Читать книгу The Peacock Feather. A Romance онлайн

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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.”