“Am I to understand, then, that you also think—?” began Sir Peregrine.
“You are not to understand that I think anything injurious to the lady; but I do fear that she is in a position of much jeopardy, and that great care will be necessary.”
“Good heavens! Do you mean to say that an innocent person can under such circumstances be in danger in this country?”
“An innocent person, Sir Peregrine, may be in danger of very great annoyance, and also of very great delay in proving that innocence. Innocent people have died under the weight of such charges. We must remember that she is a woman, and therefore weaker than you or I.”
“Yes, yes; but still—. You do not say that you think she can be in any real danger?” It seemed, from the tone of the old man’s voice, as though he were almost angry with Mr. Furnival for supposing that such could be the case. “And you intend to tell her all this?” he asked.
“I fear that, as her friend, neither you nor I will be warranted in keeping her altogether in the dark. Think what her feelings would be if she were summoned before a magistrate without any preparation!”
“No magistrate would listen to such a charge,” said Sir Peregrine.
“In that he must be guided by the evidence.”
“I would sooner throw up my commission than lend myself in any way to a proceeding so iniquitous.”
This was all very well, and the existence of such a feeling showed great generosity, and perhaps also poetic chivalry on the part of Sir Peregrine Orme; but it was not the way of the world, and so Mr. Furnival was obliged to explain. Magistrates would listen to the charge—would be forced to listen to the charge—if the evidence were apparently sound. A refusal on the part of a magistrate to do so would not be an act of friendship to Lady Mason, as Mr. Furnival endeavoured to explain. “And you wish to see her?” Sir Peregrine asked at last.
“I think she should be told; but as she is in your house, I will, of course, do nothing in which you do not concur.” Upon which Sir Peregrine rang the bell and desired the servant to take his compliments to Lady Mason and beg her attendance in the library if it were quite convenient. “Tell her,” said Sir Peregrine, “that Mr. Furnival is here.”
When the message was given to her she was seated with Mrs. Orme, and at the moment she summoned strength to say that she would obey the invitation, without displaying any special emotion while the servant was in the room; but when the door was shut, her friend looked at her and saw that she was as pale as death. She was pale and her limbs quivered, and that look of agony, which now so often marked her face, was settled on her brow. Mrs. Orme had never yet seen her with such manifest signs of suffering as she wore at this instant.
“I suppose I must go to them,” she said, slowly rising from her seat; and it seemed to Mrs. Orme that she was forced to hold by the table to support herself.
“Mr. Furnival is a friend, is he not?”
“Oh, yes! a kind friend, but—”
“They shall come in here if you like it better, dear.”
“Oh, no! I will go to them. It would not do that I should seem so weak. What must you think of me to see me so?”
“I do not wonder at it, dear,” said Mrs. Orme, coming round to her; “such cruelty would kill me. I wonder at your strength rather than your weakness.” And then she kissed her. What was there about the woman that had made all those fond of her that came near her?
Mrs. Orme walked with her across the hall, and left her only at the library door. There she pressed her hand and again kissed her, and then Lady Mason turned the handle of the door and entered the room. Mr. Furnival, when he looked at her, was startled by the pallor of her face, but nevertheless he thought that she had never looked so beautiful. “Dear Lady Mason,” said he, “I hope you are well.”
Sir Peregrine advanced to her and handed her over to his own armchair. Had she been a queen in distress she could not have been treated with more gentle deference. But she never seemed to count upon this, or in any way to assume it as her right. I should accuse her of what I regard as a sin against all good taste were I to say that she was humble in her demeanour; but there was a soft meekness about her, an air of feminine dependence, a proneness to lean and almost to cling as she leaned, which might have been felt as irresistible by any man. She was a woman to know in her deep sorrow rather than in her joy and happiness; one with whom one would love to weep rather than to rejoice. And, indeed, the present was a time with her for weeping, not for rejoicing.
Sir Peregrine looked as though he were her father as he took her hand, and the barrister immediately comforted himself with the remembrance of the baronet’s great age. It was natural, too, that Lady Mason should hang on him in his own house. So Mr. Furnival contented himself at the first moment with touching her hand and hoping that she was well. She answered hardly a word to either of them, but she attempted to smile as she sat down, and murmured something about the trouble
