Evening was at hand, lights began to wink and flare among booths and shows, and the crowd seemed to be growing even more riotous; thus I, for one, was profoundly thankful to leave behind its roaring clamour and seek those quiet, leafy shades where the Tinker had appointed us to meet with him.
"And to think," said Jessamy, as we walked on side by side, "to think as 'Firebrand Vereker' is your uncle—not to mention Sir George, as once fou't ten rounds wi' 'Buck Vibart'! To think—"
"Mighty fine gentlemen, ain't they, Jess?" enquired Diana, with a toss of her shapely head.
"Of the finest, Ann! Honoured by all, from the Prince down. And to think as Mr. Vereker here—"
"My name is Peregrine;" said I, "indeed, I would rather you called mePerry, it is shorter."
"As Mr. Perry, here—"
"Perry!" I admonished.
"As—Perry is their own nevvy—"
"Though he don't look like it!" added Diana.
"Why, that's true, Ann, that's true; but his clothes can be changed—"
"But his face can't, Jess!"
"Lord bless me, Ann, what's wrong wi' his face?"
"Only everything!" she answered, with another disdainful gesture of her head.
"I am extremely sorry that my face displeases you, Diana," said I.
"So'm I!" she nodded. "Though it ain't your fault, I s'pose."
"If you allude to my bruises and black eyes—"
"They're nearly well," said Jessamy.
"I don't!" said Diana.
"Then pray what particularly displeases you in my face this evening?"I enquired.
"All of it! You! Your ways! Makin' a fool o' me afore your fine uncles and them staring their proud eyes out! As if I'd ever marry—you!" At this Jessamy opened his eyes rather wide and I fancy his lips quivered slightly.
"Ah, but you will, Diana!" said I. "My mind is made up."
"What's that matter?"
"A great deal! The whole affair is settled definitely." Here she turned on me in such flaming anger that I fell back a step in utter amazement, and Jessamy, murmuring something about "seeing if supper was ready" quickened his stride and left us together.
"Why did ye do it?" she panted. "Why did ye let 'em think 't was you stole that looking-glass?"
"Because it was my whim!"
"Oh, I know—I know!" she cried, positively gnashing her teeth at me.
"Then why trouble to ask?"
"You thought 'twas me!" she cried. "You dared to think I'd stolen it.You did—you did! Ah, you're afraid to own it!"
"And if I did," cried I, angered at last, "hadn't I reason enough, remembering your—your propensities—"
"What d'ye mean? What's propensities?"
"Well, your predilections—"
"Ah, talk plain!"
"Well, then, remembering those three guineas and the duck you filched,I naturally supposed—"
Uttering a sobbing cry she leapt, striking at me wildly, but ducking in under the blow, I caught her in my arms. For a moment she struggled fiercely, then her writhing body grew soft and yielding in my clasp, and she burst into a passion of tears.
Now as she drooped thus in my embrace, her slender form shaken by sobs, I leant nearer and, moved by a sudden impulse, kissed her hair, her eyes, her parted lips, lips that quivered under mine for a breathless moment; then, loosing her, I stepped back to see her staring at me through her tears with a look of speechless amaze. Suddenly her glance fell and she covered her burning cheeks; and, glancing up from earth to sky, I felt a vague wonder to see them all unchanged.
"O Diana," said I, a little breathlessly. "O Diana, don't cry! And forgive me for misjudging you, I—I was ashamed, but I would have gone to prison for you gladly just the same. I'm—humbly sorry; you see, it was—that duck and the man's three guineas. Only don't—don't sob so bitterly, Diana, or I shall have to—kiss you again."
At this, she walked on once more, though she kept her gaze averted.
Far before us strode Jessamy who, reaching a five-barred gate, took a run and cleared it with a graceful ease that filled me with envious admiration. Reaching this same gate in due course, I clambered over and, from the other side, proffered Diana my assistance, but she merely scowled and setting hand to the top bar, over she came with a vision of shapely limbs and flutter of petticoats.
"You have very pretty ankles!" said I impulsively.
"Don't be foolish!" she retorted, with a petulant fling of her shoulder; and after a moment, "what are my ankles to you?" she demanded sullenly.
"A great deal, seeing they will belong to me some day."
"Never—oh, never!" she cried, between clenched teeth. "I'm done wi' you, young man."
