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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5d4c5d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50498 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50498) diff --git a/old/50498-0.txt b/old/50498-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8c076e1..0000000 --- a/old/50498-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17916 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Raft, by Coningsby Dawson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Raft - -Author: Coningsby Dawson - -Illustrator: Orson Lowell - -Release Date: November 19, 2015 [EBook #50498] -Last Updated: November 4, 2016 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAFT *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - -THE RAFT - -By Coningsby Dawson - -Author Of “The Garden Without Walls” - -With Illustrations By Orson Lowell - -New York - -Henry Holt And Company - -1914 - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0008] - -[Illustration: 0009] - -_Their virgins had no marriage-songs; and they that could swim did cast -themselves into the sea to get to land, and some on boars, and some on -other things._ - - - - -THE RAFT - - - - -CHAPTER I--A MAN - - -It was said of Jehane that she married blindly on the re-bound. -She herself confessed in later life that she married out of dread of -becoming an old maid. - -A don's daughter at Oxford has plentiful opportunities for becoming an -old maid. Undergraduates are too adventurously young and graduates -are too importantly in earnest for marriage; whether too young or too -earnest, they are all too occupied. To bring a man to the point of -matrimony, you must catch him unaware and invade his idleness. Love, in -its initial stages, is frivolous. - -This tragic state of affairs was frequently discussed by Jehane with -her best friend, Nan Tudor. Were they to allow themselves to fade -husbandless into the autumn of girlhood? Were they too ladylike to make -any effort to save themselves from this horrid fate?--In the gray winter -as they returned from a footer match, on the river in summer as the -eights swung by, in the old-fashioned rectory-garden at Cassingland, -this was their one absorbing topic of conversation. Ye gods, were they -never to be married! - -They watched the privileged male-creatures who had it in their power to -choose them: that they did not choose them seemed an insult. When term -commenced, they would dash up to their colleges in hansoms and step -out confident and smiling. They would saunter through the narrow Oxford -streets to morning lectures, arm-in-arm, in tattered gowns, smoking -cigarettes, jolly and lackadaisical. In the afternoon, with savage and -awakened energy, they would strive excessively for athletic honors. At -night they would smash windows, twang banjoes, rag one another, assault -constables and sometimes get drunk. At the end of term they would -step into their hansoms and vanish, lords of creation, in search of a -well-earned rest. - -Jehane contrasted their lives with Nan's and hers. “They've got -everything; our hands are empty. We're compulsory nuns and may do -nothing to free ourselves. When _he_ comes to my rescue, if he ever -comes, how I shall adore him.” - -Then together they would fall to picturing their chosen lover. -Unfortunately the choice was not theirs--their portion was to wait for -him to come. - -They knew of lean, striding women in North Oxford who had waited--women -whose hair had lost its brightness, who fondled dogs and pretended to -hate babies. - -Jehane and Nan adored babies. They loved the feel of little crumpled -fingers against their throats and the warmth of a tiny body cuddled -against their breasts. They never missed an opportunity for hugging a -baby. They never passed a young mother in the streets without a pang of -envy. - -Why was it that no man had chosen them? Gazing at their own reflections, -they would tell themselves that they were not bad-looking--Jehane with -her cloudy brown eyes and gipsy mane of night-black hair, Nan all blue -and flaxen and fluffy. The years slipped by. Where was he in the world? - -For eight years, since she was seventeen, Jehane had never ceased -watching. Every New Year and birthday she had whispered to herself, -“Perhaps, by this time next year he will have come.” Marriage seemed to -her the escape to every happiness. - -Now that she was twenty-five she grew desperate; from now on, with -every day, her chance of being one of the chosen would diminish. As -she expressed it to Nan, “We're two girls adrift on a raft and we can't -swim. Over there's the land of marriage with all the little children, -the homes and the husbands; we've no means of getting to it. Unless some -of the men see us and put off in boats to our rescue, we'll be caught in -the current of the years and swept out into the hunger of mid-ocean. But -they're too busy to notice us. Oh, dear!” - -When Jehane spoke like this Nan would laugh; except for Jehane, no such -thoughts would have entered her head. They didn't worry her when she was -with her rector father at Cassingland, occupied with her quiet round -of village-duties. In her heart of hearts she believed that life was -planned by an unescapable Providence. Her placid philosophy irritated -Jehane. She said that Nan's God was a stout widower in a clerical -band; whereat Nan would smile dreamily and answer, “Wouldn't it be just -ripping if God were?” - -At such times Jehane thought Nan stupid. - -That Jehane should have been so romantic about marriage was -inexplicable, save on the ground that she voiced the passions which her -parents had suppressed in themselves. - -Her father, Professor Benares Usk, was the greatest living Homeric -scholar--a tall, bowed man with a broad beard that flowed down below his -watch-chain, a bald and venerable egg-shaped head and a secret habit -of taking snuff. He had lost interest in human doings since Greece was -trampled by the Roman Eagles. Both he and Mrs. Usk were misty-eyed--they -had frictioned off the corners of their personalities in the graveyards -of the past; their minds were museums, stored with chipped splendors, -the atmosphere of which was stuffy. - -Mrs. Usk was an authority on Scandinavian folk-lore--a thin, -fine-featured, flat-breasted woman who wore her dresses straight up -and down without a bulge. Her soft gray hair was drawn tightly off her -forehead and twisted at the back into a hard, round walnut. - -Only on Sunday afternoons was the house thrown open to visitors; then -Jehane would offer tea to ill-at-ease young bloods, while her father -fingered his beard and made awkward efforts to be affable, and -her mother, ignoring the guests, sat bolt upright in her chair and -slumbered. What a look of relief came into the tanned faces of the men -when they caught up their hats and departed. They had come as a duty to -see not Jehane but her father; and now they went off to their pleasures. -Oh, those Sunday afternoons, how they made her shudder! - -Often she marveled at her parents--what had brought them together? To -her way of thinking, they knew so little about love and could so easily -have dispensed with one another. Like dignified sleepy house-cats, they -sat on distant sides of the domestic hearth, heedless of everything save -to be undisturbed.--Ah, when she married, life would become intense, -ecstatic--one throb of passion! - -There was a story current in the 'Varsity of how the Professor cared -for Mrs. Usk. He had taken her for a drive in a dog-cart, he sitting -in front and she, characteristically, by choice at the back. Deep in -thought, he had jolted through country-lanes. Her presence did not occur -to him till he had returned to Oxford and had drawn up before his house; -then he perceived that she was not there and must have tumbled out. Some -hours later, having retraced his journey, he found her by the roadside -with a broken leg. For the next three months the greatest living -Homeric scholar did penance, wheeling an exacting lady in a bathchair. -Doubtless, he planned his great studies of the Iliad as he trundled, -and the chair's occupant constructed English renderings of Scandinavian -legends. At all events, next autumn they each had a book published. - -These were the influences under which Jehane grew up. Her parents were -more like children to her than parents, gentle and utterly absorbed in -themselves; they were no earthly use when it came to marriage. She could -not apply to them for help; they would have thought her indelicate, -if they had thought about it at all. Probably they would not have -understood. Sometimes marriage came to girls--sometimes it didn't; -nobody was to blame whether it did or didn't. That would have been their -way of summing up. Meanwhile Jehane was twenty-five; she had begun to -abandon hope, when the great change occurred--it commenced with William -Barrington. - -It was early summer. The streets had been washed clean by rain and were -now haunted by strange sweet perfumes which drifted over walls from -hidden college-gardens. Nan had driven in from Cassingland and had come -to Jehane for lunch and shelter. It was afternoon; the sun was shining -tearfully over glistening turrets and drenched tree-tops. - -Jehane unlatched the window and leant out above the flint-paved street, -looking up and holding out her hands. From far away, out of sight on -the river, came the thud of oars and hoarse shouts where the eights -were practising. Halfway down the street the tower of Calvary soared, -incredibly frail and defiant, against a running sea of cloud. - -“There's not a drop. If you don't believe me, feel for yourself. -Let's----” - -She drew back swiftly, looking slightly flustered. - -From the back of the room Nan's voice came smooth and unhurried, “What's -the matter? Why don't you finish what you were saying?” - -“It's a man,” Jehane whispered. - -In an instantly arranged conspiracy, Nan tiptoed over to her friend. -Cautiously they peered out. No sooner had Nan's eyes found what they -sought than she darted back; Jehane, with rising color, remained bending -forward. - -The bell rang. A few seconds later, the front-door opened and shut. -Jehane drew a long breath and stood erect. Laughing nervously, she -patted her face with both hands. “You look scared, you dear old -thing--more fluffy than ever: just like a tiny newly hatched chicken---- -But it's happened in the world before.” - -“Oh, Jehane, how could you do it?” - -“Do what?” - -“You know--stare at him like that.” - -“I looked; I didn't stare. Why, my dear, that's what woman's eyes were -made for.” - -“But--but you flung your eyes about his neck. You've dragged him into -the house.--And I want to hide so badly.” - -“I don't.” Jehane feigned a coolness which she did not possess. - -A step sounded on the stairs. Nan buried her hot cheeks in a bowl of -lilac. A maid entered with a card. - -Jehane looked up from reading it. - -“Don't know him, Betty. What made him come?” Betty looked her surprise. -“To see master, of course. That's what he said.” - -“But you told him father was out?” - -“I did, miss. But he's all the way from London. Seems the master gave -him an appointment. He told me to tell you as you'd do instead.” - -“Just like father to forget. We're going on the river; I suppose I'll -have to see him first.--No, Nan, I won't be left by myself.--Betty, -you'd better show him up.” - -Nan threw herself down on the sofa, crushing herself into the cushions, -as far from the door as she could get. “I wish I'd not come. Jehane, why -did you do it?” Jehane seated herself near the window where the light -fell across her shoulder most becomingly. She spread out her skirts -decorously and picked up a book, composing her features to an expression -of sweetest demureness--that it was a Greek grammar did not matter. In -answer to Nan's question she replied, “Little stupid. Nothing venture, -nothing have.” - - - - -CHAPTER II--“I'M HALF SICK OF SHADOWS” - - -The strange man was rather amused as he climbed the stairs, but he -showed no amusement when he entered. - -Jehane laid aside her book leisurely and rose from her chair; he was -even better to look at than she had expected. It was his clothes that -impressed her first; the gray tweeds fitted his athletic figure with -just that maximum of good taste that stops short of perfection. Then it -was his face, clean-shaven and intellectual--the face of a boyish man, -mobile and keen in expression. She liked the way he did his dark brown -hair, almost as dark as hers, swept straight back without a parting from -his forehead. His eyes were kindly, piercing and blue-gray; for a man he -had exceptionally long, thin hands. She liked him entirely; she wondered -whether he was equally well impressed. - -“So thoughtless of father--he's out. Is there anything I can do for -you?” - -Jehane was tall, but she only reached up to his shoulders. His eyes -looked down on hers and twinkled into a smile at her nervous gravity. - -“We all know the Professor; there's no need to apologize. Please don't -stand.” - -She was about to comply with his request, when she realized that she no -longer held his attention. He was staring past her. She turned her head. - -“Oh, allow me to introduce you, Mr. Barrington, to my friend, Miss -Tudor.” - -“I thought it was.” His tones had become extraordinarily glad. “No one -could forget little Nan, who'd once known her. But Nan, you've grown -older. What do you mean by it? It's so uncalled for, so unexpected. -You're no longer the Princess Pepperminta that you were.” - -Nan crossed the room in a romping bound and commenced pumping his arm up -and down. - -“It's Billy, dear old Billy! You remember, Jehane; I've told you. Billy -who sewed up father's surplice, and Billy who tied knots in my hair, and -Billy who, when I got angry, used to call me the Princess Pepperminta. -You made yourself so detestable, Billy, that our village talks about you -even now.” - -“A doubtful compliment; but it's ripping to see you--simply ripping.” - -Jehane stood aside and watched them. She had heard Nan talk of Billy -Barrington and how her father had tutored him for Oxford--but that must -be twelve years back. She had never known him herself and had never been -very curious about him. But now, as she watched, she felt the appeal of -this big, broad-shouldered boy of thirty. - -They were talking--talking of things beyond her knowledge, things which -shut her out. - -“And why didn't you write in all these years? Father and I often -mentioned you. In Cassingland you were an event. It wasn't kind of you, -Billy.” - -“Things at home were in such a mess. I'd to start work at once. Somehow, -with working so hard, other things faded out.” - -“Poor Nan with the rest!” - -“No, I remembered you. 'Pon my honor I did, Nan; but I thought----” - -“Yes?” - -“You were such a kid in those days; I thought you'd forgotten. As though -either of us could forget. I was an ass.” - -Jehane had turned her back and was looking out of the window. For the -first time she envied Nan--Nan, the daughter of a country parson. It was -too bad. - -“Miss Usk.” - -She glanced across her shoulder. - -“We're being intolerably rude, talking all about our own affairs. You -see, once Nan was almost my sister. How old were you, Nan? Thirteen, -wasn't it? And I was eighteen. We've not met since then. My father died -suddenly, you know. I had to step into his shoes--they were much too big -for me. That was the end of Oxford and Cassingland.” - -“We were going out on the river,” said Jehane. “Perhaps you'll join -us. I'll sit very quiet and listen. You can talk over old times to your -heart's content.” - -They piled his arms with cushions, and together set out through the -glistening meadows to the barges. After the rain, the air was intensely -still. Sounds carried far; from tall trees on the Broad Walk and from -the uttermost distance came the fluty cry of birds, from the river the -rattle of oars being banked, and from every side the slow patter of -dripping branches. Like a canvas, fresh from an artist's brush, colors -in the landscape stood out distinct and wet--flowers against the gray -walls of Corpus, trunks of trees with their velvety blackness and shorn -greenness of the Hinksey Hills. Men in disreputable shorts, returning -from the boats, passed them. Some ran; some sauntered chatting. - -Barrington laughed shortly and drew a long breath. “Nothing to do but -enjoy themselves. Nothing to do but grow a fine body and learn to be -gentlemen. I missed all that. After the rush and drive, it's topping to -sink back.” - -“You're right; it is sleepy. One day's just like the next. We stand as -still as church-steeples. People come and go; we're left. We exist for -visitors to look at, like the Martyr's Memorial and Calvary Tower.” - -He glanced down at Jehane quickly: she interested him--there was -something about her that he could not understand. The long penciled -brows, the thick lashes, the cloudy eyes and the straight, pale features -attracted and yet repelled him. He felt that she was not happy and had -never been quite happy. The natural generosity of the man made him eager -to hear her speak about herself. - -But Jehane was aware that she had struck a discord in what she had said. -He had flinched like a child, with whom the thought of pain had not -yet become a habit. She made haste to cover up her error by directing -attention to himself. - -“But you--what are you?” - -“I'm a pub.” - -“A pub! But you can't be. You don't mean that you----” - -Nan caught his arm in her merriment and leant across him. “Of course he -doesn't. He's a publisher. He always did clip his words.” - -“But not _the_ Barrington--father's publisher?” - -“Yes, _the_ Barrington. It's funny, Jehane, but it can't be helped. -Anyhow, he's only Billy now.” - -Barrington stood still, eying the two girls--the one fair and all -mischief, the other dark and serious. “What's the matter with you, Miss -Usk? Why do you object?” - -“If I told you, you might not like it.” - -“Rubbish.” - -“Well then, you ought to have a long gray beard like father. You're not -old enough.” - -“I've sometimes thought that myself.” - -“Billy's always been young for his age,” said Nan; “he's minus twenty -now.” - -But, as they walked on, Jehane was saying to herself, “Then he was only -coming to see father, as everybody comes! It wasn't my face that drew -him.” - -They strewed the cushions on the floor of the punt. Barrington took the -pole and Jehane seated herself in front so that she could face him. -All that he should see of Nan's attractions was the back of her golden -head--Jehane had arranged all that. - -They swung out into mid-stream unsteadily; Barrington was struggling to -recover a forgotten art. Their direction was erratic. They nearly fouled -a returning eight; the maledictions of the cox, each stinging epithet of -whose abuse politely ended in “sir,” drew unwelcome attention to their -wandering progress. When they had collided with the opposite bank, Nan -stood up and took the pole herself. Jehane was in luck. - -She had often pictured such a scene to herself--a man, herself, and a -punt on the river; in these pictures she had never included Nan. She -had heard herself brilliantly conversing, saying amusing things that had -made the man laugh, saying deep things that had made him solemn; then, -presently she had ceased to torment him, his arms had gone about her, -and she had lain a fluttering wild thing on his breast. - -Now, in reality, she had nothing to say. When he spoke, she gave him -short answers. She was not mistress of herself. She trailed her hands in -the water and was afraid to look up, lest he should guess the tumult in -her heart. - -The punt had turned out of the main stream into the Cherwell, and -was stealing between narrow banks. Jehane knew that she was appearing -sullen; she always appeared like that with men. In her mind's eye she -saw herself acting the other part of gay, responsive woman of the world. -She was angry with herself. - -Barrington, hampered by her embarrassment, had twisted round on his -cushions and was chaffing Nan. Nan was looking her best and, as usual, -was quite unconscious of the fact. In her loose, blowy muslin, standing -erect, leaning against the pole with the water dripping from her -hands, she seemed the soul of summer and unspoilt girlhood against -the background of lazy river and green shadows. There was something -infantile and appealing about Nan. Her flaxen hair fitted her like a -shining cap of satin. Her eyes were inextinguishably bright and blue; -above them were delicate, golden brows. Her red lips seemed always -slightly parted, ready to respond to mischief or merriment. She was -small in build--the kind of girl-woman a man is tempted to pick up and -carry. Her chief beauty was her long, slim throat and neck; she was a -white flower, swaying from a fragile stem. It was impossible to think -that Nan knew anything that was not good. - -After they had passed under Magdalen Bridge they had the river very much -to themselves: the rain had driven most of the voyagers to cover. For -long stretches there was no sound but their own voices, the splash of -the pole and the secret singing of birds. - -Jehane, with trailing hands and brooding eyes, watched this man; she -wanted him--she did not know why--she wanted him for herself. Sometimes -she became so concentrated in her mood that she forgot to listen to -what was being said. Through her head went humming significant and -disconnected stanzas, which she repeated over and over: - - “Or when the moon was overhead, - - Came two young lovers lately wed: - - 'I am half sick of shadows,' said - - The Lady of Shalott.” - -Jehane had once been told that she was Pre-Raphaelite in appearance; -she never forgot that--it explained her to herself. She had quarreled -forever with a man who had said that Rossetti's women resulted -from tuberculosis of the imagination. The truth of the remark was -unforgivable--she knew that she herself suffered from some such -spiritual malady. - -A question roused her from her trance. - -“I say, Billy, are you married yet?” - -It was extraordinary how Jehane's heart pounded as she waited for the -question to be answered. - -He clasped his hands in supplication, “Promise not to tell my wife that -we came out like this together.” - -Nan let the pole trail behind her and gazed down at him mockingly. Her -face was flushed with the exertion of punting: the faint gold of the -stormy afternoon, drifting through gray willows, spangled her hair and -dress. “When you like you can make yourself as big an ass as anyone. I -don't believe you are a pub: you're a big, lazy fellow playing truant. -Answer my question.” - -“But Pepperminta, why should I?” - -“Don't call me ridiculous names. Answer my question.” - -Barrington stretched himself indolently on the cushions. “You've not -changed a bit; you're just as funny and imperious as ever. Soon you'll -stamp your little foot; when that fails, you'll try coaxing. After -twelve years of being away from you, I can read you like a book.” - -“You can't; I never coax now. I scowl, and get angry and cruel.” - -He glanced up at her gentle, laughing face. “You couldn't make your face -scowl, however much you tried.” - -Jehane told herself that they were two children, rehearsing an old game -together. People must be very fond of one another to play a game of -pretending to quarrel. She felt strangely grown up and out of it, and -quite unreasonably hurt. Nan was surprising her at every turn. - -“You'll enjoy yourself much better,” he was saying, “if I leave you in -suspense. You can spend your time in guessing what she looks like. Then -you can start watching me closely to see whether I love her. And then -you can wonder how much I'm going to tell her of what we say to each -other.” - -Nan jerked the punt forward. “I don't want to know. You can keep your -secret to yourself.” Then, glancing at Jehane, “I say, Janey, you ask -him. He can't be rude to you. He'll have to answer.” - -Jehane had no option but to enter into the jest. “I know. Father told -me. Mr. Barrington is a widower.” - -The man's eyes flashed and held hers steadily; they twinkled with -surprise and humor. “Go on, Miss Usk; you tell her. It's altogether too -sad.” - -While she was speaking, she was excitedly conscious that he was -examining her and approving her impertinence. “Mr. Barrington married -his mother's parlor-maid soon after he left Cassingland. She was a -beautiful creature and very modest; because she felt herself unworthy of -the brilliant Mr. Barrington, she made it a condition of their marriage -that it should be kept secret. Then she got it into her head that she -was spoiling his promising career, and----- Well, she died suddenly--of -gas. After she was dead, a volume of poems was discovered--love -poems--and published anonymously; my mother attributes them to Bacon and -my father used to attribute them to Shakespeare. Then father found out, -but he's never dared to tell mother; she was always so positive about -it.” - -Nan had stared at her friend while she was talking. Could this be the -serious Jehane? What had happened? At the end she broke into a peal of -laughter. “It won't do, old girl; you're stuffing. Billy hasn't got a -mother.” - -“And he isn't married,” he said; “and he doesn't want to be married yet. -Now are you content?” - -Jehane was not content. As they drifted through Mesopotamia with its -pollard-willows, sound of running waters and constant fluttering of -birds, she kept hearing those words “And he doesn't want to be married -yet.” Did men ever want to be married, or was it always necessary to -catch them? _Catch them!_ It sounded horrid to put it like that, -and robbed love of all its poetry. As a girl with a Pre-Raphaelite -appearance, she had liked to believe all the legends of chivalry: that -it was woman's part to be remote and disdainful, while men endangered -themselves to win her favor. But were those legends only ideals--had -anything like them ever happened? And supposing a woman wanted to catch -Barrington, how would she set about it? - -The roar of water across the lasher at Parsons' Pleasure grew louder, -drowning the conversation which was taking place in low tones at the -other end of the punt. As they drew in at the landing, Jehane -bent forward and heard Barrington say, “I believe you'd have been -disappointed if I had been married”; and Nan's retort, “I believe I -should. You know, it does make a difference.” - -Nan turned to Jehane, “What are we going to do next? There's hardly time -to go further.” - -“Oh, don't go back yet,” Barrington protested; “let's get tea at Marston -Ferry.” - -“But who'll take the punt round to the ladies' landing? Ladies aren't -allowed through Parsons' Pleasure, and I hardly trust you to come round -by yourself.” Nan eyed him doubtfully. “You may be a good pub, but -you're a rotten punter.” - -“Dash it all, you needn't rub it in. If the worst comes to the worst, I -shall only get a wetting.” - -“You're sure you can swim?” - -“Quite sure, thanks.” - -“Well, good-by, and good luck. I should hate to lose you after all these -years of parting.” - -As they struck out along the path across the island and the screen of -bushes shut him from their view, Jehane felt her arm taken. - -“Don't you like him, Janey?” - -“What I've seen of him, yes.” - -“I was afraid you didn't.” - -“Whatever made you think that?” - -“Because he thought it. I could feel that he thought it.” - -“But I did nothing.” - -“You wore your touch-me-not-manners, Janey. You looked so tragic and -black. I had to talk my head off to fill in the awkwardnesses.” - -“I know you did; but I wasn't sure of the reason.” - -Nan glanced up quickly and her eyes filled; the blood surged into her -face and throat; her lips trembled. She pressed her cheek coaxingly -against the tall girl's shoulder. “You foolish Jehane; you're jealous. -Why, Billy and I use to eat blackberries out of each other's hands.” - -Then Jehane relented. Drawing Nan to her with swift, protecting passion, -she kissed the wet eyes and pouting mouth. “You dear little Nan, I _was_ -jealous. You're so sweet and gentle; no one could help loving you. I was -angry with myself--angry because I'm so different.” - -“So much cleverer,” Nan whispered. - -“I don't want to be clever; I'd give everything I possess to look as -good and happy as you.” - -“But you are good. If you weren't, we shouldn't all love you.” - -“_All?_ It's enough that you do.” - -When Barrington rounded the island, he found them standing oddly near -together; then he noticed a moist ball of handkerchief crushed in Nan's -free hand--and he guessed. - - - - -CHAPTER III--ALL THE WAY FOR THIS - -Jehane had been granted her wish and she was frightened. The river -stretched before her, a lonely ghost, glimmering between soaked fields -and beaten countryside. The rain-fall must have been heavy in the -hills, for the river was swollen and discolored: branches, torn from -overhanging trees, danced and vanished in the swiftly moving current. -With evening a breeze had sprung up, which came fitfully in gusts, -bowing tall rushes that waded in the stream, so that they whispered -“Hush.” In the distance, above clumped tree-tops, the spires of -Oxford speared the watery sky; red stains spread along white flanks of -clouds--clouds that looked like chargers spurred by invisible riders. - -The man of whom she knew so little and whom she desired was standing at -her side. She was terrified. She had gained her wish--at last they were -alone together. - -Behind them, up the hill, the cosy inn nestled among its quiet arbors. -Across the river the ferryman sat whistling, waiting for his next fare -to come up. Moving away through misty meadows on the further bank a -white speck fluttered mothlike. - -“She'll get home all right, don't you think?” - -“Why not? She always does.” - -“But it'll be late by the time she reaches Cassingland. She's got to -catch the tram into Oxford, to harness up and then to drive out to the -rectory. It'll be late by the time she arrives.” - -“She'd have been later if she'd returned by river with us.--See, she's -waving at the stile.--Girls have to do these thing's for themselves, Mr. -Barrington, if they have no brothers.” - -He stroked his chin. “Girls who have no brothers should be allotted -brothers by the State.” - -She faced him daringly. “I should like that. I might ask to have you -appointed my brother.” - -“You would, eh! Seems to me that's what's happened.--Funny what a little -customer Nan is for making her friends the friends of one another: she -was just the same in the old days. One might almost suspect that she'd -planned this from the start--bringing us out all comfy, and leaving us -to go home together.--But, I say, can you punt?” - -“I can, but I'm not going to.” - -He stepped back from her involuntarily and eyed her. There was a thrill -of excitement in her clear voice that warned and yet left him puzzled. -She filled him with discomfort--discomfort that was not entirely -unpleasant. While Nan was present, she had been watchful and silent; now -it was as though she slipped back the bars of her reticence and stepped -out. He tingled with an unaccustomed sense of danger. He weighed his -words before expressing the most trifling sentiment. Usually he -was recklessly spontaneous; now he feared lest his motives might be -mistaken. What did she want of him? She had gazed down from the window -and beckoned him with her eyes--him, a stranger. Whatever it was, Nan -knew about it, and had cried about it the moment his back was turned. He -distrusted anyone who made Nan cry. - -Silence between them was more awkward than words--surcharged with subtle -promptings that words disguised; he took up the thread of their broken -conversation. - -“If you're not going to punt, how are we going to get back? I'll do my -best, but you've seen what a duffer I am.” - -“We'll sit in the stern and paddle. With the current running so -strongly, we could almost drift back.” - -He followed her down the slope. She walked in front, her head slightly -turned as though she listened to make sure that he followed. He noticed -the pride of her handsome body, its erectness and its poise--how it -seemed to glide across the grass without sound or motion. He summed her -up as being abnormally self-conscious and wilfully undiscoverable. He -wondered whether her restraint hid a glorious personality, or served -simply as a disguise for shallowness of mind.--And while he analyzed -her thus, she was scorning herself for the immodesty of her fear and -dumbness. - -Kneeling down on the landing to unfasten the rope, he pieced his words -together. “I ought to apologize for what I implied just now. It must -have sounded horribly ungallant to suggest that you should work while I -sat idle.” She did not answer till they were seated side by side in the -narrow stern. Taking a long stroke with her paddle, she shot a searching -glance at him; the veil drew back from her eyes, revealing their -smoldering fire. “That's all right. I don't trouble. You needn't mind.” - -Though she had not blamed him, she had not excused him. - -Night was falling early; outlines of the country were already growing -vague. Edges of things were blurred; from low-lying meadows silver mists -were rising. In the great silence grasses rustled as cattle stirred -them, the river complained, and a solitary belated bird swept across the -dusk with a dull cry. - -It was dangerous and it was tempting--he could not avoid personalities. -He tried to think of other things to say, but they refused to take -shape. His perturbation seemed the rumor of what her mind was enacting. -Several times inquisitive inquiries were on the tip of his tongue; -he checked them. Then her body lurched against him; their shoulders -brushed. - -“You have a beautiful name.” - -“Indeed! You think so?” - -“For me it has only one association.” - -Again she brushed against him. He caught the scent of her hair and, in -the twilight, a glimpse of the heavy drooping eyelids. - -“I mean that poem by William Morris--it's all about Jehane. You remember -how it runs: 'Had she come all the way for this'----?” - -“You're frightened to continue. Isn't that so?” Her tones were cold and -quiet. “'Had she come all the way for this, to part at last without a -kiss?'--I remember. It's all about dripping woods and a country like -this, with a river overflowing its banks, and a man and a girl who were -parted forever 'beside the haystack in the floods.' Jehane was supposed -to be a witch, wasn't she? 'Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown! Give us -Jehane to burn or drown.' There's something like that in the poem---- I -suppose I make you think only of tragic things?” - -“Why suppose that?” - -“Because I do most people.” - -“In my case there's no reason for supposing that. I oughtn't to have -mentioned it.” - -“Oh yes, you ought. You felt it, though you didn't know it. It's -unfortunate for a girl always to impress people as tragic, don't you -think? Men like us to be young. You're so young yourself--that's your -hobby, according to Nan.--But if you want to know, you yourself made me -think of something not quite happy--that's what kept me so quiet on the -way up.” - -“I thought I'd done something amiss--that perhaps you were offended with -me for the informal way in which I introduced myself.” - -She gave him no assurance that she had not been offended. - -“Here's what you made me think,” she said: - - “She left the web, she left the loom, - - She made three paces through the room, - - She saw the water-lily bloom, - - She saw the helmet and the plume, - - She look'd down to Camelot.” - -“Rather nice, isn't it, to find that we've had such a cheerful effect on -one another?” - -“But--but why on earth should I make you think of that?” - -She left off paddling and glanced away from him; a little shiver -ran through her. When she spoke, her voice was low-pitched but still -penetrating. - -“Let me ask you a question. Do you think that it's much fun being a -girl?” - -“Never thought about it.” - -“Well, it isn't.” - -“I should have supposed that, for anyone who was young and good-looking, -it might be barrel-loads of fun to be a girl in Oxford.” - -“Well, I tell you that it isn't. You're always wanting and -wanting--wanting the things that men have, and that only men can give -you. But they keep everything for themselves because they're like you, -Mr. Barrington--they've never thought about it.” - -“I'm not sure that I understand.” - -“Bother! Why d'you force me to be so explicit? Take the case of -Nan--she's one of thousands. She's got nothing of her own--no freedom, -no money, no anything. She's always under orders; she's not expected to -have any plans for her future. She creeps to the windows of the world -and peeps out when her father isn't near enough to prevent her. Unless -she marries, she'll always be prying and never sharing. She's a _Lady of -Shalott_, shut up in a tower, weaving a web of fancies. She hears life -tramp beneath her window, traveling in plume and helmet to the city. -Unless a man frees her, she'll never get out.--Oh, I oughtn't to talk -like this; I never have, to anyone except to Nan. Why do you make me? -Now that it's said, I hate myself.” - -“Don't do that.” He spoke gently. “I'm glad you've done it. You've made -me see further. We men always look at things from our own standpoint.--I -suppose we're selfish.” - -He waited for her to deny that he was selfish. - -“There's no doubt about it,” she affirmed. - -They paddled on in silence till they came to the lasher. Together they -hauled the punt over the rollers--there was no one about. When it had -taken the water on the other side, Jehane stepped in quickly; while his -hands and thoughts were unoccupied, she was afraid to be near him. He -stood on the bank, holding the rope to keep the punt from drifting; his -head was flung back and he did not stir. Through the network of branches -moonlight drifted, making willows, gnarled and twisted, and water, -rushing foam-streaked from the lasher, eerie and fantastic. He was -thinking of Nan and the meaning of her crying. - -“Miss Usk, it was very brave of you to speak out.” - -She laughed perversely; she was so afraid of revealing her emotion. “You -must have queer notions about me. I've been terribly unconventional.” - -They drifted down stream through Mesopotamia, pursued by the -sandal-footed silence. When Barrington spoke to her now, it was -as though there lay between them a secret understanding. What that -understanding was she scarcely dared to conjecture. Here, alone with him -in the moon-lit faery-land of shadows, she was supremely at peace with -herself. - -At Magdalen Bridge they tethered the punt; it was too late to return to -the barges. - -Outside her father's house they halted. Through the window they could -see the high-domed forehead of the Professor, as he sat with his -reading-lamp at his elbow. - -“You'll come in? You had some business with father that brought you down -from London?” - -“But it's late. If you don't mind, I'd prefer to see him to-morrow.” - -“Are you staying for long in Oxford?” - -“I hadn't intended.” - -“But you may?” - -“I may. It all depends.” - -“Good-by then--till to-morrow.” - -Professor Usk sank his head as she entered, that he might gaze at her -above his spectacles. “Home again, daughter? Been on the river with Nan, -they tell me! It's late for girls to be out by themselves.” - -She answered hurriedly. “Mr. Barrington was with us.” - -“Ah, Barrington! Nice fellow! Did he say anything about my book?” - -She was on tenterhooks to be by herself. “He'll call tomorrow.” - -“Have you been running, daughter? You seem out of breath. I've a minute -or two to spare; come and sit down. Tell me what you've been doing. Did -Barrington say whether that book of mine had gone to press?” - -She backed slowly to the threshold and stood with the handle in her -hand. - -“I've a headache, father.” - -She opened the door and fled. - -Locking herself in her room, she flung herself on the bed and lay rigid -in the darkness, shaken with sobbing. Pressing her lips against the -pillow to stifle the sound, she commenced in a desperate whisper, “Oh -God, give him to me. Dear God, let me have him. Oh God, give----” - - - - -CHAPTER IV--LOVE'S SHADOW - -When Barrington called on the Professor next morning, he did not see -Jehane. She had stayed in bed for breakfast, to keep out of his way. -She did not trust herself to meet him before her parents because of her -face--it might tell tales. She was strangely ashamed that anyone should -know of her infatuation. And yet she longed to meet him that she might -experience afresh the sweet tingling dread lest he should touch her. Ah, -if she were sure that he returned her love, what a different Jehane he -should discover.... - -Though she did not meet him, she espied him the moment he turned into -the street. Peering stealthily from behind the curtain, she was glad to -notice that he glanced up, as though conscious that her hidden eyes were -watching. Listening at the head of the stairs, she heard his voice. She -heard him inquire after her, and tried to estimate his disappointment -and anxiety when her father answered casually, “The daughter has one of -her headaches.... No, nothing much. She may not be down this morning.” - -After he had left, she was angry with herself for her cowardice. She -ought to have seized her opportunity. Perhaps he was returning at once -to London, where he would quickly forget her. She might never see him -again. - -By a kind of necromancy she tried to arrive at certainty as to whether -or no he would marry her. If she could count a hundred before a cart -passed a particular lamppost, then he would become her husband. When the -cart went too fast for her counting, she skipped numbers and cheated -in order to make the test propitious. Sitting in her bedroom, partly -dressed, with the brilliant summer sunshine streaming over her, she -invented all kinds of similar experiments. - -At last she grew impatient of her own company and came downstairs to -lunch. Her dreamy mother, who usually noticed nothing, embarrassed her -by remarking that her face was flushed as though she were sickening for -something. She turned attention from herself by inquiring the result of -her father's interview with Mr. Barrington. - -Her father was annoyed because his book had been delayed in -publication--quite unwarrantably delayed, he said. She could not get him -to state whether Barrington had gone back to London. The conversation -developed into an indictment of the innate trickiness of publishers. -Mrs. Usk had never been able to reconcile the place she occupied in the -world of letters with the smallness of her royalty-statements. It -almost made her doubt the financial honesty of some persons. Jehane -had listened with angry eyes while these two impractical scholars, -comfortably interrupting one another across the table, swelled out the -sum of their grievances. Now she took up the cudgels so personally and -so passionately in the defense of publishers in general, and Barrington -in particular, that she was moved to tears by her eloquence. - -Her parents peered at her out of their dim eyes in concerned silence. -When the tears had come, they nodded at each other, bleating in chorus, -“She is not well. She is flushed. She is certainly sickening for -something. She must go to bed. The doctor must be summoned.” - -Jehane pushed back her chair. “You'll do nothing of the kind. I'm quite -well.” - -After she had made her escape, it was discovered that she had eaten -nothing. In a few minutes she reappeared in her out-door attire and -announced that she was going to Cassingland. - -“But, my dear, you can't,” her mother protested; “not in your state. You -may give it to Nan; it may be catching. And then, think how Mr. Tudor -would blame us.” - -Jehane tapped with her foot impatiently. “Don't be silly, mother. I'm -going.” - -And with that she departed. Only one of the witnesses of this scene -conjectured its true cause--Betty, the housemaid, who on more than one -occasion had watched these same symptoms develop in herself. - -At the stable where her father's horse was baited Jehane ordered out the -dog-cart. She did not know why she was going to Cassingland. Certainly -she did not intend to make Nan her confidant--the frenzy of love is -contagious. But Nan must know many pages of Barrington's past, the whole -of which was a closed book to her. Without giving away her secret, they -might discuss him together. - -As she drove along the Woodstock road and turned off into the leafy -Oxford lanes, she laid her plans. She would affect to have found him -dull company in the journey back from Marston Ferry; she would be -surprised that anyone should think him interesting. Then Nan, with her -sensitive loyalty to friends, would prove the splendor of his character -with facts drawn from her own experience. - -Down the road ahead a man was striding in the direction in which she -was driving. At the sound of wheels he turned and, standing to one side, -raised his hat. Blood flooded her cheeks. Her instinct was to dash by -him. She could not endure his attitude of secure comradeship. He must be -everything to her at once or nothing. Her eyes fell away from his, yet -she longed to return his gaze with frankness. - -“I'm in luck. When I called this morning, the Professor told me you were -unwell.” - -“I'm better.” - -“I'm glad. I've been blaming myself for not taking sufficient care of -you.” - -Had he chosen, he could have crushed her to him then; she was made so -happy that she would not have protested. But how was he to judge this -from the proud, almost sullen face that watched him from the dog-cart? - -He looked up at her cheerfully. “Bound for the same place, aren't we? -I'm tired of pounding along by myself; if you don't mind, I'll jump in -and let you drive me.” - -She nodded ever so slightly and he swung himself up. “Going to Nan's?” - -“To Cassingland,” he assented. “I want to see for myself the lady in her -tower. D'you know, I can't get that out of my head--all that you told me -about girls.” - -“Really.” - -She spoke indifferently and flicked the horse with the whip, so that it -started forward with a jerk. - -“You're not very curious. You don't ask me why I can't forget.” - -“Why?” - -“Because, with other conditions, it's equally true of men.” - -“I don't believe that.” - -“You will when I've told you. To get on nowadays a fellow's got to work -day and night.” - -“You're ambitious?” - -“Of course I am. I want to have power. I've not had a real holiday for -years. Of course I've money, which you say girls don't have; but I've -responsibilities. I know nothing of women--I've had no time to learn. -That's why I'm so grateful to you for yesterday. With me it's just work, -work, work to win a position, so that one day some woman may be happy. -So you see, I have my tower as well as Nan, where I'm doomed to spin my -web of fancy.” - -“But men choose their own towers--build them for themselves.” - -“Don't you believe it. Some few may, but so do some few girls. I wanted -to go to Oxford and to write books and to be a scholar, instead of which -I publish other men's scribblings and do my best to sell 'em.” - -“I never thought... I mean I thought all men... But you're strong: -if any man could have chosen, you would have done it. Tell me about -yourself.” - -And he told her--his dreams, anxieties, small triumphs, and incessant -round of daily duties. He was very fine and gentle, speaking with -touching eagerness, as though confession were a privilege which he -rarely allowed himself. Yet Jehane was not content; she knew that -in love the instinct for confession is coupled with the instinct for -secretiveness. When she touched him, he was not disturbed as she was; -his voice did not quiver--he did not change color. She told herself that -men were the masters, so that even in love they showed no distrust of -themselves. But the explanation was not convincing. - -They were nearing Cassingland. Ambushed in trees, rising out of -somnolent lowlands, the thin, tall spire of a church sunned itself. Like -toys, tumbled from a sack, about which grass had grown up, cottages -lay scattered throughout the meadows. As they came in sight of the -triangular green, with the tidy rectory standing, high-walled, on its -edge, their conversation faltered. - -He offered her his hand to help her out. She held back for a second, -then took it with ashamed suddenness. He raised his eyes to hers with a -boy's enthusiasm. - -“Miss Usk, it's awfully decent of you to have listened to me.” - -“It's you who've been decent. You make everything so easy. You seem... -seem to understand.” - -He was puzzled. “I've done nothing but talk at unpardonable length -about myself. As for making things easy, it's you--you're so rippingly -sensible.” - -She winced. No man falls in love with a woman for her sanity. It was as -though he had called her middle-aged or robust. She wanted to appeal -to him as weak and clinging. When people are in love they are far from -sensible; she knew that she was anything but sensible at present. If he -had told her she was capricious and charming, she would have shown him a -face exultant. - -Nan came tripping to the gate. “This _is_ jolly--both of you together!” - -Her coming was inappropriate; for the next few months all her -appearances were to prove ill-timed so far as Jehane was concerned. And -yet, what was to be done? Professor Usk's house was too subdued in -its atmosphere to be congenial. Moreover, the Professor invariably -monopolized a man who was his guest--especially when the man was a -publisher. Then again, Jehane was painfully aware that she was awkward -in the presence of her parents, and did not create her best impression. -So she did not encourage Barrington to call on her in Oxford. Naturally -she turned to Cassingland, where you had the wide free country, and -no one suspected or watched you because you were friendly with a man. -Cassingland furnished an excuse for both of them: Nan was her friend; -Mr. Tudor had been his tutor. Mr. Tudor, with his honest, farmer-like -appearance and frayed clericals, lent an air of propriety to -proceedings. And Nan--she helped the propriety; but she never knew when -she was not wanted. She spoke of Barrington as Billy. She took his arm -and snuggled against him with a naive air of mischief, leading him to -all the spots along the river, in the garden and scattered through the -fields, which years ago had formed their playground. Jehane resented her -innocent air of belonging to him. So, very frequently when Barrington -came down from London and she drifted out, as if by accident, to the -rectory, she wore the mask of reserve and sullenness, and did not show -to best advantage. - -Barrington, for his part, was always equal in his temper--too equal -for Jehane. With Nan he was gay and frivolous; to her he was grave and -deferential. She wished he would display more ardor and less caution. -If it had been in her nature, she would have made the running; she was -pained by his unvarying respect. - -All summer love's shadow had rested on her. It was September now; the -harvest lay cut in the fields ready to be carried. Nan had sent Jehane a -message that morning that Barrington was expected; so here she was once -more at the rectory, spending the week-end. - -They had gone up to bed, leaving the men to smoke; suddenly Nan put on -her dress, saying that she heard her father calling. Jehane prepared for -bed slowly; by the time she was ready to slip between the sheets Nan had -not returned. She blew out the candle; the room was instantly suffused -with liquid moonlight and velvet shadow. In the darkness, as often -happens, her senses became sharpened--she heard a multitude of sounds. -Somewhere near the church, probably from the tower, an owl was hooting. -In the distance a dog barked. She could hear the wash of the river among -its rushes, and the padding of a footstep on the lawn. Romance in her -was stirred. - -Going to the window, she leant out; she was greeted by the strong -fragrance of roses. Sheaves, standing in rows throughout the fields, -looked like a sleeping camp. Trees, save where mists thumbed them, were -etched distinctly against the indigo horizon. The white disc of the -moon, like a paper lantern, hung balanced between the edges of two -clouds. Its light, streaming down the sky, was like milk poured across -black marble. Nature seemed to have blinded her eyes and to hold her -breath. - -Across the lawn from the open study window, a shaft of gold slanted, -making the darkness on either side intense by contrast. As Jehane -listened, she heard what seemed a panting close to the wall beneath her. -She leant further out and discerned a blur of white. She was about to -speak when the red glow of a cigar, thrown down among the bushes, warned -her. - -“At last! You've never given me a chance to be alone with you. I've -wanted you all summer, little Nan.” - -His arms were round her. As he stooped above her, her face was blotted -out... He was speaking again. - -“Your father saw it. That's why he called you.... If I'd had to wait -much longer, I should have asked you before her. Why--why would you -never let us be alone together?” - -Nan's voice came muffled beneath his kisses. “Because, Billy darling, I -wanted to play fair.” - -“Fair?” - -An answer followed, so softly whispered that it did not carry--a -surprised exclamation from the man. - -Jehane had tiptoed from the window. - -With her black hair tumbled about her, her hands pressed against her -mouth, she lay sobbing. The night had lost its magic.... - -Nan entered the room stealthily. She glanced toward the bed. Thinking -Jehane was sleeping, she did not light the candle, but commenced to -fumble at her fastenings, undressing in the dark. A sob refused to be -stifled any longer. Nan paused in her undressing and stood tense; then -ran and bent above the bed. Seizing Jehane by the shoulders, she tried -to turn her face toward her. - -“Oh, Janey, I did, I did play fair. I told you every time he was -coming.... Say you'll still be friends.” - -But Jehane said nothing. - -Next morning she greeted Barrington with her accustomed mixture of proud -restraint and sullenness. “We've been expecting this all summer. We -wondered when it would happen. I hope you'll be very happy.” - -After that she came less frequently to Cassingland. The lovers had long -walks, uninterrupted, unaccompanied. Once he told Nan, “I can't believe -it, Pepperminta. I'm sure you were mistaken.” - -“But I wasn't.” She shook her curly head sadly. - -They rarely mentioned Jehane. They knew that she was troubled; but they -knew of no way in which to help. - -At Christmas, when snow lay on the ground, they were married. - -Nan, who had never feared spinsterhood greatly, had escaped from it. -Jehane retired to the isolation which she sometimes called her tower, -and at other times her raft. She often told herself savagely that, had -it not been for her shyness in instancing Nan instead of herself on that -journey down from Marston Ferry, she might have been the bride at that -wedding. Secretly, she was bitter about it; outwardly, she kept up her -friendship--otherwise she would have seen no more of Barrington. - - - - -CHAPTER V--ENTER PETER AND GLORY - -Barrington did everything on a large scale--he knew he was going to -be a big man. He arranged his surroundings with an eye to his expanding -future. It was so when he bought his house at Topbury. - -It had more rooms than he could furnish--more than a young married -couple could comfortably occupy. But he intended to spend his entire -life there, hanging the walls with memories and associations of -affection. It would be none too large for a growing family. That was -Barrington all over; he planned and looked ahead. - -The house stood high in the north of London; it was one of twenty in a -terrace--all with porches and areas in front, and long walled gardens -at the back. To-day the octopus suburbs, throwing out tentacles of small -mean dwellings, have crept across the broad views and strangled the -rural aspect. But when Nan and Barrington went to live there, they -looked out from their back-windows uninterrupted across the Vale of -Holloway to Gospel Oak and the Heath at Hampstead. The approach to -Topbury Terrace was through quiet fields where sheep were grazing. The -oldest inhabitants still talked of a group of shops as Topbury Village. -Many of the roads were private; traffic was kept back by gates or posts -planted across them. - -The house was a hundred years old, spacious and lofty. It had the sturdy -look of Eighteenth Century handiwork. Though standing in a terrace, it -retained its own personality and seemed to hold itself aloof from its -neighbors. Once link-boys had stood before its doors and coaches had -rumbled through Islington Village out from London, bringing its master -home from routs and functions. Probably he was a portly merchant, -accompanied by a dame who wore patches. - -Adjoining its bedrooms were powder-cupboards; its lower windows were -heavily grated against attack. All the entries were massively screened -and bolted. It seemed to boast its privacy. In the garden were -pear-trees, a mulberry and a cedar. At the bottom of the garden was a -stable with stalls for three horses. - -At first Nan was rather awed--she did not know what to do with it. -Many of the rooms remained unfurnished. That was to be done slowly, by -picking up old and rare articles--pictures and tapestries as they could -afford them, a piece here and a piece there: this was to be their hobby. -She was frightened by so much emptiness, and clung to her husband, -puzzled and proud. Then, gradually, she began to understand: they were -planning for the future greatness which they were to share. She was no -longer frightened; she was glad. - -There was one room in which they often sat. Sometimes they would visit -it separately and surprise one another. When they entered, they became -strangely bashful and childlike--it was holy ground. They left all their -cruder ambitions on the threshold. They stopped talking or conversed in -whispers, holding hands. It was on a halfstory, between the first -floor and the second, and looked into the garden. Up the wall outside -a magnolia clambered; against its window a laburnum tapped and shed -its golden tassels. Everything was waiting for someone who was some day -coming. A high guard stood about the hearth to prevent someone, when he -began to toddle, from falling into the fire and getting burnt. A little -bed was ready--a bed so tiny that you could lift it with one hand. On -the floor toys lay scattered. Everything had been thought out for his -reception long before he warned them of his coming. To bring home new -toys and leave them there for Nan to discover was one of Barrington's -absurd ways of telling her how much he loved her. - -It was in that room that they kissed after their first quarrel. It was -there she told him that the little hands were being fashioned that were -to be held so fast in theirs. - -And he came one bright February morning, when crocuses were standing -bravely above the turf and a warm spring wind was blowing. Nan hugged -him to her breast, smiling and crying--she was so glad he was a man. -They called him Peter--after the house his father said, because the -house was Peterish and old-fashioned. William was sure to be contracted -to Bill or Billy; one Billy was enough in any family----- - -It was shortly after the birth of Peter that Jehane caught her man. -It was said that she married him on the rebound, for she never ceased -loving Barrington. She did it more to get off the raft, and to show that -she could do it, than for anything. - -Captain Bobbie Spashett had seen her portrait in a friend's house. He -was under orders to sail for India. He had six weeks in which to make -her acquaintance, do his courting and get over the wedding. He proved -himself a man of energy, managing the business with a soldier's dash. -Then he sailed for India, promising to send for her when he was settled. -Unfortunately, before the year was out, he died in action. - -In February, almost on the anniversary of Peter's birth, his -daughter came into the world. Jehane named her Glory, because of the -distinguished nature of her father's death. - -When Captain Spashett's affairs came to be settled, it was found that -he had left his widow something less than a thousand pounds from all -sources. - -Then Jehane discovered that, in stepping off the raft, she had not -reached the land. She went to live with her parents. - - - - -CHAPTER VI--JEHANE'S SECOND MARRIAGE - -It was his own fault; he knew it in after years. Barrington was partly -responsible for Jehane's second marriage. It was he who suggested that, -since Jehane was not happy with her parents, it would be decent to ask -her up to Topbury for Christmas. - -Did he like her? Well, hardly! He felt that she bore him a grudge. -Whenever her name was mentioned, he and Nan had a guilty sense. They -were so happy--they had everything that she coveted and lacked. - -They asked her by way of atonement. When she objected that Glory would -be a nuisance, they replied that Glory would be fun for Peter.--And it -was he who, in the goodness of his heart, invited Waffles. - -Ocky Waffles was not his sort. His very name was a handicap. A man named -Waffles could scarcely command respect; but the Christian name made it -worse. How could anyone called Ocky Waffles be a gentleman? He was his -cousin, however, and lived alone in London lodgings. His mother was -recently dead. Whatever his shortcomings, he had been an attentive son. -The chap would be rottenly lonely, thought Barrington. Unadulterated -Ocky he could not stand; but, if he could jumble him up in a -family-party and so get him diluted, he would be very glad to do him -a service. In the uncalculating days of boyhood they had been warm -friends. So Mr. Tudor was persuaded to come from Cassingland and Ocky -was invited. - -In her twenty-eighth year, Jehane traveled to Paddington _en route_ for -her second adventure in matrimony. Glory was with her, a golden-haired -baby just beginning to toddle, the image of her soldier father. Jehane -still wore mourning--deepest black, with white frills at her wristbands -and a white ruff about her neck. Black suited her pale complexion--it -lent her the touch of helpless pathos that her beauty had always wanted. -Her manner was hushed and gentle, matching her costume. Her large, dark -eyes had that forlorn expression of “Oh, I can never forget,” which has -so often sealed the fate of an unmarried man. You felt at once that the -finest deed possible would be to bring her happiness. At least, so felt -Waffles. - -But that Christmas there were times when she did forget. In her new -surroundings, where she and Glory were no longer burdens, she grew -almost merry. When memory clouded her eyes and restored the sternness of -tragedy, it was not Bobbie Spashett she remembered, who had died a very -gallant gentleman, fighting for his country; it was simply that, with -proper care, Nan's shoes might have been hers. When she saw Barrington -slip his arm about his wife, and heard her whisper, “Oh, please, Billy, -not now,” it made her wild with envy. She felt that it was more than -she could bear. She was unloved, and so was Waffles; they had this in -common, despite dissimilarities. - -Ocky Waffles was a kind-hearted lounger. He was always late for -everything--which left him plenty of time to devote to her. His best -friends would never have accused him of refinement. His mind was -untidy; he was lazy and ineffectual. His faculty for conversation was -childish--he _babbled_. He was continually making silly jokes at which -he laughed himself. Because the world rarely laughed with him, he -believed that his bump of humor was abnormally developed. He had met -only one person as humorous as himself--his mother; she, admiring and -loyal old lady, had laughed till the tears came at anything he said. But -she was dead; he had lost his audience. He missed her and was extremely -sorry for Ocky Waffles. No one understood his catch-phrases now, -“Reaching after the mustard,” and, “Look at father's pants.” They did -not even know to what they referred; he had to explain everything. There -was an element of absurdity and weak pathos about the man; when one of -his jokes had missed fire he would dab his eyes, saying with a catch in -his throat, “Oh dear, how mother'd have split her sides at that!” - -Jehane was genuinely moved to compassion. Sinking her voice, she would -lead him aside and whisper, “Tell it again, Mr. Waffles. I think I could -understand.” - -Before Ocky met her, the denseness of his friends had driven him to -public houses, where other tales might be told without shocking anybody. -With barmaids he could pass for a “nut,” a witty fellow. Grief drove him -to it, he told himself. He was well aware that public houses were bad -for his pocket and worse for his health. When Jehane seemed to applaud -him, his thoughts naturally turned to marriage--marriage would cure -every evil, and then---- Oh, then he would become like Barrington, with -a loving wife, art-treasures and a fine house. It was only a matter of -keeping steady and concentrating your willpower. - -But to become like Barrington he would have had to be a gentleman. A -top-hat never sat on his head as if it belonged to him. With his equals -in birth and opportunity he could never be comfortable. He found it easy -to be chatty with stable-boys and servants. This he attributed to his -superior humanity. He was fond of walking down the street with a pipe in -his mouth. When he sat on a chair, it was usually on the middle of his -back with his feet thrust out. He slouched through life like an awkward -boy, experiencing discomfort in the presence of his elders. - -Since he could not cure himself of his habits, he determined some day, -when he was ready for the effort, to get money; with money his habits -would no longer be bad--they would become signs of democracy and -independence. At the time of the Christmas party he was a clerk in a -lawyer's office--he had been other things before that. This was his -worldly condition, when he met Jehane and fell in love with her. - -They drifted together from force of circumstance; Nan and Barrington -were still very much of lovers; Mr. Tudor spent his time on the floor -with Peter and Glory. They were thrown together; there was no escape -from it. Ocky was naturally affectionate; it was part of his weak -amiability to love somebody. He craved love for himself--or was it -admiration? But as a rule no one was flattered by his affection--it was -always on tap. Jehane did not know that. Her wounded pride was soothed -because he selected her. She was hungry for a man's appreciation -and anxious for his protection. And as for Ocky, to whom no one ever -listened--he was encouraged by her pleased attention. - -He sought her out at first in a good-natured effort to dispel her -melancholy; his method was to regale her with worn chestnuts. She heard -them with a slow, sweet smile on her mouth, which narrowed and widened, -but rarely broke into mirth. This showed him that all his stories were -new to her. The poor fellow was stirred to his shallow depths. A gusty -passion blew through him; he struggled into seeming strength; he felt he -was a man.--When you're choosing a woman who will be condemned to hear -all your old anecdotes over and over to the day of her death, it is very -necessary to select one to whom they will come fresh, at least before -marriage. Yes, she was the wife for Waffles. - -Little confidences grew up between them. She told him about Barrington, -hinting that he had wobbled between her and Nan. And he told her about -Barrington, how as boys they had been like brothers, spending every -holiday together, but now----. - -But now, in Barrington's own words, a little of Ocky went a long way; -after an hour or two in his company he felt quite fed up with him. -As with many a clever man, vulgarity of mind disgusted him more than -well-bred viciousness. He found it difficult to hide his feelings from -his guest. In fact, he didn't. - -Nan was the first to notice what was happening. “He's making love to -Jehane, I declare!” - -Her husband shook his head knowingly. “Jehane's too proud for that.” - -“But he is. They're always sitting over the fire, oh, so closely, and -whispering together.” - -“It can't be. She's amusing herself. If I thought it were, I'd stop it. -Ocky may be a bounder, but he wouldn't do that.” - -“Billy boy, he's doing it.” - -“But he's hardly got a penny to bless himself, and her little income -wouldn't attract him.” - -“You may say what you like, old obstinate; it doesn't alter facts.” - -Jehane was proud, as Barrington said; but not too proud. She realized -quite well what Waffles was, but she hoped to brace him up with her -strength. She was by no means blind to his shortcomings. Often, when -the smile was playing about her mouth, her mind was in a ferment of -derision. At night remorse pursued her--the fine, clean memory of Bobbie -Spashett.--But the constant sight of Nan and Barrington, their stolen -kisses and love-words, were getting on her nerves. She looked down the -vista of the years--was no man ever to conquer her? Was she to grow -into an old woman with that one brief memory of her soldier-man? So -love-hunger drew her to Waffles, despite the warnings of her better -sense. The love-hunger was continually quickened by the sight of Nan's -domestic happiness. - -When, after a week's acquaintance, he said, “Mrs. Spashett, will you -marry me?” she replied, “My brave husband!--I cannot.--I must be true to -the end.” - -When he asked her again two days later, she was less positive. “Oh, Mr. -Waffles, there's Glory.” - -“Call me Ocky,” he said. - -Then he changed his tactics. He argued his loneliness, their community -of grief, the loss of his mother. When he spoke of his mother, she liked -him best. “Give me time,” she murmured. - -The crisis came on the last day of her visit, and was hastened by -two foolish happenings. She detested the thought of the return to her -parents' silent house. She had persuaded herself that she was not wanted -there; her child fidgeted the old people and disarranged the household. -After the glimpse of warmth and heaven she had had, she magnified her -troubles through the glass of envy. Oh, to have her own fireside, and -her own man!--This was how the crisis happened. - -Peter, aged three, was playing with Glory. With the clumsiness of -childhood he knocked her down. She commenced to scream loudly--so loudly -that she might have been seriously hurt. Jehane rushed into the nursery, -caught her baby to her breast and, in her anguish, smacked Peter. Peter -in all his young life had never been smacked; he watched her goggle-eyed -and then set up a terrified howl. When Nan arrived on the scene, he was -sobbing and explaining that he had only meant to _softy_ Glory, which -was his word for loving her by rubbing her with his face and hands. A -quarrel ensued between the mothers in which bitter things were said. -How did Jehane dare to touch Peter, her little Peterkins baby, who was -always so sensitive and gentle! Nan was fiercely angry that her child -had been unjustly punished; Jehane was no less angry because her child -had been knocked down. When it was all over, the babies were told to -kiss one another; Peter, when Jehane approached him, hid his face in his -mother's skirt. - -Strained relations followed, which made light words impossible. -Barrington, when he heard of it, was extraordinarily annoyed. Waffles, -because she was in the minority, sided with Jehane. That her quiet, -madonna-like adoration of Glory should have turned into tigerish -protective passion attracted him strangely. - -That evening Barrington had some friends to dine with him--men and women -of his world, whose good opinion he valued. During dinner and afterwards -in the drawingroom, Waffles had been ousted from the conversation; their -talk was all of books and travel--things he did not understand. He felt -cold-shouldered--crowded out. He resented it, and was determined to show -them that he also could be clever. - -He waited for an opening-. A pause in the conversation occurred. He -sprang into the gap. That he was irrelevant did not matter. - -“Heard a good riddle the other day. Wonder if any of you can answer it.” - All eyes turned in his direction. He cleared his throat and fumbled at -his collar. “If a cat ate a haddock and a dog chased the cat, and -the cat jumped over the wall, what relation would the dog bear to the -haddock?” - -There was embarrassed silence. Every face wore a puzzled expression. -Barrington pulled his cigar from his mouth and gazed sternly at the -glowing ash. - -At last a lady, who wrote poetry, took compassion on him. She tapped him -on the arm. “I can't think of any answer. Put me out of my suspense. I'm -so anxious to learn.” - -Waffles beamed his acknowledgments. “That's the answer,” he said -eagerly; “there isn't any answer.” - -Barrington ceased to be vexed with his cigar and laughed coldly. - -“You mustn't mind my cousin. He's a genial ass. Sometimes it takes -him like that.--Let's see, what were we discussing when we were -interrupted?” - -So there were two people with wounded feelings in that company. Ocky saw -Jehane slip out of the room, and he followed. On the stairs she halted. - -“Why are you following?” - -“I'm not wanted. Confound their stupidity.” - -“But why should you follow me?” - -“Because you're the same as I am. That's why you left; you're not at -home here. Look how they behaved about Glory. I say, it's our last -evening together. Won't you give me--” - -But, ridiculous as it appeared to her, an almost maidenly fear took -hold of her; she fled. He found her in the dark, at the top of the tall -house; she was leaning over her child's cot sobbing. He grew out of -himself, stronger, better; against her will, he folded her to him. - -“Won't you give me your answer, darling?” - -Silence. - -“I'll be very good to Glory.” - -Still silence. - -“Oh, Jehane, I'm so foolish--such a weak, foolish fellow; I need your -strength. With you I could be a man.” Then all that was maternal awoke -in her. She remembered how she had seen him looking empty-handed, while -those clever men and women had stared. “You musn't mind my cousin. He's -a genial ass. Sometimes it takes him like that.”--Cruel! Cruel! She took -his head and pressed it to her bosom, kissing him on the forehead. - -Nan, disturbed by their disappearance, found them kneeling, -hand-in-hand, beside Glory. - -That night as she sat before her mirror undressing, she let her hands -fall to her side, listless. Barrington stole up behind her and kissed -her on the neck, rubbing his face against hers. - -“That's what Peter calls softying.” - -“But you weren't thinking of Peter, little woman.” - -“How did you know that?” - -“You looked sad. What's the trouble?” - -She bent back her head, so that their eyes met and their lips were near -to touching. “If I hadn't been there that day, would you have loved -Jehane instead?” - -“Pepperminta, I was in love with you when we played together at -Cassingland. Why ask foolish questions?” - -“Because it's happened.” - -“You don't mean--?” - -“Yes. She's taken him, and I'm sure she doesn't want him.” - -Barrington drew himself upright, then stooped over her; he was realizing -the perfect joy of his own union with a startled sense of thankfulness. - -“Poor people,” he murmured. - -Three months later Jehane was married. The wedding was quiet; there -were none but family-guests. No one felt that it was an affair to boast -about. It took place from the Professor's house at Oxford; Mr. Tudor -performed the ceremony. Glory was being left with Nan till the honeymoon -was ended. All morning Jehane's face had been gloomy; perhaps she -already had her doubts. Certainly Mr. Waffles did not show to advantage -in art Oxford atmosphere. He was too boisterous. His shoes were too -shiny. The colors of his tie and button-hole clashed. His clothes looked -ready-made. At parting with her mother, Jehane did the unexpected--she -wept. - -On their drive to the station through austere streets, with bright -glimpses of college quadrangles and young bloods in shooting-jackets and -dancing-slippers, sauntering bareheaded, Waffles grew more exuberant and -irrepressible; his ill-timed gaiety grated on her nerves. Having taken -their seats in the carriage, the train was delayed in starting. He hung -his head out of the window, jerking jocular remarks to her across his -shoulder. She did not answer him, but sat with her hands folded in her -lap and her eyes cast down. He could not make her out; up to now she -had responded so readily to his merriment. At all costs he must make her -laugh. - -The station-master was passing down the platform, his hands clasped -beneath his flapping coat-tails. Not every station-master guards the -gate-way to a seat of learning. This particular station-master felt the -full importance of his position and carried himself with his stomach -thrust forward and his head thrown back. - -Waffles leant from the window and beckoned frantically. When the -official came up, he commenced to jabber in invented gibberish, -desperately gesticulating with his hands. - -“Don't understand you,” the official said tartly; “don't talk no foreign -langwidge.” - -Waffles paused in his torrent of palaver and winked solemnly at a group -of undergraduates who stood watching. They happened to be pupils of -the Professor. Then, as though an inspiration had burst upon him, he -inquired, “Parlez-vous Français?” - -“Nong. I do not,” snapped the station-master, annoyed that his lack of -scholarship should be exposed in this manner. - -He was moving away, when Waffles produced his crowning witticism, to -which all the rest had been preface. Jehane would certainly laugh now. -“Hi! Station-master! Does this train go to Oxford?” - -He had one glimpse of the insulted official's countenance, then he felt -himself grabbed by the arm and drawn violently back into the carriage. - -“Do you want to make me ashamed of you already. Sit down and behave -yourself.” - -“But darling--” - -“Oh, be quiet. Aren't you ever solemn? Is nothing sacred?” - -Exceedingly puzzled and utterly extinguished, he did as he was bade, -waiting like a small boy expecting to be spanked. - -That was how they began life together. - - - - -CHAPTER VII--THE WHISTLING ANGEL - -Peter can quite well remember the events which led up to that strange -happening; not that the events or the happening seemed strange at the -time--they grew into his life so naturally. He thought, if he thought at -all, that to all little boys came the same experience; he would not have -believed you had you told him otherwise. - -He had recently achieved his fourth birthday and the garden, which was -his out-door nursery, was a-flutter with tremulous spring-flowers. -That night his mother sent away the nurse, and undressed and bathed him -herself. She wanted to be foolish to her heart's content, laughing and -singing and crying over him. Only the slender laburnum, with the kind -old mulberry-tree peering over its shoulder, watched them through the -window. The laburnum was a young girl, his mother told him, with shaky -golden curls; the mulberry, whose arms were propped with crutches, was -her grandfather. - -As Peter's mother squeezed the sponge down his back, she stooped her -pretty head, kissing some new part of his wet little body as though -she were making a discovery. And she called him love-words, Peterkins, -Precious Lamb, Ownest; and she pushed him away from her, saying he did -not belong to her, that so she might feel the eager arms clasped more -fiercely about her neck. - -When he had been rolled in the towel, his big father entered and took -him, rubbing his prickly chin against Peter's neck; nor would he give -him up. It was a long time before he was popped into his pink, woolly -nightgown. Even then, when he was safe in bed, they stayed by him--his -mother humming softly, while his father knelt to be able to kiss her -without bending. Shadows came out from the cupboard and crept toward -the window, pushing back the daylight; the daylight dodged across the -ceiling, hid in the mulberry where it slept till morning, came back and -peeped in at him tenderly, and vanished. His eyes grew heavy; the next -thing he remembers is an early breakfast, a cab at the door and being -told to be the goodest little boy in the world. He was hugged till he -was breathless; then he saw the face of his beautiful mother, her eyes -red with weeping, leaning out of the cab-window throwing kisses, growing -distant and yet more distant down the terrace. - -In later years he knew where they went--to Switzerland to re-live their -honeymoon. At the time he thought they were gone forever. - -Grace, his nurse, did her best to comfort him, blowing his nose so -severely that he looked to see if it had come off in the handkerchief. -For Grace he had a great respect. She was a good-natured lump of a girl, -who beat a drum for the Salvation Army under gas-lamps and fought a -never ending battle with herself to pronounce her name correctly. Mr. -Barrington had threatened that the penalty for failing was dismissal. -Now the violence of her emotion and the absence of her employers made -her reckless. “There, little Round Tummy, Grice'll taik care of you, -don't you blow bubbles like that. You'll cry yourself dry, that you -will, and drown us.” - -An awful suggestion! He pictured the dining-room flooded with his tears, -the furniture floating and Grace swimming for her life. He turned off -the tap to just the littlest dribble. If he'd stopped at once, Grace -would have ceased to be sorry. - -She did not keep her promise to take care of him. On the contrary, she -conducted him through London on the tops of buses and left him at a -strange house. It belonged to the “smacking lady,” a name which he had -given to Jehane since an unfortunate occurrence previously mentioned. -He had been taught to call her Auntie to her face, but she went by the -other name inside his head. - -On many points his memories of this period are muddled. When he was not -in disgrace, he was allowed to play with Glory; if he had been specially -good, he was privileged to splash in the same bath with her before being -put to bed. But this was not often; it appeared that quite suddenly, -since coming to the smacking lady's house, he had developed an -extraordinary faculty for being bad. She said that he was spoilt, and -shut him up in rooms to make him better. He did his best to improve, for -he believed that his naughtiness was the cause of his mother's absence; -she would never come back, unless he became “the goodest little boy in -the world.” To judge by the smacking lady's countenance, he did his best -to no purpose. - -Her man was the one bright spot in his tragedy; and even he seemed a -little afraid of her. He did not champion Peter in her presence, but he -would take him out of rooms--oh, so stealthily--and carry him to the -end of the garden where a river ran, along the floor of which fishes -flashed, pursued by their shadows. There he would tell him funny -stories--stories of Peter's world and within the compass of Peter's -understanding; and he would laugh first to warn Peter when he was going -to be really funny---- - -Peter had again been bad, shut up in a room and rescued by the smacking -lady's husband. They were sitting on the river-bank, screened from the -windows of the house by bushes, when they heard the sound of running. -It was the servant; she spoke loudly with excitement and seemed out -of breath. The funny man's face became grave; he rose and left Peter -without a word. - -After that, all kinds of people came hurrying; they banged on the door -and went swiftly up the stairs--swiftly and softly. No one paid him any -heed and, strange to say, they were equally careless of Glory. He was -glad of that, for he loved Glory; it made him happy to have her to -himself. All that day they played among the flowers, he following the -shining of her little golden head. When she fell asleep tired, he sat -solemnly beside her, holding her crumpled hand. - -That night they were hastily undressed by a stranger and tumbled into -the same bed. She was so strange that she did not know that she ought to -hear them say their prayers. It was Peter who reminded her. - -Lying awake in the darkness, he was sensitive that something unusual was -happening. Up and down the creaking stairs many footsteps came and went; -dresses rustled; voices muttered in whispered consultation. In intervals -between doors opening and shutting, there were long periods of silence. -During one of these he heard a sound so curious that he sat up in bed--a -weak, thin wailing which was new to him and, had he known it, new to the -world. He gathered the bed-clothes to his mouth and listened. Voices on -the stairs grew bolder--almost glad. Peter was conscious of relief from -suspense; night itself grew less black. - -Again a door opened on the lower landing; there were footsteps. A man -spoke cheerfully. “It's all over and successfully. Thank God for that.” - -And the smacking lady's husband roared, “A little nipper all my own, by -Gad!” - -Peter didn't understand, but they let him see next morning--a puckered -thing, wrapt in blue flannel, with the tiniest of hands, lying very -close to Aunt Jehane's breast. It was the funny man who showed him, -lifting him up so he could look down on it. The funny man was happy. - -Did he start asking questions at once, or does he only imagine it? -Perhaps someone tried to explain things to him--it may have been his -friend, the funny man. It may have been that he overheard conversations -and misconstrued them. At all events, he knew that the baby was a girl -and that she had come several weeks before she was expected. Someone -said that Master Peter would never have been there had they known -that this was going to happen.--So babies came from somewhere -suddenly--somebody sent them! This was the beginning of his longing to -have a baby all to himself--but how? - -One fine morning the treacherous Grace arrived, not one little bit -abashed. She told him that his mother was coming back to Topbury. - -“Then am I the goodest little boy in the world?” - -She thumped her great arms round him; he might have been her drum she -was playing. “You can be when you like; and, my word, I believe you are -now.” - -He learnt before he left that the new baby was to be called “Riska”; and -he noticed this much, that its hair and eyes were black. - -His mother had lost her whiteness. Her face and hands were brown; only -her hair was the old sweet color. He had not been long with her when he -made his request. “Mummy, get Peterkins a baby.” - -She was sitting sewing by the window. She looked up from the little -garment she was making, holding the needle in her hand. - -“What a funny present! Why does little Peter ask for that?” - -“Mummy, where does babies come from?” - -She laid aside her work and took him into her lap. “From God, dearie.” - -“Who brings them, mummikins?” - -“Angels.” - -“How does they know to bring them?” - -She laughed nervously; then checked herself, seeing how serious was the -child's expression. “People ask God, darling; he tells the angels. They -bring the babies all wrapt up warmly in their softy wings and feathers.” - -“Could a little boy ask him?” - -“Anyone could ask him.” - -“Would he send me one for my very ownest?” - -“Some day--perhaps.” - -“And you asked God to send me, muvver?” - -“I and your Daddy together.” - -He lay so quietly in her arms that she thought his questions were at -an end. She did not take up her work, but sat smiling with dreamy eyes, -humming and resting her chin on his curly head. He clambered down -from her knee, satisfied and laughing, “Ask him again--you and Daddy -together.” - -Just then Barrington entered. “What's Daddy to ask for now?” Then, “Why -Nancy, tears in your eyes! What's Peter been doing?” - -She held her husband very closely, looking shy and happy. “He's been -asking for the thing we've prayed for.” - -“Eh! What's that?” - -“A baby.” - -“A baby? Funny little beggar! Extraordinary!” - -“And sweet!” whispered Nan. - -“Come here, young fellow.” His father was solemn, but his eyes were -laughing. He held Peter between his knees, so their faces nearly met. -“If your mother asks God for a baby sister, will you always be good to -her--the truliest, goodest little brother in the world?” - -And Peter nodded emphatically. His father shook his chubby hand, sealing -the bargain. - -Peter watched hourly for her coming--he never doubted it would be a -_her._ He would inquire several times daily, “Will it be soon?” There -was always the same answer, “Peterkins, Peterkins presently.” - -One night he heard the same sounds that had amazed him at the smacking -lady's house--whispers, running on the stairs, doors opening and -shutting. He waited for the weak, thin wailing; but that did not follow. -Nevertheless, he was sure it had happened: wrapt up warmly, in softy -angel-feathers, God had sent him a sister for himself. - -It was very late when Grace came to bed. Peter pretended to be asleep; -he feared she would be angry. Slowly he raised himself on the pillow, -his eyes clear and undrowsy. - -“Why, Master Peter!” - -She turned from the mirror so startled that, as she spoke, the hair-pins -fell from her mouth. - -53 - -“What a fright you give me! I thought your peepers 'ad been glued tight -for hours h'and hours.” - -“Has she come? Has she come? Did a lady-angel bring her?” - -“Lor' bless the boy, he's dreamin'! Now lie down, little Round Tummy. -Grice won't be long; then she'll hold you in 'er arms all comfy.” - -“But Grace, she's downstairs, a teeny weeny one--just big enough for -Peter to carry.” - -“Now, look 'ere, you just stop it, Master Peter. It's no time for -talkin'; you'll 'ear soon enough. You and your teeny weeny ones!” - -Peter lay down, his little heart choking. Why wouldn't Grace tell him? - -“But, Grace------” - -“Shut up. I'm a-sayin' of me prayers.” - -In the morning the hushed suspense still hung about the house. When -he raised his piping voice, Grace shook him roughly. At breakfast his -father's brows were puckered--he wasn't a bit happy like the funny man. -When the table had been cleared, he laid aside his paper and sat Peter -on his knee before him. “Something happened last night, sonny. You've -got a little brother.” - -“Not a sister, Daddy?” - -Peter cried at that; no wonder they were all so sad. “But we asked God -for a sister partickerlarly.” - -All day as he played in a whisper by himself, he tried to think things -out. God had become confused at the last moment, or the angel had: the -wrong baby had been brought to their house. But where was the right one? - -That evening the angel remembered his error and took the baby back. - -Peter was being undressed for bed and Grace was crying terribly. She had -just slipped him into his long, pink nightgown when his father came in -hurriedly. He caught him up, wrapping a blanket round him and ran with -him downstairs. The door of the room which he had watched all day was -opened by a man in black. The room was in darkness, save for a shaded -lamp. There were several people present; all of them whispered and -walked on tiptoe. He raised himself up in his father's arms. On the bed -his mother lay weak and listless; her eyes were blue and vacant. She -seemed to have shrunk and tears stole down her cheeks unheeded. Her hair -seemed heavy for her head and lay across the pillow in two broad plaits. -In her arms was a little bundle. The man in black commenced to talk -huskily. No one answered; everyone listened to what he said. Suddenly -he stooped to take the bundle from his mother, but her arms tightened. -“I'll keep him as long as God lets me.” - -So the man drew aside the wrappings; Peter saw the face of a tiny -stranger already tired of the world. The man in black spoke some words -more loudly and touched the stranger's face with water. Peter shuddered; -it was cruel to wet his face like that. They all stood silent in the -shadows--all except Peter, who cuddled against his father's shoulder. -Someone said, “He's gone,” and the sobbing commenced. - -That night Peter slept in his mother's bedroom--she would have it. She -seemed frightened that an angel so careless might carry him away as -well. So they set up his cot by the side of her bed; as she lay on her -pillows she could watch him. - -Mummikins got happy slowly; she seemed disappointed in God. Gradually -Peter learnt that, although the baby had been left at the wrong house, -they had given him a name and had called him Philip. But the old -question worried Peter--the one which no one seemed able to answer: -where was the sister God had meant to send and which his father had -promised? Since everyone treated him with reticence, he took the matter -up with God himself. Often, when his mother bent above him and thought -him sleeping, he was talking with God inside his head. As a result the -strange thing happened. - -In his room, to the left of his bed, was a large powder-cupboard, even -in the day-time full of shadows. One night he had been praying out -loud to himself, but his voice was growing weary and his eyelids kept -falling. As he lay there, coming from the cupboard, very softly, very -distant, he heard a sound of whistling. It was a little air, happy and -haunting, trilled over and over. He sat up and listened, not at all -frightened. He thrust himself up with his elbows, his head bent forward, -in listening ecstasy. His father could whistle, but not like that. A -man's whistling was shrill and strong. This was gentle and glad, like -a violin played high up--ah yes, like his mother's whistling. Then, -somehow, he knew that a girl's lips formed that sound. - -He slipped out of bed in the darkness and tiptoed to the cupboard. He -opened the door; it stopped. - -When he was safe in bed it again commenced, as though it were saying, -“I'm coming. I'm coming, little Peterkins. Don't be impatient.” - -It was trying to say more than that, and he racked his brains to -understand. When he lay quiet and was almost asleep, the picture formed. -He saw a girl-angel, standing in a garden, watching God at his work. And -what was God doing? He was making a little sister for Peter, stitching -her together. And every time the angel stopped whistling, God's needle -dropped. And every time she recommenced, God laughed and plucked -feathers from her softy wings to make garments for the little sister. -Peter named her the Whistling Angel. One day, when she and God were -ready, she would bring his little sister to him. - -The last thing he heard, as his sleepy eyes closed on the pillow, was -that happy haunting little air, like a tune played high up on a violin, -faintly, faintly. - -“I'm coming. I'm coming, little Peterkins. Don't be impatient.” - -It was like the rustle of wind in an angel's wings who had already set -out on the journey. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII--“COMING. COMING, PETERKINS” - -Peter took all the credit to himself--she was his baby. And why not? -Nobody, not even his mother or father, had had anything to do with her -advent. For many months after Philip's short sojourn, his mother had -cried and his father had frowned whenever babies were mentioned. Had it -not been for Peter, the little sister might have slipped God's memory. -Peter gave him no chance to forget. Every night, kneeling between the -bed-clothes with his lips against the pillow to muffle the sound, he -reminded God. He realized that this attitude was not respectful and -always apologized in his prayers. He did it because big people wouldn't -understand if they caught him kneeling beside the bed; it would be quite -easy to fall asleep there and get found.--So, of course, when she -came, she belonged to him. But her coming was not yet. He had no end of -trouble in getting her. - -After he had heard the whistling, he tried to tell Grace about it. This -happened the very next morning. She had risen late and was dressing him -in a hurry in order to get him down in time for breakfast. She hardly -listened to him at all, but jerked him this way and that, buttoning and -tying and tucking. - -“My, oh, my! There's only emptiness inside your little 'ead this -mornin'; you must 'ave left your brains beneath the pillow. What a lot -o' talk about nothin'.” - -“It wasn't nothing, Grace. I really and truly heard it.” - -“Now then, no false'oods, young man. God's a-listenin' and writin' it -all down.--There, Grice didn't mean to be h'angry! But you talk your -tongue clean out o' your 'ead.” - -“But Grace, I did. I did. It was like this.” - -He pursed his lips together; only a splutter came. Grace rubbed his face -vigorously with the flannel, leaving a taste of soap in his mouth. - -“You should 'ear my new sweet'eart.” She was trying to create a -diversion. “'E can make a winder rattle in its frame; it's that loud -and shrill, the noise 'e do make. If you're a good boy, maybe I'll get -'im to teach you 'ow.” - -He was bursting with his strange new knowledge; he was sure his mother -would understand. While his father was at the table he kept silent. His -father soon hurried away; the front-door slammed. - -He plucked at his mother's skirt. “Last night God was in my cupboard.” - -“But darling, little boys oughtn't to say things like that--not even in -fun, Peter.” - -“I heard him, mummikins. An angel was with him, doing like this.” - -He puffed out his cheeks; but he wasn't so clever as the angel. No sound -came. - -His mother gazed long into the eager face, trying to detect mischief. -“Whistling--is that what you mean? But angels don't whistle, Peter.” - -“This one did--in our cupboard--in my bedroom.” - -He wagged his head solemnly in affirmation. Then he drew down his -mother's face. She was smiling to herself. “God was making our baby,” he -whispered, “and the angel was waiting to bring her.” - -The rain came into her eyes--that was what Peter called it. “Hush, my -dearest. That's all over. You're my only baby now.” - -She pressed him to her; he could feel her shaking. Just then, he knew, -nothing more must be said. - -Many times he tried to tell her. One evening, while the angel was -whistling, she tiptoed into his bedroom. Looking up through the darkness -he saw her and seized her excitedly about the neck. “They're there, -mummy. Don't you hear her? She's whistling now.” He pronounced it -'wussling.' - -“Why _her_, Peter?” - -“I dunno; but listen, listen.” - -She opened the cupboard door. “See, there's nothing.” - -“She stopped when you did that.” - -“Go to sleep, my precious. You're dreaming. If there was anything, -mother would have heard it as well.” - -So he learnt to keep his secret to himself; no one seemed able to share -it. Every now and then, he would stop in his playing, with his head -on one side and his face intent; those who watched would see him -creep upstairs and peep into the big, dark cupboard. Strangely enough, -whatever he thought he heard, he did not appear frightened. - -When the doctor was called to examine him he said, “A very imaginative -child! Oh dear no, he's quite well. He'll grow out of that fancy. Won't -you, old chap?” - -At the back of his mother's mind was the terror that she was going to -lose him. She kept him always with her. When that dreamy look came into -his eyes and he turned his head expectantly, she would snatch him to her -breast, as though someone lurked near to take him from her. And Peter -lay still in her arms and smiled, for it seemed to him that the angel -leant over the banisters and whistled softly, “I'm coming. I'm coming, -little Peterkins.” - -But Peter was anxious to make God hurry. It was Grace who taught him -how. - -Her faith came in spasms. Although she beat the drum for the Salvation -Army her fervor had its ups and downs. She used to tell Peter. When her -love-affairs went wrong, she was overwhelmed with doubt and refused to -go on parade. “'E can carry the drum 'isself,” she would say, speaking -of her Maker. “If 'e don't look after me no better, I've done with 'im. -It's awright; I don't care. 'E can please 'isself. If 'e can do without -me, I can do without 'im. So there.” - -These confidences made Peter feel that God was an excessively accessible -person. One evening, kneeling in his mother's lap with folded hands, he -surprised her by adding to the petition she had taught him, “Now, look -here, God, I'm tired of waiting. I wants----” - -At this point he was stopped by a gentle hand pressed firmly over his -mouth. - -“I can't think what's come to Peter,” she told her husband; “he speaks -so crossly to God in his prayers.” - -“That's Grace,” said Barrington laughing, “you mark my words. You'd -better talk to her.” - -“Oh, but I'm so frightened when he does like that. Billy, do you -think----” - -He stopped her promptly. “No, I don't. The boy's all right.” - -Seeing how her lips trembled, he took her in his arms. “You've never -grown out of your short frocks--you're so timid, you golden little Nan.” - -It was after Grace had been spoken to that she made it up with her -Maker. When this occurred, Peter was with her in the dimly lit hall -where the soldiers of Salvation gathered. She was sitting beside him -sulkily on the back bench nearest the door; suddenly she rose and dashed -forward in a storm of weeping. While the penitent knelt by the platform, -the man who was waving his arms went on talking. Peter was growing -frightened for her, when she jumped to her feet, seizing a tambourine -which she banged and shook above her head, and shouted, “I'm cleansed. -I'm cleansed.” - -Partly because of her strength and partly because of her righteousness, -she was allowed to carry the drum again and march in the front of the -procession. Peter was impressed. After that when he had been impatient -with God, he would seek forgiveness by declaring himself _cleansed_. -He always thought that, following such confessions, the whistling came -louder from the cupboard. - -But it was Uncle Waffles who completed his information. At intervals he -would come over to Topbury with Aunt Jehane. So far as the ladies were -concerned, the talk was usually about their children. Aunt Jehane would -rarely fail to mourn the fact that hers were both girls. - -“Boys are different,” she would say; “you can turn them out to sink or -swim. But girls! Sooner or later one has to get them married. It's like -my fortune to have two of them--the luck was with you from the first.” - -Perhaps that was Jehane's way of reminding Nan that she had given her -husband only Peter. Waffles seemed to construe it in that light for, -when she had repeated her complaint more than twice, he would tuck Peter -under one arm and Glory under the other, and steal away to some hidden -place where he could ask him funny questions. If he heard a cock crowing -he would stop and inquire, “Why does the Doodle-do?” - -The little boy almost always forgot the proper answer. Uncle Waffles -would have to tell him, “Because he does, Peter.” - -Peter soon learnt that Uncle Waffles had secrets as well, for, when he -talked in the presence of his wife, he would hold his chin in his hand, -so as to be able to slip his fingers quickly over his mouth if he found -that unwise words were escaping. If he were too late in slipping up his -fingers, she would say quite sharply, “Ocky, don't be stupid. You're no -better than a child.” - -It was because Uncle Waffles was no better than a child that Peter took -courage to ask him, “How does people have babies?” - -His uncle regarded him seriously a moment. “You're very little to ask -such questions. It's a great secret. If I tell you, promise to keep it -to yourself.” - -When he had promised, his uncle whispered. And Peter knew that it was -true, for he remembered that someone had been lazy and had had breakfast -in bed before the coming of both Riska and Philip. So he learnt the last -piece of witchcraft by which babies are induced to come into the world. -From then on, until it happened, he was continually coaxing his mother -not to get up to breakfast. One morning she took his advice; then he -knew for certain that Uncle Waffles was very wise, even though Aunt -Jehane did call him stupid. - -For some time the whistling had been growing bolder: it would come out -of the cupboard as though the angel were running; it would wander all -over the house and meet him in the most unexpected places. When he was -playing in the garden it would drift down to him from the tree-tops, -“Coming, Peterkins. Coming.” It had grown quick like that, as though it, -too, were impatient of waiting. - -Two years had gone by since God had sent Philip and taken him back so -suddenly. It was within a few days of the anniversary and very close to -Christmas. All day the sky had been heavy with clouds. It was bitterly -cold outside; Peter had been kept in the nursery with a big, red fire -blazing. Everyone seemed busy; they opened the door now and then to -make sure that he was all right, and left him to play by himself. -Toward evening the clouds burst like great pillows, swollen with angels' -feathers; softly, softly, covering up bare trees, putting the world to -sleep beneath a great white counterpane, the snow came down. - -He woke in the night; it was like a lark singing right beside his bed. -It was the old haunting little air that it sang, but so much quicker, -“Coming. Coming. Coming.” Sometimes it sank into the faintest whisper; -sometimes it would swell into a sound so loud and happy that even -Grace's sweetheart could not have whistled louder. Grace turned drowsily -and, seeing him sitting up, drew him down beneath the clothes, putting -her arms about him. No, she had not heard it. - -In the morning his mother's breakfast was carried upstairs and his -father looked worried. Peter grew afraid lest he had done wrong and a -little sister was not wanted. So he hid himself in the big dark cupboard -in the bedroom and was not missed for hours. - -Presently voices wandered up and down the house, sometimes sounding -quite near and sometimes quite distant, “Peter! Peter! Where are you?” - They seemed afraid to call louder. - -Peter had his suspicions, so he kept quiet. They did not want her--and -they knew that he had done it. - -Someone said “Shish!” The other voices sank into silence; now it was -only his father's that he heard. “Peter-kins, Peterkins, father wants -you. Don't be frightened. He's going to tell you something grand.” - -So Peter came out; when he saw his father's face, he knew that he was -not angry. - -“You did want her too--didn't you, didn't you, Daddy?” - -“Of course I did, you rummy little chap. But how did you know? Who told -you?” - -Although he coaxed and rubbed his scrubby chin against Peter's neck, he -never got an answer to that question. Where was the good of answering? -Either you had ears like Peter's or you hadn't. - - - - -CHAPTER IX--KAY AND SOME OTHERS - -She filled all his thoughts; the world had become new to him. -Picture-books were no longer amusing; just to be Peter with a little -strange sister was the most fascinating story imaginable. - -It was easy to keep him good; Grace had only to threaten that he should -not see her. See her! He lived for that. Early in the morning he was at -the bedroom door, waiting for the nurse to look out and beckon. As he -followed her in on tiptoe, his golden little motherkins would turn on -her pillow, holding out her hand. She was prettier than ever now. If -Peter had known the word, he would have said she looked _sacred_: that -was what he felt. And she seemed to have grown younger. She appeared -immature as a girl, so slim and pale, stretched out in the broad white -bed. Her hair lay in shining pools between the counterpane mountains. - -“Pepperminta, you're no older than Peter,” he had heard his father tell -her; “you're a kiddy playing with dollies--not a mother. It's absurd.” - -He knew from watching his father that, if they had loved her before, -they must love her ten thousand times better now. When he went for his -walks with Grace, he spent his pennies to bring her home flowers. - -Everything in that room had been brightened to welcome the little -sister. It had a sense of whiteness and a soft, sweet fragrance. They -had to make the little sister feel that they were glad she had come and -wanted her to stay. So a fire was kept burning in the grate. They spoke -in whispers and walked on their toes, the way one does in church. - -Climbing on a chair, he would seat himself at the foot of the bed while -his mother's eyes laughed at him from the pillow, “We've managed it this -time, little Peter.” - -Presently the nurse would turn back the sheet and show him the stranger, -cuddled in his mother's breast; he would see a shining head, like fine -gold scattered on white satin. - -“The same as yours, mummy.” - -“And the same as yours, darling.” - -When anyone found him in any way like her, Peter was glad.--If he waited -patiently, the blue eyes would open and stare straight past him, seeing -visions of another world. - -“She sees something, mummy.” - -“God, perhaps.” - -Peter thought he knew better, for he heard quite near, yet so softly -that it might have been far away, the violinlike whisper of one who -whistled beneath her breath. - -“Dearest, was Peter like that?” - -“Peter and everybody.” - -There were times when he was allowed to slip his finger between those of -the tiny fisted hand. When he felt their pressure, they seemed to say, -“I'm yours, Peter-kins. Take care of me, won't you?” - -He was sure she knew that he had seen God make her. - -He did not want to speak; he was perfectly content to sit in the -sheltered quiet, watching. He would listen outside the door for hours on -the chance of being admitted. If Grace missed him, she always knew where -he might be found. - -As the little sister grew, he was permitted to see her bathed and -dressed. One by one the soft wrappings were removed and folded, and the -perfect little body revealed itself. No wonder God had taken so long; -he had put such love into his work. By and by she learnt how to crow -and splash. Her first recorded smile was given to Peter. But long before -that a name had to be chosen. - -She was christened Kathleen Nancy and was called Kay, because that made -her sound dearer. - -Peter was nearly seven at the time of her coming. Of all people, he and -his mother seemed to know her best. They had secrets about her; before -she could talk, they told one another what her baby language meant. -During her first summer on earth, they would sit beside her cradle in -the garden, believing that birds and flowers stooped to watch her. - -“You're no older than Peter,” his father had said. But, when he came -home from the city, he would join them and seemed perfectly happy to -gaze on Kay, with Peter on his knee, holding Nan's free hand. - -Even in those early days, it was strange the power that Peter had over -her. If she were crying, she would stop and laugh for Peter. She would -sleep for Peter, if he hummed and rocked her. When she began to speak, -it was Peter who taught her and interpreted what she said; that was -during her second summer, when leaves in the garden were tapping. They -grew to trust Peter where Kay was concerned. “He's so gentle with her,” - they said. - -“Might be 'er father, the care 'e takes of 'er. It's uncanny,” Grace -told her sweetheart. - -Her sweetheart was a policeman at this moment; his profession did not -make for sentiment. “Father, by gum! Fat lot o' care your father took o' -you, I'll bet.” - -Grace's father was a cabby and was known to the Barrington household as -Mr. Grace--a name of Peter's bestowing. He drove a four-wheeler and -had a red face. His stand was at the bottom of Topbury Crescent, which -formed the blade to the sickle of which the Terrace was the handle. - -When Kay was beginning to toddle, her cot was transferred from her -parents' to Peter's bedroom. Nan was none too strong and Barrington -could not afford to be roused at five in the morning--he worked too hard -and required all his rest. Had Peter's wishes been consulted, this was -just how he would have arranged matters. From the moment when the light -went out to the moment when his eyelids reluctantly lowered, he had Kay -all to himself. Throwing off the clothes, he would slip out and kneel -beside her cot, softying her with his face and hands. He had to do -this carefully lest he should be heard. Sometimes, in stepping out, the -mattress squeaked and a voice would call up the tall dim stairs, “Peter, -are you in bed?” An interval would elapse while he hurried back; then -he would answer truthfully, “Yes.” Often the voice would say knowingly, -“You are now.” - -But the temptation was too great. It was so wonderful to touch her in -the darkness, to hear her stir, to feel her hand brush his cheek and the -warm sleepy lips turned toward his mouth. - -“It's only Peter,” he would whisper; and, perhaps, he would add, “Little -Kay, aren't you glad I borned you?” - -Oh yes, it was he who had contrived her birth. There, as a proof, was -the big dim cupboard where it had all commenced. - -In the shadowy darkness of the room, before Grace came up to undress, he -lived in a world of fancy. Through the oblong of the doorway the faint -gold glimmered, made by the lowered gas. In the square of the window, -as in a magic mirror, all kinds of strange things happened. Great soft -clouds moved across it, like mountains marching. Presently they would -stand aside, giving him glimpses of deep lagoons and floating lands. -Stars would dance out, like children holding hands, and wink and twinkle -at him. The moon would let down her silver ladder, smiling to him to -ascend. He laughed back and shook his head. Oh, no thank you; Kay needed -his attention. - -Beneath the sky was a muffled world, like a Whistler nocturne, of -house-tops and drowsy murmurs. It was a vague field of seething shadows -in which the blur of street-lamps was a daffodil forest. Dwellings -which were blind all day, in streets he had never traversed, now peered -stealthily from behind their curtains with the unblinking eyes of cats. -What did they do down there? Church bells in the Vale of Holloway would -try to tell him. Sometimes strains of a barrel-organ would drift up -merrily and he would picture how ragged children danced, beating time -with rapid feet upon the muddy pavement. Sometimes in the distance, like -a scarlet fear, a train would shoot across the murk and vanish. - -But always from these wanderings his imagination would return to the -cot where the little sister nestled. Who was it put the thought into -his head? Was it some strange confusion between winking stars and the -Bethlehem story? Or was it Grace in one of her flights of poetry? Long -ago, he told himself, like this the Boy Jesus must have sat keeping -guard over a baby sister, while at the bottom of a tall steep house Mary -helped Joseph, making chairs and tables. - -Once Peter gave things away completely by trusting too much to his -wakefulness; he was found asleep on the floor beside Kay's cot when -Grace came up to undress. - -If the nights had their spice of adventure because such doings were -forbidden, the mornings were not to be sneered at. He would be wakened -by a small hand stroking his face and she would snuggle into bed beside -him. Years after, when he was a man, he remembered the sensation of her -cold feet when she had found him difficult to rouse. - -But the greatest treat of all came rarely. When his father went away on -a journey, his mother could cast aside her habits. She would make her -home in the nursery and hirelings would be driven out. Grace would be -given an evening with her policeman, and Peter, and Kay, and Nan would -have each other to themselves. If it were winter, they would have supper -by firelight, after which they would sit and toast themselves while Nan -told stories of her girlhood. Kay would be taken into her lap and Peter -would sit on the rug, cuddling against her skirt. - -“How did Daddy find you, Mummy?” - -And when that had been told in a simplified version, “Mummy, should I be -your little boy, if you'd married someone else?” - -Since there seemed some doubt, Peter made haste to assure her, “Dearest, -I'm so, so glad.” - -In the dancing flames and shadows, Kay would be undressed and popped -into the tin-bath while Peter helped. Then, all warm and snuggly, she -would be carried to her mother's bed. In a short time Peter would follow -and fall asleep with his arms about her. - -Toward midnight he would rouse; the gas was lit and someone was -rustling. Looking down the bed, he would see his mother with her gold -hair loose about her shoulders. “Hush,” she would whisper, placing her -finger against her mouth. So he would lie still, watching her shadow -on the walls and ceiling. Again the room was in darkness; his face was -hidden in her breast as she clasped him to her. He was thinking how -lucky it was that his father had found her. - -In the morning Kay would wake them, climbing across their legs or losing -herself beneath the bed-clothes. Just to be different from all other -mornings, they would have their breakfast before they dressed. What an -adventure they made of it and what good times they had! - -In after years, looking back, Peter realized what children he had had -for parents; they seemed anything but children then. His father was not -too old to be a lion on hands and knees beneath the table, trying to -catch him as he ran round. At last his mother would cry out, “Billy, -dearest, do stop it. You'll get the boy excited.” - -And then there were those empty rooms at the top of the house to be -furnished. Peter's father led him all over London, visiting beery old -women and dingy old men, whose shops to the unpracticed eye were stocked -with rubbish. Oak paneling, bronzes, French clocks, canvases dim with -dirt, were discovered and carried home in triumph. For the canvases -frames had to be hunted out; the pursuit was endless. These treasures -were driven home in cabs, taking up so much room that Peter had to make -himself smaller. Nan would fly to the door as the wheels halted on the -Terrace. - -“Peter, why did you let him? Oh, Billy, how extravagant!” - -“But, my dear, it's an investment. I paid next to nothing and wouldn't -sell it for a thousand pounds.” - -“Couldn't,” she corrected; but, as was proved later, she was wrong in -that. - -When the empty rooms were furnished--the oak bedroom and the -Italian--the modern furnishings in other parts of the house were -gradually supplanted; even the staircase was hung with paintings which -Barrington restored himself. There was one little drawback to these -prowlings through London which Peter was too proud to mention: his -father as he walked would pinch his hand to show his affection--but it -hurt. He knew why his father did it, so he did not tell him. He bit his -lips instead to keep back the tears. - -Four other people stole across his childish horizon like wisps of -cloud--the Misses Jacobite. They lived in an old-fashioned house in -Topbury and kept no servants. Peter got to know them because they smiled -at him coming in and going out of church. There was Miss Florence, who -was tall and reserved; and Miss Effie, who was little and talkative; and -Miss Madge, who was fat and jolly; and Miss Leah, a shadow-woman, -who sat always in a darkened room with pale hands folded, crooning to -herself. - -People said “Poor thing! Oh well, there's no good blaming her now. She -wouldn't thank us for our pity; after all, she brought it on herself.” - -Or they said. “You know, they were quite proud once--the belles of -Topbury. Two of them were engaged to be married. Their father was alive -then--the Squire we called him. But after Miss Leah----” They dropped -their voices till they came to the last sentence, “And the disgrace of -it killed the old chap.” - -Even Grace, when she took Kay and Peter to visit them, left them if she -could on the doorstep. Her righteous mood asserted itself; she flounced -her skirt in departing, shaking off the dust from her feet for a -testimony against them. “Scand'lous, I calls it. If I wuz to do like -'er, yer ma wouldn't let me touch yer. But o' course, it's different; -I'm only a sarvant-gal. And they 'olds their 'eads so 'ighl Brazen, -I calls it. Before I walked the streets where a thing like that 'ad -'appened in my family, I'd sink into my grave fust--that I would. I 'ate -the thought of their kissing yer, my precious lambs.” - -Peter was always wondering what it was that Miss Leah had brought -upon herself. Whatever it was, it stayed with her in the room with the -lowered blinds at the back of the house. She never went out; callers -never saw her. Her eyes were vague, as though she had wept away their -color. She spoke in a hoarse whisper, as in a dream; and her attention -had to be drawn to anything before she saw it. But it was her singing -that shocked and thrilled Peter, making him both pitiful and frightened. -Her song never varied and never quite came to an end; she repeated it -over and over. You could hear it in the hall, the moment you entered; -it went on at intervals until you left. She sang it with empty hands, -sitting without motion: - - “On the other side of Jordan - - In the sweet fields of Eden - - Where the Tree of Life is growing - - There is rest for me.” - -Where were the “sweet fields of Eden”? Peter liked the sound of them and -would have asked her, had not something held him back. She must be very -tired, he thought, to be singing always about rest. Yet he never saw her -work. - -He had been there many times and had only heard her, until one day, as -he was scampering down the passage with Miss Madge pursuing, the door -opened and a woman with dim eyes and hair as white as snow looked -out. She gazed at him without interest; but when Kay toddled up to her -fearlessly, she stooped and caught her to her breast. - -Several things about the Misses Jacobite struck Peter as funny. They -divided the visit up, so that each might have a child for part of it -entirely to herself. Each would behave during that time as though she -were a mother famished for affection, returned from a long journey, and -would invent secrets which were to be shared by nobody but the child and -herself. Kay and Peter were carried off into separate rooms, and there -played with and cuddled by a solitary Miss Jacobite. Though the Misses -Jacobite were obviously poor, the children always went home with a -present; often enough it was a toy from the dusty, disused nursery. -When they met Kay and Peter on Sundays and people were watching, they -pretended to forget the other things that had happened. - -“I wonder you let your children go there,” people said. - -Nan smiled slowly and answered softly, gathering Kay and Peter to her. -“Poor things! They were robbed of everything. I have so much I don't -deserve. I can spare them a little of my gladness.” - -“But, Mrs. Barrington, that's mere sentiment. How does your husband -allow it?” - -One day Nan's husband spoke up for himself. “Did you ever hear of the -raft? I thought not. Well, Nan and I have.” - - - - -CHAPTER X--WAFFLES BETTERS HIMSELF - -It was the month of June. A breeze blowing in at the open window -fluttered out the muslin curtains and shook loose the petals of roses -standing on the table. A milk-cart rattled down the Terrace, clattering -its cans. Sounds, which drifted in from the primrose-tinted world, were -all what Peter would have described as “early.” The walls of the room -were splashed with great streaks of sunlight, which lit up some of the -pictures with peculiar intensity and left others in contrasting shadow. -One of those which were thus illumined was a Dutch landscape by Cuyp, -hanging against the dark oak paneling above a blue couch; it represented -a comfortable burgher strolling in conversation with two women on the -banks of a canal. Barrington liked to face it while he sat at breakfast; -it gave him a certain indifference to worry before the rush of the day -commenced. But this morning, to judge by his puckered forehead, it had -not produced its usual effect. He glanced up from the letter he was -reading and tossed it across to Nan. “What d'you make of that?” - -She bent over it, wrinkling her brows. The letter was in a man's -handwriting and the postscript, which was of nearly equal length, was in -a woman's. - -“I don't know; if it was from anyone but Ocky----” - -“Precisely, Ocky's a fool. He's always been a fool and he's growing -worse; but Jehane ought to have sounder sense. It's beyond me why she -married him. I never did understand Jehane; I suppose I never shall.” - -“You're not a woman, Billy; or else you would. She was sick and tired of -being lonely and dependent; she wanted someone to take care of her. Ocky -was the only man who offered. But that's eight years ago--I'm afraid -she's found him out; and she's doing her best to persuade herself that -she hasn't. Poor Jehane, she always admired strong men--men she could -worship.” - -“That explains but it doesn't excuse her. She had a strong man in -Captain Spashett; the hurry of her second marriage was indecent. I never -did approve of it. I said nothing at first because I thought she might -help Ocky to grow a backbone.--And now there's this new folly, which she -appears to encourage.” - -“But, dear, is it so foolish? Perhaps, she's given him a backbone and -that's why he's done it.” She laughed nervously. “They both say that -this is a great opportunity for him to better himself.” - -“Bah! The only way for Ocky to better himself is to change his -character. He's a balloon--a gas-bag; he'll go up in the air and burst. -The higher he goes, the further he'll have to tumble. You think I'm -harsh with him; I know him. Jehane's done him no good; she despises him, -I'm sure, though she doesn't think she shows it. She's filled his head -with stupid ambitions and before she's done she'll land him in a mess. -She's driven him to this bravado with private naggings; he wants to -prove to her that he really is a man. Man! He's a child in her hands. It -hurts me to watch them together. Why can't she be a wife to him and make -up her mind that she's married a donkey?” - -“It's difficult for a woman to make up her mind to that--especially a -proud, impatient woman.” - -He paid no attention to his wife's interruption, but went on irritably -with what he was saying. - -“So he's giving up a secure job, and he's going into this harum-scarum -plan for buying up the sands of Sandport for nothing and selling them -as house-plots for a fortune. Even if there were anything in it, who's -going to finance him? Of course he'll come to me as usual.” - -“But he says he's got the capital.” - -“That's just it--from where? His pocket always had a hole in it. When -he says he's got money, I don't believe him; when he's proved his word I -grow nervous.” - -Barrington leant across the table, rapping with his knuckles. “Ocky's -the kind of amiable weak fellow who can easily be made bad--especially -by a woman who refuses to love him. Once a man like that's gone under, -you can never bring him back--he's lost what staying quality he ever -had.” - -Nan rarely argued with her husband. Pushing back her chair, she went and -knelt beside him, pressing her soft cheek against his hand. “You are a -silly Billy, dearest, to be so serious on such a happy morning. There's -no danger of Ocky ever becoming bad; and, in any case, what's this got -to do with the matter? I know he's foolish and his jokes get on your -nerves; but it isn't his fault that he's not clever like you. You -shouldn't be gloomy just because he's going to be daring. I don't wonder -he's sick of that lawyer's office. And it's absurd to think that he's -going to be bad; look how Peter loves him. You like Ocky more than you -pretend, now don't you?” - -“If liking's being sorry. I'm always sorry for an ass; and I'm angry -with Jehane because she knows better. She's doing this because she's -jealous of you--that's why she clutches at this bubble chance of -prosperity.” - -“Ar'n't you a little unjust to her, Billy? Since our marriage, you've -always been unjust to her. You know why she's jealous--she wants her -husband to be like you.” - -Her voice sank away to a whisper. “Oh, Janey, I did, I did play fair,” - she had said that night at Cassingland; in her violent assertion of -fairness there had been an implied question which Jehane had never -answered. Both she and her husband knew that they had never been -acquitted. - -Barrington drew Nan's head against his shoulder. “Poor people.” Then he -kissed her with new and eager gladness. - -“And it isn't only pity you feel for Ocky?” She persisted. “Now -confess.” - -He pulled out his watch hastily and, having replaced it, gulped down -his coffee. “When I was Peter's age, we were brought up like brothers -together. I loved him then; I'm disappointed in him now. And yet I'm -always catching glimpses in him of the little chap I played with. You -see, at school I was the stronger and had to protect him. I was always -fighting his battles. And one whole term, when his hand was poisoned, -I had to take him to the doctor to get it dressed---- No, it isn't only -pity, Pepperminta: it's memories.” - -As he was going out of the door she called after him, “Then, I suppose, -I can write and say we'll have them?” - -“While they're moving--the children? Yes.” - -“Jehane doesn't say how many.” - -“She means all, I expect. There's the garden for them--it'll be fun for -Kay and Peter.” - -A week later, Jehane traveled across London to Top-bury Terrace, -bringing with her Glory, aged nine, Riska, aged six, and her youngest -child, Eustace, who was the same age as Kathleen. Jehane was now in her -thirty-seventh year, a striking brooding type of woman. As her face had -grown thinner and her cheeks had lost their color, the gipsy blackness -of her appearance had become more noticeable. She still had a fine -figure, so that men in public conveyances would furtively lower their -papers to gaze at her. There clung about her an atmosphere of adventure, -of which she was not entirely unaware. She was unconquerably romantic, -and would spin herself stories in the silence of her fancy of a love -that was crushing in its intensity. No one would have guessed from the -hard little lines about the corners of her eyes and mouth that this -imaginative tenderness formed part of her character. - -Since the birth of Eustace her hair had fallen out in handfuls and she -had adopted a style of dressing it that was distinctly unbecoming. She -had had her combings made up into an affair which Glory called “Ma's -mat.” It consisted of half-a-dozen curls, sewn together in rows like -sausages, which she pinned across the top of her head so that they made -a fringe along her forehead. It gave her an old-fashioned look of prim -severity. Jehane retained for Nan an affection which was partly genuine -and partly habit; but she resented Nan's youthful appearance with slow -jealous anger, attributing it to freedom from anxiety and the possession -of money. As for Nan, her attitude was one of gentle and atoning apology -for her happiness. “I'm so glad you brought the children yourself, -Janey.” - -“And who could have brought them? I'm not like you--I only keep two -servants. When this scheme of Ocky's has turned out all right, perhaps -it may be different.” - -She turned swiftly on Nan with latent defiance, as though challenging -her to express doubt. - -“I'm sure both Billy and I hope it will. Wouldn't it be splendid to see -Ocky really a big man?” - -“It would be a good deal more than splendid. It would mean the end of -little houses and cheap servants and neighbors that you can't introduce -to your father's friends. It would mean the end of pinching and scraping -to save a penny. And it would mean a chance for my girls.” - -Nan slipped an arm into hers and hugged it. “Dear old thing, I think -I understand. And when is Ocky coming over to tell us all about it? He -gave us hardly any details in his letter.” - -Jehane became evasive. “He's naturally very busy. The chance developed -so suddenly that he's hardly had time to turn round. It came to him -through a client at the office. Mr. Playfair had noticed him at his desk -as he passed in and out to see Mr. Wagstaff. He's told Ocky since that -he spotted him at once and said to himself, 'If ever I want a chap -with-business push and legal knowledge, that's my man.'” - -“And he's never talked with him?” - -“Hardly. Not much more than to say 'How d'you do?' or 'Good-morning'.” - -“Wasn't it wonderful that he should have sized him up in a flash?” - -Jehane glanced at her narrowly. “It may be wonderful to _you_; it isn't -to _me_. I'm well aware that you and Billy don't think much of Ocky. Oh, -where's the sense in disowning it? You both think he's a born fool.” - -“I'm sure you never heard Billy say that.” - -“Heard him say it! Of course I didn't. I'd like to hear him dare to -say anything like that about my husband. But actions speak louder -than words. He thinks it just the same; he thinks that Ocky's good for -nothing But to sit at a desk, taking a salary from another man. P'rhaps, -you didn't know that for years Ocky's been the brains of that office?” - -Nan lifted her honest eyes; she was filled with discomfort. This kind of -controversy was always happening when they met; they drifted into some -sort of feud for which Jehane invariably held her responsible. “The -brains of the office! No, indeed, I never heard that. Why didn't you -tell us?” - -“Because you and Billy thought he was incompetent, and it didn't seem -worth the trouble to correct you.” - -“I'm sure I've always thought him very kind, especially to Peter.” - -“Kind! What's kindness got to do with being clever?” Nan pressed Jehane -to stay to dinner. She would send a telegram to Ocky; she would send her -home in a cab. But Jehane was in an ungracious mood and eager to take -offense. She resented the implication that a cab was a luxury. No, she -couldn't stay; there was too much to do. She had intended to return in -a cab, anyhow. In reality she was anxious to avoid Barrington's shrewd -questioning. She was rising to take her departure, when she saw him -descending the garden steps. - -“Ha, Jehane! This is luck. I've had thoughts of you all day. That -letter's got on my nerves. I couldn't work; so I came home early.--Oh -no, we're not going to let you off now. You've got to stop and tell us. -By the way, before Ocky actually decides, I'd like to talk the whole -matter over with him.” - -“He's decided already.” - -“You don't mean-------” - -“Yes. Why not? He's given Wagstaff notice. Things so happened that he -had to make up his mind in a hurry or lose it.--But I really ought to be -going. Nan knows everything now.” - -Barrington placed his hand on her shoulder arrestingly. At his touch she -drew back and colored. “This thing's too serious, Jehane,” he said, “to -be dismissed in a sentence. I have a right to know.” - -He spoke kindly, but she answered him hotly. “What right, pray?” - -“Well, if anything goes wrong, there's only me to fall back on. And then -there's the right of friendship.” - -“I can't say you've shown yourself over friendly. If you've had to meet -Ocky, you've let all the world see you were irritated. If you've ever -invited him to your house, you've taken very good care that no one -important was present. One would judge that you thought he lowered you. -I can't see that you have the right to know anything.” - -“That can only be because your husband hasn't told you. To quote one -instance, it was through my influence that he got this position that -he's now thrown over--Wagstaff is my lawyer.” - -Jehane tossed her head. “You always want to make out that he owes you -everything---- Well, what is it that I'm forced to tell you?” - -Barrington kept silence while they walked down the path to where chairs -were spread beneath the cedar. The children ran up boisterously to greet -him; having kissed them, he told Grace to take them away and to keep -them quiet. When he spoke, his tones were grave and measured: “It wasn't -fair of Ocky to send you to tell us; he ought to have come himself.” - -“He didn't send----” - -Barrington held up his hand. “You can't tell me anything on that score; -from the first he's shirked responsibility. He would never fight if he -could get anyone else to fight for him. Many and many's the time I've -had to dohis dirty work. Now you're doing it. This is unpleasant -hearing, Jehane; but you know it's true. I'd take a wager that you spent -hours trying to screw up his courage to make him come himself.” - -She lifted her head to deny it, but his quiet gray eyes met hers. Their -sympathy and justice disturbed her. She refused to be pitied by this -man----. A great fear rose in her throat. What if his opinion of her -husband were correct? It was the opinion she herself had had for -years and had tried to stifle. Time and again she had listened to his -plausibility--his boastings that he was the brains of the office, that -luck was against him and that one day he would show the world. She had -used his arguments to defend him to her relations and friends. In public -she had made a parade of being proud of him. In private she had tried to -ridicule him out of his shame-faced manners. And now she was trying -so hard to believe that he had found his opportunity.--It was cruel of -Barrington, especially cruel when he knew quite well that it was him she -had loved. She could not endure to sit still and hear him voice her own -suspicious and calmly analyze the folly of her marriage. - -“If you think that my husband was afraid to come and tell you, the only -way to prove the contrary is to let him come himself to-morrow.” - -“I shall be more than glad to see him.” - -But Ocky did not come to-morrow, nor the next day. The day after that -Barrington went to see his lawyer. - -“Good-morning, Mr. Wagstaff. I should like to speak to you about my -cousin, Mr. Waffles.” - -Mr. Wagstaff twitched his trousers up to prevent them from rucking as he -crossed his legs. “If there's anything I can do to help you, Mr. -Barrington----” - -“I understand he's given you notice.” - -Mr. Wagstaff sat up suddenly. “Understand what? He told you that?” - -“No, he did not tell me. His wife did.” - -“Ah, his wife! He left her to make the explanations. Just what one might -expect.” - -“Then he didn't give you notice?” - -“Course not.” Mr. Wagstaff spoke testily, as though for an employee to -give him notice was an event beyond the bounds of possibility. - -“Then he left without notifying you?” - -“Well, hardly.” - -The lawyer noticed that the door leading into the main office was ajar; -he got up and closed it. When he returned he did not re-seat himself, -but straddled the hearth-rug, holding up his coat-tails although no fire -was burning. - -“Mr. Barrington, sir, I put up with your cousin's shiftlessness for -longer that I ought to have done; I did it out of respect for you, sir. -There was a time when I hoped I might make something of him. He can be -nimble-witted over trifles and his own affairs; but he never put -any interest into my work. He was insubordinate--not to my face, you -understand, but when my back was turned; he wasn't a good influence in -the office. I tell you this, sir, to prove that I haven't acted without -consideration.” - -The lawyer waggled his coat-tails and seemed to find a blemish in his -boots, so earnestly did he regard them. When he received no help from -Barrington, he suddenly came to the point and looked up sharply. - -“He betrayed professional confidence; so I sacked him.” - -“Had it happened before?” - -“Possibly. He was always garrulous. This time it was an affair of some -property at Sandport. Our client had two competing purchasers, one of -whom was a Mr. Playfair. Your cousin leaked to Mr. Playfair--kept him -informed as to what the other purchaser was doing. Not a nice thing to -occur, Mr. Barrington.” - -This last remark was as much an interrogation as an assertion. The -lawyer waited for his opinion to be indorsed. - -“Not at all nice,” Barrington assented. “If it's lost you any money, I -must refund it.” - -“'Tisn't a question of money. Wouldn't hear of that.” As Mr. Wagstaff -shook hands at parting, he offered a crumb of comfort: “Mind, I don't -say your cousin is dishonest, Mr. Barrington; that would be _too, too_ -strong. Perhaps, it would be better stated by saying that his sense of -honor is rudimentary.” - -“Perhaps,” said Barrington brusquely. “I think I catch your meaning.” - - - - -CHAPTER XI--THE HOME LIFE OF A FINANCIER - -People who loved Ocky Waffles always loved him for his good; he -would have preferred to have been loved for almost any other purpose. -Affection, in his experience, turned friends into schoolmasters. There -was Barrington, a fine chap and all that; but why the dickens did he -take such endless pains to be so uselessly unpleasant? - -Ocky was on the lookout for Jehane when she returned from Topbury. As -she turned the corner, he espied her from behind the curtains and lit -his pipe to give himself confidence. No sooner had she entered than she -commenced an account of her visit, indignantly underlining her interview -with Barrington. Ocky seated himself on the edge of the table, puffing -away and swinging his legs. - -“Wants to see me, does he? He can go on wanting. I'm sick of his -interfering. A fat lot he's ever done to help me! And with his position -and friends he could have helped me--instead of that he gives me his -advice. Truth is, Jehane, he doesn't want to see us climb; he'd rather -be the patron of the family. With the best intentions in the world, he's -out to put a spoke in my wheel. Oh, I know him!--If he's so anxious for -information, he can come here to get it.” - -While he spoke he scrutinized his wife, judging the effect of his -blustering independence. She was suspicious of some hidden knowledge; he -felt it. Something had been said behind his back at Topbury--something -derogatory. Could Barrington have heard already. - -Pressing down the ashes in the bowl of his pipe, he struck a match. -Jehane was between himself and the door; he wondered whether he could -slip past her and make his exit if things became unpleasant. He detested -being cornered; he could be so much braver when the means of escape lay -behind him. Meanwhile, it seemed good policy to continue talking. - -“I don't like the way they treat you at Topbury; you always come home -down-hearted. There's too much condescension. Nan overdoes it when she -tries to be kind. The rich relation attitude! It riles me. When she -makes you a present it's always a dress--might just as well tell you -to your face that you're shabby. And last Christmas, sending Peter's -cast-off clothes to Eustace! Thank God, we're not paupers and never -shall be!” - -As he worked himself into a passion Jehane eyed him somberly. The -everlasting pipe, dangling from his mouth, annoyed her immensely. His -trousers, bagging at the knees, and his pockets, stuffed with rubbish, -were perpetual eyesores; she hated his slack appearance. Other men with -his income at least attained neatness. It was not that he spared -money on his clothes----. She caught herself comparing him with -Barrington--Barrington whose tidy body was the outward sign of his -well-ordered mind. Her husband went on talking and her irritation took a -new direction. - -“I'll bet a fiver what they said when you told 'em. 'My dearest, if it -_could_ only happen'--that's Nan. 'Ah yes! Humph! sand at Sandport! We -must talk this over before he decides'--that's Barrington. We can guess -what his advice'll amount to, can't we, old Duchess?” - -It was safe to venture the endearment now. If they had nothing else in -common, they were partners in their animosities. When running down an -enemy together, he could dare to express his affection for her; his way -of doing this was to call her _Duchess_. At other times she would brush -him aside with, “Don't be silly, Ocky.” She often called him “silly,” - treating any demonstration as tawdry sentimentality. She had no idea how -deeply it wounded. - -Now, as she sank into the chair, he bent over and kissed her awkwardly. -“Poor old gel, they've tired you out. Had nothing to eat since you left -here, I'll warrant. Put up your tootsies and I'll pull off your shoes; -then I'll order some supper for you.” - -“I couldn't eat anything.” - -The room was in darkness and the window wide. In the street children -were screaming and playing. A mother, standing on her doorstep, called -to her truants through the dusk----- Oh, for a gust of silence--a desert -of sound without footsteps; Jehane felt that her life was trespassed -on, jostled, undignified. Through the cramped suburb of red-brick villas -crept the summer night, like a shameful woman footsore and clad in -lavender. Red-brick villas! They were so similar that, if you shook them -up in a gigantic hat and set them out afresh, the streets would look in -no way different. They were all built in the same style. The mortar -had fallen out in the same places. The front gardens were of equal -dimensions. They had no individuality. If anyone attempted to be -original in the color of her paint or the shape of her curtains, next -day she was copied. - -With the stale odor of tobacco mingled the sweet fragrance of -June flowers. She had only to close her eyes and she was back in -Oxford--Oxford which she had exchanged for this rash experiment. She -wondered, had she been more patient, would something more delightful -have happened. The sameness of economy had worn out her strength and its -prospect appalled her.--If Ocky could contrive her escape, even at this -late hour, what right had Barrington to prevent him? - -He had gone to fetch her slippers--that at least was kind and -thoughtful. She treated him with spite. She shrank from the familiarity -of his touch. She hated herself for it; and yet she eked out the seconds -of her respite from him. - -A lamp-lighter shuffled by the garden railings; at his magic, primrose -pools weltered up in the dusk.--This business of marriage--had she been -less hasty, she might have done better for herself. Oh well, the wisdom -which follows the event... - -Footsteps on the stairs! As he knelt to put on her slippers, she -conquered her revulsion and let her hand rest on his head. He started, -surprised: it was long since she had shown him affection. His voice was -shaky when he addressed her. - -“Now you're better, old dear. More rested, aren't you?” She held him -at arm's length, her palms flat against his breast. In the darkness she -felt the pleading in his eyes. “Oh, Ocky, you'll do it this time, won't -you?” - -“Do what, Duchess?” - -“Don't call me Duchess; just for once be serious.” - -“I am serious, darling. What is it?” - -“D'you remember years ago, when you asked me to marry you? D'you -remember what you said?” - -“Might, if you told me. Was I more than ordinarily foolish?” - -“You said, 'I need your strength. With you I could be a man.'” - -“I'd clean forgotten. Funny way of proposin'--eh?” - -“It wasn't funny. That was just what you needed--a woman's strength. -I've tried so hard. But I've sometimes thought----” - -“Go on, old lady.” - -“I've sometimes thought we never ought to have married.” - -“Don't say that. Don't you find me good enough? Come Jehane, I've not -been a bad sort, now have I?” - -“I'm accusing myself. I've tried to help you in wrong ways. I've been -angry and sharp and nervous. You've come home and attempted to kiss me, -and I've driven you out with my temper. And I don't want to do it any -more, and yet----” - -“You're upset.” - -“No, I'm not. I'm speaking the truth. I've been a bad wife and I had to -tell you.” - -“'Pon my word, can't see how you make that out. You've given me your -money to invest through Wagstaff, so he might think I had capital. And -you've given me children, and----” - -“It isn't money that counts. It isn't even children. Heaps of women -whose husbands beat them bear them children. It's that I haven't trusted -you sufficiently. I haven't loved you.” - -“I've not complained, so I don't see---- But what's put all this into -your head?” - -“D'you want to know? Seeing Billy and Nan together. They're so -different--you can feel it. They're really married, while we--we just -live together.” - -Her voice broke. He put his arms about her, but even then she withdrew -herself from him. - -“Just live together! And isn't that marriage? Whether you're cross or -kind to me, Jehane, I'd rather just live with you than be married to any -other woman.” - -“That's the worst of it--I know you would. And I nag at you and I shall -go on doing it. I feel I shall--and I do so want to do better.” - -“Won't money make a difference? That's what's the matter with us, -Jehane; we've not had money.” - -She placed her arms about his neck. “And that's what I started to say, -Ocky. You'll do it this time, won't you?” - -“Make money? Rather. I should think so. Was talking to Playfair only -this morning and he---- But look here, what makes you ask that? You'll -take all the stuffing out of me if _you_ begin to doubt. Who's been -saying anything?” - -“It isn't what they said.” - -He lit his pipe and crossed over to the window. In the darkness his -outlined figure looked strangely round-shouldered and ineffectual. -Her heart sank and her hope became desperate. His voice reached her -blustering and muffled. She did wish he would remove his pipe when he -spoke to her. - -“I know. I know. Confound him! He's been throwing cold water on my plans -as usual. Wants to see me, does he? Well, if he wants badly enough -to cross London, Ocky Waffles is his man. I shan't go to him. That's -certain.” - -Jehane strove to believe that his opposition to Barrington was a token -of new strength. - -Four days later a note arrived. She was tempted to open it, but it -was addressed to her husband. Directly he came in she placed it in his -hands. - -“Read it aloud. What does he say?” - -She watched Ocky's face and saw how it faltered; then he hid the -expression behind a mask of cynicism. - -“If you won't read it to me, let me read it myself.” - -He crumpled it into his pocket hurriedly, as though he feared that -she would snatch it from him. When all was safe, he turned toward the -mantel-shelf, hunting for a match. - -“Why did you do that?” - -“It was addressed to me, wasn't it? Barrington don't let his wife read -his letters, I'll bet. Neither do I; I'm not a lawyer's clerk in an -office any longer--I'm going to be a big man.” - -“But what did he say?” - -Forced to answer, Ocky became reproachful. “Duchess, you're suspecting -me again--you remember what you promised the other night. He says he -wants to see me--thinks there may be something in my plan. Daresay, -he'll offer to put money into it. You may bet, this little boy won't let -him. Of course on the surface he advises caution.” - -“If that's all, why can't you let me read his letter?” - -“Because if I did, I'd be acting as though you didn't trust me. You -could have read it with pleasure, if you hadn't made such a fuss.” - -Jehane knew his weak obstinacy of old and gave up the contest. “You -won't see him, of course--unless he comes to the house.” - -“Don't know about that.” - -“But you were so emphatic.” - -“I can change my mind, can't I? His letter puts a different complexion -on it.” - -“But, Ocky, Barrington isn't two-faced. He doesn't say one thing to me -and another thing to you. He may be awkward, but he isn't underhand. If -he's in favor of your schemes now, he must have heard something that's -changed him.” - -“Not a doubt of it. Very soon a good many people who've thought me small -beer'll hear something.” - -“But you've not answered my question. Where are you going to see him?” - -“Oh, maybe at his office.” - -Whistling, with feigned cheerfulness, he strolled out. As she watched -him slouch down the road, her fingers itched to correct the angle of his -hat. - -That night she searched his pockets and found the letter. It read, “_Mr. -Wagstaff has told me the truth. You must meet me at my place of business -at twelve to-morrow_.” - -It was capable of the construction her husband had put on it; it was -capable of many others. - -Feeling through the coat next morning, searching for his tobacco-pouch, -Ocky was shrewd enough to notice that the letter was in its envelope. -Such neatness was not his habit. When he came back in the evening from -seeing Barrington and Jehane enquired what he had been doing, he handed -her the letter with generous frankness. - -“You can read it now. I wanted to be sure before I told you. I was -right. Barrington's been talking to Wagstaif and has heard all about it. -Oh yes, I can tell you, he's a very different Barrington.” - -“How?” - -“He's discovered that Ocky Waffles Esquire is a person to be respected.” - -She scorned herself for her mean suspicions. He deserved an atonement. -“Ocky, darling, I'm so glad.” - -As her arms went about him, he patted her on the back. “That's all -right, old Duchess. You'll believe in me now--eh?” - -She lifted her face from his shoulder. It was tear-stained with -penitence. “God knows, I've always tried to, Ocky.” - -He must go her one better in generosity. Having deceived her, he could -afford to be magnanimous. - -“You've succeeded, old dear. You've given me your strength and made a -man of me. I'm your doing.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII--THE 'MAGINATIVE CHILD - -The bettering of Mr. Waffles marked the beginning of that intimate and -freakish association which was to shape the careers of the children of -both families. Though their relationship was distant and in the case -of Glory non-existent, they had been taught to regard one another as -cousins. As yet they had met so occasionally and so briefly that they -had not worn off the distrust, half-shy, half-hostile, which is the -common attitude of children toward strangers. From now on they were to -enter increasingly into one another's lives. - -Though Barrington had said that it would be fun for Kay and Peter to -have Jehane's children to play with in the garden and Nan had assented, -neither of them had undertaken to tell Kay and Peter. They had promised -them a surprise--that was all. Truth to tell, they had their doubts -about Peter and how he would receive their information; his jealous -air of proprietorship regarding his little sister gave them moments of -puzzled uneasiness. - -Years ago, before Kay was born, the doctor had told them, “He's an -imaginative child. Oh dear no, he's quite well. He'll grow out of it.” - But he hadn't. He stood by her always, as if he were a wall between her -and some threatened danger. He was not happy away from her; his life -seemed locked up in her life. His tenderness for her was beyond his -years--beautiful and mysterious. In the midst of his play he would still -raise his head suddenly, listening and expectant. - -He was odd and gentle in many ways; to his mother his oddness was both -frightening and endearing. Cookie shook her head over him and sighed, -“'E's far away from this old world h'already. I doubt 'e'll never grow -up to man-'ood.” - -And Grace would reply sharply, “Wot rot!” But she would wipe her eye. - -He had a habit of asking questions before guests with startling -directness--asking them with big innocent eyes; they were questions for -which his mother felt bound to apologize: “He's so imaginative; for many -years he was our only child.” - -Peter, wondering wherein he had done wrong, would sidle up to her when -the guests were gone, inquiring, “Mummy, what is a 'maginative child?” - -His father, when he heard him, would laugh: “Now, Peter, don't be -Peterish or you'll make us all cry.” - -So they did not tell him when his cousins were expected. - -He was in the garden, on the grass beneath the cedar, with Kay curled -against him. He was telling her stories--his own inventions. On the -wall, partly hidden in creepers, basking in the sunshine, blinking down -on them through slits of eyes, was a great gray tabby. The tabby was the -subject of the story. One day, returning along the Terrace he had found -her. Her bones were poking through her fur: she was evidently a stray. -He had stopped to stroke her and she had followed. After being fed on -the doorstep, she refused to set off on her wanderings again. Whenever -the door opened, she entered like a streak of lightning. She was -determined to be adopted; though cook had broomed her on to the pavement -many times, she was not to be dissuaded by any harshness of refusal. -It was almost as though she knew that Kay and Peter were her eager -advocates. - -With a cat so determined there was only one thing to do; take her out -and lose her. So she was captured by feigned kindness and tied in -a fish-basket; Grace was given a shilling and the fish-basket with -instructions to go on a trip to Hampstead and to leave the fish-basket -behind. Now, whether it was that Grace was more kind-hearted than her -statements, or whether it was that she preferred the company of her -policeman to the fulfilling of her errand, the fact remains that the cat -got back before her. An incredible performance if the basket had really -been left at Hampstead! Grace was circumstantial in the account she -gave; there was nothing for it but to accept her word that a cat had -traveled more swiftly than a train. - -Stern methods were employed. Doors were closed against the cat; things -were thrown at it. It was encouraged to go hungry. The children were -forbidden to call it. - -One morning Peter jumped out of bed and ran to the window attracted by -a strange noise. Looking down into the garden, he saw a flurry of fur -careering across flowerbeds till it was brought up sharply against the -wall with a bang. The bang was caused by a salmon-tin, in which the cat -had got its head fastened while foraging in a garbage-pail. Before -he could go to its rescue, cook came out with her hostile broom and -commenced the chase. The cat, blinded and maddened, by a miracle of -agility climbed a tree, leapt into a neighboring garden and vanished. - -A week later it returned, with a ring about its neck where the jagged -edges of the tin had torn it. Such persistence and loyalty of affection -were not to be thwarted. At first the animal was tolerated; then, as its -manners and appearance improved, it was taken into the family. Because -of its adventures, when a name had to be chosen, Peter's father -suggested Romance. When Romance gave birth to kittens, they were named -after various of the novelists. - -The history of Romance, where she went and what she did, was a story -which Kay was never tired of hearing, nor Peter of telling. Blinking -down from the wall on this sunshiny morning, Romance listened with -contented pride to the children, much as an old soldier might whose -campaigning days were ended. - -“And what did putty say when Gwacie twied to lost her?” - -The 'maginative child was about to answer, when his mother came out -under the mulberry: “Peter. Kay. Oh, there you are! Here's your -surprise.” - -For a day or two, while the cousins were a novelty, there was nothing -but laughter and delight; but when Peter understood that their visit was -of undetermined length, he began to regard their coming as an intrusion. -Kay and Eustace were of the same age and naturally chose one another -as playmates. Eustace was a fat, dull boy, prone to tears, with his -mother's black eyes and handsome hair, and his father's coaxing ways. -He was only four, but he had it in his power to make Peter, aged ten, -wretched; for Kay developed a will of her own, and cared no more for -Peterish stories now that she could have Eustace for her slave. - -So Peter was left to Riska and Glory. His old games for two were -useless; he had to think up fresh inventions in which three might -partake. He had no heart for it; Grace came to the rescue with pious -hints from the Bible. - -In the stable by a disused tank, they would enact Jacob's wooing of -Rachel; the tank was the well at which Jacob met her and Romance was the -sheep brought down to be watered--she was, when they could catch her. -But the game nearly always ended in flushed cheeks and protesting -voices. Riska would insist on being Rachel, leaving Glory the undesired -part of Leah, who was sore of eye. Of his two girl-cousins Peter -preferred Glory; Riska was too high-tempered and stormy. So, when he -had served for Rachel seven years and instead had won Leah, he not -infrequently was content to stop, setting Bible history at defiance. - -One evening his father, walking beneath the pear-trees, heard voices in -the empty stable. “I won't. I won't,” in stubborn tones. “But you shall, -you shall,” in a passionate wail. - -He opened the door in the wall quietly. Glory was sitting on the ground, -placid eyed, watching a hot-faced little boy who held off a small -girl-cousin, fiercely determined to embrace him. When matters had been -sullenly explained, Barrington drew his son to him: “If a lady asks you -to kiss her, you should do it. It's Peterish not to. But polygamy always -ends in a cry. It's better not to play at it.” - -Then came the inevitable question: “What is polgigamy, father?” - -Grace was asked for a fresh suggestion; the result was Samson and -Delilah. To Peter's way of thinking Riska was quite suited to the rôle -of Delilah. Too well suited! In revenge, before he could stop her, she -cut off Peter's hair at the game's first playing. - -During her stay at Topbury she committed many such offences. She was a -lawless little creature, strong of character, a wilful wisp of a child, -and extraordinarily like Jehane. Her fragile eager face, with its coral -mouth and soft dark eyes, could change from demure prettiness to a -flame of anger the moment she was thwarted. Yet, smiling or stormy, her -small-boned body and long black curls made her always beautiful--a wild -and destructive kind of beauty. From the first she claimed Peter as -her sole possession, and Peter---- Well, Peter did his best politely to -avoid her. - -Glory was his favorite, though he often seemed to ignore her. She was -the opposite to her half-sister in both appearance and temper. She had -nothing of Jehane in her; nor did she resemble her soldier father. She -was oddly like to Kay and to a man whom her mother had desired with all -her heart. It was strange. - -She was gray-eyed and her hair was of a primrose shade. She was tall for -her age--taller than Peter--and carried herself with sweet and subdued -quietness. She said very little and had submissive ways. Her actions -spoke loudly for anyone she loved. They spoke loudly for Peter; but he -scarcely observed them. His eyes were all for Kay. Glory was like his -shadow stealing after him across the sunlight through that month of -June. Her hand was always slipping shyly into his from behind. And she -understood his love for his sister, accepting it without question. - -She would go to her small half-brother, “Come along Eustace; Glory wants -to show you something.” - -“But Eustace wanth to play wiv Kay.” - -“Eustace can play with Kay directly. Just come with Glory, there's a -dear little boy.” - -She would nod to Peter knowingly, and smile to him, leading Eustace away -and leaving him alone with Kay. - -He could fill her eyes with tears at the least show of irritation; her -persistent following did irritate him sometimes. Once, cross because she -followed, he told her to sit on the stable wall and not to move till he -said she might. Tea-time came and there was no Glory. They searched -the house for her and went out into the garden, calling. Not till Peter -called did she answer; then he remembered why. He remembered years after -the forlornness of that tear-stained face. It was Peterish of him to -forget Glory, and to remember her almost too late. - -Nan, sitting sewing in the quiet sunlight, would often drop her work -to watch the children. She noticed how they kept together, yet always -a little separate, acting out the clash of temperaments which they had -inherited from their parents. And she noticed increasingly something -else--something which she never mentioned and which explained Jehane to -her: that astonishing likeness of Glory to Kay, as though they had been -sisters. - -She would call Glory to her and, as the child sat at her feet, would -say, “Do you like Peter, darling?” - -The honest eyes would be lifted to her own in affirmation. - -“Very much?” - -“Very much, Auntie.” - -The girlish hand would slip into her own and presently a faltering voice -would whisper, “But he doesn't like me always. I worry him sometimes.” - -Nan would call to Peter, “Glory's tired of sitting with mother. She -wants her little tyrant.” - -As they wandered away across the lawn, she would follow them with her -eyes. - -“I hope Jehane's good to her,” she said to Barrington. “Seems to be, in -her jealous way.” - -“She's a nice child.” - -“Nicer than Riska or Eustace. That's thanks to Captain Spashett.” - -“Ah, yes,” Nan would say. - -Mr. Waffles, having moved his belongings to Sandport, came to fetch the -intruders. Peter watched them depart with a sense of relief; now things -would settle back into their old groove. - -In July the house at Topbury was closed and the Barringtons went for -their holiday to North Wales. The servants were sent to their homes, -with the exception of Grace. Summer holidays were ecstatic times of -fishing-rods and old clothes, when parents put aside their busy -manners, broke rules and played truant. This particular holiday was -made additionally adventurous by a tandem tricycle, on which Peter was -allowed to accompany his father when his mother was too tired, trying to -catch the pedals with his short legs or riding on the pedals away from -the saddle, when his father was not looking. - -He was his father's companion many hours of each day, for Nan was often -tired. His father had plentiful opportunities for judging just how -'maginative was his child. - -One morning, on going down to bathe, the sea was rough and Peter, -reluctant to enter and still more reluctant to own it, made the excuse -that he was frightened of treading on a dead sailor. - -Peter, after hearing a sermon at the village chapel, grew profoundly -sorry for the Devil. It seemed so dreadful to have to burn for ever and -ever. He made a secret promise to God that he would take the Devil's -place. Then he thought it over for some days in horror; he had been -too generous--he wanted to go back on his bargain. His mother found him -crying one night; she suspected that he had been sleeping little by the -dark blue rings under his eyes. She coaxed him, and he told her. - -Another sign of his 'maginativeness was his anxiety to know whether cows -had souls. - -“That boy thinks too much,” said his father; “he needs to rough and -tumble with other boys of his own age. At ten his worst trouble should -be tummy-ache.” - -Nan smiled. “But Peter's different, you know.” - -“I know. But, if he's to grow up strong, he must change. Little woman, I -don't like it.” - -“Billy boy, I sometimes think it's our doing, yours and mine. When we -put toys in the empty nursery before he was born, before he was thought -of, we were making him a 'maginative child.” - -“The sins of the parents, eh?” - -“Not that. The love of the parents shall be visited upon the children -unto the third and----” - -“Pepperminta, you know more about God and Peter and love than I do. -You're right, and you're always right. How is it that you learn so much -by sitting so quiet?” - -Matters came to a head through Kay. In the cottage where they stayed, -Peter slept with her in the same bed, in a narrow room beneath a sloping -roof. She was nervous to be left alone there--it was so dark, so far -away, so strange; Peter, a willing martyr, went to bed with her at -the same time. Lying awake in the dark or twilight, he would tell her -stories. - -“Listening, Kay?” - -“Yeth,” in a little drowsy voice. - -As she grew more sleepy she would snuggle closer with her lips against -his face, till at last he knew by her regular breathing that his -audience was indifferent to his wildest fancies. - -One evening his parents returned from a ride and, entering the house, -heard a stifled sobbing. - -“What's that?” - -“Must be the children.” - -“You wait here, Nan. I'll go up and quiet them.” - -“No, I'll come, up too.” - -As they climbed the stairs and reached the landing, they made out words -which were in the wailing: “I don't want to be a dead 'un. I don't want -to be a dead 'un.” - -It was Kay's voice. Peter, leaning over her, was whispering frightened -comfort. - -When Nan and Billy had taken them in their arms and lit the candle, the -tragedy was explained. Peter had been enlarging on the magnificence of -heaven and the beauties of the future life. Things went well until -Kay realized that there was no direct communication by trains or -buses between heaven and her parents. She didn't want to go there. Its -magnificence, unshared by anyone she loved, was terrifying. She didn't -want to be a dead 'un. She kept repeating it in spite of Peter's best -efforts at consolation. - -It was some time before it was safe to blow the candle out and leave -them. Death was very imminent in their minds. - -Downstairs, when it was all over, Billy looked across at Nan, his brow -puckered with annoyance and his lips twitching with laughter. “That -decides it.” - -“Decides! How? What does it decide?” - -“Something that I've thought of for a long time. Peter's too -imaginative. He's not a good companion for Kay.” - -“How can you say that? We all know how gentle he is with her.” - -“That's just it. It's good for neither of them. Now that Jehane and Ocky -are at Sandport it makes things easier; they can keep an eye on him.” - -“An eye on Peter!” - -Billy leant across the table, turning down the lamp and turning it up -again. He was gaining time. “It's for his own good. You don't suppose I -like it. It'll be hard for all of us.” He spoke huskily. - -Nan plucked at the table-cloth. She was almost angry. “You mean that you -want to send him to school at Sand-port--send my little Peterkins away?” - -“Sandport's famous for its schools.” - -“But Billy, you couldn't be so cruel. He's so young and sensitive. His -heart would break.” - -“Rubbish. I was sent to boarding-school when I was eight. I've -survived.” - -“You! You were different--but Peter!” - -She voiced the common fallacy of mothers, that their husbands as boys -were of coarser fibre than their children. She bowed her head on her -arms beneath the lamp and cried. Her little Peter to be thrust out and -made lonely, simply because he had too much imagination! It was cruel! - - - - -CHAPTER XIII--PRICKCAUTIONS - -There was no withstanding his questions. Peter had to be told why: it -was because he was too Peterish. He was going for the good of Kay. All -these years in trying so hard to love her, he had been harming her--it -amounted to that as he understood it. He was being sent to school that -he might learn to be like other children--like Riska and Eustace, for -instance. - -“When I'm quite like them, can I come home?” - -Ah, that was in the future. - -Unknowingly he had committed an indiscretion, the penalty for which -was exile--the indiscretion was called “'magination.” He felt horribly -ashamed, even though Grace did assure him that some of the very greatest -people had been guilty of the same mistake. - -“Why, Master Peter, you're gettin' orf lightly, that you are. There was -once a young fellah as dreamed dreams about sheaves bowin' down to 'im, -and the moon and stars makin' a basin for 'im. D'yer know wot 'appened?” - -“I think that's silly,” said Peter. “How could the moon and stars make a -basin?” - -“'Tain't silly neither, 'cause it says it in the Bible. Any-'ow, when -'e told 'is dreams d'yer know wot 'appened? 'Is h'eleven brethren, they -chucked 'im in a pit--yes, they did. And there 'e'd 'ave stayed for -keeps if it 'adn't been for a passin' circus as saw 'e was queer and put -'im in their show, and took 'im away into Egypt. Oh my, for a boy wiv -'magination, you're gettin' orf light.” - -“What did he do in the circus? Did he ever come home again?” - -“'E grew to be a ruler in h'Egypt and saved 'is pa and ma and eleven -brethren, when they wuz starvin'.” - -“P'raps I'll do that for all of you one day.” - -“Yer silly little monkey! There yer go again wiv yer queer sayin's.” - -Peter had been to the Agricultural Hall in Islington and had seen people -in side-shows without arms and legs: bearded women; elastic-skinned -men; horrid persons with one body and two heads or with a little twin, -without even one head, growing out of their chests and waggling their -pitiful legs. He wasn't like that in his body; but he supposed he must -be something like it inside his head. The belief that he was somehow -deformed made him too humble, too abashed to protest; anything that was -for his little sister's sake must be right. But he wished that -someone had warned him earlier; only in this did he feel himself -betrayed.--Anyhow, never in his wildest fancies had he supposed that the -moon and stars could make basins--and that boy Joseph had turned out all -right. Now he was going to his particular Egypt to get cured. - -Taking him on his knee, his father had explained matters. He was to be -a little knight and not to cry. He was to ride out into the world alone -for the good of the lady he loved best. One day he would return to her, -and then----. - -With his mother it was different; she wept and quite evidently expected -him to weep too. She didn't want him to go. It was not her doing. She -loved him to be Peterish; she would not have him otherwise. To her he -could confess. - -“It's here, mother,” tapping his breast; “I can't help it really. But -I'll try.” - -No, he couldn't help it--that was the worst of it--any more than he -could help hearing the whistling angel. He could pretend that he wasn't -Peter, just as he had pretended not to hear the angel whistle. But he -would not be able to change; he could only learn to wear a disguise. If -school could teach him to do that, years hence he might prove worthy to -live again at Topbury. Because he felt that he was to blame, he strove -to be very brave; if his eyes filled with tears sometimes, it wasn't -because he wanted them to. - -The respite shortened. Letters passed to and fro between his father -and Uncle Waffles, between his mother and Aunt Jehane. Their contents, -discussed at the breakfast table, cast a gloom over all the day. Many -schools were offered, but the best for Peter's particular case was one -kept by Miss Lydia Rufus. Aunt Jehane would look after his clothes, and -he could spend his Saturdays at Madeira Lodge. - -Madeira Lodge! That was the house at Sandport which sheltered Uncle -Waffles. It was stamped in red letters at the top of his note-paper and -proclaimed magnificence. It rather tickled Peter's father's sense of -humor. - -“Anything from Madeira Lodge 'smorning?” he would say, with a twinkle, -as he sorted out the letters. “But why stop half-way in intemperance? -Why not Port Wine Terrace, Moselle Park, in the town of Champagne? -Ocky's too modest.” - -Or he would say, “Lord Sauterne of Beer Castle informs his nephew that -Miss Rufus's pupils require a Bible, an Eton suit and two pairs of -house-shoes.” - -Peter would greet his father's jokes with a strained but gallant little -smile. “We men must keep up the women's courage,” his father had told -him. - -It was hard to keep up other people's courage when your own was down to -zero. - -By the time they left the cottage in North Wales everything had been -arranged. There was just one short fortnight left in which to get -Peter's wardrobe together, mark his linen and finish off his mending -and sewing. The mornings were spent in visits to shops, where boots and -gloves and suits were fitted on and purchased. A knight when he rides -into the world alone must set out duly caparisoned. - -And Peter was thankful for the rush and muddle; he found it increasingly -difficult not to cry, especially when his mother strained him to her -breast and gazed down on him lovingly with her dear wet eyes. He was -glad that people should have so much to do, for he hardly knew how to -conduct himself since the discovery of his awful blemish. He was afraid -to show his affection for his little sister in the old fond ways, and he -could think of no new ways of showing it. - -He had come to the last day. It was one of those days when summer droops -her eyes and confesses that she has grown old. There was just a hint -of tears in the sky--a blue film of vapor which softened the valiant -smiling of grass and leaves decaying. In the garden the last of the -roses were falling and Virginia creeper lay like crusted blood upon the -walls. It was as though summer, like a spendthrift woman, put red upon -her cheeks to pretend she was not dying. Peter, in his sensitive way, -was conscious of the sadness of this vain pretending, this mimicking a -beauty that was gone. He was doing the same: preparing for to-morrow -and at the same time trying to persuade himself that the present was -forever--that to-morrow would never dawn. - -He ran up and down the house trying to seem merry and excited, watching -his boxes being corded, laughing and chattering--talking of when -he would return for Christmas. “We men must keep up the women's -courage”--one of the women was Kay. He was doing his best to be a little -knight; it hurt sometimes, especially when his mother looked up from -fitting socks and shoes into odd corners of his boxes, unhappy and -surprised. She must think him hard-hearted; she should never guess. - -After lunch, having watched his opportunity, he slipped out of the house -without letting anyone know where he was going. His face was set in a -solemn expression of serious determination. He scuttled down the Terrace -and down the Crescent, till he came within sight of the cab-stand; he -was relieved to find that Mr. Grace, as he called Grace's father, was -disengaged. Mr. Grace was a fat, red-faced man, and like many fat and -red-faced men had his grievance. His appearance was against him. People -judged him circumstantially and said that he drank. Even Grace said it. -His stand was suspiciously near Topbury Cock. But most cab-stands are -near to some public house. Peter had become his very dear friend and to -him Mr. Grace had opened his heart, denying all charges and imputing the -redness of his countenance to the severity of his calling and exposure -to the weather. - -Mr. Grace was asleep on his box, his face stuffed deep in his collar, -the reins sagging from his swollen hands as if at any minute he might -drive off. When Peter spoke to him, he jumped himself together. “Keb, -sir. Right y'are, sir. H'I'm ready------ Well, I'm blessed! Strike me -blind, if it ain't the little master.” - -Peter spread apart his legs, thrusting his hands deep in his -knickerbocker pockets. “I'm going to be sent away, Mr. Grace, and I'm -worried.” - -Mr. Grace twisted his head, as if trying to lengthen his fat neck; -finding that impossible, he shifted his ponderous body nearer to the -edge of the seat and regarded Peter with his kind little pig's eyes. - -“Worried, Mr. Peter? Well, I never!” - -“I'm worried for Kay--I shan't be here to take care of her.” His voice -fluttered, then steadied itself as he lifted up his head and finished -bravely. - -“We'll do that, Master Peter. You kin rely on an old friend.” - -“Thank you, Mr. Grace; that was what I was going to ask you. If anyone -was to run away with her, they'd come to you to drive them. Wouldn't -they?” - -“Not a shadder of a doubt. I drives all the best people in Topbury.” - -“These wouldn't be 'zactly the best people--not if they were stealing -Kay.” - -“All the better; the easier for me to spot 'em. Any par-tickler pusson -you suspeck of 'aving wicked designs upon 'er?” - -“No one in particular, Mr. Grace. I was just frightened that I might -come home and find her gone.” - -“What one might call a prickcaution?” - -“I think that's what I meant.” - -Mr. Grace's neck had become sore with looking down, so he tempted Peter -to come on the box. Puffing and blowing, he gave him a hand to help him. - -When they were seated side by side, Mr. Grace looked fondly at the curly -head and straight little body. “I shall miss yer.” - -“And I shall miss you. It's nice to be missed by somebody.” - -“I shall miss yer 'cause you've been my prickcaution.” - -“I?” - -“Yas, you. You've been my prickcaution against my darter, Grace. She's -thought better o' me since we've been friends. And then----” - -“I'm glad she's thought better of you. And then, what?” - -“Well, you kep me informed as to 'er nights out, so I could h'escape.” - -Peter regarded his friend in surprise. “Escape! But she wouldn't hurt -you.” - -“Not h'intendin' to, Master Peter; not h'intendin' to. It's me feelin's -h'I refer to. You don't know darters. 'Ow should yer?--She thinks I -drink, like all the rest of 'em 'cept you. On 'er nights h'out she -brings 'er blooming Salvaition Band to this 'ere corner, h'aimin' at my -con-wersion. It's woundin' and 'umiliatin', Master Peter, for a pa as -don't need no conwersion. She makes me blush all through, and that makes -things wuss for a man wi' a red compleckshon. So yer see, you wuz my -prickcaution.” - -“But you don't drink, Mr. Grace, do you?” - -“No more 'an will wash me mouf out same as a 'orse. It's cruel 'ard to -be suspickted o' wot yer don't do.” - -Peter looked miserably into the kind little pig's eyes. “I'm suspected -too. That's why I'm being sent away.” - -“O' wot?” - -“They call it 'magination.” - -“Ah!” - -“Why do you say _ah_ like that?” - -“'Cause it's wuss'n drink--much wusser. But take no more'n will wash yer -mouf out and yer'll be awright. That's my principle in everythin'---- -Master Peter, this makes us close friends, don't it? We're both -misonderstood. I----” - -Just then a fare came up--an old lady, very full in the skirt, with -parcels dangling from her arms in every direction. - -“Keb, keb, keb. Oh yes, my 'orse is wery safe. No, 'e don't bite and 'e -won't run away. Eh? Oh, I'm a wery good driver. Eh? Three to you, mum; -four bob to anyone else. Am I kind to 'im? I loves 'im like me own -darter.--See yer ter-morrow, Master Peter.--Gee, up there. Gee up, I -tell yer.” - -Peter sought out Grace's policeman on his beat and made him the same -request with respect to Kay. Then he saw the Misses Jacobite and warned -them. Having done his best for her safety in his absence, he hurried -home. - -The evening went all too fast--seven, eight, nine, ten. Every hour the -clock struck he felt something between a thrill and a shiver (a “shrill” - he called it) run up and down his spine. “_The end. The end. The end_,” - the clock seemed to be saying over and over, so that he wanted to get up -and shriek to stop it. Oh, that a little boy could seize the spokes and -stay the wheels of time! - -“Tired, Peter? Hadn't you better----” - -“Oh, not yet! Please, just another five minutes.” - -“The dustman's come to my Peterkin's eyes,” his mother murmured. - -He sat up, valiantly trying to look wakeful. - -They had not the heart to cut short his respite--it was such an eternity -till Christmas. His head sank against his mother's knees and his eyes -closed tightly, tightly. - -“Poor little fellow,” his father said. - -“My darling little Peterkins”--that was his mother. - -They carried him up to bed. On the half-landing, outside the nursery -door, they halted, remembering how their dreams had shaped his character -long before God had made his body. - -Next morning, soon after breakfast, Mr. Grace drove up to the door as -he had promised. He drove all the best people of Topbury to their -battlefields of joy or sorrow. He was Topbury's herald of change, and -had learnt to control his emotions under the most trying circumstances. -But this morning, when the straight little figure came bravely down the -steps, something happened to Mr. Grace's eyes. - -“Good-bye, darlingest mother. Good-bye, little kitten Kay. Good-bye. -Good-bye. Good-bye.” - -“Jump in, old man,” his father said. - -The door banged. - -“Yer awright?” asked Mr. Grace. - -“We're all right,” said Peter's father. - -“Kum up.” Mr. Grace tugged savagely on the reins. “Kum up, carn't yer?” - He had to vent his feelings some way. - -“Dammitall,” he growled as his “keb” crawled down the Terrace, -“dammitall. It'll taik more 'an this fare's worf to wash me mouf out -this time. It's got inter me froat. 'Ope I ain't goin' to blub. Dammit!” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV--PETER IN EGYPT - -Miss Lydia Rufus was a prim person. Judging from her appearance one -would have said that in her case virtue was compulsory through lack -of opportunity. And yet she had had her “accident”--that was how she -referred to it in conversations with her Maker. No one in Sandport, save -herself and God, knew about it. It had happened ten years before Peter -became her pupil. The “accident” had been born anonymously, as one might -say, and had been brought up _incognito_. After the first unavoidable -preliminaries for which her presence was indispensable, she and the -“accident” had separated. She hardly ever dared to see it, for she -was alone in the world and had her living to earn--to do that one must -appear respectable. - -For a woman of such bristling righteousness to have been so yielding as -to have had an “accident” was almost to her credit: it was in the nature -of a _tour de force_, like sword-swallowing, passing a camel through the -eye of a needle or any other form of occult acrobatics. It was a miracle -in heart-magic. And often in the night her heart went out in longing for -the child whom she dared not acknowledge. In her soul, which most people -regarded as an ice-house, a sanctuary was established with an altar of -mother-love, on which the candles of yearning were kept burning. This -chapter in her secret history would never have been mentioned had she -not made Peter the proxy of her “accident,” because he was ten and -because he was handsome. - -It was lucky for Peter. Her usual attitude toward children was one of -condemnation. She expiated her own sin by uprooting the old Adam from -the hearts of her pupils. In her vigor and diligence she often uprooted -flowers. For the rest, she was a High Church woman, wore elastic-sided -boots and never permitted anything to be placed on a Bible. Her system -of education was one of moral straight-jackets. - -Peter found himself in a cramped new house, in a raw new street, on the -outskirts of a jerry-built town. The wind seemed always to be blowing -and, in whichever direction he walked, he always came to sand. It was -as though this place had been planted in a desert that escape might -be impossible. Twenty other little boys, about his own age, were his -fellow-captives. When the school was marched out, walking two abreast, -with Miss Rufus sternly bringing up the tail of the procession, he would -meet other crocodiles of boys and girls, sedately parading, followed -by their warders. These public promenades were a part of the school's -advertisement; deportment was strictly observed. Sandport, as Peter knew -it, was a settlement for convict-children. - -Miss Rufus soon formed the habit of keeping him to walk with her. At -first this caused him embarrassment. Little by little--how was it?--he -became aware that with him she was different. As the mood took her, -she spoke to him sharply, was merely forbidding, or was so kind that he -forgot the sourness of her corrugated countenance and the ugly color of -her hair. It was instinctive with him to treat all women as he did his -mother, with quaint chivalry and forethought. An attitude of gallantry -in a pupil was something new to Miss Rufus. - -When they came to the miles of beach, all tawny like a golden mantle -spread out with a thread of silver in the far, far distance where the -sea washed its hem, instead of going to romp with the other boys he sat -himself down beside her. - -“Go and play,” she told him. - -“But you'd be alone, mam.” - -“I was always alone before you came.” - -“But I'm here now.” - -He stood before her laughing, with his cap in his hand and the wind in -his hair. He showed no fear of her--that was not his way with strangers. -She gazed in his face--the gray eyes, the flushed cheeks, the red mouth. -This was not the sullen little slave of her normal experience. In spite -of herself, his bright intelligence and willingness to be loved stirred -something in her breast. If she had not cared what people had thought -of her--if she had been brave, her child might have been like that. Her -chapped, coarse-grained features grew wistful. Peter, looking at her, saw -only a disagreeable, faded woman with red hair. - -“You don't like me, do you?” - -“Us'ally I like everyone,” said Peter; “I don't know you yet.” - -“I'm a cross old woman. If you don't mind losing your play, you can come -and sit beside me.” - -And Peter sat down. It was dull for him. Across the sands boats on -wheels raced with spread sails, dashing toward the silver thread. -Ponies, which you could hire for a few pennies, were galloping up and -down. Across the flat beach, like a monstrous centipede, with trestles -for legs, the long pier crawled with its head in the sea and its tail -on land. And the pier had its own delirious excitements: on show, in the -casino at the end, was a troop of performing fleas who drove one another -in the tiniest of hansom-cabs. Peter knew because a lady-flea, named -Ethel, had been lost; a reward for her recovery was advertised all over -Sandport. Ten shillings were offered and hundreds of fleas had been -submitted for inspection. Peter had a wild dream that he might find -Ethel: with ten shillings he could escape to London from this Egypt of -exile in the sand. - -Miss Rufus broke in on his reverie. She had been wondering how anyone -who had the right to Peter could be so foolish as to do without him. - -“Why did they send you?” - -“Send me to you?” - -“Yes.” - -“Because I made Kay cry about heaven.” - -“Humph! D'you know what it says about heaven in the Bible?--that there's -no marriage. Was that what she cried about?” - -“Kay wouldn't cry about a thing like that. She's my little -sister--littler than me--and she's never going to marry. We're going -to live together always and have chipped potatoes and sausages for -breakfast.” - -A smile twisted the thin straight lips of the sallow woman; it was the -first that Peter had seen there. It was almost tender--like a thing -forgotten coming back. - -He laughed--he was always ready to laugh at himself. “You think that's -funny? Father thinks it's funny, too. He says, 'Peterkins, Peterkins, -time'll change all that.' But it won't you know, 'cause we mean it -truly.” - -“But wouldn't it be very sad not to marry? Wouldn't you like one day to -have a little boy just like yourself?” - -He shook his head. “I'm an awful worry. No, I don't think so. But I'd -like to have a little girl like Kay--and I'll have her, anyhow.” - -The arm of the sallow woman stole round his shoulder. “Who says you're -an awful worry?” - -“That's why I'm here, you know. I worried them with my queer questions. -When I'm the same as other people, they'll let me come back.” - -“I don't think you're a worry. I hope you'll never be like anyone else.” - -“But you mustn't say that, 'cause you're to change me. I'm glad you like -me.” - -“Then be glad I love you,” she whispered. - -The lonely woman's heart opened to Peter. He told her all about Kay and -Grace and Romance; he thought she ought to know everything since she -was to cure him. But instead of curing him she almost--almost made him -worse. - -There was a strange furtiveness in their relation; the other boys must -not suspect. Miss Rufus despised favoritism; she tried to be very hard -on Peter in lesson-hours. He understood and smiled to himself. - -He was terribly homesick. He wanted Kay badly. He wanted to hear her -laughter. He marked each hour by what they were doing at Topbury. Now -they were sitting down to breakfast; now Kay was going with his mother -shopping; now the dinner was being set and his father's key was -grating in the latch. Sounds and smells would bring sudden and stabbing -remembrance. He would hear the garden with the dead leaves rustling, see -the nursery gleaming in the firelight and a little girl being made ready -for bed. Oh, she must be frightened without Peter, at the top of that -tall dark house! - -At night, when Miss Rufus broke her rule against favoritism and, -stealing to his room, pressed his head against her bony breast while he -said his prayers, it was then that he thought of his mother with most -poignancy. - -But he was to be a little knight, so those weekly letters which -commenced “_My Beloveds_,” were written stoutheartedly. They must never -guess. But Nan saw the tremble in the sprawling hand and the blots, -where diluted ink had spread. - -“Billy boy, we must have him back, I can't bear it.” - -“Nonsense, darling. The chap's quite happy.” - -“He isn't. He isn't. And you know it. Kay wants him--she's fretting. -I want him, and you want him as much as any of us. I want to hear his -footsteps on the stairs, to see his clothes lying about, and--and----” - -“But it isn't what we want, little Nan; it's what's best for him. He's -as nervous as a cat--always has been. Give him a year of sea-air.” - -Nan missed him terribly. No merry voice awoke her in the morning. -The ceiling above her bed never shook with childish prancing. Kay, by -herself, was very quiet. She was always asking where was Peter: had he -gone to heaven? - -But it was when she came home at nightfall along the Terrace that Nan's -longing was most intense. Childhood would be all too short at best. Too -soon the years would take him from her. One day she would give anything -for just one evening of the joy that she now might have. Who could -tell what the future held? An old woman, grayheaded, she would sit and -whisper to herself, - - “Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, - - To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread; - - 'Mother, mother, mother!' the eager voices calling, - - 'The baby was so sleepy that she had to go to bed!'” - -Thinking these thoughts, Nan would sink her face in her hands, -foretasting the solitude that was surely coming. - -But it was for Peter's good, his father said. He looked very intently at -the Dutch landscape by Cuyp, seeking quiet from it, when he said it. - -As for curing him, Miss Rufus was the wrong person to do that. Peter was -aware of it. He had made her as bad as himself. He had set her loving. -He must look for help elsewhere. - -On Saturdays Mr. Waffles called for him--quite a splendid Mr. Waffles -with soaped mustaches and rather shabby spats. He was taken to Madeira -Lodge, shiny with its newly purchased highly polished furniture. In -the afternoons he walked with Mr. Waffles to Birchdale, where the dunes -stretched away in billows of sand and the air was always blowy. In the -evenings he played with his cousins till it was time to return to Miss -Rufus. Across the road from Madeira Lodge was a Methodist Chapel and -beside it a plot of waste land. To this place he would escape when -he got the chance. The grass grew rank; it was easy to hide among the -withered evening-primroses. He had come to a great conclusion: no one -but God could cure him. There, behind the Methodist Chapel, he argued -with God about it, praying for Kay's sake that he might be made well. -Nothing happened--perhaps because Glory found him and, having found -him, was always following him to his place of hiding. He pledged her -to secrecy, told her his trouble and asked her advice about it. But she -only stared with dumb love in her eyes and shook her quiet head. - -Of his longing to return he did not dare to speak to Miss Rufus--she was -too fond of him. Nor must he mention it in his letters. Aunt Jehane--ah, -well, she spoke of his parents as though they were entirely mistaken -about everything. She was always trying to prove to him how much more -broad-minded, clever and generous she and Uncle Waffles were. Her -jealous nature prompted her to steal the boy's heart by every expedient -of kindness and flattery. She told him scandal about her neighbors. -She spoke of love between boys and girls. She made him kiss Glory and -laughed at his awkwardness. She gave him special treats at his meals. -She boasted about her husband, saying how well he was getting on and how -much he would do for Peter. And she did all this that Peter might tell -her that he was happier at Sandport than at Topbury. - -Peter couldn't tell her that. He had commenced her acquaintance with -a prejudice. He could never forget that she had once been the smacking -lady. He watched her with his cousins, how she was foolishly lenient -or foolishly severe, but wise never. She allowed herself to punish them -unjustly; but if anyone, even their father, blamed them, they were “My -Eustace” and “My girls.” Especially was this the case with Glory, in -whose making Mr. Waffles could claim no share. She could always humble -his uncle by speaking regretfully of Captain Spashett. - -For Uncle Waffles Peter had a fellow sympathy; it was to him he turned. -On those walks among the sand-hills they had fine talks together. - -“Old son, I did a big stroke of business this week. Oh yes, I tell you, -this little boy knows his way about town. Had two more acres offered -me, and borrowed money for the purchase. They're a long way out, but -Sandport'll grow to them. Now what d'you know about that?” - -Uncle Waffles was often confessional with Peter and always exuberant. He -asked his opinion on business affairs as though his opinion mattered. He -seemed to keep nothing back, even touching on things domestic. - -“You mustn't think I'm complaining of the Duchess. She's a snorter. But, -you know, she's never understood me. I'm taking her in hand though, and -educating her up to my standard. When first I knew her, she seemed to -think that loving was wicked. Now what d'you know about that?” - -Peter watched for the results of the educating and was disappointed. -When Uncle Waffles tried to kiss Aunt Je-hane, she still drew aside her -head, saying, “Don't be silly, Ocky.” She left the room when he began -to tell his latest funny story. It was odd, if he was really successful, -that she should always treat him like that. - -And there were other secrets Peter learnt--that his uncle had an obscure -disease which no one must mention. His uncle was very brave and laughed -about it. It could be kept in check, so long as he took his “medicine” - regularly. His “medicine” could be obtained at any public house and was -frequently obtained on those Saturday excursions to and from Birchdale. -When Glory accompanied them, Uncle Waffles contrived to do without it. - -At Christmas Peter was put in charge of the guard and returned to -Topbury. The month that followed was epoch-making--a bitter pleasure. -Like a man living on his capital, he was always reckoning how much was -left. And then the respite ended and the exile in Egypt recommenced. - -He clenched his hands. He would not cry. And yet----. - -It was Kay he wanted. His whole life was wrapt up in her. - -The first day back at school he noticed that one of his companions was -absent. The second and the third day passed; then the news leaked -out that he was dead. It dawned on Peter that death was a peril that -threatened everybody. No amount of care on the part of Mr. Grace or the -policeman could shield Kay from it. The thought became a nightmare. Miss -Rufus discovered that he was unhappy; he cried at night in bed. She was -hurt; but, when he told her, she was more gentle with him than ever. - -Midway through the term a telegram arrived. Its message was broken to -him by Uncle Waffles. Kay was dangerously ill and calling for him; he -was to go back. - -A drizzling rain hung over London. The streets were clogged with mud, -and gas-lamps shone drearily through the drifting murk. Throughout the -long and dismal journey he had sat pale-faced; in the intervals between -praying he had told himself that, were she to die, he would never -forgive his father for having separated him from her. He was stunned and -yet fiercely rebellious. In spite of his desperate hope, he was prepared -for the worst. - -At the station Grace met him. Indiscreet through grief, she told him how -from the first of her three days' illness his little sister had never -ceased calling for him. - -“'Er temp'rature's runned up with fretting, poor lamb; but you was -allaws h'able to quiet 'er, Master Peter.” - -Before the cab had halted on the Terrace, Peter was up the steps. -Someone had been behind the blinds, watching; the door opened almost -before he had rung the bell. His father stood before him. In his hot -anger Peter dodged beneath his arm and commenced to mount the stairs. If -he had been there, he felt sure, this would not have happened. - -From the room in which she had been born came the heavy smell of -eucalyptus. Peter opened the door; a fire was burning, as when he had -first found her there. A cot was drawn up to the fire and from it came -a ceaseless tired wailing. In the wailing he made out his name, uttered -over and over. As he ran forward, his mother rose to put her arms about -him. He rushed past her: she did not count. Bending over the cot, he -gazed into the flushed face. The hoarse voice stopped. The lips, cracked -with fever, pressed against his mouth. - -“Little Kay, it's truly Peter. He's never going to leave you.” - -From the moment he touched her, she began to mend. - -Some days later, when relief from suspense left leisure for attention to -other matters, Mr. Barrington wrote to Miss Rufus, saying that his son -would not return. In reply he received a curious confidence. She had -advertised her school for sale, and it was Peter's doing. Peter had -taught her that, except love, nothing mattered. - -Peter's father had seen Miss Rufus; he thought that love on her lips -was an odd word. Couldn't one love and still keep a school? It was very -_Peterish_ of Peter to make a lady with a corrugated countenance do -a thing like that. Something lay behind the letter. Later, when the -scandal had become public, Jehane informed them what that something was. - -Peter's father felt penitent. He took his son between his knees, resting -his hand on his curly head, and gazed at him intently as though for the -first time he was beginning to know him. - -“Have you forgiven me, little chap?” Then, “I was mistaken about you. -Your mother was right. Go on being _Peterish_ to your heart's content. -We love you best like that.” - -To Nan he said, “You should have seen that woman. She was barbed wire -all round--impregnable. Absolutely. But Peter--well! We've got a queer -little shrimp for our son and heir.” - - - - -CHAPTER XV--MARRIED LIFE - -Peter went laughing through the spring-world--it had become all -kindness. In some strange way he had saved Kay's life. Everybody said -so. He did not know how. And now she was strong and well--more his than -ever. - -“'Appy, Master Peter? H'always 'appy,” Mr. Grace would say when they met -on the cab-stand. - -Yes, Peter was always happy now. His eyes were blue torches of joy which -burnt up other people's sadness. His golden little motherkins forgot her -dread of when he would become a man; she held him tightly in the nest -at Topbury, surrounding him with her gentle love. His father showed his -affection in a man's fashion by making Peter his friend. And Kay, racing -down the garden-path and dancing with the flowers in the sunshine, put -the feeling which they all experienced into words, “The joy's gone into -my feet, Peter; I'm so glad.” - -Never again would anyone suspect him of harming her. He could gather -her to him and tell her tales to his heart's content. And what games -of pretending they played together! The old-fashioned garden became a -forest of limitless expanse and the house a castle. Kay was a princess -in danger and Peter was a knight who came to her rescue. Peter taught -his mother and father his pretence-language, so that they might play -their part as king and queen of the castle. Peter's father learnt -that he did not go to business in the morning, but to the wars. In -the evening, when he returned, he would sometimes see two merry -faces watching for him from the top-windows--the top-windows were the -battlements. Then he felt that, grown man though he was, he ought to -prance up the Terrace, as his legs would have done had they been really -those of a royal charger. - -Peter had brought back the spirit of fun-making to Top-bury. In the -garden by day, where the wind whispered round the walls, and the trees -let in glimpses of high-flying clouds, and in the nursery at twilight, -where the laburnum leant her arms on the window-sill to listen, nodding -her golden tassels, he created his imaginary world. Here the king -and queen would join them almost shyly, as if they feared that their -presence might disturb. They came hand-in-hand on tiptoe. Peter noticed -how different they were from Aunt Jehane and Uncle Waffles: they were -never tired of being lovers. - -“Please, Peter, we want to be your little boy and girl. May we hear your -story?” - -The invisible arms of the threatened death had drawn them very near -together. Like the spring about them, their hearts were emotional with -exultant tenderness. - -Like all children, Kay and Peter had their place of hiding, where they -lived their most secret world. It was the loft above the unused stable. -One had to climb up boxes and scramble through a hole in the ceiling to -get to it. It was thick in dust and cob-webs, but they cleaned a space -where they could sit and pretend it was their house and that they were -married. There was only one window, smothered in ivy, looking out on the -garden. From here they could observe whether anyone was coming. There -were chinks in the floor which served as spy-holes; through one of them -they could see the stall in which the tandem-tricycle was kept. They -planned to explore all manner of countries when Kay's legs were long -enough to reach the pedals. - -“Can't think where you kiddies get to,” their father said; “I believe -it's somewhere in the stable. I've been calling and calling'.” - -And Peter laughed, for he knew that grown people were far too sensible -to think of climbing into the loft in search of them. Only one grown -person was so adventurous--but that comes later. - -When letters arrived from Sandport they were usually addressed to Nan; -as a rule the first post brought them, and she would read out extracts -as they sat at breakfast. - -They were curious letters, written in a jealous spirit, but intended to -create an impression of contentment. They were in the nature of veiled -retorts which said, “So you see, my husband's as good as yours.” Without -knowing it, they betrayed envy. If Nan had given news concerning the -doings of herself, Billy or her children, Jehane would reply with -parallel details concerning her family. Just as in conversation she -spoke of her husband as Mr. Waffles, as though the very name were a -title inspiring awe, so in correspondence she quoted his opinions, as a -loving wife would the sayings of a man she worshiped. Jehane wrote -less and less in the mood of spontaneous friendship; if she had nothing -better to say, one wondered that she took the trouble to write at all. -Probably she did it out of habit and, perhaps, in order to hoodwink -herself. - -And she was evasive. Questions as to how Ocky's enterprise was -progressing were left unanswered--in place of answers were loose -optimistic statements. A letter from Sandport usually brought with it an -atmosphere of annoyance. Nan exercised her tact in selecting portions to -be read aloud. It was in keeping with Ocky's character that, even when -Barrington had written himself, Jehane did the replying, saying that her -husband was very busy at present with new developments. - -One morning Nan passed a letter down the table without comment. -Barrington's brows drew together in a frown; halfway through reading it -he flung it from him. - -“Another! Well, I must say they might have waited until they knew -whether they could afford----” - -Nan interrupted him quietly. “Billy, not before----” - -She glanced at the children. - -When they were supposed to have forgotten what their father had said, -Kay and Peter were informed--Aunt Je-hane had another little girl. - -That evening the king and queen of the castle talked together after the -knight and the princess had been put to bed. - -“They've no right to do a thing like that--bringing another child into -the world. Jehane doesn't love him. It's my belief she never has. The -thing's sordid. What chance will the little beggar have? It puts the -whole business of marriage on a level with the animals. Ugh!” - -They were sitting beneath the mulberry in the cool dusk. From far away, -like waves lapping against the walls of a precipice in a cranny of which -they had found shelter, the weary complaint of London reached them. -Within his own house, with his wife and children, Barrington felt lifted -high above all that. He hated this intrusion of strife and ugliness. - -Nan's arm stole round his neck; she had never lost the shyness with -which she had given him her first caress. “Billy, old boy, you mustn't -be angry with them--only sorry. Don't you know we're exceptional.” - -“Not so exceptional as all----” - -“Yes--as all that. How many wives and husbands are lovers after they've -been married ten years?” - -“Never tried to count.” - -“How many then would choose one another again if they could begin -afresh?” - -“Begin afresh, with full knowledge of everything that was to happen?” - -“Yes.” - -“Not many.” - -“Then, who are we to judge? We should just be thankful for ourselves and -sorry for----” - -“But it's the children I'm thinking of--children who aren't wanted, -begotten by parents who don't want one another.” - -The silence was broken by Nan. “Perhaps, Jehane was a child like -that. I've often thought it. She's always been so hungry--hungry for -affection.” - -“Hungry--but jealous. She doesn't go the right way to work to get it.” - -“She hasn't learnt; no one ever taught her. She's married; yet she's -still on the raft.--Billy, I want you to do something for her.” - -“Me--for her?” - -“I want you to ask her, as soon as she's well, to come here to Topbury -with the baby. She's tired. I can feel it in her letters. I'd like to -help her.” - -“She'll only misconstrue your help--you know that. She'll bore us to -tears by boasting about Ocky.” - -“And won't that be to her credit?” - -“To her credit, but beastly annoying. If she'd only believe in him to -his face and cease shamming that she's proud of him behind his back, -matters might mend. She won't let us make her affairs our business. Some -day, when it's too late, she may have to. That's what I'm afraid of.” - -But, when Jehane came, she set that fear at rest. It was impossible not -to believe that Ocky's feet were on the upward ladder: she was better -dressed, happier and had money to spend. She wore presents of jewelry -which her husband had given her--so she said. The money, she told them, -was the result of speculations which Ocky had made for her with the -little capital left by Captain Spashett. She spoke with enthusiasm -of his cleverness. And the happiness--that was because Barrington had -invited her personally. Naturally she kept this knowledge to herself. - -Nan had planned to encompass her with the atmosphere of affection. -Little gifts from Jehane, received in her girlhood, were set about the -bedroom to awaken memories--to let her know how well she was remembered. -Jehane noticed the carefully thought out campaign--the efforts that were -made to win her. She wondered what it all meant; then she realized and -was touched. - -Nan sat wistfully beside her friend, watching the baby being put to -bed. She kissed its little limbs with a kind of reverence and ministered -humbly to its helplessness. When Jehane pressed its eager lips -against her breast, Nan's eyes filled with tears. Jehane looked up -questioningly. - -“I shall never have another,” Nan said. - -Jehane stretched out her hand and drew Nan to her. She could be -magnanimous when for once she found her lot coveted. When the baby had -been fed and was being laid in its cot, Nan slipped to the window and -leant out, gazing across the roofs of Holloway to Hampstead where the -sun hung red. - -There was no warning. She felt lips on her cheeks, lips violently -kissing her ears and neck. She turned with a throaty laugh. “You haven't -done that for ages.” - -“Not kissed you? Of course I have.” - -Nan shook her head. “Not like that, as though you wanted to. You haven't -done it since we were girls.” - -Jehane, half-ashamed of her impulsiveness, looked away. “We've been too -busy to make a fuss. But the feeling's been there.” - -“I don't call that making a fuss--and it isn't because we've been busy. -We've been drifting apart--playing a game of hide and seek with one -another.” Then, before Jehane could become casual, “I do so want to be -friends.” - -“And aren't we friends?” - -“Not in the old sense. We're hard and suspicious, and doubt one -another.” - -“Then let's be friends in the old sense, you dear little Nan.” - -Like Peter, when Nan had made up her mind to be tender, no one could -resist her. She treated Jehane with sweet envy, because of the baby on -her breast. She made believe that Jehane was fragile, and kept her in -bed for breakfast. After Barrington had been seen off to business, she -went up to help her dress. It was in this hour that Jehane was most -confessional. She recalled the dreamy Oxford days, with their desperate -dreams of love, when life was unexperienced. She even spoke of the great -disillusion that had followed; she spoke in general terms to include all -wives and husbands. She spoke of Waffles as he had been, only that she -might praise him as he had become. Her fierce loyalty to him, her -wilful consistency in shutting her eyes to his faults, was a form of -self-respect which never faltered. Nan found a difficulty in pretending -that he was all that was claimed for him; they both knew that he was -not. Still, she was convinced that he was mending. - -Barrington, noticing the change in Jehane, said, “There are only two -things that could do it: money or love. It isn't love, so we have to -believe that it's----” - -But it was love--love for Barrington and the effect of being near him. -Even she herself wondered at how the old infatuation had lasted. Her -very bitterness had been a form of love. Now that he went out of his -way to be kind to her all the passion in her responded--but she had to -disguise its response. - -At night, with another man's child in her arms, she lay awake. In -the darkness and silence she told herself stories, juggling with -circumstances. - -Once she heard a tapping on her door. She crouched against the wall, -shuddering. - -The handle turned. Nan stood on the threshold. “I thought I heard you -moving.” - -Guilty and angry, Jehane said nothing. Nan groped her way toward the bed -and found it empty. - -“Jehane, Janey,” she called. - -Then she saw her, stooped to her and caught her in her arms, begging for -an explanation. Just as once, when she had asserted, “Jehane I _did_, -I _did_ play fair,” so now she got no answer--only, “I'm stupid, dear; -I'll be better in the morning.” - -Cold with alarm, Nan crept downstairs and hid herself in Billy's -arms. He was too sleepy to give the matter much attention. “She's odd, -darling. Never understood her. Poor old Ocky!” - -The intoxication and the madness were gone. Fear had come. Any moment -they might guess. With fear came contrition: she would idolize her -husband more, till he became for her the man he was not. Next morning -she surprised Nan by announcing that she was homesick for Ocky, that her -things were packed and she would return to Sand-port at once. There -was no dissuading her. In her heart she had determined to wipe out her -faithlessness by educating her husband into largeness by love. - -When the train had moved out of the station Billy stared at Nan puzzled. -“Really does look as if she'd grown fond of him! Eh what?” - -Nan squeezed his arm. “Perhaps she always was fond of him and we were -sceptics.” - -“She may be now. She wasn't.” - -“Is it because he's got money?” - -“Does make a difference, doesn't it?” - -Nan pressed against him and looked up laughing. “Between you and me it -wouldn't.” - -“Think not?” - -“Never.” - -Hidden in a cab, he caught her to him. “You darling!” She held him from -her, blushing. “But why now? What's this for?” - -“Jehane makes me thankful for what I've got.” - -That evening a man moved along the Terrace, halted as though he were -minded to turn back, moved on and at last knocked at Barrington's door. -While he waited he mopped his forehead; his manner was furtive. - -Once inside the hall he became important, handing his card with a -flourish. Left alone while the maid announced his presence, he fiddled -with his necktie and twisted his soaped mustaches. - -Barrington burst in on him. “Anything the matter, old man?” - -“Matter? 'Course not.” - -“Didn't you know that Jehane went home this morning?” - -“Got your telegram just as I was leaving. Had business in London. -Couldn't put it off.” - -“Must have been important. She'll be disappointed.” - -“It was.” - -“Suppose it's too late for you to start to-night?” Barrington pulled -out his watch. “Humph! Stop with us, won't you?--Had dinner?--All right. -Let's go out. Nan's in the garden.” - -What was it that had brought him? Barrington kept asking himself that -question. As usual, Ocky was voluble and plausible, but---- His high -spirits were forced; he avoided the eye when watched. He rattled on -about the possibilities of Sandport. He talked of the friends he had -made--men whom Barrington guessed to be of no importance. He repeated -his friends' hilarious stories, “Here's a good one John told me----” It -was Ocky who discovered the humor in the story and laughed. - -Trees grew more dense against the dark. Lights in houses were -extinguished. The roar of London, like a voice wearied of quarreling, -which mumbled vexatiously in a last retort, sank away into silence. But -this tireless voice at his side went on, babbling of nothing, talking -and talking. - -Nan rose. “I'm sleepy. You'll excuse me, won't you? Billy, darling, -don't be long.” - -Ocky refilled his foul pipe--with a pipe between his teeth he felt -fortified. - -Barrington waited for him to reach his point--there _was_ a point he -felt sure. Ocky's visits always had an ulterior motive. - -“Everything all right at Madeira Lodge?” - -“Topping.” - -“And the land investment?” - -“Fine.” - -“Then what brought you?” - -Ocky was as shocked as if a gun had been fired in his face. The -question was unkind. He'd tried to be sociable and to stave off -unpleasantness--and this was the thanks he got. He squirmed uneasily; -the wicker-chair creaked, betraying his agitation. - -“That's a rotten thing to say to a fellow, Billy. What brought me, -indeed!” - -It was Barrington's turn to shift in his chair. He hated to be called -Billy by Waffles. The offence was repeated. - -“You're confoundedly direct, Billy. Whenever I visit you, you always -think I've come to get something.” - -“And haven't you?” Barrington's voice was hard. “Well, I have, now you -mention it.” - -A pause. - -Barrington lost patience. “Why can't you get it out like a man? You've -done something while Jehane's been away--something that made you afraid -to meet her. Haven't you?” - -“Jehane!---- In a sense it's her doing. Don't see why she should make me -afraid.” - -“Her doing! In what way?” - -Ocky struck a match; finding his pipe empty, he held the match till it -burnt his fingers. “I'm not blaming Jehane, but it _is_ her doing up to -a point. She wants money to dress her girls up to the nines. She wants -money to make the house look stylish. If it hadn't been for Jehane, I -should never have left old Wagstaff's office. Mind, I'm not blaming her. -But where was the money to come from?” - -“You let her believe you were making it.” - -“Eh? So I was. So I shall if I can only get time.” - -“Where'd you get the money she's already had?” - -“It's her money that I invested for her.” - -“You've been living on the principal--is that it? On the money that -should have gone to Glory.” - -The tension proved too great for Ocky. A joke might relieve the -situation. “Seems to me that's where it's gone.” When no laugh followed -he hastened to add, “Financial pressure. Of course I'm sorry.” Then, “I -want you to lend me enough to tide me over.” - -“I've been tiding you over all your life. You'll have to tell her. When -you've told her, I'll see what I can do once more.” - -For the first time that evening the foolish tone of banter went out of -the weak man's voice. - -“For God's sake! Don't make me do that. You don't know what a punishment -you're inventing. D'you know what that'd do to her?--kill what little -love she has for me. She'd hate me. She'd despise me even more than she -does already. I've got to live with her. Oh, my God!” - -Barrington drew back into the shadow. He was deeply moved, and ashamed -of it. - -The other man, goaded deeper into sincerity by his silence, continued, -pleading brokenly. - -“You can't understand. Between you and Nan it's always been different. -You're strong and she's so tender. But I--I'm weak. I try to do right, -but I'm everlastingly in the wrong. I've had to crawl for every scrap of -love my wife ever gave me. She's thrown it at me like a bone to a -dog. I'm a poor flimsy devil. I know it. We never ought to have -married--she's too splendid. But she's all I've got. I thought--I -thought if I could take her money and double it, she'd respect me at -last--believe me clever. I did make money for her at first. I saw what a -difference it made. Then I lost. I was afraid to tell her, so went on. -I thought I'd win if I tried again. And she--after the first time, she -expected the extra money from me. Little by little it all went. But -don't make me tell her.” - -“Then it wasn't lost in land speculation?” - -“Part, but most in stocks bought on margins. My life's been hell for the -past six months. Don't make me tell her.” - -Barrington rose. “It's late. I'll let you know to-morrow. You must give -me a complete list of your indebtedness. Whatever I decide, I think you -ought not to deceive Je---- And, by the way, say the thing you mean when -we talk of this to-morrow. Say _give_, instead of _lend_. I prefer -frankness.” - -That “whatever I decide” told Ocky his battle was won. One night's sleep -placed all his dread behind him. His lack of self-respect permitted him -to recuperate rapidly. Early in the morning he was up and in the garden, -whistling cheerfully as though he had suffered no humiliation. Peter -heard him and ran to greet him. For an hour before breakfast they -exchanged secrets and Peter, in a burst of confidence, initiated his -uncle into the mystery of the loft. - -“A fine place to hide, Peter?” - -“Rather.” - -“And you never told anyone before?” - -“No one.” - -“And you told me! Well, what d'you know about that? You must be somehow -fond of this poor old uncle.” - -Peter's father heard them laughing and was annoyed. His night had been -restless. He was still more irritated when, on entering the stable, he -found Ocky with his arm round Peter's shoulder. In the sunlight he saw -at a glance how his cousin had deteriorated. His gait was more slouchy, -his expression more furtive, his teeth more broken with constant biting -on the pipe. His attempts at smartness--the soaped mustaches and the -dusty spats--were wretchedly offensive; they were so ineffectually -pretentious. - -The weak man's hand commenced to fumble in his pocket as Barrington's -eyes searched him. - -“Where's my baccy? Must have dropped it. Seen my pouch anywhere, Peter?” - -“It's in your hand, uncle.” Peter went off into a peal of laughter. - -“Surely you can do without smoking till after breakfast.” - -Peter's laugh stopped, cut short by the sternness in his father's voice. - -In his study, an hour later, Barrington asked, “You're sure there's -nothing else? There's no good in my giving you anything unless you make -a clean breast to me. And mind, this is absolutely the last time I save -you. From this moment you've got to go on your own.” - -“On my honor, Billy, there's nothing.” - -Ocky had a constitutional weakness for lies; so he told one now when it -hindered his purpose. - -Barrington eyed him doubtfully. “If you've not told me the truth, Jehane -shall know all.” - -“Can't pledge you more than my honor, Billy.” - -The check was signed. He had gained a new lease on life. His contrition -left him, expelled by his fatal optimism. He was again a facetious dog, -whose paltry mistakes lay in the distant past. At parting he tipped -Peter a pound, with characteristic careless generosity. As he walked -down the Terrace, he tilted his hat to a more jaunty angle. On his -way to the station he bought some flashy jewelry for Jehane and the -children. Long before he reached Sand-port, he had so far risen in his -own estimation that he thought of himself as a bold financier, who had -done a most excellent stroke of business in an incredibly short space -of time. As for Barrington--oh, he'd always been narrowminded. The money -was a loan that he'd soon pay back. - -As he approached Madeira Lodge, Jehane was watering flowers in the -garden. He hailed her from a distance, “Hulloa, Duchess!” - -She, being penitent for a treachery of which he had no knowledge, -restrained her disgust at the detested nickname. She was going to be a -good and faithful wife--she had quite made up her mind. The street-door -had scarcely shut behind them, when she flung her arms about him. He was -taken by surprise. - -“I was lonely without you, Ocky--that's why I came back.” - -“Lonely! Lonely for me?” - -“Yes. Why--why not?” - -“Dun' know. Sounds odd from you, old lady.” - -“From me? From your wife? Didn't you feel the house--feel it empty with -me away?” - -His hands clutched at her shoulders. “And when you were not away -sometimes. Old gel, I've always been lonely for you.” - -She brought her face down to his. “Hold me close, Ocky--close, as you're -doing now--always.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI--THE ANGELS AND OCKY WAFFLES - -Ocky was like the jerry-built houses in which most of his life was -spent: the angels who made him had had good intentions, but they had -scamped their work. Consequently he was in continual need of repair. - -[Illustration: 0149] - -If someone had had time to spend a lot of love about him his defects -could have been patched up so as to be scarcely noticeable. As it was -people only came to his help when he was on the point of tumbling down. -They shored him up hurriedly and left him; but no one cared enough to -give him new foundations. The right kind of woman could have rebuilt him -throughout--the kind of woman who knows how to love a man for his faults -as well as for his virtues. But few women are architects where their -husbands are concerned--only those who marry to give more than they get. -Nan could have done it; but she was married to Barrington. Glory could -have done it; but she was only a little girl.