CHAPTER I
THE INCIDENTS OF AN EARLY MORNING WALK
I remember waking to find myself very miserable in a ghastly dawn,where guttering candles flickered in their sockets, casting anunearthly light upon bottles, silverware, and more bottles that stoodor lay amidst overturned and broken glasses; an unseemly jumble thatlittered a long table whose rumpled cloth was plentifully besplashedwith spilled wine and flanked by empty chairs.
Into my drugged consciousness stole a sound that might have been windin trees, or a mill race, or some industrious artisan busied with asaw, yet which I knew could be none of these, and my drowsy puzzlementgrew. Therefore I roused myself with some vague notion of solving thismystery and turned to behold in this ghastly light a ghostly face; ahandsome 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 asever.
"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 ofage but once in one's lifetime."
"It is, sir!" I groaned. "Pray what--what is that sound, sir--somonotonous and--damnable?"
"It is rather an aggregation of sounds, emanating in unison from yourgood 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 'emin tears!"
"It was a dreadful night, sir."
"It was a night of nights, Peregrine. I remember only one to equalit."
"And that, sir?"
"Your father's coming of age. But talking of ghosts, Perry, I almostfancied I saw one--no longer ago than last night--on my way here. Butthen I don't believe in ghosts--and this one was seated in a closedcarriage and accompanied by a rather handsome young woman--and she wasweeping, 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--yethere 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 thingsbest 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, awholly unnecessary precaution, we took our hats and surtouts andstepped out into an empty street swept by a clean, soft wind thatcooled my throbbing temples, and my sick heaviness was lifted somewhatin 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 Ithought."
"You are sufficiently dissipated, I trust?"
"I endeavour to be, sir. Her Grace of Camberhurst shakes her head overme, though I do my best--"
"Does it require so great an effort?"
"Somewhat, sir. You see, I find dissipation a particularly wearisomebusiness."
"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. Suchimpeccable virtue naturally suggests an early death--a harp--a halo!And yet you appear to enjoy robust health. Pray to what do youattribute your so great immunity from those pleasant weaknesses thatare so frequently a concomitant of strength and youthful vigour--thosecharming follies, bewitching foibles that a somewhat rigorousconvention stigmatises as vices--abhorrent word!"
"You mean, sir, what excuse do I offer for not being politely viciousas seems so much the fashion?"
"I confess you puzzle me, boy, for you are anything but an angel inpantaloons. I have occasionally thought to remark in you a hint ofunplumbed deeps--of passions as hot and fierce as--"
"Your own, Uncle Jervas?" At this he turned to glare at me ratherhaughtily, 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 Iask?"
"One, sir."
"Hum! You know that the Earl of Wyvelstoke has made her his ward andheiress, 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 holdsa great reception at his place in town, a fortnight from to-day, Ithink?"
"Yes, sir."
"And in the space of two years you have received one letter from yourbeautiful gipsy?"
"Only one, sir! Though his lordship has kept me informed as to herwelfare 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--howendure without faith?"
"Yours is a strange love, Peregrine, exceeding patient andlong-suffering! You practically compelled her to--accept hislordship'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 fewfriends, he writes to me also--occasionally. You are an immenselyconfiding 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 havewrought no change, think you?"
"Only for the better, sir!"
"Oh, the sublime assurance of Youth!" murmured my uncle. "Have you nodoubt of yourself, now that you are no longer the--the--ah--'onlyRichmond in the field'?"
Here, though I strove to speak, I could not, but walked with headbowed, 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 bedisappointed, and therefore take the liberty to annoy you with mydismal croakings, if I may--shall I proceed?"
"Pray do, sir!"
"Then, Peregrine, I would warn you that, considering her new attitudetowards life, her very altered views upon the world in general, it isonly to be expected your gipsy may find you very different from herfirst estimation of you--"
"Ah, there it is, sir--there it is!" I groaned. "The haunting fearthat 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 m
e, sir,--don't!"
"The ordinary, impassioned youth, under such unpleasantly frequentcircumstances, Peregrine, would seek oblivion in bottles or flyinstantly to all manner of riot and dissipation and be cured sooner orlater--but you? Knowing what I do of your devilishly intense nature, Imust admit I am a little disquieted. You see, Peregrine, I havelearned, though I grant you a little painfully, still I have learnedat last to--ah--to care for you so much that your unhappiness wouldaffect me--rather cursedly, boy--yes, rather cursedly."
"Uncle Jervas," said I, "indeed--indeed I am proud to have won youresteem; I shall endeavour to be worthy of it."
"Why then, Nephew," said he, slipping his arm into mine, "whateverdamnable buffets Fate sees fit to deal you, whatever disappointmentsare in store, you will of course meet them with a serenefortitude--eh, boy?"
"You may trust me, sir. Not," I continued hastily "not that Ianticipate 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 withtheir groves and walks, their fountains, temples and grottoes, we wenton beside the river, I talking of Diana, my uncle listening, and bothwatching the sun rise over the great city, to gild vane andweathercock of countless spires and steeples and make a broad-bosomedglory of the noble river. Suddenly my uncle halted to point before himwith tasselled cane where two rough-looking men, unconscious of ourapproach, were crouched among the sedge beside the water.
