This is the tale of Diana, the Gipsy, the Goddess, the Woman, one in all and all in one and that one so wonderful, so elusive, so utterly feminine that I, being but a man and no great student in the Sex, may, in striving to set her before you in cold words, distort this dear image out of all semblance and true proportion. Here and now I would begin this book by telling of Diana as I remember her, a young dryad vivid with life, treading the leafy ways, grey eyes a-dream, kissed by sun and wind, filling the woodland with the glory of her singing, out-carolling the birds. I would fain show her to you in her swift angers and ineffable tenderness, in her lofty pride and sweet humility, passionate with life yet boldly virginal, fronting evil scornful and undismayed, with eyes glittering bright as her "little _churi_" yet yielding herself a willing sacrifice and meekly enduring for Friendship's sake. With her should this book properly commence; but because I doubt my pen (more especially at this so early stage) I will begin not with Diana but with my aunt Julia, my uncle Jervas, my uncle George and my painfully conscious self, trusting that, as this narrative progresses, my halting pen may grow more assured and my lack of art be atoned for by sincerity. For if any writer or historian were sincere then most truly that am I. Therefore I set forth upon this relation humbly aware of my failings, yet trusting those who read will not fall asleep over my first ineffectual chapter nor throw the book aside after my second, but with kind and tolerant patience will bear with me and read bravely on until, being more at my ease, I venture to tell of Diana's wonderful self. And when they shall come to the final chapter of this history (if they ever do) may they be merciful in their judgment of their humble author, that is to say this same poor, ineffectual, unheroical person who now subscribes himself PEREGRINE VEREKER. Book One THE SILENT PLACES CHAPTER I INTRODUCING MYSELF "Nineteen to-day, is he!" said my uncle Jervas, viewing me languidly through his quizzing-glass. "How confoundedly the years flit! Nineteen--and on me soul, our poor youth looks as if he hadn't a single gentlemanly vice to bless himself with!" "Not one, Jervas, my boy," quoth my uncle George, shaking his comely head at me. "Not one, begad, and that's the dooce of it! It seems he don't swear, he don't drink, he don't gamble, he don't make love, he don't even--" "Don't, George," exclaimed my aunt Julia in her sternest tone, her handsome face flushed, her stately back very rigid. "Don't what, Julia?" "Fill our nephew's mind with your own base masculine ideas--I forbid." "But damme--no, Julia, no--I mean, bless us! What's to become of a man--what's a man to do who don't--" "Cease, George!" "But he's almost a man, ain't he?" "Certainly not; Peregrine is--my nephew--" "And ours, Julia. We are his legal guardians besides--"