CHAPTER XI
WHICH SHOWS THAT MY UNCLE JERVAS WAS RIGHT, AFTER ALL
A fortnight has elapsed and I sit here in my study at Merivale, idlyadding these words to this book of mine which it seems is neverdestined to be finished. As my pen traces these words, I am consciousof the door opening softly, but, pretending absorption in my task, Inever so much as lift my head but glance up surreptitiously to beholdmy aunt Julia, a little pale, her proud, full-lipped mouth not quiteso firm as of old, but handsomer, lovelier than ever in her blackgown, it seems to me.
"O Peregrine, do you really mean to go?"
"I do!"
"Ah, will you run away again, from us--from your duties--will youleave Diana to break her heart?"
"Can hearts break, dear Aunt?"
"Oh, poor Diana, poor child--after all she has done for you--"
"Indeed, Aunt, she has done a great deal for me, I admit--but--"
"You know how she came in the dead of night to warn your uncles ofyour peril--your mad folly? You know this?"
"Yes, yes, dear Aunt," said I, a little impatiently. "I know, too, howmy noble uncles very nearly quarrelled as to which of them should riskhis life for unworthy, miserable me--"
"It was George rode away first that dreadful morning," said my aunt,clasping her shapely hands, "and I shall never forget the look on theface of Jervas when he found that George had stolen away beforehim--poor, brave Jervas!"
"Yes, Aunt! If the place of meeting had not been altered--it wouldhave been--uncle George, perhaps."
"Ah, yes!" sighed my aunt, shuddering and bowing pale face above herclasped hands. "But Diana--saved you, Peregrine."
"At least, Aunt, she caused a better man to die in my stead. As he isto-day, I would be--at rest!"
"Hush, oh, hush, Peregrine, you talk wildly! Indeed, sometimes I thinkyou have never been quite the same since your illness, you are so muchcolder--less kind and gentle. And now you mean to go away again! Whatof the estate--your tenants?"
"Surely I cannot leave them in better, more capable hands than these,dear Aunt Julia!" and stooping, I kissed her slim, white fingers. "Butgo I must--I cannot bear a house; I want space--the open road, woods,the sweet, clean wind!"
"Where shall you go, Peregrine?"
"Anywhere--though first to London."
"And what of your book?"
"I shall never finish it, now!"
"And what of me? Will you leave me lonely? O Peregrine, can you leaveme thus in my sorrow?"
"Hush, dear Aunt--listen!"
Through the open casement stole a soft, small sound--a jingle ofspurs, the monotonous tramp of one who paced solitary upon the terracebelow.
"Your uncle George!" she breathed, her hands clasped themselves anewand into her pale cheeks crept a tinge of warm colour. "I did notexpect--your uncle George today!"
"He is lonely too, Aunt Julia. He does nothing but grieve! Indeed Ithink he is breaking his great generous heart for the brother he lovedand honoured so devotedly."
"Poor--poor George!"
"Being a man of action, uncle George was never much of a talker, asyou know--but he is more silent than ever these days. In London hewould sit all day long in a dreadful apathy, and all night long Iwould hear him go tramping, tramping to and fro in his chamber--"
"O Perry dear--if he could only weep!"
"Aunt Julia, there is but one power on earth could bestow on him suchblessed relief, and that is your love, the certain assurance that youdo love him--the touch of your lips--"
"O Peregrine--oh, hush! Do you mean--" and my goddess-like auntfaltered and sat there, lovely eyes downcast, blushing like the merestgirl.
"Yes, you beautiful Aunt," said I, "this is what I mean--this whosesimple mention has turned you into a girl of sixteen, this wonderfultruth that uncle Jervas had divined already." And I told her of hisdying words: "'You will marry her after all, George--our Julia. I seenow that she always loved you best!'"
"Oh, dear Jervas!" she murmured.
"He has left uncle George who loved him so greatly, verysolitary--listen, dear Aunt!"
Up to us through the open lattice, borne upon the fragrant air, camethat small, soft sound where my uncle George paced ceaselessly to andfro amid the gathering dusk.
"Poor George!" she whispered tenderly.
"He is so--utterly forlorn, Aunt."
"Dear George!"
"And so very much a man, Aunt!"
"And such a child!" she murmured. "So big and strong and such ahelpless baby! Dear George!"
Here I turned to my writing again, heard the door close softly and,glancing up, found myself alone. Then, tossing down my pen, I aroseand from a cupboard reached forth a hat and well-filled knapsack whichlast I proceeded to buckle to my shoulders; this done, I took a stoutstick from a corner and stood ready for my wanderings. Thus equipped,I crossed to the window that I might see if the coast was clear, sinceI meant to steal away with no chance of tears or sorrowful farewells.
They were standing on the terrace in the gathering dusk; as I looked,Aunt Julia reached up and, taking his haggard face between her gentlehands, drew it down lower and lower; and when she spoke, no ear savehis might catch her soft-breathed words.
And then his great arms were fast about her and there broke from him asobbing cry of ecstasy.
"O Julia--at last. He was right then--our Jervas was right!"
And so my uncle George learned to weep at last and found within herloving arms the blessed relief of tears.