“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 [pg 310]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 [pg 311]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.”