peter was partaking of a noonday meal of bread and cheese and beer when a knock came on his cottage door. for a moment or two he thought his ears must have deceived him, and he did not move. but the knock was repeated.

peter got up and opened the door. a man in footman’s garb was standing outside. he looked peter up and down with a slightly supercilious expression.

“well?” demanded peter.

“the lady anne garland wishes you to bring your penny whistle-pipe to the terrace at four o’clock this afternoon, and be punctual,” he announced.

it was not precisely the formula in which lady anne had worded the message, but burton considered it an exact enough paraphrase to be delivered to a mere vagabond. it was in his eyes an even over-courteous method of delivering the message.

“indeed!” said peter.

“four punctual,” repeated the man with a slightly insolent air. and he turned from the door.

had he lingered a moment longer peter would quite probably have kicked him. astonishment on peter’s part and a swift retreat on his alone saved him.

“upon my word!” ejaculated peter, looking after the retreating figure. then he went into the cottage and shut the door.

“insolence or fame,” remarked peter to his glass of beer, “in which light shall i regard it?” and then suddenly he laughed.

after all it smacked finely of medieval days, this command from the lady of the manor to appear before her. annoyance began to vanish; even the insolence of the flunkey was in the picture. it was fame, there was no question about it.

“and, robin adair, you writer of tales, here’s a subject made to your hand,” he quoted.

oh, he’d act the part well! a hint more disarray than usual about his costume, his oldest coat and trousers—he had two day suits now, this possessor of a cottage—must certainly be worn, with the peacock feather at its jauntiest angle. he must also allow himself a slight air of swagger, as of one conferring a favour; in appearance the vagabond they regarded him, in manner a kubelik stepping with assurance before his audience.

peter began to be pleased; to look forward to the appointed hour with interest. it was the writer in him, the man who sees, in any novel situation in which he may find himself, new material for his pen.

“fate,” quoth peter to himself, “is thrusting another rôle upon me.” and then as children—and grown-ups for the matter of that—count cherry stones, he ticked them off on his fingers. “gentleman, scamp, jail-bird, tramp, author, writer of letters to an unknown fair one, and piper to the lady of the manor. peter, my son, what else have the fates in store for you?” and then he gave a little involuntary sigh, for after all, was not the chief rôle assigned to him—the one which superseded all others—that of a lonely man?

“fool!” cried peter to his heart. “does not the sun shine for you, the wind blow for you, and the birds sing for you? have you not free and untrammelled communion with nature in all her varying moods?”

but all the same the very enumeration of the many rôles seemed to have emphasized the one more strongly.

at a quarter to four peter, in his oldest and shabbiest garments, with the peacock feather extremely jaunty in his shabby felt hat and his whistle-pipe in his pocket, set off for the white house on the hill.

it was a still sunny day, like many of its predecessors that summer. june had taken the earth into a warm, peaceful grasp. there was a restfulness about the atmosphere, a quiet assurance of continued heat and sunshine. a faint breeze came softly from the west, barely stirring the leaves on the hedges. to the east were great masses of luminous cloud, piled like snow-mountains, motionless and still. the dust [pg 107]lay thick and powdery in the lane, whitening peter’s boots; the grass, too, was powdered, but slightly, for there was little traffic this way. peter, to whom the passing of a vehicle was somewhat of an event, barely ever counted more than two or three in the day.

he left the lane behind him and came out on to the village green. as he passed across it men looked at him suspiciously, and a woman carrying a basket stepped hastily to one side as if she feared contact with him. peter smiled brilliantly, and raised his hat with an air of almost exaggerated courtliness. one man spat on the ground and muttered something that sounded like a curse, but peter went on his way apparently unheeding.

he passed the lodge gates and went up the drive, under beeches green, copper, and purple, their trunks emerald and silver in the sunlight. on the terrace to the right of the house he saw two figures, one in white and one in some neutral colour. as he drew near the white-robed figure raised her hand, beckoning him to approach.

peter came up to the terrace, standing just below on the gravel path. he swept off his [pg 108]hat and stood bareheaded. then he looked up and saw lady anne garland watching him.

peter’s heart gave a jump, and for no reason in the world that he could ascribe, beyond the fact that she was beautiful, oh! but undeniably beautiful. she was a young woman, tall and slender, in a white dress, and a crimson rose tucked in her waist-belt. she wore no hat. her hair shone blue-black, warm and lustrous in the sun.

of the other woman peter took little note, beyond observing that she was elderly and looked at him with evident disapproval.

