Here then, do I end this book, because this is the Book of Diana and she is gone out of my life.
So do I lay down my pen for a while, uneasily conscious of my narrative's many imperfections and greatly fearing that I have fallen very far short in my description of Diana.
But what work of man may hope to be utterly perfect? And who shall recapture the vanished glory of the dream?
Here, then, do I let fall the curtain; when it rises, the world and I shall be two years older, two years wiser, two years better, or the worse.
Book Two
I remember waking to find myself very miserable in a ghastly dawn, where guttering candles flickered in their sockets, casting an unearthly light upon bottles, silverware, and more bottles that stood or lay amidst overturned and broken glasses; an unseemly jumble that littered a long table whose rumpled cloth was plentifully besplashed with spilled wine and flanked by empty chairs.
Into my drugged consciousness stole a sound that might have been wind in trees, or a mill race, or some industrious artisan busied with a saw, yet which I knew could be none of these, and my drowsy puzzlement grew. Therefore I roused myself with some vague notion of solving this mystery and turned to behold in this ghastly light a ghostly face; a handsome face, but very stern, square-chinned, black-browed, aquiline, scowling upon the dawn.
"Uncle Jervas!" said I, a little thickly. "You look like a ghost, sir!"
At this he started, but when he turned, his face was impassive as ever.
"Shall I wish you many happy returns of last night, Nephew?"
"God forbid, sir!" said I, bowing aching head upon my hands.
"It is perhaps a blessing to remember, Peregrine, that one comes of age but once in one's lifetime."
"It is, sir!" I groaned. "Pray what—what is that sound, sir—so monotonous and—damnable?"
"It is rather an aggregation of sounds, emanating in unison from your good friends the Marquis of Jerningham, Viscount Devenham and Mr. Vere-Manville—they sleep remarkably soundly!"
"And—the others, sir?"
"Departed in the small hours, with your uncle George—and four of 'em in tears!"
"It was a dreadful night, sir."
"It was a night of nights, Peregrine. I remember only one to equal it."
"And that, sir?"
"Your father's coming of age. But talking of ghosts, Perry, I almost fancied I saw one—no longer ago than last night—on my way here. But then I don't believe in ghosts—and this one was seated in a closed carriage and accompanied by a rather handsome young woman—and she was weeping, I fancy. Your head aches, Nephew?"
"Damnably, Uncle Jervas. I hate wine!"
"Yet one must drink occasionally, boy."
"You can, sir," I groaned, "last night you honoured every toast—yet here you sit—"
"Looking like a ghost, Nephew."
"And utterly unaffected, Uncle."
"On the contrary, inordinate drinking afflicts me horribly, Nephew, stimulates me to thought, harrows me with memory, resurrects things best forgotten! Ah, there's the sun at last. I'll leave you, Peregrine—I'll out to greet the day."
"I should like to walk with you if I may, sir."
"By all means, Nephew, 't will ease your head, perhaps."
And so, moving softly lest we disturb the three sonorous sleepers, a wholly unnecessary precaution, we took our hats and surtouts and stepped out into an empty street swept by a clean, soft wind that cooled my throbbing temples, and my sick heaviness was lifted somewhat in the sweet, pure breath of dawn.
"You have been about town for nearly a year, haven't you, Peregrine?"
"Yes, sir, long enough to teach me I love the country better than I thought."
"You are sufficiently dissipated, I trust?"
"I endeavour to be, sir. Her Grace of Camberhurst shakes her head over me, though I do my best—"
"Does it require so great an effort?"
"Somewhat, sir. You see, I find dissipation a particularly wearisome business."
"Wearisome, Nephew? You surprise me!"
"And depressingly dreary, Uncle."
"You astonish me!"
"Indeed, dissipation thoroughly distresses me."
"You amaze me! But you gamble, I presume?"
"When nothing better offers, sir."
"Well upon me everlasting soul—!"
"I hope I do not shock you, Uncle Jervas?"
"Worry would be the more apt word, perhaps; you worry me, Nephew. Such impeccable virtue naturally suggests an early death—a harp—a halo! And yet you appear to enjoy robust health. Pray to what do you attribute your so great immunity from those pleasant weaknesses that are so frequently a concomitant of strength and youthful vigour—those charming follies, bewitching foibles that a somewhat rigorous convention stigmatises as vices—abhorrent word!"
