A CRUCIFIXION
"Where are you taking me, Peregrine?"
Birds were singing joyously, the brook chuckled and laughed merrily
amid the shallows, the morning sun shone in glory, and all nature
seemed to rejoice, as if care and sadness were things unknown.
"Where are we going, dear Peregrine?"
"To seek your heart's desire."
"That sounds very lovely!" said Diana, laughing gaily and giving my
arm a little hug. "But everything seems so--wonderful lately!"
After this we walked in silence awhile, for when I would have told her
whither we were going and why, I could not, try how I would.
"Barbara was telling me how she first met you and Anthony; she is very
beautiful, don't ye think, Peregrine?"
"Very!"
"So beautiful that I wonder you didn't fall in love wi' her."
"I waited to fall in love with Diana, who is much more beautiful, I
think--"
"Do you, Peregrine, do you think so--really?"
Here, of course, I stopped to kiss her.
"The wonder is," said she, "the great wonder is that she didn't fall
in love wi' you, Peregrine."
"I'm very glad she didn't! Besides, there's Anthony, so strong and
tall and handsome, so altogether different to myself and much more
likely to capture a woman's fancy."
"Not all women, Peregrine."
Here she stopped to kiss me.
"Barbara is a much--gentler sort of fine lady than--your aunt, I
think--"
"Aunt Julia can be gentle also--sometimes, dear--"
"When she gets her own way, Peregrine!"
"You will learn to love her very much some day, I hope, Diana."
"I hope so--but it'll take her a mighty long time learning to love me,
I think," sighed Diana. "Lord, what furious fuss she'll make when she
finds out we'm married. Not as I shall care--if you don't, dear. Why,
Peregrine--yonder's Wyvelstoke Towers!"
"Yes," said I, "it is there we are going."
"But why--what for?"
"Dear, have patience--just a little longer," I pleaded.
At this she was silent, but her hand tightened on my arm, and I was
aware of the sudden trouble in her eyes. So, having crossed the park,
we came into the pleasaunce, a place of clipped yew hedges and trim
walks. And here who should meet us but the sedate Atkinson, who,
having saluted us gravely, led the way to a rustic arbour where sat
his lordship engaged upon the perusal of a book. At sight of us, he
rose to welcome us with his wistful, kindly smile.
"Ah, Peregrine," said he, viewing us with his keen gaze as we sat
beside him, "I perceive you have not told her."
"Not a word, sir," said I, a little hoarsely.
"Old pal," she questioned, glancing from me to his lordship and back
again, "what d'ye mean? Peregrine, what is it?"
"Diana," said I, finding my tongue very unready, "dear--what is your
greatest wish--what is your most passionate desire?"
"You!" she answered in her sweet, direct fashion.
"And--what next?"
"To be a lady! Oh, you know that and you know why--to be done wi' this
fear that sometimes I may shame you by my talk or by acting wrong; you
know, don't you?"
"This is why I brought you here, Diana. My lord has offered to--have
you taught all this and--much beside."
"Oh!" she sighed rapturously. "You mean to teach me to be a lady? Oh,
dear, dear old pal--can you, will you?"
"Child, it would be my most joyful privilege."
"But, Diana," I continued haltingly, yet speaking as lightly as I
could and keeping my gaze averted, "to learn so much you must--stay
with his lordship--travel abroad--meet great people--be instructed by
many skilled teachers and--there will be your music--singing--"
"Will they teach me everything a lady should learn, grammar an'
deportment an' dancing--?"
"Everything, Diana."
"But, Peregrine, while I'm away learning all this, where will you be?"
"I shall remain--here!"
"Oh, well, that's done it! I shall stay with you, of course!"
"That would be impossible," said I, as lightly as I could, "quite
impossible; such love as ours, that demands so much, would be a great
hindrance to your progress, don't you see? All the time you were
studying, I should hover around you most distractingly. No, we must
part--for a little while--"
"For how long, Peregrine?"
