A blusterous wind that fluttered the skirts of my long, caped coat, that filled the night with stir and tumult and flaws of sudden rain; a wind that whirled black masses of ragged cloud across a lowering heaven lit by a pallid moon that peeped stealthily and vanished, to peep again.
And glancing from desolate, wind-swept streets to flying cloud-wrack, I judged there was worse to come and knew a strange, unnatural joy therefore, as I bent my head to buffeting wind and reined the fiery animal I bestrode to less furious pace.
We crossed the river at London Bridge, a dark horror of moving waters swirling here and there in the ineffectual beam of lamp or lanthorn; on past gloomy streets and narrow courts where dim forms jostled, and ever and always the blusterous wind rioting 'twixt heaven and earth, booming in chimneys, moaning in dark corners, rattling windows, clapping-to crazy shutters and setting signboards a-swing on scolding hinges.
On and on through this ever-growing turbulence, while Wildfire tossed proud head, snorted defiance upon the elements, and bored eagerly upon the bit. But once the great city was behind us, I gave him his will and away we went headlong into the wind, the clatter of his galloping hoofs drowned in the universal uproar. But fast as he sped, the demon of doubt and suspicion and growing dread kept pace, and for once, riding Wildfire, I forgot Wildfire and all else save the hell within me.
A black-bodied chaise picked out in yellow!
And now came the rain to lash me and I bared my head the better to feel it. Before me in the swirling dark were twinkling lights lurching rapidly nearer, and down upon me loomed a stagecoach, a mountainous shape that flitted by me like a phantom. A phantom? The very night seemed peopled by phantoms; I sped past phantom wains and waggons, piled high with phantom loads, that moved with no sound of hoofs or wheels; spectral horsemen flitted by, soundless; in the shadow of hissing hedgerow and raving, wind-tossed trees crawled miserable, nebulous shapes, seen but to be lost again, swallowed in the howling murk.
Rushing wind and lashing rain; pale gleams of a fitful moon to show swaying trees that tossed wild arms to heaven, and a splashing quag below, mud and wind-swept pools, all lost again in the swirling dark. And buffeted thus, beaten by rain, smitten by unseen things, gasping in the wind's fierce gusts, my one thought was:
A black-bodied chaise with red wheels—Captain Danby!
How long I galloped at this wild and reckless pace I do not know, but little by little I became aware that the rain had ceased, the clouds were rent asunder and the moon looked down, pale and remote, upon a desolate countryside very ghostly and unreal and wholly unfamiliar. Before me was a winding road fringed with dripping, sombre trees and reining Wildfire to a standstill, I found that the wind had greatly abated its fury. But though the storm was over, the storm within me raged fierce as ever; therefore, heedless of where the morning found me, I spurred Wildfire forward and rode with slackened rein, leaving him to take me where he would.
A black-bodied chaise—What should bring Diana in company with such brutal satyr as Captain Danby?
Lost thus in agonising thought, I was riding with loosened rein and lax grip when Wildfire shied, swerved violently, throwing me from the saddle, and lying half-stunned, I heard him gallop away down the road.
For a while I lay there with no desire to move, but at last, summoning all my resolution, I scrambled weakly to my feet and endeavoured to follow, but after some while, wondered to see it so dark and found I was among trees that closed about me ever denser. Yet I struggled on, pushing my way haphazard through the undergrowth, being yet much shaken by my fall, until I came out into a narrow way lit by the moon; but scarcely was I here than I paused to lean against a tree, overcome by a sick faintness. And thus leaned I some while to recover my strength, and in my ears the dismal drip, drip of sodden trees and the mournful sighing of the wind in their branches, a sigh that rose every now and then to a low wailing, very dreadful to hear.
Now, all at once, I lifted my aching head, for, as my brain cleared, I knew that this wailing was not of the wind; thus I stood with breath in check waiting for it to come again. And suddenly I heard it, a low, murmurous cry, unutterably doleful.
"O God—O God—I want to be dead—I want to be dead!"
So I turned aside and, following the path, saw it ended at a frowning doorway set within a high and sinister wall; and recognising this door, this high wall and gloomy wood, I felt myself cold with that indefinable sense of impending evil which this desolate place had awoke in me before—
"O kind God—if I could only die!"
Going in among the trees I saw a shape of misery outstretched face-down upon the sodden earth, a shape that wrung pale hands and writhed in awful manner. Trembling, I sank on one knee beside her.
"Woman!" said I, laying hand lightly on her shoulder.
"Child!"
She raised a haggard face, its youthful beauty distorted by horror, its pallid cheeks stained with mire, and I blenched before the look in these wide eyes.
"Don't touch me!" she whispered hoarsely. "Don't look at me—I can't abide it—go away—let me die—"
"Child, where is your home?"
"None!" she whispered. "None! I durs'n't go back … now. Oh, never no more … they made me drunk … when I woke … ah, don't look at me … I wish the sun 'ud go out for ever … If I could only die!… I fought them as long as I could…. Oh, kill me, God…. I want to be dead … but I want Tom first … my Tom … I want him to know 't weren't … my fault. O Tom dear, Tom as I loved … how can I tell 'ee. O God, I want to be dead!"
"Come, child," said I gently. "Come with me, you shall be safe, sheltered for to-night, and in the morning Tom shall be found for you—"
"Ah, no, no!" she panted, shrinking from my touch. "You're a man too—let me die!"
