Precisely upon the stroke of half-past four I turned under the arch of the "Chequers" inn and, coming into the yard, looked about for Diana. The place was fairly a-throng with vehicles, farmers' gigs, carts, curricles and the like; in one corner of the long penthouse I espied the Tinker's cart with Diogenes champing philosophically at a truss of hay, but Diana herself was nowhere to be seen. Therefore, having deposited my parcel in the cart among divers other packages (which I took to be the stores Jeremy had mentioned), I seated myself in a remote and shady corner and glanced around. Horses munched and snorted all about me, unseen hostlers hissed and whistled, and a man in a smart livery hung upon the bridles of two horses harnessed to a handsome closed travelling carriage, blood-horses that tossed proud heads and stamped impatient hoofs, insomuch that the groom alternately cursed and coaxed them, turning his head ever and anon to glance towards a certain back door of the inn with impatient expectancy. And thus it befell that I began to watch this door also and as the moments elapsed there waked within me a strange and bodeful trembling eagerness, a growing anxiety to behold what manner of person that door would soon open for. So altogether unaccountable and disquieting was this feeling that I rose to my feet and in this moment the door swung wide and a man appeared.
He was tall and slim and superlatively well clad, his garments of that quiet elegance which is the mark of exceeding good taste; but it was his face that drew and held my gaze, a handsome face, paler by contrast with the raven blackness of flowing, curled hair, a delicate-nostrilled, aquiline nose, a thin-lipped mouth and smooth jut of pointed chin. All this I saw as he stood as if awaiting some one, half-turned upon the steps, a magnificent and shapely figure, tapping impatiently at glittering, be-tasselled boot with slender, gold-mounted cane. And then—Diana appeared and paused in the doorway to stare up at him while he smiled down on her, and I saw his smiling lips move in soft speech as, with a hateful and assured deliberation, his white fingers closed upon her round, sunburned arm and he gestured gracefully towards the carriage with his cane.
"Ah, damn you—stand off!" I cried, and clenching my fists I sprang forward, raging. As I came he swung about to meet me, the slender cane quivering in his grip, and thus for a moment we faced each other. And now I saw he was older than I had thought and, meeting the intensity of these smouldering eyes, beholding quivering nostrils and relentless mouth and chin, my flesh crept with a fierce and unaccountable loathing of the man and, unheeding the threat of the cane, I leapt on him like a mad creature. I felt the sharp pain of a blow as the cane snapped asunder on my body and I was upon him, pounding and smiting with murder in my heart. Then the long white hand seized my collar and whirled me aside with such incredible strength that I fell and lay for a moment half-stunned as, without a glance towards me, he opened the carriage door and imperiously motioned Diana to enter.
"Come, my goddess, let us fly!" said he, soft-voiced and smiling. But as he approached her, she tossed aside her basket, stooped, and I saw the evil glitter of her little knife; the gentleman merely laughed softly and made deliberately towards her; then, as she crouched to spring, I scrambled to my feet.
"Don't!" I cried. "Don't! Not you, Diana! Throw me your knife—leave him to me—"
At this the gentleman paused to glance from Diana to me and back again.
"Aha, Diana, is it?" said he. "You'll be worth the taming—another time, chaste goddess! Venus give you to my arms some day! Here's for your torn coat, my sorry Endymion!" Saying which, he tossed a guinea to me and, stepping into the carriage, closed the door. The staring groom mounted, the horses pranced, but, as the carriage moved off, I snatched up the coin and, leaping forward, hurled it through the open window into the gentleman's pale, smiling face.
"Damn you!" I panted. "God's curse on you—I'll see you dead—some day!" And then the carriage was gone and I, gasping and trembling, stood appalled at the wild passion of murderous hate that surged within me. And in this awful moment, sick with horrified amaze since I knew myself a murderer in my soul, I was aware that Diana had picked up my new hat whence it had fallen and was tenderly wiping the dust from it.
"Why, Peregrine," sighed she reproachfully, "you've had all your curls cut off!"
"To the devil with my curls! Come, let us go!" And snatching my hat I clapped it on and led the way across the yard and, heedless of the spectators who gaped and nudged each other, we got into the cart, paid our dues, and drove out into the High Street, nor did we exchange a word until we had left the town behind us; then:
"Why are you so frightful angry, Peregrine?"
"Ah, why?" I groaned. "What madness was it that would have driven me to murder? Had you but thrown me your knife I should have stabbed him—killed him where he stood—and loved the doing of it. Oh, horrible!"
