Peregrine's Progress Part 57

"Then, according to mine, you're precisely three quarters of a minute fast, Jessamy, my lad."

"Why, as to that, friend," answered Jessamy, "it's in my mind that you're just about that much slow, comrade."

And so, reaching a knife, I began to help Diana in the peeling of potatoes and, though finding it a somewhat trying business, yet contrived ever and anon to steal surrept.i.tious glances at her downbent face and to surprise more than once that new soft and shy-sweet wonder in her glance.

"You'll cut yourself if you aren't more careful!" she admonished, and the kindness it seemed had somehow got into her voice.

"What matter?" said I. "What does anything matter except--"

"What?" she questioned softly.

"You, Diana--you and only you--"

"Don't be silly!" said she, but in the same gentle voice and though she stooped her head a little lower, I thought the colour was deepened in her cheek.

"Should you think me silly, Diana, if I told you--"

"Yes, I should!" she answered so suddenly that I started and the wet potato shot from my grasp.

"I fancy it'll rain to-night, Jessamy," said the Tinker, glancing up at the heavens.

"Brother, I'm pretty sure of it," answered Jessamy, "I noticed the clouds bankin' up to wind'ard. We'd best rig up t' other tent--"

"Why, Peregrine," exclaimed the Tinker, as I stooped to recover the elusive vegetable, "who's been sp'iling of your noo coat, your collar's all ripped, lad?"

"A black scoundrel who insulted Diana," I exclaimed, clenching my fists.

"A gentleman as spoke to me, you mean!"

"The d.a.m.ned rogue tried to kiss you--"

"Well, what of it--I didn't let him, did I?"

"You have no business to run such risks," said I angrily, my gorge rising at memory of the fellow, "a tavern is no place for a girl--"

"Well, I can't live under a gla.s.s case!" she retorted. "And, anyway, I can take care of myself--better than you can!"

"Yes," I answered humbly, "I fear I am not a very terrible champion--Jessamy, O Jessamy, teach me how to fight!"

For answer Jessamy rose and opening his canvas bag reached thence four of those padded gloves termed 'm.u.f.flers.'

"With your uncle George's compliments!" said he, glancing at me with twinkling eyes. "And now, seeing the light's good, if you'm minded to try a round or so afore supper, why cheerily it is, messmate!"

Then, tossing aside the half-peeled potato I stripped off my coat.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

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--"