Peregrine's Progress Part 47

But here, waiting for no more, I started forward, and halting within a yard of my aunt, I laid grimy hand upon grimy shirt-bosom and bowed.

"Dear Aunt Julia, I rejoice to see you!" said I.

For a long moment my aunt gazed on me with eyes of horrified bewilderment then, all at once, she dropped her riding-switch and, gasping my name, sank into the ready arms of my uncle George, who promptly began to fan her vigorously with his hat, while my uncle Jervas, lounging gracefully against a tree, surveyed me through his single gla.s.s and I saw his grim lips twitch.

"Tell me I dream, George!" wailed aunt Julia. "Say it is a horrid vision and make me happy."

"It is, Julia, it is!" said my uncle Jervas. "And yet, upon me soul, 'tis a vision that grows upon me; observe the set of the shoulders, the haughty c.o.c.k o' the head, the determined jut of the chin; yes, Julia, despite rags and dirt, I recognise Peregrine as a true Vereker for the first time." Saying which, my uncle Jervas very deliberately drew on his riding glove and stepping up to me, caught and shook my hand or ever I guessed his intention.

"Uncle--O Uncle Jervas!" I exclaimed and stooped my head lest he should see the tears in my eyes.

"By Gad, Julia--sweet soul," exclaimed my uncle George. "Jervas is exactly right, d'ye see? Perry may look a--a what's-a-name vision, but he's a Vereker for all that--lad o' spirit--beautiful pair o' black eyes, though you can't see 'em for dirt--"

My aunt moaned feebly.

"But dirt, my dear soul, dirt won't harm him, nor black eyes--do him good, d'ye see, do him a world o' good, doing him good every minute--"

"Enough, George Vereker!" exclaimed my aunt in her terrible voice, and freed herself from his hold like an offended G.o.ddess. "O heaven, I might have known that you, George, would have abetted my poor, wilful boy in his dirt and bodily viciousness, and that you, Jervas, would have condoned his turpitude and moral degradation. None the less, though you both desert me in this dreadful hour, shirking your duty thus shamelessly, this woman's hand shall pluck my dear, loved nephew from the abyss, this hand--" Here, turning to behold me, my poor aunt shivered, gasped and setting dainty handkerchief to her eyes, bowed n.o.ble head and wept grandly as a grieving G.o.ddess might have done.

"O Peregrine," she moaned from this dainty mystery, "O rash boy--to have sunk to this--sordid misery--rags--dirt! You that were wont to shudder at a splash of mud and now--O kind heaven--grimed like a dreadful collier and I think--yes, O shameless youth, actually smiling through it--"

"And why not, m'dear creature?" sighed uncle Jervas. "Dirt is of many kinds and Peregrine's is at least honest and healthy--"

"Cease, Sir Jervas, I pray!" cried my aunt with a flash of her fine black eyes. "Nevermore will I heed your perfidious counsels, nor the fatuous maunderings of graceless George. There stands my poor, misguided Peregrine--an object for angels to weep over, an innocent but a little while since--but now--now, alas--and you--both of you his undoing!"

"Pardon me, dear Aunt," said I hastily, "but there you are in error and do a monstrous injustice to my two generous uncles. Allow me to reiterate the statement I set down in my letter, that I left Merivale and you of my own accord; indeed my uncles would have stayed me, but I was determined to be gone for your sake, their sake and my own.

Indeed, Aunt, so deep is my affection that I would see you truly happy, and knowing the deep and--and honourable sentiments my uncles have for you, I--I dreamed that they--that you--that one of them might have won your hand and--and you find that happiness which you have denied yourself on my account."

"Misguided boy!" murmured my aunt, lovely eyes abased, "Come, dear Peregrine, doubtless one of your uncles can find you a cloak to--to veil you from the curious vulgar--only let us be going, pray."

"Dear Aunt--where?"

"Back to Merivale, to your books, your paintings and my loving care."

"Not yet, Aunt. Ah, pray do not misunderstand me, but when I set out, it was with the purpose of doing better things than penning indifferent verse, or painting futile pictures--"

"Peregrine--nephew--do I hear aright?"

