... Two years!"

TO THE READER

Here then, do I end this book, because this is the Book of Diana and she is gone out of my life.

So do I lay down my pen for a while, uneasily conscious of my narrative's many imperfections and greatly fearing that I have fallen very far short in my description of Diana.

But what work of man may hope to be utterly perfect? And who shall recapture the vanished glory of the dream?

Here, then, do I let fall the curtain; when it rises, the world and I shall be two years older, two years wiser, two years better, or the worse.

_Book Two_

SHADOW

CHAPTER I

THE INCIDENTS OF AN EARLY MORNING WALK

I remember waking to find myself very miserable in a ghastly dawn, where guttering candles flickered in their sockets, casting an unearthly light upon bottles, silverware, and more bottles that stood or lay amidst overturned and broken gla.s.ses; an unseemly jumble that littered a long table whose rumpled cloth was plentifully besplashed with spilled wine and flanked by empty chairs.

Into my drugged consciousness stole a sound that might have been wind in trees, or a mill race, or some industrious artisan busied with a saw, yet which I knew could be none of these, and my drowsy puzzlement grew. Therefore I roused myself with some vague notion of solving this mystery and turned to behold in this ghastly light a ghostly face; a handsome face, but very stern, square-chinned, black-browed, aquiline, scowling upon the dawn.

"Uncle Jervas!" said I, a little thickly. "You look like a ghost, sir!"

At this he started, but when he turned, his face was impa.s.sive as ever.

"Shall I wish you many happy returns of last night, Nephew?"

"G.o.d forbid, sir!" said I, bowing aching head upon my hands.

"It is perhaps a blessing to remember, Peregrine, that one comes of age but once in one's lifetime."

"It is, sir!" I groaned. "Pray what--what is that sound, sir--so monotonous and--d.a.m.nable?"

"It is rather an aggregation of sounds, emanating in unison from your good friends the Marquis of Jerningham, Viscount Devenham and Mr.

Vere-Manville--they sleep remarkably soundly!"

"And--the others, sir?"

"Departed in the small hours, with your uncle George--and four of 'em in tears!"

"It was a dreadful night, sir."

"It was a night of nights, Peregrine. I remember only one to equal it."

"And that, sir?"

"Your father's coming of age. But talking of ghosts, Perry, I almost fancied I saw one--no longer ago than last night--on my way here. But then I don't believe in ghosts--and this one was seated in a closed carriage and accompanied by a rather handsome young woman--and she was weeping, I fancy. Your head aches, Nephew?"

"d.a.m.nably, Uncle Jervas. I hate wine!"

"Yet one must drink occasionally, boy."

"You can, sir," I groaned, "last night you honoured every toast--yet here you sit--"

"Looking like a ghost, Nephew."

"And utterly unaffected, Uncle."

"On the contrary, inordinate drinking afflicts me horribly, Nephew, stimulates me to thought, harrows me with memory, resurrects things best forgotten! Ah, there's the sun at last. I'll leave you, Peregrine--I'll out to greet the day."

"I should like to walk with you if I may, sir."

"By all means, Nephew, 't will ease your head, perhaps."

And so, moving softly lest we disturb the three sonorous sleepers, a wholly unnecessary precaution, we took our hats and surtouts and stepped out into an empty street swept by a clean, soft wind that cooled my throbbing temples, and my sick heaviness was lifted somewhat in the sweet, pure breath of dawn.

"You have been about town for nearly a year, haven't you, Peregrine?"

"Yes, sir, long enough to teach me I love the country better than I thought."

"You are sufficiently dissipated, I trust?"

"I endeavour to be, sir. Her Grace of Camberhurst shakes her head over me, though I do my best--"

"Does it require so great an effort?"

"Somewhat, sir. You see, I find dissipation a particularly wearisome business."