I LOVE HER STILL.
It was all over now, and as Lucius had said to his mother, there was
nothing left for them but to go and hide themselves. The verdict had
reached him before his mother's return, and on the moment of his
hearing it he sat down and commenced the following letter to Mr.
Furnival:--
Orley Farm, March --, 18--.
DEAR SIR,
I beg to thank you, in my mother's name, for your great
exertions in the late trial. I must acknowledge that I
have been wrong in thinking that you gave her bad advice,
and am now convinced that you acted with the best judgment
on her behalf. May I beg that you will add to your great
kindness by inducing the gentlemen who undertook the
management of the case as my mother's attorneys to let
me know as soon as possible in what sum I am indebted to
them?
I believe I need trouble you with no preamble as to my
reasons when I tell you that I have resolved to abandon
immediately any title that I may have to the possession of
Orley Farm, and to make over the property at once, in any
way that may be most efficacious, to my half-brother,
Mr. Joseph Mason, of Groby Park. I so strongly feel the
necessity of doing this at once, without even a day's
delay, that I shall take my mother to lodgings in London
to-morrow, and shall then decide on what steps it may be
best that we shall take. My mother will be in possession
of about £200 a year, subject to such deduction as the
cost of the trial may make from it.
I hope that you will not think that I intrude upon you
too far when I ask you to communicate with my brother's
lawyers on the subject of this surrender. I do not know
how else to do it; and of course you will understand that
I wish to screen my mother's name as much as may be in my
power with due regard to honesty. I hope I need not insist
on the fact,--for it is a fact,--that nothing will change
my purpose as to this. If I cannot have it done through
you, I must myself go to Mr. Round. I am, moreover, aware
that in accordance with strict justice my brother should
have upon me a claim for the proceeds of the estate since
the date of our father's death. If he wishes it I will
give him such claim, making myself his debtor by any
form that may be legal. He must, however, in such case
be made to understand that his claim will be against a
beggar; but, nevertheless, it may suit his views to have
such a claim upon me. I cannot think that, under the
circumstances, I should be justified in calling on my
mother to surrender her small income; but should you be of
a different opinion, it shall be done.
I write thus to you at once as I think that not a day
should be lost. I will trouble you with another line from
London, to let you know what is our immediate address.
Pray believe me to be
Yours, faithfully and obliged,
LUCIUS MASON.
T. Furnival, Esq.,
Old Square, Lincoln's Inn Fields.
As soon as he had completed this letter, which was sufficiently good
for its purpose, and clearly explained what was the writer's will on
the subject of it, he wrote another, which I do not think was equally
efficacious. The second was addressed to Miss Furnival, and being
a love letter, was not so much within the scope of the writer's
peculiar powers.
DEAREST SOPHIA,
I hardly know how to address you; or what I should tell
you or what conceal. Were we together, and was that
promise renewed which you once gave me, I should tell you
all;--but this I cannot do by letter. My mother's trial is
over, and she is acquitted; but that which I have learned
during the trial has made me feel that I am bound to
relinquish to my brother-in-law all my title to Orley
Farm, and I have already taken the first steps towards
doing so. Yes, Sophia, I am now a beggar on the face of
the world. I have nothing belonging to me, save those
powers of mind and body which God has given me; and I am,
moreover, a man oppressed with a terribly heavy load of
grief. For some short time I must hide myself with my
mother; and then, when I shall have been able to brace
my mind to work, I shall go forth and labour in whatever
field may be open to me.
But before I go, Sophia, I wish to say a word of farewell
to you, that I may understand on what terms we part. Of
course I make no claim. I am aware that that which I now
tell you must be held as giving you a valid excuse for
breaking any contract that there may have been between
us. But, nevertheless, I have hope. That I love you very
dearly I need hardly now say; and I still venture to think
that the time may come when I shall again prove myself
to be worthy of your hand. If you have ever loved me you
cannot cease to do so merely because I am unfortunate; and
if you love me still, perhaps you will consent to wait. If
you will do so,--if you will say that I am rich in that
respect,--I shall go to my banishment not altogether a
downcast man.
May I say that I am still your own
LUCIUS MASON?
No; he decidedly might not say so. But as the letter was not
yet finished when his mother and Mrs. Orme returned, I will not
anticipate matters by giving Miss Furnival's reply.
Mrs. Orme came back that night to Orley Farm, but without the
intention of remaining there. Her task was over, and it would be well
that she should return to The Cleeve. Her task was over; and as the
hour must come in which she would leave the mother in the hands of
her son, the present hour would be as good as any.
They again went together to the room which they had shared for the
last night or two, and there they parted. They had not been there
long when the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel, and Mrs. Orme
got up from her seat. "There is Peregrine with the carriage," said
she.
"And you are going?" said Lady Mason.
"If I could do you good, I would stay," said Mrs. Orme.
"No, no; of course you must go. Oh, my darling, oh, my friend," and
she threw herself into the other's arms.
"Of course I will write to you," said Mrs. Orme. "I will do so
regularly."
