"O Peregrine! My dear—how they have hurt you!"
She was ministering to my scratches and abrasions, and I, sitting on the old hay-pile, watched her, joying in the gentle touch of her white, dexterous hands, her sweet motherliness and all the warm, vital beauty of her.
"Child," said I, "don't tremble so—the beasts are gone!"
"Yes, I know—I heard everything, Peregrine. And you down there—all alone—to fight them in the dreadful dark! And I once dared to call you coward!"
"So I was, Diana. So I am. It was you gave me courage, then and now—you and—my love for you."
"Your love?" she whispered, and now the tremor was in her voice also.
"It was Love guided me here to-night, Diana—brought me back to you—for ever and always if—if you will have it so."
"O Peregrine," she sighed, leaning towards me, "my Peregrine, then your love for me is not dead as I feared?"
"Nor ever can be," I answered, very conscious of her nearness, "surely true love is immortal, Diana."
"You speak rather like a book, Peregrine."
"I quote from your own letter, Diana."
"And this—strange love of yours, Peregrine, that I feared dead, has come to life again because you know at last how cruelly you misjudged me—you are here because you have found out?"
"I have found out nothing."
"Then—oh—why, then, you still think evil of me?"
"I love you!" said I, leaning towards her, for she had drawn from me a little. "I love you—more than ever, I think, yes, indeed it must be so—because I am here to shield you with my care—to make you my wife."
"Wife?" she whispered, shrinking yet farther from me. "Your wife? You would marry me in my—vileness—doubting my honour?"
"Your honour shall be mine, henceforth."
Now at this she sat back to regard me beneath wrinkled brows; once her scarlet mouth quivered, though whether she would weep or no I knew not, but before the sweet directness of her eyes I felt strangely abashed and knew again that old consciousness of futility.
"O Peregrine," she sighed at last, "how very—foolishly blind you are, how hopelessly masculine, and how nobly generous—my proud gorgio gentleman!" And stooping, she caught my hand ere I knew and kissed it passionately.
"O Diana!" I exclaimed, very ill at ease. "Why do—so?"
"Because—oh, my dear—because you would stoop to lift your poor, stained Diana from the depths and cover her shame with your love! Because, thinking me vile, you would still honour me with your name. Oh, my Peregrine, you love me more—much more than I ever dared hope—better than even you know!" And rising, she gave herself to my eager arms.
"O Diana," I murmured, "how wonderful you are!"
"Last time we met you called me—wanton!" she whispered.
"I was mad!" cried I remorsefully. "And yet—"
"And yet—you meant it, dear Peregrine! And tonight I am here upon your heart—oh, wonderful—kiss your wanton again—"
"Ah—hush!" I pleaded. "Don't—don't say it."
"Ah, Peregrine, beloved—don't think it!"
"But Diana," I groaned, "oh, my Diana, I saw you with—"
"Hush!" she whispered suddenly. "There is somebody moving down below—listen!"
From the pitchy gloom beneath came a heavy tread and a deep, long-drawn sigh; but even so I knew a happiness beyond all expression to feel how she nestled closer into my embrace as if seeking protection there.
"Are you afraid, my Diana?"
"Nothing could ever frighten me—here!" she whispered. And then the place suddenly reechoed with a loud whinnying.
"My horse—I had forgotten him!" said I. And then, as she stirred sighfully, I stooped and kissed her, ere, loosing her, I rose. "I'll go and make him comfortable for the night."
"And I will make you a bed, Peregrine."
"It will be like old times," said I.
"Yes—though we didn't—kiss each other—then, Peregrine," said she, looking at me with a glory in her eyes. "Ah, no—not again—look at the candle, it will be out in a minute or two and I haven't another—so hurry, dear."
Forthwith I descended into the dimness below and finding the horse, loosed off saddle and bridle; this done, I closed the doors and was making them as secure as might be when I heard her calling:
"Be quick, Perry, the candle is going out!"
