It was late when that second day’s work was over, and when Mrs. Orme and Lady Mason again found themselves in the Hamworth carriage. They had sat in court from ten in the morning till past seven, with a short interval of a few minutes in the middle of the day, and were weary to the very soul when they left it. Lucius again led out his mother, and as he did so he expressed to her in strong language his approval of Mr. Furnival’s speech. At last someone had spoken out on his mother’s behalf in that tone which should have been used from the first. He had been very angry with Mr. Furnival, thinking that the barrister had lost sight of his mother’s honour, and that he was playing with her happiness. But now he was inclined to forgive him. Now at last the truth had been spoken in eloquent words, and the persecutors of his mother had been addressed in language such as it was fitting that they should hear. To him the last two hours had been two hours of triumph, and as he passed through the hall of the court he whispered in his mother’s ear that now, at last, as he hoped, her troubles were at an end.

And another whisper had been spoken as they passed through that hall. Mrs. Orme went out leaning on the arm of her son, but on the other side of her was Mr. Aram. He had remained in his seat till they had begun to move, and then he followed them. Mrs. Orme was already halfway across the court when he made his way up to her side and very gently touched her arm.

“Sir?” said she, looking round.

“Do not let her be too sure,” he said. “Do not let her be over confident. All that may go for nothing with a jury.” Then he lifted his hat and left her.

All that go for nothing with a jury! She hardly understood this, but yet she felt that it all should go for nothing if right were done. Her mind was not argumentative, nor yet perhaps was her sense of true justice very acute. When Sir Peregrine had once hinted that it would be well that the criminal should be pronounced guilty, because in truth she had been guilty, Mrs. Orme by no means agreed with him. But now, having heard how those wretched witnesses had been denounced, knowing how true had been the words they had spoken, knowing how false were those assurances of innocence with which Mr. Furnival had been so fluent, she felt something of that spirit which had actuated Sir Peregrine, and had almost thought that justice demanded a verdict against her friend.

“Do not let her be overconfident,” Mr. Aram had said. But in truth Mrs. Orme, as she had listened to Mr. Furnival’s speech, had become almost confident that Lady Mason would be acquitted. It had seemed to her impossible that any jury should pronounce her to be guilty after that speech. The state of her mind as she listened to it had been very painful. Lady Mason’s hand had rested in her own during a great portion of it; and it would have been natural that she should give some encouragement to her companion by a touch, by a slight pressure, as the warm words of praise fell from the lawyer’s mouth. But how could she do so, knowing that the praise was false? It was not possible to her to show her friendship by congratulating her friend on the success of a lie. Lady Mason also had, no doubt, felt this, for after a while her hand had been withdrawn, and they had both listened in silence, giving no signs to each other as to their feelings on the subject.

But as they sat together in the carriage Lucius did give vent to his feelings. “I cannot understand why all that should not have been said before, and said in a manner to have been as convincing as it was today.”

“I suppose there was no opportunity before the trial,” said Mrs. Orme, feeling that she must say something, but feeling also how impossible it was to speak on the subject with any truth in the presence both of Lady Mason and her son.

“But an occasion should have been made,” said Lucius. “It is monstrous that my mother should have been subjected to this accusation for months and that no one till now should have spoken out to show how impossible it is that she should have been guilty.”

“Ah! Lucius, you do not understand,” said his mother.

“And I hope I never may,” said he. “Why did not the jury get up in their seats at once and pronounce their verdict when Mr. Furnival’s speech was over? Why should they wait there, giving another day of prolonged trouble, knowing as they must do what their verdict will be? To me all this is incomprehensible, seeing that no good can in any way come from it.”

And so he went on, striving to urge his companions to speak upon a subject which to them did not admit of speech in his presence. It was very painful to them, for in addressing Mrs. Orme he almost demanded from her some expression of triumph. “You at least have believed in her innocence,” he said at last, “and have not been ashamed to show that you did so.”

