"Your uncle George!" she breathed, her hands clasped themselves anew
and into her pale cheeks crept a tinge of warm colour. "I did not
expect--your uncle George today!"
"He is lonely too, Aunt Julia. He does nothing but grieve! Indeed I
think he is breaking his great generous heart for the brother he loved
and honoured so devotedly."
"Poor--poor George!"
"Being a man of action, uncle George was never much of a talker, as
you know--but he is more silent than ever these days. In London he
would sit all day long in a dreadful apathy, and all night long I
would hear him go tramping, tramping to and fro in his chamber--"
"O Perry dear--if he could only weep!"
"Aunt Julia, there is but one power on earth could bestow on him such
blessed relief, and that is your love, the certain assurance that you
do love him--the touch of your lips--"
"O Peregrine--oh, hush! Do you mean--" and my goddess-like aunt
faltered and sat there, lovely eyes downcast, blushing like the merest
girl.
"Yes, you beautiful Aunt," said I, "this is what I mean--this whose
simple mention has turned you into a girl of sixteen, this wonderful
truth that uncle Jervas had divined already." And I told her of his
dying words: "'You will marry her after all, George--our Julia. I see
now that she always loved you best!'"
"Oh, dear Jervas!" she murmured.
"He has left uncle George who loved him so greatly, very
solitary--listen, dear Aunt!"
Up to us through the open lattice, borne upon the fragrant air, came
that small, soft sound where my uncle George paced ceaselessly to and
fro amid the gathering dusk.
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