“Goodbye, Mr. Orme; and may God send that you may be happy.”
“Goodbye, Madeline. I shall never call you so again—except to myself. I do wish you may be happy—I do indeed. As for him—he has been before me, and taken away all that I wanted to win.”
By this time the tears were in his eyes, and his voice was not free from their effect. Of this he was aware, and therefore, pressing her hand, he turned upon his heel and abruptly left the room. He had been unable to say that he wished also that Felix might be happy; but this omission was forgiven him by both the ladies. Poor Madeline, as he went, muttered a kind farewell, but her tears had mastered her also, so that she could hardly speak.
He went directly to the stables, there got upon his horse, and then walked slowly down the avenue towards the gate. He had got the better of that tear-compelling softness as soon as he found himself beyond the presence of the girl he loved, and was now stern in his mood, striving to harden his heart. He had confessed himself a fool in comparison with Felix Graham; but yet—he asked himself—in spite of that, was it not possible that he would have made her a better husband than the other? It was not to his title or his estate that he trusted as he so thought, but to a feeling that he was more akin to her in circumstances, in ways of life, and in tenderness of heart. As all this was passing through his mind, Felix Graham presented himself to him in the road.
“Orme,” said he, “I heard that you were in the house, and have come to shake hands with you. I suppose you have heard what has taken place. Will you not shake hands with me?”
“No,” said Peregrine, “I will not.”
“I am sorry for that, for we were good friends, and I owe you much for your kindness. It was a fair stand-up fight, and you should not be angry.”
“I am angry, and I don’t want your friendship. Go and tell her that I say so, if you like.”
“No, I will not do that.”
“I wish with all my heart that we had both killed ourselves at that bank.”
“For shame, Orme, for shame!”
“Very well, sir; let it be for shame.” And then he passed on, meaning to go through the gate, and leaving Graham on the grass by the roadside. But before he had gone a hundred yards down the road his better feelings came back upon him, and he returned.
“I am unhappy,” he said, “and sore at heart. You must not mind what words I spoke just now.”
“No, no; I am sure you did not mean them,” said Felix, putting his hand on the horse’s mane.
“I did mean them then, but I do not mean them now. I won’t say anything about wishes. Of course you will be happy with her. Anybody would be happy with her. I suppose you won’t die, and give a fellow another chance.”
“Not if I can help it,” said Graham.
“Well, if you are to live, I don’t wish you any evil. I do wish you hadn’t come to Noningsby, that’s all. Goodbye to you.” And he held out his hand, which Graham took.
“We shall be good friends yet, for all that is come and gone,” said Graham; and then there were no more words between them.
Peregrine did as he said, and went abroad, extending his travels to many wild countries, in which, as he used to say, anyone else would have been in danger. No danger ever came to him—so at least he frequently wrote word to his mother. Gorillas he slew by scores, lions by hundreds, and elephants sufficient for an ivory palace. The skins, and bones, and other trophies, he sent home in various ships; and when he appeared in London as a lion, no man doubted his word. But then he did not write a book, nor even give lectures; nor did he presume to know much about the huge brutes he had slain, except that they were pervious to powder and ball.
Sir Peregrine had endeavoured to keep him at home by giving up the property into his hands; but neither for grandfather, nor for mother, nor for lands and money would he remain in the neighbourhood of Noningsby. “No, mother,” he said; “it will be better for me to be away.” And away he went.
The old baronet lived to see him return, though with plaintive wail he often declared to his daughter-in-law that this was impossible. He lived, but he never returned to that living life which had been his before he had taken up the battle for Lady Mason. He would sometimes allow Mrs. Orme to drive him about the grounds, but otherwise he remained in the house, sitting solitary over his fire—with a book, indeed, open before him, but rarely reading. He was waiting patiently, as he said, till death should come to him.
Mrs. Orme kept her promise, and wrote constantly to Lady Mason—hearing from her as constantly. When Lucius had been six months in Germany, he decided on going to Australia, leaving his mother for the present in the little German town in which they were staying. For her, on the whole, the change was for the better. As to his success in a thriving colony, there can be but little doubt.
Felix Graham was soon married to Madeline; and as yet I have not heard of any banishment either to Patagonia or to Merthyr-Tydvil.
And now I may say, Farewell.
Colophon
Orley Farm
was published in 1862 by
Anthony Trollope.
This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
David Reimer,
and is based on a transcription produced in 2007 by
Joseph E. Loewenstein
for
Project Gutenberg
and on digital scans from
Google Books.
The cover page is adapted