"Folly!" I retorted. "Don't be silly, young woman."
"I'll—I'll run away—"
"Very well," said I, nodding, "then I'll find you again if it costs me every penny of my heritage!" At this she turned with clenched fists, but seeing me stand prepared, walked on again.
"I hate you!" she exclaimed vehemently.
"No matter!" said I.
"You're a—a coward!"
"I know it!" I sighed.
"A fool wi' no manliness in you!"
"Agreed!" quoth I. "You shall teach me better—"
"I'm done wi' you—finished, d'ye hear?"
"Also, I begin to suspect that you are really a little annoyed with me, Diana; pray, why?"
"Ah! You know why!"
"Then be generous and try to forgive me!"
By this time we had reached a little wood where flowed a stream, its murmurous waters brimful of sunset glory; and here, as by common consent, we paused a while to look down at this reflected splendour, and when at last she spoke, her voice was gentle, almost pleading.
"The duck was—only a duck, Peregrine."
"Yes!" said I.
"And we were hungry—you know you were?"
"Very hungry, Diana."
"And the—the three guineas as I—finds in—that beast's pocket did us more good than it could ha' done him?"
"True, Diana."
"And I only took it because it—it was there to take—and might be useful. But now we—we don't need it any more—I don't, so—there it goes!" And with a sudden gesture she cast into the brook a handful of coins, among which I caught the sheen of gold and silver. "But I—I ain't a thief—I'm not!" she cried passionately. "I never stole anything all my days; I—I only—prig—" Here, acting on sudden impulse, I caught her hand to my lips.
"O Diana," said I, "dear child, it is in my mind you will never prig again, either—"
"But I shall—I know I shall!" she cried, a little wildly, but yielding her hand to my lips. "Yes, I know—I'm sure I shall, Peregrine, and what should you do then?"
"Grieve, child!"
"Look!" she whispered suddenly, bending to stare down into the glory of the brook, "O Peregrine—do you see it?" From the stream she pointed upward to the radiant heaven where, immediately above us, sailed a small, curiously-shaped cloud. "Do you see it, Peregrine?"
"Only a little, golden cloud, Diana."
"It is—the 'Hand of Glory,'" she whispered.
"What is it—what does it mean?"
"It means, Peregrine, it means that you—that I—oh, you must find out!" And snatching her hand from mine, she fled from me into the wood.
I was busily engaged blowing the bellows of the Tinker's small, portable forge; besides the making and mending of kettles, pots, pans and the like, it seems he was a skilful smith also, able to turn his hand from shoeing a horse to fashioning such diverse implements as the rustic community had need of, for beside the forge lay a pile of billhooks, axe-heads, sickle-blades and the like, finished or in the making.
So I blew the fire, wielded the heavy sledge-hammer or stood absorbed to watch the deft strokes of his hammer draw out, bend and shape the glowing steel, though turning very often to behold Diana sitting near by, her quick hands busied upon the construction of her baskets of rush or peeled willow: thus despite the heat of the fire, the sulphurous flames and the smoke-grime that besmirched me, I laboured joyously and swung the ponderous sledge more vigorously for the knowledge that her bright eyes were often raised to watch me at my work.
Thus bellows roared and hammers rang until the sun was high and the Tinker, returning the half-forged billhook to the fire, straightened his back and wiped the sweat from sooty brow with sooty hand.
"We shall make a tidy smith of him yet, eh Anna?"
"In time—with patience!" she nodded.
"The question is—wages. What ought us to pay him, Ann?"
"Nothing!" said I.
"Five shillings," said Diana.
"Good, we'll make it seven shillings a week to begin wi'," quoth the Tinker, and whipping the glowing bill from the fire, he clapped it on the anvil and at sign from him I whirled up the sledge and brought it down with resounding clank, which he followed with two blows from his lighter hammer, and we fell to it merrily, thus: Clang—chink, chink! Clang—chink, chink! While with every stroke the bill took on form and semblance, growing more and more into what a billhook should be.
"A good thick steak, I think you said, Anna?" enquired the Tinker, while I blew the fire for the next heat.
"And fried onions, Jerry."
"Steak an' onions!" he exclaimed, rolling his eyes ecstatically. "Did ye hear that, Perry? And to make good vittles better, there's nowt like smithing! The only thing agin' steak an' onions is that there's never enough onions!"
