IN WHICH I LEARNED THAT I AM LESS OF A COWARD THAN I HAD SUPPOSED
There is, I think, a wistful sadness in the fall of evening, a vague
regret for the fading glories of the day which, passing out of our
lives for ever, leaves us so much the richer or poorer, the nobler or
more unworthy, according to the use we have made of the opportunities
it has offered us for the doing of good or evil.
Thus I walked pensive through the solemn evening stillness, watching
the shadows gathering and the sky slowly deepen to a glimmering dusk,
wherein the first faint stars peeped.
Suddenly, from the mysteries of sombre trees hard by, stole the
plaintive notes of a blackbird singing, as it were, in poignant, sweet
farewell:
'This day, with its joys and sorrows, its pain and travail, its
possibilities for works good or evil, is passed away. O ye that grieve
for chances lost or wasted, that sorrow for wrongs done or good
undone, be comforted. Sleep ye in the sure hope that God of His mercy
shall renew your hope for better things with to-morrow's dawn. So
comfort ye!'
As I stood, the better to hear, my mind busied with some such thought
as this conjured up of the bird's evening hymn, Diana's hand met mine
in sudden, warm clasp.
"O Peregrine," she murmured, "so you love the silent places too?"
"Yes!" said I. "Yes! It is in such places that angels walk."
"Angels, Peregrine?"
"Great and noble thoughts, Diana. These are truly God's angels, I
think, since they are the inspiration to all great and good works."
"It is in the silent places I am happiest, Peregrine."
"Because you have a soul, thank God!"
"What do you mean by a 'soul,' Peregrine?"
"I mean that part of us which cannot perish because it is part of God
Himself. I mean that part of us whereby, in spite of this fleshly
body, we may rise above fleshly desires and gain some perception of
the Infinite Truth--which is God. Do you understand, Diana?"
"No, I'm afraid I don't," she answered wistfully, "but you won't lose
patience wi' me, Peregrine?"
"Never, Diana. How could I when I don't understand myself. Who does?
The wisest philosophers of all ages have been puzzling over their
souls and never understood the wonder of it. Who shall describe the
soul and its ultimate end?"
"Well," said she diffidently, "there's Jerry Jarvis--"
"What, the Tinker?" I exclaimed.
"Yes. He made a verse about the soul--I mean this one--
"'And when my time shall come to die
I care not where my flesh may lie
Because I know my soul shall fly
Back to the stars!'"
"Ah, yes, the stars!" said I, lifting my gaze to the spangled
firmament above us. "This is a great thought--who knows?"
And presently as we went on together, hand in hand, came night very
still and silent and full of a splendour of stars that made a soft
twilight about us, very wonderful to behold.
"Now, why do that?" I demanded suddenly, for she had slipped her hand
from mine.
"Because!" she retorted.
"Because of what?"
"Just because!"
"Does it impede you to hold my hand?"
"Of course not."
"My hand is neither unpleasantly clammy nor particularly dirty, is
it?"
"No, Peregrine."
"Then why not hold it?"
"Because!"
"Upon my word!" I exclaimed, "you are very provoking!"
"Am I, Peregrine?"
"Extremely so! Why won't you hold my hand? And pray answer
intelligibly."
"Because I don't want to!"
"Oh, very well!" said I, greatly huffed. "Then you shall decline the
verb 'To be' instead."
"I do, Peregrine."
"Do what?"
"Decline any more of your verbs."
"Ha, then you don't wish to learn--?"
"I do, Peregrine, I do! But I'm sure I shall learn quicker if you'll
let me try to talk like you; I've learned a bit already only you never
notice--"
"Oh, yes, I do--God in heaven!" I gasped, my heart leaping in sudden
sickening dread. "What is that?" My flesh chilled with horror as from
the gloomy depths of the wood upon our left rose a sound evil beyond
description, an awful scuffling intermingled with gasps and sighs very
terrible to hear.
Spellbound by this dreadful, hushed clamour, I stood rigidly, staring
into those dense shadows whence it came; then joyed to the warm,
strong clasp of her fingers on mine and, in this awful moment,
wondered to feel her hand so steady.
"Are you afraid, Peregrine?" she whispered.
"Yes!" I mumbled. "Yes!"
"But are you brave enough to go and see what it is? Dare you
go--alone?"
"No!" I gasped. "No--I should--die--" My teeth snapped shut upon the
word and I began to creep forward, the ash stick clutched in shaking
hand, my eyes glaring in horrified expectancy. Foot by foot I forced
my shivering body forward into the denser shadows of the underbrush,
on and on in such agony of fear that the sweat poured from me, for now
this frightful struggling was louder and more menacing; therefore,
lest I should blench and turn back, I ran wildly forward until, all at
once, I stopped at sight of a shapeless something, a dim horror that
started and wallowed, gasping, upon the ground before me; then, as I
stared, the thing bleated feebly, and I knew it for a sheep and,
coming nearer, saw the poor animal lay upon its back, kicking and
struggling vainly to regain its feet.
My revulsion of feeling was so great that a faintness seized me and I
leaned half-swooning against a tree. And in this moment Diana's arm
was about me and her voice in my ear.
"Oh, but that was brave, Peregrine--I never thought you'd go! Now help
me to get the poor thing to her feet." So between us we contrived to
set the sheep upon its legs and watched it amble feebly away. Then,
side by side, we came out of the wood where we might behold the stars.
"Diana," said I, with my gaze uplifted to their glory, "did you know
it was only a sheep?"
"Of course!"
"And I am a little braver than you expected?"
"Yes, Peregrine."
"Then--suppose you take my hand again!"