So I brought her to the settle, and reverently turning back my cloak, showed her what it had hidden.
"This!" said I. "Look upon your handiwork and go—wanton!"
Uttering a soft, inarticulate cry, she cowered away, shrank back and back across the room and out into the road beyond.
Then, treading as softly as I might, I crossed the room also and, closing the door very silently, locked and barred it securely.
CHAPTER XI
WHICH SHOWS THAT MY UNCLE JERVAS WAS RIGHT, AFTER ALL
A fortnight has elapsed and I sit here in my study at Merivale, idly adding these words to this book of mine which it seems is never destined to be finished. As my pen traces these words, I am conscious of the door opening softly, but, pretending absorption in my task, I never so much as lift my head but glance up surreptitiously to behold my aunt Julia, a little pale, her proud, full-lipped mouth not quite so firm as of old, but handsomer, lovelier than ever in her black gown, it seems to me.
"O Peregrine, do you really mean to go?"
"I do!"
"Ah, will you run away again, from us—from your duties—will you leave Diana to break her heart?"