CHAPTER XXXIX

HOW I CAME HOME AGAIN

"Two years! Emptiness! Loneliness! Two years!" It was in the hurry of

my footsteps, birds sang it, leaves whispered it, my heart throbbed to

it.

"Two years! Emptiness! Loneliness! Two years!" Sometimes tears blinded

me, sometimes anger shook me, but always was the pain of loss, the

yearning for that loved and vanished presence.--"Two years!"

More than once I turned to hasten back--to end this misery--back to my

Diana, this maid who was more precious, more necessary to my life than

I had ever dreamed. I should have but to lift my finger, nay ... one

look and she would be in my arms ... so very easy, and therefore ...

so utterly impossible.

Sometimes I hurried on at breathless speed, sometimes crept on slow,

unwilling feet, sometimes stood motionless to stare blindly about me,

raged at and torn by conflicting thoughts ... agonising ...

irresolute.

How long I wandered thus I cannot say, but the sun was low when, amid

the leafy whispering of familiar tree, I heard the cheery ring of the

Tinker's anvil.

At sight of me he dropped his hammer and fell back a step.

"Why Peregrine," said he. "Why, Perry lad--don't look so! Is aught

wrong?"

"Only my heart is breaking, I think!" said I, and casting myself down

at the foot of a tree, I covered my face.

"God love me!" exclaimed the Tinker; and then he was kneeling beside

me. "What is it, lad, what is it?"

"I've sent my Diana from me!"

"Sent her from ye, lad?"

"For two years, Jerry. Two weary years ... emptiness ... loneliness. I

have placed her in the Earl of Wyvelstoke's charge ... they start for

London at once ... leave England as soon as possible ... she is gone

... two years, Jerry ... two weary years ... desolation!"

"Peregrine," said he in hushed voice, "this was her great wish--to be

a lady for your sake. She's told me so many's the time ... an' I

caught her in tears over it once."

"I have sent her away, Jerry, for two years!"

"Peregrine," said he, "'t is a fine thing to be a gentleman, but 't is

a grand thing to be a man big enough an' brave enough to do such act

as this here. God bless ye, lad!"

"O Jerry--O Jerry, I love her so...! Yearn and hunger for her so

much ... it is a pain!"

"Aye, but 't is such pain as makes the strong stronger! 'Tis such love

as do be everlasting and reaches high as heaven--"

"Two years, Jerry! Two long, weary years to wait ... to yearn ... to

live through without her ... emptiness!"

"Ah, but you've done right, lad, you've done right. And then--what's

two years? Lord, they'll soon go! And her love for you'll be a-growin'

with every month--every day an' hour, lad, an' she'll come back t' ye

at last, only more beautiful, more wonderful an' more loving than ever

she was--"

"O Jerry," said I, grasping at him with sudden hands. "You don't think

... death ... you don't think she may die?"

"Die? What, Ann--s' strong an' full o' vig'rous life? Lord, not she,

lad, not she--never think it!"

"Or ... forget me, Jerry?"

"What--Ann? Lord love ye--no! She ain't one to forget or change--never

was, an' I've knowed her since a little child. An' she's never loved

afore--hated men! An' why? Because 't was always her beauty as they

wanted--her body--an' never a thought of her mind, d'ye see! An'

now--she's to travel to see the world, is she! An' with the Earl--an'

him such a great gentleman! 'T is wonderful good fortun' for her,

Peregrine, wonderful!"

"Yes, he is a very great gentleman and a truly noble man, Jerry."

"An' now, what o' yourself, lad?"

"I shall continue to live with you, Jerry; I shall go on smithing and

tinkering--yes, harder than ever--"

"No!" said the Tinker, sitting back on his heels and shaking his head

at me with the utmost vehemence. "Tinkering ain't for you, Peregrine,

an' you can do better things than swingin' a sledge--ah, a sight

better!"

"What do you suppose I can do?" sighed I miserably.

"Paint pictoors!"

"Impossible! I shall never be a real painter, Jerry."

"Well, then--write!"

"Impossible! I shall never be a poet, Jerry."

"Well, have you ever thought o' writin' a nov-el?"

"Never!"

"Well, what about it?"

"Impossible! Of what should I write?"

"Why, about HER--Anna, for sure, your Diana as would ha' made a better

goddess than the real one, I reckon."

"Why, yes," said I, lifting my head, "I might do that, no matter how

badly. To write of her would be better than to talk of her. To try to

tell all her loveliness, her sweet, strong, virginal soul, her wisdom,

her purity, her brave independence, to picture all this in words, no

matter how inadequate, I shall see her with the eyes of Memory; she

will be back with me in spirit.... A book! Jerry, O Jeremy, this is an

excellent thought.... to see her again ... to talk with her by means

of pen and ink!"

In my eagerness I started up to my feet; then, the hot fit, passing,

gave place to the cold, and Doubt leapt to seize me. "But I've never

tried to write a book! Who am I to write a book?"

"Lord, don't be down-hearted afore you try, lad!" admonished the

Tinker, for I had spoken this doubt aloud. "There's times in all

writers' lives when they haven't writ a line, yet books are written

all the same. Books ain't made, lad; they happen and they happen

because a cove has an eye to see a little way beneath the surface o'

things and an ear as can hear voices in the wind, an' a mind as

discovers sum'mat in everything to wonder at. So he goes on lookin'

an' listenin' an' wonderin' till one day out it has to come--an'

there's your book. Now you're full up o' love, ain't you?"

"Yes, Jerry."

"Good! Well, write it down. There's nothing goes better in a nov-el

than love, except blood--a splash or so here an' there, battle, murder

an' sudden death--just a tang or so t' season it. I know, for I used

t' sell nov-els once, ah, an' read 'em too! But love's the thing, lad!

Everybody loves to read o' love--'specially old codgers, d'ye

see--gouty old coves as curse their servants, swear at their families

and, hid in corners, shed tears over the woes o' the hero an' heroine

o' some nov-el an' stub their gouty toe a-kickin' of the villain. An'

then there's the ladies--'specially the very young 'uns, God bless

their bibs an' tuckers! Lord, how they sigh an' tremble an' toss their

pretty curls an' weep an' languish. I heard o' one as always read wi'

her smellin'-salts handy, but then, to be sure, she was a maiden lady

of uncertain age as wished she wasn't an' was smitten wi' love for Tom

Jones, besides, poor soul!"

"But my book--if I ever do write one, will not be read by any one."

"O? Mr. Perry--an' why not?"

"Being all about Diana, it will be too sacred for the perusal of all

and sundry."

"There you're wrong, lad; no book can be too sacred for all folks to

read, if it's writ honestly and sincerely. An' what a book you ought

to write. First there's Anna an' yourself--folks would like to read

about the two o' ye--you're such strange children. Then there's

Jessamy--a wonderful character for any book. Next comes your uncles

an' aunt--Lord, Peregrine, an' there's for ye--'specially your aunt!

And last--" said he, a little wistfully, "if you want some one to fill

in, kind of--to keep th' pot a-b'iling as it were, why--there's me.

Not as your readers will be downright eager to read about a

tinker--no, but you might work me in as a literary cove, d'ye see. How

about it? What d'ye think, Perry lad?"

"Excellent well!" I exclaimed. "You inspire me with such strange

confidence, Jerry, I almost feel I might manage a book--of sorts."

"Then go and try, lad."

"When--where--how?"

"This minute! At home! By hard work!"

"You mean leave--go back to Merivale--to-night?"

"Aye, I do. You can catch the mail at Tonbridge and you'll be home

afore the moon's up."

"Do you know Merivale then, Jerry?"

"O' course. I'll harness Diogenes an' drive you in."

And so, within the hour, behold me upon the stage-coach that would

carry me within a mile of home; behold Jerry standing below, gazing up

at me with his wistful smile, a Jeremy whose form and features were

blurred suddenly by hot tears as the whip cracked, hoofs stamped, and

the London Mail lurched forward with a shrill and jubilant fanfare on

the horn that drowned my cry of farewell, as Jeremy's blurred image

waved blurred arm and, what with my tears and the dust, was blotted

from me altogether.

With the small incidents of this short journey I will not worry the

reader. Suffice it that the moon was high-risen when at last I reached

Merivale. The lodge gates were shut for the night, and being in no

mood to disturb any one, I clambered over the wall at an

easily-accessible, well-remembered spot, and going by familiar paths,

presently beheld the house, its many latticed casements winking

ghostly to the moon, and a beam of soft light striking athwart the

terrace from that chamber wherein my aunt Julia was wont to write her

letters and transact all business of the estate. So thither came I to

find the window wide open, for the night was hot, and to behold my

aunt, as handsome and statuesque as ever, bent gracefully above her

escritoire, pen in white fist, like an industrious goddess.

"Aunt Julia," said I, "pray don't be startled--I have come home--"

At this, though I had spoken softly, she dropped the pen, rose and,

clasping hands to bosom, uttered a scream, though sweetly modulated

and extremely ladylike. Then we were in each other's arms and she was

weeping and laughing over me in a very ecstasy of welcome.

"Dear Peregrine--loved boy, at last! How brown you are! You're taller,

bigger--handsomer, I vow--and you have come back to me. O Peregrine!

You have come back to my loving care, dearest. Your wanderings are

over?"

"Yes, dear aunt," I answered, stifling a sigh, "my wanderings are

over."

"Oh, heaven bless you, dear boy! God be thanked--"

"And what of my good, generous uncles, dear Aunt?"

"I have banished the wretches--forbade them my presence--"

"Dear Aunt, pray why?"

"Because they are wretches."

"Then to-morrow we will write and bid them welcome."

"Never, Peregrine!"

"To-morrow, dear Aunt."

"Peregrine!" she exclaimed, starting and frowning a little, "I said,

'Never'!"

"And I said 'to-morrow', dear Aunt!"

"Boy!" she cried, lovely head proudly aloft.

"Aunt!" said I. "How very beautiful you are!" and drawing down that

lovely head, I kissed her; at this, she flushed, and drew away,

drooping her lashes like a girl.

"Why, Peregrine!" she murmured.

"They both love you so truly and faithfully, dear Aunt, and no wonder!

And they are such--men! So to-morrow we will write to them?"

"Very well, dear Peregrine!" said my proud aunt, softly and not in the

least proudly. "But you are hungry, thirsty--you must eat--"

"Thank you, no--only weary--"

So hand in hand she led me to my chamber.

"See, dear boy, I have kept everything as you left it; your bed is

quite ready, the sheets aired, all waiting for you when you should

choose to come."

She led me about the great chamber, showing me all things as they had

been on the night of my departure, even to the pen where I had tossed

it upon an unfinished manuscript. And no mention, never one word of

Diana; for the which I loved her and was grateful.

"Dear Aunt," said I, and kissed her. "O dear Aunt Julia!"

But when at last she was gone and I alone in the soft luxury of this

chamber, desolation filled me and I yearned bitterly for the

discomforts of the little camp within the copse; the rustle of leaves,

the soft, murmurous gurgle of the brook, the winking stars overhead;

for Jeremy, and Jessamy Todd and my loved Diana. And coming to the

open lattice, I leaned there to look upon the moon, this other Diana

so placid and serene. And thinking that perhaps my Diana looked upon

her even now, a Diana not at all placid and serene but with sweet,

grey eyes a-brim with tears and heart full of yearning tenderness--even

as mine, I fell upon my knees and stretching out my arms, whispered words

of love with passionate prayers:

"O Diana, beloved ... O God of Heaven--God of Mercy, bring her back

to me at last with heart as sweet and pure--teach me to be worthy,

fit me for such happiness.... O loved Diana of the Silent Places, my

love goes with you always, and for ever, strong, sweet goddess of my

life.

... Two years!"

TO THE READER

Here then, do I end this book, because this is the Book of Diana and

she is gone out of my life.

So do I lay down my pen for a while, uneasily conscious of my

narrative's many imperfections and greatly fearing that I have fallen

very far short in my description of Diana.

But what work of man may hope to be utterly perfect? And who shall

recapture the vanished glory of the dream?

Here, then, do I let fall the curtain; when it rises, the world and I

shall be two years older, two years wiser, two years better, or the

worse.

_Book Two_

SHADOW

CHAPTER I

THE INCIDENTS OF AN EARLY MORNING WALK

I remember waking to find myself very miserable in a ghastly dawn,

where guttering candles flickered in their sockets, casting an

unearthly light upon bottles, silverware, and more bottles that stood

or lay amidst overturned and broken glasses; an unseemly jumble that

littered a long table whose rumpled cloth was plentifully besplashed

with spilled wine and flanked by empty chairs.

Into my drugged consciousness stole a sound that might have been wind

in trees, or a mill race, or some industrious artisan busied with a

saw, yet which I knew could be none of these, and my drowsy puzzlement

grew. Therefore I roused myself with some vague notion of solving this

mystery and turned to behold in this ghastly light a ghostly face; a

handsome face, but very stern, square-chinned, black-browed, aquiline,

scowling upon the dawn.

"Uncle Jervas!" said I, a little thickly. "You look like a ghost,

sir!"

At this he started, but when he turned, his face was impassive as

ever.

"Shall I wish you many happy returns of last night, Nephew?"

"God forbid, sir!" said I, bowing aching head upon my hands.

"It is perhaps a blessing to remember, Peregrine, that one comes of

age but once in one's lifetime."

"It is, sir!" I groaned. "Pray what--what is that sound, sir--so

monotonous and--damnable?"

"It is rather an aggregation of sounds, emanating in unison from your

good friends the Marquis of Jerningham, Viscount Devenham and Mr.

Vere-Manville--they sleep remarkably soundly!"

"And--the others, sir?"

"Departed in the small hours, with your uncle George--and four of 'em

in tears!"

"It was a dreadful night, sir."

"It was a night of nights, Peregrine. I remember only one to equal

it."

"And that, sir?"

"Your father's coming of age. But talking of ghosts, Perry, I almost

fancied I saw one--no longer ago than last night--on my way here. But

then I don't believe in ghosts--and this one was seated in a closed

carriage and accompanied by a rather handsome young woman--and she was

weeping, I fancy. Your head aches, Nephew?"

"Damnably, Uncle Jervas. I hate wine!"

"Yet one must drink occasionally, boy."

"You can, sir," I groaned, "last night you honoured every toast--yet

here you sit--"

"Looking like a ghost, Nephew."

"And utterly unaffected, Uncle."

"On the contrary, inordinate drinking afflicts me horribly, Nephew,

stimulates me to thought, harrows me with memory, resurrects things

best forgotten! Ah, there's the sun at last. I'll leave you,

Peregrine--I'll out to greet the day."

