CHAPTER VII
CONCERNING THE SONG OF A BLACKBIRD AT EVENING
My uncle Jervas helped me carefully to the armchair by the openlattice and thereafter stood looking down at me with a certain bleakausterity of gaze.
"And you still refuse to hold any communication with her, Peregrine?"
"I do, sir."
"Or to afford her the least explanation, notwithstanding her devouringgrief and distress?"
"Sir--I cannot," I answered, and shivered slightly.
"Do you feel the air too much, Peregrine?"
"Thank you, no, sir. But the topic naturally distresses me!"
"Strange," said my uncle Jervas musingly, "very strange that I shouldbe pleading your gipsy's suit and find you so coldly, mercilesslydetermined to make that pleading vain! You are as stubborn as aVereker and I think a trifle more merciless. Doubtless the reasons foryour so sudden change are sufficient unto yourself, but to yourfriends they are profoundly incomprehensible, nor would I seek toprobe the mystery; you are your own master and judge, and Diana isrich, has London at her feet, and may wed whomsoever she will, andsmall wonder! Indeed, with one exception, she is the mostbewilderingly attractive and altogether beautiful woman I have everhad the happiness to know. So here's an end of the matter, once andfor all. It is a painful topic, as you say; let us talk of otherthings--yourself, for instance. You will be up and about again soon,what do you propose to do with yourself, Peregrine? Now there is yourfriend Vere-Manville playing the devil about town--has not beenentirely sober for a fortnight, I hear--I saw him myself, twice, veryblatantly drunk--"
"Indeed, sir, uncle George mentioned something of this yesterday,though such conduct in Anthony is quite incomprehensible."
"Not content with this, the young fool is gambling desperately, hauntsall the noted hells--I heard he dropped over a thousand recently in afew hours; his recklessness is becoming a byword."
"Good heavens, Uncle! Is he mad?"
"That you may ask him personally. I understand he intends honouringyou with a visit this afternoon. He should be here shortly, unless hehappens to be drunk. You are his friend, Peregrine; talk to him assuch, endeavour to stem the tide of his folly, if only for his youngwife's sake. Curb his madness if you can, it should be an occupationfor your leisure not without interest."
Thus we conversed at large and upon many topics but spoke no furtherregarding her of whom we both were thinking; and thus, I believe, wewere both of us a little relieved to hear a distant "view hallo."
"There rides your friend Vere-Manville, I think, Peregrine, andevidently a trifle hilarious!"
A trampling of hoofs in the paved yard below, and glancing from thewindow I espied Anthony sure enough, who, leaping from the saddle,reeled violently and clutched at the stalwart George to save himself.
"Aha!" he exclaimed, "seems something's matter wi' old mother earth,George--heaving damnably--up and down, George--unless it's my legs.Where's door, George? Aye, there 'tis. Seems dooced small--unless it'smy eyes, George--ha ha!" So he blundered in and heavily up the stair,and after knocking thunderously, entered. At sight of my uncle Jervas,he halted, drew himself very erect and bowed profoundly and with aflourish, and when he spoke his speech was so thick that I dreadedlest he hiccough:
"Your servant, S' Jervas! Hope I see y' well, sir?"
My uncle's bow was extremely stately and distant.
"Peregrine," said he, "seeing you have--enlivening company, I willtake occasion to go and meet your aunt Julia. Mr. Vere-Manville, Iwould venture to impress upon you that my nephew is still very much ofan invalid." So saying, my uncle saluted us in turn with his grandestair and went out, closing the door behind him.
"Thinks I'm drunk, does he!" exclaimed Anthony, scowling after him."Well, what the devil--so I am, damned d-drunk and so much thebetter--"
"So much the worse, Anthony!"
"Tush, you talk like a fool, Perry; better be drunk and forget than besober and a s-suicide--felo--felo-de-se, buried at cross road--stakethrough your inside--devilish unpleasant business--"
"You talk like a madman, Anthony."
