"What with banns and certif'cates and this and that and t'other, they don't make it very easy for people to get married, do they, Peregrine?"
"No!" I answered.
We were jolting Tonbridge-wards in the Tinker's cart; the afternoon was very hot, and Diogenes, hearing the murmur of our voices, subsided to a leisured amble like the knowing, four-footed philosopher he was.
"Seven pounds seems a lot to pay for just one gown—even if it is to marry you in, doesn't it, Peregrine?"
"In three weeks!" I added.
"And four days!" she nodded.
"Twenty-five days—it's an age, Diana! Much may happen in such a time—"
"It will, Peregrine!"
"Pray what?"
"Lots of things, banns and certif-icates and—my new dress as will cost so much—"
"Seven pounds is ridiculously cheap, you dear child! And talking of banns, it may seem strange, Diana, that I have never troubled to enquire your surname, nor should I bother you now but that the parson must know—"
"Well, it's not so very strange that I've never bothered to tell you my name, Peregrine, because I don't know it. Old Azor often told me I had no name, but the Folk I lived with, theirs was Lovel—that'll do, won't it?"
"Of course! Goddesses don't need surnames."
"Will you still think me a goddess when we're married, Peregrine?"
"No, as something infinitely dearer and more precious."
"What?"
"My wife! It—it sounds strange on my lips, doesn't it?"
"I love the way you say it!" sighed Diana, and with such a look in her eyes that I clasped her to me and she, all unresisting, gave up her lips to mine. So, for a space, we forgot all but ourselves and I grew blind to all but her beauty, deaf to all but her voice.
"O Peregrine!" she sighed. "O Peregrine, I never thought love could be so—wonderful!"
"In three weeks you will be mine utterly, Diana—in three weeks!"
"I am now, Peregrine. I could never love—never, never marry any one but you. I never meant to marry because I never thought I could love any man—but now—O Peregrine!"
"Dear," said I, "if—if anything should happen to separate us, could you—would you always love me?"
"Always, Peregrine, always and for ever. Hark, there is some one coming."
Faint and far rose the sound of hoofs and, glancing up, I espied the distant forms of two equestrians and also observed that the perspicacious Diogenes, quick to heed and take advantage of our lapse, had halted to crop and nibble busily in the shade of a great tree that stretched one mighty branch protectingly above us.
"People are coming, Peregrine."
"I know, but they are still very far off; besides we are in the shade—kiss me again, Diana."
The advancing hoofs sounded nearer and presently, obedient to the rein, Diogenes ambled on again; and now I saw that the approaching riders were a lady and gentleman and mounted on spirited animals for, as they drew nearer, it seemed to me that the lady had much difficulty in managing her fiery steed.
Now between us and these riders was another tall tree that cast a jagged shadow athwart the white road, noting which, I kept my gaze on the lady's mount somewhat anxiously.
My apprehensions were suddenly realised for, reaching this patch of shadow, the lady's horse shied, swerved suddenly, and hurled his rider into the ditch.
Diana cracked the whip and Diogenes broke into a gallop, but long before we had come up with them, the gentleman was off his horse, had lifted the swooning woman in his arms, and was pouring out a breathless farrago of endearments and prayers with curses upon himself, his helplessness and the jibbing horse.
"Barbara, dear love—oh, damnation and the devil, what shall I do—Barbara, are you much hurt, dearest—the accursed brute—a thousand curses—look at me, beloved, speak—O God have mercy on her!"
Now glancing at the beautiful, pale face of this swooning girl, I started, and looking from her to the athletic form and handsome features of this distracted youth who clasped her, I caught my breath; and then Diana had leapt from the cart and, pushing aside this miserable, helping being, had busied herself to recover the unconscious girl in her own quick, capable fashion.
"A woman!" gasped the gentleman. "O God bless you—thank heaven! Say she isn't dead—you'll want water—not a drop for miles, dammit—brandy—not a spot—oh, curse and confound it—say she isn't dead!"
"She's not!" said Diana briefly.
"God bless you again! Tell me what to do?"
"Go away and leave her to me."
"But how can I leave her?"
"I must loose her stays—you'll find a brook t' other side the hedge—in your hat!"
Scarcely were the words uttered than the gentleman was over the hedge and as quickly back again, slopping water right and left from his modish, curly-brimmed hat in his frantic haste; this he set down at Diana's command and, turning away, began to stride up and down, muttering agitated anathemas upon himself and scowling ferociously at the two horses, which I had taken the opportunity to hitch to an adjacent gatepost.
At last in his restless tramping he seemed to become aware of me where I sat, for I had climbed back into the cart, and he now addressed me, though with his anxious gaze bent towards the unconscious form of his companion.
"Good God, man—this is pure damnation! If you can't do anything, since I can't do anything, can't you suggest something I can do?"
"Only that you strive for a little patience, sir."
At this he turned to stare at me, then his grey eyes widened suddenly, and he leapt at me with both hands outstretched.
"Vereker!" he cried. "Peregrine—Perry, by all that's wonderful."
"Anthony!" said I, as our hands gripped.
"Peregrine—O Perry, we—we were married—not an hour ago—Barbara andI—and now—"
"Look!" said I and nodded where Barbara sat, her pale check pillowed on Diana's bosom.