"I should like to walk with you if I may, sir."

"By all means, Nephew, 't will ease your head, perhaps."

And so, moving softly lest we disturb the three sonorous sleepers, a

wholly unnecessary precaution, we took our hats and surtouts and

stepped out into an empty street swept by a clean, soft wind that

cooled my throbbing temples, and my sick heaviness was lifted somewhat

in the sweet, pure breath of dawn.

"You have been about town for nearly a year, haven't you, Peregrine?"

"Yes, sir, long enough to teach me I love the country better than I

thought."

"You are sufficiently dissipated, I trust?"

"I endeavour to be, sir. Her Grace of Camberhurst shakes her head over

me, though I do my best--"

"Does it require so great an effort?"

"Somewhat, sir. You see, I find dissipation a particularly wearisome

business."

"Wearisome, Nephew? You surprise me!"

"And depressingly dreary, Uncle."

"You astonish me!"

"Indeed, dissipation thoroughly distresses me."

"You amaze me! But you gamble, I presume?"

"When nothing better offers, sir."

"Well upon me everlasting soul--!"

"I hope I do not shock you, Uncle Jervas?"

"Worry would be the more apt word, perhaps; you worry me, Nephew. Such

impeccable virtue naturally suggests an early death--a harp--a halo!

And yet you appear to enjoy robust health. Pray to what do you

attribute your so great immunity from those pleasant weaknesses that

are so frequently a concomitant of strength and youthful vigour--those

charming follies, bewitching foibles that a somewhat rigorous

convention stigmatises as vices--abhorrent word!"

"You mean, sir, what excuse do I offer for not being politely vicious

as seems so much the fashion?"

"I confess you puzzle me, boy, for you are anything but an angel in

pantaloons. I have occasionally thought to remark in you a hint of

unplumbed deeps--of passions as hot and fierce as--"

"Your own, Uncle Jervas?" At this he turned to glare at me rather

haughtily, then his eyes softened, his lips twitched.

"So women do not appeal to you, Peregrine. Pray why?"

"Because woman appeals to me so much--one, sir!"

"Ah, your roving gipsy?"

"Precisely, sir."

"Where is she, at present?"

"I believe in Italy, sir."

"Hum! Your friend Vere-Manville ran across her in Rome, I believe.

When did you hear from her last?"

"One year and ten months ago, sir."

"Painfully exact! And how many letters has she written you, may I

ask?"

"One, sir."

"Hum! You know that the Earl of Wyvelstoke has made her his ward and

heiress, Peregrine?"

"His lordship informed me of the fact, Uncle."

"He corresponds with you, then?"

"Every month without fail."

"Then of course you know he is returning to England shortly and holds

a great reception at his place in town, a fortnight from to-day, I

think?"

"Yes, sir."

"And in the space of two years you have received one letter from your

beautiful gipsy?"

"Only one, sir! Though his lordship has kept me informed as to her

welfare and progress."

"Such sublime patience argues either indifference or stupendous faith,

boy!"

"Sir--sir," cried I, stirred at last. "Oh, sir, how may love be--how

endure without faith?"

"Yours is a strange love, Peregrine, exceeding patient and

long-suffering! You practically compelled her to--accept his

lordship's offer, I believe?"

"Uncle--Uncle Jervas," I stammered, "how should you know this?"

"I have the honour to number the Earl of Wyvelstoke among my few

friends, he writes to me also--occasionally. You are an immensely

confiding lover, and your patience is almost--superhuman."

"However, my waiting is nearly over, I shall see her soon--soon!"

"In company with every buck, Corinthian and Macaroni in London,

Peregrine."

"Still--I shall see her, sir!"

"If the reports of her singing, her wit and beauty are but half true,

Peregrine, she will be the rage, the universal toast."

"Still--she will be--Diana, sir!"

"But two years, Nephew--wealth, rank, adulation--can these have

wrought no change, think you?"

"Only for the better, sir!"

"Oh, the sublime assurance of Youth!" murmured my uncle. "Have you no

doubt of yourself, now that you are no longer the--the--ah--'only

Richmond in the field'?"

Here, though I strove to speak, I could not, but walked with head

bowed, but very conscious of his keen scrutiny.

"You are so intense, Perry," he continued after a moment, "so very,

damnably intense that I confess I grow a little fearful lest you be

disappointed, and therefore take the liberty to annoy you with my

dismal croakings, if I may--shall I proceed?"

"Pray do, sir!"

"Then, Peregrine, I would warn you that, considering her new attitude

towards life, her very altered views upon the world in general, it is

only to be expected your gipsy may find you very different from her

first estimation of you--"

"Ah, there it is, sir--there it is!" I groaned. "The haunting fear

that to-day--measured by the larger standard of her new experiences,

she may find me fall very far short of what she imagines me--"

"And if this be so,--how then?"

"Do not ask me, sir,--don't!"

"The ordinary, impassioned youth, under such unpleasantly frequent

circumstances, Peregrine, would seek oblivion in bottles or fly

instantly to all manner of riot and dissipation and be cured sooner or

later--but you? Knowing what I do of your devilishly intense nature, I

must admit I am a little disquieted. You see, Peregrine, I have

learned, though I grant you a little painfully, still I have learned

at last to--ah--to care for you so much that your unhappiness would

affect me--rather cursedly, boy--yes, rather cursedly."

"Uncle Jervas," said I, "indeed--indeed I am proud to have won your

esteem; I shall endeavour to be worthy of it."

"Why then, Nephew," said he, slipping his arm into mine, "whatever

damnable buffets Fate sees fit to deal you, whatever disappointments

are in store, you will of course meet them with a serene

fortitude--eh, boy?"

"You may trust me, sir. Not," I continued hastily "not that I

anticipate any change of heart in Diana. Could you but have known her,

sir--!"

"Pray tell me of her, Peregrine, if you will."

Our walk had brought us to Vauxhall, and skirting the gardens with

their groves and walks, their fountains, temples and grottoes, we went

on beside the river, I talking of Diana, my uncle listening, and both

watching the sun rise over the great city, to gild vane and

weathercock of countless spires and steeples and make a broad-bosomed

glory of the noble river. Suddenly my uncle halted to point before him

with tasselled cane where two rough-looking men, unconscious of our

approach, were crouched among the sedge beside the water.

"Let us see what these fellows are doing!" said he. So we advanced

until, being very near, we halted, for now indeed we saw only too

well.

She lay where they had dragged her, just above the hungry tide, a

slender, pitiful thing, young and beautiful, yet now dreadfully pale

and still, shrouded in her long, wet tresses; a mute and beautiful

thing, all heedless now of the rough hands that touched her, or the

kindly sun's tender beam that showed the pitiful droop of pallid lips

and motionless lashes, and the slender fingers of the small, right

hand clenched in death. Even now, as I stood bareheaded, my breath in

check, one of the fellows grasped this hand, wrenched open these

delicate fingers with brutal strength, and finding within them only a

wisp of crumpled paper, swore a hoarse oath of baffled cupidity that

changed to a howl as my uncle's cane rapped him smartly across

bull-neck.

"Detestable savage!" exclaimed my uncle, scowling down into the man's

startled face. "Learn reverence for the dead! Now pass me that paper!"

The man snarled a threat, whereupon my uncle rapped him again.

"The paper--do you hear--animal?"

The man rubbed his neck, muttered an oath, and gave the wisp of paper

to my uncle, who, without glancing at it, took off his hat and bowed

his head.

"Poor soul!" he sighed gently, his impassive face transfigured by an

extraordinary tenderness. "Poor frightened, weary soul--so young, so

very young, and now fled--whither? Poor--poor child--Stop! Keep your

beastly hands off her!" This to the bull-necked fellow, who flinched

and drew away, snarling.

"Lumme, me lord!" whined the second man, a small, mean person. "What's

ye game? She's ourn--we found 'er, Job an' me--seen 'er out in th'

race, us did, floatin' s' pretty, an' folleyed 'er, us did, 'til she

came ashore. She b'longs t' us, me lord, as Job'll swear--to diskiver

a corp' means money, an' corpses, 'specially sich pretty 'uns, don't

come often enough--"

"Pah!" cried my uncle. "There is a hurdle over yonder, fetch it--you!"

The bull-necked fellow rose, but, instead of complying, turned short

and sprang, an open knife in his hand; my uncle Jervas stepped lightly

aside, his long arm shot out, and the bull-necked man went down

heavily; he was in the act of rising when my uncle set his foot upon

the man's knife-hand, placidly crushed and crushed it until he roared,

until the gripping fingers relaxed their hold, whereupon my uncle

kicked the knife into the river.

"And now--beast--fetch the hurdle yonder!" said he.

So the men brought the hurdle and my uncle, stripping off his fine

surtout, made therewith a pillow for the beautiful, piteous head.

"And now, where shall we take her?" he demanded.

"There's an ale-'us down yonder, me lord, nice an' 'andy," answered

the little man. "Us gen'ally takes 'em theer."

"Ah, do you mean you find many such?"

"A tidy few, me lord, but not s' many as us could wish, d'ye see--"

"Pah! Let us take her there. And be gentle with her."

"Gentle!" growled the bull-necked man. "'Er's dead, ain't

'er--gentle!"

So we moved off in mournful procession until we came to a small

waterside tavern, whose inmates my uncle peremptorily awakened, and

soon had forth a gruff, sleepy fellow to show the way and unlock a

tumble-down outhouse, into which they bore their silent burden,

followed by my uncle, bareheaded.

As for me, I walked to and fro in the sunshine, feeling myself cold

and shivering. At last I heard the doors close and turning, beheld my

uncle's tall, immaculate figure striding towards me.

"A sad sight, Perry, a dismal, woeful sight--and on such a glorious

morning. Come, let us go." So saying, he put on his hat, sternly

refusing the offer of my outer coat, and taking my arm, we began to

retrace our steps. Suddenly he checked, and feeling in his pocket,

brought forth that crumpled wisp of paper and, smoothing it out,

glanced at it and I saw his eyes grow suddenly fierce.

"Haredale!" said he thoughtfully. "Haredale?" and passed the paper to

me whereon I read these words, blotched with water, yet still legible:

You are unreasonable, but this is feminine.

You anger me, but this is natural.

You weary me--and this is fatal.

Adieu,

HAREDALE.

"Haredale!" said I.

"Haredale?" sighed my uncle. "The name is unfamiliar, I know none of

the name in London. Do you, Peregrine?"

"No, sir!" I answered. "No--and yet--it seems as if--yes, I have heard

it, Uncle, but not in London. I heard it mentioned two years ago--in a

wood. It was spoken by a scoundrel who named himself Haredale though

Lord Wyvelstoke addressed him as--Devereux!"

"Devereux!" said my uncle in so strange a tone that I lifted my gaze

from the scrawled name and saw that he had removed his hat again and

was staring at me with an expression as strange as his voice, his eyes

fixed and intent as though they stared at things I could not see, brow

wrinkled, nostrils expanded, chin more aggressive than usual.

"Devereux! Nephew, you--are sure it was--Devereux?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Hum!" said my uncle, putting on his hat. "I'll trouble you for that

scrap of paper, Nephew. Thanks! Now let us go on. Your headache is

better, I hope?"

"Much better, sir. But pray take my coat, you are shivering."

"Thank you, no--there is nothing like the early morning, it fills one

with a zest of life, the _joie de vivre_--though I will admit I

am seldom abroad at this hour."

Now despite his light tone, I noticed two things, his eyes were still

fixed and intent and a thin trickle of moisture gleamed beneath his

hat brim.

"Poor child!" sighed my uncle. "Let us hope her bruised spirit has

found rest, a surcease from all troubles. Let us hope she has found

the Infinite Happiness if there be such in the Great Beyond.

Haredale--hum! Have you any recollection of this man, Perry; his

looks, air, voice--could you describe him?"

"He was tall, sir, as yourself, or very nearly--looked younger than

his years--a cold, imperturbable man, dark, but of pale complexion,

with deep-set eyes that seemed to glow strangely. A man of iron will

who fronted Lord Wyvelstoke unflinchingly even after his arm was shot

and broken!" And here I described the incident as fully as possible.

"And what was the name Lord Wyvelstoke used?"

"Devereux, sir."

"Hum!" said my uncle. And thereafter we walked in silence through

streets beginning to stir with the busy life of a new day.

Reaching my uncle's chambers in St. James's Street, he paused in the

doorway to glance up and down the street with that same expression of

fixed intensity, that faraway look of absorption.

"This," said he, speaking almost as with an effort, "this has been

a--somewhat eventful walk of ours, Peregrine. I will not invite you to

breakfast, remembering you have guests of your own. Au revoir."

"Uncle Jervas," said I, as we clasped hands, "this has indeed been an

eventful walk, for to-day I have learned to know you better than I

ever expected, or dared to hope--sir, are you ill?" I questioned

anxiously, for despite that trickle of moisture at his temple, the

hand I held felt deadly cold and nerveless. "Are you ill, sir?"

"Never better, Perry!" he laughed, clapping me lightly on the

shoulder. "Get you to your guests. And by the by--talking of ghosts

and grimly spectres--egad, Perry, I almost believe they do haunt this

sorry world, sometimes!" So saying, he laughed, turned, and was gone,

leaving me to stare after him in anxious wonderment.

CHAPTER II

INTRODUCING JASPER SHRIG, A BOW STREET RUNNER

"Ham, Peregrine?"

"Thank you, no, Anthony!" said I, shuddering slightly. "But where are

the others? Asleep still?"

"Gone, Perry. At sight of this ham Jerny shied like a wild colt,

Devenham moaned, and together they tottered forth into the bleak

world. Did you say ham, Perry?"

"I--did--not!"

"Beef then--beef looks excellent! Beef?"

"Horrible!" I exclaimed, turning my back on the breakfast table. "Eat

if you can, Tony, but talk you must and shall."

"Of last night, Peregrine?"

"Of Diana. I've scarcely had a word with you since your arrival."

"Which was last night."

"How is she, Anthony? Is she indeed handsomer--lovelier? Did she seem

happy? Did she talk about--did she--happen to mention--"

"She did, Perry, talked of you frequently, very much so! Won't you try

a cup of coffee and a crust--"

"Tell me how--where you first met her."

"It was at the ambassador's ball and mark you, Perry, there were some

uncommonly fine women there, though none of 'em, no, damme, not one to

compare with my Loveliness, of course--"

"You mean Barbara?"

