CHAPTER XXIX
TELLS OF AN OMINOUS MEETING
Precisely upon the stroke of half-past four I turned under the arch of the "Chequers" inn and, coming into the yard, looked about for Diana. The place was fairly a-throng with vehicles, farmers' gigs, carts, curricles and the like; in one corner of the long penthouse I espied the Tinker's cart with Diogenes champing philosophically at a truss of hay, but Diana herself was nowhere to be seen. Therefore, having deposited my parcel in the cart among divers other packages (which I took to be the stores Jeremy had mentioned), I seated myself in a remote and shady corner and glanced around. Horses munched and snorted all about me, unseen hostlers hissed and whistled, and a man in a smart livery hung upon the bridles of two horses harnessed to a handsome closed travelling carriage, blood-horses that tossed proud heads and stamped impatient hoofs, insomuch that the groom alternately cursed and coaxed them, turning his head ever and anon to glance towards a certain back door of the inn with impatient expectancy. And thus it befell that I began to watch this door also and as the moments elapsed there waked within me a strange and bodeful trembling eagerness, a growing anxiety to behold what manner of person that door would soon open for. So altogether unaccountable and disquieting was this feeling that I rose to my feet and in this moment the door swung wide and a man appeared.
He was tall and slim and superlatively well clad, his garments of that quiet elegance which is the mark of exceeding good taste; but it was his face that drew and held my gaze, a handsome face, paler by contrast with the raven blackness of flowing, curled hair, a delicate-nostrilled, aquiline nose, a thin-lipped mouth and smooth jut of pointed chin. All this I saw as he stood as if awaiting some one, half-turned upon the steps, a magnificent and shapely figure, tapping impatiently at glittering, be-tasselled boot with slender, gold-mounted cane. And then—Diana appeared and paused in the doorway to stare up at him while he smiled down on her, and I saw his smiling lips move in soft speech as, with a hateful and assured deliberation, his white fingers closed upon her round, sunburned arm and he gestured gracefully towards the carriage with his cane.
"Ah, damn you—stand off!" I cried, and clenching my fists I sprang forward, raging. As I came he swung about to meet me, the slender cane quivering in his grip, and thus for a moment we faced each other. And now I saw he was older than I had thought and, meeting the intensity of these smouldering eyes, beholding quivering nostrils and relentless mouth and chin, my flesh crept with a fierce and unaccountable loathing of the man and, unheeding the threat of the cane, I leapt on him like a mad creature. I felt the sharp pain of a blow as the cane snapped asunder on my body and I was upon him, pounding and smiting with murder in my heart. Then the long white hand seized my collar and whirled me aside with such incredible strength that I fell and lay for a moment half-stunned as, without a glance towards me, he opened the carriage door and imperiously motioned Diana to enter.
"Come, my goddess, let us fly!" said he, soft-voiced and smiling. But as he approached her, she tossed aside her basket, stooped, and I saw the evil glitter of her little knife; the gentleman merely laughed softly and made deliberately towards her; then, as she crouched to spring, I scrambled to my feet.
"Don't!" I cried. "Don't! Not you, Diana! Throw me your knife—leave him to me—"
At this the gentleman paused to glance from Diana to me and back again.
"Aha, Diana, is it?" said he. "You'll be worth the taming—another time, chaste goddess! Venus give you to my arms some day! Here's for your torn coat, my sorry Endymion!" Saying which, he tossed a guinea to me and, stepping into the carriage, closed the door. The staring groom mounted, the horses pranced, but, as the carriage moved off, I snatched up the coin and, leaping forward, hurled it through the open window into the gentleman's pale, smiling face.
"Damn you!" I panted. "God's curse on you—I'll see you dead—some day!" And then the carriage was gone and I, gasping and trembling, stood appalled at the wild passion of murderous hate that surged within me. And in this awful moment, sick with horrified amaze since I knew myself a murderer in my soul, I was aware that Diana had picked up my new hat whence it had fallen and was tenderly wiping the dust from it.
"Why, Peregrine," sighed she reproachfully, "you've had all your curls cut off!"
"To the devil with my curls! Come, let us go!" And snatching my hat I clapped it on and led the way across the yard and, heedless of the spectators who gaped and nudged each other, we got into the cart, paid our dues, and drove out into the High Street, nor did we exchange a word until we had left the town behind us; then:
"Why are you so frightful angry, Peregrine?"
"Ah, why?" I groaned. "What madness was it that would have driven me to murder? Had you but thrown me your knife I should have stabbed him—killed him where he stood—and loved the doing of it. Oh, horrible!"
"No, wonderful!" sighed she, laying her hand on my drooping shoulder. "I—I liked you for it! You weren't afraid this time. Did he hurt you?"
"Not much."
"And he tore your fine new coat—the beast! Never mind, I'll mend it for you to-night, if you like."
"I can buy another," said I gloomily.
"No, that would be wicked, wasteful extravagance, Peregrine, and I can mend it beautifully."
"Very well!" I sighed.
"That's three times you fights for me, Peregrine."
"And been worsted on each occasion!" said I.
"No, you beats Gabbing Dick, remember," said she consolingly, her hand on my shoulder again. "And I—I likes you in your new clothes, though I wish you had your curls back again because—"
"How came you at the inn with that man?" I demanded suddenly.
"I had been selling my last few baskets."
"And he saw you?"
"Yes."
"And spoke to you?"
"Yes."
"And he—tried to—kiss you, I suppose?"
"Yes—but what's it matter; don't let's talk of it any more,
Peregrine."
"And did he kiss you—did he?" At this she began to frown. "Did he kiss you, Diana—answer me?"
"I'll not!" said she, setting her chin.
"Ah, but you shall!"
"Oh, but I won't! Who are you to question me so?"
"Tell me, or by God I'll make you!"
