Peregrine's Progress

by Jeffery Farnol

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CONCERNING THE GRAMMAR OF A GODDESS

  A broad, white road led between grassy banks topped by hedgerows andtrees whose wide-flung, rusting leafage cast a pleasant shade, whilehigh in the sunny air a lark carolled faint and sweet against theblue. From the distant woods stole a wind languorous and fragrant ofdewy earth, of herb and flower, a wind soft as a caress yet vital andfull of promise (as it were) so that as I breathed of it, hope andstrength were renewed in me with an assurance of future achievement.Filled thus with an ecstasy unknown till now, I stopped suddenly tolook above and round about, glad-eyed; and thus presently my eagergaze came upon my companion who had paused also, her eyes upraised towatch the flight of a mounting lark. Beholding her in this gracefulposture, so vivid with life and youthful strength, all slimshapeliness from wind-kissed hair to buckled shoe, she seemed thespirit, nay the very embodiment, of this fair midsummer morning.

  "O Diana!" I exclaimed. "Is it not good to be alive?"

  "The lark seems to think so," she answered, her gaze still uplifted."Yet I wonder if he is truly happy, or sings only because 'tis hisnature?"

  "Because he's happy, of course!" I answered. "Who wouldn't be happy onsuch a morning?"

  "Well, I ain't, for one!"

  "Not happy, Diana--but why?"

  "Because!"

  "Because of what?"

  "Oh, never mind! Let's go on."

  "Won't you tell me?"

  "No. Let's go on."

  "May I not share your sorrows, Diana?" I enquired, and laid my hand onher arm; but she shook me off, though not before I had seen her eyeswere suffused with tears. Therefore I caught and held her hand so thatshe stopped, facing me, and thus I saw her tears were falling and shenot troubling to hide or wipe them away.

  "Can't you let me alone?" she sobbed.

  "Why, Diana!" I exclaimed. "O child, don't weep; true friends mustshare sorrow as well as joy! So, if we are to be friends, tell me whatis troubling you."

  "Yonder!" said she, pointing to the blue distance before us. "'Tis thebeyond--'tis the Future as do fright me."

  "But I thought you feared nothing, Diana?"

  "Only myself!" she cried, throwing out her arms in a sudden wildgesture. "There be a devil inside o' me sometimes--a devil as even oldAzor was afeard of an' most o' the men--"

  "Then I think this must be rather a good devil, Diana."

  "Ah no--no!" she cried. "'Tis a devil as drives me to wild thoughtsan' ways--things as do shame me. 'Tis very fierce and strong!"

  "Still, I do not think I fear this devil--or ever should, Diana."

  "You? But you calls yourself a coward!"

  "To be sure I did, and very properly, because I was greatly afraid ofa ruffian with a bludgeon and fled accordingly. But I do not feardevils in the least."

  "Because you don't know--"

  "There you are quite wrong!" said I, patting the hand I still held andnoting its strength and shapeliness. "For, and apprehend me, Diana, weall, each one of us, possess a devil large or small, and my own isuncomfortably big and strong occasionally, and very difficult toovercome. But this is what devils are for--"

  "You're flamming me!" she cried angrily and snatched her hand away.

  "A very unpleasing word! Pray what does it signify?"

  "You're gammoning--"

  "That is rather worse--"

  "You're making game o' me!"

  "On the contrary, I'm very serious! Don't you see, Diana, that alldemons and devils are a means to our ultimate good?"

  "No, I don't! How can they be?"

  "In this manner: every devil, be he an evil thought, passion, hate orrevenge, a desire to do harm, to lie, to steal, to kill or to run awaylike a coward--these are all demons to be fought with and overcome,and the oftener we vanquish them, the stronger and better we grow,until at last you--or I--may become something very near an angel."

  "I could never be an angel!" she retorted sullenly. "And what's more,I don't want--"

  "You do," said I, "indeed you do, I'm sure, or why should you so hatethis devil of yours and fear the beyond? And there is an angel insideyou, Diana; I have seen it peep at me through your eyes--"

  "Now I think you're talking foolish!" said she petulantly.

