"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?"
Starting up in no little amazement, I beheld a man who bore a bundle of brooms upon his shoulder and a pack upon his back, while round his neck dangled ribbands and laces of many colours and varieties; a smallish, grizzled, plump man with an ill-natured face.
"You won't be wantin' ever a broom?" he repeated.
"No, thank you," I answered; "though indeed I should think it was sufficiently obvious."
"Nor yet a mop?"
"No!"
"Why then, a belt? 'Ow about a fine, leather belt wi' a good steel buckle made in Brummagem?"
"I couldn't buy anything of you if I wished," I explained, "because I have no money."
"Eh—no money?" said the man, turning to spit into the road. "No money—eh? Then wot about 'er, the Eve as you was a kissy-cuddlin'—"
"I was not!"
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "then if not, why not? Yah, ye can't gammon me! She's a Eve, ain't she, an' all Eves loves a bit o' kissy-cuddly. An' she looks a nice warm armful, so why not try? Better soon nor late!"
"What d' you mean?" I demanded, trembling with indignation.
"I mean as she's a Eve, an' all Eves loves a bit o' kissy-cuddly an'—"
"That will do!" cried I, clenching my fists. "I've told you I can purchase none of your wares, so pray have the goodness to cease your importunities and go."
"Go?" said the Peddler. "An' why should I go? I ain't a-trespassin' on your private property, am I? No, because 'tis a public 'ighway. Very good! An' England's a free country, ain't it? It is! Very good again! I ain't a-goin' to go until I wants to go; you can't make me go nor nobody else. So 'ere I waits till your Eve comes back. An' why? 'Cause if you ain't got no money—she 'as, I'll lay, an' I've ribbands an' laces, rings an' garters as no Eve can say 'No' to. Besides, she looks a fine gal as Eves go, an' there's enough o' the old Adam inside o' me to—"
"Are you going?" I demanded.
"Not me!" he answered, turning to spit at a butterfly that hovered near. "I'm a free-born Briton, I am, as scorns the furrin' yoke!"
Hereupon I rose, that is to say, I forced my unwilling body upon my shaking legs and faced him.
"Then I must do my best to make you!" said I, with as much stern resolution in voice and look as I could summon.
"What—you?" exclaimed the Peddler, regarding me with eye of scorn. "You—eh?" he repeated. "Well, burn my neck, there's imperence for ye!"
"Put up your hands!" said I.
"What—fight, is it?"
"It is!" said I. "Unless you prefer to depart immediately."
"Well, twist my innards!" exclaimed the Peddler, laying aside his brooms. "The owdacious young willin'! Wants t' fight! An' 'im sich a young whipper-snapper!"
He was a middle-aged man, squat of figure with short, plump legs, but I thought him formidable enough and felt the old nauseating fear growing upon me as I watched the determined manner in which he prepared for the approaching combat. Having removed his pack and the multifarious articles that draped his person, he took off his coat, folded it neatly and laid it by, which done, he slowly rolled up his shirt sleeves, eyeing me fiercely and scowling portentously the while. Now as I watched him, my sweating palms tight-clenched, my jaws hard-locked to prevent my teeth from chattering, the thought occurred to me that the hurts I was about to endure and endeavour to inflict should not only save Diana from evil, but might also prove to her (and myself) if I were indeed possessed of that thing she called 'game-pluck.'
At this moment my opponent rapped himself soundly upon the chest and nodded fiercely; quoth he:
"I'm a-goin' t' gi'e ye two more black heyes to start wi', and 'aving draw'd your claret an' knocked out a tusk or so, I'll finish the job by leatherin' ye wi' one o' my best leather belts wi' a fine, steel buckle made in Brum—"
But here I launched myself at him and, forgetting all caution in my trembling eagerness, beset the fellow with a wild hurly-burly of random blows, one or two of which found their mark, judging by his grunts; then his fist crashed into my ribs, driving me reeling back so that I should have fallen but for the friendly tree. This steadied me (in more senses than one) for in this moment I remembered Diana's admonition, and, seeing him rush in to finish me, I stepped aside and as his fist shot by my ear, I smote him flush upon the side of his bristly chin; and lo, to my wonder and fearful joy, he spun round and came violently to earth in a sitting posture! For a moment he sat thus, staring wide-eyed at nothing in particular; then I stepped forward and tendered him my hand.
"What now?" he gasped.
"Let me help you up!" I panted.
"Whaffor?" he demanded.
"That I may—knock you down again—as speedily as possible," I answered.
"Not me!" he answered, feeling his chin in gentle, tentative fashion. "I'm jolted sufficient an' the ground's danged 'ard 'ereabouts! An' wot's more—why, burn my neck—it's Anna!" he broke off and pointed with stubby finger. Turning about, I beheld Diana on the other side of the hedge. And she was looking at me!
"Ha, well done, Peregrine!" she exclaimed; at which, and because of the expression in her eyes, I felt again that strange sense of joyous exhilaration which had thrilled me once before, insomuch that I felt almost sorry the combat was ended so soon. Then, before I might aid her, she was through the hedge and shaking my hand as a man might have done.
"Lord love me!" ejaculated the Peddler, scrambling to his feet. "So you've turned into a Eve at last, 'ave yer, Anna? You as couldn't abide a man! An' 'ere you be in a nice little garden o' Eden along o' your Adam, eh? Found yourself a lad at last for kissy-cuddly, eh? You as was so prim! What'll folks say when I tell 'em?"
"That you'm a liar, Gabbing Dick, as big a liar as ever you was."