So I climbed up the ladder and, drawing it after me, closed the trap—and as I did so, the light flickered and vanished; but, guided by her voice, I stumbled through the dark and, finding the hay-pile, lay down. And then, all at once, I began to tremble, for there rushed upon me the conviction that, lying thus beside me so near I might have touched her, yet hidden thus in the kindly dark, she was nerving herself to the confession of that which must be pain to speak and agony to hear; thus, tense and expectant, I stared upon the gloom, waiting—waiting for her voice and resolved that I would be merciful in my judgment of her.
Thus moment after moment dragged by and I in a very fever of anticipation, waiting—listening—At last she stirred, but instead of the broken, pleading murmur I expected, I heard a long, blissful sigh, a rustle of the hay as she settled herself more cosily, and when she spoke her voice sounded actually slumberous:
"Are you comfortable, Peregrine?"
"Thank you—yes."
"Yet you—sound very restless. What is it, dear?"
"O Diana—have you—nothing to—to tell me?"
"You mean—to confess? No, dear."
"Nothing?" I groaned.
"Only to bid you not worry your dear, foolish head over trifles—"
"Trifles?" I gasped, sitting up in my amazement. "Trifles?"
"Silly trifles!" said she with a strange, little, tremulous laugh. "You came seeking me. You wish to make me your wife because your love is nobler, greater than you or I ever dreamed. And I am yours, and we are together at last and this—this is all that can possibly matter to us—Fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies—was that so very much to pay for me? Do you regret your purchase?"
"No."
"Then—have faith in your love for me, Peregrine. Give me your hand in mine—this dear hand that fought for me and would lift poor me out of the shameful mire. And now, good night, beloved—now, shut your eyes! Are they closed?"
"Yes, Diana."
"Then go to sleep."
And with this cool, soft hand clasping mine, I sank at last into a blessed slumber.
Morning with a glory of sun flooding in at the small aperture beneath the gable and through every crack and cranny of timeworn roof and walls; a glory to dazzle my sleepy eyes and fill me with ineffable gladness, despite my cuts and bruises.
For a moment I lay blinking drowsily and then started to my elbow, my every nerve a-thrill to the sound of a soft and regular breathing.
She lay within a yard of me, half-buried in the hay that clung about her shapeliness; and beholding her thus in the sweet abandonment of slumber, so altogether unconscious of my nearness, it was with a half-guilty feeling that I leaned nearer to drink in her loveliness.
Her hair was disordered, and here and there a stalk of hay had ensconced itself in these silky ripples, and no wonder, for observing a glossy curl above her ear I had an urgent desire to feel it twined about my finger, and shifted my gaze to her face, viewing in turn her cheek rosy with sleep, her dark, curling lashes, her vivid lips, the creamy whiteness of her throat.
But—even now, even as I mutely worshipped her thus, something in the voluptuous beauty of her troubled me. Memory waked, Imagination burst its shackles and began its fell work:
Other eyes than mine had seen her thus … other hands … other lips…. Before me flashed a vision of Devereux's evil features hatefully triumphant. And yet … Great God, was this indeed the face of a wanton? Could such horror possibly be?
In imagination the dead lived again, the past returned, and through my closed lids I saw Devereux—her "slave and master" lean to gloat upon her defenceless beauty, bold-eyed and on his cruel lips the smile of a satyr…. And bowing my sweating temples between quivering fists, I ground my teeth in agony.
Now as I crouched thus, plagued by the obscene demons of my imagination, I was aroused by a distant sound and opening my eyes saw how the sun touched Diana's sleeping form like the blessing of God. And yet … what of that night at Raydon Manor? She had volunteered me no word of explanation—not one—and why?
Up to me, borne on the sunny air, came the sound of a whistle that brought me to my feet eager for action, for conflict or death itself—anything rather than the harrowing torment of my thoughts. Very cautiously I crossed the uneven floor and lifting the trap as silently as possible, I set the ladder in place and descended. The whistling had stopped, but in its stead I caught a sound of stealthy movement outside the barn, and glancing about, I presently espied my whip where I had dropped it last night, and with this in my hand I gently unbarred the doors and opening them a little way, stepped out into the radiant morning. And then, tossing aside my whip, I ran forward, both hands extended in eager greeting.
