OF THE TONGUE OF A WOMAN AND THE FEET OF A GODDESS
Roast beef is now, has been, and probably will be, long acclaimed and
proclaimed 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, a
national asset, a very part and parcel of the British constitution.
From ages dim and remote it has gone to the building of a sturdy race
which, by dint of hard knocks and harder heads, has won for itself a
mighty Empire. Our Saxon ancestors devoured it; our Norman conquerors
scorned, tasted and--ate of it; our stout yeomen throve on it; our
squires and gentry hunt, fight, make speeches and laws upon it; and
doubtless 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 that
rustled the leaves about me and stirred Diana's glossy tresses where
she sat beside me, I ate of beef, cold, and set between slices of new
bread,--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 bee
and butterfly, the worm for the bird, and beef for the Briton. Let us
then 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 a
shuffling step, I glanced hastily up and beheld an old woman hobbling
towards us bent upon a stick, a miserably ragged, furtive, hag-like
creature who nodded and leered upon us as she came.
"Lor', Ann!" she cried in queer, piping tones. "Lorramity, Ann--so
you'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! O
Ann, 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; sit
ye down here by me and rest your old bones. And I ain't fallen in love
wi' 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 meat
with her bony, talon-like fingers in a highly offensive manner.
"Tonbridge, hey, dearie?" she mumbled, stuffing the meat into her
mouth until I wondered she did not choke to death outright. "'T is a
goodish step from 'ere, dearie," she gasped, when at last she could
speak, "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're
young--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' tame
ye 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, I
hates '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't
she? 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 'er
afore 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 old
woman. "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 creature
all that remained of our dinner, and money besides.
"A truly dreadful old person, Diana!" said I, as she joined me. "I
wonder you can stop to consort or speak with such--"
"She's a woman, after all, Peregrine, very old and worn and generally
hungry. 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 vagabond
hereabouts, Diana?"
"I knows most o' th' padding kind, trampers and sech. There'll be many
going 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--maybe
two--"
"No matter, let us go by the field-paths, Diana."
So we presently struck off from the great, dusty high-road and went by
ways 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 warm
and acridly sweet; past rippling streams that murmured drowsily,
sparkling amid mossy boulders or over pebbly beds; past rustics
stooped to their leisured toil who straightened bowed backs to peer
after us under sunburned hands; wheresoever I looked, I found some new
matter for delight.
The afternoon was very hot for the wind had fallen, and, being
somewhat distressed and weary with travel, I was greatly tempted to
propose a halt that I might rest and feast my sight upon the many and
varied beauties of this Kentish countryside, but seeing Diana walk
with the same smooth, tireless stride, I forbore for very shame.
The stream we were following presently brought us to a wood where
leaves rustled lazily, birds chirped drowsily and the brook whispered
slumberously; a shady wood where wearied travellers might rest awhile,
and, their troubles lulled to sleep, dream of journeys ended and
happiness to be.
Here my companion paused; and watching her as she stood to stare down
into the stream that widened hereabouts to a placid pool, it seemed to
me more than ever that she was akin to the beauties around us, herself
the spirit of these solitudes.
"O Diana!" I exclaimed, beholding her rapt expression. "Do you see
it--feel it too--all the unending wonder of it?"
"Well, Peregrine," she answered, her gaze still bent upon the pool, "I
be wondering where we shall eat and sleep to-night, for we're miles
away from Brasted--"
"Heavens, child!" I exclaimed, seating myself beside the stream. "Have
you no soul? Cannot you soar above such base material wants? Listen to
the 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, I
could not help being very conscious of these white feet as they
splashed 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 you
dabble your feet; 'tis better than drinking?"
"O girl," I sighed, "have you no thought beyond your immediate bodily
needs, no dreams of the greater--"
"Dreams?" she exclaimed bitterly. "It don't do for the likes o' me to
go 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's
relaxation and inspire us to higher purpose. I think it is this
faculty that lifts us above the brute creation."
Here, finding my companion silent, I glanced up to behold her watching
a man who was approaching astride of a shaggy, bare-backed pony, a
dark-complexioned, impudent-looking fellow with bright eyes and a wide
mouth. 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 a
shout of laughter. Here again I became extremely conscious of Diana's
pretty, naked feet; but the fellow never even so much as glanced
towards them.
"Aha, Anna!" he cried. "Whose mother's j'y ha' ye got theer?" and he
pointed at me. At this she turned and spoke angrily in that unknown
speech she had used with old Azor and in which he answered her. Thus
they talked awhile, Diana scowling and fierce, he grinning and
impudent.
"Hey, my buck!" he cried suddenly, tossing the ash stick to me. "You
can tak' it; aye, tak' it--'t will be more use to you nor me--her'll
need it more nor my pony, aye, that 'er will. Don't stand none o' her
tricks, pal, though her'll take a lot o' taming, an' you ain't no
match for 'er by your looks, but lay into 'er wi' yon stick an' do
your best--" Having said which, he laughed again and, turning his
pony, trotted off. Outraged by his insolence, I caught up the stick
with some notion of running after him, but Diana checked me.
"Not him!" she said. "He ain't--isn't like Gabbing Dick; he's a
fighting 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 old
hag?"
"Lord--and what if he did?"
"Why, then," I answered, "for your sake there is but one of two
courses that I can honourably adopt. I must either leave you at once
or 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 in
a very determined fashion. At this, she sat so very still and silent
that at last I ventured to glance up, to find her regarding me
great-eyed. Then, all at once, to my indignant surprise, she began to
laugh, but ceased as suddenly, and I wondered to see her eyes brimming
with tears.
"But I--don't love you, and you don't love me--and never can!" said
she 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 guard
you 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 hateful
peddler-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 to
your education; for instance, I will send you to the best and most
select young ladies' academy--"
"What sort of a thing is that, Peregrine?"
"A place where ladies are educated in all the higher branches and
taught deportment and all the refinements and usages of polite
society."
"O!" exclaimed Diana, and sent up a sparkling shower of water with a
flirt of her white foot.
"Furthermore," I continued, wiping my cheek--for some of this water
had splashed me, "furthermore, Diana, you need never fear the future
any longer, because as my--my wife, you would of course lack for
nothing."
"Meaning as you'd find me plenty to eat and drink, Peregrine?"
"Heavens, yes, child!" I exclaimed. "You would be a lady of some
position 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 a
real 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 get
your money, Peregrine?"
"In two years' time. Meanwhile, by writing to my uncles, I can procure
all the money I need."
"Why don't you?"
"I propose doing so at the very earliest opportunity." At this she
turned and looked at me with her direct, unswerving gaze, so that I
grew 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 was
wondering what brings the like o' you padding the roads dressed
like--like you are."
Hereupon, sitting down beside her, I told my story at large, much as I
have written it here, to all of which she listened with such deep
interest and grave attention as gratified me not a little. When at
last I had ended my narrative, she sat, chin in hand, staring down at
the rippling waters so long that I must needs ask what she was
thinking.
"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 never
had 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 me
just to see my lady's face when I take ye back and say, 'Ma'm, here's
your precious Peregrine married to a girl o' the roads, ma'm, and
a-going to be a man in spite o' you, ma'm!' Oh, tush! And now let's go
on--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 our
way together, though in silence now.