Peregrine's Progress Part 83

"Child!"

She raised a haggard face, its youthful beauty distorted by horror, its pallid cheeks stained with mire, and I blenched before the look in these wide eyes.

"Don't touch me!" she whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "Don't look at me--I can't abide it--go away--let me die--"

"Child, where is your home?"

"None!" she whispered. "None! I durs'n't go back ... now. Oh, never no more ... they made me drunk ... when I woke ... ah, don't look at me ... I wish the sun 'ud go out for ever ... If I could only die!... I fought them as long as I could.... Oh, kill me, G.o.d.... I want to be dead ... but I want Tom first ... my Tom ... I want him to know 't weren't ... my fault. O Tom dear, Tom as I loved ... how can I tell 'ee. O G.o.d, I want to be dead!"

"Come, child," said I gently. "Come with me, you shall be safe, sheltered for to-night, and in the morning Tom shall be found for you--"

"Ah, no, no!" she panted, shrinking from my touch. "You're a man too--let me die!"

"Poor girl, poor child," said I, "there is an inn near by and a good woman to comfort you, come, you shall be safe, I swear, and find your Tom--"

Despite her feeble struggles, I got her afoot and half-led, half-carried her along that tortuous path and so at last out of that evil wood. Afar, across the meadows, I spied the chimneys of the "Soaring Lark" and, though dawn was not broken, to my joyful wonder saw its hospitable windows aglow and the beam of a moving light in the yard.

How we accomplished the distance I do not know, but we reached the inn at last and beheld a lanthorn borne by a stalwart form.

"Who's yon?" demanded a gruff voice.

"George," I panted, "if that's you--bear a hand with this poor girl--quick, she's swooning--"

"Why, Mr. Vereker!" exclaimed George's astonished voice, and next moment the fainting girl was caught up in powerful arms and borne into the inn kitchen, I staggering after.

"Mary--Moll--O Mary, old woman!"

A patter of quick feet upon the stair and George's Mary came running, seeming as bonny and buxom as ever, despite her scant _deshabille_, as she bent above the swooning girl.

"Poor maid--out i' the storm an' clemmed wi' cold an' 'unger, poor la.s.s! Bring her upstairs--our warm bed, Jarge--an' then brandy, lad, an' the kettle on th' fire--up wi' you!"

Left alone, I filled the kettle from a bucket in a corner, and setting it upon the fire, drew up a chair and sat to dry my clothes and warm my s.h.i.+vering limbs, and presently, what with my weariness and the fire's comfort, began to nod. Opening unwilling eyes, I found George beside me, holding a steaming gla.s.s to my lips, and now felt myself deathly cold and s.h.i.+vering in every limb.

"Drink it, sir--hot rum an' a slice o' lemon--nought like it--drink it. Lord, Mr. Vereker, sir--'ere be a go sure-ly!" he exclaimed, smiling and nodding, as I sipped the fragrant beverage. "Awhile agone comes an 'orse into the yard, a-stampin' and a-neighin', so up I jumps and looks out o' winder. 'Lord, old woman,' I sez, 'yonder's Mr.

Vereker's Wildfire,' I sez, 'I'd know 'im anywheers,' I sez; 'but what beats me,' I sez, 'there ain't Mr. Vereker.' So down I comes, rubs down the 'oss, takes the lanthorn an' is about to start lookin' for you when in you comes an' wi' you this poor la.s.s--so wot I says now is, Lord, Mr. Vereker, sir, 'ere 's a go, sure-ly!"

"It is!" said I. "What of the girl, poor soul?"

"All right, Mr. Vereker, sir--she'm wi' my old woman, y' see, consequently she'll be right as ninepence in the morning, bless your 'eart, sir."

"I doubt it, George. You see, I found her--in the pine wood yonder, close beside that d.a.m.nable gate in the wall."

