The sun had set, the blackbird had ended his song, for evening was

falling apace; against the glimmering dusk bats wheeled and hovered,

and as the shadows deepened I watched the stars shine forth, while low

down in the darkening sky was an effulgence that marked the rising

moon.

Suddenly I arose, moved by a dominating purpose, kicked off my

slippers, struggled into my boots and, taking surtout and hat, strode

resolutely downstairs; by good hap there chanced to be nobody in the

kitchen and, crossing to a certain corner, I took from the wall a

small but serviceable-looking pistol, and having assured myself that

it was primed and loaded, I slipped it into my pocket and stepped out

into the fragrant dusk.

But as I crossed the yard, George suddenly emerged from the stables.

"Lord, Mr. Vereker, sir!" he exclaimed, touching an eyebrow.

"Any one about, George?"

"Nary a soul, sir--'cept me an' my little old woman. But 'bout a hour

ago Mr. Anthony's lady rides up, all a-tremblin' an' pale--an' no

wonder, poor soul, seein' Mr. Anthony galloped off lookin' like a

devil an' a bottle o' my brandy in 'is pocket!"

"Had Mrs. Vere-Manville come to find him, George?"

"No, sir! He'd been gone a good 'arf-hour afore she came. 'O George,'

says she, all a-gaspin' like, 'is Miss Lovel 'ere?' 'Upstairs along o'

Mr. Vereker, ma'm,' I says. 'Oh, I must see her--I must see her!'

cries she, a-shakin' wuss'n ever, so that I was afeard she'd fall off

'er 'oss an' 'im that gentle! 'Can I 'elp you ma'm?' says I. 'No!'

says she, moanin' an' breathless-like. 'Oh, no, George--nobody can, O

God, 'elp me, God 'elp me!' An' then, sir, down comes Miss Lovel an'

runs to 'er. 'Why, Babs!' says she, anxious-like. 'Oh, what is it,

dearest?' At this, Mr. Anthony's lady begins to sob--'eart-breakin',

sir! 'O Di,' says she, all wildlike, 'O Di dear, 'e wants me! 'E says

I must go--to-night--an' I'm afraid.' So Miss Lovel, she kisses 'er

an' they whisper together. Then Miss Lovel calls for 'er 'oss, an'

away they ride very close together, an' Miss L.'s arm about 'er. Lord,

sir, who'd a thought it o' Mr. Anthony? So wild an' fierce-like 'e

were--enough to fright any woman, 'specially such a beautiful, gentle

creetur' as 'is wife! Drink 's a fearsome thing!"

"True, George. But Mr. Anthony would die rather than harm her, I am

sure."

"Maybe, sir--but 'e looked 'orrible wild an' fierce when 'e rode

off--an' drink du be a tur'ble thing."

"Now--touching a chaise, George--"

"Chaise, sir?"

"A black chaise picked out in yellow, with red wheels. You have seen

such drive up to Raydon Manor, yonder, you told me once, I think?"

"I did, sir, an' I 'ave--frequent! It do have drove up theer this very

evening. But Lord, Mr. Vereker, be you a thinkin' o' walkin' out--an'

night comin' on?"

"I am, George."

"'T will be dark soon, sir. And you 'ardly yourself, yet!"

"No, George, there will be a moon."

"But, sir, wot am I to tell your lady aunt?"

"That I have taken a walk in quest of my health--and sanity, George."

"Be you a-goin' fur, sir?"

"No further than I need."

"Then I think I'll go along wi' you, sir."

"No, George, I may be back before the moon is up. At least--no, it

will be high-risen when I return, most likely. Only pray assure my

aunt that I am doing the very best for myself." So saying, I left the

faithful George staring after me and shaking dubious head.

I walked at a leisurely pace, deliberating how best to contrive the

desperate task I had set myself to accomplish, how best to bring it to

a final and certain issue.

And presently up came the moon in glory and I stared up at her as one

does who may behold her perhaps for the last time. Calm and serene she

arose, and as I walked amid this tender light, I seemed to breathe in

something of her passionless serenity and knew a strange exaltation of

mind, placid and untroubled. Gone were my fever dreams, the foul

horrors that had haunted me, and my obscene demons were vanished

utterly away and with them, as it seemed, the inertia of my late

sickness.

To die, and in so doing take evil with me, leaving the world so much

the better? To die, and perhaps find for myself that oblivion, that

untroubled rest that I so earnestly desired? Surely Death, after all,

was the Great Good Thing? So I walked on at leisurely pace, serene,

assured and utterly content.

Reaching the high road, I followed it until I espied a rutted byway

bounded on the one hand by lofty trees and on the other by a high and

sinister wall. At the same leisurely pace I strolled down this dark

lane and thus arrived at a pair of tall and very massive iron gates.

Here I paused, and though the adjacent trees cast much shadow,

presently discovered a bell handle to which I applied myself

forthwith.

After some delay the door of the lodge opened and a figure appeared,

though strangely vague and indistinct and then, peering at me through

the bars of the gate, I saw a gigantic negro, his skin as black as his

livery.

"Is your master in?" I demanded.

"Who yo' mean--mah master?" he replied in surly tone.

"I wish to see Mr. Haredale or Captain Danby."

"No sich names hyah!"

"Well then, I want Mr. Trenchard."

"Who's yo' se'f to see Mas'r Trenchard?"

"I am an--acquaintance of his."

"Well, ah don' know yo' face, so ah guess dey's bof' out fo' you an'

so's yo'se'f--an' can stay out, fo' shure." Having said which, the

negro laughed shrilly, and I saw the flash of his teeth ere he

departed.

Balked thus but determined as ever, I turned away and began to follow

the wall, looking for a place where I might climb it by means of some

tree or rise in the ground. And with every step the sudden conviction

I had formed that Trenchard was Haredale grew stronger; and Haredale,

as I knew, was but another name for that evil rogue whose name had

once been Devereux.

I went slowly, scanning every yard of the wall for a likely place, now

in brilliant moonlight, now in shadow, while stronger and stronger

waxed my determination that, supposing Trenchard were Devereux indeed,

I would this night rid the world of him once and for all.

Presently, as I went, resolutely seeking a way to come at my desire, I

found myself stumbling amid the dense gloom of tall trees; but I

pushed on until before me, the moon being now high-risen, I saw the

blackness cleft by a shaft of radiance and, coming nearer, stopped all

at once to scowl at a small door in the wall that seemed to scowl back

at me between deep buttresses.

Now suddenly, as I stood thus, I heard a sound of steps and voices on

the other side of the wall, a key was thrust into the lock of this

door, and instinctively I shrank back and back into the gloom of the

trees; I heard the key turn, the drawing of heavy bolts, and then, as

I crouched, hand upon the weapon in my pocket, the door opened.

And now at last I knew why this door had haunted my dreams, a thing of

unutterable evil for, from beneath its frowning shadow, out into the

moonlight, stepped Diana.

She was shrouded in a long, hooded cloak, but my sickened senses knew

her even before she put back the hood to glance stealthily about her,

like the shameful, guilty thing she was. Suddenly she shrank,

cowering, as upon the air broke a strange, inarticulate cry that I

knew for my own; an unseen hand plucked her back, the door closed, was

locked and swiftly bolted, and I heard the sound of running feet.

And now, all too late, I sprang to smite this accursed door with

maddened fists, to beat it with pistol butt and utter incoherent

shouts and ravings. All at once my arm was in a powerful grip, the

pistol twisted out of my hold and I glared up into the face of

Anthony. His hat was gone, he swayed gently on his feet, and when he

spoke his voice was hoarse and indistinct.

"What's t' do, old fellow--dev'lish din you're making--most infernal.

Won't they open th' curst door t' ye then, Perry? Well--never

mind--take a pull at this--nothing like brandy--"

From capacious pocket he drew forth a bottle and held it towards me,

which I forthwith dashed against the wall.

"And now," said I, "give me the pistol!"

"What for?" he demanded, sobered a little.

"Because I purpose to shoot him."

"Who, Perry?"

"Trenchard or Haredale or Devereux or whatever he calls himself. Come,

give me the pistol. To-night I make an end of him and his deviltries

once and for all."

For a moment Anthony blinked at me in foolish amaze.

"Why, Perry--why, Perry!" he exclaimed. "B'gad, can this be you

indeed?" And then, as if quite sobered by what he read in my face, he

fell back a step, brushed hand across his eyes, peered at me again,

and his slouching figure grew erect and purposeful.

"Give me that pistol!" I repeated.

"No, Peregrine!" said he, his voice sharp and incisive. "Killing is

murder, and I am your friend. But if you wish to fight a fellow, or

say twenty fellows, b'gad, I'm with you! The more the merrier--so

speak the word!"

"Yes!" said I. "Yes, I'll fight, but kill him I will--it almost seems

preordained that I should kill him from the beginning--"

"And whom did you say he was, Perry?"

"Trenchard he calls himself hereabouts--the damnable villain who lives

here at Raydon Manor."

"A duel!" quoth Anthony, smiling grimly. "If you fight, Perry, I

fight; b' God, I'll find somebody to accommodate me one way or

another--a duel, oh, most excellent! Ha, dooce take me, but you're

right, Perry, I never thought o' this. Oh, damme, the very thing--I'm

with you heart and soul, dear fellow, so come on."

So saying, he ran at the wall and, leaping with long arms at full

stretch, gripped the coping with iron fingers, drew himself up and

reaching long arm down, had swung me up beside him, all in a moment.

"Ha, Perry!" he exclaimed, as we prepared to drop into the garden

below, "I'm a curst, dull-witted ass--here have I been sedulously

guzzling ale, rum, brandy and dooce knows how many kinds of wine, and

what I really needed was blood, d'ye see? Blood, old fellow, no matter

whose. And, begad, blood we'll have to-night, Perry, or know the

reason why. Come on, old fellow, both together--now!"

Down he leapt and down I scrambled, and side by side we advanced

towards the house that held for me all the nauseous evil and

unspeakable shame of all the world.

CHAPTER IX

CONCERNING THE OPENING OF A DOOR

"Anthony, give me the pistol!"

"Damme, no--ha' patience! Meantime take this--more useful if it comes

t' scrimmage!" And he twisted a stake from the flower bed we were

trampling and thrust it into my hand. "Enemy's country, Perry,--qui

vive! Hist! Attention and all the rest of it! Forward an' curse the

consequences!"

So we stole forward like the madmen we were, but very silent and very

determined.

The house stood upon a noble terrace, a large house of many gables and

windows, most of these last being unlighted. Fortune seemed to favour

us, for we met with none to oppose us, and mounting a broad flight of

stone steps, reached the terrace unmolested. But as I stood glancing

about for some door or likely window whereby we might force entrance,

Anthony dragged me down suddenly into the shadow of the balustrade, as

round a corner of the house two men appeared.

"Wot," growled one, pausing, the better to spit in passionate disgust,

"put the 'orses to the phaeton, must I? And at this time o' night--an'

all for a couple o' light country Molls as is afeard to foot it 'ome

in the dark, curse 'em!"

"She ain't no country Moll, Ben, leastways not 'er as I see--a reg'lar

'igh-stepper--all the lady, Ben--such eyes, ecod--such a shape to 'er,

Ben--"

"Well, dang 'er shape, I says! Why can't she go as she come?"

"Summat in the wood give 'er a turn, scared 'er like, an' back she run

to the Guv'nor an' orders 'im to 'ave the phaeton round, which the

Guv'nor does; an' there's 'im an' t' others a-toastin' of 'er this

'ere werry minute. Oh, she's a lady, Ben, an' mighty 'igh an' 'aughty,

by 'er looks."

"'Aughty!" sneered Ben, spitting again. "Lady! We know th' kind o'

ladies as comes a visitin' th' Guv'nor or the Captain 'ere a-nights--"

"Shut your trap, Ben, an' get to your 'osses, lady or no."

"Lady--ha, fine doin's--fine doin's! Shameless 'ussies--"

"Close up, Ben, close up--mum's the word hereabouts! The Guv'nor's got

a quick eye for a fine young woman--ah, an' so's you an' me, for that

matter! An' I tell ye, this 'un's a fine lady, even if a bit

frolicsome. So git to your 'osses, Ben--an' sharp's the word."

The man Ben sniffed and, muttering evilly, slouched away, leaving his

fellow to sigh gustily and stare up at the moon; a square-shouldered,

bullet-headed man who, leering up at Diana's chaste loveliness, began

to scrape and pick at his teeth with a thumb nail. And then Anthony

sneezed violently. The man stood rigid, thumb at mouth, peering.

"'Oo's there?" he demanded gruffly, and began to advance, head bowed

and arms squared in a posture of offence.

In one moment, as it seemed, Anthony was upon him; ensued a scrape of

feet, a thudding of blows, a strangled cry, and they were down,

rolling upon the gravel and with never a chance for me to get in a

stroke with my unwieldy hedge stake. At last Anthony arose, panting a

little and smiling grimly, looking from the man's inert form to his

own bleeding knuckles.

"This," he whispered breathlessly, "this is doing me--power o' good!

Toughish customer--forced to give him--tap with pistol butt. How about

the fellow Ben?"

"No, no, Anthony! The door yonder--quick--this way!"

I remember a long, dim-lit passage, a narrow stair, and we found

ourselves in a broad and spacious hall where shaded lamps burned and

nude statues gleamed against rich hangings.

Borne to our ears came a jingle of glasses, the line of a song and

boisterous laughter. A door opened suddenly and a man stepped into the

hall, his bulky figure outlined against the lights of the room behind

him, but he paused upon the threshold to glance back and flourish

something triumphantly.

"Treasure trove!" he laughed. "The memento of a delightful hour!"

With the words upon his lips he turned, and I recognised Captain

Danby. He was halfway across the hall when he espied us and stopped to

glare in wide-eyed amazement; something fluttered to the floor and he

began to retreat softly and slowly before us, but Anthony was pointing

down at a small bundle of lace with hand that shook and wavered

strangely.