"No, wonderful!" sighed she, laying her hand on my drooping shoulder. "I—I liked you for it! You weren't afraid this time. Did he hurt you?"
"Not much."
"And he tore your fine new coat—the beast! Never mind, I'll mend it for you to-night, if you like."
"I can buy another," said I gloomily.
"No, that would be wicked, wasteful extravagance, Peregrine, and I can mend it beautifully."
"Very well!" I sighed.
"That's three times you fights for me, Peregrine."
"And been worsted on each occasion!" said I.
"No, you beats Gabbing Dick, remember," said she consolingly, her hand on my shoulder again. "And I—I likes you in your new clothes, though I wish you had your curls back again because—"
"How came you at the inn with that man?" I demanded suddenly.
"I had been selling my last few baskets."
"And he saw you?"
"Yes."
"And spoke to you?"
"Yes."
"And he—tried to—kiss you, I suppose?"
"Yes—but what's it matter; don't let's talk of it any more,Peregrine."
"And did he kiss you—did he?" At this she began to frown. "Did he kiss you, Diana—answer me?"
"I'll not!" said she, setting her chin.
"Ah, but you shall!"
"Oh, but I won't! Who are you to question me so?"
"Tell me, or by God I'll make you!"
"Ah, don't talk, you couldn't—no, not if—" I seized her, wrenched and swung her down across my knees (careless alike in my sudden frenzy of fallen reins, of danger or death itself) and having her thus helpless, set my hand about her soft, round throat.
"By God!" I gasped, "but you shall tell me, Diana; you shall tell me if he dared sully you with his vile touch—speak—speak!"
And now as I glared down at her I saw her eyes grow wide and suddenly fearful.
"Oh, Peregrine," she whispered. "Don't—don't look at me so—as if you hated me—don't, ah, don't!" And then, oh, wonder of wonders! Her arms were about my neck, drawing me lower and lower until her soft cheek met mine and, clasping me thus, she spoke under her breath:
"He didn't. Peregrine—he didn't! No man shall ever kiss me in line except—just—one!"
"Who?" I questioned, grasping her to me. "Who is that one?"
"Loose me, now," she pleaded. "You'll make me cry in a minute, and I hates to cry." So I obeyed her and sitting up, saw that Diogenes, like the four-footed philosopher he was, had come to a halt and was serenely cropping the grass by the roadside. And so we presently drove on again, but though Diana frowned no more, she persistently avoided my glance.
"Diana," said I at last, vainly endeavouring to meet her gaze, "who is the—one man?"
"Him as I shall marry, of course—if I ever do!" she answered.
"Then that man is myself, of course!"
"You are a sight too cocksure!"
"Am I?"
"Yes, and—very rough, I think."
"Oh, forgive me—did I hurt you—just now, when I—"
"You did!"
"Where?"
"Here, on the throat, Peregrine."
"Let me look," said I, peering. Then, "The wound is not apparent, Diana, unless it is—here!" and leaning closer, I touched her soft neck with my lips. "Did I hurt you anywhere else?"
"No!" said she hastily and with sudden shy look.
"I could almost regret my gentleness!" I sighed. After this we drove in silence awhile; that is to say Diogenes ambled along at his own leisurely gait, as if he very well knew that 'time was made for slaves'.
So I looked at Diana, drinking in this new, shy beauty of her, and she looked at earth and sky, at hedgerow and rolling meadow but with never a glance at me.
"It was wrong of you to think the gentleman kissed me!" said she suddenly, beginning to frown.
"It was!" I admitted. "Very wrong indeed!"
"Then why did you?"
"Because I was a fool!"
"Well, I don't like fools!"
"Then I will endeavour to be wiser."
"'T will need a lot o' trying, I think," said she, scowling.
"Good heavens!" said I. "Areyouangry now?"
"Yes, I can be angry as well as you, I s'pose?"
"Of course!" said I. "You have contrived to be very ill-tempered lately."
"Oh, have I?"
"You have! And very slipshod in your speech—indeed, your diction is worse than ever—"
"Oh, stow your gab!"
"Now you are coarse and vulgar in the extreme!"
"Well, that's better than pretending to be what I ain't. And if you don't like my talk—hold your tongue and I'll hold mine!"
"I will!" said I.
"Do!" she snapped. And so was silence again, wherein the birds seemed to sing quite out of tune and Diogenes a lazy quadruped very much needing the whip.
"Cannot you drive a little faster?" I suggested.
