Peregrine's Progress Part 69

"But why--what for?"

"Dear, have patience--just a little longer," I pleaded.

At this she was silent, but her hand tightened on my arm, and I was aware of the sudden trouble in her eyes. So, having crossed the park, we came into the pleasaunce, a place of clipped yew hedges and trim walks. And here who should meet us but the sedate Atkinson, who, having saluted us gravely, led the way to a rustic arbour where sat his lords.h.i.+p engaged upon the perusal of a book. At sight of us, he rose to welcome us with his wistful, kindly smile.

"Ah, Peregrine," said he, viewing us with his keen gaze as we sat beside him, "I perceive you have not told her."

"Not a word, sir," said I, a little hoa.r.s.ely.

"Old pal," she questioned, glancing from me to his lords.h.i.+p and back again, "what d'ye mean? Peregrine, what is it?"

"Diana," said I, finding my tongue very unready, "dear--what is your greatest wish--what is your most pa.s.sionate desire?"

"You!" she answered in her sweet, direct fas.h.i.+on.

"And--what next?"

"To be a lady! Oh, you know that and you know why--to be done wi' this fear that sometimes I may shame you by my talk or by acting wrong; you know, don't you?"

"This is why I brought you here, Diana. My lord has offered to--have you taught all this and--much beside."

"Oh!" she sighed rapturously. "You mean to teach me to be a lady? Oh, dear, dear old pal--can you, will you?"

"Child, it would be my most joyful privilege."

"But, Diana," I continued haltingly, yet speaking as lightly as I could and keeping my gaze averted, "to learn so much you must--stay with his lords.h.i.+p--travel abroad--meet great people--be instructed by many skilled teachers and--there will be your music--singing--"

"Will they teach me everything a lady should learn, grammar an'

deportment an' dancing--?"

"Everything, Diana."

"But, Peregrine, while I'm away learning all this, where will you be?"

"I shall remain--here!"

"Oh, well, that's done it! I shall stay with you, of course!"

"That would be impossible," said I, as lightly as I could, "quite impossible; such love as ours, that demands so much, would be a great hindrance to your progress, don't you see? All the time you were studying, I should hover around you most distractingly. No, we must part--for a little while--"

"For how long, Peregrine?"

"Only two years, dear!"

"So long--so very long! Two years! Ah, no, no, I couldn't bear it!"

"Two years will--soon pa.s.s!" said I, between clenched teeth. "And of course you will be--too busy to--miss me--very much--"

"Ah, how can you think so?"

"And you will be working for me as much as for your dear self, Diana, and--our love--our future happiness. So you will go, dear heart--?"

"For two years? No--it's too long--you might die--O Peregrine!"

"The contingency is remote--I--I mean--"

"But I can't leave you! I mustn't--I won't! I shall be your wife!"

"No, Diana, that--that must wait until you--come back."

"Wait?" she gasped. "Peregrine--O Peregrine--"

"I want you to be free, Diana--"

"Well, I won't be! I'm not free and never shall be because I belong to you and we belong to each other for ever and ever."

"Oh, my dear--my dear, G.o.d knows it!" cried I and clasped her to me in yearning arms. "But I want you to go into this new life quite free and unfettered, because it is a great and ever-growing wonder that you should love me who am neither very handsome nor strong nor brave--so I want you to meet men who are--fine gentlemen, and compare them with poor me. And O Diana, if you can return so much cleverer and wiser for all you have seen and learned and can still love me--why, then, Diana, oh, then--" my voice broke but in this moment her arms were about me and stooping her lovely head she mingled her tears with mine.

"Dear foolish boy," she murmured pa.s.sionately, "how can you think there could ever be any other but just you. Ah, Perry dear, don't send me away; I should hate to be a lady now. Oh, be content with me as I am--don't send me away--"

"I must--for your sake," I groaned, "for your future, to help you to the better thing. Though G.o.d knows I love you well enough as you are, and want you, Diana, want you with every nerve and fibre of me, with every breath. Oh, sir, sir," I cried, "help me to be strong for--her sake!"

"You are, boy!" answered his lords.h.i.+p, and I saw he had crossed to the doorway and stood with his back to us. "Diana," he continued after a moment, "in this world of change, of doubt and uncertainty, one thing is very sure and beyond all cavil and dispute: Peregrine loves you far better than he loves himself, since he is strong enough to forego so much of present happiness for your future welfare. He honours me by placing you in my charge, I who love you as a daughter and will treat you as such. So, Diana, will you give yourself to my care awhile, will you become my companion and loved child?"

"Must I, Peregrine?" she sobbed. "Oh, must I?"

"Yes!" said I, looking at her through blinding tears. "Yes!"

Obediently she arose and, crossing to his lords.h.i.+p, placed her hand in his.

"I'll go wi' you, old pal," said she.

Now as our Ancient Person turned to smile at her, I saw his furrowed cheek was wet with tears also.

"Sir, when--when do you start?" I enquired.

"At once, Peregrine. We shall be in London to-night."

"Then this is--good-bye, sir?"

"Yes, my children!"

"My lord," said I, rising wearily, "I am leaving with you all I possess, my present joy, my--hope for the future, my loved Diana."

"G.o.d make me worthy of the charge, Peregrine."

All in a moment she was at my feet, upon her knees, her arms fast about me, her face hidden against me, her body shaken with convulsive sobs.