_ BOOK II. SHADOW
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, idly adding these words to this book of mine which it seems is never destined to be finished. As my pen traces these words, I am conscious of the door opening softly, but, pretending absorption in my task, I never so much as lift my head but glance up surreptitiously to behold my aunt Julia, a little pale, her proud, full-lipped mouth not quite so firm as of old, but handsomer, lovelier than ever in her black gown, 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 you leave 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 of your peril--your mad folly? You know this?"
"Yes, yes, dear Aunt," said I, a little impatiently. "I know, too, how my noble uncles very nearly quarrelled as to which of them should risk his 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 the face of Jervas when he found that George had stolen away before him--poor, brave Jervas!"
"Yes, Aunt! If the place of meeting had not been altered--it would have been--uncle George, perhaps."
"Ah, yes!" sighed my aunt, shuddering and bowing pale face above her clasped hands. "But Diana--saved you, Peregrine."
"At least, Aunt, she caused a better man to die in my stead. As he is to-day, I would be--at rest!"
"Hush, oh, hush, Peregrine, you talk wildly! Indeed, sometimes I think you have never been quite the same since your illness, you are so much colder--less kind and gentle. And now you mean to go away again! What of 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. "But go 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 leave me thus in my sorrow?"
"Hush, dear Aunt--listen!"
Through the open casement stole a soft, small sound--a jingle of spurs, the monotonous tramp of one who paced solitary upon the terrace below.
"Your uncle George!" she breathed, her hands clasped themselves anew and into her pale cheeks crept a tinge of warm colour. "I did not expect--your uncle George today!"
"He is lonely too, Aunt Julia. He does nothing but grieve! Indeed I think he is breaking his great generous heart for the brother he loved and honoured so devotedly."
"Poor--poor George!"
"Being a man of action, uncle George was never much of a talker, as you know--but he is more silent than ever these days. In London he would sit all day long in a dreadful apathy, and all night long I would 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 such blessed relief, and that is your love, the certain assurance that you do love him--the touch of your lips--"
"O Peregrine--oh, hush! Do you mean--" and my goddess-like aunt faltered and sat there, lovely eyes downcast, blushing like the merest girl.
"Yes, you beautiful Aunt," said I, "this is what I mean--this whose simple mention has turned you into a girl of sixteen, this wonderful truth that uncle Jervas had divined already." And I told her of his dying words: "'You will marry her after all, George--our Julia. I see now that she always loved you best!'"
"Oh, dear Jervas!" she murmured.
"He has left uncle George who loved him so greatly, very solitary--listen, dear Aunt!"
Up to us through the open lattice, borne upon the fragrant air, came that small, soft sound where my uncle George paced ceaselessly to and fro 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 a helpless 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 arose and from a cupboard reached forth a hat and well-filled knapsack which last I proceeded to buckle to my shoulders; this done, I took a stout stick 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, since I 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 gentle hands, drew it down lower and lower; and when she spoke, no ear save his might catch her soft-breathed words.
And then his great arms were fast about her and there broke from him a sobbing 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 her loving arms the blessed relief of tears. _