_ BOOK II. SHADOW
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 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, the
joie 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. _