--So the angels had to -watch their good intentions crumble. - -Ocky knew quite well what was the matter with him--heart-hunger: he -required a wife who would sit on his knee and ruffle his hair, and call -him the funniest old dear in the world. Such a wife he would have had to -carry through life; her dependence would have educated his strength. A -wife who was censorious made him weakly obstinate and foolishly daring. -If he had been patted and hugged, he would have been a good man. His -mother had done that; but Jehane--ah, well, she did her best. - -Barrington, when he signed the check, had made Ocky promise to return to -Jehane the thousand pounds she had lent. It wasn't her thousand pounds, -but Glory's, held in trust for her till she married. Ocky had pledged -his word to give it back on one condition--that Jehane was to be kept in -ignorance of the transaction. At the time he had quite intended to carry -out the agreement; but so much can be done with a thousand pounds and an -ingenious mind can invent so many excuses for dishonesty. - -The morning after his home-coming he hung about the house instead of -going to his office. Already his methods of holding her closely were -getting on Jehane's nerves. His shiftless easy affection tried her -patience beyond endurance. - -“Aren't you going yet?” - -“Presently, old gel. I want to have a good look at you first.” - -“I think you ought to go. You'll have all your life to look at me--and -I've got my work, if you haven't.” - -“All right, old gel.” - -“I wish you wouldn't 'old gel' me so much. It's vulgar and silly.” - -Lighting his pipe, he strolled into the hall and picked up his hat. He -stood there fumbling with it. Only when she followed him did he set it -on his head, retreating toward the door. With the street at his back, he -turned. - -“I say, about your money.” - -“For goodness sake, go. We can talk about that at lunch.” - -He glanced across his shoulder at the sunlit street; his flight would be -unimpeded. - -“Don't lose your wool, old---- I mean, Jehane. I've something to tell -you. Had a nice little stroke o' luck. Made thirty pounds for you.” - -The flame of hostility sank at the mention of money. They stood gazing -at one another. Each was aware that, within twelve hours of peace being -declared, the old feud had all but broken out. Jehane was frightened -by the knowledge and self-scornful at her lapse into temper. Ocky was -congratulating himself on the dexterous lie with which the crash had -been averted. - -“Thirty pounds! And you kept it so quiet!” - -He twirled his mustaches fiercely, straddling the doormat, all boldness -and bullying self-righteousness now. “This little boy may be vulgar -sometimes, but he isn't silly--far from it.” - -“But how did you do it?” She leant against him with both her hands on -his arm, trying to make his eyes meet hers. - -“You wouldn't understand. Watched the market, yer know. Sold out just in -time--last moment in fact.” - -“You _are_ clever--that's what I kept telling Billy and Nan.” - -“Think so? I've sometimes thought so myself.” He held his face away from -hers as she pushed to the door and put her arms about his neck. “And yet -you were treating me like a fool just now. You're too ready at calling -me silly and vulgar. I get tired of it.” As he spoke he had in mind the -firm way in which a masterful person like Barrington would act. “You've -got to stop it, Jehane. It's the last time I mention it.” - -“I know I'm unfair--unfair to you, to myself, to all of us. Oh, Ocky, be -patient with me; I do so want to be better.” - -She hid her face against his shoulder in contrition and unhappiness. -Ocky was a generous enemy. He found it easy to forgive, being a sinner -himself. - -“There, there! That's awright, Duchess. Don't cry about it---- But -I brought this matter up 'cause I think you ought to have your money -back.” - -She stared at him in surprise. “Ought to! Why, what d'you mean? Is it -a punishment? I don't understand.” He set his hat far back on his -forehead. - -“I'm not trying to hurt your feelin's; but you don't trust me. Never -have. It's anxious work handling the money of a woman who don't trust -you. If I were to make a mistake, you'd give me hell--I mean, the -warmest time I've ever had. I'd rather--much rather--you took your money -back.” - -He was drifting away from her--already she had pushed him from her. -Something must be done. - -“It's you who don't trust me, if you think that.” Her tones quivered -with reproach as she said it. - -“Then you want me to go on investing for you?” - -“Of course.” - -“You're sure of it?” - -“Quite, _quite_ sure of it.” - -“Then always remember, I tried to make you take it back and you -wouldn't. Isn't that so?” - -“Yes, I wouldn't.” - -“Awright, I'll do my best; but I do it under protest, don't forget.” - -“Oh, Ocky, everything that we have we share.” - -He kissed her and passed out into the street with alacrity; she might -get to considering his motives. But at the garden gate he hesitated, -dawdled, and came back. - -“Look here, I don't want Barrington nosing into my affairs. If I do this -for you it's between ourselves.” - -“I shouldn't think of telling Barrington.” - -“Well, if you breathe a word to Nan I'll stop dead, and you can manage -your investments yourself.” - -So he kept to the letter of his agreement with Barrington--and he kept -to Jehane's capital. And he accomplished this by that small lie about -the thirty pounds. - -When Mr. Playfair had chosen Ocky Waffles to be office-manager of the -Sandport Real Estate Concern, he had shown remarkable cunning. He was -tricky himself and he required a subordinate who was no more scrupulous, -yet a subordinate who could give to smart transactions an appearance -of honesty. Mr. Playfair's finances were scanty; in order to extend -his credit it was necessary to pose in the eyes of Sandport as a civic -benefactor. Outside investors were attracted by a not too truthful, -but undoubtedly clever, series of advertisements for which Ocky was -responsible, such as:-- - -“_Houses Built on Sand!_ We all remember the Bible parable of the foolish -man who built his house upon sand: when the winds blew and the floods -came, it fell. Houses built at Sandport are the exception. We have a -lower death rate here, etc., etc. OUR HOUSES STAND.” - -This was all very well, but several important facts were omitted from -the advertisements: that a number of the land lots offered for sale -were too inaccessible to be of practical value and that those marked as -_sold_, which connected them up with the town, were actually still -on the market; and, again, that many of the immediate and promised -developments, which would increase the value of the property, would be -indefinitely postponed by lack of capital; and, again, that, in certain -cases, building would be impossible by reason of fresh-water springs -which undermined the sand. - -In the promotion of a shaky enterprise Ocky was in his element. He could -not have brought the same cleverness to bear on an honest transaction. -The school of life from which he had graduated was one of shifts, -evasions and shams. Even his experiences with Jehane kept his hand -expert. He was so plausible in his gilding of falsity that he made it -appear like the truth itself. - -But if Playfair in selecting Ocky had shown his cunning, he had also -shown his lack of business shrewdness, for Ocky was not the person to -trust with money. And he had to trust him, so that he might make him the -scape-goat if any infringment of the law should be found out. Some -of the money which Barrington had given Ocky had gone toward the -straightening of the Sandport Real Estate Concern's accounts, before -Playfair should discover that they had been juggled. Ocky had not meant -to steal; he never meant to do anything improper. He borrowed the firm's -money to support his private speculations. While Jehane's affection -could only be purchased, he was continually tempted to borrow. He fully -intended to pay back. He always fully intended. - -The angels made three desperate efforts to prevent Ocky from crumbling. -They gave him Glory. A curious sympathy had grown up between him and the -child of Jehane's first marriage. Perhaps it was that they both suffered -from the unevenness of Jehane's temper. At any rate, he much preferred -her to his own long-lashed, slant-eyed little daughter. Riska, though -she was only seven, had learnt to be both vain and selfish; at the same -time, when there was anything she wanted, she knew how to be attractive. -She was her mother's favorite and belonged to her mother's camp. And -Madeira Lodge tended to become more and more divided into two silently -hostile parties. Ocky had the unpleasant feeling that Riska was amused -by the outbreaks which occurred, and turned them to her own profit. -Whereas Glory---- - -Already at ten, Glory was a woman in her forethought for him. She would -follow after him, hanging up his coat and hat, rectifying his habitual -untidiness, and stamping out the sparks which were so often the -beginnings of domestic conflagrations. Her gray eyes were always kind -when they looked at him and she was never impatient under his caresses. -“Poor little father,” she would whisper, putting her soft arms about -him, “I'm sure mother didn't mean to say that.” - -And the angels gave him his baby-girl. Mary they called her, which was -contracted to Moggs as she grew older. But Riska called her the M. L. -O., which stood for Ma's Left Over, because she was so small that it -seemed as though Jehane had run short of material when she made her. -Ocky was very glad of Moggs; Moggs was too young to judge him. Even -Eustace judged him, saying, “You's been naughty, Daddy; Mumma's vewy -angwy.” There was no pity in the little boy's tone when he said it--only -sorrowful accusation. - -Sitting by Moggs's cradle, Ocky would wonder whether the day would come -when she, learning what a fool she had for a father, would turn against -him. In the midst of his wondering, she would wake and he would see two -blue glimpses of heaven laughing up at him. He would take her in his -arms, promising her, because she could not understand a word he said, -that for her sake he would try not to take so much “medicine.” - -“Medicine,” as a means to bolstering up his courage, was a habit which -grew upon him. - -Peter, who was the third effort of the angels, noticed a change -every time he visited Uncle Waffles. On those walks across the lonely -sand-hills, Uncle Waffles no longer pretended that he drank the -“medicine” for his health. - -“You're a ha'penny marvel, Peter--that's what you are. You get me to -tell you everything. It's 'cause I have to tell somebody, and I know you -won't split on me. Now about this 'medicine'; I'm taking more and -more of it. And why? Because it's my only way of being happy. Before I -married the Duchess I hardly ever touched it. I had my mother then. I -wish you'd known her, Peter; she was a rare one for laughing. I only -feel like laughing now when I've taken more 'medicine' than's good for -me. Not that I was ever drunk in my life. It never goes to my head--only -legs.” - -He had usually had too much when he made these confessions. Peter knew -he had by the way in which he said, “I got a nacherly strong stomick. -It's a gif from God, I reckon.” - -Peter kept these disclosures to himself and walked his uncle about till -it was safe to return to Madeira Lodge. Ocky would retire as soon as -they entered, saying that he had a bad headache. They became of such -frequent occurrence that Jehane began to be suspicious. - -During the next three years Ocky's visits to Topbury were periodic. -Barrington could usually calculate his advent to a nicety. One -night there would be a ring at the bell and Mr. Waffles would enter -unheralded. While others were present he would joke with his old -abandon, as though he hadn't a care in the world. Then Barrington would -turn to him, “Shall we go upstairs to my study for a chat?” - -The fiction was kept up that Ocky's visits were of a friendly and family -nature. The constant fear at Topbury was that the servants might guess -and the scandal would leak out. - -When the study door had shut behind them, Barrington would give vent to -his indignation. - -“How much this time?” - -“I've had hard luck.” - -“You mean you want me to clear off your debts and pay back the money -you've taken?” - -“It won't happen again, Billy. Just this once.” - -“You said that last time and the time before that, and every time as far -back as I can remember. D'you remember what I said?” - -Before the anger in Barrington's eyes Ocky began to crouch. “It won't -happen again. I swear it. I've learnt my lesson.” - -Barrington knew his answers before they were uttered. “I've told you -each time,” he said, “that, if you repeated your thefts, you'd have to -take the consequences. Last time I meant it.” - -Then would follow from Ocky a series of pleadings and arguments. That -exposure would entail disgrace all round. That he would be arrested. -That his family would be ruined. That the story would get into the -papers and would reflect discreditably on Barrington. When these failed, -Ocky would appeal to their friendship and the common memories they -shared. The scene would usually close with a warning from Barrington -that this was really the last time he would come to his rescue; then the -debts would be added up and the check book would be brought out. - -The threat of Ocky became a nightmare to Barrington and Nan--the -children were not supposed to know about it. The finding of so much -money was an intolerable burden, and they were never safe from its -recurrence. On several occasions Barrington had to sell some of his -pictures to meet these sudden demands for ready cash. To add to their -anxiety was the fact that they had so far refrained from telling Jehane, -out of fear that her resentment against her husband would make matters -worse. So her letters still arrived punctually, singing his praises and -saying how splendidly he was making progress. - -But the day was fast approaching when the shoring up of Ocky Waffles had -to end. It ended when Barrington discovered that his cousin was tapping -other sources for his borrowing. - -On a trip to Oxford with reference to a manuscript, he surprised Ocky -leaving the Professor's house. Nan, when calling on the Misses Jacobite, -recognized an envelope addressed in Ocky's hand. - -The next time he made his visit to Topbury, Barrington kept his promise. -Ocky was shown directly into the study without any preliminaries of -family enquiries. He was not asked to sit down. Barrington faced him, -standing with his back to the fire. - -“I've been expecting you. My mind's made up. I don't want to hear what -you've come for or any of your excuses. You've lied to me. I know all -about the Professor and the Misses Jacobite. Doubtless there are others. -You can go to jail this time, and I hope it'll cure you. I've been a -fool to try and save you. You're rotten throughout.” - -Since the accidental meeting at Oxford, Ocky had been prepared for some -such explosion. He had fortified himself with drink for the encounter. -But he was stunned by this unexpected air of judicial finality. He began -to pour out feverish words. Barrington cut him short. - -“For three years you've poisoned my life. You've blackmailed me with the -fear that your disgrace would be made known. You yourself have made that -fear certain by applying to my friends. The scandal can become public as -soon as it likes. That's all I have to say. Good-night.” - -The game was up. Ocky straightened himself to meet the blow. He ceased -to be cringing and humble. The drink helped him to be bold; so did his -desperate sense of the world's injustice. - -“You say I'm rotten throughout. Perhaps I am. But who made me like that? -I wasn't rotten when we were boys together, and I wasn't rotten when my -mother was with me. Who made me rotten? You and clever people like you. -You never let me forget that I wasn't clever. - -“You never did anything but humiliate me by reminding me that I was on -a lower level. Your gifts were always bitter because they were given -without kindness, to get rid of me or in self-defence; and, in return, I -was expected to admire you. Oh, you hard good man! You couldn't make me -clever just by saying to me, 'Be clever,' or good just by saying, 'Be -good'------ You say I lied to you. Of course I lied--lied as a child -will to escape punishment. You never understood me. Even before I went -crooked you were ashamed of me because I hadn't the brains to think your -thoughts and to speak your language. Your intellect despised me. Yes, -and you taught my wife to despise me. Didn't you call me an 'ass' before -company on the very night I became engaged to her. She remembered that -and took her tone from you. You were her standard. From the first she -was discontented with me because I wasn't you and couldn't give her the -home you'd given Nan---- So I tried to be rich, because to be rich is to -be clever. I gambled with what didn't belong to me to get money to buy -my wife's respect. And now, because _you, you, you_ were always there -setting the pace for me with your success, I've lost everything. But if -I'd won by my sharp-practise, you and Jehane would have been the first -to say that I was a clever chap--I wasn't born bad. What you and my -wife have thought about me has made me what I am. Damn you. I wouldn't -touch a farthing of your charity now. I want to go to the dogs where -both of you've sent me and to make as big a scandal as I can.” - -He was trembling with hysteric anger; his voice was thick and hoarse -with passion. His weak and genial features were absurdly in contrast -with the violence of what he said. His soaped mustaches and white spats -made him a comic figure at any time, but doubly comic in the rôle of an -accusing prophet. - -Barrington eyed him quietly without the quiver of a muscle or the -flicker of a lash. He had hardened his heart beforehand against the -appeal of such a theatric outburst. “Is that all?” - -Ocky hung his head; the fire of his self-pity was quenched by the -restrained ridicule of the man who addressed him. He wiped the -perspiration from his eyes with his tired hands. “That's all.” - -As he was passing into the hall, Peter looked over the banisters and saw -him. - -“Kay. Kay. Here's dear old uncle,” he called and commenced running down -the stairs. - -At the landing his father stopped him. “Not to-night, my boy.” - -Peter laughed and tried to wriggle past him; but his father held him -firmly, saying, “I meant what I said.” - -Looking down, Peter saw the face of his friend glance back at him; it -was lined and tortured. Then the front door closed with a bang. - -Barrington re-entered his study. Now that he had accomplished the -difficult cruelty his mind was in doubt. If Peter loved Ocky, there must -be some good left in him---- - -But he had used that argument with himself before. As he sat, pictures -began to form of Ocky as he had been. He saw him about Peter's age, -the weakly schoolboy whose battles he had had to fight because he was -strong. He recalled that term when he had had to take him to the doctor -with his poisoned hand. He remembered how Ocky's mother had always said -of him that he was the most careful and dearest son in the world---- No, -he hadn't been always bad. - -His thoughts became unbearable; he needed approval for his act. Stepping -out on to the landing he called, “Nan, Nan.” - -When she came he was again seated in his chair. The lights were out and -a log of ship's wood, spluttering on the coals, burnt violet and yellow, -making the shadows wag accusing fingers. She curled herself up on the -floor, leaning her head against his knees, like a small child at the -story hour, before it goes to bed. - -Nan always brought an atmosphere of kindness with her--of innocence and -goodness. Her ways were those of a young girl, who walks on tiptoe -with hands upon her breast, listening for life to call her. Barrington -watched her shining head and how the fire glinted against the column of -her throat. If Ocky had had a wife like Nan------- - -It was some time before she spoke. Then, “Dearest?” - -“I had to be a brute and I hate myself. I kicked him out.” - -“Do you think you did right?” - -“If I didn't, I shouldn't have done it. The thing had to end.” - -“And what next?” - -“We've got to think of Jehane and her children. I'm wondering how much -she knows or suspects.” - -“She'll never tell---- I wonder will she stand by him?” - -There was silence. - -Barrington spoke. “Ocky hinted at something to-night. It might be -true--something that I never thought about. It explains those letters -of Jehane's. It explains why they've never got on together. I've always -said that a little love would have made Ocky a better man.” - -“Dear, what was it?” - -“It dates a long way back. He said that Jehane had made our home and my -love for you the standard of what she expected from----” - -“I understand. And it _is_ true, Billy. She wanted a man like you from -the first.” - -Silence. - -Nan said, “Once she used to talk about the penal servitude of -spinsterhood.” - -“And now,” said Barrington, “she'll have to learn about the penal -servitude of marriage. Whatever happens, unless he ill-treats her, he'll -be her husband to the end.” - -“But---- But can't we stop this dreadful something?” - -Barrington stooped and took her hand. - -“Little woman, we've been trying to stop it all these years. We can't -stop it; we can only postpone it and give him more time to drag Jehane -and the children lower down. We've reached the point where things have -got to be at their worst before they can grow better. It's a question -now of how many of them we can rescue. Ocky has to be allowed to sink -for the sake of the rest.” - -Nan's forehead puckered at the cruelty of such logic. “But I don't -understand. It seems so horrible that we should sit here, with a fire -burning and everything comfortable, saying things like that.” - -“It is horrible. It's so horrible that, if I were to give him everything -I have, he'd still go to the devil. He's a drowning man and he'll drag -down everyone who tries to drag him out.” - -She clung to her husband aghast at this painful glimpse of reality. “But -I still don't understand. Why---- Why should he be like that? He's kind, -and he's gentle, and he makes children love him.” - -“You want to know? And you won't be hurt if I say something very -terrible?” - -“I don't mind being hurt--I'm that already.” - -“I think it's because of Jehane--because of what she's left undone. She -never brought any song to her marriage--never made any joy for him or -happiness.” - -“And because of that he's to----” - -“Yes. Because of that he's to be allowed to go under. It's chivalry, not -justice. At sea one saves the women and children first. He's a man.” - -In quick revulsion from this ugliness of other people's sordidness, he -bent over her, brushing his lips against her cheek and hair. “Shall I -ever grow tired of kissing you, I wonder, my own little Nan?” - -And so, in one another's arms, for a moment they shut out the memory of -tragedy. - -But the angels had not done with Ocky Waffles yet. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII--A HOUSE BUILT ON SAND - -There was one more letter from Jehane. She wrote that Ocky had just -returned from London, where he had been on important business. She -understood that he had been too hurried to be able to visit Topbury. He -was working very hard--too hard for his health. He was overambitious. -While she was writing he had come in to tell her that he was off -again to London. Then followed domestic chatter: how Glory was taking -music-lessons so that she might play to her father when she grew older; -and how Eustace had a new tricycle; and how Riska already had an eye for -the boys. This was the last letter, very foolish and very brave--then -silence and suspense. - -The days dragged by. Nights stayed long and the sun rose late. In the -mornings the fields, which lay in front of the Terrace, were blanketed -in sulphurous mist through which bare trees loomed spectral. Railings -and walls and pavements were damp as though fear had caused them to -sweat. - -All night Nan and Barrington, lying side by side, feigned sleep or slept -restlessly. Both were afraid to voice their dread lest, when spoken, it -should seem more actual. Once, when a hansom jingled out of the distance -and halted outside their house, they started up together listening. The -fare alighted and walked a few doors down; again they drew breath. - -“Why, Nan, little lady, did I wake you?” - -“No, I was awake. I thought---- I thought it was I who had made you -rouse.” - -“I've not slept a wink since I lay down.” - -“Neither have I.” - -As he clasped her in the dark, he could feel her trembling. He held her -tightly to him, laying his face against hers on the pillow. Again they -both were listening. - -“What makes you so frightened?” - -He whispered the question. - -“Always thinking, always thinking---- of the future and what may -happen.” - -She commenced to sob, pressing her forehead against his breast. - -He tried to soothe her. “You mustn't, Pepperminta. You mustn't really; -it hurts. I'll think for you. I always have. Now close your eyes and get -some rest.” - -And she closed her eyes and lay very tense. Hours and hours later London -began to growl. Presently the door of the servants' bedroom opened; the -stairs creaked; the house was filled with stealthy sounds. At last she -drowsed. - -When her husband had tiptoed out to his bath, she rose hastily and -commenced to dress. She must get down before him. He must be spared if -the message was there; she must read it first. - -The dining-room was in dusk these November mornings. At the end of the -room the fire burnt red and before it Kay and Peter warmed their hands. -Not until she had run through the letters did she greet them. Then, for -their sakes, she tried to appear cheerful. Barrington, on entering, cast -one swift look in her direction and realized that the end was not yet. -Absentmindedly they took their places at the table, scarcely thankful -for this respite from certainty. - -The children soon apprehended that all was not well; their high clear -voices were hushed--they spoke in whispers. Peter was fourteen; he had -guessed the meaning of blank spaces on the walls from which some of the -favorite pictures had vanished. The Dutch landscape by Cuyp was still -there above the blue couch, against the background of dark oak-paneling. -Across its glass the flickering reflection of the fire danced, lighting -up the placid burgher as he walked with his ladies on the bank of the -gray canal. Peter noticed how his father's eyes rested on it--a sure -sign that he was troubled. - -Almost by stealth Peter would push back his chair and nudge his sister. -Miss Effie Jacobite gave her lessons in the mornings; on his way to -school he had to leave Kay at her house. Shouldering his satchel, he -would lead her out into the misty streets; then at last he would dare to -raise his voice in laughter. - -At the departure of the children, Barrington would break off from the -train of thought he had been following, and was incessantly following: -_had he done right by Ocky?_ The door would bang; through the long dark -day Nan would sit alone, and speculate and wonder. - -What was happening? Had the smash been postponed? Had Ocky wriggled -round the corner by borrowing secretly from other people's friends? -Billy searched the faces of his business acquaintances and Nan the faces -of their Topbury circle in an effort to make them tell. - -Toward afternoon the fog would roll up from the city, dense and yellow. -Footsteps on the Terrace would come suddenly out of nowhere; their -makers were shadows. Nan, rising uneasily, would go to the window; -they might be footsteps of pursuers or of bringers of bad tidings. Even -Grace's policeman filled her with panic when he paused for an instant -outside the house. His tread was the tread of Justice, ponderous and -unescapable. - -With the return of the children her oppression lifted. Later Billy's key -would grate in the latch. She was in the hall to meet him before he had -crossed the threshold. “Any news?” The servants must not hear her; she -spoke beneath her breath. - -“Nothing. Nothing yet.” - -The children no longer called to one another as they went about their -play. They tiptoed and looked up anxiously when addressed. No urging was -necessary to send them to bed--bed was escape to a less ominous world. - -Muffled, muffled! Everything was cloaked and muffled. - -As Peter put two and two together, pain grew into his eyes; even when -others seemed to have forgotten, the expression in his eyes was judging. - -Only Romance was unaffected by the sense of foreboding. The servants -felt it and discussed it in the kitchen, wondering whether the master -was losing money. But Romance, with cat-like self-satisfaction, went on -bearing kittens and so did her daughter, Sir Walter Scott, who came by -her name through an accident regarding her sex. - -A month had gone by. - -“Should I write to Jehane?” she asked her husband. - -“I wouldn't. If you do, we shall have Ocky back on our hands. Perhaps he -may pull things together now that he knows that he stands by himself. If -he does, it'll make a man of him. Anyhow, if she finds out and needs our -help, she'll send for us.” - -But the silence proved too much for Nan. One morning, on the spur of the -impulse, she packed a bag, left a note for her husband and set off for -Sandport. On the journey through sodden country and mud-splashed towns, -she fought for courage, straining out into eternity to pluck the hem -of God's mantle which, when her faith had touched, was continually -withdrawn beyond reach of her hand. - -She had rung the bell and stood waiting on the steps of Madeira Lodge. -No one answered. She thought she heard the pit-a-pat of feet on the -other side of the door. She rang again and took a pace back to glance up -at the front of the house. As she did so, she saw a curtain move before -a window--move almost imperceptibly. A minute later the door was flung -open by Jehane; Nan saw the children grouped behind her in the passage. - -“Well?” - -The tone of her voice was flat and unfriendly. - -“I thought I'd come and see you, Janey. Only made up my mind this -morning.” - -“Did you? What made you do that?” - -Nan flushed and her voice faltered. She had not expected this hardness -and defiance. She had come full of pity. “I came because I was nervous. -You hadn't written for more than a month. I hope---- I hope,----” - -“Come inside,” said Jehane. “I can't talk to you out there. You can stop -your hoping.” - -Once inside, the appearance of the house told its story. It looked -bare. From the sideboard the silver--mostly presents of Jehane's first -marriage--had vanished. The walls were stripped of all ornaments which -had a negotiable value. In the drawing-room there was an empty space -where there had once been a piano. Only the carefully curtained windows -kept up the pretence of trim prosperity. Jehane led Nan from room to -room without a word and the children, shuffling behind, followed. - -“Now you've seen for yourself,” she said, “and a nice fool you must -think me after my letters. I've lied for him and sold my jewelry for -him. I've done without servants. I've crept out at night like a thief to -the pawnbrokers, when there wasn't any money and there were debts to be -settled. And the last thing I heard before he left was that he'd stolen -the thousand pounds I lent him. And this---- this is what I get.” - -“Before he left?” - -“A month ago, after my last letter to you. You needn't pretend to be -surprised, because you're not. You suspected. That's what brought you.” - -Nan felt faint with the shock of the realization. She tottered and -stretched out her hands to save herself. Glory ran forward and put -her arm round her. “Dear Auntie.” Nan drew Glory's head against her -shoulder, sobbing. “Oh my dear, my poor little girl!” - -Jehane looked on unmoved, merely saying in her hard flat voice, “If -there's any crying or fainting to be done, seems to me I'm the person to -do it. But I'm past all that.” - -Nan quieted herself. “It so shocked me. I--I didn't mean to make a fuss. -But won't you tell me how it all happened?” - -“Nothing to tell. It's just Ocky with his lies and promises.” - -“Oh, don't say that before the children about their father.” - -“I'll say what I like; they're my children. They've seen everything.” - -Nan looked round and saw sympathy only in the eyes of Glory. Moggs, -balancing herself by her mother's skirts, piped up and spoke for the -rest, “Farver's a naughty man.” Even her mother was startled by the -candor of this endorsement; turning sharply, she caused Moggs to tumble -on the floor with a bump. Moggs began to yell. - -Grateful for a diversion in any form, Nan knelt and comforted the little -girl. Jehane watched her indifferently, as though all capacity for -kindness had left her. - -When peace was restored, Nan said, “You're coming home with me, all of -you.” - -“We're not.” - -“Why not?” - -“My husband may return. If he doesn't, I must stay here and keep up -appearances till he gets safely out of the country. Heaven knows what -he's done!---- And it's likely that I'd come to Topbury to be laughed -at! _You_ may want me, but what about Billy? You've both known this -for a month, and you couldn't even send me a line. Come to Topbury! No, -thank you!” - -There was so much to be explained and explanations were so tangled. Nan -saw nothing for it but to make a clean breast. When she told Jehane of -the years of borrowing that had been going on behind her back, she was -justifiably angry. - -“So you knew all the time! And for three years it was practically you -and Billy who were running this house! And you kept me in ignorance! I -must say, you've a queer way of showing friendship!” - -“We did it because--because we were afraid, if you knew, you wouldn't -love him. And then matters would have been worse.” - -“Love him! I've not loved him since we married. He started playing -the fool directly after the wedding before the train moved out of the -station. I knew then that I'd have to be ashamed of him always. I knew -what I'd done for myself. He killed my love within an hour of making me -his wife---- But how you must have amused yourselves, knowing what -you did, when you received my letters about his getting on in the -world--_his progress!_ My God! how you must have laughed, the two of -you! Every time he gave me a present it was your money.” - -All this before the children! - -She threw herself down on a couch and gave way to hysterics, wrenched -with sobs, screaming with unhappy merriment, clutching at her breast and -throwing back her head. The children began to cry, hiding in corners -of the room, terrified. Only Glory kept her nerve and, following Nan's -directions, fetched water to bathe her mother's face and hands. - -When the insane laughter had spent itself, Jehane lay still with eyes -closed, panting. Shame took the place of harshness. Nan asked whether -there were any stimulants in the house; when a half-emptied bottle was -brought from the cupboard, Jehane gesticulated it away with disgust. -“I couldn't touch it. It's Ocky's.” It was all that was left of his -“medicine.” - -Nan persuaded Glory to take the children out of the room. She seated -herself by the couch in silence, stroking Jehane's forehead. - -Presently the bitter woman's eyes opened. They regarded her companion -steadily, with an expression of sad wonder. “You're still beautiful. I'm -old already.” - -Nan began to protest in little birdlike whispers; she was so nervous -lest she should give offence. She was interrupted. “Even your voice is -young. People who don't want to love you have to---- And I always longed -to be loved.” She raised herself on her elbow, brushing back the false -hair. “You've had the goodness of life; I've had the falseness. Things -aren't fair.” - -151 - -“No, they're not fair,” Nan assented. “God's been hard on you, poor old -girl.” - -“God! Oh, yes!” Jehane spoke the words gropingly, as though -recollecting. “Ah, yes! God! He and I haven't been talking to one -another lately. The cares of this world---- the cares of this world---- -What is that passage I'm trying to remember?” - -“It's about the sower who sows the good seed, but the cares of this -world rise up and choke it unless it falls on fruitful land. It's -something like that.” - -Jehane looked at Nan vaguely, only half-comprehending. “Fruitful land! -That's the difficulty. I was never fruitful land---- Tell me, why did -you marry Billy?” - -“Why? I never thought about it.” - -“Think about it now. Why was it?” - -“I suppose because I loved him and wanted to help him.” - -Jehane's elbow slipped from under her. She lay back, staring at the -ceiling, looking gaunt and faded, as though she had passed through a -long illness. “To help him! When I loved I wanted to be helped. God's -not been hard on me, little Nan; I've been hard on myself. I'm a hard -woman. I've got what I deserved. And Ocky---- He was a fool. He had no -mind--never read anything. He was clumsy and liked vulgar people best. -But, perhaps, he's my doing. Perhaps!” - -Seeing that she had grown passive, Nan stole out to give the children -their supper and to put them to bed. That night, the first time since -Cassingland, she and Jehane slept together. The light had been put out -for some time and Nan was growing drowsy, when Jehane spoke. - -“Madeira Lodge! It's funny. A house built on sand! A house built on---- -That's what we came here to do for other people; we've done it for -ourselves. O God, spare my little children, my----” - -Nan took her in her arms and soothed her. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII--PETER TO THE RESCUE - -It was all up. A warrant was out for the arrest of Ocky. Accusers came -forward from all directions--people whom glib promises had kept silent -and people who had kept themselves silent because they were friends of -Barrington. Now that silence had lost its virtue, they shouted. Their -numbers and the noise they made were a revelation and testimonial of a -sort to Ocky's enterprising character. He must have been skating -over thin ice for years. He had almost established a record. Such a -performance, so dexterous and long protracted, had required a kind of -gay courage that is rarely given to honest men. And Ocky was honest by -tradition, if not in practice. His nerve was admirable. No wonder he -drank. - -He was wanted on many charges. There were checks which he had cashed -through tradesmen, drawn on banks where he had no effects. With his -habitual folly, he had left tracks by negotiating some of these -in London since his flight, using letters of a family nature from -Barrington to inspire confidence. These began to be presented five weeks -after his departure from Sandport. It seemed as though he had been doing -himself well and his supplies were exhausted. His name found its -way into the papers, largely because he was Barrington's cousin. So -everything became public. - -The day before the reports occurred in the press, a man of his -appearance had enquired at Cook's in Ludgate Circus about the -exchange rates for French money. The Channel boats had been watched in -consequence; but he must have taken warning and altered his plans. - -“He's ineffectual even in his sinning,” said Barrington. “Why couldn't -the fool have skipped the country earlier and saved us the humiliation -of a trial?” - -The Sandport Real Estate Concern had gone into bankruptcy. Its affairs -would not bear inspection. Mr. Playfair had vanished with all the -odds and ends that Ocky had spared. Both of them were badly wanted. -So Jehane's scornful loyalty in stopping on at Madeira Lodge, that her -husband's retreat might be covered, no longer served any good purpose. -Moreover, every thing in the house was seized by creditors--even her own -possessions were no longer hers because they had passed as Ocky's. She -and her children found themselves penniless. - -Her father, when applied to, presented her with a list of the sums he -had already advanced, unbeknown to her. He laid pedantic emphasis on -his early objections to the hurry of her second marriage. She had always -been wayward. He offered to take Glory and Riska to live with him for -a time, but couldn't put up with the younger children. Her independence -had been her undoing; it must be her making now. She must work. The -first Homeric scholar in Europe couldn't afford to have his peace of -mind disturbed. He was sorry. - -Against her will Jehane was forced to accept the charity of the man whom -she both loved and hated. She came to him a fortnight before Christmas -with her four children--it was the first Christmas she had spent at -Topbury since her engagement to the unfortunate Mr. Waffles. - -Barrington's relations with 'Jehane were painfully strained. He hated -the intrusion of her sordid problems on the sheltered quiet of his -family. He was aware that she had grown careless of refinement in -the vulgarity of her experience. She was no longer the Oxford don's -daughter, soft in speech and lively eyed, but a woman inclined to be -loud-voiced and nagging. He blamed her, was sorry for her and wanted -to be kind to her; but it was difficult to be kind to Jehane when her -feelings were raw and wounded. She refused pity and was as hurt by the -comfort which he permitted her to share as if it were something of -which he had robbed her. She spoke continually of “my poor children,” - betraying jealousy for the lot of Kay and Peter. - -An additional cause of grievance was found in Eustace; he was an amiable -mild boy, dull and fond of being petted, the miniature of his father. -Barrington knew he was unjust, but his repulsion was physical: he could -not restrain his dislike of the child whose sole offence was his strong -resemblance to the man who had caused this misery. Jehane was cut to the -quick; being forced to be humble, she sulked. - -Nan tried to play the part of peacemaker. She was proud of the nobility -of her husband; she understood his occasional flashes of temper. He was -overburdened; he was doing far more for Jehane than she had any right -to expect. He had made himself responsible for all the swindles in which -his name had been employed as an inducement. To fulfil these obligations -he was sacrificing many of his art-treasures; even the landscape by Cuyp -was threatened. - -And she also understood Jehane's predicament. She was too gentle to -resent her seeming ingratitude. Looking back over the long road from -girlhood, she marveled at her friend's fortitude--that she could still -lift up her head proudly and, in spite of bludgeonings, plan for the -future. Jehane might scold and grumble to her when Barrington's back was -turned; it made no difference to her unvarying tenderness. - -And there were times when Jehane was ashamed of her ferocity and, laying -her head on Nan's shoulder, confessed her folly. - -“I'm cruel,” she wept; “all the sweetness in me is turned to acid. I -shall grow worse and worse, till at last I shall be quite impenitent. I -can't help it. Life won't grow easier for me---- If you told the truth, -you'd write over me, 'Here lies a mother who loved too much and a wife -who loved too little.' I'm spoiling my children with my fondness and -filling their heads with vanity---- And I shall often hurt you, little -Nan. But you'll stick by me, won't you?” - -Barrington was suspicious that violent scenes took place in his absence; -manlike, he was irritated and could not comprehend their necessity. He -was furious that his wife should be upset and forbade the name of Ocky -to be mentioned in his presence. - -Peter overheard much of the abuse which was showered on his uncle by -both Jehane and her children. His eyes became flames when harsh things -were said; quarrels were the result. The quarrels were for the most part -with Riska. He could not believe that anyone he loved was really bad. -Glory shared his grieved anger; a defensive alliance in the interest of -Ocky was formed between her and himself. It was the first compact he -had ever made with Glory. But she was too mild for Peter--too much of a -Saint Teresa and not enough of a Joan of Arc. Glory knew that she could -not be valiant; in secret she cried her heart out because he despised -her cowardice. - -Barrington might forbid the mention of Ocky's name, but outside on the -Terrace there was a perpetual reminder. - -A tall man, with a straight back and wooden way of walking, watched the -house. He pretended not to be watching and, when anyone saw him from -the window, would stroll carelessly away as though he were just taking -a breath of air; but he always returned. He got so much on Barrington's -nerves that he finally made up his mind to accost him. - -“What are you doing here, always hanging round? I won't have it.” - -The man, who had tried to avoid him, finding himself cornered, answered -respectfully “Sorry, sir. H'it's orders.” - -“But what _are_ you? A plain-clothes man?” - -“That's not for me to say, sir.” - -Barrington slipped him a sovereign, saying, “Come, speak out You're safe -with me. I won't tell. You know, it's a bit thick, having you out here. -The ladies are upset.” The man scratched his head. “It ain't the ladies -I'm after. It's 'im. You've got 'is missis and kids in there. 'E was -allaws fond of 'is kids, so they tell us. We calkilate that since 'e -cawn't get out o' the country, 'e'll turn up 'ere sooner or later. These -things is allaws painful for the family. That chap was a mug; 'e should -'a planned things better.” - -Barrington thought for a minute. Then he asked, “Are you a married man?” - -“Married, and five nippers, Gawd bless 'em.” - -“Well, look here, put it to yourself: how'd you like to have your wife -made ill and your kiddies sent frightened to bed, because a stranger was -always staring in at their windows?” - -“Shouldn't like it. I'd get damned peevish, I can tell yer.” - -“Good. Then you'll understand what I'm going to say. I'm a gentleman and -you can trust my word. If the man you're after comes here, I'll hold -him for you. In return I want you to be a little less obvious in your -detective work. I can't have my family scared. Go further away, and -watch from a distance. Is it a bargain?” - -Just then Barrington turned and saw Peter standing with his satchel -across his shoulder. How much had he heard? He was awkward under his -boy's eyes; he often wondered what thoughts went on behind them. - -“Run along, Peter. I'll be with you in a second.” - -Then to the man, “Is it a bargain?” - -“It ain't reg'lar,” said the man. - -“But under the circumstances, you'll do it. I'm not trying to interfere -with your duty.” - -“My orders were----. Awright, sir, 'cause of the wife and kids I'll do -it.” - -That night Peter thought matters out. It was he and his Uncle Waffles -against the world. He did not accuse anybody, neither his father, nor -Aunt Jehane; but there was a mistake somewhere. They did not understand. -Whatever Uncle Waffles had done, to Peter he was still a good man. - -Peter crept out of bed and across the landing to a window in the front -of the house. He peered into the blackness. By the railing of the -fields, at a point mid-way between two gas-lamps where shadows lay -deepest, he could see a figure watching. He must save Uncle Waffles from -that. - -School had broken up. It was the twenty-fourth of December. There was -still no news of Ocky. In their anxiety they had almost forgotten that -to-morrow would be Christmas. - -That morning Barrington dawdled over his breakfast, postponing his -departure for business. His wife glanced down the table at him, trying -to conjecture the motive of his dallying. Presently he signaled her with -his eyes, raising his brows at the children. When she had excused them, -he turned to her and Jehane. “Whatever's happened or is going to happen, -we don't want to rob the kiddies of their pleasure, do we? We've got to -pull ourselves together and pretend to forget and try to be cheerful. -What d'you say, Nan?” - -“I'd thought of that. But I didn't like to mention it. Janey and I, -working together, can get things ready.” - -“All right, then. And I'll see to the presents.” - -He rose and laid his hand on Jehane's shoulder. “Come, Jehane, -things are never so bad but what they may mend. I've not always been -considerate of you. Let's be friends.” - -It was one of those patched-up truces which, like milestones, were to -dot the road of their latent enmity. - -Kay's and Peter's money-boxes were brought out; their savings for the -year were counted. Nan gave to Jehane's children an equal sum with -which to go out and buy presents. Peter was kept running all morning -on errands; in the afternoon he was busy decorating with mistletoe and -holly. The preparations were so belated that everyone was pressed into -service. Tea was over and the dark had fallen when he set out to do his -own shopping. - -“Be careful, Peter, and come back quickly,” his mother called from the -doorway. And Kay, thrusting her vivid little face under her mother's -arm, piped up, “Don't be 'stravagant, Peter. Don't buy too much. 'Member -birfdays is coming.” - -Peter felt happy. It was as though a long sickness had ended and a -life that had been despaired of had been restored to them. He knew that -nothing for the better had really happened; but, because people had -laughed, it seemed as if it had. Down in the Vale of Holloway the bells -of the Chapel of Ease were ringing. They seemed to be saying, over and -over, “Peace and good-will to men.” - -Far away, at the bottom of the Crescent, he could see the spume of -gas-light flung against the dusk. All the shops were there and the -crowds of jaded people who had become for one night extraordinarily -young and compassionate. He began to calculate how far his money would -go in buying gifts for the family. Formerly there had been just his -mother, and father, and Kay, and Grace to buy for. Now there were how -many? He counted. With his cousins and Aunt Jehane there were nine -people. He would divide his money into ten shares; Kay should have two -of them. He was passing the gateway of an empty house; a hand stretched -out of the dark and grabbed him. - -“Peter. Peter.” The voice was hoarse and terrified at its own sound. - -Peter broke away and jumped into the road that he might have room to -run. He turned and looked back. He could see nothing--only the walls of -the garden, the gateway and the wooden sign hanging over it, with the -words, _To Let._ - -“Don't do that,” came the hoarse voice, “they may see you.” - -“Who are you?” asked Peter, peering into the shadows. - -“You know who I am,” came the voice; “this little boy can't have changed -as much as that.” - -_This little boy!_ - -“Look out. Someone's coming.” - -A heavy tread was heard. Grace's policeman approached with the -plain-clothes man. Peter bent down to the pavement and pretended to be -searching. - -“Hulloa!” said Grace's policeman. “Who's there?” - -“It's Peter. How are you?” He continued his searching, moving away from -the gate. - -“Wot yer doing?” asked the plain-clothes man. - -“Dropped some money. Oh well, I can't see it. It was only sixpence.” - -He straightened up. - -“Cawn't we help?” asked Grace's policeman. - -“It doesn't matter. To-morrow's Christmas and I'll get more than that.” - -“It's more'n the price of a pot o' beer,” said Grace's policeman. “If -you can afford to lose it, we can. Goodnight.” - -“Good-night,” said Peter, “and a Merry Christmas.” - -When they were out of sight he stole back. “Uncle! Uncle! What can I do? -Tell me.” - -“They're after me. I've nowhere to sleep. I just want to see my kids and -Jehane before they get me. That's why I've come.” - -“They shan't get you,” said Peter firmly. - -“Oh, but they will. I once said, 'They shan't get me'; but when you're -cold and hungry----” - -“You stop there. I'll be back in ten minutes.” - -Peter ran down the Crescent. It was he and Uncle Waffles against the -world; but there was one man who might help--a man who wasn't good -enough to be hard and judging. Peter looked ahead as he ran, shaping -his plan. Yes, there he was, dropping the reins on his horse's back from -driving his last fare. - -Peter tugged at his arm as Mr. Grace heaved himself down from the seat -to the pavement. - -“None O' that, me boy, or I'll tear yer bloomin' tripes h'out---- Oh, -beg parding; h'it's you, Master Peter.” - -“I want to speak to you, Mr. Grace, somewhere where we can't be seen or -heard.” - -“Yer do, do yer? Wot abart the pub?” - -“Not the pub, people'd wonder to see me there.” - -Mr. Grace was offended; no one ever wondered to see him there. “Not -respeckable enough! That's it, is h'it. Ah well, you take my advice. -You're young. If yer want to live ter be my age, pickle yer guts. -Yer'll 'ave a darter one day, don't yer worry. Gawd pity a man wiv a -disrespekful hussy---- Suppose yer think I'm drunk?” - -The situation required tact. “Not drunk, Mr. Grace; you don't run your -words together. You're just Christmasy, I expect.” - -Mr. Grace threw a rug over his horse's back and fetched out the -nose-bag. When this was done, he addressed Peter solemnly, steadying -himself against the shafts. “I am drunk. Yer know I'm drunk. I know I'm -drunk. Old Cat's Meat knows I'm drunk. Where's the good o' argify-ing -and tellin' lies abart it? Let's settle the point at once. I'm damn well -drunk and I'm goin' ter be drunker.” - -The minutes were flying; there was no more time to fence. “Mr. Grace, I -want you to help me. There's no one else in the world I would ask.” - -Mr. Grace cocked his eye at Peter, a blind kind of eye like an oyster on -the half-shell. - -“'Elp! 'Elp 'oo? 'Elp wot? Me 'elp! I need 'elp me-self; I kin 'ardly -stand up.” - -“Oh please, not so loud! I'm serious. Something dreadful's happening and -you're my friend---- You are my friend, aren't you?” - -Mr. Grace clapped his heavy paw on Peter's shoulder. “S'long h'as Gawd -gives me breaf.” - -“Then let's sit in the cab, so no one will see us and I'll tell you.” - -“Strange h'as it may seem ter yer, Master Peter, I don't fancy the -h'inside o' me own keb. Know too much abart it. There wuz a bloke I -druv ter the 'orspital t'other day wrapped up in blankits. 'E died o' -smallspecks. But anythin' ter h'oblidge a friend.” - -The door closed behind them. - -“'Ere, darn wiv that winder, young 'un. I feel crawlly wivout air. Sye, -don't yer tell yer pa wot I said abart me keb.” - -Peter seized the cabman's hairy hand and held it firmly; he had -to anchor him somehow. “Has Grace told you anything about my Uncle -Waffles?” - -“Swiped somefing, didn't 'e?” - -“Yes.” - -“Wise bloke. Honesty's been my ruin. H'I allaws returns the numbrella's -wot's left in me keb. I might 'a been a rich man; there's lots o' money -in numbrellas.---- Wot did 'e swipe? 'Andkerchiefs or jewels?” - -“He swiped money; but he meant to give it back.” - -Mr. Grace made an explosive sound, followed by innumerable gurglings, -like the blowing of a bung out of a beer barrel. “Yer make me larf. Wot -d'yer taik me for? I ain't no chicken---- Oh, me tripes and onions! He -meant to give it back! Ha-ha-ha!---- Now come, Master Peter, no uncle o' -yours 'ud be such a fool as that.” - -“Well, anyway, he didn't give it back and they're after him.” - -“Oo? The cops?” - -“Yes. Grace's policeman.” - -Mr. Grace sat up with such violence that the cab groaned in its ancient -timbers. “The devil, 'e is! A nice, h'amiable man, my Grice's policeman! -'E's allaws makin' h'enmity 'tween me and my darter. 'E watches the pubs -and tells 'er abart me, and 'im no better 'imself. H'I 'ate' im. So 'e's -after yer uncle?” - -“He and a tall thin man who's been watching our house for a fortnight. -My uncle's up the Crescent hiding in the front garden of an empty house. -You've got to help me to get him away and hide him.” - -Mr. Grace laid his finger against his bulbous nose. “Daingerous work, -Peter! Daingerous work! H'its against traffic reg'lations to h'aid and -h'abet a h'escapin' criminal. Wot yer goin' ter do wiv 'im if I lends -yer me keb?” - -Peter bent his head and whispered. - -Mr. Grace chuckled, slapping his fat thighs. “Blime! Lord love us! That -ain't 'alf bad. That's one in the h'eye for me darter's young feller. -H'I'm on, me lad.” - -An irascible old gentleman who had been stamping his feet on the -pavement, looking for the driver, now rattled his stick on the side of -the cab. - -“'Ere, don't yer do that. Yer'll knock the paint h'orf.” - -“I've been waiting out here for half an hour. It's disgraceful. Drive me -to Paddington.” - -Mr. Grace waddled out of the cab and shut the door behind him, leaving -Peter inside. “I'm h'engaged,” he said. - -While he removed the nose-bag from Cat's Meat's head and gathered up the -reins, the old gentleman addressed a few remarks, the purport of which -was that Mr. Grace would find himself without a license. - -As the cab turned to climb the Crescent, Mr. Grace made an effort to -outdo this burst of eloquence. - -“None o' yer lip, old bladder o' lard. I know your sort. Yer the sort -'as ain't got no change fer a tip and feels un-'appy as 'ell abart -payin' a fare.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX--THE CHRISTMAS CAB - -As they neared the empty house, Peter was about to thrust his head out -of the window. He had the words on the tip of his tongue to say, “Stop -here, Mr. Grace.” So much were they on the tip of his tongue that he -almost believed he had said them. But he darted back, crouching in the -darkest corner of the fusty cab. At a little distance, watching the -gate, he had caught sight of a man. - -Cat's Meat crawled on, ascending the hill. At the top, where the Terrace -began, Mr. Grace halted. “'Ere, young 'un, where are we goin'? You'll be -'ome direckly.” - -“Turn the corner,” Peter whispered from inside the growler; “turn the -corner quickly.” - -Mr. Grace turned and lumbered on a little way. Again he halted. “'Arf a -mo', Peter. Wot's the gime? Tell us.” - -“Did you see that tall lean man, standing outside the garden of the -empty house?” - -“May a' done. Thought h'I saw two on 'em, but maybe I'm seein' double--- -H'oh yes, h'I saw old Tapeworm.” - -“He's the plain-clothes man. I know, 'cause I heard him talking with my -father. My father said he'd give my uncle up, if the plain-clothes man -would trust him and not make mother nervous.” - -“And wery friendly o' your pa, h'I'm sure. Let family love kintinue---- -But where's this uncle o' yours as did the swipin'? Come darn to facts, -me friend. Where h'is 'e nar?” - -Peter's answer was like the beating wings of a moth, rapid but making -hardly any sound. “He's hidden in the garden of the empty house.” - -“Jee-rusalem!” Mr. Grace whistled, cleared his throat once or twice -and spat. Then he started laughing. “Leave 'im ter me, me 'earty. I'll -settle wiv the spotter.” - -He pulled his horse round. But when Peter saw what was happening, he -gave a small imploring whisper. “Oh, Mr. Grace, please, please don't go -back yet; we've got to think something out.” - -“Think somefing h'out! Crikey! I've thought. H'I'm drunk, me lad, and -when h'I'm drunk h'I think quicklike. You get under the seat and think -o' somefing sad, somefing as'll keep yer quiet--think o' the chap as -died o' small-specks.” - -Peter took his friend's advice. Oh, what a Christmas Eve he was having! -He had known Mr. Grace both drunk and sober--sober, t'is true, very -rarely. But sobriety is a relative term, according to your man. -Mr. Grace sober was afraid of the law; Mr. Grace drunk was game for -anything. - -Mr. Grace jerked on the reins. Cat's Meat flung his legs apart, fell -forward, fell backward, came to rest and grunted. He was for all the -world like a chair giving way and making a desperate effort to hold -together; only Cat's Meat was always successful in dodging disruption--a -chair in collapse isn't. - -“I see yer, Mr. Piece o' Sucked Thread. I see yer. Yer cawn't 'ide from -a man as sees double. Come h'out o' that there shadder. Come h'out inter -the blessed light. 'No shadders yonder, no temptations there,' as they -sing in the H'Army o' Salwashun.” - -When there was no answer, Mr. Grace continued his harangue. “Blokey, yer -ain't got a chawnce in the world. I knows yer by yer 'ang-dawg h'air. -Yer wanted by the cops, I'll bet a tanner. It's Christmas h'Eve, blokey, -so I won't be 'ard on yer; but yer've got ter pay fer ridin' in me keb. -Every bloke 'as, or else I whacks 'im on the snout.” - -“Shish! Wot's the matter?” The shadow by the wall spoke and stirred. - -“Wot's s'matter! I'll let yer know wot's s'matter if yer don't pay me my -fare. H'I druv yer from the Terrace and yer wuz goin' ter King's Cross, -yer were. And yer opened the door by the pub darn there and jumped -h'out.” - -“You're drunk, me man. H'I'm lookin' fer the very chap yer blatherin' -about. Where did 'e jump h'out?” - -The detective stepped into the road so that the lights of the cab shone -on him. - -“Kum up, Cat's Meat. I see nar; 'e ain't the feller.” Cat's Meat came up -one weary step and the wheels protested. - -“No, yer don't.” The detective caught hold of the reins. “Where'd this -chap jump h'out?” - -“'Ands h'orf.” Mr. Grace rose up on his box threateningly, his whip -raised as if about to bring it down. “'Ands h'orf, I sye. Leave me -prancin' steed to 'is own dewices, le'go o' me gallopin' charger.” - -“Where'd this chap jump out? If yer don't tell me, I'll arrest you -instead.” - -“Awright, yer Royal 'Ighness! Don't lose yer 'air. Why didn't yer sye -yer was a cop at fust. H'I'm lookin' fer 'im as much as you are. I want -'im wery bad. You and me's friends.” - -“Friends! I choose me own friends. I'm a respeckable man, I am. Tell me -quickly, where'd 'e jump out?” - -Mr. Grace removed his hat and scratched his head. “Of h'all the fiery -blokes I h'ever met, you taik the biscuit, me chap. 'E h'excused -hisself darn there by the pub and the trams. I 'ears the door o' me keb -a-bangin'. I looks round and, lo, 'e'd wanished in the crards.” - -The detective waited to hear no more, but set off running down the -Crescent. As he dwindled in the darkness, Mr. Grace called after him, -“Me and Cat's Meat'll miss yer--so agreeable yer were. Merry Christmas, -ole pal.” Then, in a lower voice to Peter, “Yer kin forget the -smallspecks, young 'un. Yer----” - -But Peter had leapt to the pavement and slipped through the gateway -under the sign _To Let_. “Uncle. Uncle. He's gone. Hurry.” - -He listened. The shrubbery about him rustled. He looked up at the empty -windows, wondering if Uncle Waffles had got inside the house. He was a -little frightened; the darkness was so desperate and lonely. He called -more loudly. “Uncle. Uncle. Make haste.” - -Then he heard a sound of shuffling and something stirred beneath the -steps. He ran forward and seized the man's coat--it was sodden--dragging -him through the garden toward the road. It was strange that so small a -boy should take command of a grown man. - -“You won't give me up, Peter, will you?” - -Give him up! That was likely! Fancy Peter allowing anyone to suffer -if he could prevent it! Why, Peter, when Romance's kittens were to be -drowned, would steal them away and hide them. He couldn't bear that -anything should be wounded or dead. He pushed his uncle into the cab -and, before following, held a whispered consultation with Mr. Grace. - -“You remember my plan--what I told you?” - -Mr. Grace digressed. He twisted round on the box, craning his neck to -look in at the window. “'E don't strike me as much ter make a fuss -abart.” - -“That's 'cause you don't know him.” - -“Well, I ain't pining' fer an introduction.” - -“But you're not going back on me, Mr. Grace! He doesn't look very grand; -but he's kind and gentle.” Peter was dismayed by this sudden coolness. - -“H'I'm not the chap ter go back on 'is friends. Hook inter the keb. I -remember wot yer told me.” - -At the top of the Crescent they turned to the left, crawled a hundred -yards and then turned to the right, going down the mews which ran behind -the Terrace. The mews was unlighted and humpy. On one side stood the -high closed doors of stables; on the other, rubbish heaps and the backs -of jerry-built houses not yet finished building. - -The man at Peter's side said nothing. Every now and then he shivered and -seemed to hug himself. Once or twice he twitched and muttered below his -breath. There was the stale smell of alcohol and wet clothes about him. -To Peter it was all so terrible that he could not put his comfort -into words. This man, who swayed weakly with each jerk of the cab and -crouched away from him, was a stranger--not a bit like the irresponsible -joking person he had known as his Uncle Waffles. - -The cab stopped. Mr. Grace waddled down and blew out his lamps. Then -he tapped on the window. “'Ere we are, Master Peter. H'I've counted the -doors; this 'ere's the back o' yer 'ouse.” - -Peter stretched out his hand gropingly in the blackness and touched his -uncle's. “I'm going to hide you so you'll never be found.” - -Ocky's voice came in a hopeless whisper. “Are you, Peter? But how---- -how?” - -“You remember the loft above the stable I told you about? No one goes -there but Kay and myself--it's our secret. It's too cold for Kay to go -there now. Mr. Grace and I are going to help you over the wall; then -you must climb into the loft the way I once showed you and lie quiet. -To-morrow I'll come to you as soon as I can and bring you whatever I can -get.” - -“You're a good boy, Peter. You're a ha'penny marvel; I always said you -were.” - -The whisper was hoarse, but no longer hopeless. - -Suddenly the door was jerked open irritably. “'Ere, make 'aste. Come -h'out of it, you in there.” - -When Peter and his uncle had obeyed orders, the cab was backed up -against the tall doors which gave entrance to the yard of the stable. - -“Get h'up on the roof o' me keb, climb onter the top o' the doors and -see if yer kin drop h'over.” Mr. Grace spoke gruffly. - -Ocky did as he was bidden but, either through timidity or weakness, -failed to scramble from the cab on to the top of the doors. Mr. Grace -growled impatiently and muttered something explosive at each failure. -Now that he was in mid-act of contriving against the law, he was anxious -to be rid of the adventure. - -Ocky excused himself humbly. “I'm not the man I was. I've had my -troubles.” - -“To 'ell with yer troubles! They cawn't be no worse'n mine; if yer want -ter know wot trouble is, taik a week o' bein' father ter my darter---- -Kum on, Peter, you and me's got ter chuck 'im h'over.” - -Standing on the roof of the cab, they each caught hold of a leg and -hoisted. Ocky protested, but up he went, till in desperation he clutched -at the doors and sat balancing astride them. - -Now that he had something to do, Mr. Grace's cheerfulness returned. -“Like bringin' 'ome the family wash, ain't it, Peter?” Then, to Ocky -threateningly, “Nar Bill Sykes, yer've got ter tumble darn t'other side; -I'm goin' ter drar awye me keb.” - -Ocky said he'd break his legs--he might need them, so he didn't want -to do that. He lay along the narrow ledge like a man unused to riding, -clinging to a horse's neck. - -“Awright, yer force me to it.” Mr. Grace spoke sadly with a kind of -it-hurts-me-more than-it-does-you air. Peter was told to get down. Mr. -Grace having driven away a few paces, dropped the reins and stepped on -to the roof, whip in hand. - -“Me and Peter is good pals. Peter says ter me, 'My uncle's swiped -somefing. The cops is after 'im.' 'Righto,' I says. Now h'it appears yer -don't want ter be saved; but h'I've give me word and h'I'm goin' ter do -it.---- Are yer going' h'over?” - -Mr. Grace brought his whip down lightly across Ocky's legs; his humor -made him a humane man. Ocky squirmed, lost his balance and disappeared, -all except his hands which clung desperately. Once again the whip came -down and a muffled thud was heard. - -Mr. Grace took his seat on the box and gathered up the reins. “Any more -h'orders, sir?” he asked of Peter. “Keb. Keb. Keb.---- Thirsty work, -Master Peter. Poor chap lost 'is nerve; 'e needed a little stimerlant. -We h'all do sometimes.” - -But when Peter tried to pay Mr. Grace, he refused indignantly. -“H'I h'ain't like some folks as would rob a work 'ouse child o' its -breakfust. Wot I done I done fer love o' you, Master Peter. You buy -that little gal o' yours a present.” Then, because he didn't want to -be thought a good man, he spoke angrily. “H'I've got ter be drunk -ter-night. Yer've wasted enough o' me time awready. Kum h'up 'ere beside -me h'at once and I'll drive yer 'ome.” - -So they drove round the mews to the Terrace and halted this time in -front of the house. When Peter had rung the bell, his friend beckoned -him back. “Sonny, 'e weren't worf it. 'E weren't reelly.” - -Before Peter could answer, the door opened and he heard his mother's -voice saying, “Why, it's Peter in a Christmas cab! Oh, how kind of Mr. -Grace to bring you back! Were you so loaded down with presents, Peter?” - And he entered empty-handed. He would need all his Christmas money -to help Uncle Waffles. Kay came running to meet him and halted in -bewilderment. “But, Mummy, where are Peter's presents?” - -Grace's mind was taken up with another subject; from the steps she had -caught her father's eye and had seen that it was glazed. As she passed -her mistress she sought sympathy, whispering, “Pa's drunk as usual, Mam. -Ain't it sick'ning? Fat lot o' good me prayin'!” - -But Mr. Grace, pottering down the Terrace, felt a Christmas warmth about -his heart. It wasn't because he had saved a man from Justice; he was -happy because Peter had told him that he was the only friend in the -world from whom he could have asked help.---- Grace might call him a -drunkard, and to-night he intended to be very drunk; but he must be -something better as well, or else Peter wouldn't have talked like that. - -So, because he was happy, he sang as he pottered down the Terrace. -It wasn't exactly a Christmas carol, but it served his purpose. It -expressed devil-may-care contempt for public opinion--and that was how -he felt. - - “Darn our narbor'ood, - - Darn our narbor'ood, - - Darn the plaice where I'm a-livin' nar, - - Why, the gentry in our street - - In the cisterns wash their feet, - - In the narbor'ood where I'm a-livin' nar.” - -Mr. Grace very rarely sang, because he was very seldom happy. Cat's -Meat quickened his step; he knew what that sound meant. It meant no more -work. - -In the distance the lights of the public-house grew up. - - - - -CHAPTER XX--THE HIDING OF OCKY WAFFLES - -Peter's Christmas cab! Why a cab? What had he brought back in it and -where had he hidden it? It must be something very grand and splendid to -demand a cab. Kay coaxed him to give her just one little hint as to what -it was: she went through all her love-tricks without success, rubbing -her silky hair against his cheek and kissing his eyes while she clasped -his neck. It was useless for him to declare that he had bought no -presents; she snuggled against him laughing--she knew her Peter better -than that. - -In the high spirits that surrounded him Peter was very miserable. He was -wondering whether Uncle Waffles had hurt himself when he tumbled into -the yard from the top of the doors. He was wondering whether such -a timid climber had been able to find his way into the loft. He was -wondering how he could help him to escape to safety. Mr. Grace might -not be willing to assist a second time; he had said that Uncle Waffles -“weren't worf it.” But he was; _he was_. - -Wild plans were forming in Peter's brain. Would it be possible to put -his uncle on the tandem tricycle and ride off in the night undetected? -Would it be possible to----? - -And then there was another thought. Ever since he was quite a tiny boy -he had had a secret dread of the loft after nightfall--a fear which he -knew Kay shared. It was all right in the day when the sun was shining; -there was nothing to be afraid of then. But his strong imagination -made him suspect that the loft was used by tramps, hungry, fierce-eyed -tramps, when darkness fell--tramps who climbed over the wall, just as -Uncle Waffles had done. If that should be true and one of them should -find his uncle there----. Peter shuddered. - -“Peter, little man, you've been getting too excited,” his father said; -“we don't want you ill to-morrow. Don't you think you'd better go to -bed?” - -And Peter was glad of the excuse to get away to where no one would -observe him. He felt an outlaw. He had taken sides against his father -and his family. He wasn't at all sure that he hadn't committed a -criminal offence; the police, if they knew, might lay their hands on him -and lock him up with Uncle Waffles. What would Kay think of her brother -then? - -In the darkness of his room he lay awake, listening to footsteps in the -downstairs part of the house. The servants came up and the gas on the -landing was lowered to a jet. Then he heard the rustling of paper, and -his mother and father whispering together. - -“That's for Glory.” - -“It won't go into her stocking.” - -“Oh, yes, it will at a stretch.” - -“And who's this for?” - -“That's for Peter, old silly; go and lay it on his bed.” Through -half-closed eyes Peter saw his father enter, straight and tall, with his -cropped hair and direct way of walking, so much like a soldier-man. He -came on tiptoe, trying to be stealthy; but he stumbled against a chair. - -Nan came hurrying noiselessly. “Oh Billy, darling, you're a rotten Santa -Claus. Have you wakened him now?” - -They listened. When Peter did not stir, his father whispered, “It's all -right, kiddy; the little chap sleeps soundly. By Jove, he's not hung up -his stocking!” - -They examined the end of the bed. Then his mother spoke. “No, he hasn't. -He couldn't have been feeling well. He's been worrying, I'm sure he has, -all this last month.” - -“A boy of his age oughtn't to worry. What about?” - -Nan hesitated. “Our Peter's very compassionate---- He loved Ocky. I've -looked through his eyes often lately; I'm sure he's condemning us.” - -“Us! Poor little Peterkins! It must hurt---- Well, he doesn't -understand.” - -They bent over him, kissing him, thinking he slept. - -“Peter always fancies that everyone must be good whom he loves.” - -And Nan answered, “You can make anyone good by love--don't you think so, -Billy?” - -He slipped his arm about her and leant his face against her hair. “I -know you made me better, dearest.” - -The gas was extinguished and their feet died out on the stairs. - -One! Two! Three! The grandfather-clock in the hall struck out the hours. -Peter could not bear it. He must tell someone. He threw back the clothes -and crept to the door; his parents' room was under his--they must not -hear him. A board creaked. He halted, his fingers on his mouth, his -heart drumming. No one stirred; through the heavy silence came the light -breathing of sleepers. - -Pressing his hand against the wall to steady himself, he tiptoed along -the passage, past Riska's room, past Grace's, till he came to the door -of the room in which Glory and Kay lay together. He looked in; a shaft -of moonlight fell across their faces on the pillow. He was struck -with how alike they were: the same narrow penciled eyebrows; the same -sensitive bowed mouth, just a little short in the upper lip; the same -streaming honey-colored hair. - -He stood looking down at them. Since he had noticed this, he felt a new -kindness for Glory. Kay turned on her side and the paper on the presents -at the foot of the bed crackled. Should he--should he tell Glory? She -looked so gentle. No, it would be selfish; he must endure the burden of -his knowledge himself. And yet----. He was very troubled. - -Up the frosty silence, tremulous and distant, climbed the sound of -music--a harp and a violin playing. His brain set the playing to words: - - “It came upon the midnight clear - - That glorious song of old, - - From angels bending near the earth - - To touch their harps of gold.” - -Its beauty quieted his dreads, lifting his spirit to the world of -legend. It hushed, halted and again commenced. It was like the feet of -Jesus on the London house-tops, bringing safety to sinful men. Perhaps -Uncle Waffles heard it. - -It ceased. A man's voice rang out: “Fine and frosty. Three o'clock in -the morning. A Happy Christmas. All's well.” - -Peter had turned his eyes to the window where the moon sat balanced on a -cloud; now that the stillness was again unbroken, he looked down at the -faces on the pillow. The eyes of Glory were wide open. She showed no -surprise at seeing him there. How long had she been watching? - -He stooped over her and whispered, “It was the waits, Glory.” - -Her arms reached up and dragged him down. “Peter, Peter, you don't hate -me, do you? I can't help being a coward.” - -“Shish! We'll wake Kitten Kay. Of course I don't hate you. I try to love -everybody.” - -“And me just as one with the rest? Not even with the rest, Peter.--No, -no, kiss me now.” - -He kissed her; it was almost like kissing Kay. She held him so tightly -that she took away his breath. He drew back, a little thrilled and -startled. He looked down. Kay's eyes were closed; Glory's were smiling -up at him, timid with puzzled longing. Years later he was to remember -that. Then, yet more distant, the waits re-commenced, like the feet of -Jesus bringing peace to sinful men. And that also he would remember. - -Back in bed he lay very still. The fear had gone out of him; once again -the world seemed kind and gentle. “Christ was born this morning,” he -whispered; “Christ was born this morning. Oh Jesus, who came into the -world a little boy just like Peter, you can understand. I'm so troubled. -Oh Jesus----” But sleep was sent in answer to his prayer. - -It was dark when he awoke. What was it he had been dreaming? Ah yes!--He -rose stealthily and dressed. The morning was chilly. His teeth chattered -and shivers ran through him; that wasn't all due to coldness. Without -looking at the packages on his bed, he stole across the landing and -down the stairs. Outside the servants' room he listened. One of them was -snoring loudly; that was reassuring. As he drew further away from the -bedrooms, he moved more hurriedly. All the time he was expecting to hear -a door open and to see a head peering over the banisters. Having reached -the hall, he ran down into the basement, taking less care to make no -sound. His feet on the stone flags of the kitchen seemed as loud as -those of a procession marching. Something brushed against his legs. He -jumped aside with a cry of terror. It came again, a shadow following. -Then he saw that it was only Romance. - -What was it he must get? It was difficult to think; a hammer was -knocking, in his temples. He felt along the dresser; sent a pan -clattering; stood tense, listening; found what he sought; struck a match -and lit the gas The light helped him to think more clearly, but it also -convicted him of wrong doing. Everything he saw, even Romance looking up -at him unblinking, seemed to say, “I shall tell. I shall tell.” - -Things looked cheerless. Chairs were pushed back from the table, just as -they had been left by the servants. The grate was choked with ashes, in -which a few coals glowered red. But he must hurry. What was it he must -get? - -In the pantry there were sausage-rolls--so many that no one would miss -a few of them. There were loaves of bread, an uncut ham from which Peter -took some slices, a jug of milk from which he took a glassful, making up -the deficit with water, and a dish of baked apples. He helped himself, -feeling horribly thief-like. Then he thought of how cold it was out -there. He crept upstairs to the cloakroom and unhooked one of his -father's coats from its peg. He returned and took a cushion from -Cookie's favorite chair in which the cane was broken and sagging. Thus -loaded, he unlocked the door into the garden, closing it behind him, and -shuffled out. - -How unfriendly and treacherous everything was! Even the kind old -mulberry, stripped of its leaves, seemed to scowl and threaten to reach -down and clutch him. The laburnum, which in summer was a slim gold girl, -pointed thin derisive fingers at him. Across neighboring walls came an -icy breeze, which whispered, “Cut off his head. Cut off his head.” As he -tiptoed down the path, the gravel turned beneath his tread. Dead leaves -rustled. His breath came pantingly and steamed through the shadows. - -He hoped Uncle Waffles would come to meet him. And yet he dreaded. He -could still feel the shaking of his uncle's clammy hand as he had felt -it last night in the darkness of the cab. Sometimes he fancied that he -saw him crouched beneath the bushes. - -He paused irresolute. Should he go forward or----? - -He glanced back. The windows were wells of blackness--hollow sockets -from which the sight had been gouged out. He fixed his gaze on the -window ahead, the loft-window behind the ivy, which spied on the garden. -He had always expected to see a man's face there. It was to be a face -about which the hair hung long and lank, with the mouth pendulous and -the eyes cavernous.--What would Kay think if she could see him now? - -He raised the latch of the door which led into the yard. He looked -round, hesitating on the threshold. His imagination told him he would be -clutched forward. Nothing happened. - -In the stable it was dark as death. He set his burdens down before -entering, so that he might be ready for a hasty exit. He stood still, -his left hand pressed against the door-post; if he had to run, he -would push himself off with a flying start. He was even afraid of Uncle -Waffles now. - -Heavy breathing! Where was it? He called. He heard something whirr, -and jumped back. The same instant he recognized the sound: it was -the turning of a pedal on its ball-bearings. From beneath the tandem -tricycle, with many groans and curses, a man emerged. - -“Bruised all over. That's what I am.--Hulloa! You there, Peter? Oh damn! -That's another on the forehead. Disfigured for life, I am. Nice way -you've got of treating your poor old uncle.” - -He pulled himself up by his hands. Even in the dusk he looked crushed -and sheepish. But every situation, however shameful, had to be made an -occasion for jest. “Wonder how I came here! Tandem trikes make strange -bedfellows. You must excuse my language. Your Aunt Jehane always told -this little boy he must never swear.” - -As his uncle approached him, zigzagging and groping for support -uncertainly, Peter became again aware of the stale smell of alcohol. -He did not need to be told why his uncle had proved such an inferior -climber. - -“Why, I brought you here last night--I and Mr. Grace together.--Did you -hurt yourself when you fell?” - -“Fell! Did I fall? I'm used to falling these days. I'm a li'le -bird tumbled out of its nest. Broke to the wide, I am. And nobody -cares--nobody cares.” - -Peter, hearing his weak self-pitying sobbing, overcame his momentary -physical repulsion. “But I care, Uncle. I _do_ care. Glory cares.” - -“Where's the good o' your caring, dear old chap? You're only a boy and -Glory's only a girl--you can't help me.” - -“But I can.” He pulled at his uncle's trembling hands. “I'm going to -hide you in the loft till they've all forgotten to look for you, and -then----” - -“But, chappie, I've got to be fed and my money's all spent.” - -“I'll get food for you.” - -Uncle Waffles bent above Peter, trying to catch his eyes. - -“You'll get food for me--but from where? Whose food?--You mean you're -going to steal for me. No, Peter, you shan't do that.” - -Peter was perplexed. “If I don't, you'll go hungry. People aren't good -to you. I won't steal, I'll--I'll just borrow. When you're safe, I'll -tell them and pay it all back.” - -“That's what I said, 'I'll just borrow.' That's why I'm here. I can't -bear to let you do anything wrong for me.” - -“But if I don't they'll take you away and lock you up. My heart would -break if that should happen.” - -Ocky sat down on a box and drew Peter to his knee in the darkness, -putting his arm about him. “I've never been loved like that; if I -had I'd have been a better man. If I let you do this I want to make a -promise. Whether I'm caught or not, for your sake I'm going to be good -in the future.--You don't know what I am--how foolish and bad. I was -drunk last night--I got drunk to forget my terror. Do you think I'm -worth doing wrong for, chappie?” - -Peter drew the unshaven face down to his shoulder. “You poor, poor -uncle! It wouldn't be doing wrong if you became good because I stole, -now would it?--You'll let me do it?” - -They stood up. “What you got there?” - -“Food. We must hurry. If we don't they'll find out.--And here's some -money.” - -“Did you steal that?” - -“I saved it for Christmas. I want you to take care of it. Now, here's -the way we go upstairs.” - -Peter tried to laugh. He showed his uncle where to find a foothold in -the wall and, by pushing and whispering instructions, got him through -the trap-door into the room overhead. Then he handed up the results of -his foraging and followed. - -The loft was big and cheerless, thick with dust and hung with cobwebs. -Across the roof went rafters; where they joined the wall sparrows had -built their nests. Over the stalls were holes in the floor through which -hay could be pitch-forked down. There was only one window at the far -end, which looked out into the garden; several of the panes were broken -and let in the wintry air. - -Ocky shivered. For comfort he fell back on his pipe and began to fumble -in his pocket for a match. When he struck it Peter saw for the first -time what he was doing. He snatched it from him and blew it out. “But -you mustn't do that.” - -“Why not?” - -“They might see you from the house.” - -“Not if I'm careful.” - -“You never are careful,” said Peter wisely. - -“But baccy's all I've got.” - -“You've got me. I'll come as often as I can.” - -As he was going, Uncle Waffles hesitated and called him back. “Could you -manage to let me see Jehane and Glory? Couldn't you coax 'em into -the garden? I'm longing for a sight of them. They'd never know I was -watching.--It's an odd Christmas I'm going to have.” - -Peter had no idea that the time had flown so fast. As he passed up the -garden, the sun was swinging above the house-tops like a smoky lantern. -He could see the mold beneath the bushes, glistening and frosty, chapped -and broken into little hollows and cracks. In one of the top bedrooms a -light sprang up; it was Riska's--she must be examining her stocking. - -He had hoped to creep into the house undetected, but at the door he was -met by Cookie. - -“So that's it, is h'it? There's no tellin' wot you'll be h'up to next. -I was just goin' ter count the forks. I thought as we'd 'ad beargulars. -Awright Grice, it's the young master been h'out for a h'early mornin's -h'airing.” He ran past her, but she caught him. “Lor', yer cold, boy. -Come and warm yerself. If you h'ate meat three times a day the same h'as -I do yer wouldn't get blue like that.” - -Cookie's one claim to distinction, which she invariably introduced into -conversation, was that she was a great meat-eater. It made her different -from other people and, having no beauty with which to attract, afforded -her a topic with which to draw attention to herself. - -“You need some 'ot chockerlit, that's wot yer want. Not but wot meat 'ad -be better; but there, that's where h'I'm pecooliar. 'Never was such a -gel for eatin' meat. Lor, 'ow yer runs my bills h'up!' that's wot my ma -used to say abart me. She's dead, Gawd rest 'er bones.--Now, drink that -h'up, yer little sinner. Thought h'it was summer, did yer? Went h'out -to 'ear the pretty burds. I'm only pecooliar abart meat; but, the divil -take me, if you ain't pecooliar all over.” - -Cookie sat down in her favorite chair; the cane burst under her. Her -legs shot up and her arms waved wildly. “'Elp! 'Elp me, Master Peter. -For good luck's sake!” - -Peter helped her. - -“H'it's a wonder I didn't break no bones. Bones is brittle this weather. -But where's me cushion? If that cat's 'ad it----” - -Peter escaped and slipped into the cloak-room. Hidden behind the coats, -he listened to Cookie stamping up and down, breathing threatening and -slaughter against all cats--especially cats who stole cushions. - -In her search for the lost cushion she began to make discoveries. -“Where's them sorsage-rolls? There was twenty. And 'oo's been cuttin' -the 'am? She was allaws a wery honest cat. Can't understand it. Never -knew a cat to cut 'am. Cats ain't us'ally fond o' h'apples--leastwise no -cat I h'ever 'eard of.--Shish, yer warmint! Shish! Get along wi' yer.” - -Something was thrown. There was a loud me-ow. Romance, followed by Sir -Walter Scott, followed by Cookie, fled upstairs. Peter was pained -that others should be blamed--even though they were only cats--for his -wrongdoing. Anything like injustice hurt him. And Romance knew that he -was the thief! How could he ever face her again, and how could she ever -love him? If a cat could steal a cushion and cut ham, she could also -take a coat. Would they blame her for that? - -He was in his bedroom, finishing the postponed odds and ends of his -dressing, when Kay called him. He pretended not to hear her. At last -he had to answer, “Coming.” He went to her shame-faced, like a guest -without a wedding-garment: he had no present. - -She was kneeling up in bed in her white night-gown. The gas was lit and -the floor was strewn with paper from unwrapping her discoveries. - -“Merry Christmas, Peterkins. Oh, come and look! This is what Grandpa -sent me from Cassingland. And this is what Aunt Jehane gave me. And -this---- But why didn't you come sooner? I've been calling and calling.” - -Peter hung his head. Glory was looking at him. Was it just wonder in her -eyes or a question? Had she guessed? Would everybody guess? - -“I didn't come, Kitten Kay, because I haven't anything for you.” - -She gazed at him incredulously. Her face fell with disappointment. “But -the cab, Peter? The Christmas cab!” - -“There was nothing in it. I've not got anything for anybody.” - -She couldn't understand it; he could see that. She was saying to -herself, “Did Peter forget me?” But her face brightened bravely. “I've -something for you.” - -“I couldn't take it, Kay. No, really.” - -He was nearly crying with mortification. “I've nothing for you, little -Kay; and, yet, I love you better than anyone in all the world.” - -She held out her arms to him with the divine magnanimity of childhood. -“Dear, dear Peter. Softy me. It'll do just as well.” - -He returned to his room while she dressed. He sat on the edge of his bed -with the gas unlighted. He did not open the parcels which his father -and mother had left. He did not deserve them. He had nothing to give -in exchange. He would be ashamed to look them in the face at -breakfast--especially to meet Riska, who was certain to show what she -thought of his meanness. In the darkness he reflected how wise he -had been to give that money to Uncle Waffles before the temptation -commenced. - -Kay entered. “Coming downstairs?” - -He took her hand. She pressed his and laughed up at him, trying to make -him smile back. - -It was their custom to go to their parents' bedroom first thing on -Christmas morning. Outside the door Peter hung back, but Kay dragged him -forward. - -Billy sat up, throwing back the counterpane, pretending to be terribly -excited at the thought of what they had brought him. Kay held up a -parcel. “What is it?” he asked. “Let me have it. What is it?” - -“Guess. Father's got to guess, hasn't he, mother?” - -“A fishing-rod?” - -“Don't be silly, father. How could a fishing-rod be as small as that?” - -The guessing went on--such absurd guessing!--until the paper was torn -off and a match-box was revealed. - -“And now, what's Peter brought me?” - -“Nothing, father. I haven't got anything for anybody. So, please, I -don't think I ought to take any of your presents.” - -Billy looked at Nan; this explained the absence of the Christmas -stocking. “But, old boy, what became of your money?” - -“I--I gave it away, father.” - -“Last night? To a beggar?” - -“Not--not exactly a beggar.” - -“But to someone who needed it badly?” - -“Yes, badly. I couldn't give it to--to them and buy presents as well.” - Peter swallowed. He hated lies and would tell the truth at all costs. -“And it wasn't last night. It was this morning.” - -His father regarded him gravely. “To someone in the house?” - -“Not exactly.” - -“I can't see how it can be both in the house and out of it. It must be -exactly one or the other.” Silence. “You don't want to tell?” - -“I can't tell. But I want to so badly.” - -His mother leant out and caught his empty hands, pressing them to her -mouth. What a strange little conscience this son of hers had. “I'm sure -he did what seemed to him more generous. Now here's what mother's got -for you.” - -“Darling motherkins, I do love you--all of you. But I mustn't take -anything this Christmas.” - -“Nonsense,” said his father. - -“I mean it,” said Peter proudly. - -At breakfast the thing happened which Peter had expected. Riska was too -outspoken. Eustace had asked her a question in a whisper. She replied, -so everyone might hear her, with mocking eyes slanted at Peter, “Because -he spent it all last night in driving about in cabs.” - -There was another shock when his father remarked that the milk was -rather thin this morning. - -When they walked down the Terrace on the way to the Christmas service, -they passed the lean man. He was watching: he was there when they came -back. - -Billy noticed that his little son was furtive and restless; he was -always going to the window, when no one seemed to be looking, and -peeping out into the garden. When the coat was found missing and word -was brought of Cookie's lost cushion, he noticed that Peter got red. - -He called him aside that evening. “What is it? Can't you trust me? Can't -you tell me, little Peter?” - -How he longed to tell. But he looked up with troubled eyes. “I can't -even tell you, father.” - -During the days that followed food was continually disappearing. Every -morning, as a habit now, they glanced out to see if the lean man was -there. Then the eyes of the elders signaled to one another, “So he's not -caught yet.” Peter's responsibilities were increasing. He found it more -and more difficult to go on supplying the wants of his uncle without -betraying his secret. Moreover, Ocky himself was getting tired of his -confinement; a loft has few diversions. It has no refinements: he -had not shaved for many days and his appearance was terrifying. The -mustaches had come unwaxed. The white spats were gray with dust and -climbing. Still, when Peter visited him, he was unconquerably cheerful. -He was only depressed when Peter had again failed to persuade Glory -or Jehane to come into the garden. “I want a sight of 'em, sonny. A -ha'penny marvel like you ought to be able to manage that.” - -Frequently he discussed marriage with Peter, warning him against it -and tracing his own downfall to it. “It's awright if you meet the right -girl. But you never do--that's my experience. People think you have; -but you know you haven't. I knew a chap; his wife had black hair. They -seemed so happy that folk called 'em the love-birds. Well, this chap -used to get drunk. Not often, you know, but just as often as was -sensible. Well, when he was drunk, he'd give himself away, oh, -entirely--let all his bitterness out. He'd always hoped that he'd marry -a girl with yellow hair. His wife was awright except for that; but he -couldn't forget it. Of course he never told her. But there's always -something like that in marriage--something that rankles and that you -keep to yourself. That little something wrong spoils all the rest. -Then one day there's a row. Chaps have killed their girls for less than -that.--Ah, yes, and folk called 'em the love-birds!” - -Or he would say, “Love's a funny thing, Peter. Some men fall in love -with the slope of a throat or the shape of a nose, and marry a girl for -that. Now there was a chap I once knew----- Umph! Did I ever tell you? -This chap and his wife were known as the love-birds and his wife had -black hair.” Then out would come the same old story. - -Jehane had black hair. Peter wondered whether 'the chap' was Uncle -Waffles. And he wondered more than that; he was surprised that Uncle -Waffles should keep on forgetting that he'd told him the story already. -He supposed it was because he sat there all alone, brooding for hours -and hours. - -“Mustn't mind if I'm queer, Peter. I'd be awright if you'd let me have -some baccy.” - -But Peter wouldn't let him have it; it would increase the risk of -discovery. - -One night he ceased to be surprised at his uncle's lapses of memory. His -father and mother had gone out to dinner. The younger children had -been put to bed. Jehane and Glory were sitting by the dining-room fire, -darning socks and whispering of the future. Peter took his opportunity, -slipped into the garden and down to the stables. - -Snow was on the ground; every footstep showed like a blot of ink on -white paper. He was surprised to see that someone had crossed the -flower-beds. Then he was startled by a thought. Perhaps the police, or -the man whom Mr. Grace called 'the spotter,' had guessed. He listened. -No sound. He entered the yard; the footprints led into the stable. He -called softly, “Are you there?” No one answered. With fear in his heart -he climbed into the loft: Uncle Waffles had vanished. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI--STRANGE HAPPENINGS - -Had they caught him? Ever since the beginning of the adventure Peter -had wondered interminably how it would end. He hadn't been able to see -any ending. It had seemed to him that, if nothing was found out, Uncle -Waffles might go on hiding in the loft forever and he might go on -pilfering for him. - -Peter had watched his uncle carefully; he knew much more about him -now. He knew that he was a great disreputable child, much younger than -himself, who would always be dependent on somebody. He came to realize -that through all those years of large talking his uncle had never been -a man--never would be now; that he was just a large self-conscious boy, -boastful, affectionate and unreliable, whose sins were not wickedness -but naughtiness. The odd strain of maternity in Peter, which prompted -him always to shelter things weaker than himself, made him love his -uncle the more for this knowledge. And now he was distracted, like a -bantam hen which has hatched out a swan and lost it. - -He set to work searching in the coach-house, under the tandem -tricycle, in the harness-room. He went out into the yard, following the -footprints. They led through the door into the garden, under the pear -trees, across a flower-bed to a neighbor's wall and there terminated -abruptly. What could have happened? - -The night about him was spectacular and glistening as a picture on a -Christmas card. Everything in sight was draped in exaggerated purity. -Like cotton-wool, sprinkled with powdered glass, snow lay along the arms -of trees and sparkled in festoons on withered creepers. The march of -those countless London feet, that invisible hurrying army, always weary, -yet never halting, came to him muffled as though it moved across a heavy -carpet. “Be quiet. Be quiet,” said the golden windows, mounting in a -barricade of houses against the stars. “Be quiet. Be quiet,” whispered -the shrouded trees, as their burdened branches creaked and lowered. But -he could not be quiet. Cold as it was, sweat broke out on his forehead. -What had happened? - -A crunching sound--a mere rumor, seeming infinitely distant! A head -appeared above the wall, right over him. A man lumbered across and fell -with a gentle thud almost at his feet. - -“Oh, how could you? How could you do that?” - -The voice which answered was thick and truculent. It made no pretence -at being secret. “And why shouldn't I? That's what I ask. I was tired of -sticking up there. It's no joke, I can tell you.” - -“Shish! Where've you been?” - -“Found a way out four gardens down--the wall's lower. No danger of -breaking one's legs--not like the way you brought me.” - -Peter was a little staggered by this hostile manner; it was as though he -were being charged with having done something wilfully unfair and cruel. -“But to-morrow they'll see that somebody's been there. They'll follow -your tracks from garden to garden and then------” - -“I don't care. Let 'em. You'd never do anything I ask you. You wouldn't -let me see Jehane and Glory. They're my flesh and blood; and who are -you? You wouldn't give me any baccy. You gave me nothing. Buried me -alive, that's what you did for me. So I just slipped off by myself.” - -It was like an angry child talking. Ocky pulled a bottle from his -pocket, drew the cork with his teeth and tilted the neck against his -mouth. “Must have my medicine. Ah!” - -Peter watched him. He was thinking fast, remembering past queernesses of -temper. “You've done this before?” - -“Of course. And not ashamed of it either. I'll do it again as soon as I -get thirsty. It's cold up there.” He jerked his thumb toward the loft. -“Has it ever struck you?” - -Peter disregarded the question. “You did it with my money--the money -that was to help you.” - -“And isn't it helping me?” Another long draught. “Ah! That's -better!--You gave it me to take care of--I'm taking care of it. See? You -ought to know by now that I'm not to be trusted.” - -Peter saw that nothing was to be gained by arguing. He helped his uncle -to scramble into the loft. “We'll be lucky if you're not caught by -morning.” - -“Think so? What's the odds? Couldn't be worse off. Now shut up scolding; -you're as bad as Jehane. Let's be social. Did I ever tell you that story -about the chap whose wife had black hair?” - -“Yes, you did. I know now that you'd been drinking every time you told -it.” - -“Hic! Really! Awright, you needn't get huffy. It's a good story.” - -Peter had at last hit on a plan. “Will you promise to stop here -to-night, if I promise to find you a better place to-morrow?” - -“Now you're talking. Reg'lar ha'penny marvel, that's what you are. -Before I promise I must hear more. Where is it?” He spoke with the -_hauteur_ of a townsman engaging seaside lodgings. He was Ocky Waffles -Esquire, capitalist, who wasn't to be beaten at a bargain. - -“Well, it'll probably be in a family.” - -“Depends on the family.” - -“Then promise me you won't go out again to-night.” - -“Shan't be able when I've polished off this bottle.” - -Peter appreciated the unblushing honesty of that prophecy. Before he -went he said, “It's my fault. I ought to have thought how lonely it was -for you.” - -Uncle Waffles tried to get up, but found that he maintained his dignity -better in a sitting posture. “Don't take it to heart, sonny. Forgive and -forget--that's my motto.” He reached up his hand to Peter with a fine -air of Christian charity. Peter just touched it with the tips of his -fingers. - -That night, knowing that her mistress was out, Grace had done a thing -which was forbidden. There was a passage running by the side of the -house, ending in a door which gave access to the Terrace. During the day -it was kept on the latch for the use of the children, the dustman, the -gardener and all persons of secondary importance. It saved continual -answering of the front-door and prevented muddy boots from tramping -through the hall. At night it was locked and the key was hung up outside -the diningroom, where anyone would be heard who tried to get it. Grace -had borrowed the key and admitted her policeman. She very rarely got the -chance, and always had to do it in secret. Barrington was firm regarding -kitchen company. “I won't have strange men lolling in my house without -my knowledge. That's how burglaries happen. The servants can meet their -friends on their nights out. I may seem harsh, but it's none of my -business to supply 'em with opportunities for getting married.” - -So Grace had to do her love-making on one evening a week, walking the -pavements with the object of her passion. Now and then she contrived -stolen interviews after nightfall, standing on the steps which led up -from the area and talking across the railings. Cookie sympathized with -her and helped her. “It's a burnin' shime,” she said, “cagin' us h'up -like h'animals. H'it's a wonder ter me as we h'ever get married. The -master thinks that, 'cause we're servants, we ain't got no pashuns.” - -This evening when Grace had stopped her lover on his beat, Cookie had -suggested that they should borrow the key and let him into the kitchen -by the side-passage. That was why Peter heard a man's voice when he -crept stealthily into the basement. The sound was so unexpected that he -paused to listen without any intention of eavesdropping. - -“It started Christmas mornin', didn't it, Grice?” It was Cookie -speaking. “The door was h'on the latch, the milk was watered, the -sorsage-rolls and me cushion was gone. We blimed the cat at first. H'I -was that h'angry, I threw a broom at 'er. Not but wot I might 'a known -as no cat could water milk if I'd 'a stopped ter thought. And then -Master Peter, 'im that's so ginerous, 'e forgets to give anyone 'is -Christmas presents. H'it beats creation, so it does. And h'ever since -then, though I h'ain't said much abart it, 'cause I didn't want ter git -'is pa h'angry, h'ever since then h'its been goin' h'on. One day h'it's -h'eggs missin'. 'Nother day h'it's beef--little nibbles like h'all -round. And yer may taik my word for h'it, the little master's h'at the -bottom h'of it. What d'yer sye abart that, Mr. Somp? Yer 'andle crimes, -don't yer? Wot's yer sudgestion?” - -Mr. Somp was the name of Grace's policeman. Mr. Somp thought. “Kid's -got a h'appetite, ain't 'e?” he procrastinated. “I 'ad a h'appetite -once.--But h'I wouldn't 'a believed it h'of 'im.” - -Grace giggled. She had evidently felt the pressure of a burly arm. “Not -so frisky, cop. You 'old too 'ard. I ain't a drunk and disorderly.” - Then, taking up the thread of the conversation, “A fine policeman you -are! 'Ow could a little boy h'eat Cookie's cushion?” - -Mr. Somp growled. Peter could imagine how he threw out his hands as he -said with all the weight of the noncommittal law, “Ah, there yer are!” - -“Come h'orf it, dearie. Yer don't know nothing.” Grace tittered. - -“H'if that's so, h'I'd best be goin'.” - -Cookie laughed. “Ain't 'e the boy for losin' 'is 'air? And me cookin' -'im a h'om'let? Yer'll 'ave a 'andful ter manage, Grice, when yer marry. -'Is temper's nawsty.” - -Mr. Somp must have changed his mind at the mention of the omelet, for he -postponed his departure. - -In the dining-room Peter found Glory alone. - -“Where's Aunt Jehane?” - -“Mother's got a headache. She's gone to lie down.” Peter took his place -on the hearth-rug, his legs apart, his back to the fire, in unconscious -imitation of his father. Glory bowed her head, hiding her face, and went -on with her darning. Peter watched her. How slight she was! How lonely -she looked in the great arm-chair. Then it struck him that she was -always working, and that Aunt Jehane very frequently had headaches. - -“Don't you ever want to play, Glory?” - -“Oh, yes, I want.” - -“Why d'you say it like that? Just _I want_.” - -“Where's the good of wanting?” - -The head bowed lower. The firelight shone in her hair. Her face was more -than ever hidden from him. - -“But you're such a little girl--a whole year younger than I am. When I -want to play I do it.” - -“Do you?” - -It was always like that when Peter took notice of Glory--short questions -and short answers which led no further. - -Peter leant over her and stayed her hands. “I don't like to see you work -so hard.” - -“It's sweet to hear you say so, Peter.” He felt something splash and run -down his fingers. “I love to hear you say that. But you see, there's no -one to care for us now. I've got to do it. I always shall have to do it, -more and more.” - -“Not when I'm a man.” - -“When you're a man, Peter? What then?” - -“When I'm a man no one shall be sorry. I'll make people ashamed of -prisons and of letting other people be poor. No one shall go hungry. No -one shall go unhappy. I'll build happy houses everywhere. And, oh Glory, -I'll take all the little children with no shoes on their feet out into -the country to where the grass is soft.” - -She looked up at him with her grave gray eyes--eyes so much older than -her years. “When you're a man, Peter, you'll be splendid.” - -“But I didn't say it to make you say that. I said it because I wanted -you to know that there's a day coming when--when instead of making you -cry, dear Glory, I'll make you laugh.” - -“Just me, Peter, all by myself?” - -She tilted back her head, gazing up at him, so that her hair rippled -back across her shoulders and her throat stretched white and long, like -a mermaid's looking up through water, Peter thought. - -“Just me only, Peter?” - -He couldn't understand why she should always want him to do things for -her only. She wasn't selfish like Riska. He was puzzled. - -“Why I'll make you laugh and Kay laugh and everybody, because you know, -Glory, we all ought to be happy.” - -Her face fell. The eager gladness was dying out of it, so he added -hurriedly, “And most especially I want to help Uncle Waffles.” - -Was he going to have told her? Probably he did not know himself. -There was a sound of running feet in the hall; Grace burst in on them -breathlessly. “Oh, mum, can I 'ave a word with you? There's a light in -the winder of the---- Where's yer ma, Miss Glory? Quick, tell me.” - -“She's gone to lie down with Moggs. Her head---- But what's happened?” - -Grace was gone. As she climbed the house they heard her calling. Out in -the hall they found the policeman standing, with his baton in his hand; -he was trying to appear very brave, as though saying, “Fear nothing. I -am the law. I will protect you.” - -Peter took one swift glance at Glory. Did she understand? He almost -fancied---- - -“Keep them here as long as you can,” he whispered; “I'm going out.” - -The last sight he had was of Aunt Jehane coming down the stairs. She was -in her night-gown with a counterpane flung round her. Moggs was in her -arms, crying against her shoulder. Eustace was clinging stupidly to her -nightgown. Aunt Jehane's 'mat' was off. Her forehead looked surprised -and her scant hair straggled away from it. Grace was explaining -vociferously. - -“I've called in the policeman, mum. Luckily 'e was passin'.” - -“But what's he wasting time for?” Aunt Jehane asked tartly. “If you -didn't imagine the light, they're still there in the loft and he can -catch them.” - -Mr. Somp spoke up for himself. “H'I was waitin' your h'orders.” - -Peter flew down the path. The window was in darkness. Directly he -entered the stables he knew what had happened, for the air was heavy -with the smell of tobacco. - -“Uncle! Uncle!” - -“Here, sonny.” - -“Quick. Come down. Grace saw you strike a match in the dark and a -policeman's coming to catch you.” - -Peter had to go up after him, for Ocky's wits were clouded. He shook -him, saying, “Make haste. Can't you understand? Surely you don't want to -be caught.” - -The fear, in Peter's voice pierced through the fog of alcohol and -reached Ocky's intellect. “But what's to be done?” - -“There's an empty tank in the yard--you know it? If you can get in there -before they come, they mayn't find you.” - -Ocky woke to life. Stumbling and hurrying he dropped down through the -trap-door. As they ran across the yard, they heard the grumbling of -voices approaching. Ocky climbed on the tank, keeping low so as not to -be seen from the garden, and vanished. - -“Whatever you do, don't make a sound,” Peter warned him. - -Uncle Waffles replied disgustedly, “It isn't empty. The water's up to me -ankles.” - -Peter had hoped to get out of the stable before the search began; it -would look suspicious if they should find him. It was too late for that. -The voices were near enough for him to hear what was being said. - -“Nothin' 'ere, me gal. You must 'ave h'imagined it.” - -“I didn't imagine it, neither. And don't call me 'me gal' as though h'I -was nothin' to yer.” - -“I calls you 'me gal' in me h'official capacity.” - -“I don't care abart yer capacity, h'official or defficial, I won't 'ave -it.” - -“My, but yer crusty, Grice!” - -“H'I _am_ crusty and h'I tell yer for wot. Yer doubt my word--throw -h'aspersions on it. I did see a light, I tell yer.” - -“Well, it ain't there now. The chap's gone.” - -“Ow d'you know 'e's gone without lookin'?” - -“By a kind o' h'inkstink one dewelopes by bein' in the police force.” - -“D'you know wot I'm thinkin'?--Yer funky.” - -“Funky, h'am I? H'awright--h'it's h'all over between us. Never tell me -h'again that you loves me.” - -They had been talking in loud voices from the start--quite loud enough -to warn any burglar. Now that they had quarreled their voices cut the -still night air in anger. Not a word was lost. - -Suddenly they paused. “Wot's that?” Grace asked the question in a sharp -whisper. - -“Footsteps or I'm no cop.” - -Peter heard the click of Mr. Somp's lantern; it must have struck against -his buttons as he bent to examine. “Footsteps. Someone's been a-climbin' -this 'ere wall.” - -“Well, ain't yer goin' ter do nothin'?” - -“You stand there, Grice, while I go for'ard. The chap may fire h'on us. -Good-bye, Grice. H'if anythin' should 'appen, remember I died a-doin' o' -me dooty.” - -“Yer shan't. I'll come with yer. If 'e shoots we'll die together.” - -“Grice, h'I commands yer in the nime o' the law ter stay where yer -h'are.” - -But when the door into the yard opened cautiously, - -Grace was clinging to her lover's arm. They both looked frightened and -ready to withdraw. Slowly, slowly the bull's-eye swept the surface of -the snow. - -“More footsteps!” - -The ray of light followed along the tracks till it fell on Peter. - -“Well, I'll be blessed. Of h'all the---- I'll be blowed if 'e aren't!” - -Peter laughed. “It looked so lovely I couldn't stop indoors.” - -“Yer've given us a nice scare, young master.” - -“I didn't mean to. And when I heard that Grace thought it was a burglar, -I thought it would be such a lark to let you find me--just Peter.” - -“That boy's dotty,” said Grace's policeman; “a little bit h'orf.” - -“Yer come ter bed h'at once,” said Grace severely. “I'll tell yer pa. -See if I don't.” - -She caught him roughly by the arm. Then Peter did something mean--he -hated himself while he did it. “If you do, I'll tell that you had Mr. -Somp in the kitchen. Father'll say you're not to be trusted.” - -“Ah!” said Grace's policeman. “There's somethin' in that.” - -“Ain't he artful?” said Grace. - -“Well,” asked Peter, “will you keep quiet if I do? Is it a bargain?” - -“We didn't find nothink,” said Grace's policeman. “We was mistooken.” - -“It must 'a been the snow reflected in the winder,” said Grace. -“Cur'ous, 'ow the snow deceives yer!--But oh, Master Peter, I never -thought this h'of yer. I reelly didn't.” - -“Until to-night I never thought it of myself,” said Peter a little -sadly. - -“Ah!” sighed Grace's policeman. But to himself he thought, “More in this -than meets the h'eye. I'll be danged if there aren't.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXII--CAT'S MEAT LOOKS ROUND - -Peter kept awake for his parents' home-coming. Long before the cab drew -up he heard the jingle of the horse's harness and was out of bed. The -key grated in the front door; in the silence it sounded to Peter as -though the old house cleared its throat, getting ready to tell. Leaning -out across the banisters with bare feet shivering against the cold -linoleum, he lost little of what was said. - -Grace met his father and mother in the hall. “Why, Grace, you ought to -have been asleep two hours. I thought I told you not to wait up for us.” - -“And you did, mam. So you did. But after the disturbance that we've -'ad----” Her voice sank to a mumbling monotone. - -Then his father spoke. “I never heard anything more absurd.--Can't be -away for a single evening without a stupid affair like this happening. -Lights in the stable, indeed! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And -you a grown woman! I wonder what next!” - -Grace was boo-hooing. “H'I'll never do it again. I did think I saw 'em. -No one'll know abart it. Mr. Somp won't tell.” - -“Oh, go upstairs. The children'll be frightened for months now.” - -Peter heard Grace come up to bed sobbing. Where would his wrong-doing -end? Romance had had a broom thrown at her; Grace had received a -scolding. The injustice was spreading. He examined the stain on his -heart in much the same way that Lady Macbeth looked at the stain on her -hands. Would it ever be clean again? “Never,” he told himself in his -desperation, “never.” - -As he turned to go back to his room he was alarmed by the sudden scurry -of naked feet. A flash of white disappeared round the corner and a -mattress creaked. Glory had been watching. - -When his mother bent over him that night he told another lie--he feigned -that he slept. As her fluffy hair touched his cheek he longed to drag -her down to him and tell her all. She would stretch herself beside him -in the darkness, holding him tightly, as she had done so often when he -had had something to confess. He denied himself the luxury.--That night -as he lay awake and listened, the angel in the cupboard whistled very -softly, very distantly, as though she were carrying Kay far away from -him. - -When he had offered his uncle a change of lodging, his uncle had said, -“Depends on the family.” Peter had only one family to suggest; he didn't -at all know whether the family would accept Uncle Waffles. Gentlemen for -whom the law is searching are not popular as guests. - -During breakfast, despite frowns from Barrington, all Aunt Jehane's -conversation had to do with the shock she had suffered by reason of -Grace's folly. When Barrington banged his cup in his saucer, she lost -her temper. “Well, I don't see why I shouldn't talk about it. I had to -put up with the worry of it.” - -“My good Jehane, haven't you any sense? You can say anything you like, -except before the children.” - -“Goodness!” Jehane replied pettishly. “The children were here and saw -it.” - -Peter slipped out. Through the white snow-strewn fields he hurried and -through Topbury Park where the snow was trodden black, till he came to -a quiet street and a tall house with stone steps leading up to it. Miss -Madge, the fat and jolly Miss Jacobite, answered his knock. - -“What a long face for a little boy to wear!” - -“If you please, I'd like to speak to Miss Florence.” Miss - -Florence was the sister who was tall and reserved; she managed -everything and everybody. - -“Won't I do, Peter? She's busy at present.” - -“Please, I've got to speak to her.” - -Miss Madge ruffled his hair--she had seen his mother do that. “What a -strange little boy you are this morning! You look almost stern.” - -She wanted to show him into the faded dining-room where a meager fire -was burning; but he said that he preferred to wait in the hall. She -looked back and laughed at him as she mounted the stairs. He did not -reply to her friendliness. Then she ran; he had some trouble which he -would not tell her. - -He stood there on the mat twisting his cap. From the varnished paper on -the wall a portrait of old Mr. Jacobite looked fiercely down. It seemed -to say to him, “Little coward, coming to a pack of women! Learn to bear -your own burdens.” - -But where else could he go? Even if other friends were willing to help -him, they kept servants and had people in and out of their houses. -At the Misses Jacobite, provided he kept away from the windows, Uncle -Waffles might hide for a twelve-month and never be caught. - -Eerily, from the second floor, came the sound of Miss Leah singing. Her -song never varied and never quite came to an end. Peter could picture -how she sat staring straight before her through her red-rimmed eyes, her -empty hands folded in her lap. - - “On the other side of Jordan - - In the sweet fields of Eden - - Where the Tree of Life is growing - - There is rest for me.” - -It almost made him cry to hear her. He was beginning to know just a -little of that need for rest. - -A door opened. The singing came out. To his astonishment Peter saw -Miss Leah approaching. Up to now she had never left her room to his -knowledge. She beckoned. Then she spoke in that hoarse voice of hers. “I -heard her tell Florence that you're in trouble. You're too young to know -sorrow. That comes surely. But for you not yet.” - -She placed her thin hand on his shoulder and drew him with her into -the room where the blinds were always lowered. Closing the door, she -searched his face. “You have the look. Sorrow! Sorrow! I have suffered -and can understand. Don't be afraid. Tell me.” - -And he told her--he never knew why or how. She listened, rocking to and -fro in her chair, with her dim eyes fixed upon him. When he paused for -a word she nodded encouragement, pulling her woolen shawl tighter round -her narrow shoulders. - -“And in spite of that you love him?--You're like a woman, Peter. You -love people for their faults and in defiance of common sense. And you -refuse to think he's bad?” - -“He's not really,” said Peter. “The world's not been good to him.” - -“Not really!” She spoke reflectively, as though she groped beneath the -words. “No, we're never bad really--only seem bad to other people till -they make us seem bad to ourselves.--Yes, you can bring him.” - -But to bring him Peter needed Mr. Grace's help, and Mr. Grace had been -so candid in saying that “'e weren't worf it.” - -When he reached the cab-stand, Mr. Grace wasn't there. He had waited an -hour before he saw Cat's Meat crawl out of the traffic. - -“Well?” said Mr. Grace, with an instinctive fore-knowledge. - -He let Peter explain his errand without comment till he came to the -account of the part played by Grace's policeman. - -“'Oly smoke! 'Fraid, was 'e?--But wot yer tellin' me h'all this for? -H'out wiv it?” - -“I want you to drive down the mews to-night and take us round to the -Misses Jacobite.” - -Mr. Grace became very emphatic and solemn. “Cawn't be done. H'I wash me -'ands of 'im. Plottin' ag'in the law. Too daingerous.” - -“Mr. Grace,” asked Peter, softly, “who's afraid now?” - -“H'I'm not. Me afraid o' Grice's young man! Was that wot yer was -h'insinooating?” - -“But aren't you?” - -“No, I ain't.” - -“Then prove it.” - -“'Ow?” - -“By doing what I've asked you.” - -Mr. Grace stared between Cat's Meat's ears, twisting a straw in his -mouth. The ears were pricked up. He nudged Peter. “D'yer see that? The -'oss is a-listenin'. 'E ain't much ter look h'at, but 'e's won'erful -h'intelligent. When h'I'm drunk 'e just walks by h'every pub and pays -no h'attention to my pullin'. 'E's like a mother, that 'oss is, ter me. -'E's more kind than a darter, which ain't sayin' much.” - -“Well?” - -“Well wot? Oh, yes. H'am I goin' to 'elp yer stink-pot of a h'uncle? Ter -be frank wiv yer, I h'am.” - -Cat's Aleat frisked his tail. Again Mr. Grace nudged Peter. “See that? -'E likes h'adwentures. Won'erful h'intelligent h'animal, but not much -ter look h'at!” - -With the falling of dusk they met. Peter heard the wheels coming down -the mews; slipping the bars from the stable door, he let his uncle out. - -“Yer a nice old cup o' tea,” growled Mr. Grace, addressing Ocky, “a -reg'lar mucker. Tell yer wot yer oughter do--yer oughter sign the -pledge. 'Ope yer ain't got much luggage; me keb ain't as strong as it -were.” - -Ocky retreated into the darkness of the interior. He had promised Peter -he would become a good man and for once was ashamed of himself. - -Seated by his side, Peter felt after his hand. “Don't mind what he -says.” - -“But I am. It's true. I've been a mucker to you from first to last.” - -Ocky coughed; the water in the tank had given him a cold on the chest. - -“I'm sure you haven't. Anyhow, you're going to be better now.” - -“Going to try till I bust.” - -As the cab lumbered out on to the Terrace a man saw it. He scratched his -head, thought twice, then began to run and follow. Coming up behind he -did what street-urchins do--he stole a ride on the springs, crouching -low so as to be unobserved. - -Cat's Meat alone was aware that something wrong had happened. He felt -the extra weight and halted. - -“Kum up.” - -He refused to come up. - -“Kum up, won't yer?” - -No, he wouldn't. He planted his feet firmly. There was something that -had to be explained to him first. - -Very reluctantly Mr. Grace got out his whip--it was there for ornament; -he rarely used it. “Nar, look 'ere old friend, h'I don't wanter do it.” - But he had to. - -Cat's Meat shook his head sorrowfully and looked round. His feelings -were hurt. When his master was drunk he accepted worse punishment than -that without resentment, but his master wasn't drunk now. Mr. Grace laid -the whip again across his back. Cat's Meat shrugged his shoulders and -snorted, as much as to say, “Don't blame me. Never say I didn't warn -yer.” Then he moved slowly forward. - -“Now h'I wonder wot was the meanin' o' that?” reflected Mr. Grace. -“Don't like 'is cargo, h'I bet. Well, h'I don't, either. Won'erful -h'intelligent h'of 'im!” - -Inside the cab Peter was asking, “But if you don't like the 'medicine,' -why do you take it?” - -“Life's dull for a chap,” said Ocky. He would have said more, but was -shaken by a fit of coughing. - -They crawled along by ill-lighted streets purposely, avoiding main -thoroughfares. As they drew up outside the Misses Jacobite's house, -Peter saw the slits of the Venetian blinds turned and guessed that four -tremulous ladies were watching. He opened the door for his uncle to get -out As Mr. Waffles alighted, a man jumped from behind the cab. - -“Yer caught, Cockie. Come along quiet.” - -Mr. Grace heaved himself round. “Wot the devil!” He was blinking into -the eyes of Grace's policeman. - -“We can walk to the station,” said Grace's policeman, “but h'if you'd -care to drive us---- Yer seem kind o' fond o' conductin' this party -round.” - -“I'll drive 'im, but I'll be 'anged h'if I'll drive you, yer great fat -mutton 'ead.” - -“Mutton 'ead yerself.” - -Peter jumped into the gap. “Oh, do drive them, Mr. Grace. Don't let him -be dragged there in public.” - -“If that's the wye yer feel abart it---- Anythin' fer you, Master -Peter.” - -“Look 'ere,” said Grace's policeman, “h'I'm in love with yer darter--as -good as one o' the family. We don't need to sye nothink abart the keb.” - -“Get in, mutton 'ead.” - -They got in. - -Cat's Meat shook his harness as much as to say, “Now you're sorry, I -suppose. What did I tell you?” - -Peter, as the cab grew dim in the distance, leant against the wall -sobbing. The door at the top of the steps opened timidly and Miss Leah -looked out. “Peter. Peter.” But he couldn't bear to face her. - -As he stole home through the unreal shadows, he tried to persuade -himself that it hadn't happened. It must be his old disease--his -'magination. It was as though he had been playing with fear all -this while and now he experienced its actuality. It hadn't happened, -hadn't---- Then the pity of the pinched unshaven face, the huddled -shoulders and the iron hardness of the world overwhelmed him. - -And Uncle Waffles hadn't said a word when he was taken--he hadn't even -coughed. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII--AND GLORY SAID - -Peter asked to see his father alone. They went up together to the -study. Barrington knew that a confession was coming. He was curious. -Peter's sins were so extraordinary; they were hardly ever breaches of -the decalogue. His sensitive conscience had framed a lengthier code of -commandments, which no one but he would dream of observing. Barrington -struggled to keep his face grave and long; inwardly he was laughing. -He drew up his big chair to the fire--his soldier's chair the children -called it. He put out his knee invitingly. “Sit down, little son. What's -the trouble?” - -“I'd rather stand, father. You'll never want to speak to me again when -I've told you.” - -Barrington observed Peter's pallor and the way his hands kept folding -and unfolding. - -“It can't be as bad as that, old man. Nothing could be.” - -“But it is, father. I'm a thief and a liar, and I expect I'll be -arrested before morning.” - -Peter's tense sincerity carried conviction. This time there was -certainly something the matter. - -“Well, Peter, I'll forgive you before you tell me. Now speak up like a -little knight. The bravest thing in all the world is to tell the whole -truth when it's easy to lie.--Queer things have been happening lately. -It's about those Christmas presents, now, isn't it?” - -Peter stood erect with his hands behind him, his curly head thrown back -and his knickerbockered legs close together. “You mustn't be kind to me, -father. It makes it harder. I'm going to hurt you.” - -Barrington had never felt prouder of his son. He rested his chin on his -fingers and nodded. “Go on.” - -In a low, tremulous voice he told him all, keeping the tears back -bravely. When he paused, his father waited; he wanted to hear Peter's -own story without frightening him by interruption. He had had an -important engagement that evening, but he let it slide. As the account -progressed he saw that here was something really serious. And yet how -Peterish it was to feel so poignantly the unjust punishing of Romance! -The humor of it all vanished when Peter told how Uncle Waffles had been -arrested. - -“And then,” he said, “I came straight home to tell you. I don't suppose -you'll want me to live here any longer. It wouldn't be good for Kay; I'm -too wicked. I'm almost too bad for anybody. Kay--Kay'll never be able to -love me any more.” - -They gazed at each other in silence. Barrington did not dare to trust -himself to talk; he knew that his voice would be unsteady. He was -frightened he would sink below Peter's standard and give way to crying. -He had to keep his eyes quite still for fear the tears would fall. And -he recalled the last confession that this room had heard--it was from -Ocky. He compared it with Peter's. - -The minutes dragged on. Peter watched his father's face; he saw there -the worst thing of all--sorrow. - -A coal falling in the grate took their attention for a moment from -themselves. - -Barrington leant further forward. “What made you do it, Peter?” - -“I loved him.” - -“But what made you love him when you came to know all?” - -“Because nobody else loved him.” Peter caught his voice tripping on a -sob and stopped. - -“But he made other people unhappy. Just think for a minute: Aunt -Jehane's homeless and so are all your cousins.” - -“I know. But it seemed so dreadful for him to be lonely, wandering -about--wandering about at Christmas.” - -“But wasn't it his own fault?” - -Peter bit his lip--he'd never thought of not loving people just because -they'd done wrong. Things were all so tangled. He remembered Jesus and -the dying thief on the cross. Surely that, too, was the thief's own -fault? But he knew that people rarely quoted the Bible except on -Sundays--so he just looked at his father and said nothing.--Again the -minutes dragged on. - -There was a tap at the door. Glory entered shyly. “I'm going to bed, -Uncle. May I kiss you and Peter goodnight?” - -Barrington nodded. “Come here, little girl; but first close the door.” - -As she stooped over him, he slipped his arm round her and drew her to -his knee. “Peter isn't going to kiss you to-night. He thinks he isn't -worthy.” - -“Peter not worthy!” She shook back the hair from her eyes and gazed from -Peter to her uncle incredulously. - -“He doesn't think he's worthy to be loved by any of us. He expects he -won't live here much longer.” - -“But why? Why?--Peter can't have done anything wicked.” - -“I'm going to ask him to tell you what he's done, just as he told me. -And then I want you to say what you think of him.” - -It was hard to have to repeat his confession, but Peter did it. While -he spoke, his father could feel how Glory's body stiffened and trembled. -Sometimes her eyes were unexcited, as though she were listening to an -old story. Sometimes they were like stars, fixed and glistening. When -the end was reached, she bowed her head on her uncle's shoulder, shaken -with deep sobbing. “Poor father! Oh, poor father!” - -As she grew quiet, Barrington turned her face toward his. “And that,” he -said, “is why Peter thinks he isn't worthy. He's waiting, Glory. You've -not told him yet what you think of him.” - -She looked toward Peter, dazed, as though not fully understanding. Then -she saw how alone and upright he was standing; it dawned on her that he -was really waiting for her to pronounce his sentence. She rose to her -feet; her uncle's arm still about her. - -“Why--why, I think Peter's the most splendiferous boy in the world.” - -Barrington laughed. “D'you know, I didn't dare to say it; but that's -just what I've been thinking all evening.” - -It was only when Glory's arms went about him that Peter sank below his -standard of courage. - -“I guessed it all the while,” she whispered; “I was waiting for you to -tell me. Why wouldn't you let me help you?” - -Ah, why, why? How often in years to come would she ask him that -question, not with her lips as now, but with her gravely following eyes! - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV--THE TRICYCLE MAKES A DISCOVERY - -H'I'm a better man than you are,” said Mr. Grace. - -“In wot respeck?” asked Mr. Somp. - -“In h'every respeck,” said Mr. Grace. “Nice wye yer've got o' h'arsking -fer me darter's 'and.” - -Mr. Somp rubbed his nose, finished off his beer and winked at the -barmaid. Then he turned with a smile of tolerant patronage to his future -father-in-law. 'Any'ow, Cockie, h'I didn't need to h'arsk yer. Yer must -allaws remember that you come in on the second h'act.” - -“Wot d'yer mean?” - -“H'I mean the curtain was h'up and the play'd began when you h'entered.” - -“H'information ter me--I'm larnin'.” Mr. Grace tossed off his pot to -show his supreme contempt and signed for another. Having wiped his mouth -with the back of his hand, he spoke reflectively. “So I h'entered when -the bloomin' curtain was h'up! Now I h'allaws thought as I wuz be'ind -the scenes and 'elped ter mike 'er.” - -“A peep be'ind the scenes,” chirped the barmaid; “read a book called -that once. Mr. Grice this 'ouse is respeckable. If you ain't careful -you'll get chucked h'out.” - -Mr. Somp looked deeply shocked. “That ain't no subjeck to mention before -ladies--birth ain't a matter ter be discussed in publick. It 'appens to -h'all of us, but people as is well brought h'up tries to ferget it.” - -Glancing round and seeing that opinion was against him, Mr. Grace -retreated a step in the argument. “You said as h'I came in on the second -h'act. As 'ow?” - -“H'after I'd h'arsked yer darter and she'd said 'yus.' In 'igh society -h'it's considered perlite to h'arsk the purmission o' the parent.” - -“'Igh society be blowed. Pooh!” - -“Well, and 'avn't I been purmoted?” said Mr. Somp importantly, scenting -an affront. - -Mr. Grace was surprised into an expression of astonishment. Then, in an -effort to recover lost ground, “Wot mug purmoted you?” To the barmaid he -said, “H'I'll be King's jockey if h'I wite long enough.” - -Mr. Somp swelled out his chest. “H'I got purmotion fer nabbin' that -bloke Waffles. Wot d'yer sye ter me proposal now?” - -An audience of tap-room loafers had gathered; there was a reputation to -be won. “H'I sye wot h'I've awready said. H'I'm a better man than you are -and me darter's better.” - -“In wot respeck?” Mr. Somp was tenacious. - -“She's a h'orator as yer'll soon find h'out if yer marry 'er.” - -The policeman gazed at the cabman sombrely. “That don't mike 'er no -better; h'it mikes 'er wuss. H'I've found that h'out. It's my h'opinion -that wimen should be seen and not 'eard.” - -“So yer've found it h'out, 'ave yer?” Into Mr. Grace's voice had crept a -sudden warmth of fellow-feeling and friendliness. - -“Ter my regret,” sighed Grace's policeman, wagging a mournful head. “If -I'd knowed before h'I got ter love 'er---- Ah, well! It don't mend -matters ter talk abart it.” - -Mr. Grace heaved himself off the bench. “Shike 'ands, old pal; yer goin' -ter suffer.” - -Mr. Somp gloomily accepted the proffered hand, looking at the barmaid. -“H'I'm afraid I h'am.” - -“Then why not taik me?” asked the barmaid cheerily. - -“And why not? That's the question. My dear, you might mike me suffer -wuss.” - -“And I mightn't 'ave you,” she said coyly. “Any'ow, Mr. Somp had no -sympathy with the Salvation Army old top, try me next. Yours truly, -Gertie, h'always ready ter oblige a friend.” - -It was the day after the honeymoon, which had consisted of a -steamer-trip to Greenwich, that Mr. Somp confided to Mr. Grace, “Too -much religion abart your gel.” At that hour Mr. Somp and Grace's father -became friends. - -[Illustration: 0227] - -Grace's husband had no sympathy with the Salvation Army--he didn't feel -the need of conversion; and Grace, for her part, had no patience with -men who refused to sign the pledge. Mr. Somp took revenge for domestic -wrongs in his official capacity, by moving his wife along when he -found her beating her drum at street corners. Mrs. Somp punished him by -keeping him awake at night while, to use his own words, she sneaked to -God abart him. She even addressed God in the highways on this intensely -private matter, when she saw her husband approaching. She followed -St. Paul's advice by being urgent in season and out in her rebuking, -long-suffering, teaching and exhorting. Her lofty sense of right and -wrong depressed him; he grew slack, lost his standing in the force and -gradually ceased to work. His self-confidence melted before her superior -morality. - -So she went back to the Barringtons by the day to do charring and to -give extra help. That was how Peter came to know all about her intimate -matrimonial problems. He heard the other side from Mr. Grace and Mr. -Somp, who now had a common grievance--they wanted to drink and Grace -tried to prevent them. “Don't you never marry a good woman,” they both -advised him; “good wimen is bad.” - -Grace, on the other hand, despite her frequent complaints, held that -her husband was a very decent man, but bone-lazy. Having proved prayer -useless, she could think of only one other remedy. “If I was ter die, -father'd be sorry and my 'usband 'ad 'ave ter work; but I ain't got the -'eart ter do it.” - -To which Cookie would reply, “I'm sure yer 'aven't, dearie. It's them as -should do the dyin'.” - -After Ocky's arrest a period of flatness followed. The uncertainty which -had kept the household nervous and hoping for the best no longer buoyed -them up. Until they heard that Waffles had been sentenced, they could -make no plans for Jehane's future. Barrington placed money at his -disposal for his defence and went to see him once. He never disclosed -what happened; but his face was ashen when he returned. All that -evening, when anyone spoke to him, he seemed to have to wake before he -could answer. Next morning he told Jehane, “Ocky wants to see you.” She -shook her head. “He's dragged me low enough. I never intend to see him -again.” - -“If that's the way you feel, you couldn't help him; it's better that you -shouldn't visit him.” - -She looked into the shrewd gray eyes fiercely. She wanted to find anger -there--she could resent anger; she found only quiet judgment. “You don't -mean that you actually expected me to go to him?” - -“I expected nothing, but he's in trouble. You've given him -children--he's your husband. In all your years together there must have -been some hours that are sweet to remember. I did rather hope that, now -that he's in trouble, you might have remembered them.” - -“Well, I don't. I'm ashamed that I ever had them.” - -“All right. It's strange; but I think I understand. He still loves you, -Jehane, and you could have helped the chap.” - -“Love! What's the value of his love?” - -“I think its value once was whatever you cared to make it.” - -Later in the day he said to her, “And you wouldn't let Glory see him, I -suppose? He mentioned her.” - -“No, I wouldn't. He's not her father. Captain Spashett was a gentleman.” - -The children were never told what occurred at the trial; all they knew -was that the man who had laughed and played with them, who had loved the -sunshine so carelessly, was to be locked up for a time so long that it -seemed like the “ever and forever” of the Bible. It was like burying -someone who was not dead--they seemed to hear him tapping. And they must -not go to him; they must pretend they had not heard. He was a thing to -be shunned and forgotten. - -Jehane was anxious to earn her living. But how? She had been trained to -do nothing. Barrington bought her a little cottage near Southgate, which -at this time was still in the country. Gradually he got into the habit -of letting her do a little outside reading for his firm--he did it to -enable her to pretend that she was self-supporting. To his surprise she -developed a faculty for the work and he began to trust her judgment. She -had inherited a literary instinct of which, during her married life, she -had remained unaware. It was a feeble instinct, but in the end it proved -sufficiently rewarding. She took to writing sentimental novelettes, -which found a market. Whatever her faults of heart, she had always been -capable and gifted with a strong sense of duty; so, now that she had -found a means of making money, she worked hard with her pen, stinting -herself and treating her children with foolish liberality. - -Her chief regret was that Ocky had spoilt the marriage chances of her -girls; she tried to rub out this social stain by creating the impression -that her husband was dead. She had two extravagances--the purchase of -hair-tonics and a mania for visiting fortune-tellers. She had one great -hope--that in the future she might re-marry. This would entail Ocky's -death; but she was not so cruel as to reason that out. She had one -great mission--to teach her daughters to catch men. Her chief theme of -conversation with her children was the wickedness of their father and -the heroic loyalty of her own conduct. No doubt there were times when -her conscience troubled her. - -Peter was just fifteen and Kay was nearly nine when all this happened. -It made a deep impression on both of them, but especially on Peter. For -months the crushed shoulders and sunken face of Uncle Waffles haunted -his memory, so that it seemed a crime to be happy. He could not bear -to enter the stable; he was always expecting to hear a hoarse voice -addressing him in a whisper from the loft, calling him a ha'penny marvel -or enquiring whether he knew the story of the husband whose wife had -black hair. Often in the street he would turn sharply at the sight of -some shabby outcast, shuffling through the crowd with bowed head. He -would run to the window, hardly daring to own what he expected, when -he heard the mournful singing along the Terrace of a group of -out-of-works: - - “We've got no work to do, - - We've got no work to do; - - We're all thrown out, poor labourin' men, - - And we've got no work to do.” - -Sooner or later he would recognize, he knew, in one of the tattered -singers his Uncle Waffles. Peter was suffering from a suddenly awakened -social conscience; he did not know enough to call it that. - -It was partly because Barrington had observed and was distressed by his -boy's sadness, that he granted his desire. He granted it to give him a -new interest. Peter had always dreamt of a day when he should polish up -the tandem tricycle, put Kay on the back seat and ride off with her into -the country. - -“Well, Peter, I'll let you do it if you'll promise to be very careful.” - -It was early summer when these splendid adventures commenced. Peter had -to do all the work--Kay's legs were too short to reach the pedals. But -what did he care? Just to have his little sister all to himself, London -dropping away behind and the world growing greener before him--what more -could a boy ask to make him happy? - -The tandem trike was a clumsy solid-tired affair--desperately heavy and -beyond belief old-fashioned. Peter managed to accomplish six miles an -hour on it. The way out, along Green Lanes to Wood Green and up Jolly -Butcher's Hill, would have been full of ignominy for anybody less -light-hearted. Kay's flying hair and plunging legs would have attracted -attention had the tricycle been ever so new and handsome. - -Errand-boys stood still and whistled after them. Tradesmen followed -them in their carts, offering to race them and grinning ridicule. Very -frequently insult set itself to the words of a street song then in -fashion: - - “It won't be a stylish marriage; - - For I can't afford a carriage; - - But you'll look sweet with your two little feet - - On a tricycle made for two.” - -What did Peter care? Ill-nature failed to touch him. Little boys who -pulled faces at him from the pavements, made long noses at him or stuck -out their tongues, did it in envy. He wished he could take them too. So -he and Kay turned their heads and threw back laughter. It was fun--all -fun. And then there was the anticipation of lunch; two shillings between -two people can buy so much. - -Shortly after Jolly Butcher's Hill the country began. At Southgate they -would stop to see their cousins. Riska affected to despise their means -of traveling. She was shooting up into a tall girl, like her mother; she -was darkly handsome and carried herself with a gipsy slouch. Jehane's -philosophy, of teaching her girls how to catch men, was already -beginning to take effect. Outside the cottage-gate she had a little -table from which she sold ginger-beer to Cockney cyclists. She did it -to make pocket-money; even as a child, by this means of introduction she -gathered about her a group of boy-lovers. She was learning early how -to attract when she cared. Her mother was pleased by her foolish -conquests--in the rose-scented air of the cottage garden they seemed -very guileless and humorous. In the presence of men, whatever their -years, Riska invariably tried to fascinate. - -“It's an instinct with her, the little puss,” said Barrington; “she even -tries to make love to her old uncle.” - -It was a subject for laughter in the family. - -On these short visits Kay and Peter saw hardly anything of Glory--she -was doing the work. Just as they were going she would come out from -the kitchen, untying her apron, or would pop her head out of a bedroom -window to shake a duster and smile at them. Then, as the pedals began to -turn, Riska would sing half-tauntingly, and Eustace and Moggs would join -in with her pipingly: - - “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true, - - I 'm half-crazy, all for the love of you. - - It won't be a stylish marriage, - - For I can't afford a carriage, - - But you'll look sweet-” - -The words would be lost as the tricycle lumbered into the sunshine -between the hedges. - -Kay used to say, when she was very little, that the gladness went into -her feet when she was happy. On these expeditions it went everywhere, -into her feet, her eyes, her lips, her hands. She did the things that -boys do, and yet she had the sweetness of a girl. She ran like a boy and -she swam like a boy. She was a darling and a puzzle to Peter; he could -never make her out. He was always trying to put her dearness into words -and always failing. - -“Your voice is like the laughter of birds,” he said. “But why do you -love me so much, Peter?” - -He slanted his eyes. “Because I borned you.” He knew better than that -now. - -Sometimes they spoke of their cousins. - -“I did something horrid this morning.” - -“Don't believe it.” - -“Oh, but yes. I was brushing the dust off my shoes in the kitchen, and -what do you think I found?” - -“Hurry up and tell me.” - -“That Glory hadn't had time to eat her breakfast and that some of the -dust had gone into her plate of porridge.” - -“Oh, Peter! How careless! Did you tell her?” - -“She came in and saw it. You'd never guess what she said.--'Never mind, -old boy. One's got to eat a peck o' dirt before one dies. So mother -says.' And she took a spoon and-----” - -“And ate it?” - -Peter nodded, trying to look penitent, but laughing. - -Then Kay became grave-eyed and asked one of her questions. “But do you?” - -“Do you what?” - -“Have to eat a peck of dirt before you die?” - -Peter wriggled his toes in his shoes and looked down to see them moving. -“Don't know. You and I don't. But that's what Glory says.” - -Having learnt to walk like a boy, Kay learnt to whistle. One hot -summer's afternoon they had ridden out and were lying on their backs -in a field tall with grass, nearly ready for cutting. Peter had almost -drowsed with the heavy smell of the wild flowers, when he sat up -suddenly and seized his sister by the arm quite roughly. She was only -whistling a little tune softly and was surprised at the strength he -used. - -“Peterkins, what's the matter? You're hurting. I'm sure you've made a -bruise.” - -He paid no attention to her protest. “Where'd you learn that?” - -“What?” - -“That tune you were whistling?” - -“Don't know. Just made it up, I suppose. I never heard it.” - -“But you must have.” - -“But I haven't, Peter.” She was frightened by his earnestness, mistaking -it for anger. - -“Did you never hear it in the cupboard in the bedroom--the one that was -yours and mine?” - -She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. “You're joking.” - -“I'm not. I'm in dead seriousness.” - -The tears came. “I'm telling the truth. I never knew it till this -moment.” - -“Whistle it again.” - -“I can't. I forget it.” - -As the children's legs grew stronger they went further afield, -conquering new territory, exploring all kinds of dusty lanes and -by-roads. They had turned off from Potter's Bar to Northaw, working -round through Gough's Oak to Cheshunt when they were hailed by a -freckled boy, about Peter's age, who sat astride a gate, playing a -mouth-organ. - -“Hey, kids! Want to buy anything?” - -They jammed on the brakes and addressed him from the trike. “Got -anything to sell?” - -“Nope. Just wanted to talk and had to say something.” - -“But who are you?” - -“I've lived in America and now I'm living here in Friday Lane. I've -often seen you go by.” - -They looked round to discover Friday Lane; on every side was a sweep of -country, rolling away in sun-dazzled fields and basking woodlands. - -“But--but it's lonely here.” - -“Yup. But it's lonelier where I come from. Nothing but Indians and -prairie.” - -Even Indians didn't turn them aside; they were trying to unravel the -mystery of Friday Lane. - -“Is this road the Lane?” - -“That's the Lane.” The boy pointed with a brown hand to a grass-grown -field-track starting from the gate on which he sat and vanishing between -a line of tall oaks--oaks which had probably been standing when the land -was part of the royal chase. - -“But there aren't any houses.” - -The boy laughed. “Oh, aren't there? There's our house, right over there, -out of sight.” - -“And who are you?” Kay and Peter asked together. - -“I'm Harry Arran and the house belongs to my brother. He's the Faun Man; -I kind o' look after him and keep him straight. He's a wonder; you'd be -lucky if you knew him.” - -“We'd like to know him. We'd both like to know him very much.” Again -they spoke together. - -The boy thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed them. - -“Don't know so much about that. I'm very particular about my brother. I -don't let him know just anybody.” - -He twisted round on the gate, turning his back on them, and re-commenced -playing, giving them plainly to understand that their too eager interest -in his family affairs had made conversation undesirable. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV--THE HAPPY COTTAGE - -It was the way in which the boy had said “just anybody.” Peter gazed -beyond the gate into the green mysterious depth of country--an Eden from -which he was excluded by that hostile back. His eyes followed Friday -Lane: it ran on, trees, sunshine and shadows, tremulous with the wings -of birds, a canopied track, across fields, into the heart of wooded -fairyland. What promises lay over there? A voice of ecstasy kept -calling. - -Reluctantly he set his feet against the pedals, glanced across his -shoulder to Kay and was going to have said-- - -Something that glistened shot down her cheek and swiftly vanished. - -Very deliberately he dismounted. Yankee-Doodle, or a tune not unlike -it, was being played at the moment. He thumped the student of the -mouth-organ in the place from which Eve was created. Kay, all legs, -flushed face and blown hair, watched from the back seat of the trike the -novel sight of her brother being violent. - -The boy tumbled from his perch, putting the gate between himself and -Peter. Yankee-Doodle ended abruptly--the mouth-organ slipped from his -hand. The freckled good humor of his face changed to an expression of -amused and fierce intelligence. It was his way to be amused when he was -angry or in danger--Kay and Peter were to learn that later. He bobbed -in the grass, recovered his fallen treasure, rubbed it on his sleeve, -stuffed it into his knickerbockers' pocket and grimaced across the rail. - -“You're a fresh kid.” - -Peter removed his cap; his curly hair fell about his forehead. “You've -made my sister cry,” he said. His hands were clenched. - -One leg hopped over the gate; then another. “I haven't,” the boy denied -stoutly. - -“You have. You called her 'just anybody.'” - -The boy stepped into the road--a pugnacious little figure. “Pshaw! What -of it? Girls cry for nothing.” - -Peter drew himself erect. “My sister doesn't.” - -The boy raised his eyes and met Kay's. Ashamed of himself, but more -ashamed of showing it, he spoke stubbornly, “She's doing it now.” - -There was silence. A small strained voice, which sounded not at all like -Peter's, said, “I never hurt people. I never fought in my life. But if I -did ever fight, I'd like to punch your head. And--and I think I could do -it.” - -The boy lost his shame and became happy. “Guess you can't. Anyhow, why -don't you have a shot at it?” - -Without waiting for a reply, he commenced to take off his coat and to -roll up his shirt-sleeves. He did it with an air of competence which was -calculated to intimidate. All the while he carried on a monologue. “So -he'd like to punch my head--_my_ head. Why, I could get his goat by just -looking at him. In America I've licked boys twice his size, and they -hadn't curly hair, either.” He faced Peter, doubling his fore-arm, and -inviting him to feel his muscle. “See that. Say, kid, I'm sorry for -you.--Ready?” - -Peter nodded; before his nod had ended something hit him on the nose. He -threw up his arms to defend himself, but the something seemed all about -him. Always smiling into his own was the freckled face of a pleasant -looking boy--so pleasant that it was hard to believe that it was he who -was doing the hurting. And Peter--he hit back valiantly; but somewhere -at the back of his brain he kept on seeing pictures of the boy dead. It -was disconcerting; every now and then, when he should have pressed home -his advantage, he shortened his blows intentionally, with the strong -weakness of the humanitarian. - -A bird rose twittering out of a hedge. From a meadow across the road, -a cow hung its mild head over, looked shocked, switched its tail -disapprovingly, mooed loudly, swung round and lumbered away uncertainly, -like a distressed old lady with gathered skirts, in a futile endeavor to -bring help. - -Peter saw it all. His faculties were unnaturally and desperately alert. -It was odd how time lengthened its minutes--how much he saw and heard: -the deep blue stillness of sky-lagoons, the foam and wash of traveling -clouds, the erect and listening quiet of tree-sentinels and hedges, -and, somewhere out of sight, the sigh-sigh-sighing of wind in distant -country. - -There was a cry behind him. How long had he been fighting? He could not -guess. Between himself and the boy rushed a little girl. Her small hands -commenced to beat the boy furiously. She could not speak; she was choked -with sobbing. The boy's arms fell to his side; he let her aim her puny -blows at his impudent face, making no attempt to stop her. Suddenly she -swayed and sank into the flowers at the side of the road. Peter stooped; -his arms went about her. The boy looked on, gazing from these strange -invaders to the waiting trike. It was he who was excluded now. He wanted -to say something--opened his mouth several times and halted. At last he -stumbled out the words. - -“I'm--I'm sorry. And you're not just anybody.” And then, “I say, you're -plucky 'uns--won't you shake hands?” - -The bird came back to the hedge and dropped into its nest. The cow, -having sought help in vain, looked distractedly into the road and saw -a boy pushing open a gate, while another boy, a little bruised and -battered, pushed an ancient tandem tricycle into a meadow, and a small -girl, with flushed face and blowy corn-colored hair, dabbed her eyes -furtively with the hem of her dress. - -The trike had to be hidden. It was unlikely, but always possible, that -it might be coveted by tramps. Friday Lane lay before them. The boy -turned to them with abrupt frankness. “Here, what your names?” - -“Mine's Peter, and my sister's is Kay.” - -“Well, Peter, I guess I hit harder than I meant. But--but I reckon you -could have punched my head if you'd chosen. Didn't get warmed up to the -work before she stopped us--was that it?” - -They were up to their knees in the meadow-world; the air was full of -kind new fragrances. Peter's eyes were dreamy. The boy rambled on, -leading deeper into the avenue of oaks, so that already the first -straggling fringe of woods commenced. “My brother's like that. In -Alaska, when the dogs took to fighting, he'd just stand still and laugh -and holler at them. Then, all of a sudden, when he saw that they were -eating one another, he'd go clean mad and wade in among 'em and lay 'em -out with the butt of his rifle. He's a wonder, my brother.” - -“I'm sure he is,” said Peter, and Kay, trotting closely by his side, -repeated his words to show her interest. - -The boy, flattered by the attention of his audience, with the treachery -of the born story-teller, sharpened their appetite by suspense. He -wagged his head mysteriously. “I could tell you heaps about him if you -were to come here often.” - -He waited to see what effect that would have. Kay had been hiding behind -her brother, clinging to his hand. Now she came level with him, bending -her face across him so that she could meet the eyes of the boy. She -asked, “May we, Peter? Do you think we can?” - -“Not often,” said Peter guardedly; “but as often as we can.” - -The boy held out a further inducement. “One day I might show him to you. -He's like that with dogs and--and especially with girls: laughs at 'em, -hollers at 'em, and then-----. He's the most glad-eyed chap that ever -came down the pike, I reckon. That's what gives me all my trouble.” - -Neither Kay nor Peter knew exactly what was meant. So Peter said, -“You've been everywhere, haven't you? And we--we just tricycle out -and----” - -The boy had drawn his mouth-organ from his pocket and was playing, -stamping his feet and swaying his body. Suddenly he stopped and his -voice took up the air: - - “I've been shipwrecked off Patagonia, - - Home and Colonia, - - Antipodonia; - - I've shot cannibals, - - Funny looking animals, - - Top-knot coons; - - I've bought diamonds twenty a penny there, - - I've been somewhere, nowhere, anywhere-- - - And I'm the wise, wise man of the - - Wide, wide world.” - -They gazed at him wide-eyed in the hushed summer woodland. Then they -beat their hands together, crying, “Oh, again, again, please.” - -The boy smiled tantalizingly. “Can you climb?” He shot the question out. -The next moment he was scrambling up a tall oak. Sometimes his body -was lost in leaves. Sometimes it sounded as though he were tumbling, -tumbling through the branches to the ground. At last, from a bough high -up where the sky commenced, his impish face gazed down on them. First -they heard the mouth-organ, then the voice, singing of somewhere, -nowhere, anywhere--of the splendidly imagined No-Man's-Land through -which every child has longed to wander. - -And they believed his song, as though it were autobiography. In a -picture-flash they saw the world, beautiful, tumultuous, full of -terrors--saw it as a vast balloon, swimming through eternal clouds, -painted with the dreams of young desire: islands in sun-drenched seas, -where palms stood motionless, pointing to the skies with silent hands; -countries of yellow men, small and crafty, who lived in paper houses and -fed on flowers; enfeebled cities, dazzlingly white, whose eyes had -been burnt out by the door of hell left open in the iron heavens; and -snow-deserts where the frost carved Titans with his breath. - -This freckled pugnacious master of the mouth-organ, - -This pugnacious master of the mouth organ, caroling a street song in the -tree-turrets of Friday Lane, became for them the embodied soul of -adventure. - -[Illustration: 0243] - -The boy came slithering down. Kay watched him, how he dangled by -his arms, caught on with his legs, dug in with his toes, got himself -completely dirty and always saved himself at the last moment from -falling. - -He dropped breathless at their feet. “It's fine up there. Different from -down here. Up there it belongs to anybody.” - -Kay wasn't quite sure that she approved of him. He had ripped his coat, -and it didn't seem quite kind to give his mother so much work. She spoke -reproachfully. “D'you like tearing your clothes?” - -He gazed at her out of the corners of his eyes with a sly expression. -“I don't mind. Don't need to mind--my clothes are magic. They mend -themselves.” - -“Mend themselves!” She tugged at Peter, to see in what spirit he was -accepting this amazing assertion. “Why, how wonderful!” And then, -reluctant to show doubt, “But--but how can they?” - -The boy grinned broadly. “Not really, you know--just pretence. I--I mend -them myself. I'm an awful liar. Come on now.” - -Confession had made him self-conscious; he darted ahead. Kay and Peter -followed slowly. He turned. “Aren't you coming?” - -It was Peter who answered. “But to where?” - -“To where I live--the Happy Cottage.” - -Was this also pretence? The name sounded too good to be true--and yet it -was the kind of name you tried to believe, despite yourself. - -The boy left the grassy avenue and broke into the undergrowth of woods. -He went in front, parting the branches for Kay. He explained to them, -“Friday Lane's shorter, you know; but this other way's heaps jollier.” - -Presently above the rustle of their passage they heard a little singing -sound. Sometimes it grew quite loud and near them; sometimes it died -away into the merest breath. - -It was like someone who was almost asleep, humming over and over the -first two notes of a tune that refused to be remembered. Kay snuggled -her hand into Peter's; she was a little scared. Everything was so dark -and eerie. The sound drew near and seemed to slip away from under her -very feet. She cried out; it was as though someone had touched her and -had vanished before she could turn round. - -The boy heard her cry and looked back. He nodded reassuringly. “It's -always doing that--plays no end of pranks. You needn't be frightened; it -won't hurt you.” - -“But what is it? What won't hurt you?” Peter asked almost angrily. - -The boy laid his finger on his lips. “The wood's haunted. That's the -queen fairy calling. There are all kinds of fairies hidden about here. -When you see them, they turn into rabbits and birds, and----” Because -Kay had covered her face, he stopped. “I'm--I'm an ass. It isn't really, -you know. I just tell myself that.” - -“Then what is it?” asked Peter, slightly awed, for the voice kept on -singing. - -The boy laughed. “It's the tiniest little river that's lost itself. It -creeps about under the bushes and wriggles through the leaves on its -tummy, trying to find a way out.” - -“And does it find it?” asked Kay, plucking up her courage. - -“You bet you. Wait till we get to the Happy Cottage.” And all of a -sudden they got there. It was as though the little river had led them, -for just where they broke out into the sunlight it rushed past them, -flashing silver and singing merrily, with all the words of its song -remembered. At first they saw a green, green stretch of grass, over -which the yellow of cowslips drifted like blown gold-dust. Then they -saw Friday Lane, with its tall oaks holding back the woods, like big -policemen marshaling a crowd when a procession is expected. And then -they saw the Happy Cottage--a bee-hive, with low-thatched roof, set down -in a refuge of flowers. It had one chimney, from which smoke was lazily -ascending; and it must be logs that the fire was burning, for the air -was filled with the indescribable homey smell that sets one dreaming -of all the country cottages, tucked away in gardens, and all the summer -happiness he has ever chanced on. - -They followed the little stream right up to the high hedge which went -about the Happy Cottage; they crossed it by a plank, pushed open a gate -and entered. Flowers, flowers everywhere and the banjo-music of bees -humming. A red-tiled path, moss-grown and edged with box, led through a -wilderness of beauty, comfortably untrimmed and neglected. The door of -the cottage stood open; across its threshold lay a Great Dane, which -rose up and growled at sound of their footsteps. The boy called to him, -“All right, Canute, old dog. Come here, old fellow.” - -Canute came with the solemn suspicion of majesty, ignoring the -strangers, and placed his great head against his master's breast, gazing -up attentively. - -“Canute, this is Kay and this is Peter. They're my friends. You've got -to look after them. D'you understand?” - -The dog blinked his eyes and turned away indifferently, as much as to -say, “Your friends! Humph! We'll see. Very sudden!” - -“He's always like that with newcomers,” said the boy. “He's very -particular about my brother. Guess he's thinking what I said, that he -don't let the Faun Man know just anybody.” Fearful lest he should have -given offence, he made haste to add, “But you're not just anybody any -longer.” - -The door opened without ceremony directly into the living-room. The -leaded windows were pushed back; roses stared in and bent inquisitively -across the sills, spilling their petals. The house was silent; it was -like stealing into someone's heart when the soul was absent. Guns on -the walls, brilliant little sketches, golf-sticks in a corner, old oak -furniture, a mandolin lying in a chair--everything betrayed the room's -habitation by a strong and alluring personality. Peter, looking round, -became conscious of a spirit of loneliness and yearning. On the walls -were pictures of many beautiful women, but in the house itself were no -signs of a woman's hands. - -The boy explained. “He's not here to-day. He's gone to town. This -is where we play; it's upstairs that he works.” He volunteered no -information concerning the task at which the Faun Man worked. Casting -his eyes round the walls, he said, “Those are all his girls. Pretty! Oh, -yes. But they give me an awful lot of trouble. Want some tea? Yes?” - -He went out into the kitchen at the back. He let the children follow -him, but refused their offers of help. “I'm a rare little cook, I can -tell you. Had to be on our ranch in America--there was no one else. You -just watch me.” - -But Kay had been thinking. She had supposed that there were mothers -everywhere--that every boy had a----. She said, “Where are your mother -and sisters?” - -He looked up from toasting some bread. “Haven't any.” - -She laid her hand on his arm. “But--but didn't you ever have any?” - -He answered cheerfully, not at all sorry for himself, “Nope. Not that I -remember.” - -She glanced at her brother. “Peter and I've always been together.” - -Peter added, “So that's why you thought girls cried for nothing? You -don't know anything about them. I shouldn't have been angry.” - -The boy winked joyfully. “Oh, don't I know anything! Leave that to the -Faun Man. I know just as much as I want to. But say, I'd have liked to -have had your sister for my sister. I really would have.” - -Kay leant over his shoulder as he knelt before the fire. “If I were your -sister, d'you know what I'd do for you? I'd tell you not to climb trees -and, if you did do it, I'd mend your clothes for you.” - -He told them something of his history as they sat at table. How he'd -left England with his brother when he was so little that he couldn't -remember. How he'd lived on a cattle ranch and knew how to ride -anything. He tried to make them understand the freedom and the -solitariness of his life in those wide stretches, where there weren't -any street lamps but only stars, and where one gazed on green-gray grass -for miles and never saw a single house. And he told them of the places -he had been to--the queerly natural ghost corners of the earth, Alaska, -Mexico and the South Sea Islands. Every now and then his imagination -would gallop away with him. Then he'd twist his head and stoop forward, -as if listening for the first expression of doubt. Before it came, he -would try to forestall it by saying, “You know, that last part's not -really.” - -When he had said it several times Kay laughed softly. The boy looked up, -a little offended. “What is it?” - -Her eyes were dancing with happiness. “You're--you're a very pretence -person, aren't you? Peter and I, we're pretence persons. We're always -going to one place and telling ourselves we're going somewhere else.” - -The boy sank his head between his hands. His words came timidly. “It -makes one happy to pretend, especially when one's always been lonely. -It's like climbing a tall tree--it belongs to anyone up there.” He -turned slowly, staring at his guests. They wondered what was in his -mind. At last he said, “I wish--I wish you'd call me Harry. And please -don't tell me where you come from. Let's be pretence persons---- I'd -like to be your friend.” - -With the quaint solemnity of childhood, they clasped hands. Outside the -bees played their banjo-music, the flowers whispered, laying their faces -close together, and the stream ran singing past the cottage, with all -the words of its song remembered. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI--THE HAUNTED WOOD - -Life at its beginning and its end is bounded by a haunted wood. When no -one is watching, children creep back to it to play with the fairies -and to listen to the angels' footsteps. As the road of their journey -lengthens, they return more rarely. Remembering less and less, they -build themselves cities of imperative endeavor. But at night the wood -comes marching to their walls, tall trees moving silently as clouds and -little trees treading softly. The green host halts and calls--in the -voice of memory, poetry, religion, legend or, as the Greeks put it, in -the faint pipes and stampeding feet of Pan. - -We have all heard it. Out of fear of ridicule we do not talk about it. -Do we revisit the wood, it is when sleep, or the dream of death, has -claimed us and made us again children. - -Because secrecy adds to happiness, Kay and Peter told no one of -their discovery. In the early morning they would tricycle out through -red-brick suburbs, where nurse-girls wheeled fretful babies in prams -and wondered what love meant. Having spent their day in fairyland, they -would tricycle back through those same brick suburbs where tethered -people found romance in twilit reality. They almost feared to speak -aloud of their doings, lest speech should break the spell--lest, were -they to tell, they might search in vain for Friday Lane, Canute, and -Harry of the mouth-organ, and find them vanished. - -On their first visits they did not meet the Faun Man; in proportion as -they failed to meet him, they grew more curious about him. Sometimes -they were quite certain he was there, but Harry---- He was strangely -reluctant to share him--as reluctant as Peter was to share his sister. -And yet, in-all the rest of his secrets he was generous. He showed -them how to find beneath stones in the river the homes of fishes--tiny -fellows, who darted away with agitated tails the moment you took the -roofs off their houses. And he showed them how you could make whistles -out of boughs, if you chose the right ones. He taught them to mimick the -notes of birds, so that they would follow through the woods, answering -and hopping, twisting from side to side their perky heads. He was the -Pied Piper of the open world, and willing to make them his confederates. -“Where--where did you learn?” They asked him. Sometimes he looked away -from them, narrowing his eyes; sometimes he answered, “The Faun Man--he -taught me.” So the Faun Man became a kind of god, whose handiwork was -seen in many wonders, but who never showed himself. - -It was a scorching afternoon. In London water-carts were going up and -down; the less refined portion of mankind had removed their collars and -had knotted handkerchiefs about their necks. Along Green Lanes and as -far as Jolly Butcher's Hill, costers tempted villadom to extravagance, -crying, “Strarberries. Fresh strarberries,” in voices grown cracked from -over-use and thirst. It made one's throat dry to listen to them. The -tricycle seemed to feel its weight of years; despite frequent oiling, -it insisted on running heavily. At Aunt Jehane's house they halted for -a rest; then, on again. The country drowsed: big trees in the meadows -seemed to fold their hands; birds had hidden themselves; there was -scarcely a sound. - -When they came to the gate leading into Friday Lane, Harry wasn't there. -Pushing the machine behind a hedge, they went in search of him. They -called his name and paused to listen. He had tricked them before, trying -to make them believe that they wouldn't find him, then startling them -into laughter by playing his mouth-organ in a tree right above their -heads. They persuaded themselves that that was what was happening now. -Every few steps they would stop and look up into the boughs, shouting, -“We've found you. We know where you're hiding. You may as well come -down.” If he heard them, he refused to fall into their trap. - -They came to the Haunted Wood and entered. In its dark green shadows, -where all things trod softly, they dared not shout. They whispered their -assertion that they had guessed his whereabouts. Only the little river -answered, now mocking them secretly, now babbling hoarsely, alarmed that -it would never get out. They began to tiptoe. Fear of the silence seized -them. A branch cracked; they only just saved themselves from running. -It seemed as though a magician had waved his wand, casting a spell; -everything slept. Everything except the river--and at last, because its -voice was solitary, it became terrible, like that of a dying man in a -shuttered room, who muttered deliriously and tossed upon his bed. - -The green stretch of grass, with the cowslips scattered over it, brought -relief to their suspense. But, here again, there was no welcome. Bees -hummed above the flowers, quite indifferent to their presence. The -bee-hive cottage stood with door and windows wide, as though its -inhabitants had been called away suddenly and would never return. -Beneath the smiling of the summer stillness lay the threat that -something evil had happened. Even Canute had vanished. - -They stole round the house and at last crossed the threshold. Everything -was as they remembered it, even to the mandolin lying across the -chair. They listened. Voices! Yes, certainly. Then laughter, clear and -pleasant; it broke off in the middle, as if someone paused for breath. -It came from the Faun Man's room overhead, which Harry had never invited -them to enter. Hand-in-hand they' climbed the stairs--steep and narrow -stairs, which ended abruptly in a white door. They tapped. A man -answered. Peter raised the latch. - -The ceiling sloped down from the centre, giving to the room the -appearance of a tent. There were two lattice-windows, on opposite sides, -which opened outward on to the thatch. Against one of them stood a desk, -littered with papers, from which a rush-bottomed chair had been pushed -back. A pen, lying on a sheet of partly written foolscap, had rolled -across it, leaving blots, as if the writer had put it down and turned -hastily at the sound of someone's entrance. In one corner of the room -there was a high-peaked saddle and on the walls a strange collection of -memories and travel--a study of a girl's head by Rossetti, old Indian -muskets used in frontier warfares, a pair of sabres, a college oar with -the names of the crew gilded on it, and everywhere the faces of women. -Among them one face occurred often--Peter had noticed its frequence on -the walls downstairs. And now he saw the living woman before him. - -She was dressed in white, lying on a rose-colored couch, stretched out -carelessly full-length, with her small feet crossed. Her age might have -been anywhere from twenty upward. It didn't matter--one forgot years -and only thought of youth in looking at her. Was not Helen past mid-life -when two continents went to war for her beauty? Somehow she reminded one -of Helen--was it the way in which experience mixed with artlessness in -her expression? The mind went back. Dr. Faustus might have addressed his -sonorous lines to her: - - “Was this the face that launched a thousand ships? - - And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? - - Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss: - - Her lips suck forth my soul, see where it flies: - - Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. - - Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips.” - -She was golden, splendidly negligent of what was happening about her, -insolently languid with a lazy ease that seemed to take all the world -into her confidence and actually shut all the world out. She was a -lonely tower of snow and ice, rosy in the sunlight, luring, cold and -inaccessible. Her eyes were intensely blue and innocent. She had fine -teeth and an almost childish mouth, which was contradicted by the -powerful molding of her chin and throat, and the capability of her -hands. One wondered what difference it would make to her if she were -ever to be roused by love or anger. She was built on heroic lines, -long and full and gracious, yet she seemed to prefer to be treated as -a plaything. One arm was curled beneath her golden head, the other hung -down listlessly and was held by a man who was pressing the hand to his -mouth. Peter noticed in a flash how the woman paid no attention to what -the man was doing. And the man---- - -Peter had never seen anyone quite like him. He was tall and strong and -slender. Even though he was kneeling, Peter knew that he must be of -great height. His face was smooth, lean and tanned. His lips were -thin--unusually red and delicate for a man's. His nose was straight and -arched at the nostrils. His ears were set far back and pointed. But it -was by his eyes that Peter recognized him as the Faun Man. They were -brown and filmed over with blue like a dog's, showing scarcely any -white. They had a dumb appeal in them, a hunger and melancholy because -of something which was never found, which the eager happiness of -the rest of his appearance disguised. They had a trick of veiling -themselves, of becoming dull and focusless, as though the spirit, whose -windows they were, had drawn down the blinds and lay drugged with -sleep and satiety. Then suddenly they would flash, become torches, all -enthusiasm, crying out that there was no truce in the forward march of -desire. At such times the face became extremely young--as young as his -long fine hands. Only the black hair, brushed straight back from the -forehead without a parting, betrayed his age by the gray which grew -about the temples. - -The golden woman withdrew her hand from his, and raised herself on her -elbow at the children's entrance. She gazed at them doubtfully, like a -young pantheress disturbed. Her red mouth pouted. Her blue eyes feigned -a laughing shyness. Only one small foot, tapping against the other, told -of her impatience. “Oh, it isn't---- I thought it was Harry. Who are -they, Lorie?” - -Her voice was soft and caressing. She spoke in the “little language” - which mothers learn in the nursery. In her way of talking there was a -guttural quality which marked her foreign parentage. - -The Faun Man, unabashed by the unexpected company, bent toward her and -kissed her arm. “I don't know,” he laughed. Then he turned with a smile -that was all courtesy and kindness, “Won't you tell us? Who are you?” - -Peter didn't answer at once. He was fascinated. He had never seen a -man's ears move like that. As the Faun Man had asked his question, his -ears had pricked up as a dog's do when he pays attention. And then there -was something about his voice---- It was so sad and intense. - -It hurt by its longing. It didn't seem right to meet this man in a -house. Peter both distrusted and liked him--the way we do nature. - -The white room became a blur as he gazed into the soft brown eyes. Woods -and meadows, seen distant in the sunlight, became flat like painted -canvases hung across the windows. Real things grew vague, or took on the -aspect of artificiality. The question came again. “Tell us, little chap. -Who are you?” - -Peter's brain cleared. “If you please, we're friends of Harry, the boy -with the mouth-organ.” - -The golden woman leant forward, resting her hand intimately on the Faun -Man's shoulder. She was interested and her face became gentle. “Harry's -friends! But we're in disgrace with Harry. He's run away with Canute -because--because he's jealous. He wants his big brother all to -himself---- What shall we do with them, Lorie? I think we'll have to -make them our pals.” - -Kay had been hiding behind Peter in the doorway. She looked round him -timidly, still ready for escape. “But--but will Harry come back?” - -The concern in her voice made the woman clap her hands. “He always comes -back. Men always do come back, don't they, Lorie?” She slipped her feet -off the couch and came across the room. “What a dear little girl!” - -Kay looked up at her, willing to be frightened. Then her arms reached up -and the woman stooped over her. “You're nice,” she said. - -“Have you been here often?” It was the Faun Man speaking. - -Peter thought. He tried to reckon. “Not often, but several times.” - -The Faun Man took him by the shoulders, looking down on him. Seen that -way, from below, he seemed tremendously high. “You needn't be afraid, -young 'un; I'm not angry. You won't get Harry into a row. Where d'you -come from?” - -“Come from!” Peter laid his fingers on the thin brown hand. “Would you -mind very much if I didn't tell? You see, Harry doesn't know. It's such -fun--we're just pretence people. We tricycle out from--from nowhere on -a tandem, Kay and I. And then we meet Harry and leave the trike behind -a hedge and go into the Haunted Wood together. You see, if Harry doesn't -know who we are, it's almost as though we were fairies, and as though he -were a fairy, and we---- You know what I mean: we meet in fairyland, and -can do what we like with the world.” - -The Faun Man turned his head. “Eve, did you hear that? He wants to do -what he likes with the world. He's one of us.” - -But Eve had Kay on her lap and her lips were in her silky hair. -Something had happened to her--something difficult to express. She -had melted. With the child pressed against her bosom, she looked a -mother--very young and good. As the Faun Man watched her, his eyes -became tender--oddly tender. - -“Eve. Eve.” - -He went over to her and took her hand. She lifted her face to his. “If -you hadn't kept me waiting----” He got no further. - -There was a pause. - -“I was thinking the same,” she said; “and yet----” - -“And yet?” he questioned. - -She drew Kay nearer to her. “Where's the good of talking. We've talked -so often--so often.” - -He went to the open window and stared out. A butterfly flew in and -alighted on his forehead. He took no notice; he stood rigid like a man -of stone. A little muscle in his cheek kept twitching; his arms hung -straight down and the fingers worked against the palms of his hands. -Seen on either side of him, in two narrow strips, was the basking -unimprisoned country, which rolled on marvelously, this visible -landscape building into the next, and the next into all the others that -lay beyond the horizon, continents, seas and wonderlands, like a carpet -of ever-changing pattern wrapped about the world for his feet to tread. -And he, without bonds, was a prisoner. - -He swung round. To Peter's surprise he was laughing. His dark face was -narrow in mockery. “Come on, young 'un,” he said; “let's get out.” - -He had to double himself up to pass down the low-ceilinged stairway. -Peter followed; in leaving the room, he glanced back. The golden woman -had raised her eyes--the eyes of a child who has been selfish and has -wounded itself. She was fondling Kay, as though she thought that her -kindness to the little girl would atone for her unkindness to the man. - -As he crossed the living-room, the Faun Man picked up the mandolin from -the chair. He did not walk through the garden; he walked into it. That -was his way with everything. Leaving the path, he pressed waist-deep -through roses and fuchsias, scattering their blooms and petals. Like -soldiers approving his lawlessness, sunflowers swayed their golden heads -and nodded. Swarms of winged insects, whose homes he had disturbed, -rose up in busy protest. His face was wrinkled with determination to be -glad--to be glad whatever might lie in the future. In the heart of the -fragrant nature-world he halted, and sat down on the hard-baked earth. -He looked like a great supple hound with his legs crouched under him. -Through the walls of their house of leaves and blossoms they could see -the window of the room they had left. - -The Faun Man commenced to tune his mandolin. “Ever been in love, Peter?” - -The boy reddened. He didn't know why he reddened. Perhaps he was proud -that he should be asked such a question. Perhaps he was a little angry -because--well, because everyone he had ever met seemed a little ashamed -of love--everyone except the Faun Man. So he answered, “Only with my -little sister.” - -The man laughed. “That isn't what I meant. That's different. Love's -something that burns and freezes. It fills you and leaves you hungry. It -makes you forget all other affections and keeps you always remembering -itself. It makes you kindest when it's most cruel. It demands everything -you possess; and you're most eager to give when it gives you nothing -back. It's hell and it's heaven. No, I'll tell you what it is. It's a -small child pulling the wings off a fly, and then crying because it's -sorry, and didn't know what it was doing. Ah, Peter, Peter, you haven't -met love yet.” He bent forward and tapped him on the arm. “Be wise. Run -away when you see love coming.” - -Peter felt embarrassed. The Faun Man closed one eye and watched -him--watched how the sun splashed through the creeping shadows and fell -on the boy's flushed face and curly hair. “Here's a little song about -love,” he said. “A very high class song, written not improbably by the -poet Shelley.” - -He struck the strings of the mandolin, playing a little jingling -introduction and then commenced, lifting his long face to the window -in the thatch, singing through his nose and burlesquing all that had -happened: - - “If yer gal ain't all yer thought 'er, - - And fer everyfing yer've bought 'er - - She don't seem to care a 'appenny pot o' glue; - - If she tells yer she won't miss yer - - And she doesn't want ter kiss yer, - - Though yer've cuddled 'er from 'Ammersmif ter Kew; - - If yer little side excurshiums - - To lands of pink nasturtiums - - Don't make 'er 'arf so soft as they make you, - - Why, never get down-'earted, - - For that's the way love started-- - - Adam ended wery 'appy--and that's true.” - -He had scarcely finished, when the golden woman came to the lattice in -the thatch. She stood framed there, with the whiteness of the room as a -background. Her hands were crossed upon her breast. The shining masses, -wrapped about her head and forehead, accentuated her vivid paleness. She -looked as idealized as a girl on canvas, put there by her lover in a bid -for immortality. She glanced this way and that to discover the Faun Man. -She leant out, listening and searching. She could not detect him. - -“Lorie,” she cried, addressing the garden, “you're unkind. I hate -you when you're flippant.” She waited for him to answer. Nothing but -silence, and the little river whispering to itself beyond the hedge. -“Lorie, I suppose you think I've got no right to talk about being -flippant, because---- But I'm not flippant. I like you, and---- -But I can't help myself if God made me as I am.” Again she waited. -“Lorie, I'll be awfully nice to you if you'll only show yourself. I do -so want to see----” - -The Faun Man stood up ecstatically, with his arms stretched out to her. -It was absurd to call him a man. The pollen of flowers had smirched his -face and hands. His head was bare, and the hair had fallen forward over -his forehead. - -“I'm crying for the moon,” he chanted, “and because she won't come -down to me I'm calling her names--saying that she's a Gorgonzola cheese -flying through the heavens.” - -“My Lord,” laughed the golden woman--she pronounced it Looard, in her -most foreign accent; “what an imagination you have!” - -“Jump down,” urged the Faun Man; “I'll catch you, little Eve. I'd catch -you and carry you anywhere.” - -She thought and slowly shook her head, as if she had been considering -his suggestion as a feasible, if unconventional, plan of descent. “I'd -rather trust the stairs.” - -“You'd rather trust anything than trust me,” he said ruefully; “but I -don't care, so long as you do come down.” She was leaving the window, -when she turned back. “What was that silly song you were singing?” - -He answered her promptly. “Words by Shelley. Accompanied by Lorenzo -Arran. Title, 'A Bloke and 'is 'Arriet.' Scene laid in London. All -rights reserved.” She pulled a face, exceedingly provocative and -naughty. “Words by Shelley, indeed! But I can believe all the rest.” - -She vanished. - -The Faun Man turned to Peter. “You see, young fellow, it's as I told -you. Love's always like that. It comes to a window and looks down at -you. You hold out your arms to it and say, I want you.' Love came to the -window that you might say that; but the moment you say it, love shakes -its head. If you told it to walk decently down the stairs to you, it -would immediately fling itself over the sill and toboggan down the -thatch. You're fool enough to say to it, 'Slide down the thatch,' and -it immediately walks decently down the stairs. If I were you, Peter, I'd -never fall in love with anybody.” - -Then Peter surprised himself; he mimicked something he had just heard. -“My Looard!” he said, “I'm never going to.” - -The Faun Man held his sides and threw back his head, laughing loudly. -That was how the golden woman found him when she came with her arm about -Kay's neck. She halted on the path, six feet away, smiling at him across -the barricade of flowers. She cuddled the little girl closer to her. -“Aren't men funny, Kay?” And then, slanting her face and stooping with -her neck, “Lorie, you queer boy, what's the matter now?” - -The Faun Man waded through the roses to her, catching her by the -shoulders and bending over her. “Peter's the matter. I was telling him -never to fall in love with anybody, because--well, because love's cruel -and only looks out of a window in order to go away and leave the window -vacant. And what d'you think he said? I'm never going to.' He said it -sharply like that, as if I'd been telling him never to be a pickpocket. -Fancy a little boy having made up his mind never to walk in the sunlight -because the sunlight scorches.” - -“Ah, but he did not mean it.” She spoke as though Peter had been unkind, -and had said that he would not love her. “But he did not mean it,” she -repeated, tilting Peter's face up in her hollowed hand. “And love isn't -cruel--he mustn't believe what Lorie says. Love is the flowers and the -dusk falling, and the sound of birds and rivers, and the dearness of -little children. Love is---- How shall I put it? Love is eyes in the -head. Without love one can see nothing.” - -Peter gazed into her eyes. She was charming. He felt as though he had -hurt her. And he felt that, if he had hurt her, he ought to go -all across the world on his knees and hands till he obtained her -forgiveness. He remembered afterward that, when her eyes were on his, he -saw nothing but blue--just her eyes and nothing else. - -“He didn't mean it, did he?” she coaxed. - -In a very small voice he answered, “I did mean it. You see, there's Kay; -I have to love her.” - -“But some man may love Kay presently--may take her away from you. What -then?” - -Peter had never thought of that. He wouldn't think of it now, just as -years later he refused to face up to it. “Kay would never allow anyone -to take her. Would you, Kay?” Kay shook her head. “I only want Peter.” - -She freed herself from the golden woman and went and stood beside her -brother with her arm about him--an arm so small that it wouldn't come -all the way round. - -The man and woman stared at them. Here was something outside their -experience. They had found hard knocks in the world and occasional -stolen glimpses of tenderness--not a tenderness which one could carry -about as a thing expected, could arrange life by, and refer to as to a -timepiece in the pocket. Both were conscious of a hollowness in their -living. And the woman--she had dreaded permanency in affection lest it -should become a chain to gall her. - -A shadowy hurdler, very distant as yet, over trees and fields and -hedges, evening came vaulting. No one could hear his footsteps, only -the panting of his breath. He was racing from the great red door in the -west, from which he had slipped out--racing, with his head turned across -his shoulder, as though he feared to see a presence on the burning -threshold and to hear a voice that would call him. The small applauding -hands of leaves moved gently. The red door sank lower. Snared in the -branches of the Haunted Wood, it came to rest. - -Far away and out of sight, deep-toned and mellow, came the lowing -of cattle and the staccato barking of a dog, driving the herd to the -milking. One by one live things of the country-side commenced to wake -and stir. Rabbits hopped out among the cowslips and nibbled at the turf. -Birds, like children put to bed and frightened of being left, called -“Good-night. Good-night. Good-night,” over and over. From watch-towers -of tall trees mother-birds answered, “Good-night. Good-night. -Good-night.” The world had become maternal. The spirit of life's -brevity, of parting, of remembrance, of regret, of happiness withheld -was in the air. The golden woman felt her loneliness. Looking at the -children, so defiant in their sureness of one another, she recalled her -lost opportunities. - -An arm stole about her. A brown hand covered hers. She leant back her -head so that it lay against the Faun Man's jacket. So many things seemed -worth the seeking in this world--so few worth the keeping when found. -For the moment she liked to fancy that her search was at an end. - -Peter spoke. “If you please, I think we must be going. I've got to get -Kay back, you know. Even now, I'll have to light the lamps.” - -“But--but we haven't seen Harry.” - -A light woke in the golden woman's eyes. She was about to speak; the -Faun Man pressed his hand against her mouth. “You can see him to-morrow, -little girl, if Peter will bring you.” - -“But where is he?” - -The Faun Man swept the horizon. “Somewhere over there. He's gone away -into the wood with Canute, because we hurt his feelings.” - -“But what's he doing?” Kay insisted. - -The Faun Man looked at the golden woman; his eyes asked, “Shall we -tell?” They turned back to Kay. “What's he doing? Sitting with his head -in his hands. Crying, perhaps---- Do boys cry, Peter? He doesn't like -his brother and this little woman to be together. The poor old chap -doesn't think we do each other any good.” - -“And do we?” The golden woman spoke softly. - -The Faun Man became very solemn. His voice was husky. “We don't. But we -could.” - -She twisted round in his embrace so that she met him breast to breast. -“Ah, there's the voice of every tragedy! We don't. But we could---- And -we know we could; and yet we don't.” - -Down the garden, over the plank-bridge, across the meadow, through the -Haunted Wood they went together: the boy and girl, like lovers with arms -encircling; the man and woman, like brother and sister, holding hands, -brushing shoulders, and following. As they entered into Friday Lane, Kay -looked back. At the foot of a big oak Canute was lying, his nose between -his fore-paws, his eyes red-rimmed with vigilance. - -She tugged on Peter's arm. “Why he must be up there. Oh, do let's be -nice to him. Just one minute. Let's.” - -But when they approached, the dog's back bristled and he growled. He -lifted his black lip, showing the whiteness of his fangs. His sullen -eyes were on the golden woman. Like one embittered, who had ceased to -believe that virtue could be found anywhere, he regarded all four of -them in anger. - -The Faun Man shrugged his shoulders. “When he climbs trees that means -he's getting better. There's no sense in worrying him; he won't come -down till he's ready.” - -“Good-night,” Kay called to him with piping shrillness. - -“Good-night,” called Peter. - -And again, when the tree was growing small in the distance, Kay shouted, -“Good-night, Harry. We've missed you.” - -From up in the clouds, very faint and little, came the sound of a -mouth-organ playing the wander-tune of romance: - - “I've been ship-wrecked off Patagonia, - - Home and Colonia - - Antipodonia; - - I've shot cannibals, - - Funny-looking animals, - - Top-knot coons. - - I've bought diamonds...” - -Their memories set the tune to words. - -The old tandem trike was trundled out from its hiding place behind -the hedge. The Faun Man lifted Kay on to her seat at the back; Peter -mounted. All was ready. - -“So you're riding away from fairyland,” sighed the golden woman. -“Foolish! Foolish! It's so easy to do that---- And when you've gone and -until you come again, there won't be any fairyland. It's so easy to ride -away; so difficult to come back.” - -Kay thought that a doubt was being cast on Peter's cleverness. “It isn't -difficult at all,” she protested; “not if you have a tandem tricycle and -a big brother like Peter.” - -The golden woman laughed with her hand against her throat. “But I -hav'n't a tandem tricycle, and I hav'n't a big brother like Peter.” - -Kay knew she hadn't; she wondered what made the golden woman say that, -and---- yes, why she choked at the end of her words. - -“Good-by till we come again.” - -They rang their bells as a parting salutation. The wheels began to turn. -They disappeared between the hedges down the road, a vision of plunging -legs, bent backs and flying hair. - -The man and woman were left alone on the highway between the Haunted -Wood and the town, to both of which these children had such ready -access. - -Slowly, slowly the sun was vanishing; once a ball of fire; now the -boldness of sight on which an eye-lid was closing; at last a glory to be -taken on faith and conjecture. The country became vague as though seen -through water. Its greenness had a coolness which was more than color; -which had to be realized by a spiritual sense. The evening dimness, like -the hand of death, removed sharp temporary edges from the landscape and -revealed an expression which was timeless, which had been always there. -Birds had ceased calling. The moon floated out--the soul of the night, -high-lifted and inspired. Trees sought to touch her with their fingers; -she slipped by them, unhurried by their effort. - -He had said so much to her in the past with his eager lips and words. -Now, for some time, he had been saying everything, while seeming to say -nothing. - -He held her pressed against him. “Ah dearest----” - -She stirred. “But I'm not good.” - -“You are. But you're not kind to me often.” - -“Not often,” she murmured. - -He stooped; in the darkness he could say it--the old, old question -which, through repetition, had lost its generosity and splendor. “Am I -never going to make you love me?” - -She turned her face away, so that his kiss fell on her neck. “I don't -know, don't know, Lorie? How should I? I don't want to hurt you. You -do believe me when I say that? But I'm fickle. I'm not at all what you -think me. I'm all wrong somewhere inside--cold and bad-hearted.” - -He laid his cheek against hers, holding her more tightly. “Little Eve. -Please! You shan't accuse yourself. It wounds.” - -She broke away, but only that she might return of herself. She caught -him by the lapels of his coat and tiptoed against him. “But I am. -Harry's quite right to hate me. I send you on long journeys, and you -can't forget me. I won't love you myself, and I keep you from loving -another woman. You offer me your soul, and I allow you to go thirsty. I -torture you, and give you nothing.” - -He spoke very gently, for the first time honest. “I can put it in fewer -words: you want to be loved; you won't pay the price of loving. Isn't -that it?” - -She pressed her golden head against his shoulder in ashamed assent. -Behind her shuttered eyes she had the vision of a long white road -leading up to a city, of a curly-headed boy and an elfin-girl steering -through the traffic beneath street lamps. She wanted to have the -palm without the dust, to be a mother without the sacrifice of having -children. Seeing the vision of children going from her, and knowing that -he would understand, she whispered, “One day I shall be old--and I shall -have missed all that.” - -“Poor little Eve! Poor little girl!” - -He picked her up in his arms and commenced to walk through the twilight, -across fields, to the cottage. - -She raised her hand and touched his cheek. “You wonderful, strong Faun -Man.” - -He halted in his stride and bent over her; then went on into the -shadows. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII--PETER FINDS A FAIRY - -At the Faun Man's birth an angel and a witch attended. The angel -brought him the supreme gift of making people love him. The witch made -the gift fatal, by wishing that he might be loved not as a man, but as -a woman is loved--with jealousy. So his friends were all enemies to each -other because they had to share him. Even Canute was like that; he had -to be chained when admirers were calling. - -Strange company invaded the Happy Cottage. Women predominated--women who -tried to treat the Faun Man as their property. They wore fluffy gowns -and had fluffy manners; even their voices were fluffy. Their attitude -was that of princesses who had journeyed into the wilderness to borrow -something. They were a little annoyed by the country, and found it -dirty. Very few of them addressed him as Mr. Arran; each invented a -pet-name for him, which seemed to make him hers peculiarly. They were -all consumed with a desire to touch him and to go on touching him, -beating about him like birds about a lighthouse which shines out -hospitably, but permits no entrance. Most of them mingled with their -admiration a concerned and respectful sorrow. His lonely manner of -living moved them to the depths. They formed individual and brilliant -plans for the glorious reconstruction of his future--plans which these -female geographers handed to him boastfully, as though they were maps -of fascinating lands which awaited his exploring. For satisfactory -exploration the presence of the female geographer was necessary. - -Peter was usually forewarned that an invasion was in progress by the -crescendo cackling which rushed out from doors and windows into the -basking stillness of the garden. Then he would hear the mild protest of -the Faun Man, “But, my dear lady, my dear lady--but really----” Harry -would meet him by the hedge, his face flushed and his mouth sulky. -Jerking his thumb across his shoulder he would whisper, “The Hissing -Geese! Hark at 'em! Ain't it sickening?” Sometimes he'd call them the H. -G. for brevity. He called them that because of the way in which they sat -round his brother with their necks stretched out, all making sounds. He -hated them unreasonably, and hated them to excess when they tried to -curry favor with him by kissing. And yet, it was silly of him; with a -few years added to his age, he would have found most of them pretty and -quite suitable for loving. - -Surliness on these occasions gave Harry a strong sympathy for Canute. -If he had been a dog and unrestrained by chivalry, nothing would have -pleased him better than to have bitten the ladies' legs. He felt that it -was unjust to chain Canute up as a reward for his loyalty. So usually, -when Kay and Peter had arrived, the three of them would sneak round -the cottage to the kennel and attempt a rescue. Then came the exciting -escape through the garden, crouching low and stealing behind the flowers -so as not to be observed, holding on to the collar of the Great Dane for -fear he should break away and glut his anger. Sometimes they were heard -above the rattle of tea-cups and the ladies would bunch themselves in -the cottage window, like a nosegay, with the Faun Man in their centre. -Then would follow a series of high-pitched questions and exclamations, -fired off for the sake of noise. “What dear children! Is that your -sister? Are they both your brothers? What a perfectly sweet dog!” - -The “perfectly sweet dog” would growl and show his fangs, as much as -to say, “Leave me out of it. Look after your legs. I wish I had half a -chance of showing you how perfectly sweet I am.” - -Where did they all come from, these amorous butterfly excursionists? -Harry kept his mouth shut. He wasn't going to tell, only---- Well, he -hinted that they might be insincere experiments of the golden woman, -sent to supplant her--sent because she knew they couldn't do it. “And -jolly good care she takes not to send the right one. Trust her.” Harry -said it in a growl which he copied from Canute. - -It wasn't until they had entered the Haunted Wood and the green wall of -bushes and make-believe had shut out intruders, that his ruffled spirit -regained its levity. Then he'd light a fire, and play at Indians who had -taken their revenge in scalps. Presently, if the Faun Man had been lucky -in getting rid of his worries, he would join them. They would boil a -kettle and have tea in the open, after which the Faun Man would light -his pipe and smoke it, lying flat on his back. They knew what to expect. -Soon he would sit up, press his tobacco down with a lean finger, pluck a -twig out of the fire and use it as a match. Then, very deliberately, he -would begin, “I remember, once upon a time.” - -What a lot of magnificent things had happened once upon a time that he -could remember! He had chased cattle thieves across the border and had -come up with them, intending to shoot if necessary, only to find them -such human fellows that he'd parted friends. “Human” was his word for -describing the kind of people he liked, many of whom were disreputable. -One night, when camping in the Canadian Rockies, a hundred miles from -anywhere, a stranger had crept from the forest and shared his supper and -blanket. They had talked of London, London street-songs and Leicester -Square, till the stars were going out. Next morning he was wakened by a -member of the North West Mounted Police who was hunting a murderer. The -fugitive had already vanished. “A pity he'd killed some one,” said the -Faun Man; “he was one of the most charmin' chaps I ever met. Oh yes, he -was caught and hanged.” - -The Faun Man had played hide-and-seek with death in many quaint -corners of the world--getting his “liver into whack,” he called it, -and gathering “local color.” What local color might be, and why anyone -should want to gather it, Peter didn't understand. But he learnt that -its gathering took you down into Mexico in search of secret gold, where -Indians hid behind rocks and potted at you with poisoned arrows, and -that it took you up to Fort Mackenzie with dogs to the very edge of the -Arctic. While he listened to these stories of adventure, the shadows of -the Haunted Wood lengthened, the river sang more boldly, evening fell, -and the fire, from a pyramid of leaping flames, became a hollow land of -scarlet which grew slowly gray, fluttering with little tufts of ashen -moss and ashen feathers, until it at last lay charred and dead. - -The Faun Man captured Peter's imagination and affections. He filled -him with strange new longings. He sent his spirit reaching out after -unattainable perfections, whose lure and desire are both the glamour and -torture of childhood. He made Peter want to be a man, so that he might -be like him. The Faun Man was a stained-glass window which, when looked -through, tinted and intensified life's values. Peter was going through -the experience of hero-worship which comes to most boys when sex is -dawning, and they have not yet realized that its sole and splendid -meaning is that woman shares the same world. - -And yet there were moments when Peter almost feared his friend; his -character was a sand-desert in which the track followed yesterday was -soon wiped out. One day he would cry, “Ah, I know him!” and the next, -“I know nothing.” The whole passionate urgency of a child's heart in -friendship is to know everything. - -But the Faun Man was too big and elusive to be known by one person. -Four walls could not contain him. He came into a house like a half-tamed -animal--but where had he been, where had he come from? He had tricks, -curious tricks, which linked him to the creatures which make their -homes in the leaves and holes of the earth. He seldom sat on chairs, but -huddled himself on the floor while he talked to you. He could sit for an -hour, saying nothing. In the middle of a conversation he would jump up -and go out without apology, as if he heard a voice which you had not -heard. And he had. The sound of the wind told him something, the altered -note of a thrush, the little shudder, scarcely perceptible, that ran -through the flowers; to him they all said something. If you asked him -what they said, he could not tell you. So it was no good wanting him to -belong to you; he belonged out there. - -To Peter, who had always been smiled at for his compassion, it was -comforting to find some one as compassionate as himself. It removed the -dread of abnormality. There was a nightingale which used to come every -evening to sing in an apple-tree near the Happy Cottage. They used to -wait for the romance of its silver voice slanting across the velvet -dusk, as though it were a thing to be seen rather than heard. One night -they waited; it did not come. - -The Faun Man grew nervous. He could not rest; at last he went in search -of it with Peter. Beneath the apple-tree they found it still warm, with -its wings stretched out. And then the unexpected happened. Kneeling -in the twilight beside the dead singer, as though music had departed -forever from the earth, the Faun Man wept. - -And yet the same man could be harsh in anger--that was how Peter found -the fairy. On entering the cottage one afternoon he heard the sound of -sobbing upstairs and a voice protesting, “I didn't mean to do it. She -drove me mad--you and she together. You don't care for me--don't care -for me; and I love you better than anything in the world. Oh, do forgive -me, kind Faun Man.” - -A pause. Peter knew she was on her knees before him, kissing his hands. -It was as though he could see her doing it. “But you did mean to do it, -Cherry.” It was the Faun Man speaking deliberately and coldly. “You did -it on purpose. It was stupid and babyish of you. It didn't do her any -harm, and it didn't do you any good. I don't want to see you, and I -don't like you any longer.” - -A passionate voice declared, “If you say that again, I'll kill myself.” - -Again a pause. The door overhead opened; a wild thing came tearing down -the stairs. Peter had a vision of something in skirts, something with an -intense white face, tragic gray eyes and a mass of black flying hair. He -was bumped into. In stepping backward he tripped against a chair. -When he picked himself up and looked out into the garden she had -disappeared--all he heard was the running of her swift feet growing -fainter and fainter. - -He gazed about the room, wondering what he ought to do. Should he steal -back quietly to where he had left Kay and Harry, and pretend that he had -seen nothing? His attention was arrested. So that was what had caused -the disturbance? Every portrait of the golden woman had been torn from -its place on the wall and trampled. While he hesitated, he heard the -Faun Man descending. It was too late to go now. - -The Faun Man entered without seeing him. His face was stern; two deep -lines stretched like cuts from the nostrils to the corners of his mouth. -He looked leaner than ever. He was already stooping over the ruined -portraits when Peter addressed him. “Won't you ever forgive her? -Please do. Never to forgive a person, not forever and forever, seems so -dreadful.” - -The Faun Man jumped; his eyes, when they turned on Peter, were the eyes -of a stranger. “And where did you come from? And who asked you for your -opinion? You'd better get out.” - -When he came to the plank which crossed the little river, Peter halted. -Down Friday Lane he could hear the mouth-organ and, looking, could see -Harry beating time with one hand while Kay danced to it. No, he didn't -want to join them. Harry would laugh at him for paying heed to one of -the Faun Man's moods. And Kay--why, if she guessed that he was unhappy, -of course she'd become unhappy, too----. And that girl--she'd said that -she was going to kill herself. He ran across the meadow to the Haunted -Wood. She must be there. She shouldn't do it. - -Just where he entered, he stooped and picked up something white. She had -dropped her handkerchief, so he knew that he was on the right track. He -followed on tiptoe, afraid lest, if he overtook her suddenly, he might -scare her. In the stealth of the pursuit a novel excitement came upon -him. His eyes were glowing. His breath came and went pantingly. He had -removed his cap; his curly hair lay ruffled on his forehead. He went -forward timidly, half-minded to turn back, ashamed lest he might find -her looking at him. As he penetrated deeper, the stillness grew -and magnified ievery sound. Overhead the branches were woven closer -together, shutting the sunlight out. An air of secrecy gathered round -him. Birds, hopping out of his path under bushes, looked back at him -knowingly. They knew what he did not know himself. - -Out of sight, beyond him, there was the sound of moving. Leaves rustled; -silence settled down. They rustled again. He followed. Then he heard the -voice of the river--a little voice which grew louder. It sang to itself -softly. It seemed to be trying to say something. Did it sing in lurement -or warning? Now it seemed to be saying, “Turn back, turn back, turn -back”; and now----. But he couldn't make out the words. - -He lifted his face above a clump of shrub-oak and found his eyes -peering into hers. She was too startled to jump back from him; she gazed -wide-eyed, with lips parted and one hand plucking at her breast. She saw -a boy, swift and straight as an arrow, a boy who seemed to stand tiptoe -with eagerness, who had the grace and strength of a Greek runner and the -smooth skin and gentle mouth of a girl. - -And Peter in looking at her saw a white face, sensitive as a flower's; -and a mouth, red as a cherry, long and drooping and curved; and two -great gray eyes, clear and wistful in expression; and over the eyes, -dark brows, like a bird's wings spread for flight. Her black hair -had broken loose and hung about her shoulders, giving her a touch of -wildness. Across the whiteness of her forehead it brooded like a cloud. -In the green church of the wood she seemed sacred to Peter. - -She laughed throatily, breaking the suspense. “Oh, it's only you.” - -Peter stepped out of the underbrush. Then he saw that she had removed -her shoes and stockings, and was standing on the edge of the little -river. Her feet were wet and as small as her hands. They looked cold as -marble in the green dusk. Why was it? More than anything else, the sight -of her feet made him unhappy for her, made him want to care for her, -made him want to bring a smile to her mouth. - -“Yes, it's only me,” he said; “but--but I wish it wasn't. I'm sorry.” - -She tossed her head, as though she were indignant with him for being -sorry, but she looked at him slantingly, curiously and kindly. “Why -should you be sorry? You don't know who I am? You're not sorry; you only -say that.” - -He protested. “But I am. I didn't mean to overhear; but, you know, I -heard what you said---- I was afraid you'd do it.” - -She sat down, trailing her feet in the water. She was smiling now, -secretly and to herself, as if she didn't want him to know it. “It's too -little,” she pouted. “I couldn't drown in that.” - -Peter seated himself at her side, with his knees drawn up to his chin. -When he spoke, it was with an air of grave confession. “I'm awfully glad -it was too little.” - -She turned her head, looking at him from under her long lashes -provocatively; but he was staring straight before him with vacant eyes, -as if something very sweet and awful were happening. She reached out -her hand and touched him; she noticed how he trembled. “And if it hadn't -been too little, it wouldn't have mattered--not to you.” - -He didn't answer her immediately. When he spoke it was slowly, as if -each word hurt as he dragged it out. “It would have mattered, because -then you wouldn't have been in the world.” - -“But you didn't know that I was in the world this morning.” - -He shook his head, as much as to tell her that her objection was quite -beside the question. “I know that. But I think I should have missed you -just the same, without knowing exactly what I was missing.” - -She laughed outright, swaying against him and burying her hands in the -green things growing. “You are funny--yes, and dear. I never met a boy -like you. You didn't really think----?” - -He gazed at her wonderingly. Each time he looked at her, he found -something new that was beautiful. It was her throat this time, long -and delicate like a Lent lily. As he watched it, he could see how the -laughter bubbled up inside it; he longed, with the instinct of a child, -to lay his fingers on it. - -“You didn't really think----?” - -He nodded. “That you were going to kill yourself? Yes--and weren't you?” - -She ceased laughing. “I don't think so. I'm such a coward. And then,” - she commenced laughing again, “killing yourself is such a worry--you -can only do it once and, if you're not careful, you don't look pretty. I -always want to look pretty. Do--do you think I'm pretty?” - -He choked and swallowed. His mouth was dry. He couldn't bring his voice -to the surface. She drooped her face away from him, pretending to take -offense. “You don't. I can see that. You needn't tell me.” - -His words came with a rush. “I do! I do! I think, when God made you, -He must have said to Himself, 'I'll make the most beautiful person--the -most beautiful person I ever made.' It was something like that He said.” - -His quivering earnestness made her solemn. She hadn't meant to stir him -so deeply. “What an odd way of saying things you have. I don't suppose -God cared much about my making. He just had me manufactured with the -rest.” - -A warm hand slipped into hers and a shy voice whispered, “He made you -Himself. I'm certain.” - -She gazed at him, at the narrow sloping shoulders and the shining curly -head. She felt very much a woman at the moment--years older than the -handful of months which at most must separate them. She laid her cheek -against his and slid her arm about him. “I'm so glad you're not a man.” - -He stared straight before him. “I shall be soon.” - -“How old are you?” - -“Sixteen next birthday.” - -She drew him nearer to her. He was so young as that! “How old d'you -think I am?” - -He searched her face, trying to make her as near his own age as -possible, and not to be mistaken. “Sixteen?” he suggested. - -“Almost seventeen,” she said; “I'll soon be twenty, And then----” - -“And then,” he interrupted, “I'll be eighteen--almost a man.” - -She withdrew her face from his. “Stupid. I don't want you to be a man. -When you're a man, I shan't like you; you'll become hard and masterful -like... like the rest.” - -“I shan't.” - -She relented. “No. I don't think you will. But then it'll be all -different.” - -Yes, it would all be different. Peter had been a child when, in the -early summer, he had stumbled on the Happy Cottage. Until then he would -have been perfectly contented to have gone on living at Topbury and -to have been fifteen forever. It had scarcely occurred to him that -childhood was a preparation which would soon be ended. He had never -looked ahead--never realized that he, with all the generations of boys -who had lived before him, must one day be a man. In a vague way he had -known that once his father and mother had been young and protected, -as he and Kay were young and protected. But it had seemed a fanciful -legend. And now the great change, which formerly he would have dreaded, -he yearned for. The ignorance and inexperience of being young, the habit -grown people had of treating him as a person of no serious importance, -galled him. It had begun with the Faun Man and his desire to be like -him. It was ridiculous when he imagined his own appearance, but -he wanted to be respected. These longings had not come home to him -before--they had been a gradual growth of weeks and months. It was -contact with a vitalizing personality that had done it, and listening -to talks of strange lands and the doings of strong men. And now this -girl----. To her he was no more than amusing. She could do and say to -him things that she would never do or say to men. Yes, when he was older -it would all be different. She had wakened him forever from the long -and irrecoverable sleep of childhood. He might dose again, but he could -never sink back into its deep unruffled calm and indifference. Was it -this that the river had tried to tell him, when he had heard it singing, -“Turn back, turn back, turn back”? It still sang, going round the -white feet of the girl in little waves and eddies, but its voice was -indistinct, like that of an old prophet, who mumbles a forgotten and -disregarded message. - -The girl at his side stirred. “What do they call you?” - -And he returned the question. She leant her head away from him on her -shoulder. “What do you think they call me? What name would suit me best? -But you'd never guess. They call me Cherry, because my lips are red.” - -Cherry, because her lips were red! And who were _they_, who had called -her that? He felt jealous of them. _They_ knew so much about her; he -knew nothing. And here was the supreme marvel, that for years she had -been walking in the same world and, until now, he had found no hint -of her. He might have passed her in the street--might have come often -within touching distance of her. Some of this he tried to say to her; -she listened with a faint smile about her mouth. He fell silent, fearing -that he had amused her by his sentiment. - -She patted his hand. “D'you know, you're rather wonderful? You put such -private thoughts into words. Do you always think behind things like -that?” Without waiting for him to reply, she continued, “But you never -passed me in the street. You couldn't have met me any earlier, because -I've lived always in America. I was born there. That's where I met----.” - She did not name the Faun Man, but her face clouded. “I must be getting -back,” she ended vaguely. - -Outside the wood he would lose her--lose her because she had belonged -to other people first. He would become again a schoolboy, tricycling out -into the country with Kay. It would take years to become a man. - -She stood up. “You must go now.” - -How sweet and slight she looked, like a tall white flower swaying in the -shadows. He had read in books of spirit-women who, in the bygone days of -romance, had lifted up their faces from amid the bracken to lure knights -aside from their quest; and the knights, having once kissed them, -had lost them and hungered for their lips forever. He wanted to -speak--wanted to say something true, wanted to tell her of this dynamic -change that she had worked for him. All that he could say was, “Cherry”; -and then, “But how shall I find you?” - -“Find me!” she laughed, tiptoeing on her bare feet with her hands -clasped behind her head. “Oh, you'll find me,” she nodded. - -“But promise.” - -She half-closed her eyes, as though tired by his urgency. Then she threw -her hands to her side. “I like you, Peter. I promise.” - -Picking up her shoes and stockings she pushed back the bushes. “You're -not to follow.” - -He listened. Was she standing there, hidden by the screen of leaves? He -had not heard the rustle of her going. Suddenly the branches were thrust -back, and again he saw her. Her eyes were alight with merriment and her -mouth was puckered. “Oh, little Peter, if you'd only been older----” - -Like a secret door in a green wall closing, the branches swished back. -The wood muttered to itself as she went from him, and then fell so -silent that it seemed to stand with its finger pressed against its -mouth. