Orley Farm

she were guilty. The fight in his hands would be conducted on terms so much more glorious if he could feel sure of her innocence. But then if he attempted that, and she were not innocent, all might be sacrificed by the audacity of his proceedings. He could not venture that, unless he were sure of his ground. For a moment or two he thought that he would ask her the question. He said to himself that he could forgive the fault. That it had been repented ere this he did not doubt, and it would be sweet to say to her that it was very grievous, but that yet it might be forgiven. It would be sweet to feel that she was in his hands, and that he would treat her with mercy and kindness. But then a hundred other thoughts forbade him to think more of this. If she had been, guilty⁠—if she declared her guilt to him⁠—would not restitution be necessary? In that case her son must know it, and all the world must know it. Such a confession would be incompatible with that innocence before the world which it was necessary that she should maintain. Moreover, he must be able to proclaim aloud his belief in her innocence; and how could he do that, knowing her to be guilty⁠—knowing that she also knew that he had such knowledge? It was impossible that he should ask any such question, or admit of any such confidence.

It would be necessary, if the case did come to a trial, that she should employ some attorney. The matter must come into the barrister’s hands in the usual way, through a solicitor’s house, and it would be well that the person employed should have a firm faith in his client. What could he say⁠—he, as a barrister⁠—if the attorney suggested to him that the lady might possibly be guilty? As he thought of all these things he almost dreaded the difficulties before him.

He rang the bell for Crabwitz⁠—the peculiar bell which Crabwitz was bound to answer⁠—having first of all gone through a little ceremony with his chequebook. Crabwitz entered, still sulky in his demeanour, for as yet the old anger had not been appeased, and it was still a doubtful matter in the clerk’s mind whether or no it might not be better for him to seek a master who would better appreciate his services. A more lucrative position it might be difficult for him to find; but money is not everything, as Crabwitz said to himself more than once.

“Crabwitz,” said Mr. Furnival, looking with a pleasant face at his clerk, “I am leaving town this evening, and I shall be absent for the next ten days. If you like you can go away for a holiday.”

“It’s rather late in the season now, sir,” said Crabwitz, gloomily, as though he were determined not to be pleased.

“It is a little late, as you say; but I really could not manage it earlier. Come, Crabwitz, you and I should not quarrel. Your work has been a little hard, but then so has mine also.”

“I fancy you like it, sir.”

“Ha! ha! Like it, indeed! But so do you like it⁠—in its way. Come, Crabwitz, you have been an excellent servant to me; and I don’t think that, on the whole, I have been a bad master to you.”

“I am making no complaint, sir.”

“But you’re cross because I’ve kept you in town a little too long. Come, Crabwitz, you must forget all that. You have worked very hard this year past. Here is a cheque for fifty pounds. Get out of town for a fortnight or so, and amuse yourself.”

“I’m sure I’m very much obliged, sir,” said Crabwitz, putting out his hand and taking the cheque. He felt that his master had got the better of him, and he was still a little melancholy on that account. He would have valued his grievance at that moment almost more than the fifty pounds, especially as by the acceptance of it he surrendered all right to complain for some considerable time to come.

“By the by, Crabwitz,” said Mr. Furnival, as the clerk was about to leave the room.

“Yes, sir,” said Crabwitz.

“You have never chanced to hear of an attorney named Dockwrath, I suppose?”

“What! in London, Mr. Furnival?”

“No; I fancy he has no place of business in town. He lives I know at Hamworth.”

“It’s he you mean, sir, that is meddling in this affair of Lady Mason’s.”

“What! you have heard of that; have you?”

“Oh! yes, sir. It’s being a good deal talked about in the profession. Messrs. Round and Crook’s leading young man was up here with me the other day, and he did say a good deal about it. He’s a very decent young man, considering his position, is Smart.”

“And he knows Dockwrath, does he?”

“Well, sir, I can’t say that he knows much of the man; but Dockwrath has been at their place of business pretty constant of late, and he and Mr. Matthew seem thick enough together.”

“Oh! they do; do they?”

“So Smart tells me. I don’t know how it is myself, sir. I don’t suppose this Dockwrath is a very⁠—”

“No, no; exactly. I dare say not. You’ve never seen him yourself, Crabwitz?”

“Who, sir? I, sir? No, sir, I’ve never set eyes on the man, sir. From all I hear it’s not very likely he should come here; and I’m sure it is not at all likely that I should go to him.”

Mr. Furnival sat thinking awhile, and the clerk stood waiting opposite to him, leaning with both his hands upon the table. “You don’t know anyone in the neighbourhood of Hamworth, I suppose?” Mr. Furnival said at last.

“Who, sir? I, sir? Not a soul, sir. I never was there in my life.”

“I’ll tell you why I ask. I strongly suspect that that man Dockwrath is at some very foul play.” And then he told to his clerk so much of the whole story of Lady Mason