"Why, Jerry!" I exclaimed. "O Jerry Jarvis, you come like an angel of heaven!"
"Lord!" exclaimed the Tinker, grasping my hands very hard. "Lord love you, Mr. Vereker—"
"Call me Perry as you used."
"Why, then—here's j'y, Perry—but as to angels, who ever see an angel in cord breeches—an' patched at that! But God bless us all—what should bring you hereabouts—"
"Love, Jerry—love—"
"You mean—Anna?"
"Yes, we are to be married as soon as possible."
"What, you an' Anna?"
"Who else, my Jeremy?"
"But she's a-breaking her 'eart over summat or other—"
"No, she's lying fast asleep in the loft yonder and looking as sweet—as good and pure as—as—"
"As she is, Peregrine!"
"Yes, Jerry. But what are you doing here, God bless you!"
"Didn't you know as she wrote me two days since—app'inting me to meet her here—and here I am, a bit early p'raps, but then I thought she was lonely—in trouble, d'ye see—in trouble. And then, Lord, if you only knew how hungry—aye, ravenous I am for sight of her arter all this time—"
"Why, then, you shall see her—at once."
"Nay, let her have her sleep out; let's you an' me get a fire going.I've a frying pan in my cart over yonder—ham an' eggs, lad!"
"God bless you again, Jerry—breakfast! And here among the trees it will be like old times, though Jessamy ought to be with us, of course."
"Well he's over at my little camp not so far away. I'm pitched t' other side Amberley wood."
"How is he, Jerry?"
"Mighty well. He's rich again, y' see—aye, richer than ever an' pursooed by several widders in consequence. He's come into a mort o' money, has Jessamy. But you know all about it, o' course?"
"Not a word."
"Lord, an' 't was your uncle, Sir Jervas, as done it! Left Jess five—thousand—pound! Think o' that!"
Thus, talking like the old friends we were, we set about collecting sticks and soon had the fire burning merrily. All at once we stood silent and motionless, for Diana was singing.
It was an Italian love song full of sweet rippling notes and trills but, as she sang it, a very ecstasy of yearning tenderness that changed suddenly to joy and rapturous happiness, her glorious voice ringing out full-throated, rich and clear, inexpressibly sweet, swelling louder and louder until suddenly it was gone and we standing mute with awed delight.
"She's a-doin' her hair!" whispered Jerry. "She allus used to sing in the morning a-doin' her hair, I mind, but never—ah, never so—wonderfully!"
And then she began again, this time that Zingari air we both remembered so well. Singing thus, she stepped out into the sunlight but, seeing us, stopped in the middle of a note and ran forward (even as I had done) with both hands outstretched in greeting.
"Jerry!" she cried. "My dear, good Jerry!"
But the Tinker drew back, a little abashed by the wondrous change in her.
"Why, Ann—why, Anna!" he stammered. "Can this be you—so—so beautiful? Speaks different too!"
"O Jerry dear—won't you kiss me?"
"Glory be!" he exclaimed, taking her outstretched hands. "Though so very different 'tis the same sweet maid—'tis the very same Ann as learned to read an' write s' wonderful quick—Glory be!" And so they kissed each other.
Then walking between us, busy with question and answer, he brought us where stood his weather-beaten, four-wheeled chaise with Diogenes, that equine philosopher, cropping the grass as sedulously as though he had never left off and who, lifting shaggy head, snorted unimpassioned greeting and promptly began to nibble again.
Butter, a new loaf, ham and eggs and coffee! What hungry mortals could desire more? And now the Tinker and I, sitting side by side in the leafy shade, watched our Diana who, scornful of all assistance, prepared breakfast with her own quick, capable hands.
What words are there may adequately describe this meal? With what appetite we ate, all three; how we talked and laughed for small reason or no reason at all.
"Lord, Ann!" exclaimed the Tinker, glancing from the piece of ham on his knife point to Diana's stately beauty.