"When I tells folk as Anna's took up wi' a lad at last—an' 'im such a whipper-snapper! When I tell 'em as 'ow you—"
"That's enough!" cried I passionately. "Take your things and go beforeI endeavour to kill you—"
"Lord, Peregrine!" said Diana, viewing me in big-eyed wonder. "'T is only Gabbing Dick, and he must talk dirt, but nobody minds."
"Well, I do, and if he doesn't depart immediately—"
"Depart's th' word!" nodded the Peddler, and taking up his pack he adjusted it, shouldered his brooms and then paused to spit thoughtfully. "What'll folk say when I tell 'em as I see you kissy-cuddlin' a whipper-snapper—"
Clenching my fists I took a step towards him; saw him shrink away, staring, not at me, but the knife in Diana's hand.
"Hop, Dick, hop!" said she, making the blade flash and glitter evilly, whereupon the fellow, clutching his wares, made off with sudden alacrity; but being at a distance he stopped and turned.
"I 'opes," he cried, "I do 'ope as your Adam tires o' ye an' leaves ye despairin'—danged soon, an' that's for you, Anna! An' I 'opes as she pokes out both your eyes for ye—both on 'em, mind—an' that's for you, young whipper-snapper!"
Then he spat towards us, nodded, and hasted off along the road.
"And now, let's have dinner!" said Diana.
"Dinner?" I repeated, frowning after my late antagonist.
"Beef, Peregrine!"
Roast beef is now, has been, and probably will be, long acclaimed and proclaimed by every true-born Englishman as his own peculiar diet;videthe old song:
"When mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman's foodIt ennobled our hearts and enriched our blood.O the Roast Beef of Old EnglandAnd O for old England's Roast Beef!"
By long association and assimilation it has become, as it were, a national asset, a very part and parcel of the British constitution.
From ages dim and remote it has gone to the building of a sturdy race which, by dint of hard knocks and harder heads, has won for itself a mighty Empire. Our Saxon ancestors devoured it; our Norman conquerors scorned, tasted and—ate of it; our stout yeomen throve on it; our squires and gentry hunt, fight, make speeches and laws upon it; and doubtless future generations shall do the like.
As for myself, I have frequently eaten of it, though never, I fear, with either that awe or appetite which such noble fare justly demands. But to-day within this green bower, blessed by a gentle wind that rustled the leaves about me and stirred Diana's glossy tresses where she sat beside me, I ate of beef, cold, and set between slices of new bread,—ate with a reverent joy as any healthy young Briton should. And presently, meeting the bright glance of my companion, I sighed.
"Diana," said I, "heaven sends dew for the flower, honey for the bee and butterfly, the worm for the bird, and beef for the Briton. Let us then be duly thankful that we are neither flower, butterfly nor bird."
"It would be worse to be the worm, I think," she answered.
Alas! It seemed we were not to be long unmolested for, roused by a shuffling step, I glanced hastily up and beheld an old woman hobbling towards us bent upon a stick, a miserably ragged, furtive, hag-like creature who nodded and leered upon us as she came.
"Lor', Ann!" she cried in queer, piping tones. "Lorramity, Ann—so you've fell in love at last, 'ave ye, dearie? And why not, my pretty, why not? There's nowt like a bit o' love—'cept it be a bit o' beef! O Ann, gi'es a bite o' the good meat—a mouthful for poor old Moll, do 'ee now—do!"
"Why, for sure!" answered Diana. "You can eat and welcome, Moll; sit ye down here by me and rest your old bones. And I ain't fallen in love wi' no one, Moll."
"Ain't you, Ann; lor', dearie, ain't you!" piped the old creature, snatching the food Diana offered. "But what about your nice young pal 'ere? Is 'e for comp'ny's sake—jest to keep away the solitood, eh, dearie?"
"We're padding it to Tonbridge, Moll."
"Tonbridge—hey!" gabbled this fearsome old woman, clawing at the meat with her bony, talon-like fingers in a highly offensive manner. "Tonbridge, hey, dearie?" she mumbled, stuffing the meat into her mouth until I wondered she did not choke to death outright. "'T is a goodish step from 'ere, dearie," she gasped, when at last she could speak, "a goodish bit an' love may ketch ye afore ye get there—eh, dearie, eh? I 'ope's it do, for love's a pretty thing when you're young—I know, for I was young once—aye an' 'ansome too, I was—"
"I don't love anybody, Moll, and never shall."
"Don't say that, dearie, oh, don't say that! Some man'll win an' tame ye yet, for all your proud, wild ways an' little knife—'e will, dearie—'e will; maids is for men an' men—"
"Never think it, Moll!" said Diana, shaking her head. "As for men, I hates 'em and always shall—"
"What d'ye say t' that, my fine, nice laddie—eh, eh?" piped the old, witch-like creature, leering at me hideously. "Ann's a beauty, ain't she? Made to be kissed an' all, ain't she, eh? If I was you, I'd kiss 'er afore ye reached the next milestone an' that ain't fur—kiss 'er afore she knowed, I would, an' if she takes it unkind, never trouble, jest you wait till she's asleep—steal 'er little knife an'—"
"Let us go!" said I hastily, getting to my feet.
"That's th' sperrit, laddie, that's th' sperrit!" croaked the old woman. "Afore th' next milestone—on th' lips! All maids love it an' so'll she, 'spite all 'er skittish ways—on 'er mouth, mind!"
But I hasted away, nor paused until I was some distance down the road, then glancing back, I saw Diana bestow on this frightful old creature all that remained of our dinner, and money besides.
