_ BOOK I. THE SILENT PLACES
CHAPTER XXXVI. TELLS HOW I MET ANTHONY AGAIN
"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 and I--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 introduce Diana--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--I
must kiss 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." _