"Poor girl, poor child," said I, "there is an inn near by and a good woman to comfort you, come, you shall be safe, I swear, and find your Tom—"
Despite her feeble struggles, I got her afoot and half-led, half-carried her along that tortuous path and so at last out of that evil wood. Afar, across the meadows, I spied the chimneys of the "Soaring Lark" and, though dawn was not broken, to my joyful wonder saw its hospitable windows aglow and the beam of a moving light in the yard.
How we accomplished the distance I do not know, but we reached the inn at last and beheld a lanthorn borne by a stalwart form.
"Who's yon?" demanded a gruff voice.
"George," I panted, "if that's you—bear a hand with this poor girl—quick, she's swooning—"
"Why, Mr. Vereker!" exclaimed George's astonished voice, and next moment the fainting girl was caught up in powerful arms and borne into the inn kitchen, I staggering after.
"Mary—Moll—O Mary, old woman!"
A patter of quick feet upon the stair and George's Mary came running, seeming as bonny and buxom as ever, despite her scantdeshabille, as she bent above the swooning girl.
"Poor maid—out i' the storm an' clemmed wi' cold an' 'unger, poor lass! Bring her upstairs—our warm bed, Jarge—an' then brandy, lad, an' the kettle on th' fire—up wi' you!"
Left alone, I filled the kettle from a bucket in a corner, and setting it upon the fire, drew up a chair and sat to dry my clothes and warm my shivering limbs, and presently, what with my weariness and the fire's comfort, began to nod. Opening unwilling eyes, I found George beside me, holding a steaming glass to my lips, and now felt myself deathly cold and shivering in every limb.
"Drink it, sir—hot rum an' a slice o' lemon—nought like it—drink it. Lord, Mr. Vereker, sir—'ere be a go sure-ly!" he exclaimed, smiling and nodding, as I sipped the fragrant beverage. "Awhile agone comes an 'orse into the yard, a-stampin' and a-neighin', so up I jumps and looks out o' winder. 'Lord, old woman,' I sez, 'yonder's Mr. Vereker's Wildfire,' I sez, 'I'd know 'im anywheers,' I sez; 'but what beats me,' I sez, 'there ain't Mr. Vereker.' So down I comes, rubs down the 'oss, takes the lanthorn an' is about to start lookin' for you when in you comes an' wi' you this poor lass—so wot I says now is, Lord, Mr. Vereker, sir, 'ere 's a go, sure-ly!"
"It is!" said I. "What of the girl, poor soul?"
"All right, Mr. Vereker, sir—she'm wi' my old woman, y' see, consequently she'll be right as ninepence in the morning, bless your 'eart, sir."
"I doubt it, George. You see, I found her—in the pine wood yonder, close beside that damnable gate in the wall."
"Did ye so, sir, did ye so?" said he in altered voice. Then, clenching his brawny fists, he raised frowning eyes to a bayonet above the mantel, a long, deadly-looking thing that glittered with constant cleaning. "Ah, by God!" he growled fiercely, "by God, Mr. Vereker, sir—there's them as I'd like t' have wrigglin' their beastly lives out on the end o' my old bagnet—"
"Hot water, Jarge!" commanded the buxom Mary from the stairs.
"Comin', old woman—comin'! Get a nap, Mr. Vereker, sir; your wet clo'es won't hurt 'ee now—I've slep' in wetter many a time in the Peninsula—nothin' like rum took 'ot an' plenty on 't sir. Comin,' old woman—comin'!" and whisking the heavy kettle from the fire, he nodded and hurried up the stair.
Either George was of different fibre to me, or the rum had been neither hot enough nor sufficiently strong, for on awaking I found myself full of pain, the least movement an agony, my head throbbing woefully and I burning with fever.
George looked at me and, shaking his head, hurried for his wife, who, having taken my pulse and felt my brow, clucked over me like a distressed and motherly hen and ordered me immediately to bed, whither, after some argument and faint reluctance on my part, I was promptly conducted by the indefatigable George, and where, having been duly physicked by his Mary, I sank to a restless slumber. And now ensued a dim period of troubled dreams and horrible nightmares.
I awoke to find my chamber full of the glow of evening; through the open lattice breathed an air sweet with a perfume of flowers; borne to my drowsy hearing stole a mingling of soothing, homely sounds, the snort of a horse from the stable, the clucking of hens, the faint rattle of a pail, to all of which peaceful sounds I hearkened in lazy content and with no desire to move. Vaguely, at the back of my mind, was a memory of some trouble now forgotten, nor did I seek to remember, content to stare out upon this summer evening; nor did I trouble to move even at the opening of the door and thus presently was aware of Anthony bending over me.
"Why, Perry, are you awake at last? How are you, old fellow?"
"Very well, Anthony," I answered, vaguely surprised to hear my voice so far off, as it were. "Very comfortable, Tony, only—a little weary—"
"And no wonder, Perry, here you've lain raving all last night and most of to-day."
"Raving, Tony?"
"Aye—all about some damned postchaise or other with red wheels."
"Postchaise?" said I, wondering. "Postchaise? How long have I lain here?"
"This will be the fourth day, Peregrine."
"Four days!" said I. "Impossible!"
