HOW WE SET OUT FOR TONBRIDGE
"Oho--hey--hallo!"
Starting up, I opened sleepy eyes to be dazzled by a glory of early
sunshine, and creeping from the hay wherein I lay half-buried, I came
blinking 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 to
sleep--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 assure
you that I am not in the habit of neglecting so healthful and
necessary--"
"Soap an' towel--in th' basket--corner yonder!" said she, kneeling to
puff 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, make
a good job of it--a clean body makes a clean mind--sometimes. So scrub
hard!" At this I came where she must meet my look.
"And pray, madam," I demanded, head aloft and arms folded, "do you
thus 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 your
eyes black and face all smutty--go an' get washed first!"
At this I turned and marched out of the barn, quite forgetting soap
and 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 regards
myself I most certainly shall not--"
"Don't frown," she admonished, "for with your face so bruised and
swollen it do make you look that comical!" And laughing, she sped
away, leaving me to scowl upon the empty air.
But the morning was glorious; I stood in a dew-spangled world radiant
with sunshine while all about me the feathered host, that choir
invisible, poured forth a song of universal praise to greet this
new-born day. With this joyful clamour in my ears, this fresh, green
world 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 they
widened suddenly into a dark and silent pool; and here, well-screened
by bending willows, I ventured to bathe and found in the cool, sweet
water such gasping delight that I could have sung and shouted for pure
joy of it. Greatly invigorated and prodigiously hungry, I donned my
unlovely garments happily enough but stooping above this watery mirror
to comb my damp locks into such order as my fingers might compass, I
beheld my face, its features bruised and distorted out of all shape;
and remembering Diana had laughed at and made mock of these
disfigurements, I sat down, not troubling about my hair, and began to
muse upon her heartlessness, contrasting this with my aunt Julia's
unfailing sympathy and tender, loving care, and immediately felt
myself woefully solitary, miserably cold and desperately hungry. The
world, despite sunshine and bird-song, was a dark and evil place
wherein I stood desolate and forlorn; here, bowing my head between my
hands, I began to despair of myself and the future. But now, and all
at once, what must obtrude upon these gloomy thoughts but a vision of
ham and eggs, a tantalisation that would not be banished.
"Perry--green!" I lifted my head to listen intently; and presently
heard 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 thoughts
forgotten again, and hasted whither this voice summoned me.
"Are ye washed?" she enquired, dexterously skewering a large ham
rasher 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 got
it--nor yet where!"
So we ate, scarce speaking; I, for one, seldom lifting my gaze from
the 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 I
had 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 to
be hungry--sometimes!"
O gentle and perspicacious reader! You, madam, who being so daintily
feminine, cannot be supposed to revel in the joys of hog-flesh, flesh
of ox, sheep, bird or fish, no matter how excellent well cooked; and
you, honourable sir, who, being comfortably replete of such, seated
before your groaning board at duly frequent and regular intervals,
masticate in duty to yourself and digestion, but with none of that
fine fervour of enthusiasm which true hunger may bestow--I cry ye
mercy! For your author, tramping the roads, weary yet aglow with
exercise, hath met and had familiar fellowship with lusty Hunger, and
learned that eating, though a base necessity, may also be a joy. If
therefore your author forgetteth soul awhile to something describe and
mayhap dilate upon such material things as food and drink and their
due assimilation, here and now he doth most humbly crave your patient
forbearance.
"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 hungry
enough!"
"Diana," said I, watching her as she flitted lightly to and fro,
engaged on what she called "tidying up." "Diana, what are we going to
do?"
"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 my
clumsy shoe, "don't you think it a little unwise--very extraordinary
and--yes, extremely irregular for--for two people of opposite sexes to
consort 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 above
my head, "people seeing us together might suppose we--we
were--lovers--"
"But we ain't!" she retorted, turning to look at me. "And never shall
be--shall we?"
"No!" said I with my gaze still turned upward. "Of course not! But
none 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 that
suddenly soft, half-shy tone that I have before attempted to describe.
"Y' see," she continued, "nobody ever troubled themselves about me all
my life, except Jerry--or them as I keeps my little knife for. And you
ain't that sort, so we'll go on together until I feels like leaving
you, 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 never
understand. But I'll go along wi' you to Tonbridge."
"Very well!" said I. "And on the way, if you'll allow me, I'll teach
you to speak more correctly and to behave with a--a little
more--feminine restraint--"
"Oh--and why should I?" she demanded, cheeks flushed and proud head
aloft.
"Because," I answered, struck anew by her beauty, "though you look
like 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 ever
saw or heard. But your speech and actions often do not match your
looks."
"And your looks don't match your words or actions!" she retorted, "you
speak 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 fits
better--but you looks an' acts like nobody as ever I see afore."
"At the very first opportunity I will certainly purchase better
garments!" quoth I, scowling down at the noxious things that covered
me.
"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 trifle
shaky 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 'tis
me as could teach ye how to live without friends or money! You may
know how to use words but ye can't use your hands! You can talk but ye
can'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!" Having
said which, all in a breath, she turned and, mounting the ladder, left
me staring vacantly at the crumbling wall and greatly humbled since
all these indictments I knew for very truth. Sitting thus, I heard her
descend the ladder, felt her hand upon my bowed shoulder and glancing
up, saw her eyes big and soft and tender.
"Come, Peregrine," said she in her gentle voice, "let us go, and while
we walk you shall give me my first lesson how to talk--and behave, if
you will."
"No," said I, rising, "first you shall teach me how to be a little
less of a fool. Pray--how many beans do make five?"
"Why, four an' a little one, o' course," she answered, with a
tremulous laugh.
"Diana," said I, clasping her hands in mine, "you were exactly right;
considering all my advantages, I am indeed a poor, helpless sort of
thing! You shall teach me how to become a little wiser, if possible.
So let us try to help each other like friends, Diana, like true
friends."
"Yes," said she, "like true friends, Peregrine."
Then, having hidden the ladder among the hay, we went forth from the
barn into the sunshine together.