Peregrine's Progress Part 27

"Well, I am fairly conversant with Greek and Latin, though a trifle shaky on the higher mathematics, I fear."

"You've read lots an' lots o' books?"

"I have."

"And you're nineteen years old?"

"True!"

"And such a very poor, helpless thing!" said she in lofty scorn. "Oh, you may be able to teach me how t' speak an' how t' behave, but 'tis me as could teach ye how to live without friends or money! You may know how to use words but ye can't use your hands! You can talk but ye can't 'do'--you don't know how to help yourself nor n.o.body else!

You're a poor creature as would creep into a wet ditch an' perish o'

want an' misery--an' all because you're so full o' Greek an' Latin an'

fine airs that you can't even tell how many beans make five!" Having said which, all in a breath, she turned and, mounting the ladder, left me staring vacantly at the crumbling wall and greatly humbled since all these indictments I knew for very truth. Sitting thus, I heard her descend the ladder, felt her hand upon my bowed shoulder and glancing up, saw her eyes big and soft and tender.

"Come, Peregrine," said she in her gentle voice, "let us go, and while we walk you shall give me my first lesson how to talk--and behave, if you will."

"No," said I, rising, "first you shall teach me how to be a little less of a fool. Pray--how many beans do make five?"

"Why, four an' a little one, o' course," she answered, with a tremulous laugh.

"Diana," said I, clasping her hands in mine, "you were exactly right; considering all my advantages, I am indeed a poor, helpless sort of thing! You shall teach me how to become a little wiser, if possible.

So let us try to help each other like friends, Diana, like true friends."

"Yes," said she, "like true friends, Peregrine."

Then, having hidden the ladder among the hay, we went forth from the barn into the suns.h.i.+ne together.

CHAPTER XVIII

CONCERNING THE GRAMMAR OF A G.o.dDESS

A broad, white road led between gra.s.sy banks topped by hedgerows and trees whose wide-flung, rusting leaf.a.ge cast a pleasant shade, while high in the sunny air a lark carolled faint and sweet against the blue. From the distant woods stole a wind languorous and fragrant of dewy earth, of herb and flower, a wind soft as a caress yet vital and full of promise (as it were) so that as I breathed of it, hope and strength were renewed in me with an a.s.surance of future achievement.

Filled thus with an ecstasy unknown till now, I stopped suddenly to look above and round about, glad-eyed; and thus presently my eager gaze came upon my companion who had paused also, her eyes upraised to watch the flight of a mounting lark. Beholding her in this graceful posture, so vivid with life and youthful strength, all slim shapeliness from wind-kissed hair to buckled shoe, she seemed the spirit, nay the very embodiment, of this fair midsummer morning.

"O Diana!" I exclaimed. "Is it not good to be alive?"

"The lark seems to think so," she answered, her gaze still uplifted.

"Yet I wonder if he is truly happy, or sings only because 'tis his nature?"

"Because he's happy, of course!" I answered. "Who wouldn't be happy on such a morning?"

"Well, I ain't, for one!"

"Not happy, Diana--but why?"

"Because!"

"Because of what?"

"Oh, never mind! Let's go on."

"Won't you tell me?"

"No. Let's go on."

"May I not share your sorrows, Diana?" I enquired, and laid my hand on her arm; but she shook me off, though not before I had seen her eyes were suffused with tears. Therefore I caught and held her hand so that she stopped, facing me, and thus I saw her tears were falling and she not troubling to hide or wipe them away.

"Can't you let me alone?" she sobbed.

"Why, Diana!" I exclaimed. "O child, don't weep; true friends must share sorrow as well as joy! So, if we are to be friends, tell me what is troubling you."

"Yonder!" said she, pointing to the blue distance before us. "'Tis the beyond--'tis the Future as do fright me."

"But I thought you feared nothing, Diana?"

"Only myself!" she cried, throwing out her arms in a sudden wild gesture. "There be a devil inside o' me sometimes--a devil as even old Azor was afeard of an' most o' the men--"

"Then I think this must be rather a good devil, Diana."

"Ah no--no!" she cried. "'Tis a devil as drives me to wild thoughts an' ways--things as do shame me. 'Tis very fierce and strong!"

"Still, I do not think I fear this devil--or ever should, Diana."

"You? But you calls yourself a coward!"

"To be sure I did, and very properly, because I was greatly afraid of a ruffian with a bludgeon and fled accordingly. But I do not fear devils in the least."

"Because you don't know--"

"There you are quite wrong!" said I, patting the hand I still held and noting its strength and shapeliness. "For, and apprehend me, Diana, we all, each one of us, possess a devil large or small, and my own is uncomfortably big and strong occasionally, and very difficult to overcome. But this is what devils are for--"

"You're flamming me!" she cried angrily and s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away.

"A very unpleasing word! Pray what does it signify?"

"You're gammoning--"

"That is rather worse--"

"You're making game o' me!"

"On the contrary, I'm very serious! Don't you see, Diana, that all demons and devils are a means to our ultimate good?"