IN THE FOREST
MORNING brought refreshment, and with it new hope and courage as Oswald
had foretold. At breakfast he put a proposal to Peregrine frankly
enough.
“An’ you are so minded, why not bide with me a time. Men term me a
recluse, and so in a measure I am, finding little congenial in the
majority of mankind. I should find no constraint in your presence. We
could talk when the mood was on us, and—better test of congeniality—keep
silence when we willed. Have you mind to try the partnership for a
while?”
Peregrine gave willing assent. Already, as seen, he had found rest in
the man’s confidence, a healthfulness in his quiet sanity. He saw a
haven in the forest cabin, one where he would abide most gladly. To have
no fear of going a day, or even more, hungry was something of a novelty
to him. The search for food sharpens a man’s wits with regard to
attaining the necessities of life, but leaves less room for the
development of other faculties. Here was sufficient for the needs of the
body. His mind at rest on this score, it began to expand in other
directions. His love of Nature returned to him, as it had returned for a
brief space on his leaving Dieuporte. In this renewal of his love he
realized how long it had been absent.
Tracing his way slowly backwards, he came to the point where the love
had first waned; saw it in his absorption in the human, namely Isabel.
Up to this point there had been freedom of spirit; here he first saw his
bondage, realized himself enslaved; slave of the woman at Belisle; slave
of luxury at Castle Syrtes; slave of Menippus; and, lastly, slave of an
idea. In this last he was, however, none so certain of the bondage; of
the former slavery he was very sure.
Now he felt his spirit free. The intimacy of Nature again surrounded
him; he found sweetness in her breath; in her still, sunny days, despite
their cold; in her frosty, starlit nights. He found himself watching the
brown buds slowly swelling on the trees, gazing with something akin to
reverence at the first pale primrose lifting a shy face among last
year’s withered débris, touching the tiny fragile flower of the wood
sorrel. The clean healthiness of the forest absorbed him; his spirit was
at one with the tender life awaking around him.
A new idea came to him now. Up to a point he acquiesced with Oswald in
the thought that the woman would make herself known to them at her own
time; yet he saw himself fitting his spirit for the meeting. In this he
believed himself in a measure seeking her. You see him humble; no longer
hot afoot to the chase in his own way, striving to attain to her by the
force of his own will. He never for an instant lost sight on the thought
of her. Now and again he fancied her eyes watching him; prayed her then
humbly enough to make her presence known at her own time.
Oswald, half laughing, told him he held her so close in thought no sight
of her was needed to him now. To which Peregrine replied briefly:
“Belief in her may be good; but sight of her will be better.”
In his belief he now surpassed his one-time mentor. He looked
daily,—even momentarily,—to her appearance, where Oswald was content to
leave it at months or even years ahead. It was sufficient to him that
she existed. The mere knowledge, without perpetual watching, was not
enough for Peregrine.
He saw too great passivity of mind in Oswald. Though in a measure he
recognized its excellence, his own spirit was a-tingle for greater
action. The man’s quiet certainty of the woman’s existence was at once
an anodyne and an irritant to him. While Oswald’s belief quickened his
own belief, he yet saw something lukewarm in his lack of action. This
Oswald guessed at, rather by intuition than by actual spoken word from
Peregrine. For his part, he saw a certain weakness in Peregrine’s
constant expectancy. He watched him walking alert in the forest, his
eyes roving from side to side.
“I have told you,” he said once quietly, “that effort on your part is
useless. She will come at her own time.”
“Truly you say so,” returned Peregrine, “and at the first I had
confidence in your assurance. Now, I know not fully how to make my
meaning clear; but to my thinking she bids me still seek her; awaits a
further effort on my part.”
Oswald smiled. “There imagination has you in thrall. On your own showing
you have pursued her long without avail. Rest in her spirit which you
know around you, and await sight of her quietly as I do. Your constant
expectancy of her coming brings disquietude to your mind.”
Reasonable enough argument, and yet one which Peregrine could not bring
himself fully to accept.
“Look at the matter dispassionately,” said Oswald. “You dreamed the
existence of this woman. Knowing not whether the dream were truth or
reality, you pursued her for over two years. The pursuit brought with it
disappointment, and worse. Now I tell you of a certainty your dream was
true, and show you the means by which the truth shall become fact to
you. In seeking her, in your constant watching for her, you drive her
from you. I know not why this is so; nevertheless I know it to be true.”
Peregrine was silent. Here was apparent certainty presented to him on
the one hand; as the pull against it was his own inner conviction, which
he had yet more than once proved illusion, so it seemed. For the time he
let the matter be; came again to rest in the strength of his
comradeship, and the sweetness of Nature round him.
So the days passed. March came with strong clean winds blowing through
the forest, with daffodils tossing golden heads by brook-sides, a very
wealth of gladness. With her passing came quieter April bringing
sunshine and rain, and the scent of growing things in the forest. The
birds mated and sang; the whole place was alive and buoyant.
* * * * *
One night Peregrine awakened suddenly. At the first waking he fancied
Oswald to have called to him, but his quiet regular breathing showed him
sleeping. Peregrine raised himself on his elbow and looked around.
The faintest grey light fell through the square opening which served as
window. He sank back prepared for further sleep, when on a sudden he
found himself more fully awake. He sat up, and again looked round the
hut. The bunches of herbs dangling from their string looked ghostly in
the grey light. Oswald, lying on a bed of bracken, slept soundly.
Peregrine got up from his couch, donned his clothes, barely conscious
that he did so. His mind was busily astir; though as yet his thoughts
had found no conscious articulation. Being clad, he took a chunk of
bread from a shelf. This much he knew his host would have freely given
him. Then he moved softly to the door, opened it.
The forest lay in the quiet which reigns most supremely betwixt night
and dawn. For some moments he stood looking towards the great trees,
then stepped without, closed the door softly behind him.
* * * * *
Now, an’ you were to ask me for reasons as to why Peregrine left the hut
at this very moment, I must e’en tell you frankly that where fifty
instincts urged him to the move there was no one definite reason. This
may seem folly; but verily, to my thinking, there are moments in a man’s
life when he does better to obey the lightest instinct than the closest
reasoning. We are come now to a time in our Jester’s wanderings when I
see myself penning that which actually befell him, rather than the
thoughts which led him to action. It may be that you will guess at those
thoughts, having had some such of your own. An’ you cannot trace them in
his actions, I see not any words of mine setting them clearly before
you.
Having put some half-dozen miles or so between himself and the hut, he
began to feel sleepy. Coming to a mossy stretch beneath a great oak, he
lay down. Three minutes saw him wrapped in slumber, and he slept
soundly.
When he awakened it was high noon. The sun fell through the oak
branches, clear upon the place where he lay. For a time longer he
rested, revelling in the warmth of its beams. Anon he sat up; ate a
portion of the bread he had brought with him. All around him was
intensely still. Before him were massed bluebells, a soft luminous
carpet. Brilliant nearer him, they lost themselves anon in the hazy
distances among the trees. He sat a while gazing at them.
He wandered through the forest that day; at night made it his
resting-place.
------------------------------------------------------------------------