"
"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.
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