"May God bless you for ever. But it is needless to ask for blessings
on such as you. You are blessed."
"And you too;--if you will turn to Him you will be blessed."
"Ah me. Well, I can try now. I feel that I can at any rate try."
"And none who try ever fail. And now, dear, good-bye."
"Good-bye, my angel. But, Mrs. Orme, I have one word I must first
say; a message that I must send to him. Tell him this, that never in
my life have I loved any man as well as I have loved him and as I do
love him. That on my knees I beg his pardon for the wrong I have done
him."
"But he knows how great has been your goodness to him."
"When the time came I was not quite a devil to drag him down with me
to utter destruction!"
"He will always remember what was your conduct then."
"But tell him, that though I loved him, and though I loved you with
all my heart,--with all my heart, I knew through it all, as I know
now, that I was not a fitting friend for him or you. No; do not
interrupt me, I always knew it; and though it was so sweet to me to
see your faces, I would have kept away; but that he would not have
it. I came to him to assist me because he was great and strong, and
he took me to his bosom with his kindness, till I destroyed his
strength; though his greatness nothing can destroy."
"No, no; he does not think that you have injured him."
"But tell him what I say; and tell him that a poor bruised, broken
creature, who knows at least her own vileness, will pray for him
night and morning. And now good-bye. Of my heart towards you I cannot
speak."
"Good-bye then, and, Lady Mason, never despair. There is always room
for hope; and where there is hope there need not be unhappiness."
Then they parted, and Mrs. Orme went down to her son.
"Mother, the carriage is here," he said.
"Yes, I heard it. Where is Lucius? Good-bye, Mr. Mason."
"God bless you, Mrs. Orme. Believe me I know how good you have been
to us."
As she gave him her hand, she spoke a few words to him. "My last
request to you, Mr. Mason, is to beg that you will be tender to your
mother."
"I will do my best, Mrs. Orme."
"All her sufferings and your own, have come from her great love for
you."
"That I know and feel, but had her ambition for me been less it would
have been better for both of us." And there he stood bare-headed at
the door while Peregrine Orme handed his mother into the carriage.
Thus Mrs. Orme took her last leave of Orley Farm, and was parted from
the woman she had loved with so much truth and befriended with so
much loyalty.
Very few words were spoken in the carriage between Peregrine and
his mother while they were being taken back through Hamworth to The
Cleeve. To Peregrine the whole matter was unintelligible. He knew
that the verdict had been in favour of Lady Mason, and yet there
had been no signs of joy at Orley Farm, or even of contentment. He
had heard also from Lucius, while they had been together for a few
minutes, that Orley Farm was to be given up.
"You'll let it I suppose," Peregrine had asked.
"It will not be mine to let. It will belong to my brother," Lucius
had answered. Then Peregrine had asked no further question; nor had
Lucius offered any further information.
But his mother, as he knew, was worn out with the work she had done,
and at the present moment he felt that the subject was one which
would hardly bear questions. So he sat by her side in silence; and
before the carriage had reached The Cleeve his mind had turned away
from the cares and sorrows of Lady Mason, and was once more at
Noningsby. After all, as he said to himself, who could be worse off
than he was. He had nothing to hope.
They found Sir Peregrine standing in the hall to receive them, and
Mrs. Orme, though she had been absent only three days, could not but
perceive the havoc which this trial had made upon him. It was not
that the sufferings of those three days had broken him down, but that
now, after that short absence, she was able to perceive how great had
been upon him the effect of his previous sufferings. He had never
held up his head since the day on which Lady Mason had made to him
her first confession. Up to that time he had stood erect, and though
as he walked his steps had shown that he was no longer young, he
had walked with a certain air of strength and manly bearing. Till
Lady Mason had come to The Cleeve no one would have said that Sir
Peregrine looked as though his energy and life had passed away. But
now, as he put his arm round his daughter's waist, and stooped down
to kiss her cheek, he was a worn-out, tottering old man.
During these three days he had lived almost altogether alone, and had
been ashamed to show to those around him the intense interest which
he felt in the result of the trial. His grandson had on each day
breakfasted alone, and had left the house before his grandfather was
out of his room; and on each evening he had returned late,--as he
now returned with his mother,--and had dined alone. Then he had sat
with his grandfather for an hour or two, and had been constrained
to talk over the events of the day without being allowed to ask Sir
Peregrine's opinion as to Lady Mason's innocence or to express his
own. These three days had been dreadful to Sir Peregrine. He had not
left the house, but had crept about from room to room, ever and again
taking up some book or paper and putting it down unread, as his mind
reverted to the one subject which now for him bore any interest. On
the second of these three days a note had been brought to him from
his old friend Lord Alston. "Dear Orme," the note had run, "I am not
quite happy as I think of the manner in which we parted the other
day. If I offended in any degree, I send this as a peacemaker, and
beg to shake your hand heartily. Let me have a line from you to say
that it is all right between us. Neither you nor I can afford to
lose an old friend at our time of life. Yours always, Alston." But
Sir Peregrine had not answered it. Lord Alston's servant had been
dismissed with a promise that an answer should be sent, but at the
end of the three days it had not yet been written. His mind indeed
was still sore towards Lord Alston. The counsel which his old friend
had given him was good and true, but it had been neglected, and its
very truth and excellence now made the remembrance of it unpalatable.
