From brake and thicket gemmed with a myriad sparkling dewdrops, birds were singing a jubilant paean, as well indeed they might upon so fair a morning; yet these were but a chorus to the singer down by the brook whose glorious voice soared in swelling ecstasy and sank in plaintive sweetness only to rise again, so high and clear and ineffably sweet as seemed verily to inspire the birds to an eager and joyful emulation.
So they sang together thus in pretty rivalry, the birds and Diana, until, her song ended, I went my way and presently found her beside the bubbling rill, combing out her shining hair. At sight of me she laughed and, tossing back her tresses, flourished her comb in a sweep that took in radiant sky, earth and sparkling brook.
"O Peregrine, ain't it glorious!" she cried.
"It is!" said I, staring at her loveliness, whereupon she flushed and recommenced combing her hair.
"Thought you was asleep an' snoring," said she in her most ungracious manner.
"Well, you see I'm not, and besides I don't snore!"
"Tush, how can you know?"
"I don't think I do—and for heaven's sake why talk of such things on such a morning, Diana?"
"Because!" she answered, turning away.
"Because of what?" I demanded, grasping a silky handful of her glossy hair. "Why are you so ungracious to me lately; why do you do and say things that you imagine will make me think you hard and unlovely; why do you try to shock me so often?"
"I don't! How?"
"By pretending to be trivial and shallow and commonplace."
"Because I am!"
"Don't blaspheme, Diana. How could you be shallow or commonplace, you who taught me to love the Silent Places? So why attempt things so impossible, dear child?" And taking hold of her smooth, round chin I turned her head that she must look at me. "Why, Diana, why?" I repeated. For a moment she met my look, then her lids fluttered and fell. Yet she stood before me strangely docile.
"Because," said she at last, "you looks at me lately as—as you are doing now, as if—as though—"
"I had only just found out how beautiful you are, Diana? And don't you know why?"
"Yes," she murmured, "but—you don't."
"I have discovered the reason this morning," said I, drawing her a little nearer, "I love you, Diana, I know it at last. Why, good heaven, I must have loved you for days!"
"You have!" she nodded, without looking at me.
"You—you knew it, then?"
"Of course!" she nodded again. "So did Jerry—so did Jessamy, so did your tall uncle—and your aunt, I think, and—and everybody else in all the world—except yourself, Peregrine."
"Blind fool that I was—"
"No, Peregrine, it was because you never guessed, that I didn't run away—"
"And you never will now, Diana, because you are mine, But I loved the sweet, pure soul of you first and so, my Diana, although I am longing—longing to kiss you—those dear gentle eyes, your red lips—I never will until you give them, because my love, being very great, is very humble, like—like this!" And sinking to my knees, I would have kissed the hem of her gown, but with a soft, sweet cry of reproach, she slipped to her knees also and swaying to me, hid her face in my breast.
"O Peregrine," she murmured, looking up at me through a mist of tears, "it is a wonderful thing to be loved by a gentleman—"
"Then God keep me so!" I whispered.
"He will, Peregrine, so long as you are Peregrine—kiss me!" And so for a deathless moment I held her close, to kiss her tumbled hair, her tearful eyes, the tremor of her sweet mouth.
"Peregrine—dear," she sighed, "at first I hated love and when it came it frighted me and then, when it came to you and you not knowing, I knew love could only be a dream 'twixt you and me and so I—I tried to make you hate me—I talked and acted rough—as much as I could, or—or very nearly—but I couldn't keep it up all the time, it hurt me so—"
"Then," cried I, "why then, you do love me, heart and soul, Diana?"
"Ah—don't you know—even yet?" said she passionately. "You are so different, so gentle—oh, you're—just Peregrine! Ah, it isn't your money I want, or to be a fine lady like your aunt wi' horses and carriages and servants; ah, not dear Peregrine, no—it's just you and me together in the Silent Places—"
"And so we will be," I cried, "together in life and death—"
"O Peregrine, it isn't a dream is it—a dream that can't come true.You'll—make me marry you, won't you?"
"Ah, by God I will—whenever you are ready, for you are mine!"
"Yes, yours," she whispered, "for ever and always! You ha' no doubts o' the future, have ye, Peregrine?"
"None!" said I, arrogant in my happiness.
"When I called you cocksure I—loved you for it!"
Thus sat we, embracing and embraced, beside this prattling stream, looking upon the glory of this midsummer morning and each other to find all things ever more beautiful, and knowing a happiness that went far beyond mere speech.
Birds have sung as blithely—perhaps; the sun may have beamed as kindly and brooks have laughed as joyously as this chattering rill of ours, but as for me, I soberly doubt it.
"Peregrine," said she at last, "where is my locket?"
"Here!" said I, reaching the case from my pocket. "When your singing woke me to this wonderful, glorious morning, I brought it to find you."
"How pretty it is!" she sighed happily, touching it tenderly with the extreme tip of one slender finger.
"It isn't anything near good enough," said I, viewing it a little gloomily, "I will get you one infinitely better—"
"No!" said she. "This is what I shall always love best," and stooping, she touched the trinket with the heaven of her mouth. Then, being upon our knees, she stooped her head that I might set it about her throat, but what with her nearness and the touch of her velvety neck, I bungled the business sadly, so that she lifted her two hands to aid me and her lips being so near, how could I help but kiss her.
"Now this, Peregrine!" she commanded, drawing my mouth to the locket where it hung. And so I kissed the locket and chain and throat and neck until she laughed, a little tremulously, and slipping from my hold, sprang to her feet and fled away.
And now, being upon my knees, I bowed my head and passionately besought a blessing on this sweet-souled Diana, this woman of mine, and upon our love and the years that were to be. My supplication ended, I remembered that this was the first prayer I had uttered since faring out into the world. And as I arose, came Jessamy, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Lord bless us, Perry, what a morning—the j'y of it, brother! List to the birds and hark—ah, do but hark how Ann do be singing; never 'eard her voice sound so wonderful afore, Perry."