For answer she lashed Diogenes to a gallop so that the cart lurched and swayed in highly unpleasant fashion; but presently, this speed abating somewhat, I ventured to loose my grip of the seat and thrusting hands into pockets, felt the case containing the locket and chain.
"Are you any better tempered yet?" I enquired.
"No—nor like to be—"
"That's a pity!"
"Oh—why?"
"Because you look prettier when you don't frown—"
"Oh tush!"
"Though you're handsome always. And besides I—I brought you a small present—"
"Well, you can keep it—"
"You haven't looked at it yet!"
"Don't want to!"
"Here it is," said I, opening the case. "Do you like it?"
"No!"
"Won't you accept it?"
"No, I won't!"
"Why, very well!" said I, and shutting the case I threw it into the road.
"Ah, don't! How could you!" she cried and reined Diogenes to abrupt standstill. "Go and pick it up—this instant!"
"If you don't want it—I won't!" said I, folding my arms.
"I didn't say I didn't want it—"
"But you wouldn't accept it—"
"No more I will—yet—"
"Now of all the ridiculous, unreasonable creatures—"
"So please go an' pick it up, Peregrine."
"If I do, will you let me put it round your neck?"
"Wait till—till I feels a little kinder to you!"
"That will be a unique occasion and one to remember!" said I bitterly, and springing from the cart, I went and took up my despised gift, though with very ill grace. "And pray, madam," I enquired, thrusting the case into my pocket and frowning up at her where she leaned, chin on fist, viewing me with her sombre gaze, "when are you likely to feel any kinder?"
"How should I know—and you look s' strange and different in your new clo'es—"
"It is to be hoped so!" said I.
"And your curls all cut off!"
"I never thought you'd notice—"
"And you seem more cocksure than ever—"
"Cocksure is an ugly word, Diana."
"So I think I liked you better as you were."
"Good!" said I, climbing back into the cart. "It remains for me to make you like me best—as I am."
"How?"
"By marrying you."
"But you don't—we ain't in love with each other or any such silliness," said she, flicking idly at the hedge with the whip.
"I'm not so sure, Diana. Indeed, I begin to think I do—love you in a way—or may do soon."
"Oh, do you?"
"I do!"
"Have you ever been in love?"
"Never."
"Then you don't know nothin' about it."
"Do you?" I questioned.
"More than you!" she nodded.
"Ah, do you mean that you have loved—some man—"
"Of course not, silly!"
"Good!" said I. "And you have promised faithfully never to kiss any other man but me—"
"I said the man I married—"
"Well, thatisme."
"Oh, is it?"
"Of course!"
The silence was broken only by the plodding hoofs of Diogenes, the creak of harness and rattle of wheels, while Diana grew lost in thought and I in contemplation of Diana; the stately grace of her slender, shapely form, the curve of her vivid lips, the droop of her long, down-swept lashes, her resolute chin and her indefinable air of native pride and power. All at once her sombre look gave place to a smile, her slender hand tightened upon the reins, and glancing up I saw that we had reached a place where four roads met, and here, seated beneath the finger-post was a solitary, shabbily dressed old man absorbed in a book; roused by the sound of our approach, he glanced up and I recognised the ancient person, Lord Wyvelstoke.
"It's my old man!" said Diana, and waved her hand in joyous greeting, whereupon he arose and doffing his weather-beaten hat, bowed white head in stately greeting.
"Surely it is my pleasure to behold my courageous young Amazon," said he, limping forward. "Greetings, fair Penthesilea!" and taking the hand she reached out to him, he kissed it gallantly.
"And you are still alone!" said she, smiling down at him as she had never smiled at me. "Are you always alone?"
"Always!" he answered, sighing. "Though I have my books—and an old man's dreams. But, God bless you, child, how radiant you look; you seem the soul incarnate of this glorious day."
"And this is Peregrine," said she a little hastily, with a wave of her hand in my direction.
"Sir, I trust I see you well!" said I, bareheaded and bowing, and his lordship, glancing at me for the first time, recognised me despite my altered appearance.
"Mr. Vereker," quoth he, with another bow, "this is a twofold pleasure! So you are acquainted with my Penthesilea?"
"Yes, sir, though I know her as Diana!"
"But my real name's Anna, sir—as I tells you at the fair," she added.
"Yes," answered his lordship, "and you called me your old pal, I remember. Yet Mr. Vereker is indubitably right, for Diana you surely are, as fair as the chaste goddess, as brave and—"
"As nobly good!" said I.