"A truly dreadful old person, Diana!" said I, as she joined me. "I wonder you can stop to consort or speak with such—"
"She's a woman, after all, Peregrine, very old and worn and generally hungry. And how can it harm me to be a little kind to her?"
"She suggests vile things!"
"What o' that, if she don't do 'em, or make others do 'em?"
"A horrible creature!" I repeated.
"Without a friend in the world, Peregrine."
"Do you happen to be acquainted with every discreditable vagabond hereabouts, Diana?"
"I knows most o' th' padding kind, trampers and sech. There'll be many going Tonbridge way to-day and tomorrow, because o' the fair."
"Then cannot we reach Tonbridge by ways unfrequented?"
"There's the field-paths, though 'twill take us a day longer—maybe two—"
"No matter, let us go by the field-paths, Diana."
So we presently struck off from the great, dusty high-road and went by ways pleasantly sequestered. By shady copse and rustling cornfield; past lonely farms and rick-yards; past placid cows that chewed, somnolent, in the shade of trees or stood knee-deep in stilly pools; past hop-gardens from whose long, green alleys stole a fragrance warm and acridly sweet; past rippling streams that murmured drowsily, sparkling amid mossy boulders or over pebbly beds; past rustics stooped to their leisured toil who straightened bowed backs to peer after us under sunburned hands; wheresoever I looked, I found some new matter for delight.
The afternoon was very hot for the wind had fallen, and, being somewhat distressed and weary with travel, I was greatly tempted to propose a halt that I might rest and feast my sight upon the many and varied beauties of this Kentish countryside, but seeing Diana walk with the same smooth, tireless stride, I forbore for very shame.
The stream we were following presently brought us to a wood where leaves rustled lazily, birds chirped drowsily and the brook whispered slumberously; a shady wood where wearied travellers might rest awhile, and, their troubles lulled to sleep, dream of journeys ended and happiness to be.
Here my companion paused; and watching her as she stood to stare down into the stream that widened hereabouts to a placid pool, it seemed to me more than ever that she was akin to the beauties around us, herself the spirit of these solitudes.
"O Diana!" I exclaimed, beholding her rapt expression. "Do you see it—feel it too—all the unending wonder of it?"
"Well, Peregrine," she answered, her gaze still bent upon the pool, "I be wondering where we shall eat and sleep to-night, for we're miles away from Brasted—"
"Heavens, child!" I exclaimed, seating myself beside the stream. "Have you no soul? Cannot you soar above such base material wants? Listen to the voice of this brook; has it no message for you?"
"It sounds cool, Peregrine, so while you rest, I'll bathe my feet."And sitting down, off came her shoes and stockings forthwith.
Now though, after my first startled glance, I kept my eyes averted, I could not help being very conscious of these white feet as they splashed and dabbled beside me and of their slim shapeliness.
"Diana, have you indeed no soul?" I repeated.
"If I have, it don't trouble me much!" she answered. "Why don't you dabble your feet; 'tis better than drinking?"
"O girl," I sighed, "have you no thought beyond your immediate bodily needs, no dreams of the greater—"
"Dreams?" she exclaimed bitterly. "It don't do for the likes o' me to go a-dreaming! Let them dream as can afford."
"But even the poorest, humblest of us may have our dreams, Diana, visions of a greater self and nobler living. Dreams are the soul's relaxation and inspire us to higher purpose. I think it is this faculty that lifts us above the brute creation."
Here, finding my companion silent, I glanced up to behold her watching a man who was approaching astride of a shaggy, bare-backed pony, a dark-complexioned, impudent-looking fellow with bright eyes and a wide mouth. At sight of us, he checked his steed with a jerk of the halter, smote his boot with the stout ash stick he carried, and burst into a shout of laughter. Here again I became extremely conscious of Diana's pretty, naked feet; but the fellow never even so much as glanced towards them.
"Aha, Anna!" he cried. "Whose mother's j'y ha' ye got theer?" and he pointed at me. At this she turned and spoke angrily in that unknown speech she had used with old Azor and in which he answered her. Thus they talked awhile, Diana scowling and fierce, he grinning and impudent.
"Hey, my buck!" he cried suddenly, tossing the ash stick to me. "You can tak' it; aye, tak' it—'t will be more use to you nor me—her'll need it more nor my pony, aye, that 'er will. Don't stand none o' her tricks, pal, though her'll take a lot o' taming, an' you ain't no match for 'er by your looks, but lay into 'er wi' yon stick an' do your best—" Having said which, he laughed again and, turning his pony, trotted off. Outraged by his insolence, I caught up the stick with some notion of running after him, but Diana checked me.
"Not him!" she said. "He ain't—isn't like Gabbing Dick; he's a fighting man and dangerous."
"Who is he?" I demanded.
"A Romany."
"And what did the fellow say to you?"
"Nothing to harm."
"Did he suggest—the—the same as the Peddler and that hateful old hag?"
"Lord—and what if he did?"
"Why, then," I answered, "for your sake there is but one of two courses that I can honourably adopt. I must either leave you at once or marry you at the—the first opportunity."
"Marry me!" she breathed. "Marry—me?"
"Exactly!" said I, folding my arms and staring down into the stream in a very determined fashion. At this, she sat so very still and silent that at last I ventured to glance up, to find her regarding me great-eyed. Then, all at once, to my indignant surprise, she began to laugh, but ceased as suddenly, and I wondered to see her eyes brimming with tears.
"But I—don't love you, and you don't love me—and never can!" said she at last.
"No!" I answered. "Nevertheless, my honour demands it!"
"What is honour?" she questioned wistfully.