"I rode down yesterday on the off-chance of finding you here—and here you were, begad, raging in fever and cursing and swearing very creditably, 'pon my soul! And all George could do to hold you down—"
"I'm better now, Anthony—get up to-morrow—"
"For which God be thanked!" said he fervently, and seating himself upon the bed, he grasped my hand. "Peregrine," said he solemnly, "you have honoured me with your friendship and as your friend I make bold to offer you a friend's advice,—in heaven's name, old fellow, be more discreet!"
"In what particular, Anthony?"
"There is but one, Perry—only one, dear fellow, and spelt with five letters—woman."
"You grow cryptic, Anthony."
"My dear Perry," said he, beginning to fidget with his stock, "my very dear fellow, as may be supposed, your extraordinary sudden and perfectly inexplicable flight from Wyvelstoke's reception and disappearance has caused no small consternation, and, to one person in particular, very much grief and anxiety. Under these distressing circumstances, I, as your friend, sought an answer to the riddle, the—the reason for your—very mysterious disappearance, and naturally arrive at the conclusion that it is a case of—er—cherchez la femme, Perry—"
"The devil you did!" exclaimed I.
"I haunted all the clubs, Perry, and with your uncles made discreet enquiry for you in every likely and unlikely quarter—yesterday, as a last possibility, I rode down here and learned from George how you came staggering in at dawn, plastered with mud, wet to the skin and accompanied by the lady who, I may inform you, had the good judgment to disappear as soon as possible—"
"The lady," said I, trembling and indignant, "was a poor distracted creature I found on my way—"
"Precisely, dear fellow! So here am I to lend you such assistance in the matter as a friend may. No reason to worry yourself, only in heaven's name be a little discreet, Perry—discretion's the word,"
"Discretion be damned!"
"Precisely, old fellow! And now only mention how I may assist you in this unfortunate situation?"
"By listening to me!"
"Ears wide open, Perry."
So I told him briefly of the storm, how, dazed and shaken after being thrown by Wildfire, I wandered into the wood and came upon the poor, distracted girl and brought her back with me to the "Soaring Lark." To all of which he listened, tap-tapping softly with his foot.
"Ha—outside that accursed house!" he exclaimed, when I had done. "The place should be burned down!" And then in a different tone, glancing at me somewhat askance, "But then, Perry—egad—don't ye see this does not explain your abrupt departure from the reception and flight from London—now does it?"
"Not in the least, Anthony. Nor can I offer any explanation."
Here Anthony pursed his lips to a soundless whistle and began his soft tap-tapping again.
"Diana was—deeply hurt," said he at last. "Every hour she is grieving for you—breaking her heart, Perry—as we sit here."
"For God's sake, Anthony," I cried passionately, "keep your feet still!"
"Eh? Oh, begad, forgive me, Perry! Consequently, she will be overjoyed to learn you are here safe. She will post down to you as fast as horses can bring her—"
"Need she know, Anthony?" At this he turned with a kind of leap and glanced at me with a startled expression.
"Lord, man—you are really ill!" he exclaimed.
"Ill or no, Anthony, if you are truly my friend and value my friendship, promise me—swear to me she shall not come near me!"
"Egad, Peregrine, you are damned ill!"
"Promise—promise! Swear me this, Anthony!" cried I, starting up in bed to grasp at him with eager hands. And then came Mary, running, to clasp me in eager arms and lay me back among the pillows.
"Mr. Anthony!" she cried. "Oh, Mr. Anthony, didn't I warn 'ee not to excite 'im then—oh, Mr. Anthony!"
Lying thus helpless, I felt myself shaken as by an ague fit, saw Anthony staring down at me fearful-eyed ere he crept from the room, felt an arm beneath my head, a cup at my lips and, drinking thirstily, lay awhile staring up at the ceiling, where red wheels seemed to spin through the mist of a gossamer veil spangled with gold stars.
It lay curling across my pillow close to my eyes, stirring gently as if endowed with life, a delicate, shimmering filament, never quite at rest, that glowed where the light caught it, and I watched it drowsily until, hearing a stealthy sound, I glanced up to behold my uncle George standing beside the bed.
"Why, Peregrine," said he softly, his handsome face unwontedly grave, "how are you, dear lad?"
"Thank you—I am greatly better and here is a hair on the pillow, Uncle George! This is neither your hair nor mine, and Mrs. Mary's is brown, as I remember. So whose hair is this, Uncle George?"
"Hair?" he repeated, fumbling with his whisker. "I don't see any hair,Perry."
"Here on my pillow, Uncle."
"Well, what of it, lad. Your Aunt Julia's, perhaps—"
"Hers is black. And this is—not black, you'll notice, sir, and—very long."
"Why, so 't is! But if it distresses you—there, away with it!"
"But whose is it?" I persisted.
"Lord, Perry, how should I know—why worry about such a trifle. Compose yourself, dear lad. I'll have 'em wake Julia, she was up with you all night—egad, she'll be overjoyed to see you so much better—"
"Pray no—don't disturb her. Have I been here long?"
"Nine days, Peregrine—touch and go—knocking at death's door, boy—and raving like any madman."
"What—what about, sir?" I questioned, beginning to tremble.
"A lot o' wild nonsense, Perry—"
"What, sir—what?" I demanded.
"There, there, lad—don't distress yourself. 'T was nothing to signify—mere sick fancies."
"Fancies concerning what, Uncle George?"