He had, nevertheless, intended to write; but the idea of such
exertion from hour to hour had become more distressing to him.
He had of course heard of Lady Mason's acquittal; and indeed tidings
of the decision to which the jury had come went through the country
very quickly. There is a telegraphic wire for such tidings which has
been very long in use, and which, though always used, is as yet but
very little understood. How is it that information will spread itself
quicker than men can travel, and make its way like water into all
parts of the world? It was known all through the country that night
that Lady Mason was acquitted; and before the next night it was as
well known that she had acknowledged her guilt by giving up the
property.
Little could be said as to the trial while Peregrine remained in the
room with his mother and his grandfather; but this he had the tact to
perceive, and soon left them together. "I shall see you, mother, up
stairs before you go to bed," he said as he sauntered out.
"But you must not keep her up," said his grandfather. "Remember all
that she has gone through." With this injunction he went off, and as
he sat alone in his mother's room he tried to come to some resolution
as to Noningsby. He knew he had no ground for hope;--no chance, as
he would have called it. And if so, would it not be better that
he should take himself off? Nevertheless he would go to Noningsby
once more. He would not be such a coward but that he would wish her
good-bye before he went, and hear the end of it all from her own
lips.
When he had left the room Lady Mason's last message was given to Sir
Peregrine. "Poor soul, poor soul!" he said, as Mrs. Orme began her
story. "Her son knows it all then now."
"I told him last night,--with her consent; so that he should not go
into the court to-day. It would have been very bad, you know, if they
had--found her guilty."
"Yes, yes; very bad--very bad indeed. Poor creature! And so you told
him. How did he bear it?"
"On the whole, well. At first he would not believe me."
"As for me, I could not have done it. I could not have told him."
"Yes, sir, you would;--you would, if it had been required of you."
"I think it would have killed me. But a woman can do things for which
a man's courage would never be sufficient. And he bore it manfully."
"He was very stern."
"Yes;--and he will be stern. Poor soul!--I pity her from my very
heart. But he will not desert her; he will do his duty by her."
"I am sure he will. In that respect he is a good young man."
"Yes, my dear. He is one of those who seem by nature created to bear
adversity. No trouble or sorrow would I think crush him. But had
prosperity come to him, it would have made him odious to all around
him. You were not present when they met?"
"No--I thought it better to leave them."
"Yes, yes. And he will give up the place at once."
"To-morrow he will do so. In that at any rate he has true spirit.
To-morrow early they will go to London, and she I suppose will never
see Orley Farm again." And then Mrs. Orme gave Sir Peregrine that
last message.--"I tell you everything as she told me," Mrs. Orme
said, seeing how deeply he was affected. "Perhaps I am wrong."
"No, no, no," he said.
"Coming at such a moment, her words seemed to be almost sacred."
"They are sacred. They shall be sacred. Poor soul, poor soul!"
"She did a great crime."
"Yes, yes."
"But if a crime can be forgiven,--can be excused on account of its
motives--"
"It cannot, my dear. Nothing can be forgiven on that ground."
"No; we know that; we all feel sure of that. But yet how can one help
loving her? For myself, I shall love her always."
"And I also love her." And then the old man made his confession.
"I loved her well;--better than I had ever thought to love any one
again, but you and Perry. I loved her very dearly, and felt that I
should have been proud to have called her my wife. How beautiful she
was in her sorrow, when we thought that her life had been pure and
good!"
"And it had been good,--for many years past."
"No; for the stolen property was still there. But yet how graceful
she was, and how well her sorrows sat upon her! What might she not
have done had the world used her more kindly, and not sent in her
way that sore temptation! She was a woman for a man to have loved to
madness."
"And yet how little can she have known of love!"
"I loved her." And as the old man said so he rose to his feet with
some show of his old energy. "I loved her,--with all my heart! It is
foolish for an old man so to say; but I did love her; nay, I love her
still. But that I knew that it would be wrong,--for your sake, and
for Perry's--" And then he stopped himself, as though he would fain
hear what she might say to him.
"Yes; it is all over now," she said in the softest, sweetest, lowest
voice. She knew that she was breaking down a last hope, but she knew
also that that hope was vain. And then there was silence in the room
for some ten minutes' space.
"It is all over," he then said, repeating her last words.
"But you have us still,--Perry and me. Can any one love you better
than we do?" And she got up and went over to him and stood by him,
and leaned upon him.
"Edith, my love, since you came to my house there has been an angel
in it watching over me. I shall know that always; and when I turn
my face to the wall, as I soon shall, that shall be my last earthly
thought." And so in tears they parted for that night. But the sorrow
that was bringing him to his grave came from the love of which he had
spoken. It is seldom that a young man may die from a broken heart;
but if an old man have a heart still left to him, it is more fragile.