“Fool that I was!” exclaimed Master Flea, persisting in the ebullitions of his extravagant joy, “Fool that I was to doubt of the victory where no battle was needed. Why, you had conquered in the moment, when even the death of your beloved could not shake your resolution. Let me shout, let me rejoice, for all must deceive me if a bright morning sun do not soon arise, which will clear up every mystery.”
On Peregrine’s knocking at the bookbinder’s, a soft female voice cried, “Come in!” He opened the door, and a young girl, who was alone in the room, came forward, and asked him in a friendly manner what he wanted. She was about eighteen years old, rather tall than short, and slim, with the finest proportions. Her hair was of a bright chestnut colour, her eyes were of a deep blue, and her skin seemed to be a blended web of lilies and roses. But more than all this were the purity and innocence that sat upon her brow, and showed themselves in all her actions.
When Peregrine gazed on the gentle beauty, it seemed to him as if he had been hitherto lying in bonds, which a benevolent power had loosened, and the angel of light stood before him. But his enamoured gaze had confounded the maiden: she blushed deeply, and casting down her eyes, repeated more gently than at first, “What does the gentleman want?” With difficulty Peregrine stammered out, “Pray, does the bookbinder Lemmerhirt live here?” Upon her replying that he did, but that he was now gone out upon business, Peregrine talked confusedly of bindings which he had ordered, of books which Lemmerhirt was to procure for him, till at last he came somewhat more to himself, and spoke of a splendid copy of Ariosto, which was to have been bound in red morocco with golden filleting. At this, it was as if a sudden electric spark had shot through the maiden; she clasped her hands, and with tears in her eyes, exclaimed, “Then you are Mr. Tyss?” At the same time she made a motion as if she would have seized his hand, but suddenly drew back, and a deep sigh seemed to relieve her full breast. A sweet smile beamed on her face, like the lovely glow of morning, and she poured forth thanks and blessings to Peregrine for his having been the benefactor of her father and mother, and not only for this—no—for his generosity, his kindness, the manner of his making presents to the children, and spreading joy and happiness amongst them. She quickly cleared her father’s armchair of the books, bound and unbound, with which it was loaded, wheeled it forward, and pressed him to be seated, and then presented to him the splendid Ariosto with sparkling eyes, well knowing that this masterpiece of bookbinding would meet with Peregrine’s approbation.
Mr. Tyss took a few pieces of gold from his pocket, which, the maiden seeing, hastily assured him that she did not know the price of the work, and therefore could not take any payment; perhaps he would be pleased to wait a few minutes for her father’s return. It seemed to Peregrine as if the unworthy metal melted into one lump in his hand, and he pocketed the gold again, much faster than he had brought it out. Upon his seating himself mechanically in the broad armchair, the maiden reached after her own seat, and from instinctive politeness he jumped up to fetch it, when, instead of the chair, he caught hold of her hand, and on gently pressing the treasure, he thought he felt a scarcely perceptible return.
“Puss, puss, what are you doing?” suddenly cried Rose, breaking from him, and picking up a skein of thread, which the cat held between her forepaws, beginning a most mystical web.
Peregrine was in a perfect tumult, and the words “Oh, princess!” escaped him without his knowing how it happened. The maiden looked at him in alarm, and he cried out in the softest and most melancholy tone, “My dearest young lady!” Rose blushed, and said with maiden bashfulness, “My parents call me Rose; pray, do the same my dear Mr. Tyss, for I too am one of the children, to whom you have shown so much kindness, and by whom you are so highly honoured.”
“Rose!” cried Peregrine, in a transport. He could have thrown himself at her feet, and it was only with difficulty that he restrained himself.
Rose now related—as she quietly went on with her work—how the war had reduced her parents to distress, and how since that time she had lived with an aunt in a neighbouring village, till a few weeks ago, when, upon the death of the old lady, she had returned home.
Peregrine heard only the sweet voice of Rose, without understanding the words too well, and was not perfectly convinced of his being awake, till Lemmerhirt entered the room and gave him a hearty welcome. Soon after the wife followed with the children, and as thoughts and feelings are strangely blended in the mind of man, it happened now that Peregrine, even in the midst of all his ecstasy, suddenly recollected how the sullen Pepusch had blamed his presents to this very family. He was particularly delighted to find that none of the children had made themselves ill by his gifts, and the pride with which they pointed to a glass case, where the toys were shining, proved that they looked upon them as something extraordinary, never perhaps to recur. The Thistle, in his ill-humour, was quite mistaken.
“Oh, Pepusch!” said Peregrine to himself, “no pure beam of love penetrates thy distempered mind.” In this Peregrine again meant something more than toys and sugarplums.
Lemmerhirt approached Peregrine and began to talk in an
