Peregrine's Progress Part 1

Peregrine's Progress.

by Jeffery Farnol.

ANTE SCRIPTUM

This is the tale of Diana, the Gipsy, the G.o.ddess, the Woman, one in all and all in one and that one so wonderful, so elusive, so utterly feminine that I, being but a man and no great student in the s.e.x, may, in striving to set her before you in cold words, distort this dear image out of all semblance and true proportion.

Here and now I would begin this book by telling of Diana as I remember her, a young dryad vivid with life, treading the leafy ways, grey eyes a-dream, kissed by sun and wind, filling the woodland with the glory of her singing, out-carolling the birds.

I would fain show her to you in her swift angers and ineffable tenderness, in her lofty pride and sweet humility, pa.s.sionate with life yet boldly virginal, fronting evil scornful and undismayed, with eyes glittering bright as her "little _churi_" yet yielding herself a willing sacrifice and meekly enduring for Friendship's sake.

With her should this book properly commence; but because I doubt my pen (more especially at this so early stage) I will begin not with Diana but with my aunt Julia, my uncle Jervas, my uncle George and my painfully conscious self, trusting that, as this narrative progresses, my halting pen may grow more a.s.sured and my lack of art be atoned for by sincerity. For if any writer or historian were sincere then most truly that am I.

Therefore I set forth upon this relation humbly aware of my failings, yet trusting those who read will not fall asleep over my first ineffectual chapter nor throw the book aside after my second, but with kind and tolerant patience will bear with me and read bravely on until, being more at my ease, I venture to tell of Diana's wonderful self.

And when they shall come to the final chapter of this history (if they ever do) may they be merciful in their judgment of their humble author, that is to say this same poor, ineffectual, unheroical person who now subscribes himself

PEREGRINE VEREKER.

Book One

THE SILENT PLACES

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCING MYSELF

"Nineteen to-day, is he!" said my uncle Jervas, viewing me languidly through his quizzing-gla.s.s. "How confoundedly the years flit!

Nineteen--and on me soul, our poor youth looks as if he hadn't a single gentlemanly vice to bless himself with!"

"Not one, Jervas, my boy," quoth my uncle George, shaking his comely head at me. "Not one, begad, and that's the dooce of it! It seems he don't swear, he don't drink, he don't gamble, he don't make love, he don't even--"

"Don't, George," exclaimed my aunt Julia in her sternest tone, her handsome face flushed, her stately back very rigid.

"Don't what, Julia?"

"Fill our nephew's mind with your own base masculine ideas--I forbid."

"But damme--no, Julia, no--I mean, bless us! What's to become of a man--what's a man to do who don't--"

"Cease, George!"

"But he's almost a man, ain't he?"

"Certainly not; Peregrine is--my nephew--"

"And ours, Julia. We are his legal guardians besides--"

"And set him in my care until he comes of age!" retorted my aunt defiantly.

"And there, happy youth, is his misfortune!" sighed my uncle Jervas.

"Misfortune?" echoed my aunt in whisper so awful that I, for one, nearly trembled. "Misfortune!" she repeated. "Hush! Silence! Not a word! I must think this over! Misfortune!"

In the dreadful pause ensuing, I glanced half-furtively from one to other of my three guardians; at my uncle Jervas, lounging gracefully in his chair, an exquisite work of art from glossy curls to polished Hessians; at my uncle George, standing broad back to the mantel, a graceful, stalwart figure in tight-fitting riding-coat, buckskins and spurred boots; at my wonderful aunt, her dark and statuesque beauty as she sat, her n.o.ble form posed like an offended Juno, dimpled chin on dimpled fist, dark brows bent above long-lashed eyes, ruddy lips close-set and arched foot tapping softly beneath the folds of her ample robe.

"His misfortune!" she repeated for the fourth time, softly and as to herself. "And ever have I striven to be to him the tender mother he never knew, to stand in place of the father he never saw!"

"I'm sure of it, Julia!" said my uncle George, fidgeting with his stock.

"His misfortune! And I have watched over him with care unfailing--"

"Er--of course, yes--not a doubt of it, Julia," said uncle George, fiddling with a coat b.u.t.ton.

"His upbringing has been the pa.s.sion of my life--"

"I'm sure of it, Julia, your sweet and--er--womanly nature--"

"George, have the goodness not to interrupt!" sighed my aunt, with a little gesture of her hand. "I have furthermore kept him segregated from all that could in any way vitiate or vulgarise; he has had the ablest tutors and been my constant companion, and to-day--I am told--all this is but his misfortune. Now and therefore. Sir Jervas Vereker, pray explain yourself."

"Briefly and with joy, m'dear Julia," answered my uncle Jervas, smiling sleepily into my aunt's fierce black eyes. "I simply mean that your meticulous care of our nephew has turned what should have been an ordinary and humanly promising, raucous and impish hobbledehoy into a very precise, something superior, charmingly prim and modest, ladylike young fellow--"

"Ladyli--!" My stately aunt came as near gasping as was possible in such a woman, then her stately form grew more rigidly statuesque, her mouth and chin took on that indomitable look I knew so well, and she swept the speaker with the blasting fire of her fine black eyes. "Sir Jervas Vereker!" she exclaimed at last, and in tones of such chilling haughtiness that I, for one, felt very like shivering. There fell another awful silence, aunt Julia sitting very upright, hands clenched on the arms of her chair, dark brows bent against my uncle Jervas, who met her withering glance with all his wonted impa.s.sivity, while my uncle George, square face slightly flushed, glanced half-furtively from one to the other and clicked nervous heels together so that his spurs jingled.

"George!" exclaimed my aunt suddenly. "In heaven's name, cease rattling your spurs as if you were in your native stables."

"Certainly, m'dear Julia!" he mumbled, and stood motionless and abashed.

"'Pon me life, Julia," sighed my uncle Jervas, "I swear the years but lend you new graces; time makes you but the handsomer--"

"Begad, but that's the very naked truth, Julia!" cried uncle George.

"You grow handsomer than ever."

"Tush!" exclaimed my aunt, yet her long lashes drooped suddenly.

"Your hair is--" said uncle Jervas.

"Wonderful!" quoth uncle George. "Always was, begad!"

"Tchah!" exclaimed my aunt.

"Your hair is as silky," pursued my uncle Jervas, "as abundant and as black as--"

"As night!" added uncle George.