diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/62964-8.txt | 7357 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/62964-8.zip | bin | 133542 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/62964-h.zip | bin | 331097 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/62964-h/62964-h.htm | 10006 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/62964-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 91460 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/62964-h/images/i_cover.jpg | bin | 94828 -> 0 bytes |
9 files changed, 17 insertions, 17363 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e616492 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #62964 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/62964) diff --git a/old/62964-8.txt b/old/62964-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9fb0cd9..0000000 --- a/old/62964-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7357 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Peacock Feather, by Leslie Moore - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Peacock Feather - A Romance - -Author: Leslie Moore - -Release Date: August 18, 2020 [EBook #62964] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PEACOCK FEATHER *** - - - - -Produced by D A Alexander and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - THE PEACOCK FEATHER - - A ROMANCE - - BY - - LESLIE MOORE - - AUTHOR OF "AUNT OLIVE IN BOHEMIA" AND "THE NOTCH IN - THE STICK" - - G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS - NEW YORK AND LONDON - The Knickerbocker Press 1914 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1914 - BY - ALSTON RIVERS, LTD. - - Second Printing - - The Knickerbocker Press, New York - - - - - To - - MRS. G. HERBERT THRING - WITH THE AUTHOR'S LOVE - AND GRATITUDE - - _September 30, 1913_ - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - PROLOGUE 1 - - CHAPTER - - I. THE PIPER 8 - II. THE FIRST-BORN 21 - III. THE DESERTED COTTAGE 26 - IV. PETER TAKES A RESIDENCE 35 - V. THE SOUL OF A WOMAN 44 - VI. AN OLD GENERAL 52 - VII. A WONDERFUL OFFER 69 - VIII. CHÂTEAUX EN ESPAGNE 79 - IX. A REQUEST 88 - X. THE LADY ANNE 94 - XI. A CONCERT--AND AFTER 103 - XII. A DISCLOSURE 114 - XIII. A MOONLIGHT PIPING 127 - XIV. LE BEAU MONDE 131 - XV. CONFIDENCES 143 - XVI. LETTERS 154 - XVII. A THUNDERSTORM 171 - XVIII. THE EVERLASTING WHY 183 - XIX. PIPER AND AUTHOR 193 - XX. FAREWELL 205 - XXI. A WOUNDED SKYLARK 208 - XXII. CANDLES AND MASSES 216 - XXIII. DUM SPIRO, SPERO 229 - XXIV. DEMOCRITUS 235 - XXV. AT A FAIR 245 - XXVI. ON THE CLOUD 262 - XXVII. A MIRACLE 271 - XXVIII. THE FINE WAY 278 - XXIX. FOUND 289 - XXX. THE RETURN 296 - XXXI. DEMOCRITUS ARRIVES TO STAY 302 - XXXII. PER ASPERA AD ASTRA 306 - - - - -The Peacock Feather - - - - -PROLOGUE - - -It was sunset. - -The sea, which all day long had lain blue and sparkling, was changing -slowly to a warm grey shot with moving purple and gold. The sky flamed -with crimson and amber. But gradually the vivid warmth sank and faded; -day slowly withdrew into the soft embrace of night, and a blue-grey -mantle covered sea and sky and land. One by one the stars shone forth -till overhead the mantle was thickly powdered with their twinkling eyes. - -Away across the water the gleam from the lantern of a lightship -appeared at intervals, while every now and then a stronger flash from -a distant lighthouse lit up the darkness. It flung its rays broadcast, -across the water, across the land, bringing momentarily into startling -prominence a great mass of building standing on the top of the cliffs. - -In the building a man was clinging with both hands to a couple of iron -bars that guarded the narrow opening of his cell window. He could see -across the water and up to the star-embroidered mantle of the sky. - -Night after night for three years he had looked at that moving water. -He had seen it lying calm and peaceful as it lay to-night; he had seen -it rearing angry foam-crested waves from inky blackness. He had heard -its soft, sighing music; he had heard its sullen roar. - -Three years! More than a thousand nights he had looked from that narrow -slit of a window, his hands fast clutching the bars, his feet finding -slight and precarious foothold in the uneven surface of the wall! - -And to-night he looked for the last time. To-morrow he would be free, -free as the sea-gulls which circled and dipped in the water along the -rocky coast or rose screaming and battling against the tearing wind. - -He slipped down from the window and crossed to his pallet bed. - -Free! Until to-night he had never dared even to whisper that word to -his inmost soul. Throughout the long three years he had refused to let -himself think for more than the day, the moment. He had held his mind -in close confinement, a confinement even more stringent than that to -which his body was subjected. - -Now in that little cell he opened the windows of his soul and let his -mind go forth. Radiant, exuberant, it escaped from its cage. It came -forth singing a Te Deum. Only a few more hours and dawn would break. -His body would know the liberty he had already given to his mind. He -was too happy to sleep. He lay wakeful and very still on his bed, the -silence only occasionally broken by the footfall of a warder in the -passage outside. - -The night wore on. Gradually the stars dropped back one by one into the -sky, and away in the east a streak of saffron light appeared. It was -day at last. - - * * * * * - -Six hours later a man was walking along a country road. His step was -light and his face held up to meet the fresh March wind that was -blowing across the fields and hedges. - -Daffodils nodded their golden heads at him from the banks as he passed, -and tiny green buds on the brown branches were pushing forward to the -light. The whole world was vital, radiant, teeming with growth. - -The man held one hand in the pocket of his grey flannel coat, his -fingers pressing on two envelopes which lay there. They had been handed -to him just before he left the great grey prison. He had not yet opened -them. For one thing, he wanted to put a certain distance between his -present self and the past three years before he broke the seals. For -another thing, he was denying himself, prolonging the pleasure of -anticipation. - -Now he saw a stile before him, set in the hedge a little way back from -the road, and with a patch of grass before it. In the grass gleamed a -few pink-tipped daisies. - -The man went across the grass and sat down on the stile. He pulled the -two letters from his pocket and looked at them. One was addressed in a -masculine handwriting, small, square, and very firm. The other writing -was delicate but larger. It was evidently that of a woman. - -He opened the firmly addressed envelope first, and pulled out its -contents. A strip of pink paper fluttered to the ground, falling among -the daisies. He picked it up without looking at it while he read the -contents of the letter. - - "I have no desire that you should starve, and therefore send you the - enclosed. Kindly understand, however, that I do not wish to see you - for the present. When you have partially blotted out the past by - obtaining decent work and proving your repentance, I will reconsider - this decision. - - "RICHARD CARDEN." - -The cheque was for two hundred pounds. - -The man laughed, but the sound of his laugh was not very pleasant. - -He broke the seal of the second letter. - - "I did not write before," the letter ran, "because I did not want you - to brood over what I have to say, though you must have known that my - saying it was inevitable. Of course you have known from the first - that you have by your own conduct put an end to our engagement. I did - not write at once and tell you so myself, for fear of adding to your - pain. But you must have understood. You will not attempt to see me, or - write to me. It would be quite useless. I am going to be married in - three weeks' time. I am very sorry for you and I would have helped you - if I could, but you must see for yourself it is impossible. There is - nothing now to say but good-bye. - - "M." - -When the man had finished reading he sat very still, so still that a -robin hopped down near him and began investigating the toe of his boot. -Finding nothing in a piece of black leather of interest, it flew up to -the hedge, and regarded the motionless figure with round beady eyes. At -last the figure moved. The robin flew a couple of yards farther away, -then perched again to watch. - -It saw the man tearing white and pink paper into very small pieces. -Then it saw him bend down and dig a hole in the earth with a -clasp-knife. It saw him place the pieces of torn paper in the hole and -replace the earth, which he pressed firmly down. Then it heard the man -speak. - -"At least I will give the past decent burial." - -The robin did not understand the words. What has a gay little -redbreast to do with either the past or the future? The moment is quite -enough. - -Then the man stood up, and the robin saw his face. It had grown much -older in the last twenty minutes. - -"And now," said the man jauntily, though his eyes belied the -carelessness of the words, "for the open road." - -Perhaps the robin understood that speech. At any rate it sang a sweet -sturdy song of Amen. - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE PIPER - - -Peter was sitting under a hedge, playing on a penny whistle. Behind him -was a bush, snowy with the white flowers of the hawthorn. In front of -him was a field, warm with the gold of buttercups. Away in a distant -valley were the roofs of cottages and a farmhouse. The smoke from one -of its chimneys rose thin and blue in the still air. It was all very -peaceful, ideally English. - -Peter was an artist. It seemed almost incredible that a tin instrument -which could be purchased for a penny could be made to produce such -sounds. - -He was playing a joyous lilt. You could hear the song of birds and feel -the soft west wind blowing from distant places; and through it was a -measured beat as of feet walking along the open road. Yet under all -the gaiety and light-heartedness lay a strange minor note, a note that -somehow found reflection in Peter's blue eyes. - -Peter finished his tune and put the whistle-pipe in his pocket. From a -wallet beside him he pulled out a hunch of bread and cheese and a very -red and shiny apple. He opened a large clasp-knife, cut the hunch of -bread in two, and fell to eating slowly. His hands were long-fingered, -flexible, and very brown. There was a lean, muscular look about Peter -altogether. His clothes were distinctly shabby. They consisted of a -pair of grey trousers, very frayed at the edges, and with a patch of -some darker material on one knee; a soft white shirt, spotlessly clean; -and a loose jacket, grey flannel like the trousers. A felt hat lay on -the ground near him. In it was fantastically stuck a peacock feather. -Beside the hat was a small bundle rolled up in a bit of sacking. - -Peter finished the bread and cheese and the apple, and put the -clasp-knife back into his pocket. From another pocket he pulled out -a small book, the cover rather limp and worn. He tucked the bundle -behind his back and opened the book. Its contents did not long engross -him. The warm May sun and the fact that he had tramped a considerable -number of miles since sunrise had a soporific effect on Peter. His -fingers gradually relaxed their hold, the book fell to the ground, and -Peter slept. - -His slumber was so deep that he did not hear the footfall of a man -on the soft grass, nor did he stir when the man came near and stood -looking down upon him. He was a man of medium height and build, with -brown hair, small moustache, and rather light eyes. There was about him -an air of finish, yet he quite escaped the epithet of dapper. - -For a moment or so he stood looking down upon the recumbent figure. He -took in every detail, from the frayed trousers and the spotless shirt -to the fantastic feather in the hat. He saw that the sleeper's face was -clean-shaven, bronzed, and with rather high cheek-bones. The hair was -dark. There was in the sleeping face a look of quiet weariness. To the -man watching him it was the face of one who was lonely. - -Then his eye fell upon the book. He stooped down and gently picked it -up. The book was open at the following lines: - - "Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, - I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; - Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene. - He may answere, and say this or that; - I do no fors, I speke right as I mene. - Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, - I never thenk to ben in his prison lene. - - "Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat, - And he is strike out of my bokes clene - For ever-mo; ther is non other mene. - Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, - I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; - Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene." - -Ten minutes later Peter stirred and yawned. He sat up and began to -stretch himself. But in the very act thereof he stopped, and a gleam of -humorous amazement shot into his blue eyes, for on the grass beside him -a man was sitting, calmly reading from his own rather shabby book. - -The man looked up. - -"Don't let me interrupt you," said Peter, with a brilliant smile. - -The man laughed. "I ought to apologize," he said. "The fact is, when I -first saw you lying there asleep I took you for a tramp. Then I came -nearer and saw my mistake. I also saw the book. The temptation to talk -to a man who obviously loved the open air and read Chaucer was too much -for me. I sat down to wait till you should awake." - -"Very good of you," replied Peter. "But you didn't make a mistake, I am -a tramp." - -"So am I," responded the other, "on a walking tour." - -Peter sat up very deliberately now. He broke off a piece of grass, -which he began to nibble. Through the nibbling he spoke: - -"But I presume that your walking tour is of fairly brief duration; mine -has lasted rather more than two years." - -The other man looked at him curiously. "You love the open as much as -that?" - -"Oh, I love the open well enough," replied Peter airily; "but that's -not the whole reason. I can't afford a roof." - -Now, the very obvious reply to this would have been that Peter, a young -man and, moreover, clearly one of education, might very well work for a -roof. But it being so extremely obvious that this was what Peter might -do, it was also obvious that there was some excellent reason why he -did not do it. - -The man was silent. Peter appreciated his silence. - -"The fact is," said Peter deliberately, "that prior to my starting this -'walking tour,' as you so kindly term it, I had spent three years in -prison for forgery and embezzling a considerable sum of money." - -"Ah!" said the man quietly, watching him. - -"There are always the colonies," went on Peter carelessly. "But -somehow I've a predilection for England. Of course, in England there -is the disadvantage that you're bound to produce references if you -want work--I mean the kind of work that would appeal to me. I dare say -I might get taken on as a day labourer on a farm, but even there my -speech is against me; it makes people suspicious." - -"But how do you manage?" asked the other curiously. - -Peter laughed. He pulled his whistle-pipe from his pocket. - -"I pipe for my bread," he said. "They call me Peter the Piper." - -The other man nodded. "Good," he said; "I like that. There's a flavour -of romance about it that appeals to me. My name's Neil Macdonald." - -Peter looked at him. "Then you don't mind introducing yourself to -a jail-bird?" he asked jauntily; but there was an underhint of -wistfulness in the words. - -"My dear fellow," responded Neil, "I have some intuition. It's so -absolutely apparent that you must have been shielding some one else, -that----" - -Peter interrupted him. The pupils of his blue eyes had contracted till -they looked like two pinpricks. - -"I beg your pardon," he said slowly; "I said that _I_ spent three years -in prison for forgery and embezzlement." He looked Neil full in the -face. - -Neil held out his hand. "I apologize," he said; "it was extremely -clumsy of me." - -Peter took his hand with a light laugh. "It was rather decent of you, -all the same," he said, "though, of course, utterly absurd. You're the -first man, though, that's committed the absurdity. You happen, too, to -be the first man with whom I've shaken hands since I freed myself from -the clasp of a Salvation Army brother who met me outside the prison -gates and talked about my soul. I hadn't the smallest interest in my -soul at the moment. I wanted a cigarette and a drink more than anything -in heaven or earth. He was a good-meaning fellow, of course, but--well, -just a little wanting in tact. Of course, there were others ready to -hold out the hand of pity if I'd asked for it. But there'd have been -something slippery about the touch. The oil of charity doesn't appeal -to me." - -There was a pause. Somewhere in the blueness a lark was singing, an -exuberant feathered morsel, pouring forth his very soul in song. - -Neil broke the silence. "Pipe to me," he said. - -Peter laughed. He pulled the whistle from his pocket, and his fingers -held it very lovingly. He put it to his lips. - -First there came a couple of clear notes, like a bird-call; they -repeated themselves in the distance and were answered. Then the air -became alive with the joyous warbling of feathered choristers, and -through the warbling came the sound of little rills chasing each other -over brown stones, where fish darted in the sunlight and dragonflies -skimmed. Next, across a meadow--one knew it was a meadow--came the -sound of little feet and children's laughter. And the sound of the -laughter and the babbling of the water and the song of the birds were -all mingled in one delicious bubbling melody drawn from the very heart -of Nature. It came to a pause. You felt the children, the birds, and -the brooks hold their breath to listen. And then from the branches of -some tree a hidden nightingale sang alone. - -Peter stopped, wiped the pipe on his sleeve, and put it back in his -pocket. - -"Marvellous!" breathed Neil softly. - -Again there was a pause, and again it was broken by Neil. - -"I say, will you come back and have lunch with me?" There was a frank -spontaneity about the question. - -Again the wistful look crept into Peter's blue eyes. The suggestion -coming suddenly was evidently somewhat of a temptation. - -"I believe I'd like to," he said lightly, "but----" - -"Well?" asked Neil. - -Peter shook his head. "I think not," he said. "There are quite nine -hundred and ninety-nine reasons against it, and only one for it." - -"And isn't the one reason good enough to counteract the others?" - -Peter laughed. "I fancy not. The high-road has claimed me, the -hedge-side is my dining-place, the sky my roof. When it is too unkind -to me, I seek shelter in a barn. I've struck up a kind of silent -intimacy with cows, sheep, and horses. I've found them, indeed, quite -pleased to welcome me." - -"It must be horribly lonely," said Neil impulsively. - -Peter looked away across the valley. "I wonder," he said. "Perhaps it -only appears so. Formerly I walked the earth in company, and when I got -near enough to a fellow-creature to believe that I had the right to -call him comrade, I suddenly realized that I was looking into the face -of a complete stranger. Somehow the loneliness struck deeper home at -those moments. Now--well, one just expects nothing." - -Neil glanced down at the book he was still holding in his hand. - -Peter smiled. - - "Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat, - And he is strike out of my bokes clene - For ever-mo ... - Sin I am free I counte him not a bene," - -he quoted. "There's a freedom about that, a kind of clean-washedness -which is very wholesome; the fresh rain upon one's face in high places -after a room full of hot-house flowers." He stopped. "Heaven knows why -I am talking to you like this," he said whimsically. - -"I don't fancy," said Neil calmly, "that you've ever been really in -love." - -"No?" smiled Peter. - -"Of course, you think you have," went on Neil. - -"Indeed?" smiled Peter again. - -"Oh, I'm not going to argue with you," said the other good-humouredly, -"only when the time comes that you do love, just do me the favour to -remember what I've said." - - "'He is strike out of my bokes clene,'" - -quoted Peter again, looking at Neil lazily. - -"There is," said Neil, "such a thing as invisible ink. There are -certain words written with it on the pages of our lives. The pages look -uncommonly blank, but should they chance to catch certain heat-rays, -the words written upon them will stand out very black and clear." - -"Humph!" said Peter. - -"Wait and see," said Neil. - -"All right," said Peter. And then he got to his feet. He picked up -his wallet, bundle, and the hat with the peacock feather. He put it -jauntily on his head. - -"I must be moving on," he said. - -Neil, too, had risen. He held out the limp book. Peter took it and put -it in his pocket. - -"Chaucer or you," he said, "which am I to believe?" - -"Believe which you like," retorted Neil. "Time will bring the proof. -I'm glad I met you." He held out his hand. - -Peter took it. "Common politeness," he said, "should make me echo -that sentiment. Truth obliges me to hesitate. Yet frankly I like you. -Perhaps you have sufficient acumen to guess at the reason for my -hesitation. Well, good-bye." - -Peter vaulted over a stile that led into the high-road. He turned and -waved his hat in the direction of the man looking after him, then -started off at a swinging pace. Ten minutes took him into the valley, -then he began to ascend. Part way up the hill he turned and looked at -the now distant field. - -"Oh, damn!" he said half ruefully. "Why the devil did I meet him!" - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE FIRST-BORN - - -It was about five o'clock in the afternoon that Peter entered a small -market-town. - -There were a good many people in the streets, for it was market-day, -and there was an air of leisurely business about the place; completed -business chiefly, for already stalls were being dismantled, and unsold -butter, eggs, and chickens were being repacked in big baskets. Small -groups of men stood about together discussing the weather and the -prospect of the various crops. Carts drove slowly down the steep High -Street, returning to outlying farms. - -Peter walked up the hill. One or two people turned to look at him. -Something about him--probably the peacock feather in his hat--attracted -attention. - -Half-way up the street stood a big red-brick post-office. It was an -imposing edifice, and seemed to dominate the other buildings with an -air of Government importance. - -As Peter approached it he felt his heart beating quickly. On the steps -he paused for a moment. A girl with a small Yorkshire terrier tucked -under her arm was just coming out. She saw Peter on the steps, and kept -her hand on the swinging door in order that he might enter. There was -nothing for it but to go forward quickly and catch the door from her -with a murmured word of thanks. Peter was inside the post-office. He -approached the counter. - -"Are there any letters for the name of Carden?" he asked. And he could -hear his heart going klip-klop. - -The young woman behind the counter glanced at him. Her look was rather -disdainful, and she turned in a nonchalant fashion to the pigeon-holes -behind her. She did not think it likely there would be letters. The -young man was--A, B, C. She took a parcel and several letters from the -pigeon-hole marked C and ran carelessly through them. - -Peter saw her stop. She put back several documents and came towards -him. There was a letter and a parcel in her hand. - -The girl looked at him. She was a little puzzled. Perhaps her first -instinct had been at fault. In spite of the shabby coat and hat and the -extremely fantastic feather, he did not look altogether a tramp. She -handed the things across the counter. - -"Thanks," said Peter. He tried hard to keep a note of excited pleasure -out of his voice. - -He put the letter into his pocket, but kept the parcel in his hand. -He came out of the post-office and turned up the hill, walking rather -quickly. He passed shops and some old-fashioned houses in a row. At -the top of the street was a big house wall-enclosed. He left it on his -right, and passed more houses of the villa order, evidently recently -built. Presently they gave place to cottages. Peter quickened his pace, -and all the time he was fingering that brown-paper parcel. At last the -cottages, too, were left behind, and there was nothing but hedges and -fields before him. - -Peter turned into one of the fields and sat down on the grass. He took -out his clasp-knife and cut the string that held the parcel, pulling -forth the contents. A book, green-covered, with the title in gold -lettering, was in his hand. - -"_Under the Span of the Rainbow_, by Robin Adair," so the lettering -ran. The last was, of course, a pseudonym. - -Peter looked at it; then slowly, shyly, he opened the cover. - -With almost just such reverence might a mother look on her new-born -babe, marvelling at her own creation, and quite regardless of the fact -that the same great miracle has been performed times out of number in -the world, and will be performed again as frequently. - -This was Peter's child, his first-born. Through months of slow travail -it had been created and brought forth. Under hedges in the open air, in -barns by the light of a single candle, he had worked while dumb beasts -had looked at him with mild, wondering eyes. In sunshine and in cloud -it had been with him; soft winds had rustled its pages, cold blasts had -crept under doors and chilled his fingers while he wrote. And now at -last, fair and in dainty garb, it came forth to the world, breathing -the clean freshness of open spaces, of sun and wind and rain; tender -with the magic of nights, buoyant with the vitality of sunrise. And -yet through it all, as through his piping, lay the strange minor note, -the underhint of longing. - -Peter looked up. His blue eyes were dancing with happiness. - -"Ouf!" he said with a sigh of supreme content, stretching his long lean -limbs; "it's good to have done it." - -Then he opened the letter. It was merely a typewritten communication -from the publishers, informing him that they were sending him one copy -only of his book, according to his wish, and were addressing both it -and the letter to the post-office he had mentioned. It ended by hoping -that the book would be successful, to their mutual advantage. - -The businesslike tone of the letter brought Peter down to earth again. -He had been temporarily in heaven. The descent, however, was not a -jarring one. - -He replaced the book in the brown paper, put it carefully in his -wallet, and started off across the fields. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE DESERTED COTTAGE - - -For some time there was nothing but open country around him, though in -the far distance he saw an occasional farmhouse. - -At last, however, he saw the roofs of cottages, and realized that he -was approaching a village. The square tower of a church, and a big -house half-hidden by trees on higher ground beyond the cottages, made -it probable that it was more than merely a hamlet. - -Just before he reached it a sharp turn in the lane brought him upon a -very minute copse set a pace or so back from the road, and in the copse -was a small cottage or hut. There was a forlorn look about it, and the -windows were broken. - -Peter peered through the trees. There was no sign of life whatever. The -place was apparently deserted. A couple of yards farther on a small and -broken gate led into the copse. The gate was hanging on one hinge in a -dejected and melancholy fashion. - -Peter propped it up with a little pat of encouragement before he -passed through it and up among the trees to the cottage door. It was -unfastened, and Peter went in. He found himself in a small square room. -To his amazement it was not empty, as he had imagined to find it. On -the contrary, it was quite moderately furnished. - -A low bed stood at one side of the room; it was covered with a faded -blue quilt. A cupboard with a few tea-things on it stood against one -wall. A table, old and worm-eaten, was in the centre of the room. There -were two wooden chairs, and a wooden armchair with a dilapidated rush -seat. There was a big open fireplace with an iron staple in the wall; -from this staple was suspended an iron hook. Both were thickly covered -with rust. On the shelf above the fireplace was a clock; it was flanked -by a couple of copper candlesticks covered with verdigris. Ragged -yellow curtains hung before the broken window. - -And everywhere there was dust. It lay thickly on the table and the -chairs; the tea-things on the cupboard were covered with it. It lay -upon the floor in a soft grey carpet, thicker at the far side of the -room, where the wind through the broken window had swept it in a little -drift against the wall. - -Peter looked around in bewilderment. During how many years had this -dust accumulated? What memories, what secrets, lay buried beneath it? - -He looked towards the fireplace. Charred embers were within it. By -the hearth lay an old newspaper. Peter picked it up. It tore as he -touched it. It bore the date May the nineteenth, eighteen hundred and -sixty-six. Forty-five years ago! Had this cottage lain uninhabited for -forty-five years?--thirteen years before he was even born! He glanced -up at the clock. It had stopped at twelve o'clock--midnight or noon, -who was to say? - -Peter turned and again looked round the place. At the foot of the bed -was another door. He opened it, and found himself in a minute room or -scullery. It contained a copper, a row of shelves, a pump, and an iron -bucket. The window here, too, was broken, the place as thickly shrouded -in dust. - -Peter returned to the dwelling-room. - -"Apparently I have it all to myself," he said; "and for to-night at -least I intend to quarter here, for if I'm not much mistaken there's a -storm coming up from the west." - -Peter put his wallet and bundle down on the table and went out into the -copse. He began collecting bits of dead wood from under the trees, and -there was abundance strewn on the ground, also fir-cones, for the trees -were Scotch firs. It was already drawing on to dusk, and clouds were -being blown across the sky by a soft wet wind from the west. - -As Peter had just collected his second armful of sticks, he heard steps -coming along the road. He paused before entering the cottage to see who -it might be. They were light steps, probably those of children. - -In a moment they came in sight--two little girls, chattering eagerly, -and walking quickly, for the sky looked threatening. As they neared the -copse one of the children looked up. She clutched her companion's arm. - -"Look there!" she said. There was terror in her voice. - -The other child looked, screamed, and they both set off running -frantically down the road. - -"Great Scot!" ejaculated Peter; "did they take me for a ghost, or do -they think I'm a poacher, and have gone to inform the neighbourhood? -Trust they won't disturb me; I've no mind to turn out into the deluge -that's coming." - -A couple of large drops of rain splashed down on his hand as he spoke, -and he re-entered the cottage. He placed his second armful of sticks -beside the fireplace. First he cleared away the charred embers in -the hearth, then began arranging the newly collected sticks with the -skill born of long practice in the art of fire-making. This done, he -went into the inner room and took up the bucket. The pump was stiff -with rust and disuse, but Peter's vigorous arm soon triumphed over -the stiffness, and, filling the bucket with water, he returned to the -living-room. Here, with the aid of a couple of ragged cloths, he made a -partial onslaught against the dust. The room became at least habitable -to one not over-fastidious. Moth, by some miracle, seemed to have left -the place untouched, though the bedclothes were damp with mildew. - -The cleansing process at least partially achieved, Peter undid his -wallet and bundles. From them he took a pot, a tin cup, a couple of -eggs, a hunch of bread, and small piece of butter wrapped in a cloth. - -He filled the pot with water, put the two eggs in it, and hung it on -the hook in the fireplace. Then he struck a match and held it under the -pile of sticks. The little orange flame twined itself gently round one -twig. It twisted upward to another and yet another. There was the sound -of soft crackling gradually increasing to a perfect fairy fusillade. -The flames multiplied, leapt from stick to stick, while among their -orange and blue light poured a pearly-grey smoke. - -"Achieved," said Peter with a sigh, and he seated himself in the -armchair watching the dancing flames, and every now and then flinging -on an extra stick. - -Outside the rain was beating on the roof and splashing through the -broken window, while the wind, which had begun to rise, moaned gently -through the fir-trees, creaking their branches. - -"Thanks be to the patron saint of all wayfarers," said Peter, "that I -found this shelter. And if I knew his name I'd indite a poem to his -memory." - -And then he fell to thinking of the young man who, earlier in the day, -had intruded on his slumbers and read poems from his Chaucer. That -he was a pleasant young man Peter had already conceded. That he had -combined an extraordinary mixture of intuition with a certain lack of -reticence almost amounting to want of tact, Peter also conceded. That -there was nothing about him of very deep psychological interest, Peter -knew. But--well, he was a man of gentle birth, and he had treated -Peter--the wayfaring Peter with frayed trousers and a patch on one -knee--as an equal. It had left a very decided sensation of pleasure. -Peter acknowledged to himself that he would have liked to accept the -young man's invitation; and yet if he had--well, he would probably have -drivelled more than he had done, and he had drivelled quite enough. -That was the worst of unaccustomed and genuine interest from one of -your fellow-men. It was like wine to one not used to it--it mounted -to your brain, you became garrulous. To those who are used to wine, -one glass, two glasses, nay, even three glasses, means nothing. To -those who have not tasted the liquor for years, half a glass may prove -unsteadying. It was not even as if it would be offered to him with -sufficient frequency for him to become accustomed to it. No; most -assuredly the wine of sympathy was not for him. - -And then he stopped suddenly in his meditations, for the water in the -pot was boiling. - -When Peter had finished his meal he pulled a brier-wood pipe from his -pocket, filled it with tobacco, and lit it. He also lit a candle, which -he set in one of the copper candlesticks and placed upon the table. -Then once more he drew his book from the brown-paper covering. - -For a time he sat very still, only moving a hand to turn the pages. The -candle-light threw his shadow large and grotesque on the dingy wall -behind him. Occasionally the shadow wavered as the candle flickered -in the draught from the broken window. The fire had died down to a -few glowing spots set in a bed of grey ashes. Outside the rain fell -steadily, and the wind still creaked the branches of the fir-trees. - -At last Peter closed the book. He rolled his piece of sacking into a -bundle to form a pillow, and stretched himself on the stone floor -before the hearth. It was preferable, he considered, to the mildewy bed. - -"I wonder," he mused, "who were the former owners of this place. No -doubt they are long since dead. Well, if so, on their souls, and on all -Christian souls, sweet Jesu, have mercy!" He made the sign of the Cross. - -In ten minutes Peter was asleep. He slept well, but he dreamt, and -once or twice through his dreams he heard the sound of sobbing. It was -a pitiful little sobbing, as of a woman in grief, and mingled with it -seemed to be faint half-articulate words. - -Once Peter half-awakened, and for a moment he fancied the sobbing was -real, but reason, which was working fitfully, told him it was only the -wind in the trees without. He shifted his position and fell asleep -again. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -PETER TAKES A RESIDENCE - - -Peter came out from the cottage door in the early morning. The rain of -the previous night had ceased, only the trees, bushes, and grass were -hung with myriads of drops sparkling silver and diamond in the morning -sunshine. He smelt the good smell of the wet earth, and filled his -lungs with the cool fresh air. - -By rights Peter should by now have been well on his way, for, though -his way led generally to no particular goal, he was always a-foot by -sunrise. But something--Peter did not know what--held him to that -cottage. It was almost as if the desolate place cried to him: "Stay -with me; I, too, am lonely." Certainly something indefinable but -insistent was drawing him to remain. - -"And why not?" said Peter half aloud. - -And then he heard the creaking of a cart, and the gruff voice of a -carter encouraging his horse. In a moment it came in sight. The cart -was empty, and the man was sitting on the side as he drove. - -"Good morning," said Peter pleasantly, as the cart and man came abreast -of him. - -The carter started, pulled up suddenly, and the horse came to a -standstill. - -"Well now," he said in amazement, "whatever do-ee be doin' there?" - -"I sheltered here last night," said Peter. "Can you tell me to whom -this cottage belongs?" - -The man shook his head. "It don't belong to no one, and that's certain -sure." - -"But," argued Peter, "a cottage which is obviously built by human -agency must have an owner." - -Again the man shook his head. "It don't belong to no one," he -reiterated. - -Peter raised his eyebrows incredulously. "But why not?" he demanded. - -"'Tis evil," said the man in a solemn whisper. - -"Evil!" echoed Peter. And the word seemed as out of place in the -morning sunshine as a cynic would seem in fairyland. - -The man nodded. "'Tis evil, for sure. 'Tis haunted." - -"And by what is it haunted?" demanded Peter, curious. - -"A bad woman," said the man. "Her comes there o'nights, and her moans -for that her soul's to hell." - -Again the word fell like a discord in the harmony of sunshine and -singing birds. Peter frowned. - -"Then," he asked, "as the cottage possesses no owner I suppose I can -live here if I choose?" - -The man scratched his head. "No one can't live there what bain't in -league with t'devil," he announced. - -Peter smiled brilliantly. "Oh," he said with fine assurance, "but I -am." And he made the carter a low bow, sweeping upward his hat, which -he had hitherto held in his hand. The fantastic peacock feather came -into view, also Peter concluded the bow with a very diabolical grin. - -The man whipped up his horse, casting a terrified glance over his -shoulder as he drove off. Peter waved his hat with a mocking laugh. - -"And now," he said, as the sound of the wheels receded in the distance, -"it is possible that my averred friendship with his Satanic Majesty -may gain me uninterrupted possession of this place. And--nonsense or -not--it is asking me to stay." - -Suddenly, however, it struck Peter that it might be as well for him -to lay in a small store of provisions--if such were obtainable in the -village--before the statement of his friendship with the powers of evil -had been spread by the too credulous carter. Peter was well aware of -the superstitions of village folk. Therefore he set off at once down -the road. - -The village stood for the most part around an open green, to the -left of which was the grey church whose square tower he had noticed -the previous day. In front of him and on higher ground, half-hidden -among the trees, was a white house. It looked of some importance. On -the right of the green was the post-office, and next to it a general -provision shop. - -Peter went into the post-office, where he asked for a penny stamp. - -The woman who kept the place was a buxom dame, rosy-cheeked and -brown-eyed. Peter thought she might be possessed of conversational -powers. He was right. A small remark of his received a voluble -response. He ventured another. It also was received in good part and -the dame's tongue proved nimble. - -For full half an hour Peter leant upon the counter, speaking but a word -or two at intervals, but finding that they quite sufficed to direct the -voluble flow of speech into the channels he desired. The sound of the -bell above the shop door alone brought the discourse to a conclusion, -as a woman, with a baby in her arms and two children dragging at her -skirts, entered. She looked at Peter curiously, then, pulling a shabby -purse from her pocket, requested the postmistress to provide her with a -penny stamp. She was, so she stated, about to write to her son in South -Africa. - -Peter came out into the sunlight with vastly more information than he -had possessed half an hour previously. - -He turned into the provision shop, where he achieved a few purchases, -and then made his way again in the direction of the desolate cottage. -In his mind he was running through and sorting the information he had -received. - -First and foremost it was perfectly obvious that, provided he had the -temerity to remain in the cottage in which he had passed the previous -night, no one would say him nay. It was held in ill-repute. No one -would dream of entering the copse at any time, and after nightfall even -the road past it was to be avoided. The reason for this, as far as -Peter could gather, was as follows. - -Some fifty or sixty years ago a woman had lived in that cottage with -her daughter, the reputed beauty of the village. The cottage had been -built on a bit of unclaimed land by the woman's husband, who had died -soon after building it. It appeared that the girl was a coquette, -trifling with the solid affection of the village swains. That at least -was the version of the postmistress. One day some young gentleman had -come to stay at the inn. What brought him if it was not Satan himself -no one knew. At all events, before long he and the village Helen -were seen walking together on summer evenings. Then came a day when -the young man left the inn, and it was discovered that the girl was -missing. Good authority stated that she had gone with him. It also -stated that after three months he deserted her. From then began her -downfall. The mother, left in the cottage, faded slowly from grief, -and after five years died. On the evening of her death a thin wan woman -great with child was seen to enter the village. None, it appeared, -had spoken to her. She had passed through the village and towards the -cottage where the dead woman lay. The friend who was keeping watch saw -the door open and a pale woman with frightened eyes approach the bed. -There had been a terrifying shriek and the intruder had dropped to the -ground. During the hours of the night a little life had come forth, -which looked momentarily and wearily on the world. With a sigh it had -gone out again into the silence, where at dawn the weary mother had -followed it. But remorse, so it was said, had chained her to the spot -where her own mother had died, and throughout the following nights her -spirit could be heard sobbing and moaning. For more than forty years -the place had been considered cursed, and had been steadfastly avoided. -Even the contents of the cottage had remained untouched. - -Peter had ventured a word of pity for the desolate creature whose -story he had just heard. But pity was, apparently, the last emotion -roused towards her. Horror of her sin and degradation, a horror -enhanced by the superstition vivid around her memory, was all the -buxom postmistress felt. And should any one be wickedly daring enough -to enter the cottage and live there--well, the curse of evil would -undoubtedly fall upon him, though assuredly no one would interfere -should any one prove himself a sufficient friend of evil for such a -venture. - -So much had Peter gathered regarding the cottage and its story. He had -then put another question regarding the white house on the hill. - -It belonged, so he was told, to a Lady Anne Garland, who lived there -with a companion. At the moment she was away from home, though she was -expected to return in June. And then the other customer had entered the -shop, and the flood of the good woman's discourse had been stemmed. - -Peter had reached the copse by now and turned in at the broken gate. -As he entered the cottage it seemed to him that there was an air of -expectancy about the place, as if it was waiting for the answer to a -question. - -Involuntarily Peter spoke aloud. - -"It's all right," he said. "I am going to stay till some one comes to -kick me out." - -And then--of course it was mere fancy, but a little breeze seemed to -pass through the room, like a sigh of relief or content. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE SOUL OF A WOMAN - - -Thus Peter entered upon his estate, since there was evidently no man -would say him nay. He, the wayfarer, who for two years had slept by the -hedge-side or in barns, found himself possessed of a castle. - -It might be conjectured whether he would find the change cramping, -stifling. He did not. The windows, which he mended, he set wide open -to the sun and wind. Big fires of sticks and fir-cones aired and freed -the place from the odour of damp and decay that hung about it. He took -the precaution of buying a couple of blankets and a mattress. Also, as -he was once more to become a civilized being, at all events in his own -eyes, he bought three suits of the garments called pyjamas. - -They pleased Peter enormously. Blue, pink, and green, he placed them -on the table and looked at them. They told him as plainly as their -flannel tongues could speak that he had returned to his birthright. -He had purchased them in the market town already mentioned, which lay -some eight miles distant from the cottage, and the purchase had been -made with an air of swagger. Piping had proved a not unremunerative -occupation. There was now, however, another source of income. Certainly -the income would not be large at present, but it well sufficed. Peter -would therefore pipe no longer for pay, but merely for pleasure. - -He had also laid in a store of fair foolscap paper and a large bottle -of ink. The joy of creation had taken possession of him. His brain was -again fertile. It was partly on this account that he had been ready to -take up a fixed abode, since fate had flung one in his path. He owed -it to the children of his brain to give them every chance, though his -first child had been brought forth amidst difficulties and hardships. - -The news that a stranger, wearing a peacock feather in his hat, had -taken up his abode in the cottage of ill-omen spread like wild-fire -through the village. Women glanced at him with frightened eyes, men -regarded him with suspicion. The owner of the provision shop, indeed, -held a kind of neutral ground. Until it should be proved that Peter's -shillings were accursed, he might as well have the advantage of them. - -The children looked at Peter with awe, mingled with curiosity. There -was a kind of fearful joy in watching one who was a friend of that -terrible personage the Devil. At night, truly, he was to be avoided, -but in daylight, with his bronzed face and brilliant peacock feather, -he looked not unprepossessing. - -Moreover, he could pipe. Wee Rob, the miller's lame son, had first -heard him, and had called to the other children. There had been a -reconnoitring party down the lane. On tiptoe feet, breath suspended, -eyes round with awe, they had gone. Through the bushes they had seen -him at the cottage door, the pipe at his lips. And the music had been -full of they knew not what of magic, joy and gladness. With parted lips -and eyes full of childish wonder they had listened. Fear had vanished -to the four winds of heaven, blown far far away by the sweet notes of -the pipe. - -And then Peter had stopped and moved. There had been the scuttling of -little feet and the tapping of a crutch. But the tapping of the crutch -had been reluctant in its retreat, for the magic of the piping lingered -with Wee Rob. - -By day, then, Peter wrote in his cottage, piped his tunes, or walked -the moorland above the village. By night he slept and dreamt of the -book he was writing, though often through his dreams he fancied he -heard the sound of that pitiful sobbing. - -In his waking moments he told himself it was fancy pure and simple, -yet it troubled him. What if there were indeed an imprisoned soul -somewhere seeking aid, one for whom no man had said an individual -prayer? Peter had no very definite creed. There lingered with him -certain faint memories of lessons taught him by his mother, of which -the little prayer he had prayed the first night in the cottage was one. -Beyond that all was indefinite, vague. Somewhere external to this world -were unseen Powers, some great Force, a Strength to whom men appealed -under the name of God. The supernatural, however, had, or appeared to -have, no very distinct individual relation towards himself. He had -certainly prayed when he was in the prison. Human aid being powerless -to "put things right" (he formulated his ideas no more than that), he -had appealed to this External Power. He had found a certain comfort -in it. He acknowledged its might, its capacity to do so. Having -prayed, he felt sure of the answer. His attitude towards the Powers -was friendly. There is no other word which will as well describe his -attitude of mind. Surely, then, he had a right to expect a friendly -reply. And then the reply had come. For a time Peter had been stunned. -It had been so entirely unexpected. He felt almost as a man would feel -who had received a blow from one from whom he had a right to expect a -handshake. A curious bitterness was his first predominant sensation. -This did not last, however. Peter was too innately sweet-natured to -harbour bitterness long, even against those vague external Powers of -which he knew so little. A nonchalant philosophy took its place. They -had failed him, therefore he must turn elsewhere for aid; he must turn -to the visible means around him, the things of nature, the sunshine, -the trees, the flowers, the birds. In short, the recuperative power of -his own healthy nature sustained him, since the Powers to whom he had -turned seemed to have failed. And yet he did not deny their existence. -Only it would appear that their attitude towards him individually was -not what he had imagined it to be. Now, however, vaguely, indefinitely, -he began to wonder whether their aid could not be invoked again, not -for himself, but for another, the soul of the woman whose fancied -sobbing troubled his dreams. He told himself, as already stated, that -the sobbing was pure fancy, the outcome of the pitiful story he had -heard, his own imagination, and certain faint memories of his mother's -teaching regarding souls in purgatory. Solitude no doubt coloured these -memories, rendered him possibly slightly morbid regarding them. Yet the -fancy was strong upon him that he, in that place where the soul of the -woman had left her body, might in some way aid. Yet how? There was the -crux of the question. - -And then Peter bethought him of a friend of his, one whose creed, -though he himself had inquired little regarding it, he knew to be -clear-cut, defined. Perhaps, Peter told himself, his own prayers -were too vague, too nebulous. For himself he was content, or at -least sufficiently passive now, to let things remain as they were. -For himself, his prayer had failed; he would not be cowardly enough -to whine, or recriminate. It was just possible that even the failure -belonged to some Great Plan of which he did not see the outcome. He -perceived in the same nebulous way that if this were the case rebellion -would be not only cowardly, but futile. Yet while remaining passive for -himself, something within him stirred him to action for another. He had -heard his friend speak of masses for souls in purgatory. It conveyed -nothing very definite to Peter's mind, yet he felt that if there were -some method of aiding this soul his friend would know of it. - -Accordingly Peter wrote a letter. He gave no address; he merely wrote -stating the facts of the case, and asking aid. After that he waited. - -Now again he was perfectly aware that the whole thing might have -been pure fancy, but one day Peter became conscious of a change of -atmosphere in the cottage. A repose, a peace, hitherto foreign seemed -to have descended upon it. When precisely the change occurred Peter -did not know, he merely suddenly became conscious that the change was -there. - -Of course it might have been pure fancy, but Peter did not think it -was. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -AN OLD GENERAL - - -I - -General Carden, V.C., C.B., D.S.O., was sitting at breakfast in his -house in Sloane Street. He was not a young man--in fact, he had just -passed his seventy-seventh birthday--but there was about him an air -of trim spruceness, an uprightness that many a younger man might have -envied. His height in his stockinged feet was exactly six feet one. -He was handsome, too, with his fine aquiline features, his snow-white -hair, and his drooping moustache. His blue eyes, under shaggy eyebrows, -were perhaps a trifle faded from the colour of their youth, yet they -struck a very decided note in contrast to his face, which was like old -ivory, and to the pallor of his hair. - -A little pile of letters lay on the table beside him, also a small -silver paper-knife. Ten minutes previously he had cut the envelopes -with careful precision and glanced through the contents. Apparently -he had found in them little of interest, and now his attention was -entirely absorbed by a couple of frizzled rolls of bacon on the plate -before him. - -The door opened noiselessly and the butler entered. He carried a tray -on which was a plate, and on the plate was a small brown egg in a -silver egg-cup. General Carden was somewhat particular as to the size -and colour of the eggs of which he partook. The butler placed the -plate on the table, then stood in an attitude suggestive of military -attention. - -"Any orders for the car, sir? Alcott is here, sir." - -"The car at eleven," said General Carden, still busy with the bacon. -"And, Goring, see that those library books are put in." - -"Very good, sir. Is that all, sir?" - -"Yes; nothing else." - -The butler withdrew, and General Carden continued his breakfast. -Marmalade and a second cup of coffee followed the egg. General Carden -made a good deal of the fact that he enjoyed his breakfast. It was to -him a sign that old age was not yet encroaching. - -Breakfast over, he crossed the hall to a small study, where he took -a cigarette from a silver box and lighted it. Then he sat down in a -chair near the window with the morning paper. It seldom afforded him -much satisfaction, however. England, in his opinion, was going to the -dogs, and it only annoyed him to see the printed record of its progress -towards that deplorable end. - -After a few moments he threw the paper from him with a faintly muttered -"Damn it, sir!" He had seen that in a by-election a seat had been won -by one of the Labour party. - -"Going to the dogs, sir; entirely to the dogs!" he muttered. And then -he looked out of the window at the people in the street, which street -was bathed in May sunshine. - -The gardens opposite looked extraordinarily green and spring-like, and -nurses with perambulators and children of various sizes were passing -along the pavement by the iron railings. They and the sunshine struck -a very definite note of buoyancy and youth, and for a moment General -Carden felt not entirely as young as he could wish. The room seemed a -little lonely, and the house rather large for one occupant--servants, -naturally, did not count. General Carden did not exactly express this -thought to his mind in words. He was not a man given to sentimentality -either in thought or speech. It was merely represented by a little -indefinite and not very pleasant impression. He wheeled his chair round -to his writing-desk, which he unlocked, and began looking through -various letters with a show of businesslike energy. - - * * * * * - -Some half-hour or so later he appeared in the hall. The butler was -there already with an overcoat, a silk hat, and an air of reserved -dignity. He put General Carden into the overcoat and handed him the hat. - -"Have you put the books in the car?" asked General Carden. - -"Yes, sir," replied Goring. There was the faintest suspicion of reproof -in the reply. - -"Ah! yes, of course, of course; I mentioned it at breakfast." General -Carden took up his gloves and passed into the sunshine down the steps, -an upright figure in grey overcoat, white spats, and hat shining -glossily in the light. - -"Good morning, Alcott; the car running well?" - -"First rate, sir." - -"That's right; that's right. You can take a turn in the Park and -afterwards go to Mudie's." - -"Very good, sir." - -General Carden got in, and the car purred gently up the street. - -He settled himself comfortably into a corner, and glanced at the books -on the seat opposite to him. He had a subscription at Mudie's, and kept -himself thoroughly up in the present-day novel. He did not care to -hear a new book mentioned and have to allow that he had not read it. -Of course, the present-day literature could not compare with that of -the older novelists--that was hardly to be expected. Scott, Dickens, -Thackeray--he ran through them in his mind--where was the writer of -the moment who could compare with them? Who could touch the romance of -Scott, the humour of Dickens, the courtliness of Thackeray? Where was -there a man in present fiction able to stand beside the fine old figure -of General Newcome? No; romance, humour, courtliness, had vanished, and -in their place were divorce accounts, ragging--an appalling word,--and -suffragettes. The world was not what it had been in his young days. -He did not, however, express this opinion blatantly; to do so would -have savoured of old-fogyism. Oh, no; he flattered himself he kept -abreast of the times, and only deplored certain modern innovations, -as they were deplored by all those who still held to the fragments of -refinement and courtliness that remained in the world. - -As the car turned into the Park, General Carden sat rather more -upright. He watched the carriages and their occupants with attention, -his old eyes keen to observe and note any of them he knew. And when -he did, off came that glossy silk hat with a bow and a gesture worthy -of a courtier. However much abreast of the times he might choose to -consider himself, in his heart he knew he was of the old school, and -one even older than that of his own youth. He belonged, this courtly -old man, to the delightful old school where men treated women with -chivalry and protection, and where women in their turn accepted these -things with delicate grace and charm; where conversation had meant a -pretty display of wit, a keen fencing of words, where brusquerie was -a thing unknown; and where a fine and subtle irony had stood in the -place of a certain curt rudeness noticeable in the present day. Yet all -that was of the past. It would be as out of place now as would be one -of those dainty ladies of old years, in powder and brocade, among the -tight-skirted women in Bond Street. But very deep down in his heart -General Carden knew it was the school which he loved, and of which -he allowed himself occasionally to dream. Those dreams were dreamt -mainly on winter evenings in a chair before the study fire. And then, -very surreptitiously, General Carden would bring a tiny gold box from -his pocket--a dainty octagon box with an exquisite bit of old enamel, -blue as a sapphire, let into the lid--and, opening it, he would take -an infinitesimal pinch of brown powder between his first finger and -thumb. He was always most extremely careful that no single grain of -it should fall on his white shirt-front. Goring's eyes were at times -unaccountably sharp. He was not going to be caught snuff-taking by a -man who might look upon it as a sign of old age advancing. The little -gold box, when not on his own person, was kept locked in a small -antique cabinet in his dressing-room. - -Apparently there were many people in the Park that morning whom General -Carden knew. A big car hummed past with a small woman in it, a woman -who looked almost tiny in the car's capacious depths. She had a pointed -little face and masses of fair hair. Off came General Carden's hat. -This was Muriel Lancing. He had known her as Muriel Grey, when she was -a small girl in short skirts. She had married a certain Tommy Lancing -a refreshing young man with red hair and freckles and a comfortable -private income. General Carden's eyes smiled at the girl. In spite of -a certain airy up-to-dateness, he liked her. She was so dainty, so -piquante, and such an inscrutable mixture of child, woman of the world, -and elfin. One never knew which of the three might not appear on the -surface. Also he liked Tommy, who always contrived to put a certain -air of deference into his manner towards the General, which secretly -pleased that critical white-haired, old veteran immensely. - -After a few moments he saw another of his friends, and again the hat -came off, this time with perhaps even something more of courtliness. -The woman in the victoria was very nearly a contemporary his. Quite -a contemporary, General Carden reflected--ignoring the fifteen years -which lay between them, and which were, it must be stated, to the -advantage of Mrs. Cresswell. She was a woman with white hair rolled -high, somewhat after the style of a Gainsborough portrait, and a -clear-cut aristocratic face. She belonged unquestionably to his -school, and their conversations were an invariable delicate sword-play -of words. Even if she were generally the victor--and in the art of -conversation he was willing to concede her the palm--yet he flattered -himself he was no mean opponent, and he had a pleasurable memory of -some very pretty turns of repartee on his own part. She was a friend of -long standing, and one he valued. - -Next came a much younger woman in a car, with a small boy beside her. -This was Millicent Sheldon; the boy was her nephew. General Carden's -blue eyes were a little hard as he observed her, and there was just a -suspicion of stiffness in his arm as he raised his hat. She responded -with a slightly frigid bow, her face entirely immovable. There were -reasons--most excellently good reasons--why there was a certain -chilliness between these two. They need not, however, be recorded at -the moment. - -Many other carriages and cars passed whose occupants General Carden -knew, also a few foot-passengers, grey-haired veterans like himself, -who walked upright and rather stiff, or younger men slightly insouciant -of manner. - -As his car was turning out of the Park another carriage turned in. In -it was a young woman and an older one--much older; in fact, rather -dried up and weather-beaten. This time General Carden did not raise his -hat, though he observed the two women with interest. He had frequently -noticed the carriage and its occupants during his morning drives in -the Park. The younger woman attracted him. It was not merely the fact -that she was beautiful, but there was an air of distinction about her, -a well-bred distinguished air, that appealed to this old critic of -women and manners. The men on the box wore cockades in their hats and -plum-coloured livery. There was also a tiny coronet on the panel of the -carriage door. In spite of the fact that General Carden's sight was not -entirely what it once had been, he noticed the coronet. He noticed, -too, that the woman's hair was black with blue lights in it, that her -skin was a pale cream, and her mouth a delicious and quite natural -scarlet; also that her small well-bred head was exquisitely set on a -slender but young and rounded throat, and that it, in its turn, was set -quite delightfully between her shoulders. There is no gainsaying the -fact that General Carden was a very distinct connoisseur in matters -feminine. He wondered who she was, and even after the carriage had -passed he thought of her very finished appearance with pleasure. And it -was by no means the first time that he had wondered, nor the first that -he had experienced the feeling of pleasure at the sight of her. - -In two or three minutes, so swift are the ways of cars, he was stopping -opposite Mudie's in Kensington High Street. A carriage with a pair of -bay horses was waiting beyond the broad pavement outside the shop. -General Carden recognized it as belonging to Mrs. Cresswell. Evidently -she had left the Park before him. - -He got out of the car and crossed the pavement to the shop. Mrs. -Cresswell was also changing library books. She saw him approaching -and gave him a smile--a smile at once brilliant, gay, and charmingly -intimate, as was the privilege of an old friend. - -"So we meet again," she said in her crisp, pleasantly decided voice, -and she held out her hand. "And how are you this fine May morning?" - -"In most excellent health, thank you," replied General Carden, taking -the hand held out to him. "There is no need for me to ask how you are. -You look, as you always do, radiant." He accompanied the words with a -gesture almost suggestive of a bow. - -"How charming of you!" sighed Mrs. Cresswell, a little laugh in her -eyes. "I always feel at least ten years younger when I meet you. And -you are on the same errand bent as I. Well, here is one book I can -certainly recommend. I am just returning it myself. It is by a new -author, and is quite delightful--finished, light, and with a style all -its own." She held up a green-covered book as she spoke, and General -Carden read the gold-lettered title, _Under the Span of the Rainbow_. - -Now, to be perfectly candid, the title did not appeal to him who read -it. In General Carden's mind it suggested fairy-tales--light, airy, -soap-bubbly things, iridescent and pretty enough for the moment, but -quite unable to withstand the finger of criticism he would inevitably -lay upon them. Yet the book was recommended by a woman, and that woman -Mrs. Cresswell. - -"Any recommendation of yours!" said General Carden gallantly. And he -put the book aside while he looked for a second one. - -A young shopman made various deferential suggestions, and presently -Mrs. Cresswell and General Carden were out again in the sunshine, -General Carden bearing four library books. - -"I shall expect to hear what you think of my recommendation," said Mrs. -Cresswell, as he handed her to her carriage and placed two of the books -on the seat beside her. Her voice held perhaps the faintest intonation -of significance. "Come and see me next Tuesday; I am at home, you know." - -"With all the pleasure in the world," replied General Carden. - -And then she gave him another of her gracious smiles as the bays moved -off down the sunny street. - - -II - -It was not till after dinner that night that General Carden opened the -book. He was then sitting in a large and comfortable armchair in his -study. A shaded electric lamp stood on a table at his elbow, and he was -experiencing the sense of well-being of a man who has just partaken of -a most excellently cooked dinner. - -He fixed his gold-rimmed glasses on his finely chiselled nose and -opened the book, though with but faint anticipation of interest. After -a page or two, however, he became absorbed, almost fascinated. The -writing appealed to him; it was pleasant, cultured. There were here -and there some very neatly turned phrases. And then, quite suddenly, -one paragraph arrested his attention. It was in itself a quite -insignificant little paragraph and merely descriptive. Here it is, -however: - -"Near one corner of the house, grey-walled, weather-beaten, stood a -great pear-tree, its branches almost touching the diamond-shaped panes -of the narrow window--the window of the octagon room which held for -him so many memories. In spring-time the tree was a mass of snowy -blossoms, and among their delicate fragrance a blackbird sang his daily -matins. Later in the year the tree would be full of fruit, many of -which fell to the ground, and, bruising in the fall, would fill the -air with a sweet and almost sickly scent. In the trunk of the tree was -a small shield-shaped patch, where the bark had been torn away, and -the initials R. and J. cut in the smooth underwood. They belonged, so -the boy had been told, to the twin brothers, whose gallant history had -fascinated him from childhood." - -General Carden paused. There was a look of dim pain in his blue eyes. -After a moment he re-read the passage carefully, and with infinitely -more attention than the few sentences would appear to merit. Then he -turned to the title-page and read the name of the author. Apparently -it told him nothing he desired to know, and he continued his reading. -Much farther on he came to another paragraph at which he again paused -abruptly. - -"'Cricket,' said the young man airily, 'is a universal game, and means, -speaking in general terms, the avoidance of anything which--well, hints -of meanness or unfair play to our neighbours.' They were his father's -exact words, and he knew it. At the moment, however, he chose to make -them his own." - -General Carden put down the book. His hands were shaking slightly. He -told himself he was an old fool. Hundreds of fathers had used those -words to their sons. They represented the first principle learnt by -an Englishman. But then, there was the pear-tree, the shield-shaped -wound in its bark, the initials, the old weather-beaten house. Memory -began to exert her sway. He was sitting in a study window watching -a tall, slim woman as she laughed at a thin slip of a boy climbing, -monkey-like, among the branches of the old tree. He could hear the very -sound of her laugh and the exultant ring of the boy's voice. - -He pulled himself together. That house--the old place down in the -country--was in the hands of caretakers. It did not do to think about -the past at his time of life. He was certainly perturbed to use that -phrase. He turned to the address of the publishers, then glanced at -the telephone on his writing-desk and from it to the clock. The hands -pointed to ten minutes to ten. Of course, it was too late to ring up -a business house, much too late. Besides, pseudonyms were sacred to -publishers, or should be. Quite possibly, too, it was not a pseudonym. -It was absurd that he should suppose that it was. It was a good book, -however, a very good book. He should like to see what the reviews had -to say about it. It was always interesting to hear public opinion on a -good book; and, to a certain extent, reviewers constituted the public. -There were places--he had heard of them--where reviews were collected. -He must find out the name of one of them. Yes; he would like to see -whether the reviewers did not endorse his own opinion. He would tell -Mrs. Cresswell he had appreciated her recommendation. Possibly he would -write a note to-morrow and tell her. It would please her to hear that -he had liked the book she had advised him to read. - -And then another thought struck him, and he sat suddenly upright. Had -not she once seen that pear-tree--once, long ago? Surely she, too, did -not think--did not guess---- - -He would not write to her after all. Tuesday would be time enough to -tell her that he thought the book--yes, quite fairly promising for a -new author. Fairly promising, that was the expression. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -A WONDERFUL OFFER - - -Late one afternoon Peter set off to walk to the market-town. He -was expecting a letter from his publishers. He had given them the -market-town post-office as his permanent address. It was a glorious -day, and the sunlight lay warmly on the fields. - -During the day he had been writing, but his work had not gone well. -That which in brain-imagery had seemed original and lifelike, in -articulation appeared to him commonplace and dull. Who would care to -read the drivel he was committing to paper? His thoughts, his fancies, -of what interest would they be to the multitude? Of what value even to -two or three? - -Peter was in a mood dangerous for his own creation. His first book -had come directly from his inner being, written for the pure love of -inscribing in lucid words the thoughts which filled his brain. The -same reason had urged him to write again. Then suddenly before him like -a menace rose up an image--the Public. His work would go out to it, had -already gone out to it. How would it be received? And if with smiles -the first moment, who could tell whether the smiles might not the next -be changed to frowns? - -He felt like a man whose chance witticism has won him the post of -Jester. What anxiety must precede each lightly spoken word that -follows; the knowledge that the wings of spontaneity had been clipped, -though the knowledge perchance was his alone; the inward wince at a -rebuff, the joy at applause! Jester to the many-faced public! Was this -to be his rôle? Truly, if a little knowledge be a dangerous thing, a -little success appeared quite as dangerous. Had he the strength to -forget his audience; to speak only as and when Inspiration bade him; -to keep silence when her voice was still? If indeed he had to play the -part of Jester, could he be a daring one, heedless alike of frowns and -smiles? Could he risk the cap and bells being taken from him? Could he -bear hooting and derision? - -"I will," cried Peter to his soul. "I will jest how and as I please. -Servant will I be to Inspiration alone, and slave to none. Away with -cowardice, Peter, my son, and dismiss the many-headed public from your -mind." - -It was therefore in an extremely healthy frame of mind that Peter -approached the market-town. - -The letter he had expected was awaiting him. He put it in his pocket -unopened, for he knew it to be merely a business communication of no -particular importance, and set off once more for home. - -It was not till after his supper that he again thought of it, and he -pulled it carelessly from his pocket. Within the envelope was the -typewritten communication he had expected, and also a letter. It was -addressed to Robin Adair, Esq., care of the publishers. - -Peter turned the letter over curiously. The post-mark was London, the -writing educated, delicately firm. He broke the seal and drew the -letter from the envelope. Here is what he read: - - "LONDON, - "_May 16th_. - - "This letter can have no formal beginning, inasmuch as it is not - written to a man, but to a personality--the personality that breathes - through the book signed by Robin Adair. Nor, in spite of appearances, - is it a letter from a woman, but from a personality as impersonal--if - the contradiction may pass--as that to which it is addressed. - - "And in the first place I am trusting that you--for impersonal as - one may wish to be, one cannot dispense with pronouns--that you are - possessed of sufficient intuition to discover that I am neither - an autograph-hunter nor one desirous of snatching a sensation by - stolen intercourse with a celebrity. I am not greatly flattering - your intuitive powers therein; for nowhere is true personality - so intimately revealed as in an intimate letter. Art can almost - invariably be detected, and there is no fleshly mask to dazzle the - perceptions and obscure the soul. An intelligent abstraction from a - letter would probably give the truest image of the subjective side of - any nature, which after all is the side with which as an individual - one is concerned. If, therefore, after reading thus far, you are - disposed to regard this letter as an impertinence, then it is one - which is entirely without excuse, and I should desire you to tear it - up forthwith. - - "If, on the other hand, you have preserved an open mind so far, then - I shall not attempt excuse, but furnish you with reasons. In fancy or - in reality I have detected in your book, running through its sweetness - and underlying all its strength, a great heart-cry for sympathy, the - cry of a lonely soul. What it is that has wounded you I cannot tell, - but I feel in every fibre that the wound is there. - - "Now, I make you an offer--one of intimate comradeship with one of - another sex, under conditions of such stringency as Plato's self might - have approved. I am a woman whom you have never seen, whom you will - never see, of gentle birth, with a share at least of education and - refinement, and, moreover, one who has been so profoundly moved and - influenced by your writing that she feels with an extraordinary degree - of confidence the existence of a mind-_rapport_ between herself and - you. - - "For the moment that is enough. Should you wish to accept my offer, - write to me at an address I shall subjoin, whence the letter will - be forwarded to me. On your side the compact must be marked by one - condition: you must pledge me your word never to make any attempt to - discover my identity. - - "As I dislike pseudonyms, I leave this letter unsigned." - -Peter laid the letter upon the table and stared at it. - -"Amazing!" he ejaculated. Then he took it up again. It was written on -bluish paper, and held the faintest--just the very faintest--hint of -perfume, lavender delicately fragrant. - -"And a woman," said Peter, "has written this letter to me--to me!" His -brain whirled slightly. There is no other description for its state -at that moment. Gradually it steadied itself. He began to realize the -reality of what had happened. He was not dreaming: the letter was -actually in his hand, the words traced in a clear and fine writing. - -Impersonal, indeed! She--this unknown woman--might call it so if she -pleased. To Peter it breathed personality, a personality vivid and -rare. Its intimate aloofness--again a contradiction--was full of charm. - -An autograph-hunter! Bah! had the merest suspicion of such a thought -crossed his mind he would indeed have been unworthy so much as to lay -a finger upon the epistle. - -To say that Peter was touched would be a poor way of expressing -the emotions that filled him. For years, remember, he had lived in -mind-isolation from his fellow-men, and here out of the Invisible came -the offer of a soul-intimacy, delicately, graciously made, and made by -a woman. - -That she was _grande dame_ and beautiful his every instinct told him. -There was an undernote of assurance about the letter that made the fact -convincing. It needed not her statement that she was of gentle birth. -Very assuredly she was one accustomed to deference and homage. And she -had written thus to him. Wonderful! - -Peter got up from his chair, his eyes alight with pleasure. He went to -a cupboard and took out a bottle of port and a wine glass. These--like -the pyjamas--constituted part of the hall-mark of civilization. - -He had bought the wine with the intention of drinking to the health of -his published book, but the inclination had passed. There is something -unsatisfactory about toasts drunk in solitude. - -But now Peter knocked the red seal from the cork and drew it from the -bottle. He reseated himself at the table and poured the wine into the -glass. He lifted it in his right hand, holding the letter in his left. -He approached the glass to the letter, then raised it to his lips. - -"To my Unknown Lady!" he said. - -Ten minutes later Peter pulled pen, ink, and paper towards him. Oh, the -joy of answering this letter, the luxury of it! - -And then he began to write, very simply and directly, attempting no -well-turned thought or phrase, but writing as he would have spoken, -from his heart. - - "_May 18th._ - - "Can you, I wonder, have the smallest conception of what your letter - means to me? If you have, then perhaps you will realize that my 'thank - you' holds in the fullest sense all that those two words can express. - Yet please believe that the cry you have detected in my writing - escaped from me unawares. Consciously to have made such a plaint would - to my mind have savoured of cowardice. May the gods guard me from it! - - "Does not Emerson say, 'It is vain to attempt to keep a secret from - one who has a right to know it; it will tell itself'? Dare I believe - that you possess that right, that the same spiritual law which has - made you conscious of a mind-_rapport_ between us has given you the - key to it? I accept your offer from my heart. The condition shall be - strictly observed. - - "Truly you do not greatly flatter my power of intuition when you - imagine me possessed of sufficient intelligence to discover that you - are neither an autograph-hunter nor anything akin to it. I should be a - base dullard had such a thought crossed my mind. - - "That my book pleases you affords me intense pleasure. Fresh life will - be instilled into my future work by the hope that one day you will - read it. - - "My pen is halting. I write as I should speak, and my tongue is - unaccustomed to speech with a woman of gentle birth. Fate has - made of me a recluse--a hermit. I do not revile her. She gives me - compensations of which your letter and offer are not the least. Will - you write again? - - "ROBIN ADAIR. - - "P.S.--I am sorry you dislike pseudonyms. This is one." - -Peter re-read the letter carefully. He put it in an envelope which -he addressed "To my Unknown Critic." He enclosed this in a second -envelope, on which he wrote the address he had been given. This again -he enclosed with a brief letter to his publishers, asking them to -post the enclosure in London. The next day he would take it in to the -market-town. - -Peter leant back in his chair. Then he poured himself out a second -glass of wine, which he drank slowly. - -This was a gala night. - -Finally he set down his glass and spoke aloud. - -"Though the expense is entirely unjustifiable, I shall buy a dress -suit." - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -CHÂTEAUX EN ESPAGNE - - -Henceforth Peter walked daily to the post-office in the market-town. -And never perhaps has author so eagerly awaited the sight of a letter -from his publishers. - -For ten days, however, the journeys made by him were fruitless, and he -began to cast about despairingly in his mind for the memory of anything -in his own letter that could have offended. But he found nothing. His -writing, during these days, did not progress. He was too restless, too -anxious, to work quietly. Sometimes he sat at his cottage door and -piped. Occasionally a small crowd of children would gather outside the -hedge, drawn by the magic of the music. The ceasing of the pipe, or any -movement on his part, however, was the signal for them to scatter like -a flock of frightened sparrows, and he would find the lane deserted. - -At last, one evening, his journey to the market-town proved fruitful. -A letter awaited him there, also a box bearing the name of a London -tailor. - -Peter returned across the fields at a fine pace, the letter in his -breast pocket, the box under his arm. Arriving at his cottage, he -unknotted the string that tied it. - -Some twenty minutes later, Peter, in well-cut evening clothes and with -a gleaming expanse of white shirt-front, broke the seal of the letter. - -You perceive he was a host, receiving in spirit the woman who had -deigned to consider him worthy of notice. And now he held the letter in -his hand and saw once more the delicate, firm writing. - - "LONDON, - "_May 27th._ - - "First I must thank you that you have not misunderstood me. And now - that the understanding between us is complete, I can write more - freely, more fully. - - "So you are a recluse. Perhaps you are to be envied. I have been, and - am, in the midst of that mumming-show society, where we all wear - gaily-coloured masks and jest with those around us. We speak little as - we feel, but largely as we are expected to speak. Is it part of your - compensation that you need not speak at all? For me, I am somewhat - weary of the show. It is very gaudy, and the music, I think, too loud. - You may ask why I attend it, and to that I have no answer, except that - custom demands it of me as a right. How many people, I wonder, act not - according to their own individuality, but rather as usage and those - around them expect them to act? - - "Is it possible, I wonder, to free oneself from tradition, that - closely fitting garment placed upon us by our ancestors at birth, - which becomes, to the majority, as much part and parcel of ourselves - as our skin? Clothed in it, I attend dances, dinners, bridge parties, - and theatres, from which I am at the moment recoiling with a kind - of mental nausea. Should I strip myself of the garment, shall I not - feel cold and shivery--in short, to use a common phrase, feel 'out of - things'? And once the garment is definitely discarded it may not be so - easily donned again; at all events, it might not fit so well. You, a - writer, who in your solitude think many thoughts, give me your opinion. - - "Mercifully, custom has at least decreed that I should spend some - months in the country. In a few days' time I go down to it. There my - individuality resumes what I believe to be its rightful sway. I have - a garden. It is, as the poet sings, a thing of beauty, and is to me a - joy for ever. - - "A summer evening in a flower-scented garden! Can you--you writer of - poetic prose--conceive anything more full of charm and delight? I - have a bed of night-stocks--poor, dilapidated, withered things in the - daytime, and the despair of my gardener. But in the evening on the - terrace the odour is entrancing--divine. My thoughts are 'carried on - the wings of perfume into high places.' You see, I can quote from your - book and from memory. - - "No; the cry beneath its strength and sunshine was faint, barely - discernible. I confess that at the first reading, which I took at a - draught, I did not observe it. It was when I returned, as I did, to - sip the wine of its poetic fancy that I detected the slightly bitter - taste. Yet bitter is not a fair word to use. Bittersweet would be - better, though that barely fits the flavour. The exact word--if one - exists--has escaped me. - - "You quote from Emerson, and also speak of compensation. Of course, - you know this: - - "'We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels go. We - do not see that they go out only that archangels may come in.... The - compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding - also, after long intervals of time.... It permits or constrains the - formation of new acquaintances and the reception of new influences, - that prove of the first importance to the next years; and the man or - woman who would have remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room - for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of - the walls and the neglect of the gardener is made the banian of the - forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighbourhoods of men.' - - "Your quotation made me look up my Emerson. I found your sentence, and - went on to read 'Compensation,' whence I have copied the above. - - "Would your writing have been as human were it not for the hidden - wound you bear? Is it some compensation to know that to one soul at - least your words have brought refreshment? What are you writing now? - - "I like your pseudonym." - -Peter read the letter through twice then put it on the table while he -prepared his supper. He laid two places to-night, laughing at himself -for the fancy. His Unknown Lady was very present with him, you perceive. - -He pretended--and loved the pretence--that she was dining with him. -He let himself imagine that a woman, clad in chiffon and lace, and -fragrant with that delicate scent of lavender, sat in the chair -opposite to him; that the candle-light was playing on her warm hair, -finding reflection in her luminous eyes. No palace contained a more -courteous host that night than did that little cottage; no royal guest -received a greater welcome than did Peter's Dream Lady. - -It was a strange, fantastic little scene. Had any one peered through -the cottage window, they would have seen a barely furnished room, a -meagre supper-table lit by a couple of candles, and, seated at the -table, a man in well-cut evening clothes--a man groomed with the fresh -cleanness of a well-bred Englishman. They would have seen a second -place laid at the table, and in the second place, between the knife and -fork, a bluish letter lying. They would have seen both glasses filled -with red wine. - -Mad? Not a bit of it! Peter was entirely sane, and very refreshingly -healthy. But--and herein lay the difference between him and many of his -countrymen--he was possessed of a fine imagination. - -And when Peter had drunk the health of his Dream Lady, he began to talk -to her; and for this purpose pen, ink, and paper came once more into -requisition. - - _"May 29th._ - - "Your first letter was welcome; your second is ten thousand times - more so. The first was the mere fluttering of a signal, waved at a - distance. This evening you are near, and I can speak more easily. - - "As for the garment of tradition, I fancy it may at times be discarded - by ourselves and gently, and again donned without fear of it fitting - less well. In fact, may it not gain greater value in our own eyes and - in the eyes of others by its temporary disuse? It is when fate strips - it from us, tearing it to ribbons in the process, that it cannot again - be worn, or worn merely as a sorry, ragged semblance of what it once - has been. It is then, to use your own parlance, that one feels 'out - of things.' I, who write to you, speak from experience. Fate tore my - garment from me, and in so doing made the wound you have detected. But - enough of that. The touch of your hand upon it has eased its smart, - though possibly--nay probably--the scar will remain throughout my life. - - "Thank you for your quotation. Yes; I know it. I am glad the shade - of my banian-tree--a very small one--has reached you, and its fruit - brought you refreshment. The 'ever-onward' note of Emerson is - exhilarating. There is no repining, no sitting down with folded hands - under grief, but an ever pushing forward to the light, as a green - shoot pushes aside earth and stones in its journey upward through the - soil to the sun. - - "Yes, I am writing again; but the last few days I have done little. - I could not tear myself away from the thought of the next letter I - should receive from you. Sometimes I feared that none would come, - that you might have regretted your offer. It was an unworthy thought; - forgive me. Now, I shall write again quietly. - - "You ask what it is that I am writing. It is the story of a man, a - wayfarer. I do not think there is much plot in the story. Probably all - the plot lies in the past which he has thrown behind him. Fate has - made of him a wanderer, as she has made a recluse of me. During his - wanderings he thinks much. I am endeavouring to record those thoughts - as he traverses the fields and lanes. If the gods are good to me, - perhaps one day the thoughts may reach you in book form. Then you will - give me your opinion on them. - - "Soon you will be among your night-stocks in your garden. Their - perfume will be more fragrant than the scent of ballrooms and theatres. - - "Good-night. - - "ROBIN ADAIR. - - "Have I thanked you for your letter? I do thank you from my heart." - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -A REQUEST - - -Some evenings later Peter was again a host holding sweet converse with -his Lady. Here, first, are her words to him. - - "LONDON, - "_June 3rd_. - - "The day after to-morrow I shall be in my garden, revelling in its - beauty and in the perfume of my night-stocks. The scent of ballrooms - and theatres will be left behind in this big noisy London. It has - its fascination, though. This morning the streets were bathed in - sunlight, and crowded with women in gay dresses till they looked like - a great restless nosegay. We talk of 'Spring in the country,' but here - its note is just as insistent. In February the Parks were brilliant - with crocuses, their hardy little yellow, white, and purple flowers - spreading far under the trees. They were followed by daffodils and - tulips, masses of glorious colour. And for sheer beauty give me a - sunset across the Parks, or the blue mists veiling the great masses of - building. Or, again, the river between sunset and night. Have you ever - walked along the Embankment in the evening? I walked there yesterday. - Westward the river and sky flamed purple, crimson, and gold; eastward - a silver haze covered land and water, with pale lights shining through - and reflected in the river. A small boy walking with his mother - exclaimed in rapture, 'Oh, mother, look at the lights!' 