"Assuredly, sir!" he nodded, in the quick, decisive way I remembered. "The eyes of Age are as quick to recognise purity as the eyes of Love, and a great deal less prejudiced."
"If you're saying all this about me—don't!" quoth Diana. "Because I ain't a goddess and don't want to be. And now, old gentleman, it's gettin' lateish and I've supper to cook, so if you'm going our way let me give you a lift; there's plenty o' room for you 'twixt Peregrine an' me."
"No, no," sighed his lordship with a somewhat sad and wistful smile. "You have each other, and I am old and wise enough to know that age is no fit companion for youth and beauty—"
"But I like old folks," said Diana in her direct fashion. "I like you, your voice and grand manners; it's plain you was a fine gentleman once—though your coat wants mendin'."
"Indeed, I fear it is almost beyond mending," answered his lordship; "but it is a favourite, and old like myself, though I am glad you can find it in your heart to be kind to an old fellow in a shabby coat—"
"What's a coat matter?" smiled Diana. "Peregrine's was worse than yours."
"Yes," nodded his lordship. "I fancy it was, and I'm glad—very glad that you like me also, Diana; it does me good, child."
"Why, then, come on up," she commanded, reaching out her hand to him in her imperious manner.
"Pray do, sir," said I. "It would be an honour and pleasure."
"It'll save your poor, old, stiff leg, sir!" added Diana.
"Ah, Diana, fair goddess," said he in his placid, stately manner, "when you put my disturbers to such ignominious flight at the fair, you graciously unbent enough to address me as 'your old pal'—"
"You seemed s' very lonely!" she explained.
"Child," he sighed, "I am lonely still!"
"Why, then," said she in her gentlest voice, smiling down into his wistful face, "come on up, old pal, an' forget your loneliness awhile."
And now his lordship smiled also, and having pocketed his book, climbed into the cart with our assistance and seated himself between us.
"This," sighed he, as Diogenes ambled on again, "is exceedingly kind in you, to burden yourselves thus with a solitary and garrulous old man—"
"What's garrulous?" demanded Diana.
"Talkative, my child, excessive verbosity—Mr. Vereker will doubtless remember our conversation on music," said he, with a whimsical glance at me.
"Indeed, yes, sir," I answered. "I was greatly interested."
"Well, I like to hear you talk, too," said Diana, "you speaks like Peregrine does, only he says such silly things, and he's a great deal too cocksure of himself into the bargain!"
"Concerning which," said his lordship gently, "you may have remarked that Mr. Vereker possesses a chin."
"What's his chin to do with it? You've got one—so have I for that matter."
"True, child, we all three possess chins that typify dogged resolution to a remarkable degree—"
"Peregrine's hatefully dogged; I know that!" sighed Diana.
"Excellent youth!" nodded our aged companion, regarding me with twinkling eyes.
"And Diana is excessively and unreasonably illogical!" I retorted.
"Adorable maiden!" sighed his lordship, glancing at Diana.
"Lord, Peregrine, how can you say such things!" she exclaimed indignantly. "He only says it because he wants to marry me!" she explained into our companion's right ear. "If I don't tell you he will in a minute; he tells it to every one."
"Perspicacious youth!" nodded his lordship.
"And Diana very foolishly attempts to deny me, for no just or adequate reason," I explained into his left ear.
"Extremely natural and feminine!" nodded his lordship.
"Because of his grand aunt and fine uncles for one thing," said Diana.
"And for what other reason?" I demanded.
"Just because!"
"Because of what?"
"Never mind!"
"And there you have it, sir!" I exclaimed. "Did you ever hear such futile answers?"
"Often, and generally from the loveliest lips, Mr. Vereker—"
"Pray, sir, call me Peregrine if you will: and, sir," said I, grasping his worn left sleeve, "I beg you to advise me in this matter, for you are so wise—"
"Never heed him, old pal!" cried Diana, grasping his right sleeve. "Peregrine only thinks he ought to marry me because he bought me and folks talk and—"
"Pardon me, dear child, but how and where may one purchase a goddess?" his lordship enquired. "You said 'bought', I think?"
"Yes, he bought me for fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies!" and in two breaths, or thereabouts, she had recounted the whole incident.
"Admirable!" exclaimed his lordship, glancing from one to other of us with shining eyes. "Ridiculous! Magnificent!"
