"D'ye like it, Peregrine?" he enquired, anxious and diffident.

"So much that I wish I had written it."

"Jerry writes verses like birds sing and the wind blows, just because he must," said Diana gravely. "All that is best happens so, I think.

Are you for Tonbridge tomorrow, Jerry?"

"Aye, I am, la.s.s, 'cording to custom. Maybe I'll pick up plenty to do at the fair."

"And maybe you'll find your friend, Peregrine," said she, rising.

"What friend?"

"Him you was to meet, of course."

"Why, to be sure--Anthony! I'd clean forgotten him."

"That's strange," said she, "seeing you were so anxious to find him."

"It is," said I, "I wonder what should have put it out of my head?"

"Ah--I wonder!" said the Tinker. "What, goin' to bed, la.s.s? Tent soot ye?"

"Yes--I laid your blankets under the tree yonder--Good night!" And with a wave of the hand she was gone.

Then, having made up the fire, we presently rolled ourselves in our blankets and lay down where we might behold the stars. And after some while the Tinker spoke drowsily:

"I'm glad--very glad, friend Peregrine, as I've met you again, not only because you like my verses but because I like your ways. But I'm sorry--aye, very sorry, as you should ha' fallen in wi' Diana--"

"And why, pray?" I demanded, a little sharply.

"Because if you should happen to fall in love wi' her and really want to marry her, which I don't suppose--and she was foolish enough to let you--which I'm pretty sure she wouldn't, being of a proud temper and mighty independent--'t would be a very bad thing for you and a terrible shock to that fine aunt and those rich uncles o' yours as you told me of--"

"And why should it be?"

"Because Anna ain't of your world and not being born wi' drawing-room manners she'd shock you twenty times a day, throw your fine aunt into a fit and give your uncles paralytic strokes--Anna's all right in her way but--"

"She's a very beautiful girl!" said I hotly. "And good as she's beautiful!"

"She is!" said the Tinker heartily. "Sweet an' good still, in spite of everything, an' I know--I've watched her grow up--"

"And taken care of her," I added, "like the good friend you are."

"I've done what I could, when I could, but she's mostly had to take care of herself and done it well, too--for she's as brave as--"

"As Diana--as beautiful and as chaste!" said I.

"Quite sure as you ain't fallen in love--or falling, friend Peregrine?"

"Of course--quite."

"To--be--sure!" murmured the Tinker drowsily. "But though your pockets be empty, you ain't in any violent hurry to get back to your luxoorious home, are ye?"

"No!" said I.

"By reason of Anna?"

"By reason that, like her, I have learned to love the Silent Places."

"Ah, yes, lad, I know--for I love 'em too. But you're young and in the Silent Places one may meet wi' demons an' devils."

"Maybe!" I answered.

"Or walk with G.o.d!" said the Tinker.

CHAPTER XXIV

HOW I MET ONE JESSAMY TODD, A s.n.a.t.c.hER OF SOULS

Diogenes the st.u.r.dy pony trotted at such good pace that where the ways were rough the Tinker's light cart creaked and lurched until the tins wherewith it was festooned rattled and clinked and I, perched precariously on the tailboard, legs a-swing, was fain to hold on lest I be precipitated into the ditch, yet felt myself ridiculously happy notwithstanding.

Thus we b.u.mped and jingled through shady lanes and pleasant byways, I for one, seldom speaking, content to watch tree and hedge flit by and the ever-changing prospect beyond, though often turning to glimpse Diana's shapely back where she sat on the driving seat beside the Tinker; and at such times often it would happen she would glance round also, and thus our glances would meet and as we gazed, slowly but surely the colour would deepen in her cheek, her long lashes would flicker and droop, and she would turn away and I full of wonder and an infinite joy, marvelling that I could ever have thought such eyes hard, bold and unfeminine. Thus, albeit perched so precariously on the swaying tailboard I was none the less marvellously content.

O Diogenes of the plodding hoofs! O creaking wheels, O tinkling pots and pans, had I but possessed the wisdom to understand your oft-repeated message, how much of doubt, of grief and pain I might have spared myself.

Suddenly Diana hailed and waved her hand, the Tinker checked Diogenes in full career, and with a jingling clank the cart pulled up as a man sprang lightly forth of the dry ditch wherein he had been sitting, a man of no great stature but clean-limbed and shapely, despite rough and dusty clothes,--a keen-eyed, short-nosed, square-jawed fellow whose mouth had a humorous twist.

"Why, Jessamy," said Diana, leaning down to give him her hand, "'t is good t' see you!"

"And so it is, lad!" nodded the Tinker. "How goeth the good work?"

"Fairish, Jeremy, fairish!" answered Jessamy, in a sweet voice peculiarly rich and mellow. "Old Nick's a toughish customer d'ye see, and a glutton for punishment; wind him, cross-b.u.t.tock him or floor him wi' a leveller amidships, but he'll come up smiling next round, ready and willin' for more, an' fight back at you 'ard as ever, alas!"

Here I got down from the cart that I might better behold the speaker, who now turned to glance at me with a pair of the kindliest blue eyes I had ever seen.

"Jessamy," said Diana, "this is my--my friend Peregrine as do want you to teach him the game."

"The game," repeated Jessamy, shaking his head a little ruefully, "the game's all vanity and vexation o' spirit! Besides, your young friend don't look cut out for the ring--"

"Lord, Jess, he don't want to be a fighter! Peregrine only wants to know how--"

"Why, that's different," sighed the ex-pugilistic champion, "though I ain't got the heart nor yet the time to teach any one--"

"But I want you to, Jessamy," said Diana imperiously.