'What about - them, dear?' came the reply. The matter-of-fact tone of the words was - indescribable. Thus is the early glimmering of poetry effaced from - the infant mind. I write of it lightly. At the moment indignation and - tears struggled for the mastery. - - "I read the following advertisement in a paper the other day: - - "'Wanted, a bright sympathetic woman, not necessarily under 25, as - Companion-Help in a family of three. No children, no washing, but - the ordinary work of the house to be done. Must be educated, as she - is wanted to be one of the family and help in philanthropic work. - Will be needed to do plain cooking, and a "sense of humour" will be - appreciated. Salary a matter of arrangement. Protestant.' - - "Then followed the address. Doesn't it strike you as rather funny? Can - you imagine any one sitting down solemnly to answer it? Testimonials - re a sense of humour! - - "'Dear Madam, in my former situations my sense of humour proved a great - attraction. I enclose extracts from references. "Jane Smith is the - soul of wit." "Our Companion-Help kept us through meal-time in one - perpetual roar of laughter." "Laughter is the best digestive sauce. - Jane Smith's humour provides that sauce!"' - - "I am glad you think I may at times discard my garment of tradition. - Now I come to think of it, I believe I did discard it when I first - wrote to you. I do not think at that moment the ancestral garment - can have been upon me. Talking of that first letter, will you do me - a favour? I want you to burn it. It was too solemn, too serious, - written with altogether too heavy a pen. Something made me write it, - and I am glad of it; but I was so anxious to place myself above the - possibility of a snub that my sense of humour was for the moment - obliterated. I took myself and my own importance too seriously. - Therefore please destroy it, though it is quite possible that you have - already done so. - - "I want to read the thoughts of your Wanderer. They should be - untrammelled thoughts, wide as the open spaces he is traversing. - _When_ the gods are good to you I shall look for a copy of the book. I - prefer my word to your 'if.' - - "My next letter shall be written from my terrace if the sunshine - continues in this glory. Good-night." - -The letter read, Peter repeated the little ceremony of dining with, and -toasting, his Lady. He then proceeded to write to her. - - "_June 5th._ - - "DEAR LADY,--Thank you for your letter. Doubtless the Muses join with - you in your tears and indignation when they see their children stifled - at birth. I wonder what 'Mrs. Be-done-by-as-you-did' will have in - store for those parents. Yet their intentions are probably of the - very best. - - "I should like to see the answers that advertisement will receive. - Protestant and philanthropic work, when advertised as such, seem - inconsistent with a sense of humour. The person who answers the - advertisement will either be devoid of it, or possess it in a very - marked degree. - - "Why should the first favour you ask of me be one I have not the - heart to grant! I cannot burn that letter. I should watch it shrivel - and twist in the flames like some protesting living thing. It would - be like burning the photograph of a friend. Call me superstitious, - idiotic, any name you choose, but I can't do it. I will, however, - return it to you, though with great reluctance, and you can do with it - as you will. Send me in exchange one of your night-stocks. It will be - less shrivelled than your letter had I done as you ask. - - "Dear Unknown Lady, when my next book is published--you see, I accept - your correction--have I your permission to dedicate it to you? With - the exception of the first two chapters, which were written before I - knew you, it is written to you and for you alone. My Wanderer speaks - his thoughts directly to you, believing that they will find favour in - your sight. - - "Though I have churlishly refused the favour you asked of me, will you - grant me this one? - - "ROBIN ADAIR." - -Peter put the letter into an envelope and addressed it. After a few -minutes he came out of the cottage into the little copse. - -The June night was very still. The after-glow from the sunset still -lingered in the west; the darkness would be of short duration. - -Suddenly the sound of wheels struck on Peter's ear, and the quick clear -tang of horses' hoofs on the dry road. A few moments later a carriage -came into sight, and drove past him towards the village. In spite of -the dusk Peter saw that the men on the box wore livery, and a lamp -inside the carriage gave him a glimpse of two women's forms. A couple -of boxes were strapped at the back of the carriage. - -"Without doubt," said Peter to himself, "it is Lady Anne returning." - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE LADY ANNE - - -Lady Anne Garland was sitting by a rosewood writing-desk in her -morning-room. She had finished her letters, and was now sitting idle, -gazing through the window on to the terrace, and away to the distant -woods and hills, which lay serenely blue in the sunlight. - -She was dreaming rather than thinking, and a pleasant little dream it -would seem, by the half smile in her grey eyes. The sunshine lay along -the floor in a broad, vivid patch. It fell across her white dress and -on her dark hair, which held the blue-black sheen of a rook's plumage. -Her skin was creamy-white, and her mouth, modelled like the mouth of a -Greek statue, was of geranium red. In fine, Lady Anne was beautiful. - -The sound of the door opening made her turn her head. A small -thin woman entered. She was dressed in a tailor-made dress of -some pepper-and-salt material, and wore a black straw hat, rather -floppy, and distinctly out of keeping with her otherwise tailor-made -appearance. Her hair was grey, and her skin somewhat like parchment, -but her eyes and mouth were kindly. - -"Finished your letters?" she asked. - -"Yes," said Anne, getting up from her desk. "Come into the garden. It -is too lovely a day to waste indoors." - -She led the way through the French window on to the terrace, and sat -down on one of two deck-chairs. Miss Haldane followed her example. - -"You should have a hat," she said abruptly. - -"No," replied Anne lazily, "I like the sun. I think my skin is too -thick to burn. Look at the blueness on those woods and hills; isn't it -glorious?" - -Miss Haldane put up her eyeglasses and looked at the landscape. - -"Very nice, my dear. Jabez said the hay harvest was unusually good this -year." - -Jabez was the head gardener. - -Anne laughed softly. "You are so delightfully practical, Matty dear. If -the sun shines you think of the crops, if the rain falls you think of -the crops, if the wind blows you still think of the crops. You missed -your vocation when you took up the post of companion to a sentimental -dreamer; you should have been a farmer." - -"Had the good Lord made me a man, I should have been one," replied Miss -Haldane instantly. "As it is, I take an interest in the farming of your -tenants. And you must allow that weather is of the first importance to -them." She dropped her eyeglasses and looked at Anne. - -"I know," owned Anne; "but turnips do not appeal to me. I love my -flowers to have their needs supplied, however; and that shows that I am -selfish enough to be merely interested in what interests me." - -There was a pause. - -"The cottage in the copse has found an inhabitant," said Miss Haldane -suddenly and abruptly. "I can't call him a tenant because the man pays -no rent. I suppose no one knows to whom the rent would be due." - -"Really!" exclaimed Anne, replying to the first part of Miss Haldane's -speech. "Who has been bold enough to venture there?" - -"A vagabond of sorts, I believe," said Miss Haldane. "Of course, the -villagers are looking upon him with suspicion and distrust. He wears a -peacock feather in his hat and plays the penny whistle." - -"How pleasant!" said Anne. - -Miss Haldane snorted. "Can't you have him turned out?" she demanded. -"I don't think it is a good plan to have a vagabond settling in the -village." - -"The cottage is not mine," replied Anne; "as far as I know, it is no -man's property. Besides, does he do any harm--poach, or anything like -that?" - -"Not that I know of," returned Miss Haldane. "In fact, they say he -buys, and pays for, certain provisions at the village shop." - -"Then," said Anne lazily, "he is not a vagabond. A vagabond is one -without visible means of subsistence; this man evidently has visible -means. I wonder what he is like. I fancied no man would have braved -that cottage after nightfall even if he had ventured within at -daylight. At all events, superstition has been very rife around it." - -"They say he plays the penny whistle beautifully," remarked Miss -Haldane. - -Anne's eyes twinkled. "You have culled much information since our -arrival last night, Matty dear. The man shall come and give us a -concert." - -"My dear!" - -"Why not?" asked Anne carelessly. "An unstudied simple concert on the -penny whistle would, I am sure, be full of charm. Burton shall go down -to-morrow and request him from me to come up to the terrace." - -Miss Haldane was shocked, perturbed. In a word, she fluttered in a -manner not unlike an elderly hen with a duckling chick. - -"You cannot do it, Anne. You cannot send a footman to the cottage and -ask the man to come up here. In the first place, he is probably a -socialist, and wouldn't come. In the second place--well, it isn't nice." - -Anne laughed outright. "Dear Matty, your favourite adjective! With the -negative prefix it applies equally to a burnt pudding, or to a woman -who leaves her husband in order to run away with another man. But -you're a dear, and I won't laugh at you; and you shan't be present at -the concert if you'd rather not." - -Miss Haldane spoke a little stiffly. "If you will be foolish, Anne, I -must be present at your folly. It is the only way in which I can merit -the liberal salary you give me." - -"Dear Matty, what nonsense!" said Anne. - -Again there was silence, and it lasted some time. Butterflies flitted -in the still air, bees droned lazily in a lime-tree to the west of the -terrace, and once or twice a dragonfly skimmed past with a flash of -iridescent wings. - -Miss Haldane looked at Anne lying back in the deck-chair, which was -placed at its lowest angle. Her own was as upright as was consistent -with its nature. She had a piece of crochet in her hands, and was -working industriously. Matilda Haldane was never idle, and she never -lolled. From her earliest years she had been told to "get something -useful to do," if there happened to be a single spare moment in the -ordinary routine of walks, meals, and lessons. Later she was obliged, -on her own account, to get something useful to do, and to keep doing -it, if she was to live in the smallest degree as she imagined a lady -should live. There had been nothing extravagant about Miss Haldane's -ideas, either, but they had included a seat in a church where sittings -were rented and threepence to be placed Sunday morning and evening in -the offertory-bag. - -The useful occupation which provided her with a means of livelihood -had been monotonous--how monotonous only Miss Haldane knew. Then -suddenly, and by some intervention of providence, Lady Anne Garland -came across her path, and at a moment when Lady Anne was--to use her -own parlance--tired of companions who were either entirely opinionated -or entirely deprecating, or, worse still, who dissolved into floods of -injured tears if told that Anne wished to receive a guest alone. - -Something about the little dried-up woman--probably her quiet and -indomitable pluck under adverse conditions--appealed to Anne. A month -after their first meeting, Miss Haldane found herself transplanted -to Anne's London house, with a salary that far exceeded her wildest -dreams. The only fly in her ointment was the thought that she did -nothing to merit it. Merely to live in a house, to be waited upon by -servants, to eat dainty food, and to drive with Anne in the Parks, -seemed to her an utterly inadequate return for the money she received. -It was, however, all that Lady Anne wished her to do. After a time she -grew accustomed to the fact that this was all that was expected of her. -Her own innate dignity and Anne's charming and frank manner prevented -her from feeling herself a dependent, and an odd but very sincere -friendship was the result. - -This was now the third summer that she had sat on the terrace and -watched Anne lazing in the sunlight. Her beauty, her youthful vigour, -in spite of her present indolent pose, struck Miss Haldane anew. - -Suddenly Miss Haldane spoke. "Anne," she said, "I wonder you have never -married." - -The sound of the luncheon gong followed on the speech. Anne rose from -her chair with panther-like grace. - -"So do I, Matty dear--sometimes." - -"But why don't you?" asked Miss Haldane. - -Anne walked to the window. At the window she turned. "Because," she -said, mock-solemnity in her voice, "though few people realize it, I -have a soul." - -"Of course you have," replied Miss Haldane seriously; "but what has -that got to do with marriage?" - -Anne laughed. "Nothing, of course," she replied; "and all the men I -happen to know would agree with you. Don't look puzzled, Matty dear, -but come and have lunch." - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -A CONCERT--AND AFTER - - -I - -Peter was partaking of a noonday meal of bread and cheese and beer when -a knock came on his cottage door. For a moment or two he thought his -ears must have deceived him, and he did not move. But the knock was -repeated. - -Peter got up and opened the door. A man in footman's garb was standing -outside. He looked Peter up and down with a slightly supercilious -expression. - -"Well?" demanded Peter. - -"The Lady Anne Garland wishes you to bring your penny whistle-pipe -to the terrace at four o'clock this afternoon, and be punctual," he -announced. - -It was not precisely the formula in which Lady Anne had worded the -message, but Burton considered it an exact enough paraphrase to be -delivered to a mere vagabond. It was in his eyes an even over-courteous -method of delivering the message. - -"Indeed!" said Peter. - -"Four punctual," repeated the man with a slightly insolent air. And he -turned from the door. - -Had he lingered a moment longer Peter would quite probably have kicked -him. Astonishment on Peter's part and a swift retreat on his alone -saved him. - -"Upon my word!" ejaculated Peter, looking after the retreating figure. -Then he went into the cottage and shut the door. - -"Insolence or fame," remarked Peter to his glass of beer, "in which -light shall I regard it?" And then suddenly he laughed. - -After all it smacked finely of medieval days, this command from the -lady of the manor to appear before her. Annoyance began to vanish; even -the insolence of the flunkey was in the picture. It was fame, there was -no question about it. - -"And, Robin Adair, you writer of tales, here's a subject made to your -hand," he quoted. - -Oh, he'd act the part well! A hint more disarray than usual about -his costume, his oldest coat and trousers--he had two day suits now, -this possessor of a cottage--must certainly be worn, with the peacock -feather at its jauntiest angle. He must also allow himself a slight air -of swagger, as of one conferring a favour; in appearance the vagabond -they regarded him, in manner a Kubelik stepping with assurance before -his audience. - -Peter began to be pleased; to look forward to the appointed hour with -interest. It was the writer in him, the man who sees, in any novel -situation in which he may find himself, new material for his pen. - -"Fate," quoth Peter to himself, "is thrusting another rôle upon me." -And then as children--and grown-ups for the matter of that--count -cherry stones, he ticked them off on his fingers. "Gentleman, scamp, -jail-bird, tramp, author, writer of letters to an Unknown Fair One, -and piper to the lady of the manor. Peter, my son, what else have the -Fates in store for you?" And then he gave a little involuntary sigh, -for after all, was not the chief rôle assigned to him--the one which -superseded all others--that of a lonely man? - -"Fool!" cried Peter to his heart. "Does not the sun shine for you, the -wind blow for you, and the birds sing for you? Have you not free and -untrammelled communion with Nature in all her varying moods?" - -But all the same the very enumeration of the many rôles seemed to have -emphasized the one more strongly. - - * * * * * - -At a quarter to four Peter, in his oldest and shabbiest garments, with -the peacock feather extremely jaunty in his shabby felt hat and his -whistle-pipe in his pocket, set off for the white house on the hill. - -It was a still sunny day, like many of its predecessors that summer. -June had taken the earth into a warm, peaceful grasp. There was a -restfulness about the atmosphere, a quiet assurance of continued heat -and sunshine. A faint breeze came softly from the west, barely stirring -the leaves on the hedges. To the east were great masses of luminous -cloud, piled like snow-mountains, motionless and still. The dust lay -thick and powdery in the lane, whitening Peter's boots; the grass, -too, was powdered, but slightly, for there was little traffic this -way. Peter, to whom the passing of a vehicle was somewhat of an event, -barely ever counted more than two or three in the day. - -He left the lane behind him and came out on to the village green. -As he passed across it men looked at him suspiciously, and a woman -carrying a basket stepped hastily to one side as if she feared contact -with him. Peter smiled brilliantly, and raised his hat with an air -of almost exaggerated courtliness. One man spat on the ground and -muttered something that sounded like a curse, but Peter went on his way -apparently unheeding. - -He passed the lodge gates and went up the drive, under beeches green, -copper, and purple, their trunks emerald and silver in the sunlight. On -the terrace to the right of the house he saw two figures, one in white -and one in some neutral colour. As he drew near the white-robed figure -raised her hand, beckoning him to approach. - -Peter came up to the terrace, standing just below on the gravel path. -He swept off his hat and stood bareheaded. Then he looked up and saw -Lady Anne Garland watching him. - -Peter's heart gave a jump, and for no reason in the world that he could -ascribe, beyond the fact that she was beautiful, oh! but undeniably -beautiful. She was a young woman, tall and slender, in a white dress, -and a crimson rose tucked in her waist-belt. She wore no hat. Her hair -shone blue-black, warm and lustrous in the sun. - -Of the other woman Peter took little note, beyond observing that she -was elderly and looked at him with evident disapproval. - -"So you are Peter the Piper?" said Lady Anne in her low, distinguished -voice. - -"At your service," said Peter. - -Lady Anne looked at him curiously. He was altogether different from -what she had expected, this man in the shabby clothes, with the -brilliant peacock feather, and with the bronzed clear-cut face and sad -eyes. - -"We have heard," said Anne, and there was an air of royal graciousness -in the words, "that you are a marvellous piper. Are you willing to -pipe for us?" She smiled at him as she spoke. And again Peter's heart -jumped, and began to beat at a fine rate. - -"With all the pleasure in the world," he replied, and he drew the pipe -from his pocket. - -Anne watched him as he laid his fingers lovingly around it. For a -moment or so he stood motionless. And then he began to play. - -First Anne heard an ordinary little march, quite conventional, but -sufficiently gay and lively. Then it broke into curious discords -played in rapid succession. Next followed a minor passage, tense, -constrained, as if the strange little air running through it were -struggling for greater liberty of expression. Suddenly it found it, -blending into a Te Deum, grand and glorious. All at once it stopped, -breaking again into a succession of strange discords which hurt Anne to -hear. There was an instant's pause, as if the first half of his theme -were finished. Then, played in the minor key, came a gay song with an -under note of marching feet, and through it a wistful yearning as for -something lost. The air changed to the major, and was repeated. Then -came a little melody played quite separately and on its own account, a -little rocking melody, not unlike a cradle song. It ceased, and a new -theme began quite unlike anything that had preceded it. Anne listened -with suspended breath. She made no attempt to classify it as she had -classified his previous themes. But above and beyond all the others it -spoke directly to her heart. - -Suddenly she was aware that the music had stopped, and that Peter was -looking at her like a man who has just come out of a trance. - -Anne's eyes were full of tears. - -"Thank you," she said, and she held out her hand. - -Peter came forward and took it. Then--it seemed that the action was -almost involuntary--he raised it to his lips. - -Miss Haldane fairly gasped, sitting upright and grasping the supports -of the deck-chair with both hands. The effrontery! the audacity! -the--the--she had no further word in her vocabulary with which to -express her indignation. - -Yet if Lady Anne were displeased she did not show it. She looked at -Peter long and curiously, as if seeking for something she might find, -something that escaped, eluded her. - -"You will come and play to me again?" she asked. - -"Perhaps," said Peter thoughtfully. He seemed not yet fully recovered -from what had appeared like a trance. - -Miss Haldane made an inarticulate sound in her throat. This assuredly -surpassed everything. She had been right, quite right, when she had -considered he might be a socialist. - -"It must of course," said Anne courteously, "be exactly as you wish." - -Peter bowed, and the next moment moved away, walking down the avenue -of beeches. Anne looked after his retreating figure thoughtfully, -wonderingly. - -"Impudence!" gasped Miss Haldane. She felt that her goddess, her -divinity, had been insulted. - -"No, Matty dear," said Anne, "the man is an artist." - -"An artist!" said Miss Haldane. She was unwilling to allow that the -music had appealed to her. - -"Yes," replied Anne, musing, "an artist! Heaven knows how many faults -of construction there may not have been in his theme. Possibly had -I been educated in the technical knowledge of music I should have -found it positively bristling with them. I am glad I know nothing -of the technique of music. I could listen and appreciate. Don't you -understand, Matty dear, how wonderful it was! The man's a genius!" - -"Well!" ejaculated Miss Haldane. She got up and moved towards the -French window. Before entering she turned suddenly. - -"My dear," she exclaimed, "you never paid him!" - -"I know," said Lady Anne quietly. - - -II - -Peter walked back to his cottage with his mind in a turmoil. - -It had been utterly, entirely different from the scene he had pictured -to himself. He had not swaggered, he had not stepped on to his platform -with an air of assurance. Something had gripped him, something -indefinable and powerful, and he--Peter--had lost the strength to -assert his own personality. - -It had been there, sure enough, but swayed, dominated, by something -outside, beyond him. It had come out from himself, forced out it would -seem, into the music of his piping. He had played himself, his own -story, to this woman on whom he had never before set eyes. - -Yet did he not know her? Had he never before seen her? Peter searched -the recesses of his memory, penetrating to its remotest corners, but -with no avail. - -No; in spite of all searching memory remained a blank. Instinct, -intuition--call it what you will--said, "You know this woman." Reason -said as firmly, "You do not." - -He had reached his cottage by now. He went in and shut the door. He -would work. He wanted to soothe his mind. He would throw himself into -the quiet calm thoughts of his Wanderer. - -He pulled paper, pen, and ink towards him and turned resolutely to his -manuscript. For over an hour he sat with it before him, then suddenly -realized that he had written no single word. It was useless to attempt -to write in this mood. A vague unrest was upon him. - -Peter pushed the papers aside, and leaving the cottage, set off to walk -across the moorland. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -A DISCLOSURE - - - _The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair_ - - "THE TERRACE, - "_June 8th_. - - "Here, Robin Adair, is a night-stock from below my terrace. I enclose - it while it is white and fragrant. It will reach you brown and - shrivelled; but, as you say, less shrivelled than my letter would - have been--in fact, as it now is. It lies on the terrace beside me, - a little heap of grey powdered ashes. This flower is its resurrected - form. It is slighter, subtler, more fragrant than that letter. I began - to re-read it, but did not get far; it was too serious, Robin Adair. - - "I am, as the above will have told you, writing from my terrace in the - cool of the evening. A lamp in the window of my morning-room affords - me light. The sky is grey-blue, and away in the west, Venus, who is an - evening star at the moment, is shining calm and peaceful. - - "I had a concert on this very terrace yesterday afternoon. A so-called - vagabond piped to me, wearing shabby clothes and a peacock feather in - his hat...." - -Peter laid down the letter a moment. His brain was whirling. Not -even on the receipt of the first letter from his Lady had it whirled -with such rapidity. Here, then, was the explanation. Of course, he -had known her before. He had had glimpses of her mind, her soul, her -delicate fanciful imaginings. She had embodied suddenly before him, and -unconsciously his soul had recognized her, though reason had urged to -the contrary. It was incredible, marvellous! In actual everyday life -such things did not happen. Yet here was the proof thereof, finely, -clearly traced with black ink on a sheet of bluish note-paper. - -He picked up the letter again, and began to read further. - - "It was a wonderful concert. Music has never before so stirred, so - moved me. Picture to yourself an ordinary penny whistle, from which - divine music was produced. He told a life-story in his piping, yet - fragmentary sentences alone reached me. It was as if I were reading a - book in a language of which I knew but a few words. Can you understand? - - "What there was in the first part of his theme, I know not; but he, - that strolling player, had suffered. Part of his theme beat and - struggled for liberty like a caged bird, or like an imprisoned mind--a - fettered expression. And when the expression, the liberty came--that - was what hurt--it was smashed, broken. Can you picture a caged - skylark, longing, pining for liberty, then seeing the cage door open, - and flying forth into the sunlight, its throat bursting with rapture, - only to find itself seized by some ruthless hand, wings torn from its - body? Yet the bird was not dead; there was the horror. It lay still, - bleeding, apparently lifeless, then lifted its head. Maimed though it - was, it would still sing; and its song should be no complaint, but one - to encourage and cheer all other injured things. I could have wept for - the pluck, the courage of the little creature. And after a time it - began to grow wings--little young wings that carried it just above the - earth into the open it loved. It was only a little way, but it meant - such a lot to that skylark. It was here, at the end, that the music - spoke most directly to my heart. The song the partially healed skylark - sang seemed to be sung for me alone, and yet here the translation of - the words most failed me. - - "The man is an artist. I wish he would play for me again. Yet I dare - no more ask him now than I would dare ask Sarasate to come to my - terrace and play. - - "He--this piper--is living on the outskirts of the village, in a - cottage reputed to be haunted. Doubtless he has charmed and soothed - the restless spirits by his piping. This is a great deal to write to - you regarding an unknown strolling player--though he is not strolling - now--but the man himself is unusual, while his music is superb. He - struck me as one of gentle birth. His speech was educated, and his - whole appearance, in spite of his shabby clothes, refined. I am sure - he has a story--one, Robin Adair, that might be worthy of your pen. - - "My companion--a dear, but very old-fashioned--resented his behaviour. - She thought he did not treat me with sufficient respect, mainly - because he did not jump at the proposal of playing to me again. I did - suggest I should like to hear him; but to send for him again, to send - a footman to fetch him as I did before, would be impossible. I hope - Burton delivered my message nicely. I worded it courteously, at all - events. - - "How goes your Wanderer, and are his thoughts progressing? That you - should dedicate those thoughts to me pleases me immensely. I think it - an honour that you should care to do so. - - "I am glad you did not burn my letter. I am glad you cared enough - about it--poor dull thing though it was--to refuse to do so. I did not - mean to say this to you, yet I have. - - "Good-night." - - _Peter (alias Robin Adair) to the Unknown Critic, whom he now knows - to be the Lady Anne Garland_ - - "_June 10th._ - - "DEAR LADY,--I am in a contrary frame of mind to-night. I want to - write to you, yet am in no mood to do so. - - "I have met your vagabond piper, and know him more intimately than you - might suppose. He is an impostor, though a harmless one, I grant. His - music is not bad, but I doubt his playing to you again. The fellow has - a good conceit of himself. - - "After all, I find I cannot write to-night. Thank you for the flower. - - "ROBIN ADAIR." - - _The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair_ - - "THE TERRACE, - "_June 18th_. - - "Why are you so hard on my Piper? I do not believe he is an impostor. - And as for his music being not bad! Robin Adair, are you one 'who has - no music in him, and is not moved by concord of sweet sounds,' or - in what way has this man vexed you? The latter I believe to be the - solution, Robin Adair, and it is not worthy of you. But I will not - write more of him. I have not seen him again, and the villagers speak - of him with bated breath as a friend of the Evil One. If he were of - my faith, I would ask Father Lestrange, a kindly man, to call at the - cottage. But as he never hears Mass he is evidently of another way - of thinking, and might regard the visit as an intrusion. And for some - reason he desires solitude. One dare not therefore intrude. I feel, - however, that he is lonely, and have had, perhaps foolishly, a desire - to lessen that loneliness. - - "The country is very peaceful after London, and I am revelling in my - flowers, more especially my roses. They are adoring this unwavering - sunshine and the warm nights. The gardeners keep their roots well - watered, so they--the roses--do not suffer from thirst. - - "I had a letter from a friend of mine the other day, a woman with - a surplus of relations all eager and willing to offer good advice - and to point out various neat and narrow little paths in which she - should walk and from which her soul recoils. After remarking on their - latest suggestions, she writes succinctly: 'The patience of Job was - over-estimated. His relations died.' - - "Why are some people so sure that their plan is the right one, and why - cannot they allow others to go their own way, provided, of course, the - way does not run strictly counter to the law? In that case, of course, - there might be complications. - - "Am I being very unoriginal when I lament the little originality there - is in the world, or, at all events, in that portion of it which I - know? And what little there is, is so frequently mere eccentricity. I - believe some people would call it original to discard one's clothes - and walk down Bond Street in war-paint and feathers, though certainly - there would be a large majority who would call it merely indecent, and - in that case the majority would doubtless be right. I believe I am in - a discontented mood this afternoon. There is a discord somewhere in my - harmonies. - - "Are you in a better mood for recording the thoughts of your Wanderer - than for writing to me? I hope so. I am looking forward to reading - them. I want something to soothe me. In spite of the peace that lies - around me--the quiet peace of Nature--I am restless. - - "Write to me, Robin Adair; tell me of your Wanderer." - - _Robin Adair to his one time Unknown Critic, or Peter the Piper to the - Lady Anne Garland_ - - "_June 20th._ - - "DEAR LADY,--I was churlish when I last wrote. I know more of your - Piper than you suppose. Do not write to me of him, I beg. - - "As for my Wanderer, he has escaped me. I intended to keep him - entirely to the fields and lanes, but he is off now to a hilltop. He - has caught a glimpse of a star, and thinks to gain a closer vision - of it from the hill. Poor fool! What will the height of an ant-heap - advantage him? There are millions of miles between him and the star. - On the hill he will be restless and miserable that he is no nearer. - Why could he not keep his eyes to the attainable?--the wayside - flowers, the green leaves of the hedges, all that which is common - property to prince and peasant alike. - - "Long ago in his past--I told you he had a past which he had thrown - behind him--he cut himself off from communion with his fellow-men. He - did not realize at the moment how complete the severance would be; - yet, if he had, I believe he would have acted as he did. There seemed - then nothing else that he could do; even now there appears to him - nothing else. Maybe he made a great mistake. If he did, he did not - suffer alone, there were others who suffered too; there's the rub. He - did not realize that they would suffer. His optimism in human nature - was too great. Now he realizes that there are only the fields and - roads for him, only the companionship of birds, beasts, and flowers, - to whom his past is unknown and can never be disclosed. His wings were - torn from him like the wings of that skylark of which your vagabond - Piper piped. True, he, too, grew new wings with which he could rise - just far enough above the earth to see the star. But he can never - reach it, and, unlike your skylark, he cannot sing cheerfully. Perhaps - before he saw the star he might have done so, but now his song lacks - buoyancy. - - "I fancy I shall have to leave him for a while gazing disconsolately - at his star, and start a new book. He has endowed me with too much of - his present mood, and who will care to hear the pinings of a wanderer - for the unattainable? I might bring him from the hilltop, blot out - the star from the sky. I have, indeed, already tried to do so, but - my Wanderer has moped and sulked. That is the worst of these fiction - people. You feed them with your heart's blood, you give them life of - your life that they may move as living creatures and not as mere - puppets pulled by strings, and suddenly they escape you. The path - you have carefully chosen, in which they are to tread, is refused by - them. 'It is the way you have chosen,' they will cry, 'not the way we - choose!' And if you protest that their path will be of little interest - to the public, they sulk, insisting that, interest or no interest, it - is the true path. I will leave this flesh and blood creature on the - hilltop. If he bewails the distance of his star from him, I will not - record his wailings. I will fashion a puppet, and merely a puppet, and - from first to last chapter I will pull the strings myself. - - "Therefore I fear that the thoughts of my Wanderer will never be - printed to soothe you, nor, I fear, can I be of much use in the - matter. I told you he had endowed me with his thoughts. I might be the - man himself. He has obsessed me. I tell myself that I will look at his - star and worship it from afar, thankful for its benign rays. But his - restlessness is upon me. I want to get near it, though I recognize the - futility of my desire. I am a fool. - - "May I take your friend, with her many relations, as the puppet for - my next story? I will pull the strings deftly, and she shall dance - away from them or frolic on their mangled corpses. Which think you she - would prefer? - - "I find that again my mood for letter-writing is not of the most - cheerful. - - "Good-night. - - "ROBIN ADAIR." - - _The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the Lady Anne Garland to Peter - the Piper_ - - "THE TERRACE, - "_June 27th_. - - "DEAR ROBIN ADAIR,--What is it, I wonder, that has disturbed us both? - Some small and unpleasant breeze has ruffled the surface of our mind's - lake. Yet your course seems clear. Since your Wanderer desires his - star, let him attain it. Let him build a ladder of moonbeams and climb - up to it, or if he is too much flesh and blood, too material, for such - a feat, let the star descend to him. Are there not falling stars? - - "Since writing last I have had a letter from a friend of mine. She is - not well, and is feeling lonely. I go to town next Thursday to stay - with her for three weeks, till her sister-in-law can come and join - her. Perhaps when I return I shall have regained my old calm. At all - events, the stir, the movement of London will serve to shake me out of - this mood, which I cannot define, but which is foreign to my nature. - - "I wish the vagabond Piper would give me another concert before I go, - but I dare not ask him." - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -A MOONLIGHT PIPING - - -Lady Anne Garland was sitting by her bedroom window. It was wide open, -and the perfume of the night-stocks below the terrace rose fragrant in -the still air. The atmosphere was darkly luminous, blue and purple, in -which the shapes of the trees and bushes stood out softly black in the -light of a half-moon. - -Away across the park, with its scattered oaks and beeches, she could -see masses of woodland lying like dark patches on the distant hills. -In the valley the lights in the cottages had been extinguished. One by -one they had dropped into the darkness, and now the whole village lay -asleep. - -Anne leaned her arms on the window-sill and looked out into the -night. She had not yet begun to prepare for bed, and she still wore -the silver-grey dress she had put on for dinner. The light from two -candles on the dressing-table behind her illumined the room, glinting -on silver-backed brushes and silver-topped bottles. The walls of the -room were white, and above the bed hung an ebony crucifix with a silver -Figure. The black cross stood out in startling relief on the white -wall-paper. A table beside her bed held a bowl of crimson roses, an -unlighted reading-lamp, and a green-covered book, the title printed in -gold letters. Between the leaves was an ivory paper-cutter. The leaves, -however, had long since been cut; and for the sixth--the seventh--time -Anne was reading _Under the Span of the Rainbow_. - -Suddenly Anne's ear was arrested by a sound--a faint sound, but the -unmistakable crunch of feet on gravel. The sound came from the drive. -She drew back into the room, extinguishing one candle and moving the -other so that its light did not illumine the square of open window. -Then from behind the curtain she watched and listened. - -The sound of the feet drew nearer, and a man emerged from the shadow of -the trees in the drive. He walked unfalteringly. It was not the wary -approach of one who fears to be seen. - -Below the terrace he halted. Anne quickly extinguished the second -candle, and leant a little from her hiding-place by the curtain. The -man looked up, the moonlight falling full on his face, and Anne saw -that it was Peter the Piper. Her breath came quickly and she watched, -herself unseen. - -She saw him lift his pipe to his lips, and then the still night became -full of music. This time Anne made no attempt to classify his theme--to -read a story in the melody. Probably it held none. It was music--music -pure and simple, which the Piper was playing for her alone. - -Breathless, entranced, she stood and listened. Surely never was such -a piping since King Midas of old listened to the flutes of Pan. It -was truly Nature's music, the instrument which produced it forgotten. -Liquid, caressing, it rose and fell in soft cadences, yet faintly -through it throbbed the undernote of pain. - -How long it lasted Anne did not know. Suddenly there was a pause. Then -came the nightingale's song, one short phrase of pure rapture. Then -silence. Anne saw Peter standing still in the moonlight. - -On a sudden impulse she moved and pulled a half-blown crimson rose from -the bowl on the table near her bed. She threw it from the window and -saw it fall at his feet. She saw him stoop and raise it from the ground -to his lips. He looked up, and once more she saw his face. - -Anne turned swiftly into the room. A moment later there was again the -sound of feet on the gravel, a clear, crisp crunching which receded in -the distance. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -LE BEAU MONDE - - -Lady Anne Garland was sitting in Mrs. Cresswell's drawing-room. It was -a charming room, with its domed ceiling, its panelled walls, its long -windows, its curtains and brocades of dull orange and glowing brown, -with its porcelains, its bronzes, and its masses of yellow and white -roses in old china bowls and slender glasses. - -Anne herself, in a dress of some gleaming material, pale primrose in -colour, was sitting on an Empire sofa. The warm brown of its brocade -made a delightful harmony with the colour of her dress--in fact, she -looked entirely in keeping with her surroundings. A white-haired man, -with blue eyes and wearing faultless evening clothes, was sitting on -the sofa beside her; and Anne was asking herself where in the name -of wonder she had seen him before. Something in his manner seemed -familiar, or was it, perhaps, his eyes, his keen old blue eyes under -their shaggy eyebrows? He had been introduced to her early in the -evening, and somehow there had seemed at once a curious and indefinable -sympathy between them, one which had sprung to life with the first -conventional words they had uttered. Throughout the evening he had -monopolized her--unquestionably monopolized her--yet entirely without -appearing to do so. And over and over again Anne was asking herself -when and where she had seen him before. - -She glanced at him now as she slowly waved her fan--a delicate thing of -mother-of-pearl and fine old cobwebby lace softly yellow with age. Anne -possessed the trick of fan-waving in its subtlest form, a trick--or -art--she had inherited from an ancestor of more than a century ago, one -Dolores di Mendova, a very noted beauty of the Spanish court, from whom -Anne had also inherited her hair, her creamy skin, and her panther-like -grace. - -General Carden turned and saw that she was watching him. A faint rose -colour tinged the ivory of Anne's face. - -"I was wondering," she said, explanatory, "where it was that I had seen -you before." - -General Carden smiled, a gay old smile. "I can tell you where I have -seen you, though whether you have deigned to notice me is quite another -matter." - -"Yes?" queried Anne the fan fluttering to and fro. - -"I have frequently seen you driving in the Park," said General Carden. -"You in your carriage, I in my car." - -"Yes?" mused Anne, still doubtful. - -"You do not remember?" asked General Carden. He was frankly -disappointed. - -"On the contrary, I remember perfectly. I confess I had forgotten the -fact till you mentioned it. Yet somehow it does not quite explain--" -She broke off. - -"Explain?" asked General Carden. - -Anne laughed. "Explain the quite absurd notion that I have actually -spoken to you before. Something in your manner, your speech, seems -almost familiar. I fancied I must have known you--not intimately, of -course, but slightly." - -"I fear," he regretted, "that I have not had that pleasure. I shall -hope now to be able to make up for my previous loss. You live in town?" - -"The greater part of the year," said Anne. "I spend three or four -months in the country." - -"Which, no doubt, you like," replied General Carden courteously. "Being -young, you are able to enjoy it. I prefer London. I only leave town -during August, when I go abroad. And the whole time I wish I were in -England. An unprofitable method of spending a yearly month of one's -life. Once I--" He broke off. "I am too old for travelling now," he -ended. - -"Isn't that rather--nonsense?" said Anne, with a faint hint of a smile, -and glancing at the upright figure beside her. - -General Carden straightened his shoulders. She was candid--absolutely -candid--in her remark. - -"Very charming of you to suggest it, Lady Anne," he said, and he tried -unavailingly to keep the pleasure out of his voice. "Perhaps after -all----" - -"Yes," smiled Anne, "after all, you don't find it quite as disagreeable -as you pretend." - -"Ah, well!" he said. - -There was a pleasant little silence. Anne watched the groups of people -in the room, sitting or standing in intimate conversation. There -was an atmosphere of airy gaiety about the place, a lightness, an -effervescence. Listlessness or boredom was entirely absent. In one of -the farthest groups was her friend, Muriel Lancing, with whom she was -staying. She was an elfin-like, dainty figure in a green dress, on -which shone a brilliant gleam of diamonds. Muriel herself was sparkling -to-night like a bit of escaped quicksilver. - -Rather nearer was another woman, tall and massive. Her figure was -undoubtedly good, but her pose gave one the faintest suspicion that -she was conscious of that fact. She reminded one of a statue which had -become slightly animated by some accident. Apparently, too, she had -never forgotten the fact of having been a statue, and wished other -people not to forget it either. Her face was a faultless oval, and her -hair worn in a Madonna-like style. But beyond the oval and the hair the -Madonna-like impression ceased. Her face was hard, there was none of -the exquisite warmth, the tender humanity seen in the paintings of the -Virgin Mother. - -General Carden was also looking at Mrs. Sheldon, whom, it may be -remembered, he had seen on a previous occasion in the Park, a day now -three or four weeks old. Anne noticed the direction of his glance. - -"Do you know her?" she asked suddenly, then added as an afterthought, -"She is a friend of mine." Anne did not state that it was a friendship -of only two years' standing, and one which existed infinitely more on -Mrs. Sheldon's side than on her own. - -"I once had the honour of knowing her fairly intimately," replied -General Carden. "We still exchange bows and civil speeches, but--well, -I fancy I remind her of an episode she wishes to forget--a perfectly -unimpeachable little episode as far as she was concerned, of course." - -Anne glanced at him sideways. There was almost a hard note in his -voice, which had not escaped her. She saw his profile clean-cut against -the dark panelling of the room. And then a sudden little light of -illumination sprang to her eyes. She had all at once discovered of -whom it was he reminded her. There was in his fine old face a very -distinct look of the vagabond Piper. It was one of those indefinable -likenesses which nevertheless exist, at all events in the eyes of those -who chance to see it. It was faint, elusive, and to the majority it -probably would not be the least apparent, but Anne now knew that it was -this which had puzzled her throughout the evening. - -And with the discovery came a sudden mental picture of a man standing -in the moonlight with a crimson rose against his lips. It was a picture -that had presented itself many times to her mental vision during the -last few days, and as many times had been dismissed. It was apt to -make her heart beat a trifle faster, to make the warm colour surge -faintly to her face. Being unable--or unwilling--to account for a -certain picturesque, if too impetuous, impulse which had moved her that -moonlight night, she wished to forget it. Yet it had a disturbing way -of representing itself before her mind. - -In banishing it now her thoughts turned into another trend, which was -apt to absorb them quite a good deal, the thought of that writer of -letters and books--Robin Adair. Anne was perfectly aware that this -unknown writer occupied a large amount of her mind; it swung and -see-sawed between him and the vagabond Piper in a way that was almost -uncomfortable and altogether unaccountable. She was not accustomed to -have her thoughts encroached on in this way without her will being -consulted, and she could not understand it, or she told herself that -she could not understand it, and that possibly came to the same thing. -At all events, she was undoubtedly in a slight puzzlement of mind. -It is the only word to describe her vaguely perplexed state. As now -Robin Adair had swung uppermost, his book presented itself to her as a -subject of conversation. - -She asked General Carden if he had read it. She fancied--it was -probably pure fancy--that he started slightly. He glanced, too, at Mrs. -Cresswell, who was only a few paces away and quite possibly within -earshot. - -"Ah, yes," he replied indifferently. "Mrs. Cresswell recommended it to -me--a fairly promising book, I thought." He was adhering faithfully to -the expression. - -"Fairly promising!" Anne's voice held a note akin to indignation. "I -thought it delightful; clever, cultured, quite admirably written." - -General Carden experienced a sensation which might be described as a -glow of satisfaction. "Isn't that," he said, "rather high praise?" - -"Not an atom more than the book deserves!" responded Anne warmly. "And -the reviews on it--I saw two or three--were excellent." - -"Indeed!" said General Carden politely. The old hypocrite had no mind -to mention that every review ever penned on it was now lying safely -locked in his desk, that he knew them all nearly verbatim, that he had -gloated over them, exulted over them though with many a little stab of -pain in the region called the heart. - -"Of course," pursued Anne thoughtfully, "it isn't merely a surface -book, full of adventure, movement, and incident; and what incident -there is might be termed improbable by those who don't realize that -nothing is improbable, nothing impossible. It's in its style, its -finish, its--its texture that the charm and beauty of it lie." - -"It has certainly some well-turned phrases," conceded General Carden -magnanimously. He liked her to talk about the book; he longed for her -to continue, though for the life of him he could not give her a lead. -Yet his grudging admiration--all a pretence though it was, though Anne -could not know that--fired her to further defence of the writing, -stimulated her to fresh praise. - -"There are delightful phrases!" she said emphatically. "It is a modern -book, yet with all the delicacy, the refinement, the porcelain-air of -the old school. For all that the scenes are laid mainly in the open, -and are, as I said, quite modern; it breathes an old-world grace, a -kind of powder-and-patches charm, which makes one feel that the writer -must have imbibed the finish, the courtesy of the old school from his -cradle, as if it must have come to him as a birthright, an inheritance." - -General Carden drew himself up. His blue eyes were shining. "Your -praise of the book," he said, "is delightful. The author"--his eyes -grew suddenly sad--"would, I am sure, be honoured if he knew your -opinion." - -Anne flushed. Did he not know? Had she not told him? Though perhaps -not in those very words. - -"It does surprise me," she, allowed, after a second's pause, "that -you are not more enthusiastic about it. I should have fancied -somehow--slightly as I know you--that it would have entirely appealed -to you." - -General Carden gave a little cough. "It does appeal to me," he said. -"It appeals to me greatly--so much, in fact, that I assumed a certain -disparagement in order that I might have the pleasure of hearing you -refute me." He had forgotten Mrs. Cresswell, but the words had not -escaped her, absorbed though she appeared to be in conversation, and -there was the tiniest--the very tiniest--expression of triumph in her -eyes. - -"Oh!" said Anne, at once puzzled and debating. And then she said, "I am -longing to read his next book." - -"He has not published another, then?" queried General Carden -carelessly. Double-faced that he was, he knew perfectly well that no -second book had appeared as yet. Had he not advised Mudie's--naturally -not in Mrs. Cresswell's presence--to supply him with a copy the moment -one appeared? - -"No," replied Anne. And she stopped. Had not Robin Adair himself told -her that his Wanderer had escaped him, and Heaven knew whether he would -ever again be caught, chained, fettered, and imprisoned in the pages -and between the covers of a book? - -Later in the evening General Carden, taking his departure, said to -Anne, "I should like to have the honour of calling on you, if you will -allow me to do so." - -And Anne replied: "I should be quite delighted. I am staying now with -Mrs. Lancing, and go down to the country in a few days, but I shall -return to town to my own house in the autumn." - -"In the autumn, then," said General Carden, bowing over her hand. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -CONFIDENCES - - -Muriel Lancing, having partaken of breakfast in her own room, was now -lying in luxurious and dainty _négligé_ among a pile of extremely snowy -pillows. Anne, who had breakfasted in the dining-room some half hour -previously, was sitting by the open window talking to her. - -"Anne," said Muriel suddenly, glancing at her from beneath lowered -eyelashes, "I believe I owe you a confession and an apology." - -"Yes?" queried Anne, smiling. "And for what?" - -"I wasn't," confessed Muriel, "one bit ill when I wrote to you. I was -only mentally sick because I wanted Tommy, and he had to go away on -horrid business where I couldn't accompany him--at least, he said I -couldn't; and that comes to the same thing--with Tommy." Muriel heaved -a prodigious sigh. - -"Darling!" laughed Anne. - -Muriel wrinkled her porcelain-like brows. "Oh, Anne, life is heavenly! -There's only just one long big beautiful moment with me and love and -Tommy. But there are ten million years of purgatory to get through when -he is away from me, and then I'm soul-sick. And I tell myself I'm a -sentimental little fool, but it doesn't do one bit of good. So I wrote -to you to come to me till Patricia, who is a cheerful soul, can join -me. And I didn't want to tell you it was sheer silly loneliness, so I -told you a little white lie," she ended tragically. - -"Of course," said Anne serenely. "I knew." - -"Did you?" Muriel was half incredulous. - -"Yes; your letter just breathed 'I want Tommy' all through it. And as -a kind of postscript it added, 'But you're better than nothing to this -poor moping person, so for Heaven's sake come.'" - -"And I," murmured Muriel pathetically, "thought my letter the height of -diplomatic lying." - -"On the contrary," Anne assured her, "it was as transparent as a -crystal bowl." - -For a few moments there was a silence. The warm sun was pouring -through the open window, falling across the bed and the slightly -tumbled bedclothes, and glinting on the fair hair of the woman who lay -among the pillows. Strictly speaking, Muriel Lancing was not beautiful, -she was not even pretty. But there was an odd charm about her thin -little face, her great grey-green eyes, and her wide mouth. She had -a curious, almost elfin-like appearance. She was not at all unlike -Arthur Rackham's pictures of Undine as she lay there in some flimsy -and diaphanous garment suggestive of sea-foam. Herself--her whole -surroundings--held a suggestion of elusiveness, a kind of cobwebby -grace and charm. Tommy--adored of Muriel--once said that the house -was like an oyster-shell, rough and ugly on the outside, but inside -all soft and shimmery with a pearl in it. It was his most brilliantly -poetical effusion, and never likely to be surpassed by him. The only -single thing in the room that struck an incongruous note was a large--a -very large--photograph frame on a table by Muriel's bed. It was a -rough wooden frame, distinctly crooked, and with the glue showing -somewhat in the corners. It held a full-length photograph of an ugly, -snub-nosed, but quite delightful-faced young man with a wide mouth and -an appearance that rightly suggested red hair and freckles. This was -the adored Tommy, and the frame was his own manufacture. Next to the -man himself they were Muriel's most treasured possessions. - -Anne looked across at it. She had often seen it before, but finding it -difficult to discover the most tactful observation to make regarding -it, had refrained from making any. This time, however, Muriel seemed to -notice the direction of Anne's eyes. - -"Tommy made it himself," she said, stretching out one white arm, from -which a flimsy covering of lace and gauze-like material fell away, -disclosing its slender roundness. She moved the frame to an angle -better calculated to show off its superior qualities. - -"Really!" said Anne, politely incredulous, but understanding. It -explained what had hitherto been a cause for wonderment, namely, -why Muriel should choose to disfigure her room with such a piece of -furniture. Its size almost calls for the designation. - -"Yes," said Muriel proudly, "himself. I think," she continued, -contemplating the picture with her head at as one-sided an angle as her -recumbent position would allow, "that it is a beautiful frame." There -was the faintest suspicion of a challenge in her voice. - -"I am quite sure," said Anne in a perfectly grave voice, "that you -could not possibly have a frame which you would value more. I know I -couldn't if I happened to be you." - -Muriel laughed like a contented child. "Anne, you're several kinds of -angels, and you have the heavenliest way of saying the right thing and -yet speaking the truth. Of course I know that its sides are crooked, -and that there are little mountains of glue in the corners. But you -should have seen Tommy's face when he brought it to me. The darling was -so afraid it was not of quite the most finished workmanship. Oh, Anne, -between the comicality of his face and the lop-sided expression of the -sticky frame--the glue wasn't quite dry--and the little lump in my own -throat for the darlingness of the thought, I very nearly had hysterics. -But I hid them on Tommy's waistcoat, and I adore the frame." - -"Of course," said Anne, smiling. - -Again there was a little pause. Then Muriel spoke suddenly. - -"What do you think of General Carden? He monopolized you in the most -disgraceful way last night." - -"I liked him," returned Anne, calmly ignoring the question of monopoly. -"It is delightfully refreshing to meet a man so entirely of the old -school of thought and manners." - -"I think he's quite a dear," returned Muriel comfortably. "I've known -him since I was in short frocks and a pigtail. He was a friend of my -father's. They were at Harrow together and afterwards in the same -regiment in India. He thinks me--well, just a little flighty, but he -doesn't altogether hate me; and he's quite paternally fond of Tommy," -she ended with a gay little laugh. - -"By the way," asked Anne, curious, "why does he so dislike Millicent -Sheldon? It is quite obvious he does dislike her." - -Muriel gave a little start. Then she looked at Anne, doubtful, -hesitating. "Oh, my dear Anne, don't you know? Somehow I fancied that -every one--" She stopped. - -"Know what?" queried Anne idly, but interested. - -"It's really gossip--if true things are gossip," said Muriel half -apologetically; "still, some one is sure to tell you sooner or later -since you've met General Carden." Again she stopped. - -"But tell me what!" demanded Anne. "Since you've said so much, had you -not better give me the rest? Besides, since you say some one is sure -to tell me, why not let me hear the story from you? You can sweeten -it, add sugar and cream, if you will, or vinegar and spice, if those -ingredients will flavour it better." - -Muriel laughed. "I'll omit the garnishings; you shall have the facts -plain and simple. Millicent was once upon a time engaged to General -Carden's son. Then--for certain reasons--she threw him over, and -married the highly respectable and bald-headed Theobald Horatio -Sheldon, whose money--of which he has a very considerable quantity--was -made by inventing those little brush things that are fixed on behind -carts and sweep up the dirt in the roads." - -"I see," mused Anne, comprehending. "But of course, as I had never met -General Carden before, I naturally did not know that he possessed a -son. He did not, either, happen to mention him to me." - -"But of course not," said Muriel tragically. "That's exactly where the -reasons and the real gossip come in. He spent three years in Portland -prison for forgery, or embezzlement, or something of the kind. He's out -now, but he was in." - -"Oh!" said Anne seriously. - -"And," ended Muriel, still more tragically, "General Carden has never -seen his son again nor forgiven Millicent for throwing him over. It's -rather contradictory, isn't it?" - -Anne looked down into the street where a flower-girl was standing on -the pavement with a basket full of great white lilies. She contemplated -her for a few moments in silence, and seemingly drew conclusions from -the flowers. She looked round again at Muriel. - -"I think I understand," she said quietly. - -Muriel looked at her curiously. "Then it's quite remarkably intelligent -of you." - -"No," said Anne calmly. "He loves his son and has never forgotten him. -She has forgotten him and probably never loved him. That's why he -can't forgive her." - -"Oh!" said Muriel. "I'm sure you're right that he has not forgotten. -He's eating his heart out for him, or I'm much mistaken, and he's too -proud to own it by the quiver of an eyelash. We women have the easier -time. It's our rôle to keep our arms and hearts open to sinners, and -thank Heaven for it." - -Anne was again looking at the flowers. She had said she understood, -but in reality it was only partly. She did understand General Carden, -but Millicent with her serious speeches on nobility and bigness of -character was another matter. She voiced her perplexity to Muriel. - -"Oh, but Millicent!" said Muriel in a tone that quite disposed of the -question. - -"Yet," said Anne, "Millicent has always talked as if she would help any -one re-make his life, as if it were the one thing she would do, and--" -She broke off. - -Muriel gurgled. "Oh, Anne darling, you're so big-minded and -truthful--in spite of your occasional woman-of-the-world airs, which -are only a veneer--that you accept people at their own valuation. -The things that people say they will do are the very things that at -a crucial moment they do not do. I think crucial moments are a kind -of revolution which turns the other side of the person completely to -the fore." And then her tone changed to one of solemn warning. "You, -Anne, doubtless consider yourself a luxury-loving woman, to whom the -bare prospect of coarse underclothes, cold rooms, ill-cooked food, and -commonplace surroundings would be appalling. Yet I firmly believe that -if the crucial moment came you would tramp the roads with your man." - -"Mmm!" said Anne. And that rose colour stole into the ivory of her -face, a colour not unnoticed by the watchful eyes of Muriel. "Perhaps, -the roads; but do you think it would carry me to a suburban house with -a glass fanlight over the front door? It would be the bigger test. But, -and there I think you've omitted a point, how about the second moment, -the moment when the crucial moment is passed?" - -Muriel raised herself on one arm and spoke firmly. "Love--real love--is -one long crucial moment. I speak from experience because I love -Tommy." She tumbled flat again among her pillows, and looked across at -Anne to challenge her experience if she dared. - -Anne, being of course an unmarried woman with no experience of the -kind, merely smiled, a tiny smile which ended in a half sigh. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -LETTERS - - - _The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the Lady Anne Garland to Peter - the Piper_ - - LONDON, - _July 7th_. - - DEAR ROBIN ADAIR,--I have met another admirer of your book, a - delightful old man of courtly manners of the style of the eighteenth - century. At first he assumed disparagement of it, or at the best a - faint half-hearted kind of praise, which would, I believe, in any - case have roused a spirit of contradiction in me. With your book - as the subject I waxed eloquent. I took up the cudgels of defence, - and I flatter myself wielded them with dexterity. When at last the - flow of my discourse ceased--and I trust I was not too didactic in - my observations--he confessed calmly that he had merely assumed - disparagement in order that he might have the pleasure of hearing - me refute him! It knocked the wind completely out of my sails. I was - left helpless, stranded, entirely at a loss for a suitable reply. I - hope I carried off the situation with at least a passable degree of - _savoir-faire_, but I have my doubts. - - I so frequently find myself addressing really witty and brilliant - remarks to my bedpost fully an hour or so after the opportunity of - making them has passed, when the witticism, the brilliance, might have - been delivered in the presence of another, and have covered me with a - dazzling glory. It is humiliating to contrast what one has said with - what one might have remarked. You writers have the better time. In - silence and solitude you can consider your epigrams, and then place - them in the mouths of your fictional people at the psychological - moment, and the world is left to marvel at your brilliance. - - But to return to my old courtier. He has a sad history, which he hides - under a mask of urbane and suave courtliness. He has a son, who--so - the story runs--has disgraced their name. The old man being too proud - to overlook the disgrace--too proud, perhaps, to stoop and delve for - extenuating circumstances--has cut the son out of his life; but - fortunately, or unfortunately, he cannot cut him out of his heart, - which is aching, pining, for the lack of him. Why can he not put pride - in his pocket and ease his heartache? It's a pitiful little story, and - one which has caused my own heart to ache, though quite possibly I - should have dismissed it without a second thought if I had not met the - old courtier. - - The friend with whom I am staying has soothed the spirit of discontent - which was awake in me when I last wrote. Her method is entirely - unobvious. I think it lies in her own incurably good spirits, and her - optimism, both of which are infectious. There is an "everything is for - the best in this best of all possible worlds" air about her which is - exhilarating. - - I have, though, been disappointed in another friend, if I may - use the word. Personally I feel there should be another to use. - An acquaintance signifies one of whom we have but a passing and - superficial knowledge, and a friend some one much closer--very - close--the word in its real sense. Am I drawing too fine a point? - Perhaps one might use the terms I have heard children use, "friends," - and "truly friends." So, to use the first term in application to - this woman, I have been disappointed in a friend. She is not what I - believed her to be, what I believe she wished me to believe her. It - has spoilt, as far as I am concerned the intimacy between us. I cannot - re-adjust myself towards her, and I feel myself acting the part of - a hypocrite. I have picked up her broken pieces as best I may, and - mended them, but I am conscious of the cracks. My mending has not been - as neat a job as I could wish. Is it any use trying to mend? Tell me - what you think, O Man! - - The worst of it is that before she broke I asked her to spend a - few days with me in August. During those days I shall be terribly, - hideously conscious of the cracks. I shall find myself staring at them - with a kind of awful fascination. Pray Heaven she'll not observe it, - for if she did I--in the rôle of hostess--would be forever disgraced - in my own eyes. - - I do not know why I should write all this to you; why I should trouble - you with what, I am fully aware, are mere absurdities which any - sane and reasonable person would assuredly dismiss without a second - thought. May I plead in excuse that somehow you have taken the - position of a "truly friend," one to whom trivialities--which after - all make up the greater part of one's life--may be mentioned without - fear of a laugh or a snub? - - I went to a Beethoven concert the other day. To me he stands head and - shoulders above every other composer, living or dead. Does music give - you the sensation of colour and form? It does me. That was a purple - concert, sphere-shaped. Mozart's music is sapphire blue and shaped - like a star. Bach's is dark green and square. Grieg's is pale green - with a hint of pink and a slim oval, Wagner's is crimson and purple - and shaped like a massive crown. I might go on enumerating, if I did - not fear to bore you. - - Have you read Conard's life of Beethoven? Do you know Beethoven's own - words: "Oh hommes, si vous lisez un jour ceci, pensez que vous avez - été injustes pour moi; et que le malheureux se console, en trouvant - un malheureux comme lui, qui, malgré tous les obstacles de la nature, - a cependant fait tout ce qui était en son pouvoir, pour être admis au - rang des artistes et des hommes d'élites?" - - Grand, glorious Beethoven! the struggle over all infirmity, the - victory, and his lonely yet dramatic death! "Il mourut pendant un - orage--une tempête de neige--dans un éclat de tonnerre. Une main - étrangère lui fermer les yeux." If I am a hero-worshipper, and it - would seem that I am, Beethoven stands in the front rank of my heroes. - Read his life--by Conard--if you have not already done so. It is one - which every artist, of whatever branch his art, should know. - - How goes it with your Wanderer? Is he reconciled to his distance from - his star? Or have you let the star fall to his hilltop? - - Good-night. - - _Robin Adair to the Unknown Critic, or Peter the Piper to the Lady Anne - Garland_ - - _July 9th._ - - DEAR LADY,--I have re-read your letter more than once. It is--dare I - say?--somewhat illogical, and therein most delightfully feminine. - - You suggest that your old courtier should ease his heartache. Do you - not see that in so attempting he could only bring into his life a - thing which is in his eyes broken? And, however carefully he might - mend it, would he not be--as you are--painfully and terribly aware - of the cracks? Men, I fancy, choose the wiser way; they throw aside - the broken pieces into a neat little dustbin, making no attempt to - mend. For, after all, is not the glue which holds the thing together - a certain sophism which is always apparent to the repairer, and - which is, frequently, not very adhesive? Once broken--in spite of - the glue--it is apt to fall to pieces on the slightest handling. No, - the dustbin, in my opinion, is the better solution. You, as a woman, - doubtless will not agree with me. Women invariably mend, and the - majority--less critical than you--fancy they make of the mending a - neat job. - - Let me offer you one piece of advice. Do not let your heart ache for - the story you have heard. It was, no doubt, related to you by another - than your courtier, and was soothed, softened, rendered pathetic in - the telling. You, in your tenderness, have imagined your courtier as - hankering after the broken pieces of his image in the dustbin. Your - tender imagination removed, the glamour of pathos round the story - would be removed also, and you would find heartaches and such-like - non-existent. - - I do not believe that the wind is ever so completely knocked out of - your sails--as you say--that you are unable to find some appropriate - reply. That is merely your modesty. I picture you as talking with - charm, with ease, with brilliance. Witticisms I leave outside the - category. They belong to older men and women, and are apt to have a - poignant edge foreign to my idea of your words. - - I like to think that you count me, as the children say, a "truly - friend." Your friendship--disembodied though it is--has brought me - refreshment, happiness. Though for a time my Wanderer had obsessed - me with his mood, the obsession is passed. It has passed with him - also. He does not desire that the star should fall to him. Its very - charm lies in its altitude. Perhaps one day, when he has cast off the - mantle of his flesh, he will build himself that ladder of moonbeams, - and mount to it. As it is--his mood of discontent passed--he is - worshipping, grateful that it shines in his otherwise empty firmament. - From the little hilltop--which he found was but an ant-heap--from the - lanes, from the fields, he looks up to it, and addresses to it his - thoughts, his fancies. He is once more a cheerful soul, appreciating - the earth, the wind, and the flowers. His love and worship he keeps - for his star. - - I have not read Conard's life of Beethoven, nor, I confess, any - writer's life of him. I will make up for the omission without delay. - His music I know and love. Your little discourse on colour and - shapes in music interests me. I should like to hear more about them. - Unknowingly I believe I have had the same thoughts, and I agree with - the colours and shapes you assign, with, perhaps, the exception of - Grieg's shape. His colour--yes; but I have a fancy that his form is - less simple, more a variety of curves. I think I should give the - oval--slightly broadened--to Schumann, and in its slim form to Heller. - Schumann, by the way, is blue--darker than Mozart, and, though soft in - colour, less transparent. Heller is pale yellow. Do you agree? - - Write again soon, and tell me everything you will about yourself. - - Good-night. - - ROBIN ADAIR. - - _The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the Lady Anne Garland to Peter - the Piper_ - - THE TERRACE, - _July 16th_. - - DEAR ROBIN ADAIR,--Here I am once more on my terrace, looking across - the garden and the park land towards a small village--whose name I - will not disclose--lying half-hidden among the trees in the valley. - Occasionally, when I am in a ruminative mood, I wonder at the lives - of the inhabitants thereof--the routine of them, with no greater - excitement than a visit to the market-town some eight miles distant. - True, there is the yearly fair at that place, which is an event of the - greatest importance. Every man, woman, and child, except the extremely - old and the extremely young, flocks to the town on that day. Every - available vehicle is requisitioned and packed with a mass of humanity - to the fullest extent of its capacities, and those unable to find - conveyance in them, and more stalwart, walk. There are at the fair, - so I am told, booths, coco-nut shies, merry-go-rounds, and peep-shows - of a fat woman whose age is unknown, but who apparently must be akin - to Methuselah, since she has been regarded, it would seem, by the - fathers, the grandfathers, and the great-grandfathers of the present - generation. But with the exception of the fair there is absolutely - nothing to break the monotony of their lives but the weather and a - wedding or a funeral. It's rather appalling to contemplate, isn't it? - But they seem content and happy, and that after all is the main thing. - - Do you believe in fortune-tellers? I went to one before I left town. - I do not think it was great credulity in the art that urged me to - consult the sibyl, but merely the fact that the friend with whom I - was staying persuaded me into the consultation. I had what is termed - a "full reading." The palm of my hand was conned, the cards spread - out, and the crystal gazed into. I confess that the affair was, to a - certain degree, uncanny. Her description of my house--this one--was - extraordinary. It might have been before her as she spoke, and she - actually saw me listening to a concert by the vagabond Piper--and not - only the concert of which I have told you, but another concert, one he - gave me the night before I went up to town, and of which I believe no - one was aware but he and I. He came to the terrace and played below - my window. It was quite medieval, and entirely delightful. She saw, - too, letters which I was receiving and which were a source of great - pleasure to me, and therein she was very assuredly right. But--and I - hope you will not be offended--after that she began to mix the Piper - and the writer of letters, speaking of them with confidence as one - and the same person. I did not enlighten her as to her mistake, as - with these sibyls it is better to let them say what they see without - interruption, otherwise they are apt to try and tell you what they - think you wish to know, what they think you desire to have said. - It was curious. And here I will make a confession. I myself have - occasionally, and in quite an absurd fashion, confounded the two in my - thoughts. Do not be vexed, Robin Adair, for you dislike--or pretend - to dislike--the Piper. But it seems to me that the sibyl must have - been extraordinary telepathic, and have somehow read my thoughts, and - their occasional confusion, in a remarkable degree. She told me a good - deal more, no doubt the usual fortune-telling jargon, which would - be, I am sure, of little interest to you. Certainly it is not worth - repetition. But what I have told you struck me as distinctly queer. - - I am rejoiced to hear that your Wanderer--and consequently you--are - once more soothed and peaceful. And now that he is so, let him - continue to recount his thoughts by the hand of Robin Adair, that I - may shortly have the benefit of them. - - One day--not to-day--I will write you all my fancies on colour, and - I have a good many. Perhaps you are right as to Grieg's form. It is - probably more intricate than the oval. Possibly it is a design of many - curves. As regards Schumann and Heller, I agree. - - I fancy you are wrong about my courtier. He has, no doubt, acted on - your dustbin principle, but, all the same, I believe he regrets the - action. Of course, I see the justice of your accusation that my letter - was illogical, but I cannot begin an argument and a defence now. - The day is too warm and lazy for such exertion. The heat-shimmer is - bathing the gardens, and the top of my silver ink-bottle is almost - too hot to touch. The sun has slanted round, and is frizzling me in a - diabolical fashion. Hitherto I've been too indolent to move, but now, - if I don't intend to be entirely melted, I must get up and pull my - chair into the shade. - - Of course fortune-telling is absurd really, at least as far as regards - the future. Though I grant that this woman's reading of my thoughts - was clever. - - Good-bye for the present. The bees are droning a lullaby, and I - believe I shall sleep. - - _Robin Adair to the Unknown Critic, or Peter the Piper to the Lady Anne - Garland_ - - _July 18th._ - - DEAR LADY,--I have no theories as to fortune-tellers beyond a, - no doubt absurd, dislike to them. I do not care to think of you - consulting them. Forgive me for saying so. I am perfectly well aware - that I have no smallest right to express an opinion, but--it will - out--I wish you wouldn't, and long to beg you not to do it again. - - When you are in a less melted mood write me a letter of argument - and defence. You will not be able to explain away your illogical - statements, but I should much enjoy hearing you try to do so. - - I must certainly contradict flatly about your courtier. I am sure you - are wrong. And as I shall cry "Knife" every time you cry "Scissors," - let us abandon him as a topic of discussion. Write to me of colours - instead. - - This is a rude letter, and I know it. But a little incident has - rubbed my mental fur the wrong way, and I am--well, cross with myself - I believe. Perhaps it would be wiser not to write at all, but not - to do so would be to discontinue a little ceremony which I have put - in practice since the first day I heard from you. Will you laugh at - me, I wonder, if I tell you that every evening your letter arrives I - become a host, and toast an invisible Lady who has condescended to - dine with me, and after dinner we talk together--through the medium - of pen, ink, and paper. Sometimes I like to imagine that the medium - is less material, and that my thoughts are carried straight on the - wings of fancy to the Lady's terrace. But if they go, can she perceive - them? Are they not too clumsy, too material, to find response in her - thought-cells? After all, it is but a fancy, and you may quite well - smile at both it and my dream dinner-party. - - To-night I have not been a good host. I apologize to the Lady. Being - the sole guest I ever receive, I might have treated her with greater - courtesy. - - ROBIN ADAIR. - - _The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the Lady Anne Garland to Peter - the Piper_ - - THE TERRACE, - _July 20th_. - - DEAR ROBIN ADAIR,--I did not smile--at any rate not ironically. If - there was a little smile it was verging close on tears. Are you really - so lonely? Somehow I had fancied that when you spoke of yourself as a - recluse it was a mere figure of speech. Have you no friends who dine - with you, who visit you--no material friends? - - The little mental picture your letter called up was pathetic. I - wish--well, never mind what I wish. Probably it would be no atom of - good. I believe--I am sure--your thoughts do reach me. Send them to - me, and I will send mine to you. - - _Robin Adair to the Unknown Critic, or Peter the Piper to the Lady Anne - Garland_ - - _July 22nd._ - - DEAR LADY,--Forget my letter. I did not mean to drivel. I did not - mean to cause you the faintest suspicion of tears. I am not, I - believe, a sociable person. My disembodied Lady is more to me than - hundreds of material friends. I am utterly and entirely grateful for - her invisible presence--and the thoughts she sends me. Whatever you - wish must be of benefit. Whatever that unexpressed wish was, I endorse - it. - - Thank you for your letter. - - ROBIN ADAIR. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -A THUNDERSTORM - - - "There is a Lady sweet and kind, - Was never face so pleased my mind, - I did but see her passing by, - And yet I love her till I die," - -sang Peter, in a pleasant tenor voice. - -He was sitting by the window of his cottage, engaged--truth will -out--in darning a pair of green socks. Occasionally he lifted his head -from his work and gazed through the window. It was intensely still -outside; not a leaf, not a blade of grass was stirring. It was almost -overpoweringly close and sultry. Peter had set both door and window -open in invitation to a non-existent breeze to enter. - -From the north, where a great bank of ominous black clouds was piled, -came a low, sinister rumble. - -"It's coming," said Peter aloud, looking through the window. "The -storm, the tempest, the whole wrath of the furious elements will -shortly be loosed upon us. The clouds are coming up with extraordinary -rapidity, considering there's no wind at all down here. Up there it -must be blowing half a gale. We'll get rain soon." - -He returned to his darning. - - "Her gesture, motion, and her smiles, - Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles, - Beguiles my heart, I know not why, - And yet I love her till I die," - -he sang, sticking his needle carefully in and out of the heel of the -sock. - -"And the green of the wool doesn't match the green of the sock one -little bit!" he said ruefully. "But, after all, no one looks at me; and -I certainly can't look at my own heels--at least, not without a certain -amount of effort, so _n'importe_, as they say in France." - - "Cupid is wingèd and doth range - Her country, so my love doth change; - But change she earth, or change she sky, - Yet will I love her till I die." - -Peter cut the wool with his pocket-knife, and contemplated the sock -with his head on one side. Then he threw it on to the table. There was -a little laugh in his eyes, not caused by the contemplation of the sock. - -"I believe," he said whimsically, "that that fellow--what was his -name?