_ BOOK II. SHADOW
CHAPTER VII. CONCERNING THE SONG OF A BLACKBIRD AT EVENING
My uncle Jervas helped me carefully to the armchair by the open lattice and thereafter stood looking down at me with a certain bleak austerity 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 devouring grief 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 should be pleading your gipsy's suit and find you so coldly, mercilessly determined to make that pleading vain! You are as stubborn as a Vereker and I think a trifle more merciless. Doubtless the reasons for your so sudden change are sufficient unto yourself, but to your friends they are profoundly incomprehensible, nor would I seek to probe the mystery; you are your own master and judge, and Diana is rich, has London at her feet, and may wed whomsoever she will, and small wonder! Indeed, with one exception, she is the most bewilderingly attractive and altogether beautiful woman I have ever had the happiness to know. So here's an end of the matter, once and for all. It is a painful topic, as you say; let us talk of other things--yourself, for instance. You will be up and about again soon, what do you propose to do with yourself, Peregrine? Now there is your friend Vere-Manville playing the devil about town--has not been entirely sober for a fortnight, I hear--I saw him myself, twice, very blatantly 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, haunts all the noted hells--I heard he dropped over a thousand recently in a few hours; his recklessness is becoming a byword."
"Good heavens, Uncle! Is he mad?"
"That you may ask him personally. I understand he intends honouring you with a visit this afternoon. He should be here shortly, unless he happens to be drunk. You are his friend, Peregrine; talk to him as such, endeavour to stem the tide of his folly, if only for his young wife's sake. Curb his madness if you can, it should be an occupation for your leisure not without interest."
Thus we conversed at large and upon many topics but spoke no further regarding her of whom we both were thinking; and thus, I believe, we were both of us a little relieved to hear a distant "view hallo."
"There rides your friend Vere-Manville, I think, Peregrine, and evidently a trifle hilarious!"
A trampling of hoofs in the paved yard below, and glancing from the window 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's my 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 a flourish, and when he spoke his speech was so thick that I dreaded lest 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 will take occasion to go and meet your aunt Julia. Mr. Vere-Manville, I would venture to impress upon you that my nephew is still very much of an invalid." So saying, my uncle saluted us in turn with his grandest air 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 the better--"
"So much the worse, Anthony!"
"Tush, you talk like a fool, Perry; better be drunk and forget than be sober and a s-suicide--felo--felo-de-se, buried at cross road--stake through 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 a fool, instead o' dying comfortably and respectably like--wise man. Here's you hoping and yearning to marry and that's the damndest folly of all. Much better be comfortably dead--"
"For shame, Anthony--for shame!" cried I angrily. "If you have so lost respect for yourself--at least think of and respect your wife--"
"Wife!" he exclaimed. "My wife!" and springing up out of the chair I saw him tower above me, clenched hands upflung, his comely features distorted and horribly suffused; then he lurched to the window and leaned, choking, from the lattice. Suddenly his bowed shoulders began to heave, and I heard him laugh in dreadful manner and when he turned his look was demoniac.
"Egad, but you will have your joke, eh, Perry, and devilish funny--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 than drink--dear fellow, in God's name, what is it?" And I grasped at him with weak but insistent hands.
For a moment he made as if to throw me off, then his long arm was about me, his head bowed upon my shoulder, and when he spoke his voice had lost its wild, mad ring.
"D'ye think I like getting drunk, Perry? But there are worse things--madness and murder. A bullet would be quick, but I still have hope--sometimes--and death by drink is a slow business, so I've chosen death 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--she has sometimes seemed afraid of me--of me, Perry! At last I taxed her with 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 of God's angels, she--cried on a name--a man's name. I woke her--questioned her, begged, implored, commanded--and still she laughed, 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--there were times when I could have struck her--choked the truth out of her--O Perry! So I left her--went to London. Oh damnation, d'ye wonder I drink? Better drink myself to the devil than harm her--though drink will 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 these last 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 with unshaken 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 help my friend."
"Friend!" he repeated. "Oh, curse and confound it, Perry, if I wasn't such a miserable, hopeless dog, I should be proud of such friendship--I am proud of it and always shall be--but here our companionship ends. There's but one course for me, and I intend to ride 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 and her close-fitting habit served only to accentuate the voluptuous beauty of her form, yet her eyes seemed maidenly and untroubled, wide-opened and serenely steadfast as of old, and this of itself stirred within me a sullen resentment as she stood looking at me, a little pale, very wistful, yet radiant in her beauty; and when she spoke 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 gone before I could stay him.
"Peregrine?"
One word, softly uttered, yet in it a world of pleading--reproach and troubled wonderment, insomuch that, remembering that accursed black-bodied chaise, the ring and gossamer veil, my sullen resentment waxed to bitter anger, the whole thing seemed so utterly nauseous.
Evening was falling and from one of the trees in the orchard a blackbird was calling to his mate, soft and sweetly plaintive, and never, to the end of my days, may I hear such without recalling all the agony of this hour.
We stood very silent, looking upon each other, while the blackbird piped in the orchard below; and now I trembled no more, for my anger was 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 glance never 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, my dear, 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 questioned wistfully and stood waiting my answer, drawing her riding gauntlet a little nervously through her ungloved hand, on the slender finger of which I saw the scarabaeus ring. "Is there, O Peregrine, is there no other explanation?"
"None!" said I savagely, my eyes on that accursed ring. "None!"
"Peregrine--dear," she questioned humbly, "have you learned to--to love one more--more worthy than I in my absence?"
"God forbid!" I answered. "Love has become for me a thing abhorred and utterly detestable."
"Then God help me," said she in strange, passionless voice, "for without your love I shall be desolate!"
"But you are so beautiful--so very beautiful you will never lack for comfort, you could find scores of noble suitors to-morrow eager and willing. So why talk of desolation?"
Now at this she shrank a little, staring at me with a dawning horror in her eyes.
"Peregrine," she whispered, "O Peregrine, can this indeed be you? My loved 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 left you--it was wrong! And yet--can two years work so great a change in any 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 your own dear self and I your loving gipsy girl with no ambition but to be worthy of--just you! O Peregrine, is your love for me truly dead--so soon?"
As thus she spoke, all pleading, passionate entreaty, she came towards me with both arms outstretched, her eyes abrim with tears; but, frowning at her ungloved hand, I started back so hurriedly that she stopped 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. "Then it is true!" she gasped, "all--dreadfully true." And upon the silence stole the sweetly plaintive notes of the blackbird calling, calling from the orchard below.
And as she stood thus, bowed and shaken with her grief, I kept my gaze ever upon that betraying scarabaeus ring. Suddenly she raised her head and 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 and yet--O dear God!" she cried, "O dear God, I cannot believe your love is truly dead--how can I? O dear, dear Peregrine, tell me you do love me still--if only just a little--oh, be merciful, dear--!"
And now indeed she was weeping but, blinded by her tears, choked by her sobs, she yet reached out her arms to me in mute appeal; and it seemed that somehow her tears were blinding me also, her passionate sobs shaking me, for I stood in a mist, groping for the support of my chair-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 is your veil with the gold stars? I did love you once--worshipped--reverenced your maidenly purity--your brave truthfulness but--that love is dead --crushed--crushed beneath red wheels, 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 speak the unforgivable thing ... Go, I entreat!"
With some such hysterical words as these and blinded by a gush of weak, unmanly tears, I sent her from me, unheeding alike her piteous entreaties and the clasp of her imploring hands. When she was gone I sank into my chair and suffered my tears to flow unchecked, while the blackbird voiced the agony of loss and disillusionment. _