Peregrine's Progress Part 32

O the Roast Beef of Old England And O for old England's Roast Beef!"

By long a.s.sociation and a.s.similation it has become, as it were, a national a.s.set, a very part and parcel of the British const.i.tution.

From ages dim and remote it has gone to the building of a st.u.r.dy 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 appet.i.te which such n.o.ble 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 b.u.t.terfly, the worm for the bird, and beef for the Briton. Let us then be duly thankful that we are neither flower, b.u.t.terfly 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 n.o.bler 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 s.h.a.ggy, 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 d.i.c.k; he's a fighting man and dangerous."