--Neil Macdonald, was right after all, and that Chaucer is--well, -an old fraud. Yet," and a wistful look crept into his blue eyes, "I -might have done much better if I'd gone on believing in him. Yet, I -don't know. After all, Peter, my son, isn't the joy worth a bit of -heartache!" - -He got up from his chair and went towards the door. He could look -over the hedge and up and down the lane from his position. A couple -of big drops, large as half-crowns, had just fallen on his spotlessly -white doorstep--Peter was proud of his doorstep. They were followed by -another and another. There was a flash, a terrific peal, and then with -a sudden hiss came the deluge. Straight down it fell, as if poured from -buckets, and the lightning played across the sky and the thunder pealed. - -"Ouf!" said Peter, drawing in a huge breath as the refreshing scent -of the grateful earth came to his nostrils. "That's really quite the -very best smell there is, and worth all your eau-de-colognes, and your -phulnanas, and--and your whatever you call 'em put together. It really -is--" And then he broke off, for down the lane came running a woman, -her head bent, the rain beating, drenching down upon her. Peter was at -the gate in a moment. - -"Come in here!" he called. - -She paused, hesitated. Peter saw her face. His heart jumped, and then -started off klip-klopping at a terrible rate. - -"I--" she began. A blinding flash of lightning, followed by a terrific -peal right overhead, stopped the words. - -"Come at once!" said Peter imperatively, sharply almost. "It's not -safe." - -She ran up the path, he following. In the shelter of the cottage she -turned and faced him. The colour in her face was not, perhaps, quite to -be accounted for by the rain and her own haste. - -"You're drenched," said Peter abruptly. "You can't stay in those wet -things a moment longer than absolutely necessary. With your permission, -I shall go to your house and order your carriage to be sent -immediately. But first--" He had put her a chair by the fireplace; he -was on his knees applying a match to the pile of sticks and fir-cones -already laid therein. - -"But," protested Lady Anne, "I cannot give my permission. You will -yourself be soaked--drenched--if you venture out in this downpour." - -Peter laughed lightly. "It will not be the first time, nor, I dare to -say, the last. Rain has but little effect on me." He rose from his -knees. The flames were twining and twisting from stick to stick in long -tongues of orange and yellow and blue. There was a merry crackling, -there were flying sparks. - -Peter crossed to the cupboard. From it he brought a black bottle and a -wineglass. - -"I have, alas! no brandy to offer you, but port wine will, I hope, -prove as efficacious against a chill." Without paying the smallest heed -to her protestations he poured her out a glass, which he held towards -her. "Drink it," he said, in somewhat the tone one orders a refractory -child to take a glass of medicine. - -Anne took the glass, meekly, obediently, with the faintest gurgle of -laughter. "To your health!" she said as she sipped the wine. - -Peter's heart beat hotly, madly. Here was She, actually She in the -flesh, toasting him in his own room. He poured out another glass. - -"To you," he said, and under his breath he added, "My Lady, my Star, my -altogether Divinity!" Then he moved firmly to the door. - -"I cannot allow you to go," said Anne quickly. - -"Alas!" said Peter, smiling, "then I must forego your permission. In -less than half an hour, in twenty minutes perhaps, your carriage will -be here." And he vanished into the sluice without. - -"And now," he said, as he set off at a half-canter down the lane, "if -she does glance round the room and find it sleeping-apartment as well -as sitting-room, she will, I trust, be less embarrassed. For Heaven -knows whether in some particulars she may not bow to old Dame Grundy's -decrees. Bless her!" And it is to be conjectured that it was not on -Mrs. Grundy's head that Peter's blessing was invoked. - -Anne, left to solitude, a blazing fire, and a glass of port, sat for -a moment or so deep in thought. Who was this man, with his little -imperative ways, his abrupt speech, hiding, she was well aware, a -certain embarrassment? He was well-born, there was no doubt about -that fact. His voice, in spite of its abruptness, had the pleasant -modulation of breeding. His hands--she had noticed his hands--were -long-fingered, flexible, and brown. They were also well kept. Who was -he? But _who_ was he? - -The fire offering her no solution, she finished her glass of port, and, -kneeling down by the hearth, let the warmth of the flames play upon -her wet blouse. She unpinned her hat and shook the rain from it. The -drops sizzled as they fell among the flames and glowing sticks. She -put her hat on the ground beside her and turned towards the room. She -scrutinized it with interest. It was barely furnished but spotlessly -clean. Against the farther wall she saw a truckle-bed covered with a -blanket of cheerful red and blue stripes; she saw a cupboard on which -were tea-things; a table; two chairs; and the chair on which she had -been sitting. And that was all. - -Then on the table she saw lying a pair of green socks; softly green -they were, and somewhat faded, and beside them was a card of -green--virulently green--mending wool. - -"O-oh!" said Anne, with a little shudder. But after a moment she rose -from her knees in order to examine them closer. One sock had a patch of -virulent green in the heel, a neat darn enough. - -"Long practice," said Anne, with a little shake of the head. In the -other was a hole--quite a good-sized hole. - -For a moment Anne hesitated, then, with a little smile, took up the -card of excruciatingly green wool and broke off a strand. She threaded -the needle she found stuck into the wool, and fitted the sock on her -hand. - -"I owe him," said Anne, "some small payment for the shelter." And she -laughed, seating herself again in the armchair. Neatly, deftly, she -drew the wool in and out across the hole, her ears alert to catch the -sound of returning steps, or of carriage-wheels. The needle moved -swiftly and with dexterity. - -What is one to make of her? Lady Anne Garland--the proud, the -much-courted, the to the world always aloof and sometimes disdainful -Lady Anne Garland--sitting in a meagrely furnished little room by a -fire of sticks and fir-cones, darning the green sock of a vagabond -Piper! And infinitely more incomprehensible is the fact that he--this -man on whom she had only twice before set eyes--was causing her to -think of him in a manner not at all good for the peace of her own soul; -especially as--and here a distinct confession must be made--she was -already quite more than half in love with a man she had never even -seen--the writer of books and letters, Robin Adair. - -Human nature is a complex and curious thing, though by those who, -having read thus far, hold the key to the riddle her nature may perhaps -be understood. - -Ten minutes later and a neat darn had replaced the gaping hole. Finding -no implement handy with which to cut the wool she broke it, then placed -the sock, the wool, and the needle again upon the table in much the -same position they had previously occupied. - -She got up from her chair and crossed to the window. The rain was still -coming down in torrents, and the lightning was still frequent, but the -thunder was muttering now at a distance. - -Once more she looked back into the room. What a queer little room it -was, and how entirely peaceful! Why did the villagers imagine it to be -haunted? Could anything be more restful, more reposeful? And how very -homely it looked in spite of its somewhat bare appearance! And then she -stopped in her reflections, for the sound of wheels had struck upon her -ear. A moment later the carriage came in sight down the lane. On the -box, mackintoshed and stately, were both coachman and footman. - -Anne laughed. "It really was unnecessary for them both to come," she -said to herself. And then Peter was out of the carriage and up the path -to the door. - -"It is here," he said. - -Anne came forward. "I am more than grateful," she said. "And you must -be terribly wet." - -"Oh, I shall dry again," he said carelessly. - -"It was very good of you," said Anne. - -"It was a pleasure," said Peter, "to drive in a carriage." - -"Oh!" said Anne demurely. - -"And--" he continued, and stopped. But in his heart he added, "To do -any mortal thing for you, dear Lady!" But these speeches had a way of -remaining in his heart without reaching his lips. - -He unfurled an umbrella which he had purloined up at the house. - -"The rain is not quite so furious now," he said as he opened it. - -"Oh, my hat!" said Anne. She was at the hearth and back beside him in -an instant. But in the transit she had glanced for a moment at the -green socks on the table. - -Peter, holding the umbrella carefully over her, conducted her down the -path. The footman was standing by the carriage door. Anne held out her -hand. - -"A thousand thanks!" she said. - -Peter gripped her hand hard. "I was delighted to be of the smallest -service," he assured her. - -The footman shut the door; Peter handed him the umbrella and he mounted -with it to the box. The carriage, which had already turned, drove up in -the direction of the white house on the hill. - -Peter stood looking after it till it was out of sight, then went back -into the cottage. He divested himself of his extremely wet coat and -hung it on the back of a chair by the fire. Not the armchair; that he -gazed at almost reverently, for had not She sat in it! Then he went to -the table and took up the socks. Arrested suddenly by something he saw, -he examined them both carefully. - -"I am sure," said Peter aloud, "that I only mended one sock, and now -both--" He looked at a darn carefully. "Oh, oh!" said Peter, a light of -illumination in his eyes. It was, however, almost incredible; he could -hardly believe his senses. He lifted the sock nearer his face. A faint -hint of lavender came to him. "Oh!" said he again; "the darling, the -adorable darling!" - -Peter crossed to his cupboard; he placed the sock carefully inside a -sheet of clean manuscript paper and put it on a shelf. - -Then he sat down in the armchair by the fire, filled and lit his pipe, -and fell into an abstracted reverie, which lasted fully half an hour. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -THE EVERLASTING WHY - - -And here it is necessary to introduce another character to the reader, -one of whom there has already been a momentary glimpse, but who -now comes forward to play his speaking part. He is indeed a small -character, a young character, and might, at first appearance, seem -insignificant, yet the part he has to play in Peter's drama is fraught -with much consequence. A very small pebble dropped into a pool can send -out wide circles, so this small figure dropped into Peter's life was to -play a far-reaching and important part. - -The little figure first made its appearance by peeping through the -hedge in front of Peter's cottage. It was a boy-child, aged perhaps -some seven summers, and was clad in short blue serge knickerbockers and -a blue jersey. - -Peter himself was sitting by the door piping. The small figure thought -his presence unobserved, but Peter's blue eyes were watching him -keenly. He sat very still as he piped, and the music was calling the -child to him. - -It was a friendly, seductive little tune that he was playing, and -Peter saw the child move towards the gate. He did not look at him now, -fearing by the slightest sign or movement to startle him. Suddenly -Peter felt a light touch on his knee, gentle as the touch of a small -bird's wing. The child had stolen up the path and was beside him. - -Peter's heart leapt with pleasure. It was as if he had drawn a little -wild woodland creature near him. He still did not move, but he let the -music die away. - -"I like that," said the small boy, gazing at him with solemn eyes, "and -I like you." - -Peter's eyes wrinkled at the comers in sheer delight. It was a good -many years since a child's voice had spoken to him, since a child's -hand had been laid upon his knee. - -"Oh," said Peter, smiling with pretended laziness, "do you? Well, I -fancy the appreciation is reciprocated. What's your name?" - -"Dickie Gordon," responded the small boy. "I'm staying with my aunt -and Lady Anne at the White House. I like Lady Anne." - -Peter laughed. "Your judgment and intuition are faultless, my son. The -Lady Anne is the divinest woman the good Lord ever created." - -"Then you like her too?" queried Dickie. - -"I might go farther than that," said Peter reflectively; "adoration, -worship, might be nearer my sentiments. But how, may I ask, did you -find your way down here?" - -Dickie smiled, an elfin smile of pure wickedness. - -"I ran away from nurse. She's got the baby in the perambulator. It's -a very young baby, and perambulators are dull things--they can't get -over stiles, or go across fields or even the tiniest kind of streams, -not even streams with a plank across: the wheels are always too wide. -And nurse doesn't understand anything, not why fields are nicer than -roads, and why it's pleasant to stand still in a wood and listen, and -why some walks are nice ways and some walks dull and horrid. She thinks -everything's just all the same. And I can't explain things to her, -things I know in my inside. So I just ran away and came to see you." - -"You did, did you?" responded Peter. And back his mind swung to the -memory of another small boy, one of whom the Lady Anne had written to -him, and of another non-understanding grown-up. Oh, those Olympians -who, from their heights of common sense, cannot stoop to the level -of childhood!--for stooping they assuredly would term it, though -Peter took another view of the respective levels. Yet, whatever the -levels, the fact undoubtedly remained the same: their utter and entire -incapacity of seeing eye to eye, of hearing ear to ear, of feeling -heart to heart with a child. And, mused Peter, it was unquestionable -whose was the greater loss. And then he roused himself. - -"But how about my duty?" he demanded. "Oughtn't I to bind you, fetter -you, and carry you back a prisoner to that perambulator, that very -young baby, and that non-comprehending nurse?" - -Dickie looked at him. - -"You won't," he said comfortably; "besides, I want to talk." - -"Humph!" said Peter, again smiling lazily; "well, talk. I shall -doubtless make a good audience, since the hearing of speech is now -something of a novelty to me." - -Dickie looked at him again. The speech was not entirely clear, but the -encouragement to talk was. - -With a deep breath he began: "Nurse says this cottage is a bad place, -and you're friends with the Devil. Is he really an unpleasant person? -You don't look's if you'd be friends with him if he were." - -"Hmm," said Peter, dubious, his eyes nevertheless twinkling; "I cannot -say that I have honestly a very close acquaintanceship with him--at -least, I hope not. But I have never fancied him a pleasant person. -He has"--Peter sought wildly in his mind for the best reason for the -averred unpleasantness--"so little idea of playing the game." - -"Yes?" It was Dickie's turn to be dubious now. - -"Oh," thought Peter distractedly, "I have not only to make statements, -but I have to substantiate them!" Aloud he spoke, firmly, and with an -air of conviction: "He does not play the game, because he pretends to -be friendly when he isn't, and he tells us things are nice when they -aren't." This, at all events, was good and orthodox teaching. Peter -patted himself on the back, so to speak. - -"Like the apple what Adam and Eve ate," said Dickie solemnly; "they -thought it was going to taste so nice, and make them very wise, but it -was a sour apple, and they had to go away out of the garden 'cause they -ate it." - -"Exactly!" said Peter, much relieved that Dickie should be taking the -initiative as chronicler of biblical events, feeling, be it stated, -somewhat hazy on these subjects himself. - -There was a pause. Then, with a deep sigh, Dickie spoke again. - -"I wish I knew things." - -"What things?" asked Peter, amused. - -"Lots of things," said Dickie. There was a world of unconscious -yearning in the child's voice. "I want to know lots of things. What -made God think the world? Did He think me from the beginning, 'cause -He knew everything? Why did He wait till now to make me? I'd so lots -sooner have been a Viking. Why doesn't He let us choose what we are to -be? Why are some days nice and other days horrid, though everything -looks just 'xactly the same and just as sunny? Why don't I know the -whys of things?" - -"Oh!" said Peter with a long-drawn breath, and a silence fell, -while suddenly, and perhaps for almost the first time in his life, -Peter faced the great eternal Question--the Everlasting Why of the -Universe. And because he had no answer to give, because he had not as -yet the faintest inkling of the answer, he was silent, though, all -unconsciously, the child had put before him the problem his soul was -inarticulately striving to solve. - -"Why?" said Dickie again, gazing at him. And then Peter replied. - -"You had better ask Lady Anne," he responded, basely shifting the -responsibility. Yet though he half acknowledged the baseness, he knew -confidently that she must be better able to deal with the question than -he, for surely she, enshrined where she was in his thoughts, would have -some knowledge, some answer to give, something to which he might listen -with as great confidence as the child beside him would listen. - -And then suddenly down the lane came a shrill voice, causing Dickie to -start and Peter to look up quickly. - -"Master Dickie, Master _Dickie_!" The tones were unquestionably -somewhat strident. - -"That's nurse," whispered Dickie. - -"So I concluded," said Peter dryly. "What's to be done?" - -"S'pose I must go," announced Dickie ruefully. - -"Master _Dickie_!" The voice was close now, and the next moment a -heated woman in nurse's garb and wheeling a perambulator came into view. - -Peter got up and went down to the gate, holding Dickie's small brown -hand close in his big one. - -"I believe," said Peter courteously, "that you are looking for Master -Dickie; here he is." - -The woman paused, flabbergasted. "With you!" she ejaculated. - -"With me," said Peter, smiling. "And after all he has heard about me," -he continued seriously, "it's a wonder that he ventured near this -cottage." - -The nurse looked at Peter. There was something in his manner that -checked the outburst of indignation that was perilously near the -surface. - -"I've been that worried!" she said, and she stopped to wipe her face -with a large white handkerchief. - -Peter appreciated her concern. It is unquestionably trying to lose a -small boy entrusted to your care, especially on an exceedingly warm -summer day, and have no notion what has become of him. Peter felt a bit -of a culprit. - -"I'm very sorry you've been bothered," he said contritely. "He--" and -Peter paused; he could not give Dickie away. - -"I came to see him," announced Dickie calmly, "because I wanted to find -out what he was like. Now if you want me I'll come home. Good-bye, Mr. -Piper." He held out his hand, which Peter shook gravely. - -"You're a bad boy," said the nurse, virtuous indignation in her voice. - -Dickie scorned a reply. - -"He really hasn't come to any harm," said Peter apologetically. - -"That's as may be," said the nurse with majestic significance, divided -between her previous conception of Peter and the now very obvious fact -that he was of gentle birth; "that's as may be. But his aunt won't care -to hear of his goings-on, nor my Lady either, for that matter." - -"Lady Anne will understand," protested Dickie, voicing Peter's own -opinion. - -"She may and she mayn't," was the tart reply. "Now you'll please to -come home; we're half an hour late as it is." - -"I said I was ready before," remarked Dickie calmly. - -The nurse jerked the perambulator round in a manner that caused the -very young baby within to open its eyes in a kind of mild protest. - -"I'll come and see you again," said Dickie confidently to Peter. - -The nurse pulled him by the arm. "You'll do nothing of the kind, Master -Dickie." - -"Huh!" said Dickie, "you don't know. I shall ask Lady Anne." - -And then the three disappeared down the lane. - -"The Lady Anne," remarked Peter to himself, "is evidently a divinity -to another and much smaller person than I. I don't exactly love that -nurse," he continued reflectively, "but I fancy she has her hands full." - -And whistling airily, Peter passed up the little path to the cottage. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -PIPER AND AUTHOR - - -Up at the White House Lady Anne Garland was entertaining Millicent -Sheldon. The entertainment to Lady Anne proved somewhat weighty. The -carefully mended Millicent was a different person from the one she had -previously known. Her whole aspect was altered in Anne's eyes. She no -longer saw her, as Millicent no doubt saw herself, a calm gracious -Madonna, stretching out healing hands to a weary humanity. To Anne she -was simply a very ordinary woman who had failed the man she had once -loved--or professed to love--in his need. - -And Anne suddenly realized that for all Millicent's grand and noble -statements she had no use for failures. Let a man have his foot -firmly planted on the ladder of success, albeit on the lowest rung, -Millicent spoke of him with gracious condescension, held out the hand -of friendship to him. Those who had fallen from the ladder, or who -were struggling towards it with little chance of reaching it, were -not in her eyes worth a moment's consideration. Truly the cracks were -horribly, terribly conspicuous, and Anne had much ado to prevent -Millicent from recognizing that she perceived them. She looked forward -to the day of Millicent's departure with a guilty hopefulness, a secret -longing which she felt was almost indecent in a hostess. And then -something happened to delay that day. - -Dickie, the solemn-eyed Dickie, fell ill. It was one of those sudden -swift illnesses of childhood that grip the hearts of parents with a -terrible fear, and Anne and Millicent, who loved the small boy as if -he were their own, watched the little fever-stricken body with grave -anxiety, and dreaded to think what news the next mail to India might -not carry. - -The villagers came daily to inquire. Voices were hushed when the -child's name was mentioned. Peter alone, to whom no one ever spoke, did -not know of the illness. He only wondered why Dickie, who had escaped -his vigilant nurse more than once, did not come to the cottage. - -And then one day, when the fever was running high, Dickie began a -plaint, a piteous little moaning for the Piper. Backwards and forwards -on the pillow tossed the small fevered head; the dry lips called -ceaselessly to the Piper to come and pipe to him. In some vague way -Dickie had confounded him with the Pied Piper of Hamelin, and wanted -Peter to take him through the mountain and show him sparrows brighter -than peacocks and horses with eagles' wings. Peter had told Dickie many -a tale of fancy during his visit to the cottage. - -"Who is it he wants?" asked the doctor sharply, watching the child. -"Can no one fetch him?" - -Anne, who was near the bed, stood up. - -"I know," she said. "I will write a note and send----" - -The doctor, a little man with a crusty manner and a heart as tender as -a woman's, interrupted her testily. - -"Can't you go yourself?" he snapped. "I know what servants are when -they're sent on messages. The child is--I'm anxious, and as cross as an -old bear," he concluded. - -Anne was already at the door. - -"I'll not be long," she said. "Miss Haldane will be here if you need -her. I'll send her to you. Nurse is with the baby and Mrs. Sheldon is -lying down. She was up most of last night." - - * * * * * - -A few moments later Anne was walking down the drive. It was a grey -afternoon, lapped in soft clouds, and with a little sad wind in the -trees suggestive of autumn, though it was only August. - -Anne felt a sensation of depression, a faint foreboding as of impending -ill. She told herself that it was merely fatigue. Dickie would get -well--she knew he would get well. And yet she did not really think that -anxiety regarding Dickie was causing this depression. It was something -more remote, something intangible and vague. - -She determined not to think about it--to throw aside the slight -uneasiness. Yet again and again it crept over her in insidious little -waves, despite all her efforts to the contrary. - - * * * * * - -Peter was busy writing when the knock came on his door. Now, whether it -was telepathy or clairvoyance is not known, but his heart jumped at the -knock, and he got up quickly, opening wide the door. - -"What is wrong?" he queried anxiously as he saw Anne's face. He almost -forgot to be surprised at her presence there. - -"It's Dickie," said Anne. "He's ill, very ill. The child has got some -queer ideas into his head. He has mixed you up in an odd way with the -Pied Piper of Hamelin. He has been talking about you a great deal--half -in delirium, you understand. He wants you to pipe to him." She stopped. - -"Oh!" ejaculated Peter, his voice full of sympathy. "The pathetic -little mite! I'll come at once." And then he, too, stopped, hesitated. -"If you will go on," he said, "I'll follow you." - -"Can't you," asked Anne, "come back with me now at once? I fancy--I may -be wrong--that the doctor thinks every minute is of importance." - -Peter flushed. "Of course," he said, "I'll come now. It was only--" -Again he stopped, and Anne waited, wondering. - -"Only," said Peter desperately, "that I thought perhaps you would -rather not walk with me. I--the villagers, you know, look upon me with -disfavour." - -Anne raised her chin. There was a little regal air in the gesture. -"But really," she assured him, "I am not accustomed to consider the -opinion of the villagers." - -"Oh, you idiot," groaned Peter inwardly, "you idiot, you double-dyed -dolt! Now you've offended her, though I protest your intentions were -good." Aloud he said meekly, "I'll come with you at once." - -He turned and picked up his hat from a chair. As the long peacock -feather caught his eye, again he groaned inwardly. He was for flinging -the hat aside, but Lady Anne was watching him. He put it on his -head desperately, and came out on to the path beside her, feeling -for all the world a mountebank, a popinjay, a fool. Why, oh why! -had he maliciously defied the Fates? Why, oh why! had this peacock -feather lain in his path once long ago? And still further, why had -he been idiot enough to pick it up and wear it merely in a spirit of -contradiction, because once upon a time a woman had announced her -belief in a superstition regarding peacock feathers. - -He attempted to appear unconcerned, at his ease, but he was aware -that the attempt was a poor one. Nor did the amazed glances of the -villagers, as they crossed the green, tend to reassure him. Yet here -was Lady Anne walking calmly, quietly, entirely at her ease, entirely -dignified. Why was he ass enough to care for the glances of these -yokels! Yet he knew it was not for himself that he cared, but for his -Lady, his divinity, who had deigned herself to visit his cottage, to -ask him with her own lips to perform a service for her. He longed for -a flow of words to come to him, yet none but the most banal remark -presented itself to his mind, therefore he walked beside her in silence. - -At the entrance to the drive Peter suddenly shivered, why, he did not -know, for the day, though grey, was hot. It was as if some slight -indefinable feeling of apprehension had struck him. - -Anne glanced at him. "Cold?" she queried, smiling. - -"No," responded Peter, smiling in response. "I fancy it was--according -to the old adage--a goose walking over my grave." - -"Oh!" said Anne. And the slight feeling of uneasiness, which had -temporarily departed, returned. - -"Which, so say the superstitious folk," continued Peter lightly, -"denotes misfortune to the owner of the grave. Personally--" He broke -off with a slight shrug of the shoulders. - -"You are not a believer in omens and superstitions," suggested Anne in -conclusion. "So I might suppose. Your--your hat decoration is generally -regarded as provocative of ill-luck," she smiled. - -Peter flushed. "It's a fool thing to wear," he said lamely, "but----" - -"On the contrary," said Anne demurely, "it fits in with your rôle. I -believe it was the rumour of the peacock feather that first gave me -the courage to ask you to play to me. It sounded fantastic, unusual. -I dared to think that you might respond to an unusual invitation. The -feather, I repeat, gave me courage." - -"Then," said Peter gallantly, "I wear it with a good will as an omen of -fortune's favours. You did not, however, ask me a second time." - -Anne drew a quick breath. "No," she responded. "Yet--you came." - -"Yes," said Peter quietly, "I came." - -Anne might have spoken again, but they were at the door by now, and -they passed into the hall together and up the wide shallow stairs. - - * * * * * - -The sick-room was in half light, for the curtains were partly drawn. -The doctor was sitting by the bed, his eyes watching, grave. Miss -Haldane was at a little distance. They both looked up as the two -entered. - -Anne crossed to the bedside, Peter following. - -"Dickie," said Anne, softly and distinctly, "I have brought the Piper -to you." She sat down and took one of the small hot hands in hers. - -Peter came to the foot of the bed. He drew his pipe from his pocket. As -the first sweet notes of the pipe filled the room Dickie lay still. It -was the friendly, seductive little tune Peter had first played to the -child. No one stirred and the magic piping breathed through the air. - -"More," said Dickie, as Peter stopped. And the request was quiet, -conscious. - -Peter came a little nearer. "This, Dickie, is the sleepy song the Pied -Piper played the children when he carried them away to the Wonderful -Land. So shut your eyes and listen, and you will sleep and dream of -running streams, and flowers, and of cool green grass, and beautiful -birds, and horses with eagles' wings, that will carry you away gently -on their backs to the place where children get well." Peter's voice -dropped to a murmur. - -And then once more came the music, a low crooning lullaby, full of -adorable restful tenderness. Dickie's eyes closed drowsily. The music -crooned on, rocking softly, soothingly. Then Dickie gave a little -gentle sigh, his fingers relaxed their hold on Anne's, his small hand -fell open on the counterpane, and Dickie slept. - -"Thank God!" breathed the old doctor. And he took off his spectacles -and wiped them. - -Peter looked at Anne. She nodded, and rose from her chair. They stole -softly from the room together. They passed down the corridor. Then Anne -turned and spoke. - -"I can't say anything but 'Thank you.'" She smiled, a little wavering -smile, and her eyes were misty. - -"Oh," said Peter with a huge sigh, "I'm glad. He's--he's such a jolly -little chap." - -And then he looked up, for a woman was coming towards them. - -"It is Mrs. Sheldon, Dickie's aunt," said Anne, explanatory. "She--" -And she broke off, amazed at the sudden rigidity of Peter's face. - -"Oh!" said Millicent as she saw the two. And she stopped dead. - -"What is it?" queried Anne, astonished. "Do you two know each other?" - -"I once had the pleasure of Mr. Carden's acquaintance," said Millicent -stiffly, "but now----" - -"Mr. Carden!" ejaculated Anne. And a light dawned upon her, a light of -painful significance. - -"I was not aware he was in the house," said Millicent coldly. "I was -not aware that you knew him." - -Then Peter spoke. "As Peter Carden Lady Anne does not know me," he said -steadily, though his face was white. "She knows me only as Peter the -vagabond Piper." - -"An alias," said Millicent scornfully. "One, no doubt, of several." - -Anne was waiting, silent. Peter had a sudden thought that she was -waiting for him to speak, to deny the accusation if he could. He felt -utterly and entirely weary. - -"Oh no!" he said bitterly; "only one other--Robin Adair." - -"Oh!" said Anne, shrinking as if the name had been a blow. - -"It really does not signify what you choose to call yourself," said -Millicent. "But I do not care that my friends should be deceived." - -Peter drew in his breath sharply. He looked straight at her, and in her -eyes he could read the true cause for her anger. "You are right," he -said quietly. "And I have deceived her." He turned to Anne. Her head -was erect, her face white, motionless. Indignation, anger, contempt, he -saw all three in her eyes. - -He turned without a word and passed down the stairs, across the hall, -and through the hall door, which he closed softly behind him as he -went. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -FAREWELL - - -The night was far spent. For hours Peter had sat by his table with -writing materials before him, and at length his letter was written, -ended. - - "It is the last time I shall write to you, but I ask you to condone my - conduct--at least, sufficiently to read what I have written. I know - I have no excuse to make. To say that my deception arose from the - knowledge that if you once knew Peter the Piper and Robin Adair as one - and the same I should lose your letters is of course none. I deceived - you deliberately, and broke the compact that our identities should - remain unknown to each other. Though I did not first break it, nor was - it broken of my will. Being broken by fate, however, I should have - told you. - - "And by now you will have realized that you extended the hand of - friendship to one who had entirely forfeited the right to it. Is - it, perhaps, any compensation to you to know that your letters, your - kindness, have at least been received with humble gratitude, with the - most intense and overwhelming pleasure by one however unworthy to - receive them? - - "I shall leave this cottage at daylight. My presence here longer - would, I know, be distasteful to you. I have no right to ask your - forgiveness, yet if one day you could extend it to me, and think less - hardly of me, I should be glad. The one thing I can do, and believe - you would wish me to do, is to destroy your letters. I cannot destroy - the memory of them--that is impossible, and I dare to hope that in - your generosity you will not grudge it to me. - - "Presently I shall try to write again, and if ever fate should throw - my work in your path, and you deign to read it, then know that - whatever in it is of worth, whatever is in the smallest degree of - good, has been inspired by the thought of you. - - "For all your blessed kindness, for the fact that you are you and are - in the world, I shall throughout my life be grateful. - - "Perhaps one day I may get the chance to atone. - - "PETER CARDEN." - -The letter written, Peter got up from his chair and crossed to the -fireplace. In a few moments a flame sprang up, and some bluish papers -twisted and shrivelled in its heat. Presently nothing was left but a -small heap of grey ashes. - -Peter sat very still. There was a lump in his throat, and he swallowed -hard once or twice, but his eyes were dry. A bird chirped in the bushes -outside the cottage; it was answered by another and another. The air -became full of a chorus of twitterings and chirpings. - -Peter roused himself. He picked up his hat and a bundle from the table -and went to the cottage door. In the east the sky was flushing to rose -and lavender. Peter went down the path. He opened the little gate. A -moment later it had swung to behind him, and he was walking down the -dusty road. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -A WOUNDED SKYLARK - - -Miss Haldane was worried, perturbed. Her usually cheerful old face was -wrinkled into lines of perplexity, her eyes were anxious. - -Something was wrong at the White House. Dickie had slept peacefully -throughout the night, and with the extraordinary recuperation of -children, had demanded bread and milk on awaking. It was perfectly -natural to suppose that an air of jubilation should prevail. Yet Lady -Anne was pale, silent, aloof; Millicent Sheldon slightly cold and -frigid. What in the name of wonder did it signify? Vaguely Miss Haldane -connected the extraordinary atmosphere with the Piper. It was true that -he had been accountable, under Providence, for Dickie's marvellous -recovery, yet Miss Haldane distinctly regarded him as a bird of -ill-omen, and in her heart bitterly regretted that necessity had called -him to the house. - -Throughout the day she fidgeted and fluttered interiorly, keeping -sharp and anxious watch on Anne's pale and almost stern face, without, -however, in the least appearing to do so. At tea-time she found herself -alone in the drawing-room with Millicent, Anne being in Dickie's room. - -Then Miss Haldane could contain her anxiety no longer. She disliked -Millicent Sheldon, but it was a case of any port in a storm. Having -poured out tea and handed Millicent a cup, she prefaced her first -remark by a slight and nervous cough. - -"Anne looks very pale," she said tentatively. "I hoped to see her -looking better now our anxiety is practically at an end." - -"Yes," said Millicent, taking a sip of tea. - -This was unsatisfactory. Miss Haldane returned to the charge more -openly. - -"I hope," she said, "that nothing has worried her?" - -Millicent put down her teacup. "It is distinctly unfortunate," she -said, "that that man who called himself Peter the Piper should have -come into this neighbourhood." She made the remark with a calm majesty -of manner. - -"Oh?" queried Miss Haldane, pricking up her ears and looking for all -the world like a terrier on the scent of a rat; "do you know anything -about him?" - -"Only that he has spent three years in prison for forgery," said -Millicent gravely. "Anne has got unaccountably familiar with him in -some way, and is naturally vexed to find her friendship misplaced." She -puckered her smooth white brow with an air of grave, gracious anxiety, -but there was a hard expression in her eyes. - -Miss Haldane ruffled like a small angry bird, the terrier expression -forgotten. - -"Lady Anne," she said with dignity, "is certainly not familiar with -him. You must have been misinformed." - -"Really!" Millicent lifted her eyebrows coolly. "From Anne's own -showing yesterday, she knew considerably more about him than probably -you or I had the smallest idea of. She has not seen fit to confide in -me, but it was entirely apparent." - -Miss Haldane sat very upright. "If Anne did know more of him than we -imagine," she remarked firmly, "it shows that he was a more desirable -person to know than I had supposed." - -Millicent controlled her temper admirably. Of course, it was entirely -absurd, but the old thing was, unquestionably, trying to snub her. - -"A man who has been in prison!" she remarked, with an air of quiet -finality and an exasperating little laugh. - -Miss Haldane's usually dim old eyes blazed. "Under God we owe Dickie's -recovery to him," she said with quiet dignity. "Might not that make us -a little charitable towards him?" - -And Millicent, for her outward imperturbability of manner, was -annoyedly conscious that Miss Haldane had scored. - -And then Anne walked in. - -"Am I interrupting confidences?" she asked, with an attempt at her -usual lightness of manner. "Dickie is a fraud; he is demanding bread -and jam, or at least toast and honey. I consider he has basely deceived -us all." - -And then she saw that the atmosphere was really strained, tense. She -pretended blindness, however, and, sitting down, asked for some tea. -While drinking it she made a few airy remarks, to which Miss Haldane -responded absent-mindedly, and Millicent with a pained and almost holy -silence. - -Then Millicent got up. "I am going to see Dickie," she said. - -As the door closed behind her, Miss Haldane gave a sigh of relief. - -"How I dislike that woman!" she said. - -"I saw she had ruffled you," said Anne soothingly. - -"She was impertinent," remarked Miss Haldane with dignity. - -"Millicent! Impertinent!" Anne's eyes were big with amazement. "My dear -Matty!" She might be many things, but impertinent seemed the last word -to connect with the large statuesque Millicent. - -"Impertinent," said Miss Haldane firmly. "It is only her size that -makes it not usually apparent. If she were a small woman, it would be -obvious to the meanest intelligence. And she is distinctly ungrateful. -Whatever that man has done, whatever he is, we owe him a debt of -gratitude." - -"Oh!" said Anne, her eyes clouding; "she was talking about him?" - -"Yes. My dear, have you considered that even if he did wrong in the -past he may have repented? And he did help Dickie." - -"Yes," said Anne slowly; "he helped Dickie." - -"Even if," continued Miss Haldane earnestly, "he has once been in -prison, he cannot be altogether bad at heart, or a child--" she -stopped. To her own surprise, the contradictory old thing was defending -the Piper. - -"Oh, prison!" said Anne vaguely. - -"Yes; didn't you know? Was not that why you were vexed--angry?" - -Anne gave an odd little laugh. "No, Matty, dear. To be candid, it was -not that at all. Somehow--it's queer, isn't it?--I never thought of -that." - -"Then why--?" began Miss Haldane, perplexed, vague. - -"Oh, it's a complicated situation," said Anne dryly; "but--well, every -atom of pride I ever possessed has been dragged in the mud, humbled, -abased. Now you have the truth; and for Heaven's sake don't ask me any -more!" Again the hard look crept into her face. She got up and moved to -the window. - -Miss Haldane watched her. Had there been any truth in Millicent's -words? Had she seen more of this man than Miss Haldane had supposed? -Clandestine meetings, secret letters, fluttered rapidly before Miss -Haldane's mind. Then she looked at Anne again. It was impossible. -Whatever had happened, it was certain that it was nothing of which Anne -need really be ashamed. - -And Anne, silent at the window, had bitterness in her heart; she felt -her pride, as she had said, humbled, dragged in the dust. This man -to whom she had written had amused himself at her expense. As one -person he had received her intimate letters, as another he had been -the recipient of gracious favours on which he had doubtless put a -totally wrong construction. Posing as two men, yet in reality one, he -could compare the favours she had accorded both. The rose, the green -sock--her face burnt at the thought of them. The one man, Robin Adair, -smiling at her gracious letters, and smiling still more at her gracious -treatment of the vagabond Piper. - -It was monstrous, preposterous! How he must have laughed in his sleeve -when she told him of her inclination to confound the two men. Anger -and indignation were in Anne's heart at the thought, yet deeper still -was an odd little ache, and the fact that it existed, and she was -conscious of it, curiously enough increased her indignation against -Peter. - -The door opened softly, and the footman entered with a letter on a -tray. He crossed to the window where Anne was standing. As she saw -the letter lying there, a hot flush mounted in her face. She took it, -holding it irresolutely in her hand. When the door had closed again, -she broke the seal. - -There was a long silence. At last Miss Haldane looked round. Anne's -face was quivering. - -"What is it?" asked Miss Haldane, her voice full of perplexed anxiety. - -"Only," said Anne, with a half sob, "that I have torn the little young -wings from a skylark." - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -CANDLES AND MASSES - - -I - -If at the beginning of the last chapter Miss Haldane was perturbed, -worried, perplexed, so, rather more than two months later, Muriel -Lancing was perturbed, worried, perplexed, also; and for the same -cause, namely, the strange demeanour of the Lady Anne Garland, who had -returned to town at the beginning of November. - -She was changed, she was totally different, so sighed Muriel, -reflective, meditative. Where was her former charm? her former -sweet kindliness? her faith, her trust, her buoyancy--in short, her -everything that went to make up the Anne Muriel knew and loved? An -obsession seemed to have come upon her. She was cynical, hard, the -speaker of little bitter phrases, deliberately calculated to wound -and hurt. She was not, as Muriel reflected, Anne at all, but a mask, -a shell of a woman, in which deep down the real Anne was imprisoned, -buried. - -"If only she would speak," sighed Muriel to herself. "If only the -mask could be removed for a moment the real Anne would be liberated. -Confession, so says dear old Father O'Sullivan, is good for the soul. -It would be incalculably good for Anne's. But she won't make one. And -short of asking her straight out to do so, which would inevitably fix -the mask on tighter still, I can do nothing." - -But, all the same, Muriel went off to the Oratory and set up a candle -to St. Joseph, telling him pretty lucidly the whole state of affairs -and requesting him to do something. - -Now whether it was the intervention of St. Joseph, or whether it was -that the real imprisoned Anne could bear her solitary confinement no -longer, must be a matter for pure conjecture: but on the next occasion -that Muriel visited Anne's house in Cheyne Walk she was distinctly -conscious that though the mask was on there was a tiny crack in it, -and through the crack the real Anne was looking with a kind of dumb -pleading. - -In a twinkling Muriel's finger was towards it, in, of course, the -most insidious and hidden way imaginable. It is useless to attempt to -describe her methods; they were purely feminine, entirely delicate. -At length the shell, the mask, fell asunder, and the real Anne, being -liberated, spoke. It was an enormous relief to her, and from the very -beginning up to Millicent's disclosure she confided the whole story to -Muriel, who watched her with her greeny-grey eyes full of sympathy. - -"Oh, but," cried Muriel as she stopped, "I quite understand your anger. -Of course, it's very difficult to put into exact words why you are -angry, the whole situation is so extraordinarily complicated. But," she -concluded, "any woman with the smallest modicum of sense must see why. -And the fact that Millicent was the person there at the time can't have -made things a bit nicer." - -"It didn't," said Anne quietly. "But I haven't finished yet. He wrote -to me." - -"Yes?" queried Muriel. - -"It--his letter swept away all my anger. I--I understood." - -"Of course," Muriel nodded, "there is his point of view." - -"I saw it," said Anne. "I realized--or thought I realized--the utter -loneliness that made him act as he had done. I--I wrote to him." - -"Yes?" queried Muriel again, and very gently. - -"I said--oh, I said a good deal," confessed Anne. "And--and he has -never replied. Oh, don't you see it's that that hurts? I said things -I would never have said if I hadn't believed he was longing for me to -say them, if I hadn't"--Anne's face was crimson--"wanted to say them. -I was so sure I'd hear from him again. And--and there was only a cruel -silence. I'd give anything never to have written that letter." Shamed, -broken, she looked piteously at Muriel. Anne was proud, and she was -young. She did not yet know that there is no shame in giving love, -offering it purely, finely, as she had done. Is not God Himself daily -making the offering, an offering from which too many of us turn away? - -"But, darling Anne," cried Muriel, "perhaps--surely he could not have -received it." - -Anne shook her head. "It's what I'd like to believe," she said with -a little bitter laugh, "what we'd both like to believe. But it's no -good. I sent it to his publishers, the same address as that to which -I'd sent the others. Oh, no! that kind of letters don't miscarry. I -have misunderstood all through." - -"Darling!" said Muriel softly. - -There was a long silence, broken only by an occasional little -sputtering of the coal in the fire, and the rumble of wheels and clack -of horses' hoofs without. And in the silence Muriel was giving very -deep thanks to St. Joseph that Anne--her beloved Anne--was once more -restored to her. Also she was cogitating in her own mind still further -benefits to be asked of him. - -Presently Anne broke the silence. - -"Muriel, I'd rather you should forget--that we should never speak -again--about what I've told you this afternoon." - -Muriel took up an illustrated paper from a side table. - -"Hats," she announced sententiously, "will be worn small this winter, -and skirts mercifully not quite so tight. Have you noticed Mrs. -Clinton? She's positively indecent. I blush scarlet if I'm with a man -when I meet her." - -Anne laughed, though there were tears in her eyes. - -"Muriel," she said, "you're the silliest and dearest little elf in -Christendom." - - -II - -Muriel made more than one further journey to the Oratory to -explain matters to St. Joseph, on each occasion presenting that -delightful saint with a candle. The first time--subsequent to Anne's -confession--that she went to the Oratory she gave him two, one being -for thanksgiving. - -Also she invited Father O'Sullivan to tea on an occasion when Tommy, by -Muriel's suggestion, had taken Anne to skate at Prince's. - -Father O'Sullivan was a short, stoutish man, with grizzled hair, small -twinkling eyes, and a mouth that had the kindliest twist of a smile -imaginable. To know Father O'Sullivan for an hour was to love him. To -know him for longer was to love him better. Muriel had known him from -her babyhood. - -This afternoon, having invited him to tea, she plied him with cakes and -quince sandwiches, which latter his soul adored, and talked in a gay -and inconsequent fashion of airy nothings, to which Father O'Sullivan -responded after the manner of Irishmen, be they priests or laymen. - -But on the conclusion of the meal she dropped into a pensive mood, -and sat with her elbow on the arm of her chair, and her pointed chin -resting in her cupped hand, gazing into space with great dreamy eyes. - -And then all at once she roused herself and looked across at Father -O'Sullivan. - -"Father," she said seriously, "I want you to say a Mass for me." - -"You do, do you?" said Father O'Sullivan, stroking his chin. "And with -what intention?" - -"Well," said Muriel, reflective, "it's not quite easy to explain. I -think I'd better tell you the story." And she launched forth, omitting -names at the moment, though at a future date she happened inadvertently -to mention Peter's. - -"Well, now," said Father O'Sullivan as she ended, and his eyes were -twinkling, "is it just a little small story like that you'd have me be -repeating at Mass, for I'm thinking it will take just no time at all." - -"Oh, don't laugh at me!" begged Muriel. "Don't you see how difficult -it is to put into words what I want!" She dropped her hands in her lap -and gazed at him tragically. - -"Well, but have a try," urged Father O'Sullivan. "Perhaps I can be -helping you out." - -"First, then," said Muriel, "I want her to be happy again, and I don't -see how that can be unless she hears from him, and even that alone -would be no good, because I'm sure to be really happy she'd have to -marry him, and you see he has committed forgery. If only that could -be untrue--but it's impossible, and I don't see how anything can come -right," she ended despairingly. - -Father O'Sullivan rubbed his hair up the wrong way. "And it's a Mass -with the intention of things coming right you want me to say, when all -the time you're feeling sure they can't," he remarked severely. "And if -I'm going to say it that way myself, what kind of faith do you think -I'm going to have in it?" - -Muriel looked at him contritely. "But don't you see--" she began. - -"Oh, I see fast enough," he responded. "Let's get at what you want the -other way round. To begin with, you want the young man never to have -committed the forgery, and then you want to run through the whole gamut -till they live happily ever after. And all the time you're wishing it, -and wanting me to pray for it, you're telling yourself it can't be. -Isn't that so?" His twinkling old eyes belied the half-severity of his -words. - -"Oh, but," said Muriel, "it's--it's such a lot to ask." - -Father O'Sullivan leaned forward and tapped the forefinger of his right -hand in the palm of his left. - -"Faith, my child, is not asking God for bushels and setting out a pint -measure to catch them in. It's a good old saying, but not my own, -more's the pity of it. Now, do you want me to say this Mass for you -with the intention we've arranged?" - -"Yes," said Muriel firmly. - -"And you'll come to it, and believe that it will be answered, whether -in your way or God's you leave to Him?" he asked gravely. - -"Yes," said Muriel again. - -Father O'Sullivan nodded his head approvingly. "To-morrow morning at -eight o'clock I'll be saying it then," he said, "and you'll be praying -too." He leaned back in his chair. - -"Of course," ventured Muriel, "it's rather a complicated thing to put -into words." - -Father O'Sullivan smiled, a merry, twinkling humorous old smile. -"Faith, I'll be getting it into some kind of shape," he promised. "And -if we could hear all the prayers sent up to heaven I'm thinking we'd -find many a muddled phrase down here straightened out by the holy -saints as they carry them up to God's Throne. And no matter what the -muddles are, the answer's clear enough when it comes." - -And then the door opened and Anne, Tommy, and General Carden walked in. - -Muriel gave a little gasp. "I thought you were having tea at Prince's," -she said. - -And Father O'Sullivan, as he watched her face with wicked pleasure, -realized--and it did not take a vast amount of sagacity to do so--that -one at least of the three was concerned with the story she had just -confided to his ears. And as it obviously was not Tommy, and he -concluded he might rule out the white-haired military-looking man, it -left only the tall, graceful woman who crossed to a chair by Muriel -and began pulling off her gloves. - -"We got bored," said Tommy; "at least Anne did, and we decided to come -home to tea. And we met General Carden on the doorstep, and here we all -are. And if you're too flustered for some reason to introduce everybody -nicely, I will." - -"Don't be silly, Tommy," said Muriel, laughing and recovering her -equanimity. "Ring the bell, and we'll have fresh tea made." - -"No need," said Tommy. "I saw Morris in the hall and told him." And he -sat down by Father O'Sullivan. General Carden took a chair near Anne. - -"I was sorry not to find you at home when I called last Thursday," he -said. "Your servant told me you were at home on Tuesdays." - -"Yes," said Anne. She hesitated, half doubtful. Then she added: "But -perhaps you'll come another afternoon? At-home days are not very -satisfactory. Shall we say Wednesday?" - -"I shall be delighted," returned General Carden. "We had, if I remember -rightly, a long argument the last time we met, about a book. Let me -see, what was the author's name?" He wrinkled his brows, reflective, -thoughtful. - -Anne turned to put her gloves on the table beside her. "Robin Adair, -wasn't it?" she asked quietly. - -"Ah, yes, of course!" replied the old hypocrite. - -Muriel glanced at Anne. "I wish," she reflected with admiration, "that -I could act as well. I nearly gave myself away just now, when they all -descended on me like an avalanche. And I'd bet my bottom dollar Father -O'Sullivan guessed something." Which bet, if there had been any one to -take her on, Muriel would certainly have won. - -Anne, as she drove towards Chelsea half an hour later, wondered vaguely -why she had asked General Carden to tea with her. Finally she decided -that it was for the obvious reason that he wanted to come, and she -would have been rude if she had not done so. - -And Father O'Sullivan, as he walked home, ruminated on the tangled -story Muriel had told him. It was only one of the many tangles in the -world, and he knew it, but it had been brought directly to his notice, -and he had a very simple and perfect faith that the good God would -unravel the knots in His own way and at His own time. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -DUM SPIRO, SPERO - - -You know how there are times in our lives when the days hang heavily, -each moment dragging on leaden feet, weighted all the more grievously -because we are ready to protest to our fellow-men, to ourselves -perhaps, that the days are not grey, but each one as full of light as -we would have it be. And if you do not know you are lucky. Or are you -lucky? Are not the heavy clouds, which temporarily hide the golden -sunshine, better than a dull monochrome of a life, in which neither -cloud nor sunshine is existent? For is it not by the very brightness of -the sun which has been, that we recognize the clouds which now obscure -it? It is when the sun has never shone in its fullest splendour for us -that we do not recognize the existence of the clouds, for to say that -any life is passed in one unbroken dream of golden glory is to make -a statement which one will dare to denounce as untrue. If there be -the gold of joy, so there will come the clouds of sorrow, and a life -without clouds is of necessity one without sun, a monochrome of a life, -peaceful perhaps, but lacking in intensity. - -The days passed slowly for Anne. They no longer went by with the gay -carelessness of a year, six months, nay, only three months ago. Take an -interest out of your life, however chary you may have been of admitting -the existence of that interest to your secret heart, and then fill -your days with gaiety, friends, books, anything and everything but the -one thing you want, and you will find it a method of subtraction and -addition which is apt to result in a distinctly unsatisfactory sum -total. - -It is not to be supposed, however, that Anne wore her heart upon her -sleeve for society daws to peck at. She hid it and its little ache deep -under a charming courtliness which was, if anything, more charming than -usual. And if she smiled a little more frequently, if a _bon mot_ came -more readily to her lips, after all they were but attempts to bury the -heartache a bit deeper, and it was at least the real Anne who once more -walked the earth. - -She saw Millicent occasionally, but only occasionally. There was -now between them a civil exchange of courtesies; an assumption, but -merely an assumption, of the old friendly footing. On a certain -afternoon in the White House Millicent had attempted to give a version -of a particular story to Anne. To which Anne had responded that she -already knew it. Millicent, however, had attempted to explain, and in -explaining had told Anne one or two things Anne had not before known, -which things had caused those aforementioned cracks in Millicent -to gape with such ominous wideness that Millicent herself suddenly -perceived them, and, worse still, saw that Anne perceived them. -Anne had quietly announced that she preferred not to talk of the -matter further: the part of it that concerned Millicent was her own -affair, the part of it that concerned herself was hers. And so it had -concluded, outwardly at all events. But it did not require a vast -amount of acumen to perceive that their former friendly relationship -was of necessity a trifle strained. - -It is not to be inferred from this, however, that Anne and Millicent -were anywhere near warfare with each other. Anne was far too much -_grande_ _dame_ for such a proceeding. Also her sentiments towards -Millicent were now those of pure indifference. Millicent had never -counted a great deal in her life, she now merely counted less. Of -Millicent one cannot be so sure. She had seen Anne's face on that -historic afternoon; she had seen Peter's face. She had therefrom drawn -her own conclusions--conclusions to which Anne's subsequent refusal to -discuss the matter had given further weight. - -Millicent would have liked to think of Peter as pining in quiet grief -for her, leading a kind of _piano_ life of minor passages in which she -stood for the keynote. She had--to be candid--pictured Peter in her -mind as a prematurely grey-haired man, slightly bowed at the shoulders -(from remorse), gazing fervently at a photograph of a Madonna-like -woman with a child in her arms (Millicent's latest by Lafayette), -sorrowfully considering the fact that the child was not his, and -announcing to Heaven that the thought of her should guide him at last -to its Gates. It must be allowed that it was a distinct jar to find -him not at all grey-haired, not at all bowed at the shoulders, but -jaunty, debonair, carrying a ridiculous hat with a peacock feather in -his hand, and talking intimately to one of her own friends, one, too, -who had kept her acquaintanceship with him a dead secret. Millicent's -feelings towards both him and Anne verged on something like hatred, -though this primeval instinct was so hidden beneath a mask of culture -that no one, Anne least of all, perceived it. - -Of General Carden Anne now saw a good deal. Having come once to her -house he came again, and came frequently. And every time, by some -subtle method of his own device, he contrived to mention a certain -green-covered book, and also to speak of the author. And, queerly -enough, Anne responded. Perhaps by some feminine intuition she guessed -General Carden's secret, namely, that he had a pretty shrewd inkling of -the identity of the author, and perhaps underneath the courtly worldly -demeanour of the old man she saw the heart which longed for some word, -some sign, from him. And perhaps knowing this, seeing this, the heart -of the now liberated Anne went out to the old General, having in a way -a common cause of unhappiness. And so the two smiled and chatted, and -skimmed the surface of their sorrow, finding in so doing a curious -consolation, so queer and unaccountable is human nature. - -And then one day, a few weeks after her conversation with Muriel, she -became conscious of a tiny hope in her heart. She could no more say at -which precise moment it had first been born than one can say at which -precise moment the tiny green leaves of a spring flower first push -above the brown earth. For weeks there is nothing to be seen, and then -one morning we come down to our garden and the tiny shoot is there in -the sunshine, smiling shyly at us. - -And so one morning, all unsuspected in its hidden growth, a tiny -green shoot of hope sprang up in Anne's heart, a hope that after all -her pride had not been abased as she had feared, but that somewhere, -somehow, love was lifting it from the earth. It is not easy to put -into exact words precisely what she hoped, but assuredly trust had -been renewed. And with an old priest praying at an altar, and a -woman kneeling to St. Joseph, and somewhere, far away, a man's heart -worshipping and adoring, it is hardly surprising that it was so. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -DEMOCRITUS - - -And now if this history be inclined to jump from one place to another -in a somewhat inconsequent fashion, perhaps it will be forgiven, for -with its hero wandering away by himself and the rest of the characters -more or less congregated together, it takes some mental skipping to -record their story. - -Yet Peter was now not entirely lonely. He had picked up a chum, a pal, -in the shape of a small and extremely mongrel puppy of a breed unknown, -but it is to be supposed that wire-haired terrier predominated. And -here is the manner of their first meeting. - -When Peter left the cottage in the early morning he walked first to -the market-town, where he posted two letters--one to the Lady Anne -Garland and one to his publishers, telling them that at present he had -no settled address, but that if he wished to correspond with them -later he would let them know. The consequence of this being that when -a certain blue letter, addressed to him, arrived at their office it -remained there, while they waited with what patience they might for -word or sign from Peter. If he were a bit of a genius, and they were -inclined to consider him so, his methods were also somewhat erratic. - -Leaving the town, he turned his steps northward, and for no particular -reason beyond the fact that he liked the look of the road. But perhaps -it was really a certain unseen guidance which led his steps in that -direction and made him of benefit to a small bundle of life embodied in -a miserable little roll of dirty white hair, a stump of a baby tail, -two short ears, four lanky little legs, a wet black nose, and a pair of -really beautiful brown eyes. Often we see these beautiful eyes in an -otherwise entirely ugly face. Perhaps it is not surprising, for after -all they are the windows of the soul, and even a little doggy soul may -be beautiful. But to proceed. - -Peter walked along a dusty high-road till about noonday. It was an -August day, as may be remembered, and breathless with the quiet heat -of that month when it happens to be really hot. Peter had not noticed -the heat at first; external matters were at the moment outside his -consideration. He had been tramping doggedly, mentally weary, the sun -of the last few weeks blotted out, his horizon now veiled in grey -clouds of dreariness. - -And then at last his body began to protest. "If you will indulge in -lovesick thoughts," it cried, "if your soul intends to give itself -up to heartache and mental torment, at all events don't drag me into -it. And it's very sure that if you will treat me with a bit more -consideration you will be befriending your soul likewise." And Peter, -seeing the force of the argument, laughed. - -It was against all philosophy except that of the monks of old time to -punish your body because your soul was sick. Body and soul were--at -all events in his case, he argued--too closely allied. Perhaps those -old monks who had found a key to spiritual things--a key on which -Peter did not pretend to have laid a hand--might have had such a way -of separating the two that the one did not suffer for the infirmities -of the other. But Peter was one of us ordinary mortals to whom prayer -and such-like on an empty stomach--or an over-full one for that -matter--would be a thing impossible. For his soul to be at ease his -body must be comfortable, and most assuredly he was at the present -moment increasing the discomfort of his soul by unduly fatiguing his -body. It was an illogical proceeding, as he suddenly perceived. - -A wood lay to the right of the road--a place of cool shadows and small -dancing spots of gold, a silent place, still as the peace of some old -cathedral. - -Peter turned into it. He walked a little way across the green moss, -till the leafy barrier of branches shut the high-road from his sight, -and then sat down, his back against the purple and silver flecked trunk -of a beech-tree. He unstrapped his wallet and laid it on the ground -beside him. Then suddenly his ear caught a sound, a faint yelping cry -of pain. It was as if some creature had for hours been imploring aid -which did not come, as if it had sunk into a despairing silence, and -then some tiny sound, some movement, had again awakened hope sufficient -to make one last appeal. - -Peter jumped to his feet. - -"Now which way was it?" he queried. "From over there, if I'm not -mistaken." And he set off farther into the wood. "It's an animal in a -trap," he said, "a beastly trap. Curse the things!" - -Many a time in his wanderings Peter had put a dumb creature out of its -misery. And if you have ever heard a hare cry, and seen its soft eyes -gazing at you till you'd vow it was an imprisoned human soul looking -through its windows, you'd know the fury of rage against some of -mankind that had possessed Peter more than once, and which possessed -him now. He peered right and left among the undergrowth, his eyes and -ears alert, yet seeing nothing, hearing nothing. - -He stopped and whistled softly. - -"Where are you, you poor little atom of life?" he cried. - -And then, not a yard ahead of him, from a great bramble clump, came the -tiniest, most pitiful cry, but with a little note of hope in it. - -"Oh!" cried Peter, and the next instant he was on his knees, the steel -jaws were pulled asunder, and a baby mongrel of a puppy was dragging -itself feebly towards him, trying to lick his hand. "Oh, you poor -little beggar!" said Peter, as he wrenched the trap from the ground and -flung it into the middle of the bramble-bush. Then he lifted the small -bundle of rough, dirty white hair tenderly and carried it back to the -beech-tree. - -There he sat himself down and began to examine the wounded leg; it was -terribly torn but mercifully not broken. Peter washed the wound with -some water from his flask, and bound the leg with some strips he tore -from his handkerchief, the small creature ecstatically licking his hand -the while. - -"You know," remonstrated Peter, "a thing of your size should not be -wandering about alone. It's not correct. You might have known you'd get -into difficulties." - -The puppy paused in its licking to look into his face with brown -speaking eyes. They might have told Peter a good deal--a sad little -story of being hunted, hounded from place to place on account of his -ugly little body, of a last frantic, terrified rush from a distant -village, of presently trotting along a dusty road, of a turning into -a wood which smelled pleasantly of rabbits and other things dear to a -doggy nose, and of a final excruciating imprisonment, which had lasted -through Heaven knows how long of torment, till a big human being in the -shape of Peter had come to his rescue. All this those eyes might have -said. At all events, Peter read a bit of the story. - -"I suppose, you poor atom," he said whimsically, "that no one wanted -you, so you set out to forage on your own account. Well, we're both in -the same boat. Shall we pull it together?" - -It is not to be supposed that the puppy understood the precise words, -but it unquestionably understood the tone, and it again fell to licking -Peter's hand. - -Peter ferreted in his wallet. He found bread and meat, and together -they shared a meal. Water Peter poured into his palm, and the small -creature lapped greedily. Finally it curled itself up beside him, and, -despite a sore and wounded leg, dropped into a blissful and contented -slumber. After a moment or so Peter followed its example. He had not, -it will be guessed, slept the previous night, and he had been tramping -since daybreak. So now here were two wayfarers forgetting their woes in -slumber, though the puppy, it may be safely averred, was confident that -his woes were over. - - * * * * * - -The sun was slanting low through the wood when Peter awakened. He -opened his eyes and looked around without moving. The puppy--the -laziness of it!--had not stirred. But, then, who knows how many hours -of puppy sleepiness it had not to make up. - -"Ouf!" said Peter, stretching himself hugely. - -The puppy woke, started, cringed, felt the wound in its leg, and yelped. - -Peter picked it up with firm hands. "Now look here," he said solemnly, -"we don't want any more fear. You've got to forget that. Do you -understand? We're going to be comrades, pals, you and I; and we're both -of us going to keep up brave hearts and cheer each other. You've got a -wound in your leg, and I've got one in the region which I suppose is -called the heart. You--you puppy thing! have the advantage over me, -because with a bit of luck yours will mend in a few days. But anyhow, -neither of us is going to whine. You're going to bark cheerfully and -wag your tail, and I'm going to write--presently, and grin as well as I -know how. The world would be quite a decent place if people would let -it be so, and we're not going to add dulness to its poor old shoulders. -It's borne quite enough in its time. Have you understood?" - -A small red tongue trying to reach Peter's face testified to entire -comprehension. - -"Very well, then. Now come along, and as I presume you'd prefer not to -walk on three legs I'll carry you. You're not much of a size, and only -skin and bone at that." - -Peter picked up his wallet and hitched his bundle to his back, which -bundle was heavier than when we first met him. It now contained, -further, a packet of manuscript, a writing-tablet, and--the foolishness -of the vagabond!--a dress suit. The bundle adjusted to exactly that -position which made its weight of the least concern, he tucked the -small animal under his arm, with careful consideration for its wounded -leg, and set off to the edge of the wood and once more down the dusty -road. With some shrewdness, at the first two villages he passed, he -hid the puppy under his coat with a whispered injunction to lie still, -an injunction which was scrupulously observed. Only by the tiniest -quivering of the body and the quick beat of the heart against Peter's -arm was the smallest sign of movement and life betrayed. Villages, you -perceive, were anathema to him, holding terror, pain, and everything -that was most unholy and unpleasant. - -They slept in a barn that night. Before he slept Peter took out and -examined his manuscript by the light of a candle. Then his face -quivered. - -"Not to-night," he said. "I can't. I will to-morrow." - -He promised it like a child who cries "Honest Injun!" at the end of its -speech. - -"What would you do," asked Peter, addressing himself to the puppy, "if -you felt uncommonly miserable and had made a promise to yourself and a -puppy to be cheerful?" - -The puppy looked at him, head on one side. Then it yawned, a large wide -yawn that began and ended in something remarkably like a grin. Finally -it crept to Peter and curled down beside him in slumber. - -"Grin and bear it and sleep, I suppose," said Peter. "Puppy, you're a -philosopher, and I think your name is Democritus." - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -AT A FAIR - - -And so these two entered into partnership--a partnership that, on -the side of Democritus, was marked by an entire adoration, the full -and overwhelming love and trust of a dog's soul, and on Peter's -by affection and a real sense of comfort in the small animal's -companionship. - -The days that passed were days of unbroken sunshine; England was -revelling, as she rarely does, in long-continued sun and warmth. Peter -spent the mornings and a good part of the afternoon in the shade of -some coppice or in the shadow of some old quarry or haystack, engrossed -in his writing, while Democritus at first lay curled beside him, and -later, as the ugly wound healed, set off on rabbiting expeditions of -his own, to return at noon and share Peter's midday meal. - -After having worked for some weeks under a roof, Peter at first did -not find it so easy to write in the open. There were countless things -to prove of distraction--the sunlight spots that danced on the ground -beside him, the glint of a dragon-fly's wing, the butterflies that -flitted in the sunshine, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cows, -the cry of the curlew, the plaintive pipe of the plover, all served to -carry his thoughts into dreamy realms of fancy away from the work of -the moment. - -And in these realms there were three or four pictures that kept -recurring to his mind. There was a woman sitting in the sunshine on -a terrace, her hair warm and lustrous in the light. Peter would see -again the indescribable note of race and breeding that predominated in -her; see her eyes grey and shining; the warm ivory of her skin; her -white hands long-fingered and slender, rose-tipped, with almond-shaped -nails; the lines of her graceful figure; the whole fragrance, the warm -vitality of her; and hear her low, round voice. There was a moonlight -picture, elusive, full of a rare charm. There was a picture half-hidden -in driving rain, and then a woman by his hearth, lifting a glass of red -wine to her lips. And, lastly, a picture of a woman, looking at him, -white, silent, her eyes holding depths of contempt. - -And here Peter would catch his underlip with his teeth and turn again -fiercely to his writing. It was gay writing, witty writing. His -Wanderer wore his cap and bells finely, jesting right royally, and it -would have needed a penetrating insight to recognize the sigh beneath -the smile. - -The world, as Peter had told Democritus, has borne much in her time. -Through countless ages she has seen the sin, the sorrow, the pain of -mankind; but she knows, if they could but realize it, that all this is -as transitory as the barren days of winter that cover her, and that -life and hope are never dead, but only sleeping, and will awake again -with the spring. She tells us this times out of number. Every year -she silently speaks her allegory, but it falls for the most part on -unheeding ears. In the barren winter of our lives it is not easy to -believe that spring will once more wake for us, that however long and -dreary the grey months, somewhere and at some time the spring will -dawn. Peter was facing his winter bravely, but he could not yet believe -that one day the sun would shine again for him, the birds sing, the -flowers bloom. For all his outward gaiety, the present physical warmth -and sunshine only served to emphasize his mental winter. But Nature -knew and did her best to cheer him, and to tell him that our interior -spring and summer, though their advent is sure, do not always accord -with hers. - - * * * * * - -One day, somewhere about the middle of September, Peter reached a -small town. He was progressing slowly northward, but as he spent a -considerable part of his time in writing his progress was by no means -hurried. - -In this town a fair was in full swing, and Peter was reminded of a -letter he had once received, which talked of another fair--one in the -South of England. - -It was a gay scene enough, and Peter, with Democritus, at his heels, -paused a while to watch it. There were crowds of people in holiday -attire; there were endless couples--girl and swain. There were coco-nut -shies; there were merry-go-rounds of horses and boat-cars, which -revolved to some excruciating music (so-called), set in motion by the -machinery which worked the highly coloured wooden horses and cars. -There were stalls covered with miscellaneous articles of marvellous -manufacture--glass vases with undulated edges, beginning white at the -base and slowly increasing in colour from pale pink to a violent ruby; -china mugs and cups covered with floreate designs or flags, between two -of which King George and Queen Mary stared forth with painted pained -surprise. There were gilt clocks, boxes of sweets, tin butter-dishes -politely called silver, and all the rest of the articles which usually -adorn the stalls at a fair. - -A number of these articles were displayed on a circular table covered -with red twill and surrounded by a barricade, beside which stood a -man with a number of small hoops in his hand. In a loud voice he was -urging the onlookers to try their luck. The hoops, it appeared, were -to be loaned to them at the rate of three a penny; they were then to -be flung quoit-like over any article on the table. Provided they fell -surrounding the article without touching it, it became the property of -the thrower. If you had ill-luck you had disbursed your money with no -result; moderate luck would bring you a packet of sweets or a china -dog or cat, and by surprising good luck you might become the possessor -of a certain largish gilt clock or a ruby vase, and all for a sum -which might be the fraction of a penny. It sounded seductive, and -the throwers of the hoops were fairly numerous, though the acquirers -of prizes were few. The wooden hoop had an unpleasant way of falling -against the article required and propping itself up by it as though -too tired for further exertion. But the throwers, with the hearts of -born gamblers, continued to throw and hope for better things, till -diminishing coppers or entirely empty pockets sent them sadly away. -Naturally there was an occasional piece of luck, which fired the -assembly to fresh enthusiasm. - -Peter stood still to watch, amused by the wild vagaries of the wooden -hoops. Suddenly a small voice at his elbow spoke. - -"It ain't easy, is it? I've thrown a shilling on that there table and -not got so much as a penny packet o' sweets. It's dis'eartening!" - -Peter looked round. At his elbow was a small and ugly girl, possibly -the ugliest girl on which it had ever been his fortune to set eyes. Her -pale, square face was covered with freckles, her eyes, small and green, -were like little slits, her nose--a mere apology for that feature--was -a dab in the middle of her face, her mouth wide and formless. - -"Apparently it is not easy," said Peter politely. And then he removed -his eyes from her face, fearing that his astonishment at her plainness -might be perceived by her. - -She sighed. "I wish I 'adn't thrown my shilling on that there table. -It's the third year now as I've made a fool of myself, and not a penny -left for the 'orses nor nothin'. 'Tisn't as if I were one o' the girls -wot folks treat. 'Oo could, with a face like mine?" - -There was no complaint in the remark. It was not even a hint to Peter; -it was merely the grave statement of a fact, with the explanation of -the reason for it. - -"Why," asked Peter solemnly, "did you throw your money on that table?" - -She came a trifle nearer to him, and spoke in a whisper. - -"It's them two things," she said. "That there vase--the crimson one -with the white snake a-curling round it, and the gold clock. I've -watched 'em now for three years, and me 'eart's in me mouth lest some -one should get the 'oops over. I can't get away from 'ere, nor enjoy -the fair no 'ow for watchin', so the 'orses and boats wouldn't be much -good even if I 'adn't throwed that shilling away." It was poured forth -in a rapid undertone, as if the mere mention of her longing might lead -a hoop to encircle either of the two coveted treasures. - -Peter eyed them gravely. Of course they were unutterably hideous, -that went without saying; but there they were, representing the -goal--unattainable--of three years' ambition. - -"I wonder--" said Peter, and stopped. He had once had some skill as a -player of quoits. He drew a copper from his pocket. "I'll have three of -those hoops," he said to the man in charge of the stall. - -The Ugly Little Girl watched him, anxiety in her eyes. Democritus, at -his master's heels, was regarding the proceedings unperturbed. - -Peter flung one hoop; it fell on the table and rested in its usual -melancholy fashion against a china figure. The Ugly Little Girl heaved -a sigh of relief; she felt that her confidence had been misplaced. - -Peter threw again. The hoop fell fairly over the gilt clock. - -"Good!" said the owner of the stall, with an attempt at cheerfulness. -And he picked up the hoop, handing Peter the clock. - -Amazed, wrathful, fighting with her tears, the Ugly Little Girl watched -Peter. He threw a third time. The ruby vase with the white snake -climbing up it was neatly encircled. The man handed it to Peter in a -melancholy fashion. - -"More 'oops?" he asked dejectedly. - -"Not at the moment," returned Peter jauntily, and he moved away. The -Ugly Little Girl was no longer at his elbow. - -Peter worked his way through the group of envious admirers round the -stall, and at a little distance he saw her. He walked in her direction, -Democritus at his heels. - -"Permit me," quoth Peter as he approached. - -She turned round; her eyes were full of tears, her mouth distorted in a -grimace of woe. - -"Now, by all the gods," exclaimed Peter, amazed, "what's the matter -with the child?" - -"Might 'ave known you'd 'ave got them. Might 'ave known the luck was -all agin me." - -"Ye gods and little fishes!" cried Peter, raising his eyes to the sky. -"And how was I to know you wanted the honour of throwing the blessed -little wooden hoops yourself? I fancied it was the mere possession of -the gorgeous articles that you coveted." - -"What d'you mean?" she queried. - -"I acquired these treasures," returned Peter, "with the sole intention -of presenting them to you. If, however, I have been mistaken----" - -"For me!" It had never dawned upon her that any one would willingly -part with such treasures, once acquired. - -"Of course," said Peter patiently, "for you. May I ask what else you -imagined I was going to do with them?" He held the gilt clock and the -ruby vase towards her. - -Her ugly face was all a-quiver with rapture. "Oh!" she breathed, and -she looked at Peter with adoring eyes. - -"Here, take them!" laughed Peter. - -She took them tenderly, still half-unbelieving in her good fortune. - -"I never thought," she whispered, "that no one would 'ave thrown 'oops -for me. Oh, I say!" - -Peter looked at her, and then some spirit took possession of him. -Perhaps it was one of enterprise, perhaps it was one of mischief, -perhaps it was one of kindliness, or perhaps--and this is more -probable--it was a mixture of all three. - -"Shall we do the fair together?" he asked. - -It was her turn now to look at him. Incredulity, joy, and something -akin to tears struggled for the mastery. The last are apt to come to -the surface at a kindness to one not used to it. - -"I--I--d'you mean it?" she asked, ecstatic. - -"With all the faith in the world," replied Peter. "Come along." - -They were an odd trio--the tall, lean man in his shabby coat and -trousers and the fantastic peacock feather in his hat, the small ugly -girl in her tawdry finery, the mongrel puppy which trotted solemnly at -Peter's heels. - -To the Ugly Little Girl it was a never-to-be-forgotten afternoon. She -had a man all of her own, and one, too, who flung shillings abroad -with never so much as a hint at his reckless expenditure. Never again -was she to care for the pitying looks cast upon her lonely self by the -other girls who walked abroad with their swains. Never again was she -lonely. Her life was to hold a dream-knight, a man with sad eyes and -a whimsical smile, who had fêted her throughout one glorious September -day. And her dream was infinitely more beautiful than any other -girl's reality, for in it her man was ever courtly, ever considerate, -laughing, gay, with odd little speeches that somehow tugged at her -heart-strings and brought the happy tears to her eyes. There was never -a blow, never a harsh word, such as fell too often to the lot of the -others. Thrice happy Ugly Little Girl, with her one day of innocent joy -and her dream throughout her life! - -As for Peter, having undertaken the rôle of swain, you may be sure he -played his part royally. He whirled on wooden horses till his brain -was dizzy, while Democritus, from the safety of the solid earth, -watched his antics in dumb amazement, marvelling at his undignified -proceedings. He bought and ate waffles made by a stout woman with a -motherly face, who blessed the two in a way that caused the Ugly Little -Girl to blush scarlet and convulsed Peter with inward laughter; he -bought sticks of sugar-candy and huge peppermints called "humbugs"; and -finally he watched a hunchbacked harlequin, in green and gold spangles, -turn somersaults and jest for the motley herd around him. - -The Ugly Little Girl gazed in awestruck wonder, laughing every now and -then in a spasm of merriment. Suddenly she looked up and saw Peter's -face. - -"Don't it make you laugh?" she queried. "Ain't it funny?" - -"For the crowd, perhaps," answered Peter. "But for the harlequin--" He -shrugged his shoulders, and the Ugly Little Girl somehow understood and -ceased to smile. - -Later they saw him outside a tent; he was jesting no longer. Morose, -silent, he was gazing on the ground. Peter said a word or two, -insignificant but friendly. - -"Ah!" said the fellow, looking up; "you can see the man beneath the -fool." - -"Many of us wear the cap and bells," said Peter. "It's better to raise -a laugh than be an object of pity to a non-understanding multitude." - -"You, too!" said the man. "Another in the world with a laugh on his -lips and an ache at his heart!" - -"Sighing won't ease the ache," said Peter; "and a laugh is often more -dignified than a groan." - -"You're right there," was the answer. "And a laughing fool is better -than a moping wise man." - -"Well said!" quoth Peter. And then there was a call from within the -tent, and the harlequin vanished with a nod. - -"I understand," said the Ugly Little Girl slowly. "It ain't nice to be -laughed at because you 'ave an ugly body, but it's better to let folk -laugh at you and laugh with them than go around with a long face. It's -comfortin' to think that God don't take no account of your body. They -say as 'ow 'E made it, but I'm thinking as it's your father and mother -'as a good 'and in it, and it ain't fair to lay all the blame on God." - -"Oh no," said Peter airily but vaguely, and completely at a loss for a -suitable reply. And then he bethought him of the coco-nut shies, and -led the way in that direction. - -"Ain't you givin' me a time!" said the Ugly Little Girl gleefully. - -Much later, in the gathering dusk, there was dancing; and, as is the -way with fairs, a certain roughness and rowdyism began to prevail. -Peter had his own ideas as to the propriety of certain places for -women, of whatever class. - -"It is time you left," he remarked coolly. - -She glanced up, surprised. - -"It is," said Peter authoritatively, "too rough here now for a woman." - -She blushed with pleasure. The other swains would keep their girls -there till Heaven knows what o'clock. - -"Where do you live?" demanded Peter. - -"In Watermill Street," she replied, meek, delighted. And then, with a -sudden burst of honesty, "I'm--I'm only a maid-of-all-work." - -"Jack-of-all-trades," smiled Peter. "I'll give myself the pleasure of -escorting you to your door." - -They walked through the deserted streets. Every man abroad was at the -fair. Democritus followed. It had been a day of perplexity to him. - -The Ugly Little Girl was fumbling with one hand at her neck; in the -other arm she held the precious clock and vase. - -"What," asked Peter politely, "is the trouble? Can I assist you?" - -"'Ere, 'old them a minute, will you?" She thrust the clock and vase -towards him. Peter took them. She fumbled now with both hands, and in -a moment brought them away, holding in them a small medal, one of the -Immaculate Conception. It was attached to a thick boot-lace. - -Peter gazed at her. - -"I 'aven't nothin' else worth 'avin'," she said hurriedly. "Father -Mordaunt 'e blessed it for me. I'd--I'd like you to take it." - -Peter looked from the medal and boot-lace to the ugly, imploring face. - -"Oh, but--" he said, and he hesitated. It was obviously a great -possession. - -"Father Mordaunt 'e'd never mind," she said earnestly; "and--and Our -Lady'll understand, seein' as 'ow it's the only thing I've got to give -you, and you've made me so 'appy." She still tendered it, wistful, -anxious. - -Peter took it, and dropped it, boot-lace and all, into his pocket. - -"Thank you," he said quietly, with no trace of whimsical nonsense now -in his tone. - -Then she took the clock and vase again from him, and they turned into -Watermill Street. At a door she paused. - -"I ain't goin' to try and say thank you," she whispered, "because I -can't. I know you're a real gentleman--not only by your speech, but by -the way you've treated me so considerate and good. I'll pray to Our -Lady for you as long as ever I live, and ask 'Er to give you whatever -you wants most. And I'll begin this very night." - -"Oh," smiled Peter, "you queer, dear little girl!" But though he -smiled his eyes were a trifle misty. It had been, after all, a mere -freak of fancy on his part to play the squire of dames to a small -maid-of-all-work that afternoon. He felt himself to be a bit of a -fraud, undeserving of this wealth of gratitude. He crushed the small -work-worn fingers hard in his. - -And so the two parted. It had been a trifling incident; but, after all, -it is rather pleasant to think of, as somehow characteristic of Peter. