_ BOOK I. THE SILENT PLACES
CHAPTER XXIII. DISCUSSES THE VIRTUES OP THE ONION
"There's nothing like an onion!" said the Tinker, lifting pot-lid to lunge at the bubbling contents with an inquisitorial fork. "An onion is the king o' vegetables! Eat it raw and it's good; b'ile it and it's better; fry it and it can't be ekalled; stoo it wi' a rabbit and you've got a stoo as savoury an' full o' flavour--smells all right, don't it, Ann?" he enquired suddenly and a little anxiously, for Diana had possessed herself of the fork and was investigating the pot's bubbling contents with that deft and capable assurance that is wholly feminine. "Smells savoury, don't it, Ann?" he questioned again, noting her puckered brow.
"Very!" said I.
"Did ye put in any salt or pepper, Jerry?" she demanded.
"Drat my whiskers, never a shake nor pinch!" he exclaimed, whereupon Diana sighed, shook her head in silent reprobation and vanished into the dingy tent as one acquainted with its mysteries, leaving the Tinker gazing at the pot quite crestfallen.
"A man can't always be for ever a-remembering everything, Ann!" said he, as she reappeared. "An' besides, now I come to think on it, I aren't so partial to pepper an' salt--"
"A stew should never boil, Jerry!" she admonished.
"Why, that's a matter o' taste," he retorted. "I always b'ile my stoos and uncommon tasty I find 'em--"
"And a little thickening will improve it more," she continued serenely. "And if you had cut the rabbits a little smaller, it would ha' been better, Jerry. Still, I daresay I can make it eatable, so go an' talk to Peregrine and leave me to do it."
Obediently the Tinker came and seated himself beside me.
"Friend Peregrine," said he, jerking his thumb to the busy figure at the fire, "I stooed rabbits afore she was born--ah, hundreds on 'em!"
"And boiled 'em hard as stones!" she added.
"I've throve on b'iled rabbits, Peregrine friend, rabbits and other things cooked by these two hands, lived and throve on 'em these fifty-odd years--and you see me today a man hale and hearty--"
"Which is a wonder!" interpolated Diana without glancing up from her labour.
"Pray," said I, seeing him at loss for an answer, "what did you mean by the 'Brotherhood of the Roadside'?"
"I meant the Comradeship o' Poverty, friend, the Fellowship o' the Friendless, the Hospitality o' the Homeless. The poor folk on the padding-lay, such as live on the road and by the road, help one another when needful--which is frequent. Those as have little give freely to them as have none--I to-day, you to-morrow. The world would be a poor place else, 'specially for the likes o' we."
"Do you mean that all who tramp the road know each other?"
"Well, 'ardly that, brother. To be sure, I know most o' the reg'lar padding-coves, but you don't have to know a man to help him."
"Are you acquainted with a peddler called Gabbing Dick?"
"Aye, poor soul. Dick's father was hung for a crime he didn't commit, just afore Dick was born, which drove his poor mother mad, which is apt to make a child grow up a little queer, d'ye see?"
"And old Moll?" said I, with growing diffidence.
"Aye, a fine figure of a woman she was once, I mind. But her man was pressed aboard ship and killed, and she starved along of her babby, though she did all she could to live for the child's sake and when it died, she--well, look at her now, poor soul!"
"The world would seem a very hard and cruel place!" I exclaimed.
"Sometimes, brother--'specially for the poor and friendless. But if there's shadow there's sun, and if there's darkness there's always the dawn. But what o' yourself, friend; you've been fighting I think, judging by your looks?"
"Yes, and--I ran away!" I confessed miserably.
"Humph!" said the Tinker. "That don't sound very hee-roic!"
"But he came back, Jerry!" said Diana in her gentlest voice.
"Ha!" exclaimed the Tinker, looking from her to me and back again, keenly. "Then he is hee-roic!"
"No!" said I, "No, I'm not--and never can be!"
"Oh," said the Tinker. "And why?"
"Because I'm not brave enough, strong enough, big enough--"
"Lord, young friend, don't be so down-hearted and confounded humble; it aren't nat'ral in one so young! What do you think, Ann?"
"That he's hungry," she answered.
"Aye, to be sure!" chuckled the Tinker. "And I reckon no hero can feel properly hee-roic when his innards be cold and empty--"
"But I'm not hungry," I sighed, "at least--not very. But the longer I live the more I know myself for a hopeless incompetent--lately, at least--a poor, helpless do-nothing--"
"Lord love ye, lad," quoth the Tinker, laying his hand upon my bowed shoulder, "if you've learned so much, take comfort, for to know ourselves and our failings is surely the beginning o' wisdom. But if you can't be a conquering hero all at once, don't grieve--you ain't cut out for a fighter--"
"He beat Gabbing Dick, anyway," said Diana suddenly, whereat I lifted drooping head and looked towards her gratefully, only to see her vanishing into the dingy little tent again.
