Peregrine's Progress Part 74

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

"The ordinary, impa.s.sioned youth, under such unpleasantly frequent circ.u.mstances, Peregrine, would seek oblivion in bottles or fly instantly to all manner of riot and dissipation and be cured sooner or later--but you? Knowing what I do of your devilishly intense nature, I must admit I am a little disquieted. You see, Peregrine, I have learned, though I grant you a little painfully, still I have learned at last to--ah--to care for you so much that your unhappiness would affect me--rather cursedly, boy--yes, rather cursedly."

"Uncle Jervas," said I, "indeed--indeed I am proud to have won your esteem; I shall endeavour to be worthy of it."

"Why then, Nephew," said he, slipping his arm into mine, "whatever d.a.m.nable buffets Fate sees fit to deal you, whatever disappointments are in store, you will of course meet them with a serene fort.i.tude--eh, boy?"

"You may trust me, sir. Not," I continued hastily "not that I antic.i.p.ate any change of heart in Diana. Could you but have known her, sir--!"

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

Our walk had brought us to Vauxhall, and skirting the gardens with their groves and walks, their fountains, temples and grottoes, we went on beside the river, I talking of Diana, my uncle listening, and both watching the sun rise over the great city, to gild vane and weatherc.o.c.k of countless spires and steeples and make a broad-bosomed glory of the n.o.ble river. Suddenly my uncle halted to point before him with ta.s.selled cane where two rough-looking men, unconscious of our approach, were crouched among the sedge beside the water.

"Let us see what these fellows are doing!" said he. So we advanced until, being very near, we halted, for now indeed we saw only too well.

She lay where they had dragged her, just above the hungry tide, a slender, pitiful thing, young and beautiful, yet now dreadfully pale and still, shrouded in her long, wet tresses; a mute and beautiful thing, all heedless now of the rough hands that touched her, or the kindly sun's tender beam that showed the pitiful droop of pallid lips and motionless lashes, and the slender fingers of the small, right hand clenched in death. Even now, as I stood bareheaded, my breath in check, one of the fellows grasped this hand, wrenched open these delicate fingers with brutal strength, and finding within them only a wisp of crumpled paper, swore a hoa.r.s.e oath of baffled cupidity that changed to a howl as my uncle's cane rapped him smartly across bull-neck.

"Detestable savage!" exclaimed my uncle, scowling down into the man's startled face. "Learn reverence for the dead! Now pa.s.s me that paper!"

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

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

The man rubbed his neck, muttered an oath, and gave the wisp of paper to my uncle, who, without glancing at it, took off his hat and bowed his head.

"Poor soul!" he sighed gently, his impa.s.sive face transfigured by an extraordinary tenderness. "Poor frightened, weary soul--so young, so very young, and now fled--whither? Poor--poor child--Stop! Keep your beastly hands off her!" This to the bull-necked fellow, who flinched and drew away, snarling.

"Lumme, me lord!" whined the second man, a small, mean person. "What's ye game? She's ourn--we found 'er, Job an' me--seen 'er out in th'

race, us did, floatin' s' pretty, an' folleyed 'er, us did, 'til she came ash.o.r.e. She b'longs t' us, me lord, as Job'll swear--to diskiver a corp' means money, an' corpses, 'specially sich pretty 'uns, don't come often enough--"

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

The bull-necked fellow rose, but, instead of complying, turned short and sprang, an open knife in his hand; my uncle Jervas stepped lightly aside, his long arm shot out, and the bull-necked man went down heavily; he was in the act of rising when my uncle set his foot upon the man's knife-hand, placidly crushed and crushed it until he roared, until the gripping fingers relaxed their hold, whereupon my uncle kicked the knife into the river.

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

So the men brought the hurdle and my uncle, stripping off his fine surtout, made therewith a pillow for the beautiful, piteous head.

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

"There's an ale-'us down yonder, me lord, nice an' 'andy," answered the little man. "Us gen'ally takes 'em theer."

