HOW I MADE A SURPRISING DISCOVERY, WHICH, HOWEVER, MAY NOT SURPRISE
THE READER IN THE LEAST
From brake and thicket gemmed with a myriad sparkling dewdrops, birds
were singing a jubilant paean, as well indeed they might upon so fair
a morning; yet these were but a chorus to the singer down by the brook
whose glorious voice soared in swelling ecstasy and sank in plaintive
sweetness only to rise again, so high and clear and ineffably sweet as
seemed verily to inspire the birds to an eager and joyful emulation.
So they sang together thus in pretty rivalry, the birds and Diana,
until, her song ended, I went my way and presently found her beside
the bubbling rill, combing out her shining hair. At sight of me she
laughed and, tossing back her tresses, flourished her comb in a sweep
that took in radiant sky, earth and sparkling brook.
"O Peregrine, ain't it glorious!" she cried.
"It is!" said I, staring at her loveliness, whereupon she flushed and
recommenced combing her hair.
"Thought you was asleep an' snoring," said she in her most ungracious
manner.
"Well, you see I'm not, and besides I don't snore!"
"Tush, how can you know?"
"I don't think I do--and for heaven's sake why talk of such things on
such a morning, Diana?"
"Because!" she answered, turning away.
"Because of what?" I demanded, grasping a silky handful of her glossy
hair. "Why are you so ungracious to me lately; why do you do and say
things that you imagine will make me think you hard and unlovely; why
do you try to shock me so often?"
"I don't! How?"
"By pretending to be trivial and shallow and commonplace."
"Because I am!"
"Don't blaspheme, Diana. How could you be shallow or commonplace, you
who taught me to love the Silent Places? So why attempt things so
impossible, dear child?" And taking hold of her smooth, round chin I
turned her head that she must look at me. "Why, Diana, why?" I
repeated. For a moment she met my look, then her lids fluttered and
fell. Yet she stood before me strangely docile.
"Because," said she at last, "you looks at me lately as--as you are
doing now, as if--as though--"
"I had only just found out how beautiful you are, Diana? And don't you
know why?"
"Yes," she murmured, "but--you don't."
"I have discovered the reason this morning," said I, drawing her a
little nearer, "I love you, Diana, I know it at last. Why, good
heaven, I must have loved you for days!"
"You have!" she nodded, without looking at me.
"You--you knew it, then?"
"Of course!" she nodded again. "So did Jerry--so did Jessamy, so did
your tall uncle--and your aunt, I think, and--and everybody else in
all the world--except yourself, Peregrine."
"Blind fool that I was--"
"No, Peregrine, it was because you never guessed, that I didn't run
away--"
"And you never will now, Diana, because you are mine, But I loved the
sweet, pure soul of you first and so, my Diana, although I am
longing--longing to kiss you--those dear gentle eyes, your red lips--I
never will until you give them, because my love, being very great, is
very humble, like--like this!" And sinking to my knees, I would have
kissed the hem of her gown, but with a soft, sweet cry of reproach,
she slipped to her knees also and swaying to me, hid her face in my
breast.
"O Peregrine," she murmured, looking up at me through a mist of tears,
"it is a wonderful thing to be loved by a gentleman--"
"Then God keep me so!" I whispered.
"He will, Peregrine, so long as you are Peregrine--kiss me!" And so
for a deathless moment I held her close, to kiss her tumbled hair, her
tearful eyes, the tremor of her sweet mouth.
"Peregrine--dear," she sighed, "at first I hated love and when it came
it frighted me and then, when it came to you and you not knowing, I
knew love could only be a dream 'twixt you and me and so I--I tried to
make you hate me--I talked and acted rough--as much as I could, or--or
very nearly--but I couldn't keep it up all the time, it hurt me so--"
"Then," cried I, "why then, you do love me, heart and soul, Diana?"
"Ah--don't you know--even yet?" said she passionately. "You are so
different, so gentle--oh, you're--just Peregrine! Ah, it isn't your
money I want, or to be a fine lady like your aunt wi' horses and
carriages and servants; ah, not dear Peregrine, no--it's just you and
me together in the Silent Places--"
"And so we will be," I cried, "together in life and death--"
"O Peregrine, it isn't a dream is it--a dream that can't come true.
You'll--make me marry you, won't you?"
"Ah, by God I will--whenever you are ready, for you are mine!"
"Yes, yours," she whispered, "for ever and always! You ha' no doubts
o' the future, have ye, Peregrine?"
"None!" said I, arrogant in my happiness.
"When I called you cocksure I--loved you for it!"
Thus sat we, embracing and embraced, beside this prattling stream,
looking upon the glory of this midsummer morning and each other to
find all things ever more beautiful, and knowing a happiness that went
far beyond mere speech.
Birds have sung as blithely--perhaps; the sun may have beamed as
kindly and brooks have laughed as joyously as this chattering rill of
ours, but as for me, I soberly doubt it.
"Peregrine," said she at last, "where is my locket?"
"Here!" said I, reaching the case from my pocket. "When your singing
woke me to this wonderful, glorious morning, I brought it to find
you."
"How pretty it is!" she sighed happily, touching it tenderly with the
extreme tip of one slender finger.
"It isn't anything near good enough," said I, viewing it a little
gloomily, "I will get you one infinitely better--"
"No!" said she. "This is what I shall always love best," and stooping,
she touched the trinket with the heaven of her mouth. Then, being upon
our knees, she stooped her head that I might set it about her throat,
but what with her nearness and the touch of her velvety neck, I
bungled the business sadly, so that she lifted her two hands to aid me
and her lips being so near, how could I help but kiss her.
"Now this, Peregrine!" she commanded, drawing my mouth to the locket
where it hung. And so I kissed the locket and chain and throat and
neck until she laughed, a little tremulously, and slipping from my
hold, sprang to her feet and fled away.
And now, being upon my knees, I bowed my head and passionately
besought a blessing on this sweet-souled Diana, this woman of mine,
and upon our love and the years that were to be. My supplication
ended, I remembered that this was the first prayer I had uttered since
faring out into the world. And as I arose, came Jessamy, rubbing sleep
from his eyes.
"Lord bless us, Perry, what a morning--the j'y of it, brother! List to
the birds and hark--ah, do but hark how Ann do be singing; never 'eard
her voice sound so wonderful afore, Perry."
"Nor I, Jessamy," said I, as the golden notes died away; "but then
there never was quite such another morning as this."