CHAPTER XX
OF THE TONGUE OF A WOMAN AND THE FEET OF A GODDESS
Roast beef is now, has been, and probably will be, long acclaimed andproclaimed by every true-born Englishman as his own peculiar diet;_vide_ the old song:
"When mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman's food It ennobled our hearts and enriched our blood. O the Roast Beef of Old England And O for old England's Roast Beef!"
By long association and assimilation it has become, as it were, anational asset, a very part and parcel of the British constitution.
From ages dim and remote it has gone to the building of a sturdy racewhich, by dint of hard knocks and harder heads, has won for itself amighty Empire. Our Saxon ancestors devoured it; our Norman conquerorsscorned, tasted and--ate of it; our stout yeomen throve on it; oursquires and gentry hunt, fight, make speeches and laws upon it; anddoubtless future generations shall do the like.
As for myself, I have frequently eaten of it, though never, I fear,with either that awe or appetite which such noble fare justly demands.But to-day within this green bower, blessed by a gentle wind thatrustled the leaves about me and stirred Diana's glossy tresses whereshe sat beside me, I ate of beef, cold, and set between slices of newbread,--ate with a reverent joy as any healthy young Briton should.And presently, meeting the bright glance of my companion, I sighed.
"Diana," said I, "heaven sends dew for the flower, honey for the beeand butterfly, the worm for the bird, and beef for the Briton. Let usthen be duly thankful that we are neither flower, butterfly nor bird."
"It would be worse to be the worm, I think," she answered.
Alas! It seemed we were not to be long unmolested for, roused by ashuffling step, I glanced hastily up and beheld an old woman hobblingtowards us bent upon a stick, a miserably ragged, furtive, hag-likecreature who nodded and leered upon us as she came.
"Lor', Ann!" she cried in queer, piping tones. "Lorramity, Ann--soyou've fell in love at last, 'ave ye, dearie? And why not, my pretty,why not? There's nowt like a bit o' love--'cept it be a bit o' beef! OAnn, gi'es a bite o' the good meat--a mouthful for poor old Moll, do'ee now--do!"
"Why, for sure!" answered Diana. "You can eat and welcome, Moll; sitye down here by me and rest your old bones. And I ain't fallen in lovewi' no one, Moll."
"Ain't you, Ann; lor', dearie, ain't you!" piped the old creature,snatching the food Diana offered. "But what about your nice young pal'ere? Is 'e for comp'ny's sake--jest to keep away the solitood, eh,dearie?"
"We're padding it to Tonbridge, Moll."
"Tonbridge--hey!" gabbled this fearsome old woman, clawing at the meatwith her bony, talon-like fingers in a highly offensive manner."Tonbridge, hey, dearie?" she mumbled, stuffing the meat into hermouth until I wondered she did not choke to death outright. "'T is agoodish step from 'ere, dearie," she gasped, when at last she couldspeak, "a goodish bit an' love may ketch ye afore ye get there--eh,dearie, eh? I 'ope's it do, for love's a pretty thing when you'reyoung--I know, for I was young once--aye an' 'ansome too, I was--"
"I don't love anybody, Moll, and never shall."
"Don't say that, dearie, oh, don't say that! Some man'll win an' tameye yet, for all your proud, wild ways an' little knife--'e will,dearie--'e will; maids is for men an' men--"
"Never think it, Moll!" said Diana, shaking her head. "As for men, Ihates 'em and always shall--"
"What d'ye say t' that, my fine, nice laddie--eh, eh?" piped the old,witch-like creature, leering at me hideously. "Ann's a beauty, ain'tshe? Made to be kissed an' all, ain't she, eh? If I was you, I'd kiss'er afore ye reached the next milestone an' that ain't fur--kiss 'erafore she knowed, I would, an' if she takes it unkind, never trouble,jest you wait till she's asleep--steal 'er little knife an'--"
"Let us go!" said I hastily, getting to my feet.
"That's th' sperrit, laddie, that's th' sperrit!" croaked the oldwoman. "Afore th' next milestone--on th' lips! All maids love it an'so'll she, 'spite all 'er skittish ways--on 'er mouth, mind!"
But I hasted away, nor paused until I was some distance down the road,then glancing back, I saw Diana bestow on this frightful old creatureall that remained of our dinner, and money besides.
"A truly dreadful old person, Diana!" said I, as she joined me. "Iwonder you can stop to consort or speak with such--"
"She's a woman, after all, Peregrine, very old and worn and generallyhungry. And how can it harm me to be a little kind to her?"
