And--I might ha' had this blessing once--for the takin'--ah,
Peregrine--if I'd only known, lad, if I'd only known!"
O joyous season of sweet simplicity, of homely kindliness and
good-fellowship! Would to God this carpet beneath my feet might
change to velvet moss and springy turf, these walls to the trees and
whispering boskage I grew to love so well, this halting pen to the
smooth shaft of sledge hammer or the well-worn crank of the Tinker's
little forge, if I might but behold again she who trod those leafy
ways with the stately, vigorous grace of Dian's very self, she who
worked and wrought and sang beside me with love for me in her deep
eyes and thrilling in the glory of her voice; she who sped
light-footed to greet me in the dawn, who clung to kiss me "good
night" amid the shadows. O season of joy so swiftly sped, to-day
merging into yesterday (how should I guess you were so soon to end?),
gone from me ere I had fully realised.
A hot, stilly afternoon full of the drowsy hum of insects and droning
bees; birds chirped sleepily from motionless tree and thicket; even
the brook seemed lulled to a slumberous hush.
Jessamy was away hard on the track of his Satanic antagonist, the
Tinker had driven off to buy fresh provisions, and I sat watching
Diana's dripping hands and shapely brown arms where she scrubbed,
wrung out, and hung up to dry certain of our garments, for it was
washing day.
"Dear," said I at last, "when shall we be married?"
"Lord, Peregrine, how sudden you are!" she answered, as if I had never
broached the subject before.
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