Peregrine's Progress

by Jeffery Farnol

  CHAPTER XVII

  HOW WE SET OUT FOR TONBRIDGE

  "Oho--hey--hallo!"

  Starting up, I opened sleepy eyes to be dazzled by a glory of earlysunshine, and creeping from the hay wherein I lay half-buried, I cameblinking to the open trapdoor and beheld Diana standing below,flourishing a long-handled fork at me.

  "Kooshti divvus," said she.

  "Good morning!" said I.

  "It is!" she nodded. "That's what I said! And the less reason tosleep--here's me been up an hour an' more."

  "You should have waked me, Diana."

  "I was too busy. But if you are awake, come down and wash."

  "Wash what?"

  "Yourself--Lord, you needs it bad enough by your looks! And'cleanliness is next to godliness'--they says. So go an' wash!"

  "Certainly!" said I, a little haughtily. "Though permit me to assureyou that I am not in the habit of neglecting so healthful andnecessary--"

  "Soap an' towel--in th' basket--corner yonder!" said she, kneeling topuff the fire to a blaze as I descended the ladder.

  "Thank you, and where shall I find the necessary water?"

  "Outside--in the brook--enough to drownd you! And take your time, makea good job of it--a clean body makes a clean mind--sometimes. So scrubhard!" At this I came where she must meet my look.

  "And pray, madam," I demanded, head aloft and arms folded, "do youthus suggest that my mind is so very unclean?"

  "O la!" cried she, waving the fork at me with a pettish gesture."Don't try to come your fine airs over me in such breeches and youreyes black and face all smutty--go an' get washed first!"

  At this I turned and marched out of the barn, quite forgetting soapand towel until she came running to thrust them upon me, willy-nilly.

  "There's ham an' eggs for breakfast!" she volunteered.

  "Then I trust you will enjoy them," said I stiffly, "but as regardsmyself I most certainly shall not--"

  "Don't frown," she admonished, "for with your face so bruised andswollen it do make you look that comical!" And laughing, she spedaway, leaving me to scowl upon the empty air.

  But the morning was glorious; I stood in a dew-spangled world radiantwith sunshine while all about me the feathered host, that choirinvisible, poured forth a song of universal praise to greet thisnew-born day. With this joyful clamour in my ears, this fresh, greenworld before my eyes, I grew joyful too, and hasted towards the brook,my foolish petulance quite forgotten.

  Following these murmurous, sun-kissed waters, I came where theywidened suddenly into a dark and silent pool; and here, well-screenedby bending willows, I ventured to bathe and found in the cool, sweetwater such gasping delight that I could have sung and shouted for purejoy of it. Greatly invigorated and prodigiously hungry, I donned myunlovely garments happily enough but stooping above this watery mirrorto comb my damp locks into such order as my fingers might compass, Ibeheld my face, its features bruised and distorted out of all shape;and remembering Diana had laughed at and made mock of thesedisfigurements, I sat down, not troubling about my hair, and began tomuse upon her heartlessness, contrasting this with my aunt Julia'sunfailing sympathy and tender, loving care, and immediately feltmyself woefully solitary, miserably cold and desperately hungry. Theworld, despite sunshine and bird-song, was a dark and evil placewherein I stood desolate and forlorn; here, bowing my head between myhands, I began to despair of myself and the future. But now, and allat once, what must obtrude upon these gloomy thoughts but a vision ofham and eggs, a tantalisation that would not be banished.

  "Perry--green!" I lifted my head to listen intently; and presentlyheard it again, a voice rich and full and smooth as note of blackbird,calling upon my name: "Perry--green! Breakfast's ready--ham an' eggs!Perry--green!" Snatching soap and towel I rose, my gloomy thoughtsforgotten again, and hasted whither this voice summoned me.

  "Are ye washed?" she enquired, dexterously skewering a large hamrasher upon the iron fork and transferring it to a platter.

  "I am!"

  "And hungry?"

  "Extremely!"

  "Then you may eat! Here's breakfast--only don't go asking how I gotit--nor yet where!"

  So we ate, scarce speaking; I, for one, seldom lifting my gaze fromthe platter balanced upon my knees. I ate, I say, each mouthful a joy,ham that was a melting ecstasy and eggs of such delicate flavour as Ihad never tasted till now, it seemed.

  "Diana," I sighed at last, "you are a truly wonderful cook!"

  "No," she answered; "you are hungry, that's all. 'T is a good thing tobe hungry--sometimes!"

  O gentle and perspicacious reader! You, madam, who being so daintilyfeminine, cannot be supposed to revel in the joys of hog-flesh, fleshof ox, sheep, bird or fish, no matter how excellent well cooked; andyou, honourable sir, who, being comfortably replete of such, seatedbefore your groaning board at duly frequent and regular intervals,masticate in duty to yourself and digestion, but with none of thatfine fervour of enthusiasm which true hunger may bestow--I cry yemercy! For your author, tramping the roads, weary yet aglow withexercise, hath met and had familiar fellowship with lusty Hunger, andlearned that eating, though a base necessity, may also be a joy. Iftherefore your author forgetteth soul awhile to something describe andmayhap dilate upon such material things as food and drink and theirdue assimilation, here and now he doth most humbly crave your patientforbearance.

  "It is a good thing to be hungry--sometimes!" said Diana.

  "If one may assuage that hunger with such ham and eggs!" I added."Though I greatly fear I shall never taste their like again."

  "Anything'll taste good," quoth she, rising, "if you're hungryenough!"