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -ON THE CLOUD - - -It was about the third week in January that Peter reached a certain -town named Congleton, and leaving it behind him, walked towards a -mountain named the Cloud. - -The weather was now inclement; cold winds blew, driving showers of -sleet and rain assailed him, making the progress of the vagabond Peter -far from pleasant. - -Bundle on back, his hands deep in the pockets of a rough frieze -overcoat he had purchased some three months previously, he tramped -along the road, Democritus at his heels. It might well be wondered -why Peter did not seek some lodging during these inclement months, -and in answer there is nothing to say beyond the fact that a certain -odd strain in him led him to continue his present mode of living. He -preferred inclemency of weather, entire isolation, to life under -a roof, with the chance of meeting his fellow-men. Perhaps it was -strange, but after all had he not already spent more than two years -on the roads, so may not the love of the open have taken possession -of him? At all events it is not what he might have done, but what he -actually did, with which this history has to deal. - -Somewhere up on the top of the Cloud, with its back to a small wood of -pines and with a strip of moorland and then the road in front of it, -stands a small deserted hut. It is no more than a hovel of one tiny -room, and perhaps at one time it was used as a shepherd's shelter. - -It was drawing on to the wintry dusk when Peter saw it in the gloom, -lying to the left of him from the road. He crossed the strip of -moorland and went towards it. He found it, as he had fancied he might, -entirely empty. There was a hole in the roof through which the rain -was driving and the broken door rattled on its hinges. It was very -different from a cottage he had discovered some months previously, but -it was at all events some kind of shelter, and the cold without was -bitter. - -"We'll take possession," said Peter to Democritus. "It cannot be -styled a princely habitation--in fact, it's uncommonly wretched. But I -fancy it will be more desirable than the road to-night." - -He unfastened his bundle and set it on the earth floor. Outside the -wind howled in fury; mist, rain, and gathering dusk blotted out the -landscape beyond the road. - -"Ugh!" said Peter with a shudder, "it's remarkably unpleasant." - -He unpacked his bundle. There was half a loaf of bread, a tin of -sardines, a bottle of water, a small flask of whisky, and a bone with -some meat on it for Democritus. - -They finished their meal together, and then Peter still sat with -his back to the wall, as far away from the broken door as possible, -watching the rain that fell through the hole in the roof. For nearly -the first time since he had begun his wanderings he was physically -wretched. Fate had for a short time lifted his mental loneliness from -him, only to plunge him deeper into it. Mental loneliness, however, -he had done his best to accept with what philosophy he might, but now -physical loneliness, entire discomfort, and bodily depression were -weighing hard upon him. He felt he had lost the grit to fight further. -A quixotic action of long ago suddenly presented itself to him as an -entirely idiotic proceeding on his part. Why on earth had he ruined his -own life, cut himself off from communion with his fellow-men, for a -mere romantic notion? - -"I'm beaten," said Peter to himself, "done! I fancied I was doing a -fine thing. I thought myself, no doubt, a bit of a hero; and now I'm a -coward, a turncoat, who'd give a very great deal to undo the past." - -He was wretched, entirely wretched, and even the soft warm tongue of -Democritus against his hand was of no smallest comfort to him. - -He looked at the bundle on the ground beside him. It contained his -manuscript, fair, complete but for the title and signature and the -dedication should he choose to give it one. It brought him no atom of -pleasure; it appeared to him worthless, a thing of false sentiment, -talking of high courage, of nobility of thought, which in reality -vanished like a pricked air-bubble the moment the finger of fact was -laid upon it. - -How in the name of fortune had he kept his spirits buoyed up all these -years? And why in Heaven's name had the buoyancy suddenly deserted him? -Peter turned about in his mind for a solution of the problem. Presently -he found it. It came with something like a shock. He was older, that -was the reason. Close on six years had rolled over his head since the -day he had surrendered all for an extravagant notion. It is the young, -Peter reflected sagely, who take their all and throw it with both -hands on the altar of sacrifice. They do not realize--how should they -in their youthful optimism?--what they are giving up. They have never -known monotony, the grey years that roll by with nothing in heaven or -earth to break their dulness. - -"Something will happen to make up to us," they cry. But--so -Peter reflected from the wisdom of his present vast age (he was -two-and-thirty be it stated)--nothing does happen. We burn our all -heroically, and then are surprised to find that there is no life in the -grey ashes left to us. His optimism had gone, vanished, and nothing but -a deep pessimism remained to him. - -"It's no use, Democritus," he said, as with tongue and wagging tail the -small creature tried to cheer this terrible mood that had fallen upon -his master, "it's no use. I've made a mull of things, and perhaps it's -just as well to know when I am beaten. And yet if----" - -Unpleasant little word, which so often prefaces all the joys that might -have been and are not. - -Bear with Peter in his present mood. The marvel is it had never fallen -upon him before, and that it had not must be accounted for by the fact -that youth, health, and what had appeared as indomitable good spirits -were all in his favour. - -It is useless, however, to dwell on his misery. Picture him, if you -will, as wretched as man well could be. He was, after all, only human, -and up till now he had fought his fight bravely. - -He slept little throughout the night. About midnight the wind dropped -suddenly, and by the light of a candle he saw snowflakes falling -through the hole in the roof. He was trying to console himself with -Conard's life of Beethoven, which he had purchased; but with the -remembrance of the woman who had recommended him to read it before his -mind, the consolation was not overgreat. - -Towards morning he fell into a fitful slumber which lasted till dawn. -Then he awakened, roused himself, yawned and stretched. The memory of -his mood of the previous night recurred to his mind. He felt suddenly -ashamed, though there had been none but his own soul and Democritus to -witness it. Courage, high-handed, sprang again within him. He flung -last night's mood behind him, and brave-eyed faced the future. And with -what is to follow it is good to think that he did so. - -He got up, and went to the cottage door. - -The earth lay snow-covered and very still. Since midnight the air had -been thick with feathery flakes falling gently, silently. Just before -dawn they had ceased, and now the world lay under the soft mantle. -White and spectre-like the trees reared their branches against the -cold grey sky. Only here and there the berries of the holly and the -rowan-tree gleamed scarlet against the snow. A little stream that -in summer made faint music as it wended its way to the right of the -hut, finally losing itself in the shadow of the pinewood, was now -frost-bound and silent. Over everything lay an intense stillness, an -unearthly purity. The ground before the hut was covered with curious -little star-like lines imprinted in the snow, the impress of the feet -of feathered wayfarers seeking for food which was not to be found. - -And then through the silent frosty air came clear sounds--the barking -of a sheepdog, the clarion note of a cock in an outlying farmyard, and, -very distant, the sound of a church clock chiming the hour. - -The eastern sky began to flush with colour. An amber light stole upward -through the grey, turning to rose and then to deeper crimson. The white -earth pulsated, breathed, awakened. Softly it reflected the crimson -of the sky, and then slowly, majestically, the sun, a glowing ball of -fire, came up over the horizon. - -Peter stood gazing at the fairy magic of the scene. It was a pure -transformation after the bleak dreariness of the previous night. - -And then suddenly he saw a man coming along the road--a man tall, -broad-shouldered, of a build akin to his own. A thick coat covered him, -its fur collar well pulled up to his ears; a cloth cap was on his head. - -"Hullo," said Peter to himself, "he's early a-foot!" - -The man paused, looked in the direction of the hut, then turned and -tramped quickly across the snow towards him. As he came nearer Peter -saw a pleasant freckled face, brown eyes like a dog's, a firm short -chin, and a small reddish moustache. - -Within three or four yards of him the stranger halted and spoke. - -"Is your name, by good luck, Peter Carden?" - -"It is," said Peter, surprised, wondering. - -"Thank Heaven!" murmured he of the freckles piously. "I've found you at -last! Come along back to the hotel with me and we'll talk as we go. I'm -famishing for breakfast." - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -A MIRACLE - - -And here it is necessary to record certain things which led up to -this--to Peter--most extraordinary of meetings: things which those who -do not believe in the miracles wrought by love and prayer might regard -as almost incredible coincidences. - -One afternoon, it was in the week between Christmas and the New Year, -Father O'Sullivan was in the Westminster Hospital. He had been with a -sick man for the last half-hour or so, cheering him on his high-road -to recovery. He had only just left him--he was, in fact, in the -corridor--when a nursing Sister, a Catholic, came up to him. - -"Father," she said, "there's a man--a gentleman--who would like to -see you; he's a Catholic and dying. I asked him to let me send for a -priest yesterday, and again to-day, but he refused. A few moments ago, -however, I happened to mention your name and say that you were in the -hospital. He asked me then to fetch you." - -"Ah!" said Father O'Sullivan, smoothing his chin, as was the way with -him--if he had worn a beard he would have been stroking it; "where is -he?" - -"In here, Father." And she led the way through a ward, and into a small -room that opened out of it. - -Father O'Sullivan looked at the man lying on the bed. His eyes were -closed, and his face almost deathly pale against the red coverlet which -was pulled up to his chin. - -Father O'Sullivan sat down by the bedside. The man opened his eyes and -looked at him. - -"Well, Father," he said, with a faint attempt at a smile. - -And then, in spite of the pallor, the thinness, Father O'Sullivan -recognized him. He saw in him a man he had known from boyhood, one -who had attended his confessional, though for about six years he had -entirely lost sight of him. - -"Hugh Ellerslie!" exclaimed he. - -"You remember me?" said Hugh. - -"Of course, of course," replied Father O'Sullivan, "though it's six -years or thereabouts since I saw you." - -"I know," said Hugh wearily. "I want to talk to you, Father. They tell -me I'm dying." - -"Well, now," said the old priest compassionately, "and if that's so, -isn't it a good thing I'm here to help you make your peace, to have you -tell me what it is is troubling you?" - -For a moment Hugh was silent. - -"I've a confession to make, Father," he said presently. The Sister -moved towards the door. - -"No," said Hugh, "don't go. How long have I got to live?" - -"Some hours at least," said the Sister gently. - -Hugh smiled. "Well, you'd better both hear what I've got to say. It -won't take long, but I can think of nothing else till I've said it. -Perhaps you, Sister, will write down what is necessary. I can sign it -presently, and, at all events, there will be two witnesses." - -At a sign from Father O'Sullivan the nurse crossed to the other side of -the bed. - -"Now, my son," said Father O'Sullivan quietly, tenderly. - -"I have let another man suffer instead of me," said Hugh steadily. "His -name--please get that down clearly, Sister--is Peter Carden." - -Father O'Sullivan did not move, but he drew a long breath. And there -are some people who say that the age of miracles is past! - -"There's no need to enter into all particulars," went on Hugh; "it -would mean rather complicated business details that really don't -signify. But get this down clearly. About five or six years ago, Peter -Carden was accused of forgery and embezzlement. He was put on his -trial and pleaded guilty. He got three years in Portland Gaol. He was -innocent; he was shielding me. Everything of which he was accused, and -to which he pleaded guilty, was done by me. Is that clear, Father?" - -"Perfectly clear, my son." - -"We were friends," went on Hugh, "school friends, college friends. -Peter always hauled me out of scrapes. He stuck to me through thick and -thin. I believe this last time it was as much for my old mother's sake -as mine that he stood by me. She was very fond of Peter. I said," a -slow colour mounted in the white face, "that it was for her sake that -I let him do it; it wasn't--at least, not only that. I was a coward. -She died about a year after Peter had been in prison. I might have come -forward then. I didn't; I went abroad. I came back to England only -about six months ago." He stopped. - -"Anything else?" asked Father O'Sullivan gravely and tenderly. - -"That's all," said Hugh wearily, "at least, with regard to that. I'd -like Peter to know that, cur though I've been to him, I've always been -fond of him. Tell him, if you can, Father, that I've tried to run -straight since, because of him and what he did. I wasn't getting on -badly, but now----" - -"He shall be told," said Father O'Sullivan. - -"Do you know where he is?" asked Hugh, "You speak as if you knew him." - -"I've heard of him," replied Father O'Sullivan, "and though I don't -know where he is now, he shall be found." - -Again Hugh was silent. After a moment he spoke. - -"If you've got all that down, Sister, I'll sign it. You're sure it will -be all right, Father; that it will let every one know, and clear him -entirely?" - -"Perfectly sure." - -The Sister put the paper by Hugh's hand, and he signed a straggling, -wavering signature. He let the pen fall. Then he looked up at the -Sister. - -"Now," he said, "there are other things. Will you----?" - -And the Sister left the room, closing the door noiselessly behind her. - - * * * * * - -It was after seven o'clock before Father O'Sullivan finally left the -hospital. He had left it once to fetch the Sacraments for which Hugh -had asked. And then, when the full peace of forgiveness and union had -fallen upon him, he had lain very still. - -Once when Father O'Sullivan had moved he had spoken wistfully. - -"Must you go, Father?" - -"Not at all, as long as you're caring for me to be with you." - -Hugh turned his face on the pillow. - -"If it hadn't been you this afternoon, Father!" he said. - -"The good God understood that," said Father O'Sullivan calmly, "and -just sent me along to see Tim Donoghue, who's the very saint of a -fellow when he's sick, and would have me be reading to him and praying -for him by the hour, and me with other jobs to be looking after." - -"We're all like that, perhaps," said Hugh, smiling. - -"Faith, and it's a good thing too," was the reply. "And to whom but -your Mother should you be going when you're sick, and in whose arms but -hers should you be dying?" - -And then there was a silence, broken occasionally by little remarks -from Hugh, who, coward though he might have been once, and more than -once, was no coward now that he was dying. And Father O'Sullivan had -responded with little tender speeches, such as a mother indeed might -make to a child. - -And now he was walking towards Muriel's house in Cadogan Place, and -thanking God in his kind, big old heart for a soul which had passed -peacefully away. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -THE FINE WAY - - -I - -"And so," said Father O'Sullivan, blowing his nose, "I came right along -to tell you, and ask you what is the next step to take." - -"Poor chap!" ejaculated Tommy, delivering himself of a huge sigh. He -was standing on the hearthrug, immaculately attired in dinner jacket, -white shirt-front, and all the rest of the paraphernalia. - -Muriel gave a little choke. She was sitting near him in a dress of her -favourite pale green. Father O'Sullivan had descended on them both as -they were waiting in the drawing-room for the announcement of dinner. -It had, be it stated, already been made, but little heed had been paid -thereto, and the butler in wrathful terms was now ordering the soup to -be taken below again. - -"And what are you both looking so glum about?" demanded Father -O'Sullivan fiercely. "Faith, and weren't you having me say Masses, -and yourself setting up candles to St. Joseph, that that young -Quixote--what's-his-name--might hold up his head again? And now that -the good Lord has answered our prayers and cleared him, and let that -poor boy make a good confession and pass peacefully away, you're -looking as mournful as a mute at a funeral. Was it perhaps some other -way you'd have been having God arrange things and not His way at all?" -He stuffed his handkerchief back vigorously in his pocket as he spoke. - -"But," quoth Tommy in a slightly haughty fashion, feeling this speech -somewhat of an aspersion on his wife's wet eyes, "you will not, I -imagine, deny that it was sad?" - -"Sad! Of course it was sad, what happened first. But can't you see the -fine way, the beautiful way, God has taken away the sadness? You're all -for saying Paradise must be a grand place, but directly a soul gets -a bit nearer to it you're for weeping and wailing and crying 'Poor -fellow!'" - -Muriel choked back her tears. Smiling at the old priest and the -half-wrathful Tommy, she spoke. - -"And you're just as near crying yourself as I am, Father," she -protested. "And it's that is making you so abominably rude and cross to -us both." - -"Huh!" said Father O'Sullivan, and he coughed, putting up his hand to -his mouth. And both cough and gesture hid that his lips were trembling. - -"And now," he requested after a moment, his voice steady and a trifle -dry, "what's to be done next?" - -"Find Mr. Carden, of course," announced Muriel with airy decision, -as who should say that was a fact apparent to the most infantine -intelligence. - -"And it's all very well to say 'Find him,'" remarked Father O'Sullivan -dryly, "but have you the faintest suspicion of a notion where he is at -all?" - -"Not the least," quoth Muriel cheerfully; "that is exactly what we have -to discover." - -"And how will you be doing that may I ask?" - -Muriel leant forward, finger-tips pressed together, speaking with the -decision of one who has thoroughly weighed the whole problem. - -"First we must tell General Carden, and see if he knows where he is. I -don't think he does, but we must find out for certain. Then there are -his publishers--oh, yes," in answer to Tommy's elevated eyebrows--"he -has written a book, a very good book indeed, and thereby hangs more of -a tale than is enclosed within _its_ covers. Failing both those plans," -she concluded firmly, "Tommy must find him." - -"Faith," said Father O'Sullivan admiringly, "it's a fine thing to be a -husband!" - -And then a second time the drawing-room door opened, and a second time -a voice announced, this time in accents of deep reproach, that dinner -was on the table. - -Muriel looked at both the men. "Oh," she cried, "didn't he tell us -that before? I feel apologetic. He's such a treasure, and so is the -cook--both artists in their way, and we're spoiling their artistic -efforts. Come, both of you. We'll talk more at dinner." A whirl of -chiffons and daintiness, she led the way downstairs. - -In the intervals of the servant's absence from the room, she -promulgated plans, like any old veteran at the beginning of a campaign. -If they sounded somewhat fantastic plans it is certain that neither man -had any better to offer. And what, in her opinion, was more feasible, -more practicable, than that Tommy should take the car to Abbotsleigh, -where Peter was last seen by Anne, and from there scour the country for -a man with a peacock feather in his hat? It was, she assured them both, -the simplest of proceedings. - -By the end of dinner they had warmed to her ideas, confessing at least -that no better solution of the difficulty presented itself to them. -Further, she told them, and on this point she was firm, that they must -both go that very evening and tell General Carden the present state of -affairs. For herself, she thought Anne was expecting her. Yes; she was -convinced Anne was expecting her, but she would telephone through and -make sure while they were finishing their cigars. Thus she departed -from the room. - -Anne's voice at the other end of the telephone presently answered her. -Yes, she would be at home that evening, and delighted to see Muriel. -But what was the matter of importance of which Muriel had to speak? -Too long to communicate at the moment? Oh, well, Anne must possess her -soul in patience till Muriel arrived. - -And then Muriel hung up the receiver, and rang for the footman, on -whose appearance she ordered him to tell her maid to bring a cloak -immediately, and stated also that she would require a taxi in ten -minutes. Then, as one who has put great things in train, she sank back -in a chair with a sigh of relief and content. - - -II - -General Carden was in his smoking-room when the opening of the door -by Goring heralded the entrance of Tommy Lancing and a stout, elderly -priest. - -Somewhat perplexed, General Carden put down the book he had been -reading, and rose from his chair to greet them. True, Tommy -occasionally favoured him with his presence at this hour, but why -should he drag along with him a man whom he had only once met, and that -man, moreover, a priest? He appeared, too, somewhat embarrassed. It was -the elder man who was at his ease. - -"We came to see you, General," said Tommy, shaking hands and -introducing Father O'Sullivan, "because we thought--that is, -Muriel--well, something unusual has happened." Neither speech nor -introduction was made after Tommy's customary suave fashion. - -"Ah!" said General Carden, eyeing them both keenly, while his heart -gave a little anxious throb. Unusual news can easily portend bad news. -Also Tommy's manner was a trifle disconcerting. - -"It is," said Tommy, "about your son." - -"Ah!" said General Carden again, this time with a quick intake of his -breath. He put his hand up to the mantelpiece. The floor seemed not -quite so solid as he would desire it to be. - -"He," blurted out Tommy quickly, "was--was not guilty. Father -O'Sullivan will tell you." - -Thus in the simplest, most commonplace of language can momentous -announcements be made. It would seem as though there should be a -grander language, a finer flow of words, for these statements and yet -in such bald fashion are they invariably announced. - -There was no question now but that the room was certainly revolving. -Presently it steadied itself, and General Carden knew that he was -sitting by the fire, the two men opposite to him, and that the old -priest was talking. Gradually his mind adjusted itself to facts: he -heard and understood the words that were being spoken. When they -stopped there was a silence. There is so astonishingly little to be -said at such times, though the tittle-tattle of small events will -supply us with endless talk. - -"Thank you for coming to tell me," said General Carden gravely, and he -pushed a box of cigars towards the two men. Again silence. - -Presently Tommy began to talk, quietly, easily, now. He put forward -Muriel's suggestions, her advice, her plans. He explained minutely the -scheme she had proposed. - -General Carden listened intent. - -"It is like her kind-heartedness to suggest it," he said, as Tommy -paused, "and yours to follow it up. I have no notion where he is, -nor--nor have his publishers. I happened to ask them the other day." He -made the statement with an airy carelessness of manner. - -"Then," said Tommy with a firmness which Muriel would distinctly have -approved, "I start to-morrow." - -Thus definitely was the decision given. - -The two stayed a while longer, Tommy supplying most of the remarks -made--conversation it can not be termed. - -General Carden kept falling into abstracted silences, in which his eyes -sought the fire and his hand pulled gently at his white moustache. -Father O'Sullivan watched him from under his shaggy eyebrows. He was -not a priest for nothing. He knew well enough how to read the vast -unsaid between the little said, and the workings of the reserved old -mind were as clear as daylight to him. - -Presently they rose to depart. In the hall General Carden spoke. - -"If," he said, addressing himself to Father O'Sullivan, "you would -let me know the day and hour of young Ellerslie's funeral I should be -obliged. He was a friend of my son's." - -And in those words the old man blotted out, forgave, the wrong Hugh had -done, as Peter himself would have wished. - -An hour later Goring came in with a tray on which were a tumbler and a -jug of hot water. - -General Carden looked up. "Which wine did I drink to-night?" he -demanded. - -"The '54 port, sir," replied Goring respectfully. - -"Hmm!" General Carden beat a faint, delicate tattoo with his fingers on -the table. "I thought so. How much more is there?" - -"About eight bottles, sir. Seven or eight I should say." - -General Carden coughed. "You need not use any more of it at present, -not till"--he coughed again--"Mr. Peter comes home." - -The most perfectly trained of butlers might, perhaps, be excused a -slight start at such a statement, taking into consideration, of course, -previous circumstances. Goring unquestionably started. Then the mask -was on again, impassive, impenetrable. - -General Carden still kept up that light tattoo. He had a statement to -make. In all fairness to Peter it had to be made. It was, however, -peculiarly difficult to put into words. - -He cleared his throat. "There was," he said, gazing hard at his -fingers, "a mistake. Mr. Peter was shielding some one else." The -tattoo stopped. The words were out. - -And then the man broke through the butler. The mask of impassivity -vanished. - -"Lord, sir!" his voice was triumphant, "and mightn't we 'ave known it, -if only we 'adn't been such a couple of blithering old fools." - -General Carden stared. "Ahem! Goring--really, Goring, I--" He was for -a moment dumbfounded, helpless in his amazement. Then suddenly the -amazement gave way before a humorous smile, his old eyes twinkled, and -he brought his hand down on the table with a thump. "By God!" he cried; -"you're right." - -And Goring left the room choking with varied emotions, but pulling down -his waistcoat with dignified pleasure the while. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -FOUND - - -Here, now, are the present employment and emotions of five of our -characters--Tommy, with car and chauffeur, off to Devonshire, which -was to be the starting-point of his search for a man with a peacock -feather in his hat; General Carden watching hourly (though it was far -too soon to begin to watch) for a telegram which should acquaint him -of the success of the search; Anne alternating between waves of pride -and despair and delicious secret joy; and Muriel spending hours with -St. Joseph, imploring the dear Saint to hurry up with the job he had so -successfully begun. - -The intervals between these visits she spent mainly with Anne, -rejoicing with her in her happier moods, encouraging, chiding, -sympathizing when the waves of despair rolled high. Muriel alone knew -to the full the heart of this woman friend of hers, saw the proud -spirit a captive between the hands of Love, realized what the captivity -meant to her. - -As for our fifth character, Millicent Sheldon, a pretty truthful rumour -of Tommy's expedition having reached her, her feelings were at first -distinctly mixed, though it is certain that presently she found a -method of adjusting them to her own satisfaction. After all, it was -unquestionably the hand of Providence which had removed the somewhat -impecunious Peter from her life and given her in exchange the solid -Theobald Horatio, with his equally solid income acquired from the -patent of the little brushes which, being fixed behind carts, kept the -London streets in a cleanly condition. It is not to be supposed that -she dwelt upon these brushes; those articles had long ago been firmly -obliterated from her mind. It was in the solid income alone that she -saw the hand of Providence and realized that all had undoubtedly been -for the best. Had Peter's innocence been apparent from the outset, -there would have been no excuse for the letter she had penned him at -the time of his release from jail. Of a former letter, written on the -first hearing of his accusation and conviction, she did not care to -think. If she thought of it at all at this juncture it was to tell -herself the letter had been prompted by an impulse of pity, the folly -of which was shown her later by calm reason. That reason had been aided -by the advent of Theobald Horatio Sheldon on her horizon, she naturally -did not care to allow. It was, however, her inadvertent mention of this -first letter and the subsequent events to Anne which had caused her to -break a second time in Anne's eyes. - -But why dwell on her further? Let her remain satisfied, as she protests -she is, in the possession of her Theobald, her little Theobalda, and -her Theobald's solid income. Her influence on these pages has ceased; -our acquaintance with her may well cease also. - -Tommy's expedition was certainly not all joy. The month of January is -hardly one to be willingly chosen for a motor tour through England, and -the weather was distinctly unkind. - -To attempt to recount his adventures would be to fill a volume with -a description of bad roads, hailstorms, punctures, and repeated -disappointments. Nevertheless he eventually got on the track of that -peacock feather, and followed it up as surely as a bloodhound on the -scent of his prey, though more than once he had to return on his own -trail. - -How Tommy kept on the scent at all was a marvel. It was by sheer -perseverance, by following up every smallest clue, by letting no -possible chance go untried. He was indefatigable, undoubting, and his -chauffeur, hearing the story from Tommy's enthusiastic lips, warmed to -the work, and played his part with a zest equal only to Tommy's own. - -It was the third week of the search that they entered Congleton, which -was, as we know, to cry "Hot!" as the children cry it in the game of -hunt the thimble. But Tommy did not know it; and here, in spite of all -inquiries, the clue appeared lost, vanished. - -The wind was blowing, a deluge half of rain, half of sleet, descending. -It being then seven o'clock or thereabouts, they decided after some -parley to drive to a hotel, put up for the night, and renew the search -in the morning. Some slight disarrangement in the internal organs of -the car further decided them in the plan, though the chauffeur averred -that ten o'clock the following morning should see them again _en -route_. Slightly depressed, however, Tommy retired to bed. - -He was up betimes. In the night the weather had changed, and snow some -inches deep lay upon the ground. Before daylight he was downstairs and -in the street. There he met a sleepy milk-boy delivering milk. Tommy -entered into casual conversation with him, questioning carelessly, -unconcernedly, as his method was. And then suddenly the clue was once -more in his hand. - -Of course the boy had seen him--a man with a peacock feather in his -hat and a dog at his heels--a queer dog, a bit of a mongrel, so the -youngster announced. Now a dog of no kind had been in the category, but -the peacock feather was assuredly unmistakable. Where, then, had the -boy seen him? The previous evening, it appeared, walking towards the -Cloud. - -Tommy consulted his watch. It was now, so he discovered, about -a quarter after seven. The car by arrangement did not make its -appearance till ten. Tommy demurred within his soul, cogitated as to -possibilities. Then with the thought of further clues in his mind he -started off a-foot towards the mountain. Presently the town lay well -behind him, a wide road before him. - -The crisp frosty air was exhilarating, the chance of success spurred -him on. He passed a few houses. At the door of one a woman was emptying -a pail of dirty water. Tommy stopped a moment to inquire. Luck, good -fortune, was in his favour. A man such as he had described had passed -up the road the previous evening, so the woman confidently averred. -Hope beat high in Tommy's heart. Never before had he been so close on -the track. It had been always three or four days old at the least. - -Now the road became desolate of houses, a smooth expanse of unbroken -snow lying between stone walls. After a while the road turned a bit -to the left, and here there was a largish house--a farmhouse, he -judged--lying among trees. He passed it, the road still bearing to the -left. Tommy plodded on. The sun was coming up in the east, a glowing -ball of fire. - -And then suddenly he saw a hut lying back from the road across a bit of -moorland. In the doorway a tall man was standing, a peacock feather in -his hat, a white mongrel dog beside him. - -Tommy's heart gave a sudden exultant leap. He turned sharply towards -the hut. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -THE RETURN - - -"How on earth did you find me?" demanded Peter, as the two descended -the Cloud together, Democritus following in the rear. - -"By the guidance of Providence," announced Tommy. "It's been the -oddest search imaginable, and if it hadn't been for that blessed -peacock feather I'll dare swear it had been fruitless. It was a kind of -landmark, the one characteristic by which you had been noticed." - -Peter laughed. He was at the moment extraordinarily, exuberantly happy. -So can fate play shuttlecock with our lives. - -At the hut door Tommy had given him the barest outline of the story, -sufficient only to persuade Peter that he was indeed justified in -accompanying the famished Tommy down the mountain-side. Now he -elaborated those details, entered fully into the most miraculous -history of the last three weeks. And the story of Hugh's confession -filled Peter with a curious exultation. He saw, as Father O'Sullivan -had seen, the fine way, the grand way, in which the past had been -blotted out and his friend given back to him in spirit. - -Tommy strode down the mountain joyous of heart, his honest freckled -face fairly shining with pleasure. His whole further programme was -already arranged--the wires to be sent, the breakfast to be eaten, the -train to be caught that was to convey them swiftly back to town. The -car and chauffeur could follow at their leisure. - -Here, however, Peter demurred. It was all very well to tramp the road -in this ridiculous garb, but return to civilisation attired as a -mountebank--never! There were some things at which Peter drew the line, -and he drew one here, and firmly. Tommy was prepared for him; he met -and overruled each and every objection. Had Peter no other garments in -that bundle he was carrying? What! only a dress suit? Tommy opened eyes -of wonder. What on earth was the use of a dress suit to a wayfarer? -Oh, of course, it was Peter's own business if he _liked_ to carry one -around the country in a bundle on his back for the mere pleasure -of boasting to his soul that he possessed one. No, of course he -couldn't wear it up to town. Tommy didn't propose that he should. But -he--Tommy--had another suit at the hotel. Peter was much of his build; -he'd take him to his room to change. During the process he'd dispatch -telegrams. Then, Tommy presumed, he'd be allowed to have his breakfast, -after which the train. He was obdurate on that point. Yes, Peter could -have a bath if he liked--fifty baths, as long as he agreed to take the -train at noon. - -Thus planning, arranging, the hotel was reached. Tommy escorted Peter -to his room, indicated a change of raiment and the bathroom opposite, -then, bursting with excitement, proceeded to find the chauffeur and -dispatch telegrams. Within ten minutes--such was his celerity of -action--he was in the dining-room, had ordered a substantial breakfast, -and was waiting with what patience he might for the appearance of Peter. - -Peter, in the bathroom, was luxuriating in a sea of gloriously hot -water, while Democritus kept guard without. Occasionally a wet black -nose was lowered to the crack beneath the door to sniff and wonder -perplexedly at this new freak on the part of his master. - -"It is certain," remarked Peter, full length in the bath, and -addressing himself to the ceiling, "that if I'd once indulged in the -luxury of a good hot soapy bath in a private bathroom after leaving -the jail, wild horses would never have dragged me to the roads. I'd -forgotten--completely forgotten--the joy of it!" - -But at last, with a mental picture of the famished Tommy before -his mind, he reluctantly proceeded to dry himself and don decent -habiliments. - -Tommy greeted the entrance of Peter and Democritus with fervent -enthusiasm, and without more ado they proceeded to make good headway -with the substantial, steaming breakfast which forthwith made its -appearance. - -"Heavens!" cried Peter presently, pausing in the consuming of eggs and -bacon, toast, marmalade, and coffee, "was there ever such a breakfast -before? And have I once tendered you my thanks for coming in pursuit of -me? The whole miraculous business, the entire blessed kaboodle, seems -to have upset my mental equilibrium and clouded my manners." - -"Bless the man!" cried Tommy, "don't I understand?" - -Some couple of hours later the two, with Democritus, were in the train, -sitting in a first-class carriage, which Tommy had bribed the guard to -reserve to their sole use. Neither man desired the company of strangers -at the moment. Under all their chaff and light-heartedness there was a -sense of bigness, a feeling of something great accomplished. - -Peter gazed through the carriage window at the snow-covered landscape, -his mind a whirl of varied emotions. It is useless to attempt to say -which was uppermost. Kaleidoscopic they revolved in his brain, a jumble -of pleasure, relief, half-forgotten fatigue, expectation, though now -through them all ran a thought of regret, of sadness--the thought of -Anne. - -Is ever the perfection of joy allowed to us mortals? It would appear -not, mused Peter. Here was everything to his hand that his soul could -desire, save the one thing after which it really hankered; and with -that to his debit, the balance--in spite of its appearance--was -distinctly inadequate. - -Tommy, gazing at him furtively from behind the morning paper, marvelled -at the sudden melancholy of the man. Cogitating in his mind for the -reason, and having heard from Muriel of Peter's previous engagement, -he thought to have found it. If only, so meditated Tommy--no lover of -Millicent--he could realize the escape he had had. - -And so the train bore them onward, out of the snow-covered land, past -bare brown fields and skeleton trees, past smoky towns and small -villages lying in pale sunlight, on to the suburbs past whose platforms -the train roared and rushed, on and ever onward, till London itself was -reached. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - -DEMOCRITUS ARRIVES TO STAY - - -General Carden in his smoking-room was listening, waiting. Fifty times -already in the last half-hour he had looked over the curtain that -veiled the lower half of the window. Fifty times he had looked at the -clock on the mantelpiece and compared it with his watch. - -An orange envelope lay on the table beside him, and with it a strip of -pink paper. He knew the words thereon verbatim; certainly they were few -in number: - -"Found. Arrive Euston four o'clock to-day.--LANCING." - -On the receipt of this brief missive General Carden's heart had thumped -violently. He had found voice to pass the good news on to the devoted -Goring, but it was well on half an hour before voice and heart were -under his normal control. - -Muriel had descended on him radiant, triumphant, a-bubble with joy and -glee, showering her congratulations. - -"Come to Mrs. Cresswell's dance to-morrow night," she implored, "and -bring him with you. I want to shake hands with Don Quixote. I have -never before met him in the flesh." But behind this desire, and -stronger than it, was the knowledge that Anne would be there, and, -woman-like, she longed for an immediate meeting of the two. - -"We'll see," promised General Carden, smiling indulgently as at a -pleading child. In his heart he longed to parade London with his son -and let the whole world be witness to his return, to their reunion. - -Again he glanced at the clock. Any moment now! He tried to quell the -tumult of expectation within him. - -Dare one penetrate a little way into the mind of the reserved old man, -guess at the tide of memory he had at last allowed to flow back to his -heart? For years he had kept it relentlessly at its ebb, a long barren -shore between him and its waters. He had feared to be submerged in -its flood; he had feared that, should it approach him, it would come -swiftly, remorselessly, drowning him in its depths, choking the life -out of him with a deadly, icy cold. Now, and now only, he realized the -sweetness of its waters, realized that their approach would be not -to submerge but to lift him on buoyant waves--waves warm, exuberant, -joyous. Oh, it might come now, come in all its strength, come bearing -life in its flow! No longer a barren, desolate shore between him and -those waters. Throughout the day the wavelets had lapped ever softly, -gently nearer. Now calmly, joyously, they lifted him on their surface. - -There was the old house down in the country, with the pear-tree -whose branches reached the window of that octagon-room. It should be -restored, re-inhabited. There was the river that ran below its grounds, -wherein speckled trout and silver salmon abounded. Many were the fish -he had caught there, many the fish Peter had caught. What was to -prevent them from catching more? Already in thought the speckled trout -lay gasping on the bank, the silver salmon were giving play in the long -reaches of water between the meadows. There was the shooting, too--the -pheasants, the partridges, the snipe in the swampy ground beyond the -old mill, the wild duck where some seven miles distant the arm of the -sea ran up to meet the river. The old days again! Memory carried him on -her tide towards the future. - -And then into the midst of his thoughts came a sound that brought his -old heart fluttering to his throat--the sound of the front-door bell. - -He held on to the arms of his chair, his eyes upon the door. It opened. - -"Mr. Peter!" Goring's voice was on a note of exultation. - -And into the room came a tall, lean man, a mongrel dog at his heels. - -"Hullo, father!" - -"Well, my boy!" - -There was a grip of hands. Then the old man was sitting again by the -fire, Peter opposite to him. There was a little silence. Democritus, -sniffing at the black, hairy hearthrug, was completely engrossed with -his own occupation. In the silence the two men watched him. - -Presently he curled down with a thump. A quivering sigh of satisfaction -passed through his body. - -"It is evident," said Peter with a little laugh, "that Democritus has -come to stay." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII - -PER ASPERA AD ASTRA - - -"And so," quoth Peter, "when the two met again, he had a story to tell -her." - -"Oh!" queried Anne, toying with her fan, the flimsy thing of -mother-of-pearl and cobwebby old lace. "A long story?" - -"That," ventured Peter with temerity, "depended largely--I might say -altogether--on his listener." - -They were sitting, these two, in a wide window-seat at the end of a -passage. They had the full length of it before them. It was a post of -vantage. With what generalship Peter had marked it out, with what fine -diplomacy he had found Lady Anne and escorted her hither, is no doubt -better imagined than recorded. It suffices to chronicle that here they -were, in an alcove of soft draperies and shaded lights, listening--if -they chose--to the strains of music, watching--if they chose--the -brilliant kaleidoscopic effect of colour through the open door of the -great ballroom. - -"My story," continued Peter, "is of a Wanderer, one whom Fate in one of -her freakish moods had wedded to the roads, the highways and hedges, -the fields and woods." - -"Had he," queried Anne, "nothing to solace him in his wanderings--no -thoughts, no memories?" - -"None," said Peter steadily. "Once long ago Cupid had touched him with -his wing--the merest flick of a feather. The man--poor fool!--fancied -himself wounded, thought to bear a scar. Later, when he looked for it, -he found there was none. It had been the most entire illusion on his -part. And so he wandered the roads, regretting perhaps that he was -scathless. But that is beside the mark." He paused, glancing at the -hands which held the flimsy cobwebby fan. - -"One day," continued Peter, "into his lonely wanderings came a letter, -a mere scrap of bluish paper with tracings thereon of black ink. -A flimsy fragile thing you might say, but to him it meant--well, -everything. I fancy he had never realized his entire loneliness till -that delicate herald of joy appeared. And--here was the wonder of -it--it was written by a woman." - -"Oh!" said Lady Anne, the little pulses fluttering in her throat. - -"It was," went on Peter, "a gracious letter, a charming letter, written -by one who had guessed at his loneliness of spirit, and thought to -cheer that loneliness, to heal the wound she fancied him to bear. To -him it came as a draught of water to one in a waterless desert. It -brought him help, refreshment. He began to dream a dream of the writer, -to imagine her near him. He spent hours in the company of his Dream -Lady. He was no longer lonely, no longer desolate. In spirit--in fancy, -if you will--she was ever with him. Oh, he knew well enough that he -could never meet her in the flesh, that was part of the compact. But -disembodied though she was, she meant more to him than all the material -friendships in creation." Again he stopped, his heart was beating fast. - -"And then?" questioned Lady Anne. - -He drew a deep breath. "And then Fate played a trick--a curious, almost -incredible trick, Fate threw the woman in his path. Their meeting was -strange, picturesque--I might almost call it unique. At the moment -reason did not tell him the woman was the writer of the letters, but -his soul, I believe, guessed. And presently he knew without a doubt his -soul was right." - -"Ah!" breathed Lady Anne. "He knew the writer of the letters to him, -but she did not know who answered them." - -"She did not," echoed Peter. - -There was a little pause. - -"Then," she asked, her eyes still upon her fan, "I suppose he told her -what he knew?" - -"No," said Peter in a low voice, "he did not. There is no excuse for -him. I myself make none. But--he feared to lose her letters. There's -the whole matter in a nutshell. He did not tell her, and he continued -to write." - -"Oh!" said Lady Anne. Again there was a pause. - -"Of course," continued Peter, "it was inexcusable of him. But Fate had -his punishment in store." - -"Yes?" she queried. - -"Fate disclosed his trickery to the woman. He read his punishment in -the contempt in her eyes. He deserved it, every bit of it. But it hurt -none the less." - -"And--and then what happened?" she asked, trembling. - -"He went away," said Peter. "First he made a sacrifice--a small funeral -pyre on which he burnt her letters, and I fancy his heart." - -"Did he do nothing else?" she demanded. - -"Oh, yes," confessed Peter. "He wrote to her. It was the least he could -do. He prayed her forgiveness." - -"And--?" she queried. - -Again Peter drew a deep breath. "After that there were months of a -greater loneliness. I fancy he tried to be brave, to be worthy of her -memory. She was, you see, his star." - -"Did--did he not condemn her for her harshness?" asked Lady Anne. - -"Never," cried Peter hotly. "She was to him his goddess, his divinity." -He stopped. - -"Is that all?" she asked. - -"No," said Peter. "Fate had another surprise in store. She brought him -from his loneliness, set him again in the midst of his fellow-men. But -that was not all--it was the least. He found"--Peter's heart beat to -suffocation--"a letter--one that should have reached him long ago but -for his own folly. From it he dared to believe, to hope, that his Lady -had condoned his offence, had forgiven." - -Lady Anne did not reply. Peter looked at her. - -"Had she forgiven?" he pleaded. - -For a second--the merest fraction of a second--she raised her eyes to -his. - -"I--I think so," she said. And a tiny adorable smile curved her mouth. -"Is that all the story?" she questioned in a low voice after a little -silence. - -"Oh no," said Peter. - -"No?" she asked, surprised. "I fancied it was the end." - -"It is," said Peter boldly, "only the beginning." - -"Oh!" she asked with delicately raised eyebrows; "and--and is the rest -of the story long?" - -"It is," said Peter, "as long as a lifetime, and longer. It stretches -away into Eternity. It is a story of his love for his Lady, his Queen. -She is immeasurably more to him than all in earth and heaven. With -every fibre of his being, with his body, his soul, his spirit, he -loves, worships, and adores. It is a story that will take a lifetime -in the telling. Dare he tell it? Is she, think you, willing to listen?" - -Lady Anne again raised her eyes to his. - -"You're sure," she queried, "that he wants her to listen?" - -"Absolutely sure," said Peter, his blue eyes holding hers. - -"Then," breathed Lady Anne softly, "tell her." - -THE END - - - - - _A Selection from the - Catalogue of_ - - G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS - - Complete Catalogue sent - on application - - - - - =A New Book by E. M. Dell= - - Author of - - "The Way of an Eagle" - "The Knave of Diamonds" - - - The Rocks of Valpré - - _With Frontispiece in Color. $1.35 net_ - - _By mail, $1.50_ - -In this new novel the author justifies the opinion already held by the -countless readers of her other books. Here is all the power, the vivid -description, the intensely dramatic episode, and the action that made -"The Way of an Eagle" a great story. - - - G. P. Putnam's Sons - New York London - - - - - Horace Blake - - By - Mrs. Wilfrid Ward - - Author of "Great Possessions" - - _$1.35 net. By mail, $1.50_ - -"Mrs. Ward has done much excellent work in the past, but she has done -nothing to come within measurable distance of this remarkably fine -book--a book quite off the ordinary lines, interesting from the first -page to the last, founded upon a psychological study of exceptionable -power. It is a very common thing in fiction to find ourselves presented -to a 'great character,' but as a rule we are obliged to accept the -creator's word for his greatness. Mrs. Ward has contrived to make -Horace Blake really and indeed great--great in intellect, great in -evil, and great, finally, in good. He holds the reader captive just as -he is described as holding his world captive." - - _The World_, London. - - G. P. Putnam's Sons - New York London - - - - - The - Marriage of Cecilia - - - By - Maude Leeson - - - _With Frontispiece in Color. $1.35 net_ - _By mail, $1.50_ - -A story based on a marriage which is entered into as a mere form, the -parties to which separate immediately after the ceremony in the firm -belief that their paths will never again cross. Eventually they not -only do cross, but run together. The book is full of romantic charm, -and is written with a sureness of touch equalled only by the author's -vigor and freshness and fine sense of the dramatic. - - G. P. Putnam's Sons - New York London - - - - - =By the Author of "The Rosary"= - - The Broken - Halo - - By Florence L. Barclay - - Frontispiece in Color. _$1.35 net_ - _By mail, $1.50_ - -A love story full of those fine qualities of the soul, that sustained -idealism, and transforming beauty of thought which make Mrs. Barclay's -characters the most lovable in present-day fiction and that have -endeared her to hundreds of thousands of readers. - - =_Over One Million Copies of - Mrs. Barclay's Novels Sold_= - - G. P. Putnam's Sons - New York London - - - - -TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: - -Minor changes have been made to correct printer's errors and to -regularize hyphenation. - -Words and phrases that were italicized in the original book have been -noted with an underscore (_) at beginning and end. - -Words and phrases that were underlined in the original book have been -noted with an equal (=) at beginning and end. - -In Chapter XVI, Letters, no opening or closing quotes were used to -denote the beginning and ending of letters. The transcriber has chosen -not to regularize the punctuation in this case. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Peacock Feather, by Leslie Moore - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PEACOCK FEATHER *** - -***** This file should be named 62964-8.txt or 62964-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/9/6/62964/ - -Produced by D A Alexander and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you - are located before using this ebook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - diff --git a/old/62964-8.zip b/old/62964-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 63cf39f..0000000 --- a/old/62964-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/62964-h.zip b/old/62964-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f4da610..0000000 --- a/old/62964-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/62964-h/62964-h.htm b/old/62964-h/62964-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index c34cade..0000000 --- a/old/62964-h/62964-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10006 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> - <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Peacock Feather by Leslie Moore. - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em;} - -.ph1 {text-align: center; - margin-top: .51em; - margin-bottom: .49em; - font-size: xx-large; - font-weight: bold; - text-indent: 0;} - -.ph2 {text-align: center; - margin-top: .51em; - margin-bottom: .49em; - font-size: x-large; - font-weight: bold; - text-indent: 0;} - -.ph3 {text-align: center; - margin-top: .51em; - margin-bottom: .49em; - font-size: large; - font-weight: bold; - text-indent: 0;} - -.ph4 {text-align: center; - margin-top: .51em; - margin-bottom: .49em; - font-size: medium; - text-indent: 0; - font-weight: bold;} - -.indent {text-indent: 1.5em;} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb {width: 45%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%} -hr.smtb {width: 5%;} - -table {margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto;} - - .tdl {text-align: left; padding-left: 1em;} - .tdc {text-align: center;} - .tdbr {vertical-align: bottom; text-align:right} - .tdr {text-align: right; padding-right: 1em;} - -.reduce {font-size: smaller;} - -.enlarge {font-size: x-large;} - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 93%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; -} /* page numbers */ - -.pagenum2 { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 91.5%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - padding-right: 2em; -} /* page numbers */ - -blockquote {margin-left: 15%; - margin-right: 15%; - text-indent: 0;} - -.gap {padding-top: 6em;} - -.smgap {padding-top: 2em;} - -.bbox {border: solid 1px; - margin-right: 25%; - margin-left: 25%;} - -.center {text-align: center; - font-weight: bold;} - -.center2 {text-align: center;} - -.center3 {text-align: justify; - padding-right: 3em; - padding-left: 3em;} - -.right {text-align: right; - margin-right: 10em;} - -.right2 {text-align: right; - margin-right: 12em;} - -tab {display: inline-block; - margin-left: 2em; - margin-right: 2em} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.u {text-decoration: underline;} - -.transnote {border: thin solid; - margin-left: 25%; - margin-right: 25%; - padding-left: 3em; - padding-right: 3em;} - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - - -/* Poetry */ -.poem { margin-left:10%; - margin-right:10%; - text-align: left;} - -.poem br {display: inline;} - -.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} - -.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} - - -@media handheld /* Place this at the end of the CSS */ -{ - body - { - margin: 0; - padding: 0; - width: 95%; - } - - table {margin-left: 1%; - margin-right: 1%; - width: 96%; - max-width: 100%; - page-break-after: avoid;} - - .hide {display: none;} - - .block-contents - {display: block; - margin-left: 1.5em; - } - - .chapter - {page-break-before: avoid; - page-break-after: avoid;} - - h3.no-break - { - page-break-before: avoid; - page-break-after: avoid; - padding-top: 0; - } - -.blockquot2 {margin-left: 5%; - margin-right: 5%;} - -.pagenum2 { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - display: none; - position: absolute; - left: 91.5%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - padding-right: 2em; -} /* page numbers */ - - - .screenonly { display: none; } - .handonly { display: block; } -} - -</style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Peacock Feather, by Leslie Moore - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Peacock Feather - A Romance - -Author: Leslie Moore - -Release Date: August 18, 2020 [EBook #62964] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PEACOCK FEATHER *** - - - - -Produced by D A Alexander and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter hide" style="width:420px;"> -<img src="images/i_cover.jpg" width="420" height="695" alt="Cover" title="" /> -</div> - -<h1>THE<br /> -PEACOCK FEATHER</h1> - -<p class="ph2 center">A ROMANCE</p> - -<p class="center2">BY</p> - -<p class="ph2 center">LESLIE MOORE</p> - -<p class="center2">AUTHOR OF “AUNT OLIVE IN BOHEMIA” AND “THE NOTCH IN<br /> -THE STICK”</p> - -<p class="gap"> </p> - -<p class="center2"><span class="ph3">G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS</span><br /> -NEW YORK AND LONDON<br /> -<span class="ph4">The Knickerbocker Press</span><br /> -1914 -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p class="center2"> -<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1914</span><br /> -BY<br /> -ALSTON RIVERS, <span class="smcap">Ltd.</span></p> - -<hr class="smtb" /> - -<p class="center2 no-indent">Second Printing</p> - -<p class="gap"> </p> - -<p class="center2">The Knickerbocker Press, New York</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<blockquote><p class="center2">To<br /> -<br /> -MRS. G. HERBERT THRING</p> - -<p class="reduce center2">WITH THE AUTHOR’S LOVE<br /> -AND GRATITUDE</p> - -<p><i>September 30, 1913</i></p></blockquote> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> -<p class="ph2">CONTENTS</p> - -<div class="centered"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="3" summary="CONTENTS"> - -<tr><td class="tdc"> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc reduce">PAGE</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdbr"> </td> -<td class="tdl">PROLOGUE</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdc reduce">CHAPTER</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc"> </td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">I.</td> -<td class="tdl">THE PIPER</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">8</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">II.</td> -<td class="tdl">THE FIRST-BORN </td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">21</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">III.</td> -<td class="tdl">THE DESERTED COTTAGE</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">26</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td> -<td class="tdl">PETER TAKES A RESIDENCE</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">35</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">V.</td> -<td class="tdl">THE SOUL OF A WOMAN</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">44</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td> -<td class="tdl">AN OLD GENERAL</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">52</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VII.</td> -<td class="tdl">A WONDERFUL OFFER</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">69</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VIII.</td> -<td class="tdl">CHÂTEAUX EN ESPAGNE</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">79</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IX.</td> -<td class="tdl">A REQUEST</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">88</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">X.</td> -<td class="tdl">THE LADY ANNE</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">94</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XI.</td> -<td class="tdl">A CONCERT—AND AFTER</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">103</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XII.</td> -<td class="tdl">A DISCLOSURE</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">114</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XIII.</td> -<td class="tdl">A MOONLIGHT PIPING</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">127</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XIV.</td> -<td class="tdl">LE BEAU MONDE</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">131</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XV.</td> -<td class="tdl">CONFIDENCES</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">143</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XVI.</td> -<td class="tdl">LETTERS</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">154</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XVII.</td> -<td class="tdl">A THUNDERSTORM</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">171</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XVIII.</td> -<td class="tdl">THE EVERLASTING WHY</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">183</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XIX.</td> -<td class="tdl">PIPER AND AUTHOR</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">193</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XX.</td> -<td class="tdl">FAREWELL</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">205</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXI.</td> -<td class="tdl">A WOUNDED SKYLARK</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">208</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXII.</td> -<td class="tdl">CANDLES AND MASSES</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">216</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXIII.</td> -<td class="tdl">DUM SPIRO, SPERO</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">229</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXIV.</td> -<td class="tdl">DEMOCRITUS</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">235</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXV.</td> -<td class="tdl">AT A FAIR</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">245</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXVI.</td> -<td class="tdl">ON THE CLOUD</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">262</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXVII.</td> -<td class="tdl">A MIRACLE</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">271</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXVIII.</td> -<td class="tdl">THE FINE WAY</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">278</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXIX.</td> -<td class="tdl">FOUND</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">289</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXX.</td> -<td class="tdl">THE RETURN</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">296</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXI.</td> -<td class="tdl">DEMOCRITUS ARRIVES TO STAY</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">302</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXII.</td> -<td class="tdl">PER ASPERA AD ASTRA</td> -<td class="tdbr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">306</a></td></tr> -</table></div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> - -<p class="ph1">The Peacock Feather</p> - -<h3 class="enlarge no-break" id="PROLOGUE">PROLOGUE</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was sunset.</p> - -<p class="indent">The sea, which all day long had lain blue -and sparkling, was changing slowly to a warm -grey shot with moving purple and gold. The -sky flamed with crimson and amber. But gradually -the vivid warmth sank and faded; day -slowly withdrew into the soft embrace of night, -and a blue-grey mantle covered sea and sky and -land. One by one the stars shone forth till overhead -the mantle was thickly powdered with their -twinkling eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">Away across the water the gleam from the -lantern of a lightship appeared at intervals, while -every now and then a stronger flash from a distant -lighthouse lit up the darkness. It flung its rays -broadcast, across the water, across the land, bringing -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span>momentarily into startling prominence a great -mass of building standing on the top of the cliffs.</p> - -<p class="indent">In the building a man was clinging with both -hands to a couple of iron bars that guarded the -narrow opening of his cell window. He could see -across the water and up to the star-embroidered -mantle of the sky.</p> - -<p class="indent">Night after night for three years he had looked -at that moving water. He had seen it lying calm -and peaceful as it lay to-night; he had seen it -rearing angry foam-crested waves from inky -blackness. He had heard its soft, sighing music; -he had heard its sullen roar.</p> - -<p class="indent">Three years! More than a thousand nights he -had looked from that narrow slit of a window, -his hands fast clutching the bars, his feet finding -slight and precarious foothold in the uneven surface -of the wall!</p> - -<p class="indent">And to-night he looked for the last time. To-morrow -he would be free, free as the sea-gulls which -circled and dipped in the water along the rocky -coast or rose screaming and battling against the -tearing wind.</p> - -<p class="indent">He slipped down from the window and crossed -to his pallet bed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Free! Until to-night he had never dared even -to whisper that word to his inmost soul. Throughout -the long three years he had refused to let himself -think for more than the day, the moment. -He had held his mind in close confinement, a -confinement even more stringent than that to -which his body was subjected.</p> - -<p class="indent">Now in that little cell he opened the windows -of his soul and let his mind go forth. Radiant, -exuberant, it escaped from its cage. It came forth -singing a Te Deum. Only a few more hours and -dawn would break. His body would know the -liberty he had already given to his mind. He was -too happy to sleep. He lay wakeful and very -still on his bed, the silence only occasionally broken -by the footfall of a warder in the passage outside.</p> - -<p class="indent">The night wore on. Gradually the stars -dropped back one by one into the sky, and away -in the east a streak of saffron light appeared. It -was day at last.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="indent">Six hours later a man was walking along a country -road. His step was light and his face held up -to meet the fresh March wind that was blowing -across the fields and hedges.</p> - -<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum2" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Daffodils nodded their golden heads at him from -the banks as he passed, and tiny green buds on -the brown branches were pushing forward to the -light. The whole world was vital, radiant, teeming -with growth.</p> - -<p class="indent">The man held one hand in the pocket of his -grey flannel coat, his fingers pressing on two envelopes -which lay there. They had been handed to -him just before he left the great grey prison. He -had not yet opened them. For one thing, he -wanted to put a certain distance between his -present self and the past three years before he -broke the seals. For another thing, he was denying -himself, prolonging the pleasure of anticipation.</p> - -<p class="indent">Now he saw a stile before him, set in the hedge -a little way back from the road, and with a patch -of grass before it. In the grass gleamed a few -pink-tipped daisies.</p> - -<p class="indent">The man went across the grass and sat down -on the stile. He pulled the two letters from his -pocket and looked at them. One was addressed -in a masculine handwriting, small, square, and -very firm. The other writing was delicate but -larger. It was evidently that of a woman.</p> - -<p class="indent">He opened the firmly addressed envelope first, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>and pulled out its contents. A strip of pink -paper fluttered to the ground, falling among -the daisies. He picked it up without looking at -it while he read the contents of the letter.</p> - -<blockquote><p>“I have no desire that you should starve, -and therefore send you the enclosed. Kindly -understand, however, that I do not wish to see you -for the present. When you have partially blotted -out the past by obtaining decent work and proving -your repentance, I will reconsider this decision.</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Richard Carden.</span>”<br /> -</p></blockquote> - -<p class="indent">The cheque was for two hundred pounds.</p> - -<p class="indent">The man laughed, but the sound of his laugh -was not very pleasant.</p> - -<p class="indent">He broke the seal of the second letter.</p> - -<blockquote><p>“I did not write before,” the letter ran, “because -I did not want you to brood over what I have -to say, though you must have known that my -saying it was inevitable. Of course you have -known from the first that you have by your own -conduct put an end to our engagement. I did -not write at once and tell you so myself, for fear -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>of adding to your pain. But you must have understood. -You will not attempt to see me, or write -to me. It would be quite useless. I am going to -be married in three weeks’ time. I am very sorry -for you and I would have helped you if I could, but -you must see for yourself it is impossible. There is -nothing now to say but good-bye.</p> - -<p class="right">“M.”</p></blockquote> - -<p class="indent">When the man had finished reading he sat very -still, so still that a robin hopped down near him -and began investigating the toe of his boot. Finding -nothing in a piece of black leather of interest, -it flew up to the hedge, and regarded the motionless -figure with round beady eyes. At last the figure -moved. The robin flew a couple of yards farther -away, then perched again to watch.</p> - -<p class="indent">It saw the man tearing white and pink paper -into very small pieces. Then it saw him bend -down and dig a hole in the earth with a clasp-knife. -It saw him place the pieces of torn paper -in the hole and replace the earth, which he pressed -firmly down. Then it heard the man speak.</p> - -<p class="indent">“At least I will give the past decent burial.”</p> - -<p class="indent">The robin did not understand the words. What -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>has a gay little redbreast to do with either the past -or the future? The moment is quite enough.</p> - -<p class="indent">Then the man stood up, and the robin saw his -face. It had grown much older in the last twenty -minutes.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And now,” said the man jauntily, though his -eyes belied the carelessness of the words, “for the -open road.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Perhaps the robin understood that speech. At -any rate it sang a sweet sturdy song of Amen.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">THE PIPER</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Peter</span> was sitting under a hedge, playing on a -penny whistle. Behind him was a bush, snowy -with the white flowers of the hawthorn. In front -of him was a field, warm with the gold of buttercups. -Away in a distant valley were the roofs -of cottages and a farmhouse. The smoke from -one of its chimneys rose thin and blue in the -still air. It was all very peaceful, ideally -English.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter was an artist. It seemed almost incredible -that a tin instrument which could be -purchased for a penny could be made to produce -such sounds.</p> - -<p class="indent">He was playing a joyous lilt. You could hear -the song of birds and feel the soft west wind blowing -from distant places; and through it was a -measured beat as of feet walking along the open -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span>road. Yet under all the gaiety and light-heartedness -lay a strange minor note, a note that somehow -found reflection in Peter’s blue eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter finished his tune and put the whistle-pipe -in his pocket. From a wallet beside him he -pulled out a hunch of bread and cheese and a very -red and shiny apple. He opened a large clasp-knife, -cut the hunch of bread in two, and fell -to eating slowly. His hands were long-fingered, -flexible, and very brown. There was a lean, -muscular look about Peter altogether. His clothes -were distinctly shabby. They consisted of a pair -of grey trousers, very frayed at the edges, and with -a patch of some darker material on one knee; a soft -white shirt, spotlessly clean; and a loose jacket, -grey flannel like the trousers. A felt hat lay on the -ground near him. In it was fantastically stuck a -peacock feather. Beside the hat was a small -bundle rolled up in a bit of sacking.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter finished the bread and cheese and the -apple, and put the clasp-knife back into his -pocket. From another pocket he pulled out a -small book, the cover rather limp and worn. He -tucked the bundle behind his back and opened the -book. Its contents did not long engross him. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>The warm May sun and the fact that he had -tramped a considerable number of miles since sunrise -had a soporific effect on Peter. His fingers -gradually relaxed their hold, the book fell to the -ground, and Peter slept.</p> - -<p class="indent">His slumber was so deep that he did not hear -the footfall of a man on the soft grass, nor did he -stir when the man came near and stood looking -down upon him. He was a man of medium height -and build, with brown hair, small moustache, -and rather light eyes. There was about him an -air of finish, yet he quite escaped the epithet of -dapper.</p> - -<p class="indent">For a moment or so he stood looking down upon -the recumbent figure. He took in every detail, -from the frayed trousers and the spotless shirt to -the fantastic feather in the hat. He saw that -the sleeper’s face was clean-shaven, bronzed, and -with rather high cheek-bones. The hair was -dark. There was in the sleeping face a look of -quiet weariness. To the man watching him it -was the face of one who was lonely.</p> - -<p class="indent">Then his eye fell upon the book. He stooped -down and gently picked it up. The book was -open at the following lines:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span></p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He may answere, and say this or that;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.</span> - -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And he is strike out of my bokes clene<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For ever-mo; ther is non other mene.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.”</span> -</div></div> - -<p class="indent">Ten minutes later Peter stirred and yawned. -He sat up and began to stretch himself. But -in the very act thereof he stopped, and a gleam -of humorous amazement shot into his blue eyes, -for on the grass beside him a man was sitting, -calmly reading from his own rather shabby -book.</p> - -<p class="indent">The man looked up.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Don’t let me interrupt you,” said Peter, with -a brilliant smile.</p> - -<p class="indent">The man laughed. “I ought to apologize,” he -said. “The fact is, when I first saw you lying -there asleep I took you for a tramp. Then I -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>came nearer and saw my mistake. I also saw the -book. The temptation to talk to a man who -obviously loved the open air and read Chaucer -was too much for me. I sat down to wait till you -should awake.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Very good of you,” replied Peter. “But you -didn’t make a mistake, I am a tramp.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“So am I,” responded the other, “on a walking -tour.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter sat up very deliberately now. He broke -off a piece of grass, which he began to nibble. -Through the nibbling he spoke:</p> - -<p class="indent">“But I presume that your walking tour is of -fairly brief duration; mine has lasted rather -more than two years.”</p> - -<p class="indent">The other man looked at him curiously. “You -love the open as much as that?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, I love the open well enough,” replied -Peter airily; “but that’s not the whole reason. -I can’t afford a roof.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Now, the very obvious reply to this would have -been that Peter, a young man and, moreover, -clearly one of education, might very well work for a -roof. But it being so extremely obvious that this -was what Peter might do, it was also obvious that -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>there was some excellent reason why he did not -do it.</p> - -<p class="indent">The man was silent. Peter appreciated his -silence.</p> - -<p class="indent">“The fact is,” said Peter deliberately, “that -prior to my starting this ‘walking tour,’ as you -so kindly term it, I had spent three years in prison -for forgery and embezzling a considerable sum of -money.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ah!” said the man quietly, watching him.</p> - -<p class="indent">“There are always the colonies,” went on -Peter carelessly. “But somehow I’ve a predilection -for England. Of course, in England there -is the disadvantage that you’re bound to produce -references if you want work—I mean the kind -of work that would appeal to me. I dare say I -might get taken on as a day labourer on a farm, -but even there my speech is against me; it makes -people suspicious.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“But how do you manage?” asked the other -curiously.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter laughed. He pulled his whistle-pipe -from his pocket.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I pipe for my bread,” he said. “They call -me Peter the Piper.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">The other man nodded. “Good,” he said; -“I like that. There’s a flavour of romance about -it that appeals to me. My name’s Neil Macdonald.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter looked at him. “Then you don’t mind -introducing yourself to a jail-bird?” he asked -jauntily; but there was an underhint of wistfulness -in the words.</p> - -<p class="indent">“My dear fellow,” responded Neil, “I have -some intuition. It’s so absolutely apparent that -you must have been shielding some one else, -that——”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter interrupted him. The pupils of his -blue eyes had contracted till they looked like -two pinpricks.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I beg your pardon,” he said slowly; “I said -that <i>I</i> spent three years in prison for forgery -and embezzlement.” He looked Neil full in the -face.</p> - -<p class="indent">Neil held out his hand. “I apologize,” he said; -“it was extremely clumsy of me.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter took his hand with a light laugh. “It -was rather decent of you, all the same,” he said, -“though, of course, utterly absurd. You’re the -first man, though, that’s committed the absurdity. -You happen, too, to be the first man with whom -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>I’ve shaken hands since I freed myself from the -clasp of a Salvation Army brother who met me -outside the prison gates and talked about my soul. -I hadn’t the smallest interest in my soul at the -moment. I wanted a cigarette and a drink more -than anything in heaven or earth. He was a -good-meaning fellow, of course, but—well, just -a little wanting in tact. Of course, there were -others ready to hold out the hand of pity if I’d -asked for it. But there’d have been something -slippery about the touch. The oil of charity -doesn’t appeal to me.”</p> - -<p class="indent">There was a pause. Somewhere in the blueness -a lark was singing, an exuberant feathered -morsel, pouring forth his very soul in song.</p> - -<p class="indent">Neil broke the silence. “Pipe to me,” he -said.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter laughed. He pulled the whistle from his -pocket, and his fingers held it very lovingly. He -put it to his lips.</p> - -<p class="indent">First there came a couple of clear notes, like -a bird-call; they repeated themselves in the distance -and were answered. Then the air became -alive with the joyous warbling of feathered choristers, -and through the warbling came the sound -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>of little rills chasing each other over brown stones, -where fish darted in the sunlight and dragonflies -skimmed. Next, across a meadow—one knew -it was a meadow—came the sound of little feet -and children’s laughter. And the sound of the -laughter and the babbling of the water and the -song of the birds were all mingled in one delicious -bubbling melody drawn from the very heart of -Nature. It came to a pause. You felt the children, -the birds, and the brooks hold their breath to -listen. And then from the branches of some tree -a hidden nightingale sang alone.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter stopped, wiped the pipe on his sleeve, and -put it back in his pocket.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Marvellous!” breathed Neil softly.</p> - -<p class="indent">Again there was a pause, and again it was broken -by Neil.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I say, will you come back and have lunch -with me?” There was a frank spontaneity about -the question.</p> - -<p class="indent">Again the wistful look crept into Peter’s blue -eyes. The suggestion coming suddenly was evidently -somewhat of a temptation.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I believe I’d like to,” he said lightly, “but——”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well?” asked Neil.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Peter shook his head. “I think not,” he said. -“There are quite nine hundred and ninety-nine -reasons against it, and only one for it.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“And isn’t the one reason good enough to -counteract the others?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter laughed. “I fancy not. The high-road -has claimed me, the hedge-side is my dining-place, -the sky my roof. When it is too unkind -to me, I seek shelter in a barn. I’ve struck up -a kind of silent intimacy with cows, sheep, and -horses. I’ve found them, indeed, quite pleased to -welcome me.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“It must be horribly lonely,” said Neil impulsively.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter looked away across the valley. “I -wonder,” he said. “Perhaps it only appears so. -Formerly I walked the earth in company, and -when I got near enough to a fellow-creature to -believe that I had the right to call him comrade, -I suddenly realized that I was looking into the -face of a complete stranger. Somehow the -loneliness struck deeper home at those moments. -Now—well, one just expects nothing.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Neil glanced down at the book he was still -holding in his hand.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Peter smiled.</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And he is strike out of my bokes clene<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For ever-mo ...<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sin I am free I counte him not a bene,”</span></div></div> - -<p>he quoted. “There’s a freedom about that, -a kind of clean-washedness which is very wholesome; -the fresh rain upon one’s face in high places -after a room full of hot-house flowers.” He -stopped. “Heaven knows why I am talking to -you like this,” he said whimsically.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I don’t fancy,” said Neil calmly, “that you’ve -ever been really in love.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“No?” smiled Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Of course, you think you have,” went on -Neil.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Indeed?” smiled Peter again.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, I’m not going to argue with you,” said the -other good-humouredly, “only when the time -comes that you do love, just do me the favour to -remember what I’ve said.”</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“‘He is strike out of my bokes clene,’”</span></div></div> - -<p>quoted Peter again, looking at Neil lazily.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“There is,” said Neil, “such a thing as invisible -ink. There are certain words written with it on -the pages of our lives. The pages look uncommonly -blank, but should they chance to catch -certain heat-rays, the words written upon them -will stand out very black and clear.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Humph!” said Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Wait and see,” said Neil.</p> - -<p class="indent">“All right,” said Peter. And then he got to -his feet. He picked up his wallet, bundle, and the -hat with the peacock feather. He put it jauntily -on his head.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I must be moving on,” he said.</p> - -<p class="indent">Neil, too, had risen. He held out the limp book. -Peter took it and put it in his pocket.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Chaucer or you,” he said, “which am I to -believe?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Believe which you like,” retorted Neil. “Time -will bring the proof. I’m glad I met you.” He -held out his hand.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter took it. “Common politeness,” he said, -“should make me echo that sentiment. Truth -obliges me to hesitate. Yet frankly I like you. -Perhaps you have sufficient acumen to guess at -the reason for my hesitation. Well, good-bye.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Peter vaulted over a stile that led into the -high-road. He turned and waved his hat in the -direction of the man looking after him, then started -off at a swinging pace. Ten minutes took him -into the valley, then he began to ascend. Part -way up the hill he turned and looked at the now -distant field.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, damn!” he said half ruefully. “Why the -devil did I meet him!”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">THE FIRST-BORN</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was about five o’clock in the afternoon that -Peter entered a small market-town.</p> - -<p class="indent">There were a good many people in the streets, -for it was market-day, and there was an air of -leisurely business about the place; completed -business chiefly, for already stalls were being -dismantled, and unsold butter, eggs, and chickens -were being repacked in big baskets. Small groups -of men stood about together discussing the weather -and the prospect of the various crops. Carts -drove slowly down the steep High Street, returning -to outlying farms.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter walked up the hill. One or two people -turned to look at him. Something about him—probably -the peacock feather in his hat—attracted -attention.</p> - -<p class="indent">Half-way up the street stood a big red-brick -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>post-office. It was an imposing edifice, and -seemed to dominate the other buildings with an -air of Government importance.