"It is another name for duty!" I answered. "And my duty is to guard you from all evil or suspicion of evil."
"What evil, Peregrine?"
"The evil of vile tongues."
"But they can't make us evil, whatever they say of us."
"But what of your maidenly reputation?" I demanded. "That hateful peddler-fellow and vile old hag will make your name a byword—O, decidedly I must marry you!"
"Because of your duty?"
"And because it will resolve all my other difficulties with regard to your education; for instance, I will send you to the best and most select young ladies' academy—"
"What sort of a thing is that, Peregrine?"
"A place where ladies are educated in all the higher branches and taught deportment and all the refinements and usages of polite society."
"O!" exclaimed Diana, and sent up a sparkling shower of water with a flirt of her white foot.
"Furthermore," I continued, wiping my cheek—for some of this water had splashed me, "furthermore, Diana, you need never fear the future any longer, because as my—my wife, you would of course lack for nothing."
"Meaning as you'd find me plenty to eat and drink, Peregrine?"
"Heavens, yes, child!" I exclaimed. "You would be a lady of some position in society."
"A lady—O!" she exclaimed, and flirted her foot again.
"I beg you won't do that!" said I, wiping my face.
"But I like to, Peregrine."
"Why, pray?"
"Because you are such—oh, such a Peregrine!"
"That sounds ridiculous, Diana!"
"But means a lot, Peregrine. But tell me, if you can make your wife a real lady, you must be a gentleman and rich—are you?"
"I shall have a sufficiently comfortable fortune when I come of age."
"You will be rich and grand—like your aunt?"
"I suppose so."
"Without working for it?"
"Of course; I shall inherit it from my father."
"Any one could get rich that way, couldn't they? And when will you get your money, Peregrine?"
"In two years' time. Meanwhile, by writing to my uncles, I can procure all the money I need."
"Why don't you?"
"I propose doing so at the very earliest opportunity." At this she turned and looked at me with her direct, unswerving gaze, so that I grew suddenly uncomfortable. "You don't doubt my word, do you, Diana?" I questioned, glancing down at my grotesque attire.
"No, Peregrine, I don't think you could deceive any one. Only I was wondering what brings the like o' you padding the roads dressed like—like you are."
Hereupon, sitting down beside her, I told my story at large, much as I have written it here, to all of which she listened with such deep interest and grave attention as gratified me not a little. When at last I had ended my narrative, she sat, chin in hand, staring down at the rippling waters so long that I must needs ask what she was thinking.
"That 't is no wonder you are so soft!" said she.
"Soft?" I repeated indignantly.
"Yes, soft, Peregrine, and so green—so precious green! You've never had a chance."
"Of what?"
"Of living. And your Aunt Julia's a fool!"
"Diana—!" I exclaimed, inexpressibly shocked.
"Such a fool, Peregrine, that I'm greatly minded to let you marry me just to see my lady's face when I take ye back and say, 'Ma'm, here's your precious Peregrine married to a girl o' the roads, ma'm, and a-going to be a man in spite o' you, ma'm!' Oh, tush! And now let's go on—unless you'm minded to sleep in the wood yonder and no supper."
"As you will!" said I stiffly.
And so, when she had donned her stockings and shoes, we continued our way together, though in silence now.
There is, I think, a wistful sadness in the fall of evening, a vague regret for the fading glories of the day which, passing out of our lives for ever, leaves us so much the richer or poorer, the nobler or more unworthy, according to the use we have made of the opportunities it has offered us for the doing of good or evil.
Thus I walked pensive through the solemn evening stillness, watching the shadows gathering and the sky slowly deepen to a glimmering dusk, wherein the first faint stars peeped.
Suddenly, from the mysteries of sombre trees hard by, stole the plaintive notes of a blackbird singing, as it were, in poignant, sweet farewell:
'This day, with its joys and sorrows, its pain and travail, its possibilities for works good or evil, is passed away. O ye that grieve for chances lost or wasted, that sorrow for wrongs done or good undone, be comforted. Sleep ye in the sure hope that God of His mercy shall renew your hope for better things with to-morrow's dawn. So comfort ye!'
As I stood, the better to hear, my mind busied with some such thought as this conjured up of the bird's evening hymn, Diana's hand met mine in sudden, warm clasp.
"O Peregrine," she murmured, "so you love the silent places too?"
"Yes!" said I. "Yes! It is in such places that angels walk."
"Angels, Peregrine?"
"Great and noble thoughts, Diana. These are truly God's angels, I think, since they are the inspiration to all great and good works."
"It is in the silent places I am happiest, Peregrine."
"Because you have a soul, thank God!"
"What do you mean by a 'soul,' Peregrine?"
"I mean that part of us which cannot perish because it is part of God Himself. I mean that part of us whereby, in spite of this fleshly body, we may rise above fleshly desires and gain some perception of the Infinite Truth—which is God. Do you understand, Diana?"
"No, I'm afraid I don't," she answered wistfully, "but you won't lose patience wi' me, Peregrine?"
"Never, Diana. How could I when I don't understand myself. Who does? The wisest philosophers of all ages have been puzzling over their souls and never understood the wonder of it. Who shall describe the soul and its ultimate end?"
"Well," said she diffidently, "there's Jerry Jarvis—"
"What, the Tinker?" I exclaimed.
"Yes. He made a verse about the soul—I mean this one—
"'And when my time shall come to dieI care not where my flesh may lieBecause I know my soul shall flyBack to the stars!'"
"Ah, yes, the stars!" said I, lifting my gaze to the spangled firmament above us. "This is a great thought—who knows?"