"Did ye so, sir, did ye so?" said he in altered voice. Then, clenching his brawny fists, he raised frowning eyes to a bayonet above the mantel, a long, deadly-looking thing that glittered with constant cleaning. "Ah, by G.o.d!" he growled fiercely, "by G.o.d, Mr. Vereker, sir--there's them as I'd like t' have wrigglin' their beastly lives out on the end o' my old bagnet--"

"Hot water, Jarge!" commanded the buxom Mary from the stairs.

"Comin', old woman--comin'! Get a nap, Mr. Vereker, sir; your wet clo'es won't hurt 'ee now--I've slep' in wetter many a time in the Peninsula--nothin' like rum took 'ot an' plenty on 't sir. Comin,' old woman--comin'!" and whisking the heavy kettle from the fire, he nodded and hurried up the stair.

CHAPTER VI

I AM HAUNTED OF EVIL DREAMS

Either George was of different fibre to me, or the rum had been neither hot enough nor sufficiently strong, for on awaking I found myself full of pain, the least movement an agony, my head throbbing woefully and I burning with fever.

George looked at me and, shaking his head, hurried for his wife, who, having taken my pulse and felt my brow, clucked over me like a distressed and motherly hen and ordered me immediately to bed, whither, after some argument and faint reluctance on my part, I was promptly conducted by the indefatigable George, and where, having been duly physicked by his Mary, I sank to a restless slumber. And now ensued a dim period of troubled dreams and horrible nightmares.

I awoke to find my chamber full of the glow of evening; through the open lattice breathed an air sweet with a perfume of flowers; borne to my drowsy hearing stole a mingling of soothing, homely sounds, the snort of a horse from the stable, the clucking of hens, the faint rattle of a pail, to all of which peaceful sounds I hearkened in lazy content and with no desire to move. Vaguely, at the back of my mind, was a memory of some trouble now forgotten, nor did I seek to remember, content to stare out upon this summer evening; nor did I trouble to move even at the opening of the door and thus presently was aware of Anthony bending over me.

"Why, Perry, are you awake at last? How are you, old fellow?"

"Very well, Anthony," I answered, vaguely surprised to hear my voice so far off, as it were. "Very comfortable, Tony, only--a little weary--"

"And no wonder, Perry, here you've lain raving all last night and most of to-day."

"Raving, Tony?"

"Aye--all about some d.a.m.ned postchaise or other with red wheels."

"Postchaise?" said I, wondering. "Postchaise? How long have I lain here?"

"This will be the fourth day, Peregrine."

"Four days!" said I. "Impossible!"

"I rode down yesterday on the off-chance of finding you here--and here you were, begad, raging in fever and cursing and swearing very creditably, 'pon my soul! And all George could do to hold you down--"

"I'm better now, Anthony--get up to-morrow--"

"For which G.o.d be thanked!" said he fervently, and seating himself upon the bed, he grasped my hand. "Peregrine," said he solemnly, "you have honoured me with your friends.h.i.+p and as your friend I make bold to offer you a friend's advice,--in heaven's name, old fellow, be more discreet!"

"In what particular, Anthony?"

"There is but one, Perry--only one, dear fellow, and spelt with five letters--woman."

"You grow cryptic, Anthony."

"My dear Perry," said he, beginning to fidget with his stock, "my very dear fellow, as may be supposed, your extraordinary sudden and perfectly inexplicable flight from Wyvelstoke's reception and disappearance has caused no small consternation, and, to one person in particular, very much grief and anxiety. Under these distressing circ.u.mstances, I, as your friend, sought an answer to the riddle, the--the reason for your--very mysterious disappearance, and naturally arrive at the conclusion that it is a case of--er--_cherchez la femme_, Perry--"

"The devil you did!" exclaimed I.

"I haunted all the clubs, Perry, and with your uncles made discreet enquiry for you in every likely and unlikely quarter--yesterday, as a last possibility, I rode down here and learned from George how you came staggering in at dawn, plastered with mud, wet to the skin and accompanied by the lady who, I may inform you, had the good judgment to disappear as soon as possible--"