"Nor I, Jessamy," said I, as the golden notes died away; "but then there never was quite such another morning as this."
Exuberant, with blood a-dance and nerves braced and tingling from the sparkling water, we faced each other upon the grassy level, Jessamy and I, stripped to the waist and with muffled fists and I very conscious of the keen eyes that appraised my slender arms, and the muscles of what uncle George would have called my 'torso.'
"I'm afraid I am—hatefully puny!" I exclaimed, casting a disparaging glance at my proportions.
"Smallish," nodded Jessamy, "smallish, but that ain't a matter to weep over, brother. Small muscles is quicker than big. Moreover, the Lord has given you a sound and healthy body and left you to develop an' do the best wi' it. Fresh air an' exercise, sledge 'ammer an' bellers'll work wonders in a week or so, mark my words. Now come on an' keep your weather peeper on my right, for look'ee your left is a feeler, good to keep your man away, to jolt him now an' then an' to feint him to an opening, then it's in wi' your right an' all o' you behind it—that's my way and I've found it a pretty good way."
"You've always won your fights, haven't you, Jessamy?"
"Pretty often—though 'tis all vanity, lad, arter all—"
"And why did you win—and often against bigger and stronger men?"
"Well, p'raps because I eat little an' drink less, or p'raps because I meant to win, or p'raps again because I knew how. However, the fightin' game is all vanity an' vexation an' keep your ogles on my right! Now, into me, lad, an' hit hard—that's your fashion—try for my chin but don't forget my right! Swing in for my ribs, Perry—and heartily! Steady boy—on your toes now!"
Such were his expressions as we danced and ducked, feinted and smote, and as often as he bade me watch his right, that same right smacked home upon my ribs or face while I wasted myself in futile yet exceedingly earnest efforts to smite in turn his ever-moving body or elusive, wagging head, what time over and under and through my guard shot his terrible fists, to tap me lightly here, to pat me there until my breath grew short. And now, while I stood to get my wind, he explained how it was done, showing me sudden volts and turns and shifts which he termed foot-work. He showed me how to drive in short-arm blows, swinging from the hips, and how to evade them; how, when occasion favoured, to hit from the shoulder with all my strength and weight behind the blow, and how to meet a ducking head with what he called an uppercut, just such a terrible stroke as had caused the downfall of the big man Tom.
Thus Jessamy alternately smote and lectured me until, warned by Diana's clear call, we donned shirts and waistcoats and strode away to breakfast.
"And how's he shaping, Jessamy?" enquired the Tinker, serving out ham, pink and savoury, from the hissing frying pan, while Diana poured out the coffee.
"None s' bad," answered Jessamy; "he's quick an' willing an' don't mind bein' knocked down now and then, which is a good thing—you went down pretty frequent that last round, brother!" Here Diana, noting my battered dishevelment, scowled at Jessamy adorably.
"It ain't—isn't needful to hit quite so hard, is it, Jessamy?" she enquired.
"Why, yes, Ann. Peregrine wants me to teach him to fight an' you can't teach that to any man by tapping him, d'ye see."
"But, then, Jessamy," said the Tinker, with his twinkling, bright eyes on Diana, "Peregrine ain't exactly a Milo o' Crete as had a habit o' slayin' oxen wi' a blow of his fist; Peregrine's delicate frame could never endoor real good, hard knocks—"
"But it could, Jerry!" exclaimed Diana. "Nobody could hit him harder than I've seen him hit, except Jessamy, p'raps." Now at this I was seized of such a yearning to kiss her that I bent lower over my platter lest the impulse prove ungovernable.
"It ain't size as counts, brother," added Jessamy, "no—not once in a thousand; an' as for this cove Milo, big an' heavy an' slow as a waggon o' bricks, I could eat him alive any day. Though to be sure 't would only be vanity an' vexation arter all," he added mournfully, "so let's talk o' better things."
"Why, then, Jessamy," said the Tinker, his eyes twinkling more than usual, "what might be the pre-cise time by your chronometer?"
"It is now," replied Jessamy, solemnly consulting his watch, "exactly five an' three quarter minutes to seven, Jerry."
"Then I take leave to tell ye, you're exactly two minutes an' a half slow," retorted the Tinker, glancing at his own.
"You're very silent, Peregrine; does aught grieve ye?" enquired theTinker.
"Did I shake ye up a bit too much, brother?" enquired Jessamy anxiously.
"No, no, indeed," I answered, "it is only that I am a—a little thoughtful this morning."
And so, in a while, breakfast being done, Jessamy rose.
"An' now for another go at Old Nick!" quoth he.
"Where are ye for to-day?" questioned the Tinker.
"Tonbridge—'tis market day an' Nick'll be busy in every tavern an' inn, as usual. What'll I bring back for supper?"
"Well, a chicken's tasty," mused the Tinker, "but then so's lamb, or there's liver an' bacon—"
"A shin o' beef!" said Diana in voice of finality.
"Stooed!" nodded the Tinker. "Stooed wi' plenty o' vegetables. A shin o' beef or say a couple—oh, prime! An' it's my turn to pay, Jessamy."
"No, it's mine!" quoth Diana.
"Pray allow me!" said I, reaching for my purse.
"Lord bless us, we're all that rich!" laughed Jessamy. "Come, let's toss for it." The which we did and the lot fell to Jessamy. "A couple o' shins o' beef, loaves an' what vegetables?"
"Get some of all sorts!" nodded the Tinker.
"We've plenty o' potatoes an' onions!" said Diana. "And bring 'em as early as possible, Jess; a shin o' beef ought to simmer for hours."
