I had been ringing ineffectually at the bell of my chambers for perhaps five minutes and was about to visit the adjacent mews in quest of my groom, when a voice spoke my name, and turning about, I beheld Mr. Shrig, the Bow Street officer.
"Mr. Werricker, sir," said he, touching his low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat with a thick forefinger, "it ain't no manner o' use you a-ringin' o' that theer bell, because there ain't nobody to answer same, your young man Clegg 'aving took a little 'oliday, d'ye see, sir."
"A holiday, Mr. Shrig! Pray how do you know?"
"By obserwation, sir. I've a powerful gift that way, sir—from a infant."
"This is very extraordinary behaviour in Clegg!"
"But then, sir, your young man is a rayther extraordinary young man. 'Owsoever he's gone, sir, and I appre'end as he ain't a-comin' back—judgin' by vat 'e says in 'is letter."
"What letter?"
"The letter as 'e's left for you a-layin' on your desk this werry minute along o' my stick as I 'appened to forget—but you'll be vantin' to gain hadmittance, I expect, sir."
"I do."
"Vy then, 't is rayther fortunate as I did forget my stick or I shouldn't ha' come back for it in time to be o' service to you, Mr. Werricker. By your leave, sir." Saying which, Mr. Shrig took a small, neat implement from one of his many capacious pockets, inserted it into the keyhole, gave it a twist, and the door swung open.
"Ah—a skeleton key, Mr. Shrig?"
"That werry i-dentical, sir."
"Is this how you gained admittance to my chambers?"
"Ex-actly, sir."
"And, being there, read my private letters?"
"Only the vun, sir—dooty is dooty—only the vun. And I've a varrant o' search—"
Entering my small library, I espied Mr. Shrig's knobbed staff lying upon my desk and beside it a letter laid carefully apart from a pile of unopened missives.
"Is this the letter?"
"The werry same, sir."
"But if you have read it, how comes the seal unbroken?"
"By means of a warm knife-blade, sir."
Wondering, I opened the letter and read as follows:
SIR: I regret that I am forced by circumstances to quit your service at a moment's notice, but trust you will find all in order as regards tradesmen's accounts, your clothes, linen, napery, etc. The key of the silver you will find under the hearthrug.
Hoping you will find one as zealous as the unfortunate writer,
I remain, sir,Yours respectfully,THOMAS CLEGG.
"Very strange!" said I.
"Ah!" sighed Mr. Shrig. "But then life generally is, Mr. Werricker, sir, if you'll take the trouble to ob-serve; so strange that I ain't never surprised at nothing—nowhere and nohow, sir. For instance, if you a-peepin' from the garret winder o' the 'ouse opposite—yonder across the street—'ad 'appened to ob-serve a young fe-male on her knees—here beside your werry own desk and veepin' fit to break 'er 'eart, pore soul—you'd ha' been surprised, I think—but I wasn't, no, not nohow—"
"Do you mean you actually saw a woman here—here in my chambers?"
"Aye, I did, sir!"
"Who—who was she?"
"A wictim o' wiciousness, sir."
"What in the world do you mean? Who was she?"
"Well, d'ye 'appen to know a young woman name of Nancy Price, sir?"
"No!"
"And yet you've 'ad same in your arms, Mr. Werricker, sir."
"What the devil are you suggesting?" I demanded angrily.
"I suggest as you found same young woman in a vood at midnight and carried 'er to a inn called the 'Soaring Lark.'"
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "That unfortunate creature?"
"That werry same i-dentical, sir—a wictim o' wiciousness as your late lamented uncle, Sir Jervas, God bless 'im—amen!—saved from des'prit courses—"
"My uncle Jervas—" I exclaimed.
"Saved from des'prit courses!" repeated Mr. Shrig. "Himself, sir. Lord love him, 'e was always a-doin' of it; many a pore soul, male and female, 'e's saved from the river—ah, and worse as well, I know—ekally ready wi' fist or purse, ah, by Goles, an' vat vas better, with 'ope for the 'elpless an' 'elp for them as it seemed nothin' nor nobody could reach 'cept the law—a friend to them as thought they 'ad no friend but death. A fine gentleman, sir—yes, a tippy, a go, a bang-up blood, a reg'lar 'eavy-toddler, but most of all—a man! And I says again, God bless 'im an' 'is memory—amen!"
"Amen!" I repeated, while Mr. Shrig, tugging at something in the depths of a capacious side pocket, eventually drew thence a large, vivid-hued handkerchief and blew his nose resoundingly; which done, he blinked at me, surely the mildest-seeming man in all the world, despite the brass-mounted pistol which, disturbed in its lurking place by the sudden extrication of the handkerchief, peeped at me grimly from his pocket.
