ILLUSION
THE sun was not yet risen when Peregrine left the cottage. To the west,
behind the hills, the sky glowed faintly luminous. Around him the valley
lay yet in dusk, through which the trees and bushes reared ghostly arms,
white-shrouded, very spectre-like. The air was alive with an intense
purity, exceeding still, yet vital.
Away to the right, beyond the church, he saw a square building. A cross
crowning it at one end, he judged it the retreat of holy men or
women,—monks or nuns. Through the narrow slits of windows came the gleam
of pale candlelight, showing the occupants of the building already
astir, busy with _Ave_ or _Paternoster_, possibly kneeling devout at
Mass. Even as he looked a bell rang out, its clear tone piercing the
silence. Habit caused him to bow his head. The action was involuntary;
he had done with such matters long since, or fancied to have done with
them. In either case it comes to the same for the time being. We need
not be nice as to the interpolation of a word.
Turning to the south he took the road towards the opening between the
hills. It lay, very smoothly white, between a snow-shrouded wall on the
one side, and a fence on the other. Now he noticed a single line of
footprints in the snow, small and clear, passing on before him. His
imagination fired on the instant, he followed in their wake. They led
him clean through the village to a pine wood on its outskirts, beyond
which lay the route between the hills.
The sun was up by the time he reached its edge, gilding the western sky,
flooding the earth with its beams. Following the footsteps he entered
the wood, found himself caught in its mystic silence. Here was the
brooding stillness, the peace of some vast cathedral. Between the aisles
of the pine trees the chequered light straggled but a little way. This
emphasized the solitude. The soul of the place seemed withdrawn from
sensible light and warmth into a great silence.
Less conscious of the atmosphere around him than of the footsteps he was
following, Peregrine pursued his way. A very certain hope beat in his
heart. It was perchance less hope than certainty. As he walked he looked
not at the trees around him, but at the footprints on the ground. The
snow had fallen sparsely between the pines, covering the path but
thinly. In the footmarks he could see the brown of the pine needles, and
here and there a glint of green moss. For the space of some half hour he
walked; the wood extended further than he had believed on entering it.
On either hand he saw the tracks of tiny feet, of birds, of mice, of
rabbits. Down a glen gleamed the berries of a rowan tree, scarlet
against the darkness of the pines. A few fallen berries below it shone
blood-red on the snow.
At length he gained the further outskirts of the wood, came into full
sunshine. Here was moorland stretching upward right and left to the
hills; before him it narrowed to the pass between them. Some hundred
yards or so ahead of him he saw a rude cottage, mud-walled, thatched
with rushes and bracken. It stood solitary in the expanse of snow. The
footprints led towards it. You may be very sure that Peregrine followed
the footprints.
Coming up to the cottage he peered through the small square opening that
served for window. Now verily his heart beat to suffocation. This is
what he saw.
The middle of the floor held a rough bier; a coarse linen sheet was
drawn over that which lay upon it. Two candles stood at the head, their
flame pale and insignificant in the sunshine which fell through the
window. He did not mark a woman sleeping at the far end of the room,
lying, most evidently exhausted, on a heap of moss and skins. His eyes
were all for a veiled figure kneeling by the bier. Flashing through his
mind came Simon’s words.
“Seek her in death’s chamber. She closes the eyes of the dead.”
You may well believe his heart cried, “At last!” The weary months of his
quest sank from him. He had found her. Past difficulties had vanished;
past fatigue was forgotten in present rest; past heart-burning in
present happiness. He dared not yet make his presence known. It was
enough that there she knelt, her head bowed towards the bier. You see
him humbled. He had doubted his dream at times. It was now embodied
before him. Here was enough to bow a man to the earth, to abase his
soul, the while joy raised it high. So for a little space he stood
entranced. Going at last to the door, he put his hand upon the latch.
The sound of its raising roused the kneeling woman. She got to her feet.
A gentle-faced nun she stood there, looking at the man in the doorway.
“Sir?” she said questioningly, her voice very low.
Peregrine was as one turned to stone. His heart was sick within him.
“Sir,” she said again very gently, “what seek you? Here is death
present.”
Peregrine looked at her. A mad desire to laugh assailed him. Yet
courtesy was ever strong upon him.
“Madam, I crave your pardon,” he said hoarsely. “I—I have made a
mistake.” Blindly he turned from the door, stumbled out into the snow.
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