CHAPTER XXIII
DISCUSSES THE VIRTUES OP THE ONION
"There's nothing like an onion!" said the Tinker, lifting pot-lid tolunge at the bubbling contents with an inquisitorial fork. "An onionis the king o' vegetables! Eat it raw and it's good; b'ile it and it'sbetter; fry it and it can't be ekalled; stoo it wi' a rabbit andyou've got a stoo as savoury an' full o' flavour--smells all right,don't it, Ann?" he enquired suddenly and a little anxiously, for Dianahad possessed herself of the fork and was investigating the pot'sbubbling contents with that deft and capable assurance that is whollyfeminine. "Smells savoury, don't it, Ann?" he questioned again, notingher puckered brow.
"Very!" said I.
"Did ye put in any salt or pepper, Jerry?" she demanded.
"Drat my whiskers, never a shake nor pinch!" he exclaimed, whereuponDiana sighed, shook her head in silent reprobation and vanished intothe dingy tent as one acquainted with its mysteries, leaving theTinker gazing at the pot quite crestfallen.
"A man can't always be for ever a-remembering everything, Ann!" saidhe, as she reappeared. "An' besides, now I come to think on it, Iaren't so partial to pepper an' salt--"
"A stew should never boil, Jerry!" she admonished.
"Why, that's a matter o' taste," he retorted. "I always b'ile my stoosand uncommon tasty I find 'em--"
"And a little thickening will improve it more," she continuedserenely. "And if you had cut the rabbits a little smaller, it wouldha' been better, Jerry. Still, I daresay I can make it eatable, so goan' talk to Peregrine and leave me to do it."
Obediently the Tinker came and seated himself beside me.
"Friend Peregrine," said he, jerking his thumb to the busy figure atthe fire, "I stooed rabbits afore she was born--ah, hundreds on 'em!"
"And boiled 'em hard as stones!" she added.
"I've throve on b'iled rabbits, Peregrine friend, rabbits and otherthings cooked by these two hands, lived and throve on 'em thesefifty-odd years--and you see me today a man hale and hearty--"
"Which is a wonder!" interpolated Diana without glancing up from herlabour.
"Pray," said I, seeing him at loss for an answer, "what did you meanby the 'Brotherhood of the Roadside'?"
"I meant the Comradeship o' Poverty, friend, the Fellowship o' theFriendless, the Hospitality o' the Homeless. The poor folk on thepadding-lay, such as live on the road and by the road, help oneanother when needful--which is frequent. Those as have little givefreely to them as have none--I to-day, you to-morrow. The world wouldbe a poor place else, 'specially for the likes o' we."
"Do you mean that all who tramp the road know each other?"
"Well, 'ardly that, brother. To be sure, I know most o' the reg'larpadding-coves, but you don't have to know a man to help him."
"Are you acquainted with a peddler called Gabbing Dick?"
"Aye, poor soul. Dick's father was hung for a crime he didn't commit,just afore Dick was born, which drove his poor mother mad, which isapt to make a child grow up a little queer, d'ye see?"
"And old Moll?" said I, with growing diffidence.
"Aye, a fine figure of a woman she was once, I mind. But her man waspressed aboard ship and killed, and she starved along of her babby,though she did all she could to live for the child's sake and when itdied, she--well, look at her now, poor soul!"
"The world would seem a very hard and cruel place!" I exclaimed.
"Sometimes, brother--'specially for the poor and friendless. But ifthere's shadow there's sun, and if there's darkness there's always thedawn. But what o' yourself, friend; you've been fighting I think,judging by your looks?"
"Yes, and--I ran away!" I confessed miserably.
"Humph!" said the Tinker. "That don't sound very hee-roic!"
"But he came back, Jerry!" said Diana in her gentlest voice.
"Ha!" exclaimed the Tinker, looking from her to me and back again,keenly. "Then he is hee-roic!"
"No!" said I, "No, I'm not--and never can be!"
"Oh," said the Tinker. "And why?"
"Because I'm not brave enough, strong enough, big enough--"
"Lord, young friend, don't be so down-hearted and confounded humble;it aren't nat'ral in one so young! What do you think, Ann?"
"That he's hungry," she answered.
"Aye, to be sure!" chuckled the Tinker. "And I reckon no hero can feelproperly hee-roic when his innards be cold and empty--"
"But I'm not hungry," I sighed, "at least--not very. But the longer Ilive the more I know myself for a hopeless incompetent--lately, atleast--a poor, helpless do-nothing--"
"Lord love ye, lad," quoth the Tinker, laying his hand upon my bowedshoulder, "if you've learned so much, take comfort, for to knowourselves and our failings is surely the beginning o' wisdom. But ifyou can't be a conquering hero all at once, don't grieve--you ain'tcut out for a fighter--"
"He beat Gabbing Dick, anyway," said Diana suddenly, whereat I lifteddrooping head and looked towards her gratefully, only to see hervanishing into the dingy little tent again.
"Well, but--" said the Tinker as she reappeared, "Gabbing Dick ain't afighter like Jem Belcher or Gentleman Jack Barty or Jessamy Todd.Dick's a poorish creetur'--"
"He's twice as big and heavy as Peregrine!" she retorted.
"True!" said he. "And yet friend Peregrine ain't exactly--"
"Supper's ready!" she cried.
"Good!" exclaimed the Tinker, rising, but his sharp eyes seemed keenerthan ever as he glanced from Diana's lovely, flushed face to me andback again. Then down we sat to supper as savoury as mortal palatecould desire; the Tinker, having tasted, sighed and winked hisapprobation at me, forgetful of Diana's bright and watchful eyes.
