_ BOOK I. THE SILENT PLACES
CHAPTER XXVII. JUNO VERSUS DIANA
I was busily engaged blowing the bellows of the Tinker's small, portable forge; besides the making and mending of kettles, pots, pans and the like, it seems he was a skilful smith also, able to turn his hand from shoeing a horse to fashioning such diverse implements as the rustic community had need of, for beside the forge lay a pile of billhooks, axe-heads, sickle-blades and the like, finished or in the making.
So I blew the fire, wielded the heavy sledge-hammer or stood absorbed to watch the deft strokes of his hammer draw out, bend and shape the glowing steel, though turning very often to behold Diana sitting near by, her quick hands busied upon the construction of her baskets of rush or peeled willow: thus despite the heat of the fire, the sulphurous flames and the smoke-grime that besmirched me, I laboured joyously and swung the ponderous sledge more vigorously for the knowledge that her bright eyes were often raised to watch me at my work.
Thus bellows roared and hammers rang until the sun was high and the Tinker, returning the half-forged billhook to the fire, straightened his back and wiped the sweat from sooty brow with sooty hand.
"We shall make a tidy smith of him yet, eh Anna?"
"In time--with patience!" she nodded.
"The question is--wages. What ought us to pay him, Ann?"
"Nothing!" said I.
"Five shillings," said Diana.
"Good, we'll make it seven shillings a week to begin wi'," quoth the Tinker, and whipping the glowing bill from the fire, he clapped it on the anvil and at sign from him I whirled up the sledge and brought it down with resounding clank, which he followed with two blows from his lighter hammer, and we fell to it merrily, thus: Clang--chink, chink! Clang--chink, chink! While with every stroke the bill took on form and semblance, growing more and more into what a billhook should be.
"A good thick steak, I think you said, Anna?" enquired the Tinker, while I blew the fire for the next heat.
"And fried onions, Jerry."
"Steak an' onions!" he exclaimed, rolling his eyes ecstatically. "Did ye hear that, Perry? And to make good vittles better, there's nowt like smithing! The only thing agin' steak an' onions is that there's never enough onions!"
"There will be this time!" said Diana, with another nod.
"D'ye hear that, Perry? Lord, I am that ravenous!"
"But 'tis scarce twelve o'clock yet, Jerry."
"Are you hungry, friend Peregrine?"
"I always am, lately."
"Poor Perry's hungry likewise, Ann! Come, what of it?"
"You must wait till dinner time."
"Which is when a man's hungry--or should be. Come, lass, famishin' an' faintin' away we be!"
Laughing, Diana rose and crossed the glade to where, screened among leafy thickets, stood cart and tent.
"Now as regards paying me wages, Jerry," I began, then stopped and caught my breath suddenly, for Diana was singing.
Yet could this indeed be Diana's voice--these soft, sweet, rippling notes mounting in silvery trills so purely sweet, swelling gloriously until the whole wood seemed full of the wonder of it, and I spellbound by this simple, oft-heard air, but which, sung thus and thus glorified, touched me to awed delight.
"Aha!" exclaimed the Tinker, as the liquid notes died away. "She can sing when she's happy. Jessamy says there's a fortun' in her voice--" But I was off and across the glade and next moment standing before her.
"Why--Diana!" I exclaimed. "O Diana!"
"What is it?" she demanded, glancing up from the onion she was peeling.
"Why have I never heard you sing before? Why do you sing so seldom?"
"Because I only sing when--when I feel like it and to please myself."
"Your voice is wonderful!" I exclaimed. "We will have it cultivated; you shall be one of the world's great singers, you shall--"
"Don't be silly!" she exclaimed, flushing.
"But I tell you your voice is one in ten thousand!"
"And this onion is one of six, so take a knife and help me with 'em, 'stead of talking foolish--only go wash first; you're black as a sweep."
"Gladly," said I, "if you will sing again."
"Nobody can sing and peel onions--they make your eyes run."
"Why, then, let me--"
"Hush!" she exclaimed suddenly.
"What is it?"
"Strangers coming--listen!" And presently I heard it too, a rustle of leaves, crackling of twigs, voices and jingling spurs, coming nearer. Then as I rose with a premonition of approaching fate, forth into the clearing stepped my uncle George, my uncle Jervas and my aunt Julia. She was dressed for riding and carried the skirt of her close-fitting habit across her arm, and never had she looked handsomer nor more magnificently statuesque as she stood, her noble figure proudly erect, all potent femininity from feathered hat to dainty, firm-planted riding boots.
My lips were opening in glad welcome, I had taken a quick step forward, when her words arrested me.
"George Vereker!" she exclaimed, with a waft of her jewelled riding switch towards Diana and myself, "O Sir Jervas, is it with such dreadful creatures as these that you have doomed my poor, delicately nurtured Peregrine to consort? Aye, well may you grow purple, George, and you turn your back in shame, Jervas, to behold thus the degrading company--"
But here, waiting for no more, I started forward, and halting within a yard of my aunt, I laid grimy hand upon grimy shirt-bosom and bowed.