"She suggests vile things!"
"What o' that, if she don't do 'em, or make others do 'em?"
"A horrible creature!" I repeated.
"Without a friend in the world, Peregrine."
"Do you happen to be acquainted with every discreditable vagabondhereabouts, Diana?"
"I knows most o' th' padding kind, trampers and sech. There'll be manygoing Tonbridge way to-day and tomorrow, because o' the fair."
"Then cannot we reach Tonbridge by ways unfrequented?"
"There's the field-paths, though 'twill take us a day longer--maybetwo--"
"No matter, let us go by the field-paths, Diana."
So we presently struck off from the great, dusty high-road and went byways pleasantly sequestered. By shady copse and rustling cornfield;past lonely farms and rick-yards; past placid cows that chewed,somnolent, in the shade of trees or stood knee-deep in stilly pools;past hop-gardens from whose long, green alleys stole a fragrance warmand acridly sweet; past rippling streams that murmured drowsily,sparkling amid mossy boulders or over pebbly beds; past rusticsstooped to their leisured toil who straightened bowed backs to peerafter us under sunburned hands; wheresoever I looked, I found some newmatter for delight.
The afternoon was very hot for the wind had fallen, and, beingsomewhat distressed and weary with travel, I was greatly tempted topropose a halt that I might rest and feast my sight upon the many andvaried beauties of this Kentish countryside, but seeing Diana walkwith the same smooth, tireless stride, I forbore for very shame.
The stream we were following presently brought us to a wood whereleaves rustled lazily, birds chirped drowsily and the brook whisperedslumberously; a shady wood where wearied travellers might rest awhile,and, their troubles lulled to sleep, dream of journeys ended andhappiness to be.
Here my companion paused; and watching her as she stood to stare downinto the stream that widened hereabouts to a placid pool, it seemed tome more than ever that she was akin to the beauties around us, herselfthe spirit of these solitudes.
"O Diana!" I exclaimed, beholding her rapt expression. "Do you seeit--feel it too--all the unending wonder of it?"
"Well, Peregrine," she answered, her gaze still bent upon the pool, "Ibe wondering where we shall eat and sleep to-night, for we're milesaway from Brasted--"
"Heavens, child!" I exclaimed, seating myself beside the stream. "Haveyou no soul? Cannot you soar above such base material wants? Listen tothe voice of this brook; has it no message for you?"
"It sounds cool, Peregrine, so while you rest, I'll bathe my feet."And sitting down, off came her shoes and stockings forthwith.
Now though, after my first startled glance, I kept my eyes averted, Icould not help being very conscious of these white feet as theysplashed and dabbled beside me and of their slim shapeliness.
"Diana, have you indeed no soul?" I repeated.
"If I have, it don't trouble me much!" she answered. "Why don't youdabble your feet; 'tis better than drinking?"
"O girl," I sighed, "have you no thought beyond your immediate bodilyneeds, no dreams of the greater--"
"Dreams?" she exclaimed bitterly. "It don't do for the likes o' me togo a-dreaming! Let them dream as can afford."
"But even the poorest, humblest of us may have our dreams, Diana,visions of a greater self and nobler living. Dreams are the soul'srelaxation and inspire us to higher purpose. I think it is thisfaculty that lifts us above the brute creation."
Here, finding my companion silent, I glanced up to behold her watchinga man who was approach
ing astride of a shaggy, bare-backed pony, adark-complexioned, impudent-looking fellow with bright eyes and a widemouth. At sight of us, he checked his steed with a jerk of the halter,smote his boot with the stout ash stick he carried, and burst into ashout of laughter. Here again I became extremely conscious of Diana'spretty, naked feet; but the fellow never even so much as glancedtowards them.
"Aha, Anna!" he cried. "Whose mother's j'y ha' ye got theer?" and hepointed at me. At this she turned and spoke angrily in that unknownspeech she had used with old Azor and in which he answered her. Thusthey talked awhile, Diana scowling and fierce, he grinning andimpudent.
"Hey, my buck!" he cried suddenly, tossing the ash stick to me. "Youcan tak' it; aye, tak' it--'t will be more use to you nor me--her'llneed it more nor my pony, aye, that 'er will. Don't stand none o' hertricks, pal, though her'll take a lot o' taming, an' you ain't nomatch for 'er by your looks, but lay into 'er wi' yon stick an' doyour best--" Having said which, he laughed again and, turning hispony, trotted off. Outraged by his insolence, I caught up the stickwith some notion of running after him, but Diana checked me.