"You do, Aunt. I came out into the world to open the greatest book of all--the book of Life--to try to meet and know men and learn some day, perhaps, to be a man also and one you can honour. Instead of reading the actions of others, I intend to act a little myself--"

"Peregrine--cease!"

"And so, dear Aunt, here I stay until I can return to you feeling that I have achieved something worthy my s.e.x and name."

"Peregrine, come with me--I command you!"

"Then, dearest Aunt, with all the humility possible, I fear I must disobey you."

My aunt Julia drew herself to her stately height, setting her indomitable chin at me, and into her eyes came that coercive expression which resurrected the memory of childish sins of omission and commission, an expression before which my new-found hardihood wilted and drooped; but in this desperate moment I glanced at Diana, and, meeting the calm serenity of her untroubled gaze, I folded my arms and, bowing my head, awaited the deluge with what fort.i.tude I might and, in the awful stillness, heard uncle George's spurs jingle distressfully.

"You mean that--you--will--not--come?" she demanded.

"I do, dear Aunt."

"That you actually--disobey me?"

"Dear Aunt--I do!"

"Pray, who is the young person I notice behind you?"

"Person, Aunt?"

"The young woman--the wild, gipsy-looking creature."

"Ah, pray forgive me--I should have introduced you before. Diana, this is my aunt, Lady Julia Conroy--Aunt, this is my friend Diana."

"And pray what is she doing here?"

"She is about to cook a steak and onions--"

"Do you mean--O pitiful heaven--that she is--living here with--"

"With Jeremy Jarvis, a tinker, Jessamy Todd, a champion pugilist, and myself."

"Shocking!" exclaimed my aunt, sweeping Diana with the fire of her disparaging regard.

"Moreover, dear Aunt," I continued, stung by something in her att.i.tude, "it is my hope to make myself sufficiently worthy to win Diana in--in marriage!"

"Marriage?" repeated my aunt in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "I dream! Marriage?

With a wild woman! George! Jervas!" she gasped in strange, breathless fashion. "Our poor boy is either mad--or worse, and whichever it prove, it is all your doing! I hope, I sincerely hope, you are satisfied with your handiwork! As for you, you poor young woman," she continued, turning on Diana in pa.s.sionate appeal, "if my nephew is mad, be you sane enough to know that such a marriage would drag him to perdition and bring you only misery and shame in the long run. Give up my poor, distracted nephew and I will be your friend. If it is money you require--"

Diana laughed:

"My lady, an' if you please, ma'm," said she, curtseying, finger beneath dimpled chin, "I ain't your young woman an' by your leave, ma'm, never could be, because, though I don't love Mr. Peregrine, I can't abide you, ma'm. When I wants money, being only a gipsy mort, I works for it or prigs it. So I don't want your money, thanking you kindly, ma'm, and I don't want your nephew, so you may take him and willing. An' I don't want your friendship or help, because I likes loneliness and the Silent Places better. So take your precious nephew, ma'm, and when you get him safe home, wash him an' keep him in a gla.s.s case; 'tis what he's best fitted for. But watch him, lady, lock him up secure, because I think--I know--I could whistle him away from you whenever I would--back, ma'm, back to me and the Silent Places. And so good-day, ma'm, my best respects!" Saying which, Diana curtseyed again and turned away.

"The creature!" exclaimed my aunt. "The minx! The insolent baggage!"

And she stepped proudly forward, an angry G.o.ddess, the jewelled switch quivering.

"Stop, lady!" said Diana, throwing out a shapely arm with gesture so imperious that my aunt stood staring and amazed. "Stop, ma'm--don't forget as you're a great lady and I'm only a gipsy mort as could tear you in pieces for all your size! To spoil them fine eyes would be pity, to pull that long hair out would be shame, so don't use your whip, lady--don't!" Having said which, she turned and walked serenely away.

"A most dreadful young person!" exclaimed my aunt. "See from what calamitous evils I have s.n.a.t.c.hed you, dear Peregrine. Come, let us be going. I have William with your mare, but seeing you cannot ride as you are, we will take a chaise."

But folding my arms, I shook my head.

"What--O boy, what does this mean?"

"It means, dear Aunt, that I love the Silent Places too!"