"Mr. Shrig, I should like to shake your hand," said I.
"'Eartily an' vith a vill, sir!" he answered.
"You see, I loved and honoured him also, Mr. Shrig."
"Verefore an' therefore, sir, I make bold to ask if you're partic'ler busy to-day?"
"I am here to meet a friend and then I am for the country."
"Tonbridge vay, sir?"
"Yes, why do you ask?"
"Because I've a call thereabouts myself to-day, an' if you vas minded to go along, I'd be honoured, sir, honoured."
"Thank you, Mr. Shrig, but—" I paused, for among the pile of unopened letters I espied one addressed in a familiar hand and, breaking the seal, read:
MY DEAR PERRY: Strong drink is raging, so am I, and London is the devil! Temptation dogs me, but a promise is a promise, so I have scuttled off ignominiously. You will find me at the Chequers Inn, Tonbridge, if I am not there to meet you, wait for me.
By the way, ale is exempt from your proscription, of course.
Yours to command now as ever,
"Mr. Shrig," said I, pocketing this letter, "when, pray, do you propose to start Tonbridge way?"
"This werry moment, sir."
"Why, then I shall be happy to accompany you."
"Are ye ready, sir?"
"Quite; let us go!"
So side by side we stepped out into the street; here Mr. Shrig, setting two fingers to his mouth, emitted a shrill whistle and round the corner came a tilbury behind a likely-looking horse driven by a red-faced man, who, at a sign from Mr. Shrig, descended from the lofty seat, into which we climbed forthwith.
"T'morrer mornin', Joel!" said Mr. Shrig, taking up the reins; and flicking the horse, away we went at a sharp trot.
"Do you propose to stay the night at Tonbridge, Mr. Shrig?"
"Vy—it's all accordin' to Number Vun, sir. Number Vun set out for Tonbridge but might be goin' further; v'ether 'e does or no, depends on Number Two."
"I fear I do not understand you, Mr. Shrig."
"Vich is 'ardly to be expected, sir. Y' see, perfeshionally speakin',I'm arter two birds as I 'opes to ketch alive an' dead."
"But how can you catch anything alive and dead?"
"Veil, then, let's say vun alive an' t' other 'un dead."
"Ah—what kind of birds?"
"Downy vuns, sir—'specially Number Vun!" and here my companion smiled and nodded benignantly.
Mr. Shrig drove rapidly, threading his way through the traffic with the ease of an experienced Jehu, and soon in place of dingy roofs and chimneys my eyes were blessed with the green of trees shading the familiar road which led, as I knew, to those leafy solitudes where one "might walk with God." And now there rushed upon me a memory of Diana—Diana as she once had been—my Goddess of the Silent Places; and I yearned passionately for the irrevocable past and despaired in bitter hopelessness of the present and the long and lonely future.
From these gloomy thoughts I was aroused by the sound of my companion's voice:
"I am a-goin' on this here hexpe-dition, sir, with the expectation—I may say with the 'ope sir, of finding a body—"
"A body of what?" I enquired absently.
"Lord, Mr. Werricker, sir, vat should it be but a hum-ing body—a corpse, sir."
"Horrible!" I exclaimed. "Who is it? Where did he die?"
"Vell, sir," said Mr. Shrig, consulting a ponderous watch, "to the best o' my judgment 'e ain't dead yet, no, not yet, I fancy, but two hours—say three—should do 'is business neat an' comfortable; yes—in three hours 'e should be as nice a corpse as ever you might vish to see—if the con-clusions as I've drawed is correct. An' talkin' o' murder, sir—"
"Ah!" I exclaimed. "Is it murder?"
"Sir," answered Mr. Shrig, "speakin' without prejudice, I answer you, it's a-goin' to be, or I'm a frog-eatin' Frenchman, vich God forbid, sir. An' speakin' o' murder, here's my attitood towards same—there's murder as is murder an' there's murder as is justifiable 'omicide. If you commits the fact for private wengeance, windictiveness or personal gain, then 't is murder damned an' vith a werry big he-M; but if so be you commits the fact to rid yourself or friends an' the world in general of evil, then I 'old 't is a murder justifiable. Consequently it will go to my 'eart to appre-'end this here murderer."
"Who is he?" I demanded.