"Dear Aunt Julia, I rejoice to see you!" said I.
For a long moment my aunt gazed on me with eyes of horrified bewilderment then, all at once, she dropped her riding-switch and, gasping my name, sank into the ready arms of my uncle George, who promptly began to fan her vigorously with his hat, while my uncle Jervas, lounging gracefully against a tree, surveyed me through his single glass and I saw his grim lips twitch.
"Tell me I dream, George!" wailed aunt Julia. "Say it is a horrid vision and make me happy."
"It is, Julia, it is!" said my uncle Jervas. "And yet, upon me soul, 'tis a vision that grows upon me; observe the set of the shoulders, the haughty cock o' the head, the determined jut of the chin; yes, Julia, despite rags and dirt, I recognise Peregrine as a true Vereker for the first time." Saying which, my uncle Jervas very deliberately drew on his riding glove and stepping up to me, caught and shook my hand or ever I guessed his intention.
"Uncle--O Uncle Jervas!" I exclaimed and stooped my head lest he should see the tears in my eyes.
"By Gad, Julia--sweet soul," exclaimed my uncle George. "Jervas is exactly right, d'ye see? Perry may look a--a what's-a-name vision, but he's a Vereker for all that--lad o' spirit--beautiful pair o' black eyes, though you can't see 'em for dirt--"
My aunt moaned feebly.
"But dirt, my dear soul, dirt won't harm him, nor black eyes--do him good, d'ye see, do him a world o' good, doing him good every minute--"
"Enough, George Vereker!" exclaimed my aunt in her terrible voice, and freed herself from his hold like an offended goddess. "O heaven, I might have known that you, George, would have abetted my poor, wilful boy in his dirt and bodily viciousness, and that you, Jervas, would have condoned his turpitude and moral degradation. None the less, though you both desert me in this dreadful hour, shirking your duty thus shamelessly, this woman's hand shall pluck my dear, loved nephew from the abyss, this hand--" Here, turning to behold me, my poor aunt shivered, gasped and setting dainty handkerchief to her eyes, bowed noble head and wept grandly as a grieving goddess might have done.
"O Peregrine," she moaned from this dainty mystery, "O rash boy--to have sunk to this--sordid misery--rags--dirt! You that were wont to shudder at a splash of mud and now--O kind heaven--grimed like a dreadful collier and I think--yes, O shameless youth, actually smiling through it--"
"And why not, m'dear creature?" sighed uncle Jervas. "Dirt is of many kinds and Peregrine's is at least honest and healthy--"
"Cease, Sir Jervas, I pray!" cried my aunt with a flash of her fine black eyes. "Nevermore will I heed your perfidious counsels, nor the fatuous maunderings of graceless George. There stands my poor, misguided Peregrine--an object for angels to weep over, an innocent but a little while since--but now--now, alas--and you--both of you his undoing!"
"Pardon me, dear Aunt," said I hastily, "but there you are in error and do a monstrous injustice to my two generous uncles. Allow me to reiterate the statement I set down in my letter, that I left Merivale and you of my own accord; indeed my uncles would have stayed me, but I was determined to be gone for your sake, their sake and my own. Indeed, Aunt, so deep is my affection that I would see you truly happy, and knowing the deep and--and honourable sentiments my uncles have for you, I--I dreamed that they--that you--that one of them might have won your hand and--and you find that happiness which you have denied yourself on my account."
"Misguided boy!" murmured my aunt, lovely eyes abased, "Come, dear Peregrine, doubtless one of your uncles can find you a cloak to--to veil you from the curious vulgar--only let us be going, pray."
"Dear Aunt--where?"
"Back to Merivale, to your books, your paintings and my loving care."
"Not yet, Aunt. Ah, pray do not misunderstand me, but when I set out, it was with the purpose of doing better things than penning indifferent verse, or painting futile pictures--"
"Peregrine--nephew--do I hear aright?"
"You do, Aunt. I came out into the world to open the greatest book of all--the book of Life--to try to meet and know men and learn some day, perhaps, to be a man also and one you can honour. Instead of reading the actions of others, I intend to act a little myself--"
"Peregrine--cease!"
"And so, dear Aunt, here I stay until I can return to you feeling that I have achieved something worthy my sex and name."
"Peregrine, come with me--I command you!"
"Then, dearest Aunt, with all the humility possible, I fear I must disobey you."
My aunt Julia drew herself to her stately height, setting her indomitable chin at me, and into her eyes came that coercive expression which resurrected the memory of childish sins of omission and commission, an expression before which my new-found hardihood wilted and drooped; but in this desperate moment I glanced at Diana, and, meeting the calm serenity of her untroubled gaze, I folded my arms and, bowing my head, awaited the deluge with what fortitude I might and, in the awful stillness, heard uncle George's spurs jingle distressfully.
