Peregrine's Progress Part 18

"Get out--ye d.a.m.ned young thieving gipsy!" he roared, and cut at me fiercely with his whip; whereupon, forgetting dignity and all else in the sharp, unaccustomed pain, I took to my heels nor did I stop until I was safe beyond pursuit and out of sight of the scene of my humiliation.

This incident (though I could have wept for very indignation) served but to make me the more fixed in my resolution to follow the course I had marked out for myself, come what might.

My present worldly possessions amounted to some fourteen pounds and a valuable gold watch, thanks to the highwayman's grat.i.tude; moreover I remembered Anthony's promise to meet me at Tonbridge and this cheered me greatly. To Tonbridge I would go and there await his coming.

Musing thus, I was aroused by the hoof strokes of a horse and, glancing up, beheld a plump man on plump steed ambling towards me down the lane. Waiting until he was sufficiently near, I stepped into the road and saluted him.

"Good-day, sir!" said I. "Pray pardon my detaining you, but this neighbourhood is strange to me. Will you therefore have the kindness to direct me to Tonbridge?"

The plump man eyed me over, d.a.m.ned my impudence, and rode off with never another word, leaving me to stare after him mute with indignation and surprise; and so to plod on, racking my brain to discover in what particular I could have offended.

I was yet busied on this perplexing problem when I espied a pleasant-faced fellow leaning over a gate; him I accosted thus:

"Sir, I am a stranger hereabouts and should esteem it a kindness if you would direct me to Tonbridge." The man stared, open-mouthed, and hardly had I finished speaking than he threw back his head and laughed loudly.

"Sir, why do you laugh?" I demanded, a little stiffly.

"Good lad!" he grinned. "Ye be a play-actor, for sure?"

"Certainly I am--not! Pray how may I get to Tonbridge?"

"Why, like Gammer Perkins' old sow," he grinned, "one leg afore t'

other! I bean't sich a green 'un as ye think."

"Thank you for nothing!" said I sharply.

"Oh, ye can't make a fule of I!" quoth he, grinning.

"No," I retorted, "Nature has done so already!"

This seemed to tickle him mightily for some reason.

"By gum, but you be a rare un, ecod!" he cried, slapping his leg.

"Gi'e us some more, lad--I'd rayther laugh than eat any day--sing us a song--step us a jig, will 'ee? Come, I don't mind payin' for 't. I du love a good laugh an' I'll pay. I don't mind spendin' a penny--no b'

gum, 'ere's a groat--there y' are! Now tip us a song or jig--come!"

Saying which, he tossed the four-penny piece into the road at my feet.

Now at this I grew angry beyond words, but he was a large man, so I turned on indignant heel and left him leaning over the gate to stare from me to the despised coin and back again in open-mouthed wonderment.

And now, as I trudged on, my mind was exercised on the question as to whether this part of the world was peopled only by ill-tempered bullies, surly wretches, or bovine fools. So came I to a place where the ways divided and I was deliberating which to follow when I heard a shrill whistling and glancing about, beheld a large woman who talked very fast and angrily to a small man, who whistled extremely loud and shrill, heeding her not in the least. Being come to where I stood, the man paused and stopped his whistling.

"O laddie," quoth he, jerking grimy thumb at his companion, "will ye 'ark to this brimstone witch--been clackin' away all along from Sevenoaks, she 'ave! Gimme a tanner an' she's yourn--say thrippence--say a penny!" At this the woman started to berate him again and he to whistling.

"Pardon me," said I, when at last I might make myself heard, "will you be so obliging as to tell me the way to Tonbridge?"

"Look at 'im, Neddy, look at 'im!" cried the virago, stabbing bony finger at me. "Tell 'im t' close 'is trap or it's twist 'is yeres I will. Tell 'im 'e can't make fun o' we--"

"Make fun of you!" exclaimed I, falling back a pace, aghast at the suggestion. "Indeed nothing was further from my intent! Believe me, my good woman, I--"

"Don't ye dare go callin' me ye 'good woman' in them breeches an' ye shirt all tore! An' look at ye 'at--I seen better on a scarecrow, I 'ave! You're trash apeing y'r betters--poor trash, that's wot you are!

Good woman indeed! You tell 'im wot we think of 'im, Neddy--tell 'im plain an' p'inted!" Instantly the little man set thumb to nose and, spreading his fingers, wagged them at me in a highly offensive manner, at the same time e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. the one word:

"Walker!"

Which done, he nodded, the woman scowled, and so they left me.

So here it was, then, the answer to this perplexing riddle--my clothes! Mechanically I took off my hat and examined it as I had not troubled to do hitherto and saw it for a shapeless monstrosity faded to the colour of dust and with more than one hole in crown and brim.