"Well, something about red wheels and a drowned woman in a wood, a wall, and a door, and suchlike idle stuff. Y' see, Perry, not content with getting yourself wet through, you must let that brute of a horse o' yours throw you on to your head; doctors say 't is a marvel you're alive, and begad, Perry lad, 'tis our firm belief, Jervas and mine, that you'd ha' died if it hadn't been for your wonderful aunt and Diana—watched over you like the angels they are—saved your life betwixt 'em—"
The room seemed to go suddenly black and from the awful darkness my uncle babbled cheerily, while I, smitten by a nauseous faintness, strove to speak yet could not.
"Uncle George," said I at last, "is—is she here—now?"
"Who, Diana? No, lad. But be patient, she's only out riding with Barbara—was with you here all day, she'll be back soon—be patient, she's never long away from you these days, b'gad—"
"No!" cried I, shuddering, "no! Don't let her come near me—don't let her touch me—send her away or I shall die!"
"Good God!" ejaculated my uncle George, glancing about helplessly."He's off again—this cursed fever—must call Julia."
"Don't!" said I, reaching out a feeble hand in supplication. "This is—not fever, sir. This is my conscious self imploring you to keep her away from me, or I shall truly die—or run mad—"
"O Peregrine—O Peregrine," he stammered, in choking voice, "this can't be you—to say such things—so cruel—this is your old delirium—you are raving again—you must be—"
"Before God, sir, speaking in all sanity, I beg and implore that you will—keep her from me."
"Oh, damnation—this is awful!" exclaimed my uncle, his handsome face looking strangely haggard. "Day and night in your delirium you have lain cursing Diana and with Diana's hand upon your brow and Diana's tears wetting your pillow—and now—O Peregrine, lad, tell me you don't mean it—that you are a little fevered, yes—yes, people at such times often turn against those they most love—will kill Diana else—"
"Or she me, sir—so keep her away—don't let her touch me—I'll not see her, I say—I'll not, by God—I'll not—"
"Hush—hush! Don't scream, lad, don't scream!"
He was on his knees, had clasped my trembling weakness in his great arms and was soothing me, and I weeping for my very impotence, when the door opened and Aunt Julia appeared.
"Dear Heaven!" she cried, bending above me. "What have you done,George? What have you done to him?"
"O Aunt!" I cried. "Dear Aunt Julia, don't let her touch me again—don't let her come near me or I shall go mad—"
"No, no, my loved Perry, no one shall tend you but myself—there, dear boy, be comforted! O George, don't stand gaping—give me the draught yonder—quick!"
"Promise me, Aunt—swear she shall not approach me again!
"I swear it, dear Peregrine. Come, drink—"
My uncle Jervas helped me carefully to the armchair by the open lattice and thereafter stood looking down at me with a certain bleak austerity of gaze.
"And you still refuse to hold any communication with her, Peregrine?"
"I do, sir."
"Or to afford her the least explanation, notwithstanding her devouring grief and distress?"
"Sir—I cannot," I answered, and shivered slightly.
"Do you feel the air too much, Peregrine?"
"Thank you, no, sir. But the topic naturally distresses me!"
"Strange," said my uncle Jervas musingly, "very strange that I should be pleading your gipsy's suit and find you so coldly, mercilessly determined to make that pleading vain! You are as stubborn as a Vereker and I think a trifle more merciless. Doubtless the reasons for your so sudden change are sufficient unto yourself, but to your friends they are profoundly incomprehensible, nor would I seek to probe the mystery; you are your own master and judge, and Diana is rich, has London at her feet, and may wed whomsoever she will, and small wonder! Indeed, with one exception, she is the most bewilderingly attractive and altogether beautiful woman I have ever had the happiness to know. So here's an end of the matter, once and for all. It is a painful topic, as you say; let us talk of other things—yourself, for instance. You will be up and about again soon, what do you propose to do with yourself, Peregrine? Now there is your friend Vere-Manville playing the devil about town—has not been entirely sober for a fortnight, I hear—I saw him myself, twice, very blatantly drunk—"
"Indeed, sir, uncle George mentioned something of this yesterday, though such conduct in Anthony is quite incomprehensible."
"Not content with this, the young fool is gambling desperately, haunts all the noted hells—I heard he dropped over a thousand recently in a few hours; his recklessness is becoming a byword."
"Good heavens, Uncle! Is he mad?"
"That you may ask him personally. I understand he intends honouring you with a visit this afternoon. He should be here shortly, unless he happens to be drunk. You are his friend, Peregrine; talk to him as such, endeavour to stem the tide of his folly, if only for his young wife's sake. Curb his madness if you can, it should be an occupation for your leisure not without interest."
Thus we conversed at large and upon many topics but spoke no further regarding her of whom we both were thinking; and thus, I believe, we were both of us a little relieved to hear a distant "view hallo."
"There rides your friend Vere-Manville, I think, Peregrine, and evidently a trifle hilarious!"
A trampling of hoofs in the paved yard below, and glancing from the window I espied Anthony sure enough, who, leaping from the saddle, reeled violently and clutched at the stalwart George to save himself.
"Aha!" he exclaimed, "seems something's matter wi' old mother earth, George—heaving damnably—up and down, George—unless it's my legs. Where's door, George? Aye, there 'tis. Seems dooced small—unless it's my eyes, George—ha ha!" So he blundered in and heavily up the stair, and after knocking thunderously, entered. At sight of my uncle Jervas, he halted, drew himself very erect and bowed profoundly and with a flourish, and when he spoke his speech was so thick that I dreaded lest he hiccough:
"Your servant, S' Jervas! Hope I see y' well, sir?"