"You mean, sir, what excuse do I offer for not being politely vicious as seems so much the fashion?"
"I confess you puzzle me, boy, for you are anything but an angel in pantaloons. I have occasionally thought to remark in you a hint of unplumbed deeps—of passions as hot and fierce as—"
"Your own, Uncle Jervas?" At this he turned to glare at me rather haughtily, then his eyes softened, his lips twitched.
"So women do not appeal to you, Peregrine. Pray why?"
"Because woman appeals to me so much—one, sir!"
"Ah, your roving gipsy?"
"Precisely, sir."
"Where is she, at present?"
"I believe in Italy, sir."
"Hum! Your friend Vere-Manville ran across her in Rome, I believe.When did you hear from her last?"
"One year and ten months ago, sir."
"Painfully exact! And how many letters has she written you, may I ask?"
"One, sir."
"Hum! You know that the Earl of Wyvelstoke has made her his ward and heiress, Peregrine?"
"His lordship informed me of the fact, Uncle."
"He corresponds with you, then?"
"Every month without fail."
"Then of course you know he is returning to England shortly and holds a great reception at his place in town, a fortnight from to-day, I think?"
"Yes, sir."
"And in the space of two years you have received one letter from your beautiful gipsy?"
"Only one, sir! Though his lordship has kept me informed as to her welfare and progress."
"Such sublime patience argues either indifference or stupendous faith, boy!"
"Sir—sir," cried I, stirred at last. "Oh, sir, how may love be—how endure without faith?"
"Yours is a strange love, Peregrine, exceeding patient and long-suffering! You practically compelled her to—accept his lordship's offer, I believe?"
"Uncle—Uncle Jervas," I stammered, "how should you know this?"
"I have the honour to number the Earl of Wyvelstoke among my few friends, he writes to me also—occasionally. You are an immensely confiding lover, and your patience is almost—superhuman."
"However, my waiting is nearly over, I shall see her soon—soon!"
"In company with every buck, Corinthian and Macaroni in London,Peregrine."
"Still—I shall see her, sir!"
"If the reports of her singing, her wit and beauty are but half true,Peregrine, she will be the rage, the universal toast."
"Still—she will be—Diana, sir!"
"But two years, Nephew—wealth, rank, adulation—can these have wrought no change, think you?"
"Only for the better, sir!"
"Oh, the sublime assurance of Youth!" murmured my uncle. "Have you no doubt of yourself, now that you are no longer the—the—ah—'only Richmond in the field'?"
Here, though I strove to speak, I could not, but walked with head bowed, but very conscious of his keen scrutiny.
"You are so intense, Perry," he continued after a moment, "so very, damnably intense that I confess I grow a little fearful lest you be disappointed, and therefore take the liberty to annoy you with my dismal croakings, if I may—shall I proceed?"
"Pray do, sir!"
"Then, Peregrine, I would warn you that, considering her new attitude towards life, her very altered views upon the world in general, it is only to be expected your gipsy may find you very different from her first estimation of you—"
"Ah, there it is, sir—there it is!" I groaned. "The haunting fear that to-day—measured by the larger standard of her new experiences, she may find me fall very far short of what she imagines me—"
"And if this be so,—how then?"
"Do not ask me, sir,—don't!"
"The ordinary, impassioned youth, under such unpleasantly frequent circumstances, 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 damnable buffets Fate sees fit to deal you, whatever disappointments are in store, you will of course meet them with a serene fortitude—eh, boy?"
"You may trust me, sir. Not," I continued hastily "not that I anticipate 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 weathercock of countless spires and steeples and make a broad-bosomed glory of the noble river. Suddenly my uncle halted to point before him with tasselled 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 hoarse 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 pass 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 impassive 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 ashore. 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 passed 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 scrap 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, thejoie 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.
"Ham, Peregrine?"
"Thank you, no, Anthony!" said I, shuddering slightly. "But where are the others? Asleep still?"
"Gone, Perry. At sight of this ham Jerny shied like a wild colt, Devenham moaned, and together they tottered forth into the bleak world. Did you say ham, Perry?"
"I—did—not!"
"Beef then—beef looks excellent! Beef?"
"Horrible!" I exclaimed, turning my back on the breakfast table. "Eat if you can, Tony, but talk you must and shall."
"Of last night, Peregrine?"
"Of Diana. I've scarcely had a word with you since your arrival."
"Which was last night."