</p> - -<p class="indent">As Peter approached it he felt his heart beating -quickly. On the steps he paused for a moment. -A girl with a small Yorkshire terrier tucked under -her arm was just coming out. She saw Peter on -the steps, and kept her hand on the swinging door -in order that he might enter. There was nothing -for it but to go forward quickly and catch the door -from her with a murmured word of thanks. Peter -was inside the post-office. He approached the -counter.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Are there any letters for the name of Carden?” -he asked. And he could hear his heart going -klip-klop.</p> - -<p class="indent">The young woman behind the counter glanced -at him. Her look was rather disdainful, and -she turned in a nonchalant fashion to the pigeon-holes -behind her. She did not think it likely -there would be letters. The young man was—A, -B, C. She took a parcel and several letters -from the pigeon-hole marked C and ran carelessly -through them.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter saw her stop. She put back several -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>documents and came towards him. There was -a letter and a parcel in her hand.</p> - -<p class="indent">The girl looked at him. She was a little puzzled. -Perhaps her first instinct had been at fault. In -spite of the shabby coat and hat and the extremely -fantastic feather, he did not look altogether -a tramp. She handed the things across -the counter.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Thanks,” said Peter. He tried hard to -keep a note of excited pleasure out of his voice.</p> - -<p class="indent">He put the letter into his pocket, but kept the -parcel in his hand. He came out of the post-office -and turned up the hill, walking rather quickly. -He passed shops and some old-fashioned houses in -a row. At the top of the street was a big house -wall-enclosed. He left it on his right, and passed -more houses of the villa order, evidently recently -built. Presently they gave place to cottages. -Peter quickened his pace, and all the time he was -fingering that brown-paper parcel. At last the -cottages, too, were left behind, and there was -nothing but hedges and fields before him.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter turned into one of the fields and sat down -on the grass. He took out his clasp-knife and -cut the string that held the parcel, pulling forth -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>the contents. A book, green-covered, with the -title in gold lettering, was in his hand.</p> - -<p class="indent">“<i>Under the Span of the Rainbow</i>, by Robin -Adair,” so the lettering ran. The last was, of -course, a pseudonym.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter looked at it; then slowly, shyly, he opened -the cover.</p> - -<p class="indent">With almost just such reverence might a mother -look on her new-born babe, marvelling at her own -creation, and quite regardless of the fact that the -same great miracle has been performed times out -of number in the world, and will be performed -again as frequently.</p> - -<p class="indent">This was Peter’s child, his first-born. Through -months of slow travail it had been created and -brought forth. Under hedges in the open air, in -barns by the light of a single candle, he had worked -while dumb beasts had looked at him with mild, -wondering eyes. In sunshine and in cloud it had -been with him; soft winds had rustled its pages, -cold blasts had crept under doors and chilled his -fingers while he wrote. And now at last, fair and -in dainty garb, it came forth to the world, breathing -the clean freshness of open spaces, of sun and -wind and rain; tender with the magic of nights, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>buoyant with the vitality of sunrise. And yet -through it all, as through his piping, lay the strange -minor note, the underhint of longing.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter looked up. His blue eyes were dancing -with happiness.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ouf!” he said with a sigh of supreme content, -stretching his long lean limbs; “it’s good to have -done it.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Then he opened the letter. It was merely a -typewritten communication from the publishers, -informing him that they were sending him one -copy only of his book, according to his wish, and -were addressing both it and the letter to the post-office -he had mentioned. It ended by hoping that -the book would be successful, to their mutual -advantage.</p> - -<p class="indent">The businesslike tone of the letter brought -Peter down to earth again. He had been temporarily -in heaven. The descent, however, was -not a jarring one.</p> - -<p class="indent">He replaced the book in the brown paper, put -it carefully in his wallet, and started off across the -fields.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">THE DESERTED COTTAGE</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">For</span> some time there was nothing but open -country around him, though in the far distance -he saw an occasional farmhouse.</p> - -<p class="indent">At last, however, he saw the roofs of cottages, -and realized that he was approaching a village. -The square tower of a church, and a big house half-hidden -by trees on higher ground beyond the cottages, -made it probable that it was more than -merely a hamlet.</p> - -<p class="indent">Just before he reached it a sharp turn in the -lane brought him upon a very minute copse set a -pace or so back from the road, and in the copse was -a small cottage or hut. There was a forlorn -look about it, and the windows were broken.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter peered through the trees. There was no -sign of life whatever. The place was apparently -deserted. A couple of yards farther on a small and -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>broken gate led into the copse. The gate was -hanging on one hinge in a dejected and melancholy -fashion.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter propped it up with a little pat of encouragement -before he passed through it and up among -the trees to the cottage door. It was unfastened, -and Peter went in. He found himself in a small -square room. To his amazement it was not empty, -as he had imagined to find it. On the contrary, -it was quite moderately furnished.</p> - -<p class="indent">A low bed stood at one side of the room; it -was covered with a faded blue quilt. A cupboard -with a few tea-things on it stood against one wall. -A table, old and worm-eaten, was in the centre of -the room. There were two wooden chairs, and a -wooden armchair with a dilapidated rush seat. -There was a big open fireplace with an iron staple -in the wall; from this staple was suspended an -iron hook. Both were thickly covered with rust. -On the shelf above the fireplace was a clock; it -was flanked by a couple of copper candlesticks -covered with verdigris. Ragged yellow curtains -hung before the broken window.</p> - -<p class="indent">And everywhere there was dust. It lay thickly -on the table and the chairs; the tea-things on the -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>cupboard were covered with it. It lay upon the -floor in a soft grey carpet, thicker at the far side -of the room, where the wind through the broken -window had swept it in a little drift against the -wall.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter looked around in bewilderment. During -how many years had this dust accumulated? -What memories, what secrets, lay buried beneath -it?</p> - -<p class="indent">He looked towards the fireplace. Charred -embers were within it. By the hearth lay an old -newspaper. Peter picked it up. It tore as he -touched it. It bore the date May the nineteenth, -eighteen hundred and sixty-six. Forty-five years -ago! Had this cottage lain uninhabited for forty-five -years?—thirteen years before he was even -born! He glanced up at the clock. It had stopped -at twelve o’clock—midnight or noon, who was to -say?</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter turned and again looked round the place. -At the foot of the bed was another door. He opened -it, and found himself in a minute room or scullery. -It contained a copper, a row of shelves, a pump, -and an iron bucket. The window here, too, was -broken, the place as thickly shrouded in dust.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Peter returned to the dwelling-room.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Apparently I have it all to myself,” he said; -“and for to-night at least I intend to quarter here, -for if I’m not much mistaken there’s a storm -coming up from the west.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter put his wallet and bundle down on the -table and went out into the copse. He began -collecting bits of dead wood from under the trees, -and there was abundance strewn on the ground, -also fir-cones, for the trees were Scotch firs. It -was already drawing on to dusk, and clouds were -being blown across the sky by a soft wet wind from -the west.</p> - -<p class="indent">As Peter had just collected his second armful -of sticks, he heard steps coming along the road. -He paused before entering the cottage to see who -it might be. They were light steps, probably -those of children.</p> - -<p class="indent">In a moment they came in sight—two little -girls, chattering eagerly, and walking quickly, -for the sky looked threatening. As they neared -the copse one of the children looked up. She -clutched her companion’s arm.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Look there!” she said. There was terror in -her voice.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">The other child looked, screamed, and they both -set off running frantically down the road.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Great Scot!” ejaculated Peter; “did they -take me for a ghost, or do they think I’m a poacher, -and have gone to inform the neighbourhood? -Trust they won’t disturb me; I’ve no mind to turn -out into the deluge that’s coming.”</p> - -<p class="indent">A couple of large drops of rain splashed down -on his hand as he spoke, and he re-entered the -cottage. He placed his second armful of sticks -beside the fireplace. First he cleared away the -charred embers in the hearth, then began arranging -the newly collected sticks with the skill born -of long practice in the art of fire-making. This -done, he went into the inner room and took up the -bucket. The pump was stiff with rust and disuse, -but Peter’s vigorous arm soon triumphed over the -stiffness, and, filling the bucket with water, he -returned to the living-room. Here, with the aid -of a couple of ragged cloths, he made a partial -onslaught against the dust. The room became at -least habitable to one not over-fastidious. Moth, -by some miracle, seemed to have left the place -untouched, though the bedclothes were damp -with mildew.</p> - -<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum2" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">The cleansing process at least partially achieved, -Peter undid his wallet and bundles. From them -he took a pot, a tin cup, a couple of eggs, a hunch -of bread, and small piece of butter wrapped in a -cloth.</p> - -<p class="indent">He filled the pot with water, put the two eggs in -it, and hung it on the hook in the fireplace. Then -he struck a match and held it under the pile of -sticks. The little orange flame twined itself -gently round one twig. It twisted upward to -another and yet another. There was the sound of -soft crackling gradually increasing to a perfect -fairy fusillade. The flames multiplied, leapt from -stick to stick, while among their orange and blue -light poured a pearly-grey smoke.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Achieved,” said Peter with a sigh, and he -seated himself in the armchair watching the -dancing flames, and every now and then flinging -on an extra stick.</p> - -<p class="indent">Outside the rain was beating on the roof and -splashing through the broken window, while the -wind, which had begun to rise, moaned gently -through the fir-trees, creaking their branches.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Thanks be to the patron saint of all wayfarers,” -said Peter, “that I found this shelter. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>And if I knew his name I’d indite a poem to his -memory.”</p> - -<p class="indent">And then he fell to thinking of the young man -who, earlier in the day, had intruded on his slumbers -and read poems from his Chaucer. That he -was a pleasant young man Peter had already -conceded. That he had combined an extraordinary -mixture of intuition with a certain lack of -reticence almost amounting to want of tact, Peter -also conceded. That there was nothing about -him of very deep psychological interest, Peter -knew. But—well, he was a man of gentle birth, -and he had treated Peter—the wayfaring Peter -with frayed trousers and a patch on one knee—as -an equal. It had left a very decided sensation of -pleasure. Peter acknowledged to himself that -he would have liked to accept the young man’s -invitation; and yet if he had—well, he would -probably have drivelled more than he had done, -and he had drivelled quite enough. That was -the worst of unaccustomed and genuine interest -from one of your fellow-men. It was like -wine to one not used to it—it mounted to your -brain, you became garrulous. To those who are -used to wine, one glass, two glasses, nay, even -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>three glasses, means nothing. To those who have -not tasted the liquor for years, half a glass may -prove unsteadying. It was not even as if it -would be offered to him with sufficient frequency -for him to become accustomed to it. No; most -assuredly the wine of sympathy was not for him.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then he stopped suddenly in his meditations, -for the water in the pot was boiling.</p> - -<p class="indent">When Peter had finished his meal he pulled -a brier-wood pipe from his pocket, filled it with -tobacco, and lit it. He also lit a candle, which he -set in one of the copper candlesticks and placed -upon the table. Then once more he drew his book -from the brown-paper covering.</p> - -<p class="indent">For a time he sat very still, only moving a hand -to turn the pages. The candle-light threw his -shadow large and grotesque on the dingy wall -behind him. Occasionally the shadow wavered -as the candle flickered in the draught from the -broken window. The fire had died down to a few -glowing spots set in a bed of grey ashes. Outside -the rain fell steadily, and the wind still creaked the -branches of the fir-trees.</p> - -<p class="indent">At last Peter closed the book. He rolled his -piece of sacking into a bundle to form a pillow, and -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>stretched himself on the stone floor before the -hearth. It was preferable, he considered, to the -mildewy bed.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I wonder,” he mused, “who were the former -owners of this place. No doubt they are long -since dead. Well, if so, on their souls, and on all -Christian souls, sweet Jesu, have mercy!” He -made the sign of the Cross.</p> - -<p class="indent">In ten minutes Peter was asleep. He slept -well, but he dreamt, and once or twice through -his dreams he heard the sound of sobbing. It -was a pitiful little sobbing, as of a woman in grief, -and mingled with it seemed to be faint half-articulate -words.</p> - -<p class="indent">Once Peter half-awakened, and for a moment he -fancied the sobbing was real, but reason, which -was working fitfully, told him it was only the wind -in the trees without. He shifted his position and -fell asleep again.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">PETER TAKES A RESIDENCE</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Peter</span> came out from the cottage door in the -early morning. The rain of the previous night had -ceased, only the trees, bushes, and grass were hung -with myriads of drops sparkling silver and diamond -in the morning sunshine. He smelt the -good smell of the wet earth, and filled his lungs -with the cool fresh air.</p> - -<p class="indent">By rights Peter should by now have been well on -his way, for, though his way led generally to no -particular goal, he was always a-foot by sunrise. -But something—Peter did not know what—held -him to that cottage. It was almost as if the desolate -place cried to him: “Stay with me; I, too, -am lonely.” Certainly something indefinable but -insistent was drawing him to remain.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And why not?” said Peter half aloud.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then he heard the creaking of a cart, and -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>the gruff voice of a carter encouraging his horse. -In a moment it came in sight. The cart was -empty, and the man was sitting on the side as -he drove.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Good morning,” said Peter pleasantly, as the -cart and man came abreast of him.</p> - -<p class="indent">The carter started, pulled up suddenly, and -the horse came to a standstill.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well now,” he said in amazement, “whatever -do-ee be doin’ there?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I sheltered here last night,” said Peter. “Can -you tell me to whom this cottage belongs?”</p> - -<p class="indent">The man shook his head. “It don’t belong -to no one, and that’s certain sure.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“But,” argued Peter, “a cottage which is -obviously built by human agency must have an -owner.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Again the man shook his head. “It don’t -belong to no one,” he reiterated.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter raised his eyebrows incredulously. “But -why not?” he demanded.</p> - -<p class="indent">“’Tis evil,” said the man in a solemn whisper.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Evil!” echoed Peter. And the word seemed -as out of place in the morning sunshine as a cynic -would seem in fairyland.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">The man nodded. “’Tis evil, for sure. ’Tis -haunted.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“And by what is it haunted?” demanded -Peter, curious.</p> - -<p class="indent">“A bad woman,” said the man. “Her comes -there o’nights, and her moans for that her soul’s -to hell.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Again the word fell like a discord in the harmony -of sunshine and singing birds. Peter frowned.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Then,” he asked, “as the cottage possesses -no owner I suppose I can live here if I choose?”</p> - -<p class="indent">The man scratched his head. “No one can’t -live there what bain’t in league with t’devil,” -he announced.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter smiled brilliantly. “Oh,” he said with -fine assurance, “but I am.” And he made the -carter a low bow, sweeping upward his hat, which -he had hitherto held in his hand. The fantastic -peacock feather came into view, also Peter concluded -the bow with a very diabolical grin.</p> - -<p class="indent">The man whipped up his horse, casting a terrified -glance over his shoulder as he drove off. Peter -waved his hat with a mocking laugh.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And now,” he said, as the sound of the wheels -receded in the distance, “it is possible that my -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>averred friendship with his Satanic Majesty -may gain me uninterrupted possession of this -place. And—nonsense or not—it is asking me -to stay.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Suddenly, however, it struck Peter that it -might be as well for him to lay in a small store -of provisions—if such were obtainable in the village—before -the statement of his friendship with the -powers of evil had been spread by the too credulous -carter. Peter was well aware of the superstitions -of village folk. Therefore he set off at once down -the road.</p> - -<p class="indent">The village stood for the most part around an -open green, to the left of which was the grey church -whose square tower he had noticed the previous -day. In front of him and on higher ground, half-hidden -among the trees, was a white house. It -looked of some importance. On the right of the -green was the post-office, and next to it a general -provision shop.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter went into the post-office, where he asked -for a penny stamp.</p> - -<p class="indent">The woman who kept the place was a buxom -dame, rosy-cheeked and brown-eyed. Peter -thought she might be possessed of conversational -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>powers. He was right. A small remark of his -received a voluble response. He ventured another. -It also was received in good part and the dame’s -tongue proved nimble.</p> - -<p class="indent">For full half an hour Peter leant upon the -counter, speaking but a word or two at intervals, -but finding that they quite sufficed to direct the -voluble flow of speech into the channels he desired. -The sound of the bell above the shop door alone -brought the discourse to a conclusion, as a woman, -with a baby in her arms and two children dragging -at her skirts, entered. She looked at Peter curiously, -then, pulling a shabby purse from her -pocket, requested the postmistress to provide her -with a penny stamp. She was, so she stated, about -to write to her son in South Africa.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter came out into the sunlight with vastly -more information than he had possessed half an -hour previously.</p> - -<p class="indent">He turned into the provision shop, where he -achieved a few purchases, and then made his way -again in the direction of the desolate cottage. In -his mind he was running through and sorting the -information he had received.</p> - -<p class="indent">First and foremost it was perfectly obvious that, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>provided he had the temerity to remain in the -cottage in which he had passed the previous night, -no one would say him nay. It was held in ill-repute. -No one would dream of entering the copse -at any time, and after nightfall even the road past -it was to be avoided. The reason for this, as far -as Peter could gather, was as follows.</p> - -<p class="indent">Some fifty or sixty years ago a woman had lived -in that cottage with her daughter, the reputed -beauty of the village. The cottage had been built -on a bit of unclaimed land by the woman’s husband, -who had died soon after building it. It -appeared that the girl was a coquette, trifling with -the solid affection of the village swains. That at -least was the version of the postmistress. One day -some young gentleman had come to stay at the inn. -What brought him if it was not Satan himself no -one knew. At all events, before long he and the -village Helen were seen walking together on summer -evenings. Then came a day when the young -man left the inn, and it was discovered that the -girl was missing. Good authority stated that she -had gone with him. It also stated that after three -months he deserted her. From then began her -downfall. The mother, left in the cottage, faded -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>slowly from grief, and after five years died. On -the evening of her death a thin wan woman great -with child was seen to enter the village. None, -it appeared, had spoken to her. She had passed -through the village and towards the cottage where -the dead woman lay. The friend who was keeping -watch saw the door open and a pale woman with -frightened eyes approach the bed. There had been -a terrifying shriek and the intruder had dropped -to the ground. During the hours of the night a -little life had come forth, which looked momentarily -and wearily on the world. With a sigh it -had gone out again into the silence, where at dawn -the weary mother had followed it. But remorse, -so it was said, had chained her to the spot where -her own mother had died, and throughout the -following nights her spirit could be heard sobbing -and moaning. For more than forty years the -place had been considered cursed, and had been -steadfastly avoided. Even the contents of the -cottage had remained untouched.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter had ventured a word of pity for the desolate -creature whose story he had just heard. But -pity was, apparently, the last emotion roused towards -her. Horror of her sin and degradation, a -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>horror enhanced by the superstition vivid around -her memory, was all the buxom postmistress felt. -And should any one be wickedly daring enough -to enter the cottage and live there—well, the curse -of evil would undoubtedly fall upon him, though -assuredly no one would interfere should any one -prove himself a sufficient friend of evil for such a -venture.</p> - -<p class="indent">So much had Peter gathered regarding the -cottage and its story. He had then put another -question regarding the white house on -the hill.</p> - -<p class="indent">It belonged, so he was told, to a Lady Anne -Garland, who lived there with a companion. At -the moment she was away from home, though she -was expected to return in June. And then the -other customer had entered the shop, and the -flood of the good woman’s discourse had been -stemmed.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter had reached the copse by now and turned -in at the broken gate. As he entered the cottage -it seemed to him that there was an air of expectancy -about the place, as if it was waiting for the -answer to a question.</p> - -<p class="indent">Involuntarily Peter spoke aloud.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“It’s all right,” he said. “I am going to stay -till some one comes to kick me out.”</p> - -<p class="indent">And then—of course it was mere fancy, but a -little breeze seemed to pass through the room, -like a sigh of relief or content.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">THE SOUL OF A WOMAN</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Thus</span> Peter entered upon his estate, since there -was evidently no man would say him nay. He, -the wayfarer, who for two years had slept by the -hedge-side or in barns, found himself possessed -of a castle.</p> - -<p class="indent">It might be conjectured whether he would find -the change cramping, stifling. He did not. The -windows, which he mended, he set wide open to the -sun and wind. Big fires of sticks and fir-cones -aired and freed the place from the odour of damp -and decay that hung about it. He took the -precaution of buying a couple of blankets and -a mattress. Also, as he was once more to become -a civilized being, at all events in his own -eyes, he bought three suits of the garments called -pyjamas.</p> - -<p class="indent">They pleased Peter enormously. Blue, pink, and -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>green, he placed them on the table and looked at -them. They told him as plainly as their flannel -tongues could speak that he had returned to -his birthright. He had purchased them in the -market town already mentioned, which lay some -eight miles distant from the cottage, and the -purchase had been made with an air of swagger. -Piping had proved a not unremunerative occupation. -There was now, however, another source -of income. Certainly the income would not be -large at present, but it well sufficed. Peter would -therefore pipe no longer for pay, but merely for -pleasure.</p> - -<p class="indent">He had also laid in a store of fair foolscap paper -and a large bottle of ink. The joy of creation had -taken possession of him. His brain was again -fertile. It was partly on this account that he had -been ready to take up a fixed abode, since fate had -flung one in his path. He owed it to the children -of his brain to give them every chance, though his -first child had been brought forth amidst difficulties -and hardships.</p> - -<p class="indent">The news that a stranger, wearing a peacock -feather in his hat, had taken up his abode in the -cottage of ill-omen spread like wild-fire through -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>the village. Women glanced at him with frightened -eyes, men regarded him with suspicion. The -owner of the provision shop, indeed, held a kind -of neutral ground. Until it should be proved that -Peter’s shillings were accursed, he might as well -have the advantage of them.</p> - -<p class="indent">The children looked at Peter with awe, mingled -with curiosity. There was a kind of fearful joy -in watching one who was a friend of that terrible -personage the Devil. At night, truly, he was to be -avoided, but in daylight, with his bronzed face and -brilliant peacock feather, he looked not unprepossessing.</p> - -<p class="indent">Moreover, he could pipe. Wee Rob, the miller’s -lame son, had first heard him, and had called to -the other children. There had been a reconnoitring -party down the lane. On tiptoe feet, breath -suspended, eyes round with awe, they had gone. -Through the bushes they had seen him at the -cottage door, the pipe at his lips. And the music -had been full of they knew not what of magic, -joy and gladness. With parted lips and eyes full -of childish wonder they had listened. Fear had -vanished to the four winds of heaven, blown far -far away by the sweet notes of the pipe.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">And then Peter had stopped and moved. -There had been the scuttling of little feet and the -tapping of a crutch. But the tapping of the crutch -had been reluctant in its retreat, for the magic of -the piping lingered with Wee Rob.</p> - -<p class="indent">By day, then, Peter wrote in his cottage, piped -his tunes, or walked the moorland above the -village. By night he slept and dreamt of the book -he was writing, though often through his dreams -he fancied he heard the sound of that pitiful -sobbing.</p> - -<p class="indent">In his waking moments he told himself it was -fancy pure and simple, yet it troubled him. What -if there were indeed an imprisoned soul somewhere -seeking aid, one for whom no man had said an -individual prayer? Peter had no very definite -creed. There lingered with him certain faint -memories of lessons taught him by his mother, of -which the little prayer he had prayed the first -night in the cottage was one. Beyond that all -was indefinite, vague. Somewhere external to this -world were unseen Powers, some great Force, a -Strength to whom men appealed under the name -of God. The supernatural, however, had, or -appeared to have, no very distinct individual -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>relation towards himself. He had certainly prayed -when he was in the prison. Human aid being -powerless to “put things right” (he formulated -his ideas no more than that), he had appealed -to this External Power. He had found a certain -comfort in it. He acknowledged its might, its -capacity to do so. Having prayed, he felt sure of -the answer. His attitude towards the Powers was -friendly. There is no other word which will as -well describe his attitude of mind. Surely, then, -he had a right to expect a friendly reply. And -then the reply had come. For a time Peter had -been stunned. It had been so entirely unexpected. -He felt almost as a man would feel who had received -a blow from one from whom he had a right -to expect a handshake. A curious bitterness was -his first predominant sensation. This did not last, -however. Peter was too innately sweet-natured -to harbour bitterness long, even against those -vague external Powers of which he knew so little. -A nonchalant philosophy took its place. They -had failed him, therefore he must turn elsewhere -for aid; he must turn to the visible means around -him, the things of nature, the sunshine, the trees, -the flowers, the birds. In short, the recuperative -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>power of his own healthy nature sustained him, -since the Powers to whom he had turned seemed -to have failed. And yet he did not deny their -existence. Only it would appear that their attitude -towards him individually was not what he -had imagined it to be. Now, however, vaguely, -indefinitely, he began to wonder whether their -aid could not be invoked again, not for himself, -but for another, the soul of the woman whose -fancied sobbing troubled his dreams. He told -himself, as already stated, that the sobbing was -pure fancy, the outcome of the pitiful story he had -heard, his own imagination, and certain faint -memories of his mother’s teaching regarding souls -in purgatory. Solitude no doubt coloured these -memories, rendered him possibly slightly morbid -regarding them. Yet the fancy was strong upon -him that he, in that place where the soul of -the woman had left her body, might in some -way aid. Yet how? There was the crux of the -question.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then Peter bethought him of a friend of his, -one whose creed, though he himself had inquired -little regarding it, he knew to be clear-cut, defined. -Perhaps, Peter told himself, his own prayers were -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>too vague, too nebulous. For himself he was -content, or at least sufficiently passive now, to -let things remain as they were. For himself, his -prayer had failed; he would not be cowardly -enough to whine, or recriminate. It was just -possible that even the failure belonged to some -Great Plan of which he did not see the outcome. -He perceived in the same nebulous way that if -this were the case rebellion would be not only -cowardly, but futile. Yet while remaining passive -for himself, something within him stirred him -to action for another. He had heard his friend -speak of masses for souls in purgatory. It conveyed -nothing very definite to Peter’s mind, yet -he felt that if there were some method of aiding -this soul his friend would know of it.</p> - -<p class="indent">Accordingly Peter wrote a letter. He gave no -address; he merely wrote stating the facts of the -case, and asking aid. After that he waited.</p> - -<p class="indent">Now again he was perfectly aware that the whole -thing might have been pure fancy, but one day -Peter became conscious of a change of atmosphere -in the cottage. A repose, a peace, hitherto foreign -seemed to have descended upon it. When precisely -the change occurred Peter did not know, he -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>merely suddenly became conscious that the change -was there.</p> - -<p class="indent">Of course it might have been pure fancy, but -Peter did not think it was.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">AN OLD GENERAL</h3> - -<p class="center">I</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">General</span> Carden, V.C., C.B., D.S.O., was sitting -at breakfast in his house in Sloane Street. -He was not a young man—in fact, he had just -passed his seventy-seventh birthday—but there -was about him an air of trim spruceness, an uprightness -that many a younger man might have -envied. His height in his stockinged feet was -exactly six feet one. He was handsome, too, with -his fine aquiline features, his snow-white hair, and -his drooping moustache. His blue eyes, under -shaggy eyebrows, were perhaps a trifle faded from -the colour of their youth, yet they struck a very -decided note in contrast to his face, which was -like old ivory, and to the pallor of his hair.</p> - -<p class="indent">A little pile of letters lay on the table beside -him, also a small silver paper-knife. Ten minutes -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>previously he had cut the envelopes with careful -precision and glanced through the contents. -Apparently he had found in them little of interest, -and now his attention was entirely absorbed by a -couple of frizzled rolls of bacon on the plate before -him.</p> - -<p class="indent">The door opened noiselessly and the butler -entered. He carried a tray on which was a plate, -and on the plate was a small brown egg in a silver -egg-cup. General Carden was somewhat particular -as to the size and colour of the eggs of which -he partook. The butler placed the plate on the -table, then stood in an attitude suggestive of -military attention.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Any orders for the car, sir? Alcott is here, -sir.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“The car at eleven,” said General Carden, still -busy with the bacon. “And, Goring, see that -those library books are put in.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Very good, sir. Is that all, sir?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes; nothing else.”</p> - -<p class="indent">The butler withdrew, and General Carden -continued his breakfast. Marmalade and a -second cup of coffee followed the egg. General -Carden made a good deal of the fact that he -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>enjoyed his breakfast. It was to him a sign -that old age was not yet encroaching.</p> - -<p class="indent">Breakfast over, he crossed the hall to a small -study, where he took a cigarette from a silver -box and lighted it. Then he sat down in a chair -near the window with the morning paper. It -seldom afforded him much satisfaction, however. -England, in his opinion, was going to the dogs, and -it only annoyed him to see the printed record of its -progress towards that deplorable end.</p> - -<p class="indent">After a few moments he threw the paper from -him with a faintly muttered “Damn it, sir!” -He had seen that in a by-election a seat had been -won by one of the Labour party.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Going to the dogs, sir; entirely to the dogs!” -he muttered. And then he looked out of the -window at the people in the street, which street -was bathed in May sunshine.</p> - -<p class="indent">The gardens opposite looked extraordinarily -green and spring-like, and nurses with perambulators -and children of various sizes were passing -along the pavement by the iron railings. They -and the sunshine struck a very definite note of -buoyancy and youth, and for a moment General -Carden felt not entirely as young as he could wish. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>The room seemed a little lonely, and the house -rather large for one occupant—servants, naturally, -did not count. General Carden did not exactly -express this thought to his mind in words. He was -not a man given to sentimentality either in thought -or speech. It was merely represented by a little -indefinite and not very pleasant impression. He -wheeled his chair round to his writing-desk, which -he unlocked, and began looking through various -letters with a show of businesslike energy.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="indent">Some half-hour or so later he appeared in the -hall. The butler was there already with an overcoat, -a silk hat, and an air of reserved dignity. -He put General Carden into the overcoat and -handed him the hat.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Have you put the books in the car?” asked -General Carden.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes, sir,” replied Goring. There was the -faintest suspicion of reproof in the reply.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ah! yes, of course, of course; I mentioned it -at breakfast.” General Carden took up his gloves -and passed into the sunshine down the steps, an -upright figure in grey overcoat, white spats, and -hat shining glossily in the light.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Good morning, Alcott; the car running well?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“First rate, sir.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“That’s right; that’s right. You can take a -turn in the Park and afterwards go to Mudie’s.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Very good, sir.”</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden got in, and the car purred -gently up the street.</p> - -<p class="indent">He settled himself comfortably into a corner, -and glanced at the books on the seat opposite -to him. He had a subscription at Mudie’s, and -kept himself thoroughly up in the present-day -novel. He did not care to hear a new book -mentioned and have to allow that he had not read -it. Of course, the present-day literature could -not compare with that of the older novelists—that -was hardly to be expected. Scott, Dickens, -Thackeray—he ran through them in his mind—where -was the writer of the moment who could -compare with them? Who could touch the romance -of Scott, the humour of Dickens, the courtliness -of Thackeray? Where was there a man in -present fiction able to stand beside the fine -old figure of General Newcome? No; romance, -humour, courtliness, had vanished, and in their -place were divorce accounts, ragging—an appalling -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>word,—and suffragettes. The world was not what -it had been in his young days. He did not, however, -express this opinion blatantly; to do so -would have savoured of old-fogyism. Oh, no; -he flattered himself he kept abreast of the times, -and only deplored certain modern innovations, -as they were deplored by all those who still held -to the fragments of refinement and courtliness -that remained in the world.</p> - -<p class="indent">As the car turned into the Park, General Carden -sat rather more upright. He watched the carriages -and their occupants with attention, his old -eyes keen to observe and note any of them he knew. -And when he did, off came that glossy silk hat with -a bow and a gesture worthy of a courtier. However -much abreast of the times he might choose to -consider himself, in his heart he knew he was of -the old school, and one even older than that of his -own youth. He belonged, this courtly old man, -to the delightful old school where men treated -women with chivalry and protection, and where -women in their turn accepted these things with -delicate grace and charm; where conversation -had meant a pretty display of wit, a keen fencing -of words, where brusquerie was a thing unknown; -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>and where a fine and subtle irony had stood in the -place of a certain curt rudeness noticeable in the -present day. Yet all that was of the past. It -would be as out of place now as would be one of -those dainty ladies of old years, in powder and -brocade, among the tight-skirted women in Bond -Street. But very deep down in his heart General -Carden knew it was the school which he loved, -and of which he allowed himself occasionally to -dream. Those dreams were dreamt mainly on -winter evenings in a chair before the study fire. -And then, very surreptitiously, General Carden -would bring a tiny gold box from his pocket—a -dainty octagon box with an exquisite bit of old -enamel, blue as a sapphire, let into the lid—and, -opening it, he would take an infinitesimal pinch of -brown powder between his first finger and thumb. -He was always most extremely careful that no -single grain of it should fall on his white shirt-front. -Goring’s eyes were at times unaccountably sharp. -He was not going to be caught snuff-taking by a -man who might look upon it as a sign of old age -advancing. The little gold box, when not on his -own person, was kept locked in a small antique -cabinet in his dressing-room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Apparently there were many people in the Park -that morning whom General Carden knew. A big -car hummed past with a small woman in it, a -woman who looked almost tiny in the car’s capacious -depths. She had a pointed little face and -masses of fair hair. Off came General Carden’s -hat. This was Muriel Lancing. He had known -her as Muriel Grey, when she was a small girl in -short skirts. She had married a certain Tommy -Lancing a refreshing young man with red hair and -freckles and a comfortable private income. General -Carden’s eyes smiled at the girl. In spite of -a certain airy up-to-dateness, he liked her. She -was so dainty, so piquante, and such an inscrutable -mixture of child, woman of the world, and elfin. -One never knew which of the three might not -appear on the surface. Also he liked Tommy, who -always contrived to put a certain air of deference -into his manner towards the General, which -secretly pleased that critical white-haired, old -veteran immensely.</p> - -<p class="indent">After a few moments he saw another of his -friends, and again the hat came off, this time -with perhaps even something more of courtliness. -The woman in the victoria was very nearly a contemporary -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>his. Quite a contemporary, General -Carden reflected—ignoring the fifteen years which -lay between them, and which were, it must be -stated, to the advantage of Mrs. Cresswell. She -was a woman with white hair rolled high, somewhat -after the style of a Gainsborough portrait, -and a clear-cut aristocratic face. She belonged -unquestionably to his school, and their conversations -were an invariable delicate sword-play of -words. Even if she were generally the victor—and -in the art of conversation he was willing to -concede her the palm—yet he flattered himself he -was no mean opponent, and he had a pleasurable -memory of some very pretty turns of repartee on -his own part. She was a friend of long standing, -and one he valued.</p> - -<p class="indent">Next came a much younger woman in a car, -with a small boy beside her. This was Millicent -Sheldon; the boy was her nephew. General -Carden’s blue eyes were a little hard as he observed -her, and there was just a suspicion of stiffness in -his arm as he raised his hat. She responded with -a slightly frigid bow, her face entirely immovable. -There were reasons—most excellently good reasons—why -there was a certain chilliness between these -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>two. They need not, however, be recorded at -the moment.</p> - -<p class="indent">Many other carriages and cars passed whose -occupants General Carden knew, also a few foot-passengers, -grey-haired veterans like himself, -who walked upright and rather stiff, or younger -men slightly insouciant of manner.</p> - -<p class="indent">As his car was turning out of the Park another -carriage turned in. In it was a young woman and -an older one—much older; in fact, rather dried -up and weather-beaten. This time General Carden -did not raise his hat, though he observed the two -women with interest. He had frequently noticed -the carriage and its occupants during his morning -drives in the Park. The younger woman attracted -him. It was not merely the fact that she was -beautiful, but there was an air of distinction about -her, a well-bred distinguished air, that appealed -to this old critic of women and manners. The men -on the box wore cockades in their hats and plum-coloured -livery. There was also a tiny coronet on -the panel of the carriage door. In spite of the fact -that General Carden’s sight was not entirely what -it once had been, he noticed the coronet. He -noticed, too, that the woman’s hair was black with -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>blue lights in it, that her skin was a pale cream, -and her mouth a delicious and quite natural scarlet; -also that her small well-bred head was exquisitely -set on a slender but young and rounded throat, -and that it, in its turn, was set quite delightfully -between her shoulders. There is no gainsaying -the fact that General Carden was a very distinct -connoisseur in matters feminine. He wondered -who she was, and even after the carriage had -passed he thought of her very finished appearance -with pleasure. And it was by no means the first -time that he had wondered, nor the first that he -had experienced the feeling of pleasure at the sight -of her.</p> - -<p class="indent">In two or three minutes, so swift are the ways -of cars, he was stopping opposite Mudie’s in -Kensington High Street. A carriage with a pair -of bay horses was waiting beyond the broad -pavement outside the shop. General Carden -recognized it as belonging to Mrs. Cresswell. -Evidently she had left the Park before him.</p> - -<p class="indent">He got out of the car and crossed the pavement -to the shop. Mrs. Cresswell was also changing -library books. She saw him approaching and -gave him a smile—a smile at once brilliant, gay, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>and charmingly intimate, as was the privilege of -an old friend.</p> - -<p class="indent">“So we meet again,” she said in her crisp, -pleasantly decided voice, and she held out her -hand. “And how are you this fine May -morning?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“In most excellent health, thank you,” replied -General Carden, taking the hand held out to him. -“There is no need for me to ask how you are. -You look, as you always do, radiant.” He accompanied -the words with a gesture almost suggestive -of a bow.</p> - -<p class="indent">“How charming of you!” sighed Mrs. Cresswell, -a little laugh in her eyes. “I always feel at least -ten years younger when I meet you. And you are -on the same errand bent as I. Well, here is one -book I can certainly recommend. I am just -returning it myself. It is by a new author, and -is quite delightful—finished, light, and with a -style all its own.” She held up a green-covered -book as she spoke, and General Carden read -the gold-lettered title, <i>Under the Span of the -Rainbow</i>.</p> - -<p class="indent">Now, to be perfectly candid, the title did not -appeal to him who read it. In General Carden’s -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>mind it suggested fairy-tales—light, airy, soap-bubbly -things, iridescent and pretty enough for -the moment, but quite unable to withstand the -finger of criticism he would inevitably lay upon -them. Yet the book was recommended by a -woman, and that woman Mrs. Cresswell.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Any recommendation of yours!” said General -Carden gallantly. And he put the book aside -while he looked for a second one.</p> - -<p class="indent">A young shopman made various deferential -suggestions, and presently Mrs. Cresswell and -General Carden were out again in the sunshine, -General Carden bearing four library books.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I shall expect to hear what you think of my -recommendation,” said Mrs. Cresswell, as he -handed her to her carriage and placed two of the -books on the seat beside her. Her voice held -perhaps the faintest intonation of significance. -“Come and see me next Tuesday; I am at home, -you know.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“With all the pleasure in the world,” replied -General Carden.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then she gave him another of her gracious -smiles as the bays moved off down the sunny -street.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span></p> - -<p class="center">II</p> - -<p class="indent">It was not till after dinner that night that General -Carden opened the book. He was then sitting -in a large and comfortable armchair in his study. -A shaded electric lamp stood on a table at his -elbow, and he was experiencing the sense of well-being -of a man who has just partaken of a most -excellently cooked dinner.</p> - -<p class="indent">He fixed his gold-rimmed glasses on his finely -chiselled nose and opened the book, though with -but faint anticipation of interest. After a page or -two, however, he became absorbed, almost fascinated. -The writing appealed to him; it was pleasant, -cultured. There were here and there some -very neatly turned phrases. And then, quite suddenly, -one paragraph arrested his attention. It -was in itself a quite insignificant little paragraph -and merely descriptive. Here it is, however:</p> - -<p class="indent">“Near one corner of the house, grey-walled, -weather-beaten, stood a great pear-tree, its -branches almost touching the diamond-shaped -panes of the narrow window—the window of the -octagon room which held for him so many memories. -In spring-time the tree was a mass of -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>snowy blossoms, and among their delicate fragrance -a blackbird sang his daily matins. Later in the -year the tree would be full of fruit, many of which -fell to the ground, and, bruising in the fall, would -fill the air with a sweet and almost sickly scent. In -the trunk of the tree was a small shield-shaped -patch, where the bark had been torn away, and -the initials R. and J. cut in the smooth underwood. -They belonged, so the boy had been told, to the -twin brothers, whose gallant history had fascinated -him from childhood.”</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden paused. There was a look -of dim pain in his blue eyes. After a moment he -re-read the passage carefully, and with infinitely -more attention than the few sentences would -appear to merit. Then he turned to the title-page -and read the name of the author. Apparently -it told him nothing he desired to know, and -he continued his reading. Much farther on he -came to another paragraph at which he again -paused abruptly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“‘Cricket,’ said the young man airily, ‘is a -universal game, and means, speaking in general -terms, the avoidance of anything which—well, -hints of meanness or unfair play to our neighbours.’ -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>They were his father’s exact words, and he knew -it. At the moment, however, he chose to make -them his own.”</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden put down the book. His hands -were shaking slightly. He told himself he was an -old fool. Hundreds of fathers had used those -words to their sons. They represented the first -principle learnt by an Englishman. But then, -there was the pear-tree, the shield-shaped wound -in its bark, the initials, the old weather-beaten -house. Memory began to exert her sway. He -was sitting in a study window watching a tall, -slim woman as she laughed at a thin slip of a boy -climbing, monkey-like, among the branches of the -old tree. He could hear the very sound of her -laugh and the exultant ring of the boy’s voice.</p> - -<p class="indent">He pulled himself together. That house—the -old place down in the country—was in the hands -of caretakers. It did not do to think about the -past at his time of life. He was certainly perturbed -to use that phrase. He turned to the address -of the publishers, then glanced at the -telephone on his writing-desk and from it to the -clock. The hands pointed to ten minutes to ten. -Of course, it was too late to ring up a business -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>house, much too late. Besides, pseudonyms were -sacred to publishers, or should be. Quite possibly, -too, it was not a pseudonym. It was absurd -that he should suppose that it was. It was a good -book, however, a very good book. He should like -to see what the reviews had to say about it. It -was always interesting to hear public opinion on a -good book; and, to a certain extent, reviewers -constituted the public. There were places—he -had heard of them—where reviews were collected. -He must find out the name of one of them. Yes; -he would like to see whether the reviewers did not -endorse his own opinion. He would tell Mrs. -Cresswell he had appreciated her recommendation. -Possibly he would write a note to-morrow and tell -her. It would please her to hear that he had liked -the book she had advised him to read.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then another thought struck him, and he -sat suddenly upright. Had not she once seen -that pear-tree—once, long ago? Surely she, too, -did not think—did not guess——</p> - -<p class="indent">He would not write to her after all. Tuesday -would be time enough to tell her that he thought -the book—yes, quite fairly promising for a new -author. Fairly promising, that was the expression.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">A WONDERFUL OFFER</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Late</span> one afternoon Peter set off to walk to the -market-town. He was expecting a letter from his -publishers. He had given them the market-town -post-office as his permanent address. It was a -glorious day, and the sunlight lay warmly on the -fields.</p> - -<p class="indent">During the day he had been writing, but his -work had not gone well. That which in brain-imagery -had seemed original and lifelike, in -articulation appeared to him commonplace and -dull. Who would care to read the drivel he was -committing to paper? His thoughts, his fancies, -of what interest would they be to the multitude? -Of what value even to two or three?</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter was in a mood dangerous for his own creation. -His first book had come directly from his -inner being, written for the pure love of inscribing -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>in lucid words the thoughts which filled his brain. -The same reason had urged him to write again. -Then suddenly before him like a menace rose up -an image—the Public. His work would go out -to it, had already gone out to it. How would it -be received? And if with smiles the first moment, -who could tell whether the smiles might not the -next be changed to frowns?</p> - -<p class="indent">He felt like a man whose chance witticism has -won him the post of Jester. What anxiety must -precede each lightly spoken word that follows; -the knowledge that the wings of spontaneity had -been clipped, though the knowledge perchance was -his alone; the inward wince at a rebuff, the joy -at applause! Jester to the many-faced public! -Was this to be his rôle? Truly, if a little knowledge -be a dangerous thing, a little success appeared -quite as dangerous. Had he the strength to forget -his audience; to speak only as and when Inspiration -bade him; to keep silence when her voice was -still? If indeed he had to play the part of Jester, -could he be a daring one, heedless alike of frowns -and smiles? Could he risk the cap and bells -being taken from him? Could he bear hooting -and derision?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“I will,” cried Peter to his soul. “I will jest -how and as I please. Servant will I be to Inspiration -alone, and slave to none. Away with -cowardice, Peter, my son, and dismiss the many-headed -public from your mind.”</p> - -<p class="indent">It was therefore in an extremely healthy frame -of mind that Peter approached the market-town.</p> - -<p class="indent">The letter he had expected was awaiting him. -He put it in his pocket unopened, for he knew it to -be merely a business communication of no particular -importance, and set off once more for home.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was not till after his supper that he again -thought of it, and he pulled it carelessly from his -pocket. Within the envelope was the typewritten -communication he had expected, and also -a letter. It was addressed to Robin Adair, Esq., -care of the publishers.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter turned the letter over curiously. The -post-mark was London, the writing educated, -delicately firm. He broke the seal and drew the -letter from the envelope. Here is what he read:</p> - -<blockquote><p class="right2">“<span class="smcap">London</span>.</p> -<p class="right">“<i>May 16th</i>.</p> - -<p>“This letter can have no formal beginning, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>inasmuch as it is not written to a man, but to a -personality—the personality that breathes through -the book signed by Robin Adair. Nor, in spite -of appearances, is it a letter from a woman, but -from a personality as impersonal—if the contradiction -may pass—as that to which it is addressed.</p> - -<p>“And in the first place I am trusting that you—for -impersonal as one may wish to be, one cannot -dispense with pronouns—that you are possessed -of sufficient intuition to discover that I am neither -an autograph-hunter nor one desirous of snatching -a sensation by stolen intercourse with a celebrity. -I am not greatly flattering your intuitive powers -therein; for nowhere is true personality so intimately -revealed as in an intimate letter. Art can -almost invariably be detected, and there is no -fleshly mask to dazzle the perceptions and obscure -the soul. An intelligent abstraction from a letter -would probably give the truest image of the subjective -side of any nature, which after all is the -side with which as an individual one is concerned. -If, therefore, after reading thus far, you are disposed -to regard this letter as an impertinence, then -it is one which is entirely without excuse, and I -should desire you to tear it up forthwith.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> - -<p>“If, on the other hand, you have preserved an -open mind so far, then I shall not attempt excuse, -but furnish you with reasons. In fancy or in -reality I have detected in your book, running -through its sweetness and underlying all its -strength, a great heart-cry for sympathy, the -cry of a lonely soul. What it is that has wounded -you I cannot tell, but I feel in every fibre that the -wound is there.</p> - -<p>“Now, I make you an offer—one of intimate -comradeship with one of another sex, under conditions -of such stringency as Plato’s self might have -approved. I am a woman whom you have never -seen, whom you will never see, of gentle birth, -with a share at least of education and refinement, -and, moreover, one who has been so profoundly -moved and influenced by your writing that she -feels with an extraordinary degree of confidence -the existence of a mind-<i>rapport</i> between herself -and you.</p> - -<p>“For the moment that is enough. Should you -wish to accept my offer, write to me at an address -I shall subjoin, whence the letter will be forwarded -to me. On your side the compact must be marked -by one condition: you must pledge me your word -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>never to make any attempt to discover my identity.</p> - -<p>“As I dislike pseudonyms, I leave this letter -unsigned.”</p></blockquote> - -<p class="indent">Peter laid the letter upon the table and stared -at it.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Amazing!” he ejaculated. Then he took it -up again. It was written on bluish paper, and -held the faintest—just the very faintest—hint of -perfume, lavender delicately fragrant.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And a woman,” said Peter, “has written this -letter to me—to me!” His brain whirled slightly. -There is no other description for its state at that -moment. Gradually it steadied itself. He began -to realize the reality of what had happened. -He was not dreaming: the letter was actually in -his hand, the words traced in a clear and fine -writing.</p> - -<p class="indent">Impersonal, indeed! She—this unknown woman—might -call it so if she pleased. To Peter -it breathed personality, a personality vivid and -rare. Its intimate aloofness—again a contradiction—was -full of charm.</p> - -<p class="indent">An autograph-hunter! Bah! had the merest -suspicion of such a thought crossed his mind he -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>would indeed have been unworthy so much as -to lay a finger upon the epistle.</p> - -<p class="indent">To say that Peter was touched would be a poor -way of expressing the emotions that filled him. -For years, remember, he had lived in mind-isolation -from his fellow-men, and here out of the Invisible -came the offer of a soul-intimacy, delicately, -graciously made, and made by a woman.</p> - -<p class="indent">That she was <i>grande dame</i> and beautiful his -every instinct told him. There was an undernote -of assurance about the letter that made the fact -convincing. It needed not her statement that -she was of gentle birth. Very assuredly she was -one accustomed to deference and homage. And -she had written thus to him. Wonderful!</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter got up from his chair, his eyes alight -with pleasure. He went to a cupboard and took -out a bottle of port and a wine glass. These—like -the pyjamas—constituted part of the hall-mark -of civilization.</p> - -<p class="indent">He had bought the wine with the intention of -drinking to the health of his published book, -but the inclination had passed. There is something -unsatisfactory about toasts drunk in solitude.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">But now Peter knocked the red seal from the -cork and drew it from the bottle. He reseated -himself at the table and poured the wine into the -glass. He lifted it in his right hand, holding the -letter in his left. He approached the glass to -the letter, then raised it to his lips.</p> - -<p class="indent">“To my Unknown Lady!” he said.</p> - -<p class="indent">Ten minutes later Peter pulled pen, ink, and -paper towards him. Oh, the joy of answering -this letter, the luxury of it!</p> - -<p class="indent">And then he began to write, very simply and -directly, attempting no well-turned thought or -phrase, but writing as he would have spoken, from -his heart.</p> - -<blockquote><p class="right">“<i>May 18th.</i></p> - -<p>“Can you, I wonder, have the smallest conception -of what your letter means to me? If -you have, then perhaps you will realize that my -‘thank you’ holds in the fullest sense all that those -two words can express. Yet please believe that -the cry you have detected in my writing escaped -from me unawares. Consciously to have made -such a plaint would to my mind have savoured of -cowardice. May the gods guard me from it!</p> - -<p>“Does not Emerson say, ‘It is vain to attempt -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>to keep a secret from one who has a right to know -it; it will tell itself’? Dare I believe that you -possess that right, that the same spiritual law -which has made you conscious of a mind-<i>rapport</i> -between us has given you the key to it? I accept -your offer from my heart. The condition shall be -strictly observed.</p> - -<p>“Truly you do not greatly flatter my power of -intuition when you imagine me possessed of -sufficient intelligence to discover that you are -neither an autograph-hunter nor anything akin -to it. I should be a base dullard had such a -thought crossed my mind.</p> - -<p>“That my book pleases you affords me intense -pleasure. Fresh life will be instilled into my future -work by the hope that one day you will read it.</p> - -<p>“My pen is halting. I write as I should speak, -and my tongue is unaccustomed to speech with a -woman of gentle birth. Fate has made of me a -recluse—a hermit. I do not revile her. She -gives me compensations of which your letter and -offer are not the least. Will you write again?</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Robin Adair.</span></p> - -<p>“P.S.—I am sorry you dislike pseudonyms. -This is one.”</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Peter re-read the letter carefully. He put it -in an envelope which he addressed “To my Unknown -Critic.” He enclosed this in a second -envelope, on which he wrote the address he had -been given. This again he enclosed with a brief -letter to his publishers, asking them to post the -enclosure in London. The next day he would take -it in to the market-town.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter leant back in his chair. Then he poured -himself out a second glass of wine, which he drank -slowly.</p> - -<p class="indent">This was a gala night.</p> - -<p class="indent">Finally he set down his glass and spoke aloud.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Though the expense is entirely unjustifiable, -I shall buy a dress suit.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">CHÂTEAUX EN ESPAGNE</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Henceforth</span> Peter walked daily to the post-office -in the market-town. And never perhaps -has author so eagerly awaited the sight of a letter -from his publishers.</p> - -<p class="indent">For ten days, however, the journeys made by -him were fruitless, and he began to cast about -despairingly in his mind for the memory of anything -in his own letter that could have offended. -But he found nothing. His writing, during -these days, did not progress. He was too restless, -too anxious, to work quietly. Sometimes -he sat at his cottage door and piped. Occasionally -a small crowd of children would gather outside -the hedge, drawn by the magic of the music. -The ceasing of the pipe, or any movement on his -part, however, was the signal for them to scatter -like a flock of frightened sparrows, and he would -find the lane deserted.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">At last, one evening, his journey to the market-town -proved fruitful. A letter awaited him -there, also a box bearing the name of a London -tailor.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter returned across the fields at a fine pace, -the letter in his breast pocket, the box under -his arm. Arriving at his cottage, he unknotted -the string that tied it.</p> - -<p class="indent">Some twenty minutes later, Peter, in well-cut -evening clothes and with a gleaming expanse -of white shirt-front, broke the seal of the letter.</p> - -<p class="indent">You perceive he was a host, receiving in spirit -the woman who had deigned to consider him -worthy of notice. And now he held the letter -in his hand and saw once more the delicate, firm -writing.</p> - -<blockquote><p class="right2">“<span class="smcap">London</span>,</p> -<p class="right">“<i>May 27th.</i></p> - -<p>“First I must thank you that you have not -misunderstood me. And now that the understanding -between us is complete, I can write -more freely, more fully.</p> - -<p>“So you are a recluse. Perhaps you are to be -envied. I have been, and am, in the midst of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>that mumming-show society, where we all wear -gaily-coloured masks and jest with those around -us. We speak little as we feel, but largely as we -are expected to speak. Is it part of your compensation -that you need not speak at all? For -me, I am somewhat weary of the show. It is -very gaudy, and the music, I think, too loud. -You may ask why I attend it, and to that I have -no answer, except that custom demands it of me -as a right. How many people, I wonder, act not -according to their own individuality, but rather -as usage and those around them expect them to -act?</p> - -<p>“Is it possible, I wonder, to free oneself from -tradition, that closely fitting garment placed -upon us by our ancestors at birth, which becomes, -to the majority, as much part and parcel of ourselves -as our skin? Clothed in it, I attend dances, -dinners, bridge parties, and theatres, from which -I am at the moment recoiling with a kind of mental -nausea. Should I strip myself of the garment, -shall I not feel cold and shivery—in short, to use -a common phrase, feel ‘out of things’? And once -the garment is definitely discarded it may not be -so easily donned again; at all events, it might not -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>fit so well. You, a writer, who in your solitude -think many thoughts, give me your opinion.</p> - -<p>“Mercifully, custom has at least decreed that -I should spend some months in the country. In -a few days’ time I go down to it. There my -individuality resumes what I believe to be its -rightful sway. I have a garden. It is, as the -poet sings, a thing of beauty, and is to me a joy -for ever.</p> - -<p>“A summer evening in a flower-scented garden! -Can you—you writer of poetic prose—conceive -anything more full of charm and delight? I have -a bed of night-stocks—poor, dilapidated, withered -things in the daytime, and the despair of my -gardener. But in the evening on the terrace the -odour is entrancing—divine. My thoughts are -‘carried on the wings of perfume into high places.’ -You see, I can quote from your book and from -memory.</p> - -<p>“No; the cry beneath its strength and sunshine -was faint, barely discernible. I confess -that at the first reading, which I took at a -draught, I did not observe it. It was when I -returned, as I did, to sip the wine of its poetic -fancy that I detected the slightly bitter taste. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>Yet bitter is not a fair word to use. Bittersweet -would be better, though that barely fits -the flavour. The exact word—if one exists—has -escaped me.</p> - -<p>“You quote from Emerson, and also speak of -compensation. Of course, you know this:</p> - -<p>“‘We cannot part with our friends. We cannot -let our angels go. We do not see that they -go out only that archangels may come in.... -The compensations of calamity are made apparent -to the understanding also, after long intervals -of time.... It permits or constrains the formation -of new acquaintances and the reception of -new influences, that prove of the first importance -to the next years; and the man or woman -who would have remained a sunny garden-flower, -with no room for its roots and too much sunshine -for its head, by the falling of the walls and the -neglect of the gardener is made the banian of the -forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighbourhoods -of men.’</p> - -<p>“Your quotation made me look up my Emerson. -I found your sentence, and went on to read ‘Compensation,’ -whence I have copied the above.</p> - -<p>“Would your writing have been as human -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span>were it not for the hidden wound you bear? Is -it some compensation to know that to one soul -at least your words have brought refreshment? -What are you writing now?</p> - -<p>“I like your pseudonym.”</p></blockquote> - -<p class="indent">Peter read the letter through twice then put -it on the table while he prepared his supper. -He laid two places to-night, laughing at himself -for the fancy. His Unknown Lady was very -present with him, you perceive.</p> - -<p class="indent">He pretended—and loved the pretence—that -she was dining with him. He let himself imagine -that a woman, clad in chiffon and lace, and fragrant -with that delicate scent of lavender, sat -in the chair opposite to him; that the candle-light -was playing on her warm hair, finding -reflection in her luminous eyes. No palace contained -a more courteous host that night than did -that little cottage; no royal guest received a -greater welcome than did Peter’s Dream Lady.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was a strange, fantastic little scene. Had -any one peered through the cottage window, -they would have seen a barely furnished room, -a meagre supper-table lit by a couple of candles, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span>and, seated at the table, a man in well-cut evening -clothes—a man groomed with the fresh cleanness -of a well-bred Englishman. They would have -seen a second place laid at the table, and in the -second place, between the knife and fork, a bluish -letter lying. They would have seen both glasses -filled with red wine.</p> - -<p class="indent">Mad? Not a bit of it! Peter was entirely -sane, and very refreshingly healthy. But—and -herein lay the difference between him and many -of his countrymen—he was possessed of a fine -imagination.</p> - -<p class="indent">And when Peter had drunk the health of his -Dream Lady, he began to talk to her; and for -this purpose pen, ink, and paper came once more -into requisition.</p> - -<blockquote><p class="right"><i>“May 29th</i>.</p> - -<p>“Your first letter was welcome; your second is -ten thousand times more so. The first was the -mere fluttering of a signal, waved at a distance. -This evening you are near, and I can speak more -easily.</p> - -<p>“As for the garment of tradition, I fancy it -may at times be discarded by ourselves and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>gently, and again donned without fear of it fitting -less well. In fact, may it not gain greater value -in our own eyes and in the eyes of others by its -temporary disuse? It is when fate strips it from -us, tearing it to ribbons in the process, that it -cannot again be worn, or worn merely as a sorry, -ragged semblance of what it once has been. It -is then, to use your own parlance, that one feels -‘out of things.’ I, who write to you, speak from -experience. Fate tore my garment from me, -and in so doing made the wound you have detected. -But enough of that. The touch of your -hand upon it has eased its smart, though possibly—nay -probably—the scar will remain throughout -my life.</p> - -<p>“Thank you for your quotation. Yes; I know -it. I am glad the shade of my banian-tree—a -very small one—has reached you, and its fruit -brought you refreshment. The ‘ever-onward’ -note of Emerson is exhilarating. There is no repining, -no sitting down with folded hands under -grief, but an ever pushing forward to the light, as -a green shoot pushes aside earth and stones in its -journey upward through the soil to the sun.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am writing again; but the last few -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>days I have done little. I could not tear myself -away from the thought of the next letter I should -receive from you. Sometimes I feared that none -would come, that you might have regretted your -offer. It was an unworthy thought; forgive me. -Now, I shall write again quietly.</p> - -<p>“You ask what it is that I am writing. It -is the story of a man, a wayfarer. I do not think -there is much plot in the story. Probably all -the plot lies in the past which he has thrown -behind him. Fate has made of him a wanderer, -as she has made a recluse of me. During his -wanderings he thinks much. I am endeavouring -to record those thoughts as he traverses the fields -and lanes. If the gods are good to me, perhaps -one day the thoughts may reach you in book form. -Then you will give me your opinion on them.</p> - -<p>“Soon you will be among your night-stocks -in your garden. Their perfume will be more -fragrant than the scent of ballrooms and theatres.</p> - -<p>“Good-night.</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Robin Adair.</span></p> - -<p>“Have I thanked you for your letter? I do -thank you from my heart.”</p></blockquote> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">A REQUEST</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Some</span> evenings later Peter was again a host -holding sweet converse with his Lady. Here, -first, are her words to him.</p> - -<blockquote><p class="right2">“<span class="smcap">London</span>,</p> -<p class="right">“<i>June 3rd</i>.</p> - -<p class="indent">“The day after to-morrow I shall be in my -garden, revelling in its beauty and in the perfume -of my night-stocks. The scent of ballrooms -and theatres will be left behind in this -big noisy London. It has its fascination, though. -This morning the streets were bathed in sunlight, -and crowded with women in gay dresses -till they looked like a great restless nosegay. -We talk of ‘Spring in the country,’ but here its -note is just as insistent. In February the Parks -were brilliant with crocuses, their hardy little -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>yellow, white, and purple flowers spreading far -under the trees. They were followed by daffodils -and tulips, masses of glorious colour. And for -sheer beauty give me a sunset across the Parks, -or the blue mists veiling the great masses of building. -Or, again, the river between sunset and -night. Have you ever walked along the Embankment -in the evening? I walked there yesterday. -Westward the river and sky flamed purple, -crimson, and gold; eastward a silver haze covered -land and water, with pale lights shining through -and reflected in the river. A small boy walking -with his mother exclaimed in rapture, ‘Oh, mother, -look at the lights!’ ‘What about them, dear?’ -came the reply. The matter-of-fact tone of the -words was indescribable. Thus is the early -glimmering of poetry effaced from the infant -mind. I write of it lightly. At the moment -indignation and tears struggled for the mastery.</p> - -<p>“I read the following advertisement in a paper -the other day:</p> - -<p>“‘Wanted, a bright sympathetic woman, not -necessarily under 25, as Companion-Help in -a family of three. No children, no washing, -but the ordinary work of the house to be done. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>Must be educated, as she is wanted to be one -of the family and help in philanthropic work. -Will be needed to do plain cooking, and a “sense -of humour” will be appreciated. Salary a matter -of arrangement. Protestant.’</p> - -<p>“Then followed the address. Doesn’t it strike -you as rather funny? Can you imagine any one -sitting down solemnly to answer it? Testimonials -re a sense of humour!</p> - -<p>“‘Dear Madam, in my former situations my -sense of humour proved a great attraction. I -enclose extracts from references. “Jane Smith -is the soul of wit.” “Our Companion-Help -kept us through meal-time in one perpetual roar -of laughter.” “Laughter is the best digestive -sauce. Jane Smith’s humour provides that sauce!”’</p> - -<p>“I am glad you think I may at times discard -my garment of tradition. Now I come to think -of it, I believe I did discard it when I first wrote -to you. I do not think at that moment the -ancestral garment can have been upon me. Talking -of that first letter, will you do me a favour? -I want you to burn it. It was too solemn, too -serious, written with altogether too heavy a pen. -Something made me write it, and I am glad of it; -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>but I was so anxious to place myself above the -possibility of a snub that my sense of humour was -for the moment obliterated. I took myself and -my own importance too seriously. Therefore -please destroy it, though it is quite possible that -you have already done so.</p> - -<p>“I want to read the thoughts of your Wanderer. -They should be untrammelled thoughts, wide -as the open spaces he is traversing. <i>When</i> the -gods are good to you I shall look for a copy of -the book. I prefer my word to your ‘if.’</p> - -<p>“My next letter shall be written from my -terrace if the sunshine continues in this glory. -Good-night.”</p></blockquote> - -<p class="indent">The letter read, Peter repeated the little ceremony -of dining with, and toasting, his Lady. -He then proceeded to write to her.</p> - -<blockquote><p class="right">“<i>June 5th.</i></p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Lady</span>,—Thank you for your letter. -Doubtless the Muses join with you in your tears -and indignation when they see their children -stifled at birth. I wonder what ‘Mrs. Be-done-by-as-you-did’ -will have in store for those parents. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>Yet their intentions are probably of the very best.</p> - -<p>“I should like to see the answers that advertisement -will receive. Protestant and philanthropic -work, when advertised as such, seem -inconsistent with a sense of humour. The person -who answers the advertisement will either be -devoid of it, or possess it in a very marked degree.</p> - -<p>“Why should the first favour you ask of me -be one I have not the heart to grant! I cannot -burn that letter. I should watch it shrivel and -twist in the flames like some protesting living -thing. It would be like burning the photograph -of a friend. Call me superstitious, idiotic, any -name you choose, but I can’t do it. I will, however, -return it to you, though with great reluctance, -and you can do with it as you will. -Send me in exchange one of your night-stocks. -It will be less shrivelled than your letter had I -done as you ask.</p> - -<p>“Dear Unknown Lady, when my next book -is published—you see, I accept your correction—have -I your permission to dedicate it to you? -With the exception of the first two chapters, -which were written before I knew you, it is written -to you and for you alone. My Wanderer speaks -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>his thoughts directly to you, believing that they -will find favour in your sight.</p> - -<p>“Though I have churlishly refused the favour -you asked of me, will you grant me this one?</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Robin Adair.</span>”</p></blockquote> - -<p class="indent">Peter put the letter into an envelope and -addressed it. After a few minutes he came out -of the cottage into the little copse.</p> - -<p class="indent">The June night was very still. The after-glow -from the sunset still lingered in the west; -the darkness would be of short duration.</p> - -<p class="indent">Suddenly the sound of wheels struck on Peter’s -ear, and the quick clear tang of horses’ hoofs -on the dry road. A few moments later a carriage -came into sight, and drove past him towards the -village. In spite of the dusk Peter saw that the -men on the box wore livery, and a lamp inside -the carriage gave him a glimpse of two women’s -forms. A couple of boxes were strapped at the -back of the carriage.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Without doubt,” said Peter to himself, “it -is Lady Anne returning.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">THE LADY ANNE</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lady</span> Anne Garland was sitting by a rosewood -writing-desk in her morning-room. She had finished -her letters, and was now sitting idle, gazing -through the window on to the terrace, and away -to the distant woods and hills, which lay serenely -blue in the sunlight.</p> - -<p class="indent">She was dreaming rather than thinking, and -a pleasant little dream it would seem, by the half -smile in her grey eyes. The sunshine lay along -the floor in a broad, vivid patch. It fell across -her white dress and on her dark hair, which held -the blue-black sheen of a rook’s plumage. Her -skin was creamy-white, and her mouth, modelled -like the mouth of a Greek statue, was of geranium -red. In fine, Lady Anne was beautiful.</p> - -<p class="indent">The sound of the door opening made her turn -her head. A small thin woman entered. She -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>was dressed in a tailor-made dress of some pepper-and-salt -material, and wore a black straw hat, -rather floppy, and distinctly out of keeping with -her otherwise tailor-made appearance. Her hair -was grey, and her skin somewhat like parchment, -but her eyes and mouth were kindly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Finished your letters?” she asked.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes,” said Anne, getting up from her desk. -“Come into the garden. It is too lovely a day -to waste indoors.”</p> - -<p class="indent">She led the way through the French window -on to the terrace, and sat down on one of two -deck-chairs. Miss Haldane followed her example.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You should have a hat,” she said abruptly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“No,” replied Anne lazily, “I like the sun. I -think my skin is too thick to burn. Look at -the blueness on those woods and hills; isn’t it -glorious?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane put up her eyeglasses and looked -at the landscape.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Very nice, my dear. Jabez said the hay -harvest was unusually good this year.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Jabez was the head gardener.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne laughed softly. “You are so delightfully -practical, Matty dear. If the sun shines -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>you think of the crops, if the rain falls you think -of the crops, if the wind blows you still think of -the crops. You missed your vocation when you -took up the post of companion to a sentimental -dreamer; you should have been a farmer.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Had the good Lord made me a man, I should -have been one,” replied Miss Haldane instantly. -“As it is, I take an interest in the farming of your -tenants. And you must allow that weather is -of the first importance to them.” She dropped -her eyeglasses and looked at Anne.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I know,” owned Anne; “but turnips do not -appeal to me. I love my flowers to have their -needs supplied, however; and that shows that -I am selfish enough to be merely interested in -what interests me.”</p> - -<p class="indent">There was a pause.</p> - -<p class="indent">“The cottage in the copse has found an inhabitant,” -said Miss Haldane suddenly and abruptly. -“I can’t call him a tenant because the man pays -no rent. I suppose no one knows to whom the -rent would be due.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Really!” exclaimed Anne, replying to the -first part of Miss Haldane’s speech. “Who -has been bold enough to venture there?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“A vagabond of sorts, I believe,” said Miss -Haldane. “Of course, the villagers are looking -upon him with suspicion and distrust. He -wears a peacock feather in his hat and plays the -penny whistle.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“How pleasant!” said Anne.