"Anthony!" she called softly. And then he was beside her on his knees, his head down-bent, her arm about his neck.
"Perry!" he called suddenly. "Come here, man, come here! Sure you haven't forgot the angel who stooped to a miserable dog, who trusted a desperate-seeming rogue and lifted him back to manhood and self-respect—you remember my Barbara? And you, dearest, recall my friend Peregrine—the gentle, immaculate youth who was willing to trust and bestow his friendship upon the same miserable dog and desperate rogue—aye, and fed him into the bargain—"
"How should I ever forget?" said Barbara. "Indeed, Mr. Vereker, we have talked of you often—though always as 'Peregrine'—"
"Mrs. Vere-Manville," I began.
"It was Barbara at the 'Jolly Waggoner'!" she reminded me, smiling and nestling closer into her husband's encircling arm.
"Barbara—Anthony," said I, "it is my happy privilege to introduceDiana—Miss Lovel—who is to honour me by becoming my wife shortly—"
Anthony bowed to Diana, laughed, and drew his wife a little closer all in the same moment, it seemed; then Barbara turned to look into the vivid, dark beauty of Diana's down-bent face where she knelt, and for a long moment eyes of blue stared up into eyes of grey, a long, questioning look.
"May I kiss you?" said Barbara at last.
Swiftly, almost eagerly, Diana leaned forward, then hesitated, drew away, and glanced swiftly upon each of us in turn with a troubled look.
"Lady," said she in her rich, soft voice, and speaking with careful deliberation, "Peregrine has not told you—all. Please look at me—my dress—"
"Very pretty, I think, and quaint—like a gipsy's—"
"I am a gipsy, lady—one Peregrine met by the roadside! 'T is best you should know this—first—before—before—"
The soft, sweet voice faltered and stopped and there fell a silence, a long, tense moment wherein I held my breath, I think, and was conscious of the heavy beating of my heart, but with every throb I loved and honoured Diana the more. Slowly and gently Barbara loosed her husband's clasping arm and rose to her knees.
"Now—Imustkiss you, Diana!" she said.
"O lady!" sighed Diana.
"Barbara, my dear! Barbara ever and always!"
"Barbara!" murmured Diana. And then they were in each other's arms and Anthony was on his feet and tucking his arm in mine led me where the horses stood tethered, with such disconnected mutterings as:
"Come away, Perry—true blue, 'egad—leave 'em together—angels of heaven both—too good for me—or even you—not a doubt of it—"
"Agreed!" quoth I.
"Peregrine," said he, pausing suddenly to grasp me by the shoulders in his well-remembered way, "O Peregrine, she is the loveliest, sweetest, tenderest creature that ever made a man wish himself better—"
"Anthony," quoth I, "she is the bravest, noblest, purest maid that ever taught a man to be better!"
"She is, Peregrine!"
"They are, Anthony!"
"For one frightful moment I thought she—was killed, Perry!"
"But God is good and—Diana was there, Anthony."
"A wonderful creature, your Diana, Perry, as capable as she is handsome!"
"She is beyond all description, Anthony!"
"Yes, I can find no word for Barbara, damme!"
Now as he looked down on me, his handsome face radiant, his powerful form set off by the most elegant attire, I could not but contrast him with the forlorn, down-at-heels outcast he had been.
"It seems I have much to congratulate you upon," said I.
"God, yes, Peregrine! And I owe you a guinea—here it is! My curmudgeonly uncle (Heaven rest him!) had the kindness to choke himself to death in a fit of passion. And to-day, Perry, to-day—we gave 'the Gorgon' the slip (Barbara's aunt)—got married and are now on our way to outface her father—a regular Tartar by all accounts—and there's the situation in a word."
"You haven't lost much time, Anthony."
"Nor have you for that matter, Perry. And I've ten thousand things to tell you, and questions to ask you and—Ha, thank God, she's on her feet! Look at 'em—did ever mortal eyes behold two lovelier creatures?" And away he strode impetuous towards where they stood, the dark and the fair, with arms entwined, viewing each other's beauteousness glad-eyed.
"My brave girl! How are you now?"
"Better—oh, much better, dear Anthony, though I fear I cannot ride—"
"Not to be thought of, my sweet—Gad, no—not for a moment!"
"Diana has offered to drive me in the cart, Anthony."
"Excellent! We can hire a chaise at Hadlow!"
So very soon, behold us jolting along in the Tinker's cart very merrily, Anthony and I perched upon the tailboard, the two horses trotting behind a little disdainfully, as it seemed to me, judging by the flirting of their tails, head-shakings and repeated snorts.
"And what might you be doing now, Perry?" enquired my companion, swinging his long, booted legs and stealing a backward glance at his fair, young wife seated on the driving seat beside Diana. "Isn't she perfectly wonderful?" he murmured.
"She is!" I answered.
"Her hair," he sighed; "her hair, you'll notice, is—"
"The most glorious in all the world!" quoth I.
"Absolutely, Perry! Beyond all doubt—"
"Though it is not really black, Anthony—"
"Black!" he exclaimed, turning on me with a sort of leap.
"No, not black, Anthony, sometimes it seems full of small fires—"
Now at this he laughed and I laughed, all unheeded by the two upon the driving seat who talked softly and questioned each other with their lovely faces very close together, while Diogenes the knowing slowed to his meditative amble.