"Not him!" she said. "He ain't--isn't like Gabbing Dick; he's afighting man and dangerous."
"Who is he?" I demanded.
"A Romany."
"And what did the fellow say to you?"
"Nothing to harm."
"Did he suggest--the--the same as the Peddler and that hateful oldhag?"
"Lord--and what if he did?"
"Why, then," I answered, "for your sake there is but one of twocourses that I can honourably adopt. I must either leave you at onceor marry you at the--the first opportunity."
"Marry me!" she breathed. "Marry--me?"
"Exactly!" said I, folding my arms and staring down into the stream ina very determined fashion. At this, she sat so very still and silentthat at last I ventured to glance up, to find her regarding megreat-eyed. Then, all at once, to my indignant surprise, she began tolaugh, but ceased as suddenly, and I wondered to see her eyes brimmingwith tears.
"But I--don't love you, and you don't love me--and never can!" saidshe at last.
"No!" I answered. "Nevertheless, my honour demands it!"
"What is honour?" she questioned wistfully.
"It is another name for duty!" I answered. "And my duty is to guardyou from all evil or suspicion of evil."
"What evil, Peregrine?"
"The evil of vile tongues."
"But they can't make us evil, whatever they say of us."
"But what of your maidenly reputation?" I demanded. "That hatefulpeddler-fellow and vile old hag will make your name a byword--O,decidedly I must marry you!"
"Because of your duty?"
"And because it will resolve all my other difficulties with regard toyour education; for instance, I will send you to the best and mostselect young ladies' academy--"
"What sort of a thing is that, Peregrine?"
"A place where ladies are educated in all the higher branches andtaught deportment and all the refinements and usages of politesociety."
"O!" exclaimed Diana, and sent up a sparkling shower of water with aflirt of her white foot.
"Furthermore," I continued, wiping my cheek--for some of this waterhad splashed me, "furthermore, Diana, you need never fear the futureany longer, because as my--my wife, you would of course lack fornothing."
"Meaning as you'd find me plenty to eat and drink, Peregrine?"
"Heavens, yes, child!" I exclaimed. "You would be a lady of someposition in society."
"A lady--O!" she exclaimed, and flirted her foot again.
"I beg you won't do that!" said I, wiping my face.
"But I like to, Peregrine."
"Why, pray?"
"Because you are such--oh, such a Peregrine!"
"That sounds ridiculous, Diana!"
"But means a lot, Peregrine. But tell me, if you can make your wife areal lady, you must be a gentleman and rich--are you?"
"I shall have a sufficiently comfortable fortune when I come of age."
"You will be rich and grand--like your aunt?"
"I suppose so."
"Without working for it?"
"Of course; I shall inherit it from my father."
"Any one could get rich that way, couldn't they? And when will you getyour money, Peregrine?"
"In two years' time. Meanwhile, by writing to my uncles, I can procureall the money I need."
"Why don't you?"
"I propose doing so at the very earliest opportunity." At this sheturned and looked at me with her direct, unswerving gaze, so that Igrew suddenly uncomfortable. "You don't doubt my word, do you, Diana?"I questioned, glancing down at my grotesque attire.
"No, Peregrine, I don't think you could deceive any one. Only I waswondering what brings the like o' you padding the roads dressedlike--like you are."
Hereupon, sitting down beside her, I told my story at large, much as Ihave written it here, to all of which she listened with such deepinterest and grave attention as gratified me not a little. When atlast I had ended my narrative, she sat, chin in hand, staring down atthe rippling waters so long that I must needs ask what she wasthinking.
"That 't is no wonder you are so soft!" said she.
"Soft?" I repeated indignantly.
"Yes, soft, Peregrine, and so green--so precious green! You've neverhad a chance."
"Of what?"
"Of living. And your Aunt Julia's a fool!"
"Diana--!" I exclaimed, inexpressibly shocked.
"Such a fool, Peregrine, that I'm greatly minded to let you marry mejust to see my lady's face when I take ye back and say, 'Ma'm, here'syour precious Peregrine married to a girl o' the roads, ma'm, anda-going to be a man in spite o' you, ma'm!' Oh, tush! And now let's goon--unless you'm minded to sleep in the wood yonder and no supper."
"As you will!" said I stiffly.
And so, when she had donned her stockings and shoes, we continued ourway together, though in silence now.
Peregrine's Progress Page 22