Peter came out from the cottage door in the early morning. The rain of the previous night had ceased, only the trees, bushes, and grass were hung with myriads of drops sparkling silver and diamond in the morning sunshine. He smelt the good smell of the wet earth, and filled his lungs with the cool fresh air.  
By rights Peter should by now have been well on his way, for, though his way led generally to no particular goal, he was always a-foot by sunrise. But something—Peter did not know what—held him to that cottage. It was almost as if the desolate place cried to him: “Stay with me; I, too, am lonely.” Certainly something indefinable but insistent was drawing him to remain.
 
“And why not?” said Peter half aloud.
 
And then he heard the creaking of a cart, and [Pg 36]the gruff voice of a carter encouraging his horse. In a moment it came in sight. The cart was empty, and the man was sitting on the side as he drove.
 
“Good morning,” said Peter pleasantly, as the cart and man came abreast of him.
 
The carter started, pulled up suddenly, and the horse came to a standstill.
 
“Well now,” he said in amazement, “whatever do-ee be doin’ there?”
 
“I sheltered here last night,” said Peter. “Can you tell me to whom this cottage belongs?”
 
The man shook his head. “It don’t belong to no one, and that’s certain sure.”
 
“But,” argued Peter, “a cottage which is obviously built by human agency must have an owner.”
 
Again the man shook his head. “It don’t belong to no one,” he reiterated.
 
Peter raised his eyebrows incredulously. “But why not?” he demanded.
 
“’Tis evil,” said the man in a solemn whisper.
 
“Evil!” echoed Peter. And the word seemed as out of place in the morning sunshine as a cynic would seem in fairyland.
 
 
The man nodded. “’Tis evil, for sure. ’Tis haunted.”
 
“And by what is it haunted?” demanded Peter, curious.
 
“A bad woman,” said the man. “Her comes there o’nights, and her moans for that her soul’s to hell.”
 
Again the word fell like a discord in the harmony of sunshine and singing birds. Peter frowned.
 
“Then,” he asked, “as the cottage possesses no owner I suppose I can live here if I choose?”
 
The man scratched his head. “No one can’t live there what bain’t in league with t’devil,” he announced.
 
Peter smiled brilliantly. “Oh,” he said with fine assurance, “but I am.” And he made the carter a low bow, sweeping upward his hat, which he had hitherto held in his hand. The fantastic peacock feather came into view, also Peter concluded the bow with a very diabolical grin.
 
The man whipped up his horse, casting a terrified glance over his shoulder as he drove off. Peter waved his hat with a mocking laugh.
 
“And now,” he said, as the sound of the wheels receded in the distance, “it is possible that my [Pg 38]averred friendship with his Satanic Majesty may gain me uninterrupted possession of this place. And—nonsense or not—it is asking me to stay.”
 
Suddenly, however, it struck Peter that it might be as well for him to lay in a small store of provisions—if such were obtainable in the village—before the statement of his friendship with the powers of evil had been spread by the too credulous carter. Peter was well aware of the superstitions of village folk. Therefore he set off at once down the road.
 
The village stood for the most part around an open green, to the left of which was the grey church whose square tower he had noticed the previous day. In front of him and on higher ground, half-hidden among the trees, was a white house. It looked of some importance. On the right of the green was the post-office, and next to it a general provision shop.
 
Peter went into the post-office, where he asked for a penny stamp.
 
The woman who kept the place was a buxom dame, rosy-cheeked and brown-eyed. Peter thought she might be possessed of conversational [Pg 39]powers. He was right. A small remark of his received a voluble response. He ventured another. It also was received in good part and the dame’s tongue proved nimble.
 
For full half an hour Peter leant upon the counter, speaking but a word or two at intervals, but finding that they quite sufficed to direct the voluble flow of speech into the channels he desired. The sound of the bell above the shop door alone brought the discourse to a conclusion, as a woman, with a baby in her arms and two children dragging at her skirts, entered. She looked at Peter curiously, then, pulling a shabby purse from her pocket, requested the postmistress to provide her with a penny stamp. She was, so she stated, about to write to her son in South Africa.
 
Peter came out into the sunlight with vastly more information than he had possessed half an hour previously.
 
He turned into the provision shop, where he achieved a few purchases, and then made his way again in the direction of the desolate cottage. In his mind he was running through and sorting the information he had received.
 
First and foremost it was perfectly obvious that, [Pg 40]provided he had the temerity to remain in the cottage in which he had passed the previous night, no one would say him nay. It was held in ill-repute. No one would dream of entering the copse at any time, and after nightfall even the road past it was to be avoided. The reason for this, as far as Peter could gather, was as follows.
 
Some fifty or sixty years ago a woman had lived in that cottage with her daughter, the reputed beauty of the village. The cottage had been built on a bit of unclaimed land by the woman’s husband, who had died soon after building it. It appeared that the girl was a coquette, trifling with the solid affection of the village swains. That at least was the version of the postmistress. One day some young gentleman had come to stay at the inn. What brought him if it was not Satan himself no one knew. At all events, before long he and the village Helen were seen walking together on summer evenings. Then came a day when the young man left the inn, and it was discovered that the girl was missing. Good authority stated that she had gone with him. It also stated that after three months he deserted her. From then began her downfall. The mother, left in the cottage, faded [Pg 41]slowly from grief, and after five years died. On the evening of her death a thin wan woman great with child was seen to enter the village. None, it appeared, had spoken to her. She had passed through the village and towards the cottage where the dead woman lay. The friend who was keeping watch saw the door open and a pale woman with frightened eyes approach the bed. There had been a terrifying shriek and the intruder had dropped to the ground. During the hours of the night a little life had come forth, which looked momentarily and wearily on the world. With a sigh it had gone out again into the silence, where at dawn the weary mother had followed it. But remorse, so it was said, had chained her to the spot where her own mother had died, and throughout the following nights her spirit could be heard sobbing and moaning. For more than forty years the place had been considered cursed, and had been steadfastly avoided. Even the contents of the cottage had remained untouched.
 
Peter had ventured a word of pity for the desolate creature whose story he had just heard. But pity was, apparently, the last emotion roused towards her. Horror of her sin and degradation, a horror enhanced by the superstition vivid around her memory, was all the buxom postmistress felt. And should any one be wickedly daring enough to enter the cottage and live there—well, the curse of evil would undoubtedly fall upon him, though assuredly no one would interfere should any one prove himself a sufficient friend of evil for such a venture.
 
So much had Peter gathered regarding the cottage and its story. He had then put another question regarding the white house on the hill.
 
It belonged, so he was told, to a Lady Anne Garland, who lived there with a companion. At the moment she was away from home, though she was expected to return in June. And then the other customer had entered the shop, and the flood of the good woman’s discourse had been stemmed.
 
Peter had reached the copse by now and turned in at the broken gate. As he entered the cottage it seemed to him that there was an air of expectancy about the place, as if it was waiting for the answer to a question.
 
Involuntarily Peter spoke aloud.
 
 
“It’s all right,” he said. “I am going to stay till some one comes to kick me out.”
 
And then—of course it was mere fancy, but a little breeze seemed to pass through the room, like a sigh of relief or content.