"Peregrine!" she cried. "Oh, praise God you are
alive--Peregrine--speak to me! Ah--dear God in heaven! What is it?"
And hasting to me, she caught my hand, clasping it to her bosom. "Oh,
what is it, Peregrine?" she whispered.
So I brought her to the settle, and reverently turning back my cloak,
showed her what it had hidden.
"This!" said I. "Look upon your handiwork and go--wanton!"
Uttering a soft, inarticulate cry, she cowered away, shrank back and
back across the room and out into the road beyond.
Then, treading as softly as I might, I crossed the room also and,
closing the door very silently, locked and barred it securely.
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.
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