"Look at it, Perry--look!" he muttered. "Look, man! Why--God's death,

Perry--it's her lace scarf--belongs to my Loveliness, Perry--should

know it anywhere--it's--hers, man--and here! Oh, damnation!"

In a flash he had picked it up and, roaring like a madman, hurled

himself against the closing door. For moment was a desperate scuffling

and frenzied straining and gasping, a creaking of stout panels, then

the door swung violently open and we burst into the room.

A disordered supper table littered with bottles, three or four

breathless gentlemen who panted and glared, and a curtained doorway in

one corner; all this I was aware of, though my gaze never left the

face of him who stood before this curtained door, a tall, slender man

very elegantly calm and wholly unperturbed, except for the slight

frown that puckered his thick brows,--a handsome face the paler by

contrast with its dark and glossy hair.

For a tense moment there was silence but for Anthony's loud and

irregular breathing; when at last he spoke his voice sounded wholly

unfamiliar:

"Damned scoundrels--look at this! My wife's scarf--is she here? By

God, if she is, I'll find her if I have to kill you one by one and

wreck this hellish place--"

"Fellow's drunk!" suggested some one, whereupon Anthony cursed them

one and all, and I heard the sharp click of the pistol as he cocked

it, but I restrained him with a gesture:

"Mr. Trenchard," said I, "Mr. Haredale--Devereux or whatever name you

happen to be using, I have forced myself upon you to-night to inform

you that, knowing you at last for the foul and loathsome thing you

are, I am very earnest that you should pollute the world no longer.

Two years ago you struck me in the yard behind the Chequers Inn, at

Tonbridge; I call upon you to account for that blow to-night--here and

now!"

"Let any man stir and I shoot to kill!" said Anthony between shut

teeth; his heavy tread shook the floor behind me, then he had swung me

aside and fronted Devereux the pistol in his hand, face convulsed and

murder glaring in his eyes.

"Trenchard," said he in strange, hissing whisper, "there is a

curtained door behind you--whom are you hiding in there? Trenchard, I

am yearning to kill you and kill you I will, so help me God, unless

you draw that curtain and open that door--d'ye hear me?"

Trenchard's tall form seemed to stiffen, his mocking smile vanished,

but his eyes never wavered.

Anthony levelled the pistol.

"Trenchard," said he softly, "I'll count three!"

Then Trenchard laughed lightly.

"Egad, sir," said he with a flourish, "drunk or no, you have a

devilish persuading air about you. Behold then, and judge of my

felicity!"

Thus speaking, he drew aside the curtain and reached white hand

towards the door behind, but at this moment and before he could touch

it, the door swung open and Diana stepped forth.

"Mr. Vere-Manville," said she, her soft voice calm and even, "pray

give me my scarf, your wife made me a present of it days ago!" And she

reached out her hand with the old, imperious gesture that I remembered

so well. So Anthony gave her the handful of lace and turned his back

upon us.

"O Perry!" he exclaimed with a groan, "O Perry, dear friend--what have

I done! God forgive me--"

"Heavens, Anthony!" quoth I. "Pray why distress yourself upon a matter

so trivial--besides, I knew already. And now, Mr. Trenchard or

Haredale or Devereux, if this lady will be so obliging as to retire,

we can settle our small concern very comfortably here across the

table."

"No, Peregrine!" said Diana in the same even tone.

"Mr. Trenchard--" I began.

"I say you shall not, Peregrine!" said she softly.

"Mr. Haredale--" quoth I.

"O Peregrine," she sighed, "suspicion has poisoned your mind against

me or you would never stoop to doubt me--even here--"

"Mr. Devereux," said I, "will you pray have the courtesy to desire

your charming friend to leave us awhile--"

"O Peregrine!" she gasped, and though I never so much as glanced in

her direction, I knew she had shrunk farther from me. "Some day, oh,

some day, Peregrine, you will regret this bitterly--bitterly--" Her

voice broke, and in its place came Devereux's hateful tones:

"'My charming friend' is well aware that her society is my joy and

delight, nor shall I cheat myself of one moment on your account, sir,

whoever you chance to be."

"Why, then," said I, laying my card on the table, "the lady's presence

need not deter us, I think. Let us be done with the affair at once."

"Absolutely and utterly impossible, sir!" he answered, taking up my

card. "Since you desire me to kill you, I will do so with a perfect

pleasure, but at my own time and place and--" Here he paused as he

read my name, and stood a moment staring down at the pasteboard with

that same faint pucker of the brow; then he laughed suddenly and

tossed my card to Captain Danby. "Odd, Tom!" said he; then turning to

me, "Mr. Vereker, I will meet you at the very earliest moment--shall

we say five o'clock to-morrow morning? There is a small tavern called

'The Anchor' a few miles along the Maidstone road, a remote spot very

suitable for a little shooting. And now, sir, pray begone. I am

occupied, as you see--while my friends pour libations to Bacchus, I

worship at the shrine of Venus."

Here, turning very ostentatiously, he bowed to Diana, viewing her with

look so evil that I clenched my fists and made to spring at him, but

Anthony's powerful hand arrested me:

"Come away, Perry," he whispered, "you can do no more to-night. Don't

show 'em your pain--pride, man, pride! Come away, old fellow."

So I suffered him to lead me whither he would, following the impulse

of his guiding arm like a blind man, for the shadow had closed in

blacker than ever, to engulf me at last, and it seemed that my only

escape from this horror was to grasp the kindly hand of Death.

Once clear of this accursed house I was seized of a great disgust, a

nausea that was both mental and physical, and I groaned aloud in my

extremity.

"O God, Anthony! Oh, my God!"

At this he clasped me in his arms and I stood awhile, shivering, my

face hidden in his bosom.

"Dear fellow!" he muttered. "Women are the devil. I know--I'm married,

d'ye see!"

Faint and far away a church clock struck the hour.

"What time was that?" I enquired.

"Eleven o'clock, Perry."

"Six weary hours to wait!" I groaned.

"B'gad, yes--only six hours!"

"Thank God!" quoth I fervently, and so we went on again, arm in arm.

"You mean to kill that damned fellow, Peregrine?"

"If they place us near enough."

"You are good for twelve paces, I suppose?"

"I don't know."

"But you--you shoot reasonably well, of course?"

"Very badly! This was why I was so anxious to do my shooting across a

table--"

"But you--you--O Lord, Perry--you are familiar with the

weapon--practised at the galleries occasionally?"

"I have shot once or twice at a target to please my uncle Jervas, but

never succeeded in hitting it that I remember."

"Oh, damnation!"

"That is what my uncle Jervas said, I remember."

"But then--why how--oh, man!" stammered Anthony, viewing me in

wide-eyed dismay, "how in the fiend's name d' you expect to hit your

man?"

"I don't know, Anthony--except, as I say, across a table or a

handkerchief. But what matter? After all, perhaps it is--yes--just as

well--"

"Why, then 't will be rank murder! Ha, by heaven, Perry, you--you mean

to let the fellow murder you--is this it?"

"I mean to shoot as straight as I can."

"It will be murder!" he cried wildly, and then tossing up his long

arms in a helpless, distracted manner, he cried, "By God, Perry, you

are as good as dead already!"

"Why, then," said I, grasping him by the arm, "listen to the voice of

a dying man and one who has never accomplished anything as

yet--indeed, I have been a failure all my life--"

"You, Perry? A failure--how, man, how?"

"Well, I yearned to be a poet--and failed. I tried to be a

painter--and failed again. I endeavoured to become a man and have

achieved nothing. I am a sentient futility! But to-night--ah, to-night

kind fortune sent me--you. And you were drunk again!"

"I'm sober enough now, b'gad!"

"Drunkenness, Anthony, as you know, is the refuge for cowards and

weaklings, and all unworthy such a man as Anthony Vere-Manville--"

"Egad, will you preach at me, Perry?"

"Call it so if you will, but to-night is something of an occasion and

here is a setting excellently adapted to the sermon of a dying man."

And indeed it was a night to wonder at, very still and silent and

filled with the splendour of a great moon whose peaceful radiance fell

upon the sleeping countryside like a benediction.

"Look," said I, "look round you, Anthony, upon this wonder of earth

and heaven! Does it not wake in you some consciousness of divinity,

some assured hope that we in our nobler selves are one with the

Infinite Good?"

"Why, to be sure, now you mention it," he answered easily, glancing

from me to the radiant heaven and back again, "it is a very glorious

night!"

"Yes!" said I. "'In such a night stood Dido with a willow in her hand

upon the wide sea banks and wafted her love to come again to

Carthage!'"

"Eh?" exclaimed Anthony, peering at me anxiously.

"'In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs,'--and in such a

night your friend, who may never see another--takes occasion to ask a

promise of you."

"What is it, Perry?"

"That henceforth you will be drunk no more. Give me your word for

this, Anthony, and come what will, I shall not have lived in vain."

"Why, Peregrine," he mumbled, "dear fellow--not quite yourself--very

natural--quite understand--"

"On the contrary, I have never been so truly myself as now, Anthony.

Grant me this and--if death find me to-morrow morning, I shall indeed

have accomplished something worthy at last. So, Anthony--promise me!"

For a moment he stood very still, gazing up at the moon, then, all in

a moment, had caught my hand to wring it hard; but the pain of his

grip was a joy and the look on his face a comfort beyond words.

"I--I Swear it!" said he between quivering lips. "God's love, man, I'd

promise you anything to-night! And now--laugh, man, laugh--oh,

dammit!" Here he choked and was silent awhile.

"Where are you taking me, Anthony? I cannot return to the 'Soaring

Lark.'"

"Of course not. You're coming with me to 'The Bear' at Hadlow. I have

a room there. And you'll promise to be guided by me until this--this

cursed affair is over--place yourself and the affair in my hands,

Perry?"

"Most thankfully."

"Then I stipulate for supper and bed as soon as possible."

"Very well, Anthony--though I ought to draw up some sort of a will

first, oughtn't I?"

"Yes, it is customary, dear fellow."

"There's my Wildfire, I'll leave him to you--if you'll have him."

"Of course--and thank you, Perry."

"You'll soon grow to love the rascal in spite of his mischievous

tricks--"

"I hope to heaven I never have the chance--oh, curse and confound

it--don't be so devilish calm and assured. You--you talk as if you

were going out to your execution!"

"No, no, Anthony," I answered, slipping my hand within his arm, "let

us rather say--to my triumph."

CHAPTER X

TELLS HOW A MYSTERY WAS RESOLVED

I opened my eyes on a bleak dawn full of a pallid, stealthy mist, to

find myself cramped in my chair before the open lattice and with

Anthony bending over me, his comely features haggard in the sickly

light.

"Ha, you didn't go to bed then?"

"Evidently not!" I answered, shivering. "But I slept--"

"Well, I did--and never a wink, confound it! And here's you basking

before an open window--and on such a perfectly damned morning--have

you ill again!" and, shivering in his turn, he proceeded to close the

lattice and light the candles.

"Pray what o'clock is it, Anthony?"

"A quarter to four. I have ordered a chaise to be ready in half an

hour; seems this 'Anchor' Inn is some eight miles away--and better be

a little early than late."

After a somewhat hasty toilet, during which Anthony contrived to cut

himself, we descended to find a goodly breakfast and a cheerful fire;

but scarcely were we at table than Anthony tugged at the bell rope.

"Good morrow to thee, Thomas!" quoth he to the portly and somnolent

landlord who responded to the summons. "Chaise will be round soon, I

hope?"

"Whenever ye do so wish, Mr. Anthony, sir."

"Excellent! Then pray, Tom, take hence this stuff!" And he pointed to

a bottle at his elbow.

"Stuff, sir! Oh, Mr. Anthony--stuff?" exclaimed the landlord in

sorrowful reproach, his somnolence forgotten in surprise. "It be

brandy, sir--best French--your very own particular--"

"Aye, Tom, I know it is, and begad, I'm lusting for a mouthful--that's

why I bid you take it away--drink coffee instead, confound it! So

hence with it, Thomas--away!"

Very round of eye, the landlord took up the bottle and wandered off

with it like one in a dream.

Anthony gulped his coffee, but, though the fare was excellent, ate

little, fidgeted with his stock, shuffled in his chair, glanced

frequently and stealthily at his watch and, in fine, discovered all

those symptoms that indicated an extreme perturbation of mind.

"Devil take it, Perry--how you eat!" he exclaimed at last.

"The ham is delicious, Anthony--".

"Dooced stuff would choke me! Oh, by heaven, I'd give

anything--everything, to take your place for the next hour!"

"But then, Anthony, it would probably be I who could not eat!"

"Tush, man, I'll hit you the ace of spades six times out of seven at

twelve paces! Four o'clock, by heaven! I wonder if that confounded

chaise will be ready yet!" And up he sprang and hasted away into the

yard and almost immediately came hurrying back to tell me the vehicle

was at the door.

Outside the mist seemed thick as ever, though the east was brightening

to day; so I entered the chaise, followed by Anthony growling disgust,

the door slammed, and through the open window came the round head of

Tom the landlord to bob at us in turn.

"'T will grow finer mayhap by an' by, sirs," quoth he, "hows'ever,

good luck an' good fortun' to ye, gentlemen--all right, Peter!" he

called to the postillion. Whereupon a whip cracked, the chaise lurched

forward and landlord and inn vanished in the swirling mist.

For a while we rode without talking, Anthony scowling out of his

window, I staring out of mine at an eddying haze which, thinning out

ever and anon, showed vague shapes that peeped forth only to be lost

again, spectral trees, barns and ricks, looming unearthly in the

half-light.

"Perry, you--you are confoundedly silent!"

"You are not particularly loquacious either," I retorted, slipping my

hand within his arm.

"Why, no--no, b'gad--I'm not, Perry. But then, it's such a peculiarly

damnable morning, d'ye see."

"Well, it will mayhap grow finer later on, remember."

"Hope to heaven it does!"

"It would make things--a little pleasanter, Anthony."

"Peregrine, if--should anything--anything--er--dooced happen to you,

I'll--aye, by God, I'll fight the fellow myself."

