CHAPTER IV
I WAIT FOR A CONFESSION
"O Peregrine! My dear--how they have hurt you!"
She was ministering to my scratches and abrasions, and I, sitting onthe old hay-pile, watched her, joying in the gentle touch of herwhite, dexterous hands, her sweet motherliness and all the warm, vitalbeauty of her.
"Child," said I, "don't tremble so--the beasts are gone!"
"Yes, I know--I heard everything, Peregrine. And you down there--allalone--to fight them in the dreadful dark! And I once dared to callyou coward!"
"So I was, Diana. So I am. It was you gave me courage, then andnow--you and--my love for you."
"Your love?" she whispered, and now the tremor was in her voice also.
"It was Love guided me here to-night, Diana--brought me back toyou--for ever and always if--if you will have it so."
"O Peregrine," she sighed, leaning towards me, "my Peregrine, thenyour love for me is not dead as I feared?"
"Nor ever can be," I answered, very conscious of her nearness, "surelytrue love is immortal, Diana."
"You speak rather like a book, Peregrine."
"I quote from your own letter, Diana."
"And this--strange love of yours, Peregrine, that I feared dead, hascome to life again because you know at last how cruelly you misjudgedme--you are here because you have found out?"
"I have found out nothing."
"Then--oh--why, then, you still think evil of me?"
"I love you!" said I, leaning towards her, for she had drawn from me alittle. "I love you--more than ever, I think, yes, indeed it must beso--because I am here to shield you with my care--to make you mywife."
"Wife?" she whispered, shrinking yet farther from me. "Your wife? Youwould marry me in my--vileness--doubting my honour?"
"Your honour shall be mine, henceforth."
Now at this she sat back to regard me beneath wrinkled brows; once herscarlet mouth quivered, though whether she would weep or no I knewnot, but before the sweet directness of her eyes I felt strangelyabashed and knew again that old consciousness of futility.
"O Peregrine," she sighed at last, "how very--foolishly blind you are,how hopelessly masculine, and how nobly generous--my proud gorgiogentleman!" And stooping, she caught my hand ere I knew and kissed itpassionately.
"O Diana!" I exclaimed, very ill at ease. "Why do--so?"
"Because--oh, my dear--because you would stoop to lift your poor,stained Diana from the depths and cover her shame with your love!Because, thinking me vile, you would still honour me with your name.Oh, my Peregrine, you love me more--much more than I ever daredhope--better than even you know!" And rising, she gave herself to myeager arms.
"O Diana," I murmured, "how wonderful you are!"
"Last time we met you called me--wanton!" she whispered.
"I was mad!" cried I remorsefully. "And yet--"
"And yet--you meant it, dear Peregrine! And tonight I am here uponyour heart--oh, wonderful--kiss your wanton again--"
"Ah--hush!" I pleaded. "Don't--don't say it."
"Ah, Peregrine, beloved--don't think it!"
"But Diana," I groaned, "oh, my Diana, I saw you with--"
"Hush!" she whispered suddenly. "There is somebody moving downbelow--listen!"
From the pitchy gloom beneath came a heavy tread and a deep,long-drawn sigh; but even so I knew a happiness beyond all expressionto feel how she nestled closer into my embrace as if seekingprotection there.
"Are you afraid, my Diana?"
"Nothing could ever frighten me--here!" she whispered. And then theplace suddenly reechoed with a loud whinnying.
"My horse--I had forgotten him!" said I. And then, as she stirredsighfully, I stooped and kissed her, ere, loosing her, I rose. "I'llgo and make him comfortable for the night."
"And I will make you a bed, Peregrine."
"It will be like old times," said I.
"Yes--though we didn't--kiss each other--then, Peregrine," said she,looking at me with a glory in her eyes. "Ah, no--not again--look atthe candle, it will be out in a minute or two and I haven'tanother--so hurry, dear."
Forthwith I descended into the dimness below and finding the horse,loosed off saddle and bridle; this done, I closed the doors and wasmaking them as secure as might be when I heard her calling:
"Be quick, Perry, the candle is going out!"
So I climbed up the ladder and, drawing it after me, closed thetrap--and as I did so, the light flickered and vanished; but, guidedby her voice, I stumbled through the dark and, finding the hay-pile,lay down. And then, all at once, I began to tremble, for there rushedupon me the conviction that, lying thus beside me so near I might havetouched her, yet hidden thus in the kindly dark, she was nervingherself to the confession of that which must be pain to speak andagony to hear; thus, tense and expectant, I stared upon the gloom,waiting--waiting for her voice and resolved that I would be mercifulin my judgment of her.
Thus moment after moment dragged by and I in a very fever ofanticipation, waiting--listening--At last she stirred, but instead ofthe broken, pleading murmur I expected, I heard a long, blissful sigh,a rustle of the hay as she settled herself more cosily, and when shespoke her voice sounded actually slumberous:
"Are you comfortable, Peregrine?"
"Thank you--yes."
"Yet you--sound very restless. What is it, dear?"
"O Diana--have you--nothing to--to tell me?"
"You mean--to confess? No, dear."
"Nothing?" I groaned.
"Only to bid you not worry your dear, foolish head over trifles--"
"Trifles?" I gasped, sitting up in my amazement. "Trifles?"
"Silly trifles!" said she with a strange, little, tremulous laugh."You came seeking me. You wish to make me your wife because your loveis nobler, greater than you or I ever dreamed. And I am yours, and weare together at last and this--this is all that can possibly matter tous--Fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies--was thatso very much to pay for me? Do you regret your purchase?"
"No."
"Then--have faith in your love for me, Peregrine. Give me your hand inmine--this dear hand that fought for me and would lift poor me out ofthe shameful mire. And now, good night, beloved--now, shut your eyes!Are they closed?"
"Yes, Diana."
"Then go to sleep."
And with this cool, soft hand clasping mine, I sank at last into ablessed slumber.
Peregrine's Progress Page 59