"Of course. Well, my boy, we'd made our bow and here was Loveliness

worrying in her pretty fashion because my cravat had shifted or some

such, and here was I pulling at the thing and saying, 'Yes, dear,' and

making it worse when, as the poet says, 'amid this glittering throng

of lovely women and gallant men' my charmed eye alighted upon a

haughty beauty, a ravishing creature condescending to be worshipped by

a crowd of fawning slaves, civilian, soldier and sailor of all

stations and ranks, from purple-faced admirals and general officers to

pink, downy-whiskered subalterns. 'Egad, Loveliness,' says I, jerking

at my cravat, 'what asinine fools brave men and gallant gentlemen can

make of themselves for lovely woman--look yonder!' 'Where?' says she.

'There!' says I, 'the dark, dazzling beauty yonder!' So Loveliness

looks, and at that very moment Beauty breaks from the abject circle of

her fawning slaves and comes running. 'Diana!' cries Loveliness.

'Barbara!' cries Beauty, and they are in each other's arms--and there

you are, Perry. Astonishing how they love each other. So when I left

to attend this birthday of yours, Loveliness must stay with her

Diana--I miss her most damnably!"

"Has she so many admirers?" I sighed.

"Hordes of 'em, Perry! Troops, squadrons, regiments, begad! So has my

Loveliness, for that matter."

"And are you never jealous?"

"Devil a bit, dear fellow. Though," said he, slowly clenching his

right hand into a powerful fist and scowling down at it, "given the

occasion--I could be, Perry, y-e-s, madly, brutally--I could kill--do

murder, I believe. Oh, pshaw! My Barbara is so sweet, so purely a

thing of heaven that sometimes I--I hate myself for not having been

better--more worthy. Women are so infinitely better than ourselves, or

so infinitely--worse. And she sent you a letter--here it is!"

"A letter? Diana? Where?"

"A snack of ham or beef first, Perry, love letters don't go over-well

on empty stomachs--" But here I caught the letter from him and sat

with it in fingers that shook a little, staring at the superscription.

"Her writing has improved amazingly!" said I.

"Dear fellow," he answered, sharpening the carving knife quite

unnecessarily, "go away and read it, seek some quiet spot and leave me

to eat in peace."

"Thanks, Tony," said I gratefully, and hastened into the next room

forthwith, there to read and re-read the superscription, to commit all

those tender follies natural to lovers and finally to break the seal.

DEAR, DEAR MY PEREGRINE:

Very soon we shall see each other, and this thought makes me tremble

with alternate happiness and dread. Yes, dread, my Peregrine, because

these years have changed me in many ways--oh, shall I please you as I

am now? Will you love me as you did when I was only your humble Diana

of the Silent Places? For Peregrine, you loved me then so very much,

so truly and with such wonderful unselfishness that I am afraid you

may not love the Diana of to-day quite so well as the Diana of two

years ago. But dear Peregrine, know that my heart is quite--quite

unchanged; you will always be the one man of all others, the Peregrine

whose generous love lifted me high above my girlish dreams but never

oh, never any higher than his own heart. So Peregrine, love me when I

come back to you or these long two years will have been lived in vain

and I shall run away back to the Silent Places and die an old maid.

Perhaps I shall seem strange when we meet, but this will only be

because I fear you a little and doubt a little how you may feel

towards this new Diana--so love me, let me see it in your eyes, hear

it in your voice. It is so much easier to write than to say, so I will

write it again--Love me, Peregrine, love me because I am yours--now

and always.

DIANA.

Having read this letter I laid it down and took from an inner pocket

another letter, somewhat worn and frayed by over-much handling, which

bore these words, smudged and blotted a little, though written with

painful care.

DEAR PERRYGREEN:

Your letter has made me cry dredfully. I cannot bear to think of you

so lonly because I am lonly to. I cannot bear to think of you on your

nees I would rather think of you as I saw you last so brave and

determined. Pray for me as I pray for you only don't rite to me or I

shall run back to you because I am not very brave and want you so. O

dear Perrygreen always love

YOUR DIANA.

"You're looking confoundedly glum, Perry; I hope the _billet_ is

quite sufficiently _doux_?"

"Quite--indeed, quite!" said I, starting out of my reverie. "It is a

letter such as only Diana could have written--"

"Then your woe undoubtedly proceeds from stomach; for the emptiness of

same I prescribe ham, shall we say mingled--judiciously blended--with

beef--"

"Abhorrent thought!" I exclaimed. At this moment, after a discreet

knock on the door, my valet Clegg entered.

"Sir," said he in his soft and toneless voice, "the groom is below;

shall you ride or drive this morning?"

"Neither!" I answered, whereupon Clegg bowed and withdrew.

"Excellent!" nodded Anthony. "Nothing like walking to make an empty

stomach aware of its vacuity. By the way, queer article that Clegg

fellow of yours--face like a mask! Where did you pick him up?"

"I don't remember. He had excellent references, I believe. Why do you

ask?"

"Fancy I've seen him before. Come, let us adventure forth in search of

your appetite."

To us in the hall came Clegg to bring our hats and canes.

"Were you ever in the service of a Captain Danby?" enquired Anthony,

his keen gaze on Clegg's impassive face.

"Yes, sir, I was valet to Captain Marmaduke Danby--two years ago."

"I saw you with him once at a small inn called 'The Jolly Waggoner.'"

Clegg bowed deferentially, but when he looked up his pale eyes seemed

to glow strangely and his pallid cheek was slightly flushed.

"Yes, sir, Captain Danby sent for me to attend him there--I found him

in bed exceedingly--unwell. He was--suffering, sir. He suffered quite

a--good deal of--pain, sir--of pain."

Saying which, Clegg bowed us out into the street with a deeper

obeisance than usual.

"Strange!" said Anthony, taking my arm. "You have probably forgotten

this Danby, the fellow I had the pleasure of thrashing, Perry?"

"I shall never forget how you stood on him and wiped your boots,

Anthony."

"I did chastise him somewhat severely, I remember. But I learned

something more of his villainy from Barbara, as we drove away, and I

returned next day to give him another dose but found him in bed

bandaged like a mummy and this Clegg fellow of yours beside him. I

learned afterwards that he was friend to that same scoundrel Barbara's

father was forcing the sweet soul to marry, damn him!"

"The world seems full of unhanged villains!" said I, through shut

teeth.

"Oh, is it, begad?"

"It is!"

"You're devilish gloomy, Perry."

"I fear I am."

"All stomach, ye know, dear fellow. I've noticed this poor old world

is generally blamed most damnably, purely because of the night of the

morning after--more especially upon an empty--"

"Don't say it again, Anthony, for heaven's sake!"

"But you're curst gloomy and devilish doleful--"

"Anthony, dear man, while you were snoring blissfully this morning I

watched a poor, beautiful young creature dragged out of the river."

"Dead, Perry?"

"Yes. She was probably drowning herself last night while we drank and

rioted--poor despairing child!" and here I described the dreadful

incident very fully. "You have never met or heard of any one named

Haredale, have you, Anthony?" I ended.

"No," he answered, "no! Gad, Perry," he burst out with a vicious twirl

of his cane, "there are times when killing is a laudable act!" After

this we walked in silence for some time.

"Where are we going?" he questioned suddenly.

Hereupon I glanced up, for I had walked with my gaze bent earthward,

and saw that we were close upon the river.

"Since we are here," I answered, "I will show you where it--she lies.

It was yonder they found her, and over there, beyond those trees, is a

wretched tavern--"

"And on the other side of the hedge, Perry, is a small, unpleasant

person who peeps and peers and follows. Let us investigate!"

So saying, Anthony turned suddenly and confronted a small,

mean-looking fellow who starting back out of reach, touched a shaggy

eyebrow, cringed, and spoke:

"No offence, my lords an' gents--none in th' world, s' help me true!"

Having said which, he clapped fingers to mouth and whistled very

shrilly. "Not by no means nowise meanin' no offence, my lords," quoth

he apologetically, "but dooty is dooty--an' 'ere 'e be!" Glancing

whither he pointed, I saw a man approaching, a shortish,

broad-shouldered, square-faced, leisurely person in a broad-brimmed,

low-crowned hat and full-skirted frieze greatcoat; a man of slow gait

and deliberate movement but with a quick and roving eye.

"Th' little 'un's th' gent, guv'nor--'e's th' cove! whispered the

mean-looking fellow hoarsely, and now I recognised him as one of the

two waterside characters I had met that morning with my uncle Jervas.

The man in the frieze coat removed his hat, bobbed round head at

Anthony, at me, and spoke, addressing himself to me:

"'T is in ewidence, sir, as you an' another gent 'appened to be

a-passin' by when a lately de-funct o' the fe-male persuasion vas took

out o' th' river at the hour o' four-two-two pre-cisely, this 'ere

werry mornin'. Am I right?"

"That is so," I answered.

"'T is also in ewidence, sir, as you an' your friend 'appening to

pass--by chance or de-sign, so werry remarkable early in the mornin',

stopped to ob-serve same de-funct party o' the fe-male persuasion. Am

I right again?"

"We did."

"'T is furthermore in ewidence, sir, that upon ob-serving corpse, you

an' your friend seemed werry much took aback, not to say overcome. Am

I--"

"They was, Jarsper, they was--oncommon!" quoth the smaller man

hoarsely.

"'Enery, 'old your tongue! Now, sir, am I right or am I not?"

"We were both very naturally shocked," said I.

"Vich feelin's, sir, does you both credit--oceans. But 't is further

in ewidence as your friend did commit a assault upon the body o' one

Thomas Vokins by means of a cane an' there an' then took, removed,

appre'ended or ab-stracted ewidence in the shape o' a piece o' paper

as 'ad fell from right 'and o' said corpse. Am I right once more?"

"Not altogether!" said I. "The man wrenched open the dead girl's

fingers so brutally that my--companion very properly rapped him with

his cane and noticing the piece of paper, ordered the man to give it

to him."

"Good--werry good! Now I puts it to you, sir--vere is that piece o'

paper?"

"Probably in my companion's possession."

"Good again! An' vere might 'e be?"

"That I decline to tell you!"

"Vy then, sir, dooty bein' dooty, I'll take a valk."

"As you will!" said I. "Come, Anthony!" and turning, we began to

retrace our steps. But we had gone but a little way when I faced

suddenly about, for the man was plodding at our heels.

"Why the devil do you follow us?" I demanded, greatly exasperated.

"Becos' dooty is dooty, sir, an' dooty demands same," he answered

imperturbably.

"Who are you, fellow?"

"Jarsper Shrig, Bow Street officer--werry much at your service, sir!"

"And what do you want of me?"

"A piece o' paper, sir, as ewidence to establish i-dentifi-cation of

de-funct young party o' the fe-male persuasion in a case o' murder or

feller-de-see--"

Here I turned and walked on again in no little perplexity.

"What am I to do, Anthony?" I muttered.

"Bring the fellow to your chambers, despatch a note to Sir Jervas and

leave it to his decision."

So we walked on, perfectly ignoring this very pertinacious Bow Street

officer; but I, for one, was not sorry when at last we reached the

door of my chambers, and halting, turned to behold the Bow Street

officer, who had stopped also and appeared to be lost in contemplation

of the adjacent chimney pots. And as he stood thus, I was struck by

his air of irreproachable respectability and pervading mildness;

despite the formidable knotted stick beneath his arm, he seemed indeed

to radiate benevolence from the soles of his stout boots to the crown

of his respectable, broad-brimmed hat.

"A re-markable vide-avake young man, yours, sir," said he gently,

still apparently lost in contemplation of the chimney pots, "a

re-markable vatchful young man an' werry attentive!"

"What do you mean, officer?"

"I mean, sir, as he's opened your door afore you knocked."

Glancing at the door, I saw indeed, to my surprise, that it stood

slightly ajar; hereupon I reached out to open it when it swung wide

and my man Clegg stood before us.

"I saw you approaching, sir," he exclaimed, bowing us in.

Reaching my small library, the officer seated himself at my invitation

and depositing hat and stick very precisely beneath his chair, sat

looking more unctuously mild than ever, there was about him a vague

suggestion of conventicles, and a holy Sabbatarian calm.

"You said your name was Shrig, I think?" said I.

"Jarsper Shrig, sir, at your sarvice."

"Then perhaps, while I write my letter, you will take a glass of wine,

Mr. Shrig?"

"Sir," he answered, "not beating about no bushes, I vill--Mr.

Werricker, sir."

"You know my name?" I exclaimed a little sharply.

"I dedooce same, sir, from them three letters on your secretary as is

a-staring me straight in the face, Mr. Werricker."

"Pray, Anthony, oblige me by ringing the bell!" said I, taking up my

pen.

Soft-treading, the discreet Clegg duly brought in decanter and

glasses, and Mr. Shrig, watching him pour out the wine, drew from his

capacious pocket a little book and opened it, much as though he would

have read forth a text of Scripture, but all he said was:

"Thank 'ee, my man!" and then, as the door closed upon the discreetly

silent Clegg, "Your 'ealth, gen'elmen!"

The letter to my uncle Jervas being written and despatched, I turned

to find Mr. Shrig busied with his little book and a stumpy pencil,

much as if he had been composing a sermon or address, while Anthony,

lounging upon the settee, watched him with lazy interest.

"A on-commonly taking cove, sir, that young man o' yourn!" said Mr.

Shrig, pocketing book and pencil.

"Not more so than other servants, I believe," I answered.

"And all valets," murmured Anthony, "all valets are predatory by

nature, of course--"

"I mean as he's a likely cove. Now, talkin' o' corpses--" began Mr.

Shrig.

"But we are not!" said I.

"Axing your parding, sir, but I am and, perfessionally speakin', never

'ave I seen a prettier corp', than this 'ere young fe-male in

question--"

"And your experience in such is vast, I take it?" murmured Anthony.

"None waster, sir! Wast is the werry vord for it."

"Do you think this is a case of suicide or murder?" enquired Anthony.

"Can't say, sir. But somevun's allvays bein' murdered, murderin' or

goin' for to murder somevun, somevere or t'other."

"Sounds cheery!" murmured Anthony. "Do you catch many murderers?"

"Pretty fair, sir, pretty fair. I got a special aptitood for it; I can

smell murder in the werry air, feel it, taste it--"

"Must be devilish unpleasant!" said Anthony.

"'Tis a nat'ral gift wi' me, sir. Lord love ye, gen'elmen, I can p'int

you out a murderer afore the fact's committed--I've got the names o'

four on 'em--no, five--wrote down in my little reader, five werry

promisin' coves as is doo for the deed at any moment; I'm a vaitin'

for 'em to bring it off, sirs. Lord, I'm a vatchin' over 'em like a

feyther an' mother rolled into vun, an' v'en they do commit the deed,

I shall appre'end 'em red-'anded an' up they'll go."