"'Tis wonderful what two years can do! You don't need any book of etiquette these days—you look so proud, so noble—aye, as any duchess in a nov-el or out! Lord love you, Ann, it don't seem right any more as you should be a-drinkin' coffee out of a tin mug along of a travellin' tinker in patched breeches, that it don't! I reckon you've seen a lot o' the grand world an' plenty o' fine folk, eh Ann?"
"Enough to know the simpler joys are always the best, dear Jerry, and to love the Silent Places more than ever. And as for you, Jerry, there never was such a tinker before—"
"And never will be again!" I added.
"And so we mean to stay with you awhile, don't we, Peregrine?"
"Excellent!" said I. "We will shift camp to the old place—"
"The little wood beside the stream beyond Wyvelstoke," said Diana softly, "that dear place where Love found us—in the dawn—and you clasped the little locket about my neck, Peregrine."
"Which you don't wear now, Diana!"
"Which you shall put back—one day—soon, Peregrine."
"Why did you take it off, Diana?"
"Because!" she answered.
"Because of—what?" I persisted.
"Just—because!" she answered in the old tantalising way. And so we sat a little while looking into each other's eyes.
"By Goles!" exclaimed the Tinker so suddenly that we both started, having clean forgotten him for a while. "'Tis good to be young, but 'tis better—aye, much better, to be in love, that it is! And—you may be mighty fine folk up to London, but you'll always be just children to me—my children o' the woods!"
"And so, Jerry, we'll stay with you until we are married if you'll have us?"
"Have you?" he repeated, a little huskily. "Have you? Why, Lord love ye—I feel that proud, an' s' happy as I don't know what—only—God bless ye both—Amen!" So saying, he arose rather abruptly and hastened off to harness Diogenes.
"Diana," said I, drawing her to me, "Diana, what do you mean by 'because'?" And standing submissive in the circle of my arms she answered:
"Because you love me so truly, Peregrine, doubt cannot make you love me less. But because of your doubt I have grieved, and because I grieved I ran away, and because I ran away you came to find me, and because of this I am happy. But because I am—a little proud also, I will not wear your love-token until you know how unjust are your doubts, and because I am a woman you shall not know this until I choose. But because I love you in spite of your doubts as you love me because you are so nobly generous, I am yours for ever and ever. So here's the answer—here's the meaning of 'because' and now—won't you kiss me, Peregrine?"
Thus stood we awhile amid the whispering leaves, and by the touch of her mouth doubt and heaviness were lifted from me. Then hand in hand she brought me where we might behold the barn, no longer a place of evil, gloomy and sinister, but transformed by the kindly sun into a place of beauty, dignified by age.
"Good-bye, old barn!" she whispered. "Look, Peregrine, it is so very, very old, and cannot last much longer—and I love it because it was there my man fought for me; it was there he showed me how truly generous, how wonderful is his love for me—O Peregrine, my gorgio gentleman, what a man you are! Good-bye, old barn!" she whispered. "Good-bye!"
And when I had led forth my post horse and tethered him behind the four-wheeled cart, we clambered in all three, Diana sitting close beside me so that the kindly wind ever and anon would blow a tress of her fragrant hair across my lips to be kissed.
And so the dead went back to his grave and my demons fled awhile.
"Perry," said the Tinker as, turning from the highway, Diogenes ambled down a narrow lane, "you've forgot to ask about this here watch o' mine."
"Well, how is it, Jerry?"
"Never was such a watch! Look at it! Reg'lar as the sun! Which riles Jessamy. Y' see, his ain't to be depended on nowadays, owing to a boot—"
"A boot, Jerry?" laughed Diana.
"At Maidstone Fair, Ann! Jessamy was preachin' Brotherly Love when a large cove in a white 'at up an' kicked him in the watch, which is apt to be a little unsettlin' to any timepiece. Anyhow, Jessamy's has never gone right since."
"His watch again!" cried I. "Last time the trouble was a brick, I remember."
