EASTER EVE AND EASTER MORNING
EARLY the next morning Peregrine was again afoot. Coming at length from
among the trees, he found himself on a hillside. Below him was a hamlet,
a small cluster of some dozen or so cottages nestling at the foot of the
hill. Later, an’ he would, he might seek food at one of them; at the
moment he had bread sufficient to stay hunger, and had little mind to
find himself again in the company of men.
Partly descending the hill, he sat down beneath a thorn-bush, looking on
the landscape spread below him. Sounds of life came to him on the quiet
air; here was the clarion note of a cock, the bark of a dog, the lowing
of cows, and the tinkle of a bell at the neck of some goat.
The time passed pleasantly enough beneath the thorn-bush. He found
himself in no mood to desert his post. Dreamily he watched the shifting
lights and shadows in the valley, and on the hills beyond.
The sound of footsteps brought him again to the present. He looked up.
Almost opposite to him were a boy and girl, the boy ten years old or
thereabouts, the girl some three years younger. Her brown hair was
covered with a purple hood; a dress of the same colour fell to her
ankles; a white kerchief was folded about her neck; her arms were full
of bluebells. The boy, a sturdy fellow, clad in green tunic and hose,
and having a brown cap on his head, held a great sheaf of cherry
blossom. Peregrine straightway thought of Pippo.
Coming to a halt they gazed at him, round-eyed, astonished at the sight
of a stranger.
“Good-day,” quoth Peregrine smiling at their astonishment.
“Good-day,” echoed the boy. The girl remained mute; a very shy maiden.
“You are well laden,” said Peregrine.
The boy glanced at his burden. “We take them to the church yonder.” He
nodded leftwards up the hill.
Peregrine half turned; saw what had before escaped his notice, a small
grey church on the hillside, set on the edge of the forest.
“You carry a fair tribute thither,” quoth he.
“’Tis Easter Eve,” said the boy bluntly.
“Oh!” breathed Peregrine. The syllable showing him ignorant of the fact,
the children eyed him puzzled. How should the passing of the Solemn Week
have escaped him unobserved? This is what their glances asked, though
they found no words.
“She takes bluebells,” said the boy, nodding towards the girl. “She says
Christ must surely love them, since they are the colour of His Mother’s
robe. I climbed for my cherry blossom.”
Here Peregrine saw Pippo again. His mouth curved to smile, though memory
brought a lurking sadness to his eyes.
Finding no further speech come handy, the boy turned to the girl.
“Come,” he said. “Father Felix bade us be betimes.”
Together they wended their way up the hillside. Peregrine looked after
them, and towards the church.
* * * * *
The sun had fallen behind the forest, leaving it purple-blue against a
rosy sky toning upwards to lilac and grey. The air was alive and
fragrant with the breath of spring. A thrush sang in an elm tree set
close against the church.
Father Felix was sitting on a bench in front of a cottage door. This was
the priest’s house, and was hard by the church. Since you have met
Father Felix before, though in other guise, I refrain from present
description of him. His eyes, looking towards the reflection from the
sunset, reflected something of its calm. You see him musing on matters
well loved by him.
Anon bringing his eyes from the sky, a thought nearer earth, he became
aware of a tall man standing near him. Looking at him, he saw in him a
stranger.
“I give you good-evening, sir,” he said.
“Good-evening,” responded Peregrine.
“You are, I fancy, a stranger in these parts,” said Father Felix.
“I am,” returned Peregrine briefly.
Here conversation seemed like to come to a halt. A frank response with
nothing added to it brings matters to a greater standstill than a shifty
answer will bring them. The last case leaves room for probing; the first
makes further query appear sheer curiosity.
Father Felix surveyed him with kindly blue eyes; Peregrine returned the
glance with eyes no less blue.
“Have you come from far?” asked Father Felix, blinking towards the
sunset reflection in the eastern sky. Yet, for all his blinking,
methinks he saw a good deal.
“Recently from the forest,” said Peregrine. “I have been dwelling there
some weeks past.”
The old man smiled. “Then you are a bit of a hermit like myself. Will
you not be seated?” He moved slightly on the bench; at the same time
indicated a tree stump near him, thereby giving a choice of seats.
Peregrine chose the tree stump.
“And before the forest?” asked Father Felix. “That is if you will see
interest rather than curiosity in my queries?”
“Before the forest I was a wanderer,” returned Peregrine. Then he pushed
back the hood of his cloak, threw it somewhat from his shoulders. “You
see in me an outcaste fool.” There was a faint ring of challenge in the
words.
“Hmm,” mused Father Felix gently, his eyes twinkling. “A fool by whose
standard? An outcaste from what company? Methinks there lies the test as
to whether the title with which you have branded yourself may not be a
badge of glory rather than of shame.”
Peregrine looked straight before him. “A fool by the standard of men,
and by mine own. An outcaste from the Court where I played the fool.”
“Since you judge yourself a fool by your own standard, you are assuredly
in the way of becoming something greater,” said Father Felix quietly.