"There will be this time!" said Diana, with another nod.
"D'ye hear that, Perry? Lord, I am that ravenous!"
"But 'tis scarce twelve o'clock yet, Jerry."
"Are you hungry, friend Peregrine?"
"I always am, lately."
"Poor Perry's hungry likewise, Ann! Come, what of it?"
"You must wait till dinner time."
"Which is when a man's hungry—or should be. Come, lass, famishin' an' faintin' away we be!"
Laughing, Diana rose and crossed the glade to where, screened among leafy thickets, stood cart and tent.
"Now as regards paying me wages, Jerry," I began, then stopped and caught my breath suddenly, for Diana was singing.
Yet could this indeed be Diana's voice—these soft, sweet, rippling notes mounting in silvery trills so purely sweet, swelling gloriously until the whole wood seemed full of the wonder of it, and I spellbound by this simple, oft-heard air, but which, sung thus and thus glorified, touched me to awed delight.
"Aha!" exclaimed the Tinker, as the liquid notes died away. "She can sing when she's happy. Jessamy says there's a fortun' in her voice—" But I was off and across the glade and next moment standing before her.
"Why—Diana!" I exclaimed. "O Diana!"
"What is it?" she demanded, glancing up from the onion she was peeling.
"Why have I never heard you sing before? Why do you sing so seldom?"
"Because I only sing when—when I feel like it and to please myself."
"Your voice is wonderful!" I exclaimed. "We will have it cultivated; you shall be one of the world's great singers, you shall—"
"Don't be silly!" she exclaimed, flushing.
"But I tell you your voice is one in ten thousand!"
"And this onion is one of six, so take a knife and help me with 'em, 'stead of talking foolish—only go wash first; you're black as a sweep."
"Gladly," said I, "if you will sing again."
"Nobody can sing and peel onions—they make your eyes run."
"Why, then, let me—"
"Hush!" she exclaimed suddenly.
"What is it?"
"Strangers coming—listen!" And presently I heard it too, a rustle of leaves, crackling of twigs, voices and jingling spurs, coming nearer. Then as I rose with a premonition of approaching fate, forth into the clearing stepped my uncle George, my uncle Jervas and my aunt Julia. She was dressed for riding and carried the skirt of her close-fitting habit across her arm, and never had she looked handsomer nor more magnificently statuesque as she stood, her noble figure proudly erect, all potent femininity from feathered hat to dainty, firm-planted riding boots.
My lips were opening in glad welcome, I had taken a quick step forward, when her words arrested me.
"George Vereker!" she exclaimed, with a waft of her jewelled riding switch towards Diana and myself, "O Sir Jervas, is it with such dreadful creatures as these that you have doomed my poor, delicately nurtured Peregrine to consort? Aye, well may you grow purple, George, and you turn your back in shame, Jervas, to behold thus the degrading company—"
But here, waiting for no more, I started forward, and halting within a yard of my aunt, I laid grimy hand upon grimy shirt-bosom and bowed.
"Dear Aunt Julia, I rejoice to see you!" said I.
For a long moment my aunt gazed on me with eyes of horrified bewilderment then, all at once, she dropped her riding-switch and, gasping my name, sank into the ready arms of my uncle George, who promptly began to fan her vigorously with his hat, while my uncle Jervas, lounging gracefully against a tree, surveyed me through his single glass and I saw his grim lips twitch.
"Tell me I dream, George!" wailed aunt Julia. "Say it is a horrid vision and make me happy."
"It is, Julia, it is!" said my uncle Jervas. "And yet, upon me soul, 'tis a vision that grows upon me; observe the set of the shoulders, the haughty cock o' the head, the determined jut of the chin; yes, Julia, despite rags and dirt, I recognise Peregrine as a true Vereker for the first time." Saying which, my uncle Jervas very deliberately drew on his riding glove and stepping up to me, caught and shook my hand or ever I guessed his intention.
"Uncle—O Uncle Jervas!" I exclaimed and stooped my head lest he should see the tears in my eyes.
"By Gad, Julia—sweet soul," exclaimed my uncle George. "Jervas is exactly right, d'ye see? Perry may look a—a what's-a-name vision, but he's a Vereker for all that—lad o' spirit—beautiful pair o' black eyes, though you can't see 'em for dirt—"
My aunt moaned feebly.
