Peregrine's Progress Part 93

"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 gra.s.s.

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. G.o.d bless you--both! And Peregrine--my dear lad--your gipsy--a strong--angel of G.o.d--Diana--" and with this word his n.o.ble spirit pa.s.sed.

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 G.o.d!" 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 G.o.d you are alive--Peregrine--speak to me! Ah--dear G.o.d 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 surrept.i.tiously 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 n.o.ble 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 s.p.a.ce--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 cas.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.surance that you do love him--the touch of your lips--"

"O Peregrine--oh, hush! Do you mean--" and my G.o.ddess-like aunt faltered and sat there, lovely eyes downcast, blushing like the merest girl.