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII--WAKING UP - -The world is a mirror into which we gaze and see the reflection of -ourselves. So far to Peter it had been a foreground of small boys and -their sisters, with a background of occasional adult relatives. But now, -like a fledgling which has grown to strength lying snugly in its nest, -he had looked out and seen the leafy distance below him. His curiosity -was roused; the commonplace was a wonderland. What went on down there? -Where did the parent birds go, and how did they find their way back? -What was the meaning of this sun-and-shadow landscape that people called -“living”? Because he was young, when he looked out of the nest, the -distance below him seemed full of youngness. All that had happened up to -now, the collapse of Aunt Jehane's fortunes, the imprisonment of -Uncle Waffles, his father's problems and the marriage of Grace to her -policeman, were mere stories which he had heard reported. There was -a battle called life, going on somewhere, in which he had never -participated. He was tired of being told about it. He wanted to feel -the rush of wind under his outspread wings; this afternoon, in a gust of -vivid and personal experience, he thought he had felt it. What was -it? By what name should he call it? Because he was only fifteen, love -sounded too large a word. And yet----- If it wasn't love, what was it? - -All along the dusty summer road, through the golden evening, as he -tricycled back to London, he argued with himself. Kay interrupted -occasionally and he answered, but his thoughts were elsewhere. They had -discovered the gray-built city of Reality, and went from door to door -tapping, demanding entrance. Ignorance had kept him unadventurous and -contented; his contentedness was breaking down--he was glad of it. -The urgent need was on him to explain creation and his presence in the -world. How were people born? Why did they marry? How did they get money? -The child's mind, like the philosopher's, goes back to fundamentals. All -this outward pageant which had passed before his eyes for fifteeen -years as a sight to be expected, had suddenly become packed with hidden -significance. What was the meaning of this being born, this getting -and spending, this disastrous and glorious loving, struggling and being -buried? There was no one to whom he dared go for an answer; he must find -the explanation within himself. In the isolation of that thought he -felt a great gulf opening between himself and his little sister, between -himself and everyone he loved. Whether he liked it or not, one day he -must grow into a man; he was elated and terrified by the certainty. And -all the while, set to the creaking music of the lumbering tricycle, one -word sung itself over and over, “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.” - -[Illustration: 0283] - -No one, looking at his childish face, would have guessed the grave -suspicions and wild hazards that walked in the desperate loneliness -of his imagination. It was the key to existence that he sought. He had -arrived at that crisis of soul and body, when every child is driven out, -a John the Baptist, into the wilderness of conjecture, there to live on -the locusts and wild honey of hearsay, till he finds the fruit of the -Tree of Knowledge. - -As they neared the suburbs, a stream of bicyclists--city clerks riding -out with their sweethearts--met, engulfed and gave them passage. After -all, it was a merry, laughing world! Above the tinkling of bells, -evening birds were calling. All these people, how did they live? Where -did they come from? Had they, too, slept and been awakened questioning, -because a girl had touched them? - -Down the road he saw his aunt's cottage. Riska would be there by the -gate, sitting behind her table spread with cakes, mineral-waters and -glasses. He recalled all the things he had heard said of her, things to -which he had paid no attention--that she was a born flirt and that her -mother was teaching her to catch men. As they came up, she lifted her -soft eyes and let them rest on him with contemptuous affection. Why did -she do that? Why did she always seem to despise and tolerate men and -boys? A bicyclist, who had ridden past, turned his head, caught sight of -her and came back slowly. Peter felt that it was not thirst, but Riska's -prettiness that had recalled him. He felt angry with Riska--unreasonably -angry, for she had said and done nothing. - -“We're late,” he told her; “we can't stop.” - -She nodded. She didn't care. Her whole attitude seemed to tell Peter -that he wasn't worth wasting time on. Just as the pedals had begun -to turn, Glory came out and stood in the porch. She waved to him and -shouted something. He called to her that they were in a hurry. Further -down the road, he turned his head; her eyes followed him. - -It was nearly dark when they reached Topbury. Lamps stood like marigold -splashes on the dusk in a quivering line along the Terrace. In the -garden he found his parents, sitting close together beneath the -mulberry-tree like lovers. They drew apart as Kay ran up to them. - -“You're late, children.” It was his mother talking. “We were getting -nervous.” - -He kissed her; for a moment, the old sense of security returned. - -“It's time Kay was in bed.” - -She crossed the gravel path with her arm about the little girl, and -disappeared up the white stone steps to the house. - -Far away, as of old, like waves about the foot of a cliff, the roar -of London threatened. It seemed to be telling him that he would not be -always sheltered--that one day he would have to launch out, steering in -search of the unknown future by himself. It was not the boldness, but -the loneliness of the adventure that now impressed him. - -“Father.” - -“Yes.” The voice came to him out of the darkness. “What does it feel -like to become a man?” - -“Feel like, Peter! I don't understand.” - -“To have to--to have to fight for oneself?” - -His father leant out and touched him. “Have you begun to think of that -already? Fight for yourself! You won't have to do that for a long while -yet.” - -“But----.” Peter allowed himself to be drawn into the arms of the man -who had always stood between him and the world. “But when the time -comes, I don't want to fail like----,” he was going to have said like -Uncle Waffles, but he said instead, “like some people.” And then, after -a pause, “I feel so unprepared.” - -“We've all felt that way, sonny. Somehow we get the strength. You'll get -it.” - -Peter sighed contentedly. He was again in the nest with the -creeper-covered walls about him. The strained note had gone out of his -voice when he spoke now. “There's so much to learn. It seems so strange -to think that one day I'll have to grow up, like you, and marry, and -earn money, and have little boys and girls.” - -His father laughed huskily. “Very strange! Strange even to me, -Peter--and I've done it: And, d'you know, there are times when even a -man looks back and is surprised that he's grown up. He feels just what -you're feeling--the wonder of it. It seems only the other day that I -was as small as you are; and only the other day that I was frightened of -life and what it meant. Are you frightened?” - -For answer Peter stood up. “Not so much frightened as puzzled.” - -His father rose and led him out from beneath the leaves, which crowded -above their heads. He pointed up past the roofs of houses. “We couldn't -see them under there,” he said. “Every night they come to their places -and stand, shining. Some one sends them. Some one sent you and me, -Peter. We don't know why. There are people who sit always under -trees and never look up. They'll tell you that there aren't any stars -overhead. We're not like that. We know that whoever is careful enough -to hang lamps on the clouds, is careful enough to watch over us. So we -needn't be afraid of living, need we, old chap?” - -Peter pressed his father's hand. “I'll try to remember.” - -That night, when the house was all silent, he crept out of bed. Leaning -from the open window, he looked down on London, stretching for miles and -miles, with its huddled roofs spread over its huddled personalities. -Why were things as they were? If some one lit lamps in the heavens and -followed each life with care, why did four women, who loved children, -sit forever with their arms empty, while one sang of the sweet fields -of Eden; and why did Uncle Waffles-----? The questions were unanswerable -and endless. And then, in defiant contrast, there came bounding into -his memory the courageous figure of the Faun Man, with his cavalier -attitudes and strong determination to make of life a laughing affair. -The night quickened; the ghostly feet of a little breeze tiptoed across -the tree-tops, causing their leaves to rustle. From the far distance, -the throb of belated traffic reached him like the beat of a muffled -drum. He heard London marching to the martial music of struggle; his -heart was stirred. Life was a fight--well, what of it? When his time -came, he must be ready. He looked again at the stars, remembering what -his father had said. One need not be frightened. And then he looked away -into the blackness; somewhere over there the houses ended and the wide -peace of the country commenced. Somewhere over there was Cherry. - -He waited impatiently for his next half-holiday, when he would be free -to tricycle out. When he went, she was not in the Haunted Wood; nor the -next time, nor the next. He wanted to ask the Faun Man, but postponed -through shyness; he was afraid his secret would be guessed. He was -always hoping and hoping that he would find her behind the green wall -of leaves, where the little river ran. One afternoon, when tea was ended -and Kay and Harry had gone out, he asked, “Does the girl who broke your -pictures never come here now?” - -The Faun Man looked up sharply and stared, trying to guess behind the -question. - -“I wasn't very decent to you that day, was I? And I was beastly to her.” - -“I think she was sorry,” said Peter softly. “I wish you'd let her----. -Does she never come here now?” - -The Faun Man leant forward across the table, with his face between his -long brown hands. “Did you like her, Peter?” - -“Yes.” - -“Very much?” - -Peter lowered his eyes. “Very much.” - -When he dared to glance up, he found that the Faun Man wasn't laughing. -He reached out his hand to Peter. “You're young,” he said. “Fifteen, -isn't it? Well, she's a year older. It's dangerous to like a girl very -much--especially a little wild thing like Cherry. I'm a man and I know, -because I, too, like some one very much; and it doesn't always make -me happy. You'll like heaps of girls, Peter, before you find the right -one.” He felt that Peter's hand had grown smaller in his own and was -withdrawing. “You think it isn't true?” he questioned. “You think it -wasn't kind of me to say that? And you want to see her?” Peter gazed out -of the cottage window to where sunlight fell aslant the Haunted Wood. -Why should he want to see her more than anyone in the world? But he did. -And he knew that because he was so young, most people would consider -his desire absurd. But the Faun Man, who found so much to laugh at, was -regarding him seriously. “And you want to see her?” - -Peter whispered, “Yes.” - -The Faun Man's eyes filmed over in that curious way they had. He said: -“I want you to trust me. There are reasons why you can't see her. I've -sent her away because I think that it's best. I can't tell you why or -where I've sent her; or what right I have to send her. But I want you to -know that I don't smile at you for liking her. It doesn't matter how old -or young we are; when love comes, it always hurts. And it seems just as -serious whether it comes late or early. But some day I'll let you see -her. To you at fifteen, some day seems very far from now. But if you -wait, and still think you care for her, I'll let you see her when the -time comes. I don't think we ought to speak of this again till then. -We'll keep it a secret which we never discuss; but we'll each remember. -Is that a bargain?” - -Peter had no other choice than to accept. They shook hands. - -Shortly after this Kay and Peter went away to a farm in North Wales -for their summer holidays. Their first intention on their return was to -visit the Faun Man and Harry. On going to the stable, they found that -the tricycle was no longer there. Their father was very mysterious and -unconcerned when they told him; evidently he knew what had happened. -“All right,” he said, “just wait a day or two. You'll see--it'll come -back.” - -And one morning it did come back, ridden by a man with a face all -smudges, who presented a bill for payment. It had entirely transformed -itself, like a widow-lady who had been brisked up by an unexpected offer -of marriage. From a sober, old-fashioned tricycle it had taken on an -appearance almost modern and festive. Its handle-bars had been replated; -its framework re-enameled; its tall wheels cut down; its solid tires -removed and replaced by pneumatics. It sparkled in the sun, as though -defying butcher-boys to jeer at it. The man, with the face all smudges, -wheeled it through the stable into the garden; he left it beneath the -mulberry-tree, and there the children, on arriving home from school, -found it. - -“Why, it's a new tricycle!” - -Peter looked it over, “No, it isn't, Kitten Kay. It's the old one -altered.” - -Their mother, hearing their shouts, came out into the garden, nearly as -excited herself. They had visions of spinning out to the Happy Cottage -at the breakneck speed of eight miles an hour. While they clambered on -to it, examined it and spotted new improvements in the way of a lamp and -saddles, she explained to them how it had happened. “It's your father's -doing. He meant it as a surprise. He thought the old tires made it too -heavy, so----.” - -Kay interrupted. “Oh, Peter, do let's take it out on to the Terrace and -try it.” - -As they wheeled it down the gravel path between the geranium beds, they -chattered of how they would surprise Harry. But Harry was fated never -to see it. On the Terrace, when they had mounted, while their mother -watched them from the window, they found that everything was not well. -The man with the face all smudges had been wise in demanding his money -before his handiwork was tested. He had cut the wheels so low that, -where the road was uneven, the pedals bumped against the ground. -Life had, indeed, become serious for Peter; through his father's -well-intentioned kindness, his means of communication between reality -and fairyland had been annihilated. For a time it looked as though so -small an accident as the indiscreet remodeling of a tricycle had lost -for him forever the new friendships formed at the Happy Cottage. - -But one evening a dinner was given by Mr. Barrington to a famous man -whose work he was anxious to publish. Kay and Peter were allowed to see -him after dessert. - -The moment Peter's head appeared round the door the famous man rose up -and shouted, “Hulloa, young 'un, so at last I've found you! Where the -dickens have you been hiding?” - -Mr. Barrington lay back in his chair, his arms hanging limp on either -side, the image of amazement. He heard his son explaining: “It was the -tandem trike. Father wanted to be kind to us and----. Well, after he'd -had it improved, it wouldn't work. And so, you see, there was no way of -getting to you.” - -The Faun Man spread out his long legs, laughing uproariously; until the -appearance of the children, he'd been most scrupulously conventional -and polite. “But, Peter, an immortal friendship like ours cut short by a -tandem trike! You little donkey, why didn't you write?” - -Kay rose up in her brother's defence. “He isn't a little donkey. We -were all to be pretence people, don't you remember? We didn't know your -address.” - -The Faun Man stroked his chin and lengthened his face. “If you'd left -me alone much longer,” he said, “you wouldn't have found me; I'm moving -into London.” - -Then their parents began to ask questions; the story of Friday Lane and -the mouth-organ boy came out. - -That evening, after Lorenzo Arran had said good-by, he turned back to -his host, just as the door was closing. - -“Oh, I say! One minute, Barrington. That matter we were discussing -yesterday--let's consider it settled.” - -Barrington watched the tall, lean figure go striding down the Terrace. -He was so taken up with watching, that he didn't know that Nan had -stolen up behind him until she touched his hand. He turned; his mouth -was crooked with amusement. “Did you hear that? He agrees--I'm to -publish for him. And it's Peter's doing. One never knows where that boy -won't turn up.” - -And Peter, snuggled cosily in bed, was wondering whether, now that he'd -found the Faun Man, he'd refind Cherry. He reflected that when life -could play such tricks on you, a lifetime of it wouldn't be half bad. He -was no longer frightened to remember that, whether he liked it or not, -he must grow up. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX--A GOLDEN WORLD - -And he refound her, when he had almost forgotten her. In those four -long years, which stretch like a magic ocean between the island of -boyhood and the misty coasts of early manhood, it is so easy to forget. -Those years, between fifteen and nineteen, are the longest in life, -perhaps. - -They had been spent by Peter among books, watching, as in a wizard's -crystal, the dead world-builders at work; they had risen from their -graves in the dusk of his imagination, stretched themselves, gathered -strength and marched anew to the downfall of Troy and the conquest of -befabled empires. How real those poignant religions were, telling of -the loves of ruffianly gods for perishable earth-maidens--so real to him -that he had paid little heed to the present. - -In his outward life nothing had much altered; things were called -by different names. They spoke of him as nearly a man now--servants -addressed him as “sir”; they had never doubted that he was a boy once. -Kay stood a few inches higher on her legs. Romance had retired from -active business, leaving to her children the unthankful task of having -kittens. - -Just as Peter was said to be nearly a man and hadn't changed, so the -nursery was said to be his study, though it was almost the same in -appearance. A student's lamp had replaced the old gas-jet. Shelves, -which had held fairy-tale volumes in which truth was depicted with a -laughing countenance, now supported serious lexicons from which truth -stared out with austerity. But his study retained reminders of those -tremulous days when it was still a nursery, and hadn't grown up--when it -was the dreaming place of a girl whose arms were empty, in whose heart -had begun to echo the patter of tiny footsteps. The tall guard stood -before the fireplace, as though it feared that the long youth, who sat -continually poring over a book with his eyes shaded by his hand, might -shrink into the curly-headed urchin who hadn't known that live coals -burned. The laburnum still leant her arms upon the window-sill and -tap-tap-tapped, shedding her golden tassels; she gazed in upon him with -the same indiscretion as when he was a newcomer, with ungovernable arms -and legs, who had to be tubbed night and morning. And she saw the same -mother, who had sung him to sleep, peer in at the door on her way to -bed, tiptoe across the threshold, ruffle his hair and whisper, “Peter, -darling, you can't learn everything between now and morning. Won't you -get some rest?” - -He had exchanged tandem tricycles for lexicons as a means of locomotion -to the land of adventure. His little sister could no longer accompany -him; but the desire for wisdom had left room for the heart of -tenderness. When his lamp shone solitary in the darkened house, he -would straighten his shoulders and listen, fancying he heard the angel's -whistle. - -In four months he was going up to Oxford, to live in gray cloisters -where boys at once become men. His father shared his anticipation -generously. “You're going to recover my lost chances. Lucky chap!” - -It was summer. He had risen early and sat by his study window reading -the Iliad. The house was full of lazy morning sounds--bath-water -running, breakfast being prepared, doors opening and shutting, footsteps -on the stairs. Outside in the garden the sun dropped golden balls, which -tumbled through the trees and rolled across the turf. Birds, hopping in -and out the rose-bushes, were industriously foraging. Tripping up the -gravel-path, with fresh-plucked flowers in her hands, he could see his -little sister, her gold hair blowing. A tap fell upon his door. A maid, -rustling in a starched dress, entered. “It's just come, Master Peter.” - -“For me? A telegram!” - -He slit it open and read: “_At Henley with 'The Skylark! Can't you come -for Regatta? Cherry with me._” - -Cherry with him! It was signed Lorenzo Arran. So he was keeping his -promise! But why should Cherry be with him? And where had she been -hiding all those long four years? So the Faun Man had taken his -houseboat to Henley! It would be rather jolly to join him; but, after -all, He ought to stick to his work. And this girl--did he want to see -her? - -The maid was waiting. A telegram at Topbury was a rarity in these days. -It cost sixpence at the cheapest; therefore its use was restricted to -the announcement of the extremes of joy and sorrow--births, deaths and -financial losses. She showed relief when he looked up cheerily and said, -“Tell the boy no answer.” - -When she had gone he stood up, walked about the room excitedly and -halted by the window. He wouldn't go, of course; it would run his father -into expense. Then, again he read the words, “Cherry with me.” It would -be amusing to see her. He began to wonder--did she know that the -Faun Man had sent for him? If she did----? His thoughts flew back across -the years: he was in the Haunted Wood. The little river was singing, -“Turn back, turn back, turn back.” He refused to turn back, and -followed; suddenly, across the scrub-oak, he found himself gazing -into the gray eyes of a girl. It was the grayness of her eyes and the -whiteness of her feet that he remembered. - -He leant over the table and closed the book with its unreal love-legends -of gods and goddesses. “By Jove, but I'd like to go,” he said aloud. - -The maid had spread the news of the unusual happening. As he entered -the breakfast-room all eyes examined him. They waited for him to be -communicative. At last his father said, “Had a telegram?” - -Peter drew it from his pocket and passed it. - -His father looked up. “'Cherry with me.' What does he mean by that?” - -Peter raised his eyebrows, as much as to say “How can I tell?” - -His father handed it back. “Are you going?” - -“Costs money, and I've too much work.” - -It was the mention of work that roused his mother. She smiled gently, -and glanced down the table at her husband. “It would do him good, -Billy.” - -“Yes, it would do you good,” his father said. “Why don't you go, old -chap?” - -“Yes, why don't you go?” Kay echoed. - -His things were quickly packed. In a flannel suit, with his straw hat -in his hand, he was saying good-by on the doorstep. His father bethought -him. “Here, wait a second, Peter; I'll walk with you to the end of -the Terrace.” While walking he delivered his warning, “This man -Arran--personally I like him and I know he's your friend, but----. I've -nothing against him, but he's a queer fellow --clever as the dickens and -all that. The fact is, curious tales are told about him--all of them too -far-fetched to be true. You know the saying about no smoke without fire, -well----. It may be that he's only different; but he strikes people as -being fast and dangerous. Be careful; I'd trust you anywhere. Have a -good time. I've got it off my chest--my sermon's ended.” - -At the bottom of the Crescent, to his great relief, Peter found that -Cat's Meat's master was not on the stand. He wouldn't have hurt Mr. -Grace's feelings for the world. He was free to jump into a spanking -hansom. Cat's Meat may have seen him; but Cat's Meat couldn't tell. -Surely, at his age, he must have been glad to escape the long crawl to -Paddington. The younger horse in the hansom stepped out gaily, making -his hoofs ring smartly against the cobblestones. “Cherry, Cherry, -Cherry,” they seemed to be saying. Taking short-cuts by side-roads, now -following gleaming tram-lines, now dashing through mean streets, past -public houses in plenty, they sped till they struck Paddington and drew -up in the glass-roofed station. And then the drifting motion of the -train and the unbelievable greenness of the country--the glimpses of -silver water, quiet meadows and cottages in which people were born and -died, and never traveled! And the holiday crowds on the platforms! The -girls in summer dresses--the superb cleanness and coolness of them, and -the happiness! It was exciting. The wheels beneath his carriage drummed -out one word, “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.” He didn't know even yet whether -he wanted to see her. - -The train achieved the surprise of the century--it arrived early. He -examined the expectant faces of the people; neither Harry nor the Faun -Man was there. He refused to hang about; his legs ached to be moving. -Picking up his bag, he set out to walk, hoping he would meet them. - -Streets were garish--flowers in gardens, foamy toilets of women, college -blazers and rowing colors, and, over all, swift white clouds and the -fiercely gleaming sun. From under wide river-hats girls laughed up into -men's tanned faces. Everyone was young or, because the world was golden, -seemed to be young. Peter wanted some one to laugh with. Walking down -the middle of the street, the crowd moved in pairs, a man and a woman -together, almost invariably. The old gray town, like Peter, looked -lonely in this hubbub of jostling love and merriment. - -As he came in sight of the Catherine Wheel, a distant cheering -commenced. Feet moved faster. Men caught at women's arms, and women -caught up their dresses; the army of pleasure-seekers commenced to run. -Because Peter was by himself he forged ahead and found a place on the -bridge where people stood yelling and jammed, shoulder to shoulder. At -first he could make out hardly anything, because of the sea of hats and -backs in front of him. Then the crowd swayed; he took advantage of it -and found himself leaning over the crumbling stone balustrade, gazing -down on one of the most gallant sights in England. Through a steep bank -of posies, made up of river gardens, house-boats and human faces, ran a -silver thread. Approaching, with what seemed incredible slowness, were -two specks about the size of matches. As the sun caught them, one -saw the flash of blades, whipping the water with the regularity of -clockwork. Stealthily, with infinite labor, one stole ahead. The garden -of faces on either side of the silver thread trembled; a roar went up -which gathered volume as it drew from out the distance. Peter pressed -his lips against a man's ear--a complete stranger--and shouted, “What is -it?” - -The man stared at him despisingly, “The Diamond Sculls. Roy Hardcastle -again the Australian.” He turned away and paid Peter no more attention. - -Peter, though not much wiser, at once became a partisan and screamed the -one name he knew, “Hardcastle! Hardcastle! Hardcastle!” till his throat -felt as if it had burst. - -And now they were well in sight--two men with bent backs and arms that -worked like levers, each seated in a machine as narrow as a needle, with -long wooden legs which stuck out on either side, striding the water and -keeping the balance. They looked like human egg-beaters gone mad. The -river rose to its feet; the winning-post was nearing. The channel of -free water seemed to narrow as skiffs, gigs, punts, dingeys and every -kind of craft pressed closer to the booms which marked the course. - -Something happened. Both men drooped inertly forward over trailing -sculls. It was dramatic, this immediate transition from frantic energy -to listless collapse. Hats were tossed up. Launches shrieked and -whistled. Everyone tried to make more noise than his neighbor, Peter -with the rest. “Well rowed. Well rowed, sir. Well rowed.” - -When the clamor had died down he turned to where the man had been -standing. “Who won?” And then, “Oh, I beg your pardon.” - -He was gazing into the amused face of a girl with gray eyes and -brown-black hair, that swept like a cloud across a Clear white forehead. - -“Who won! Roy Hardcastle, of course. England's not beaten yet.” - -He wasn't thinking of England's honor; the race--it had never happened. -He was looking at her mouth. They called her Cherry, because her lips -were red. - -She was going from him. How straight she was! How slender! Like a slim -spring flower--a narcissus, perhaps. He went after her and raised his -hat. “Forgive me for speaking to you. Just a minute before a man was -standing there, and---” - -“That's all right,” she said; “I understand.” - -Again she was on the point of leaving. He had to make certain. “Since -I've been so rude already, would you mind if I asked you one more -question?” - -She looked him over casually and seemed more satisfied that she was -willing to admit to anyone but herself. “Not at all.” - -He straightened his necktie nervously. “Then, can you tell me where I'll -find _The Skylark?_ It's a house-boat belonging to Lorenzo Arran.” - -She laughed softly and stood with her eyes cast down, tapping the -pavement with her foot. He was sure now. She looked up. “Where have -I seen you? Somehow you're familiar. It's annoying; you knew me in a -flash.” - -“You're Cherry?” - -“Only to a few of my dearest friends.” - -He glanced away from her. “You were Cherry to me once for about an hour; -you've been Cherry to me ever since then.” - -There was a long pause. “And yet I don't know you,” she said. “You must -be the friend Mr. Arran was expecting down from London.” - -Peter nodded. - -“He and Harry went to meet you. You must have missed each other at the -station. If you like, I'll show you the way to _The Skylark_; I'm going -there. They'll be wondering whether you've come. We'd better hurry.” - -“Oh, please not yet.” - -“But why not?” she asked, puzzled. - -“Because I'm--I don't know. My pride's touched that you don't know me. -Would you think it awfully cheeky if I were to ask you to come and have -tea with me first?” - -She opened her parasol, gaining time while she made her mind up; and -then, “I'm game. I haven't had much adventure lately. I'm just out of a -convent school in France.” - -He opened his eyes wide. “Ah, so that was it!” - -They entered the Red Lion and walked through into the garden. They -ordered tea at a small table from which they could see the river. - -“Why did you say that?” she asked. - -“What did I say?” - -“You said, 'Ah, so that was it!' You opened your mouth so wide when you -said it that I thought you'd gape your head off. When I was a little -girl in America we had a colored cook with a decapitating smile--it -nearly met at the back of her neck. Well, your 'Ah' was a decapitating -'Ah.' Now tell me?” - -“Because I've waited four years to find out where you've been hiding.” - -“Four years!” She tried to think back. - -He leant his elbows on the table, his face between his hands. “Seems a -long while, doesn't it? In four years one can grow up. Last time we were -together you made me a promise--you said we'd meet again often in the -same place. I went there and went there--you didn't keep your word.” - -She laughed. “I suppose it's a trifle too late to say I'm sorry. I don't -suppose you minded much.” She waited for him to contradict that; when -he didn't she continued, “How much do you know about me? For instance, -what's my real name?” - -He laughed in return. “You've got me there. All you told me was that -people called you Cherry, because your lips were red.” - -She sank her head between her shoulders; then she looked up flushing and -pursing her lips together, like a child who wants to extract a favor -by being loved. “Be a sportsman. You're awfully tantalizing. Give me a -pointer that'll help me to guess. You know, I ought to know who you are; -it isn't good form for a girl to take tea with a strange young man.” - -“Well,” he said, speaking slowly, “do you remember a day when you -knocked down and walked over, oh, let's say about twenty photographs of -the same lady?” - -“Do I remember!” She sniffed a little scornfully. “'Tisn't likely I'd -forget; that was why the Faun Man sent me to a convent.” - -She had said rather more than she intended. She was provoked with -herself and with Peter, for the moment, because he had drawn her out. -She twisted round on her chair, so that he could see only her shoulders. - -Not realizing that he was being snubbed, he pushed the subject further, -“What an unfair punishment! That doesn't sound like the Faun Man. But, -perhaps, you liked it. What did you do at the convent?” - -“Always praying,” she answered, with her shoulders still toward him. -“And, look here, don't you say that the Faun Man was unfair. He wasn't. -He didn't send me away only for breaking his pictures.” And then, -inconsequently, “If it wasn't too childish I'd go and smash them all -afresh.” - -Suddenly she swung round, “I know who you are. Hurray! You're Peter. You -see, I remember the name. Shall I give myself away and tell you why I -remember?” - -“Do. Do,” he urged. - -The answer came promptly. “Because you paid me compliments. You thought -that God said to Himself when He made me, 'I'll make the most beautiful -person I've ever made.'--Hulloa! You don't like that. It wasn't quite -what you expected. What did you expect? Until you tell me I won't speak -to you.” - -Compelled by her silence, he confessed, “I did hope that you might have -remembered me for something--something more romantic. You see, we met in -the Haunted Wood, and there was the river, and you were going to drown -yourself. You'd taken off your shoes and stockings as a first step, -which was very economical of you. And I--I saw your feet, and----” - -She waved her handkerchief at him, her eyes a-sparkle. “I know. I know. -Very pretty and very foolish!” She rose. “We ought to be going.” - -Outside the Red Lion, she turned toward the river; “I left my boat at -one of the landings.” - -When they had found it and he had helped her in, she said, “You can row, -I suppose? All right, then, I'll steer; you take the sculls.” - -They drifted down with the stream, the gray bridge, spanning the river, -growing more distant behind them; the wooded hills swimming up on every -side to form a green cup, against which the sky stooped its lips. They -floated by lazy craft, in which women lay back on cushions beneath -sunshades and men with bare arms clasped about their knees watched them. -Snatches of laughter reached them, to which the murmur of voices droned -an accompaniment. On green lawns, beneath dreaming garden trees, little -groups of brightly attired people clustered. From houseboats along the -river-bank stole music, one air creeping into another as they passed, -fashioning a medley--coon songs from America, Victorian ballads of -sentiment, a wild scrap of Dvorak and the latest impertinence from -London. Of all that they saw and heard, they alone were constant in the -shifting landscape. - -“After four years!” she murmured. - -He stopped rowing and gazed at her wonderingly, repeating her words, -“After four years!” - -Then a familiar voice leapt out at them from a sky-blue house-boat, -with sky-blue curtains fluttering in the windows and a rim of scarlet -geraniums running round it in boxes. The voice lent the touch of humor -to their tenderness, which saves sentiment from sadness and makes it -ecstatic. It sang to the twinkling tones of a mandolin, struck sharply: - - “Come, tickle me here; - - For I ain't what you thought me-- - - I ain't so 'igh and so 'aughty, my dear. - - But there's right times for lovin', - - And cooin' and dovin', - - And wrong ways of flirtin' - - That's woundin' and hurtin'-- - - I'm a lydy, d'you hear? - - But just under the neck, - - Peck ever so softly-- - - I allow that, my dear. - - Not my lips--you're too near. - - Come along, lovey; come along, duckie; - - Tickle me, tickle me here.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXX--HALF IN LOVE - -The Faun Man looked up from his writing. Peter had been with him on -_The Skylark_ for five days--five gorgeous days. He had found to his -surprise that the golden woman was of the party. So far as outward -appearances went, the picture-smashing incident might never have -happened; Cherry conducted herself as a good comrade and the golden -woman called her “dear.” They had to act as friends, since the Faun Man -had taken rooms for them at the same hotel that they might chaperone -each other. The men slept on board the house-boat. - -It was nearly six. The last of the Finals had been rowed; the Regatta -was ended. Far up the course one could still hear the distant cheering -from the lawn where prizes were being distributed. The most sensational -race of the afternoon had been the Diamond Sculls, in which Hardcastle -had won by a bare half-length. Peter still tingled with the madness -of the excitement, the splendid grit of the contested fight and the -wildness of the applause. He had seen a slight young hero lifted out of -his shell and carried shoulder-high; he wanted something like that to -happen to himself so that Cherry might approve of him. He had just come -from accompanying her back to The Red Lion; in an hour, when she had -changed for dinner, he was going to fetch her. He had one more night -before him--the gayest of them all, when the crews broke training, and -then----. How often would he see her again? The gray old town would -recover from its invasion, and settle back into routine and eventless -quiet. Would something similar happen to his life? Nevertheless, he had -one more night. - -As he climbed aboard _The Skylark_ and entered, the Faun Man looked up. -“Peter, i'm tired of being respectable--I want to be vulgar.” - -Peter threw himself into a creaking wicker-chair. “That's not difficult; -it's chiefly a matter of clothes.” - -“And accent,” the Faun Man added; “refined speech is the soap and water -of good manners.” - -Peter chuckled. “Then don't tub.” - -The Faun Man stood up and stretched himself. “I haven't. I've written -a love-lyric that never saw a nailbrush. It's called _The Belle of -Shoreditch_. When I've sung it to you I'll tell you why I wrote -it. Isn't this a ripping tune?” He tinkled it over; then sat down -crosslegged on the floor and commenced to drawl the words out: - - “My bloke's a moke - - And 'e cawn't tell me why; - - But the fust time 'e spoke - - 'Twas no more than a sigh. - - Says I, 'Don't mind me; we'll soon be dead.' - - Says 'e, 'If yer dies, I'll break me 'ead.' - - Says I, 'Why not yer 'eart instead, - - Yer quaint old moke?' - - “For yer cawn't be 'appy when yer 'alf in love--! - - Yer must taik one road or the other; - - Yer can maike o' life an up'ill shove, - - Or marry a bloke wot ain't yer brother.” - -“Chorus, Peter. Pick it up.” - -The Faun Man nodded the time, swaying from the hips and rolling his -head. - -“For yer cawn't be 'appy when yer 'alf in love.” - -He laid his mandolin aside. “Catchy, isn't it? There mayn't be much soap -about the dialect, but there's plenty of philosophy in the sense. More -than one person in this party is half in love. Take example from me, -Peter; don't make a fool of yourself.” - -Peter's face went red. He didn't think he'd been so obvious. To escape -further pursuit, he turned the corner rapidly, “When are you going to -start being vulgar?” - -“Ah, yes!” The Faun Man came back. He struck a pose, his left hand -resting on his hip, his right beating against his breast. “To-night,” - he said. “To-night I lose my identity. I cease to be Lorenzo Arran and -become Bill Willow, with his performing troupe of eccentric minstrels. -I wear a red nose. My clothes might have been picked out of any -ash-barrel.” - -Peter interrupted. “From where do you get the eccentric minstrels?” - -The Faun Man grabbed him by the shoulder, as though he feared he might -dash away when the full glory of the project was divulged. “My boy, -you're one of them. You operate upon a bun-bag folded over a hair-comb. -You wear--let me see? You wear a sheet, with holes cut in it for your -eyes and mouth. Your nose may remain incognito; I've seen better. In a -word, you play the ghost to my Hamlet.” - -“And Harry and the girls?” - -The Faun Man passed his hand over his forehead and reflected. “Let me -see! Harry blacks his physiognomy; the mouth-organ disguises the rest of -him--it always does. And as for the girls--they hang their hair before -their faces and sing through it. Believe me, nothing alters a woman's -appearance so much as letting down her hair; that's why all divorces -occur after marriage. Now, with me it's different; I look my best in -bed. Of course I can't ask anyone to see me there--that's why I'm a -bachelor.--But to get back to vulgarity; we start to-night in a punt. -We'll wait till it's dusk, and we'll have lanterns. We'll collect money -for the private insane asylums of Alaska. I'll make a little speech -explaining our philanthropy. Young feller, Bill Willow and his minstrels -are going to make this Old Regatta rememberable for years to come.” - -“You mean it?” - -The Faun Man grinned; all the boy in him was up. - -“Peter, don't look so pop-eyed; of course I mean it--I mean it just as -truly as Martin Luther did when he said, 'Here I take my stand, because -I've got nowhere to sit down.' A profound utterance! I'm tired of -watching all these people spooning under trees, wearing Leander ties, -comparing their girls' eyes to the stars and being afraid to touch each -other. They're too much of ladies and gentlemen; even we are. To-night -I'm going to be a ruffian. Cut along and fetch the girls. I've got to -write another song and it's almost time for rehearsal.” - -“A dress rehearsal?” - -“In spots,” said the Faun Man. - -When Peter broke the news to the golden woman she covered her face and -laughed through her hands. She had a trick of treating Cherry and Peter -like children, although she looked no more than twenty herself. She put -her arms round their shoulders, drawing their faces close together, on -either side of hers. She was so happy and beautiful it would have been -difficult not to love her. “My Loo-ard!” she said, “I'd do a skirt-dance -to-night if it wasn't for the water under the punt. I'm all against -getting wet, aren't you, Cherry?” - -Peter looked knowing. “The first thing she'd do if she knew she was -going to drown, would be to take off her shoes and stockings.” - -The golden woman pinched the girl's cheek. “Hulloa! Secrets -already!--But I don't like Lorie's idea for disguising us. Let's see -what we can do with five minutes' shopping.” - -When they rowed up to _The Skylark_ they were met by a mysterious -silence. Lifting out their parcels, they tiptoed into the cabin. Harry -was bending over a table-cloth, with a tooth-brush in his hand and a -bottle of blacking at his elbow. The Faun Man was melting the bottoms of -candles and making them stick to the bottoms of empty jam-jars. - -“What are you doing?” - -They both looked up. - -“I'm getting the illuminations ready,” said the Faun Man. - -“And I'm making our flag,” said Harry, scrubbing hard at the -table-cloth. “Blacking's awful stuff; it's so smudgy.” They crowded -round him to inspect his handiwork and read: - -BILL WILLOW'S - -IMPROMPTU TROUPE OF ECCENTRIC MINSTRELS - -NO FUN WITHOUT FOLLY ENVY THE POOR MAD - -The Faun Man affixed his last candle. “Now, then, you crazy people, -rehearsal's in five minutes. Let's fortify our tummies.” - -Behind the house-boat the sun was setting; in patches, where water lay -most still among rushes, the river shone blood-red. Sometimes, beneath -the window, they heard the dip of oars and a boat drifted past. They -were miles from reality, in a hushed and painted world. They had become -little children for the moment, though the Faun Man had called it “being -vulgar.” They had become immensely serious over a thing which didn't -matter. There were the words of the songs to learn, and then the tunes. -After that there were the cretonnes to cut out and run together into -burlesque night-gowns, extremely ample so as to cover their proper -dresses. The golden woman had surprised a prim widow in Hart Street by -asking for “The ugliest materials you have in your shop.” She had -met with success; no materials could have been uglier. One had a -straw-colored background, strewn with gigantic poppies; across another -floated, in a kind of sky-blue gravy, the unbarbered heads of bodyless -angels. The Faun Man and Peter, when their needles lost the thread, -gave up sewing and fastened theirs together with paper pins. And all the -while beneath the absurdity of it there was an atmosphere of tenderness, -as if folly had brought them all nearer. The Faun Man kept watching the -golden woman; and Cherry the Faun Man; and Peter, Cherry. As for Harry, -he was the only one whose eyes were free to take in everybody. - -When night had fallen they slipped on their masks and stepped into the -punt. Harry took the pole and pushed off from _The Skylark_. The Faun -Man sat next to the golden woman, humming snatches of song beneath his -breath, to which he picked out an accompaniment on the mandolin. She lay -back gazing up at him. - -Above a wooded knoll the moon rose, setting the river a-silver. Trees -knelt along the banks like cattle, stooping to drink. In the distance -the bridge leapt the chasm of darkness and lights of the town sprang -up. Like a fleet of dreams against green wharfs of fairyland, illumined -houseboats shone fantastic. Chains of lamps, strung through boughs of -gardens, gleamed like jewels on the throat of the dusk. The river sang -incoherently, in a voice that was half asleep. Peter slipped his hand -into Cherry's; her hand seemed quite unconscious of what he was doing. - -And now they drew near to the crowd of pleasure-craft, which jostled one -another and beat the water like a run of salmon in shallows. Harry laid -aside the pole and took to the paddle. They lit their candles and flew -their heraldry. In their disguises no one would know them; with the -restraint of their identities lifted from them they scarcely recognized -themselves. The Faun Man gave the word; the punt was allowed to drift. -They all struck up: - - “Go h'on away. Go h'on away. - - Mind yer, I'm meanin' wot I say. - - My 'air and 'at-pin's gone astray-- - - Stop yer messin'. - - A pound a week yer earn yer say-- - - Oh, I don't fink!- Two bob a day's - - More like. I loves yer. Yer can stay, - - Yer bloomin' blessin'.” - -They tickled the people's fancy; they were so obviously out for a lark -and so evidently intended to have it. When “My bloke's a moke” was sung, -from bank to bank the chorus was taken up; even the strollers, hanging -over the bridge, caught the swing of it. - - “For yer cawn't be 'appy when yer 'alf in love-- - - Yer must taik one road or the other; - - Yer can maike o' life an up'ill shove, - - Or marry a bloke wot ain't yer brother.” - -The Faun Man turned to the golden woman and addressed the words to her -shamelessly. He put his arm about her, and drew her head down against -his shoulder. Through the slits in her mask her eyes gleamed up. Peter, -watching, wondered why it was that she would only be kind to him in -fun; he had noticed that, when the Faun Man was in earnest, she never -responded. - -They had been singing for an hour, pushed this way and that, too jammed -to attempt steering. Their punt had drifted near a house-boat, all -a-swing with lanterns and steep with flowers. Through the windows they -could see that a dinner had just ended; tall young men in evening dress -sprawled back in chairs. Corks were still popping. - -The Faun Man whispered, “They're one of the crews breaking training. -What'll we give 'em? Oh, yes, this'll do. Tune up.” So they tuned up: - - “If yer gal ain't all yer thought 'er, - - And for everyfing yer've bought 'er - - She don't seem to care a 'appenny pot o' glue; - - If she tells yer she won't miss yer, - - And she doesn't want ter kiss yer, - - Though yer've cuddled 'er from 'Ammersmif ter Kew; - - If yer little side excurshiums - - To lands of pink nasturtiums - - Don't make 'er 'arf so soft as they make you, - - Why, never be down'earted, - - For that's the way love started-- - - Adam ended wery 'appy--and that's true.” - -The young men had come out. They were slightly unsteady; some of them -found difficulty in keeping their cigars in their mouths. They held one -another's arms and laughed loudly. Their faces were flushed and their -hair ruffled. But, for all that, because they were young and had done -their work gamely that afternoon, they seemed in keeping with the -atmosphere of carnival. A voice on the edge of the darkness shouted one -word, “Hardcastle.” The crowd stood up in their boats, and commenced to -cheer. From the group of crewmen one tall fellow was pushed forward and -lifted on a chair. He looked slim as a girl in his evening-dress; his -thin, rather handsome face, wore a weak, inconsequential expression. -When the babel of voices had died down he spoke thickly and -hesitatingly. “Yes, I won. I dunno. Did I win? I can't remember. Suppose -I must have. One of you chaps tell me to-morrow.--Anyway, if I did win, -here's to the losers. Plucky devils!” - -Cherry had been leaning forward; her mask had slipped aside in her -eagerness. Hardcastle saw her. He stared--made an effort to pull his -wits together. In a second he had jumped from the chair, had caught -her by the hand, was helping her aboard the house-boat. She held on -to Peter, laughing and dragging him after her. The others followed -reluctantly--after all, they were out for adventure. - -As soon as he had entered the cabin, Hardcastle slipped his arms about -her and swung her up on to the table amid the clatter of breaking -glasses. “Sing, you little beauty. Sing something.” - -The Faun Man pushed his way forward; the matter was going beyond a -joke--his intention was to stop it. The golden woman clutched him, -“Don't make a row, Lorie, They don't know who we are. We've let -ourselves in for it; let's go through with it like sports.” - -Cherry seemed not at all offended; the spirit of bacchanalia possessed -her. Her usually pale face had a pretty flush. She stood tiptoe, her red -lips pouting, watching through the slits in her mask these fine young -animals whom the river had applauded. Her eyes came back to Hard-castle. -“I don't want to sing.” It was like a shy child talking. “If you like, -I'll dance.” - -In a trice Hardcastle had lifted her again in his arms. To balance -herself she had to cling to his neck and shoulders. “Clear the table,” - he shouted. - -With his free hand he commenced tugging at the cloth. Others helped him. -With a jangle and smash that could be heard across the river, silver, -glass and lighted candles were swept to the floor. He set her back on -the polished surface and ran to the piano in the corner, crying, “I'll -tickle the ivories--you dance.” - -With his head turned, he played and watched her. From the ruin she had -caught up a red rose and held it between her red lips by the stalk. Her -feet began to move, slowly at first--then wildly. She swayed and tossed, -glided stealthily, bent and shot upward like a dart. Her breath was -coming fast--all the while her gray eyes sought the man's who -watched her across his shoulder. The other men were infected by her -madness--they took hands and circled the table, singing whatever came -into their heads. To Peter it was torture. He thought that she knew it. -He guessed that she had done it on purpose. He had wearied her with his -respect He remembered one of the Faun Man's sayings, “No woman likes to -be respected; she prefers to be loved, even by a man whom she doesn't -want.” - -The piano stopped. Hardcastle leapt up. “Here, I want to see her.” - -“No. No,” cried Cherry. - -“I do, and I will,” he retorted. He had stumbled against the table and -caught her by the knees; his hands were groping up to tear aside her -mask. An arm shot out; he staggered. Another blow struck him between the -eyes. He measured his length on the floor. Peter dragged Cherry to him, -pressing her against him. All was hubbub. The Faun Man and Harry were -on either side of him, forming a guard. Of a sudden the lights went -out--some one had knocked over the lamps. In the darkness the sound of -scuffling subsided. The Faun Man's voice was heard, saying, “Look here, -you chaps, that wasn't very decent of Hardcastle. He's drunk, so we'll -say no more about it. But you're gentlemen. Let us out. We're going.” - -As they stepped into the night, Cherry felt warm lips touch her -forehead. She heard protesting voices, and one which whispered, “You get -off with her. We'll follow.” The punt stole out into the darkness of -the river. When she lifted her head from the cushions she found that -the ripples on the water were a-silver, and that a solitary figure was -seated in the stern, paddling. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI--A NIGHT WITH THE MOON - -He was taking her in the wrong direction. Why? To reach the Red Lion he -should have steered upstream. Far behind, chiseled out by the moonlight, -the town stood sharp against the star-strewn sky--sagging roofs, -twisted chimney-pots and tall spires. From its walls came the shouts -of roisterers and the sound of discordant singing, which broke off -abruptly, only to commence again more faintly. - -She was inclined to be penitent. She was both annoyed and amused with -herself for what she had done. On the spur of the moment she was always -doing wild things like that to people she cared for--doing them that she -might measure their love by her power to hurt them. She wondered whether -he blamed her, and how long he would keep silent. - -The river had become a pathway of ebony, inlaid with silver by the -moonlight. Along its banks illuminations smoldered, scorching red wounds -in the shadows. Here and there a candle flared, sank and died, like -a heart which had broken itself with longing. Craft drifted like logs -through the blackness. They seemed deserted, unpiloted; yet they bore -with them the sense of lips that whispered against other lips and of -hands that touched. “To-morrow!” everything seemed to say. “To-morrow! -But there is still to-night.” - -To-morrow lovers would have vanished. Faces, which in the past week one -had learnt to recognize, about which one had built up fancies, would be -seen no more. The haunting poignancy of parting was in the night, the -memory of things exquisite and unlasting. - -And Peter, he couldn't understand what had happened to him. It seemed a -dream from which he was waking; he wanted to sleep again and recapture -the illusion. From the first he had recognized an atmosphere of danger -in her presence. She was so foreign to his experience; it was scarcely -likely that a friendship with her would lead to happiness. And yet he -could not do without her. On those sunlit mornings aboard _The Skylark_, -when he had opened his eyes to hear the river tapping, had looked out -of his window to see the breeze whipping the water and the plumed trees -nodding, there had been no rest in the day's gladness till he had heard -her tripping footsteps. She had crept into his blood. All past things -were unremembered--past ambitions and past loyalties. Every beauty -grouped itself about her. The grayness of her eyes drew his soul out. -The soft, slurring notes of her voice were for him the finest music. Had -he been offered the joy of one month with her, for which all the years -of his life should be forfeit, he would willingly have accepted. The -thought of marriage had already occurred to him. That he should be only -nineteen was a tragedy. Would she wait for him? With no more than a -week's acquaintance by which to judge he knew that she would wait for no -one. She was elusive--one moment a child, the next a woman. And she sat -there gazing at him through the shadows, her hands folded meekly on her -breast--a nunlike trick which she had learnt at the convent. It gave -her an appearance of piety, which the red defiance of her mouth and gray -challenge of her eyes negatived. She was the first woman he had loved. -He loved her uncalculatingly, with his soul and body, as a man loves but -once, when he is young. - -They had passed _The Skylark_ and were nearing the island. All the other -boats were left behind. Her voice came to him throbbingly, like a -harp fingered softly. “You're disappointed in me. You'll often be -disappointed.” - -He could not bear that she should blame herself. He drew in his paddle. -“I'm not, only----” - -“Only what? A man always says 'only' when he's trying to deceive -himself.” - -“Only, why did you do it?” - -She didn't answer his question. How could she tell why? Because she was -young; because she knew that she was pretty. “You looked splendid,” - she said, “when you struck him.” And then she mentioned the one thing -concerning which he, as a man, would have kept silent. “You kissed me, -Peter.” - -His blood quickened. Was she reproaching him or simply saying, “You love -me; we're alone together?” She was leaning forward now, looking away -from him, her throat resting against the back of her hand. He crept -toward her, knelt at her feet and pressed his lips against her dress. - -Her eyes came back to him. “You'd better go away and forget me.” - -He slipped his arm about her body, drawing her to him. “Do you want me -to go away--to go out of your life forever?” - -“No.” The word was whispered and slowly uttered. She touched him gently, -patting his hand. “Peter, I'm not your sort. You know that.” - -“But you are my sort, or else how could I feel--feel what I am feeling? -You'll learn to love me, Cherry.” - -She took it without a tremor, this declaration which had cost him such -effort. She shook her head. “The Faun Man tells Eve that every time -they're together. I wonder how many men have said it. Love comes in an -instant. You can't learn it.” - -“But why not?” - -She bent over him like a mother. Her mouth was rounded; no wonder they -called her Cherry. She was adorable in compassion. “You don't know me. -I'm not at all what you think. Ask the Faun Man. Don't you remember at -the Happy Cottage? It wasn't for breaking his pictures that he sent me -to the convent.” - -“But I'll make you love me,” he insisted. “You don't know what I'd do -for you. I'd die for you, Cherry. There's nothing about you that I don't -worship. You're so long and sweet--and------” He laid his face against -her cold, white cheek and caught his breath. She was like marble; he -could feel no stir in her--and his every nerve was throbbing. “Don't you -like to be loved?” - -She seemed to marvel at his passion, as if it were a thing which she did -not understand, by which she was puzzled. Oddly, to his way of thinking, -she showed no terror of him. Her eyes dwelt on him with clear and kindly -interest. “Every girl likes to be loved. But that's different. I don't -think you'll ever teach me, Peter. And yet----. Hadn't we better be -getting back?” - -“Oh, not yet.” He felt that he was going to lose her--lose her forever. -Surely, surely he could rouse her to a sense of the poetry and drama -which was burning in his blood. It was impossible that she should not -feel it. She had been sleeping, as he had been sleeping, letting love -go by with its banners and drums. “Oh, not yet,” he pleaded; “all these -years we've lived--we've hardly ever been together.” - -She broke the suspense by laughing. “What's your favorite hymn, Peter?” - -He was puzzled. “Haven't got one. Never thought about it. What makes you -ask?” - -She wriggled her shoulders. “Because mine's 'Yield not to temptation.'” - -He didn't catch the significance of her remark. She saw that. “Still -a little boy, aren't you? A little boy of nineteen, who thinks he's in -love. There are heaps of other girls in the world.--Yes, I'll come.” - -He piled the cushions for her; then took the paddle and seated himself -so he could face her. Their conversation was carried on by fits and -starts, with long pauses. - -“He was a beast.” She spoke reflectively. - -“Who was?” - -“Hardcastle.” - -“But I thought--I was afraid you liked him.” - -She trailed her hand in the black water, watching how it slipped through -her fingers. “I did like him for the moment. That proves I'm not nice. -Women often like men who are beasts.” - -“But you don't like him now?” - -She teased him, keeping him waiting. “I'm glad you struck him.” - -Presently she said, “Peter, I've been thinking, why can't we have good -times together? We could be friends and--nothing serious, but more than -exactly friends. Lots of girls do it.” - -Peter stopped paddling. “I should have to love you. I should be always -hoping that----” - -“Then it wouldn't be fair to you,” she said. - -He had been silent for some minutes. “Where did you learn so much about -men? I know nothing about women.” - -“Where did I learn?” she laughed. “Girls know without learning. Until -to-night no man ever kissed me--not the way you kissed me. So you -needn't be jealous.” - -The punt nosed its way among rushes and came to rest. He crouched -against her feet, holding her hands, trembling at her nearness. The deep -stillness of the night enfolded them. Reeds stood up tall on every -side, shutting out the world. Above their heads a flock of fleecy clouds -wandered, with unseen shepherds swinging stars for lanterns. The man in -the moon looked out of his window with a tolerant smile on his mouth. -She lay against the cushions, white and impassive, her long, fine throat -stretched back. - -“Peter,” she said, “look up there; those clouds, they don't know where -they're going. Someone's driving them from one world to another, like -sheep to pasture. We're like that; someone's driving us--and we -don't know where we're going.” And then, “You love me, with all your -heart--yes, I believe that; and I--I love someone else. We each love -someone who doesn't care; and I have to let you do it--I, who know the -pain of it. Poor Peter, what a pity God didn't make us so that we could -love each other.” - -And again, “I don't know any man in the world with whom I'd trust myself -to do what we're doing. Oh, I don't want to hurt you, Peter. If ever I -should hurt you, you'll remember?” - -He couldn't speak--didn't want to speak. He and she were awake and -together, while all the world slept--that was sufficient. - -How still it was! He could hear the soft intake of her breath and the -rustle of her dress. “So this is love!” he kept saying to himself. It -wasn't at all what he had expected. It wasn't a wild rush of words and -an eager clutching of hands. It wasn't an extravagance of actions and -language. It was just tenderness. He unbent her fingers, marveling at -their frailness. He pressed the palm of her hand against his mouth. He -felt like a little child as he sat beside this silent girl. - -Cherry lifted herself on the cushions. She gave him both her hands. - -“What is it?” - -She seemed afraid. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “When two people -are married, is it always one who allows and one who loves? You don't -know; you can't tell me. If both don't love it must be terrible. I -couldn't bear only to give everything; and only to take everything, that -would be worse. Oh, Peter, I have to tell you. It was like that with my -mother. She couldn't give everything to my father, and then--she found -someone else. My father worshiped her--just as you'd worship me, Peter; -when he knew that she was going away from him he--he kept her.” She -covered her face. “He was hanged for it. And that's why the Faun -Man----. He was his friend. Oh, I'm afraid of myself; I almost wish we'd -never met.” - -He held her to him; she was shaken with sobbing. Suddenly he recalled -how he had first seen her, rushing out of the Happy Cottage, with her -brown-black hair tumbled about her white face and her gray eyes wide -with tragedy. She was so wilful, and she so needed protection. - -“Cherry, Cherry. Don't be frightened. Don't cry, dear. I love you. -Nothing like that could ever happen to us.” - -She stared at him. “Nothing like that could ever happen! I expect they -said that.” - -_They! They!_ And was it they who had called her Cherry, because her -lips were red? - -Her eyes closed. Her lashes were wet; beneath them were shadows. -He gazed on her, clasping her to him tenderly, as though she were a -bewildered bird which had flown blindly into his breast. Her breath came -softly. He thought her sleeping and kissed her mouth; her hand sought -his and lay there trustingly. - -What pictures he had of her! He saw her dancing before the flushed and -foolish faces of those men; he saw her as he had met her on the bridge -in her cool, blowy summer dress; he saw her in the Haunted Wood, where -the little river ran, bidding him turn back. Because of what she had -just told him, he felt that he had never loved her until now. - -Like a counterpane tucking in the sleepy stars, the mist of dawn crept -up. Near into the bank, behind the wall of rushes, a moor-hen was -splashing. The countryside whispered with creature sounds. A bird was -calling. How long had it been calling? An owl flew over his head, in -haste to keep pace with the retreat of darkness. Along the east, above -the spears of the reeds, a little redness spread. A thrush tried over -a few staves. Before he had burst in song a perky blackbird was piping -valiantly. The fields fluttered, as though a messenger ran through them, -telling wild-flowers to raise their heads. The east smoldered higher; -conflagration smoked sideways and upward. A door opened in a cloud; -the sun stepped out. Like the unhurried crash of an orchestra the -world shouted. It happened every morning while men slept. It was -stupendous--appalling. - -How white she was! He bent over her. Her eyes opened. She gave his arm -a little hug. “Were you kissing me, Peter? You mustn't, mustn't love me -like that.” - -Ah, mustn't! It was too late to forbid him. The insanity of the night -was all forgotten; only its sweetness was left. From his window the man -in the moon looked down; his mouth seemed to droop at the corners. He -would watch for them next night, and they would not come. He might never -know the end of their story. He was despondent; he had to go to bed. - -Peter was chafing her hands. - -“How good you are!” - -“Not good. Only in love.” - -And she, “I dreamt of you. We were in the Haunted Wood. My feet were -bare, and----” - -He held her eyes earnestly. “I wish I had been there. All these years -it was the grayness of your eyes and--and something else that I -remembered.” - -“What else? No, tell me.” - -“The whiteness of your feet,” he whispered. - -Again they were in fairyland. Yellow as a topaz set in turquoise the -sun stood free in the heavens. Inhabitants of the fearless morning -went busily about their tasks. Clear as a mirror, through the perfumed -stillness of meadows the river ran. Mists curled from ofif its surface -and hung white in tree-tops. Within hand-stretch fish leapt; peering -over the side of the punt, they could follow their retreat through -waving weeds and black willow-stumps. Only a magpie noticed their -passage and became interested, fluttering from bough to bough and asking -them, “What d'you want? What d'you want?” Dragon-flies ventured forth -as the sun's heat strengthened; butterflies and the teeming insect world -rose out of water-lilies and foxgloves--out of the destructible homes -which Nature builds for their brief and perishable existence. He and -she, drifting through the golden quiet with clasped hands, seized their -moment unquestioningly, and were thankful for it. - -Ahead they saw swans; then cattle wading knee-deep. Rounding a bend, -they came in sight of a trellised garden, with green tables set out on -a close-cut lawn. Boats swung idly in the stream, tethered to a landing. -In the background was a thatched house, from whose chimney smoke waved -back in a thin plume. When they came near enough they made out a white -post, with a sign swinging from it. On the sign was depicted a brown -bird, fluttering its wings in a golden cage; painted over it were the -words, _The Winged Thrush._ In lifting their eyes to read the sign they -caught sight of the faint moon, weakly smiling, as though saying, “I've -got to go. They won't let me stay. Goodbye, and good luck.” - -They landed, leaving their foolish disguises in the punt. Through the -dew-drenched wistfulness of summer roses they approached the inn, and -entered. The room was strewn with sawdust, and stale with the smell -of beer and tobacco. An ostler-like person, with a full-blown face and -little blue pig's eyes, met them. They asked for breakfast. He knew his -business well enough to suggest that missie would prefer to have it in -an arbor. - -While they ate he hovered round them, continually inventing excuses to -interrupt their privacy. He reminded them of the magpie in his frank -display of curiosity. He informed them that trade was wery bad. He'd -'arf a mind to try 'is luck in Australy. If it weren't for the young -bloods from Henley, he'd 'ardly take a 'appeny from month to month. -Did they know of anyone, an artist chap for h'instance, who'd like to -combine pleasure with business by tryin' his 'and at runnin' a nice pub? -An artist chap could paint that bloomin' bird out, and call the place -The White Hart or somethin' h'attractive. Whoever 'eard of an inn payin' -which was called The Winged Thrush? People didn't want their meals -messed about by a bloomin' poet. Not but what the sitiyation was so -pleasant that he'd tried to write poetry 'isself--love-poetry for the -most part. His verses allaws came to 'im when 'e were groomin' the -'orses. If things didn't brisk up, 'e'd give Australy a chance, as 'e'd -many times promised. - -At last he left them. Cherry gazed out dreamily across the river. -“I wonder, is it true that one has always to pay with sorrow for -happiness?” - -Peter shivered. How old she could be when she chose to borrow other -people's disillusions! He tried to restore her to cheerfulness. “What a -pagan notion! It's the old idea of the gods being jealous. You shouldn't -think such thoughts.” - -“But happiness does bring sorrow,” she insisted. “We shall have to pay -for this to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.” - -Her voice trailed off, giving him a vision of all the tomorrows when he -would be without her. And he wasn't sure of her. She had told him -that she didn't love him. He drew her closer. “But a sorrow's crown of -sorrows is to have no happier things to remember--to be old and never to -have been young, to be lonely and never to have been loved. You mournful -little person, do you think you'd be any happier because you'd never -known happiness?” - -“I don't know.” She shrugged her shoulders with a touch of defiance. -“I'm not clever; I can't argue.” Then, her face clearing as suddenly as -it had clouded, “I can't think why you like me, Peter.” - -He laughed gladly. “And I can't tell you, Cherry. It's as though I'd -waited for you always, without knowing for whom I was waiting. I was a -kind of winged thrush in a golden cage; but you've opened the door, now -you've come.” His explanation wasn't sufficient. She snuggled her chin -against the back of her hand and watched him seriously, as though she -suspected him of hiding something. “But what is it that you like most -about me?” - -He tried to discover; he dug back into his own sensations. What was it -that he liked most about her? For the life of him he couldn't put it -into language. Then he thought he might find out by examining the white -face, with the red lips and tragic eyes, of the girl-woman who had asked -the question. What an uncanny faculty she had for stillness! A sunbeam, -falling from the leaves above, crept up her slender throat and nestled -in her hair. - -He shook his head. “It's just you, Cherry. Your voice, your eyes, the -way you walk, the way you try to be sad. It's just you and your -sweetness, Cherry. I think if I didn't love you so much I could say it -better.” - -She stood up. “You poor boy, you've said it well enough. I wish I could -feel like that.--And now we should be going.” They had stepped outside -the arbor; they halted at the sound of voices. Coming round the bend -was a scratch eight, the oars striking the water raggedly. The men were -joking and laughing; the cox, a pipe hanging from his mouth, was urging -them to spurt with humorous insults. Having landed, they tumbled -into their sweaters and came strolling through the garden. They were -discussing the previous night in careless voices. - -“Did you hear about Hardcastle?--When he isn't in training he's always -like that. Ugh! At six o'clock a hero--by midnight a swine you wouldn't -care to touch.” - -The voices passed out of earshot. - -Cherry turned to Peter, “And I let him touch me. I'd have known by -instinct if I'd been nice. Oh, Peter, you mustn't love me.” - -When he attempted to kiss her she refused to allow it, saying, “I'm not -your sort.” - -Paddling back between flowering banks, where trees cast deep shadows -and birds sang full-throatedly, she again became tender. “Life's just -a yesterday, Peter--a continual bidding good-bye and coming back from -pleasures.” - -Her sadness hurt him. She knew it; she told herself that it would always -hurt him. He didn't want ever to say good-bye to her. And she, she felt -sure that their comradeship would be always finding a new ending. - -“Cherry, darling,” he reproached her, “don't go in search of -unhappiness. Life's a to-morrow as well as a yesterday; it's full of -splendid things--things which aren't expected. We've all the to-morrows -before us.” - -She trailed her hand in the water, snatching at the lilies, as if by an -effort so slight she could delay their progress and prolong the present. -She didn't lift her eyes when she whispered, “I was thinking of that--of -all the to-morrows before us.” - -Again her words brought a vision of the long road of future days, down -which he would walk without her. There was nothing to be said. Surely -she would learn to love him! Reluctantly he paddled forward to their -place of parting. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII--IF YOU WON'T COME TO HEAVEN, THEN---- - -The train swung down the shining rails and rumbled into Paddington. -Passengers pulled down their parcels from the racks, jumped out and -disappeared in the crowd. Peter sat on. This carriage at least had known -her; she had looked in through its window and had waved her hand. Out -there in the stone-paved wilderness of London there was nothing they had -shared. - -A porter looked in at the door. “Train don't go no further, sir. Lend -you a 'and? Want a keb?” - -In the cab, Peter closed his eyes, shutting out the cheerful grime -of streets, the nipped impertinence of Cockney faces, the monotonous -anonymity of the ceaseless procession--the stench of this vast human -stable where lives were stalled and broken. He was trying to get back to -green banks, to a river molten in the sunset, and to a redlipped girl. - -Was she thinking of him? If they thought of one another at the same -moment, could their thoughts meet and interchange?--But she didn't love -him. Oh, the things he had left unsaid--the things he would say to -make her love him now, if she sat beside him!--She had spoken -truly--happiness had to be paid for with sorrow. His share of the paying -had commenced, and hers----? Would she dodge payment by forgetting? The -law of change was cruel; it diminished all things, even the most sacred, -to mere incidents in a passing pageant. A pigmy charioteer, with the -futile hands of imagination, he was making the old foolish endeavor to -rein in Time's stallions. - -He pictured himself as painted on a frieze with her in the moment of -their supreme elation--the moment when attainment had been certain, -just before it was realized. The frieze should represent a meadow in -the early morning, a river with mists rising from off it, and a boy, -stooping his lips over the naked feet of a girl. Someone else had -uttered the same fancy: - - “Fair Youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave - - Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; - - Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, - - Though winning near the goal--yet do not grieve! - - She cannot fade-” - -_She cannot fade_. Already it seemed that the sharp edges of his -memories were lost to him. How was it that her face lit up? How did -her voice shudder and slur from sudden piping notes into tenderness? -How----? Things grew vague--he had meant to treasure them so poignantly. -Like a dream from which, against his will, he was waking, Illusion -gathered in her skirts from his clutching hands, growing faint against -the background of reality. - -The waking had commenced before he left Henley. On his return to _The -Skylark_ he had found a note waiting him. It had been forwarded from -Topbury. His name and address were printed, evidently to disguise the -hand of the sender. Inside, on a half sheet of note-paper, was scrawled: - -“_For God's sake meet me. Seven o'clock at the bottom of the Crescent. -I'm lonely.”_ - -It was signed with the initials, O. W. - -So he was out of jail! Looking at the date of the postmark, Peter had -discovered that for two nights the man who was lonely had waited. In the -four and a half years since he had vanished from the living world his -name had been scarcely mentioned. At Topbury the effort had been made to -blot out disgrace by forgetting. Jehane, when she had left Sandport, -had purposely dropped her old acquaintance and had passed among recent -friends as a widow. The fiction had been so earnestly cultivated that -it had seemed almost true that Ocky Waffles was dead--true even to Peter -and Glory. Now, like the remembered tragedy about a death-bed, when the -hands had been long since folded, flowers placed upon the breast and -the coffin carried out, the dead man had come back to die afresh. To say -that Peter resented his return would be an exaggeration. But he shrank -from the intrusion of the sordid past upon the golden poetry of -the present--shrank from it as he would shrink from meeting someone -hideously marred in a gay spring woodland. - -The cab wheels caught in the tram-lines and jerked him into -consciousness of his whereabouts. They had turned into the High Street. -In three minutes they would be at Topbury Cock, and then----. Already in -the distance he could see where the plane-trees in the Fields commenced. -What should he do if his uncle were standing there? His father's house? -No. He raised the trap in the roof. “When you come to the bottom of the -Crescent walk your horse. Understand?” - -Shops were closing. Girls and men were pouring out on to the pavement, -meeting with a quick flash of eyes and strolling away together. Some of -them boarded trams, going up to Highgate to breathe the evening air. The -sun was setting. - -The horse slowed down. At the corner a crowd was gathered about a band. -People were singing. Peter caught the words: - - “If you won't come to Heaven - - Then you'll have to go to Hell; - - For the Devil he is waiting, - - But with Jesus all is well. - - Though your sins be as scarlet, - - He will wash them in His blood; - - So hurry up to Jesus - - And He'll make you good. - - Hallelujah!” - -Grace was standing in the middle of the circle banging on her drum, her -mouth wide open in her big poke-bonnet. On the cab-stand, lolling on his -box, pretending to be half asleep, sat Mr. Grace. His daughter's eyes -were on him. - -Peter scanned the crowd. It was composed of idlers, onlookers and -scoffers, with a sprinkling of converts. The converts were noticeable by -their pale, indignant enthusiasm. - -At first he saw no one who attracted his attention, and then----. A -man with dejected shoulders was crouching in the gateway of a house. He -seemed to be trying to be unobserved. His clothes were shabby--out of -fashion. His linen was soiled. It was the dirty white spats above his -unshone boots that made Peter notice. He told the cabby to wait for him. - -He walked by the man once. In passing he noted the total slovenliness of -his appearance, the unkempt hands, the defeated air and the hat jammed -down to hide the close-cropped hair. He turned back and was repassing. -Like a whipped dog the man raised his eyes; then instantly lowered them. -Peter held out his hand; his throat was too choked to say anything. The -man seemed about to take it; then slunk back. - -“You don't want to know me.” - -“I do. If I hadn't, I shouldn't have come. I'm----I'm awfully sorry.” - -“If you won't come to Heaven, then you'll have to go to hell,” sang -Grace and her followers; it sounded as though they were passing -sentence. - -To the driver's amazement, Peter helped him into the hansom. “Trot us -round for an hour or two,” he said. - -“If you won't come to Heaven, then you'll have to go to hell.” The -singing hurled itself after them--seemed to be running and to grow out -of breath as they drew into the distance. - -They set off through Holloway. They reached the foot of Highgate Hill -and had not spoken. Ahead blazed the dome of St. Joseph's, catching the -redness of the sinking sun. The cabby asked for further instructions. -“Go up the hill and out to Hampstead.” - -Waterlow Park brought a breath of country; children were laughing and -playing there. The sternness of the city, like the brutality of just -judgments, was dropping away behind them. Streets took on a village -aspect. Over to the left, within sound of the living children, lay the -stone-garden where little Philip rested. The horse clambered slowly to -the top of the ascent. - -Peter touched the knee of the man beside him. “I'm glad you sent for me. -It's--it's a long time since we met. I mean--what I mean to say is, you -might have forgotten me. I'm glad you didn't.” - -“A long time since we met!” The dull eyes stared at him as lifelessly as -through a pair of smoked glasses. “I've been buried. They'd better have -dug a hole for me.” - -The man paused and looked from side to side stealthily. He had the -hoarse prison voice which whispered and cracked. It was painful to -see how he cringed and shrank. He pulled himself together and laughed -huskily. “They didn't let us speak in there.” He spoke reflectively, as -if to himself. “Silent for more than four years! Strange to be back!” - -They were bowling down a smooth road. To the right were cricket-fields -and boys at the nets. Across the blue stillness of evening came the -sharp “click” of balls against bats. - -“So this is Uncle Waffles! So this is Uncle Waffles!” Peter kept saying -to himself. His thoughts searched back, trying to trace a resemblance -between the irrepressible, joking companion of his childhood and this -mutilated scrap of humanity. The low-pitched voice crawled on like the -sound of dragging footsteps. “I couldn't have done anything bad enough -to deserve that. If I'd only known that someone outside was caring. -There were no letters, no--no anything. Just to get up in the morning -and to work, and then to go back to bed. Sundays were the worst--there -wasn't any work.--And then they opened the gates and shoved me out. I -couldn't think of anyone but you, Peter.” - -Peter made an attempt to cheer him. “You could have thought of someone -else.” - -The man shook his head. - -“Oh, yes, but you could. There was Glory.” - -“Glory!” He showed no animation. “She's eighteen, isn't she? No, Glory -wouldn't care. But Jehane, how is she?” - -Peter had feared that question. “She's well.” - -The man looked away. “She won't want to see me. She never loved me. -D'you think she'd let me see her, Peter?” - -“I'm afraid--afraid she wouldn't. She's thinking of Eustace, and Moggs -and Riska. But Glory--I'm sure Glory-----” - -“Ah, Glory! She's forgotten me. And Jehane, she never thought of me; it -was always of the children.” - -His voice fell slack with utter hopelessness. Peter remembered Cherry's -words, “It's always one who allows and one who loves.” Jehane hadn't -even allowed; the ruin at his side was her handiwork. - -The hansom halted. Hampstead Heath was all about them, falling away -in gorse and bracken and yellow earth. A little farther on was the -Flagstaff Pond. Toy yachts were scudding across it; excited boys ran -round its edges to retrim their sails and send their craft on fresh -adventures. A dog jumped into the water, barking; they could see his -head bobbing as he swam. To their left, between the trees of the Vale -of Heath, London lay like a sunken rock with the surf of smoke breaking -over it. - -The cabby spoke, “Look 'ere, young gentleman, my 'orse is tired. H'I've -got to be gettin' back. 'Ow abart a rest at The Spaniards?” - -They returned over the way they had come. The tall firs of the Seven -Sisters stood up black and weather-beaten before them. In the yard of -The Spaniards they stepped out. The cabby climbed down and began to -unharness. Behind his hand he said to Peter, “Rum old party you've got -there, mister.” And then, glancing up at the labels on the bag, “Been to -'Enley, 'av'n't yer? 'Ad luck?” - -At the bar Peter ordered supper in a private room. He noticed that, when -they had sat down, his uncle still kept his hat on. When he reminded him -of it his uncle glanced at the door furtively and whispered, “Daren't -take it off. They may guess.” - -He fell upon his food ravenously. In his eating, as in his way of -talking, there was something inhuman, something--yes, lonely was the -word. Slowly it was coming home to Peter that through all these years, -while he had been housed, and safeguarded, and attended with affection, -this man had been used like an animal. He was repelled and filled with -compassion. He wanted to escape; he was unmanned. - -The dusk was falling. “I'll be back in a moment. Order what you like,” - he said. - -In the fragile darkness he clenched his hands. Last night he had been so -happy! How had he dared to be happy? He recalled the jolly buffoonery of -Henley--the songs they had sung, the swaying of lanterns, the swan-like -gliding of punts, the muffled laughter, the hint of stolen kisses. And -all the while this man had been lonely; and his chief fault had been the -fault of others--that he had not been allowed to love. - -Peter found himself walking across the Heath, following no path. Now and -then the rough ground tripped him and he stumbled. He couldn't bear -the reproach of that--that thing that had once been a man, that had no -courage left to accuse anybody. Peter felt as though he himself were -responsible, as though he had done it. He lifted his eyes to the stars. -Indifferent and placid, stretched out on the blue-black couch of heaven, -they stared back at him and told him cantingly: - - “God's in His Heaven, - - All's right with the world.” - -He shook his fist at them. That was the trouble. God was too much in His -Heaven. He felt that he could never again be happy. - -The image of Cherry grew up--Cherry with her red mouth. God had made -her, as well. He unclenched his hands and stood puzzled. God had made -her, as well! The golden panes of the inn shone and winked at him; he -retraced his steps. - -The man still wore his hat, but----. Alcohol had changed him from a -thing limp and hopeless into Ocky Waffles. As Peter entered he staggered -to his feet with both hands held out. - -“Why, if it isn't the ha'penny marvel. God bless me, how he's grown. -Quite a man, Peter! Quite a man!” He put his lips against Peter's ear. -“Mustn't tell anybody. They wouldn't understand. Have to keep it on.” - He pointed to his hat. “Been away for a rest cure--you and I know where. -Had brain fever. Had to cut my hair. It isn't pretty.” Then, in a lower -voice, “Mustn't tell anybody. You won't split on me?” - -For the first time Peter was delighted to find his uncle drunk. He -assured him that he wouldn't split on him. - -“Shake hands, old son; it's a compack. Cur'ous! Here's all this great -world and only I and you know about it. Makes me laugh. Our little joke, -isn't it?” - -Peter took the whisky bottle from him. “You don't want any more of -that.” - -The trembling hand groped after it; the weak mouth quivered. “Just to -forget. Just to make me forget. Don't be hard on poor old Ocky Waffles. -Everyone's been hard on Ocky Waffles.” - -For a moment Peter wavered; then poured an inch more of liquid courage -into the empty glass. “That's the last for to-night; we've got to plan -for your future.” - -“My future!” Ocky Waffles twisted his unwaxed mustaches and spread his -arms across the table. “My future! Oh, yes. I've got a great future.” - -Peter tapped him on the hand. “Not a great future; but a future. There -are two people who care for you. That's something.” - -“Two people? There's you, but don't count me in on it. This little boy -isn't very fond of himself.” - -“There's me and there's Glory.” - -“Glory!” Ocky Waffles smiled grimly. Then he seemed ashamed of himself -and repeated in an incredulous whisper, “Glory!” - -“She cares more than I do,” Peter said. “She and I and you, all working -together--do you understand?--she and I and you are going to make you -well. We're going to show everybody that you're a strong, good man; and -we're going to work in secret until we can prove it.” - -“A strong, good man!” The subject of this wonderful experiment looked -down at himself contemptuously. “A strong, good man, I think you said. -Likely, isn't it? I've started by getting drunk.” - -With sudden loathing and concentrated will power he swept the glass of -whisky from him. It fell to the floor with a crash. He had become sober -and rose to his feet solemnly. “Not a strong, good man. I could have -been once. I'm a jail-bird. I've got my memories. My memories!--Good -God, I wouldn't tell you! You're young. I can only try to be decent now, -if that's enough. And--and I'd like to try, Peter, if you'll help me.” - -As they drove back to Topbury the fumes of the drink overcame him. He -fell asleep with his head rolling against Peter's shoulder. Even in his -sleep he seemed to remember his shame, and how he must keep it hidden -from the world. His hand kept traveling to his hat, when a jerk of the -cab threatened to remove it. - -What to do with him! As the night fled by him Peter planned. No one -but Peter would have thought out a plan so humanely idiotic. The silver -moonlight fell between clumped trees and flooded all the meadows. Houses -became more frequent. Above the trotting of the horse the grumble of -traffic was heard. They were descending High-gate Hill; Peter put his -arm about his companion to prevent his slipping forward. He stirred and -muttered, “Poor old Ocky! Too bad! Too bad, going and getting drunk! -Just out of prison and all that.” - -Peter bit his lips and drew his brows together. Life--how strange it -was! How slender, and fierce, and pantherlike and cruel! And yet how -beautiful at times and splendid! Who could foresee anything? Last night -he and the same moon had gazed on romance--to-night on disillusion. At -the bottom of the hill lay London, like an immense quarry, tunneled, -lamplit, treacherous, industrious, carved out of the precipice of -darkness. It seemed a clay modeling of a more huge world, placed there -for his inspection. Down there this man at his side had been crushed; -they had cast him out. They had told him, “If you won't come to Heaven, -then you'll have to go to----” Well, he'd been to hell, and now they'd -got to take him back. In his heart Peter dared them to refuse him. - -He spoke to the cabby and gave him an address. The man complained of the -lateness of the hour. A reward persuaded him. - -They were jingling through side-streets now. They came out on to a broad -road, with trees on either side and houses standing in gardens, with -steps going up to them. The horse halted and the cabman blew his nose -loudly. “Nice little jaunt you've 'ad.” - -The house was all in darkness. Peter rang the bell. On the second story -a blind was raised; someone saw the lamps of the hansom. Feet descended -the stairs. The door opened timidly. Miss Florence stood there, her hair -in curl-papers, with a candle in her hand. She looked extraordinarily -angular and elderly. Behind her, peering over the banisters, were Miss -Effie, Miss Leah and Miss Madge, with petticoats thrown over their -shoulders. Peter entered the old-fashioned hall and explained his -errand. “You were going to do it once; he needs it more than ever now.” - -“Bring him in,” Miss Florence said. - -In an odd old-maidish room he undressed his uncle and slipped him into -one of the late Mr. Jacobite's night-shirts. - -The situation was not without its humor. Before he left he promised to -be round early. - -It was nearly midnight when he arrived home at Topbury Terrace. Only -his father was up. He opened the door to him. “You're late, Peter. We -thought something had happened.” - -Peter waited until the door had closed behind him. “It has. I met Uncle -Waffles. You're tired; don't let's talk about it now. He's all right for -a little while, anyhow.” - -His father drew a long breath. Peter knew what he was thinking: “So -the dead man has come back to die afresh!” They put out the lights in -silence and climbed the stairs. In the darkness his father laid his -hand on his shoulder. “You were always fond of Ocky; so was I once. Poor -fellow! I tried to be just.” - -“You were just,” said Peter; “you had to be just. But it isn't justice -that he's needing now; it's--it's kindness.” - -His father's voice became grave--a little stern, perhaps. “For years he -had the kindness; he was dragging us all down. He lied to me so often. -Well----. Humph! Can't be helped. Do what you can. Good night, son.” - -As Peter entered his bedroom something fluttered. He struck a match. -It was a sheet of paper, written on in a round, girlish hand and pinned -against the door-panel. It read, “_Welcome home, Peterkins. All the time -I've been thinking of you. I've missed you most awfully. I wanted to sit -up, but they wouldn't let me. With love and ten thousand kisses, Kay_.” - -[Illustration: 0335] - -His heart reproached him. Little Kitten Kay! In the last week he hadn't -thought much of her, and once--once she had been his entire world. He -had promised her once that he was never going to marry. And now there -was Cherry. It was Cherry he thought of as his eyes were closing--Cherry -and her saying that there are those who allow and those who love. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII--THE WORLD AND OCKY - -Whenever Peter thought of the Misses Jacobite, the picture that formed -was of four lean-breasted women, who spoke in whispers and sat forever -in a room with the blinds down. They seemed to have no passions, no -desires, no grip on reality, no sense of life's supreme earnestness. -They were waiting, always waiting for something to return--something -which had once been theirs: youth, the hope of motherhood, love, the -admiration of men. The day of their opportunity had gone by them; -they could not forget. It was odd to remember that these gentlewomen, -prematurely aged, had once been high-stepping and courted--the belles of -Topbury. One of them sang, day in, day out, of the rest to be found -on the other side of Jordan; it was all that she had to hope for now. -Directly the front door opened you could hear her. The sound of her -singing sent shivers down your back. It made you think of a mourner, -sitting beside the dead; only the dead was not in the house. It had -never come to birth. It was something once expected, that no one dared -speak about. - -When Peter called next morning he was aware of a changed atmosphere. -The sense of folded hands had vanished. The singing was no longer heard; -instead, there came to his ears a number of busy, orderly sounds--doors -softly opening and shutting, feet making discreet haste upon the stairs, -the clink of dishes in the basement and the sizzling of cooking. - -As he had passed through the hall, with its varnished wall-paper, to the -drawing-room in which he waited, the portrait of old Mr. Jacobite had -gazed fiercely down. Quite evidently the old gentleman disapproved of -the use being made of his night-shirt. - -Peter didn't seat himself; it would have been impossible to do so -without causing havoc. Every chair had its antimacassar, spread at its -correct old-maidish angle. He stood by the window, looking out into the -cool little garden--a green, shy sanctuary for birds, across which the -July sunlight fell. Overhead was the room in which Uncle Waffles had -slept--he hoped he had behaved himself. The chandelier shook; several -people were very industrious up there. And Peter wondered. Old Mr. -Jacobite--had he always disapproved of men where his daughters were -concerned? Had he kept them from marriage? Had the tall and reserved -Miss Florence ever been kissed by a man? In the light of his own -romantic experience he pitied all people who hadn't been kissed and -married. Life was wasted if that hadn't happened; it was meant for that. - -The handle turned. It was Miss Effie, the little and talkative Miss -Jacobite, who entered. She was smiling and lifted to Peter a face all -a-flutter, thanking him with her eyes, as though he had given her a -present. - -“How is he?” Peter asked. “I oughtn't to have brought him here at -all--let alone at such an hour. Only you see--you see there was nowhere -else to bring him.” - -She seated herself on the edge of a chair, patting out her dress. “He's -tired.” She spoke with an air of concern. “He wasn't very well. We made -him stay in bed. We're going to keep him there; he needs feeding.” - -She was flustered. Her hands kept clasping and unclasping. She seemed -afraid of being accused of immodesty. She raised her eyes shyly. “It's -so nice to have a man in the house. Not since poor dear father----. I -wonder what he'd have said.” - -Peter didn't wonder. He thought it was high time that he made matters -clearer. “Of course, I'm not going to leave him on your hands. I only -brought him for a night because----” - -She interrupted anxiously. “Oh, please, until he's better. He's so run -down. They made him work so hard in--in there.” - -So he had brought his derelict uncle to the one spot on earth where he -was regarded as a treasure! He was so amazed at Miss Effie's attitude -that he doubted whether she was in full possession of the facts. - -“But--but,” he faltered, “didn't Miss Florence tell you where he's come -from--where it was that he had to work?” - -She answered in a low voice. “We've all done wrong.” It seemed she could -get no further. She sank her head, gazing straight before her, tracing -out the great red roses in the carpet. Peter thought of her sister, -Leah, the shadow-woman; he knew what she meant. She raised her eyes to -his with an effort. “We've all done wrong; I think to have done wrong -makes one more gentle. It makes one willing--not to remember.” - -Miss Florence opened the door and looked in on them. “He's ready to see -you now.” She hated scenes. Because she saw that one was in preparation, -she made her voice and manner perfunctory. “You'd better go alone. You'd -better go on tiptoe. I wouldn't stop too long; he's got a bad head.” - -Peter couldn't help smiling as he climbed the stairs, and yet it was a -tender sort of smiling. Didn't these innocent ladies know that too much -whisky invariably left a bad head? Or, with their divine faculty for -forgetting, were they willing to forget the whisky and only to remember -to cure the bad head? - -It was a white room--a woman's room most emphatically. The pictures on -the walls were triumphs of sentimentality. Gallants were kissing -their ladies' hands and clutching them to their breasts in an agony of -parting, or looking meltingly at a flower which they had left. The seats -of the chairs wore linen covers to prevent their upholstery from getting -shabby. The window was wide; on the sill crumbs had been scattered. -Sparrows chattered and, grown bold from habit, flew in on to the carpet -and preened their feathers. - -On the bed, the sheets drawn close up under his chin, lay Uncle Waffles. -He had the look that invalids sometimes have, of being made to appear -more ill by too much attention. He had not shaved--his cheeks were -grizzled; that help to make him look worse. The atmosphere of a sickroom -was completed by a table placed beside the counterpane, on which lay an -open Bible and some freshly plucked wall-flowers. Peter had never seen -his uncle in bed--for the moment he was embarrassed. He drew up a chair. -“How are you? Getting rested?” - -Uncle Waffles hitched himself higher on the pillow, reached out and took -Peter's hand. A glint of the old love of fun-making crept into his -eyes. “I've not been treated like this since my mother--not since I -was married. They're pretending I'm ill because they want to nurse me. -Carried off my trousers, they did, to prevent me from getting dressed. -What's the matter with them? Don't they know who I am?” - -“They know.” - -“Then why are they doing it?” - -“Because they've suffered themselves.” - -Ocky tightened his grip on Peter's hand. “One of them been to--to where -I've been, you mean? Which one?” Peter shook his head. “They've all been -to prison in a sense--not the kind you speak of. They had a big tragedy, -when everything looked happy. Since then----. Well, since then people -have pitied and cut them. They've been left. They're glad you've come, -partly because life's been cruel to you, and partly----. Look here, I -don't want you to laugh!--partly because you're a man.” - -Ocky pulled the late Mr. Jacobite's night-shirt tighter across his -shoulders. It was much too large for him--as voluminous as a surplice. -“Not much of a man,” he muttered; “not much of a man. Arrived here--you -know how. Before that had been hanging about street corners, watched by -the police and jostled into the gutter. My own wife won't look at me; -and yet you tell me these strangers----.” - -His voice shook. “I don't understand--can't see why----.” - -Peter spoke after an interval. “You--you haven't often been surprised by -too much kindness, have you? Comes almost like a blow at first?” - -“Almost. It kind of hurts. But it's the right kind of hurting. It makes -me want to be good. Never thought I'd want to be that.” - -“What did you think?” - -For a moment a fierce look came into his eyes. “What does an animal -think of when it's trapped? It thinks of all the ways in which it can -get back at the people who put it there. But now----.” He picked up -the wall-flowers and smelt them. “She brought them this morning--the -littlest one, with the gray hair and tiny hands. They were all wet with -dew when she brought them. You need to go to prison, Peter, to know what -flowers can mean to a chap.” - -There was a tap at the door. Miss Madge entered, bringing some beef-tea. -When she had gone Ocky said, “They take it in turns.” - -Peter remembered how, going always into separate rooms with them, they'd -taken turns in owning himself and Kay when they were children. How -rarely life had allowed them to love anything! - -Uncle Waffles' thoughts seemed to have been following the same track. He -paused, with the cup half-way to his mouth. “Those women ought to have -married.--Been in prison most of their lives, you said? But I don't -know; marriage can be a worse hell.” He turned to Peter. “D'you remember -at Sandport how she'd never let me kiss her? It was like that from the -first. She kept me hungry. I stole to make her love me. She was always -talking about her first husband and making me jealous. And yet----.” - -He stopped and gazed vacantly across the room to where sparrows -fluttered on the sill and sunlight fell. Peter supposed that he had -forgotten what he was going to have said. Suddenly his face became -all purpose and pleading. He flung back the bedclothes and leant out, -gripping Peter's shoulders till they hurt. “I'd steal again to-morrow -to get one day of her bought affection. My God, how I've longed for her! -Make her come to me. You must, Peter. You shall. Don't tell her who I -am. Oh, don't refuse me.” - -The sharp agony and desperate determination of a man so drifting and -careless took Peter aback. He recalled those days when he had hidden him -in the stable--it had been the same then. He had always been urging that -Je-hane should be persuaded to walk in the garden that he might catch -a glimpse of her. The one strong loyalty of his weak existence had been -the love of this woman. - -“Get her to come to you!” Peter said. “But how? She wouldn't. She----” - Ocky burried his face in the pillow. How thin he was and listless! How -spent! How----. What was the word? How smashed! It was as though in the -human quarry some chance stone of calamity had fallen on him, making him -a moral cripple. He was what he was through the sort of accident that -might happen to any man--to the Faun Man, if Eve refused to love him; -even to Peter himself. - -The boy pulled the clothes back over the man. “Somehow--I don't know -how--somehow I'll do it. I promise.” - -After that, whenever Peter entered the white room, he saw how his uncle -watched for someone to follow. - -The Misses Jacobite had found a doctor who supported their opinion that -their guest must be kept in bed. The prison fare and long confinement -had broken down his constitution. The doctor didn't know what had done -it; he advised food and rest. - -From time to time Peter brought visitors to the room overlooking the -garden. His father came and was shocked by the wasted look of the man -who, in earlier years, had been his friend. It was of those earlier -years that they chose to speak, by an instinctive courtesy; they, at -least, had been happy territory. They recalled together their schoolday -pranks--the canings they had earned, the football matches they had lost -or won, the holidays when they had broken boundaries, going on some -secret adventure. But, when Barrington rose to go, Ocky said, “Don't -come again, Billy. You used to hate to hear me call you Billy; you'll -dislike it just as much when I'm better. We've both been forgetting what -I am, and what I've done. If you come again we may remember. For years -I've worried you; well, that's ended. But--you're a man of the world, -and you understand. I'm a jail-bird--and I don't want to spoil the -memory of this hour. Good-bye, old man.” - -It turned out that Mr. Grace hadn't slept on his box so soundly that -evening of Peter's return--at least, not so soundly as to keep his eyes -shut. - -“All swank on my part, Mr. Peter,” he said; “she's been h'at me for -years, my darter Grice 'as, and I don't mean to get conwerted. H'I'm not -a-goin' ter come ter 'eaven, so long as 'er voice is the only voice as -calls me. 'Eaven 'ud be 'ell, livin' wiv 'er in the same 'ouse, if I wuz -ter do that. We'd be for h'everlastin' prayin' and floppin'. Not but wot -religion 'as its uses; but not for me in 'er sense. That's why I shut me -h'eyes when she was a-bellowin' at the corner. But I saw yer. 'Ow is the -old bloke nar? Your uncle, I mean, meanin' no disrespeck. I've h'often -thought that if we 'ad met under 'appier h'auspices--h'auspices is one -of my Grice's words--we might 'ave been pals.” - -Peter brought about the 'appier h'auspices. One afternoon Cat's Meat -halted before the house and Mr. Grace climbed down from his box, a bag -of apples in one hand and his whip in the other. He was very red in the -face and embarrassed; he had anything but a sick-room appearance, though -he often drove in funeral processions. He was immensely careful about -the wiping of his feet. Peter tried to coax him to leave his whip in -the hall; he wouldn't. He seemed to think that it lent him dignity, and -explained his status in the world. So it was clutching a bag of apples -and clasping his whip against his chest, that he entered the white room -where the birds hopped in and out. - -Ocky Waffles, shifting his position on the bed, caught sight of the -weather-beaten, alcoholic figure. Before he could say a word, in a -thick, husky voice Mr. Grace offered his apologies. - -“'Ere. 'Ave 'em. I 'ear you ain't well.” He swung the bag of apples on -to the bed. “Bought 'em from a gal off a barrer” He paused awkwardly. - -“That was good of you,” said Ocky. “Come and sit down.” - -Mr. Grace scratched his head. “I dunno as I want to sit down. I dunno -as you and me is friends. Remember the last time we met and h'all the -trouble we 'ad? You wuz a nice old cough-drop in them days. I 'ad to 'it -yer wiv this 'ere whip--the wery same one--to make yer let go o' the top -o' the gate and fall inter the stable. Well, I 'it yer in kindness; but -it's because I 'it yer that I dunno whether you and me is friends.” - -“We're friends,” said Ocky. - -Mr. Grace sat down. It was most curious, all this. He hadn't got his -bearings. This chap, lying in a decent bed and waited on hand and foot -by ladies, was Mr. Waffles, if you please. But he had been an old -cock who climbed walls to avoid policemen, and rode about at night in -philanthropic cabs. He turned to him gruffly. “Eat one o' them there -apples. Bought 'em from a gal off a barrer.--Did h'I tell yer that -h'already?” It was a sign that the truce was established. - -Mr. Grace became a frequent caller. An odd friendship grew up between -these two men, both broken on the wheel of feminine perversity. They -exchanged notes on their experiences. Ocky spoke to the old cabby with -greater freedom than to anyone, save Peter. Jehane had always said of -him that he found it easy to be sociable with underlings and ostlers. -In this case he found it easy because of the wide charity of the -underling's personal laxity. Sometimes Miss Effie would steal in and -read to them of a man who chose his companions from among publicans and -sinners. Mr. Grace would pay her the closest attention and ask her -to repeat certain passages; he was picking up pointers, with which to -challenge his daughter's confident assertions concerning God's unvarying -severity. - -And then Jehane! She came one afternoon to Topbury to visit Nan. She had -heard nothing; nothing was told her. Peter waited for an opportunity to -get her to himself. In the garden after dinner the others contrived to -leave them together. - -“Going up to Oxford, Peter? Oh, well, it's good to have opportunities -and a father with money. My poor Eustace, he'll never have that. I -might, while you're there----.” - -She paused; the thought had just occurred to her--a new plan for -marrying off her girls “I might let Glory and Riska visit my father and -mother while you're there. It would be pleasant for all of you. Would -you like that?” - -“Splendid,” said Peter. - -She eyed him, suspecting the sincerity of his enthusiasm. - -“Of course, if you don't want your cousins---.” - -“I do,” he assured her. “I'm going to Calvary College; that's just -opposite Professor Usk's house. I'll be able to see plenty of them.” - Then, knowing how she liked to be appealed to as a person with superior -knowledge, “I wish you'd tell me some of the things I mustn't do; Oxford -etiquette's so full of _mustn'ts_.” - -She laughed; the hard lines softened about her mouth. Talking about -Oxford made her think of her girlhood, when to be the daughter of a don -was to be something akin to an aristocrat. Those days were sufficiently -far removed for her to have forgotten their dread of spinsterhood, and -for her to remember only their glamour. “You must never use tongs to -your sugar,” she said; “only freshers do that--you must help yourself -with your fingers. And, let me see! You must never wear your cap and -gown unless it's positively necessary. You mustn't speak to a second -or third-year man unless he speaks to you first.--Oh, there are so many -_mustn'ts_ at Oxford; it would take all evening.” - -And then, “Did your mother ever tell you the story of how we first met -Billy? It had been raining, and we were waiting to go on the river. I -put my head out of the window to see if the storm was over, and there -was your father looking up at me. I used to tease your mother by -pretending that I was in love with him. I shouldn't wonder--I expect -she still believes I wanted him. You see, Nan and I were inseparable as -girls. We used to be horribly scared of not marrying--we didn't know -as much about marriage then. We used to think that girls were born on a -raft and that only a man could come to their rescue. Funny idea, wasn't -it?” - -“And if the man didn't come?” - -“Why, if the man didn't come, we believed girls missed -everything--believed they got blown out to sea, out of sight of land and -starved with thirst. That was what made your mother so jealous, when I -pretended to be in love with Billy. She was afraid she'd lose her one -and only chance of getting safe ashore to the land of matrimony.” That -was Jehane's public version of how love had miscarried between herself -and Barrington. - -So she ran on, remembering and remembering, as they walked the garden -path from the mulberry to the pear trees, forth and back, back and -forth, while the sunset reddened the creepers on the walls and the -loft-window, from which Ocky had watched in vain for her coming, looked -down on them emptily. - -When it was time for her to be getting on her way, Peter volunteered to -accompany her to the station. They chose the Lowbury Station instead of -the Topbury, because it would take longer and they could continue their -conversation about Oxford, her Promised Land of the past. “You must have -had good times as a girl.” - -Good times! Hadn't she? She painted for him the joys of Eights' Week, -the excitement of the Toggers, the tremendous elations of a young and -vivid 'Varsity world. She painted them for him as romantic realities -which she had lived to the full and lost. And the odd thing was that she -believed that she had been happy then. All her life it had been _then_ -that she had been happy. Her Eldorados had always been behind her--never -in the To-days or the To-morrows. When she pitied herself, her otherwise -barren nature blossomed into a tragic luxuriance that was almost noble, -and entirely picturesque. - -She hadn't noticed where Peter was leading her. She found herself in -a broad and quiet street, through which little traffic passed. The -pavements, on either side of it, were lined with plane-trees. Houses -stood far back from the road in gardens, with stone steps climbing up to -them. - -She slipped her hand into Peter's arm. Now that Nan wasn't there to be -pleased by it, she was willing to let him know that she was proud of -him. In the silver twilight, when one sees with the imagination rather -than with the eyes, she found his face like to one which had looked up -at her suddenly and held her spell-bound in the gray blur of an Oxford -street. - -“Is this the right way, Peter? Is it a short-cut? Are you taking me out -of my way to lengthen our talk?” - -He laughed, rather excitedly she thought. “I like to hear you telling of -the old days---- Hulloa! Why here's the Misses Jacobite's house! You -remember what you said about women being on a raft--I think that -explains them. No one came out from the land to take them off. Let's -step inside and cheer them up.” - -“But Peter, my train----.” - -“Oh, there are plenty of trains--we needn't stop more than a second.” - -“You rascal!” She gave his arm a little hug. “I believe you had this in -mind from the start.” - -“Perhaps I had.” - -When they were safe inside the hall and the door had closed behind them, -his manner altered. She was conscious of it in a second. He no longer -laughed, and he was more excited. - -“There's someone here who wants to meet you,” he informed her. - -“But who? Why didn't you tell me?” - -“I wanted to give you a surprise.” - -She looked annoyed and yet curious. “You must tell me. Is it a man or a -woman?” - -He didn't dare to let her know that it was her husband. - -“You'll see presently.” - -She was beginning to protest; Miss Florence entered. Under her attempt -at cordiality her face betrayed dismay, and something still less -comfortable--judgment. Peter employed her entrance as an excuse for his -own rapid exit. He soon returned. “They want to see you now.” - -Making the best of an awkward situation, Jehane exclaimed, “They! So -there are several of them! It was only 'someone' at first.” - -She followed him up the stairs, trying to catch up with and question -him; he was careful to keep sufficiently far ahead to prevent -conversation. He opened a door on the landing--the door which led into -the white room. He made as if he were going to accompany her, but, as -she crossed the threshold, stepped back and closed the door. - -“You!” - -The man held out his arms. When she stood rigid and did not stir, he -dragged himself across the bed, as if to come to her. - -“Don't.” - -Her voice was sudden like a whip cracked. - -His arms fell to his side. After all these years of absence, -her stronger will lashed down his desire. He began ramblingly, -shame-facedly, hinting at what he meant, not having the audacity to -finish his sentences. “I had to----. I made Peter promise. When they let -me out, I was thinking of you. All the time in there, for four years, I -was thinking of----. Jehane, I've been punished enough. Isn't it -possible that----? Jehane, I love you. I always have. I always shall.” - -He was aching to touch her. Through the mist of twilight that drifted -through the room, he fed his eyes on every detail of this woman who had -once been familiar to him. She hadn't changed much; it was he who was -altered. She also made her sternly pitiful estimate--the shrunken body, -the loose-lipped, purposeless mouth, the hair growing thin and gray -about the temples. - -He stretched out his arms. “I love you.” - -She shuddered; it was as though a man from the grave had called to her. - -“Love me!” Her voice was so low that his ears were strained to catch -what she said. “No. You never loved me; you weren't strong enough for -that. It was all a mistake; we never belonged to each other. If you had -loved me, you wouldn't have---- But we won't talk about it. I'm not -bitter; but we must go our own ways now.” - -He was lying across the edge of the bed, threatening to reach across the -gulf that spread between them. The nearer he came, the more she saw what -had happened. He was old--a senile, night-robed caricature of the man -she had married. In the half-light her fear of his claim on her made him -ghastly. - -He was moving--he was getting out of bed. She opened the door, running -as she would have run from a skeleton. He was following her down the -stairs. She fancied that he touched her. It seemed that he leapt through -the air. Something fell. In the hall people tried to stay her. She was -in the street where the plane-trees rustled; how she managed to get -there she could not tell. She ran on, fearing that he still followed. - -She halted for want of breath. Where was she? Lighted trams were -passing. She jumped on the first, giving no thought to its direction. -Not until she was safe aboard and moving, did she dare to look back. - -Nothing was there, nothing gaunt and hungry--only saunterers and girls -with their lovers, drifting dreamlike through the shadows under lamps -against whose glare moths hurled their fragile bodies, beating their -lives out flutteringly. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV--THE BENEVOLENT DELILAHS - -Despite the Misses Jacobite's efforts to keep him ill, Ocky insisted -on getting better. His cork-like nature refused to be submerged by -adversity; it was warranted un-sinkable. - -At first, after repeated and urgent requests, he was allowed to sit by -the window in a dressing-gown. Then he was allowed to get partly -dressed and to ramble about the house in carpet-slippers. At last he -was permitted to venture into the garden. There, for some days, his -adventures ended. His four benevolent Delilahs had the felicity of -watching their captive-man, pottering in the sunshine, watering the -grass and tying up the flowers, while leaves tapped against the walls -and birds flew over him. - -They were terribly afraid that presently he would contemplate an exodus. -It was so very long since they had had anything to do with men--they had -almost forgotten what things amused them. In those far-off days when -the world was young and lovers were frequent, they had played and sung -a little. But the drawing-room was faded, their songs were out of date, -the piano was out of tune, and their voices----. Perhaps those lovers -had never really cared for their singing; appearing to care had afforded -an excuse for sitting close to the singers, as they turned the pages of -their music. - -Mr. Waffles mustn't be allowed to get dull--that would be fatal. They -asked him if he would be so good as to keep an eye on the cats--to see -that they didn't pounce on any of the birds who made a home in their -garden. Mr. Waffles promised. But the cats still stole along the wall -and crept through the bushes, unmolested by the weary gentleman in -carpet-slippers. - -Something had to be done. The case grew desperate. The four gray sisters -hunted through their father's library and searched out books--Dickens' -novels in paper-covers, issued in parts at a time when a new character -from Boz was more exciting than a new comet hurled through the night -from the unseen shores of eternity. Dickens left Mr. Waffles cold; -his tastes were not literary. He fell asleep with _David Copperfield_ -face-down beside his chair, while the sunlight played leap-frog with the -shadows across the lawn. - -He had to be amused. Providence sent a diversion. Seated beneath the -apple tree, where the shrubbery began, Miss Florence was assuring her -Samson for the hundredth time of how glad she and her sisters were -to have him with them. To enforce the sincerity of her words, she had -stretched out her hand to touch him--had almost touched him--when a -shocked voice exclaimed, “What the devil! What the devil! Poor father! -Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” - -Miss Florence jumped back from Mr. Waffles. Had he accused her? She -saw that his lips were not moving--that in fact, he was as surprised -as herself. Both looked slowly round. Their astonished glances found -nothing more perturbing than the innocent greenness of the garden and -the noiseless hopping of birds. - -The voice came again, maliciously strident. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What -the devil! What the devil!” - -Overhead, perched on a branch, was a gray and scarlet parrot. From whom -had it escaped? How long had it been there? All they knew was that, -while taking refuge in their garden, it was not above reviling them. At -night it formed the habit of roosting in the apple tree. Before anyone -was out of bed, it could be heard profaning the early morning. - -The energies of the entire household were now directed toward the -effecting of its capture. Ingenious plans were concocted. A topic of -conversation was never lacking. - -The four elderly ladies placed themselves under their guest's -protection. What would the neighbors think if they were to hear a -constant stream of blasphemy issuing from their walls? And, besides, the -parrot in a cage could be taught better manners and made an attractive -pet. - -Mr. Grace, on a visit, learnt of the situation and volunteered to lend -a hand. He and Mr. Waffles were provided with bags of grain and -butterfly-nets. They were instructed to creep with the stealth of -poachers behind ambuscades of trees and flowers, following the gray and -scarlet peril till it settled, and then---- - -But the triumphant moment was continually postponed; for, whenever -they approached the parrot, no matter how warily, it spread its wings, -mocking them and crying, “What the devil!”--or something even worse. - -Ocky's days were fully occupied now. He had a morning-to-evening -interest. The Misses Jacobite urged on him the importance of his -task--the safeguarding of their reputation. - -But even a trust so sacred and incessant failed to content Mr. Waffles. -Peter made this discovery when his uncle asked him for the loan of a -shilling. “Voluntary contributions thankfully borrowed,” was Ocky's -motto. No one ever gave him anything. It was always lent. Now money -implied an excursion into the larger world; Peter wondered what might be -its purpose. He knew next morning; his uncle had a sixpenny pipe in his -mouth and a tin of cheap tobacco in his pocket. He was stoking up to -renew life's battle; with a pipe between his teeth, Ocky Waffles was a -man. - -He led Peter down the garden to the shrubbery, behind which were two -cane-chairs. The shrubbery was convenient for hiding the fact that he -was smoking. - -“Peter,” he said, jerking his head across his shoulder, “I've been -noticing. They can't afford it. I've got to go to work, old chap.” - -He spoke with his old swaggering confidence, as though the entire world -was waiting to engage his services. The carpet-slippers, which had been -Mr. Jacobite's, chafed one against the other thoughtfully. - -“Got to go to work,” he repeated reflectively, in a tone which implied -regret. “I think I know a fellow---- We were in the coop together, and -he said---- But I'm not going to tell you till I'm more certain of my -plans.” - -Had he been burdened with the weightiest of financial secrets, he could -not have made them more mysterious. Peter tried not to smile; he was -glad--this was the muddling self-deceived uncle he remembered. - -Ocky knocked the ashes out of his pipe, waiting for the bowl to cool -before he filled it. “I hadn't an idea that they had so little. It's -come home to me gradually--the worn carpets and old things everywhere. -And here have I been eating my head off. We'll have to pay 'em back, -Peter--have to pay 'em back.” - -Peter had reason to be sceptical about the paying back; he applauded -the intention. Except in imagination, his uncle had never been much of -a money-maker. He had always been unemployable; he was ten times more -unemployable now with a prison record. Peter spoke to his father, -with the result that a position was offered as packer in a publisher's -establishment. Ocky refused it. “Got something better.” - -The “something better” was at last divulged. One afternoon Peter found -his uncle up the apple-tree, trying to balance a box in its branches. -In the box was scattered the kind of food best calculated to tempt the -appetite of a parrot. The box had a flap-door leading into it, propped -open by a stick from which a string dangled. If an ill-natured bird were -to enter the box and a lady beneath the tree were to pull on the string, -thus dragging away the stick, the door would shut and the ill-natured -bird would be a captive. Gathered under the tree were the four Misses -Jacobite, looking very weepy and calling up warnings to their guest, -please not to fall and to be careful. - -Peter knew what it meant--these were the last offices of gratitude which -preceded departure. - -When the adventurous gentleman had clambered down, it was seen that he -wore his shabby spats and that his mustaches were pointed with wax. He -led Peter aside and winked at him solemnly. It was the return from Elba; -after exile, he was going forth to conquer the world afresh. - -“Well?” said Peter. - -“Well?” said Ocky. - -“Leaving?” asked Peter. - -“'S'afternoon,” said Ocky. Then, after a silence, which heightened -the suspense, came the revelation. “There's a fellow, I know, a Mr. -Widow--we were in the coop together. A nice fellow! He oughtn't to have -been there. Seems he was in the second-hand business and dressed like -a parson to inspire confidence. Well, his wife was a gadabout woman and -always jeering at him. One day, quite quietly, in a necessary sort of -manner, without losing his temper, so he told me, he up and clumped her -over the head. He went out to a sale, never thinking he'd done any more -than was his duty; when he came back she was dead. He's a nice, kind -sort of chap, is Jimmie Widow, and religious. Not a bit like a murderer. -If you didn't start with a prejudice, you'd like him, Peter. I met him -a fortnight ago. He's opened a little place in Soho and wants me to join -him. I'm to mind shop while he's out. There's heaps of money to be made -in the second-hand business. You see, I'll surprise you all and die a -rich man yet.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Peter, “I--I hope so.” - -Mr. Grace thought it just as well that his friend should enter on his -new adventure with the appearance of prosperity. He offered him a free -ride in his cab. So Ocky took leave of his benevolent Delilahs not as a -pedestrian but, as he had arrived--a carriage-gentleman. - -Shortly after his exit, the parrot was pounced on and eaten by a cat. -With the first money that he earned, Ocky made up for the loss with the -gift of a pair of love-birds. The Misses Jacobite named one Ocky and -the other Waffles. Which was the husband-bird and which the lady was a -matter in continual dispute between the sisters. Miss Florence insisted -that Waffles was the husband, because it had the more considerate -habits. The other she thought of as Jehane, and disliked. - -The question was still undecided, when a hawker of goldfish happened to -call. No gold-fish were required; but the conversation veered round to -the sex of love-birds. The peddler confessed that in his spare moments -'e did a bit in poultry and bulldogs. He was at once invited to enter, -with all the deference that is due to an expert. Having inspected Ocky -and Waffles, he announced as his verdict that them bloomin' love-birds -wuz either both cocks or both 'ens; but, whether cocks or 'ens, even he, -with a vast experience be'ind him, could not tell. - -When he had departed, a silver cruet-stand was missed from the -sideboard. And there the perplexing problem rested. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV--WINGED BIRDS AND ROOTED TREES - -A summer's afternoon in London! The gold-gray majesty of the -Embankment, basking in sunlight; the silver-gray flowing of the Thames -beneath its many bridges; smoke, bidding a casual good-by to chimneys, -sauntering off a truant into the quiet blue; trees, bravely green and -a-flutter; a steamer swerving in to the landing at Westminster! -His decision came suddenly. She had asked him to visit her. -Perhaps--perhaps, she could tell him what had happened to Cherry. - -He jumped off the bus, crossed the road at a run, sprang down the steps -and thrust his money through the hole in the ticket-window. “A return to -Kew.” - -The man in the box was ostentatiously slow in counting out the change. -These young bloods made him bitter. With all the years before them, they -were always late and always in a hurry. He sold them their passports to -cool green places; he himself was left permanently behind by that streak -of gleaming river. - -“'Eaps o' time,” he grumbled. “Yes, that's your one.” Then, having at -last handed over the change and a ticket, “Best skip lively, or you'll -lose 'er.” - -Peter skipped lively; to the man's disappointment, he scrambled aboard -just as the steamer was casting loose. She shot out into the current, -panting and splashing, kicking up a merry white wake. The Houses of -Parliament grew tall and, at last, spectral in the distance. The dome -of St. Paul's lay, a black bubble swollen to bursting, on the lip of the -horizon. The smoke of London trembled like a thin flag, waving back -the encroaching sky. The groan of creeping traffic was stilled; -stone-palaces of labor sank and sank, shorn of their height and -supremacy. This was the road to Arcady, the flowing road to the land -of birds and grass pavements. They were on the outskirts of that land -already; everybody felt it. A red-nosed minstrel drew his harp between -his knees and fumbled at the strings. He assured his public tunefully -that he had dreamt that he dwelt in marble halls. It was difficult -to believe him; he didn't look a soulful fellow. Nevertheless, in his -decrepit person, he echoed the hopes of incredible romance. The crowd -grew careless of appearances and jaunty. Cockney swains cuddled their -girls more closely; the girls, rather proud than abashed, tittered. - -Battersea Park drifted by, a green mist of trees and romping children. -Against the red-brick background of Chelsea, scarlet-coated soldiers -strolled, unwarriorlike, keeping pace with pram-trundling nurse-maids. -The steamer seemed to stand still; it was the banks, on either side, -that traveled. - -The harpist, having tried his nose at romance, came back to reality. -Perhaps, it was because he sang so much through it, that his nose was so -long and red. - - “Sez I, 'Be Mrs. 'Awkins, Mrs. 'Enery 'Awkins, - - Or acrost the seas I'll roam. - - So 'elp me, Bob, I'm crazy, - - Liza, yer a daisy-- - - Won't yer share my 'umble 'ome?”' - -In vulgar language he gave exact utterance to Peter's emotions. Not that -he had any home for Cherry to share. He wasn't likely to have for a long -time to come. He had to go to Oxford first, there to be drilled for his -tussle with the world. And yet, unreasonably, too previously, against -all laws of caution and common sense, he wanted to hear her say that she -cared for him. - -He had every reason to believe the contrary. He had written to her, and -had received only a line in answer, “_Let's forget. For your sake it -would be better._” After that his many letters had been returned to him -unopened, indicating that the address was unknown. He had tried to get -into touch with the Faun Man and Harry, but they were on the Continent, -roving. Then, he had thought of the golden woman. She had been kind to -him. She had asked him to visit her. She and Cherry were scarcely -friends, but she might tell him where he could find her. - -“_Let's forget_.” The words rang in his ears. They tormented him. -They made him both sad and angry. They seemed to treat all love as a -flirtation, as a stroll beneath the stars which must end. He didn't want -an ending--couldn't conceive that it was possible. Was she heartless -or--or had she mistaken him? Was it that she didn't understand love's -finality? Or that she did understand, and was frightened? Or--and this -was the doubt that haunted him most--that she didn't really like him? - -Putney! Mortlake! Racing-shells skimming the surface of the water! -Bridges wading from bank to bank! Bathing boys who stood up naked, -waving to the passing steamer! Then Kew, green and somnolent, with its -plumed trees and low-browed houses. Peter landed. The crowd melted, -breaking up into couples who wandered off, purposeless and happy. They -had only escaped from London that they might be alone together. Should -they go to the Botanical Gardens? Oh, yes. Anywhere--it didn't matter. -Anywhere, so long as they could sit together and hold hands. - -He crossed the bridge; stopped a stranger and asked a question; turned -along the bank and came to a house, little more than a cottage--a nest -tucked away amid shrubs and trees, with the river in view. - -Like the frill on a woman's dress, a green verandah ran round it. -Everything was cool and neat and hushed. The bushes were trim and -orderly. The gravel-path had been smoothly raked--not a stone was awry. -Flowers stood sweetly demure, in rows like school-girls awaiting a good -conduct prize and trying to forget that they had ever been hoydens. -On the lawn an automatic sprinkler was at work, revolving slowly and -throwing up a cloud of spray. - -As he approached the porch, misty with wistaria and passion-flowers, -he searched the windows for signs of life. They were so clear that they -seemed to be without panes, giving direct entrance to the pleasant rooms -inside. They seemed to say, “We have nothing to hide--nothing.” Brasses -shone as brightly as a more precious metal. The door lent a virginal -touch of whiteness. - -He rang the bell and heard a faint tinkle, then the rustling of skirts, -accompanied by prim footsteps. A severely attired maid admitted him. He -gazed round the room into which he was shown. Books, artistically -bound, lay on the table. Everything gave evidence of fastidiousness and -taste--of a certain remoteness from the everyday jostle of life. Above -an inlaid desk stood a portrait, silverframed. Out of curiosity Peter -tiptoed over; the Faun Man gazed out at him with laughing eyes. Lying -open on the desk was a well-thumbed volume, small and bound like a -Bible. A passage was underscored, which read, “Thou must be lord and -master of thine own actions, and not a slave or hireling.” Turning to -the title-page, he found that it was _The Imitation of Christ_. - -A voice behind him said, “Ah, so you've discovered me!” - -He drew himself up, afraid she might suspect him of spying. “I--I was -interested by the words you'd underlined. I wanted to see who wrote -them. I oughtn't to have----” - -She laughed softly, shrugging her shoulders. She was all in white--lazy, -splendid and vital. “My Loo-ard! Don't apologize. You were surprised. -I don't blame you.” She nodded her head like a knowing child. “Oh, yes, -Peter, the golden woman reads books like that sometimes.” - -She took his hands in hers and drew him over to a sofa, making him sit -down beside her. “And now, what have you come to tell me?” - -He recovered from his confusion and surrendered, as all men did, to her -graciousness. “That it's ripping to see you. But--but how did you know I -called you the golden woman?” - -“Lorie--he tells me everything.” She leant back her long fine throat, -pillowing her head against the cushions. “You must never trust him with -any of your secrets, if you don't want me to---- Now, what is it that -you've come to tell me?” - -“Then, you know----?” He hesitated. The confession to him was sacred; -there was amusement in her eyes. “Then you know about me and Cherry?” He -was sure she did. She had greeted him as though his visit had been long -expected. - -She placed her cool fingers about his wrist and bent her head nearer. -Her voice was low, and caressing--the voice of one who breaks bad news -gently. “I know. You told her that you loved her.---- Why didn't you -come to me sooner?” - -She was looking sorry for him. “Why sooner?” he questioned. - -“Because she's gone away.” - -It was almost as though she had told him that Cherry had died. “Away? -Where to?” - -“I don't know. Lorie didn't say; he took her. Perhaps, to the convent. -Poor little girl, you--you frightened her, Peter.” - -He was all amazement. What a contrast there was between these two! -The boy so inexperienced and crestfallen; the golden woman so wise and -quiet. “Yes, _you_, Peter. You're so natural and uncivilized. You were -too sudden with her. You told her that you loved her just as a child -would--directly you felt it. You wanted to kiss her without waste of -time. You galloped too fast, Peter; you tried to take all the fences -at one stride.” Her voice grew more tender; she folded her hands in her -lap, looking away from him, straight before her. “You're--you're the -sort of lover we older women dream of when the hour's gone by. The men -who come to us are too cautious; they watch for the lines in our faces. -They've learnt to play safe. But you, with your glorious youth----! And -she didn't recognize it--didn't know what you were offering.” The blue -eyes came back slowly to his face. She ended, “And so, she's gone away.” - -Peter felt unhappy and yet comforted. She had envied him something of -which he had been ashamed--the unavoidable indiscretion of his lack of -age. She had called it glorious; she hadn't thought it foolish. “But -what must I do? Will she--will she come back again? Will she understand, -one day, the way you do?” - -She answered evasively. “One day! We women all understand one day.” - -He repeated his question, “But what must I do?” - -She put her arm about his shoulder. “Wait. It's all that either of us -can do.” - -Why did she include herself? The room was very silent. In its patient -preparedness, it must have spent years in waiting. The garden outside -seemed to listen, tiptoe. The door was white, as if little used. The -sunlight on the lawn crept slowly. Everything watched; yet nothing was -wideawake. For whom were they all expectant? _Always there is one who -allows, and one who loves_. Was that the explanation? - -Above the open volume of cloistered consolation, with its disillusioned -counsels of timid patience, the Faun Man smiled from his silver frame. -Peter had always thought----. - -So, after all, was it the Faun Man who had delayed? - -And Cherry loved him! Had that anything to do with it? He crushed the -suspicion down--and yet it survived. - -“And you don't know----. You couldn't tell me where to write?” - -The golden woman shook her head. “Who can say? You don't know much -about love, Peter. It's a continual hoping for something which never -happens--or which, when it happens, is something different. People say -it's a state of heart--it's really a state of mind. I think--and you'll -hate me for saying it--I think true love is always on one side and is -always disappointed. Did you ever hear about the green tree and the bird -in the morn? You didn't? - - “A bird in the morn - - To a green tree was calling: - - 'Come over. Come over. - - Night's vanished. Day's born. - - And I'm weary--I want you, green tree, for my lover; - - Through clouds I am falling, - - A-flutter, a-flutter. - - I'm lonely, - - Here only. - - And heard your leaves mutter. - - Night's vanished. Day's born. - - So run out and fold me, green tree, in the morn.' - - “The bird in the morn - - Heard a distant tree sighing: - - I cannot come over-- - - Night's vanished. Day's born. - - I am rooted. But haste, oh sweet bird, to your lover; - - So freely you're flying, - - A-flutter, a-flutter. - - Sink hither, - - Not thither. - - Hark how my leaves mutter, - - Night's vanished. Love's born.' - - The bird flew--ah, whither? The tree was forlorn.” - -She stroked his hand. “In true love,” she said, “there's always one who -could but won't, and one who would but cannot.” - -“Not always,” he denied. He spoke confidently, remembering his mother -and father. - -“How certain you are!” She watched him mockingly. “Ah, you know of an -exception! Believe me, Peter, winged birds and rooted trees are by far -the more common.” - -She made him feel that she shared his dilemma--that she reckoned -herself, with him, among the trees which are rooted. The bond of -sympathy was established. - -“We,” she whispered, “you and I, Peter, we must wait for our winged -birds to visit us. We can't go to them, however we try.” - -She sprang up with a quick change of expression; in a flash she was -radiant. “My Loo-ard, but we needn't be tragic.” - -Running to the window, she flung it wide. “Look out there. The sun, the -river, the grass--they're happy. What do they care? It's our hearts that -are unhappy. We won't have any hearts, Peter.” - -He crossed the room to her. With the freedom of a sister, she put her -arm about him, leaning so that her hair just touched his face. She -seemed to be excusing her action. “You're only a boy. How old shall we -say. Just fourteen, perhaps. Why, little Peter, you're too young to -be in love.---- Do you remember the saying, that every load has two -handles: one by which it can be carried; one by which it cannot? You -and I are going to find the handle by which it can be carried--is that -a bargain? I'll show you the handle--it's not to take yourself or anyone -too seriously. You're making a face, Peter, as though I'd given you -nasty medicine. You were determined to be most awfully wretched over -Cherry, weren't you? Well, you mustn't. Wait half a second.” - -Her half-seconds were half-hours to other people. When she reappeared, -she was clad girlishly in a white dress, which hung above her ankles. At -her breast was a yellow rose. Her golden hair was wrapped in bands about -her head. There swung from her hand a broad river-hat. Peter thought -that, if the Faun Man could see her now, he wouldn't wait much longer. -But it was contradictory--this that she had told him; he had always -supposed that it was she who had kept the Faun Man waiting. For himself -he was wishing that she were Cherry. - -Before the mirror, over the empty fireplace, she stooped to adjust her -hat. Her arms curved up to her shining head, the loose sleeves falling -back from them; they looked like handles of ivory on a gold-rimmed -goblet. The motive of the attitude was lost on Peter; he only took in -the general effect. Her eyes, watching him from the glass, saw that. -He was thinking how naïve she was to have taken thirty minutes over -dressing, and then to pretend that she had hurried by coming down with -her hat in her hand. - -“Ready,” she said. “Do you like me in this dress? If you don't, I'll -change it.” - -“If I took you at your word----. But would you really? I'm almost -tempted to put you to the test.” - -“I would really,” she said. - -“I do like you.” He spoke with boyish downrightness. “You know jolly -well that you look splendid in anything.” - -She pretended to be abashed and hurried into the garden, singing just -above her breath, - - “I like you in satin, - - I like you in fluff.” - -She seemed to forget the words and hummed; but, as she came to the end -of the air, she crouched her chin against her shoulder, looking back at -him naughtily, - - “I love you and like you - - In--oh, anything at all.” - -They walked by the muffled river; trees were reflected so clearly on its -surface that it was easy to mistake illusion for reality. Everything was -asleep or listless in the summer sun. They came to a point where they -ferried across. They entered Kew Gardens and sauntered into the Palace -for coolness. They didn't care where their feet led them; all the while -they talked--about life, love, men and women, but really, under the -disguise of words, about Cherry and the Faun Man. In her company he had -found a sudden relief from suspense. - -She was so smiling, so generous, and at times so anxious to be reckless, -like a clever child saying slant-eyed things of which the meaning -was half-guessed. He was elated to be seen with her; she was rare and -beautiful. - -Toward evening he turned back from the land of stately trees and -grass-pavements to the clamor of the perturbed and narrow city. The -river was a thread of gold; the sun foundered red in a crimson sea of -cloud. The thread of gold broadened as bridges grew more frequent; black -wharfs took the place of meadows and sat huddled along the banks like -homeless beggars. But it was the majesty, not the meanness of London, -that impressed him. His eyes were on the horizon, where the lace-work -tower of Westminster shot up, sculptured and ethereal, and still further -beyond where, above herded roofs, the dome of St. Paul's protruded like -a woman's breast. - -He landed at Westminster Bridge and ran up the steps. What a different -world! How many hours was it since he had been there? He had recovered -his sense of life's magic. - -The tethered man in the ticket-office eyed him gloomily. “Still in a -hurry,” he thought, “and with all the years of life before him. Ugh!” - -That afternoon was the pattern of many that followed. He came from -London to Kew, simply and solely that he might speak about Cherry, and -always with the hope that he might gain some news of her. Subtly the -golden woman would lead the conversation round to herself. It was only -at parting that he would discover this. Once he said, laughingly, “Why, -we've spent all our time in talking about you!” Then he stopped, for -he saw that he had not pleased her. “Next time it shall be all about -Cherry,” he told himself; but it wasn't. - -He had never had a woman consult him before about her dress and the -styles of doing her hair. The golden woman did; she made him tell her -just what he preferred. When he met her, she came to express a part of -his personality. - -In the intimacy which grew up between them, the small reserves of pride -and reticence were broken down. They spoke their minds aloud. - -“I'm getting old, Peter,” she would say. But this was only on the days -when she looked youngest. - -If he had no money, he would tell her; then, she would either pay or -they would make their pleasures inexpensive. He regarded her as a sister -older than himself. - -“What shall I call you?” he asked her. “Haven't you noticed that I have -no name for you?” - -She slipped her arm into his. “The golden woman. I like that. It's -you--it has the touch of poetry.” - -“I gave you that name,” he said, “the moment I saw you--years ago, at -the Happy Cottage.” - -She opened her eyes wide, pretending to be offended. “Years ago! How -cruel! Years ago to you; but to me not so long ago--four years, wasn't -it? Why do you say things that make me feel ancient?” - -“When you're beautiful----.” He got no farther; his tongue stumbled -at compliments. He was going to have said that, when you were very -beautiful, years didn't matter. - -She caught at his words. “Then you think I'm beautiful?” - -“Think, indeed!” - -“As beautiful as Cherry?” - -He avoided answering, saying instead, “See how everyone turns to look -after you.” - -She fell silent, only to return to the topic long after he had forgotten -it. “Yes, they look after me and go away. That isn't like having someone -with you always.” - -She could make him feel very unhappy--more unhappy than anyone he had -ever met. She could say such lonely things, and almost as though he -were to blame for her loneliness. She could talk exquisitely of love and -little children. He wondered why the Faun Man hadn't married her. - -One afternoon he had stopped longer than usual. They had walked through -Kew Gardens, and had sat in a teagarden watching the trippers. It had -been one of their gay days, when they had built up absurd philosophies. -She had told him that all that any woman could love was the sixth part -of any man--all the other five-sixths were distasteful. Her idea was -that every woman should be allowed to have six husbands; then, by taking -what she liked out of each of them, she would have one perfect man. They -had dawdled in the tea-garden out of compassion, rescuing wasps with -teaspoons from drowning in the jam. When they rose to go, evening was -gathering. On the bridge they paused, gazing down at the gray creeping -of the river and the slow drifting of the boats. Suddenly she reverted -from gay to sad. - -“If I were old, Peter, you wouldn't come to see me so often. One day, -though I try to fight it off, one day I shall be old.” At the gate, in -the wistful twilight, she lifted up her face. “If I were to ask you to -kiss me, would you?” - -“I think I would.” - -But she didn't ask him. - -A strange summer made up of waiting, visits to Kew and interludes of -work! In those interludes he studied hard, putting the finishing touches -to his preparation for Oxford. The first question he always asked the -golden woman--asked her breathlessly--was, “Is there any news of her?” - The answer was always the same--a negative. Sometimes she would read him -portions of letters which she had received from the Faun Man. There was -never any mention of Cherry. He grew sick at heart with waiting. The -golden woman alone shared his secret; he could not bring himself to -speak of it at home. - -His holiday was short that year--three weeks in Surrey. On his return -Glory came to stay at Topbury. How she had escaped his memory! He was -a little surprised by her quiet beauty; his surprise wore off as he got -used to her. She laid so little emphasis on herself. People were only -aware that she had been there when she had gone--an atmosphere of -kindness was lacking. Then they looked up, were puzzled and remembered, -“Oh yes, Glory. Where's she vanished? Thought she was here.” She only -once penetrated into Peter's world--then only for a few hours. A boy in -love can think only of one woman. - -That once occurred on a rainy morning, in the study which had been his -nursery. He had just sat down and had his nose in his books. Someone -touched him. - -“Peter, you don't mind, do you? If you're busy now, I'll come again -later.” - -He looked up, his head between his hands, his hair all ruffled. “Sorry. -Didn't see that you were there. Anything you want me to do?” - -The sensitive face flushed. He noticed that. The white hands fluttered -against her breast. “You know about father.” Her voice was timid. It -strove and sank like a spent bird. “Nobody's told me. So, Peter, I came -to you.” - -“That's a shame. He used to be our secret. What d'you want to know about -him, Glory?” - -She faltered like a girl much younger. “I want you to take me to him.” - -That afternoon on the top of a bus they set off to Soho together. What -that excursion meant to her, what thoughts tiptoed to and fro inside her -head, he never knew. He never guessed how proud she was to be seen alone -with him in public. Her thoughts tiptoed for that reason--so that no one -might ever guess. They found Uncle Waffles, waxed mustaches and dingy -spats, seated in a dingy shop. They had to descend a step to enter. The -riot of dirt distressed Glory. She wanted to busy herself with a duster, -until her stepfather discouraged her, telling her that it was no use--it -would be as bad to-morrow; in fact, in his line of trade, dirt was a -kind of advertisement. - -Just as they were sitting down to tea, Mr. Widow, the murderer, joined -them. They found him a very severe old gentleman, with chop-whiskers -and an eye to other people's imperfections. Prison seemed to have -strengthened his moral views. Once he referred to “my poor wife,” in a -tone which implied that she had died respectably of bloodpoisoning or -cancer. - -Before they left, Uncle Waffles took Peter aside and borrowed -two-and-sixpence in a whisper. So the tea was quite expensive. Perhaps -the ease with which he had contrived to borrow had something to do with -the heartiness of his invitation that they should drop in whenever they -were passing. - -That evening, when Glory came to bid Peter good-night, she asked, -“You'll take me again, won't you. He's--I don't think he's happy.” - -Peter dragged his thoughts away from his work. “Don't you? Perhaps Mr. -Widow isn't tremendously cheerful company. Of course I'll take you.” - -His eyes were going back to his books. Glory hesitated at the door, -saw that he had forgotten her and slipped out. There was a song about a -rooted tree and a winged bird; had he looked up at that moment and seen -her expression, he might have remembered it. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI--THE SPREADING OF WINGS - -He might have been setting out for Australia or to explore Tibet, they -made such a final matter of his going. The way in which he was waited -on, considered and admired brought to his remembrance those early days -when he had been sent to Miss Rufus to be cured of his 'magination. - -“But motherkins, dearest, Oxford's only sixty miles--a two hours' -journey. I can write to you the last thing at night and you can be -reading me next morning at breakfast.” - -Nan shook her head. “It's the spreading of wings, Peter--the first -flight from the nest. You'll come back, of course; but always more -rarely.” - -She foresaw in this first departure, all the other departures that lay -ahead. The day was coming when she would be left alone. She pictured -herself as old and grayheaded, sitting listening to phantom footsteps -of memories which passed and repassed, but never brought the living -presence. Already she tasted the bitterness of the woman who, having -been first, must learn to be second in the affections of those who were -part of her body. Kay and Peter were growing up. They would soon have -their secrets--their interests which she could not share. They would -marry and enter her house as visitors. She pictured all that; the -spreading of wings had commenced. - -When Peter had been a little boy at Sandport, certain lines had driven -the tears into her eyes with their wistful yearning. They were often on -her lips now: - - “Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, - - To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread; - - 'Mother, mother, mother!' the eager voices calling, - - 'The baby was so sleepy that she had to go to bed.'” - -Already the inexorable law of change had taken her babies from her, and -soon----. There would come a day when the rooms would be empty; her -home would become again what it was before she had entered it--merely a -house. - -When Peter laughed at her tenderly, attempting to coax her into braver -thoughts, she clung to him, searching his face to discover the odd -little boy who had asked such curious questions. For his sake she would -smile through her tears, saying, “I'm just a silly woman, getting -old, Peter. Don't think that I grudge you anything. I don't, I don't, -only--only it's the first spreading of wings--the struggling out of the -nest.” - -It was true--truer than she fancied; there was Cherry. - -However late he worked in those last days, however noiseless he made his -feet upon the stairs, she heard him. Creeping from her room, she would -stand white-robed beside his bed, stoop above his face on the pillow and -tuck him up warmly. It wouldn't be for much longer--he was almost a man. - -And Billy--he tried to laugh her out of a sentiment which he fought down -in himself. Manlike, he disguised his feelings. He took so much interest -in the preparations, that it might have been he, instead of Peter, -who was going up to Oxford. By day he pretended to be cheerful; but at -night, when she lay down beside him, after her excursions to Peter's -bedroom, he would take her in his arms, whispering the old endearments, -“Golden little Nan,” and “Princess Pepperminta,” just to let her -understand that, whoever went from her, he would be left. - -One October afternoon Mr. Grace, the herald of Topbury's great -occasions, drew up against the pavement. Boxes were carried out. Cat's -Meat shuffled away into the distance. At the end of the Terrace, Peter -leant from the window; they were still there, waving from the steps. -He had begged them not to come to the station; he knew they would break -down. He turned the corner--his flight had begun in earnest. While -familiar sights lasted, he was conscious not of adventure, but -depression. Yes, that was the house from the dusk of whose garden a hand -had stretched out to grasp him. Strange, and this was the same Christmas -cab! Inanimate things hadn't changed; it was he who had altered. - -Then came the excitement of Paddington--undergrads with golf-bags slung -across their shoulders; others who were spectacled and looked learned; -still others with ties of contrasting hues and secret significance--a -crowd superbly young and enthusiastic, which did its best to appear -blasé. And then the rush of the train, the exalted sense of opportunity, -the overwhelming consciousness of manhood, and that first night of -romantic speculation within the gray walls of Calvary College! Bells, -hanging so high and sounding so mellow that they seemed to swing from -clouds, struck out the hours. His mother had heard them, those same -bells, in her girlhood. By craning out, he could see the window from -which Jehane had caught first sight of his father and had called Nan's -attention. He was beginning his journey at the spot where his parents' -journey, halfway over, had commenced. Would he and Cherry tell their -children stories of where and how they had met? He and Cherry! It was of -her that he was thinking when Harry Arran entered and found him seated -among his partly opened boxes. - -“Tried to reach you all summer,” Peter said. - -Harry was taking stock of the room's contents. “I say, old boy, you've -brought no end of furniture. You'll be quite a swell.---- What's that? -Tried to reach us with letters, did you? We never got one of 'em. Never -knew our next address ourselves. Just went wandering, you know. My -brother's such an erratic chap.” - -Peter turned away, so that his face would not be seen, and spoke in an -offhand manner. “Cherry with you?” - -The question tickled Harry. He straddled his legs and watched his -friend's back, tilting his head toward his shoulder with a magpie -expression of impertinent knowledge. “Cherry with us! No, jolly fear. -She's a nice kid and all that, but we weren't out for love-affairs. -Fact is, I was trying to make that silly ass brother of mine forget one -woman. We carried knapsacks and went almost in rags. But what made you -ask?” - -“I thought she was. The golden woman said----.” - -Harry interrupted. “Oh, so you've been seeing _her!_” He pronounced -_her_ with his old hostility. “I wouldn't see too much of her.” - -Peter smiled quietly. How unjust Harry had always been to his brother's -women friends! He was still the mouth-organ boy, only a little too old -now to climb trees to display his jealousy. Did he think that he could -protect the Faun Man forever from marrying? Didn't it ever enter his -head that he might fall in love himself? And yet Peter sympathized with -Harry, for he had the same feelings with regard to Kay. He would hate -any man who tried to win her. That was a long way off--she was only -thirteen at present. His thoughts came back to Harry. “So, if you were -me, you wouldn't see too much of her! Why not? I've been feeling--well, -rather sorry for her.” - -“You have, have you?” Harry laughed tolerantly. “Sorry for her! Pooh! -People who begin by feeling sorry for Eve end by being sorry for -themselves. She always starts her affairs like that, by getting -people sorry for her. Don't you know what's the matter with her? She's -selfish--a lap-dog kind of woman, born to be petted, but of no use -whatever in the world. She wants everyone to love her, and gives nothing -in return. She doesn't play the game, Peter; she expects to have a man -always toddling after her, but she won't marry him because----. I don't -know; I suppose it would disturb her to have children.” Harry paused, -waiting for Peter to argue with him. When his remarks were met without -challenge, he continued, “She doesn't mean any harm--her sort never -does; but she's a jolly sight more dangerous than if she were immoral. -She gambles like an expert as long as luck's with her; the moment she -loses, she pretends to be a little child who doesn't understand the -rules. So she wins all the time and never pays back. She's kept my -brother feverish for years, loving him, and then, when it comes to -the point, not knowing whether she really loves him. Gives her a nice -comfortable sense, when anything goes wrong with her investments, to -feel that he's always in the background. I'm sick of it. She's a ship -that's always setting sail for new lands and never coming to anchor. -Lorie's too fine a chap to be kept dawdling his life away by a vain -woman. Some day she won't be quite so pretty--she dreads that already; -it's part of her shallowness. Then she'll run to cover, if any man'll -have her.---- You don't believe me. Suppose you think every woman's wild -to be married?” - -“I don't think that.” In this particular Peter flattered himself that he -had had more experience than Harry. - -Harry took him up shrewdly. “If you don't think it, you wish you did. -You'll see, if you live long enough. There are heaps of well-bred -women like Eve, with the greed of chorus-girls and the morals of -refrigerators. And here's something else for your protection--Eve can't -bear to see any woman loved except herself. Lorie knows all this, and -still he's infatuated--plays Dante to her Beatrice. She isn't worth -it. She tells him she isn't worth it; that makes him think she's noble. -She--she sucks men's souls out for the fun of doing it when she isn't -thirsty, and flings them in the gutter like squeezed oranges.” - -Peter's case was so nearly similar to the Faun Man's that he couldn't -bear this conversation. It was as though Harry was describing and -accusing Cherry. _She sucks men's souls out and flings them in the -gutter like squeezed oranges_. And Cherry hadn't been thirsty either; -she had pretended that she hadn't wanted to do it. - -“But Cherry,” he said, “do you know where she is and anything about -her?” - -Harry looked at him squarely, a little pityingly. He sat down and -crossed his legs. “Yes. We took her abroad with us and dropped her at -the convent-school. She's---- I don't know. She's got a queer streak in -her--she's an exotic.” And then, “I suppose you know that she thinks -she's in love with Lorie?” - -Peter bit his lip; he drew his knee up with his hands clasped about it. -“I know that. And the Faun Man, does he care for her?” - -Harry laughed. “On that score you don't need to be jealous. He wishes -she wasn't such a little donkey. He's bored by it. It complicates -matters most frightfully; he's her guardian. We had a most awful job in -shaking her. That's why we left her at the convent. Had a rotten scene -in Paris--tears and hysterics. She'd planned to make a third in our -party. We weren't on for it, you can bet your hat.” - -Peter grew impatient at Harry's way of talking. He spoke shortly. “So -you know where she is? You can give me her address?” - -“I can't.” The grin of the mouth-organ boy, poking fun at everything, -accompanied the refusal. “The kid made us promise not to tell you. She -has her own idea of playing fair. Wish Eve had.” He yawned. “By George, -time I was off to bed. I've got to be up bright and early to-morrow to -call on Mr. Thing--the tutor-bird.” - -Left alone in the stillness, Peter did not stir. In the street, below -his window, footsteps echoed at rare intervals. Now and then, as -men parted in the quadrangle, laughter burst on the night and voices -shouted. Then, again, he heard the bells, high up and spectral, telling -him that time was passing. He thought about Harry, envying him the -cavalier cloak of indifference behind which he hid his sensitiveness. He -thought about the Faun Man, with his fine faculty for loving wasted all -these years by an undecided woman. And he thought of Eve and how she had -misled him, letting him believe that the Faun Man had deserted her. Why -had she done it? And then he thought of Cherry, poor little Cherry, who -was keeping out of his way that she might play fair. - -But he would make her love him. He would work day and night to make -himself splendid. He was nothing at present--had nothing to offer her. -But, one day----. And so, with the invincible optimism of youth, he -pulled himself together. He was a knight riding out on a quest, wearing -his lady's badge to bring her honor. - -Had he cared, he might have pictured to himself the other adventurers -he had known, who had ridden out in the same brave belief that life was -romantic: Jehane, who had looked from the window across the street and -had beckoned with her eyes, only to give a husband to another woman; -Ocky Waffles, who had come to her as the feeble substitute for the -nobility she had coveted; his mother and father for whom, despite its -kindness, life had proved a pedestrian affair. But, on his first night -in this city of dreamers, he saw, stretching away below him, wide -landscapes of illusion. There was so much to do, so much to experience, -so much to dare. The spreading of wings had brought him to a crag from -which he viewed, not the catastrophe of sunsets, but the riot of -morning boiling up against cloud-precipices and pouring ensaffroned -and clamorous across the world. He saw only the glory of its challenge, -nothing of its threat. - -In the weeks that followed his belief in the marvelousness of mere -living was quickened. The head and shoulders of the marvel were that, -for the first time, he was lord of his own existence. Like God, he could -create himself. Mr. Thing, the tutor-bird, advised him, in a sneering -tone of voice, that he had a chance of a first in Honor Mods. Mr. Thing -had become embittered by past experience with other brilliant students. -“If you don't take to drink and to yowling like a cat of nights, you may -do it, Mr. Barrington. But I expect you'll run wild like the rest.” - -Peter was claimed by Roy Hardcastle, the captain of the boats. His -breadth and height, and slightness of hip marked him as a potential -oarsman. Every afternoon he ran down through the meadows to the barges, -there to be tubbed and sworn at by the coaches. He rowed in the Junior -Fours as stroke and won his race. He was chosen as stroke for the -Toggers--after that his career as an athlete was settled. Calvary men -began to prophesy a rowing future for him. He noticed that men, not -of his own college, paused on the bank to watch his style as his eight -swung by. - -The keenness of Oxford life awoke him to his powers; the contempt in -which slackers were held spurred him forward. He had never been called -upon to test his personality in competition with others. The experience -took him out of himself, but beneath externals he remained the same -simple-hearted, compassionate idealist. He was different from other men, -and other men knew it. Perhaps it was that he was uncivilized, as -the golden woman had told him--uncivilized in the sense of being -unsophisticated and intense. Perhaps it was that his standards were -pitched high, and that he was chivalrous in his attitude of cleanness -toward himself. At all events, it never entered his head that the sowing -of wild oats was a legitimate employment. Men stopped talking about -certain adventures when he was present. - -Even Mr. Thing, the tutor-bird, felt it--this subtle atmosphere of -robust innocence, which Peter carried about with him, an innocence which -bore no resemblance to the lily-white priggishness of a Sir Galahad. -Mr. Thing was rather surprised; he had always felt virtue in a man to be -offensive and had compared it to a prim little maid attired for a party, -refusing to romp with bolder children for fear she should spoil her -dress. - -Mr. Thing was a don of the old school, a two-bottle man; not -infrequently about midnight he was intoxicated. It was said that under -the influence of wine his scholarship was ripest. He would recite -rolling speeches from Thucydides in the language of Athens, working -himself up into fervor and tears, declaiming in a voice which trembled -with humanity and trumpeted with valor. But when, after drinking to -excess, he met Peter beneath the stars in the shadowy quads, he -seemed conscious that an excuse was necessary. He invented a lie, this -gray-haired scholar, beneath which to hide his shame from clear-eyed -youth. It was reported that he was getting ready for the Judgment Day, -that he might be letter-perfect in his apology to his maker. - -“Been to the fun'ral of a dear fr'end, Mr. Barrington--a very dear -fr'end. Been taking the sharp edge off my grief. You haven't losht a -dear fr'end--not so dear as I have. So don't you do it.” - -He showed drunken concern lest Peter should do it, and had to be -reassured many times. At last, shaking his head sceptically, he would -permit Peter to pilot him to his room. The boy's erectness hurt him; it -accused him. It caused him to look back and remember another lad, who, -beyond the waste of misspent years, had been not unlike him. One night, -made carelessly sentimental by an extra bottle, he told the truth. -“Wasn't always like this, Mr. Barrington. I was something like you--only -a little reckless. She said she'd wait for me, and then----. So that's -why. Now you know it.” - -Cakes and ale in the imagination of young Oxford are usually associated -with licence. To be abstemious is to be unpopular and entails persistent -ragging. Peter believed whole-heartedly in the consumption of cakes and -ale, so long as it wasn't carried to the point of gluttony. He was eager -to taste life, and took part in all the fun that was going; only always -at the back of his mind lay the thought of Cherry--he must make himself -fine for her, so as to be worthy. - -He got into frequent adventurous scrapes. He was present at the Empire -with Harry when a young lady, whose stockings were the most conspicuous -part of her clothing, came to the footlights and sang a song, each verse -of which ended with the question, - - “Will you risk? - - I'd risk it. - - Wouldn't you?” - -Harry couldn't bear that she should go away unanswered. The courtesy -of the 'Varsity was jeopardized. Moreover, she was pretty and only -the musicians separated him from the stage. The theme of the song was -kissing. He leapt the orchestra-rail, splashed his foot on the key-board -of the piano, seized her hand and hauled himself up beside her, -shouting, “Yes, I'll risk it.” - -She hadn't intended her invitation to be taken so seriously. With -becoming modesty she broke away from him, just as he was about to prove -his assertion that he'd risk it. Harry followed her, in one wing and -out the other, to and fro across the stage. The theatre rose yelling, -watching this amorous game of hide-and-seek. Of a sudden the cry, -“Proggins! Proggins!” went up. The Proctor and his bulldogs entered. -Harry jumped from the stage into his seat. Some considerate person -turned out the lights and there was a rush of undergrads for the exits. -Peter and Harry burst into the night with the Proctor's bulldogs -close behind them. Then came the long run; the brilliant plan, -Peter's invention, that they should escape over walls instead of by -thoroughfares; the clambering and climbing, the dashes across gardens -and the final escape into freedom through the house of a startled old -gentleman who threw his slipper after them--but not for luck. - -Harry, as a rule, was the initiator of their escapades; Peter championed -them to a finish gamely. The mouth-organ boy walked through the world -with a roving eye, seeking always new lands of innocent adventure. -When he had almost come to shipwreck on some wild coast of whimsical -absurdity, it was Peter who hurried to his rescue. The song which he had -sung in the tree-tops of Friday Lane had been a prophecy. He still sang -it in the austere city of gray walls and spires. It was a pæan of high -spirits and irrepressible youth: - - “I've been shipwrecked off Patagonia, - - Home and Colonia, - - Antipodonia; - - I've shot cannibals, - - Funny-looking animals, - - Top-knot coons; - - I've bought diamonds twenty a penny there, - - I've been somewhere, nowhere, anywhere-- - - And I'm the wise, wise man of the wide, wide world.” - -When he sang it, he and Peter would look at one another, with eyes -laughing, and would talk of Kay--of how they had commenced their -friendship by fighting over her, and of how--of so many things that were -kind and golden, like memories of spring days when the wind is blowing. -Little Kay, with her delicate face and shining hair, she stood a white -flower in the shadow-wood of remembrance--a narcissus-shrine to which -their steps were continually returning. So, while undergraduates of -the Roy Hardcastle type shouted themselves hoarse on Saturday nights at -college wine-clubs, making a rowdy effort to be men, Peter and Harry, -without effort, remained boys and sat concocting fairy-tale letters to -a little girl at Topbury. They refused to credit the evidence of their -eyes, that she was growing up. They signed their letters jointly, -filling them with ridiculous tenderness. She received them every Monday -morning at breakfast, and was made to feel that she was still a sharer -in their lives. Because Cherry postponed her coming, Peter had to have -some outlet for his affection. In a curious way he made his little -sister the temporary substitute for the girl he loved. It did not occur -to him to inquire what motives prompted Harry's epistolary philanthropy. - -Jehane did not at once fulfil her promise to send her girls to stay with -Professor Usk. On his return home for Christmas Peter discovered -the reason. Riska was in the throes of her first romance. At Topbury -shoulders were shrugged. Of course girls of fifteen did have their -flirtations, but it was only among the lower-classes that they were -openly acknowledged and dignified into love-affairs. Jehane, however, -took the matter seriously. She explained why. The young fellow was -a good catch and four years Riska's senior; he was the son of a -speculative builder who was invading Southgate with an army of -jerry-built villas. The story of how Riska had effected the young man's -capture proved that Jehane's training had been efficient. Riska had -shown a fine faculty for seizing her strategic opportunity. Barrington's -comment when he heard it was brief and to the point, “Ought to -be spanked. If she grows up this way, she'll make her face the -dumping-ground for anybody's kisses.” - -That was just it; in her fear lest her girls should never marry, Jehane -had taught Riska, who was more apt a pupil than Glory, to welcome -any comer without fastidiousness. There was nothing heaven-sent about -marriage; it was a lucky-bag, into which you thrust your hand and -grabbed; or, to employ her old parable, maidenhood was a raft from which -girls who were wise escaped at the first opportunity, in cockle-boats, -on boards and even by swimming--the great object was to reach the land -of matrimony before the distance between the shore and the raft had -lengthened. Possibly one might get wet in the effort. One couldn't -be too nice over an affair so desperate. It was anything to attain a -marriage-song. - -This was how Riska's first excursion from the raft occurred. She had -been out riding her bicycle and a hat had blown by her. The hat must -belong to a head. She espied the head and liked it; therefore she chased -the hat. Having caught it, she waited for the owner to come up. She -accepted his thanks and indulged in a few minutes' conversation. Next -day, riding along the same road at the same hour, she had encountered -the owner of the hat again. After that, good-luck and liking had taken -a hand in bringing them together. Soon he had been invited to tea at the -cottage. Jehane had made things easy for him. She had learnt that his -father was a self-made, ambitious man, who wore side-whiskers and hoped -to die a baronet. - -“The Governor,” the boy had told her, “wants me to marry well.” There -lay the rub. Would his father consider Riska good enough? The name of -the young fellow was Bonaparte Triggers. - -Jehane felt that it was absolutely necessary that young Triggers should -be socially impressed. She persuaded Barrington to allow Riska to bring -her suitor to Topbury. Before he came, she issued a careful warning -that no mention was to be made of Ocky Waffles. Closely questioned, she -admitted that, without deliberately lying, she had let the boy suppose -that she was a widow. - -“But, if he's seriously in love with Riska, you'll have to tell him,” - Barrington objected. - -Jehane's face clouded. “That's my affair. Who'd marry the daughter of a -convict? It's easy for you to talk.” - -“Then you mean that----? Look here, I'm not criticizing; but don't -you think that this'll look like deception? Supposing he married Riska -without knowing, he'd be bound to find out after. Let Riska tell him. -If he's the right kind of a chap, he'll love her all the more for her -honesty.” - -Jehane lost her temper as far as she dared. “You've always been against -me--always. Of course, if you're ashamed of us, and don't want Riska to -bring him----.” - -There was no arguing along these lines. Barrington gave his reluctant -consent. - -Riska came, bringing with her Bonaparte Triggers, a flashy youth with -a cockney thinness of accent. The purpose of his visit was to be -impressed; he made it clear from the start that he had come to impress. -He did not belong to a world of culture and felt, as Ocky Waffles -had felt before him, that an effort was being made to rob him of -his self-possession. He resisted the effort by smoking innumerable -cigarettes, and tried to parade his own paces by accompanying himself -on the piano while he sang music-hall ditties of the latest -hug-me-quick-and-not-too-delicately order. His visit was not a success. -He was jerry-built, like his father's villas. - -After he had departed. Nan had the nervous desire to fling up all -the windows and to go through the house with a duster. It wasn't -snobbishness on her part, but she was unaccustomed to see fingers -squeezed and kisses exchanged in public. Barrington found her in the -drawing-room and slipped his hand into hers. “It's as I thought; Riska's -not in love with him. Her mother's trained her to believe that the first -man to come should be the first man accepted. And, d'you know, Nan----?” - -“What, Billy?” - -“Didn't you notice anything? She's pretty and she's sweet, because she's -young; but already she's getting hard and calculating like Jehane. I'm -afraid for her--she's more passion than her mother ever had. She's ripe -fruit, and not sixteen yet; if she isn't plucked, she'll fall to the -ground.---- It's a horrible thing to say of a young girl.” - -And then, “I don't like him; but I hope he marries her.” - -He didn't marry her; Peter and Glory were blamed for that. Without -telling anyone, they arranged to give Ocky a Christmas treat. What form -the treat was to take caused many secret discussions. They had to -be secret--all Glory's dealings with her stepfather were secret; the -mention of his name was forbidden by her mother. - -“How about a theatre?” Peter suggested. - -Glory shook her quiet head. “He's not very intellectual.” - -“Well, a pantomime?” - -Glory nodded. “I believe he'd like that.” - -So once again she set out alone with her tall cousin on the top of a -bus. For a few brief hours he was to be hers entirely. In anticipating -the adventure, she had racked her brains to think of entertaining -subjects to talk about. She was terribly afraid she would bore him; she -believed him to be so extraordinarily clever. She needn't have worried. -He was a big boy on that winter's afternoon and not a man. Directly they -were out of sight of the Terrace, he took her arm. - -“But Peter!” she protested, her face flushing. - -“Don't be a little silly,” he told her; “you'll slip on the snow and -fall down.------ I say, Glory, you do look ripping. How you have got -yourself up! You've put on everything except the parlor sofa.” - -At Topbury Corner he wanted to take a hansom, but she insisted on a bus. -“No, really. I prefer it. I've a reason--yes. But I wouldn't tell you -what it is for worlds.” - -Her reason was that she was afraid to be left alone with him lest she -should grow self-conscious. It was easier to talk in crowds. And how -they did talk! Her little prepared speeches, her scraps of nervously -gathered information were all forgotten. They were two children -sailing through a Christmas world on a schooner of the London streets. -House-tops were white with snow; shops gay with decorations. In the -murky grayness of the sky a derelict sun wallowed, like a ship on fire. -It was a happy day; their eyes were bright to find something on every -hand to laugh about. Now it was a cutler's window, merry with mistletoe -and holly, all a-gleam with gnashing knives and razors, across which -was pasted the legend, “Remember the Loved Ones at Home.” Now it was an -undertaker's, in which stood a placard: - - -DO IT NOW JOIN MY COFFIN CLUB - -ANYONE CAN LIVE - -MAKE SURE OF GETTING - -BURIED A TACTFUL CHRISTMAS PRESENT - -GIVE A YEAR'S SUBSCRIPTION - -TO A FRIEND - - -Glory grew out of her shyness; she snuggled her chin against her -squirrel muff, laughing and chatting, saying things which surprised -herself. Peter kept glancing at her side-long. She was tender-looking. -Yes, she was like Kay. He'd noticed that before. He noticed her for a -day, and then forgot her for months. It had always been like that. -Was it his fault? She was like a snow-drop--she had a knack of hiding -herself. - -They got off at Wardour Street, tunneling into dingy alleys from which -Italy watches strangers with sad brown eyes, dreaming of vineyards and -sun-baked towns. - -Glory twitched his arm. “Down here. It's a short cut.” - -“Hulloa! You don't mean to say that you've been here by yourself?” - -She looked guilty; then smiled up from beneath her lashes. She had -nothing to fear from Peter. “Often, since you first brought me. Once a -week, at least; but don't tell mother. He's got no one to love except -Mr. Widow. I--I'm sorry for him.” - -Mr. Widow certainly wasn't much to love. The secondhand shop had a -cheerless aspect. On this winter's day the door stood open; Mr. Widow -held that it was tempting to customers. Ocky crouched over a coke-stove, -rubbing his hands. The moment Glory entered, she hurried toward him, -putting her arms about his neck. His face lit up. “Why, it's Glory! -Little Glory!” He ran his hands over her. “How beautiful! But you -oughtn't to come. The Duchess'll find out. Oh yes, she will. She always -finds out. Then, there'll be a row.” - -He caught sight of Peter. “Ha! Young Oxford to see his poor old uncle! -I went to Oxford once. Humph! Got married there. A bad day's work! A bad -day's work!” - -They told him their plans. He wanted to ask Mr. Widow's permission--Mr. -Widow didn't approve of theatres. “Let him go hang,” Peter said. - -“That's all very well.” Ocky shook his head thoughtfully. “All very -well! But he may let me go hang one fine morning. What then?” - -It was quite evident that Ocky was losing his pluck. He would have -forgotten his spats and would have forgotten to twirl his mustaches, if -Glory hadn't been at hand to make him jaunty. - -They popped him into a hansom and whirled him off to dinner at the -Trocadero. He sat between them, holding Glory's hand and blinking at the -glaring shops; he was more accustomed to darkness. At the entrance to -the restaurant he clutched at Peter, “I don't belong here, old chap.” - -“Nonsense. Glory and I----” - -All through dinner Peter told his uncle what he and Glory were going to -do for him. By-and-bye he, Peter, would have money. When he had money, -he would buy a little house in the country. Ocky should live there with -Glory, and he, Peter, between the intervals of making more money, would -run down and visit them. It seemed almost true, almost possible, in -that brilliant room where the corks flew out of bottles and the music -clashed. It almost seemed that the world was generous--that it would -give him another chance. He gazed from the eager boy, so keen to -convince him of happiness, to the flower-face of his stepdaughter, which -nodded and nodded, insisting, “Yes. Yes. Yes,” to Peter's optimism. -He asked if he might have whisky. When he got it, he tried to deceive -himself and others as to the quantity he was drinking. - -“God bless my soul! I've made my whisky too strong.” Then he would -dilute it. “God bless my soul! I've made my whisky too weak.” The -alcohol whipped up his courage. Of course there were good times coming. -Peter would see to it; he never promised anything that he didn't -accomplish. Then, again he caught sight of the two young faces--but what -had Peter to do with Glory? - -They stepped into another hansom. Piccadilly Circus was a blazing jewel. -Streets were gun-metal, washed with liquid gold. People were silver -flowers. Peter would do it. - -The curtain went up. He was a child again. He laughed at everything. How -long was it since he had laughed? He kept nudging his companions, afraid -lest they should miss the jokes. They were just the kind of jokes he -used to make--Mr. Widow was his only audience now. You couldn't expect -a murderer to be a humorist--if he were a humorist he wouldn't be a -murderer. - -He had laughed rather louder than usual. Someone turned round in the row -just in front. A girl! He looked more closely. She was staring at him. -Her companion followed her eyes, seemed surprised, and nodded to Peter -and Glory. All through the evening the strange man kept turning round -stealthily--the girl, without seeming to do so, was trying to prevent -him. - -Next day, when Glory returned from Topbury to Southgate, Riska met her -with clenched hands. - -“Now you've done it.” - -“Done what?” - -“Lost him for me. He's begun to suspect. He wants to know who was that -shabby man with you and Peter. Of course I daren't tell him. He says I -look like him. You stupid! And last night I'm sure he was going to have -proposed to me.--And Ocky isn't even your father.” - -It was all too true; Bonaparte Triggers had done with Riska. He sent -her a formal letter, breaking off everything. “My father,” he wrote, -“happens to know Lawyer Wagstaff, your father's old employer. At first -I wouldn't believe that you were his daughter. I wouldn't have minded, -anyhow; I was in love with you. But you and your mother lied to me about -it. I could never trust you after that. The moment I saw that man with -your cousin and Glory I knew the truth.” - -So ended Riska's first attempt to plunge from the raft. She clambered -back, a little damp, but with her heart intact. Glory was blamed for -the catastrophe; in future she had to be more careful in meeting Ocky. -Barrington, after a stormy interview with Jehane in which Peter was -accused, shook his head, “Riska! Humph! Poor kiddy, I'm sorry. She's -ripe fruit, Peter. Mark my words; if she isn't plucked, she'll fall to -the ground.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII--THE RACE - - -“Get ready. Paddle.” - -Peter's oar gripped the water. The seven men behind him swung out. For -a second he raised his eyes from the boat, searching the faces on the -barge. She wasn't there--Cherry. The Faun Man had promised to bring her -up to Oxford for the last great race of Eights' Week. Perhaps she had -refused to come. Perhaps the train was late. Perhaps----. - -On the roof of the barge he could see Kay, with Harry standing beside -her. His mother and father, most manifestly proud of him, were there. -Glory--yes, she was waving. But they--all of them together--they counted -for so little because Cherry was absent. It was his great week. He was -proving himself a man--more than a dreamer. Every night his eight had -made its bump. People said that it was the stroke-oar who had done it. -He so wanted her to see him. He was going to stroke Calvary to the head -of the river. It was the last night; only Christ Church was in front. - -All along the bank to his right lay college barges, gay and animated -with girls and flowers. Behind still trees of the meadows, beneath -which cattle grazed, spires and domes soared dreamily against the deep -horizon. - -The others were working as one man behind him. The eight jumped forward -as though it were a live thing. How fit he felt! - -Punts and canoes blocked their passage. - -“Look ahead, sir. Look ahead.” - -They had to halt. From the tow-path men shouted encouragement, -“Calvary--up! Up!” - -They rang dinner-bells, banged gongs, twirled rattles, fired pistols. It -was deafening, maddening. - -Other eights passed them, shooting down to Iffley to the lower stations. -Some were crews they had defeated on previous evenings. Then came Christ -Church, broad shoulders and tanned bodies swinging. They stopped rowing, -and rattled their oars in salute and challenge. - -The red-headed cox, glancing at the rivals, leant forward and spoke -to Peter. “They're top o' their training. It'll be a long chase. We'll -catch 'em by the barges.” - -Peter nodded and squared his mouth doggedly. “By the barges, if not -earlier. Anyway, we'll catch 'em.” - -Would she be there? Inside his head he was trying to picture her. How -would she be dressed? A year since they met! So long! - -They came to their station. Astern lay the other boats, trailed out one -behind the other, pointing their noses upstream for the start. He turned -to look ahead; the Christ Church crew were pulling off their scarfs. - -Hardcastle, who was rowing at seven, leant forward and touched him, “For -God's sake, keep it long and steady.” - -A deep boom, muttering and ominous. The minute-gun had sounded. Someone -on the bank, with a watch in his hand, commenced counting off -the seconds. College-bargemen eased the eight out into the river, -maneuvering with poles to get her prow at the right angle, so no time -might be lost. - -“Are you ready?” - -The counting stopped. Peter brought his slide forward, bracing his feet -against the stretcher. A pause, still as death. The last gun sounded. - -“Row, you devils. Pick it up. Six, you're late. Steady coming forward. -Up, Calvary! Up!” - -The blades whipped the water, the river boiled past them. From the bank -came the clamor of running feet and shouting, as if an asylum had been -freed for a holiday. - -Peter saw nothing--only the red fiend of a cox, his mouth wide open, -screaming shrill oaths of rebuke or encouragement. He had stopped -cursing. He was giving them tens. - -Peter quickened his stroke. From one to ten, over and over, the counting -went on. Would it never stop? He ached in every muscle. Could he never -slack off? He clenched his teeth and spurted. The boat responded. - -“Back him up,” yelled the cox; “you're gaining.” - -Peter wondered whether they were; he longed to turn and see for himself. - -“Now, then, for all you're worth. Well rowed, Calvary. Well rowed, -indeed. Stick to it.” - -Left to itself, his body would have crumbled. His back felt broken. -There was a buzzing in his head. Something stronger than will power--a -corporate spirit of honor, which the men behind him shared--kept him -going. - -“Give her ten.” - -The cox was counting again. His face was as flaming as his hair with -excitement; he was swinging with the oarsmen, as if the jerking of his -slight body could make the boat travel faster. - -“Going up, Calvary. Half a length.” - -Ha! The cox wasn't lying now. Peter could feel the wash of the eight -they were pursuing. They were creeping up slowly. From the bank his name -was thundered. - -“Barrington. Barrington. Well rowed, Barrington. Row like hell.” - -By jingo, he would! He'd show 'em! There shouldn't be anything left of -him. And Cherry----. - -Everything was growing dark. Sometimes the mist before his eyes parted; -he caught glimpses of the flaring head of the cox. Sometimes he could -see nothing, and heard only the endless shouting, bidding him row -faster, always faster. Where were they? Had the race only just -commenced? He seemed to have been struggling for hours. The dread grew -up in him that he would never reach the end. He would collapse. He----. -But still he went on. - -Women's voices! They must be passing the barges, racing down the last of -the course. When his sight cleared, he saw them--steep banks of women's -faces, shining and nodding, and fluttering into the far distance. - -Christ Church! By Jove, they must be nearly on them. He could feel the -turmoil of the beaten water. They were rowing Christ Church down. - -“Give her ten.” - -The cox was counting hysterically. Peter tried to pick it up. He -couldn't. He knew it. He was going to pieces. His stroke was flagging. -And then----. What was that? - -“Peter. Peter. Peter.” - -As the eight fled by he heard it--a girl's voice frantically urging him. -And a man's--he heard that, too. “Go it, Peter. Well rowed, old top.” - -Only the Faun Man would have called him old top. She was there to see -him! His last strength returned. He pulled himself together and swung -out. The oars behind him were getting in late; he could feel the boat -dragging. It didn't matter; he'd take her to the head of the river, if -he were the only man left rowing. - -Bedlam was all about him. The cox bent forward, shrieking at him, trying -to make himself heard above the racket. He caught what he said: “Only a -foot now.” - -What was happening? A jerk! The boat paused and shuddered. It had -touched something. Then again it started forward. Someone was telling -him to stop. He wouldn't stop; they'd wanted him to go on before. He -was going to make sure. By his side he saw something like a broken bird, -trailing in the water. Then he saw eight men, fallen forward, spent and -panting. People were cheering. On the bank they were dancing. The cox -laid his hands on his oar to stay him. He was grinning from ear to ear. -“You silly devil! Leave off!” - -It dawned on him. They'd made their bump--gone ahead of the river. And -she'd been there to watch him! - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII--A NIGHT OF IT - -The college and its guests were assembled. Peter and his eight, with -members of the crews they had defeated, were seated at the high table. -The bump-supper was in progress. Scarcely anyone was absolutely sober. -For the first time in history Calvary had gone up seven places and had -finished head of the river. - -Stoop-shouldered dons, men who held themselves aloof with a scholar's -shyness, broke their rule to-night and hobnobbed with undergraduates. -The dim old college hall was-uproarious with strong laughter and bass -voices. The animal splendor of youth, the rage of life, as seen that -afternoon on the river, had lured them away from cramped texts and -grievous truths contained in books--had opened their eyes to a more -vigorous and primitive conception of living. - -A German Rhodes scholar, seated next to the college chaplain, was trying -to teach him that scandalous libel against all parsons, The Ballad of -The Parson's Cow. The chaplain, who on more formal occasions would have -felt insulted, was doing his eager best to pick up the words and tune. -He kept assuring the German Rhodes scholar of his immense gratitude. -He compared The Ballad of The Parson's Cow to Piers the Ploughman, and -affected to regard it as a literary pearl of great price. - -Somewhere in the distance, behind clouds of tobacco smoke, Harry was -singing his latest. Dons said “Shish!” gazing round with half-hearted -severity. Nobody paid them much attention. Topsy-turvydom ruled; -discipline was at an end. Behind the clouds of tobacco smoke the -irrepressible voice sang on; other voices swelled the volume, taking up -the chorus: - - “Ever been born on a Friday? - - What, never been born on a Friday! - - What, never been born on a Friday yet, - - When your mother wasn't at home!” - -Even Professor Benares Usk, the greatest Homeric scholar in Europe, -let himself go under the influence of wine. His bald egg-shaped head -perspired profusely. “I don't mind telling you,” he kept saying. He was -one of those self-important pedants who never minded telling anybody. He -had made a corner in one fragment of human knowledge; consequently the -things which he didn't mind telling people would fill a library. Just -at present he was explaining to Roy Hardcastle, with a sugar bowl for a -galley and forks for oars, the technique of Greek rowing as revealed in -Homer. Hardcastle repeatedly broke in on him with skittish references -to Olympian immoralities. He propounded the theory to the Professor that -the Iliad, in its day, had been no more than a bad boy's book of frisky -stories. The Professor was sufficiently not himself to contest the -theory warmly. - -Flushed faces, eager eyes, gusty laughter! From painted canvases, on -paneled walls, grim founders looked down on bacchanalia, some of them -sourly, others indifferently, and yet others with envy because, since -becoming angels, they could no longer enjoy a glass of port. - -The air was getting stifling. Speeches were commencing. The grave old -warden was turning to Peter, and addressing him. Hardly a word was -audible above the cheers. Hardcastle, as captain of the rowing, rose to -reply. - -Outside, behind stained-glass windows, the cool dusk of summer drifted -noiselessly. Creepers rustled against crumbling masonry. The faint sweet -smell of bean fields, far-blown from wide hillsides, met the wistful -fragrance of imprisoned rose-gardens; they wandered together like -ghostly lovers through the shadowy quiet of the quads. - -Peter wanted to be out there--wanted to go to her. For the first time -in a year he had seen her. Strange how little he had forgotten! He -half-closed his eyes, picturing and remembering: her nun-like trick of -carrying her hands against her breast; the way her voice slurred; her -meek appearance of gay piety, which the red defiance of her mouth and -the challenge of her eyes denied. She was a girl-woman, borrowing -the attitudes of sophistication, yet exquisitely young and poignantly -ignorant of the world. - -He hadn't been able to say much to her--only, “I heard you, Cherry”; to -which she, shy in the presence of his parents, had replied, “I'm glad. I -was afraid--so afraid that you wouldn't win the race.” - -They had walked up through the meadows, all of them together; he, with -his mother and Kay on either side; she, between his father and the -Faun Man. He had heard her tripping footsteps following behind. At the -college-gate he had said, “I'll see you again”; and she, “Perhaps.” - No more than that. He had not dared to appoint a place of meeting; his -parents didn't know--they wouldn't understand. Then he had had to run -off to change for dinner. - -She might be leaving early to-morrow. Did she care for him? She had -seemed more sorry for him, more as though she were trying to be kind to -him than in love with him. She was non-committal, elusive. But she was -in Oxford to-night. Where, and with whom? - -All down the long hall they were pushing back their chairs, struggling -up from tables and tumbling out into the cool twilight. Men were -hurrying to their rooms to put on their oldest clothes; there was going -to be a “rag.” A piano struck up; then ceased suddenly. A groping of -feet in the darkness of a wooden staircase! From one of the doorways -a jostling, shouting crowd emerged. The piano was set down in the open -quad; a chair was tossed out of a window. Harry took his seat at the -key-board and commenced jingling over the air of, “What, never been born -on a Friday yet, when your mother wasn't at home!” Several of the crew -seized Peter and hoisted him on to the top of the piano. He stood there -an unwilling statue on a burlesque pedestal. They joined hands and -danced about him in a circle. Then came the old wander-song of his -childhood, bringing thoughts of her and of the Happy Cottage, “I've been -shipwrecked off Patagonia.” Harry shouldn't have played that. - -A new diversion! They took him by the arms and ran him away: others -followed, staggering under the weight of the piano. Through a passage a -red glow grew up. In a neighboring quad a bon-fire had been kindled. -It wasn't high enough, broad enough, big enough--wasn't worthy of the -occasion. From windows, two and three stories up, men leant out and -hurled down furniture. Very often it wasn't their furniture. Who cared? -The sky rained desks, and chairs, and tables. - -Singing and shouting everywhere! An impromptu loving-cup was drunk, -composed of anything alcoholic that came handy. - -“Barrington! Hardcastle! Barrington!” - -He and Hardcastle had to make speeches to one another. - -A rocket soared into the night and burst among the stars. A rocket from -a neighboring college answered the challenge. Soon the sky became a -target against which Oxford aimed burning arrows. - -A dispute arose as to the details of the last great race. Hardcastle -insisted that there was nothing for it but to row it all afresh. With -grave solemnity the crewmen, as though they were taking their places in -an eight, were made to seat themselves in a line along the path. A rival -crew, selected from among the defeated oarsmen of other colleges, was -arranged ahead of them. Peter took his place at stroke in this sham -rehearsal of an event accomplished. A pistol was fired; with empty -hands, the eightsmen went through all the motions of rowing, to an -accompaniment of yells of encouragement. - -It must be nearly twelve--the out-of-college men and guests were -departing. Peter wished he could follow them. Good-byes were being said -with exaggerated fervor, as if long journeys were in prospect. The last -of them had seized his gown and run. The porter was locking the gate of -the lodge. Big Tom boomed the hour. The college was closed; there would -be no more knocking in or out until to-morrow. And to-morrow she might -be gone. - -Peter caught Harry by the arm and led him aside. “Where's she staying?” - -“Who?” - -“Cherry, of course.” - -Harry laughed slyly. “Cherry, of course! Who else? Staying! Lorie's -taken a room for her in Bath Place. You know--between Holywell and Hell -Passage.” - -“Which room?” - -Harry became serious. “Look here, old chap, what d'you want to know -for?” - -“Because i'm going to her.” - -“Oh, are you?” - -“Yes, to-night. You know what she is--may be gone before breakfast.” - -“Here, you'd better come to bed.” - -As they strolled across quad to Peter's room, Harry asked him, “Whatever -put such a mad scheme into your head? You can't get out of college--the -gate's shut. If you did and got caught, you'd be sent down for a -certainty.” - -When the door had closed behind them, Peter didn't sit down--he didn't -start to undress. He went to the window, threw it open and leant out. -“I'm going, Harry, and I shan't get caught, either. You've got to help. -It's a twenty-foot drop. If I knot my sheets together they'll be long -enough. You wait here till I come back and haul me up.” - -Harry didn't approve of it; but he was the mouth-organ boy and the -adventure was in keeping with the night. The rope of sheets was flung -out. For a moment Peter balanced on the sill; then he slipped down, -hand-over-hand, into the blackness. - -“All right.” - -The rope was withdrawn. - -The street was intensely quiet--empty of all sound. Houses slept. Not a -shadow stirred. A cool breeze blew upon his forehead. He had the world -to himself. He felt immensely young and exultant. - -He began to run stealthily and on tiptoe, keeping close to the wall. -There was never any telling--someone might come round a corner suddenly -and take him unawares. - -As he passed Professor Usk's house, he thought for a moment of Glory. In -one of those prim rooms she was lying safe in bed--she and Riska. He'd -seen Riska laughing with Hardcastle on the barge. Who the dickens had -introduced her? She was quite capable of having introduced herself. -Then he forgot everything and everyone but Cherry and the purpose of his -errand. - -He came out on to High Street, flowing in a slow curve past churches -and ancient doorways. As he went by All Souls he had the sense of still -gardens and cool turf, lying steeped in moonlight. He wanted to laugh, -wanted to shout to the silent city that he would soon be talking with -her. - -He turned down by Hell Passage and dived under an archway into a little -court, where a lamp smoldered in an iron bracket and echoes played -hide-and-seek behind his footsteps. There was an uncared for garden. In -one corner stood a public house, with all the lights extinguished. Along -one side, hugging the wall of a low-roofed house, ran the narrow path. -He stepped back and looked up at the windows; that must be hers to the -left. - -He whispered her name, “Cherry. Cherry.” - -Was she awake? He fancied that he heard her stir. He picked up some -earth and threw it against the panes. He had startled her; something -creaked, as though she sat up sharply. - -“Don't be frightened. It's Peter,” he called beneath his breath. - -She was coming. Soon she would look out. He saw her, leaning down on -him, white clad, with her dark hair falling all about her face. - -“I couldn't stop away any longer, Cherry. I had to come to you. I want -you to promise that you'll be here to-morrow. When I asked you before -you only said, 'Perhaps.' Only perhaps, Cherry, after a year of waiting! -Promise me, 'Yes.'” - -Was she laughing? Was she angry? He was whispering to her again. “They'd -locked all the doors. I was afraid that I'd never get out. I climbed -down, when everyone was in bed. I had to come to you.” - -“Oh, Peter, Peter!” She wasn't cross with him. She was laughing. “You're -so persistent. It took you to do that.” - -Silence again. - -“But promise,” he urged. He wished that he might see her clearly. They -had called her Cherry because her lips were red. “But promise. Won't you -say 'Yes'?” - -Her answer came so that he could scarcely hear it. “If I promise, will -you go now?” - -He nodded like a child, to give emphasis. - -“Then yes--but only if you go now at once.” - -She waited to see him start. He turned away reluctantly. As he entered -the shadow of the archway he thought she kissed her hand. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX--ON THE RIVER - -But had she? Had she kissed her hand? And, if she had, did it mean -anything? - -Harry, having hauled him back into college, had crept away sleepily, -thankful that his watch was ended. Peter sat on by the open window, -imagining and questioning. The wide white moon rode quietly at anchor; -dusk-gray roofs were vague as an ocean bed. Not a sound. Nothing -stirred. - -But yes. Behind stone walls of a college garden a recluse nightingale -commenced to warble: little notes at first, as though a child threw back -the counterpane of darkness and muttered to itself; then a cry--a -full, clear stream of song that fell like silver showered through the -tree-tops. Peter closed his eyes; imprisoned love was speaking with -its throat outstretched. In the shadows a heart was pouring forth its -yearning; the world slept. Was love always like that--a bird in a hidden -garden, with none to listen, setting dreams to music? - -A sash was raised. It was across the street and further down. The sound -came from the Professor's house. It might be Glory. Odd, if they two -were keeping watch together! Should he call to her? If he remembered, -he would question her to-morrow. His eyes grew dusty; he folded his arms -beneath his head. - -Someone entered. Morning! He was drenched with sunlight. A voice -addressed him discreetly, apologetically, “Overdoin' it a bit last -night? Shall I pour out your bath, sir? It'll pull you together.” - -Peter laughed gaily, then a little shamefully when he realized what -the scout had meant. “I'm having brekker out. My bath--no, it doesn't -matter.” - -Picking up a towel, he ran down to the barges through the glistening -meadows. What a splendid world, dazzling and dew-wet! Stripping, he -dived into the river. Shaking his head like a dog as he rose to the -surface, he drifted down stream, turned, fought his way back and climbed -out glowing. A day with her! She had promised. - -He had to breakfast with the Professor--all his family were to be there; -and, after that------. His father might have plans. It would be ages -before he could be alone with her. The clocks of the city were striking -eight--big and little voices together. Could he manage it? There was -time for just a word. - -He was panting when he came to Hell Passage and entered the courtyard. -Her window was wide. He called to her. She didn't answer. He plucked a -rose and tossed it in the air; it landed on her window-ledge. When she -wakened she might find it and guess that he had been there. - -Professor Usk was in his moral mood that morning. “A great pity--a great -pity that young Oxford drinks to excess.”--He was trying to impress his -wife with his own extreme temperance. - -Hardcastle was a guest. Riska was seated next to him; beneath the -surface of what others were saying, they carried on a softly spoken -conversation, private to themselves. Riska's piquant face was alive with -interest. Every now and then she laughed and clapped her hands, shaking -her head incredulously, stooping her shoulders and glancing sideways at -Hardcastle. They might have been old friends. Her color came and went -when she found herself observed; behind her apparent artlessness there -lay a calm and determined self-possession. - -Peter took his place between Kay and his mother. “Happy Peterkins,” Kay -whispered; “your face is--is a lamp.” She squeezed his hand. - -He was silent and excited, impatient for the next two hours to end. -Sometimes his thoughts were in the sun-swept street, hurrying to a -little courtyard, where a window stood wide and the echoes of Oxford ran -together. Sometimes his attention was caught by a remark, as when the -Professor turned to his wife, who had just sat down, and said, “Oh, -Agnes, while you're up----” and she replied, “But, Benares, I'm not up.” - -His mother watched him, noticing the gladness in his eyes. She wondered -what it meant. Glory, lifting her face to his, gazed at him furtively -from beneath her lashes. - -They had gone upstairs to the room from which Jehane had looked down on -Barrington. Peter had said, “There was a nightingale singing. Did any of -you hear it?” and Glory was about to answer, when the prancing of hoofs -drew them crowding to the window--it was a coach setting out for London. -On the box sat the Faun Man, reining in and steadying the chestnut -four-in-hand. The roof was a garden--river-hats and girls' faces; every -seat was taken. As they came clattering up the cobbled street, the horn -was blowing merrily. Peter took one glance, and was racing down the -stairs. The watchers at the window saw him dash out, sprint hatless to -the corner and vanish. - -The Faun Man pulled up. “Hulloa, Peter! Searched for you all over -college. They said you'd gone out to brekker. Want to come with us? -We'll find room for you.” - -Peter wasn't looking at the Faun Man, nor at Harry, who sat behind -him. He wasn't looking at the golden woman, who was trying to catch his -attention. He was looking at Cherry. Her place was on the box, to the -right of the Faun Man. She returned his gaze with laughter at first; -then, because he didn't laugh back, she turned away her head. And -Peter--he was puzzled and hurt. Why was she escaping? She had promised. -And why, when she was escaping, did she wear his rose against her -breast? - -“Going to London!” he said slowly. “No, I can't join you.” - -He swung round and was walking away. Harry called after him, “We're not -going to London, you chump. We're only going as far as High Wycombe to -look at a house. Climb aboard, and buck up.” - -The golden woman added her persuasion. “For my sake, Peter. It's -Tree-Tops--the house we're going to look at. Sounds almost as fine as -the Happy Cottage, doesn't it? Lorie's going to live there, perhaps.” - -Harry thought he had spotted the trouble. “We'll be in Oxford before -nightfall--catch a train back.” - -Peter answered shortly. “Sorry. I can't. I've got my people with me.” - -He waved his hand and stepped from the road to the pavement. - -Cherry had said nothing. She let her clear eyes rest on him. The horses -were getting restive with standing and the passengers impatient. The -Faun Man shook out his whip; the leaders jumped forward. “Well, if you -can't, you can't,” he said. - -Suddenly Cherry spoke. “I'm not going. Please let me down.” - -The Faun Man whistled. “So that's the way the wind's blowing!” - -The ladder was brought out. Peter helped her to descend. - -“Good-bye and good Luck.” - -The horn sounded. As the coach rolled on its way, every head was turned, -looking back. It grew dim in the dust of its journey. They were left -alone in the sharp sunlight, embarrassed in each other's presence. - -It was she who spoke first, in a little caressing voice which mocked its -own sincerity. “That wasn't nice of me. And yet I didn't intend----. I -didn't really, Peter--not at first. I thought--we all thought you'd be -one of the party. And then--because I wanted to go, I forgot all about -you. D'you forgive me?” - -“If you wanted to go, I'm----.” - -She broke in on him. “There, instead of making things better, I've made -them worse. I shouldn't have come to Oxford--I've hurt you.” - -Shouldn't have come to Oxford! She was threatening to go out of his life -again, just when he'd refound her. “Cherry,” he said, “I'm willing to be -hurt by you every day, if only I may see you. Don't you remember? Can't -you understand? I'd rather be hurt by you than loved by any other woman -in the world.” - -“I know that.” - -In silence they walked back to the Professor's house. At the corner of -the street, before they came into view, he asked, “D'you mind spending -the morning with my people? They're returning to London this afternoon; -then we can be by ourselves.” - -The faces were still at the window, looking out; he was very conscious -of the curiosity he aroused. When he had climbed the stairs and -entered the room, he explained, as though it were the most natural of -happenings, “I've brought Cherry with me.” - -His father relieved the awkwardness by asking, “What are we going to -do?” - -“Why not the river?” Hardcastle suggested. - -They set out in two punts from the barges. The Professor and his wife -had excused themselves, saying that they had to work. Hardcastle -took charge of Glory and Riska; Peter of the rest. They turned up the -Cherwell, past the Botanical Gardens, through Mesopotamia, coming at -last to Parsons' Pleasure. The sound of bathers on the other side of -the island warned them. The ladies got out, while the men drew the punts -across the rollers, taking them round to the farther landing. Barrington -accompanied Nan by the footpath. - -Directly they were alone she turned to him, “Is there anything between -them?” - -“Between who?” - -“That girl and Peter?” - -Her husband laughed and held her arm more firmly, “Between her and -Peter! What an idea! Match-maker!” - -Nan leant against him, as if seeking his protection. “Match-maker? -Not that. I dread it. I want to keep them with us, Kay and Peter, -always--always.” - -Tears were in her eyes. He remembered; once before in this place he had -seen her like that. “Have you forgotten?” he said. “It was here that it -all began--everything between us. It was after we three had met--a rainy -day, with the sun coming out. I left you to take the punt round the -island, and Jehane said something behind my back--something that brought -tears. It was when I saw you crying, Pepperminta, that I loved you.” - -She uttered the wonderfully obvious, linking up his memory with the -present. “We little thought of Peter then.” - -By the Parks the river was dense with row-boats, punts and Canaders. -Girls lay back on cushions under sunshades--sweethearts and sisters. -Men, in college colors and flannels, shouted to one another, “Look -ahead, sir.” Here and there a Blue showed up or a Leander, occasioning -respect and whispered explanations. The great men of the undergraduate -world were pointed out. Peter was recognized as the stroke-oar of -Calvary. He didn't notice the heads that were turned--didn't care. His -eyes rested on Cherry as often as they dared. Before his parents she -treated him casually. There were times when he spoke to her and she paid -him no attention. He was unhappy--did she dislike him? Then, as though -she felt that she was overdoing it, a secret flash would pass between -them and his fears were quieted. - -“Don't forget,” his father reminded him; “we leave for London this -afternoon.” - -Hardcastle, with his lighter burden, was pushing on ahead. Peter looked -at his watch, “It's almost one now. And I don't like to----.” He stooped -to whisper to his father; then straightened up. “Cherry knows why. I -don't like to let Hardcastle out of my sight--not with Riska. He isn't -the sort of man----. We'll have to follow. If I can't punt you back, you -can lunch at the inn at Marston Ferry and catch a tram. That'll get you -to the station in time.” - -To Nan that day was like the repetition of an old story. Once -before--how long ago was it?--once before she had drifted up this quiet -stream, between gnarled trees and whispering rushes, to the gray inn -where a crisis in her life had threatened. She recalled Jehane, dark -and tragic, with trailing hands. She could see Billy, gay and careless. -Peter was like him, and Kay was very much what she had been then.--Her -eyes fell on Cherry; she examined her slightness, the frailty of her -throat, her astonishing gray eyes looking out of a face of pallor, the -delicate mist of hair sweeping across the whiteness of her forehead. Not -the girl for Peter! There wasn't a girl good enough. And then she tried -to believe that she was foolish. It hadn't happened to him yet--not yet. - -And the parting--it was the same as long ago. Everything was repeating -itself. She and Kay and Billy stepped aboard the ferry. At the last -moment Glory said she would accompany them. The man pulled on the -rope; the ferry lumbered out into the stream. Peter and the girl, and -Hardcastle and Riska were waving to them from the bank. Nan had never -thought that she could feel so cruel toward anybody. As she crossed the -meadows she looked back. Peter and the girl, pigmy figures now, were -still waving. Jehane and Billy had waved to her like that, standing near -together. The old pang! And then she looked at Glory, walking quietly -with her head bent, never turning. In a flash little memories, trifles -in themselves, sprang up and became significant, each one pointing in -the same direction. She stole forward and took Glory's hand. - -Hardcastle and Riska had vanished; their punt was gone from the landing. -Upstream the river was lost to view in a slow bend. No one was in sight. -An atmosphere of secrecy had settled down. From arbors of the inn and -tufted places along the banks came the indistinct murmur of voices. The -country looked uninhabited, stretching away for miles in squares and -triangles of meadows, each one different in coloring from the next. -Through the green panorama of trees and hedges the winding of the river -was traceable by the flowered freshness that it left. Overhead, casting -fantastic shadows, drifted white unwieldy clouds. - -Peter helped her in, arranged the cushions for her and pushed off from -the bank. He had expected to say so much to her to-day; now the silence -was more happy. The day was running out; the veiled radiance of a -summer's evening crept across the landscape. A little breeze sprang up, -blew through his hair and stooped the reeds to the water's surface. She -lay curled up and contented, humming to herself; he could just hear -her voice above the splash of his pole and the lapping of the river. -Sometimes she would raise her eyes and smile down the distance of the -punt that separated them. When he wasn't looking she gazed more intently -at his tall, flanneled figure, noticing his tanned arms, with the -sleeves rolled back, and the upright litheness of his body. Did his eyes -catch hers unexpectedly, she veiled them in inscrutable innocence. The -waterway was narrowing, becoming choked with weeds and bulrushes. - -“Your mother,” he stopped punting and turned at the sound of her high, -clear voice; “your mother didn't like me. You may tell her that she -needn't be frightened.” - -What did she mean? She spoke gently, without resentment. “Not like you, -little Cherry! No one could help----.” - -“Oh, yes. She didn't like me.” She raised herself on her elbow. “And she -was right. Won't you please stop caring for me; then we can be friends. -She saw what I told you from the first: that I'm not your sort--quite -different, Peter.” - -He swung the nose of the punt round, so that it crunched into a tall, -green wilderness that sprang up and closed behind their passage. He laid -aside the pole and looked down the length of their refuge, regarding her -intently. - -“Stop caring for you!” He laughed shortly. “As though I could--the -matter's out of my hands. I never had a chance not to care for you. If -I didn't believe that a day was coming when--when you'd be kinder to me, -Cherry, I'd not want to go any further--I mean with living. I'm not good -at saying things in words; you're everything to me.” - -She avoided his glance, turning her head away so that he watched her -side-face. She spoke in a low voice, with concentrated vehemence. “It's -terrible to feel like that. People are sure to disappoint you. You've -no right to allow yourself to depend on someone else for all your -happiness.” - -“But if I don't mind? If I'm willing to take my chance?” - -She lifted up her face appealingly. “Then it isn't fair to me, Peter. -You force me to become responsible. It isn't that I don't like you. I -admire you; that isn't love. You don't know your own mind yet; there are -heaps and heaps of better girls.--And then, there's Lorie. I tell you, -Peter, I'm not your sort--please, please stop caring for me.” - -The gladness died in him. It was as though the lamps behind his eyes -had guttered out. His voice trembled. His face had grown lean and sad. -“Don't say that, Cherry--it keeps us separate. You don't love me now, -perhaps; but one day you'll need me. I'm waiting till you need me, and -then----. You are my sort, Cherry; but I'll never be good enough for -you. All the time I'm trying, ever since I've known you I've been trying -to become better. It's like yesterday: whenever I'm losing the race and -getting slack I hear you calling. Then I say to myself, 'I have to be -fine for her.' I think you must be my sort, Cherry, if you can do that. -Love was meant not to make people perfect, but to make them believe -always in the best. If you do that for me, Cherry----.” - -She put her hands before her eyes and slipped back against the cushions, -as though she had become very tired. He stole down the punt noiselessly -and knelt beside her. - -“Don't you like to be loved, Cherry?” - -She spoke, still with her eyes covered. “Of course I like to be loved. -Every girl likes to know that some man cares for her.” - -“Then, why----?” - -Her voice came wearily. “Because it would be selfish, when I don't -intend to marry you. But--but I wish I didn't have to keep away from -you.” - -He leant forward and kissed her cool cheek. “Then don't keep away from -me.” - -“You mustn't kiss me, Peter. If only you wouldn't kiss me directly we're -alone----. Why do you?” - -Why did he? That she could ask such a question told him so much. She was -like a beautiful statue; he could stir no life in her. - -“Everybody's done it,” he said simply; “everybody since the world began. -You can't help it when you love anybody.” - -She withdrew her hand from her eyes and looked at him wonderingly. How -quickly she could change from sad to gay! All of a sudden, from seeming -listless and spent, she had become radiant and virile. Her face was -tender and wore an amused expression. She stooped toward him and touched -him. “Still a little boy! For the first time I feel older than you--so -much older. What good times you and I could have if only we didn't think -ahead.” - -He slipped his arm about her. “Dear little Cherry, you want to be loved, -but you won't believe that I'm your man. You won't let yourself love -me--that's all that's the matter. When I kiss you you turn your face -away, as if you were only enduring me.” - -She thrust her face forward with sweet demureness. “Try again.--I didn't -turn away then.--You're so persistent, Peter. No, that's'enough.” - -He pushed out from the rushes. The sun was tumbling into bed, spreading -his gold hair on the pillow and dragging his scarlet bed-clothes over -him. The river was dull as tarnished silver, but it flared crimson -where, in its windings, the west smote it. - -“And to-morrow, Cherry?” - -“To-morrow! Does it ever come? I'm leaving to-night. I promised you -to-day; you've had it.” - -“But I want to-morrow as well.” - -She shook her head, laughing. “If I gave you to-morrow, you'd ask for -the day after. You're a greedy little boy, never contented.” - -“But why must you go?” he asked. - -“Because I'm expected. Lorie's thinking of buying a place called -Tree-Tops; it's at Curious Corner, near a village called Whitesheaves. -He's heard all kinds of splendid things about it. It's only thirty miles -from Oxford, so----.” - -“So we'll meet quite often?” - -She crouched her face against her shoulder and kept him waiting. “If you -don't try to kiss me,” she said. And then, seeing that he was going to -be melancholy, “You never know your luck. Cheer up!” - -At the barges, when they had stepped out, Peter remembered. He turned to -the barge-man, “Mr. Hardcastle back? I don't see his punt.” - -“'Asn't returned as I know of, Mr. Barrington. 'Ad a lady with 'im, -didn't 'e? Any message for 'im when 'e comes?” - -Peter shook his head. It was growing dusk. Walking up through the -meadows, Cherry let him take her hand. - -When they had fetched her luggage from the house in the little -courtyard, and he had seen her off at the station, he hurried down to -Folly Bridge and along the tow-path. Staring across the river to the -Calvary Barge, he could see someone moving. He called. A punt put out; -when it came alongside, the man looked up through the darkness. - -“Can't take you across to-night, sir. Wouldn't be no use; the -meadow-gates is shut.” - -“It's not that,” said Peter; “I only wanted to find out if Mr. -Hardcastle's come back.” - -The man scratched his head. “Not yet, sir. Reckon he must 'a left 'is -punt higher up--by Magdalen Bridge, perhaps.” - -“Perhaps. Well, it doesn't matter.” - -He strolled away thoughtfully. - - - - -CHAPTER XL--MR. GRACE GOES ON THE BUST - -Mr. Grace rose by stealth. Dawn had not yet broken. He groped his way -into his clothes in the darkness; he did not dare to light the gas. -Clutching his boots against his breast, with ridiculous caution for so -fat a man, he tiptoed down the stairs. In the passage he listened and -looked up, half expecting to see a head in curl-papers surveying him -from across the banisters. He heaved a sigh of relief. That fine bass -sound, like a trombone thrust out violently to its full length, was -his son-in-law, the ex-policeman; those flute-like notes, tremulous -and heart-stirrings were his daughter's musical contributions from -dreamland. All was well. He had not roused them. - -In the stable he stuffed up the window with a sack and lit a lamp. Cat's -Meat raised his head and winked at him--winked at him solemnly. It was -a solemn occasion--they both felt it, this setting of a daughter at -defiance, while horse and master went on the bust. - -The preliminary preparations of the past few days had awakened -suspicion. For one thing, Mr. Grace had repainted his cab: the wheels -were a bright mustard and the body was a deep blue--the color which -is usually associated with Oxford. For years--too many to count--Cat's -Meat's harness had done service, tied together with bits of rope and -string where the leather had worn out. But to-day his harness was brand -new--of a vivid tan. Yesterday, and the day before, Cat's Meat and his -master had indulged in a rest--that alone gave material for conjecture. -Grace and her ex-policeman had conjectured. What was the old boy -planning? Was he contemplating marriage? “And at his time o' life!” they -said scornfully. At any rate, they were snoring now. - -As he led Cat's Meat out, he growled in his ear, “Not a drop o' drink, -old hoss, till this here is h'ended. And then---.” He smacked his lips; -the lean tail flirted across the bony haunches in assent. Mr. Grace -rubbed the nose of his friend, “Go by h'every pub till h'it's h'ended, -old pal, and then----. Understand?” - -He had harnessed up and was tying the last of the blue rosettes to Cat's -Meat's bridle, when he was startled by a window flung up. He glanced -round--the curl-papers he dreaded! - -“Now, then, father, you just come up 'ere and tell me. You just----.” - -“Be blowed if h'I will.” - -The curl-papers vanished; feet were coming down the stairs. Scrambling -on to his box, he jerked at the reins and lumbered out into the cold -March dusk. A shrill voice calling! She was in the stable, coming down -the street after him. What had she on, or rather what hadn't she? “My -word,” he muttered, “wot a persistent hussy!” He cracked his whip. Cat's -Meat broke into a stiff-kneed gallop. - -At a cabman's shelter near Trafalgar Square he halted for breakfast. The -glory of his appearance attracted attention. “'Ere comes Elijah in 'is -bloomin' chariot.” - -“Wot-ho, old mustard-pot! 'Ot stuff!” - -Mr. Grace conducted himself with gravity. “I'm h'off ter the races. Got -a friend o' mine rowin'.” - -“Oh, you 'ave, 'ave yer? A reg'lar Sol Joel, that's wot you are.” - -He left his friends with a flourish. It was almost as though his youth -had returned--almost as though he hadn't a red nose and a daughter who -tried to convert him. He felt young and smart this blowy morning. He -didn't want to see a reflection of himself; he wanted to pretend that he -was a brisk young cabby, when cab-driving was an art and not a creeping -means of livelihood. Flower-girls were at the corners, shaking daffodils -and violets in the faces of the passing crowd. - -“By the Lord Harry----!” - -He signed to her with his whip--he felt affluent. He bought two bunches, -and leant down from his box while she pinned one in his button-hole. The -other he hid beneath the seat in Cat's Meat's nose-bag. - -“Good luck, me gal--and a 'andsome 'usband.” - -“The sime ter you, old sport.” - -She blew him a kiss. Ah, if he had been young! Not a bad lookin' gal! -Not 'arf! - -He turned into Deane Street and crawled through Soho, that queer Chinese -puzzle of cramped dwellings, all with fronts that look like backs. He -pulled up outside the second-hand shop and entered with his whip, tied -with blue ribbon, held out before him. - -“'Ow's tride s'mornin', Mr. Waffles? Get them 'andker-chiefs, wot -you call spats, on ter yer boots. Put a little glue on yer bloomin' -whiskers. 'Urry up.--Where are we goin'? Yer'll see presently.” - -Ocky expostulated. The fear of Mr. Widow's displeasure was heavy on him. -“But what'll I tell him? How'll I explain to him?” - -“Tell 'im yer've stroked yer wife's 'ead wiv a poker. Tell 'im she's -packed up sudden for a better land. Tell 'im yer taikin' a 'oliday on -the strength of it. Tell 'im----.” - -“Shish! He may hear. He's sensitive.--All right. I'll come.” - -Mr. Grace had his own code of etiquette. He refused to let Ocky mount on -the box beside him. “Ain't done,” he said. From the nose-bag he produced -the button-hole and presented it to his friend. “Git in,” he commanded, -opening the door of his cab. Before he drove off he stooped and shouted -in at the window, “Matey, this ain't no bloomin' funeral. Wriggle a -smile on ter yer mouth. Laugh at the color of me bally keb.” - -He cocked his hat to a jaunty angle and tugged on the reins, humming; - - “Bill Higgs - - Useter feed the pigs, - - Caress 'em with 'is 'obnail boots, - - Tum-tee-tum.” - -He couldn't remember what came next, so he contented himself with -whistling the opening bars over and over. He felt exceedingly merry. - -Traffic seemed to be pouring all in one direction. Everyone was in high -spirits; cabbies and bus-drivers kept up a ceaseless stream of chaff. -The thud of hoofs on the wooden paving was the beat of a drum to which -London marched. Everything was moving. Overhead white clouds dashed -against sky-precipices. Window-boxes were rife with flowers. Parks and -green garden patches swam up to cheer the endless procession, stood -stationary and fluttered as it passed, then melted. Light blue and -dark blue favors showed wherever the eye rested. Newsboys climbed buses -shouting, and ran by the side of carriages, distributing their papers. -At a halt, Mr. Grace turned and shouted to Ocky, “I sye, old cock, d'yer -know where all us sports is goin'? We're goin' ter see yer nevvy.