Peregrine's Progress Part 20

"I think you might perhaps be just a little more gentle."

"Tush, young man, gentleness don't serve a maid among the Folk!"

"What folk?"

"The Romans."

"Romans?" said I, puzzled.

"Aye, Romans. The Romany, gipsies, the poor folk."

"Are you a gipsy, then?"

"I guess so! Though old Azor, of the Romany _rawni Camlo_, do ever tell I'm no true Roman. So mayhap I'm not. However, when I grows up I takes to my little knife--by reason of the _chals_--aye, and uses it too, otherwise I might ha' been tamed by now instead o' being free to choose. Ah, yes, I might ha' been creeping the ways wi' some man's brat on my shoulders, to work while he slept, go hungry till he'd ate his fill and slave for him--ah, I hate men!" And she spat in contempt and very coa.r.s.ely. Yet I could not but notice how perfectly shaped was this vivid, scornful mouth.

"So you don't like me, young man, and I do not like you, which is a pity, seeing you buys me out o' the tribe and--"

"Bought you!" I exclaimed, utterly aghast.

"Indeed and to be sure you did. Which is what many a man has wished to do ere this. However, according to the law of our tribe we are mates--"

"Great heaven!" I exclaimed in such unfeigned consternation that she knit her black brows at me. "Impossible!" quoth I. "Ridiculous--absolutely preposterous! There is no bond between us--you are free, quite free--nay, I'll go--now--"

"Are ye a man?" cried she between snapping white teeth. "If so, you'll be the first as runs away from me. And why? Is it that I'm not good enough--fine enough--handsome enough--"

"My good girl, pray be reasonable--" I pleaded, which seemed only to enrage her the more until, finding me mute and so helpless against the torrent of her wrath, she checked upon a word, her red lips curved to sudden smile, and her voice grew singularly and sweetly soft.

"Poor young man, sit down and let us talk," said she, as if we hadn't uttered a word hitherto. So w.i.l.l.y-nilly down I sat facing her amid the fern and very ill at ease. "Poor young man," said she again, "don't go for to look so downcast over so small a matter. Here's you and here's me; what's done is done! Treat me fair and you'll find me faithful, quick with my needle, a good hand at cooking and not so unkind as they tell o' me. Your life shall be my life and mine yours. Where you go I'll follow and belike it is we shall get along without overmuch fighting and bloodshed."

"But," said I, my brain whirling, "I had no idea--I--I--never imagined anything of this sort--the whole situation is--impossible!"

"You bought me, remember!"

"Did I?"

"Of course you did!" said she, looking at me great-eyed and I saw her lips quivering. "You pays over to old Azor fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies."

"The act was slightly involuntary, as I remember!" said I.

"Talk plain, young man, talk plain! You buys me, and what's more, old Azor weds us and makes me your mort according to the law o' the Folk."

"But not according to the laws of the English Church," said I, "and I am not one of the Folk. So you are quite free: the words of old Azor cannot bind me--"

"But they do bind me, young man, now and hereafter. Besides, you have bought me away from the tribe and I may never go back and you can never leave me solitary."

Here I groaned and she sighed, but with that quiver of red lips that might mean tears or laughter.

"A truly terrible situation!" said I.

"It is, young man, it is! Though it might ha' been worse."

"How so?"

"Well, though I have no liking for you, neither your looks, nor your ways, nor your talk, you are better than Bennigo and Jochabed that are very brute beasts."

Now at this I leapt to my feet and, turning on indignant heel, strode off, but soon she was up with me and together we presently came out into the high road. And now as she went beside me I saw with added misgiving that the sun was already westering.

CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH I SATISFY MYSELF OF MY COWARDICE

After we had walked thus in silence for may be a mile or more, she spoke.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded.

"Why do you follow me?" I retorted.

"Because I must--also it is my whim--and you so wishful to be rid o'

me! And why?" she demanded sullenly.

"I prefer solitude."

"That's a pity!"

"Under the circ.u.mstances, it is!" I agreed.

"You haven't said what you mean to do wi' me!"

"Nothing!"

"Or where you takes me to?"

"I don't know."

"You must be a fool, young man. Where shall ye stay the night?"

"I don't know this either!"

"Lord, young man, you _are_ a fool!"

"I begin to suspect I am!" said I bitterly. "However, I wish you would not call me 'young man.'"