"Ex-cuse me, sir—no! Seein' as 'ow this cove, though a murderer in intent, ain't a murderer in fact, yet—you must ex-cuse me if I with'old 'is name. And here's Eltham Village an' yonder's the 'Man o' Kent' a good 'ouse v'ere I'm known, so if you'll 'old the 'oss, sir, I'll get down and ax a question or so."
And I, sitting outside this sleepy hostelry in this quiet village street, thought no more of Mr. Shrig's gruesome errand, but rather of shady copse, of murmurous brooks and of one whose vivid presence had been an evergrowing joy and inspiration, waking me to nobler manhood, filling me with aspirations to heroic achievement; and to-day here sat I, lost in futile dreams—scorning myself for a miserable failure while the soul within me wept for that Diana of the vanished past—
"Right as ninepence, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, beaming cheerily as he clambered up beside me. "My birds 'as flew this vay, sure enough!"
Thus as we drove I sat alternately lost in these distressful imaginings or hearkening to my companion's animadversions upon rogues, criminals, and crime in general until, as the afternoon waned, we descended the steep hill into Wrotham village and pulled up at the "Bull" Inn, into whose hospitable portal Mr. Shrig vanished, to pursue those enquiries he had repeated at every posthouse along the road.
Presently as I sat, reins in hand, an ostler appeared who, grasping the horse's bridle and heeding me no whit, led us into the stable yard. And here I found Mr. Shrig leaning upon his knotted stick and lost in contemplation of a dusty chaise beneath which lay a perspiring and profane postboy busied with divers tools upon the front axle.
Now as I glanced at the vehicle, something about it struck me as familiar and then, despite the dust, I saw that it had red wheels and a black body picked out in yellow.
"Ah, Mr. Shrig," said I, "if this is the chaise you are so interested about, I think I can tell you who rode in it."
"And who would you name, sir?"
"Captain Danby," I answered.
"Aye, to be sure, sir. Then just step into the stable wi' me!"
Wondering, I obeyed and beheld a hissing ostler rubbing down a dusty horse.
"Why, this animal is mine!" I exclaimed. "This is Caesar, one of my saddle horses."
"Aye, to be sure, sir!" nodded Mr. Shrig. "Wiciousness has been a-ridin' in that theer chaise an' Windictiveness a-gallopin' arter on your 'oss. P'raps you can likewise tell me who't was as rode your 'oss?"
"No," I answered, "unless—good heaven, can it be Anthony—my friendMr. Vere-Manville?"
"Name sounds familiar!" said Mr. Shrig, rubbing his nose thoughtfully, while his keen gaze roved here and there.
"Where is Captain Danby—I want a word with him," said I, stepping hastily out of the stable.
"The Cap'n, sir," answered Mr. Shrig close to my elbow, "havin' partook of a glass o' brandy an' vater, has took a little valk a-top of it, an' the evenin' bein' so fine or as you might say balmy, I think we'll go a-valking too—"
Reaching the narrow street I espied the tall, lounging form of Captain Danby some considerable distance ahead and instinctively hastened my steps.
"Verefore the hurry, sir?" enquired Mr. Shrig, laying a finger on my arm.
"I must speak with yonder scoundrel."
"Scoundrel is the werry i-dentical vord, sir—but bide a bit—easy it is."
As he spoke, the Captain turned out of the street into a field path shaded by a tall hedge; in due time we also came to this path and saw a shady lane ran parallel with it, down which a man was walking. We had gone but a little way along this path when Mr. Shrig halted and seating himself upon the grassy bank, took off his hat and mopped his brow.
"A be-eautiful sunset, sir."
"Yes!" I answered, turning to view the glowing splendour.
"So werry red, Mr. Werricker, sir, like fire—like blood."
But I noticed that his keen glance was fixed upon the little wood that gloomed some distance before us, also that he held his head aslant as one who listens intently, and had taken out his ponderous watch.
"Why do you sit there, Mr. Shrig?" I enquired, a little impatiently.
"I'm a-vaitin', sir."
"What for, man?"
"Hush, sir, and you'll soon—"
The word was lost in a strange, sudden, double concussion of sound.
"At ex-actly twenty-two minutes to eight, sir!" said Mr. Shrig, and rising to his feet, set off briskly along the path. We had almost reached the wood I have mentioned when Mr. Shrig raised his knobbed stick to point at something that sprawled grotesquely across the path. The hat had fallen and rolled away and staring down into the horror of this face fouled with blood and blackened with powder, I recognised the features of Captain Danby.