"How is she, Anthony? Is she indeed handsomer—lovelier? Did she seem happy? Did she talk about—did she—happen to mention—"
"She did, Perry, talked of you frequently, very much so! Won't you try a cup of coffee and a crust—"
"Tell me how—where you first met her."
"It was at the ambassador's ball and mark you, Perry, there were some uncommonly fine women there, though none of 'em, no, damme, not one to compare with my Loveliness, of course—"
"You mean Barbara?"
"Of course. Well, my boy, we'd made our bow and here was Loveliness worrying in her pretty fashion because my cravat had shifted or some such, and here was I pulling at the thing and saying, 'Yes, dear,' and making it worse when, as the poet says, 'amid this glittering throng of lovely women and gallant men' my charmed eye alighted upon a haughty beauty, a ravishing creature condescending to be worshipped by a crowd of fawning slaves, civilian, soldier and sailor of all stations and ranks, from purple-faced admirals and general officers to pink, downy-whiskered subalterns. 'Egad, Loveliness,' says I, jerking at my cravat, 'what asinine fools brave men and gallant gentlemen can make of themselves for lovely woman—look yonder!' 'Where?' says she. 'There!' says I, 'the dark, dazzling beauty yonder!' So Loveliness looks, and at that very moment Beauty breaks from the abject circle of her fawning slaves and comes running. 'Diana!' cries Loveliness. 'Barbara!' cries Beauty, and they are in each other's arms—and there you are, Perry. Astonishing how they love each other. So when I left to attend this birthday of yours, Loveliness must stay with her Diana—I miss her most damnably!"
"Has she so many admirers?" I sighed.
"Hordes of 'em, Perry! Troops, squadrons, regiments, begad! So has myLoveliness, for that matter."
"And are you never jealous?"
"Devil a bit, dear fellow. Though," said he, slowly clenching his right hand into a powerful fist and scowling down at it, "given the occasion—I could be, Perry, y-e-s, madly, brutally—I could kill—do murder, I believe. Oh, pshaw! My Barbara is so sweet, so purely a thing of heaven that sometimes I—I hate myself for not having been better—more worthy. Women are so infinitely better than ourselves, or so infinitely—worse. And she sent you a letter—here it is!"
"A letter? Diana? Where?"
"A snack of ham or beef first, Perry, love letters don't go over-well on empty stomachs—" But here I caught the letter from him and sat with it in fingers that shook a little, staring at the superscription.
"Her writing has improved amazingly!" said I.
"Dear fellow," he answered, sharpening the carving knife quite unnecessarily, "go away and read it, seek some quiet spot and leave me to eat in peace."
"Thanks, Tony," said I gratefully, and hastened into the next room forthwith, there to read and re-read the superscription, to commit all those tender follies natural to lovers and finally to break the seal.
DEAR, DEAR MY PEREGRINE: Very soon we shall see each other, and this thought makes me tremble with alternate happiness and dread. Yes, dread, my Peregrine, because these years have changed me in many ways—oh, shall I please you as I am now? Will you love me as you did when I was only your humble Diana of the Silent Places? For Peregrine, you loved me then so very much, so truly and with such wonderful unselfishness that I am afraid you may not love the Diana of to-day quite so well as the Diana of two years ago. But dear Peregrine, know that my heart is quite—quite unchanged; you will always be the one man of all others, the Peregrine whose generous love lifted me high above my girlish dreams but never oh, never any higher than his own heart. So Peregrine, love me when I come back to you or these long two years will have been lived in vain and I shall run away back to the Silent Places and die an old maid. Perhaps I shall seem strange when we meet, but this will only be because I fear you a little and doubt a little how you may feel towards this new Diana—so love me, let me see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. It is so much easier to write than to say, so I will write it again—Love me, Peregrine, love me because I am yours—now and always.
Having read this letter I laid it down and took from an inner pocket another letter, somewhat worn and frayed by over-much handling, which bore these words, smudged and blotted a little, though written with painful care.
DEAR PERRYGREEN: Your letter has made me cry dredfully. I cannot bear to think of you so lonly because I am lonly to. I cannot bear to think of you on your nees I would rather think of you as I saw you last so brave and determined. Pray for me as I pray for you only don't rite to me or I shall run back to you because I am not very brave and want you so. O dear Perrygreen always love
"You're looking confoundedly glum, Perry; I hope thebilletis quite sufficientlydoux?"