  "Perhaps so," I nodded, "but 'foolish' is an adjective which in thisinstance should be an adverb and which we will proceed to make so bythe suffix 'ly.' Thus instead of saying, I talk 'foolish,' you mustsay I talk 'foolishly'--"

  "So you do!" quoth she.

  "Then I will talk grammar instead, Diana. Pray give me your mostcareful attention. Yonder is a tree, which is a noun common; the treeis shady, which is an adjective qualifying the noun 'tree,' and castsits shade obliquely, which is an adverb governing the qualifying verb'casts.'" Thus, as we walked, I proceeded to give her a definition ofthe various parts of speech with their relation one to another, andfound her to be, on the whole, very quick and of a retentive memory.Encouraged thus, I plunged into my subject whole-heartedly and wasdiscussing the difference between transitive and intransitive verbswhen she checked me in full career by asking:

  "Have you a father and mother?"

  "Good heaven!" I exclaimed. "What has this to do with grammar?"

  "Well, but have you?" she persisted.

  "No," answered I; "they died before I can remember."

  "So did mine!" she nodded. "But you have friends?"

  "Yes."

  "Many?"

  "Three," I answered. "To be particular, one aunt and two uncles."

  "Rich folk, ain't they?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose they are. And allow me to point out that theword 'ain't' is becoming obsolete in polite conversation, giving placeto 'are not' or to 'is not' as the case may be. Now, returning to ourgrammar--" And forthwith I began to decline for her benefit verbsregular and irregular, together with their tenses; I parsed andanalysed simple sentences, explaining the just relation of Subject,Object and Predicate, while she watched me grave-eyed and listened tomy grammatical _dicta_ with an attention that I found highlygratifying. Thus I dilated upon the beauties of our language, itswealth of metaphor and adjectival possibilities, its intricacies andpitfalls, until the sun was high and my throat parched.

  "There, Diana," I concluded, "here endeth our first lesson for thepresent. I trust you have not found me too discursive?"

  "Well," said she, knitting her black brows thoughtfully, "I'm notsure. It all sounds very--wonderful, but I don't understand a word ofit."

  "Great heaven!" I ejaculated. "Why could you not say so before?"

  "I didn't like to interrupt you."

  "Here I have been talking for a good hour--"

  "Two hours," she nodded; "indeed, you're a wonderful talker!"

  "But all to no purpose it seems!" said I ruefully.

  "No," she answered, "it has helped to pass the time and I knows that anoun is a tree."

  "Oh, indeed!" quoth I. "And what more have you learned?"

  "That if you add to a verb it's an adverb, though both are much of amuchness, and an adjective is not like either, though they all hassummat to do with a tree we passed a long time ago."

  At this I gasped and sinking down in a shady spot, fanned myselffeebly with my hat.

  "My poor child," said I mournfully, "my poor--"

  "I'm not your child!" she retorted. "And as for poor--what o' this?"and she shook the bag at her girdle until the coins within it chinked.

  "This is most distressing!" said I, shaking my head.

  "What is?"

  "A noun is not a tree--"

  "You says it was--"

  "I told you a tree was a noun--which is a very different thing."

  "If a tree's a noun, a noun's a tree--or should be, and if 'tain't,then grammar's foolish and I don't want none of it--"

  "That sentence is execrable grammar, Diana, because two negatives makea positive hence when you say 'you don't want none,' it really meansthat you do want some--"

  "I don't care!" she said i
n her sullen fashion.

  "But you must--"

  "Well, I shan't!"

  "Don't be a naughty child, Diana! Please come and sit down."

  "I hates your grammar--"

  "The sun is very hot, Diana, so come and sit down here by me and letus talk like the true friends I hope we are."

  With a petulant gesture she obeyed; so there we sat side by side, ourbacks to the broad bole of the great tree, a branch of which, droopinglow, made for us a green bower, as it were. And here, sitting thusside by side, we continued our discussion on this wise:

  DIANA (sullenly). However, I don't want any more o' your grammar; Igets along well enough without it--

  MYSELF (interrupting). But then I want you to do much more than justget along, Diana.