"You must forgive me, Perry, I—I've only been a Benedict since two o'clock. But tell me of yourself; what you are doing, how you live and where?"
"I am learning the art of working in iron, Anthony, and of making and mending kettles—"
"Gad—a tinker, Perry?"
"Yes. And I am living in a wood with one Jerry Jarvis, Jessamy Todd, and Diana—"
"The famous Jessamy?"
"Yes. He is instructing me in the noble art."
"Good heavens! And your—your people?"
"They perforce acquiesce."
"In—in everything, Perry—your marriage?"
"What else can they do?"
"And when you are married, how shall you live?"
"Travel the country tinkering with Jerry—or buy a cottage until I come into my property."
"And then, Perry?"
"I—don't know. You see, Anthony, if—if the people in our world should make any difficulty about the pure angel who will be my wife, well, I'll see the people of our world damned and go back to my cottage."
"No, you shall come to us, Perry, to Barbara and me, we shall always be proud and happy to welcome you both—in country or town and as for—your Diana, such beauty may surely go anywhere, and my Barbara is in love with her already, 'egad. Look at 'em, Perry, look at 'em! Did ever eyes behold two such gloriously handsome creatures?"
Thus we talked of things that had been and of things that were to be, making many plans for the future, a future which, by reason of youth and love, stretched before each one of us in radiant perspective. So we talked and laughed, finding joy in all things, more especially in each other and were all a little sorry, I think, when the ambling Diogenes brought us to Hadlow at last. And here, at the "Bear" we sat down to a merry meal that ended all too soon.
"Good-bye—oh, good-bye, dearest Diana!" sighed Barbara a little tearfully, as she leaned from the chaise for a last caress. "If I have learned to love you so quickly don't let it seem strange—it is just because you are Diana—and I have so few friends, and none like you. So be my friend, Diana, will you, dear—and when you are married bring your husband to see us in London—or wherever we happen to be, only—oh, be my friend, because—I love you."
"I will," said Diana, "your friend always, because—I love you too."
So the chaise rolled away. And presently Diana and I jogged camp-wards behind Diogenes, through an evening fragrant with new-mown hay; from tree and hedgerow birds were singing their vesper hymn and we drove awhile in wistful silence. But suddenly Diana turned and caught my hand so that I wondered at the eager clasp of these fingers and the tremulous yearning in her voice when she spoke.
"O Peregrine—oh, my dear—if only God would make me—like her—a lady—like Barbara. Do you think He would if—I pray—very hard?"
"Of course!" said I, kissing her hand. "Though, indeed—"
"Then I will, dear Peregrine—this very night—and every night."
"Love," said his lordship, laying down his fishing rod, "love, from the philosophically materialistic standpoint, is an unease, a disquiet of the mind, fostered in the male by hallucination, and in the female by determined self-delusion."
"Sir," said I, "your meaning is somewhat involved, I would beg you to be a little more explicit."
"Then pray observe me, Peregrine! An ordinary young man falls in love with an ordinary young woman because, for some inexplicable reason, she appears to him a mystery, bewitchingly incomprehensible. Suffering under this strange hallucination, he wooes, whereupon our ordinary young woman, shutting her eyes to the ordinariness of our very ordinary young man, now deliberately deludes herself into the firm belief that he is the virile presentment of her own impossible, oft-dreamed ideal. So they are wed (to the infinite wonder of their relations) and hence the perpetuation of the species."
"My lord, you grow a little cynical, I think," said I, "surely Love has dowered these apparently so ordinary people with a vision to behold in each other virtues and beauties undreamed of by the world in general. Surely Love possesses the only seeing eye?"
"The Greeks thought differently, Peregrine, or wherefore their blindfolded Eros?"
"Sir, the mind of man has soared since those far times, I venture to think?"
"Perhaps!" said his lordship, shaking his head. "But love between man and woman is much the same, a power to ennoble or debase, angel of light or demon of hell, a thing befouled and shamed by brutish selfishness or glorified by sacrifice. Yes, love is to-day as it was when mighty Babylon worshipped Bel. Yesterday, to-day and for ever, love was, is, and will be the same—the call of nature coming to each of us through the senses to the soul for evil or for good."
"But, my lord," said I, stirred beyond myself, "ah, sir, be love what it may—no two ever loved as Diana and I, so truly, so deeply—"
"O my lovely, loving lover—O sublime egoist!" exclaimed my companion. "How many other lovers through the ages have thought and said and written the very same?
'Others may have loved mayhap,But never, oh, never as thou and I.'
"This is the song of all the amorists of all the ages. Man has been saying this since ever he was man. Here is love's universal, deathless song, written or sung to-day and by lovers long, long forgotten,
'Whoever loved like thou and I,No lovers ever loved as we!'"
"Nor did they, sir!" I maintained doggedly. "My love for Diana is a thing wholly apart, an inspiration to all things good and great."
"Then prove this, my egoist, prove it!"
"But sir—sir," I stammered, nonplussed by his words and the piercing look that accompanied them, "how—in what manner would you have me do this?"
"By forgetting yourself in your love for her! By foregoing awhile your present joys for her future good. Give her into my care for two years."
"My lord!" I exclaimed aghast. "I—indeed I do not understand."