  "Diana," said I, watching her as she flitted lightly to and fro,engaged on what she called "tidying up." "Diana, what are we going todo?"

  "I thought we were going to Tonbridge?"

  "I am."

  "Well then, the sooner we starts the better."

  "But," I demurred, rubbing my chin and staring hard at the toe of myclumsy shoe, "don't you think it a little unwise--very extraordinaryand--yes, extremely irregular for--for two people of opposite sexes toconsort thus? Are not folk apt to misjudge our intimacy?"

  "What folk?"

  "Well, I mean the world."

  "Lord, Peregrine, who's us for the world to trouble about?"

  "I merely mention this because I dread lest I compromise you."

  "What's compromise?"

  "Well," I explained, lifting my gaze to the time-worn timbering abovemy head, "people seeing us together might suppose we--wewere--lovers--"

  "But we ain't!" she retorted, turning to look at me. "And never shallbe--shall we?"

  "No!" said I with my gaze still turned upward. "Of course not! Butnone the less people might think we were--were living together!"

  "Well, so we are, ain't we?" she demanded.

  "But," said I, staring at my shoe again, "suppose they imagine--"

  "What, Peregrine?"

  "Evil of us?"

  "What matter, s' long as we knows different?"

  "But I cannot bear that any should speak or even think evil of you,Diana--"

  "Never mind about me--though it's kind of you!" she added in thatsuddenly soft, half-shy tone that I have before attempted to describe."Y' see," she continued, "nobody ever troubled themselves about me allmy life, except Jerry--or them as I keeps my little knife for. And youain't that sort, so we'll go on together until I feels like leavingyou, an' then I'll go--"

  "Go where, Diana?"

  "Back to the lonely places--"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Nothing!" she answered, shaking her head. "You wouldn't neverunderstand. But I'll go along wi' you to Tonbridge."

  "Very well!" said I. "And on the way, if you'll allow me, I'll teachyou to speak more correctly and to behave with a--a littlemore--feminine restraint--"

  "Oh--and why should I?" she demanded, cheeks flushed and proud headaloft.

  "Because," I answered, struck anew by her beauty, "though you
looklike a goddess you speak and act like a--like--"

  "A what? And--be careful!" she warned.

  "I don't know."

  "Come, speak out!"

  "Indeed, I can think of no just parallel; you are like no one I eversaw or heard. But your speech and actions often do not match yourlooks."

  "And your looks don't match your words or actions!" she retorted, "youspeak s' very grand and look s' very--s' very--"

  "What?" I questioned anxiously.

  "I don't know. 'T isn't a scarecrow--scarecrow's clothes fitsbetter--but you looks an' acts like nobody as ever I see afore."

  "At the very first opportunity I will certainly purchase bettergarments!" quoth I, scowling down at the noxious things that coveredme.

  "With no money?" she scoffed.

  "I have my watch!" quoth I.

  "They'll think as you prigs it and hand you over to the narks an'queer cuffins--"

  "That sounds very terrible; what do you mean?"

  "I means the _plastramengroes_."

  "What in the world is that?" said I.

  "Oh, _Kooshti duvvel_!" she exclaimed. "You don't know nothin';you're what they calls a _rye_, ain't you?"

  "Pray, what is a rye?" I enquired, a little diffidently.

  "A _gorgio_ gentleman," she explained patiently.

  "What should give you that impression?"

  "You're s' different to the 'Folk'--or any of the padding kind."

  "Yes, I suppose I am--despite my clothes!"

  "Your speech is soft an' your ways are softer, but you have a high an'mighty look about ye at times--although you're so precious green."

  "Green?"

  "As grass!" she nodded, "Very green--like your name."

  "My name is Peregrine, as you know."

  "But t' other suits ye best!"

  "You grow more unkind, Diana!"

  "You're a scholar too, o' course?"

  "I have received a somewhat careful education."

  "What d'ye know?"

  "Well, I am fairly conversant with Greek and Latin, though a trifleshaky on the higher mathematics, I fear."

  "You've read lots an' lots o' books?"

  "I have."

  "And you're nineteen years old?"

  "True!"

  "And such a very poor, helpless thing!" said she in lofty scorn. "Oh,you may be able to teach me how t' speak an' how t' behave, but 'tisme as could teach ye how to live without friends or money! You mayknow how to use words but ye can't use your hands! You can talk but yecan't 'do'--you don't know how to help yourself nor nobody else!You're a poor creature as would creep into a wet ditch an' perish o'want an' misery--an' all because you're so full o' Greek an' Latin an'fine airs that you can't even tell how many beans make five!" Havingsaid which, all in a breath, she turned and, mounting the ladder, leftme staring vacantly at the crumbling wall and greatly humbled sinceall these indictments I knew for very truth. Sitting thus, I heard herdescend the ladder, felt her hand upon my bowed shoulder and glancingup, saw her eyes big and soft and tender.

  "Come, Peregrine," said she in her gentle voice, "let us go, and whilewe walk you shall give me my first lesson how to talk--and behave, ifyou will."

  "No," said I, rising, "first you shall teach me how to be a littleless of a fool. Pray--how many beans do make five?"

  "Why, four an' a little one, o' course," she answered, with atremulous laugh.

  "Diana," said I, clasping her hands in mine, "you were exactly right;considering all my advantages, I am indeed a poor, helpless sort ofthing! You shall teach me how to become a little wiser, if possible.So let us try to help each other like friends, Diana, like truefriends."

  "Yes," said she, "like true friends, Peregrine."

  Then, having hidden the ladder among the hay, we went forth from thebarn into the sunshine together.