"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."