--Hi, -Cat's Meat, kum up.” - -Houses grew smaller, streets more narrow and old-fashioned. Then the -river, broad and full-flowing, like a vein swollen to bursting. On the -bridges black specks swarmed like ants. Along the bank crowds stood -packed against the parapet. Bets were being offered and taken. Ceaseless -banter and laughing. Jostling. Good-natured expostulation. A hat blew -off. - -Mr. Grace drew up against the curb. From the point which he had -selected, by standing on the roof, a glimpse could be obtained of the -racing shells. He rattled his whip against the door. - -“'Ere you, Old Bright-and-Early, come h'out.” - -Ocky came out--came out twirling his mustaches. He had caught the -contagion of excitement. He felt himself to be more than a spectator. -He wanted to talk in a loud voice to Mr. Grace, so that bystanders might -overhear and know that he was an important person--young Barrington's -uncle. Good heavens, half London had left its work to see just Peter, -stroking the Oxford boat against Cambridge. - -During the next two hours while they waited, they swopped Peterish -stories. “And 'e sez ter me, 'Mr. Grice,' 'e sez, 'you're my -prickcaution. I've got somethink the matter with me; 'magination they -calls it. I wants you to promise me ter taik care of 'er,' 'e sez. And -I, willin' ter h'oblige 'im, I sez--.” - -Mr. Grace sprang up. “'Ulloa! Wot's this? Strike me blind, if they ain't -comin'!” - -The box-seat wasn't high enough. They scrambled on to the roof. The -crowd scrambled after them; the roof was thronged, without an inch to -spare. Cat's Meat straightened his forelegs, trying to see above the -people's heads. - -“By gosh, they're leading!” - -“No such luck. They're level.” - -Eight men, crouched in a wooden groove as narrow as a pencil, with a -ninth in the stern to guide it! The pencil looked so narrow that it was -a wonder that it floated. The eight men moved as if by clock-work. Eight -more followed, a quarter of a length behind. Their colors were the dark -blue of Mr. Grace's cab. The light blues of Cambridge were ahead. - -“Oxford! Oxford! Oxford!” Mr. Grace thumped Ocky in the ribs and -bellowed, “There's Peter. See 'im?” - -As though Peter had heard, he raised the stroke from thirty-four -to thirty-six, calling on his men for a spurt. They were creeping -up--lifting their boat through the water in a splendid effort. Men swore -beneath their breath; they tiptoed and clawed at one another, utterly -selfish and careless in their wild desire to gain a clearer view of -those distant streaks of energy, which bent forward and swung back -mechanically in that gray ribbon of beaten water. They were shooting -under the bridge now, police-boats and launches spluttering, hooting and -following. The crowd swayed, broke and ran. Men leapt down from -lamp-posts and points of vantage. - -Something happened. Mr. Grace was pushed from behind--pushed off the -roof of his own cab. He picked himself up indignantly from the pavement -and tried to clamber back. It mightn't have been his cab--it was -territory invaded and held by intruders. “'Ere you! Git orf of it.” - -He laid about him with his whip and clutched at coattails. Someone -hit him on the mouth. He hit back. A policeman came up. No time for -explaining. He was angry enough to fight the whole world. What was Peter -doing? - -“Leggo o' me. It's me own keb. A free country, indeed! 'Ere you, come -orf of it.” - -He battled his way to the box. For one moment he saw two disappearing -specks, and then----. A crack! A man was waist-deep in woodwork. The -invaders jumped down to save themselves. The policeman hopped into the -cab and levered the legs back. - -Mr. Grace was purple. “Pushed me orf me keb, that's wot they did. And -now I arsks yer ter h'inspeck that roof. 'E wuz goin' to arrest me. -Garn, puddin' face. Yer daren't.” - -“Move along. Move along, me man.” - -There was nothing for it. Mr. Grace picked up the reins. “Puddin' face,” - he flung back across his shoulder. “Yes, h'it's you I'm meamn'. Puddin' -face--yer bally cop.” - -It was only when he had turned a corner and climbed down to examine the -damage, that he realized that he had lost Mr. Waffles. - -He trundled back to London--had got as far as Hyde Park Corner, when a -yelling boy rushed by him with a sheaf of papers. - -“Hi, wot's that?” - -He snatched one and read: - -“_Dark Blue Victory._ - -“_Long Stern Chase._ - -“_Barrington's Great Spurt._ - -“_Cambridge Beaten at the Winning Post_.” - -What did it matter? What did anything matter, broken roofs or bruised -mouths. Peter had done the trick! Peter, the queer little tyke who had -been his prickcaution! He shouted the news to Cat's Meat. He held up -the traffic, he and Cat's Meat, and the dark blue cab. He must tell -somebody,--somebody who would understand. Mr. Waffles would understand. -He had a few drinks at a few pubs and arrived at Soho hilarious. Mr. -Widow informed him that Ocky had not returned. He wandered off in search -of the flower-girl. At the back of his mind the belief grew up that she -would be sympathetic. He found her, tucked her inside and drove back -to Soho. Mr. Widow didn't approve of the flower-girl and said that Ocky -hadn't come back. How many times did he halt before the second-hand -shop? How many pubs had he visited? What had become of little -Kiss-me-Quick, the flower-girl? She'd disappeared, and he hadn't any -money in his pockets. Never mind, there was a hole in the roof of his -cab--his day's work had given him something. - -Night fell. Stars came out. Did he make up the song himself? Couldn't -have. He found himself again before the second-hand shop, still on the -box of his cab. The shop was shut and he was singing to empty windows: - - “Oh, - - Mr. Widow, though - - A murderer you be, - - You're - - Sure, a very nice man-- - - A good enough pal for me.” - -Mr. Widow came out, sincerely grieved, and expostulated. Mr. Grace -begged his pardon profoundly. He told him that he'd always admired his -religious whiskers; wouldn't hurt his feelings, however many wives he'd -murdered; wanted to be friends. He added, in a whisper, that he had a -daughter who'd be all the better for a poker brought down smartly across -her nut. She was religious, too, only she hadn't got whiskers. Then he -insisted on shaking hands, and was at last allowed to on condition that, -if this token of esteem was granted, he would go away and never, never -more come back--at least, not till morning. - -What to do now? The night was young. A return to the stable was not to -be contemplated; that daughter of his must be avoided. Some time, when -he was a very old man, he'd go home to her. But not yet. It wasn't every -man who owned a blue and yellow cab with a hole in the roof of it. - -Perhaps it was eleven--perhaps earlier. He was in Leicester Square, -affording himself the supreme luxury of refusing to be hired. Coming -down the steps of the Empire was a group of young men, broad-shouldered, -slim of hip and in evening dress. Their arms were linked. As soon as -they appeared, cheering began; a crowd gathered round. Someone commenced -to sing. Others took it up: - - “Mary had a little heart. - - She lent it to a feller, - - Who swallowed it by h'axerdent - - And didn't dare to tell 'er. - - She asked it back and said she'd sue-- - - Away the feller ran. - - Whatever will poor Mary do? - - She's lost both heart and man.” - -They'd all gone mad. Pandemonium broke loose. Mr. Grace wondered vaguely -what it meant. Why were people dancing? Why were people shouting? Then -he saw that the maddest of the mad wore a dark blue badge. He heard -someone explain to a neighbor, “The winning crew.” - -His brain cleared. He was off his box in a flash, struggling, panting, -fighting his way to that tall young chap who was in the centre. He was -wringing him by the hand. - -“Why, by all that's wonderful, it's Mr. Grace! Where did you spring -from?” Before the question was answered, Peter was introducing him, to -the Faun Man, to Harry, to Hardcastle, to a host of others. - -Mr. Grace was both elated and abashed. “Want a keb? Sime old keb, Mr. -Peter--got it 'ere a-witing for you.” - -“Want a cab! I don't know. You see, there are so many of us.” - -“'Ow many? There's plenty o' room, Mr. Peter, both inside and h'out. -There ain't no charge. Put h'as many h'as yer like on the roof, so long -as Cat's Meat can drar yer. I've 'ad a ole cut for yer legs on purpose.” - -Harry laughed. “If Cat's Meat can't manage it, we'll shove.” - -They piled in uproariously. The suggestion was made that Cat's Meat -should be taken out and that Peter should be allowed to ride him. Mr. -Grace wouldn't hear of it. “None o' that, young gen'lemen. Cruelty ter -h'animiles. The keb 'olds 'im h'up.--Where to?” - -The Gilded Turtle was mentioned. - -For all that there were four on the roof and six inside, Cat's Meat -never made an easier journey--that was due to the singing mob of -undergraduates who lent a hand. And Mr. Grace--he reflected that it -wasn't for naught that he had repainted his growler. He was the proudest -cabby in London that night--he was going to be prouder. - -At the Gilded Turtle he was seated next to Peter and treated as an -honored guest. He had a misty impression that the waiters were stowed -away beneath tables and that their places were taken by Peter's friends. -He believed and asserted to the day of his death that he made the speech -of the evening--something reminiscent about “prick-cautions,” which -meandered off into moral reflections about a person named Kiss-Me-Quick -and flower-girls in general. He distinctly remembered that, more than -once, he turned his pockets inside out, asking plaintively, “What lydy -done this?” Then the gentleman whose ears moved like a dog's sang a -nonsense-song about Peter. They all joined in a rousing chorus, clinking -glasses: - - “He kissed the moon's dead lips, - - He googed the eye of the sun; - - But when we've crawled to the end of life, - - We'll wonder we ever begun. - -CHORUS - - “And Peter was his name-- - - So Peterish was he, - - He wept the sun's eye back again, - - Lest he should never see.” - - “He fought the pirate king, - - Where stars fall down with a thud; - - But we, we even quake to hear - - Spring rhubarb break into bud. - -CHORUS - - And Peter was his name, etc. - - “He sailed the trackless waste - - With hair the colour» of blood; - - But we, we tramp the trampled streets - - With souls the colour of mud. - -“ And Peter was his name-- - - So Peterish was he, - - He wept the sun's eye back again, - - Lest he should never see.” - -Where was Peter? Where were Harry and the Faun Man? He was out in the -streets--only the wildest of the young bloods remained with him. It -didn't matter to this cab-driving Falstaff if they all went away and -only Cat's Meat stayed, he was going to make a night of it. - -Hardcastle was complaining that he'd never been arrested and taken -to Vine Street. He insisted that it ought to happen to every English -gentleman at least once. They drove back to Leicester Square to see -if they could find a policeman who'd make up this deficiency in their -education. They found three, only they chose the wrong side of the -Square and discovered that they were being taken to a less aristocratic -station. Then they explained their mistake, and their captors, being, -as the Faun Man would have said, “very human fellows,” accepted -compensation for wasted time, called them “My Lords,” and allowed them -to escape. - -It was Mr. Grace who provided the final entertainment. They had grown a -little tired of his constant enquiry as to “What lydy done this?” Being -unwilling to lose their esteem as a humorist, he drove them down side -streets to a second-hand shop, which he had promised “never no more to -visit.” - -The house was in complete darkness. He threw down the reins and stood -up, his whip clasped against his breast, his eyes lifted to the white -moon sailing in silence over sulky chimney-pots. Singing ran in his -family; it was from him that Grace inherited her talent. What his voice -lacked in sweetness it made up in volume. He startled the stillness -lustily: - - “Oh, - - Mister Widow, though - - A murderer you be, - - You're - - Sure, a very nice man-- - - A good enough pal for me.” - -If Mr. Widow had been a sportsman, he would have felt flattered that the -winning Oxford crew should take the trouble to greet him thus musically -at two o'clock in the morning. He wasn't. A night-capped head appeared -at a window. The singing grew more hearty. The head vanished. The street -door opened. A gentleman, very hastily attired, carrying a pair of -white spats in his hand, shot out on to the pavement. A voice from the -darkened shop pursued him, “'Ad enough of you. A man is known by 'is -friends.” - -The door closed as suddenly as it had opened. - -Mr. Grace hailed the new arrival, “'Ulloa, duckie! Been lookin' for you -h'everywhere.” - -“I wish you hadn't,” growled Ocky. - -Cat's Meat shivered in his harness. Mr. Grace, aware that he was somehow -in error, picked up the reins. “Well, good night, young gen'lemen. Me -and Mr. Waffles is goin' 'ome ter bed. Kum up, Cat's Meat.” - -But Cat's Meat didn't come up; he lolled between the shafts, listless -and dejected. Mr. Grace climbed down from the box to examine him. “Wot's -matter, old pal? Got a 'eadache?” - -He stretched out his hand to pat him. Cat's Meat shivered again, lolled -over a little farther and crashed to the ground. He flickered his -eye-lid just once, wearily and reproachfully, saying as plainly as was -possible for so dumb an animal, “Old man, we've been and gone and done -it.” - -A hat was passed round. When its contents were presented to Mr. Grace he -pushed it away from him. He was sobbing. “H'it's not that; it ain't the -money. 'E were the only man 'as ever understood me. 'Is h'intellergence -wuz a thing to marvel h'at. A wonder of a 'oss, 'e were. I've often said -h'it. 'E'd bring me 'ome as drunk as a lord and as saife as a baby. 'E -wuz a reg'lar mother ter me, 'e were.” - -[Illustration: 0421] - -The revelers melted into the night down the shuttered street, leaving -Mr. Grace with the disregarded hat of money, the dead horse sprawled -across the broken shafts and a gentleman, from whose hand a pair of -white spats dangled, contemplating the ruin disconsolately. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI--TREE-TOPS - -Tree-Tops stood half-way up the hill, looking out across a terraced -garden. At the foot of the hill lay a plain, where hamlets nestled -beneath the wings of trees, and meadows washed about the shores of -yellow wheat-lands like green rivers in flood. In blue pastures, beyond -the edge of the horizon, white clouds wandered like browsing sheep. - -The windows of Tree-Tops were latticed. The roof was thatched. It was -no more than a converted cottage. It blinked at you as though it wore -spectacles. - -Behind it ran a Roman road, buried deep in the leaves of centuries. On -the brow of the hill was a legionaries' camp. To show where the road -ended a white cross had been cut, by turning back the sod from the -underlying chalk. Gathered about the camp in a half-circle, spreading -back for miles through uplands, was a beech-forest whose leaves -fluttered like green butterflies crucified on boughs of silver. Clouds -trailed slowly over it, or hung snared in its topmost branches. - -Over the shoulder of the hill, immediately behind the Faun Man's house, -lay a golf-course with vivid squares of close-cropped turf from which -red flags waved angrily as poppies. Across the valley shone fields of -mustard, like sunlight falling in sudden patches. - -The Faun Man puzzled Curious Corner. The village might have been named -in prophecy of his advent, with such extraordinary oddness did he -conduct his household. Like birds hopping in and out of a hedge, -his visitors came and went without knocking. Nobody tried to explain -anybody; no one at Tree-Tops thought explanation necessary. - -The women were young and dashing; certainly they were not married to the -men. If they were wicked--which was never proved--they were decidedly -light-hearted. - -By day they played golf and rode horseback. By night they sat in the -terraced garden, where fragrances wandered like old, sweet memories; -there, to the tinkling of banjos and mandolins, they sang till dusk had -brimmed the valleys and the moon sailed solitary. When their laughter -had grown tired, a light would spring up in a room beneath the thatch -where the Faun Man worked. Sometimes it would outstay the dawn. The -villagers watched these doings from a distance. They wagged their heads. - -But if Tree-Tops had the reputation for being wild, there could be no -doubt that its master had money. He drove a four-in-hand from Oxford to -London. He rode a horse called Satan, which no one could manage; it had -killed two men already. And the money! He coined it with his pen--so it -was reported. - -But the inhabitants of Curious Corner never guessed the motive of -all this frivolity: that the Faun Man wasn't really living--was only -distracting himself, till a woman with golden hair should nod, when life -would commence. - -And the golden woman! Peter saw her often: in Oxford; when he cycled -out with Harry to Tree-Tops; during his vacations in London. He couldn't -believe what Harry told him--that she was cold and selfish. Everything -that she did was tender, from the caressing way she had of speaking to -the childish frankness with which she slipped her hand into his own -when she was happy. She made everyone love her and everyone forgive -her--everyone except Harry and Cherry. She had studied the art of -appearing adorable, so that what in others were faults in her took on -the glamour of attractions. She was so fond of the Faun Man--why didn't -she marry him? Peter didn't know. He gave it up--shrugged his shoulders. -Somewhere underground, as in his own life, the body of love lay buried. -In the stillness, did he listen, he could hear jealousy gnawing--gnawing -like a rat in the coffin of a dead princess. Once, in reading one of the -Faun Man's books, he came across a jotting in the margin, the thought of -which had no bearing on the text. It was as though thwarted longing had -cried aloud, suddenly becoming aware of its own tragedy. The sentence -read: “Life is slipping away from us. I have tried to make you love me. -And yet----.” - -The bond of sympathy which existed between himself and the golden woman -increased in strength and knowledge. He could talk to her of so many -things concerning which he was silent to other people. Being in love, he -had to talk to someone. She was so wise in the advice she gave him. By -the patience with which she listened, she seemed to tell him that she -herself had endured the same indifference. How that could be he did not -understand. She encouraged him to make confession. It became a habit. -Perhaps the trust which he placed in her flattered her. It may have been -that his capacity for being so sheerly young tantalized her--she desired -above all things to be always young herself. Without doubt his implicit -faith in her goodness helped to silence her self-despisings. - -But she was not above using their friendship as a means of provoking the -Faun Man. She would slip her arm about Peter's neck and say, “No chance -for you now, Lorie.” - -Her lover's eyes would rest on her broodingly and film over, hiding his -thoughts, “Oh, well, I have Cherry.” Even though Cherry knew that it was -said in pretence, her face would grow radiant. It hurt Peter. He would -willingly have given the best years of his life to make her care for him -like that. It was then that he listened, and heard within himself the -gnawing of the rat of jealousy. - -Cherry--he made no progress with her. She seemed to like him, and she -held him off. She avoided being left alone with him. In company there -were times when she treated him with intimacy--times when she ignored -him. While all his actions told her plainly that in his life she was the -supreme interest, she seemed to go out of her way to inform him, without -words, that in hers he was secondary. Then, when he had grown tired and -had almost determined to cure himself, she would do something unexpected -and considerate which kept him hoping. Only at parting did she allow -herself to appear glad of him. She had the power of chilling him with -her graciousness, while with her gray eyes she allured him. Cherry! -Cherry! Her name set all his world to music. - -One day he found her alone at Tree-Tops. She had fallen asleep in the -bay-window, which looked out over the plain where the meadows flowed -smoothly and the wheat-fields ripened. The others had left her--had -gone over the shoulder of the hill to play golf. He had cycled out from -Oxford without warning. Climbing through the steep garden, busy with the -stir of birds and insects, he espied her curled up like a kitten among -the cushions, her eyes fast shut and her breath coming softly. He -stooped over her, tempted by the redness of her mouth. Her eyes -opened. She showed no embarrassment--made no attempt to brush away her -sleepiness. She did not move, but lay there meeting his gaze quietly. - -He broke the silence. “Cherry, why do you always avoid touching me? -We're farther apart now than we were--were when we first met. I can't -surprise you any longer by telling you that I love you. And yet--and yet -to me it's still wonderful. Why do you always treat me as though I were -nothing?” - -“Do I? I don't mean to.” - -He sat down beside her and took her hand. “Shall I go away? If I went -away you might learn to miss me.” - -She turned toward him gently. “Please, please, Peter, don't do that.” - -“Then you do want me--you would miss me? I never know what you think of -me. You never tell me--never betray yourself.” - -She let her fingers nestle in his hand. “There's only one Peter. Of -course I'd miss you. I don't need to tell you that. I like you very -much, Peter.” - -He looked away across the unheeding country. “Like! Yes, but liking -isn't loving.” - -Voices were heard and footsteps approaching. She sat up hurriedly, -smoothing out her dress. “I'd so much rather be friends. I'd be such a -good little friend to you, Peter, if you'd only be content with that.” - -Content with that! He shook his head. - -“Cherry, I couldn't.” - -The Faun Man and the golden woman entered. They were laughing. “You -always treat me in public as if we were alone together. Really, Lorie, I -wish you----.” - -Then she saw Peter seated close to Cherry. Her eyes saddened. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII--THE COACH-RIDE TO LONDON - - -I wonder why he doesn't come!” - -Peter stepped out of the college-lodge, gazing up and down the cobbled -street. - -Harry, always undisturbed and good-natured, laughed. “One can never be -sure of Lorie. Looks as though it was going to rain. P'raps he's put it -off because of that.” - -“If he had,” said Peter, “he'd have sent us word.” - -For two hours they'd been inventing excuses for the Faun Man. He had -told them to invite a party of their friends and he'd drive them to -London. To go to London without permission was against all rules; but to -ask permission would be useless, since most of the men, like Peter and -Harry, were sitting for their Finals within the next fortnight. That -they were taking a sporting chance of discovery lent a touch of daring -to the excursion. - -All of them had risen early and had been ready for the start since -nine. It was nearly eleven. If the Faun Man didn't turn up shortly they -wouldn't have time to cover the sixty odd miles to London and to catch -the last train back. That last train back was very necessary. If they -weren't in college or their lodgings by midnight when doors were locked, -there was no telling what would happen. Probably they'd get sent down, -which would mean that they'd miss their Finals, and would either lose -their degrees or have to wait a year before they were examined. - -They were getting fidgety, pulling out and consulting their watches. -Some of them were already saying that it was too late to risk it. A horn -sounded. Peter glanced back from the road into the lodge and shouted, -“Hi, you fellows! Here he comes.” - -Round the corner swung the chestnut leaders, tossing their heads and -jingling their bridles. As the wheelers followed and the coach drew into -sight, an exclamation went up, “Why, he isn't----” - -They looked again to make certain. No, he wasn't. Instead, a woman sat -on the box, erect and lonely, perched high up, governing the reins with -her small, thin hands. Her trim figure was clad in a dark blue suit, -close-fitting as a riding-habit, with pale blue facings. Her hair was -caught back into a loose knot against her neck and dressed so smoothly -that it shone like metal. The effort of controlling the horses had -brought a flush to her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with mischief at the -sensation she was creating. She reined in against the pavement, glancing -down provocatively at the group of young men. She looked a goddess, -and had the sense to know it. “Given up hoping for me,” she cried -cheerfully; “is that it?” - -Peter nodded. “Pretty nearly. But where's the Faun Man and Cherry? Why -are you driving?” - -She shrugged her shoulders. “I'll tell you later. Scramble up.” - -They scrambled up, filling the roof and joking, all their high spirits -and anticipation recovered. - -“Ready.” - -The guard sprang away from the leaders' heads and clambered up behind as -the coach started forward. - -It was a gray day, with patches of blue gleaming through it, like light -through holes in the roof of a tent. As they passed over Magdalen Bridge -the willows shuddered and stooped above the water, prophesying that rain -was coming. The moisture in the air made colors stand out sudden and -separate. Even sounds seemed accentuated. From farmlands, near and far, -live things called plaintively. Cocks bugled shrill alarms. Cattle waded -restlessly knee-deep in summer meadows. Birds fluttered out of hedges, -as if setting out on journeys; then thought better of it and hastily -returned. Fields lay hushed. In contrast, the sky was torn and rutted. -Clouds lurched forward, black and sullen, like artillery taking up -positions. Detached wisps of mist hurried hither and thither, like -isolated bands of cavalry. Through the brooding stillness the coach -swayed onward. The horses' hoofs rattled as castanet accompaniment to -the laughter of conversation. - -At the long, white inn of The Three Pigeons they changed horses, getting -ready for the climb out of the valley past Ashton Rowant. The golden -woman called to Peter to come and sit on the box beside her. She was a -pleased child, patting his hand and smiling down at him side-long as he -took his place. She treated him in public with the same affection that -she used to him in private; she had complained of the Faun Man for -treating her like that. Peter wondered.--Her eyes were immensely blue -and wide this morning. She seemed no older than on that first day when -he had seen her in the white room of the Happy Cottage. He watched her -now, as she leant out with her whip to catch the reins which the ostler -tossed up. How graceful she was, how determinedly young and buoyant! - -He touched her. “You were going to tell me why Cherry and the Faun Man -didn't----.” - -She broke in upon him. “Was I? Perhaps later. Can't you forget Cherry -just for once? I'm here and--and won't you be content with only me for a -little while, Peter?” - -She spoke lightly, with a pretence at wounded feelings, and yet----. He -had piqued her pride. He had noticed it before, especially of late--the -same flippancy of tone and quick turning away of the head when Cherry's -name was mentioned. Harry explained it by saying that she was envious of -any affection given to another woman. - -The new team was full of fire--it took all her attention. “So, girl! So! -Steady there. Steady!” - -Peter knew these grays; he had heard the Faun Man speak of them, -“Nervous as cats. Take a devil of a lot of holding.” She handled them -like a veteran. - -“Golden woman, you're wonderful.” - -She shrugged her shoulders coquettishly, raising her brows and laughing -silently. Her eyes were between the leaders' ears on the road in front -of her. “I know. Can't help it, Peter. It's the way I was made.” And -then, “But what an awfully long while you've taken to discover it.” - -“I haven't. But where was the good of my telling you? The Faun Man let's -you know it every day of your life.” - -She pouted. “He does. But--but that isn't the same.” Green pasture-lands -of the valley were falling away behind. As they rose higher, woods -sprang up, standing tiptoe, drinking in the clouds. The atmosphere grew -more heavy and thunderous. The horses were walking now, scrambling for a -foothold and zigzagging from side to side as they took the steep ascent. -The men dropped off the coach to lighten it and went ahead. - -Harry caught hold of Peter's arm. “Where's Lorie? Did she tell you?” - -“No. When I ask her, she says, 'Later, perhaps.' Can't get another word -out of her.” - -Then Harry saw a great light. “I bet you I've guessed. Something -happened at the last minute to delay him. He's coming over from -Tree-Tops to join us at High Wycombe. He'll be there with Cherry for -lunch. It's because of Cherry, to give you a surprise, that she won't -tell you.” At the top of the hill Peter took his place again beside the -golden woman. He understood her air of mystery now and played up to it. -In an instant all his world had changed. He was going to see Cherry. A -new sparkle came into his eyes. The golden woman noticed it. “Hulloa! -Wakened? What's happened?” - -“_You've_ happened,” he said. “You're a topper. You don't mind my saying -it, do you? You're most awfully kind.” - -She looked at him curiously. “Am I? What makes you say that?” - -“I know what's happened to the Faun Man and Cherry. You can keep your -secret; but I had to thank you.” - -“Thank me!” She fell silent. - -He talked on in high spirits; it must have been the horses that -suggested Mr. Grace. “He hasn't been so bloomin' prosp'rous -lately--that's his way of putting it--not since Cat's Meat died. He has -to hire his horse and cab now, and doesn't seem to make much profit -out of it. 'Bloodsuckers!' he says. 'I 'as ter give 'em back all I -earns--and that's wot they calls 'iring. Bloodsuckers!'” - -As they came down the hill by Dashwood's into High Wycombe, he ceased -talking, casting his eyes ahead. He thought it just possible that Cherry -and the Faun Man might have walked out to meet them. The guard was -sounding his horn in long flourishes. They were in the town now, passing -by the Market-place. Now the coach was drawing up before the hotel. No -one was there to watch them descend except the ostler and some idlers. -He hung about while the horses were taken out; every now and then he -stepped into the road, trying to make himself believe that, if he waited -long enough, he would see the girl with the red lips and gray eyes -hurrying down the street toward him. - -Harry came out. “Guessed wrong that time, didn't I? Come along in. We're -having lunch.” - -It was absurd, this anxiety that he felt--all out of proportion. And -yet it was always like that when he was going to meet her--it was always -like the first time. He never lost the thrill of choking gladness and -surprise. Each time he discovered something new in her of sweetness, -leaving him amazed at his former blindness. - -Harry was speaking to the golden woman. “So they're not coming?” - -She crouched her chin against her shoulder, gazing at him innocently and -wide-eyed. “Who?” - -“Why, my brother and Cherry. What's the secret? Look here, Eve, you -ought to tell us. I'm certain he sent a message--some sort of an -explanation.” - -“Are you?” She gave him a tantalizing smile; then turned to Peter. -“Peter shall know; perhaps before we reach London.” - -There was a low rumble, followed by a crash. The rain came smashing -against the panes. They pushed back their chairs and ran to look out. -In an incredibly short time streets were flooded; gutters were turbulent -with muddy rivers. Rain thudded against the pavement and sprayed up in -little fountains. - -“Doesn't look to me,” said Harry, “as though we'll ever get as far as -London.” - -“Got to,” said the golden woman. - -The deluge commenced to slacken, but the storm still hung above -the valley, moaning and grumbling. Rain swept like smoke across the -house-tops. - -Harry laughed. “Got to! You can't drive a four-inhand to London through -that. May as well make the best of it. We've to be back in Oxford before -midnight, or else----. Perhaps there's still time to do it. We'll give -it a chance.” - -Some of the party burst into the room. “I say, you chaps, we've -discovered a regular circus. Such a rum old cock! Come out and talk to -him!” - -The golden woman raised her head. “Why not bring him in here?” - -“But we didn't think you'd------.” - -She lifted her hands and let them fall despairingly. “You men! How -selfish you are, keeping everything that's vulgar to yourselves!” - -Scuffling sounded in the passage and a voice booming protests, “Not like -this! It ain't fitting. Not before a lady.” - -A red-faced sailor, in the loose blouse and baggy trousers of the -Royal Navy, was pushed through the doorway. In a deep bass voice he -immediately commenced to excuse himself. “Not my fault, miss.” He tugged -at an imaginary lock on his forehead. “I'm Mr. Taylor, I am--'ome on -a 'oliday, tryin' to find a nice gal wot'll appreciate my h'un-doubted -fine qualities.” - -The golden woman stretched back her neck, half-closed her eyes and -chuckled. “Are you sure you have any, Mr. Taylor?” - -The man fumbled at his cap. “Used to 'ave--used to sing terrible.” - -“Sing terribly for me now, won't you?” - -He struck an attitude, flattered by the request, and hitched up his -trousers. It was a ballad of betrayed maidenhood that he sang, solemn as -a dirge and intended to be hugely affecting. It told of the home-coming, -with her two babies, of a girl whose sweetheart had deserted her. It had -a chorus in which, with an unhappy wag of his head, the sailorman signed -to his audience to join: - - “Go ring those village bells, - - Let all the people know, - - It was on a dark and stormy night, - - One, two, three--perished in the snow.” - -When they came to the enumerating of precisely how many perished, they -stuck out their fingers three times. But some of them weren't content -with only three deaths in one family; they wanted to go on counting. -Then the sailorman would stop singing and reprove them gently, “You -know, young gen'lemen, that ain't right. It ain't fitting to joke on -death.” - -At last it occurred to him that something was amiss. “I'm afraid I'm -a-makin' a fool of meself.” - -“Don't mention it, Mr. Taylor,” they shouted. - -Their answer didn't reassure him, though they hurled it at him in -varying keys many times. He insisted on leaving, making his exit -backward because he had heard that a gentleman must always keep his face -toward a lady. - -The rain was over. The sky had a sorry look for having been petulant. -The sun, though he still refused to come out, hung golden ladders from -the clouds. They stepped into the street, gazing up and feeling the air -with their hands. - -“What about it?” asked Harry. - -“Why, of course we're going,” said the golden woman. Her eyes met -Peter's; they seemed to beg him not to call off, but to accompany her. -Why was she so insistent about getting him to London? Who was waiting -there? Why wouldn't she tell him anything about the Faun Man or Cherry? -He calculated how long the drive would take. They were not quite -half-way. If they continued the journey they'd barely catch that last -train back. Again he recognized the appeal in her eyes. - -“What about it? What do you say, Peter?” - -“I? Why, I'm game. I'm going.” - -Some of the men refused. The party was reduced to six when they started. - -What a wet clean world they entered! It had all been made new and, -somehow, tender. The spray of rain was still in the air; it swept -against their faces coolly, vanished unexplained, and touched them again -without warning. In meadows and tree-tops there was a continual muffled -patter, as of little unseen people treading softly. From the back seats -came bursts of laughter and snatches of song, mimicking Mr. Taylor's -impressive chorus: - - “It was on a dark and stormy night, - - One, two, three--perished in the snow.” - -The golden woman bent her head aside, “Tryin' to find a nice gal wot'll -appreciate my undoubted fine qualities! That's what all you men are -doing.” - -“Oh, I don't know.” - -“Yes, you are, from the minute you put on long trousers to the last -moment when you step into the grave. Men don't find her often; when they -do, as likely as not she doesn't want them.” - -“I know a little about that,” said Peter; “so does Lorie. Women aren't -very kind to the men who love them.” - -“Oh, aren't they!” She flicked at the leaders so that they leapt like -stags. “You're young; you need civilizing. You don't know nothin', as -that sailorman would say. How many marriages are made for love? They're -made because women are kind. Many a woman marries because she can listen -to a man talking all about himself without letting him see that she is -bored by it. Happiness is the only reality; and love--love's almost, -almost a delusion.” - -Peter looked at her quietly. She could say jaded things like that -when she was made so beautifully--when everyone turned to look after -her--when the finest man in the world would give his life to save her -from pain! What had God done with the years of her life? She never -looked any older. And she wasn't grateful. Perhaps, after all, Harry was -right--all her goodness had been put into the perfection of her body, -and her soul had suffered. - -She was aware that his eyes rested on her in judgment. She tried to -refrain from the impulse. Turning, she flashed on him a sudden smile. -“Too bad to say things like that to you--you who hope for so much from -life! What's the trouble?” - -“I was thinking.” - -“Thinking?” - -He spoke slowly, “That love only seems a delusion to people who refuse -to be loving.” - -A common-land sprang up; geese wandered across it. Evening was falling -early, washing colors from the landscape, blurring everything with its -watery light. The sky stooped near to earth, threatening to tumble, -monstrous with bulging clouds. - -They drew up at the inn at Gerrard's Cross. Peter climbed down to -stretch his legs while the horses were being changed. He found his -friends gathered about a timetable, peering over the shoulders of the -man who held it. - -“We're not going to manage it,” one was saying. “There's another storm -brewing. Besides, we're not making haste--going as leisurely as if we -had all the day before us. Nothing for it, we'll have to drop off and go -back by train.” - -“There's a train leaving here in half an hour,” said the man who held -the time-table. “I'm going to catch it. Getting sent down just before -your Finals isn't good enough.” Harry interrupted. “Before we decide -anything, we'd better go out and speak to her.” - -The case was explained to the golden woman. They were most awfully -sorry. It wasn't very gallant conduct on their part; but what other -choice had they? Wouldn't she leave the horses and the guard at the inn, -and come back with them to Oxford? Or could they see her on the train -to Paddington? Having told the guard to go on with the harnessing, she -listened to them quietly. When they had finished she said, “Peter and -I are going to drive to London. You're willing to take a chance, aren't -you, Peter?” - -He broke into his boyish laugh. “It'll be sport. I'll chance it.” - -As the coach moved off he turned and waved to the others, who stood -watching from the common. The guard from his back seat, raising the -horn, gave them a farewell flourish. In his heart of hearts Peter wished -that he were among them. But----. Well, the golden woman had a secret. -She was going to tell it to him. It had something to do with Cherry. And -it wouldn't have been decent to have left her to finish the drive -alone to London. He'd get the last train back from Paddington, barring -accidents. - -She was speaking to him. “That's better. At last we're alone together.” - -“Do you think we'll do it?” he asked. . - -“Do what?” - -“Get there in time.” - -She drew her brows together. “Peter, Peter, what does it matter? You -take life so seriously.” - -They laughed. - -“What are you going to do with it?” she asked. He looked puzzled. “With -life, I mean,” she added. - -“Don't know. It depends.” - -“On what?” - -“People,” he answered vaguely, taking care to avoid mentioning Cherry. -“I may travel for a year. Perhaps Kay will come with me. After that I'm -going into my father's business.” - -The golden woman's face became grave; beneath its gravity was a flame of -excitement. Her voice trembled and reached him softly. “That's not what -I meant. That's not doing anything with life. Those things are -incidents--externals. I meant, are you going to live life, or are you -going to miss everything? Life's an ocean, full of enduring, dotted with -a few islands. Are you going to be an explorer--or are you going to miss -everything?” - -Odd that she, of all persons, should have asked him that! He remembered -how Harry had said that she was a ship, always setting sail for new -lands and never coming to anchor. - -“An explorer! I'll first see the islands.” - -A strand of her hair broke loose and fluttered about her eyes. “I can't -put it back,” she said. “I wish you'd do it.” Her hands were occupied -with the reins. He leant across her. As his face came under hers, she -held her breath. To him it was nothing. The horses, feeling her hands go -slack, broke into a gallop; for a moment she lost control of them. When -she had quieted them, she turned to him impulsively, “Peter, you're a -darling.” Her eyes held his with an expression of appeal and challenge; -then faltered, as though they were afraid to look at him. - -Her excitement communicated itself. He was embarrassed. He didn't -understand. He guessed that she was in trouble and was asking for his -kindness. “Golden woman, how easily you and I say things like that. If -Cherry had said it to me, or if you had said it to the Faun Man, how -much more----.” - -She cut him short. “Don't.” - -They had traveled half a mile in silence, when she whispered, “It wasn't -easily said.” - -In the west, behind them, the sky began to burn. Little tongues of flame -licked the edges of black clouds. Mists writhed and drove across the -sinking sun. Peter stood up in his seat, looking back; it was a glimpse -of hell. He glanced ahead--everything over there was blackness. Trees -looked blasted; they bowed their heads. Roads and fields were empty. -There was no life, no color in the meadows. - -“We're in for it,” he said. - -Rain began to patter, softly at first. Wind was getting up and breathed -across the country in a long sigh. He spread a coat across the golden -woman's shoulders. She didn't thank him. Gathering the reins more firmly -in her hands, she whipped up the horses. - -Their heads were bent together. Behind them, out of ear-shot on the -back-seat, the guard huddled. She spoke. “We're going to be late. I -intended we should be late. I wanted to get rid of the others. I knew -that you'd stick by me.” - -And again she said, “You were talking of women not being kind.---- Men -aren't kind to the women who love them.” - -She had changed. Her face had sharpened out of its contentment. Usually -its expression was lazy and laughing, but now----. Pain had come into -it. It was intense and thin with purpose; it was purpose she had always -lacked. He tried to find a word for the new thing that he found in -her. Was it only the distortion that the storm was working? A flash of -lightning slit the heavens; it ripped the clouds like a red-hot blade. -A shattering crash! The dynamite of the gods exploding! Darkness came -down. Another flash! Trees leant forward, like fugitives with arms -extended. And she--her face was white and dominant. It looked beautiful -and Medusa-like--snakes of loosened hair blew about it. She no longer -crouched her head. She sat tall and defiant, the rain splashing down -on her. What strength she had in her hands! She held in the quivering -horses, speaking to them now harshly, now caressingly. They pricked up -their ears, listening for her voice. He found the word for the new thing -that had come to her. It was passion. - -“Come nearer. What did you mean when you told me you had guessed my -secret?” - -“The Faun Man----” - -She took him up. “Yes, Lorie--he and I had our first quarrel this -morning. We've both wasted our lives, waiting for something--something -that could never happen.” - -“Why never?” - -“Because I can't bring myself to--not in his way. He told me this -morning----. It doesn't matter what he told me. It hurt me to hear him -speak like that, so strongly and quietly and sadly. Lorie and I, we've -drifted--let life slip by. We've wakened; we're tired.” Then, like a -child, appealing against injustice. “He said I hadn't a heart--that -I was made of stone, not like other women. It's not true that I'm -different--is it, Peter?” And again, “Is it, Peter?” And then, “It hurt -to be blamed for not giving--giving what would be his to take, if he -were the right man.” - -“The right man! That's what Cherry says. How does a woman know who is -the right man?” - -She avoided a direct answer. “The right man is always born too late -or too early; or else he's wasting himself on someone who doesn't want -him.” - -It was a city of the dead that they were entering. Rain swept the -streets in sudden and vindictive volleys. Lamps shone weakly; some were -extinguished. Few people were about. At Ealing they halted for their -last change. - -“Won't be goin' any further?” the guard suggested. - -When he was informed to the contrary, he glanced up at the drenched -faces. He seemed to see a thing that startled him. “Blime!” While he -hurried the ostlers with the harnessing, he tried not to look at those -white patches in the dusk; his eyes returned to them, unwillingly -fascinated. When he had released the leaders' heads, he stepped back and -swung himself up behind as the coach lunged into the storm. - -There was barely time to reach Paddington. Peter calculated. If he -missed the train, the consequences would be grave. He asked the golden -woman to hurry. She listened, but made no attempt to quicken their pace. -She didn't seem at all disturbed by his dilemma. He almost suspected -her of holding in the horses. Too late to leave her now! As they trotted -through the premature night, he began to ask himself questions. Why had -she been so determined to finish the journey? Why had she shown such -eagerness to be alone with him? - -He leant forward. “Where's Lorie?” - -“In London.” - -“And Cherry?” - -She tossed her head impatiently, “With you, it's always Cherry.” - -“Well then, Lorie--is he going to meet us?” - -“If he does, what difference will it make?” - -“To me? Not much. But to you--you'll know then, and you'll be happy.” - -“Shall I?” - -Her indifference spurred him into earnestness. From differing points of -view, the golden woman and Cherry used the same arguments. If he could -convince her, he could perhaps convince Cherry. In fighting for the Faun -Man, it was his own battle he was fighting. - -“You don't know yourself, golden woman--you don't know his value. He's -become a habit--you'll miss him terribly. He's been too extravagant in -the giving of himself. He's made you selfish. If you were to lose him, -if suddenly from giving you everything, he were to give you nothing-----” - -Her voice reached him bitterly. “That's what he threatens--to starve me -after giving me everything. He didn't say it in those words, but----. -What do I care?” - -“You do care. You're caring now. All day long you've been caring. If he -isn't there to meet us----.” - -“I shall be glad.” - -“You won't.” He spoke eagerly. “You won't. To-night you may think you'll -be glad, but to-morrow--to-morrow you'll be without him. Just think, -you've kept him marking time all these years. He's expected and -expected. You've banked on him--felt safe because of him. You're -foolish. You can't cheat at the game of life--you can't even cheat -yourself; in the end you're bound to play fair.” - -She didn't answer. - -“You won't be glad if he's not there.” - -Silence. - -“Is he going to meet us?” - -“If he doesn't---- She went no further. - -“Will Cherry be there?” - -Her face flashed down on him, white and stabbing. “_Again_. Always -Cherry.” - -Later she whispered, “Forgive me, Peter.” - -Without a word, they passed through tunnels of muted houses. The sky -closed down on them. The rain drew a curtain about them. The slap of the -horses' hoofs upon the paving started echoes. Traffic slipped by them -spectrelike, as if moving in another world. Now it was between shuttered -shops of Regent Street that they trotted. At last Trafalgar Square, vast -and chaotic, a pagan temple from which the roof had fallen! - -They strained forward from the box, searching through the darkness. From -the entrance to The Métropole light streamed across the pavement. It was -the end of their journey. As the horn sounded, a man stepped out from -shelter. For a moment--but no; he had only been sent to take the coach -to the stables. As they clattered to a standstill, several guests came -out on to the steps of the hotel to watch them. The guard climbed down -and ran to the leaders' heads. No one was there to greet them--no one -who was familiar. - -She laughed high up, excitedly, “What did I tell you?” - -“Not there,” he agreed reluctantly; “neither of them.” She touched his -hand and caught her breath. “As I said--neither of them care. You -and I--we're still alone.” He was sorry for her, guessing her -disappointment. Had Lorie been there it would have spelt forgiveness. -Big Ben boomed ten. He started. “Hulloa! I'm dished. I can't get back.” - -“You're not going back? You don't want to leave me? Say you don't.” - -He was embarrassed. He didn't know what to make of her. She was on his -hands; he ought to be in Oxford. Evidently she had been harder hit than -she acknowledged. He tried to speak cheerfully. “Look here, it's time we -became sensible. That chap's waiting for us to scramble down--he wants -to take the horses. Let's go into the hotel. I'll engage a room for -you--high time you got those wet things off. Nice little mess we've made -of it! When I've seen you settled, I'll toddle off to Topbury and spend -the night with my people.” - -“Will you?” - -She glanced at him slantingly. To his immense surprise, she brought the -whip down smartly across the horses. As the leaders darted forward the -guard, taken unaware, was thrown off his balance. As Peter looked -back through the steaming mist, he saw him picking himself up from the -pavement, waving his arms and shouting. - -Utterly bewildered by her shifting moods, he turned to her, “You've left -that chap behind.---- I wish you'd tell me what the game is. I don't -want you to drive me to Topbury and, anyhow, the Embankment's all out of -the direction.” - -“I'm not driving you to Topbury, stupid.” - -He spoke more sternly, “Seriously, you must tell me. You've brought me -to London and--by Jove, I almost believe you tried to make me miss my -train. It isn't sporting. Why don't you turn back to The Métropole. I'll -get you a room and----.” - -“Too many people to see us,” she said shortly. - -He had only one means of stopping her--to catch hold of the reins. Too -risky! He gazed about him, wondering what to do. They were traversing -the Embankment--it was empty save for outcasts huddled on benches like -corpses. The night looked sodden. The river gleamed murkily. Lights on -bridges, hanging like chains, shone obscurely. - -She was mocking him in low caressing tones. “You don't want to leave me? -Say you don't.” - -The odd repetition of the question struck him. He had missed its first -significance. It couldn't be! He pressed nearer, peering into her -face. He caught the hungry pleading in her eyes--the mad defiance. “You -mean----? You never meant----. Eve, you're too good a woman.” - -She halted the horses, and gazed down on him smilingly. She shook -her head slowly, denying his assertion of her goodness. “You hadn't -guessed?” - -“Guessed!” He drew himself upright. The passion in her voice appalled -him. - -Her arms went about him; cold wet lips were pressing his mouth. “You -dear boy-man! You dear boy-man!” - -He thrust her from him. He was choking. Her lips--they scorched him. He -had seen in all women's faces the likeness to his mother's and Kay's. -But now----. - -A bedraggled creature, in tattered finery, with a broken plume nodding -evilly across her forehead, struggled from a bench, shuffled across -the pavement and whined up at him. He took no notice. He tried not -to believe what had been meant. Through their nervous silence trees -shuddered; the muffled skirmish of the rain thudded. - -The golden woman was watching him. A gleam of hatred in her eyes at -first--the reflection of his own loathing. Then, as pity replaced his -loathing, a look of horror spread. She sank her face in her hands; her -fingers locked and twisted. She looked like one who had become sane, and -remembered her madness. “What am I? What have I done?” She whispered the -questions over and over; the storm beat down upon her shoulders. He sat -like one turned to stone, not daring to touch her, powerless to put his -pity into words.---- And of this the bedraggled street-walker, whining -up from the pavement, was sole witness. - -A policeman tramped heavy-footed out of the distance. “'Ere you, none -o' that. 'Urry along.” This to the streetwalker. To the golden woman, -“H'anything the matter with the 'osses, me lady?” - -She came to herself. The street-walker was limping into the shadows. Her -eyes followed her with fascination. She felt for her purse; not finding -it, she commenced unfastening the brooch that was at her neck. Seeing -her intention, Peter put his hand in his pocket. She stayed him with an -impatient gesture. - -Calling to the woman, she leant down from the box and said something. - -The policeman waited stolidly. He repeated his question, “H'anything the -matter with the 'osses, me lady?” - -“No.” - -She swung the coach round. There was no explanation. - -Of that wild drive back through the night Peter saved but a blurred -remembrance. Scarcely a word was spoken--there was nothing that could be -said. After they had struck the open country, they went at a gallop most -of the journey. Every now and then they drew up at a darkened inn. -He climbed down from the box and hammered on a closed door. A window -opened. A rapid explanation. Grumbling. Sleepy men appeared, only partly -dressed, carrying lanterns. Horses were taken out and a fresh team -harnessed. As the dawn came up, pale and haggard, he saw her face; it -was hard-lipped and ashen. He would never forget it. Every year showed. -The golden hair had broken loose; it was the only young thing left. She -was no longer the golden woman; he drove that night beside the figure of -repentance. - -Hills taken cruelly at a gallop! Cocks crowing! Unawakened towns! The -waking country! He pieced her into his experience. What was it that -women wanted? To be married and not to be married? To accept the -flattery of being loved and not to return it? Riska, his Aunt Jehane, -Glory, Cherry--all the women he had known--they passed before him. He -tried to read their eyes. Their heads were bowed; all that he could -learn of them was the pathetic frailty of their bodies. - -Marching through the meadows came Oxford, its spires indomitably pointed -against the clouds. Now they were traveling the austere length of High -Street. At Carfax they turned. On Folly Bridge they drew up. - -She had brought him back. He wanted to say something generous. - -“Lorie, he loves you. If he asks you again----” - -She nodded. “If he asks me,” she said brokenly. - -He walked along the edge of the river, golden in the early summer's -morning, silver with mists curling from off it. He plunged in at a point -opposite the Calvary barge. As he swam, he looked back. From the coach, -high on the arch of the bridge, her eyes followed him. Just before he -landed, she raised the whip; the horses strained forward. - -Running through the meadows, he came to the wall which went about -Calvary, found a foothold and dropped safely over. After he had -undressed, he hid his dripping clothing. He was in bed and sleeping -soundly, when later in the morning his scout came to wake him. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII--AN UNFINISHED POEM - -Strong sunlight streamed across the foot of his bed. Below, in the -quad, he could hear the clatter of breakfast-dishes being cleared away. -Fumbling beneath his pillow, he pulled out his watch. Ten o'clock! Time -he dressed and got to work! Less than a fortnight till his Finals, and -he'd lost a day already! - -A sound of running on the stairs! Someone was entering his outer room. - -“Hulloa! I'm still in bed. Who is it?” - -The bedroom door flew open. Harry stood panting on the threshold, -holding a London paper in his hand. For all his haste, he didn't say -a word. He simply stared--stared rather weakly and stupidly, as though -he'd forgotten what he'd come about. His lips quivered. The twitching of -his fingers made the paper crackle. - -Peter raised himself on his elbow. “Got back all right, old man. Why--.” - He saw Harry's face clearly; it was drawn and ghastly. “Don't look like -that. What is it? For God's sake, tell me.” - -“Dead.” - -“Dead?” - -He threw back the clothes, leapt out and snatched the paper. Standing in -the sunlight he caught the head-line, TO SAVE OTHERS. His eyes skipped -the matter below it, gathering the sense: “At the crowded hour--in Hyde -Park yesterday afternoon--lost control of his horse, Satan--bolted to -where children were playing--swerved aside--rode purposely into an iron -fence--thrown and broke his neck.” - -The paper fell from his hand. He picked it up and reread it. Some -mistake! He wouldn't believe it. The Faun Man dead! He'd been so -brimming with life. Never again to hear his mandolin strumming! Never -again to hear his gallant laughter! To walk through the roses at -Tree-Tops--and he would not be there! - -Peter sat down on the edge of the bed, clenching his forehead in his -hands. The voice, the gestures, everything--everything that had been so -essentially the Faun Man he wanted to recall before he could forget. - - “If yer gal ain't all yer thought 'er - - And for everyfing yer've bought 'er - - She don't seem to care-----” - -He could see him bending over the strings slyly smiling. He had been of -such high courage that he could coin humor, out of his own unhappiness. - -Then, like a minor air played softly, “Lorie, he loves you. If he asks -you again---” and the golden woman's broken assent, “If he asks me.” - -She had kept him waiting too long. He had asked her for the last time -that morning. He couldn't ask her again, however much she desired -it--couldn't. She'd blamed him for his first neglect of her--had made it -an excuse for her own unfaithfulness. He hadn't met her. His neglect of -her had been simply that he was dead. - -Word came two days later--they had brought him home to Tree-Tops. That -evening Peter gained leave of absence. - -_Whitesheaves!_ The name was embroidered in geraniums on the velvet of -the close-cut turf. The train halted long enough for him to alight, then -pulled out puffing laboriously. It seemed an affront that people should -be journeying when across the fields the Faun Man lay, his journey -forever at an end. Only one other passenger got out--a young chap, in -flannels and a straw-hat, who was instantly embraced by a radiant-faced -girl. They sauntered arm-inarm to where a dog-cart was standing and -drove away into the evening stillness, their heads bent together, their -laughter floating back in snatches. - -Peter set out reluctantly by a short-cut through wheat-fields. He didn't -want to prove to himself that it had happened. He was trying to imagine -that he had come on one of his surprise visits. He would find the Faun -Man dreaming, sprawled like a lean hound in the twilight of the terraced -garden. - -The sun hung large and low in the west. A breeze swept the country with -a contented humming, bowing the heads of the corn. In the distance, -above Curious Corner, chiseled in the greenness of the hill the white -cross glistened. Through trees a spire shot up. Beneath boughs thatched -roofs of the village showed faintly. He rounded a bend; the house to -which he was going gazed down on him. It hadn't the look of a house of -death. Its windows shone valiantly above the pallor of the rose-garden, -out-staring the splendor of the fading west. - -He climbed the red-tiled path--came to the threshold. The door was -hospitably open. Like birds hopping in and out of a hedge, the breeze -and the fragrance of flowers came and went. He knocked. No one answered. -He tiptoed in. A breathless silence! Mounting the stairs, he came to the -door with the iron latch, which gave entrance to the Faun Man's bedroom. - -Flowers! He had always loved flowers. They were strewn on a bed -unnaturally white and unruffled. An unnatural peace was everywhere. The -sheet was turned back from the face; the brown slight hands stretched -straightly down. Each was held by a woman who knelt beside him with her -head bowed. The attitude of the women was tragic with jealousy. - -How long and graceful he looked in death! How gaunt and tired! All -the striving, the brave pretending, the famished yearning which he had -disguised showed plainly now. A smile hung about the corners of his -mouth--a little mocking perhaps, yet tender. A bruise was on his -forehead. He had the look of one who, having been puzzled, understood -life at last and was content. - -Peter felt that he had intruded. He had no right to stay there. Those -bowed heads reproached him. He felt what men often feel when death -is present: the body had been put out to usury; at the end of the -trafficking it belonged to women, as it had belonged to a woman before -the trafficking commenced. - -He wandered out into the garden. Twilight weakened into darkness. His -feet were always coming back to the window; he stood beneath it, looking -up to where she knelt. If it were only for a moment, surely she would -come to him. Again he entered. No stir of life in the house. He peered -into the bedroom. She had not moved since he left. - -Beyond her was the door which led into the Faun Man's study. Noiselessly -he stole across to it and raised the latch. - -The room was in darkness. Set against the open window was a desk. -Moonlight drifted in on it. A chair was pushed back from it. A pen lay -carelessly on the blotting-pad, waiting for the master to return. Here -it was possible to believe that the mind still lived and worked. - -A movement! He stretched out his hand. Someone rose. Into the shaft of -moonlight came the face of a man. “Oh--oh, it's you, Harry!” - -He struck a match and lit the lamp. They talked softly, in short -whispered sentences. On the floor, on tables, on chairs, books and -manuscripts lay scattered. The breeze blowing in at the window turned -pages, as though an invisible person were searching. A sheet of paper, -lying uppermost on the desk, fluttered across the room to where Harry -sat. He stooped, picked it up, ran his eye over it and handed it to -Peter. “The last thing he wrote. Thinking of her to the end.” - -Peter took it and read, - - “She came to me and the world was glad-- - - 'Twas winter, but hedges leapt white with May; - - With snow of flowers my fields were clad, - - Madly and merrily passed each day, - - And next day and next day-- - - While all around - - By others naught but the ice was found. - - 'O ungrateful heart, were you ever sad? - - She was coming to you from the first,' I said. - - She turned to me her eager head, - - Clutching at what my thoughts did say. - - “She went from me and the world was sad-- - - 'Twas spring-time and hedges were all a-sway; - - With snow of winter my fields were clad, - - Darkly and drearily passed each day, - - And next day and next day-- - - While all around - - By others naught but spring-buds were found. - - 'O foolish heart, were you ever glad? - - She was going from you from the first,' I said. - - She turned to me her eager head, - - Clutching at what my thoughts did say.” - -“Like his life--an unfinished poem.” Peter leant out to return it to -Harry, but found that he had fallen asleep in his chair. - -The lamp burnt itself out. The chill of dawn was in the air. Through the -window the sky was gathering color, like life coming back to the -cheeks of the dead. The door opened slowly. Stiff with long sitting he -staggered to his feet. “Cherry!” - -Pressing her finger against her lips, she motioned him to be silent. -Glancing at Harry she whispered, “The first sleep in two days, poor -fellow.” - -As he followed her across the dusk of the bed-chamber, a pool of gold -caught his attention; it glittered on the pillow by the face of the Faun -Man. The golden woman lay crouched like a pantheress beside the body, -her eyes half-shut and heavy with watching. - -In the pallor of the rose-garden Cherry halted. She gave him both her -hands. “We can never be more to one another. Since this--I'm quite -certain now. I always wanted to be only friends.” - -The heart of the waking world stopped beating. His hope was ended. -Clasping her hands against his breast, he drew her to him. She gave him -her cold lips. “For the last time.” She turned. He heard her slow feet -trailing up the stairs. - -As he walked to the station through rustling wheat-fields the sun lifted -up his scarlet head, shaking free his hair, like a diver coming to the -surface at the end of a long plunge. Birds rose singing out of corn -and hedges, proclaiming that another summer's day had commenced. But -Peter--he heard nothing, saw nothing of the gladness. He saw only the -final jest--the smile, half-mocking, half-tender, that hung about the -Faun Man's mouth; and he heard Cherry's words, “I always wanted to be -only friends.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV--IN SEARCH OF YOUNGNESS - -To you I owns h'up; I 'as me little failin's, especially since Cat's -Meat------He could never mention Cat's Meat without wiping his eyes. -“But if I 'as me little failin's, that ain't no reason for callin' me -Judas His Chariot and h'other scripture nimes. She's a dustpot, that's -wot she is, my darter Grice.” - -“A what?” asked Peter. - -Mr. Grice was surprised that a man just down from Oxford shouldn't know -the word; he was flattered to find himself in a position to explain. - -“A dustpot,” he repeated. “That means a child wot sits on 'er father's -'ead.” - -“Oh, a despot!” - -Mr. Grace had learnt to be patient under correction. “Now, Master Peter, -ain't that wot I said? I sez, 'She's a dustpot'; then you sez, 'Oh, a -dustpot!' 'Owever yer calls it, that's wot I calls 'er.” - -They were sitting in an empty cab in the stable from which Mr. Grice -hired his conveyance. Peter touched the old man's hand affectionately. -“I've been wondering--thinking about you. You know, I'm going traveling -with Kay. My friend, the Faun Man, left me a thousand pounds to buy what -he called 'a year of youngness.' He was great on youngness, was the Faun -Man.” - -Mr. Grace nodded. His eyes twinkled. “Remember that night, Peter, and -the song 'e made h'up about yer? - - 'Oh, Peter wuz 'is nime, - - So Peterish wuz 'e, - - 'E wept the sun's h'eye back agen, - - Lest 'e should never see.' - -H'I orften 'um it ter the 'osses when h'I'm a-groomin' of 'em. Sorter -soothes 'em--maikes 'em stand quiet.” - -“I remember,” said Peter; “but here's what I was going to say: you -hav'n't had an awful lot of youngness in your life and yet you're--how -old, Mr. Grace? Seventy? I should have guessed sixty. Well, it doesn't -seem fair that I----.” - -“Nar then, Master Peter! H'it's fair enough. Don't you go a-wastin' o' -yer h'imagination. I don't need no pityin'.” - -“But it doesn't seem fair, really; so I'm going to make you an offer--a -very queer offer. How'd you like to live in the country and get away -from Grace?” - -“'Ow'd I like it? 'Ow'd a fly like ter git h'out o' the treacle? 'Ow'd a -dawg like ter find 'isself rid o' fleas? 'Ow'd a----? Gawd bless me -soul--meanin' no prefanity --wot a bloomin' silly quesching!” He paused -reflectively. “But a dawg, Master Peter, gits sorter useter 'is fleas, -and a fly might kinder miss the treacle. H'I'd like it well enough; but -if there warn't nothink ter taik me thoughts h'orf o' meself, I'd feel -lonesome wivout 'er naggin'.” - -Peter laughed. “I'll give you something to do with your thoughts. My -Uncle Ocky----.” - -Mr. Grace woke up, turned ponderously and surveyed Peter. “That's h'it, -is h'it? That awright. Rum old card, yer uncle! H'I never fancied -as h'I'd let h'anyone taik the plaice wot Cat's Meat 'eld in me -h'affections. 'E 'as. Tells me h'all 'is troubles, 'e does. Life's -gone 'ard wiv 'im since Mr. Widder sent 'im packin.' My fault--I'm not -denyin' h'it. We 'as our glass tergether and we both 'ates wimmen--or -sez we does. 'E borrers a bit from me nar and then. Mr. Waffles and me -is good pals--we 'as lots in common. You, for h'instance.” - -Peter inquired from Mr. Grace where he would be likeliest to find his -uncle. - -“Likeliest! H'if yer puts it that waie, h'I should saie yer'd be -likeliest ter find 'im in a pub.” - -Out of the tail of his eye Ocky saw Peter entering. - -“Horrid stuff,” he said loudly; then in a whisper to the barmaid, “Give -me another three penn'orth.---- Why, hulloa, old son!” - -Peter led him into a private room and said he'd pay for it. “D'you -remember that night at the Trocadero--you know, when Glory was with us. -I told you what I'd do for you if I ever had money. Suppose I could give -you a chance to pull straight, what would you do with it?” - -Tears came into Ocky's eyes; he'd grown unused to kindness. “Is it -the truth you're wanting, Peter?---- If you gave me the chance to pull -straight, I'd do what I've always done--mess it.” - -Peter shook his head incredulously and smiled. “Don't believe you. You'd -pull straight fast enough if you knew that anyone cared for you.” - -“No one does, except you, Peter.” - -“Oh yes, there's someone--someone whom you and I, yes, and I believe all -of us, are always forgetting.” - -[Illustration: 0457] - -Ocky looked up slowly. “You mean Glory.” He leant across the table, -tapping with his trembling fingers. “Know why I went to hell?--it sounds -weak to say it. I went to hell because I had no woman to hold me back -with love. If I could have Glory---. But she'll be thinking of marrying. -I've spoilt her chances enough already.” - -“If you could have Glory,” Peter insisted, “and if you were to have, -say, five hundred pounds, what would you do then?” - -“The truth again?” - -“Nothing else would be of any use, would it?” - -“If I had five hundred pounds and Glory, I'd move into the country and -buy a pub. I've lived to be over fifty, I've learnt only one bit of -knowledge from life.” - -“What is it?” - -Ocky flushed. “To you I'm ashamed to say it.” - -“Never mind. Say it.” - -Ocky twirled his mustaches, covering his confusion, “To know good beer -when I taste it.” - -Peter leant back laughing, “That's something to start on, isn't it?” - -Next day he told Glory, “They're willing--both of 'em.” - -In searching the papers for advertisements, he came upon an -announcement. - -_Near Henley, The Winged Thrush. Comfortable riverside hostelry; -pleasantly situated; suitable for artist or poet, desirous of combining -lucrative business with pleasure, etc. A bargain. Reason for selling, -going to Australia._ - -He remembered--that last night of the regatta, the sun-swept morning, -the glittering river, and the breakfast in the arbor with Cherry. - -The purchase was arranged. Ocky, Glory and Mr. Grace went down to see -the place. Mr. Grace was to look after the 'osses--if there were any; if -there weren't, he was to help in serving customers. For a reason which -he would not explain, Peter refused to accompany them on their tour of -inspection. - -During those last days, before he and Kay set out on their year of -youngness, he saw Glory often. From her he learnt of Riska and her many -love-affairs; how they always fell short of marriage because she carried -on two at once or because of the deceit concerning her father. She was -getting desperate; she had been taught that the sole purpose of -her being was to catch a man--so far she had failed. She still had -hope--there was Hardcastle. In a sly way, she saw a good deal of him. -Exactly how and where, she had pledged Glory not to divulge. - -And Peter learnt of Eustace. Eustace had gone to Canada, to take up -farming with money lent by Barrington. Jehane, with her tragic knack of -hanging her expectations on loosened nails, boasted that Eustace was -to be her salvation. Perhaps he was careless, perhaps he had gained -a distaste for the atmosphere of falsity which had formed his home -environment; in any case, he wrote more and more rarely, and showed less -and less desire for his mother to join him as the period of his absence -lengthened. Jehane, as she had done with his father before him, invented -good news when good news was lacking, bolstering her pride in public. -Her children, despite her sacrifices for them, watched her with judging -eyes and, directly they arrived at a reasoning age, began to detect her -hollowness. Eustace was gone. Glory was going. Riska, failing another -accident, would soon be married to Hardcastle. Only Moggs, Ma's Left -Over as they had called her because of her tininess, remained. She was a -child of twelve, submissive in her ways, colorless in character and with -Ocky's weak affectionateness of temperament. - -It was the morning of Kay's and Peter's departure. During breakfast, the -last meal together, Barrington had sat looking at the landscape by Cuyp, -as he always did in moments of crisis. The cab was at the door; the -luggage had been carried out. The adventure in search of youngness had -all but begun. The door bell rang and the knocker sounded. A telegram -was handed in. Barrington opened it--glanced at the signature. “Ah, from -Jehane!” - -As he read it, his face grew grave. He passed it to Nan and led Peter -aside. “Don't tell Kay. It's about Riska. She's run off with that fellow -Hardcastle. Whether she's married to him or----. It doesn't say.” - -His own rendering of the situation was plain--“Ripe fruit, ready to fall -to the ground.” - -They entered the cab, driving into the great worldwideness. And Riska, -with her impatient mouth and pretty face, she also, in her stormy way, -had gone in quest of youngness. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV--LOVE KNOCKS AT KAY'S DOOR - -The castle stood like a gleaming skull, balancing on the edge of a -precipice. The centuries had picked it clean. Through empty sockets, -about which moss gathered, it watched white wings of shipping flit -mothlike across the blue waters of the Gulf of Spezia. It had been the -terror of sailors once--a stronghold of pirates, Saracens and Genoese, -fierce men who had built the hunchback town that huddled against the -rocks behind it. Now it was nothing but a crumbling shell, picturesque -and meaningless save to tourists and artists. The tourists came because -Byron had written _The Corsair_ in its shadow, and the artists----. - -One of them had left his canvas on an easel in a broken archway. Kay -tripped across and looked at it--a wild piece of composition, all white -and green and orange, splashed in with vigor, with the fierce Italian -sky above it. It interpreted the spirit of the place--its loneliness, -its lawless past, its brooding sense of unsatisfied passion. She turned -away, awed by its power, a little frightened by its intensity. It made -her feel that, from behind tumbled mastery, eyes were gazing at her. -Climbing the splintered tower, she watched the sunset. In the great -stillness she could hear stones dropping down the sheer cliff into the -racing tide beneath. - -She had forgotten how time was passing. That low bass humming! It was -the voice of the sea; it seemed as though the sun's voice spoke to -her. Across the blue of the Mediterranean a golden track led up to the -horizon. At its end a fiery disc hung, like a gong against which the -waves tapped gently. - -It had been a tumultuous day--a day of excited fears, winged hopes and -strategies. Harry was coming. Peter had received the astounding telegram -that morning. - -“Queer chap! This was sent off from Genoa. He's almost here by now. Why -on earth didn't he let us know earlier?” - -Why hadn't he? Kay knew--because, if he had, there would have been still -time for her to turn him back. The persistent mouth-organ boy, he was -always quite certain that he had only to make up his mind and he'd get -his desire. She didn't like him any the less for that, but----. - -No, she wouldn't be there to meet him. She had excused herself to Peter -and had accompanied him to the sun-baked pier, at which the steamer -called on its way from Lerici to Spezia. She had waved and waved till he -was nearly out of sight--then she had fled. - -Why? She couldn't say--couldn't say exactly, but very nearly. She -had forbidden her mouth-organ boy to come--and he was coming. She was -secretly elated to find herself defied. After all, she didn't own Italy, -and----. But Harry wasn't making the journey to see Italy, nor to see -Peter. She was well aware of that--Peter wasn't. - -So she had persuaded one of her fishermen friends to sail her across the -gulf to Porto Venere. Down there in the sleepy harbor he was waiting, -his brown eyes lazily watching, his ear-rings glittering, his fingers -rolling cigarettes, not at all perturbed but wondering, with a shrug of -his shoulders, why she so long delayed. - -And Harry, he too would be wondering, thinking her unkind. Peter had -probably brought him back to San Terenzo by now. They would have been on -the lookout for her directly the steamer rounded the cypressed headland. -When they hadn't found her on the pier, they would have made haste to -the yellow villa in which they lived, which had been Shelley's. And -again, they hadn't found her. She could imagine it all--just what had -happened: Peter's discreet apologies, and Harry's amused suspicion that -he was being punished. His laughter--she could imagine that as well; he -always laughed when he was hurt or annoyed. - -Kay clasped her hands. It was rotten of her not to go to him. All day -she had wanted to be with him. He had traveled all the way from London -to get a glimpse of her. And yet, knowing that, she sat on in the ruined -castle, while the reluctant day, like a naughty child at bed-time, -saffron skirts held high, stepped lingeringly down the purple hills, -keeping the sun waiting. - -She was trying to arrive at a conclusion. To Peter she was -everything--more than ever this past year had taught her that. He made -no plans for the future in which she was not to share. It was just as it -had been when they were girl and boy--he seemed to take it for granted -that they were always to live together. The thought that she should -marry never entered his head. Save for the mouth-organ boy, it would not -have entered hers. - -But the mouth-organ boy! Long ago, when she couldn't see him, she had -heard him playing in the tree-tops. It was something like that now. -Since she had left England, his letters had followed her. Sometimes -she hadn't answered them. Sometimes she had answered them casually. -Sometimes she had had fits of contrition and had written him -volumes--compact histories of her thoughts and doings. It made no -difference whether she was punctual or neglectful; like a familiar -friend in unfamiliar places, his handwriting was always ahead of her -travels, waiting to greet her. - -“What does he say?” Peter would ask her. - -Then she would read him carefully edited extracts--nice polite -information, entirely innocuous. Peter hadn't guessed. He mustn't. - -How preposterous it had seemed when Harry had first written her that he -loved her! She hadn't regarded him in the aspect of a lover--didn't want -to. It had seemed almost treachery to Peter. But now----. Now it didn't -seem at all preposterous--only wonderful, and true, and puzzling. - -How long ago was it? Eight months since he had told her. She had been a -child then--seventeen, with cornflower eyes and blowy daffodil hair. The -knowledge that she was loved had startled her into womanhood. - -She ought to be getting back. But Peter, Peter from whom she had no -secrets, didn't know. She dared not tell him--and Harry was there. Peter -had given her so much--this year of romance; and yet, with all his -giving----. - -He might give her his whole life; he couldn't give her this different -thing that Harry offered. - -She rose to go. Her attention was arrested. It couldn't be! Gazing -sheer down, she leant out across the broken parapet. In the racing tide, -through its treacherous whirlpools, a man was swimming. She could see -his reddish hair and beard shine as they caught the sunset. As he lunged -forward, they sank beneath the surface. She held her breath. - -He was keeping near in to the rocks--so near that, had she dropped a -stone, it would have struck him. With all his fighting, he was making -little progress. It was too far to the town to run for help--moreover, -none of the fishing-boats ever ventured there. She wanted to cry out -encouragement; she feared to distract him from his effort. Now, in -rounding a bend, he was lost to sight. Ah! There he was again. She saw -where he was going--to the weather-beaten steps which wound down the -precipice. He stretched out his hand and pulled himself up, dragging -his body across the rocks like a fly which had been all but drowned. He -stood up, white and magnificent, squeezing the water from his beard -and hair. As he commenced to climb the stair in the cliff-front, he -vanished. - -She couldn't go now. Her curiosity was roused. What kind of a man could -be so foolhardy as to do a thing like that? Drawing back into the shadow -of the tower, she waited. - -Whistling--faint at first! It was a gay little Neapolitan air. Singing -for a stave or two! It broke off--the whistling took up the air. Gulls -flew up, circling and screaming. Above the moldering ramparts, red and -gold against the red and gold of the sunset, came the valiant head of -a man who might have been the last of the pirates. His eyes shone -like blue fire. The wind was in his beard and hair. When he had lifted -himself on to the wall, he stood there, on the very edge, looking back -perilously. He was of extraordinary height and strength. The teeth, -through which he whistled, were strong and white--everything about him -was powerful, his hands, his shoulders, his courageous face. He seemed -a survival of ancient deity--a sea-god who, thinking himself unobserved, -had landed at the spot where, centuries ago, Venus had been worshiped -by a forgotten world. He looked solitary and irresponsible--a law to -himself. Because of his size and the remoteness of the place, Kay was -filled with lonely terror. - -He walked slowly over to the easel in the broken archway. He was -bare-armed and bare-footed; his shirt was collarless and turned back at -the neck. Still whistling, he picked up the palette, pushed his thumb -through it, glanced across his shoulder seaward and commenced touching -in streaks of color. He worked carelessly, yet with rapid intensity. -Sometimes he left ofif whistling, stepped back from the canvas, his -head on one side, and surveyed his handiwork. The light was failings Kay -prayed that he had finished--but no. Driven to desperation, she thought -she could creep by him. Harry and Peter would be getting nervous. - -She had drawn level with him. A stone turned beneath her foot. His head -twisted sharply. She commenced to run. Glancing back, she saw his eyes -following--he was laying down his brushes and palette. In her panic, she -had chosen the wrong direction; a wall rose in front, blocking her exit. -He was coming--she could hear his bare feet overtaking her. She climbed -the wall; below lay the sea, now orange, now sullen in patches. There -was no way of escape; she looked down. The space made her dizzy; she -groped with her hands as if to push back the distance. She felt like a -bird with its wings folded, falling, falling. Everything had gone black. - -For a moment she was held out above the sea, her flight arrested. Blue -eyes bent over her laughing. She was swung back. She found herself lying -on the sun-scorched turf. The man was kneeling beside her, chafing her -hands and forehead. Her faintness left her. As she gazed up at him, -he smiled and said something in an unintelligible language. She sat up -bewildered, trying to appear brave. “I'm--I'm all right, thank you. I'll -go now.” - -“Ah, a little English girl!” His voice was deep and pleasant. - -She surveyed him with growing confidence. How concerned and gentle he -was for so large a creature! She scrambled to her feet. He was quick to -take her hand, but she withdrew it from him. “I'm really all right. It -was only dizziness. Good-by, Mr.--Mr. Neptune.” - -“Mr. Neptune!” He plucked at his red beard and planted himself in front -of her. His eyes twinkled. “Strange little English girl, why do you call -me that?” - -“Because you came out of the sea. And d'you know, before I go I want -to tell you--I was awfully afraid you'd get drowned. Do you always swim -when you come to the castle?” - -Mr. Neptune placed his hands on her slight shoulders. They were large -and masterful hands, barbaric with vivid smudges of the colors he had -been using. She was conscious that, in his artist's way, he was looking -not so much at her as at her body. - -“Always swim to the castle! No. It was the first time. Your poet, Byron, -was the last to do it. Thought I'd try just for sport, as you English -call it.” - -“I wouldn't do it again,” she said wisely; “and now I must really go.” - -He didn't budge from her path. She waited. He regarded her with -amusement. “Going! Not till you've promised to let me paint your -portrait.” - -Kay was astounded and--yes, and flattered. He might be a great artist; -he had the air of a man who was important. But she was more frightened -than flattered: he looked so huge standing there in the yellow twilight. - -“Please, please,” she said, “you must let me go. My brother's waiting -for me and he'll be nervous.” - -He made no sign that he had heard, but gazed down at her intently with -his bare arms folded. She hesitated. A sob rose in her throat. “Why--why -should you want to paint me?” - -“Because,” he said, “you are beautiful. What is beautiful dies, but I--I -make it last for always.” Then, in a gentler voice, “Because, little -English girl, if I don't paint you, we may never meet again.” - -It was the way in which he said it--the thrilling sadness of his -tone. She felt that she was flushing, and laughed to disguise her -embarrassment. “But, Mr. Neptune, I've thanked you and--and it was -your fault that we met--and isn't it rather rude of you to prevent me -from----?” - -“No,” he spoke deliberately, “not rude. You're adorable--too good to -die. I want to make you live forever. If I were Mr. Neptune, d'you know -what I'd do? I'd swim off with you, earth-maiden.” - -Her words came quickly; she was afraid of what he might say or do. “I -promise. You shall paint me.” - -She tried to pass him. He put his arm before her as a barrier. His -eyes flashed down on her, gladly and gravely. “When the English promise -anything, they shake hands on it. Is that not so?” - -She slipped her small hand into his great one. She heard a footstep -behind; it was her fisherman who had at last come in search of her. She -nodded to let him know that she was coming. Now that she was not alone, -she lost her fear of the giant. She became interested in him. She almost -liked him. - -“Where will you paint me?” she asked. - -“Here, against the sky. It's the color of your eyes. We're going to -be friends--is it so?” He stepped aside. “Then, little English girl, -good-night.” - -As she passed under the broken archway, she turned and waved. His blue -eyes still followed her through the yellow twilight. - -Down through the hunchback town she went. Its streets were deformed, -steeply descending, scarcely more than a yard wide. It was eloquent with -memories of unrecorded fights, in which a handful had held Porto Venere -against armies. Beneath its close-packed roofs it was already night. -Before little shrines in the walls candles glistened. Sailor-men, -with gaudy sashes round their waists, bowed their heads and crossed -themselves reverently as they passed. In crooked doorways mothers sat -suckling their babies--madonnas with the oval faces and kind eyes that -Raphael loved to paint. To them the mystery of love was divulged; many -of them no older than Kay. - -After her great fear she was strangely elated. She had seen admiration -in a man's eyes. “Why should you want to paint me?” She could hear his -deep voice replying, “Because you are beautiful.” Then came the wistful -knowledge of life's brevity, “What is beautiful dies.” She had never -thought of that--that she and Harry and Peter, and all this world which -was hers to-day must die. The old town with its defaced magnificence, -its battered heraldry, its generations of lover-adventurers who had -left not even their names behind them--everything reminded her, “What -is beautiful dies.” She was consumed with a desire she had never known -before--to experience the rage of life. - -Why was it? What had made her waken? Was it contact with a primitive and -virile personality? She had gained a new understanding of manhood. Would -Harry be like that, if he lived to-day as though it were a thousand -years ago? - -She stepped into the boat, curling herself in the prow among nets where -she would be out of the way of the sail. Darkness was stealing across -the sky, a monstrous shadow-bird whose wings roofed in the gulf from -shore to shore. The sail began to bulge; the boat lay over on its side. -Outlines of wooded hills grew vague. To the north Spezia lay, a blazing -jewel. At the mast-heads of anchored men-of-war lanterns twinkled -faintly. She trailed her hand, watching how the water ran phosphorescent -through her fingers. A fisher-boat crept out of the dusk. A guitar was -being played. A man's voice and a girl's, singing full-throatedly! They -faded voluptuously into silence. - -“Because you are beautiful.” Her young heart beat flutteringly. Had -others thought it and been afraid to tell her? She leant back her head; -stars gazed down on her, approvingly and placid-eyed. All sounds and -sights were touched with poetry. The whole of life before her! Peter and -Harry waiting! So much of youth to spend; so many choices! Yet, only one -choice--Peter. - -A voice hailed her. “Hulloa! Is that you, Kay?” - -So soon! She sat up. San Terenzo with its golden eyes! On the crazy quay -she made out two blurs of white. - -“Yes, Peter, it's Kay. Is Harry with you?” - -Before the boat had stopped, as it nosed its way along the side, Harry -leapt in. “At last! It's you.” - -His voice was strained and impetuous. For eight months he had waited; he -had been kept waiting an extra day--the longest of them all. - -“Hush!” she whispered. “Peter---- I've told him nothing. You shouldn't -have come, Harry; you really shouldn't.” - -She took a hand of each as they helped her to land. Walking back to the -villa, she gave them laughing glimpses of her adventure, “So it's -not such a bad day's work; he's going to make me live forever in a -portrait.” - -Good-nights had been said. From her window Kay had seen the lights blown -out in other bedrooms. The fishing-village, fringing the shore, had been -in darkness for two hours. She leant out, gazing across the bay to where -the headland of Lerici curved in like a horn. Life--that was what she -thought about. It was in this very room that Shelley had wakened and -recognized the cowled figure of his soul, and had heard it question, -“Art thou satisfied?” It was the same question that she asked herself. - -A knock upon the door! She started from the window and looked back. It -came again, so lightly that it seemed to say, “Only you and I are meant -to hear me.” - -She threw a wrapper about her; her long bright hair fell shining across -her shoulders. It might be Peter. Again it came. - -On the threshold Harry was standing. - -“Let me speak to you.” - -She hesitated. - -“You gave me no chance to say anything. Am I to stay or--or to go -to-morrow?” - -He ought to go. She knew that. And yet----. - -“I can wait, Kay. Though you send me away, I shall wait forever for -you.” - -She was sorry for him--and more than sorry. This pleading of the living -voice was different--so different from the pleading of letters. Dimly -she heard within herself the echo of his clamor stirring. - -“Dear Harry, I want you to stay--but to stay just as you were always.” - -He caught his breath. It was almost as though he laughed in the -darkness. “It was always as it is now. You didn't know; it began that -first day when I fought Peter, showing off like a boy. So if it's to be -as it was always-----.” - -He looked so lonely standing there. He oughtn't to be sad with her--it -hurt; they'd always been glad together. She took his hands tremblingly, -“Stay and be--be the mouth-organ boy. We'll have such good times, Harry, -we three together. Don't be my--anything else. I'm too young for that, -and---- - -“And?” - -“Peter hasn't learnt to do without me. Lorie was the same with you--you -understand. So Harry, promise me that you won't let Peter know--won't do -anything to make him know, or to make him unhappy.” - -He put his arms about the narrow shoulders, stooping his head. “Trust -me.” - -She leant her face aside sharply. “Not on my lips. They're for the man I -marry.” - -“But one day I----.” - -She freed herself from him gently. “Neither of us can tell.” - -In the days that followed, when they walked and swam and sailed -together, Harry recognized what Kay had meant when she said that Peter -hadn't learnt to do without her. With the end of his hope of Cherry, all -his affections had flown homeward and had concentrated on the love of -his sister. It seemed as though he made an effort to find her sufficient -for his heart's cravings. To all other women his eyes were blind. The -thought that any other woman should come into his life seemed never to -occur to him. - -Glory--she wrote to him, as Harry had written to Kay, with conscientious -regularity. But he read her letters aloud, obviously without editing; -they were serious letters like her eyes, searching and quiet, with a -hint of need behind them, and with bursts of fun when she told of the -struggles of her stepfather and Mr. Grace to run The Winged Thrust both -genially and for profit. - -And the man who lived to-day as though it were a thousand years ago--a -week after Kay had first met him, they sailed across the gulf to -discover him. They found him in the castle painting. - -“Ha! The little English girl!” - -He threw down his brushes and came toward her with his arms extended. He -gathered her hands together into his own and bent over her intently with -his eyes of blue fire, “I thought I'd lost my earth-maiden.” - -That was all. So long as Harry and Peter were present he was no more -than a shaggy artist, a little self-important, a little shy. When they -had walked off to explore the town it was different. - -He picked her up as though she were a child, and sat her on the broken -wall, where the blue sea swept behind her shoulders and the white clouds -raced through her corn-colored hair. For a while he was utterly silent, -touching in sketches of her, testing various poses. The smell of wild -thyme mingled with that of flowers, fermenting in the sunshine. From far -below the wash of waves rose coolly. - -Presently he spoke. “You stopped a long while away. Every day I've been -here watching for you. I don't often watch for anybody. If people don't -come----,” he snapped his fingers, “I begin again. I begin with someone -who won't keep me waiting.” - -His egotism seemed not conceit, but justified consciousness of power. -Kay was beginning to explain; he cut in upon her. “It's all right. For -you I'd wait till--oh, till there wasn't any castle--till it was all -swept into the sea by rain. But only for you--for other people life's -too short.” He stopped sketching and looked up at her. “Little English -girl, life is very short. Phew!” He blew out his cheeks. “Like that, and -you are old. All the lovers are gone. No one cares whether you live or -die. With us men it's the same, only we--we search for the great secret. -You have it in your face. There's so much to do; it's not kind to keep -us waiting.” - -“The great secret! What is it?” - -He appeared to take no notice of her question. Picking up his pencil, he -went back to his sketching. Then, while he worked, glancing occasionally -to her face where the radiance of the sunshine fell against her profile, -“The great secret! It's hard to say. It's why we're here, and from where -we come, and where we go. It's the knowledge of life and the meaning -of death; it's everything that we call beauty. I see it in your face. I -paint it. How it came there, neither you nor I can say.” - -Next day he set to work on canvas. The picture grew. It wasn't for -the picture that Kay went to him; it was for the things he said in the -loneliness, lifted high between the waste of tossing sea and restless -sky. He set her thinking; he made life more glad, more eager and, -because of its mystery, more poignant. The great secret! He didn't hope -to find it; but he told her of the men who had sought. - -In telling her, he brought the soul into her eyes and set it down on -canvas. A young girl with blowy hair, perched among things ancient, her -white hands folded, patient for the future, with the pain of joy in her -wide child's eyes! That was what he painted. - -And she--she was stirred by him. He gave her the freedom of his mind. -He treated her as a woman, teaching her knowledge and the sorrow of -knowledge--from all suspicion of which she had been guarded. She was as -much repelled as attracted by him; through him she learnt to love Harry. -She began to understand the suffering of love that is kept hungry. She -began to understand its urgency. At last she understood that such love -as Harry brought her must always stand first, sacrificing every other -affection. It was this that gave pain to her joy. - -One day in early June, the man laid aside his brushes. “The last touch. -It's finished.” - -He lifted her down very gently and watched her as she stood before it. -Clasping and unclasping her hands, she gazed at her own reflection with -an odd mixture of wonder and ecstacy. “But--but it's beautiful.” - -He put his arm about her shoulder, speaking softly, “And so are you.” - -“But not so beautiful.” - -“More. I couldn't paint your voice.” - -She stretched out her hands toward it. “Oh, I wish--I wish I could have -it.” - -He tilted up her face. “Little English girl, it's yours. I did it for -you. You'll know now how you looked when your beauty dies.” - -Tears came. It was like the world complaining against God's injustice. -“But I don't want it to die.” - -He drew her head against him. “Kay--what an English name! Little Kay, -one thing will keep it alive.” She waited. “The great secret,” he -whispered; “it lies behind all life. For other people your beauty will -have vanished; a man who loves you will always see it.” - -Before she was aware, he had touched her lips. If was as though he had -stained her purity. - -On the sail back to San Terenzo, as the darkness drew about them, she -crept closer to Harry. He felt her hand groping for his own. “Kiddy, -you're burning--as hot as a coal. What is it? A touch of fever?” - -She spoke chokingly. “Harry, my lips. They're yours.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI--THE ANGEL WHISTLES - -It was the longest day in June. The room was stifling, filled with -greenish light which fell in stripes through the slats of the closed -shutters. On the tiled floor water had been sprinkled. Walls were -stripped bare. A sheet, dipped in disinfectants, was pinned across the -open door. On the other side sat the nun who had come to act as nurse. -She sympathized with the jealousy that kept them always at the bedside -and only intruded when she was sent for, or to give the medicines. This -desperate clinging of flesh to flesh while the soul was outgrowing -the body--how often she had watched it! She could not speak their -language--didn't understand anything but the quivering tenderness of -what was said. She was a little in awe of these two young Englishmen who -seemed so angry with God, and who sat day and night guarding the dying -girl lest, in an unheeded moment, God should snatch her from them. -Reckless of contagion, they bent above the pillow where the flushed face -tossed between the plaits of daffodil hair. - -The fight was unequal; it couldn't last much longer. It had been going -on for a week. Had they known in time that it was typhoid----. By -the time they knew it was too late for her to be removed. The -fishing-village had none of the necessities of nursing; the doctor had -to come from Spezia. - -Someone had to go for him at this moment; she had had a relapse. Harry -looked at Peter. “I'll go.” He spoke quietly, knowing that she might not -be there when he returned. - -Peter touched Kay's hand, attempting the cheerfulness which they had -feigned from the first, hoping that it might deceive even Death. - -“Kitten Kay.” - -She opened her eyes. She had gone back years as her strength had failed. -She spoke as she looked, like a slight child-girl far distant from -womanhood. - -“Belovedest?” - -They had been crowding the gentleness of a full life into the words -exchanged in those few days. - -He started to speak; choked and had to start afresh. - -“Harry's off to Spezia to fetch the doctor--the man who's going to make -you well.” - -“Well!” - -It was uttered deliberately, with a wise disbelieving smile. - -“Harry! Harry!” - -Her face grew troubled as she tried to recollect a name that was -familiar. - -Harry's eyes filled with tears. He went on his knees beside her, -pressing her hand to his lips. - -“Kay, don't you know me--your mouth-organ boy?” - -The puzzled look melted. A low laugh came to her parched lips. “My dear, -dear mouth-organ boy!” - -At the door he gazed back longingly. Peter caught him by the arm. It was -the struggle not to be selfish--it had been going on through seven days. - -“You stay. Let me go.” - -Harry shook his head. “She was yours before she was mine.” - -He slipped out. His footsteps faded down the stairs. - -In the house there was no sound--only her weary sighing. Everything was -hushed and shuttered. Outside waves dragged against the sand and broke -in long sparkling ripples. A pulley creaked as a fisherman hoisted sail. -Across the bay came the panting of the steamer from Lerici. It drew in -against the pier; boys' laughter sounded and splashing as they dived for -money. Again the panting, wandering off into the distance. It rounded -the headland. - -441 - -Silence----. So much of life in the world and none to spare for her! And -this had come at a time when her father was ill, so that neither he nor -her mother could come to her. - -She threw back the sheet which was spread above her slender body. Her -hand groped out. “Peter, Peterkins, you hav'n't left me?” - -“I'll never leave you, and when you're better----.” - -Again the incredulous smile! He' could get no further. Her voice, quite -near to him, reached him remotely. “If I should die---.” - -He spoke quickly. “You're not going to.” - -“But dearest, if I should----. You won't be bitter--won't break your -heart about me? If you did, I should know. I shouldn't be happy. Promise -that you'll still trust God and be happy.” - -Against his belief he promised. - -He thought her sleeping. Her lips moved. “God! No man hath seen----. -Beloved, we hav'n't, have we?” - -He was shaken with sobbing. He had to wait. “Dear little heart, you've -been God to me and--and to everybody.” - -“Hold my hand, Peter.” He was holding it. “I'm so tired. It's night. -Light the lamp. I want to see you.” - -He unlatched the shutters. Across the dazzling blue of the gulf the sun -stared luridly, swinging low above the sea-line. - -Her brain began to wander. She spoke unforgettable things--unforgettable -in their tenderness. It seemed that behind the confusion of her words -her spirit was preparing him. It was as though she turned the pages of -memory haphazard, chancing on phrases which summed up her short eighteen -years of existence. - -“Peter in a Christmas cab!” There was what he had called the laughter of -birds in the way she said it. “Oh, it must be something splendid.” - -She came to a winter when she had nearly died--when Peter had been sent -for hurriedly from Sandport. “Peter! Peter! Peter!” She wailed his name -childishly. Then, as though she snuggled warmly against one she trusted, -“He's never going to leave me. I shall get well now.” - -For some minutes she was silent. Of a sudden she sat up, crying, “I -don't want to be a dead'un. I don't want to be a dead'un.” - -It all came back--his boyish attempt to explain heaven to her, and her -terror because there was no means of escape by trains or trams. As then, -so now, he failed to console her. She sank on the pillow exhausted by -her panic. - -During those brief minutes while the sun fell lower, she re-enacted all -the joys and bewilderments which had been their childhood. Now they were -playing in the garden at Topbury. Now riding out to the Happy Cottage -on the tandem trike. Once it was a flowered meadow; she was trying -to whistle. His startled question of long ago went unspoken. Only her -tearful protest gave the clue to her wandering, “I never heard it, -Peter--truly--never. I made it up out of my own head.” - -For one thing which she said he had no picture, “Not on my lips. They're -for the man I marry.” - -He buried his face. It was intolerable. “My God, I can't bear it.” Love -and marriage--she spoke of them; she would never know them. - -Lying there so stilly, while death crept through her body, she seemed -uncannily sensitive to all that happened in his mind. She knew that -something she had said had hurt him. - -Her delirium went from her. “Softy me, Peter, like you used to; I shan't -be afraid then.” - -He leant his face against her hair, his cheek touching hers. She lifted -her hand and stroked him comfortingly. - -Was she wandering? He couldn't tell. Her eyes were wide, gazing into a -great distance. “In heaven they are all--all serious.” Feeling him touch -her, she was filled with a wistful regret. “Beautiful warm flesh and -blood.” - -She tried to turn her head. He raised himself over her. - -449 - -It seemed that her sight had returned. He forced himself to smile lest -she should take fright at his crying. - -“In heaven they are all--all----.” - -He listened for her breath. - -With unexpected strength, she fastened her arms about his neck and drew -herself up. - -“Listen. Listen.” - -She was staring through the open window to where a red spark smoldered -on the edge of the sea-line----. A sighing of wind across water! From -far away, whistling--a little air, happy and haunting, trilled over and -over! It was like a shepherd calling. - -Her lips broke into a smile. “Beloved, I hear----.” - -She drooped against his breast. The whistling grew fainter. The red -spark was quenched. The longest day was ended. - - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII--“THEIR VIRGINS HAD NO MARRIAGE-SONGS; AND THEY THAT COULD SWIM----” - -In the first stabbing sense of loss he hoped that he had caught the -contagion and might die. Life without her was unthinkable. Then, through -very excess of grief, his feelings became blunted. It seemed impossible -that he would ever again fear or expect. - -He moved as in a shadow-world. Time had no significance. Days slipped -by uncounted. He was trying to understand life, searching behind the -external show for its secret meaning and purpose. Up till now, with -the gay generosity of a child, he had shared himself with those whom -he loved and by whom he was loved, concentrating and intensifying his -affections. Now, dimly at first, he began to view existence from the -angle of responsibility, as a river ever broadening and growing more -adventurous, pouring down from forgotten highlands to the conjectured -sea. It was not his journey that counted; it was the direction and -journey of the total river. If he suffered and had been glad, there -were multitudes who were glad and had suffered. What was the meaning of -it--this alternating sorrow and gladness? For the first time he asked -himself how other people thought, felt, endured--people like Jehane and -Riska, like the golden woman and Glory. - -A month ago, had anyone told him that his sister would be taken from -him, he would have defied God by turning infidel. But now----. He -realized reluctantly how his very passion for her might have crippled -her, shutting out the natural and fine things that belong to every man -and woman. In giving her too much, he might have deprived her of what -was most splendid, giving her ultimate curtailment. How near he had come -to doing this he had learnt from Harry. - -Her words were continually recurring in his memory, dragging him back -from despondency. “You won't be bitter--won't break your heart about -me? If you did, I should know. I shouldn't be happy.” The shame that -he might be paining her was always with him. He had the sure knowledge -that, though he could not see her, she still lingered in the house. -Sitting with closed eyes, especially at twilight, he believed he could -hear her moving--moving gladly. The sound was always behind him, even -when he turned his head. He placed flowers about her room, pretending -she was alive; he liked to picture her surprise when she found them. A -white wraith of laughing mist, he imagined he saw her stoop above them. -In his mind he heard her voice, “Oh, Peterkins, how good you still are -to me!” The wind touched his cheek; it was her mouth. - -While her body remained in the house his grief was inconsolable. Yet -peace came to him even before the mortal part, long and lily-white, was -borne through the sun-swept village to the garden on the hill gazing out -to sea, cypress-shadowed and quiet. - -Through the first long night he sat beside her, fixing her features, -everything that had been her, indelibly in his mind. The swathed feet, -immobile as marble beneath the tall candles, brought back her saying, -“The joy goes into my feet when I'm glad.” - -Wearied by watching, he slept. Again she was dying. He could hear her -voice, trying so hard to be patient. Someone entered, bringing a new -body, exactly like the old one but well. She rose and slipped into it, -just as if she were trying on a new dress. She caught him by the hand, -laughing excitedly. In their gladness, as they left the room, neither -of them remembered to look back to the bed; they had no pity for the -abandoned fleshly garment. - -----And was death no more than that to the dead--clothes cast aside, -outworn by the spirit? What a little to make a fuss about! - -Through the open window dawn was breaking. In a chair Harry slept, his -chin fallen forward. Peter rose to his feet and tiptoed over to the -still face lying on the pillow, framed in the golden hair. He stood -gazing down. The morning wind walked the sea, like the feet of Jesus -bringing peace to sinful men. Far back he remembered another early -morning when Kay's eyes had been closed and he had heard those same feet -walking--snow had lain on the ground. Another girl, strangely like her, -with the same bowed mouth and penciled brows, had been stretched beside -her. While Kay's eyes were shuttered, the other eyes had opened. - -As the days went by, the desire grew strong within him to see Glory--he -wanted to trace Kay's likeness in the living features. And yet he -postponed. - -It was September. Harry had left for London, called back by work. -Letters from Topbury implored his own return. He was afraid to abandon -scenes familiar; in losing them he might lose the sense of Kay's spirit -presence. - -Then to him, as to Harry, came the imperative cry of the need of the -world. - -A telegram sent from Paris and forwarded on from Topbury reached him. Of -all persons it was from the golden woman. It bade him urgently to join -her. He took no notice. Another, saying that it was not she who wanted -him but someone whom he could help. A third, still more insistent. The -first he had suspected; this last was too pleading for insincerity. He -packed up and left. - -In Paris she met him; even then she refused to tell him why she had -sent for him. She was a different golden woman, grave and quiet. The day -after his arrival, she took him out to a gray Normandy village. On the -train journey she had little to say; only once did she explain herself. -A flight of swallows was passing over a meadow going south, moving -steadily as a cloud. She met his eyes. - -“Yes, I'm different. The stork knoweth her appointed times, and the -turtle and the crane and the swallow, but----You remember the passage. I -didn't know mine. I waited too long. Foolish! Foolish!---- The winter -came. My appointed time went by me.” And a little later, “Don't let that -happen to you, Peter.” - -They walked down a white road and came to a cottage. She knocked. A -voice, which he ought to have recognized, told her to enter. Sitting in -a low chair, her foot rocking a cradle, was Riska. She rose, overcome -with surprise, lowering her face, awaiting his judgment. As he pressed -her to him, the baby began to cry. She stooped, picked him up and held -him out to Peter. - -“Isn't he sweet?” - -The first words she had spoken--spoken without shame or apology, almost -with pride! It seemed impossible that a sin which had made a thing -so beautiful could need excusing. He met her eyes, reading in them -sacrifice. Where was the old Riska, impatient of restraint, eager to -catch men, with the petulant, fluttering mouth? The passion which -should have destroyed had purified, just as his grief which might have -embittered had made him more anxious to help. - -On the way to England she told him of Hardcastle. “I got so tired -of trying and trying to get married. All the men found out -something--father, or my shallowness, or something. I don't blame them. -And all the time, ever since I was a little girl, mother talked about -the raft and what happened if a girl didn't escape from it. I grew -desperate and frightened. It was anything to catch a man. And then -Roy----. He said he'd marry me in Paris; afterwards he put off and put -off. When he'd deserted me, I didn't like to write. After the baby -came----. I don't know, it may be all wrong, but I wasn't a bit ashamed -of myself. I didn't write then because I couldn't bear to think of -people despising him. If the golden woman hadn't met me---- Oh, well, I -should have gone on somehow, earning money for baby with my -hands.----But, dear Peter, I'm so glad you found me. I never understood -you till now.” - -At Topbury that first night, after a hurried reference to Kay, they -didn't trust themselves to talk about her. They tortured themselves the -more by their reticence. Everything spoke so loudly of her absence. Nan -sat with Riska's child in her arms--the child which should have been -unwelcome. It seemed to fill a gap in her life; they all knew what -was passing behind her eyes. The evening grew late. She and Riska went -slowly up to bed. - -Peter turned to his father. For hours he had sat grimly watching -the landscape by Cuyp, where the comfortable burgher walked forever -unperturbed by the banks of the gray canal. - -“Father.” - -“Yes.” - -“We're not doing right.” - -“Right!” He shrugged his shoulders. His gesture accused God defiantly. - -“No, father--not doing right. One of the last things she said was that -she'd know and be unhappy if we broke our hearts about her. She does -know, and--and I think we've been making her sad.” - -For a long time his father sat brooding. He stretched out his hand, -“Your imagination, Peter--you've never outgrown it. But--but we don't -want to make her sad.” - -The house was hushed. It was some hours since they had climbed the -stairs. He crept out of his room into the one that had been hers. It was -the same as when, years ago, they two had shared it. He gazed across the -lamp-lit gulf to where Hampstead lay shrouded beneath the night. And -he remembered: the moon letting down her silver ladder and bidding him -ascend; the windows in streets he had never traversed, which had seemed -to watch him like the eyes of cats; the mysterious whistling from the -powder-cupboard, “Coming! Coming! Coming!” - -He tried, as of old, to eliminate barriers by the magic of imagination. -It was true, surely, and he hadn't grown up. Soon he would hear the -angel whistle. On the straight unruffled bed he would see the gentle -little body, with the tumbled honey-colored hair. - -He forgot his promise not to break his heart about her. Throwing himself -down, he knelt beside the pillow, with his empty arms spread out. - -A sound! Someone was holding him--someone who, coming on the same -errand, had discovered him. “Peterkins! Peterkins, don't cry.” - -His arms went about her neck. “Little mother, it's long since you called -me that. I'm so tired--tired of pretending to be brave and trying to be -a man.” - -They sent for Jehane next day and the next; at last they had to go -and fetch her. Her heart was hard because of the disgrace of what had -happened. She spoke with bitterness of her children. Glory's joining her -stepfather at The Winged Thrush she construed as an act of treachery. “A -daughter of mine,” she said, “serving in a public-house!” She had given -up all hope that Eustace would ever ask her to come to Canada. His -infrequent letters had given her to understand tacitly that she was -not wanted. Only Moggs was left--a subdued child, a little like Glory. -Against disappointment from that quarter Jehane forearmed herself by -taking disappointment for granted. Her sense of injustice centered in -the paradox that Ocky was happy, despite his mismanagement, while she, -after all her painstaking rectitude, was sad. - -Throughout the journey to Topbury she insisted vigorously that she would -never take Riska back. As she entered the hall of his house, Barrington -heard the last repetition of her assertion. “We don't want you to,” he -said; “she and her child are going to live with us.” Then Jehane saw -Riska, and recognized the change; promptly she turned her accusals -against herself. She had been unwise. She had spoilt her life both -as wife and mother. Her calamities were her own doing. She needed -Riska--wanted her. “You'll come with your mother, won't you?” - -Riska shook her head gently--so gently that for a minute she looked like -Glory. “Mother dear, I can't. I would if it were only myself; I've baby -to consider. You'd do for him just what you've done----. You couldn't -help it. I'm going to stay here with Aunt Nan and learn--learn to be -like her--like Kay.” - -Jehane covered her face with her hands. “I'm a bitter woman--yes, and -jealous. But that my own child should tell me--and should be able to say -it truly!” - -She looked up. “If I were to try to be different, if I could prove to -you that I was different----.” - -Riska put her arms about her mother's neck, “That's all in the future. -But, oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry. I know you've done your best.” - -“My best!” Her voice was full of self-despisings. “Oh, well----!” - -She had lost her last illusion--her faith in her own righteousness. -Barrington, watching the disillusioned woman, tried to trace in her -features the eager face, tell-tale of dreamings, that had beckoned -to him from a window on a summer's afternoon in Oxford. He found no -resemblance. - -He turned to Riska, who had played life's game so recklessly, plunging -off the raft of maidenhood, swimming and drifting on chance-found débris -to the land of maternity, about which her mother was always talking. - -In searching Riska's face he found Jehane's dreamings come -true--self-fulfilment and mastery. Sacrifice, by the road of sin, -had accomplished them. He recollected how he had said of her, “Ripe -fruit--ready to fall to the ground.” He smiled wisely, remembering his -own unwisdom. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII--AND GLORY - -He was late. It didn't matter; no one had been warned of his coming. - -He punted down the last stretch of river. It had been Peterish, yet -appropriate of him to choose this means of travel. He had arrived in -Henley that morning. Had he gone by road, he could have been at The -Winged Thrush for lunch. Now, full behind him, spying beneath the bent -arm of a willow stooped the setting sun. - -All day he had had the sense of things watching--memories, associations -of the past, hopes and dreads which had lost their power to help or -harm him. A new hope had become his companion; he gazed back, taking a -farewell glance at the old affections. - -As he stole down the streak of silver, through ash-gray autumn meadows, -he had many thoughts. Cherry and the last time he had made that journey! -The Faun Man and himself--the way in which men mistake their love! -Withered reeds rustled with the motion of his passing. Fallen leaves, -scarlet and brown and yellow, starred the water's surface. Thrusting -himself forward, he sang and hummed, - - “I've been shipwrecked off Patagonia, - - Home and Colonia, - - Antipodonia-.” - -He broke off, smiling whimsically. In a figurative sense his own -autobiography--almost a fulfilled prophecy! A brave song! He liked -it--it paid no heed to regret and recorded only the joy of pressing on. - -Letting the punt drift, he stared back into the evening redness. It took -courage to learn what things to remember and how to forget. For some -weeks he had been trying to learn--this river-journey was the testing. - -He rounded a bend. Ahead swans sailed placidly. Cattle stood knee-deep -in water. In the stream, tethered to a landing, boats swung idly. On -a close-cut lawn green tables were set out in the shadow of trees. -Everything stood hushed and huddled in the gilded quiet. - -He stepped out and strolled up through the trellised garden. Finding no -one, he wandered round the inn to the back. From the stable-yard came -the splashing that water makes when a brush is plunged into a bucket; -then a droning sound, punctuated with the hissing of an ostler. Peter -laughed inwardly. - -“Whoa there, boy! You ain't a patch on Cat's Meat. Call yerself a -'oss?--- Ah, would yer! Shish-shish-shish. - - Oh Peter wuz 'is nime, - - So Peterish wuz 'e, - - 'E wept the sun's h'eye back agen - - Lest 'e should never see.” - -“Hulloa, Mr. Grace!” - -The old man started and overset his bucket. “Ho, me tripe and h'onions, -wot a fright yer did give me!--- Why, Master Peter, 'oo'd 'ave thought -ter see you 'ere. Thought yer'd forgotten h'us and wuz never comin'. H'I -wuz just a-singin' about yer. H'I h'orften does when h'I'm a-groomin' of -a 'oss. Sorter soothes 'im--maikes 'im stand quiet.” - -“Where's Uncle Ocky?” - -“Gone ter 'Enley, white spats and h'all.” - -“And Glory?” - -Mr. Grace caught the tremble in the question and glanced up sharply. -“And Glory!” He passed his hand in front of his mouth, “Miss Glory, -she----. H'it's lonely for 'er, a bit of a gel, with two old codgers, -like me and yer h'uncle. We does our best, but----. Ho, yes! Where -is she? On the river, maybe, a-dreamin'. If yer'll wite till h'I've -finished with this 'ere 'oss---- - -“On the river!” Peter spoke quickly, to himself rather than to his -friend. “Couldn't have passed her. Must be lower down.” - -He was turning away. Mr. Grace called after him, “'Alf a mo'! Got -somethink ter tell yer.” Peter halted. “H'it's abart me darter, Grice; -h'unexpected like she's----” Peter waved his hand and passed out of -ear-shot. Mr. Grace winked his eye at the horse. “Ho, beg parding!” - -The sun had sunk behind the trees; the moon was rising. A little breeze -shook the brittle leaves, laughing softly among them as they broke from -their anchorage and swooped like bats through the dusk. On the edge -of the lawn, overhanging the river, a white post stood ghostly. As -he untied his punt, Peter looked up and read the legend, _The Winged -Thrush_. On the sign was depicted a brown bird, fluttering its wings -in a gilded cage. He pushed off into the stream, creeping sharp-eyed -between misty banks through the twilight. - -_And Glory!_ Until the last few months his world had consisted of other -people--people who had seemed so important--and Glory. But now--now that -he could no longer follow the shining head of his little sister, he had -halted. Looking back, all through the years from childhood he seemed -to hear Glory, tiptoeing behind him. He had noticed her so rarely. He -remembered the time when he had told her to remain seated on the garden -wall, had forgotten her, had missed her and had recollected her only -to find her still waiting for him, crying in the darkness. The terror -seized him that to-night he might have remembered too late--might have -lost her. - -Something tapped against the side of his punt. He leant out--a floating -oar! The stream was beginning to quicken; ahead rose the low booming of -water rushing across a weir. He gazed about him. Down the shadowy river, -darkly a-silver in moonlight, a black thing, like a log, bobbed in the -current. As he came up with it, a figure huddled in the stern, called -nervously to him, “Oh please, I've dropped my oars; do help me.” He -maneuvered alongside. “Why, Peter! Dear Peter----!” - -There was no time for talking. From bank to bank ahead of them the -stream leapt palely, like the white mane of a plunging horse. Putting -his arm about her, he lifted her rapidly into his punt. The empty boat -hurried on into the darkness. Working his way upstream, he ran into -safety in a bed of rushes. - -“Glory, if I'd lost you!” - -She shook her head laughing, “You couldn't.” - -He knelt beside her, clasping her hands. “But how----? What were you -doing?” - -“Dreaming. Just wondering. While I drifted, they slipped from the -rowlocks.” - -“Dreaming!” He stooped his face. “Of what--of whom?” - -Her voice sank. “Must I tell?” - -From his sky-window the man in the moon drew aside the curtain; he -peered out knowingly. - -Peter had her in his arms. His lips touched hers in the dusk. His eyes -met hers--Kay's eyes; even in the darkness he knew them. - -“And you do care?---- You really want me?” - -She drooped her head against his shoulder. “Oh, dearest, I always -wanted----. But I'm a girl, Peter; I didn't dare----.” - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Raft, by Coningsby Dawson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAFT *** - -***** This file should be named 50498-0.txt or 50498-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/4/9/50498/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Raft - -Author: Coningsby Dawson - -Illustrator: Orson Lowell - -Release Date: November 19, 2015 [EBook #50498] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAFT *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - -THE RAFT - -By Coningsby Dawson - -Author Of "The Garden Without Walls" - -With Illustrations By Orson Lowell - -New York - -Henry Holt And Company - -1914 - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0008] - -[Illustration: 0009] - -_Their virgins had no marriage-songs; and they that could swim did cast -themselves into the sea to get to land, and some on boars, and some on -other things._ - - - - -THE RAFT - - - - -CHAPTER I--A MAN - - -It was said of Jehane that she married blindly on the re-bound. -She herself confessed in later life that she married out of dread of -becoming an old maid. - -A don's daughter at Oxford has plentiful opportunities for becoming an -old maid. Undergraduates are too adventurously young and graduates -are too importantly in earnest for marriage; whether too young or too -earnest, they are all too occupied. To bring a man to the point of -matrimony, you must catch him unaware and invade his idleness. Love, in -its initial stages, is frivolous. - -This tragic state of affairs was frequently discussed by Jehane with -her best friend, Nan Tudor. Were they to allow themselves to fade -husbandless into the autumn of girlhood? Were they too ladylike to make -any effort to save themselves from this horrid fate?--In the gray winter -as they returned from a footer match, on the river in summer as the -eights swung by, in the old-fashioned rectory-garden at Cassingland, -this was their one absorbing topic of conversation. Ye gods, were they -never to be married! - -They watched the privileged male-creatures who had it in their power to -choose them: that they did not choose them seemed an insult. When term -commenced, they would dash up to their colleges in hansoms and step -out confident and smiling. They would saunter through the narrow Oxford -streets to morning lectures, arm-in-arm, in tattered gowns, smoking -cigarettes, jolly and lackadaisical. In the afternoon, with savage and -awakened energy, they would strive excessively for athletic honors. At -night they would smash windows, twang banjoes, rag one another, assault -constables and sometimes get drunk. At the end of term they would -step into their hansoms and vanish, lords of creation, in search of a -well-earned rest. - -Jehane contrasted their lives with Nan's and hers. "They've got -everything; our hands are empty. We're compulsory nuns and may do -nothing to free ourselves. When _he_ comes to my rescue, if he ever -comes, how I shall adore him." - -Then together they would fall to picturing their chosen lover. -Unfortunately the choice was not theirs--their portion was to wait for -him to come. - -They knew of lean, striding women in North Oxford who had waited--women -whose hair had lost its brightness, who fondled dogs and pretended to -hate babies. - -Jehane and Nan adored babies. They loved the feel of little crumpled -fingers against their throats and the warmth of a tiny body cuddled -against their breasts. They never missed an opportunity for hugging a -baby. They never passed a young mother in the streets without a pang of -envy. - -Why was it that no man had chosen them? Gazing at their own reflections, -they would tell themselves that they were not bad-looking--Jehane with -her cloudy brown eyes and gipsy mane of night-black hair, Nan all blue -and flaxen and fluffy. The years slipped by. Where was he in the world? - -For eight years, since she was seventeen, Jehane had never ceased -watching. Every New Year and birthday she had whispered to herself, -"Perhaps, by this time next year he will have come." Marriage seemed to -her the escape to every happiness. - -Now that she was twenty-five she grew desperate; from now on, with -every day, her chance of being one of the chosen would diminish. As -she expressed it to Nan, "We're two girls adrift on a raft and we can't -swim. Over there's the land of marriage with all the little children, -the homes and the husbands; we've no means of getting to it. Unless some -of the men see us and put off in boats to our rescue, we'll be caught in -the current of the years and swept out into the hunger of mid-ocean. But -they're too busy to notice us. Oh, dear!" - -When Jehane spoke like this Nan would laugh; except for Jehane, no such -thoughts would have entered her head. They didn't worry her when she was -with her rector father at Cassingland, occupied with her quiet round -of village-duties. In her heart of hearts she believed that life was -planned by an unescapable Providence. Her placid philosophy irritated -Jehane. She said that Nan's God was a stout widower in a clerical -band; whereat Nan would smile dreamily and answer, "Wouldn't it be just -ripping if God were?" - -At such times Jehane thought Nan stupid. - -That Jehane should have been so romantic about marriage was -inexplicable, save on the ground that she voiced the passions which her -parents had suppressed in themselves. - -Her father, Professor Benares Usk, was the greatest living Homeric -scholar--a tall, bowed man with a broad beard that flowed down below his -watch-chain, a bald and venerable egg-shaped head and a secret habit -of taking snuff. He had lost interest in human doings since Greece was -trampled by the Roman Eagles. Both he and Mrs. Usk were misty-eyed--they -had frictioned off the corners of their personalities in the graveyards -of the past; their minds were museums, stored with chipped splendors, -the atmosphere of which was stuffy. - -Mrs. Usk was an authority on Scandinavian folk-lore--a thin, -fine-featured, flat-breasted woman who wore her dresses straight up -and down without a bulge. Her soft gray hair was drawn tightly off her -forehead and twisted at the back into a hard, round walnut. - -Only on Sunday afternoons was the house thrown open to visitors; then -Jehane would offer tea to ill-at-ease young bloods, while her father -fingered his beard and made awkward efforts to be affable, and -her mother, ignoring the guests, sat bolt upright in her chair and -slumbered. What a look of relief came into the tanned faces of the men -when they caught up their hats and departed. They had come as a duty to -see not Jehane but her father; and now they went off to their pleasures. -Oh, those Sunday afternoons, how they made her shudder! - -Often she marveled at her parents--what had brought them together? To -her way of thinking, they knew so little about love and could so easily -have dispensed with one another. Like dignified sleepy house-cats, they -sat on distant sides of the domestic hearth, heedless of everything save -to be undisturbed.--Ah, when she married, life would become intense, -ecstatic--one throb of passion! - -There was a story current in the 'Varsity of how the Professor cared -for Mrs. Usk. He had taken her for a drive in a dog-cart, he sitting -in front and she, characteristically, by choice at the back. Deep in -thought, he had jolted through country-lanes. Her presence did not occur -to him till he had returned to Oxford and had drawn up before his house; -then he perceived that she was not there and must have tumbled out. Some -hours later, having retraced his journey, he found her by the roadside -with a broken leg. For the next three months the greatest living -Homeric scholar did penance, wheeling an exacting lady in a bathchair. -Doubtless, he planned his great studies of the Iliad as he trundled, -and the chair's occupant constructed English renderings of Scandinavian -legends. At all events, next autumn they each had a book published. - -These were the influences under which Jehane grew up. Her parents were -more like children to her than parents, gentle and utterly absorbed in -themselves; they were no earthly use when it came to marriage. She could -not apply to them for help; they would have thought her indelicate, -if they had thought about it at all. Probably they would not have -understood. Sometimes marriage came to girls--sometimes it didn't; -nobody was to blame whether it did or didn't. That would have been their -way of summing up. Meanwhile Jehane was twenty-five; she had begun to -abandon hope, when the great change occurred--it commenced with William -Barrington. - -It was early summer. The streets had been washed clean by rain and were -now haunted by strange sweet perfumes which drifted over walls from -hidden college-gardens. Nan had driven in from Cassingland and had come -to Jehane for lunch and shelter. It was afternoon; the sun was shining -tearfully over glistening turrets and drenched tree-tops. - -Jehane unlatched the window and leant out above the flint-paved street, -looking up and holding out her hands. From far away, out of sight on -the river, came the thud of oars and hoarse shouts where the eights -were practising. Halfway down the street the tower of Calvary soared, -incredibly frail and defiant, against a running sea of cloud. - -"There's not a drop. If you don't believe me, feel for yourself. -Let's----" - -She drew back swiftly, looking slightly flustered. - -From the back of the room Nan's voice came smooth and unhurried, "What's -the matter? Why don't you finish what you were saying?" - -"It's a man," Jehane whispered. - -In an instantly arranged conspiracy, Nan tiptoed over to her friend. -Cautiously they peered out. No sooner had Nan's eyes found what they -sought than she darted back; Jehane, with rising color, remained bending -forward. - -The bell rang. A few seconds later, the front-door opened and shut. -Jehane drew a long breath and stood erect. Laughing nervously, she -patted her face with both hands. "You look scared, you dear old -thing--more fluffy than ever: just like a tiny newly hatched chicken---- -But it's happened in the world before." - -"Oh, Jehane, how could you do it?" - -"Do what?" - -"You know--stare at him like that." - -"I looked; I didn't stare. Why, my dear, that's what woman's eyes were -made for." - -"But--but you flung your eyes about his neck. You've dragged him into -the house.--And I want to hide so badly." - -"I don't." Jehane feigned a coolness which she did not possess. - -A step sounded on the stairs. Nan buried her hot cheeks in a bowl of -lilac. A maid entered with a card. - -Jehane looked up from reading it. - -"Don't know him, Betty. What made him come?" Betty looked her surprise. -"To see master, of course. That's what he said." - -"But you told him father was out?" - -"I did, miss. But he's all the way from London. Seems the master gave -him an appointment. He told me to tell you as you'd do instead." - -"Just like father to forget. We're going on the river; I suppose I'll -have to see him first.--No, Nan, I won't be left by myself.--Betty, -you'd better show him up." - -Nan threw herself down on the sofa, crushing herself into the cushions, -as far from the door as she could get. "I wish I'd not come. Jehane, why -did you do it?" Jehane seated herself near the window where the light -fell across her shoulder most becomingly. She spread out her skirts -decorously and picked up a book, composing her features to an expression -of sweetest demureness--that it was a Greek grammar did not matter. In -answer to Nan's question she replied, "Little stupid. Nothing venture, -nothing have." - - - - -CHAPTER II--"I'M HALF SICK OF SHADOWS" - - -The strange man was rather amused as he climbed the stairs, but he -showed no amusement when he entered. - -Jehane laid aside her book leisurely and rose from her chair; he was -even better to look at than she had expected. It was his clothes that -impressed her first; the gray tweeds fitted his athletic figure with -just that maximum of good taste that stops short of perfection. Then it -was his face, clean-shaven and intellectual--the face of a boyish man, -mobile and keen in expression. She liked the way he did his dark brown -hair, almost as dark as hers, swept straight back without a parting from -his forehead. His eyes were kindly, piercing and blue-gray; for a man he -had exceptionally long, thin hands. She liked him entirely; she wondered -whether he was equally well impressed. - -"So thoughtless of father--he's out. Is there anything I can do for -you?" - -Jehane was tall, but she only reached up to his shoulders. His eyes -looked down on hers and twinkled into a smile at her nervous gravity. - -"We all know the Professor; there's no need to apologize. Please don't -stand." - -She was about to comply with his request, when she realized that she no -longer held his attention. He was staring past her. She turned her head. - -"Oh, allow me to introduce you, Mr. Barrington, to my friend, Miss -Tudor." - -"I thought it was." His tones had become extraordinarily glad. "No one -could forget little Nan, who'd once known her. But Nan, you've grown -older. What do you mean by it? It's so uncalled for, so unexpected. -You're no longer the Princess Pepperminta that you were." - -Nan crossed the room in a romping bound and commenced pumping his arm up -and down. - -"It's Billy, dear old Billy! You remember, Jehane; I've told you. Billy -who sewed up father's surplice, and Billy who tied knots in my hair, and -Billy who, when I got angry, used to call me the Princess Pepperminta. -You made yourself so detestable, Billy, that our village talks about you -even now." - -"A doubtful compliment; but it's ripping to see you--simply ripping." - -Jehane stood aside and watched them. She had heard Nan talk of Billy -Barrington and how her father had tutored him for Oxford--but that must -be twelve years back. She had never known him herself and had never been -very curious about him. But now, as she watched, she felt the appeal of -this big, broad-shouldered boy of thirty. - -They were talking--talking of things beyond her knowledge, things which -shut her out. - -"And why didn't you write in all these years? Father and I often -mentioned you. In Cassingland you were an event. It wasn't kind of you, -Billy." - -"Things at home were in such a mess. I'd to start work at once. Somehow, -with working so hard, other things faded out." - -"Poor Nan with the rest!" - -"No, I remembered you. 'Pon my honor I did, Nan; but I thought----" - -"Yes?" - -"You were such a kid in those days; I thought you'd forgotten. As though -either of us could forget. I was an ass." - -Jehane had turned her back and was looking out of the window. For the -first time she envied Nan--Nan, the daughter of a country parson. It was -too bad. - -"Miss Usk." - -She glanced across her shoulder. - -"We're being intolerably rude, talking all about our own affairs. You -see, once Nan was almost my sister. How old were you, Nan? Thirteen, -wasn't it? And I was eighteen. We've not met since then. My father died -suddenly, you know. I had to step into his shoes--they were much too big -for me. That was the end of Oxford and Cassingland." - -"We were going out on the river," said Jehane. "Perhaps you'll join -us. I'll sit very quiet and listen. You can talk over old times to your -heart's content." - -They piled his arms with cushions, and together set out through the -glistening meadows to the barges. After the rain, the air was intensely -still. Sounds carried far; from tall trees on the Broad Walk and from -the uttermost distance came the fluty cry of birds, from the river the -rattle of oars being banked, and from every side the slow patter of -dripping branches. Like a canvas, fresh from an artist's brush, colors -in the landscape stood out distinct and wet--flowers against the gray -walls of Corpus, trunks of trees with their velvety blackness and shorn -greenness of the Hinksey Hills. Men in disreputable shorts, returning -from the boats, passed them. Some ran; some sauntered chatting. - -Barrington laughed shortly and drew a long breath. "Nothing to do but -enjoy themselves. Nothing to do but grow a fine body and learn to be -gentlemen. I missed all that. After the rush and drive, it's topping to -sink back." - -"You're right; it is sleepy. One day's just like the next. We stand as -still as church-steeples. People come and go; we're left. We exist for -visitors to look at, like the Martyr's Memorial and Calvary Tower." - -He glanced down at Jehane quickly: she interested him--there was -something about her that he could not understand. The long penciled -brows, the thick lashes, the cloudy eyes and the straight, pale features -attracted and yet repelled him. He felt that she was not happy and had -never been quite happy. The natural generosity of the man made him eager -to hear her speak about herself. - -But Jehane was aware that she had struck a discord in what she had said. -He had flinched like a child, with whom the thought of pain had not -yet become a habit. She made haste to cover up her error by directing -attention to himself. - -"But you--what are you?" - -"I'm a pub." - -"A pub! But you can't be. You don't mean that you----" - -Nan caught his arm in her merriment and leant across him. "Of course he -doesn't. He's a publisher. He always did clip his words." - -"But not _the_ Barrington--father's publisher?" - -"Yes, _the_ Barrington. It's funny, Jehane, but it can't be helped. -Anyhow, he's only Billy now." - -Barrington stood still, eying the two girls--the one fair and all -mischief, the other dark and serious. "What's the matter with you, Miss -Usk? Why do you object?" - -"If I told you, you might not like it." - -"Rubbish." - -"Well then, you ought to have a long gray beard like father. You're not -old enough." - -"I've sometimes thought that myself." - -"Billy's always been young for his age," said Nan; "he's minus twenty -now." - -But, as they walked on, Jehane was saying to herself, "Then he was only -coming to see father, as everybody comes! It wasn't my face that drew -him." - -They strewed the cushions on the floor of the punt. Barrington took the -pole and Jehane seated herself in front so that she could face him. -All that he should see of Nan's attractions was the back of her golden -head--Jehane had arranged all that. - -They swung out into mid-stream unsteadily; Barrington was struggling to -recover a forgotten art. Their direction was erratic. They nearly fouled -a returning eight; the maledictions of the cox, each stinging epithet of -whose abuse politely ended in "sir," drew unwelcome attention to their -wandering progress. When they had collided with the opposite bank, Nan -stood up and took the pole herself. Jehane was in luck. - -She had often pictured such a scene to herself--a man, herself, and a -punt on the river; in these pictures she had never included Nan. She -had heard herself brilliantly conversing, saying amusing things that had -made the man laugh, saying deep things that had made him solemn; then, -presently she had ceased to torment him, his arms had gone about her, -and she had lain a fluttering wild thing on his breast. - -Now, in reality, she had nothing to say. When he spoke, she gave him -short answers. She was not mistress of herself. She trailed her hands in -the water and was afraid to look up, lest he should guess the tumult in -her heart. - -The punt had turned out of the main stream into the Cherwell, and -was stealing between narrow banks. Jehane knew that she was appearing -sullen; she always appeared like that with men. In her mind's eye she -saw herself acting the other part of gay, responsive woman of the world. -She was angry with herself. - -Barrington, hampered by her embarrassment, had twisted round on his -cushions and was chaffing Nan. Nan was looking her best and, as usual, -was quite unconscious of the fact. In her loose, blowy muslin, standing -erect, leaning against the pole with the water dripping from her -hands, she seemed the soul of summer and unspoilt girlhood against -the background of lazy river and green shadows. There was something -infantile and appealing about Nan. Her flaxen hair fitted her like a -shining cap of satin. Her eyes were inextinguishably bright and blue; -above them were delicate, golden brows. Her red lips seemed always -slightly parted, ready to respond to mischief or merriment. She was -small in build--the kind of girl-woman a man is tempted to pick up and -carry. Her chief beauty was her long, slim throat and neck; she was a -white flower, swaying from a fragile stem. It was impossible to think -that Nan knew anything that was not good. - -After they had passed under Magdalen Bridge they had the river very much -to themselves: the rain had driven most of the voyagers to cover. For -long stretches there was no sound but their own voices, the splash of -the pole and the secret singing of birds. - -Jehane, with trailing hands and brooding eyes, watched this man; she -wanted him--she did not know why--she wanted him for herself. Sometimes -she became so concentrated in her mood that she forgot to listen to -what was being said. Through her head went humming significant and -disconnected stanzas, which she repeated over and over: - - "Or when the moon was overhead, - - Came two young lovers lately wed: - - 'I am half sick of shadows,' said - - The Lady of Shalott." - -Jehane had once been told that she was Pre-Raphaelite in appearance; -she never forgot that--it explained her to herself. She had quarreled -forever with a man who had said that Rossetti's women resulted -from tuberculosis of the imagination. The truth of the remark was -unforgivable--she knew that she herself suffered from some such -spiritual malady. - -A question roused her from her trance. - -"I say, Billy, are you married yet?" - -It was extraordinary how Jehane's heart pounded as she waited for the -question to be answered. - -He clasped his hands in supplication, "Promise not to tell my wife that -we came out like this together." - -Nan let the pole trail behind her and gazed down at him mockingly. Her -face was flushed with the exertion of punting: the faint gold of the -stormy afternoon, drifting through gray willows, spangled her hair and -dress. "When you like you can make yourself as big an ass as anyone. I -don't believe you are a pub: you're a big, lazy fellow playing truant. -Answer my question." - -"But Pepperminta, why should I?" - -"Don't call me ridiculous names. Answer my question." - -Barrington stretched himself indolently on the cushions. "You've not -changed a bit; you're just as funny and imperious as ever. Soon you'll -stamp your little foot; when that fails, you'll try coaxing. After -twelve years of being away from you, I can read you like a book." - -"You can't; I never coax now. I scowl, and get angry and cruel." - -He glanced up at her gentle, laughing face. "You couldn't make your face -scowl, however much you tried." - -Jehane told herself that they were two children, rehearsing an old game -together. People must be very fond of one another to play a game of -pretending to quarrel. She felt strangely grown up and out of it, and -quite unreasonably hurt. Nan was surprising her at every turn. - -"You'll enjoy yourself much better," he was saying, "if I leave you in -suspense. You can spend your time in guessing what she looks like. Then -you can start watching me closely to see whether I love her. And then -you can wonder how much I'm going to tell her of what we say to each -other." - -Nan jerked the punt forward. "I don't want to know. You can keep your -secret to yourself." Then, glancing at Jehane, "I say, Janey, you ask -him. He can't be rude to you. He'll have to answer." - -Jehane had no option but to enter into the jest. "I know. Father told -me. Mr. Barrington is a widower." - -The man's eyes flashed and held hers steadily; they twinkled with -surprise and humor. "Go on, Miss Usk; you tell her. It's altogether too -sad." - -While she was speaking, she was excitedly conscious that he was -examining her and approving her impertinence. "Mr. Barrington married -his mother's parlor-maid soon after he left Cassingland. She was a -beautiful creature and very modest; because she felt herself unworthy of -the brilliant Mr. Barrington, she made it a condition of their marriage -that it should be kept secret. Then she got it into her head that she -was spoiling his promising career, and----- Well, she died suddenly--of -gas. After she was dead, a volume of poems was discovered--love -poems--and published anonymously; my mother attributes them to Bacon and -my father used to attribute them to Shakespeare. Then father found out, -but he's never dared to tell mother; she was always so positive about -it." - -Nan had stared at her friend while she was talking. Could this be the -serious Jehane? What had happened? At the end she broke into a peal of -laughter. "It won't do, old girl; you're stuffing. Billy hasn't got a -mother." - -"And he isn't married," he said; "and he doesn't want to be married yet. -Now are you content?" - -Jehane was not content. As they drifted through Mesopotamia with its -pollard-willows, sound of running waters and constant fluttering of -birds, she kept hearing those words "And he doesn't want to be married -yet." Did men ever want to be married, or was it always necessary to -catch them? _Catch them!_ It sounded horrid to put it like that, -and robbed love of all its poetry. As a girl with a Pre-Raphaelite -appearance, she had liked to believe all the legends of chivalry: that -it was woman's part to be remote and disdainful, while men endangered -themselves to win her favor. But were those legends only ideals--had -anything like them ever happened? And supposing a woman wanted to catch -Barrington, how would she set about it? - -The roar of water across the lasher at Parsons' Pleasure grew louder, -drowning the conversation which was taking place in low tones at the -other end of the punt. As they drew in at the landing, Jehane -bent forward and heard Barrington say, "I believe you'd have been -disappointed if I had been married"; and Nan's retort, "I believe I -should. You know, it does make a difference." - -Nan turned to Jehane, "What are we going to do next? There's hardly time -to go further." - -"Oh, don't go back yet," Barrington protested; "let's get tea at Marston -Ferry." - -"But who'll take the punt round to the ladies' landing? Ladies aren't -allowed through Parsons' Pleasure, and I hardly trust you to come round -by yourself." Nan eyed him doubtfully. "You may be a good pub, but -you're a rotten punter." - -"Dash it all, you needn't rub it in. If the worst comes to the worst, I -shall only get a wetting." - -"You're sure you can swim?" - -"Quite sure, thanks." - -"Well, good-by, and good luck. I should hate to lose you after all these -years of parting." - -As they struck out along the path across the island and the screen of -bushes shut him from their view, Jehane felt her arm taken. - -"Don't you like him, Janey?" - -"What I've seen of him, yes." - -"I was afraid you didn't." - -"Whatever made you think that?" - -"Because he thought it. I could feel that he thought it." - -"But I did nothing." - -"You wore your touch-me-not-manners, Janey. You looked so tragic and -black. I had to talk my head off to fill in the awkwardnesses." - -"I know you did; but I wasn't sure of the reason." - -Nan glanced up quickly and her eyes filled; the blood surged into her -face and throat; her lips trembled. She pressed her cheek coaxingly -against the tall girl's shoulder. "You foolish Jehane; you're jealous. -Why, Billy and I use to eat blackberries out of each other's hands." - -Then Jehane relented. Drawing Nan to her with swift, protecting passion, -she kissed the wet eyes and pouting mouth. "You dear little Nan, I _was_ -jealous. You're so sweet and gentle; no one could help loving you. I was -angry with myself--angry because I'm so different." - -"So much cleverer," Nan whispered. - -"I don't want to be clever; I'd give everything I possess to look as -good and happy as you." - -"But you are good. If you weren't, we shouldn't all love you." - -"_All?_ It's enough that you do." - -When Barrington rounded the island, he found them standing oddly near -together; then he noticed a moist ball of handkerchief crushed in Nan's -free hand--and he guessed. - - - - -CHAPTER III--ALL THE WAY FOR THIS - -Jehane had been granted her wish and she was frightened. The river -stretched before her, a lonely ghost, glimmering between soaked fields -and beaten countryside. The rain-fall must have been heavy in the -hills, for the river was swollen and discolored: branches, torn from -overhanging trees, danced and vanished in the swiftly moving current. -With evening a breeze had sprung up, which came fitfully in gusts, -bowing tall rushes that waded in the stream, so that they whispered -"Hush." In the distance, above clumped tree-tops, the spires of -Oxford speared the watery sky; red stains spread along white flanks of -clouds--clouds that looked like chargers spurred by invisible riders. - -The man of whom she knew so little and whom she desired was standing at -her side. She was terrified. She had gained her wish--at last they were -alone together. - -Behind them, up the hill, the cosy inn nestled among its quiet arbors. -Across the river the ferryman sat whistling, waiting for his next fare -to come up. Moving away through misty meadows on the further bank a -white speck fluttered mothlike. - -"She'll get home all right, don't you think?" - -"Why not? She always does." - -"But it'll be late by the time she reaches Cassingland. She's got to -catch the tram into Oxford, to harness up and then to drive out to the -rectory. It'll be late by the time she arrives." - -"She'd have been later if she'd returned by river with us.--See, she's -waving at the stile.--Girls have to do these thing's for themselves, Mr. -Barrington, if they have no brothers." - -He stroked his chin. "Girls who have no brothers should be allotted -brothers by the State." - -She faced him daringly. "I should like that. I might ask to have you -appointed my brother." - -"You would, eh! Seems to me that's what's happened.--Funny what a little -customer Nan is for making her friends the friends of one another: she -was just the same in the old days. One might almost suspect that she'd -planned this from the start--bringing us out all comfy, and leaving us -to go home together.--But, I say, can you punt?" - -"I can, but I'm not going to." - -He stepped back from her involuntarily and eyed her. There was a thrill -of excitement in her clear voice that warned and yet left him puzzled. -She filled him with discomfort--discomfort that was not entirely -unpleasant. While Nan was present, she had been watchful and silent; now -it was as though she slipped back the bars of her reticence and stepped -out. He tingled with an unaccustomed sense of danger. He weighed his -words before expressing the most trifling sentiment. Usually he -was recklessly spontaneous; now he feared lest his motives might be -mistaken. What did she want of him? She had gazed down from the window -and beckoned him with her eyes--him, a stranger. Whatever it was, Nan -knew about it, and had cried about it the moment his back was turned. He -distrusted anyone who made Nan cry. - -Silence between them was more awkward than words--surcharged with subtle -promptings that words disguised; he took up the thread of their broken -conversation. - -"If you're not going to punt, how are we going to get back? I'll do my -best, but you've seen what a duffer I am." - -"We'll sit in the stern and paddle. With the current running so -strongly, we could almost drift back." - -He followed her down the slope. She walked in front, her head slightly -turned as though she listened to make sure that he followed. He noticed -the pride of her handsome body, its erectness and its poise--how it -seemed to glide across the grass without sound or motion. He summed her -up as being abnormally self-conscious and wilfully undiscoverable. He -wondered whether her restraint hid a glorious personality, or served -simply as a disguise for shallowness of mind.--And while he analyzed -her thus, she was scorning herself for the immodesty of her fear and -dumbness. - -Kneeling down on the landing to unfasten the rope, he pieced his words -together. "I ought to apologize for what I implied just now. It must -have sounded horribly ungallant to suggest that you should work while I -sat idle." She did not answer till they were seated side by side in the -narrow stern. Taking a long stroke with her paddle, she shot a searching -glance at him; the veil drew back from her eyes, revealing their -smoldering fire. "That's all right. I don't trouble. You needn't mind." - -Though she had not blamed him, she had not excused him. - -Night was falling early; outlines of the country were already growing -vague. Edges of things were blurred; from low-lying meadows silver mists -were rising. In the great silence grasses rustled as cattle stirred -them, the river complained, and a solitary belated bird swept across the -dusk with a dull cry. - -It was dangerous and it was tempting--he could not avoid personalities. -He tried to think of other things to say, but they refused to take -shape. His perturbation seemed the rumor of what her mind was enacting. -Several times inquisitive inquiries were on the tip of his tongue; -he checked them. Then her body lurched against him; their shoulders -brushed. - -"You have a beautiful name." - -"Indeed! You think so?" - -"For me it has only one association." - -Again she brushed against him. He caught the scent of her hair and, in -the twilight, a glimpse of the heavy drooping eyelids. - -"I mean that poem by William Morris--it's all about Jehane. You remember -how it runs: 'Had she come all the way for this'----?" - -"You're frightened to continue. Isn't that so?" Her tones were cold and -quiet. "'Had she come all the way for this, to part at last without a -kiss?'--I remember. It's all about dripping woods and a country like -this, with a river overflowing its banks, and a man and a girl who were -parted forever 'beside the haystack in the floods.' Jehane was supposed -to be a witch, wasn't she? 'Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown! Give us -Jehane to burn or drown.' There's something like that in the poem---- I -suppose I make you think only of tragic things?" - -"Why suppose that?" - -"Because I do most people." - -"In my case there's no reason for supposing that. I oughtn't to have -mentioned it." - -"Oh yes, you ought. You felt it, though you didn't know it. It's -unfortunate for a girl always to impress people as tragic, don't you -think? Men like us to be young. You're so young yourself--that's your -hobby, according to Nan.--But if you want to know, you yourself made me -think of something not quite happy--that's what kept me so quiet on the -way up." - -"I thought I'd done something amiss--that perhaps you were offended with -me for the informal way in which I introduced myself." - -She gave him no assurance that she had not been offended. - -"Here's what you made me think," she said: - - "She left the web, she left the loom, - - She made three paces through the room, - - She saw the water-lily bloom, - - She saw the helmet and the plume, - - She look'd down to Camelot." - -"Rather nice, isn't it, to find that we've had such a cheerful effect on -one another?" - -"But--but why on earth should I make you think of that?" - -She left off paddling and glanced away from him; a little shiver -ran through her. When she spoke, her voice was low-pitched but still -penetrating. - -"Let me ask you a question. Do you think that it's much fun being a -girl?" - -"Never thought about it." - -"Well, it isn't." - -"I should have supposed that, for anyone who was young and good-looking, -it might be barrel-loads of fun to be a girl in Oxford." - -"Well, I tell you that it isn't. You're always wanting and -wanting--wanting the things that men have, and that only men can give -you. But they keep everything for themselves because they're like you, -Mr. Barrington--they've never thought about it." - -"I'm not sure that I understand." - -"Bother! Why d'you force me to be so explicit? Take the case of -Nan--she's one of thousands. She's got nothing of her own--no freedom, -no money, no anything. She's always under orders; she's not expected to -have any plans for her future. She creeps to the windows of the world -and peeps out when her father isn't near enough to prevent her. Unless -she marries, she'll always be prying and never sharing. She's a _Lady of -Shalott_, shut up in a tower, weaving a web of fancies. She hears life -tramp beneath her window, traveling in plume and helmet to the city. -Unless a man frees her, she'll never get out.--Oh, I oughtn't to talk -like this; I never have, to anyone except to Nan. Why do you make me? -Now that it's said, I hate myself." - -"Don't do that." He spoke gently. "I'm glad you've done it. You've made -me see further. We men always look at things from our own standpoint.--I -suppose we're selfish." - -He waited for her to deny that he was selfish. - -"There's no doubt about it," she affirmed. - -They paddled on in silence till they came to the lasher. Together they -hauled the punt over the rollers--there was no one about. When it had -taken the water on the other side, Jehane stepped in quickly; while his -hands and thoughts were unoccupied, she was afraid to be near him. He -stood on the bank, holding the rope to keep the punt from drifting; his -head was flung back and he did not stir. Through the network of branches -moonlight drifted, making willows, gnarled and twisted, and water, -rushing foam-streaked from the lasher, eerie and fantastic. He was -thinking of Nan and the meaning of her crying. - -"Miss Usk, it was very brave of you to speak out." - -She laughed perversely; she was so afraid of revealing her emotion. "You -must have queer notions about me. I've been terribly unconventional." - -They drifted down stream through Mesopotamia, pursued by the -sandal-footed silence. When Barrington spoke to her now, it was -as though there lay between them a secret understanding. What that -understanding was she scarcely dared to conjecture. Here, alone with him -in the moon-lit faery-land of shadows, she was supremely at peace with -herself. - -At Magdalen Bridge they tethered the punt; it was too late to return to -the barges. - -Outside her father's house they halted. Through the window they could -see the high-domed forehead of the Professor, as he sat with his -reading-lamp at his elbow. - -"You'll come in? You had some business with father that brought you down -from London?" - -"But it's late. If you don't mind, I'd prefer to see him to-morrow." - -"Are you staying for long in Oxford?" - -"I hadn't intended." - -"But you may?" - -"I may. It all depends." - -"Good-by then--till to-morrow." - -Professor Usk sank his head as she entered, that he might gaze at her -above his spectacles. "Home again, daughter? Been on the river with Nan, -they tell me! It's late for girls to be out by themselves." - -She answered hurriedly. "Mr. Barrington was with us." - -"Ah, Barrington! Nice fellow! Did he say anything about my book?" - -She was on tenterhooks to be by herself. "He'll call tomorrow." - -"Have you been running, daughter? You seem out of breath. I've a minute -or two to spare; come and sit down. Tell me what you've been doing. Did -Barrington say whether that book of mine had gone to press?" - -She backed slowly to the threshold and stood with the handle in her -hand. - -"I've a headache, father." - -She opened the door and fled. - -Locking herself in her room, she flung herself on the bed and lay rigid -in the darkness, shaken with sobbing. Pressing her lips against the -pillow to stifle the sound, she commenced in a desperate whisper, "Oh -God, give him to me. Dear God, let me have him. Oh God, give----" - - - - -CHAPTER IV--LOVE'S SHADOW - -When Barrington called on the Professor next morning, he did not see -Jehane. She had stayed in bed for breakfast, to keep out of his way. -She did not trust herself to meet him before her parents because of her -face--it might tell tales. She was strangely ashamed that anyone should -know of her infatuation. And yet she longed to meet him that she might -experience afresh the sweet tingling dread lest he should touch her. Ah, -if she were sure that he returned her love, what a different Jehane he -should discover.... - -Though she did not meet him, she espied him the moment he turned into -the street. Peering stealthily from behind the curtain, she was glad to -notice that he glanced up, as though conscious that her hidden eyes were -watching. Listening at the head of the stairs, she heard his voice. She -heard him inquire after her, and tried to estimate his disappointment -and anxiety when her father answered casually, "The daughter has one of -her headaches.... No, nothing much. She may not be down this morning." - -After he had left, she was angry with herself for her cowardice. She -ought to have seized her opportunity. Perhaps he was returning at once -to London, where he would quickly forget her. She might never see him -again. - -By a kind of necromancy she tried to arrive at certainty as to whether -or no he would marry her. If she could count a hundred before a cart -passed a particular lamppost, then he would become her husband. When the -cart went too fast for her counting, she skipped numbers and cheated -in order to make the test propitious. Sitting in her bedroom, partly -dressed, with the brilliant summer sunshine streaming over her, she -invented all kinds of similar experiments. - -At last she grew impatient of her own company and came downstairs to -lunch. Her dreamy mother, who usually noticed nothing, embarrassed her -by remarking that her face was flushed as though she were sickening for -something. She turned attention from herself by inquiring the result of -her father's interview with Mr. Barrington. - -Her father was annoyed because his book had been delayed in -publication--quite unwarrantably delayed, he said. She could not get him -to state whether Barrington had gone back to London. The conversation -developed into an indictment of the innate trickiness of publishers. -Mrs. Usk had never been able to reconcile the place she occupied in the -world of letters with the smallness of her royalty-statements. It -almost made her doubt the financial honesty of some persons. Jehane -had listened with angry eyes while these two impractical scholars, -comfortably interrupting one another across the table, swelled out the -sum of their grievances. Now she took up the cudgels so personally and -so passionately in the defense of publishers in general, and Barrington -in particular, that she was moved to tears by her eloquence. - -Her parents peered at her out of their dim eyes in concerned silence. -When the tears had come, they nodded at each other, bleating in chorus, -"She is not well. She is flushed. She is certainly sickening for -something. She must go to bed. The doctor must be summoned." - -Jehane pushed back her chair. "You'll do nothing of the kind. I'm quite -well." - -After she had made her escape, it was discovered that she had eaten -nothing. In a few minutes she reappeared in her out-door attire and -announced that she was going to Cassingland. - -"But, my dear, you can't," her mother protested; "not in your state. You -may give it to Nan; it may be catching. And then, think how Mr. Tudor -would blame us." - -Jehane tapped with her foot impatiently. "Don't be silly, mother. I'm -going." - -And with that she departed. Only one of the witnesses of this scene -conjectured its true cause--Betty, the housemaid, who on more than one -occasion had watched these same symptoms develop in herself. - -At the stable where her father's horse was baited Jehane ordered out the -dog-cart. She did not know why she was going to Cassingland. Certainly -she did not intend to make Nan her confidant--the frenzy of love is -contagious. But Nan must know many pages of Barrington's past, the whole -of which was a closed book to her. Without giving away her secret, they -might discuss him together. - -As she drove along the Woodstock road and turned off into the leafy -Oxford lanes, she laid her plans. She would affect to have found him -dull company in the journey back from Marston Ferry; she would be -surprised that anyone should think him interesting. Then Nan, with her -sensitive loyalty to friends, would prove the splendor of his character -with facts drawn from her own experience. - -Down the road ahead a man was striding in the direction in which she -was driving. At the sound of wheels he turned and, standing to one side, -raised his hat. Blood flooded her cheeks. Her instinct was to dash by -him. She could not endure his attitude of secure comradeship. He must be -everything to her at once or nothing. Her eyes fell away from his, yet -she longed to return his gaze with frankness. - -"I'm in luck. When I called this morning, the Professor told me you were -unwell." - -"I'm better." - -"I'm glad. I've been blaming myself for not taking sufficient care of -you." - -Had he chosen, he could have crushed her to him then; she was made so -happy that she would not have protested. But how was he to judge this -from the proud, almost sullen face that watched him from the dog-cart? - -He looked up at her cheerfully. "Bound for the same place, aren't we? -I'm tired of pounding along by myself; if you don't mind, I'll jump in -and let you drive me." - -She nodded ever so slightly and he swung himself up. "Going to Nan's?" - -"To Cassingland," he assented. "I want to see for myself the lady in her -tower. D'you know, I can't get that out of my head--all that you told me -about girls." - -"Really." - -She spoke indifferently and flicked the horse with the whip, so that it -started forward with a jerk. - -"You're not very curious. You don't ask me why I can't forget." - -"Why?" - -"Because, with other conditions, it's equally true of men." - -"I don't believe that." - -"You will when I've told you. To get on nowadays a fellow's got to work -day and night." - -"You're ambitious?" - -"Of course I am. I want to have power. I've not had a real holiday for -years. Of course I've money, which you say girls don't have; but I've -responsibilities. I know nothing of women--I've had no time to learn. -That's why I'm so grateful to you for yesterday. With me it's just work, -work, work to win a position, so that one day some woman may be happy. -So you see, I have my tower as well as Nan, where I'm doomed to spin my -web of fancy." - -"But men choose their own towers--build them for themselves." - -"Don't you believe it. Some few may, but so do some few girls. I wanted -to go to Oxford and to write books and to be a scholar, instead of which -I publish other men's scribblings and do my best to sell 'em." - -"I never thought... I mean I thought all men... But you're strong: -if any man could have chosen, you would have done it. Tell me about -yourself." - -And he told her--his dreams, anxieties, small triumphs, and incessant -round of daily duties. He was very fine and gentle, speaking with -touching eagerness, as though confession were a privilege which he -rarely allowed himself. Yet Jehane was not content; she knew that -in love the instinct for confession is coupled with the instinct for -secretiveness. When she touched him, he was not disturbed as she was; -his voice did not quiver--he did not change color. She told herself that -men were the masters, so that even in love they showed no distrust of -themselves. But the explanation was not convincing. - -They were nearing Cassingland. Ambushed in trees, rising out of -somnolent lowlands, the thin, tall spire of a church sunned itself. Like -toys, tumbled from a sack, about which grass had grown up, cottages -lay scattered throughout the meadows. As they came in sight of the -triangular green, with the tidy rectory standing, high-walled, on its -edge, their conversation faltered. - -He offered her his hand to help her out. She held back for a second, -then took it with ashamed suddenness. He raised his eyes to hers with a -boy's enthusiasm. - -"Miss Usk, it's awfully decent of you to have listened to me." - -"It's you who've been decent. You make everything so easy. You seem... -seem to understand." - -He was puzzled. "I've done nothing but talk at unpardonable length -about myself. As for making things easy, it's you--you're so rippingly -sensible." - -She winced. No man falls in love with a woman for her sanity. It was as -though he had called her middle-aged or robust. She wanted to appeal -to him as weak and clinging. When people are in love they are far from -sensible; she knew that she was anything but sensible at present. If he -had told her she was capricious and charming, she would have shown him a -face exultant. - -Nan came tripping to the gate. "This _is_ jolly--both of you together!" - -Her coming was inappropriate; for the next few months all her -appearances were to prove ill-timed so far as Jehane was concerned. And -yet, what was to be done? Professor Usk's house was too subdued in -its atmosphere to be congenial. Moreover, the Professor invariably -monopolized a man who was his guest--especially when the man was a -publisher. Then again, Jehane was painfully aware that she was awkward -in the presence of her parents, and did not create her best impression. -So she did not encourage Barrington to call on her in Oxford. Naturally -she turned to Cassingland, where you had the wide free country, and -no one suspected or watched you because you were friendly with a man. -Cassingland furnished an excuse for both of them: Nan was her friend; -Mr. Tudor had been his tutor. Mr. Tudor, with his honest, farmer-like -appearance and frayed clericals, lent an air of propriety to -proceedings. And Nan--she helped the propriety; but she never knew when -she was not wanted. She spoke of Barrington as Billy. She took his arm -and snuggled against him with a naive air of mischief, leading him to -all the spots along the river, in the garden and scattered through the -fields, which years ago had formed their playground. Jehane resented her -innocent air of belonging to him. So, very frequently when Barrington -came down from London and she drifted out, as if by accident, to the -rectory, she wore the mask of reserve and sullenness, and did not show -to best advantage. - -Barrington, for his part, was always equal in his temper--too equal -for Jehane. With Nan he was gay and frivolous; to her he was grave and -deferential. She wished he would display more ardor and less caution. -If it had been in her nature, she would have made the running; she was -pained by his unvarying respect. - -All summer love's shadow had rested on her. It was September now; the -harvest lay cut in the fields ready to be carried. Nan had sent Jehane a -message that morning that Barrington was expected; so here she was once -more at the rectory, spending the week-end. - -They had gone up to bed, leaving the men to smoke; suddenly Nan put on -her dress, saying that she heard her father calling. Jehane prepared for -bed slowly; by the time she was ready to slip between the sheets Nan had -not returned. She blew out the candle; the room was instantly suffused -with liquid moonlight and velvet shadow. In the darkness, as often -happens, her senses became sharpened--she heard a multitude of sounds. -Somewhere near the church, probably from the tower, an owl was hooting. -In the distance a dog barked. She could hear the wash of the river among -its rushes, and the padding of a footstep on the lawn. Romance in her -was stirred. - -Going to the window, she leant out; she was greeted by the strong -fragrance of roses. Sheaves, standing in rows throughout the fields, -looked like a sleeping camp. Trees, save where mists thumbed them, were -etched distinctly against the indigo horizon. The white disc of the -moon, like a paper lantern, hung balanced between the edges of two -clouds. Its light, streaming down the sky, was like milk poured across -black marble. Nature seemed to have blinded her eyes and to hold her -breath. - -Across the lawn from the open study window, a shaft of gold slanted, -making the darkness on either side intense by contrast. As Jehane -listened, she heard what seemed a panting close to the wall beneath her. -She leant further out and discerned a blur of white. She was about to -speak when the red glow of a cigar, thrown down among the bushes, warned -her. - -"At last! You've never given me a chance to be alone with you. I've -wanted you all summer, little Nan." - -His arms were round her. As he stooped above her, her face was blotted -out... He was speaking again. - -"Your father saw it. That's why he called you.... If I'd had to wait -much longer, I should have asked you before her. Why--why would you -never let us be alone together?" - -Nan's voice came muffled beneath his kisses. "Because, Billy darling, I -wanted to play fair." - -"Fair?" - -An answer followed, so softly whispered that it did not carry--a -surprised exclamation from the man. - -Jehane had tiptoed from the window. - -With her black hair tumbled about her, her hands pressed against her -mouth, she lay sobbing. The night had lost its magic.... - -Nan entered the room stealthily. She glanced toward the bed. Thinking -Jehane was sleeping, she did not light the candle, but commenced to -fumble at her fastenings, undressing in the dark. A sob refused to be -stifled any longer. Nan paused in her undressing and stood tense; then -ran and bent above the bed. Seizing Jehane by the shoulders, she tried -to turn her face toward her. - -"Oh, Janey, I did, I did play fair. I told you every time he was -coming.... Say you'll still be friends." - -But Jehane said nothing. - -Next morning she greeted Barrington with her accustomed mixture of proud -restraint and sullenness. "We've been expecting this all summer. We -wondered when it would happen. I hope you'll be very happy." - -After that she came less frequently to Cassingland. The lovers had long -walks, uninterrupted, unaccompanied. Once he told Nan, "I can't believe -it, Pepperminta. I'm sure you were mistaken." - -"But I wasn't." She shook her curly head sadly. - -They rarely mentioned Jehane. They knew that she was troubled; but they -knew of no way in which to help. - -At Christmas, when snow lay on the ground, they were married. - -Nan, who had never feared spinsterhood greatly, had escaped from it. -Jehane retired to the isolation which she sometimes called her tower, -and at other times her raft. She often told herself savagely that, had -it not been for her shyness in instancing Nan instead of herself on that -journey down from Marston Ferry, she might have been the bride at that -wedding. Secretly, she was bitter about it; outwardly, she kept up her -friendship--otherwise she would have seen no more of Barrington. - - - - -CHAPTER V--ENTER PETER AND GLORY - -Barrington did everything on a large scale--he knew he was going to -be a big man. He arranged his surroundings with an eye to his expanding -future. It was so when he bought his house at Topbury. - -It had more rooms than he could furnish--more than a young married -couple could comfortably occupy. But he intended to spend his entire -life there, hanging the walls with memories and associations of -affection. It would be none too large for a growing family. That was -Barrington all over; he planned and looked ahead. - -The house stood high in the north of London; it was one of twenty in a -terrace--all with porches and areas in front, and long walled gardens -at the back. To-day the octopus suburbs, throwing out tentacles of small -mean dwellings, have crept across the broad views and strangled the -rural aspect. But when Nan and Barrington went to live there, they -looked out from their back-windows uninterrupted across the Vale of -Holloway to Gospel Oak and the Heath at Hampstead. The approach to -Topbury Terrace was through quiet fields where sheep were grazing. The -oldest inhabitants still talked of a group of shops as Topbury Village. -Many of the roads were private; traffic was kept back by gates or posts -planted across them. - -The house was a hundred years old, spacious and lofty. It had the sturdy -look of Eighteenth Century handiwork. Though standing in a terrace, it -retained its own personality and seemed to hold itself aloof from its -neighbors. Once link-boys had stood before its doors and coaches had -rumbled through Islington Village out from London, bringing its master -home from routs and functions. Probably he was a portly merchant, -accompanied by a dame who wore patches. - -Adjoining its bedrooms were powder-cupboards; its lower windows were -heavily grated against attack. All the entries were massively screened -and bolted. It seemed to boast its privacy. In the garden were -pear-trees, a mulberry and a cedar. At the bottom of the garden was a -stable with stalls for three horses. - -At first Nan was rather awed--she did not know what to do with it. -Many of the rooms remained unfurnished. That was to be done slowly, by -picking up old and rare articles--pictures and tapestries as they could -afford them, a piece here and a piece there: this was to be their hobby. -She was frightened by so much emptiness, and clung to her husband, -puzzled and proud. Then, gradually, she began to understand: they were -planning for the future greatness which they were to share. She was no -longer frightened; she was glad. - -There was one room in which they often sat. Sometimes they would visit -it separately and surprise one another. When they entered, they became -strangely bashful and childlike--it was holy ground. They left all their -cruder ambitions on the threshold. They stopped talking or conversed in -whispers, holding hands. It was on a halfstory, between the first -floor and the second, and looked into the garden. Up the wall outside -a magnolia clambered; against its window a laburnum tapped and shed -its golden tassels. Everything was waiting for someone who was some day -coming. A high guard stood about the hearth to prevent someone, when he -began to toddle, from falling into the fire and getting burnt. A little -bed was ready--a bed so tiny that you could lift it with one hand. On -the floor toys lay scattered. Everything had been thought out for his -reception long before he warned them of his coming. To bring home new -toys and leave them there for Nan to discover was one of Barrington's -absurd ways of telling her how much he loved her. - -It was in that room that they kissed after their first quarrel. It was -there she told him that the little hands were being fashioned that were -to be held so fast in theirs. - -And he came one bright February morning, when crocuses were standing -bravely above the turf and a warm spring wind was blowing. Nan hugged -him to her breast, smiling and crying--she was so glad he was a man. -They called him Peter--after the house his father said, because the -house was Peterish and old-fashioned. William was sure to be contracted -to Bill or Billy; one Billy was enough in any family----- - -It was shortly after the birth of Peter that Jehane caught her man. -It was said that she married him on the rebound, for she never ceased -loving Barrington. She did it more to get off the raft, and to show that -she could do it, than for anything. - -Captain Bobbie Spashett had seen her portrait in a friend's house. He -was under orders to sail for India. He had six weeks in which to make -her acquaintance, do his courting and get over the wedding. He proved -himself a man of energy, managing the business with a soldier's dash. -Then he sailed for India, promising to send for her when he was settled. -Unfortunately, before the year was out, he died in action. - -In February, almost on the anniversary of Peter's birth, his -daughter came into the world. Jehane named her Glory, because of the -distinguished nature of her father's death. - -When Captain Spashett's affairs came to be settled, it was found that -he had left his widow something less than a thousand pounds from all -sources. - -Then Jehane discovered that, in stepping off the raft, she had not -reached the land. She went to live with her parents. - - - - -CHAPTER VI--JEHANE'S SECOND MARRIAGE - -It was his own fault; he knew it in after years. Barrington was partly -responsible for Jehane's second marriage. It was he who suggested that, -since Jehane was not happy with her parents, it would be decent to ask -her up to Topbury for Christmas. - -Did he like her? Well, hardly! He felt that she bore him a grudge. -Whenever her name was mentioned, he and Nan had a guilty sense. They -were so happy--they had everything that she coveted and lacked. - -They asked her by way of atonement. When she objected that Glory would -be a nuisance, they replied that Glory would be fun for Peter.--And it -was he who, in the goodness of his heart, invited Waffles. - -Ocky Waffles was not his sort. His very name was a handicap. A man named -Waffles could scarcely command respect; but the Christian name made it -worse. How could anyone called Ocky Waffles be a gentleman? He was his -cousin, however, and lived alone in London lodgings. His mother was -recently dead. Whatever his shortcomings, he had been an attentive son. -The chap would be rottenly lonely, thought Barrington. Unadulterated -Ocky he could not stand; but, if he could jumble him up in a -family-party and so get him diluted, he would be very glad to do him -a service. In the uncalculating days of boyhood they had been warm -friends. So Mr. Tudor was persuaded to come from Cassingland and Ocky -was invited. - -In her twenty-eighth year, Jehane traveled to Paddington _en route_ for -her second adventure in matrimony. Glory was with her, a golden-haired -baby just beginning to toddle, the image of her soldier father. Jehane -still wore mourning--deepest black, with white frills at her wristbands -and a white ruff about her neck. Black suited her pale complexion--it -lent her the touch of helpless pathos that her beauty had always wanted. -Her manner was hushed and gentle, matching her costume. Her large, dark -eyes had that forlorn expression of "Oh, I can never forget," which has -so often sealed the fate of an unmarried man. You felt at once that the -finest deed possible would be to bring her happiness. At least, so felt -Waffles. - -But that Christmas there were times when she did forget. In her new -surroundings, where she and Glory were no longer burdens, she grew -almost merry. When memory clouded her eyes and restored the sternness of -tragedy, it was not Bobbie Spashett she remembered, who had died a very -gallant gentleman, fighting for his country; it was simply that, with -proper care, Nan's shoes might have been hers. When she saw Barrington -slip his arm about his wife, and heard her whisper, "Oh, please, Billy, -not now," it made her wild with envy. She felt that it was more than -she could bear. She was unloved, and so was Waffles; they had this in -common, despite dissimilarities. - -Ocky Waffles was a kind-hearted lounger. He was always late for -everything--which left him plenty of time to devote to her. His best -friends would never have accused him of refinement. His mind was -untidy; he was lazy and ineffectual. His faculty for conversation was -childish--he _babbled_. He was continually making silly jokes at which -he laughed himself. Because the world rarely laughed with him, he -believed that his bump of humor was abnormally developed. He had met -only one person as humorous as himself--his mother; she, admiring and -loyal old lady, had laughed till the tears came at anything he said. But -she was dead; he had lost his audience. He missed her and was extremely -sorry for Ocky Waffles. No one understood his catch-phrases now, -"Reaching after the mustard," and, "Look at father's pants." They did -not even know to what they referred; he had to explain everything. There -was an element of absurdity and weak pathos about the man; when one of -his jokes had missed fire he would dab his eyes, saying with a catch in -his throat, "Oh dear, how mother'd have split her sides at that!" - -Jehane was genuinely moved to compassion. Sinking her voice, she would -lead him aside and whisper, "Tell it again, Mr. Waffles. I think I could -understand." - -Before Ocky met her, the denseness of his friends had driven him to -public houses, where other tales might be told without shocking anybody. -With barmaids he could pass for a "nut," a witty fellow. Grief drove him -to it, he told himself. He was well aware that public houses were bad -for his pocket and worse for his health. When Jehane seemed to applaud -him, his thoughts naturally turned to marriage--marriage would cure -every evil, and then---- Oh, then he would become like Barrington, with -a loving wife, art-treasures and a fine house. It was only a matter of -keeping steady and concentrating your willpower. - -But to become like Barrington he would have had to be a gentleman. A -top-hat never sat on his head as if it belonged to him. With his equals -in birth and opportunity he could never be comfortable. He found it easy -to be chatty with stable-boys and servants. This he attributed to his -superior humanity. He was fond of walking down the street with a pipe in -his mouth. When he sat on a chair, it was usually on the middle of his -back with his feet thrust out. He slouched through life like an awkward -boy, experiencing discomfort in the presence of his elders. - -Since he could not cure himself of his habits, he determined some day, -when he was ready for the effort, to get money; with money his habits -would no longer be bad--they would become signs of democracy and -independence. At the time of the Christmas party he was a clerk in a -lawyer's office--he had been other things before that. This was his -worldly condition, when he met Jehane and fell in love with her. - -They drifted together from force of circumstance; Nan and Barrington -were still very much of lovers; Mr. Tudor spent his time on the floor -with Peter and Glory. They were thrown together; there was no escape -from it. Ocky was naturally affectionate; it was part of his weak -amiability to love somebody. He craved love for himself--or was it -admiration? But as a rule no one was flattered by his affection--it was -always on tap. Jehane did not know that. Her wounded pride was soothed -because he selected her. She was hungry for a man's appreciation -and anxious for his protection. And as for Ocky, to whom no one ever -listened--he was encouraged by her pleased attention. - -He sought her out at first in a good-natured effort to dispel her -melancholy; his method was to regale her with worn chestnuts. She heard -them with a slow, sweet smile on her mouth, which narrowed and widened, -but rarely broke into mirth. This showed him that all his stories were -new to her. The poor fellow was stirred to his shallow depths. A gusty -passion blew through him; he struggled into seeming strength; he felt he -was a man.--When you're choosing a woman who will be condemned to hear -all your old anecdotes over and over to the day of her death, it is very -necessary to select one to whom they will come fresh, at least before -marriage. Yes, she was the wife for Waffles. - -Little confidences grew up between them. She told him about Barrington, -hinting that he had wobbled between her and Nan. And he told her about -Barrington, how as boys they had been like brothers, spending every -holiday together, but now----. - -But now, in Barrington's own words, a little of Ocky went a long way; -after an hour or two in his company he felt quite fed up with him. -As with many a clever man, vulgarity of mind disgusted him more than -well-bred viciousness. He found it difficult to hide his feelings from -his guest. In fact, he didn't. - -Nan was the first to notice what was happening. "He's making love to -Jehane, I declare!" - -Her husband shook his head knowingly. "Jehane's too proud for that." - -"But he is. They're always sitting over the fire, oh, so closely, and -whispering together." - -"It can't be. She's amusing herself. If I thought it were, I'd stop it. -Ocky may be a bounder, but he wouldn't do that." - -"Billy boy, he's doing it." - -"But he's hardly got a penny to bless himself, and her little income -wouldn't attract him." - -"You may say what you like, old obstinate; it doesn't alter facts." - -Jehane was proud, as Barrington said; but not too proud. She realized -quite well what Waffles was, but she hoped to brace him up with her -strength. She was by no means blind to his shortcomings. Often, when -the smile was playing about her mouth, her mind was in a ferment of -derision. At night remorse pursued her--the fine, clean memory of Bobbie -Spashett.--But the constant sight of Nan and Barrington, their stolen -kisses and love-words, were getting on her nerves. She looked down the -vista of the years--was no man ever to conquer her? Was she to grow -into an old woman with that one brief memory of her soldier-man? So -love-hunger drew her to Waffles, despite the warnings of her better -sense. The love-hunger was continually quickened by the sight of Nan's -domestic happiness. - -When, after a week's acquaintance, he said, "Mrs. Spashett, will you -marry me?" she replied, "My brave husband!--I cannot.--I must be true to -the end." - -When he asked her again two days later, she was less positive. "Oh, Mr. -Waffles, there's Glory." - -"Call me Ocky," he said. - -Then he changed his tactics. He argued his loneliness, their community -of grief, the loss of his mother. When he spoke of his mother, she liked -him best. "Give me time," she murmured. - -The crisis came on the last day of her visit, and was hastened by -two foolish happenings. She detested the thought of the return to her -parents' silent house. She had persuaded herself that she was not wanted -there; her child fidgeted the old people and disarranged the household. -After the glimpse of warmth and heaven she had had, she magnified her -troubles through the glass of envy. Oh, to have her own fireside, and -her own man!--This was how the crisis happened. - -Peter, aged three, was playing with Glory. With the clumsiness of -childhood he knocked her down. She commenced to scream loudly--so loudly -that she might have been seriously hurt. Jehane rushed into the nursery, -caught her baby to her breast and, in her anguish, smacked Peter. Peter -in all his young life had never been smacked; he watched her goggle-eyed -and then set up a terrified howl. When Nan arrived on the scene, he was -sobbing and explaining that he had only meant to _softy_ Glory, which -was his word for loving her by rubbing her with his face and hands. A -quarrel ensued between the mothers in which bitter things were said. -How did Jehane dare to touch Peter, her little Peterkins baby, who was -always so sensitive and gentle! Nan was fiercely angry that her child -had been unjustly punished; Jehane was no less angry because her child -had been knocked down. When it was all over, the babies were told to -kiss one another; Peter, when Jehane approached him, hid his face in his -mother's skirt. - -Strained relations followed, which made light words impossible. -Barrington, when he heard of it, was extraordinarily annoyed. Waffles, -because she was in the minority, sided with Jehane. That her quiet, -madonna-like adoration of Glory should have turned into tigerish -protective passion attracted him strangely. - -That evening Barrington had some friends to dine with him--men and women -of his world, whose good opinion he valued. During dinner and afterwards -in the drawingroom, Waffles had been ousted from the conversation; their -talk was all of books and travel--things he did not understand. He felt -cold-shouldered--crowded out. He resented it, and was determined to show -them that he also could be clever. - -He waited for an opening-. A pause in the conversation occurred. He -sprang into the gap. That he was irrelevant did not matter. - -"Heard a good riddle the other day. Wonder if any of you can answer it." -All eyes turned in his direction. He cleared his throat and fumbled at -his collar. "If a cat ate a haddock and a dog chased the cat, and -the cat jumped over the wall, what relation would the dog bear to the -haddock?" - -There was embarrassed silence. Every face wore a puzzled expression. -Barrington pulled his cigar from his mouth and gazed sternly at the -glowing ash. - -At last a lady, who wrote poetry, took compassion on him. She tapped him -on the arm. "I can't think of any answer. Put me out of my suspense. I'm -so anxious to learn." - -Waffles beamed his acknowledgments. "That's the answer," he said -eagerly; "there isn't any answer." - -Barrington ceased to be vexed with his cigar and laughed coldly. - -"You mustn't mind my cousin. He's a genial ass. Sometimes it takes -him like that.--Let's see, what were we discussing when we were -interrupted?" - -So there were two people with wounded feelings in that company. Ocky saw -Jehane slip out of the room, and he followed. On the stairs she halted. - -"Why are you following?" - -"I'm not wanted. Confound their stupidity." - -"But why should you follow me?" - -"Because you're the same as I am. That's why you left; you're not at -home here. Look how they behaved about Glory. I say, it's our last -evening together. Won't you give me--" - -But, ridiculous as it appeared to her, an almost maidenly fear took -hold of her; she fled. He found her in the dark, at the top of the tall -house; she was leaning over her child's cot sobbing. He grew out of -himself, stronger, better; against her will, he folded her to him. - -"Won't you give me your answer, darling?" - -Silence. - -"I'll be very good to Glory." - -Still silence. - -"Oh, Jehane, I'm so foolish--such a weak, foolish fellow; I need your -strength. With you I could be a man." Then all that was maternal awoke -in her. She remembered how she had seen him looking empty-handed, while -those clever men and women had stared. "You musn't mind my cousin. He's -a genial ass. Sometimes it takes him like that."--Cruel! Cruel! She took -his head and pressed it to her bosom, kissing him on the forehead. - -Nan, disturbed by their disappearance, found them kneeling, -hand-in-hand, beside Glory. - -That night as she sat before her mirror undressing, she let her hands -fall to her side, listless. Barrington stole up behind her and kissed -her on the neck, rubbing his face against hers. - -"That's what Peter calls softying." - -"But you weren't thinking of Peter, little woman." - -"How did you know that?" - -"You looked sad. What's the trouble?" - -She bent back her head, so that their eyes met and their lips were near -to touching. "If I hadn't been there that day, would you have loved -Jehane instead?" - -"Pepperminta, I was in love with you when we played together at -Cassingland. Why ask foolish questions?" - -"Because it's happened." - -"You don't mean--?" - -"Yes. She's taken him, and I'm sure she doesn't want him." - -Barrington drew himself upright, then stooped over her; he was realizing -the perfect joy of his own union with a startled sense of thankfulness. - -"Poor people," he murmured. - -Three months later Jehane was married. The wedding was quiet; there -were none but family-guests. No one felt that it was an affair to boast -about. It took place from the Professor's house at Oxford; Mr. Tudor -performed the ceremony. Glory was being left with Nan till the honeymoon -was ended. All morning Jehane's face had been gloomy; perhaps she -already had her doubts. Certainly Mr. Waffles did not show to advantage -in art Oxford atmosphere. He was too boisterous. His shoes were too -shiny. The colors of his tie and button-hole clashed. His clothes looked -ready-made. At parting with her mother, Jehane did the unexpected--she -wept. - -On their drive to the station through austere streets, with bright -glimpses of college quadrangles and young bloods in shooting-jackets and -dancing-slippers, sauntering bareheaded, Waffles grew more exuberant and -irrepressible; his ill-timed gaiety grated on her nerves. Having taken -their seats in the carriage, the train was delayed in starting. He hung -his head out of the window, jerking jocular remarks to her across his -shoulder. She did not answer him, but sat with her hands folded in her -lap and her eyes cast down. He could not make her out; up to now she -had responded so readily to his merriment. At all costs he must make her -laugh. - -The station-master was passing down the platform, his hands clasped -beneath his flapping coat-tails. Not every station-master guards the -gate-way to a seat of learning. This particular station-master felt the -full importance of his position and carried himself with his stomach -thrust forward and his head thrown back. - -Waffles leant from the window and beckoned frantically. When the -official came up, he commenced to jabber in invented gibberish, -desperately gesticulating with his hands. - -"Don't understand you," the official said tartly; "don't talk no foreign -langwidge." - -Waffles paused in his torrent of palaver and winked solemnly at a group -of undergraduates who stood watching. They happened to be pupils of -the Professor. Then, as though an inspiration had burst upon him, he -inquired, "Parlez-vous Franais?" - -"Nong. I do not," snapped the station-master, annoyed that his lack of -scholarship should be exposed in this manner. - -He was moving away, when Waffles produced his crowning witticism, to -which all the rest had been preface. Jehane would certainly laugh now. -"Hi! Station-master! Does this train go to Oxford?" - -He had one glimpse of the insulted official's countenance, then he felt -himself grabbed by the arm and drawn violently back into the carriage. - -"Do you want to make me ashamed of you already. Sit down and behave -yourself." - -"But darling--" - -"Oh, be quiet. Aren't you ever solemn? Is nothing sacred?" - -Exceedingly puzzled and utterly extinguished, he did as he was bade, -waiting like a small boy expecting to be spanked. - -That was how they began life together. - - - - -CHAPTER VII--THE WHISTLING ANGEL - -Peter can quite well remember the events which led up to that strange -happening; not that the events or the happening seemed strange at the -time--they grew into his life so naturally. He thought, if he thought at -all, that to all little boys came the same experience; he would not have -believed you had you told him otherwise. - -He had recently achieved his fourth birthday and the garden, which was -his out-door nursery, was a-flutter with tremulous spring-flowers. -That night his mother sent away the nurse, and undressed and bathed him -herself. She wanted to be foolish to her heart's content, laughing and -singing and crying over him. Only the slender laburnum, with the kind -old mulberry-tree peering over its shoulder, watched them through the -window. The laburnum was a young girl, his mother told him, with shaky -golden curls; the mulberry, whose arms were propped with crutches, was -her grandfather. - -As Peter's mother squeezed the sponge down his back, she stooped her -pretty head, kissing some new part of his wet little body as though -she were making a discovery. And she called him love-words, Peterkins, -Precious Lamb, Ownest; and she pushed him away from her, saying he did -not belong to her, that so she might feel the eager arms clasped more -fiercely about her neck. - -When he had been rolled in the towel, his big father entered and took -him, rubbing his prickly chin against Peter's neck; nor would he give -him up. It was a long time before he was popped into his pink, woolly -nightgown. Even then, when he was safe in bed, they stayed by him--his -mother humming softly, while his father knelt to be able to kiss her -without bending. Shadows came out from the cupboard and crept toward -the window, pushing back the daylight; the daylight dodged across the -ceiling, hid in the mulberry where it slept till morning, came back and -peeped in at him tenderly, and vanished. His eyes grew heavy; the next -thing he remembers is an early breakfast, a cab at the door and being -told to be the goodest little boy in the world. He was hugged till he -was breathless; then he saw the face of his beautiful mother, her eyes -red with weeping, leaning out of the cab-window throwing kisses, growing -distant and yet more distant down the terrace. - -In later years he knew where they went--to Switzerland to re-live their -honeymoon. At the time he thought they were gone forever. - -Grace, his nurse, did her best to comfort him, blowing his nose so -severely that he looked to see if it had come off in the handkerchief. -For Grace he had a great respect. She was a good-natured lump of a girl, -who beat a drum for the Salvation Army under gas-lamps and fought a -never ending battle with herself to pronounce her name correctly. Mr. -Barrington had threatened that the penalty for failing was dismissal. -Now the violence of her emotion and the absence of her employers made -her reckless. "There, little Round Tummy, Grice'll taik care of you, -don't you blow bubbles like that. You'll cry yourself dry, that you -will, and drown us." - -An awful suggestion! He pictured the dining-room flooded with his tears, -the furniture floating and Grace swimming for her life. He turned off -the tap to just the littlest dribble. If he'd stopped at once, Grace -would have ceased to be sorry. - -She did not keep her promise to take care of him. On the contrary, she -conducted him through London on the tops of buses and left him at a -strange house. It belonged to the "smacking lady," a name which he had -given to Jehane since an unfortunate occurrence previously mentioned. -He had been taught to call her Auntie to her face, but she went by the -other name inside his head. - -On many points his memories of this period are muddled. When he was not -in disgrace, he was allowed to play with Glory; if he had been specially -good, he was privileged to splash in the same bath with her before being -put to bed. But this was not often; it appeared that quite suddenly, -since coming to the smacking lady's house, he had developed an -extraordinary faculty for being bad. She said that he was spoilt, and -shut him up in rooms to make him better. He did his best to improve, for -he believed that his naughtiness was the cause of his mother's absence; -she would never come back, unless he became "the goodest little boy in -the world." To judge by the smacking lady's countenance, he did his best -to no purpose. - -Her man was the one bright spot in his tragedy; and even he seemed a -little afraid of her. He did not champion Peter in her presence, but he -would take him out of rooms--oh, so stealthily--and carry him to the -end of the garden where a river ran, along the floor of which fishes -flashed, pursued by their shadows. There he would tell him funny -stories--stories of Peter's world and within the compass of Peter's -understanding; and he would laugh first to warn Peter when he was going -to be really funny---- - -Peter had again been bad, shut up in a room and rescued by the smacking -lady's husband. They were sitting on the river-bank, screened from the -windows of the house by bushes, when they heard the sound of running. -It was the servant; she spoke loudly with excitement and seemed out -of breath. The funny man's face became grave; he rose and left Peter -without a word. - -After that, all kinds of people came hurrying; they banged on the door -and went swiftly up the stairs--swiftly and softly. No one paid him any -heed and, strange to say, they were equally careless of Glory. He was -glad of that, for he loved Glory; it made him happy to have her to -himself. All that day they played among the flowers, he following the -shining of her little golden head. When she fell asleep tired, he sat -solemnly beside her, holding her crumpled hand. - -That night they were hastily undressed by a stranger and tumbled into -the same bed. She was so strange that she did not know that she ought to -hear them say their prayers. It was Peter who reminded her. - -Lying awake in the darkness, he was sensitive that something unusual was -happening. Up and down the creaking stairs many footsteps came and went; -dresses rustled; voices muttered in whispered consultation. In intervals -between doors opening and shutting, there were long periods of silence. -During one of these he heard a sound so curious that he sat up in bed--a -weak, thin wailing which was new to him and, had he known it, new to the -world. He gathered the bed-clothes to his mouth and listened. Voices on -the stairs grew bolder--almost glad. Peter was conscious of relief from -suspense; night itself grew less black. - -Again a door opened on the lower landing; there were footsteps. A man -spoke cheerfully. "It's all over and successfully. Thank God for that." - -And the smacking lady's husband roared, "A little nipper all my own, by -Gad!" - -Peter didn't understand, but they let him see next morning--a puckered -thing, wrapt in blue flannel, with the tiniest of hands, lying very -close to Aunt Jehane's breast. It was the funny man who showed him, -lifting him up so he could look down on it. The funny man was happy. - -Did he start asking questions at once, or does he only imagine it? -Perhaps someone tried to explain things to him--it may have been his -friend, the funny man. It may have been that he overheard conversations -and misconstrued them. At all events, he knew that the baby was a girl -and that she had come several weeks before she was expected. Someone -said that Master Peter would never have been there had they known -that this was going to happen.--So babies came from somewhere -suddenly--somebody sent them! This was the beginning of his longing to -have a baby all to himself--but how? - -One fine morning the treacherous Grace arrived, not one little bit -abashed. She told him that his mother was coming back to Topbury. - -"Then am I the goodest little boy in the world?" - -She thumped her great arms round him; he might have been her drum she -was playing. "You can be when you like; and, my word, I believe you are -now." - -He learnt before he left that the new baby was to be called "Riska"; and -he noticed this much, that its hair and eyes were black. - -His mother had lost her whiteness. Her face and hands were brown; only -her hair was the old sweet color. He had not been long with her when he -made his request. "Mummy, get Peterkins a baby." - -She was sitting sewing by the window. She looked up from the little -garment she was making, holding the needle in her hand. - -"What a funny present! Why does little Peter ask for that?" - -"Mummy, where does babies come from?" - -She laid aside her work and took him into her lap. "From God, dearie." - -"Who brings them, mummikins?" - -"Angels." - -"How does they know to bring them?" - -She laughed nervously; then checked herself, seeing how serious was the -child's expression. "People ask God, darling; he tells the angels. They -bring the babies all wrapt up warmly in their softy wings and feathers." - -"Could a little boy ask him?" - -"Anyone could ask him." - -"Would he send me one for my very ownest?" - -"Some day--perhaps." - -"And you asked God to send me, muvver?" - -"I and your Daddy together." - -He lay so quietly in her arms that she thought his questions were at -an end. She did not take up her work, but sat smiling with dreamy eyes, -humming and resting her chin on his curly head. He clambered down -from her knee, satisfied and laughing, "Ask him again--you and Daddy -together." - -Just then Barrington entered. "What's Daddy to ask for now?" Then, "Why -Nancy, tears in your eyes! What's Peter been doing?" - -She held her husband very closely, looking shy and happy. "He's been -asking for the thing we've prayed for." - -"Eh! What's that?" - -"A baby." - -"A baby? Funny little beggar! Extraordinary!" - -"And sweet!" whispered Nan. - -"Come here, young fellow." His father was solemn, but his eyes were -laughing. He held Peter between his knees, so their faces nearly met. -"If your mother asks God for a baby sister, will you always be good to -her--the truliest, goodest little brother in the world?" - -And Peter nodded emphatically. His father shook his chubby hand, sealing -the bargain. - -Peter watched hourly for her coming--he never doubted it would be a -_her._ He would inquire several times daily, "Will it be soon?" There -was always the same answer, "Peterkins, Peterkins presently." - -One night he heard the same sounds that had amazed him at the smacking -lady's house--whispers, running on the stairs, doors opening and -shutting. He waited for the weak, thin wailing; but that did not follow. -Nevertheless, he was sure it had happened: wrapt up warmly, in softy -angel-feathers, God had sent him a sister for himself. - -It was very late when Grace came to bed. Peter pretended to be asleep; -he feared she would be angry. Slowly he raised himself on the pillow, -his eyes clear and undrowsy. - -"Why, Master Peter!" - -She turned from the mirror so startled that, as she spoke, the hair-pins -fell from her mouth. - -53 - -"What a fright you give me! I thought your peepers 'ad been glued tight -for hours h'and hours." - -"Has she come? Has she come? Did a lady-angel bring her?" - -"Lor' bless the boy, he's dreamin'! Now lie down, little Round Tummy. -Grice won't be long; then she'll hold you in 'er arms all comfy." - -"But Grace, she's downstairs, a teeny weeny one--just big enough for -Peter to carry." - -"Now, look 'ere, you just stop it, Master Peter. It's no time for -talkin'; you'll 'ear soon enough. You and your teeny weeny ones!" - -Peter lay down, his little heart choking. Why wouldn't Grace tell him? - -"But, Grace------" - -"Shut up. I'm a-sayin' of me prayers." - -In the morning the hushed suspense still hung about the house. When -he raised his piping voice, Grace shook him roughly. At breakfast his -father's brows were puckered--he wasn't a bit happy like the funny man. -When the table had been cleared, he laid aside his paper and sat Peter -on his knee before him. "Something happened last night, sonny. You've -got a little brother." - -"Not a sister, Daddy?" - -Peter cried at that; no wonder they were all so sad. "But we asked God -for a sister partickerlarly." - -All day as he played in a whisper by himself, he tried to think things -out. God had become confused at the last moment, or the angel had: the -wrong baby had been brought to their house. But where was the right one? - -That evening the angel remembered his error and took the baby back. - -Peter was being undressed for bed and Grace was crying terribly. She had -just slipped him into his long, pink nightgown when his father came in -hurriedly. He caught him up, wrapping a blanket round him and ran with -him downstairs. The door of the room which he had watched all day was -opened by a man in black. The room was in darkness, save for a shaded -lamp. There were several people present; all of them whispered and -walked on tiptoe. He raised himself up in his father's arms. On the bed -his mother lay weak and listless; her eyes were blue and vacant. She -seemed to have shrunk and tears stole down her cheeks unheeded. Her hair -seemed heavy for her head and lay across the pillow in two broad plaits. -In her arms was a little bundle. The man in black commenced to talk -huskily. No one answered; everyone listened to what he said. Suddenly -he stooped to take the bundle from his mother, but her arms tightened. -"I'll keep him as long as God lets me." - -So the man drew aside the wrappings; Peter saw the face of a tiny -stranger already tired of the world. The man in black spoke some words -more loudly and touched the stranger's face with water. Peter shuddered; -it was cruel to wet his face like that. They all stood silent in the -shadows--all except Peter, who cuddled against his father's shoulder. -Someone said, "He's gone," and the sobbing commenced. - -That night Peter slept in his mother's bedroom--she would have it. She -seemed frightened that an angel so careless might carry him away as -well. So they set up his cot by the side of her bed; as she lay on her -pillows she could watch him. - -Mummikins got happy slowly; she seemed disappointed in God. Gradually -Peter learnt that, although the baby had been left at the wrong house, -they had given him a name and had called him Philip. But the old -question worried Peter--the one which no one seemed able to answer: -where was the sister God had meant to send and which his father had -promised? Since everyone treated him with reticence, he took the matter -up with God himself. Often, when his mother bent above him and thought -him sleeping, he was talking with God inside his head. As a result the -strange thing happened. - -In his room, to the left of his bed, was a large powder-cupboard, even -in the day-time full of shadows. One night he had been praying out -loud to himself, but his voice was growing weary and his eyelids kept -falling. As he lay there, coming from the cupboard, very softly, very -distant, he heard a sound of whistling. It was a little air, happy and -haunting, trilled over and over. He sat up and listened, not at all -frightened. He thrust himself up with his elbows, his head bent forward, -in listening ecstasy. His father could whistle, but not like that. A -man's whistling was shrill and strong. This was gentle and glad, like -a violin played high up--ah yes, like his mother's whistling. Then, -somehow, he knew that a girl's lips formed that sound. - -He slipped out of bed in the darkness and tiptoed to the cupboard. He -opened the door; it stopped. - -When he was safe in bed it again commenced, as though it were saying, -"I'm coming. I'm coming, little Peterkins. Don't be impatient." - -It was trying to say more than that, and he racked his brains to -understand. When he lay quiet and was almost asleep, the picture formed. -He saw a girl-angel, standing in a garden, watching God at his work. And -what was God doing? He was making a little sister for Peter, stitching -her together. And every time the angel stopped whistling, God's needle -dropped. And every time she recommenced, God laughed and plucked -feathers from her softy wings to make garments for the little sister. -Peter named her the Whistling Angel. One day, when she and God were -ready, she would bring his little sister to him. - -The last thing he heard, as his sleepy eyes closed on the pillow, was -that happy haunting little air, like a tune played high up on a violin, -faintly, faintly. - -"I'm coming. I'm coming, little Peterkins. Don't be impatient." - -It was like the rustle of wind in an angel's wings who had already set -out on the journey. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII--"COMING. COMING, PETERKINS" - -Peter took all the credit to himself--she was his baby. And why not? -Nobody, not even his mother or father, had had anything to do with her -advent. For many months after Philip's short sojourn, his mother had -cried and his father had frowned whenever babies were mentioned. Had it -not been for Peter, the little sister might have slipped God's memory. -Peter gave him no chance to forget. Every night, kneeling between the -bed-clothes with his lips against the pillow to muffle the sound, he -reminded God. He realized that this attitude was not respectful and -always apologized in his prayers. He did it because big people wouldn't -understand if they caught him kneeling beside the bed; it would be quite -easy to fall asleep there and get found.--So, of course, when she -came, she belonged to him. But her coming was not yet. He had no end of -trouble in getting her. - -After he had heard the whistling, he tried to tell Grace about it. This -happened the very next morning. She had risen late and was dressing him -in a hurry in order to get him down in time for breakfast. She hardly -listened to him at all, but jerked him this way and that, buttoning and -tying and tucking. - -"My, oh, my! There's only emptiness inside your little 'ead this -mornin'; you must 'ave left your brains beneath the pillow. What a lot -o' talk about nothin'." - -"It wasn't nothing, Grace. I really and truly heard it." - -"Now then, no false'oods, young man. God's a-listenin' and writin' it -all down.--There, Grice didn't mean to be h'angry! But you talk your -tongue clean out o' your 'ead." - -"But Grace, I did. I did. It was like this." - -He pursed his lips together; only a splutter came. Grace rubbed his face -vigorously with the flannel, leaving a taste of soap in his mouth. - -"You should 'ear my new sweet'eart." She was trying to create a -diversion. "'E can make a winder rattle in its frame; it's that loud -and shrill, the noise 'e do make. If you're a good boy, maybe I'll get -'im to teach you 'ow." - -He was bursting with his strange new knowledge; he was sure his mother -would understand. While his father was at the table he kept silent. His -father soon hurried away; the front-door slammed. - -He plucked at his mother's skirt. "Last night God was in my cupboard." - -"But darling, little boys oughtn't to say things like that--not even in -fun, Peter." - -"I heard him, mummikins. An angel was with him, doing like this." - -He puffed out his cheeks; but he wasn't so clever as the angel. No sound -came. - -His mother gazed long into the eager face, trying to detect mischief. -"Whistling--is that what you mean? But angels don't whistle, Peter." - -"This one did--in our cupboard--in my bedroom." - -He wagged his head solemnly in affirmation. Then he drew down his -mother's face. She was smiling to herself. "God was making our baby," he -whispered, "and the angel was waiting to bring her." - -The rain came into her eyes--that was what Peter called it. "Hush, my -dearest. That's all over. You're my only baby now." - -She pressed him to her; he could feel her shaking. Just then, he knew, -nothing more must be said. - -Many times he tried to tell her. One evening, while the angel was -whistling, she tiptoed into his bedroom. Looking up through the darkness -he saw her and seized her excitedly about the neck. "They're there, -mummy. Don't you hear her? She's whistling now." He pronounced it -'wussling.' - -"Why _her_, Peter?" - -"I dunno; but listen, listen." - -She opened the cupboard door. "See, there's nothing." - -"She stopped when you did that." - -"Go to sleep, my precious. You're dreaming. If there was anything, -mother would have heard it as well." - -So he learnt to keep his secret to himself; no one seemed able to share -it. Every now and then, he would stop in his playing, with his head -on one side and his face intent; those who watched would see him -creep upstairs and peep into the big, dark cupboard. Strangely enough, -whatever he thought he heard, he did not appear frightened. - -When the doctor was called to examine him he said, "A very imaginative -child! Oh dear no, he's quite well. He'll grow out of that fancy. Won't -you, old chap?" - -At the back of his mother's mind was the terror that she was going to -lose him. She kept him always with her. When that dreamy look came into -his eyes and he turned his head expectantly, she would snatch him to her -breast, as though someone lurked near to take him from her. And Peter -lay still in her arms and smiled, for it seemed to him that the angel -leant over the banisters and whistled softly, "I'm coming. I'm coming, -little Peterkins." - -But Peter was anxious to make God hurry. It was Grace who taught him -how. - -Her faith came in spasms. Although she beat the drum for the Salvation -Army her fervor had its ups and downs. She used to tell Peter. When her -love-affairs went wrong, she was overwhelmed with doubt and refused to -go on parade. "'E can carry the drum 'isself," she would say, speaking -of her Maker. "If 'e don't look after me no better, I've done with 'im. -It's awright; I don't care. 