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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. 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