And now if this history be inclined to jump from one place to another in a somewhat inconsequent fashion, perhaps it will be forgiven, for with its hero wandering away by himself and the rest of the characters more or less congregated together, it takes some mental skipping to record their story.
Yet Peter was now not entirely lonely. He had picked up a chum, a pal, in the shape of a small and extremely mongrel puppy of a breed unknown, but it is to be supposed that wire-haired terrier predominated. And here is the manner of their first meeting.
When Peter left the cottage in the early morning he walked first to the market-town, where he posted two letters—one to the Lady Anne Garland and one to his publishers, telling them that at present he had no settled address, but that if [Pg 236]he wished to correspond with them later he would let them know. The consequence of this being that when a certain blue letter, addressed to him, arrived at their office it remained there, while they waited with what patience they might for word or sign from Peter. If he were a bit of a genius, and they were inclined to consider him so, his methods were also somewhat erratic.
Leaving the town, he turned his steps northward, and for no particular reason beyond the fact that he liked the look of the road. But perhaps it was really a certain unseen guidance which led his steps in that direction and made him of benefit to a small bundle of life embodied in a miserable little roll of dirty white hair, a stump of a baby tail, two short ears, four lanky little legs, a wet black nose, and a pair of really beautiful brown eyes. Often we see these beautiful eyes in an otherwise entirely ugly face. Perhaps it is not surprising, for after all they are the windows of the soul, and even a little doggy soul may be beautiful. But to proceed.
Peter walked along a dusty high-road till about noonday. It was an August day, as may be remembered, and breathless with the quiet heat of that month when it happens to be really hot. Peter had not noticed the heat at first; external matters were at the moment outside his consideration. He had been tramping doggedly, mentally weary, the sun of the last few weeks blotted out, his horizon now veiled in grey clouds of dreariness.
And then at last his body began to protest. “If you will indulge in lovesick thoughts,” it cried, “if your soul intends to give itself up to heartache and mental torment, at all events don’t drag me into it. And it’s very sure that if you will treat me with a bit more consideration you will be befriending your soul likewise.” And Peter, seeing the force of the argument, laughed.
It was against all philosophy except that of the monks of old time to punish your body because your soul was sick. Body and soul were—at all events in his case, he argued—too closely allied. Perhaps those old monks who had found a key to spiritual things—a key on which Peter did not pretend to have laid a hand—might have had such a way of separating the two that the one did not suffer for the infirmities of the other. But Peter was one of us ordinary mortals to whom prayer and such-like on an empty stomach—or an over-full one for that matter—would be a thing impossible. For his soul to be at ease his body must be comfortable, and most assuredly he was at the present moment increasing the discomfort of his soul by unduly fatiguing his body. It was an illogical proceeding, as he suddenly perceived.
A wood lay to the right of the road—a place of cool shadows and small dancing spots of gold, a silent place, still as the peace of some old cathedral.
Peter turned into it. He walked a little way across the green moss, till the leafy barrier of branches shut the high-road from his sight, and then sat down, his back against the purple and silver flecked trunk of a beech-tree. He unstrapped his wallet and laid it on the ground beside him. Then suddenly his ear caught a sound, a faint yelping cry of pain. It was as if some creature had for hours been imploring aid which did not come, as if it had sunk into a despairing silence, and then some tiny sound, some movement, had again awakened hope sufficient to make one last appeal.
Peter jumped to his feet.
“Now which way was it?” he queried. “From over there, if I’m not mistaken.” And he set off farther into the wood. “It’s an animal in a trap,” he said, “a beastly trap. Curse the things!”
Many a time in his wanderings Peter had put a dumb creature out of its misery. And if you have ever heard a hare cry, and seen its soft eyes gazing at you till you’d vow it was an imprisoned human soul looking through its windows, you’d know the fury of rage against some of mankind that had possessed Peter more than once, and which possessed him now. He peered right and left among the undergrowth, his eyes and ears alert, yet seeing nothing, hearing nothing.
He stopped and whistled softly.
“Where are you, you poor little atom of life?” he cried.
And then, not a yard ahead of him, from a great bramble clump, came the tiniest, most pitiful cry, but with a little note of hope in it.
“Oh!” cried Peter, and the next instant he was on his knees, the steel jaws were pulled asunder, and a baby mongrel of a puppy was dragging itself feebly towards him, trying to lick his hand. “Oh, you poor little beggar!” said Peter, as he wrenched the trap from the ground and flung it into the middle of the bramble-bush. Then he lifted the small bundle of rough, dirty white hair tenderly and carr............