Peregrine's Progress Part 58

"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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sionately. "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 G.o.d 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 c.o.c.ksure 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 pa.s.sionately 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."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

OF TWO INCOMPARABLE THINGS. THE VOICE OF DIANA AND JESSAMY'S "RIGHT"

Exuberant, with blood a-dance and nerves braced and tingling from the sparkling water, we faced each other upon the gra.s.sy level, Jessamy and I, stripped to the waist and with m.u.f.fled fists and I very conscious of the keen eyes that appraised my slender arms, and the muscles of what uncle George would have called my 'torso.'

"I'm afraid I am--hatefully puny!" I exclaimed, casting a disparaging glance at my proportions.

"Smallish," nodded Jessamy, "smallish, but that ain't a matter to weep over, brother. Small muscles is quicker than big. Moreover, the Lord has given you a sound and healthy body and left you to develop an' do the best wi' it. Fresh air an' exercise, sledge 'ammer an' bellers'll work wonders in a week or so, mark my words. Now come on an' keep your weather peeper on my right, for look'ee your left is a feeler, good to keep your man away, to jolt him now an' then an' to feint him to an opening, then it's in wi' your right an' all o' you behind it--that's my way and I've found it a pretty good way."

"You've always won your fights, haven't you, Jessamy?"

"Pretty often--though 'tis all vanity, lad, arter all--"

"And why did you win--and often against bigger and stronger men?"

"Well, p'raps because I eat little an' drink less, or p'raps because I meant to win, or p'raps again because I knew how. However, the fightin' game is all vanity an' vexation an' keep your ogles on my right! Now, into me, lad, an' hit hard--that's your fashion--try for my chin but don't forget my right! Swing in for my ribs, Perry--and heartily! Steady boy--on your toes now!"

Such were his expressions as we danced and ducked, feinted and smote, and as often as he bade me watch his right, that same right smacked home upon my ribs or face while I wasted myself in futile yet exceedingly earnest efforts to smite in turn his ever-moving body or elusive, wagging head, what time over and under and through my guard shot his terrible fists, to tap me lightly here, to pat me there until my breath grew short. And now, while I stood to get my wind, he explained how it was done, showing me sudden volts and turns and shifts which he termed foot-work. He showed me how to drive in short-arm blows, swinging from the hips, and how to evade them; how, when occasion favoured, to hit from the shoulder with all my strength and weight behind the blow, and how to meet a ducking head with what he called an uppercut, just such a terrible stroke as had caused the downfall of the big man Tom.

Thus Jessamy alternately smote and lectured me until, warned by Diana's clear call, we donned shirts and waistcoats and strode away to breakfast.

"And how's he shaping, Jessamy?" enquired the Tinker, serving out ham, pink and savoury, from the hissing frying pan, while Diana poured out the coffee.

"None s' bad," answered Jessamy; "he's quick an' willing an' don't mind bein' knocked down now and then, which is a good thing--you went down pretty frequent that last round, brother!" Here Diana, noting my battered dishevelment, scowled at Jessamy adorably.

"It ain't--isn't needful to hit quite so hard, is it, Jessamy?" she enquired.

"Why, yes, Ann. Peregrine wants me to teach him to fight an' you can't teach that to any man by tapping him, d'ye see."

"But, then, Jessamy," said the Tinker, with his twinkling, bright eyes on Diana, "Peregrine ain't exactly a Milo o' Crete as had a habit o'

slayin' oxen wi' a blow of his fist; Peregrine's delicate frame could never endoor real good, hard knocks--"

"But it could, Jerry!" exclaimed Diana. "n.o.body could hit him harder than I've seen him hit, except Jessamy, p'raps." Now at this I was seized of such a yearning to kiss her that I bent lower over my platter lest the impulse prove ungovernable.

"It ain't size as counts, brother," added Jessamy, "no--not once in a thousand; an' as for this cove Milo, big an' heavy an' slow as a waggon o' bricks, I could eat him alive any day. Though to be sure 't would only be vanity an' vexation arter all," he added mournfully, "so let's talk o' better things."

"Why, then, Jessamy," said the Tinker, his eyes twinkling more than usual, "what might be the pre-cise time by your chronometer?"

"It is now," replied Jessamy, solemnly consulting his watch, "exactly five an' three quarter minutes to seven, Jerry."

"Then I take leave to tell ye, you're exactly two minutes an' a half slow," retorted the Tinker, glancing at his own.