"Why, yes," said I, lifting my head, "I might do that, no matter how badly. To write of her would be better than to talk of her. To try to tell all her loveliness, her sweet, strong, virginal soul, her wisdom, her purity, her brave independence, to picture all this in words, no matter how inadequate, I shall see her with the eyes of Memory; she will be back with me in spirit.... A book! Jerry, O Jeremy, this is an excellent thought.... to see her again ... to talk with her by means of pen and ink!"

In my eagerness I started up to my feet; then, the hot fit, pa.s.sing, gave place to the cold, and Doubt leapt to seize me. "But I've never tried to write a book! Who am I to write a book?"

"Lord, don't be down-hearted afore you try, lad!" admonished the Tinker, for I had spoken this doubt aloud. "There's times in all writers' lives when they haven't writ a line, yet books are written all the same. Books ain't made, lad; they happen and they happen because 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 as discovers 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-el than love, except blood--a splash or so here an' there, battle, murder an' sudden death--just a tang or so t' season it. I know, for I used t' 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'ye see--gouty old coves as curse their servants, swear at their families and, hid in corners, shed tears over the woes o' the hero an' heroine o' some nov-el an' stub their gouty toe a-kickin' of the villain. An'

then there's the ladies--'specially the very young 'uns, G.o.d bless their bibs an' tuckers! Lord, how they sigh an' tremble an' toss their pretty 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 lady of uncertain age as wished she wasn't an' was smitten wi' love for Tom Jones, 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 all and sundry."

"There you're wrong, lad; no book can be too sacred for all folks to read, if it's writ honestly and sincerely. An' what a book you ought to write. First there's Anna an' yourself--folks would like to read about the two o' ye--you're such strange children. Then there's Jessamy--a wonderful character for any book. Next comes your uncles an' aunt--Lord, Peregrine, an' there's for ye--'specially your aunt!

And last--" said he, a little wistfully, "if you want some one to fill in, 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 a tinker--no, but you might work me in as a literary cove, d'ye see. How about it? What d'ye think, Perry lad?"

"Excellent well!" I exclaimed. "You inspire me with such strange confidence, 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 home afore 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 would carry me within a mile of home; behold Jerry standing below, gazing up at me with his wistful smile, a Jeremy whose form and features were blurred suddenly by hot tears as the whip cracked, hoofs stamped, and the London Mail lurched forward with a shrill and jubilant fanfare on the horn that drowned my cry of farewell, as Jeremy's blurred image waved blurred arm and, what with my tears and the dust, was blotted from me altogether.

With the small incidents of this short journey I will not worry the reader. Suffice it that the moon was high-risen when at last I reached Merivale. The lodge gates were shut for the night, and being in no mood to disturb any one, I clambered over the wall at an easily-accessible, well-remembered spot, and going by familiar paths, presently beheld the house, its many latticed cas.e.m.e.nts winking ghostly to the moon, and a beam of soft light striking athwart the terrace from that chamber wherein my aunt Julia was wont to write her letters and transact all business of the estate. So thither came I to find the window wide open, for the night was hot, and to behold my aunt, as handsome and statuesque as ever, bent gracefully above her escritoire, pen in white fist, like an industrious G.o.ddess.

"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 modulated and extremely ladylike. Then we were in each other's arms and she was weeping 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 are over?"

"Yes, dear aunt," I answered, stifling a sigh, "my wanderings are over."

"Oh, heaven bless you, dear boy! G.o.d 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 that lovely 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 the least 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 is quite ready, the sheets aired, all waiting for you when you should choose to come."

She led me about the great chamber, showing me all things as they had been on the night of my departure, even to the pen where I had tossed it upon an unfinished ma.n.u.script. And no mention, never one word of Diana; 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 this chamber, desolation filled me and I yearned bitterly for the discomforts 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 the open lattice, I leaned there to look upon the moon, this other Diana so placid and serene. And thinking that perhaps my Diana looked upon her 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--even as mine, I fell upon my knees and stretching out my arms, whispered words of love with pa.s.sionate prayers:

"O Diana, beloved ... O G.o.d of Heaven--G.o.d 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 G.o.ddess of my life.