"And that's the only reason he wants to marry me—"
"There you are wrong, Diana, and most unjust!" said I indignantly. "You know my chief purpose in wedding you is to take you from this wandering life and shield you from all hardship and coarseness."
"And what of love, Peregrine?" enquired his lordship, gently. At thisI hesitated, glanced down at the gleaming buckles of my new shoes,glanced up at the blue serenity of heaven, and finally looked atDiana, to find her watching me beneath scowling brows.
"And there you have it!" said she in disdainful mimicry, "he—he don't know!"
The Ancient Person smiled and laid his small, white hand upon Diana's brown fingers.
"But then, dear child with the wise, woman's eyes—you have seen and surely know." Now at this Diana glanced swiftly from him to me and then, to my amazement, flushed hotly and drooped her head. "Ah, yes," sighed his lordship, "I see you know, child, so what matter?"
"Sir," said I, "what do you mean?"
"Peregrine, I touch upon an abstract theme and therefore one better sensed than described, so I will not attempt it." Here, to my further surprise, Diana nestled closer to him and whispered something in his ear.
"I believe," said the Ancient Person, after Diogenes had plodded some little distance, "I believe you are camping with Jessamy Todd?"
"Yes, sir, but pray, how did you learn this?"
"Well, I know the redoubtable Jessamy rather well."
"We'm settled in the wood beyond Wyvelstoke Park," added Diana, "along by the stream."
"I know it," nodded his lordship, "I have killed many a fine trout along that same stream. I shall do myself the pleasure of finding you one of these days, if I may?"
"Pray do sir," said I eagerly, "you will find Jeremy Jarvis the most wonderful tinker in the world and one who writes poetry besides mending kettles and shoeing horses."
"This has been a truly memorable occasion," said his lordship, "I feel myself honoured by your confidence, it has given me a new interest in my solitary life."
"And why are you so solitary?" questioned Diana.
"Because old age is usually solitary, and because in my youth, when Love came to me, I was a coward, by reason of worldly considerations, and let it plead in vain, alas! And thus, although my friends were many in those days, my empty heart was always solitary, and now—my friends are mostly dead, and I am—a childless, lonely old man!"
The white head drooped disconsolate, the slender, delicate hands wrung each other, and then about these bowed and aged shoulders Diana clasped protecting arm and stooped soft cheek to his.
"Ah, poor old soul, don't grieve!" she murmured. "Here's Peregrine and me will be your friends and pals, if you'll have us, and if you're ever very lonely or in want, come to us—wait!" Then, opening her gipsire, and before I could prevent, into those slender fingers she thrust a bright, new guinea; for a long moment his lordship stared down at the coin while I grew alternately hot and cold. When at last he lifted his white head I saw his keen eyes dimmed with unshed tears.
"Why, child?" he murmured. "Generous girl—"
"No, don't!" she smiled. "Don't say anything! Only let me be your friend to cheer your loneliness an' help you now an' then."
Lord Wyvelstoke stared at the coin in his palm as if it had been a very rare and curious object, then, having deposited it carefully within an inner pocket, he bared his head in his courtly fashion.
"Diana," said he, "sweet friend, you have given me something precious as my vanished youth and more lasting; accept a once solitary old man's gratitude. Mr. Vereker—Peregrine, you who stand perhaps where I stood years ago with the best of all things in your reach—grasp it, boy, follow heart rather than head, and may you find those blessings I have never known. Here, I think, is the advice you sought of me—for the rest, you are a Vereker, sir, and carry honour in your name. And now is good-bye for a time; my way lies yonder," said he, pointing towards a by-lane. So here we stopped and down sprang I to aid our Ancient Person to alight.
"You'll come soon and let me patch your coat?" said Diana, giving him her hand.
"Assuredly!" he answered, with his quick, decisive nod. "Meantime, God be kind to you both, your friendship has lifted much of the heaviness of years from my heart and I shall walk the lighter henceforth!" So saying, he bent and kissed Diana's hand, shook mine vigorously and limped away.
"A dear old man!" said Diana, looking after him gentle-eyed.
"I wonder," said I, "I wonder what he meant by that talk regarding my 'head and heart'—"
"How should I know?"
"But what do you think?"
"That you'd better get in if you're goin' to!" Obediently I clambered into the cart, whereupon Diana prodded the somnolent Diogenes into motion.
"Where did you meet his l—that Ancient Person, Diana?"
"At the fair. Hooky Sam and two pals tried to rob him, an' him such a poor, lonely old soul, only I stood 'em off, made 'em cut their stick, I did."