"Cheerily it is, Ann!" and catching up the canvas bag, Jessamy flourished his hat and strode off.
"How does Jessamy contrive to live?" I enquired.
"Lord, Peregrine," answered the Tinker, "Jessamy's rich—or was—made a fortun' wi' his fists, though I reckon he's give most of it away, like the tender-hearted cove he is."
And now, while Diana busied herself in matters culinary, Jeremy and I lighted the forge and got us to work. And very often above the ring and clamour of our hammers would rise the wonder of her voice singing some wild air of the Zingari or plaintive old ballad; so often and so gloriously she sang that at last, as I blew the fire for another heat, Jeremy bade me hush, and silent thus we stood to hearken.
"Peregrine," said he at last, "I knew Ann's voice was a wonder, but I never heard her sing so blithe an' happy-'earted. I wonder why?"
"Perhaps it is this wonderful morning," said I, watching the flutter of her gown amid the thickets across the little glade.
"Aye, most likely, for 't is surely a day o' glory, lad, a glory as is a-shining at me this moment out o' your eyes, Peregrine, singing in your voice—"
"Jeremy," said I, reaching out to grasp his grimy hand, "O Jeremy, you are right. Love found me in the dawn and this morning Diana promised to be my—wife. God make me worthy!"
"Amen, lad, amen!" said the Tinker.
And then from the shade of the willows that bordered the stream limped the small and shabby yet stately form of Lord Wyvelstoke.
Catching sight of me as I hurried towards him, Lord Wyvelstoke advanced, a vigorous man despite his lameness and silvery hair.
"Peregrine—who was it?" he enquired, slipping his hand within my arm and glancing round the glade. "Who was it sang so divinely—can it be, is it—our Diana? But of course it is—"
"Yes, sir," said I, wondering at his eagerness.
"She has a peerless, a wonderful voice, but more—she sings with that divine intuition that is genius. I must speak with her—meantime, pray present your friend."
"This, sir, is my good and kind friend, Jeremy Jarvis; Jerry, hisLordship, the Earl of Wyvelstoke."
The Earl bowed to the Tinker with his usual grave courtesy, and the Tinker (albeit a little disquieted) knuckled sooty eyebrow and bobbed tousled head to the Earl, humbly respectful yet with a simple dignity all his own.
"You seem very happily situated here," said his lordship, sweeping the shady dingle with his keen gaze.
"Why, as to that, sir—my lord," said Jeremy with unwonted diffidence, "I fear we'm a-trespassing on your land, but my friend Todd—Jessamy assured me—"
"Rest assured, friend Jarvis! None of my keepers shall disturb you—"
"Peregrine—O Jerry, dinner! Come while it's hot and come quick!" called Diana from those boskages that screened our little camp.
"It's liver and bacon," said she, busy at the fire, but beholding our companion, she set down the frying pan and hastened to welcome him with both hands outstretched.
"Why, 't is my old pal!" she cried, whereupon Jeremy blinked and seemed to swallow hard.
"You're just in time for a bit o' liver an' bacon. Bring another plate, Jerry."
"But, Ann," said he, hesitating and much at a loss, "p'raps his lordship won't care t' eat off a tin plate an'—"
"Who?" demanded Diana, turning, with the frying pan in her hand.
"His lordship! What, don't ye know this gentleman's the Earl o' Wyvelstoke?" Diana set down the frying pan and turned upon his lordship with a frown.
"Is this true?" she demanded. "Are you a lord?"
"I am, Diana."
"An earl?"
"I confess it. But always your pal, I trust, notwithstanding—"
"Why, then you own Wyvelstoke Park?"
"I do."
"And—this wood?"
"Yes, Diana."
"An' horses an' carriages an' houses, I suppose?"
"Yes, child."
"Why, then, you're rich! And you let me give you a guinea!"
"A treasure dearer to me than all the rest!" he answered gently; and taking out the coin he looked down at it, smiling wistfully.
"And I thought you were such a poor, lonely old soul—"
"So I was, Diana, and so I should be without your friendship."
"I s'pose you don't want any liver an' bacon, do you, lord?"
"Why not, goddess?"
"Because lords an' earls don't eat liver an' bacon off tin plates, do they?"
"You behold one who would if you will so far honour him," answered theEarl with one of his stately obeisances.
"You might have told me, all the same!" said Diana, pouting a little.
"Dear child, had I done so would you have called me your old pal? It is a title dearer to me than any other." Hereupon she brought him the three-legged stool which, despite his protestations, she forced him to take. And so we began dinner, though often the Tinker would pause, food-laden jackknife in mid-air, to steal amazed and surreptitious glances at his lordship, sitting serenely, the tin plate balanced on his knees, eating with remarkable appetite and gusto.
"D'ye like it, old pal?" questioned Diana suddenly.
"Diana," answered the Ancient Person with his whimsical look, "words are sometimes poor and inadequate—I like it beyond expression."
"That's because it's strange to you an' in the open air—"
"Nay, child, I have eaten strange meals amid strange people in strange, wild places of the earth, but never such a meal as this."
"D'ye mean foreign places—across the sea?" questioned Diana eagerly.
"Yes, I have seen much of the wonders and glories of the world, vasty deserts, trackless forests, stupendous mountains, mighty rivers, and yet—and yet what more wonderful than this little island of ours, what more tenderly beautiful than our green, English countryside? The thunderous roar of plunging cataracts, the cloud-capped pinnacles of mighty mountains may fill the soul with awed and speechless wonder, but for pure joy give me an English coppice of a summer evening when blackbird and thrush are calling, or to sit and hearken to the immemorial music of a brook—Friend Jarvis, you write verses, I believe?"
"Lord, sir—my lord," answered Jeremy, his bronzed cheek flushing, "how should you know that?"