'E can please 'isself. If 'e can do without -me, I can do without 'im. So there." - -These confidences made Peter feel that God was an excessively accessible -person. One evening, kneeling in his mother's lap with folded hands, he -surprised her by adding to the petition she had taught him, "Now, look -here, God, I'm tired of waiting. I wants----" - -At this point he was stopped by a gentle hand pressed firmly over his -mouth. - -"I can't think what's come to Peter," she told her husband; "he speaks -so crossly to God in his prayers." - -"That's Grace," said Barrington laughing, "you mark my words. You'd -better talk to her." - -"Oh, but I'm so frightened when he does like that. Billy, do you -think----" - -He stopped her promptly. "No, I don't. The boy's all right." - -Seeing how her lips trembled, he took her in his arms. "You've never -grown out of your short frocks--you're so timid, you golden little Nan." - -It was after Grace had been spoken to that she made it up with her -Maker. When this occurred, Peter was with her in the dimly lit hall -where the soldiers of Salvation gathered. She was sitting beside him -sulkily on the back bench nearest the door; suddenly she rose and dashed -forward in a storm of weeping. While the penitent knelt by the platform, -the man who was waving his arms went on talking. Peter was growing -frightened for her, when she jumped to her feet, seizing a tambourine -which she banged and shook above her head, and shouted, "I'm cleansed. -I'm cleansed." - -Partly because of her strength and partly because of her righteousness, -she was allowed to carry the drum again and march in the front of the -procession. Peter was impressed. After that when he had been impatient -with God, he would seek forgiveness by declaring himself _cleansed_. -He always thought that, following such confessions, the whistling came -louder from the cupboard. - -But it was Uncle Waffles who completed his information. At intervals he -would come over to Topbury with Aunt Jehane. So far as the ladies were -concerned, the talk was usually about their children. Aunt Jehane would -rarely fail to mourn the fact that hers were both girls. - -"Boys are different," she would say; "you can turn them out to sink or -swim. But girls! Sooner or later one has to get them married. It's like -my fortune to have two of them--the luck was with you from the first." - -Perhaps that was Jehane's way of reminding Nan that she had given her -husband only Peter. Waffles seemed to construe it in that light for, -when she had repeated her complaint more than twice, he would tuck Peter -under one arm and Glory under the other, and steal away to some hidden -place where he could ask him funny questions. If he heard a cock crowing -he would stop and inquire, "Why does the Doodle-do?" - -The little boy almost always forgot the proper answer. Uncle Waffles -would have to tell him, "Because he does, Peter." - -Peter soon learnt that Uncle Waffles had secrets as well, for, when he -talked in the presence of his wife, he would hold his chin in his hand, -so as to be able to slip his fingers quickly over his mouth if he found -that unwise words were escaping. If he were too late in slipping up his -fingers, she would say quite sharply, "Ocky, don't be stupid. You're no -better than a child." - -It was because Uncle Waffles was no better than a child that Peter took -courage to ask him, "How does people have babies?" - -His uncle regarded him seriously a moment. "You're very little to ask -such questions. It's a great secret. If I tell you, promise to keep it -to yourself." - -When he had promised, his uncle whispered. And Peter knew that it was -true, for he remembered that someone had been lazy and had had breakfast -in bed before the coming of both Riska and Philip. So he learnt the last -piece of witchcraft by which babies are induced to come into the world. -From then on, until it happened, he was continually coaxing his mother -not to get up to breakfast. One morning she took his advice; then he -knew for certain that Uncle Waffles was very wise, even though Aunt -Jehane did call him stupid. - -For some time the whistling had been growing bolder: it would come out -of the cupboard as though the angel were running; it would wander all -over the house and meet him in the most unexpected places. When he was -playing in the garden it would drift down to him from the tree-tops, -"Coming, Peterkins. Coming." It had grown quick like that, as though it, -too, were impatient of waiting. - -Two years had gone by since God had sent Philip and taken him back so -suddenly. It was within a few days of the anniversary and very close to -Christmas. All day the sky had been heavy with clouds. It was bitterly -cold outside; Peter had been kept in the nursery with a big, red fire -blazing. Everyone seemed busy; they opened the door now and then to -make sure that he was all right, and left him to play by himself. -Toward evening the clouds burst like great pillows, swollen with angels' -feathers; softly, softly, covering up bare trees, putting the world to -sleep beneath a great white counterpane, the snow came down. - -He woke in the night; it was like a lark singing right beside his bed. -It was the old haunting little air that it sang, but so much quicker, -"Coming. Coming. Coming." Sometimes it sank into the faintest whisper; -sometimes it would swell into a sound so loud and happy that even -Grace's sweetheart could not have whistled louder. Grace turned drowsily -and, seeing him sitting up, drew him down beneath the clothes, putting -her arms about him. No, she had not heard it. - -In the morning his mother's breakfast was carried upstairs and his -father looked worried. Peter grew afraid lest he had done wrong and a -little sister was not wanted. So he hid himself in the big dark cupboard -in the bedroom and was not missed for hours. - -Presently voices wandered up and down the house, sometimes sounding -quite near and sometimes quite distant, "Peter! Peter! Where are you?" -They seemed afraid to call louder. - -Peter had his suspicions, so he kept quiet. They did not want her--and -they knew that he had done it. - -Someone said "Shish!" The other voices sank into silence; now it was -only his father's that he heard. "Peter-kins, Peterkins, father wants -you. Don't be frightened. He's going to tell you something grand." - -So Peter came out; when he saw his father's face, he knew that he was -not angry. - -"You did want her too--didn't you, didn't you, Daddy?" - -"Of course I did, you rummy little chap. But how did you know? Who told -you?" - -Although he coaxed and rubbed his scrubby chin against Peter's neck, he -never got an answer to that question. Where was the good of answering? -Either you had ears like Peter's or you hadn't. - - - - -CHAPTER IX--KAY AND SOME OTHERS - -She filled all his thoughts; the world had become new to him. -Picture-books were no longer amusing; just to be Peter with a little -strange sister was the most fascinating story imaginable. - -It was easy to keep him good; Grace had only to threaten that he should -not see her. See her! He lived for that. Early in the morning he was at -the bedroom door, waiting for the nurse to look out and beckon. As he -followed her in on tiptoe, his golden little motherkins would turn on -her pillow, holding out her hand. She was prettier than ever now. If -Peter had known the word, he would have said she looked _sacred_: that -was what he felt. And she seemed to have grown younger. She appeared -immature as a girl, so slim and pale, stretched out in the broad white -bed. Her hair lay in shining pools between the counterpane mountains. - -"Pepperminta, you're no older than Peter," he had heard his father tell -her; "you're a kiddy playing with dollies--not a mother. It's absurd." - -He knew from watching his father that, if they had loved her before, -they must love her ten thousand times better now. When he went for his -walks with Grace, he spent his pennies to bring her home flowers. - -Everything in that room had been brightened to welcome the little -sister. It had a sense of whiteness and a soft, sweet fragrance. They -had to make the little sister feel that they were glad she had come and -wanted her to stay. So a fire was kept burning in the grate. They spoke -in whispers and walked on their toes, the way one does in church. - -Climbing on a chair, he would seat himself at the foot of the bed while -his mother's eyes laughed at him from the pillow, "We've managed it this -time, little Peter." - -Presently the nurse would turn back the sheet and show him the stranger, -cuddled in his mother's breast; he would see a shining head, like fine -gold scattered on white satin. - -"The same as yours, mummy." - -"And the same as yours, darling." - -When anyone found him in any way like her, Peter was glad.--If he waited -patiently, the blue eyes would open and stare straight past him, seeing -visions of another world. - -"She sees something, mummy." - -"God, perhaps." - -Peter thought he knew better, for he heard quite near, yet so softly -that it might have been far away, the violinlike whisper of one who -whistled beneath her breath. - -"Dearest, was Peter like that?" - -"Peter and everybody." - -There were times when he was allowed to slip his finger between those of -the tiny fisted hand. When he felt their pressure, they seemed to say, -"I'm yours, Peter-kins. Take care of me, won't you?" - -He was sure she knew that he had seen God make her. - -He did not want to speak; he was perfectly content to sit in the -sheltered quiet, watching. He would listen outside the door for hours on -the chance of being admitted. If Grace missed him, she always knew where -he might be found. - -As the little sister grew, he was permitted to see her bathed and -dressed. One by one the soft wrappings were removed and folded, and the -perfect little body revealed itself. No wonder God had taken so long; -he had put such love into his work. By and by she learnt how to crow -and splash. Her first recorded smile was given to Peter. But long before -that a name had to be chosen. - -She was christened Kathleen Nancy and was called Kay, because that made -her sound dearer. - -Peter was nearly seven at the time of her coming. Of all people, he and -his mother seemed to know her best. They had secrets about her; before -she could talk, they told one another what her baby language meant. -During her first summer on earth, they would sit beside her cradle in -the garden, believing that birds and flowers stooped to watch her. - -"You're no older than Peter," his father had said. But, when he came -home from the city, he would join them and seemed perfectly happy to -gaze on Kay, with Peter on his knee, holding Nan's free hand. - -Even in those early days, it was strange the power that Peter had over -her. If she were crying, she would stop and laugh for Peter. She would -sleep for Peter, if he hummed and rocked her. When she began to speak, -it was Peter who taught her and interpreted what she said; that was -during her second summer, when leaves in the garden were tapping. They -grew to trust Peter where Kay was concerned. "He's so gentle with her," -they said. - -"Might be 'er father, the care 'e takes of 'er. It's uncanny," Grace -told her sweetheart. - -Her sweetheart was a policeman at this moment; his profession did not -make for sentiment. "Father, by gum! Fat lot o' care your father took o' -you, I'll bet." - -Grace's father was a cabby and was known to the Barrington household as -Mr. Grace--a name of Peter's bestowing. He drove a four-wheeler and -had a red face. His stand was at the bottom of Topbury Crescent, which -formed the blade to the sickle of which the Terrace was the handle. - -When Kay was beginning to toddle, her cot was transferred from her -parents' to Peter's bedroom. Nan was none too strong and Barrington -could not afford to be roused at five in the morning--he worked too hard -and required all his rest. Had Peter's wishes been consulted, this was -just how he would have arranged matters. From the moment when the light -went out to the moment when his eyelids reluctantly lowered, he had Kay -all to himself. Throwing off the clothes, he would slip out and kneel -beside her cot, softying her with his face and hands. He had to do -this carefully lest he should be heard. Sometimes, in stepping out, the -mattress squeaked and a voice would call up the tall dim stairs, "Peter, -are you in bed?" An interval would elapse while he hurried back; then -he would answer truthfully, "Yes." Often the voice would say knowingly, -"You are now." - -But the temptation was too great. It was so wonderful to touch her in -the darkness, to hear her stir, to feel her hand brush his cheek and the -warm sleepy lips turned toward his mouth. - -"It's only Peter," he would whisper; and, perhaps, he would add, "Little -Kay, aren't you glad I borned you?" - -Oh yes, it was he who had contrived her birth. There, as a proof, was -the big dim cupboard where it had all commenced. - -In the shadowy darkness of the room, before Grace came up to undress, he -lived in a world of fancy. Through the oblong of the doorway the faint -gold glimmered, made by the lowered gas. In the square of the window, -as in a magic mirror, all kinds of strange things happened. Great soft -clouds moved across it, like mountains marching. Presently they would -stand aside, giving him glimpses of deep lagoons and floating lands. -Stars would dance out, like children holding hands, and wink and twinkle -at him. The moon would let down her silver ladder, smiling to him to -ascend. He laughed back and shook his head. Oh, no thank you; Kay needed -his attention. - -Beneath the sky was a muffled world, like a Whistler nocturne, of -house-tops and drowsy murmurs. It was a vague field of seething shadows -in which the blur of street-lamps was a daffodil forest. Dwellings -which were blind all day, in streets he had never traversed, now peered -stealthily from behind their curtains with the unblinking eyes of cats. -What did they do down there? Church bells in the Vale of Holloway would -try to tell him. Sometimes strains of a barrel-organ would drift up -merrily and he would picture how ragged children danced, beating time -with rapid feet upon the muddy pavement. Sometimes in the distance, like -a scarlet fear, a train would shoot across the murk and vanish. - -But always from these wanderings his imagination would return to the -cot where the little sister nestled. Who was it put the thought into -his head? Was it some strange confusion between winking stars and the -Bethlehem story? Or was it Grace in one of her flights of poetry? Long -ago, he told himself, like this the Boy Jesus must have sat keeping -guard over a baby sister, while at the bottom of a tall steep house Mary -helped Joseph, making chairs and tables. - -Once Peter gave things away completely by trusting too much to his -wakefulness; he was found asleep on the floor beside Kay's cot when -Grace came up to undress. - -If the nights had their spice of adventure because such doings were -forbidden, the mornings were not to be sneered at. He would be wakened -by a small hand stroking his face and she would snuggle into bed beside -him. Years after, when he was a man, he remembered the sensation of her -cold feet when she had found him difficult to rouse. - -But the greatest treat of all came rarely. When his father went away on -a journey, his mother could cast aside her habits. She would make her -home in the nursery and hirelings would be driven out. Grace would be -given an evening with her policeman, and Peter, and Kay, and Nan would -have each other to themselves. If it were winter, they would have supper -by firelight, after which they would sit and toast themselves while Nan -told stories of her girlhood. Kay would be taken into her lap and Peter -would sit on the rug, cuddling against her skirt. - -"How did Daddy find you, Mummy?" - -And when that had been told in a simplified version, "Mummy, should I be -your little boy, if you'd married someone else?" - -Since there seemed some doubt, Peter made haste to assure her, "Dearest, -I'm so, so glad." - -In the dancing flames and shadows, Kay would be undressed and popped -into the tin-bath while Peter helped. Then, all warm and snuggly, she -would be carried to her mother's bed. In a short time Peter would follow -and fall asleep with his arms about her. - -Toward midnight he would rouse; the gas was lit and someone was -rustling. Looking down the bed, he would see his mother with her gold -hair loose about her shoulders. "Hush," she would whisper, placing her -finger against her mouth. So he would lie still, watching her shadow -on the walls and ceiling. Again the room was in darkness; his face was -hidden in her breast as she clasped him to her. He was thinking how -lucky it was that his father had found her. - -In the morning Kay would wake them, climbing across their legs or losing -herself beneath the bed-clothes. Just to be different from all other -mornings, they would have their breakfast before they dressed. What an -adventure they made of it and what good times they had! - -In after years, looking back, Peter realized what children he had had -for parents; they seemed anything but children then. His father was not -too old to be a lion on hands and knees beneath the table, trying to -catch him as he ran round. At last his mother would cry out, "Billy, -dearest, do stop it. You'll get the boy excited." - -And then there were those empty rooms at the top of the house to be -furnished. Peter's father led him all over London, visiting beery old -women and dingy old men, whose shops to the unpracticed eye were stocked -with rubbish. Oak paneling, bronzes, French clocks, canvases dim with -dirt, were discovered and carried home in triumph. For the canvases -frames had to be hunted out; the pursuit was endless. These treasures -were driven home in cabs, taking up so much room that Peter had to make -himself smaller. Nan would fly to the door as the wheels halted on the -Terrace. - -"Peter, why did you let him? Oh, Billy, how extravagant!" - -"But, my dear, it's an investment. I paid next to nothing and wouldn't -sell it for a thousand pounds." - -"Couldn't," she corrected; but, as was proved later, she was wrong in -that. - -When the empty rooms were furnished--the oak bedroom and the -Italian--the modern furnishings in other parts of the house were -gradually supplanted; even the staircase was hung with paintings which -Barrington restored himself. There was one little drawback to these -prowlings through London which Peter was too proud to mention: his -father as he walked would pinch his hand to show his affection--but it -hurt. He knew why his father did it, so he did not tell him. He bit his -lips instead to keep back the tears. - -Four other people stole across his childish horizon like wisps of -cloud--the Misses Jacobite. They lived in an old-fashioned house in -Topbury and kept no servants. Peter got to know them because they smiled -at him coming in and going out of church. There was Miss Florence, who -was tall and reserved; and Miss Effie, who was little and talkative; and -Miss Madge, who was fat and jolly; and Miss Leah, a shadow-woman, -who sat always in a darkened room with pale hands folded, crooning to -herself. - -People said "Poor thing! Oh well, there's no good blaming her now. She -wouldn't thank us for our pity; after all, she brought it on herself." - -Or they said. "You know, they were quite proud once--the belles of -Topbury. Two of them were engaged to be married. Their father was alive -then--the Squire we called him. But after Miss Leah----" They dropped -their voices till they came to the last sentence, "And the disgrace of -it killed the old chap." - -Even Grace, when she took Kay and Peter to visit them, left them if she -could on the doorstep. Her righteous mood asserted itself; she flounced -her skirt in departing, shaking off the dust from her feet for a -testimony against them. "Scand'lous, I calls it. If I wuz to do like -'er, yer ma wouldn't let me touch yer. But o' course, it's different; -I'm only a sarvant-gal. And they 'olds their 'eads so 'ighl Brazen, -I calls it. Before I walked the streets where a thing like that 'ad -'appened in my family, I'd sink into my grave fust--that I would. I 'ate -the thought of their kissing yer, my precious lambs." - -Peter was always wondering what it was that Miss Leah had brought -upon herself. Whatever it was, it stayed with her in the room with the -lowered blinds at the back of the house. She never went out; callers -never saw her. Her eyes were vague, as though she had wept away their -color. She spoke in a hoarse whisper, as in a dream; and her attention -had to be drawn to anything before she saw it. But it was her singing -that shocked and thrilled Peter, making him both pitiful and frightened. -Her song never varied and never quite came to an end; she repeated it -over and over. You could hear it in the hall, the moment you entered; -it went on at intervals until you left. She sang it with empty hands, -sitting without motion: - - "On the other side of Jordan - - In the sweet fields of Eden - - Where the Tree of Life is growing - - There is rest for me." - -Where were the "sweet fields of Eden"? Peter liked the sound of them and -would have asked her, had not something held him back. She must be very -tired, he thought, to be singing always about rest. Yet he never saw her -work. - -He had been there many times and had only heard her, until one day, as -he was scampering down the passage with Miss Madge pursuing, the door -opened and a woman with dim eyes and hair as white as snow looked -out. She gazed at him without interest; but when Kay toddled up to her -fearlessly, she stooped and caught her to her breast. - -Several things about the Misses Jacobite struck Peter as funny. They -divided the visit up, so that each might have a child for part of it -entirely to herself. Each would behave during that time as though she -were a mother famished for affection, returned from a long journey, and -would invent secrets which were to be shared by nobody but the child and -herself. Kay and Peter were carried off into separate rooms, and there -played with and cuddled by a solitary Miss Jacobite. Though the Misses -Jacobite were obviously poor, the children always went home with a -present; often enough it was a toy from the dusty, disused nursery. -When they met Kay and Peter on Sundays and people were watching, they -pretended to forget the other things that had happened. - -"I wonder you let your children go there," people said. - -Nan smiled slowly and answered softly, gathering Kay and Peter to her. -"Poor things! They were robbed of everything. I have so much I don't -deserve. I can spare them a little of my gladness." - -"But, Mrs. Barrington, that's mere sentiment. How does your husband -allow it?" - -One day Nan's husband spoke up for himself. "Did you ever hear of the -raft? I thought not. Well, Nan and I have." - - - - -CHAPTER X--WAFFLES BETTERS HIMSELF - -It was the month of June. A breeze blowing in at the open window -fluttered out the muslin curtains and shook loose the petals of roses -standing on the table. A milk-cart rattled down the Terrace, clattering -its cans. Sounds, which drifted in from the primrose-tinted world, were -all what Peter would have described as "early." The walls of the room -were splashed with great streaks of sunlight, which lit up some of the -pictures with peculiar intensity and left others in contrasting shadow. -One of those which were thus illumined was a Dutch landscape by Cuyp, -hanging against the dark oak paneling above a blue couch; it represented -a comfortable burgher strolling in conversation with two women on the -banks of a canal. Barrington liked to face it while he sat at breakfast; -it gave him a certain indifference to worry before the rush of the day -commenced. But this morning, to judge by his puckered forehead, it had -not produced its usual effect. He glanced up from the letter he was -reading and tossed it across to Nan. "What d'you make of that?" - -She bent over it, wrinkling her brows. The letter was in a man's -handwriting and the postscript, which was of nearly equal length, was in -a woman's. - -"I don't know; if it was from anyone but Ocky----" - -"Precisely, Ocky's a fool. He's always been a fool and he's growing -worse; but Jehane ought to have sounder sense. It's beyond me why she -married him. I never did understand Jehane; I suppose I never shall." - -"You're not a woman, Billy; or else you would. She was sick and tired of -being lonely and dependent; she wanted someone to take care of her. Ocky -was the only man who offered. But that's eight years ago--I'm afraid -she's found him out; and she's doing her best to persuade herself that -she hasn't. Poor Jehane, she always admired strong men--men she could -worship." - -"That explains but it doesn't excuse her. She had a strong man in -Captain Spashett; the hurry of her second marriage was indecent. I never -did approve of it. I said nothing at first because I thought she might -help Ocky to grow a backbone.--And now there's this new folly, which she -appears to encourage." - -"But, dear, is it so foolish? Perhaps, she's given him a backbone and -that's why he's done it." She laughed nervously. "They both say that -this is a great opportunity for him to better himself." - -"Bah! The only way for Ocky to better himself is to change his -character. He's a balloon--a gas-bag; he'll go up in the air and burst. -The higher he goes, the further he'll have to tumble. You think I'm -harsh with him; I know him. Jehane's done him no good; she despises him, -I'm sure, though she doesn't think she shows it. She's filled his head -with stupid ambitions and before she's done she'll land him in a mess. -She's driven him to this bravado with private naggings; he wants to -prove to her that he really is a man. Man! He's a child in her hands. It -hurts me to watch them together. Why can't she be a wife to him and make -up her mind that she's married a donkey?" - -"It's difficult for a woman to make up her mind to that--especially a -proud, impatient woman." - -He paid no attention to his wife's interruption, but went on irritably -with what he was saying. - -"So he's giving up a secure job, and he's going into this harum-scarum -plan for buying up the sands of Sandport for nothing and selling them -as house-plots for a fortune. Even if there were anything in it, who's -going to finance him? Of course he'll come to me as usual." - -"But he says he's got the capital." - -"That's just it--from where? His pocket always had a hole in it. When -he says he's got money, I don't believe him; when he's proved his word I -grow nervous." - -Barrington leant across the table, rapping with his knuckles. "Ocky's -the kind of amiable weak fellow who can easily be made bad--especially -by a woman who refuses to love him. Once a man like that's gone under, -you can never bring him back--he's lost what staying quality he ever -had." - -Nan rarely argued with her husband. Pushing back her chair, she went and -knelt beside him, pressing her soft cheek against his hand. "You are a -silly Billy, dearest, to be so serious on such a happy morning. There's -no danger of Ocky ever becoming bad; and, in any case, what's this got -to do with the matter? I know he's foolish and his jokes get on your -nerves; but it isn't his fault that he's not clever like you. You -shouldn't be gloomy just because he's going to be daring. I don't wonder -he's sick of that lawyer's office. And it's absurd to think that he's -going to be bad; look how Peter loves him. You like Ocky more than you -pretend, now don't you?" - -"If liking's being sorry. I'm always sorry for an ass; and I'm angry -with Jehane because she knows better. She's doing this because she's -jealous of you--that's why she clutches at this bubble chance of -prosperity." - -"Ar'n't you a little unjust to her, Billy? Since our marriage, you've -always been unjust to her. You know why she's jealous--she wants her -husband to be like you." - -Her voice sank away to a whisper. "Oh, Janey, I did, I did play fair," -she had said that night at Cassingland; in her violent assertion of -fairness there had been an implied question which Jehane had never -answered. Both she and her husband knew that they had never been -acquitted. - -Barrington drew Nan's head against his shoulder. "Poor people." Then he -kissed her with new and eager gladness. - -"And it isn't only pity you feel for Ocky?" She persisted. "Now -confess." - -He pulled out his watch hastily and, having replaced it, gulped down -his coffee. "When I was Peter's age, we were brought up like brothers -together. I loved him then; I'm disappointed in him now. And yet I'm -always catching glimpses in him of the little chap I played with. You -see, at school I was the stronger and had to protect him. I was always -fighting his battles. And one whole term, when his hand was poisoned, -I had to take him to the doctor to get it dressed---- No, it isn't only -pity, Pepperminta: it's memories." - -As he was going out of the door she called after him, "Then, I suppose, -I can write and say we'll have them?" - -"While they're moving--the children? Yes." - -"Jehane doesn't say how many." - -"She means all, I expect. There's the garden for them--it'll be fun for -Kay and Peter." - -A week later, Jehane traveled across London to Top-bury Terrace, -bringing with her Glory, aged nine, Riska, aged six, and her youngest -child, Eustace, who was the same age as Kathleen. Jehane was now in her -thirty-seventh year, a striking brooding type of woman. As her face had -grown thinner and her cheeks had lost their color, the gipsy blackness -of her appearance had become more noticeable. She still had a fine -figure, so that men in public conveyances would furtively lower their -papers to gaze at her. There clung about her an atmosphere of adventure, -of which she was not entirely unaware. She was unconquerably romantic, -and would spin herself stories in the silence of her fancy of a love -that was crushing in its intensity. No one would have guessed from the -hard little lines about the corners of her eyes and mouth that this -imaginative tenderness formed part of her character. - -Since the birth of Eustace her hair had fallen out in handfuls and she -had adopted a style of dressing it that was distinctly unbecoming. She -had had her combings made up into an affair which Glory called "Ma's -mat." It consisted of half-a-dozen curls, sewn together in rows like -sausages, which she pinned across the top of her head so that they made -a fringe along her forehead. It gave her an old-fashioned look of prim -severity. Jehane retained for Nan an affection which was partly genuine -and partly habit; but she resented Nan's youthful appearance with slow -jealous anger, attributing it to freedom from anxiety and the possession -of money. As for Nan, her attitude was one of gentle and atoning apology -for her happiness. "I'm so glad you brought the children yourself, -Janey." - -"And who could have brought them? I'm not like you--I only keep two -servants. When this scheme of Ocky's has turned out all right, perhaps -it may be different." - -She turned swiftly on Nan with latent defiance, as though challenging -her to express doubt. - -"I'm sure both Billy and I hope it will. Wouldn't it be splendid to see -Ocky really a big man?" - -"It would be a good deal more than splendid. It would mean the end of -little houses and cheap servants and neighbors that you can't introduce -to your father's friends. It would mean the end of pinching and scraping -to save a penny. And it would mean a chance for my girls." - -Nan slipped an arm into hers and hugged it. "Dear old thing, I think -I understand. And when is Ocky coming over to tell us all about it? He -gave us hardly any details in his letter." - -Jehane became evasive. "He's naturally very busy. The chance developed -so suddenly that he's hardly had time to turn round. It came to him -through a client at the office. Mr. Playfair had noticed him at his desk -as he passed in and out to see Mr. Wagstaff. He's told Ocky since that -he spotted him at once and said to himself, 'If ever I want a chap -with-business push and legal knowledge, that's my man.'" - -"And he's never talked with him?" - -"Hardly. Not much more than to say 'How d'you do?' or 'Good-morning'." - -"Wasn't it wonderful that he should have sized him up in a flash?" - -Jehane glanced at her narrowly. "It may be wonderful to _you_; it isn't -to _me_. I'm well aware that you and Billy don't think much of Ocky. Oh, -where's the sense in disowning it? You both think he's a born fool." - -"I'm sure you never heard Billy say that." - -"Heard him say it! Of course I didn't. I'd like to hear him dare to -say anything like that about my husband. But actions speak louder -than words. He thinks it just the same; he thinks that Ocky's good for -nothing But to sit at a desk, taking a salary from another man. P'rhaps, -you didn't know that for years Ocky's been the brains of that office?" - -Nan lifted her honest eyes; she was filled with discomfort. This kind of -controversy was always happening when they met; they drifted into some -sort of feud for which Jehane invariably held her responsible. "The -brains of the office! No, indeed, I never heard that. Why didn't you -tell us?" - -"Because you and Billy thought he was incompetent, and it didn't seem -worth the trouble to correct you." - -"I'm sure I've always thought him very kind, especially to Peter." - -"Kind! What's kindness got to do with being clever?" Nan pressed Jehane -to stay to dinner. She would send a telegram to Ocky; she would send her -home in a cab. But Jehane was in an ungracious mood and eager to take -offense. She resented the implication that a cab was a luxury. No, she -couldn't stay; there was too much to do. She had intended to return in -a cab, anyhow. In reality she was anxious to avoid Barrington's shrewd -questioning. She was rising to take her departure, when she saw him -descending the garden steps. - -"Ha, Jehane! This is luck. I've had thoughts of you all day. That -letter's got on my nerves. I couldn't work; so I came home early.--Oh -no, we're not going to let you off now. You've got to stop and tell us. -By the way, before Ocky actually decides, I'd like to talk the whole -matter over with him." - -"He's decided already." - -"You don't mean-------" - -"Yes. Why not? He's given Wagstaff notice. Things so happened that he -had to make up his mind in a hurry or lose it.--But I really ought to be -going. Nan knows everything now." - -Barrington placed his hand on her shoulder arrestingly. At his touch she -drew back and colored. "This thing's too serious, Jehane," he said, "to -be dismissed in a sentence. I have a right to know." - -He spoke kindly, but she answered him hotly. "What right, pray?" - -"Well, if anything goes wrong, there's only me to fall back on. And then -there's the right of friendship." - -"I can't say you've shown yourself over friendly. If you've had to meet -Ocky, you've let all the world see you were irritated. If you've ever -invited him to your house, you've taken very good care that no one -important was present. One would judge that you thought he lowered you. -I can't see that you have the right to know anything." - -"That can only be because your husband hasn't told you. To quote one -instance, it was through my influence that he got this position that -he's now thrown over--Wagstaff is my lawyer." - -Jehane tossed her head. "You always want to make out that he owes you -everything---- Well, what is it that I'm forced to tell you?" - -Barrington kept silence while they walked down the path to where chairs -were spread beneath the cedar. The children ran up boisterously to greet -him; having kissed them, he told Grace to take them away and to keep -them quiet. When he spoke, his tones were grave and measured: "It wasn't -fair of Ocky to send you to tell us; he ought to have come himself." - -"He didn't send----" - -Barrington held up his hand. "You can't tell me anything on that score; -from the first he's shirked responsibility. He would never fight if he -could get anyone else to fight for him. Many and many's the time I've -had to dohis dirty work. Now you're doing it. This is unpleasant -hearing, Jehane; but you know it's true. I'd take a wager that you spent -hours trying to screw up his courage to make him come himself." - -She lifted her head to deny it, but his quiet gray eyes met hers. Their -sympathy and justice disturbed her. She refused to be pitied by this -man----. A great fear rose in her throat. What if his opinion of her -husband were correct? It was the opinion she herself had had for -years and had tried to stifle. Time and again she had listened to his -plausibility--his boastings that he was the brains of the office, that -luck was against him and that one day he would show the world. She had -used his arguments to defend him to her relations and friends. In public -she had made a parade of being proud of him. In private she had tried to -ridicule him out of his shame-faced manners. And now she was trying -so hard to believe that he had found his opportunity.--It was cruel of -Barrington, especially cruel when he knew quite well that it was him she -had loved. She could not endure to sit still and hear him voice her own -suspicious and calmly analyze the folly of her marriage. - -"If you think that my husband was afraid to come and tell you, the only -way to prove the contrary is to let him come himself to-morrow." - -"I shall be more than glad to see him." - -But Ocky did not come to-morrow, nor the next day. The day after that -Barrington went to see his lawyer. - -"Good-morning, Mr. Wagstaff. I should like to speak to you about my -cousin, Mr. Waffles." - -Mr. Wagstaff twitched his trousers up to prevent them from rucking as he -crossed his legs. "If there's anything I can do to help you, Mr. -Barrington----" - -"I understand he's given you notice." - -Mr. Wagstaff sat up suddenly. "Understand what? He told you that?" - -"No, he did not tell me. His wife did." - -"Ah, his wife! He left her to make the explanations. Just what one might -expect." - -"Then he didn't give you notice?" - -"Course not." Mr. Wagstaff spoke testily, as though for an employee to -give him notice was an event beyond the bounds of possibility. - -"Then he left without notifying you?" - -"Well, hardly." - -The lawyer noticed that the door leading into the main office was ajar; -he got up and closed it. When he returned he did not re-seat himself, -but straddled the hearth-rug, holding up his coat-tails although no fire -was burning. - -"Mr. Barrington, sir, I put up with your cousin's shiftlessness for -longer that I ought to have done; I did it out of respect for you, sir. -There was a time when I hoped I might make something of him. He can be -nimble-witted over trifles and his own affairs; but he never put -any interest into my work. He was insubordinate--not to my face, you -understand, but when my back was turned; he wasn't a good influence in -the office. I tell you this, sir, to prove that I haven't acted without -consideration." - -The lawyer waggled his coat-tails and seemed to find a blemish in his -boots, so earnestly did he regard them. When he received no help from -Barrington, he suddenly came to the point and looked up sharply. - -"He betrayed professional confidence; so I sacked him." - -"Had it happened before?" - -"Possibly. He was always garrulous. This time it was an affair of some -property at Sandport. Our client had two competing purchasers, one of -whom was a Mr. Playfair. Your cousin leaked to Mr. Playfair--kept him -informed as to what the other purchaser was doing. Not a nice thing to -occur, Mr. Barrington." - -This last remark was as much an interrogation as an assertion. The -lawyer waited for his opinion to be indorsed. - -"Not at all nice," Barrington assented. "If it's lost you any money, I -must refund it." - -"'Tisn't a question of money. Wouldn't hear of that." As Mr. Wagstaff -shook hands at parting, he offered a crumb of comfort: "Mind, I don't -say your cousin is dishonest, Mr. Barrington; that would be _too, too_ -strong. Perhaps, it would be better stated by saying that his sense of -honor is rudimentary." - -"Perhaps," said Barrington brusquely. "I think I catch your meaning." - - - - -CHAPTER XI--THE HOME LIFE OF A FINANCIER - -People who loved Ocky Waffles always loved him for his good; he -would have preferred to have been loved for almost any other purpose. -Affection, in his experience, turned friends into schoolmasters. There -was Barrington, a fine chap and all that; but why the dickens did he -take such endless pains to be so uselessly unpleasant? - -Ocky was on the lookout for Jehane when she returned from Topbury. As -she turned the corner, he espied her from behind the curtains and lit -his pipe to give himself confidence. No sooner had she entered than she -commenced an account of her visit, indignantly underlining her interview -with Barrington. Ocky seated himself on the edge of the table, puffing -away and swinging his legs. - -"Wants to see me, does he? He can go on wanting. I'm sick of his -interfering. A fat lot he's ever done to help me! And with his position -and friends he could have helped me--instead of that he gives me his -advice. Truth is, Jehane, he doesn't want to see us climb; he'd rather -be the patron of the family. With the best intentions in the world, he's -out to put a spoke in my wheel. Oh, I know him!--If he's so anxious for -information, he can come here to get it." - -While he spoke he scrutinized his wife, judging the effect of his -blustering independence. She was suspicious of some hidden knowledge; he -felt it. Something had been said behind his back at Topbury--something -derogatory. Could Barrington have heard already. - -Pressing down the ashes in the bowl of his pipe, he struck a match. -Jehane was between himself and the door; he wondered whether he could -slip past her and make his exit if things became unpleasant. He detested -being cornered; he could be so much braver when the means of escape lay -behind him. Meanwhile, it seemed good policy to continue talking. - -"I don't like the way they treat you at Topbury; you always come home -down-hearted. There's too much condescension. Nan overdoes it when she -tries to be kind. The rich relation attitude! It riles me. When she -makes you a present it's always a dress--might just as well tell you -to your face that you're shabby. And last Christmas, sending Peter's -cast-off clothes to Eustace! Thank God, we're not paupers and never -shall be!" - -As he worked himself into a passion Jehane eyed him somberly. The -everlasting pipe, dangling from his mouth, annoyed her immensely. His -trousers, bagging at the knees, and his pockets, stuffed with rubbish, -were perpetual eyesores; she hated his slack appearance. Other men with -his income at least attained neatness. It was not that he spared -money on his clothes----. She caught herself comparing him with -Barrington--Barrington whose tidy body was the outward sign of his -well-ordered mind. Her husband went on talking and her irritation took a -new direction. - -"I'll bet a fiver what they said when you told 'em. 'My dearest, if it -_could_ only happen'--that's Nan. 'Ah yes! Humph! sand at Sandport! We -must talk this over before he decides'--that's Barrington. We can guess -what his advice'll amount to, can't we, old Duchess?" - -It was safe to venture the endearment now. If they had nothing else in -common, they were partners in their animosities. When running down an -enemy together, he could dare to express his affection for her; his way -of doing this was to call her _Duchess_. At other times she would brush -him aside with, "Don't be silly, Ocky." She often called him "silly," -treating any demonstration as tawdry sentimentality. She had no idea how -deeply it wounded. - -Now, as she sank into the chair, he bent over and kissed her awkwardly. -"Poor old gel, they've tired you out. Had nothing to eat since you left -here, I'll warrant. Put up your tootsies and I'll pull off your shoes; -then I'll order some supper for you." - -"I couldn't eat anything." - -The room was in darkness and the window wide. In the street children -were screaming and playing. A mother, standing on her doorstep, called -to her truants through the dusk----- Oh, for a gust of silence--a desert -of sound without footsteps; Jehane felt that her life was trespassed -on, jostled, undignified. Through the cramped suburb of red-brick villas -crept the summer night, like a shameful woman footsore and clad in -lavender. Red-brick villas! They were so similar that, if you shook them -up in a gigantic hat and set them out afresh, the streets would look in -no way different. They were all built in the same style. The mortar -had fallen out in the same places. The front gardens were of equal -dimensions. They had no individuality. If anyone attempted to be -original in the color of her paint or the shape of her curtains, next -day she was copied. - -With the stale odor of tobacco mingled the sweet fragrance of -June flowers. She had only to close her eyes and she was back in -Oxford--Oxford which she had exchanged for this rash experiment. She -wondered, had she been more patient, would something more delightful -have happened. The sameness of economy had worn out her strength and its -prospect appalled her.--If Ocky could contrive her escape, even at this -late hour, what right had Barrington to prevent him? - -He had gone to fetch her slippers--that at least was kind and -thoughtful. She treated him with spite. She shrank from the familiarity -of his touch. She hated herself for it; and yet she eked out the seconds -of her respite from him. - -A lamp-lighter shuffled by the garden railings; at his magic, primrose -pools weltered up in the dusk.--This business of marriage--had she been -less hasty, she might have done better for herself. Oh well, the wisdom -which follows the event... - -Footsteps on the stairs! As he knelt to put on her slippers, she -conquered her revulsion and let her hand rest on his head. He started, -surprised: it was long since she had shown him affection. His voice was -shaky when he addressed her. - -"Now you're better, old dear. More rested, aren't you?" She held him -at arm's length, her palms flat against his breast. In the darkness she -felt the pleading in his eyes. "Oh, Ocky, you'll do it this time, won't -you?" - -"Do what, Duchess?" - -"Don't call me Duchess; just for once be serious." - -"I am serious, darling. What is it?" - -"D'you remember years ago, when you asked me to marry you? D'you -remember what you said?" - -"Might, if you told me. Was I more than ordinarily foolish?" - -"You said, 'I need your strength. With you I could be a man.'" - -"I'd clean forgotten. Funny way of proposin'--eh?" - -"It wasn't funny. That was just what you needed--a woman's strength. -I've tried so hard. But I've sometimes thought----" - -"Go on, old lady." - -"I've sometimes thought we never ought to have married." - -"Don't say that. Don't you find me good enough? Come Jehane, I've not -been a bad sort, now have I?" - -"I'm accusing myself. I've tried to help you in wrong ways. I've been -angry and sharp and nervous. You've come home and attempted to kiss me, -and I've driven you out with my temper. And I don't want to do it any -more, and yet----" - -"You're upset." - -"No, I'm not. I'm speaking the truth. I've been a bad wife and I had to -tell you." - -"'Pon my word, can't see how you make that out. You've given me your -money to invest through Wagstaff, so he might think I had capital. And -you've given me children, and----" - -"It isn't money that counts. It isn't even children. Heaps of women -whose husbands beat them bear them children. It's that I haven't trusted -you sufficiently. I haven't loved you." - -"I've not complained, so I don't see---- But what's put all this into -your head?" - -"D'you want to know? Seeing Billy and Nan together. They're so -different--you can feel it. They're really married, while we--we just -live together." - -Her voice broke. He put his arms about her, but even then she withdrew -herself from him. - -"Just live together! And isn't that marriage? Whether you're cross or -kind to me, Jehane, I'd rather just live with you than be married to any -other woman." - -"That's the worst of it--I know you would. And I nag at you and I shall -go on doing it. I feel I shall--and I do so want to do better." - -"Won't money make a difference? That's what's the matter with us, -Jehane; we've not had money." - -She placed her arms about his neck. "And that's what I started to say, -Ocky. You'll do it this time, won't you?" - -"Make money? Rather. I should think so. Was talking to Playfair only -this morning and he---- But look here, what makes you ask that? You'll -take all the stuffing out of me if _you_ begin to doubt. Who's been -saying anything?" - -"It isn't what they said." - -He lit his pipe and crossed over to the window. In the darkness his -outlined figure looked strangely round-shouldered and ineffectual. -Her heart sank and her hope became desperate. His voice reached her -blustering and muffled. She did wish he would remove his pipe when he -spoke to her. - -"I know. I know. Confound him! He's been throwing cold water on my plans -as usual. Wants to see me, does he? Well, if he wants badly enough -to cross London, Ocky Waffles is his man. I shan't go to him. That's -certain." - -Jehane strove to believe that his opposition to Barrington was a token -of new strength. - -Four days later a note arrived. She was tempted to open it, but it -was addressed to her husband. Directly he came in she placed it in his -hands. - -"Read it aloud. What does he say?" - -She watched Ocky's face and saw how it faltered; then he hid the -expression behind a mask of cynicism. - -"If you won't read it to me, let me read it myself." - -He crumpled it into his pocket hurriedly, as though he feared that -she would snatch it from him. When all was safe, he turned toward the -mantel-shelf, hunting for a match. - -"Why did you do that?" - -"It was addressed to me, wasn't it? Barrington don't let his wife read -his letters, I'll bet. Neither do I; I'm not a lawyer's clerk in an -office any longer--I'm going to be a big man." - -"But what did he say?" - -Forced to answer, Ocky became reproachful. "Duchess, you're suspecting -me again--you remember what you promised the other night. He says he -wants to see me--thinks there may be something in my plan. Daresay, -he'll offer to put money into it. You may bet, this little boy won't let -him. Of course on the surface he advises caution." - -"If that's all, why can't you let me read his letter?" - -"Because if I did, I'd be acting as though you didn't trust me. You -could have read it with pleasure, if you hadn't made such a fuss." - -Jehane knew his weak obstinacy of old and gave up the contest. "You -won't see him, of course--unless he comes to the house." - -"Don't know about that." - -"But you were so emphatic." - -"I can change my mind, can't I? His letter puts a different complexion -on it." - -"But, Ocky, Barrington isn't two-faced. He doesn't say one thing to me -and another thing to you. He may be awkward, but he isn't underhand. If -he's in favor of your schemes now, he must have heard something that's -changed him." - -"Not a doubt of it. Very soon a good many people who've thought me small -beer'll hear something." - -"But you've not answered my question. Where are you going to see him?" - -"Oh, maybe at his office." - -Whistling, with feigned cheerfulness, he strolled out. As she watched -him slouch down the road, her fingers itched to correct the angle of his -hat. - -That night she searched his pockets and found the letter. It read, "_Mr. -Wagstaff has told me the truth. You must meet me at my place of business -at twelve to-morrow_." - -It was capable of the construction her husband had put on it; it was -capable of many others. - -Feeling through the coat next morning, searching for his tobacco-pouch, -Ocky was shrewd enough to notice that the letter was in its envelope. -Such neatness was not his habit. When he came back in the evening from -seeing Barrington and Jehane enquired what he had been doing, he handed -her the letter with generous frankness. - -"You can read it now. I wanted to be sure before I told you. I was -right. Barrington's been talking to Wagstaif and has heard all about it. -Oh yes, I can tell you, he's a very different Barrington." - -"How?" - -"He's discovered that Ocky Waffles Esquire is a person to be respected." - -She scorned herself for her mean suspicions. He deserved an atonement. -"Ocky, darling, I'm so glad." - -As her arms went about him, he patted her on the back. "That's all -right, old Duchess. You'll believe in me now--eh?" - -She lifted her face from his shoulder. It was tear-stained with -penitence. "God knows, I've always tried to, Ocky." - -He must go her one better in generosity. Having deceived her, he could -afford to be magnanimous. - -"You've succeeded, old dear. You've given me your strength and made a -man of me. I'm your doing." - - - - -CHAPTER XII--THE 'MAGINATIVE CHILD - -The bettering of Mr. Waffles marked the beginning of that intimate and -freakish association which was to shape the careers of the children of -both families. Though their relationship was distant and in the case -of Glory non-existent, they had been taught to regard one another as -cousins. As yet they had met so occasionally and so briefly that they -had not worn off the distrust, half-shy, half-hostile, which is the -common attitude of children toward strangers. From now on they were to -enter increasingly into one another's lives. - -Though Barrington had said that it would be fun for Kay and Peter to -have Jehane's children to play with in the garden and Nan had assented, -neither of them had undertaken to tell Kay and Peter. They had promised -them a surprise--that was all. Truth to tell, they had their doubts -about Peter and how he would receive their information; his jealous -air of proprietorship regarding his little sister gave them moments of -puzzled uneasiness. - -Years ago, before Kay was born, the doctor had told them, "He's an -imaginative child. Oh dear no, he's quite well. He'll grow out of it." -But he hadn't. He stood by her always, as if he were a wall between her -and some threatened danger. He was not happy away from her; his life -seemed locked up in her life. His tenderness for her was beyond his -years--beautiful and mysterious. In the midst of his play he would still -raise his head suddenly, listening and expectant. - -He was odd and gentle in many ways; to his mother his oddness was both -frightening and endearing. Cookie shook her head over him and sighed, -"'E's far away from this old world h'already. I doubt 'e'll never grow -up to man-'ood." - -And Grace would reply sharply, "Wot rot!" But she would wipe her eye. - -He had a habit of asking questions before guests with startling -directness--asking them with big innocent eyes; they were questions for -which his mother felt bound to apologize: "He's so imaginative; for many -years he was our only child." - -Peter, wondering wherein he had done wrong, would sidle up to her when -the guests were gone, inquiring, "Mummy, what is a 'maginative child?" - -His father, when he heard him, would laugh: "Now, Peter, don't be -Peterish or you'll make us all cry." - -So they did not tell him when his cousins were expected. - -He was in the garden, on the grass beneath the cedar, with Kay curled -against him. He was telling her stories--his own inventions. On the -wall, partly hidden in creepers, basking in the sunshine, blinking down -on them through slits of eyes, was a great gray tabby. The tabby was the -subject of the story. One day, returning along the Terrace he had found -her. Her bones were poking through her fur: she was evidently a stray. -He had stopped to stroke her and she had followed. After being fed on -the doorstep, she refused to set off on her wanderings again. Whenever -the door opened, she entered like a streak of lightning. She was -determined to be adopted; though cook had broomed her on to the pavement -many times, she was not to be dissuaded by any harshness of refusal. -It was almost as though she knew that Kay and Peter were her eager -advocates. - -With a cat so determined there was only one thing to do; take her out -and lose her. So she was captured by feigned kindness and tied in -a fish-basket; Grace was given a shilling and the fish-basket with -instructions to go on a trip to Hampstead and to leave the fish-basket -behind. Now, whether it was that Grace was more kind-hearted than her -statements, or whether it was that she preferred the company of her -policeman to the fulfilling of her errand, the fact remains that the cat -got back before her. An incredible performance if the basket had really -been left at Hampstead! Grace was circumstantial in the account she -gave; there was nothing for it but to accept her word that a cat had -traveled more swiftly than a train. - -Stern methods were employed. Doors were closed against the cat; things -were thrown at it. It was encouraged to go hungry. The children were -forbidden to call it. - -One morning Peter jumped out of bed and ran to the window attracted by -a strange noise. Looking down into the garden, he saw a flurry of fur -careering across flowerbeds till it was brought up sharply against the -wall with a bang. The bang was caused by a salmon-tin, in which the cat -had got its head fastened while foraging in a garbage-pail. Before -he could go to its rescue, cook came out with her hostile broom and -commenced the chase. The cat, blinded and maddened, by a miracle of -agility climbed a tree, leapt into a neighboring garden and vanished. - -A week later it returned, with a ring about its neck where the jagged -edges of the tin had torn it. Such persistence and loyalty of affection -were not to be thwarted. At first the animal was tolerated; then, as its -manners and appearance improved, it was taken into the family. Because -of its adventures, when a name had to be chosen, Peter's father -suggested Romance. When Romance gave birth to kittens, they were named -after various of the novelists. - -The history of Romance, where she went and what she did, was a story -which Kay was never tired of hearing, nor Peter of telling. Blinking -down from the wall on this sunshiny morning, Romance listened with -contented pride to the children, much as an old soldier might whose -campaigning days were ended. - -"And what did putty say when Gwacie twied to lost her?" - -The 'maginative child was about to answer, when his mother came out -under the mulberry: "Peter. Kay. Oh, there you are! Here's your -surprise." - -For a day or two, while the cousins were a novelty, there was nothing -but laughter and delight; but when Peter understood that their visit was -of undetermined length, he began to regard their coming as an intrusion. -Kay and Eustace were of the same age and naturally chose one another -as playmates. Eustace was a fat, dull boy, prone to tears, with his -mother's black eyes and handsome hair, and his father's coaxing ways. -He was only four, but he had it in his power to make Peter, aged ten, -wretched; for Kay developed a will of her own, and cared no more for -Peterish stories now that she could have Eustace for her slave. - -So Peter was left to Riska and Glory. His old games for two were -useless; he had to think up fresh inventions in which three might -partake. He had no heart for it; Grace came to the rescue with pious -hints from the Bible. - -In the stable by a disused tank, they would enact Jacob's wooing of -Rachel; the tank was the well at which Jacob met her and Romance was the -sheep brought down to be watered--she was, when they could catch her. -But the game nearly always ended in flushed cheeks and protesting -voices. Riska would insist on being Rachel, leaving Glory the undesired -part of Leah, who was sore of eye. Of his two girl-cousins Peter -preferred Glory; Riska was too high-tempered and stormy. So, when he -had served for Rachel seven years and instead had won Leah, he not -infrequently was content to stop, setting Bible history at defiance. - -One evening his father, walking beneath the pear-trees, heard voices in -the empty stable. "I won't. I won't," in stubborn tones. "But you shall, -you shall," in a passionate wail. - -He opened the door in the wall quietly. Glory was sitting on the ground, -placid eyed, watching a hot-faced little boy who held off a small -girl-cousin, fiercely determined to embrace him. When matters had been -sullenly explained, Barrington drew his son to him: "If a lady asks you -to kiss her, you should do it. It's Peterish not to. But polygamy always -ends in a cry. It's better not to play at it." - -Then came the inevitable question: "What is polgigamy, father?" - -Grace was asked for a fresh suggestion; the result was Samson and -Delilah. To Peter's way of thinking Riska was quite suited to the rle -of Delilah. Too well suited! In revenge, before he could stop her, she -cut off Peter's hair at the game's first playing. - -During her stay at Topbury she committed many such offences. She was a -lawless little creature, strong of character, a wilful wisp of a child, -and extraordinarily like Jehane. Her fragile eager face, with its coral -mouth and soft dark eyes, could change from demure prettiness to a -flame of anger the moment she was thwarted. Yet, smiling or stormy, her -small-boned body and long black curls made her always beautiful--a wild -and destructive kind of beauty. From the first she claimed Peter as -her sole possession, and Peter---- Well, Peter did his best politely to -avoid her. - -Glory was his favorite, though he often seemed to ignore her. She was -the opposite to her half-sister in both appearance and temper. She had -nothing of Jehane in her; nor did she resemble her soldier father. She -was oddly like to Kay and to a man whom her mother had desired with all -her heart. It was strange. - -She was gray-eyed and her hair was of a primrose shade. She was tall for -her age--taller than Peter--and carried herself with sweet and subdued -quietness. She said very little and had submissive ways. Her actions -spoke loudly for anyone she loved. They spoke loudly for Peter; but he -scarcely observed them. His eyes were all for Kay. Glory was like his -shadow stealing after him across the sunlight through that month of -June. Her hand was always slipping shyly into his from behind. And she -understood his love for his sister, accepting it without question. - -She would go to her small half-brother, "Come along Eustace; Glory wants -to show you something." - -"But Eustace wanth to play wiv Kay." - -"Eustace can play with Kay directly. Just come with Glory, there's a -dear little boy." - -She would nod to Peter knowingly, and smile to him, leading Eustace away -and leaving him alone with Kay. - -He could fill her eyes with tears at the least show of irritation; her -persistent following did irritate him sometimes. Once, cross because she -followed, he told her to sit on the stable wall and not to move till he -said she might. Tea-time came and there was no Glory. They searched -the house for her and went out into the garden, calling. Not till Peter -called did she answer; then he remembered why. He remembered years after -the forlornness of that tear-stained face. It was Peterish of him to -forget Glory, and to remember her almost too late. - -Nan, sitting sewing in the quiet sunlight, would often drop her work -to watch the children. She noticed how they kept together, yet always -a little separate, acting out the clash of temperaments which they had -inherited from their parents. And she noticed increasingly something -else--something which she never mentioned and which explained Jehane to -her: that astonishing likeness of Glory to Kay, as though they had been -sisters. - -She would call Glory to her and, as the child sat at her feet, would -say, "Do you like Peter, darling?" - -The honest eyes would be lifted to her own in affirmation. - -"Very much?" - -"Very much, Auntie." - -The girlish hand would slip into her own and presently a faltering voice -would whisper, "But he doesn't like me always. I worry him sometimes." - -Nan would call to Peter, "Glory's tired of sitting with mother. She -wants her little tyrant." - -As they wandered away across the lawn, she would follow them with her -eyes. - -"I hope Jehane's good to her," she said to Barrington. "Seems to be, in -her jealous way." - -"She's a nice child." - -"Nicer than Riska or Eustace. That's thanks to Captain Spashett." - -"Ah, yes," Nan would say. - -Mr. Waffles, having moved his belongings to Sandport, came to fetch the -intruders. Peter watched them depart with a sense of relief; now things -would settle back into their old groove. - -In July the house at Topbury was closed and the Barringtons went for -their holiday to North Wales. The servants were sent to their homes, -with the exception of Grace. Summer holidays were ecstatic times of -fishing-rods and old clothes, when parents put aside their busy -manners, broke rules and played truant. This particular holiday was -made additionally adventurous by a tandem tricycle, on which Peter was -allowed to accompany his father when his mother was too tired, trying to -catch the pedals with his short legs or riding on the pedals away from -the saddle, when his father was not looking. - -He was his father's companion many hours of each day, for Nan was often -tired. His father had plentiful opportunities for judging just how -'maginative was his child. - -One morning, on going down to bathe, the sea was rough and Peter, -reluctant to enter and still more reluctant to own it, made the excuse -that he was frightened of treading on a dead sailor. - -Peter, after hearing a sermon at the village chapel, grew profoundly -sorry for the Devil. It seemed so dreadful to have to burn for ever and -ever. He made a secret promise to God that he would take the Devil's -place. Then he thought it over for some days in horror; he had been -too generous--he wanted to go back on his bargain. His mother found him -crying one night; she suspected that he had been sleeping little by the -dark blue rings under his eyes. She coaxed him, and he told her. - -Another sign of his 'maginativeness was his anxiety to know whether cows -had souls. - -"That boy thinks too much," said his father; "he needs to rough and -tumble with other boys of his own age. At ten his worst trouble should -be tummy-ache." - -Nan smiled. "But Peter's different, you know." - -"I know. But, if he's to grow up strong, he must change. Little woman, I -don't like it." - -"Billy boy, I sometimes think it's our doing, yours and mine. When we -put toys in the empty nursery before he was born, before he was thought -of, we were making him a 'maginative child." - -"The sins of the parents, eh?" - -"Not that. The love of the parents shall be visited upon the children -unto the third and----" - -"Pepperminta, you know more about God and Peter and love than I do. -You're right, and you're always right. How is it that you learn so much -by sitting so quiet?" - -Matters came to a head through Kay. In the cottage where they stayed, -Peter slept with her in the same bed, in a narrow room beneath a sloping -roof. She was nervous to be left alone there--it was so dark, so far -away, so strange; Peter, a willing martyr, went to bed with her at -the same time. Lying awake in the dark or twilight, he would tell her -stories. - -"Listening, Kay?" - -"Yeth," in a little drowsy voice. - -As she grew more sleepy she would snuggle closer with her lips against -his face, till at last he knew by her regular breathing that his -audience was indifferent to his wildest fancies. - -One evening his parents returned from a ride and, entering the house, -heard a stifled sobbing. - -"What's that?" - -"Must be the children." - -"You wait here, Nan. I'll go up and quiet them." - -"No, I'll come, up too." - -As they climbed the stairs and reached the landing, they made out words -which were in the wailing: "I don't want to be a dead 'un. I don't want -to be a dead 'un." - -It was Kay's voice. Peter, leaning over her, was whispering frightened -comfort. - -When Nan and Billy had taken them in their arms and lit the candle, the -tragedy was explained. Peter had been enlarging on the magnificence of -heaven and the beauties of the future life. Things went well until -Kay realized that there was no direct communication by trains or -buses between heaven and her parents. She didn't want to go there. Its -magnificence, unshared by anyone she loved, was terrifying. She didn't -want to be a dead 'un. She kept repeating it in spite of Peter's best -efforts at consolation. - -It was some time before it was safe to blow the candle out and leave -them. Death was very imminent in their minds. - -Downstairs, when it was all over, Billy looked across at Nan, his brow -puckered with annoyance and his lips twitching with laughter. "That -decides it." - -"Decides! How? What does it decide?" - -"Something that I've thought of for a long time. Peter's too -imaginative. He's not a good companion for Kay." - -"How can you say that? We all know how gentle he is with her." - -"That's just it. It's good for neither of them. Now that Jehane and Ocky -are at Sandport it makes things easier; they can keep an eye on him." - -"An eye on Peter!" - -Billy leant across the table, turning down the lamp and turning it up -again. He was gaining time. "It's for his own good. You don't suppose I -like it. It'll be hard for all of us." He spoke huskily. - -Nan plucked at the table-cloth. She was almost angry. "You mean that you -want to send him to school at Sand-port--send my little Peterkins away?" - -"Sandport's famous for its schools." - -"But Billy, you couldn't be so cruel. He's so young and sensitive. His -heart would break." - -"Rubbish. I was sent to boarding-school when I was eight. I've -survived." - -"You! You were different--but Peter!" - -She voiced the common fallacy of mothers, that their husbands as boys -were of coarser fibre than their children. She bowed her head on her -arms beneath the lamp and cried. Her little Peter to be thrust out and -made lonely, simply because he had too much imagination! It was cruel! - - - - -CHAPTER XIII--PRICKCAUTIONS - -There was no withstanding his questions. Peter had to be told why: it -was because he was too Peterish. He was going for the good of Kay. All -these years in trying so hard to love her, he had been harming her--it -amounted to that as he understood it. He was being sent to school that -he might learn to be like other children--like Riska and Eustace, for -instance. - -"When I'm quite like them, can I come home?" - -Ah, that was in the future. - -Unknowingly he had committed an indiscretion, the penalty for which -was exile--the indiscretion was called "'magination." He felt horribly -ashamed, even though Grace did assure him that some of the very greatest -people had been guilty of the same mistake. - -"Why, Master Peter, you're gettin' orf lightly, that you are. There was -once a young fellah as dreamed dreams about sheaves bowin' down to 'im, -and the moon and stars makin' a basin for 'im. D'yer know wot 'appened?" - -"I think that's silly," said Peter. "How could the moon and stars make a -basin?" - -"'Tain't silly neither, 'cause it says it in the Bible. Any-'ow, when -'e told 'is dreams d'yer know wot 'appened? 'Is h'eleven brethren, they -chucked 'im in a pit--yes, they did. And there 'e'd 'ave stayed for -keeps if it 'adn't been for a passin' circus as saw 'e was queer and put -'im in their show, and took 'im away into Egypt. Oh my, for a boy wiv -'magination, you're gettin' orf light." - -"What did he do in the circus? Did he ever come home again?" - -"'E grew to be a ruler in h'Egypt and saved 'is pa and ma and eleven -brethren, when they wuz starvin'." - -"P'raps I'll do that for all of you one day." - -"Yer silly little monkey! There yer go again wiv yer queer sayin's." - -Peter had been to the Agricultural Hall in Islington and had seen people -in side-shows without arms and legs: bearded women; elastic-skinned -men; horrid persons with one body and two heads or with a little twin, -without even one head, growing out of their chests and waggling their -pitiful legs. He wasn't like that in his body; but he supposed he must -be something like it inside his head. The belief that he was somehow -deformed made him too humble, too abashed to protest; anything that was -for his little sister's sake must be right. But he wished that -someone had warned him earlier; only in this did he feel himself -betrayed.--Anyhow, never in his wildest fancies had he supposed that the -moon and stars could make basins--and that boy Joseph had turned out all -right. Now he was going to his particular Egypt to get cured. - -Taking him on his knee, his father had explained matters. He was to be -a little knight and not to cry. He was to ride out into the world alone -for the good of the lady he loved best. One day he would return to her, -and then----. - -With his mother it was different; she wept and quite evidently expected -him to weep too. She didn't want him to go. It was not her doing. She -loved him to be Peterish; she would not have him otherwise. To her he -could confess. - -"It's here, mother," tapping his breast; "I can't help it really. But -I'll try." - -No, he couldn't help it--that was the worst of it--any more than he -could help hearing the whistling angel. He could pretend that he wasn't -Peter, just as he had pretended not to hear the angel whistle. But he -would not be able to change; he could only learn to wear a disguise. If -school could teach him to do that, years hence he might prove worthy to -live again at Topbury. Because he felt that he was to blame, he strove -to be very brave; if his eyes filled with tears sometimes, it wasn't -because he wanted them to. - -The respite shortened. Letters passed to and fro between his father -and Uncle Waffles, between his mother and Aunt Jehane. Their contents, -discussed at the breakfast table, cast a gloom over all the day. Many -schools were offered, but the best for Peter's particular case was one -kept by Miss Lydia Rufus. Aunt Jehane would look after his clothes, and -he could spend his Saturdays at Madeira Lodge. - -Madeira Lodge! That was the house at Sandport which sheltered Uncle -Waffles. It was stamped in red letters at the top of his note-paper and -proclaimed magnificence. It rather tickled Peter's father's sense of -humor. - -"Anything from Madeira Lodge 'smorning?" he would say, with a twinkle, -as he sorted out the letters. "But why stop half-way in intemperance? -Why not Port Wine Terrace, Moselle Park, in the town of Champagne? -Ocky's too modest." - -Or he would say, "Lord Sauterne of Beer Castle informs his nephew that -Miss Rufus's pupils require a Bible, an Eton suit and two pairs of -house-shoes." - -Peter would greet his father's jokes with a strained but gallant little -smile. "We men must keep up the women's courage," his father had told -him. - -It was hard to keep up other people's courage when your own was down to -zero. - -By the time they left the cottage in North Wales everything had been -arranged. There was just one short fortnight left in which to get -Peter's wardrobe together, mark his linen and finish off his mending -and sewing. The mornings were spent in visits to shops, where boots and -gloves and suits were fitted on and purchased. A knight when he rides -into the world alone must set out duly caparisoned. - -And Peter was thankful for the rush and muddle; he found it increasingly -difficult not to cry, especially when his mother strained him to her -breast and gazed down on him lovingly with her dear wet eyes. He was -glad that people should have so much to do, for he hardly knew how to -conduct himself since the discovery of his awful blemish. He was afraid -to show his affection for his little sister in the old fond ways, and he -could think of no new ways of showing it. - -He had come to the last day. It was one of those days when summer droops -her eyes and confesses that she has grown old. There was just a hint -of tears in the sky--a blue film of vapor which softened the valiant -smiling of grass and leaves decaying. In the garden the last of the -roses were falling and Virginia creeper lay like crusted blood upon the -walls. It was as though summer, like a spendthrift woman, put red upon -her cheeks to pretend she was not dying. Peter, in his sensitive way, -was conscious of the sadness of this vain pretending, this mimicking a -beauty that was gone. He was doing the same: preparing for to-morrow -and at the same time trying to persuade himself that the present was -forever--that to-morrow would never dawn. - -He ran up and down the house trying to seem merry and excited, watching -his boxes being corded, laughing and chattering--talking of when -he would return for Christmas. "We men must keep up the women's -courage"--one of the women was Kay. He was doing his best to be a little -knight; it hurt sometimes, especially when his mother looked up from -fitting socks and shoes into odd corners of his boxes, unhappy and -surprised. She must think him hard-hearted; she should never guess. - -After lunch, having watched his opportunity, he slipped out of the house -without letting anyone know where he was going. His face was set in a -solemn expression of serious determination. He scuttled down the Terrace -and down the Crescent, till he came within sight of the cab-stand; he -was relieved to find that Mr. Grace, as he called Grace's father, was -disengaged. Mr. Grace was a fat, red-faced man, and like many fat and -red-faced men had his grievance. His appearance was against him. People -judged him circumstantially and said that he drank. Even Grace said it. -His stand was suspiciously near Topbury Cock. But most cab-stands are -near to some public house. Peter had become his very dear friend and to -him Mr. Grace had opened his heart, denying all charges and imputing the -redness of his countenance to the severity of his calling and exposure -to the weather. - -Mr. Grace was asleep on his box, his face stuffed deep in his collar, -the reins sagging from his swollen hands as if at any minute he might -drive off. When Peter spoke to him, he jumped himself together. "Keb, -sir. Right y'are, sir. H'I'm ready------ Well, I'm blessed! Strike me -blind, if it ain't the little master." - -Peter spread apart his legs, thrusting his hands deep in his -knickerbocker pockets. "I'm going to be sent away, Mr. Grace, and I'm -worried." - -Mr. Grace twisted his head, as if trying to lengthen his fat neck; -finding that impossible, he shifted his ponderous body nearer to the -edge of the seat and regarded Peter with his kind little pig's eyes. - -"Worried, Mr. Peter? Well, I never!" - -"I'm worried for Kay--I shan't be here to take care of her." His voice -fluttered, then steadied itself as he lifted up his head and finished -bravely. - -"We'll do that, Master Peter. You kin rely on an old friend." - -"Thank you, Mr. Grace; that was what I was going to ask you. If anyone -was to run away with her, they'd come to you to drive them. Wouldn't -they?" - -"Not a shadder of a doubt. I drives all the best people in Topbury." - -"These wouldn't be 'zactly the best people--not if they were stealing -Kay." - -"All the better; the easier for me to spot 'em. Any par-tickler pusson -you suspeck of 'aving wicked designs upon 'er?" - -"No one in particular, Mr. Grace. I was just frightened that I might -come home and find her gone." - -"What one might call a prickcaution?" - -"I think that's what I meant." - -Mr. Grace's neck had become sore with looking down, so he tempted Peter -to come on the box. Puffing and blowing, he gave him a hand to help him. - -When they were seated side by side, Mr. Grace looked fondly at the curly -head and straight little body. "I shall miss yer." - -"And I shall miss you. It's nice to be missed by somebody." - -"I shall miss yer 'cause you've been my prickcaution." - -"I?" - -"Yas, you. You've been my prickcaution against my darter, Grace. She's -thought better o' me since we've been friends. And then----" - -"I'm glad she's thought better of you. And then, what?" - -"Well, you kep me informed as to 'er nights out, so I could h'escape." - -Peter regarded his friend in surprise. "Escape! But she wouldn't hurt -you." - -"Not h'intendin' to, Master Peter; not h'intendin' to. It's me feelin's -h'I refer to. You don't know darters. 'Ow should yer?--She thinks I -drink, like all the rest of 'em 'cept you. On 'er nights h'out she -brings 'er blooming Salvaition Band to this 'ere corner, h'aimin' at my -con-wersion. It's woundin' and 'umiliatin', Master Peter, for a pa as -don't need no conwersion. She makes me blush all through, and that makes -things wuss for a man wi' a red compleckshon. So yer see, you wuz my -prickcaution." - -"But you don't drink, Mr. Grace, do you?" - -"No more 'an will wash me mouf out same as a 'orse. It's cruel 'ard to -be suspickted o' wot yer don't do." - -Peter looked miserably into the kind little pig's eyes. "I'm suspected -too. That's why I'm being sent away." - -"O' wot?" - -"They call it 'magination." - -"Ah!" - -"Why do you say _ah_ like that?" - -"'Cause it's wuss'n drink--much wusser. But take no more'n will wash yer -mouf out and yer'll be awright. That's my principle in everythin'---- -Master Peter, this makes us close friends, don't it? We're both -misonderstood. I----" - -Just then a fare came up--an old lady, very full in the skirt, with -parcels dangling from her arms in every direction. - -"Keb, keb, keb. Oh yes, my 'orse is wery safe. No, 'e don't bite and 'e -won't run away. Eh? Oh, I'm a wery good driver. Eh? Three to you, mum; -four bob to anyone else. Am I kind to 'im? I loves 'im like me own -darter.--See yer ter-morrow, Master Peter.--Gee, up there. Gee up, I -tell yer." - -Peter sought out Grace's policeman on his beat and made him the same -request with respect to Kay. Then he saw the Misses Jacobite and warned -them. Having done his best for her safety in his absence, he hurried -home. - -The evening went all too fast--seven, eight, nine, ten. Every hour the -clock struck he felt something between a thrill and a shiver (a "shrill" -he called it) run up and down his spine. "_The end. The end. The end_," -the clock seemed to be saying over and over, so that he wanted to get up -and shriek to stop it. Oh, that a little boy could seize the spokes and -stay the wheels of time! - -"Tired, Peter? Hadn't you better----" - -"Oh, not yet! Please, just another five minutes." - -"The dustman's come to my Peterkin's eyes," his mother murmured. - -He sat up, valiantly trying to look wakeful. - -They had not the heart to cut short his respite--it was such an eternity -till Christmas. His head sank against his mother's knees and his eyes -closed tightly, tightly. - -"Poor little fellow," his father said. - -"My darling little Peterkins"--that was his mother. - -They carried him up to bed. On the half-landing, outside the nursery -door, they halted, remembering how their dreams had shaped his character -long before God had made his body. - -Next morning, soon after breakfast, Mr. Grace drove up to the door as -he had promised. He drove all the best people of Topbury to their -battlefields of joy or sorrow. He was Topbury's herald of change, and -had learnt to control his emotions under the most trying circumstances. -But this morning, when the straight little figure came bravely down the -steps, something happened to Mr. Grace's eyes. - -"Good-bye, darlingest mother. Good-bye, little kitten Kay. Good-bye. -Good-bye. Good-bye." - -"Jump in, old man," his father said. - -The door banged. - -"Yer awright?" asked Mr. Grace. - -"We're all right," said Peter's father. - -"Kum up." Mr. Grace tugged savagely on the reins. "Kum up, carn't yer?" -He had to vent his feelings some way. - -"Dammitall," he growled as his "keb" crawled down the Terrace, -"dammitall. It'll taik more 'an this fare's worf to wash me mouf out -this time. It's got inter me froat. 'Ope I ain't goin' to blub. Dammit!" - - - - -CHAPTER XIV--PETER IN EGYPT - -Miss Lydia Rufus was a prim person. Judging from her appearance one -would have said that in her case virtue was compulsory through lack -of opportunity. And yet she had had her "accident"--that was how she -referred to it in conversations with her Maker. No one in Sandport, save -herself and God, knew about it. It had happened ten years before Peter -became her pupil. The "accident" had been born anonymously, as one might -say, and had been brought up _incognito_. After the first unavoidable -preliminaries for which her presence was indispensable, she and the -"accident" had separated. She hardly ever dared to see it, for she -was alone in the world and had her living to earn--to do that one must -appear respectable. - -For a woman of such bristling righteousness to have been so yielding as -to have had an "accident" was almost to her credit: it was in the nature -of a _tour de force_, like sword-swallowing, passing a camel through the -eye of a needle or any other form of occult acrobatics. It was a miracle -in heart-magic. And often in the night her heart went out in longing for -the child whom she dared not acknowledge. In her soul, which most people -regarded as an ice-house, a sanctuary was established with an altar of -mother-love, on which the candles of yearning were kept burning. This -chapter in her secret history would never have been mentioned had she -not made Peter the proxy of her "accident," because he was ten and -because he was handsome. - -It was lucky for Peter. Her usual attitude toward children was one of -condemnation. She expiated her own sin by uprooting the old Adam from -the hearts of her pupils. In her vigor and diligence she often uprooted -flowers. For the rest, she was a High Church woman, wore elastic-sided -boots and never permitted anything to be placed on a Bible. Her system -of education was one of moral straight-jackets. - -Peter found himself in a cramped new house, in a raw new street, on the -outskirts of a jerry-built town. The wind seemed always to be blowing -and, in whichever direction he walked, he always came to sand. It was -as though this place had been planted in a desert that escape might -be impossible. Twenty other little boys, about his own age, were his -fellow-captives. When the school was marched out, walking two abreast, -with Miss Rufus sternly bringing up the tail of the procession, he would -meet other crocodiles of boys and girls, sedately parading, followed -by their warders. These public promenades were a part of the school's -advertisement; deportment was strictly observed. Sandport, as Peter knew -it, was a settlement for convict-children. - -Miss Rufus soon formed the habit of keeping him to walk with her. At -first this caused him embarrassment. Little by little--how was it?--he -became aware that with him she was different. As the mood took her, -she spoke to him sharply, was merely forbidding, or was so kind that he -forgot the sourness of her corrugated countenance and the ugly color of -her hair. It was instinctive with him to treat all women as he did his -mother, with quaint chivalry and forethought. An attitude of gallantry -in a pupil was something new to Miss Rufus. - -When they came to the miles of beach, all tawny like a golden mantle -spread out with a thread of silver in the far, far distance where the -sea washed its hem, instead of going to romp with the other boys he sat -himself down beside her. - -"Go and play," she told him. - -"But you'd be alone, mam." - -"I was always alone before you came." - -"But I'm here now." - -He stood before her laughing, with his cap in his hand and the wind in -his hair. He showed no fear of her--that was not his way with strangers. -She gazed in his face--the gray eyes, the flushed cheeks, the red mouth. -This was not the sullen little slave of her normal experience. In spite -of herself, his bright intelligence and willingness to be loved stirred -something in her breast. If she had not cared what people had thought -of her--if she had been brave, her child might have been like that. Her -chapped, coarse-grained features grew wistful. Peter, looking at her, saw -only a disagreeable, faded woman with red hair. - -"You don't like me, do you?" - -"Us'ally I like everyone," said Peter; "I don't know you yet." - -"I'm a cross old woman. If you don't mind losing your play, you can come -and sit beside me." - -And Peter sat down. It was dull for him. Across the sands boats on -wheels raced with spread sails, dashing toward the silver thread. -Ponies, which you could hire for a few pennies, were galloping up and -down. Across the flat beach, like a monstrous centipede, with trestles -for legs, the long pier crawled with its head in the sea and its tail -on land. And the pier had its own delirious excitements: on show, in the -casino at the end, was a troop of performing fleas who drove one another -in the tiniest of hansom-cabs. Peter knew because a lady-flea, named -Ethel, had been lost; a reward for her recovery was advertised all over -Sandport. Ten shillings were offered and hundreds of fleas had been -submitted for inspection. Peter had a wild dream that he might find -Ethel: with ten shillings he could escape to London from this Egypt of -exile in the sand. - -Miss Rufus broke in on his reverie. She had been wondering how anyone -who had the right to Peter could be so foolish as to do without him. - -"Why did they send you?" - -"Send me to you?" - -"Yes." - -"Because I made Kay cry about heaven." - -"Humph! D'you know what it says about heaven in the Bible?--that there's -no marriage. Was that what she cried about?" - -"Kay wouldn't cry about a thing like that. She's my little -sister--littler than me--and she's never going to marry. We're going -to live together always and have chipped potatoes and sausages for -breakfast." - -A smile twisted the thin straight lips of the sallow woman; it was the -first that Peter had seen there. It was almost tender--like a thing -forgotten coming back. - -He laughed--he was always ready to laugh at himself. "You think that's -funny? Father thinks it's funny, too. He says, 'Peterkins, Peterkins, -time'll change all that.' But it won't you know, 'cause we mean it -truly." - -"But wouldn't it be very sad not to marry? Wouldn't you like one day to -have a little boy just like yourself?" - -He shook his head. "I'm an awful worry. No, I don't think so. But I'd -like to have a little girl like Kay--and I'll have her, anyhow." - -The arm of the sallow woman stole round his shoulder. "Who says you're -an awful worry?" - -"That's why I'm here, you know. I worried them with my queer questions. -When I'm the same as other people, they'll let me come back." - -"I don't think you're a worry. I hope you'll never be like anyone else." - -"But you mustn't say that, 'cause you're to change me. I'm glad you like -me." - -"Then be glad I love you," she whispered. - -The lonely woman's heart opened to Peter. He told her all about Kay and -Grace and Romance; he thought she ought to know everything since she -was to cure him. But instead of curing him she almost--almost made him -worse. - -There was a strange furtiveness in their relation; the other boys must -not suspect. Miss Rufus despised favoritism; she tried to be very hard -on Peter in lesson-hours. He understood and smiled to himself. - -He was terribly homesick. He wanted Kay badly. He wanted to hear her -laughter. He marked each hour by what they were doing at Topbury. Now -they were sitting down to breakfast; now Kay was going with his mother -shopping; now the dinner was being set and his father's key was -grating in the latch. Sounds and smells would bring sudden and stabbing -remembrance. He would hear the garden with the dead leaves rustling, see -the nursery gleaming in the firelight and a little girl being made ready -for bed. Oh, she must be frightened without Peter, at the top of that -tall dark house! - -At night, when Miss Rufus broke her rule against favoritism and, -stealing to his room, pressed his head against her bony breast while he -said his prayers, it was then that he thought of his mother with most -poignancy. - -But he was to be a little knight, so those weekly letters which -commenced "_My Beloveds_," were written stoutheartedly. They must never -guess. But Nan saw the tremble in the sprawling hand and the blots, -where diluted ink had spread. - -"Billy boy, we must have him back, I can't bear it." - -"Nonsense, darling. The chap's quite happy." - -"He isn't. He isn't. And you know it. Kay wants him--she's fretting. -I want him, and you want him as much as any of us. I want to hear his -footsteps on the stairs, to see his clothes lying about, and--and----" - -"But it isn't what we want, little Nan; it's what's best for him. He's -as nervous as a cat--always has been. Give him a year of sea-air." - -Nan missed him terribly. No merry voice awoke her in the morning. -The ceiling above her bed never shook with childish prancing. Kay, by -herself, was very quiet. She was always asking where was Peter: had he -gone to heaven? - -But it was when she came home at nightfall along the Terrace that Nan's -longing was most intense. Childhood would be all too short at best. Too -soon the years would take him from her. One day she would give anything -for just one evening of the joy that she now might have. Who could -tell what the future held? An old woman, grayheaded, she would sit and -whisper to herself, - - "Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, - - To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread; - - 'Mother, mother, mother!' the eager voices calling, - - 'The baby was so sleepy that she had to go to bed!'" - -Thinking these thoughts, Nan would sink her face in her hands, -foretasting the solitude that was surely coming. - -But it was for Peter's good, his father said. He looked very intently at -the Dutch landscape by Cuyp, seeking quiet from it, when he said it. - -As for curing him, Miss Rufus was the wrong person to do that. Peter was -aware of it. He had made her as bad as himself. He had set her loving. -He must look for help elsewhere. - -On Saturdays Mr. Waffles called for him--quite a splendid Mr. Waffles -with soaped mustaches and rather shabby spats. He was taken to Madeira -Lodge, shiny with its newly purchased highly polished furniture. In -the afternoons he walked with Mr. Waffles to Birchdale, where the dunes -stretched away in billows of sand and the air was always blowy. In the -evenings he played with his cousins till it was time to return to Miss -Rufus. Across the road from Madeira Lodge was a Methodist Chapel and -beside it a plot of waste land. To this place he would escape when -he got the chance. The grass grew rank; it was easy to hide among the -withered evening-primroses. He had come to a great conclusion: no one -but God could cure him. There, behind the Methodist Chapel, he argued -with God about it, praying for Kay's sake that he might be made well. -Nothing happened--perhaps because Glory found him and, having found -him, was always following him to his place of hiding. He pledged her -to secrecy, told her his trouble and asked her advice about it. But she -only stared with dumb love in her eyes and shook her quiet head. - -Of his longing to return he did not dare to speak to Miss Rufus--she was -too fond of him. Nor must he mention it in his letters. Aunt Jehane--ah, -well, she spoke of his parents as though they were entirely mistaken -about everything. She was always trying to prove to him how much more -broad-minded, clever and generous she and Uncle Waffles were. Her -jealous nature prompted her to steal the boy's heart by every expedient -of kindness and flattery. She told him scandal about her neighbors. -She spoke of love between boys and girls. She made him kiss Glory and -laughed at his awkwardness. She gave him special treats at his meals. -She boasted about her husband, saying how well he was getting on and how -much he would do for Peter. And she did all this that Peter might tell -her that he was happier at Sandport than at Topbury. - -Peter couldn't tell her that. He had commenced her acquaintance with -a prejudice. He could never forget that she had once been the smacking -lady. He watched her with his cousins, how she was foolishly lenient -or foolishly severe, but wise never. She allowed herself to punish them -unjustly; but if anyone, even their father, blamed them, they were "My -Eustace" and "My girls." Especially was this the case with Glory, in -whose making Mr. Waffles could claim no share. She could always humble -his uncle by speaking regretfully of Captain Spashett. - -For Uncle Waffles Peter had a fellow sympathy; it was to him he turned. -On those walks among the sand-hills they had fine talks together. - -"Old son, I did a big stroke of business this week. Oh yes, I tell you, -this little boy knows his way about town. Had two more acres offered -me, and borrowed money for the purchase. They're a long way out, but -Sandport'll grow to them. Now what d'you know about that?" - -Uncle Waffles was often confessional with Peter and always exuberant. He -asked his opinion on business affairs as though his opinion mattered. He -seemed to keep nothing back, even touching on things domestic. - -"You mustn't think I'm complaining of the Duchess. She's a snorter. But, -you know, she's never understood me. I'm taking her in hand though, and -educating her up to my standard. When first I knew her, she seemed to -think that loving was wicked. Now what d'you know about that?" - -Peter watched for the results of the educating and was disappointed. -When Uncle Waffles tried to kiss Aunt Je-hane, she still drew aside her -head, saying, "Don't be silly, Ocky." She left the room when he began -to tell his latest funny story. It was odd, if he was really successful, -that she should always treat him like that. - -And there were other secrets Peter learnt--that his uncle had an obscure -disease which no one must mention. His uncle was very brave and laughed -about it. It could be kept in check, so long as he took his "medicine" -regularly. His "medicine" could be obtained at any public house and was -frequently obtained on those Saturday excursions to and from Birchdale. -When Glory accompanied them, Uncle Waffles contrived to do without it. - -At Christmas Peter was put in charge of the guard and returned to -Topbury. The month that followed was epoch-making--a bitter pleasure. -Like a man living on his capital, he was always reckoning how much was -left. And then the respite ended and the exile in Egypt recommenced. - -He clenched his hands. He would not cry. And yet----. - -It was Kay he wanted. His whole life was wrapt up in her. - -The first day back at school he noticed that one of his companions was -absent. The second and the third day passed; then the news leaked -out that he was dead. It dawned on Peter that death was a peril that -threatened everybody. No amount of care on the part of Mr. Grace or the -policeman could shield Kay from it. The thought became a nightmare. Miss -Rufus discovered that he was unhappy; he cried at night in bed. She was -hurt; but, when he told her, she was more gentle with him than ever. - -Midway through the term a telegram arrived. Its message was broken to -him by Uncle Waffles. Kay was dangerously ill and calling for him; he -was to go back. - -A drizzling rain hung over London. The streets were clogged with mud, -and gas-lamps shone drearily through the drifting murk. Throughout the -long and dismal journey he had sat pale-faced; in the intervals between -praying he had told himself that, were she to die, he would never -forgive his father for having separated him from her. He was stunned and -yet fiercely rebellious. In spite of his desperate hope, he was prepared -for the worst. - -At the station Grace met him. Indiscreet through grief, she told him how -from the first of her three days' illness his little sister had never -ceased calling for him. - -"'Er temp'rature's runned up with fretting, poor lamb; but you was -allaws h'able to quiet 'er, Master Peter." - -Before the cab had halted on the Terrace, Peter was up the steps. -Someone had been behind the blinds, watching; the door opened almost -before he had rung the bell. His father stood before him. In his hot -anger Peter dodged beneath his arm and commenced to mount the stairs. If -he had been there, he felt sure, this would not have happened. - -From the room in which she had been born came the heavy smell of -eucalyptus. Peter opened the door; a fire was burning, as when he had -first found her there. A cot was drawn up to the fire and from it came -a ceaseless tired wailing. In the wailing he made out his name, uttered -over and over. As he ran forward, his mother rose to put her arms about -him. He rushed past her: she did not count. Bending over the cot, he -gazed into the flushed face. The hoarse voice stopped. The lips, cracked -with fever, pressed against his mouth. - -"Little Kay, it's truly Peter. He's never going to leave you." - -From the moment he touched her, she began to mend. - -Some days later, when relief from suspense left leisure for attention to -other matters, Mr. Barrington wrote to Miss Rufus, saying that his son -would not return. In reply he received a curious confidence. She had -advertised her school for sale, and it was Peter's doing. Peter had -taught her that, except love, nothing mattered. - -Peter's father had seen Miss Rufus; he thought that love on her lips -was an odd word. Couldn't one love and still keep a school? It was very -_Peterish_ of Peter to make a lady with a corrugated countenance do -a thing like that. Something lay behind the letter. Later, when the -scandal had become public, Jehane informed them what that something was. - -Peter's father felt penitent. He took his son between his knees, resting -his hand on his curly head, and gazed at him intently as though for the -first time he was beginning to know him. - -"Have you forgiven me, little chap?" Then, "I was mistaken about you. -Your mother was right. Go on being _Peterish_ to your heart's content. -We love you best like that." - -To Nan he said, "You should have seen that woman. She was barbed wire -all round--impregnable. Absolutely. But Peter--well! We've got a queer -little shrimp for our son and heir." - - - - -CHAPTER XV--MARRIED LIFE - -Peter went laughing through the spring-world--it had become all -kindness. In some strange way he had saved Kay's life. Everybody said -so. He did not know how. And now she was strong and well--more his than -ever. - -"'Appy, Master Peter? H'always 'appy," Mr. Grace would say when they met -on the cab-stand. - -Yes, Peter was always happy now. His eyes were blue torches of joy which -burnt up other people's sadness. His golden little motherkins forgot her -dread of when he would become a man; she held him tightly in the nest -at Topbury, surrounding him with her gentle love. His father showed his -affection in a man's fashion by making Peter his friend. And Kay, racing -down the garden-path and dancing with the flowers in the sunshine, put -the feeling which they all experienced into words, "The joy's gone into -my feet, Peter; I'm so glad." - -Never again would anyone suspect him of harming her. He could gather -her to him and tell her tales to his heart's content. And what games -of pretending they played together! The old-fashioned garden became a -forest of limitless expanse and the house a castle. Kay was a princess -in danger and Peter was a knight who came to her rescue. Peter taught -his mother and father his pretence-language, so that they might play -their part as king and queen of the castle. Peter's father learnt -that he did not go to business in the morning, but to the wars. In -the evening, when he returned, he would sometimes see two merry -faces watching for him from the top-windows--the top-windows were the -battlements. Then he felt that, grown man though he was, he ought to -prance up the Terrace, as his legs would have done had they been really -those of a royal charger. - -Peter had brought back the spirit of fun-making to Top-bury. In the -garden by day, where the wind whispered round the walls, and the trees -let in glimpses of high-flying clouds, and in the nursery at twilight, -where the laburnum leant her arms on the window-sill to listen, nodding -her golden tassels, he created his imaginary world. Here the king -and queen would join them almost shyly, as if they feared that their -presence might disturb. They came hand-in-hand on tiptoe. Peter noticed -how different they were from Aunt Jehane and Uncle Waffles: they were -never tired of being lovers. - -"Please, Peter, we want to be your little boy and girl. May we hear your -story?" - -The invisible arms of the threatened death had drawn them very near -together. Like the spring about them, their hearts were emotional with -exultant tenderness. - -Like all children, Kay and Peter had their place of hiding, where they -lived their most secret world. It was the loft above the unused stable. -One had to climb up boxes and scramble through a hole in the ceiling to -get to it. It was thick in dust and cob-webs, but they cleaned a space -where they could sit and pretend it was their house and that they were -married. There was only one window, smothered in ivy, looking out on the -garden. From here they could observe whether anyone was coming. There -were chinks in the floor which served as spy-holes; through one of them -they could see the stall in which the tandem-tricycle was kept. They -planned to explore all manner of countries when Kay's legs were long -enough to reach the pedals. - -"Can't think where you kiddies get to," their father said; "I believe -it's somewhere in the stable. I've been calling and calling'." - -And Peter laughed, for he knew that grown people were far too sensible -to think of climbing into the loft in search of them. Only one grown -person was so adventurous--but that comes later. - -When letters arrived from Sandport they were usually addressed to Nan; -as a rule the first post brought them, and she would read out extracts -as they sat at breakfast. - -They were curious letters, written in a jealous spirit, but intended to -create an impression of contentment. They were in the nature of veiled -retorts which said, "So you see, my husband's as good as yours." Without -knowing it, they betrayed envy. If Nan had given news concerning the -doings of herself, Billy or her children, Jehane would reply with -parallel details concerning her family. Just as in conversation she -spoke of her husband as Mr. Waffles, as though the very name were a -title inspiring awe, so in correspondence she quoted his opinions, as a -loving wife would the sayings of a man she worshiped. Jehane wrote -less and less in the mood of spontaneous friendship; if she had nothing -better to say, one wondered that she took the trouble to write at all. -Probably she did it out of habit and, perhaps, in order to hoodwink -herself. - -And she was evasive. Questions as to how Ocky's enterprise was -progressing were left unanswered--in place of answers were loose -optimistic statements. A letter from Sandport usually brought with it an -atmosphere of annoyance. Nan exercised her tact in selecting portions to -be read aloud. It was in keeping with Ocky's character that, even when -Barrington had written himself, Jehane did the replying, saying that her -husband was very busy at present with new developments. - -One morning Nan passed a letter down the table without comment. -Barrington's brows drew together in a frown; halfway through reading it -he flung it from him. - -"Another! Well, I must say they might have waited until they knew -whether they could afford----" - -Nan interrupted him quietly. "Billy, not before----" - -She glanced at the children. - -When they were supposed to have forgotten what their father had said, -Kay and Peter were informed--Aunt Je-hane had another little girl. - -That evening the king and queen of the castle talked together after the -knight and the princess had been put to bed. - -"They've no right to do a thing like that--bringing another child into -the world. Jehane doesn't love him. It's my belief she never has. The -thing's sordid. What chance will the little beggar have? It puts the -whole business of marriage on a level with the animals. Ugh!" - -They were sitting beneath the mulberry in the cool dusk. From far away, -like waves lapping against the walls of a precipice in a cranny of which -they had found shelter, the weary complaint of London reached them. -Within his own house, with his wife and children, Barrington felt lifted -high above all that. He hated this intrusion of strife and ugliness. - -Nan's arm stole round his neck; she had never lost the shyness with -which she had given him her first caress. "Billy, old boy, you mustn't -be angry with them--only sorry. Don't you know we're exceptional." - -"Not so exceptional as all----" - -"Yes--as all that. How many wives and husbands are lovers after they've -been married ten years?" - -"Never tried to count." - -"How many then would choose one another again if they could begin -afresh?" - -"Begin afresh, with full knowledge of everything that was to happen?" - -"Yes." - -"Not many." - -"Then, who are we to judge? We should just be thankful for ourselves and -sorry for----" - -"But it's the children I'm thinking of--children who aren't wanted, -begotten by parents who don't want one another." - -The silence was broken by Nan. "Perhaps, Jehane was a child like -that. I've often thought it. She's always been so hungry--hungry for -affection." - -"Hungry--but jealous. She doesn't go the right way to work to get it." - -"She hasn't learnt; no one ever taught her. She's married; yet she's -still on the raft.--Billy, I want you to do something for her." - -"Me--for her?" - -"I want you to ask her, as soon as she's well, to come here to Topbury -with the baby. She's tired. I can feel it in her letters. I'd like to -help her." - -"She'll only misconstrue your help--you know that. She'll bore us to -tears by boasting about Ocky." - -"And won't that be to her credit?" - -"To her credit, but beastly annoying. If she'd only believe in him to -his face and cease shamming that she's proud of him behind his back, -matters might mend. She won't let us make her affairs our business. Some -day, when it's too late, she may have to. That's what I'm afraid of." - -But, when Jehane came, she set that fear at rest. It was impossible not -to believe that Ocky's feet were on the upward ladder: she was better -dressed, happier and had money to spend. She wore presents of jewelry -which her husband had given her--so she said. The money, she told them, -was the result of speculations which Ocky had made for her with the -little capital left by Captain Spashett. She spoke with enthusiasm -of his cleverness. And the happiness--that was because Barrington had -invited her personally. Naturally she kept this knowledge to herself. - -Nan had planned to encompass her with the atmosphere of affection. -Little gifts from Jehane, received in her girlhood, were set about the -bedroom to awaken memories--to let her know how well she was remembered. -Jehane noticed the carefully thought out campaign--the efforts that were -made to win her. She wondered what it all meant; then she realized and -was touched. - -Nan sat wistfully beside her friend, watching the baby being put to -bed. She kissed its little limbs with a kind of reverence and ministered -humbly to its helplessness. When Jehane pressed its eager lips -against her breast, Nan's eyes filled with tears. Jehane looked up -questioningly. - -"I shall never have another," Nan said. - -Jehane stretched out her hand and drew Nan to her. She could be -magnanimous when for once she found her lot coveted. When the baby had -been fed and was being laid in its cot, Nan slipped to the window and -leant out, gazing across the roofs of Holloway to Hampstead where the -sun hung red. - -There was no warning. She felt lips on her cheeks, lips violently -kissing her ears and neck. She turned with a throaty laugh. "You haven't -done that for ages." - -"Not kissed you? Of course I have." - -Nan shook her head. "Not like that, as though you wanted to. You haven't -done it since we were girls." - -Jehane, half-ashamed of her impulsiveness, looked away. "We've been too -busy to make a fuss. But the feeling's been there." - -"I don't call that making a fuss--and it isn't because we've been busy. -We've been drifting apart--playing a game of hide and seek with one -another." Then, before Jehane could become casual, "I do so want to be -friends." - -"And aren't we friends?" - -"Not in the old sense. We're hard and suspicious, and doubt one -another." - -"Then let's be friends in the old sense, you dear little Nan." - -Like Peter, when Nan had made up her mind to be tender, no one could -resist her. She treated Jehane with sweet envy, because of the baby on -her breast. She made believe that Jehane was fragile, and kept her in -bed for breakfast. After Barrington had been seen off to business, she -went up to help her dress. It was in this hour that Jehane was most -confessional. She recalled the dreamy Oxford days, with their desperate -dreams of love, when life was unexperienced. She even spoke of the great -disillusion that had followed; she spoke in general terms to include all -wives and husbands. She spoke of Waffles as he had been, only that she -might praise him as he had become. Her fierce loyalty to him, her -wilful consistency in shutting her eyes to his faults, was a form of -self-respect which never faltered. Nan found a difficulty in pretending -that he was all that was claimed for him; they both knew that he was -not. Still, she was convinced that he was mending. - -Barrington, noticing the change in Jehane, said, "There are only two -things that could do it: money or love. It isn't love, so we have to -believe that it's----" - -But it was love--love for Barrington and the effect of being near him. -Even she herself wondered at how the old infatuation had lasted. Her -very bitterness had been a form of love. Now that he went out of his -way to be kind to her all the passion in her responded--but she had to -disguise its response. - -At night, with another man's child in her arms, she lay awake. In -the darkness and silence she told herself stories, juggling with -circumstances. - -Once she heard a tapping on her door. She crouched against the wall, -shuddering. - -The handle turned. Nan stood on the threshold. "I thought I heard you -moving." - -Guilty and angry, Jehane said nothing. Nan groped her way toward the bed -and found it empty. - -"Jehane, Janey," she called. - -Then she saw her, stooped to her and caught her in her arms, begging for -an explanation. Just as once, when she had asserted, "Jehane I _did_, -I _did_ play fair," so now she got no answer--only, "I'm stupid, dear; -I'll be better in the morning." - -Cold with alarm, Nan crept downstairs and hid herself in Billy's -arms. He was too sleepy to give the matter much attention. "She's odd, -darling. Never understood her. Poor old Ocky!" - -The intoxication and the madness were gone. Fear had come. Any moment -they might guess. With fear came contrition: she would idolize her -husband more, till he became for her the man he was not. Next morning -she surprised Nan by announcing that she was homesick for Ocky, that her -things were packed and she would return to Sand-port at once. There -was no dissuading her. In her heart she had determined to wipe out her -faithlessness by educating her husband into largeness by love. - -When the train had moved out of the station Billy stared at Nan puzzled. -"Really does look as if she'd grown fond of him! Eh what?" - -Nan squeezed his arm. "Perhaps she always was fond of him and we were -sceptics." - -"She may be now. She wasn't." - -"Is it because he's got money?" - -"Does make a difference, doesn't it?" - -Nan pressed against him and looked up laughing. "Between you and me it -wouldn't." - -"Think not?" - -"Never." - -Hidden in a cab, he caught her to him. "You darling!" She held him from -her, blushing. "But why now? What's this for?" - -"Jehane makes me thankful for what I've got." - -That evening a man moved along the Terrace, halted as though he were -minded to turn back, moved on and at last knocked at Barrington's door. -While he waited he mopped his forehead; his manner was furtive. - -Once inside the hall he became important, handing his card with a -flourish. Left alone while the maid announced his presence, he fiddled -with his necktie and twisted his soaped mustaches. - -Barrington burst in on him. "Anything the matter, old man?" - -"Matter? 'Course not." - -"Didn't you know that Jehane went home this morning?" - -"Got your telegram just as I was leaving. Had business in London. -Couldn't put it off." - -"Must have been important. She'll be disappointed." - -"It was." - -"Suppose it's too late for you to start to-night?" Barrington pulled -out his watch. "Humph! Stop with us, won't you?--Had dinner?--All right. -Let's go out. Nan's in the garden." - -What was it that had brought him? Barrington kept asking himself that -question. As usual, Ocky was voluble and plausible, but---- His high -spirits were forced; he avoided the eye when watched. He rattled on -about the possibilities of Sandport. He talked of the friends he had -made--men whom Barrington guessed to be of no importance. He repeated -his friends' hilarious stories, "Here's a good one John told me----" It -was Ocky who discovered the humor in the story and laughed. - -Trees grew more dense against the dark. Lights in houses were -extinguished. The roar of London, like a voice wearied of quarreling, -which mumbled vexatiously in a last retort, sank away into silence. But -this tireless voice at his side went on, babbling of nothing, talking -and talking. - -Nan rose. "I'm sleepy. You'll excuse me, won't you? Billy, darling, -don't be long." - -Ocky refilled his foul pipe--with a pipe between his teeth he felt -fortified. - -Barrington waited for him to reach his point--there _was_ a point he -felt sure. Ocky's visits always had an ulterior motive. - -"Everything all right at Madeira Lodge?" - -"Topping." - -"And the land investment?" - -"Fine." - -"Then what brought you?" - -Ocky was as shocked as if a gun had been fired in his face. The -question was unkind. He'd tried to be sociable and to stave off -unpleasantness--and this was the thanks he got. He squirmed uneasily; -the wicker-chair creaked, betraying his agitation. - -"That's a rotten thing to say to a fellow, Billy. What brought me, -indeed!" - -It was Barrington's turn to shift in his chair. He hated to be called -Billy by Waffles. The offence was repeated. - -"You're confoundedly direct, Billy. Whenever I visit you, you always -think I've come to get something." - -"And haven't you?" Barrington's voice was hard. "Well, I have, now you -mention it." - -A pause. - -Barrington lost patience. "Why can't you get it out like a man? You've -done something while Jehane's been away--something that made you afraid -to meet her. Haven't you?" - -"Jehane!---- In a sense it's her doing. Don't see why she should make me -afraid." - -"Her doing! In what way?" - -Ocky struck a match; finding his pipe empty, he held the match till it -burnt his fingers. "I'm not blaming Jehane, but it _is_ her doing up to -a point. She wants money to dress her girls up to the nines. She wants -money to make the house look stylish. If it hadn't been for Jehane, I -should never have left old Wagstaff's office. Mind, I'm not blaming her. -But where was the money to come from?" - -"You let her believe you were making it." - -"Eh? So I was. So I shall if I can only get time." - -"Where'd you get the money she's already had?" - -"It's her money that I invested for her." - -"You've been living on the principal--is that it? On the money that -should have gone to Glory." - -The tension proved too great for Ocky. A joke might relieve the -situation. "Seems to me that's where it's gone." When no laugh followed -he hastened to add, "Financial pressure. Of course I'm sorry." Then, "I -want you to lend me enough to tide me over." - -"I've been tiding you over all your life. You'll have to tell her. When -you've told her, I'll see what I can do once more." - -For the first time that evening the foolish tone of banter went out of -the weak man's voice. - -"For God's sake! Don't make me do that. You don't know what a punishment -you're inventing. D'you know what that'd do to her?--kill what little -love she has for me. She'd hate me. She'd despise me even more than she -does already. I've got to live with her. Oh, my God!" - -Barrington drew back into the shadow. He was deeply moved, and ashamed -of it. - -The other man, goaded deeper into sincerity by his silence, continued, -pleading brokenly. - -"You can't understand. Between you and Nan it's always been different. -You're strong and she's so tender. But I--I'm weak. I try to do right, -but I'm everlastingly in the wrong. I've had to crawl for every scrap of -love my wife ever gave me. She's thrown it at me like a bone to a -dog. I'm a poor flimsy devil. I know it. We never ought to have -married--she's too splendid. But she's all I've got. I thought--I -thought if I could take her money and double it, she'd respect me at -last--believe me clever. I did make money for her at first. I saw what a -difference it made. Then I lost. I was afraid to tell her, so went on. -I thought I'd win if I tried again. And she--after the first time, she -expected the extra money from me. Little by little it all went. But -don't make me tell her." - -"Then it wasn't lost in land speculation?" - -"Part, but most in stocks bought on margins. My life's been hell for the -past six months. Don't make me tell her." - -Barrington rose. "It's late. I'll let you know to-morrow. You must give -me a complete list of your indebtedness. Whatever I decide, I think you -ought not to deceive Je---- And, by the way, say the thing you mean when -we talk of this to-morrow. Say _give_, instead of _lend_. I prefer -frankness." - -That "whatever I decide" told Ocky his battle was won. One night's sleep -placed all his dread behind him. His lack of self-respect permitted him -to recuperate rapidly. Early in the morning he was up and in the garden, -whistling cheerfully as though he had suffered no humiliation. Peter -heard him and ran to greet him. For an hour before breakfast they -exchanged secrets and Peter, in a burst of confidence, initiated his -uncle into the mystery of the loft. - -"A fine place to hide, Peter?" - -"Rather." - -"And you never told anyone before?" - -"No one." - -"And you told me! Well, what d'you know about that? You must be somehow -fond of this poor old uncle." - -Peter's father heard them laughing and was annoyed. His night had been -restless. He was still more irritated when, on entering the stable, he -found Ocky with his arm round Peter's shoulder. In the sunlight he saw -at a glance how his cousin had deteriorated. His gait was more slouchy, -his expression more furtive, his teeth more broken with constant biting -on the pipe. His attempts at smartness--the soaped mustaches and the -dusty spats--were wretchedly offensive; they were so ineffectually -pretentious. - -The weak man's hand commenced to fumble in his pocket as Barrington's -eyes searched him. - -"Where's my baccy? Must have dropped it. Seen my pouch anywhere, Peter?" - -"It's in your hand, uncle." Peter went off into a peal of laughter. - -"Surely you can do without smoking till after breakfast." - -Peter's laugh stopped, cut short by the sternness in his father's voice. - -In his study, an hour later, Barrington asked, "You're sure there's -nothing else? There's no good in my giving you anything unless you make -a clean breast to me. And mind, this is absolutely the last time I save -you. From this moment you've got to go on your own." - -"On my honor, Billy, there's nothing." - -Ocky had a constitutional weakness for lies; so he told one now when it -hindered his purpose. - -Barrington eyed him doubtfully. "If you've not told me the truth, Jehane -shall know all." - -"Can't pledge you more than my honor, Billy." - -The check was signed. He had gained a new lease on life. His contrition -left him, expelled by his fatal optimism. He was again a facetious dog, -whose paltry mistakes lay in the distant past. At parting he tipped -Peter a pound, with characteristic careless generosity. As he walked -down the Terrace, he tilted his hat to a more jaunty angle. On his -way to the station he bought some flashy jewelry for Jehane and the -children. Long before he reached Sand-port, he had so far risen in his -own estimation that he thought of himself as a bold financier, who had -done a most excellent stroke of business in an incredibly short space -of time. As for Barrington--oh, he'd always been narrowminded. The money -was a loan that he'd soon pay back. - -As he approached Madeira Lodge, Jehane was watering flowers in the -garden. He hailed her from a distance, "Hulloa, Duchess!" - -She, being penitent for a treachery of which he had no knowledge, -restrained her disgust at the detested nickname. She was going to be a -good and faithful wife--she had quite made up her mind. The street-door -had scarcely shut behind them, when she flung her arms about him. He was -taken by surprise. - -"I was lonely without you, Ocky--that's why I came back." - -"Lonely! Lonely for me?" - -"Yes. Why--why not?" - -"Dun' know. Sounds odd from you, old lady." - -"From me? From your wife? Didn't you feel the house--feel it empty with -me away?" - -His hands clutched at her shoulders. "And when you were not away -sometimes. Old gel, I've always been lonely for you." - -She brought her face down to his. "Hold me close, Ocky--close, as you're -doing now--always." - - - - -CHAPTER XVI--THE ANGELS AND OCKY WAFFLES - -Ocky was like the jerry-built houses in which most of his life was -spent: the angels who made him had had good intentions, but they had -scamped their work. Consequently he was in continual need of repair. - -[Illustration: 0149] - -If someone had had time to spend a lot of love about him his defects -could have been patched up so as to be scarcely noticeable. As it was -people only came to his help when he was on the point of tumbling down. -They shored him up hurriedly and left him; but no one cared enough to -give him new foundations. The right kind of woman could have rebuilt him -throughout--the kind of woman who knows how to love a man for his faults -as well as for his virtues. But few women are architects where their -husbands are concerned--only those who marry to give more than they get. -Nan could have done it; but she was married to Barrington. Glory could -have done it; but she was only a little girl.--So the angels had to -watch their good intentions crumble. - -Ocky knew quite well what was the matter with him--heart-hunger: he -required a wife who would sit on his knee and ruffle his hair, and call -him the funniest old dear in the world. Such a wife he would have had to -carry through life; her dependence would have educated his strength. A -wife who was censorious made him weakly obstinate and foolishly daring. -If he had been patted and hugged, he would have been a good man. His -mother had done that; but Jehane--ah, well, she did her best. - -Barrington, when he signed the check, had made Ocky promise to return to -Jehane the thousand pounds she had lent. It wasn't her thousand pounds, -but Glory's, held in trust for her till she married. Ocky had pledged -his word to give it back on one condition--that Jehane was to be kept in -ignorance of the transaction. At the time he had quite intended to carry -out the agreement; but so much can be done with a thousand pounds and an -ingenious mind can invent so many excuses for dishonesty. - -The morning after his home-coming he hung about the house instead of -going to his office. Already his methods of holding her closely were -getting on Jehane's nerves. His shiftless easy affection tried her -patience beyond endurance. - -"Aren't you going yet?" - -"Presently, old gel. I want to have a good look at you first." - -"I think you ought to go. You'll have all your life to look at me--and -I've got my work, if you haven't." - -"All right, old gel." - -"I wish you wouldn't 'old gel' me so much. It's vulgar and silly." - -Lighting his pipe, he strolled into the hall and picked up his hat. He -stood there fumbling with it. Only when she followed him did he set it -on his head, retreating toward the door. With the street at his back, he -turned. - -"I say, about your money." - -"For goodness sake, go. We can talk about that at lunch." - -He glanced across his shoulder at the sunlit street; his flight would be -unimpeded. - -"Don't lose your wool, old---- I mean, Jehane. I've something to tell -you. Had a nice little stroke o' luck. Made thirty pounds for you." - -The flame of hostility sank at the mention of money. They stood gazing -at one another. Each was aware that, within twelve hours of peace being -declared, the old feud had all but broken out. Jehane was frightened -by the knowledge and self-scornful at her lapse into temper. Ocky was -congratulating himself on the dexterous lie with which the crash had -been averted. - -"Thirty pounds! And you kept it so quiet!" - -He twirled his mustaches fiercely, straddling the doormat, all boldness -and bullying self-righteousness now. "This little boy may be vulgar -sometimes, but he isn't silly--far from it." - -"But how did you do it?" She leant against him with both her hands on -his arm, trying to make his eyes meet hers. - -"You wouldn't understand. Watched the market, yer know. Sold out just in -time--last moment in fact." - -"You _are_ clever--that's what I kept telling Billy and Nan." - -"Think so? I've sometimes thought so myself." He held his face away from -hers as she pushed to the door and put her arms about his neck. "And yet -you were treating me like a fool just now. You're too ready at calling -me silly and vulgar. I get tired of it." As he spoke he had in mind the -firm way in which a masterful person like Barrington would act. "You've -got to stop it, Jehane. It's the last time I mention it." - -"I know I'm unfair--unfair to you, to myself, to all of us. Oh, Ocky, be -patient with me; I do so want to be better." - -She hid her face against his shoulder in contrition and unhappiness. -Ocky was a generous enemy. He found it easy to forgive, being a sinner -himself. - -"There, there! That's awright, Duchess. Don't cry about it---- But -I brought this matter up 'cause I think you ought to have your money -back." - -She stared at him in surprise. "Ought to! Why, what d'you mean? Is it -a punishment? I don't understand." He set his hat far back on his -forehead. - -"I'm not trying to hurt your feelin's; but you don't trust me. Never -have. It's anxious work handling the money of a woman who don't trust -you. If I were to make a mistake, you'd give me hell--I mean, the -warmest time I've ever had. I'd rather--much rather--you took your money -back." - -He was drifting away from her--already she had pushed him from her. -Something must be done. - -"It's you who don't trust me, if you think that." Her tones quivered -with reproach as she said it. - -"Then you want me to go on investing for you?" - -"Of course." - -"You're sure of it?" - -"Quite, _quite_ sure of it." - -"Then always remember, I tried to make you take it back and you -wouldn't. Isn't that so?" - -"Yes, I wouldn't." - -"Awright, I'll do my best; but I do it under protest, don't forget." - -"Oh, Ocky, everything that we have we share." - -He kissed her and passed out into the street with alacrity; she might -get to considering his motives. But at the garden gate he hesitated, -dawdled, and came back. - -"Look here, I don't want Barrington nosing into my affairs. If I do this -for you it's between ourselves." - -"I shouldn't think of telling Barrington." - -"Well, if you breathe a word to Nan I'll stop dead, and you can manage -your investments yourself." - -So he kept to the letter of his agreement with Barrington--and he kept -to Jehane's capital. And he accomplished this by that small lie about -the thirty pounds. - -When Mr. Playfair had chosen Ocky Waffles to be office-manager of the -Sandport Real Estate Concern, he had shown remarkable cunning. He was -tricky himself and he required a subordinate who was no more scrupulous, -yet a subordinate who could give to smart transactions an appearance -of honesty. Mr. Playfair's finances were scanty; in order to extend -his credit it was necessary to pose in the eyes of Sandport as a civic -benefactor. Outside investors were attracted by a not too truthful, -but undoubtedly clever, series of advertisements for which Ocky was -responsible, such as:-- - -"_Houses Built on Sand!_ We all remember the Bible parable of the foolish -man who built his house upon sand: when the winds blew and the floods -came, it fell. Houses built at Sandport are the exception. We have a -lower death rate here, etc., etc. OUR HOUSES STAND." - -This was all very well, but several important facts were omitted from -the advertisements: that a number of the land lots offered for sale -were too inaccessible to be of practical value and that those marked as -_sold_, which connected them up with the town, were actually still -on the market; and, again, that many of the immediate and promised -developments, which would increase the value of the property, would be -indefinitely postponed by lack of capital; and, again, that, in certain -cases, building would be impossible by reason of fresh-water springs -which undermined the sand. - -In the promotion of a shaky enterprise Ocky was in his element. He could -not have brought the same cleverness to bear on an honest transaction. -The school of life from which he had graduated was one of shifts, -evasions and shams. Even his experiences with Jehane kept his hand -expert. He was so plausible in his gilding of falsity that he made it -appear like the truth itself. - -But if Playfair in selecting Ocky had shown his cunning, he had also -shown his lack of business shrewdness, for Ocky was not the person to -trust with money. And he had to trust him, so that he might make him the -scape-goat if any infringment of the law should be found out. Some -of the money which Barrington had given Ocky had gone toward the -straightening of the Sandport Real Estate Concern's accounts, before -Playfair should discover that they had been juggled. Ocky had not meant -to steal; he never meant to do anything improper. He borrowed the firm's -money to support his private speculations. While Jehane's affection -could only be purchased, he was continually tempted to borrow. He fully -intended to pay back. He always fully intended. - -The angels made three desperate efforts to prevent Ocky from crumbling. -They gave him Glory. A curious sympathy had grown up between him and the -child of Jehane's first marriage. Perhaps it was that they both suffered -from the unevenness of Jehane's temper. At any rate, he much preferred -her to his own long-lashed, slant-eyed little daughter. Riska, though -she was only seven, had learnt to be both vain and selfish; at the same -time, when there was anything she wanted, she knew how to be attractive. -She was her mother's favorite and belonged to her mother's camp. And -Madeira Lodge tended to become more and more divided into two silently -hostile parties. Ocky had the unpleasant feeling that Riska was amused -by the outbreaks which occurred, and turned them to her own profit. -Whereas Glory---- - -Already at ten, Glory was a woman in her forethought for him. She would -follow after him, hanging up his coat and hat, rectifying his habitual -untidiness, and stamping out the sparks which were so often the -beginnings of domestic conflagrations. Her gray eyes were always kind -when they looked at him and she was never impatient under his caresses. -"Poor little father," she would whisper, putting her soft arms about -him, "I'm sure mother didn't mean to say that." - -And the angels gave him his baby-girl. Mary they called her, which was -contracted to Moggs as she grew older. But Riska called her the M. L. -O., which stood for Ma's Left Over, because she was so small that it -seemed as though Jehane had run short of material when she made her. -Ocky was very glad of Moggs; Moggs was too young to judge him. Even -Eustace judged him, saying, "You's been naughty, Daddy; Mumma's vewy -angwy." There was no pity in the little boy's tone when he said it--only -sorrowful accusation. - -Sitting by Moggs's cradle, Ocky would wonder whether the day would come -when she, learning what a fool she had for a father, would turn against -him. In the midst of his wondering, she would wake and he would see two -blue glimpses of heaven laughing up at him. He would take her in his -arms, promising her, because she could not understand a word he said, -that for her sake he would try not to take so much "medicine." - -"Medicine," as a means to bolstering up his courage, was a habit which -grew upon him. - -Peter, who was the third effort of the angels, noticed a change -every time he visited Uncle Waffles. On those walks across the lonely -sand-hills, Uncle Waffles no longer pretended that he drank the -"medicine" for his health. - -"You're a ha'penny marvel, Peter--that's what you are. You get me to -tell you everything. It's 'cause I have to tell somebody, and I know you -won't split on me. Now about this 'medicine'; I'm taking more and -more of it. And why? Because it's my only way of being happy. Before I -married the Duchess I hardly ever touched it. I had my mother then. I -wish you'd known her, Peter; she was a rare one for laughing. I only -feel like laughing now when I've taken more 'medicine' than's good for -me. Not that I was ever drunk in my life. It never goes to my head--only -legs." - -He had usually had too much when he made these confessions. Peter knew -he had by the way in which he said, "I got a nacherly strong stomick. -It's a gif from God, I reckon." - -Peter kept these disclosures to himself and walked his uncle about till -it was safe to return to Madeira Lodge. Ocky would retire as soon as -they entered, saying that he had a bad headache. They became of such -frequent occurrence that Jehane began to be suspicious. - -During the next three years Ocky's visits to Topbury were periodic. -Barrington could usually calculate his advent to a nicety. One -night there would be a ring at the bell and Mr. Waffles would enter -unheralded. While others were present he would joke with his old -abandon, as though he hadn't a care in the world. Then Barrington would -turn to him, "Shall we go upstairs to my study for a chat?" - -The fiction was kept up that Ocky's visits were of a friendly and family -nature. The constant fear at Topbury was that the servants might guess -and the scandal would leak out. - -When the study door had shut behind them, Barrington would give vent to -his indignation. - -"How much this time?" - -"I've had hard luck." - -"You mean you want me to clear off your debts and pay back the money -you've taken?" - -"It won't happen again, Billy. Just this once." - -"You said that last time and the time before that, and every time as far -back as I can remember. D'you remember what I said?" - -Before the anger in Barrington's eyes Ocky began to crouch. "It won't -happen again. I swear it. I've learnt my lesson." - -Barrington knew his answers before they were uttered. "I've told you -each time," he said, "that, if you repeated your thefts, you'd have to -take the consequences. Last time I meant it." - -Then would follow from Ocky a series of pleadings and arguments. That -exposure would entail disgrace all round. That he would be arrested. -That his family would be ruined. That the story would get into the -papers and would reflect discreditably on Barrington. When these failed, -Ocky would appeal to their friendship and the common memories they -shared. The scene would usually close with a warning from Barrington -that this was really the last time he would come to his rescue; then the -debts would be added up and the check book would be brought out. - -The threat of Ocky became a nightmare to Barrington and Nan--the -children were not supposed to know about it. The finding of so much -money was an intolerable burden, and they were never safe from its -recurrence. On several occasions Barrington had to sell some of his -pictures to meet these sudden demands for ready cash. To add to their -anxiety was the fact that they had so far refrained from telling Jehane, -out of fear that her resentment against her husband would make matters -worse. So her letters still arrived punctually, singing his praises and -saying how splendidly he was making progress. - -But the day was fast approaching when the shoring up of Ocky Waffles had -to end. It ended when Barrington discovered that his cousin was tapping -other sources for his borrowing. - -On a trip to Oxford with reference to a manuscript, he surprised Ocky -leaving the Professor's house. Nan, when calling on the Misses Jacobite, -recognized an envelope addressed in Ocky's hand. - -The next time he made his visit to Topbury, Barrington kept his promise. -Ocky was shown directly into the study without any preliminaries of -family enquiries. He was not asked to sit down. Barrington faced him, -standing with his back to the fire. - -"I've been expecting you. My mind's made up. I don't want to hear what -you've come for or any of your excuses. You've lied to me. I know all -about the Professor and the Misses Jacobite. Doubtless there are others. -You can go to jail this time, and I hope it'll cure you. I've been a -fool to try and save you. You're rotten throughout." - -Since the accidental meeting at Oxford, Ocky had been prepared for some -such explosion. He had fortified himself with drink for the encounter. -But he was stunned by this unexpected air of judicial finality. He began -to pour out feverish words. Barrington cut him short. - -"For three years you've poisoned my life. You've blackmailed me with the -fear that your disgrace would be made known. You yourself have made that -fear certain by applying to my friends. The scandal can become public as -soon as it likes. That's all I have to say. Good-night." - -The game was up. Ocky straightened himself to meet the blow. He ceased -to be cringing and humble. The drink helped him to be bold; so did his -desperate sense of the world's injustice. - -"You say I'm rotten throughout. Perhaps I am. But who made me like that? -I wasn't rotten when we were boys together, and I wasn't rotten when my -mother was with me. Who made me rotten? You and clever people like you. -You never let me forget that I wasn't clever. - -"You never did anything but humiliate me by reminding me that I was on -a lower level. Your gifts were always bitter because they were given -without kindness, to get rid of me or in self-defence; and, in return, I -was expected to admire you. Oh, you hard good man! You couldn't make me -clever just by saying to me, 'Be clever,' or good just by saying, 'Be -good'------ You say I lied to you. Of course I lied--lied as a child -will to escape punishment. You never understood me. Even before I went -crooked you were ashamed of me because I hadn't the brains to think your -thoughts and to speak your language. Your intellect despised me. Yes, -and you taught my wife to despise me. Didn't you call me an 'ass' before -company on the very night I became engaged to her. She remembered that -and took her tone from you. You were her standard. From the first she -was discontented with me because I wasn't you and couldn't give her the -home you'd given Nan---- So I tried to be rich, because to be rich is to -be clever. I gambled with what didn't belong to me to get money to buy -my wife's respect. And now, because _you, you, you_ were always there -setting the pace for me with your success, I've lost everything. But if -I'd won by my sharp-practise, you and Jehane would have been the first -to say that I was a clever chap--I wasn't born bad. What you and my -wife have thought about me has made me what I am. Damn you. I wouldn't -touch a farthing of your charity now. I want to go to the dogs where -both of you've sent me and to make as big a scandal as I can." - -He was trembling with hysteric anger; his voice was thick and hoarse -with passion. His weak and genial features were absurdly in contrast -with the violence of what he said. His soaped mustaches and white spats -made him a comic figure at any time, but doubly comic in the rle of an -accusing prophet. - -Barrington eyed him quietly without the quiver of a muscle or the -flicker of a lash. He had hardened his heart beforehand against the -appeal of such a theatric outburst. "Is that all?" - -Ocky hung his head; the fire of his self-pity was quenched by the -restrained ridicule of the man who addressed him. He wiped the -perspiration from his eyes with his tired hands. "That's all." - -As he was passing into the hall, Peter looked over the banisters and saw -him. - -"Kay. Kay. Here's dear old uncle," he called and commenced running down -the stairs. - -At the landing his father stopped him. "Not to-night, my boy." - -Peter laughed and tried to wriggle past him; but his father held him -firmly, saying, "I meant what I said." - -Looking down, Peter saw the face of his friend glance back at him; it -was lined and tortured. Then the front door closed with a bang. - -Barrington re-entered his study. Now that he had accomplished the -difficult cruelty his mind was in doubt. If Peter loved Ocky, there must -be some good left in him---- - -But he had used that argument with himself before. As he sat, pictures -began to form of Ocky as he had been. He saw him about Peter's age, -the weakly schoolboy whose battles he had had to fight because he was -strong. He recalled that term when he had had to take him to the doctor -with his poisoned hand. He remembered how Ocky's mother had always said -of him that he was the most careful and dearest son in the world---- No, -he hadn't been always bad. - -His thoughts became unbearable; he needed approval for his act. Stepping -out on to the landing he called, "Nan, Nan." - -When she came he was again seated in his chair. The lights were out and -a log of ship's wood, spluttering on the coals, burnt violet and yellow, -making the shadows wag accusing fingers. She curled herself up on the -floor, leaning her head against his knees, like a small child at the -story hour, before it goes to bed. - -Nan always brought an atmosphere of kindness with her--of innocence and -goodness. Her ways were those of a young girl, who walks on tiptoe -with hands upon her breast, listening for life to call her. Barrington -watched her shining head and how the fire glinted against the column of -her throat. If Ocky had had a wife like Nan------- - -It was some time before she spoke. Then, "Dearest?" - -"I had to be a brute and I hate myself. I kicked him out." - -"Do you think you did right?" - -"If I didn't, I shouldn't have done it. The thing had to end." - -"And what next?" - -"We've got to think of Jehane and her children. I'm wondering how much -she knows or suspects." - -"She'll never tell---- I wonder will she stand by him?" - -There was silence. - -Barrington spoke. "Ocky hinted at something to-night. It might be -true--something that I never thought about. It explains those letters -of Jehane's. It explains why they've never got on together. I've always -said that a little love would have made Ocky a better man." - -"Dear, what was it?" - -"It dates a long way back. He said that Jehane had made our home and my -love for you the standard of what she expected from----" - -"I understand. And it _is_ true, Billy. She wanted a man like you from -the first." - -Silence. - -Nan said, "Once she used to talk about the penal servitude of -spinsterhood." - -"And now," said Barrington, "she'll have to learn about the penal -servitude of marriage. Whatever happens, unless he ill-treats her, he'll -be her husband to the end." - -"But---- But can't we stop this dreadful something?" - -Barrington stooped and took her hand. - -"Little woman, we've been trying to stop it all these years. We can't -stop it; we can only postpone it and give him more time to drag Jehane -and the children lower down. We've reached the point where things have -got to be at their worst before they can grow better. It's a question -now of how many of them we can rescue. Ocky has to be allowed to sink -for the sake of the rest." - -Nan's forehead puckered at the cruelty of such logic. "But I don't -understand. It seems so horrible that we should sit here, with a fire -burning and everything comfortable, saying things like that." - -"It is horrible. It's so horrible that, if I were to give him everything -I have, he'd still go to the devil. He's a drowning man and he'll drag -down everyone who tries to drag him out." - -She clung to her husband aghast at this painful glimpse of reality. "But -I still don't understand. Why---- Why should he be like that? He's kind, -and he's gentle, and he makes children love him." - -"You want to know? And you won't be hurt if I say something very -terrible?" - -"I don't mind being hurt--I'm that already." - -"I think it's because of Jehane--because of what she's left undone. She -never brought any song to her marriage--never made any joy for him or -happiness." - -"And because of that he's to----" - -"Yes. Because of that he's to be allowed to go under. It's chivalry, not -justice. At sea one saves the women and children first. He's a man." - -In quick revulsion from this ugliness of other people's sordidness, he -bent over her, brushing his lips against her cheek and hair. "Shall I -ever grow tired of kissing you, I wonder, my own little Nan?" - -And so, in one another's arms, for a moment they shut out the memory of -tragedy. - -But the angels had not done with Ocky Waffles yet. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII--A HOUSE BUILT ON SAND - -There was one more letter from Jehane. She wrote that Ocky had just -returned from London, where he had been on important business. She -understood that he had been too hurried to be able to visit Topbury. He -was working very hard--too hard for his health. He was overambitious. -While she was writing he had come in to tell her that he was off -again to London. Then followed domestic chatter: how Glory was taking -music-lessons so that she might play to her father when she grew older; -and how Eustace had a new tricycle; and how Riska already had an eye for -the boys. This was the last letter, very foolish and very brave--then -silence and suspense. - -The days dragged by. Nights stayed long and the sun rose late. In the -mornings the fields, which lay in front of the Terrace, were blanketed -in sulphurous mist through which bare trees loomed spectral. Railings -and walls and pavements were damp as though fear had caused them to -sweat. - -All night Nan and Barrington, lying side by side, feigned sleep or slept -restlessly. Both were afraid to voice their dread lest, when spoken, it -should seem more actual. Once, when a hansom jingled out of the distance -and halted outside their house, they started up together listening. The -fare alighted and walked a few doors down; again they drew breath. - -"Why, Nan, little lady, did I wake you?" - -"No, I was awake. I thought---- I thought it was I who had made you -rouse." - -"I've not slept a wink since I lay down." - -"Neither have I." - -As he clasped her in the dark, he could feel her trembling. He held her -tightly to him, laying his face against hers on the pillow. Again they -both were listening. - -"What makes you so frightened?" - -He whispered the question. - -"Always thinking, always thinking---- of the future and what may -happen." - -She commenced to sob, pressing her forehead against his breast. - -He tried to soothe her. "You mustn't, Pepperminta. You mustn't really; -it hurts. I'll think for you. I always have. Now close your eyes and get -some rest." - -And she closed her eyes and lay very tense. Hours and hours later London -began to growl. Presently the door of the servants' bedroom opened; the -stairs creaked; the house was filled with stealthy sounds. At last she -drowsed. - -When her husband had tiptoed out to his bath, she rose hastily and -commenced to dress. She must get down before him. He must be spared if -the message was there; she must read it first. - -The dining-room was in dusk these November mornings. At the end of the -room the fire burnt red and before it Kay and Peter warmed their hands. -Not until she had run through the letters did she greet them. Then, for -their sakes, she tried to appear cheerful. Barrington, on entering, cast -one swift look in her direction and realized that the end was not yet. -Absentmindedly they took their places at the table, scarcely thankful -for this respite from certainty. - -The children soon apprehended that all was not well; their high clear -voices were hushed--they spoke in whispers. Peter was fourteen; he had -guessed the meaning of blank spaces on the walls from which some of the -favorite pictures had vanished. The Dutch landscape by Cuyp was still -there above the blue couch, against the background of dark oak-paneling. -Across its glass the flickering reflection of the fire danced, lighting -up the placid burgher as he walked with his ladies on the bank of the -gray canal. Peter noticed how his father's eyes rested on it--a sure -sign that he was troubled. - -Almost by stealth Peter would push back his chair and nudge his sister. -Miss Effie Jacobite gave her lessons in the mornings; on his way to -school he had to leave Kay at her house. Shouldering his satchel, he -would lead her out into the misty streets; then at last he would dare to -raise his voice in laughter. - -At the departure of the children, Barrington would break off from the -train of thought he had been following, and was incessantly following: -_had he done right by Ocky?_ The door would bang; through the long dark -day Nan would sit alone, and speculate and wonder. - -What was happening? Had the smash been postponed? Had Ocky wriggled -round the corner by borrowing secretly from other people's friends? -Billy searched the faces of his business acquaintances and Nan the faces -of their Topbury circle in an effort to make them tell. - -Toward afternoon the fog would roll up from the city, dense and yellow. -Footsteps on the Terrace would come suddenly out of nowhere; their -makers were shadows. Nan, rising uneasily, would go to the window; -they might be footsteps of pursuers or of bringers of bad tidings. Even -Grace's policeman filled her with panic when he paused for an instant -outside the house. His tread was the tread of Justice, ponderous and -unescapable. - -With the return of the children her oppression lifted. Later Billy's key -would grate in the latch. She was in the hall to meet him before he had -crossed the threshold. "Any news?" The servants must not hear her; she -spoke beneath her breath. - -"Nothing. Nothing yet." - -The children no longer called to one another as they went about their -play. They tiptoed and looked up anxiously when addressed. No urging was -necessary to send them to bed--bed was escape to a less ominous world. - -Muffled, muffled! Everything was cloaked and muffled. - -As Peter put two and two together, pain grew into his eyes; even when -others seemed to have forgotten, the expression in his eyes was judging. - -Only Romance was unaffected by the sense of foreboding. The servants -felt it and discussed it in the kitchen, wondering whether the master -was losing money. But Romance, with cat-like self-satisfaction, went on -bearing kittens and so did her daughter, Sir Walter Scott, who came by -her name through an accident regarding her sex. - -A month had gone by. - -"Should I write to Jehane?" she asked her husband. - -"I wouldn't. If you do, we shall have Ocky back on our hands. Perhaps he -may pull things together now that he knows that he stands by himself. If -he does, it'll make a man of him. Anyhow, if she finds out and needs our -help, she'll send for us." - -But the silence proved too much for Nan. One morning, on the spur of the -impulse, she packed a bag, left a note for her husband and set off for -Sandport. On the journey through sodden country and mud-splashed towns, -she fought for courage, straining out into eternity to pluck the hem -of God's mantle which, when her faith had touched, was continually -withdrawn beyond reach of her hand. - -She had rung the bell and stood waiting on the steps of Madeira Lodge. -No one answered. She thought she heard the pit-a-pat of feet on the -other side of the door. She rang again and took a pace back to glance up -at the front of the house. As she did so, she saw a curtain move before -a window--move almost imperceptibly. A minute later the door was flung -open by Jehane; Nan saw the children grouped behind her in the passage. - -"Well?" - -The tone of her voice was flat and unfriendly. - -"I thought I'd come and see you, Janey. Only made up my mind this -morning." - -"Did you? What made you do that?" - -Nan flushed and her voice faltered. She had not expected this hardness -and defiance. She had come full of pity. "I came because I was nervous. -You hadn't written for more than a month. I hope---- I hope,----" - -"Come inside," said Jehane. "I can't talk to you out there. You can stop -your hoping." - -Once inside, the appearance of the house told its story. It looked -bare. From the sideboard the silver--mostly presents of Jehane's first -marriage--had vanished. The walls were stripped of all ornaments which -had a negotiable value. In the drawing-room there was an empty space -where there had once been a piano. Only the carefully curtained windows -kept up the pretence of trim prosperity. Jehane led Nan from room to -room without a word and the children, shuffling behind, followed. - -"Now you've seen for yourself," she said, "and a nice fool you must -think me after my letters. I've lied for him and sold my jewelry for -him. I've done without servants. I've crept out at night like a thief to -the pawnbrokers, when there wasn't any money and there were debts to be -settled. And the last thing I heard before he left was that he'd stolen -the thousand pounds I lent him. And this---- this is what I get." - -"Before he left?" - -"A month ago, after my last letter to you. You needn't pretend to be -surprised, because you're not. You suspected. That's what brought you." - -Nan felt faint with the shock of the realization. She tottered and -stretched out her hands to save herself. Glory ran forward and put -her arm round her. "Dear Auntie." Nan drew Glory's head against her -shoulder, sobbing. "Oh my dear, my poor little girl!" - -Jehane looked on unmoved, merely saying in her hard flat voice, "If -there's any crying or fainting to be done, seems to me I'm the person to -do it. But I'm past all that." - -Nan quieted herself. "It so shocked me. I--I didn't mean to make a fuss. -But won't you tell me how it all happened?" - -"Nothing to tell. It's just Ocky with his lies and promises." - -"Oh, don't say that before the children about their father." - -"I'll say what I like; they're my children. They've seen everything." - -Nan looked round and saw sympathy only in the eyes of Glory. Moggs, -balancing herself by her mother's skirts, piped up and spoke for the -rest, "Farver's a naughty man." Even her mother was startled by the -candor of this endorsement; turning sharply, she caused Moggs to tumble -on the floor with a bump. Moggs began to yell. - -Grateful for a diversion in any form, Nan knelt and comforted the little -girl. Jehane watched her indifferently, as though all capacity for -kindness had left her. - -When peace was restored, Nan said, "You're coming home with me, all of -you." - -"We're not." - -"Why not?" - -"My husband may return. If he doesn't, I must stay here and keep up -appearances till he gets safely out of the country. Heaven knows what -he's done!---- And it's likely that I'd come to Topbury to be laughed -at! _You_ may want me, but what about Billy? You've both known this -for a month, and you couldn't even send me a line. Come to Topbury! No, -thank you!" - -There was so much to be explained and explanations were so tangled. Nan -saw nothing for it but to make a clean breast. When she told Jehane of -the years of borrowing that had been going on behind her back, she was -justifiably angry. - -"So you knew all the time! And for three years it was practically you -and Billy who were running this house! And you kept me in ignorance! I -must say, you've a queer way of showing friendship!" - -"We did it because--because we were afraid, if you knew, you wouldn't -love him. And then matters would have been worse." - -"Love him! I've not loved him since we married. He started playing -the fool directly after the wedding before the train moved out of the -station. I knew then that I'd have to be ashamed of him always. I knew -what I'd done for myself. He killed my love within an hour of making me -his wife---- But how you must have amused yourselves, knowing what -you did, when you received my letters about his getting on in the -world--_his progress!_ My God! how you must have laughed, the two of -you! Every time he gave me a present it was your money." - -All this before the children! - -She threw herself down on a couch and gave way to hysterics, wrenched -with sobs, screaming with unhappy merriment, clutching at her breast and -throwing back her head. The children began to cry, hiding in corners -of the room, terrified. Only Glory kept her nerve and, following Nan's -directions, fetched water to bathe her mother's face and hands. - -When the insane laughter had spent itself, Jehane lay still with eyes -closed, panting. Shame took the place of harshness. Nan asked whether -there were any stimulants in the house; when a half-emptied bottle was -brought from the cupboard, Jehane gesticulated it away with disgust. -"I couldn't touch it. It's Ocky's." It was all that was left of his -"medicine." - -Nan persuaded Glory to take the children out of the room. She seated -herself by the couch in silence, stroking Jehane's forehead. - -Presently the bitter woman's eyes opened. They regarded her companion -steadily, with an expression of sad wonder. "You're still beautiful. I'm -old already." - -Nan began to protest in little birdlike whispers; she was so nervous -lest she should give offence. She was interrupted. "Even your voice is -young. People who don't want to love you have to---- And I always longed -to be loved." She raised herself on her elbow, brushing back the false -hair. "You've had the goodness of life; I've had the falseness. Things -aren't fair." - -151 - -"No, they're not fair," Nan assented. "God's been hard on you, poor old -girl." - -"God! Oh, yes!" Jehane spoke the words gropingly, as though -recollecting. "Ah, yes! God! He and I haven't been talking to one -another lately. The cares of this world---- the cares of this world---- -What is that passage I'm trying to remember?" - -"It's about the sower who sows the good seed, but the cares of this -world rise up and choke it unless it falls on fruitful land. It's -something like that." - -Jehane looked at Nan vaguely, only half-comprehending. "Fruitful land! -That's the difficulty. I was never fruitful land---- Tell me, why did -you marry Billy?" - -"Why? I never thought about it." - -"Think about it now. Why was it?" - -"I suppose because I loved him and wanted to help him." - -Jehane's elbow slipped from under her. She lay back, staring at the -ceiling, looking gaunt and faded, as though she had passed through a -long illness. "To help him! When I loved I wanted to be helped. God's -not been hard on me, little Nan; I've been hard on myself. I'm a hard -woman. I've got what I deserved. And Ocky---- He was a fool. He had no -mind--never read anything. He was clumsy and liked vulgar people best. -But, perhaps, he's my doing. Perhaps!" - -Seeing that she had grown passive, Nan stole out to give the children -their supper and to put them to bed. That night, the first time since -Cassingland, she and Jehane slept together. The light had been put out -for some time and Nan was growing drowsy, when Jehane spoke. - -"Madeira Lodge! It's funny. A house built on sand! A house built on---- -That's what we came here to do for other people; we've done it for -ourselves. O God, spare my little children, my----" - -Nan took her in her arms and soothed her. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII--PETER TO THE RESCUE - -It was all up. A warrant was out for the arrest of Ocky. Accusers came -forward from all directions--people whom glib promises had kept silent -and people who had kept themselves silent because they were friends of -Barrington. Now that silence had lost its virtue, they shouted. Their -numbers and the noise they made were a revelation and testimonial of a -sort to Ocky's enterprising character. He must have been skating -over thin ice for years. He had almost established a record. Such a -performance, so dexterous and long protracted, had required a kind of -gay courage that is rarely given to honest men. And Ocky was honest by -tradition, if not in practice. His nerve was admirable. No wonder he -drank. - -He was wanted on many charges. There were checks which he had cashed -through tradesmen, drawn on banks where he had no effects. With his -habitual folly, he had left tracks by negotiating some of these -in London since his flight, using letters of a family nature from -Barrington to inspire confidence. These began to be presented five weeks -after his departure from Sandport. It seemed as though he had been doing -himself well and his supplies were exhausted. His name found its -way into the papers, largely because he was Barrington's cousin. So -everything became public. - -The day before the reports occurred in the press, a man of his -appearance had enquired at Cook's in Ludgate Circus about the -exchange rates for French money. The Channel boats had been watched in -consequence; but he must have taken warning and altered his plans. - -"He's ineffectual even in his sinning," said Barrington. "Why couldn't -the fool have skipped the country earlier and saved us the humiliation -of a trial?" - -The Sandport Real Estate Concern had gone into bankruptcy. Its affairs -would not bear inspection. Mr. Playfair had vanished with all the -odds and ends that Ocky had spared. Both of them were badly wanted. -So Jehane's scornful loyalty in stopping on at Madeira Lodge, that her -husband's retreat might be covered, no longer served any good purpose. -Moreover, every thing in the house was seized by creditors--even her own -possessions were no longer hers because they had passed as Ocky's. She -and her children found themselves penniless. - -Her father, when applied to, presented her with a list of the sums he -had already advanced, unbeknown to her. He laid pedantic emphasis on -his early objections to the hurry of her second marriage. She had always -been wayward. He offered to take Glory and Riska to live with him for -a time, but couldn't put up with the younger children. Her independence -had been her undoing; it must be her making now. She must work. The -first Homeric scholar in Europe couldn't afford to have his peace of -mind disturbed. He was sorry. - -Against her will Jehane was forced to accept the charity of the man whom -she both loved and hated. She came to him a fortnight before Christmas -with her four children--it was the first Christmas she had spent at -Topbury since her engagement to the unfortunate Mr. Waffles. - -Barrington's relations with 'Jehane were painfully strained. He hated -the intrusion of her sordid problems on the sheltered quiet of his -family. He was aware that she had grown careless of refinement in -the vulgarity of her experience. She was no longer the Oxford don's -daughter, soft in speech and lively eyed, but a woman inclined to be -loud-voiced and nagging. He blamed her, was sorry for her and wanted -to be kind to her; but it was difficult to be kind to Jehane when her -feelings were raw and wounded. She refused pity and was as hurt by the -comfort which he permitted her to share as if it were something of -which he had robbed her. She spoke continually of "my poor children," -betraying jealousy for the lot of Kay and Peter. - -An additional cause of grievance was found in Eustace; he was an amiable -mild boy, dull and fond of being petted, the miniature of his father. -Barrington knew he was unjust, but his repulsion was physical: he could -not restrain his dislike of the child whose sole offence was his strong -resemblance to the man who had caused this misery. Jehane was cut to the -quick; being forced to be humble, she sulked. - -Nan tried to play the part of peacemaker. She was proud of the nobility -of her husband; she understood his occasional flashes of temper. He was -overburdened; he was doing far more for Jehane than she had any right -to expect. He had made himself responsible for all the swindles in which -his name had been employed as an inducement. To fulfil these obligations -he was sacrificing many of his art-treasures; even the landscape by Cuyp -was threatened. - -And she also understood Jehane's predicament. She was too gentle to -resent her seeming ingratitude. Looking back over the long road from -girlhood, she marveled at her friend's fortitude--that she could still -lift up her head proudly and, in spite of bludgeonings, plan for the -future. Jehane might scold and grumble to her when Barrington's back was -turned; it made no difference to her unvarying tenderness. - -And there were times when Jehane was ashamed of her ferocity and, laying -her head on Nan's shoulder, confessed her folly. - -"I'm cruel," she wept; "all the sweetness in me is turned to acid. I -shall grow worse and worse, till at last I shall be quite impenitent. I -can't help it. Life won't grow easier for me---- If you told the truth, -you'd write over me, 'Here lies a mother who loved too much and a wife -who loved too little.' I'm spoiling my children with my fondness and -filling their heads with vanity---- And I shall often hurt you, little -Nan. But you'll stick by me, won't you?" - -Barrington was suspicious that violent scenes took place in his absence; -manlike, he was irritated and could not comprehend their necessity. He -was furious that his wife should be upset and forbade the name of Ocky -to be mentioned in his presence. - -Peter overheard much of the abuse which was showered on his uncle by -both Jehane and her children. His eyes became flames when harsh things -were said; quarrels were the result. The quarrels were for the most part -with Riska. He could not believe that anyone he loved was really bad. -Glory shared his grieved anger; a defensive alliance in the interest of -Ocky was formed between her and himself. It was the first compact he -had ever made with Glory. But she was too mild for Peter--too much of a -Saint Teresa and not enough of a Joan of Arc. Glory knew that she could -not be valiant; in secret she cried her heart out because he despised -her cowardice. - -Barrington might forbid the mention of Ocky's name, but outside on the -Terrace there was a perpetual reminder. - -A tall man, with a straight back and wooden way of walking, watched the -house. He pretended not to be watching and, when anyone saw him from -the window, would stroll carelessly away as though he were just taking -a breath of air; but he always returned. He got so much on Barrington's -nerves that he finally made up his mind to accost him. - -"What are you doing here, always hanging round? I won't have it." - -The man, who had tried to avoid him, finding himself cornered, answered -respectfully "Sorry, sir. H'it's orders." - -"But what _are_ you? A plain-clothes man?" - -"That's not for me to say, sir." - -Barrington slipped him a sovereign, saying, "Come, speak out You're safe -with me. I won't tell. You know, it's a bit thick, having you out here. -The ladies are upset." The man scratched his head. "It ain't the ladies -I'm after. It's 'im. You've got 'is missis and kids in there. 'E was -allaws fond of 'is kids, so they tell us. We calkilate that since 'e -cawn't get out o' the country, 'e'll turn up 'ere sooner or later. These -things is allaws painful for the family. That chap was a mug; 'e should -'a planned things better." - -Barrington thought for a minute. Then he asked, "Are you a married man?" - -"Married, and five nippers, Gawd bless 'em." - -"Well, look here, put it to yourself: how'd you like to have your wife -made ill and your kiddies sent frightened to bed, because a stranger was -always staring in at their windows?" - -"Shouldn't like it. I'd get damned peevish, I can tell yer." - -"Good. Then you'll understand what I'm going to say. I'm a gentleman and -you can trust my word. If the man you're after comes here, I'll hold -him for you. In return I want you to be a little less obvious in your -detective work. I can't have my family scared. Go further away, and -watch from a distance. Is it a bargain?" - -Just then Barrington turned and saw Peter standing with his satchel -across his shoulder. How much had he heard? He was awkward under his -boy's eyes; he often wondered what thoughts went on behind them. - -"Run along, Peter. I'll be with you in a second." - -Then to the man, "Is it a bargain?" - -"It ain't reg'lar," said the man. - -"But under the circumstances, you'll do it. I'm not trying to interfere -with your duty." - -"My orders were----. Awright, sir, 'cause of the wife and kids I'll do -it." - -That night Peter thought matters out. It was he and his Uncle Waffles -against the world. He did not accuse anybody, neither his father, nor -Aunt Jehane; but there was a mistake somewhere. They did not understand. -Whatever Uncle Waffles had done, to Peter he was still a good man. - -Peter crept out of bed and across the landing to a window in the front -of the house. He peered into the blackness. By the railing of the -fields, at a point mid-way between two gas-lamps where shadows lay -deepest, he could see a figure watching. He must save Uncle Waffles from -that. - -School had broken up. It was the twenty-fourth of December. There was -still no news of Ocky. In their anxiety they had almost forgotten that -to-morrow would be Christmas. - -That morning Barrington dawdled over his breakfast, postponing his -departure for business. His wife glanced down the table at him, trying -to conjecture the motive of his dallying. Presently he signaled her with -his eyes, raising his brows at the children. When she had excused them, -he turned to her and Jehane. "Whatever's happened or is going to happen, -we don't want to rob the kiddies of their pleasure, do we? We've got to -pull ourselves together and pretend to forget and try to be cheerful. -What d'you say, Nan?" - -"I'd thought of that. But I didn't like to mention it. Janey and I, -working together, can get things ready." - -"All right, then. And I'll see to the presents." - -He rose and laid his hand on Jehane's shoulder. "Come, Jehane, -things are never so bad but what they may mend. I've not always been -considerate of you. Let's be friends." - -It was one of those patched-up truces which, like milestones, were to -dot the road of their latent enmity. - -Kay's and Peter's money-boxes were brought out; their savings for the -year were counted. Nan gave to Jehane's children an equal sum with -which to go out and buy presents. Peter was kept running all morning -on errands; in the afternoon he was busy decorating with mistletoe and -holly. The preparations were so belated that everyone was pressed into -service. Tea was over and the dark had fallen when he set out to do his -own shopping. - -"Be careful, Peter, and come back quickly," his mother called from the -doorway. And Kay, thrusting her vivid little face under her mother's -arm, piped up, "Don't be 'stravagant, Peter. Don't buy too much. 'Member -birfdays is coming." - -Peter felt happy. It was as though a long sickness had ended and a -life that had been despaired of had been restored to them. He knew that -nothing for the better had really happened; but, because people had -laughed, it seemed as if it had. Down in the Vale of Holloway the bells -of the Chapel of Ease were ringing. They seemed to be saying, over and -over, "Peace and good-will to men." - -Far away, at the bottom of the Crescent, he could see the spume of -gas-light flung against the dusk. All the shops were there and the -crowds of jaded people who had become for one night extraordinarily -young and compassionate. He began to calculate how far his money would -go in buying gifts for the family. Formerly there had been just his -mother, and father, and Kay, and Grace to buy for. Now there were how -many? He counted. With his cousins and Aunt Jehane there were nine -people. He would divide his money into ten shares; Kay should have two -of them. He was passing the gateway of an empty house; a hand stretched -out of the dark and grabbed him. - -"Peter. Peter." The voice was hoarse and terrified at its own sound. - -Peter broke away and jumped into the road that he might have room to -run. He turned and looked back. He could see nothing--only the walls of -the garden, the gateway and the wooden sign hanging over it, with the -words, _To Let._ - -"Don't do that," came the hoarse voice, "they may see you." - -"Who are you?" asked Peter, peering into the shadows. - -"You know who I am," came the voice; "this little boy can't have changed -as much as that." - -_This little boy!_ - -"Look out. Someone's coming." - -A heavy tread was heard. Grace's policeman approached with the -plain-clothes man. Peter bent down to the pavement and pretended to be -searching. - -"Hulloa!" said Grace's policeman. "Who's there?" - -"It's Peter. How are you?" He continued his searching, moving away from -the gate. - -"Wot yer doing?" asked the plain-clothes man. - -"Dropped some money. Oh well, I can't see it. It was only sixpence." - -He straightened up. - -"Cawn't we help?" asked Grace's policeman. - -"It doesn't matter. To-morrow's Christmas and I'll get more than that." - -"It's more'n the price of a pot o' beer," said Grace's policeman. "If -you can afford to lose it, we can. Goodnight." - -"Good-night," said Peter, "and a Merry Christmas." - -When they were out of sight he stole back. "Uncle! Uncle! What can I do? -Tell me." - -"They're after me. I've nowhere to sleep. I just want to see my kids and -Jehane before they get me. That's why I've come." - -"They shan't get you," said Peter firmly. - -"Oh, but they will. I once said, 'They shan't get me'; but when you're -cold and hungry----" - -"You stop there. I'll be back in ten minutes." - -Peter ran down the Crescent. It was he and Uncle Waffles against the -world; but there was one man who might help--a man who wasn't good -enough to be hard and judging. Peter looked ahead as he ran, shaping -his plan. Yes, there he was, dropping the reins on his horse's back from -driving his last fare. - -Peter tugged at his arm as Mr. Grace heaved himself down from the seat -to the pavement. - -"None O' that, me boy, or I'll tear yer bloomin' tripes h'out---- Oh, -beg parding; h'it's you, Master Peter." - -"I want to speak to you, Mr. Grace, somewhere where we can't be seen or -heard." - -"Yer do, do yer? Wot abart the pub?" - -"Not the pub, people'd wonder to see me there." - -Mr. Grace was offended; no one ever wondered to see him there. "Not -respeckable enough! That's it, is h'it. Ah well, you take my advice. -You're young. If yer want to live ter be my age, pickle yer guts. -Yer'll 'ave a darter one day, don't yer worry. Gawd pity a man wiv a -disrespekful hussy---- Suppose yer think I'm drunk?" - -The situation required tact. "Not drunk, Mr. Grace; you don't run your -words together. You're just Christmasy, I expect." - -Mr. Grace threw a rug over his horse's back and fetched out the -nose-bag. When this was done, he addressed Peter solemnly, steadying -himself against the shafts. "I am drunk. Yer know I'm drunk. I know I'm -drunk. Old Cat's Meat knows I'm drunk. Where's the good o' argify-ing -and tellin' lies abart it? Let's settle the point at once. I'm damn well -drunk and I'm goin' ter be drunker." - -The minutes were flying; there was no more time to fence. "Mr. Grace, I -want you to help me. There's no one else in the world I would ask." - -Mr. Grace cocked his eye at Peter, a blind kind of eye like an oyster on -the half-shell. - -"'Elp! 'Elp 'oo? 'Elp wot? Me 'elp! I need 'elp me-self; I kin 'ardly -stand up." - -"Oh please, not so loud! I'm serious. Something dreadful's happening and -you're my friend---- You are my friend, aren't you?" - -Mr. Grace clapped his heavy paw on Peter's shoulder. "S'long h'as Gawd -gives me breaf." - -"Then let's sit in the cab, so no one will see us and I'll tell you." - -"Strange h'as it may seem ter yer, Master Peter, I don't fancy the -h'inside o' me own keb. Know too much abart it. There wuz a bloke I -druv ter the 'orspital t'other day wrapped up in blankits. 'E died o' -smallspecks. But anythin' ter h'oblidge a friend." - -The door closed behind them. - -"'Ere, darn wiv that winder, young 'un. I feel crawlly wivout air. Sye, -don't yer tell yer pa wot I said abart me keb." - -Peter seized the cabman's hairy hand and held it firmly; he had -to anchor him somehow. "Has Grace told you anything about my Uncle -Waffles?" - -"Swiped somefing, didn't 'e?" - -"Yes." - -"Wise bloke. Honesty's been my ruin. H'I allaws returns the numbrella's -wot's left in me keb. I might 'a been a rich man; there's lots o' money -in numbrellas.---- Wot did 'e swipe? 'Andkerchiefs or jewels?" - -"He swiped money; but he meant to give it back." - -Mr. Grace made an explosive sound, followed by innumerable gurglings, -like the blowing of a bung out of a beer barrel. "Yer make me larf. Wot -d'yer taik me for? I ain't no chicken---- Oh, me tripes and onions! He -meant to give it back! Ha-ha-ha!---- Now come, Master Peter, no uncle o' -yours 'ud be such a fool as that." - -"Well, anyway, he didn't give it back and they're after him." - -"Oo? The cops?" - -"Yes. Grace's policeman." - -Mr. Grace sat up with such violence that the cab groaned in its ancient -timbers. "The devil, 'e is! A nice, h'amiable man, my Grice's policeman! -'E's allaws makin' h'enmity 'tween me and my darter. 'E watches the pubs -and tells 'er abart me, and 'im no better 'imself. H'I 'ate' im. So 'e's -after yer uncle?" - -"He and a tall thin man who's been watching our house for a fortnight. -My uncle's up the Crescent hiding in the front garden of an empty house. -You've got to help me to get him away and hide him." - -Mr. Grace laid his finger against his bulbous nose. "Daingerous work, -Peter! Daingerous work! H'its against traffic reg'lations to h'aid and -h'abet a h'escapin' criminal. Wot yer goin' ter do wiv 'im if I lends -yer me keb?" - -Peter bent his head and whispered. - -Mr. Grace chuckled, slapping his fat thighs. "Blime! Lord love us! That -ain't 'alf bad. That's one in the h'eye for me darter's young feller. -H'I'm on, me lad." - -An irascible old gentleman who had been stamping his feet on the -pavement, looking for the driver, now rattled his stick on the side of -the cab. - -"'Ere, don't yer do that. Yer'll knock the paint h'orf." - -"I've been waiting out here for half an hour. It's disgraceful. Drive me -to Paddington." - -Mr. Grace waddled out of the cab and shut the door behind him, leaving -Peter inside. "I'm h'engaged," he said. - -While he removed the nose-bag from Cat's Meat's head and gathered up the -reins, the old gentleman addressed a few remarks, the purport of which -was that Mr. Grace would find himself without a license. - -As the cab turned to climb the Crescent, Mr. Grace made an effort to -outdo this burst of eloquence. - -"None o' yer lip, old bladder o' lard. I know your sort. Yer the sort -'as ain't got no change fer a tip and feels un-'appy as 'ell abart -payin' a fare." - - - - -CHAPTER XIX--THE CHRISTMAS CAB - -As they neared the empty house, Peter was about to thrust his head out -of the window. He had the words on the tip of his tongue to say, "Stop -here, Mr. Grace." So much were they on the tip of his tongue that he -almost believed he had said them. But he darted back, crouching in the -darkest corner of the fusty cab. At a little distance, watching the -gate, he had caught sight of a man. - -Cat's Meat crawled on, ascending the hill. At the top, where the Terrace -began, Mr. Grace halted. "'Ere, young 'un, where are we goin'? You'll be -'ome direckly." - -"Turn the corner," Peter whispered from inside the growler; "turn the -corner quickly." - -Mr. Grace turned and lumbered on a little way. Again he halted. "'Arf a -mo', Peter. Wot's the gime? Tell us." - -"Did you see that tall lean man, standing outside the garden of the -empty house?" - -"May a' done. Thought h'I saw two on 'em, but maybe I'm seein' double--- -H'oh yes, h'I saw old Tapeworm." - -"He's the plain-clothes man. I know, 'cause I heard him talking with my -father. My father said he'd give my uncle up, if the plain-clothes man -would trust him and not make mother nervous." - -"And wery friendly o' your pa, h'I'm sure. Let family love kintinue---- -But where's this uncle o' yours as did the swipin'? Come darn to facts, -me friend. Where h'is 'e nar?" - -Peter's answer was like the beating wings of a moth, rapid but making -hardly any sound. "He's hidden in the garden of the empty house." - -"Jee-rusalem!" Mr. Grace whistled, cleared his throat once or twice -and spat. Then he started laughing. "Leave 'im ter me, me 'earty. I'll -settle wiv the spotter." - -He pulled his horse round. But when Peter saw what was happening, he -gave a small imploring whisper. "Oh, Mr. Grace, please, please don't go -back yet; we've got to think something out." - -"Think somefing h'out! Crikey! I've thought. H'I'm drunk, me lad, and -when h'I'm drunk h'I think quicklike. You get under the seat and think -o' somefing sad, somefing as'll keep yer quiet--think o' the chap as -died o' small-specks." - -Peter took his friend's advice. Oh, what a Christmas Eve he was having! -He had known Mr. Grace both drunk and sober--sober, t'is true, very -rarely. But sobriety is a relative term, according to your man. -Mr. Grace sober was afraid of the law; Mr. Grace drunk was game for -anything. - -Mr. Grace jerked on the reins. Cat's Meat flung his legs apart, fell -forward, fell backward, came to rest and grunted. He was for all the -world like a chair giving way and making a desperate effort to hold -together; only Cat's Meat was always successful in dodging disruption--a -chair in collapse isn't. - -"I see yer, Mr. Piece o' Sucked Thread. I see yer. Yer cawn't 'ide from -a man as sees double. Come h'out o' that there shadder. Come h'out inter -the blessed light. 'No shadders yonder, no temptations there,' as they -sing in the H'Army o' Salwashun." - -When there was no answer, Mr. Grace continued his harangue. "Blokey, yer -ain't got a chawnce in the world. I knows yer by yer 'ang-dawg h'air. -Yer wanted by the cops, I'll bet a tanner. It's Christmas h'Eve, blokey, -so I won't be 'ard on yer; but yer've got ter pay fer ridin' in me keb. -Every bloke 'as, or else I whacks 'im on the snout." - -"Shish! Wot's the matter?" The shadow by the wall spoke and stirred. - -"Wot's s'matter! I'll let yer know wot's s'matter if yer don't pay me my -fare. H'I druv yer from the Terrace and yer wuz goin' ter King's Cross, -yer were. And yer opened the door by the pub darn there and jumped -h'out." - -"You're drunk, me man. H'I'm lookin' fer the very chap yer blatherin' -about. Where did 'e jump h'out?" - -The detective stepped into the road so that the lights of the cab shone -on him. - -"Kum up, Cat's Meat. I see nar; 'e ain't the feller." Cat's Meat came up -one weary step and the wheels protested. - -"No, yer don't." The detective caught hold of the reins. "Where'd this -chap jump h'out?" - -"'Ands h'orf." Mr. Grace rose up on his box threateningly, his whip -raised as if about to bring it down. "'Ands h'orf, I sye. Leave me -prancin' steed to 'is own dewices, le'go o' me gallopin' charger." - -"Where'd this chap jump out? If yer don't tell me, I'll arrest you -instead." - -"Awright, yer Royal 'Ighness! Don't lose yer 'air. Why didn't yer sye -yer was a cop at fust. H'I'm lookin' fer 'im as much as you are. I want -'im wery bad. You and me's friends." - -"Friends! I choose me own friends. I'm a respeckable man, I am. Tell me -quickly, where'd 'e jump out?" - -Mr. Grace removed his hat and scratched his head. "Of h'all the fiery -blokes I h'ever met, you taik the biscuit, me chap. 'E h'excused -hisself darn there by the pub and the trams. I 'ears the door o' me keb -a-bangin'. I looks round and, lo, 'e'd wanished in the crards." - -The detective waited to hear no more, but set off running down the -Crescent. As he dwindled in the darkness, Mr. Grace called after him, -"Me and Cat's Meat'll miss yer--so agreeable yer were. Merry Christmas, -ole pal." Then, in a lower voice to Peter, "Yer kin forget the -smallspecks, young 'un. Yer----" - -But Peter had leapt to the pavement and slipped through the gateway -under the sign _To Let_. "Uncle. Uncle. He's gone. Hurry." - -He listened. The shrubbery about him rustled. He looked up at the empty -windows, wondering if Uncle Waffles had got inside the house. He was a -little frightened; the darkness was so desperate and lonely. He called -more loudly. "Uncle. Uncle. Make haste." - -Then he heard a sound of shuffling and something stirred beneath the -steps. He ran forward and seized the man's coat--it was sodden--dragging -him through the garden toward the road. It was strange that so small a -boy should take command of a grown man. - -"You won't give me up, Peter, will you?" - -Give him up! That was likely! Fancy Peter allowing anyone to suffer -if he could prevent it! Why, Peter, when Romance's kittens were to be -drowned, would steal them away and hide them. He couldn't bear that -anything should be wounded or dead. He pushed his uncle into the cab -and, before following, held a whispered consultation with Mr. Grace. - -"You remember my plan--what I told you?" - -Mr. Grace digressed. He twisted round on the box, craning his neck to -look in at the window. "'E don't strike me as much ter make a fuss -abart." - -"That's 'cause you don't know him." - -"Well, I ain't pining' fer an introduction." - -"But you're not going back on me, Mr. Grace! He doesn't look very grand; -but he's kind and gentle." Peter was dismayed by this sudden coolness. - -"H'I'm not the chap ter go back on 'is friends. Hook inter the keb. I -remember wot yer told me." - -At the top of the Crescent they turned to the left, crawled a hundred -yards and then turned to the right, going down the mews which ran behind -the Terrace. The mews was unlighted and humpy. On one side stood the -high closed doors of stables; on the other, rubbish heaps and the backs -of jerry-built houses not yet finished building. - -The man at Peter's side said nothing. Every now and then he shivered and -seemed to hug himself. Once or twice he twitched and muttered below his -breath. There was the stale smell of alcohol and wet clothes about him. -To Peter it was all so terrible that he could not put his comfort -into words. This man, who swayed weakly with each jerk of the cab and -crouched away from him, was a stranger--not a bit like the irresponsible -joking person he had known as his Uncle Waffles. - -The cab stopped. Mr. Grace waddled down and blew out his lamps. Then -he tapped on the window. "'Ere we are, Master Peter. H'I've counted the -doors; this 'ere's the back o' yer 'ouse." - -Peter stretched out his hand gropingly in the blackness and touched his -uncle's. "I'm going to hide you so you'll never be found." - -Ocky's voice came in a hopeless whisper. "Are you, Peter? But how---- -how?" - -"You remember the loft above the stable I told you about? No one goes -there but Kay and myself--it's our secret. It's too cold for Kay to go -there now. Mr. Grace and I are going to help you over the wall; then -you must climb into the loft the way I once showed you and lie quiet. -To-morrow I'll come to you as soon as I can and bring you whatever I can -get." - -"You're a good boy, Peter. You're a ha'penny marvel; I always said you -were." - -The whisper was hoarse, but no longer hopeless. - -Suddenly the door was jerked open irritably. "'Ere, make 'aste. Come -h'out of it, you in there." - -When Peter and his uncle had obeyed orders, the cab was backed up -against the tall doors which gave entrance to the yard of the stable. - -"Get h'up on the roof o' me keb, climb onter the top o' the doors and -see if yer kin drop h'over." Mr. Grace spoke gruffly. - -Ocky did as he was bidden but, either through timidity or weakness, -failed to scramble from the cab on to the top of the doors. Mr. Grace -growled impatiently and muttered something explosive at each failure. -Now that he was in mid-act of contriving against the law, he was anxious -to be rid of the adventure. - -Ocky excused himself humbly. "I'm not the man I was. I've had my -troubles." - -"To 'ell with yer troubles! They cawn't be no worse'n mine; if yer want -ter know wot trouble is, taik a week o' bein' father ter my darter---- -Kum on, Peter, you and me's got ter chuck 'im h'over." - -Standing on the roof of the cab, they each caught hold of a leg and -hoisted. Ocky protested, but up he went, till in desperation he clutched -at the doors and sat balancing astride them. - -Now that he had something to do, Mr. Grace's cheerfulness returned. -"Like bringin' 'ome the family wash, ain't it, Peter?" Then, to Ocky -threateningly, "Nar Bill Sykes, yer've got ter tumble darn t'other side; -I'm goin' ter drar awye me keb." - -Ocky said he'd break his legs--he might need them, so he didn't want -to do that. He lay along the narrow ledge like a man unused to riding, -clinging to a horse's neck. - -"Awright, yer force me to it." Mr. Grace spoke sadly with a kind of -it-hurts-me-more than-it-does-you air. Peter was told to get down. Mr. -Grace having driven away a few paces, dropped the reins and stepped on -to the roof, whip in hand. - -"Me and Peter is good pals. Peter says ter me, 'My uncle's swiped -somefing. The cops is after 'im.' 'Righto,' I says. Now h'it appears yer -don't want ter be saved; but h'I've give me word and h'I'm goin' ter do -it.---- Are yer going' h'over?" - -Mr. Grace brought his whip down lightly across Ocky's legs; his humor -made him a humane man. Ocky squirmed, lost his balance and disappeared, -all except his hands which clung desperately. Once again the whip came -down and a muffled thud was heard. - -Mr. Grace took his seat on the box and gathered up the reins. "Any more -h'orders, sir?" he asked of Peter. "Keb. Keb. Keb.---- Thirsty work, -Master Peter. Poor chap lost 'is nerve; 'e needed a little stimerlant. -We h'all do sometimes." - -But when Peter tried to pay Mr. Grace, he refused indignantly. -"H'I h'ain't like some folks as would rob a work 'ouse child o' its -breakfust. Wot I done I done fer love o' you, Master Peter. You buy -that little gal o' yours a present." Then, because he didn't want to -be thought a good man, he spoke angrily. "H'I've got ter be drunk -ter-night. Yer've wasted enough o' me time awready. Kum h'up 'ere beside -me h'at once and I'll drive yer 'ome." - -So they drove round the mews to the Terrace and halted this time in -front of the house. When Peter had rung the bell, his friend beckoned -him back. "Sonny, 'e weren't worf it. 'E weren't reelly." - -Before Peter could answer, the door opened and he heard his mother's -voice saying, "Why, it's Peter in a Christmas cab! Oh, how kind of Mr. -Grace to bring you back! Were you so loaded down with presents, Peter?" -And he entered empty-handed. He would need all his Christmas money -to help Uncle Waffles. Kay came running to meet him and halted in -bewilderment. "But, Mummy, where are Peter's presents?" - -Grace's mind was taken up with another subject; from the steps she had -caught her father's eye and had seen that it was glazed. As she passed -her mistress she sought sympathy, whispering, "Pa's drunk as usual, Mam. -Ain't it sick'ning? Fat lot o' good me prayin'!" - -But Mr. Grace, pottering down the Terrace, felt a Christmas warmth about -his heart. It wasn't because he had saved a man from Justice; he was -happy because Peter had told him that he was the only friend in the -world from whom he could have asked help.---- Grace might call him a -drunkard, and to-night he intended to be very drunk; but he must be -something better as well, or else Peter wouldn't have talked like that. - -So, because he was happy, he sang as he pottered down the Terrace. -It wasn't exactly a Christmas carol, but it served his purpose. It -expressed devil-may-care contempt for public opinion--and that was how -he felt. - - "Darn our narbor'ood, - - Darn our narbor'ood, - - Darn the plaice where I'm a-livin' nar, - - Why, the gentry in our street - - In the cisterns wash their feet, - - In the narbor'ood where I'm a-livin' nar." - -Mr. Grace very rarely sang, because he was very seldom happy. Cat's -Meat quickened his step; he knew what that sound meant. It meant no more -work. - -In the distance the lights of the public-house grew up. - - - - -CHAPTER XX--THE HIDING OF OCKY WAFFLES - -Peter's Christmas cab! Why a cab? What had he brought back in it and -where had he hidden it? It must be something very grand and splendid to -demand a cab. Kay coaxed him to give her just one little hint as to what -it was: she went through all her love-tricks without success, rubbing -her silky hair against his cheek and kissing his eyes while she clasped -his neck. It was useless for him to declare that he had bought no -presents; she snuggled against him laughing--she knew her Peter better -than that. - -In the high spirits that surrounded him Peter was very miserable. He was -wondering whether Uncle Waffles had hurt himself when he tumbled into -the yard from the top of the doors. He was wondering whether such -a timid climber had been able to find his way into the loft. He was -wondering how he could help him to escape to safety. Mr. Grace might -not be willing to assist a second time; he had said that Uncle Waffles -"weren't worf it." But he was; _he was_. - -Wild plans were forming in Peter's brain. Would it be possible to put -his uncle on the tandem tricycle and ride off in the night undetected? -Would it be possible to----? - -And then there was another thought. Ever since he was quite a tiny boy -he had had a secret dread of the loft after nightfall--a fear which he -knew Kay shared. It was all right in the day when the sun was shining; -there was nothing to be afraid of then. But his strong imagination -made him suspect that the loft was used by tramps, hungry, fierce-eyed -tramps, when darkness fell--tramps who climbed over the wall, just as -Uncle Waffles had done. If that should be true and one of them should -find his uncle there----. Peter shuddered. - -"Peter, little man, you've been getting too excited," his father said; -"we don't want you ill to-morrow. Don't you think you'd better go to -bed?" - -And Peter was glad of the excuse to get away to where no one would -observe him. He felt an outlaw. He had taken sides against his father -and his family. He wasn't at all sure that he hadn't committed a -criminal offence; the police, if they knew, might lay their hands on him -and lock him up with Uncle Waffles. What would Kay think of her brother -then? - -In the darkness of his room he lay awake, listening to footsteps in the -downstairs part of the house. The servants came up and the gas on the -landing was lowered to a jet. Then he heard the rustling of paper, and -his mother and father whispering together. - -"That's for Glory." - -"It won't go into her stocking." - -"Oh, yes, it will at a stretch." - -"And who's this for?" - -"That's for Peter, old silly; go and lay it on his bed." Through -half-closed eyes Peter saw his father enter, straight and tall, with his -cropped hair and direct way of walking, so much like a soldier-man. He -came on tiptoe, trying to be stealthy; but he stumbled against a chair. - -Nan came hurrying noiselessly. "Oh Billy, darling, you're a rotten Santa -Claus. Have you wakened him now?" - -They listened. When Peter did not stir, his father whispered, "It's all -right, kiddy; the little chap sleeps soundly. By Jove, he's not hung up -his stocking!" - -They examined the end of the bed. Then his mother spoke. "No, he hasn't. -He couldn't have been feeling well. He's been worrying, I'm sure he has, -all this last month." - -"A boy of his age oughtn't to worry. What about?" - -Nan hesitated. "Our Peter's very compassionate---- He loved Ocky. I've -looked through his eyes often lately; I'm sure he's condemning us." - -"Us! Poor little Peterkins! It must hurt---- Well, he doesn't -understand." - -They bent over him, kissing him, thinking he slept. - -"Peter always fancies that everyone must be good whom he loves." - -And Nan answered, "You can make anyone good by love--don't you think so, -Billy?" - -He slipped his arm about her and leant his face against her hair. "I -know you made me better, dearest." - -The gas was extinguished and their feet died out on the stairs. - -One! Two! Three! The grandfather-clock in the hall struck out the hours. -Peter could not bear it. He must tell someone. He threw back the clothes -and crept to the door; his parents' room was under his--they must not -hear him. A board creaked. He halted, his fingers on his mouth, his -heart drumming. No one stirred; through the heavy silence came the light -breathing of sleepers. - -Pressing his hand against the wall to steady himself, he tiptoed along -the passage, past Riska's room, past Grace's, till he came to the door -of the room in which Glory and Kay lay together. He looked in; a shaft -of moonlight fell across their faces on the pillow. He was struck -with how alike they were: the same narrow penciled eyebrows; the same -sensitive bowed mouth, just a little short in the upper lip; the same -streaming honey-colored hair. - -He stood looking down at them. Since he had noticed this, he felt a new -kindness for Glory. Kay turned on her side and the paper on the presents -at the foot of the bed crackled. Should he--should he tell Glory? She -looked so gentle. No, it would be selfish; he must endure the burden of -his knowledge himself. And yet----. He was very troubled. - -Up the frosty silence, tremulous and distant, climbed the sound of -music--a harp and a violin playing. His brain set the playing to words: - - "It came upon the midnight clear - - That glorious song of old, - - From angels bending near the earth - - To touch their harps of gold." - -Its beauty quieted his dreads, lifting his spirit to the world of -legend. It hushed, halted and again commenced. It was like the feet of -Jesus on the London house-tops, bringing safety to sinful men. Perhaps -Uncle Waffles heard it. - -It ceased. A man's voice rang out: "Fine and frosty. Three o'clock in -the morning. A Happy Christmas. All's well." - -Peter had turned his eyes to the window where the moon sat balanced on a -cloud; now that the stillness was again unbroken, he looked down at the -faces on the pillow. The eyes of Glory were wide open. She showed no -surprise at seeing him there. How long had she been watching? - -He stooped over her and whispered, "It was the waits, Glory." - -Her arms reached up and dragged him down. "Peter, Peter, you don't hate -me, do you? I can't help being a coward." - -"Shish! We'll wake Kitten Kay. Of course I don't hate you. I try to love -everybody." - -"And me just as one with the rest? Not even with the rest, Peter.--No, -no, kiss me now." - -He kissed her; it was almost like kissing Kay. She held him so tightly -that she took away his breath. He drew back, a little thrilled and -startled. He looked down. Kay's eyes were closed; Glory's were smiling -up at him, timid with puzzled longing. Years later he was to remember -that. Then, yet more distant, the waits re-commenced, like the feet of -Jesus bringing peace to sinful men. And that also he would remember. - -Back in bed he lay very still. The fear had gone out of him; once again -the world seemed kind and gentle. "Christ was born this morning," he -whispered; "Christ was born this morning. Oh Jesus, who came into the -world a little boy just like Peter, you can understand. I'm so troubled. -Oh Jesus----" But sleep was sent in answer to his prayer. - -It was dark when he awoke. What was it he had been dreaming? Ah yes!--He -rose stealthily and dressed. The morning was chilly. His teeth chattered -and shivers ran through him; that wasn't all due to coldness. Without -looking at the packages on his bed, he stole across the landing and -down the stairs. Outside the servants' room he listened. One of them was -snoring loudly; that was reassuring. As he drew further away from the -bedrooms, he moved more hurriedly. All the time he was expecting to hear -a door open and to see a head peering over the banisters. Having reached -the hall, he ran down into the basement, taking less care to make no -sound. His feet on the stone flags of the kitchen seemed as loud as -those of a procession marching. Something brushed against his legs. He -jumped aside with a cry of terror. It came again, a shadow following. -Then he saw that it was only Romance. - -What was it he must get? It was difficult to think; a hammer was -knocking, in his temples. He felt along the dresser; sent a pan -clattering; stood tense, listening; found what he sought; struck a match -and lit the gas The light helped him to think more clearly, but it also -convicted him of wrong doing. Everything he saw, even Romance looking up -at him unblinking, seemed to say, "I shall tell. I shall tell." - -Things looked cheerless. Chairs were pushed back from the table, just as -they had been left by the servants. The grate was choked with ashes, in -which a few coals glowered red. But he must hurry. What was it he must -get? - -In the pantry there were sausage-rolls--so many that no one would miss -a few of them. There were loaves of bread, an uncut ham from which Peter -took some slices, a jug of milk from which he took a glassful, making up -the deficit with water, and a dish of baked apples. He helped himself, -feeling horribly thief-like. Then he thought of how cold it was out -there. He crept upstairs to the cloakroom and unhooked one of his -father's coats from its peg. He returned and took a cushion from -Cookie's favorite chair in which the cane was broken and sagging. Thus -loaded, he unlocked the door into the garden, closing it behind him, and -shuffled out. - -How unfriendly and treacherous everything was! Even the kind old -mulberry, stripped of its leaves, seemed to scowl and threaten to reach -down and clutch him. The laburnum, which in summer was a slim gold girl, -pointed thin derisive fingers at him. Across neighboring walls came an -icy breeze, which whispered, "Cut off his head. Cut off his head." As he -tiptoed down the path, the gravel turned beneath his tread. Dead leaves -rustled. His breath came pantingly and steamed through the shadows. - -He hoped Uncle Waffles would come to meet him. And yet he dreaded. He -could still feel the shaking of his uncle's clammy hand as he had felt -it last night in the darkness of the cab. Sometimes he fancied that he -saw him crouched beneath the bushes. - -He paused irresolute. Should he go forward or----? - -He glanced back. The windows were wells of blackness--hollow sockets -from which the sight had been gouged out. He fixed his gaze on the -window ahead, the loft-window behind the ivy, which spied on the garden. -He had always expected to see a man's face there. It was to be a face -about which the hair hung long and lank, with the mouth pendulous and -the eyes cavernous.--What would Kay think if she could see him now? - -He raised the latch of the door which led into the yard. He looked -round, hesitating on the threshold. His imagination told him he would be -clutched forward. Nothing happened. - -In the stable it was dark as death. He set his burdens down before -entering, so that he might be ready for a hasty exit. He stood still, -his left hand pressed against the door-post; if he had to run, he -would push himself off with a flying start. He was even afraid of Uncle -Waffles now. - -Heavy breathing! Where was it? He called. He heard something whirr, -and jumped back. The same instant he recognized the sound: it was -the turning of a pedal on its ball-bearings. From beneath the tandem -tricycle, with many groans and curses, a man emerged. - -"Bruised all over. That's what I am.--Hulloa! You there, Peter? Oh damn! -That's another on the forehead. Disfigured for life, I am. Nice way -you've got of treating your poor old uncle." - -He pulled himself up by his hands. Even in the dusk he looked crushed -and sheepish. But every situation, however shameful, had to be made an -occasion for jest. "Wonder how I came here! Tandem trikes make strange -bedfellows. You must excuse my language. Your Aunt Jehane always told -this little boy he must never swear." - -As his uncle approached him, zigzagging and groping for support -uncertainly, Peter became again aware of the stale smell of alcohol. -He did not need to be told why his uncle had proved such an inferior -climber. - -"Why, I brought you here last night--I and Mr. Grace together.--Did you -hurt yourself when you fell?" - -"Fell! Did I fall? I'm used to falling these days. I'm a li'le -bird tumbled out of its nest. Broke to the wide, I am. And nobody -cares--nobody cares." - -Peter, hearing his weak self-pitying sobbing, overcame his momentary -physical repulsion. "But I care, Uncle. I _do_ care. Glory cares." - -"Where's the good o' your caring, dear old chap? You're only a boy and -Glory's only a girl--you can't help me." - -"But I can." He pulled at his uncle's trembling hands. "I'm going to -hide you in the loft till they've all forgotten to look for you, and -then----" - -"But, chappie, I've got to be fed and my money's all spent." - -"I'll get food for you." - -Uncle Waffles bent above Peter, trying to catch his eyes. - -"You'll get food for me--but from where? Whose food?--You mean you're -going to steal for me. No, Peter, you shan't do that." - -Peter was perplexed. "If I don't, you'll go hungry. People aren't good -to you. I won't steal, I'll--I'll just borrow. When you're safe, I'll -tell them and pay it all back." - -"That's what I said, 'I'll just borrow.' That's why I'm here. I can't -bear to let you do anything wrong for me." - -"But if I don't they'll take you away and lock you up. My heart would -break if that should happen." - -Ocky sat down on a box and drew Peter to his knee in the darkness, -putting his arm about him. "I've never been loved like that; if I -had I'd have been a better man. If I let you do this I want to make a -promise. Whether I'm caught or not, for your sake I'm going to be good -in the future.--You don't know what I am--how foolish and bad. I was -drunk last night--I got drunk to forget my terror. Do you think I'm -worth doing wrong for, chappie?" - -Peter drew the unshaven face down to his shoulder. "You poor, poor -uncle! It wouldn't be doing wrong if you became good because I stole, -now would it?--You'll let me do it?" - -They stood up. "What you got there?" - -"Food. We must hurry. If we don't they'll find out.--And here's some -money." - -"Did you steal that?" - -"I saved it for Christmas. I want you to take care of it. Now, here's -the way we go upstairs." - -Peter tried to laugh. He showed his uncle where to find a foothold in -the wall and, by pushing and whispering instructions, got him through -the trap-door into the room overhead. Then he handed up the results of -his foraging and followed. - -The loft was big and cheerless, thick with dust and hung with cobwebs. -Across the roof went rafters; where they joined the wall sparrows had -built their nests. Over the stalls were holes in the floor through which -hay could be pitch-forked down. There was only one window at the far -end, which looked out into the garden; several of the panes were broken -and let in the wintry air. - -Ocky shivered. For comfort he fell back on his pipe and began to fumble -in his pocket for a match. When he struck it Peter saw for the first -time what he was doing. He snatched it from him and blew it out. "But -you mustn't do that." - -"Why not?" - -"They might see you from the house." - -"Not if I'm careful." - -"You never are careful," said Peter wisely. - -"But baccy's all I've got." - -"You've got me. I'll come as often as I can." - -As he was going, Uncle Waffles hesitated and called him back. "Could you -manage to let me see Jehane and Glory? Couldn't you coax 'em into -the garden? I'm longing for a sight of them. They'd never know I was -watching.--It's an odd Christmas I'm going to have." - -Peter had no idea that the time had flown so fast. As he passed up the -garden, the sun was swinging above the house-tops like a smoky lantern. -He could see the mold beneath the bushes, glistening and frosty, chapped -and broken into little hollows and cracks. In one of the top bedrooms a -light sprang up; it was Riska's--she must be examining her stocking. - -He had hoped to creep into the house undetected, but at the door he was -met by Cookie. - -"So that's it, is h'it? There's no tellin' wot you'll be h'up to next. -I was just goin' ter count the forks. I thought as we'd 'ad beargulars. -Awright Grice, it's the young master been h'out for a h'early mornin's -h'airing." He ran past her, but she caught him. "Lor', yer cold, boy. -Come and warm yerself. If you h'ate meat three times a day the same h'as -I do yer wouldn't get blue like that." - -Cookie's one claim to distinction, which she invariably introduced into -conversation, was that she was a great meat-eater. It made her different -from other people and, having no beauty with which to attract, afforded -her a topic with which to draw attention to herself. - -"You need some 'ot chockerlit, that's wot yer want. Not but wot meat 'ad -be better; but there, that's where h'I'm pecooliar. 'Never was such a -gel for eatin' meat. Lor, 'ow yer runs my bills h'up!' that's wot my ma -used to say abart me. She's dead, Gawd rest 'er bones.--Now, drink that -h'up, yer little sinner. Thought h'it was summer, did yer? Went h'out -to 'ear the pretty burds. I'm only pecooliar abart meat; but, the divil -take me, if you ain't pecooliar all over." - -Cookie sat down in her favorite chair; the cane burst under her. Her -legs shot up and her arms waved wildly. "'Elp! 'Elp me, Master Peter. -For good luck's sake!" - -Peter helped her. - -"H'it's a wonder I didn't break no bones. Bones is brittle this weather. -But where's me cushion? If that cat's 'ad it----" - -Peter escaped and slipped into the cloak-room. Hidden behind the coats, -he listened to Cookie stamping up and down, breathing threatening and -slaughter against all cats--especially cats who stole cushions. - -In her search for the lost cushion she began to make discoveries. -"Where's them sorsage-rolls? There was twenty. And 'oo's been cuttin' -the 'am? She was allaws a wery honest cat. Can't understand it. Never -knew a cat to cut 'am. Cats ain't us'ally fond o' h'apples--leastwise no -cat I h'ever 'eard of.--Shish, yer warmint! Shish! Get along wi' yer." - -Something was thrown. There was a loud me-ow. Romance, followed by Sir -Walter Scott, followed by Cookie, fled upstairs. Peter was pained -that others should be blamed--even though they were only cats--for his -wrongdoing. Anything like injustice hurt him. And Romance knew that he -was the thief! How could he ever face her again, and how could she ever -love him? If a cat could steal a cushion and cut ham, she could also -take a coat. Would they blame her for that? - -He was in his bedroom, finishing the postponed odds and ends of his -dressing, when Kay called him. He pretended not to hear her. At last -he had to answer, "Coming." He went to her shame-faced, like a guest -without a wedding-garment: he had no present. - -She was kneeling up in bed in her white night-gown. The gas was lit and -the floor was strewn with paper from unwrapping her discoveries. - -"Merry Christmas, Peterkins. Oh, come and look! This is what Grandpa -sent me from Cassingland. And this is what Aunt Jehane gave me. And -this---- But why didn't you come sooner? I've been calling and calling." - -Peter hung his head. Glory was looking at him. Was it just wonder in her -eyes or a question? Had she guessed? Would everybody guess? - -"I didn't come, Kitten Kay, because I haven't anything for you." - -She gazed at him incredulously. Her face fell with disappointment. "But -the cab, Peter? The Christmas cab!" - -"There was nothing in it. I've not got anything for anybody." - -She couldn't understand it; he could see that. She was saying to -herself, "Did Peter forget me?" But her face brightened bravely. "I've -something for you." - -"I couldn't take it, Kay. No, really." - -He was nearly crying with mortification. "I've nothing for you, little -Kay; and, yet, I love you better than anyone in all the world." - -She held out her arms to him with the divine magnanimity of childhood. -"Dear, dear Peter. Softy me. It'll do just as well." - -He returned to his room while she dressed. He sat on the edge of his bed -with the gas unlighted. He did not open the parcels which his father -and mother had left. He did not deserve them. He had nothing to give -in exchange. He would be ashamed to look them in the face at -breakfast--especially to meet Riska, who was certain to show what she -thought of his meanness. In the darkness he reflected how wise he -had been to give that money to Uncle Waffles before the temptation -commenced. - -Kay entered. "Coming downstairs?" - -He took her hand. She pressed his and laughed up at him, trying to make -him smile back. - -It was their custom to go to their parents' bedroom first thing on -Christmas morning. Outside the door Peter hung back, but Kay dragged him -forward. - -Billy sat up, throwing back the counterpane, pretending to be terribly -excited at the thought of what they had brought him. Kay held up a -parcel. "What is it?" he asked. "Let me have it. What is it?" - -"Guess. Father's got to guess, hasn't he, mother?" - -"A fishing-rod?" - -"Don't be silly, father. How could a fishing-rod be as small as that?" - -The guessing went on--such absurd guessing!--until the paper was torn -off and a match-box was revealed. - -"And now, what's Peter brought me?" - -"Nothing, father. I haven't got anything for anybody. So, please, I -don't think I ought to take any of your presents." - -Billy looked at Nan; this explained the absence of the Christmas -stocking. "But, old boy, what became of your money?" - -"I--I gave it away, father." - -"Last night? To a beggar?" - -"Not--not exactly a beggar." - -"But to someone who needed it badly?" - -"Yes, badly. I couldn't give it to--to them and buy presents as well." -Peter swallowed. He hated lies and would tell the truth at all costs. -"And it wasn't last night. It was this morning." - -His father regarded him gravely. "To someone in the house?" - -"Not exactly." - -"I can't see how it can be both in the house and out of it. It must be -exactly one or the other." Silence. "You don't want to tell?" - -"I can't tell. But I want to so badly." - -His mother leant out and caught his empty hands, pressing them to her -mouth. What a strange little conscience this son of hers had. "I'm sure -he did what seemed to him more generous. Now here's what mother's got -for you." - -"Darling motherkins, I do love you--all of you. But I mustn't take -anything this Christmas." - -"Nonsense," said his father. - -"I mean it," said Peter proudly. - -At breakfast the thing happened which Peter had expected. Riska was too -outspoken. Eustace had asked her a question in a whisper. She replied, -so everyone might hear her, with mocking eyes slanted at Peter, "Because -he spent it all last night in driving about in cabs." - -There was another shock when his father remarked that the milk was -rather thin this morning. - -When they walked down the Terrace on the way to the Christmas service, -they passed the lean man. He was watching: he was there when they came -back. - -Billy noticed that his little son was furtive and restless; he was -always going to the window, when no one seemed to be looking, and -peeping out into the garden. When the coat was found missing and word -was brought of Cookie's lost cushion, he noticed that Peter got red. - -He called him aside that evening. "What is it? Can't you trust me? Can't -you tell me, little Peter?" - -How he longed to tell. But he looked up with troubled eyes. "I can't -even tell you, father." - -During the days that followed food was continually disappearing. Every -morning, as a habit now, they glanced out to see if the lean man was -there. Then the eyes of the elders signaled to one another, "So he's not -caught yet." Peter's responsibilities were increasing. He found it more -and more difficult to go on supplying the wants of his uncle without -betraying his secret. Moreover, Ocky himself was getting tired of his -confinement; a loft has few diversions. It has no refinements: he -had not shaved for many days and his appearance was terrifying. The -mustaches had come unwaxed. The white spats were gray with dust and -climbing. Still, when Peter visited him, he was unconquerably cheerful. -He was only depressed when Peter had again failed to persuade Glory -or Jehane to come into the garden. "I want a sight of 'em, sonny. A -ha'penny marvel like you ought to be able to manage that." - -Frequently he discussed marriage with Peter, warning him against it -and tracing his own downfall to it. "It's awright if you meet the right -girl. But you never do--that's my experience. People think you have; -but you know you haven't. I knew a chap; his wife had black hair. They -seemed so happy that folk called 'em the love-birds. Well, this chap -used to get drunk. Not often, you know, but just as often as was -sensible. Well, when he was drunk, he'd give himself away, oh, -entirely--let all his bitterness out. He'd always hoped that he'd marry -a girl with yellow hair. His wife was awright except for that; but he -couldn't forget it. Of course he never told her. But there's always -something like that in marriage--something that rankles and that you -keep to yourself. That little something wrong spoils all the rest. -Then one day there's a row. Chaps have killed their girls for less than -that.--Ah, yes, and folk called 'em the love-birds!" - -Or he would say, "Love's a funny thing, Peter. Some men fall in love -with the slope of a throat or the shape of a nose, and marry a girl for -that. Now there was a chap I once knew----- Umph! Did I ever tell you? -This chap and his wife were known as the love-birds and his wife had -black hair." Then out would come the same old story. - -Jehane had black hair. Peter wondered whether 'the chap' was Uncle -Waffles. And he wondered more than that; he was surprised that Uncle -Waffles should keep on forgetting that he'd told him the story already. -He supposed it was because he sat there all alone, brooding for hours -and hours. - -"Mustn't mind if I'm queer, Peter. I'd be awright if you'd let me have -some baccy." - -But Peter wouldn't let him have it; it would increase the risk of -discovery. - -One night he ceased to be surprised at his uncle's lapses of memory. His -father and mother had gone out to dinner. The younger children had -been put to bed. Jehane and Glory were sitting by the dining-room fire, -darning socks and whispering of the future. Peter took his opportunity, -slipped into the garden and down to the stables. - -Snow was on the ground; every footstep showed like a blot of ink on -white paper. He was surprised to see that someone had crossed the -flower-beds. Then he was startled by a thought. Perhaps the police, or -the man whom Mr. Grace called 'the spotter,' had guessed. He listened. -No sound. He entered the yard; the footprints led into the stable. He -called softly, "Are you there?" No one answered. With fear in his heart -he climbed into the loft: Uncle Waffles had vanished. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI--STRANGE HAPPENINGS - -Had they caught him? Ever since the beginning of the adventure Peter -had wondered interminably how it would end. He hadn't been able to see -any ending. It had seemed to him that, if nothing was found out, Uncle -Waffles might go on hiding in the loft forever and he might go on -pilfering for him. - -Peter had watched his uncle carefully; he knew much more about him -now. He knew that he was a great disreputable child, much younger than -himself, who would always be dependent on somebody. He came to realize -that through all those years of large talking his uncle had never been -a man--never would be now; that he was just a large self-conscious boy, -boastful, affectionate and unreliable, whose sins were not wickedness -but naughtiness. The odd strain of maternity in Peter, which prompted -him always to shelter things weaker than himself, made him love his -uncle the more for this knowledge. And now he was distracted, like a -bantam hen which has hatched out a swan and lost it. - -He set to work searching in the coach-house, under the tandem -tricycle, in the harness-room. He went out into the yard, following the -footprints. They led through the door into the garden, under the pear -trees, across a flower-bed to a neighbor's wall and there terminated -abruptly. What could have happened? - -The night about him was spectacular and glistening as a picture on a -Christmas card. Everything in sight was draped in exaggerated purity. -Like cotton-wool, sprinkled with powdered glass, snow lay along the arms -of trees and sparkled in festoons on withered creepers. The march of -those countless London feet, that invisible hurrying army, always weary, -yet never halting, came to him muffled as though it moved across a heavy -carpet. "Be quiet. Be quiet," said the golden windows, mounting in a -barricade of houses against the stars. "Be quiet. Be quiet," whispered -the shrouded trees, as their burdened branches creaked and lowered. But -he could not be quiet. Cold as it was, sweat broke out on his forehead. -What had happened? - -A crunching sound--a mere rumor, seeming infinitely distant! A head -appeared above the wall, right over him. A man lumbered across and fell -with a gentle thud almost at his feet. - -"Oh, how could you? How could you do that?" - -The voice which answered was thick and truculent. It made no pretence -at being secret. "And why shouldn't I? That's what I ask. I was tired of -sticking up there. It's no joke, I can tell you." - -"Shish! Where've you been?" - -"Found a way out four gardens down--the wall's lower. No danger of -breaking one's legs--not like the way you brought me." - -Peter was a little staggered by this hostile manner; it was as though he -were being charged with having done something wilfully unfair and cruel. -"But to-morrow they'll see that somebody's been there. They'll follow -your tracks from garden to garden and then------" - -"I don't care. Let 'em. You'd never do anything I ask you. You wouldn't -let me see Jehane and Glory. They're my flesh and blood; and who are -you? You wouldn't give me any baccy. You gave me nothing. Buried me -alive, that's what you did for me. So I just slipped off by myself." - -It was like an angry child talking. Ocky pulled a bottle from his -pocket, drew the cork with his teeth and tilted the neck against his -mouth. "Must have my medicine. Ah!" - -Peter watched him. He was thinking fast, remembering past queernesses of -temper. "You've done this before?" - -"Of course. And not ashamed of it either. I'll do it again as soon as I -get thirsty. It's cold up there." He jerked his thumb toward the loft. -"Has it ever struck you?" - -Peter disregarded the question. "You did it with my money--the money -that was to help you." - -"And isn't it helping me?" Another long draught. "Ah! That's -better!--You gave it me to take care of--I'm taking care of it. See? You -ought to know by now that I'm not to be trusted." - -Peter saw that nothing was to be gained by arguing. He helped his uncle -to scramble into the loft. "We'll be lucky if you're not caught by -morning." - -"Think so? What's the odds? Couldn't be worse off. Now shut up scolding; -you're as bad as Jehane. Let's be social. Did I ever tell you that story -about the chap whose wife had black hair?" - -"Yes, you did. I know now that you'd been drinking every time you told -it." - -"Hic! Really! Awright, you needn't get huffy. It's a good story." - -Peter had at last hit on a plan. "Will you promise to stop here -to-night, if I promise to find you a better place to-morrow?" - -"Now you're talking. Reg'lar ha'penny marvel, that's what you are. -Before I promise I must hear more. Where is it?" He spoke with the -_hauteur_ of a townsman engaging seaside lodgings. He was Ocky Waffles -Esquire, capitalist, who wasn't to be beaten at a bargain. - -"Well, it'll probably be in a family." - -"Depends on the family." - -"Then promise me you won't go out again to-night." - -"Shan't be able when I've polished off this bottle." - -Peter appreciated the unblushing honesty of that prophecy. Before he -went he said, "It's my fault. I ought to have thought how lonely it was -for you." - -Uncle Waffles tried to get up, but found that he maintained his dignity -better in a sitting posture. "Don't take it to heart, sonny. Forgive and -forget--that's my motto." He reached up his hand to Peter with a fine -air of Christian charity. Peter just touched it with the tips of his -fingers. - -That night, knowing that her mistress was out, Grace had done a thing -which was forbidden. There was a passage running by the side of the -house, ending in a door which gave access to the Terrace. During the day -it was kept on the latch for the use of the children, the dustman, the -gardener and all persons of secondary importance. It saved continual -answering of the front-door and prevented muddy boots from tramping -through the hall. At night it was locked and the key was hung up outside -the diningroom, where anyone would be heard who tried to get it. Grace -had borrowed the key and admitted her policeman. She very rarely got the -chance, and always had to do it in secret. Barrington was firm regarding -kitchen company. "I won't have strange men lolling in my house without -my knowledge. That's how burglaries happen. The servants can meet their -friends on their nights out. I may seem harsh, but it's none of my -business to supply 'em with opportunities for getting married." - -So Grace had to do her love-making on one evening a week, walking the -pavements with the object of her passion. Now and then she contrived -stolen interviews after nightfall, standing on the steps which led up -from the area and talking across the railings. Cookie sympathized with -her and helped her. "It's a burnin' shime," she said, "cagin' us h'up -like h'animals. H'it's a wonder ter me as we h'ever get married. The -master thinks that, 'cause we're servants, we ain't got no pashuns." - -This evening when Grace had stopped her lover on his beat, Cookie had -suggested that they should borrow the key and let him into the kitchen -by the side-passage. That was why Peter heard a man's voice when he -crept stealthily into the basement. The sound was so unexpected that he -paused to listen without any intention of eavesdropping. - -"It started Christmas mornin', didn't it, Grice?" It was Cookie -speaking. "The door was h'on the latch, the milk was watered, the -sorsage-rolls and me cushion was gone. We blimed the cat at first. H'I -was that h'angry, I threw a broom at 'er. Not but wot I might 'a known -as no cat could water milk if I'd 'a stopped ter thought. And then -Master Peter, 'im that's so ginerous, 'e forgets to give anyone 'is -Christmas presents. H'it beats creation, so it does. And h'ever since -then, though I h'ain't said much abart it, 'cause I didn't want ter git -'is pa h'angry, h'ever since then h'its been goin' h'on. One day h'it's -h'eggs missin'. 