"Your methods are highly original, Mr. Shrig," said I, "but do they

always work correctly?"

"Ever an' always, sir--barrin' accidents. O' course, there's many a

promisin' murderer died afore 'e could do the deed, death 'as no more

respect for vould-be murderers than for their wictims. But whenever I

sees a cove or covess with the true murderer's face, down goes that

cove or covess' name in my little reader, an' I vatches an' vaits for

'em to bring it off, werry patient."

"Have you written down the name of Haredale in your little book?" I

enquired.

"Haredale, Mr. Werricker, sir? V'y no, I ain't. V'y should I, sir? Vot

ha' you to tell me about any party, name o' Haredale?"

"Only that you will find such a name on the piece of paper you are

after."

Mr. Shrig's roving eye fixed me for a moment.

"Haredale?" he muttered, shaking his head, "Haredale?"

At this juncture, with a soft knock on the door, Clegg presented

himself, bearing the following letter from my uncle.

MY DEAR PEREGRINE:

I am grateful for your forethought, but you may suffer the man to

visit me, for the law is the law--besides, the man Shrig is an old

acquaintance. Moreover I have learned all I desired from the scrap of

paper and it is therefore entirely at Mr. Shrig's service. Should you

still be suffering from spleen, liver or the blue devils, go for a

gallop on your "Wildfire."

With which salutary advice to yourself and good wishes to your friend

Mr. Vere-Manville,

I REST,

YOUR AFFECTIONATE UNCLE,

JERVAS.

"Mr. Shrig," said I, "you have my uncle's permission to wait upon him

at once. Sir Jervas is acquainted with you, it seems?"

"Sir Jervas?" repeated Mr. Shrig, reaching down for hat and knobby

stick. "Ackvainted? I should say so, sir! A reg'lar bang-up blood, a

downright 'eavy toddler--oh, I know Sir Jervas, ackvainted is the

werry i-denti-cal name for it! So, with your permission, sir, I'll be

padding on my vay."

"You will find him at his chambers in--"

"St. James's Street, nigh opposite to Vite's, Mr. Werricker, sir. Ah

many's the drop o' French brandy, glass o' port or sherry as I've

drank to the 'ealth o' your uncle in them werry i-dentical chambers,

sir. A gent wi' a werry elegant taste in crime is Sir Jervas. No,

don't trouble to come down, sir, your young man shall let me out. A

reg'lar treasure that 'ere young man o' yours, Mr. Werricker! Good

morning, gen'elmen both, my best respex!"

So saying, Mr. Shrig bobbed his head to us in turn, beamed as it might

have been in benediction, and took himself away.

CHAPTER III

CONCERNING A BLACK POSTCHAISE

"Begad, Perry, but that's a vicious brute of yours!" cried Anthony.

This as Wildfire curvetted, snorting, sidled and performed an

impassioned dance upon the footpath.

"Not exactly vicious, Tony," I demurred when I had quelled this

exuberance, "merely animal spirits. Wildfire is a high-strung creature

requiring constant thought and attention and is consequently

interesting, besides which--"

Here a shriek and hoarse shouts as, by means of whip and curb and

spur, I swung the animal in question from the dangerous proximity of a

shop window and checked his impulse to walk on his hind legs.

"Scarcely a lady's pad, Peregrine!" grinned Anthony, as I came

perilously near upsetting a coster's barrow, to its owner's vociferous

indignation. "Egad, a four-footed devil warranted to banish every

other worry but himself!"

"Precisely," said I, when my steed, moderating his ardour, permitted

me coherent speech. "And this is the reason I ride him. No one mounted

on Wildfire can think of anything but Wildfire and this is sometimes a

blessing."

"How so, Perry?"

"Well, I am harassed of late by two obsessions--the memory of that

poor--drowned child--I cannot forget her face!"

"But, deuce take it, man--this was days and days ago."

"And the other is, strangely enough--Diana. The thought that I shall

meet her so soon--a nameless doubt--an indefinable dread--"

"Dread, Perry? Doubt? What the dooce d'ye mean?"

"That's the devil of it, Anthony--I--don't know. But I have a vague

fear--a presentiment, if you like. I feel as if there was a dreadful

something impending--a shadow--"

"Oh, pshaw, man! Shadow? Tush an' be damned to it! You're in a

devilish low state--indubitably stomach--"

Here further converse was ended for the time being by Wildfire taking

it into his head to snort and start, to prance and shiver at a large

man in velveteens and a leather hat, whereupon Velveteens backed

hastily and swore; Wildfire reared and plunged at him, whereupon

Velveteens dodged into a doorway, cursing vehemently; people, at a

safe distance, shouted; boys hooted; and then, having thus drawn

attention to himself, Wildfire trotted daintily on again, leaving

Velveteens spent and breathless with indignant cursings.

So with such minor unpleasantnesses as roaring oaths, curses and

personal vilification, we won free of the denser traffic and had at

last left the great city behind us and Wildfire's scornful hoofs were

spurning the dust of Kent Street.

We rode by New Cross and Lewisham, through Lee Village with its two

"Tiger" Inns and the stocks upon the green, through Eltham with the

timeworn gables of its ancient palace rising on our right, dreaming of

past glories.

"To-morrow night, Perry--to-morrow night we shall see 'em! My

Loveliness! Egad, I'm only just beginning to realise how damnably I

miss her! Wonderful institution, marriage. To-morrow, Perry! And the

day after--home at Nettlestead Abbey--she and I. She loves the old

place--and the roses will be in bloom--she adores roses. This is why

I'm dragging you down to Nettlestead--must see everything

shipshape--the old place ready--with its arms out to welcome her home,

d'ye see--as it were."

"It is a glorious old place, Anthony."

"A curst dreary hole without her, Perry! Nothing like marriage, Perry!

You'll give up your chambers when you're married, of course?"

"I suppose so, Tony--when I'm married."

"Aha!" he exclaimed, evidently struck by my gloomy tone. "Is it your

damned shadow again--the blue devils? Oh, curse and confound 'em, I'll

race you t' the next milestone for ten guineas. Come on! Yoicks,

boy--hark forward! A touch o' the persuaders--and away!"

With a clatter of eager hoofs Anthony's raking sorrel sprang ahead;

but away in pursuit leapt my beautiful roan, shapely head out-thrust,

snorting, quivering, passionate for the fray.

Off and away, with the rhythmic swing and beat of swift-galloping

hoofs below and the rush of wind above--a clean, sweet wind, full of

health and sanity, to banish haunting dread and gloomy doubts of the

future together with the devils that begot them, be they blue devils,

black, or any other colour.

Faster and faster sped the road beneath me, hedges spun by, tree and

gate flitted past as, untouched by whip or spur, Wildfire fell to his

long, racing stride, an easy, stretching gallop. And ever he gained

upon the sorrel, creeping up inch by inch, crupper and withers and

nose; and thus we raced awhile, neck and neck. And now above

quick-thudding hoofs and creaking leather I heard Anthony's voice

urging his animal to fiercer effort, for slowly but surely, we were

drawing away; slowly the sorrel's great crest and flaring nostrils

fell to the rear, back and back, level with my gloved hands, my knee,

my elbow, out of my view, and presently, glancing behind, I saw

Anthony riding like a centaur--a wildly-galloping figure blurred in a

storm of dust.

But on I rode, heedless of all but the exhilaration of rushing wind,

of back-whirling hedgerows and trees, on and on until before us was a

hill up which a chaise was crawling.

Now as I watched this vehicle carelessly enough, out from the window

came a hatless head--an arm that waved imperiously, and the postboy,

glancing back, began to flog his animals to swifter gait. But

Wildfire, snorting scorn on all hills and this in particular, never so

much as checked or faltered in his long stride and thus we approached

the lumbering chaise rapidly.

We were close upon it when once again the head projected itself from

the window, but now the face was turned towards me, and in these

features I seemed to read a very lively apprehension, nay, as I drew

nearer, I saw above the bushy, scowling brows the gleam of sweat; but

on I came with loosened rein, heedless of the gentleman's threatening

look and wondering at his very evident perturbation; and now I saw

that he grasped something half-hidden in the fold of his coat that

bulked remarkably like a pistol. But all at once, as he peered at me

through the rolling smother of dust, his apprehensive expression

vanished and, next moment, his head also, and as I drew level with the

chaise, I saw him leaning back in one corner, the pistol upon his

knees, and in the other corner the form of a woman wrapped in a

pelisse and heavily veiled and who, judging by her posture, seemed

asleep.

It was but a glimpse I caught of the interior and then I was by, had

reached the summit of the hill and was galloping down the descent, but

even so it seemed to me that the gentleman's face was vaguely

familiar.

Mile upon mile I held on at this wild speed until Anthony and his

sorrel had diminished to a faint, oncoming dust-cloud and Wildfire

began to abate his ardour somewhat; as he breasted a long and steep

ascent crowned by a hostelry, I, blinking at it through dust-whitened

lashes, saw it bore a sign with the words: The Porto Bello Inn. Here I

dismounted from my chastened steed, who, if a little blown, was no

whit distressed, and forthwith led him to the stables myself, to see

him rubbed down and cared for, the while a hissing ostler knocked,

shook and brushed from my garments clouds of Kentish dust. In the

midst of which performance up rode Anthony.

"Well--damme!" he exclaimed, as he swung to earth, "I said a

milestone--"

"True, Anthony, but I felt inclined for a gallop--"

"I believe you!" he laughed. "And now I'm more than inclined for a

pot, a tankard, a flagon, Perry--or say a dozen. Damme, I've been

breathing nothing but circumambient Kent for the last half-hour--Ale,

Perry, ale's the word! This way! And by that same token, here's your

money. 'T is a glorious beast, your Wildfire, and curst well ridden,

begad!"

"And I ride stones lighter than you do, Goliath!" said I, following

him into the sanded parlour.

"I never drink a tankard of ale," gasped Anthony, setting down his

vessel with a bang, "no, never, Perry, without remembering the first

drink we had together--the ale you paid for! And the ham and eggs--oh,

curse and confound it, I shall never taste anything so delicious

again, of course. Everything is vastly changed since then,

Peregrine--everything except yourself."

"I am two inches taller!" said I.

"Ah, to be sure! And, thanks to Jessamy Todd, a man of your hands.

What's become of Jessamy these days--and your friend the Tinker?"

"I shame to say I don't know. I used to see them frequently up to a

year ago, but since then, London and its follies have engulfed me."

"We'll devote ourselves to looking 'em up one o' these days!" said

Anthony. "Meantime I'm devilish hungry and I always dine at 'The Bull'

at Wrotham, so if you're quite ready, let's push on. By the way," he

continued, as I followed him into the yard, "did you notice that

chaise we passed just beyond Farningham--a black-bodied chaise, picked

out in yellow, with red wheels?"

"I did, Anthony--why?"

"Fool of a fellow seemed infernally agitated, actually had a pistol

ready for me, or so it seemed."

"I noticed his desperate attitude also,--and thought it very

singular."

"Demmit, yes, and what's more singular, I recognised the fool fellow

for the fellow I thrashed two years ago at the 'Jolly Waggoner'--Danby

his name is."

"Ah, to be sure!" I exclaimed. "I knew his face was familiar. Did you

see he had a lady with him?"

"No, what was she like?"

"I only caught the briefest glimpse--besides, she was heavily veiled

and seemed to be asleep--"

"Asleep!" exclaimed Anthony fiercely. "Asleep! By God, Perry, I'm

half-minded to wait until that damned chaise comes up and see for

myself."

"I beg you will do no such thing!" said I, abhorring the idea of

violence and possible bloodshed. "If you are hungry--so am I. Let us

get on to Wrotham and dinner." So we mounted and in due time descended

the steep hill into the pleasant village of Wrotham.

The "Bull" welcomed us, or more particularly Anthony, with cheeriness

tempered with respect; such a bustling of ostlers, running to and fro

of serving men; such a dimpling and curtseying of buxom, neat-capped

maids; such beaming obeisances from mine host, all to welcome "Mr.

Anthony": indeed such a reception as might have warmed the heart of

any man save your embittered, cold-hearted cynic or one who rode with

demons on his shoulders.

Though the fare was excellent my appetite was poor and I ate and drank

but little, to Anthony's evident concern; and when at last we took the

road again, I rode with a jibbering devil on either shoulder, filling

me again with nameless fears and vague, unreasoning doubts of I knew

not what. Above and around me seemed an ever-growing shadow, a

foreboding expectancy of an oncoming evil I could neither define nor

shake off, try how I would.

Anthony seemed to sense something of this and (like the good fellow he

was) strove valiantly to banish my uncanny gloom, though my attention

often wandered and I answered at random or not at all.

"Clothes go a damned long way with a woman, Perry!" he was saying.

"I'm married and I know! That evening suit o' yours with the

lavender-flowered waistcoat is bound to rivet her eye--nail her

regard, d'ye see! Then there's your new riding suit, I mean the

bottle-green frock with the gold-crested buttons. She must see you in

that and there's few look better astride a horse than yourself--" here

I became lost again in the vile gibbering of my demons until these

words of Anthony's brought me back again:

"--dev'lish solitary place with an unsavoury reputation. The country

folk say it's haunted."

"I beg your pardon, Tony, but what were you telling me?"

"My poor ass," said Anthony, edging nearer the better to peer into my

face, "I have been endeavouring to give you a brief description of

Raydon Manor--the house peeping amid the trees yonder."

We were climbing a hill and from this eminence could behold a fair

sweep of landscape, a rolling, richly wooded countryside very pleasant

to behold, and, following the direction pointed by Anthony's whip, I

descried the gables of a great, grey house bowered in dense-growing

trees that seemed to shut the building in on every side, the whole

further enclosed by a lofty wall.

"Ah, a haunted house, Anthony," said I, glancing at the place with

perfunctory interest.

"So the yokels say hereabouts, Perry, but if half what I hear is true,

it is haunted by things far worse--more evil than ghosts."

"Meaning what?" I questioned.

"Well, it is owned by a person of the name of Trenchard who seems to

be a rich mixture of gentlemanly ruffian, Turkish bashaw and the

devil. Anyhow, the place has a demned unsavoury reputation and abuts

on my land."

"Indeed!" said I, stifling a yawn. "And what manner of neighbour is

he--to look at?"

"Don't know--never clapped eyes on the fellow--nobody ever sees him.

Fellow rarely stirs abroad and when he does, always in closed

carriage--muffled to the eyes--queer fish and demned unpleasant, by

all accounts."