"I beg you will do no such thing--I implore you Anthony."

"Oh? Damme and why not?"

"For the sake of Barbara--your Loveliness--your future happiness--"

"Tush, man!" he exclaimed bitterly. "That dream is over!"

"And I tell you Happiness is awaiting you--will come seeking you very

soon, I feel sure."

"How should you know this?"

"You may have heard, Anthony, that people in such a position as

mine--people who are facing the possibility of speedy dissolution, are

sometimes gifted with a clearer vision--an intuition--call it what you

will. However, I repeat my assurance that Happiness is awaiting you,

coming to you with arms outstretched, if you will but have faith and

patience--a happiness greater, fuller, richer than you have ever

known."

At this, he turned to scowl out of the window again and I out of mine,

and thus we came to an end of the rutted by-lanes we had been

traversing and turned into the smoother going of the main road.

We had gone but a mile, as I judge, when, borne to our ears came the

faint, rhythmic beat of fast-galloping hoofs growing momentarily

louder.

"Someone in the devil's own hurry!" exclaimed Anthony, letting down

his window. "No man would gallop his horse so without reason!

Hark--hark, he must be riding like a madman--and in this fog! What the

devil? Nobody to lay us by the heels--eh, Perry?"

"God forbid!" I exclaimed fervently, as Anthony leaned from the

window.

"Nothing to see--mist too thick!" said he. "But road's dooced narrow

hereabouts, yet hark--hark how the fellow rides!" And indeed it seemed

to me that there was something terrible in the relentless beat of

these wildly galloping hoofs that were coming up with us so rapidly.

Anthony was peering from the window again; I heard him shout, felt the

chaise swing jolting towards the hedge and the horseman was by--a

blurred vision that flashed upon my sight and was gone.

"Missed by inches--dooced reckless, by Gad!" exclaimed Anthony, and I

saw that his frown had vanished.

"What kind of a person was he?" I demanded.

"Muffled up to the ears, Perry, hat over his eyes--big horse--powerful

beast. Going to clear up and be a fine day after all, I fancy."

"And it is nearly five o'clock!" said I, glancing at my watch.

"Hum!" sighed Anthony. "And here you sit as serenely untroubled, as

placidly assured, as if you were the best shot in the world instead of

the worst."

"Listen, Anthony!" I cried suddenly. "Do you hear anything--listen,

man!" A faint throbbing upon the air, a pulsing beat growing louder

and louder. "Do you hear it, Anthony, do you hear it?"

"No--yes--begad, Perry, it sounds like--"

"Another horse at full gallop, Anthony--and coming up behind us.

Another horseman--from the same direction!"

"Dev'lish strange, Perry. How many more of 'em?"

"There will be no more!" I exclaimed bitterly, and then, the chaise

beginning to slow up, I thrust my head from the window to demand why

we were stopping.

"Turnpike, sir!" answered the postboy. And peering through the haze

before us I saw the tollgate, sure enough, and I turned to stare back

down the road towards the second hard-riding horseman, and presently

beheld a vague blur that resolved itself into a rapidly oncoming shape

that swept down upon us through the swirling mist; the flutter of a

long cloak, a spurred boot, a shadowy form bowed low in the

saddle--all this I saw in one brief moment; then rose a hoarse shout

from the eddying mist ahead; the jingle of flung coins and, lifting

his animal at the tollgate, the horseman cleared it at a bound and,

plunging into the haze beyond, had vanished like a phantom.

And now I was seized with a passion of haste and began to shout

fevered orders at our postboy.

"Hurry--hurry! A guinea--ten guineas for your best speed! Drive, man,

drive like the devil. Whip--spur!"

I remember tossing money to a hoarse-voiced toll-keeper in a fur cap,

and we were off in full career, the light chaise rocking and swaying.

I remember Anthony's look of surprise and my answering his

half-hearted questions at random or not at all, for now I rode, my

head out-thrust from the window, hearkening for the sound of galloping

hoofs ahead of us.

And so at last, after an eternity as it seemed, the chaise slowed

again and came to an abrupt standstill before a dimly-seen building

and, peering out, I made out the sign:

THE ANCHOR INN.

Next moment I had sprung out into the road and, not waiting for

Anthony, hastened into the place, opened a door at random, and found

myself in a small room where smoked a miserable fire over which

lounged two languid gentlemen well coated and muffled against the

chill of dawn.

"Sirs," said I, acknowledging their bows, "pray have you seen two

horsemen pass lately?"

"Horsemen, sir?" repeated a dashing gentleman who seemed all whiskers,

teeth and greatcoat. "'Pon my honour, no--stop a bit--yes, I did! They

rode towards Maidstone, I fancy, sir."

"Did they stop to make any enquiries--either of them?"

"Stop, sir? No, sir--devil a bit!" answered the gentleman, flashing

his teeth and shaking his whiskers to such a degree that I doubted him

on the spot. At this moment Anthony appeared, whereupon ensued more

polite bows and flourishes; and now the other gentleman addressed us,

a plethoric, red-faced man in a furred, blue frock.

"Our friend Trenchard desired us to await you, gentlemen, to inform

you that he has changed the ground. The--the--ah--affair will not take

place behind the inn here as first intended, but in a place somewhat

more secluded. If you will pray have the goodness to accompany us, we

will--ah--show you the way."

So we set out accordingly, I, for one, little heeding or caring

whither we went.

Now it chanced we came to a narrow way where but two might go abreast

and I found myself walking beside the whiskered gentleman who prattled

to me very pleasantly, I believe, though of what I cannot recall.

After a while the path brought us to a rough track hard beside a

little wood and here stood a roomy travelling-chaise and beside this

the man Trenchard or Devereux, talking and laughing with Captain Danby

and another.

I remember returning their salutes with a perfunctory bow, but

recollect little else, for now that my time was so near, a numbness

seemed to cloud my brain and I could think only that this little

copse, full of the grey mist of dawn, was perhaps the last object my

eyes should ever see.

"I told one of 'em," said Anthony in my ear, "fellow in blue frock

yonder, that you were the dooce an' all with a hair trigger--almost as

dead a shot as your uncle Jervas or Gronow of the Guards, and begad,

it's set 'em all by the ears, Perry, especially that scoundrel Danby."

At this I laughed, I think, wondering the while if Anthony would ever

know how much I loved and admired him.

I remember a stretch of green turf screened by trees; a solemn pacing

to and fro by various grave-faced persons; a careful measuring of

distances and selection of ground.

I remember some objection that Anthony made as to the light, whereupon

the solemn measuring and pacing was gravely done all over again. I

also recall that Anthony, while discussing or overseeing these grave

proceedings, would often lift his head and glance hastily round about

with a swift, keen-eyed expectancy.

I remember the sun peeping forth at last to make the world glorious

and warm the chill in my bones.

And then Anthony came towards me, carrying a pistol, and I noticed

that his hand shook as he offered it to me.

"God love you, Perry," he said, a little huskily. "You look as

unconcerned, as cool as--as a confounded cucumber! And now, Perry,

remember to aim low, all pistols are apt to throw high--so, for

heaven's sake aim low, old fellow."

"Do I stand here, Anthony?"

"Yes--damned fellow insists on twelve paces!" said he, his voice

sounding hoarser than ever, and I saw his glance wandering again, here

and there, to and fro, in almost desperate fashion.

"Mr. Vere-Manville," called Devereux's second, "may I trouble you a

moment, pray?"

Left alone, I stood watching the play of sunshine amid the leaves,

when I was roused by a touch and found Captain Danby beside me.

"Your flint looks a trifle loose, sir," said he softly, "Suffer me!"

I relinquished the weapon with a murmur of thanks and stood again

absorbed until I felt the pistol thrust into my grasp and heard a loud

voice speaking.

"Pray attention, gentlemen! Take notice, the word will be

'one--two--'"

The loud voice faltered suddenly, was lost in the trampling of horse's

hoofs and into the grassy level between Devereux and myself rode my

uncle Jervas with my uncle George close behind.

My uncle Jervas reined in his horse and sat glancing serenely round

about him, his lips curling in his bleak, sardonic smile, his

prominent chin something more aggressive than usual.

"Ah, gentlemen," said he gently. "Your humble servant, I bid you good

morning. Sir Geoffrey Devereux, we are very well met--at last. This is

a pleasure I much desired when--we were younger, as you will doubtless

remember, but I imagined, until very recently, that you were dead,

sir, and damned, and necessarily out of my reach. You have hidden

yourself surpassingly well, sir."

Very deliberately my uncle Jervas dismounted and proceeded to tether

his horse to an adjacent tree, while Devereux watched him, head bowed

and black brows puckered slightly above his smouldering eyes, his

snowy cravat stained with a small mark of blood from an ugly scratch

beneath his chin and which, despite his icy assurance seemed to worry

him, for he dabbed at it now and then with his handkerchief. And now

my uncle Jervas approached me, his hand outstretched imperiously, but

when he spoke his voice was strangely gentle:

"Peregrine, dear boy, oblige me with that pistol."

"God bless you, Uncle Jervas!" said I fervently grasping that hand. "I

thought I recognised you when your horse leapt that tollgate, but fate

elected I should arrive here first, as I prayed."

"We were wilfully misdirected and went astray. And now, Peregrine,

give me the pistol!"

"No, sir! Indeed you cannot, shall not take my place. This quarrel is

wholly mine--a quarrel, sir, of two years' standing--"

"But mine, Peregrine, is of twenty-one years'."

"None the less, sir, you shall not shield me thus--none other shall

take my place, I am here to meet that scoundrel yonder--"

"Ah, Peregrine," said my uncle, speaking very slowly and distinctly,

"the scoundrel yonder, Sir Geoffrey Devereux, is the man who foully

murdered your father and my brother! Give me the pistol, boy!"

As he spoke he grasped my wrist and had possessed himself of the

weapon or ever I could prevent. Then he turned and faced Devereux, his

eyes very keen and bright.

"George," said he in his quiet, authoritative voice, "pray give us the

word."

My uncle George, still sitting his horse, lifted his right hand and I

saw that he also held a pistol.

"Devereux," said he, his handsome face very fierce and grim, "if--this

time--you fire before the word, even by one fraction of a second, I

shoot you where you stand for the vile murderer you are--by God, I

will! Now mark me! The word will be 'One--two--three--fire!' Is this

understood?"

"Yes, George!" said my uncle; Devereux nodded.

"Ready!" said uncle George distinctly. "One--two--three--fire!"

A single sharp report and my uncle Jervas, lurching slightly, stared

down at his weapon that had merely sparked and, letting it fall,

staggered aside to a tree and leaned there.

In an instant uncle George was off his horse and together we ran to

him.

"Aha, George--" he gasped in a horrible, wheezing voice, "it--it was

unprimed--lend me--yours!"

"O God!" groaned my uncle George. "You're hit, Jervas--are you hurt?"

"A little, George--your pistol--quick!"

But even as he spoke and despite all his resolution and indomitable

will, he seemed about to swoon; I saw his knees slowly bending under

him, his stately head sank, and crying out in horror, I reached out to

clasp him in my arms.

"No, no, Perry!" he gasped. "Don't touch me--yet--I have sufficient

strength--dear boy." For a moment he closed his eyes and when next he

spoke his voice was strangely loud and clear.

"Devereux, if ever you prayed--pray now!" Yet as he uttered these

words, he sank to his knees and leaned feebly against the tree, his

pallid face suddenly contorted by a dreadful spasm, so that I could

scarcely bear to look. Then, sweating with the agonising effort,

slowly--slowly--he raised his arm, dwelt a moment on his aim, and

fired; the smoking weapon dropped from his lax fingers and, swaying

sideways, he sank down, his face among the grass.

I remember my uncle George running to aid me lift this heavy head; and

glancing from these dreadfully pallid features, the pitiful

helplessness of this once strong form, I saw a group of pale-faced men

who knelt and crouched above a twisted thing that had once answered to

the name of Devereux.

"Dead, George?" questioned my uncle Jervas faintly.

"Dead, Jervas!"

"The right eye, George--I think?"

"Yes, Jervas. How is it with you, dear old fellow?"

"Very well--I'm going on--ahead of you, George. Don't--don't grieve,

George--'t is none so terrible. And the great conundrum is answered,

the mystery is solved, George--I mean--our Julia--she will--marry you,

George, after all--I think she always loved you--best. God bless

you--both! And Peregrine--my dear lad--your gipsy--a strong--angel of

God--Diana--" and with this word his noble spirit passed.

And thus even death was denied me and I, it seemed, was doomed to be

no more than an idle spectator.

I remember helping to bear him back to the "Anchor" Inn--laying him

reverently upon a settle. And then, because I could not bear to see

him so pale and still and silent, I covered him with my cloak.

I remember the tears wet upon Anthony's haggard face and my uncle

George crouched in a chair, clenched fists beneath square chin,

staring wide-eyed on vacancy.

"Dead!" he exclaimed in an agonised half-whisper. "I mean to say he's

dead, d'ye see. Jervas--dead--seems so impossible! If it could only

have been me--it wouldn't ha' mattered so much, d'ye see. There never

was any one like old Jervas. And now he's--dead, my God!" The agonised

whispering ceased and silence fell that was almost as terrible. But

suddenly upon this awful hush broke a sound of wheels--quick

footsteps; then the door swung open and Diana stood upon the

threshold.

"Peregrine!" she cried. "Oh, praise God you are

alive--Peregrine--speak to me! Ah--dear God in heaven! What is it?"

And hasting to me, she caught my hand, clasping it to her bosom. "Oh,

what is it, Peregrine?" she whispered.

So I brought her to the settle, and reverently turning back my cloak,

showed her what it had hidden.

"This!" said I. "Look upon your handiwork and go--wanton!"

Uttering a soft, inarticulate cry, she cowered away, shrank back and

back across the room and out into the road beyond.

Then, treading as softly as I might, I crossed the room also and,

closing the door very silently, locked and barred it securely.