"But Jerry, what happened to the 'cove' in the white hat?" enquiredDiana.
"Well, arter it was all over, Jessamy took him aside into a quiet corner an' they prayed together."
"Jessamy was always a forceful evangelist!" she laughed.
"And there he is."
"Where?" questioned Diana.
"Listen and you'll hear him, Ann!" Sure enough from the boskages adjacent came the ring and tap of a hammer to the accompaniment of a rich, sweet voice unpraised in song.
Hereupon, setting two slim, white fingers to her mouth, Diana whistled loud and shrilly, to the Tinker's no small delight. Ensued a prodigious rustling and snapping of twigs and into the lane sprang the slender, shapely figure of Jessamy himself, as bright of eye, as light and quick of foot as ever.
I will not dilate upon this second meeting, but it was good to feel the hearty grip of his fingers, to hear the glad welcome in his voice, to see how gallantly he stooped to kiss Diana's hand, and how his sun-tanned cheek flushed beneath the touch of her lips.
"Why, Anna!" he exclaimed. "Well, well—you ha' become so—so—you look so uncommon—what I mean is—"
"Beautiful!" said the Tinker. "Be-autiful's the word, Jess!"
"Aye, aye, shipmate, so it is, comrade!"
"And the next word is strike camp, Jessamy, up stick an' away, Jess—"
"We're going to the old place, Jessamy!" nodded Diana.
"Where you instructed me in the 'noble art,' Jessamy!" said I.
"So it's all together and with a will, Jess!" added the Tinker.
"Aye, aye—and heartily!" laughed Jessamy.
I will pass over the labour of the ensuing hours wherein we all wrought cheerfully; but evening found us camped within that oft-remembered wood beside the stream whose murmurous waters seemed to find a voice to welcome us.
The Tinker stood resplendent in brass-buttoned coat of bottle green which, if a little threadbare at the seams, made up for this by the astonishing size and sheen of its buttons.
At this precise moment (I remember) he was engaged in brushing it vigorously, pausing between whiles to pick carefully at certain refractory blemishes, to give an extra polish to some particular button, or consult the never-failing watch, for to-day Diana and I were to be married.
"By Goles, Peregrine, it's past twelve o'clock already!" he ejaculated. "They ought to be here soon and—"
He checked suddenly and stood hushed and mute, for Jessamy had appeared,—a glorified Jessamy, resplendent from top to toe; his boots shone superbly, his coat sat on him with scarce a wrinkle, but his chief glory was his shirt, prodigiously beruffled at wrists and bosom.
The Tinker eyed these noble adornments in undisguised admiration.
"Lord, Jessamy!" he exclaimed. "Lord, Jess!"
At this, Jessamy's diffidence vanished and coming to the little mirror that hung against an adjacent tree, he scanned his reflection with an appreciative eye.
"Aye, aye, Jerry," quoth he, "when I wears a frilled shirt—which ain't often, as you know, Jeremy—I wears one with—frills!"
"Jerry, dear—O Jerry!" called Diana from the dingy tent.
"Yes, Anna!"
"I want you to come and hook up my dress!"
"Lord, Anna! To do what?"
"Hook up my dress for me."
"But—Ann—"
"I can't possibly do it myself, so come at once, there's a dear!"
"Won't Perry do, Ann?"
"Certainly not!"
"But I never hooked up a lady in my life, Ann!"
"Then you're going to hook up this lady now. So come at once and don't be silly!"
"Why, very well, Ann! But if I do it up all wrong an' sp'ile ye—don't blame me, that's all!" Saying which, he disappeared into the dingy tent, leaving me to survey myself in the small mirror and find fault with my every feature and so much as I could see of my attire, while Jessamy hovered near, eyeing me a little anxiously.
"You don't feel anywise groggy or—shaky o' your pins, do ye, Perry?" he enquired solicitously.
"Not yet, Jessamy."
"Why, very good, brother! But if so be you should feel it comin' on, jest tip me the office—I've a lemon in my pocket. There's some, being groggy, as nat'rally turns to a sup o' rum or brandy, but the best thing as I knows on to pull a man together is a squeeze o' lemon and—here comes the rest o' your backers—hark!"
