"Dead, George?" questioned my uncle Jervas faintly.
"Dead, Jervas!"
"The right eye, George--I think?"
"Yes, Jervas. How is it with you, dear old fellow?"
"Very well--I'm going on--ahead of you, George. Don't--don't grieve,
George--'t is none so terrible. And the great conundrum is answered,
the mystery is solved, George--I mean--our Julia--she will--marry you,
George, after all--I think she always loved you--best. God bless
you--both! And Peregrine--my dear lad--your gipsy--a strong--angel of
God--Diana--" and with this word his noble spirit passed.
And thus even death was denied me and I, it seemed, was doomed to be
no more than an idle spectator.
I remember helping to bear him back to the "Anchor" Inn--laying him
reverently upon a settle. And then, because I could not bear to see
him so pale and still and silent, I covered him with my cloak.
I remember the tears wet upon Anthony's haggard face and my uncle
George crouched in a chair, clenched fists beneath square chin,
staring wide-eyed on vacancy.
"Dead!" he exclaimed in an agonised half-whisper. "I mean to say he's
dead, d'ye see. Jervas--dead--seems so impossible! If it could only
have been me--it wouldn't ha' mattered so much, d'ye see. There never
was any one like old Jervas. And now he's--dead, my God!" The agonised
whispering ceased and silence fell that was almost as terrible. But
suddenly upon this awful hush broke a sound of wheels--quick
footsteps; then the door swung open and Diana stood upon the
threshold.
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