"And you like a f-fool, Perry! Here's you come back t' life like afool, instead o' dying comfortably and respectably like--wise man.Here's you hoping and yearning to marry and that's the damndest follyof all. Much better be comfortably dead--"
"For shame, Anthony--for shame!" cried I angrily. "If you have so lostrespect for yourself--at least think of and respect your wife--"
"Wife!" he exclaimed. "My wife!" and springing up out of the chair Isaw him tower above me, clenched hands upflung, his comely featuresdistorted and horribly suffused; then he lurched to the window andleaned, choking, from the lattice. Suddenly his bowed shoulders beganto heave, and I heard him laugh in dreadful manner and when he turnedhis look was demoniac.
"Egad, but you will have your joke, eh, Perry, and devilishfunny--aye, devilish! My wife, says you--ha! ha! says I. You're drunk,says you--I am, says I--so I can laugh, d'ye see--"
"Anthony!" I cried, rising from my chair. "O Anthony, here's more thandrink--dear fellow, in God's name, what is it?" And I grasped at himwith weak but insistent hands.
For a moment he made as if to throw me off, then his long arm wasabout me, his head bowed upon my shoulder, and when he spoke his voicehad lost its wild, mad ring.
"D'ye think I like getting drunk, Perry? But there are worsethings--madness and murder. A bullet would be quick, but I still havehope--sometimes--and death by drink is a slow business, so I've chosendeath by drink--"
"Why, Tony? What is the trouble? Is it--Barbara--your Loveliness?"
"She has never been the same since she came back from abroad, Perry.Some secret trouble--all these weeks it has been getting worse--shehas sometimes seemed afraid of me--of me, Perry! At last I taxed herwith it--begged she'd confide in me. She told me there was nothing,laughed it off and I believed it, like a fool--but that night,Perry--that night, as she slept--and looking pure and holy as one ofGod's angels, she--cried on a name--a man's name. I wokeher--questioned her, begged, implored, commanded--and still shelaughed, but always with the fear in her eyes. And I know she lied!Then I took to watching her and she me--and so it went on until--therewere times when I could have struck her--choked the truth out ofher--O Perry! So I left her--went to London. Oh damnation, d'ye wonderI drink? Better drink myself to the devil than harm her--though drinkwill take a long time to kill me, I'm afraid--"
"Drink never shall, Tony! There, sit down, old fellow, calm yourself,for by heaven I think you are making much out of little--"
"Why did she lie to me?"
"Are you sure she did?"
"Certain!"
"What do you propose to do?"
"Go back to London."
"Then I will accompany you."
"Impossible; you're weak as a confounded rabbit!"
"I'm stronger than I look; I've walked regularly in the garden theselast three days. However, if you go to London, I go too."
"Well, and if so--what could you do?"
"Remind you that a gentleman must endure unflinchingly and suffer withunshaken fortitude."
"Ha, would you preach at me?"
"Day and night, if necessary."
"Would you, begad!"
"I would! Indeed I would make myself a pestilential nuisance to helpmy friend."
"Friend!" he repeated. "Oh, curse and confound it, Perry, if I wasn'tsuch a miserable, hopeless dog, I should be proud of suchfriendship--I am proud of it and always shall be--but here ourcompanionship ends. There's but one course for me, and I intend toride to the devil--alone!"
It was at this moment that the door opened and I rose to my feet,trembling, as Diana stepped into the room. She was clad for riding andher close-fitting habit served only to accentuate the voluptuousbeauty of her form, yet her eyes seemed maidenly and untroubled,wide-opened and serenely steadfast as of old, and this of itselfstirred within me a sullen resentment as she stood looking at me, alittle pale, very wistful, yet rad
iant in her beauty; and when shespoke her voice was untroubled as her look.
"Mr. Vere-Manville, I beg you will leave us awhile!"
Even as she spoke, Anthony bowed, strode to the door and was gonebefore I could stay him.
"Peregrine?"
One word, softly uttered, yet in it a world of pleading--reproach andtroubled wonderment, insomuch that, remembering that accursedblack-bodied chaise, the ring and gossamer veil, my sullen resentmentwaxed to bitter anger, the whole thing seemed so utterly nauseous.
Evening was falling and from one of the trees in the orchard ablackbird was calling to his mate, soft and sweetly plaintive, andnever, to the end of my days, may I hear such without recalling allthe agony of this hour.
We stood very silent, looking upon each other, while the blackbirdpiped in the orchard below; and now I trembled no more, for my angerwas passed and in its stead was a cold and purposeful determination.