'Nother day h'it's beef--little nibbles like h'all -round. And yer may taik my word for h'it, the little master's h'at the -bottom h'of it. What d'yer sye abart that, Mr. Somp? Yer 'andle crimes, -don't yer? Wot's yer sudgestion?" - -Mr. Somp was the name of Grace's policeman. Mr. Somp thought. "Kid's -got a h'appetite, ain't 'e?" he procrastinated. "I 'ad a h'appetite -once.--But h'I wouldn't 'a believed it h'of 'im." - -Grace giggled. She had evidently felt the pressure of a burly arm. "Not -so frisky, cop. You 'old too 'ard. I ain't a drunk and disorderly." -Then, taking up the thread of the conversation, "A fine policeman you -are! 'Ow could a little boy h'eat Cookie's cushion?" - -Mr. Somp growled. Peter could imagine how he threw out his hands as he -said with all the weight of the noncommittal law, "Ah, there yer are!" - -"Come h'orf it, dearie. Yer don't know nothing." Grace tittered. - -"H'if that's so, h'I'd best be goin'." - -Cookie laughed. "Ain't 'e the boy for losin' 'is 'air? And me cookin' -'im a h'om'let? Yer'll 'ave a 'andful ter manage, Grice, when yer marry. -'Is temper's nawsty." - -Mr. Somp must have changed his mind at the mention of the omelet, for he -postponed his departure. - -In the dining-room Peter found Glory alone. - -"Where's Aunt Jehane?" - -"Mother's got a headache. She's gone to lie down." Peter took his place -on the hearth-rug, his legs apart, his back to the fire, in unconscious -imitation of his father. Glory bowed her head, hiding her face, and went -on with her darning. Peter watched her. How slight she was! How lonely -she looked in the great arm-chair. Then it struck him that she was -always working, and that Aunt Jehane very frequently had headaches. - -"Don't you ever want to play, Glory?" - -"Oh, yes, I want." - -"Why d'you say it like that? Just _I want_." - -"Where's the good of wanting?" - -The head bowed lower. The firelight shone in her hair. Her face was more -than ever hidden from him. - -"But you're such a little girl--a whole year younger than I am. When I -want to play I do it." - -"Do you?" - -It was always like that when Peter took notice of Glory--short questions -and short answers which led no further. - -Peter leant over her and stayed her hands. "I don't like to see you work -so hard." - -"It's sweet to hear you say so, Peter." He felt something splash and run -down his fingers. "I love to hear you say that. But you see, there's no -one to care for us now. I've got to do it. I always shall have to do it, -more and more." - -"Not when I'm a man." - -"When you're a man, Peter? What then?" - -"When I'm a man no one shall be sorry. I'll make people ashamed of -prisons and of letting other people be poor. No one shall go hungry. No -one shall go unhappy. I'll build happy houses everywhere. And, oh Glory, -I'll take all the little children with no shoes on their feet out into -the country to where the grass is soft." - -She looked up at him with her grave gray eyes--eyes so much older than -her years. "When you're a man, Peter, you'll be splendid." - -"But I didn't say it to make you say that. I said it because I wanted -you to know that there's a day coming when--when instead of making you -cry, dear Glory, I'll make you laugh." - -"Just me, Peter, all by myself?" - -She tilted back her head, gazing up at him, so that her hair rippled -back across her shoulders and her throat stretched white and long, like -a mermaid's looking up through water, Peter thought. - -"Just me only, Peter?" - -He couldn't understand why she should always want him to do things for -her only. She wasn't selfish like Riska. He was puzzled. - -"Why I'll make you laugh and Kay laugh and everybody, because you know, -Glory, we all ought to be happy." - -Her face fell. The eager gladness was dying out of it, so he added -hurriedly, "And most especially I want to help Uncle Waffles." - -Was he going to have told her? Probably he did not know himself. -There was a sound of running feet in the hall; Grace burst in on them -breathlessly. "Oh, mum, can I 'ave a word with you? There's a light in -the winder of the---- Where's yer ma, Miss Glory? Quick, tell me." - -"She's gone to lie down with Moggs. Her head---- But what's happened?" - -Grace was gone. As she climbed the house they heard her calling. Out in -the hall they found the policeman standing, with his baton in his hand; -he was trying to appear very brave, as though saying, "Fear nothing. I -am the law. I will protect you." - -Peter took one swift glance at Glory. Did she understand? He almost -fancied---- - -"Keep them here as long as you can," he whispered; "I'm going out." - -The last sight he had was of Aunt Jehane coming down the stairs. She was -in her night-gown with a counterpane flung round her. Moggs was in her -arms, crying against her shoulder. Eustace was clinging stupidly to her -nightgown. Aunt Jehane's 'mat' was off. Her forehead looked surprised -and her scant hair straggled away from it. Grace was explaining -vociferously. - -"I've called in the policeman, mum. Luckily 'e was passin'." - -"But what's he wasting time for?" Aunt Jehane asked tartly. "If you -didn't imagine the light, they're still there in the loft and he can -catch them." - -Mr. Somp spoke up for himself. "H'I was waitin' your h'orders." - -Peter flew down the path. The window was in darkness. Directly he -entered the stables he knew what had happened, for the air was heavy -with the smell of tobacco. - -"Uncle! Uncle!" - -"Here, sonny." - -"Quick. Come down. Grace saw you strike a match in the dark and a -policeman's coming to catch you." - -Peter had to go up after him, for Ocky's wits were clouded. He shook -him, saying, "Make haste. Can't you understand? Surely you don't want to -be caught." - -The fear, in Peter's voice pierced through the fog of alcohol and -reached Ocky's intellect. "But what's to be done?" - -"There's an empty tank in the yard--you know it? If you can get in there -before they come, they mayn't find you." - -Ocky woke to life. Stumbling and hurrying he dropped down through the -trap-door. As they ran across the yard, they heard the grumbling of -voices approaching. Ocky climbed on the tank, keeping low so as not to -be seen from the garden, and vanished. - -"Whatever you do, don't make a sound," Peter warned him. - -Uncle Waffles replied disgustedly, "It isn't empty. The water's up to me -ankles." - -Peter had hoped to get out of the stable before the search began; it -would look suspicious if they should find him. It was too late for that. -The voices were near enough for him to hear what was being said. - -"Nothin' 'ere, me gal. You must 'ave h'imagined it." - -"I didn't imagine it, neither. And don't call me 'me gal' as though h'I -was nothin' to yer." - -"I calls you 'me gal' in me h'official capacity." - -"I don't care abart yer capacity, h'official or defficial, I won't 'ave -it." - -"My, but yer crusty, Grice!" - -"H'I _am_ crusty and h'I tell yer for wot. Yer doubt my word--throw -h'aspersions on it. I did see a light, I tell yer." - -"Well, it ain't there now. The chap's gone." - -"Ow d'you know 'e's gone without lookin'?" - -"By a kind o' h'inkstink one dewelopes by bein' in the police force." - -"D'you know wot I'm thinkin'?--Yer funky." - -"Funky, h'am I? H'awright--h'it's h'all over between us. Never tell me -h'again that you loves me." - -They had been talking in loud voices from the start--quite loud enough -to warn any burglar. Now that they had quarreled their voices cut the -still night air in anger. Not a word was lost. - -Suddenly they paused. "Wot's that?" Grace asked the question in a sharp -whisper. - -"Footsteps or I'm no cop." - -Peter heard the click of Mr. Somp's lantern; it must have struck against -his buttons as he bent to examine. "Footsteps. Someone's been a-climbin' -this 'ere wall." - -"Well, ain't yer goin' ter do nothin'?" - -"You stand there, Grice, while I go for'ard. The chap may fire h'on us. -Good-bye, Grice. H'if anythin' should 'appen, remember I died a-doin' o' -me dooty." - -"Yer shan't. I'll come with yer. If 'e shoots we'll die together." - -"Grice, h'I commands yer in the nime o' the law ter stay where yer -h'are." - -But when the door into the yard opened cautiously, - -Grace was clinging to her lover's arm. They both looked frightened and -ready to withdraw. Slowly, slowly the bull's-eye swept the surface of -the snow. - -"More footsteps!" - -The ray of light followed along the tracks till it fell on Peter. - -"Well, I'll be blessed. Of h'all the---- I'll be blowed if 'e aren't!" - -Peter laughed. "It looked so lovely I couldn't stop indoors." - -"Yer've given us a nice scare, young master." - -"I didn't mean to. And when I heard that Grace thought it was a burglar, -I thought it would be such a lark to let you find me--just Peter." - -"That boy's dotty," said Grace's policeman; "a little bit h'orf." - -"Yer come ter bed h'at once," said Grace severely. "I'll tell yer pa. -See if I don't." - -She caught him roughly by the arm. Then Peter did something mean--he -hated himself while he did it. "If you do, I'll tell that you had Mr. -Somp in the kitchen. Father'll say you're not to be trusted." - -"Ah!" said Grace's policeman. "There's somethin' in that." - -"Ain't he artful?" said Grace. - -"Well," asked Peter, "will you keep quiet if I do? Is it a bargain?" - -"We didn't find nothink," said Grace's policeman. "We was mistooken." - -"It must 'a been the snow reflected in the winder," said Grace. -"Cur'ous, 'ow the snow deceives yer!--But oh, Master Peter, I never -thought this h'of yer. I reelly didn't." - -"Until to-night I never thought it of myself," said Peter a little -sadly. - -"Ah!" sighed Grace's policeman. But to himself he thought, "More in this -than meets the h'eye. I'll be danged if there aren't." - - - - -CHAPTER XXII--CAT'S MEAT LOOKS ROUND - -Peter kept awake for his parents' home-coming. Long before the cab drew -up he heard the jingle of the horse's harness and was out of bed. The -key grated in the front door; in the silence it sounded to Peter as -though the old house cleared its throat, getting ready to tell. Leaning -out across the banisters with bare feet shivering against the cold -linoleum, he lost little of what was said. - -Grace met his father and mother in the hall. "Why, Grace, you ought to -have been asleep two hours. I thought I told you not to wait up for us." - -"And you did, mam. So you did. But after the disturbance that we've -'ad----" Her voice sank to a mumbling monotone. - -Then his father spoke. "I never heard anything more absurd.--Can't be -away for a single evening without a stupid affair like this happening. -Lights in the stable, indeed! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And -you a grown woman! I wonder what next!" - -Grace was boo-hooing. "H'I'll never do it again. I did think I saw 'em. -No one'll know abart it. Mr. Somp won't tell." - -"Oh, go upstairs. The children'll be frightened for months now." - -Peter heard Grace come up to bed sobbing. Where would his wrong-doing -end? Romance had had a broom thrown at her; Grace had received a -scolding. The injustice was spreading. He examined the stain on his -heart in much the same way that Lady Macbeth looked at the stain on her -hands. Would it ever be clean again? "Never," he told himself in his -desperation, "never." - -As he turned to go back to his room he was alarmed by the sudden scurry -of naked feet. A flash of white disappeared round the corner and a -mattress creaked. Glory had been watching. - -When his mother bent over him that night he told another lie--he feigned -that he slept. As her fluffy hair touched his cheek he longed to drag -her down to him and tell her all. She would stretch herself beside him -in the darkness, holding him tightly, as she had done so often when he -had had something to confess. He denied himself the luxury.--That night -as he lay awake and listened, the angel in the cupboard whistled very -softly, very distantly, as though she were carrying Kay far away from -him. - -When he had offered his uncle a change of lodging, his uncle had said, -"Depends on the family." Peter had only one family to suggest; he didn't -at all know whether the family would accept Uncle Waffles. Gentlemen for -whom the law is searching are not popular as guests. - -During breakfast, despite frowns from Barrington, all Aunt Jehane's -conversation had to do with the shock she had suffered by reason of -Grace's folly. When Barrington banged his cup in his saucer, she lost -her temper. "Well, I don't see why I shouldn't talk about it. I had to -put up with the worry of it." - -"My good Jehane, haven't you any sense? You can say anything you like, -except before the children." - -"Goodness!" Jehane replied pettishly. "The children were here and saw -it." - -Peter slipped out. Through the white snow-strewn fields he hurried and -through Topbury Park where the snow was trodden black, till he came to -a quiet street and a tall house with stone steps leading up to it. Miss -Madge, the fat and jolly Miss Jacobite, answered his knock. - -"What a long face for a little boy to wear!" - -"If you please, I'd like to speak to Miss Florence." Miss - -Florence was the sister who was tall and reserved; she managed -everything and everybody. - -"Won't I do, Peter? She's busy at present." - -"Please, I've got to speak to her." - -Miss Madge ruffled his hair--she had seen his mother do that. "What a -strange little boy you are this morning! You look almost stern." - -She wanted to show him into the faded dining-room where a meager fire -was burning; but he said that he preferred to wait in the hall. She -looked back and laughed at him as she mounted the stairs. He did not -reply to her friendliness. Then she ran; he had some trouble which he -would not tell her. - -He stood there on the mat twisting his cap. From the varnished paper on -the wall a portrait of old Mr. Jacobite looked fiercely down. It seemed -to say to him, "Little coward, coming to a pack of women! Learn to bear -your own burdens." - -But where else could he go? Even if other friends were willing to help -him, they kept servants and had people in and out of their houses. -At the Misses Jacobite, provided he kept away from the windows, Uncle -Waffles might hide for a twelve-month and never be caught. - -Eerily, from the second floor, came the sound of Miss Leah singing. Her -song never varied and never quite came to an end. Peter could picture -how she sat staring straight before her through her red-rimmed eyes, her -empty hands folded in her lap. - - "On the other side of Jordan - - In the sweet fields of Eden - - Where the Tree of Life is growing - - There is rest for me." - -It almost made him cry to hear her. He was beginning to know just a -little of that need for rest. - -A door opened. The singing came out. To his astonishment Peter saw -Miss Leah approaching. Up to now she had never left her room to his -knowledge. She beckoned. Then she spoke in that hoarse voice of hers. "I -heard her tell Florence that you're in trouble. You're too young to know -sorrow. That comes surely. But for you not yet." - -She placed her thin hand on his shoulder and drew him with her into -the room where the blinds were always lowered. Closing the door, she -searched his face. "You have the look. Sorrow! Sorrow! I have suffered -and can understand. Don't be afraid. Tell me." - -And he told her--he never knew why or how. She listened, rocking to and -fro in her chair, with her dim eyes fixed upon him. When he paused for -a word she nodded encouragement, pulling her woolen shawl tighter round -her narrow shoulders. - -"And in spite of that you love him?--You're like a woman, Peter. You -love people for their faults and in defiance of common sense. And you -refuse to think he's bad?" - -"He's not really," said Peter. "The world's not been good to him." - -"Not really!" She spoke reflectively, as though she groped beneath the -words. "No, we're never bad really--only seem bad to other people till -they make us seem bad to ourselves.--Yes, you can bring him." - -But to bring him Peter needed Mr. Grace's help, and Mr. Grace had been -so candid in saying that "'e weren't worf it." - -When he reached the cab-stand, Mr. Grace wasn't there. He had waited an -hour before he saw Cat's Meat crawl out of the traffic. - -"Well?" said Mr. Grace, with an instinctive fore-knowledge. - -He let Peter explain his errand without comment till he came to the -account of the part played by Grace's policeman. - -"'Oly smoke! 'Fraid, was 'e?--But wot yer tellin' me h'all this for? -H'out wiv it?" - -"I want you to drive down the mews to-night and take us round to the -Misses Jacobite." - -Mr. Grace became very emphatic and solemn. "Cawn't be done. H'I wash me -'ands of 'im. Plottin' ag'in the law. Too daingerous." - -"Mr. Grace," asked Peter, softly, "who's afraid now?" - -"H'I'm not. Me afraid o' Grice's young man! Was that wot yer was -h'insinooating?" - -"But aren't you?" - -"No, I ain't." - -"Then prove it." - -"'Ow?" - -"By doing what I've asked you." - -Mr. Grace stared between Cat's Meat's ears, twisting a straw in his -mouth. The ears were pricked up. He nudged Peter. "D'yer see that? The -'oss is a-listenin'. 'E ain't much ter look h'at, but 'e's won'erful -h'intelligent. When h'I'm drunk 'e just walks by h'every pub and pays -no h'attention to my pullin'. 'E's like a mother, that 'oss is, ter me. -'E's more kind than a darter, which ain't sayin' much." - -"Well?" - -"Well wot? Oh, yes. H'am I goin' to 'elp yer stink-pot of a h'uncle? Ter -be frank wiv yer, I h'am." - -Cat's Aleat frisked his tail. Again Mr. Grace nudged Peter. "See that? -'E likes h'adwentures. Won'erful h'intelligent h'animal, but not much -ter look h'at!" - -With the falling of dusk they met. Peter heard the wheels coming down -the mews; slipping the bars from the stable door, he let his uncle out. - -"Yer a nice old cup o' tea," growled Mr. Grace, addressing Ocky, "a -reg'lar mucker. Tell yer wot yer oughter do--yer oughter sign the -pledge. 'Ope yer ain't got much luggage; me keb ain't as strong as it -were." - -Ocky retreated into the darkness of the interior. He had promised Peter -he would become a good man and for once was ashamed of himself. - -Seated by his side, Peter felt after his hand. "Don't mind what he -says." - -"But I am. It's true. I've been a mucker to you from first to last." - -Ocky coughed; the water in the tank had given him a cold on the chest. - -"I'm sure you haven't. Anyhow, you're going to be better now." - -"Going to try till I bust." - -As the cab lumbered out on to the Terrace a man saw it. He scratched his -head, thought twice, then began to run and follow. Coming up behind he -did what street-urchins do--he stole a ride on the springs, crouching -low so as to be unobserved. - -Cat's Meat alone was aware that something wrong had happened. He felt -the extra weight and halted. - -"Kum up." - -He refused to come up. - -"Kum up, won't yer?" - -No, he wouldn't. He planted his feet firmly. There was something that -had to be explained to him first. - -Very reluctantly Mr. Grace got out his whip--it was there for ornament; -he rarely used it. "Nar, look 'ere old friend, h'I don't wanter do it." -But he had to. - -Cat's Meat shook his head sorrowfully and looked round. His feelings -were hurt. When his master was drunk he accepted worse punishment than -that without resentment, but his master wasn't drunk now. Mr. Grace laid -the whip again across his back. Cat's Meat shrugged his shoulders and -snorted, as much as to say, "Don't blame me. Never say I didn't warn -yer." Then he moved slowly forward. - -"Now h'I wonder wot was the meanin' o' that?" reflected Mr. Grace. -"Don't like 'is cargo, h'I bet. Well, h'I don't, either. Won'erful -h'intelligent h'of 'im!" - -Inside the cab Peter was asking, "But if you don't like the 'medicine,' -why do you take it?" - -"Life's dull for a chap," said Ocky. He would have said more, but was -shaken by a fit of coughing. - -They crawled along by ill-lighted streets purposely, avoiding main -thoroughfares. As they drew up outside the Misses Jacobite's house, -Peter saw the slits of the Venetian blinds turned and guessed that four -tremulous ladies were watching. He opened the door for his uncle to get -out As Mr. Waffles alighted, a man jumped from behind the cab. - -"Yer caught, Cockie. Come along quiet." - -Mr. Grace heaved himself round. "Wot the devil!" He was blinking into -the eyes of Grace's policeman. - -"We can walk to the station," said Grace's policeman, "but h'if you'd -care to drive us---- Yer seem kind o' fond o' conductin' this party -round." - -"I'll drive 'im, but I'll be 'anged h'if I'll drive you, yer great fat -mutton 'ead." - -"Mutton 'ead yerself." - -Peter jumped into the gap. "Oh, do drive them, Mr. Grace. Don't let him -be dragged there in public." - -"If that's the wye yer feel abart it---- Anythin' fer you, Master -Peter." - -"Look 'ere," said Grace's policeman, "h'I'm in love with yer darter--as -good as one o' the family. We don't need to sye nothink abart the keb." - -"Get in, mutton 'ead." - -They got in. - -Cat's Meat shook his harness as much as to say, "Now you're sorry, I -suppose. What did I tell you?" - -Peter, as the cab grew dim in the distance, leant against the wall -sobbing. The door at the top of the steps opened timidly and Miss Leah -looked out. "Peter. Peter." But he couldn't bear to face her. - -As he stole home through the unreal shadows, he tried to persuade -himself that it hadn't happened. It must be his old disease--his -'magination. It was as though he had been playing with fear all -this while and now he experienced its actuality. It hadn't happened, -hadn't---- Then the pity of the pinched unshaven face, the huddled -shoulders and the iron hardness of the world overwhelmed him. - -And Uncle Waffles hadn't said a word when he was taken--he hadn't even -coughed. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII--AND GLORY SAID - -Peter asked to see his father alone. They went up together to the -study. Barrington knew that a confession was coming. He was curious. -Peter's sins were so extraordinary; they were hardly ever breaches of -the decalogue. His sensitive conscience had framed a lengthier code of -commandments, which no one but he would dream of observing. Barrington -struggled to keep his face grave and long; inwardly he was laughing. -He drew up his big chair to the fire--his soldier's chair the children -called it. He put out his knee invitingly. "Sit down, little son. What's -the trouble?" - -"I'd rather stand, father. You'll never want to speak to me again when -I've told you." - -Barrington observed Peter's pallor and the way his hands kept folding -and unfolding. - -"It can't be as bad as that, old man. Nothing could be." - -"But it is, father. I'm a thief and a liar, and I expect I'll be -arrested before morning." - -Peter's tense sincerity carried conviction. This time there was -certainly something the matter. - -"Well, Peter, I'll forgive you before you tell me. Now speak up like a -little knight. The bravest thing in all the world is to tell the whole -truth when it's easy to lie.--Queer things have been happening lately. -It's about those Christmas presents, now, isn't it?" - -Peter stood erect with his hands behind him, his curly head thrown back -and his knickerbockered legs close together. "You mustn't be kind to me, -father. It makes it harder. I'm going to hurt you." - -Barrington had never felt prouder of his son. He rested his chin on his -fingers and nodded. "Go on." - -In a low, tremulous voice he told him all, keeping the tears back -bravely. When he paused, his father waited; he wanted to hear Peter's -own story without frightening him by interruption. He had had an -important engagement that evening, but he let it slide. As the account -progressed he saw that here was something really serious. And yet how -Peterish it was to feel so poignantly the unjust punishing of Romance! -The humor of it all vanished when Peter told how Uncle Waffles had been -arrested. - -"And then," he said, "I came straight home to tell you. I don't suppose -you'll want me to live here any longer. It wouldn't be good for Kay; I'm -too wicked. I'm almost too bad for anybody. Kay--Kay'll never be able to -love me any more." - -They gazed at each other in silence. Barrington did not dare to trust -himself to talk; he knew that his voice would be unsteady. He was -frightened he would sink below Peter's standard and give way to crying. -He had to keep his eyes quite still for fear the tears would fall. And -he recalled the last confession that this room had heard--it was from -Ocky. He compared it with Peter's. - -The minutes dragged on. Peter watched his father's face; he saw there -the worst thing of all--sorrow. - -A coal falling in the grate took their attention for a moment from -themselves. - -Barrington leant further forward. "What made you do it, Peter?" - -"I loved him." - -"But what made you love him when you came to know all?" - -"Because nobody else loved him." Peter caught his voice tripping on a -sob and stopped. - -"But he made other people unhappy. Just think for a minute: Aunt -Jehane's homeless and so are all your cousins." - -"I know. But it seemed so dreadful for him to be lonely, wandering -about--wandering about at Christmas." - -"But wasn't it his own fault?" - -Peter bit his lip--he'd never thought of not loving people just because -they'd done wrong. Things were all so tangled. He remembered Jesus and -the dying thief on the cross. Surely that, too, was the thief's own -fault? But he knew that people rarely quoted the Bible except on -Sundays--so he just looked at his father and said nothing.--Again the -minutes dragged on. - -There was a tap at the door. Glory entered shyly. "I'm going to bed, -Uncle. May I kiss you and Peter goodnight?" - -Barrington nodded. "Come here, little girl; but first close the door." - -As she stooped over him, he slipped his arm round her and drew her to -his knee. "Peter isn't going to kiss you to-night. He thinks he isn't -worthy." - -"Peter not worthy!" She shook back the hair from her eyes and gazed from -Peter to her uncle incredulously. - -"He doesn't think he's worthy to be loved by any of us. He expects he -won't live here much longer." - -"But why? Why?--Peter can't have done anything wicked." - -"I'm going to ask him to tell you what he's done, just as he told me. -And then I want you to say what you think of him." - -It was hard to have to repeat his confession, but Peter did it. While -he spoke, his father could feel how Glory's body stiffened and trembled. -Sometimes her eyes were unexcited, as though she were listening to an -old story. Sometimes they were like stars, fixed and glistening. When -the end was reached, she bowed her head on her uncle's shoulder, shaken -with deep sobbing. "Poor father! Oh, poor father!" - -As she grew quiet, Barrington turned her face toward his. "And that," he -said, "is why Peter thinks he isn't worthy. He's waiting, Glory. You've -not told him yet what you think of him." - -She looked toward Peter, dazed, as though not fully understanding. Then -she saw how alone and upright he was standing; it dawned on her that he -was really waiting for her to pronounce his sentence. She rose to her -feet; her uncle's arm still about her. - -"Why--why, I think Peter's the most splendiferous boy in the world." - -Barrington laughed. "D'you know, I didn't dare to say it; but that's -just what I've been thinking all evening." - -It was only when Glory's arms went about him that Peter sank below his -standard of courage. - -"I guessed it all the while," she whispered; "I was waiting for you to -tell me. Why wouldn't you let me help you?" - -Ah, why, why? How often in years to come would she ask him that -question, not with her lips as now, but with her gravely following eyes! - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV--THE TRICYCLE MAKES A DISCOVERY - -H'I'm a better man than you are," said Mr. Grace. - -"In wot respeck?" asked Mr. Somp. - -"In h'every respeck," said Mr. Grace. "Nice wye yer've got o' h'arsking -fer me darter's 'and." - -Mr. Somp rubbed his nose, finished off his beer and winked at the -barmaid. Then he turned with a smile of tolerant patronage to his future -father-in-law. 'Any'ow, Cockie, h'I didn't need to h'arsk yer. Yer must -allaws remember that you come in on the second h'act." - -"Wot d'yer mean?" - -"H'I mean the curtain was h'up and the play'd began when you h'entered." - -"H'information ter me--I'm larnin'." Mr. Grace tossed off his pot to -show his supreme contempt and signed for another. Having wiped his mouth -with the back of his hand, he spoke reflectively. "So I h'entered when -the bloomin' curtain was h'up! Now I h'allaws thought as I wuz be'ind -the scenes and 'elped ter mike 'er." - -"A peep be'ind the scenes," chirped the barmaid; "read a book called -that once. Mr. Grice this 'ouse is respeckable. If you ain't careful -you'll get chucked h'out." - -Mr. Somp looked deeply shocked. "That ain't no subjeck to mention before -ladies--birth ain't a matter ter be discussed in publick. It 'appens to -h'all of us, but people as is well brought h'up tries to ferget it." - -Glancing round and seeing that opinion was against him, Mr. Grace -retreated a step in the argument. "You said as h'I came in on the second -h'act. As 'ow?" - -"H'after I'd h'arsked yer darter and she'd said 'yus.' In 'igh society -h'it's considered perlite to h'arsk the purmission o' the parent." - -"'Igh society be blowed. Pooh!" - -"Well, and 'avn't I been purmoted?" said Mr. Somp importantly, scenting -an affront. - -Mr. Grace was surprised into an expression of astonishment. Then, in an -effort to recover lost ground, "Wot mug purmoted you?" To the barmaid he -said, "H'I'll be King's jockey if h'I wite long enough." - -Mr. Somp swelled out his chest. "H'I got purmotion fer nabbin' that -bloke Waffles. Wot d'yer sye ter me proposal now?" - -An audience of tap-room loafers had gathered; there was a reputation to -be won. "H'I sye wot h'I've awready said. H'I'm a better man than you are -and me darter's better." - -"In wot respeck?" Mr. Somp was tenacious. - -"She's a h'orator as yer'll soon find h'out if yer marry 'er." - -The policeman gazed at the cabman sombrely. "That don't mike 'er no -better; h'it mikes 'er wuss. H'I've found that h'out. It's my h'opinion -that wimen should be seen and not 'eard." - -"So yer've found it h'out, 'ave yer?" Into Mr. Grace's voice had crept a -sudden warmth of fellow-feeling and friendliness. - -"Ter my regret," sighed Grace's policeman, wagging a mournful head. "If -I'd knowed before h'I got ter love 'er---- Ah, well! It don't mend -matters ter talk abart it." - -Mr. Grace heaved himself off the bench. "Shike 'ands, old pal; yer goin' -ter suffer." - -Mr. Somp gloomily accepted the proffered hand, looking at the barmaid. -"H'I'm afraid I h'am." - -"Then why not taik me?" asked the barmaid cheerily. - -"And why not? That's the question. My dear, you might mike me suffer -wuss." - -"And I mightn't 'ave you," she said coyly. "Any'ow, Mr. Somp had no -sympathy with the Salvation Army old top, try me next. Yours truly, -Gertie, h'always ready ter oblige a friend." - -It was the day after the honeymoon, which had consisted of a -steamer-trip to Greenwich, that Mr. Somp confided to Mr. Grace, "Too -much religion abart your gel." At that hour Mr. Somp and Grace's father -became friends. - -[Illustration: 0227] - -Grace's husband had no sympathy with the Salvation Army--he didn't feel -the need of conversion; and Grace, for her part, had no patience with -men who refused to sign the pledge. Mr. Somp took revenge for domestic -wrongs in his official capacity, by moving his wife along when he -found her beating her drum at street corners. Mrs. Somp punished him by -keeping him awake at night while, to use his own words, she sneaked to -God abart him. She even addressed God in the highways on this intensely -private matter, when she saw her husband approaching. She followed -St. Paul's advice by being urgent in season and out in her rebuking, -long-suffering, teaching and exhorting. Her lofty sense of right and -wrong depressed him; he grew slack, lost his standing in the force and -gradually ceased to work. His self-confidence melted before her superior -morality. - -So she went back to the Barringtons by the day to do charring and to -give extra help. That was how Peter came to know all about her intimate -matrimonial problems. He heard the other side from Mr. Grace and Mr. -Somp, who now had a common grievance--they wanted to drink and Grace -tried to prevent them. "Don't you never marry a good woman," they both -advised him; "good wimen is bad." - -Grace, on the other hand, despite her frequent complaints, held that -her husband was a very decent man, but bone-lazy. Having proved prayer -useless, she could think of only one other remedy. "If I was ter die, -father'd be sorry and my 'usband 'ad 'ave ter work; but I ain't got the -'eart ter do it." - -To which Cookie would reply, "I'm sure yer 'aven't, dearie. It's them as -should do the dyin'." - -After Ocky's arrest a period of flatness followed. The uncertainty which -had kept the household nervous and hoping for the best no longer buoyed -them up. Until they heard that Waffles had been sentenced, they could -make no plans for Jehane's future. Barrington placed money at his -disposal for his defence and went to see him once. He never disclosed -what happened; but his face was ashen when he returned. All that -evening, when anyone spoke to him, he seemed to have to wake before he -could answer. Next morning he told Jehane, "Ocky wants to see you." She -shook her head. "He's dragged me low enough. I never intend to see him -again." - -"If that's the way you feel, you couldn't help him; it's better that you -shouldn't visit him." - -She looked into the shrewd gray eyes fiercely. She wanted to find anger -there--she could resent anger; she found only quiet judgment. "You don't -mean that you actually expected me to go to him?" - -"I expected nothing, but he's in trouble. You've given him -children--he's your husband. In all your years together there must have -been some hours that are sweet to remember. I did rather hope that, now -that he's in trouble, you might have remembered them." - -"Well, I don't. I'm ashamed that I ever had them." - -"All right. It's strange; but I think I understand. He still loves you, -Jehane, and you could have helped the chap." - -"Love! What's the value of his love?" - -"I think its value once was whatever you cared to make it." - -Later in the day he said to her, "And you wouldn't let Glory see him, I -suppose? He mentioned her." - -"No, I wouldn't. He's not her father. Captain Spashett was a gentleman." - -The children were never told what occurred at the trial; all they knew -was that the man who had laughed and played with them, who had loved the -sunshine so carelessly, was to be locked up for a time so long that it -seemed like the "ever and forever" of the Bible. It was like burying -someone who was not dead--they seemed to hear him tapping. And they must -not go to him; they must pretend they had not heard. He was a thing to -be shunned and forgotten. - -Jehane was anxious to earn her living. But how? She had been trained to -do nothing. Barrington bought her a little cottage near Southgate, which -at this time was still in the country. Gradually he got into the habit -of letting her do a little outside reading for his firm--he did it to -enable her to pretend that she was self-supporting. To his surprise she -developed a faculty for the work and he began to trust her judgment. She -had inherited a literary instinct of which, during her married life, she -had remained unaware. It was a feeble instinct, but in the end it proved -sufficiently rewarding. She took to writing sentimental novelettes, -which found a market. Whatever her faults of heart, she had always been -capable and gifted with a strong sense of duty; so, now that she had -found a means of making money, she worked hard with her pen, stinting -herself and treating her children with foolish liberality. - -Her chief regret was that Ocky had spoilt the marriage chances of her -girls; she tried to rub out this social stain by creating the impression -that her husband was dead. She had two extravagances--the purchase of -hair-tonics and a mania for visiting fortune-tellers. She had one great -hope--that in the future she might re-marry. This would entail Ocky's -death; but she was not so cruel as to reason that out. She had one -great mission--to teach her daughters to catch men. Her chief theme of -conversation with her children was the wickedness of their father and -the heroic loyalty of her own conduct. No doubt there were times when -her conscience troubled her. - -Peter was just fifteen and Kay was nearly nine when all this happened. -It made a deep impression on both of them, but especially on Peter. For -months the crushed shoulders and sunken face of Uncle Waffles haunted -his memory, so that it seemed a crime to be happy. He could not bear -to enter the stable; he was always expecting to hear a hoarse voice -addressing him in a whisper from the loft, calling him a ha'penny marvel -or enquiring whether he knew the story of the husband whose wife had -black hair. Often in the street he would turn sharply at the sight of -some shabby outcast, shuffling through the crowd with bowed head. He -would run to the window, hardly daring to own what he expected, when -he heard the mournful singing along the Terrace of a group of -out-of-works: - - "We've got no work to do, - - We've got no work to do; - - We're all thrown out, poor labourin' men, - - And we've got no work to do." - -Sooner or later he would recognize, he knew, in one of the tattered -singers his Uncle Waffles. Peter was suffering from a suddenly awakened -social conscience; he did not know enough to call it that. - -It was partly because Barrington had observed and was distressed by his -boy's sadness, that he granted his desire. He granted it to give him a -new interest. Peter had always dreamt of a day when he should polish up -the tandem tricycle, put Kay on the back seat and ride off with her into -the country. - -"Well, Peter, I'll let you do it if you'll promise to be very careful." - -It was early summer when these splendid adventures commenced. Peter had -to do all the work--Kay's legs were too short to reach the pedals. But -what did he care? Just to have his little sister all to himself, London -dropping away behind and the world growing greener before him--what more -could a boy ask to make him happy? - -The tandem trike was a clumsy solid-tired affair--desperately heavy and -beyond belief old-fashioned. Peter managed to accomplish six miles an -hour on it. The way out, along Green Lanes to Wood Green and up Jolly -Butcher's Hill, would have been full of ignominy for anybody less -light-hearted. Kay's flying hair and plunging legs would have attracted -attention had the tricycle been ever so new and handsome. - -Errand-boys stood still and whistled after them. Tradesmen followed -them in their carts, offering to race them and grinning ridicule. Very -frequently insult set itself to the words of a street song then in -fashion: - - "It won't be a stylish marriage; - - For I can't afford a carriage; - - But you'll look sweet with your two little feet - - On a tricycle made for two." - -What did Peter care? Ill-nature failed to touch him. Little boys who -pulled faces at him from the pavements, made long noses at him or stuck -out their tongues, did it in envy. He wished he could take them too. So -he and Kay turned their heads and threw back laughter. It was fun--all -fun. And then there was the anticipation of lunch; two shillings between -two people can buy so much. - -Shortly after Jolly Butcher's Hill the country began. At Southgate they -would stop to see their cousins. Riska affected to despise their means -of traveling. She was shooting up into a tall girl, like her mother; she -was darkly handsome and carried herself with a gipsy slouch. Jehane's -philosophy, of teaching her girls how to catch men, was already -beginning to take effect. Outside the cottage-gate she had a little -table from which she sold ginger-beer to Cockney cyclists. She did it -to make pocket-money; even as a child, by this means of introduction she -gathered about her a group of boy-lovers. She was learning early how -to attract when she cared. Her mother was pleased by her foolish -conquests--in the rose-scented air of the cottage garden they seemed -very guileless and humorous. In the presence of men, whatever their -years, Riska invariably tried to fascinate. - -"It's an instinct with her, the little puss," said Barrington; "she even -tries to make love to her old uncle." - -It was a subject for laughter in the family. - -On these short visits Kay and Peter saw hardly anything of Glory--she -was doing the work. Just as they were going she would come out from -the kitchen, untying her apron, or would pop her head out of a bedroom -window to shake a duster and smile at them. Then, as the pedals began to -turn, Riska would sing half-tauntingly, and Eustace and Moggs would join -in with her pipingly: - - "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true, - - I 'm half-crazy, all for the love of you. - - It won't be a stylish marriage, - - For I can't afford a carriage, - - But you'll look sweet-" - -The words would be lost as the tricycle lumbered into the sunshine -between the hedges. - -Kay used to say, when she was very little, that the gladness went into -her feet when she was happy. On these expeditions it went everywhere, -into her feet, her eyes, her lips, her hands. She did the things that -boys do, and yet she had the sweetness of a girl. She ran like a boy and -she swam like a boy. She was a darling and a puzzle to Peter; he could -never make her out. He was always trying to put her dearness into words -and always failing. - -"Your voice is like the laughter of birds," he said. "But why do you -love me so much, Peter?" - -He slanted his eyes. "Because I borned you." He knew better than that -now. - -Sometimes they spoke of their cousins. - -"I did something horrid this morning." - -"Don't believe it." - -"Oh, but yes. I was brushing the dust off my shoes in the kitchen, and -what do you think I found?" - -"Hurry up and tell me." - -"That Glory hadn't had time to eat her breakfast and that some of the -dust had gone into her plate of porridge." - -"Oh, Peter! How careless! Did you tell her?" - -"She came in and saw it. You'd never guess what she said.--'Never mind, -old boy. One's got to eat a peck o' dirt before one dies. So mother -says.' And she took a spoon and-----" - -"And ate it?" - -Peter nodded, trying to look penitent, but laughing. - -Then Kay became grave-eyed and asked one of her questions. "But do you?" - -"Do you what?" - -"Have to eat a peck of dirt before you die?" - -Peter wriggled his toes in his shoes and looked down to see them moving. -"Don't know. You and I don't. But that's what Glory says." - -Having learnt to walk like a boy, Kay learnt to whistle. One hot -summer's afternoon they had ridden out and were lying on their backs -in a field tall with grass, nearly ready for cutting. Peter had almost -drowsed with the heavy smell of the wild flowers, when he sat up -suddenly and seized his sister by the arm quite roughly. She was only -whistling a little tune softly and was surprised at the strength he -used. - -"Peterkins, what's the matter? You're hurting. I'm sure you've made a -bruise." - -He paid no attention to her protest. "Where'd you learn that?" - -"What?" - -"That tune you were whistling?" - -"Don't know. Just made it up, I suppose. I never heard it." - -"But you must have." - -"But I haven't, Peter." She was frightened by his earnestness, mistaking -it for anger. - -"Did you never hear it in the cupboard in the bedroom--the one that was -yours and mine?" - -She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. "You're joking." - -"I'm not. I'm in dead seriousness." - -The tears came. "I'm telling the truth. I never knew it till this -moment." - -"Whistle it again." - -"I can't. I forget it." - -As the children's legs grew stronger they went further afield, -conquering new territory, exploring all kinds of dusty lanes and -by-roads. They had turned off from Potter's Bar to Northaw, working -round through Gough's Oak to Cheshunt when they were hailed by a -freckled boy, about Peter's age, who sat astride a gate, playing a -mouth-organ. - -"Hey, kids! Want to buy anything?" - -They jammed on the brakes and addressed him from the trike. "Got -anything to sell?" - -"Nope. Just wanted to talk and had to say something." - -"But who are you?" - -"I've lived in America and now I'm living here in Friday Lane. I've -often seen you go by." - -They looked round to discover Friday Lane; on every side was a sweep of -country, rolling away in sun-dazzled fields and basking woodlands. - -"But--but it's lonely here." - -"Yup. But it's lonelier where I come from. Nothing but Indians and -prairie." - -Even Indians didn't turn them aside; they were trying to unravel the -mystery of Friday Lane. - -"Is this road the Lane?" - -"That's the Lane." The boy pointed with a brown hand to a grass-grown -field-track starting from the gate on which he sat and vanishing between -a line of tall oaks--oaks which had probably been standing when the land -was part of the royal chase. - -"But there aren't any houses." - -The boy laughed. "Oh, aren't there? There's our house, right over there, -out of sight." - -"And who are you?" Kay and Peter asked together. - -"I'm Harry Arran and the house belongs to my brother. He's the Faun Man; -I kind o' look after him and keep him straight. He's a wonder; you'd be -lucky if you knew him." - -"We'd like to know him. We'd both like to know him very much." Again -they spoke together. - -The boy thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed them. - -"Don't know so much about that. I'm very particular about my brother. I -don't let him know just anybody." - -He twisted round on the gate, turning his back on them, and re-commenced -playing, giving them plainly to understand that their too eager interest -in his family affairs had made conversation undesirable. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV--THE HAPPY COTTAGE - -It was the way in which the boy had said "just anybody." Peter gazed -beyond the gate into the green mysterious depth of country--an Eden from -which he was excluded by that hostile back. His eyes followed Friday -Lane: it ran on, trees, sunshine and shadows, tremulous with the wings -of birds, a canopied track, across fields, into the heart of wooded -fairyland. What promises lay over there? A voice of ecstasy kept -calling. - -Reluctantly he set his feet against the pedals, glanced across his -shoulder to Kay and was going to have said-- - -Something that glistened shot down her cheek and swiftly vanished. - -Very deliberately he dismounted. Yankee-Doodle, or a tune not unlike -it, was being played at the moment. He thumped the student of the -mouth-organ in the place from which Eve was created. Kay, all legs, -flushed face and blown hair, watched from the back seat of the trike the -novel sight of her brother being violent. - -The boy tumbled from his perch, putting the gate between himself and -Peter. Yankee-Doodle ended abruptly--the mouth-organ slipped from his -hand. The freckled good humor of his face changed to an expression of -amused and fierce intelligence. It was his way to be amused when he was -angry or in danger--Kay and Peter were to learn that later. He bobbed -in the grass, recovered his fallen treasure, rubbed it on his sleeve, -stuffed it into his knickerbockers' pocket and grimaced across the rail. - -"You're a fresh kid." - -Peter removed his cap; his curly hair fell about his forehead. "You've -made my sister cry," he said. His hands were clenched. - -One leg hopped over the gate; then another. "I haven't," the boy denied -stoutly. - -"You have. You called her 'just anybody.'" - -The boy stepped into the road--a pugnacious little figure. "Pshaw! What -of it? Girls cry for nothing." - -Peter drew himself erect. "My sister doesn't." - -The boy raised his eyes and met Kay's. Ashamed of himself, but more -ashamed of showing it, he spoke stubbornly, "She's doing it now." - -There was silence. A small strained voice, which sounded not at all like -Peter's, said, "I never hurt people. I never fought in my life. But if I -did ever fight, I'd like to punch your head. And--and I think I could do -it." - -The boy lost his shame and became happy. "Guess you can't. Anyhow, why -don't you have a shot at it?" - -Without waiting for a reply, he commenced to take off his coat and to -roll up his shirt-sleeves. He did it with an air of competence which was -calculated to intimidate. All the while he carried on a monologue. "So -he'd like to punch my head--_my_ head. Why, I could get his goat by just -looking at him. In America I've licked boys twice his size, and they -hadn't curly hair, either." He faced Peter, doubling his fore-arm, and -inviting him to feel his muscle. "See that. Say, kid, I'm sorry for -you.--Ready?" - -Peter nodded; before his nod had ended something hit him on the nose. He -threw up his arms to defend himself, but the something seemed all about -him. Always smiling into his own was the freckled face of a pleasant -looking boy--so pleasant that it was hard to believe that it was he who -was doing the hurting. And Peter--he hit back valiantly; but somewhere -at the back of his brain he kept on seeing pictures of the boy dead. It -was disconcerting; every now and then, when he should have pressed home -his advantage, he shortened his blows intentionally, with the strong -weakness of the humanitarian. - -A bird rose twittering out of a hedge. From a meadow across the road, -a cow hung its mild head over, looked shocked, switched its tail -disapprovingly, mooed loudly, swung round and lumbered away uncertainly, -like a distressed old lady with gathered skirts, in a futile endeavor to -bring help. - -Peter saw it all. His faculties were unnaturally and desperately alert. -It was odd how time lengthened its minutes--how much he saw and heard: -the deep blue stillness of sky-lagoons, the foam and wash of traveling -clouds, the erect and listening quiet of tree-sentinels and hedges, -and, somewhere out of sight, the sigh-sigh-sighing of wind in distant -country. - -There was a cry behind him. How long had he been fighting? He could not -guess. Between himself and the boy rushed a little girl. Her small hands -commenced to beat the boy furiously. She could not speak; she was choked -with sobbing. The boy's arms fell to his side; he let her aim her puny -blows at his impudent face, making no attempt to stop her. Suddenly she -swayed and sank into the flowers at the side of the road. Peter stooped; -his arms went about her. The boy looked on, gazing from these strange -invaders to the waiting trike. It was he who was excluded now. He wanted -to say something--opened his mouth several times and halted. At last he -stumbled out the words. - -"I'm--I'm sorry. And you're not just anybody." And then, "I say, you're -plucky 'uns--won't you shake hands?" - -The bird came back to the hedge and dropped into its nest. The cow, -having sought help in vain, looked distractedly into the road and saw -a boy pushing open a gate, while another boy, a little bruised and -battered, pushed an ancient tandem tricycle into a meadow, and a small -girl, with flushed face and blowy corn-colored hair, dabbed her eyes -furtively with the hem of her dress. - -The trike had to be hidden. It was unlikely, but always possible, that -it might be coveted by tramps. Friday Lane lay before them. The boy -turned to them with abrupt frankness. "Here, what your names?" - -"Mine's Peter, and my sister's is Kay." - -"Well, Peter, I guess I hit harder than I meant. But--but I reckon you -could have punched my head if you'd chosen. Didn't get warmed up to the -work before she stopped us--was that it?" - -They were up to their knees in the meadow-world; the air was full of -kind new fragrances. Peter's eyes were dreamy. The boy rambled on, -leading deeper into the avenue of oaks, so that already the first -straggling fringe of woods commenced. "My brother's like that. In -Alaska, when the dogs took to fighting, he'd just stand still and laugh -and holler at them. Then, all of a sudden, when he saw that they were -eating one another, he'd go clean mad and wade in among 'em and lay 'em -out with the butt of his rifle. He's a wonder, my brother." - -"I'm sure he is," said Peter, and Kay, trotting closely by his side, -repeated his words to show her interest. - -The boy, flattered by the attention of his audience, with the treachery -of the born story-teller, sharpened their appetite by suspense. He -wagged his head mysteriously. "I could tell you heaps about him if you -were to come here often." - -He waited to see what effect that would have. Kay had been hiding behind -her brother, clinging to his hand. Now she came level with him, bending -her face across him so that she could meet the eyes of the boy. She -asked, "May we, Peter? Do you think we can?" - -"Not often," said Peter guardedly; "but as often as we can." - -The boy held out a further inducement. "One day I might show him to you. -He's like that with dogs and--and especially with girls: laughs at 'em, -hollers at 'em, and then-----. He's the most glad-eyed chap that ever -came down the pike, I reckon. That's what gives me all my trouble." - -Neither Kay nor Peter knew exactly what was meant. So Peter said, -"You've been everywhere, haven't you? And we--we just tricycle out -and----" - -The boy had drawn his mouth-organ from his pocket and was playing, -stamping his feet and swaying his body. Suddenly he stopped and his -voice took up the air: - - "I've been shipwrecked off Patagonia, - - Home and Colonia, - - Antipodonia; - - I've shot cannibals, - - Funny looking animals, - - Top-knot coons; - - I've bought diamonds twenty a penny there, - - I've been somewhere, nowhere, anywhere-- - - And I'm the wise, wise man of the - - Wide, wide world." - -They gazed at him wide-eyed in the hushed summer woodland. Then they -beat their hands together, crying, "Oh, again, again, please." - -The boy smiled tantalizingly. "Can you climb?" He shot the question out. -The next moment he was scrambling up a tall oak. Sometimes his body -was lost in leaves. Sometimes it sounded as though he were tumbling, -tumbling through the branches to the ground. At last, from a bough high -up where the sky commenced, his impish face gazed down on them. First -they heard the mouth-organ, then the voice, singing of somewhere, -nowhere, anywhere--of the splendidly imagined No-Man's-Land through -which every child has longed to wander. - -And they believed his song, as though it were autobiography. In a -picture-flash they saw the world, beautiful, tumultuous, full of -terrors--saw it as a vast balloon, swimming through eternal clouds, -painted with the dreams of young desire: islands in sun-drenched seas, -where palms stood motionless, pointing to the skies with silent hands; -countries of yellow men, small and crafty, who lived in paper houses and -fed on flowers; enfeebled cities, dazzlingly white, whose eyes had -been burnt out by the door of hell left open in the iron heavens; and -snow-deserts where the frost carved Titans with his breath. - -This freckled pugnacious master of the mouth-organ, - -This pugnacious master of the mouth organ, caroling a street song in the -tree-turrets of Friday Lane, became for them the embodied soul of -adventure. - -[Illustration: 0243] - -The boy came slithering down. Kay watched him, how he dangled by -his arms, caught on with his legs, dug in with his toes, got himself -completely dirty and always saved himself at the last moment from -falling. - -He dropped breathless at their feet. "It's fine up there. Different from -down here. Up there it belongs to anybody." - -Kay wasn't quite sure that she approved of him. He had ripped his coat, -and it didn't seem quite kind to give his mother so much work. She spoke -reproachfully. "D'you like tearing your clothes?" - -He gazed at her out of the corners of his eyes with a sly expression. -"I don't mind. Don't need to mind--my clothes are magic. They mend -themselves." - -"Mend themselves!" She tugged at Peter, to see in what spirit he was -accepting this amazing assertion. "Why, how wonderful!" And then, -reluctant to show doubt, "But--but how can they?" - -The boy grinned broadly. "Not really, you know--just pretence. I--I mend -them myself. I'm an awful liar. Come on now." - -Confession had made him self-conscious; he darted ahead. Kay and Peter -followed slowly. He turned. "Aren't you coming?" - -It was Peter who answered. "But to where?" - -"To where I live--the Happy Cottage." - -Was this also pretence? The name sounded too good to be true--and yet it -was the kind of name you tried to believe, despite yourself. - -The boy left the grassy avenue and broke into the undergrowth of woods. -He went in front, parting the branches for Kay. He explained to them, -"Friday Lane's shorter, you know; but this other way's heaps jollier." - -Presently above the rustle of their passage they heard a little singing -sound. Sometimes it grew quite loud and near them; sometimes it died -away into the merest breath. - -It was like someone who was almost asleep, humming over and over the -first two notes of a tune that refused to be remembered. Kay snuggled -her hand into Peter's; she was a little scared. Everything was so dark -and eerie. The sound drew near and seemed to slip away from under her -very feet. She cried out; it was as though someone had touched her and -had vanished before she could turn round. - -The boy heard her cry and looked back. He nodded reassuringly. "It's -always doing that--plays no end of pranks. You needn't be frightened; it -won't hurt you." - -"But what is it? What won't hurt you?" Peter asked almost angrily. - -The boy laid his finger on his lips. "The wood's haunted. That's the -queen fairy calling. There are all kinds of fairies hidden about here. -When you see them, they turn into rabbits and birds, and----" Because -Kay had covered her face, he stopped. "I'm--I'm an ass. It isn't really, -you know. I just tell myself that." - -"Then what is it?" asked Peter, slightly awed, for the voice kept on -singing. - -The boy laughed. "It's the tiniest little river that's lost itself. It -creeps about under the bushes and wriggles through the leaves on its -tummy, trying to find a way out." - -"And does it find it?" asked Kay, plucking up her courage. - -"You bet you. Wait till we get to the Happy Cottage." And all of a -sudden they got there. It was as though the little river had led them, -for just where they broke out into the sunlight it rushed past them, -flashing silver and singing merrily, with all the words of its song -remembered. At first they saw a green, green stretch of grass, over -which the yellow of cowslips drifted like blown gold-dust. Then they -saw Friday Lane, with its tall oaks holding back the woods, like big -policemen marshaling a crowd when a procession is expected. And then -they saw the Happy Cottage--a bee-hive, with low-thatched roof, set down -in a refuge of flowers. It had one chimney, from which smoke was lazily -ascending; and it must be logs that the fire was burning, for the air -was filled with the indescribable homey smell that sets one dreaming -of all the country cottages, tucked away in gardens, and all the summer -happiness he has ever chanced on. - -They followed the little stream right up to the high hedge which went -about the Happy Cottage; they crossed it by a plank, pushed open a gate -and entered. Flowers, flowers everywhere and the banjo-music of bees -humming. A red-tiled path, moss-grown and edged with box, led through a -wilderness of beauty, comfortably untrimmed and neglected. The door of -the cottage stood open; across its threshold lay a Great Dane, which -rose up and growled at sound of their footsteps. The boy called to him, -"All right, Canute, old dog. Come here, old fellow." - -Canute came with the solemn suspicion of majesty, ignoring the -strangers, and placed his great head against his master's breast, gazing -up attentively. - -"Canute, this is Kay and this is Peter. They're my friends. You've got -to look after them. D'you understand?" - -The dog blinked his eyes and turned away indifferently, as much as to -say, "Your friends! Humph! We'll see. Very sudden!" - -"He's always like that with newcomers," said the boy. "He's very -particular about my brother. Guess he's thinking what I said, that he -don't let the Faun Man know just anybody." Fearful lest he should have -given offence, he made haste to add, "But you're not just anybody any -longer." - -The door opened without ceremony directly into the living-room. The -leaded windows were pushed back; roses stared in and bent inquisitively -across the sills, spilling their petals. The house was silent; it was -like stealing into someone's heart when the soul was absent. Guns on -the walls, brilliant little sketches, golf-sticks in a corner, old oak -furniture, a mandolin lying in a chair--everything betrayed the room's -habitation by a strong and alluring personality. Peter, looking round, -became conscious of a spirit of loneliness and yearning. On the walls -were pictures of many beautiful women, but in the house itself were no -signs of a woman's hands. - -The boy explained. "He's not here to-day. He's gone to town. This -is where we play; it's upstairs that he works." He volunteered no -information concerning the task at which the Faun Man worked. Casting -his eyes round the walls, he said, "Those are all his girls. Pretty! Oh, -yes. But they give me an awful lot of trouble. Want some tea? Yes?" - -He went out into the kitchen at the back. He let the children follow -him, but refused their offers of help. "I'm a rare little cook, I can -tell you. Had to be on our ranch in America--there was no one else. You -just watch me." - -But Kay had been thinking. She had supposed that there were mothers -everywhere--that every boy had a----. She said, "Where are your mother -and sisters?" - -He looked up from toasting some bread. "Haven't any." - -She laid her hand on his arm. "But--but didn't you ever have any?" - -He answered cheerfully, not at all sorry for himself, "Nope. Not that I -remember." - -She glanced at her brother. "Peter and I've always been together." - -Peter added, "So that's why you thought girls cried for nothing? You -don't know anything about them. I shouldn't have been angry." - -The boy winked joyfully. "Oh, don't I know anything! Leave that to the -Faun Man. I know just as much as I want to. But say, I'd have liked to -have had your sister for my sister. I really would have." - -Kay leant over his shoulder as he knelt before the fire. "If I were your -sister, d'you know what I'd do for you? I'd tell you not to climb trees -and, if you did do it, I'd mend your clothes for you." - -He told them something of his history as they sat at table. How he'd -left England with his brother when he was so little that he couldn't -remember. How he'd lived on a cattle ranch and knew how to ride -anything. He tried to make them understand the freedom and the -solitariness of his life in those wide stretches, where there weren't -any street lamps but only stars, and where one gazed on green-gray grass -for miles and never saw a single house. And he told them of the places -he had been to--the queerly natural ghost corners of the earth, Alaska, -Mexico and the South Sea Islands. Every now and then his imagination -would gallop away with him. Then he'd twist his head and stoop forward, -as if listening for the first expression of doubt. Before it came, he -would try to forestall it by saying, "You know, that last part's not -really." - -When he had said it several times Kay laughed softly. The boy looked up, -a little offended. "What is it?" - -Her eyes were dancing with happiness. "You're--you're a very pretence -person, aren't you? Peter and I, we're pretence persons. We're always -going to one place and telling ourselves we're going somewhere else." - -The boy sank his head between his hands. His words came timidly. "It -makes one happy to pretend, especially when one's always been lonely. -It's like climbing a tall tree--it belongs to anyone up there." He -turned slowly, staring at his guests. They wondered what was in his -mind. At last he said, "I wish--I wish you'd call me Harry. And please -don't tell me where you come from. Let's be pretence persons---- I'd -like to be your friend." - -With the quaint solemnity of childhood, they clasped hands. Outside the -bees played their banjo-music, the flowers whispered, laying their faces -close together, and the stream ran singing past the cottage, with all -the words of its song remembered. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI--THE HAUNTED WOOD - -Life at its beginning and its end is bounded by a haunted wood. When no -one is watching, children creep back to it to play with the fairies -and to listen to the angels' footsteps. As the road of their journey -lengthens, they return more rarely. Remembering less and less, they -build themselves cities of imperative endeavor. But at night the wood -comes marching to their walls, tall trees moving silently as clouds and -little trees treading softly. The green host halts and calls--in the -voice of memory, poetry, religion, legend or, as the Greeks put it, in -the faint pipes and stampeding feet of Pan. - -We have all heard it. Out of fear of ridicule we do not talk about it. -Do we revisit the wood, it is when sleep, or the dream of death, has -claimed us and made us again children. - -Because secrecy adds to happiness, Kay and Peter told no one of -their discovery. In the early morning they would tricycle out through -red-brick suburbs, where nurse-girls wheeled fretful babies in prams -and wondered what love meant. Having spent their day in fairyland, they -would tricycle back through those same brick suburbs where tethered -people found romance in twilit reality. They almost feared to speak -aloud of their doings, lest speech should break the spell--lest, were -they to tell, they might search in vain for Friday Lane, Canute, and -Harry of the mouth-organ, and find them vanished. - -On their first visits they did not meet the Faun Man; in proportion as -they failed to meet him, they grew more curious about him. Sometimes -they were quite certain he was there, but Harry---- He was strangely -reluctant to share him--as reluctant as Peter was to share his sister. -And yet, in-all the rest of his secrets he was generous. He showed -them how to find beneath stones in the river the homes of fishes--tiny -fellows, who darted away with agitated tails the moment you took the -roofs off their houses. And he showed them how you could make whistles -out of boughs, if you chose the right ones. He taught them to mimick the -notes of birds, so that they would follow through the woods, answering -and hopping, twisting from side to side their perky heads. He was the -Pied Piper of the open world, and willing to make them his confederates. -"Where--where did you learn?" They asked him. Sometimes he looked away -from them, narrowing his eyes; sometimes he answered, "The Faun Man--he -taught me." So the Faun Man became a kind of god, whose handiwork was -seen in many wonders, but who never showed himself. - -It was a scorching afternoon. In London water-carts were going up and -down; the less refined portion of mankind had removed their collars and -had knotted handkerchiefs about their necks. Along Green Lanes and as -far as Jolly Butcher's Hill, costers tempted villadom to extravagance, -crying, "Strarberries. Fresh strarberries," in voices grown cracked from -over-use and thirst. It made one's throat dry to listen to them. The -tricycle seemed to feel its weight of years; despite frequent oiling, -it insisted on running heavily. At Aunt Jehane's house they halted for -a rest; then, on again. The country drowsed: big trees in the meadows -seemed to fold their hands; birds had hidden themselves; there was -scarcely a sound. - -When they came to the gate leading into Friday Lane, Harry wasn't there. -Pushing the machine behind a hedge, they went in search of him. They -called his name and paused to listen. He had tricked them before, trying -to make them believe that they wouldn't find him, then startling them -into laughter by playing his mouth-organ in a tree right above their -heads. They persuaded themselves that that was what was happening now. -Every few steps they would stop and look up into the boughs, shouting, -"We've found you. We know where you're hiding. You may as well come -down." If he heard them, he refused to fall into their trap. - -They came to the Haunted Wood and entered. In its dark green shadows, -where all things trod softly, they dared not shout. They whispered their -assertion that they had guessed his whereabouts. Only the little river -answered, now mocking them secretly, now babbling hoarsely, alarmed that -it would never get out. They began to tiptoe. Fear of the silence seized -them. A branch cracked; they only just saved themselves from running. -It seemed as though a magician had waved his wand, casting a spell; -everything slept. Everything except the river--and at last, because its -voice was solitary, it became terrible, like that of a dying man in a -shuttered room, who muttered deliriously and tossed upon his bed. - -The green stretch of grass, with the cowslips scattered over it, brought -relief to their suspense. But, here again, there was no welcome. Bees -hummed above the flowers, quite indifferent to their presence. The -bee-hive cottage stood with door and windows wide, as though its -inhabitants had been called away suddenly and would never return. -Beneath the smiling of the summer stillness lay the threat that -something evil had happened. Even Canute had vanished. - -They stole round the house and at last crossed the threshold. Everything -was as they remembered it, even to the mandolin lying across the -chair. They listened. Voices! Yes, certainly. Then laughter, clear and -pleasant; it broke off in the middle, as if someone paused for breath. -It came from the Faun Man's room overhead, which Harry had never invited -them to enter. Hand-in-hand they' climbed the stairs--steep and narrow -stairs, which ended abruptly in a white door. They tapped. A man -answered. Peter raised the latch. - -The ceiling sloped down from the centre, giving to the room the -appearance of a tent. There were two lattice-windows, on opposite sides, -which opened outward on to the thatch. Against one of them stood a desk, -littered with papers, from which a rush-bottomed chair had been pushed -back. A pen, lying on a sheet of partly written foolscap, had rolled -across it, leaving blots, as if the writer had put it down and turned -hastily at the sound of someone's entrance. In one corner of the room -there was a high-peaked saddle and on the walls a strange collection of -memories and travel--a study of a girl's head by Rossetti, old Indian -muskets used in frontier warfares, a pair of sabres, a college oar with -the names of the crew gilded on it, and everywhere the faces of women. -Among them one face occurred often--Peter had noticed its frequence on -the walls downstairs. And now he saw the living woman before him. - -She was dressed in white, lying on a rose-colored couch, stretched out -carelessly full-length, with her small feet crossed. Her age might have -been anywhere from twenty upward. It didn't matter--one forgot years -and only thought of youth in looking at her. Was not Helen past mid-life -when two continents went to war for her beauty? Somehow she reminded one -of Helen--was it the way in which experience mixed with artlessness in -her expression? The mind went back. Dr. Faustus might have addressed his -sonorous lines to her: - - "Was this the face that launched a thousand ships? - - And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? - - Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss: - - Her lips suck forth my soul, see where it flies: - - Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. - - Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips." - -She was golden, splendidly negligent of what was happening about her, -insolently languid with a lazy ease that seemed to take all the world -into her confidence and actually shut all the world out. She was a -lonely tower of snow and ice, rosy in the sunlight, luring, cold and -inaccessible. Her eyes were intensely blue and innocent. She had fine -teeth and an almost childish mouth, which was contradicted by the -powerful molding of her chin and throat, and the capability of her -hands. One wondered what difference it would make to her if she were -ever to be roused by love or anger. She was built on heroic lines, -long and full and gracious, yet she seemed to prefer to be treated as -a plaything. One arm was curled beneath her golden head, the other hung -down listlessly and was held by a man who was pressing the hand to his -mouth. Peter noticed in a flash how the woman paid no attention to what -the man was doing. And the man---- - -Peter had never seen anyone quite like him. He was tall and strong and -slender. Even though he was kneeling, Peter knew that he must be of -great height. His face was smooth, lean and tanned. His lips were -thin--unusually red and delicate for a man's. His nose was straight and -arched at the nostrils. His ears were set far back and pointed. But it -was by his eyes that Peter recognized him as the Faun Man. They were -brown and filmed over with blue like a dog's, showing scarcely any -white. They had a dumb appeal in them, a hunger and melancholy because -of something which was never found, which the eager happiness of -the rest of his appearance disguised. They had a trick of veiling -themselves, of becoming dull and focusless, as though the spirit, whose -windows they were, had drawn down the blinds and lay drugged with -sleep and satiety. Then suddenly they would flash, become torches, all -enthusiasm, crying out that there was no truce in the forward march of -desire. At such times the face became extremely young--as young as his -long fine hands. Only the black hair, brushed straight back from the -forehead without a parting, betrayed his age by the gray which grew -about the temples. - -The golden woman withdrew her hand from his, and raised herself on her -elbow at the children's entrance. She gazed at them doubtfully, like a -young pantheress disturbed. Her red mouth pouted. Her blue eyes feigned -a laughing shyness. Only one small foot, tapping against the other, told -of her impatience. "Oh, it isn't---- I thought it was Harry. Who are -they, Lorie?" - -Her voice was soft and caressing. She spoke in the "little language" -which mothers learn in the nursery. In her way of talking there was a -guttural quality which marked her foreign parentage. - -The Faun Man, unabashed by the unexpected company, bent toward her and -kissed her arm. "I don't know," he laughed. Then he turned with a smile -that was all courtesy and kindness, "Won't you tell us? Who are you?" - -Peter didn't answer at once. He was fascinated. He had never seen a -man's ears move like that. As the Faun Man had asked his question, his -ears had pricked up as a dog's do when he pays attention. And then there -was something about his voice---- It was so sad and intense. - -It hurt by its longing. It didn't seem right to meet this man in a -house. Peter both distrusted and liked him--the way we do nature. - -The white room became a blur as he gazed into the soft brown eyes. Woods -and meadows, seen distant in the sunlight, became flat like painted -canvases hung across the windows. Real things grew vague, or took on the -aspect of artificiality. The question came again. "Tell us, little chap. -Who are you?" - -Peter's brain cleared. "If you please, we're friends of Harry, the boy -with the mouth-organ." - -The golden woman leant forward, resting her hand intimately on the Faun -Man's shoulder. She was interested and her face became gentle. "Harry's -friends! But we're in disgrace with Harry. He's run away with Canute -because--because he's jealous. He wants his big brother all to -himself---- What shall we do with them, Lorie? I think we'll have to -make them our pals." - -Kay had been hiding behind Peter in the doorway. She looked round him -timidly, still ready for escape. "But--but will Harry come back?" - -The concern in her voice made the woman clap her hands. "He always comes -back. Men always do come back, don't they, Lorie?" She slipped her feet -off the couch and came across the room. "What a dear little girl!" - -Kay looked up at her, willing to be frightened. Then her arms reached up -and the woman stooped over her. "You're nice," she said. - -"Have you been here often?" It was the Faun Man speaking. - -Peter thought. He tried to reckon. "Not often, but several times." - -The Faun Man took him by the shoulders, looking down on him. Seen that -way, from below, he seemed tremendously high. "You needn't be afraid, -young 'un; I'm not angry. You won't get Harry into a row. Where d'you -come from?" - -"Come from!" Peter laid his fingers on the thin brown hand. "Would you -mind very much if I didn't tell? You see, Harry doesn't know. It's such -fun--we're just pretence people. We tricycle out from--from nowhere on -a tandem, Kay and I. And then we meet Harry and leave the trike behind -a hedge and go into the Haunted Wood together. You see, if Harry doesn't -know who we are, it's almost as though we were fairies, and as though he -were a fairy, and we---- You know what I mean: we meet in fairyland, and -can do what we like with the world." - -The Faun Man turned his head. "Eve, did you hear that? He wants to do -what he likes with the world. He's one of us." - -But Eve had Kay on her lap and her lips were in her silky hair. -Something had happened to her--something difficult to express. She -had melted. With the child pressed against her bosom, she looked a -mother--very young and good. As the Faun Man watched her, his eyes -became tender--oddly tender. - -"Eve. Eve." - -He went over to her and took her hand. She lifted her face to his. "If -you hadn't kept me waiting----" He got no further. - -There was a pause. - -"I was thinking the same," she said; "and yet----" - -"And yet?" he questioned. - -She drew Kay nearer to her. "Where's the good of talking. We've talked -so often--so often." - -He went to the open window and stared out. A butterfly flew in and -alighted on his forehead. He took no notice; he stood rigid like a man -of stone. A little muscle in his cheek kept twitching; his arms hung -straight down and the fingers worked against the palms of his hands. -Seen on either side of him, in two narrow strips, was the basking -unimprisoned country, which rolled on marvelously, this visible -landscape building into the next, and the next into all the others that -lay beyond the horizon, continents, seas and wonderlands, like a carpet -of ever-changing pattern wrapped about the world for his feet to tread. -And he, without bonds, was a prisoner. - -He swung round. To Peter's surprise he was laughing. His dark face was -narrow in mockery. "Come on, young 'un," he said; "let's get out." - -He had to double himself up to pass down the low-ceilinged stairway. -Peter followed; in leaving the room, he glanced back. The golden woman -had raised her eyes--the eyes of a child who has been selfish and has -wounded itself. She was fondling Kay, as though she thought that her -kindness to the little girl would atone for her unkindness to the man. - -As he crossed the living-room, the Faun Man picked up the mandolin from -the chair. He did not walk through the garden; he walked into it. That -was his way with everything. Leaving the path, he pressed waist-deep -through roses and fuchsias, scattering their blooms and petals. Like -soldiers approving his lawlessness, sunflowers swayed their golden heads -and nodded. Swarms of winged insects, whose homes he had disturbed, -rose up in busy protest. His face was wrinkled with determination to be -glad--to be glad whatever might lie in the future. In the heart of the -fragrant nature-world he halted, and sat down on the hard-baked earth. -He looked like a great supple hound with his legs crouched under him. -Through the walls of their house of leaves and blossoms they could see -the window of the room they had left. - -The Faun Man commenced to tune his mandolin. "Ever been in love, Peter?" - -The boy reddened. He didn't know why he reddened. Perhaps he was proud -that he should be asked such a question. Perhaps he was a little angry -because--well, because everyone he had ever met seemed a little ashamed -of love--everyone except the Faun Man. So he answered, "Only with my -little sister." - -The man laughed. "That isn't what I meant. That's different. Love's -something that burns and freezes. It fills you and leaves you hungry. It -makes you forget all other affections and keeps you always remembering -itself. It makes you kindest when it's most cruel. It demands everything -you possess; and you're most eager to give when it gives you nothing -back. It's hell and it's heaven. No, I'll tell you what it is. It's a -small child pulling the wings off a fly, and then crying because it's -sorry, and didn't know what it was doing. Ah, Peter, Peter, you haven't -met love yet." He bent forward and tapped him on the arm. "Be wise. Run -away when you see love coming." - -Peter felt embarrassed. The Faun Man closed one eye and watched -him--watched how the sun splashed through the creeping shadows and fell -on the boy's flushed face and curly hair. "Here's a little song about -love," he said. "A very high class song, written not improbably by the -poet Shelley." - -He struck the strings of the mandolin, playing a little jingling -introduction and then commenced, lifting his long face to the window -in the thatch, singing through his nose and burlesquing all that had -happened: - - "If yer gal ain't all yer thought 'er, - - And fer everyfing yer've bought 'er - - She don't seem to care a 'appenny pot o' glue; - - If she tells yer she won't miss yer - - And she doesn't want ter kiss yer, - - Though yer've cuddled 'er from 'Ammersmif ter Kew; - - If yer little side excurshiums - - To lands of pink nasturtiums - - Don't make 'er 'arf so soft as they make you, - - Why, never get down-'earted, - - For that's the way love started-- - - Adam ended wery 'appy--and that's true." - -He had scarcely finished, when the golden woman came to the lattice in -the thatch. She stood framed there, with the whiteness of the room as a -background. Her hands were crossed upon her breast. The shining masses, -wrapped about her head and forehead, accentuated her vivid paleness. She -looked as idealized as a girl on canvas, put there by her lover in a bid -for immortality. She glanced this way and that to discover the Faun Man. -She leant out, listening and searching. She could not detect him. - -"Lorie," she cried, addressing the garden, "you're unkind. I hate -you when you're flippant." She waited for him to answer. Nothing but -silence, and the little river whispering to itself beyond the hedge. -"Lorie, I suppose you think I've got no right to talk about being -flippant, because---- But I'm not flippant. I like you, and---- -But I can't help myself if God made me as I am." Again she waited. -"Lorie, I'll be awfully nice to you if you'll only show yourself. I do -so want to see----" - -The Faun Man stood up ecstatically, with his arms stretched out to her. -It was absurd to call him a man. The pollen of flowers had smirched his -face and hands. His head was bare, and the hair had fallen forward over -his forehead. - -"I'm crying for the moon," he chanted, "and because she won't come -down to me I'm calling her names--saying that she's a Gorgonzola cheese -flying through the heavens." - -"My Lord," laughed the golden woman--she pronounced it Looard, in her -most foreign accent; "what an imagination you have!" - -"Jump down," urged the Faun Man; "I'll catch you, little Eve. I'd catch -you and carry you anywhere." - -She thought and slowly shook her head, as if she had been considering -his suggestion as a feasible, if unconventional, plan of descent. "I'd -rather trust the stairs." - -"You'd rather trust anything than trust me," he said ruefully; "but I -don't care, so long as you do come down." She was leaving the window, -when she turned back. "What was that silly song you were singing?" - -He answered her promptly. "Words by Shelley. Accompanied by Lorenzo -Arran. Title, 'A Bloke and 'is 'Arriet.' Scene laid in London. All -rights reserved." She pulled a face, exceedingly provocative and -naughty. "Words by Shelley, indeed! But I can believe all the rest." - -She vanished. - -The Faun Man turned to Peter. "You see, young fellow, it's as I told -you. Love's always like that. It comes to a window and looks down at -you. You hold out your arms to it and say, I want you.' Love came to the -window that you might say that; but the moment you say it, love shakes -its head. If you told it to walk decently down the stairs to you, it -would immediately fling itself over the sill and toboggan down the -thatch. You're fool enough to say to it, 'Slide down the thatch,' and -it immediately walks decently down the stairs. If I were you, Peter, I'd -never fall in love with anybody." - -Then Peter surprised himself; he mimicked something he had just heard. -"My Looard!" he said, "I'm never going to." - -The Faun Man held his sides and threw back his head, laughing loudly. -That was how the golden woman found him when she came with her arm about -Kay's neck. She halted on the path, six feet away, smiling at him across -the barricade of flowers. She cuddled the little girl closer to her. -"Aren't men funny, Kay?" And then, slanting her face and stooping with -her neck, "Lorie, you queer boy, what's the matter now?" - -The Faun Man waded through the roses to her, catching her by the -shoulders and bending over her. "Peter's the matter. I was telling him -never to fall in love with anybody, because--well, because love's cruel -and only looks out of a window in order to go away and leave the window -vacant. And what d'you think he said? I'm never going to.' He said it -sharply like that, as if I'd been telling him never to be a pickpocket. -Fancy a little boy having made up his mind never to walk in the sunlight -because the sunlight scorches." - -"Ah, but he did not mean it." She spoke as though Peter had been unkind, -and had said that he would not love her. "But he did not mean it," she -repeated, tilting Peter's face up in her hollowed hand. "And love isn't -cruel--he mustn't believe what Lorie says. Love is the flowers and the -dusk falling, and the sound of birds and rivers, and the dearness of -little children. Love is---- How shall I put it? Love is eyes in the -head. Without love one can see nothing." - -Peter gazed into her eyes. She was charming. He felt as though he had -hurt her. And he felt that, if he had hurt her, he ought to go -all across the world on his knees and hands till he obtained her -forgiveness. He remembered afterward that, when her eyes were on his, he -saw nothing but blue--just her eyes and nothing else. - -"He didn't mean it, did he?" she coaxed. - -In a very small voice he answered, "I did mean it. You see, there's Kay; -I have to love her." - -"But some man may love Kay presently--may take her away from you. What -then?" - -Peter had never thought of that. He wouldn't think of it now, just as -years later he refused to face up to it. "Kay would never allow anyone -to take her. Would you, Kay?" Kay shook her head. "I only want Peter." - -She freed herself from the golden woman and went and stood beside her -brother with her arm about him--an arm so small that it wouldn't come -all the way round. - -The man and woman stared at them. Here was something outside their -experience. They had found hard knocks in the world and occasional -stolen glimpses of tenderness--not a tenderness which one could carry -about as a thing expected, could arrange life by, and refer to as to a -timepiece in the pocket. Both were conscious of a hollowness in their -living. And the woman--she had dreaded permanency in affection lest it -should become a chain to gall her. - -A shadowy hurdler, very distant as yet, over trees and fields and -hedges, evening came vaulting. No one could hear his footsteps, only -the panting of his breath. He was racing from the great red door in the -west, from which he had slipped out--racing, with his head turned across -his shoulder, as though he feared to see a presence on the burning -threshold and to hear a voice that would call him. The small applauding -hands of leaves moved gently. The red door sank lower. Snared in the -branches of the Haunted Wood, it came to rest. - -Far away and out of sight, deep-toned and mellow, came the lowing -of cattle and the staccato barking of a dog, driving the herd to the -milking. One by one live things of the country-side commenced to wake -and stir. Rabbits hopped out among the cowslips and nibbled at the turf. -Birds, like children put to bed and frightened of being left, called -"Good-night. Good-night. Good-night," over and over. From watch-towers -of tall trees mother-birds answered, "Good-night. Good-night. -Good-night." The world had become maternal. The spirit of life's -brevity, of parting, of remembrance, of regret, of happiness withheld -was in the air. The golden woman felt her loneliness. Looking at the -children, so defiant in their sureness of one another, she recalled her -lost opportunities. - -An arm stole about her. A brown hand covered hers. She leant back her -head so that it lay against the Faun Man's jacket. So many things seemed -worth the seeking in this world--so few worth the keeping when found. -For the moment she liked to fancy that her search was at an end. - -Peter spoke. "If you please, I think we must be going. I've got to get -Kay back, you know. Even now, I'll have to light the lamps." - -"But--but we haven't seen Harry." - -A light woke in the golden woman's eyes. She was about to speak; the -Faun Man pressed his hand against her mouth. "You can see him to-morrow, -little girl, if Peter will bring you." - -"But where is he?" - -The Faun Man swept the horizon. "Somewhere over there. He's gone away -into the wood with Canute, because we hurt his feelings." - -"But what's he doing?" Kay insisted. - -The Faun Man looked at the golden woman; his eyes asked, "Shall we -tell?" They turned back to Kay. "What's he doing? Sitting with his head -in his hands. Crying, perhaps---- Do boys cry, Peter? He doesn't like -his brother and this little woman to be together. The poor old chap -doesn't think we do each other any good." - -"And do we?" The golden woman spoke softly. - -The Faun Man became very solemn. His voice was husky. "We don't. But we -could." - -She twisted round in his embrace so that she met him breast to breast. -"Ah, there's the voice of every tragedy! We don't. But we could---- And -we know we could; and yet we don't." - -Down the garden, over the plank-bridge, across the meadow, through the -Haunted Wood they went together: the boy and girl, like lovers with arms -encircling; the man and woman, like brother and sister, holding hands, -brushing shoulders, and following. As they entered into Friday Lane, Kay -looked back. At the foot of a big oak Canute was lying, his nose between -his fore-paws, his eyes red-rimmed with vigilance. - -She tugged on Peter's arm. "Why he must be up there. Oh, do let's be -nice to him. Just one minute. Let's." - -But when they approached, the dog's back bristled and he growled. He -lifted his black lip, showing the whiteness of his fangs. His sullen -eyes were on the golden woman. Like one embittered, who had ceased to -believe that virtue could be found anywhere, he regarded all four of -them in anger. - -The Faun Man shrugged his shoulders. "When he climbs trees that means -he's getting better. There's no sense in worrying him; he won't come -down till he's ready." - -"Good-night," Kay called to him with piping shrillness. - -"Good-night," called Peter. - -And again, when the tree was growing small in the distance, Kay shouted, -"Good-night, Harry. We've missed you." - -From up in the clouds, very faint and little, came the sound of a -mouth-organ playing the wander-tune of romance: - - "I've been ship-wrecked off Patagonia, - - Home and Colonia - - Antipodonia; - - I've shot cannibals, - - Funny-looking animals, - - Top-knot coons. - - I've bought diamonds..." - -Their memories set the tune to words. - -The old tandem trike was trundled out from its hiding place behind -the hedge. The Faun Man lifted Kay on to her seat at the back; Peter -mounted. All was ready. - -"So you're riding away from fairyland," sighed the golden woman. -"Foolish! Foolish! It's so easy to do that---- And when you've gone and -until you come again, there won't be any fairyland. It's so easy to ride -away; so difficult to come back." - -Kay thought that a doubt was being cast on Peter's cleverness. "It isn't -difficult at all," she protested; "not if you have a tandem tricycle and -a big brother like Peter." - -The golden woman laughed with her hand against her throat. "But I -hav'n't a tandem tricycle, and I hav'n't a big brother like Peter." - -Kay knew she hadn't; she wondered what made the golden woman say that, -and---- yes, why she choked at the end of her words. - -"Good-by till we come again." - -They rang their bells as a parting salutation. The wheels began to turn. -They disappeared between the hedges down the road, a vision of plunging -legs, bent backs and flying hair. - -The man and woman were left alone on the highway between the Haunted -Wood and the town, to both of which these children had such ready -access. - -Slowly, slowly the sun was vanishing; once a ball of fire; now the -boldness of sight on which an eye-lid was closing; at last a glory to be -taken on faith and conjecture. The country became vague as though seen -through water. Its greenness had a coolness which was more than color; -which had to be realized by a spiritual sense. The evening dimness, like -the hand of death, removed sharp temporary edges from the landscape and -revealed an expression which was timeless, which had been always there. -Birds had ceased calling. The moon floated out--the soul of the night, -high-lifted and inspired. Trees sought to touch her with their fingers; -she slipped by them, unhurried by their effort. - -He had said so much to her in the past with his eager lips and words. -Now, for some time, he had been saying everything, while seeming to say -nothing. - -He held her pressed against him. "Ah dearest----" - -She stirred. "But I'm not good." - -"You are. But you're not kind to me often." - -"Not often," she murmured. - -He stooped; in the darkness he could say it--the old, old question -which, through repetition, had lost its generosity and splendor. "Am I -never going to make you love me?" - -She turned her face away, so that his kiss fell on her neck. "I don't -know, don't know, Lorie? How should I? I don't want to hurt you. You -do believe me when I say that? But I'm fickle. I'm not at all what you -think me. I'm all wrong somewhere inside--cold and bad-hearted." - -He laid his cheek against hers, holding her more tightly. "Little Eve. -Please! You shan't accuse yourself. It wounds." - -She broke away, but only that she might return of herself. She caught -him by the lapels of his coat and tiptoed against him. "But I am. -Harry's quite right to hate me. I send you on long journeys, and you -can't forget me. I won't love you myself, and I keep you from loving -another woman. You offer me your soul, and I allow you to go thirsty. I -torture you, and give you nothing." - -He spoke very gently, for the first time honest. "I can put it in fewer -words: you want to be loved; you won't pay the price of loving. Isn't -that it?" - -She pressed her golden head against his shoulder in ashamed assent. -Behind her shuttered eyes she had the vision of a long white road -leading up to a city, of a curly-headed boy and an elfin-girl steering -through the traffic beneath street lamps. She wanted to have the -palm without the dust, to be a mother without the sacrifice of having -children. Seeing the vision of children going from her, and knowing that -he would understand, she whispered, "One day I shall be old--and I shall -have missed all that." - -"Poor little Eve! Poor little girl!" - -He picked her up in his arms and commenced to walk through the twilight, -across fields, to the cottage. - -She raised her hand and touched his cheek. "You wonderful, strong Faun -Man." - -He halted in his stride and bent over her; then went on into the -shadows. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII--PETER FINDS A FAIRY - -At the Faun Man's birth an angel and a witch attended. The angel -brought him the supreme gift of making people love him. The witch made -the gift fatal, by wishing that he might be loved not as a man, but as -a woman is loved--with jealousy. So his friends were all enemies to each -other because they had to share him. Even Canute was like that; he had -to be chained when admirers were calling. - -Strange company invaded the Happy Cottage. Women predominated--women who -tried to treat the Faun Man as their property. They wore fluffy gowns -and had fluffy manners; even their voices were fluffy. Their attitude -was that of princesses who had journeyed into the wilderness to borrow -something. They were a little annoyed by the country, and found it -dirty. Very few of them addressed him as Mr. Arran; each invented a -pet-name for him, which seemed to make him hers peculiarly. They were -all consumed with a desire to touch him and to go on touching him, -beating about him like birds about a lighthouse which shines out -hospitably, but permits no entrance. Most of them mingled with their -admiration a concerned and respectful sorrow. His lonely manner of -living moved them to the depths. They formed individual and brilliant -plans for the glorious reconstruction of his future--plans which these -female geographers handed to him boastfully, as though they were maps -of fascinating lands which awaited his exploring. For satisfactory -exploration the presence of the female geographer was necessary. - -Peter was usually forewarned that an invasion was in progress by the -crescendo cackling which rushed out from doors and windows into the -basking stillness of the garden. Then he would hear the mild protest of -the Faun Man, "But, my dear lady, my dear lady--but really----" Harry -would meet him by the hedge, his face flushed and his mouth sulky. -Jerking his thumb across his shoulder he would whisper, "The Hissing -Geese! Hark at 'em! Ain't it sickening?" Sometimes he'd call them the H. -G. for brevity. He called them that because of the way in which they sat -round his brother with their necks stretched out, all making sounds. He -hated them unreasonably, and hated them to excess when they tried to -curry favor with him by kissing. And yet, it was silly of him; with a -few years added to his age, he would have found most of them pretty and -quite suitable for loving. - -Surliness on these occasions gave Harry a strong sympathy for Canute. -If he had been a dog and unrestrained by chivalry, nothing would have -pleased him better than to have bitten the ladies' legs. He felt that it -was unjust to chain Canute up as a reward for his loyalty. So usually, -when Kay and Peter had arrived, the three of them would sneak round -the cottage to the kennel and attempt a rescue. Then came the exciting -escape through the garden, crouching low and stealing behind the flowers -so as not to be observed, holding on to the collar of the Great Dane for -fear he should break away and glut his anger. Sometimes they were heard -above the rattle of tea-cups and the ladies would bunch themselves in -the cottage window, like a nosegay, with the Faun Man in their centre. -Then would follow a series of high-pitched questions and exclamations, -fired off for the sake of noise. "What dear children! Is that your -sister? Are they both your brothers? What a perfectly sweet dog!" - -The "perfectly sweet dog" would growl and show his fangs, as much as -to say, "Leave me out of it. Look after your legs. I wish I had half a -chance of showing you how perfectly sweet I am." - -Where did they all come from, these amorous butterfly excursionists? -Harry kept his mouth shut. He wasn't going to tell, only---- Well, he -hinted that they might be insincere experiments of the golden woman, -sent to supplant her--sent because she knew they couldn't do it. "And -jolly good care she takes not to send the right one. Trust her." Harry -said it in a growl which he copied from Canute. - -It wasn't until they had entered the Haunted Wood and the green wall of -bushes and make-believe had shut out intruders, that his ruffled spirit -regained its levity. Then he'd light a fire, and play at Indians who had -taken their revenge in scalps. Presently, if the Faun Man had been lucky -in getting rid of his worries, he would join them. They would boil a -kettle and have tea in the open, after which the Faun Man would light -his pipe and smoke it, lying flat on his back. They knew what to expect. -Soon he would sit up, press his tobacco down with a lean finger, pluck a -twig out of the fire and use it as a match. Then, very deliberately, he -would begin, "I remember, once upon a time." - -What a lot of magnificent things had happened once upon a time that he -could remember! He had chased cattle thieves across the border and had -come up with them, intending to shoot if necessary, only to find them -such human fellows that he'd parted friends. "Human" was his word for -describing the kind of people he liked, many of whom were disreputable. -One night, when camping in the Canadian Rockies, a hundred miles from -anywhere, a stranger had crept from the forest and shared his supper and -blanket. They had talked of London, London street-songs and Leicester -Square, till the stars were going out. Next morning he was wakened by a -member of the North West Mounted Police who was hunting a murderer. The -fugitive had already vanished. "A pity he'd killed some one," said the -Faun Man; "he was one of the most charmin' chaps I ever met. Oh yes, he -was caught and hanged." - -The Faun Man had played hide-and-seek with death in many quaint -corners of the world--getting his "liver into whack," he called it, -and gathering "local color." What local color might be, and why anyone -should want to gather it, Peter didn't understand. But he learnt that -its gathering took you down into Mexico in search of secret gold, where -Indians hid behind rocks and potted at you with poisoned arrows, and -that it took you up to Fort Mackenzie with dogs to the very edge of the -Arctic. While he listened to these stories of adventure, the shadows of -the Haunted Wood lengthened, the river sang more boldly, evening fell, -and the fire, from a pyramid of leaping flames, became a hollow land of -scarlet which grew slowly gray, fluttering with little tufts of ashen -moss and ashen feathers, until it at last lay charred and dead. - -The Faun Man captured Peter's imagination and affections. He filled -him with strange new longings. He sent his spirit reaching out after -unattainable perfections, whose lure and desire are both the glamour and -torture of childhood. He made Peter want to be a man, so that he might -be like him. The Faun Man was a stained-glass window which, when looked -through, tinted and intensified life's values. Peter was going through -the experience of hero-worship which comes to most boys when sex is -dawning, and they have not yet realized that its sole and splendid -meaning is that woman shares the same world. - -And yet there were moments when Peter almost feared his friend; his -character was a sand-desert in which the track followed yesterday was -soon wiped out. One day he would cry, "Ah, I know him!" and the next, -"I know nothing." The whole passionate urgency of a child's heart in -friendship is to know everything. - -But the Faun Man was too big and elusive to be known by one person. -Four walls could not contain him. He came into a house like a half-tamed -animal--but where had he been, where had he come from? He had tricks, -curious tricks, which linked him to the creatures which make their -homes in the leaves and holes of the earth. He seldom sat on chairs, but -huddled himself on the floor while he talked to you. He could sit for an -hour, saying nothing. In the middle of a conversation he would jump up -and go out without apology, as if he heard a voice which you had not -heard. And he had. The sound of the wind told him something, the altered -note of a thrush, the little shudder, scarcely perceptible, that ran -through the flowers; to him they all said something. If you asked him -what they said, he could not tell you. So it was no good wanting him to -belong to you; he belonged out there. - -To Peter, who had always been smiled at for his compassion, it was -comforting to find some one as compassionate as himself. It removed the -dread of abnormality. There was a nightingale which used to come every -evening to sing in an apple-tree near the Happy Cottage. They used to -wait for the romance of its silver voice slanting across the velvet -dusk, as though it were a thing to be seen rather than heard. One night -they waited; it did not come. - -The Faun Man grew nervous. He could not rest; at last he went in search -of it with Peter. Beneath the apple-tree they found it still warm, with -its wings stretched out. And then the unexpected happened. Kneeling -in the twilight beside the dead singer, as though music had departed -forever from the earth, the Faun Man wept. - -And yet the same man could be harsh in anger--that was how Peter found -the fairy. On entering the cottage one afternoon he heard the sound of -sobbing upstairs and a voice protesting, "I didn't mean to do it. She -drove me mad--you and she together. You don't care for me--don't care -for me; and I love you better than anything in the world. Oh, do forgive -me, kind Faun Man." - -A pause. Peter knew she was on her knees before him, kissing his hands. -It was as though he could see her doing it. "But you did mean to do it, -Cherry." It was the Faun Man speaking deliberately and coldly. "You did -it on purpose. It was stupid and babyish of you. It didn't do her any -harm, and it didn't do you any good. I don't want to see you, and I -don't like you any longer." - -A passionate voice declared, "If you say that again, I'll kill myself." - -Again a pause. The door overhead opened; a wild thing came tearing down -the stairs. Peter had a vision of something in skirts, something with an -intense white face, tragic gray eyes and a mass of black flying hair. He -was bumped into. In stepping backward he tripped against a chair. -When he picked himself up and looked out into the garden she had -disappeared--all he heard was the running of her swift feet growing -fainter and fainter. - -He gazed about the room, wondering what he ought to do. Should he steal -back quietly to where he had left Kay and Harry, and pretend that he had -seen nothing? His attention was arrested. So that was what had caused -the disturbance? Every portrait of the golden woman had been torn from -its place on the wall and trampled. While he hesitated, he heard the -Faun Man descending. It was too late to go now. - -The Faun Man entered without seeing him. His face was stern; two deep -lines stretched like cuts from the nostrils to the corners of his mouth. -He looked leaner than ever. He was already stooping over the ruined -portraits when Peter addressed him. "Won't you ever forgive her? -Please do. Never to forgive a person, not forever and forever, seems so -dreadful." - -The Faun Man jumped; his eyes, when they turned on Peter, were the eyes -of a stranger. "And where did you come from? And who asked you for your -opinion? You'd better get out." - -When he came to the plank which crossed the little river, Peter halted. -Down Friday Lane he could hear the mouth-organ and, looking, could see -Harry beating time with one hand while Kay danced to it. No, he didn't -want to join them. Harry would laugh at him for paying heed to one of -the Faun Man's moods. And Kay--why, if she guessed that he was unhappy, -of course she'd become unhappy, too----. And that girl--she'd said that -she was going to kill herself. He ran across the meadow to the Haunted -Wood. She must be there. She shouldn't do it. - -Just where he entered, he stooped and picked up something white. She had -dropped her handkerchief, so he knew that he was on the right track. He -followed on tiptoe, afraid lest, if he overtook her suddenly, he might -scare her. In the stealth of the pursuit a novel excitement came upon -him. His eyes were glowing. His breath came and went pantingly. He had -removed his cap; his curly hair lay ruffled on his forehead. He went -forward timidly, half-minded to turn back, ashamed lest he might find -her looking at him. As he penetrated deeper, the stillness grew -and magnified ievery sound. Overhead the branches were woven closer -together, shutting the sunlight out. An air of secrecy gathered round -him. Birds, hopping out of his path under bushes, looked back at him -knowingly. They knew what he did not know himself. - -Out of sight, beyond him, there was the sound of moving. Leaves rustled; -silence settled down. They rustled again. He followed. Then he heard the -voice of the river--a little voice which grew louder. It sang to itself -softly. It seemed to be trying to say something. Did it sing in lurement -or warning? Now it seemed to be saying, "Turn back, turn back, turn -back"; and now----. But he couldn't make out the words. - -He lifted his face above a clump of shrub-oak and found his eyes -peering into hers. She was too startled to jump back from him; she gazed -wide-eyed, with lips parted and one hand plucking at her breast. She saw -a boy, swift and straight as an arrow, a boy who seemed to stand tiptoe -with eagerness, who had the grace and strength of a Greek runner and the -smooth skin and gentle mouth of a girl. - -And Peter in looking at her saw a white face, sensitive as a flower's; -and a mouth, red as a cherry, long and drooping and curved; and two -great gray eyes, clear and wistful in expression; and over the eyes, -dark brows, like a bird's wings spread for flight. Her black hair -had broken loose and hung about her shoulders, giving her a touch of -wildness. Across the whiteness of her forehead it brooded like a cloud. -In the green church of the wood she seemed sacred to Peter. - -She laughed throatily, breaking the suspense. "Oh, it's only you." - -Peter stepped out of the underbrush. Then he saw that she had removed -her shoes and stockings, and was standing on the edge of the little -river. Her feet were wet and as small as her hands. They looked cold as -marble in the green dusk. Why was it? More than anything else, the sight -of her feet made him unhappy for her, made him want to care for her, -made him want to bring a smile to her mouth. - -"Yes, it's only me," he said; "but--but I wish it wasn't. I'm sorry." - -She tossed her head, as though she were indignant with him for being -sorry, but she looked at him slantingly, curiously and kindly. "Why -should you be sorry? You don't know who I am? You're not sorry; you only -say that." - -He protested. "But I am. I didn't mean to overhear; but, you know, I -heard what you said---- I was afraid you'd do it." - -She sat down, trailing her feet in the water. She was smiling now, -secretly and to herself, as if she didn't want him to know it. "It's too -little," she pouted. "I couldn't drown in that." - -Peter seated himself at her side, with his knees drawn up to his chin. -When he spoke, it was with an air of grave confession. "I'm awfully glad -it was too little." - -She turned her head, looking at him from under her long lashes -provocatively; but he was staring straight before him with vacant eyes, -as if something very sweet and awful were happening. She reached out -her hand and touched him; she noticed how he trembled. "And if it hadn't -been too little, it wouldn't have mattered--not to you." - -He didn't answer her immediately. When he spoke it was slowly, as if -each word hurt as he dragged it out. "It would have mattered, because -then you wouldn't have been in the world." - -"But you didn't know that I was in the world this morning." - -He shook his head, as much as to tell her that her objection was quite -beside the question. "I know that. But I think I should have missed you -just the same, without knowing exactly what I was missing." - -She laughed outright, swaying against him and burying her hands in the -green things growing. "You are funny--yes, and dear. I never met a boy -like you. You didn't really think----?" - -He gazed at her wonderingly. Each time he looked at her, he found -something new that was beautiful. It was her throat this time, long -and delicate like a Lent lily. As he watched it, he could see how the -laughter bubbled up inside it; he longed, with the instinct of a child, -to lay his fingers on it. - -"You didn't really think----?" - -He nodded. "That you were going to kill yourself? Yes--and weren't you?" - -She ceased laughing. "I don't think so. I'm such a coward. And then," -she commenced laughing again, "killing yourself is such a worry--you -can only do it once and, if you're not careful, you don't look pretty. I -always want to look pretty. Do--do you think I'm pretty?" - -He choked and swallowed. His mouth was dry. He couldn't bring his voice -to the surface. She drooped her face away from him, pretending to take -offense. "You don't. I can see that. You needn't tell me." - -His words came with a rush. "I do! I do! I think, when God made you, -He must have said to Himself, 'I'll make the most beautiful person--the -most beautiful person I ever made.' It was something like that He said." - -His quivering earnestness made her solemn. She hadn't meant to stir him -so deeply. "What an odd way of saying things you have. I don't suppose -God cared much about my making. He just had me manufactured with the -rest." - -A warm hand slipped into hers and a shy voice whispered, "He made you -Himself. I'm certain." - -She gazed at him, at the narrow sloping shoulders and the shining curly -head. She felt very much a woman at the moment--years older than the -handful of months which at most must separate them. She laid her cheek -against his and slid her arm about him. "I'm so glad you're not a man." - -He stared straight before him. "I shall be soon." - -"How old are you?" - -"Sixteen next birthday." - -She drew him nearer to her. He was so young as that! "How old d'you -think I am?" - -He searched her face, trying to make her as near his own age as -possible, and not to be mistaken. "Sixteen?" he suggested. - -"Almost seventeen," she said; "I'll soon be twenty, And then----" - -"And then," he interrupted, "I'll be eighteen--almost a man." - -She withdrew her face from his. "Stupid. I don't want you to be a man. -When you're a man, I shan't like you; you'll become hard and masterful -like... like the rest." - -"I shan't." - -She relented. "No. I don't think you will. But then it'll be all -different." - -Yes, it would all be different. Peter had been a child when, in the -early summer, he had stumbled on the Happy Cottage. Until then he would -have been perfectly contented to have gone on living at Topbury and -to have been fifteen forever. It had scarcely occurred to him that -childhood was a preparation which would soon be ended. He had never -looked ahead--never realized that he, with all the generations of boys -who had lived before him, must one day be a man. In a vague way he had -known that once his father and mother had been young and protected, -as he and Kay were young and protected. But it had seemed a fanciful -legend. And now the great change, which formerly he would have dreaded, -he yearned for. The ignorance and inexperience of being young, the habit -grown people had of treating him as a person of no serious importance, -galled him. It had begun with the Faun Man and his desire to be like -him. It was ridiculous when he imagined his own appearance, but -he wanted to be respected. These longings had not come home to him -before--they had been a gradual growth of weeks and months. It was -contact with a vitalizing personality that had done it, and listening -to talks of strange lands and the doings of strong men. And now this -girl----. To her he was no more than amusing. She could do and say to -him things that she would never do or say to men. Yes, when he was older -it would all be different. She had wakened him forever from the long -and irrecoverable sleep of childhood. He might dose again, but he could -never sink back into its deep unruffled calm and indifference. Was it -this that the river had tried to tell him, when he had heard it singing, -"Turn back, turn back, turn back"? It still sang, going round the -white feet of the girl in little waves and eddies, but its voice was -indistinct, like that of an old prophet, who mumbles a forgotten and -disregarded message. - -The girl at his side stirred. "What do they call you?" - -And he returned the question. She leant her head away from him on her -shoulder. "What do you think they call me? What name would suit me best? -But you'd never guess. They call me Cherry, because my lips are red." - -Cherry, because her lips were red! And who were _they_, who had called -her that? He felt jealous of them. _They_ knew so much about her; he -knew nothing. And here was the supreme marvel, that for years she had -been walking in the same world and, until now, he had found no hint -of her. He might have passed her in the street--might have come often -within touching distance of her. Some of this he tried to say to her; -she listened with a faint smile about her mouth. He fell silent, fearing -that he had amused her by his sentiment. - -She patted his hand. "D'you know, you're rather wonderful? You put such -private thoughts into words. Do you always think behind things like -that?" Without waiting for him to reply, she continued, "But you never -passed me in the street. You couldn't have met me any earlier, because -I've lived always in America. I was born there. That's where I met----." -She did not name the Faun Man, but her face clouded. "I must be getting -back," she ended vaguely. - -Outside the wood he would lose her--lose her because she had belonged -to other people first. He would become again a schoolboy, tricycling out -into the country with Kay. It would take years to become a man. - -She stood up. "You must go now." - -How sweet and slight she looked, like a tall white flower swaying in the -shadows. He had read in books of spirit-women who, in the bygone days of -romance, had lifted up their faces from amid the bracken to lure knights -aside from their quest; and the knights, having once kissed them, -had lost them and hungered for their lips forever. He wanted to -speak--wanted to say something true, wanted to tell her of this dynamic -change that she had worked for him. All that he could say was, "Cherry"; -and then, "But how shall I find you?" - -"Find me!" she laughed, tiptoeing on her bare feet with her hands -clasped behind her head. "Oh, you'll find me," she nodded. - -"But promise." - -She half-closed her eyes, as though tired by his urgency. Then she threw -her hands to her side. "I like you, Peter. I promise." - -Picking up her shoes and stockings she pushed back the bushes. "You're -not to follow." - -He listened. Was she standing there, hidden by the screen of leaves? He -had not heard the rustle of her going. Suddenly the branches were thrust -back, and again he saw her. Her eyes were alight with merriment and her -mouth was puckered. "Oh, little Peter, if you'd only been older----" - -Like a secret door in a green wall closing, the branches swished back. -The wood muttered to itself as she went from him, and then fell so -silent that it seemed to stand with its finger pressed against its -mouth. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII--WAKING UP - -The world is a mirror into which we gaze and see the reflection of -ourselves. So far to Peter it had been a foreground of small boys and -their sisters, with a background of occasional adult relatives. But now, -like a fledgling which has grown to strength lying snugly in its nest, -he had looked out and seen the leafy distance below him. His curiosity -was roused; the commonplace was a wonderland. What went on down there? -Where did the parent birds go, and how did they find their way back? -What was the meaning of this sun-and-shadow landscape that people called -"living"? Because he was young, when he looked out of the nest, the -distance below him seemed full of youngness. All that had happened up to -now, the collapse of Aunt Jehane's fortunes, the imprisonment of -Uncle Waffles, his father's problems and the marriage of Grace to her -policeman, were mere stories which he had heard reported. There was -a battle called life, going on somewhere, in which he had never -participated. He was tired of being told about it. He wanted to feel -the rush of wind under his outspread wings; this afternoon, in a gust of -vivid and personal experience, he thought he had felt it. What was -it? By what name should he call it? Because he was only fifteen, love -sounded too large a word. And yet----- If it wasn't love, what was it? - -All along the dusty summer road, through the golden evening, as he -tricycled back to London, he argued with himself. Kay interrupted -occasionally and he answered, but his thoughts were elsewhere. They had -discovered the gray-built city of Reality, and went from door to door -tapping, demanding entrance. Ignorance had kept him unadventurous and -contented; his contentedness was breaking down--he was glad of it. -The urgent need was on him to explain creation and his presence in the -world. How were people born? Why did they marry? How did they get money? -The child's mind, like the philosopher's, goes back to fundamentals. All -this outward pageant which had passed before his eyes for fifteeen -years as a sight to be expected, had suddenly become packed with hidden -significance. What was the meaning of this being born, this getting -and spending, this disastrous and glorious loving, struggling and being -buried? There was no one to whom he dared go for an answer; he must find -the explanation within himself. In the isolation of that thought he -felt a great gulf opening between himself and his little sister, between -himself and everyone he loved. Whether he liked it or not, one day he -must grow into a man; he was elated and terrified by the certainty. And -all the while, set to the creaking music of the lumbering tricycle, one -word sung itself over and over, "Cherry, Cherry, Cherry." - -[Illustration: 0283] - -No one, looking at his childish face, would have guessed the grave -suspicions and wild hazards that walked in the desperate loneliness -of his imagination. It was the key to existence that he sought. He had -arrived at that crisis of soul and body, when every child is driven out, -a John the Baptist, into the wilderness of conjecture, there to live on -the locusts and wild honey of hearsay, till he finds the fruit of the -Tree of Knowledge. - -As they neared the suburbs, a stream of bicyclists--city clerks riding -out with their sweethearts--met, engulfed and gave them passage. After -all, it was a merry, laughing world! Above the tinkling of bells, -evening birds were calling. All these people, how did they live? Where -did they come from? Had they, too, slept and been awakened questioning, -because a girl had touched them? - -Down the road he saw his aunt's cottage. Riska would be there by the -gate, sitting behind her table spread with cakes, mineral-waters and -glasses. He recalled all the things he had heard said of her, things to -which he had paid no attention--that she was a born flirt and that her -mother was teaching her to catch men. As they came up, she lifted her -soft eyes and let them rest on him with contemptuous affection. Why did -she do that? Why did she always seem to despise and tolerate men and -boys? A bicyclist, who had ridden past, turned his head, caught sight of -her and came back slowly. Peter felt that it was not thirst, but Riska's -prettiness that had recalled him. He felt angry with Riska--unreasonably -angry, for she had said and done nothing. - -"We're late," he told her; "we can't stop." - -She nodded. She didn't care. Her whole attitude seemed to tell Peter -that he wasn't worth wasting time on. Just as the pedals had begun -to turn, Glory came out and stood in the porch. She waved to him and -shouted something. He called to her that they were in a hurry. Further -down the road, he turned his head; her eyes followed him. - -It was nearly dark when they reached Topbury. Lamps stood like marigold -splashes on the dusk in a quivering line along the Terrace. In the -garden he found his parents, sitting close together beneath the -mulberry-tree like lovers. They drew apart as Kay ran up to them. - -"You're late, children." It was his mother talking. "We were getting -nervous." - -He kissed her; for a moment, the old sense of security returned. - -"It's time Kay was in bed." - -She crossed the gravel path with her arm about the little girl, and -disappeared up the white stone steps to the house. - -Far away, as of old, like waves about the foot of a cliff, the roar -of London threatened. It seemed to be telling him that he would not be -always sheltered--that one day he would have to launch out, steering in -search of the unknown future by himself. It was not the boldness, but -the loneliness of the adventure that now impressed him. - -"Father." - -"Yes." The voice came to him out of the darkness. "What does it feel -like to become a man?" - -"Feel like, Peter! I don't understand." - -"To have to--to have to fight for oneself?" - -His father leant out and touched him. "Have you begun to think of that -already? Fight for yourself! You won't have to do that for a long while -yet." - -"But----." Peter allowed himself to be drawn into the arms of the man -who had always stood between him and the world. "But when the time -comes, I don't want to fail like----," he was going to have said like -Uncle Waffles, but he said instead, "like some people." And then, after -a pause, "I feel so unprepared." - -"We've all felt that way, sonny. Somehow we get the strength. You'll get -it." - -Peter sighed contentedly. He was again in the nest with the -creeper-covered walls about him. The strained note had gone out of his -voice when he spoke now. "There's so much to learn. It seems so strange -to think that one day I'll have to grow up, like you, and marry, and -earn money, and have little boys and girls." - -His father laughed huskily. "Very strange! Strange even to me, -Peter--and I've done it: And, d'you know, there are times when even a -man looks back and is surprised that he's grown up. He feels just what -you're feeling--the wonder of it. It seems only the other day that I -was as small as you are; and only the other day that I was frightened of -life and what it meant. Are you frightened?" - -For answer Peter stood up. "Not so much frightened as puzzled." - -His father rose and led him out from beneath the leaves, which crowded -above their heads. He pointed up past the roofs of houses. "We couldn't -see them under there," he said. "Every night they come to their places -and stand, shining. Some one sends them. Some one sent you and me, -Peter. We don't know why. There are people who sit always under -trees and never look up. They'll tell you that there aren't any stars -overhead. We're not like that. We know that whoever is careful enough -to hang lamps on the clouds, is careful enough to watch over us. So we -needn't be afraid of living, need we, old chap?" - -Peter pressed his father's hand. "I'll try to remember." - -That night, when the house was all silent, he crept out of bed. Leaning -from the open window, he looked down on London, stretching for miles and -miles, with its huddled roofs spread over its huddled personalities. -Why were things as they were? If some one lit lamps in the heavens and -followed each life with care, why did four women, who loved children, -sit forever with their arms empty, while one sang of the sweet fields -of Eden; and why did Uncle Waffles-----? The questions were unanswerable -and endless. And then, in defiant contrast, there came bounding into -his memory the courageous figure of the Faun Man, with his cavalier -attitudes and strong determination to make of life a laughing affair. -The night quickened; the ghostly feet of a little breeze tiptoed across -the tree-tops, causing their leaves to rustle. From the far distance, -the throb of belated traffic reached him like the beat of a muffled -drum. He heard London marching to the martial music of struggle; his -heart was stirred. Life was a fight--well, what of it? When his time -came, he must be ready. He looked again at the stars, remembering what -his father had said. One need not be frightened. And then he looked away -into the blackness; somewhere over there the houses ended and the wide -peace of the country commenced. Somewhere over there was Cherry. - -He waited impatiently for his next half-holiday, when he would be free -to tricycle out. When he went, she was not in the Haunted Wood; nor the -next time, nor the next. He wanted to ask the Faun Man, but postponed -through shyness; he was afraid his secret would be guessed. He was -always hoping and hoping that he would find her behind the green wall -of leaves, where the little river ran. One afternoon, when tea was ended -and Kay and Harry had gone out, he asked, "Does the girl who broke your -pictures never come here now?" - -The Faun Man looked up sharply and stared, trying to guess behind the -question. - -"I wasn't very decent to you that day, was I? And I was beastly to her." - -"I think she was sorry," said Peter softly. "I wish you'd let her----. -Does she never come here now?" - -The Faun Man leant forward across the table, with his face between his -long brown hands. "Did you like her, Peter?" - -"Yes." - -"Very much?" - -Peter lowered his eyes. "Very much." - -When he dared to glance up, he found that the Faun Man wasn't laughing. -He reached out his hand to Peter. "You're young," he said. "Fifteen, -isn't it? Well, she's a year older. It's dangerous to like a girl very -much--especially a little wild thing like Cherry. I'm a man and I know, -because I, too, like some one very much; and it doesn't always make -me happy. You'll like heaps of girls, Peter, before you find the right -one." He felt that Peter's hand had grown smaller in his own and was -withdrawing. "You think it isn't true?" he questioned. "You think it -wasn't kind of me to say that? And you want to see her?" Peter gazed out -of the cottage window to where sunlight fell aslant the Haunted Wood. -Why should he want to see her more than anyone in the world? But he did. -And he knew that because he was so young, most people would consider -his desire absurd. But the Faun Man, who found so much to laugh at, was -regarding him seriously. "And you want to see her?" - -Peter whispered, "Yes." - -The Faun Man's eyes filmed over in that curious way they had. He said: -"I want you to trust me. There are reasons why you can't see her. I've -sent her away because I think that it's best. I can't tell you why or -where I've sent her; or what right I have to send her. But I want you to -know that I don't smile at you for liking her. It doesn't matter how old -or young we are; when love comes, it always hurts. And it seems just as -serious whether it comes late or early. But some day I'll let you see -her. To you at fifteen, some day seems very far from now. But if you -wait, and still think you care for her, I'll let you see her when the -time comes. I don't think we ought to speak of this again till then. -We'll keep it a secret which we never discuss; but we'll each remember. -Is that a bargain?" - -Peter had no other choice than to accept. They shook hands. - -Shortly after this Kay and Peter went away to a farm in North Wales -for their summer holidays. Their first intention on their return was to -visit the Faun Man and Harry. On going to the stable, they found that -the tricycle was no longer there. Their father was very mysterious and -unconcerned when they told him; evidently he knew what had happened. -"All right," he said, "just wait a day or two. You'll see--it'll come -back." - -And one morning it did come back, ridden by a man with a face all -smudges, who presented a bill for payment. It had entirely transformed -itself, like a widow-lady who had been brisked up by an unexpected offer -of marriage. From a sober, old-fashioned tricycle it had taken on an -appearance almost modern and festive. Its handle-bars had been replated; -its framework re-enameled; its tall wheels cut down; its solid tires -removed and replaced by pneumatics. It sparkled in the sun, as though -defying butcher-boys to jeer at it. The man, with the face all smudges, -wheeled it through the stable into the garden; he left it beneath the -mulberry-tree, and there the children, on arriving home from school, -found it. - -"Why, it's a new tricycle!" - -Peter looked it over, "No, it isn't, Kitten Kay. It's the old one -altered." - -Their mother, hearing their shouts, came out into the garden, nearly as -excited herself. They had visions of spinning out to the Happy Cottage -at the breakneck speed of eight miles an hour. While they clambered on -to it, examined it and spotted new improvements in the way of a lamp and -saddles, she explained to them how it had happened. "It's your father's -doing. He meant it as a surprise. He thought the old tires made it too -heavy, so----." - -Kay interrupted. "Oh, Peter, do let's take it out on to the Terrace and -try it." - -As they wheeled it down the gravel path between the geranium beds, they -chattered of how they would surprise Harry. But Harry was fated never -to see it. On the Terrace, when they had mounted, while their mother -watched them from the window, they found that everything was not well. -The man with the face all smudges had been wise in demanding his money -before his handiwork was tested. He had cut the wheels so low that, -where the road was uneven, the pedals bumped against the ground. -Life had, indeed, become serious for Peter; through his father's -well-intentioned kindness, his means of communication between reality -and fairyland had been annihilated. For a time it looked as though so -small an accident as the indiscreet remodeling of a tricycle had lost -for him forever the new friendships formed at the Happy Cottage. - -But one evening a dinner was given by Mr. Barrington to a famous man -whose work he was anxious to publish. Kay and Peter were allowed to see -him after dessert. - -The moment Peter's head appeared round the door the famous man rose up -and shouted, "Hulloa, young 'un, so at last I've found you! Where the -dickens have you been hiding?" - -Mr. Barrington lay back in his chair, his arms hanging limp on either -side, the image of amazement. He heard his son explaining: "It was the -tandem trike. Father wanted to be kind to us and----. Well, after he'd -had it improved, it wouldn't work. And so, you see, there was no way of -getting to you." - -The Faun Man spread out his long legs, laughing uproariously; until the -appearance of the children, he'd been most scrupulously conventional -and polite. "But, Peter, an immortal friendship like ours cut short by a -tandem trike! You little donkey, why didn't you write?" - -Kay rose up in her brother's defence. "He isn't a little donkey. We -were all to be pretence people, don't you remember? We didn't know your -address." - -The Faun Man stroked his chin and lengthened his face. "If you'd left -me alone much longer," he said, "you wouldn't have found me; I'm moving -into London." - -Then their parents began to ask questions; the story of Friday Lane and -the mouth-organ boy came out. - -That evening, after Lorenzo Arran had said good-by, he turned back to -his host, just as the door was closing. - -"Oh, I say! One minute, Barrington. That matter we were discussing -yesterday--let's consider it settled." - -Barrington watched the tall, lean figure go striding down the Terrace. -He was so taken up with watching, that he didn't know that Nan had -stolen up behind him until she touched his hand. He turned; his mouth -was crooked with amusement. "Did you hear that? He agrees--I'm to -publish for him. And it's Peter's doing. One never knows where that boy -won't turn up." - -And Peter, snuggled cosily in bed, was wondering whether, now that he'd -found the Faun Man, he'd refind Cherry. He reflected that when life -could play such tricks on you, a lifetime of it wouldn't be half bad. He -was no longer frightened to remember that, whether he liked it or not, -he must grow up. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX--A GOLDEN WORLD - -And he refound her, when he had almost forgotten her. In those four -long years, which stretch like a magic ocean between the island of -boyhood and the misty coasts of early manhood, it is so easy to forget. -Those years, between fifteen and nineteen, are the longest in life, -perhaps. - -They had been spent by Peter among books, watching, as in a wizard's -crystal, the dead world-builders at work; they had risen from their -graves in the dusk of his imagination, stretched themselves, gathered -strength and marched anew to the downfall of Troy and the conquest of -befabled empires. How real those poignant religions were, telling of -the loves of ruffianly gods for perishable earth-maidens--so real to him -that he had paid little heed to the present. - -In his outward life nothing had much altered; things were called -by different names. They spoke of him as nearly a man now--servants -addressed him as "sir"; they had never doubted that he was a boy once. -Kay stood a few inches higher on her legs. Romance had retired from -active business, leaving to her children the unthankful task of having -kittens. - -Just as Peter was said to be nearly a man and hadn't changed, so the -nursery was said to be his study, though it was almost the same in -appearance. A student's lamp had replaced the old gas-jet. Shelves, -which had held fairy-tale volumes in which truth was depicted with a -laughing countenance, now supported serious lexicons from which truth -stared out with austerity. But his study retained reminders of those -tremulous days when it was still a nursery, and hadn't grown up--when it -was the dreaming place of a girl whose arms were empty, in whose heart -had begun to echo the patter of tiny footsteps. The tall guard stood -before the fireplace, as though it feared that the long youth, who sat -continually poring over a book with his eyes shaded by his hand, might -shrink into the curly-headed urchin who hadn't known that live coals -burned. The laburnum still leant her arms upon the window-sill and -tap-tap-tapped, shedding her golden tassels; she gazed in upon him with -the same indiscretion as when he was a newcomer, with ungovernable arms -and legs, who had to be tubbed night and morning. And she saw the same -mother, who had sung him to sleep, peer in at the door on her way to -bed, tiptoe across the threshold, ruffle his hair and whisper, "Peter, -darling, you can't learn everything between now and morning. Won't you -get some rest?" - -He had exchanged tandem tricycles for lexicons as a means of locomotion -to the land of adventure. His little sister could no longer accompany -him; but the desire for wisdom had left room for the heart of -tenderness. When his lamp shone solitary in the darkened house, he -would straighten his shoulders and listen, fancying he heard the angel's -whistle. - -In four months he was going up to Oxford, to live in gray cloisters -where boys at once become men. His father shared his anticipation -generously. "You're going to recover my lost chances. Lucky chap!" - -It was summer. He had risen early and sat by his study window reading -the Iliad. The house was full of lazy morning sounds--bath-water -running, breakfast being prepared, doors opening and shutting, footsteps -on the stairs. Outside in the garden the sun dropped golden balls, which -tumbled through the trees and rolled across the turf. Birds, hopping in -and out the rose-bushes, were industriously foraging. Tripping up the -gravel-path, with fresh-plucked flowers in her hands, he could see his -little sister, her gold hair blowing. A tap fell upon his door. A maid, -rustling in a starched dress, entered. "It's just come, Master Peter." - -"For me? A telegram!" - -He slit it open and read: "_At Henley with 'The Skylark! Can't you come -for Regatta? Cherry with me._" - -Cherry with him! It was signed Lorenzo Arran. So he was keeping his -promise! But why should Cherry be with him? And where had she been -hiding all those long four years? So the Faun Man had taken his -houseboat to Henley! It would be rather jolly to join him; but, after -all, He ought to stick to his work. And this girl--did he want to see -her? - -The maid was waiting. A telegram at Topbury was a rarity in these days. -It cost sixpence at the cheapest; therefore its use was restricted to -the announcement of the extremes of joy and sorrow--births, deaths and -financial losses. She showed relief when he looked up cheerily and said, -"Tell the boy no answer." - -When she had gone he stood up, walked about the room excitedly and -halted by the window. He wouldn't go, of course; it would run his father -into expense. Then, again he read the words, "Cherry with me." It would -be amusing to see her. He began to wonder--did she know that the -Faun Man had sent for him? If she did----? His thoughts flew back across -the years: he was in the Haunted Wood. The little river was singing, -"Turn back, turn back, turn back." He refused to turn back, and -followed; suddenly, across the scrub-oak, he found himself gazing -into the gray eyes of a girl. It was the grayness of her eyes and the -whiteness of her feet that he remembered. - -He leant over the table and closed the book with its unreal love-legends -of gods and goddesses. "By Jove, but I'd like to go," he said aloud. - -The maid had spread the news of the unusual happening. As he entered -the breakfast-room all eyes examined him. They waited for him to be -communicative. At last his father said, "Had a telegram?" - -Peter drew it from his pocket and passed it. - -His father looked up. "'Cherry with me.' What does he mean by that?" - -Peter raised his eyebrows, as much as to say "How can I tell?" - -His father handed it back. "Are you going?" - -"Costs money, and I've too much work." - -It was the mention of work that roused his mother. She smiled gently, -and glanced down the table at her husband. "It would do him good, -Billy." - -"Yes, it would do you good," his father said. "Why don't you go, old -chap?" - -"Yes, why don't you go?" Kay echoed. - -His things were quickly packed. In a flannel suit, with his straw hat -in his hand, he was saying good-by on the doorstep. His father bethought -him. "Here, wait a second, Peter; I'll walk with you to the end of -the Terrace." While walking he delivered his warning, "This man -Arran--personally I like him and I know he's your friend, but----. I've -nothing against him, but he's a queer fellow --clever as the dickens and -all that. The fact is, curious tales are told about him--all of them too -far-fetched to be true. You know the saying about no smoke without fire, -well----. It may be that he's only different; but he strikes people as -being fast and dangerous. Be careful; I'd trust you anywhere. Have a -good time. I've got it off my chest--my sermon's ended." - -At the bottom of the Crescent, to his great relief, Peter found that -Cat's Meat's master was not on the stand. He wouldn't have hurt Mr. -Grace's feelings for the world. He was free to jump into a spanking -hansom. Cat's Meat may have seen him; but Cat's Meat couldn't tell. -Surely, at his age, he must have been glad to escape the long crawl to -Paddington. The younger horse in the hansom stepped out gaily, making -his hoofs ring smartly against the cobblestones. "Cherry, Cherry, -Cherry," they seemed to be saying. Taking short-cuts by side-roads, now -following gleaming tram-lines, now dashing through mean streets, past -public houses in plenty, they sped till they struck Paddington and drew -up in the glass-roofed station. And then the drifting motion of the -train and the unbelievable greenness of the country--the glimpses of -silver water, quiet meadows and cottages in which people were born and -died, and never traveled! And the holiday crowds on the platforms! The -girls in summer dresses--the superb cleanness and coolness of them, and -the happiness! It was exciting. The wheels beneath his carriage drummed -out one word, "Cherry, Cherry, Cherry." He didn't know even yet whether -he wanted to see her. - -The train achieved the surprise of the century--it arrived early. He -examined the expectant faces of the people; neither Harry nor the Faun -Man was there. He refused to hang about; his legs ached to be moving. -Picking up his bag, he set out to walk, hoping he would meet them. - -Streets were garish--flowers in gardens, foamy toilets of women, college -blazers and rowing colors, and, over all, swift white clouds and the -fiercely gleaming sun. From under wide river-hats girls laughed up into -men's tanned faces. Everyone was young or, because the world was golden, -seemed to be young. Peter wanted some one to laugh with. Walking down -the middle of the street, the crowd moved in pairs, a man and a woman -together, almost invariably. The old gray town, like Peter, looked -lonely in this hubbub of jostling love and merriment. - -As he came in sight of the Catherine Wheel, a distant cheering -commenced. Feet moved faster. Men caught at women's arms, and women -caught up their dresses; the army of pleasure-seekers commenced to run. -Because Peter was by himself he forged ahead and found a place on the -bridge where people stood yelling and jammed, shoulder to shoulder. At -first he could make out hardly anything, because of the sea of hats and -backs in front of him. Then the crowd swayed; he took advantage of it -and found himself leaning over the crumbling stone balustrade, gazing -down on one of the most gallant sights in England. Through a steep bank -of posies, made up of river gardens, house-boats and human faces, ran a -silver thread. Approaching, with what seemed incredible slowness, were -two specks about the size of matches. As the sun caught them, one -saw the flash of blades, whipping the water with the regularity of -clockwork. Stealthily, with infinite labor, one stole ahead. The garden -of faces on either side of the silver thread trembled; a roar went up -which gathered volume as it drew from out the distance. Peter pressed -his lips against a man's ear--a complete stranger--and shouted, "What is -it?" - -The man stared at him despisingly, "The Diamond Sculls. Roy Hardcastle -again the Australian." He turned away and paid Peter no more attention. - -Peter, though not much wiser, at once became a partisan and screamed the -one name he knew, "Hardcastle! Hardcastle! Hardcastle!" till his throat -felt as if it had burst. - -And now they were well in sight--two men with bent backs and arms that -worked like levers, each seated in a machine as narrow as a needle, with -long wooden legs which stuck out on either side, striding the water and -keeping the balance. They looked like human egg-beaters gone mad. The -river rose to its feet; the winning-post was nearing. The channel of -free water seemed to narrow as skiffs, gigs, punts, dingeys and every -kind of craft pressed closer to the booms which marked the course. - -Something happened. Both men drooped inertly forward over trailing -sculls. It was dramatic, this immediate transition from frantic energy -to listless collapse. Hats were tossed up. Launches shrieked and -whistled. Everyone tried to make more noise than his neighbor, Peter -with the rest. "Well rowed. Well rowed, sir. Well rowed." - -When the clamor had died down he turned to where the man had been -standing. "Who won?" And then, "Oh, I beg your pardon." - -He was gazing into the amused face of a girl with gray eyes and -brown-black hair, that swept like a cloud across a Clear white forehead. - -"Who won! Roy Hardcastle, of course. England's not beaten yet." - -He wasn't thinking of England's honor; the race--it had never happened. -He was looking at her mouth. They called her Cherry, because her lips -were red. - -She was going from him. How straight she was! How slender! Like a slim -spring flower--a narcissus, perhaps. He went after her and raised his -hat. "Forgive me for speaking to you. Just a minute before a man was -standing there, and---" - -"That's all right," she said; "I understand." - -Again she was on the point of leaving. He had to make certain. "Since -I've been so rude already, would you mind if I asked you one more -question?" - -She looked him over casually and seemed more satisfied that she was -willing to admit to anyone but herself. "Not at all." - -He straightened his necktie nervously. "Then, can you tell me where I'll -find _The Skylark?_ It's a house-boat belonging to Lorenzo Arran." - -She laughed softly and stood with her eyes cast down, tapping the -pavement with her foot. He was sure now. She looked up. "Where have -I seen you? Somehow you're familiar. It's annoying; you knew me in a -flash." - -"You're Cherry?" - -"Only to a few of my dearest friends." - -He glanced away from her. "You were Cherry to me once for about an hour; -you've been Cherry to me ever since then." - -There was a long pause. "And yet I don't know you," she said. "You must -be the friend Mr. Arran was expecting down from London." - -Peter nodded. - -"He and Harry went to meet you. You must have missed each other at the -station. If you like, I'll show you the way to _The Skylark_; I'm going -there. They'll be wondering whether you've come. We'd better hurry." - -"Oh, please not yet." - -"But why not?" she asked, puzzled. - -"Because I'm--I don't know. My pride's touched that you don't know me. -Would you think it awfully cheeky if I were to ask you to come and have -tea with me first?" - -She opened her parasol, gaining time while she made her mind up; and -then, "I'm game. I haven't had much adventure lately. I'm just out of a -convent school in France." - -He opened his eyes wide. "Ah, so that was it!" - -They entered the Red Lion and walked through into the garden. They -ordered tea at a small table from which they could see the river. - -"Why did you say that?" she asked. - -"What did I say?" - -"You said, 'Ah, so that was it!' You opened your mouth so wide when you -said it that I thought you'd gape your head off. When I was a little -girl in America we had a colored cook with a decapitating smile--it -nearly met at the back of her neck. Well, your 'Ah' was a decapitating -'Ah.' Now tell me?" - -"Because I've waited four years to find out where you've been hiding." - -"Four years!" She tried to think back. - -He leant his elbows on the table, his face between his hands. "Seems a -long while, doesn't it? In four years one can grow up. Last time we were -together you made me a promise--you said we'd meet again often in the -same place. I went there and went there--you didn't keep your word." - -She laughed. "I suppose it's a trifle too late to say I'm sorry. I don't -suppose you minded much." She waited for him to contradict that; when -he didn't she continued, "How much do you know about me? For instance, -what's my real name?" - -He laughed in return. "You've got me there. All you told me was that -people called you Cherry, because your lips were red." - -She sank her head between her shoulders; then she looked up flushing and -pursing her lips together, like a child who wants to extract a favor -by being loved. "Be a sportsman. You're awfully tantalizing. Give me a -pointer that'll help me to guess. You know, I ought to know who you are; -it isn't good form for a girl to take tea with a strange young man." - -"Well," he said, speaking slowly, "do you remember a day when you -knocked down and walked over, oh, let's say about twenty photographs of -the same lady?" - -"Do I remember!" She sniffed a little scornfully. "'Tisn't likely I'd -forget; that was why the Faun Man sent me to a convent." - -She had said rather more than she intended. She was provoked with -herself and with Peter, for the moment, because he had drawn her out. -She twisted round on her chair, so that he could see only her shoulders. - -Not realizing that he was being snubbed, he pushed the subject further, -"What an unfair punishment! That doesn't sound like the Faun Man. But, -perhaps, you liked it. What did you do at the convent?" - -"Always praying," she answered, with her shoulders still toward him. -"And, look here, don't you say that the Faun Man was unfair. He wasn't. -He didn't send me away only for breaking his pictures." And then, -inconsequently, "If it wasn't too childish I'd go and smash them all -afresh." - -Suddenly she swung round, "I know who you are. Hurray! You're Peter. You -see, I remember the name. Shall I give myself away and tell you why I -remember?" - -"Do. Do," he urged. - -The answer came promptly. "Because you paid me compliments. You thought -that God said to Himself when He made me, 'I'll make the most beautiful -person I've ever made.'--Hulloa! You don't like that. It wasn't quite -what you expected. What did you expect? Until you tell me I won't speak -to you." - -Compelled by her silence, he confessed, "I did hope that you might have -remembered me for something--something more romantic. You see, we met in -the Haunted Wood, and there was the river, and you were going to drown -yourself. You'd taken off your shoes and stockings as a first step, -which was very economical of you. And I--I saw your feet, and----" - -She waved her handkerchief at him, her eyes a-sparkle. "I know. I know. -Very pretty and very foolish!" She rose. "We ought to be going." - -Outside the Red Lion, she turned toward the river; "I left my boat at -one of the landings." - -When they had found it and he had helped her in, she said, "You can row, -I suppose? All right, then, I'll steer; you take the sculls." - -They drifted down with the stream, the gray bridge, spanning the river, -growing more distant behind them; the wooded hills swimming up on every -side to form a green cup, against which the sky stooped its lips. They -floated by lazy craft, in which women lay back on cushions beneath -sunshades and men with bare arms clasped about their knees watched them. -Snatches of laughter reached them, to which the murmur of voices droned -an accompaniment. On green lawns, beneath dreaming garden trees, little -groups of brightly attired people clustered. From houseboats along the -river-bank stole music, one air creeping into another as they passed, -fashioning a medley--coon songs from America, Victorian ballads of -sentiment, a wild scrap of Dvorak and the latest impertinence from -London. Of all that they saw and heard, they alone were constant in the -shifting landscape. - -"After four years!" she murmured. - -He stopped rowing and gazed at her wonderingly, repeating her words, -"After four years!" - -Then a familiar voice leapt out at them from a sky-blue house-boat, -with sky-blue curtains fluttering in the windows and a rim of scarlet -geraniums running round it in boxes. The voice lent the touch of humor -to their tenderness, which saves sentiment from sadness and makes it -ecstatic. It sang to the twinkling tones of a mandolin, struck sharply: - - "Come, tickle me here; - - For I ain't what you thought me-- - - I ain't so 'igh and so 'aughty, my dear. - - But there's right times for lovin', - - And cooin' and dovin', - - And wrong ways of flirtin' - - That's woundin' and hurtin'-- - - I'm a lydy, d'you hear? - - But just under the neck, - - Peck ever so softly-- - - I allow that, my dear. - - Not my lips--you're too near. - - Come along, lovey; come along, duckie; - - Tickle me, tickle me here." - - - - -CHAPTER XXX--HALF IN LOVE - -The Faun Man looked up from his writing. Peter had been with him on -_The Skylark_ for five days--five gorgeous days. He had found to his -surprise that the golden woman was of the party. So far as outward -appearances went, the picture-smashing incident might never have -happened; Cherry conducted herself as a good comrade and the golden -woman called her "dear." They had to act as friends, since the Faun Man -had taken rooms for them at the same hotel that they might chaperone -each other. The men slept on board the house-boat. - -It was nearly six. The last of the Finals had been rowed; the Regatta -was ended. Far up the course one could still hear the distant cheering -from the lawn where prizes were being distributed. The most sensational -race of the afternoon had been the Diamond Sculls, in which Hardcastle -had won by a bare half-length. Peter still tingled with the madness -of the excitement, the splendid grit of the contested fight and the -wildness of the applause. He had seen a slight young hero lifted out of -his shell and carried shoulder-high; he wanted something like that to -happen to himself so that Cherry might approve of him. He had just come -from accompanying her back to The Red Lion; in an hour, when she had -changed for dinner, he was going to fetch her. He had one more night -before him--the gayest of them all, when the crews broke training, and -then----. How often would he see her again? The gray old town would -recover from its invasion, and settle back into routine and eventless -quiet. Would something similar happen to his life? Nevertheless, he had -one more night. - -As he climbed aboard _The Skylark_ and entered, the Faun Man looked up. -"Peter, i'm tired of being respectable--I want to be vulgar." - -Peter threw himself into a creaking wicker-chair. "That's not difficult; -it's chiefly a matter of clothes." - -"And accent," the Faun Man added; "refined speech is the soap and water -of good manners." - -Peter chuckled. "Then don't tub." - -The Faun Man stood up and stretched himself. "I haven't. I've written -a love-lyric that never saw a nailbrush. It's called _The Belle of -Shoreditch_. When I've sung it to you I'll tell you why I wrote -it. Isn't this a ripping tune?" He tinkled it over; then sat down -crosslegged on the floor and commenced to drawl the words out: - - "My bloke's a moke - - And 'e cawn't tell me why; - - But the fust time 'e spoke - - 'Twas no more than a sigh. - - Says I, 'Don't mind me; we'll soon be dead.' - - Says 'e, 'If yer dies, I'll break me 'ead.' - - Says I, 'Why not yer 'eart instead, - - Yer quaint old moke?' - - "For yer cawn't be 'appy when yer 'alf in love--! - - Yer must taik one road or the other; - - Yer can maike o' life an up'ill shove, - - Or marry a bloke wot ain't yer brother." - -"Chorus, Peter. Pick it up." - -The Faun Man nodded the time, swaying from the hips and rolling his -head. - -"For yer cawn't be 'appy when yer 'alf in love." - -He laid his mandolin aside. "Catchy, isn't it? There mayn't be much soap -about the dialect, but there's plenty of philosophy in the sense. More -than one person in this party is half in love. Take example from me, -Peter; don't make a fool of yourself." - -Peter's face went red. He didn't think he'd been so obvious. To escape -further pursuit, he turned the corner rapidly, "When are you going to -start being vulgar?" - -"Ah, yes!" The Faun Man came back. He struck a pose, his left hand -resting on his hip, his right beating against his breast. "To-night," -he said. "To-night I lose my identity. I cease to be Lorenzo Arran and -become Bill Willow, with his performing troupe of eccentric minstrels. -I wear a red nose. My clothes might have been picked out of any -ash-barrel." - -Peter interrupted. "From where do you get the eccentric minstrels?" - -The Faun Man grabbed him by the shoulder, as though he feared he might -dash away when the full glory of the project was divulged. "My boy, -you're one of them. You operate upon a bun-bag folded over a hair-comb. -You wear--let me see? You wear a sheet, with holes cut in it for your -eyes and mouth. Your nose may remain incognito; I've seen better. In a -word, you play the ghost to my Hamlet." - -"And Harry and the girls?" - -The Faun Man passed his hand over his forehead and reflected. "Let me -see! Harry blacks his physiognomy; the mouth-organ disguises the rest of -him--it always does. And as for the girls--they hang their hair before -their faces and sing through it. Believe me, nothing alters a woman's -appearance so much as letting down her hair; that's why all divorces -occur after marriage. Now, with me it's different; I look my best in -bed. Of course I can't ask anyone to see me there--that's why I'm a -bachelor.--But to get back to vulgarity; we start to-night in a punt. -We'll wait till it's dusk, and we'll have lanterns. We'll collect money -for the private insane asylums of Alaska. I'll make a little speech -explaining our philanthropy. Young feller, Bill Willow and his minstrels -are going to make this Old Regatta rememberable for years to come." - -"You mean it?" - -The Faun Man grinned; all the boy in him was up. - -"Peter, don't look so pop-eyed; of course I mean it--I mean it just as -truly as Martin Luther did when he said, 'Here I take my stand, because -I've got nowhere to sit down.' A profound utterance! I'm tired of -watching all these people spooning under trees, wearing Leander ties, -comparing their girls' eyes to the stars and being afraid to touch each -other. They're too much of ladies and gentlemen; even we are. To-night -I'm going to be a ruffian. Cut along and fetch the girls. I've got to -write another song and it's almost time for rehearsal." - -"A dress rehearsal?" - -"In spots," said the Faun Man. - -When Peter broke the news to the golden woman she covered her face and -laughed through her hands. She had a trick of treating Cherry and Peter -like children, although she looked no more than twenty herself. She put -her arms round their shoulders, drawing their faces close together, on -either side of hers. She was so happy and beautiful it would have been -difficult not to love her. "My Loo-ard!" she said, "I'd do a skirt-dance -to-night if it wasn't for the water under the punt. I'm all against -getting wet, aren't you, Cherry?" - -Peter looked knowing. "The first thing she'd do if she knew she was -going to drown, would be to take off her shoes and stockings." - -The golden woman pinched the girl's cheek. "Hulloa! Secrets -already!--But I don't like Lorie's idea for disguising us. Let's see -what we can do with five minutes' shopping." - -When they rowed up to _The Skylark_ they were met by a mysterious -silence. Lifting out their parcels, they tiptoed into the cabin. Harry -was bending over a table-cloth, with a tooth-brush in his hand and a -bottle of blacking at his elbow. The Faun Man was melting the bottoms of -candles and making them stick to the bottoms of empty jam-jars. - -"What are you doing?" - -They both looked up. - -"I'm getting the illuminations ready," said the Faun Man. - -"And I'm making our flag," said Harry, scrubbing hard at the -table-cloth. "Blacking's awful stuff; it's so smudgy." They crowded -round him to inspect his handiwork and read: - -BILL WILLOW'S - -IMPROMPTU TROUPE OF ECCENTRIC MINSTRELS - -NO FUN WITHOUT FOLLY ENVY THE POOR MAD - -The Faun Man affixed his last candle. "Now, then, you crazy people, -rehearsal's in five minutes. Let's fortify our tummies." - -Behind the house-boat the sun was setting; in patches, where water lay -most still among rushes, the river shone blood-red. Sometimes, beneath -the window, they heard the dip of oars and a boat drifted past. They -were miles from reality, in a hushed and painted world. They had become -little children for the moment, though the Faun Man had called it "being -vulgar." They had become immensely serious over a thing which didn't -matter. There were the words of the songs to learn, and then the tunes. -After that there were the cretonnes to cut out and run together into -burlesque night-gowns, extremely ample so as to cover their proper -dresses. The golden woman had surprised a prim widow in Hart Street by -asking for "The ugliest materials you have in your shop." She had -met with success; no materials could have been uglier. One had a -straw-colored background, strewn with gigantic poppies; across another -floated, in a kind of sky-blue gravy, the unbarbered heads of bodyless -angels. The Faun Man and Peter, when their needles lost the thread, -gave up sewing and fastened theirs together with paper pins. And all the -while beneath the absurdity of it there was an atmosphere of tenderness, -as if folly had brought them all nearer. The Faun Man kept watching the -golden woman; and Cherry the Faun Man; and Peter, Cherry. As for Harry, -he was the only one whose eyes were free to take in everybody. - -When night had fallen they slipped on their masks and stepped into the -punt. Harry took the pole and pushed off from _The Skylark_. The Faun -Man sat next to the golden woman, humming snatches of song beneath his -breath, to which he picked out an accompaniment on the mandolin. She lay -back gazing up at him. - -Above a wooded knoll the moon rose, setting the river a-silver. Trees -knelt along the banks like cattle, stooping to drink. In the distance -the bridge leapt the chasm of darkness and lights of the town sprang -up. Like a fleet of dreams against green wharfs of fairyland, illumined -houseboats shone fantastic. Chains of lamps, strung through boughs of -gardens, gleamed like jewels on the throat of the dusk. The river sang -incoherently, in a voice that was half asleep. Peter slipped his hand -into Cherry's; her hand seemed quite unconscious of what he was doing. - -And now they drew near to the crowd of pleasure-craft, which jostled one -another and beat the water like a run of salmon in shallows. Harry laid -aside the pole and took to the paddle. They lit their candles and flew -their heraldry. In their disguises no one would know them; with the -restraint of their identities lifted from them they scarcely recognized -themselves. The Faun Man gave the word; the punt was allowed to drift. -They all struck up: - - "Go h'on away. Go h'on away. - - Mind yer, I'm meanin' wot I say. - - My 'air and 'at-pin's gone astray-- - - Stop yer messin'. - - A pound a week yer earn yer say-- - - Oh, I don't fink!- Two bob a day's - - More like. I loves yer. Yer can stay, - - Yer bloomin' blessin'." - -They tickled the people's fancy; they were so obviously out for a lark -and so evidently intended to have it. When "My bloke's a moke" was sung, -from bank to bank the chorus was taken up; even the strollers, hanging -over the bridge, caught the swing of it. - - "For yer cawn't be 'appy when yer 'alf in love-- - - Yer must taik one road or the other; - - Yer can maike o' life an up'ill shove, - - Or marry a bloke wot ain't yer brother." - -The Faun Man turned to the golden woman and addressed the words to her -shamelessly. He put his arm about her, and drew her head down against -his shoulder. Through the slits in her mask her eyes gleamed up. Peter, -watching, wondered why it was that she would only be kind to him in -fun; he had noticed that, when the Faun Man was in earnest, she never -responded. - -They had been singing for an hour, pushed this way and that, too jammed -to attempt steering. Their punt had drifted near a house-boat, all -a-swing with lanterns and steep with flowers. Through the windows they -could see that a dinner had just ended; tall young men in evening dress -sprawled back in chairs. Corks were still popping. - -The Faun Man whispered, "They're one of the crews breaking training. -What'll we give 'em? Oh, yes, this'll do. Tune up." So they tuned up: - - "If yer gal ain't all yer thought 'er, - - And for everyfing yer've bought 'er - - She don't seem to care a 'appenny pot o' glue; - - If she tells yer she won't miss yer, - - And she doesn't want ter kiss yer, - - Though yer've cuddled 'er from 'Ammersmif ter Kew; - - If yer little side excurshiums - - To lands of pink nasturtiums - - Don't make 'er 'arf so soft as they make you, - - Why, never be down'earted, - - For that's the way love started-- - - Adam ended wery 'appy--and that's true." - -The young men had come out. They were slightly unsteady; some of them -found difficulty in keeping their cigars in their mouths. They held one -another's arms and laughed loudly. Their faces were flushed and their -hair ruffled. But, for all that, because they were young and had done -their work gamely that afternoon, they seemed in keeping with the -atmosphere of carnival. A voice on the edge of the darkness shouted one -word, "Hardcastle." The crowd stood up in their boats, and commenced to -cheer. From the group of crewmen one tall fellow was pushed forward and -lifted on a chair. He looked slim as a girl in his evening-dress; his -thin, rather handsome face, wore a weak, inconsequential expression. -When the babel of voices had died down he spoke thickly and -hesitatingly. "Yes, I won. I dunno. Did I win? I can't remember. Suppose -I must have. One of you chaps tell me to-morrow.--Anyway, if I did win, -here's to the losers. Plucky devils!" - -Cherry had been leaning forward; her mask had slipped aside in her -eagerness. Hardcastle saw her. He stared--made an effort to pull his -wits together. In a second he had jumped from the chair, had caught -her by the hand, was helping her aboard the house-boat. She held on -to Peter, laughing and dragging him after her. The others followed -reluctantly--after all, they were out for adventure. - -As soon as he had entered the cabin, Hardcastle slipped his arms about -her and swung her up on to the table amid the clatter of breaking -glasses. "Sing, you little beauty. Sing something." - -The Faun Man pushed his way forward; the matter was going beyond a -joke--his intention was to stop it. The golden woman clutched him, -"Don't make a row, Lorie, They don't know who we are. We've let -ourselves in for it; let's go through with it like sports." - -Cherry seemed not at all offended; the spirit of bacchanalia possessed -her. Her usually pale face had a pretty flush. She stood tiptoe, her red -lips pouting, watching through the slits in her mask these fine young -animals whom the river had applauded. Her eyes came back to Hard-castle. -"I don't want to sing." It was like a shy child talking. "If you like, -I'll dance." - -In a trice Hardcastle had lifted her again in his arms. To balance -herself she had to cling to his neck and shoulders. "Clear the table," -he shouted. - -With his free hand he commenced tugging at the cloth. Others helped him. -With a jangle and smash that could be heard across the river, silver, -glass and lighted candles were swept to the floor. He set her back on -the polished surface and ran to the piano in the corner, crying, "I'll -tickle the ivories--you dance." - -With his head turned, he played and watched her. From the ruin she had -caught up a red rose and held it between her red lips by the stalk. Her -feet began to move, slowly at first--then wildly. She swayed and tossed, -glided stealthily, bent and shot upward like a dart. Her breath was -coming fast--all the while her gray eyes sought the man's who -watched her across his shoulder. The other men were infected by her -madness--they took hands and circled the table, singing whatever came -into their heads. To Peter it was torture. He thought that she knew it. -He guessed that she had done it on purpose. He had wearied her with his -respect He remembered one of the Faun Man's sayings, "No woman likes to -be respected; she prefers to be loved, even by a man whom she doesn't -want." - -The piano stopped. Hardcastle leapt up. "Here, I want to see her." - -"No. No," cried Cherry. - -"I do, and I will," he retorted. He had stumbled against the table and -caught her by the knees; his hands were groping up to tear aside her -mask. An arm shot out; he staggered. Another blow struck him between the -eyes. He measured his length on the floor. Peter dragged Cherry to him, -pressing her against him. All was hubbub. The Faun Man and Harry were -on either side of him, forming a guard. Of a sudden the lights went -out--some one had knocked over the lamps. In the darkness the sound of -scuffling subsided. The Faun Man's voice was heard, saying, "Look here, -you chaps, that wasn't very decent of Hardcastle. He's drunk, so we'll -say no more about it. But you're gentlemen. Let us out. We're going." - -As they stepped into the night, Cherry felt warm lips touch her -forehead. She heard protesting voices, and one which whispered, "You get -off with her. We'll follow." The punt stole out into the darkness of -the river. When she lifted her head from the cushions she found that -the ripples on the water were a-silver, and that a solitary figure was -seated in the stern, paddling. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI--A NIGHT WITH THE MOON - -He was taking her in the wrong direction. Why? To reach the Red Lion he -should have steered upstream. Far behind, chiseled out by the moonlight, -the town stood sharp against the star-strewn sky--sagging roofs, -twisted chimney-pots and tall spires. From its walls came the shouts -of roisterers and the sound of discordant singing, which broke off -abruptly, only to commence again more faintly. - -She was inclined to be penitent. She was both annoyed and amused with -herself for what she had done. On the spur of the moment she was always -doing wild things like that to people she cared for--doing them that she -might measure their love by her power to hurt them. She wondered whether -he blamed her, and how long he would keep silent. - -The river had become a pathway of ebony, inlaid with silver by the -moonlight. Along its banks illuminations smoldered, scorching red wounds -in the shadows. Here and there a candle flared, sank and died, like -a heart which had broken itself with longing. Craft drifted like logs -through the blackness. They seemed deserted, unpiloted; yet they bore -with them the sense of lips that whispered against other lips and of -hands that touched. "To-morrow!" everything seemed to say. "To-morrow! -But there is still to-night." - -To-morrow lovers would have vanished. Faces, which in the past week one -had learnt to recognize, about which one had built up fancies, would be -seen no more. The haunting poignancy of parting was in the night, the -memory of things exquisite and unlasting. - -And Peter, he couldn't understand what had happened to him. It seemed a -dream from which he was waking; he wanted to sleep again and recapture -the illusion. From the first he had recognized an atmosphere of danger -in her presence. She was so foreign to his experience; it was scarcely -likely that a friendship with her would lead to happiness. And yet he -could not do without her. On those sunlit mornings aboard _The Skylark_, -when he had opened his eyes to hear the river tapping, had looked out -of his window to see the breeze whipping the water and the plumed trees -nodding, there had been no rest in the day's gladness till he had heard -her tripping footsteps. She had crept into his blood. All past things -were unremembered--past ambitions and past loyalties. Every beauty -grouped itself about her. The grayness of her eyes drew his soul out. -The soft, slurring notes of her voice were for him the finest music. Had -he been offered the joy of one month with her, for which all the years -of his life should be forfeit, he would willingly have accepted. The -thought of marriage had already occurred to him. That he should be only -nineteen was a tragedy. Would she wait for him? With no more than a -week's acquaintance by which to judge he knew that she would wait for no -one. She was elusive--one moment a child, the next a woman. And she sat -there gazing at him through the shadows, her hands folded meekly on her -breast--a nunlike trick which she had learnt at the convent. It gave -her an appearance of piety, which the red defiance of her mouth and gray -challenge of her eyes negatived. She was the first woman he had loved. -He loved her uncalculatingly, with his soul and body, as a man loves but -once, when he is young. - -They had passed _The Skylark_ and were nearing the island. All the other -boats were left behind. Her voice came to him throbbingly, like a -harp fingered softly. "You're disappointed in me. You'll often be -disappointed." - -He could not bear that she should blame herself. He drew in his paddle. -"I'm not, only----" - -"Only what? A man always says 'only' when he's trying to deceive -himself." - -"Only, why did you do it?" - -She didn't answer his question. How could she tell why? Because she was -young; because she knew that she was pretty. "You looked splendid," -she said, "when you struck him." And then she mentioned the one thing -concerning which he, as a man, would have kept silent. "You kissed me, -Peter." - -His blood quickened. Was she reproaching him or simply saying, "You love -me; we're alone together?" She was leaning forward now, looking away -from him, her throat resting against the back of her hand. He crept -toward her, knelt at her feet and pressed his lips against her dress. - -Her eyes came back to him. "You'd better go away and forget me." - -He slipped his arm about her body, drawing her to him. "Do you want me -to go away--to go out of your life forever?" - -"No." The word was whispered and slowly uttered. She touched him gently, -patting his hand. "Peter, I'm not your sort. You know that." - -"But you are my sort, or else how could I feel--feel what I am feeling? -You'll learn to love me, Cherry." - -She took it without a tremor, this declaration which had cost him such -effort. She shook her head. "The Faun Man tells Eve that every time -they're together. I wonder how many men have said it. Love comes in an -instant. You can't learn it." - -"But why not?" - -She bent over him like a mother. Her mouth was rounded; no wonder they -called her Cherry. She was adorable in compassion. "You don't know me. -I'm not at all what you think. Ask the Faun Man. Don't you remember at -the Happy Cottage? It wasn't for breaking his pictures that he sent me -to the convent." - -"But I'll make you love me," he insisted. "You don't know what I'd do -for you. I'd die for you, Cherry. There's nothing about you that I don't -worship. You're so long and sweet--and------" He laid his face against -her cold, white cheek and caught his breath. She was like marble; he -could feel no stir in her--and his every nerve was throbbing. "Don't you -like to be loved?" - -She seemed to marvel at his passion, as if it were a thing which she did -not understand, by which she was puzzled. Oddly, to his way of thinking, -she showed no terror of him. Her eyes dwelt on him with clear and kindly -interest. "Every girl likes to be loved. But that's different. I don't -think you'll ever teach me, Peter. And yet----. Hadn't we better be -getting back?" - -"Oh, not yet." He felt that he was going to lose her--lose her forever. -Surely, surely he could rouse her to a sense of the poetry and drama -which was burning in his blood. It was impossible that she should not -feel it. She had been sleeping, as he had been sleeping, letting love -go by with its banners and drums. "Oh, not yet," he pleaded; "all these -years we've lived--we've hardly ever been together." - -She broke the suspense by laughing. "What's your favorite hymn, Peter?" - -He was puzzled. "Haven't got one. Never thought about it. What makes you -ask?" - -She wriggled her shoulders. "Because mine's 'Yield not to temptation.'" - -He didn't catch the significance of her remark. She saw that. "Still -a little boy, aren't you? A little boy of nineteen, who thinks he's in -love. There are heaps of other girls in the world.--Yes, I'll come." - -He piled the cushions for her; then took the paddle and seated himself -so he could face her. Their conversation was carried on by fits and -starts, with long pauses. - -"He was a beast." She spoke reflectively. - -"Who was?" - -"Hardcastle." - -"But I thought--I was afraid you liked him." - -She trailed her hand in the black water, watching how it slipped through -her fingers. "I did like him for the moment. That proves I'm not nice. -Women often like men who are beasts." - -"But you don't like him now?" - -She teased him, keeping him waiting. "I'm glad you struck him." - -Presently she said, "Peter, I've been thinking, why can't we have good -times together? We could be friends and--nothing serious, but more than -exactly friends. Lots of girls do it." - -Peter stopped paddling. "I should have to love you. I should be always -hoping that----" - -"Then it wouldn't be fair to you," she said. - -He had been silent for some minutes. "Where did you learn so much about -men? I know nothing about women." - -"Where did I learn?" she laughed. "Girls know without learning. Until -to-night no man ever kissed me--not the way you kissed me. So you -needn't be jealous." - -The punt nosed its way among rushes and came to rest. He crouched -against her feet, holding her hands, trembling at her nearness. The deep -stillness of the night enfolded them. Reeds stood up tall on every -side, shutting out the world. Above their heads a flock of fleecy clouds -wandered, with unseen shepherds swinging stars for lanterns. The man in -the moon looked out of his window with a tolerant smile on his mouth. -She lay against the cushions, white and impassive, her long, fine throat -stretched back. - -"Peter," she said, "look up there; those clouds, they don't know where -they're going. Someone's driving them from one world to another, like -sheep to pasture. We're like that; someone's driving us--and we -don't know where we're going." And then, "You love me, with all your -heart--yes, I believe that; and I--I love someone else. We each love -someone who doesn't care; and I have to let you do it--I, who know the -pain of it. Poor Peter, what a pity God didn't make us so that we could -love each other." - -And again, "I don't know any man in the world with whom I'd trust myself -to do what we're doing. Oh, I don't want to hurt you, Peter. If ever I -should hurt you, you'll remember?" - -He couldn't speak--didn't want to speak. He and she were awake and -together, while all the world slept--that was sufficient. - -How still it was! He could hear the soft intake of her breath and the -rustle of her dress. "So this is love!" he kept saying to himself. It -wasn't at all what he had expected. It wasn't a wild rush of words and -an eager clutching of hands. It wasn't an extravagance of actions and -language. It was just tenderness. He unbent her fingers, marveling at -their frailness. He pressed the palm of her hand against his mouth. He -felt like a little child as he sat beside this silent girl. - -Cherry lifted herself on the cushions. She gave him both her hands. - -"What is it?" - -She seemed afraid. When she spoke, her voice trembled. "When two people -are married, is it always one who allows and one who loves? You don't -know; you can't tell me. If both don't love it must be terrible. I -couldn't bear only to give everything; and only to take everything, that -would be worse. Oh, Peter, I have to tell you. It was like that with my -mother. She couldn't give everything to my father, and then--she found -someone else. My father worshiped her--just as you'd worship me, Peter; -when he knew that she was going away from him he--he kept her." She -covered her face. "He was hanged for it. And that's why the Faun -Man----. He was his friend. Oh, I'm afraid of myself; I almost wish we'd -never met." - -He held her to him; she was shaken with sobbing. Suddenly he recalled -how he had first seen her, rushing out of the Happy Cottage, with her -brown-black hair tumbled about her white face and her gray eyes wide -with tragedy. She was so wilful, and she so needed protection. - -"Cherry, Cherry. Don't be frightened. Don't cry, dear. I love you. -Nothing like that could ever happen to us." - -She stared at him. "Nothing like that could ever happen! I expect they -said that." - -_They! They!_ And was it they who had called her Cherry, because her -lips were red? - -Her eyes closed. Her lashes were wet; beneath them were shadows. -He gazed on her, clasping her to him tenderly, as though she were a -bewildered bird which had flown blindly into his breast. Her breath came -softly. He thought her sleeping and kissed her mouth; her hand sought -his and lay there trustingly. - -What pictures he had of her! He saw her dancing before the flushed and -foolish faces of those men; he saw her as he had met her on the bridge -in her cool, blowy summer dress; he saw her in the Haunted Wood, where -the little river ran, bidding him turn back. Because of what she had -just told him, he felt that he had never loved her until now. - -Like a counterpane tucking in the sleepy stars, the mist of dawn crept -up. Near into the bank, behind the wall of rushes, a moor-hen was -splashing. The countryside whispered with creature sounds. A bird was -calling. How long had it been calling? An owl flew over his head, in -haste to keep pace with the retreat of darkness. Along the east, above -the spears of the reeds, a little redness spread. A thrush tried over -a few staves. Before he had burst in song a perky blackbird was piping -valiantly. The fields fluttered, as though a messenger ran through them, -telling wild-flowers to raise their heads. The east smoldered higher; -conflagration smoked sideways and upward. A door opened in a cloud; -the sun stepped out. Like the unhurried crash of an orchestra the -world shouted. It happened every morning while men slept. It was -stupendous--appalling. - -How white she was! He bent over her. Her eyes opened. She gave his arm -a little hug. "Were you kissing me, Peter? You mustn't, mustn't love me -like that." - -Ah, mustn't! It was too late to forbid him. The insanity of the night -was all forgotten; only its sweetness was left. From his window the man -in the moon looked down; his mouth seemed to droop at the corners. He -would watch for them next night, and they would not come. He might never -know the end of their story. He was despondent; he had to go to bed. - -Peter was chafing her hands. - -"How good you are!" - -"Not good. Only in love." - -And she, "I dreamt of you. We were in the Haunted Wood. My feet were -bare, and----" - -He held her eyes earnestly. "I wish I had been there. All these years -it was the grayness of your eyes and--and something else that I -remembered." - -"What else? No, tell me." - -"The whiteness of your feet," he whispered. - -Again they were in fairyland. Yellow as a topaz set in turquoise the -sun stood free in the heavens. Inhabitants of the fearless morning -went busily about their tasks. Clear as a mirror, through the perfumed -stillness of meadows the river ran. Mists curled from ofif its surface -and hung white in tree-tops. Within hand-stretch fish leapt; peering -over the side of the punt, they could follow their retreat through -waving weeds and black willow-stumps. Only a magpie noticed their -passage and became interested, fluttering from bough to bough and asking -them, "What d'you want? What d'you want?" Dragon-flies ventured forth -as the sun's heat strengthened; butterflies and the teeming insect world -rose out of water-lilies and foxgloves--out of the destructible homes -which Nature builds for their brief and perishable existence. He and -she, drifting through the golden quiet with clasped hands, seized their -moment unquestioningly, and were thankful for it. - -Ahead they saw swans; then cattle wading knee-deep. Rounding a bend, -they came in sight of a trellised garden, with green tables set out on -a close-cut lawn. Boats swung idly in the stream, tethered to a landing. -In the background was a thatched house, from whose chimney smoke waved -back in a thin plume. When they came near enough they made out a white -post, with a sign swinging from it. On the sign was depicted a brown -bird, fluttering its wings in a golden cage; painted over it were the -words, _The Winged Thrush._ In lifting their eyes to read the sign they -caught sight of the faint moon, weakly smiling, as though saying, "I've -got to go. They won't let me stay. Goodbye, and good luck." - -They landed, leaving their foolish disguises in the punt. Through the -dew-drenched wistfulness of summer roses they approached the inn, and -entered. The room was strewn with sawdust, and stale with the smell -of beer and tobacco. An ostler-like person, with a full-blown face and -little blue pig's eyes, met them. They asked for breakfast. He knew his -business well enough to suggest that missie would prefer to have it in -an arbor. - -While they ate he hovered round them, continually inventing excuses to -interrupt their privacy. He reminded them of the magpie in his frank -display of curiosity. He informed them that trade was wery bad. He'd -'arf a mind to try 'is luck in Australy. If it weren't for the young -bloods from Henley, he'd 'ardly take a 'appeny from month to month. -Did they know of anyone, an artist chap for h'instance, who'd like to -combine pleasure with business by tryin' his 'and at runnin' a nice pub? -An artist chap could paint that bloomin' bird out, and call the place -The White Hart or somethin' h'attractive. Whoever 'eard of an inn payin' -which was called The Winged Thrush? People didn't want their meals -messed about by a bloomin' poet. Not but what the sitiyation was so -pleasant that he'd tried to write poetry 'isself--love-poetry for the -most part. His verses allaws came to 'im when 'e were groomin' the -'orses. If things didn't brisk up, 'e'd give Australy a chance, as 'e'd -many times promised. - -At last he left them. Cherry gazed out dreamily across the river. -"I wonder, is it true that one has always to pay with sorrow for -happiness?" - -Peter shivered. How old she could be when she chose to borrow other -people's disillusions! He tried to restore her to cheerfulness. "What a -pagan notion! It's the old idea of the gods being jealous. You shouldn't -think such thoughts." - -"But happiness does bring sorrow," she insisted. "We shall have to pay -for this to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow." - -Her voice trailed off, giving him a vision of all the tomorrows when he -would be without her. And he wasn't sure of her. She had told him -that she didn't love him. He drew her closer. "But a sorrow's crown of -sorrows is to have no happier things to remember--to be old and never to -have been young, to be lonely and never to have been loved. You mournful -little person, do you think you'd be any happier because you'd never -known happiness?" - -"I don't know." She shrugged her shoulders with a touch of defiance. -"I'm not clever; I can't argue." Then, her face clearing as suddenly as -it had clouded, "I can't think why you like me, Peter." - -He laughed gladly. "And I can't tell you, Cherry. It's as though I'd -waited for you always, without knowing for whom I was waiting. I was a -kind of winged thrush in a golden cage; but you've opened the door, now -you've come." His explanation wasn't sufficient. She snuggled her chin -against the back of her hand and watched him seriously, as though she -suspected him of hiding something. "But what is it that you like most -about me?" - -He tried to discover; he dug back into his own sensations. What was it -that he liked most about her? For the life of him he couldn't put it -into language. Then he thought he might find out by examining the white -face, with the red lips and tragic eyes, of the girl-woman who had asked -the question. What an uncanny faculty she had for stillness! A sunbeam, -falling from the leaves above, crept up her slender throat and nestled -in her hair. - -He shook his head. "It's just you, Cherry. Your voice, your eyes, the -way you walk, the way you try to be sad. It's just you and your -sweetness, Cherry. I think if I didn't love you so much I could say it -better." - -She stood up. "You poor boy, you've said it well enough. I wish I could -feel like that.--And now we should be going." They had stepped outside -the arbor; they halted at the sound of voices. Coming round the bend -was a scratch eight, the oars striking the water raggedly. The men were -joking and laughing; the cox, a pipe hanging from his mouth, was urging -them to spurt with humorous insults. Having landed, they tumbled -into their sweaters and came strolling through the garden. They were -discussing the previous night in careless voices. - -"Did you hear about Hardcastle?--When he isn't in training he's always -like that. Ugh! At six o'clock a hero--by midnight a swine you wouldn't -care to touch." - -The voices passed out of earshot. - -Cherry turned to Peter, "And I let him touch me. I'd have known by -instinct if I'd been nice. Oh, Peter, you mustn't love me." - -When he attempted to kiss her she refused to allow it, saying, "I'm not -your sort." - -Paddling back between flowering banks, where trees cast deep shadows -and birds sang full-throatedly, she again became tender. "Life's just -a yesterday, Peter--a continual bidding good-bye and coming back from -pleasures." - -Her sadness hurt him. She knew it; she told herself that it would always -hurt him. He didn't want ever to say good-bye to her. And she, she felt -sure that their comradeship would be always finding a new ending. - -"Cherry, darling," he reproached her, "don't go in search of -unhappiness. Life's a to-morrow as well as a yesterday; it's full of -splendid things--things which aren't expected. We've all the to-morrows -before us." - -She trailed her hand in the water, snatching at the lilies, as if by an -effort so slight she could delay their progress and prolong the present. -She didn't lift her eyes when she whispered, "I was thinking of that--of -all the to-morrows before us." - -Again her words brought a vision of the long road of future days, down -which he would walk without her. There was nothing to be said. Surely -she would learn to love him! Reluctantly he paddled forward to their -place of parting. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII--IF YOU WON'T COME TO HEAVEN, THEN---- - -The train swung down the shining rails and rumbled into Paddington. -Passengers pulled down their parcels from the racks, jumped out and -disappeared in the crowd. Peter sat on. This carriage at least had known -her; she had looked in through its window and had waved her hand. Out -there in the stone-paved wilderness of London there was nothing they had -shared. - -A porter looked in at the door. "Train don't go no further, sir. Lend -you a 'and? Want a keb?" - -In the cab, Peter closed his eyes, shutting out the cheerful grime -of streets, the nipped impertinence of Cockney faces, the monotonous -anonymity of the ceaseless procession--the stench of this vast human -stable where lives were stalled and broken. He was trying to get back to -green banks, to a river molten in the sunset, and to a redlipped girl. - -Was she thinking of him? If they thought of one another at the same -moment, could their thoughts meet and interchange?--But she didn't love -him. Oh, the things he had left unsaid--the things he would say to -make her love him now, if she sat beside him!--She had spoken -truly--happiness had to be paid for with sorrow. His share of the paying -had commenced, and hers----? Would she dodge payment by forgetting? The -law of change was cruel; it diminished all things, even the most sacred, -to mere incidents in a passing pageant. A pigmy charioteer, with the -futile hands of imagination, he was making the old foolish endeavor to -rein in Time's stallions. - -He pictured himself as painted on a frieze with her in the moment of -their supreme elation--the moment when attainment had been certain, -just before it was realized. The frieze should represent a meadow in -the early morning, a river with mists rising from off it, and a boy, -stooping his lips over the naked feet of a girl. Someone else had -uttered the same fancy: - - "Fair Youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave - - Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; - - Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, - - Though winning near the goal--yet do not grieve! - - She cannot fade-" - -_She cannot fade_. Already it seemed that the sharp edges of his -memories were lost to him. How was it that her face lit up? How did -her voice shudder and slur from sudden piping notes into tenderness? -How----? Things grew vague--he had meant to treasure them so poignantly. -Like a dream from which, against his will, he was waking, Illusion -gathered in her skirts from his clutching hands, growing faint against -the background of reality. - -The waking had commenced before he left Henley. On his return to _The -Skylark_ he had found a note waiting him. It had been forwarded from -Topbury. His name and address were printed, evidently to disguise the -hand of the sender. Inside, on a half sheet of note-paper, was scrawled: - -"_For God's sake meet me. Seven o'clock at the bottom of the Crescent. -I'm lonely."_ - -It was signed with the initials, O. W. - -So he was out of jail! Looking at the date of the postmark, Peter had -discovered that for two nights the man who was lonely had waited. In the -four and a half years since he had vanished from the living world his -name had been scarcely mentioned. At Topbury the effort had been made to -blot out disgrace by forgetting. Jehane, when she had left Sandport, -had purposely dropped her old acquaintance and had passed among recent -friends as a widow. The fiction had been so earnestly cultivated that -it had seemed almost true that Ocky Waffles was dead--true even to Peter -and Glory. Now, like the remembered tragedy about a death-bed, when the -hands had been long since folded, flowers placed upon the breast and -the coffin carried out, the dead man had come back to die afresh. To say -that Peter resented his return would be an exaggeration. But he shrank -from the intrusion of the sordid past upon the golden poetry of -the present--shrank from it as he would shrink from meeting someone -hideously marred in a gay spring woodland. - -The cab wheels caught in the tram-lines and jerked him into -consciousness of his whereabouts. They had turned into the High Street. -In three minutes they would be at Topbury Cock, and then----. Already in -the distance he could see where the plane-trees in the Fields commenced. -What should he do if his uncle were standing there? His father's house? -No. He raised the trap in the roof. "When you come to the bottom of the -Crescent walk your horse. Understand?" - -Shops were closing. Girls and men were pouring out on to the pavement, -meeting with a quick flash of eyes and strolling away together. Some of -them boarded trams, going up to Highgate to breathe the evening air. The -sun was setting. - -The horse slowed down. At the corner a crowd was gathered about a band. -People were singing. Peter caught the words: - - "If you won't come to Heaven - - Then you'll have to go to Hell; - - For the Devil he is waiting, - - But with Jesus all is well. - - Though your sins be as scarlet, - - He will wash them in His blood; - - So hurry up to Jesus - - And He'll make you good. - - Hallelujah!" - -Grace was standing in the middle of the circle banging on her drum, her -mouth wide open in her big poke-bonnet. On the cab-stand, lolling on his -box, pretending to be half asleep, sat Mr. Grace. His daughter's eyes -were on him. - -Peter scanned the crowd. It was composed of idlers, onlookers and -scoffers, with a sprinkling of converts. The converts were noticeable by -their pale, indignant enthusiasm. - -At first he saw no one who attracted his attention, and then----. A -man with dejected shoulders was crouching in the gateway of a house. He -seemed to be trying to be unobserved. His clothes were shabby--out of -fashion. His linen was soiled. It was the dirty white spats above his -unshone boots that made Peter notice. He told the cabby to wait for him. - -He walked by the man once. In passing he noted the total slovenliness of -his appearance, the unkempt hands, the defeated air and the hat jammed -down to hide the close-cropped hair. He turned back and was repassing. -Like a whipped dog the man raised his eyes; then instantly lowered them. -Peter held out his hand; his throat was too choked to say anything. The -man seemed about to take it; then slunk back. - -"You don't want to know me." - -"I do. If I hadn't, I shouldn't have come. I'm----I'm awfully sorry." - -"If you won't come to Heaven, then you'll have to go to hell," sang -Grace and her followers; it sounded as though they were passing -sentence. - -To the driver's amazement, Peter helped him into the hansom. "Trot us -round for an hour or two," he said. - -"If you won't come to Heaven, then you'll have to go to hell." The -singing hurled itself after them--seemed to be running and to grow out -of breath as they drew into the distance. - -They set off through Holloway. They reached the foot of Highgate Hill -and had not spoken. Ahead blazed the dome of St. Joseph's, catching the -redness of the sinking sun. The cabby asked for further instructions. -"Go up the hill and out to Hampstead." - -Waterlow Park brought a breath of country; children were laughing and -playing there. The sternness of the city, like the brutality of just -judgments, was dropping away behind them. Streets took on a village -aspect. Over to the left, within sound of the living children, lay the -stone-garden where little Philip rested. The horse clambered slowly to -the top of the ascent. - -Peter touched the knee of the man beside him. "I'm glad you sent for me. -It's--it's a long time since we met. I mean--what I mean to say is, you -might have forgotten me. I'm glad you didn't." - -"A long time since we met!" The dull eyes stared at him as lifelessly as -through a pair of smoked glasses. "I've been buried. They'd better have -dug a hole for me." - -The man paused and looked from side to side stealthily. He had the -hoarse prison voice which whispered and cracked. It was painful to -see how he cringed and shrank. He pulled himself together and laughed -huskily. "They didn't let us speak in there." He spoke reflectively, as -if to himself. "Silent for more than four years! Strange to be back!" - -They were bowling down a smooth road. To the right were cricket-fields -and boys at the nets. Across the blue stillness of evening came the -sharp "click" of balls against bats. - -"So this is Uncle Waffles! So this is Uncle Waffles!" Peter kept saying -to himself. His thoughts searched back, trying to trace a resemblance -between the irrepressible, joking companion of his childhood and this -mutilated scrap of humanity. The low-pitched voice crawled on like the -sound of dragging footsteps. "I couldn't have done anything bad enough -to deserve that. If I'd only known that someone outside was caring. -There were no letters, no--no anything. Just to get up in the morning -and to work, and then to go back to bed. Sundays were the worst--there -wasn't any work.--And then they opened the gates and shoved me out. I -couldn't think of anyone but you, Peter." - -Peter made an attempt to cheer him. "You could have thought of someone -else." - -The man shook his head. - -"Oh, yes, but you could. There was Glory." - -"Glory!" He showed no animation. "She's eighteen, isn't she? No, Glory -wouldn't care. But Jehane, how is she?" - -Peter had feared that question. "She's well." - -The man looked away. "She won't want to see me. She never loved me. -D'you think she'd let me see her, Peter?" - -"I'm afraid--afraid she wouldn't. She's thinking of Eustace, and Moggs -and Riska. But Glory--I'm sure Glory-----" - -"Ah, Glory! She's forgotten me. And Jehane, she never thought of me; it -was always of the children." - -His voice fell slack with utter hopelessness. Peter remembered Cherry's -words, "It's always one who allows and one who loves." Jehane hadn't -even allowed; the ruin at his side was her handiwork. - -The hansom halted. Hampstead Heath was all about them, falling away -in gorse and bracken and yellow earth. A little farther on was the -Flagstaff Pond. Toy yachts were scudding across it; excited boys ran -round its edges to retrim their sails and send their craft on fresh -adventures. A dog jumped into the water, barking; they could see his -head bobbing as he swam. To their left, between the trees of the Vale -of Heath, London lay like a sunken rock with the surf of smoke breaking -over it. - -The cabby spoke, "Look 'ere, young gentleman, my 'orse is tired. H'I've -got to be gettin' back. 'Ow abart a rest at The Spaniards?" - -They returned over the way they had come. The tall firs of the Seven -Sisters stood up black and weather-beaten before them. In the yard of -The Spaniards they stepped out. The cabby climbed down and began to -unharness. Behind his hand he said to Peter, "Rum old party you've got -there, mister." And then, glancing up at the labels on the bag, "Been to -'Enley, 'av'n't yer? 'Ad luck?" - -At the bar Peter ordered supper in a private room. He noticed that, when -they had sat down, his uncle still kept his hat on. When he reminded him -of it his uncle glanced at the door furtively and whispered, "Daren't -take it off. They may guess." - -He fell upon his food ravenously. In his eating, as in his way of -talking, there was something inhuman, something--yes, lonely was the -word. Slowly it was coming home to Peter that through all these years, -while he had been housed, and safeguarded, and attended with affection, -this man had been used like an animal. He was repelled and filled with -compassion. He wanted to escape; he was unmanned. - -The dusk was falling. "I'll be back in a moment. Order what you like," -he said. - -In the fragile darkness he clenched his hands. Last night he had been so -happy! How had he dared to be happy? He recalled the jolly buffoonery of -Henley--the songs they had sung, the swaying of lanterns, the swan-like -gliding of punts, the muffled laughter, the hint of stolen kisses. And -all the while this man had been lonely; and his chief fault had been the -fault of others--that he had not been allowed to love. - -Peter found himself walking across the Heath, following no path. Now and -then the rough ground tripped him and he stumbled. He couldn't bear -the reproach of that--that thing that had once been a man, that had no -courage left to accuse anybody. Peter felt as though he himself were -responsible, as though he had done it. He lifted his eyes to the stars. -Indifferent and placid, stretched out on the blue-black couch of heaven, -they stared back at him and told him cantingly: - - "God's in His Heaven, - - All's right with the world." - -He shook his fist at them. That was the trouble. God was too much in His -Heaven. He felt that he could never again be happy. - -The image of Cherry grew up--Cherry with her red mouth. God had made -her, as well. He unclenched his hands and stood puzzled. God had made -her, as well! The golden panes of the inn shone and winked at him; he -retraced his steps. - -The man still wore his hat, but----. Alcohol had changed him from a -thing limp and hopeless into Ocky Waffles. As Peter entered he staggered -to his feet with both hands held out. - -"Why, if it isn't the ha'penny marvel. God bless me, how he's grown. -Quite a man, Peter! Quite a man!" He put his lips against Peter's ear. -"Mustn't tell anybody. They wouldn't understand. Have to keep it on." -He pointed to his hat. "Been away for a rest cure--you and I know where. -Had brain fever. Had to cut my hair. It isn't pretty." Then, in a lower -voice, "Mustn't tell anybody. You won't split on me?" - -For the first time Peter was delighted to find his uncle drunk. He -assured him that he wouldn't split on him. - -"Shake hands, old son; it's a compack. Cur'ous! Here's all this great -world and only I and you know about it. Makes me laugh. Our little joke, -isn't it?" - -Peter took the whisky bottle from him. "You don't want any more of -that." - -The trembling hand groped after it; the weak mouth quivered. "Just to -forget. Just to make me forget. Don't be hard on poor old Ocky Waffles. -Everyone's been hard on Ocky Waffles." - -For a moment Peter wavered; then poured an inch more of liquid courage -into the empty glass. "That's the last for to-night; we've got to plan -for your future." - -"My future!" Ocky Waffles twisted his unwaxed mustaches and spread his -arms across the table. "My future! Oh, yes. I've got a great future." - -Peter tapped him on the hand. "Not a great future; but a future. There -are two people who care for you. That's something." - -"Two people? There's you, but don't count me in on it. This little boy -isn't very fond of himself." - -"There's me and there's Glory." - -"Glory!" Ocky Waffles smiled grimly. Then he seemed ashamed of himself -and repeated in an incredulous whisper, "Glory!" - -"She cares more than I do," Peter said. "She and I and you, all working -together--do you understand?--she and I and you are going to make you -well. We're going to show everybody that you're a strong, good man; and -we're going to work in secret until we can prove it." - -"A strong, good man!" The subject of this wonderful experiment looked -down at himself contemptuously. "A strong, good man, I think you said. -Likely, isn't it? I've started by getting drunk." - -With sudden loathing and concentrated will power he swept the glass of -whisky from him. It fell to the floor with a crash. He had become sober -and rose to his feet solemnly. "Not a strong, good man. I could have -been once. I'm a jail-bird. I've got my memories. My memories!--Good -God, I wouldn't tell you! You're young. I can only try to be decent now, -if that's enough. And--and I'd like to try, Peter, if you'll help me." - -As they drove back to Topbury the fumes of the drink overcame him. He -fell asleep with his head rolling against Peter's shoulder. Even in his -sleep he seemed to remember his shame, and how he must keep it hidden -from the world. His hand kept traveling to his hat, when a jerk of the -cab threatened to remove it. - -What to do with him! As the night fled by him Peter planned. No one -but Peter would have thought out a plan so humanely idiotic. The silver -moonlight fell between clumped trees and flooded all the meadows. Houses -became more frequent. Above the trotting of the horse the grumble of -traffic was heard. They were descending High-gate Hill; Peter put his -arm about his companion to prevent his slipping forward. He stirred and -muttered, "Poor old Ocky! Too bad! Too bad, going and getting drunk! -Just out of prison and all that." - -Peter bit his lips and drew his brows together. Life--how strange it -was! How slender, and fierce, and pantherlike and cruel! And yet how -beautiful at times and splendid! Who could foresee anything? Last night -he and the same moon had gazed on romance--to-night on disillusion. At -the bottom of the hill lay London, like an immense quarry, tunneled, -lamplit, treacherous, industrious, carved out of the precipice of -darkness. It seemed a clay modeling of a more huge world, placed there -for his inspection. Down there this man at his side had been crushed; -they had cast him out. They had told him, "If you won't come to Heaven, -then you'll have to go to----" Well, he'd been to hell, and now they'd -got to take him back. In his heart Peter dared them to refuse him. - -He spoke to the cabby and gave him an address. The man complained of the -lateness of the hour. A reward persuaded him. - -They were jingling through side-streets now. They came out on to a broad -road, with trees on either side and houses standing in gardens, with -steps going up to them. The horse halted and the cabman blew his nose -loudly. "Nice little jaunt you've 'ad." - -The house was all in darkness. Peter rang the bell. On the second story -a blind was raised; someone saw the lamps of the hansom. Feet descended -the stairs. The door opened timidly. Miss Florence stood there, her hair -in curl-papers, with a candle in her hand. She looked extraordinarily -angular and elderly. Behind her, peering over the banisters, were Miss -Effie, Miss Leah and Miss Madge, with petticoats thrown over their -shoulders. Peter entered the old-fashioned hall and explained his -errand. "You were going to do it once; he needs it more than ever now." - -"Bring him in," Miss Florence said. - -In an odd old-maidish room he undressed his uncle and slipped him into -one of the late Mr. Jacobite's night-shirts. - -The situation was not without its humor. Before he left he promised to -be round early. - -It was nearly midnight when he arrived home at Topbury Terrace. Only -his father was up. He opened the door to him. "You're late, Peter. We -thought something had happened." - -Peter waited until the door had closed behind him. "It has. I met Uncle -Waffles. You're tired; don't let's talk about it now. He's all right for -a little while, anyhow." - -His father drew a long breath. Peter knew what he was thinking: "So -the dead man has come back to die afresh!" They put out the lights in -silence and climbed the stairs. In the darkness his father laid his -hand on his shoulder. "You were always fond of Ocky; so was I once. Poor -fellow! I tried to be just." - -"You were just," said Peter; "you had to be just. But it isn't justice -that he's needing now; it's--it's kindness." - -His father's voice became grave--a little stern, perhaps. "For years he -had the kindness; he was dragging us all down. He lied to me so often. -Well----. Humph! Can't be helped. Do what you can. Good night, son." - -As Peter entered his bedroom something fluttered. He struck a match. -It was a sheet of paper, written on in a round, girlish hand and pinned -against the door-panel. It read, "_Welcome home, Peterkins. All the time -I've been thinking of you. I've missed you most awfully. I wanted to sit -up, but they wouldn't let me. With love and ten thousand kisses, Kay_." - -[Illustration: 0335] - -His heart reproached him. Little Kitten Kay! In the last week he hadn't -thought much of her, and once--once she had been his entire world. He -had promised her once that he was never going to marry. And now there -was Cherry. It was Cherry he thought of as his eyes were closing--Cherry -and her saying that there are those who allow and those who love. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII--THE WORLD AND OCKY - -Whenever Peter thought of the Misses Jacobite, the picture that formed -was of four lean-breasted women, who spoke in whispers and sat forever -in a room with the blinds down. They seemed to have no passions, no -desires, no grip on reality, no sense of life's supreme earnestness. -They were waiting, always waiting for something to return--something -which had once been theirs: youth, the hope of motherhood, love, the -admiration of men. The day of their opportunity had gone by them; -they could not forget. It was odd to remember that these gentlewomen, -prematurely aged, had once been high-stepping and courted--the belles of -Topbury. One of them sang, day in, day out, of the rest to be found -on the other side of Jordan; it was all that she had to hope for now. -Directly the front door opened you could hear her. The sound of her -singing sent shivers down your back. It made you think of a mourner, -sitting beside the dead; only the dead was not in the house. It had -never come to birth. It was something once expected, that no one dared -speak about. - -When Peter called next morning he was aware of a changed atmosphere. -The sense of folded hands had vanished. The singing was no longer heard; -instead, there came to his ears a number of busy, orderly sounds--doors -softly opening and shutting, feet making discreet haste upon the stairs, -the clink of dishes in the basement and the sizzling of cooking. - -As he had passed through the hall, with its varnished wall-paper, to the -drawing-room in which he waited, the portrait of old Mr. Jacobite had -gazed fiercely down. Quite evidently the old gentleman disapproved of -the use being made of his night-shirt. - -Peter didn't seat himself; it would have been impossible to do so -without causing havoc. Every chair had its antimacassar, spread at its -correct old-maidish angle. He stood by the window, looking out into the -cool little garden--a green, shy sanctuary for birds, across which the -July sunlight fell. Overhead was the room in which Uncle Waffles had -slept--he hoped he had behaved himself. The chandelier shook; several -people were very industrious up there. And Peter wondered. Old Mr. -Jacobite--had he always disapproved of men where his daughters were -concerned? Had he kept them from marriage? Had the tall and reserved -Miss Florence ever been kissed by a man? In the light of his own -romantic experience he pitied all people who hadn't been kissed and -married. Life was wasted if that hadn't happened; it was meant for that. - -The handle turned. It was Miss Effie, the little and talkative Miss -Jacobite, who entered. She was smiling and lifted to Peter a face all -a-flutter, thanking him with her eyes, as though he had given her a -present. - -"How is he?" Peter asked. "I oughtn't to have brought him here at -all--let alone at such an hour. Only you see--you see there was nowhere -else to bring him." - -She seated herself on the edge of a chair, patting out her dress. "He's -tired." She spoke with an air of concern. "He wasn't very well. We made -him stay in bed. We're going to keep him there; he needs feeding." - -She was flustered. Her hands kept clasping and unclasping. She seemed -afraid of being accused of immodesty. She raised her eyes shyly. "It's -so nice to have a man in the house. Not since poor dear father----. I -wonder what he'd have said." - -Peter didn't wonder. He thought it was high time that he made matters -clearer. "Of course, I'm not going to leave him on your hands. I only -brought him for a night because----" - -She interrupted anxiously. "Oh, please, until he's better. He's so run -down. They made him work so hard in--in there." - -So he had brought his derelict uncle to the one spot on earth where he -was regarded as a treasure! He was so amazed at Miss Effie's attitude -that he doubted whether she was in full possession of the facts. - -"But--but," he faltered, "didn't Miss Florence tell you where he's come -from--where it was that he had to work?" - -She answered in a low voice. "We've all done wrong." It seemed she could -get no further. She sank her head, gazing straight before her, tracing -out the great red roses in the carpet. Peter thought of her sister, -Leah, the shadow-woman; he knew what she meant. She raised her eyes to -his with an effort. "We've all done wrong; I think to have done wrong -makes one more gentle. It makes one willing--not to remember." - -Miss Florence opened the door and looked in on them. "He's ready to see -you now." She hated scenes. Because she saw that one was in preparation, -she made her voice and manner perfunctory. "You'd better go alone. You'd -better go on tiptoe. I wouldn't stop too long; he's got a bad head." - -Peter couldn't help smiling as he climbed the stairs, and yet it was a -tender sort of smiling. Didn't these innocent ladies know that too much -whisky invariably left a bad head? Or, with their divine faculty for -forgetting, were they willing to forget the whisky and only to remember -to cure the bad head? - -It was a white room--a woman's room most emphatically. The pictures on -the walls were triumphs of sentimentality. Gallants were kissing -their ladies' hands and clutching them to their breasts in an agony of -parting, or looking meltingly at a flower which they had left. The seats -of the chairs wore linen covers to prevent their upholstery from getting -shabby. The window was wide; on the sill crumbs had been scattered. -Sparrows chattered and, grown bold from habit, flew in on to the carpet -and preened their feathers. - -On the bed, the sheets drawn close up under his chin, lay Uncle Waffles. -He had the look that invalids sometimes have, of being made to appear -more ill by too much attention. He had not shaved--his cheeks were -grizzled; that help to make him look worse. The atmosphere of a sickroom -was completed by a table placed beside the counterpane, on which lay an -open Bible and some freshly plucked wall-flowers. Peter had never seen -his uncle in bed--for the moment he was embarrassed. He drew up a chair. -"How are you? Getting rested?" - -Uncle Waffles hitched himself higher on the pillow, reached out and took -Peter's hand. A glint of the old love of fun-making crept into his -eyes. "I've not been treated like this since my mother--not since I -was married. They're pretending I'm ill because they want to nurse me. -Carried off my trousers, they did, to prevent me from getting dressed. -What's the matter with them? Don't they know who I am?" - -"They know." - -"Then why are they doing it?" - -"Because they've suffered themselves." - -Ocky tightened his grip on Peter's hand. "One of them been to--to where -I've been, you mean? Which one?" Peter shook his head. "They've all been -to prison in a sense--not the kind you speak of. They had a big tragedy, -when everything looked happy. Since then----. Well, since then people -have pitied and cut them. They've been left. They're glad you've come, -partly because life's been cruel to you, and partly----. Look here, I -don't want you to laugh!--partly because you're a man." - -Ocky pulled the late Mr. Jacobite's night-shirt tighter across his -shoulders. It was much too large for him--as voluminous as a surplice. -"Not much of a man," he muttered; "not much of a man. Arrived here--you -know how. Before that had been hanging about street corners, watched by -the police and jostled into the gutter. My own wife won't look at me; -and yet you tell me these strangers----." - -His voice shook. "I don't understand--can't see why----." - -Peter spoke after an interval. "You--you haven't often been surprised by -too much kindness, have you? Comes almost like a blow at first?" - -"Almost. It kind of hurts. But it's the right kind of hurting. It makes -me want to be good. Never thought I'd want to be that." - -"What did you think?" - -For a moment a fierce look came into his eyes. "What does an animal -think of when it's trapped? It thinks of all the ways in which it can -get back at the people who put it there. But now----." He picked up -the wall-flowers and smelt them. "She brought them this morning--the -littlest one, with the gray hair and tiny hands. They were all wet with -dew when she brought them. You need to go to prison, Peter, to know what -flowers can mean to a chap." - -There was a tap at the door. Miss Madge entered, bringing some beef-tea. -When she had gone Ocky said, "They take it in turns." - -Peter remembered how, going always into separate rooms with them, they'd -taken turns in owning himself and Kay when they were children. How -rarely life had allowed them to love anything! - -Uncle Waffles' thoughts seemed to have been following the same track. He -paused, with the cup half-way to his mouth. "Those women ought to have -married.--Been in prison most of their lives, you said? But I don't -know; marriage can be a worse hell." He turned to Peter. "D'you remember -at Sandport how she'd never let me kiss her? It was like that from the -first. She kept me hungry. I stole to make her love me. She was always -talking about her first husband and making me jealous. And yet----." - -He stopped and gazed vacantly across the room to where sparrows -fluttered on the sill and sunlight fell. Peter supposed that he had -forgotten what he was going to have said. Suddenly his face became -all purpose and pleading. He flung back the bedclothes and leant out, -gripping Peter's shoulders till they hurt. "I'd steal again to-morrow -to get one day of her bought affection. My God, how I've longed for her! -Make her come to me. You must, Peter. You shall. Don't tell her who I -am. Oh, don't refuse me." - -The sharp agony and desperate determination of a man so drifting and -careless took Peter aback. He recalled those days when he had hidden him -in the stable--it had been the same then. He had always been urging that -Je-hane should be persuaded to walk in the garden that he might catch -a glimpse of her. The one strong loyalty of his weak existence had been -the love of this woman. - -"Get her to come to you!" Peter said. "But how? She wouldn't. She----" -Ocky burried his face in the pillow. How thin he was and listless! How -spent! How----. What was the word? How smashed! It was as though in the -human quarry some chance stone of calamity had fallen on him, making him -a moral cripple. He was what he was through the sort of accident that -might happen to any man--to the Faun Man, if Eve refused to love him; -even to Peter himself. - -The boy pulled the clothes back over the man. "Somehow--I don't know -how--somehow I'll do it. I promise." - -After that, whenever Peter entered the white room, he saw how his uncle -watched for someone to follow. - -The Misses Jacobite had found a doctor who supported their opinion that -their guest must be kept in bed. The prison fare and long confinement -had broken down his constitution. The doctor didn't know what had done -it; he advised food and rest. - -From time to time Peter brought visitors to the room overlooking the -garden. His father came and was shocked by the wasted look of the man -who, in earlier years, had been his friend. It was of those earlier -years that they chose to speak, by an instinctive courtesy; they, at -least, had been happy territory. They recalled together their schoolday -pranks--the canings they had earned, the football matches they had lost -or won, the holidays when they had broken boundaries, going on some -secret adventure. But, when Barrington rose to go, Ocky said, "Don't -come again, Billy. You used to hate to hear me call you Billy; you'll -dislike it just as much when I'm better. We've both been forgetting what -I am, and what I've done. If you come again we may remember. For years -I've worried you; well, that's ended. But--you're a man of the world, -and you understand. I'm a jail-bird--and I don't want to spoil the -memory of this hour. Good-bye, old man." - -It turned out that Mr. Grace hadn't slept on his box so soundly that -evening of Peter's return--at least, not so soundly as to keep his eyes -shut. - -"All swank on my part, Mr. Peter," he said; "she's been h'at me for -years, my darter Grice 'as, and I don't mean to get conwerted. H'I'm not -a-goin' ter come ter 'eaven, so long as 'er voice is the only voice as -calls me. 'Eaven 'ud be 'ell, livin' wiv 'er in the same 'ouse, if I wuz -ter do that. We'd be for h'everlastin' prayin' and floppin'. Not but wot -religion 'as its uses; but not for me in 'er sense. That's why I shut me -h'eyes when she was a-bellowin' at the corner. But I saw yer. 'Ow is the -old bloke nar? Your uncle, I mean, meanin' no disrespeck. I've h'often -thought that if we 'ad met under 'appier h'auspices--h'auspices is one -of my Grice's words--we might 'ave been pals." - -Peter brought about the 'appier h'auspices. One afternoon Cat's Meat -halted before the house and Mr. Grace climbed down from his box, a bag -of apples in one hand and his whip in the other. He was very red in the -face and embarrassed; he had anything but a sick-room appearance, though -he often drove in funeral processions. He was immensely careful about -the wiping of his feet. Peter tried to coax him to leave his whip in -the hall; he wouldn't. He seemed to think that it lent him dignity, and -explained his status in the world. So it was clutching a bag of apples -and clasping his whip against his chest, that he entered the white room -where the birds hopped in and out. - -Ocky Waffles, shifting his position on the bed, caught sight of the -weather-beaten, alcoholic figure. Before he could say a word, in a -thick, husky voice Mr. Grace offered his apologies. - -"'Ere. 