“For the standard of men, I pay not over much heed to that measure when
applied to their fellow-mortals. As to the matter of outcaste,” he
looked at him very straightly, “an’ you be not outcaste from God, I see
in the business less of a boggle than you perchance see.”
“An’ I were an outcaste from Him?” queried Peregrine very low.
“Then, my son, the quicker you set about returning to Him the better,”
quoth Father Felix briskly.
A silence fell on these words. If Peregrine had answer to make it was at
the moment no verbal one. The old man having said his say let the matter
bide. The light in the sky faded, cooled to a pale blue-grey very
restful to contemplate. A star came out over the forest. Big and
luminous it hung in the clear space.
Anon Peregrine roused himself.
“I bid you good-evening,” he said.
The old man looked at him, seemed about to speak, checked the words on
his lips, gave “Good-evening” in response. Peregrine went down the hill.
Coming again to the thorn-bush, he halted irresolute, made half turn to
retrace his steps. He denied the impulse; sat down once more beneath the
thorn-bush.
* * * * *
Night crept slowly onward, spreading her dusky mantle over the valley.
At the foot of the hills it was intensely dark, yet with a soft darkness
as of velvet. The night itself was softly velvet; grey velvet above the
hills, star-sprinkled. Sirius faced him in a dip between them, blinking
now fire-red, now green. No moon being visible, the stars shone with a
greater radiance.
Around and about him was intense silence. The earth was caught to
slumber. Himself wakeful, he sat immovable, motionless as the thorn-bush
by which he rested. His spirit winged into the vast spaces, ranged in
circles, returning ever to one point. Staying a moment there, it went
forth again, sent by his own will, since he was reluctant to allow it
permission to this resting-place.
At length his spirit grew weary of the flight. “I have sought,” she said
to him, “and here is my sole haven. Let me rest now.” Here, clearly,
were the words she spoke. How send her forth again upon a barren errand?
How bid her seek fruitlessly afar that which lay so near to hand? His
will withdrew from the guarded sanctuary. Wings folded, his spirit came
to harbourage.
The night wore on. A pale light in the east heralded the coming dawn. He
rose from beneath the thorn-bush, turned up the hill.
Within the church was nearly utter darkness; only the one red light
glowed as it glows wherever Christ reigns hidden in the Sacred Host.
Father Felix rose from near the altar, came down the aisle to meet him.
His eyes were heavy with foregone sleep, yet bright with an immense
happiness.
“I was waiting for you,” he said.
* * * * *
An hour later Peregrine knelt before the flower-decked altar. Through
the open door of the church the dawn showed purple beyond the hills. The
sun, coming up above them, shot golden beams into the place, falling
upon the Crucifix set among bluebells and snow-white cherry blossom.
Peregrine raised his head. Kneeling near him he saw the Woman he had
sought, looked straight into her deep eyes.... For all his joy in her
presence it was submerged in the knowledge of One Who had brought him to
sight of her.
Father Felix, turning from the door of the sacristy, looked momentarily
at the kneeling man. Beyond him, he saw the sun risen above the blue
hills.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_A Selection from the
Catalogue of_
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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_By the Author of_
“_Aunt Olive in Bohemia_,”
“_The Notch in the Stick_,” _etc._
———————
The Peacock Feather
By
Leslie Moore
_$1.35 net. By mail, $1.50_
In a moment of reminiscent detachment the wearer of the Peacock feather
describes himself as “one whom Fate in one of her freakish moods had
wedded to the roads, the highways and hedges, the fields and woods. Once
Cupid had touched him with his wing—the merest flick of a feather. The
man—poor fool!—fancied himself wounded. Later when he looked for the
scar, he found there was none.” And so he wandered.
Here is a rare love story, that breathes of the open spaces and is
filled with the lure of the road.
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The
Wall of Partition
By
Florence L. Barclay
Author of “The Rosary,” “The Broken Halo,” “The Following
of the Star,” “The Mistress of Shenstone,” etc.
_Color Frontispiece. 12^o. $1.35_
Mrs. Barclay’s new story opens with the
return of the hero to London after an absence
of ten years. Ten years before, Rodney
Steele had been—no fabulous hero—but just
an honorable man in a tight place, and the
girl he loved and trusted had turned on him
within a week of the day which was to
make her altogether his. Ten years, however,
have not quenched the altar fires of
his affection and—But it would be unfair
to let the reader peep over the wall of partition
or to forestall by more than this hint
the telling of a story that is in Mrs. Barclay’s
best vein.
Besides the intense love interest the story
is redolent with a delightful humor.
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Children
of Banishment
_By_ Francis William Sullivan
_12^o. $1.35 net_
A tale of the northern woods that breathes the true atmosphere of the
lumber camp, draws a vivid picture of the subjugation of the great
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opens up many unexpected developments, and that proceeds to an
impressive and satisfying climax.
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The Swindler
And Other Stories
By
Ethel M. Dell
Author of “The Way of an Eagle,” “The Knave of Diamonds,”
“The Rocks of Valpré,” etc.
_12^o. $1.35_
The glow of romance kindles in the new volume by this successful author.
The tale entitled _The Swindler_ and its sequel, jointly constituting a
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one woman who counts.
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).