"You mean that--you--will--not--come?" she demanded.
"I do, dear Aunt."
"That you actually--disobey me?"
"Dear Aunt--I do!"
"Pray, who is the young person I notice behind you?"
"Person, Aunt?"
"The young woman--the wild, gipsy-looking creature."
"Ah, pray forgive me--I should have introduced you before. Diana, this is my aunt, Lady Julia Conroy--Aunt, this is my friend Diana."
"And pray what is she doing here?"
"She is about to cook a steak and onions--"
"Do you mean--O pitiful heaven--that she is--living here with--"
"With Jeremy Jarvis, a tinker, Jessamy Todd, a champion pugilist, and myself."
"Shocking!" exclaimed my aunt, sweeping Diana with the fire of her disparaging regard.
"Moreover, dear Aunt," I continued, stung by something in her attitude, "it is my hope to make myself sufficiently worthy to win Diana in--in marriage!"
"Marriage?" repeated my aunt in a hoarse whisper. "I dream! Marriage? With a wild woman! George! Jervas!" she gasped in strange, breathless fashion. "Our poor boy is either mad--or worse, and whichever it prove, it is all your doing! I hope, I sincerely hope, you are satisfied with your handiwork! As for you, you poor young woman," she continued, turning on Diana in passionate appeal, "if my nephew is mad, be you sane enough to know that such a marriage would drag him to perdition and bring you only misery and shame in the long run. Give up my poor, distracted nephew and I will be your friend. If it is money you require--"
Diana laughed:
"My lady, an' if you please, ma'm," said she, curtseying, finger beneath dimpled chin, "I ain't your young woman an' by your leave, ma'm, never could be, because, though I don't love Mr. Peregrine, I can't abide you, ma'm. When I wants money, being only a gipsy mort, I works for it or prigs it. So I don't want your money, thanking you kindly, ma'm, and I don't want your nephew, so you may take him and willing. An' I don't want your friendship or help, because I likes loneliness and the Silent Places better. So take your precious nephew, ma'm, and when you get him safe home, wash him an' keep him in a glass case; 'tis what he's best fitted for. But watch him, lady, lock him up secure, because I think--I know--I could whistle him away from you whenever I would--back, ma'm, back to me and the Silent Places. And so good-day, ma'm, my best respects!" Saying which, Diana curtseyed again and turned away.
"The creature!" exclaimed my aunt. "The minx! The insolent baggage!" And she stepped proudly forward, an angry goddess, the jewelled switch quivering.
"Stop, lady!" said Diana, throwing out a shapely arm with gesture so imperious that my aunt stood staring and amazed. "Stop, ma'm--don't forget as you're a great lady and I'm only a gipsy mort as could tear you in pieces for all your size! To spoil them fine eyes would be pity, to pull that long hair out would be shame, so don't use your whip, lady--don't!" Having said which, she turned and walked serenely away.
"A most dreadful young person!" exclaimed my aunt. "See from what calamitous evils I have snatched you, dear Peregrine. Come, let us be going. I have William with your mare, but seeing you cannot ride as you are, we will take a chaise."
But folding my arms, I shook my head.
"What--O boy, what does this mean?"
"It means, dear Aunt, that I love the Silent Places too!"
"But Peregrine, you will not desert me now--now that I have found you--you will not--cannot! Ah, come back, Peregrine!" she cried, deep bosom resurgent, arms outstretched and eyes dim with unshed tears.
"Dear Aunt, it is impossible!" I mumbled. "Loving you as I do, yet must I leave you a while, foregoing the tender shelter of your love for--for--"
"Dirt and misery!" she broke in. "The shameful allurement of a sly minx, an unspeakable--"
"Madam!" I cried, "have done! You shame yourself and me! It has been my good fortune to have fallen in with honest people with whom I shall remain awhile, enduring their lot, living their life and by their brave patience learn fortitude, and their proud humility shall in time, I hope, teach me the duties of a gentleman--"
"My poor, distraught Peregrine!" she sighed. "My poor, poor boy. So thus I leave you because I must. But some day, when your stubborn will is broken, when your proud head is bowed with grief and shame, come back, dear prodigal, come back, and you shall find these arms outstretched in eager welcome, this solitary heart still open to shelter and protect. Farewell, my Peregrine--I go to weep and pray for you in the night silences. George--Jervas, lead me hence!"
Now as I stood, my eyes smarting with tears evoked by her last words, my uncles tendered their arms with grave and ready courtesy, but in that moment as I watched in a silent grief conjured up by my aunt's last words, the keen glance of uncle Jervas met mine for one brief moment and, in that space, his right eyelid flickered unmistakably; then uncle George coughed explosively and at the same instant tossed something to the foot of a tree; coming thither, I took up a well-filled leathern wallet and a heavy purse; with these, my uncles' parting benefactions in my hands, what wonder that I saw their retreating forms through a mist of tears. _