Peregrine's Progress Part 101

"O Peregrine," she sighed at last, "how very--foolishly blind you are, how hopelessly masculine, and how n.o.bly generous--my proud gorgio gentleman!" And stooping, she caught my hand ere I knew and kissed it pa.s.sionately.

"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 antic.i.p.ation, 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 n.o.bler, 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 G.o.d, 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.