  DIANA. How much more?

  MYSELF. Well, I want you to live to the utmost of your capacity, tomake the very best of yourself and your life, to become the wonderfulwoman you may be if only you will. And this you can never do without aknowledge of grammar and deportment.

  DIANA. And why d'ye want me to do--to be all this?

  MYSELF. Because it is a duty you owe to the world and your ownwomanhood. If we all strove to do our best, the world would become abetter place for everybody, at once.

  DIANA (passionately). Oh, 'tis easy for you to talk so fine; you'vegot friends--rich friends t' help you! But who have I got--

  MYSELF. Well, Diana, his name, as I told you before, is Peregrine.

  DIANA. You?

  MYSELF. Precisely--

  DIANA. d'ye mean--what do you mean?

  MYSELF. That I will be your true friend always--to help you so long asyou need--if you will have me. My friends shall be yourfriends--especially my aunt Julia, who is the noblest and best ofwomen--

  DIANA (ungraciously). A _Kooshti para rati_--a true_rawni_--a grand lady, I s'pose?

  MYSELF. She is a truly great lady.

  DIANA. And wears silk gowns that rustle, I s'pose?

  MYSELF (mystified). I believe her gowns do rustle--but what in theworld--?

  DIANA. Then I should hate her!

  MYSELF. But why? In the name of reason why under heaven should--?

  DIANA. Just because!

  MYSELF. Pray be more explicit. Why should you hate one whom--?

  DIANA. Because she'd rustle her fine silks at me and look through meand try to make me feel I was only small beer.

  MYSELF. 'Small beer' is an extremely unpleasing phrase, Diana.

  DIANA. But it tells ye what I mean. I sees grand ladies afore to-dayand I don't want any of 'em to rustle at me! I won't have their pityand I don't want their help--I likes the silent places and my little_churi_ best.

  MYSELF. My aunt Julia is a very noble woman, as good as she isbeautiful, a woman whom all respect and honour--

  DIANA. Well, I hates her already.

  MYSELF. That is exceedingly unreasonable! How can you hate one youhave never seen?

  DIANA. Easily.

  MYSELF. But in heaven's name, why?

  DIANA. Because I do!

  MYSELF. That is no answer! (Here she scowled at me.) Pray be sensible,Diana! (Here she kicked viciously at a tuft of grass.) Indeed you makeit very difficult for me to help you.

  "I don't want your help either!" she retorted angrily.

  "No matter!" quoth I, folding my arms. "My mind is quite made up."

  "So is mine!" and speaking, she would have risen, but I caught a foldof her petticoat. "Let go!" she cried.

  "Sit still, Diana, and listen to me!"

  "Let me go!"

  "Not until you have heard all I wish to say--" As I spoke, with amovement incredibly quick, she flashed out her knife.

  "What, Diana," said I, staring into her fierce eyes, "do you thinkthat is necessary with me? Would you harm your friend, child?" Thefierce eyes drooped and, averting her head, she sat mute and still. "Iam going to help you," I continued, "because in spite of any or everydemon, I know you are sweet and pure and good."

  "How--d'ye know this?" she questioned.

  "I know it, I am sure of it--oh, well--because!"

  "That's no answer!" said she in her turn.

  "Still, I think you know what I mean. But, and this is very sure,Diana, because I respect you, I would have the world respect you. Andtherefore I am going to help you however I may. So that is settledonce for all."

  "Suppose I--runs away?"

  "I shall have to find you, of course."

  "Then you--don't want to be rid o' me--so much?"

  "Certainly not!"

  "But you offered me your gold watch to--"

  "True!" I admitted, a little put out. "But I--I did not know orunderstand you--then."

  "And do you now?"

  "I think so--or at least enough to know that you can also help me ifyou will--"

  "How could I help you?" she questioned wistfully.

  "You might perhaps teach me to be--less of a coward--more likeyourself--"

  "Like me?" she repeated, wondering.