"Peregrine, God has bestowed on her a mind capable of great things—a wonderful voice. Place her in my charge for two years—I am solitary and very rich—she shall see the world and its wonders; I will have her educated, bestow on her all the refinements that great wealth can command. Nature has given her a glorious voice, Art shall make her a great singer. Forego your present happiness for her future good and your gipsy maid shall become a great lady and a peerless woman. Do this, Peregrine, and here, truly, shall be love indeed."
Now at this I was silent a long while, staring down blindly at the hurrying waters of the brook; glancing up at last, I found him regarding me with his keen, bright eyes and was struck anew by the strength of his personality, his resolute face with its indomitable mouth and chin, his serene air of dignity and assured power.
"She would be safe with me, Peregrine," said he gently, "secure from every evil—and from every chance of molestation."
"I know that, sir."
"She would be cherished and loved as sacredly as—my own daughter—might have been."
"I am sure of it, sir—and yet—"
"Well, Peregrine?"
"Two years, sir," I faltered. "It—it is an age—"
"You are both children, Peregrine, but in two years, as I understand, you will be of age, a man, master of your fortune—and she a woman, clever, accomplished and perhaps famous."
"And may have forgotten me!"
"Do you think so, Peregrine?"
"No!" said I. "No!"
"Nor do I, boy. Such as she, being deep and reverent of soul, do not love lightly, and never forget. On the contrary, with her growing knowledge and experience, surely her love for you will grow also; it must do. If she loves you to-day, child of nature as she is, how much greater will be her capacity for love as an educated woman, knowing that it is to your unselfishness, first and foremost, that she owes so very much?"
After this was silence again wherein I watched my companion disjoint his fishing rod.
"Sir," said I at last, "yours is a very noble and generous offer—"
"Tush!" he exclaimed a little sharply. "I am a solitary old man who yearns for a daughter."
"Sir, in less than a fortnight is—the day—our wedding day—"
"Then," said his lordship, rising, "God's blessing on that day,Peregrine, and on each of you."
"You ask of me a very great thing, sir!" I groaned.
"Indeed, yes, Peregrine, so very great that only the greatest love could possibly grant it."
Long after the Earl had limped away, I sat crouched beside the stream, my head bowed between clasping hands, blind and deaf and unconscious of all else but the tempest that raged within me, a wild confusion of doubt and fearful speculation with a passionate rebellion against circumstance, and a growing despair. Gradually these chaotic thoughts took form, marshalling themselves against each other, so that it seemed as two voices argued bitterly within me, thus:
THE FIRST VOICE. To give up Diana for two long, weary years—
THE SECOND VOICE. But for Diana's sake!
THE FIRST VOICE. To forego the joys of Diana's companionship for two, empty, desolate years.
THE SECOND VOICE. But for Diana's own future good!
THE FIRST VOICE. Why should Love demand such thing of any lover?
THE SECOND VOICE. Because he boasted his love beyond all other. Was it but an idle boast?
THE FIRST VOICE. No lover would ever do such thing!
THE SECOND VOICE. Except he be indeed greatly true and most unselfish.
THE FIRST VOICE. Diana would never leave me.
THE SECOND VOICE. Never, even though it were the passion of her life!For truly a woman's love is ever more unselfish than a man's.
THE FIRST VOICE. She loves me too much to endure such parting.
THE SECOND VOICE. She loves you so much she would endure even this to become your comrade as well as wife, to fit herself that she may take her place beside you in your world, serene and assured, to become the woman you can revere for her intellect and refinement.
THE FIRST VOICE. All this I can teach her, all this she shall acquire after marriage.
THE SECOND VOICE. Never! She will devote herself to you rather than to herself.
THE FIRST VOICE. Howbeit, I love her well enough as she is—
THE SECOND VOICE. O selfish lover! And what of the future? You cannot live out your life in her world of the Silent Places, and in your world your gipsy maid will find small welcome or none.
THE FIRST VOICE. Then her world shall be mine also—
THE SECOND VOICE. O foolish lover! Think you she shall not grieve that by her love you should lose caste—
THE FIRST VOICE. She need never know—
THE SECOND VOICE. The eyes of a loving woman are marvellous quick to see.
THE FIRST VOICE. Then Love shall comfort her.
THE SECOND VOICE. Yet still must be her dark hours. Is two years so long a time?
THE FIRST VOICE. Too long! In two years she may find a thousand new interests to come between us. In two years she may meet with dashing gallants richer, higher placed, more versed in knowledge of women and far more intellectual than myself, who am but what I am. So, having won her to my love, what folly to let her go—to be wooed perchance by others.
THE SECOND VOICE. O most despicable lover! Will you be content to win a maid through and because of her ignorance of all other wooers better placed than your poor self?
THE FIRST VOICE. Yes.
THE SECOND VOICE. Then is yours a pitiful love, base and most unworthy.
THE FIRST VOICE. No matter—she shall not go!
THE SECOND VOICE. In such a love can be no true happiness.
THE FIRST VOICE. However, she shall not leave me!
THE SECOND VOICE. How if at some future day, her eyes be opened to see your love for the petty, selfish thing it is?
THE FIRST VOICE. She will be my wife!
THE SECOND VOICE. So God pity her.