Truly I (like the woman) had seen better on many a scarecrow. I now stooped to survey as much of my person as possible--my thick and clumsy shoes, my rough stockings, the old, cord breeches that disfigured me, hideous in themselves and rendered more so by numerous darns and ill-contrived patches. Here then, as it seemed, was the explanation for the brutality, surliness and odious familiarity I had been subjected to; for my voice and manner being out of all keeping with my appearance, I must naturally become an object of suspicion, coa.r.s.e merriment, or aversion.

Here I must needs begin to realise and justly appreciate how very much I had owed in the past to the excellence of my tailor, for, clothed in the dignity of broadcloth and fine linen I had unconsciously lived up to them and walked serene, accustomed to such deference as they inspired and accepting it as my due; but stripped of these sartorial aids and embellishings, who was to recognise the aristocrat? Nay, his very airs of birth and breeding, his customary dignity of manner would be of themselves but matter for laughter. To strive for dignity in such a hat was to be ridiculous and peering down at the cord breeches, stockings and shoes, I knew that these henceforth must govern my behaviour. But how adapt myself to these debasing atrocities? This question proving unanswerable, I determined to buy other clothes at the first opportunity.

On I tramped, rejoicing in the peaceful solitude of these leafy byways though, as the day advanced, conscious of a growing thirst and prodigious hunger. At last I espied an inn before me and hurried forward; but an inn meant people, folk who would talk and stare--remembering which, I paused, despite my hunger, and half-fearing to enter the place by reason of my clothes. As I stood thus, viewing the inn shyly and askance, a man stepped from the open doorway and came striding towards me, a jovial-faced, full-bodied man who, catching my eye, nodded good-humouredly, whereupon I ventured to address him.

"If you please, sir," said I, touching my hat respectfully (as such a hat should be touched), "can you tell me the way to Tonbridge?"

"I can, my lad, I can!" quoth he, crossing muscular hands on the handle of the thick stick he carried. "But Tonbridge is a goodish step from here and you look tired, my lad, peaked and pale about the gills.

Are ye hungry?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Ha, thought so! Must eat beef--beef's the thing! d'ye like beef, hey?"

"Yes, sir!"

"How about pudding-steak and kidney pudding--d'ye like that?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good lad! So do I! Just had some in the 'Artichoke' yonder--all hot!

Go and do likewise, my poor lad! Say Squire sent ye--and eat hearty!"

As he spoke he reached into a pocket of his smallclothes, took out a shilling, pressed it into my hand, nodded and strode away.

CHAPTER XII

THE PRICE OF A G.o.dDESS

Stomach is and ever has been a mighty factor in the affairs of mankind: the proud and lowly, the fool and sage, all alike are slaves to its imperious dictates. Let it go empty, and it is a curse, breeding cowardice, gloomy suspicions, unreasonableness, angers and a thousand evils and dissensions; fill it and it is a comfort, promoting good-fellowship, kindliness and abounding virtue. Hence, instead of saying of a man--"He has a good heart"--should not the dictum be rather--"He is the happy possessor of an excellent stomach regularly and adequately filled?" For truly how many actions, evil and good, may be directly traced to the influence of this most important organ!

Thus, to your true Philosopher, "the Stomach is the thing," and so long as his own be comfortable he may philosophise with stoical fort.i.tude upon other people's woes (and occasionally his own) more or less agreeably; but starve him and our Philosopher will grieve for himself as miserably as I--or even you. The Tooth of Remorse may be sharp but the Fangs of Hunger bite deeper still, and who shall cherish beauty in his soul or who find patience to rhapsodise on a sunset when his stomach is empty as a drum? Thus, alas, Soul goes shackled by, and Intellect is the slave of, Stomach!

All of the which foregoing points to the fact that the steak and kidney pudding had been excellent, even as my benefactor had said; wherefore, drowsing in somnolent content, I sat amid leaves beside a prattling rill musing comfortably as a well-fed young philosopher may, when these reflections were banished in sudden alarm, for upon the drowsy afternoon stillness rose a stir of leaves, a snapping of twigs, the sounds of one who burst through all obstacles in desperate flight.

Starting to an elbow I gazed wildly about and thus espied a girl who, breaking through the bushes that crowned the bank above, came bounding down the steep. At sight of me she checked her wild career and turned to stare back whence she had come, catching her breath in great, sobbing gasps very distressing to hear.

I remember the round, full column of her throat as she stood thus, her long, night-black hair a troubled torrent stirring in the gentle wind.

Then she swung about to face me, one hand upon her quick-moving bosom, the other grasping a small, evil-looking knife.