"Quite—indeed, quite!" said I, starting out of my reverie. "It is a letter such as only Diana could have written—"
"Then your woe undoubtedly proceeds from stomach; for the emptiness of same I prescribe ham, shall we say mingled—judiciously blended—with beef—"
"Abhorrent thought!" I exclaimed. At this moment, after a discreet knock on the door, my valet Clegg entered.
"Sir," said he in his soft and toneless voice, "the groom is below; shall you ride or drive this morning?"
"Neither!" I answered, whereupon Clegg bowed and withdrew.
"Excellent!" nodded Anthony. "Nothing like walking to make an empty stomach aware of its vacuity. By the way, queer article that Clegg fellow of yours—face like a mask! Where did you pick him up?"
"I don't remember. He had excellent references, I believe. Why do you ask?"
"Fancy I've seen him before. Come, let us adventure forth in search of your appetite."
To us in the hall came Clegg to bring our hats and canes.
"Were you ever in the service of a Captain Danby?" enquired Anthony, his keen gaze on Clegg's impassive face.
"Yes, sir, I was valet to Captain Marmaduke Danby—two years ago."
"I saw you with him once at a small inn called 'The Jolly Waggoner.'"
Clegg bowed deferentially, but when he looked up his pale eyes seemed to glow strangely and his pallid cheek was slightly flushed.
"Yes, sir, Captain Danby sent for me to attend him there—I found him in bed exceedingly—unwell. He was—suffering, sir. He suffered quite a—good deal of—pain, sir—of pain."
Saying which, Clegg bowed us out into the street with a deeper obeisance than usual.
"Strange!" said Anthony, taking my arm. "You have probably forgotten this Danby, the fellow I had the pleasure of thrashing, Perry?"
"I shall never forget how you stood on him and wiped your boots,Anthony."
"I did chastise him somewhat severely, I remember. But I learned something more of his villainy from Barbara, as we drove away, and I returned next day to give him another dose but found him in bed bandaged like a mummy and this Clegg fellow of yours beside him. I learned afterwards that he was friend to that same scoundrel Barbara's father was forcing the sweet soul to marry, damn him!"
"The world seems full of unhanged villains!" said I, through shut teeth.
"Oh, is it, begad?"
"It is!"
"You're devilish gloomy, Perry."
"I fear I am."
"All stomach, ye know, dear fellow. I've noticed this poor old world is generally blamed most damnably, purely because of the night of the morning after—more especially upon an empty—"
"Don't say it again, Anthony, for heaven's sake!"
"But you're curst gloomy and devilish doleful—"
"Anthony, dear man, while you were snoring blissfully this morning I watched a poor, beautiful young creature dragged out of the river."
"Dead, Perry?"
"Yes. She was probably drowning herself last night while we drank and rioted—poor despairing child!" and here I described the dreadful incident very fully. "You have never met or heard of any one named Haredale, have you, Anthony?" I ended.
"No," he answered, "no! Gad, Perry," he burst out with a vicious twirl of his cane, "there are times when killing is a laudable act!" After this we walked in silence for some time.
"Where are we going?" he questioned suddenly.
Hereupon I glanced up, for I had walked with my gaze bent earthward, and saw that we were close upon the river.
"Since we are here," I answered, "I will show you where it—she lies. It was yonder they found her, and over there, beyond those trees, is a wretched tavern—"
"And on the other side of the hedge, Perry, is a small, unpleasant person who peeps and peers and follows. Let us investigate!"
So saying, Anthony turned suddenly and confronted a small, mean-looking fellow who starting back out of reach, touched a shaggy eyebrow, cringed, and spoke:
"No offence, my lords an' gents—none in th' world, s' help me true!" Having said which, he clapped fingers to mouth and whistled very shrilly. "Not by no means nowise meanin' no offence, my lords," quoth he apologetically, "but dooty is dooty—an' 'ere 'e be!" Glancing whither he pointed, I saw a man approaching, a shortish, broad-shouldered, square-faced, leisurely person in a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat and full-skirted frieze greatcoat; a man of slow gait and deliberate movement but with a quick and roving eye.
"Th' little 'un's th' gent, guv'nor—'e's th' cove! whispered the mean-looking fellow hoarsely, and now I recognised him as one of the two waterside characters I had met that morning with my uncle Jervas. The man in the frieze coat removed his hat, bobbed round head at Anthony, at me, and spoke, addressing himself to me:
"'T is in ewidence, sir, as you an' another gent 'appened to be a-passin' by when a lately de-funct o' the fe-male persuasion vas took out o' th' river at the hour o' four-two-two pre-cisely, this 'ere werry mornin'. Am I right?"
