_ BOOK III. DAWN
CHAPTER II. I GO TO FIND DIANA
Birds were calling their melodious complaint on the passing of another day and the shadows were lengthening when I came to a cross-roads where stood a timeworn finger-post beneath which sat a solitary figure in weather-beaten hat and coat, head bowed over the book opened upon his knees.
Now at sight of this lonely figure I reined in so suddenly that this solitary person glanced up and I saw the white hair, keen eyes and pale, aquiline features of the Earl of Wyvelstoke. At sight of me he closed the book and rose, and in stern features, in every line of his slender, shabby figure was a stately aloofness that chilled me.
"My lord?" said I interrogatively, and taking off my hat, I bowed.
"Ah, Mr. Vereker," he answered, with a slight inclination of his head. "So you come at last. A charming evening. I wish you as well of it as you deserve!" And turning his back, he began to limp away; but in a moment I was off my horse and, hastening after, ventured to touch his arm, then fell back in sheer amazement before the ferocious glare of his eyes; yet his voice was as politely modulated as usual when he spoke:
"Sir, were you any other than Peregrine Vereker--old as I am, I would call you out--and shoot you with peculiar satisfaction--"
"My lord--sir--?" I stammered.
"Sir," he continued, "you will doubtless have very many excellent excuses to offer for your perfectly inexcusable conduct--but doubtless you will at least have the good taste to keep them to yourself. Whatever your reasons, you have been the cause of much pain and very many bitter tears to--to one I hold inexpressibly dear."
"My lord, I--I have been ill--"
"And it is, I believe, mainly owing to her devotion that you still--gladden the world, sir."
"My lord, I am here to--to--give Diana my hand in fulfilment of my promise."
"Are you indeed, Mr. Vereker--you surprise me!"
"To marry her whenever she will, sir."
"Permit me to remark that you are perhaps a little tardy."
"None the less I am here, sir!"
"Your condescension, Mr. Vereker, is somewhat overpowering, such magnanimity I find vastly touching. But Diana, I am assured, had no idea of permitting you thus to immolate yourself on the altar of duty."
"That, my lord, by your favour, I mean to learn from her own lips--at once."
"Impossible, sir!" he retorted, smiling bitterly. "Quite--quite impossible."
"Impossible, my lord--impossible? Pray what--sir, what do you mean?" I stammered.
"That if indeed you are minded--a little late in the day perhaps--but if--after very mature deliberation--you at last think fit to fulfil your pledge to Diana, it will of course be necessary that you first discover her present whereabouts."
"Is she not here at Wyvelstoke with you, my lord?"
"Emphatically not, sir!"
"Then she is with Mrs. Vere-Manville at Nettlestead or in London--at least I will go there--at once."
"Then you will waste your time, sir. Diana has disappeared."
"Disappeared? Ah, you mean she has gone--run away? Pray, my lord, pray when--when did she go?"
His lordship looked at me keenly a while and when he spoke his voice seemed less harsh:
"The news would seem to disturb you, sir?"
"Beyond words, sir. Henceforth I shall know little rest until I find her. Pray when did she leave you--and how?"
"She fled--yesterday morning--stole from Wyvelstoke before daybreak--she was seen by one of the keepers stealing away in the dawn. She fled away to--hide her grief--leaving behind all her jewels and--a very--solitary, very old--man. She was all I had--my comrade, my Penthesilea--my loved daughter--"
His lordship's voice broke upon the word, his usually upright figure seemed suddenly bowed and shrunken, he looked indeed a very grief-stricken, decrepit old man as he stood fumbling in the pockets of his shabby coat, whence he presently drew a letter that shook and rustled in his fingers as he unfolded it.
"She left this also, sir," he continued with an evident effort, "pray read it--you will find some mention of--breaking hearts the which should interest you a little--read it, sir!"
So I took the letter and saw it was this:
DEAREST PAL AND NOBLEST OF MEN:
My poor heart is breaking, I think, and knowing how true I and deep is your love for me I would not have you see my pain. So I have run away from you awhile--fled away to the Silent Places like the poor, hurt creature I am. There I mean to hide until my wound is a little healed and then I shall come back to you, my dear, that I may surround you with my love and teach you how inexpressibly dear you are to
Your would-be daughter and ever loving, grateful,
DIANA.
"Has she money, sir?" I enquired, returning the letter.
"Very, very little, I fear."
"Then she cannot have gone very far."
"Ah, Peregrine--" the proud, old head drooped and the hand that crept upon my dusty coat sleeve was very thin and tremulous; "ah, Peregrine, if you love her, find her again--find her for Love's sake--and the sake of a desolate--heartsick--old man!"
"Sir," I answered, covering this twitching hand with my own, "I will--bring her back to you--if I have to travel the world over--I will find her if it takes me all my life and every penny I possess!"
Then, mounting my horse, I swung him round and galloped away without further word of farewell or so much as one backward glance. _