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."