CHAPTER XI

WHICH SHOWS THAT MY UNCLE JERVAS WAS RIGHT, AFTER ALL

A fortnight has elapsed and I sit here in my study at Merivale, idly

adding these words to this book of mine which it seems is never

destined to be finished. As my pen traces these words, I am conscious

of the door opening softly, but, pretending absorption in my task, I

never so much as lift my head but glance up surreptitiously to behold

my aunt Julia, a little pale, her proud, full-lipped mouth not quite

so firm as of old, but handsomer, lovelier than ever in her black

gown, it seems to me.

"O Peregrine, do you really mean to go?"

"I do!"

"Ah, will you run away again, from us--from your duties--will you

leave Diana to break her heart?"

"Can hearts break, dear Aunt?"

"Oh, poor Diana, poor child--after all she has done for you--"

"Indeed, Aunt, she has done a great deal for me, I admit--but--"

"You know how she came in the dead of night to warn your uncles of

your peril--your mad folly? You know this?"

"Yes, yes, dear Aunt," said I, a little impatiently. "I know, too, how

my noble uncles very nearly quarrelled as to which of them should risk

his life for unworthy, miserable me--"

"It was George rode away first that dreadful morning," said my aunt,

clasping her shapely hands, "and I shall never forget the look on the

face of Jervas when he found that George had stolen away before

him--poor, brave Jervas!"

"Yes, Aunt! If the place of meeting had not been altered--it would

have been--uncle George, perhaps."

"Ah, yes!" sighed my aunt, shuddering and bowing pale face above her

clasped hands. "But Diana--saved you, Peregrine."

"At least, Aunt, she caused a better man to die in my stead. As he is

to-day, I would be--at rest!"

"Hush, oh, hush, Peregrine, you talk wildly! Indeed, sometimes I think

you have never been quite the same since your illness, you are so much

colder--less kind and gentle. And now you mean to go away again! What

of the estate--your tenants?"

"Surely I cannot leave them in better, more capable hands than these,

dear Aunt Julia!" and stooping, I kissed her slim, white fingers. "But

go I must--I cannot bear a house; I want space--the open road, woods,

the sweet, clean wind!"

"Where shall you go, Peregrine?"

"Anywhere--though first to London."

"And what of your book?"

"I shall never finish it, now!"

"And what of me? Will you leave me lonely? O Peregrine, can you leave

me thus in my sorrow?"

"Hush, dear Aunt--listen!"

Through the open casement stole a soft, small sound--a jingle of

spurs, the monotonous tramp of one who paced solitary upon the terrace

below.

"Your uncle George!" she breathed, her hands clasped themselves anew

and into her pale cheeks crept a tinge of warm colour. "I did not

expect--your uncle George today!"

"He is lonely too, Aunt Julia. He does nothing but grieve! Indeed I

think he is breaking his great generous heart for the brother he loved

and honoured so devotedly."

"Poor--poor George!"

"Being a man of action, uncle George was never much of a talker, as

you know--but he is more silent than ever these days. In London he

would sit all day long in a dreadful apathy, and all night long I

would hear him go tramping, tramping to and fro in his chamber--"

"O Perry dear--if he could only weep!"

"Aunt Julia, there is but one power on earth could bestow on him such

blessed relief, and that is your love, the certain assurance that you

do love him--the touch of your lips--"

"O Peregrine--oh, hush! Do you mean--" and my goddess-like aunt

faltered and sat there, lovely eyes downcast, blushing like the merest

girl.

"Yes, you beautiful Aunt," said I, "this is what I mean--this whose

simple mention has turned you into a girl of sixteen, this wonderful

truth that uncle Jervas had divined already." And I told her of his

dying words: "'You will marry her after all, George--our Julia. I see

now that she always loved you best!'"

"Oh, dear Jervas!" she murmured.

"He has left uncle George who loved him so greatly, very

solitary--listen, dear Aunt!"

Up to us through the open lattice, borne upon the fragrant air, came

that small, soft sound where my uncle George paced ceaselessly to and

fro amid the gathering dusk.

"Poor George!" she whispered tenderly.

"He is so--utterly forlorn, Aunt."

"Dear George!"

"And so very much a man, Aunt!"

"And such a child!" she murmured. "So big and strong and such a

helpless baby! Dear George!"

Here I turned to my writing again, heard the door close softly and,

glancing up, found myself alone. Then, tossing down my pen, I arose

and from a cupboard reached forth a hat and well-filled knapsack which

last I proceeded to buckle to my shoulders; this done, I took a stout

stick from a corner and stood ready for my wanderings. Thus equipped,

I crossed to the window that I might see if the coast was clear, since

I meant to steal away with no chance of tears or sorrowful farewells.

They were standing on the terrace in the gathering dusk; as I looked,

Aunt Julia reached up and, taking his haggard face between her gentle

hands, drew it down lower and lower; and when she spoke, no ear save

his might catch her soft-breathed words.

And then his great arms were fast about her and there broke from him a

sobbing cry of ecstasy.

"O Julia--at last. He was right then--our Jervas was right!"

And so my uncle George learned to weep at last and found within her

loving arms the blessed relief of tears.

CHAPTER XII

HOW I WENT UPON AN EXPEDITION WITH MR. SHRIG

I had been ringing ineffectually at the bell of my chambers for

perhaps five minutes and was about to visit the adjacent mews in quest

of my groom, when a voice spoke my name, and turning about, I beheld

Mr. Shrig, the Bow Street officer.

"Mr. Werricker, sir," said he, touching his low-crowned, wide-brimmed

hat with a thick forefinger, "it ain't no manner o' use you a-ringin'

o' that theer bell, because there ain't nobody to answer same, your

young man Clegg 'aving took a little 'oliday, d'ye see, sir."

"A holiday, Mr. Shrig! Pray how do you know?"

"By obserwation, sir. I've a powerful gift that way, sir--from a

infant."

"This is very extraordinary behaviour in Clegg!"

"But then, sir, your young man is a rayther extraordinary young man.

'Owsoever he's gone, sir, and I appre'end as he ain't a-comin'

back--judgin' by vat 'e says in 'is letter."

"What letter?"

"The letter as 'e's left for you a-layin' on your desk this werry

minute along o' my stick as I 'appened to forget--but you'll be

vantin' to gain hadmittance, I expect, sir."

"I do."

"Vy then, 't is rayther fortunate as I did forget my stick or I

shouldn't ha' come back for it in time to be o' service to you, Mr.

Werricker. By your leave, sir." Saying which, Mr. Shrig took a small,

neat implement from one of his many capacious pockets, inserted it

into the keyhole, gave it a twist, and the door swung open.

"Ah--a skeleton key, Mr. Shrig?"

"That werry i-dentical, sir."

"Is this how you gained admittance to my chambers?"

"Ex-actly, sir."

"And, being there, read my private letters?"

"Only the vun, sir--dooty is dooty--only the vun. And I've a varrant

o' search--"

Entering my small library, I espied Mr. Shrig's knobbed staff lying

upon my desk and beside it a letter laid carefully apart from a pile

of unopened missives.

"Is this the letter?"

"The werry same, sir."

"But if you have read it, how comes the seal unbroken?"

"By means of a warm knife-blade, sir."

Wondering, I opened the letter and read as follows:

SIR:

I regret that I am forced by circumstances to quit your service at a

moment's notice, but trust you will find all in order as regards

tradesmen's accounts, your clothes, linen, napery, etc. The key of the

silver you will find under the hearthrug.

Hoping you will find one as zealous as the unfortunate writer,

I remain, sir,

Yours respectfully,

THOMAS CLEGG.

"Very strange!" said I.

"Ah!" sighed Mr. Shrig. "But then life generally is, Mr. Werricker,

sir, if you'll take the trouble to ob-serve; so strange that I ain't

never surprised at nothing--nowhere and nohow, sir. For instance, if

you a-peepin' from the garret winder o' the 'ouse opposite--yonder

across the street--'ad 'appened to ob-serve a young fe-male on her

knees--here beside your werry own desk and veepin' fit to break 'er

'eart, pore soul--you'd ha' been surprised, I think--but I wasn't, no,

not nohow--"

"Do you mean you actually saw a woman here--here in my chambers?"

"Aye, I did, sir!"

"Who--who was she?"

"A wictim o' wiciousness, sir."

"What in the world do you mean? Who was she?"

"Well, d'ye 'appen to know a young woman name of Nancy Price, sir?"

"No!"

"And yet you've 'ad same in your arms, Mr. Werricker, sir."

"What the devil are you suggesting?" I demanded angrily.

"I suggest as you found same young woman in a vood at midnight and

carried 'er to a inn called the 'Soaring Lark.'"

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "That unfortunate creature?"

"That werry same i-dentical, sir--a wictim o' wiciousness as your late

lamented uncle, Sir Jervas, God bless 'im--amen!--saved from des'prit

courses--"

"My uncle Jervas--" I exclaimed.

"Saved from des'prit courses!" repeated Mr. Shrig. "Himself, sir. Lord

love him, 'e was always a-doin' of it; many a pore soul, male and

female, 'e's saved from the river--ah, and worse as well, I

know--ekally ready wi' fist or purse, ah, by Goles, an' vat vas

better, with 'ope for the 'elpless an' 'elp for them as it seemed

nothin' nor nobody could reach 'cept the law--a friend to them as

thought they 'ad no friend but death. A fine gentleman, sir--yes, a

tippy, a go, a bang-up blood, a reg'lar 'eavy-toddler, but most of

all--a man! And I says again, God bless 'im an' 'is memory--amen!"

"Amen!" I repeated, while Mr. Shrig, tugging at something in the

depths of a capacious side pocket, eventually drew thence a large,

vivid-hued handkerchief and blew his nose resoundingly; which done, he

blinked at me, surely the mildest-seeming man in all the world,

despite the brass-mounted pistol which, disturbed in its lurking place

by the sudden extrication of the handkerchief, peeped at me grimly

from his pocket.

"Mr. Shrig, I should like to shake your hand," said I.

"'Eartily an' vith a vill, sir!" he answered.

"You see, I loved and honoured him also, Mr. Shrig."

"Verefore an' therefore, sir, I make bold to ask if you're partic'ler

busy to-day?"

"I am here to meet a friend and then I am for the country."

"Tonbridge vay, sir?"

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"Because I've a call thereabouts myself to-day, an' if you vas minded

to go along, I'd be honoured, sir, honoured."

"Thank you, Mr. Shrig, but--" I paused, for among the pile of unopened

letters I espied one addressed in a familiar hand and, breaking the

seal, read:

MY DEAR PERRY:

Strong drink is raging, so am I, and London is the devil! Temptation

dogs me, but a promise is a promise, so I have scuttled off

ignominiously. You will find me at the Chequers Inn, Tonbridge, if I

am not there to meet you, wait for me.

By the way, ale is exempt from your proscription, of course.

Yours to command now as ever,

ANTHONY VERE-MANVILLE.

"Mr. Shrig," said I, pocketing this letter, "when, pray, do you

propose to start Tonbridge way?"

"This werry moment, sir."

"Why, then I shall be happy to accompany you."

"Are ye ready, sir?"

"Quite; let us go!"

So side by side we stepped out into the street; here Mr. Shrig,

setting two fingers to his mouth, emitted a shrill whistle and round

the corner came a tilbury behind a likely-looking horse driven by a

red-faced man, who, at a sign from Mr. Shrig, descended from the lofty

seat, into which we climbed forthwith.

"T'morrer mornin', Joel!" said Mr. Shrig, taking up the reins; and

flicking the horse, away we went at a sharp trot.

"Do you propose to stay the night at Tonbridge, Mr. Shrig?"

"Vy--it's all accordin' to Number Vun, sir. Number Vun set out for

Tonbridge but might be goin' further; v'ether 'e does or no, depends

on Number Two."

"I fear I do not understand you, Mr. Shrig."

"Vich is 'ardly to be expected, sir. Y' see, perfeshionally speakin',

I'm arter two birds as I 'opes to ketch alive an' dead."

"But how can you catch anything alive and dead?"

"Veil, then, let's say vun alive an' t' other 'un dead."

"Ah--what kind of birds?"

"Downy vuns, sir--'specially Number Vun!" and here my companion smiled

and nodded benignantly.

Mr. Shrig drove rapidly, threading his way through the traffic with

the ease of an experienced Jehu, and soon in place of dingy roofs and

chimneys my eyes were blessed with the green of trees shading the

familiar road which led, as I knew, to those leafy solitudes where one

"might walk with God." And now there rushed upon me a memory of

Diana--Diana as she once had been--my Goddess of the Silent Places;

and I yearned passionately for the irrevocable past and despaired in

bitter hopelessness of the present and the long and lonely future.

From these gloomy thoughts I was aroused by the sound of my

companion's voice:

"I am a-goin' on this here hexpe-dition, sir, with the expectation--I

may say with the 'ope sir, of finding a body--"

"A body of what?" I enquired absently.

"Lord, Mr. Werricker, sir, vat should it be but a hum-ing body--a

corpse, sir."

"Horrible!" I exclaimed. "Who is it? Where did he die?"

"Vell, sir," said Mr. Shrig, consulting a ponderous watch, "to the

best o' my judgment 'e ain't dead yet, no, not yet, I fancy, but two

hours--say three--should do 'is business neat an' comfortable; yes--in

three hours 'e should be as nice a corpse as ever you might vish to

see--if the con-clusions as I've drawed is correct. An' talkin' o'

murder, sir--"

"Ah!" I exclaimed. "Is it murder?"

"Sir," answered Mr. Shrig, "speakin' without prejudice, I answer you,

it's a-goin' to be, or I'm a frog-eatin' Frenchman, vich God forbid,

sir. An' speakin' o' murder, here's my attitood towards same--there's

murder as is murder an' there's murder as is justifiable 'omicide. If

you commits the fact for private wengeance, windictiveness or personal

gain, then 't is murder damned an' vith a werry big he-M; but if so be

you commits the fact to rid yourself or friends an' the world in

general of evil, then I 'old 't is a murder justifiable. Consequently

it will go to my 'eart to appre-'end this here murderer."

"Who is he?" I demanded.