"I learned the fact from Peregrine who spoke of them in such high praise that I should much like to read some of them if you would suffer me—"
"Why, sir," stammered Jeremy, "they're wrote on such scraps an' bits o' paper, I only write 'em to please myself an'—an'—"
"Because he must!" added Diana. "You see, old pal, Jerry writes poetry like the birds sing and brooks flow, just because 't is his nature. I know lots of his verses by heart an' I love all of 'em, but I like this about the Silent Places best; listen:
"'He that the great, good thing would knowMust to the Silent Places go,Leaving wealth and state behindWho the great good thing would find.Glories, honours, these will fade,Life itself's a phantom shade;But the soul of man—who knowethWhence it came and where it goeth.So, God of Life, I pray of TheeEars to hear and eyes to see.In bubbling brooks, in whispering windHe who hath ears shall voices find,Telling the wonder of the earth:The awful miracle of birth;Of love and joy, of Life and Death,Of things that were ere we had breath;Of man's soul through the ages growing,Whence it comes or whither going,That soul of God, a deathless sparkUnquenched through ages wild and dark,Up-struggling through the age-long nightThrough glooms and sorrows, to the light.The soul that marches, age to age,On slow and painful pilgrimageTill man through tears and strife and painShall thus his Godhead find again.Of such, the wind in lonely treeThe murmurous brook, doth tell to me.These are the wonders ye may knowWho to the Silent Places go;Who these with reverent foot hath trodMay meet his soul and walk with God.'"
"Friend Jarvis," said the Ancient Person, setting down his empty platter and beginning to fill his pipe, "Peregrine was exactly right; you are a most astonishing tinker. You, sir, are a poet as I am a musician,—by a natural predisposition; and your poetry is true as is my music because it is simple; for what is Truth but Simplicity, that which touches the soul, the heart, the emotions rather than the cold, reasoning intellect, since poetry, but more especially music, is a direct appeal to and expression of, the emotion? Do you agree?"
"Why, sir," answered the Tinker, shaking his head a little sadly, "I don't know aught about music, d'ye see—"
"Fiddlestick, man! You are full of music. Who has not heard leaves rustle in the wind, or listened to the babble of a brook; yet to the majority they are no more than what they seem—rustling leaves, a babbling brook—but to you and me these are an inspiration, voices of Nature, of God, of the Infinite, urging us to an attempt to express the inexpressible—is it not so?"
"Why, my lord," quoth the Tinker, chafing blue chin with knife-handle, "since you put it that way I—I fancy—"
"Of course you do!" nodded his lordship. "Take yonder stream: to you it finds a voice to speak of the immemorial past; to me it is the elemental music of God. As it sings to-day so has it sung to countless generations and mayhap, in earth's dim days, taught some wild man-monster to echo something of its melody and thus perchance came our first music. What do you think?"
"'Tis a wonderful thought, sir, but I should think birds would be easier to imitate than a brook—"
"Possibly, yes. But man's first lyrical music was undoubtedly an imitation of the voices of nature. And what is music after all but an infinite speech unbounded by fettering words, an auricular presentment of the otherwise indescribable, for what words may fully reveal all the wonder of Life, the awful majesty of Death? But music can and does. By music we may hold converse with the Infinite. Out of the dust came man, out of suffering his soul and from his soul—music. You apprehend me, friend Jarvis?"
"Here an' there, my lord. I—I mean," stammered the Tinker, a little at a loss, "I understand enough to wish I could hear some real music—but music ain't much in a tinker's line—"
"You shall!" exclaimed his lordship, rising suddenly. "I will play to you, and after, Diana shall bless us with the glory of her voice if she will. Your arm, Tinker. Leave your irons and hammers awhile and come with me—let us go. Your arm, friend Jarvis!"
"But, sir—my clothes, my lord!" gasped Jeremy. "I ain't fit—"
"A fiddlestick!" quoth his lordship. "Give me your arm, pray." So limping thus beside the Tinker, the Earl of Wyvelstoke led us along beside the brook until we presently reached a grassy ride. Here he paused and, taking a small gold whistle that hung about his neck, blew a shrill blast, whereupon ensued the sound of wheels and creaking harness, and a phaeton appeared driven by a man in handsome livery who, touching smart hat to his shabby master, brought the vehicle to a halt, into which we mounted forthwith and away we drove. Soon before us rose stately parapet, battlement and turret above the green of trees ancient like itself, a mighty structure, its frowning grimness softened by years. Diana viewed massive wall and tower with eyes of delighted wonder, then suddenly turned to clasp the hand of the slender, shabby figure beside her.
"Poor old soul, no wonder you were lonely!" she sighed, whereupon the Earl smiled a little wistfully and stooped to kiss her sunburnt fingers in his stately fashion.
The carriage stopping, behold the sedate Atkinson (who manifested not the least surprise at our incongruous appearance) a square-shouldered, square-faced person he, whose features wore an air of resolution, notwithstanding his soft voice and deferential ways.
At a word from the Earl he ushered us in by a side entrance, through a long and noble gallery, where stood many effigies in bright armour, backed by pictures of bewigged gentlemen who smirked or scowled upon us, and fair dames in ruff and farthingale who smiled, or ladies bare-bosomed who ogled through artful ringlets; across panelled rooms and arras-hung chambers, to lofty and spacious hall, with a great, many-piped organ at one end. Here his lordship made us welcome with a simple and easy courtesy, himself setting chairs for Diana and the Tinker.
"Sit ye, friend Jarvis," said he, "and if you care to smoke, pray do so, you will find tobacco in the jar on the cabinet yonder. As for you, my goddess of the Silent Places, yonder comes my admirable valet with fruit and sweetmeats for your delectation; you, Peregrine, have Diana beside you. Listen now, and you shall hear the joy of Life and Youth and Self-sacrifice. Blow, Atkinson!" So saying, he crossed the wide hall and seated himself at the great instrument.