"Evidently!" said I, then uttered an exclamation as Wildfire tripped

and off spun his near foreshoe.

"Curse and confound it!" exclaimed Anthony ruefully. "And no smith

nearer than five miles!"

"That being so," quoth I, dismounting, "confound and curse it with all

my heart."

"There's the 'Soaring Lark' not half a mile away--a small inn, kept by

a friend of mine."

"And a ridiculous name for any inn!" said I.

"Wait till you see it, Perry."

So saying, Anthony turned aside down an unexpected and rutted by-lane,

I leading my horse; and, rounding a sharp bend in this narrow track,

we came upon a small inn. It stood well back amid the green and was

further shaded by three great trees; and surely the prettiest,

brightest, cosiest little inn that the eye of wearied traveller might

behold. Its twinkling lattices open to the sunny air showed a vision

of homely comfort within; its hospitable door gaped wide upon an

inviting chamber floored with red tile, and before it stood a tall,

youngish man in shirtsleeves with the brightest eyes, the cheeriest

smile and the blackest whiskers I had ever seen.

"O Mary, lass!" he cried, "Mr. Anthony!" And then, as he hurried

forward to take our horses: "Why, Lord, Mr. Anthony, sir, we du be

tur'ble glad to see 'ee--eh, old lady?" This last to her who had

hurried to his call--a youngish woman, as bright, as cosy, as cheery,

but far prettier than the inn itself.

"Oh, but indeed we be j'yful to see 'ee, Mr. Anthony; us was talkin'

o' you an' your bonny lady this very day. She do be well, sir, I 'ope,

an' comin' home to the great house soon, Mr. Anthony?"

"Thank you, yes, Mary," answered Anthony, baring his head and giving

her his hand, "we shall be coming home next week. And here, George and

Mary, is my friend Mr. Vereker. His horse has cast a shoe, send it to

Joe at Hadlow to be shod. Meanwhile we will drink a flagon of your

October."

So while George led away my horse, his pretty wife brought us into the

sanded parlour, where, having despatched a shock-headed boy with my

horse, George presently joined us.

The ale duly drunk, Anthony proposed he should ride on to Nettlestead

while Wildfire was being shod and return for me in an hour or so, to

which I perforce agreeing, he rode away, leaving me to await him,

nothing loath. For what with the spirit of Happiness that seemed to

pervade this little inn of the "Soaring Lark" and the cheery good

humour of its buxom host and hostess, my haunting demons fled awhile

and in their place was restored peace. Sitting with George in this

low-raftered kitchen while his pretty wife bustled comfortably to and

fro, we talked and grew acquainted.

"By the way, George," said I, "Mr. Vere-Manville showed me a haunted

house called, I think, Raydon Manor, do you know anything of it?"

Now at this innocent question, to my surprise George's good humour

vanished, his comely features were suddenly overcast, and he exchanged

meaning glances with his wife.

"Why, sir," he answered at last, speaking in a lowered voice as if

fearful of being overheard, "there's some as do say 't is haunted

sure-ly."

"How?" I demanded.

"Well--things 'as been seed, ah, an' heerd in that theer ghastly

wood."

"What things?"

"Well--things as flits an' things as wails--ah, fit to break your

'eart an' chill a man's good flesh. Ghost-lights has been seed at dead

o' night, an' folks has 'eer'd music at dead o' night an' screams o'

devil-laughter, ah, an' screams as wasn't laughter. Old Gaffer Dick 'e

du ha' seed things an' there's me, I've 'eer'd an' seed things--an'

lots o' folk beside."

"What did you see, George?"

"I dunno rightly, sir, an' never shall this side o' glory, but 'twere

a shape, a thing--I might call it a ghost an' I might call it a

phanitum; hows'ever 't were a shape, sir, as I seed a-floatin' an'

a-wailin'--Lord, I'll never forget 'ow it wailed!"

Here he mopped his brow at the mere recollection.

"But do you never see any one about by day?"

"Aye, sir, there be a great, sooty black man for one, a hugeous

niggermoor with devil's eyes as roll an' teeth like a dog--there's

'im! An' there's three or four desp'rit-seemin' coves as looks like

prize fighters--though they ain't often seed abroad an' then mostly

drivin' be'ind fast 'orses, sir--coach, sir."

"And what of the owner of the place, Mr. Trenchard, I think his name

is?"

"Very seldom stirs abroad, sir, an' then allus in a fast-travellin'

closed carriage; though there's a-plenty o' company now an' then,

'ard-ridin' gentlemen--specially one as usually travels down from

Lunnon in a chaise wi' red wheels--"

"What--a black-bodied chaise picked out in yellow?" I enquired

sharply.

"Aye, sir, the same."

"And are there lady visitors as well as gentlemen?"

"Aye, there are so, sir--coveys of 'em, very fine feathers an' pretty

as pictoors t' look at but--"

"Ah!" said I, as he paused, "that kind?"

"Aye, sir, if ye know what I mean."

"I do! Raydon Manor seems haunted in many ways."

"Aye, sir, an' this is very sure--if Innocence ever goes in, it never

comes out!"

Thus we talked, George the landlord and I, while his pretty, buxom

wife bustled quietly to and fro or vanished into the mysteries of her

dairy, whence came the creak of churn, the chink of pot or pan and

suchlike homely sounds where her two trim maids laughed and chattered

over their labours.

It was a glorious afternoon and, at my suggestion, George brought me

into a garden behind the inn where flowers rioted, filling the air

with their mingled perfumes, and so to a well-stocked orchard beyond,

whence came the warm odour of ripening fruit.

"You have a very beautiful home, George."

"An' all thanks to my little old woman, sir. I were a soldier once an'

a tur'ble drinker, but Mary--Lord, sir, 'tis wonnerful how good a good

woman can be an' how bad a bad 'un can be--though she's generally made

bad, I've noticed! Damme, sir, axin' your parding but damme

notwithstanding, there's some men as I'd like to 'ave wrigglin' on the

end of a bagnet!" And he turned to scowl fiercely towards a stretch of

dark woodland that gloomed beyond a rolling stretch of sunny meadow

land.

"The sentiment is a little bloody, George," said I, glancing at this

stretch of dark wood, "but under the circumstances, I think it does

you credit. And now, seeing I have a full hour to wait for Mr.

Vere-Manville, I will take a little stroll and waste no more of your

time;" and smiling down his protestations to the contrary, I sauntered

off through the golden afternoon.

To-morrow the term of my patient waiting was to be accomplished; Diana

was coming back to me! At this thought there rushed over me such an

eager, passionate joy that my breath caught and I paused to lean

across a gate, endeavouring to picture her to myself as she now was,

'a changed Diana and yet the same', even as she had written. And as I

stood thus, down to me through the sunny air came the song of a

mounting lark who, as if knowing my thought, seemed striving to sing

forth something of the ineffable happiness that thrilled me. The song

ended, I went on again, walking slowly, my head bowed, lost in a happy

dream. And presently I found myself walking amid trees, through an

ever-deepening shadow, and, looking up, saw I had entered the pine

wood. For a moment I hesitated, minded to turn back into the sunshine,

then I went on, picking my way among these gloomy trees, the pine

needles soft beneath my tread; thus, since there was no wind, I walked

in silence broken only by the faint jingle of my spurs and the rustle

of my advance, a silence that affected me with a vague unease. There

seemed something stealthy in this uncanny stillness so that I grew

stealthy also and set myself to keep my spurs from jingling, for

unseen eyes seemed to be watching me. The deeper I penetrated this

dismal wood, the darker it grew, and I advanced, cautious and silent,

and with a vague sense of expectancy though of what I could not

determine. With the glad sunshine my joyousness had vanished, in its

stead came again doubt and foreboding with my devil that gibbered upon

my heels; demons and evil things seemed all about me.

But suddenly I came out upon a narrow track or rather footpath and

though the kindly sun contrived to send down a fugitive shaft ever and

anon, yet my depression was in no wise abated and I began to hurry my

steps, anxious to be out of these dismal shadows. All at once I

halted, for before me was a lofty wall and I saw that the path led to

a low-arched doorway or postern, a small door but of great apparent

strength, that seemed to scowl upon me between its deep buttresses.

And now as I gazed there grew within me an indefinable feeling, a

growing certainty of something very threatening and sinister about

this door, and turning, I hasted back along the path, turning neither

to right nor left, hurrying as from something beyond expression evil.

Nor did I stop or glance back until I was out in the pure sunshine and

the cosy inn of the "Soaring Lark" seemed to smile at me beyond broad

meadows, blinking its bright casements like so many bright eyes in

cheery welcome. But even so I shivered, for the gloomy shadow of the

wood seemed all about me still and therewith a growing depression that

would not be banished but held me in thrall despite sunshine and

cheery inn. What was it that I feared? I asked myself, and

why--why--why?

I found Anthony awaiting me, but even his cheer presence failed to

dispel my gloom. And so in a while, my horse being ready, we set out

for London with hearty "God-speeds" from George and his wife Mary. But

all the way back, my mind still laboured with these same perplexing

questions:

What was it that I feared? And why--why--why?

And thereto I found no answer.

CHAPTER IV

OF A SCARABAEUS RING AND A GOSSAMER VEIL

"Ye're a little pale--yes, a trifle haggard, Perry, but there's

nothing like a romantic pallor to attract the feminine regard and

captivate the female heart, my boy--I'm married and I know! But your

dress is a thought too sombre, I think, considering your youth, though

I'll admit it suits you and there's a devilish tragic melancholy

Danish-air about ye as should nail the female orb--"

"Don't be an ass, Anthony. How is my cravat?"

"Work of art, begad! How are my pantaloons, Perry? My tailor's made

'em too loose, the damned scoundrel. I'm wrinkled like a rhinoceros,

by heaven! Keep your eye on 'em when I bend--"

"My dear Anthony," said I, "if they were any tighter you couldn't

bend--"

"Well, my coat, Perry--how is it behind?"

"Admirable!"

"Feels like a sack, demmit! My Loveliness has the eye of a hawk,

you'll understand--hasn't seen me for a whole month--nothing like

first impressions, begad. Feels like an accursed sack, I tell you--"

"Gentlemen, the carriage awaits!" murmured Clegg from the doorway.

"What--already?" cried Anthony, clapping on his hat and reaching for

his surtout.

"You forget we're Lord Wyvelstoke's privileged guests.--Come,

Anthony!" and I led the way down to the carriage.

"Ain't you nervous, Perry?" enquired my friend, as we rolled smoothly

away.

"No."

"Queer fish--I am!" said he, fidgeting with his cravat.

"You're deuced cool, devilish serene and enigmatical at times, like

your uncle Jervas."

"You flatter me, Tony."

"Devil a bit--and this coat of mine feels like a--what the devil are

we stopping for?"

We had reached the top of St. James's Street and glancing through the

window, I saw our progress blocked momentarily by converging traffic;

I was about to lean back in my seat again when my careless glance was

arrested by an elegant closed chaise going in the opposite direction;

the light was still good, and thus I saw this for a black-bodied

chaise picked out in yellow with red wheels. The window was down and

thence fluttered a lady's scarf or veil, a delicate gossamer thing

spangled with gold stars; as I watched, from the dim interior of the

chaise came a woman's white hand to gather up this glittering scarf, a

shapely hand sparkling with gems, amongst which I saw one shaped like

a scarabaeus; then the chaise rolled away and was gone.

"What the dooce are you staring at, Perry?"

"Nothing!" I answered, frowning. "Nothing!"

His lordship's house was ablaze with lights and, though we were so

early, in the street immediately before it was a crowd that pushed and

jostled as we mounted the carpeted steps and were ushered into the

lofty hall. Here, the footmen having relieved us of our hats and

coats, we found the sedate Atkinson as gravely imperturbable as I

remembered him two years ago, who acknowledged my greeting with sedate

smile and grave obeisance and brought us forthwith to a chamber where

I found Lord Wyvelstoke in confabulation with my two uncles.

At our entrance they rose, and his lordship limped forward to welcome

us; and looking upon his slender, elegant figure, beholding his

impassive face with its air of serene and conscious power, I warmed to

the kindness of his smile, even as I had done two years ago.

Our greetings over, his lordship slipped his arm in mine and led me

apart.

"Well, Peregrine," said he, with his old, keen look, "I perceive your

two years of self-sacrifice have not been in vain; you are grown in

every sense. And to-night unselfishness shall have its full reward.

To-night, Peregrine, I render back to you your Diana, but a Diana

glorified--a woman, and one who has endeared herself to me by her

great-hearted and noble qualities. In her is nothing paltry, education

has not stunted or narrowed the soul of her. She has been faithful to

her task for your sake and faithful to you for Love's sake. By your

unselfishness she has indeed become all that we hoped--and more, one

to be proud of. But I grow garrulous in her praise--go to her and see

for yourself. She is awaiting you in her boudoir with Mrs.

Vere-Manville."

So saying, his lordship rang and the silent Atkinson appeared, who led

us up a wide stairway and so to a dainty chamber where, bowing, he

left us.

A faint perfume was in the air, elusive but sweetly intimate. Upon an

ottoman lay a fan and a pair of lace mittens.

"Begad," murmured Anthony, sniffing, "there's nothing like perfume to

give a fellow palpitations, and palpitations always make my cravat too

tight--devilish thing's choking me! A good woman, Perry, can be the

most doocedly alluring, devilish engaging, utterly provoking creature

in creation--far more so than--t' other sort. I'm married and I know!"

"Yes," said I, looking down at the discarded fan and deeply stirred by

the elusive fragrance.

"Devil take this cravat!" exclaimed Anthony, wrestling with it before

a mirror. "If they don't come soon, 't will be wreck, demmit! I wish

to heaven they'd come."

"So do I, Anthony!"

"Finishing touches, I expect, Perry--they will do it! And mean to

surprise us, of course." But as moment after moment elapsed, his

impatience grew. "I wonder what's keeping 'em!" he exclaimed.

"I wonder!" said I.

At the end of ten minutes he was striding up and down the room in a

very ferment.

"Damned strange!" he muttered. "Devilish incomprehensible! They must

know we're here. Been waiting fifteen minutes now, begad! Getting

beyond a joke--deuced exasperating, Perry, y' know. Dammit, man, why

can't you say something, do something, instead of sitting there so

devilish calm and serene, staring before you like an infernal sphinx?"

At the end of twenty minutes Anthony could wait no more and bidding me

follow, jerked open the door and strode out. But I sat there staring

before me at an empty fireplace and still all my thought was of the

chaise with the red wheels.