"But dirt, my dear soul, dirt won't harm him, nor black eyes—do him good, d'ye see, do him a world o' good, doing him good every minute—"
"Enough, George Vereker!" exclaimed my aunt in her terrible voice, and freed herself from his hold like an offended goddess. "O heaven, I might have known that you, George, would have abetted my poor, wilful boy in his dirt and bodily viciousness, and that you, Jervas, would have condoned his turpitude and moral degradation. None the less, though you both desert me in this dreadful hour, shirking your duty thus shamelessly, this woman's hand shall pluck my dear, loved nephew from the abyss, this hand—" Here, turning to behold me, my poor aunt shivered, gasped and setting dainty handkerchief to her eyes, bowed noble head and wept grandly as a grieving goddess might have done.
"O Peregrine," she moaned from this dainty mystery, "O rash boy—to have sunk to this—sordid misery—rags—dirt! You that were wont to shudder at a splash of mud and now—O kind heaven—grimed like a dreadful collier and I think—yes, O shameless youth, actually smiling through it—"
"And why not, m'dear creature?" sighed uncle Jervas. "Dirt is of many kinds and Peregrine's is at least honest and healthy—"
"Cease, Sir Jervas, I pray!" cried my aunt with a flash of her fine black eyes. "Nevermore will I heed your perfidious counsels, nor the fatuous maunderings of graceless George. There stands my poor, misguided Peregrine—an object for angels to weep over, an innocent but a little while since—but now—now, alas—and you—both of you his undoing!"
"Pardon me, dear Aunt," said I hastily, "but there you are in error and do a monstrous injustice to my two generous uncles. Allow me to reiterate the statement I set down in my letter, that I left Merivale and you of my own accord; indeed my uncles would have stayed me, but I was determined to be gone for your sake, their sake and my own. Indeed, Aunt, so deep is my affection that I would see you truly happy, and knowing the deep and—and honourable sentiments my uncles have for you, I—I dreamed that they—that you—that one of them might have won your hand and—and you find that happiness which you have denied yourself on my account."
"Misguided boy!" murmured my aunt, lovely eyes abased, "Come, dear Peregrine, doubtless one of your uncles can find you a cloak to—to veil you from the curious vulgar—only let us be going, pray."
"Dear Aunt—where?"
"Back to Merivale, to your books, your paintings and my loving care."
"Not yet, Aunt. Ah, pray do not misunderstand me, but when I set out, it was with the purpose of doing better things than penning indifferent verse, or painting futile pictures—"
"Peregrine—nephew—do I hear aright?"
"You do, Aunt. I came out into the world to open the greatest book of all—the book of Life—to try to meet and know men and learn some day, perhaps, to be a man also and one you can honour. Instead of reading the actions of others, I intend to act a little myself—"
"Peregrine—cease!"
"And so, dear Aunt, here I stay until I can return to you feeling thatI have achieved something worthy my sex and name."
"Peregrine, come with me—I command you!"
"Then, dearest Aunt, with all the humility possible, I fear I must disobey you."
My aunt Julia drew herself to her stately height, setting her indomitable chin at me, and into her eyes came that coercive expression which resurrected the memory of childish sins of omission and commission, an expression before which my new-found hardihood wilted and drooped; but in this desperate moment I glanced at Diana, and, meeting the calm serenity of her untroubled gaze, I folded my arms and, bowing my head, awaited the deluge with what fortitude I might and, in the awful stillness, heard uncle George's spurs jingle distressfully.
"You mean that—you—will—not—come?" she demanded.
"I do, dear Aunt."
"That you actually—disobey me?"
"Dear Aunt—I do!"
"Pray, who is the young person I notice behind you?"
"Person, Aunt?"
"The young woman—the wild, gipsy-looking creature."
"Ah, pray forgive me—I should have introduced you before. Diana, this is my aunt, Lady Julia Conroy—Aunt, this is my friend Diana."
"And pray what is she doing here?"
"She is about to cook a steak and onions—"
"Do you mean—O pitiful heaven—that she is—living here with—"
"With Jeremy Jarvis, a tinker, Jessamy Todd, a champion pugilist, and myself."