"Well, Jerry," she demanded, "how is it?"
"'Twill do, lass, 'twill do," he answered; "though you've come it aleetle too strong o' the pepper and salt, to my thinking, still--it'lldo. And now, friend Peregrine, I'm consarned to know what's become ofall your money--"
"He buys me with it," answered Diana.
"Eh--bought you?"
"For fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies, Jerry!"
The Tinker gulped and stared.
"Lord love you, gal--what d'ye mean?" he questioned.
"'T was all old Azor's doing, Jerry. She gives me to her grandsonJoseph for his _mort,_ but I gives Joseph a touch of my little_churi_ and runs away and happens on Peregrine. But she followsme with Jochabed and Bennigo, that I hates more than Joseph, and shewas for going to force me to take him could give most money, andPeregrine 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 andwhere I should go, Peregrine goes for to run off from me, so then Ifollowed him, of course--and here we are!"
"Lord!" exclaimed the Tinker. "Lord love my eyes an' limbs--here's apretty kettle o' fish!"
"It is!" nodded Diana. "For now Peregrine wants to marry me accordingto the ways o' the Church!"
"Hum!" said the Tinker, staring very hard at a piece of pork impaledupon his knife-point. "Ha--marriage, hey, friend Peregrine? Marriageis 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 ityet--and never shall now!" Here the morsel of pork vanished and hemasticated thoughtfully. "And I suppose," said he, his keen eyesflashing from me to Diana, "I suppose you'll be tellin' me as you'rein 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!" ejaculated the Tinker, scratching chin withknife-handle and staring at us in ever-deepening perplexity. "Then whywant to marry?"
"I don't!" said Diana
, with the same unnecessary vehemence.
"Nor I either!" I added. "But my honour and--circumstances would seemto demand it."
"What circumstances, young sir?" demanded the Tinker, his featuresdistorted by a sudden fierce scowl. "Ha, d'ye mean as you've takenadvantage of--"
"Don't be foolish, Jerry!" said Diana serenely. "Does he look as if hewould 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 knifefor? Don't be foolish, Jerry; he's never even tried to kiss me--norwanted to--"
"How do you know that?" I demanded impulsively. Now at this she turnedand 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 browcrept a wave of hot colour, her long lashes drooped and she turnedaway with a strange, new shyness; and in this moment I saw she wasaltogether more lovely than I had ever imagined her.
"Why, Diana!" I said. "Child, you need never trouble to take yourknife to me; the respect I have for your goodness is enough--"
"Ah, Peregrine," she whispered fiercely, without turning her head, "Iam only good because I have seen enough of evil to hate it!"
"And it is just because I would shield you from all and every evilthat I would marry you, Diana."
"Ha!" exclaimed the Tinker, so suddenly that I started, having cleanforgotten his existence. "Ha!" said he. "You're quite sure as youdon'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 eatendooly 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 youare, which," said he, glancing up at the leaves above his head, "whichjudging 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 thefire again.
"Now if," pursued the Tinker, "if you'm minded, both on ye, for toj'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 hersoft cheek.
"O Jerry," she sighed, "you were always s' good and wise!"
"Then, dear lass, 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 yenow--you make me as proud as if I was a dook 'stead of only atravelling tinker!"
"It were best of all to be a poet, I think!" said I. "Have you writtenany more verses lately?"
"Well--I have!" he confessed, with a look that was almost guilty. "I'malways at it when there's time--I must. There was an idee as came tome this very evening an' I had to write it down. 'T was that as mademe forget the salt an' pepper--"
"Is it about the Silent Places, Jerry?" questioned Diana eagerly. "Ora 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 saythat if a man don't happen to be blest wi' riches there's betterthings for him if he's only got eyes to see 'em." Saying which (andafter no little rummaging) the Tinker drew a crumpled paper fromcapacious 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.'"
"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 becausehe must," said Diana gravely. "All that is best happens so, I think.Are you for Tonbridge tomorrow, Jerry?"
"Aye, I am, lass, 'cording to custom. Maybe I'll pick up plenty to doat 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, lass? Tent sootye?"
"Yes--I laid your blankets under the tree yonder--Good night!" Andwith a wave of the hand she was gone.
Then, having made up the fire, we presently rolled ourselves in ourblankets and lay down where we might behold the stars. And after somewhile the Tinker spoke drowsily:
"I'm glad--very glad, friend Peregrine, as I've met you again, notonly because you like my verses but because I like your ways. But I'msorry--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 wantto marry her, which I don't suppose--and she was foolish enough to letyou--which I'm pretty sure she wouldn't, being of a proud temper andmighty independent--'t would be a very bad thing for you and aterrible shock to that fine aunt and those rich uncles o' yours as youtold me of--"
"And why should it be?"
"Because Anna ain't of your world and not being born wi' drawing-roommanners she'd shock you twenty times a day, throw your fine aunt intoa fit and give your uncles paralytic strokes--Anna's all right in herway but--"
"She's a very beautiful girl!" said I hotly. "And good as she'sbeautiful!"
"She is!" said the Tinker heartily. "Sweet an' good still, in spite ofeverything, 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 takecare 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, friendPeregrine?"
"Of course--quite."
"To--be--sure!" murmured the Tinker drowsily. "But though your pocketsbe empty, you ain't in any violent hurry to get back to yourluxoorious 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 theSilent Places one may meet wi' demons an' devils."
"Maybe!" I answered.
"Or walk with God!" said the Tinker.