But presently my gaze came by chance upon something that lay in a

corner of the hearth, a piece of paper crumpled and rent as in

passionate haste. For a while I viewed it idly, heedlessly, then all

at once I saw a name, a scrawling signature plain to read; next moment

the fragment of paper was in my grasp and I read this:

... confess to find you more bewitchingly beautiful than ever. And

therefore, having regard to what transpired between us in Italy, you

will come this evening without fail to

Your ever adoring slave and master,

HAREDALE.

How long I remained staring at this fragment of paper I do not know,

but I started suddenly to see Atkinson bowing in the doorway and

followed him from the room and downstairs and suddenly found myself in

a polite tumult; silks rustled, feathers nodded, turbans bowed and

jewels glittered.

But almost at once, amid all this throng, my eyes saw but one. Tall

she was, with jewels that sparkled in her dark and lustrous hair; how

she was gowned I cannot remember, but her white throat was unadorned

save for a small gold chain whence hung a plain gold locket, at sight

of which my heart seemed to swell within me.

Flushed and bright-eyed, she stood beside Lord Wyvelstoke to receive

the many guests. And viewing her as I stood thus, myself unseen amid

the crowd, beholding her serene and noble carriage, her vivid

colouring, the classic mould of form and features, the grace and ease

of her every movement, I saw she was indeed more beautiful than I

dreamed and caught my breath in a very ecstasy. Here was Diana

herself, yet a Diana glorified even as Lord Wyvelstoke had said, and

with a thousand elusive graces beyond my poor description.

And now I was bowing before her, heard her tremulous murmur of

"Peregrine!" and answered back as tremulously, "Diana!" and so,

yielding place to others, I passed on, to bow and smile and chatter

inanities with such of the guests as were of my acquaintance, but

yearning for chance of speech with her alone.

Then, somehow, she was beside me, her hand upon my arm, and we were

walking, though whither I cared not, my every sense thrilled by her

gracious ease, her stately beauty and all the wonder of her.

I remember we sat and talked of the past two years, of much that she

had seen and done; and she questioned me a little breathlessly and

always of myself, and I, conscious of the many bewildering changes in

her and of those deep, grey eyes looking at me beneath their level

brows, or hidden by their down-sweeping black lashes, answered briefly

or very much at random, so that she questioned me at last:

"Peregrine, are you listening?"

"Yes--no!" I answered. "How can I? You are so--wonderful!"

At this the rich colour deepened in her cheek and her eyes grew

ineffably tender.

"And you," she murmured, "you are still my Peregrine of the Silent

Places, the gentleman who stooped to teach me that love could be--a

holy thing--"

From the distance stole the sound of music and suddenly, as if

conjured up of these sweet strains, were eager gentlemen all about us,

vying with each other for the honour of escorting her down to the

ballroom.

"Miss Lovel," simpered a gallant young exquisite, his fashionably

pallid features peeping out between the silkiest of glossy whiskers,

"we are to be favahed, I think, to be charmed and delighted by your

incomparable singing--aw, how do, Vereker! Miss Lovel, you behold me a

humble ambassador, to beg, to entreat you to keep us waiting no

longer--"

"The evening is young, my lord," she answered lightly, "though your

impatience is flattering, I vow--"

"Impatience, Miss Lovel?" sighed a gorgeous being in scarlet and

epaulettes. "Impatience--haw--is quite inadequate to express

our--hum--I should say, my own sentiments; 'impatience' is a word

too--ha--altogether too feeble! For my own part I should--haw--I

should rather say we--"

"Passion, ma'm, passion!" exclaimed a square-faced gentleman in naval

blue. "Speaking as a blunt sailor, passion's the word, Miss

Lovel--passion. Passion's the only word, I think, gentlemen?"

"Indubitably!"

"Positively!"

"Per-fectly!"

Hereupon the Army retired a little discomfited but rallied

sufficiently to suggest the word "languish."

"Behold us then, Miss Lovel, passioning--" said the Navy.

"And--haw--languishing, Miss Lovel--" sighed the Army.

"Behold us then unanimously beseeching you--aha, here comes Pevensey

to add his supplication to ours."

The Duke shot his ruffle, fixed his eyeglass and bowed.

"Permit me, Miss Lovel, to add my petition! Vereker will spare you to

us awhile, I am sure!" said he. "To behold a goddess is to be blessed;

to hear her sing will be--"

"Joy!" suggested the Navy.

"Divine!" sighed the Army.

"Transcendent rapture!" quoth the Duke.

Diana laughed and rose, looking from one to other with that serene and

level gaze I knew so well, and saluted them with a slow and graceful

curtsey.

"Indeed you overwhelm me, sirs," said she, smiling. "Your impatience

shall be satisfied, you shall passion and languish no longer!" And now

as I bowed above her hand came her whisper, "I go to sing for you--to

you, Peregrine!"

Then, giving her fan to Navy and her gloves to Army, she took the

Duke's arm, and moved away.

And in a while, sitting in a corner of the great ballroom between my

two uncles, I saw her stand before this august assemblage serene in

her proud, young beauty; saw her calm gaze seek until it met mine and

drew my breath a little quicker because of her very loveliness.

Then I felt the smart of sudden tears as from the orchestra whispered

a loved and familiar melody that rose, little by little, into that

wild and plaintive Zingari air she had sung so often in the Silent

Places years ago.

And now from her white throat stole a murmur of sweet sound, swelling

gradually to a full, round sweetness, rising to a passion of sorrow

and heartbreak, and dying to a sigh, was gone.

For a long moment after the final liquid note had died away was utter

stillness, an awed silence; then some one ventured to clap, others

joined in, and upon this sound came shouts, cries, cheer on cheer--a

frantic ovation.

"By Gad, Perry," exclaimed my uncle George, blinking moist lashes.

"She--she can sing, ye know! What I mean is she can--sing, b'gad! What

d' you say, Jervas?"

"That you are exactly right, George, she can sing!" answered my uncle

Jervas softly. "She and her voice are one in beauty. And she signals

you, Perry, I think!"

"Be off, Peregrine!" said my uncle George. "Be off, lucky dog--London

will run mad--she'll be the reigning toast to-morrow."

The Army and the Navy yielded her to me with a somewhat bad grace, and

her slim fingers on my arm guided me through the throng to a deep

curtained window recess, and in this comparative seclusion she turned

and faced me, and I saw that she was trembling a little.

"Peregrine," she murmured, wistful and eager, "am I changed very

much--too much? I have worked--so hard and all--all for you--O

Peregrine--dear--do I truly please you?"

"Please me!" I mumbled. "Oh, my Diana--!" Her lashes drooped and then,

as she swayed to me, I clasped her in my arms and, tremulous,

fragrant, vital with love and youth, she gave her lips to mine.

"Is it worth the years of waiting?" she whispered beneath my kisses.

"God knows it!" I answered and lifted her hand to my lips and then

stood utterly still, cold with a sudden, horrible sickness--staring at

this white hand, where, amid sparkling gems, I saw the dull oval of a

scarabaeus ring.

"What is it, Peregrine?" she questioned, a little breathlessly. "This

scarab? It is one my dear pal bought me in Egypt. Come away, dear, let

us run from the crowd--let us steal away together,

somewhere--anywhere--you and I." And speaking, she drew about her

shoulders a scarf, a filmy thing of gossamer, spangled with gold stars.

"Quick, Peregrine!" she breathed. "There is the duke--coming this way,

quick--before he spies us!"

"Impossible!" I answered, wondering to hear myself speaking so

lightly. "His Grace has seen us already--besides, your duty lies here

to-night."

"Very well, dear Peregrine," she sighed, "but I had hoped you--you

would have bade me forget duty--a little while."

So she turned away and indistinctly I heard the duke begging her to

sing again; then I watched her go, smiling and bowing to her, but with

a buzzing in my brain and all hell raging in my breast.

A black-bodied chaise--picked out in yellow--red wheels--Captain

Danby!

For a long time I stood in the shadow of the window curtains staring

out upon a moon hidden ever and anon in flying cloud-wrack; but at

last I turned and wandered away with some vague idea of finding

Anthony, and as I went, the lights and glitter, the sounds of voices

and laughter grew ever more distasteful, and turning my back on it

all, I found my way into a wide corridor. And here, in a shady alcove

screened by curtains, I espied Anthony kissing his wife; her round,

white arms were about his neck, crushing his cravat woefully, but

seeing the rapture in their faces I stole away and left them.

Reaching the hall I bade a footman summon my carriage, but on second

thoughts countermanded the order and, donning hat and cloak, set out

to walk home to my chambers. A wind was abroad and I walked bareheaded

to cool the fevered throbbing of my temples, but this wind found

voices to mock me and at my heels ran demons, gibbering obscenities.

Reaching my door at last, I thundered on the knocker until it opened,

and brushing past the pallid Clegg, bade him order my horse.

"Horse, sir?" he repeated, a note of interest in his usually toneless

voice. "Do you propose to go riding, sir?"

"I do!"

"Yes, sir--which horse do you--?"

"Wildfire. Have him brought round at once!"

"Very good, sir!"

Not waiting for Clegg's assistance, I slipped off my evening garments

and was pulling on my riding boots when I heard the tattoo of

Wildfire's impatient hoofs upon the roadway.

"What time may I expect you back, sir?" enquired Clegg, as I jingled

downstairs.

"I cannot say. I may be late or very early so--get to bed."

"If you are travelling far, sir, might I suggest that your pistols are

ready in their holsters upstairs--"

"I shall not need them!" said I, and stepped out into the street where

Wildfire danced and capered in the grasp of Tom, my groom.

"He do be werry fresh, sir," warned Tom.

"So much the better!" said I. "Hold him until I give the word."

So saying, I swung to saddle, settled feet in stirrups and gripped the

reins short in gloved hand.

"An evil night, sir!" said Clegg. "And you won't take your pistols?"

"No! Let go, Tom!"

Back sprang the groom and, snorting joyfully, Wildfire sprang away.

CHAPTER V

STORM AND TEMPEST

A blusterous wind that fluttered the skirts of my long, caped coat,

that filled the night with stir and tumult and flaws of sudden rain; a

wind that whirled black masses of ragged cloud across a lowering

heaven lit by a pallid moon that peeped stealthily and vanished, to

peep again.

And glancing from desolate, wind-swept streets to flying cloud-wrack,

I judged there was worse to come and knew a strange, unnatural joy

therefore, as I bent my head to buffeting wind and reined the fiery

animal I bestrode to less furious pace.

We crossed the river at London Bridge, a dark horror of moving waters

swirling here and there in the ineffectual beam of lamp or lanthorn;

on past gloomy streets and narrow courts where dim forms jostled, and

ever and always the blusterous wind rioting 'twixt heaven and earth,

booming in chimneys, moaning in dark corners, rattling windows,

clapping-to crazy shutters and setting signboards a-swing on scolding

hinges.

On and on through this ever-growing turbulence, while Wildfire tossed

proud head, snorted defiance upon the elements, and bored eagerly upon

the bit. But once the great city was behind us, I gave him his will

and away we went headlong into the wind, the clatter of his galloping

hoofs drowned in the universal uproar. But fast as he sped, the demon

of doubt and suspicion and growing dread kept pace, and for once,

riding Wildfire, I forgot Wildfire and all else save the hell within

me.

A black-bodied chaise picked out in yellow!

And now came the rain to lash me and I bared my head the better to

feel it. Before me in the swirling dark were twinkling lights lurching

rapidly nearer, and down upon me loomed a stagecoach, a mountainous

shape that flitted by me like a phantom. A phantom? The very night

seemed peopled by phantoms; I sped past phantom wains and waggons,

piled high with phantom loads, that moved with no sound of hoofs or

wheels; spectral horsemen flitted by, soundless; in the shadow of

hissing hedgerow and raving, wind-tossed trees crawled miserable,

nebulous shapes, seen but to be lost again, swallowed in the howling

murk.

Rushing wind and lashing rain; pale gleams of a fitful moon to show

swaying trees that tossed wild arms to heaven, and a splashing quag

below, mud and wind-swept pools, all lost again in the swirling dark.

And buffeted thus, beaten by rain, smitten by unseen things, gasping

in the wind's fierce gusts, my one thought was:

A black-bodied chaise with red wheels--Captain Danby!

How long I galloped at this wild and reckless pace I do not know, but

little by little I became aware that the rain had ceased, the clouds

were rent asunder and the moon looked down, pale and remote, upon a

desolate countryside very ghostly and unreal and wholly unfamiliar.

Before me was a winding road fringed with dripping, sombre trees and

reining Wildfire to a standstill, I found that the wind had greatly

abated its fury. But though the storm was over, the storm within me

raged fierce as ever; therefore, heedless of where the morning found

me, I spurred Wildfire forward and rode with slackened rein, leaving

him to take me where he would.

A black-bodied chaise--What should bring Diana in company with such

brutal satyr as Captain Danby?

Lost thus in agonising thought, I was riding with loosened rein and

lax grip when Wildfire shied, swerved violently, throwing me from the

saddle, and lying half-stunned, I heard him gallop away down the road.

For a while I lay there with no desire to move, but at last, summoning

all my resolution, I scrambled weakly to my feet and endeavoured to

follow, but after some while, wondered to see it so dark and found I

was among trees that closed about me ever denser. Yet I struggled on,

pushing my way haphazard through the undergrowth, being yet much

shaken by my fall, until I came out into a narrow way lit by the moon;

but scarcely was I here than I paused to lean against a tree, overcome

by a sick faintness. And thus leaned I some while to recover my

strength, and in my ears the dismal drip, drip of sodden trees and the

mournful sighing of the wind in their branches, a sigh that rose every

now and then to a low wailing, very dreadful to hear.

Now, all at once, I lifted my aching head, for, as my brain cleared, I

knew that this wailing was not of the wind; thus I stood with breath

in check waiting for it to come again. And suddenly I heard it, a low,

murmurous cry, unutterably doleful.

"O God--O God--I want to be dead--I want to be dead!"

So I turned aside and, following the path, saw it ended at a frowning

doorway set within a high and sinister wall; and recognising this

door, this high wall and gloomy wood, I felt myself cold with that

indefinable sense of impending evil which this desolate place had

awoke in me before--

"O kind God--if I could only die!"

Going in among the trees I saw a shape of misery outstretched

face-down upon the sodden earth, a shape that wrung pale hands and

writhed in awful manner. Trembling, I sank on one knee beside her.

"Woman!" said I, laying hand lightly on her shoulder.

"Child!"