I saw his white fingers busy among the many stops, then his slim hands fell upon the keys and forth gushed a torrent of sweet sound, a peal of triumphant joy that thrilled me; great, rolling chords beneath and through which rippled an ecstasy of silvery notes, whose magic conjured to my imagination a dew-spangled morning joyous with sun and thrilling with the glad song of birds new-waked,—a green and golden world wherein one sped to meet me, white arms outstretched in love, one herself as fresh and sweet as the morning.
But now the organ notes changed, the pealing rapture sank into a sighing melody inexpressibly sweet and softly tender, my vision's smiling lips quivered to drooping sadness, the bright eyes grew dimmed with tears; and hearkening to the tender passion of this melody, full of poignant yearning and fond regret, I knew that here was parting and farewell. And lo! She, my Spirit of Love, was gone, and I alone in a desolate wilderness to grieve and wait, to strive and hope through weary length of days. And listening to these soft, plaintive notes, I bowed my head with eyes brimful of burning tears and heart full of sudden, chilling dread of the future, and glancing furtively towards Diana's beautiful, enraptured face, I clenched my fists and prayed desperate, wordless supplications against any such parting or farewell. And then, in this moment, grief and fear and heart-break were lost, forgotten, swept utterly away as the wailing, tender notes were 'whelmed in the triumphant melody that pealed forth, louder, more sublimely joyous than ever. She was back, within my arms, upon my heart, but a greater, nobler She, mine for ever and the world all glorious about us.
The rapture ended suddenly on a note of triumph, and Diana, leaning to me, was looking at me through glistening tears, our hands met and clung and never a word between us; then we glanced up to meet the Ancient Person's keen, smiling glance and his voice was gentle when he spoke.
"God bless you, children! Then hearing, you saw and understood? No true love can be that knows nothing of pain, for pain ennobles love and teaches self-sacrifice and this surely is the noblest good of all. And now, friend Jarvis, I will endeavour to show you something of the soul's upward pilgrimage, the working out of man's salvation as pictured in your verse."
He turned back to the organ and from its quivering pipes rose a series of noble chords, stately and solemn, a hymn-like measure, rolling in awful majesty, shattered all at once by a wild confusion of screaming discords that yet gradually resolved into a wailing melody of passionate despair beneath which I seemed to hear the relentless tramp of countless marching feet with, ever and anon, a far, faint echo of that first grand and stately motive.
And as I listened it seemed I watched the age-old struggle between might and right, the horrors of man's persecution of man, the agonies of flaming cities, of Death and Shame, of dungeon and torment. I seemed to hear the thunder of conflicting hosts, the groans of dying martyrs, to sense all the sweat and blood, the agony and travail of these long and bitter years wherein man wrought and strove through tears and tribulation, onward and up to nobler ideals, working out his own salvation and redemption from his baser self. Suddenly, above this wild and rushing melody, rose a single dulcet voice, soft yet patiently insistent, oft repeated with many variations, like some angel singing a promise of better things to come,—a voice which, as the wailing tumult died, swelled to a chorus of rejoicing, louder and louder, resolving back into that majestic hymn-like measure, but soaring now in joyous triumph, rising, deepening to an ecstasy of praise.
And then I was staring at the slender, shabby figure who sat, hands on knees, glancing down into the Tinker's awed face.
"Well, friend Jarvis?" he questioned, with his kindly smile.
"Ah, sir!" cried the Tinker. "Music can surely say more than words ever will."
"O Peregrine!" sighed Diana under her breath, "has it told you how I love you—all those things that I can never tell you?" And then she was away, to seat herself upon the organ-bench beside our host, while he explained something of the wonders of the noble instrument, its pedals, stops and triple rank of keys.
"Lord, Peregrine!" said the Tinker in my ear. "This is a day to remember, this is a—my soul!" he exclaimed and fell suddenly mute as a gorgeous person in powder and silk stockings entered, bearing tea upon a silver tray; a somewhat nervous and high-strung person he seemed, for catching sudden vision of the grimy Tinker's shock head and my shirt sleeves, his protuberant eyes took on a glassy look, he gulped audibly, his knees bent and he set down his burden with a jingling crash.
The Earl turned sharply; the footman began setting out the tea things.
"I've never seen an organ close to before," said Diana, "though I've often stopped outside a church to listen."
The footman's hands grew vague, his glassy eyes turned themselves upon Jeremy in fascinated horror, beneath which disdainful scrutiny Jeremy flushed, uneasily conscious of work-grimed hands and clothes.
"Of course I shan't mind singing to you," said Diana, "because you are my old pal."
The footman dropped a plate; stooping for this, he brought down three or four spoons and forks in his agitation.
"Atkinson!"
"My lord!" answered Atkinson, appearing suddenly.
"What is this?" demanded his lordship, fixing the gorgeous person with terrible eye.
"The third footman, I believe, my lord."
"Send him out—he annoys me."
The gorgeous person having taken himself off, Jeremy sighed in huge relief but glanced furtively askance from dainty china and snowy linen to his own grimy hands and smirched garments; perceiving which embarrassment the Earl hastened to set him at his ease:
"John Bunyan was a tinker also, friend Jarvis," said he, as we drew to the table. And a cheery meal we made of it, for what with his lordship's tactful, easy courtesy and Diana's serene unconsciousness, who could worry over such trifles as grimy hands or shirt sleeves; and if the Tinker be-jammed his fingers or Diana drank from her saucer, she did it with such assured grace as charmed me, and when his lordship followed her example, I loved him for the courtly gentleman he was.