"So here's the end o' Wiciousness," said Mr. Shrig and as he leaned upon his stick I saw his bright glance roving here and there; it flashed along the path before us; it swept the thicker parts of the hedge behind us; it questioned the deepening shadow of the copse. "Aye, here's an end to Number Vun, and if we look in the vood yonder, I fancy we shall see summat o' Number Two. This vay, sir—you can see the leaves is bloody hereabouts if you look—this vay!" Like one in an evil dream I followed him in among the trees and was aware that he had halted again.
"What now—what is it?" I questioned.
"Number Two, sir, and—look yonder, and—by Goles, 'e's dodged me likewise—burn my neck if 'e ain't!"
As he spoke, Mr. Shrig parted the kindly leaves and I beheld the form of my servant Clegg, as neat and precise in death as he had ever been in life.
"Poor lad!" said Mr. Shrig, baring his head. "Ye see, 'e 'appened to love Nancy Price, sir—the wictim o' Wiciousness yonder, an' 'ere's the result. Even walets has feelin's—this 'un werry much so!"
"Dead?" I mumbled, feeling myself suddenly faint. "Dead—both?"
"Aye, sir—both! Vich is comin' it a bit too low down on a man an' no error! To ha' lost both on 'em—crool 'ard I calls it!"
Sick with horror, I was stumbling away from this dreadful place whenMr. Shrig's voice stayed me.
"'Old 'ard, sir—bide a bit! If the con-clusions as I've drawed is correct, here should be summat o' yourn."
Turning about, I espied him on his knees, examining the contents of the dead man's pockets with a methodical precision that revolted me.
"Of mine?" said I, shuddering.
"Your werry own, sir. 'T was one o' the reasons as I brought you along—I do 'ope Windictiveness here ain't destroyed it—ah, 'ere it is, Mr. Werricker, sir—though the seal's broke, you'll ob-serve."
Dazed and wondering, I took the letter he held out to me, but no sooner had I glanced at the superscription than I forgot all else for the moment.
"How—how should that man—come by this?" I stammered at last.
"Took or pur-loined it from the young 'ooman Nancy Price, sir, according to 'er own ewidence, as stated to me in my little office this mornin'—an' her a-veepin' all over my papers, pore lass! Aha!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, still busied on his researches. "He's got summat in this 'ere 'ind pocket as I can't come at—p'raps you'll obleege me by heavin' Windictiveness over a bit, sir? Why, never mind, sir—done it myself—"
"How—did the young woman come by this letter?"
"'T is in ewidence as years ago she was maid to a lady—now Mrs. Vere-Manville, it was give her by that same. What, are ye goin', sir? Werry good, this ain't exactly a cheery spot at present. Will you be so obleegin' as to send a cart an', say, a 'urdle for these ere birds o' mine?"
And so I left him, sitting between his "birds" whose flying days were done, busily making notes in his little book, very like some industrious clerk posting his ledger for the day.
Reaching the "Bull" Inn, I despatched cart and hurdle as desired and, ordering rooms for the night, shut myself therein to escape the general hubbub and horrified questioning my news had called forth. And here, remote from all and sundry, I unfolded the letter a dead man's hand had opened and read these words:
Knowing you vile, I should have grieved for you, pitied you, but loved you still. Believing me vile, you are pitiless, cold, and with no mercy in you. Indeed and you would have shamed me! But true love, being of Heaven, knows no shame and can never die. Oh, you poor, blind Peregrine.
Here do I make an end of this Second Book, wherein shall be found overmuch of blood, of gloom and shadow, of misunderstanding and heartbreak engendered of my own perfervid imagination; and glad am I and more than glad to have done with it.
And here, since the longest road must end, since after storm and tempest must come peace and heavenly calm, and because "though heaviness endure for a night yet joy cometh in the morning"—here do I begin this Third, last, and shortest Book which those enduring Readers who have borne with and followed me thus far may see is inscribed
Book Three
I sat upon a hay pile in that same shady corner of the yard behind the "Chequers" inn where once had stood a weather-beaten cart drawn by a four-footed philosopher called Diogenes.
But to-day this corner was empty save for myself, and the yard also except for two or three wains or country waggons and a man in a sleeved waistcoat who chewed upon a straw and stared at the inn, the waggons and myself with a faded, lack-lustre eye and sniffed; so frequently indeed, and so loudly that at last it obtruded itself upon my notice.
"You have a very bad cold!" said I.
"I ain't!" he retorted gloomily.
"Yet you sniff very loud."
"Con-sti-tootional!" quoth he. "My feyther done it afore me, an' 'is feyther afore 'im, 'an 'is feyther afore 'im an'—but wot of it, my chap? Can't a cove sniff if so minded?"