My uncle's bow was extremely stately and distant.
"Peregrine," said he, "seeing you have—enlivening company, I will take occasion to go and meet your aunt Julia. Mr. Vere-Manville, I would venture to impress upon you that my nephew is still very much of an invalid." So saying, my uncle saluted us in turn with his grandest air and went out, closing the door behind him.
"Thinks I'm drunk, does he!" exclaimed Anthony, scowling after him. "Well, what the devil—so I am, damned d-drunk and so much the better—"
"So much the worse, Anthony!"
"Tush, you talk like a fool, Perry; better be drunk and forget than be sober and a s-suicide—felo—felo-de-se, buried at cross road—stake through your inside—devilish unpleasant business—"
"You talk like a madman, Anthony."
"And you like a f-fool, Perry! Here's you come back t' life like a fool, instead o' dying comfortably and respectably like—wise man. Here's you hoping and yearning to marry and that's the damndest folly of all. Much better be comfortably dead—"
"For shame, Anthony—for shame!" cried I angrily. "If you have so lost respect for yourself—at least think of and respect your wife—"
"Wife!" he exclaimed. "My wife!" and springing up out of the chair I saw him tower above me, clenched hands upflung, his comely features distorted and horribly suffused; then he lurched to the window and leaned, choking, from the lattice. Suddenly his bowed shoulders began to heave, and I heard him laugh in dreadful manner and when he turned his look was demoniac.
"Egad, but you will have your joke, eh, Perry, and devilish funny—aye, devilish! My wife, says you—ha! ha! says I. You're drunk, says you—I am, says I—so I can laugh, d'ye see—"
"Anthony!" I cried, rising from my chair. "O Anthony, here's more than drink—dear fellow, in God's name, what is it?" And I grasped at him with weak but insistent hands.
For a moment he made as if to throw me off, then his long arm was about me, his head bowed upon my shoulder, and when he spoke his voice had lost its wild, mad ring.
"D'ye think I like getting drunk, Perry? But there are worse things—madness and murder. A bullet would be quick, but I still have hope—sometimes—and death by drink is a slow business, so I've chosen death by drink—"
"Why, Tony? What is the trouble? Is it—Barbara—your Loveliness?"
"She has never been the same since she came back from abroad, Perry. Some secret trouble—all these weeks it has been getting worse—she has sometimes seemed afraid of me—of me, Perry! At last I taxed her with it—begged she'd confide in me. She told me there was nothing, laughed it off and I believed it, like a fool—but that night, Perry—that night, as she slept—and looking pure and holy as one of God's angels, she—cried on a name—a man's name. I woke her—questioned her, begged, implored, commanded—and still she laughed, but always with the fear in her eyes. And I know she lied! Then I took to watching her and she me—and so it went on until—there were times when I could have struck her—choked the truth out of her—O Perry! So I left her—went to London. Oh damnation, d'ye wonder I drink? Better drink myself to the devil than harm her—though drink will take a long time to kill me, I'm afraid—"
"Drink never shall, Tony! There, sit down, old fellow, calm yourself, for by heaven I think you are making much out of little—"
"Why did she lie to me?"
"Are you sure she did?"
"Certain!"
"What do you propose to do?"
"Go back to London."
"Then I will accompany you."
"Impossible; you're weak as a confounded rabbit!"
"I'm stronger than I look; I've walked regularly in the garden these last three days. However, if you go to London, I go too."
"Well, and if so—what could you do?"
"Remind you that a gentleman must endure unflinchingly and suffer with unshaken fortitude."
"Ha, would you preach at me?"
"Day and night, if necessary."
"Would you, begad!"
"I would! Indeed I would make myself a pestilential nuisance to help my friend."
"Friend!" he repeated. "Oh, curse and confound it, Perry, if I wasn't such a miserable, hopeless dog, I should be proud of such friendship—I am proud of it and always shall be—but here our companionship ends. There's but one course for me, and I intend to ride to the devil—alone!"
It was at this moment that the door opened and I rose to my feet, trembling, as Diana stepped into the room. She was clad for riding and her close-fitting habit served only to accentuate the voluptuous beauty of her form, yet her eyes seemed maidenly and untroubled, wide-opened and serenely steadfast as of old, and this of itself stirred within me a sullen resentment as she stood looking at me, a little pale, very wistful, yet radiant in her beauty; and when she spoke her voice was untroubled as her look.
"Mr. Vere-Manville, I beg you will leave us awhile!"
Even as she spoke, Anthony bowed, strode to the door and was gone before I could stay him.
"Peregrine?"
One word, softly uttered, yet in it a world of pleading—reproach and troubled wonderment, insomuch that, remembering that accursed black-bodied chaise, the ring and gossamer veil, my sullen resentment waxed to bitter anger, the whole thing seemed so utterly nauseous.
Evening was falling and from one of the trees in the orchard a blackbird was calling to his mate, soft and sweetly plaintive, and never, to the end of my days, may I hear such without recalling all the agony of this hour.
We stood very silent, looking upon each other, while the blackbird piped in the orchard below; and now I trembled no more, for my anger was passed and in its stead was a cold and purposeful determination.
"Are you better, Peregrine?" she questioned at last. "More yourself?"
"Thank you, yes."