The crack of a whip, a jingle of bits and curb-chains coming rapidly nearer, and then the air rang with a cheery "view hallo!"
A rustle of petticoats and Diana was beside me, a radiant vision in the gown she could not hook up for herself, and side by side, we went to meet our guests, and thus beheld a coach-and-four galloping along the lane, the sedate Atkinson seated in the rumble and upon the box the tall, athletic form of Anthony, flourishing his whip in joyous salutation, a cheery, glad-eyed Anthony; and beholding her who sat so close beside him, I understood this so great change in him. Reining up in masterly fashion, he sprang lightly to earth and taking his wife in powerful arms, lifted her down, pausing to kiss her in midair, and then she had run forward to clasp Diana in eager embrace.
"Begad, Perry, old fellow, all's well at last, eh?" exclaimed Anthony, grasping my hand. "What I mean to say is—will ye look at 'em, begad! Did mortal eyes ever see so much dooced loveliness and beauty begad? What I say is no—damme if they did! And here's his lordship to say as much."
"Ah, Peregrine," said the Earl, limping forward, "if this is a happy day for you, to me it is no less so. How say you, friend Jarvis—and you, Jessamy Todd?"
"Peregrine," said Barbara, as we came within sight of the dingy tent, "has she told you—has Diana told you how nobly she stood my friend and at what cruel cost—has she?"
"Not a word!" said I, beginning to tremble.
"Ah—that was so like you, Di—so very like you, my brave, dear girl."
"There was no need, Barbara. Peregrine's love is such that—though he doubted, being human—he loved me still!"
"Then I'll tell him—here and now! No, over yonder by the brook. And you, Tony—Anthony dear, you must come and help me."
"Yes, tell him, Barbara," quoth his lordship; "tell him, as you told me, that Peregrine may know how brave and generous is she who honours him to-day."
And so, with Barbara's hand on one arm and Anthony's on the other, I came to that leafy bower beside the stream where I had known Diana's first kiss.
"You will remember," began Barbara, seated between us, "you will remember, Peregrine, how, when first we met, I was with Captain Danby? I fled with him to escape a worse man, I mean Sir Geoffrey Devereux or Haredale, as his power somehow, for even while I was at school he gave me to understand it was his wish I should marry his friend Haredale. I was very young, my mother long dead, and flattered by the attentions of a man so much older than myself, I wrote him letters—silly, girlish letters very full of romantic nonsense—Anthony has seen them. But the oftener I met Sir Geoffrey, the less I liked him, until my feeling changed to dread. Captain Danby, seeing this, offered his help, and deceiving his friend would have deceived me also, as you will remember—"
"Damned scoundrel!" snorted Anthony.
"It was while in Italy with Diana—Anthony had just left me—that I met Sir Geoffrey again. He dared to make love to me and when I repulsed him, threatened to show my silly letters to Anthony. Then, thank God, we came home! But he followed and upon the night of the reception sent Captain Danby to me at Lord Wyvelstoke's house with a letter—"
"Ah—it was your letter?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, Peregrine—a dreadful letter, repeating his threat that unless I went to his chambers that very hour he would send Anthony the letters—and I knew—I knew that if my Anthony ever saw them, he would fight Sir Geoffrey and be killed—"
"Not alone though, Loveliness!" said Anthony, between shut teeth.
"In my dread I confided in Diana—"
"And she—went with you," said I hoarsely, "in—Danby's chaise!"
"Yes. When Sir Geoffrey saw Diana she seemed to fascinate him—he refused to give up my letters—said he could not part with them. In this way he tortured me for weeks until at last he wrote from Raydon Manor, saying I should have the letters if I would call for them in person, but it must be at ten o'clock at night—and Diana must go with me. So we went—there were other men there—they had been drinking. When we entered the room, Captain Danby locked the door—I nearly swooned with horror—"
"Ah, my God!" exclaimed Anthony.