And presently as we went on together, hand in hand, came night very still and silent and full of a splendour of stars that made a soft twilight about us, very wonderful to behold.
"Now, why do that?" I demanded suddenly, for she had slipped her hand from mine.
"Because!" she retorted.
"Because of what?"
"Just because!"
"Does it impede you to hold my hand?"
"Of course not."
"My hand is neither unpleasantly clammy nor particularly dirty, is it?"
"No, Peregrine."
"Then why not hold it?"
"Because!"
"Upon my word!" I exclaimed, "you are very provoking!"
"Am I, Peregrine?"
"Extremely so! Why won't you hold my hand? And pray answer intelligibly."
"Because I don't want to!"
"Oh, very well!" said I, greatly huffed. "Then you shall decline the verb 'To be' instead."
"I do, Peregrine."
"Do what?"
"Decline any more of your verbs."
"Ha, then you don't wish to learn—?"
"I do, Peregrine, I do! But I'm sure I shall learn quicker if you'll let me try to talk like you; I've learned a bit already only you never notice—"
"Oh, yes, I do—God in heaven!" I gasped, my heart leaping in sudden sickening dread. "What is that?" My flesh chilled with horror as from the gloomy depths of the wood upon our left rose a sound evil beyond description, an awful scuffling intermingled with gasps and sighs very terrible to hear.
Spellbound by this dreadful, hushed clamour, I stood rigidly, staring into those dense shadows whence it came; then joyed to the warm, strong clasp of her fingers on mine and, in this awful moment, wondered to feel her hand so steady.
"Are you afraid, Peregrine?" she whispered.
"Yes!" I mumbled. "Yes!"
"But are you brave enough to go and see what it is? Dare you go—alone?"
"No!" I gasped. "No—I should—die—" My teeth snapped shut upon the word and I began to creep forward, the ash stick clutched in shaking hand, my eyes glaring in horrified expectancy. Foot by foot I forced my shivering body forward into the denser shadows of the underbrush, on and on in such agony of fear that the sweat poured from me, for now this frightful struggling was louder and more menacing; therefore, lest I should blench and turn back, I ran wildly forward until, all at once, I stopped at sight of a shapeless something, a dim horror that started and wallowed, gasping, upon the ground before me; then, as I stared, the thing bleated feebly, and I knew it for a sheep and, coming nearer, saw the poor animal lay upon its back, kicking and struggling vainly to regain its feet.
My revulsion of feeling was so great that a faintness seized me and I leaned half-swooning against a tree. And in this moment Diana's arm was about me and her voice in my ear.
"Oh, but that was brave, Peregrine—I never thought you'd go! Now help me to get the poor thing to her feet." So between us we contrived to set the sheep upon its legs and watched it amble feebly away. Then, side by side, we came out of the wood where we might behold the stars.
"Diana," said I, with my gaze uplifted to their glory, "did you know it was only a sheep?"
"Of course!"
"And I am a little braver than you expected?"
"Yes, Peregrine."
"Then—suppose you take my hand again!"
We stood upon a hill beneath an orbed moon whose splendour dimmed the stars; below us lay a mystery of sombre woods with a prospect of hill and dale beyond, and never a sound to disturb the all-pervading stillness save the soft, bubbling notes of a nightjar and the distant murmur of the brook that flowed in the valley at our feet, here leaping in glory, there gliding,—a smooth and placid mirror to Dian's beauty, a brook that wound amid light and shadow until it lost itself in the gloom of trees thick-clustered about a little hamlet that slept in the shadow of hoary church tower.
Thus as we descended the hill, I walked reverently, my soul upraised in chaste and fervent ecstasy. However, this fine, poetical rhapsody was banished, suddenly and most unpleasantly, by my companion who, setting fingers to mouth, emitted a shrill whistle,—three ear-piercing blasts that shattered the night's holy calm and startled me to indignant protest.
"Heavens, Diana!" I exclaimed, "why do that? It was desecration!"
"You'll know if you listen, Peregrine!" As she spoke there came an answering whistle from the woods before us. "It's Jerry!" she nodded. "It's Jerry Jarvis—hark, he be coming to meet me!"
"Then he knows it is you?"
"Of course! He learned me to whistle for him so when I was a little child and—" She turned suddenly, and with a little, glad cry of "O Jerry!" ran forward into the shadows and was clasped and hugged in a pair of dim arms.
"Why, Ann—why, Anna, dear child—have ye come a-seeking your old Jeremy? What is it this time, dear lass; tell your trouble to your old pal—"
"O Jerry, I'm free, I'm free of 'em at last!"
"Free o' the Folk, lass? Lord, here's j'y! But what of old Azor—that witch o' darkness?"
"Her too, Jerry."
"How, lass, how so?" Here Diana reached her hand to me and I stepped into the Tinker's purview.
"He did it for me, Jerry."
"Lord!" exclaimed the Tinker, falling back a step. "Lord love me—a boy! A lad at last! Well, well, 't is nat'ral, I suppose, though what I can see of him bean't much to look at, Ann—but no more am I, for that matter! And he ain't exactly a Goliath of Gath—though no more am I again. But then I've noticed that great men be generally of a comfortable, middling size. And if he be yourchal, my dear—"
"Have you forgotten me so soon, Mr. Jarvis?" said I at this juncture, whereupon he turned to peer into my face, then caught and wrung my hand.
"Strike me blue!" he exclaimed. "It's the bang-up young gent in the jerry 'at 'as left a home luxoorious to see the world and l'arn to be a man!"
"That very same!" said I.