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

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

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

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

So we moved off in mournful procession until we came to a small waterside tavern, whose inmates my uncle peremptorily awakened, and soon had forth a gruff, sleepy fellow to show the way and unlock a tumble-down outhouse, into which they bore their silent burden, followed by my uncle, bareheaded.

As for me, I walked to and fro in the sunshine, feeling myself cold and shivering. At last I heard the doors close and turning, beheld my uncle's tall, immaculate figure striding towards me.

"A sad sight, Perry, a dismal, woeful sight--and on such a glorious morning. Come, let us go." So saying, he put on his hat, sternly refusing the offer of my outer coat, and taking my arm, we began to retrace our steps. Suddenly he checked, and feeling in his pocket, brought forth that crumpled wisp of paper and, smoothing it out, glanced at it and I saw his eyes grow suddenly fierce.

"Haredale!" said he thoughtfully. "Haredale?" and pa.s.sed the paper to me whereon I read these words, blotched with water, yet still legible:

You are unreasonable, but this is feminine.

You anger me, but this is natural.

You weary me--and this is fatal.

Adieu, HAREDALE.

"Haredale!" said I.

"Haredale?" sighed my uncle. "The name is unfamiliar, I know none of the name in London. Do you, Peregrine?"

"No, sir!" I answered. "No--and yet--it seems as if--yes, I have heard it, Uncle, but not in London. I heard it mentioned two years ago--in a wood. It was spoken by a scoundrel who named himself Haredale though Lord Wyvelstoke addressed him as--Devereux!"

"Devereux!" said my uncle in so strange a tone that I lifted my gaze from the scrawled name and saw that he had removed his hat again and was staring at me with an expression as strange as his voice, his eyes fixed and intent as though they stared at things I could not see, brow wrinkled, nostrils expanded, chin more aggressive than usual.

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

"Absolutely, sir."

"Hum!" said my uncle, putting on his hat. "I'll trouble you for that sc.r.a.p of paper, Nephew. Thanks! Now let us go on. Your headache is better, I hope?"

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

"Thank you, no--there is nothing like the early morning, it fills one with a zest of life, the _joie de vivre_--though I will admit I am seldom abroad at this hour."

Now despite his light tone, I noticed two things, his eyes were still fixed and intent and a thin trickle of moisture gleamed beneath his hat brim.

"Poor child!" sighed my uncle. "Let us hope her bruised spirit has found rest, a surcease from all troubles. Let us hope she has found the Infinite Happiness if there be such in the Great Beyond.

Haredale--hum! Have you any recollection of this man, Perry; his looks, air, voice--could you describe him?"

"He was tall, sir, as yourself, or very nearly--looked younger than his years--a cold, imperturbable man, dark, but of pale complexion, with deep-set eyes that seemed to glow strangely. A man of iron will who fronted Lord Wyvelstoke unflinchingly even after his arm was shot and broken!" And here I described the incident as fully as possible.

"And what was the name Lord Wyvelstoke used?"

"Devereux, sir."

"Hum!" said my uncle. And thereafter we walked in silence through streets beginning to stir with the busy life of a new day.

Reaching my uncle's chambers in St. James's Street, he paused in the doorway to glance up and down the street with that same expression of fixed intensity, that faraway look of absorption.

"This," said he, speaking almost as with an effort, "this has been a--somewhat eventful walk of ours, Peregrine. I will not invite you to breakfast, remembering you have guests of your own. Au revoir."

"Uncle Jervas," said I, as we clasped hands, "this has indeed been an eventful walk, for to-day I have learned to know you better than I ever expected, or dared to hope--sir, are you ill?" I questioned anxiously, for despite that trickle of moisture at his temple, the hand I held felt deadly cold and nerveless. "Are you ill, sir?"

"Never better, Perry!" he laughed, clapping me lightly on the shoulder. "Get you to your guests. And by the by--talking of ghosts and grimly spectres--egad, Perry, I almost believe they do haunt this sorry world, sometimes!" So saying, he laughed, turned, and was gone, leaving me to stare after him in anxious wonderment.