For some time there was nothing but open country around him, though in the far distance he saw an occasional farmhouse.  
At last, however, he saw the roofs of cottages, and realized that he was approaching a village. The square tower of a church, and a big house half-hidden by trees on higher ground beyond the cottages, made it probable that it was more than merely a hamlet.
 
Just before he reached it a sharp turn in the lane brought him upon a very minute copse set a pace or so back from the road, and in the copse was a small cottage or hut. There was a forlorn look about it, and the windows were broken.
 
Peter peered through the trees. There was no sign of life whatever. The place was apparently deserted. A couple of yards farther on a small and [Pg 27]broken gate led into the copse. The gate was hanging on one hinge in a dejected and melancholy fashion.
 
Peter propped it up with a little pat of encouragement before he passed through it and up among the trees to the cottage door. It was unfastened, and Peter went in. He found himself in a small square room. To his amazement it was not empty, as he had imagined to find it. On the contrary, it was quite moderately furnished.
 
A low bed stood at one side of the room; it was covered with a faded blue quilt. A cupboard with a few tea-things on it stood against one wall. A table, old and worm-eaten, was in the centre of the room. There were two wooden chairs, and a wooden armchair with a dilapidated rush seat. There was a big open fireplace with an iron staple in the wall; from this staple was suspended an iron hook. Both were thickly covered with rust. On the shelf above the fireplace was a clock; it was flanked by a couple of copper candlesticks covered with verdigris. Ragged yellow curtains hung before the broken window.
 
And everywhere there was dust. It lay thickly on the table and the chairs; the tea-things on the cupboard were covered with it. It lay upon the floor in a soft grey carpet, thicker at the far side of the room, where the wind through the broken window had swept it in a little drift against the wall.
 
Peter looked around in bewilderment. During how many years had this dust accumulated? What memories, what secrets, lay buried beneath it?
 
He looked towards the fireplace. Charred embers were within it. By the hearth lay an old newspaper. Peter picked it up. It tore as he touched it. It bore the date May the nineteenth, eighteen hundred and sixty-six. Forty-five years ago! Had this cottage lain uninhabited for forty-five years?—thirteen years before he was even born! He glanced up at the clock. It had stopped at twelve o’clock—midnight or noon, who was to say?
 
Peter turned and again looked round the place. At the foot of the bed was another door. He opened it, and found himself in a minute room or scullery. It contained a copper, a row of shelves, a pump, and an iron bucket. The window here, too, was broken, the place as thickly shrouded in dust.
 
 
Peter returned to the dwelling-room.
 
“Apparently I have it all to myself,” he said; “and for to-night at least I intend to quarter here, for if I’m not much mistaken there’s a storm coming up from the west.”
 
Peter put his wallet and bundle down on the table and went out into the copse. He began collecting bits of dead wood from under the trees, and there was abundance strewn on the ground, also fir-cones, for the trees were Scotch firs. It was already drawing on to dusk, and clouds were being blown across the sky by a soft wet wind from the west.
 
As Peter had just collected his second armful of sticks, he heard steps coming along the road. He paused before entering the cottage to see who it might be. They were light steps, probably those of children.
 
In a moment they came in sight—two little girls, chattering eagerly, and walking quickly, for the sky looked threatening. As they neared the copse one of the children looked up. She clutched her companion’s arm.
 
“Look there!” she said. There was terror in her voice.
 
 
The other child looked, screamed, and they both set off running frantically down the road.
 
“Great Scot!” ejaculated Peter; “did they take me for a ghost, or do they think I’m a poacher, and have gone to inform the neighbourhood? Trust they won’t disturb me; I’ve no mind to turn out into the deluge that’s coming.”
 
