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.