PER ASPERA AD ASTRA
"And so," quoth Peter, "when the two met again, he had a story to tell
her."
"Oh!" queried Anne, toying with her fan, the flimsy thing of
mother-of-pearl and cobwebby old lace. "A long story?"
"That," ventured Peter with temerity, "depended largely--I might say
altogether--on his listener."
They were sitting, these two, in a wide window-seat at the end of a
passage. They had the full length of it before them. It was a post of
vantage. With what generalship Peter had marked it out, with what fine
diplomacy he had found Lady Anne and escorted her hither, is no doubt
better imagined than recorded. It suffices to chronicle that here they
were, in an alcove of soft draperies and shaded lights, listening--if
they chose--to the strains of music, watching--if they chose--the
brilliant kaleidoscopic effect of colour through the open door of the
great ballroom.
"My story," continued Peter, "is of a Wanderer, one whom Fate in one of
her freakish moods had wedded to the roads, the highways and hedges,
the fields and woods."
"Had he," queried Anne, "nothing to solace him in his wanderings--no
thoughts, no memories?"
"None," said Peter steadily. "Once long ago Cupid had touched him with
his wing--the merest flick of a feather. The man--poor fool!--fancied
himself wounded, thought to bear a scar. Later, when he looked for it,
he found there was none. It had been the most entire illusion on his
part. And so he wandered the roads, regretting perhaps that he was
scathless. But that is beside the mark." He paused, glancing at the
hands which held the flimsy cobwebby fan.
"One day," continued Peter, "into his lonely wanderings came a letter,
a mere scrap of bluish paper with tracings thereon of black ink.
A flimsy fragile thing you might say, but to him it meant--well,
everything. I fancy he had never realized his entire loneliness till
that delicate herald of joy appeared. And--here was the wonder of
it--it was written by a woman."
"Oh!" said Lady Anne, the little pulses fluttering in her throat.
"It was," went on Peter, "a gracious letter, a charming letter, written
by one who had guessed at his loneliness of spirit, and thought to
cheer that loneliness, to heal the wound she fancied him to bear. To
him it came as a draught of water to one in a waterless desert. It
brought him help, refreshment. He began to dream a dream of the writer,
to imagine her near him. He spent hours in the company of his Dream
Lady. He was no longer lonely, no longer desolate. In spirit--in fancy,
if you will--she was ever with him. Oh, he knew well enough that he
could never meet her in the flesh, that was part of the compact. But
disembodied though she was, she meant more to him than all the material
friendships in creation." Again he stopped, his heart was beating fast.
"And then?" questioned Lady Anne.
He drew a deep breath. "And then Fate played a trick--a curious, almost
incredible trick, Fate threw the woman in his path. Their meeting was
strange, picturesque--I might almost call it unique. At the moment
reason did not tell him the woman was the writer of the letters, but
his soul, I believe, guessed. And presently he knew without a doubt his
soul was right."
"Ah!" breathed Lady Anne. "He knew the writer of the letters to him,
but she did not know who answered them."
"She did not," echoed Peter.
There was a little pause.
"Then," she asked, her eyes still upon her fan, "I suppose he told her
what he knew?"
"No," said Peter in a low voice, "he did not. There is no excuse for
him. I myself make none. But--he feared to lose her letters. There's
the whole matter in a nutshell. He did not tell her, and he continued
to write."
"Oh!" said Lady Anne. Again there was a pause.
"Of course," continued Peter, "it was inexcusable of him. But Fate had
his punishment in store."
"Yes?" she queried.
"Fate disclosed his trickery to the woman. He read his punishment in
the contempt in her eyes. He deserved it, every bit of it. But it hurt
none the less."
"And--and then what happened?" she asked, trembling.
"He went away," said Peter. "First he made a sacrifice--a small funeral
pyre on which he burnt her letters, and I fancy his heart."
"Did he do nothing else?" she demanded.
"Oh, yes," confessed Peter. "He wrote to her. It was the least he could
do. He prayed her forgiveness."
"And--?" she queried.
Again Peter drew a deep breath. "After that there were months of a
greater loneliness. I fancy he tried to be brave, to be worthy of her
memory. She was, you see, his star."
"Did--did he not condemn her for her harshness?" asked Lady Anne.
"Never," cried Peter hotly. "She was to him his goddess, his divinity."
He stopped.
"Is that all?" she asked.
"No," said Peter. "Fate had another surprise in store. She brought him
from his loneliness, set him again in the midst of his fellow-men. But
that was not all--it was the least. He found"--Peter's heart beat to
suffocation--"a letter--one that should have reached him long ago but
for his own folly. From it he dared to believe, to hope, that his Lady
had condoned his offence, had forgiven."
Lady Anne did not reply. Peter looked at her.
"Had she forgiven?" he pleaded.
For a second--the merest fraction of a second--she raised her eyes to
his.
"I--I think so," she said. And a tiny adorable smile curved her mouth.
"Is that all the story?" she questioned in a low voice after a little
silence.
"Oh no," said Peter.
"No?" she asked, surprised. "I fancied it was the end."
"It is," said Peter boldly, "only the beginning."
"Oh!" she asked with delicately raised eyebrows; "and--and is the rest
of the story long?"
"It is," said Peter, "as long as a lifetime, and longer. It stretches
away into Eternity. It is a story of his love for his Lady, his Queen.
She is immeasurably more to him than all in earth and heaven. With
every fibre of his being, with his body, his soul, his spirit, he
loves, worships, and adores. It is a story that will take a lifetime
in the telling. Dare he tell it? Is she, think you, willing to listen?"
Lady Anne again raised her eyes to his.
"You're sure," she queried, "that he wants her to listen?"
"Absolutely sure," said Peter, his blue eyes holding hers.
"Then," breathed Lady Anne softly, "tell her."
THE END
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
Minor changes have been made to correct printer's errors and to
regularize hyphenation.
Words and phrases that were italicized in the original book have been
noted with an underscore (_) at beginning and end.
Words and phrases that were underlined in the original book have been
noted with an equal (=) at beginning and end.
In Chapter XVI, Letters, no opening or closing quotes were used to
denote the beginning and ending of letters. The transcriber has chosen
not to regularize the punctuation in this case.