When next she spoke her voice faltered a little, though her glance never wavered.
"Peregrine, why—why did you—drive me away? Why refuse to see me?"
"To avoid a painful scene."
"But what should cause a painful scene—between us, Peregrine? Oh, my dear, what is it—what has changed you? Is it your illness?"
"Let us suppose so."
"Have you no—no other explanation to offer me?" she questioned wistfully and stood waiting my answer, drawing her riding gauntlet a little nervously through her ungloved hand, on the slender finger of which I saw the scarabaeus ring. "Is there, O Peregrine, is there no other explanation?"
"None!" said I savagely, my eyes on that accursed ring. "None!"
"Peregrine—dear," she questioned humbly, "have you learned to—to love one more—more worthy than I in my absence?"
"God forbid!" I answered. "Love has become for me a thing abhorred and utterly detestable."
"Then God help me," said she in strange, passionless voice, "for without your love I shall be desolate!"
"But you are so beautiful—so very beautiful you will never lack for comfort, you could find scores of noble suitors to-morrow eager and willing. So why talk of desolation?"
Now at this she shrank a little, staring at me with a dawning horror in her eyes.
"Peregrine," she whispered, "O Peregrine, can this indeed be you? My loved Peregrine, my gentleman that was so chivalrous and gentle once, and now to hurt me so wilfully—so bitterly!"
"I am two years older, and—a little wiser, perhaps."
"Two years!" she repeated dully. "Two years I should never have left you—it was wrong! And yet—can two years work so great a change in any one? Ah, no, no—this cannot be you—so cold—so hard and cruel! Oh, if we might but have those two years back again when you were your own dear self and I your loving gipsy girl with no ambition but to be worthy of—just you! O Peregrine, is your love for me truly dead—so soon?"
As thus she spoke, all pleading, passionate entreaty, she came towards me with both arms outstretched, her eyes abrim with tears; but, frowning at her ungloved hand, I started back so hurriedly that she stopped and looked at me as if I had struck her; then she shrank away, her proud head drooped, her arms fell and she covered her face. "Then it is true!" she gasped, "all—dreadfully true." And upon the silence stole the sweetly plaintive notes of the blackbird calling, calling from the orchard below.
And as she stood thus, bowed and shaken with her grief, I kept my gaze ever upon that betraying scarabaeus ring. Suddenly she raised her head and I saw her tearless but very pale.
"Yes, you are changed," said she, in that strange, passionless tone, "quite changed; your eyes are cold, your face cruel and hard and yet—O dear God!" she cried, "O dear God, I cannot believe your love is truly dead—how can I? O dear, dear Peregrine, tell me you do love me still—if only just a little—oh, be merciful, dear—!"
And now indeed she was weeping but, blinded by her tears, choked by her sobs, she yet reached out her arms to me in mute appeal; and it seemed that somehow her tears were blinding me also, her passionate sobs shaking me, for I stood in a mist, groping for the support of my chair-back; indistinctly I heard a voice speak that I knew was mine.
"So you still wear the scarab ring—I've seen it before. But where is your veil with the gold stars? I did love you once—worshipped—reverenced your maidenly purity—your brave truthfulness but—that love is dead—crushed—crushed beneath red wheels, and I would to God I were dead with it. No—if you please, don't touch me—by your leave I will sit—and beg you to excuse me. I—would be alone."
"Ah, Peregrine—beloved, you are crying too!"
"Indeed yes. I grieve that I am not dead."
"But why—why would you be dead, my own?"
"Because—O Diana—I cannot help but—love you after all. And now, pray go—I beseech you, leave me ere the devil break loose and I speak the unforgivable thing … Go, I entreat!"
With some such hysterical words as these and blinded by a gush of weak, unmanly tears, I sent her from me, unheeding alike her piteous entreaties and the clasp of her imploring hands. When she was gone I sank into my chair and suffered my tears to flow unchecked, while the blackbird voiced the agony of loss and disillusionment.
Your Heroes of Romance from time immemorial have generally been large men, more or less handsome, superlatively strong, void of all fear, stalwart of body and steadfast of mind; moreover, being singled out by a hard fate to endure much and often, they suffer, unflinchingly and uncomplainingly, to extremity, like the heroes they are. To be sure, under great stress of mental or even bodily anguish, they are sometimes allowed to sigh, to tremble, or even emit an occasional groan, but tears, it seems, are a weakness forbidden them.
All of which foregoing is to lend additional point to the fact that in my last chapter I leave myself huddled miserably in my chair and dissolved in bitter tears; which of itself should sufficiently preclude the remotest possibility of my reader ever mistaking me for a hero, even if Nature had not done this already.
Behold me then, a high-strung, delicate, hysterical youth, weeping in an agony of shameful horror evoked of a perfervid imagination.
O Imagination! Whoso is possessed of thee is cursed or blessed by a fearful magic whereby the misty vision becomes real, unworthy suspicion changed to hateful certainty, the vague idea into a living horror to haunt us day and night until sweet Reason shrinks appalled; by imagination we may scale the heights of heaven or plumb the foulest deeps of hell.
So I, being not in the least like a Hero of Romance, wept miserably, staring through tears upon a countryside bathed in the glory of sunset; but to my jaundiced vision this radiance but made my circumambient shadow the blacker by contrast, a mephitic gloom wherein a chaise with red wheels bore Diana to her "slave and master"—a master whose power was such that he could force her, willing or unwilling, to obey his summons—his every behest … horror on horror … shame on shame, until my mind reeled sick with loathing.