"Ah, don't talk, you couldn't—no, not if—" I seized her, wrenched and swung her down across my knees (careless alike in my sudden frenzy of fallen reins, of danger or death itself) and having her thus helpless, set my hand about her soft, round throat.
"By God!" I gasped, "but you shall tell me, Diana; you shall tell me if he dared sully you with his vile touch—speak—speak!"
And now as I glared down at her I saw her eyes grow wide and suddenly fearful.
"Oh, Peregrine," she whispered. "Don't—don't look at me so—as if you hated me—don't, ah, don't!" And then, oh, wonder of wonders! Her arms were about my neck, drawing me lower and lower until her soft cheek met mine and, clasping me thus, she spoke under her breath:
"He didn't. Peregrine—he didn't! No man shall ever kiss me in line except—just—one!"
"Who?" I questioned, grasping her to me. "Who is that one?"
"Loose me, now," she pleaded. "You'll make me cry in a minute, and I hates to cry." So I obeyed her and sitting up, saw that Diogenes, like the four-footed philosopher he was, had come to a halt and was serenely cropping the grass by the roadside. And so we presently drove on again, but though Diana frowned no more, she persistently avoided my glance.
"Diana," said I at last, vainly endeavouring to meet her gaze, "who is the—one man?"
"Him as I shall marry, of course—if I ever do!" she answered.
"Then that man is myself, of course!"
"You are a sight too cocksure!"
"Am I?"
"Yes, and—very rough, I think."
"Oh, forgive me—did I hurt you—just now, when I—"
"You did!"
"Where?"
"Here, on the throat, Peregrine."
"Let me look," said I, peering. Then, "The wound is not apparent, Diana, unless it is—here!" and leaning closer, I touched her soft neck with my lips. "Did I hurt you anywhere else?"
"No!" said she hastily and with sudden shy look.
"I could almost regret my gentleness!" I sighed. After this we drove in silence awhile; that is to say Diogenes ambled along at his own leisurely gait, as if he very well knew that 'time was made for slaves'.
So I looked at Diana, drinking in this new, shy beauty of her, and she looked at earth and sky, at hedgerow and rolling meadow but with never a glance at me.
"It was wrong of you to think the gentleman kissed me!" said she suddenly, beginning to frown.
"It was!" I admitted. "Very wrong indeed!"
"Then why did you?"
"Because I was a fool!"
"Well, I don't like fools!"
"Then I will endeavour to be wiser."
"'T will need a lot o' trying, I think," said she, scowling.
"Good heavens!" said I. "Are you angry now?"
"Yes, I can be angry as well as you, I s'pose?"
"Of course!" said I. "You have contrived to be very ill-tempered lately."
"Oh, have I?"
"You have! And very slipshod in your speech—indeed, your diction is worse than ever—"
"Oh, stow your gab!"
"Now you are coarse and vulgar in the extreme!"
"Well, that's better than pretending to be what I ain't. And if you don't like my talk—hold your tongue and I'll hold mine!"
"I will!" said I.
"Do!" she snapped. And so was silence again, wherein the birds seemed to sing quite out of tune and Diogenes a lazy quadruped very much needing the whip.
"Cannot you drive a little faster?" I suggested.
For answer she lashed Diogenes to a gallop so that the cart lurched and swayed in highly unpleasant fashion; but presently, this speed abating somewhat, I ventured to loose my grip of the seat and thrusting hands into pockets, felt the case containing the locket and chain.
"Are you any better tempered yet?" I enquired.
"No—nor like to be—"
"That's a pity!"
"Oh—why?"
"Because you look prettier when you don't frown—"
"Oh tush!"
"Though you're handsome always. And besides I—I brought you a small present—"
"Well, you can keep it—"
"You haven't looked at it yet!"
"Don't want to!"
"Here it is," said I, opening the case. "Do you like it?"
"No!"
"Won't you accept it?"
"No, I won't!"
"Why, very well!" said I, and shutting the case I threw it into the road.
"Ah, don't! How could you!" she cried and reined Diogenes to abrupt standstill. "Go and pick it up—this instant!"
"If you don't want it—I won't!" said I, folding my arms.
"I didn't say I didn't want it—"
"But you wouldn't accept it—"
"No more I will—yet—"
"Now of all the ridiculous, unreasonable creatures—"
"So please go an' pick it up, Peregrine."
"If I do, will you let me put it round your neck?"
"Wait till—till I feels a little kinder to you!"
"That will be a unique occasion and one to remember!" said I bitterly, and springing from the cart, I went and took up my despised gift, though with very ill grace. "And pray, madam," I enquired, thrusting the case into my pocket and frowning up at her where she leaned, chin on fist, viewing me with her sombre gaze, "when are you likely to feel any kinder?"
"How should I know—and you look s' strange and different in your new clo'es—"
"It is to be hoped so!" said I.
"And your curls all cut off!"
"I never thought you'd notice—"
"And you seem more cocksure than ever—"
"Cocksure is an ugly word, Diana."
"So I think I liked you better as you were."
"Good!" said I, climbing back into the cart. "It remains for me to make you like me best—as I am."
"How?"
"By marrying you."
"But you don't—we ain't in love with each other or any such silliness," said she, flicking idly at the hedge with the whip.
"I'm not so sure, Diana. Indeed, I begin to think I do—love you in a way—or may do soon."
"Oh, do you?"
"I do!"
"Have you ever been in love?"
"Never."
"Then you don't know nothin' about it."
"Do you?" I questioned.
"More than you!" she nodded.
"Ah, do you mean that you have loved—some man—"
"Of course not, silly!"
"Good!" said I. "And you have promised faithfully never to kiss any other man but me—"
"I said the man I married—"
"Well, that is me."
"Oh, is it?"
"Of course!"