"Why, then, Lord love me, here's j'y again!" cried he, grasping my hand with a heartiness there was no mistaking. "But how come you hereabouts and along of Anna, too? And how comes Anna free o' the Folk at last and along wi' a younggorgiogent wi' nothing flash about him? And what's come o' your bang-up duds? And I'd like to know—but wait a bit! Are ye hungry?"
"We are!" answered Diana.
"Good!" exclaimed the Tinker. "Then come your ways to my fire, children; I've a couple o' rabbits in the pot wi' a lump o' pork and an onion or so for comp'ny, which is a supper fit for any king."
"You are very kind, Mr. Jarvis," said I, a little awkwardly, "but I ought to tell you that I am as poor as I look—I haven't one penny—"
"Well, that don't make me speechless wi' surprise, young sir; money has a habit o' going, 'specially when you're young, but a full stomach's better than a full purse, I think."
"But," said I, "having no money, how may I repay your hospitality?"
"By eating hearty! And as for money, Lord love my eyes and limbs—who wants your money?"
"There, there, Jerry—don't get peppery!" said Diana soothingly."Peregrine don't understand the likes of us, yet."
"Why no, Ann, I was forgetting the poor, misfort'nate young gent has never known the blessings of hardship, never suffered, never lacked for anything all his days and consequently knows nothing o' true hospitality or the brotherhood o' the roadside—how should he?"
"Then you shall teach me, if you will, Mr. Jarvis," said I, humbly.
"Then, sir—come and eat," he answered, "and don't go 'mistering' me;I'm Tinker Jarvis and Jerry to my friends."
"Then please don't call me 'sir'—my name is Peregrine."
"Then it's a bargain, friend Peregrine!" said he, and led us into the deeps of the wood where was a small clearing well shut in by bush and thicket; and here burned a fire that crackled cheerily beneath a bubbling pot, a fire whose dancing light showed me the three-legged stool, the dingy tent and Diogenes the pony tethered near by, who, having lifted shaggy head to snuff towards us enquiringly, fell to cropping the grass again. And beholding all this, the Tinker's shrewd and kindly face and Diana smiling at me across the fire, I felt a sense of rest and companionship vastly comforting.
"There's nothing like an onion!" said the Tinker, lifting pot-lid to lunge at the bubbling contents with an inquisitorial fork. "An onion is the king o' vegetables! Eat it raw and it's good; b'ile it and it's better; fry it and it can't be ekalled; stoo it wi' a rabbit and you've got a stoo as savoury an' full o' flavour—smells all right, don't it, Ann?" he enquired suddenly and a little anxiously, for Diana had possessed herself of the fork and was investigating the pot's bubbling contents with that deft and capable assurance that is wholly feminine. "Smells savoury, don't it, Ann?" he questioned again, noting her puckered brow.
"Very!" said I.
"Did ye put in any salt or pepper, Jerry?" she demanded.
"Drat my whiskers, never a shake nor pinch!" he exclaimed, whereuponDiana sighed, shook her head in silent reprobation and vanished intothe dingy tent as one acquainted with its mysteries, leaving theTinker gazing at the pot quite crestfallen.
"A man can't always be for ever a-remembering everything, Ann!" said he, as she reappeared. "An' besides, now I come to think on it, I aren't so partial to pepper an' salt—"
"A stew should never boil, Jerry!" she admonished.
"Why, that's a matter o' taste," he retorted. "I always b'ile my stoos and uncommon tasty I find 'em—"
"And a little thickening will improve it more," she continued serenely. "And if you had cut the rabbits a little smaller, it would ha' been better, Jerry. Still, I daresay I can make it eatable, so go an' talk to Peregrine and leave me to do it."
Obediently the Tinker came and seated himself beside me.
"Friend Peregrine," said he, jerking his thumb to the busy figure at the fire, "I stooed rabbits afore she was born—ah, hundreds on 'em!"
"And boiled 'em hard as stones!" she added.
"I've throve on b'iled rabbits, Peregrine friend, rabbits and other things cooked by these two hands, lived and throve on 'em these fifty-odd years—and you see me today a man hale and hearty—"
"Which is a wonder!" interpolated Diana without glancing up from her labour.
"Pray," said I, seeing him at loss for an answer, "what did you mean by the 'Brotherhood of the Roadside'?"
"I meant the Comradeship o' Poverty, friend, the Fellowship o' the Friendless, the Hospitality o' the Homeless. The poor folk on the padding-lay, such as live on the road and by the road, help one another when needful—which is frequent. Those as have little give freely to them as have none—I to-day, you to-morrow. The world would be a poor place else, 'specially for the likes o' we."
"Do you mean that all who tramp the road know each other?"
"Well, 'ardly that, brother. To be sure, I know most o' the reg'lar padding-coves, but you don't have to know a man to help him."
"Are you acquainted with a peddler called Gabbing Dick?"
"Aye, poor soul. Dick's father was hung for a crime he didn't commit, just afore Dick was born, which drove his poor mother mad, which is apt to make a child grow up a little queer, d'ye see?"
"And old Moll?" said I, with growing diffidence.
"Aye, a fine figure of a woman she was once, I mind. But her man was pressed aboard ship and killed, and she starved along of her babby, though she did all she could to live for the child's sake and when it died, she—well, look at her now, poor soul!"
"The world would seem a very hard and cruel place!" I exclaimed.
"Sometimes, brother—'specially for the poor and friendless. But if there's shadow there's sun, and if there's darkness there's always the dawn. But what o' yourself, friend; you've been fighting I think, judging by your looks?"
"Yes, and—I ran away!" I confessed miserably.
"Humph!" said the Tinker. "That don't sound very hee-roic!"