"You have studied and thought deeply, I think, friend Jarvis?" said his lordship. "You reverence books?"
"Aye, sir—my lord. I used to peddle 'em once, but I read more than I ever sold."
"Ah, yes," said Diana; "'t was our good, kind Jerry taught me how to read and write when I lived wi' the Folk."
"And what of your parents, child?"
"I only remember old Azor."
"But you are not of the Zingari, I think?"
"I don't know, old pal—and what's it matter—O Jerry, the shin o' beef!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands. "Jessamy's back by this and it ought to be in the pot. So if you want me to sing—"
"We do!" said his lordship, and rising he brought her to the organ; there, standing beside him while he played a hushed accompaniment, she sang, at my suggestion, that same wild gipsy air which had so stirred me once before in the wood. But to-day, confined within these surrounding walls, her voice seemed to me even more glorious, so softly pure and plaintively sweet, anon soaring in trilling ecstasy—until the swelling glory sank, languished to a sigh and was gone; and I for one lost in awed wonder and delight. For to-day she sang with all that tender, unaffected sweetness, all that passionate intensity that was part of her strange self.
"Diana," said his lordship gravely, "God has entrusted you with a great and beneficent power; you have a rare and wonderful voice such as might stir mankind to loftier thought and nobler ideal and thus make the world a better place. Child, how will you acquit yourself of this responsibility? Will you make the most of your great gift, using it for the benefit of countless others, or let it atrophy and perish unheard—?"
"Perish?" exclaimed Diana, opening her eyes very wide. "Old pal, what do you mean?"
"I mean, Diana, that every one of the gifts that nature has lavished upon us—speech, sight, thought, motion—would all become atrophied and fail us utterly without use. The more we think and the more varied our thoughts, the greater our intellect; he that would win a race must exercise his muscles constantly, and this is especially true in regard to singing. Have you no thought, no will to become a great singer, Diana?"
"Yes," she answered softly, "I might ha' liked it once, but—not now—because, you see, I've found a—better thing, old pal, and nothing else matters!"
"Child," he questioned gently, "may I be privileged to know what this better thing may be?"
"Yes—yes!" she answered, stooping to catch his hand in her sweet, impulsive way and fondle it to her soft check.
"Love has come to us—Peregrine and me, he—knows at last, though I think you had guessed already because you played our love into your music, better—oh, better than I can ever tell it. Only it's here in my heart and in the sunshine; the birds sing of it and—and—oh, how can I think of anything else?"
The Ancient Person laid gentle hand upon her glossy hair. "Wait, dear child, and Love, I think, shall open to you a nobler living, shall give you pinions to soar awhile—"
"How—what d'ye mean, old pal?"
"Nay, ask Peregrine," answered his lordship, shaking his head. "Only very sure am I that love which is true and everlasting is infinitely unselfish."
And presently we took our leave, the Earl attending to see us into the phaeton and bid us adieu; and all the way back I must needs ponder his definition of love and wonder exactly what he had meant.
And now ensued a halcyon season, dewy dawns wherein I bathed and sparred with Jessamy, long, sunny days full of labour and an ever-growing joy of Diana's radiant loveliness, nights of healthful, dreamless slumber beneath the stars.
Sometimes, when work was slack, I would walk far afield with Diana for my companion, or we would jog to market with the Tinker in the four-wheeled cart, hearkening to his shrewd animadversions upon men and life in general; and Diana's slim hand in mine.
Indeed this poor pen may never adequately set down all the happiness of these care-free, swift-passing days, and how may I hope to describe Diana's self or the joy of her companionship, a sweet intimacy that did but teach me to love her the more for her changing moods and swift intuitions, her quickness of perception, her deep wisdom, her warm impetuousness and the thousand contradictions that made her what she was.
So grew my love and with it a deep reverence for her innate and virginal purity. It touched me deeply to note with what painful care she set herself to correct the grammatical errors and roughness of her speech; often she would fall to a sighful despondency because of her ignorance and at such times it was, I think, that I loved her best, vowing I would not change her for any proud lady that was or ever had been; whereof ensued such conversations as the following:
DIANA. But when I am your wife we shall live in a fine house, I suppose.
MYSELF. Would this distress you?
DIANA. And meet grand folk, I suppose—earls and lords and—and that sort of thing?
MYSELF. It is likely.
DIANA. Shall we—must we have—servants?
MYSELF. To be sure.
DIANA (dismally). That's it! I shouldn't mind the earls s' much—it's the grand servants as would bother me. And then—O Peregrine—if ever I talked wrong or—acted wrong—not like a lady should—O Peregrine, would you be—ashamed o' me?
MYSELF. No, no—I swear it!
DIANA. I never wanted to be a lady—but I do now, Peregrine, for your sake.
MYSELF. You are good and brave and noble, Diana, and this is better than all the fine-ladyishness in the world.
DIANA (wistfully). Well, I wish I was a lady, all the same.
MYSELF. You will soon learn, you who are so quick and clever.
It was at this period that she began to purchase books and study them with passionate earnestness, more especially one, a thin, delicate volume that piqued my curiosity since, judging by her puckered brow and profound abstraction, this seemed to trouble and perplex her not a little.
"Peregrine," she enquired suddenly one morning, as I leaned, somewhat short of breath, upon the long shaft of the sledge-hammer, "Peregrine, what's a moo?"
"A moo?" I repeated, a little startled, "why, the sound a cow makes, I should think."
"No, it can't be that," said Diana, shaking her head and frowning at the open page of that same slim book I have mentioned, "it can't have anything to do with a cow, Peregrine, because that's what a grand lady does when she enters a ballroom; it says she moos slightly—"
"Lord, Ann!" exclaimed the Tinker. "What's she want to do that for? A moo's a beller, as Peregrine says, but who ever heard of a grand lady bellerin' in a ballroom or out—"
"I said moo!" retorted Diana. "And it's in this book."