"Certainly!" I answered.
"I ain't said nothink to you about wallerin' in that theer 'ay—'aveI? Very well! Why can't you let a man sniff in peace?"
"Very well," said I, "sniff!"
"I will!" said he and immediately did so, louder than ever.
"Astonishing!" said I.
"A cove can sniff without a cold if so be 't is 'is natur' so to do, can't 'e?"
"So I perceive."
"An' 't is a free country an' such so bein', a man's at liberty to sniff or no, an' no offence give or took, ain't 'e? Very well, then!"
"Very well indeed!" I nodded. "I have never heard a man sniff better or louder—"
"You leave my sniffin' alone an' I'll leave you alone—"
"I hope you will," said I.
"Well, I ain't so sure as I will; you wags your chin too much to please me—an' let me tell ye, bold an' p'inted, I don't like the cock o' your eye! So s'pose you stand on your pins—"
"Well," I answered, stretching myself more comfortably, "let us suppose so—what then?"
"Why, then, my covey, I'll knock ye off your pins again—prompt an' j'yful!"
"Under those circumstances I much prefer to remain as I am."
"Why, then you're a weevil—a worm, ah—an' what's more, a weevily worm at that, an' I spits on ye!"
Here, perceiving that he was about to put his heinous threat into execution, I arose.
"Enough!" quoth I, buttoning my coat. "Now let Olympus shake, the caverns of ocean roar, the round earth tremble! If you have fists, prepare to use them now—come on, pestiferous peasant, most contumacious clod, and 'damned be he that first cries Hold—enough'!"
"Well, drown'd me!" exclaimed the ostler, staring. "Drown'd me if I ever 'eard sich 'orrid talk in all my days, an' I've groomed for a earl—ah, an' a markis afore now!"
Having said which, he clenched his fists, squared his shoulders and launched himself at me like a charging bull. But profiting by Jessamy Todd's many lessons and painful instruction, I danced nimbly aside, tapped him with my left, spun round to meet his second rush, checked him with a flush hit, swung my right beneath his chin and next moment saw him sitting upon the cobblestones, legs wide-straddled, gaping about him with a vacant air.
"'Oly 'eavens!" he murmured, glancing from the cloudless sky to me and back again. "An' sich a whipper-snapper—'oly 'eavens!"
"A—weevily worm?" I enquired.
"Sir, I takes it back!" he answered, tenderly feeling his chin. "There ain't a weevil breathin', no, nor yet a worm as could ha' knocked me off my pins so neat an' true! I takes back weevil an' likewise worm, sir."
"Good!" said I, and tossed him a shilling.
"What's this 'ere for?" he enquired.
"The exercise you have afforded me; it has done me good, chased the dusty cobwebs from my brain, stimulated more healthy thought. Life perchance is not all dust and ashes nor the world a pit of noisome gloom; some day even I may learn perhaps to be—almost happy—"
"Lord, sir, you sound as if you'd been crossed an' double-crossed in love, you do—"
"Ah—what do you mean?"
"No offence, sir! But y' see, I were in love once—ah, an' with a sweet purty lass an' she wi' me, but afore I could marry 'er she bolted along of a circus cove in a scarlet, laced coat an' whip, d'ye see."
"Extremely feminine!" said I, nodding.
"May be, sir, but one day she come creepin' back to me, very 'eart-broke an' shameful, pore lass; seems the circus cove, growin' tired-like, 'ad took to usin' 'is whip on 'er—an' so she come a-creepin' back to me."
"And what then?"
"Why, then, o' course I married 'er."
"Married her! But after—the disgrace—"
"There weren't no disgrace; I married 'er! Y' see, I loved 'er purty looks an' gentle ways."
"And you—married her—notwithstanding! You forgave her!"
"Aye, I did—years an' years ago! Ah, an' a danged good little wife she's been too—ah, an' mother—none better."
"Have you many children?"
"Nine!"
"And you feed them all?"
"Every one—an' very frequent, bless their little 'earts."
"And clothe them?"
"As well as I can, sir, though their clo'es gets uncommon wore an' 'oley, 'igh an' low—specially low, sir!"
"You provide a roof to shelter them?"
"Aye—such as it is—needs re-thatchin' bad."
"And are you happy?"
"Aye, I am—though times is 'ard."
"And pray what is your name?"
"Martin, sir—Thomas Martin."
