OUTCASTE
THUS a second time we see Peregrine dismissed the Castle.
Exceeding sore in body, yet infinitely more sore in mind, he lay in a
wood some two miles or so from the spot where the last blow had fallen
upon him. Half fainting he had dragged himself thither. Roger March had
been in no mind to see light punishment dealt out.
For a time a sort of stupor fell on him, dulling in part the pain of
body and soul. A sick man half delirious he felt himself, tortured by
very evil dreams. Mocking faces surrounded him, and in their midst one
face very cold, looking at him with eyes full of scorn and hatred. Then,
for a while, the lapse of years escaping him, he believed himself a
child burying a hot face in his mother’s gown, weeping out his woes in
her lap. Later he found the lap to be that of Mother Earth, her gown the
cool green of the moss against his cheek. Turning his head he saw the
green-leaved branches above him, had a glimpse of summer blue sky. This
brought him back to the present. He sat up feeling the swelled stiffness
of his back and limbs.
Some hundred yards or so before him his eye caught the glint of water
among the trees. He remembered that he was very thirsty. He rose stiffly
to his feet, made his way towards the pond. It lay clear as a mirror,
reflecting the trees.
Peregrine, kneeling at the margin, bent towards it, saw a haggard-faced
Jester looking up at him. For a moment startled by his own reflection he
drew back; then laughed. Hard-eyed he looked at his own image; on a
sudden saw himself Jester to Fate. Here was his rôle with a vengeance.
He looked at his own face again, and with new interest, grinned at it a
moment very diabolically. The next, he dashed his fist in the water. The
reflection shivered to a thousand sparkling fragments.
“To Fate’s Jester,” he cried. And he drank thirstily from his cupped
hand.
A crackling in the woods behind him brought him to his feet. His frayed
nerves tensioned he gazed towards the bushes. From among them came a
small figure in blue and silver, glancing anxious-eyed to right and
left. Seeing Peregrine the boy rushed forward, flung himself before him,
clasped his knees.
“Peregrine, Peregrine,” he sobbed. “Oh! the brutes. Would I were a man!”
Peregrine hauled the child gently to his feet.
“Tut, lad,” he said lightly, “’tis all in the day’s work.”
The boy snivelled in his sleeve. His cheeks were very tear-glazed.
“An’ thou wert the man thou desirest to be thou wouldst not weep,” said
Peregrine seating himself on the ground, drawing the child beside him.
“My heart would,” choked the boy.
Peregrine finding grim truth in the reply made no answer.
“I hate them all,” said Pippo, his young face very vicious. At that
Peregrine laughed mirthlessly.
“I will not return to the Castle,” said the boy stubbornly, “I will come
with you.”
Peregrine fell grave on the instant. He saw not a child travelling by
the road he was like to follow.
“Nay,” he responded firmly.
“I must,” choked Pippo.
“Thou wilt return to the Castle,” said Peregrine very levelly.
“Why?” demanded Pippo.
Peregrine smiled. “Firstly, not being my property I cannot carry thee
away with me; secondly, my road is not like to be one for a child;
thirdly, I wish thee to return, Pippo.”
Pippo’s mouth trembled. “For thirdly I will do your bidding,” he said in
a very small voice. “I would not for firstly nor secondly.”
“Good lad,” said Peregrine.
For some moments there was silence. Pippo’s face was quivering;
Peregrine’s very set and stern.
“So, boy, it is farewell,” he quoth anon. Pippo found his voice too
shaky for speech.
Peregrine got to his feet, the lad with him. “I will take thee to the
edge of the wood,” he said.
In silence they made their way among the trees. In some ten minutes they
found themselves on their outskirts. Here Peregrine paused.
“Farewell, lad,” he said. “Put not your trust in princes, as the
Psalmist hath it. Pray to Christ and Our Lady, and live clean.” Smiling
grimly at the words himself he had to give them to the lad. A child’s
faith must be left unshaken. Peregrine having this thought in mind
doubtless the Recording Angel made tally of the speech to his balance.
He kissed the boy twice, and without more ado turned back among the
trees, mistrusting himself for further words. Pippo went sorrowfully
enough down the hill.
* * * * *
Peregrine struck again clean through the wood. The Castle thus lay
behind him, and the greater distance he might put between himself and it
the better now would he be pleased.
