Peregrine's Progress Part 62

DIANA. And meet grand folk, I suppose--earls and lords and--and that sort of thing?

MYSELF. It is likely.

DIANA. Shall we--must we have--servants?

MYSELF. To be sure.

DIANA (dismally). That's it! I shouldn't mind the earls s' much--it's the grand servants as would bother me. And then--O Peregrine--if ever I talked wrong or--acted wrong--not like a lady should--O Peregrine, would you be--ashamed o' me?

MYSELF. No, no--I swear it!

DIANA. I never wanted to be a lady--but I do now, Peregrine, for your sake.

MYSELF. You are good and brave and n.o.ble, Diana, and this is better than all the fine-ladyishness in the world.

DIANA (wistfully). Well, I wish I was a lady, all the same.

MYSELF. You will soon learn, you who are so quick and clever.

It was at this period that she began to purchase books and study them with pa.s.sionate earnestness, more especially one, a thin, delicate volume that piqued my curiosity since, judging by her puckered brow and profound abstraction, this seemed to trouble and perplex her not a little.

"Peregrine," she enquired suddenly one morning, as I leaned, somewhat short of breath, upon the long shaft of the sledge-hammer, "Peregrine, what's a moo?"

"A moo?" I repeated, a little startled, "why, the sound a cow makes, I should think."

"No, it can't be that," said Diana, shaking her head and frowning at the open page of that same slim book I have mentioned, "it can't have anything to do with a cow, Peregrine, because that's what a grand lady does when she enters a ballroom; it says she moos slightly--"

"Lord, Ann!" exclaimed the Tinker. "What's she want to do that for? A moo's a beller, as Peregrine says, but who ever heard of a grand lady bellerin' in a ballroom or out--"

"I said moo!" retorted Diana. "And it's in this book."

"May I see?" I enquired. Obediently Diana rose and tendered me the volume, marking the paragraph with her finger, and at her command, I read aloud as follows.

"'UPON ENTERING A BALLROOM.

The head should be carried stately, the bust well-poised, the arms disposed gracefully. The gait should be swimming, the head graciously aslant and the lips slightly _moue_.'"

"Well?" demanded Diana, glancing at Jeremy defiantly. "Now what's it mean, Peregrine?"

"'_Moue_?" I explained gravely, "is a French word signifying 'to pout' the lips."

"Which be a bit different to bellerin'!" chuckled the Tinker. Diana merely glanced at him, whereupon he began to hammer away l.u.s.tily, in spite of which I fancied I heard him chuckle again. Turning to the t.i.tle page of the little book I saw this:

ETIQUETTE FOR THE FAIR s.e.x BEING HINTS ON FEMININE MANNERS & DEPORTMENT.

BY AN ACKNOWLEDGED SCION OF THE BON TON.

"It's a rather terrible book, I think," sighed Diana.

"Not a doubt of it," said I. "What do you think, Jerry?"

"Aye," he nodded, "I used to sell that book once, or one like it--"

"I mean," explained Diana, "it will be terribly hard to teach myself to do everything it says--"

"Indeed, I should think so," I nodded.

"You see," she mourned, "I--I didn't act a bit right when you--told me you--loved me--"

"Ah, but you did, Diana--"

"No, Peregrine, I was quite wrong and oh, most unladylike!"

"How so?"

"Well, I didn't tremble with maiden modesty or yield my hand coyly and by degrees, or droop my lashes, or falter with my breath--or--"

"Why in the world should you?"

"Because all ladies must do that--let me show you." So saying she took the book, turned over a leaf or so, and putting it into my hand, bade me read aloud, which I did, as follows:

"'UPON RECEIVING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

On this trying occasion, should the answer be in the affirmative, yield the hand coyly and by degrees to the pa.s.sion of the happy suitor's lips; at the same time the lashes must droop, the whole form tremble with maiden modesty, the breath must falter and the bosom surge a little, though perceptibly--'"

My voice faltered and in spite of my efforts I burst out laughing, while Jeremy began to hammer again; whereupon Diana wrested the book from me and stood, flushed and angry, viewing me in lofty disdain.

"O Diana," I pleaded, "don't be offended, and don't--do not trouble your dear head over that foolish book--"

"Foolis.h.!.+" she exclaimed indignantly. "Why, it's to teach ladies how to behave, and written by--"

"By a snuffy old rascal in some pothouse, like as not, Diana--" Here she turned and hasted away, but I sped after her and seeing the quiver of her lips and her dear eyes a-swim with tears, my own grew moist also.

"O Peregrine," sighed she, "I thought the book was foolish too--but for your sake--to be a lady--"

"O girl!" I cried, clasping her to me. "Dear G.o.ddess of the Silent Places, you are above all such silly pettinesses as this book; no woodland nymph or dryad could ever learn such paltry affectations and Diana herself would look a fool with a fan or a reticule. It is your own sweet, natural self I love, just as you are and for what you are."

"But you're a gentleman and I ought to be a lady."

"Be my own G.o.ddess Diana, and let me wors.h.i.+p you as such."

"Why, then, let me go, Peregrine, for your G.o.ddess has the supper to prepare!" Reluctantly I obeyed her, and coming back, found the Tinker seated upon his anvil, lost in a profound meditation.

"What is it, Jerry?" I asked him, for he had sighed deeply.

"Ah, Peregrine," said he, without lifting his head, "oh, lad, lad--I've missed more than I thought--Love's a wonderful thing, far better and more beautiful than I ever dreamed it; pain and grief lose half their bitterness when Love looks at us from a woman's eyes and Death itself would come kinder--less dreadful, for the touch o' the loved hand, the sound o' the loved voice when the shadows gather.

And--I might ha' had this blessing once--for the takin'--ah, Peregrine--if I'd only known, lad, if I'd only known!"

O joyous season of sweet simplicity, of homely kindliness and good-fellows.h.i.+p! Would to G.o.d this carpet beneath my feet might change to velvet moss and springy turf, these walls to the trees and whispering boskage I grew to love so well, this halting pen to the smooth shaft of sledge hammer or the well-worn crank of the Tinker's little forge, if I might but behold again she who trod those leafy ways with the stately, vigorous grace of Dian's very self, she who worked and wrought and sang beside me with love for me in her deep eyes and thrilling in the glory of her voice; she who sped light-footed to greet me in the dawn, who clung to kiss me "good night" amid the shadows. O season of joy so swiftly sped, to-day merging into yesterday (how should I guess you were so soon to end?), gone from me ere I had fully realised.

A hot, stilly afternoon full of the drowsy hum of insects and droning bees; birds chirped sleepily from motionless tree and thicket; even the brook seemed lulled to a slumberous hush.