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.
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 forever. 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, goodbye.”
“Goodbye, 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 goodbye. Of my heart towards you I cannot speak.”
“Goodbye 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? Goodbye, 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