"May I see?" I enquired. Obediently Diana rose and tendered me the volume, marking the paragraph with her finger, and at her command, I read aloud as follows.
"'UPON ENTERING A BALLROOM. The head should be carried stately, the bust well-poised, the arms disposed gracefully. The gait should be swimming, the head graciously aslant and the lips slightlymoue.'"
"Well?" demanded Diana, glancing at Jeremy defiantly. "Now what's it mean, Peregrine?"
"'Moue?" I explained gravely, "is a French word signifying 'to pout' the lips."
"Which be a bit different to bellerin'!" chuckled the Tinker. Diana merely glanced at him, whereupon he began to hammer away lustily, in spite of which I fancied I heard him chuckle again. Turning to the title page of the little book I saw this:
ETIQUETTE FOR THE FAIR SEXBEING HINTS ON FEMININE MANNERS & DEPORTMENT.BY AN ACKNOWLEDGED SCION OF THE BON TON.
"It's a rather terrible book, I think," sighed Diana.
"Not a doubt of it," said I. "What do you think, Jerry?"
"Aye," he nodded, "I used to sell that book once, or one like it—"
"I mean," explained Diana, "it will be terribly hard to teach myself to do everything it says—"
"Indeed, I should think so," I nodded.
"You see," she mourned, "I—I didn't act a bit right when you—told me you—loved me—"
"Ah, but you did, Diana—"
"No, Peregrine, I was quite wrong and oh, most unladylike!"
"How so?"
"Well, I didn't tremble with maiden modesty or yield my hand coyly and by degrees, or droop my lashes, or falter with my breath—or—"
"Why in the world should you?"
"Because all ladies must do that—let me show you." So saying she took the book, turned over a leaf or so, and putting it into my hand, bade me read aloud, which I did, as follows:
"'UPON RECEIVING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. On this trying occasion, should the answer be in the affirmative, yield the hand coyly and by degrees to the passion of the happy suitor's lips; at the same time the lashes must droop, the whole form tremble with maiden modesty, the breath must falter and the bosom surge a little, though perceptibly—'"
My voice faltered and in spite of my efforts I burst out laughing, while Jeremy began to hammer again; whereupon Diana wrested the book from me and stood, flushed and angry, viewing me in lofty disdain.
"O Diana," I pleaded, "don't be offended, and don't—do not trouble your dear head over that foolish book—"
"Foolish!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Why, it's to teach ladies how to behave, and written by—"
"By a snuffy old rascal in some pothouse, like as not, Diana—" Here she turned and hasted away, but I sped after her and seeing the quiver of her lips and her dear eyes a-swim with tears, my own grew moist also.
"O Peregrine," sighed she, "I thought the book was foolish too—but for your sake—to be a lady—"
"O girl!" I cried, clasping her to me. "Dear goddess of the Silent Places, you are above all such silly pettinesses as this book; no woodland nymph or dryad could ever learn such paltry affectations and Diana herself would look a fool with a fan or a reticule. It is your own sweet, natural self I love, just as you are and for what you are."
"But you're a gentleman and I ought to be a lady."
"Be my own goddess Diana, and let me worship you as such."
"Why, then, let me go, Peregrine, for your goddess has the supper to prepare!" Reluctantly I obeyed her, and coming back, found the Tinker seated upon his anvil, lost in a profound meditation.
"What is it, Jerry?" I asked him, for he had sighed deeply.
"Ah, Peregrine," said he, without lifting his head, "oh, lad, lad—I've missed more than I thought—Love's a wonderful thing, far better and more beautiful than I ever dreamed it; pain and grief lose half their bitterness when Love looks at us from a woman's eyes and Death itself would come kinder—less dreadful, for the touch o' the loved hand, the sound o' the loved voice when the shadows gather. And—I might ha' had this blessing once—for the takin'—ah, Peregrine—if I'd only known, lad, if I'd only known!"
O joyous season of sweet simplicity, of homely kindliness and good-fellowship! Would to God this carpet beneath my feet might change to velvet moss and springy turf, these walls to the trees and whispering boskage I grew to love so well, this halting pen to the smooth shaft of sledge hammer or the well-worn crank of the Tinker's little forge, if I might but behold again she who trod those leafy ways with the stately, vigorous grace of Dian's very self, she who worked and wrought and sang beside me with love for me in her deep eyes and thrilling in the glory of her voice; she who sped light-footed to greet me in the dawn, who clung to kiss me "good night" amid the shadows. O season of joy so swiftly sped, to-day merging into yesterday (how should I guess you were so soon to end?), gone from me ere I had fully realised.
A hot, stilly afternoon full of the drowsy hum of insects and droning bees; birds chirped sleepily from motionless tree and thicket; even the brook seemed lulled to a slumberous hush.
Jessamy was away hard on the track of his Satanic antagonist, the Tinker had driven off to buy fresh provisions, and I sat watching Diana's dripping hands and shapely brown arms where she scrubbed, wrung out, and hung up to dry certain of our garments, for it was washing day.
"Dear," said I at last, "when shall we be married?"
"Lord, Peregrine, how sudden you are!" she answered, as if I had never broached the subject before.
"Shall it be next week?"
"No, indeed!"
"Well, then, the week after?"
"No, Peregrine, not—not until I am fit to be your wife—"
"That of course is now, Diana, this very moment!"
Here, having tossed back a loosened tress of glossy hair, she shook grave head at me.
"I must be sure I am—I must know myself a little—more fit—"
"A month, Diana!"
"Two, Peregrine!"
"We will get married in a month and camp hereabouts in these silent places all the summer. And when winter comes, I'll buy a little cottage somewhere, anywhere—wherever you choose—"
"Even then I—shouldn't be quite happy, Peregrine."