“Lucius,” said his mother, “we are very weary; do not speak to us now. Let us rest till we are at home.” Then they closed their eyes and there was silence till the carriage drove up to the door of Orley Farm House.

The two ladies immediately went upstairs, but Lucius, with more cheerfulness about him than he had shown for months past, remained below to give orders for their supper. It had been a joy to him to hear Joseph Mason and Dockwrath exposed, and to listen to those words which had so clearly told the truth as to his mother’s history. All that torrent of indignant eloquence had been to him an enumeration of the simple facts⁠—of the facts as he knew them to be⁠—of the facts as they would now be made plain to all the world. At last the day had come when the cloud would be blown away. He, looking down from the height of his superior intellect on the folly of those below him, had been indignant at the great delay;⁠—but that he would now forgive.

They had not been long in the house, perhaps about fifteen minutes, when Mrs. Orme returned downstairs and gently entered the dining-room. He was still there, standing with his back to the fire and thinking over the work of the day.

“Your mother will not come down this evening, Mr. Mason.”

“Not come down?”

“No; she is very tired⁠—very tired indeed. I fear you hardly know how much she has gone through.”

“Shall I go to her?” said Lucius.

“No, Mr. Mason, do not do that. I will return to her now. And⁠—but;⁠—in a few minutes, Mr. Mason, I will come back to you again, for I shall have something to say to you.”

“You will have tea here?”

“I don’t know. I think not. When I have spoken to you I will go back to your mother. I came down now in order that you might not wait for us.” And then she left the room and again went upstairs. It annoyed him that his mother should thus keep away from him, but still he did not think that there was any special reason for it. Mrs. Orme’s manner had been strange; but then everything around them in these days was strange, and it did not occur to him that Mrs. Orme would have aught to say in her promised interview which would bring to him any new cause for sorrow.

Lady Mason, when Mrs. Orme returned to her, was sitting exactly in the position in which she had been left. Her bonnet was off and was lying by her side, and she was seated in a large armchair, again holding both her hands to the sides of her head. No attempt had been made to smooth her hair or to remove the dust and soil which had come from the day’s long sitting in the court. She was a woman very careful in her toilet, and scrupulously nice in all that touched her person. But now all that had been neglected, and her whole appearance was haggard and dishevelled.

“You have not told him?” she said.

“No; I have not told him yet; but I have bidden him expect me. He knows that I am coming to him.”

“And how did he look?”

“I did not see his face.” And then there was silence between them for a few minutes, during which Mrs. Orme stood at the back of Lady Mason’s chair with her hand on Lady Mason’s shoulder. “Shall I go now, dear?” said Mrs. Orme.

“No; stay a moment; not yet. Oh, Mrs. Orme!”

“You will find that you will be stronger and better able to bear it when it has been done.”

“Stronger! Why should I wish to be stronger? How will he bear it?”

“It will be a blow to him, of course.”

“It will strike him to the ground, Mrs. Orme. I shall have murdered him. I do not think that he will live when he knows that he is so disgraced.”

“He is a man, and will bear it as a man should do. Shall I do anything for you before I go?”

“Stay a moment. Why must it be tonight?”

“He must not be in the court tomorrow. And what difference will one day make? He must know it when the property is given up.”

Then there was a knock at the door, and a girl entered with a decanter, two wineglasses, and a slice or two of bread and butter. “You must drink that,” said Mrs. Orme, pouring out a glass of wine.

“And you?”

“Yes, I will take some too. There. I shall be stronger now. Nay, Lady Mason, you shall drink it. And now if you will take my advice you will go to bed.”

“You will come to me again?”

“Yes; directly it is over. Of course I shall come to you. Am I not to stay here all night?”

“But him;⁠—I will not see him. He is not to come.”

“That will be as he pleases.”

“No. You promised that. I cannot see him when he knows what I have done for him.”

“Not to hear him say that he forgives you?”