A couple of large drops of rain splashed down on his hand as he spoke, and he re-entered the cottage. He placed his second armful of sticks beside the fireplace. First he cleared away the charred embers in the hearth, then began arranging the newly collected sticks with the skill born of long practice in the art of fire-making. This done, he went into the inner room and took up the bucket. The pump was stiff with rust and disuse, but Peter’s vigorous arm soon triumphed over the stiffness, and, filling the bucket with water, he returned to the living-room. Here, with the aid of a couple of ragged cloths, he made a partial onslaught against the dust. The room became at least habitable to one not over-fastidious. Moth, by some miracle, seemed to have left the place untouched, though the bedclothes were damp with mildew.
 
 
The cleansing process at least partially achieved, Peter undid his wallet and bundles. From them he took a pot, a tin cup, a couple of eggs, a hunch of bread, and small piece of butter wrapped in a cloth.
 
He filled the pot with water, put the two eggs in it, and hung it on the hook in the fireplace. Then he struck a match and held it under the pile of sticks. The little orange flame twined itself gently round one twig. It twisted upward to another and yet another. There was the sound of soft crackling gradually increasing to a perfect fairy fusillade. The flames multiplied, leapt from stick to stick, while among their orange and blue light poured a pearly-grey smoke.
 
“Achieved,” said Peter with a sigh, and he seated himself in the armchair watching the dancing flames, and every now and then flinging on an extra stick.
 
Outside the rain was beating on the roof and splashing through the broken window, while the wind, which had begun to rise, moaned gently through the fir-trees, creaking their branches.
 
“Thanks be to the patron saint of all wayfarers,” said Peter, “that I found this shelter. And if I knew his name I’d indite a poem to his memory.”
 
And then he fell to thinking of the young man who, earlier in the day, had intruded on his slumbers and read poems from his Chaucer. That he was a pleasant young man Peter had already conceded. That he had combined an extraordinary mixture of intuition with a certain lack of reticence almost amounting to want of tact, Peter also conceded. That there was nothing about him of very deep psychological interest, Peter knew. But—well, he was a man of gentle birth, and he had treated Peter—the wayfaring Peter with frayed trousers and a patch on one knee—as an equal. It had left a very decided sensation of pleasure. Peter acknowledged to himself that he would have liked to accept the young man’s invitation; and yet if he had—well, he would probably have drivelled more than he had done, and he had drivelled quite enough. That was the worst of unaccustomed and genuine interest from one of your fellow-men. It was like wine to one not used to it—it mounted to your brain, you became garrulous. To those who are used to wine, one glass, two glasses, nay, even [Pg 33]three glasses, means nothing. To those who have not tasted the liquor for years, half a glass may prove unsteadying. It was not even as if it would be offered to him with sufficient frequency for him to become accustomed to it. No; most assuredly the wine of sympathy was not for him.
 
And then he stopped suddenly in his meditations, for the water in the pot was boiling.
 
When Peter had finished his meal he pulled a brier-wood pipe from his pocket, filled it with tobacco, and lit it. He also lit a candle, which he set in one of the copper candlesticks and placed upon the table. Then once more he drew his book from the brown-paper covering.
 
For a time he sat very still, only moving a hand to turn the pages. The candle-light threw his shadow large and grotesque on the dingy wall behind him. Occasionally the shadow wavered as the candle flickered in the draught from the broken window. The fire had died down to a few glowing spots set in a bed of grey ashes. Outside the rain fell steadily, and the wind still creaked the branches of the fir-trees.
 
At last Peter closed the book. He rolled his piece of sacking into a bundle to form a pillow, and stretched himself on the stone floor before the hearth. It was preferable, he considered, to the mildewy bed.
 
“I wonder,” he mused, “who were the former owners of this place. No doubt they are long since dead. Well, if so, on their souls, and on all Christian souls, sweet Jesu, have mercy!” He made the sign of the Cross.
 
In ten minutes Peter was asleep. He slept well, but he dreamt, and once or twice through his dreams he heard the sound of sobbing. It was a pitiful little sobbing, as of a woman in grief, and mingled with it seemed to be faint half-articulate words.
 
Once Peter half-awakened, and for a moment he fancied the sobbing was real, but reason, which was working fitfully, told him it was only the wind in the trees without. He shifted his position and fell asleep again.