"But he had a pistol—"
"What—him? Well if so, he didn't have t' use it, my littlechuriwas enough."
"Indeed, you are far braver than I was, Diana—"
"Tush! There's few men as won't cut and run from a female if she's got a knife—an' means t' use it."
"This was why he named you Penthesilea."
"Who's she?"
"She was a Queen of the Amazons and fought at Troy—"
"What's Amazons?"
"Fierce, terrible women who hated men and loved to fight."
"Well, I hates a fight, so don't you go calling me Penthe—whatever her name was."
"No, Diana, I would have you her very opposite, if possible."
"How d'ye mean?"
"I'd have you a lady, sweet-mannered, soft-voiced, tender and gentle—"
"Like your aunt? But she ain't exactly a pet lamb, Peregrine, nor yet a cooin' dove—now, is she? And as for me I'm just—"
"My goddess Diana!"
"Was the real goddess a lady?"
"Well, I—I suppose so—but I want to ask you—"
"No, tell me about her—the goddess Diana."
"Well, besides Diana, she was called Cynthia, Delia, Ancia, Orthia and several other names—"
"And all of 'em pretty, too!"
"And she was passionately fond of hunting."
"And didn't like men overmuch, did she?"
"Well, it appears not. She changed Actaeon into a stag and had him devoured by her dogs—"
"Which wasn't very ladylike, Peregrine—that was coming it a bit too strong, I think! Why did she do it? Poor young man!"
"Because he spied upon her—at her toilet."
"Was that all? d'ye mean he catches her undoin' her curl papers?"
"She was—bathing!"
"Oh!" said Diana. "Well, poor young man! She'd got modesty pretty bad,I think, and if all goddesses are like her—"
"They were not."
"Oh, well, let's talk o' something more human-like—"
"Ourselves!" I suggested.
"Well, I sold every one o' my baskets and earned fifty-six shillings.How much money did you spend, Peregrine?"
"I'm not sure, but about twenty-seven pounds, I fancy."
"Pounds?" she cried so suddenly that Diogenes pricked his ears. "For them noo duds—"
"Horrible!" I exclaimed.
"It is!" said she. "It's wicked robbery—"
"I mean your grammar, Diana, and the word 'duds', whatever it may mean, sounds atrocious, especially on your lips—"
"Oh, tush! d'ye mean as they charges you all that money for them new—"
"Those!" I corrected.
"Things you're wearing—"
"You forget the despised locket and chain," said I reproachfully, "andI also purchased two silver watches—"
"Watches? Two on 'em? What for?"
"One for our Tinker and one for Jessamy," I explained.
"Foolishness!" she exclaimed.
"Indeed, madam?"
"It's wicked waste o' money—an' don't call me 'madam'!"
"I suppose I may be permitted to spend my money to please myself, girl?"
"I s'pose so, boy! Easy come, easy go! You can get more any time ye want, just for the askin', can't you? But you wouldn't spend s' gay an' careless if you had to earn your money, to slave an' sweat for it—not you!"
"How do you know?" I demanded in towering anger.
"Just because!"
"I consider you are very—exceedingly—" I checked the word upon my lips and scowled.
"Well? Very exceedingly—what?" she demanded.
"Never mind!"
"I don't!" she retorted, and flicked Diogenes to speedier gait, for evening was beginning to fall.
Diogenes, perceiving he was permitted to loiter no more, philosophically betook himself to his heels, or rather hoofs, and trotted briskly supper-wards, up hill and down, until suddenly, above the rattle and grind of the wheels, I was aware of a man's voice, peculiarly sonorous and sweet, upraised in joyful singing.
"Praise God from whom all blessings flowPraise Him all creatures here below—"
The single voice was joined by others that swelled in jubilant chorus:
"Praise Him above, ye Heavenly HostPraise Father, Son and Holy Ghost."
Reaching the top of a hill I looked down upon a little hamlet shady with trees, a cluster of thatched, flower-girt cottages, a hoary church, an ancient inn before which last stood Jessamy Todd and a group of rustic folk, men in smocked frocks or shirt sleeves, bare-armed women in aprons or print gowns, children tousled and round of eye, and all, for the most part, very silent, with heads reverently bowed, for Jessamy was praying:
"—so Heavenly Father here we be, Thy children all, weary with another day's labour, grant us this night Thy peace, each one. If any there be that grieve, O Father, comfort 'em; if any there be in pain, O Father, pity an' cherish 'em; if any do bear ill-will agin his brother, O Father, turn his anger to love that love may come thereby. Oh, make us strong against all temptations, that when we come to our last, long sleep we may rest with Thee for ever. Amen.