</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane snorted. “Can’t you have him -turned out?” she demanded. “I don’t think it -is a good plan to have a vagabond settling in -the village.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“The cottage is not mine,” replied Anne; -“as far as I know, it is no man’s property. Besides, -does he do any harm—poach, or anything -like that?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Not that I know of,” returned Miss Haldane. -“In fact, they say he buys, and pays for, certain -provisions at the village shop.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Then,” said Anne lazily, “he is not a vagabond. -A vagabond is one without visible means -of subsistence; this man evidently has visible -means. I wonder what he is like. I fancied -no man would have braved that cottage after -nightfall even if he had ventured within at daylight. -At all events, superstition has been very -rife around it.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“They say he plays the penny whistle beautifully,” -remarked Miss Haldane.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne’s eyes twinkled. “You have culled much -information since our arrival last night, Matty -dear. The man shall come and give us a concert.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“My dear!”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Why not?” asked Anne carelessly. “An -unstudied simple concert on the penny whistle -would, I am sure, be full of charm. Burton -shall go down to-morrow and request him from -me to come up to the terrace.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane was shocked, perturbed. In -a word, she fluttered in a manner not unlike an -elderly hen with a duckling chick.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You cannot do it, Anne. You cannot send -a footman to the cottage and ask the man to -come up here. In the first place, he is probably -a socialist, and wouldn’t come. In the -second place—well, it isn’t nice.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne laughed outright. “Dear Matty, your -favourite adjective! With the negative prefix -it applies equally to a burnt pudding, or to a -woman who leaves her husband in order to -run away with another man. But you’re a -dear, and I won’t laugh at you; and you -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>shan’t be present at the concert if you’d rather -not.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane spoke a little stiffly. “If you -will be foolish, Anne, I must be present at your -folly. It is the only way in which I can merit -the liberal salary you give me.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Dear Matty, what nonsense!” said Anne.</p> - -<p class="indent">Again there was silence, and it lasted some -time. Butterflies flitted in the still air, bees -droned lazily in a lime-tree to the west of the -terrace, and once or twice a dragonfly skimmed -past with a flash of iridescent wings.</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane looked at Anne lying back in -the deck-chair, which was placed at its lowest -angle. Her own was as upright as was consistent -with its nature. She had a piece of crochet -in her hands, and was working industriously. -Matilda Haldane was never idle, and she never -lolled. From her earliest years she had been -told to “get something useful to do,” if there -happened to be a single spare moment in the -ordinary routine of walks, meals, and lessons. -Later she was obliged, on her own account, to -get something useful to do, and to keep doing -it, if she was to live in the smallest degree as she -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span>imagined a lady should live. There had been -nothing extravagant about Miss Haldane’s ideas, -either, but they had included a seat in a church -where sittings were rented and threepence to be -placed Sunday morning and evening in the -offertory-bag.</p> - -<p class="indent">The useful occupation which provided her with -a means of livelihood had been monotonous—how -monotonous only Miss Haldane knew. Then -suddenly, and by some intervention of providence, -Lady Anne Garland came across her path, -and at a moment when Lady Anne was—to use -her own parlance—tired of companions who were -either entirely opinionated or entirely deprecating, -or, worse still, who dissolved into floods of injured -tears if told that Anne wished to receive a guest -alone.</p> - -<p class="indent">Something about the little dried-up woman—probably -her quiet and indomitable pluck under -adverse conditions—appealed to Anne. A month -after their first meeting, Miss Haldane found -herself transplanted to Anne’s London house, -with a salary that far exceeded her wildest dreams. -The only fly in her ointment was the thought -that she did nothing to merit it. Merely to -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>live in a house, to be waited upon by servants, -to eat dainty food, and to drive with Anne in -the Parks, seemed to her an utterly inadequate -return for the money she received. It was, -however, all that Lady Anne wished her to do. -After a time she grew accustomed to the fact -that this was all that was expected of her. Her -own innate dignity and Anne’s charming and -frank manner prevented her from feeling herself -a dependent, and an odd but very sincere friendship -was the result.</p> - -<p class="indent">This was now the third summer that she had -sat on the terrace and watched Anne lazing in -the sunlight. Her beauty, her youthful vigour, -in spite of her present indolent pose, struck Miss -Haldane anew.</p> - -<p class="indent">Suddenly Miss Haldane spoke. “Anne,” she -said, “I wonder you have never married.”</p> - -<p class="indent">The sound of the luncheon gong followed on -the speech. Anne rose from her chair with -panther-like grace.</p> - -<p class="indent">“So do I, Matty dear—sometimes.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“But why don’t you?” asked Miss Haldane.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne walked to the window. At the window -she turned. “Because,” she said, mock-solemnity -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>in her voice, “though few people realize it, I -have a soul.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Of course you have,” replied Miss Haldane -seriously; “but what has that got to do with -marriage?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne laughed. “Nothing, of course,” she -replied; “and all the men I happen to know -would agree with you. Don’t look puzzled, -Matty dear, but come and have lunch.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">A CONCERT—AND AFTER</h3> - -<p class="center">I</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Peter</span> was partaking of a noonday meal of -bread and cheese and beer when a knock came -on his cottage door. For a moment or two he -thought his ears must have deceived him, and -he did not move. But the knock was repeated.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter got up and opened the door. A man -in footman’s garb was standing outside. He -looked Peter up and down with a slightly -supercilious expression.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well?” demanded Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">“The Lady Anne Garland wishes you to bring -your penny whistle-pipe to the terrace at four -o’clock this afternoon, and be punctual,” he -announced.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was not precisely the formula in which -Lady Anne had worded the message, but Burton -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>considered it an exact enough paraphrase to be -delivered to a mere vagabond. It was in his -eyes an even over-courteous method of delivering -the message.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Indeed!” said Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Four punctual,” repeated the man with a -slightly insolent air. And he turned from the -door.</p> - -<p class="indent">Had he lingered a moment longer Peter would -quite probably have kicked him. Astonishment -on Peter’s part and a swift retreat on his alone -saved him.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Upon my word!” ejaculated Peter, looking -after the retreating figure. Then he went into -the cottage and shut the door.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Insolence or fame,” remarked Peter to his -glass of beer, “in which light shall I regard it?” -And then suddenly he laughed.</p> - -<p class="indent">After all it smacked finely of medieval days, -this command from the lady of the manor to -appear before her. Annoyance began to vanish; -even the insolence of the flunkey was in the picture. -It was fame, there was no question about it.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And, Robin Adair, you writer of tales, here’s -a subject made to your hand,” he quoted.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Oh, he’d act the part well! A hint more disarray -than usual about his costume, his oldest -coat and trousers—he had two day suits now, -this possessor of a cottage—must certainly be -worn, with the peacock feather at its jauntiest -angle. He must also allow himself a slight -air of swagger, as of one conferring a favour; -in appearance the vagabond they regarded him, -in manner a Kubelik stepping with assurance -before his audience.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter began to be pleased; to look forward -to the appointed hour with interest. It was -the writer in him, the man who sees, in any -novel situation in which he may find himself, -new material for his pen.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Fate,” quoth Peter to himself, “is thrusting -another rôle upon me.” And then as children—and -grown-ups for the matter of that—count -cherry stones, he ticked them off on his fingers. -“Gentleman, scamp, jail-bird, tramp, author, -writer of letters to an Unknown Fair One, and -piper to the lady of the manor. Peter, my son, -what else have the Fates in store for you?” -And then he gave a little involuntary sigh, for -after all, was not the chief rôle assigned to him—the -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>one which superseded all others—that of a -lonely man?</p> - -<p class="indent">“Fool!” cried Peter to his heart. “Does -not the sun shine for you, the wind blow for you, -and the birds sing for you? Have you not free -and untrammelled communion with Nature in -all her varying moods?”</p> - -<p class="indent">But all the same the very enumeration of the -many rôles seemed to have emphasized the one -more strongly.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="indent">At a quarter to four Peter, in his oldest and -shabbiest garments, with the peacock feather -extremely jaunty in his shabby felt hat and his -whistle-pipe in his pocket, set off for the white -house on the hill.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was a still sunny day, like many of its predecessors -that summer. June had taken the -earth into a warm, peaceful grasp. There was -a restfulness about the atmosphere, a quiet assurance -of continued heat and sunshine. A -faint breeze came softly from the west, barely -stirring the leaves on the hedges. To the east -were great masses of luminous cloud, piled like -snow-mountains, motionless and still. The dust -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>lay thick and powdery in the lane, whitening -Peter’s boots; the grass, too, was powdered, but -slightly, for there was little traffic this way. -Peter, to whom the passing of a vehicle was somewhat -of an event, barely ever counted more than -two or three in the day.</p> - -<p class="indent">He left the lane behind him and came out -on to the village green. As he passed across -it men looked at him suspiciously, and a woman -carrying a basket stepped hastily to one side -as if she feared contact with him. Peter smiled -brilliantly, and raised his hat with an air of almost -exaggerated courtliness. One man spat on the -ground and muttered something that sounded -like a curse, but Peter went on his way apparently -unheeding.</p> - -<p class="indent">He passed the lodge gates and went up the -drive, under beeches green, copper, and purple, -their trunks emerald and silver in the sunlight. -On the terrace to the right of the house he saw -two figures, one in white and one in some neutral -colour. As he drew near the white-robed figure -raised her hand, beckoning him to approach.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter came up to the terrace, standing just -below on the gravel path. He swept off his -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>hat and stood bareheaded. Then he looked -up and saw Lady Anne Garland watching him.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter’s heart gave a jump, and for no reason -in the world that he could ascribe, beyond the -fact that she was beautiful, oh! but undeniably -beautiful. She was a young woman, tall and -slender, in a white dress, and a crimson rose -tucked in her waist-belt. She wore no hat. Her -hair shone blue-black, warm and lustrous in the -sun.</p> - -<p class="indent">Of the other woman Peter took little note, -beyond observing that she was elderly and looked -at him with evident disapproval.</p> - -<p class="indent">“So you are Peter the Piper?” said Lady Anne -in her low, distinguished voice.</p> - -<p class="indent">“At your service,” said Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">Lady Anne looked at him curiously. He -was altogether different from what she had expected, -this man in the shabby clothes, with -the brilliant peacock feather, and with the bronzed -clear-cut face and sad eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">“We have heard,” said Anne, and there was -an air of royal graciousness in the words, “that -you are a marvellous piper. Are you willing -to pipe for us?” She smiled at him as she spoke. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>And again Peter’s heart jumped, and began to -beat at a fine rate.</p> - -<p class="indent">“With all the pleasure in the world,” he replied, -and he drew the pipe from his pocket.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne watched him as he laid his fingers lovingly -around it. For a moment or so he stood motionless. -And then he began to play.</p> - -<p class="indent">First Anne heard an ordinary little march, -quite conventional, but sufficiently gay and -lively. Then it broke into curious discords -played in rapid succession. Next followed a -minor passage, tense, constrained, as if the strange -little air running through it were struggling for -greater liberty of expression. Suddenly it found -it, blending into a Te Deum, grand and glorious. -All at once it stopped, breaking again into a succession -of strange discords which hurt Anne to -hear. There was an instant’s pause, as if the -first half of his theme were finished. Then, played -in the minor key, came a gay song with an under -note of marching feet, and through it a wistful -yearning as for something lost. The air changed -to the major, and was repeated. Then came a -little melody played quite separately and on its -own account, a little rocking melody, not unlike -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span>a cradle song. It ceased, and a new theme began -quite unlike anything that had preceded it. -Anne listened with suspended breath. She made -no attempt to classify it as she had classified his -previous themes. But above and beyond all the -others it spoke directly to her heart.</p> - -<p class="indent">Suddenly she was aware that the music -had stopped, and that Peter was looking at -her like a man who has just come out of a -trance.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne’s eyes were full of tears.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Thank you,” she said, and she held out her -hand.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter came forward and took it. Then—it -seemed that the action was almost involuntary—he -raised it to his lips.</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane fairly gasped, sitting upright -and grasping the supports of the deck-chair with -both hands. The effrontery! the audacity! the—the—she -had no further word in her vocabulary -with which to express her indignation.</p> - -<p class="indent">Yet if Lady Anne were displeased she did not -show it. She looked at Peter long and curiously, -as if seeking for something she might find, something -that escaped, eluded her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“You will come and play to me again?” she -asked.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Perhaps,” said Peter thoughtfully. He seemed -not yet fully recovered from what had appeared -like a trance.</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane made an inarticulate sound in -her throat. This assuredly surpassed everything. -She had been right, quite right, when she had -considered he might be a socialist.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It must of course,” said Anne courteously, -“be exactly as you wish.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter bowed, and the next moment moved -away, walking down the avenue of beeches. -Anne looked after his retreating figure thoughtfully, -wonderingly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Impudence!” gasped Miss Haldane. She -felt that her goddess, her divinity, had been -insulted.</p> - -<p class="indent">“No, Matty dear,” said Anne, “the man is an -artist.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“An artist!” said Miss Haldane. She was -unwilling to allow that the music had appealed -to her.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes,” replied Anne, musing, “an artist! -Heaven knows how many faults of construction -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>there may not have been in his theme. Possibly -had I been educated in the technical knowledge -of music I should have found it positively -bristling with them. I am glad I know nothing -of the technique of music. I could listen and -appreciate. Don’t you understand, Matty dear, -how wonderful it was! The man’s a genius!”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well!” ejaculated Miss Haldane. She got up -and moved towards the French window. Before -entering she turned suddenly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“My dear,” she exclaimed, “you never paid -him!”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I know,” said Lady Anne quietly.</p> - -<p class="center">II</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter walked back to his cottage with his mind -in a turmoil.</p> - -<p class="indent">It had been utterly, entirely different from -the scene he had pictured to himself. He had -not swaggered, he had not stepped on to his -platform with an air of assurance. Something -had gripped him, something indefinable and -powerful, and he—Peter—had lost the strength -to assert his own personality.</p> - -<p class="indent">It had been there, sure enough, but swayed, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>dominated, by something outside, beyond him. -It had come out from himself, forced out it -would seem, into the music of his piping. He -had played himself, his own story, to this woman -on whom he had never before set eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">Yet did he not know her? Had he never -before seen her? Peter searched the recesses of -his memory, penetrating to its remotest corners, -but with no avail.</p> - -<p class="indent">No; in spite of all searching memory remained -a blank. Instinct, intuition—call it what you -will—said, “You know this woman.” Reason -said as firmly, “You do not.”</p> - -<p class="indent">He had reached his cottage by now. He went in -and shut the door. He would work. He wanted -to soothe his mind. He would throw himself into -the quiet calm thoughts of his Wanderer.</p> - -<p class="indent">He pulled paper, pen, and ink towards him -and turned resolutely to his manuscript. For -over an hour he sat with it before him, then -suddenly realized that he had written no single -word. It was useless to attempt to write in this -mood. A vague unrest was upon him.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter pushed the papers aside, and leaving the -cottage, set off to walk across the moorland.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">A DISCLOSURE</h3> - -<blockquote><p class="center2"><i>The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair</i></p> - -<p class="right2">“<span class="smcap">The Terrace</span>,</p> - -<p class="right">“<i>June 8th</i>.</p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Here</span>, Robin Adair, is a night-stock from below -my terrace. I enclose it while it is white -and fragrant. It will reach you brown and -shrivelled; but, as you say, less shrivelled than -my letter would have been—in fact, as it now -is. It lies on the terrace beside me, a little -heap of grey powdered ashes. This flower is its -resurrected form. It is slighter, subtler, more -fragrant than that letter. I began to re-read it, -but did not get far; it was too serious, Robin -Adair.</p> - -<p>“I am, as the above will have told you, writing -from my terrace in the cool of the evening. A -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>lamp in the window of my morning-room affords -me light. The sky is grey-blue, and away in the -west, Venus, who is an evening star at the moment, -is shining calm and peaceful.</p> - -<p>“I had a concert on this very terrace yesterday -afternoon. A so-called vagabond piped to -me, wearing shabby clothes and a peacock feather -in his hat....”</p></blockquote> - -<p class="indent">Peter laid down the letter a moment. His -brain was whirling. Not even on the receipt -of the first letter from his Lady had it whirled -with such rapidity. Here, then, was the explanation. -Of course, he had known her before. He -had had glimpses of her mind, her soul, her delicate -fanciful imaginings. She had embodied suddenly -before him, and unconsciously his soul had recognized -her, though reason had urged to the contrary. -It was incredible, marvellous! In actual -everyday life such things did not happen. Yet -here was the proof thereof, finely, clearly traced -with black ink on a sheet of bluish note-paper.</p> - -<p class="indent">He picked up the letter again, and began to read -further.</p> - -<blockquote><p class="no-indent">“It was a wonderful concert. Music has -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>never before so stirred, so moved me. Picture -to yourself an ordinary penny whistle, from -which divine music was produced. He told a -life-story in his piping, yet fragmentary sentences -alone reached me. It was as if I were reading -a book in a language of which I knew but a few -words. Can you understand?</p> - -<p>“What there was in the first part of his theme, -I know not; but he, that strolling player, had -suffered. Part of his theme beat and struggled -for liberty like a caged bird, or like an imprisoned -mind—a fettered expression. And when the expression, -the liberty came—that was what hurt—it -was smashed, broken. Can you picture a -caged skylark, longing, pining for liberty, then -seeing the cage door open, and flying forth into -the sunlight, its throat bursting with rapture, -only to find itself seized by some ruthless hand, -wings torn from its body? Yet the bird was not -dead; there was the horror. It lay still, bleeding, -apparently lifeless, then lifted its head. Maimed -though it was, it would still sing; and its song -should be no complaint, but one to encourage and -cheer all other injured things. I could have wept -for the pluck, the courage of the little creature. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>And after a time it began to grow wings—little -young wings that carried it just above the earth -into the open it loved. It was only a little way, -but it meant such a lot to that skylark. It was -here, at the end, that the music spoke most -directly to my heart. The song the partially -healed skylark sang seemed to be sung for me -alone, and yet here the translation of the words -most failed me.</p> - -<p>“The man is an artist. I wish he would play -for me again. Yet I dare no more ask him now -than I would dare ask Sarasate to come to my -terrace and play.</p> - -<p>“He—this piper—is living on the outskirts -of the village, in a cottage reputed to be haunted. -Doubtless he has charmed and soothed the restless -spirits by his piping. This is a great deal -to write to you regarding an unknown strolling -player—though he is not strolling now—but the -man himself is unusual, while his music is superb. -He struck me as one of gentle birth. His speech -was educated, and his whole appearance, in spite -of his shabby clothes, refined. I am sure he has a -story—one, Robin Adair, that might be worthy -of your pen.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span></p> - -<p>“My companion—a dear, but very old-fashioned—resented -his behaviour. She thought he did -not treat me with sufficient respect, mainly because -he did not jump at the proposal of playing -to me again. I did suggest I should like to hear -him; but to send for him again, to send a footman -to fetch him as I did before, would be impossible. -I hope Burton delivered my message nicely. I -worded it courteously, at all events.</p> - -<p>“How goes your Wanderer, and are his thoughts -progressing? That you should dedicate those -thoughts to me pleases me immensely. I think -it an honour that you should care to do so.</p> - -<p>“I am glad you did not burn my letter. I am -glad you cared enough about it—poor dull thing -though it was—to refuse to do so. I did not -mean to say this to you, yet I have.</p> - -<p>“Good-night.”</p></blockquote> - -<blockquote><p class="center2"><i>Peter (alias Robin Adair) to the Unknown Critic, -whom he now knows to be the Lady Anne -Garland</i></p> - -<p class="right">“<i>June 10th.</i></p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Lady</span>,—I am in a contrary frame of -mind to-night. I want to write to you, yet am -in no mood to do so.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span></p> - -<p>“I have met your vagabond piper, and know -him more intimately than you might suppose. -He is an impostor, though a harmless one, I -grant. His music is not bad, but I doubt his -playing to you again. The fellow has a good -conceit of himself.</p> - -<p>“After all, I find I cannot write to-night. -Thank you for the flower.</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Robin Adair.</span>”</p></blockquote> - -<blockquote><p class="center2 no-indent"><i>The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair</i></p> - -<p class="right2">“<span class="smcap">The Terrace</span>,</p> -<p class="right">“<i>June 18th</i>.</p> - -<p>“Why are you so hard on my Piper? I do not -believe he is an impostor. And as for his music -being not bad! Robin Adair, are you one ‘who -has no music in him, and is not moved by concord -of sweet sounds,’ or in what way has this man -vexed you? The latter I believe to be the solution, -Robin Adair, and it is not worthy of you. -But I will not write more of him. I have not seen -him again, and the villagers speak of him with -bated breath as a friend of the Evil One. If he -were of my faith, I would ask Father Lestrange, a -kindly man, to call at the cottage. But as he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>never hears Mass he is evidently of another way of -thinking, and might regard the visit as an intrusion. -And for some reason he desires solitude. -One dare not therefore intrude. I feel, however, -that he is lonely, and have had, perhaps foolishly, -a desire to lessen that loneliness.</p> - -<p>“The country is very peaceful after London, -and I am revelling in my flowers, more especially -my roses. They are adoring this unwavering -sunshine and the warm nights. The gardeners -keep their roots well watered, so they—the roses—do -not suffer from thirst.</p> - -<p>“I had a letter from a friend of mine the other -day, a woman with a surplus of relations all eager -and willing to offer good advice and to point out -various neat and narrow little paths in which she -should walk and from which her soul recoils. -After remarking on their latest suggestions, she -writes succinctly: ‘The patience of Job was over-estimated. -His relations died.’</p> - -<p>“Why are some people so sure that their plan is -the right one, and why cannot they allow others -to go their own way, provided, of course, the way -does not run strictly counter to the law? In that -case, of course, there might be complications.</p> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span></p> - -<p>“Am I being very unoriginal when I lament -the little originality there is in the world, or, at -all events, in that portion of it which I know? -And what little there is, is so frequently mere -eccentricity. I believe some people would call -it original to discard one’s clothes and walk down -Bond Street in war-paint and feathers, though -certainly there would be a large majority who -would call it merely indecent, and in that case the -majority would doubtless be right. I believe I -am in a discontented mood this afternoon. There -is a discord somewhere in my harmonies.</p> - -<p>“Are you in a better mood for recording the -thoughts of your Wanderer than for writing to -me? I hope so. I am looking forward to reading -them. I want something to soothe me. In -spite of the peace that lies around me—the quiet -peace of Nature—I am restless.</p> - -<p>“Write to me, Robin Adair; tell me of your -Wanderer.”</p></blockquote> - -<blockquote><p class="center2"><i>Robin Adair to his one time Unknown Critic, or -Peter the Piper to the Lady Anne Garland</i></p> - -<p class="right">“<i>June 20th.</i></p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Lady</span>,—I was churlish when I last wrote. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>I know more of your Piper than you suppose. -Do not write to me of him, I beg.</p> - -<p>“As for my Wanderer, he has escaped me. I -intended to keep him entirely to the fields and -lanes, but he is off now to a hilltop. He has -caught a glimpse of a star, and thinks to gain -a closer vision of it from the hill. Poor fool! -What will the height of an ant-heap advantage -him? There are millions of miles between him -and the star. On the hill he will be restless and -miserable that he is no nearer. Why could he -not keep his eyes to the attainable?—the wayside -flowers, the green leaves of the hedges, all that -which is common property to prince and peasant -alike.</p> - -<p>“Long ago in his past—I told you he had a -past which he had thrown behind him—he cut -himself off from communion with his fellow-men. -He did not realize at the moment how complete -the severance would be; yet, if he had, I believe -he would have acted as he did. There seemed -then nothing else that he could do; even now there -appears to him nothing else. Maybe he made a -great mistake. If he did, he did not suffer alone, -there were others who suffered too; there’s the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>rub. He did not realize that they would suffer. -His optimism in human nature was too great. -Now he realizes that there are only the fields and -roads for him, only the companionship of birds, -beasts, and flowers, to whom his past is unknown -and can never be disclosed. His wings were torn -from him like the wings of that skylark of which -your vagabond Piper piped. True, he, too, grew -new wings with which he could rise just far enough -above the earth to see the star. But he can -never reach it, and, unlike your skylark, he cannot -sing cheerfully. Perhaps before he saw the -star he might have done so, but now his song lacks -buoyancy.</p> - -<p>“I fancy I shall have to leave him for a while -gazing disconsolately at his star, and start a -new book. He has endowed me with too much -of his present mood, and who will care to hear -the pinings of a wanderer for the unattainable? -I might bring him from the hilltop, blot out the -star from the sky. I have, indeed, already tried -to do so, but my Wanderer has moped and -sulked. That is the worst of these fiction people. -You feed them with your heart’s blood, you give -them life of your life that they may move as living -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>creatures and not as mere puppets pulled by -strings, and suddenly they escape you. The -path you have carefully chosen, in which they are -to tread, is refused by them. ‘It is the way you -have chosen,’ they will cry, ‘not the way we -choose!’ And if you protest that their path -will be of little interest to the public, they sulk, -insisting that, interest or no interest, it is the -true path. I will leave this flesh and blood -creature on the hilltop. If he bewails the distance -of his star from him, I will not record his -wailings. I will fashion a puppet, and merely -a puppet, and from first to last chapter I will -pull the strings myself.</p> - -<p>“Therefore I fear that the thoughts of my -Wanderer will never be printed to soothe you, -nor, I fear, can I be of much use in the matter. -I told you he had endowed me with his thoughts. -I might be the man himself. He has obsessed -me. I tell myself that I will look at his star and -worship it from afar, thankful for its benign rays. -But his restlessness is upon me. I want to get -near it, though I recognize the futility of my -desire. I am a fool.</p> - -<p>“May I take your friend, with her many relations, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>as the puppet for my next story? I will -pull the strings deftly, and she shall dance away -from them or frolic on their mangled corpses. -Which think you she would prefer?</p> - -<p>“I find that again my mood for letter-writing -is not of the most cheerful.</p> - -<p>“Good-night.</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Robin Adair.</span>”</p></blockquote> - -<blockquote> - -<p class="center2"><i>The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the Lady -Anne Garland to Peter the Piper</i></p> - -<p class="right2">“<span class="smcap">The Terrace</span>,</p> -<p class="right">“<i>June 27th</i>.</p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Robin Adair</span>,—What is it, I wonder, -that has disturbed us both? Some small and -unpleasant breeze has ruffled the surface of -our mind’s lake. Yet your course seems clear. -Since your Wanderer desires his star, let him -attain it. Let him build a ladder of moonbeams -and climb up to it, or if he is too much flesh and -blood, too material, for such a feat, let the star -descend to him. Are there not falling stars?</p> - -<p>“Since writing last I have had a letter from -a friend of mine. She is not well, and is feeling -lonely. I go to town next Thursday to stay -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>with her for three weeks, till her sister-in-law -can come and join her. Perhaps when I return -I shall have regained my old calm. At all events, -the stir, the movement of London will serve to -shake me out of this mood, which I cannot define, -but which is foreign to my nature.</p> - -<p>“I wish the vagabond Piper would give me -another concert before I go, but I dare not ask -him.”</p></blockquote> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">A MOONLIGHT PIPING</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lady</span> Anne Garland was sitting by her bedroom -window. It was wide open, and the perfume -of the night-stocks below the terrace rose -fragrant in the still air. The atmosphere was -darkly luminous, blue and purple, in which the -shapes of the trees and bushes stood out softly -black in the light of a half-moon.</p> - -<p class="indent">Away across the park, with its scattered oaks -and beeches, she could see masses of woodland -lying like dark patches on the distant hills. In -the valley the lights in the cottages had been -extinguished. One by one they had dropped -into the darkness, and now the whole village -lay asleep.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne leaned her arms on the window-sill and -looked out into the night. She had not yet -begun to prepare for bed, and she still wore the -silver-grey dress she had put on for dinner. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>The light from two candles on the dressing-table -behind her illumined the room, glinting -on silver-backed brushes and silver-topped bottles. -The walls of the room were white, and above the -bed hung an ebony crucifix with a silver Figure. -The black cross stood out in startling relief on -the white wall-paper. A table beside her bed -held a bowl of crimson roses, an unlighted reading-lamp, -and a green-covered book, the title printed -in gold letters. Between the leaves was an ivory -paper-cutter. The leaves, however, had long -since been cut; and for the sixth—the seventh—time -Anne was reading <i>Under the Span of the -Rainbow</i>.</p> - -<p class="indent">Suddenly Anne’s ear was arrested by a sound—a -faint sound, but the unmistakable crunch of -feet on gravel. The sound came from the drive. -She drew back into the room, extinguishing -one candle and moving the other so that its -light did not illumine the square of open window. -Then from behind the curtain she watched and -listened.</p> - -<p class="indent">The sound of the feet drew nearer, and a -man emerged from the shadow of the trees in -the drive. He walked unfalteringly. It was -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>not the wary approach of one who fears to be -seen.</p> - -<p class="indent">Below the terrace he halted. Anne quickly -extinguished the second candle, and leant a little -from her hiding-place by the curtain. The man -looked up, the moonlight falling full on his face, -and Anne saw that it was Peter the Piper. Her -breath came quickly and she watched, herself -unseen.</p> - -<p class="indent">She saw him lift his pipe to his lips, and then -the still night became full of music. This time -Anne made no attempt to classify his theme—to -read a story in the melody. Probably it held -none. It was music—music pure and simple, -which the Piper was playing for her alone.</p> - -<p class="indent">Breathless, entranced, she stood and listened. -Surely never was such a piping since King Midas -of old listened to the flutes of Pan. It was truly -Nature’s music, the instrument which produced -it forgotten. Liquid, caressing, it rose and fell -in soft cadences, yet faintly through it throbbed -the undernote of pain.</p> - -<p class="indent">How long it lasted Anne did not know. Suddenly -there was a pause. Then came the nightingale’s -song, one short phrase of pure rapture. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>Then silence. Anne saw Peter standing still in -the moonlight.</p> - -<p class="indent">On a sudden impulse she moved and pulled a -half-blown crimson rose from the bowl on the -table near her bed. She threw it from the -window and saw it fall at his feet. She saw him -stoop and raise it from the ground to his lips. -He looked up, and once more she saw his face.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne turned swiftly into the room. A moment -later there was again the sound of feet on the -gravel, a clear, crisp crunching which receded -in the distance.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">LE BEAU MONDE</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lady</span> Anne Garland was sitting in Mrs. -Cresswell’s drawing-room. It was a charming -room, with its domed ceiling, its panelled walls, -its long windows, its curtains and brocades of -dull orange and glowing brown, with its porcelains, -its bronzes, and its masses of yellow and -white roses in old china bowls and slender glasses.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne herself, in a dress of some gleaming -material, pale primrose in colour, was sitting -on an Empire sofa. The warm brown of its -brocade made a delightful harmony with the -colour of her dress—in fact, she looked entirely -in keeping with her surroundings. A white-haired -man, with blue eyes and wearing faultless -evening clothes, was sitting on the sofa beside -her; and Anne was asking herself where in the -name of wonder she had seen him before. Something -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>in his manner seemed familiar, or was it, -perhaps, his eyes, his keen old blue eyes under -their shaggy eyebrows? He had been introduced -to her early in the evening, and somehow there -had seemed at once a curious and indefinable -sympathy between them, one which had sprung -to life with the first conventional words they -had uttered. Throughout the evening he had -monopolized her—unquestionably monopolized -her—yet entirely without appearing to do so. -And over and over again Anne was asking herself -when and where she had seen him before.</p> - -<p class="indent">She glanced at him now as she slowly waved -her fan—a delicate thing of mother-of-pearl and -fine old cobwebby lace softly yellow with age. -Anne possessed the trick of fan-waving in its -subtlest form, a trick—or art—she had inherited -from an ancestor of more than a century ago, one -Dolores di Mendova, a very noted beauty of -the Spanish court, from whom Anne had also -inherited her hair, her creamy skin, and her -panther-like grace.</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden turned and saw that she was -watching him. A faint rose colour tinged the -ivory of Anne’s face.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“I was wondering,” she said, explanatory, -“where it was that I had seen you before.”</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden smiled, a gay old smile. “I -can tell you where I have seen you, though -whether you have deigned to notice me is quite -another matter.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes?” queried Anne the fan fluttering to -and fro.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I have frequently seen you driving in the -Park,” said General Carden. “You in your -carriage, I in my car.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes?” mused Anne, still doubtful.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You do not remember?” asked General -Carden. He was frankly disappointed.</p> - -<p class="indent">“On the contrary, I remember perfectly. I -confess I had forgotten the fact till you -mentioned it. Yet somehow it does not quite -explain—” She broke off.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Explain?” asked General Carden.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne laughed. “Explain the quite absurd -notion that I have actually spoken to you before. -Something in your manner, your speech, seems -almost familiar. I fancied I must have known -you—not intimately, of course, but slightly.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I fear,” he regretted, “that I have not had -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span>that pleasure. I shall hope now to be able to -make up for my previous loss. You live in -town?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“The greater part of the year,” said Anne. -“I spend three or four months in the country.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Which, no doubt, you like,” replied General -Carden courteously. “Being young, you are -able to enjoy it. I prefer London. I only leave -town during August, when I go abroad. And -the whole time I wish I were in England. An -unprofitable method of spending a yearly month -of one’s life. Once I—” He broke off. “I -am too old for travelling now,” he ended.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Isn’t that rather—nonsense?” said Anne, -with a faint hint of a smile, and glancing at -the upright figure beside her.</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden straightened his shoulders. -She was candid—absolutely candid—in her -remark.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Very charming of you to suggest it, Lady -Anne,” he said, and he tried unavailingly to -keep the pleasure out of his voice. “Perhaps -after all——”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes,” smiled Anne, “after all, you don’t find -it quite as disagreeable as you pretend.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Ah, well!” he said.</p> - -<p class="indent">There was a pleasant little silence. Anne -watched the groups of people in the room, sitting -or standing in intimate conversation. There -was an atmosphere of airy gaiety about the -place, a lightness, an effervescence. Listlessness -or boredom was entirely absent. In one of the -farthest groups was her friend, Muriel Lancing, -with whom she was staying. She was an elfin-like, -dainty figure in a green dress, on which -shone a brilliant gleam of diamonds. Muriel -herself was sparkling to-night like a bit of escaped -quicksilver.</p> - -<p class="indent">Rather nearer was another woman, tall and -massive. Her figure was undoubtedly good, -but her pose gave one the faintest suspicion that -she was conscious of that fact. She reminded -one of a statue which had become slightly animated -by some accident. Apparently, too, she -had never forgotten the fact of having been a -statue, and wished other people not to forget -it either. Her face was a faultless oval, and -her hair worn in a Madonna-like style. But -beyond the oval and the hair the Madonna-like -impression ceased. Her face was hard, there -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>was none of the exquisite warmth, the tender -humanity seen in the paintings of the Virgin -Mother.</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden was also looking at Mrs. -Sheldon, whom, it may be remembered, he had -seen on a previous occasion in the Park, a day -now three or four weeks old. Anne noticed the -direction of his glance.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Do you know her?” she asked suddenly, -then added as an afterthought, “She is a friend -of mine.” Anne did not state that it was a -friendship of only two years’ standing, and one -which existed infinitely more on Mrs. Sheldon’s -side than on her own.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I once had the honour of knowing her fairly -intimately,” replied General Carden. “We still -exchange bows and civil speeches, but—well, -I fancy I remind her of an episode she wishes to -forget—a perfectly unimpeachable little episode -as far as she was concerned, of course.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne glanced at him sideways. There was -almost a hard note in his voice, which had not -escaped her. She saw his profile clean-cut -against the dark panelling of the room. And -then a sudden little light of illumination sprang -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>to her eyes. She had all at once discovered of -whom it was he reminded her. There was in -his fine old face a very distinct look of the vagabond -Piper. It was one of those indefinable -likenesses which nevertheless exist, at all events -in the eyes of those who chance to see it. It -was faint, elusive, and to the majority it probably -would not be the least apparent, but Anne -now knew that it was this which had puzzled her -throughout the evening.</p> - -<p class="indent">And with the discovery came a sudden mental -picture of a man standing in the moonlight with -a crimson rose against his lips. It was a picture -that had presented itself many times to her -mental vision during the last few days, and as -many times had been dismissed. It was apt -to make her heart beat a trifle faster, to make -the warm colour surge faintly to her face. Being -unable—or unwilling—to account for a certain -picturesque, if too impetuous, impulse which -had moved her that moonlight night, she wished -to forget it. Yet it had a disturbing way of representing -itself before her mind.</p> - -<p class="indent">In banishing it now her thoughts turned into -another trend, which was apt to absorb them -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>quite a good deal, the thought of that writer -of letters and books—Robin Adair. Anne was -perfectly aware that this unknown writer occupied -a large amount of her mind; it swung and see-sawed -between him and the vagabond Piper in a -way that was almost uncomfortable and altogether -unaccountable. She was not accustomed to have -her thoughts encroached on in this way without -her will being consulted, and she could not understand -it, or she told herself that she could not -understand it, and that possibly came to the same -thing. At all events, she was undoubtedly in a -slight puzzlement of mind. It is the only word -to describe her vaguely perplexed state. As now -Robin Adair had swung uppermost, his book -presented itself to her as a subject of conversation.</p> - -<p class="indent">She asked General Carden if he had read it. -She fancied—it was probably pure fancy—that -he started slightly. He glanced, too, at Mrs. -Cresswell, who was only a few paces away and -quite possibly within earshot.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ah, yes,” he replied indifferently. “Mrs. -Cresswell recommended it to me—a fairly promising -book, I thought.” He was adhering -faithfully to the expression.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Fairly promising!” Anne’s voice held a note -akin to indignation. “I thought it delightful; -clever, cultured, quite admirably written.”</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden experienced a sensation which -might be described as a glow of satisfaction. -“Isn’t that,” he said, “rather high praise?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Not an atom more than the book deserves!” -responded Anne warmly. “And the reviews on -it—I saw two or three—were excellent.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Indeed!” said General Carden politely. The -old hypocrite had no mind to mention that every -review ever penned on it was now lying safely -locked in his desk, that he knew them all nearly -verbatim, that he had gloated over them, exulted -over them though with many a little stab of pain -in the region called the heart.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Of course,” pursued Anne thoughtfully, “it -isn’t merely a surface book, full of adventure, -movement, and incident; and what incident -there is might be termed improbable by those -who don’t realize that nothing is improbable, -nothing impossible. It’s in its style, its finish, its—its -texture that the charm and beauty of it lie.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“It has certainly some well-turned phrases,” -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>conceded General Carden magnanimously. He -liked her to talk about the book; he longed for -her to continue, though for the life of him he -could not give her a lead. Yet his grudging -admiration—all a pretence though it was, though -Anne could not know that—fired her to further -defence of the writing, stimulated her to fresh -praise.</p> - -<p class="indent">“There are delightful phrases!” she said -emphatically. “It is a modern book, yet with -all the delicacy, the refinement, the porcelain-air -of the old school. For all that the scenes are -laid mainly in the open, and are, as I said, quite -modern; it breathes an old-world grace, a kind -of powder-and-patches charm, which makes one -feel that the writer must have imbibed the finish, -the courtesy of the old school from his cradle, as -if it must have come to him as a birthright, an -inheritance.”</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden drew himself up. His blue -eyes were shining. “Your praise of the book,” -he said, “is delightful. The author”—his eyes -grew suddenly sad—“would, I am sure, be -honoured if he knew your opinion.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne flushed. Did he not know? Had she -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>not told him? Though perhaps not in those -very words.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It does surprise me,” she, allowed, after a -second’s pause, “that you are not more enthusiastic -about it. I should have fancied somehow—slightly -as I know you—that it would have -entirely appealed to you.”</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden gave a little cough. “It does -appeal to me,” he said. “It appeals to me -greatly—so much, in fact, that I assumed a -certain disparagement in order that I might -have the pleasure of hearing you refute me.” -He had forgotten Mrs. Cresswell, but the words -had not escaped her, absorbed though she appeared -to be in conversation, and there was the -tiniest—the very tiniest—expression of triumph -in her eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Anne, at once puzzled and debating. -And then she said, “I am longing to read his -next book.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“He has not published another, then?” queried -General Carden carelessly. Double-faced that -he was, he knew perfectly well that no second -book had appeared as yet. Had he not advised -Mudie’s—naturally not in Mrs. Cresswell’s -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>presence—to supply him with a copy the moment -one appeared?</p> - -<p class="indent">“No,” replied Anne. And she stopped. Had -not Robin Adair himself told her that his Wanderer -had escaped him, and Heaven knew whether he -would ever again be caught, chained, fettered, and -imprisoned in the pages and between the covers -of a book?</p> - -<p class="indent">Later in the evening General Carden, taking -his departure, said to Anne, “I should like to -have the honour of calling on you, if you will -allow me to do so.”</p> - -<p class="indent">And Anne replied: “I should be quite delighted. -I am staying now with Mrs. Lancing, -and go down to the country in a few days, but -I shall return to town to my own house in the -autumn.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“In the autumn, then,” said General Carden, -bowing over her hand.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">CONFIDENCES</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Muriel</span> Lancing, having partaken of breakfast -in her own room, was now lying in luxurious -and dainty <i>négligé</i> among a pile of extremely -snowy pillows. Anne, who had breakfasted in -the dining-room some half hour previously, was -sitting by the open window talking to her.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Anne,” said Muriel suddenly, glancing at -her from beneath lowered eyelashes, “I believe -I owe you a confession and an apology.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes?” queried Anne, smiling. “And for -what?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I wasn’t,” confessed Muriel, “one bit ill -when I wrote to you. I was only mentally sick -because I wanted Tommy, and he had to go -away on horrid business where I couldn’t accompany -him—at least, he said I couldn’t; and that -comes to the same thing—with Tommy.” Muriel -heaved a prodigious sigh.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Darling!” laughed Anne.</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel wrinkled her porcelain-like brows. “Oh, -Anne, life is heavenly! There’s only just one -long big beautiful moment with me and love and -Tommy. But there are ten million years of -purgatory to get through when he is away from -me, and then I’m soul-sick. And I tell myself -I’m a sentimental little fool, but it doesn’t do one -bit of good. So I wrote to you to come to me till -Patricia, who is a cheerful soul, can join me. -And I didn’t want to tell you it was sheer silly -loneliness, so I told you a little white lie,” she -ended tragically.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Of course,” said Anne serenely. “I knew.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Did you?” Muriel was half incredulous.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes; your letter just breathed ‘I want Tommy’ -all through it. And as a kind of postscript it -added, ‘But you’re better than nothing to this -poor moping person, so for Heaven’s sake come.’”</p> - -<p class="indent">“And I,” murmured Muriel pathetically, -“thought my letter the height of diplomatic -lying.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“On the contrary,” Anne assured her, “it -was as transparent as a crystal bowl.”</p> - -<p class="indent">For a few moments there was a silence. The -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>warm sun was pouring through the open window, -falling across the bed and the slightly tumbled -bedclothes, and glinting on the fair hair of the -woman who lay among the pillows. Strictly -speaking, Muriel Lancing was not beautiful, she -was not even pretty. But there was an odd -charm about her thin little face, her great grey-green -eyes, and her wide mouth. She had a -curious, almost elfin-like appearance. She was -not at all unlike Arthur Rackham’s pictures of -Undine as she lay there in some flimsy and diaphanous -garment suggestive of sea-foam. Herself—her -whole surroundings—held a suggestion -of elusiveness, a kind of cobwebby grace and -charm. Tommy—adored of Muriel—once said -that the house was like an oyster-shell, rough -and ugly on the outside, but inside all soft and -shimmery with a pearl in it. It was his most -brilliantly poetical effusion, and never likely to -be surpassed by him. The only single thing in -the room that struck an incongruous note was -a large—a very large—photograph frame on a -table by Muriel’s bed. It was a rough wooden -frame, distinctly crooked, and with the glue -showing somewhat in the corners. It held a -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>full-length photograph of an ugly, snub-nosed, -but quite delightful-faced young man with a -wide mouth and an appearance that rightly suggested -red hair and freckles. This was the adored -Tommy, and the frame was his own manufacture. -Next to the man himself they were Muriel’s -most treasured possessions.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne looked across at it. She had often seen -it before, but finding it difficult to discover the -most tactful observation to make regarding it, -had refrained from making any. This time, -however, Muriel seemed to notice the direction -of Anne’s eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Tommy made it himself,” she said, stretching -out one white arm, from which a flimsy -covering of lace and gauze-like material fell -away, disclosing its slender roundness. She -moved the frame to an angle better calculated -to show off its superior qualities.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Really!” said Anne, politely incredulous, -but understanding. It explained what had -hitherto been a cause for wonderment, namely, -why Muriel should choose to disfigure her room -with such a piece of furniture. Its size almost -calls for the designation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes,” said Muriel proudly, “himself. I -think,” she continued, contemplating the picture -with her head at as one-sided an angle as her -recumbent position would allow, “that it is a -beautiful frame.” There was the faintest suspicion -of a challenge in her voice.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I am quite sure,” said Anne in a perfectly -grave voice, “that you could not possibly have -a frame which you would value more. I know -I couldn’t if I happened to be you.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel laughed like a contented child. “Anne, -you’re several kinds of angels, and you have the -heavenliest way of saying the right thing and yet -speaking the truth. Of course I know that its -sides are crooked, and that there are little mountains -of glue in the corners. But you should have -seen Tommy’s face when he brought it to me. -The darling was so afraid it was not of quite the -most finished workmanship. Oh, Anne, between -the comicality of his face and the lop-sided expression -of the sticky frame—the glue wasn’t quite -dry—and the little lump in my own throat for -the darlingness of the thought, I very nearly had -hysterics. But I hid them on Tommy’s waistcoat, -and I adore the frame.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Of course,” said Anne, smiling.</p> - -<p class="indent">Again there was a little pause. Then Muriel -spoke suddenly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“What do you think of General Carden? He -monopolized you in the most disgraceful way -last night.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I liked him,” returned Anne, calmly ignoring -the question of monopoly. “It is delightfully -refreshing to meet a man so entirely of -the old school of thought and manners.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I think he’s quite a dear,” returned Muriel comfortably. -“I’ve known him since I was in short -frocks and a pigtail. He was a friend of my father’s. -They were at Harrow together and afterwards in -the same regiment in India. He thinks me—well, -just a little flighty, but he doesn’t altogether -hate me; and he’s quite paternally fond of -Tommy,” she ended with a gay little laugh.</p> - -<p class="indent">“By the way,” asked Anne, curious, “why -does he so dislike Millicent Sheldon? It is quite -obvious he does dislike her.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel gave a little start. Then she looked -at Anne, doubtful, hesitating. “Oh, my dear -Anne, don’t you know? Somehow I fancied -that every one—” She stopped.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Know what?” queried Anne idly, but interested.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It’s really gossip—if true things are gossip,” -said Muriel half apologetically; “still, some one -is sure to tell you sooner or later since you’ve -met General Carden.” Again she stopped.</p> - -<p class="indent">“But tell me what!” demanded Anne. “Since -you’ve said so much, had you not better give -me the rest? Besides, since you say some one -is sure to tell me, why not let me hear the story -from you? You can sweeten it, add sugar and -cream, if you will, or vinegar and spice, if those -ingredients will flavour it better.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel laughed. “I’ll omit the garnishings; -you shall have the facts plain and simple. Millicent -was once upon a time engaged to General -Carden’s son. Then—for certain reasons—she -threw him over, and married the highly respectable -and bald-headed Theobald Horatio Sheldon, -whose money—of which he has a very considerable -quantity—was made by inventing those little -brush things that are fixed on behind carts and -sweep up the dirt in the roads.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I see,” mused Anne, comprehending. “But -of course, as I had never met General Carden -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>before, I naturally did not know that he possessed -a son. He did not, either, happen to -mention him to me.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“But of course not,” said Muriel tragically. -“That’s exactly where the reasons and the real -gossip come in. He spent three years in Portland -prison for forgery, or embezzlement, or -something of the kind. He’s out now, but he -was in.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Anne seriously.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And,” ended Muriel, still more tragically, -“General Carden has never seen his son again -nor forgiven Millicent for throwing him over. -It’s rather contradictory, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne looked down into the street where a -flower-girl was standing on the pavement with a -basket full of great white lilies. She contemplated -her for a few moments in silence, and -seemingly drew conclusions from the flowers. -She looked round again at Muriel.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I think I understand,” she said quietly.</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel looked at her curiously. “Then it’s -quite remarkably intelligent of you.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“No,” said Anne calmly. “He loves his son -and has never forgotten him. She has forgotten -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>him and probably never loved him. That’s -why he can’t forgive her.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Muriel. “I’m sure you’re right -that he has not forgotten. He’s eating his heart -out for him, or I’m much mistaken, and he’s too -proud to own it by the quiver of an eyelash. We -women have the easier time. It’s our rôle to -keep our arms and hearts open to sinners, and -thank Heaven for it.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne was again looking at the flowers. She -had said she understood, but in reality it was -only partly. She did understand General Carden, -but Millicent with her serious speeches on nobility -and bigness of character was another matter. -She voiced her perplexity to Muriel.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, but Millicent!” said Muriel in a tone -that quite disposed of the question.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yet,” said Anne, “Millicent has always -talked as if she would help any one re-make his -life, as if it were the one thing she would do, -and—” She broke off.</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel gurgled. “Oh, Anne darling, you’re -so big-minded and truthful—in spite of your -occasional woman-of-the-world airs, which are -only a veneer—that you accept people at their -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>own valuation. The things that people say they -will do are the very things that at a crucial -moment they do not do. I think crucial moments -are a kind of revolution which turns the other -side of the person completely to the fore.” And -then her tone changed to one of solemn warning. -“You, Anne, doubtless consider yourself a luxury-loving -woman, to whom the bare prospect of -coarse underclothes, cold rooms, ill-cooked food, -and commonplace surroundings would be appalling. -Yet I firmly believe that if the crucial -moment came you would tramp the roads with -your man.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Mmm!” said Anne. And that rose colour -stole into the ivory of her face, a colour not unnoticed -by the watchful eyes of Muriel. “Perhaps, -the roads; but do you think it would carry -me to a suburban house with a glass fanlight over -the front door? It would be the bigger test. -But, and there I think you’ve omitted a point, -how about the second moment, the moment when -the crucial moment is passed?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel raised herself on one arm and spoke -firmly. “Love—real love—is one long crucial -moment. I speak from experience because I -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>love Tommy.” She tumbled flat again among -her pillows, and looked across at Anne to challenge -her experience if she dared.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne, being of course an unmarried woman -with no experience of the kind, merely smiled, -a tiny smile which ended in a half sigh.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">LETTERS</h3> - -<blockquote><p class="center2"><i>The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the -Lady Anne Garland to Peter the Piper</i></p> - -<p class="right2"><span class="smcap">London</span>,</p> -<p class="right"><i>July 7th</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Robin Adair</span>,—I have met another -admirer of your book, a delightful old man of -courtly manners of the style of the eighteenth -century. At first he assumed disparagement of it, -or at the best a faint half-hearted kind of praise, -which would, I believe, in any case have roused a -spirit of contradiction in me. With your book -as the subject I waxed eloquent. I took up the -cudgels of defence, and I flatter myself wielded -them with dexterity. When at last the flow of -my discourse ceased—and I trust I was not too -didactic in my observations—he confessed calmly -that he had merely assumed disparagement in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>order that he might have the pleasure of hearing me -refute him! It knocked the wind completely out -of my sails. I was left helpless, stranded, entirely -at a loss for a suitable reply. I hope I carried off -the situation with at least a passable degree of -<i>savoir-faire</i>, but I have my doubts.</p> - -<p>I so frequently find myself addressing really -witty and brilliant remarks to my bedpost fully -an hour or so after the opportunity of making them -has passed, when the witticism, the brilliance, -might have been delivered in the presence of another, -and have covered me with a dazzling glory. -It is humiliating to contrast what one has said -with what one might have remarked. You -writers have the better time. In silence and -solitude you can consider your epigrams, and then -place them in the mouths of your fictional people -at the psychological moment, and the world is -left to marvel at your brilliance.</p> - -<p>But to return to my old courtier. He has a -sad history, which he hides under a mask of urbane -and suave courtliness. He has a son, who—so -the story runs—has disgraced their name. The -old man being too proud to overlook the disgrace—too -proud, perhaps, to stoop and delve for ex<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>tenuating -circumstances—has cut the son out of his -life; but fortunately, or unfortunately, he cannot -cut him out of his heart, which is aching, pining, -for the lack of him. Why can he not put pride -in his pocket and ease his heartache? It’s a -pitiful little story, and one which has caused my -own heart to ache, though quite possibly I should -have dismissed it without a second thought if I -had not met the old courtier.</p> - -<p>The friend with whom I am staying has soothed -the spirit of discontent which was awake in me -when I last wrote. Her method is entirely -unobvious. I think it lies in her own incurably -good spirits, and her optimism, both of which -are infectious. There is an “everything is for -the best in this best of all possible worlds” air -about her which is exhilarating.</p> - -<p>I have, though, been disappointed in another -friend, if I may use the word. Personally I feel -there should be another to use. An acquaintance -signifies one of whom we have but a passing and -superficial knowledge, and a friend some one -much closer—very close—the word in its real -sense. Am I drawing too fine a point? Perhaps -one might use the terms I have heard children use, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span>“friends,” and “truly friends.” So, to use the first -term in application to this woman, I have been -disappointed in a friend. She is not what I -believed her to be, what I believe she wished me to -believe her. It has spoilt, as far as I am concerned -the intimacy between us. I cannot re-adjust -myself towards her, and I feel myself acting the -part of a hypocrite. I have picked up her broken -pieces as best I may, and mended them, but I -am conscious of the cracks. My mending has not -been as neat a job as I could wish. Is it any use -trying to mend? Tell me what you think, O Man!</p> - -<p>The worst of it is that before she broke I asked -her to spend a few days with me in August. During -those days I shall be terribly, hideously -conscious of the cracks. I shall find myself staring -at them with a kind of awful fascination. Pray -Heaven she’ll not observe it, for if she did I—in -the rôle of hostess—would be forever disgraced -in my own eyes.</p> - -<p>I do not know why I should write all this to you; -why I should trouble you with what, I am fully -aware, are mere absurdities which any sane and -reasonable person would assuredly dismiss without -a second thought. May I plead in excuse that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>somehow you have taken the position of a -“truly friend,” one to whom trivialities—which -after all make up the greater part of one’s life—may -be mentioned without fear of a laugh or a -snub?</p> - -<p>I went to a Beethoven concert the other day. -To me he stands head and shoulders above every -other composer, living or dead. Does music -give you the sensation of colour and form? It -does me. That was a purple concert, sphere-shaped. -Mozart’s music is sapphire blue and -shaped like a star. Bach’s is dark green and -square. Grieg’s is pale green with a hint of pink -and a slim oval, Wagner’s is crimson and purple -and shaped like a massive crown. I might go on -enumerating, if I did not fear to bore you.</p> - -<p>Have you read Conard’s life of Beethoven? -Do you know Beethoven’s own words: “Oh -hommes, si vous lisez un jour ceci, pensez que -vous avez été injustes pour moi; et que le malheureux -se console, en trouvant un malheureux -comme lui, qui, malgré tous les obstacles de la -nature, a cependant fait tout ce qui était en son -pouvoir, pour être admis au rang des artistes et -des hommes d’élites?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span></p> - -<p>Grand, glorious Beethoven! the struggle over -all infirmity, the victory, and his lonely yet -dramatic death! “Il mourut pendant un orage—une -tempête de neige—dans un éclat de -tonnerre. Une main étrangère lui fermer les -yeux.” If I am a hero-worshipper, and it -would seem that I am, Beethoven stands in the -front rank of my heroes. Read his life—by -Conard—if you have not already done so. It -is one which every artist, of whatever branch his -art, should know.</p> - -<p>How goes it with your Wanderer? Is he reconciled -to his distance from his star? Or have you -let the star fall to his hilltop?</p> - -<p>Good-night.</p></blockquote> - -<blockquote><p class="center2"><i>Robin Adair to the Unknown Critic, or Peter -the Piper to the Lady Anne Garland</i></p> - -<p class="right"><i>July 9th.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Lady</span>,—I have re-read your letter more -than once. It is—dare I say?—somewhat illogical, -and therein most delightfully feminine.</p> - -<p>You suggest that your old courtier should ease -his heartache. Do you not see that in so attempting -he could only bring into his life a thing which -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>is in his eyes broken? And, however carefully -he might mend it, would he not be—as you are—painfully -and terribly aware of the cracks? Men, -I fancy, choose the wiser way; they throw aside -the broken pieces into a neat little dustbin, -making no attempt to mend. For, after all, is -not the glue which holds the thing together a -certain sophism which is always apparent to the -repairer, and which is, frequently, not very adhesive? -Once broken—in spite of the glue—it is -apt to fall to pieces on the slightest handling. No, -the dustbin, in my opinion, is the better solution. -You, as a woman, doubtless will not agree with me. -Women invariably mend, and the majority—less -critical than you—fancy they make of the mending -a neat job.</p> - -<p>Let me offer you one piece of advice. Do not -let your heart ache for the story you have heard. -It was, no doubt, related to you by another than -your courtier, and was soothed, softened, rendered -pathetic in the telling. You, in your tenderness, -have imagined your courtier as hankering after the -broken pieces of his image in the dustbin. Your -tender imagination removed, the glamour of -pathos round the story would be removed also, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>and you would find heartaches and such-like -non-existent.</p> - -<p>I do not believe that the wind is ever so completely -knocked out of your sails—as you say—that -you are unable to find some appropriate -reply. That is merely your modesty. I picture -you as talking with charm, with ease, with brilliance. -Witticisms I leave outside the category. -They belong to older men and women, and are -apt to have a poignant edge foreign to my idea -of your words.</p> - -<p>I like to think that you count me, as the children -say, a “truly friend.” Your friendship—disembodied -though it is—has brought me refreshment, -happiness. Though for a time my Wanderer had -obsessed me with his mood, the obsession is -passed. It has passed with him also. He does not -desire that the star should fall to him. Its very -charm lies in its altitude. Perhaps one day, when -he has cast off the mantle of his flesh, he will build -himself that ladder of moonbeams, and mount to -it. As it is—his mood of discontent passed—he -is worshipping, grateful that it shines in his -otherwise empty firmament. From the little -hilltop—which he found was but an ant-heap—<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>from -the lanes, from the fields, he looks up to it, -and addresses to it his thoughts, his fancies. He -is once more a cheerful soul, appreciating the earth, -the wind, and the flowers. His love and worship -he keeps for his star.</p> - -<p>I have not read Conard’s life of Beethoven, nor, -I confess, any writer’s life of him. I will make -up for the omission without delay. His music -I know and love. Your little discourse on colour -and shapes in music interests me. I should like -to hear more about them. Unknowingly I believe -I have had the same thoughts, and I agree with -the colours and shapes you assign, with, perhaps, -the exception of Grieg’s shape. His colour—yes; -but I have a fancy that his form is less simple, -more a variety of curves. I think I should give -the oval—slightly broadened—to Schumann, and -in its slim form to Heller. Schumann, by the way, -is blue—darker than Mozart, and, though soft -in colour, less transparent. Heller is pale yellow. -Do you agree?</p> - -<p>Write again soon, and tell me everything you will -about yourself.</p> - -<p>Good-night.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Robin Adair.</span></p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span></p> - -<blockquote><p class="center2"><i>The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the -Lady Anne Garland to Peter the Piper</i></p> - -<p class="right2"><span class="smcap">The Terrace</span>,</p> -<p class="right"><i>July 16th</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Robin Adair</span>,—Here I am once more on -my terrace, looking across the garden and the park -land towards a small village—whose name I will -not disclose—lying half-hidden among the trees -in the valley. Occasionally, when I am in a -ruminative mood, I wonder at the lives of the -inhabitants thereof—the routine of them, with -no greater excitement than a visit to the market-town -some eight miles distant. True, there is the -yearly fair at that place, which is an event of the -greatest importance. Every man, woman, and -child, except the extremely old and the extremely -young, flocks to the town on that day. Every -available vehicle is requisitioned and packed with -a mass of humanity to the fullest extent of its -capacities, and those unable to find conveyance -in them, and more stalwart, walk. There are at -the fair, so I am told, booths, coco-nut shies, -merry-go-rounds, and peep-shows of a fat woman -whose age is unknown, but who apparently must -be akin to Methuselah, since she has been regarded, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span>it would seem, by the fathers, the grandfathers, -and the great-grandfathers of the present generation. -But with the exception of the fair there is -absolutely nothing to break the monotony of -their lives but the weather and a wedding or a -funeral. It’s rather appalling to contemplate, -isn’t it? But they seem content and happy, and -that after all is the main thing.</p> - -<p>Do you believe in fortune-tellers? I went to -one before I left town. I do not think it was great -credulity in the art that urged me to consult the -sibyl, but merely the fact that the friend with -whom I was staying persuaded me into the consultation. -I had what is termed a “full reading.” -The palm of my hand was conned, the cards spread -out, and the crystal gazed into. I confess that -the affair was, to a certain degree, uncanny. -Her description of my house—this one—was -extraordinary. It might have been before her -as she spoke, and she actually saw me listening to -a concert by the vagabond Piper—and not only -the concert of which I have told you, but another -concert, one he gave me the night before I went -up to town, and of which I believe no one was -aware but he and I. He came to the terrace -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>and played below my window. It was quite -medieval, and entirely delightful. She saw, too, -letters which I was receiving and which were a -source of great pleasure to me, and therein she -was very assuredly right. But—and I hope -you will not be offended—after that she began to -mix the Piper and the writer of letters, speaking -of them with confidence as one and the same -person. I did not enlighten her as to her mistake, -as with these sibyls it is better to let them say -what they see without interruption, otherwise -they are apt to try and tell you what they think -you wish to know, what they think you desire -to have said. It was curious. And here I will -make a confession. I myself have occasionally, -and in quite an absurd fashion, confounded the -two in my thoughts. Do not be vexed, Robin -Adair, for you dislike—or pretend to dislike—the -Piper. But it seems to me that the sibyl -must have been extraordinary telepathic, and have -somehow read my thoughts, and their occasional -confusion, in a remarkable degree. She told me -a good deal more, no doubt the usual fortune-telling -jargon, which would be, I am sure, of little -interest to you. Certainly it is not worth repe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>tition. -But what I have told you struck me as -distinctly queer.</p> - -<p>I am rejoiced to hear that your Wanderer—and -consequently you—are once more soothed -and peaceful. And now that he is so, let him -continue to recount his thoughts by the hand of -Robin Adair, that I may shortly have the benefit -of them.</p> - -<p>One day—not to-day—I will write you all my -fancies on colour, and I have a good many. -Perhaps you are right as to Grieg’s form. It is -probably more intricate than the oval. Possibly -it is a design of many curves. As regards Schumann -and Heller, I agree.</p> - -<p>I fancy you are wrong about my courtier. He -has, no doubt, acted on your dustbin principle, -but, all the same, I believe he regrets the action. -Of course, I see the justice of your accusation that -my letter was illogical, but I cannot begin an -argument and a defence now. The day is too -warm and lazy for such exertion. The heat-shimmer -is bathing the gardens, and the top of my -silver ink-bottle is almost too hot to touch. The -sun has slanted round, and is frizzling me in a -diabolical fashion. Hitherto I’ve been too indolent -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>to move, but now, if I don’t intend to be -entirely melted, I must get up and pull my chair -into the shade.</p> - -<p>Of course fortune-telling is absurd really, at -least as far as regards the future. Though I -grant that this woman’s reading of my thoughts -was clever.</p> - -<p>Good-bye for the present. The bees are droning -a lullaby, and I believe I shall sleep.</p></blockquote> - -<blockquote><p class="center2"><i>Robin Adair to the Unknown Critic, or Peter -the Piper to the Lady Anne Garland</i></p> - -<p class="right"><i>July 18th.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Lady</span>,—I have no theories as to fortune-tellers -beyond a, no doubt absurd, dislike to them. -I do not care to think of you consulting them. -Forgive me for saying so. I am perfectly well -aware that I have no smallest right to express an -opinion, but—it will out—I wish you wouldn’t, -and long to beg you not to do it again.</p> - -<p>When you are in a less melted mood write me -a letter of argument and defence. You will not -be able to explain away your illogical statements, -but I should much enjoy hearing you try to do so.</p> - -<p>I must certainly contradict flatly about your -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>courtier. I am sure you are wrong. And as I -shall cry “Knife” every time you cry “Scissors,” -let us abandon him as a topic of discussion. Write -to me of colours instead.</p> - -<p>This is a rude letter, and I know it. But a -little incident has rubbed my mental fur the wrong -way, and I am—well, cross with myself I believe. -Perhaps it would be wiser not to write at all, but -not to do so would be to discontinue a little ceremony -which I have put in practice since the first -day I heard from you. Will you laugh at me, -I wonder, if I tell you that every evening your -letter arrives I become a host, and toast an invisible -Lady who has condescended to dine with me, -and after dinner we talk together—through the -medium of pen, ink, and paper. Sometimes I like -to imagine that the medium is less material, and -that my thoughts are carried straight on the wings -of fancy to the Lady’s terrace. But if they go, can -she perceive them? Are they not too clumsy, too -material, to find response in her thought-cells? -After all, it is but a fancy, and you may quite well -smile at both it and my dream dinner-party.</p> - -<p>To-night I have not been a good host. I -apologize to the Lady. Being the sole guest I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>ever receive, I might have treated her with greater -courtesy.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Robin Adair.</span></p></blockquote> - -<blockquote><p class="center2"><i>The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the -Lady Anne Garland to Peter the Piper</i></p> - -<p class="right2"><span class="smcap">The Terrace</span>,</p> -<p class="right"><i>July 20th</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Robin Adair</span>,—I did not smile—at any -rate not ironically. If there was a little smile it -was verging close on tears. Are you really so -lonely? Somehow I had fancied that when you -spoke of yourself as a recluse it was a mere figure -of speech. Have you no friends who dine with -you, who visit you—no material friends?</p> - -<p>The little mental picture your letter called up -was pathetic. I wish—well, never mind what I -wish. Probably it would be no atom of good. -I believe—I am sure—your thoughts do reach me. -Send them to me, and I will send mine to you.</p></blockquote> - -<blockquote><p class="center2"><i>Robin Adair to the Unknown Critic, or Peter -the Piper to the Lady Anne Garland</i></p> - -<p class="right"><i>July 22nd.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Lady</span>,—Forget my letter. I did not mean -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>to drivel. I did not mean to cause you the faintest -suspicion of tears. I am not, I believe, a sociable -person. My disembodied Lady is more to me than -hundreds of material friends. I am utterly and -entirely grateful for her invisible presence—and -the thoughts she sends me. Whatever you wish -must be of benefit. Whatever that unexpressed -wish was, I endorse it.</p> - -<p>Thank you for your letter.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Robin Adair.</span></p></blockquote> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">A THUNDERSTORM</h3> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“There is a Lady sweet and kind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was never face so pleased my mind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I did but see her passing by,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And yet I love her till I die,”<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>sang Peter, in a pleasant tenor voice.</p> - -<p class="indent">He was sitting by the window of his cottage, -engaged—truth will out—in darning a pair of -green socks. Occasionally he lifted his head from -his work and gazed through the window. It -was intensely still outside; not a leaf, not a blade -of grass was stirring. It was almost overpoweringly -close and sultry. Peter had set both door -and window open in invitation to a non-existent -breeze to enter.</p> - -<p class="indent">From the north, where a great bank of ominous -black clouds was piled, came a low, sinister rumble.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It’s coming,” said Peter aloud, looking through -the window. “The storm, the tempest, the whole -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>wrath of the furious elements will shortly be -loosed upon us. The clouds are coming up with -extraordinary rapidity, considering there’s no -wind at all down here. Up there it must be -blowing half a gale. We’ll get rain soon.”</p> - -<p class="indent">He returned to his darning.</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beguiles my heart, I know not why,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And yet I love her till I die,”<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>he sang, sticking his needle carefully in and out -of the heel of the sock.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And the green of the wool doesn’t match the -green of the sock one little bit!” he said ruefully. -“But, after all, no one looks at me; and I certainly -can’t look at my own heels—at least, not without -a certain amount of effort, so <i>n’importe</i>, as they -say in France.”</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Cupid is wingèd and doth range<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her country, so my love doth change;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But change she earth, or change she sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet will I love her till I die.”