Читать книгу The Peacock Feather. A Romance онлайн

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In his waking moments he told himself it was fancy pure and simple, yet it troubled him. What if there were indeed an imprisoned soul somewhere seeking aid, one for whom no man had said an individual prayer? Peter had no very definite creed. There lingered with him certain faint memories of lessons taught him by his mother, of which the little prayer he had prayed the first night in the cottage was one. Beyond that all was indefinite, vague. Somewhere external to this world were unseen Powers, some great Force, a Strength to whom men appealed under the name of God. The supernatural, however, had, or appeared to have, no very distinct individual [Pg 48]relation towards himself. He had certainly prayed when he was in the prison. Human aid being powerless to “put things right” (he formulated his ideas no more than that), he had appealed to this External Power. He had found a certain comfort in it. He acknowledged its might, its capacity to do so. Having prayed, he felt sure of the answer. His attitude towards the Powers was friendly. There is no other word which will as well describe his attitude of mind. Surely, then, he had a right to expect a friendly reply. And then the reply had come. For a time Peter had been stunned. It had been so entirely unexpected. He felt almost as a man would feel who had received a blow from one from whom he had a right to expect a handshake. A curious bitterness was his first predominant sensation. This did not last, however. Peter was too innately sweet-natured to harbour bitterness long, even against those vague external Powers of which he knew so little. A nonchalant philosophy took its place. They had failed him, therefore he must turn elsewhere for aid; he must turn to the visible means around him, the things of nature, the sunshine, the trees, the flowers, the birds. In short, the recuperative [Pg 49]power of his own healthy nature sustained him, since the Powers to whom he had turned seemed to have failed. And yet he did not deny their existence. Only it would appear that their attitude towards him individually was not what he had imagined it to be. Now, however, vaguely, indefinitely, he began to wonder whether their aid could not be invoked again, not for himself, but for another, the soul of the woman whose fancied sobbing troubled his dreams. He told himself, as already stated, that the sobbing was pure fancy, the outcome of the pitiful story he had heard, his own imagination, and certain faint memories of his mother’s teaching regarding souls in purgatory. Solitude no doubt coloured these memories, rendered him possibly slightly morbid regarding them. Yet the fancy was strong upon him that he, in that place where the soul of the woman had left her body, might in some way aid. Yet how? There was the crux of the question.