"Shocking!" exclaimed my aunt, sweeping Diana with the fire of her disparaging regard.
"Moreover, dear Aunt," I continued, stung by something in her attitude, "it is my hope to make myself sufficiently worthy to win Diana in—in marriage!"
"Marriage?" repeated my aunt in a hoarse whisper. "I dream! Marriage? With a wild woman! George! Jervas!" she gasped in strange, breathless fashion. "Our poor boy is either mad—or worse, and whichever it prove, it is all your doing! I hope, I sincerely hope, you are satisfied with your handiwork! As for you, you poor young woman," she continued, turning on Diana in passionate appeal, "if my nephew is mad, be you sane enough to know that such a marriage would drag him to perdition and bring you only misery and shame in the long run. Give up my poor, distracted nephew and I will be your friend. If it is money you require—"
Diana laughed:
"My lady, an' if you please, ma'm," said she, curtseying, finger beneath dimpled chin, "I ain't your young woman an' by your leave, ma'm, never could be, because, though I don't love Mr. Peregrine, I can't abide you, ma'm. When I wants money, being only a gipsy mort, I works for it or prigs it. So I don't want your money, thanking you kindly, ma'm, and I don't want your nephew, so you may take him and willing. An' I don't want your friendship or help, because I likes loneliness and the Silent Places better. So take your precious nephew, ma'm, and when you get him safe home, wash him an' keep him in a glass case; 'tis what he's best fitted for. But watch him, lady, lock him up secure, because I think—I know—I could whistle him away from you whenever I would—back, ma'm, back to me and the Silent Places. And so good-day, ma'm, my best respects!" Saying which, Diana curtseyed again and turned away.
"The creature!" exclaimed my aunt. "The minx! The insolent baggage!" And she stepped proudly forward, an angry goddess, the jewelled switch quivering.
"Stop, lady!" said Diana, throwing out a shapely arm with gesture so imperious that my aunt stood staring and amazed. "Stop, ma'm—don't forget as you're a great lady and I'm only a gipsy mort as could tear you in pieces for all your size! To spoil them fine eyes would be pity, to pull that long hair out would be shame, so don't use your whip, lady—don't!" Having said which, she turned and walked serenely away.
"A most dreadful young person!" exclaimed my aunt. "See from what calamitous evils I have snatched you, dear Peregrine. Come, let us be going. I have William with your mare, but seeing you cannot ride as you are, we will take a chaise."
But folding my arms, I shook my head.
"What—O boy, what does this mean?"
"It means, dear Aunt, that I love the Silent Places too!"
"But Peregrine, you will not desert me now—now that I have found you—you will not—cannot! Ah, come back, Peregrine!" she cried, deep bosom resurgent, arms outstretched and eyes dim with unshed tears.
"Dear Aunt, it is impossible!" I mumbled. "Loving you as I do, yet must I leave you a while, foregoing the tender shelter of your love for—for—"
"Dirt and misery!" she broke in. "The shameful allurement of a sly minx, an unspeakable—"
"Madam!" I cried, "have done! You shame yourself and me! It has been my good fortune to have fallen in with honest people with whom I shall remain awhile, enduring their lot, living their life and by their brave patience learn fortitude, and their proud humility shall in time, I hope, teach me the duties of a gentleman—"
"My poor, distraught Peregrine!" she sighed. "My poor, poor boy. So thus I leave you because I must. But some day, when your stubborn will is broken, when your proud head is bowed with grief and shame, come back, dear prodigal, come back, and you shall find these arms outstretched in eager welcome, this solitary heart still open to shelter and protect. Farewell, my Peregrine—I go to weep and pray for you in the night silences. George—Jervas, lead me hence!"
Now as I stood, my eyes smarting with tears evoked by her last words, my uncles tendered their arms with grave and ready courtesy, but in that moment as I watched in a silent grief conjured up by my aunt's last words, the keen glance of uncle Jervas met mine for one brief moment and, in that space, his right eyelid flickered unmistakably; then uncle George coughed explosively and at the same instant tossed something to the foot of a tree; coming thither, I took up a well-filled leathern wallet and a heavy purse; with these, my uncles' parting benefactions in my hands, what wonder that I saw their retreating forms through a mist of tears.