"Ex-cuse me, sir--no! Seein' as 'ow this cove, though a murderer in

intent, ain't a murderer in fact, yet--you must ex-cuse me if I

with'old 'is name. And here's Eltham Village an' yonder's the 'Man o'

Kent' a good 'ouse v'ere I'm known, so if you'll 'old the 'oss, sir,

I'll get down and ax a question or so."

And I, sitting outside this sleepy hostelry in this quiet village

street, thought no more of Mr. Shrig's gruesome errand, but rather of

shady copse, of murmurous brooks and of one whose vivid presence had

been an evergrowing joy and inspiration, waking me to nobler manhood,

filling me with aspirations to heroic achievement; and to-day here sat

I, lost in futile dreams--scorning myself for a miserable failure

while the soul within me wept for that Diana of the vanished past--

"Right as ninepence, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, beaming cheerily as he

clambered up beside me. "My birds 'as flew this vay, sure enough!"

Thus as we drove I sat alternately lost in these distressful

imaginings or hearkening to my companion's animadversions upon rogues,

criminals, and crime in general until, as the afternoon waned, we

descended the steep hill into Wrotham village and pulled up at the

"Bull" Inn, into whose hospitable portal Mr. Shrig vanished, to pursue

those enquiries he had repeated at every posthouse along the road.

Presently as I sat, reins in hand, an ostler appeared who, grasping

the horse's bridle and heeding me no whit, led us into the stable

yard. And here I found Mr. Shrig leaning upon his knotted stick and

lost in contemplation of a dusty chaise beneath which lay a perspiring

and profane postboy busied with divers tools upon the front axle.

Now as I glanced at the vehicle, something about it struck me as

familiar and then, despite the dust, I saw that it had red wheels and

a black body picked out in yellow.

"Ah, Mr. Shrig," said I, "if this is the chaise you are so interested

about, I think I can tell you who rode in it."

"And who would you name, sir?"

"Captain Danby," I answered.

"Aye, to be sure, sir. Then just step into the stable wi' me!"

Wondering, I obeyed and beheld a hissing ostler rubbing down a dusty

horse.

"Why, this animal is mine!" I exclaimed. "This is Caesar, one of my

saddle horses."

"Aye, to be sure, sir!" nodded Mr. Shrig. "Wiciousness has been

a-ridin' in that theer chaise an' Windictiveness a-gallopin' arter on

your 'oss. P'raps you can likewise tell me who't was as rode your

'oss?"

"No," I answered, "unless--good heaven, can it be Anthony--my friend

Mr. Vere-Manville?"

"Name sounds familiar!" said Mr. Shrig, rubbing his nose thoughtfully,

while his keen gaze roved here and there.

"Where is Captain Danby--I want a word with him," said I, stepping

hastily out of the stable.

"The Cap'n, sir," answered Mr. Shrig close to my elbow, "havin'

partook of a glass o' brandy an' vater, has took a little valk a-top

of it, an' the evenin' bein' so fine or as you might say balmy, I

think we'll go a-valking too--"

Reaching the narrow street I espied the tall, lounging form of Captain

Danby some considerable distance ahead and instinctively hastened my

steps.

"Verefore the hurry, sir?" enquired Mr. Shrig, laying a finger on my

arm.

"I must speak with yonder scoundrel."

"Scoundrel is the werry i-dentical vord, sir--but bide a bit--easy it

is."

As he spoke, the Captain turned out of the street into a field path

shaded by a tall hedge; in due time we also came to this path and saw

a shady lane ran parallel with it, down which a man was walking. We

had gone but a little way along this path when Mr. Shrig halted and

seating himself upon the grassy bank, took off his hat and mopped his

brow.

"A be-eautiful sunset, sir."

"Yes!" I answered, turning to view the glowing splendour.

"So werry red, Mr. Werricker, sir, like fire--like blood."

But I noticed that his keen glance was fixed upon the little wood that

gloomed some distance before us, also that he held his head aslant as

one who listens intently, and had taken out his ponderous watch.

"Why do you sit there, Mr. Shrig?" I enquired, a little impatiently.

"I'm a-vaitin', sir."

"What for, man?"

"Hush, sir, and you'll soon--"

The word was lost in a strange, sudden, double concussion of sound.

"At ex-actly twenty-two minutes to eight, sir!" said Mr. Shrig, and

rising to his feet, set off briskly along the path. We had almost

reached the wood I have mentioned when Mr. Shrig raised his knobbed

stick to point at something that sprawled grotesquely across the path.

The hat had fallen and rolled away and staring down into the horror of

this face fouled with blood and blackened with powder, I recognised

the features of Captain Danby.

"So here's the end o' Wiciousness," said Mr. Shrig and as he leaned

upon his stick I saw his bright glance roving here and there; it

flashed along the path before us; it swept the thicker parts of the

hedge behind us; it questioned the deepening shadow of the copse.

"Aye, here's an end to Number Vun, and if we look in the vood yonder,

I fancy we shall see summat o' Number Two. This vay, sir--you can see

the leaves is bloody hereabouts if you look--this vay!" Like one in an

evil dream I followed him in among the trees and was aware that he had

halted again.

"What now--what is it?" I questioned.

"Number Two, sir, and--look yonder, and--by Goles, 'e's dodged me

likewise--burn my neck if 'e ain't!"

As he spoke, Mr. Shrig parted the kindly leaves and I beheld the form

of my servant Clegg, as neat and precise in death as he had ever been

in life.

"Poor lad!" said Mr. Shrig, baring his head. "Ye see, 'e 'appened to

love Nancy Price, sir--the wictim o' Wiciousness yonder, an' 'ere's

the result. Even walets has feelin's--this 'un werry much so!"

"Dead?" I mumbled, feeling myself suddenly faint. "Dead--both?"

"Aye, sir--both! Vich is comin' it a bit too low down on a man an' no

error! To ha' lost both on 'em--crool 'ard I calls it!"

Sick with horror, I was stumbling away from this dreadful place when

Mr. Shrig's voice stayed me.

"'Old 'ard, sir--bide a bit! If the con-clusions as I've drawed is

correct, here should be summat o' yourn."

Turning about, I espied him on his knees, examining the contents of

the dead man's pockets with a methodical precision that revolted me.

"Of mine?" said I, shuddering.

"Your werry own, sir. 'T was one o' the reasons as I brought you

along--I do 'ope Windictiveness here ain't destroyed it--ah, 'ere it

is, Mr. Werricker, sir--though the seal's broke, you'll ob-serve."

Dazed and wondering, I took the letter he held out to me, but no

sooner had I glanced at the superscription than I forgot all else for

the moment.

"How--how should that man--come by this?" I stammered at last.

"Took or pur-loined it from the young 'ooman Nancy Price, sir,

according to 'er own ewidence, as stated to me in my little office

this mornin'--an' her a-veepin' all over my papers, pore lass! Aha!"

exclaimed Mr. Shrig, still busied on his researches. "He's got summat

in this 'ere 'ind pocket as I can't come at--p'raps you'll obleege me

by heavin' Windictiveness over a bit, sir? Why, never mind, sir--done

it myself--"

"How--did the young woman come by this letter?"

"'T is in ewidence as years ago she was maid to a lady--now Mrs.

Vere-Manville, it was give her by that same. What, are ye goin', sir?

Werry good, this ain't exactly a cheery spot at present. Will you be

so obleegin' as to send a cart an', say, a 'urdle for these ere birds

o' mine?"

And so I left him, sitting between his "birds" whose flying days were

done, busily making notes in his little book, very like some

industrious clerk posting his ledger for the day.

Reaching the "Bull" Inn, I despatched cart and hurdle as desired and,

ordering rooms for the night, shut myself therein to escape the

general hubbub and horrified questioning my news had called forth. And

here, remote from all and sundry, I unfolded the letter a dead man's

hand had opened and read these words:

Knowing you vile, I should have grieved for you, pitied you, but

loved you still. Believing me vile, you are pitiless, cold, and

with no mercy in you. Indeed and you would have shamed me! But

true love, being of Heaven, knows no shame and can never die. Oh,

you poor, blind Peregrine.

TO MY PATIENT AND KINDLY READER

Here do I make an end of this Second Book, wherein shall be found

overmuch of blood, of gloom and shadow, of misunderstanding and

heartbreak engendered of my own perfervid imagination; and glad am I

and more than glad to have done with it.

And here, since the longest road must end, since after storm and

tempest must come peace and heavenly calm, and because "though

heaviness endure for a night yet joy cometh in the morning"--here do I

begin this Third, last, and shortest Book which those enduring Readers

who have borne with and followed me thus far may see is inscribed

DAWN

_Book Three_

DAWN

CHAPTER I

CONCERNING ONE TOM MARTIN, AN OSTLER

I sat upon a hay pile in that same shady corner of the yard behind the

"Chequers" inn where once had stood a weather-beaten cart drawn by a

four-footed philosopher called Diogenes.

But to-day this corner was empty save for myself, and the yard also

except for two or three wains or country waggons and a man in a

sleeved waistcoat who chewed upon a straw and stared at the inn, the

waggons and myself with a faded, lack-lustre eye and sniffed; so

frequently indeed, and so loudly that at last it obtruded itself upon

my notice.

"You have a very bad cold!" said I.

"I ain't!" he retorted gloomily.

"Yet you sniff very loud."

"Con-sti-tootional!" quoth he. "My feyther done it afore me, an' 'is

feyther afore 'im, 'an 'is feyther afore 'im an'--but wot of it, my

chap? Can't a cove sniff if so minded?"

"Certainly!" I answered.

"I ain't said nothink to you about wallerin' in that theer 'ay--'ave

I? Very well! Why can't you let a man sniff in peace?"

"Very well," said I, "sniff!"

"I will!" said he and immediately did so, louder than ever.

"Astonishing!" said I.

"A cove can sniff without a cold if so be 't is 'is natur' so to do,

can't 'e?"

"So I perceive."

"An' 't is a free country an' such so bein', a man's at liberty to

sniff or no, an' no offence give or took, ain't 'e? Very well, then!"

"Very well indeed!" I nodded. "I have never heard a man sniff better

or louder--"

"You leave my sniffin' alone an' I'll leave you alone--"

"I hope you will," said I.

"Well, I ain't so sure as I will; you wags your chin too much to

please me--an' let me tell ye, bold an' p'inted, I don't like the cock

o' your eye! So s'pose you stand on your pins--"

"Well," I answered, stretching myself more comfortably, "let us

suppose so--what then?"

"Why, then, my covey, I'll knock ye off your pins again--prompt an'

j'yful!"

"Under those circumstances I much prefer to remain as I am."

"Why, then you're a weevil--a worm, ah--an' what's more, a weevily

worm at that, an' I spits on ye!"

Here, perceiving that he was about to put his heinous threat into

execution, I arose.

"Enough!" quoth I, buttoning my coat. "Now let Olympus shake, the

caverns of ocean roar, the round earth tremble! If you have fists,

prepare to use them now--come on, pestiferous peasant, most

contumacious clod, and 'damned be he that first cries Hold--enough'!"

"Well, drown'd me!" exclaimed the ostler, staring. "Drown'd me if I

ever 'eard sich 'orrid talk in all my days, an' I've groomed for a

earl--ah, an' a markis afore now!"

Having said which, he clenched his fists, squared his shoulders and

launched himself at me like a charging bull. But profiting by Jessamy

Todd's many lessons and painful instruction, I danced nimbly aside,

tapped him with my left, spun round to meet his second rush, checked

him with a flush hit, swung my right beneath his chin and next moment

saw him sitting upon the cobblestones, legs wide-straddled, gaping

about him with a vacant air.

"'Oly 'eavens!" he murmured, glancing from the cloudless sky to me and

back again. "An' sich a whipper-snapper--'oly 'eavens!"

"A--weevily worm?" I enquired.

"Sir, I takes it back!" he answered, tenderly feeling his chin. "There

ain't a weevil breathin', no, nor yet a worm as could ha' knocked me

off my pins so neat an' true! I takes back weevil an' likewise worm,

sir."

"Good!" said I, and tossed him a shilling.

"What's this 'ere for?" he enquired.

"The exercise you have afforded me; it has done me good, chased the

dusty cobwebs from my brain, stimulated more healthy thought. Life

perchance is not all dust and ashes nor the world a pit of noisome

gloom; some day even I may learn perhaps to be--almost happy--"

"Lord, sir, you sound as if you'd been crossed an' double-crossed in

love, you do--"

"Ah--what do you mean?"

"No offence, sir! But y' see, I were in love once--ah, an' with a

sweet purty lass an' she wi' me, but afore I could marry 'er she

bolted along of a circus cove in a scarlet, laced coat an' whip, d'ye

see."

"Extremely feminine!" said I, nodding.

"May be, sir, but one day she come creepin' back to me, very

'eart-broke an' shameful, pore lass; seems the circus cove, growin'

tired-like, 'ad took to usin' 'is whip on 'er--an' so she come

a-creepin' back to me."

"And what then?"

"Why, then, o' course I married 'er."

"Married her! But after--the disgrace--"

"There weren't no disgrace; I married 'er! Y' see, I loved 'er purty

looks an' gentle ways."

"And you--married her--notwithstanding! You forgave her!"

"Aye, I did--years an' years ago! Ah, an' a danged good little wife

she's been too--ah, an' mother--none better."

"Have you many children?"

"Nine!"

"And you feed them all?"

"Every one--an' very frequent, bless their little 'earts."

"And clothe them?"

"As well as I can, sir, though their clo'es gets uncommon wore an'

'oley, 'igh an' low--specially low, sir!"

"You provide a roof to shelter them?"

"Aye--such as it is--needs re-thatchin' bad."

"And are you happy?"

"Aye, I am--though times is 'ard."

"And pray what is your name?"

"Martin, sir--Thomas Martin."

"Then, Thomas Martin, you are a man--and a better, a far better man

than I, for--hear me confess, Tom Martin, I have never performed any

one of these man's virtues. You have done nobly!" And I thrust five

guineas into his work-hardened palm.