“He will not forgive me. You do not know him. Could you bear to look at your boy if you had disgraced him forever?”

“Whatever I might have done he would not desert me. Nor will Lucius desert you. Shall I go now?”

“Ah, me! Would that I were in my grave!”

Then Mrs. Orme bent over her and kissed her, pressed both her hands, then kissed her again, and silently creeping out of the room made her way once more slowly down the stairs.

Mrs. Orme, as will have been seen, was sufficiently anxious to perform the task which she had given herself, but yet her heart sank within her as she descended to the parlour. It was indeed a terrible commission, and her readiness to undertake it had come not from any feeling on her own part that she was fit for the work and could do it without difficulty, but from the eagerness with which she had persuaded Lady Mason that the thing must be done by someone. And now who else could do it? In Sir Peregrine’s present state it would have been a cruelty to ask him; and then his feelings towards Lucius in the matter were not tender as were those of Mrs. Orme. She had been obliged to promise that she herself would do it, or otherwise she could not have urged the doing. And now the time had come. Immediately on their return to the house Mrs. Orme had declared that the story should be told at once; and then Lady Mason, sinking into the chair from which she had not since risen, had at length agreed that it should be so. The time had now come, and Mrs. Orme, whose footsteps down the stairs had not been audible, stood for a moment with the handle of the door in her hand.

Had it been possible she also would now have put it off till the morrow⁠—would have put it off till any other time than that which was then present. All manner of thoughts crowded on her during those few seconds. In what way should she do it? What words should she use? How should she begin? She was to tell this young man that his mother had committed a crime of the very blackest dye, and now she felt that she should have prepared herself and resolved in what fashion this should be done. Might it not be well, she asked herself for one moment, that she should take the night to think of it and then see him in the morning? The idea, however, only lasted her for a moment, and then, fearing lest she might allow herself to be seduced into some weakness, she turned the handle and entered the room.

He was still standing with his back to the fire, leaning against the mantelpiece, and thinking over the occurrences of the day that was past. His strongest feeling now was one of hatred to Joseph Mason⁠—of hatred mixed with thorough contempt. What must men say of him after such a struggle on his part to ruin the fame of a lady and to steal the patrimony of a brother! “Is she still determined not to come down?” he said as soon as he saw Mrs. Orme.

“No; she will not come down tonight, Mr. Mason. I have something that I must tell you.”

“What! is she ill? Has it been too much for her?”

“Mr. Mason,” she said, “I hardly know how to do what I have undertaken.” And he could see that she actually trembled as she spoke to him.

“What is it, Mrs. Orme? Is it anything about the property? I think you need hardly be afraid of me. I believe I may say I could bear anything of that kind.”

“Mr. Mason⁠—” And then again she stopped herself.

How was she to speak this horrible word?

“Is it anything about the trial?” He was now beginning to be frightened, feeling that something terrible was coming; but still of the absolute truth he had no suspicion.

“Oh! Mr. Mason, if it were possible that I could spare you I would do so. If there were any escape⁠—any way in which it might be avoided.”

“What is it?” said he. And now his voice was hoarse and low, for a feeling of fear had come upon him. “I am a man and can bear it, whatever it is.”

“You must be a man then, for it is very terrible. Mr. Mason, that will, you know⁠—”

“You mean the codicil?”

“The will that gave you the property⁠—”

“Yes.”

“It was not done by your father.”

“Who says so?”

“It is too sure. It was not done by him⁠—nor by them⁠—those other people who were in the court today.”

“But who says so? How is it known? If my father did not sign it, it is a forgery; and who forged it? Those wretches have bought over someone and you have been deceived, Mrs. Orme. It is not of the property I am thinking, but of my mother. If it were as you say, my mother must have known it?”

“Ah! yes.”

“And you mean that she did know it; that she knew it was a forgery?”

“Oh! Mr. Mason.”

