ey had both made at the altar, which she had kept so loyally,
and which required of him a cherishing, comforting, enduring love.
It never occurred to him that in denying her this he as much broke
his promise to her as though he had taken to himself in very truth
some strange goddess, leaving his wedded wife with a cold ceremony
of alimony or such-like. He had been open-handed to her as regards
money, and therefore she ought not to be troublesome! He had done his
duty by her, and therefore he would not permit her to be troublesome!
Such, I regret to say, were his thoughts and resolutions as he sat
thinking and resolving about Mrs. Furnival.

And then, by degrees, his mind turned away to that other lady,
and they became much more tender. Lady Mason was certainly both
interesting and comely in her grief. Her colour could still come and
go, her hand was still soft and small, her hair was still brown and
smooth. There were no wrinkles in her brow though care had passed
over it; her step could still fall lightly, though it had borne a
heavy weight of sorrow. I fear that he made a wicked comparison--a
comparison that was wicked although it was made unconsciously.

But by degrees he ceased to think of the woman and began to think of
the client, as he was in duty bound to do. What was the real truth
of all this? Was it possible that she should be alarmed in that way
because a small country attorney had told his wife that he had found
some old paper, and because the man had then gone off to Yorkshire?
Nothing could be more natural than her anxiety, supposing her to be
aware of some secret which would condemn her if discovered;--but
nothing more unnatural if there were no such secret. And she must
know! In her bosom, if in no other, must exist the knowledge whether
or no that will were just. If that will were just, was it possible
that she should now tremble so violently, seeing that its justice
had been substantially proved in various courts of law? But if it
were not just--if it were a forgery, a forgery made by her, or with
her cognizance--and that now this truth was to be made known! How
terrible would that be! But terrible is not the word which best
describes the idea as it entered Mr. Furnival's mind. How wonderful
would it be; how wonderful would it all have been! By whose hand in
such case had those signatures been traced? Could it be possible that
she, soft, beautiful, graceful as she was now, all but a girl as she
had