"The Rubicon," said the Tinker, "the Rubicon is a river as no Roman ever crossed without doo thought. 'The die,' as Julius Caesar remarked when he crossed it, 'the die is cast!' Friend Peregrine, you ha' sent away your lady aunt a-grieving, poor ma'm, and your fine gentlemen uncles likewise, and consequently what I asks is—what now?"
"Clothes!" said I. "This afternoon let us drive into Tonbridge, find a tailor, get rid of these atrocities and afterwards sup at some cosy inn."
"Your gentlefolk brought you money then?"
"They did," said I, and laying by my platter, I drew from my breeches pockets the wallet of my uncle Jervas and uncle George's purse.
"Ha!" exclaimed the Tinker, rubbing his long chin with the haft of his knife. "How much?"
"We will investigate," said I, and opening the wallet, I discovered the sum of thirty pounds in gold and notes and a carefully folded missive with these words:
'If you wish to tinker, Peregrine, tinker like a gentleman. If you must make love, do it like a Vereker, that is to say, a man of honour.'
"My soul!" exclaimed the Tinker, round of eye.
In uncle George's purse were twenty guineas with a crumpled paper bearing this scrawl,
'More when you want it, Perry lad.'
"Lord love me!" exclaimed the Tinker, staring at the money I had placed on the grass between us. "It's a fine thing to have uncles—rich 'uns. What d' you think, Ann?"
"That you'd better eat your dinner while it's hot."
"But—fifty pound, Ann! Never saw so much money all at once in my life—an' all gold an' bank notes, nothing s' common as silver or copper—Lord! Fifty pound!"
"Divided by four is exactly twelve pounds ten shillings," said I, and counting out this sum, I thrust it into the Tinker's hand.
"Eh—what—why, why, what's this?" he demanded.
"Your share," I answered.
"But why—what for?"
"Because we are friends and comrades, I hope, and according to the rules of the Brotherhood of the Roadside as expounded by you, 'those that have, give to those that haven't—it would be a poor world else.'"
"No, no!" he exclaimed, "no, no, can't be done—I think ye mean kindly, but it won't do."
"But why not?" I demanded.
"Because no man as is a man takes money unless he's earned it or lent it, or happens to be starving—"
"Nor woman either!" said Diana.
"Very well!" quoth I, a little ruefully, cramming the money back into my pockets. "Then perhaps you will come to Tonbridge and help me to spend it?"
"I would wi' j'y, but there's my work—ask Ann, she'll go wi' you."
"I'm busy, too!" said she, whereupon I turned and strode off in high dudgeon. But presently she overtook me, "Don't you think you'd better wash first?" she enquired. At this I stopped, for I had clean forgotten my grime.
"Why should I trouble to wash? How can it matter to you?"
"Not much, Peregrine, but you look a little better with a clean face and we shall likely meet plenty o' folk—"
"Do you mean you will come with me?"
"Yes, Peregrine."
"Then I'll wash."
"Yes, I brought you the soap and towel." So we came to the brook where she sat to watch while I performed my so necessary ablutions.
"I have no wish to hinder your work," said I, towelling vigorously.
"No, Peregrine."
"And I am quite able to find my way to Tonbridge alone."
"Yes, Peregrine."
"And it is a goodish distance, so if you would rather not come, pray do not trouble."
"No, Peregrine."
"Heavens, girl!" I cried. "Cannot you say more than 'yes and no,Peregrine'?"
"Aye, I could!" she nodded. "I could say you are a fool and a sight too cocksure—and, oh, a lot more—but I won't!" with which she rose and left me. My toilet achieved, I returned to find Jerry busy harnessing Diogenes, the pony.
"For if you'm a-going, Peregrine, you may as well do the marketing, and there's a mort o' stores to bring back. Besides, Anna can take her baskets t' sell, d'ye see."
So in a while, behold Diana throned on the driving seat, reins in hand, while I led Diogenes up the winding, grassy slope to the high road; this done, I climbed aboard and off we swung for Tonbridge town.
Diogenes pounded along merrily, the wheels creaked and rattled cheerily, a soaring lark carolled joyously somewhere in the sunny air above us; but Diana drove in sullen silence, her face averted pertinaciously, wherefore I scowled before me and kept silence also; thus Diogenes, wheels and lark had it all to themselves. And when we had driven thus some distance I spoke:
"You are a very bright and cheery companion this afternoon!"