THE FIRST VOICE. Come what will, she shall not leave me! I cannot, will not part with her!
"Why, Peregrine!" exclaimed a sweet voice. "My dear—my dear, what is it? Why do you sit here sighing with your dear head between your hands—this head that I love so! Peregrine dear, what is it?"
She was beside me on her knees, had drawn my face upon her bosom, and I thrilled to the soft caress of her mouth and the touch of her gentle fingers in my hair. "Why are you so troubled, my Peregrine?"
"O Diana! Beloved, I imagined a foolish thing—that being far from me you forgot our love—these dear Silent Places, and learned—to love—some one more worthy—more generous—altogether better than I. For Diana—I am—"
"My Peregrine!" she whispered passionately. "My brave lover that is so fine a gentleman he don't know anything of evil and has treated me always as if I was a proud lady—as if I was a very holy thing instead of only a gipsy girl to be kissed and—and—oh, you are so different—and so it is I love you—love you, worship you, and—all'us shall, my Peregrine, and long and yearn to be a lady for your sake and worthy of you—"
"O child," I whispered, "my Diana—hush! You don't know how vilely, basely selfish I am really—"
"Never—ah, never say so, Peregrine, it hurts me. There now, smile! I wouldn't ha' left you all the afternoon—not even wi' our pal—no, not even to try on my wedding gown if I'd thought you'd ha' grieved. Come, dear, Jessamy's back an' ready for you with the muffles—there, he be calling!"
So I arose, but stood a while to look into her eyes that met mine with such sweet frankness.
"And you still wish to learn all those graces and refinements that make what is called a lady, my Diana?"
"Yes," she answered, a little breathlessly. "Yes—oh, more than ever—more than anything else in life—except you—"
"Then—God helping, you shall!" said I, between shut teeth. And so we went on together.
"But, Peregrine," she questioned a little wistfully, "dear Peregrine, why is your face so stern and why must you sigh still?"
"Because to be unselfish is sometimes—an agony, Diana."
"Dear heart—what do you mean?"
"Only I know now that I do most truly love you."
"Where are you taking me, Peregrine?"
Birds were singing joyously, the brook chuckled and laughed merrily amid the shallows, the morning sun shone in glory, and all nature seemed to rejoice, as if care and sadness were things unknown.
"Where are we going, dear Peregrine?"
"To seek your heart's desire."
"That sounds very lovely!" said Diana, laughing gaily and giving my arm a little hug. "But everything seems so—wonderful lately!"
After this we walked in silence awhile, for when I would have told her whither we were going and why, I could not, try how I would.
"Barbara was telling me how she first met you and Anthony; she is very beautiful, don't ye think, Peregrine?"
"Very!"
"So beautiful that I wonder you didn't fall in love wi' her."
"I waited to fall in love with Diana, who is much more beautiful, I think—"
"Do you, Peregrine, do you think so—really?"
Here, of course, I stopped to kiss her.
"The wonder is," said she, "the great wonder is that she didn't fall in love wi' you, Peregrine."
"I'm very glad she didn't! Besides, there's Anthony, so strong and tall and handsome, so altogether different to myself and much more likely to capture a woman's fancy."
"Not all women, Peregrine."
Here she stopped to kiss me.
"Barbara is a much—gentler sort of fine lady than—your aunt, I think—"
"Aunt Julia can be gentle also—sometimes, dear—"
"When she gets her own way, Peregrine!"
"You will learn to love her very much some day, I hope, Diana."
"I hope so—but it'll take her a mighty long time learning to love me,I think," sighed Diana. "Lord, what furious fuss she'll make when shefinds out we'm married. Not as I shall care—if you don't, dear. Why,Peregrine—yonder's Wyvelstoke Towers!"
"Yes," said I, "it is there we are going."
"But why—what for?"
"Dear, have patience—just a little longer," I pleaded.
At this she was silent, but her hand tightened on my arm, and I was aware of the sudden trouble in her eyes. So, having crossed the park, we came into the pleasaunce, a place of clipped yew hedges and trim walks. And here who should meet us but the sedate Atkinson, who, having saluted us gravely, led the way to a rustic arbour where sat his lordship engaged upon the perusal of a book. At sight of us, he rose to welcome us with his wistful, kindly smile.
"Ah, Peregrine," said he, viewing us with his keen gaze as we sat beside him, "I perceive you have not told her."
"Not a word, sir," said I, a little hoarsely.
"Old pal," she questioned, glancing from me to his lordship and back again, "what d'ye mean? Peregrine, what is it?"
"Diana," said I, finding my tongue very unready, "dear—what is your greatest wish—what is your most passionate desire?"
"You!" she answered in her sweet, direct fashion.
"And—what next?"
"To be a lady! Oh, you know that and you know why—to be done wi' this fear that sometimes I may shame you by my talk or by acting wrong; you know, don't you?"
"This is why I brought you here, Diana. My lord has offered to—have you taught all this and—much beside."
"Oh!" she sighed rapturously. "You mean to teach me to be a lady? Oh, dear, dear old pal—can you, will you?"
"Child, it would be my most joyful privilege."
"But, Diana," I continued haltingly, yet speaking as lightly as I could and keeping my gaze averted, "to learn so much you must—stay with his lordship—travel abroad—meet great people—be instructed by many skilled teachers and—there will be your music—singing—"
"Will they teach me everything a lady should learn, grammar an' deportment an' dancing—?"