"That is so," I answered.
"'T is also in ewidence, sir, as you an' your friend 'appening to pass—by chance or de-sign, so werry remarkable early in the mornin', stopped to ob-serve same de-funct party o' the fe-male persuasion. Am I right again?"
"We did."
"'T is furthermore in ewidence, sir, that upon ob-serving corpse, you an' your friend seemed werry much took aback, not to say overcome. Am I—"
"They was, Jarsper, they was—oncommon!" quoth the smaller man hoarsely.
"'Enery, 'old your tongue! Now, sir, am I right or am I not?"
"We were both very naturally shocked," said I.
"Vich feelin's, sir, does you both credit—oceans. But 't is further in ewidence as your friend did commit a assault upon the body o' one Thomas Vokins by means of a cane an' there an' then took, removed, appre'ended or ab-stracted ewidence in the shape o' a piece o' paper as 'ad fell from right 'and o' said corpse. Am I right once more?"
"Not altogether!" said I. "The man wrenched open the dead girl's fingers so brutally that my—companion very properly rapped him with his cane and noticing the piece of paper, ordered the man to give it to him."
"Good—werry good! Now I puts it to you, sir—vere is that piece o' paper?"
"Probably in my companion's possession."
"Good again! An' vere might 'e be?"
"That I decline to tell you!"
"Vy then, sir, dooty bein' dooty, I'll take a valk."
"As you will!" said I. "Come, Anthony!" and turning, we began to retrace our steps. But we had gone but a little way when I faced suddenly about, for the man was plodding at our heels.
"Why the devil do you follow us?" I demanded, greatly exasperated.
"Becos' dooty is dooty, sir, an' dooty demands same," he answered imperturbably.
"Who are you, fellow?"
"Jarsper Shrig, Bow Street officer—werry much at your service, sir!"
"And what do you want of me?"
"A piece o' paper, sir, as ewidence to establish i-dentifi-cation of de-funct young party o' the fe-male persuasion in a case o' murder or feller-de-see—"
Here I turned and walked on again in no little perplexity.
"What am I to do, Anthony?" I muttered.
"Bring the fellow to your chambers, despatch a note to Sir Jervas and leave it to his decision."
So we walked on, perfectly ignoring this very pertinacious Bow Street officer; but I, for one, was not sorry when at last we reached the door of my chambers, and halting, turned to behold the Bow Street officer, who had stopped also and appeared to be lost in contemplation of the adjacent chimney pots. And as he stood thus, I was struck by his air of irreproachable respectability and pervading mildness; despite the formidable knotted stick beneath his arm, he seemed indeed to radiate benevolence from the soles of his stout boots to the crown of his respectable, broad-brimmed hat.
"A re-markable vide-avake young man, yours, sir," said he gently, still apparently lost in contemplation of the chimney pots, "a re-markable vatchful young man an' werry attentive!"
"What do you mean, officer?"
"I mean, sir, as he's opened your door afore you knocked."
Glancing at the door, I saw indeed, to my surprise, that it stood slightly ajar; hereupon I reached out to open it when it swung wide and my man Clegg stood before us.
"I saw you approaching, sir," he exclaimed, bowing us in.
Reaching my small library, the officer seated himself at my invitation and depositing hat and stick very precisely beneath his chair, sat looking more unctuously mild than ever, there was about him a vague suggestion of conventicles, and a holy Sabbatarian calm.
"You said your name was Shrig, I think?" said I.
"Jarsper Shrig, sir, at your sarvice."
"Then perhaps, while I write my letter, you will take a glass of wine,Mr. Shrig?"
"Sir," he answered, "not beating about no bushes, I vill—Mr.Werricker, sir."
"You know my name?" I exclaimed a little sharply.
"I dedooce same, sir, from them three letters on your secretary as is a-staring me straight in the face, Mr. Werricker."
"Pray, Anthony, oblige me by ringing the bell!" said I, taking up my pen.
Soft-treading, the discreet Clegg duly brought in decanter and glasses, and Mr. Shrig, watching him pour out the wine, drew from his capacious pocket a little book and opened it, much as though he would have read forth a text of Scripture, but all he said was:
"Thank 'ee, my man!" and then, as the door closed upon the discreetly silent Clegg, "Your 'ealth, gen'elmen!"