At this she jerked her shoulder at me with a petulant gesture.
"Indeed," said I, "it is a great wonder that you troubled to come with me—"
"I've my baskets to sell!" she retorted in her most ungracious manner.
"Why are you so changed to me?" I questioned. "Are you still angry about that unfortunate business of the mirror, or is it because I kissed you, or—"
"Ah—don't talk of it!" she cried fiercely. "No man's ever kissed me so before—on the mouth—"
"Thank heaven!" said I.
"I hate ye for it and her most of all!"
"'Her', Diana? Whom do you mean?"
"Your fine lady aunt!"
"But, good heaven! What had my aunt Julia to do with it?"
"I don't care! I hate her—with her great, proud eyes and haughty ways—and offering me money an' all—"
"Yes," said I, "it was wrong of her to attempt to bribe you—"
"You did as much once—only it was your watch, so don't you talk! I suppose my lady thinks I'm after you for your money. Oh, I wish t' God I'd never seen you! And I shan't much longer—"
"Ah, do you mean that you will attempt to run away?" I demanded. But Diana merely stared sullenly at the road before us. "This would be very, very wrong, Diana, very cruel and very wicked because, according to the laws of the Folk, you are already my wife."
"But not according to the Church. You said so—an' you ain't of theFolk!"
"But I might turn gipsy—others have done so."
"Aye, but not your kind; you're best wi' your fine aunt to coddle you—go back to your grand house an' servants, young man, and stay there!"
"Some day, but not yet," I answered. "And when I go—you will go with me."
"Oh, shall I!" she exclaimed scornfully. "You're precious sure of yourself, ain't you?"
"I am!" I nodded, folding my arms. "And of one other thing!"
"What?"
"That you will make a very ill-tempered wife!"
"Oh, shall I!"
"You will."
"Not your'n, anyway. You ain't man enough."
"We shall see!" said I between shut teeth.
"Aha, now you're angry!" she laughed gleefully, and with some little malice.
"You are enough to enrage a saint!" I retorted, and turning my back, I bore with her gibes and fleerings as patiently as I might nor deigned her further notice, so that in a little she became mute also; and thus at last we reached Tonbridge. Scarcely were we in the High Street than, not waiting for Diana to draw rein, I leapt from the cart with such precipitation that I tripped awkwardly and rolled, grovelling, in the dust. Scrambling hastily to my feet, I saw she had pulled up and was eyeing me a little anxiously, but her voice was sullen as ever when she spoke.
"Are ye hurt?" she questioned ungraciously.
"Thank you—no!" I answered, brushing the dust from my bruised knees.
"All right!" she nodded, "I'll meet ye in the yard at 'The Chequers'—half-past four!" and away she drove without so much as one backward glance.
The place was busy by reason of the fair, the wide roadway thronged with vehicles, and as I edged my way along the narrow, crowded pavements gay with chintz and muslin gowns, polished boots, flowered waistcoats and the rest of it, I felt myself a blot and blemish, a thing to be viewed askance by this cheery crowd in its holiday attire. A short-legged man in a white hat roared at me to hold his horse; a plump and benevolent old lady earnestly sought to bestow upon me twopence in charity, but I paid no heed and began to seek eagerly for a tailor where I might exchange my sorry garments for things less poverty-stricken.
And presently, to my great relief, I beheld a shop above whose crystal window panes was a sign with this inscription:
VAUGHANTAILOR & SARTORIAL ARTISTTo TheNOBILITY & GENTRY
In this window was displayed cloth of every kind and colour, together with framed pictures of stiff-limbed young gentlemen in most trying and uncomfortable postures and clad in garments innocent of crease or wrinkle.
Incontinent I lifted the latch and entered the shop to behold a stout young gentleman contorting himself horribly in a vain endeavour to regard the small of his back.
"There!" he gasped. "The breeches! Told you they were too tight—I heard 'em crack—they're too infernal tight, I tell ye!"
"Oh, dear me, impossible, sir!" sighed a pale, long-visaged person, flourishing a tape-measure. "A gent's breeches can't be too tight; the tighter they are the moreton! Indeed, tight breeches, sir, are—What's for you, my lad?" he enquired, catching sight of me.
"I desire to purchase a suit of clothes."