"But he came back, Jerry!" said Diana in her gentlest voice.
"Ha!" exclaimed the Tinker, looking from her to me and back again, keenly. "Then he is hee-roic!"
"No!" said I, "No, I'm not—and never can be!"
"Oh," said the Tinker. "And why?"
"Because I'm not brave enough, strong enough, big enough—"
"Lord, young friend, don't be so down-hearted and confounded humble; it aren't nat'ral in one so young! What do you think, Ann?"
"That he's hungry," she answered.
"Aye, to be sure!" chuckled the Tinker. "And I reckon no hero can feel properly hee-roic when his innards be cold and empty—"
"But I'm not hungry," I sighed, "at least—not very. But the longer I live the more I know myself for a hopeless incompetent—lately, at least—a poor, helpless do-nothing—"
"Lord love ye, lad," quoth the Tinker, laying his hand upon my bowed shoulder, "if you've learned so much, take comfort, for to know ourselves and our failings is surely the beginning o' wisdom. But if you can't be a conquering hero all at once, don't grieve—you ain't cut out for a fighter—"
"He beat Gabbing Dick, anyway," said Diana suddenly, whereat I lifted drooping head and looked towards her gratefully, only to see her vanishing into the dingy little tent again.
"Well, but—" said the Tinker as she reappeared, "Gabbing Dick ain't a fighter like Jem Belcher or Gentleman Jack Barty or Jessamy Todd. Dick's a poorish creetur'—"
"He's twice as big and heavy as Peregrine!" she retorted.
"True!" said he. "And yet friend Peregrine ain't exactly—"
"Supper's ready!" she cried.
"Good!" exclaimed the Tinker, rising, but his sharp eyes seemed keener than ever as he glanced from Diana's lovely, flushed face to me and back again. Then down we sat to supper as savoury as mortal palate could desire; the Tinker, having tasted, sighed and winked his approbation at me, forgetful of Diana's bright and watchful eyes.
"Well, Jerry," she demanded, "how is it?"
"'Twill do, lass, 'twill do," he answered; "though you've come it a leetle too strong o' the pepper and salt, to my thinking, still—it'll do. And now, friend Peregrine, I'm consarned to know what's become of all your money—"
"He buys me with it," answered Diana.
"Eh—bought you?"
"For fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies, Jerry!"
The Tinker gulped and stared.
"Lord love you, gal—what d'ye mean?" he questioned.
"'T was all old Azor's doing, Jerry. She gives me to her grandson Joseph for hismort,but I gives Joseph a touch of my littlechuriand runs away and happens on Peregrine. But she follows me with Jochabed and Bennigo, that I hates more than Joseph, and she was for going to force me to take him could give most money, and Peregrine has most, so she weds me to Peregrine."
"Wed you?" exclaimed the Tinker, blinking.
"Aye, according to the ways o' the Folk—she weds us and leaves us. Then while I was considering about running off from Peregrine and where I should go, Peregrine goes for to run off from me, so then I followed him, of course—and here we are!"
"Lord!" exclaimed the Tinker. "Lord love my eyes an' limbs—here's a pretty kettle o' fish!"
"It is!" nodded Diana. "For now Peregrine wants to marry me according to the ways o' the Church!"
"Hum!" said the Tinker, staring very hard at a piece of pork impaled upon his knife-point. "Ha—marriage, hey, friend Peregrine? Marriage is an oncommon serious business and you are a—leetle young for it, ain't you?"
"I'm nineteen turned!" said I.
"And I'm fifty and more, young friend, and never found courage for it yet—and never shall now!" Here the morsel of pork vanished and he masticated thoughtfully. "And I suppose," said he, his keen eyes flashing from me to Diana, "I suppose you'll be tellin' me as you're in love and a-dyin' for each other—"
"No!" said Diana sharply.
"Of course not!" said I, imitating her tone.
"And never could be!" she added, frowning at the fire.
"Utterly impossible!" I added, frowning at her.
"Strike me pink!" ejaculated the Tinker, scratching chin with knife-handle and staring at us in ever-deepening perplexity. "Then why want to marry?"
"I don't!" said Diana, with the same unnecessary vehemence.
"Nor I either!" I added. "But my honour and—circumstances would seem to demand it."
"What circumstances, young sir?" demanded the Tinker, his features distorted by a sudden fierce scowl. "Ha, d'ye mean as you've taken advantage of—"
"Don't be foolish, Jerry!" said Diana serenely. "Does he look as if he would take advantage of any one? d'ye think he could take advantage o' me? Can't you see he ain't—is not th' kind I keeps my little knife for? Don't be foolish, Jerry; he's never even tried to kiss me—nor wanted to—"
"How do you know that?" I demanded impulsively. Now at this she turned and looked at me, red lips parted in speechless surprise.
"How do you know?" I repeated. "How can you be so sure?"
"Be-cause!" she murmured and then, all at once, from throat to brow crept a wave of hot colour, her long lashes drooped and she turned away with a strange, new shyness; and in this moment I saw she was altogether more lovely than I had ever imagined her.
"Why, Diana!" I said. "Child, you need never trouble to take your knife to me; the respect I have for your goodness is enough—"
"Ah, Peregrine," she whispered fiercely, without turning her head, "I am only good because I have seen enough of evil to hate it!"
"And it is just because I would shield you from all and every evil that I would marry you, Diana."
"Ha!" exclaimed the Tinker, so suddenly that I started, having clean forgotten his existence. "Ha!" said he. "You're quite sure as you don't love each other, then?"
"Quite!" said Diana.
