“how on earth did you find me?” demanded peter, as the two descended the cloud together, democritus following in the rear.
“by the guidance of providence,” announced tommy. “it’s been the oddest search imaginable, and if it hadn’t been for that blessed peacock feather i’ll dare swear it had been fruitless. it was a kind of landmark, the one characteristic by which you had been noticed.”
peter laughed. he was at the moment extraordinarily, exuberantly happy. so can fate play shuttlecock with our lives.
at the hut door tommy had given him the barest outline of the story, sufficient only to persuade peter that he was indeed justified in accompanying the famished tommy down the mountain-side. now he elaborated those details, entered fully into the most miraculous history of the last three weeks. and the story of hugh’s confession filled peter with a curious exultation. he saw, as father o’sullivan had seen, the fine way, the grand way, in which the past had been blotted out and his friend given back to him in spirit.
tommy strode down the mountain joyous of heart, his honest freckled face fairly shining with pleasure. his whole further programme was already arranged—the wires to be sent, the breakfast to be eaten, the train to be caught that was to convey them swiftly back to town. the car and chauffeur could follow at their leisure.
here, however, peter demurred. it was all very well to tramp the road in this ridiculous garb, but return to civilisation attired as a mountebank—never! there were some things at which peter drew the line, and he drew one here, and firmly. tommy was prepared for him; he met and overruled each and every objection. had peter no other garments in that bundle he was carrying? what! only a dress suit? tommy opened eyes of wonder. what on earth was the use of a dress suit to a wayfarer? oh, of course, it was peter’s own business if he liked to carry one [pg 298]around the country in a bundle on his back for the mere pleasure of boasting to his soul that he possessed one. no, of course he couldn’t wear it up to town. tommy didn’t propose that he should. but he—tommy—had another suit at the hotel. peter was much of his build; he’d take him to his room to change. during the process he’d dispatch telegrams. then, tommy presumed, he’d be allowed to have his breakfast, after which the train. he was obdurate on that point. yes, peter could have a bath if he liked—fifty baths, as long as he agreed to take the train at noon.
thus planning, arranging, the hotel was reached. tommy escorted peter to his room, indicated a change of raiment and the bathroom opposite, then, bursting with excitement, proceeded to find the chauffeur and dispatch telegrams. within ten minutes—such was his celerity of action—he was in the dining-room, had ordered a substantial breakfast, and was waiting with what patience he might for the appearance of peter.
peter, in the bathroom, was luxuriating in a sea of gloriously hot water, while democritus kept guard without. occasionally a wet black nose was lowered to the crack beneath the door to sniff and wonder perplexedly at this new freak on the part of his master.
“it is certain,” remarked peter, full length in the bath, and addressing himself to the ceiling, “that if i’d once indulged in the luxury of a good hot soapy bath in a private bathroom after leaving the jail, wild horses would never have dragged me to the roads. i’d forgotten—completely forgotten—the joy of it!”
but at last, with a mental picture of the famished tommy before his mind, he reluctantly proceeded to dry himself and don decent habiliments.
tommy greeted the entrance of peter and democritus with fervent enthusiasm, and without more ado they proceeded to make good headway with the substantial, steaming breakfast which forthwith made its appearance.
“heavens!” cried peter presently, pausing in the consuming of eggs and bacon, toast, marmalade, and coffee, “was there ever such a breakfast before? and have i once tendered you my thanks for coming in pursuit of me? the whole miraculous business, the entire blessed kaboodle, seems to have upset my mental equilibrium and clouded my manners.”
“bless the man!” cried tommy, “don’t i understand?”
some couple of hours later the two, with democritus, were in the train, sitting in a first-class carriage, which tommy had bribed the guard to reserve to their sole use. neither man desired the company of strangers at the moment. under all their chaff and light-heartedness there was a sense of bigness, a feeling of something great accomplished.
peter gazed through the carriage window at the snow-covered landscape, his mind a whirl of varied emotions. it is useless to attempt to say which was uppermost. kaleidoscopic they revolved in his brain, a jumble of pleasure, relief, half-forgotten fatigue, expectation, though now through them all ran a thought of regret, of sadness—the thought of anne.
is ever the perfection of joy allowed to us mortals? it would appear not, mused peter. here was everything to his hand that his soul could desire, save the one thing after which it really hankered; and with that to his debit, the balance—in spite of its appearance—was distinctly inadequate.
tommy, gazing at him furtively from behind the morning paper, marvelled at the sudden melancholy of the man. cogitating in his mind for the reason, and having heard from muriel of peter’s previous engagement, he thought to have found it. if only, so meditated tommy—no lover of millicent—he could realize the escape he had had.
and so the train bore them onward, out of the snow-covered land, past bare brown fields and skeleton trees, past smoky towns and small villages lying in pale sunlight, on to the suburbs past whose platforms the train roared and rushed, on and ever onward, till london itself was reached.