"Oh, dear me—no, no!" sighed the long-visaged person. "Not here, lad, not here! We build garments for gentlemen only, no ready-made goods here; we deal strictly with the nobility and gentry of the county—go away, lad, go away!" Here he flapped his tape-measure at me, the stout gentleman stared at me, and I crept forth into the street again among the dainty, sprigged gowns and high-collared coats amid which I wandered somewhat disconsolate until by chance my wandering gaze lighted upon a small, dingy shop in whose narrow window squatted a small, humpbacked, bespectacled man plying needle and thread with remarkable speed and dexterity. It was a small shop but so stuffed and crammed with garments of all kinds that they had overflowed into the street, for the narrow doorway was draped, choked and festooned with coats, breeches, pantaloons, shirts, waistcoats, stockings, boots, shoes, a riotous and apparently inextricable tangle.
Into this small and stuffy shop I forced myself a passage, whereupon its small, busy proprietor glanced up at me over the rim of his large spectacles.
"Well, son, what d'ye lack?" he demanded.
"Clothes, if you please," said I humbly.
"And that's no lie, neether—so ye do, by James!" he nodded.
"Can I purchase some?"
"If you've enough o' the rhino, son."
For answer I drew a bank note from my pocket at random and laid it upon the small counter.
"You have, b' James!" quoth the little man, "a fi'-pun note!" And thrusting needle into the garment he was making he rose with brisk alacrity. "What d'ye want in my way, son?"
"Everything!" said I.
"And here's the place t' get it, b' James! I've everything in clothes from the cradle to the grave—infant, child, youth and man, births, marriages or deaths, 'igh-days or 'olydays—I can fit ye with any style, any size and for any age, occasion or re-quirement."
So saying, he ushered me into a small room behind the shop where he proceeded to whisk forth a bewildering array of garments for my inspection, until table and chairs were piled high and myself dazed with their infinite variety.
"B' James!" cried the little man, blinking, "I'll turn ye out as nobby a little spark as ever cocked a neye at a sighin' young fe-male. Look at this coat, the roll o' this collar up to your ears, and as for buttons—well, look at 'em—see 'em flash! As for weskits, see 'ere, son, climbin' roses worked into true-lover's knots and all pure silk! Then 'ere's a pair o' pantaloons as no blushin' nymp' could resist—an' you shall 'ave the lot—ah, an' I'll throw in a ruffled shirt—for four-pun' ten—take 'em or leave 'em!"
"Thank you, I think I'll leave them," said I. "My desire is for things a little less ostentatious—"
"Os-ten—ha, certainly! Say no more, son, look around an' take y'r choice—"
At last, and almost in spite of the small tailor, I selected a suit a little less offensive than most, the which I donned forthwith and found it fit me none so ill; shirt, shoes, stockings and a hat completed my equipment, and though the garments were anything but elegant, yet my appearance, so much as I could see of it in the small, cracked mirror, was, on the whole, not displeasing, I thought. At the tailor's suggestion I purchased three extra shirts, as many cravats, stockings and a neckcloth.
"And now," said I, as he tied up the somewhat unwieldy parcel, "what do I owe you?"
"Well, son—I mean, sir," he answered, peering at me over his spectacles, "them beautiful clothes has turned you from nobody as matters into somebody as do; your credit is rose five hundred, ah, a thousand per cent and I ought to charge ye a couple o' hundred guineas, say—but seein' as you're you an' I'm me—let's call it fi'-pun!"
So having paid the tailor, I bade him good afternoon and strode forth into the street and, though a little conscious of my new clothes and somewhat hampered by the bulbous parcel beneath my arm, felt myself no longer in danger of being roared at to hold horses or proffered alms by kindly old ladies. I strolled along at leisurely pace, casting oblique and surreptitious glances at my reflection in shop windows, whereby I observed that my new garments fitted me better than I had supposed, though it seemed the hair curled beneath my hat brim in too generous luxuriance; so perceiving a barber's adjacent, I entered and gave my head to the ministrations of a chatty soul whose tongue wagged faster than his snipping scissors. Shorn of my superabundant locks, I sallied forth, and chancing upon a jeweller's shop, I entered and purchased a silver watch for the Tinker, another for Jessamy Todd, and lastly a gold locket and chain for Diana.