"Well drown'd me!" he gasped, very much as if he were undergoing that

watery ordeal. "Egad, sir! Lord love your eyes an' limbs--"

"For the children and their mother," said I.

"God bless ye, sir!"

"Indeed I hope He may. Heaven knows I have been a sufficing failure

hitherto, a sorrow to myself and my friends. But you, Tom Martin, have

inspired me to attempt a notable good action--perhaps the noblest of

my life. So good-bye, Tom; let me hasten to perform the best act I

ever did!"

Hurrying into the inn I called for pens, ink and paper, and sitting

down forthwith, wrote this:

MY DEAR ANTHONY:

The wind has whispered, a bird has sung to me, and an ostler, by name

Tom Martin (long may he flourish) has shown me a man's work.

For who am I, poor finite wretch, to judge my fellows and condemn such

as work me evil (and, inadvertently, themselves also, since Evil is

double-edged and cuts both ways?) Who am I to despise or dislove them

for the pain they cause me to endure (and, inadvertently, themselves

also?) Should I not rather seek to forget past wrongs, to cherish and

comfort such as despitefully use me? Is not this the secret of true

and abiding happiness?

My two uncles (whom God eternally bless!) waked in me the desire to be

a true man; and what is there more manly than to forget a wrong, to

forgive past trespasses and cherish the hand that has hurt us?

So to-day, dear Anthony, instead of awaiting you here, I do a better

thing; to-day at last, I go seeking my manhood in the achievement of a

nobler act than I ever thought possible of my accomplishment; to-day I

go to Diana.

Your devoted friend,

PEREGRINE VEREKER.

This letter despatched, I ordered a horse to be saddled; very soon,

thanks to Tom Martin's zeal, the animal was at the door and, though

the day was far advanced, I mounted forthwith and galloped away for

Wyvelstoke Towers.

CHAPTER II

I GO TO FIND DIANA

Birds were calling their melodious complaint on the passing of another

day and the shadows were lengthening when I came to a cross-roads

where stood a timeworn finger-post beneath which sat a solitary figure

in weather-beaten hat and coat, head bowed over the book opened upon

his knees.

Now at sight of this lonely figure I reined in so suddenly that this

solitary person glanced up and I saw the white hair, keen eyes and

pale, aquiline features of the Earl of Wyvelstoke. At sight of me he

closed the book and rose, and in stern features, in every line of his

slender, shabby figure was a stately aloofness that chilled me.

"My lord?" said I interrogatively, and taking off my hat, I bowed.

"Ah, Mr. Vereker," he answered, with a slight inclination of his head.

"So you come at last. A charming evening. I wish you as well of it as

you deserve!" And turning his back, he began to limp away; but in a

moment I was off my horse and, hastening after, ventured to touch his

arm, then fell back in sheer amazement before the ferocious glare of

his eyes; yet his voice was as politely modulated as usual when he

spoke:

"Sir, were you any other than Peregrine Vereker--old as I am, I would

call you out--and shoot you with peculiar satisfaction--"

"My lord--sir--?" I stammered.

"Sir," he continued, "you will doubtless have very many excellent

excuses to offer for your perfectly inexcusable conduct--but doubtless

you will at least have the good taste to keep them to yourself.

Whatever your reasons, you have been the cause of much pain and very

many bitter tears to--to one I hold inexpressibly dear."

"My lord, I--I have been ill--"

"And it is, I believe, mainly owing to her devotion that you

still--gladden the world, sir."

"My lord, I am here to--to--give Diana my hand in fulfilment of my

promise."

"Are you indeed, Mr. Vereker--you surprise me!"

"To marry her whenever she will, sir."

"Permit me to remark that you are perhaps a little tardy."

"None the less I am here, sir!"

"Your condescension, Mr. Vereker, is somewhat overpowering, such

magnanimity I find vastly touching. But Diana, I am assured, had no

idea of permitting you thus to immolate yourself on the altar of

duty."

"That, my lord, by your favour, I mean to learn from her own lips--at

once."

"Impossible, sir!" he retorted, smiling bitterly. "Quite--quite

impossible."

"Impossible, my lord--impossible? Pray what--sir, what do you mean?" I

stammered.

"That if indeed you are minded--a little late in the day perhaps--but

if--after very mature deliberation--you at last think fit to fulfil

your pledge to Diana, it will of course be necessary that you first

discover her present whereabouts."

"Is she not here at Wyvelstoke with you, my lord?"

"Emphatically not, sir!"

"Then she is with Mrs. Vere-Manville at Nettlestead or in London--at

least I will go there--at once."

"Then you will waste your time, sir. Diana has disappeared."

"Disappeared? Ah, you mean she has gone--run away? Pray, my lord, pray

when--when did she go?"

His lordship looked at me keenly a while and when he spoke his voice

seemed less harsh:

"The news would seem to disturb you, sir?"

"Beyond words, sir. Henceforth I shall know little rest until I find

her. Pray when did she leave you--and how?"

"She fled--yesterday morning--stole from Wyvelstoke before

daybreak--she was seen by one of the keepers stealing away in the

dawn. She fled away to--hide her grief--leaving behind all her jewels

and--a very--solitary, very old--man. She was all I had--my comrade,

my Penthesilea--my loved daughter--"

His lordship's voice broke upon the word, his usually upright figure

seemed suddenly bowed and shrunken, he looked indeed a very

grief-stricken, decrepit old man as he stood fumbling in the pockets

of his shabby coat, whence he presently drew a letter that shook and

rustled in his fingers as he unfolded it.

"She left this also, sir," he continued with an evident effort, "pray

read it--you will find some mention of--breaking hearts the which

should interest you a little--read it, sir!"

So I took the letter and saw it was this:

DEAREST PAL AND NOBLEST OF MEN:

My poor heart is breaking, I think, and knowing how true I and deep is

your love for me I would not have you see my pain. So I have run away

from you awhile--fled away to the Silent Places like the poor, hurt

creature I am. There I mean to hide until my wound is a little healed

and then I shall come back to you, my dear, that I may surround you

with my love and teach you how inexpressibly dear you are to

Your would-be daughter and ever loving, grateful,

DIANA.

"Has she money, sir?" I enquired, returning the letter.

"Very, very little, I fear."

"Then she cannot have gone very far."

"Ah, Peregrine--" the proud, old head drooped and the hand that crept

upon my dusty coat sleeve was very thin and tremulous; "ah, Peregrine,

if you love her, find her again--find her for Love's sake--and the

sake of a desolate--heartsick--old man!"

"Sir," I answered, covering this twitching hand with my own, "I

will--bring her back to you--if I have to travel the world over--I

will find her if it takes me all my life and every penny I possess!"

Then, mounting my horse, I swung him round and galloped away without

further word of farewell or so much as one backward glance.

CHAPTER III

TELLS HOW I FOUND DIANA AND SOONER THAN I DESERVED

It was growing dark when I reached a part of the road that I seemed to

recognise; therefore I checked my steed to look about me.

Surely it was here or hereabouts that, upon a never-to-be-forgotten

day, I had acted the craven and, fleeing in panic, yet (heaven be

praised!) had rushed back to be beaten into unconsciousness by Diana's

brutal assailant. Surely it was beneath yonder tree that I had waked

to find my head pillowed in her lap, her cool hand upon my brow, her

lovely face stooped above me full of tender solicitude.

Remembering which, I was seized of a sudden passionate longing for the

touch of her hand, to behold again this face radiant with love.

'My poor heart is breaking I think--so I have fled away to hide--'

As I sat my horse, seeing in fancy the blotted lines of this, her

letter, to my yearning was added the triumphant assurance that in

spite of everything she loved me still; but this thought in turn was

'whelmed in despair because of the well-nigh hopelessness of my

search.

And in this moment my wandering gaze lighted upon the shadowy outline

of a gate that opened in the hedge upon my right hand, upon a rolling

meadow with a gloom of shadowy trees beyond.

Next moment I was afoot, leading my horse, for surely this was that

gate through which she had led me, swooning with my hurts, across this

meadow, amid trees and underbrush, to that ruined and desolate barn

which, she had once told me, had ever been her haven of refuge.

After some little delay, I contrived to open this gate and, leading my

horse, began to cross the meadow, glancing this way and that, often

pausing unsure, fearful that my memory was at fault. In this hesitant

manner I proceeded until I was dimly aware that the ground sloped down

before me into a place of shadows thick with dense-growing trees and

bushes.

All at once I halted, a prey to many swift emotions, but chief of

these joy and a thrilling, hopeful expectancy, for amid the deep gloom

before me I espied a faint beam of light, and I was praying within

myself as, my gaze upon this blessed light, I descended into the

deeper shadows. Of necessity I went very slowly and cautiously until,

the trees thinning out somewhat, enabled me to make out a black

looming shape that gradually resolved itself into a barn; and it was

from the small opening or window beneath the gable that the beam of

light shone forth.

A solitary place and dismal, far removed from the world, a very

sinister place, such indeed as might well be the haunt of grisly

spectres; yet, with my gaze upturned to that beckoning light, I would

not have changed it, just then, for the most gorgeous palace in all

the world. Suddenly I halted again, my breath in check, to stare at

this dreadful place with eyes of horror, as from its impenetrable

gloom came sounds that brought out the sweat upon my temples and set

my hand quivering upon the bridle,--a succession of hollow knocks and

rappings whose dull reverberations seemed to fill the night.

For a long moment I stood thus, grasping my horse's bridle, shivering

from head to foot, and staring at the black and ominous shape before

me in wide-eyed terror; then I heard that which brought me to

myself--nay, transformed me into a cool, dispassionate, relentless

creature, reckless of all harms and dangers, intent only upon the one

desperate purpose.

Leading my horse in among the trees, I tethered him securely and began

to approach the barn very cautiously and with every nerve and sinew

strung to instant action, my heavy riding-whip grasped in ready hand.

The knocking had ceased and, creeping nearer, I found the doors open

and, from the pitchy gloom of the interior, heard a hoarse gasping

that spoke of vicious effort.

"Be damned t' ye, Dick!" panted a hoarse voice. "'Eave,

man--'eave--her's a-laying across the trap--push, damn ye--"

"Aye, Tom--but her's got a knife!" panted a second voice. "Don't 'e

forget 'er's got a knife!"

"An' what--good'll her knife be--once we get--our 'ands on 'er--'eave,

I tell ye--both together--now!"

"Bide a bit, Tom--let's 'ave a light--"

"Light be damned--'eave, man!"

Fumbling my way to the wall, I began to creep towards the creaking

ladder where these panting, wrestling, evil things strove so

desperately. Once or twice came a swift beam of light, vivid in the

pervading blackness, as the trap door was forced up an inch or so;

brief, sudden gleams, that showed me the forms of two men crouched

upon the ladder, their shoulders bowed in passionate effort; and I

waited until, loud-panting with their desperate exertions, they began

to force up the trap again.

"Now, Dick--now!" gasped a voice; and then as they strove again, I

leapt and smote with all my strength. A squeal of pain and terror, the

sudden slam of the trap closing out all light, the impact of a heavy

body upon the rotting hay that littered the floor, and a feeble,

whining voice.

"Tom--O Tom--there's summat in 'ere wi' us--hurted bad I be--there's

summat in 'ere as 'ave cut my 'ead open, Tom. O Tom, come down an'

'elp a pal--"

"What are ye yelpin' over now--and be cursed!" panted the man Tom from

the ladder. "Th' gal's got money, I tell ye, an' 'er's a 'andsome tit

into the bargain, so it's up wi' this 'ere trap--"

"O Tom, summat 'it me--come on down! There's summat or some one 'ere

wi' us--come down an' see--"

"'Ow can us see wi'out a light?"

"Well, I got my tinder box."

I heard the man Tom stumble down the ladder, heard the sound of flint

and steel, saw their two evil heads outlined against the glow of the

tinder as they blew and, leaping upon them, I smote with my heavy

riding-whip again and yet again.

And now in the black horror of this ruined barn was pandemonium, a

wild uproar of shouts and cries, the sound of vicious blows, the shock

of groaning bodies.

If they were two, they fought a mad creature who, careless of defence,

unconscious of his own hurts, sought only to maim and rend; whether

reeling in desperate grapple or rolling half-smothered beneath my

assailants, I fought as a wild beast might, utterly regardless of

myself, with fingers that wrenched and tore, fists that smote

untiring, feet that kicked and trampled, head that drove and butted--I

was indeed a living weapon, as senseless to pain and as

merciless--intent only on destruction.

All suddenly was silence, a blessed quiet, save for the hoarse pant of

my own breathing. Stumbling to the doorway, I leaned there, vaguely

glad the horrid business was over, since I found myself faint and

sick. Afar off I heard lugubrious voices that called one to another, a

snapping of twigs growing ever fainter, and a rustle of leaves that

marked their flight.

Down my cheeks and into my eyes a sticky moisture was trickling that I

knew was blood, but the sweet night air revived me greatly so that, my

strength returning, I presently--stumbled back into the blackness of

the barn, found my way to the ladder and leaned there a while. And

after some time, I lifted heavy head and spoke:

"Diana--are you there--my Diana?"

Silence, and a sudden, sickening dread, a growing fear, insomuch that

I made shift to climb the ladder and, lifting heavy hand, rapped upon

the trap door:

"Diana--O Diana--are you there?"

An inarticulate cry, and next moment the trap door was lifted,

revealing a square of vivid light, and in this radiant glory--Diana's

face.

"Diana," said I, wiping the blood from my eyes the better to behold

her loveliness, "Diana--when will you--marry me?"

"O Peregrine--oh, my beloved!"

And down to me she reached her strong and gentle arms to draw me up

from the darkness into the glory of her presence.

CHAPTER IV

I WAIT FOR A CONFESSION

"O Peregrine! My dear--how they have hurt you!"

She was ministering to my scratches and abrasions, and I, sitting on

the old hay-pile, watched her, joying in the gentle touch of her

white, dexterous hands, her sweet motherliness and all the warm, vital

beauty of her.

"Child," said I, "don't tremble so--the beasts are gone!"

