_ BOOK I. THE SILENT PLACES
CHAPTER XXVI. THE ETHICS OF PRIGGING
Evening was at hand, lights began to wink and flare among booths and shows, and the crowd seemed to be growing even more riotous; thus I, for one, was profoundly thankful to leave behind its roaring clamour and seek those quiet, leafy shades where the Tinker had appointed us to meet with him.
"And to think," said Jessamy, as we walked on side by side, "to think as 'Firebrand Vereker' is your uncle--not to mention Sir George, as once fou't ten rounds wi' 'Buck Vibart'! To think--"
"Mighty fine gentlemen, ain't they, Jess?" enquired Diana, with a toss of her shapely head.
"Of the finest, Ann! Honoured by all, from the Prince down. And to think as Mr. Vereker here--"
"My name is Peregrine;" said I, "indeed, I would rather you called me Perry, it is shorter."
"As Mr. Perry, here--"
"Perry!" I admonished.
"As--Perry is their own nevvy--"
"Though he don't look like it!" added Diana.
"Why, that's true, Ann, that's true; but his clothes can be changed--"
"But his face can't, Jess!"
"Lord bless me, Ann, what's wrong wi' his face?"
"Only everything!" she answered, with another disdainful gesture of her head.
"I am extremely sorry that my face displeases you, Diana," said I.
"So'm I!" she nodded. "Though it ain't your fault, I s'pose."
"If you allude to my bruises and black eyes--"
"They're nearly well," said Jessamy.
"I don't!" said Diana.
"Then pray what particularly displeases you in my face this evening?" I enquired.
"All of it! You! Your ways! Makin' a fool o' me afore your fine uncles and them staring their proud eyes out! As if I'd ever marry--you!" At this Jessamy opened his eyes rather wide and I fancy his lips quivered slightly.
"Ah, but you will, Diana!" said I. "My mind is made up."
"What's that matter?"
"A great deal! The whole affair is settled definitely." Here she turned on me in such flaming anger that I fell back a step in utter amazement, and Jessamy, murmuring something about "seeing if supper was ready" quickened his stride and left us together.
"Why did ye do it?" she panted. "Why did ye let 'em think 't was you stole that looking-glass?"
"Because it was my whim!"
"Oh, I know--I know!" she cried, positively gnashing her teeth at me.
"Then why trouble to ask?"
"You thought 'twas me!" she cried. "You dared to think I'd stolen it. You did--you did! Ah, you're afraid to own it!"
"And if I did," cried I, angered at last, "hadn't I reason enough, remembering your--your propensities--"
"What d'ye mean? What's propensities?"
"Well, your predilections--"
"Ah, talk plain!"
"Well, then, remembering those three guineas and the duck you filched, I naturally supposed--"
Uttering a sobbing cry she leapt, striking at me wildly, but ducking in under the blow, I caught her in my arms. For a moment she struggled fiercely, then her writhing body grew soft and yielding in my clasp, and she burst into a passion of tears.
Now as she drooped thus in my embrace, her slender form shaken by sobs, I leant nearer and, moved by a sudden impulse, kissed her hair, her eyes, her parted lips, lips that quivered under mine for a breathless moment; then, loosing her, I stepped back to see her staring at me through her tears with a look of speechless amaze. Suddenly her glance fell and she covered her burning cheeks; and, glancing up from earth to sky, I felt a vague wonder to see them all unchanged.
"O Diana," said I, a little breathlessly. "O Diana, don't cry! And forgive me for misjudging you, I--I was ashamed, but I would have gone to prison for you gladly just the same. I'm--humbly sorry; you see, it was--that duck and the man's three guineas. Only don't--don't sob so bitterly, Diana, or I shall have to--kiss you again."
At this, she walked on once more, though she kept her gaze averted.
Far before us strode Jessamy who, reaching a five-barred gate, took a run and cleared it with a graceful ease that filled me with envious admiration. Reaching this same gate in due course, I clambered over and, from the other side, proffered Diana my assistance, but she merely scowled and setting hand to the top bar, over she came with a vision of shapely limbs and flutter of petticoats.
"You have very pretty ankles!" said I impulsively.
"Don't be foolish!" she retorted, with a petulant fling of her shoulder; and after a moment, "what are my ankles to you?" she demanded sullenly.
"A great deal, seeing they will belong to me some day."
"Never--oh, never!" she cried, between clenched teeth. "I'm done wi' you, young man."
"Folly!" I retorted. "Don't be silly, young woman."
"I'll--I'll run away--"
"Very well," said I, nodding, "then I'll find you again if it costs me every penny of my heritage!" At this she turned with clenched fists, but seeing me stand prepared, walked on again.
"I hate you!" she exclaimed vehemently.
"No matter!" said I.
"You're a--a coward!"
"I know it!" I sighed.
"A fool wi' no manliness in you!"
"Agreed!" quoth I. "You shall teach me better--"
"I'm done wi' you--finished, d'ye hear?"
"Also, I begin to suspect that you are really a little annoyed with me, Diana; pray, why?"
"Ah! You know why!"
"Then be generous and try to forgive me!"
By this time we had reached a little wood where flowed a stream, its murmurous waters brimful of sunset glory; and here, as by common consent, we paused a while to look down at this reflected splendour, and when at last she spoke, her voice was gentle, almost pleading.
"The duck was--only a duck, Peregrine."
"Yes!" said I.
"And we were hungry--you know you were?"
"Very hungry, Diana."
"And the--the three guineas as I--finds in--that beast's pocket did us more good than it could ha' done him?"
"True, Diana."
"And I only took it because it--it was there to take--and might be useful. But now we--we don't need it any more--I don't, so--there it goes!" And with a sudden gesture she cast into the brook a handful of coins, among which I caught the sheen of gold and silver. "But I--I ain't a thief--I'm not!" she cried passionately. "I never stole anything all my days; I--I only--prig--" Here, acting on sudden impulse, I caught her hand to my lips.
"O Diana," said I, "dear child, it is in my mind you will never prig again, either--"
"But I shall--I know I shall!" she cried, a little wildly, but yielding her hand to my lips. "Yes, I know--I'm sure I shall, Peregrine, and what should you do then?"
"Grieve, child!"
"Look!" she whispered suddenly, bending to stare down into the glory of the brook, "O Peregrine--do you see it?" From the stream she pointed upward to the radiant heaven where, immediately above us, sailed a small, curiously-shaped cloud. "Do you see it, Peregrine?"
"Only a little, golden cloud, Diana."
"It is--the 'Hand of Glory,'" she whispered.
"What is it--what does it mean?"
"It means, Peregrine, it means that you--that I--oh, you must find out!" And snatching her hand from mine, she fled from me into the wood. _