And good-night, friends and brothers."
Hereupon Jessamy put on his hat, paused to grasp the horny hands extended to him, then lifted a large canvas bag to his shoulder, but at my shout he turned and flourished his hat in salutation as we drove up.
"Why, Jessamy," exclaimed Diana, as he placed the bag in the cart, "what's come t' your face?" And now I saw his comely features were disfigured by an ugly blue weal.
"Oh, nothin' much, Ann," he exclaimed, smiling a little sheepishly."Only a whip—"
"Lord, Jess—whose?"
"I come on a fine gentleman thrashing of a little lad, whereupon I ventured a word of remonstrance as in dooty bound and turned to look to the lad as lay a-weepin', whereupon the gentleman took occasion to gi'e me this here—ye see he didn't 'appen to know me, poor soul!"
"Well, I hope you gave the 'poor soul' all he needed!" cried Diana, cracking the whip so loudly that Diogenes pricked startled ears.
"I'm afraid I did, Ann, God forgive me. The Old Adam's very strong in me."
"And how's the poor boy?"
"Why, the gentleman wore ridin' boots, d'ye see—"
"Ah!" exclaimed Diana between white teeth. "And what's become o' the gentleman—"
"They—put him to bed," confessed Jessamy guiltily, "but he's nice an' comfortable, Ann, an'll be right as nine pence in th' morning."
"What sort of a person was he?" I enquired.
"A biggish chap, a bit too round an' wi' too much neck."
"How often did ye hit him, Jess?"
"Four times, Ann! Four times, an' one would ha' been plenty. Four times an' me preachin' forgiveness an' brotherly love—"
"Brotherly love's no good agin' that kind o' beast, a good strong fist's the thing, or better still a little, sharpchuri—like mine!"
"Ah, but when I hit him," sighed Jessamy, "I went on hitting him—not for the good of his soul but because—I—I j'yed in it—"
"Well, it did him just as much good, anyhow!" said Diana whereupon Jessamy sighed again and shook his head in self-reproof. Seeing him thus downcast, I laid a hand on his arm and with the other felt in my pocket.
"Do you happen to possess a watch, Jessamy?" I enquired.
"Aye, for sure," he nodded, "that is, I did, an' a rare good 'un too, but it don't go these days by reason of a brick as was hove at me by a riotous fe-male."
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "Why?"
"The poor creetur' being in liquor didn't take kindly to my method o' prayer, so she let fly a brick as took me in the watch, bein' fortunate for me but bad for my watch—a good, silver watch, too, as was given me by my old dad just afore he died. An' so I ain't had the 'eart to buy another."
"Then will you please accept this?" said I a little diffidently, aware of Diana's sharp eyes, and I thrust the timepiece into his hand.
"Why—but—how can I—Lord bless me!" stammered Jessamy, glancing from the watch to me and back again irresolutely.
"You'd better put it into your pocket, Jess, quick, or he'll throw it into the ditch!" nodded Diana. "So put it into your pocket and thank the pretty gentleman." This Jessamy did, after no little demur and with reiterated expressions of thanks.
"Which do remind me, sir, as I have a letter for you," said he.
"And my name is Peregrine," I nodded.
"A letter, Peregrine, as was give to me for you by your uncle, Sir Jervas." And presently, having felt through his numerous pockets, he brought forth the letter in question, which, with due apology, I proceeded to open and read; here it is:
"MY DEAR PEREGRINE: Apropos of your forthcoming marriage (at this I started) be guided by your own discretion in the matter, since Marriage is one of the few serious dangers to be feared in an otherwise somewhat vapid tedium we call life. Be yourself to yourself, guide, philosopher and friend, since you are likely to heed the wisdom of such more than that of any other friend, for I judge that being a Vereker, no Vereker (or any other lesser human) can stay you from your fixed purpose. So (writing as a relation who has developed an unexpected regard for you) my serious advice is—act upon your own advice. Your beautiful gipsy is a magnificent creature with a mind and will of her own, the dignified unrestraint of a dryad and the deplorable diction of a wandering gipsy wench. She would be excellent as a picture, entertaining as a companion and execrable as a wife. This of course is merely the opinion of a Vereker which to another Vereker is of not the slightest consideration. None the less, being somewhat your senior in years, I would venture to point out what I have learned by bitter experience, to wit, nephew, viz: that which is delightful for an hour may disgust in a week and become intolerable within a month.
