“I live in a show, lady, and Johnnie’s the owner’s son. He is very strong and good, and nice, and he always calls me cousin. But I don’t know why. Father Fitzroy—we all call him Father—brought me to the show when I was very tiny, and that was after mother and father died, you know. He told me that. I think you would like Kammie. May I put him in your hand?”
The lady stretched out her white palm, and immediately she did so Peggy forgot all about Kammie, and he remained there on her shoulder looking all round him for his evening meal of unwary flies. Peggy took the hand, and as she did so a strange and unaccountable thrill ran through her.
“Ah, little maiden, you are a palmist, and what soft, little, fondling hands you have. Yes, you may read my palm if you please.”
It was a sweet, still evening, the winds whispering through the trees; and though summer was over, a blackbird still fluted on the hawthorn. Beauty everywhere around, in the sky, on the trees, and on yonder lakelet, that shone like a mirror, and reflected the dying glory of the shrubs that grew around it. But Peggy heard nothing, saw nothing except the white palm held out for inspection.
The child believed in palmistry as she believed in the Book, and yet often she found it difficult indeed to read a hand. But now, it was all so very different, and everything was as clear to her as a landscape in the noonday sun. Nay, more, it did not seem to be herself who was talking, or rather, I should say, it did not appear to be her own self that was accountable for the words she spoke. Something appeared to be talking to her—through her, and she was but repeating what she heard. It was a soul voice. The child spoke earnestly, as she examined line after line.
“You have had much sorrow and disappointment in life, lady—more, I mean, than many have. (A sigh from her patient attested to the truth of what she said.) You were born to wealth and riches—you married, but not the man you loved—he was reported false—he was true as needle to the pole—he might never talk to you again—you were the bride of another—for long years, though you never knew it, he dwelt near to you in a humble cottage, that he might see you as you passed his garden—an undying love—but your child, a prattling infant girl of four, made the hermit’s acquaintance—he had always a flower for her or sweets as she passed with her maid—and the child became fond of the recluse—became the light of his soul—he was never happy on the days she did not come—a wild wintry storm raged—the village was blocked for weeks—at last the sun shone—bud and burgeon on the trees—bird song in the copse—but the blinds were drawn down over the hermit’s windows—he was gone.”
“Was he dead?” said the lady.
“There is one line, dear lady, that I cannot read.”
“Go on, child.”
“Months after this, proof of death and a will.”