The letter to my uncle Jervas being written and despatched, I turned to find Mr. Shrig busied with his little book and a stumpy pencil, much as if he had been composing a sermon or address, while Anthony, lounging upon the settee, watched him with lazy interest.
"A on-commonly taking cove, sir, that young man o' yourn!" said Mr.Shrig, pocketing book and pencil.
"Not more so than other servants, I believe," I answered.
"And all valets," murmured Anthony, "all valets are predatory by nature, of course—"
"I mean as he's a likely cove. Now, talkin' o' corpses—" began Mr.Shrig.
"But we are not!" said I.
"Axing your parding, sir, but I am and, perfessionally speakin', never 'ave I seen a prettier corp', than this 'ere young fe-male in question—"
"And your experience in such is vast, I take it?" murmured Anthony.
"None waster, sir! Wast is the werry vord for it."
"Do you think this is a case of suicide or murder?" enquired Anthony.
"Can't say, sir. But somevun's allvays bein' murdered, murderin' or goin' for to murder somevun, somevere or t'other."
"Sounds cheery!" murmured Anthony. "Do you catch many murderers?"
"Pretty fair, sir, pretty fair. I got a special aptitood for it; I can smell murder in the werry air, feel it, taste it—"
"Must be devilish unpleasant!" said Anthony.
"'Tis a nat'ral gift wi' me, sir. Lord love ye, gen'elmen, I can p'int you out a murderer afore the fact's committed—I've got the names o' four on 'em—no, five—wrote down in my little reader, five werry promisin' coves as is doo for the deed at any moment; I'm a vaitin' for 'em to bring it off, sirs. Lord, I'm a vatchin' over 'em like a feyther an' mother rolled into vun, an' v'en they do commit the deed, I shall appre'end 'em red-'anded an' up they'll go."
"Your methods are highly original, Mr. Shrig," said I, "but do they always work correctly?"
"Ever an' always, sir—barrin' accidents. O' course, there's many a promisin' murderer died afore 'e could do the deed, death 'as no more respect for vould-be murderers than for their wictims. But whenever I sees a cove or covess with the true murderer's face, down goes that cove or covess' name in my little reader, an' I vatches an' vaits for 'em to bring it off, werry patient."
"Have you written down the name of Haredale in your little book?" I enquired.
"Haredale, Mr. Werricker, sir? V'y no, I ain't. V'y should I, sir? Vot ha' you to tell me about any party, name o' Haredale?"
"Only that you will find such a name on the piece of paper you are after."
Mr. Shrig's roving eye fixed me for a moment.
"Haredale?" he muttered, shaking his head, "Haredale?"
At this juncture, with a soft knock on the door, Clegg presented himself, bearing the following letter from my uncle.
MY DEAR PEREGRINE: I am grateful for your forethought, but you may suffer the man to visit me, for the law is the law—besides, the man Shrig is an old acquaintance. Moreover I have learned all I desired from the scrap of paper and it is therefore entirely at Mr. Shrig's service. Should you still be suffering from spleen, liver or the blue devils, go for a gallop on your "Wildfire."
With which salutary advice to yourself and good wishes to your friendMr. Vere-Manville,
"Mr. Shrig," said I, "you have my uncle's permission to wait upon him at once. Sir Jervas is acquainted with you, it seems?"
"Sir Jervas?" repeated Mr. Shrig, reaching down for hat and knobby stick. "Ackvainted? I should say so, sir! A reg'lar bang-up blood, a downright 'eavy toddler—oh, I know Sir Jervas, ackvainted is the werry i-denti-cal name for it! So, with your permission, sir, I'll be padding on my vay."
"You will find him at his chambers in—"
"St. James's Street, nigh opposite to Vite's, Mr. Werricker, sir. Ah many's the drop o' French brandy, glass o' port or sherry as I've drank to the 'ealth o' your uncle in them werry i-dentical chambers, sir. A gent wi' a werry elegant taste in crime is Sir Jervas. No, don't trouble to come down, sir, your young man shall let me out. A reg'lar treasure that 'ere young man o' yours, Mr. Werricker! Good morning, gen'elmen both, my best respex!"
So saying, Mr. Shrig bobbed his head to us in turn, beamed as it might have been in benediction, and took himself away.