'I will do it for you,' said Mrs. Orme, offering from pure charity to take upon herself a task perhaps as heavy as any that a human creature could perform. 'I will tell him.'
'No, no,' screamed Lady Mason, taking Mrs. Orme by both her arms as she spoke. 'You will not do so: say that you will not. Remember your promise to me. Remember why it is that you know it all yourself.'
'I will not, surely, unless you bid me,' said Mrs. Orme.
'No, no; I do not bid you. Mind, I do not bid you. I will not have it done. Better anything than that, while it may yet be avoided. I have your promise; have I not?'
'Oh, yes; of course I should not do it unless you told me.' And then, after some farther short stay, during which but little was said, Mrs. Orme got up to go.
'You will come to me to-morrow,' said Lady Mason.
'Yes, certainly,' said Mrs. Orme.
'Because I feared that I had offended you.'
'Oh, no; I will take no offence from you.'
'You should not, for you know what I have to bear. You know, and no one else knows. Sir Peregrine does not know. He cannot understand. But you know and understand it all. And, Mrs. Orme, what you do now will be counted to you for great treasure,—for very great treasure. You are better than the Samaritan, for he went on his way. But you will stay till the last. Yes; I know you will stay.' And the poor creature kissed her only friend;—kissed her hands and her forehead and her breast. Then Mrs. Orme went without speaking, for her heart was full, and the words would not come to her; but as she went she said to herself that she would stay till the last.
Standing alone on the steps before the front door she found Lucius Mason all alone, and some feeling moved her to speak a word to him as she passed. 'I hope all this does not trouble you much, Mr. Mason,' she said, offering her hand to him. She felt that her words were hypocritical as she was speaking them; but under such circumstances what else could she say to him?
'Well, Mrs. Orme, such an episode in one's family history does give one some trouble. I am unhappy,—very unhappy; but not too much so to thank you for your most unusual kindness to my poor mother.' And then, having been so far encouraged by her speaking to him, he accompanied her round the house on to the lawn, from whence a path led away through a shrubbery on to the road which would take her by the village of Coldharbour to The Cleeve.
'Mr. Mason,' she said, as they walked for a few steps together before the house, 'do not suppose that I presume to interfere between you and your mother.'