"Let us see what these fellows are doing!" said he. So we advanceduntil, being very near, we halted, for now indeed we saw only toowell.
She lay where they had dragged her, just above the hungry tide, aslender, pitiful thing, young and beautiful, yet now dreadfully paleand still, shrouded in her long, wet tresses; a mute and beautifulthing, all heedless now of the rough hands that touched her, or thekindly sun's tender beam that showed the pitiful droop of pallid lipsand motionless lashes, and the slender fingers of the small, righthand clenched in death. Even now, as I stood bareheaded, my breath incheck, one of the fellows grasped this hand, wrenched open thesedelicate fingers with brutal strength, and finding within them only awisp of crumpled paper, swore a hoarse oath of baffled cupidity thatchanged to a howl as my uncle's cane rapped him smartly acrossbull-neck.
"Detestable savage!" exclaimed my uncle, scowling down into the man'sstartled 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 paperto my uncle, who, without glancing at it, took off his hat and bowedhis head.
"Poor soul!" he sighed gently, his impassive face transfigured by anextraordinary tenderness. "Poor frightened, weary soul--so young, sovery young, and now fled--whither? Poor--poor child--Stop! Keep yourbeastly hands off her!" This to the bull-necked fellow, who flinchedand drew away, snarling.
"Lumme, me lord!" whined the second man, a small, mean person. "What'sye 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 shecame ashore. She b'longs t' us, me lord, as Job'll swear--to diskivera corp' means money, an' corpses, 'specially sich pretty 'uns, don'tcome 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 shortand sprang, an open knife in his hand; my uncle Jervas stepped lightlyaside, his long arm shot out, and the bull-necked man went downheavily; he was in the act of rising when my uncle set his foot uponthe man's knife-hand, placidly crushed and crushed it until he roared,until the gripping fingers relaxed their hold, whereupon my unclekicked 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 finesurtout, 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," answeredthe 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 smallwaterside tavern, whose inmates my uncle peremptorily awakened, andsoon had forth a gruff, sleepy fellow to show the way and unlock atumble-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 coldand shivering. At last I heard the doors close and turning, beheld myuncle's tall, immaculate figure striding towards me.
"A sad sight, Perry, a dismal, woeful sight--and on such a gloriousmorning. Come, let us go." So saying, he put on his hat, sternlyrefusing the offer of my outer coat, and taking my arm, we began toretrace 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 tome 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 ofthe name in London. Do you, Peregrine?"
"No, sir!" I answered. "No--and yet--it seems as if--yes, I have heardit, Uncle, but not in London. I heard it mentioned two years ago--in awood. It was spoken by a scoundrel who named himself Haredale thoughLord Wyvelstoke addressed him as--Devereux!"
"Devereux!" said my uncle in so strange a tone that I lifted my gazefrom the scrawled name and saw that he had removed his hat again andwas staring at me with an expression as strange as his voice, his eyesfixed and intent as though they stared at things I could not see, browwrinkled, 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 thatscrap of paper, Nephew. Thanks! Now let us go on. Your headache isbetter, 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 onewith a zest of life, the _joie de vivre_--though I will admit Iam seldom abroad at this hour."
Now despite his light tone, I noticed two things, his eyes were stillfixed and intent and a thin trickle of moisture gleamed beneath hishat brim.
"Poor child!" sighed my uncle. "Let us hope her bruised spirit hasfound rest, a surcease from all troubles. Let us hope she has foundthe Infinite Happiness if there be such in the Great Beyond.Haredale--hum! Have you any recollection of this man, Perry; hislooks, air, voice--could you describe him?"
"He was tall, sir, as yourself, or very nearly--looked younger thanhis years--a cold, imperturbable man, dark, but of pale complexion,with deep-set eyes that seemed to glow strangely. A man of iron willwho fronted Lord Wyvelstoke unflinchingly even after his arm was shotand 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 throughstreets beginning to stir with the busy life of a new day.
Reaching my uncle's chambers in St. James's Street, he paused in thedoorway to glance up and down the street with that same expression offixed intensity, that faraway look of absorption.
"This," said he, speaking almost as with an effort, "this has beena--somewhat eventful walk of ours, Pe
regrine. I will not invite you tobreakfast, remembering you have guests of your own. Au revoir."
"Uncle Jervas," said I, as we clasped hands, "this has indeed been aneventful walk, for to-day I have learned to know you better than Iever expected, or dared to hope--sir, are you ill?" I questionedanxiously, for despite that trickle of moisture at his temple, thehand I held felt deadly cold and nerveless. "Are you ill, sir?"
"Never better, Perry!" he laughed, clapping me lightly on theshoulder. "Get you to your guests. And by the by--talking of ghostsand grimly spectres--egad, Perry, I almost believe they do haunt thissorry world, sometimes!" So saying, he laughed, turned, and was gone,leaving me to stare after him in anxious wonderment.