"Everything, Diana."
"But, Peregrine, while I'm away learning all this, where will you be?"
"I shall remain—here!"
"Oh, well, that's done it! I shall stay with you, of course!"
"That would be impossible," said I, as lightly as I could, "quite impossible; such love as ours, that demands so much, would be a great hindrance to your progress, don't you see? All the time you were studying, I should hover around you most distractingly. No, we must part—for a little while—"
"For how long, Peregrine?"
"Only two years, dear!"
"So long—so very long! Two years! Ah, no, no, I couldn't bear it!"
"Two years will—soon pass!" said I, between clenched teeth. "And of course you will be—too busy to—miss me—very much—"
"Ah, how can you think so?"
"And you will be working for me as much as for your dear self, Diana, and—our love—our future happiness. So you will go, dear heart—?"
"For two years? No—it's too long—you might die—O Peregrine!"
"The contingency is remote—I—I mean—"
"But I can't leave you! I mustn't—I won't! I shall be your wife!"
"No, Diana, that—that must wait until you—come back."
"Wait?" she gasped. "Peregrine—O Peregrine—"
"I want you to be free, Diana—"
"Well, I won't be! I'm not free and never shall be because I belong to you and we belong to each other for ever and ever."
"Oh, my dear—my dear, God knows it!" cried I and clasped her to me in yearning arms. "But I want you to go into this new life quite free and unfettered, because it is a great and ever-growing wonder that you should love me who am neither very handsome nor strong nor brave—so I want you to meet men who are—fine gentlemen, and compare them with poor me. And O Diana, if you can return so much cleverer and wiser for all you have seen and learned and can still love me—why, then, Diana, oh, then—" my voice broke but in this moment her arms were about me and stooping her lovely head she mingled her tears with mine.
"Dear foolish boy," she murmured passionately, "how can you think there could ever be any other but just you. Ah, Perry dear, don't send me away; I should hate to be a lady now. Oh, be content with me as I am—don't send me away—"
"I must—for your sake," I groaned, "for your future, to help you to the better thing. Though God knows I love you well enough as you are, and want you, Diana, want you with every nerve and fibre of me, with every breath. Oh, sir, sir," I cried, "help me to be strong for—her sake!"
"You are, boy!" answered his lordship, and I saw he had crossed to the doorway and stood with his back to us. "Diana," he continued after a moment, "in this world of change, of doubt and uncertainty, one thing is very sure and beyond all cavil and dispute: Peregrine loves you far better than he loves himself, since he is strong enough to forego so much of present happiness for your future welfare. He honours me by placing you in my charge, I who love you as a daughter and will treat you as such. So, Diana, will you give yourself to my care awhile, will you become my companion and loved child?"
"Must I, Peregrine?" she sobbed. "Oh, must I?"
"Yes!" said I, looking at her through blinding tears. "Yes!"
Obediently she arose and, crossing to his lordship, placed her hand in his.
"I'll go wi' you, old pal," said she.
Now as our Ancient Person turned to smile at her, I saw his furrowed cheek was wet with tears also.
"Sir, when—when do you start?" I enquired.
"At once, Peregrine. We shall be in London to-night."
"Then this is—good-bye, sir?"
"Yes, my children!"
"My lord," said I, rising wearily, "I am leaving with you all I possess, my present joy, my—hope for the future, my loved Diana."
"God make me worthy of the charge, Peregrine."
All in a moment she was at my feet, upon her knees, her arms fast about me, her face hidden against me, her body shaken with convulsive sobs.
"O Perry, I can't—I can't do it—no, no—don't let me go—"
At this I knelt also and thus we faced each other on our knees, as when Love first had found us. And so I clasped and kissed and strove to comfort her, until the passion of her grief was abated. "Must I go, dear Peregrine—must I go?" she whispered, beneath my kisses.
"Yes, for the sake of the future—yours and mine. God keep you and—good-bye, my own Diana!"
Then I arose and left her there upon her knees, looking after me through fast-falling tears and her loved arms stretched out to me in piteous supplication.
"Peregrine," she pleaded, "oh, my Peregrine!"
But I turned away and rushed from the spot, never daring to look back; but ever as I went, that desolate cry rang and echoed in my ears.
"Two years! Emptiness! Loneliness! Two years!" It was in the hurry of my footsteps, birds sang it, leaves whispered it, my heart throbbed to it.
"Two years! Emptiness! Loneliness! Two years!" Sometimes tears blinded me, sometimes anger shook me, but always was the pain of loss, the yearning for that loved and vanished presence.—"Two years!"
More than once I turned to hasten back—to end this misery—back to my Diana, this maid who was more precious, more necessary to my life than I had ever dreamed. I should have but to lift my finger, nay … one look and she would be in my arms … so very easy, and therefore … so utterly impossible.
Sometimes I hurried on at breathless speed, sometimes crept on slow, unwilling feet, sometimes stood motionless to stare blindly about me, raged at and torn by conflicting thoughts … agonising … irresolute.
How long I wandered thus I cannot say, but the sun was low when, amid the leafy whispering of familiar tree, I heard the cheery ring of the Tinker's anvil.