"Then, Thomas Martin, you are a man—and a better, a far better man than I, for—hear me confess, Tom Martin, I have never performed any one of these man's virtues. You have done nobly!" And I thrust five guineas into his work-hardened palm.
"Well drown'd me!" he gasped, very much as if he were undergoing that watery ordeal. "Egad, sir! Lord love your eyes an' limbs—"
"For the children and their mother," said I.
"God bless ye, sir!"
"Indeed I hope He may. Heaven knows I have been a sufficing failure hitherto, a sorrow to myself and my friends. But you, Tom Martin, have inspired me to attempt a notable good action—perhaps the noblest of my life. So good-bye, Tom; let me hasten to perform the best act I ever did!"
Hurrying into the inn I called for pens, ink and paper, and sitting down forthwith, wrote this:
MY DEAR ANTHONY:The wind has whispered, a bird has sung to me, and an ostler, by nameTom Martin (long may he flourish) has shown me a man's work.
For who am I, poor finite wretch, to judge my fellows and condemn such as work me evil (and, inadvertently, themselves also, since Evil is double-edged and cuts both ways?) Who am I to despise or dislove them for the pain they cause me to endure (and, inadvertently, themselves also?) Should I not rather seek to forget past wrongs, to cherish and comfort such as despitefully use me? Is not this the secret of true and abiding happiness?
My two uncles (whom God eternally bless!) waked in me the desire to be a true man; and what is there more manly than to forget a wrong, to forgive past trespasses and cherish the hand that has hurt us?
So to-day, dear Anthony, instead of awaiting you here, I do a better thing; to-day at last, I go seeking my manhood in the achievement of a nobler act than I ever thought possible of my accomplishment; to-day I go to Diana.
Your devoted friend,PEREGRINE VEREKER.
This letter despatched, I ordered a horse to be saddled; very soon, thanks to Tom Martin's zeal, the animal was at the door and, though the day was far advanced, I mounted forthwith and galloped away for Wyvelstoke Towers.
Birds were calling their melodious complaint on the passing of another day and the shadows were lengthening when I came to a cross-roads where stood a timeworn finger-post beneath which sat a solitary figure in weather-beaten hat and coat, head bowed over the book opened upon his knees.
Now at sight of this lonely figure I reined in so suddenly that this solitary person glanced up and I saw the white hair, keen eyes and pale, aquiline features of the Earl of Wyvelstoke. At sight of me he closed the book and rose, and in stern features, in every line of his slender, shabby figure was a stately aloofness that chilled me.
"My lord?" said I interrogatively, and taking off my hat, I bowed.
"Ah, Mr. Vereker," he answered, with a slight inclination of his head. "So you come at last. A charming evening. I wish you as well of it as you deserve!" And turning his back, he began to limp away; but in a moment I was off my horse and, hastening after, ventured to touch his arm, then fell back in sheer amazement before the ferocious glare of his eyes; yet his voice was as politely modulated as usual when he spoke:
"Sir, were you any other than Peregrine Vereker—old as I am, I would call you out—and shoot you with peculiar satisfaction—"
"My lord—sir—?" I stammered.
"Sir," he continued, "you will doubtless have very many excellent excuses to offer for your perfectly inexcusable conduct—but doubtless you will at least have the good taste to keep them to yourself. Whatever your reasons, you have been the cause of much pain and very many bitter tears to—to one I hold inexpressibly dear."
"My lord, I—I have been ill—"
"And it is, I believe, mainly owing to her devotion that you still—gladden the world, sir."
"My lord, I am here to—to—give Diana my hand in fulfilment of my promise."
"Are you indeed, Mr. Vereker—you surprise me!"
"To marry her whenever she will, sir."
"Permit me to remark that you are perhaps a little tardy."
"None the less I am here, sir!"
"Your condescension, Mr. Vereker, is somewhat overpowering, such magnanimity I find vastly touching. But Diana, I am assured, had no idea of permitting you thus to immolate yourself on the altar of duty."
"That, my lord, by your favour, I mean to learn from her own lips—at once."
"Impossible, sir!" he retorted, smiling bitterly. "Quite—quite impossible."
"Impossible, my lord—impossible? Pray what—sir, what do you mean?" I stammered.
"That if indeed you are minded—a little late in the day perhaps—but if—after very mature deliberation—you at last think fit to fulfil your pledge to Diana, it will of course be necessary that you first discover her present whereabouts."
"Is she not here at Wyvelstoke with you, my lord?"
"Emphatically not, sir!"
"Then she is with Mrs. Vere-Manville at Nettlestead or in London—at least I will go there—at once."