"Only two years, dear!"
"So long--so very long! Two years! Ah, no, no, I couldn't bear it!"
"Two years will--soon pass!" said I, between clenched teeth. "And of
course you will be--too busy to--miss me--very much--"
"Ah, how can you think so?"
"And you will be working for me as much as for your dear self, Diana,
and--our love--our future happiness. So you will go, dear heart--?"
"For two years? No--it's too long--you might die--O Peregrine!"
"The contingency is remote--I--I mean--"
"But I can't leave you! I mustn't--I won't! I shall be your wife!"
"No, Diana, that--that must wait until you--come back."
"Wait?" she gasped. "Peregrine--O Peregrine--"
"I want you to be free, Diana--"
"Well, I won't be! I'm not free and never shall be because I belong to
you and we belong to each other for ever and ever."
"Oh, my dear--my dear, God knows it!" cried I and clasped her to me in
yearning arms. "But I want you to go into this new life quite free and
unfettered, because it is a great and ever-growing wonder that you
should love me who am neither very handsome nor strong nor brave--so I
want you to meet men who are--fine gentlemen, and compare them with
poor me. And O Diana, if you can return so much cleverer and wiser for
all you have seen and learned and can still love me--why, then, Diana,
oh, then--" my voice broke but in this moment her arms were about me
and stooping her lovely head she mingled her tears with mine.
"Dear foolish boy," she murmured passionately, "how can you think
there could ever be any other but just you. Ah, Perry dear, don't send
me away; I should hate to be a lady now. Oh, be content with me as I
am--don't send me away--"
"I must--for your sake," I groaned, "for your future, to help you to
the better thing. Though God knows I love you well enough as you are,
and want you, Diana, want you with every nerve and fibre of me, with
every breath. Oh, sir, sir," I cried, "help me to be strong for--her
sake!"
"You are, boy!" answered his lordship, and I saw he had crossed to the
doorway and stood with his back to us. "Diana," he continued after a
moment, "in this world of change, of doubt and uncertainty, one thing
is very sure and beyond all cavil and dispute: Peregrine loves you far
better than he loves himself, since he is strong enough to forego so
much of present happiness for your future welfare. He honours me by
placing you in my charge, I who love you as a daughter and will treat
you as such. So, Diana, will you give yourself to my care awhile, will
you become my companion and loved child?"
"Must I, Peregrine?" she sobbed. "Oh, must I?"
"Yes!" said I, looking at her through blinding tears. "Yes!"
Obediently she arose and, crossing to his lordship, placed her hand in
his.
"I'll go wi' you, old pal," said she.
Now as our Ancient Person turned to smile at her, I saw his furrowed
cheek was wet with tears also.
"Sir, when--when do you start?" I enquired.
"At once, Peregrine. We shall be in London to-night."
"Then this is--good-bye, sir?"
"Yes, my children!"
"My lord," said I, rising wearily, "I am leaving with you all I
possess, my present joy, my--hope for the future, my loved Diana."
"God make me worthy of the charge, Peregrine."
All in a moment she was at my feet, upon her knees, her arms fast
about me, her face hidden against me, her body shaken with convulsive
sobs.
"O Perry, I can't--I can't do it--no, no--don't let me go--"
At this I knelt also and thus we faced each other on our knees, as
when Love first had found us. And so I clasped and kissed and strove
to comfort her, until the passion of her grief was abated. "Must I go,
dear Peregrine--must I go?" she whispered, beneath my kisses.
"Yes, for the sake of the future--yours and mine. God keep you
and--good-bye, my own Diana!"
Then I arose and left her there upon her knees, looking after me
through fast-falling tears and her loved arms stretched out to me in
piteous supplication.
"Peregrine," she pleaded, "oh, my Peregrine!"
But I turned away and rushed from the spot, never daring to look back;
but ever as I went, that desolate cry rang and echoed in my ears.