She raised a haggard face, its youthful beauty distorted by horror,

its pallid cheeks stained with mire, and I blenched before the look in

these wide eyes.

"Don't touch me!" she whispered hoarsely. "Don't look at me--I can't

abide it--go away--let me die--"

"Child, where is your home?"

"None!" she whispered. "None! I durs'n't go back ... now. Oh, never no

more ... they made me drunk ... when I woke ... ah, don't look at me

... I wish the sun 'ud go out for ever ... If I could only die!... I

fought them as long as I could.... Oh, kill me, God.... I want to be

dead ... but I want Tom first ... my Tom ... I want him to know 't

weren't ... my fault. O Tom dear, Tom as I loved ... how can I tell

'ee. O God, I want to be dead!"

"Come, child," said I gently. "Come with me, you shall be safe,

sheltered for to-night, and in the morning Tom shall be found for

you--"

"Ah, no, no!" she panted, shrinking from my touch. "You're a man

too--let me die!"

"Poor girl, poor child," said I, "there is an inn near by and a good

woman to comfort you, come, you shall be safe, I swear, and find your

Tom--"

Despite her feeble struggles, I got her afoot and half-led,

half-carried her along that tortuous path and so at last out of that

evil wood. Afar, across the meadows, I spied the chimneys of the

"Soaring Lark" and, though dawn was not broken, to my joyful wonder

saw its hospitable windows aglow and the beam of a moving light in the

yard.

How we accomplished the distance I do not know, but we reached the inn

at last and beheld a lanthorn borne by a stalwart form.

"Who's yon?" demanded a gruff voice.

"George," I panted, "if that's you--bear a hand with this poor

girl--quick, she's swooning--"

"Why, Mr. Vereker!" exclaimed George's astonished voice, and next

moment the fainting girl was caught up in powerful arms and borne into

the inn kitchen, I staggering after.

"Mary--Moll--O Mary, old woman!"

A patter of quick feet upon the stair and George's Mary came running,

seeming as bonny and buxom as ever, despite her scant _deshabille_, as

she bent above the swooning girl.

"Poor maid--out i' the storm an' clemmed wi' cold an' 'unger, poor

lass! Bring her upstairs--our warm bed, Jarge--an' then brandy, lad,

an' the kettle on th' fire--up wi' you!"

Left alone, I filled the kettle from a bucket in a corner, and setting

it upon the fire, drew up a chair and sat to dry my clothes and warm

my shivering limbs, and presently, what with my weariness and the

fire's comfort, began to nod. Opening unwilling eyes, I found George

beside me, holding a steaming glass to my lips, and now felt myself

deathly cold and shivering in every limb.

"Drink it, sir--hot rum an' a slice o' lemon--nought like it--drink

it. Lord, Mr. Vereker, sir--'ere be a go sure-ly!" he exclaimed,

smiling and nodding, as I sipped the fragrant beverage. "Awhile agone

comes an 'orse into the yard, a-stampin' and a-neighin', so up I jumps

and looks out o' winder. 'Lord, old woman,' I sez, 'yonder's Mr.

Vereker's Wildfire,' I sez, 'I'd know 'im anywheers,' I sez; 'but what

beats me,' I sez, 'there ain't Mr. Vereker.' So down I comes, rubs

down the 'oss, takes the lanthorn an' is about to start lookin' for

you when in you comes an' wi' you this poor lass--so wot I says now

is, Lord, Mr. Vereker, sir, 'ere 's a go, sure-ly!"

"It is!" said I. "What of the girl, poor soul?"

"All right, Mr. Vereker, sir--she'm wi' my old woman, y' see,

consequently she'll be right as ninepence in the morning, bless your

'eart, sir."

"I doubt it, George. You see, I found her--in the pine wood yonder,

close beside that damnable gate in the wall."

"Did ye so, sir, did ye so?" said he in altered voice. Then, clenching

his brawny fists, he raised frowning eyes to a bayonet above the

mantel, a long, deadly-looking thing that glittered with constant

cleaning. "Ah, by God!" he growled fiercely, "by God, Mr. Vereker,

sir--there's them as I'd like t' have wrigglin' their beastly lives

out on the end o' my old bagnet--"

"Hot water, Jarge!" commanded the buxom Mary from the stairs.

"Comin', old woman--comin'! Get a nap, Mr. Vereker, sir; your wet

clo'es won't hurt 'ee now--I've slep' in wetter many a time in the

Peninsula--nothin' like rum took 'ot an' plenty on 't sir. Comin,' old

woman--comin'!" and whisking the heavy kettle from the fire, he nodded

and hurried up the stair.

CHAPTER VI

I AM HAUNTED OF EVIL DREAMS

Either George was of different fibre to me, or the rum had been

neither hot enough nor sufficiently strong, for on awaking I found

myself full of pain, the least movement an agony, my head throbbing

woefully and I burning with fever.

George looked at me and, shaking his head, hurried for his wife, who,

having taken my pulse and felt my brow, clucked over me like a

distressed and motherly hen and ordered me immediately to bed,

whither, after some argument and faint reluctance on my part, I was

promptly conducted by the indefatigable George, and where, having been

duly physicked by his Mary, I sank to a restless slumber. And now

ensued a dim period of troubled dreams and horrible nightmares.

I awoke to find my chamber full of the glow of evening; through the

open lattice breathed an air sweet with a perfume of flowers; borne to

my drowsy hearing stole a mingling of soothing, homely sounds, the

snort of a horse from the stable, the clucking of hens, the faint

rattle of a pail, to all of which peaceful sounds I hearkened in lazy

content and with no desire to move. Vaguely, at the back of my mind,

was a memory of some trouble now forgotten, nor did I seek to

remember, content to stare out upon this summer evening; nor did I

trouble to move even at the opening of the door and thus presently was

aware of Anthony bending over me.

"Why, Perry, are you awake at last? How are you, old fellow?"

"Very well, Anthony," I answered, vaguely surprised to hear my voice

so far off, as it were. "Very comfortable, Tony, only--a little

weary--"

"And no wonder, Perry, here you've lain raving all last night and most

of to-day."

"Raving, Tony?"

"Aye--all about some damned postchaise or other with red wheels."

"Postchaise?" said I, wondering. "Postchaise? How long have I lain

here?"

"This will be the fourth day, Peregrine."

"Four days!" said I. "Impossible!"

"I rode down yesterday on the off-chance of finding you here--and here

you were, begad, raging in fever and cursing and swearing very

creditably, 'pon my soul! And all George could do to hold you down--"

"I'm better now, Anthony--get up to-morrow--"

"For which God be thanked!" said he fervently, and seating himself

upon the bed, he grasped my hand. "Peregrine," said he solemnly, "you

have honoured me with your friendship and as your friend I make bold

to offer you a friend's advice,--in heaven's name, old fellow, be more

discreet!"

"In what particular, Anthony?"

"There is but one, Perry--only one, dear fellow, and spelt with five

letters--woman."

"You grow cryptic, Anthony."

"My dear Perry," said he, beginning to fidget with his stock, "my very

dear fellow, as may be supposed, your extraordinary sudden and

perfectly inexplicable flight from Wyvelstoke's reception and

disappearance has caused no small consternation, and, to one person in

particular, very much grief and anxiety. Under these distressing

circumstances, I, as your friend, sought an answer to the riddle,

the--the reason for your--very mysterious disappearance, and naturally

arrive at the conclusion that it is a case of--er--_cherchez la

femme_, Perry--"

"The devil you did!" exclaimed I.

"I haunted all the clubs, Perry, and with your uncles made discreet

enquiry for you in every likely and unlikely quarter--yesterday, as a

last possibility, I rode down here and learned from George how you

came staggering in at dawn, plastered with mud, wet to the skin and

accompanied by the lady who, I may inform you, had the good judgment

to disappear as soon as possible--"

"The lady," said I, trembling and indignant, "was a poor distracted

creature I found on my way--"

"Precisely, dear fellow! So here am I to lend you such assistance in

the matter as a friend may. No reason to worry yourself, only in

heaven's name be a little discreet, Perry--discretion's the word,"

"Discretion be damned!"

"Precisely, old fellow! And now only mention how I may assist you in

this unfortunate situation?"

"By listening to me!"

"Ears wide open, Perry."

So I told him briefly of the storm, how, dazed and shaken after being

thrown by Wildfire, I wandered into the wood and came upon the poor,

distracted girl and brought her back with me to the "Soaring Lark." To

all of which he listened, tap-tapping softly with his foot.

"Ha--outside that accursed house!" he exclaimed, when I had done. "The

place should be burned down!" And then in a different tone, glancing

at me somewhat askance, "But then, Perry--egad--don't ye see this does

not explain your abrupt departure from the reception and flight from

London--now does it?"

"Not in the least, Anthony. Nor can I offer any explanation."

Here Anthony pursed his lips to a soundless whistle and began his soft

tap-tapping again.

"Diana was--deeply hurt," said he at last. "Every hour she is grieving

for you--breaking her heart, Perry--as we sit here."

"For God's sake, Anthony," I cried passionately, "keep your feet

still!"

"Eh? Oh, begad, forgive me, Perry! Consequently, she will be overjoyed

to learn you are here safe. She will post down to you as fast as

horses can bring her--"

"Need she know, Anthony?" At this he turned with a kind of leap and

glanced at me with a startled expression.

"Lord, man--you are really ill!" he exclaimed.

"Ill or no, Anthony, if you are truly my friend and value my

friendship, promise me--swear to me she shall not come near me!"

"Egad, Peregrine, you are damned ill!"

"Promise--promise! Swear me this, Anthony!" cried I, starting up in

bed to grasp at him with eager hands. And then came Mary, running, to

clasp me in eager arms and lay me back among the pillows.

"Mr. Anthony!" she cried. "Oh, Mr. Anthony, didn't I warn 'ee not to

excite 'im then--oh, Mr. Anthony!"

Lying thus helpless, I felt myself shaken as by an ague fit, saw

Anthony staring down at me fearful-eyed ere he crept from the room,

felt an arm beneath my head, a cup at my lips and, drinking thirstily,

lay awhile staring up at the ceiling, where red wheels seemed to spin

through the mist of a gossamer veil spangled with gold stars.

It lay curling across my pillow close to my eyes, stirring gently as

if endowed with life, a delicate, shimmering filament, never quite at

rest, that glowed where the light caught it, and I watched it drowsily

until, hearing a stealthy sound, I glanced up to behold my uncle

George standing beside the bed.

"Why, Peregrine," said he softly, his handsome face unwontedly grave,

"how are you, dear lad?"

"Thank you--I am greatly better and here is a hair on the pillow,

Uncle George! This is neither your hair nor mine, and Mrs. Mary's is

brown, as I remember. So whose hair is this, Uncle George?"

"Hair?" he repeated, fumbling with his whisker. "I don't see any hair,

Perry."

"Here on my pillow, Uncle."

"Well, what of it, lad. Your Aunt Julia's, perhaps--"

"Hers is black. And this is--not black, you'll notice, sir, and--very

long."

"Why, so 't is! But if it distresses you--there, away with it!"

"But whose is it?" I persisted.

"Lord, Perry, how should I know--why worry about such a trifle.

Compose yourself, dear lad. I'll have 'em wake Julia, she was up with

you all night--egad, she'll be overjoyed to see you so much better--"

"Pray no--don't disturb her. Have I been here long?"

"Nine days, Peregrine--touch and go--knocking at death's door,

boy--and raving like any madman."

"What--what about, sir?" I questioned, beginning to tremble.

"A lot o' wild nonsense, Perry--"

"What, sir--what?" I demanded.

"There, there, lad--don't distress yourself. 'T was nothing to

signify--mere sick fancies."

"Fancies concerning what, Uncle George?"

"Well, something about red wheels and a drowned woman in a wood, a

wall, and a door, and suchlike idle stuff. Y' see, Perry, not content

with getting yourself wet through, you must let that brute of a horse

o' yours throw you on to your head; doctors say 't is a marvel you're

alive, and begad, Perry lad, 'tis our firm belief, Jervas and mine,

that you'd ha' died if it hadn't been for your wonderful aunt and

Diana--watched over you like the angels they are--saved your life

betwixt 'em--"

The room seemed to go suddenly black and from the awful darkness my

uncle babbled cheerily, while I, smitten by a nauseous faintness,

strove to speak yet could not.

"Uncle George," said I at last, "is--is she here--now?"

"Who, Diana? No, lad. But be patient, she's only out riding with

Barbara--was with you here all day, she'll be back soon--be patient,

she's never long away from you these days, b'gad--"

"No!" cried I, shuddering, "no! Don't let her come near me--don't let

her touch me--send her away or I shall die!"

"Good God!" ejaculated my uncle George, glancing about helplessly.

"He's off again--this cursed fever--must call Julia."

"Don't!" said I, reaching out a feeble hand in supplication. "This

is--not fever, sir. This is my conscious self imploring you to keep

her away from me, or I shall truly die--or run mad--"

"O Peregrine--O Peregrine," he stammered, in choking voice, "this

can't be you--to say such things--so cruel--this is your old

delirium--you are raving again--you must be--"

"Before God, sir, speaking in all sanity, I beg and implore that you

will--keep her from me."

"Oh, damnation--this is awful!" exclaimed my uncle, his handsome face

looking strangely haggard. "Day and night in your delirium you have

lain cursing Diana and with Diana's hand upon your brow and Diana's

tears wetting your pillow--and now--O Peregrine, lad, tell me you

don't mean it--that you are a little fevered, yes--yes, people at such

times often turn against those they most love--will kill Diana else--"

"Or she me, sir--so keep her away--don't let her touch me--I'll not

see her, I say--I'll not, by God--I'll not--"

"Hush--hush! Don't scream, lad, don't scream!"

He was on his knees, had clasped my trembling weakness in his great

arms and was soothing me, and I weeping for my very impotence, when

the door opened and Aunt Julia appeared.

"Dear Heaven!" she cried, bending above me. "What have you done,

George? What have you done to him?"

"O Aunt!" I cried. "Dear Aunt Julia, don't let her touch me

again--don't let her come near me or I shall go mad--"

"No, no, my loved Perry, no one shall tend you but myself--there, dear

boy, be comforted! O George, don't stand gaping--give me the draught

yonder--quick!"

"Promise me, Aunt--swear she shall not approach me again!

"I swear it, dear Peregrine. Come, drink--"

CHAPTER VII

CONCERNING THE SONG OF A BLACKBIRD AT EVENING

My uncle Jervas helped me carefully to the armchair by the open

lattice and thereafter stood looking down at me with a certain bleak

austerity of gaze.