“Heaven and earth! Let me go to her. If she were to tell me so herself I would not believe it of her. Ah! she has told you?”

“Yes; she has told me.”

“Then she is mad. This has been too much for her, and her brain has gone with it. Let me go to her, Mrs. Orme.”

“No, no; you must not go to her.” And Mrs. Orme put herself directly before the door. “She is not mad⁠—not now. Then, at that time, we must think she was so. It is not so now.”

“I cannot understand you.” And he put his left hand up to his forehead as though to steady his thoughts. “I do not understand you. If the will be a forgery, who did it?”

This question she could not answer at the moment. She was still standing against the door, and her eyes fell to the ground. “Who did it?” he repeated. “Whose hand wrote my father’s name?”

“You must be merciful, Mr. Mason.”

“Merciful;⁠—to whom?”

“To your mother.”

“Merciful to my mother! Mrs. Orme, speak out to me. If the will was forged, who forged it? You cannot mean to tell me that she did it!”

She did not answer him at the moment in words, but coming close up to him she took both his hands in hers, and then looked steadfastly up into his eyes. His face had now become almost convulsed with emotion, and his brow was very black. “Do you wish me to believe that my mother forged the will herself?” Then again he paused, but she said nothing. “Woman, it’s a lie,” he exclaimed; and then tearing his hands from her, shaking her off, and striding away with quick footsteps, he threw himself on a sofa that stood in the furthest part of the room.

She paused for a moment and then followed him very gently. She followed him and stood over him in silence for a moment, as he lay with his face from her. “Mr. Mason,” she said at last, “you told me that you would bear this like a man.”

But he made her no answer, and she went on. “Mr. Mason, it is, as I tell you. Years and years ago, when you were a baby, and when she thought that your father was unjust to you⁠—for your sake⁠—to remedy that injustice, she did this thing.”

“What; forged his name! It must be a lie. Though an angel came to tell me so, it would be a lie! What; my mother!” And now he turned round and faced her, still however lying on the sofa.

“It is true, Mr. Mason. Oh, how I wish that it were not! But you must forgive her. It is years ago, and she has repented of it, Sir Peregrine has forgiven her⁠—and I have done so.”

And then she told him the whole story. She told him why the marriage had been broken off, and described to him the manner in which the truth had been made known to Sir Peregrine. It need hardly be said, that in doing so, she dealt as softly as was possible with his mother’s name; but yet she told him everything. “She wrote it herself, in the night.”

“What all; all the names herself?”

“Yes, all.”

“Mrs. Orme, it cannot be so. I will not believe it. To me it is impossible. That you believe it I do not doubt, but I cannot. Let me go to her. I will go to her myself. But even should she say so herself, I will not believe it.”

But she would not let him go upstairs even though he attempted to move her from the door, almost with violence. “No; not till you say that you will forgive her and be gentle with her. And it must not be tonight. We will be up early in the morning, and you can see her before we go;⁠—if you will be gentle to her.”

He still persisted that he did not believe the story, but it became clear to her, by degrees, that the meaning of it all had at last sunk into his mind, and that he did believe it. Over and over again she told him all that she knew, explaining to him what his mother had suffered, making him perceive why she had removed herself out of his hands, and had leant on others for advice. And she told him also that though they still hoped that the jury might acquit her, the property must be abandoned.

“I will leave the house this night if you wish it,” he said.

“When it is all over, when she has been acquitted and shall have gone away, then let it be done. Mr. Mason, you will go with her; will you not?” and then again there was a pause.

“Mrs. Orme, it is impossible that I should say now what I may do. It seems to me as though I could not live through it. I do not believe it. I cannot believe it.”

As soon as she had exacted a promise from him that he would not go to his mother, at any rate without further notice, she herself went upstairs and found Lady Mason lying on her bed. At first Mrs. Orme thought that she was asleep, but no such comfort had come to the poor woman. “Does he know it?” she asked.

