jealousy as plainly as though she had flown at Lady Mason’s cap with all the bold demonstrative energy of Spitalfields or St. Giles.
“I came up on purpose to see Mr. Furnival about some unfortunate law business,” said Lady Mason.
“Oh, indeed! Your son Lucius did say—shopping.”
“Yes; I told him so. When a lady is unfortunate enough to be driven to a lawyer for advice, she does not wish to make it known. I should be very sorry if my dear boy were to guess that I had this new trouble; or, indeed, if anyone were to know it. I am sure that I shall be as safe with you, dear Mrs. Furnival, as I am with your husband.” And she stepped up to the angry matron, looking earnestly into her face.
To a true tale of woman’s sorrow Mrs. Furnival’s heart could be as snow under the noonday sun. Had Lady Mason gone to her and told her all her fears and all her troubles, sought counsel and aid from her, and appealed to her motherly feelings, Mrs. Furnival would have been urgent night and day in persuading her husband to take up the widow’s case. She would have bade him work his very best without fee or reward, and would herself have shown Lady Mason the way to Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn. She would have been discreet too, speaking no word of idle gossip to anyone. When he, in their happy days, had told his legal secrets to her, she had never gossiped—had never spoken an idle word concerning them. And she would have been constant to her friend, giving great consolation in the time of trouble, as one woman can console another. The thought that all this might be so did come across her for a moment, for there was innocence written in Lady Mason’s eyes. But then she looked at her husband’s face; and as she found no innocence there, her heart was again hardened. The woman’s face could lie;—“the faces of such women are all lies,” Mrs. Furnival said to herself;—but in her presence his face had been compelled to speak the truth.
“Oh dear, no; I shall say nothing of course,” she said. “I am quite sorry that I intruded. Mr. Furnival, as I happened to be in Holborn—at Mudie’s for some books—I thought I would come down and ask whether you intend to dine at home today. You said nothing about it either last night or this morning; and nowadays one really does not know how to manage in such matters.”
“I told you that I should return to Birmingham this afternoon; I shall dine there,” said Mr. Furnival, very sulkily.
“Oh, very well. I certainly knew that you were going out of town. I did not at all expect that you would remain at home; but I thought that you might, perhaps, like to have your dinner before you went. Good morning, Lady Mason; I hope you may be successful in your—lawsuit.” And then, curtsying to her husband’s client, she prepared to withdraw.
“I believe that I have said all that I need say, Mr. Furnival,” said Lady Mason; “so that if Mrs. Furnival wishes—,” and she also gathered herself up as though she were ready to leave the room.
“I hardly know what Mrs. Furnival wishes,” said the husband.
“My wishes are nothing,” said the wife, “and I really am quite sorry that I came in.” And then she did go, leaving her husband and the woman of whom she was jealous once more alone together. Upon the whole I think that Mr. Furnival was right in not going home that day to his dinner.
As the door closed somewhat loudly behind the angry lady—Mr. Crabwitz having rushed out hardly in time to moderate the violence of the slam—Lady Mason and her imputed lover were left looking at each other. It was certainly hard upon Lady Mason, and so she felt it. Mr. Furnival was fifty-five, and endowed with a bluish nose; and she was over forty, and had lived for twenty years as a widow without incurring a breath of scandal.
“I hope I have not been to blame,” said Lady Mason in a soft, sad voice; “but perhaps Mrs. Furnival specially wished to find you alone.”
“No, no; not at all.”
“I shall be so unhappy if I think that I have been in the way. If Mrs. Furnival wished to speak to you on business I am not surprised that she should be angry, for I know that barristers do not usually allow themselves to be troubled by their clients in their own chambers.”
“Nor by their wives,” Mr. Furnival might have added, but he did not.
“Do not mind it,” he said; “it is nothing. She is the best-tempered woman in the world; but at times it is impossible to answer even for the best-tempered.”
“I will trust you to make my peace with her.”
“Yes, of course; she will not think of it after today; nor must you, Lady Mason.”
“Oh, no; except that I would not for the world be the cause of annoyance to my friends. Sometimes
