never forgets.
That field and that wood Peregrine Orme would never forget. There was
the double ditch and bank over which Harriet Tristram had ridden with
so much skill and courage. There was the spot on which he had knelt
so long, while Felix Graham lay back against him, feeble and almost
speechless. And there, on the other side, had sat Madeline on her
horse, pale with anxiety but yet eager with hope, as she asked
question after question as to him who had been hurt.

Peregrine rode up to the ditch, and made his horse stand while he
looked at it. It was there, then, on that spot, that he had felt the
first pang of jealousy. The idea had occurred to him that he for
whom he had been doing a friend's offices with such zealous kindness
was his worst enemy. Had he,--he, Peregrine Orme,--broken his arms
and legs, or even broken his neck, would she have ridden up, all
thoughtless of herself, and thrown her very life into her voice as
she had done when she knew that Felix Graham had fallen from his
horse? And then he had gone on with his work, aiding the hurt man as
zealously as before, but still feeling that he was bound to hate him.
And afterwards, at Noningsby, he had continued to minister to him as
to his friend,--zealously doing a friend's offices, but still feeling
that the man was his enemy. Not that he was insincere. There was no
place for insincerity or treachery within his heart. The man had done
no ill,--was a good fellow--was entitled to his kindness by all the
social laws which he knew. They two had gone together from the same
table to the same spot, and had been close together when the one had
come to sorrow. It was his duty to act as Graham's friend; and yet
how could he not feel that he must hate him?

And now he sat looking at the fence, wishing,--wishing;--no,
certainly not wishing that Graham's hurt had been more serious; but
wishing that in falling from his horse he might utterly have fallen
out of favour with that sweet young female heart; or rather wishing,
could he so have expressed it, that he himself might have had the
fall, and the broken bones, and all the danger,--so that he might
also have had the interest which those eyes and that voice had shown.

And then quickly he turned his horse, and without giving the beast
time to steady himself he rammed him at the fence. The leap out of
the wood into the field was difficult, but that back into the wood
was still worse. The up-jump was higher, and the