"Well, but--" said the Tinker as she reappeared, "Gabbing Dick ain't a fighter like Jem Belcher or Gentleman Jack Barty or Jessamy Todd. Dick's a poorish creetur'--"
"He's twice as big and heavy as Peregrine!" she retorted.
"True!" said he. "And yet friend Peregrine ain't exactly--"
"Supper's ready!" she cried.
"Good!" exclaimed the Tinker, rising, but his sharp eyes seemed keener than ever as he glanced from Diana's lovely, flushed face to me and back again. Then down we sat to supper as savoury as mortal palate could desire; the Tinker, having tasted, sighed and winked his approbation at me, forgetful of Diana's bright and watchful eyes.
"Well, Jerry," she demanded, "how is it?"
"'Twill do, lass, 'twill do," he answered; "though you've come it a leetle too strong o' the pepper and salt, to my thinking, still--it'll do. And now, friend Peregrine, I'm consarned to know what's become of all your money--"
"He buys me with it," answered Diana.
"Eh--bought you?"
"For fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies, Jerry!"
The Tinker gulped and stared.
"Lord love you, gal--what d'ye mean?" he questioned.
"'T was all old Azor's doing, Jerry. She gives me to her grandson Joseph for his
mort, but I gives Joseph a touch of my little
churi and runs away and happens on Peregrine. But she follows me with Jochabed and Bennigo, that I hates more than Joseph, and she was for going to force me to take him could give most money, and Peregrine has most, so she weds me to Peregrine."
"Wed you?" exclaimed the Tinker, blinking.
"Aye, according to the ways o' the Folk--she weds us and leaves us. Then while I was considering about running off from Peregrine and where I should go, Peregrine goes for to run off from me, so then I followed him, of course--and here we are!"
"Lord!" exclaimed the Tinker. "Lord love my eyes an' limbs--here's a pretty kettle o' fish!"
"It is!" nodded Diana. "For now Peregrine wants to marry me according to the ways o' the Church!"
"Hum!" said the Tinker, staring very hard at a piece of pork impaled upon his knife-point. "Ha--marriage, hey, friend Peregrine? Marriage is an oncommon serious business and you are a--leetle young for it, ain't you?"
"I'm nineteen turned!" said I.
"And I'm fifty and more, young friend, and never found courage for it yet--and never shall now!" Here the morsel of pork vanished and he masticated thoughtfully. "And I suppose," said he, his keen eyes flashing from me to Diana, "I suppose you'll be tellin' me as you're in love and a-dyin' for each other--"
"No!" said Diana sharply.
"Of course not!" said I, imitating her tone.
"And never could be!" she added, frowning at the fire.
"Utterly impossible!" I added, frowning at her.
"Strike me pink!" ejaculated the Tinker, scratching chin with knife-handle and staring at us in ever-deepening perplexity. "Then why want to marry?"
"I don't!" said Diana, with the same unnecessary vehemence.
"Nor I either!" I added. "But my honour and--circumstances would seem to demand it."
"What circumstances, young sir?" demanded the Tinker, his features distorted by a sudden fierce scowl. "Ha, d'ye mean as you've taken advantage of--"
"Don't be foolish, Jerry!" said Diana serenely. "Does he look as if he would take advantage of any one? d'ye think he could take advantage o' me? Can't you see he ain't--is not th' kind I keeps my little knife for? Don't be foolish, Jerry; he's never even tried to kiss me--nor wanted to--"
"How do you know that?" I demanded impulsively. Now at this she turned and looked at me, red lips parted in speechless surprise.
"How do you know?" I repeated. "How can you be so sure?"
"Be-cause!" she murmured and then, all at once, from throat to brow crept a wave of hot colour, her long lashes drooped and she turned away with a strange, new shyness; and in this moment I saw she was altogether more lovely than I had ever imagined her.
"Why, Diana!" I said. "Child, you need never trouble to take your knife to me; the respect I have for your goodness is enough--"
"Ah, Peregrine," she whispered fiercely, without turning her head, "I am only good because I have seen enough of evil to hate it!"
"And it is just because I would shield you from all and every evil that I would marry you, Diana."
"Ha!" exclaimed the Tinker, so suddenly that I started, having clean forgotten his existence. "Ha!" said he. "You're quite sure as you don't love each other, then?"
"Quite!" said Diana.
"Absolutely!" said I.
"Oh!" said the Tinker, wiping his knife upon his breeches. "Well, considering you was both so hungry, you ain't neither of you eaten dooly of this stoo as was fit for any king. And talkin' o' wed-lock, if you ain't in love with each other--yet, I should wait until you are, which," said he, glancing up at the leaves above his head, "which judging by the look o' things, I should say might 'appen at any moment 'twixt now and Christmas. Meantime, what are ye going' to do?"
At this, being somewhat at a loss, I looked at Diana and she at the fire again.