</span></div></div> - -<p class="indent">Peter cut the wool with his pocket-knife, and -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>contemplated the sock with his head on one side. -Then he threw it on to the table. There was a -little laugh in his eyes, not caused by the contemplation -of the sock.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I believe,” he said whimsically, “that that -fellow—what was his name?—Neil Macdonald, -was right after all, and that Chaucer is—well, an -old fraud. Yet,” and a wistful look crept into -his blue eyes, “I might have done much better -if I’d gone on believing in him. Yet, I don’t -know. After all, Peter, my son, isn’t the joy worth -a bit of heartache!”</p> - -<p class="indent">He got up from his chair and went towards the -door. He could look over the hedge and up and -down the lane from his position. A couple of big -drops, large as half-crowns, had just fallen on his -spotlessly white doorstep—Peter was proud of his -doorstep. They were followed by another and -another. There was a flash, a terrific peal, and -then with a sudden hiss came the deluge. Straight -down it fell, as if poured from buckets, and the -lightning played across the sky and the thunder -pealed.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ouf!” said Peter, drawing in a huge breath -as the refreshing scent of the grateful earth came -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>to his nostrils. “That’s really quite the very -best smell there is, and worth all your eau-de-colognes, -and your phulnanas, and—and your -whatever you call ’em put together. It really -is—” And then he broke off, for down the -lane came running a woman, her head bent, the -rain beating, drenching down upon her. Peter -was at the gate in a moment.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Come in here!” he called.</p> - -<p class="indent">She paused, hesitated. Peter saw her face. -His heart jumped, and then started off klip-klopping -at a terrible rate.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I—” she began. A blinding flash of lightning, -followed by a terrific peal right overhead, -stopped the words.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Come at once!” said Peter imperatively, -sharply almost. “It’s not safe.”</p> - -<p class="indent">She ran up the path, he following. In the -shelter of the cottage she turned and faced -him. The colour in her face was not, perhaps, -quite to be accounted for by the rain and her -own haste.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You’re drenched,” said Peter abruptly. “You -can’t stay in those wet things a moment longer -than absolutely necessary. With your permission, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>I shall go to your house and order your carriage -to be sent immediately. But first—” He had -put her a chair by the fireplace; he was on his -knees applying a match to the pile of sticks and -fir-cones already laid therein.</p> - -<p class="indent">“But,” protested Lady Anne, “I cannot give -my permission. You will yourself be soaked—drenched—if -you venture out in this downpour.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter laughed lightly. “It will not be the first -time, nor, I dare to say, the last. Rain has but -little effect on me.” He rose from his knees. -The flames were twining and twisting from stick -to stick in long tongues of orange and yellow and -blue. There was a merry crackling, there were -flying sparks.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter crossed to the cupboard. From it he -brought a black bottle and a wineglass.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I have, alas! no brandy to offer you, but port -wine will, I hope, prove as efficacious against a -chill.” Without paying the smallest heed to her -protestations he poured her out a glass, which he -held towards her. “Drink it,” he said, in somewhat -the tone one orders a refractory child to take -a glass of medicine.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne took the glass, meekly, obediently, with -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>the faintest gurgle of laughter. “To your health!” -she said as she sipped the wine.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter’s heart beat hotly, madly. Here was -She, actually She in the flesh, toasting him in his -own room. He poured out another glass.</p> - -<p class="indent">“To you,” he said, and under his breath he -added, “My Lady, my Star, my altogether Divinity!” -Then he moved firmly to the door.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I cannot allow you to go,” said Anne quickly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Alas!” said Peter, smiling, “then I must -forego your permission. In less than half an -hour, in twenty minutes perhaps, your carriage -will be here.” And he vanished into the sluice -without.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And now,” he said, as he set off at a half-canter -down the lane, “if she does glance round -the room and find it sleeping-apartment as well -as sitting-room, she will, I trust, be less embarrassed. -For Heaven knows whether in some -particulars she may not bow to old Dame -Grundy’s decrees. Bless her!” And it is to be -conjectured that it was not on Mrs. Grundy’s -head that Peter’s blessing was invoked.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne, left to solitude, a blazing fire, and a glass -of port, sat for a moment or so deep in thought. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>Who was this man, with his little imperative ways, -his abrupt speech, hiding, she was well aware, a -certain embarrassment? He was well-born, there -was no doubt about that fact. His voice, in -spite of its abruptness, had the pleasant modulation -of breeding. His hands—she had noticed -his hands—were long-fingered, flexible, and brown. -They were also well kept. Who was he? But -<i>who</i> was he?</p> - -<p class="indent">The fire offering her no solution, she finished -her glass of port, and, kneeling down by the hearth, -let the warmth of the flames play upon her wet -blouse. She unpinned her hat and shook the rain -from it. The drops sizzled as they fell among the -flames and glowing sticks. She put her hat on -the ground beside her and turned towards the -room. She scrutinized it with interest. It was -barely furnished but spotlessly clean. Against -the farther wall she saw a truckle-bed covered -with a blanket of cheerful red and blue stripes; -she saw a cupboard on which were tea-things; a -table; two chairs; and the chair on which she had -been sitting. And that was all.</p> - -<p class="indent">Then on the table she saw lying a pair of green -socks; softly green they were, and somewhat -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>faded, and beside them was a card of green—virulently -green—mending wool.</p> - -<p class="indent">“O-oh!” said Anne, with a little shudder. -But after a moment she rose from her knees in -order to examine them closer. One sock had a -patch of virulent green in the heel, a neat darn -enough.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Long practice,” said Anne, with a little shake -of the head. In the other was a hole—quite a -good-sized hole.</p> - -<p class="indent">For a moment Anne hesitated, then, with a -little smile, took up the card of excruciatingly -green wool and broke off a strand. She threaded -the needle she found stuck into the wool, and -fitted the sock on her hand.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I owe him,” said Anne, “some small payment -for the shelter.” And she laughed, seating herself -again in the armchair. Neatly, deftly, she -drew the wool in and out across the hole, her ears -alert to catch the sound of returning steps, or of -carriage-wheels. The needle moved swiftly and -with dexterity.</p> - -<p class="indent">What is one to make of her? Lady Anne -Garland—the proud, the much-courted, the to -the world always aloof and sometimes disdainful -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>Lady Anne Garland—sitting in a meagrely furnished -little room by a fire of sticks and fir-cones, -darning the green sock of a vagabond Piper! -And infinitely more incomprehensible is the fact -that he—this man on whom she had only twice -before set eyes—was causing her to think of him -in a manner not at all good for the peace of her -own soul; especially as—and here a distinct confession -must be made—she was already quite more -than half in love with a man she had never even -seen—the writer of books and letters, Robin Adair.</p> - -<p class="indent">Human nature is a complex and curious thing, -though by those who, having read thus far, hold -the key to the riddle her nature may perhaps be -understood.</p> - -<p class="indent">Ten minutes later and a neat darn had replaced -the gaping hole. Finding no implement handy -with which to cut the wool she broke it, then -placed the sock, the wool, and the needle again -upon the table in much the same position they -had previously occupied.</p> - -<p class="indent">She got up from her chair and crossed to the -window. The rain was still coming down in -torrents, and the lightning was still frequent, but -the thunder was muttering now at a distance.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Once more she looked back into the room. -What a queer little room it was, and how entirely -peaceful! Why did the villagers imagine it to -be haunted? Could anything be more restful, -more reposeful? And how very homely it looked -in spite of its somewhat bare appearance! And -then she stopped in her reflections, for the sound -of wheels had struck upon her ear. A moment -later the carriage came in sight down the lane. -On the box, mackintoshed and stately, were both -coachman and footman.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne laughed. “It really was unnecessary -for them both to come,” she said to herself. And -then Peter was out of the carriage and up the path -to the door.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is here,” he said.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne came forward. “I am more than grateful,” -she said. “And you must be terribly wet.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, I shall dry again,” he said carelessly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It was very good of you,” said Anne.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It was a pleasure,” said Peter, “to drive in a -carriage.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Anne demurely.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And—” he continued, and stopped. But -in his heart he added, “To do any mortal thing -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>for you, dear Lady!” But these speeches had a -way of remaining in his heart without reaching -his lips.</p> - -<p class="indent">He unfurled an umbrella which he had purloined -up at the house.</p> - -<p class="indent">“The rain is not quite so furious now,” he said -as he opened it.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, my hat!” said Anne. She was at the -hearth and back beside him in an instant. But -in the transit she had glanced for a moment at -the green socks on the table.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter, holding the umbrella carefully over her, -conducted her down the path. The footman was -standing by the carriage door. Anne held out -her hand.</p> - -<p class="indent">“A thousand thanks!” she said.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter gripped her hand hard. “I was delighted -to be of the smallest service,” he assured her.</p> - -<p class="indent">The footman shut the door; Peter handed him -the umbrella and he mounted with it to the box. -The carriage, which had already turned, drove up -in the direction of the white house on the hill.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter stood looking after it till it was out of -sight, then went back into the cottage. He divested -himself of his extremely wet coat and hung -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>it on the back of a chair by the fire. Not the -armchair; that he gazed at almost reverently, -for had not She sat in it! Then he went to the -table and took up the socks. Arrested suddenly -by something he saw, he examined them both -carefully.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I am sure,” said Peter aloud, “that I only -mended one sock, and now both—” He looked -at a darn carefully. “Oh, oh!” said Peter, a -light of illumination in his eyes. It was, however, -almost incredible; he could hardly believe his -senses. He lifted the sock nearer his face. A -faint hint of lavender came to him. “Oh!” said -he again; “the darling, the adorable darling!”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter crossed to his cupboard; he placed the -sock carefully inside a sheet of clean manuscript -paper and put it on a shelf.</p> - -<p class="indent">Then he sat down in the armchair by the fire, -filled and lit his pipe, and fell into an abstracted -reverie, which lasted fully half an hour.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">THE EVERLASTING WHY</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">And</span> here it is necessary to introduce another -character to the reader, one of whom there has -already been a momentary glimpse, but who now -comes forward to play his speaking part. He is -indeed a small character, a young character, and -might, at first appearance, seem insignificant, yet -the part he has to play in Peter’s drama is fraught -with much consequence. A very small pebble -dropped into a pool can send out wide circles, so -this small figure dropped into Peter’s life was to -play a far-reaching and important part.</p> - -<p class="indent">The little figure first made its appearance by -peeping through the hedge in front of Peter’s -cottage. It was a boy-child, aged perhaps some -seven summers, and was clad in short blue serge -knickerbockers and a blue jersey.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter himself was sitting by the door piping. -The small figure thought his presence unobserved, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span>but Peter’s blue eyes were watching him keenly. -He sat very still as he piped, and the music was -calling the child to him.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was a friendly, seductive little tune that he -was playing, and Peter saw the child move towards -the gate. He did not look at him now, fearing -by the slightest sign or movement to startle him. -Suddenly Peter felt a light touch on his knee, -gentle as the touch of a small bird’s wing. The -child had stolen up the path and was beside -him.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter’s heart leapt with pleasure. It was as -if he had drawn a little wild woodland creature -near him. He still did not move, but he let the -music die away.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I like that,” said the small boy, gazing at him -with solemn eyes, “and I like you.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter’s eyes wrinkled at the comers in sheer -delight. It was a good many years since a child’s -voice had spoken to him, since a child’s hand had -been laid upon his knee.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh,” said Peter, smiling with pretended laziness, -“do you? Well, I fancy the appreciation -is reciprocated. What’s your name?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Dickie Gordon,” responded the small boy. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>“I’m staying with my aunt and Lady Anne at -the White House. I like Lady Anne.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter laughed. “Your judgment and intuition -are faultless, my son. The Lady Anne is the -divinest woman the good Lord ever created.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Then you like her too?” queried Dickie.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I might go farther than that,” said Peter -reflectively; “adoration, worship, might be nearer -my sentiments. But how, may I ask, did you -find your way down here?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Dickie smiled, an elfin smile of pure wickedness.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I ran away from nurse. She’s got the baby -in the perambulator. It’s a very young baby, -and perambulators are dull things—they can’t -get over stiles, or go across fields or even the tiniest -kind of streams, not even streams with a plank -across: the wheels are always too wide. And -nurse doesn’t understand anything, not why fields -are nicer than roads, and why it’s pleasant to -stand still in a wood and listen, and why some -walks are nice ways and some walks dull and -horrid. She thinks everything’s just all the same. -And I can’t explain things to her, things I know -in my inside. So I just ran away and came to -see you.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“You did, did you?” responded Peter. And back -his mind swung to the memory of another small -boy, one of whom the Lady Anne had written -to him, and of another non-understanding grown-up. -Oh, those Olympians who, from their heights -of common sense, cannot stoop to the level of -childhood!—for stooping they assuredly would -term it, though Peter took another view of the -respective levels. Yet, whatever the levels, the -fact undoubtedly remained the same: their utter -and entire incapacity of seeing eye to eye, of -hearing ear to ear, of feeling heart to heart with -a child. And, mused Peter, it was unquestionable -whose was the greater loss. And then he -roused himself.</p> - -<p class="indent">“But how about my duty?” he demanded. -“Oughtn’t I to bind you, fetter you, and carry -you back a prisoner to that perambulator, that -very young baby, and that non-comprehending -nurse?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Dickie looked at him.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You won’t,” he said comfortably; “besides, -I want to talk.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Humph!” said Peter, again smiling lazily; -“well, talk. I shall doubtless make a good audience, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>since the hearing of speech is now something -of a novelty to me.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Dickie looked at him again. The speech was -not entirely clear, but the encouragement to talk -was.</p> - -<p class="indent">With a deep breath he began: “Nurse says this -cottage is a bad place, and you’re friends with the -Devil. Is he really an unpleasant person? You -don’t look’s if you’d be friends with him if he -were.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Hmm,” said Peter, dubious, his eyes nevertheless -twinkling; “I cannot say that I have -honestly a very close acquaintanceship with him—at -least, I hope not. But I have never fancied -him a pleasant person. He has”—Peter sought -wildly in his mind for the best reason for the -averred unpleasantness—“so little idea of playing -the game.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes?” It was Dickie’s turn to be dubious -now.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh,” thought Peter distractedly, “I have not -only to make statements, but I have to substantiate -them!” Aloud he spoke, firmly, and with -an air of conviction: “He does not play the game, -because he pretends to be friendly when he isn’t, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>and he tells us things are nice when they aren’t.” -This, at all events, was good and orthodox teaching. -Peter patted himself on the back, so to speak.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Like the apple what Adam and Eve ate,” said -Dickie solemnly; “they thought it was going to -taste so nice, and make them very wise, but it -was a sour apple, and they had to go away out of -the garden ’cause they ate it.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Exactly!” said Peter, much relieved that -Dickie should be taking the initiative as chronicler -of biblical events, feeling, be it stated, somewhat -hazy on these subjects himself.</p> - -<p class="indent">There was a pause. Then, with a deep sigh, -Dickie spoke again.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I wish I knew things.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“What things?” asked Peter, amused.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Lots of things,” said Dickie. There was a -world of unconscious yearning in the child’s voice. -“I want to know lots of things. What made God -think the world? Did He think me from the -beginning, ’cause He knew everything? Why -did He wait till now to make me? I’d so lots -sooner have been a Viking. Why doesn’t He let -us choose what we are to be? Why are some days -nice and other days horrid, though everything -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>looks just ’xactly the same and just as sunny? -Why don’t I know the whys of things?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Peter with a long-drawn breath, -and a silence fell, while suddenly, and perhaps -for almost the first time in his life, Peter faced -the great eternal Question—the Everlasting Why -of the Universe. And because he had no answer -to give, because he had not as yet the faintest -inkling of the answer, he was silent, though, all unconsciously, -the child had put before him the problem -his soul was inarticulately striving to solve.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Why?” said Dickie again, gazing at him. -And then Peter replied.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You had better ask Lady Anne,” he responded, -basely shifting the responsibility. Yet though he -half acknowledged the baseness, he knew confidently -that she must be better able to deal with -the question than he, for surely she, enshrined -where she was in his thoughts, would have some -knowledge, some answer to give, something to -which he might listen with as great confidence -as the child beside him would listen.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then suddenly down the lane came a shrill -voice, causing Dickie to start and Peter to look -up quickly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Master Dickie, Master <i>Dickie</i>!” The tones -were unquestionably somewhat strident.</p> - -<p class="indent">“That’s nurse,” whispered Dickie.</p> - -<p class="indent">“So I concluded,” said Peter dryly. “What’s -to be done?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“S’pose I must go,” announced Dickie ruefully.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Master <i>Dickie</i>!” The voice was close now, -and the next moment a heated woman in nurse’s -garb and wheeling a perambulator came into view.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter got up and went down to the gate, holding -Dickie’s small brown hand close in his big one.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I believe,” said Peter courteously, “that you -are looking for Master Dickie; here he is.”</p> - -<p class="indent">The woman paused, flabbergasted. “With -you!” she ejaculated.</p> - -<p class="indent">“With me,” said Peter, smiling. “And after -all he has heard about me,” he continued seriously, -“it’s a wonder that he ventured near this cottage.”</p> - -<p class="indent">The nurse looked at Peter. There was something -in his manner that checked the outburst of -indignation that was perilously near the surface.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I’ve been that worried!” she said, and she -stopped to wipe her face with a large white -handkerchief.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter appreciated her concern. It is unquestionably -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>trying to lose a small boy entrusted to -your care, especially on an exceedingly warm -summer day, and have no notion what has become -of him. Peter felt a bit of a culprit.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I’m very sorry you’ve been bothered,” he -said contritely. “He—” and Peter paused; he -could not give Dickie away.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I came to see him,” announced Dickie calmly, -“because I wanted to find out what he was like. -Now if you want me I’ll come home. Good-bye, -Mr. Piper.” He held out his hand, which Peter -shook gravely.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You’re a bad boy,” said the nurse, virtuous -indignation in her voice.</p> - -<p class="indent">Dickie scorned a reply.</p> - -<p class="indent">“He really hasn’t come to any harm,” said -Peter apologetically.</p> - -<p class="indent">“That’s as may be,” said the nurse with majestic -significance, divided between her previous -conception of Peter and the now very obvious -fact that he was of gentle birth; “that’s as may be. -But his aunt won’t care to hear of his goings-on, -nor my Lady either, for that matter.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Lady Anne will understand,” protested Dickie, -voicing Peter’s own opinion.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“She may and she mayn’t,” was the tart reply. -“Now you’ll please to come home; we’re half an -hour late as it is.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I said I was ready before,” remarked Dickie -calmly.</p> - -<p class="indent">The nurse jerked the perambulator round in a -manner that caused the very young baby within -to open its eyes in a kind of mild protest.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I’ll come and see you again,” said Dickie -confidently to Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">The nurse pulled him by the arm. “You’ll -do nothing of the kind, Master Dickie.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Huh!” said Dickie, “you don’t know. I -shall ask Lady Anne.”</p> - -<p class="indent">And then the three disappeared down the lane.</p> - -<p class="indent">“The Lady Anne,” remarked Peter to himself, -“is evidently a divinity to another and much -smaller person than I. I don’t exactly love that -nurse,” he continued reflectively, “but I fancy -she has her hands full.”</p> - -<p class="indent">And whistling airily, Peter passed up the little -path to the cottage.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">PIPER AND AUTHOR</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Up</span> at the White House Lady Anne Garland -was entertaining Millicent Sheldon. The entertainment -to Lady Anne proved somewhat weighty. -The carefully mended Millicent was a different -person from the one she had previously known. -Her whole aspect was altered in Anne’s eyes. She -no longer saw her, as Millicent no doubt saw -herself, a calm gracious Madonna, stretching out -healing hands to a weary humanity. To Anne -she was simply a very ordinary woman who had -failed the man she had once loved—or professed -to love—in his need.</p> - -<p class="indent">And Anne suddenly realized that for all Millicent’s -grand and noble statements she had no use -for failures. Let a man have his foot firmly -planted on the ladder of success, albeit on the -lowest rung, Millicent spoke of him with gracious -condescension, held out the hand of friendship to -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>him. Those who had fallen from the ladder, or -who were struggling towards it with little chance of -reaching it, were not in her eyes worth a moment’s -consideration. Truly the cracks were horribly, -terribly conspicuous, and Anne had much ado -to prevent Millicent from recognizing that she -perceived them. She looked forward to the day of -Millicent’s departure with a guilty hopefulness, a -secret longing which she felt was almost indecent -in a hostess. And then something happened to -delay that day.</p> - -<p class="indent">Dickie, the solemn-eyed Dickie, fell ill. It -was one of those sudden swift illnesses of childhood -that grip the hearts of parents with a terrible -fear, and Anne and Millicent, who loved the small -boy as if he were their own, watched the little -fever-stricken body with grave anxiety, and -dreaded to think what news the next mail to -India might not carry.</p> - -<p class="indent">The villagers came daily to inquire. Voices -were hushed when the child’s name was mentioned. -Peter alone, to whom no one ever spoke, -did not know of the illness. He only wondered -why Dickie, who had escaped his vigilant nurse -more than once, did not come to the cottage.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">And then one day, when the fever was running -high, Dickie began a plaint, a piteous little moaning -for the Piper. Backwards and forwards on -the pillow tossed the small fevered head; the dry -lips called ceaselessly to the Piper to come and -pipe to him. In some vague way Dickie had confounded -him with the Pied Piper of Hamelin, and -wanted Peter to take him through the mountain -and show him sparrows brighter than peacocks -and horses with eagles’ wings. Peter had told -Dickie many a tale of fancy during his visit to -the cottage.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Who is it he wants?” asked the doctor sharply, -watching the child. “Can no one fetch him?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne, who was near the bed, stood up.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I know,” she said. “I will write a note and -send——”</p> - -<p class="indent">The doctor, a little man with a crusty manner -and a heart as tender as a woman’s, interrupted -her testily.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Can’t you go yourself?” he snapped. “I -know what servants are when they’re sent on -messages. The child is—I’m anxious, and as -cross as an old bear,” he concluded.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne was already at the door.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“I’ll not be long,” she said. “Miss Haldane -will be here if you need her. I’ll send her to you. -Nurse is with the baby and Mrs. Sheldon is lying -down. She was up most of last night.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="indent">A few moments later Anne was walking down -the drive. It was a grey afternoon, lapped in soft -clouds, and with a little sad wind in the trees -suggestive of autumn, though it was only August.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne felt a sensation of depression, a faint -foreboding as of impending ill. She told herself -that it was merely fatigue. Dickie would get -well—she knew he would get well. And yet she -did not really think that anxiety regarding Dickie -was causing this depression. It was something -more remote, something intangible and vague.</p> - -<p class="indent">She determined not to think about it—to throw -aside the slight uneasiness. Yet again and again -it crept over her in insidious little waves, despite -all her efforts to the contrary.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="indent">Peter was busy writing when the knock came -on his door. Now, whether it was telepathy or -clairvoyance is not known, but his heart jumped -at the knock, and he got up quickly, opening wide -the door.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“What is wrong?” he queried anxiously as -he saw Anne’s face. He almost forgot to be -surprised at her presence there.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It’s Dickie,” said Anne. “He’s ill, very ill. -The child has got some queer ideas into his head. -He has mixed you up in an odd way with the Pied -Piper of Hamelin. He has been talking about -you a great deal—half in delirium, you understand. -He wants you to pipe to him.” She stopped.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” ejaculated Peter, his voice full of sympathy. -“The pathetic little mite! I’ll come at -once.” And then he, too, stopped, hesitated. -“If you will go on,” he said, “I’ll follow you.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Can’t you,” asked Anne, “come back with -me now at once? I fancy—I may be wrong—that -the doctor thinks every minute is of -importance.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter flushed. “Of course,” he said, “I’ll come -now. It was only—” Again he stopped, and -Anne waited, wondering.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Only,” said Peter desperately, “that I thought -perhaps you would rather not walk with me. -I—the villagers, you know, look upon me with -disfavour.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne raised her chin. There was a little regal -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span>air in the gesture. “But really,” she assured him, -“I am not accustomed to consider the opinion -of the villagers.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, you idiot,” groaned Peter inwardly, -“you idiot, you double-dyed dolt! Now you’ve -offended her, though I protest your intentions -were good.” Aloud he said meekly, “I’ll come -with you at once.”</p> - -<p class="indent">He turned and picked up his hat from a chair. -As the long peacock feather caught his eye, again -he groaned inwardly. He was for flinging the -hat aside, but Lady Anne was watching him. He -put it on his head desperately, and came out on -to the path beside her, feeling for all the world a -mountebank, a popinjay, a fool. Why, oh why! -had he maliciously defied the Fates? Why, oh -why! had this peacock feather lain in his path once -long ago? And still further, why had he been -idiot enough to pick it up and wear it merely in a -spirit of contradiction, because once upon a time -a woman had announced her belief in a superstition -regarding peacock feathers.</p> - -<p class="indent">He attempted to appear unconcerned, at his -ease, but he was aware that the attempt was a -poor one. Nor did the amazed glances of the -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>villagers, as they crossed the green, tend to reassure -him. Yet here was Lady Anne walking -calmly, quietly, entirely at her ease, entirely -dignified. Why was he ass enough to care for -the glances of these yokels! Yet he knew it was -not for himself that he cared, but for his Lady, -his divinity, who had deigned herself to visit his -cottage, to ask him with her own lips to perform -a service for her. He longed for a flow of words -to come to him, yet none but the most banal -remark presented itself to his mind, therefore he -walked beside her in silence.</p> - -<p class="indent">At the entrance to the drive Peter suddenly -shivered, why, he did not know, for the day, though -grey, was hot. It was as if some slight indefinable -feeling of apprehension had struck him.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne glanced at him. “Cold?” she queried, -smiling.</p> - -<p class="indent">“No,” responded Peter, smiling in response. -“I fancy it was—according to the old adage—a -goose walking over my grave.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Anne. And the slight feeling of -uneasiness, which had temporarily departed, -returned.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Which, so say the superstitious folk,” continued -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>Peter lightly, “denotes misfortune to the -owner of the grave. Personally—” He broke -off with a slight shrug of the shoulders.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You are not a believer in omens and superstitions,” -suggested Anne in conclusion. “So I -might suppose. Your—your hat decoration is -generally regarded as provocative of ill-luck,” -she smiled.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter flushed. “It’s a fool thing to wear,” he -said lamely, “but——”</p> - -<p class="indent">“On the contrary,” said Anne demurely, “it -fits in with your rôle. I believe it was the -rumour of the peacock feather that first gave me -the courage to ask you to play to me. It sounded -fantastic, unusual. I dared to think that you -might respond to an unusual invitation. The -feather, I repeat, gave me courage.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Then,” said Peter gallantly, “I wear it with -a good will as an omen of fortune’s favours. You -did not, however, ask me a second time.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne drew a quick breath. “No,” she responded. -“Yet—you came.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes,” said Peter quietly, “I came.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne might have spoken again, but they -were at the door by now, and they passed -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>into the hall together and up the wide shallow -stairs.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="indent">The sick-room was in half light, for the curtains -were partly drawn. The doctor was sitting by -the bed, his eyes watching, grave. Miss Haldane -was at a little distance. They both looked up as -the two entered.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne crossed to the bedside, Peter following.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Dickie,” said Anne, softly and distinctly, “I -have brought the Piper to you.” She sat down -and took one of the small hot hands in hers.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter came to the foot of the bed. He drew -his pipe from his pocket. As the first sweet -notes of the pipe filled the room Dickie lay still. -It was the friendly, seductive little tune Peter -had first played to the child. No one stirred -and the magic piping breathed through the air.</p> - -<p class="indent">“More,” said Dickie, as Peter stopped. And -the request was quiet, conscious.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter came a little nearer. “This, Dickie, is -the sleepy song the Pied Piper played the children -when he carried them away to the Wonderful -Land. So shut your eyes and listen, and you will -sleep and dream of running streams, and flowers, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>and of cool green grass, and beautiful birds, and -horses with eagles’ wings, that will carry you away -gently on their backs to the place where children -get well.” Peter’s voice dropped to a murmur.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then once more came the music, a low -crooning lullaby, full of adorable restful tenderness. -Dickie’s eyes closed drowsily. The music -crooned on, rocking softly, soothingly. Then -Dickie gave a little gentle sigh, his fingers relaxed -their hold on Anne’s, his small hand fell open on -the counterpane, and Dickie slept.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Thank God!” breathed the old doctor. And -he took off his spectacles and wiped them.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter looked at Anne. She nodded, and rose -from her chair. They stole softly from the room -together. They passed down the corridor. Then -Anne turned and spoke.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I can’t say anything but ‘Thank you.’” She -smiled, a little wavering smile, and her eyes were -misty.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh,” said Peter with a huge sigh, “I’m glad. -He’s—he’s such a jolly little chap.”</p> - -<p class="indent">And then he looked up, for a woman was coming -towards them.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is Mrs. Sheldon, Dickie’s aunt,” said Anne, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>explanatory. “She—” And she broke off, -amazed at the sudden rigidity of Peter’s face.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Millicent as she saw the two. And -she stopped dead.</p> - -<p class="indent">“What is it?” queried Anne, astonished. “Do -you two know each other?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I once had the pleasure of Mr. Carden’s -acquaintance,” said Millicent stiffly, “but -now——”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Mr. Carden!” ejaculated Anne. And a -light dawned upon her, a light of painful -significance.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I was not aware he was in the house,” said -Millicent coldly. “I was not aware that you -knew him.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Then Peter spoke. “As Peter Carden Lady -Anne does not know me,” he said steadily, though -his face was white. “She knows me only as -Peter the vagabond Piper.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“An alias,” said Millicent scornfully. “One, -no doubt, of several.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne was waiting, silent. Peter had a sudden -thought that she was waiting for him to speak, to -deny the accusation if he could. He felt utterly -and entirely weary.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh no!” he said bitterly; “only one other—Robin -Adair.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Anne, shrinking as if the name had -been a blow.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It really does not signify what you choose to -call yourself,” said Millicent. “But I do not -care that my friends should be deceived.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter drew in his breath sharply. He looked -straight at her, and in her eyes he could read the -true cause for her anger. “You are right,” he -said quietly. “And I have deceived her.” He -turned to Anne. Her head was erect, her face -white, motionless. Indignation, anger, contempt, -he saw all three in her eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">He turned without a word and passed down the -stairs, across the hall, and through the hall door, -which he closed softly behind him as he went.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">FAREWELL</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> night was far spent. For hours Peter had -sat by his table with writing materials before him, -and at length his letter was written, ended.</p> - -<blockquote><p>“It is the last time I shall write to you, but I -ask you to condone my conduct—at least, sufficiently -to read what I have written. I know I -have no excuse to make. To say that my deception -arose from the knowledge that if you once -knew Peter the Piper and Robin Adair as one and -the same I should lose your letters is of course -none. I deceived you deliberately, and broke -the compact that our identities should remain -unknown to each other. Though I did not first -break it, nor was it broken of my will. Being -broken by fate, however, I should have told you.</p> - -<p>“And by now you will have realized that you -extended the hand of friendship to one who had -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>entirely forfeited the right to it. Is it, perhaps, -any compensation to you to know that your letters, -your kindness, have at least been received with -humble gratitude, with the most intense and overwhelming -pleasure by one however unworthy to -receive them?</p> - -<p>“I shall leave this cottage at daylight. My -presence here longer would, I know, be distasteful -to you. I have no right to ask your forgiveness, -yet if one day you could extend it to me, and think -less hardly of me, I should be glad. The one -thing I can do, and believe you would wish me to -do, is to destroy your letters. I cannot destroy -the memory of them—that is impossible, and I -dare to hope that in your generosity you will not -grudge it to me.</p> - -<p>“Presently I shall try to write again, and if ever -fate should throw my work in your path, and you -deign to read it, then know that whatever in it -is of worth, whatever is in the smallest degree -of good, has been inspired by the thought of -you.</p> - -<p>“For all your blessed kindness, for the fact that -you are you and are in the world, I shall throughout -my life be grateful.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span></p> - -<p>“Perhaps one day I may get the chance to -atone.</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Peter Carden.</span>”<br /> -</p></blockquote> - -<p class="indent">The letter written, Peter got up from his chair -and crossed to the fireplace. In a few moments -a flame sprang up, and some bluish papers twisted -and shrivelled in its heat. Presently nothing was -left but a small heap of grey ashes.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter sat very still. There was a lump in his -throat, and he swallowed hard once or twice, but -his eyes were dry. A bird chirped in the bushes -outside the cottage; it was answered by another -and another. The air became full of a chorus of -twitterings and chirpings.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter roused himself. He picked up his hat -and a bundle from the table and went to the cottage -door. In the east the sky was flushing to -rose and lavender. Peter went down the path. -He opened the little gate. A moment later it -had swung to behind him, and he was walking -down the dusty road.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">A WOUNDED SKYLARK</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Miss Haldane</span> was worried, perturbed. Her -usually cheerful old face was wrinkled into lines -of perplexity, her eyes were anxious.</p> - -<p class="indent">Something was wrong at the White House. -Dickie had slept peacefully throughout the night, -and with the extraordinary recuperation of children, -had demanded bread and milk on awaking. -It was perfectly natural to suppose that an air of -jubilation should prevail. Yet Lady Anne was -pale, silent, aloof; Millicent Sheldon slightly cold -and frigid. What in the name of wonder did it -signify? Vaguely Miss Haldane connected the extraordinary -atmosphere with the Piper. It was -true that he had been accountable, under Providence, -for Dickie’s marvellous recovery, yet Miss -Haldane distinctly regarded him as a bird of ill-omen, -and in her heart bitterly regretted that -necessity had called him to the house.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Throughout the day she fidgeted and fluttered -interiorly, keeping sharp and anxious watch on -Anne’s pale and almost stern face, without, however, -in the least appearing to do so. At tea-time -she found herself alone in the drawing-room -with Millicent, Anne being in Dickie’s room.</p> - -<p class="indent">Then Miss Haldane could contain her anxiety -no longer. She disliked Millicent Sheldon, but -it was a case of any port in a storm. Having -poured out tea and handed Millicent a cup, she -prefaced her first remark by a slight and nervous -cough.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Anne looks very pale,” she said tentatively. -“I hoped to see her looking better now our anxiety -is practically at an end.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes,” said Millicent, taking a sip of tea.</p> - -<p class="indent">This was unsatisfactory. Miss Haldane returned -to the charge more openly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I hope,” she said, “that nothing has worried -her?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Millicent put down her teacup. “It is distinctly -unfortunate,” she said, “that that man -who called himself Peter the Piper should have -come into this neighbourhood.” She made the -remark with a calm majesty of manner.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh?” queried Miss Haldane, pricking up her -ears and looking for all the world like a terrier on -the scent of a rat; “do you know anything about -him?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Only that he has spent three years in prison -for forgery,” said Millicent gravely. “Anne has -got unaccountably familiar with him in some way, -and is naturally vexed to find her friendship misplaced.” -She puckered her smooth white brow -with an air of grave, gracious anxiety, but there -was a hard expression in her eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane ruffled like a small angry bird, -the terrier expression forgotten.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Lady Anne,” she said with dignity, “is certainly -not familiar with him. You must have -been misinformed.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Really!” Millicent lifted her eyebrows coolly. -“From Anne’s own showing yesterday, she knew -considerably more about him than probably you -or I had the smallest idea of. She has not seen -fit to confide in me, but it was entirely apparent.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane sat very upright. “If Anne did -know more of him than we imagine,” she remarked -firmly, “it shows that he was a more desirable -person to know than I had supposed.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Millicent controlled her temper admirably. -Of course, it was entirely absurd, but the old -thing was, unquestionably, trying to snub her.</p> - -<p class="indent">“A man who has been in prison!” she remarked, -with an air of quiet finality and an exasperating -little laugh.</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane’s usually dim old eyes blazed. -“Under God we owe Dickie’s recovery to him,” -she said with quiet dignity. “Might not that -make us a little charitable towards him?”</p> - -<p class="indent">And Millicent, for her outward imperturbability -of manner, was annoyedly conscious that Miss -Haldane had scored.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then Anne walked in.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Am I interrupting confidences?” she asked, -with an attempt at her usual lightness of manner. -“Dickie is a fraud; he is demanding bread and -jam, or at least toast and honey. I consider he -has basely deceived us all.”</p> - -<p class="indent">And then she saw that the atmosphere was really -strained, tense. She pretended blindness, however, -and, sitting down, asked for some tea. While -drinking it she made a few airy remarks, to which -Miss Haldane responded absent-mindedly, and -Millicent with a pained and almost holy silence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Then Millicent got up. “I am going to see -Dickie,” she said.</p> - -<p class="indent">As the door closed behind her, Miss Haldane -gave a sigh of relief.</p> - -<p class="indent">“How I dislike that woman!” she said.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I saw she had ruffled you,” said Anne -soothingly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“She was impertinent,” remarked Miss Haldane -with dignity.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Millicent! Impertinent!” Anne’s eyes were -big with amazement. “My dear Matty!” She -might be many things, but impertinent seemed -the last word to connect with the large statuesque -Millicent.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Impertinent,” said Miss Haldane firmly. “It -is only her size that makes it not usually apparent. -If she were a small woman, it would be obvious -to the meanest intelligence. And she is distinctly -ungrateful. Whatever that man has done, whatever -he is, we owe him a debt of gratitude.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Anne, her eyes clouding; “she was -talking about him?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes. My dear, have you considered that -even if he did wrong in the past he may have -repented? And he did help Dickie.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes,” said Anne slowly; “he helped Dickie.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Even if,” continued Miss Haldane earnestly, -“he has once been in prison, he cannot be altogether -bad at heart, or a child—” she stopped. -To her own surprise, the contradictory old thing -was defending the Piper.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, prison!” said Anne vaguely.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes; didn’t you know? Was not that why -you were vexed—angry?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne gave an odd little laugh. “No, Matty, -dear. To be candid, it was not that at all. Somehow—it’s -queer, isn’t it?—I never thought of -that.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Then why—?” began Miss Haldane, perplexed, -vague.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, it’s a complicated situation,” said Anne -dryly; “but—well, every atom of pride I ever -possessed has been dragged in the mud, humbled, -abased. Now you have the truth; and for Heaven’s -sake don’t ask me any more!” Again the hard -look crept into her face. She got up and moved -to the window.</p> - -<p class="indent">Miss Haldane watched her. Had there been -any truth in Millicent’s words? Had she seen -more of this man than Miss Haldane had supposed? -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>Clandestine meetings, secret letters, fluttered -rapidly before Miss Haldane’s mind. Then -she looked at Anne again. It was impossible. -Whatever had happened, it was certain that -it was nothing of which Anne need really be -ashamed.</p> - -<p class="indent">And Anne, silent at the window, had bitterness -in her heart; she felt her pride, as she had said, -humbled, dragged in the dust. This man to whom -she had written had amused himself at her expense. -As one person he had received her intimate -letters, as another he had been the recipient -of gracious favours on which he had doubtless -put a totally wrong construction. Posing as two -men, yet in reality one, he could compare the -favours she had accorded both. The rose, the -green sock—her face burnt at the thought of them. -The one man, Robin Adair, smiling at her gracious -letters, and smiling still more at her gracious -treatment of the vagabond Piper.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was monstrous, preposterous! How he must -have laughed in his sleeve when she told him of -her inclination to confound the two men. Anger -and indignation were in Anne’s heart at the -thought, yet deeper still was an odd little ache, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>and the fact that it existed, and she was conscious -of it, curiously enough increased her indignation -against Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">The door opened softly, and the footman entered -with a letter on a tray. He crossed to the -window where Anne was standing. As she saw -the letter lying there, a hot flush mounted in her -face. She took it, holding it irresolutely in her -hand. When the door had closed again, she broke -the seal.</p> - -<p class="indent">There was a long silence. At last Miss Haldane -looked round. Anne’s face was quivering.</p> - -<p class="indent">“What is it?” asked Miss Haldane, her voice -full of perplexed anxiety.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Only,” said Anne, with a half sob, “that I -have torn the little young wings from a skylark.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">CANDLES AND MASSES</h3> - -<p class="center">I</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">If</span> at the beginning of the last chapter Miss -Haldane was perturbed, worried, perplexed, so, -rather more than two months later, Muriel Lancing -was perturbed, worried, perplexed, also; and -for the same cause, namely, the strange demeanour -of the Lady Anne Garland, who had returned to -town at the beginning of November.</p> - -<p class="indent">She was changed, she was totally different, so -sighed Muriel, reflective, meditative. Where was -her former charm? her former sweet kindliness? -her faith, her trust, her buoyancy—in short, her -everything that went to make up the Anne Muriel -knew and loved? An obsession seemed to have -come upon her. She was cynical, hard, the speaker -of little bitter phrases, deliberately calculated to -wound and hurt. She was not, as Muriel reflected, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span>Anne at all, but a mask, a shell of a woman, in -which deep down the real Anne was imprisoned, -buried.</p> - -<p class="indent">“If only she would speak,” sighed Muriel to -herself. “If only the mask could be removed -for a moment the real Anne would be liberated. -Confession, so says dear old Father O’Sullivan, -is good for the soul. It would be incalculably -good for Anne’s. But she won’t make one. And -short of asking her straight out to do so, which -would inevitably fix the mask on tighter still, I -can do nothing.”</p> - -<p class="indent">But, all the same, Muriel went off to the Oratory -and set up a candle to St. Joseph, telling him -pretty lucidly the whole state of affairs and requesting -him to do something.</p> - -<p class="indent">Now whether it was the intervention of St. -Joseph, or whether it was that the real imprisoned -Anne could bear her solitary confinement no -longer, must be a matter for pure conjecture: but -on the next occasion that Muriel visited Anne’s -house in Cheyne Walk she was distinctly conscious -that though the mask was on there was a tiny -crack in it, and through the crack the real Anne -was looking with a kind of dumb pleading.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">In a twinkling Muriel’s finger was towards it, -in, of course, the most insidious and hidden way -imaginable. It is useless to attempt to describe -her methods; they were purely feminine, entirely -delicate. At length the shell, the mask, fell -asunder, and the real Anne, being liberated, -spoke. It was an enormous relief to her, and -from the very beginning up to Millicent’s disclosure -she confided the whole story to Muriel, -who watched her with her greeny-grey eyes full -of sympathy.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, but,” cried Muriel as she stopped, “I -quite understand your anger. Of course, it’s -very difficult to put into exact words why you -are angry, the whole situation is so extraordinarily -complicated. But,” she concluded, “any woman -with the smallest modicum of sense must see -why. And the fact that Millicent was the person -there at the time can’t have made things a -bit nicer.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“It didn’t,” said Anne quietly. “But I haven’t -finished yet. He wrote to me.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes?” queried Muriel.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It—his letter swept away all my anger. I—I -understood.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Of course,” Muriel nodded, “there is his -point of view.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I saw it,” said Anne. “I realized—or thought -I realized—the utter loneliness that made him -act as he had done. I—I wrote to him.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes?” queried Muriel again, and very gently.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I said—oh, I said a good deal,” confessed -Anne. “And—and he has never replied. Oh, -don’t you see it’s that that hurts? I said things -I would never have said if I hadn’t believed he -was longing for me to say them, if I hadn’t”—Anne’s -face was crimson—“wanted to say them. -I was so sure I’d hear from him again. And—and -there was only a cruel silence. I’d give anything -never to have written that letter.” Shamed, -broken, she looked piteously at Muriel. Anne -was proud, and she was young. She did not yet -know that there is no shame in giving love, offering -it purely, finely, as she had done. Is not God -Himself daily making the offering, an offering -from which too many of us turn away?</p> - -<p class="indent">“But, darling Anne,” cried Muriel, “perhaps—surely -he could not have received it.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne shook her head. “It’s what I’d like to -believe,” she said with a little bitter laugh, “what -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>we’d both like to believe. But it’s no good. I -sent it to his publishers, the same address as that -to which I’d sent the others. Oh, no! that kind -of letters don’t miscarry. I have misunderstood -all through.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Darling!” said Muriel softly.</p> - -<p class="indent">There was a long silence, broken only by an -occasional little sputtering of the coal in the fire, -and the rumble of wheels and clack of horses’ -hoofs without. And in the silence Muriel was -giving very deep thanks to St. Joseph that Anne—her -beloved Anne—was once more restored to her. -Also she was cogitating in her own mind still -further benefits to be asked of him.</p> - -<p class="indent">Presently Anne broke the silence.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Muriel, I’d rather you should forget—that -we should never speak again—about what I’ve -told you this afternoon.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel took up an illustrated paper from a side -table.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Hats,” she announced sententiously, “will be -worn small this winter, and skirts mercifully not -quite so tight. Have you noticed Mrs. Clinton? -She’s positively indecent. I blush scarlet if I’m -with a man when I meet her.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Anne laughed, though there were tears in her -eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Muriel,” she said, “you’re the silliest and -dearest little elf in Christendom.”</p> - -<p class="center">II</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel made more than one further journey -to the Oratory to explain matters to St. Joseph, -on each occasion presenting that delightful saint -with a candle. The first time—subsequent to -Anne’s confession—that she went to the Oratory -she gave him two, one being for thanksgiving.</p> - -<p class="indent">Also she invited Father O’Sullivan to tea on an -occasion when Tommy, by Muriel’s suggestion, -had taken Anne to skate at Prince’s.</p> - -<p class="indent">Father O’Sullivan was a short, stoutish man, -with grizzled hair, small twinkling eyes, and a -mouth that had the kindliest twist of a smile -imaginable. To know Father O’Sullivan for an -hour was to love him. To know him for longer -was to love him better. Muriel had known him -from her babyhood.</p> - -<p class="indent">This afternoon, having invited him to tea, she -plied him with cakes and quince sandwiches, -which latter his soul adored, and talked in a gay -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>and inconsequent fashion of airy nothings, to -which Father O’Sullivan responded after the -manner of Irishmen, be they priests or laymen.</p> - -<p class="indent">But on the conclusion of the meal she dropped -into a pensive mood, and sat with her elbow on -the arm of her chair, and her pointed chin resting -in her cupped hand, gazing into space with great -dreamy eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then all at once she roused herself and -looked across at Father O’Sullivan.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Father,” she said seriously, “I want you to -say a Mass for me.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“You do, do you?” said Father O’Sullivan, -stroking his chin. “And with what intention?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well,” said Muriel, reflective, “it’s not quite -easy to explain. I think I’d better tell you the -story.” And she launched forth, omitting names -at the moment, though at a future date she -happened inadvertently to mention Peter’s.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well, now,” said Father O’Sullivan as she -ended, and his eyes were twinkling, “is it just a -little small story like that you’d have me be repeating -at Mass, for I’m thinking it will take just -no time at all.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, don’t laugh at me!” begged Muriel. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span>“Don’t you see how difficult it is to put into -words what I want!” She dropped her hands -in her lap and gazed at him tragically.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well, but have a try,” urged Father O’Sullivan. -“Perhaps I can be helping you out.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“First, then,” said Muriel, “I want her to be -happy again, and I don’t see how that can be -unless she hears from him, and even that alone -would be no good, because I’m sure to be really -happy she’d have to marry him, and you see he -has committed forgery. If only that could be -untrue—but it’s impossible, and I don’t see how -anything can come right,” she ended despairingly.</p> - -<p class="indent">Father O’Sullivan rubbed his hair up the wrong -way. “And it’s a Mass with the intention of -things coming right you want me to say, when all -the time you’re feeling sure they can’t,” he remarked -severely. “And if I’m going to say it -that way myself, what kind of faith do you think -I’m going to have in it?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel looked at him contritely. “But don’t -you see—” she began.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, I see fast enough,” he responded. “Let’s -get at what you want the other way round. To -begin with, you want the young man never to -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>have committed the forgery, and then you want -to run through the whole gamut till they live -happily ever after. And all the time you’re wishing -it, and wanting me to pray for it, you’re -telling yourself it can’t be. Isn’t that so?” His -twinkling old eyes belied the half-severity of his -words.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, but,” said Muriel, “it’s—it’s such a lot -to ask.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Father O’Sullivan leaned forward and tapped -the forefinger of his right hand in the palm of -his left.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Faith, my child, is not asking God for bushels -and setting out a pint measure to catch them -in. It’s a good old saying, but not my own, -more’s the pity of it. Now, do you want me to -say this Mass for you with the intention we’ve -arranged?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes,” said Muriel firmly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And you’ll come to it, and believe that it will -be answered, whether in your way or God’s you -leave to Him?” he asked gravely.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes,” said Muriel again.</p> - -<p class="indent">Father O’Sullivan nodded his head approvingly. -“To-morrow morning at eight o’clock I’ll be -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span>saying it then,” he said, “and you’ll be praying -too.” He leaned back in his chair.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Of course,” ventured Muriel, “it’s rather a -complicated thing to put into words.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Father O’Sullivan smiled, a merry, twinkling -humorous old smile. “Faith, I’ll be getting it -into some kind of shape,” he promised. “And if -we could hear all the prayers sent up to heaven -I’m thinking we’d find many a muddled phrase -down here straightened out by the holy saints as -they carry them up to God’s Throne. And no -matter what the muddles are, the answer’s clear -enough when it comes.”</p> - -<p class="indent">And then the door opened and Anne, Tommy, -and General Carden walked in.</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel gave a little gasp. “I thought you -were having tea at Prince’s,” she said.</p> - -<p class="indent">And Father O’Sullivan, as he watched her face -with wicked pleasure, realized—and it did not -take a vast amount of sagacity to do so—that one -at least of the three was concerned with the story -she had just confided to his ears. And as it obviously -was not Tommy, and he concluded he -might rule out the white-haired military-looking -man, it left only the tall, graceful woman who -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span>crossed to a chair by Muriel and began pulling -off her gloves.</p> - -<p class="indent">“We got bored,” said Tommy; “at least Anne -did, and we decided to come home to tea. And -we met General Carden on the doorstep, and -here we all are. And if you’re too flustered -for some reason to introduce everybody nicely, -I will.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Don’t be silly, Tommy,” said Muriel, laughing -and recovering her equanimity. “Ring the -bell, and we’ll have fresh tea made.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“No need,” said Tommy. “I saw Morris in -the hall and told him.” And he sat down by -Father O’Sullivan. General Carden took a chair -near Anne.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I was sorry not to find you at home when I -called last Thursday,” he said. “Your servant -told me you were at home on Tuesdays.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes,” said Anne. She hesitated, half doubtful. -Then she added: “But perhaps you’ll come -another afternoon? At-home days are not very -satisfactory. Shall we say Wednesday?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I shall be delighted,” returned General Carden. -“We had, if I remember rightly, a long argument -the last time we met, about a book. Let me see, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>what was the author’s name?” He wrinkled his -brows, reflective, thoughtful.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne turned to put her gloves on the table -beside her. “Robin Adair, wasn’t it?” she asked -quietly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ah, yes, of course!” replied the old hypocrite.</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel glanced at Anne. “I wish,” she reflected -with admiration, “that I could act as well. -I nearly gave myself away just now, when they -all descended on me like an avalanche. And I’d -bet my bottom dollar Father O’Sullivan guessed -something.” Which bet, if there had been any -one to take her on, Muriel would certainly have -won.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne, as she drove towards Chelsea half an -hour later, wondered vaguely why she had asked -General Carden to tea with her. Finally she -decided that it was for the obvious reason that -he wanted to come, and she would have been rude -if she had not done so.</p> - -<p class="indent">And Father O’Sullivan, as he walked home, -ruminated on the tangled story Muriel had told -him. It was only one of the many tangles in -the world, and he knew it, but it had been brought -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span>directly to his notice, and he had a very simple -and perfect faith that the good God would unravel -the knots in His own way and at His own -time.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">DUM SPIRO, SPERO</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">You</span> know how there are times in our lives when -the days hang heavily, each moment dragging on -leaden feet, weighted all the more grievously -because we are ready to protest to our fellow-men, -to ourselves perhaps, that the days are not grey, -but each one as full of light as we would have it -be. And if you do not know you are lucky. Or -are you lucky? Are not the heavy clouds, which -temporarily hide the golden sunshine, better than -a dull monochrome of a life, in which neither cloud -nor sunshine is existent? For is it not by the -very brightness of the sun which has been, that -we recognize the clouds which now obscure it? -It is when the sun has never shone in its fullest -splendour for us that we do not recognize the -existence of the clouds, for to say that any life is -passed in one unbroken dream of golden glory is to -make a statement which one will dare to denounce -as untrue. If there be the gold of joy, so there -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>will come the clouds of sorrow, and a life without -clouds is of necessity one without sun, a monochrome -of a life, peaceful perhaps, but lacking in -intensity.</p> - -<p class="indent">The days passed slowly for Anne. They no -longer went by with the gay carelessness of a year, -six months, nay, only three months ago. Take -an interest out of your life, however chary you -may have been of admitting the existence of that -interest to your secret heart, and then fill your -days with gaiety, friends, books, anything and -everything but the one thing you want, and you -will find it a method of subtraction and addition -which is apt to result in a distinctly unsatisfactory -sum total.</p> - -<p class="indent">It is not to be supposed, however, that Anne -wore her heart upon her sleeve for society daws -to peck at. She hid it and its little ache deep -under a charming courtliness which was, if anything, -more charming than usual. And if she -smiled a little more frequently, if a <i>bon mot</i> came -more readily to her lips, after all they were but -attempts to bury the heartache a bit deeper, and -it was at least the real Anne who once more walked -the earth.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">She saw Millicent occasionally, but only occasionally. -There was now between them a civil -exchange of courtesies; an assumption, but merely -an assumption, of the old friendly footing. On -a certain afternoon in the White House Millicent -had attempted to give a version of a particular -story to Anne. To which Anne had responded -that she already knew it. Millicent, however, -had attempted to explain, and in explaining had -told Anne one or two things Anne had not before -known, which things had caused those aforementioned -cracks in Millicent to gape with such -ominous wideness that Millicent herself suddenly -perceived them, and, worse still, saw that Anne -perceived them. Anne had quietly announced -that she preferred not to talk of the matter further: -the part of it that concerned Millicent was -her own affair, the part of it that concerned herself -was hers. And so it had concluded, outwardly -at all events. But it did not require a vast amount -of acumen to perceive that their former friendly -relationship was of necessity a trifle strained.</p> - -<p class="indent">It is not to be inferred from this, however, that -Anne and Millicent were anywhere near warfare -with each other. Anne was far too much <i>grande</i> -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span><i>dame</i> for such a proceeding. Also her sentiments -towards Millicent were now those of pure indifference. -Millicent had never counted a great -deal in her life, she now merely counted less. Of -Millicent one cannot be so sure. She had seen -Anne’s face on that historic afternoon; she had -seen Peter’s face. She had therefrom drawn her -own conclusions—conclusions to which Anne’s -subsequent refusal to discuss the matter had -given further weight.</p> - -<p class="indent">Millicent would have liked to think of Peter as -pining in quiet grief for her, leading a kind of -<i>piano</i> life of minor passages in which she stood for -the keynote. She had—to be candid—pictured -Peter in her mind as a prematurely grey-haired -man, slightly bowed at the shoulders (from remorse), -gazing fervently at a photograph of a -Madonna-like woman with a child in her arms -(Millicent’s latest by Lafayette), sorrowfully -considering the fact that the child was not his, -and announcing to Heaven that the thought of -her should guide him at last to its Gates. It must -be allowed that it was a distinct jar to find him -not at all grey-haired, not at all bowed at the -shoulders, but jaunty, debonair, carrying a ridiculous -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span>hat with a peacock feather in his hand, and -talking intimately to one of her own friends, one, -too, who had kept her acquaintanceship with him -a dead secret. Millicent’s feelings towards both -him and Anne verged on something like hatred, -though this primeval instinct was so hidden beneath -a mask of culture that no one, Anne least -of all, perceived it.</p> - -<p class="indent">Of General Carden Anne now saw a good deal. -Having come once to her house he came again, -and came frequently. And every time, by some -subtle method of his own device, he contrived to -mention a certain green-covered book, and also -to speak of the author. And, queerly enough, -Anne responded. Perhaps by some feminine -intuition she guessed General Carden’s secret, -namely, that he had a pretty shrewd inkling of -the identity of the author, and perhaps underneath -the courtly worldly demeanour of the old -man she saw the heart which longed for some word, -some sign, from him. And perhaps knowing this, -seeing this, the heart of the now liberated Anne -went out to the old General, having in a way a -common cause of unhappiness. And so the two -smiled and chatted, and skimmed the surface of -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>their sorrow, finding in so doing a curious consolation, -so queer and unaccountable is human nature.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then one day, a few weeks after her conversation -with Muriel, she became conscious of a -tiny hope in her heart. She could no more say -at which precise moment it had first been born -than one can say at which precise moment the -tiny green leaves of a spring flower first push above -the brown earth. For weeks there is nothing to -be seen, and then one morning we come down to -our garden and the tiny shoot is there in the -sunshine, smiling shyly at us.</p> - -<p class="indent">And so one morning, all unsuspected in its -hidden growth, a tiny green shoot of hope sprang -up in Anne’s heart, a hope that after all her pride -had not been abased as she had feared, but that -somewhere, somehow, love was lifting it from the -earth. It is not easy to put into exact words -precisely what she hoped, but assuredly trust had -been renewed. And with an old priest praying -at an altar, and a woman kneeling to St. Joseph, -and somewhere, far away, a man’s heart worshipping -and adoring, it is hardly surprising that it -was so.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">DEMOCRITUS</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">And</span> now if this history be inclined to jump from -one place to another in a somewhat inconsequent -fashion, perhaps it will be forgiven, for with its -hero wandering away by himself and the rest of -the characters more or less congregated together, -it takes some mental skipping to record their -story.</p> - -<p class="indent">Yet Peter was now not entirely lonely. He had -picked up a chum, a pal, in the shape of a small -and extremely mongrel puppy of a breed unknown, -but it is to be supposed that wire-haired terrier -predominated. And here is the manner of their -first meeting.</p> - -<p class="indent">When Peter left the cottage in the early morning -he walked first to the market-town, where he -posted two letters—one to the Lady Anne Garland -and one to his publishers, telling them that -at present he had no settled address, but that if -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span>he wished to correspond with them later he would -let them know. The consequence of this being -that when a certain blue letter, addressed to him, -arrived at their office it remained there, while -they waited with what patience they might for -word or sign from Peter. If he were a bit of a -genius, and they were inclined to consider him -so, his methods were also somewhat erratic.</p> - -<p class="indent">Leaving the town, he turned his steps northward, -and for no particular reason beyond the -fact that he liked the look of the road. But perhaps -it was really a certain unseen guidance -which led his steps in that direction and made him -of benefit to a small bundle of life embodied in a -miserable little roll of dirty white hair, a stump -of a baby tail, two short ears, four lanky little -legs, a wet black nose, and a pair of really beautiful -brown eyes. Often we see these beautiful eyes -in an otherwise entirely ugly face. Perhaps it is -not surprising, for after all they are the windows -of the soul, and even a little doggy soul may be -beautiful. But to proceed.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter walked along a dusty high-road till about -noonday. It was an August day, as may be -remembered, and breathless with the quiet heat -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span>of that month when it happens to be really hot. -Peter had not noticed the heat at first; external -matters were at the moment outside his consideration. -He had been tramping doggedly, mentally -weary, the sun of the last few weeks blotted out, -his horizon now veiled in grey clouds of dreariness.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then at last his body began to protest. -“If you will indulge in lovesick thoughts,” it -cried, “if your soul intends to give itself up to -heartache and mental torment, at all events -don’t drag me into it. And it’s very sure that -if you will treat me with a bit more consideration -you will be befriending your soul likewise.” And -Peter, seeing the force of the argument, laughed.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was against all philosophy except that of the -monks of old time to punish your body because -your soul was sick. Body and soul were—at all -events in his case, he argued—too closely allied. -Perhaps those old monks who had found a key -to spiritual things—a key on which Peter did not -pretend to have laid a hand—might have had such -a way of separating the two that the one did not -suffer for the infirmities of the other. But Peter -was one of us ordinary mortals to whom prayer -and such-like on an empty stomach—or an over-full -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span>one for that matter—would be a thing impossible. -For his soul to be at ease his body must -be comfortable, and most assuredly he was at the -present moment increasing the discomfort of his -soul by unduly fatiguing his body. It was an -illogical proceeding, as he suddenly perceived.</p> - -<p class="indent">A wood lay to the right of the road—a place of -cool shadows and small dancing spots of gold, a -silent place, still as the peace of some old cathedral.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter turned into it. He walked a little way -across the green moss, till the leafy barrier of -branches shut the high-road from his sight, and -then sat down, his back against the purple and -silver flecked trunk of a beech-tree. He unstrapped -his wallet and laid it on the ground -beside him. Then suddenly his ear caught a -sound, a faint yelping cry of pain. It was as if -some creature had for hours been imploring aid -which did not come, as if it had sunk into a despairing -silence, and then some tiny sound, some -movement, had again awakened hope sufficient -to make one last appeal.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter jumped to his feet.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Now which way was it?” he queried. “From -over there, if I’m not mistaken.” And he set off -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>farther into the wood. “It’s an animal in a trap,” -he said, “a beastly trap. Curse the things!”</p> - -<p class="indent">Many a time in his wanderings Peter had put -a dumb creature out of its misery. And if you -have ever heard a hare cry, and seen its soft eyes -gazing at you till you’d vow it was an imprisoned -human soul looking through its windows, you’d -know the fury of rage against some of mankind -that had possessed Peter more than once, and -which possessed him now. He peered right and -left among the undergrowth, his eyes and ears -alert, yet seeing nothing, hearing nothing.</p> - -<p class="indent">He stopped and whistled softly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Where are you, you poor little atom of life?” -he cried.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then, not a yard ahead of him, from a -great bramble clump, came the tiniest, most pitiful -cry, but with a little note of hope in it.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” cried Peter, and the next instant he was -on his knees, the steel jaws were pulled asunder, -and a baby mongrel of a puppy was dragging itself -feebly towards him, trying to lick his hand. “Oh, -you poor little beggar!” said Peter, as he wrenched -the trap from the ground and flung it into the -middle of the bramble-bush. Then he lifted the -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span>small bundle of rough, dirty white hair tenderly -and carried it back to the beech-tree.</p> - -<p class="indent">There he sat himself down and began to examine -the wounded leg; it was terribly torn but -mercifully not broken. Peter washed the wound -with some water from his flask, and bound the -leg with some strips he tore from his handkerchief, -the small creature ecstatically licking his -hand the while.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You know,” remonstrated Peter, “a thing of -your size should not be wandering about alone. -It’s not correct. You might have known you’d -get into difficulties.”</p> - -<p class="indent">The puppy paused in its licking to look into -his face with brown speaking eyes. They might -have told Peter a good deal—a sad little story of -being hunted, hounded from place to place on -account of his ugly little body, of a last frantic, -terrified rush from a distant village, of presently -trotting along a dusty road, of a turning into a -wood which smelled pleasantly of rabbits and other -things dear to a doggy nose, and of a final excruciating -imprisonment, which had lasted through -Heaven knows how long of torment, till a big -human being in the shape of Peter had come to his -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span>rescue. All this those eyes might have said. At -all events, Peter read a bit of the story.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I suppose, you poor atom,” he said whimsically, -“that no one wanted you, so you set out to -forage on your own account. Well, we’re both in -the same boat. Shall we pull it together?”</p> - -<p class="indent">It is not to be supposed that the puppy understood -the precise words, but it unquestionably -understood the tone, and it again fell to licking -Peter’s hand.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter ferreted in his wallet. He found bread -and meat, and together they shared a meal. -Water Peter poured into his palm, and the small -creature lapped greedily. Finally it curled itself -up beside him, and, despite a sore and wounded -leg, dropped into a blissful and contented slumber. -After a moment or so Peter followed its example. -He had not, it will be guessed, slept the previous -night, and he had been tramping since daybreak. -So now here were two wayfarers forgetting their -woes in slumber, though the puppy, it may be -safely averred, was confident that his woes were over.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="indent">The sun was slanting low through the wood -when Peter awakened. He opened his eyes and -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>looked around without moving. The puppy—the -laziness of it!—had not stirred. But, then, -who knows how many hours of puppy sleepiness -it had not to make up.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ouf!” said Peter, stretching himself hugely.</p> - -<p class="indent">The puppy woke, started, cringed, felt the -wound in its leg, and yelped.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter picked it up with firm hands. “Now -look here,” he said solemnly, “we don’t want any -more fear. You’ve got to forget that. Do you -understand? We’re going to be comrades, pals, -you and I; and we’re both of us going to keep up -brave hearts and cheer each other. You’ve got -a wound in your leg, and I’ve got one in the region -which I suppose is called the heart. You—you -puppy thing! have the advantage over me, because -with a bit of luck yours will mend in a few -days. But anyhow, neither of us is going to -whine. You’re going to bark cheerfully and wag -your tail, and I’m going to write—presently, and -grin as well as I know how. The world would -be quite a decent place if people would let it be -so, and we’re not going to add dulness to its poor -old shoulders. It’s borne quite enough in its -time. Have you understood?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">A small red tongue trying to reach Peter’s face -testified to entire comprehension.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Very well, then. Now come along, and as I -presume you’d prefer not to walk on three legs -I’ll carry you. You’re not much of a size, and -only skin and bone at that.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter picked up his wallet and hitched his bundle -to his back, which bundle was heavier than when -we first met him. It now contained, further, a -packet of manuscript, a writing-tablet, and—the -foolishness of the vagabond!—a dress suit. The -bundle adjusted to exactly that position which -made its weight of the least concern, he tucked -the small animal under his arm, with careful consideration -for its wounded leg, and set off to the -edge of the wood and once more down the dusty -road. With some shrewdness, at the first two -villages he passed, he hid the puppy under -his coat with a whispered injunction to lie -still, an injunction which was scrupulously -observed. Only by the tiniest quivering of -the body and the quick beat of the heart -against Peter’s arm was the smallest sign of -movement and life betrayed. Villages, you perceive, -were anathema to him, holding terror, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span>pain, and everything that was most unholy and -unpleasant.</p> - -<p class="indent">They slept in a barn that night. Before he -slept Peter took out and examined his manuscript -by the light of a candle. Then his face quivered.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Not to-night,” he said. “I can’t. I will -to-morrow.”