"Yes, I know--I heard everything, Peregrine. And you down there--all

alone--to fight them in the dreadful dark! And I once dared to call

you coward!"

"So I was, Diana. So I am. It was you gave me courage, then and

now--you and--my love for you."

"Your love?" she whispered, and now the tremor was in her voice also.

"It was Love guided me here to-night, Diana--brought me back to

you--for ever and always if--if you will have it so."

"O Peregrine," she sighed, leaning towards me, "my Peregrine, then

your love for me is not dead as I feared?"

"Nor ever can be," I answered, very conscious of her nearness, "surely

true love is immortal, Diana."

"You speak rather like a book, Peregrine."

"I quote from your own letter, Diana."

"And this--strange love of yours, Peregrine, that I feared dead, has

come to life again because you know at last how cruelly you misjudged

me--you are here because you have found out?"

"I have found out nothing."

"Then--oh--why, then, you still think evil of me?"

"I love you!" said I, leaning towards her, for she had drawn from me a

little. "I love you--more than ever, I think, yes, indeed it must be

so--because I am here to shield you with my care--to make you my

wife."

"Wife?" she whispered, shrinking yet farther from me. "Your wife? You

would marry me in my--vileness--doubting my honour?"

"Your honour shall be mine, henceforth."

Now at this she sat back to regard me beneath wrinkled brows; once her

scarlet mouth quivered, though whether she would weep or no I knew

not, but before the sweet directness of her eyes I felt strangely

abashed and knew again that old consciousness of futility.

"O Peregrine," she sighed at last, "how very--foolishly blind you are,

how hopelessly masculine, and how nobly generous--my proud gorgio

gentleman!" And stooping, she caught my hand ere I knew and kissed it

passionately.

"O Diana!" I exclaimed, very ill at ease. "Why do--so?"

"Because--oh, my dear--because you would stoop to lift your poor,

stained Diana from the depths and cover her shame with your love!

Because, thinking me vile, you would still honour me with your name.

Oh, my Peregrine, you love me more--much more than I ever dared

hope--better than even you know!" And rising, she gave herself to my

eager arms.

"O Diana," I murmured, "how wonderful you are!"

"Last time we met you called me--wanton!" she whispered.

"I was mad!" cried I remorsefully. "And yet--"

"And yet--you meant it, dear Peregrine! And tonight I am here upon

your heart--oh, wonderful--kiss your wanton again--"

"Ah--hush!" I pleaded. "Don't--don't say it."

"Ah, Peregrine, beloved--don't think it!"

"But Diana," I groaned, "oh, my Diana, I saw you with--"

"Hush!" she whispered suddenly. "There is somebody moving down

below--listen!"

From the pitchy gloom beneath came a heavy tread and a deep,

long-drawn sigh; but even so I knew a happiness beyond all expression

to feel how she nestled closer into my embrace as if seeking

protection there.

"Are you afraid, my Diana?"

"Nothing could ever frighten me--here!" she whispered. And then the

place suddenly reechoed with a loud whinnying.

"My horse--I had forgotten him!" said I. And then, as she stirred

sighfully, I stooped and kissed her, ere, loosing her, I rose. "I'll

go and make him comfortable for the night."

"And I will make you a bed, Peregrine."

"It will be like old times," said I.

"Yes--though we didn't--kiss each other--then, Peregrine," said she,

looking at me with a glory in her eyes. "Ah, no--not again--look at

the candle, it will be out in a minute or two and I haven't

another--so hurry, dear."

Forthwith I descended into the dimness below and finding the horse,

loosed off saddle and bridle; this done, I closed the doors and was

making them as secure as might be when I heard her calling:

"Be quick, Perry, the candle is going out!"

So I climbed up the ladder and, drawing it after me, closed the

trap--and as I did so, the light flickered and vanished; but, guided

by her voice, I stumbled through the dark and, finding the hay-pile,

lay down. And then, all at once, I began to tremble, for there rushed

upon me the conviction that, lying thus beside me so near I might have

touched her, yet hidden thus in the kindly dark, she was nerving

herself to the confession of that which must be pain to speak and

agony to hear; thus, tense and expectant, I stared upon the gloom,

waiting--waiting for her voice and resolved that I would be merciful

in my judgment of her.

Thus moment after moment dragged by and I in a very fever of

anticipation, waiting--listening--At last she stirred, but instead of

the broken, pleading murmur I expected, I heard a long, blissful sigh,

a rustle of the hay as she settled herself more cosily, and when she

spoke her voice sounded actually slumberous:

"Are you comfortable, Peregrine?"

"Thank you--yes."

"Yet you--sound very restless. What is it, dear?"

"O Diana--have you--nothing to--to tell me?"

"You mean--to confess? No, dear."

"Nothing?" I groaned.

"Only to bid you not worry your dear, foolish head over trifles--"

"Trifles?" I gasped, sitting up in my amazement. "Trifles?"

"Silly trifles!" said she with a strange, little, tremulous laugh.

"You came seeking me. You wish to make me your wife because your love

is nobler, greater than you or I ever dreamed. And I am yours, and we

are together at last and this--this is all that can possibly matter to

us--Fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies--was that

so very much to pay for me? Do you regret your purchase?"

"No."

"Then--have faith in your love for me, Peregrine. Give me your hand in

mine--this dear hand that fought for me and would lift poor me out of

the shameful mire. And now, good night, beloved--now, shut your eyes!

Are they closed?"

"Yes, Diana."

"Then go to sleep."

And with this cool, soft hand clasping mine, I sank at last into a

blessed slumber.

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH WE MEET OLD FRIENDS

Morning with a glory of sun flooding in at the small aperture beneath

the gable and through every crack and cranny of timeworn roof and

walls; a glory to dazzle my sleepy eyes and fill me with ineffable

gladness, despite my cuts and bruises.

For a moment I lay blinking drowsily and then started to my elbow, my

every nerve a-thrill to the sound of a soft and regular breathing.

She lay within a yard of me, half-buried in the hay that clung about

her shapeliness; and beholding her thus in the sweet abandonment of

slumber, so altogether unconscious of my nearness, it was with a

half-guilty feeling that I leaned nearer to drink in her loveliness.

Her hair was disordered, and here and there a stalk of hay had

ensconced itself in these silky ripples, and no wonder, for observing

a glossy curl above her ear I had an urgent desire to feel it twined

about my finger, and shifted my gaze to her face, viewing in turn her

cheek rosy with sleep, her dark, curling lashes, her vivid lips, the

creamy whiteness of her throat.

But--even now, even as I mutely worshipped her thus, something in the

voluptuous beauty of her troubled me. Memory waked, Imagination burst

its shackles and began its fell work:

Other eyes than mine had seen her thus ... other hands ... other

lips.... Before me flashed a vision of Devereux's evil features

hatefully triumphant. And yet ... Great God, was this indeed the face

of a wanton? Could such horror possibly be?

In imagination the dead lived again, the past returned, and through my

closed lids I saw Devereux--her "slave and master" lean to gloat upon

her defenceless beauty, bold-eyed and on his cruel lips the smile of a

satyr.... And bowing my sweating temples between quivering fists, I

ground my teeth in agony.

Now as I crouched thus, plagued by the obscene demons of my

imagination, I was aroused by a distant sound and opening my eyes saw

how the sun touched Diana's sleeping form like the blessing of God.

And yet ... what of that night at Raydon Manor? She had volunteered me

no word of explanation--not one--and why?

Up to me, borne on the sunny air, came the sound of a whistle that

brought me to my feet eager for action, for conflict or death

itself--anything rather than the harrowing torment of my thoughts.

Very cautiously I crossed the uneven floor and lifting the trap as

silently as possible, I set the ladder in place and descended. The

whistling had stopped, but in its stead I caught a sound of stealthy

movement outside the barn, and glancing about, I presently espied my

whip where I had dropped it last night, and with this in my hand I

gently unbarred the doors and opening them a little way, stepped out

into the radiant morning. And then, tossing aside my whip, I ran

forward, both hands extended in eager greeting.

"Why, Jerry!" I exclaimed. "O Jerry Jarvis, you come like an angel of

heaven!"

"Lord!" exclaimed the Tinker, grasping my hands very hard. "Lord love

you, Mr. Vereker--"

"Call me Perry as you used."

"Why, then--here's j'y, Perry--but as to angels, who ever see an angel

in cord breeches--an' patched at that! But God bless us all--what

should bring you hereabouts--"

"Love, Jerry--love--"

"You mean--Anna?"

"Yes, we are to be married as soon as possible."

"What, you an' Anna?"

"Who else, my Jeremy?"

"But she's a-breaking her 'eart over summat or other--"

"No, she's lying fast asleep in the loft yonder and looking as

sweet--as good and pure as--as--"

"As she is, Peregrine!"

"Yes, Jerry. But what are you doing here, God bless you!"

"Didn't you know as she wrote me two days since--app'inting me to meet

her here--and here I am, a bit early p'raps, but then I thought she

was lonely--in trouble, d'ye see--in trouble. And then, Lord, if you

only knew how hungry--aye, ravenous I am for sight of her arter all

this time--"

"Why, then, you shall see her--at once."

"Nay, let her have her sleep out; let's you an' me get a fire going.

I've a frying pan in my cart over yonder--ham an' eggs, lad!"

"God bless you again, Jerry--breakfast! And here among the trees it

will be like old times, though Jessamy ought to be with us, of

course."

"Well he's over at my little camp not so far away. I'm pitched t'

other side Amberley wood."

"How is he, Jerry?"

"Mighty well. He's rich again, y' see--aye, richer than ever an'

pursooed by several widders in consequence. He's come into a mort o'

money, has Jessamy. But you know all about it, o' course?"

"Not a word."

"Lord, an' 't was your uncle, Sir Jervas, as done it! Left Jess

five--thousand--pound! Think o' that!"

Thus, talking like the old friends we were, we set about collecting

sticks and soon had the fire burning merrily. All at once we stood

silent and motionless, for Diana was singing.

It was an Italian love song full of sweet rippling notes and trills

but, as she sang it, a very ecstasy of yearning tenderness that

changed suddenly to joy and rapturous happiness, her glorious voice

ringing out full-throated, rich and clear, inexpressibly sweet,

swelling louder and louder until suddenly it was gone and we standing

mute with awed delight.

"She's a-doin' her hair!" whispered Jerry. "She allus used to sing in

the morning a-doin' her hair, I mind, but never--ah, never

so--wonderfully!"

And then she began again, this time that Zingari air we both

remembered so well. Singing thus, she stepped out into the sunlight

but, seeing us, stopped in the middle of a note and ran forward (even

as I had done) with both hands outstretched in greeting.

"Jerry!" she cried. "My dear, good Jerry!"

But the Tinker drew back, a little abashed by the wondrous change in

her.

"Why, Ann--why, Anna!" he stammered. "Can this be you--so--so

beautiful? Speaks different too!"

"O Jerry dear--won't you kiss me?"

"Glory be!" he exclaimed, taking her outstretched hands. "Though so

very different 'tis the same sweet maid--'tis the very same Ann as

learned to read an' write s' wonderful quick--Glory be!" And so they

kissed each other.

Then walking between us, busy with question and answer, he brought us

where stood his weather-beaten, four-wheeled chaise with Diogenes,

that equine philosopher, cropping the grass as sedulously as though he

had never left off and who, lifting shaggy head, snorted unimpassioned

greeting and promptly began to nibble again.

Butter, a new loaf, ham and eggs and coffee! What hungry mortals could

desire more? And now the Tinker and I, sitting side by side in the

leafy shade, watched our Diana who, scornful of all assistance,

prepared breakfast with her own quick, capable hands.

What words are there may adequately describe this meal? With what

appetite we ate, all three; how we talked and laughed for small reason

or no reason at all.

"Lord, Ann!" exclaimed the Tinker, glancing from the piece of ham on

his knife point to Diana's stately beauty.

"'Tis wonderful what two years can do! You don't need any book of

etiquette these days--you look so proud, so noble--aye, as any duchess

in a nov-el or out! Lord love you, Ann, it don't seem right any more

as you should be a-drinkin' coffee out of a tin mug along of a

travellin' tinker in patched breeches, that it don't! I reckon you've

seen a lot o' the grand world an' plenty o' fine folk, eh Ann?"

"Enough to know the simpler joys are always the best, dear Jerry, and

to love the Silent Places more than ever. And as for you, Jerry, there

never was such a tinker before--"

"And never will be again!" I added.

"And so we mean to stay with you awhile, don't we, Peregrine?"

"Excellent!" said I. "We will shift camp to the old place--"

"The little wood beside the stream beyond Wyvelstoke," said Diana

softly, "that dear place where Love found us--in the dawn--and you

clasped the little locket about my neck, Peregrine."

"Which you don't wear now, Diana!"

"Which you shall put back--one day--soon, Peregrine."

"Why did you take it off, Diana?"

"Because!" she answered.

"Because of--what?" I persisted.

"Just--because!" she answered in the old tantalising way. And so we

sat a little while looking into each other's eyes.

"By Goles!" exclaimed the Tinker so suddenly that we both started,

having clean forgotten him for a while. "'Tis good to be young, but

'tis better--aye, much better, to be in love, that it is! And--you may

be mighty fine folk up to London, but you'll always be just children

to me--my children o' the woods!"

"And so, Jerry, we'll stay with you until we are married if you'll

have us?"

"Have you?" he repeated, a little huskily. "Have you? Why, Lord love

ye--I feel that proud, an' s' happy as I don't know what--only--God

bless ye both--Amen!" So saying, he arose rather abruptly and hastened

off to harness Diogenes.

"Diana," said I, drawing her to me, "Diana, what do you mean by

'because'?" And standing submissive in the circle of my arms she

answered:

"Because you love me so truly, Peregrine, doubt cannot make you love

me less. But because of your doubt I have grieved, and because I

grieved I ran away, and because I ran away you came to find me, and

because of this I am happy. But because I am--a little proud also, I

will not wear your love-token until you know how unjust are your

doubts, and because I am a woman you shall not know this until I

choose. But because I love you in spite of your doubts as you love me

because you are so nobly generous, I am yours for ever and ever. So

here's the answer--here's the meaning of 'because' and now--won't you

kiss me, Peregrine?"

