Peregrine's Progress Part 24

"From Jerry Jarvis--"

"What, the Tinker?" I exclaimed. "Do you mean the tinker who calls himself a 'literary cove'--the wonderful tinker who writes excellent poetry and travels about with a pony named Diogenes?"

"Yes, there be only one Jerry Jarvis," answered my companion. "'Twas Jerry taught me to write and lent me books to read. I've known him since I can remember and he was always kind. Jerry's a good man!"

"And writes real poetry!" I nodded. "At least I think so. I should like to meet him again."

"Well, he'll be Tonbridge way about now. I knows all his rounds an'

he's reg'lar as a clock."

"Do you know the way to Tonbridge?"

"Of course!"

"Yes, I'll go to Tonbridge to-morrow; you shall tell me the best way to get there, if you will."

"'Tis very sure you are better of your beating."

"Yes, thank G.o.d!" I answered.

"Though your eyes will be black to-morrow."

"Which will serve me right and properly for my cowardice."

"But you're not afeard o' ghosts!"

"Heaven knows," quoth I bitterly, "I might be if I saw one. And as for solitude, I don't think I should care to stay here alone night after night and day after day as you seem to have done."

"Oh, you gets used to it."

"But how do you pa.s.s your time in this solitude?"

"Reads mostly, and makes my baskets; there be few can ekal me at rush or willow. And there's good money in baskets!"

"What books have you read?"

"Not so many as I'd like."

"Tell me some of them."

"Well there's the 'Castle of Otranto' and Virgil and 'Peregrine Pickle' and the Psalms, and 'Tom Jones' and John Milton's Poems, 'Tristram Shandy.' Dryden, Plutarch's lives--oh, and a lot beside--"

"And which do you like best?"

For answer she reached the six volumes from amongst her pots and pans and these I found to be: Shakespeare, 'Tristram Shandy,' the Bible, Anson's Voyages and 'Robinson Crusoe.'

"You have shown most excellent judgment and a most catholic taste!"

said I.

"You loves books, too!" she nodded. "I sees that by the way you handles 'em. And I keeps these six here because I can read them over and over and never tires, though there's a lot I don't understand."

"That," said I, looking upon my companion with new vision, "that is because each of these books shrines some part of undying Truth which can never weary and never die. I think," said I, setting the books back in their accustomed place, "I think I will call you Diana, if I may?"

"Very well."

"And my name is Peregrine."

"You seemed to like your supper," said she, beginning to clear away the platters.

"More than words can express!"

"So did I," she nodded, "and that was worth a little risk."

"What risk, Diana?"

"Well, I tells you the duck was not bought with any of the beast's money, didn't I?"

"Yes. Pray, how did you come by it?"

"Prigged it!"

"Great heaven! You mean that you--"

"Yes. I goes to a farmhouse as I knows of to get some milk an' eggs, an' spies four ducks on the kitchen table, trussed an' stuffed all ready for the oven, so I brings one away--only one, though I might ha'

nabbed two just as easy--"

"But this was burglary!" I gasped.

"But 'twas a dainty supper!"

"This is frightful!" I exclaimed.

"But the duck was very tender--you said so."

"Oh, girl," I cried, "don't you know it is very wicked to steal? Are you aware you have broken one of G.o.d's commandments, contravened the law and made yourself liable to arrest and imprisonment--indeed, people have been hanged for less! O Diana, how could you do a thing so shameful, so unworthy your womanhood--how could you--how could you?"

But instead of answering or paying the least heed to this so earnest appeal, she continued her business of clearing away supper things and table, and thereafter begun to make herself a couch of hay in the corner remotest from mine, and all without so much as a glance in my direction.

"And now," said she at last, "if you're quite ready, I'll blow out the candle."

"Whenever you will," I answered, stretching myself upon my hay-pile.

Almost as I spoke the light vanished, and in the pitchy gloom my hearing seemed to grow the more acute; I heard her light, a.s.sured tread, the fall of her shoes as she kicked them off, the rustle of the hay that was her bed, a long-drawn, sleepy sigh. These sounds at last subsiding, I spoke:

"Have I angered you, Diana?" Here I paused for answer but getting none continued, "Though indeed my strictures were all well-meant, for I cannot bear that you should do anything unworthy--" Here, though she uttered no word, I distinguished a sudden, petulant rustle of hay as if she had kicked viciously. "And so, Diana," I continued, "I want you to promise that henceforth you will so govern your conduct, so order your life that you may become a woman, gentle and sweet and good, in whose presence no evil thing may exist, one who is herself an inspiration to good and n.o.ble things, a woman whose friends.h.i.+p is a privilege and whose--whose love would be a crowning glory. Do you understand, Diana?"

"Hold your tongue!" she cried very suddenly. "Hold y'r tongue an' go to sleep--do!"

In the fervour of my exordium I had a.s.sumed a sitting posture but at her coa.r.s.e rejoinder I fell back, inexpressibly shocked, and lay staring upon the dark, tingling with mortification that I should have wasted myself in such vain appeal and been thus callously repulsed by one who was no more than an ignorant gipsy-wench, p.r.o.ne to coa.r.s.e expressions and small larcenies, a creature knowing little difference between good and evil and caring less. But now, remembering her rough upbringing and the wild folk who had fostered her, my anger gave place to commiseration, for how could she, under such circ.u.mstances, be other than what she seemed? And yet--was she in herself good or evil?

This doubt troubled me so much that I turned to stare towards that dark corner where she lay; and listening to her gentle and regular breathing, I judged that she slept already, though more than once I heard the hay rustle as she stirred, sighing plaintively. But sleep was not for me, my mind being greatly troubled by this same unanswerable question: Was she a Diana indeed, dowered with the virtues of that chaste G.o.ddess, or only a poor, small-souled creature debased by the circ.u.mstances of her lawless origin?