"Absolutely!" said I.
"Oh!" said the Tinker, wiping his knife upon his breeches. "Well, considering you was both so hungry, you ain't neither of you eaten dooly of this stoo as was fit for any king. And talkin' o' wed-lock, if you ain't in love with each other—yet, I should wait until you are, which," said he, glancing up at the leaves above his head, "which judging by the look o' things, I should say might 'appen at any moment 'twixt now and Christmas. Meantime, what are ye going' to do?"
At this, being somewhat at a loss, I looked at Diana and she at the fire again.
"Now if," pursued the Tinker, "if you'm minded, both on ye, for to j'ine comp'ny and travel the country awhile along o' Diogenes an' me—say the word, an' I'll be the j'y-fullest tinker 'twixt here an' John o' Groat's!" As he ended, Diana reached out suddenly and, catching his hand, fondled those work-roughened fingers against her soft cheek.
"O Jerry," she sighed, "you were always s' good and wise!"
"Then, dear lass, you'll come?"
"Of course I will. I'll weave baskets—"
"And I'll mend kettles, if you'll teach me, friend Jerry," said I, grasping his other hand.
"Why, children!" said he, looking upon us gentle-eyed, "Lord love ye now—you make me as proud as if I was a dook 'stead of only a travelling tinker!"
"It were best of all to be a poet, I think!" said I. "Have you written any more verses lately?"
"Well—I have!" he confessed, with a look that was almost guilty. "I'm always at it when there's time—I must. There was an idee as came to me this very evening an' I had to write it down. 'T was that as made me forget the salt an' pepper—"
"Is it about the Silent Places, Jerry?" questioned Diana eagerly. "Or a lonely star, or the sound of a brook at night—?"
"It's got a bit of all on 'em," said the Tinker.
"I should very much like to hear it," said I.
"Honest an' true?" he enquired a little diffidently.
"Honest and true!" I answered, as I had done upon a former occasion.
"Then so ye shall, though it ain't finished, or rather it ain't begun, as ye might say, for I can't find a good opening verse. I want to say that if a man don't happen to be blest wi' riches there's better things for him if he's only got eyes to see 'em." Saying which (and after no little rummaging) the Tinker drew a crumpled paper from capacious pocket and, bending to the fire, read as follows:
"'Instead of riches give to meEyes, the great, good things to seeThe golden earth, the jewelled skyThe best that in all hearts doth lie.
Give me this: when day's begunA woodland glade, a ray of sunFalling where the dewdrops lieGive me this, and rich am I.
Give me this: the song of birdIn lonely wood at sunset heardPiping of his evening hymn'Mid a leafy twilight dim.
Give me this: a stream that wendeth,Where the sighing willow bendeth,Singing through the woodland waysNever-ending songs of praise.
Give me these, with eyes to seeAnd richer than a king I'll be.'"
"D'ye like it, Peregrine?" he enquired, anxious and diffident.
"So much that I wish I had written it."
"Jerry writes verses like birds sing and the wind blows, just because he must," said Diana gravely. "All that is best happens so, I think. Are you for Tonbridge tomorrow, Jerry?"
"Aye, I am, lass, 'cording to custom. Maybe I'll pick up plenty to do at the fair."
"And maybe you'll find your friend, Peregrine," said she, rising.
"What friend?"
"Him you was to meet, of course."
"Why, to be sure—Anthony! I'd clean forgotten him."
"That's strange," said she, "seeing you were so anxious to find him."
"It is," said I, "I wonder what should have put it out of my head?"
"Ah—I wonder!" said the Tinker. "What, goin' to bed, lass? Tent soot ye?"
"Yes—I laid your blankets under the tree yonder—Good night!" And with a wave of the hand she was gone.
Then, having made up the fire, we presently rolled ourselves in our blankets and lay down where we might behold the stars. And after some while the Tinker spoke drowsily:
"I'm glad—very glad, friend Peregrine, as I've met you again, not only because you like my verses but because I like your ways. But I'm sorry—aye, very sorry, as you should ha' fallen in wi' Diana—"
"And why, pray?" I demanded, a little sharply.
"Because if you should happen to fall in love wi' her and really want to marry her, which I don't suppose—and she was foolish enough to let you—which I'm pretty sure she wouldn't, being of a proud temper and mighty independent—'t would be a very bad thing for you and a terrible shock to that fine aunt and those rich uncles o' yours as you told me of—"
"And why should it be?"
"Because Anna ain't of your world and not being born wi' drawing-room manners she'd shock you twenty times a day, throw your fine aunt into a fit and give your uncles paralytic strokes—Anna's all right in her way but—"
"She's a very beautiful girl!" said I hotly. "And good as she's beautiful!"
"She is!" said the Tinker heartily. "Sweet an' good still, in spite of everything, an' I know—I've watched her grow up—"
"And taken care of her," I added, "like the good friend you are."
"I've done what I could, when I could, but she's mostly had to take care of herself and done it well, too—for she's as brave as—"
"As Diana—as beautiful and as chaste!" said I.
"Quite sure as you ain't fallen in love—or falling, friendPeregrine?"
"Of course—quite."
"To—be—sure!" murmured the Tinker drowsily. "But though your pockets be empty, you ain't in any violent hurry to get back to your luxoorious home, are ye?"
"No!" said I.
"By reason of Anna?"
"By reason that, like her, I have learned to love the Silent Places."
"Ah, yes, lad, I know—for I love 'em too. But you're young and in theSilent Places one may meet wi' demons an' devils."
"Maybe!" I answered.
"Or walk with God!" said the Tinker.