CHAPTER XXXIX
HOW I CAME HOME AGAIN
"Two years! Emptiness! Loneliness! Two years!" It was in the hurry ofmy footsteps, birds sang it, leaves whispered it, my heart throbbed toit.
"Two years! Emptiness! Loneliness! Two years!" Sometimes tears blindedme, sometimes anger shook me, but always was the pain of loss, theyearning for that loved and vanished presence.--"Two years!"
More than once I turned to hasten back--to end this misery--back to myDiana, this maid who was more precious, more necessary to my life thanI had ever dreamed. I should have but to lift my finger, nay ... onelook and she would be in my arms ... so very easy, and therefore ...so utterly impossible.
Sometimes I hurried on at breathless speed, sometimes crept on slow,unwilling feet, sometimes stood motionless to stare blindly about me,raged at and torn by conflicting thoughts ... agonising ...irresolute.
How long I wandered thus I cannot say, but the sun was low when, amidthe leafy whispering of familiar tree, I heard the cheery ring of theTinker's anvil.
At sight of me he dropped his hammer and fell back a step.
"Why Peregrine," said he. "Why, Perry lad--don't look so! Is aughtwrong?"
"Only my heart is breaking, I think!" said I, and casting myself downat the foot of a tree, I covered my face.
"God love me!" exclaimed the Tinker; and then he was kneeling besideme. "What is it, lad, what is it?"
"I've sent my Diana from me!"
"Sent her from ye, lad?"
"For two years, Jerry. Two weary years ... emptiness ... loneliness. Ihave placed her in the Earl of Wyvelstoke's charge ... they start forLondon at once ... leave England as soon as possible ... she is gone... two years, Jerry ... two weary years ... desolation!"
"Peregrine," said he in hushed voice, "this was her great wish--to bea lady for your sake. She's told me so many's the time ... an' Icaught her in tears over it once."
"I have sent her away, Jerry, for two years!"
"Peregrine," said he, "'t is a fine thing to be a gentleman, but 't isa grand thing to be a man big enough an' brave enough to do such actas this here. God bless ye, lad!"
"O Jerry--O Jerry, I love her so...! Yearn and hunger for her somuch ... it is a pain!"
"Aye, but 't is such pain as makes the strong stronger! 'Tis such loveas do be everlasting and reaches high as heaven--"
"Two years, Jerry! Two long, weary years to wait ... to yearn ... tolive through without her ... emptiness!"
"Ah, but you've done right, lad, you've done right. And then--what'stwo years? Lord, they'll soon go! And her love for you'll be a-growin'with every month--every day an' hour, lad, an' she'll come back t' yeat last, only more beautiful, more wonderful an' more loving than evershe was--"
"O Jerry," said I, grasping at him with sudden hands. "You don't think... death ... you don't think she may die?"
"Die? What, Ann--s' strong an' full o' vig'rous life? Lord, not she,lad, not she--never think it!"
"Or ... forget me, Jerry?"
"What--Ann? Lord love ye--no! She ain't one to forget or change--neverwas, an' I've knowed her since a little child. An' she's never lovedafore--hated men! An' why? Because 't was always her beauty as theywanted--her body--an' never a thought of her mind, d'ye see! An'now--she's to travel to see the world, is she! An' with the Earl--an'him such a great gentleman! 'T is wonderful good fortun' for her,Peregrine, wonderful!"
"Yes, he is a very great gentleman and a truly noble man, Jerry."
"An' now, what o' yourself, lad?"
"I shall continue to live with you, Jerry; I shall go on smithing andtinkering--yes, harder than ever--"
"No!" said the Tinker, sitting back on his heels and shaking his headat me with the utmost vehemence. "Tinkering ain't for you, Peregrine,an' you can do better things than swingin' a sledge--ah, a sightbetter!"
"What do you suppose I can do?" sighed I miserably.
"Paint pictoors!"
"Impossible! I shall never be a real painter, Jerry."
"Well, then--write!"