'Ave 'em. I 'ear you ain't well." He swung the bag of apples on -to the bed. "Bought 'em from a gal off a barrer" He paused awkwardly. - -"That was good of you," said Ocky. "Come and sit down." - -Mr. Grace scratched his head. "I dunno as I want to sit down. I dunno -as you and me is friends. Remember the last time we met and h'all the -trouble we 'ad? You wuz a nice old cough-drop in them days. I 'ad to 'it -yer wiv this 'ere whip--the wery same one--to make yer let go o' the top -o' the gate and fall inter the stable. Well, I 'it yer in kindness; but -it's because I 'it yer that I dunno whether you and me is friends." - -"We're friends," said Ocky. - -Mr. Grace sat down. It was most curious, all this. He hadn't got his -bearings. This chap, lying in a decent bed and waited on hand and foot -by ladies, was Mr. Waffles, if you please. But he had been an old -cock who climbed walls to avoid policemen, and rode about at night in -philanthropic cabs. He turned to him gruffly. "Eat one o' them there -apples. Bought 'em from a gal off a barrer.--Did h'I tell yer that -h'already?" It was a sign that the truce was established. - -Mr. Grace became a frequent caller. An odd friendship grew up between -these two men, both broken on the wheel of feminine perversity. They -exchanged notes on their experiences. Ocky spoke to the old cabby with -greater freedom than to anyone, save Peter. Jehane had always said of -him that he found it easy to be sociable with underlings and ostlers. -In this case he found it easy because of the wide charity of the -underling's personal laxity. Sometimes Miss Effie would steal in and -read to them of a man who chose his companions from among publicans and -sinners. Mr. Grace would pay her the closest attention and ask her -to repeat certain passages; he was picking up pointers, with which to -challenge his daughter's confident assertions concerning God's unvarying -severity. - -And then Jehane! She came one afternoon to Topbury to visit Nan. She had -heard nothing; nothing was told her. Peter waited for an opportunity to -get her to himself. In the garden after dinner the others contrived to -leave them together. - -"Going up to Oxford, Peter? Oh, well, it's good to have opportunities -and a father with money. My poor Eustace, he'll never have that. I -might, while you're there----." - -She paused; the thought had just occurred to her--a new plan for -marrying off her girls "I might let Glory and Riska visit my father and -mother while you're there. It would be pleasant for all of you. Would -you like that?" - -"Splendid," said Peter. - -She eyed him, suspecting the sincerity of his enthusiasm. - -"Of course, if you don't want your cousins---." - -"I do," he assured her. "I'm going to Calvary College; that's just -opposite Professor Usk's house. I'll be able to see plenty of them." -Then, knowing how she liked to be appealed to as a person with superior -knowledge, "I wish you'd tell me some of the things I mustn't do; Oxford -etiquette's so full of _mustn'ts_." - -She laughed; the hard lines softened about her mouth. Talking about -Oxford made her think of her girlhood, when to be the daughter of a don -was to be something akin to an aristocrat. Those days were sufficiently -far removed for her to have forgotten their dread of spinsterhood, and -for her to remember only their glamour. "You must never use tongs to -your sugar," she said; "only freshers do that--you must help yourself -with your fingers. And, let me see! You must never wear your cap and -gown unless it's positively necessary. You mustn't speak to a second -or third-year man unless he speaks to you first.--Oh, there are so many -_mustn'ts_ at Oxford; it would take all evening." - -And then, "Did your mother ever tell you the story of how we first met -Billy? It had been raining, and we were waiting to go on the river. I -put my head out of the window to see if the storm was over, and there -was your father looking up at me. I used to tease your mother by -pretending that I was in love with him. I shouldn't wonder--I expect -she still believes I wanted him. You see, Nan and I were inseparable as -girls. We used to be horribly scared of not marrying--we didn't know -as much about marriage then. We used to think that girls were born on a -raft and that only a man could come to their rescue. Funny idea, wasn't -it?" - -"And if the man didn't come?" - -"Why, if the man didn't come, we believed girls missed -everything--believed they got blown out to sea, out of sight of land and -starved with thirst. That was what made your mother so jealous, when I -pretended to be in love with Billy. She was afraid she'd lose her one -and only chance of getting safe ashore to the land of matrimony." That -was Jehane's public version of how love had miscarried between herself -and Barrington. - -So she ran on, remembering and remembering, as they walked the garden -path from the mulberry to the pear trees, forth and back, back and -forth, while the sunset reddened the creepers on the walls and the -loft-window, from which Ocky had watched in vain for her coming, looked -down on them emptily. - -When it was time for her to be getting on her way, Peter volunteered to -accompany her to the station. They chose the Lowbury Station instead of -the Topbury, because it would take longer and they could continue their -conversation about Oxford, her Promised Land of the past. "You must have -had good times as a girl." - -Good times! Hadn't she? She painted for him the joys of Eights' Week, -the excitement of the Toggers, the tremendous elations of a young and -vivid 'Varsity world. She painted them for him as romantic realities -which she had lived to the full and lost. And the odd thing was that she -believed that she had been happy then. All her life it had been _then_ -that she had been happy. Her Eldorados had always been behind her--never -in the To-days or the To-morrows. When she pitied herself, her otherwise -barren nature blossomed into a tragic luxuriance that was almost noble, -and entirely picturesque. - -She hadn't noticed where Peter was leading her. She found herself in -a broad and quiet street, through which little traffic passed. The -pavements, on either side of it, were lined with plane-trees. Houses -stood far back from the road in gardens, with stone steps climbing up to -them. - -She slipped her hand into Peter's arm. Now that Nan wasn't there to be -pleased by it, she was willing to let him know that she was proud of -him. In the silver twilight, when one sees with the imagination rather -than with the eyes, she found his face like to one which had looked up -at her suddenly and held her spell-bound in the gray blur of an Oxford -street. - -"Is this the right way, Peter? Is it a short-cut? Are you taking me out -of my way to lengthen our talk?" - -He laughed, rather excitedly she thought. "I like to hear you telling of -the old days---- Hulloa! Why here's the Misses Jacobite's house! You -remember what you said about women being on a raft--I think that -explains them. No one came out from the land to take them off. Let's -step inside and cheer them up." - -"But Peter, my train----." - -"Oh, there are plenty of trains--we needn't stop more than a second." - -"You rascal!" She gave his arm a little hug. "I believe you had this in -mind from the start." - -"Perhaps I had." - -When they were safe inside the hall and the door had closed behind them, -his manner altered. She was conscious of it in a second. He no longer -laughed, and he was more excited. - -"There's someone here who wants to meet you," he informed her. - -"But who? Why didn't you tell me?" - -"I wanted to give you a surprise." - -She looked annoyed and yet curious. "You must tell me. Is it a man or a -woman?" - -He didn't dare to let her know that it was her husband. - -"You'll see presently." - -She was beginning to protest; Miss Florence entered. Under her attempt -at cordiality her face betrayed dismay, and something still less -comfortable--judgment. Peter employed her entrance as an excuse for his -own rapid exit. He soon returned. "They want to see you now." - -Making the best of an awkward situation, Jehane exclaimed, "They! So -there are several of them! It was only 'someone' at first." - -She followed him up the stairs, trying to catch up with and question -him; he was careful to keep sufficiently far ahead to prevent -conversation. He opened a door on the landing--the door which led into -the white room. He made as if he were going to accompany her, but, as -she crossed the threshold, stepped back and closed the door. - -"You!" - -The man held out his arms. When she stood rigid and did not stir, he -dragged himself across the bed, as if to come to her. - -"Don't." - -Her voice was sudden like a whip cracked. - -His arms fell to his side. After all these years of absence, -her stronger will lashed down his desire. He began ramblingly, -shame-facedly, hinting at what he meant, not having the audacity to -finish his sentences. "I had to----. I made Peter promise. When they let -me out, I was thinking of you. All the time in there, for four years, I -was thinking of----. Jehane, I've been punished enough. Isn't it -possible that----? Jehane, I love you. I always have. I always shall." - -He was aching to touch her. Through the mist of twilight that drifted -through the room, he fed his eyes on every detail of this woman who had -once been familiar to him. She hadn't changed much; it was he who was -altered. She also made her sternly pitiful estimate--the shrunken body, -the loose-lipped, purposeless mouth, the hair growing thin and gray -about the temples. - -He stretched out his arms. "I love you." - -She shuddered; it was as though a man from the grave had called to her. - -"Love me!" Her voice was so low that his ears were strained to catch -what she said. "No. You never loved me; you weren't strong enough for -that. It was all a mistake; we never belonged to each other. If you had -loved me, you wouldn't have---- But we won't talk about it. I'm not -bitter; but we must go our own ways now." - -He was lying across the edge of the bed, threatening to reach across the -gulf that spread between them. The nearer he came, the more she saw what -had happened. He was old--a senile, night-robed caricature of the man -she had married. In the half-light her fear of his claim on her made him -ghastly. - -He was moving--he was getting out of bed. She opened the door, running -as she would have run from a skeleton. He was following her down the -stairs. She fancied that he touched her. It seemed that he leapt through -the air. Something fell. In the hall people tried to stay her. She was -in the street where the plane-trees rustled; how she managed to get -there she could not tell. She ran on, fearing that he still followed. - -She halted for want of breath. Where was she? Lighted trams were -passing. She jumped on the first, giving no thought to its direction. -Not until she was safe aboard and moving, did she dare to look back. - -Nothing was there, nothing gaunt and hungry--only saunterers and girls -with their lovers, drifting dreamlike through the shadows under lamps -against whose glare moths hurled their fragile bodies, beating their -lives out flutteringly. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV--THE BENEVOLENT DELILAHS - -Despite the Misses Jacobite's efforts to keep him ill, Ocky insisted -on getting better. His cork-like nature refused to be submerged by -adversity; it was warranted un-sinkable. - -At first, after repeated and urgent requests, he was allowed to sit by -the window in a dressing-gown. Then he was allowed to get partly -dressed and to ramble about the house in carpet-slippers. At last he -was permitted to venture into the garden. There, for some days, his -adventures ended. His four benevolent Delilahs had the felicity of -watching their captive-man, pottering in the sunshine, watering the -grass and tying up the flowers, while leaves tapped against the walls -and birds flew over him. - -They were terribly afraid that presently he would contemplate an exodus. -It was so very long since they had had anything to do with men--they had -almost forgotten what things amused them. In those far-off days when -the world was young and lovers were frequent, they had played and sung -a little. But the drawing-room was faded, their songs were out of date, -the piano was out of tune, and their voices----. Perhaps those lovers -had never really cared for their singing; appearing to care had afforded -an excuse for sitting close to the singers, as they turned the pages of -their music. - -Mr. Waffles mustn't be allowed to get dull--that would be fatal. They -asked him if he would be so good as to keep an eye on the cats--to see -that they didn't pounce on any of the birds who made a home in their -garden. Mr. Waffles promised. But the cats still stole along the wall -and crept through the bushes, unmolested by the weary gentleman in -carpet-slippers. - -Something had to be done. The case grew desperate. The four gray sisters -hunted through their father's library and searched out books--Dickens' -novels in paper-covers, issued in parts at a time when a new character -from Boz was more exciting than a new comet hurled through the night -from the unseen shores of eternity. Dickens left Mr. Waffles cold; -his tastes were not literary. He fell asleep with _David Copperfield_ -face-down beside his chair, while the sunlight played leap-frog with the -shadows across the lawn. - -He had to be amused. Providence sent a diversion. Seated beneath the -apple tree, where the shrubbery began, Miss Florence was assuring her -Samson for the hundredth time of how glad she and her sisters were -to have him with them. To enforce the sincerity of her words, she had -stretched out her hand to touch him--had almost touched him--when a -shocked voice exclaimed, "What the devil! What the devil! Poor father! -Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" - -Miss Florence jumped back from Mr. Waffles. Had he accused her? She -saw that his lips were not moving--that in fact, he was as surprised -as herself. Both looked slowly round. Their astonished glances found -nothing more perturbing than the innocent greenness of the garden and -the noiseless hopping of birds. - -The voice came again, maliciously strident. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What -the devil! What the devil!" - -Overhead, perched on a branch, was a gray and scarlet parrot. From whom -had it escaped? How long had it been there? All they knew was that, -while taking refuge in their garden, it was not above reviling them. At -night it formed the habit of roosting in the apple tree. Before anyone -was out of bed, it could be heard profaning the early morning. - -The energies of the entire household were now directed toward the -effecting of its capture. Ingenious plans were concocted. A topic of -conversation was never lacking. - -The four elderly ladies placed themselves under their guest's -protection. What would the neighbors think if they were to hear a -constant stream of blasphemy issuing from their walls? And, besides, the -parrot in a cage could be taught better manners and made an attractive -pet. - -Mr. Grace, on a visit, learnt of the situation and volunteered to lend -a hand. He and Mr. Waffles were provided with bags of grain and -butterfly-nets. They were instructed to creep with the stealth of -poachers behind ambuscades of trees and flowers, following the gray and -scarlet peril till it settled, and then---- - -But the triumphant moment was continually postponed; for, whenever -they approached the parrot, no matter how warily, it spread its wings, -mocking them and crying, "What the devil!"--or something even worse. - -Ocky's days were fully occupied now. He had a morning-to-evening -interest. The Misses Jacobite urged on him the importance of his -task--the safeguarding of their reputation. - -But even a trust so sacred and incessant failed to content Mr. Waffles. -Peter made this discovery when his uncle asked him for the loan of a -shilling. "Voluntary contributions thankfully borrowed," was Ocky's -motto. No one ever gave him anything. It was always lent. Now money -implied an excursion into the larger world; Peter wondered what might be -its purpose. He knew next morning; his uncle had a sixpenny pipe in his -mouth and a tin of cheap tobacco in his pocket. He was stoking up to -renew life's battle; with a pipe between his teeth, Ocky Waffles was a -man. - -He led Peter down the garden to the shrubbery, behind which were two -cane-chairs. The shrubbery was convenient for hiding the fact that he -was smoking. - -"Peter," he said, jerking his head across his shoulder, "I've been -noticing. They can't afford it. I've got to go to work, old chap." - -He spoke with his old swaggering confidence, as though the entire world -was waiting to engage his services. The carpet-slippers, which had been -Mr. Jacobite's, chafed one against the other thoughtfully. - -"Got to go to work," he repeated reflectively, in a tone which implied -regret. "I think I know a fellow---- We were in the coop together, and -he said---- But I'm not going to tell you till I'm more certain of my -plans." - -Had he been burdened with the weightiest of financial secrets, he could -not have made them more mysterious. Peter tried not to smile; he was -glad--this was the muddling self-deceived uncle he remembered. - -Ocky knocked the ashes out of his pipe, waiting for the bowl to cool -before he filled it. "I hadn't an idea that they had so little. It's -come home to me gradually--the worn carpets and old things everywhere. -And here have I been eating my head off. We'll have to pay 'em back, -Peter--have to pay 'em back." - -Peter had reason to be sceptical about the paying back; he applauded -the intention. Except in imagination, his uncle had never been much of -a money-maker. He had always been unemployable; he was ten times more -unemployable now with a prison record. Peter spoke to his father, -with the result that a position was offered as packer in a publisher's -establishment. Ocky refused it. "Got something better." - -The "something better" was at last divulged. One afternoon Peter found -his uncle up the apple-tree, trying to balance a box in its branches. -In the box was scattered the kind of food best calculated to tempt the -appetite of a parrot. The box had a flap-door leading into it, propped -open by a stick from which a string dangled. If an ill-natured bird were -to enter the box and a lady beneath the tree were to pull on the string, -thus dragging away the stick, the door would shut and the ill-natured -bird would be a captive. Gathered under the tree were the four Misses -Jacobite, looking very weepy and calling up warnings to their guest, -please not to fall and to be careful. - -Peter knew what it meant--these were the last offices of gratitude which -preceded departure. - -When the adventurous gentleman had clambered down, it was seen that he -wore his shabby spats and that his mustaches were pointed with wax. He -led Peter aside and winked at him solemnly. It was the return from Elba; -after exile, he was going forth to conquer the world afresh. - -"Well?" said Peter. - -"Well?" said Ocky. - -"Leaving?" asked Peter. - -"'S'afternoon," said Ocky. Then, after a silence, which heightened -the suspense, came the revelation. "There's a fellow, I know, a Mr. -Widow--we were in the coop together. A nice fellow! He oughtn't to have -been there. Seems he was in the second-hand business and dressed like -a parson to inspire confidence. Well, his wife was a gadabout woman and -always jeering at him. One day, quite quietly, in a necessary sort of -manner, without losing his temper, so he told me, he up and clumped her -over the head. He went out to a sale, never thinking he'd done any more -than was his duty; when he came back she was dead. He's a nice, kind -sort of chap, is Jimmie Widow, and religious. Not a bit like a murderer. -If you didn't start with a prejudice, you'd like him, Peter. I met him -a fortnight ago. He's opened a little place in Soho and wants me to join -him. I'm to mind shop while he's out. There's heaps of money to be made -in the second-hand business. You see, I'll surprise you all and die a -rich man yet." - -"Oh, yes," said Peter, "I--I hope so." - -Mr. Grace thought it just as well that his friend should enter on his -new adventure with the appearance of prosperity. He offered him a free -ride in his cab. So Ocky took leave of his benevolent Delilahs not as a -pedestrian but, as he had arrived--a carriage-gentleman. - -Shortly after his exit, the parrot was pounced on and eaten by a cat. -With the first money that he earned, Ocky made up for the loss with the -gift of a pair of love-birds. The Misses Jacobite named one Ocky and -the other Waffles. Which was the husband-bird and which the lady was a -matter in continual dispute between the sisters. Miss Florence insisted -that Waffles was the husband, because it had the more considerate -habits. The other she thought of as Jehane, and disliked. - -The question was still undecided, when a hawker of goldfish happened to -call. No gold-fish were required; but the conversation veered round to -the sex of love-birds. The peddler confessed that in his spare moments -'e did a bit in poultry and bulldogs. He was at once invited to enter, -with all the deference that is due to an expert. Having inspected Ocky -and Waffles, he announced as his verdict that them bloomin' love-birds -wuz either both cocks or both 'ens; but, whether cocks or 'ens, even he, -with a vast experience be'ind him, could not tell. - -When he had departed, a silver cruet-stand was missed from the -sideboard. And there the perplexing problem rested. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV--WINGED BIRDS AND ROOTED TREES - -A summer's afternoon in London! The gold-gray majesty of the -Embankment, basking in sunlight; the silver-gray flowing of the Thames -beneath its many bridges; smoke, bidding a casual good-by to chimneys, -sauntering off a truant into the quiet blue; trees, bravely green and -a-flutter; a steamer swerving in to the landing at Westminster! -His decision came suddenly. She had asked him to visit her. -Perhaps--perhaps, she could tell him what had happened to Cherry. - -He jumped off the bus, crossed the road at a run, sprang down the steps -and thrust his money through the hole in the ticket-window. "A return to -Kew." - -The man in the box was ostentatiously slow in counting out the change. -These young bloods made him bitter. With all the years before them, they -were always late and always in a hurry. He sold them their passports to -cool green places; he himself was left permanently behind by that streak -of gleaming river. - -"'Eaps o' time," he grumbled. "Yes, that's your one." Then, having at -last handed over the change and a ticket, "Best skip lively, or you'll -lose 'er." - -Peter skipped lively; to the man's disappointment, he scrambled aboard -just as the steamer was casting loose. She shot out into the current, -panting and splashing, kicking up a merry white wake. The Houses of -Parliament grew tall and, at last, spectral in the distance. The dome -of St. Paul's lay, a black bubble swollen to bursting, on the lip of the -horizon. The smoke of London trembled like a thin flag, waving back -the encroaching sky. The groan of creeping traffic was stilled; -stone-palaces of labor sank and sank, shorn of their height and -supremacy. This was the road to Arcady, the flowing road to the land -of birds and grass pavements. They were on the outskirts of that land -already; everybody felt it. A red-nosed minstrel drew his harp between -his knees and fumbled at the strings. He assured his public tunefully -that he had dreamt that he dwelt in marble halls. It was difficult -to believe him; he didn't look a soulful fellow. Nevertheless, in his -decrepit person, he echoed the hopes of incredible romance. The crowd -grew careless of appearances and jaunty. Cockney swains cuddled their -girls more closely; the girls, rather proud than abashed, tittered. - -Battersea Park drifted by, a green mist of trees and romping children. -Against the red-brick background of Chelsea, scarlet-coated soldiers -strolled, unwarriorlike, keeping pace with pram-trundling nurse-maids. -The steamer seemed to stand still; it was the banks, on either side, -that traveled. - -The harpist, having tried his nose at romance, came back to reality. -Perhaps, it was because he sang so much through it, that his nose was so -long and red. - - "Sez I, 'Be Mrs. 'Awkins, Mrs. 'Enery 'Awkins, - - Or acrost the seas I'll roam. - - So 'elp me, Bob, I'm crazy, - - Liza, yer a daisy-- - - Won't yer share my 'umble 'ome?"' - -In vulgar language he gave exact utterance to Peter's emotions. Not that -he had any home for Cherry to share. He wasn't likely to have for a long -time to come. He had to go to Oxford first, there to be drilled for his -tussle with the world. And yet, unreasonably, too previously, against -all laws of caution and common sense, he wanted to hear her say that she -cared for him. - -He had every reason to believe the contrary. He had written to her, and -had received only a line in answer, "_Let's forget. For your sake it -would be better._" After that his many letters had been returned to him -unopened, indicating that the address was unknown. He had tried to get -into touch with the Faun Man and Harry, but they were on the Continent, -roving. Then, he had thought of the golden woman. She had been kind to -him. She had asked him to visit her. She and Cherry were scarcely -friends, but she might tell him where he could find her. - -"_Let's forget_." The words rang in his ears. They tormented him. -They made him both sad and angry. They seemed to treat all love as a -flirtation, as a stroll beneath the stars which must end. He didn't want -an ending--couldn't conceive that it was possible. Was she heartless -or--or had she mistaken him? Was it that she didn't understand love's -finality? Or that she did understand, and was frightened? Or--and this -was the doubt that haunted him most--that she didn't really like him? - -Putney! Mortlake! Racing-shells skimming the surface of the water! -Bridges wading from bank to bank! Bathing boys who stood up naked, -waving to the passing steamer! Then Kew, green and somnolent, with its -plumed trees and low-browed houses. Peter landed. The crowd melted, -breaking up into couples who wandered off, purposeless and happy. They -had only escaped from London that they might be alone together. Should -they go to the Botanical Gardens? Oh, yes. Anywhere--it didn't matter. -Anywhere, so long as they could sit together and hold hands. - -He crossed the bridge; stopped a stranger and asked a question; turned -along the bank and came to a house, little more than a cottage--a nest -tucked away amid shrubs and trees, with the river in view. - -Like the frill on a woman's dress, a green verandah ran round it. -Everything was cool and neat and hushed. The bushes were trim and -orderly. The gravel-path had been smoothly raked--not a stone was awry. -Flowers stood sweetly demure, in rows like school-girls awaiting a good -conduct prize and trying to forget that they had ever been hoydens. -On the lawn an automatic sprinkler was at work, revolving slowly and -throwing up a cloud of spray. - -As he approached the porch, misty with wistaria and passion-flowers, -he searched the windows for signs of life. They were so clear that they -seemed to be without panes, giving direct entrance to the pleasant rooms -inside. They seemed to say, "We have nothing to hide--nothing." Brasses -shone as brightly as a more precious metal. The door lent a virginal -touch of whiteness. - -He rang the bell and heard a faint tinkle, then the rustling of skirts, -accompanied by prim footsteps. A severely attired maid admitted him. He -gazed round the room into which he was shown. Books, artistically -bound, lay on the table. Everything gave evidence of fastidiousness and -taste--of a certain remoteness from the everyday jostle of life. Above -an inlaid desk stood a portrait, silverframed. Out of curiosity Peter -tiptoed over; the Faun Man gazed out at him with laughing eyes. Lying -open on the desk was a well-thumbed volume, small and bound like a -Bible. A passage was underscored, which read, "Thou must be lord and -master of thine own actions, and not a slave or hireling." Turning to -the title-page, he found that it was _The Imitation of Christ_. - -A voice behind him said, "Ah, so you've discovered me!" - -He drew himself up, afraid she might suspect him of spying. "I--I was -interested by the words you'd underlined. I wanted to see who wrote -them. I oughtn't to have----" - -She laughed softly, shrugging her shoulders. She was all in white--lazy, -splendid and vital. "My Loo-ard! Don't apologize. You were surprised. -I don't blame you." She nodded her head like a knowing child. "Oh, yes, -Peter, the golden woman reads books like that sometimes." - -She took his hands in hers and drew him over to a sofa, making him sit -down beside her. "And now, what have you come to tell me?" - -He recovered from his confusion and surrendered, as all men did, to her -graciousness. "That it's ripping to see you. But--but how did you know I -called you the golden woman?" - -"Lorie--he tells me everything." She leant back her long fine throat, -pillowing her head against the cushions. "You must never trust him with -any of your secrets, if you don't want me to---- Now, what is it that -you've come to tell me?" - -"Then, you know----?" He hesitated. The confession to him was sacred; -there was amusement in her eyes. "Then you know about me and Cherry?" He -was sure she did. She had greeted him as though his visit had been long -expected. - -She placed her cool fingers about his wrist and bent her head nearer. -Her voice was low, and caressing--the voice of one who breaks bad news -gently. "I know. You told her that you loved her.---- Why didn't you -come to me sooner?" - -She was looking sorry for him. "Why sooner?" he questioned. - -"Because she's gone away." - -It was almost as though she had told him that Cherry had died. "Away? -Where to?" - -"I don't know. Lorie didn't say; he took her. Perhaps, to the convent. -Poor little girl, you--you frightened her, Peter." - -He was all amazement. What a contrast there was between these two! -The boy so inexperienced and crestfallen; the golden woman so wise and -quiet. "Yes, _you_, Peter. You're so natural and uncivilized. You were -too sudden with her. You told her that you loved her just as a child -would--directly you felt it. You wanted to kiss her without waste of -time. You galloped too fast, Peter; you tried to take all the fences -at one stride." Her voice grew more tender; she folded her hands in her -lap, looking away from him, straight before her. "You're--you're the -sort of lover we older women dream of when the hour's gone by. The men -who come to us are too cautious; they watch for the lines in our faces. -They've learnt to play safe. But you, with your glorious youth----! And -she didn't recognize it--didn't know what you were offering." The blue -eyes came back slowly to his face. She ended, "And so, she's gone away." - -Peter felt unhappy and yet comforted. She had envied him something of -which he had been ashamed--the unavoidable indiscretion of his lack of -age. She had called it glorious; she hadn't thought it foolish. "But -what must I do? Will she--will she come back again? Will she understand, -one day, the way you do?" - -She answered evasively. "One day! We women all understand one day." - -He repeated his question, "But what must I do?" - -She put her arm about his shoulder. "Wait. It's all that either of us -can do." - -Why did she include herself? The room was very silent. In its patient -preparedness, it must have spent years in waiting. The garden outside -seemed to listen, tiptoe. The door was white, as if little used. The -sunlight on the lawn crept slowly. Everything watched; yet nothing was -wideawake. For whom were they all expectant? _Always there is one who -allows, and one who loves_. Was that the explanation? - -Above the open volume of cloistered consolation, with its disillusioned -counsels of timid patience, the Faun Man smiled from his silver frame. -Peter had always thought----. - -So, after all, was it the Faun Man who had delayed? - -And Cherry loved him! Had that anything to do with it? He crushed the -suspicion down--and yet it survived. - -"And you don't know----. You couldn't tell me where to write?" - -The golden woman shook her head. "Who can say? You don't know much -about love, Peter. It's a continual hoping for something which never -happens--or which, when it happens, is something different. People say -it's a state of heart--it's really a state of mind. I think--and you'll -hate me for saying it--I think true love is always on one side and is -always disappointed. Did you ever hear about the green tree and the bird -in the morn? You didn't? - - "A bird in the morn - - To a green tree was calling: - - 'Come over. Come over. - - Night's vanished. Day's born. - - And I'm weary--I want you, green tree, for my lover; - - Through clouds I am falling, - - A-flutter, a-flutter. - - I'm lonely, - - Here only. - - And heard your leaves mutter. - - Night's vanished. Day's born. - - So run out and fold me, green tree, in the morn.' - - "The bird in the morn - - Heard a distant tree sighing: - - I cannot come over-- - - Night's vanished. Day's born. - - I am rooted. But haste, oh sweet bird, to your lover; - - So freely you're flying, - - A-flutter, a-flutter. - - Sink hither, - - Not thither. - - Hark how my leaves mutter, - - Night's vanished. Love's born.' - - The bird flew--ah, whither? The tree was forlorn." - -She stroked his hand. "In true love," she said, "there's always one who -could but won't, and one who would but cannot." - -"Not always," he denied. He spoke confidently, remembering his mother -and father. - -"How certain you are!" She watched him mockingly. "Ah, you know of an -exception! Believe me, Peter, winged birds and rooted trees are by far -the more common." - -She made him feel that she shared his dilemma--that she reckoned -herself, with him, among the trees which are rooted. The bond of -sympathy was established. - -"We," she whispered, "you and I, Peter, we must wait for our winged -birds to visit us. We can't go to them, however we try." - -She sprang up with a quick change of expression; in a flash she was -radiant. "My Loo-ard, but we needn't be tragic." - -Running to the window, she flung it wide. "Look out there. The sun, the -river, the grass--they're happy. What do they care? It's our hearts that -are unhappy. We won't have any hearts, Peter." - -He crossed the room to her. With the freedom of a sister, she put her -arm about him, leaning so that her hair just touched his face. She -seemed to be excusing her action. "You're only a boy. How old shall we -say. Just fourteen, perhaps. Why, little Peter, you're too young to -be in love.---- Do you remember the saying, that every load has two -handles: one by which it can be carried; one by which it cannot? You -and I are going to find the handle by which it can be carried--is that -a bargain? I'll show you the handle--it's not to take yourself or anyone -too seriously. You're making a face, Peter, as though I'd given you -nasty medicine. You were determined to be most awfully wretched over -Cherry, weren't you? Well, you mustn't. Wait half a second." - -Her half-seconds were half-hours to other people. When she reappeared, -she was clad girlishly in a white dress, which hung above her ankles. At -her breast was a yellow rose. Her golden hair was wrapped in bands about -her head. There swung from her hand a broad river-hat. Peter thought -that, if the Faun Man could see her now, he wouldn't wait much longer. -But it was contradictory--this that she had told him; he had always -supposed that it was she who had kept the Faun Man waiting. For himself -he was wishing that she were Cherry. - -Before the mirror, over the empty fireplace, she stooped to adjust her -hat. Her arms curved up to her shining head, the loose sleeves falling -back from them; they looked like handles of ivory on a gold-rimmed -goblet. The motive of the attitude was lost on Peter; he only took in -the general effect. Her eyes, watching him from the glass, saw that. -He was thinking how nave she was to have taken thirty minutes over -dressing, and then to pretend that she had hurried by coming down with -her hat in her hand. - -"Ready," she said. "Do you like me in this dress? If you don't, I'll -change it." - -"If I took you at your word----. But would you really? I'm almost -tempted to put you to the test." - -"I would really," she said. - -"I do like you." He spoke with boyish downrightness. "You know jolly -well that you look splendid in anything." - -She pretended to be abashed and hurried into the garden, singing just -above her breath, - - "I like you in satin, - - I like you in fluff." - -She seemed to forget the words and hummed; but, as she came to the end -of the air, she crouched her chin against her shoulder, looking back at -him naughtily, - - "I love you and like you - - In--oh, anything at all." - -They walked by the muffled river; trees were reflected so clearly on its -surface that it was easy to mistake illusion for reality. Everything was -asleep or listless in the summer sun. They came to a point where they -ferried across. They entered Kew Gardens and sauntered into the Palace -for coolness. They didn't care where their feet led them; all the while -they talked--about life, love, men and women, but really, under the -disguise of words, about Cherry and the Faun Man. In her company he had -found a sudden relief from suspense. - -She was so smiling, so generous, and at times so anxious to be reckless, -like a clever child saying slant-eyed things of which the meaning -was half-guessed. He was elated to be seen with her; she was rare and -beautiful. - -Toward evening he turned back from the land of stately trees and -grass-pavements to the clamor of the perturbed and narrow city. The -river was a thread of gold; the sun foundered red in a crimson sea of -cloud. The thread of gold broadened as bridges grew more frequent; black -wharfs took the place of meadows and sat huddled along the banks like -homeless beggars. But it was the majesty, not the meanness of London, -that impressed him. His eyes were on the horizon, where the lace-work -tower of Westminster shot up, sculptured and ethereal, and still further -beyond where, above herded roofs, the dome of St. Paul's protruded like -a woman's breast. - -He landed at Westminster Bridge and ran up the steps. What a different -world! How many hours was it since he had been there? He had recovered -his sense of life's magic. - -The tethered man in the ticket-office eyed him gloomily. "Still in a -hurry," he thought, "and with all the years of life before him. Ugh!" - -That afternoon was the pattern of many that followed. He came from -London to Kew, simply and solely that he might speak about Cherry, and -always with the hope that he might gain some news of her. Subtly the -golden woman would lead the conversation round to herself. It was only -at parting that he would discover this. Once he said, laughingly, "Why, -we've spent all our time in talking about you!" Then he stopped, for -he saw that he had not pleased her. "Next time it shall be all about -Cherry," he told himself; but it wasn't. - -He had never had a woman consult him before about her dress and the -styles of doing her hair. The golden woman did; she made him tell her -just what he preferred. When he met her, she came to express a part of -his personality. - -In the intimacy which grew up between them, the small reserves of pride -and reticence were broken down. They spoke their minds aloud. - -"I'm getting old, Peter," she would say. But this was only on the days -when she looked youngest. - -If he had no money, he would tell her; then, she would either pay or -they would make their pleasures inexpensive. He regarded her as a sister -older than himself. - -"What shall I call you?" he asked her. "Haven't you noticed that I have -no name for you?" - -She slipped her arm into his. "The golden woman. I like that. It's -you--it has the touch of poetry." - -"I gave you that name," he said, "the moment I saw you--years ago, at -the Happy Cottage." - -She opened her eyes wide, pretending to be offended. "Years ago! How -cruel! Years ago to you; but to me not so long ago--four years, wasn't -it? Why do you say things that make me feel ancient?" - -"When you're beautiful----." He got no farther; his tongue stumbled -at compliments. He was going to have said that, when you were very -beautiful, years didn't matter. - -She caught at his words. "Then you think I'm beautiful?" - -"Think, indeed!" - -"As beautiful as Cherry?" - -He avoided answering, saying instead, "See how everyone turns to look -after you." - -She fell silent, only to return to the topic long after he had forgotten -it. "Yes, they look after me and go away. That isn't like having someone -with you always." - -She could make him feel very unhappy--more unhappy than anyone he had -ever met. She could say such lonely things, and almost as though he -were to blame for her loneliness. She could talk exquisitely of love and -little children. He wondered why the Faun Man hadn't married her. - -One afternoon he had stopped longer than usual. They had walked through -Kew Gardens, and had sat in a teagarden watching the trippers. It had -been one of their gay days, when they had built up absurd philosophies. -She had told him that all that any woman could love was the sixth part -of any man--all the other five-sixths were distasteful. Her idea was -that every woman should be allowed to have six husbands; then, by taking -what she liked out of each of them, she would have one perfect man. They -had dawdled in the tea-garden out of compassion, rescuing wasps with -teaspoons from drowning in the jam. When they rose to go, evening was -gathering. On the bridge they paused, gazing down at the gray creeping -of the river and the slow drifting of the boats. Suddenly she reverted -from gay to sad. - -"If I were old, Peter, you wouldn't come to see me so often. One day, -though I try to fight it off, one day I shall be old." At the gate, in -the wistful twilight, she lifted up her face. "If I were to ask you to -kiss me, would you?" - -"I think I would." - -But she didn't ask him. - -A strange summer made up of waiting, visits to Kew and interludes of -work! In those interludes he studied hard, putting the finishing touches -to his preparation for Oxford. The first question he always asked the -golden woman--asked her breathlessly--was, "Is there any news of her?" -The answer was always the same--a negative. Sometimes she would read him -portions of letters which she had received from the Faun Man. There was -never any mention of Cherry. He grew sick at heart with waiting. The -golden woman alone shared his secret; he could not bring himself to -speak of it at home. - -His holiday was short that year--three weeks in Surrey. On his return -Glory came to stay at Topbury. How she had escaped his memory! He was -a little surprised by her quiet beauty; his surprise wore off as he got -used to her. She laid so little emphasis on herself. People were only -aware that she had been there when she had gone--an atmosphere of -kindness was lacking. Then they looked up, were puzzled and remembered, -"Oh yes, Glory. Where's she vanished? Thought she was here." She only -once penetrated into Peter's world--then only for a few hours. A boy in -love can think only of one woman. - -That once occurred on a rainy morning, in the study which had been his -nursery. He had just sat down and had his nose in his books. Someone -touched him. - -"Peter, you don't mind, do you? If you're busy now, I'll come again -later." - -He looked up, his head between his hands, his hair all ruffled. "Sorry. -Didn't see that you were there. Anything you want me to do?" - -The sensitive face flushed. He noticed that. The white hands fluttered -against her breast. "You know about father." Her voice was timid. It -strove and sank like a spent bird. "Nobody's told me. So, Peter, I came -to you." - -"That's a shame. He used to be our secret. What d'you want to know about -him, Glory?" - -She faltered like a girl much younger. "I want you to take me to him." - -That afternoon on the top of a bus they set off to Soho together. What -that excursion meant to her, what thoughts tiptoed to and fro inside her -head, he never knew. He never guessed how proud she was to be seen alone -with him in public. Her thoughts tiptoed for that reason--so that no one -might ever guess. They found Uncle Waffles, waxed mustaches and dingy -spats, seated in a dingy shop. They had to descend a step to enter. The -riot of dirt distressed Glory. She wanted to busy herself with a duster, -until her stepfather discouraged her, telling her that it was no use--it -would be as bad to-morrow; in fact, in his line of trade, dirt was a -kind of advertisement. - -Just as they were sitting down to tea, Mr. Widow, the murderer, joined -them. They found him a very severe old gentleman, with chop-whiskers -and an eye to other people's imperfections. Prison seemed to have -strengthened his moral views. Once he referred to "my poor wife," in a -tone which implied that she had died respectably of bloodpoisoning or -cancer. - -Before they left, Uncle Waffles took Peter aside and borrowed -two-and-sixpence in a whisper. So the tea was quite expensive. Perhaps -the ease with which he had contrived to borrow had something to do with -the heartiness of his invitation that they should drop in whenever they -were passing. - -That evening, when Glory came to bid Peter good-night, she asked, -"You'll take me again, won't you. He's--I don't think he's happy." - -Peter dragged his thoughts away from his work. "Don't you? Perhaps Mr. -Widow isn't tremendously cheerful company. Of course I'll take you." - -His eyes were going back to his books. Glory hesitated at the door, -saw that he had forgotten her and slipped out. There was a song about a -rooted tree and a winged bird; had he looked up at that moment and seen -her expression, he might have remembered it. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI--THE SPREADING OF WINGS - -He might have been setting out for Australia or to explore Tibet, they -made such a final matter of his going. The way in which he was waited -on, considered and admired brought to his remembrance those early days -when he had been sent to Miss Rufus to be cured of his 'magination. - -"But motherkins, dearest, Oxford's only sixty miles--a two hours' -journey. I can write to you the last thing at night and you can be -reading me next morning at breakfast." - -Nan shook her head. "It's the spreading of wings, Peter--the first -flight from the nest. You'll come back, of course; but always more -rarely." - -She foresaw in this first departure, all the other departures that lay -ahead. The day was coming when she would be left alone. She pictured -herself as old and grayheaded, sitting listening to phantom footsteps -of memories which passed and repassed, but never brought the living -presence. Already she tasted the bitterness of the woman who, having -been first, must learn to be second in the affections of those who were -part of her body. Kay and Peter were growing up. They would soon have -their secrets--their interests which she could not share. They would -marry and enter her house as visitors. She pictured all that; the -spreading of wings had commenced. - -When Peter had been a little boy at Sandport, certain lines had driven -the tears into her eyes with their wistful yearning. They were often on -her lips now: - - "Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, - - To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread; - - 'Mother, mother, mother!' the eager voices calling, - - 'The baby was so sleepy that she had to go to bed.'" - -Already the inexorable law of change had taken her babies from her, and -soon----. There would come a day when the rooms would be empty; her -home would become again what it was before she had entered it--merely a -house. - -When Peter laughed at her tenderly, attempting to coax her into braver -thoughts, she clung to him, searching his face to discover the odd -little boy who had asked such curious questions. For his sake she would -smile through her tears, saying, "I'm just a silly woman, getting -old, Peter. Don't think that I grudge you anything. I don't, I don't, -only--only it's the first spreading of wings--the struggling out of the -nest." - -It was true--truer than she fancied; there was Cherry. - -However late he worked in those last days, however noiseless he made his -feet upon the stairs, she heard him. Creeping from her room, she would -stand white-robed beside his bed, stoop above his face on the pillow and -tuck him up warmly. It wouldn't be for much longer--he was almost a man. - -And Billy--he tried to laugh her out of a sentiment which he fought down -in himself. Manlike, he disguised his feelings. He took so much interest -in the preparations, that it might have been he, instead of Peter, -who was going up to Oxford. By day he pretended to be cheerful; but at -night, when she lay down beside him, after her excursions to Peter's -bedroom, he would take her in his arms, whispering the old endearments, -"Golden little Nan," and "Princess Pepperminta," just to let her -understand that, whoever went from her, he would be left. - -One October afternoon Mr. Grace, the herald of Topbury's great -occasions, drew up against the pavement. Boxes were carried out. Cat's -Meat shuffled away into the distance. At the end of the Terrace, Peter -leant from the window; they were still there, waving from the steps. -He had begged them not to come to the station; he knew they would break -down. He turned the corner--his flight had begun in earnest. While -familiar sights lasted, he was conscious not of adventure, but -depression. Yes, that was the house from the dusk of whose garden a hand -had stretched out to grasp him. Strange, and this was the same Christmas -cab! Inanimate things hadn't changed; it was he who had altered. - -Then came the excitement of Paddington--undergrads with golf-bags slung -across their shoulders; others who were spectacled and looked learned; -still others with ties of contrasting hues and secret significance--a -crowd superbly young and enthusiastic, which did its best to appear -blas. And then the rush of the train, the exalted sense of opportunity, -the overwhelming consciousness of manhood, and that first night of -romantic speculation within the gray walls of Calvary College! Bells, -hanging so high and sounding so mellow that they seemed to swing from -clouds, struck out the hours. His mother had heard them, those same -bells, in her girlhood. By craning out, he could see the window from -which Jehane had caught first sight of his father and had called Nan's -attention. He was beginning his journey at the spot where his parents' -journey, halfway over, had commenced. Would he and Cherry tell their -children stories of where and how they had met? He and Cherry! It was of -her that he was thinking when Harry Arran entered and found him seated -among his partly opened boxes. - -"Tried to reach you all summer," Peter said. - -Harry was taking stock of the room's contents. "I say, old boy, you've -brought no end of furniture. You'll be quite a swell.---- What's that? -Tried to reach us with letters, did you? We never got one of 'em. Never -knew our next address ourselves. Just went wandering, you know. My -brother's such an erratic chap." - -Peter turned away, so that his face would not be seen, and spoke in an -offhand manner. "Cherry with you?" - -The question tickled Harry. He straddled his legs and watched his -friend's back, tilting his head toward his shoulder with a magpie -expression of impertinent knowledge. "Cherry with us! No, jolly fear. -She's a nice kid and all that, but we weren't out for love-affairs. -Fact is, I was trying to make that silly ass brother of mine forget one -woman. We carried knapsacks and went almost in rags. But what made you -ask?" - -"I thought she was. The golden woman said----." - -Harry interrupted. "Oh, so you've been seeing _her!_" He pronounced -_her_ with his old hostility. "I wouldn't see too much of her." - -Peter smiled quietly. How unjust Harry had always been to his brother's -women friends! He was still the mouth-organ boy, only a little too old -now to climb trees to display his jealousy. Did he think that he could -protect the Faun Man forever from marrying? Didn't it ever enter his -head that he might fall in love himself? And yet Peter sympathized with -Harry, for he had the same feelings with regard to Kay. He would hate -any man who tried to win her. That was a long way off--she was only -thirteen at present. His thoughts came back to Harry. "So, if you were -me, you wouldn't see too much of her! Why not? I've been feeling--well, -rather sorry for her." - -"You have, have you?" Harry laughed tolerantly. "Sorry for her! Pooh! -People who begin by feeling sorry for Eve end by being sorry for -themselves. She always starts her affairs like that, by getting -people sorry for her. Don't you know what's the matter with her? She's -selfish--a lap-dog kind of woman, born to be petted, but of no use -whatever in the world. She wants everyone to love her, and gives nothing -in return. She doesn't play the game, Peter; she expects to have a man -always toddling after her, but she won't marry him because----. I don't -know; I suppose it would disturb her to have children." Harry paused, -waiting for Peter to argue with him. When his remarks were met without -challenge, he continued, "She doesn't mean any harm--her sort never -does; but she's a jolly sight more dangerous than if she were immoral. -She gambles like an expert as long as luck's with her; the moment she -loses, she pretends to be a little child who doesn't understand the -rules. So she wins all the time and never pays back. She's kept my -brother feverish for years, loving him, and then, when it comes to -the point, not knowing whether she really loves him. Gives her a nice -comfortable sense, when anything goes wrong with her investments, to -feel that he's always in the background. I'm sick of it. She's a ship -that's always setting sail for new lands and never coming to anchor. -Lorie's too fine a chap to be kept dawdling his life away by a vain -woman. Some day she won't be quite so pretty--she dreads that already; -it's part of her shallowness. Then she'll run to cover, if any man'll -have her.---- You don't believe me. Suppose you think every woman's wild -to be married?" - -"I don't think that." In this particular Peter flattered himself that he -had had more experience than Harry. - -Harry took him up shrewdly. "If you don't think it, you wish you did. -You'll see, if you live long enough. There are heaps of well-bred -women like Eve, with the greed of chorus-girls and the morals of -refrigerators. And here's something else for your protection--Eve can't -bear to see any woman loved except herself. Lorie knows all this, and -still he's infatuated--plays Dante to her Beatrice. She isn't worth -it. She tells him she isn't worth it; that makes him think she's noble. -She--she sucks men's souls out for the fun of doing it when she isn't -thirsty, and flings them in the gutter like squeezed oranges." - -Peter's case was so nearly similar to the Faun Man's that he couldn't -bear this conversation. It was as though Harry was describing and -accusing Cherry. _She sucks men's souls out and flings them in the -gutter like squeezed oranges_. And Cherry hadn't been thirsty either; -she had pretended that she hadn't wanted to do it. - -"But Cherry," he said, "do you know where she is and anything about -her?" - -Harry looked at him squarely, a little pityingly. He sat down and -crossed his legs. "Yes. We took her abroad with us and dropped her at -the convent-school. She's---- I don't know. She's got a queer streak in -her--she's an exotic." And then, "I suppose you know that she thinks -she's in love with Lorie?" - -Peter bit his lip; he drew his knee up with his hands clasped about it. -"I know that. And the Faun Man, does he care for her?" - -Harry laughed. "On that score you don't need to be jealous. He wishes -she wasn't such a little donkey. He's bored by it. It complicates -matters most frightfully; he's her guardian. We had a most awful job in -shaking her. That's why we left her at the convent. Had a rotten scene -in Paris--tears and hysterics. She'd planned to make a third in our -party. We weren't on for it, you can bet your hat." - -Peter grew impatient at Harry's way of talking. He spoke shortly. "So -you know where she is? You can give me her address?" - -"I can't." The grin of the mouth-organ boy, poking fun at everything, -accompanied the refusal. "The kid made us promise not to tell you. She -has her own idea of playing fair. Wish Eve had." He yawned. "By George, -time I was off to bed. I've got to be up bright and early to-morrow to -call on Mr. Thing--the tutor-bird." - -Left alone in the stillness, Peter did not stir. In the street, below -his window, footsteps echoed at rare intervals. Now and then, as -men parted in the quadrangle, laughter burst on the night and voices -shouted. Then, again, he heard the bells, high up and spectral, telling -him that time was passing. He thought about Harry, envying him the -cavalier cloak of indifference behind which he hid his sensitiveness. He -thought about the Faun Man, with his fine faculty for loving wasted all -these years by an undecided woman. And he thought of Eve and how she had -misled him, letting him believe that the Faun Man had deserted her. Why -had she done it? And then he thought of Cherry, poor little Cherry, who -was keeping out of his way that she might play fair. - -But he would make her love him. He would work day and night to make -himself splendid. He was nothing at present--had nothing to offer her. -But, one day----. And so, with the invincible optimism of youth, he -pulled himself together. He was a knight riding out on a quest, wearing -his lady's badge to bring her honor. - -Had he cared, he might have pictured to himself the other adventurers -he had known, who had ridden out in the same brave belief that life was -romantic: Jehane, who had looked from the window across the street and -had beckoned with her eyes, only to give a husband to another woman; -Ocky Waffles, who had come to her as the feeble substitute for the -nobility she had coveted; his mother and father for whom, despite its -kindness, life had proved a pedestrian affair. But, on his first night -in this city of dreamers, he saw, stretching away below him, wide -landscapes of illusion. There was so much to do, so much to experience, -so much to dare. The spreading of wings had brought him to a crag from -which he viewed, not the catastrophe of sunsets, but the riot of -morning boiling up against cloud-precipices and pouring ensaffroned -and clamorous across the world. He saw only the glory of its challenge, -nothing of its threat. - -In the weeks that followed his belief in the marvelousness of mere -living was quickened. The head and shoulders of the marvel were that, -for the first time, he was lord of his own existence. Like God, he could -create himself. Mr. Thing, the tutor-bird, advised him, in a sneering -tone of voice, that he had a chance of a first in Honor Mods. Mr. Thing -had become embittered by past experience with other brilliant students. -"If you don't take to drink and to yowling like a cat of nights, you may -do it, Mr. Barrington. But I expect you'll run wild like the rest." - -Peter was claimed by Roy Hardcastle, the captain of the boats. His -breadth and height, and slightness of hip marked him as a potential -oarsman. Every afternoon he ran down through the meadows to the barges, -there to be tubbed and sworn at by the coaches. He rowed in the Junior -Fours as stroke and won his race. He was chosen as stroke for the -Toggers--after that his career as an athlete was settled. Calvary men -began to prophesy a rowing future for him. He noticed that men, not -of his own college, paused on the bank to watch his style as his eight -swung by. - -The keenness of Oxford life awoke him to his powers; the contempt in -which slackers were held spurred him forward. He had never been called -upon to test his personality in competition with others. The experience -took him out of himself, but beneath externals he remained the same -simple-hearted, compassionate idealist. He was different from other men, -and other men knew it. Perhaps it was that he was uncivilized, as -the golden woman had told him--uncivilized in the sense of being -unsophisticated and intense. Perhaps it was that his standards were -pitched high, and that he was chivalrous in his attitude of cleanness -toward himself. At all events, it never entered his head that the sowing -of wild oats was a legitimate employment. Men stopped talking about -certain adventures when he was present. - -Even Mr. Thing, the tutor-bird, felt it--this subtle atmosphere of -robust innocence, which Peter carried about with him, an innocence which -bore no resemblance to the lily-white priggishness of a Sir Galahad. -Mr. Thing was rather surprised; he had always felt virtue in a man to be -offensive and had compared it to a prim little maid attired for a party, -refusing to romp with bolder children for fear she should spoil her -dress. - -Mr. Thing was a don of the old school, a two-bottle man; not -infrequently about midnight he was intoxicated. It was said that under -the influence of wine his scholarship was ripest. He would recite -rolling speeches from Thucydides in the language of Athens, working -himself up into fervor and tears, declaiming in a voice which trembled -with humanity and trumpeted with valor. But when, after drinking to -excess, he met Peter beneath the stars in the shadowy quads, he -seemed conscious that an excuse was necessary. He invented a lie, this -gray-haired scholar, beneath which to hide his shame from clear-eyed -youth. It was reported that he was getting ready for the Judgment Day, -that he might be letter-perfect in his apology to his maker. - -"Been to the fun'ral of a dear fr'end, Mr. Barrington--a very dear -fr'end. Been taking the sharp edge off my grief. You haven't losht a -dear fr'end--not so dear as I have. So don't you do it." - -He showed drunken concern lest Peter should do it, and had to be -reassured many times. At last, shaking his head sceptically, he would -permit Peter to pilot him to his room. The boy's erectness hurt him; it -accused him. It caused him to look back and remember another lad, who, -beyond the waste of misspent years, had been not unlike him. One night, -made carelessly sentimental by an extra bottle, he told the truth. -"Wasn't always like this, Mr. Barrington. I was something like you--only -a little reckless. She said she'd wait for me, and then----. So that's -why. Now you know it." - -Cakes and ale in the imagination of young Oxford are usually associated -with licence. To be abstemious is to be unpopular and entails persistent -ragging. Peter believed whole-heartedly in the consumption of cakes and -ale, so long as it wasn't carried to the point of gluttony. He was eager -to taste life, and took part in all the fun that was going; only always -at the back of his mind lay the thought of Cherry--he must make himself -fine for her, so as to be worthy. - -He got into frequent adventurous scrapes. He was present at the Empire -with Harry when a young lady, whose stockings were the most conspicuous -part of her clothing, came to the footlights and sang a song, each verse -of which ended with the question, - - "Will you risk? - - I'd risk it. - - Wouldn't you?" - -Harry couldn't bear that she should go away unanswered. The courtesy -of the 'Varsity was jeopardized. Moreover, she was pretty and only -the musicians separated him from the stage. The theme of the song was -kissing. He leapt the orchestra-rail, splashed his foot on the key-board -of the piano, seized her hand and hauled himself up beside her, -shouting, "Yes, I'll risk it." - -She hadn't intended her invitation to be taken so seriously. With -becoming modesty she broke away from him, just as he was about to prove -his assertion that he'd risk it. Harry followed her, in one wing and -out the other, to and fro across the stage. The theatre rose yelling, -watching this amorous game of hide-and-seek. Of a sudden the cry, -"Proggins! Proggins!" went up. The Proctor and his bulldogs entered. -Harry jumped from the stage into his seat. Some considerate person -turned out the lights and there was a rush of undergrads for the exits. -Peter and Harry burst into the night with the Proctor's bulldogs -close behind them. Then came the long run; the brilliant plan, -Peter's invention, that they should escape over walls instead of by -thoroughfares; the clambering and climbing, the dashes across gardens -and the final escape into freedom through the house of a startled old -gentleman who threw his slipper after them--but not for luck. - -Harry, as a rule, was the initiator of their escapades; Peter championed -them to a finish gamely. The mouth-organ boy walked through the world -with a roving eye, seeking always new lands of innocent adventure. -When he had almost come to shipwreck on some wild coast of whimsical -absurdity, it was Peter who hurried to his rescue. The song which he had -sung in the tree-tops of Friday Lane had been a prophecy. He still sang -it in the austere city of gray walls and spires. It was a pan of high -spirits and irrepressible youth: - - "I've been shipwrecked off Patagonia, - - Home and Colonia, - - Antipodonia; - - I've shot cannibals, - - Funny-looking animals, - - Top-knot coons; - - I've bought diamonds twenty a penny there, - - I've been somewhere, nowhere, anywhere-- - - And I'm the wise, wise man of the wide, wide world." - -When he sang it, he and Peter would look at one another, with eyes -laughing, and would talk of Kay--of how they had commenced their -friendship by fighting over her, and of how--of so many things that were -kind and golden, like memories of spring days when the wind is blowing. -Little Kay, with her delicate face and shining hair, she stood a white -flower in the shadow-wood of remembrance--a narcissus-shrine to which -their steps were continually returning. So, while undergraduates of -the Roy Hardcastle type shouted themselves hoarse on Saturday nights at -college wine-clubs, making a rowdy effort to be men, Peter and Harry, -without effort, remained boys and sat concocting fairy-tale letters to -a little girl at Topbury. They refused to credit the evidence of their -eyes, that she was growing up. They signed their letters jointly, -filling them with ridiculous tenderness. She received them every Monday -morning at breakfast, and was made to feel that she was still a sharer -in their lives. Because Cherry postponed her coming, Peter had to have -some outlet for his affection. In a curious way he made his little -sister the temporary substitute for the girl he loved. It did not occur -to him to inquire what motives prompted Harry's epistolary philanthropy. - -Jehane did not at once fulfil her promise to send her girls to stay with -Professor Usk. On his return home for Christmas Peter discovered -the reason. Riska was in the throes of her first romance. At Topbury -shoulders were shrugged. Of course girls of fifteen did have their -flirtations, but it was only among the lower-classes that they were -openly acknowledged and dignified into love-affairs. Jehane, however, -took the matter seriously. She explained why. The young fellow was -a good catch and four years Riska's senior; he was the son of a -speculative builder who was invading Southgate with an army of -jerry-built villas. The story of how Riska had effected the young man's -capture proved that Jehane's training had been efficient. Riska had -shown a fine faculty for seizing her strategic opportunity. Barrington's -comment when he heard it was brief and to the point, "Ought to -be spanked. If she grows up this way, she'll make her face the -dumping-ground for anybody's kisses." - -That was just it; in her fear lest her girls should never marry, Jehane -had taught Riska, who was more apt a pupil than Glory, to welcome -any comer without fastidiousness. There was nothing heaven-sent about -marriage; it was a lucky-bag, into which you thrust your hand and -grabbed; or, to employ her old parable, maidenhood was a raft from which -girls who were wise escaped at the first opportunity, in cockle-boats, -on boards and even by swimming--the great object was to reach the land -of matrimony before the distance between the shore and the raft had -lengthened. Possibly one might get wet in the effort. One couldn't -be too nice over an affair so desperate. It was anything to attain a -marriage-song. - -This was how Riska's first excursion from the raft occurred. She had -been out riding her bicycle and a hat had blown by her. The hat must -belong to a head. She espied the head and liked it; therefore she chased -the hat. Having caught it, she waited for the owner to come up. She -accepted his thanks and indulged in a few minutes' conversation. Next -day, riding along the same road at the same hour, she had encountered -the owner of the hat again. After that, good-luck and liking had taken -a hand in bringing them together. Soon he had been invited to tea at the -cottage. Jehane had made things easy for him. She had learnt that his -father was a self-made, ambitious man, who wore side-whiskers and hoped -to die a baronet. - -"The Governor," the boy had told her, "wants me to marry well." There -lay the rub. Would his father consider Riska good enough? The name of -the young fellow was Bonaparte Triggers. - -Jehane felt that it was absolutely necessary that young Triggers should -be socially impressed. She persuaded Barrington to allow Riska to bring -her suitor to Topbury. Before he came, she issued a careful warning -that no mention was to be made of Ocky Waffles. Closely questioned, she -admitted that, without deliberately lying, she had let the boy suppose -that she was a widow. - -"But, if he's seriously in love with Riska, you'll have to tell him," -Barrington objected. - -Jehane's face clouded. "That's my affair. Who'd marry the daughter of a -convict? It's easy for you to talk." - -"Then you mean that----? Look here, I'm not criticizing; but don't -you think that this'll look like deception? Supposing he married Riska -without knowing, he'd be bound to find out after. Let Riska tell him. -If he's the right kind of a chap, he'll love her all the more for her -honesty." - -Jehane lost her temper as far as she dared. "You've always been against -me--always. Of course, if you're ashamed of us, and don't want Riska to -bring him----." - -There was no arguing along these lines. Barrington gave his reluctant -consent. - -Riska came, bringing with her Bonaparte Triggers, a flashy youth with -a cockney thinness of accent. The purpose of his visit was to be -impressed; he made it clear from the start that he had come to impress. -He did not belong to a world of culture and felt, as Ocky Waffles -had felt before him, that an effort was being made to rob him of -his self-possession. He resisted the effort by smoking innumerable -cigarettes, and tried to parade his own paces by accompanying himself -on the piano while he sang music-hall ditties of the latest -hug-me-quick-and-not-too-delicately order. His visit was not a success. -He was jerry-built, like his father's villas. - -After he had departed. Nan had the nervous desire to fling up all -the windows and to go through the house with a duster. It wasn't -snobbishness on her part, but she was unaccustomed to see fingers -squeezed and kisses exchanged in public. Barrington found her in the -drawing-room and slipped his hand into hers. "It's as I thought; Riska's -not in love with him. Her mother's trained her to believe that the first -man to come should be the first man accepted. And, d'you know, Nan----?" - -"What, Billy?" - -"Didn't you notice anything? She's pretty and she's sweet, because she's -young; but already she's getting hard and calculating like Jehane. I'm -afraid for her--she's more passion than her mother ever had. She's ripe -fruit, and not sixteen yet; if she isn't plucked, she'll fall to the -ground.---- It's a horrible thing to say of a young girl." - -And then, "I don't like him; but I hope he marries her." - -He didn't marry her; Peter and Glory were blamed for that. Without -telling anyone, they arranged to give Ocky a Christmas treat. What form -the treat was to take caused many secret discussions. They had to -be secret--all Glory's dealings with her stepfather were secret; the -mention of his name was forbidden by her mother. - -"How about a theatre?" Peter suggested. - -Glory shook her quiet head. "He's not very intellectual." - -"Well, a pantomime?" - -Glory nodded. "I believe he'd like that." - -So once again she set out alone with her tall cousin on the top of a -bus. For a few brief hours he was to be hers entirely. In anticipating -the adventure, she had racked her brains to think of entertaining -subjects to talk about. She was terribly afraid she would bore him; she -believed him to be so extraordinarily clever. She needn't have worried. -He was a big boy on that winter's afternoon and not a man. Directly they -were out of sight of the Terrace, he took her arm. - -"But Peter!" she protested, her face flushing. - -"Don't be a little silly," he told her; "you'll slip on the snow and -fall down.------ I say, Glory, you do look ripping. How you have got -yourself up! You've put on everything except the parlor sofa." - -At Topbury Corner he wanted to take a hansom, but she insisted on a bus. -"No, really. I prefer it. I've a reason--yes. But I wouldn't tell you -what it is for worlds." - -Her reason was that she was afraid to be left alone with him lest she -should grow self-conscious. It was easier to talk in crowds. And how -they did talk! Her little prepared speeches, her scraps of nervously -gathered information were all forgotten. They were two children -sailing through a Christmas world on a schooner of the London streets. -House-tops were white with snow; shops gay with decorations. In the -murky grayness of the sky a derelict sun wallowed, like a ship on fire. -It was a happy day; their eyes were bright to find something on every -hand to laugh about. Now it was a cutler's window, merry with mistletoe -and holly, all a-gleam with gnashing knives and razors, across which -was pasted the legend, "Remember the Loved Ones at Home." Now it was an -undertaker's, in which stood a placard: - - -DO IT NOW JOIN MY COFFIN CLUB - -ANYONE CAN LIVE - -MAKE SURE OF GETTING - -BURIED A TACTFUL CHRISTMAS PRESENT - -GIVE A YEAR'S SUBSCRIPTION - -TO A FRIEND - - -Glory grew out of her shyness; she snuggled her chin against her -squirrel muff, laughing and chatting, saying things which surprised -herself. Peter kept glancing at her side-long. She was tender-looking. -Yes, she was like Kay. He'd noticed that before. He noticed her for a -day, and then forgot her for months. It had always been like that. -Was it his fault? She was like a snow-drop--she had a knack of hiding -herself. - -They got off at Wardour Street, tunneling into dingy alleys from which -Italy watches strangers with sad brown eyes, dreaming of vineyards and -sun-baked towns. - -Glory twitched his arm. "Down here. It's a short cut." - -"Hulloa! You don't mean to say that you've been here by yourself?" - -She looked guilty; then smiled up from beneath her lashes. She had -nothing to fear from Peter. "Often, since you first brought me. Once a -week, at least; but don't tell mother. He's got no one to love except -Mr. Widow. I--I'm sorry for him." - -Mr. Widow certainly wasn't much to love. The secondhand shop had a -cheerless aspect. On this winter's day the door stood open; Mr. Widow -held that it was tempting to customers. Ocky crouched over a coke-stove, -rubbing his hands. The moment Glory entered, she hurried toward him, -putting her arms about his neck. His face lit up. "Why, it's Glory! -Little Glory!" He ran his hands over her. "How beautiful! But you -oughtn't to come. The Duchess'll find out. Oh yes, she will. She always -finds out. Then, there'll be a row." - -He caught sight of Peter. "Ha! Young Oxford to see his poor old uncle! -I went to Oxford once. Humph! Got married there. A bad day's work! A bad -day's work!" - -They told him their plans. He wanted to ask Mr. Widow's permission--Mr. -Widow didn't approve of theatres. "Let him go hang," Peter said. - -"That's all very well." Ocky shook his head thoughtfully. "All very -well! But he may let me go hang one fine morning. What then?" - -It was quite evident that Ocky was losing his pluck. He would have -forgotten his spats and would have forgotten to twirl his mustaches, if -Glory hadn't been at hand to make him jaunty. - -They popped him into a hansom and whirled him off to dinner at the -Trocadero. He sat between them, holding Glory's hand and blinking at the -glaring shops; he was more accustomed to darkness. At the entrance to -the restaurant he clutched at Peter, "I don't belong here, old chap." - -"Nonsense. Glory and I----" - -All through dinner Peter told his uncle what he and Glory were going to -do for him. By-and-bye he, Peter, would have money. When he had money, -he would buy a little house in the country. Ocky should live there with -Glory, and he, Peter, between the intervals of making more money, would -run down and visit them. It seemed almost true, almost possible, in -that brilliant room where the corks flew out of bottles and the music -clashed. It almost seemed that the world was generous--that it would -give him another chance. He gazed from the eager boy, so keen to -convince him of happiness, to the flower-face of his stepdaughter, which -nodded and nodded, insisting, "Yes. Yes. Yes," to Peter's optimism. -He asked if he might have whisky. When he got it, he tried to deceive -himself and others as to the quantity he was drinking. - -"God bless my soul! I've made my whisky too strong." Then he would -dilute it. "God bless my soul! I've made my whisky too weak." The -alcohol whipped up his courage. Of course there were good times coming. -Peter would see to it; he never promised anything that he didn't -accomplish. Then, again he caught sight of the two young faces--but what -had Peter to do with Glory? - -They stepped into another hansom. Piccadilly Circus was a blazing jewel. -Streets were gun-metal, washed with liquid gold. People were silver -flowers. Peter would do it. - -The curtain went up. He was a child again. He laughed at everything. How -long was it since he had laughed? He kept nudging his companions, afraid -lest they should miss the jokes. They were just the kind of jokes he -used to make--Mr. Widow was his only audience now. You couldn't expect -a murderer to be a humorist--if he were a humorist he wouldn't be a -murderer. - -He had laughed rather louder than usual. Someone turned round in the row -just in front. A girl! He looked more closely. She was staring at him. -Her companion followed her eyes, seemed surprised, and nodded to Peter -and Glory. All through the evening the strange man kept turning round -stealthily--the girl, without seeming to do so, was trying to prevent -him. - -Next day, when Glory returned from Topbury to Southgate, Riska met her -with clenched hands. - -"Now you've done it." - -"Done what?" - -"Lost him for me. He's begun to suspect. He wants to know who was that -shabby man with you and Peter. Of course I daren't tell him. He says I -look like him. You stupid! And last night I'm sure he was going to have -proposed to me.--And Ocky isn't even your father." - -It was all too true; Bonaparte Triggers had done with Riska. He sent -her a formal letter, breaking off everything. "My father," he wrote, -"happens to know Lawyer Wagstaff, your father's old employer. At first -I wouldn't believe that you were his daughter. I wouldn't have minded, -anyhow; I was in love with you. But you and your mother lied to me about -it. I could never trust you after that. The moment I saw that man with -your cousin and Glory I knew the truth." - -So ended Riska's first attempt to plunge from the raft. She clambered -back, a little damp, but with her heart intact. Glory was blamed for -the catastrophe; in future she had to be more careful in meeting Ocky. -Barrington, after a stormy interview with Jehane in which Peter was -accused, shook his head, "Riska! Humph! Poor kiddy, I'm sorry. She's -ripe fruit, Peter. Mark my words; if she isn't plucked, she'll fall to -the ground." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII--THE RACE - - -"Get ready. Paddle." - -Peter's oar gripped the water. The seven men behind him swung out. For -a second he raised his eyes from the boat, searching the faces on the -barge. She wasn't there--Cherry. The Faun Man had promised to bring her -up to Oxford for the last great race of Eights' Week. Perhaps she had -refused to come. Perhaps the train was late. Perhaps----. - -On the roof of the barge he could see Kay, with Harry standing beside -her. His mother and father, most manifestly proud of him, were there. -Glory--yes, she was waving. But they--all of them together--they counted -for so little because Cherry was absent. It was his great week. He was -proving himself a man--more than a dreamer. Every night his eight had -made its bump. People said that it was the stroke-oar who had done it. -He so wanted her to see him. He was going to stroke Calvary to the head -of the river. It was the last night; only Christ Church was in front. - -All along the bank to his right lay college barges, gay and animated -with girls and flowers. Behind still trees of the meadows, beneath -which cattle grazed, spires and domes soared dreamily against the deep -horizon. - -The others were working as one man behind him. The eight jumped forward -as though it were a live thing. How fit he felt! - -Punts and canoes blocked their passage. - -"Look ahead, sir. Look ahead." - -They had to halt. From the tow-path men shouted encouragement, -"Calvary--up! Up!" - -They rang dinner-bells, banged gongs, twirled rattles, fired pistols. It -was deafening, maddening. - -Other eights passed them, shooting down to Iffley to the lower stations. -Some were crews they had defeated on previous evenings. Then came Christ -Church, broad shoulders and tanned bodies swinging. They stopped rowing, -and rattled their oars in salute and challenge. - -The red-headed cox, glancing at the rivals, leant forward and spoke -to Peter. "They're top o' their training. It'll be a long chase. We'll -catch 'em by the barges." - -Peter nodded and squared his mouth doggedly. "By the barges, if not -earlier. Anyway, we'll catch 'em." - -Would she be there? Inside his head he was trying to picture her. How -would she be dressed? A year since they met! So long! - -They came to their station. Astern lay the other boats, trailed out one -behind the other, pointing their noses upstream for the start. He turned -to look ahead; the Christ Church crew were pulling off their scarfs. - -Hardcastle, who was rowing at seven, leant forward and touched him, "For -God's sake, keep it long and steady." - -A deep boom, muttering and ominous. The minute-gun had sounded. Someone -on the bank, with a watch in his hand, commenced counting off -the seconds. College-bargemen eased the eight out into the river, -maneuvering with poles to get her prow at the right angle, so no time -might be lost. - -"Are you ready?" - -The counting stopped. Peter brought his slide forward, bracing his feet -against the stretcher. A pause, still as death. The last gun sounded. - -"Row, you devils. Pick it up. Six, you're late. Steady coming forward. -Up, Calvary! Up!" - -The blades whipped the water, the river boiled past them. From the bank -came the clamor of running feet and shouting, as if an asylum had been -freed for a holiday. - -Peter saw nothing--only the red fiend of a cox, his mouth wide open, -screaming shrill oaths of rebuke or encouragement. He had stopped -cursing. He was giving them tens. - -Peter quickened his stroke. From one to ten, over and over, the counting -went on. Would it never stop? He ached in every muscle. Could he never -slack off? He clenched his teeth and spurted. The boat responded. - -"Back him up," yelled the cox; "you're gaining." - -Peter wondered whether they were; he longed to turn and see for himself. - -"Now, then, for all you're worth. Well rowed, Calvary. Well rowed, -indeed. Stick to it." - -Left to itself, his body would have crumbled. His back felt broken. -There was a buzzing in his head. Something stronger than will power--a -corporate spirit of honor, which the men behind him shared--kept him -going. - -"Give her ten." - -The cox was counting again. His face was as flaming as his hair with -excitement; he was swinging with the oarsmen, as if the jerking of his -slight body could make the boat travel faster. - -"Going up, Calvary. Half a length." - -Ha! The cox wasn't lying now. Peter could feel the wash of the eight -they were pursuing. They were creeping up slowly. From the bank his name -was thundered. - -"Barrington. Barrington. Well rowed, Barrington. Row like hell." - -By jingo, he would! He'd show 'em! There shouldn't be anything left of -him. And Cherry----. - -Everything was growing dark. Sometimes the mist before his eyes parted; -he caught glimpses of the flaring head of the cox. Sometimes he could -see nothing, and heard only the endless shouting, bidding him row -faster, always faster. Where were they? Had the race only just -commenced? He seemed to have been struggling for hours. The dread grew -up in him that he would never reach the end. He would collapse. He----. -But still he went on. - -Women's voices! They must be passing the barges, racing down the last of -the course. When his sight cleared, he saw them--steep banks of women's -faces, shining and nodding, and fluttering into the far distance. - -Christ Church! By Jove, they must be nearly on them. He could feel the -turmoil of the beaten water. They were rowing Christ Church down. - -"Give her ten." - -The cox was counting hysterically. Peter tried to pick it up. He -couldn't. He knew it. He was going to pieces. His stroke was flagging. -And then----. What was that? - -"Peter. Peter. Peter." - -As the eight fled by he heard it--a girl's voice frantically urging him. -And a man's--he heard that, too. "Go it, Peter. Well rowed, old top." - -Only the Faun Man would have called him old top. She was there to see -him! His last strength returned. He pulled himself together and swung -out. The oars behind him were getting in late; he could feel the boat -dragging. It didn't matter; he'd take her to the head of the river, if -he were the only man left rowing. - -Bedlam was all about him. The cox bent forward, shrieking at him, trying -to make himself heard above the racket. He caught what he said: "Only a -foot now." - -What was happening? A jerk! The boat paused and shuddered. It had -touched something. Then again it started forward. Someone was telling -him to stop. He wouldn't stop; they'd wanted him to go on before. He -was going to make sure. By his side he saw something like a broken bird, -trailing in the water. Then he saw eight men, fallen forward, spent and -panting. People were cheering. On the bank they were dancing. The cox -laid his hands on his oar to stay him. He was grinning from ear to ear. -"You silly devil! Leave off!" - -It dawned on him. They'd made their bump--gone ahead of the river. And -she'd been there to watch him! - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII--A NIGHT OF IT - -The college and its guests were assembled. Peter and his eight, with -members of the crews they had defeated, were seated at the high table. -The bump-supper was in progress. Scarcely anyone was absolutely sober. -For the first time in history Calvary had gone up seven places and had -finished head of the river. - -Stoop-shouldered dons, men who held themselves aloof with a scholar's -shyness, broke their rule to-night and hobnobbed with undergraduates. -The dim old college hall was-uproarious with strong laughter and bass -voices. The animal splendor of youth, the rage of life, as seen that -afternoon on the river, had lured them away from cramped texts and -grievous truths contained in books--had opened their eyes to a more -vigorous and primitive conception of living. - -A German Rhodes scholar, seated next to the college chaplain, was trying -to teach him that scandalous libel against all parsons, The Ballad of -The Parson's Cow. The chaplain, who on more formal occasions would have -felt insulted, was doing his eager best to pick up the words and tune. -He kept assuring the German Rhodes scholar of his immense gratitude. -He compared The Ballad of The Parson's Cow to Piers the Ploughman, and -affected to regard it as a literary pearl of great price. - -Somewhere in the distance, behind clouds of tobacco smoke, Harry was -singing his latest. Dons said "Shish!" gazing round with half-hearted -severity. Nobody paid them much attention. Topsy-turvydom ruled; -discipline was at an end. Behind the clouds of tobacco smoke the -irrepressible voice sang on; other voices swelled the volume, taking up -the chorus: - - "Ever been born on a Friday? - - What, never been born on a Friday! - - What, never been born on a Friday yet, - - When your mother wasn't at home!" - -Even Professor Benares Usk, the greatest Homeric scholar in Europe, -let himself go under the influence of wine. His bald egg-shaped head -perspired profusely. "I don't mind telling you," he kept saying. He was -one of those self-important pedants who never minded telling anybody. He -had made a corner in one fragment of human knowledge; consequently the -things which he didn't mind telling people would fill a library. Just -at present he was explaining to Roy Hardcastle, with a sugar bowl for a -galley and forks for oars, the technique of Greek rowing as revealed in -Homer. Hardcastle repeatedly broke in on him with skittish references -to Olympian immoralities. He propounded the theory to the Professor that -the Iliad, in its day, had been no more than a bad boy's book of frisky -stories. The Professor was sufficiently not himself to contest the -theory warmly. - -Flushed faces, eager eyes, gusty laughter! From painted canvases, on -paneled walls, grim founders looked down on bacchanalia, some of them -sourly, others indifferently, and yet others with envy because, since -becoming angels, they could no longer enjoy a glass of port. - -The air was getting stifling. Speeches were commencing. The grave old -warden was turning to Peter, and addressing him. Hardly a word was -audible above the cheers. Hardcastle, as captain of the rowing, rose to -reply. - -Outside, behind stained-glass windows, the cool dusk of summer drifted -noiselessly. Creepers rustled against crumbling masonry. The faint sweet -smell of bean fields, far-blown from wide hillsides, met the wistful -fragrance of imprisoned rose-gardens; they wandered together like -ghostly lovers through the shadowy quiet of the quads. - -Peter wanted to be out there--wanted to go to her. For the first time -in a year he had seen her. Strange how little he had forgotten! He -half-closed his eyes, picturing and remembering: her nun-like trick of -carrying her hands against her breast; the way her voice slurred; her -meek appearance of gay piety, which the red defiance of her mouth and -the challenge of her eyes denied. She was a girl-woman, borrowing -the attitudes of sophistication, yet exquisitely young and poignantly -ignorant of the world. - -He hadn't been able to say much to her--only, "I heard you, Cherry"; to -which she, shy in the presence of his parents, had replied, "I'm glad. I -was afraid--so afraid that you wouldn't win the race." - -They had walked up through the meadows, all of them together; he, with -his mother and Kay on either side; she, between his father and the -Faun Man. He had heard her tripping footsteps following behind. At the -college-gate he had said, "I'll see you again"; and she, "Perhaps." -No more than that. He had not dared to appoint a place of meeting; his -parents didn't know--they wouldn't understand. Then he had had to run -off to change for dinner. - -She might be leaving early to-morrow. Did she care for him? She had -seemed more sorry for him, more as though she were trying to be kind to -him than in love with him. She was non-committal, elusive. But she was -in Oxford to-night. Where, and with whom? - -All down the long hall they were pushing back their chairs, struggling -up from tables and tumbling out into the cool twilight. Men were -hurrying to their rooms to put on their oldest clothes; there was going -to be a "rag." A piano struck up; then ceased suddenly. A groping of -feet in the darkness of a wooden staircase! From one of the doorways -a jostling, shouting crowd emerged. The piano was set down in the open -quad; a chair was tossed out of a window. Harry took his seat at the -key-board and commenced jingling over the air of, "What, never been born -on a Friday yet, when your mother wasn't at home!" Several of the crew -seized Peter and hoisted him on to the top of the piano. He stood there -an unwilling statue on a burlesque pedestal. They joined hands and -danced about him in a circle. Then came the old wander-song of his -childhood, bringing thoughts of her and of the Happy Cottage, "I've been -shipwrecked off Patagonia." Harry shouldn't have played that. - -A new diversion! They took him by the arms and ran him away: others -followed, staggering under the weight of the piano. Through a passage a -red glow grew up. In a neighboring quad a bon-fire had been kindled. -It wasn't high enough, broad enough, big enough--wasn't worthy of the -occasion. From windows, two and three stories up, men leant out and -hurled down furniture. Very often it wasn't their furniture. Who cared? -The sky rained desks, and chairs, and tables. - -Singing and shouting everywhere! An impromptu loving-cup was drunk, -composed of anything alcoholic that came handy. - -"Barrington! Hardcastle! Barrington!" - -He and Hardcastle had to make speeches to one another. - -A rocket soared into the night and burst among the stars. A rocket from -a neighboring college answered the challenge. Soon the sky became a -target against which Oxford aimed burning arrows. - -A dispute arose as to the details of the last great race. Hardcastle -insisted that there was nothing for it but to row it all afresh. With -grave solemnity the crewmen, as though they were taking their places in -an eight, were made to seat themselves in a line along the path. A rival -crew, selected from among the defeated oarsmen of other colleges, was -arranged ahead of them. Peter took his place at stroke in this sham -rehearsal of an event accomplished. A pistol was fired; with empty -hands, the eightsmen went through all the motions of rowing, to an -accompaniment of yells of encouragement. - -It must be nearly twelve--the out-of-college men and guests were -departing. Peter wished he could follow them. Good-byes were being said -with exaggerated fervor, as if long journeys were in prospect. The last -of them had seized his gown and run. The porter was locking the gate of -the lodge. Big Tom boomed the hour. The college was closed; there would -be no more knocking in or out until to-morrow. And to-morrow she might -be gone. - -Peter caught Harry by the arm and led him aside. "Where's she staying?" - -"Who?" - -"Cherry, of course." - -Harry laughed slyly. "Cherry, of course! Who else? Staying! Lorie's -taken a room for her in Bath Place. You know--between Holywell and Hell -Passage." - -"Which room?" - -Harry became serious. "Look here, old chap, what d'you want to know -for?" - -"Because i'm going to her." - -"Oh, are you?" - -"Yes, to-night. You know what she is--may be gone before breakfast." - -"Here, you'd better come to bed." - -As they strolled across quad to Peter's room, Harry asked him, "Whatever -put such a mad scheme into your head? You can't get out of college--the -gate's shut. If you did and got caught, you'd be sent down for a -certainty." - -When the door had closed behind them, Peter didn't sit down--he didn't -start to undress. He went to the window, threw it open and leant out. -"I'm going, Harry, and I shan't get caught, either. You've got to help. -It's a twenty-foot drop. If I knot my sheets together they'll be long -enough. You wait here till I come back and haul me up." - -Harry didn't approve of it; but he was the mouth-organ boy and the -adventure was in keeping with the night. The rope of sheets was flung -out. For a moment Peter balanced on the sill; then he slipped down, -hand-over-hand, into the blackness. - -"All right." - -The rope was withdrawn. - -The street was intensely quiet--empty of all sound. Houses slept. Not a -shadow stirred. A cool breeze blew upon his forehead. He had the world -to himself. He felt immensely young and exultant. - -He began to run stealthily and on tiptoe, keeping close to the wall. -There was never any telling--someone might come round a corner suddenly -and take him unawares. - -As he passed Professor Usk's house, he thought for a moment of Glory. In -one of those prim rooms she was lying safe in bed--she and Riska. He'd -seen Riska laughing with Hardcastle on the barge. Who the dickens had -introduced her? She was quite capable of having introduced herself. -Then he forgot everything and everyone but Cherry and the purpose of his -errand. - -He came out on to High Street, flowing in a slow curve past churches -and ancient doorways. As he went by All Souls he had the sense of still -gardens and cool turf, lying steeped in moonlight. He wanted to laugh, -wanted to shout to the silent city that he would soon be talking with -her. - -He turned down by Hell Passage and dived under an archway into a little -court, where a lamp smoldered in an iron bracket and echoes played -hide-and-seek behind his footsteps. There was an uncared for garden. In -one corner stood a public house, with all the lights extinguished. Along -one side, hugging the wall of a low-roofed house, ran the narrow path. -He stepped back and looked up at the windows; that must be hers to the -left. - -He whispered her name, "Cherry. Cherry." - -Was she awake? He fancied that he heard her stir. He picked up some -earth and threw it against the panes. He had startled her; something -creaked, as though she sat up sharply. - -"Don't be frightened. It's Peter," he called beneath his breath. - -She was coming. Soon she would look out. He saw her, leaning down on -him, white clad, with her dark hair falling all about her face. - -"I couldn't stop away any longer, Cherry. I had to come to you. I want -you to promise that you'll be here to-morrow. When I asked you before -you only said, 'Perhaps.' Only perhaps, Cherry, after a year of waiting! -Promise me, 'Yes.'" - -Was she laughing? Was she angry? He was whispering to her again. "They'd -locked all the doors. I was afraid that I'd never get out. I climbed -down, when everyone was in bed. I had to come to you." - -"Oh, Peter, Peter!" She wasn't cross with him. She was laughing. "You're -so persistent. It took you to do that." - -Silence again. - -"But promise," he urged. He wished that he might see her clearly. They -had called her Cherry because her lips were red. "But promise. Won't you -say 'Yes'?" - -Her answer came so that he could scarcely hear it. "If I promise, will -you go now?" - -He nodded like a child, to give emphasis. - -"Then yes--but only if you go now at once." - -She waited to see him start. He turned away reluctantly. As he entered -the shadow of the archway he thought she kissed her hand. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX--ON THE RIVER - -But had she? Had she kissed her hand? And, if she had, did it mean -anything? - -Harry, having hauled him back into college, had crept away sleepily, -thankful that his watch was ended. Peter sat on by the open window, -imagining and questioning. The wide white moon rode quietly at anchor; -dusk-gray roofs were vague as an ocean bed. Not a sound. Nothing -stirred. - -But yes. Behind stone walls of a college garden a recluse nightingale -commenced to warble: little notes at first, as though a child threw back -the counterpane of darkness and muttered to itself; then a cry--a -full, clear stream of song that fell like silver showered through the -tree-tops. Peter closed his eyes; imprisoned love was speaking with -its throat outstretched. In the shadows a heart was pouring forth its -yearning; the world slept. Was love always like that--a bird in a hidden -garden, with none to listen, setting dreams to music? - -A sash was raised. It was across the street and further down. The sound -came from the Professor's house. It might be Glory. Odd, if they two -were keeping watch together! Should he call to her? If he remembered, -he would question her to-morrow. His eyes grew dusty; he folded his arms -beneath his head. - -Someone entered. Morning! He was drenched with sunlight. A voice -addressed him discreetly, apologetically, "Overdoin' it a bit last -night? Shall I pour out your bath, sir? It'll pull you together." - -Peter laughed gaily, then a little shamefully when he realized what -the scout had meant. "I'm having brekker out. My bath--no, it doesn't -matter." - -Picking up a towel, he ran down to the barges through the glistening -meadows. What a splendid world, dazzling and dew-wet! Stripping, he -dived into the river. Shaking his head like a dog as he rose to the -surface, he drifted down stream, turned, fought his way back and climbed -out glowing. A day with her! She had promised. - -He had to breakfast with the Professor--all his family were to be there; -and, after that------. His father might have plans. It would be ages -before he could be alone with her. The clocks of the city were striking -eight--big and little voices together. Could he manage it? There was -time for just a word. - -He was panting when he came to Hell Passage and entered the courtyard. -Her window was wide. He called to her. She didn't answer. He plucked a -rose and tossed it in the air; it landed on her window-ledge. When she -wakened she might find it and guess that he had been there. - -Professor Usk was in his moral mood that morning. "A great pity--a great -pity that young Oxford drinks to excess."--He was trying to impress his -wife with his own extreme temperance. - -Hardcastle was a guest. Riska was seated next to him; beneath the -surface of what others were saying, they carried on a softly spoken -conversation, private to themselves. Riska's piquant face was alive with -interest. Every now and then she laughed and clapped her hands, shaking -her head incredulously, stooping her shoulders and glancing sideways at -Hardcastle. They might have been old friends. Her color came and went -when she found herself observed; behind her apparent artlessness there -lay a calm and determined self-possession. - -Peter took his place between Kay and his mother. "Happy Peterkins," Kay -whispered; "your face is--is a lamp." She squeezed his hand. - -He was silent and excited, impatient for the next two hours to end. -Sometimes his thoughts were in the sun-swept street, hurrying to a -little courtyard, where a window stood wide and the echoes of Oxford ran -together. Sometimes his attention was caught by a remark, as when the -Professor turned to his wife, who had just sat down, and said, "Oh, -Agnes, while you're up----" and she replied, "But, Benares, I'm not up." - -His mother watched him, noticing the gladness in his eyes. She wondered -what it meant. Glory, lifting her face to his, gazed at him furtively -from beneath her lashes. - -They had gone upstairs to the room from which Jehane had looked down on -Barrington. Peter had said, "There was a nightingale singing. Did any of -you hear it?" and Glory was about to answer, when the prancing of hoofs -drew them crowding to the window--it was a coach setting out for London. -On the box sat the Faun Man, reining in and steadying the chestnut -four-in-hand. The roof was a garden--river-hats and girls' faces; every -seat was taken. As they came clattering up the cobbled street, the horn -was blowing merrily. Peter took one glance, and was racing down the -stairs. The watchers at the window saw him dash out, sprint hatless to -the corner and vanish. - -The Faun Man pulled up. "Hulloa, Peter! Searched for you all over -college. They said you'd gone out to brekker. Want to come with us? -We'll find room for you." - -Peter wasn't looking at the Faun Man, nor at Harry, who sat behind -him. He wasn't looking at the golden woman, who was trying to catch his -attention. He was looking at Cherry. Her place was on the box, to the -right of the Faun Man. She returned his gaze with laughter at first; -then, because he didn't laugh back, she turned away her head. And -Peter--he was puzzled and hurt. Why was she escaping? She had promised. -And why, when she was escaping, did she wear his rose against her -breast? - -"Going to London!" he said slowly. "No, I can't join you." - -He swung round and was walking away. Harry called after him, "We're not -going to London, you chump. We're only going as far as High Wycombe to -look at a house. Climb aboard, and buck up." - -The golden woman added her persuasion. "For my sake, Peter. It's -Tree-Tops--the house we're going to look at. Sounds almost as fine as -the Happy Cottage, doesn't it? Lorie's going to live there, perhaps." - -Harry thought he had spotted the trouble. "We'll be in Oxford before -nightfall--catch a train back." - -Peter answered shortly. "Sorry. I can't. I've got my people with me." - -He waved his hand and stepped from the road to the pavement. - -Cherry had said nothing. She let her clear eyes rest on him. The horses -were getting restive with standing and the passengers impatient. The -Faun Man shook out his whip; the leaders jumped forward. "Well, if you -can't, you can't," he said. - -Suddenly Cherry spoke. "I'm not going. Please let me down." - -The Faun Man whistled. "So that's the way the wind's blowing!" - -The ladder was brought out. Peter helped her to descend. - -"Good-bye and good Luck." - -The horn sounded. As the coach rolled on its way, every head was turned, -looking back. It grew dim in the dust of its journey. They were left -alone in the sharp sunlight, embarrassed in each other's presence. - -It was she who spoke first, in a little caressing voice which mocked its -own sincerity. "That wasn't nice of me. And yet I didn't intend----. I -didn't really, Peter--not at first. I thought--we all thought you'd be -one of the party. And then--because I wanted to go, I forgot all about -you. D'you forgive me?" - -"If you wanted to go, I'm----." - -She broke in on him. "There, instead of making things better, I've made -them worse. I shouldn't have come to Oxford--I've hurt you." - -Shouldn't have come to Oxford! She was threatening to go out of his life -again, just when he'd refound her. "Cherry," he said, "I'm willing to be -hurt by you every day, if only I may see you. Don't you remember? Can't -you understand? I'd rather be hurt by you than loved by any other woman -in the world." - -"I know that." - -In silence they walked back to the Professor's house. At the corner of -the street, before they came into view, he asked, "D'you mind spending -the morning with my people? They're returning to London this afternoon; -then we can be by ourselves." - -The faces were still at the window, looking out; he was very conscious -of the curiosity he aroused. When he had climbed the stairs and -entered the room, he explained, as though it were the most natural of -happenings, "I've brought Cherry with me." - -His father relieved the awkwardness by asking, "What are we going to -do?" - -"Why not the river?" Hardcastle suggested. - -They set out in two punts from the barges. The Professor and his wife -had excused themselves, saying that they had to work. Hardcastle -took charge of Glory and Riska; Peter of the rest. They turned up the -Cherwell, past the Botanical Gardens, through Mesopotamia, coming at -last to Parsons' Pleasure. The sound of bathers on the other side of -the island warned them. The ladies got out, while the men drew the punts -across the rollers, taking them round to the farther landing. Barrington -accompanied Nan by the footpath. - -Directly they were alone she turned to him, "Is there anything between -them?" - -"Between who?" - -"That girl and Peter?" - -Her husband laughed and held her arm more firmly, "Between her and -Peter! What an idea! Match-maker!" - -Nan leant against him, as if seeking his protection. "Match-maker? -Not that. I dread it. I want to keep them with us, Kay and Peter, -always--always." - -Tears were in her eyes. He remembered; once before in this place he had -seen her like that. "Have you forgotten?" he said. "It was here that it -all began--everything between us. It was after we three had met--a rainy -day, with the sun coming out. I left you to take the punt round the -island, and Jehane said something behind my back--something that brought -tears. It was when I saw you crying, Pepperminta, that I loved you." - -She uttered the wonderfully obvious, linking up his memory with the -present. "We little thought of Peter then." - -By the Parks the river was dense with row-boats, punts and Canaders. -Girls lay back on cushions under sunshades--sweethearts and sisters. -Men, in college colors and flannels, shouted to one another, "Look -ahead, sir." Here and there a Blue showed up or a Leander, occasioning -respect and whispered explanations. The great men of the undergraduate -world were pointed out. Peter was recognized as the stroke-oar of -Calvary. He didn't notice the heads that were turned--didn't care. His -eyes rested on Cherry as often as they dared. Before his parents she -treated him casually. There were times when he spoke to her and she paid -him no attention. He was unhappy--did she dislike him? Then, as though -she felt that she was overdoing it, a secret flash would pass between -them and his fears were quieted. - -"Don't forget," his father reminded him; "we leave for London this -afternoon." - -Hardcastle, with his lighter burden, was pushing on ahead. Peter looked -at his watch, "It's almost one now. And I don't like to----." He stooped -to whisper to his father; then straightened up. "Cherry knows why. I -don't like to let Hardcastle out of my sight--not with Riska. He isn't -the sort of man----. We'll have to follow. If I can't punt you back, you -can lunch at the inn at Marston Ferry and catch a tram. That'll get you -to the station in time." - -To Nan that day was like the repetition of an old story. Once -before--how long ago was it?--once before she had drifted up this quiet -stream, between gnarled trees and whispering rushes, to the gray inn -where a crisis in her life had threatened. She recalled Jehane, dark -and tragic, with trailing hands. She could see Billy, gay and careless. -Peter was like him, and Kay was very much what she had been then.--Her -eyes fell on Cherry; she examined her slightness, the frailty of her -throat, her astonishing gray eyes looking out of a face of pallor, the -delicate mist of hair sweeping across the whiteness of her forehead. Not -the girl for Peter! There wasn't a girl good enough. And then she tried -to believe that she was foolish. It hadn't happened to him yet--not yet. - -And the parting--it was the same as long ago. Everything was repeating -itself. She and Kay and Billy stepped aboard the ferry. At the last -moment Glory said she would accompany them. The man pulled on the -rope; the ferry lumbered out into the stream. Peter and the girl, and -Hardcastle and Riska were waving to them from the bank. Nan had never -thought that she could feel so cruel toward anybody. As she crossed the -meadows she looked back. Peter and the girl, pigmy figures now, were -still waving. Jehane and Billy had waved to her like that, standing near -together. The old pang! And then she looked at Glory, walking quietly -with her head bent, never turning. In a flash little memories, trifles -in themselves, sprang up and became significant, each one pointing in -the same direction. She stole forward and took Glory's hand. - -Hardcastle and Riska had vanished; their punt was gone from the landing. -Upstream the river was lost to view in a slow bend. No one was in sight. -An atmosphere of secrecy had settled down. From arbors of the inn and -tufted places along the banks came the indistinct murmur of voices. The -country looked uninhabited, stretching away for miles in squares and -triangles of meadows, each one different in coloring from the next. -Through the green panorama of trees and hedges the winding of the river -was traceable by the flowered freshness that it left. Overhead, casting -fantastic shadows, drifted white unwieldy clouds. - -Peter helped her in, arranged the cushions for her and pushed off from -the bank. He had expected to say so much to her to-day; now the silence -was more happy. The day was running out; the veiled radiance of a -summer's evening crept across the landscape. A little breeze sprang up, -blew through his hair and stooped the reeds to the water's surface. She -lay curled up and contented, humming to herself; he could just hear -her voice above the splash of his pole and the lapping of the river. -Sometimes she would raise her eyes and smile down the distance of the -punt that separated them. When he wasn't looking she gazed more intently -at his tall, flanneled figure, noticing his tanned arms, with the -sleeves rolled back, and the upright litheness of his body. Did his eyes -catch hers unexpectedly, she veiled them in inscrutable innocence. The -waterway was narrowing, becoming choked with weeds and bulrushes. - -"Your mother," he stopped punting and turned at the sound of her high, -clear voice; "your mother didn't like me. You may tell her that she -needn't be frightened." - -What did she mean? She spoke gently, without resentment. "Not like you, -little Cherry! No one could help----." - -"Oh, yes. She didn't like me." She raised herself on her elbow. "And she -was right. Won't you please stop caring for me; then we can be friends. -She saw what I told you from the first: that I'm not your sort--quite -different, Peter." - -He swung the nose of the punt round, so that it crunched into a tall, -green wilderness that sprang up and closed behind their passage. He laid -aside the pole and looked down the length of their refuge, regarding her -intently. - -"Stop caring for you!" He laughed shortly. "As though I could--the -matter's out of my hands. I never had a chance not to care for you. If -I didn't believe that a day was coming when--when you'd be kinder to me, -Cherry, I'd not want to go any further--I mean with living. I'm not good -at saying things in words; you're everything to me." - -She avoided his glance, turning her head away so that he watched her -side-face. She spoke in a low voice, with concentrated vehemence. "It's -terrible to feel like that. People are sure to disappoint you. You've -no right to allow yourself to depend on someone else for all your -happiness." - -"But if I don't mind? If I'm willing to take my chance?" - -She lifted up her face appealingly. "Then it isn't fair to me, Peter. -You force me to become responsible. It isn't that I don't like you. I -admire you; that isn't love. You don't know your own mind yet; there are -heaps and heaps of better girls.--And then, there's Lorie. I tell you, -Peter, I'm not your sort--please, please stop caring for me." - -The gladness died in him. It was as though the lamps behind his eyes -had guttered out. His voice trembled. His face had grown lean and sad. -"Don't say that, Cherry--it keeps us separate. You don't love me now, -perhaps; but one day you'll need me. I'm waiting till you need me, and -then----. You are my sort, Cherry; but I'll never be good enough for -you. All the time I'm trying, ever since I've known you I've been trying -to become better. It's like yesterday: whenever I'm losing the race and -getting slack I hear you calling. Then I say to myself, 'I have to be -fine for her.' I think you must be my sort, Cherry, if you can do that. -Love was meant not to make people perfect, but to make them believe -always in the best. If you do that for me, Cherry----." - -She put her hands before her eyes and slipped back against the cushions, -as though she had become very tired. He stole down the punt noiselessly -and knelt beside her. - -"Don't you like to be loved, Cherry?" - -She spoke, still with her eyes covered. "Of course I like to be loved. -Every girl likes to know that some man cares for her." - -"Then, why----?" - -Her voice came wearily. "Because it would be selfish, when I don't -intend to marry you. But--but I wish I didn't have to keep away from -you." - -He leant forward and kissed her cool cheek. "Then don't keep away from -me." - -"You mustn't kiss me, Peter. If only you wouldn't kiss me directly we're -alone----. Why do you?" - -Why did he? That she could ask such a question told him so much. She was -like a beautiful statue; he could stir no life in her. - -"Everybody's done it," he said simply; "everybody since the world began. -You can't help it when you love anybody." - -She withdrew her hand from her eyes and looked at him wonderingly. How -quickly she could change from sad to gay! All of a sudden, from seeming -listless and spent, she had become radiant and virile. Her face was -tender and wore an amused expression. She stooped toward him and touched -him. "Still a little boy! For the first time I feel older than you--so -much older. What good times you and I could have if only we didn't think -ahead." - -He slipped his arm about her. "Dear little Cherry, you want to be loved, -but you won't believe that I'm your man. You won't let yourself love -me--that's all that's the matter. When I kiss you you turn your face -away, as if you were only enduring me." - -She thrust her face forward with sweet demureness. "Try again.--I didn't -turn away then.--You're so persistent, Peter. No, that's'enough." - -He pushed out from the rushes. The sun was tumbling into bed, spreading -his gold hair on the pillow and dragging his scarlet bed-clothes over -him. The river was dull as tarnished silver, but it flared crimson -where, in its windings, the west smote it. - -"And to-morrow, Cherry?" - -"To-morrow! Does it ever come? I'm leaving to-night. I promised you -to-day; you've had it." - -"But I want to-morrow as well." - -She shook her head, laughing. "If I gave you to-morrow, you'd ask for -the day after. You're a greedy little boy, never contented." - -"But why must you go?" he asked. - -"Because I'm expected. Lorie's thinking of buying a place called -Tree-Tops; it's at Curious Corner, near a village called Whitesheaves. -He's heard all kinds of splendid things about it. It's only thirty miles -from Oxford, so----." - -"So we'll meet quite often?" - -She crouched her face against her shoulder and kept him waiting. "If you -don't try to kiss me," she said. And then, seeing that he was going to -be melancholy, "You never know your luck. Cheer up!" - -At the barges, when they had stepped out, Peter remembered. He turned to -the barge-man, "Mr. Hardcastle back? I don't see his punt." - -"'Asn't returned as I know of, Mr. Barrington. 'Ad a lady with 'im, -didn't 'e? Any message for 'im when 'e comes?" - -Peter shook his head. It was growing dusk. Walking up through the -meadows, Cherry let him take her hand. - -When they had fetched her luggage from the house in the little -courtyard, and he had seen her off at the station, he hurried down to -Folly Bridge and along the tow-path. Staring across the river to the -Calvary Barge, he could see someone moving. He called. A punt put out; -when it came alongside, the man looked up through the darkness. - -"Can't take you across to-night, sir. Wouldn't be no use; the -meadow-gates is shut." - -"It's not that," said Peter; "I only wanted to find out if Mr. -Hardcastle's come back." - -The man scratched his head. "Not yet, sir. Reckon he must 'a left 'is -punt higher up--by Magdalen Bridge, perhaps." - -"Perhaps. Well, it doesn't matter." - -He strolled away thoughtfully. - - - - -CHAPTER XL--MR. GRACE GOES ON THE BUST - -Mr. Grace rose by stealth. Dawn had not yet broken. He groped his way -into his clothes in the darkness; he did not dare to light the gas. -Clutching his boots against his breast, with ridiculous caution for so -fat a man, he tiptoed down the stairs. In the passage he listened and -looked up, half expecting to see a head in curl-papers surveying him -from across the banisters. He heaved a sigh of relief. That fine bass -sound, like a trombone thrust out violently to its full length, was -his son-in-law, the ex-policeman; those flute-like notes, tremulous -and heart-stirrings were his daughter's musical contributions from -dreamland. All was well. He had not roused them. - -In the stable he stuffed up the window with a sack and lit a lamp. Cat's -Meat raised his head and winked at him--winked at him solemnly. It was -a solemn occasion--they both felt it, this setting of a daughter at -defiance, while horse and master went on the bust. - -The preliminary preparations of the past few days had awakened -suspicion. For one thing, Mr. Grace had repainted his cab: the wheels -were a bright mustard and the body was a deep blue--the color which -is usually associated with Oxford. For years--too many to count--Cat's -Meat's harness had done service, tied together with bits of rope and -string where the leather had worn out. But to-day his harness was brand -new--of a vivid tan. Yesterday, and the day before, Cat's Meat and his -master had indulged in a rest--that alone gave material for conjecture. -Grace and her ex-policeman had conjectured. What was the old boy -planning? Was he contemplating marriage? "And at his time o' life!" they -said scornfully. At any rate, they were snoring now. - -As he led Cat's Meat out, he growled in his ear, "Not a drop o' drink, -old hoss, till this here is h'ended. And then---." He smacked his lips; -the lean tail flirted across the bony haunches in assent. Mr. Grace -rubbed the nose of his friend, "Go by h'every pub till h'it's h'ended, -old pal, and then----. Understand?" - -He had harnessed up and was tying the last of the blue rosettes to Cat's -Meat's bridle, when he was startled by a window flung up. He glanced -round--the curl-papers he dreaded! - -"Now, then, father, you just come up 'ere and tell me. You just----." - -"Be blowed if h'I will." - -The curl-papers vanished; feet were coming down the stairs. Scrambling -on to his box, he jerked at the reins and lumbered out into the cold -March dusk. A shrill voice calling! She was in the stable, coming down -the street after him. What had she on, or rather what hadn't she? "My -word," he muttered, "wot a persistent hussy!" He cracked his whip. Cat's -Meat broke into a stiff-kneed gallop. - -At a cabman's shelter near Trafalgar Square he halted for breakfast. The -glory of his appearance attracted attention."'Ere comes Elijah in 'is -bloomin' chariot." - -"Wot-ho, old mustard-pot! 'Ot stuff!" - -Mr. Grace conducted himself with gravity. "I'm h'off ter the races. Got -a friend o' mine rowin'." - -"Oh, you 'ave, 'ave yer? A reg'lar Sol Joel, that's wot you are." - -He left his friends with a flourish. It was almost as though his youth -had returned--almost as though he hadn't a red nose and a daughter who -tried to convert him. He felt young and smart this blowy morning. He -didn't want to see a reflection of himself; he wanted to pretend that he -was a brisk young cabby, when cab-driving was an art and not a creeping -means of livelihood. Flower-girls were at the corners, shaking daffodils -and violets in the faces of the passing crowd. - -"By the Lord Harry----!" - -He signed to her with his whip--he felt affluent. He bought two bunches, -and leant down from his box while she pinned one in his button-hole. The -other he hid beneath the seat in Cat's Meat's nose-bag. - -"Good luck, me gal--and a 'andsome 'usband." - -"The sime ter you, old sport." - -She blew him a kiss. Ah, if he had been young! Not a bad lookin' gal! -Not 'arf! - -He turned into Deane Street and crawled through Soho, that queer Chinese -puzzle of cramped dwellings, all with fronts that look like backs. He -pulled up outside the second-hand shop and entered with his whip, tied -with blue ribbon, held out before him. - -"'Ow's tride s'mornin', Mr. Waffles? Get them 'andker-chiefs, wot -you call spats, on ter yer boots. Put a little glue on yer bloomin' -whiskers. 'Urry up.--Where are we goin'? Yer'll see presently." - -Ocky expostulated. The fear of Mr. Widow's displeasure was heavy on him. -"But what'll I tell him? How'll I explain to him?" - -"Tell 'im yer've stroked yer wife's 'ead wiv a poker. Tell 'im she's -packed up sudden for a better land. Tell 'im yer taikin' a 'oliday on -the strength of it. Tell 'im----." - -"Shish! He may hear. He's sensitive.--All right. I'll come." - -Mr. Grace had his own code of etiquette. He refused to let Ocky mount on -the box beside him. "Ain't done," he said. From the nose-bag he produced -the button-hole and presented it to his friend. "Git in," he commanded, -opening the door of his cab. Before he drove off he stooped and shouted -in at the window, "Matey, this ain't no bloomin' funeral. Wriggle a -smile on ter yer mouth. Laugh at the color of me bally keb." - -He cocked his hat to a jaunty angle and tugged on the reins, humming; - - "Bill Higgs - - Useter feed the pigs, - - Caress 'em with 'is 'obnail boots, - - Tum-tee-tum." - -He couldn't remember what came next, so he contented himself with -whistling the opening bars over and over. He felt exceedingly merry. - -Traffic seemed to be pouring all in one direction. Everyone was in high -spirits; cabbies and bus-drivers kept up a ceaseless stream of chaff. -The thud of hoofs on the wooden paving was the beat of a drum to which -London marched. Everything was moving. Overhead white clouds dashed -against sky-precipices. Window-boxes were rife with flowers. Parks and -green garden patches swam up to cheer the endless procession, stood -stationary and fluttered as it passed, then melted. Light blue and -dark blue favors showed wherever the eye rested. Newsboys climbed buses -shouting, and ran by the side of carriages, distributing their papers. -At a halt, Mr. Grace turned and shouted to Ocky, "I sye, old cock, d'yer -know where all us sports is goin'? We're goin' ter see yer nevvy.--Hi, -Cat's Meat, kum up." - -Houses grew smaller, streets more narrow and old-fashioned. Then the -river, broad and full-flowing, like a vein swollen to bursting. On the -bridges black specks swarmed like ants. Along the bank crowds stood -packed against the parapet. Bets were being offered and taken. Ceaseless -banter and laughing. Jostling. Good-natured expostulation. A hat blew -off. - -Mr. Grace drew up against the curb. From the point which he had -selected, by standing on the roof, a glimpse could be obtained of the -racing shells. He rattled his whip against the door. - -"'Ere you, Old Bright-and-Early, come h'out." - -Ocky came out--came out twirling his mustaches. He had caught the -contagion of excitement. He felt himself to be more than a spectator. -He wanted to talk in a loud voice to Mr. Grace, so that bystanders might -overhear and know that he was an important person--young Barrington's -uncle. Good heavens, half London had left its work to see just Peter, -stroking the Oxford boat against Cambridge. - -During the next two hours while they waited, they swopped Peterish -stories. "And 'e sez ter me, 'Mr. Grice,' 'e sez, 'you're my -prickcaution. I've got somethink the matter with me; 'magination they -calls it. I wants you to promise me ter taik care of 'er,' 'e sez. And -I, willin' ter h'oblige 'im, I sez--." - -Mr. Grace sprang up. "'Ulloa! Wot's this? Strike me blind, if they ain't -comin'!" - -The box-seat wasn't high enough. They scrambled on to the roof. The -crowd scrambled after them; the roof was thronged, without an inch to -spare. Cat's Meat straightened his forelegs, trying to see above the -people's heads. - -"By gosh, they're leading!" - -"No such luck. They're level." - -Eight men, crouched in a wooden groove as narrow as a pencil, with a -ninth in the stern to guide it! The pencil looked so narrow that it was -a wonder that it floated. The eight men moved as if by clock-work. Eight -more followed, a quarter of a length behind. Their colors were the dark -blue of Mr. Grace's cab. The light blues of Cambridge were ahead. - -"Oxford! Oxford! Oxford!" Mr. Grace thumped Ocky in the ribs and -bellowed, "There's Peter. See 'im?" - -As though Peter had heard, he raised the stroke from thirty-four -to thirty-six, calling on his men for a spurt. They were creeping -up--lifting their boat through the water in a splendid effort. Men swore -beneath their breath; they tiptoed and clawed at one another, utterly -selfish and careless in their wild desire to gain a clearer view of -those distant streaks of energy, which bent forward and swung back -mechanically in that gray ribbon of beaten water. They were shooting -under the bridge now, police-boats and launches spluttering, hooting and -following. The crowd swayed, broke and ran. Men leapt down from -lamp-posts and points of vantage. - -Something happened. Mr. Grace was pushed from behind--pushed off the -roof of his own cab. He picked himself up indignantly from the pavement -and tried to clamber back. It mightn't have been his cab--it was -territory invaded and held by intruders."'Ere you! Git orf of it." - -He laid about him with his whip and clutched at coattails. Someone -hit him on the mouth. He hit back. A policeman came up. No time for -explaining. He was angry enough to fight the whole world. What was Peter -doing? - -"Leggo o' me. It's me own keb. A free country, indeed! 'Ere you, come -orf of it." - -He battled his way to the box. For one moment he saw two disappearing -specks, and then----. A crack! A man was waist-deep in woodwork. The -invaders jumped down to save themselves. The policeman hopped into the -cab and levered the legs back. - -Mr. Grace was purple. "Pushed me orf me keb, that's wot they did. And -now I arsks yer ter h'inspeck that roof. 'E wuz goin' to arrest me. -Garn, puddin' face. Yer daren't." - -"Move along. Move along, me man." - -There was nothing for it. Mr. Grace picked up the reins. "Puddin' face," -he flung back across his shoulder. "Yes, h'it's you I'm meamn'. Puddin' -face--yer bally cop." - -It was only when he had turned a corner and climbed down to examine the -damage, that he realized that he had lost Mr. Waffles. - -He trundled back to London--had got as far as Hyde Park Corner, when a -yelling boy rushed by him with a sheaf of papers. - -"Hi, wot's that?" - -He snatched one and read: - -"_Dark Blue Victory._ - -"_Long Stern Chase._ - -"_Barrington's Great Spurt._ - -"_Cambridge Beaten at the Winning Post_." - -What did it matter? What did anything matter, broken roofs or bruised -mouths. Peter had done the trick! Peter, the queer little tyke who had -been his prickcaution! He shouted the news to Cat's Meat. He held up -the traffic, he and Cat's Meat, and the dark blue cab. He must tell -somebody,--somebody who would understand. Mr. Waffles would understand. -He had a few drinks at a few pubs and arrived at Soho hilarious. Mr. -Widow informed him that Ocky had not returned. He wandered off in search -of the flower-girl. At the back of his mind the belief grew up that she -would be sympathetic. He found her, tucked her inside and drove back -to Soho. Mr. Widow didn't approve of the flower-girl and said that Ocky -hadn't come back. How many times did he halt before the second-hand -shop? How many pubs had he visited? What had become of little -Kiss-me-Quick, the flower-girl? She'd disappeared, and he hadn't any -money in his pockets. Never mind, there was a hole in the roof of his -cab--his day's work had given him something. - -Night fell. Stars came out. Did he make up the song himself? Couldn't -have. He found himself again before the second-hand shop, still on the -box of his cab. The shop was shut and he was singing to empty windows: - - "Oh, - - Mr. Widow, though - - A murderer you be, - - You're - - Sure, a very nice man-- - - A good enough pal for me." - -Mr. Widow came out, sincerely grieved, and expostulated. Mr. Grace -begged his pardon profoundly. He told him that he'd always admired his -religious whiskers; wouldn't hurt his feelings, however many wives he'd -murdered; wanted to be friends. He added, in a whisper, that he had a -daughter who'd be all the better for a poker brought down smartly across -her nut. She was religious, too, only she hadn't got whiskers. Then he -insisted on shaking hands, and was at last allowed to on condition that, -if this token of esteem was granted, he would go away and never, never -more come back--at least, not till morning. - -What to do now? The night was young. A return to the stable was not to -be contemplated; that daughter of his must be avoided. Some time, when -he was a very old man, he'd go home to her. But not yet. It wasn't every -man who owned a blue and yellow cab with a hole in the roof of it. - -Perhaps it was eleven--perhaps earlier. He was in Leicester Square, -affording himself the supreme luxury of refusing to be hired. Coming -down the steps of the Empire was a group of young men, broad-shouldered, -slim of hip and in evening dress. Their arms were linked. As soon as -they appeared, cheering began; a crowd gathered round. Someone commenced -to sing. Others took it up: - - "Mary had a little heart. - - She lent it to a feller, - - Who swallowed it by h'axerdent - - And didn't dare to tell 'er. - - She asked it back and said she'd sue-- - - Away the feller ran. - - Whatever will poor Mary do? - - She's lost both heart and man." - -They'd all gone mad. Pandemonium broke loose. Mr. Grace wondered vaguely -what it meant. Why were people dancing? Why were people shouting? Then -he saw that the maddest of the mad wore a dark blue badge. He heard -someone explain to a neighbor, "The winning crew." - -His brain cleared. He was off his box in a flash, struggling, panting, -fighting his way to that tall young chap who was in the centre. He was -wringing him by the hand. - -"Why, by all that's wonderful, it's Mr. Grace! Where did you spring -from?" Before the question was answered, Peter was introducing him, to -the Faun Man, to Harry, to Hardcastle, to a host of others. - -Mr. Grace was both elated and abashed. "Want a keb? Sime old keb, Mr. -Peter--got it 'ere a-witing for you." - -"Want a cab! I don't know. You see, there are so many of us." - -"'Ow many? There's plenty o' room, Mr. Peter, both inside and h'out. -There ain't no charge. Put h'as many h'as yer like on the roof, so long -as Cat's Meat can drar yer. I've 'ad a ole cut for yer legs on purpose." - -Harry laughed. "If Cat's Meat can't manage it, we'll shove." - -They piled in uproariously. The suggestion was made that Cat's Meat -should be taken out and that Peter should be allowed to ride him. Mr. -Grace wouldn't hear of it. "None o' that, young gen'lemen. Cruelty ter -h'animiles. The keb 'olds 'im h'up.--Where to?" - -The Gilded Turtle was mentioned. - -For all that there were four on the roof and six inside, Cat's Meat -never made an easier journey--that was due to the singing mob of -undergraduates who lent a hand. And Mr. Grace--he reflected that it -wasn't for naught that he had repainted his growler. He was the proudest -cabby in London that night--he was going to be prouder. - -At the Gilded Turtle he was seated next to Peter and treated as an -honored guest. He had a misty impression that the waiters were stowed -away beneath tables and that their places were taken by Peter's friends. -He believed and asserted to the day of his death that he made the speech -of the evening--something reminiscent about "prick-cautions," which -meandered off into moral reflections about a person named Kiss-Me-Quick -and flower-girls in general. He distinctly remembered that, more than -once, he turned his pockets inside out, asking plaintively, "What lydy -done this?" Then the gentleman whose ears moved like a dog's sang a -nonsense-song about Peter. They all joined in a rousing chorus, clinking -glasses: - - "He kissed the moon's dead lips, - - He googed the eye of the sun; - - But when we've crawled to the end of life, - - We'll wonder we ever begun. - -CHORUS - - "And Peter was his name-- - - So Peterish was he, - - He wept the sun's eye back again, - - Lest he should never see." - - "He fought the pirate king, - - Where stars fall down with a thud; - - But we, we even quake to hear - - Spring rhubarb break into bud. - -CHORUS - - And Peter was his name, etc. - - "He sailed the trackless waste - - With hair the colour of blood; - - But we, we tramp the trampled streets - - With souls the colour of mud. - -" And Peter was his name-- - - So Peterish was he, - - He wept the sun's eye back again, - - Lest he should never see." - -Where was Peter? Where were Harry and the Faun Man? He was out in the -streets--only the wildest of the young bloods remained with him. It -didn't matter to this cab-driving Falstaff if they all went away and -only Cat's Meat stayed, he was going to make a night of it. - -Hardcastle was complaining that he'd never been arrested and taken -to Vine Street. He insisted that it ought to happen to every English -gentleman at least once. They drove back to Leicester Square to see -if they could find a policeman who'd make up this deficiency in their -education. They found three, only they chose the wrong side of the -Square and discovered that they were being taken to a less aristocratic -station. Then they explained their mistake, and their captors, being, -as the Faun Man would have said, "very human fellows," accepted -compensation for wasted time, called them "My Lords," and allowed them -to escape. - -It was Mr. Grace who provided the final entertainment. They had grown a -little tired of his constant enquiry as to "What lydy done this?" Being -unwilling to lose their esteem as a humorist, he drove them down side -streets to a second-hand shop, which he had promised "never no more to -visit." - -The house was in complete darkness. He threw down the reins and stood -up, his whip clasped against his breast, his eyes lifted to the white -moon sailing in silence over sulky chimney-pots. Singing ran in his -family; it was from him that Grace inherited her talent. What his voice -lacked in sweetness it made up in volume. He startled the stillness -lustily: - - "Oh, - - Mister Widow, though - - A murderer you be, - - You're - - Sure, a very nice man-- - - A good enough pal for me." - -If Mr. Widow had been a sportsman, he would have felt flattered that the -winning Oxford crew should take the trouble to greet him thus musically -at two o'clock in the morning. He wasn't. A night-capped head appeared -at a window. The singing grew more hearty. The head vanished. The street -door opened. A gentleman, very hastily attired, carrying a pair of -white spats in his hand, shot out on to the pavement. A voice from the -darkened shop pursued him, "'Ad enough of you. A man is known by 'is -friends." - -The door closed as suddenly as it had opened. - -Mr. Grace hailed the new arrival, "'Ulloa, duckie! Been lookin' for you -h'everywhere." - -"I wish you hadn't," growled Ocky. - -Cat's Meat shivered in his harness. Mr. Grace, aware that he was somehow -in error, picked up the reins. "Well, good night, young gen'lemen. Me -and Mr. Waffles is goin' 'ome ter bed. Kum up, Cat's Meat." - -But Cat's Meat didn't come up; he lolled between the shafts, listless -and dejected. Mr. Grace climbed down from the box to examine him. "Wot's -matter, old pal? Got a 'eadache?" - -He stretched out his hand to pat him. Cat's Meat shivered again, lolled -over a little farther and crashed to the ground. He flickered his -eye-lid just once, wearily and reproachfully, saying as plainly as was -possible for so dumb an animal, "Old man, we've been and gone and done -it." - -A hat was passed round. When its contents were presented to Mr. Grace he -pushed it away from him. He was sobbing. "H'it's not that; it ain't the -money. 'E were the only man 'as ever understood me. 'Is h'intellergence -wuz a thing to marvel h'at. A wonder of a 'oss, 'e were. I've often said -h'it. 'E'd bring me 'ome as drunk as a lord and as saife as a baby. 'E -wuz a reg'lar mother ter me, 'e were." - -[Illustration: 0421] - -The revelers melted into the night down the shuttered street, leaving -Mr. Grace with the disregarded hat of money, the dead horse sprawled -across the broken shafts and a gentleman, from whose hand a pair of -white spats dangled, contemplating the ruin disconsolately. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI--TREE-TOPS - -Tree-Tops stood half-way up the hill, looking out across a terraced -garden. At the foot of the hill lay a plain, where hamlets nestled -beneath the wings of trees, and meadows washed about the shores of -yellow wheat-lands like green rivers in flood. In blue pastures, beyond -the edge of the horizon, white clouds wandered like browsing sheep. - -The windows of Tree-Tops were latticed. The roof was thatched. It was -no more than a converted cottage. It blinked at you as though it wore -spectacles. - -Behind it ran a Roman road, buried deep in the leaves of centuries. On -the brow of the hill was a legionaries' camp. To show where the road -ended a white cross had been cut, by turning back the sod from the -underlying chalk. Gathered about the camp in a half-circle, spreading -back for miles through uplands, was a beech-forest whose leaves -fluttered like green butterflies crucified on boughs of silver. Clouds -trailed slowly over it, or hung snared in its topmost branches. - -Over the shoulder of the hill, immediately behind the Faun Man's house, -lay a golf-course with vivid squares of close-cropped turf from which -red flags waved angrily as poppies. Across the valley shone fields of -mustard, like sunlight falling in sudden patches. - -The Faun Man puzzled Curious Corner. The village might have been named -in prophecy of his advent, with such extraordinary oddness did he -conduct his household. Like birds hopping in and out of a hedge, -his visitors came and went without knocking. Nobody tried to explain -anybody; no one at Tree-Tops thought explanation necessary. - -The women were young and dashing; certainly they were not married to the -men. If they were wicked--which was never proved--they were decidedly -light-hearted. - -By day they played golf and rode horseback. By night they sat in the -terraced garden, where fragrances wandered like old, sweet memories; -there, to the tinkling of banjos and mandolins, they sang till dusk had -brimmed the valleys and the moon sailed solitary. When their laughter -had grown tired, a light would spring up in a room beneath the thatch -where the Faun Man worked. Sometimes it would outstay the dawn. The -villagers watched these doings from a distance. They wagged their heads. - -But if Tree-Tops had the reputation for being wild, there could be no -doubt that its master had money. He drove a four-in-hand from Oxford to -London. He rode a horse called Satan, which no one could manage; it had -killed two men already. And the money! He coined it with his pen--so it -was reported. - -But the inhabitants of Curious Corner never guessed the motive of -all this frivolity: that the Faun Man wasn't really living--was only -distracting himself, till a woman with golden hair should nod, when life -would commence. - -And the golden woman! Peter saw her often: in Oxford; when he cycled -out with Harry to Tree-Tops; during his vacations in London. He couldn't -believe what Harry told him--that she was cold and selfish. Everything -that she did was tender, from the caressing way she had of speaking to -the childish frankness with which she slipped her hand into his own -when she was happy. She made everyone love her and everyone forgive -her--everyone except Harry and Cherry. She had studied the art of -appearing adorable, so that what in others were faults in her took on -the glamour of attractions. She was so fond of the Faun Man--why didn't -she marry him? Peter didn't know. He gave it up--shrugged his shoulders. -Somewhere underground, as in his own life, the body of love lay buried. -In the stillness, did he listen, he could hear jealousy gnawing--gnawing -like a rat in the coffin of a dead princess. Once, in reading one of the -Faun Man's books, he came across a jotting in the margin, the thought of -which had no bearing on the text. It was as though thwarted longing had -cried aloud, suddenly becoming aware of its own tragedy. The sentence -read: "Life is slipping away from us. I have tried to make you love me. -And yet----." - -The bond of sympathy which existed between himself and the golden woman -increased in strength and knowledge. He could talk to her of so many -things concerning which he was silent to other people. Being in love, he -had to talk to someone. She was so wise in the advice she gave him. By -the patience with which she listened, she seemed to tell him that she -herself had endured the same indifference. How that could be he did not -understand. She encouraged him to make confession. It became a habit. -Perhaps the trust which he placed in her flattered her. It may have been -that his capacity for being so sheerly young tantalized her--she desired -above all things to be always young herself. Without doubt his implicit -faith in her goodness helped to silence her self-despisings. - -But she was not above using their friendship as a means of provoking the -Faun Man. She would slip her arm about Peter's neck and say, "No chance -for you now, Lorie." - -Her lover's eyes would rest on her broodingly and film over, hiding his -thoughts, "Oh, well, I have Cherry." Even though Cherry knew that it was -said in pretence, her face would grow radiant. It hurt Peter. He would -willingly have given the best years of his life to make her care for him -like that. It was then that he listened, and heard within himself the -gnawing of the rat of jealousy. - -Cherry--he made no progress with her. She seemed to like him, and she -held him off. She avoided being left alone with him. In company there -were times when she treated him with intimacy--times when she ignored -him. While all his actions told her plainly that in his life she was the -supreme interest, she seemed to go out of her way to inform him, without -words, that in hers he was secondary. Then, when he had grown tired and -had almost determined to cure himself, she would do something unexpected -and considerate which kept him hoping. Only at parting did she allow -herself to appear glad of him. She had the power of chilling him with -her graciousness, while with her gray eyes she allured him. Cherry! -Cherry! Her name set all his world to music. - -One day he found her alone at Tree-Tops. She had fallen asleep in the -bay-window, which looked out over the plain where the meadows flowed -smoothly and the wheat-fields ripened. The others had left her--had -gone over the shoulder of the hill to play golf. He had cycled out from -Oxford without warning. Climbing through the steep garden, busy with the -stir of birds and insects, he espied her curled up like a kitten among -the cushions, her eyes fast shut and her breath coming softly. He -stooped over her, tempted by the redness of her mouth. Her eyes -opened. She showed no embarrassment--made no attempt to brush away her -sleepiness. She did not move, but lay there meeting his gaze quietly. - -He broke the silence. "Cherry, why do you always avoid touching me? -We're farther apart now than we were--were when we first met. I can't -surprise you any longer by telling you that I love you. And yet--and yet -to me it's still wonderful. Why do you always treat me as though I were -nothing?" - -"Do I? I don't mean to." - -He sat down beside her and took her hand. "Shall I go away? If I went -away you might learn to miss me." - -She turned toward him gently. "Please, please, Peter, don't do that." - -"Then you do want me--you would miss me? I never know what you think of -me. You never tell me--never betray yourself." - -She let her fingers nestle in his hand. "There's only one Peter. Of -course I'd miss you. I don't need to tell you that. I like you very -much, Peter." - -He looked away across the unheeding country. "Like! Yes, but liking -isn't loving." - -Voices were heard and footsteps approaching. She sat up hurriedly, -smoothing out her dress. "I'd so much rather be friends. I'd be such a -good little friend to you, Peter, if you'd only be content with that." - -Content with that! He shook his head. - -"Cherry, I couldn't." - -The Faun Man and the golden woman entered. They were laughing. "You -always treat me in public as if we were alone together. Really, Lorie, I -wish you----." - -Then she saw Peter seated close to Cherry. Her eyes saddened. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII--THE COACH-RIDE TO LONDON - - -I wonder why he doesn't come!" - -Peter stepped out of the college-lodge, gazing up and down the cobbled -street. - -Harry, always undisturbed and good-natured, laughed. "One can never be -sure of Lorie. Looks as though it was going to rain. P'raps he's put it -off because of that." - -"If he had," said Peter, "he'd have sent us word." - -For two hours they'd been inventing excuses for the Faun Man. He had -told them to invite a party of their friends and he'd drive them to -London. To go to London without permission was against all rules; but to -ask permission would be useless, since most of the men, like Peter and -Harry, were sitting for their Finals within the next fortnight. That -they were taking a sporting chance of discovery lent a touch of daring -to the excursion. - -All of them had risen early and had been ready for the start since -nine. It was nearly eleven. If the Faun Man didn't turn up shortly they -wouldn't have time to cover the sixty odd miles to London and to catch -the last train back. That last train back was very necessary. If they -weren't in college or their lodgings by midnight when doors were locked, -there was no telling what would happen. Probably they'd get sent down, -which would mean that they'd miss their Finals, and would either lose -their degrees or have to wait a year before they were examined. - -They were getting fidgety, pulling out and consulting their watches. -Some of them were already saying that it was too late to risk it. A horn -sounded. Peter glanced back from the road into the lodge and shouted, -"Hi, you fellows! Here he comes." - -Round the corner swung the chestnut leaders, tossing their heads and -jingling their bridles. As the wheelers followed and the coach drew into -sight, an exclamation went up, "Why, he isn't----" - -They looked again to make certain. No, he wasn't. Instead, a woman sat -on the box, erect and lonely, perched high up, governing the reins with -her small, thin hands. Her trim figure was clad in a dark blue suit, -close-fitting as a riding-habit, with pale blue facings. Her hair was -caught back into a loose knot against her neck and dressed so smoothly -that it shone like metal. The effort of controlling the horses had -brought a flush to her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with mischief at the -sensation she was creating. She reined in against the pavement, glancing -down provocatively at the group of young men. She looked a goddess, -and had the sense to know it. "Given up hoping for me," she cried -cheerfully; "is that it?" - -Peter nodded. "Pretty nearly. But where's the Faun Man and Cherry? Why -are you driving?" - -She shrugged her shoulders. "I'll tell you later. Scramble up." - -They scrambled up, filling the roof and joking, all their high spirits -and anticipation recovered. - -"Ready." - -The guard sprang away from the leaders' heads and clambered up behind as -the coach started forward. - -It was a gray day, with patches of blue gleaming through it, like light -through holes in the roof of a tent. As they passed over Magdalen Bridge -the willows shuddered and stooped above the water, prophesying that rain -was coming. The moisture in the air made colors stand out sudden and -separate. Even sounds seemed accentuated. From farmlands, near and far, -live things called plaintively. Cocks bugled shrill alarms. Cattle waded -restlessly knee-deep in summer meadows. Birds fluttered out of hedges, -as if setting out on journeys; then thought better of it and hastily -returned. Fields lay hushed. In contrast, the sky was torn and rutted. -Clouds lurched forward, black and sullen, like artillery taking up -positions. Detached wisps of mist hurried hither and thither, like -isolated bands of cavalry. Through the brooding stillness the coach -swayed onward. The horses' hoofs rattled as castanet accompaniment to -the laughter of conversation. - -At the long, white inn of The Three Pigeons they changed horses, getting -ready for the climb out of the valley past Ashton Rowant. The golden -woman called to Peter to come and sit on the box beside her. She was a -pleased child, patting his hand and smiling down at him side-long as he -took his place. She treated him in public with the same affection that -she used to him in private; she had complained of the Faun Man for -treating her like that. Peter wondered.--Her eyes were immensely blue -and wide this morning. She seemed no older than on that first day when -he had seen her in the white room of the Happy Cottage. He watched her -now, as she leant out with her whip to catch the reins which the ostler -tossed up. How graceful she was, how determinedly young and buoyant! - -He touched her. "You were going to tell me why Cherry and the Faun Man -didn't----." - -She broke in upon him. "Was I? Perhaps later. Can't you forget Cherry -just for once? I'm here and--and won't you be content with only me for a -little while, Peter?" - -She spoke lightly, with a pretence at wounded feelings, and yet----. He -had piqued her pride. He had noticed it before, especially of late--the -same flippancy of tone and quick turning away of the head when Cherry's -name was mentioned. Harry explained it by saying that she was envious of -any affection given to another woman. - -The new team was full of fire--it took all her attention. "So, girl! So! -Steady there. Steady!" - -Peter knew these grays; he had heard the Faun Man speak of them, -"Nervous as cats. Take a devil of a lot of holding." She handled them -like a veteran. - -"Golden woman, you're wonderful." - -She shrugged her shoulders coquettishly, raising her brows and laughing -silently. Her eyes were between the leaders' ears on the road in front -of her. "I know. Can't help it, Peter. It's the way I was made." And -then, "But what an awfully long while you've taken to discover it." - -"I haven't. But where was the good of my telling you? The Faun Man let's -you know it every day of your life." - -She pouted. "He does. But--but that isn't the same." Green pasture-lands -of the valley were falling away behind. As they rose higher, woods -sprang up, standing tiptoe, drinking in the clouds. The atmosphere grew -more heavy and thunderous. The horses were walking now, scrambling for a -foothold and zigzagging from side to side as they took the steep ascent. -The men dropped off the coach to lighten it and went ahead. - -Harry caught hold of Peter's arm. "Where's Lorie? Did she tell you?" - -"No. When I ask her, she says, 'Later, perhaps.' Can't get another word -out of her." - -Then Harry saw a great light. "I bet you I've guessed. Something -happened at the last minute to delay him. He's coming over from -Tree-Tops to join us at High Wycombe. He'll be there with Cherry for -lunch. It's because of Cherry, to give you a surprise, that she won't -tell you." At the top of the hill Peter took his place again beside the -golden woman. He understood her air of mystery now and played up to it. -In an instant all his world had changed. He was going to see Cherry. A -new sparkle came into his eyes. The golden woman noticed it. "Hulloa! -Wakened? What's happened?" - -"_You've_ happened," he said. "You're a topper. You don't mind my saying -it, do you? You're most awfully kind." - -She looked at him curiously. "Am I? What makes you say that?" - -"I know what's happened to the Faun Man and Cherry. You can keep your -secret; but I had to thank you." - -"Thank me!" She fell silent. - -He talked on in high spirits; it must have been the horses that -suggested Mr. Grace. "He hasn't been so bloomin' prosp'rous -lately--that's his way of putting it--not since Cat's Meat died. He has -to hire his horse and cab now, and doesn't seem to make much profit -out of it. 'Bloodsuckers!' he says. 'I 'as ter give 'em back all I -earns--and that's wot they calls 'iring. Bloodsuckers!'" - -As they came down the hill by Dashwood's into High Wycombe, he ceased -talking, casting his eyes ahead. He thought it just possible that Cherry -and the Faun Man might have walked out to meet them. The guard was -sounding his horn in long flourishes. They were in the town now, passing -by the Market-place. Now the coach was drawing up before the hotel. No -one was there to watch them descend except the ostler and some idlers. -He hung about while the horses were taken out; every now and then he -stepped into the road, trying to make himself believe that, if he waited -long enough, he would see the girl with the red lips and gray eyes -hurrying down the street toward him. - -Harry came out. "Guessed wrong that time, didn't I? Come along in. We're -having lunch." - -It was absurd, this anxiety that he felt--all out of proportion. And -yet it was always like that when he was going to meet her--it was always -like the first time. He never lost the thrill of choking gladness and -surprise. Each time he discovered something new in her of sweetness, -leaving him amazed at his former blindness. - -Harry was speaking to the golden woman. "So they're not coming?" - -She crouched her chin against her shoulder, gazing at him innocently and -wide-eyed. "Who?" - -"Why, my brother and Cherry. What's the secret? Look here, Eve, you -ought to tell us. I'm certain he sent a message--some sort of an -explanation." - -"Are you?" She gave him a tantalizing smile; then turned to Peter. -"Peter shall know; perhaps before we reach London." - -There was a low rumble, followed by a crash. The rain came smashing -against the panes. They pushed back their chairs and ran to look out. -In an incredibly short time streets were flooded; gutters were turbulent -with muddy rivers. Rain thudded against the pavement and sprayed up in -little fountains. - -"Doesn't look to me," said Harry, "as though we'll ever get as far as -London." - -"Got to," said the golden woman. - -The deluge commenced to slacken, but the storm still hung above -the valley, moaning and grumbling. Rain swept like smoke across the -house-tops. - -Harry laughed. "Got to! You can't drive a four-inhand to London through -that. May as well make the best of it. We've to be back in Oxford before -midnight, or else----. Perhaps there's still time to do it. We'll give -it a chance." - -Some of the party burst into the room. "I say, you chaps, we've -discovered a regular circus. Such a rum old cock! Come out and talk to -him!" - -The golden woman raised her head. "Why not bring him in here?" - -"But we didn't think you'd------." - -She lifted her hands and let them fall despairingly. "You men! How -selfish you are, keeping everything that's vulgar to yourselves!" - -Scuffling sounded in the passage and a voice booming protests, "Not like -this! It ain't fitting. Not before a lady." - -A red-faced sailor, in the loose blouse and baggy trousers of the -Royal Navy, was pushed through the doorway. In a deep bass voice he -immediately commenced to excuse himself. "Not my fault, miss." He tugged -at an imaginary lock on his forehead. "I'm Mr. Taylor, I am--'ome on -a 'oliday, tryin' to find a nice gal wot'll appreciate my h'un-doubted -fine qualities." - -The golden woman stretched back her neck, half-closed her eyes and -chuckled. "Are you sure you have any, Mr. Taylor?" - -The man fumbled at his cap. "Used to 'ave--used to sing terrible." - -"Sing terribly for me now, won't you?" - -He struck an attitude, flattered by the request, and hitched up his -trousers. It was a ballad of betrayed maidenhood that he sang, solemn as -a dirge and intended to be hugely affecting. It told of the home-coming, -with her two babies, of a girl whose sweetheart had deserted her. It had -a chorus in which, with an unhappy wag of his head, the sailorman signed -to his audience to join: - - "Go ring those village bells, - - Let all the people know, - - It was on a dark and stormy night, - - One, two, three--perished in the snow." - -When they came to the enumerating of precisely how many perished, they -stuck out their fingers three times. But some of them weren't content -with only three deaths in one family; they wanted to go on counting. -Then the sailorman would stop singing and reprove them gently, "You -know, young gen'lemen, that ain't right. It ain't fitting to joke on -death." - -At last it occurred to him that something was amiss. "I'm afraid I'm -a-makin' a fool of meself." - -"Don't mention it, Mr. Taylor," they shouted. - -Their answer didn't reassure him, though they hurled it at him in -varying keys many times. He insisted on leaving, making his exit -backward because he had heard that a gentleman must always keep his face -toward a lady. - -The rain was over. The sky had a sorry look for having been petulant. -The sun, though he still refused to come out, hung golden ladders from -the clouds. They stepped into the street, gazing up and feeling the air -with their hands. - -"What about it?" asked Harry. - -"Why, of course we're going," said the golden woman. Her eyes met -Peter's; they seemed to beg him not to call off, but to accompany her. -Why was she so insistent about getting him to London? Who was waiting -there? Why wouldn't she tell him anything about the Faun Man or Cherry? -He calculated how long the drive would take. They were not quite -half-way. If they continued the journey they'd barely catch that last -train back. Again he recognized the appeal in her eyes. - -"What about it? What do you say, Peter?" - -"I? Why, I'm game. I'm going." - -Some of the men refused. The party was reduced to six when they started. - -What a wet clean world they entered! It had all been made new and, -somehow, tender. The spray of rain was still in the air; it swept -against their faces coolly, vanished unexplained, and touched them again -without warning. In meadows and tree-tops there was a continual muffled -patter, as of little unseen people treading softly. From the back seats -came bursts of laughter and snatches of song, mimicking Mr. Taylor's -impressive chorus: - - "It was on a dark and stormy night, - - One, two, three--perished in the snow." - -The golden woman bent her head aside, "Tryin' to find a nice gal wot'll -appreciate my undoubted fine qualities! That's what all you men are -doing." - -"Oh, I don't know." - -"Yes, you are, from the minute you put on long trousers to the last -moment when you step into the grave. Men don't find her often; when they -do, as likely as not she doesn't want them." - -"I know a little about that," said Peter; "so does Lorie. Women aren't -very kind to the men who love them." - -"Oh, aren't they!" She flicked at the leaders so that they leapt like -stags. "You're young; you need civilizing. You don't know nothin', as -that sailorman would say. How many marriages are made for love? They're -made because women are kind. Many a woman marries because she can listen -to a man talking all about himself without letting him see that she is -bored by it. Happiness is the only reality; and love--love's almost, -almost a delusion." - -Peter looked at her quietly. She could say jaded things like that -when she was made so beautifully--when everyone turned to look after -her--when the finest man in the world would give his life to save her -from pain! What had God done with the years of her life? She never -looked any older. And she wasn't grateful. Perhaps, after all, Harry was -right--all her goodness had been put into the perfection of her body, -and her soul had suffered. - -She was aware that his eyes rested on her in judgment. She tried to -refrain from the impulse. Turning, she flashed on him a sudden smile. -"Too bad to say things like that to you--you who hope for so much from -life! What's the trouble?" - -"I was thinking." - -"Thinking?" - -He spoke slowly, "That love only seems a delusion to people who refuse -to be loving." - -A common-land sprang up; geese wandered across it. Evening was falling -early, washing colors from the landscape, blurring everything with its -watery light. The sky stooped near to earth, threatening to tumble, -monstrous with bulging clouds. - -They drew up at the inn at Gerrard's Cross. Peter climbed down to -stretch his legs while the horses were being changed. He found his -friends gathered about a timetable, peering over the shoulders of the -man who held it. - -"We're not going to manage it," one was saying. "There's another storm -brewing. Besides, we're not making haste--going as leisurely as if we -had all the day before us. Nothing for it, we'll have to drop off and go -back by train." - -"There's a train leaving here in half an hour," said the man who held -the time-table. "I'm going to catch it. Getting sent down just before -your Finals isn't good enough." Harry interrupted. "Before we decide -anything, we'd better go out and speak to her." - -The case was explained to the golden woman. They were most awfully -sorry. It wasn't very gallant conduct on their part; but what other -choice had they? Wouldn't she leave the horses and the guard at the inn, -and come back with them to Oxford? Or could they see her on the train -to Paddington? Having told the guard to go on with the harnessing, she -listened to them quietly. When they had finished she said, "Peter and -I are going to drive to London. You're willing to take a chance, aren't -you, Peter?" - -He broke into his boyish laugh. "It'll be sport. I'll chance it." - -As the coach moved off he turned and waved to the others, who stood -watching from the common. The guard from his back seat, raising the -horn, gave them a farewell flourish. In his heart of hearts Peter wished -that he were among them. But----. Well, the golden woman had a secret. -She was going to tell it to him. It had something to do with Cherry. And -it wouldn't have been decent to have left her to finish the drive -alone to London. He'd get the last train back from Paddington, barring -accidents. - -She was speaking to him. "That's better. At last we're alone together." - -"Do you think we'll do it?" he asked. . - -"Do what?" - -"Get there in time." - -She drew her brows together. "Peter, Peter, what does it matter? You -take life so seriously." - -They laughed. - -"What are you going to do with it?" she asked. He looked puzzled. "With -life, I mean," she added. - -"Don't know. It depends." - -"On what?" - -"People," he answered vaguely, taking care to avoid mentioning Cherry. -"I may travel for a year. Perhaps Kay will come with me. After that I'm -going into my father's business." - -The golden woman's face became grave; beneath its gravity was a flame of -excitement. Her voice trembled and reached him softly. "That's not what -I meant. That's not doing anything with life. Those things are -incidents--externals. I meant, are you going to live life, or are you -going to miss everything? Life's an ocean, full of enduring, dotted with -a few islands. Are you going to be an explorer--or are you going to miss -everything?" - -Odd that she, of all persons, should have asked him that! He remembered -how Harry had said that she was a ship, always setting sail for new -lands and never coming to anchor. - -"An explorer! I'll first see the islands." - -A strand of her hair broke loose and fluttered about her eyes. "I can't -put it back," she said. "I wish you'd do it." Her hands were occupied -with the reins. He leant across her. As his face came under hers, she -held her breath. To him it was nothing. The horses, feeling her hands go -slack, broke into a gallop; for a moment she lost control of them. When -she had quieted them, she turned to him impulsively, "Peter, you're a -darling." Her eyes held his with an expression of appeal and challenge; -then faltered, as though they were afraid to look at him. - -Her excitement communicated itself. He was embarrassed. He didn't -understand. He guessed that she was in trouble and was asking for his -kindness. "Golden woman, how easily you and I say things like that. If -Cherry had said it to me, or if you had said it to the Faun Man, how -much more----." - -She cut him short. "Don't." - -They had traveled half a mile in silence, when she whispered, "It wasn't -easily said." - -In the west, behind them, the sky began to burn. Little tongues of flame -licked the edges of black clouds. Mists writhed and drove across the -sinking sun. Peter stood up in his seat, looking back; it was a glimpse -of hell. He glanced ahead--everything over there was blackness. Trees -looked blasted; they bowed their heads. Roads and fields were empty. -There was no life, no color in the meadows. - -"We're in for it," he said. - -Rain began to patter, softly at first. Wind was getting up and breathed -across the country in a long sigh. He spread a coat across the golden -woman's shoulders. She didn't thank him. Gathering the reins more firmly -in her hands, she whipped up the horses. - -Their heads were bent together. Behind them, out of ear-shot on the -back-seat, the guard huddled. She spoke. "We're going to be late. I -intended we should be late. I wanted to get rid of the others. I knew -that you'd stick by me." - -And again she said, "You were talking of women not being kind.---- Men -aren't kind to the women who love them." - -She had changed. Her face had sharpened out of its contentment. Usually -its expression was lazy and laughing, but now----. Pain had come into -it. It was intense and thin with purpose; it was purpose she had always -lacked. He tried to find a word for the new thing that he found in -her. Was it only the distortion that the storm was working? A flash of -lightning slit the heavens; it ripped the clouds like a red-hot blade. -A shattering crash! The dynamite of the gods exploding! Darkness came -down. Another flash! Trees leant forward, like fugitives with arms -extended. And she--her face was white and dominant. It looked beautiful -and Medusa-like--snakes of loosened hair blew about it. She no longer -crouched her head. She sat tall and defiant, the rain splashing down -on her. What strength she had in her hands! She held in the quivering -horses, speaking to them now harshly, now caressingly. They pricked up -their ears, listening for her voice. He found the word for the new thing -that had come to her. It was passion. - -"Come nearer. What did you mean when you told me you had guessed my -secret?" - -"The Faun Man----" - -She took him up. "Yes, Lorie--he and I had our first quarrel this -morning. We've both wasted our lives, waiting for something--something -that could never happen." - -"Why never?" - -"Because I can't bring myself to--not in his way. He told me this -morning----. It doesn't matter what he told me. It hurt me to hear him -speak like that, so strongly and quietly and sadly. Lorie and I, we've -drifted--let life slip by. We've wakened; we're tired." Then, like a -child, appealing against injustice. "He said I hadn't a heart--that -I was made of stone, not like other women. It's not true that I'm -different--is it, Peter?" And again, "Is it, Peter?" And then, "It hurt -to be blamed for not giving--giving what would be his to take, if he -were the right man." - -"The right man! That's what Cherry says. How does a woman know who is -the right man?" - -She avoided a direct answer. "The right man is always born too late -or too early; or else he's wasting himself on someone who doesn't want -him." - -It was a city of the dead that they were entering. Rain swept the -streets in sudden and vindictive volleys. Lamps shone weakly; some were -extinguished. Few people were about. At Ealing they halted for their -last change. - -"Won't be goin' any further?" the guard suggested. - -When he was informed to the contrary, he glanced up at the drenched -faces. He seemed to see a thing that startled him. "Blime!" While he -hurried the ostlers with the harnessing, he tried not to look at those -white patches in the dusk; his eyes returned to them, unwillingly -fascinated. When he had released the leaders' heads, he stepped back and -swung himself up behind as the coach lunged into the storm. - -There was barely time to reach Paddington. Peter calculated. If he -missed the train, the consequences would be grave. He asked the golden -woman to hurry. She listened, but made no attempt to quicken their pace. -She didn't seem at all disturbed by his dilemma. He almost suspected -her of holding in the horses. Too late to leave her now! As they trotted -through the premature night, he began to ask himself questions. Why had -she been so determined to finish the journey? Why had she shown such -eagerness to be alone with him? - -He leant forward. "Where's Lorie?" - -"In London." - -"And Cherry?" - -She tossed her head impatiently, "With you, it's always Cherry." - -"Well then, Lorie--is he going to meet us?" - -"If he does, what difference will it make?" - -"To me? Not much. But to you--you'll know then, and you'll be happy." - -"Shall I?" - -Her indifference spurred him into earnestness. From differing points of -view, the golden woman and Cherry used the same arguments. If he could -convince her, he could perhaps convince Cherry. In fighting for the Faun -Man, it was his own battle he was fighting. - -"You don't know yourself, golden woman--you don't know his value. He's -become a habit--you'll miss him terribly. He's been too extravagant in -the giving of himself. He's made you selfish. If you were to lose him, -if suddenly from giving you everything, he were to give you nothing-----" - -Her voice reached him bitterly. "That's what he threatens--to starve me -after giving me everything. He didn't say it in those words, but----. -What do I care?" - -"You do care. You're caring now. All day long you've been caring. If he -isn't there to meet us----." - -"I shall be glad." - -"You won't." He spoke eagerly. "You won't. To-night you may think you'll -be glad, but to-morrow--to-morrow you'll be without him. Just think, -you've kept him marking time all these years. He's expected and -expected. You've banked on him--felt safe because of him. You're -foolish. You can't cheat at the game of life--you can't even cheat -yourself; in the end you're bound to play fair." - -She didn't answer. - -"You won't be glad if he's not there." - -Silence. - -"Is he going to meet us?" - -"If he doesn't---- She went no further. - -"Will Cherry be there?" - -Her face flashed down on him, white and stabbing. "_Again_. Always -Cherry." - -Later she whispered, "Forgive me, Peter." - -Without a word, they passed through tunnels of muted houses. The sky -closed down on them. The rain drew a curtain about them. The slap of the -horses' hoofs upon the paving started echoes. Traffic slipped by them -spectrelike, as if moving in another world. Now it was between shuttered -shops of Regent Street that they trotted. At last Trafalgar Square, vast -and chaotic, a pagan temple from which the roof had fallen! - -They strained forward from the box, searching through the darkness. From -the entrance to The Mtropole light streamed across the pavement. It was -the end of their journey. As the horn sounded, a man stepped out from -shelter. For a moment--but no; he had only been sent to take the coach -to the stables. As they clattered to a standstill, several guests came -out on to the steps of the hotel to watch them. The guard climbed down -and ran to the leaders' heads. No one was there to greet them--no one -who was familiar. - -She laughed high up, excitedly, "What did I tell you?" - -"Not there," he agreed reluctantly; "neither of them." She touched his -hand and caught her breath. "As I said--neither of them care. You -and I--we're still alone." He was sorry for her, guessing her -disappointment. Had Lorie been there it would have spelt forgiveness. -Big Ben boomed ten. He started. "Hulloa! I'm dished. I can't get back." - -"You're not going back? You don't want to leave me? Say you don't." - -He was embarrassed. He didn't know what to make of her. She was on his -hands; he ought to be in Oxford. Evidently she had been harder hit than -she acknowledged. He tried to speak cheerfully. "Look here, it's time we -became sensible. That chap's waiting for us to scramble down--he wants -to take the horses. Let's go into the hotel. I'll engage a room for -you--high time you got those wet things off. Nice little mess we've made -of it! When I've seen you settled, I'll toddle off to Topbury and spend -the night with my people." - -"Will you?" - -She glanced at him slantingly. To his immense surprise, she brought the -whip down smartly across the horses. As the leaders darted forward the -guard, taken unaware, was thrown off his balance. As Peter looked -back through the steaming mist, he saw him picking himself up from the -pavement, waving his arms and shouting. - -Utterly bewildered by her shifting moods, he turned to her, "You've left -that chap behind.---- I wish you'd tell me what the game is. I don't -want you to drive me to Topbury and, anyhow, the Embankment's all out of -the direction." - -"I'm not driving you to Topbury, stupid." - -He spoke more sternly, "Seriously, you must tell me. You've brought me -to London and--by Jove, I almost believe you tried to make me miss my -train. It isn't sporting. Why don't you turn back to The Mtropole. I'll -get you a room and----." - -"Too many people to see us," she said shortly. - -He had only one means of stopping her--to catch hold of the reins. Too -risky! He gazed about him, wondering what to do. They were traversing -the Embankment--it was empty save for outcasts huddled on benches like -corpses. The night looked sodden. The river gleamed murkily. Lights on -bridges, hanging like chains, shone obscurely. - -She was mocking him in low caressing tones. "You don't want to leave me? -Say you don't." - -The odd repetition of the question struck him. He had missed its first -significance. It couldn't be! He pressed nearer, peering into her -face. He caught the hungry pleading in her eyes--the mad defiance. "You -mean----? You never meant----. Eve, you're too good a woman." - -She halted the horses, and gazed down on him smilingly. She shook -her head slowly, denying his assertion of her goodness. "You hadn't -guessed?" - -"Guessed!" He drew himself upright. The passion in her voice appalled -him. - -Her arms went about him; cold wet lips were pressing his mouth. "You -dear boy-man! You dear boy-man!" - -He thrust her from him. He was choking. Her lips--they scorched him. He -had seen in all women's faces the likeness to his mother's and Kay's. -But now----. - -A bedraggled creature, in tattered finery, with a broken plume nodding -evilly across her forehead, struggled from a bench, shuffled across -the pavement and whined up at him. He took no notice. He tried not -to believe what had been meant. Through their nervous silence trees -shuddered; the muffled skirmish of the rain thudded. - -The golden woman was watching him. A gleam of hatred in her eyes at -first--the reflection of his own loathing. Then, as pity replaced his -loathing, a look of horror spread. She sank her face in her hands; her -fingers locked and twisted. She looked like one who had become sane, and -remembered her madness. "What am I? What have I done?" She whispered the -questions over and over; the storm beat down upon her shoulders. He sat -like one turned to stone, not daring to touch her, powerless to put his -pity into words.---- And of this the bedraggled street-walker, whining -up from the pavement, was sole witness. - -A policeman tramped heavy-footed out of the distance. "'Ere you, none -o' that. 'Urry along." This to the streetwalker. To the golden woman, -"H'anything the matter with the 'osses, me lady?" - -She came to herself. The street-walker was limping into the shadows. Her -eyes followed her with fascination. She felt for her purse; not finding -it, she commenced unfastening the brooch that was at her neck. Seeing -her intention, Peter put his hand in his pocket. She stayed him with an -impatient gesture. - -Calling to the woman, she leant down from the box and said something. - -The policeman waited stolidly. He repeated his question, "H'anything the -matter with the 'osses, me lady?" - -"No." - -She swung the coach round. There was no explanation. - -Of that wild drive back through the night Peter saved but a blurred -remembrance. Scarcely a word was spoken--there was nothing that could be -said. After they had struck the open country, they went at a gallop most -of the journey. Every now and then they drew up at a darkened inn. -He climbed down from the box and hammered on a closed door. A window -opened. A rapid explanation. Grumbling. Sleepy men appeared, only partly -dressed, carrying lanterns. Horses were taken out and a fresh team -harnessed. As the dawn came up, pale and haggard, he saw her face; it -was hard-lipped and ashen. He would never forget it. Every year showed. -The golden hair had broken loose; it was the only young thing left. She -was no longer the golden woman; he drove that night beside the figure of -repentance. - -Hills taken cruelly at a gallop! Cocks crowing! Unawakened towns! The -waking country! He pieced her into his experience. What was it that -women wanted? To be married and not to be married? To accept the -flattery of being loved and not to return it? Riska, his Aunt Jehane, -Glory, Cherry--all the women he had known--they passed before him. He -tried to read their eyes. Their heads were bowed; all that he could -learn of them was the pathetic frailty of their bodies. - -Marching through the meadows came Oxford, its spires indomitably pointed -against the clouds. Now they were traveling the austere length of High -Street. At Carfax they turned. On Folly Bridge they drew up. - -She had brought him back. He wanted to say something generous. - -"Lorie, he loves you. If he asks you again----" - -She nodded. "If he asks me," she said brokenly. - -He walked along the edge of the river, golden in the early summer's -morning, silver with mists curling from off it. He plunged in at a point -opposite the Calvary barge. As he swam, he looked back. From the coach, -high on the arch of the bridge, her eyes followed him. Just before he -landed, she raised the whip; the horses strained forward. - -Running through the meadows, he came to the wall which went about -Calvary, found a foothold and dropped safely over. After he had -undressed, he hid his dripping clothing. He was in bed and sleeping -soundly, when later in the morning his scout came to wake him. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII--AN UNFINISHED POEM - -Strong sunlight streamed across the foot of his bed. Below, in the -quad, he could hear the clatter of breakfast-dishes being cleared away. -Fumbling beneath his pillow, he pulled out his watch. Ten o'clock! Time -he dressed and got to work! Less than a fortnight till his Finals, and -he'd lost a day already! - -A sound of running on the stairs! Someone was entering his outer room. - -"Hulloa! I'm still in bed. Who is it?" - -The bedroom door flew open. Harry stood panting on the threshold, -holding a London paper in his hand. For all his haste, he didn't say -a word. He simply stared--stared rather weakly and stupidly, as though -he'd forgotten what he'd come about. His lips quivered. The twitching of -his fingers made the paper crackle. - -Peter raised himself on his elbow. "Got back all right, old man. Why--." -He saw Harry's face clearly; it was drawn and ghastly. "Don't look like -that. What is it? For God's sake, tell me." - -"Dead." - -"Dead?" - -He threw back the clothes, leapt out and snatched the paper. Standing in -the sunlight he caught the head-line, TO SAVE OTHERS. His eyes skipped -the matter below it, gathering the sense: "At the crowded hour--in Hyde -Park yesterday afternoon--lost control of his horse, Satan--bolted to -where children were playing--swerved aside--rode purposely into an iron -fence--thrown and broke his neck." - -The paper fell from his hand. He picked it up and reread it. Some -mistake! He wouldn't believe it. The Faun Man dead! He'd been so -brimming with life. Never again to hear his mandolin strumming! Never -again to hear his gallant laughter! To walk through the roses at -Tree-Tops--and he would not be there! - -Peter sat down on the edge of the bed, clenching his forehead in his -hands. The voice, the gestures, everything--everything that had been so -essentially the Faun Man he wanted to recall before he could forget. - - "If yer gal ain't all yer thought 'er - - And for everyfing yer've bought 'er - - She don't seem to care-----" - -He could see him bending over the strings slyly smiling. He had been of -such high courage that he could coin humor, out of his own unhappiness. - -Then, like a minor air played softly, "Lorie, he loves you. If he asks -you again---" and the golden woman's broken assent, "If he asks me." - -She had kept him waiting too long. He had asked her for the last time -that morning. He couldn't ask her again, however much she desired -it--couldn't. She'd blamed him for his first neglect of her--had made it -an excuse for her own unfaithfulness. He hadn't met her. His neglect of -her had been simply that he was dead. - -Word came two days later--they had brought him home to Tree-Tops. That -evening Peter gained leave of absence. - -_Whitesheaves!_ The name was embroidered in geraniums on the velvet of -the close-cut turf. The train halted long enough for him to alight, then -pulled out puffing laboriously. It seemed an affront that people should -be journeying when across the fields the Faun Man lay, his journey -forever at an end. Only one other passenger got out--a young chap, in -flannels and a straw-hat, who was instantly embraced by a radiant-faced -girl. They sauntered arm-inarm to where a dog-cart was standing and -drove away into the evening stillness, their heads bent together, their -laughter floating back in snatches. - -Peter set out reluctantly by a short-cut through wheat-fields. He didn't -want to prove to himself that it had happened. He was trying to imagine -that he had come on one of his surprise visits. He would find the Faun -Man dreaming, sprawled like a lean hound in the twilight of the terraced -garden. - -The sun hung large and low in the west. A breeze swept the country with -a contented humming, bowing the heads of the corn. In the distance, -above Curious Corner, chiseled in the greenness of the hill the white -cross glistened. Through trees a spire shot up. Beneath boughs thatched -roofs of the village showed faintly. He rounded a bend; the house to -which he was going gazed down on him. It hadn't the look of a house of -death. Its windows shone valiantly above the pallor of the rose-garden, -out-staring the splendor of the fading west. - -He climbed the red-tiled path--came to the threshold. The door was -hospitably open. Like birds hopping in and out of a hedge, the breeze -and the fragrance of flowers came and went. He knocked. No one answered. -He tiptoed in. A breathless silence! Mounting the stairs, he came to the -door with the iron latch, which gave entrance to the Faun Man's bedroom. - -Flowers! He had always loved flowers. They were strewn on a bed -unnaturally white and unruffled. An unnatural peace was everywhere. The -sheet was turned back from the face; the brown slight hands stretched -straightly down. Each was held by a woman who knelt beside him with her -head bowed. The attitude of the women was tragic with jealousy. - -How long and graceful he looked in death! How gaunt and tired! All -the striving, the brave pretending, the famished yearning which he had -disguised showed plainly now. A smile hung about the corners of his -mouth--a little mocking perhaps, yet tender. A bruise was on his -forehead. He had the look of one who, having been puzzled, understood -life at last and was content. - -Peter felt that he had intruded. He had no right to stay there. Those -bowed heads reproached him. He felt what men often feel when death -is present: the body had been put out to usury; at the end of the -trafficking it belonged to women, as it had belonged to a woman before -the trafficking commenced. - -He wandered out into the garden. Twilight weakened into darkness. His -feet were always coming back to the window; he stood beneath it, looking -up to where she knelt. If it were only for a moment, surely she would -come to him. Again he entered. No stir of life in the house. He peered -into the bedroom. She had not moved since he left. - -Beyond her was the door which led into the Faun Man's study. Noiselessly -he stole across to it and raised the latch. - -The room was in darkness. Set against the open window was a desk. -Moonlight drifted in on it. A chair was pushed back from it. A pen lay -carelessly on the blotting-pad, waiting for the master to return. Here -it was possible to believe that the mind still lived and worked. - -A movement! He stretched out his hand. Someone rose. Into the shaft of -moonlight came the face of a man. "Oh--oh, it's you, Harry!" - -He struck a match and lit the lamp. They talked softly, in short -whispered sentences. On the floor, on tables, on chairs, books and -manuscripts lay scattered. The breeze blowing in at the window turned -pages, as though an invisible person were searching. A sheet of paper, -lying uppermost on the desk, fluttered across the room to where Harry -sat. He stooped, picked it up, ran his eye over it and handed it to -Peter. "The last thing he wrote. Thinking of her to the end." - -Peter took it and read, - - "She came to me and the world was glad-- - - 'Twas winter, but hedges leapt white with May; - - With snow of flowers my fields were clad, - - Madly and merrily passed each day, - - And next day and next day-- - - While all around - - By others naught but the ice was found. - - 'O ungrateful heart, were you ever sad? - - She was coming to you from the first,' I said. - - She turned to me her eager head, - - Clutching at what my thoughts did say. - - "She went from me and the world was sad-- - - 'Twas spring-time and hedges were all a-sway; - - With snow of winter my fields were clad, - - Darkly and drearily passed each day, - - And next day and next day-- - - While all around - - By others naught but spring-buds were found. - - 'O foolish heart, were you ever glad? - - She was going from you from the first,' I said. - - She turned to me her eager head, - - Clutching at what my thoughts did say." - -"Like his life--an unfinished poem." Peter leant out to return it to -Harry, but found that he had fallen asleep in his chair. - -The lamp burnt itself out. The chill of dawn was in the air. Through the -window the sky was gathering color, like life coming back to the -cheeks of the dead. The door opened slowly. Stiff with long sitting he -staggered to his feet. "Cherry!" - -Pressing her finger against her lips, she motioned him to be silent. -Glancing at Harry she whispered, "The first sleep in two days, poor -fellow." - -As he followed her across the dusk of the bed-chamber, a pool of gold -caught his attention; it glittered on the pillow by the face of the Faun -Man. The golden woman lay crouched like a pantheress beside the body, -her eyes half-shut and heavy with watching. - -In the pallor of the rose-garden Cherry halted. She gave him both her -hands. "We can never be more to one another. Since this--I'm quite -certain now. I always wanted to be only friends." - -The heart of the waking world stopped beating. His hope was ended. -Clasping her hands against his breast, he drew her to him. She gave him -her cold lips. "For the last time." She turned. He heard her slow feet -trailing up the stairs. - -As he walked to the station through rustling wheat-fields the sun lifted -up his scarlet head, shaking free his hair, like a diver coming to the -surface at the end of a long plunge. Birds rose singing out of corn -and hedges, proclaiming that another summer's day had commenced. But -Peter--he heard nothing, saw nothing of the gladness. He saw only the -final jest--the smile, half-mocking, half-tender, that hung about the -Faun Man's mouth; and he heard Cherry's words, "I always wanted to be -only friends." - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV--IN SEARCH OF YOUNGNESS - -To you I owns h'up; I 'as me little failin's, especially since Cat's -Meat------He could never mention Cat's Meat without wiping his eyes. -"But if I 'as me little failin's, that ain't no reason for callin' me -Judas His Chariot and h'other scripture nimes. She's a dustpot, that's -wot she is, my darter Grice." - -"A what?" asked Peter. - -Mr. Grice was surprised that a man just down from Oxford shouldn't know -the word; he was flattered to find himself in a position to explain. - -"A dustpot," he repeated. "That means a child wot sits on 'er father's -'ead." - -"Oh, a despot!" - -Mr. Grace had learnt to be patient under correction. "Now, Master Peter, -ain't that wot I said? I sez, 'She's a dustpot'; then you sez, 'Oh, a -dustpot!' 'Owever yer calls it, that's wot I calls 'er." - -They were sitting in an empty cab in the stable from which Mr. Grice -hired his conveyance. Peter touched the old man's hand affectionately. -"I've been wondering--thinking about you. You know, I'm going traveling -with Kay. My friend, the Faun Man, left me a thousand pounds to buy what -he called 'a year of youngness.' He was great on youngness, was the Faun -Man." - -Mr. Grace nodded. His eyes twinkled. "Remember that night, Peter, and -the song 'e made h'up about yer? - - 'Oh, Peter wuz 'is nime, - - So Peterish wuz 'e, - - 'E wept the sun's h'eye back agen, - - Lest 'e should never see.' - -H'I orften 'um it ter the 'osses when h'I'm a-groomin' of 'em. Sorter -soothes 'em--maikes 'em stand quiet." - -"I remember," said Peter; "but here's what I was going to say: you -hav'n't had an awful lot of youngness in your life and yet you're--how -old, Mr. Grace? Seventy? I should have guessed sixty. Well, it doesn't -seem fair that I----." - -"Nar then, Master Peter! H'it's fair enough. Don't you go a-wastin' o' -yer h'imagination. I don't need no pityin'." - -"But it doesn't seem fair, really; so I'm going to make you an offer--a -very queer offer. How'd you like to live in the country and get away -from Grace?" - -"'Ow'd I like it? 'Ow'd a fly like ter git h'out o' the treacle? 'Ow'd a -dawg like ter find 'isself rid o' fleas? 'Ow'd a----? Gawd bless me -soul--meanin' no prefanity --wot a bloomin' silly quesching!" He paused -reflectively. "But a dawg, Master Peter, gits sorter useter 'is fleas, -and a fly might kinder miss the treacle. H'I'd like it well enough; but -if there warn't nothink ter taik me thoughts h'orf o' meself, I'd feel -lonesome wivout 'er naggin'." - -Peter laughed. "I'll give you something to do with your thoughts. My -Uncle Ocky----." - -Mr. Grace woke up, turned ponderously and surveyed Peter. "That's h'it, -is h'it? That awright. Rum old card, yer uncle! H'I never fancied -as h'I'd let h'anyone taik the plaice wot Cat's Meat 'eld in me -h'affections. 'E 'as. Tells me h'all 'is troubles, 'e does. Life's -gone 'ard wiv 'im since Mr. Widder sent 'im packin.' My fault--I'm not -denyin' h'it. We 'as our glass tergether and we both 'ates wimmen--or -sez we does. 'E borrers a bit from me nar and then. Mr. Waffles and me -is good pals--we 'as lots in common. You, for h'instance." - -Peter inquired from Mr. Grace where he would be likeliest to find his -uncle. - -"Likeliest! H'if yer puts it that waie, h'I should saie yer'd be -likeliest ter find 'im in a pub." - -Out of the tail of his eye Ocky saw Peter entering. - -"Horrid stuff," he said loudly; then in a whisper to the barmaid, "Give -me another three penn'orth.---- Why, hulloa, old son!" - -Peter led him into a private room and said he'd pay for it. "D'you -remember that night at the Trocadero--you know, when Glory was with us. -I told you what I'd do for you if I ever had money. Suppose I could give -you a chance to pull straight, what would you do with it?" - -Tears came into Ocky's eyes; he'd grown unused to kindness. "Is it -the truth you're wanting, Peter?---- If you gave me the chance to pull -straight, I'd do what I've always done--mess it." - -Peter shook his head incredulously and smiled. "Don't believe you. You'd -pull straight fast enough if you knew that anyone cared for you." - -"No one does, except you, Peter." - -"Oh yes, there's someone--someone whom you and I, yes, and I believe all -of us, are always forgetting." - -[Illustration: 0457] - -Ocky looked up slowly. "You mean Glory." He leant across the table, -tapping with his trembling fingers. "Know why I went to hell?--it sounds -weak to say it. I went to hell because I had no woman to hold me back -with love. If I could have Glory---. But she'll be thinking of marrying. -I've spoilt her chances enough already." - -"If you could have Glory," Peter insisted, "and if you were to have, -say, five hundred pounds, what would you do then?" - -"The truth again?" - -"Nothing else would be of any use, would it?" - -"If I had five hundred pounds and Glory, I'd move into the country and -buy a pub. I've lived to be over fifty, I've learnt only one bit of -knowledge from life." - -"What is it?" - -Ocky flushed. "To you I'm ashamed to say it." - -"Never mind. Say it." - -Ocky twirled his mustaches, covering his confusion, "To know good beer -when I taste it." - -Peter leant back laughing, "That's something to start on, isn't it?" - -Next day he told Glory, "They're willing--both of 'em." - -In searching the papers for advertisements, he came upon an -announcement. - -_Near Henley, The Winged Thrush. Comfortable riverside hostelry; -pleasantly situated; suitable for artist or poet, desirous of combining -lucrative business with pleasure, etc. A bargain. Reason for selling, -going to Australia._ - -He remembered--that last night of the regatta, the sun-swept morning, -the glittering river, and the breakfast in the arbor with Cherry. - -The purchase was arranged. Ocky, Glory and Mr. Grace went down to see -the place. Mr. Grace was to look after the 'osses--if there were any; if -there weren't, he was to help in serving customers. For a reason which -he would not explain, Peter refused to accompany them on their tour of -inspection. - -During those last days, before he and Kay set out on their year of -youngness, he saw Glory often. From her he learnt of Riska and her many -love-affairs; how they always fell short of marriage because she carried -on two at once or because of the deceit concerning her father. She was -getting desperate; she had been taught that the sole purpose of -her being was to catch a man--so far she had failed. She still had -hope--there was Hardcastle. In a sly way, she saw a good deal of him. -Exactly how and where, she had pledged Glory not to divulge. - -And Peter learnt of Eustace. Eustace had gone to Canada, to take up -farming with money lent by Barrington. Jehane, with her tragic knack of -hanging her expectations on loosened nails, boasted that Eustace was -to be her salvation. Perhaps he was careless, perhaps he had gained -a distaste for the atmosphere of falsity which had formed his home -environment; in any case, he wrote more and more rarely, and showed less -and less desire for his mother to join him as the period of his absence -lengthened. Jehane, as she had done with his father before him, invented -good news when good news was lacking, bolstering her pride in public. -Her children, despite her sacrifices for them, watched her with judging -eyes and, directly they arrived at a reasoning age, began to detect her -hollowness. Eustace was gone. Glory was going. Riska, failing another -accident, would soon be married to Hardcastle. Only Moggs, Ma's Left -Over as they had called her because of her tininess, remained. She was a -child of twelve, submissive in her ways, colorless in character and with -Ocky's weak affectionateness of temperament. - -It was the morning of Kay's and Peter's departure. During breakfast, the -last meal together, Barrington had sat looking at the landscape by Cuyp, -as he always did in moments of crisis. The cab was at the door; the -luggage had been carried out. The adventure in search of youngness had -all but begun. The door bell rang and the knocker sounded. A telegram -was handed in. Barrington opened it--glanced at the signature. "Ah, from -Jehane!" - -As he read it, his face grew grave. He passed it to Nan and led Peter -aside. "Don't tell Kay. It's about Riska. She's run off with that fellow -Hardcastle. Whether she's married to him or----. It doesn't say." - -His own rendering of the situation was plain--"Ripe fruit, ready to fall -to the ground." - -They entered the cab, driving into the great worldwideness. And Riska, -with her impatient mouth and pretty face, she also, in her stormy way, -had gone in quest of youngness. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV--LOVE KNOCKS AT KAY'S DOOR - -The castle stood like a gleaming skull, balancing on the edge of a -precipice. The centuries had picked it clean. Through empty sockets, -about which moss gathered, it watched white wings of shipping flit -mothlike across the blue waters of the Gulf of Spezia. It had been the -terror of sailors once--a stronghold of pirates, Saracens and Genoese, -fierce men who had built the hunchback town that huddled against the -rocks behind it. Now it was nothing but a crumbling shell, picturesque -and meaningless save to tourists and artists. The tourists came because -Byron had written _The Corsair_ in its shadow, and the artists----. - -One of them had left his canvas on an easel in a broken archway. Kay -tripped across and looked at it--a wild piece of composition, all white -and green and orange, splashed in with vigor, with the fierce Italian -sky above it. It interpreted the spirit of the place--its loneliness, -its lawless past, its brooding sense of unsatisfied passion. She turned -away, awed by its power, a little frightened by its intensity. It made -her feel that, from behind tumbled mastery, eyes were gazing at her. -Climbing the splintered tower, she watched the sunset. In the great -stillness she could hear stones dropping down the sheer cliff into the -racing tide beneath. - -She had forgotten how time was passing. That low bass humming! It was -the voice of the sea; it seemed as though the sun's voice spoke to -her. Across the blue of the Mediterranean a golden track led up to the -horizon. At its end a fiery disc hung, like a gong against which the -waves tapped gently. - -It had been a tumultuous day--a day of excited fears, winged hopes and -strategies. Harry was coming. Peter had received the astounding telegram -that morning. - -"Queer chap! This was sent off from Genoa. He's almost here by now. Why -on earth didn't he let us know earlier?" - -Why hadn't he? Kay knew--because, if he had, there would have been still -time for her to turn him back. The persistent mouth-organ boy, he was -always quite certain that he had only to make up his mind and he'd get -his desire. She didn't like him any the less for that, but----. - -No, she wouldn't be there to meet him. She had excused herself to Peter -and had accompanied him to the sun-baked pier, at which the steamer -called on its way from Lerici to Spezia. She had waved and waved till he -was nearly out of sight--then she had fled. - -Why? She couldn't say--couldn't say exactly, but very nearly. She -had forbidden her mouth-organ boy to come--and he was coming. She was -secretly elated to find herself defied. After all, she didn't own Italy, -and----. But Harry wasn't making the journey to see Italy, nor to see -Peter. She was well aware of that--Peter wasn't. - -So she had persuaded one of her fishermen friends to sail her across the -gulf to Porto Venere. Down there in the sleepy harbor he was waiting, -his brown eyes lazily watching, his ear-rings glittering, his fingers -rolling cigarettes, not at all perturbed but wondering, with a shrug of -his shoulders, why she so long delayed. - -And Harry, he too would be wondering, thinking her unkind. Peter had -probably brought him back to San Terenzo by now. They would have been on -the lookout for her directly the steamer rounded the cypressed headland. -When they hadn't found her on the pier, they would have made haste to -the yellow villa in which they lived, which had been Shelley's. And -again, they hadn't found her. She could imagine it all--just what had -happened: Peter's discreet apologies, and Harry's amused suspicion that -he was being punished. His laughter--she could imagine that as well; he -always laughed when he was hurt or annoyed. - -Kay clasped her hands. It was rotten of her not to go to him. All day -she had wanted to be with him. He had traveled all the way from London -to get a glimpse of her. And yet, knowing that, she sat on in the ruined -castle, while the reluctant day, like a naughty child at bed-time, -saffron skirts held high, stepped lingeringly down the purple hills, -keeping the sun waiting. - -She was trying to arrive at a conclusion. To Peter she was -everything--more than ever this past year had taught her that. He made -no plans for the future in which she was not to share. It was just as it -had been when they were girl and boy--he seemed to take it for granted -that they were always to live together. The thought that she should -marry never entered his head. Save for the mouth-organ boy, it would not -have entered hers. - -But the mouth-organ boy! Long ago, when she couldn't see him, she had -heard him playing in the tree-tops. It was something like that now. -Since she had left England, his letters had followed her. Sometimes -she hadn't answered them. Sometimes she had answered them casually. -Sometimes she had had fits of contrition and had written him -volumes--compact histories of her thoughts and doings. It made no -difference whether she was punctual or neglectful; like a familiar -friend in unfamiliar places, his handwriting was always ahead of her -travels, waiting to greet her. - -"What does he say?" Peter would ask her. - -Then she would read him carefully edited extracts--nice polite -information, entirely innocuous. Peter hadn't guessed. He mustn't. - -How preposterous it had seemed when Harry had first written her that he -loved her! She hadn't regarded him in the aspect of a lover--didn't want -to. It had seemed almost treachery to Peter. But now----. Now it didn't -seem at all preposterous--only wonderful, and true, and puzzling. - -How long ago was it? Eight months since he had told her. She had been a -child then--seventeen, with cornflower eyes and blowy daffodil hair. The -knowledge that she was loved had startled her into womanhood. - -She ought to be getting back. But Peter, Peter from whom she had no -secrets, didn't know. She dared not tell him--and Harry was there. Peter -had given her so much--this year of romance; and yet, with all his -giving----. - -He might give her his whole life; he couldn't give her this different -thing that Harry offered. - -She rose to go. Her attention was arrested. It couldn't be! Gazing -sheer down, she leant out across the broken parapet. In the racing tide, -through its treacherous whirlpools, a man was swimming. She could see -his reddish hair and beard shine as they caught the sunset. As he lunged -forward, they sank beneath the surface. She held her breath. - -He was keeping near in to the rocks--so near that, had she dropped a -stone, it would have struck him. With all his fighting, he was making -little progress. It was too far to the town to run for help--moreover, -none of the fishing-boats ever ventured there. She wanted to cry out -encouragement; she feared to distract him from his effort. Now, in -rounding a bend, he was lost to sight. Ah! There he was again. She saw -where he was going--to the weather-beaten steps which wound down the -precipice. He stretched out his hand and pulled himself up, dragging -his body across the rocks like a fly which had been all but drowned. He -stood up, white and magnificent, squeezing the water from his beard -and hair. As he commenced to climb the stair in the cliff-front, he -vanished. - -She couldn't go now. Her curiosity was roused. What kind of a man could -be so foolhardy as to do a thing like that? Drawing back into the shadow -of the tower, she waited. - -Whistling--faint at first! It was a gay little Neapolitan air. Singing -for a stave or two! It broke off--the whistling took up the air. Gulls -flew up, circling and screaming. Above the moldering ramparts, red and -gold against the red and gold of the sunset, came the valiant head of -a man who might have been the last of the pirates. His eyes shone -like blue fire. The wind was in his beard and hair. When he had lifted -himself on to the wall, he stood there, on the very edge, looking back -perilously. He was of extraordinary height and strength. The teeth, -through which he whistled, were strong and white--everything about him -was powerful, his hands, his shoulders, his courageous face. He seemed -a survival of ancient deity--a sea-god who, thinking himself unobserved, -had landed at the spot where, centuries ago, Venus had been worshiped -by a forgotten world. He looked solitary and irresponsible--a law to -himself. Because of his size and the remoteness of the place, Kay was -filled with lonely terror. - -He walked slowly over to the easel in the broken archway. He was -bare-armed and bare-footed; his shirt was collarless and turned back at -the neck. Still whistling, he picked up the palette, pushed his thumb -through it, glanced across his shoulder seaward and commenced touching -in streaks of color. He worked carelessly, yet with rapid intensity. -Sometimes he left ofif whistling, stepped back from the canvas, his -head on one side, and surveyed his handiwork. The light was failings Kay -prayed that he had finished--but no. Driven to desperation, she thought -she could creep by him. Harry and Peter would be getting nervous. - -She had drawn level with him. A stone turned beneath her foot. His head -twisted sharply. She commenced to run. Glancing back, she saw his eyes -following--he was laying down his brushes and palette. In her panic, she -had chosen the wrong direction; a wall rose in front, blocking her exit. -He was coming--she could hear his bare feet overtaking her. She climbed -the wall; below lay the sea, now orange, now sullen in patches. There -was no way of escape; she looked down. The space made her dizzy; she -groped with her hands as if to push back the distance. She felt like a -bird with its wings folded, falling, falling. Everything had gone black. - -For a moment she was held out above the sea, her flight arrested. Blue -eyes bent over her laughing. She was swung back. She found herself lying -on the sun-scorched turf. The man was kneeling beside her, chafing her -hands and forehead. Her faintness left her. As she gazed up at him, -he smiled and said something in an unintelligible language. She sat up -bewildered, trying to appear brave. "I'm--I'm all right, thank you. I'll -go now." - -"Ah, a little English girl!" His voice was deep and pleasant. - -She surveyed him with growing confidence. How concerned and gentle he -was for so large a creature! She scrambled to her feet. He was quick to -take her hand, but she withdrew it from him. "I'm really all right. It -was only dizziness. Good-by, Mr.--Mr. Neptune." - -"Mr. Neptune!" He plucked at his red beard and planted himself in front -of her. His eyes twinkled. "Strange little English girl, why do you call -me that?" - -"Because you came out of the sea. And d'you know, before I go I want -to tell you--I was awfully afraid you'd get drowned. Do you always swim -when you come to the castle?" - -Mr. Neptune placed his hands on her slight shoulders. They were large -and masterful hands, barbaric with vivid smudges of the colors he had -been using. She was conscious that, in his artist's way, he was looking -not so much at her as at her body. - -"Always swim to the castle! No. It was the first time. Your poet, Byron, -was the last to do it. Thought I'd try just for sport, as you English -call it." - -"I wouldn't do it again," she said wisely; "and now I must really go." - -He didn't budge from her path. She waited. He regarded her with -amusement. "Going! Not till you've promised to let me paint your -portrait." - -Kay was astounded and--yes, and flattered. He might be a great artist; -he had the air of a man who was important. But she was more frightened -than flattered: he looked so huge standing there in the yellow twilight. - -"Please, please," she said, "you must let me go. My brother's waiting -for me and he'll be nervous." - -He made no sign that he had heard, but gazed down at her intently with -his bare arms folded. She hesitated. A sob rose in her throat. "Why--why -should you want to paint me?" - -"Because," he said, "you are beautiful. What is beautiful dies, but I--I -make it last for always." Then, in a gentler voice, "Because, little -English girl, if I don't paint you, we may never meet again." - -It was the way in which he said it--the thrilling sadness of his -tone. She felt that she was flushing, and laughed to disguise her -embarrassment. "But, Mr. Neptune, I've thanked you and--and it was -your fault that we met--and isn't it rather rude of you to prevent me -from----?" - -"No," he spoke deliberately, "not rude. You're adorable--too good to -die. I want to make you live forever. If I were Mr. Neptune, d'you know -what I'd do? I'd swim off with you, earth-maiden." - -Her words came quickly; she was afraid of what he might say or do. "I -promise. You shall paint me." - -She tried to pass him. He put his arm before her as a barrier. His -eyes flashed down on her, gladly and gravely. "When the English promise -anything, they shake hands on it. Is that not so?" - -She slipped her small hand into his great one. She heard a footstep -behind; it was her fisherman who had at last come in search of her. She -nodded to let him know that she was coming. Now that she was not alone, -she lost her fear of the giant. She became interested in him. She almost -liked him. - -"Where will you paint me?" she asked. - -"Here, against the sky. It's the color of your eyes. We're going to -be friends--is it so?" He stepped aside. "Then, little English girl, -good-night." - -As she passed under the broken archway, she turned and waved. His blue -eyes still followed her through the yellow twilight. - -Down through the hunchback town she went. Its streets were deformed, -steeply descending, scarcely more than a yard wide. It was eloquent with -memories of unrecorded fights, in which a handful had held Porto Venere -against armies. Beneath its close-packed roofs it was already night. -Before little shrines in the walls candles glistened. Sailor-men, -with gaudy sashes round their waists, bowed their heads and crossed -themselves reverently as they passed. In crooked doorways mothers sat -suckling their babies--madonnas with the oval faces and kind eyes that -Raphael loved to paint. To them the mystery of love was divulged; many -of them no older than Kay. - -After her great fear she was strangely elated. She had seen admiration -in a man's eyes. "Why should you want to paint me?" She could hear his -deep voice replying, "Because you are beautiful." Then came the wistful -knowledge of life's brevity, "What is beautiful dies." She had never -thought of that--that she and Harry and Peter, and all this world which -was hers to-day must die. The old town with its defaced magnificence, -its battered heraldry, its generations of lover-adventurers who had -left not even their names behind them--everything reminded her, "What -is beautiful dies." She was consumed with a desire she had never known -before--to experience the rage of life. - -Why was it? What had made her waken? Was it contact with a primitive and -virile personality? She had gained a new understanding of manhood. Would -Harry be like that, if he lived to-day as though it were a thousand -years ago? - -She stepped into the boat, curling herself in the prow among nets where -she would be out of the way of the sail. Darkness was stealing across -the sky, a monstrous shadow-bird whose wings roofed in the gulf from -shore to shore. The sail began to bulge; the boat lay over on its side. -Outlines of wooded hills grew vague. To the north Spezia lay, a blazing -jewel. At the mast-heads of anchored men-of-war lanterns twinkled -faintly. She trailed her hand, watching how the water ran phosphorescent -through her fingers. A fisher-boat crept out of the dusk. A guitar was -being played. A man's voice and a girl's, singing full-throatedly! They -faded voluptuously into silence. - -"Because you are beautiful." Her young heart beat flutteringly. Had -others thought it and been afraid to tell her? She leant back her head; -stars gazed down on her, approvingly and placid-eyed. All sounds and -sights were touched with poetry. The whole of life before her! Peter and -Harry waiting! So much of youth to spend; so many choices! Yet, only one -choice--Peter. - -A voice hailed her. "Hulloa! Is that you, Kay?" - -So soon! She sat up. San Terenzo with its golden eyes! On the crazy quay -she made out two blurs of white. - -"Yes, Peter, it's Kay. Is Harry with you?" - -Before the boat had stopped, as it nosed its way along the side, Harry -leapt in. "At last! It's you." - -His voice was strained and impetuous. For eight months he had waited; he -had been kept waiting an extra day--the longest of them all. - -"Hush!" she whispered. "Peter---- I've told him nothing. You shouldn't -have come, Harry; you really shouldn't." - -She took a hand of each as they helped her to land. Walking back to the -villa, she gave them laughing glimpses of her adventure, "So it's -not such a bad day's work; he's going to make me live forever in a -portrait." - -Good-nights had been said. From her window Kay had seen the lights blown -out in other bedrooms. The fishing-village, fringing the shore, had been -in darkness for two hours. She leant out, gazing across the bay to where -the headland of Lerici curved in like a horn. Life--that was what she -thought about. It was in this very room that Shelley had wakened and -recognized the cowled figure of his soul, and had heard it question, -"Art thou satisfied?" It was the same question that she asked herself. - -A knock upon the door! She started from the window and looked back. It -came again, so lightly that it seemed to say, "Only you and I are meant -to hear me." - -She threw a wrapper about her; her long bright hair fell shining across -her shoulders. It might be Peter. Again it came. - -On the threshold Harry was standing. - -"Let me speak to you." - -She hesitated. - -"You gave me no chance to say anything. Am I to stay or--or to go -to-morrow?" - -He ought to go. She knew that. And yet----. - -"I can wait, Kay. Though you send me away, I shall wait forever for -you." - -She was sorry for him--and more than sorry. This pleading of the living -voice was different--so different from the pleading of letters. Dimly -she heard within herself the echo of his clamor stirring. - -"Dear Harry, I want you to stay--but to stay just as you were always." - -He caught his breath. It was almost as though he laughed in the -darkness. "It was always as it is now. You didn't know; it began that -first day when I fought Peter, showing off like a boy. So if it's to be -as it was always-----." - -He looked so lonely standing there. He oughtn't to be sad with her--it -hurt; they'd always been glad together. She took his hands tremblingly, -"Stay and be--be the mouth-organ boy. We'll have such good times, Harry, -we three together. Don't be my--anything else. I'm too young for that, -and---- - -"And?" - -"Peter hasn't learnt to do without me. Lorie was the same with you--you -understand. So Harry, promise me that you won't let Peter know--won't do -anything to make him know, or to make him unhappy." - -He put his arms about the narrow shoulders, stooping his head. "Trust -me." - -She leant her face aside sharply. "Not on my lips. They're for the man I -marry." - -"But one day I----." - -She freed herself from him gently. "Neither of us can tell." - -In the days that followed, when they walked and swam and sailed -together, Harry recognized what Kay had meant when she said that Peter -hadn't learnt to do without her. With the end of his hope of Cherry, all -his affections had flown homeward and had concentrated on the love of -his sister. It seemed as though he made an effort to find her sufficient -for his heart's cravings. To all other women his eyes were blind. The -thought that any other woman should come into his life seemed never to -occur to him. - -Glory--she wrote to him, as Harry had written to Kay, with conscientious -regularity. But he read her letters aloud, obviously without editing; -they were serious letters like her eyes, searching and quiet, with a -hint of need behind them, and with bursts of fun when she told of the -struggles of her stepfather and Mr. Grace to run The Winged Thrust both -genially and for profit. - -And the man who lived to-day as though it were a thousand years ago--a -week after Kay had first met him, they sailed across the gulf to -discover him. They found him in the castle painting. - -"Ha! The little English girl!" - -He threw down his brushes and came toward her with his arms extended. He -gathered her hands together into his own and bent over her intently with -his eyes of blue fire, "I thought I'd lost my earth-maiden." - -That was all. So long as Harry and Peter were present he was no more -than a shaggy artist, a little self-important, a little shy. When they -had walked off to explore the town it was different. - -He picked her up as though she were a child, and sat her on the broken -wall, where the blue sea swept behind her shoulders and the white clouds -raced through her corn-colored hair. For a while he was utterly silent, -touching in sketches of her, testing various poses. The smell of wild -thyme mingled with that of flowers, fermenting in the sunshine. From far -below the wash of waves rose coolly. - -Presently he spoke. "You stopped a long while away. Every day I've been -here watching for you. I don't often watch for anybody. If people don't -come----," he snapped his fingers, "I begin again. I begin with someone -who won't keep me waiting." - -His egotism seemed not conceit, but justified consciousness of power. -Kay was beginning to explain; he cut in upon her. "It's all right. For -you I'd wait till--oh, till there wasn't any castle--till it was all -swept into the sea by rain. But only for you--for other people life's -too short." He stopped sketching and looked up at her. "Little English -girl, life is very short. Phew!" He blew out his cheeks. "Like that, and -you are old. All the lovers are gone. No one cares whether you live or -die. With us men it's the same, only we--we search for the great secret. -You have it in your face. There's so much to do; it's not kind to keep -us waiting." - -"The great secret! What is it?" - -He appeared to take no notice of her question. Picking up his pencil, he -went back to his sketching. Then, while he worked, glancing occasionally -to her face where the radiance of the sunshine fell against her profile, -"The great secret! It's hard to say. It's why we're here, and from where -we come, and where we go. It's the knowledge of life and the meaning -of death; it's everything that we call beauty. I see it in your face. I -paint it. How it came there, neither you nor I can say." - -Next day he set to work on canvas. The picture grew. It wasn't for -the picture that Kay went to him; it was for the things he said in the -loneliness, lifted high between the waste of tossing sea and restless -sky. He set her thinking; he made life more glad, more eager and, -because of its mystery, more poignant. The great secret! He didn't hope -to find it; but he told her of the men who had sought. - -In telling her, he brought the soul into her eyes and set it down on -canvas. A young girl with blowy hair, perched among things ancient, her -white hands folded, patient for the future, with the pain of joy in her -wide child's eyes! That was what he painted. - -And she--she was stirred by him. He gave her the freedom of his mind. -He treated her as a woman, teaching her knowledge and the sorrow of -knowledge--from all suspicion of which she had been guarded. She was as -much repelled as attracted by him; through him she learnt to love Harry. -She began to understand the suffering of love that is kept hungry. She -began to understand its urgency. At last she understood that such love -as Harry brought her must always stand first, sacrificing every other -affection. It was this that gave pain to her joy. - -One day in early June, the man laid aside his brushes. "The last touch. -It's finished." - -He lifted her down very gently and watched her as she stood before it. -Clasping and unclasping her hands, she gazed at her own reflection with -an odd mixture of wonder and ecstacy. "But--but it's beautiful." - -He put his arm about her shoulder, speaking softly, "And so are you." - -"But not so beautiful." - -"More. I couldn't paint your voice." - -She stretched out her hands toward it. "Oh, I wish--I wish I could have -it." - -He tilted up her face. "Little English girl, it's yours. I did it for -you. You'll know now how you looked when your beauty dies." - -Tears came. It was like the world complaining against God's injustice. -"But I don't want it to die." - -He drew her head against him. "Kay--what an English name! Little Kay, -one thing will keep it alive." She waited. "The great secret," he -whispered; "it lies behind all life. For other people your beauty will -have vanished; a man who loves you will always see it." - -Before she was aware, he had touched her lips. If was as though he had -stained her purity. - -On the sail back to San Terenzo, as the darkness drew about them, she -crept closer to Harry. He felt her hand groping for his own. "Kiddy, -you're burning--as hot as a coal. What is it? A touch of fever?" - -She spoke chokingly. "Harry, my lips. They're yours." - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI--THE ANGEL WHISTLES - -It was the longest day in June. The room was stifling, filled with -greenish light which fell in stripes through the slats of the closed -shutters. On the tiled floor water had been sprinkled. Walls were -stripped bare. A sheet, dipped in disinfectants, was pinned across the -open door. On the other side sat the nun who had come to act as nurse. -She sympathized with the jealousy that kept them always at the bedside -and only intruded when she was sent for, or to give the medicines. This -desperate clinging of flesh to flesh while the soul was outgrowing -the body--how often she had watched it! She could not speak their -language--didn't understand anything but the quivering tenderness of -what was said. She was a little in awe of these two young Englishmen who -seemed so angry with God, and who sat day and night guarding the dying -girl lest, in an unheeded moment, God should snatch her from them. -Reckless of contagion, they bent above the pillow where the flushed face -tossed between the plaits of daffodil hair. - -The fight was unequal; it couldn't last much longer. It had been going -on for a week. Had they known in time that it was typhoid----. By -the time they knew it was too late for her to be removed. The -fishing-village had none of the necessities of nursing; the doctor had -to come from Spezia. - -Someone had to go for him at this moment; she had had a relapse. Harry -looked at Peter. "I'll go." He spoke quietly, knowing that she might not -be there when he returned. - -Peter touched Kay's hand, attempting the cheerfulness which they had -feigned from the first, hoping that it might deceive even Death. - -"Kitten Kay." - -She opened her eyes. She had gone back years as her strength had failed. -She spoke as she looked, like a slight child-girl far distant from -womanhood. - -"Belovedest?" - -They had been crowding the gentleness of a full life into the words -exchanged in those few days. - -He started to speak; choked and had to start afresh. - -"Harry's off to Spezia to fetch the doctor--the man who's going to make -you well." - -"Well!" - -It was uttered deliberately, with a wise disbelieving smile. - -"Harry! Harry!" - -Her face grew troubled as she tried to recollect a name that was -familiar. - -Harry's eyes filled with tears. He went on his knees beside her, -pressing her hand to his lips. - -"Kay, don't you know me--your mouth-organ boy?" - -The puzzled look melted. A low laugh came to her parched lips. "My dear, -dear mouth-organ boy!" - -At the door he gazed back longingly. Peter caught him by the arm. It was -the struggle not to be selfish--it had been going on through seven days. - -"You stay. Let me go." - -Harry shook his head. "She was yours before she was mine." - -He slipped out. His footsteps faded down the stairs. - -In the house there was no sound--only her weary sighing. Everything was -hushed and shuttered. Outside waves dragged against the sand and broke -in long sparkling ripples. A pulley creaked as a fisherman hoisted sail. -Across the bay came the panting of the steamer from Lerici. It drew in -against the pier; boys' laughter sounded and splashing as they dived for -money. Again the panting, wandering off into the distance. It rounded -the headland. - -441 - -Silence----. So much of life in the world and none to spare for her! And -this had come at a time when her father was ill, so that neither he nor -her mother could come to her. - -She threw back the sheet which was spread above her slender body. Her -hand groped out. "Peter, Peterkins, you hav'n't left me?" - -"I'll never leave you, and when you're better----." - -Again the incredulous smile! He' could get no further. Her voice, quite -near to him, reached him remotely. "If I should die---." - -He spoke quickly. "You're not going to." - -"But dearest, if I should----. You won't be bitter--won't break your -heart about me? If you did, I should know. I shouldn't be happy. Promise -that you'll still trust God and be happy." - -Against his belief he promised. - -He thought her sleeping. Her lips moved. "God! No man hath seen----. -Beloved, we hav'n't, have we?" - -He was shaken with sobbing. He had to wait. "Dear little heart, you've -been God to me and--and to everybody." - -"Hold my hand, Peter." He was holding it. "I'm so tired. It's night. -Light the lamp. I want to see you." - -He unlatched the shutters. Across the dazzling blue of the gulf the sun -stared luridly, swinging low above the sea-line. - -Her brain began to wander. She spoke unforgettable things--unforgettable -in their tenderness. It seemed that behind the confusion of her words -her spirit was preparing him. It was as though she turned the pages of -memory haphazard, chancing on phrases which summed up her short eighteen -years of existence. - -"Peter in a Christmas cab!" There was what he had called the laughter of -birds in the way she said it. "Oh, it must be something splendid." - -She came to a winter when she had nearly died--when Peter had been sent -for hurriedly from Sandport. "Peter! Peter! Peter!" She wailed his name -childishly. Then, as though she snuggled warmly against one she trusted, -"He's never going to leave me. I shall get well now." - -For some minutes she was silent. Of a sudden she sat up, crying, "I -don't want to be a dead'un. I don't want to be a dead'un." - -It all came back--his boyish attempt to explain heaven to her, and her -terror because there was no means of escape by trains or trams. As then, -so now, he failed to console her. She sank on the pillow exhausted by -her panic. - -During those brief minutes while the sun fell lower, she re-enacted all -the joys and bewilderments which had been their childhood. Now they were -playing in the garden at Topbury. Now riding out to the Happy Cottage -on the tandem trike. Once it was a flowered meadow; she was trying -to whistle. His startled question of long ago went unspoken. Only her -tearful protest gave the clue to her wandering, "I never heard it, -Peter--truly--never. I made it up out of my own head." - -For one thing which she said he had no picture, "Not on my lips. They're -for the man I marry." - -He buried his face. It was intolerable. "My God, I can't bear it." Love -and marriage--she spoke of them; she would never know them. - -Lying there so stilly, while death crept through her body, she seemed -uncannily sensitive to all that happened in his mind. She knew that -something she had said had hurt him. - -Her delirium went from her. "Softy me, Peter, like you used to; I shan't -be afraid then." - -He leant his face against her hair, his cheek touching hers. She lifted -her hand and stroked him comfortingly. - -Was she wandering? He couldn't tell. Her eyes were wide, gazing into a -great distance. "In heaven they are all--all serious." Feeling him touch -her, she was filled with a wistful regret. "Beautiful warm flesh and -blood." - -She tried to turn her head. He raised himself over her. - -449 - -It seemed that her sight had returned. He forced himself to smile lest -she should take fright at his crying. - -"In heaven they are all--all----." - -He listened for her breath. - -With unexpected strength, she fastened her arms about his neck and drew -herself up. - -"Listen. Listen." - -She was staring through the open window to where a red spark smoldered -on the edge of the sea-line----. A sighing of wind across water! From -far away, whistling--a little air, happy and haunting, trilled over and -over! It was like a shepherd calling. - -Her lips broke into a smile. "Beloved, I hear----." - -She drooped against his breast. The whistling grew fainter. The red -spark was quenched. The longest day was ended. - - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII--"THEIR VIRGINS HAD NO MARRIAGE-SONGS; AND THEY THAT COULD SWIM----" - -In the first stabbing sense of loss he hoped that he had caught the -contagion and might die. Life without her was unthinkable. Then, through -very excess of grief, his feelings became blunted. It seemed impossible -that he would ever again fear or expect. - -He moved as in a shadow-world. Time had no significance. Days slipped -by uncounted. He was trying to understand life, searching behind the -external show for its secret meaning and purpose. Up till now, with -the gay generosity of a child, he had shared himself with those whom -he loved and by whom he was loved, concentrating and intensifying his -affections. Now, dimly at first, he began to view existence from the -angle of responsibility, as a river ever broadening and growing more -adventurous, pouring down from forgotten highlands to the conjectured -sea. It was not his journey that counted; it was the direction and -journey of the total river. If he suffered and had been glad, there -were multitudes who were glad and had suffered. What was the meaning of -it--this alternating sorrow and gladness? For the first time he asked -himself how other people thought, felt, endured--people like Jehane and -Riska, like the golden woman and Glory. - -A month ago, had anyone told him that his sister would be taken from -him, he would have defied God by turning infidel. But now----. He -realized reluctantly how his very passion for her might have crippled -her, shutting out the natural and fine things that belong to every man -and woman. In giving her too much, he might have deprived her of what -was most splendid, giving her ultimate curtailment. How near he had come -to doing this he had learnt from Harry. - -Her words were continually recurring in his memory, dragging him back -from despondency. "You won't be bitter--won't break your heart about -me? If you did, I should know. I shouldn't be happy." The shame that -he might be paining her was always with him. He had the sure knowledge -that, though he could not see her, she still lingered in the house. -Sitting with closed eyes, especially at twilight, he believed he could -hear her moving--moving gladly. The sound was always behind him, even -when he turned his head. He placed flowers about her room, pretending -she was alive; he liked to picture her surprise when she found them. A -white wraith of laughing mist, he imagined he saw her stoop above them. -In his mind he heard her voice, "Oh, Peterkins, how good you still are -to me!" The wind touched his cheek; it was her mouth. - -While her body remained in the house his grief was inconsolable. Yet -peace came to him even before the mortal part, long and lily-white, was -borne through the sun-swept village to the garden on the hill gazing out -to sea, cypress-shadowed and quiet. - -Through the first long night he sat beside her, fixing her features, -everything that had been her, indelibly in his mind. The swathed feet, -immobile as marble beneath the tall candles, brought back her saying, -"The joy goes into my feet when I'm glad." - -Wearied by watching, he slept. Again she was dying. He could hear her -voice, trying so hard to be patient. Someone entered, bringing a new -body, exactly like the old one but well. She rose and slipped into it, -just as if she were trying on a new dress. She caught him by the hand, -laughing excitedly. In their gladness, as they left the room, neither -of them remembered to look back to the bed; they had no pity for the -abandoned fleshly garment. - -----And was death no more than that to the dead--clothes cast aside, -outworn by the spirit? What a little to make a fuss about! - -Through the open window dawn was breaking. In a chair Harry slept, his -chin fallen forward. Peter rose to his feet and tiptoed over to the -still face lying on the pillow, framed in the golden hair. He stood -gazing down. The morning wind walked the sea, like the feet of Jesus -bringing peace to sinful men. Far back he remembered another early -morning when Kay's eyes had been closed and he had heard those same feet -walking--snow had lain on the ground. Another girl, strangely like her, -with the same bowed mouth and penciled brows, had been stretched beside -her. While Kay's eyes were shuttered, the other eyes had opened. - -As the days went by, the desire grew strong within him to see Glory--he -wanted to trace Kay's likeness in the living features. And yet he -postponed. - -It was September. Harry had left for London, called back by work. -Letters from Topbury implored his own return. He was afraid to abandon -scenes familiar; in losing them he might lose the sense of Kay's spirit -presence. - -Then to him, as to Harry, came the imperative cry of the need of the -world. - -A telegram sent from Paris and forwarded on from Topbury reached him. Of -all persons it was from the golden woman. It bade him urgently to join -her. He took no notice. Another, saying that it was not she who wanted -him but someone whom he could help. A third, still more insistent. The -first he had suspected; this last was too pleading for insincerity. He -packed up and left. - -In Paris she met him; even then she refused to tell him why she had -sent for him. She was a different golden woman, grave and quiet. The day -after his arrival, she took him out to a gray Normandy village. On the -train journey she had little to say; only once did she explain herself. -A flight of swallows was passing over a meadow going south, moving -steadily as a cloud. She met his eyes. - -"Yes, I'm different. The stork knoweth her appointed times, and the -turtle and the crane and the swallow, but----You remember the passage. I -didn't know mine. I waited too long. Foolish! Foolish!