_ BOOK I. THE SILENT PLACES
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE NOBLE ART OF ORGAN-PLAYING
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, his Lordship, 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 the Earl 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 know
Must to the Silent Places go,
Leaving wealth and state behind
Who the great good thing would find.
Glories, honours, these will fade,
Life itself's a phantom shade;
But the soul of man--who knoweth
Whence it came and where it goeth.
So, God of Life, I pray of Thee
Ears to hear and eyes to see.
In bubbling brooks, in whispering wind
He 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 spark
Unquenched through ages wild and dark,
Up-struggling through the age-long night
Through glooms and sorrows, to the light.
The soul that marches, age to age,
On slow and painful pilgrimage
Till man through tears and strife and pain
Shall thus his Godhead find again.
Of such, the wind in lonely tree
The murmurous brook, doth tell to me.
These are the wonders ye may know
Who to the Silent Places go;
Who these with reverent foot hath trod
May 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. _