"Then you will waste your time, sir. Diana has disappeared."
"Disappeared? Ah, you mean she has gone—run away? Pray, my lord, pray when—when did she go?"
His lordship looked at me keenly a while and when he spoke his voice seemed less harsh:
"The news would seem to disturb you, sir?"
"Beyond words, sir. Henceforth I shall know little rest until I find her. Pray when did she leave you—and how?"
"She fled—yesterday morning—stole from Wyvelstoke before daybreak—she was seen by one of the keepers stealing away in the dawn. She fled away to—hide her grief—leaving behind all her jewels and—a very—solitary, very old—man. She was all I had—my comrade, my Penthesilea—my loved daughter—"
His lordship's voice broke upon the word, his usually upright figure seemed suddenly bowed and shrunken, he looked indeed a very grief-stricken, decrepit old man as he stood fumbling in the pockets of his shabby coat, whence he presently drew a letter that shook and rustled in his fingers as he unfolded it.
"She left this also, sir," he continued with an evident effort, "pray read it—you will find some mention of—breaking hearts the which should interest you a little—read it, sir!"
So I took the letter and saw it was this:
DEAREST PAL AND NOBLEST OF MEN: My poor heart is breaking, I think, and knowing how true I and deep is your love for me I would not have you see my pain. So I have run away from you awhile—fled away to the Silent Places like the poor, hurt creature I am. There I mean to hide until my wound is a little healed and then I shall come back to you, my dear, that I may surround you with my love and teach you how inexpressibly dear you are to Your would-be daughter and ever loving, grateful, DIANA.
"Has she money, sir?" I enquired, returning the letter.
"Very, very little, I fear."
"Then she cannot have gone very far."
"Ah, Peregrine—" the proud, old head drooped and the hand that crept upon my dusty coat sleeve was very thin and tremulous; "ah, Peregrine, if you love her, find her again—find her for Love's sake—and the sake of a desolate—heartsick—old man!"
"Sir," I answered, covering this twitching hand with my own, "I will—bring her back to you—if I have to travel the world over—I will find her if it takes me all my life and every penny I possess!"
Then, mounting my horse, I swung him round and galloped away without further word of farewell or so much as one backward glance.
It was growing dark when I reached a part of the road that I seemed to recognise; therefore I checked my steed to look about me.
Surely it was here or hereabouts that, upon a never-to-be-forgotten day, I had acted the craven and, fleeing in panic, yet (heaven be praised!) had rushed back to be beaten into unconsciousness by Diana's brutal assailant. Surely it was beneath yonder tree that I had waked to find my head pillowed in her lap, her cool hand upon my brow, her lovely face stooped above me full of tender solicitude.
Remembering which, I was seized of a sudden passionate longing for the touch of her hand, to behold again this face radiant with love.
'My poor heart is breaking I think—so I have fled away to hide—'
As I sat my horse, seeing in fancy the blotted lines of this, her letter, to my yearning was added the triumphant assurance that in spite of everything she loved me still; but this thought in turn was 'whelmed in despair because of the well-nigh hopelessness of my search.
And in this moment my wandering gaze lighted upon the shadowy outline of a gate that opened in the hedge upon my right hand, upon a rolling meadow with a gloom of shadowy trees beyond.
Next moment I was afoot, leading my horse, for surely this was that gate through which she had led me, swooning with my hurts, across this meadow, amid trees and underbrush, to that ruined and desolate barn which, she had once told me, had ever been her haven of refuge.
After some little delay, I contrived to open this gate and, leading my horse, began to cross the meadow, glancing this way and that, often pausing unsure, fearful that my memory was at fault. In this hesitant manner I proceeded until I was dimly aware that the ground sloped down before me into a place of shadows thick with dense-growing trees and bushes.
All at once I halted, a prey to many swift emotions, but chief of these joy and a thrilling, hopeful expectancy, for amid the deep gloom before me I espied a faint beam of light, and I was praying within myself as, my gaze upon this blessed light, I descended into the deeper shadows. Of necessity I went very slowly and cautiously until, the trees thinning out somewhat, enabled me to make out a black looming shape that gradually resolved itself into a barn; and it was from the small opening or window beneath the gable that the beam of light shone forth.
A solitary place and dismal, far removed from the world, a very sinister place, such indeed as might well be the haunt of grisly spectres; yet, with my gaze upturned to that beckoning light, I would not have changed it, just then, for the most gorgeous palace in all the world. Suddenly I halted again, my breath in check, to stare at this dreadful place with eyes of horror, as from its impenetrable gloom came sounds that brought out the sweat upon my temples and set my hand quivering upon the bridle,—a succession of hollow knocks and rappings whose dull reverberations seemed to fill the night.