And she who had driven with the profligate Danby to God alone knew what infamy—even she would return to act for me her part of sorrowing wonder—to weep and sigh. Oh, shameful hypocrisy! And with her would be my aunt and uncles to wonder also and shake grave heads over me, torturing me with their love while in my consciousness gnawed this undying horror that, like a demon raged within me, passioning for utterance, insomuch that day or night I had dreaded lest I babble the obscenities that haunted me. Better to die than speak! A bullet would be quick, as Anthony had said—and I had no fire arms! But I remembered that in the kitchen downstairs I had seen a pistol hung up in a dark corner and above the mantel hung George's bayonet, at whose keen point lay silence and oblivion; and this thought had in it a degree of comfort as I sat crouched in my chair, half-blinded by my unheroic tears.
The sun had set, the blackbird had ended his song, for evening was falling apace; against the glimmering dusk bats wheeled and hovered, and as the shadows deepened I watched the stars shine forth, while low down in the darkening sky was an effulgence that marked the rising moon.
Suddenly I arose, moved by a dominating purpose, kicked off my slippers, struggled into my boots and, taking surtout and hat, strode resolutely downstairs; by good hap there chanced to be nobody in the kitchen and, crossing to a certain corner, I took from the wall a small but serviceable-looking pistol, and having assured myself that it was primed and loaded, I slipped it into my pocket and stepped out into the fragrant dusk.
But as I crossed the yard, George suddenly emerged from the stables.
"Lord, Mr. Vereker, sir!" he exclaimed, touching an eyebrow.
"Any one about, George?"
"Nary a soul, sir—'cept me an' my little old woman. But 'bout a hour ago Mr. Anthony's lady rides up, all a-tremblin' an' pale—an' no wonder, poor soul, seein' Mr. Anthony galloped off lookin' like a devil an' a bottle o' my brandy in 'is pocket!"
"Had Mrs. Vere-Manville come to find him, George?"
"No, sir! He'd been gone a good 'arf-hour afore she came. 'O George,' says she, all a-gaspin' like, 'is Miss Lovel 'ere?' 'Upstairs along o' Mr. Vereker, ma'm,' I says. 'Oh, I must see her—I must see her!' cries she, a-shakin' wuss'n ever, so that I was afeard she'd fall off 'er 'oss an' 'im that gentle! 'Can I 'elp you ma'm?' says I. 'No!' says she, moanin' an' breathless-like. 'Oh, no, George—nobody can, O God, 'elp me, God 'elp me!' An' then, sir, down comes Miss Lovel an' runs to 'er. 'Why, Babs!' says she, anxious-like. 'Oh, what is it, dearest?' At this, Mr. Anthony's lady begins to sob—'eart-breakin', sir! 'O Di,' says she, all wildlike, 'O Di dear, 'e wants me! 'E says I must go—to-night—an' I'm afraid.' So Miss Lovel, she kisses 'er an' they whisper together. Then Miss Lovel calls for 'er 'oss, an' away they ride very close together, an' Miss L.'s arm about 'er. Lord, sir, who'd a thought it o' Mr. Anthony? So wild an' fierce-like 'e were—enough to fright any woman, 'specially such a beautiful, gentle creetur' as 'is wife! Drink 's a fearsome thing!"
"True, George. But Mr. Anthony would die rather than harm her, I am sure."
"Maybe, sir—but 'e looked 'orrible wild an' fierce when 'e rode off—an' drink du be a tur'ble thing."
"Now—touching a chaise, George—"
"Chaise, sir?"
"A black chaise picked out in yellow, with red wheels. You have seen such drive up to Raydon Manor, yonder, you told me once, I think?"
"I did, sir, an' I 'ave—frequent! It do have drove up theer this very evening. But Lord, Mr. Vereker, be you a thinkin' o' walkin' out—an' night comin' on?"
"I am, George."
"'T will be dark soon, sir. And you 'ardly yourself, yet!"
"No, George, there will be a moon."
"But, sir, wot am I to tell your lady aunt?"
"That I have taken a walk in quest of my health—and sanity, George."
"Be you a-goin' fur, sir?"
"No further than I need."
"Then I think I'll go along wi' you, sir."
"No, George, I may be back before the moon is up. At least—no, it will be high-risen when I return, most likely. Only pray assure my aunt that I am doing the very best for myself." So saying, I left the faithful George staring after me and shaking dubious head.
I walked at a leisurely pace, deliberating how best to contrive the desperate task I had set myself to accomplish, how best to bring it to a final and certain issue.
And presently up came the moon in glory and I stared up at her as one does who may behold her perhaps for the last time. Calm and serene she arose, and as I walked amid this tender light, I seemed to breathe in something of her passionless serenity and knew a strange exaltation of mind, placid and untroubled. Gone were my fever dreams, the foul horrors that had haunted me, and my obscene demons were vanished utterly away and with them, as it seemed, the inertia of my late sickness.
To die, and in so doing take evil with me, leaving the world so much the better? To die, and perhaps find for myself that oblivion, that untroubled rest that I so earnestly desired? Surely Death, after all, was the Great Good Thing? So I walked on at leisurely pace, serene, assured and utterly content.