"And you still refuse to hold any communication with her, Peregrine?"

"I do, sir."

"Or to afford her the least explanation, notwithstanding her devouring

grief and distress?"

"Sir--I cannot," I answered, and shivered slightly.

"Do you feel the air too much, Peregrine?"

"Thank you, no, sir. But the topic naturally distresses me!"

"Strange," said my uncle Jervas musingly, "very strange that I should

be pleading your gipsy's suit and find you so coldly, mercilessly

determined to make that pleading vain! You are as stubborn as a

Vereker and I think a trifle more merciless. Doubtless the reasons for

your so sudden change are sufficient unto yourself, but to your

friends they are profoundly incomprehensible, nor would I seek to

probe the mystery; you are your own master and judge, and Diana is

rich, has London at her feet, and may wed whomsoever she will, and

small wonder! Indeed, with one exception, she is the most

bewilderingly attractive and altogether beautiful woman I have ever

had the happiness to know. So here's an end of the matter, once and

for all. It is a painful topic, as you say; let us talk of other

things--yourself, for instance. You will be up and about again soon,

what do you propose to do with yourself, Peregrine? Now there is your

friend Vere-Manville playing the devil about town--has not been

entirely sober for a fortnight, I hear--I saw him myself, twice, very

blatantly drunk--"

"Indeed, sir, uncle George mentioned something of this yesterday,

though such conduct in Anthony is quite incomprehensible."

"Not content with this, the young fool is gambling desperately, haunts

all the noted hells--I heard he dropped over a thousand recently in a

few hours; his recklessness is becoming a byword."

"Good heavens, Uncle! Is he mad?"

"That you may ask him personally. I understand he intends honouring

you with a visit this afternoon. He should be here shortly, unless he

happens to be drunk. You are his friend, Peregrine; talk to him as

such, endeavour to stem the tide of his folly, if only for his young

wife's sake. Curb his madness if you can, it should be an occupation

for your leisure not without interest."

Thus we conversed at large and upon many topics but spoke no further

regarding her of whom we both were thinking; and thus, I believe, we

were both of us a little relieved to hear a distant "view hallo."

"There rides your friend Vere-Manville, I think, Peregrine, and

evidently a trifle hilarious!"

A trampling of hoofs in the paved yard below, and glancing from the

window I espied Anthony sure enough, who, leaping from the saddle,

reeled violently and clutched at the stalwart George to save himself.

"Aha!" he exclaimed, "seems something's matter wi' old mother earth,

George--heaving damnably--up and down, George--unless it's my legs.

Where's door, George? Aye, there 'tis. Seems dooced small--unless it's

my eyes, George--ha ha!" So he blundered in and heavily up the stair,

and after knocking thunderously, entered. At sight of my uncle Jervas,

he halted, drew himself very erect and bowed profoundly and with a

flourish, and when he spoke his speech was so thick that I dreaded

lest he hiccough:

"Your servant, S' Jervas! Hope I see y' well, sir?"

My uncle's bow was extremely stately and distant.

"Peregrine," said he, "seeing you have--enlivening company, I will

take occasion to go and meet your aunt Julia. Mr. Vere-Manville, I

would venture to impress upon you that my nephew is still very much of

an invalid." So saying, my uncle saluted us in turn with his grandest

air and went out, closing the door behind him.

"Thinks I'm drunk, does he!" exclaimed Anthony, scowling after him.

"Well, what the devil--so I am, damned d-drunk and so much the

better--"

"So much the worse, Anthony!"

"Tush, you talk like a fool, Perry; better be drunk and forget than be

sober and a s-suicide--felo--felo-de-se, buried at cross road--stake

through your inside--devilish unpleasant business--"

"You talk like a madman, Anthony."

"And you like a f-fool, Perry! Here's you come back t' life like a

fool, instead o' dying comfortably and respectably like--wise man.

Here's you hoping and yearning to marry and that's the damndest folly

of all. Much better be comfortably dead--"

"For shame, Anthony--for shame!" cried I angrily. "If you have so lost

respect for yourself--at least think of and respect your wife--"

"Wife!" he exclaimed. "My wife!" and springing up out of the chair I

saw him tower above me, clenched hands upflung, his comely features

distorted and horribly suffused; then he lurched to the window and

leaned, choking, from the lattice. Suddenly his bowed shoulders began

to heave, and I heard him laugh in dreadful manner and when he turned

his look was demoniac.

"Egad, but you will have your joke, eh, Perry, and devilish

funny--aye, devilish! My wife, says you--ha! ha! says I. You're drunk,

says you--I am, says I--so I can laugh, d'ye see--"

"Anthony!" I cried, rising from my chair. "O Anthony, here's more than

drink--dear fellow, in God's name, what is it?" And I grasped at him

with weak but insistent hands.

For a moment he made as if to throw me off, then his long arm was

about me, his head bowed upon my shoulder, and when he spoke his voice

had lost its wild, mad ring.

"D'ye think I like getting drunk, Perry? But there are worse

things--madness and murder. A bullet would be quick, but I still have

hope--sometimes--and death by drink is a slow business, so I've chosen

death by drink--"

"Why, Tony? What is the trouble? Is it--Barbara--your Loveliness?"

"She has never been the same since she came back from abroad, Perry.

Some secret trouble--all these weeks it has been getting worse--she

has sometimes seemed afraid of me--of me, Perry! At last I taxed her

with it--begged she'd confide in me. She told me there was nothing,

laughed it off and I believed it, like a fool--but that night,

Perry--that night, as she slept--and looking pure and holy as one of

God's angels, she--cried on a name--a man's name. I woke

her--questioned her, begged, implored, commanded--and still she

laughed, but always with the fear in her eyes. And I know she lied!

Then I took to watching her and she me--and so it went on until--there

were times when I could have struck her--choked the truth out of

her--O Perry! So I left her--went to London. Oh damnation, d'ye wonder

I drink? Better drink myself to the devil than harm her--though drink

will take a long time to kill me, I'm afraid--"

"Drink never shall, Tony! There, sit down, old fellow, calm yourself,

for by heaven I think you are making much out of little--"

"Why did she lie to me?"

"Are you sure she did?"

"Certain!"

"What do you propose to do?"

"Go back to London."

"Then I will accompany you."

"Impossible; you're weak as a confounded rabbit!"

"I'm stronger than I look; I've walked regularly in the garden these

last three days. However, if you go to London, I go too."

"Well, and if so--what could you do?"

"Remind you that a gentleman must endure unflinchingly and suffer with

unshaken fortitude."

"Ha, would you preach at me?"

"Day and night, if necessary."

"Would you, begad!"

"I would! Indeed I would make myself a pestilential nuisance to help

my friend."

"Friend!" he repeated. "Oh, curse and confound it, Perry, if I wasn't

such a miserable, hopeless dog, I should be proud of such

friendship--I am proud of it and always shall be--but here our

companionship ends. There's but one course for me, and I intend to

ride to the devil--alone!"

It was at this moment that the door opened and I rose to my feet,

trembling, as Diana stepped into the room. She was clad for riding and

her close-fitting habit served only to accentuate the voluptuous

beauty of her form, yet her eyes seemed maidenly and untroubled,

wide-opened and serenely steadfast as of old, and this of itself

stirred within me a sullen resentment as she stood looking at me, a

little pale, very wistful, yet radiant in her beauty; and when she

spoke her voice was untroubled as her look.

"Mr. Vere-Manville, I beg you will leave us awhile!"

Even as she spoke, Anthony bowed, strode to the door and was gone

before I could stay him.

"Peregrine?"

One word, softly uttered, yet in it a world of pleading--reproach and

troubled wonderment, insomuch that, remembering that accursed

black-bodied chaise, the ring and gossamer veil, my sullen resentment

waxed to bitter anger, the whole thing seemed so utterly nauseous.

Evening was falling and from one of the trees in the orchard a

blackbird was calling to his mate, soft and sweetly plaintive, and

never, to the end of my days, may I hear such without recalling all

the agony of this hour.

We stood very silent, looking upon each other, while the blackbird

piped in the orchard below; and now I trembled no more, for my anger

was passed and in its stead was a cold and purposeful determination.

"Are you better, Peregrine?" she questioned at last. "More yourself?"

"Thank you, yes."

When next she spoke her voice faltered a little, though her glance

never wavered.

"Peregrine, why--why did you--drive me away? Why refuse to see me?"

"To avoid a painful scene."

"But what should cause a painful scene--between us, Peregrine? Oh, my

dear, what is it--what has changed you? Is it your illness?"

"Let us suppose so."

"Have you no--no other explanation to offer me?" she questioned

wistfully and stood waiting my answer, drawing her riding gauntlet a

little nervously through her ungloved hand, on the slender finger of

which I saw the scarabaeus ring. "Is there, O Peregrine, is there no

other explanation?"

"None!" said I savagely, my eyes on that accursed ring. "None!"

"Peregrine--dear," she questioned humbly, "have you learned to--to

love one more--more worthy than I in my absence?"

"God forbid!" I answered. "Love has become for me a thing abhorred and

utterly detestable."

"Then God help me," said she in strange, passionless voice, "for

without your love I shall be desolate!"

"But you are so beautiful--so very beautiful you will never lack for

comfort, you could find scores of noble suitors to-morrow eager and

willing. So why talk of desolation?"

Now at this she shrank a little, staring at me with a dawning horror

in her eyes.

"Peregrine," she whispered, "O Peregrine, can this indeed be you? My

loved Peregrine, my gentleman that was so chivalrous and gentle once,

and now to hurt me so wilfully--so bitterly!"

"I am two years older, and--a little wiser, perhaps."

"Two years!" she repeated dully. "Two years I should never have left

you--it was wrong! And yet--can two years work so great a change in

any one? Ah, no, no--this cannot be you--so cold--so hard and cruel!

Oh, if we might but have those two years back again when you were your

own dear self and I your loving gipsy girl with no ambition but to be

worthy of--just you! O Peregrine, is your love for me truly dead--so

soon?"

As thus she spoke, all pleading, passionate entreaty, she came towards

me with both arms outstretched, her eyes abrim with tears; but,

frowning at her ungloved hand, I started back so hurriedly that she

stopped and looked at me as if I had struck her; then she shrank away,

her proud head drooped, her arms fell and she covered her face. "Then

it is true!" she gasped, "all--dreadfully true." And upon the silence

stole the sweetly plaintive notes of the blackbird calling, calling

from the orchard below.

And as she stood thus, bowed and shaken with her grief, I kept my gaze

ever upon that betraying scarabaeus ring. Suddenly she raised her head

and I saw her tearless but very pale.

"Yes, you are changed," said she, in that strange, passionless tone,

"quite changed; your eyes are cold, your face cruel and hard and

yet--O dear God!" she cried, "O dear God, I cannot believe your love

is truly dead--how can I? O dear, dear Peregrine, tell me you do love

me still--if only just a little--oh, be merciful, dear--!"

And now indeed she was weeping but, blinded by her tears, choked by

her sobs, she yet reached out her arms to me in mute appeal; and it

seemed that somehow her tears were blinding me also, her passionate

sobs shaking me, for I stood in a mist, groping for the support of my

chair-back; indistinctly I heard a voice speak that I knew was mine.

"So you still wear the scarab ring--I've seen it before. But where is

your veil with the gold stars? I did love you

once--worshipped--reverenced your maidenly purity--your brave

truthfulness but--that love is dead--crushed--crushed beneath red

wheels, and I would to God I were dead with it. No--if you please,

don't touch me--by your leave I will sit--and beg you to excuse me.

I--would be alone."

"Ah, Peregrine--beloved, you are crying too!"

"Indeed yes. I grieve that I am not dead."

"But why--why would you be dead, my own?"

"Because--O Diana--I cannot help but--love you after all. And now,

pray go--I beseech you, leave me ere the devil break loose and I speak

the unforgivable thing ... Go, I entreat!"

With some such hysterical words as these and blinded by a gush of

weak, unmanly tears, I sent her from me, unheeding alike her piteous

entreaties and the clasp of her imploring hands. When she was gone I

sank into my chair and suffered my tears to flow unchecked, while the

blackbird voiced the agony of loss and disillusionment.

CHAPTER VIII

THE DEEPS OF HELL

Your Heroes of Romance from time immemorial have generally been large

men, more or less handsome, superlatively strong, void of all fear,

stalwart of body and steadfast of mind; moreover, being singled out by

a hard fate to endure much and often, they suffer, unflinchingly and

uncomplainingly, to extremity, like the heroes they are. To be sure,

under great stress of mental or even bodily anguish, they are

sometimes allowed to sigh, to tremble, or even emit an occasional

groan, but tears, it seems, are a weakness forbidden them.

All of which foregoing is to lend additional point to the fact that in

my last chapter I leave myself huddled miserably in my chair and

dissolved in bitter tears; which of itself should sufficiently

preclude the remotest possibility of my reader ever mistaking me for a

hero, even if Nature had not done this already.

Behold me then, a high-strung, delicate, hysterical youth, weeping in

an agony of shameful horror evoked of a perfervid imagination.

O Imagination! Whoso is possessed of thee is cursed or blessed by a

fearful magic whereby the misty vision becomes real, unworthy

suspicion changed to hateful certainty, the vague idea into a living

horror to haunt us day and night until sweet Reason shrinks appalled;

by imagination we may scale the heights of heaven or plumb the foulest

deeps of hell.

So I, being not in the least like a Hero of Romance, wept miserably,

staring through tears upon a countryside bathed in the glory of

sunset; but to my jaundiced vision this radiance but made my

circumambient shadow the blacker by contrast, a mephitic gloom wherein

a chaise with red wheels bore Diana to her "slave and master"--a

master whose power was such that he could force her, willing or

unwilling, to obey his summons--his every behest ... horror on

horror ... shame on shame, until my mind reeled sick with loathing.

And she who had driven with the profligate Danby to God alone knew

what infamy--even she would return to act for me her part of sorrowing

wonder--to weep and sigh. Oh, shameful hypocrisy! And with her would

be my aunt and uncles to wonder also and shake grave heads over me,

torturing me with their love while in my consciousness gnawed this

undying horror that, like a demon raged within me, passioning for

utterance, insomuch that day or night I had dreaded lest I babble the

obscenities that haunted me. Better to die than speak! A bullet would

be quick, as Anthony had said--and I had no fire arms! But I

remembered that in the kitchen downstairs I had seen a pistol hung up

in a dark corner and above the mantel hung George's bayonet, at whose

keen point lay silence and oblivion; and this thought had in it a

degree of comfort as I sat crouched in my chair, half-blinded by my

unheroic tears.