"Impossible! I shall never be a poet, Jerry."
"Well, have you ever thought o' writin' a nov-el?"
"Never!"
"Well, what about it?"
"Impossible! Of what should I write?"
"Why, about HER--Anna, for sure, your Diana as would ha' made a bettergoddess than the real one, I reckon."
"Why, yes," said I, lifting my head, "I might do that, no matter howbadly. To write of her would be better than to talk of her. To try totell all her loveliness, her sweet, strong, virginal soul, her wisdom,her purity, her brave independence, to picture all this in words, nomatter how inadequate, I shall see her with the eyes of Memory; shewill be back with me in spirit.... A book! Jerry, O Jeremy, this is anexcellent thought.... to see her again ... to talk with her by meansof pen and ink!"
In my eagerness I started up to my feet; then, the hot fit, passing,gave place to the cold, and Doubt leapt to seize me. "But I've nevertried to write a book! Who am I to write a book?"
"Lord, don't be down-hearted afore you try, lad!" admonished theTinker, for I had spoken this doubt aloud. "There's times in allwriters' lives when they haven't writ a line, yet books are writtenall the same. Books ain't made, lad; they happen and they happenbecause a cove has an eye to see a little way beneath the surface o'things and an ear as can hear voices in the wind, an' a mind asdiscovers sum'mat in everything to wonder at. So he goes on lookin'an' listenin' an' wonderin' till one day out it has to come--an'there's your book. Now you're full up o' love, ain't you?"
"Yes, Jerry."
"Good! Well, write it down. There's nothing goes better in a nov-elthan love, except blood--a splash or so here an' there, battle, murderan' sudden death--just a tang or so t' season it. I know, for I usedt' sell nov-els once, ah, an' read 'em too! But love's the thing, lad!Everybody loves to read o' love--'specially old codgers, d'yesee--gouty old coves as curse their servants, swear at their familiesand, hid in corners, shed tears over the woes o' the hero an' heroineo' some nov-el an' stub their gouty toe a-kickin' of the villain. An'then there's the ladies--'specially the very young 'uns, God blesstheir bibs an' tuckers! Lord, how they sigh an' tremble an' toss theirpretty curls an' weep an' languish. I heard o' one as always read wi'her smellin'-salts handy, but then, to be sure, she was a maiden ladyof uncertain age as wished she wasn't an' was smitten wi' love for TomJones, besides, poor soul!"
"But my book--if I ever do write one, will not be read by any one."
"O? Mr. Perry--an' why not?"
"Being all about Diana, it will be too sacred for the perusal of alland sundry."
"There you're wrong, lad; no book can be too sacred for all folks toread, if it's writ honestly and sincerely. An' what a book you oughtto write. First there's Anna an' yourself--folks would like to readabout the two o' ye--you're such strange children. Then there'sJessamy--a wonderful character for any book. Next comes your unclesan' aunt--Lord, Peregrine, an' there's for ye--'specially your aunt!And last--" said he, a little wistfully, "if you want some one to fillin, kind of--to keep th' pot a-b'iling as it were, why--there's me.Not as your readers will be downright eager to read about atinker--no, but you might work me in as a literary cove, d'ye see. Howabout it? What d'ye think, Perry lad?"
"Excellent well!" I exclaimed. "You inspire me with such strangeconfidence, Jerry, I almost feel I might manage a book--of sorts."
"Then go and try, lad."
"When--where--how?"
"This minute! At home! By hard work!"
"You mean leave--go back to Merivale--to-night?"
"Aye, I do. You can catch the mail at Tonbridge and you'll be homeafore the moon's up."
"Do you know Merivale then, Jerry?"
"O' course. I'll harness Diogenes an' drive you in."
And so, within the hour, behold me upon the stage-coach that wouldcarry me within a mile of home; behold Jerry standing below, gazing upat me with his wistful smile, a Jeremy whose form and features were
blurred suddenly by hot tears as the whip cracked, hoofs stamped, andthe London Mail lurched forward with a shrill and jubilant fanfare onthe horn that drowned my cry of farewell, as Jeremy's blurred imagewaved blurred arm and, what with my tears and the dust, was blottedfrom me altogether.
