THE FIRST VOICE. She will be my wife!

THE SECOND VOICE. So God pity her.

THE FIRST VOICE. Come what will, she shall not leave me! I cannot, will not part with her!

"Why, Peregrine!" exclaimed a sweet voice. "My dear--my dear, what is it? Why do you sit here sighing with your dear head between your hands--this head that I love so! Peregrine dear, what is it?"

She was beside me on her knees, had drawn my face upon her bosom, and I thrilled to the soft caress of her mouth and the touch of her gentle fingers in my hair. "Why are you so troubled, my Peregrine?"

"O Diana! Beloved, I imagined a foolish thing--that being far from me you forgot our love--these dear Silent Places, and learned--to love--some one more worthy--more generous--altogether better than I. For Diana--I am--"

"My Peregrine!" she whispered passionately. "My brave lover that is so fine a gentleman he don't know anything of evil and has treated me always as if I was a proud lady--as if I was a very holy thing instead of only a gipsy girl to be kissed and--and--oh, you are so different--and so it is I love you--love you, worship you, and--all'us shall, my Peregrine, and long and yearn to be a lady for your sake and worthy of you--"

"O child," I whispered, "my Diana--hush! You don't know how vilely, basely selfish I am really--"

"Never--ah, never say so, Peregrine, it hurts me. There now, smile! I wouldn't ha' left you all the afternoon--not even wi' our pal--no, not even to try on my wedding gown if I'd thought you'd ha' grieved. Come, dear, Jessamy's back an' ready for you with the muffles--there, he be calling!"

So I arose, but stood a while to look into her eyes that met mine with such sweet frankness.

"And you still wish to learn all those graces and refinements that make what is called a lady, my Diana?"

"Yes," she answered, a little breathlessly. "Yes--oh, more than ever--more than anything else in life--except you--"

"Then--God helping, you shall!" said I, between shut teeth. And so we went on together.

"But, Peregrine," she questioned a little wistfully, "dear Peregrine, why is your face so stern and why must you sigh still?"

"Because to be unselfish is sometimes--an agony, Diana."

"Dear heart--what do you mean?"

"Only I know now that I do most truly love you."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A CRUCIFIXION

"Where are you taking me, Peregrine?"

Birds were singing joyously, the brook chuckled and laughed merrily amid the shallows, the morning sun shone in glory, and all nature seemed to rejoice, as if care and sadness were things unknown.

"Where are we going, dear Peregrine?"

"To seek your heart's desire."

"That sounds very lovely!" said Diana, laughing gaily and giving my arm a little hug. "But everything seems so--wonderful lately!"

After this we walked in silence awhile, for when I would have told her whither we were going and why, I could not, try how I would.

"Barbara was telling me how she first met you and Anthony; she is very beautiful, don't ye think, Peregrine?"

"Very!"

"So beautiful that I wonder you didn't fall in love wi' her."

"I waited to fall in love with Diana, who is much more beautiful, I think--"

"Do you, Peregrine, do you think so--really?"

Here, of course, I stopped to kiss her.

"The wonder is," said she, "the great wonder is that she didn't fall in love wi' you, Peregrine."

"I'm very glad she didn't! Besides, there's Anthony, so strong and tall and handsome, so altogether different to myself and much more likely to capture a woman's fancy."

"Not all women, Peregrine."

Here she stopped to kiss me.

"Barbara is a much--gentler sort of fine lady than--your aunt, I think--"

"Aunt Julia can be gentle also--sometimes, dear--"

"When she gets her own way, Peregrine!"

"You will learn to love her very much some day, I hope, Diana."

"I hope so--but it'll take her a mighty long time learning to love me, I think," sighed Diana. "Lord, what furious fuss she'll make when she finds out we'm married. Not as I shall care--if you don't, dear. Why, Peregrine--yonder's Wyvelstoke Towers!"

"Yes," said I, "it is there we are going."

"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 lordship 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 hoarsely.

"Old pal," she questioned, glancing from me to his lordship 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 passionate desire?"

"You!" she answered in her sweet, direct fashion.

"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 lordship--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 pass!" 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--?"