At sight of me he dropped his hammer and fell back a step.
"Why Peregrine," said he. "Why, Perry lad—don't look so! Is aught wrong?"
"Only my heart is breaking, I think!" said I, and casting myself down at the foot of a tree, I covered my face.
"God love me!" exclaimed the Tinker; and then he was kneeling beside me. "What is it, lad, what is it?"
"I've sent my Diana from me!"
"Sent her from ye, lad?"
"For two years, Jerry. Two weary years … emptiness … loneliness. I have placed her in the Earl of Wyvelstoke's charge … they start for London at once … leave England as soon as possible … she is gone … two years, Jerry … two weary years … desolation!"
"Peregrine," said he in hushed voice, "this was her great wish—to be a lady for your sake. She's told me so many's the time … an' I caught her in tears over it once."
"I have sent her away, Jerry, for two years!"
"Peregrine," said he, "'t is a fine thing to be a gentleman, but 't is a grand thing to be a man big enough an' brave enough to do such act as this here. God bless ye, lad!"
"O Jerry—O Jerry, I love her so…! Yearn and hunger for her so much … it is a pain!"
"Aye, but 't is such pain as makes the strong stronger! 'Tis such love as do be everlasting and reaches high as heaven—"
"Two years, Jerry! Two long, weary years to wait … to yearn … to live through without her … emptiness!"
"Ah, but you've done right, lad, you've done right. And then—what's two years? Lord, they'll soon go! And her love for you'll be a-growin' with every month—every day an' hour, lad, an' she'll come back t' ye at last, only more beautiful, more wonderful an' more loving than ever she was—"
"O Jerry," said I, grasping at him with sudden hands. "You don't think … death … you don't think she may die?"
"Die? What, Ann—s' strong an' full o' vig'rous life? Lord, not she, lad, not she—never think it!"
"Or … forget me, Jerry?"
"What—Ann? Lord love ye—no! She ain't one to forget or change—never was, an' I've knowed her since a little child. An' she's never loved afore—hated men! An' why? Because 't was always her beauty as they wanted—her body—an' never a thought of her mind, d'ye see! An' now—she's to travel to see the world, is she! An' with the Earl—an' him such a great gentleman! 'T is wonderful good fortun' for her, Peregrine, wonderful!"
"Yes, he is a very great gentleman and a truly noble man, Jerry."
"An' now, what o' yourself, lad?"
"I shall continue to live with you, Jerry; I shall go on smithing and tinkering—yes, harder than ever—"
"No!" said the Tinker, sitting back on his heels and shaking his head at me with the utmost vehemence. "Tinkering ain't for you, Peregrine, an' you can do better things than swingin' a sledge—ah, a sight better!"
"What do you suppose I can do?" sighed I miserably.
"Paint pictoors!"
"Impossible! I shall never be a real painter, Jerry."
"Well, then—write!"
"Impossible! I shall never be a poet, Jerry."
"Well, have you ever thought o' writin' a nov-el?"
"Never!"
"Well, what about it?"
"Impossible! Of what should I write?"
"Why, about HER—Anna, for sure, your Diana as would ha' made a better goddess than the real one, I reckon."
"Why, yes," said I, lifting my head, "I might do that, no matter how badly. To write of her would be better than to talk of her. To try to tell all her loveliness, her sweet, strong, virginal soul, her wisdom, her purity, her brave independence, to picture all this in words, no matter how inadequate, I shall see her with the eyes of Memory; she will be back with me in spirit…. A book! Jerry, O Jeremy, this is an excellent thought…. to see her again … to talk with her by means of pen and ink!"
In my eagerness I started up to my feet; then, the hot fit, passing, gave place to the cold, and Doubt leapt to seize me. "But I've never tried to write a book! Who am I to write a book?"
"Lord, don't be down-hearted afore you try, lad!" admonished the Tinker, for I had spoken this doubt aloud. "There's times in all writers' lives when they haven't writ a line, yet books are written all the same. Books ain't made, lad; they happen and they happen because a cove has an eye to see a little way beneath the surface o' things and an ear as can hear voices in the wind, an' a mind as discovers sum'mat in everything to wonder at. So he goes on lookin' an' listenin' an' wonderin' till one day out it has to come—an' there's your book. Now you're full up o' love, ain't you?"
"Yes, Jerry."
"Good! Well, write it down. There's nothing goes better in a nov-el than love, except blood—a splash or so here an' there, battle, murder an' sudden death—just a tang or so t' season it. I know, for I used t' sell nov-els once, ah, an' read 'em too! But love's the thing, lad! Everybody loves to read o' love—'specially old codgers, d'ye see—gouty old coves as curse their servants, swear at their families and, hid in corners, shed tears over the woes o' the hero an' heroine o' some nov-el an' stub their gouty toe a-kickin' of the villain. An' then there's the ladies—'specially the very young 'uns, God bless their bibs an' tuckers! Lord, how they sigh an' tremble an' toss their pretty curls an' weep an' languish. I heard o' one as always read wi' her smellin'-salts handy, but then, to be sure, she was a maiden lady of uncertain age as wished she wasn't an' was smitten wi' love for Tom Jones, besides, poor soul!"
"But my book—if I ever do write one, will not be read by any one."
"O? Mr. Perry—an' why not?"