"Now if," pursued the Tinker, "if you'm minded, both on ye, for to j'ine comp'ny and travel the country awhile along o' Diogenes an' me--say the word, an' I'll be the j'y-fullest tinker 'twixt here an' John o' Groat's!" As he ended, Diana reached out suddenly and, catching his hand, fondled those work-roughened fingers against her soft cheek.
"O Jerry," she sighed, "you were always s' good and wise!"
"Then, dear lass, you'll come?"
"Of course I will. I'll weave baskets--"
"And I'll mend kettles, if you'll teach me, friend Jerry," said I, grasping his other hand.
"Why, children!" said he, looking upon us gentle-eyed, "Lord love ye now--you make me as proud as if I was a dook 'stead of only a travelling tinker!"
"It were best of all to be a poet, I think!" said I. "Have you written any more verses lately?"
"Well--I have!" he confessed, with a look that was almost guilty. "I'm always at it when there's time--I must. There was an idee as came to me this very evening an' I had to write it down. 'T was that as made me forget the salt an' pepper--"
"Is it about the Silent Places, Jerry?" questioned Diana eagerly. "Or a lonely star, or the sound of a brook at night--?"
"It's got a bit of all on 'em," said the Tinker.
"I should very much like to hear it," said I.
"Honest an' true?" he enquired a little diffidently.
"Honest and true!" I answered, as I had done upon a former occasion.
"Then so ye shall, though it ain't finished, or rather it ain't begun, as ye might say, for I can't find a good opening verse. I want to say that if a man don't happen to be blest wi' riches there's better things for him if he's only got eyes to see 'em." Saying which (and after no little rummaging) the Tinker drew a crumpled paper from capacious pocket and, bending to the fire, read as follows:
"'Instead of riches give to me
Eyes, the great, good things to see
The golden earth, the jewelled sky
The best that in all hearts doth lie.
Give me this: when day's begun
A woodland glade, a ray of sun
Falling where the dewdrops lie
Give me this, and rich am I.
Give me this: the song of bird
In lonely wood at sunset heard
Piping of his evening hymn
'Mid a leafy twilight dim.
Give me this: a stream that wendeth,
Where the sighing willow bendeth,
Singing through the woodland ways
Never-ending songs of praise.
Give me these, with eyes to see
And richer than a king I'll be.'"
"D'ye like it, Peregrine?" he enquired, anxious and diffident.
"So much that I wish I had written it."
"Jerry writes verses like birds sing and the wind blows, just because he must," said Diana gravely. "All that is best happens so, I think. Are you for Tonbridge tomorrow, Jerry?"
"Aye, I am, lass, 'cording to custom. Maybe I'll pick up plenty to do at the fair."
"And maybe you'll find your friend, Peregrine," said she, rising.
"What friend?"
"Him you was to meet, of course."
"Why, to be sure--Anthony! I'd clean forgotten him."
"That's strange," said she, "seeing you were so anxious to find him."
"It is," said I, "I wonder what should have put it out of my head?"
"Ah--I wonder!" said the Tinker. "What, goin' to bed, lass? Tent soot ye?"
"Yes--I laid your blankets under the tree yonder--Good night!" And with a wave of the hand she was gone.
Then, having made up the fire, we presently rolled ourselves in our blankets and lay down where we might behold the stars. And after some while the Tinker spoke drowsily:
"I'm glad--very glad, friend Peregrine, as I've met you again, not only because you like my verses but because I like your ways. But I'm sorry--aye, very sorry, as you should ha' fallen in wi' Diana--"
"And why, pray?" I demanded, a little sharply.
"Because if you should happen to fall in love wi' her and really want to marry her, which I don't suppose--and she was foolish enough to let you--which I'm pretty sure she wouldn't, being of a proud temper and mighty independent--'t would be a very bad thing for you and a terrible shock to that fine aunt and those rich uncles o' yours as you told me of--"
"And why should it be?"
"Because Anna ain't of your world and not being born wi' drawing-room manners she'd shock you twenty times a day, throw your fine aunt into a fit and give your uncles paralytic strokes--Anna's all right in her way but--"
"She's a very beautiful girl!" said I hotly. "And good as she's beautiful!"
"She is!" said the Tinker heartily. "Sweet an' good still, in spite of everything, an' I know--I've watched her grow up--"
"And taken care of her," I added, "like the good friend you are."
"I've done what I could, when I could, but she's mostly had to take care of herself and done it well, too--for she's as brave as--"
"As Diana--as beautiful and as chaste!" said I.
"Quite sure as you ain't fallen in love--or falling, friend Peregrine?"
"Of course--quite."
"To--be--sure!" murmured the Tinker drowsily. "But though your pockets be empty, you ain't in any violent hurry to get back to your luxoorious home, are ye?"
"No!" said I.
"By reason of Anna?"
"By reason that, like her, I have learned to love the Silent Places."
"Ah, yes, lad, I know--for I love 'em too. But you're young and in the Silent Places one may meet wi' demons an' devils."
"Maybe!" I answered.
"Or walk with God!" said the Tinker. _