Peregrine's Progress Part 49

"For if you'm a-going, Peregrine, you may as well do the marketing, and there's a mort o' stores to bring back. Besides, Anna can take her baskets t' sell, d'ye see."

So in a while, behold Diana throned on the driving seat, reins in hand, while I led Diogenes up the winding, gra.s.sy slope to the high road; this done, I climbed aboard and off we swung for Tonbridge town.

Diogenes pounded along merrily, the wheels creaked and rattled cheerily, a soaring lark carolled joyously somewhere in the sunny air above us; but Diana drove in sullen silence, her face averted pertinaciously, wherefore I scowled before me and kept silence also; thus Diogenes, wheels and lark had it all to themselves. And when we had driven thus some distance I spoke:

"You are a very bright and cheery companion this afternoon!"

At this she jerked her shoulder at me with a petulant gesture.

"Indeed," said I, "it is a great wonder that you troubled to come with me--"

"I've my baskets to sell!" she retorted in her most ungracious manner.

"Why are you so changed to me?" I questioned. "Are you still angry about that unfortunate business of the mirror, or is it because I kissed you, or--"

"Ah--don't talk of it!" she cried fiercely. "No man's ever kissed me so before--on the mouth--"

"Thank heaven!" said I.

"I hate ye for it and her most of all!"

"'Her', Diana? Whom do you mean?"

"Your fine lady aunt!"

"But, good heaven! What had my aunt Julia to do with it?"

"I don't care! I hate her--with her great, proud eyes and haughty ways--and offering me money an' all--"

"Yes," said I, "it was wrong of her to attempt to bribe you--"

"You did as much once--only it was your watch, so don't you talk! I suppose my lady thinks I'm after you for your money. Oh, I wish t' G.o.d I'd never seen you! And I shan't much longer--"

"Ah, do you mean that you will attempt to run away?" I demanded. But Diana merely stared sullenly at the road before us. "This would be very, very wrong, Diana, very cruel and very wicked because, according to the laws of the Folk, you are already my wife."

"But not according to the Church. You said so--an' you ain't of the Folk!"

"But I might turn gipsy--others have done so."

"Aye, but not your kind; you're best wi' your fine aunt to coddle you--go back to your grand house an' servants, young man, and stay there!"

"Some day, but not yet," I answered. "And when I go--you will go with me."

"Oh, shall I!" she exclaimed scornfully. "You're precious sure of yourself, ain't you?"

"I am!" I nodded, folding my arms. "And of one other thing!"

"What?"

"That you will make a very ill-tempered wife!"

"Oh, shall I!"

"You will."

"Not your'n, anyway. You ain't man enough."

"We shall see!" said I between shut teeth.

"Aha, now you're angry!" she laughed gleefully, and with some little malice.

"You are enough to enrage a saint!" I retorted, and turning my back, I bore with her gibes and fleerings as patiently as I might nor deigned her further notice, so that in a little she became mute also; and thus at last we reached Tonbridge. Scarcely were we in the High Street than, not waiting for Diana to draw rein, I leapt from the cart with such precipitation that I tripped awkwardly and rolled, grovelling, in the dust. Scrambling hastily to my feet, I saw she had pulled up and was eyeing me a little anxiously, but her voice was sullen as ever when she spoke.

"Are ye hurt?" she questioned ungraciously.

"Thank you--no!" I answered, brushing the dust from my bruised knees.

"All right!" she nodded, "I'll meet ye in the yard at 'The Chequers'--half-past four!" and away she drove without so much as one backward glance.

The place was busy by reason of the fair, the wide roadway thronged with vehicles, and as I edged my way along the narrow, crowded pavements gay with chintz and muslin gowns, polished boots, flowered waistcoats and the rest of it, I felt myself a blot and blemish, a thing to be viewed askance by this cheery crowd in its holiday attire.

A short-legged man in a white hat roared at me to hold his horse; a plump and benevolent old lady earnestly sought to bestow upon me twopence in charity, but I paid no heed and began to seek eagerly for a tailor where I might exchange my sorry garments for things less poverty-stricken.

And presently, to my great relief, I beheld a shop above whose crystal window panes was a sign with this inscription:

VAUGHAN TAILOR & SARTORIAL ARTIST To The n.o.bILITY & GENTRY

In this window was displayed cloth of every kind and colour, together with framed pictures of stiff-limbed young gentlemen in most trying and uncomfortable postures and clad in garments innocent of crease or wrinkle.

Incontinent I lifted the latch and entered the shop to behold a stout young gentleman contorting himself horribly in a vain endeavour to regard the small of his back.

"There!" he gasped. "The breeches! Told you they were too tight--I heard 'em crack--they're too infernal tight, I tell ye!"

"Oh, dear me, impossible, sir!" sighed a pale, long-visaged person, flourishing a tape-measure. "A gent's breeches can't be too tight; the tighter they are the more _ton_! Indeed, tight breeches, sir, are--What's for you, my lad?" he enquired, catching sight of me.

"I desire to purchase a suit of clothes."

"Oh, dear me--no, no!" sighed the long-visaged person. "Not here, lad, not here! We build garments for gentlemen only, no ready-made goods here; we deal strictly with the n.o.bility and gentry of the county--go away, lad, go away!" Here he flapped his tape-measure at me, the stout gentleman stared at me, and I crept forth into the street again among the dainty, sprigged gowns and high-collared coats amid which I wandered somewhat disconsolate until by chance my wandering gaze lighted upon a small, dingy shop in whose narrow window squatted a small, humpbacked, bespectacled man plying needle and thread with remarkable speed and dexterity. It was a small shop but so stuffed and crammed with garments of all kinds that they had overflowed into the street, for the narrow doorway was draped, choked and festooned with coats, breeches, pantaloons, shirts, waistcoats, stockings, boots, shoes, a riotous and apparently inextricable tangle.

Into this small and stuffy shop I forced myself a pa.s.sage, whereupon its small, busy proprietor glanced up at me over the rim of his large spectacles.

"Well, son, what d'ye lack?" he demanded.

"Clothes, if you please," said I humbly.

"And that's no lie, neether--so ye do, by James!" he nodded.

"Can I purchase some?"