“so you are peter the piper?” said lady anne in her low, distinguished voice.

“at your service,” said peter.

lady anne looked at him curiously. he was altogether different from what she had expected, this man in the shabby clothes, with the brilliant peacock feather, and with the bronzed clear-cut face and sad eyes.

“we have heard,” said anne, and there was an air of royal graciousness in the words, “that you are a marvellous piper. are you willing to pipe for us?” she smiled at him as she spoke. and again peter’s heart jumped, and began to beat at a fine rate.

“with all the pleasure in the world,” he replied, and he drew the pipe from his pocket.

anne watched him as he laid his fingers lovingly around it. for a moment or so he stood motionless. and then he began to play.

first anne heard an ordinary little march, quite conventional, but sufficiently gay and lively. then it broke into curious discords played in rapid succession. next followed a minor passage, tense, constrained, as if the strange little air running through it were struggling for greater liberty of expression. suddenly it found it, blending into a te deum, grand and glorious. all at once it stopped, breaking again into a succession of strange discords which hurt anne to hear. there was an instant’s pause, as if the first half of his theme were finished. then, played in the minor key, came a gay song with an under note of marching feet, and through it a wistful yearning as for something lost. the air changed to the major, and was repeated. then came a little melody played quite separately and on its own account, a little rocking melody, not unlike a cradle song. it ceased, and a new theme began quite unlike anything that had preceded it. anne listened with suspended breath. she made no attempt to classify it as she had classified his previous themes. but above and beyond all the others it spoke directly to her heart.

suddenly she was aware that the music had stopped, and that peter was looking at her like a man who has just come out of a trance.

anne’s eyes were full of tears.

“thank you,” she said, and she held out her hand.

peter came forward and took it. then—it seemed that the action was almost involuntary—he raised it to his lips.

miss haldane fairly gasped, sitting upright and grasping the supports of the deck-chair with both hands. the effrontery! the audacity! the—the—she had no further word in her vocabulary with which to express her indignation.

yet if lady anne were displeased she did not show it. she looked at peter long and curiously, as if seeking for something she might find, something that escaped, eluded her.

“you will come and play to me again?” she asked.

“perhaps,” said peter thoughtfully. he seemed not yet fully recovered from what had appeared like a trance.

miss haldane made an inarticulate sound in her throat. this assuredly surpassed everything. she had been right, quite right, when she had considered he might be a socialist.

“it must of course,” said anne courteously, “be exactly as you wish.”

peter bowed, and the next moment moved away, walking down the avenue of beeches. anne looked after his retreating figure thoughtfully, wonderingly.

“impudence!” gasped miss haldane. she felt that her goddess, her divinity, had been insulted.

“no, matty dear,” said anne, “the man is an artist.”

“an artist!” said miss haldane. she was unwilling to allow that the music had appealed to her.

“yes,” replied anne, musing, “an artist! heaven knows how many faults of construction [pg 112]there may not have been in his theme. possibly had i been educated in the technical knowledge of music i should have found it positively bristling with them. i am glad i know nothing of the technique of music. i could listen and appreciate. don’t you understand, matty dear, how wonderful it was! the man’s a genius!”

“well!” ejaculated miss haldane. she got up and moved towards the french window. before entering she turned suddenly.

“my dear,” she exclaimed, “you never paid him!”

“i know,” said lady anne quietly.