Birds were calling their melodious complaint on the passing of another day and the shadows were lengthening when I came to a cross-roads where stood a timeworn finger-post beneath which sat a solitary figure in weather-beaten hat and coat, head bowed over the book opened upon his knees.
Now at sight of this lonely figure I reined in so suddenly that this solitary person glanced up and I saw the white hair, keen eyes and pale, aquiline features of the Earl of Wyvelstoke. At sight of me he closed the book and rose, and in stern features, in every line of his slender, shabby figure was a stately aloofness that chilled me.
"My lord?" said I interrogatively, and taking off my hat, I bowed.
"Ah, Mr. Vereker," he answered, with a slight inclination of his head. "So you come at last. A charming evening. I wish you as well of it as you deserve!" And turning his back, he began to limp away; but in a moment I was off my horse and, hastening after, ventured to touch his arm, then fell back in sheer amazement before the ferocious glare of his eyes; yet his voice was as politely modulated as usual when he spoke:
"Sir, were you any other than Peregrine Vereker—old as I am, I would call you out—and shoot you with peculiar satisfaction—"
"My lord—sir—?" I stammered.
"Sir," he continued, "you will doubtless have very many excellent excuses to offer for your perfectly inexcusable conduct—but doubtless you will at least have the good taste to keep them to yourself. Whatever your reasons, you have been the cause of much pain and very many bitter tears to—to one I hold inexpressibly dear."
"My lord, I—I have been ill—"
"And it is, I believe, mainly owing to her devotion that you still—gladden the world, sir."
"My lord, I am here to—to—give Diana my hand in fulfilment of my promise."