Peregrine's Progress Part 37

"Lord love you, gal--what d'ye mean?" he questioned.

"'T was all old Azor's doing, Jerry. She gives me to her grandson Joseph for his _mort,_ but I gives Joseph a touch of my little _churi_ and runs away and happens on Peregrine. But she follows me with Jochabed and Bennigo, that I hates more than Joseph, and she was for going to force me to take him could give most money, and Peregrine has most, so she weds me to Peregrine."

"Wed you?" exclaimed the Tinker, blinking.

"Aye, according to the ways o' the Folk--she weds us and leaves us.

Then while I was considering about running off from Peregrine and where I should go, Peregrine goes for to run off from me, so then I followed him, of course--and here we are!"

"Lord!" exclaimed the Tinker. "Lord love my eyes an' limbs--here's a pretty kettle o' fis.h.!.+"

"It is!" nodded Diana. "For now Peregrine wants to marry me according to the ways o' the Church!"

"Hum!" said the Tinker, staring very hard at a piece of pork impaled upon his knife-point. "Ha--marriage, hey, friend Peregrine? Marriage is an oncommon serious business and you are a--leetle young for it, ain't you?"

"I'm nineteen turned!" said I.

"And I'm fifty and more, young friend, and never found courage for it yet--and never shall now!" Here the morsel of pork vanished and he masticated thoughtfully. "And I suppose," said he, his keen eyes flas.h.i.+ng from me to Diana, "I suppose you'll be tellin' me as you're in love and a-dyin' for each other--"

"No!" said Diana sharply.

"Of course not!" said I, imitating her tone.

"And never could be!" she added, frowning at the fire.

"Utterly impossible!" I added, frowning at her.

"Strike me pink!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the Tinker, scratching chin with knife-handle and staring at us in ever-deepening perplexity. "Then why want to marry?"

"I don't!" said Diana, with the same unnecessary vehemence.

"Nor I either!" I added. "But my honour and--circ.u.mstances would seem to demand it."

"What circ.u.mstances, young sir?" demanded the Tinker, his features distorted by a sudden fierce scowl. "Ha, d'ye mean as you've taken advantage of--"

"Don't be foolish, Jerry!" said Diana serenely. "Does he look as if he would take advantage of any one? d'ye think he could take advantage o'

me? Can't you see he ain't--is not th' kind I keeps my little knife for? Don't be foolish, Jerry; he's never even tried to kiss me--nor wanted to--"

"How do you know that?" I demanded impulsively. Now at this she turned and looked at me, red lips parted in speechless surprise.

"How do you know?" I repeated. "How can you be so sure?"

"Be-cause!" she murmured and then, all at once, from throat to brow crept a wave of hot colour, her long lashes drooped and she turned away with a strange, new shyness; and in this moment I saw she was altogether more lovely than I had ever imagined her.

"Why, Diana!" I said. "Child, you need never trouble to take your knife to me; the respect I have for your goodness is enough--"

"Ah, Peregrine," she whispered fiercely, without turning her head, "I am only good because I have seen enough of evil to hate it!"

"And it is just because I would s.h.i.+eld you from all and every evil that I would marry you, Diana."

"Ha!" exclaimed the Tinker, so suddenly that I started, having clean forgotten his existence. "Ha!" said he. "You're quite sure as you don't love each other, then?"

"Quite!" said Diana.

"Absolutely!" said I.

"Oh!" said the Tinker, wiping his knife upon his breeches. "Well, considering you was both so hungry, you ain't neither of you eaten dooly of this stoo as was fit for any king. And talkin' o' wed-lock, if you ain't in love with each other--yet, I should wait until you are, which," said he, glancing up at the leaves above his head, "which judging by the look o' things, I should say might 'appen at any moment 'twixt now and Christmas. Meantime, what are ye going' to do?"

At this, being somewhat at a loss, I looked at Diana and she at the fire again.

"Now if," pursued the Tinker, "if you'm minded, both on ye, for to j'ine comp'ny and travel the country awhile along o' Diogenes an'

me--say the word, an' I'll be the j'y-fullest tinker 'twixt here an'

John o' Groat's!" As he ended, Diana reached out suddenly and, catching his hand, fondled those work-roughened fingers against her soft cheek.

"O Jerry," she sighed, "you were always s' good and wise!"

"Then, dear la.s.s, you'll come?"

"Of course I will. I'll weave baskets--"

"And I'll mend kettles, if you'll teach me, friend Jerry," said I, grasping his other hand.

"Why, children!" said he, looking upon us gentle-eyed, "Lord love ye now--you make me as proud as if I was a dook 'stead of only a travelling tinker!"

"It were best of all to be a poet, I think!" said I. "Have you written any more verses lately?"

"Well--I have!" he confessed, with a look that was almost guilty. "I'm always at it when there's time--I must. There was an idee as came to me this very evening an' I had to write it down. 'T was that as made me forget the salt an' pepper--"

"Is it about the Silent Places, Jerry?" questioned Diana eagerly. "Or a lonely star, or the sound of a brook at night--?"

"It's got a bit of all on 'em," said the Tinker.

"I should very much like to hear it," said I.

"Honest an' true?" he enquired a little diffidently.

"Honest and true!" I answered, as I had done upon a former occasion.

"Then so ye shall, though it ain't finished, or rather it ain't begun, as ye might say, for I can't find a good opening verse. I want to say that if a man don't happen to be blest wi' riches there's better things for him if he's only got eyes to see 'em." Saying which (and after no little rummaging) the Tinker drew a crumpled paper from capacious pocket and, bending to the fire, read as follows:

"'Instead of riches give to me Eyes, the great, good things to see The golden earth, the jewelled sky The best that in all hearts doth lie.

Give me this: when day's begun A woodland glade, a ray of sun Falling where the dewdrops lie Give me this, and rich am I.

Give me this: the song of bird In lonely wood at sunset heard Piping of his evening hymn 'Mid a leafy twilight dim.

Give me this: a stream that wendeth, Where the sighing willow bendeth, Singing through the woodland ways Never-ending songs of praise.

Give me these, with eyes to see And richer than a king I'll be.'"