"Why not?"
"Well—because!"
"Because of what?"
"Just because!"
"Now you are provoking!"
"Am I, Peregrine?"
"And very stubborn."
"That's what old Azor used to say—"
"Why won't you marry me and be done with it?"
"Why should I? Aren't you happy as we are?"
"Of course, but to know you mine for always would be greater happiness."
"Oh, be content—a little longer. There's lots o' time—and I'm learning—I speak a—bit better, don't you think?"
"Is this your reason for delay, Diana?"
"Some of it. I want you to be—a little proud of me, if you can—if you ever grew ashamed of me—it would kill me, I think—"
"Sweet soul!" I cried, leaping to my feet to clasp her in eager arms."Why are you grown so humble?"
"It's love, I think, Peregrine—oh, mind the basin!" But I was not to be stayed and, sure enough, over went the great tin basin, scattering wet garments and soapy water broadcast.
"There!" sighed Diana tragically.
"What of it?" said I, and kissed her. "Why will you kiss me so seldom,Diana?"
"I ought to have done the washing in the brook like I always do."
"Don't you like me to kiss you, Diana?"
"Yes—and you've spilt all the water—"
"I'll bring you more. But why will you so seldom suffer me to—"
"Because—and take the large pail, Peregrine, and take it now—here's these four shirts ought to be hanging out to dry—so hurry, hurry! Get the water from the pool beyond the big tree, the stream runs clearer there!"
This pool was at some little distance, but away I went, happy in her service, swinging the heavy bucket and humming to myself, as care-free and light-hearted as any youth in Christendom, and presently reached the pool. I was stooping, in the act of filling the bucket, when I paused, arrested by a sudden, vague indefinable sound that puzzled me to account for and set me idly speculating whence it came and what it might be; so I filled the bucket and then, all in a moment, though why I cannot explain, puzzlement changed to swift and sudden dread and, dropping the bucket, I began to run, and with every stride my alarm grew, and to this was added horror and a great passion of rage. Panting, I reached the dingle at last to behold Diana struggling in the arms of a man, and he that same fine gentleman who had accosted her at "The Chequers." They were swaying together close-grappled, her knife-hand gripped in his sinewy fingers, his evil face smiling down into hers; and I burned with wilder fury to see her tumbled hair against his coat and her garment wrenched from throat and white shoulder.
Then as I sprang, with no eyes but for this man, a masterful hand gripped me, a commanding voice spoke in my ear.
"Back—stand back, boy!"
Turning to free myself, I beheld the Earl of Wyvelstoke, but now in his look and bearing was that which halted me in awed amaze.
"Devereux!" said he, not loudly but in voice so terrible that the man started and, loosing Diana, sprang back to glare at the speaker, heedless of Diana's blazing fury and threatening knife. "Stop, Diana!" commanded the Earl. "Come here and leave this unhanged ruffian to me—come, I say!" Humbly she obeyed, shrinking a little beneath his lordship's eyes, to creep into the clasp of my arm.
And so they faced each other, the stranger pale and coldly self-possessed, the Earl, his slender figure erect, one hand in the bosom of his shabby coat, his countenance placid, though frowning a little, but in his eyes a glare to daunt the boldest.
"Devereux!" he repeated in the same leisured, even tone. "Murderer—ravisher, I followed you, and by God you have betrayed yourself!"
"Ancient dotard!" smiled the other. "You babble like the poor, doddering imbecile you appear—my name is Haredale!"
"Liar!" said the Earl, softly. "I never forget faces, good or evil, hence I know you for the loathsome vermin, the obscene and unnameable thing you are!"
The stranger's pale face grew dreadfully suffused, his lips curled from gnashing teeth and, snatching up the heavy riding-whip that lay at his feet, he strode towards his lordship.
A deafening report—a gush of smoke, and the oncoming figure stumbled, checked uncertainly and stood swaying, right arm dangling helplessly, and I saw blood welling through the sleeve of his fine coat and dribbling from his finger ends; but he stood heedless of the wound, his burning gaze fixed upon the grim and silent figure before him. Once it seemed he strove to speak but no words came, and slowly he reached a fumbling hand to clasp uncertain fingers above the gushing wound.
Slipping from my hold, Diana took a step towards him, but his lordship's voice stopped her.
"Leave him, girl! Touch him not—do not sully your maidenhood with thing so vile. Let him crawl hence as best he may. Begone, beastly villain!" he commanded, with imperious gesture of the smoking pistol, "and be sufficiently thankful that my bullet sought your dastardly arm and not your pitiless black heart! Go, and instantly, lest I be tempted to change my mind and rid the world of thing so evil!"
Speechlessly the stranger turned, hand clasped above his hurt to stay the effusion of blood, and lurched and stumbled from our sight.
"Sir—O sir," I stammered, "who—what is that man?"
"A creature so unutterably evil, Peregrine, that only music could adequately describe him. He is one who should be dead years ago and consequently I am somewhat perturbed that I did not slay him outright instead of merely breaking his arm. It was a mistake, I fear, yes, a grave omission, yet there may offer another opportunity, who knows? Pray God his black shadow may never again darken your path, Peregrine, nor sully your sweet purity, my goddess of the woods. Forget him, my children. See, I have come to renew my youth with you, to talk and eat with you here amid God's good, green things, if I may.
"Yonder comes the excellent Atkinson with the tea equipage. Will you be my hostess, Diana?"
"Old pal—dear," she answered a little tremulously, "I'd just love to."
"Why, child," said the Earl, while I assisted the grave and decorous Atkinson to unpack the various dainties and comestibles, "why, child, how beautiful your hair is!" and lifting a silky tress in gentle, reverent fingers, our Ancient Person kissed it with stately gallantry.