Lady Mason. We may say that there was now no longer any secret
between them, and that she whose life had been so innocent, so pure,
and so good, could look into the inmost heart and soul of that other
woman whose career had been supported by the proceeds of one terrible
life-long iniquity. And now, by degrees, Lady Mason would begin to
plead for herself, or rather, to put in a plea for the deed she had
done, acknowledging, however, that she, the doer of it, had fallen
almost below forgiveness through the crime. "Was he not his son as
much as that other one; and had I not deserved of him that he should
do this thing for me?" And again "Never once did I ask of him any
favour for myself from the day that I gave myself to him, because he
had been good to my father and mother. Up to the very hour of his
death I never asked him to spend a shilling on my own account. But I
asked him to do this thing for his child; and when at last he refused
me, I told him that I myself would cause it to be done."

"You told him so?"

"I did; and I think that he believed me. He knew that I was one who
would act up to my word. I told him that Orley Farm should belong to
our babe."

"And what did he say?"

"He bade me beware of my soul. My answer was very terrible, and I
will not shock you with it. Ah me! it is easy to talk of repentance,
but repentance will not come with a word."

In these days Mrs. Orme became gradually aware that hitherto she had
comprehended but little of Lady Mason's character. There was a power
of endurance about her, and a courage that was almost awful to the
mind of the weaker, softer, and better woman. Lady Mason, during
her sojourn at The Cleeve, had seemed almost to sink under her
misfortune; nor had there been any hypocrisy, any pretence in her
apparent misery. She had been very wretched;--as wretched a human
creature, we may say, as any crawling God's earth at that time. But
she had borne her load, and, bearing it, had gone about her work,
still striving with desperate courage as the ground on which she trod
continued to give way beneath her feet, inch by inch. They had known
and pitied her misery; they had loved her for misery--as it is in
the nature of such people to do;--but they had little known how great
had been the cause for it. They had sympathised with the female
weakness which had succumbed when there was hardly any necessity for
succumbing. Had they then known all, they would have wondered at the