CHAPTER XXXII
HOW I MADE A SURPRISING DISCOVERY, WHICH, HOWEVER, MAY NOT SURPRISETHE READER IN THE LEAST
From brake and thicket gemmed with a myriad sparkling dewdrops, birdswere singing a jubilant paean, as well indeed they might upon so faira morning; yet these were but a chorus to the singer down by the brookwhose glorious voice soared in swelling ecstasy and sank in plaintivesweetness only to rise again, so high and clear and ineffably sweet asseemed verily to inspire the birds to an eager and joyful emulation.
So they sang together thus in pretty rivalry, the birds and Diana,until, her song ended, I went my way and presently found her besidethe bubbling rill, combing out her shining hair. At sight of me shelaughed and, tossing back her tresses, flourished her comb in a sweepthat took in radiant sky, earth and sparkling brook.
"O Peregrine, ain't it glorious!" she cried.
"It is!" said I, staring at her loveliness, whereupon she flushed andrecommenced combing her hair.
"Thought you was asleep an' snoring," said she in her most ungraciousmanner.
"Well, you see I'm not, and besides I don't snore!"
"Tush, how can you know?"
"I don't think I do--and for heaven's sake why talk of such things onsuch a morning, Diana?"
"Because!" she answered, turning away.
"Because of what?" I demanded, grasping a silky handful of her glossyhair. "Why are you so ungracious to me lately; why do you do and saythings that you imagine will make me think you hard and unlovely; whydo you try to shock me so often?"
"I don't! How?"
"By pretending to be trivial and shallow and commonplace."
"Because I am!"
"Don't blaspheme, Diana. How could you be shallow or commonplace, youwho taught me to love the Silent Places? So why attempt things soimpossible, dear child?" And taking hold of her smooth, round chin Iturned her head that she must look at me. "Why, Diana, why?" Irepeated. For a moment she met my look, then her lids fluttered andfell. Yet she stood before me strangely docile.
"Because," said she at last, "you looks at me lately as--as you aredoing now, as if--as though--"
"I had only just found out how beautiful you are, Diana? And don't youknow why?"
"Yes," she murmured, "but--you don't."
"I have discovered the reason this morning," said I, drawing her alittle nearer, "I love you, Diana, I know it at last. Why, goodheaven, I must have loved you for days!"
"You have!" she nodded, without looking at me.
"You--you knew it, then?"
"Of course!" she nodded again. "So did Jerry--so did Jessamy, so didyour tall uncle--and your aunt, I think, and--and everybody else inall the world--except yourself, Peregrine."
"Blind fool that I was--"
"No, Peregrine, it was because you never guessed, that I didn't runaway--"
"And you never will now, Diana, because you are mine, But I loved thesweet, pure soul of you first and so, my Diana, although I amlonging--longing to kiss you--those dear gentle eyes, your red lips--Inever will until you give them, because my love, being very great, isvery humble, like--like this!" And sinking to my knees, I would havekissed the hem of her gown, but with a soft, sweet cry of reproach,she slipped to her knees also and swaying to me, hid her face in mybreast.
"O Peregrine," she murmured, looking up at me through a mist of tears,"it is a wonderful thing to be loved by a gentleman--"
"Then God keep me so!" I whispered.
"He will, Peregrine, so long as you are Peregrine--kiss me!" And sofor a deathless moment I held her close, to kiss her tumbled hair, hertearful eyes, the tremor of her sweet mouth.
"Peregrine--dear," she sighed, "at first I hated love and when it cameit frighted me and then, when it came to you and you not knowing, Iknew love could only be a dream 'twixt you and me and so I--I tried tomake you hate me--I talked and acted rough--as much as I could, or--orvery nearly--but I couldn't keep it up all the time, it hurt me so--"
"Then," cried I, "why then, you do love me, heart and soul, Diana?"
"Ah--don't you know--even yet?" said she passionately. "You are sodifferent, so gentle--oh, you're--just Peregrine! Ah, it isn't yourmoney I want, or to be a fine lady like your aunt wi' horses andcarriages and servants; ah, not dear Peregrine, no--it's just you andme together in the Silent Places--"
"And so we will be," I cried, "together in life and death--"
"O Peregrine, it isn't a dream is it--a dream that can't come true.You'll--make me marry you, won't you?"
"Ah, by God I will--whenever you are ready, for you are mine!"
"Yes, yours," she whispered, "for ever and always! You ha' no doubtso' the future, have ye, Peregrine?"
"None!" said I, arrogant in my happiness.
"When I called you cocksure I--loved you for it!"
Thus sat we, embracing and embraced, beside this prattling stream,looking upon the glory of this midsummer morning and each other tofind all things ever more beautiful, and knowing a happiness that wentfar beyond mere speech.
Birds have sung as blithely--perhaps; the sun may have beamed askindly and brooks have laughed as joyously as this chattering rill ofours, but as for me, I soberly doubt it.
"Peregrine," said she at last, "where is my locket?"
"Here!" said I, reaching the case from my pocket. "When your singingwoke me to this wonderful, glorious morning, I brought it to findyou."
"How pretty it is!" she sighed happily, touching it tenderly with theextreme tip of one slender finger.
"It isn't anything near good enough," said I, viewing it a littlegloomily, "I will get you one infinitely better--"
"No!" said she. "This is what I shall always love best," and stooping,she touched the trinket with the heaven of her mouth. Then, being uponour knees, she stooped her head that I might set it about her throat,but what with her nearness and the touch of her velvety neck, Ibungled the business sadly, so that she lifted her two hands to aid meand her lips being so near, how could I help but kiss her.
"Now this, Peregrine!" she commanded, drawing my mouth to the locketwhere it hung. And so I kissed the locket and chain and throat andneck until she laughed, a little tremulously, and slipping from myhold, sprang to her feet and fled away.
And now, being upon my knees, I bowed my head and passionatelybesought a blessing on this sweet-souled Diana, this woman of mine,and upon our love and the years that were to be. My supplicationended, I remembered that this was the first prayer I had uttered sincefaring out into the world. And as I arose, came Jessamy, rubbing sleepfrom his eyes.
"Lord bless us, Perry, what a morning--the j'y of it, brother! List tothe birds and hark--ah, do but hark how Ann do be singing; never 'eardher voice sound so wonderful afore, Perry."
"Nor I, Jessamy," said I, as the golden notes died away; "but thenthere never was quite such another morning as this."