In which certaintyI subscribe myself,Most humbly your uncle,Jervas Vereker.
P.S. If you care to designate such address as will find you, your allowance shall be forwarded either by week or month as you shall determine."
Scarcely had I finished the perusal of this characteristic missive than we turned from the road and jolted down the grassy slope towards the little wood from whose rustling shadow came the blithe thump and ring of the Tinker's busy hammer, which merry clamour ceased suddenly; and forth to welcome us came Jerry, sooty and grimed as Vulcan himself and smiling in cheery greeting. And glancing from his honest face, with its wise and kindly eyes, over the quiet peace of this sheltered wood and smiling countryside, to Diana's proud and vital beauty, I knew indeed that no Vereker or any other human could stay me from my purpose.
"Jeremy," said I, plunging hand into pocket, "I don't know if you possess a watch or want a watch, but I've bought you one; pray accept it in memory of our friendship and as a very small mark of my esteem."
"Lord love me—a silver watch!" exclaimed the Tinker for about the tenth time, clapping the same to his ear.
"Two on 'em, brother!" said Jessamy, doing the same by his.
"My soul!" exclaimed the Tinker. "Fortune ain't in the habit o' showering brand-noo silver watches about me like this an' it's apt to ketch me unprepared with words to soot the occasion—"
"True, brother, when Peregrine stuck mine into my fist it was like a roaster in the short ribs, low, brother, low—I was floored, taken aback, an' nat'rally broached to an' come to a dead halt—"
"Wicked extravagance, I call it!" exclaimed Diana, glancing up from the potatoes she was peeling. "Though if he wants to waste his money, he couldn't ha' wasted it better!"
"For that," said I, seating myself beside her, "I will help you with those things if you'll show me how!" At this she glanced swiftly at me without lifting her head and in her eyes was an indescribable kindliness and her vivid lips were curved to smile so tender that I stared in joyful bewilderment and forgot all else in the world until roused by the Tinker's voice:
"And exactly what o'clock might it be by your chronometer, Jessamy?"
"Precisely fifteen minutes an' three quarters past seven, brother."
"Then, according to mine, you're precisely three quarters of a minute fast, Jessamy, my lad."
"Why, as to that, friend," answered Jessamy, "it's in my mind that you're just about that much slow, comrade."
And so, reaching a knife, I began to help Diana in the peeling of potatoes and, though finding it a somewhat trying business, yet contrived ever and anon to steal surreptitious glances at her downbent face and to surprise more than once that new soft and shy-sweet wonder in her glance.
"You'll cut yourself if you aren't more careful!" she admonished, and the kindness it seemed had somehow got into her voice.
"What matter?" said I. "What does anything matter except—"
"What?" she questioned softly.
"You, Diana—you and only you—"
"Don't be silly!" said she, but in the same gentle voice and though she stooped her head a little lower, I thought the colour was deepened in her cheek.
"Should you think me silly, Diana, if I told you—"
"Yes, I should!" she answered so suddenly that I started and the wet potato shot from my grasp.
"I fancy it'll rain to-night, Jessamy," said the Tinker, glancing up at the heavens.
"Brother, I'm pretty sure of it," answered Jessamy, "I noticed the clouds bankin' up to wind'ard. We'd best rig up t' other tent—"
"Why, Peregrine," exclaimed the Tinker, as I stooped to recover the elusive vegetable, "who's been sp'iling of your noo coat, your collar's all ripped, lad?"
"A black scoundrel who insulted Diana," I exclaimed, clenching my fists.
"A gentleman as spoke to me, you mean!"
"The damned rogue tried to kiss you—"
"Well, what of it—I didn't let him, did I?"
"You have no business to run such risks," said I angrily, my gorge rising at memory of the fellow, "a tavern is no place for a girl—"
"Well, I can't live under a glass case!" she retorted. "And, anyway, I can take care of myself—better than you can!"
"Yes," I answered humbly, "I fear I am not a very terrible champion—Jessamy, O Jessamy, teach me how to fight!"
For answer Jessamy rose and opening his canvas bag reached thence four of those padded gloves termed 'mufflers.'
"With your uncle George's compliments!" said he, glancing at me with twinkling eyes. "And now, seeing the light's good, if you'm minded to try a round or so afore supper, why cheerily it is, messmate!"
Then, tossing aside the half-peeled potato I stripped off my coat.