For a long moment I stood thus, grasping my horse's bridle, shivering from head to foot, and staring at the black and ominous shape before me in wide-eyed terror; then I heard that which brought me to myself—nay, transformed me into a cool, dispassionate, relentless creature, reckless of all harms and dangers, intent only upon the one desperate purpose.
Leading my horse in among the trees, I tethered him securely and began to approach the barn very cautiously and with every nerve and sinew strung to instant action, my heavy riding-whip grasped in ready hand.
The knocking had ceased and, creeping nearer, I found the doors open and, from the pitchy gloom of the interior, heard a hoarse gasping that spoke of vicious effort.
"Be damned t' ye, Dick!" panted a hoarse voice. "'Eave, man—'eave—her's a-laying across the trap—push, damn ye—"
"Aye, Tom—but her's got a knife!" panted a second voice. "Don't 'e forget 'er's got a knife!"
"An' what—good'll her knife be—once we get—our 'ands on 'er—'eave,I tell ye—both together—now!"
"Bide a bit, Tom—let's 'ave a light—"
"Light be damned—'eave, man!"
Fumbling my way to the wall, I began to creep towards the creaking ladder where these panting, wrestling, evil things strove so desperately. Once or twice came a swift beam of light, vivid in the pervading blackness, as the trap door was forced up an inch or so; brief, sudden gleams, that showed me the forms of two men crouched upon the ladder, their shoulders bowed in passionate effort; and I waited until, loud-panting with their desperate exertions, they began to force up the trap again.
"Now, Dick—now!" gasped a voice; and then as they strove again, I leapt and smote with all my strength. A squeal of pain and terror, the sudden slam of the trap closing out all light, the impact of a heavy body upon the rotting hay that littered the floor, and a feeble, whining voice.
"Tom—O Tom—there's summat in 'ere wi' us—hurted bad I be—there's summat in 'ere as 'ave cut my 'ead open, Tom. O Tom, come down an' 'elp a pal—"
"What are ye yelpin' over now—and be cursed!" panted the man Tom from the ladder. "Th' gal's got money, I tell ye, an' 'er's a 'andsome tit into the bargain, so it's up wi' this 'ere trap—"
"O Tom, summat 'it me—come on down! There's summat or some one 'ere wi' us—come down an' see—"
"'Ow can us see wi'out a light?"
"Well, I got my tinder box."
I heard the man Tom stumble down the ladder, heard the sound of flint and steel, saw their two evil heads outlined against the glow of the tinder as they blew and, leaping upon them, I smote with my heavy riding-whip again and yet again.
And now in the black horror of this ruined barn was pandemonium, a wild uproar of shouts and cries, the sound of vicious blows, the shock of groaning bodies.
If they were two, they fought a mad creature who, careless of defence, unconscious of his own hurts, sought only to maim and rend; whether reeling in desperate grapple or rolling half-smothered beneath my assailants, I fought as a wild beast might, utterly regardless of myself, with fingers that wrenched and tore, fists that smote untiring, feet that kicked and trampled, head that drove and butted—I was indeed a living weapon, as senseless to pain and as merciless—intent only on destruction.
All suddenly was silence, a blessed quiet, save for the hoarse pant of my own breathing. Stumbling to the doorway, I leaned there, vaguely glad the horrid business was over, since I found myself faint and sick. Afar off I heard lugubrious voices that called one to another, a snapping of twigs growing ever fainter, and a rustle of leaves that marked their flight.
Down my cheeks and into my eyes a sticky moisture was trickling that I knew was blood, but the sweet night air revived me greatly so that, my strength returning, I presently—stumbled back into the blackness of the barn, found my way to the ladder and leaned there a while. And after some time, I lifted heavy head and spoke:
"Diana—are you there—my Diana?"
Silence, and a sudden, sickening dread, a growing fear, insomuch that I made shift to climb the ladder and, lifting heavy hand, rapped upon the trap door:
"Diana—O Diana—are you there?"
An inarticulate cry, and next moment the trap door was lifted, revealing a square of vivid light, and in this radiant glory—Diana's face.
"Diana," said I, wiping the blood from my eyes the better to behold her loveliness, "Diana—when will you—marry me?"
"O Peregrine—oh, my beloved!"
And down to me she reached her strong and gentle arms to draw me up from the darkness into the glory of her presence.