"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.
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