With the small incidents of this short journey I will not worry thereader. Suffice it that the moon was high-risen when at last I reachedMerivale. The lodge gates were shut for the night, and being in nomood to disturb any one, I clambered over the wall at aneasily-accessible, well-remembered spot, and going by familiar paths,presently beheld the house, its many latticed casements winkingghostly to the moon, and a beam of soft light striking athwart theterrace from that chamber wherein my aunt Julia was wont to write herletters and transact all business of the estate. So thither came I tofind the window wide open, for the night was hot, and to behold myaunt, as handsome and statuesque as ever, bent gracefully above herescritoire, pen in white fist, like an industrious goddess.
"Aunt Julia," said I, "pray don't be startled--I have come home--"
At this, though I had spoken softly, she dropped the pen, rose and,clasping hands to bosom, uttered a scream, though sweetly modulatedand extremely ladylike. Then we were in each other's arms and she wasweeping and laughing over me in a very ecstasy of welcome.
"Dear Peregrine--loved boy, at last! How brown you are! You're taller,bigger--handsomer, I vow--and you have come back to me. O Peregrine!You have come back to my loving care, dearest. Your wanderings areover?"
"Yes, dear aunt," I answered, stifling a sigh, "my wanderings areover."
"Oh, heaven bless you, dear boy! God be thanked--"
"And what of my good, generous uncles, dear Aunt?"
"I have banished the wretches--forbade them my presence--"
"Dear Aunt, pray why?"
"Because they are wretches."
"Then to-morrow we will write and bid them welcome."
"Never, Peregrine!"
"To-morrow, dear Aunt."
"Peregrine!" she exclaimed, starting and frowning a little, "I said,'Never'!"
"And I said 'to-morrow', dear Aunt!"
"Boy!" she cried, lovely head proudly aloft.
"Aunt!" said I. "How very beautiful you are!" and drawing down thatlovely head, I kissed her; at this, she flushed, and drew away,drooping her lashes like a girl.
"Why, Peregrine!" she murmured.
"They both love you so truly and faithfully, dear Aunt, and no wonder!And they are such--men! So to-morrow we will write to them?"
"Very well, dear Peregrine!" said my proud aunt, softly and not in theleast proudly. "But you are hungry, thirsty--you must eat--"
"Thank you, no--only weary--"
So hand in hand she led me to my chamber.
"See, dear boy, I have kept everything as you left it; your bed isquite ready, the sheets aired, all waiting for you when you shouldchoose to come."
She led me about the great chamber, showing me all things as they hadbeen on the night of my departure, even to the pen where I had tossedit upon an unfinished manuscript. And no mention, never one word ofDiana; for the which I loved her and was grateful.
"Dear Aunt," said I, and kissed her. "O dear Aunt Julia!"
But when at last she was gone and I alone in the soft luxury of thischamber, desolation filled me and I yearned bitterly for thediscomforts of the little camp within the copse; the rustle of leaves,the soft, murmurous gurgle of the brook, the winking stars overhead;for Jeremy, and Jessamy Todd and my loved Diana. And coming to theopen lattice, I leaned there to look upon the moon, this other Dianaso placid and serene. And thinking that perhaps my Diana looked uponher even now, a Diana not at all placid and serene but with sweet,grey eyes a-brim with tears and heart full of yearning tenderness--evenas mine, I fell upon my knees and stretching out my arms, whispered wordsof love with passionate prayers:
"O Diana, beloved ... O God of Heaven--God of Mercy, bring her back to me at last with heart as sweet and pure--teach me to be worthy, fit me for such happiness.... O loved Diana of the Silent Places, my love goes with you always, and for ever, strong, sweet goddess of my life.
... Two years!"
Peregrine's Progress Page 41