Thus stood we awhile amid the whispering leaves, and by the touch of

her mouth doubt and heaviness were lifted from me. Then hand in hand

she brought me where we might behold the barn, no longer a place of

evil, gloomy and sinister, but transformed by the kindly sun into a

place of beauty, dignified by age.

"Good-bye, old barn!" she whispered. "Look, Peregrine, it is so very,

very old, and cannot last much longer--and I love it because it was

there my man fought for me; it was there he showed me how truly

generous, how wonderful is his love for me--O Peregrine, my gorgio

gentleman, what a man you are! Good-bye, old barn!" she whispered.

"Good-bye!"

And when I had led forth my post horse and tethered him behind the

four-wheeled cart, we clambered in all three, Diana sitting close

beside me so that the kindly wind ever and anon would blow a tress of

her fragrant hair across my lips to be kissed.

And so the dead went back to his grave and my demons fled awhile.

"Perry," said the Tinker as, turning from the highway, Diogenes ambled

down a narrow lane, "you've forgot to ask about this here watch o'

mine."

"Well, how is it, Jerry?"

"Never was such a watch! Look at it! Reg'lar as the sun! Which riles

Jessamy. Y' see, his ain't to be depended on nowadays, owing to a

boot--"

"A boot, Jerry?" laughed Diana.

"At Maidstone Fair, Ann! Jessamy was preachin' Brotherly Love when a

large cove in a white 'at up an' kicked him in the watch, which is apt

to be a little unsettlin' to any timepiece. Anyhow, Jessamy's has

never gone right since."

"His watch again!" cried I. "Last time the trouble was a brick, I

remember."

"But Jerry, what happened to the 'cove' in the white hat?" enquired

Diana.

"Well, arter it was all over, Jessamy took him aside into a quiet

corner an' they prayed together."

"Jessamy was always a forceful evangelist!" she laughed.

"And there he is."

"Where?" questioned Diana.

"Listen and you'll hear him, Ann!" Sure enough from the boskages

adjacent came the ring and tap of a hammer to the accompaniment of a

rich, sweet voice unpraised in song.

Hereupon, setting two slim, white fingers to her mouth, Diana whistled

loud and shrilly, to the Tinker's no small delight. Ensued a

prodigious rustling and snapping of twigs and into the lane sprang the

slender, shapely figure of Jessamy himself, as bright of eye, as light

and quick of foot as ever.

I will not dilate upon this second meeting, but it was good to feel

the hearty grip of his fingers, to hear the glad welcome in his voice,

to see how gallantly he stooped to kiss Diana's hand, and how his

sun-tanned cheek flushed beneath the touch of her lips.

"Why, Anna!" he exclaimed. "Well, well--you ha' become so--so--you

look so uncommon--what I mean is--"

"Beautiful!" said the Tinker. "Be-autiful's the word, Jess!"

"Aye, aye, shipmate, so it is, comrade!"

"And the next word is strike camp, Jessamy, up stick an' away, Jess--"

"We're going to the old place, Jessamy!" nodded Diana.

"Where you instructed me in the 'noble art,' Jessamy!" said I.

"So it's all together and with a will, Jess!" added the Tinker.

"Aye, aye--and heartily!" laughed Jessamy.

I will pass over the labour of the ensuing hours wherein we all

wrought cheerfully; but evening found us camped within that

oft-remembered wood beside the stream whose murmurous waters seemed to

find a voice to welcome us.

CHAPTER VI

WHICH, AS THE PATIENT READER SEES, IS THE LAST

The Tinker stood resplendent in brass-buttoned coat of bottle green

which, if a little threadbare at the seams, made up for this by the

astonishing size and sheen of its buttons.

At this precise moment (I remember) he was engaged in brushing it

vigorously, pausing between whiles to pick carefully at certain

refractory blemishes, to give an extra polish to some particular

button, or consult the never-failing watch, for to-day Diana and I

were to be married.

"By Goles, Peregrine, it's past twelve o'clock already!" he

ejaculated. "They ought to be here soon and--"

He checked suddenly and stood hushed and mute, for Jessamy had

appeared,--a glorified Jessamy, resplendent from top to toe; his boots

shone superbly, his coat sat on him with scarce a wrinkle, but his

chief glory was his shirt, prodigiously beruffled at wrists and bosom.

The Tinker eyed these noble adornments in undisguised admiration.

"Lord, Jessamy!" he exclaimed. "Lord, Jess!"

At this, Jessamy's diffidence vanished and coming to the little mirror

that hung against an adjacent tree, he scanned his reflection with an

appreciative eye.

"Aye, aye, Jerry," quoth he, "when I wears a frilled shirt--which

ain't often, as you know, Jeremy--I wears one with--frills!"

"Jerry, dear--O Jerry!" called Diana from the dingy tent.

"Yes, Anna!"

"I want you to come and hook up my dress!"

"Lord, Anna! To do what?"

"Hook up my dress for me."

"But--Ann--"

"I can't possibly do it myself, so come at once, there's a dear!"

"Won't Perry do, Ann?"

"Certainly not!"

"But I never hooked up a lady in my life, Ann!"

"Then you're going to hook up this lady now. So come at once and don't

be silly!"

"Why, very well, Ann! But if I do it up all wrong an' sp'ile ye--don't

blame me, that's all!" Saying which, he disappeared into the dingy

tent, leaving me to survey myself in the small mirror and find fault

with my every feature and so much as I could see of my attire, while

Jessamy hovered near, eyeing me a little anxiously.

"You don't feel anywise groggy or--shaky o' your pins, do ye, Perry?"

he enquired solicitously.

"Not yet, Jessamy."

"Why, very good, brother! But if so be you should feel it comin' on,

jest tip me the office--I've a lemon in my pocket. There's some, being

groggy, as nat'rally turns to a sup o' rum or brandy, but the best

thing as I knows on to pull a man together is a squeeze o' lemon

and--here comes the rest o' your backers--hark!"

The crack of a whip, a jingle of bits and curb-chains coming rapidly

nearer, and then the air rang with a cheery "view hallo!"

A rustle of petticoats and Diana was beside me, a radiant vision in

the gown she could not hook up for herself, and side by side, we went

to meet our guests, and thus beheld a coach-and-four galloping along

the lane, the sedate Atkinson seated in the rumble and upon the box

the tall, athletic form of Anthony, flourishing his whip in joyous

salutation, a cheery, glad-eyed Anthony; and beholding her who sat so

close beside him, I understood this so great change in him. Reining up

in masterly fashion, he sprang lightly to earth and taking his wife in

powerful arms, lifted her down, pausing to kiss her in midair, and

then she had run forward to clasp Diana in eager embrace.

"Begad, Perry, old fellow, all's well at last, eh?" exclaimed Anthony,

grasping my hand. "What I mean to say is--will ye look at 'em, begad!

Did mortal eyes ever see so much dooced loveliness and beauty begad?

What I say is no--damme if they did! And here's his lordship to say as

much."

"Ah, Peregrine," said the Earl, limping forward, "if this is a happy

day for you, to me it is no less so. How say you, friend Jarvis--and

you, Jessamy Todd?"

"Peregrine," said Barbara, as we came within sight of the dingy tent,

"has she told you--has Diana told you how nobly she stood my friend

and at what cruel cost--has she?"

"Not a word!" said I, beginning to tremble.

"Ah--that was so like you, Di--so very like you, my brave, dear girl."

"There was no need, Barbara. Peregrine's love is such that--though he

doubted, being human--he loved me still!"

"Then I'll tell him--here and now! No, over yonder by the brook. And

you, Tony--Anthony dear, you must come and help me."

"Yes, tell him, Barbara," quoth his lordship; "tell him, as you told

me, that Peregrine may know how brave and generous is she who honours

him to-day."

And so, with Barbara's hand on one arm and Anthony's on the other, I

came to that leafy bower beside the stream where I had known Diana's

first kiss.

"You will remember," began Barbara, seated between us, "you will

remember, Peregrine, how, when first we met, I was with Captain Danby?

I fled with him to escape a worse man, I mean Sir Geoffrey Devereux or

Haredale, as his power somehow, for even while I was at school he gave

me to understand it was his wish I should marry his friend Haredale. I

was very young, my mother long dead, and flattered by the attentions

of a man so much older than myself, I wrote him letters--silly,

girlish letters very full of romantic nonsense--Anthony has seen them.

But the oftener I met Sir Geoffrey, the less I liked him, until my

feeling changed to dread. Captain Danby, seeing this, offered his

help, and deceiving his friend would have deceived me also, as you

will remember--"

"Damned scoundrel!" snorted Anthony.

"It was while in Italy with Diana--Anthony had just left me--that I

met Sir Geoffrey again. He dared to make love to me and when I

repulsed him, threatened to show my silly letters to Anthony. Then,

thank God, we came home! But he followed and upon the night of the

reception sent Captain Danby to me at Lord Wyvelstoke's house with a

letter--"

"Ah--it was your letter?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, Peregrine--a dreadful letter, repeating his threat that unless I

went to his chambers that very hour he would send Anthony the

letters--and I knew--I knew that if my Anthony ever saw them, he would

fight Sir Geoffrey and be killed--"

"Not alone though, Loveliness!" said Anthony, between shut teeth.

"In my dread I confided in Diana--"

"And she--went with you," said I hoarsely, "in--Danby's chaise!"

"Yes. When Sir Geoffrey saw Diana she seemed to fascinate him--he

refused to give up my letters--said he could not part with them. In

this way he tortured me for weeks until at last he wrote from Raydon

Manor, saying I should have the letters if I would call for them in

person, but it must be at ten o'clock at night--and Diana must go with

me. So we went--there were other men there--they had been drinking.

When we entered the room, Captain Danby locked the door--I nearly

swooned with horror--"

"Ah, my God!" exclaimed Anthony.

"But then--O Peregrine--before any one could move or prevent--Diana

sprang upon Sir Geoffrey--I saw the flash of steel, and he lay back

helpless in his chair, staring up at her--not daring to move, her

dagger pricking his throat--yes--I saw the blood! 'Sir Geoffrey,' said

she in an awful, whispering voice, 'give up the letters and order them

to open the door, or I will surely kill you'--and I saw him flinch as

the dagger bit deeper. But he laughed and obeyed her, and so with the

letters in my hand, Diana led me out of the room and none offered to

hinder us. We had been admitted at the door that gave into the wood

and we had just opened it when some one among the trees groaned, and

afraid of being seen, we locked the door and ran back to the house and

asked Sir Geoffrey for a carriage. And then--Captain Danby hurried

into the room, saying you and Anthony were outside--in the hall. Then

we fled into Sir Geoffrey's study and--I think that is all?"

"Yes!" said I dully. "That is all!"

"And enough for one lifetime!" added Anthony. "No more secrets,

Loveliness!"

"Never any more, dear Anthony, though it was all for you that I

suffered, and Diana--my dear, dear Diana--kept silence and allowed you

to think--to--"

"God forgive me!" I groaned.

"I wasn't worth it, Babs!" exclaimed Anthony, kissing her; and then

his hand was upon my shoulder.

"What now, old fellow?"

"O Anthony, was there ever such a blind fool? Was ever angel of God so

cruelly misjudged? My noble Diana!" Hardly knowing what I did, I

turned and began to stumble along beside the brook, conscious only of

my most bitter remorse. And then a hand clasped mine, and turning to

the touch of these warm, vital fingers, "Diana," said I, "O Diana--"

"You know--at last, Peregrine?"

"I know that I dared to think you unworthy--doubted your sweet

purity--called you--wanton. And I--miserable fool--in my prideful

folly dreamed that in marrying you--mine was the sacrifice! Oh, I am

not fit to live--Diana--O Diana, can you forgive me?--All my life I

have been a failure!"

"Dear love, hush--oh, hush!" she sighed in weeping voice. But in the

extremity of my self-abasement, I knelt to kiss her hands, the hem of

her dress, her slender, pretty feet. "Peregrine dear, your--your

mistake was very natural; you saw me--at Raydon Manor--"

"I should have disbelieved my eyes!"

"And I could not explain for Anthony and Barbara's sakes. And when I

could have explained I would not, because I wished you to--yes,

dear--to suffer--just a little--and because I wished to see if you

were brave enough to forgive your Diana--lift her from shame and

dishonour to--to the secure haven of--your love. And you were brave

enough and--now, oh, now I'm crying--and I hate to cry, Perry--but

it's only because I do love you so much more than I can ever say--so

don't--don't kneel to me, beloved--come to my heart!"

So she stooped and raised me to the comfort of her gentle arms, to the

haven of her fragrant mouth.

And thus the dead was buried at last, mountains deep, and my hateful

demons vanished utterly away for ever and for ever.

"You would always have been mine, Diana!"

"And so it is I love you, Peregrine! And so it is I am yearning to be

your wife--and yet here we stay and our guests all gone--"

"Gone?" I exclaimed.

"I told them we would follow--in Jerry's cart. Shall you mind riding

to your wedding in a tinker's cart, dear?"

"My wise Diana, I love its every spoke and timber for your sake, so

could there never be any other chariot of any age, on four wheels or

two, so proper to bear us to our happiness, my clever Gipsy-Lady.

Come, dear, hurry--for I am longing, aching to hear you call me

'husband.'"

"And are my eyes--very red, Perry?"

"Yes--no--what matter? They are lovelier than ever they were--my

jewels--let me kiss them!"

"And now--this, dear heart!" said she a little tremulously, and laid

the gold locket in my hand: and kneeling beside this chuckling stream

as we had done once before, I clasped it about her white throat and

kissed her until she bade me (a little breathlessly) to remember our

waiting guests.

And thus at last, sitting with Diana's hand in mine, behind Diogenes,

that four-footed philosopher, we rattled, creaked, and jolted away to

our new life and all that the future held for us.