He made his way along the soft path, cool green for the most part, here
and there scattered with dancing spots of gold as the sunlight filtered
through the branches overhead. On either hand were tree trunks, straight
as the pillars of some cathedral, flecked with the orange and silver of
fungus and lichen, very brilliant patches of colour. It was a silent
place, quiet and restful. Formerly Peregrine’s spirit had gone out to
meet the spirit of the woods, to find pleasure in the meeting. Now he
found none. Disillusionment pressing sore upon him crushed his soul very
bitterly.
At last, after some time of walking, he came upon the edge of the wood.
Here it was bordered by the high road, very white and dusty, the sun’s
rays beating full upon it. To the right it ascended somewhat, to the
left it sloped in a gentle decline. Peregrine hesitated. He had no goal
in view, nor sought to have any.
While hesitating he became aware of a party of three horsemen riding at
a trot from the leftwards. He drew into the shadow of the trees to await
their passing. Coming abreast of them he saw in the foremost the Count
Bonaventure, the other two being serving men. The Count wore his left
arm in a sling, a matter that Peregrine marked with no little
satisfaction. Allowing them to pass some couple of hundred yards or so,
he stepped from the wood, turned down the hill. He had made but a few
paces when the sound of a horse’s hoofs behind him struck on his ear. He
stepped quickly towards the hedge. The horse and its rider pulled up
along side of him.
“I saw you among the trees,” said Bonaventure without preamble.
“What then?” demanded Peregrine, the pupils of his eyes narrowing.
“Merely,” quoth the Count lightly, “that I wish to make you an apology.”
“No need,” said Peregrine shortly.
“Yet I did you an injury.”
“Methinks I did you one,” said Peregrine, looking at the bound arm.
“’Tis one will mend,” was the reply.
Peregrine was silent.
“Yet, perchance,” said the Count musing, “the injury I did you was not
so great as at first sight might appear.”
“I find it a benefit,” said Peregrine very dryly.
“Ha!”
“An’ a man pitch his tent on a vile bog believing it fair earth ’twere a
benefit to drag him from it, even though the handling be somewhat
rough.”
“Oh!” said the Count amazed, opening his eyes wide, “you have seen
that.”
“I have seen more than that,” said Peregrine.
“Yes?” queried the Count.
“I have seen that you,” said Peregrine watching him, “acted as subtly
prompted, if not fairly told.”
The Count stroked his chin, half whimsical, half vexed. He was not
wholly pleased to be named a tool in the matter, which he truly was.
“I think you have seen a good deal,” quoth he ruefully.
“Disillusionment clears a man’s eyesight,” said Peregrine shortly.
“Humph!” remarked the Count. “Where fare you now?” he demanded.
Peregrine shrugged his shoulders. “Where Chance leads. Mayhap to the
Devil.”
“An unpleasant fellow,” said the Count suavely, “and moreover no
gentleman.”
“Truly!”
“A very usurer. Getting a man in his debt he demands constant interest,
exceeding extortionate.”
“An’ a man were wise he would return the whole loan and have done with
the matter,” returned Peregrine carelessly.
“No man has sufficient capital for that when he once takes loan from the
Devil,” replied the Count half grimly.
“You seem to have a very good knowledge of his dealings,” said
Peregrine.
Bonaventure shrugged his shoulders. “I have observed them more than
once,” he said coolly. “An’ you have no better prospect in view than
perchance to serve him, will you join company with me?”
Peregrine shook his head. “No,” he said.
“I am barely surprised,” returned the Count. “Yet I would ask you,
unaccountable as it may seem to you, to come as my friend, not as my
servant.”
Peregrine laughed. “I put no trust in friends.”
“That also does not surprise me,” said Bonaventure. “I put not vast
trust neither, but take men as I find them.”
“Then you will not find much,” retorted Peregrine.
“I do not look for much.”
“That shows you wise.”
Bonaventure laughed. “Wisdom is what I seek. Perchance some day I shall
find her. However since you will not seek her in my company I must e’en
bid you farewell.”
“Farewell,” said Peregrine.
“We part on good terms?”
“In no enmity as far as I am concerned,” said Peregrine carelessly.
“Then again, farewell,” quoth the Count. Turning his horse he rode
quickly after his men. Peregrine stood looking after him.
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