  "You are so strong, Diana, so brave and fearless and I--ran away likethe coward I am--left you alone to face--"

  Here, once more overcome by memory of my shame, I covered my face; butnow, all at once, perceiving my abasement and bitter remorse, moved bya sweet impulse she clasped her arm about my stooping shoulders andsought earnestly to comfort me.

  "There, there," she murmured, her voice very soft and sweet, "nevergrieve so, Peregrine--you're no coward! When a coward runs away, hekeeps running in the same direction; a coward don't come back to bebeaten black and blue--see your poor face!"

  "You laughed at it this morning!" said I, striving to steady my voice.

  "Yes, I know I did, but only--only because!" she answered gently. "Butyou ain't--I mean are not--a coward; you fought your best--"

  "But to no purpose!" I added bitterly. "Nature has shaped me in suchpuny mould, I'm so miserably weak--" Here the arm tightened and,conscious thus of all the throbbing strength and vitality of her, Ifelt my own weakness the more. "Oh, I'm a miserable, undersized rat!"I groaned.

  "Hush!" she whispered, as if I had shocked her. "'Tisn't size orstrength as wins a fight, Peregrine; 'tis quickness an' knowinghow--but most of all being game-plucked. The next time a man hits ye,stand away and hit back; there's nothing will keep a man from hittingyou like hitting him often and hard."

  "It seems that my uncles were right, after all!" said I. "Hard knocksare sometimes more efficacious than the best-reasoned arguments. Youhave seen many fights, I suppose, Diana?"

  "Lots!"

  "I wish you could teach me how it is done!"

  "Why, so I will, Peregrine--stand up! Now," she admonished, as wefaced each other, "put up your hands--so!" Hereupon I imitated herposture. "Now," she continued, "I'm going to hit you in the face!"which she immediately did, though lightly and with her open hand. "Nowhit me if you can, Peregrine."

  But though I tried my best, she was so wonderfully quick and lightupon her feet that I smote but empty air or my blows were parried,while her hands flashed, now here, now there, to pat and tap my faceas often as she would. So we sparred together until, flushed andlaughing and breathless, we paused by common consent.

  And thus I had my first lesson in the Noble Art.

  "You do be very light o' your feet!" said she as we sat side by sidebeneath the tree again, "and much quicker than I thought, Peregrine!"

  "I--I'm glad--very glad you think so!" I answered vastly elated bythis praise.

  "Yes, if you had proper teaching, you might be able to take your partagainst most o' them."

  Now at this I became filled with such a glow of pleasure as amazed meby its intensity, such indeed as no praise from tutors or even myloved aunt Julia had ever inspired.

  "Though to be sure," she added, "'t would all depend on whether youwas game-plucked. No, size don't always count; why, Jessamy Toddain't--is not--much bigger than you."

  "And who is he?"

  "Lord, haven't you heard? Why, Jessamy was one of
the greatest,fiercest fighters that ever was, they say! But he had the ill-luck tokill a man and turned religious."

  "Do you know him?"

  "Very well. I've heard him preach often."

  "Preach?" said I.

  "Yes, Jessamy never fights now--unless he has to--goes aboutpreaching. And he preaches as well as he used to fight, and sings aswell as he preaches."

  "I should like to meet Jessamy Todd," said I.

  "Well, so you will, if you pad the hoof long enough. But now, whato'clock is it?"

  "Half-past twelve," I answered, consulting my watch. "Yet surely itcan't be so late?"

  "But it is--look at the sun! And don't you feel 't is dinner time?There's a little tavern down the lane yonder--let's go and eat."

  "Not unless I pay for it--"

  "With no money?"

  "Here is my watch!"

  "Don't be foolish!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet. "Get up andcome along, do! No, stay where you are; things will taste sweeter outhere--they always do. Only don't go trying to run off or any suchfoolishness--just stay where you are an' wait for me."

  "But--"

  "I won't be long--so promise!"

  "I promise!"

  Waiting for no more, she sped away all lithe and vigorous grace; whenshe was out of sight, I lay upon my back, staring up at the rustlingcanopy above, became lost in thought, wondering, among other things,if I could ever possibly attain unto that mysterious virtue she hadcalled 'game-plucked' and just precisely what it might be.