"But then—O Peregrine—before any one could move or prevent—Diana sprang upon Sir Geoffrey—I saw the flash of steel, and he lay back helpless in his chair, staring up at her—not daring to move, her dagger pricking his throat—yes—I saw the blood! 'Sir Geoffrey,' said she in an awful, whispering voice, 'give up the letters and order them to open the door, or I will surely kill you'—and I saw him flinch as the dagger bit deeper. But he laughed and obeyed her, and so with the letters in my hand, Diana led me out of the room and none offered to hinder us. We had been admitted at the door that gave into the wood and we had just opened it when some one among the trees groaned, and afraid of being seen, we locked the door and ran back to the house and asked Sir Geoffrey for a carriage. And then—Captain Danby hurried into the room, saying you and Anthony were outside—in the hall. Then we fled into Sir Geoffrey's study and—I think that is all?"
"Yes!" said I dully. "That is all!"
"And enough for one lifetime!" added Anthony. "No more secrets,Loveliness!"
"Never any more, dear Anthony, though it was all for you that I suffered, and Diana—my dear, dear Diana—kept silence and allowed you to think—to—"
"God forgive me!" I groaned.
"I wasn't worth it, Babs!" exclaimed Anthony, kissing her; and then his hand was upon my shoulder.
"What now, old fellow?"
"O Anthony, was there ever such a blind fool? Was ever angel of God so cruelly misjudged? My noble Diana!" Hardly knowing what I did, I turned and began to stumble along beside the brook, conscious only of my most bitter remorse. And then a hand clasped mine, and turning to the touch of these warm, vital fingers, "Diana," said I, "O Diana—"
"You know—at last, Peregrine?"
"I know that I dared to think you unworthy—doubted your sweet purity—called you—wanton. And I—miserable fool—in my prideful folly dreamed that in marrying you—mine was the sacrifice! Oh, I am not fit to live—Diana—O Diana, can you forgive me?—All my life I have been a failure!"
"Dear love, hush—oh, hush!" she sighed in weeping voice. But in the extremity of my self-abasement, I knelt to kiss her hands, the hem of her dress, her slender, pretty feet. "Peregrine dear, your—your mistake was very natural; you saw me—at Raydon Manor—"
"I should have disbelieved my eyes!"
"And I could not explain for Anthony and Barbara's sakes. And when I could have explained I would not, because I wished you to—yes, dear—to suffer—just a little—and because I wished to see if you were brave enough to forgive your Diana—lift her from shame and dishonour to—to the secure haven of—your love. And you were brave enough and—now, oh, now I'm crying—and I hate to cry, Perry—but it's only because I do love you so much more than I can ever say—so don't—don't kneel to me, beloved—come to my heart!"
So she stooped and raised me to the comfort of her gentle arms, to the haven of her fragrant mouth.
And thus the dead was buried at last, mountains deep, and my hateful demons vanished utterly away for ever and for ever.
"You would always have been mine, Diana!"
"And so it is I love you, Peregrine! And so it is I am yearning to be your wife—and yet here we stay and our guests all gone—"
"Gone?" I exclaimed.
"I told them we would follow—in Jerry's cart. Shall you mind riding to your wedding in a tinker's cart, dear?"
"My wise Diana, I love its every spoke and timber for your sake, so could there never be any other chariot of any age, on four wheels or two, so proper to bear us to our happiness, my clever Gipsy-Lady. Come, dear, hurry—for I am longing, aching to hear you call me 'husband.'"
"And are my eyes—very red, Perry?"
"Yes—no—what matter? They are lovelier than ever they were—my jewels—let me kiss them!"
"And now—this, dear heart!" said she a little tremulously, and laid the gold locket in my hand: and kneeling beside this chuckling stream as we had done once before, I clasped it about her white throat and kissed her until she bade me (a little breathlessly) to remember our waiting guests.
And thus at last, sitting with Diana's hand in mine, behind Diogenes, that four-footed philosopher, we rattled, creaked, and jolted away to our new life and all that the future held for us.