</p> - -<p class="indent">He promised it like a child who cries “Honest -Injun!” at the end of its speech.</p> - -<p class="indent">“What would you do,” asked Peter, addressing -himself to the puppy, “if you felt uncommonly -miserable and had made a promise to yourself -and a puppy to be cheerful?”</p> - -<p class="indent">The puppy looked at him, head on one side. -Then it yawned, a large wide yawn that began -and ended in something remarkably like a grin. -Finally it crept to Peter and curled down beside -him in slumber.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Grin and bear it and sleep, I suppose,” said -Peter. “Puppy, you’re a philosopher, and I -think your name is Democritus.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">AT A FAIR</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">And</span> so these two entered into partnership—a -partnership that, on the side of Democritus, was -marked by an entire adoration, the full and overwhelming -love and trust of a dog’s soul, and on -Peter’s by affection and a real sense of comfort -in the small animal’s companionship.</p> - -<p class="indent">The days that passed were days of unbroken -sunshine; England was revelling, as she rarely -does, in long-continued sun and warmth. Peter -spent the mornings and a good part of the afternoon -in the shade of some coppice or in the shadow -of some old quarry or haystack, engrossed in his -writing, while Democritus at first lay curled beside -him, and later, as the ugly wound healed, set off -on rabbiting expeditions of his own, to return at -noon and share Peter’s midday meal.</p> - -<p class="indent">After having worked for some weeks under a -roof, Peter at first did not find it so easy to write -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span>in the open. There were countless things to prove -of distraction—the sunlight spots that danced on -the ground beside him, the glint of a dragon-fly’s -wing, the butterflies that flitted in the sunshine, -the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cows, the cry -of the curlew, the plaintive pipe of the plover, all -served to carry his thoughts into dreamy realms of -fancy away from the work of the moment.</p> - -<p class="indent">And in these realms there were three or four -pictures that kept recurring to his mind. There -was a woman sitting in the sunshine on a terrace, -her hair warm and lustrous in the light. Peter -would see again the indescribable note of race -and breeding that predominated in her; see her -eyes grey and shining; the warm ivory of her skin; -her white hands long-fingered and slender, rose-tipped, -with almond-shaped nails; the lines of her -graceful figure; the whole fragrance, the warm -vitality of her; and hear her low, round voice. -There was a moonlight picture, elusive, full of -a rare charm. There was a picture half-hidden -in driving rain, and then a woman by his -hearth, lifting a glass of red wine to her lips. And, -lastly, a picture of a woman, looking at him, -white, silent, her eyes holding depths of contempt.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">And here Peter would catch his underlip with -his teeth and turn again fiercely to his writing. -It was gay writing, witty writing. His Wanderer -wore his cap and bells finely, jesting right royally, -and it would have needed a penetrating insight -to recognize the sigh beneath the smile.</p> - -<p class="indent">The world, as Peter had told Democritus, has -borne much in her time. Through countless -ages she has seen the sin, the sorrow, the pain of -mankind; but she knows, if they could but realize -it, that all this is as transitory as the barren days -of winter that cover her, and that life and hope -are never dead, but only sleeping, and will awake -again with the spring. She tells us this times out -of number. Every year she silently speaks her -allegory, but it falls for the most part on unheeding -ears. In the barren winter of our lives it is -not easy to believe that spring will once more wake -for us, that however long and dreary the grey -months, somewhere and at some time the spring -will dawn. Peter was facing his winter bravely, -but he could not yet believe that one day the sun -would shine again for him, the birds sing, the -flowers bloom. For all his outward gaiety, the -present physical warmth and sunshine only served -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span>to emphasize his mental winter. But Nature -knew and did her best to cheer him, and to tell -him that our interior spring and summer, though -their advent is sure, do not always accord with -hers.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="indent">One day, somewhere about the middle of September, -Peter reached a small town. He was -progressing slowly northward, but as he spent a -considerable part of his time in writing his progress -was by no means hurried.</p> - -<p class="indent">In this town a fair was in full swing, and Peter -was reminded of a letter he had once received, -which talked of another fair—one in the South -of England.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was a gay scene enough, and Peter, with -Democritus, at his heels, paused a while to watch -it. There were crowds of people in holiday attire; -there were endless couples—girl and swain. There -were coco-nut shies; there were merry-go-rounds -of horses and boat-cars, which revolved to some -excruciating music (so-called), set in motion by -the machinery which worked the highly coloured -wooden horses and cars. There were stalls -covered with miscellaneous articles of marvellous -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span>manufacture—glass vases with undulated edges, -beginning white at the base and slowly increasing -in colour from pale pink to a violent ruby; china -mugs and cups covered with floreate designs or -flags, between two of which King George and -Queen Mary stared forth with painted pained -surprise. There were gilt clocks, boxes of sweets, -tin butter-dishes politely called silver, and all the -rest of the articles which usually adorn the stalls -at a fair.</p> - -<p class="indent">A number of these articles were displayed on a -circular table covered with red twill and surrounded -by a barricade, beside which stood a man -with a number of small hoops in his hand. In a -loud voice he was urging the onlookers to try their -luck. The hoops, it appeared, were to be loaned -to them at the rate of three a penny; they were -then to be flung quoit-like over any article on the -table. Provided they fell surrounding the article -without touching it, it became the property of the -thrower. If you had ill-luck you had disbursed -your money with no result; moderate luck would -bring you a packet of sweets or a china dog or cat, -and by surprising good luck you might become -the possessor of a certain largish gilt clock or a -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span>ruby vase, and all for a sum which might be the -fraction of a penny. It sounded seductive, and -the throwers of the hoops were fairly numerous, -though the acquirers of prizes were few. The -wooden hoop had an unpleasant way of falling -against the article required and propping itself -up by it as though too tired for further exertion. -But the throwers, with the hearts of born gamblers, -continued to throw and hope for better things, -till diminishing coppers or entirely empty pockets -sent them sadly away. Naturally there was an -occasional piece of luck, which fired the assembly -to fresh enthusiasm.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter stood still to watch, amused by the wild -vagaries of the wooden hoops. Suddenly a small -voice at his elbow spoke.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It ain’t easy, is it? I’ve thrown a shilling on -that there table and not got so much as a penny -packet o’ sweets. It’s dis’eartening!”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter looked round. At his elbow was a small -and ugly girl, possibly the ugliest girl on which -it had ever been his fortune to set eyes. Her pale, -square face was covered with freckles, her eyes, -small and green, were like little slits, her nose—a -mere apology for that feature—was a dab in the -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span>middle of her face, her mouth wide and formless.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Apparently it is not easy,” said Peter politely. -And then he removed his eyes from her face, fearing -that his astonishment at her plainness might -be perceived by her.</p> - -<p class="indent">She sighed. “I wish I ’adn’t thrown my shilling -on that there table. It’s the third year now -as I’ve made a fool of myself, and not a penny -left for the ’orses nor nothin’. ’Tisn’t as if I were -one o’ the girls wot folks treat. ’Oo could, with -a face like mine?”</p> - -<p class="indent">There was no complaint in the remark. It was -not even a hint to Peter; it was merely the grave -statement of a fact, with the explanation of the -reason for it.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Why,” asked Peter solemnly, “did you throw -your money on that table?”</p> - -<p class="indent">She came a trifle nearer to him, and spoke in a -whisper.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It’s them two things,” she said. “That there -vase—the crimson one with the white snake a-curling -round it, and the gold clock. I’ve watched -’em now for three years, and me ’eart’s in me -mouth lest some one should get the ’oops over. -I can’t get away from ’ere, nor enjoy the fair no -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span>’ow for watchin’, so the ’orses and boats wouldn’t -be much good even if I ’adn’t throwed that shilling -away.” It was poured forth in a rapid undertone, -as if the mere mention of her longing might lead -a hoop to encircle either of the two coveted -treasures.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter eyed them gravely. Of course they were -unutterably hideous, that went without saying; -but there they were, representing the goal—unattainable—of -three years’ ambition.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I wonder—” said Peter, and stopped. He -had once had some skill as a player of quoits. -He drew a copper from his pocket. “I’ll have -three of those hoops,” he said to the man in charge -of the stall.</p> - -<p class="indent">The Ugly Little Girl watched him, anxiety in -her eyes. Democritus, at his master’s heels, was -regarding the proceedings unperturbed.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter flung one hoop; it fell on the table and -rested in its usual melancholy fashion against a -china figure. The Ugly Little Girl heaved a sigh -of relief; she felt that her confidence had been -misplaced.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter threw again. The hoop fell fairly over -the gilt clock.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Good!” said the owner of the stall, with an -attempt at cheerfulness. And he picked up the -hoop, handing Peter the clock.</p> - -<p class="indent">Amazed, wrathful, fighting with her tears, the -Ugly Little Girl watched Peter. He threw a third -time. The ruby vase with the white snake climbing -up it was neatly encircled. The man handed -it to Peter in a melancholy fashion.</p> - -<p class="indent">“More ’oops?” he asked dejectedly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Not at the moment,” returned Peter jauntily, -and he moved away. The Ugly Little Girl was -no longer at his elbow.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter worked his way through the group of envious -admirers round the stall, and at a little -distance he saw her. He walked in her direction, -Democritus at his heels.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Permit me,” quoth Peter as he approached.</p> - -<p class="indent">She turned round; her eyes were full of tears, -her mouth distorted in a grimace of woe.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Now, by all the gods,” exclaimed Peter, -amazed, “what’s the matter with the child?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Might ’ave known you’d ’ave got them. -Might ’ave known the luck was all agin me.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ye gods and little fishes!” cried Peter, raising -his eyes to the sky. “And how was I to know -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span>you wanted the honour of throwing the blessed -little wooden hoops yourself? I fancied it was -the mere possession of the gorgeous articles that -you coveted.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“What d’you mean?” she queried.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I acquired these treasures,” returned Peter, -“with the sole intention of presenting them to -you. If, however, I have been mistaken——”</p> - -<p class="indent">“For me!” It had never dawned upon her -that any one would willingly part with such -treasures, once acquired.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Of course,” said Peter patiently, “for you. -May I ask what else you imagined I was going -to do with them?” He held the gilt clock and -the ruby vase towards her.</p> - -<p class="indent">Her ugly face was all a-quiver with rapture. -“Oh!” she breathed, and she looked at Peter with -adoring eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Here, take them!” laughed Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">She took them tenderly, still half-unbelieving -in her good fortune.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I never thought,” she whispered, “that no -one would ’ave thrown ’oops for me. Oh, I -say!”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter looked at her, and then some spirit took -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span>possession of him. Perhaps it was one of enterprise, -perhaps it was one of mischief, perhaps it -was one of kindliness, or perhaps—and this is -more probable—it was a mixture of all three.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Shall we do the fair together?” he asked.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was her turn now to look at him. Incredulity, -joy, and something akin to tears struggled -for the mastery. The last are apt to come to the -surface at a kindness to one not used to it.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I—I—d’you mean it?” she asked, ecstatic.</p> - -<p class="indent">“With all the faith in the world,” replied Peter. -“Come along.”</p> - -<p class="indent">They were an odd trio—the tall, lean man in -his shabby coat and trousers and the fantastic -peacock feather in his hat, the small ugly girl in -her tawdry finery, the mongrel puppy which -trotted solemnly at Peter’s heels.</p> - -<p class="indent">To the Ugly Little Girl it was a never-to-be-forgotten -afternoon. She had a man all of her -own, and one, too, who flung shillings abroad with -never so much as a hint at his reckless expenditure. -Never again was she to care for the pitying -looks cast upon her lonely self by the other girls -who walked abroad with their swains. Never -again was she lonely. Her life was to hold a -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span>dream-knight, a man with sad eyes and a whimsical -smile, who had fêted her throughout one -glorious September day. And her dream was -infinitely more beautiful than any other girl’s -reality, for in it her man was ever courtly, ever -considerate, laughing, gay, with odd little speeches -that somehow tugged at her heart-strings and -brought the happy tears to her eyes. There was -never a blow, never a harsh word, such as fell too -often to the lot of the others. Thrice happy -Ugly Little Girl, with her one day of innocent joy -and her dream throughout her life!</p> - -<p class="indent">As for Peter, having undertaken the rôle of -swain, you may be sure he played his part royally. -He whirled on wooden horses till his brain was -dizzy, while Democritus, from the safety of the -solid earth, watched his antics in dumb amazement, -marvelling at his undignified proceedings. He -bought and ate waffles made by a stout woman with -a motherly face, who blessed the two in a way that -caused the Ugly Little Girl to blush scarlet and -convulsed Peter with inward laughter; he bought -sticks of sugar-candy and huge peppermints -called “humbugs”; and finally he watched a -hunchbacked harlequin, in green and gold spangles, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span>turn somersaults and jest for the motley herd -around him.</p> - -<p class="indent">The Ugly Little Girl gazed in awestruck wonder, -laughing every now and then in a spasm of merriment. -Suddenly she looked up and saw Peter’s -face.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Don’t it make you laugh?” she queried. -“Ain’t it funny?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“For the crowd, perhaps,” answered Peter. -“But for the harlequin—” He shrugged his -shoulders, and the Ugly Little Girl somehow -understood and ceased to smile.</p> - -<p class="indent">Later they saw him outside a tent; he was -jesting no longer. Morose, silent, he was gazing -on the ground. Peter said a word or two, -insignificant but friendly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ah!” said the fellow, looking up; “you can -see the man beneath the fool.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Many of us wear the cap and bells,” said Peter. -“It’s better to raise a laugh than be an object of -pity to a non-understanding multitude.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“You, too!” said the man. “Another in the -world with a laugh on his lips and an ache at his -heart!”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Sighing won’t ease the ache,” said Peter; -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span>“and a laugh is often more dignified than a groan.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“You’re right there,” was the answer. “And -a laughing fool is better than a moping wise -man.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well said!” quoth Peter. And then there -was a call from within the tent, and the harlequin -vanished with a nod.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I understand,” said the Ugly Little Girl -slowly. “It ain’t nice to be laughed at because -you ’ave an ugly body, but it’s better to let folk -laugh at you and laugh with them than go around -with a long face. It’s comfortin’ to think that -God don’t take no account of your body. They -say as ’ow ’E made it, but I’m thinking as it’s -your father and mother ’as a good ’and in it, and -it ain’t fair to lay all the blame on God.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh no,” said Peter airily but vaguely, and -completely at a loss for a suitable reply. And -then he bethought him of the coco-nut shies, -and led the way in that direction.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ain’t you givin’ me a time!” said the Ugly -Little Girl gleefully.</p> - -<p class="indent">Much later, in the gathering dusk, there was -dancing; and, as is the way with fairs, a certain -roughness and rowdyism began to prevail. Peter -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span>had his own ideas as to the propriety of certain -places for women, of whatever class.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is time you left,” he remarked coolly.</p> - -<p class="indent">She glanced up, surprised.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is,” said Peter authoritatively, “too rough -here now for a woman.”</p> - -<p class="indent">She blushed with pleasure. The other swains -would keep their girls there till Heaven knows -what o’clock.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Where do you live?” demanded Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">“In Watermill Street,” she replied, meek, delighted. -And then, with a sudden burst of honesty, -“I’m—I’m only a maid-of-all-work.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Jack-of-all-trades,” smiled Peter. “I’ll give -myself the pleasure of escorting you to your door.”</p> - -<p class="indent">They walked through the deserted streets. -Every man abroad was at the fair. Democritus -followed. It had been a day of perplexity to him.</p> - -<p class="indent">The Ugly Little Girl was fumbling with one -hand at her neck; in the other arm she held the -precious clock and vase.</p> - -<p class="indent">“What,” asked Peter politely, “is the trouble? -Can I assist you?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“’Ere, ’old them a minute, will you?” She -thrust the clock and vase towards him. Peter -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span>took them. She fumbled now with both hands, -and in a moment brought them away, holding in -them a small medal, one of the Immaculate Conception. -It was attached to a thick boot-lace.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter gazed at her.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I ’aven’t nothin’ else worth ’avin’,” she said -hurriedly. “Father Mordaunt ’e blessed it for -me. I’d—I’d like you to take it.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter looked from the medal and boot-lace to -the ugly, imploring face.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, but—” he said, and he hesitated. It -was obviously a great possession.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Father Mordaunt ’e’d never mind,” she said -earnestly; “and—and Our Lady’ll understand, -seein’ as ’ow it’s the only thing I’ve got to give -you, and you’ve made me so ’appy.” She still -tendered it, wistful, anxious.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter took it, and dropped it, boot-lace and all, -into his pocket.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Thank you,” he said quietly, with no trace -of whimsical nonsense now in his tone.</p> - -<p class="indent">Then she took the clock and vase again from him, -and they turned into Watermill Street. At a -door she paused.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I ain’t goin’ to try and say thank you,” she -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span>whispered, “because I can’t. I know you’re a -real gentleman—not only by your speech, but -by the way you’ve treated me so considerate and -good. I’ll pray to Our Lady for you as long as -ever I live, and ask ’Er to give you whatever you -wants most. And I’ll begin this very night.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh,” smiled Peter, “you queer, dear little -girl!” But though he smiled his eyes were a -trifle misty. It had been, after all, a mere freak -of fancy on his part to play the squire of dames -to a small maid-of-all-work that afternoon. He -felt himself to be a bit of a fraud, undeserving of -this wealth of gratitude. He crushed the small -work-worn fingers hard in his.</p> - -<p class="indent">And so the two parted. It had been a trifling -incident; but, after all, it is rather pleasant to -think of, as somehow characteristic of Peter.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">ON THE CLOUD</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was about the third week in January that -Peter reached a certain town named Congleton, -and leaving it behind him, walked towards a -mountain named the Cloud.</p> - -<p class="indent">The weather was now inclement; cold winds -blew, driving showers of sleet and rain assailed -him, making the progress of the vagabond Peter -far from pleasant.</p> - -<p class="indent">Bundle on back, his hands deep in the pockets -of a rough frieze overcoat he had purchased -some three months previously, he tramped along -the road, Democritus at his heels. It might -well be wondered why Peter did not seek some -lodging during these inclement months, and in -answer there is nothing to say beyond the fact -that a certain odd strain in him led him to continue -his present mode of living. He preferred -inclemency of weather, entire isolation, to life -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span>under a roof, with the chance of meeting his -fellow-men. Perhaps it was strange, but after -all had he not already spent more than two years -on the roads, so may not the love of the open -have taken possession of him? At all events it -is not what he might have done, but what he -actually did, with which this history has to deal.</p> - -<p class="indent">Somewhere up on the top of the Cloud, with -its back to a small wood of pines and with a strip -of moorland and then the road in front of it, -stands a small deserted hut. It is no more than a -hovel of one tiny room, and perhaps at one time -it was used as a shepherd’s shelter.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was drawing on to the wintry dusk when -Peter saw it in the gloom, lying to the left of him -from the road. He crossed the strip of moorland -and went towards it. He found it, as he had -fancied he might, entirely empty. There was a -hole in the roof through which the rain was driving -and the broken door rattled on its hinges. It was -very different from a cottage he had discovered -some months previously, but it was at all events -some kind of shelter, and the cold without was -bitter.</p> - -<p class="indent">“We’ll take possession,” said Peter to Democritus. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span>“It cannot be styled a princely habitation—in -fact, it’s uncommonly wretched. But -I fancy it will be more desirable than the road -to-night.”</p> - -<p class="indent">He unfastened his bundle and set it on the -earth floor. Outside the wind howled in fury; -mist, rain, and gathering dusk blotted out the -landscape beyond the road.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ugh!” said Peter with a shudder, “it’s -remarkably unpleasant.”</p> - -<p class="indent">He unpacked his bundle. There was half a -loaf of bread, a tin of sardines, a bottle of water, -a small flask of whisky, and a bone with some meat -on it for Democritus.</p> - -<p class="indent">They finished their meal together, and then -Peter still sat with his back to the wall, as far -away from the broken door as possible, watching -the rain that fell through the hole in the roof. -For nearly the first time since he had begun his -wanderings he was physically wretched. Fate -had for a short time lifted his mental loneliness -from him, only to plunge him deeper into it. -Mental loneliness, however, he had done his best -to accept with what philosophy he might, but now -physical loneliness, entire discomfort, and bodily -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span>depression were weighing hard upon him. He felt -he had lost the grit to fight further. A quixotic -action of long ago suddenly presented itself to him -as an entirely idiotic proceeding on his part. Why -on earth had he ruined his own life, cut himself -off from communion with his fellow-men, for a -mere romantic notion?</p> - -<p class="indent">“I’m beaten,” said Peter to himself, “done! -I fancied I was doing a fine thing. I thought -myself, no doubt, a bit of a hero; and now I’m a -coward, a turncoat, who’d give a very great deal -to undo the past.”</p> - -<p class="indent">He was wretched, entirely wretched, and even -the soft warm tongue of Democritus against his -hand was of no smallest comfort to him.</p> - -<p class="indent">He looked at the bundle on the ground beside -him. It contained his manuscript, fair, complete -but for the title and signature and the dedication -should he choose to give it one. It brought him -no atom of pleasure; it appeared to him worthless, -a thing of false sentiment, talking of high courage, -of nobility of thought, which in reality vanished -like a pricked air-bubble the moment the finger -of fact was laid upon it.</p> - -<p class="indent">How in the name of fortune had he kept his -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span>spirits buoyed up all these years? And why -in Heaven’s name had the buoyancy suddenly -deserted him? Peter turned about in his mind -for a solution of the problem. Presently he -found it. It came with something like a shock. -He was older, that was the reason. Close on six -years had rolled over his head since the day he -had surrendered all for an extravagant notion. -It is the young, Peter reflected sagely, who take -their all and throw it with both hands on the -altar of sacrifice. They do not realize—how -should they in their youthful optimism?—what -they are giving up. They have never known -monotony, the grey years that roll by with -nothing in heaven or earth to break their dulness.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Something will happen to make up to us,” -they cry. But—so Peter reflected from the -wisdom of his present vast age (he was two-and-thirty -be it stated)—nothing does happen. We -burn our all heroically, and then are surprised -to find that there is no life in the grey ashes left -to us. His optimism had gone, vanished, and -nothing but a deep pessimism remained to him.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It’s no use, Democritus,” he said, as with -tongue and wagging tail the small creature tried -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span>to cheer this terrible mood that had fallen upon -his master, “it’s no use. I’ve made a mull of -things, and perhaps it’s just as well to know when -I am beaten. And yet if——”</p> - -<p class="indent">Unpleasant little word, which so often prefaces -all the joys that might have been and are not.</p> - -<p class="indent">Bear with Peter in his present mood. The -marvel is it had never fallen upon him before, -and that it had not must be accounted for by -the fact that youth, health, and what had -appeared as indomitable good spirits were all in -his favour.</p> - -<p class="indent">It is useless, however, to dwell on his misery. -Picture him, if you will, as wretched as man well -could be. He was, after all, only human, and up -till now he had fought his fight bravely.</p> - -<p class="indent">He slept little throughout the night. About -midnight the wind dropped suddenly, and by -the light of a candle he saw snowflakes falling -through the hole in the roof. He was trying to -console himself with Conard’s life of Beethoven, -which he had purchased; but with the remembrance -of the woman who had recommended him -to read it before his mind, the consolation was not -overgreat.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Towards morning he fell into a fitful slumber -which lasted till dawn. Then he awakened, -roused himself, yawned and stretched. The -memory of his mood of the previous night recurred -to his mind. He felt suddenly ashamed, -though there had been none but his own soul and -Democritus to witness it. Courage, high-handed, -sprang again within him. He flung last night’s -mood behind him, and brave-eyed faced the future. -And with what is to follow it is good to think that -he did so.</p> - -<p class="indent">He got up, and went to the cottage door.</p> - -<p class="indent">The earth lay snow-covered and very still. Since midnight the air had -been thick with feathery flakes falling gently, silently. Just before -dawn they had ceased, and now the world lay under the soft mantle. -White and spectre-like the trees reared their branches against the -cold grey sky. Only here and there the berries of the holly and the -rowan-tree gleamed scarlet against the snow. A little stream that -in summer made faint music as it wended its way to the right of the -hut, finally losing itself in the shadow of the pinewood, was now -frost-bound and silent. Over everything lay an intense stillness, an -unearthly <span class="pagenum2" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span>purity. The ground before the hut was covered with curious -little star-like lines imprinted in the snow, the impress of the feet -of feathered wayfarers seeking for food which was not to be found.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then through the silent frosty air came -clear sounds—the barking of a sheepdog, the -clarion note of a cock in an outlying farmyard, -and, very distant, the sound of a church clock -chiming the hour.</p> - -<p class="indent">The eastern sky began to flush with colour. -An amber light stole upward through the grey, -turning to rose and then to deeper crimson. -The white earth pulsated, breathed, awakened. -Softly it reflected the crimson of the sky, and then -slowly, majestically, the sun, a glowing ball of -fire, came up over the horizon.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter stood gazing at the fairy magic of the -scene. It was a pure transformation after the -bleak dreariness of the previous night.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then suddenly he saw a man coming -along the road—a man tall, broad-shouldered, -of a build akin to his own. A thick coat covered -him, its fur collar well pulled up to his ears; a -cloth cap was on his head.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Hullo,” said Peter to himself, “he’s early -a-foot!”</p> - -<p class="indent">The man paused, looked in the direction of -the hut, then turned and tramped quickly across -the snow towards him. As he came nearer Peter -saw a pleasant freckled face, brown eyes like a -dog’s, a firm short chin, and a small reddish -moustache.</p> - -<p class="indent">Within three or four yards of him the stranger -halted and spoke.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Is your name, by good luck, Peter Carden?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is,” said Peter, surprised, wondering.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Thank Heaven!” murmured he of the freckles -piously. “I’ve found you at last! Come along -back to the hotel with me and we’ll talk as we go. -I’m famishing for breakfast.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">A MIRACLE</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">And</span> here it is necessary to record certain things -which led up to this—to Peter—most extraordinary -of meetings: things which those who do -not believe in the miracles wrought by love -and prayer might regard as almost incredible -coincidences.</p> - -<p class="indent">One afternoon, it was in the week between -Christmas and the New Year, Father O’Sullivan -was in the Westminster Hospital. He had been -with a sick man for the last half-hour or so, -cheering him on his high-road to recovery. He -had only just left him—he was, in fact, in the -corridor—when a nursing Sister, a Catholic, -came up to him.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Father,” she said, “there’s a man—a gentleman—who -would like to see you; he’s a Catholic -and dying. I asked him to let me send for a -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span>priest yesterday, and again to-day, but he refused. -A few moments ago, however, I happened -to mention your name and say that you -were in the hospital. He asked me then to fetch -you.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ah!” said Father O’Sullivan, smoothing his -chin, as was the way with him—if he had worn -a beard he would have been stroking it; “where is -he?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“In here, Father.” And she led the way -through a ward, and into a small room that -opened out of it.</p> - -<p class="indent">Father O’Sullivan looked at the man lying on -the bed. His eyes were closed, and his face -almost deathly pale against the red coverlet -which was pulled up to his chin.</p> - -<p class="indent">Father O’Sullivan sat down by the bedside. -The man opened his eyes and looked at him.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well, Father,” he said, with a faint attempt -at a smile.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then, in spite of the pallor, the thinness, -Father O’Sullivan recognized him. He saw in -him a man he had known from boyhood, one who -had attended his confessional, though for about -six years he had entirely lost sight of him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Hugh Ellerslie!” exclaimed he.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You remember me?” said Hugh.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Of course, of course,” replied Father O’Sullivan, -“though it’s six years or thereabouts since -I saw you.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I know,” said Hugh wearily. “I want to -talk to you, Father. They tell me I’m dying.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well, now,” said the old priest compassionately, -“and if that’s so, isn’t it a good thing -I’m here to help you make your peace, to have -you tell me what it is is troubling you?”</p> - -<p class="indent">For a moment Hugh was silent,</p> - -<p class="indent">“I’ve a confession to make, Father,” he said -presently. The Sister moved towards the door.</p> - -<p class="indent">“No,” said Hugh, “don’t go. How long -have I got to live?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Some hours at least,” said the Sister gently.</p> - -<p class="indent">Hugh smiled. “Well, you’d better both hear -what I’ve got to say. It won’t take long, but -I can think of nothing else till I’ve said it. Perhaps -you, Sister, will write down what is necessary. -I can sign it presently, and, at all events, there -will be two witnesses.”</p> - -<p class="indent">At a sign from Father O’Sullivan the nurse -crossed to the other side of the bed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“Now, my son,” said Father O’Sullivan quietly, -tenderly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I have let another man suffer instead of me,” -said Hugh steadily. “His name—please get that -down clearly, Sister—is Peter Carden.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Father O’Sullivan did not move, but he drew -a long breath. And there are some people who -say that the age of miracles is past!</p> - -<p class="indent">“There’s no need to enter into all particulars,” -went on Hugh; “it would mean rather complicated -business details that really don’t signify. -But get this down clearly. About five or six -years ago, Peter Carden was accused of forgery -and embezzlement. He was put on his trial and -pleaded guilty. He got three years in Portland -Gaol. He was innocent; he was shielding me. -Everything of which he was accused, and to which -he pleaded guilty, was done by me. Is that -clear, Father?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Perfectly clear, my son.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“We were friends,” went on Hugh, “school -friends, college friends. Peter always hauled -me out of scrapes. He stuck to me through -thick and thin. I believe this last time it was as -much for my old mother’s sake as mine that -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span>he stood by me. She was very fond of Peter. -I said,” a slow colour mounted in the white -face, “that it was for her sake that I let him do -it; it wasn’t—at least, not only that. I was a -coward. She died about a year after Peter had -been in prison. I might have come forward then. -I didn’t; I went abroad. I came back to England -only about six months ago.” He stopped.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Anything else?” asked Father O’Sullivan -gravely and tenderly.</p> - -<p class="indent">“That’s all,” said Hugh wearily, “at least, -with regard to that. I’d like Peter to know that, -cur though I’ve been to him, I’ve always been -fond of him. Tell him, if you can, Father, that -I’ve tried to run straight since, because of him -and what he did. I wasn’t getting on badly, but -now——”</p> - -<p class="indent">“He shall be told,” said Father O’Sullivan.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Do you know where he is?” asked Hugh, -“You speak as if you knew him.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“I’ve heard of him,” replied Father O’Sullivan, -“and though I don’t know where he is now, -he shall be found.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Again Hugh was silent. After a moment he -spoke.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“If you’ve got all that down, Sister, I’ll sign -it. You’re sure it will be all right, Father; that -it will let every one know, and clear him entirely?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Perfectly sure.”</p> - -<p class="indent">The Sister put the paper by Hugh’s hand, -and he signed a straggling, wavering signature. -He let the pen fall. Then he looked up at the -Sister.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Now,” he said, “there are other things. -Will you——?”</p> - -<p class="indent">And the Sister left the room, closing the door -noiselessly behind her.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="indent">It was after seven o’clock before Father -O’Sullivan finally left the hospital. He had -left it once to fetch the Sacraments for which -Hugh had asked. And then, when the full -peace of forgiveness and union had fallen upon -him, he had lain very still.</p> - -<p class="indent">Once when Father O’Sullivan had moved he -had spoken wistfully.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Must you go, Father?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Not at all, as long as you’re caring for me -to be with you.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Hugh turned his face on the pillow.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“If it hadn’t been you this afternoon, Father!” -he said.</p> - -<p class="indent">“The good God understood that,” said Father -O’Sullivan calmly, “and just sent me along to -see Tim Donoghue, who’s the very saint of a -fellow when he’s sick, and would have me be -reading to him and praying for him by the hour, -and me with other jobs to be looking after.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“We’re all like that, perhaps,” said Hugh, -smiling.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Faith, and it’s a good thing too,” was the -reply. “And to whom but your Mother should -you be going when you’re sick, and in whose -arms but hers should you be dying?”</p> - -<p class="indent">And then there was a silence, broken occasionally -by little remarks from Hugh, who, -coward though he might have been once, and -more than once, was no coward now that he was -dying. And Father O’Sullivan had responded -with little tender speeches, such as a mother -indeed might make to a child.</p> - -<p class="indent">And now he was walking towards Muriel’s -house in Cadogan Place, and thanking God in -his kind, big old heart for a soul which had passed -peacefully away.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">THE FINE WAY</h3> - -<p class="center">I</p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">And</span> so,” said Father O’Sullivan, blowing his -nose, “I came right along to tell you, and ask -you what is the next step to take.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Poor chap!” ejaculated Tommy, delivering -himself of a huge sigh. He was standing -on the hearthrug, immaculately attired in dinner -jacket, white shirt-front, and all the rest of the -paraphernalia.</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel gave a little choke. She was sitting -near him in a dress of her favourite pale green. -Father O’Sullivan had descended on them both -as they were waiting in the drawing-room for -the announcement of dinner. It had, be it -stated, already been made, but little heed had -been paid thereto, and the butler in wrathful -terms was now ordering the soup to be taken -below again.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">“And what are you both looking so glum -about?” demanded Father O’Sullivan fiercely. -“Faith, and weren’t you having me say Masses, -and yourself setting up candles to St. Joseph, -that that young Quixote—what’s-his-name—might -hold up his head again? And now that -the good Lord has answered our prayers and -cleared him, and let that poor boy make a good -confession and pass peacefully away, you’re looking -as mournful as a mute at a funeral. Was it -perhaps some other way you’d have been having -God arrange things and not His way at all?” He -stuffed his handkerchief back vigorously in his -pocket as he spoke.</p> - -<p class="indent">“But,” quoth Tommy in a slightly haughty -fashion, feeling this speech somewhat of an -aspersion on his wife’s wet eyes, “you will not, -I imagine, deny that it was sad?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Sad! Of course it was sad, what happened -first. But can’t you see the fine way, the beautiful -way, God has taken away the sadness? -You’re all for saying Paradise must be a grand -place, but directly a soul gets a bit nearer to it -you’re for weeping and wailing and crying ‘Poor -fellow!’”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span></p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel choked back her tears. Smiling at -the old priest and the half-wrathful Tommy, -she spoke.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And you’re just as near crying yourself as -I am, Father,” she protested. “And it’s that -is making you so abominably rude and cross -to us both.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Huh!” said Father O’Sullivan, and he coughed, -putting up his hand to his mouth. And both cough -and gesture hid that his lips were trembling.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And now,” he requested after a moment, -his voice steady and a trifle dry, “what’s to be -done next?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Find Mr. Carden, of course,” announced -Muriel with airy decision, as who should say -that was a fact apparent to the most infantine -intelligence.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And it’s all very well to say ‘Find him,’” -remarked Father O’Sullivan dryly, “but have -you the faintest suspicion of a notion where he -is at all?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Not the least,” quoth Muriel cheerfully; -“that is exactly what we have to discover.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“And how will you be doing that may I ask?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel leant forward, finger-tips pressed together, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span>speaking with the decision of one who has -thoroughly weighed the whole problem.</p> - -<p class="indent">“First we must tell General Carden, and see -if he knows where he is. I don’t think he does, -but we must find out for certain. Then there -are his publishers—oh, yes,” in answer to Tommy’s -elevated eyebrows—“he has written a book, a -very good book indeed, and thereby hangs more -of a tale than is enclosed within <i>its</i> covers. Failing -both those plans,” she concluded firmly, “Tommy -must find him.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Faith,” said Father O’Sullivan admiringly, -“it’s a fine thing to be a husband!”</p> - -<p class="indent">And then a second time the drawing-room -door opened, and a second time a voice announced, -this time in accents of deep reproach, that dinner -was on the table.</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel looked at both the men. “Oh,” she -cried, “didn’t he tell us that before? I feel -apologetic. He’s such a treasure, and so is the -cook—both artists in their way, and we’re spoiling -their artistic efforts. Come, both of you. We’ll -talk more at dinner.” A whirl of chiffons and -daintiness, she led the way downstairs.</p> - -<p class="indent">In the intervals of the servant’s absence from -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span>the room, she promulgated plans, like any old -veteran at the beginning of a campaign. If they -sounded somewhat fantastic plans it is certain -that neither man had any better to offer. And -what, in her opinion, was more feasible, more -practicable, than that Tommy should take the -car to Abbotsleigh, where Peter was last seen by -Anne, and from there scour the country for a -man with a peacock feather in his hat? It was, -she assured them both, the simplest of proceedings.</p> - -<p class="indent">By the end of dinner they had warmed to her -ideas, confessing at least that no better solution -of the difficulty presented itself to them. Further, -she told them, and on this point she was firm, that -they must both go that very evening and tell -General Carden the present state of affairs. For -herself, she thought Anne was expecting her. -Yes; she was convinced Anne was expecting her, -but she would telephone through and make sure -while they were finishing their cigars. Thus she -departed from the room.</p> - -<p class="indent">Anne’s voice at the other end of the telephone -presently answered her. Yes, she would be at -home that evening, and delighted to see Muriel. -But what was the matter of importance of which -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span>Muriel had to speak? Too long to communicate -at the moment? Oh, well, Anne must possess -her soul in patience till Muriel arrived.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then Muriel hung up the receiver, and -rang for the footman, on whose appearance she -ordered him to tell her maid to bring a cloak -immediately, and stated also that she would -require a taxi in ten minutes. Then, as one -who has put great things in train, she sank back -in a chair with a sigh of relief and content.</p> - -<p class="center">II</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden was in his smoking-room when -the opening of the door by Goring heralded the -entrance of Tommy Lancing and a stout, elderly -priest.</p> - -<p class="indent">Somewhat perplexed, General Carden put down -the book he had been reading, and rose from his -chair to greet them. True, Tommy occasionally -favoured him with his presence at this hour, but -why should he drag along with him a man whom he -had only once met, and that man, moreover, a -priest? He appeared, too, somewhat embarrassed. -It was the elder man who was at his ease.</p> - -<p class="indent">“We came to see you, General,” said Tommy, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span>shaking hands and introducing Father O’Sullivan, -“because we thought—that is, Muriel—well, -something unusual has happened.” Neither -speech nor introduction was made after Tommy’s -customary suave fashion.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ah!” said General Carden, eyeing them both -keenly, while his heart gave a little anxious -throb. Unusual news can easily portend bad -news. Also Tommy’s manner was a trifle disconcerting.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is,” said Tommy, “about your son.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ah!” said General Carden again, this time -with a quick intake of his breath. He put his -hand up to the mantelpiece. The floor seemed -not quite so solid as he would desire it to be.</p> - -<p class="indent">“He,” blurted out Tommy quickly, “was—was -not guilty. Father O’Sullivan will tell -you.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Thus in the simplest, most commonplace of -language can momentous announcements be made. -It would seem as though there should be a grander -language, a finer flow of words, for these statements -and yet in such bald fashion are they invariably -announced.</p> - -<p class="indent">There was no question now but that the room -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span>was certainly revolving. Presently it steadied -itself, and General Carden knew that he was -sitting by the fire, the two men opposite to him, -and that the old priest was talking. Gradually -his mind adjusted itself to facts: he heard and -understood the words that were being spoken. -When they stopped there was a silence. There is -so astonishingly little to be said at such times, -though the tittle-tattle of small events will supply -us with endless talk.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Thank you for coming to tell me,” said -General Carden gravely, and he pushed a box -of cigars towards the two men. Again silence.</p> - -<p class="indent">Presently Tommy began to talk, quietly, -easily, now. He put forward Muriel’s suggestions, -her advice, her plans. He explained minutely -the scheme she had proposed.</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden listened intent.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is like her kind-heartedness to suggest -it,” he said, as Tommy paused, “and yours to -follow it up. I have no notion where he is, nor—nor -have his publishers. I happened to ask them -the other day.” He made the statement with -an airy carelessness of manner.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Then,” said Tommy with a firmness which -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span>Muriel would distinctly have approved, “I start -to-morrow.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Thus definitely was the decision given.</p> - -<p class="indent">The two stayed a while longer, Tommy supplying -most of the remarks made—conversation it -can not be termed.</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden kept falling into abstracted -silences, in which his eyes sought the fire and -his hand pulled gently at his white moustache. -Father O’Sullivan watched him from under his -shaggy eyebrows. He was not a priest for -nothing. He knew well enough how to read the -vast unsaid between the little said, and the workings -of the reserved old mind were as clear as -daylight to him.</p> - -<p class="indent">Presently they rose to depart. In the hall -General Carden spoke.</p> - -<p class="indent">“If,” he said, addressing himself to Father -O’Sullivan, “you would let me know the day -and hour of young Ellerslie’s funeral I should -be obliged. He was a friend of my son’s.”</p> - -<p class="indent">And in those words the old man blotted out, -forgave, the wrong Hugh had done, as Peter -himself would have wished.</p> - -<p class="indent">An hour later Goring came in with a tray on -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span>which were a tumbler and a jug of hot water.</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden looked up. “Which wine -did I drink to-night?” he demanded.</p> - -<p class="indent">“The ’54 port, sir,” replied Goring respectfully.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Hmm!” General Carden beat a faint, delicate -tattoo with his fingers on the table. “I thought -so. How much more is there?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“About eight bottles, sir. Seven or eight -I should say.”</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden coughed. “You need not -use any more of it at present, not till”—he -coughed again—“Mr. Peter comes home.”</p> - -<p class="indent">The most perfectly trained of butlers might, -perhaps, be excused a slight start at such a -statement, taking into consideration, of course, -previous circumstances. Goring unquestionably -started. Then the mask was on again, impassive, -impenetrable.</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden still kept up that light tattoo. -He had a statement to make. In all fairness -to Peter it had to be made. It was, however, -peculiarly difficult to put into words.</p> - -<p class="indent">He cleared his throat. “There was,” he said, -gazing hard at his fingers, “a mistake. Mr. -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span>Peter was shielding some one else.” The tattoo -stopped. The words were out.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then the man broke through the butler. -The mask of impassivity vanished.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Lord, sir!” his voice was triumphant, “and -mightn’t we ’ave known it, if only we ’adn’t been -such a couple of blithering old fools.”</p> - -<p class="indent">General Carden stared. “Ahem! Goring—really, -Goring, I—” He was for a moment dumbfounded, -helpless in his amazement. Then suddenly the -amazement gave way before a humorous smile, -his old eyes twinkled, and he brought his hand -down on the table with a thump. “By God!” he -cried; “you’re right.”</p> - -<p class="indent">And Goring left the room choking with varied -emotions, but pulling down his waistcoat with -dignified pleasure the while.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">FOUND</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Here</span>, now, are the present employment and emotions -of five of our characters—Tommy, with -car and chauffeur, off to Devonshire, which was -to be the starting-point of his search for a man -with a peacock feather in his hat; General Carden -watching hourly (though it was far too soon to -begin to watch) for a telegram which should -acquaint him of the success of the search; Anne -alternating between waves of pride and despair -and delicious secret joy; and Muriel spending -hours with St. Joseph, imploring the dear Saint -to hurry up with the job he had so successfully -begun.</p> - -<p class="indent">The intervals between these visits she spent -mainly with Anne, rejoicing with her in her -happier moods, encouraging, chiding, sympathizing -when the waves of despair rolled high. -Muriel alone knew to the full the heart of this -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span>woman friend of hers, saw the proud spirit a -captive between the hands of Love, realized what -the captivity meant to her.</p> - -<p class="indent">As for our fifth character, Millicent Sheldon, -a pretty truthful rumour of Tommy’s expedition -having reached her, her feelings were at first distinctly -mixed, though it is certain that presently -she found a method of adjusting them to her own -satisfaction. After all, it was unquestionably the -hand of Providence which had removed the somewhat -impecunious Peter from her life and given -her in exchange the solid Theobald Horatio, with -his equally solid income acquired from the patent -of the little brushes which, being fixed behind carts, -kept the London streets in a cleanly condition. -It is not to be supposed that she dwelt upon these -brushes; those articles had long ago been firmly -obliterated from her mind. It was in the solid -income alone that she saw the hand of Providence -and realized that all had undoubtedly been for the -best. Had Peter’s innocence been apparent from -the outset, there would have been no excuse for -the letter she had penned him at the time of his -release from jail. Of a former letter, written on -the first hearing of his accusation and conviction, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span>she did not care to think. If she thought of it -at all at this juncture it was to tell herself the -letter had been prompted by an impulse of pity, -the folly of which was shown her later by calm -reason. That reason had been aided by the -advent of Theobald Horatio Sheldon on her -horizon, she naturally did not care to allow. It -was, however, her inadvertent mention of this -first letter and the subsequent events to Anne -which had caused her to break a second time -in Anne’s eyes.</p> - -<p class="indent">But why dwell on her further? Let her remain -satisfied, as she protests she is, in the possession -of her Theobald, her little Theobalda, and her -Theobald’s solid income. Her influence on these -pages has ceased; our acquaintance with her may -well cease also.</p> - -<p class="indent">Tommy’s expedition was certainly not all joy. -The month of January is hardly one to be willingly -chosen for a motor tour through England, and the -weather was distinctly unkind.</p> - -<p class="indent">To attempt to recount his adventures would -be to fill a volume with a description of bad roads, -hailstorms, punctures, and repeated disappointments. -Nevertheless he eventually got on the -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span>track of that peacock feather, and followed it up as -surely as a bloodhound on the scent of his prey, -though more than once he had to return on his -own trail.</p> - -<p class="indent">How Tommy kept on the scent at all was a -marvel. It was by sheer perseverance, by following -up every smallest clue, by letting no possible -chance go untried. He was indefatigable, undoubting, -and his chauffeur, hearing the story -from Tommy’s enthusiastic lips, warmed to the -work, and played his part with a zest equal only -to Tommy’s own.</p> - -<p class="indent">It was the third week of the search that they -entered Congleton, which was, as we know, to -cry “Hot!” as the children cry it in the game of -hunt the thimble. But Tommy did not know -it; and here, in spite of all inquiries, the clue -appeared lost, vanished.</p> - -<p class="indent">The wind was blowing, a deluge half of rain, -half of sleet, descending. It being then seven -o’clock or thereabouts, they decided after some -parley to drive to a hotel, put up for the night, -and renew the search in the morning. Some -slight disarrangement in the internal organs of -the car further decided them in the plan, though -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span>the chauffeur averred that ten o’clock the following -morning should see them again <i>en route</i>. -Slightly depressed, however, Tommy retired to -bed.</p> - -<p class="indent">He was up betimes. In the night the weather -had changed, and snow some inches deep lay -upon the ground. Before daylight he was downstairs -and in the street. There he met a sleepy -milk-boy delivering milk. Tommy entered into -casual conversation with him, questioning carelessly, -unconcernedly, as his method was. And -then suddenly the clue was once more in his hand.</p> - -<p class="indent">Of course the boy had seen him—a man with -a peacock feather in his hat and a dog at his heels—a -queer dog, a bit of a mongrel, so the youngster -announced. Now a dog of no kind had been in -the category, but the peacock feather was assuredly -unmistakable. Where, then, had the boy seen -him? The previous evening, it appeared, walking -towards the Cloud.</p> - -<p class="indent">Tommy consulted his watch. It was now, -so he discovered, about a quarter after seven. -The car by arrangement did not make its appearance -till ten. Tommy demurred within his soul, -cogitated as to possibilities. Then with the -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span>thought of further clues in his mind he started -off a-foot towards the mountain. Presently the -town lay well behind him, a wide road before -him.</p> - -<p class="indent">The crisp frosty air was exhilarating, the -chance of success spurred him on. He passed -a few houses. At the door of one a woman was -emptying a pail of dirty water. Tommy stopped -a moment to inquire. Luck, good fortune, was -in his favour. A man such as he had described -had passed up the road the previous evening, so the -woman confidently averred. Hope beat high in -Tommy’s heart. Never before had he been so -close on the track. It had been always three or -four days old at the least.</p> - -<p class="indent">Now the road became desolate of houses, a -smooth expanse of unbroken snow lying between -stone walls. After a while the road turned a bit -to the left, and here there was a largish house—a -farmhouse, he judged—lying among trees. -He passed it, the road still bearing to the left. -Tommy plodded on. The sun was coming up in -the east, a glowing ball of fire.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then suddenly he saw a hut lying back -from the road across a bit of moorland. In the -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span>doorway a tall man was standing, a peacock feather -in his hat, a white mongrel dog beside him.</p> - -<p class="indent">Tommy’s heart gave a sudden exultant leap. -He turned sharply towards the hut.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">THE RETURN</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">How</span> on earth did you find me?” demanded -Peter, as the two descended the Cloud together, -Democritus following in the rear.</p> - -<p class="indent">“By the guidance of Providence,” announced -Tommy. “It’s been the oddest search imaginable, -and if it hadn’t been for that blessed peacock -feather I’ll dare swear it had been fruitless. It -was a kind of landmark, the one characteristic -by which you had been noticed.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter laughed. He was at the moment extraordinarily, -exuberantly happy. So can fate play -shuttlecock with our lives.</p> - -<p class="indent">At the hut door Tommy had given him the -barest outline of the story, sufficient only to -persuade Peter that he was indeed justified in -accompanying the famished Tommy down the -mountain-side. Now he elaborated those details, -entered fully into the most miraculous history -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span>of the last three weeks. And the story of Hugh’s -confession filled Peter with a curious exultation. -He saw, as Father O’Sullivan had seen, -the fine way, the grand way, in which the past -had been blotted out and his friend given back to -him in spirit.</p> - -<p class="indent">Tommy strode down the mountain joyous of -heart, his honest freckled face fairly shining with -pleasure. His whole further programme was -already arranged—the wires to be sent, the breakfast -to be eaten, the train to be caught that was -to convey them swiftly back to town. The car -and chauffeur could follow at their leisure.</p> - -<p class="indent">Here, however, Peter demurred. It was all -very well to tramp the road in this ridiculous -garb, but return to civilisation attired as a mountebank—never! -There were some things at which -Peter drew the line, and he drew one here, and -firmly. Tommy was prepared for him; he met -and overruled each and every objection. Had -Peter no other garments in that bundle he was -carrying? What! only a dress suit? Tommy -opened eyes of wonder. What on earth was the -use of a dress suit to a wayfarer? Oh, of course, -it was Peter’s own business if he <i>liked</i> to carry one -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span>around the country in a bundle on his back for the -mere pleasure of boasting to his soul that he -possessed one. No, of course he couldn’t wear it -up to town. Tommy didn’t propose that he -should. But he—Tommy—had another suit at -the hotel. Peter was much of his build; he’d -take him to his room to change. During the -process he’d dispatch telegrams. Then, Tommy -presumed, he’d be allowed to have his breakfast, -after which the train. He was obdurate on that -point. Yes, Peter could have a bath if he liked—fifty -baths, as long as he agreed to take the train -at noon.</p> - -<p class="indent">Thus planning, arranging, the hotel was reached. -Tommy escorted Peter to his room, indicated a -change of raiment and the bathroom opposite, -then, bursting with excitement, proceeded to find -the chauffeur and dispatch telegrams. Within -ten minutes—such was his celerity of action—he -was in the dining-room, had ordered a substantial -breakfast, and was waiting with what patience he -might for the appearance of Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter, in the bathroom, was luxuriating in a -sea of gloriously hot water, while Democritus -kept guard without. Occasionally a wet black -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span>nose was lowered to the crack beneath the door -to sniff and wonder perplexedly at this new freak -on the part of his master.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is certain,” remarked Peter, full length -in the bath, and addressing himself to the ceiling, -“that if I’d once indulged in the luxury of a good -hot soapy bath in a private bathroom after -leaving the jail, wild horses would never have -dragged me to the roads. I’d forgotten—completely -forgotten—the joy of it!”</p> - -<p class="indent">But at last, with a mental picture of the -famished Tommy before his mind, he reluctantly -proceeded to dry himself and don decent -habiliments.</p> - -<p class="indent">Tommy greeted the entrance of Peter and -Democritus with fervent enthusiasm, and without -more ado they proceeded to make good headway -with the substantial, steaming breakfast which -forthwith made its appearance.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Heavens!” cried Peter presently, pausing -in the consuming of eggs and bacon, toast, marmalade, -and coffee, “was there ever such a -breakfast before? And have I once tendered -you my thanks for coming in pursuit of me? -The whole miraculous business, the entire blessed -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span>kaboodle, seems to have upset my mental equilibrium -and clouded my manners.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Bless the man!” cried Tommy, “don’t I -understand?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Some couple of hours later the two, with -Democritus, were in the train, sitting in a first-class -carriage, which Tommy had bribed the -guard to reserve to their sole use. Neither man -desired the company of strangers at the moment. -Under all their chaff and light-heartedness there -was a sense of bigness, a feeling of something -great accomplished.</p> - -<p class="indent">Peter gazed through the carriage window at -the snow-covered landscape, his mind a whirl -of varied emotions. It is useless to attempt to -say which was uppermost. Kaleidoscopic they -revolved in his brain, a jumble of pleasure, relief, -half-forgotten fatigue, expectation, though now -through them all ran a thought of regret, of -sadness—the thought of Anne.</p> - -<p class="indent">Is ever the perfection of joy allowed to us -mortals? It would appear not, mused Peter. -Here was everything to his hand that his soul -could desire, save the one thing after which it -really hankered; and with that to his debit, the -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span>balance—in spite of its appearance—was distinctly -inadequate.</p> - -<p class="indent">Tommy, gazing at him furtively from behind -the morning paper, marvelled at the sudden -melancholy of the man. Cogitating in his mind -for the reason, and having heard from Muriel -of Peter’s previous engagement, he thought to -have found it. If only, so meditated Tommy—no -lover of Millicent—he could realize the escape -he had had.</p> - -<p class="indent">And so the train bore them onward, out of the -snow-covered land, past bare brown fields and -skeleton trees, past smoky towns and small -villages lying in pale sunlight, on to the suburbs -past whose platforms the train roared and rushed, -on and ever onward, till London itself was reached.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">DEMOCRITUS ARRIVES TO STAY</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">General</span> Carden in his smoking-room was -listening, waiting. Fifty times already in the -last half-hour he had looked over the curtain that -veiled the lower half of the window. Fifty times -he had looked at the clock on the mantelpiece -and compared it with his watch.</p> - -<p class="indent">An orange envelope lay on the table beside -him, and with it a strip of pink paper. He knew -the words thereon verbatim; certainly they were -few in number:</p> - -<p class="indent">“Found. Arrive Euston four o’clock to-day.—<span class="smcap">Lancing.</span>”</p> - -<p class="indent">On the receipt of this brief missive General -Carden’s heart had thumped violently. He had -found voice to pass the good news on to the devoted -Goring, but it was well on half an hour before -voice and heart were under his normal control.</p> - -<p class="indent">Muriel had descended on him radiant, triumphant, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span>a-bubble with joy and glee, showering her -congratulations.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Come to Mrs. Cresswell’s dance to-morrow -night,” she implored, “and bring him with you. -I want to shake hands with Don Quixote. I -have never before met him in the flesh.” But -behind this desire, and stronger than it, was the -knowledge that Anne would be there, and, woman-like, -she longed for an immediate meeting of the -two.</p> - -<p class="indent">“We’ll see,” promised General Carden, smiling -indulgently as at a pleading child. In his heart -he longed to parade London with his son and let -the whole world be witness to his return, to their -reunion.</p> - -<p class="indent">Again he glanced at the clock. Any moment -now! He tried to quell the tumult of expectation -within him.</p> - -<p class="indent">Dare one penetrate a little way into the mind -of the reserved old man, guess at the tide of -memory he had at last allowed to flow back to his -heart? For years he had kept it relentlessly at -its ebb, a long barren shore between him and its -waters. He had feared to be submerged in its -flood; he had feared that, should it approach him, -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span>it would come swiftly, remorselessly, drowning -him in its depths, choking the life out of him with -a deadly, icy cold. Now, and now only, he -realized the sweetness of its waters, realized that -their approach would be not to submerge but to -lift him on buoyant waves—waves warm, exuberant, -joyous. Oh, it might come now, come in all -its strength, come bearing life in its flow! No -longer a barren, desolate shore between him and -those waters. Throughout the day the wavelets -had lapped ever softly, gently nearer. Now calmly, -joyously, they lifted him on their surface.</p> - -<p class="indent">There was the old house down in the country, -with the pear-tree whose branches reached the -window of that octagon-room. It should be -restored, re-inhabited. There was the river that -ran below its grounds, wherein speckled trout and -silver salmon abounded. Many were the fish -he had caught there, many the fish Peter had -caught. What was to prevent them from catching -more? Already in thought the speckled trout -lay gasping on the bank, the silver salmon were -giving play in the long reaches of water between -the meadows. There was the shooting, too—the -pheasants, the partridges, the snipe in the swampy -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span>ground beyond the old mill, the wild duck where -some seven miles distant the arm of the sea ran up -to meet the river. The old days again! Memory -carried him on her tide towards the future.</p> - -<p class="indent">And then into the midst of his thoughts came -a sound that brought his old heart fluttering to -his throat—the sound of the front-door bell.</p> - -<p class="indent">He held on to the arms of his chair, his eyes -upon the door. It opened.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Mr. Peter!” Goring’s voice was on a note -of exultation.</p> - -<p class="indent">And into the room came a tall, lean man, a -mongrel dog at his heels.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Hullo, father!”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Well, my boy!”</p> - -<p class="indent">There was a grip of hands. Then the old -man was sitting again by the fire, Peter opposite -to him. There was a little silence. Democritus, -sniffing at the black, hairy hearthrug, was completely -engrossed with his own occupation. In -the silence the two men watched him.</p> - -<p class="indent">Presently he curled down with a thump. A quivering -sigh of satisfaction passed through his body.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is evident,” said Peter with a little laugh, -“that Democritus has come to stay.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span></p> - -<p class="ph2" id="CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII</p> - -<h3 class="no-break">PER ASPERA AD ASTRA</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">And</span> so,” quoth Peter, “when the two met -again, he had a story to tell her.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” queried Anne, toying with her fan, the -flimsy thing of mother-of-pearl and cobwebby -old lace. “A long story?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“That,” ventured Peter with temerity, “depended -largely—I might say altogether—on his -listener.”</p> - -<p class="indent">They were sitting, these two, in a wide window-seat -at the end of a passage. They had the full -length of it before them. It was a post of vantage. -With what generalship Peter had marked it out, -with what fine diplomacy he had found Lady Anne -and escorted her hither, is no doubt better imagined -than recorded. It suffices to chronicle -that here they were, in an alcove of soft draperies -and shaded lights, listening—if they chose—to the -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span>strains of music, watching—if they chose—the -brilliant kaleidoscopic effect of colour through -the open door of the great ballroom.</p> - -<p class="indent">“My story,” continued Peter, “is of a Wanderer, -one whom Fate in one of her freakish moods had -wedded to the roads, the highways and hedges, the -fields and woods.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Had he,” queried Anne, “nothing to solace -him in his wanderings—no thoughts, no -memories?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“None,” said Peter steadily. “Once long -ago Cupid had touched him with his wing—the -merest flick of a feather. The man—poor fool!—fancied -himself wounded, thought to bear a scar. -Later, when he looked for it, he found there was -none. It had been the most entire illusion on his -part. And so he wandered the roads, regretting -perhaps that he was scathless. But that is beside -the mark.” He paused, glancing at the hands -which held the flimsy cobwebby fan.</p> - -<p class="indent">“One day,” continued Peter, “into his lonely -wanderings came a letter, a mere scrap of bluish -paper with tracings thereon of black ink. A -flimsy fragile thing you might say, but to him it -meant—well, everything. I fancy he had never -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span>realized his entire loneliness till that delicate -herald of joy appeared. And—here was the -wonder of it—it was written by a woman.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Lady Anne, the little pulses fluttering -in her throat.</p> - -<p class="indent">“It was,” went on Peter, “a gracious letter, -a charming letter, written by one who had guessed -at his loneliness of spirit, and thought to cheer -that loneliness, to heal the wound she fancied him -to bear. To him it came as a draught of water to -one in a waterless desert. It brought him help, -refreshment. He began to dream a dream of the -writer, to imagine her near him. He spent hours -in the company of his Dream Lady. He was no -longer lonely, no longer desolate. In spirit—in -fancy, if you will—she was ever with him. Oh, -he knew well enough that he could never meet her -in the flesh, that was part of the compact. But -disembodied though she was, she meant more to -him than all the material friendships in creation.” -Again he stopped, his heart was beating fast.</p> - -<p class="indent">“And then?” questioned Lady Anne.</p> - -<p class="indent">He drew a deep breath. “And then Fate -played a trick—a curious, almost incredible trick, -Fate threw the woman in his path. Their meeting -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span>was strange, picturesque—I might almost -call it unique. At the moment reason did not -tell him the woman was the writer of the letters, -but his soul, I believe, guessed. And presently -he knew without a doubt his soul was right.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Ah!” breathed Lady Anne. “He knew the -writer of the letters to him, but she did not know -who answered them.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“She did not,” echoed Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">There was a little pause.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Then,” she asked, her eyes still upon her -fan, “I suppose he told her what he knew?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“No,” said Peter in a low voice, “he did not. -There is no excuse for him. I myself make none. -But—he feared to lose her letters. There’s the -whole matter in a nutshell. He did not tell her, -and he continued to write.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” said Lady Anne. Again there was a -pause.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Of course,” continued Peter, “it was inexcusable -of him. But Fate had his punishment -in store.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Yes?” she queried.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Fate disclosed his trickery to the woman. -He read his punishment in the contempt in her -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span>eyes. He deserved it, every bit of it. But it -hurt none the less.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“And—and then what happened?” she asked, -trembling.</p> - -<p class="indent">“He went away,” said Peter. “First he made -a sacrifice—a small funeral pyre on which he -burnt her letters, and I fancy his heart.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Did he do nothing else?” she demanded.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh, yes,” confessed Peter. “He wrote to -her. It was the least he could do. He prayed -her forgiveness.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“And—?” she queried.</p> - -<p class="indent">Again Peter drew a deep breath. “After -that there were months of a greater loneliness. -I fancy he tried to be brave, to be worthy of her -memory. She was, you see, his star.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Did—did he not condemn her for her harshness?” -asked Lady Anne.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Never,” cried Peter hotly. “She was to him -his goddess, his divinity.” He stopped.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Is that all?” she asked.</p> - -<p class="indent">“No,” said Peter. “Fate had another surprise -in store. She brought him from his loneliness, -set him again in the midst of his fellow-men. -But that was not all—it was the least. He -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span>found”—Peter’s heart beat to suffocation—“a -letter—one that should have reached him long -ago but for his own folly. From it he dared to -believe, to hope, that his Lady had condoned his -offence, had forgiven.”</p> - -<p class="indent">Lady Anne did not reply. Peter looked at her.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Had she forgiven?” he pleaded.</p> - -<p class="indent">For a second—the merest fraction of a second—she -raised her eyes to his.</p> - -<p class="indent">“I—I think so,” she said. And a tiny adorable -smile curved her mouth. “Is that all the -story?” she questioned in a low voice after a little -silence.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh no,” said Peter.</p> - -<p class="indent">“No?” she asked, surprised. “I fancied it was -the end.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is,” said Peter boldly, “only the beginning.”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Oh!” she asked with delicately raised eyebrows; -“and—and is the rest of the story long?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“It is,” said Peter, “as long as a lifetime, and -longer. It stretches away into Eternity. It is a -story of his love for his Lady, his Queen. She is -immeasurably more to him than all in earth and -heaven. With every fibre of his being, with his -body, his soul, his spirit, he loves, worships, and -<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span>adores. It is a story that will take a lifetime in the -telling. Dare he tell it? Is she, think you, willing -to listen?”</p> - -<p class="indent">Lady Anne again raised her eyes to his.</p> - -<p class="indent">“You’re sure,” she queried, “that he wants -her to listen?”</p> - -<p class="indent">“Absolutely sure,” said Peter, his blue eyes -holding hers.</p> - -<p class="indent">“Then,” breathed Lady Anne softly, “tell her.”</p> - -<p class="center2">THE END</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<p class="center2"><i>A Selection from the<br /> -Catalogue of</i></p> - -<p class="ph3">G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS</p> - -<p class="center2">Complete Catalogue sent<br /> -on application</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="ph3"><span class="u">A New Book by E. M. Dell</span></p> - -<p class="center2">Author of</p> - -<p class="center2">“The Way of an Eagle”<br /> -“The Knave of Diamonds”</p> - -<hr class="smtb" /> - -<p class="ph2">The Rocks of Valpré</p> - -<p class="center2 no-indent"><i>With Frontispiece in Color. $1.35 net</i><br /> -<i>By mail, $1.50</i></p> - -<p class="center3">In this new novel the author justifies -the opinion already held by the countless -readers of her other books. Here is all -the power, the vivid description, the -intensely dramatic episode, and the action -that made “The Way of an Eagle” a -great story.</p> - -<p class="smgap"> </p> - -<p class="ph3">G. P. Putnam’s Sons</p> - -<div class="centered"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="2" summary="CONTENTS"> - -<tr><td class="tdl">New York</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdr">London</td></tr></table></div></div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="ph2">Horace Blake</p> - -<p class="center2">By</p> - -<p class="ph3">Mrs. Wilfrid Ward</p> - -<p class="center2">Author of “Great Possessions”</p> - -<p class="center2"><i>$1.35 net. By mail, $1.50</i></p> - -<p class="center3">“Mrs. Ward has done much excellent work -in the past, but she has done nothing to come -within measurable distance of this remarkably -fine book—a book quite off the ordinary lines, -interesting from the first page to the last, founded -upon a psychological study of exceptionable power. -It is a very common thing in fiction to find ourselves -presented to a ‘great character,’ but as a -rule we are obliged to accept the creator’s word -for his greatness. Mrs. Ward has contrived to -make Horace Blake really and indeed great—great -in intellect, great in evil, and great, finally, -in good. He holds the reader captive just as he -is described as holding his world captive.”</p> - -<p class="right"><i>The World</i>, London.</p> - -<p class="smgap"> </p> - -<p class="ph3">G. P. Putnam’s Sons</p> - -<div class="centered"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="2" summary="CONTENTS"> - -<tr><td class="tdl">New York</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdr">London</td></tr></table></div></div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="ph2">The<br /> -Marriage of Cecilia</p> - -<p class="center2">By</p> -<p class="center2 ph3">Maude Leeson</p> - -<p class="center2"><i>With Frontispiece in Color. $1.35 net</i><br /> -<i>By mail, $1.50</i></p> - -<p class="center3">A story based on a marriage which is -entered into as a mere form, the parties to -which separate immediately after the ceremony -in the firm belief that their paths will -never again cross. Eventually they not only -do cross, but run together. The book is -full of romantic charm, and is written with a -sureness of touch equalled only by the -author’s vigor and freshness and fine sense -of the dramatic.</p> - -<p class="smgap"> </p> - -<p class="ph3">G. P. Putnam’s Sons</p> - -<div class="centered"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="2" summary="CONTENTS"> - -<tr><td class="tdl">New York</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdr">London</td></tr></table></div></div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="ph4"><span class="u">By the Author of “The Rosary”</span></p> - -<p class="ph2">The Broken<br /> -Halo</p> - -<p class="ph3">By Florence L. Barclay</p> - -<p class="center2"><i>Frontispiece in Color. $1.35 net</i><br /> -<i>By mail, $1.50</i></p> - -<p class="center3">A love story full of those fine qualities -of the soul, that sustained idealism, and -transforming beauty of thought which -make Mrs. Barclay’s characters the -most lovable in present-day fiction and -that have endeared her to hundreds of -thousands of readers.</p> - -<p class="center2"><i><span class="u">Over One Million Copies of<br /> -Mrs. Barclay’s Novels Sold</span></i></p> - -<p class="smgap"> </p> - -<p class="ph3">G. P. Putnam’s Sons</p> - -<div class="centered"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="2" summary="CONTENTS"> - -<tr><td class="tdl">New York</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdr">London</td></tr></table></div></div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="chap" /></div> - -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="center2">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - -<p>Minor changes have been made to correct printer’s errors and to -regularize hyphenation.</p> - -<p>In Chapter XVI, Letters, no opening or closing quotes were used to denote -the beginning and ending of letters. The transcriber has chosen not to regularize the -punctuation in this case.</p> -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Peacock Feather, by Leslie Moore - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PEACOCK FEATHER *** - -***** This file should be named 62964-h.htm or 62964-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/9/6/62964/ - -Produced by D A Alexander and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you - are located before using this ebook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - - - -</pre> - -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/62964-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/62964-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 96a2818..0000000 --- a/old/62964-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/62964-h/images/i_cover.jpg b/old/62964-h/images/i_cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d6ec68a..0000000 --- a/old/62964-h/images/i_cover.jpg +++ /dev/null |