Mrs. Orme’s task for that night was by no means yet done. After remaining for a while with Lady Mason she again returned to Lucius, and was in this way a bearer of messages between them. There was at last no question as to doubting the story. He did believe it. He could not avoid the necessity for such belief. “Yes,” he said, when Mrs. Orme spoke again of his leaving the place, “I will go and hide myself; and as for her⁠—”

“But you will go with her⁠—if the jury do not say that she was guilty⁠—”

“Oh, Mrs. Orme!”

“If they do, you will come back for her, when the time of her punishment is over? She is still your mother, Mr. Mason.”

At last the work of the night was done, and the two ladies went to their beds. The understanding was that Lucius should see his mother before they started in the morning, but that he should not again accompany them to the court. Mrs. Orme’s great object had been⁠—her great object as regarded the present moment⁠—to prevent his presence in court when the verdict should be given. In this she had succeeded. She could now wish for an acquittal with a clear conscience; and could as it were absolve the sinner within her own heart, seeing that there was no longer any doubt as to the giving up of the property. Whatever might be the verdict of the jury Joseph Mason of Groby would, without doubt, obtain the property which belonged to him.

“Good night, Mr. Mason,” Mrs. Orme said at last, as she gave him her hand.

“Good night. I believe that in my madness I spoke to you tonight like a brute.”

“No, no. It was nothing. I did not think of it.”

“When you think of how it was with me, you will forgive me.”

She pressed his hand and again told him that she had not thought of it. It was nothing. And indeed it had been as nothing to her. There may be moments in a man’s life when any words may be forgiven, even though they be spoken to a woman.

When Mrs. Orme was gone, he stood for a while perfectly motionless in the dining-room, and then coming out into the hall he opened the front door, and taking his hat, went out into the night. It was still winter, but the night, though cold and very dark, was fine, and the air was sharp with the beginning frost. Leaving the door open he walked forth, and passing out on to the road went down from thence to the gate. It had been his constant practice to walk up and down from his own hall door to his own gate on the high road, perhaps comforting himself too warmly with the reflection that the ground on which he walked was all his own. He had no such comfort now, as he made his way down the accustomed path and leaned upon the gate, thinking over what he had heard.

A forger! At some such hour as this, with patient premeditated care, she had gone to work and committed one of the vilest crimes known to man. And this was his mother! And he, he, Lucius Mason, had been living for years on the fruit of this villainy;⁠—had been so living till this terrible day of retribution had come upon him! I fear that at that moment he thought more of his own misery than he did of hers, and hardly considered, as he surely should have done, that mother’s love which had led to all this guilt. And for a moment he resolved that he would not go back to the house. His head, he said to himself, should never again rest under a roof which belonged of right to Joseph Mason. He had injured Joseph Mason;⁠—had injured him innocently, indeed, as far as he himself was concerned; but he had injured him greatly, and therefore now hated him all the more. “He shall have it instantly,” he said, and walked forth into the high road as though he would not allow his feet to rest again on his brother’s property.

But he was forced to remember that this could not be so. His mother’s trial was not yet over, and even in the midst of his own personal trouble he remembered that the verdict to her was still a matter of terrible import. He would not let it be known that he had abandoned the property, at any rate till that verdict had been given. And then as he moved back to the house he tried to think in what way it would become him to behave to his mother. “She can never be my mother again,” he said to himself. They were terrible words;⁠—but then was not his position very terrible?

And when at last he had bolted the front door, going through the accustomed task mechanically, and had gone upstairs to his own room, he had failed to make up his mind on this subject. Perhaps it would be better that he should not see her. What could he say to her? What word of comfort could he speak? It was not only that she had beggared him! Nay; it was not that at all! But she had doomed him to a life of disgrace which no effort of his own could wipe away. And then as he threw himself on his bed he thought of Sophia Furnival. Would she share his disgrace with him? Was it possible that there might be solace there?

Quite impossible, we should say, who know her well.