Reaching the high road, I followed it until I espied a rutted byway bounded on the one hand by lofty trees and on the other by a high and sinister wall. At the same leisurely pace I strolled down this dark lane and thus arrived at a pair of tall and very massive iron gates.
Here I paused, and though the adjacent trees cast much shadow, presently discovered a bell handle to which I applied myself forthwith.
After some delay the door of the lodge opened and a figure appeared, though strangely vague and indistinct and then, peering at me through the bars of the gate, I saw a gigantic negro, his skin as black as his livery.
"Is your master in?" I demanded.
"Who yo' mean—mah master?" he replied in surly tone.
"I wish to see Mr. Haredale or Captain Danby."
"No sich names hyah!"
"Well then, I want Mr. Trenchard."
"Who's yo' se'f to see Mas'r Trenchard?"
"I am an—acquaintance of his."
"Well, ah don' know yo' face, so ah guess dey's bof' out fo' you an' so's yo'se'f—an' can stay out, fo' shure." Having said which, the negro laughed shrilly, and I saw the flash of his teeth ere he departed.
Balked thus but determined as ever, I turned away and began to follow the wall, looking for a place where I might climb it by means of some tree or rise in the ground. And with every step the sudden conviction I had formed that Trenchard was Haredale grew stronger; and Haredale, as I knew, was but another name for that evil rogue whose name had once been Devereux.
I went slowly, scanning every yard of the wall for a likely place, now in brilliant moonlight, now in shadow, while stronger and stronger waxed my determination that, supposing Trenchard were Devereux indeed, I would this night rid the world of him once and for all.
Presently, as I went, resolutely seeking a way to come at my desire, I found myself stumbling amid the dense gloom of tall trees; but I pushed on until before me, the moon being now high-risen, I saw the blackness cleft by a shaft of radiance and, coming nearer, stopped all at once to scowl at a small door in the wall that seemed to scowl back at me between deep buttresses.
Now suddenly, as I stood thus, I heard a sound of steps and voices on the other side of the wall, a key was thrust into the lock of this door, and instinctively I shrank back and back into the gloom of the trees; I heard the key turn, the drawing of heavy bolts, and then, as I crouched, hand upon the weapon in my pocket, the door opened.
And now at last I knew why this door had haunted my dreams, a thing of unutterable evil for, from beneath its frowning shadow, out into the moonlight, stepped Diana.
She was shrouded in a long, hooded cloak, but my sickened senses knew her even before she put back the hood to glance stealthily about her, like the shameful, guilty thing she was. Suddenly she shrank, cowering, as upon the air broke a strange, inarticulate cry that I knew for my own; an unseen hand plucked her back, the door closed, was locked and swiftly bolted, and I heard the sound of running feet.
And now, all too late, I sprang to smite this accursed door with maddened fists, to beat it with pistol butt and utter incoherent shouts and ravings. All at once my arm was in a powerful grip, the pistol twisted out of my hold and I glared up into the face of Anthony. His hat was gone, he swayed gently on his feet, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse and indistinct.
"What's t' do, old fellow—dev'lish din you're making—most infernal. Won't they open th' curst door t' ye then, Perry? Well—never mind—take a pull at this—nothing like brandy—"
From capacious pocket he drew forth a bottle and held it towards me, which I forthwith dashed against the wall.
"And now," said I, "give me the pistol!"
"What for?" he demanded, sobered a little.
"Because I purpose to shoot him."
"Who, Perry?"
"Trenchard or Haredale or Devereux or whatever he calls himself. Come, give me the pistol. To-night I make an end of him and his deviltries once and for all."
For a moment Anthony blinked at me in foolish amaze.
"Why, Perry—why, Perry!" he exclaimed. "B'gad, can this be you indeed?" And then, as if quite sobered by what he read in my face, he fell back a step, brushed hand across his eyes, peered at me again, and his slouching figure grew erect and purposeful.
"Give me that pistol!" I repeated.
"No, Peregrine!" said he, his voice sharp and incisive. "Killing is murder, and I am your friend. But if you wish to fight a fellow, or say twenty fellows, b'gad, I'm with you! The more the merrier—so speak the word!"
"Yes!" said I. "Yes, I'll fight, but kill him I will—it almost seems preordained that I should kill him from the beginning—"
"And whom did you say he was, Perry?"
"Trenchard he calls himself hereabouts—the damnable villain who lives here at Raydon Manor."
"A duel!" quoth Anthony, smiling grimly. "If you fight, Perry, I fight; b' God, I'll find somebody to accommodate me one way or another—a duel, oh, most excellent! Ha, dooce take me, but you're right, Perry, I never thought o' this. Oh, damme, the very thing—I'm with you heart and soul, dear fellow, so come on."
So saying, he ran at the wall and, leaping with long arms at full stretch, gripped the coping with iron fingers, drew himself up and reaching long arm down, had swung me up beside him, all in a moment.
"Ha, Perry!" he exclaimed, as we prepared to drop into the garden below, "I'm a curst, dull-witted ass—here have I been sedulously guzzling ale, rum, brandy and dooce knows how many kinds of wine, and what I really needed was blood, d'ye see? Blood, old fellow, no matter whose. And, begad, blood we'll have to-night, Perry, or know the reason why. Come on, old fellow, both together—now!"
Down he leapt and down I scrambled, and side by side we advanced towards the house that held for me all the nauseous evil and unspeakable shame of all the world.