"Being all about Diana, it will be too sacred for the perusal of all and sundry."
"There you're wrong, lad; no book can be too sacred for all folks to read, if it's writ honestly and sincerely. An' what a book you ought to write. First there's Anna an' yourself—folks would like to read about the two o' ye—you're such strange children. Then there's Jessamy—a wonderful character for any book. Next comes your uncles an' aunt—Lord, Peregrine, an' there's for ye—'specially your aunt! And last—" said he, a little wistfully, "if you want some one to fill in, kind of—to keep th' pot a-b'iling as it were, why—there's me. Not as your readers will be downright eager to read about a tinker—no, but you might work me in as a literary cove, d'ye see. How about it? What d'ye think, Perry lad?"
"Excellent well!" I exclaimed. "You inspire me with such strange confidence, Jerry, I almost feel I might manage a book—of sorts."
"Then go and try, lad."
"When—where—how?"
"This minute! At home! By hard work!"
"You mean leave—go back to Merivale—to-night?"
"Aye, I do. You can catch the mail at Tonbridge and you'll be home afore the moon's up."
"Do you know Merivale then, Jerry?"
"O' course. I'll harness Diogenes an' drive you in."
And so, within the hour, behold me upon the stage-coach that would carry me within a mile of home; behold Jerry standing below, gazing up at me with his wistful smile, a Jeremy whose form and features were blurred suddenly by hot tears as the whip cracked, hoofs stamped, and the London Mail lurched forward with a shrill and jubilant fanfare on the horn that drowned my cry of farewell, as Jeremy's blurred image waved blurred arm and, what with my tears and the dust, was blotted from me altogether.
With the small incidents of this short journey I will not worry the reader. Suffice it that the moon was high-risen when at last I reached Merivale. The lodge gates were shut for the night, and being in no mood to disturb any one, I clambered over the wall at an easily-accessible, well-remembered spot, and going by familiar paths, presently beheld the house, its many latticed casements winking ghostly to the moon, and a beam of soft light striking athwart the terrace from that chamber wherein my aunt Julia was wont to write her letters and transact all business of the estate. So thither came I to find the window wide open, for the night was hot, and to behold my aunt, as handsome and statuesque as ever, bent gracefully above her escritoire, pen in white fist, like an industrious goddess.
"Aunt Julia," said I, "pray don't be startled—I have come home—"
At this, though I had spoken softly, she dropped the pen, rose and, clasping hands to bosom, uttered a scream, though sweetly modulated and extremely ladylike. Then we were in each other's arms and she was weeping and laughing over me in a very ecstasy of welcome.
"Dear Peregrine—loved boy, at last! How brown you are! You're taller, bigger—handsomer, I vow—and you have come back to me. O Peregrine! You have come back to my loving care, dearest. Your wanderings are over?"
"Yes, dear aunt," I answered, stifling a sigh, "my wanderings are over."
"Oh, heaven bless you, dear boy! God be thanked—"
"And what of my good, generous uncles, dear Aunt?"
"I have banished the wretches—forbade them my presence—"
"Dear Aunt, pray why?"
"Because they are wretches."
"Then to-morrow we will write and bid them welcome."
"Never, Peregrine!"
"To-morrow, dear Aunt."
"Peregrine!" she exclaimed, starting and frowning a little, "I said,'Never'!"
"And I said 'to-morrow', dear Aunt!"
"Boy!" she cried, lovely head proudly aloft.
"Aunt!" said I. "How very beautiful you are!" and drawing down that lovely head, I kissed her; at this, she flushed, and drew away, drooping her lashes like a girl.
"Why, Peregrine!" she murmured.
"They both love you so truly and faithfully, dear Aunt, and no wonder!And they are such—men! So to-morrow we will write to them?"
"Very well, dear Peregrine!" said my proud aunt, softly and not in the least proudly. "But you are hungry, thirsty—you must eat—"
"Thank you, no—only weary—"
So hand in hand she led me to my chamber.
"See, dear boy, I have kept everything as you left it; your bed is quite ready, the sheets aired, all waiting for you when you should choose to come."
She led me about the great chamber, showing me all things as they had been on the night of my departure, even to the pen where I had tossed it upon an unfinished manuscript. And no mention, never one word of Diana; for the which I loved her and was grateful.
"Dear Aunt," said I, and kissed her. "O dear Aunt Julia!"
But when at last she was gone and I alone in the soft luxury of this chamber, desolation filled me and I yearned bitterly for the discomforts of the little camp within the copse; the rustle of leaves, the soft, murmurous gurgle of the brook, the winking stars overhead; for Jeremy, and Jessamy Todd and my loved Diana. And coming to the open lattice, I leaned there to look upon the moon, this other Diana so placid and serene. And thinking that perhaps my Diana looked upon her even now, a Diana not at all placid and serene but with sweet, grey eyes a-brim with tears and heart full of yearning tenderness—even as mine, I fell upon my knees and stretching out my arms, whispered words of love with passionate prayers:
"O Diana, beloved … O God of Heaven—God of Mercy, bring her back to me at last with heart as sweet and pure—teach me to be worthy, fit me for such happiness…. O loved Diana of the Silent Places, my love goes with you always, and for ever, strong, sweet goddess of my life.
… Two years!"