"Are you better, Peregrine?" she questioned at last. "More yourself?"
"Thank you, yes."
When next she spoke her voice faltered a little, though her glancenever wavered.
"Peregrine, why--why did you--drive me away? Why refuse to see me?"
"To avoid a painful scene."
"But what should cause a painful scene--between us, Peregrine? Oh, mydear, what is it--what has changed you? Is it your illness?"
"Let us suppose so."
"Have you no--no other explanation to offer me?" she questionedwistfully and stood waiting my answer, drawing her riding gauntlet alittle nervously through her ungloved hand, on the slender finger ofwhich I saw the scarabaeus ring. "Is there, O Peregrine, is there noother explanation?"
"None!" said I savagely, my eyes on that accursed ring. "None!"
"Peregrine--dear," she questioned humbly, "have you learned to--tolove one more--more worthy than I in my absence?"
"God forbid!" I answered. "Love has become for me a thing abhorred andutterly detestable."
"Then God help me," said she in strange, passionless voice, "forwithout your love I shall be desolate!"
"But you are so beautiful--so very beautiful you will never lack forcomfort, you could find scores of noble suitors to-morrow eager andwilling. So why talk of desolation?"
Now at this she shrank a little, staring at me with a dawning horrorin her eyes.
"Peregrine," she whispered, "O Peregrine, can this indeed be you? Myloved Peregrine, my gentleman that was so chivalrous and gentle once,and now to hurt me so wilfully--so bitterly!"
"I am two years older, and--a little wiser, perhaps."
"Two years!" she repeated dully. "Two years I should never have leftyou--it was wrong! And yet--can two years work so great a change inany one? Ah, no, no--this cannot be you--so cold--so hard and cruel!Oh, if we might but have those two years back again when you were yourown dear self and I your loving gipsy girl with no ambition but to beworthy of--just you! O Peregrine, is your love for me truly dead--sosoon?"
As thus she spoke, all pleading, passionate entreaty, she came towardsme with both arms outstretched, her eyes abrim with tears; but,frowning at her ungloved hand, I started back so hurriedly that shestopped and looked at me as if I had struck her; then she shrank away,her proud head drooped, her arms fell and she covered her face. "Thenit is true!" she gasped, "all--dreadfully true." And upon the silencestole the sweetly plaintive notes of the blackbird calling, callingfrom the orchard below.
And as she stood thus, bowed and shaken with her grief, I kept my gazeever upon that betraying scarabaeus ring. Suddenly she raised her headand I saw her tearless but very pale.
"Yes, you are changed," said she, in that strange, passionless tone,"quite changed; your eyes are cold, your face cruel and hard andyet--O dear God!" she cried, "O dear God, I cannot believe your loveis truly dead--how can I? O dear, dear Peregrine, tell me you do loveme still--if only just a little--oh, be merciful, dear--!"
And now indeed she was weeping but, blinded by her tears, choked byher sobs, she yet reached out her arms to me in mute appeal; and itseemed that somehow her tears were blinding me also, her passionatesobs shaking me, for I stood in a mist, groping for the support of mychair-back; indistinctly I heard a voice speak that I knew was mine.
"So you still wear the scarab ring--I've seen it before. But where isyour veil with the gold stars? I did love youonce--worshipped--reverenced your maidenly purity--your bravetruthfulness but--that love is dead--crushed--crushed beneath redwheels, and I would to God I were dead with it. No--if you please,don't touch me--by your leave I will sit--and beg you to excuse me.I--would be alone."
"Ah, Peregrine--beloved, you are crying too!"
"Indeed yes. I grieve that I am not dead."
"But why--why would you be dead, my own?"
"Because--O Diana--I cannot help but--love you after all. And now,pray go--I beseech you, leave me ere the devil break loose and I speakthe unforgivable thing ... Go, I entreat!"
With some such hysterical words as these and blinded by a gush ofweak, unmanly tears, I sent her from me, unheeding alike her piteousentreaties and the clasp of her imploring hands. When she was gone Isank into my chair and suffered my tears to flow unchecked, while theblackbird voiced the agony of loss and disillusionment.
Peregrine's Progress Page 49