---- The winter -came. My appointed time went by me." And a little later, "Don't let that -happen to you, Peter." - -They walked down a white road and came to a cottage. She knocked. A -voice, which he ought to have recognized, told her to enter. Sitting in -a low chair, her foot rocking a cradle, was Riska. She rose, overcome -with surprise, lowering her face, awaiting his judgment. As he pressed -her to him, the baby began to cry. She stooped, picked him up and held -him out to Peter. - -"Isn't he sweet?" - -The first words she had spoken--spoken without shame or apology, almost -with pride! It seemed impossible that a sin which had made a thing -so beautiful could need excusing. He met her eyes, reading in them -sacrifice. Where was the old Riska, impatient of restraint, eager to -catch men, with the petulant, fluttering mouth? The passion which -should have destroyed had purified, just as his grief which might have -embittered had made him more anxious to help. - -On the way to England she told him of Hardcastle. "I got so tired -of trying and trying to get married. All the men found out -something--father, or my shallowness, or something. I don't blame them. -And all the time, ever since I was a little girl, mother talked about -the raft and what happened if a girl didn't escape from it. I grew -desperate and frightened. It was anything to catch a man. And then -Roy----. He said he'd marry me in Paris; afterwards he put off and put -off. When he'd deserted me, I didn't like to write. After the baby -came----. I don't know, it may be all wrong, but I wasn't a bit ashamed -of myself. I didn't write then because I couldn't bear to think of -people despising him. If the golden woman hadn't met me---- Oh, well, I -should have gone on somehow, earning money for baby with my -hands.----But, dear Peter, I'm so glad you found me. I never understood -you till now." - -At Topbury that first night, after a hurried reference to Kay, they -didn't trust themselves to talk about her. They tortured themselves the -more by their reticence. Everything spoke so loudly of her absence. Nan -sat with Riska's child in her arms--the child which should have been -unwelcome. It seemed to fill a gap in her life; they all knew what -was passing behind her eyes. The evening grew late. She and Riska went -slowly up to bed. - -Peter turned to his father. For hours he had sat grimly watching -the landscape by Cuyp, where the comfortable burgher walked forever -unperturbed by the banks of the gray canal. - -"Father." - -"Yes." - -"We're not doing right." - -"Right!" He shrugged his shoulders. His gesture accused God defiantly. - -"No, father--not doing right. One of the last things she said was that -she'd know and be unhappy if we broke our hearts about her. She does -know, and--and I think we've been making her sad." - -For a long time his father sat brooding. He stretched out his hand, -"Your imagination, Peter--you've never outgrown it. But--but we don't -want to make her sad." - -The house was hushed. It was some hours since they had climbed the -stairs. He crept out of his room into the one that had been hers. It was -the same as when, years ago, they two had shared it. He gazed across the -lamp-lit gulf to where Hampstead lay shrouded beneath the night. And -he remembered: the moon letting down her silver ladder and bidding him -ascend; the windows in streets he had never traversed, which had seemed -to watch him like the eyes of cats; the mysterious whistling from the -powder-cupboard, "Coming! Coming! Coming!" - -He tried, as of old, to eliminate barriers by the magic of imagination. -It was true, surely, and he hadn't grown up. Soon he would hear the -angel whistle. On the straight unruffled bed he would see the gentle -little body, with the tumbled honey-colored hair. - -He forgot his promise not to break his heart about her. Throwing himself -down, he knelt beside the pillow, with his empty arms spread out. - -A sound! Someone was holding him--someone who, coming on the same -errand, had discovered him. "Peterkins! Peterkins, don't cry." - -His arms went about her neck. "Little mother, it's long since you called -me that. I'm so tired--tired of pretending to be brave and trying to be -a man." - -They sent for Jehane next day and the next; at last they had to go -and fetch her. Her heart was hard because of the disgrace of what had -happened. She spoke with bitterness of her children. Glory's joining her -stepfather at The Winged Thrush she construed as an act of treachery. "A -daughter of mine," she said, "serving in a public-house!" She had given -up all hope that Eustace would ever ask her to come to Canada. His -infrequent letters had given her to understand tacitly that she was -not wanted. Only Moggs was left--a subdued child, a little like Glory. -Against disappointment from that quarter Jehane forearmed herself by -taking disappointment for granted. Her sense of injustice centered in -the paradox that Ocky was happy, despite his mismanagement, while she, -after all her painstaking rectitude, was sad. - -Throughout the journey to Topbury she insisted vigorously that she would -never take Riska back. As she entered the hall of his house, Barrington -heard the last repetition of her assertion. "We don't want you to," he -said; "she and her child are going to live with us." Then Jehane saw -Riska, and recognized the change; promptly she turned her accusals -against herself. She had been unwise. She had spoilt her life both -as wife and mother. Her calamities were her own doing. She needed -Riska--wanted her. "You'll come with your mother, won't you?" - -Riska shook her head gently--so gently that for a minute she looked like -Glory. "Mother dear, I can't. I would if it were only myself; I've baby -to consider. You'd do for him just what you've done----. You couldn't -help it. I'm going to stay here with Aunt Nan and learn--learn to be -like her--like Kay." - -Jehane covered her face with her hands. "I'm a bitter woman--yes, and -jealous. But that my own child should tell me--and should be able to say -it truly!" - -She looked up. "If I were to try to be different, if I could prove to -you that I was different----." - -Riska put her arms about her mother's neck, "That's all in the future. -But, oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry. I know you've done your best." - -"My best!" Her voice was full of self-despisings. "Oh, well----!" - -She had lost her last illusion--her faith in her own righteousness. -Barrington, watching the disillusioned woman, tried to trace in her -features the eager face, tell-tale of dreamings, that had beckoned -to him from a window on a summer's afternoon in Oxford. He found no -resemblance. - -He turned to Riska, who had played life's game so recklessly, plunging -off the raft of maidenhood, swimming and drifting on chance-found dbris -to the land of maternity, about which her mother was always talking. - -In searching Riska's face he found Jehane's dreamings come -true--self-fulfilment and mastery. Sacrifice, by the road of sin, -had accomplished them. He recollected how he had said of her, "Ripe -fruit--ready to fall to the ground." He smiled wisely, remembering his -own unwisdom. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII--AND GLORY - -He was late. It didn't matter; no one had been warned of his coming. - -He punted down the last stretch of river. It had been Peterish, yet -appropriate of him to choose this means of travel. He had arrived in -Henley that morning. Had he gone by road, he could have been at The -Winged Thrush for lunch. Now, full behind him, spying beneath the bent -arm of a willow stooped the setting sun. - -All day he had had the sense of things watching--memories, associations -of the past, hopes and dreads which had lost their power to help or -harm him. A new hope had become his companion; he gazed back, taking a -farewell glance at the old affections. - -As he stole down the streak of silver, through ash-gray autumn meadows, -he had many thoughts. Cherry and the last time he had made that journey! -The Faun Man and himself--the way in which men mistake their love! -Withered reeds rustled with the motion of his passing. Fallen leaves, -scarlet and brown and yellow, starred the water's surface. Thrusting -himself forward, he sang and hummed, - - "I've been shipwrecked off Patagonia, - - Home and Colonia, - - Antipodonia-." - -He broke off, smiling whimsically. In a figurative sense his own -autobiography--almost a fulfilled prophecy! A brave song! He liked -it--it paid no heed to regret and recorded only the joy of pressing on. - -Letting the punt drift, he stared back into the evening redness. It took -courage to learn what things to remember and how to forget. For some -weeks he had been trying to learn--this river-journey was the testing. - -He rounded a bend. Ahead swans sailed placidly. Cattle stood knee-deep -in water. In the stream, tethered to a landing, boats swung idly. On -a close-cut lawn green tables were set out in the shadow of trees. -Everything stood hushed and huddled in the gilded quiet. - -He stepped out and strolled up through the trellised garden. Finding no -one, he wandered round the inn to the back. From the stable-yard came -the splashing that water makes when a brush is plunged into a bucket; -then a droning sound, punctuated with the hissing of an ostler. Peter -laughed inwardly. - -"Whoa there, boy! You ain't a patch on Cat's Meat. Call yerself a -'oss?--- Ah, would yer! Shish-shish-shish. - - Oh Peter wuz 'is nime, - - So Peterish wuz 'e, - - 'E wept the sun's h'eye back agen - - Lest 'e should never see." - -"Hulloa, Mr. Grace!" - -The old man started and overset his bucket. "Ho, me tripe and h'onions, -wot a fright yer did give me!--- Why, Master Peter, 'oo'd 'ave thought -ter see you 'ere. Thought yer'd forgotten h'us and wuz never comin'. H'I -wuz just a-singin' about yer. H'I h'orften does when h'I'm a-groomin' of -a 'oss. Sorter soothes 'im--maikes 'im stand quiet." - -"Where's Uncle Ocky?" - -"Gone ter 'Enley, white spats and h'all." - -"And Glory?" - -Mr. Grace caught the tremble in the question and glanced up sharply. -"And Glory!" He passed his hand in front of his mouth, "Miss Glory, -she----. H'it's lonely for 'er, a bit of a gel, with two old codgers, -like me and yer h'uncle. We does our best, but----. Ho, yes! Where -is she? On the river, maybe, a-dreamin'. If yer'll wite till h'I've -finished with this 'ere 'oss---- - -"On the river!" Peter spoke quickly, to himself rather than to his -friend. "Couldn't have passed her. Must be lower down." - -He was turning away. Mr. Grace called after him, "'Alf a mo'! Got -somethink ter tell yer." Peter halted. "H'it's abart me darter, Grice; -h'unexpected like she's----" Peter waved his hand and passed out of -ear-shot. Mr. Grace winked his eye at the horse. "Ho, beg parding!" - -The sun had sunk behind the trees; the moon was rising. A little breeze -shook the brittle leaves, laughing softly among them as they broke from -their anchorage and swooped like bats through the dusk. On the edge -of the lawn, overhanging the river, a white post stood ghostly. As -he untied his punt, Peter looked up and read the legend, _The Winged -Thrush_. On the sign was depicted a brown bird, fluttering its wings -in a gilded cage. He pushed off into the stream, creeping sharp-eyed -between misty banks through the twilight. - -_And Glory!_ Until the last few months his world had consisted of other -people--people who had seemed so important--and Glory. But now--now that -he could no longer follow the shining head of his little sister, he had -halted. Looking back, all through the years from childhood he seemed -to hear Glory, tiptoeing behind him. He had noticed her so rarely. He -remembered the time when he had told her to remain seated on the garden -wall, had forgotten her, had missed her and had recollected her only -to find her still waiting for him, crying in the darkness. The terror -seized him that to-night he might have remembered too late--might have -lost her. - -Something tapped against the side of his punt. He leant out--a floating -oar! The stream was beginning to quicken; ahead rose the low booming of -water rushing across a weir. He gazed about him. Down the shadowy river, -darkly a-silver in moonlight, a black thing, like a log, bobbed in the -current. As he came up with it, a figure huddled in the stern, called -nervously to him, "Oh please, I've dropped my oars; do help me." He -maneuvered alongside. "Why, Peter! Dear Peter----!" - -There was no time for talking. From bank to bank ahead of them the -stream leapt palely, like the white mane of a plunging horse. Putting -his arm about her, he lifted her rapidly into his punt. The empty boat -hurried on into the darkness. Working his way upstream, he ran into -safety in a bed of rushes. - -"Glory, if I'd lost you!" - -She shook her head laughing, "You couldn't." - -He knelt beside her, clasping her hands. "But how----? What were you -doing?" - -"Dreaming. Just wondering. While I drifted, they slipped from the -rowlocks." - -"Dreaming!" He stooped his face. "Of what--of whom?" - -Her voice sank. "Must I tell?" - -From his sky-window the man in the moon drew aside the curtain; he -peered out knowingly. - -Peter had her in his arms. His lips touched hers in the dusk. His eyes -met hers--Kay's eyes; even in the darkness he knew them. - -"And you do care?---- You really want me?" - -She drooped her head against his shoulder. "Oh, dearest, I always -wanted----. But I'm a girl, Peter; I didn't dare----." - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Raft, by Coningsby Dawson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAFT *** - -***** This file should be named 50498-8.txt or 50498-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/4/9/50498/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - diff --git a/old/50498-8.zip b/old/50498-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index bf3d8f6..0000000 --- a/old/50498-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50498-h.zip b/old/50498-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f6092c2..0000000 --- a/old/50498-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50498-h/50498-h.htm b/old/50498-h/50498-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index e30480d..0000000 --- a/old/50498-h/50498-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,23243 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <title> - The Raft, by Coningsby Dawson - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Raft, by Coningsby Dawson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Raft - -Author: Coningsby Dawson - -Illustrator: Orson Lowell - -Release Date: November 19, 2015 [EBook #50498] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAFT *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - THE RAFT - </h1> - <h2> - By Coningsby Dawson - </h2> - <h3> - Author Of “The Garden Without Walls” - </h3> - <h3> - With Illustrations By Orson Lowell - </h3> - <h4> - New York - </h4> - <h4> - Henry Holt And Company 1914 <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-000" - id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </h4> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001m " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0008.jpg" alt="0008m " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0008.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009m " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0009.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <blockquote> - <p> - <i>Their virgins had no marriage-songs; and they that could swim did - cast themselves into the sea to get to land, and some on boards, and - some on other things.</i> - </p> - </blockquote> - <h2> - THE RAFT - </h2> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I—A MAN </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II—“I’M HALF SICK OF - SHADOWS” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III—ALL THE WAY FOR THIS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV—LOVE’S SHADOW </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V—ENTER PETER AND GLORY </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI—JEHANE’S SECOND MARRIAGE - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII—THE WHISTLING ANGEL </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII—“COMING. COMING, - PETERKINS” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX—KAY AND SOME OTHERS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X—WAFFLES BETTERS HIMSELF </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI—THE HOME LIFE OF A FINANCIER - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII—THE ‘MAGINATIVE CHILD - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII—PRICKCAUTIONS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV—PETER IN EGYPT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV—MARRIED LIFE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI—THE ANGELS AND OCKY WAFFLES - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII—A HOUSE BUILT ON SAND </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII—PETER TO THE RESCUE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX—THE CHRISTMAS CAB </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX—THE HIDING OF OCKY WAFFLES </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI—STRANGE HAPPENINGS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII—CAT’S MEAT LOOKS ROUND - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII—AND GLORY SAID </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV—THE TRICYCLE MAKES A DISCOVERY - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV—THE HAPPY COTTAGE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI—THE HAUNTED WOOD </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII—PETER FINDS A FAIRY </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII—WAKING UP </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX—A GOLDEN WORLD </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX—HALF IN LOVE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI—A NIGHT WITH THE MOON </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII—IF YOU WON’T COME TO - HEAVEN, THEN—— </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII—THE WORLD AND OCKY </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV—THE BENEVOLENT DELILAHS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV—WINGED BIRDS AND ROOTED TREES - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI—THE SPREADING OF WINGS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII—THE RACE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII—A NIGHT OF IT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX—ON THE RIVER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL—MR. GRACE GOES ON THE BUST </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI—TREE-TOPS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII—THE COACH-RIDE TO LONDON </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII—AN UNFINISHED POEM </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV—IN SEARCH OF YOUNGNESS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV—LOVE KNOCKS AT KAY’S DOOR - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI—THE ANGEL WHISTLES </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII—“THEIR VIRGINS HAD NO - MARRIAGE-SONGS; AND THEY THAT COULD SWIM——” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII—AND GLORY </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I—A MAN - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was said of - Jehane that she married blindly on the re-bound. She herself confessed in - later life that she married out of dread of becoming an old maid. - </p> - <p> - A don’s daughter at Oxford has plentiful opportunities for becoming - an old maid. Undergraduates are too adventurously young and graduates are - too importantly in earnest for marriage; whether too young or too earnest, - they are all too occupied. To bring a man to the point of matrimony, you - must catch him unaware and invade his idleness. Love, in its initial - stages, is frivolous. - </p> - <p> - This tragic state of affairs was frequently discussed by Jehane with her - best friend, Nan Tudor. Were they to allow themselves to fade husbandless - into the autumn of girlhood? Were they too ladylike to make any effort to - save themselves from this horrid fate?—In the gray winter as they - returned from a footer match, on the river in summer as the eights swung - by, in the old-fashioned rectory-garden at Cassingland, this was their one - absorbing topic of conversation. Ye gods, were they never to be married! - </p> - <p> - They watched the privileged male-creatures who had it in their power to - choose them: that they did not choose them seemed an insult. When term - commenced, they would dash up to their colleges in hansoms and step out - confident and smiling. They would saunter through the narrow Oxford - streets to morning lectures, arm-in-arm, in tattered gowns, smoking - cigarettes, jolly and lackadaisical. In the afternoon, with savage and - awakened energy, they would strive excessively for athletic honors. At - night they would smash windows, twang banjoes, rag one another, assault - constables and sometimes get drunk. At the end of term they would step - into their hansoms and vanish, lords of creation, in search of a - well-earned rest. - </p> - <p> - Jehane contrasted their lives with Nan’s and hers. “They’ve - got everything; our hands are empty. We’re compulsory nuns and may - do nothing to free ourselves. When <i>he</i> comes to my rescue, if he - ever comes, how I shall adore him.” - </p> - <p> - Then together they would fall to picturing their chosen lover. - Unfortunately the choice was not theirs—their portion was to wait - for him to come. - </p> - <p> - They knew of lean, striding women in North Oxford who had waited—women - whose hair had lost its brightness, who fondled dogs and pretended to hate - babies. - </p> - <p> - Jehane and Nan adored babies. They loved the feel of little crumpled - fingers against their throats and the warmth of a tiny body cuddled - against their breasts. They never missed an opportunity for hugging a - baby. They never passed a young mother in the streets without a pang of - envy. - </p> - <p> - Why was it that no man had chosen them? Gazing at their own reflections, - they would tell themselves that they were not bad-looking—Jehane - with her cloudy brown eyes and gipsy mane of night-black hair, Nan all - blue and flaxen and fluffy. The years slipped by. Where was he in the - world? - </p> - <p> - For eight years, since she was seventeen, Jehane had never ceased - watching. Every New Year and birthday she had whispered to herself, - “Perhaps, by this time next year he will have come.” Marriage - seemed to her the escape to every happiness. - </p> - <p> - Now that she was twenty-five she grew desperate; from now on, with every - day, her chance of being one of the chosen would diminish. As she - expressed it to Nan, “We’re two girls adrift on a raft and we - can’t swim. Over there’s the land of marriage with all the - little children, the homes and the husbands; we’ve no means of - getting to it. Unless some of the men see us and put off in boats to our - rescue, we’ll be caught in the current of the years and swept out - into the hunger of mid-ocean. But they’re too busy to notice us. Oh, - dear!” - </p> - <p> - When Jehane spoke like this Nan would laugh; except for Jehane, no such - thoughts would have entered her head. They didn’t worry her when she - was with her rector father at Cassingland, occupied with her quiet round - of village-duties. In her heart of hearts she believed that life was - planned by an unescapable Providence. Her placid philosophy irritated - Jehane. She said that Nan’s God was a stout widower in a clerical - band; whereat Nan would smile dreamily and answer, “Wouldn’t - it be just ripping if God were?” - </p> - <p> - At such times Jehane thought Nan stupid. - </p> - <p> - That Jehane should have been so romantic about marriage was inexplicable, - save on the ground that she voiced the passions which her parents had - suppressed in themselves. - </p> - <p> - Her father, Professor Benares Usk, was the greatest living Homeric scholar—a - tall, bowed man with a broad beard that flowed down below his watch-chain, - a bald and venerable egg-shaped head and a secret habit of taking snuff. - He had lost interest in human doings since Greece was trampled by the - Roman Eagles. Both he and Mrs. Usk were misty-eyed—they had - frictioned off the corners of their personalities in the graveyards of the - past; their minds were museums, stored with chipped splendors, the - atmosphere of which was stuffy. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Usk was an authority on Scandinavian folk-lore—a thin, - fine-featured, flat-breasted woman who wore her dresses straight up and - down without a bulge. Her soft gray hair was drawn tightly off her - forehead and twisted at the back into a hard, round walnut. - </p> - <p> - Only on Sunday afternoons was the house thrown open to visitors; then - Jehane would offer tea to ill-at-ease young bloods, while her father - fingered his beard and made awkward efforts to be affable, and her mother, - ignoring the guests, sat bolt upright in her chair and slumbered. What a - look of relief came into the tanned faces of the men when they caught up - their hats and departed. They had come as a duty to see not Jehane but her - father; and now they went off to their pleasures. Oh, those Sunday - afternoons, how they made her shudder! - </p> - <p> - Often she marveled at her parents—what had brought them together? To - her way of thinking, they knew so little about love and could so easily - have dispensed with one another. Like dignified sleepy house-cats, they - sat on distant sides of the domestic hearth, heedless of everything save - to be undisturbed.—Ah, when she married, life would become intense, - ecstatic—one throb of passion! - </p> - <p> - There was a story current in the ‘Varsity of how the Professor cared - for Mrs. Usk. He had taken her for a drive in a dog-cart, he sitting in - front and she, characteristically, by choice at the back. Deep in thought, - he had jolted through country-lanes. Her presence did not occur to him - till he had returned to Oxford and had drawn up before his house; then he - perceived that she was not there and must have tumbled out. Some hours - later, having retraced his journey, he found her by the roadside with a - broken leg. For the next three months the greatest living Homeric scholar - did penance, wheeling an exacting lady in a bathchair. Doubtless, he - planned his great studies of the Iliad as he trundled, and the chair’s - occupant constructed English renderings of Scandinavian legends. At all - events, next autumn they each had a book published. - </p> - <p> - These were the influences under which Jehane grew up. Her parents were - more like children to her than parents, gentle and utterly absorbed in - themselves; they were no earthly use when it came to marriage. She could - not apply to them for help; they would have thought her indelicate, if - they had thought about it at all. Probably they would not have understood. - Sometimes marriage came to girls—sometimes it didn’t; nobody - was to blame whether it did or didn’t. That would have been their - way of summing up. Meanwhile Jehane was twenty-five; she had begun to - abandon hope, when the great change occurred—it commenced with - William Barrington. - </p> - <p> - It was early summer. The streets had been washed clean by rain and were - now haunted by strange sweet perfumes which drifted over walls from hidden - college-gardens. Nan had driven in from Cassingland and had come to Jehane - for lunch and shelter. It was afternoon; the sun was shining tearfully - over glistening turrets and drenched tree-tops. - </p> - <p> - Jehane unlatched the window and leant out above the flint-paved street, - looking up and holding out her hands. From far away, out of sight on the - river, came the thud of oars and hoarse shouts where the eights were - practising. Halfway down the street the tower of Calvary soared, - incredibly frail and defiant, against a running sea of cloud. - </p> - <p> - “There’s not a drop. If you don’t believe me, feel for - yourself. Let’s——” - </p> - <p> - She drew back swiftly, looking slightly flustered. - </p> - <p> - From the back of the room Nan’s voice came smooth and unhurried, - “What’s the matter? Why don’t you finish what you were - saying?” - </p> - <p> - “It’s a man,” Jehane whispered. - </p> - <p> - In an instantly arranged conspiracy, Nan tiptoed over to her friend. - Cautiously they peered out. No sooner had Nan’s eyes found what they - sought than she darted back; Jehane, with rising color, remained bending - forward. - </p> - <p> - The bell rang. A few seconds later, the front-door opened and shut. Jehane - drew a long breath and stood erect. Laughing nervously, she patted her - face with both hands. “You look scared, you dear old thing—more - fluffy than ever: just like a tiny newly hatched chicken—— But - it’s happened in the world before.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Jehane, how could you do it?” - </p> - <p> - “Do what?” - </p> - <p> - “You know—stare at him like that.” - </p> - <p> - “I looked; I didn’t stare. Why, my dear, that’s what - woman’s eyes were made for.” - </p> - <p> - “But—but you flung your eyes about his neck. You’ve - dragged him into the house.—And I want to hide so badly.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t.” Jehane feigned a coolness which she did not - possess. - </p> - <p> - A step sounded on the stairs. Nan buried her hot cheeks in a bowl of - lilac. A maid entered with a card. - </p> - <p> - Jehane looked up from reading it. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t know him, Betty. What made him come?” Betty - looked her surprise. “To see master, of course. That’s what he - said.” - </p> - <p> - “But you told him father was out?” - </p> - <p> - “I did, miss. But he’s all the way from London. Seems the - master gave him an appointment. He told me to tell you as you’d do - instead.” - </p> - <p> - “Just like father to forget. We’re going on the river; I - suppose I’ll have to see him first.—No, Nan, I won’t be - left by myself.—Betty, you’d better show him up.” - </p> - <p> - Nan threw herself down on the sofa, crushing herself into the cushions, as - far from the door as she could get. “I wish I’d not come. - Jehane, why did you do it?” Jehane seated herself near the window - where the light fell across her shoulder most becomingly. She spread out - her skirts decorously and picked up a book, composing her features to an - expression of sweetest demureness—that it was a Greek grammar did - not matter. In answer to Nan’s question she replied, “Little - stupid. Nothing venture, nothing have.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II—“I’M HALF SICK OF SHADOWS” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he strange man was - rather amused as he climbed the stairs, but he showed no amusement when he - entered. - </p> - <p> - Jehane laid aside her book leisurely and rose from her chair; he was even - better to look at than she had expected. It was his clothes that impressed - her first; the gray tweeds fitted his athletic figure with just that - maximum of good taste that stops short of perfection. Then it was his - face, clean-shaven and intellectual—the face of a boyish man, mobile - and keen in expression. She liked the way he did his dark brown hair, - almost as dark as hers, swept straight back without a parting from his - forehead. His eyes were kindly, piercing and blue-gray; for a man he had - exceptionally long, thin hands. She liked him entirely; she wondered - whether he was equally well impressed. - </p> - <p> - “So thoughtless of father—he’s out. Is there anything I - can do for you?” - </p> - <p> - Jehane was tall, but she only reached up to his shoulders. His eyes looked - down on hers and twinkled into a smile at her nervous gravity. - </p> - <p> - “We all know the Professor; there’s no need to apologize. - Please don’t stand.” - </p> - <p> - She was about to comply with his request, when she realized that she no - longer held his attention. He was staring past her. She turned her head. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, allow me to introduce you, Mr. Barrington, to my friend, Miss - Tudor.” - </p> - <p> - “I thought it was.” His tones had become extraordinarily glad. - “No one could forget little Nan, who’d once known her. But - Nan, you’ve grown older. What do you mean by it? It’s so - uncalled for, so unexpected. You’re no longer the Princess - Pepperminta that you were.” - </p> - <p> - Nan crossed the room in a romping bound and commenced pumping his arm up - and down. - </p> - <p> - “It’s Billy, dear old Billy! You remember, Jehane; I’ve - told you. Billy who sewed up father’s surplice, and Billy who tied - knots in my hair, and Billy who, when I got angry, used to call me the - Princess Pepperminta. You made yourself so detestable, Billy, that our - village talks about you even now.” - </p> - <p> - “A doubtful compliment; but it’s ripping to see you—simply - ripping.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane stood aside and watched them. She had heard Nan talk of Billy - Barrington and how her father had tutored him for Oxford—but that - must be twelve years back. She had never known him herself and had never - been very curious about him. But now, as she watched, she felt the appeal - of this big, broad-shouldered boy of thirty. - </p> - <p> - They were talking—talking of things beyond her knowledge, things - which shut her out. - </p> - <p> - “And why didn’t you write in all these years? Father and I - often mentioned you. In Cassingland you were an event. It wasn’t - kind of you, Billy.” - </p> - <p> - “Things at home were in such a mess. I’d to start work at - once. Somehow, with working so hard, other things faded out.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor Nan with the rest!” - </p> - <p> - “No, I remembered you. ‘Pon my honor I did, Nan; but I thought——” - </p> - <p> - “Yes?” - </p> - <p> - “You were such a kid in those days; I thought you’d forgotten. - As though either of us could forget. I was an ass.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane had turned her back and was looking out of the window. For the - first time she envied Nan—Nan, the daughter of a country parson. It - was too bad. - </p> - <p> - “Miss Usk.” - </p> - <p> - She glanced across her shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “We’re being intolerably rude, talking all about our own - affairs. You see, once Nan was almost my sister. How old were you, Nan? - Thirteen, wasn’t it? And I was eighteen. We’ve not met since - then. My father died suddenly, you know. I had to step into his shoes—they - were much too big for me. That was the end of Oxford and Cassingland.” - </p> - <p> - “We were going out on the river,” said Jehane. “Perhaps - you’ll join us. I’ll sit very quiet and listen. You can talk - over old times to your heart’s content.” - </p> - <p> - They piled his arms with cushions, and together set out through the - glistening meadows to the barges. After the rain, the air was intensely - still. Sounds carried far; from tall trees on the Broad Walk and from the - uttermost distance came the fluty cry of birds, from the river the rattle - of oars being banked, and from every side the slow patter of dripping - branches. Like a canvas, fresh from an artist’s brush, colors in the - landscape stood out distinct and wet—flowers against the gray walls - of Corpus, trunks of trees with their velvety blackness and shorn - greenness of the Hinksey Hills. Men in disreputable shorts, returning from - the boats, passed them. Some ran; some sauntered chatting. - </p> - <p> - Barrington laughed shortly and drew a long breath. “Nothing to do - but enjoy themselves. Nothing to do but grow a fine body and learn to be - gentlemen. I missed all that. After the rush and drive, it’s topping - to sink back.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re right; it is sleepy. One day’s just like the - next. We stand as still as church-steeples. People come and go; we’re - left. We exist for visitors to look at, like the Martyr’s Memorial - and Calvary Tower.” - </p> - <p> - He glanced down at Jehane quickly: she interested him—there was - something about her that he could not understand. The long penciled brows, - the thick lashes, the cloudy eyes and the straight, pale features - attracted and yet repelled him. He felt that she was not happy and had - never been quite happy. The natural generosity of the man made him eager - to hear her speak about herself. - </p> - <p> - But Jehane was aware that she had struck a discord in what she had said. - He had flinched like a child, with whom the thought of pain had not yet - become a habit. She made haste to cover up her error by directing - attention to himself. - </p> - <p> - “But you—what are you?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m a pub.” - </p> - <p> - “A pub! But you can’t be. You don’t mean that you——” - </p> - <p> - Nan caught his arm in her merriment and leant across him. “Of course - he doesn’t. He’s a publisher. He always did clip his words.” - </p> - <p> - “But not <i>the</i> Barrington—father’s publisher?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, <i>the</i> Barrington. It’s funny, Jehane, but it can’t - be helped. Anyhow, he’s only Billy now.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington stood still, eying the two girls—the one fair and all - mischief, the other dark and serious. “What’s the matter with - you, Miss Usk? Why do you object?” - </p> - <p> - “If I told you, you might not like it.” - </p> - <p> - “Rubbish.” - </p> - <p> - “Well then, you ought to have a long gray beard like father. You’re - not old enough.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve sometimes thought that myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Billy’s always been young for his age,” said Nan; - “he’s minus twenty now.” - </p> - <p> - But, as they walked on, Jehane was saying to herself, “Then he was - only coming to see father, as everybody comes! It wasn’t my face - that drew him.” - </p> - <p> - They strewed the cushions on the floor of the punt. Barrington took the - pole and Jehane seated herself in front so that she could face him. All - that he should see of Nan’s attractions was the back of her golden - head—Jehane had arranged all that. - </p> - <p> - They swung out into mid-stream unsteadily; Barrington was struggling to - recover a forgotten art. Their direction was erratic. They nearly fouled a - returning eight; the maledictions of the cox, each stinging epithet of - whose abuse politely ended in “sir,” drew unwelcome attention - to their wandering progress. When they had collided with the opposite - bank, Nan stood up and took the pole herself. Jehane was in luck. - </p> - <p> - She had often pictured such a scene to herself—a man, herself, and a - punt on the river; in these pictures she had never included Nan. She had - heard herself brilliantly conversing, saying amusing things that had made - the man laugh, saying deep things that had made him solemn; then, - presently she had ceased to torment him, his arms had gone about her, and - she had lain a fluttering wild thing on his breast. - </p> - <p> - Now, in reality, she had nothing to say. When he spoke, she gave him short - answers. She was not mistress of herself. She trailed her hands in the - water and was afraid to look up, lest he should guess the tumult in her - heart. - </p> - <p> - The punt had turned out of the main stream into the Cherwell, and was - stealing between narrow banks. Jehane knew that she was appearing sullen; - she always appeared like that with men. In her mind’s eye she saw - herself acting the other part of gay, responsive woman of the world. She - was angry with herself. - </p> - <p> - Barrington, hampered by her embarrassment, had twisted round on his - cushions and was chaffing Nan. Nan was looking her best and, as usual, was - quite unconscious of the fact. In her loose, blowy muslin, standing erect, - leaning against the pole with the water dripping from her hands, she - seemed the soul of summer and unspoilt girlhood against the background of - lazy river and green shadows. There was something infantile and appealing - about Nan. Her flaxen hair fitted her like a shining cap of satin. Her - eyes were inextinguishably bright and blue; above them were delicate, - golden brows. Her red lips seemed always slightly parted, ready to respond - to mischief or merriment. She was small in build—the kind of - girl-woman a man is tempted to pick up and carry. Her chief beauty was her - long, slim throat and neck; she was a white flower, swaying from a fragile - stem. It was impossible to think that Nan knew anything that was not good. - </p> - <p> - After they had passed under Magdalen Bridge they had the river very much - to themselves: the rain had driven most of the voyagers to cover. For long - stretches there was no sound but their own voices, the splash of the pole - and the secret singing of birds. - </p> - <p> - Jehane, with trailing hands and brooding eyes, watched this man; she - wanted him—she did not know why—she wanted him for herself. - Sometimes she became so concentrated in her mood that she forgot to listen - to what was being said. Through her head went humming significant and - disconnected stanzas, which she repeated over and over: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Or when the moon was overhead, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Came two young lovers lately wed: - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - ‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - The Lady of Shalott.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Jehane had once been told that she was Pre-Raphaelite in appearance; she - never forgot that—it explained her to herself. She had quarreled - forever with a man who had said that Rossetti’s women resulted from - tuberculosis of the imagination. The truth of the remark was unforgivable—she - knew that she herself suffered from some such spiritual malady. - </p> - <p> - A question roused her from her trance. - </p> - <p> - “I say, Billy, are you married yet?” - </p> - <p> - It was extraordinary how Jehane’s heart pounded as she waited for - the question to be answered. - </p> - <p> - He clasped his hands in supplication, “Promise not to tell my wife - that we came out like this together.” - </p> - <p> - Nan let the pole trail behind her and gazed down at him mockingly. Her - face was flushed with the exertion of punting: the faint gold of the - stormy afternoon, drifting through gray willows, spangled her hair and - dress. “When you like you can make yourself as big an ass as anyone. - I don’t believe you are a pub: you’re a big, lazy fellow - playing truant. Answer my question.” - </p> - <p> - “But Pepperminta, why should I?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t call me ridiculous names. Answer my question.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington stretched himself indolently on the cushions. “You’ve - not changed a bit; you’re just as funny and imperious as ever. Soon - you’ll stamp your little foot; when that fails, you’ll try - coaxing. After twelve years of being away from you, I can read you like a - book.” - </p> - <p> - “You can’t; I never coax now. I scowl, and get angry and - cruel.” - </p> - <p> - He glanced up at her gentle, laughing face. “You couldn’t make - your face scowl, however much you tried.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane told herself that they were two children, rehearsing an old game - together. People must be very fond of one another to play a game of - pretending to quarrel. She felt strangely grown up and out of it, and - quite unreasonably hurt. Nan was surprising her at every turn. - </p> - <p> - “You’ll enjoy yourself much better,” he was saying, - “if I leave you in suspense. You can spend your time in guessing - what she looks like. Then you can start watching me closely to see whether - I love her. And then you can wonder how much I’m going to tell her - of what we say to each other.” - </p> - <p> - Nan jerked the punt forward. “I don’t want to know. You can - keep your secret to yourself.” Then, glancing at Jehane, “I - say, Janey, you ask him. He can’t be rude to you. He’ll have - to answer.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane had no option but to enter into the jest. “I know. Father - told me. Mr. Barrington is a widower.” - </p> - <p> - The man’s eyes flashed and held hers steadily; they twinkled with - surprise and humor. “Go on, Miss Usk; you tell her. It’s - altogether too sad.” - </p> - <p> - While she was speaking, she was excitedly conscious that he was examining - her and approving her impertinence. “Mr. Barrington married his - mother’s parlor-maid soon after he left Cassingland. She was a - beautiful creature and very modest; because she felt herself unworthy of - the brilliant Mr. Barrington, she made it a condition of their marriage - that it should be kept secret. Then she got it into her head that she was - spoiling his promising career, and——- Well, she died suddenly—of - gas. After she was dead, a volume of poems was discovered—love poems—and - published anonymously; my mother attributes them to Bacon and my father - used to attribute them to Shakespeare. Then father found out, but he’s - never dared to tell mother; she was always so positive about it.” - </p> - <p> - Nan had stared at her friend while she was talking. Could this be the - serious Jehane? What had happened? At the end she broke into a peal of - laughter. “It won’t do, old girl; you’re stuffing. Billy - hasn’t got a mother.” - </p> - <p> - “And he isn’t married,” he said; “and he doesn’t - want to be married yet. Now are you content?” - </p> - <p> - Jehane was not content. As they drifted through Mesopotamia with its - pollard-willows, sound of running waters and constant fluttering of birds, - she kept hearing those words “And he doesn’t want to be - married yet.” Did men ever want to be married, or was it always - necessary to catch them? <i>Catch them!</i> It sounded horrid to put it - like that, and robbed love of all its poetry. As a girl with a - Pre-Raphaelite appearance, she had liked to believe all the legends of - chivalry: that it was woman’s part to be remote and disdainful, - while men endangered themselves to win her favor. But were those legends - only ideals—had anything like them ever happened? And supposing a - woman wanted to catch Barrington, how would she set about it? - </p> - <p> - The roar of water across the lasher at Parsons’ Pleasure grew - louder, drowning the conversation which was taking place in low tones at - the other end of the punt. As they drew in at the landing, Jehane bent - forward and heard Barrington say, “I believe you’d have been - disappointed if I had been married”; and Nan’s retort, “I - believe I should. You know, it does make a difference.” - </p> - <p> - Nan turned to Jehane, “What are we going to do next? There’s - hardly time to go further.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t go back yet,” Barrington protested; “let’s - get tea at Marston Ferry.” - </p> - <p> - “But who’ll take the punt round to the ladies’ landing? - Ladies aren’t allowed through Parsons’ Pleasure, and I hardly - trust you to come round by yourself.” Nan eyed him doubtfully. - “You may be a good pub, but you’re a rotten punter.” - </p> - <p> - “Dash it all, you needn’t rub it in. If the worst comes to the - worst, I shall only get a wetting.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re sure you can swim?” - </p> - <p> - “Quite sure, thanks.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, good-by, and good luck. I should hate to lose you after all - these years of parting.” - </p> - <p> - As they struck out along the path across the island and the screen of - bushes shut him from their view, Jehane felt her arm taken. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you like him, Janey?” - </p> - <p> - “What I’ve seen of him, yes.” - </p> - <p> - “I was afraid you didn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “Whatever made you think that?” - </p> - <p> - “Because he thought it. I could feel that he thought it.” - </p> - <p> - “But I did nothing.” - </p> - <p> - “You wore your touch-me-not-manners, Janey. You looked so tragic and - black. I had to talk my head off to fill in the awkwardnesses.” - </p> - <p> - “I know you did; but I wasn’t sure of the reason.” - </p> - <p> - Nan glanced up quickly and her eyes filled; the blood surged into her face - and throat; her lips trembled. She pressed her cheek coaxingly against the - tall girl’s shoulder. “You foolish Jehane; you’re - jealous. Why, Billy and I use to eat blackberries out of each other’s - hands.” - </p> - <p> - Then Jehane relented. Drawing Nan to her with swift, protecting passion, - she kissed the wet eyes and pouting mouth. “You dear little Nan, I - <i>was</i> jealous. You’re so sweet and gentle; no one could help - loving you. I was angry with myself—angry because I’m so - different.” - </p> - <p> - “So much cleverer,” Nan whispered. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t want to be clever; I’d give everything I - possess to look as good and happy as you.” - </p> - <p> - “But you are good. If you weren’t, we shouldn’t all love - you.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>All?</i> It’s enough that you do.” - </p> - <p> - When Barrington rounded the island, he found them standing oddly near - together; then he noticed a moist ball of handkerchief crushed in Nan’s - free hand—and he guessed. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III—ALL THE WAY FOR THIS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">J</span>ehane had been - granted her wish and she was frightened. The river stretched before her, a - lonely ghost, glimmering between soaked fields and beaten countryside. The - rain-fall must have been heavy in the hills, for the river was swollen and - discolored: branches, torn from overhanging trees, danced and vanished in - the swiftly moving current. With evening a breeze had sprung up, which - came fitfully in gusts, bowing tall rushes that waded in the stream, so - that they whispered “Hush.” In the distance, above clumped - tree-tops, the spires of Oxford speared the watery sky; red stains spread - along white flanks of clouds—clouds that looked like chargers - spurred by invisible riders. - </p> - <p> - The man of whom she knew so little and whom she desired was standing at - her side. She was terrified. She had gained her wish—at last they - were alone together. - </p> - <p> - Behind them, up the hill, the cosy inn nestled among its quiet arbors. - Across the river the ferryman sat whistling, waiting for his next fare to - come up. Moving away through misty meadows on the further bank a white - speck fluttered mothlike. - </p> - <p> - “She’ll get home all right, don’t you think?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not? She always does.” - </p> - <p> - “But it’ll be late by the time she reaches Cassingland. She’s - got to catch the tram into Oxford, to harness up and then to drive out to - the rectory. It’ll be late by the time she arrives.” - </p> - <p> - “She’d have been later if she’d returned by river with - us.—See, she’s waving at the stile.—Girls have to do - these thing’s for themselves, Mr. Barrington, if they have no - brothers.” - </p> - <p> - He stroked his chin. “Girls who have no brothers should be allotted - brothers by the State.” - </p> - <p> - She faced him daringly. “I should like that. I might ask to have you - appointed my brother.” - </p> - <p> - “You would, eh! Seems to me that’s what’s happened.—Funny - what a little customer Nan is for making her friends the friends of one - another: she was just the same in the old days. One might almost suspect - that she’d planned this from the start—bringing us out all - comfy, and leaving us to go home together.—But, I say, can you punt?” - </p> - <p> - “I can, but I’m not going to.” - </p> - <p> - He stepped back from her involuntarily and eyed her. There was a thrill of - excitement in her clear voice that warned and yet left him puzzled. She - filled him with discomfort—discomfort that was not entirely - unpleasant. While Nan was present, she had been watchful and silent; now - it was as though she slipped back the bars of her reticence and stepped - out. He tingled with an unaccustomed sense of danger. He weighed his words - before expressing the most trifling sentiment. Usually he was recklessly - spontaneous; now he feared lest his motives might be mistaken. What did - she want of him? She had gazed down from the window and beckoned him with - her eyes—him, a stranger. Whatever it was, Nan knew about it, and - had cried about it the moment his back was turned. He distrusted anyone - who made Nan cry. - </p> - <p> - Silence between them was more awkward than words—surcharged with - subtle promptings that words disguised; he took up the thread of their - broken conversation. - </p> - <p> - “If you’re not going to punt, how are we going to get back? I’ll - do my best, but you’ve seen what a duffer I am.” - </p> - <p> - “We’ll sit in the stern and paddle. With the current running - so strongly, we could almost drift back.” - </p> - <p> - He followed her down the slope. She walked in front, her head slightly - turned as though she listened to make sure that he followed. He noticed - the pride of her handsome body, its erectness and its poise—how it - seemed to glide across the grass without sound or motion. He summed her up - as being abnormally self-conscious and wilfully undiscoverable. He - wondered whether her restraint hid a glorious personality, or served - simply as a disguise for shallowness of mind.—And while he analyzed - her thus, she was scorning herself for the immodesty of her fear and - dumbness. - </p> - <p> - Kneeling down on the landing to unfasten the rope, he pieced his words - together. “I ought to apologize for what I implied just now. It must - have sounded horribly ungallant to suggest that you should work while I - sat idle.” She did not answer till they were seated side by side in - the narrow stern. Taking a long stroke with her paddle, she shot a - searching glance at him; the veil drew back from her eyes, revealing their - smoldering fire. “That’s all right. I don’t trouble. You - needn’t mind.” - </p> - <p> - Though she had not blamed him, she had not excused him. - </p> - <p> - Night was falling early; outlines of the country were already growing - vague. Edges of things were blurred; from low-lying meadows silver mists - were rising. In the great silence grasses rustled as cattle stirred them, - the river complained, and a solitary belated bird swept across the dusk - with a dull cry. - </p> - <p> - It was dangerous and it was tempting—he could not avoid - personalities. He tried to think of other things to say, but they refused - to take shape. His perturbation seemed the rumor of what her mind was - enacting. Several times inquisitive inquiries were on the tip of his - tongue; he checked them. Then her body lurched against him; their - shoulders brushed. - </p> - <p> - “You have a beautiful name.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed! You think so?” - </p> - <p> - “For me it has only one association.” - </p> - <p> - Again she brushed against him. He caught the scent of her hair and, in the - twilight, a glimpse of the heavy drooping eyelids. - </p> - <p> - “I mean that poem by William Morris—it’s all about - Jehane. You remember how it runs: ‘Had she come all the way for this’——?” - </p> - <p> - “You’re frightened to continue. Isn’t that so?” - Her tones were cold and quiet. “‘Had she come all the way for - this, to part at last without a kiss?’—I remember. It’s - all about dripping woods and a country like this, with a river overflowing - its banks, and a man and a girl who were parted forever ‘beside the - haystack in the floods.’ Jehane was supposed to be a witch, wasn’t - she? ‘Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown! Give us Jehane to burn or - drown.’ There’s something like that in the poem—— - I suppose I make you think only of tragic things?” - </p> - <p> - “Why suppose that?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I do most people.” - </p> - <p> - “In my case there’s no reason for supposing that. I oughtn’t - to have mentioned it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh yes, you ought. You felt it, though you didn’t know it. It’s - unfortunate for a girl always to impress people as tragic, don’t you - think? Men like us to be young. You’re so young yourself—that’s - your hobby, according to Nan.—But if you want to know, you yourself - made me think of something not quite happy—that’s what kept me - so quiet on the way up.” - </p> - <p> - “I thought I’d done something amiss—that perhaps you - were offended with me for the informal way in which I introduced myself.” - </p> - <p> - She gave him no assurance that she had not been offended. - </p> - <p> - “Here’s what you made me think,” she said: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “She left the web, she left the loom, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - She made three paces through the room, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - She saw the water-lily bloom, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - She saw the helmet and the plume, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - She look’d down to Camelot.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “Rather nice, isn’t it, to find that we’ve had such a - cheerful effect on one another?” - </p> - <p> - “But—but why on earth should I make you think of that?” - </p> - <p> - She left off paddling and glanced away from him; a little shiver ran - through her. When she spoke, her voice was low-pitched but still - penetrating. - </p> - <p> - “Let me ask you a question. Do you think that it’s much fun - being a girl?” - </p> - <p> - “Never thought about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, it isn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “I should have supposed that, for anyone who was young and - good-looking, it might be barrel-loads of fun to be a girl in Oxford.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I tell you that it isn’t. You’re always wanting - and wanting—wanting the things that men have, and that only men can - give you. But they keep everything for themselves because they’re - like you, Mr. Barrington—they’ve never thought about it.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m not sure that I understand.” - </p> - <p> - “Bother! Why d’you force me to be so explicit? Take the case - of Nan—she’s one of thousands. She’s got nothing of her - own—no freedom, no money, no anything. She’s always under - orders; she’s not expected to have any plans for her future. She - creeps to the windows of the world and peeps out when her father isn’t - near enough to prevent her. Unless she marries, she’ll always be - prying and never sharing. She’s a <i>Lady of Shalott</i>, shut up in - a tower, weaving a web of fancies. She hears life tramp beneath her - window, traveling in plume and helmet to the city. Unless a man frees her, - she’ll never get out.—Oh, I oughtn’t to talk like this; - I never have, to anyone except to Nan. Why do you make me? Now that it’s - said, I hate myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t do that.” He spoke gently. “I’m glad - you’ve done it. You’ve made me see further. We men always look - at things from our own standpoint.—I suppose we’re selfish.” - </p> - <p> - He waited for her to deny that he was selfish. - </p> - <p> - “There’s no doubt about it,” she affirmed. - </p> - <p> - They paddled on in silence till they came to the lasher. Together they - hauled the punt over the rollers—there was no one about. When it had - taken the water on the other side, Jehane stepped in quickly; while his - hands and thoughts were unoccupied, she was afraid to be near him. He - stood on the bank, holding the rope to keep the punt from drifting; his - head was flung back and he did not stir. Through the network of branches - moonlight drifted, making willows, gnarled and twisted, and water, rushing - foam-streaked from the lasher, eerie and fantastic. He was thinking of Nan - and the meaning of her crying. - </p> - <p> - “Miss Usk, it was very brave of you to speak out.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed perversely; she was so afraid of revealing her emotion. - “You must have queer notions about me. I’ve been terribly - unconventional.” - </p> - <p> - They drifted down stream through Mesopotamia, pursued by the sandal-footed - silence. When Barrington spoke to her now, it was as though there lay - between them a secret understanding. What that understanding was she - scarcely dared to conjecture. Here, alone with him in the moon-lit - faery-land of shadows, she was supremely at peace with herself. - </p> - <p> - At Magdalen Bridge they tethered the punt; it was too late to return to - the barges. - </p> - <p> - Outside her father’s house they halted. Through the window they - could see the high-domed forehead of the Professor, as he sat with his - reading-lamp at his elbow. - </p> - <p> - “You’ll come in? You had some business with father that - brought you down from London?” - </p> - <p> - “But it’s late. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to - see him to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you staying for long in Oxford?” - </p> - <p> - “I hadn’t intended.” - </p> - <p> - “But you may?” - </p> - <p> - “I may. It all depends.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-by then—till to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - Professor Usk sank his head as she entered, that he might gaze at her - above his spectacles. “Home again, daughter? Been on the river with - Nan, they tell me! It’s late for girls to be out by themselves.” - </p> - <p> - She answered hurriedly. “Mr. Barrington was with us.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Barrington! Nice fellow! Did he say anything about my book?” - </p> - <p> - She was on tenterhooks to be by herself. “He’ll call tomorrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you been running, daughter? You seem out of breath. I’ve - a minute or two to spare; come and sit down. Tell me what you’ve - been doing. Did Barrington say whether that book of mine had gone to - press?” - </p> - <p> - She backed slowly to the threshold and stood with the handle in her hand. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve a headache, father.” - </p> - <p> - She opened the door and fled. - </p> - <p> - Locking herself in her room, she flung herself on the bed and lay rigid in - the darkness, shaken with sobbing. Pressing her lips against the pillow to - stifle the sound, she commenced in a desperate whisper, “Oh God, - give him to me. Dear God, let me have him. Oh God, give——” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV—LOVE’S SHADOW - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen Barrington - called on the Professor next morning, he did not see Jehane. She had - stayed in bed for breakfast, to keep out of his way. She did not trust - herself to meet him before her parents because of her face—it might - tell tales. She was strangely ashamed that anyone should know of her - infatuation. And yet she longed to meet him that she might experience - afresh the sweet tingling dread lest he should touch her. Ah, if she were - sure that he returned her love, what a different Jehane he should - discover.... - </p> - <p> - Though she did not meet him, she espied him the moment he turned into the - street. Peering stealthily from behind the curtain, she was glad to notice - that he glanced up, as though conscious that her hidden eyes were - watching. Listening at the head of the stairs, she heard his voice. She - heard him inquire after her, and tried to estimate his disappointment and - anxiety when her father answered casually, “The daughter has one of - her headaches.... No, nothing much. She may not be down this morning.” - </p> - <p> - After he had left, she was angry with herself for her cowardice. She ought - to have seized her opportunity. Perhaps he was returning at once to - London, where he would quickly forget her. She might never see him again. - </p> - <p> - By a kind of necromancy she tried to arrive at certainty as to whether or - no he would marry her. If she could count a hundred before a cart passed a - particular lamppost, then he would become her husband. When the cart went - too fast for her counting, she skipped numbers and cheated in order to - make the test propitious. Sitting in her bedroom, partly dressed, with the - brilliant summer sunshine streaming over her, she invented all kinds of - similar experiments. - </p> - <p> - At last she grew impatient of her own company and came downstairs to - lunch. Her dreamy mother, who usually noticed nothing, embarrassed her by - remarking that her face was flushed as though she were sickening for - something. She turned attention from herself by inquiring the result of - her father’s interview with Mr. Barrington. - </p> - <p> - Her father was annoyed because his book had been delayed in publication—quite - unwarrantably delayed, he said. She could not get him to state whether - Barrington had gone back to London. The conversation developed into an - indictment of the innate trickiness of publishers. Mrs. Usk had never been - able to reconcile the place she occupied in the world of letters with the - smallness of her royalty-statements. It almost made her doubt the - financial honesty of some persons. Jehane had listened with angry eyes - while these two impractical scholars, comfortably interrupting one another - across the table, swelled out the sum of their grievances. Now she took up - the cudgels so personally and so passionately in the defense of publishers - in general, and Barrington in particular, that she was moved to tears by - her eloquence. - </p> - <p> - Her parents peered at her out of their dim eyes in concerned silence. When - the tears had come, they nodded at each other, bleating in chorus, “She - is not well. She is flushed. She is certainly sickening for something. She - must go to bed. The doctor must be summoned.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane pushed back her chair. “You’ll do nothing of the kind. - I’m quite well.” - </p> - <p> - After she had made her escape, it was discovered that she had eaten - nothing. In a few minutes she reappeared in her out-door attire and - announced that she was going to Cassingland. - </p> - <p> - “But, my dear, you can’t,” her mother protested; “not - in your state. You may give it to Nan; it may be catching. And then, think - how Mr. Tudor would blame us.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane tapped with her foot impatiently. “Don’t be silly, - mother. I’m going.” - </p> - <p> - And with that she departed. Only one of the witnesses of this scene - conjectured its true cause—Betty, the housemaid, who on more than - one occasion had watched these same symptoms develop in herself. - </p> - <p> - At the stable where her father’s horse was baited Jehane ordered out - the dog-cart. She did not know why she was going to Cassingland. Certainly - she did not intend to make Nan her confidant—the frenzy of love is - contagious. But Nan must know many pages of Barrington’s past, the - whole of which was a closed book to her. Without giving away her secret, - they might discuss him together. - </p> - <p> - As she drove along the Woodstock road and turned off into the leafy Oxford - lanes, she laid her plans. She would affect to have found him dull company - in the journey back from Marston Ferry; she would be surprised that anyone - should think him interesting. Then Nan, with her sensitive loyalty to - friends, would prove the splendor of his character with facts drawn from - her own experience. - </p> - <p> - Down the road ahead a man was striding in the direction in which she was - driving. At the sound of wheels he turned and, standing to one side, - raised his hat. Blood flooded her cheeks. Her instinct was to dash by him. - She could not endure his attitude of secure comradeship. He must be - everything to her at once or nothing. Her eyes fell away from his, yet she - longed to return his gaze with frankness. - </p> - <p> - “I’m in luck. When I called this morning, the Professor told - me you were unwell.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m better.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m glad. I’ve been blaming myself for not taking - sufficient care of you.” - </p> - <p> - Had he chosen, he could have crushed her to him then; she was made so - happy that she would not have protested. But how was he to judge this from - the proud, almost sullen face that watched him from the dog-cart? - </p> - <p> - He looked up at her cheerfully. “Bound for the same place, aren’t - we? I’m tired of pounding along by myself; if you don’t mind, - I’ll jump in and let you drive me.” - </p> - <p> - She nodded ever so slightly and he swung himself up. “Going to Nan’s?” - </p> - <p> - “To Cassingland,” he assented. “I want to see for myself - the lady in her tower. D’you know, I can’t get that out of my - head—all that you told me about girls.” - </p> - <p> - “Really.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke indifferently and flicked the horse with the whip, so that it - started forward with a jerk. - </p> - <p> - “You’re not very curious. You don’t ask me why I can’t - forget.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Because, with other conditions, it’s equally true of men.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t believe that.” - </p> - <p> - “You will when I’ve told you. To get on nowadays a fellow’s - got to work day and night.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re ambitious?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I am. I want to have power. I’ve not had a real - holiday for years. Of course I’ve money, which you say girls don’t - have; but I’ve responsibilities. I know nothing of women—I’ve - had no time to learn. That’s why I’m so grateful to you for - yesterday. With me it’s just work, work, work to win a position, so - that one day some woman may be happy. So you see, I have my tower as well - as Nan, where I’m doomed to spin my web of fancy.” - </p> - <p> - “But men choose their own towers—build them for themselves.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you believe it. Some few may, but so do some few girls. - I wanted to go to Oxford and to write books and to be a scholar, instead - of which I publish other men’s scribblings and do my best to sell - ‘em.” - </p> - <p> - “I never thought... I mean I thought all men... But you’re - strong: if any man could have chosen, you would have done it. Tell me - about yourself.” - </p> - <p> - And he told her—his dreams, anxieties, small triumphs, and incessant - round of daily duties. He was very fine and gentle, speaking with touching - eagerness, as though confession were a privilege which he rarely allowed - himself. Yet Jehane was not content; she knew that in love the instinct - for confession is coupled with the instinct for secretiveness. When she - touched him, he was not disturbed as she was; his voice did not quiver—he - did not change color. She told herself that men were the masters, so that - even in love they showed no distrust of themselves. But the explanation - was not convincing. - </p> - <p> - They were nearing Cassingland. Ambushed in trees, rising out of somnolent - lowlands, the thin, tall spire of a church sunned itself. Like toys, - tumbled from a sack, about which grass had grown up, cottages lay - scattered throughout the meadows. As they came in sight of the triangular - green, with the tidy rectory standing, high-walled, on its edge, their - conversation faltered. - </p> - <p> - He offered her his hand to help her out. She held back for a second, then - took it with ashamed suddenness. He raised his eyes to hers with a boy’s - enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - “Miss Usk, it’s awfully decent of you to have listened to me.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s you who’ve been decent. You make everything so - easy. You seem... seem to understand.” - </p> - <p> - He was puzzled. “I’ve done nothing but talk at unpardonable - length about myself. As for making things easy, it’s you—you’re - so rippingly sensible.” - </p> - <p> - She winced. No man falls in love with a woman for her sanity. It was as - though he had called her middle-aged or robust. She wanted to appeal to - him as weak and clinging. When people are in love they are far from - sensible; she knew that she was anything but sensible at present. If he - had told her she was capricious and charming, she would have shown him a - face exultant. - </p> - <p> - Nan came tripping to the gate. “This <i>is</i> jolly—both of - you together!” - </p> - <p> - Her coming was inappropriate; for the next few months all her appearances - were to prove ill-timed so far as Jehane was concerned. And yet, what was - to be done? Professor Usk’s house was too subdued in its atmosphere - to be congenial. Moreover, the Professor invariably monopolized a man who - was his guest—especially when the man was a publisher. Then again, - Jehane was painfully aware that she was awkward in the presence of her - parents, and did not create her best impression. So she did not encourage - Barrington to call on her in Oxford. Naturally she turned to Cassingland, - where you had the wide free country, and no one suspected or watched you - because you were friendly with a man. Cassingland furnished an excuse for - both of them: Nan was her friend; Mr. Tudor had been his tutor. Mr. Tudor, - with his honest, farmer-like appearance and frayed clericals, lent an air - of propriety to proceedings. And Nan—she helped the propriety; but - she never knew when she was not wanted. She spoke of Barrington as Billy. - She took his arm and snuggled against him with a naive air of mischief, - leading him to all the spots along the river, in the garden and scattered - through the fields, which years ago had formed their playground. Jehane - resented her innocent air of belonging to him. So, very frequently when - Barrington came down from London and she drifted out, as if by accident, - to the rectory, she wore the mask of reserve and sullenness, and did not - show to best advantage. - </p> - <p> - Barrington, for his part, was always equal in his temper—too equal - for Jehane. With Nan he was gay and frivolous; to her he was grave and - deferential. She wished he would display more ardor and less caution. If - it had been in her nature, she would have made the running; she was pained - by his unvarying respect. - </p> - <p> - All summer love’s shadow had rested on her. It was September now; - the harvest lay cut in the fields ready to be carried. Nan had sent Jehane - a message that morning that Barrington was expected; so here she was once - more at the rectory, spending the week-end. - </p> - <p> - They had gone up to bed, leaving the men to smoke; suddenly Nan put on her - dress, saying that she heard her father calling. Jehane prepared for bed - slowly; by the time she was ready to slip between the sheets Nan had not - returned. She blew out the candle; the room was instantly suffused with - liquid moonlight and velvet shadow. In the darkness, as often happens, her - senses became sharpened—she heard a multitude of sounds. Somewhere - near the church, probably from the tower, an owl was hooting. In the - distance a dog barked. She could hear the wash of the river among its - rushes, and the padding of a footstep on the lawn. Romance in her was - stirred. - </p> - <p> - Going to the window, she leant out; she was greeted by the strong - fragrance of roses. Sheaves, standing in rows throughout the fields, - looked like a sleeping camp. Trees, save where mists thumbed them, were - etched distinctly against the indigo horizon. The white disc of the moon, - like a paper lantern, hung balanced between the edges of two clouds. Its - light, streaming down the sky, was like milk poured across black marble. - Nature seemed to have blinded her eyes and to hold her breath. - </p> - <p> - Across the lawn from the open study window, a shaft of gold slanted, - making the darkness on either side intense by contrast. As Jehane - listened, she heard what seemed a panting close to the wall beneath her. - She leant further out and discerned a blur of white. She was about to - speak when the red glow of a cigar, thrown down among the bushes, warned - her. - </p> - <p> - “At last! You’ve never given me a chance to be alone with you. - I’ve wanted you all summer, little Nan.” - </p> - <p> - His arms were round her. As he stooped above her, her face was blotted - out... He was speaking again. - </p> - <p> - “Your father saw it. That’s why he called you.... If I’d - had to wait much longer, I should have asked you before her. Why—why - would you never let us be alone together?” - </p> - <p> - Nan’s voice came muffled beneath his kisses. “Because, Billy - darling, I wanted to play fair.” - </p> - <p> - “Fair?” - </p> - <p> - An answer followed, so softly whispered that it did not carry—a - surprised exclamation from the man. - </p> - <p> - Jehane had tiptoed from the window. - </p> - <p> - With her black hair tumbled about her, her hands pressed against her - mouth, she lay sobbing. The night had lost its magic.... - </p> - <p> - Nan entered the room stealthily. She glanced toward the bed. Thinking - Jehane was sleeping, she did not light the candle, but commenced to fumble - at her fastenings, undressing in the dark. A sob refused to be stifled any - longer. Nan paused in her undressing and stood tense; then ran and bent - above the bed. Seizing Jehane by the shoulders, she tried to turn her face - toward her. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Janey, I did, I did play fair. I told you every time he was - coming.... Say you’ll still be friends.” - </p> - <p> - But Jehane said nothing. - </p> - <p> - Next morning she greeted Barrington with her accustomed mixture of proud - restraint and sullenness. “We’ve been expecting this all - summer. We wondered when it would happen. I hope you’ll be very - happy.” - </p> - <p> - After that she came less frequently to Cassingland. The lovers had long - walks, uninterrupted, unaccompanied. Once he told Nan, “I can’t - believe it, Pepperminta. I’m sure you were mistaken.” - </p> - <p> - “But I wasn’t.” She shook her curly head sadly. - </p> - <p> - They rarely mentioned Jehane. They knew that she was troubled; but they - knew of no way in which to help. - </p> - <p> - At Christmas, when snow lay on the ground, they were married. - </p> - <p> - Nan, who had never feared spinsterhood greatly, had escaped from it. - Jehane retired to the isolation which she sometimes called her tower, and - at other times her raft. She often told herself savagely that, had it not - been for her shyness in instancing Nan instead of herself on that journey - down from Marston Ferry, she might have been the bride at that wedding. - Secretly, she was bitter about it; outwardly, she kept up her friendship—otherwise - she would have seen no more of Barrington. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V—ENTER PETER AND GLORY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>arrington did - everything on a large scale—he knew he was going to be a big man. He - arranged his surroundings with an eye to his expanding future. It was so - when he bought his house at Topbury. - </p> - <p> - It had more rooms than he could furnish—more than a young married - couple could comfortably occupy. But he intended to spend his entire life - there, hanging the walls with memories and associations of affection. It - would be none too large for a growing family. That was Barrington all - over; he planned and looked ahead. - </p> - <p> - The house stood high in the north of London; it was one of twenty in a - terrace—all with porches and areas in front, and long walled gardens - at the back. To-day the octopus suburbs, throwing out tentacles of small - mean dwellings, have crept across the broad views and strangled the rural - aspect. But when Nan and Barrington went to live there, they looked out - from their back-windows uninterrupted across the Vale of Holloway to - Gospel Oak and the Heath at Hampstead. The approach to Topbury Terrace was - through quiet fields where sheep were grazing. The oldest inhabitants - still talked of a group of shops as Topbury Village. Many of the roads - were private; traffic was kept back by gates or posts planted across them. - </p> - <p> - The house was a hundred years old, spacious and lofty. It had the sturdy - look of Eighteenth Century handiwork. Though standing in a terrace, it - retained its own personality and seemed to hold itself aloof from its - neighbors. Once link-boys had stood before its doors and coaches had - rumbled through Islington Village out from London, bringing its master - home from routs and functions. Probably he was a portly merchant, - accompanied by a dame who wore patches. - </p> - <p> - Adjoining its bedrooms were powder-cupboards; its lower windows were - heavily grated against attack. All the entries were massively screened and - bolted. It seemed to boast its privacy. In the garden were pear-trees, a - mulberry and a cedar. At the bottom of the garden was a stable with stalls - for three horses. - </p> - <p> - At first Nan was rather awed—she did not know what to do with it. - Many of the rooms remained unfurnished. That was to be done slowly, by - picking up old and rare articles—pictures and tapestries as they - could afford them, a piece here and a piece there: this was to be their - hobby. She was frightened by so much emptiness, and clung to her husband, - puzzled and proud. Then, gradually, she began to understand: they were - planning for the future greatness which they were to share. She was no - longer frightened; she was glad. - </p> - <p> - There was one room in which they often sat. Sometimes they would visit it - separately and surprise one another. When they entered, they became - strangely bashful and childlike—it was holy ground. They left all - their cruder ambitions on the threshold. They stopped talking or conversed - in whispers, holding hands. It was on a halfstory, between the first floor - and the second, and looked into the garden. Up the wall outside a magnolia - clambered; against its window a laburnum tapped and shed its golden - tassels. Everything was waiting for someone who was some day coming. A - high guard stood about the hearth to prevent someone, when he began to - toddle, from falling into the fire and getting burnt. A little bed was - ready—a bed so tiny that you could lift it with one hand. On the - floor toys lay scattered. Everything had been thought out for his - reception long before he warned them of his coming. To bring home new toys - and leave them there for Nan to discover was one of Barrington’s - absurd ways of telling her how much he loved her. - </p> - <p> - It was in that room that they kissed after their first quarrel. It was - there she told him that the little hands were being fashioned that were to - be held so fast in theirs. - </p> - <p> - And he came one bright February morning, when crocuses were standing - bravely above the turf and a warm spring wind was blowing. Nan hugged him - to her breast, smiling and crying—she was so glad he was a man. They - called him Peter—after the house his father said, because the house - was Peterish and old-fashioned. William was sure to be contracted to Bill - or Billy; one Billy was enough in any family——- - </p> - <p> - It was shortly after the birth of Peter that Jehane caught her man. It was - said that she married him on the rebound, for she never ceased loving - Barrington. She did it more to get off the raft, and to show that she - could do it, than for anything. - </p> - <p> - Captain Bobbie Spashett had seen her portrait in a friend’s house. - He was under orders to sail for India. He had six weeks in which to make - her acquaintance, do his courting and get over the wedding. He proved - himself a man of energy, managing the business with a soldier’s - dash. Then he sailed for India, promising to send for her when he was - settled. Unfortunately, before the year was out, he died in action. - </p> - <p> - In February, almost on the anniversary of Peter’s birth, his - daughter came into the world. Jehane named her Glory, because of the - distinguished nature of her father’s death. - </p> - <p> - When Captain Spashett’s affairs came to be settled, it was found - that he had left his widow something less than a thousand pounds from all - sources. - </p> - <p> - Then Jehane discovered that, in stepping off the raft, she had not reached - the land. She went to live with her parents. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI—JEHANE’S SECOND MARRIAGE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was his own - fault; he knew it in after years. Barrington was partly responsible for - Jehane’s second marriage. It was he who suggested that, since Jehane - was not happy with her parents, it would be decent to ask her up to - Topbury for Christmas. - </p> - <p> - Did he like her? Well, hardly! He felt that she bore him a grudge. - Whenever her name was mentioned, he and Nan had a guilty sense. They were - so happy—they had everything that she coveted and lacked. - </p> - <p> - They asked her by way of atonement. When she objected that Glory would be - a nuisance, they replied that Glory would be fun for Peter.—And it - was he who, in the goodness of his heart, invited Waffles. - </p> - <p> - Ocky Waffles was not his sort. His very name was a handicap. A man named - Waffles could scarcely command respect; but the Christian name made it - worse. How could anyone called Ocky Waffles be a gentleman? He was his - cousin, however, and lived alone in London lodgings. His mother was - recently dead. Whatever his shortcomings, he had been an attentive son. - The chap would be rottenly lonely, thought Barrington. Unadulterated Ocky - he could not stand; but, if he could jumble him up in a family-party and - so get him diluted, he would be very glad to do him a service. In the - uncalculating days of boyhood they had been warm friends. So Mr. Tudor was - persuaded to come from Cassingland and Ocky was invited. - </p> - <p> - In her twenty-eighth year, Jehane traveled to Paddington <i>en route</i> - for her second adventure in matrimony. Glory was with her, a golden-haired - baby just beginning to toddle, the image of her soldier father. Jehane - still wore mourning—deepest black, with white frills at her - wristbands and a white ruff about her neck. Black suited her pale - complexion—it lent her the touch of helpless pathos that her beauty - had always wanted. Her manner was hushed and gentle, matching her costume. - Her large, dark eyes had that forlorn expression of “Oh, I can never - forget,” which has so often sealed the fate of an unmarried man. You - felt at once that the finest deed possible would be to bring her - happiness. At least, so felt Waffles. - </p> - <p> - But that Christmas there were times when she did forget. In her new - surroundings, where she and Glory were no longer burdens, she grew almost - merry. When memory clouded her eyes and restored the sternness of tragedy, - it was not Bobbie Spashett she remembered, who had died a very gallant - gentleman, fighting for his country; it was simply that, with proper care, - Nan’s shoes might have been hers. When she saw Barrington slip his - arm about his wife, and heard her whisper, “Oh, please, Billy, not - now,” it made her wild with envy. She felt that it was more than she - could bear. She was unloved, and so was Waffles; they had this in common, - despite dissimilarities. - </p> - <p> - Ocky Waffles was a kind-hearted lounger. He was always late for everything—which - left him plenty of time to devote to her. His best friends would never - have accused him of refinement. His mind was untidy; he was lazy and - ineffectual. His faculty for conversation was childish—he <i>babbled</i>. - He was continually making silly jokes at which he laughed himself. Because - the world rarely laughed with him, he believed that his bump of humor was - abnormally developed. He had met only one person as humorous as himself—his - mother; she, admiring and loyal old lady, had laughed till the tears came - at anything he said. But she was dead; he had lost his audience. He missed - her and was extremely sorry for Ocky Waffles. No one understood his - catch-phrases now, “Reaching after the mustard,” and, “Look - at father’s pants.” They did not even know to what they - referred; he had to explain everything. There was an element of absurdity - and weak pathos about the man; when one of his jokes had missed fire he - would dab his eyes, saying with a catch in his throat, “Oh dear, how - mother’d have split her sides at that!” - </p> - <p> - Jehane was genuinely moved to compassion. Sinking her voice, she would - lead him aside and whisper, “Tell it again, Mr. Waffles. I think I - could understand.” - </p> - <p> - Before Ocky met her, the denseness of his friends had driven him to public - houses, where other tales might be told without shocking anybody. With - barmaids he could pass for a “nut,” a witty fellow. Grief - drove him to it, he told himself. He was well aware that public houses - were bad for his pocket and worse for his health. When Jehane seemed to - applaud him, his thoughts naturally turned to marriage—marriage - would cure every evil, and then—— Oh, then he would become - like Barrington, with a loving wife, art-treasures and a fine house. It - was only a matter of keeping steady and concentrating your willpower. - </p> - <p> - But to become like Barrington he would have had to be a gentleman. A - top-hat never sat on his head as if it belonged to him. With his equals in - birth and opportunity he could never be comfortable. He found it easy to - be chatty with stable-boys and servants. This he attributed to his - superior humanity. He was fond of walking down the street with a pipe in - his mouth. When he sat on a chair, it was usually on the middle of his - back with his feet thrust out. He slouched through life like an awkward - boy, experiencing discomfort in the presence of his elders. - </p> - <p> - Since he could not cure himself of his habits, he determined some day, - when he was ready for the effort, to get money; with money his habits - would no longer be bad—they would become signs of democracy and - independence. At the time of the Christmas party he was a clerk in a - lawyer’s office—he had been other things before that. This was - his worldly condition, when he met Jehane and fell in love with her. - </p> - <p> - They drifted together from force of circumstance; Nan and Barrington were - still very much of lovers; Mr. Tudor spent his time on the floor with - Peter and Glory. They were thrown together; there was no escape from it. - Ocky was naturally affectionate; it was part of his weak amiability to - love somebody. He craved love for himself—or was it admiration? But - as a rule no one was flattered by his affection—it was always on - tap. Jehane did not know that. Her wounded pride was soothed because he - selected her. She was hungry for a man’s appreciation and anxious - for his protection. And as for Ocky, to whom no one ever listened—he - was encouraged by her pleased attention. - </p> - <p> - He sought her out at first in a good-natured effort to dispel her - melancholy; his method was to regale her with worn chestnuts. She heard - them with a slow, sweet smile on her mouth, which narrowed and widened, - but rarely broke into mirth. This showed him that all his stories were new - to her. The poor fellow was stirred to his shallow depths. A gusty passion - blew through him; he struggled into seeming strength; he felt he was a - man.—When you’re choosing a woman who will be condemned to - hear all your old anecdotes over and over to the day of her death, it is - very necessary to select one to whom they will come fresh, at least before - marriage. Yes, she was the wife for Waffles. - </p> - <p> - Little confidences grew up between them. She told him about Barrington, - hinting that he had wobbled between her and Nan. And he told her about - Barrington, how as boys they had been like brothers, spending every - holiday together, but now——. - </p> - <p> - But now, in Barrington’s own words, a little of Ocky went a long - way; after an hour or two in his company he felt quite fed up with him. As - with many a clever man, vulgarity of mind disgusted him more than - well-bred viciousness. He found it difficult to hide his feelings from his - guest. In fact, he didn’t. - </p> - <p> - Nan was the first to notice what was happening. “He’s making - love to Jehane, I declare!” - </p> - <p> - Her husband shook his head knowingly. “Jehane’s too proud for - that.” - </p> - <p> - “But he is. They’re always sitting over the fire, oh, so - closely, and whispering together.” - </p> - <p> - “It can’t be. She’s amusing herself. If I thought it - were, I’d stop it. Ocky may be a bounder, but he wouldn’t do - that.” - </p> - <p> - “Billy boy, he’s doing it.” - </p> - <p> - “But he’s hardly got a penny to bless himself, and her little - income wouldn’t attract him.” - </p> - <p> - “You may say what you like, old obstinate; it doesn’t alter - facts.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane was proud, as Barrington said; but not too proud. She realized - quite well what Waffles was, but she hoped to brace him up with her - strength. She was by no means blind to his shortcomings. Often, when the - smile was playing about her mouth, her mind was in a ferment of derision. - At night remorse pursued her—the fine, clean memory of Bobbie - Spashett.—But the constant sight of Nan and Barrington, their stolen - kisses and love-words, were getting on her nerves. She looked down the - vista of the years—was no man ever to conquer her? Was she to grow - into an old woman with that one brief memory of her soldier-man? So - love-hunger drew her to Waffles, despite the warnings of her better sense. - The love-hunger was continually quickened by the sight of Nan’s - domestic happiness. - </p> - <p> - When, after a week’s acquaintance, he said, “Mrs. Spashett, - will you marry me?” she replied, “My brave husband!—I - cannot.—I must be true to the end.” - </p> - <p> - When he asked her again two days later, she was less positive. “Oh, - Mr. Waffles, there’s Glory.” - </p> - <p> - “Call me Ocky,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Then he changed his tactics. He argued his loneliness, their community of - grief, the loss of his mother. When he spoke of his mother, she liked him - best. “Give me time,” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - The crisis came on the last day of her visit, and was hastened by two - foolish happenings. She detested the thought of the return to her parents’ - silent house. She had persuaded herself that she was not wanted there; her - child fidgeted the old people and disarranged the household. After the - glimpse of warmth and heaven she had had, she magnified her troubles - through the glass of envy. Oh, to have her own fireside, and her own man!—This - was how the crisis happened. - </p> - <p> - Peter, aged three, was playing with Glory. With the clumsiness of - childhood he knocked her down. She commenced to scream loudly—so - loudly that she might have been seriously hurt. Jehane rushed into the - nursery, caught her baby to her breast and, in her anguish, smacked Peter. - Peter in all his young life had never been smacked; he watched her - goggle-eyed and then set up a terrified howl. When Nan arrived on the - scene, he was sobbing and explaining that he had only meant to <i>softy</i> - Glory, which was his word for loving her by rubbing her with his face and - hands. A quarrel ensued between the mothers in which bitter things were - said. How did Jehane dare to touch Peter, her little Peterkins baby, who - was always so sensitive and gentle! Nan was fiercely angry that her child - had been unjustly punished; Jehane was no less angry because her child had - been knocked down. When it was all over, the babies were told to kiss one - another; Peter, when Jehane approached him, hid his face in his mother’s - skirt. - </p> - <p> - Strained relations followed, which made light words impossible. - Barrington, when he heard of it, was extraordinarily annoyed. Waffles, - because she was in the minority, sided with Jehane. That her quiet, - madonna-like adoration of Glory should have turned into tigerish - protective passion attracted him strangely. - </p> - <p> - That evening Barrington had some friends to dine with him—men and - women of his world, whose good opinion he valued. During dinner and - afterwards in the drawingroom, Waffles had been ousted from the - conversation; their talk was all of books and travel—things he did - not understand. He felt cold-shouldered—crowded out. He resented it, - and was determined to show them that he also could be clever. - </p> - <p> - He waited for an opening-. A pause in the conversation occurred. He sprang - into the gap. That he was irrelevant did not matter. - </p> - <p> - “Heard a good riddle the other day. Wonder if any of you can answer - it.” All eyes turned in his direction. He cleared his throat and - fumbled at his collar. “If a cat ate a haddock and a dog chased the - cat, and the cat jumped over the wall, what relation would the dog bear to - the haddock?” - </p> - <p> - There was embarrassed silence. Every face wore a puzzled expression. - Barrington pulled his cigar from his mouth and gazed sternly at the - glowing ash. - </p> - <p> - At last a lady, who wrote poetry, took compassion on him. She tapped him - on the arm. “I can’t think of any answer. Put me out of my - suspense. I’m so anxious to learn.” - </p> - <p> - Waffles beamed his acknowledgments. “That’s the answer,” - he said eagerly; “there isn’t any answer.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington ceased to be vexed with his cigar and laughed coldly. - </p> - <p> - “You mustn’t mind my cousin. He’s a genial ass. - Sometimes it takes him like that.—Let’s see, what were we - discussing when we were interrupted?” - </p> - <p> - So there were two people with wounded feelings in that company. Ocky saw - Jehane slip out of the room, and he followed. On the stairs she halted. - </p> - <p> - “Why are you following?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m not wanted. Confound their stupidity.” - </p> - <p> - “But why should you follow me?” - </p> - <p> - “Because you’re the same as I am. That’s why you left; - you’re not at home here. Look how they behaved about Glory. I say, - it’s our last evening together. Won’t you give me—” - </p> - <p> - But, ridiculous as it appeared to her, an almost maidenly fear took hold - of her; she fled. He found her in the dark, at the top of the tall house; - she was leaning over her child’s cot sobbing. He grew out of - himself, stronger, better; against her will, he folded her to him. - </p> - <p> - “Won’t you give me your answer, darling?” - </p> - <p> - Silence. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll be very good to Glory.” - </p> - <p> - Still silence. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Jehane, I’m so foolish—such a weak, foolish fellow; - I need your strength. With you I could be a man.” Then all that was - maternal awoke in her. She remembered how she had seen him looking - empty-handed, while those clever men and women had stared. “You musn’t - mind my cousin. He’s a genial ass. Sometimes it takes him like that.”—Cruel! - Cruel! She took his head and pressed it to her bosom, kissing him on the - forehead. - </p> - <p> - Nan, disturbed by their disappearance, found them kneeling, hand-in-hand, - beside Glory. - </p> - <p> - That night as she sat before her mirror undressing, she let her hands fall - to her side, listless. Barrington stole up behind her and kissed her on - the neck, rubbing his face against hers. - </p> - <p> - “That’s what Peter calls softying.” - </p> - <p> - “But you weren’t thinking of Peter, little woman.” - </p> - <p> - “How did you know that?” - </p> - <p> - “You looked sad. What’s the trouble?” - </p> - <p> - She bent back her head, so that their eyes met and their lips were near to - touching. “If I hadn’t been there that day, would you have - loved Jehane instead?” - </p> - <p> - “Pepperminta, I was in love with you when we played together at - Cassingland. Why ask foolish questions?” - </p> - <p> - “Because it’s happened.” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t mean—?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. She’s taken him, and I’m sure she doesn’t - want him.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington drew himself upright, then stooped over her; he was realizing - the perfect joy of his own union with a startled sense of thankfulness. - </p> - <p> - “Poor people,” he murmured. - </p> - <p> - Three months later Jehane was married. The wedding was quiet; there were - none but family-guests. No one felt that it was an affair to boast about. - It took place from the Professor’s house at Oxford; Mr. Tudor - performed the ceremony. Glory was being left with Nan till the honeymoon - was ended. All morning Jehane’s face had been gloomy; perhaps she - already had her doubts. Certainly Mr. Waffles did not show to advantage in - art Oxford atmosphere. He was too boisterous. His shoes were too shiny. - The colors of his tie and button-hole clashed. His clothes looked - ready-made. At parting with her mother, Jehane did the unexpected—she - wept. - </p> - <p> - On their drive to the station through austere streets, with bright - glimpses of college quadrangles and young bloods in shooting-jackets and - dancing-slippers, sauntering bareheaded, Waffles grew more exuberant and - irrepressible; his ill-timed gaiety grated on her nerves. Having taken - their seats in the carriage, the train was delayed in starting. He hung - his head out of the window, jerking jocular remarks to her across his - shoulder. She did not answer him, but sat with her hands folded in her lap - and her eyes cast down. He could not make her out; up to now she had - responded so readily to his merriment. At all costs he must make her - laugh. - </p> - <p> - The station-master was passing down the platform, his hands clasped - beneath his flapping coat-tails. Not every station-master guards the - gate-way to a seat of learning. This particular station-master felt the - full importance of his position and carried himself with his stomach - thrust forward and his head thrown back. - </p> - <p> - Waffles leant from the window and beckoned frantically. When the official - came up, he commenced to jabber in invented gibberish, desperately - gesticulating with his hands. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t understand you,” the official said tartly; - “don’t talk no foreign langwidge.” - </p> - <p> - Waffles paused in his torrent of palaver and winked solemnly at a group of - undergraduates who stood watching. They happened to be pupils of the - Professor. Then, as though an inspiration had burst upon him, he inquired, - “Parlez-vous Français?” - </p> - <p> - “Nong. I do not,” snapped the station-master, annoyed that his - lack of scholarship should be exposed in this manner. - </p> - <p> - He was moving away, when Waffles produced his crowning witticism, to which - all the rest had been preface. Jehane would certainly laugh now. “Hi! - Station-master! Does this train go to Oxford?” - </p> - <p> - He had one glimpse of the insulted official’s countenance, then he - felt himself grabbed by the arm and drawn violently back into the - carriage. - </p> - <p> - “Do you want to make me ashamed of you already. Sit down and behave - yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “But darling—” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, be quiet. Aren’t you ever solemn? Is nothing sacred?” - </p> - <p> - Exceedingly puzzled and utterly extinguished, he did as he was bade, - waiting like a small boy expecting to be spanked. - </p> - <p> - That was how they began life together. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII—THE WHISTLING ANGEL - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>eter can quite - well remember the events which led up to that strange happening; not that - the events or the happening seemed strange at the time—they grew - into his life so naturally. He thought, if he thought at all, that to all - little boys came the same experience; he would not have believed you had - you told him otherwise. - </p> - <p> - He had recently achieved his fourth birthday and the garden, which was his - out-door nursery, was a-flutter with tremulous spring-flowers. That night - his mother sent away the nurse, and undressed and bathed him herself. She - wanted to be foolish to her heart’s content, laughing and singing - and crying over him. Only the slender laburnum, with the kind old - mulberry-tree peering over its shoulder, watched them through the window. - The laburnum was a young girl, his mother told him, with shaky golden - curls; the mulberry, whose arms were propped with crutches, was her - grandfather. - </p> - <p> - As Peter’s mother squeezed the sponge down his back, she stooped her - pretty head, kissing some new part of his wet little body as though she - were making a discovery. And she called him love-words, Peterkins, - Precious Lamb, Ownest; and she pushed him away from her, saying he did not - belong to her, that so she might feel the eager arms clasped more fiercely - about her neck. - </p> - <p> - When he had been rolled in the towel, his big father entered and took him, - rubbing his prickly chin against Peter’s neck; nor would he give him - up. It was a long time before he was popped into his pink, woolly - nightgown. Even then, when he was safe in bed, they stayed by him—his - mother humming softly, while his father knelt to be able to kiss her - without bending. Shadows came out from the cupboard and crept toward the - window, pushing back the daylight; the daylight dodged across the ceiling, - hid in the mulberry where it slept till morning, came back and peeped in - at him tenderly, and vanished. His eyes grew heavy; the next thing he - remembers is an early breakfast, a cab at the door and being told to be - the goodest little boy in the world. He was hugged till he was breathless; - then he saw the face of his beautiful mother, her eyes red with weeping, - leaning out of the cab-window throwing kisses, growing distant and yet - more distant down the terrace. - </p> - <p> - In later years he knew where they went—to Switzerland to re-live - their honeymoon. At the time he thought they were gone forever. - </p> - <p> - Grace, his nurse, did her best to comfort him, blowing his nose so - severely that he looked to see if it had come off in the handkerchief. For - Grace he had a great respect. She was a good-natured lump of a girl, who - beat a drum for the Salvation Army under gas-lamps and fought a never - ending battle with herself to pronounce her name correctly. Mr. Barrington - had threatened that the penalty for failing was dismissal. Now the - violence of her emotion and the absence of her employers made her - reckless. “There, little Round Tummy, Grice’ll taik care of - you, don’t you blow bubbles like that. You’ll cry yourself - dry, that you will, and drown us.” - </p> - <p> - An awful suggestion! He pictured the dining-room flooded with his tears, - the furniture floating and Grace swimming for her life. He turned off the - tap to just the littlest dribble. If he’d stopped at once, Grace - would have ceased to be sorry. - </p> - <p> - She did not keep her promise to take care of him. On the contrary, she - conducted him through London on the tops of buses and left him at a - strange house. It belonged to the “smacking lady,” a name - which he had given to Jehane since an unfortunate occurrence previously - mentioned. He had been taught to call her Auntie to her face, but she went - by the other name inside his head. - </p> - <p> - On many points his memories of this period are muddled. When he was not in - disgrace, he was allowed to play with Glory; if he had been specially - good, he was privileged to splash in the same bath with her before being - put to bed. But this was not often; it appeared that quite suddenly, since - coming to the smacking lady’s house, he had developed an - extraordinary faculty for being bad. She said that he was spoilt, and shut - him up in rooms to make him better. He did his best to improve, for he - believed that his naughtiness was the cause of his mother’s absence; - she would never come back, unless he became “the goodest little boy - in the world.” To judge by the smacking lady’s countenance, he - did his best to no purpose. - </p> - <p> - Her man was the one bright spot in his tragedy; and even he seemed a - little afraid of her. He did not champion Peter in her presence, but he - would take him out of rooms—oh, so stealthily—and carry him to - the end of the garden where a river ran, along the floor of which fishes - flashed, pursued by their shadows. There he would tell him funny stories—stories - of Peter’s world and within the compass of Peter’s - understanding; and he would laugh first to warn Peter when he was going to - be really funny—— - </p> - <p> - Peter had again been bad, shut up in a room and rescued by the smacking - lady’s husband. They were sitting on the river-bank, screened from - the windows of the house by bushes, when they heard the sound of running. - It was the servant; she spoke loudly with excitement and seemed out of - breath. The funny man’s face became grave; he rose and left Peter - without a word. - </p> - <p> - After that, all kinds of people came hurrying; they banged on the door and - went swiftly up the stairs—swiftly and softly. No one paid him any - heed and, strange to say, they were equally careless of Glory. He was glad - of that, for he loved Glory; it made him happy to have her to himself. All - that day they played among the flowers, he following the shining of her - little golden head. When she fell asleep tired, he sat solemnly beside - her, holding her crumpled hand. - </p> - <p> - That night they were hastily undressed by a stranger and tumbled into the - same bed. She was so strange that she did not know that she ought to hear - them say their prayers. It was Peter who reminded her. - </p> - <p> - Lying awake in the darkness, he was sensitive that something unusual was - happening. Up and down the creaking stairs many footsteps came and went; - dresses rustled; voices muttered in whispered consultation. In intervals - between doors opening and shutting, there were long periods of silence. - During one of these he heard a sound so curious that he sat up in bed—a - weak, thin wailing which was new to him and, had he known it, new to the - world. He gathered the bed-clothes to his mouth and listened. Voices on - the stairs grew bolder—almost glad. Peter was conscious of relief - from suspense; night itself grew less black. - </p> - <p> - Again a door opened on the lower landing; there were footsteps. A man - spoke cheerfully. “It’s all over and successfully. Thank God - for that.” - </p> - <p> - And the smacking lady’s husband roared, “A little nipper all - my own, by Gad!” - </p> - <p> - Peter didn’t understand, but they let him see next morning—a - puckered thing, wrapt in blue flannel, with the tiniest of hands, lying - very close to Aunt Jehane’s breast. It was the funny man who showed - him, lifting him up so he could look down on it. The funny man was happy. - </p> - <p> - Did he start asking questions at once, or does he only imagine it? Perhaps - someone tried to explain things to him—it may have been his friend, - the funny man. It may have been that he overheard conversations and - misconstrued them. At all events, he knew that the baby was a girl and - that she had come several weeks before she was expected. Someone said that - Master Peter would never have been there had they known that this was - going to happen.—So babies came from somewhere suddenly—somebody - sent them! This was the beginning of his longing to have a baby all to - himself—but how? - </p> - <p> - One fine morning the treacherous Grace arrived, not one little bit - abashed. She told him that his mother was coming back to Topbury. - </p> - <p> - “Then am I the goodest little boy in the world?” - </p> - <p> - She thumped her great arms round him; he might have been her drum she was - playing. “You can be when you like; and, my word, I believe you are - now.” - </p> - <p> - He learnt before he left that the new baby was to be called “Riska”; - and he noticed this much, that its hair and eyes were black. - </p> - <p> - His mother had lost her whiteness. Her face and hands were brown; only her - hair was the old sweet color. He had not been long with her when he made - his request. “Mummy, get Peterkins a baby.” - </p> - <p> - She was sitting sewing by the window. She looked up from the little - garment she was making, holding the needle in her hand. - </p> - <p> - “What a funny present! Why does little Peter ask for that?” - </p> - <p> - “Mummy, where does babies come from?” - </p> - <p> - She laid aside her work and took him into her lap. “From God, - dearie.” - </p> - <p> - “Who brings them, mummikins?” - </p> - <p> - “Angels.” - </p> - <p> - “How does they know to bring them?” - </p> - <p> - She laughed nervously; then checked herself, seeing how serious was the - child’s expression. “People ask God, darling; he tells the - angels. They bring the babies all wrapt up warmly in their softy wings and - feathers.” - </p> - <p> - “Could a little boy ask him?” - </p> - <p> - “Anyone could ask him.” - </p> - <p> - “Would he send me one for my very ownest?” - </p> - <p> - “Some day—perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - “And you asked God to send me, muvver?” - </p> - <p> - “I and your Daddy together.” - </p> - <p> - He lay so quietly in her arms that she thought his questions were at an - end. She did not take up her work, but sat smiling with dreamy eyes, - humming and resting her chin on his curly head. He clambered down from her - knee, satisfied and laughing, “Ask him again—you and Daddy - together.” - </p> - <p> - Just then Barrington entered. “What’s Daddy to ask for now?” - Then, “Why Nancy, tears in your eyes! What’s Peter been doing?” - </p> - <p> - She held her husband very closely, looking shy and happy. “He’s - been asking for the thing we’ve prayed for.” - </p> - <p> - “Eh! What’s that?” - </p> - <p> - “A baby.” - </p> - <p> - “A baby? Funny little beggar! Extraordinary!” - </p> - <p> - “And sweet!” whispered Nan. - </p> - <p> - “Come here, young fellow.” His father was solemn, but his eyes - were laughing. He held Peter between his knees, so their faces nearly met. - “If your mother asks God for a baby sister, will you always be good - to her—the truliest, goodest little brother in the world?” - </p> - <p> - And Peter nodded emphatically. His father shook his chubby hand, sealing - the bargain. - </p> - <p> - Peter watched hourly for her coming—he never doubted it would be a - <i>her.</i> He would inquire several times daily, “Will it be soon?” - There was always the same answer, “Peterkins, Peterkins presently.” - </p> - <p> - One night he heard the same sounds that had amazed him at the smacking - lady’s house—whispers, running on the stairs, doors opening - and shutting. He waited for the weak, thin wailing; but that did not - follow. Nevertheless, he was sure it had happened: wrapt up warmly, in - softy angel-feathers, God had sent him a sister for himself. - </p> - <p> - It was very late when Grace came to bed. Peter pretended to be asleep; he - feared she would be angry. Slowly he raised himself on the pillow, his - eyes clear and undrowsy. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Master Peter!” - </p> - <p> - She turned from the mirror so startled that, as she spoke, the hair-pins - fell from her mouth. - </p> - <h3> - 53 - </h3> - <p> - “What a fright you give me! I thought your peepers ‘ad been - glued tight for hours h’and hours.” - </p> - <p> - “Has she come? Has she come? Did a lady-angel bring her?” - </p> - <p> - “Lor’ bless the boy, he’s dreamin’! Now lie down, - little Round Tummy. Grice won’t be long; then she’ll hold you - in ‘er arms all comfy.” - </p> - <p> - “But Grace, she’s downstairs, a teeny weeny one—just big - enough for Peter to carry.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, look ‘ere, you just stop it, Master Peter. It’s no - time for talkin’; you’ll ‘ear soon enough. You and your - teeny weeny ones!” - </p> - <p> - Peter lay down, his little heart choking. Why wouldn’t Grace tell - him? - </p> - <p> - “But, Grace———” - </p> - <p> - “Shut up. I’m a-sayin’ of me prayers.” - </p> - <p> - In the morning the hushed suspense still hung about the house. When he - raised his piping voice, Grace shook him roughly. At breakfast his father’s - brows were puckered—he wasn’t a bit happy like the funny man. - When the table had been cleared, he laid aside his paper and sat Peter on - his knee before him. “Something happened last night, sonny. You’ve - got a little brother.” - </p> - <p> - “Not a sister, Daddy?” - </p> - <p> - Peter cried at that; no wonder they were all so sad. “But we asked - God for a sister partickerlarly.” - </p> - <p> - All day as he played in a whisper by himself, he tried to think things - out. God had become confused at the last moment, or the angel had: the - wrong baby had been brought to their house. But where was the right one? - </p> - <p> - That evening the angel remembered his error and took the baby back. - </p> - <p> - Peter was being undressed for bed and Grace was crying terribly. She had - just slipped him into his long, pink nightgown when his father came in - hurriedly. He caught him up, wrapping a blanket round him and ran with him - downstairs. The door of the room which he had watched all day was opened - by a man in black. The room was in darkness, save for a shaded lamp. There - were several people present; all of them whispered and walked on tiptoe. - He raised himself up in his father’s arms. On the bed his mother lay - weak and listless; her eyes were blue and vacant. She seemed to have - shrunk and tears stole down her cheeks unheeded. Her hair seemed heavy for - her head and lay across the pillow in two broad plaits. In her arms was a - little bundle. The man in black commenced to talk huskily. No one - answered; everyone listened to what he said. Suddenly he stooped to take - the bundle from his mother, but her arms tightened. “I’ll keep - him as long as God lets me.” - </p> - <p> - So the man drew aside the wrappings; Peter saw the face of a tiny stranger - already tired of the world. The man in black spoke some words more loudly - and touched the stranger’s face with water. Peter shuddered; it was - cruel to wet his face like that. They all stood silent in the shadows—all - except Peter, who cuddled against his father’s shoulder. Someone - said, “He’s gone,” and the sobbing commenced. - </p> - <p> - That night Peter slept in his mother’s bedroom—she would have - it. She seemed frightened that an angel so careless might carry him away - as well. So they set up his cot by the side of her bed; as she lay on her - pillows she could watch him. - </p> - <p> - Mummikins got happy slowly; she seemed disappointed in God. Gradually - Peter learnt that, although the baby had been left at the wrong house, - they had given him a name and had called him Philip. But the old question - worried Peter—the one which no one seemed able to answer: where was - the sister God had meant to send and which his father had promised? Since - everyone treated him with reticence, he took the matter up with God - himself. Often, when his mother bent above him and thought him sleeping, - he was talking with God inside his head. As a result the strange thing - happened. - </p> - <p> - In his room, to the left of his bed, was a large powder-cupboard, even in - the day-time full of shadows. One night he had been praying out loud to - himself, but his voice was growing weary and his eyelids kept falling. As - he lay there, coming from the cupboard, very softly, very distant, he - heard a sound of whistling. It was a little air, happy and haunting, - trilled over and over. He sat up and listened, not at all frightened. He - thrust himself up with his elbows, his head bent forward, in listening - ecstasy. His father could whistle, but not like that. A man’s - whistling was shrill and strong. This was gentle and glad, like a violin - played high up—ah yes, like his mother’s whistling. Then, - somehow, he knew that a girl’s lips formed that sound. - </p> - <p> - He slipped out of bed in the darkness and tiptoed to the cupboard. He - opened the door; it stopped. - </p> - <p> - When he was safe in bed it again commenced, as though it were saying, - “I’m coming. I’m coming, little Peterkins. Don’t - be impatient.” - </p> - <p> - It was trying to say more than that, and he racked his brains to - understand. When he lay quiet and was almost asleep, the picture formed. - He saw a girl-angel, standing in a garden, watching God at his work. And - what was God doing? He was making a little sister for Peter, stitching her - together. And every time the angel stopped whistling, God’s needle - dropped. And every time she recommenced, God laughed and plucked feathers - from her softy wings to make garments for the little sister. Peter named - her the Whistling Angel. One day, when she and God were ready, she would - bring his little sister to him. - </p> - <p> - The last thing he heard, as his sleepy eyes closed on the pillow, was that - happy haunting little air, like a tune played high up on a violin, - faintly, faintly. - </p> - <p> - “I’m coming. I’m coming, little Peterkins. Don’t - be impatient.” - </p> - <p> - It was like the rustle of wind in an angel’s wings who had already - set out on the journey. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII—“COMING. COMING, PETERKINS” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>eter took all the - credit to himself—she was his baby. And why not? Nobody, not even - his mother or father, had had anything to do with her advent. For many - months after Philip’s short sojourn, his mother had cried and his - father had frowned whenever babies were mentioned. Had it not been for - Peter, the little sister might have slipped God’s memory. Peter gave - him no chance to forget. Every night, kneeling between the bed-clothes - with his lips against the pillow to muffle the sound, he reminded God. He - realized that this attitude was not respectful and always apologized in - his prayers. He did it because big people wouldn’t understand if - they caught him kneeling beside the bed; it would be quite easy to fall - asleep there and get found.—So, of course, when she came, she - belonged to him. But her coming was not yet. He had no end of trouble in - getting her. - </p> - <p> - After he had heard the whistling, he tried to tell Grace about it. This - happened the very next morning. She had risen late and was dressing him in - a hurry in order to get him down in time for breakfast. She hardly - listened to him at all, but jerked him this way and that, buttoning and - tying and tucking. - </p> - <p> - “My, oh, my! There’s only emptiness inside your little ‘ead - this mornin’; you must ‘ave left your brains beneath the - pillow. What a lot o’ talk about nothin’.” - </p> - <p> - “It wasn’t nothing, Grace. I really and truly heard it.” - </p> - <p> - “Now then, no false’oods, young man. God’s a-listenin’ - and writin’ it all down.—There, Grice didn’t mean to be - h’angry! But you talk your tongue clean out o’ your ‘ead.” - </p> - <p> - “But Grace, I did. I did. It was like this.” - </p> - <p> - He pursed his lips together; only a splutter came. Grace rubbed his face - vigorously with the flannel, leaving a taste of soap in his mouth. - </p> - <p> - “You should ‘ear my new sweet’eart.” She was - trying to create a diversion. “‘E can make a winder rattle in - its frame; it’s that loud and shrill, the noise ‘e do make. If - you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll get ‘im to teach you - ‘ow.” - </p> - <p> - He was bursting with his strange new knowledge; he was sure his mother - would understand. While his father was at the table he kept silent. His - father soon hurried away; the front-door slammed. - </p> - <p> - He plucked at his mother’s skirt. “Last night God was in my - cupboard.” - </p> - <p> - “But darling, little boys oughtn’t to say things like that—not - even in fun, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - “I heard him, mummikins. An angel was with him, doing like this.” - </p> - <p> - He puffed out his cheeks; but he wasn’t so clever as the angel. No - sound came. - </p> - <p> - His mother gazed long into the eager face, trying to detect mischief. - “Whistling—is that what you mean? But angels don’t - whistle, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - “This one did—in our cupboard—in my bedroom.” - </p> - <p> - He wagged his head solemnly in affirmation. Then he drew down his mother’s - face. She was smiling to herself. “God was making our baby,” - he whispered, “and the angel was waiting to bring her.” - </p> - <p> - The rain came into her eyes—that was what Peter called it. “Hush, - my dearest. That’s all over. You’re my only baby now.” - </p> - <p> - She pressed him to her; he could feel her shaking. Just then, he knew, - nothing more must be said. - </p> - <p> - Many times he tried to tell her. One evening, while the angel was - whistling, she tiptoed into his bedroom. Looking up through the darkness - he saw her and seized her excitedly about the neck. “They’re - there, mummy. Don’t you hear her? She’s whistling now.” - He pronounced it ‘wussling.’ - </p> - <p> - “Why <i>her</i>, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - “I dunno; but listen, listen.” - </p> - <p> - She opened the cupboard door. “See, there’s nothing.” - </p> - <p> - “She stopped when you did that.” - </p> - <p> - “Go to sleep, my precious. You’re dreaming. If there was - anything, mother would have heard it as well.” - </p> - <p> - So he learnt to keep his secret to himself; no one seemed able to share - it. Every now and then, he would stop in his playing, with his head on one - side and his face intent; those who watched would see him creep upstairs - and peep into the big, dark cupboard. Strangely enough, whatever he - thought he heard, he did not appear frightened. - </p> - <p> - When the doctor was called to examine him he said, “A very - imaginative child! Oh dear no, he’s quite well. He’ll grow out - of that fancy. Won’t you, old chap?” - </p> - <p> - At the back of his mother’s mind was the terror that she was going - to lose him. She kept him always with her. When that dreamy look came into - his eyes and he turned his head expectantly, she would snatch him to her - breast, as though someone lurked near to take him from her. And Peter lay - still in her arms and smiled, for it seemed to him that the angel leant - over the banisters and whistled softly, “I’m coming. I’m - coming, little Peterkins.” - </p> - <p> - But Peter was anxious to make God hurry. It was Grace who taught him how. - </p> - <p> - Her faith came in spasms. Although she beat the drum for the Salvation - Army her fervor had its ups and downs. She used to tell Peter. When her - love-affairs went wrong, she was overwhelmed with doubt and refused to go - on parade. “‘E can carry the drum ‘isself,” she - would say, speaking of her Maker. “If ‘e don’t look - after me no better, I’ve done with ‘im. It’s awright; I - don’t care. ‘E can please ‘isself. If ‘e can do - without me, I can do without ‘im. So there.” - </p> - <p> - These confidences made Peter feel that God was an excessively accessible - person. One evening, kneeling in his mother’s lap with folded hands, - he surprised her by adding to the petition she had taught him, “Now, - look here, God, I’m tired of waiting. I wants——” - </p> - <p> - At this point he was stopped by a gentle hand pressed firmly over his - mouth. - </p> - <p> - “I can’t think what’s come to Peter,” she told her - husband; “he speaks so crossly to God in his prayers.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s Grace,” said Barrington laughing, “you - mark my words. You’d better talk to her.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but I’m so frightened when he does like that. Billy, do - you think——” - </p> - <p> - He stopped her promptly. “No, I don’t. The boy’s all - right.” - </p> - <p> - Seeing how her lips trembled, he took her in his arms. “You’ve - never grown out of your short frocks—you’re so timid, you - golden little Nan.” - </p> - <p> - It was after Grace had been spoken to that she made it up with her Maker. - When this occurred, Peter was with her in the dimly lit hall where the - soldiers of Salvation gathered. She was sitting beside him sulkily on the - back bench nearest the door; suddenly she rose and dashed forward in a - storm of weeping. While the penitent knelt by the platform, the man who - was waving his arms went on talking. Peter was growing frightened for her, - when she jumped to her feet, seizing a tambourine which she banged and - shook above her head, and shouted, “I’m cleansed. I’m - cleansed.” - </p> - <p> - Partly because of her strength and partly because of her righteousness, - she was allowed to carry the drum again and march in the front of the - procession. Peter was impressed. After that when he had been impatient - with God, he would seek forgiveness by declaring himself <i>cleansed</i>. - He always thought that, following such confessions, the whistling came - louder from the cupboard. - </p> - <p> - But it was Uncle Waffles who completed his information. At intervals he - would come over to Topbury with Aunt Jehane. So far as the ladies were - concerned, the talk was usually about their children. Aunt Jehane would - rarely fail to mourn the fact that hers were both girls. - </p> - <p> - “Boys are different,” she would say; “you can turn them - out to sink or swim. But girls! Sooner or later one has to get them - married. It’s like my fortune to have two of them—the luck was - with you from the first.” - </p> - <p> - Perhaps that was Jehane’s way of reminding Nan that she had given - her husband only Peter. Waffles seemed to construe it in that light for, - when she had repeated her complaint more than twice, he would tuck Peter - under one arm and Glory under the other, and steal away to some hidden - place where he could ask him funny questions. If he heard a cock crowing - he would stop and inquire, “Why does the Doodle-do?” - </p> - <p> - The little boy almost always forgot the proper answer. Uncle Waffles would - have to tell him, “Because he does, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - Peter soon learnt that Uncle Waffles had secrets as well, for, when he - talked in the presence of his wife, he would hold his chin in his hand, so - as to be able to slip his fingers quickly over his mouth if he found that - unwise words were escaping. If he were too late in slipping up his - fingers, she would say quite sharply, “Ocky, don’t be stupid. - You’re no better than a child.” - </p> - <p> - It was because Uncle Waffles was no better than a child that Peter took - courage to ask him, “How does people have babies?” - </p> - <p> - His uncle regarded him seriously a moment. “You’re very little - to ask such questions. It’s a great secret. If I tell you, promise - to keep it to yourself.” - </p> - <p> - When he had promised, his uncle whispered. And Peter knew that it was - true, for he remembered that someone had been lazy and had had breakfast - in bed before the coming of both Riska and Philip. So he learnt the last - piece of witchcraft by which babies are induced to come into the world. - From then on, until it happened, he was continually coaxing his mother not - to get up to breakfast. One morning she took his advice; then he knew for - certain that Uncle Waffles was very wise, even though Aunt Jehane did call - him stupid. - </p> - <p> - For some time the whistling had been growing bolder: it would come out of - the cupboard as though the angel were running; it would wander all over - the house and meet him in the most unexpected places. When he was playing - in the garden it would drift down to him from the tree-tops, “Coming, - Peterkins. Coming.” It had grown quick like that, as though it, too, - were impatient of waiting. - </p> - <p> - Two years had gone by since God had sent Philip and taken him back so - suddenly. It was within a few days of the anniversary and very close to - Christmas. All day the sky had been heavy with clouds. It was bitterly - cold outside; Peter had been kept in the nursery with a big, red fire - blazing. Everyone seemed busy; they opened the door now and then to make - sure that he was all right, and left him to play by himself. Toward - evening the clouds burst like great pillows, swollen with angels’ - feathers; softly, softly, covering up bare trees, putting the world to - sleep beneath a great white counterpane, the snow came down. - </p> - <p> - He woke in the night; it was like a lark singing right beside his bed. It - was the old haunting little air that it sang, but so much quicker, “Coming. - Coming. Coming.” Sometimes it sank into the faintest whisper; - sometimes it would swell into a sound so loud and happy that even Grace’s - sweetheart could not have whistled louder. Grace turned drowsily and, - seeing him sitting up, drew him down beneath the clothes, putting her arms - about him. No, she had not heard it. - </p> - <p> - In the morning his mother’s breakfast was carried upstairs and his - father looked worried. Peter grew afraid lest he had done wrong and a - little sister was not wanted. So he hid himself in the big dark cupboard - in the bedroom and was not missed for hours. - </p> - <p> - Presently voices wandered up and down the house, sometimes sounding quite - near and sometimes quite distant, “Peter! Peter! Where are you?” - They seemed afraid to call louder. - </p> - <p> - Peter had his suspicions, so he kept quiet. They did not want her—and - they knew that he had done it. - </p> - <p> - Someone said “Shish!” The other voices sank into silence; now - it was only his father’s that he heard. “Peter-kins, - Peterkins, father wants you. Don’t be frightened. He’s going - to tell you something grand.” - </p> - <p> - So Peter came out; when he saw his father’s face, he knew that he - was not angry. - </p> - <p> - “You did want her too—didn’t you, didn’t you, - Daddy?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I did, you rummy little chap. But how did you know? Who - told you?” - </p> - <p> - Although he coaxed and rubbed his scrubby chin against Peter’s neck, - he never got an answer to that question. Where was the good of answering? - Either you had ears like Peter’s or you hadn’t. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX—KAY AND SOME OTHERS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>he filled all his - thoughts; the world had become new to him. Picture-books were no longer - amusing; just to be Peter with a little strange sister was the most - fascinating story imaginable. - </p> - <p> - It was easy to keep him good; Grace had only to threaten that he should - not see her. See her! He lived for that. Early in the morning he was at - the bedroom door, waiting for the nurse to look out and beckon. As he - followed her in on tiptoe, his golden little motherkins would turn on her - pillow, holding out her hand. She was prettier than ever now. If Peter had - known the word, he would have said she looked <i>sacred</i>: that was what - he felt. And she seemed to have grown younger. She appeared immature as a - girl, so slim and pale, stretched out in the broad white bed. Her hair lay - in shining pools between the counterpane mountains. - </p> - <p> - “Pepperminta, you’re no older than Peter,” he had heard - his father tell her; “you’re a kiddy playing with dollies—not - a mother. It’s absurd.” - </p> - <p> - He knew from watching his father that, if they had loved her before, they - must love her ten thousand times better now. When he went for his walks - with Grace, he spent his pennies to bring her home flowers. - </p> - <p> - Everything in that room had been brightened to welcome the little sister. - It had a sense of whiteness and a soft, sweet fragrance. They had to make - the little sister feel that they were glad she had come and wanted her to - stay. So a fire was kept burning in the grate. They spoke in whispers and - walked on their toes, the way one does in church. - </p> - <p> - Climbing on a chair, he would seat himself at the foot of the bed while - his mother’s eyes laughed at him from the pillow, “We’ve - managed it this time, little Peter.” - </p> - <p> - Presently the nurse would turn back the sheet and show him the stranger, - cuddled in his mother’s breast; he would see a shining head, like - fine gold scattered on white satin. - </p> - <p> - “The same as yours, mummy.” - </p> - <p> - “And the same as yours, darling.” - </p> - <p> - When anyone found him in any way like her, Peter was glad.—If he - waited patiently, the blue eyes would open and stare straight past him, - seeing visions of another world. - </p> - <p> - “She sees something, mummy.” - </p> - <p> - “God, perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - Peter thought he knew better, for he heard quite near, yet so softly that - it might have been far away, the violinlike whisper of one who whistled - beneath her breath. - </p> - <p> - “Dearest, was Peter like that?” - </p> - <p> - “Peter and everybody.” - </p> - <p> - There were times when he was allowed to slip his finger between those of - the tiny fisted hand. When he felt their pressure, they seemed to say, - “I’m yours, Peter-kins. Take care of me, won’t you?” - </p> - <p> - He was sure she knew that he had seen God make her. - </p> - <p> - He did not want to speak; he was perfectly content to sit in the sheltered - quiet, watching. He would listen outside the door for hours on the chance - of being admitted. If Grace missed him, she always knew where he might be - found. - </p> - <p> - As the little sister grew, he was permitted to see her bathed and dressed. - One by one the soft wrappings were removed and folded, and the perfect - little body revealed itself. No wonder God had taken so long; he had put - such love into his work. By and by she learnt how to crow and splash. Her - first recorded smile was given to Peter. But long before that a name had - to be chosen. - </p> - <p> - She was christened Kathleen Nancy and was called Kay, because that made - her sound dearer. - </p> - <p> - Peter was nearly seven at the time of her coming. Of all people, he and - his mother seemed to know her best. They had secrets about her; before she - could talk, they told one another what her baby language meant. During her - first summer on earth, they would sit beside her cradle in the garden, - believing that birds and flowers stooped to watch her. - </p> - <p> - “You’re no older than Peter,” his father had said. But, - when he came home from the city, he would join them and seemed perfectly - happy to gaze on Kay, with Peter on his knee, holding Nan’s free - hand. - </p> - <p> - Even in those early days, it was strange the power that Peter had over - her. If she were crying, she would stop and laugh for Peter. She would - sleep for Peter, if he hummed and rocked her. When she began to speak, it - was Peter who taught her and interpreted what she said; that was during - her second summer, when leaves in the garden were tapping. They grew to - trust Peter where Kay was concerned. “He’s so gentle with her,” - they said. - </p> - <p> - “Might be ‘er father, the care ‘e takes of ‘er. It’s - uncanny,” Grace told her sweetheart. - </p> - <p> - Her sweetheart was a policeman at this moment; his profession did not make - for sentiment. “Father, by gum! Fat lot o’ care your father - took o’ you, I’ll bet.” - </p> - <p> - Grace’s father was a cabby and was known to the Barrington household - as Mr. Grace—a name of Peter’s bestowing. He drove a - four-wheeler and had a red face. His stand was at the bottom of Topbury - Crescent, which formed the blade to the sickle of which the Terrace was - the handle. - </p> - <p> - When Kay was beginning to toddle, her cot was transferred from her parents’ - to Peter’s bedroom. Nan was none too strong and Barrington could not - afford to be roused at five in the morning—he worked too hard and - required all his rest. Had Peter’s wishes been consulted, this was - just how he would have arranged matters. From the moment when the light - went out to the moment when his eyelids reluctantly lowered, he had Kay - all to himself. Throwing off the clothes, he would slip out and kneel - beside her cot, softying her with his face and hands. He had to do this - carefully lest he should be heard. Sometimes, in stepping out, the - mattress squeaked and a voice would call up the tall dim stairs, “Peter, - are you in bed?” An interval would elapse while he hurried back; - then he would answer truthfully, “Yes.” Often the voice would - say knowingly, “You are now.” - </p> - <p> - But the temptation was too great. It was so wonderful to touch her in the - darkness, to hear her stir, to feel her hand brush his cheek and the warm - sleepy lips turned toward his mouth. - </p> - <p> - “It’s only Peter,” he would whisper; and, perhaps, he - would add, “Little Kay, aren’t you glad I borned you?” - </p> - <p> - Oh yes, it was he who had contrived her birth. There, as a proof, was the - big dim cupboard where it had all commenced. - </p> - <p> - In the shadowy darkness of the room, before Grace came up to undress, he - lived in a world of fancy. Through the oblong of the doorway the faint - gold glimmered, made by the lowered gas. In the square of the window, as - in a magic mirror, all kinds of strange things happened. Great soft clouds - moved across it, like mountains marching. Presently they would stand - aside, giving him glimpses of deep lagoons and floating lands. Stars would - dance out, like children holding hands, and wink and twinkle at him. The - moon would let down her silver ladder, smiling to him to ascend. He - laughed back and shook his head. Oh, no thank you; Kay needed his - attention. - </p> - <p> - Beneath the sky was a muffled world, like a Whistler nocturne, of - house-tops and drowsy murmurs. It was a vague field of seething shadows in - which the blur of street-lamps was a daffodil forest. Dwellings which were - blind all day, in streets he had never traversed, now peered stealthily - from behind their curtains with the unblinking eyes of cats. What did they - do down there? Church bells in the Vale of Holloway would try to tell him. - Sometimes strains of a barrel-organ would drift up merrily and he would - picture how ragged children danced, beating time with rapid feet upon the - muddy pavement. Sometimes in the distance, like a scarlet fear, a train - would shoot across the murk and vanish. - </p> - <p> - But always from these wanderings his imagination would return to the cot - where the little sister nestled. Who was it put the thought into his head? - Was it some strange confusion between winking stars and the Bethlehem - story? Or was it Grace in one of her flights of poetry? Long ago, he told - himself, like this the Boy Jesus must have sat keeping guard over a baby - sister, while at the bottom of a tall steep house Mary helped Joseph, - making chairs and tables. - </p> - <p> - Once Peter gave things away completely by trusting too much to his - wakefulness; he was found asleep on the floor beside Kay’s cot when - Grace came up to undress. - </p> - <p> - If the nights had their spice of adventure because such doings were - forbidden, the mornings were not to be sneered at. He would be wakened by - a small hand stroking his face and she would snuggle into bed beside him. - Years after, when he was a man, he remembered the sensation of her cold - feet when she had found him difficult to rouse. - </p> - <p> - But the greatest treat of all came rarely. When his father went away on a - journey, his mother could cast aside her habits. She would make her home - in the nursery and hirelings would be driven out. Grace would be given an - evening with her policeman, and Peter, and Kay, and Nan would have each - other to themselves. If it were winter, they would have supper by - firelight, after which they would sit and toast themselves while Nan told - stories of her girlhood. Kay would be taken into her lap and Peter would - sit on the rug, cuddling against her skirt. - </p> - <p> - “How did Daddy find you, Mummy?” - </p> - <p> - And when that had been told in a simplified version, “Mummy, should - I be your little boy, if you’d married someone else?” - </p> - <p> - Since there seemed some doubt, Peter made haste to assure her, “Dearest, - I’m so, so glad.” - </p> - <p> - In the dancing flames and shadows, Kay would be undressed and popped into - the tin-bath while Peter helped. Then, all warm and snuggly, she would be - carried to her mother’s bed. In a short time Peter would follow and - fall asleep with his arms about her. - </p> - <p> - Toward midnight he would rouse; the gas was lit and someone was rustling. - Looking down the bed, he would see his mother with her gold hair loose - about her shoulders. “Hush,” she would whisper, placing her - finger against her mouth. So he would lie still, watching her shadow on - the walls and ceiling. Again the room was in darkness; his face was hidden - in her breast as she clasped him to her. He was thinking how lucky it was - that his father had found her. - </p> - <p> - In the morning Kay would wake them, climbing across their legs or losing - herself beneath the bed-clothes. Just to be different from all other - mornings, they would have their breakfast before they dressed. What an - adventure they made of it and what good times they had! - </p> - <p> - In after years, looking back, Peter realized what children he had had for - parents; they seemed anything but children then. His father was not too - old to be a lion on hands and knees beneath the table, trying to catch him - as he ran round. At last his mother would cry out, “Billy, dearest, - do stop it. You’ll get the boy excited.” - </p> - <p> - And then there were those empty rooms at the top of the house to be - furnished. Peter’s father led him all over London, visiting beery - old women and dingy old men, whose shops to the unpracticed eye were - stocked with rubbish. Oak paneling, bronzes, French clocks, canvases dim - with dirt, were discovered and carried home in triumph. For the canvases - frames had to be hunted out; the pursuit was endless. These treasures were - driven home in cabs, taking up so much room that Peter had to make himself - smaller. Nan would fly to the door as the wheels halted on the Terrace. - </p> - <p> - “Peter, why did you let him? Oh, Billy, how extravagant!” - </p> - <p> - “But, my dear, it’s an investment. I paid next to nothing and - wouldn’t sell it for a thousand pounds.” - </p> - <p> - “Couldn’t,” she corrected; but, as was proved later, she - was wrong in that. - </p> - <p> - When the empty rooms were furnished—the oak bedroom and the Italian—the - modern furnishings in other parts of the house were gradually supplanted; - even the staircase was hung with paintings which Barrington restored - himself. There was one little drawback to these prowlings through London - which Peter was too proud to mention: his father as he walked would pinch - his hand to show his affection—but it hurt. He knew why his father - did it, so he did not tell him. He bit his lips instead to keep back the - tears. - </p> - <p> - Four other people stole across his childish horizon like wisps of cloud—the - Misses Jacobite. They lived in an old-fashioned house in Topbury and kept - no servants. Peter got to know them because they smiled at him coming in - and going out of church. There was Miss Florence, who was tall and - reserved; and Miss Effie, who was little and talkative; and Miss Madge, - who was fat and jolly; and Miss Leah, a shadow-woman, who sat always in a - darkened room with pale hands folded, crooning to herself. - </p> - <p> - People said “Poor thing! Oh well, there’s no good blaming her - now. She wouldn’t thank us for our pity; after all, she brought it - on herself.” - </p> - <p> - Or they said. “You know, they were quite proud once—the belles - of Topbury. Two of them were engaged to be married. Their father was alive - then—the Squire we called him. But after Miss Leah——” - They dropped their voices till they came to the last sentence, “And - the disgrace of it killed the old chap.” - </p> - <p> - Even Grace, when she took Kay and Peter to visit them, left them if she - could on the doorstep. Her righteous mood asserted itself; she flounced - her skirt in departing, shaking off the dust from her feet for a testimony - against them. “Scand’lous, I calls it. If I wuz to do like - ‘er, yer ma wouldn’t let me touch yer. But o’ course, it’s - different; I’m only a sarvant-gal. And they ‘olds their - ‘eads so ‘ighl Brazen, I calls it. Before I walked the streets - where a thing like that ‘ad ‘appened in my family, I’d - sink into my grave fust—that I would. I ‘ate the thought of - their kissing yer, my precious lambs.” - </p> - <p> - Peter was always wondering what it was that Miss Leah had brought upon - herself. Whatever it was, it stayed with her in the room with the lowered - blinds at the back of the house. She never went out; callers never saw - her. Her eyes were vague, as though she had wept away their color. She - spoke in a hoarse whisper, as in a dream; and her attention had to be - drawn to anything before she saw it. But it was her singing that shocked - and thrilled Peter, making him both pitiful and frightened. Her song never - varied and never quite came to an end; she repeated it over and over. You - could hear it in the hall, the moment you entered; it went on at intervals - until you left. She sang it with empty hands, sitting without motion: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “On the other side of Jordan - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - In the sweet fields of Eden - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Where the Tree of Life is growing - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - There is rest for me.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Where were the “sweet fields of Eden”? Peter liked the sound - of them and would have asked her, had not something held him back. She - must be very tired, he thought, to be singing always about rest. Yet he - never saw her work. - </p> - <p> - He had been there many times and had only heard her, until one day, as he - was scampering down the passage with Miss Madge pursuing, the door opened - and a woman with dim eyes and hair as white as snow looked out. She gazed - at him without interest; but when Kay toddled up to her fearlessly, she - stooped and caught her to her breast. - </p> - <p> - Several things about the Misses Jacobite struck Peter as funny. They - divided the visit up, so that each might have a child for part of it - entirely to herself. Each would behave during that time as though she were - a mother famished for affection, returned from a long journey, and would - invent secrets which were to be shared by nobody but the child and - herself. Kay and Peter were carried off into separate rooms, and there - played with and cuddled by a solitary Miss Jacobite. Though the Misses - Jacobite were obviously poor, the children always went home with a - present; often enough it was a toy from the dusty, disused nursery. When - they met Kay and Peter on Sundays and people were watching, they pretended - to forget the other things that had happened. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder you let your children go there,” people said. - </p> - <p> - Nan smiled slowly and answered softly, gathering Kay and Peter to her. - “Poor things! They were robbed of everything. I have so much I don’t - deserve. I can spare them a little of my gladness.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Mrs. Barrington, that’s mere sentiment. How does your - husband allow it?” - </p> - <p> - One day Nan’s husband spoke up for himself. “Did you ever hear - of the raft? I thought not. Well, Nan and I have.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X—WAFFLES BETTERS HIMSELF - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the month of - June. A breeze blowing in at the open window fluttered out the muslin - curtains and shook loose the petals of roses standing on the table. A - milk-cart rattled down the Terrace, clattering its cans. Sounds, which - drifted in from the primrose-tinted world, were all what Peter would have - described as “early.” The walls of the room were splashed with - great streaks of sunlight, which lit up some of the pictures with peculiar - intensity and left others in contrasting shadow. One of those which were - thus illumined was a Dutch landscape by Cuyp, hanging against the dark oak - paneling above a blue couch; it represented a comfortable burgher - strolling in conversation with two women on the banks of a canal. - Barrington liked to face it while he sat at breakfast; it gave him a - certain indifference to worry before the rush of the day commenced. But - this morning, to judge by his puckered forehead, it had not produced its - usual effect. He glanced up from the letter he was reading and tossed it - across to Nan. “What d’you make of that?” - </p> - <p> - She bent over it, wrinkling her brows. The letter was in a man’s - handwriting and the postscript, which was of nearly equal length, was in a - woman’s. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know; if it was from anyone but Ocky——” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely, Ocky’s a fool. He’s always been a fool and - he’s growing worse; but Jehane ought to have sounder sense. It’s - beyond me why she married him. I never did understand Jehane; I suppose I - never shall.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re not a woman, Billy; or else you would. She was sick - and tired of being lonely and dependent; she wanted someone to take care - of her. Ocky was the only man who offered. But that’s eight years - ago—I’m afraid she’s found him out; and she’s - doing her best to persuade herself that she hasn’t. Poor Jehane, she - always admired strong men—men she could worship.” - </p> - <p> - “That explains but it doesn’t excuse her. She had a strong man - in Captain Spashett; the hurry of her second marriage was indecent. I - never did approve of it. I said nothing at first because I thought she - might help Ocky to grow a backbone.—And now there’s this new - folly, which she appears to encourage.” - </p> - <p> - “But, dear, is it so foolish? Perhaps, she’s given him a - backbone and that’s why he’s done it.” She laughed - nervously. “They both say that this is a great opportunity for him - to better himself.” - </p> - <p> - “Bah! The only way for Ocky to better himself is to change his - character. He’s a balloon—a gas-bag; he’ll go up in the - air and burst. The higher he goes, the further he’ll have to tumble. - You think I’m harsh with him; I know him. Jehane’s done him no - good; she despises him, I’m sure, though she doesn’t think she - shows it. She’s filled his head with stupid ambitions and before she’s - done she’ll land him in a mess. She’s driven him to this - bravado with private naggings; he wants to prove to her that he really is - a man. Man! He’s a child in her hands. It hurts me to watch them - together. Why can’t she be a wife to him and make up her mind that - she’s married a donkey?” - </p> - <p> - “It’s difficult for a woman to make up her mind to that—especially - a proud, impatient woman.” - </p> - <p> - He paid no attention to his wife’s interruption, but went on - irritably with what he was saying. - </p> - <p> - “So he’s giving up a secure job, and he’s going into - this harum-scarum plan for buying up the sands of Sandport for nothing and - selling them as house-plots for a fortune. Even if there were anything in - it, who’s going to finance him? Of course he’ll come to me as - usual.” - </p> - <p> - “But he says he’s got the capital.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s just it—from where? His pocket always had a hole - in it. When he says he’s got money, I don’t believe him; when - he’s proved his word I grow nervous.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington leant across the table, rapping with his knuckles. “Ocky’s - the kind of amiable weak fellow who can easily be made bad—especially - by a woman who refuses to love him. Once a man like that’s gone - under, you can never bring him back—he’s lost what staying - quality he ever had.” - </p> - <p> - Nan rarely argued with her husband. Pushing back her chair, she went and - knelt beside him, pressing her soft cheek against his hand. “You are - a silly Billy, dearest, to be so serious on such a happy morning. There’s - no danger of Ocky ever becoming bad; and, in any case, what’s this - got to do with the matter? I know he’s foolish and his jokes get on - your nerves; but it isn’t his fault that he’s not clever like - you. You shouldn’t be gloomy just because he’s going to be - daring. I don’t wonder he’s sick of that lawyer’s - office. And it’s absurd to think that he’s going to be bad; - look how Peter loves him. You like Ocky more than you pretend, now don’t - you?” - </p> - <p> - “If liking’s being sorry. I’m always sorry for an ass; - and I’m angry with Jehane because she knows better. She’s - doing this because she’s jealous of you—that’s why she - clutches at this bubble chance of prosperity.” - </p> - <p> - “Ar’n’t you a little unjust to her, Billy? Since our - marriage, you’ve always been unjust to her. You know why she’s - jealous—she wants her husband to be like you.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice sank away to a whisper. “Oh, Janey, I did, I did play - fair,” she had said that night at Cassingland; in her violent - assertion of fairness there had been an implied question which Jehane had - never answered. Both she and her husband knew that they had never been - acquitted. - </p> - <p> - Barrington drew Nan’s head against his shoulder. “Poor people.” - Then he kissed her with new and eager gladness. - </p> - <p> - “And it isn’t only pity you feel for Ocky?” She - persisted. “Now confess.” - </p> - <p> - He pulled out his watch hastily and, having replaced it, gulped down his - coffee. “When I was Peter’s age, we were brought up like - brothers together. I loved him then; I’m disappointed in him now. - And yet I’m always catching glimpses in him of the little chap I - played with. You see, at school I was the stronger and had to protect him. - I was always fighting his battles. And one whole term, when his hand was - poisoned, I had to take him to the doctor to get it dressed—— - No, it isn’t only pity, Pepperminta: it’s memories.” - </p> - <p> - As he was going out of the door she called after him, “Then, I - suppose, I can write and say we’ll have them?” - </p> - <p> - “While they’re moving—the children? Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Jehane doesn’t say how many.” - </p> - <p> - “She means all, I expect. There’s the garden for them—it’ll - be fun for Kay and Peter.” - </p> - <p> - A week later, Jehane traveled across London to Top-bury Terrace, bringing - with her Glory, aged nine, Riska, aged six, and her youngest child, - Eustace, who was the same age as Kathleen. Jehane was now in her - thirty-seventh year, a striking brooding type of woman. As her face had - grown thinner and her cheeks had lost their color, the gipsy blackness of - her appearance had become more noticeable. She still had a fine figure, so - that men in public conveyances would furtively lower their papers to gaze - at her. There clung about her an atmosphere of adventure, of which she was - not entirely unaware. She was unconquerably romantic, and would spin - herself stories in the silence of her fancy of a love that was crushing in - its intensity. No one would have guessed from the hard little lines about - the corners of her eyes and mouth that this imaginative tenderness formed - part of her character. - </p> - <p> - Since the birth of Eustace her hair had fallen out in handfuls and she had - adopted a style of dressing it that was distinctly unbecoming. She had had - her combings made up into an affair which Glory called “Ma’s - mat.” It consisted of half-a-dozen curls, sewn together in rows like - sausages, which she pinned across the top of her head so that they made a - fringe along her forehead. It gave her an old-fashioned look of prim - severity. Jehane retained for Nan an affection which was partly genuine - and partly habit; but she resented Nan’s youthful appearance with - slow jealous anger, attributing it to freedom from anxiety and the - possession of money. As for Nan, her attitude was one of gentle and - atoning apology for her happiness. “I’m so glad you brought - the children yourself, Janey.” - </p> - <p> - “And who could have brought them? I’m not like you—I - only keep two servants. When this scheme of Ocky’s has turned out - all right, perhaps it may be different.” - </p> - <p> - She turned swiftly on Nan with latent defiance, as though challenging her - to express doubt. - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure both Billy and I hope it will. Wouldn’t it be - splendid to see Ocky really a big man?” - </p> - <p> - “It would be a good deal more than splendid. It would mean the end - of little houses and cheap servants and neighbors that you can’t - introduce to your father’s friends. It would mean the end of - pinching and scraping to save a penny. And it would mean a chance for my - girls.” - </p> - <p> - Nan slipped an arm into hers and hugged it. “Dear old thing, I think - I understand. And when is Ocky coming over to tell us all about it? He - gave us hardly any details in his letter.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane became evasive. “He’s naturally very busy. The chance - developed so suddenly that he’s hardly had time to turn round. It - came to him through a client at the office. Mr. Playfair had noticed him - at his desk as he passed in and out to see Mr. Wagstaff. He’s told - Ocky since that he spotted him at once and said to himself, ‘If ever - I want a chap with-business push and legal knowledge, that’s my man.’” - </p> - <p> - “And he’s never talked with him?” - </p> - <p> - “Hardly. Not much more than to say ‘How d’you do?’ - or ‘Good-morning’.” - </p> - <p> - “Wasn’t it wonderful that he should have sized him up in a - flash?” - </p> - <p> - Jehane glanced at her narrowly. “It may be wonderful to <i>you</i>; - it isn’t to <i>me</i>. I’m well aware that you and Billy don’t - think much of Ocky. Oh, where’s the sense in disowning it? You both - think he’s a born fool.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure you never heard Billy say that.” - </p> - <p> - “Heard him say it! Of course I didn’t. I’d like to hear - him dare to say anything like that about my husband. But actions speak - louder than words. He thinks it just the same; he thinks that Ocky’s - good for nothing But to sit at a desk, taking a salary from another man. P’rhaps, - you didn’t know that for years Ocky’s been the brains of that - office?” - </p> - <p> - Nan lifted her honest eyes; she was filled with discomfort. This kind of - controversy was always happening when they met; they drifted into some - sort of feud for which Jehane invariably held her responsible. “The - brains of the office! No, indeed, I never heard that. Why didn’t you - tell us?” - </p> - <p> - “Because you and Billy thought he was incompetent, and it didn’t - seem worth the trouble to correct you.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure I’ve always thought him very kind, especially - to Peter.” - </p> - <p> - “Kind! What’s kindness got to do with being clever?” Nan - pressed Jehane to stay to dinner. She would send a telegram to Ocky; she - would send her home in a cab. But Jehane was in an ungracious mood and - eager to take offense. She resented the implication that a cab was a - luxury. No, she couldn’t stay; there was too much to do. She had - intended to return in a cab, anyhow. In reality she was anxious to avoid - Barrington’s shrewd questioning. She was rising to take her - departure, when she saw him descending the garden steps. - </p> - <p> - “Ha, Jehane! This is luck. I’ve had thoughts of you all day. - That letter’s got on my nerves. I couldn’t work; so I came - home early.—Oh no, we’re not going to let you off now. You’ve - got to stop and tell us. By the way, before Ocky actually decides, I’d - like to talk the whole matter over with him.” - </p> - <p> - “He’s decided already.” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t mean———-” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Why not? He’s given Wagstaff notice. Things so happened - that he had to make up his mind in a hurry or lose it.—But I really - ought to be going. Nan knows everything now.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington placed his hand on her shoulder arrestingly. At his touch she - drew back and colored. “This thing’s too serious, Jehane,” - he said, “to be dismissed in a sentence. I have a right to know.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke kindly, but she answered him hotly. “What right, pray?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, if anything goes wrong, there’s only me to fall back - on. And then there’s the right of friendship.” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t say you’ve shown yourself over friendly. If you’ve - had to meet Ocky, you’ve let all the world see you were irritated. - If you’ve ever invited him to your house, you’ve taken very - good care that no one important was present. One would judge that you - thought he lowered you. I can’t see that you have the right to know - anything.” - </p> - <p> - “That can only be because your husband hasn’t told you. To - quote one instance, it was through my influence that he got this position - that he’s now thrown over—Wagstaff is my lawyer.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane tossed her head. “You always want to make out that he owes - you everything—— Well, what is it that I’m forced to - tell you?” - </p> - <p> - Barrington kept silence while they walked down the path to where chairs - were spread beneath the cedar. The children ran up boisterously to greet - him; having kissed them, he told Grace to take them away and to keep them - quiet. When he spoke, his tones were grave and measured: “It wasn’t - fair of Ocky to send you to tell us; he ought to have come himself.” - </p> - <p> - “He didn’t send——” - </p> - <p> - Barrington held up his hand. “You can’t tell me anything on - that score; from the first he’s shirked responsibility. He would - never fight if he could get anyone else to fight for him. Many and many’s - the time I’ve had to dohis dirty work. Now you’re doing it. - This is unpleasant hearing, Jehane; but you know it’s true. I’d - take a wager that you spent hours trying to screw up his courage to make - him come himself.” - </p> - <p> - She lifted her head to deny it, but his quiet gray eyes met hers. Their - sympathy and justice disturbed her. She refused to be pitied by this man——. - A great fear rose in her throat. What if his opinion of her husband were - correct? It was the opinion she herself had had for years and had tried to - stifle. Time and again she had listened to his plausibility—his - boastings that he was the brains of the office, that luck was against him - and that one day he would show the world. She had used his arguments to - defend him to her relations and friends. In public she had made a parade - of being proud of him. In private she had tried to ridicule him out of his - shame-faced manners. And now she was trying so hard to believe that he had - found his opportunity.—It was cruel of Barrington, especially cruel - when he knew quite well that it was him she had loved. She could not - endure to sit still and hear him voice her own suspicious and calmly - analyze the folly of her marriage. - </p> - <p> - “If you think that my husband was afraid to come and tell you, the - only way to prove the contrary is to let him come himself to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall be more than glad to see him.” - </p> - <p> - But Ocky did not come to-morrow, nor the next day. The day after that - Barrington went to see his lawyer. - </p> - <p> - “Good-morning, Mr. Wagstaff. I should like to speak to you about my - cousin, Mr. Waffles.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Wagstaff twitched his trousers up to prevent them from rucking as he - crossed his legs. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, - Mr. Barrington——” - </p> - <p> - “I understand he’s given you notice.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Wagstaff sat up suddenly. “Understand what? He told you that?” - </p> - <p> - “No, he did not tell me. His wife did.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, his wife! He left her to make the explanations. Just what one - might expect.” - </p> - <p> - “Then he didn’t give you notice?” - </p> - <p> - “Course not.” Mr. Wagstaff spoke testily, as though for an - employee to give him notice was an event beyond the bounds of possibility. - </p> - <p> - “Then he left without notifying you?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, hardly.” - </p> - <p> - The lawyer noticed that the door leading into the main office was ajar; he - got up and closed it. When he returned he did not re-seat himself, but - straddled the hearth-rug, holding up his coat-tails although no fire was - burning. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Barrington, sir, I put up with your cousin’s - shiftlessness for longer that I ought to have done; I did it out of - respect for you, sir. There was a time when I hoped I might make something - of him. He can be nimble-witted over trifles and his own affairs; but he - never put any interest into my work. He was insubordinate—not to my - face, you understand, but when my back was turned; he wasn’t a good - influence in the office. I tell you this, sir, to prove that I haven’t - acted without consideration.” - </p> - <p> - The lawyer waggled his coat-tails and seemed to find a blemish in his - boots, so earnestly did he regard them. When he received no help from - Barrington, he suddenly came to the point and looked up sharply. - </p> - <p> - “He betrayed professional confidence; so I sacked him.” - </p> - <p> - “Had it happened before?” - </p> - <p> - “Possibly. He was always garrulous. This time it was an affair of - some property at Sandport. Our client had two competing purchasers, one of - whom was a Mr. Playfair. Your cousin leaked to Mr. Playfair—kept him - informed as to what the other purchaser was doing. Not a nice thing to - occur, Mr. Barrington.” - </p> - <p> - This last remark was as much an interrogation as an assertion. The lawyer - waited for his opinion to be indorsed. - </p> - <p> - “Not at all nice,” Barrington assented. “If it’s - lost you any money, I must refund it.” - </p> - <p> - “‘Tisn’t a question of money. Wouldn’t hear of - that.” As Mr. Wagstaff shook hands at parting, he offered a crumb of - comfort: “Mind, I don’t say your cousin is dishonest, Mr. - Barrington; that would be <i>too, too</i> strong. Perhaps, it would be - better stated by saying that his sense of honor is rudimentary.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps,” said Barrington brusquely. “I think I catch - your meaning.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI—THE HOME LIFE OF A FINANCIER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>eople who loved - Ocky Waffles always loved him for his good; he would have preferred to - have been loved for almost any other purpose. Affection, in his - experience, turned friends into schoolmasters. There was Barrington, a - fine chap and all that; but why the dickens did he take such endless pains - to be so uselessly unpleasant? - </p> - <p> - Ocky was on the lookout for Jehane when she returned from Topbury. As she - turned the corner, he espied her from behind the curtains and lit his pipe - to give himself confidence. No sooner had she entered than she commenced - an account of her visit, indignantly underlining her interview with - Barrington. Ocky seated himself on the edge of the table, puffing away and - swinging his legs. - </p> - <p> - “Wants to see me, does he? He can go on wanting. I’m sick of - his interfering. A fat lot he’s ever done to help me! And with his - position and friends he could have helped me—instead of that he - gives me his advice. Truth is, Jehane, he doesn’t want to see us - climb; he’d rather be the patron of the family. With the best - intentions in the world, he’s out to put a spoke in my wheel. Oh, I - know him!—If he’s so anxious for information, he can come here - to get it.” - </p> - <p> - While he spoke he scrutinized his wife, judging the effect of his - blustering independence. She was suspicious of some hidden knowledge; he - felt it. Something had been said behind his back at Topbury—something - derogatory. Could Barrington have heard already. - </p> - <p> - Pressing down the ashes in the bowl of his pipe, he struck a match. Jehane - was between himself and the door; he wondered whether he could slip past - her and make his exit if things became unpleasant. He detested being - cornered; he could be so much braver when the means of escape lay behind - him. Meanwhile, it seemed good policy to continue talking. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t like the way they treat you at Topbury; you always - come home down-hearted. There’s too much condescension. Nan overdoes - it when she tries to be kind. The rich relation attitude! It riles me. - When she makes you a present it’s always a dress—might just as - well tell you to your face that you’re shabby. And last Christmas, - sending Peter’s cast-off clothes to Eustace! Thank God, we’re - not paupers and never shall be!” - </p> - <p> - As he worked himself into a passion Jehane eyed him somberly. The - everlasting pipe, dangling from his mouth, annoyed her immensely. His - trousers, bagging at the knees, and his pockets, stuffed with rubbish, - were perpetual eyesores; she hated his slack appearance. Other men with - his income at least attained neatness. It was not that he spared money on - his clothes——. She caught herself comparing him with - Barrington—Barrington whose tidy body was the outward sign of his - well-ordered mind. Her husband went on talking and her irritation took a - new direction. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll bet a fiver what they said when you told ‘em. - ‘My dearest, if it <i>could</i> only happen’—that’s - Nan. ‘Ah yes! Humph! sand at Sandport! We must talk this over before - he decides’—that’s Barrington. We can guess what his - advice’ll amount to, can’t we, old Duchess?” - </p> - <p> - It was safe to venture the endearment now. If they had nothing else in - common, they were partners in their animosities. When running down an - enemy together, he could dare to express his affection for her; his way of - doing this was to call her <i>Duchess</i>. At other times she would brush - him aside with, “Don’t be silly, Ocky.” She often called - him “silly,” treating any demonstration as tawdry - sentimentality. She had no idea how deeply it wounded. - </p> - <p> - Now, as she sank into the chair, he bent over and kissed her awkwardly. - “Poor old gel, they’ve tired you out. Had nothing to eat since - you left here, I’ll warrant. Put up your tootsies and I’ll - pull off your shoes; then I’ll order some supper for you.” - </p> - <p> - “I couldn’t eat anything.” - </p> - <p> - The room was in darkness and the window wide. In the street children were - screaming and playing. A mother, standing on her doorstep, called to her - truants through the dusk——- Oh, for a gust of silence—a - desert of sound without footsteps; Jehane felt that her life was - trespassed on, jostled, undignified. Through the cramped suburb of - red-brick villas crept the summer night, like a shameful woman footsore - and clad in lavender. Red-brick villas! They were so similar that, if you - shook them up in a gigantic hat and set them out afresh, the streets would - look in no way different. They were all built in the same style. The - mortar had fallen out in the same places. The front gardens were of equal - dimensions. They had no individuality. If anyone attempted to be original - in the color of her paint or the shape of her curtains, next day she was - copied. - </p> - <p> - With the stale odor of tobacco mingled the sweet fragrance of June - flowers. She had only to close her eyes and she was back in Oxford—Oxford - which she had exchanged for this rash experiment. She wondered, had she - been more patient, would something more delightful have happened. The - sameness of economy had worn out her strength and its prospect appalled - her.—If Ocky could contrive her escape, even at this late hour, what - right had Barrington to prevent him? - </p> - <p> - He had gone to fetch her slippers—that at least was kind and - thoughtful. She treated him with spite. She shrank from the familiarity of - his touch. She hated herself for it; and yet she eked out the seconds of - her respite from him. - </p> - <p> - A lamp-lighter shuffled by the garden railings; at his magic, primrose - pools weltered up in the dusk.—This business of marriage—had - she been less hasty, she might have done better for herself. Oh well, the - wisdom which follows the event... - </p> - <p> - Footsteps on the stairs! As he knelt to put on her slippers, she conquered - her revulsion and let her hand rest on his head. He started, surprised: it - was long since she had shown him affection. His voice was shaky when he - addressed her. - </p> - <p> - “Now you’re better, old dear. More rested, aren’t you?” - She held him at arm’s length, her palms flat against his breast. In - the darkness she felt the pleading in his eyes. “Oh, Ocky, you’ll - do it this time, won’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “Do what, Duchess?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t call me Duchess; just for once be serious.” - </p> - <p> - “I am serious, darling. What is it?” - </p> - <p> - “D’you remember years ago, when you asked me to marry you? D’you - remember what you said?” - </p> - <p> - “Might, if you told me. Was I more than ordinarily foolish?” - </p> - <p> - “You said, ‘I need your strength. With you I could be a man.’” - </p> - <p> - “I’d clean forgotten. Funny way of proposin’—eh?” - </p> - <p> - “It wasn’t funny. That was just what you needed—a woman’s - strength. I’ve tried so hard. But I’ve sometimes thought——” - </p> - <p> - “Go on, old lady.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve sometimes thought we never ought to have married.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t say that. Don’t you find me good enough? Come - Jehane, I’ve not been a bad sort, now have I?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m accusing myself. I’ve tried to help you in wrong - ways. I’ve been angry and sharp and nervous. You’ve come home - and attempted to kiss me, and I’ve driven you out with my temper. - And I don’t want to do it any more, and yet——” - </p> - <p> - “You’re upset.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I’m not. I’m speaking the truth. I’ve been a - bad wife and I had to tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “‘Pon my word, can’t see how you make that out. You’ve - given me your money to invest through Wagstaff, so he might think I had - capital. And you’ve given me children, and——” - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t money that counts. It isn’t even children. - Heaps of women whose husbands beat them bear them children. It’s - that I haven’t trusted you sufficiently. I haven’t loved you.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve not complained, so I don’t see—— But - what’s put all this into your head?” - </p> - <p> - “D’you want to know? Seeing Billy and Nan together. They’re - so different—you can feel it. They’re really married, while we—we - just live together.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice broke. He put his arms about her, but even then she withdrew - herself from him. - </p> - <p> - “Just live together! And isn’t that marriage? Whether you’re - cross or kind to me, Jehane, I’d rather just live with you than be - married to any other woman.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s the worst of it—I know you would. And I nag at - you and I shall go on doing it. I feel I shall—and I do so want to - do better.” - </p> - <p> - “Won’t money make a difference? That’s what’s the - matter with us, Jehane; we’ve not had money.” - </p> - <p> - She placed her arms about his neck. “And that’s what I started - to say, Ocky. You’ll do it this time, won’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “Make money? Rather. I should think so. Was talking to Playfair only - this morning and he—— But look here, what makes you ask that? - You’ll take all the stuffing out of me if <i>you</i> begin to doubt. - Who’s been saying anything?” - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t what they said.” - </p> - <p> - He lit his pipe and crossed over to the window. In the darkness his - outlined figure looked strangely round-shouldered and ineffectual. Her - heart sank and her hope became desperate. His voice reached her blustering - and muffled. She did wish he would remove his pipe when he spoke to her. - </p> - <p> - “I know. I know. Confound him! He’s been throwing cold water - on my plans as usual. Wants to see me, does he? Well, if he wants badly - enough to cross London, Ocky Waffles is his man. I shan’t go to him. - That’s certain.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane strove to believe that his opposition to Barrington was a token of - new strength. - </p> - <p> - Four days later a note arrived. She was tempted to open it, but it was - addressed to her husband. Directly he came in she placed it in his hands. - </p> - <p> - “Read it aloud. What does he say?” - </p> - <p> - She watched Ocky’s face and saw how it faltered; then he hid the - expression behind a mask of cynicism. - </p> - <p> - “If you won’t read it to me, let me read it myself.” - </p> - <p> - He crumpled it into his pocket hurriedly, as though he feared that she - would snatch it from him. When all was safe, he turned toward the - mantel-shelf, hunting for a match. - </p> - <p> - “Why did you do that?” - </p> - <p> - “It was addressed to me, wasn’t it? Barrington don’t let - his wife read his letters, I’ll bet. Neither do I; I’m not a - lawyer’s clerk in an office any longer—I’m going to be a - big man.” - </p> - <p> - “But what did he say?” - </p> - <p> - Forced to answer, Ocky became reproachful. “Duchess, you’re - suspecting me again—you remember what you promised the other night. - He says he wants to see me—thinks there may be something in my plan. - Daresay, he’ll offer to put money into it. You may bet, this little - boy won’t let him. Of course on the surface he advises caution.” - </p> - <p> - “If that’s all, why can’t you let me read his letter?” - </p> - <p> - “Because if I did, I’d be acting as though you didn’t - trust me. You could have read it with pleasure, if you hadn’t made - such a fuss.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane knew his weak obstinacy of old and gave up the contest. “You - won’t see him, of course—unless he comes to the house.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t know about that.” - </p> - <p> - “But you were so emphatic.” - </p> - <p> - “I can change my mind, can’t I? His letter puts a different - complexion on it.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Ocky, Barrington isn’t two-faced. He doesn’t say - one thing to me and another thing to you. He may be awkward, but he isn’t - underhand. If he’s in favor of your schemes now, he must have heard - something that’s changed him.” - </p> - <p> - “Not a doubt of it. Very soon a good many people who’ve - thought me small beer’ll hear something.” - </p> - <p> - “But you’ve not answered my question. Where are you going to - see him?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, maybe at his office.” - </p> - <p> - Whistling, with feigned cheerfulness, he strolled out. As she watched him - slouch down the road, her fingers itched to correct the angle of his hat. - </p> - <p> - That night she searched his pockets and found the letter. It read, “<i>Mr. - Wagstaff has told me the truth. You must meet me at my place of business - at twelve to-morrow</i>.” - </p> - <p> - It was capable of the construction her husband had put on it; it was - capable of many others. - </p> - <p> - Feeling through the coat next morning, searching for his tobacco-pouch, - Ocky was shrewd enough to notice that the letter was in its envelope. Such - neatness was not his habit. When he came back in the evening from seeing - Barrington and Jehane enquired what he had been doing, he handed her the - letter with generous frankness. - </p> - <p> - “You can read it now. I wanted to be sure before I told you. I was - right. Barrington’s been talking to Wagstaif and has heard all about - it. Oh yes, I can tell you, he’s a very different Barrington.” - </p> - <p> - “How?” - </p> - <p> - “He’s discovered that Ocky Waffles Esquire is a person to be - respected.” - </p> - <p> - She scorned herself for her mean suspicions. He deserved an atonement. - “Ocky, darling, I’m so glad.” - </p> - <p> - As her arms went about him, he patted her on the back. “That’s - all right, old Duchess. You’ll believe in me now—eh?” - </p> - <p> - She lifted her face from his shoulder. It was tear-stained with penitence. - “God knows, I’ve always tried to, Ocky.” - </p> - <p> - He must go her one better in generosity. Having deceived her, he could - afford to be magnanimous. - </p> - <p> - “You’ve succeeded, old dear. You’ve given me your - strength and made a man of me. I’m your doing.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII—THE ‘MAGINATIVE CHILD - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he bettering of - Mr. Waffles marked the beginning of that intimate and freakish association - which was to shape the careers of the children of both families. Though - their relationship was distant and in the case of Glory non-existent, they - had been taught to regard one another as cousins. As yet they had met so - occasionally and so briefly that they had not worn off the distrust, - half-shy, half-hostile, which is the common attitude of children toward - strangers. From now on they were to enter increasingly into one another’s - lives. - </p> - <p> - Though Barrington had said that it would be fun for Kay and Peter to have - Jehane’s children to play with in the garden and Nan had assented, - neither of them had undertaken to tell Kay and Peter. They had promised - them a surprise—that was all. Truth to tell, they had their doubts - about Peter and how he would receive their information; his jealous air of - proprietorship regarding his little sister gave them moments of puzzled - uneasiness. - </p> - <p> - Years ago, before Kay was born, the doctor had told them, “He’s - an imaginative child. Oh dear no, he’s quite well. He’ll grow - out of it.” But he hadn’t. He stood by her always, as if he - were a wall between her and some threatened danger. He was not happy away - from her; his life seemed locked up in her life. His tenderness for her - was beyond his years—beautiful and mysterious. In the midst of his - play he would still raise his head suddenly, listening and expectant. - </p> - <p> - He was odd and gentle in many ways; to his mother his oddness was both - frightening and endearing. Cookie shook her head over him and sighed, - “‘E’s far away from this old world h’already. I - doubt ‘e’ll never grow up to man-’ood.” - </p> - <p> - And Grace would reply sharply, “Wot rot!” But she would wipe - her eye. - </p> - <p> - He had a habit of asking questions before guests with startling directness—asking - them with big innocent eyes; they were questions for which his mother felt - bound to apologize: “He’s so imaginative; for many years he - was our only child.” - </p> - <p> - Peter, wondering wherein he had done wrong, would sidle up to her when the - guests were gone, inquiring, “Mummy, what is a ‘maginative - child?” - </p> - <p> - His father, when he heard him, would laugh: “Now, Peter, don’t - be Peterish or you’ll make us all cry.” - </p> - <p> - So they did not tell him when his cousins were expected. - </p> - <p> - He was in the garden, on the grass beneath the cedar, with Kay curled - against him. He was telling her stories—his own inventions. On the - wall, partly hidden in creepers, basking in the sunshine, blinking down on - them through slits of eyes, was a great gray tabby. The tabby was the - subject of the story. One day, returning along the Terrace he had found - her. Her bones were poking through her fur: she was evidently a stray. He - had stopped to stroke her and she had followed. After being fed on the - doorstep, she refused to set off on her wanderings again. Whenever the - door opened, she entered like a streak of lightning. She was determined to - be adopted; though cook had broomed her on to the pavement many times, she - was not to be dissuaded by any harshness of refusal. It was almost as - though she knew that Kay and Peter were her eager advocates. - </p> - <p> - With a cat so determined there was only one thing to do; take her out and - lose her. So she was captured by feigned kindness and tied in a - fish-basket; Grace was given a shilling and the fish-basket with - instructions to go on a trip to Hampstead and to leave the fish-basket - behind. Now, whether it was that Grace was more kind-hearted than her - statements, or whether it was that she preferred the company of her - policeman to the fulfilling of her errand, the fact remains that the cat - got back before her. An incredible performance if the basket had really - been left at Hampstead! Grace was circumstantial in the account she gave; - there was nothing for it but to accept her word that a cat had traveled - more swiftly than a train. - </p> - <p> - Stern methods were employed. Doors were closed against the cat; things - were thrown at it. It was encouraged to go hungry. The children were - forbidden to call it. - </p> - <p> - One morning Peter jumped out of bed and ran to the window attracted by a - strange noise. Looking down into the garden, he saw a flurry of fur - careering across flowerbeds till it was brought up sharply against the - wall with a bang. The bang was caused by a salmon-tin, in which the cat - had got its head fastened while foraging in a garbage-pail. Before he - could go to its rescue, cook came out with her hostile broom and commenced - the chase. The cat, blinded and maddened, by a miracle of agility climbed - a tree, leapt into a neighboring garden and vanished. - </p> - <p> - A week later it returned, with a ring about its neck where the jagged - edges of the tin had torn it. Such persistence and loyalty of affection - were not to be thwarted. At first the animal was tolerated; then, as its - manners and appearance improved, it was taken into the family. Because of - its adventures, when a name had to be chosen, Peter’s father - suggested Romance. When Romance gave birth to kittens, they were named - after various of the novelists. - </p> - <p> - The history of Romance, where she went and what she did, was a story which - Kay was never tired of hearing, nor Peter of telling. Blinking down from - the wall on this sunshiny morning, Romance listened with contented pride - to the children, much as an old soldier might whose campaigning days were - ended. - </p> - <p> - “And what did putty say when Gwacie twied to lost her?” - </p> - <p> - The ‘maginative child was about to answer, when his mother came out - under the mulberry: “Peter. Kay. Oh, there you are! Here’s - your surprise.” - </p> - <p> - For a day or two, while the cousins were a novelty, there was nothing but - laughter and delight; but when Peter understood that their visit was of - undetermined length, he began to regard their coming as an intrusion. Kay - and Eustace were of the same age and naturally chose one another as - playmates. Eustace was a fat, dull boy, prone to tears, with his mother’s - black eyes and handsome hair, and his father’s coaxing ways. He was - only four, but he had it in his power to make Peter, aged ten, wretched; - for Kay developed a will of her own, and cared no more for Peterish - stories now that she could have Eustace for her slave. - </p> - <p> - So Peter was left to Riska and Glory. His old games for two were useless; - he had to think up fresh inventions in which three might partake. He had - no heart for it; Grace came to the rescue with pious hints from the Bible. - </p> - <p> - In the stable by a disused tank, they would enact Jacob’s wooing of - Rachel; the tank was the well at which Jacob met her and Romance was the - sheep brought down to be watered—she was, when they could catch her. - But the game nearly always ended in flushed cheeks and protesting voices. - Riska would insist on being Rachel, leaving Glory the undesired part of - Leah, who was sore of eye. Of his two girl-cousins Peter preferred Glory; - Riska was too high-tempered and stormy. So, when he had served for Rachel - seven years and instead had won Leah, he not infrequently was content to - stop, setting Bible history at defiance. - </p> - <p> - One evening his father, walking beneath the pear-trees, heard voices in - the empty stable. “I won’t. I won’t,” in stubborn - tones. “But you shall, you shall,” in a passionate wail. - </p> - <p> - He opened the door in the wall quietly. Glory was sitting on the ground, - placid eyed, watching a hot-faced little boy who held off a small - girl-cousin, fiercely determined to embrace him. When matters had been - sullenly explained, Barrington drew his son to him: “If a lady asks - you to kiss her, you should do it. It’s Peterish not to. But - polygamy always ends in a cry. It’s better not to play at it.” - </p> - <p> - Then came the inevitable question: “What is polgigamy, father?” - </p> - <p> - Grace was asked for a fresh suggestion; the result was Samson and Delilah. - To Peter’s way of thinking Riska was quite suited to the rôle of - Delilah. Too well suited! In revenge, before he could stop her, she cut - off Peter’s hair at the game’s first playing. - </p> - <p> - During her stay at Topbury she committed many such offences. She was a - lawless little creature, strong of character, a wilful wisp of a child, - and extraordinarily like Jehane. Her fragile eager face, with its coral - mouth and soft dark eyes, could change from demure prettiness to a flame - of anger the moment she was thwarted. Yet, smiling or stormy, her - small-boned body and long black curls made her always beautiful—a - wild and destructive kind of beauty. From the first she claimed Peter as - her sole possession, and Peter—— Well, Peter did his best - politely to avoid her. - </p> - <p> - Glory was his favorite, though he often seemed to ignore her. She was the - opposite to her half-sister in both appearance and temper. She had nothing - of Jehane in her; nor did she resemble her soldier father. She was oddly - like to Kay and to a man whom her mother had desired with all her heart. - It was strange. - </p> - <p> - She was gray-eyed and her hair was of a primrose shade. She was tall for - her age—taller than Peter—and carried herself with sweet and - subdued quietness. She said very little and had submissive ways. Her - actions spoke loudly for anyone she loved. They spoke loudly for Peter; - but he scarcely observed them. His eyes were all for Kay. Glory was like - his shadow stealing after him across the sunlight through that month of - June. Her hand was always slipping shyly into his from behind. And she - understood his love for his sister, accepting it without question. - </p> - <p> - She would go to her small half-brother, “Come along Eustace; Glory - wants to show you something.” - </p> - <p> - “But Eustace wanth to play wiv Kay.” - </p> - <p> - “Eustace can play with Kay directly. Just come with Glory, there’s - a dear little boy.” - </p> - <p> - She would nod to Peter knowingly, and smile to him, leading Eustace away - and leaving him alone with Kay. - </p> - <p> - He could fill her eyes with tears at the least show of irritation; her - persistent following did irritate him sometimes. Once, cross because she - followed, he told her to sit on the stable wall and not to move till he - said she might. Tea-time came and there was no Glory. They searched the - house for her and went out into the garden, calling. Not till Peter called - did she answer; then he remembered why. He remembered years after the - forlornness of that tear-stained face. It was Peterish of him to forget - Glory, and to remember her almost too late. - </p> - <p> - Nan, sitting sewing in the quiet sunlight, would often drop her work to - watch the children. She noticed how they kept together, yet always a - little separate, acting out the clash of temperaments which they had - inherited from their parents. And she noticed increasingly something else—something - which she never mentioned and which explained Jehane to her: that - astonishing likeness of Glory to Kay, as though they had been sisters. - </p> - <p> - She would call Glory to her and, as the child sat at her feet, would say, - “Do you like Peter, darling?” - </p> - <p> - The honest eyes would be lifted to her own in affirmation. - </p> - <p> - “Very much?” - </p> - <p> - “Very much, Auntie.” - </p> - <p> - The girlish hand would slip into her own and presently a faltering voice - would whisper, “But he doesn’t like me always. I worry him - sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - Nan would call to Peter, “Glory’s tired of sitting with - mother. She wants her little tyrant.” - </p> - <p> - As they wandered away across the lawn, she would follow them with her - eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I hope Jehane’s good to her,” she said to Barrington. - “Seems to be, in her jealous way.” - </p> - <p> - “She’s a nice child.” - </p> - <p> - “Nicer than Riska or Eustace. That’s thanks to Captain - Spashett.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes,” Nan would say. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Waffles, having moved his belongings to Sandport, came to fetch the - intruders. Peter watched them depart with a sense of relief; now things - would settle back into their old groove. - </p> - <p> - In July the house at Topbury was closed and the Barringtons went for their - holiday to North Wales. The servants were sent to their homes, with the - exception of Grace. Summer holidays were ecstatic times of fishing-rods - and old clothes, when parents put aside their busy manners, broke rules - and played truant. This particular holiday was made additionally - adventurous by a tandem tricycle, on which Peter was allowed to accompany - his father when his mother was too tired, trying to catch the pedals with - his short legs or riding on the pedals away from the saddle, when his - father was not looking. - </p> - <p> - He was his father’s companion many hours of each day, for Nan was - often tired. His father had plentiful opportunities for judging just how - ‘maginative was his child. - </p> - <p> - One morning, on going down to bathe, the sea was rough and Peter, - reluctant to enter and still more reluctant to own it, made the excuse - that he was frightened of treading on a dead sailor. - </p> - <p> - Peter, after hearing a sermon at the village chapel, grew profoundly sorry - for the Devil. It seemed so dreadful to have to burn for ever and ever. He - made a secret promise to God that he would take the Devil’s place. - Then he thought it over for some days in horror; he had been too generous—he - wanted to go back on his bargain. His mother found him crying one night; - she suspected that he had been sleeping little by the dark blue rings - under his eyes. She coaxed him, and he told her. - </p> - <p> - Another sign of his ‘maginativeness was his anxiety to know whether - cows had souls. - </p> - <p> - “That boy thinks too much,” said his father; “he needs - to rough and tumble with other boys of his own age. At ten his worst - trouble should be tummy-ache.” - </p> - <p> - Nan smiled. “But Peter’s different, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “I know. But, if he’s to grow up strong, he must change. - Little woman, I don’t like it.” - </p> - <p> - “Billy boy, I sometimes think it’s our doing, yours and mine. - When we put toys in the empty nursery before he was born, before he was - thought of, we were making him a ‘maginative child.” - </p> - <p> - “The sins of the parents, eh?” - </p> - <p> - “Not that. The love of the parents shall be visited upon the - children unto the third and——” - </p> - <p> - “Pepperminta, you know more about God and Peter and love than I do. - You’re right, and you’re always right. How is it that you - learn so much by sitting so quiet?” - </p> - <p> - Matters came to a head through Kay. In the cottage where they stayed, - Peter slept with her in the same bed, in a narrow room beneath a sloping - roof. She was nervous to be left alone there—it was so dark, so far - away, so strange; Peter, a willing martyr, went to bed with her at the - same time. Lying awake in the dark or twilight, he would tell her stories. - </p> - <p> - “Listening, Kay?” - </p> - <p> - “Yeth,” in a little drowsy voice. - </p> - <p> - As she grew more sleepy she would snuggle closer with her lips against his - face, till at last he knew by her regular breathing that his audience was - indifferent to his wildest fancies. - </p> - <p> - One evening his parents returned from a ride and, entering the house, - heard a stifled sobbing. - </p> - <p> - “What’s that?” - </p> - <p> - “Must be the children.” - </p> - <p> - “You wait here, Nan. I’ll go up and quiet them.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I’ll come, up too.” - </p> - <p> - As they climbed the stairs and reached the landing, they made out words - which were in the wailing: “I don’t want to be a dead ‘un. - I don’t want to be a dead ‘un.” - </p> - <p> - It was Kay’s voice. Peter, leaning over her, was whispering - frightened comfort. - </p> - <p> - When Nan and Billy had taken them in their arms and lit the candle, the - tragedy was explained. Peter had been enlarging on the magnificence of - heaven and the beauties of the future life. Things went well until Kay - realized that there was no direct communication by trains or buses between - heaven and her parents. She didn’t want to go there. Its - magnificence, unshared by anyone she loved, was terrifying. She didn’t - want to be a dead ‘un. She kept repeating it in spite of Peter’s - best efforts at consolation. - </p> - <p> - It was some time before it was safe to blow the candle out and leave them. - Death was very imminent in their minds. - </p> - <p> - Downstairs, when it was all over, Billy looked across at Nan, his brow - puckered with annoyance and his lips twitching with laughter. “That - decides it.” - </p> - <p> - “Decides! How? What does it decide?” - </p> - <p> - “Something that I’ve thought of for a long time. Peter’s - too imaginative. He’s not a good companion for Kay.” - </p> - <p> - “How can you say that? We all know how gentle he is with her.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s just it. It’s good for neither of them. Now that - Jehane and Ocky are at Sandport it makes things easier; they can keep an - eye on him.” - </p> - <p> - “An eye on Peter!” - </p> - <p> - Billy leant across the table, turning down the lamp and turning it up - again. He was gaining time. “It’s for his own good. You don’t - suppose I like it. It’ll be hard for all of us.” He spoke - huskily. - </p> - <p> - Nan plucked at the table-cloth. She was almost angry. “You mean that - you want to send him to school at Sand-port—send my little Peterkins - away?” - </p> - <p> - “Sandport’s famous for its schools.” - </p> - <p> - “But Billy, you couldn’t be so cruel. He’s so young and - sensitive. His heart would break.” - </p> - <p> - “Rubbish. I was sent to boarding-school when I was eight. I’ve - survived.” - </p> - <p> - “You! You were different—but Peter!” - </p> - <p> - She voiced the common fallacy of mothers, that their husbands as boys were - of coarser fibre than their children. She bowed her head on her arms - beneath the lamp and cried. Her little Peter to be thrust out and made - lonely, simply because he had too much imagination! It was cruel! - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII—PRICKCAUTIONS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here was no - withstanding his questions. Peter had to be told why: it was because he - was too Peterish. He was going for the good of Kay. All these years in - trying so hard to love her, he had been harming her—it amounted to - that as he understood it. He was being sent to school that he might learn - to be like other children—like Riska and Eustace, for instance. - </p> - <p> - “When I’m quite like them, can I come home?” - </p> - <p> - Ah, that was in the future. - </p> - <p> - Unknowingly he had committed an indiscretion, the penalty for which was - exile—the indiscretion was called “‘magination.” - He felt horribly ashamed, even though Grace did assure him that some of - the very greatest people had been guilty of the same mistake. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Master Peter, you’re gettin’ orf lightly, that you - are. There was once a young fellah as dreamed dreams about sheaves bowin’ - down to ‘im, and the moon and stars makin’ a basin for ‘im. - D’yer know wot ‘appened?” - </p> - <p> - “I think that’s silly,” said Peter. “How could the - moon and stars make a basin?” - </p> - <p> - “‘Tain’t silly neither, ‘cause it says it in the - Bible. Any-’ow, when ‘e told ‘is dreams d’yer know - wot ‘appened? ‘Is h’eleven brethren, they chucked - ‘im in a pit—yes, they did. And there ‘e’d ‘ave - stayed for keeps if it ‘adn’t been for a passin’ circus - as saw ‘e was queer and put ‘im in their show, and took - ‘im away into Egypt. Oh my, for a boy wiv ‘magination, you’re - gettin’ orf light.” - </p> - <p> - “What did he do in the circus? Did he ever come home again?” - </p> - <p> - “‘E grew to be a ruler in h’Egypt and saved ‘is pa - and ma and eleven brethren, when they wuz starvin’.” - </p> - <p> - “P’raps I’ll do that for all of you one day.” - </p> - <p> - “Yer silly little monkey! There yer go again wiv yer queer sayin’s.” - </p> - <p> - Peter had been to the Agricultural Hall in Islington and had seen people - in side-shows without arms and legs: bearded women; elastic-skinned men; - horrid persons with one body and two heads or with a little twin, without - even one head, growing out of their chests and waggling their pitiful - legs. He wasn’t like that in his body; but he supposed he must be - something like it inside his head. The belief that he was somehow deformed - made him too humble, too abashed to protest; anything that was for his - little sister’s sake must be right. But he wished that someone had - warned him earlier; only in this did he feel himself betrayed.—Anyhow, - never in his wildest fancies had he supposed that the moon and stars could - make basins—and that boy Joseph had turned out all right. Now he was - going to his particular Egypt to get cured. - </p> - <p> - Taking him on his knee, his father had explained matters. He was to be a - little knight and not to cry. He was to ride out into the world alone for - the good of the lady he loved best. One day he would return to her, and - then——. - </p> - <p> - With his mother it was different; she wept and quite evidently expected - him to weep too. She didn’t want him to go. It was not her doing. - She loved him to be Peterish; she would not have him otherwise. To her he - could confess. - </p> - <p> - “It’s here, mother,” tapping his breast; “I can’t - help it really. But I’ll try.” - </p> - <p> - No, he couldn’t help it—that was the worst of it—any - more than he could help hearing the whistling angel. He could pretend that - he wasn’t Peter, just as he had pretended not to hear the angel - whistle. But he would not be able to change; he could only learn to wear a - disguise. If school could teach him to do that, years hence he might prove - worthy to live again at Topbury. Because he felt that he was to blame, he - strove to be very brave; if his eyes filled with tears sometimes, it wasn’t - because he wanted them to. - </p> - <p> - The respite shortened. Letters passed to and fro between his father and - Uncle Waffles, between his mother and Aunt Jehane. Their contents, - discussed at the breakfast table, cast a gloom over all the day. Many - schools were offered, but the best for Peter’s particular case was - one kept by Miss Lydia Rufus. Aunt Jehane would look after his clothes, - and he could spend his Saturdays at Madeira Lodge. - </p> - <p> - Madeira Lodge! That was the house at Sandport which sheltered Uncle - Waffles. It was stamped in red letters at the top of his note-paper and - proclaimed magnificence. It rather tickled Peter’s father’s - sense of humor. - </p> - <p> - “Anything from Madeira Lodge ‘smorning?” he would say, - with a twinkle, as he sorted out the letters. “But why stop half-way - in intemperance? Why not Port Wine Terrace, Moselle Park, in the town of - Champagne? Ocky’s too modest.” - </p> - <p> - Or he would say, “Lord Sauterne of Beer Castle informs his nephew - that Miss Rufus’s pupils require a Bible, an Eton suit and two pairs - of house-shoes.” - </p> - <p> - Peter would greet his father’s jokes with a strained but gallant - little smile. “We men must keep up the women’s courage,” - his father had told him. - </p> - <p> - It was hard to keep up other people’s courage when your own was down - to zero. - </p> - <p> - By the time they left the cottage in North Wales everything had been - arranged. There was just one short fortnight left in which to get Peter’s - wardrobe together, mark his linen and finish off his mending and sewing. - The mornings were spent in visits to shops, where boots and gloves and - suits were fitted on and purchased. A knight when he rides into the world - alone must set out duly caparisoned. - </p> - <p> - And Peter was thankful for the rush and muddle; he found it increasingly - difficult not to cry, especially when his mother strained him to her - breast and gazed down on him lovingly with her dear wet eyes. He was glad - that people should have so much to do, for he hardly knew how to conduct - himself since the discovery of his awful blemish. He was afraid to show - his affection for his little sister in the old fond ways, and he could - think of no new ways of showing it. - </p> - <p> - He had come to the last day. It was one of those days when summer droops - her eyes and confesses that she has grown old. There was just a hint of - tears in the sky—a blue film of vapor which softened the valiant - smiling of grass and leaves decaying. In the garden the last of the roses - were falling and Virginia creeper lay like crusted blood upon the walls. - It was as though summer, like a spendthrift woman, put red upon her cheeks - to pretend she was not dying. Peter, in his sensitive way, was conscious - of the sadness of this vain pretending, this mimicking a beauty that was - gone. He was doing the same: preparing for to-morrow and at the same time - trying to persuade himself that the present was forever—that - to-morrow would never dawn. - </p> - <p> - He ran up and down the house trying to seem merry and excited, watching - his boxes being corded, laughing and chattering—talking of when he - would return for Christmas. “We men must keep up the women’s - courage”—one of the women was Kay. He was doing his best to be - a little knight; it hurt sometimes, especially when his mother looked up - from fitting socks and shoes into odd corners of his boxes, unhappy and - surprised. She must think him hard-hearted; she should never guess. - </p> - <p> - After lunch, having watched his opportunity, he slipped out of the house - without letting anyone know where he was going. His face was set in a - solemn expression of serious determination. He scuttled down the Terrace - and down the Crescent, till he came within sight of the cab-stand; he was - relieved to find that Mr. Grace, as he called Grace’s father, was - disengaged. Mr. Grace was a fat, red-faced man, and like many fat and - red-faced men had his grievance. His appearance was against him. People - judged him circumstantially and said that he drank. Even Grace said it. - His stand was suspiciously near Topbury Cock. But most cab-stands are near - to some public house. Peter had become his very dear friend and to him Mr. - Grace had opened his heart, denying all charges and imputing the redness - of his countenance to the severity of his calling and exposure to the - weather. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace was asleep on his box, his face stuffed deep in his collar, the - reins sagging from his swollen hands as if at any minute he might drive - off. When Peter spoke to him, he jumped himself together. “Keb, sir. - Right y’are, sir. H’I’m ready——— Well, - I’m blessed! Strike me blind, if it ain’t the little master.” - </p> - <p> - Peter spread apart his legs, thrusting his hands deep in his knickerbocker - pockets. “I’m going to be sent away, Mr. Grace, and I’m - worried.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace twisted his head, as if trying to lengthen his fat neck; finding - that impossible, he shifted his ponderous body nearer to the edge of the - seat and regarded Peter with his kind little pig’s eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Worried, Mr. Peter? Well, I never!” - </p> - <p> - “I’m worried for Kay—I shan’t be here to take care - of her.” His voice fluttered, then steadied itself as he lifted up - his head and finished bravely. - </p> - <p> - “We’ll do that, Master Peter. You kin rely on an old friend.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, Mr. Grace; that was what I was going to ask you. If - anyone was to run away with her, they’d come to you to drive them. - Wouldn’t they?” - </p> - <p> - “Not a shadder of a doubt. I drives all the best people in Topbury.” - </p> - <p> - “These wouldn’t be ‘zactly the best people—not if - they were stealing Kay.” - </p> - <p> - “All the better; the easier for me to spot ‘em. Any - par-tickler pusson you suspeck of ‘aving wicked designs upon ‘er?” - </p> - <p> - “No one in particular, Mr. Grace. I was just frightened that I might - come home and find her gone.” - </p> - <p> - “What one might call a prickcaution?” - </p> - <p> - “I think that’s what I meant.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace’s neck had become sore with looking down, so he tempted - Peter to come on the box. Puffing and blowing, he gave him a hand to help - him. - </p> - <p> - When they were seated side by side, Mr. Grace looked fondly at the curly - head and straight little body. “I shall miss yer.” - </p> - <p> - “And I shall miss you. It’s nice to be missed by somebody.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall miss yer ‘cause you’ve been my prickcaution.” - </p> - <h3> - “I?” - </h3> - <p> - “Yas, you. You’ve been my prickcaution against my darter, - Grace. She’s thought better o’ me since we’ve been - friends. And then——” - </p> - <p> - “I’m glad she’s thought better of you. And then, what?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you kep me informed as to ‘er nights out, so I could h’escape.” - </p> - <p> - Peter regarded his friend in surprise. “Escape! But she wouldn’t - hurt you.” - </p> - <p> - “Not h’intendin’ to, Master Peter; not h’intendin’ - to. It’s me feelin’s h’I refer to. You don’t know - darters. ‘Ow should yer?—She thinks I drink, like all the rest - of ‘em ‘cept you. On ‘er nights h’out she brings - ‘er blooming Salvaition Band to this ‘ere corner, h’aimin’ - at my con-wersion. It’s woundin’ and ‘umiliatin’, - Master Peter, for a pa as don’t need no conwersion. She makes me - blush all through, and that makes things wuss for a man wi’ a red - compleckshon. So yer see, you wuz my prickcaution.” - </p> - <p> - “But you don’t drink, Mr. Grace, do you?” - </p> - <p> - “No more ‘an will wash me mouf out same as a ‘orse. It’s - cruel ‘ard to be suspickted o’ wot yer don’t do.” - </p> - <p> - Peter looked miserably into the kind little pig’s eyes. “I’m - suspected too. That’s why I’m being sent away.” - </p> - <p> - “O’ wot?” - </p> - <p> - “They call it ‘magination.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” - </p> - <p> - “Why do you say <i>ah</i> like that?” - </p> - <p> - “‘Cause it’s wuss’n drink—much wusser. But - take no more’n will wash yer mouf out and yer’ll be awright. - That’s my principle in everythin’—— Master Peter, - this makes us close friends, don’t it? We’re both - misonderstood. I——” - </p> - <p> - Just then a fare came up—an old lady, very full in the skirt, with - parcels dangling from her arms in every direction. - </p> - <p> - “Keb, keb, keb. Oh yes, my ‘orse is wery safe. No, ‘e - don’t bite and ‘e won’t run away. Eh? Oh, I’m a - wery good driver. Eh? Three to you, mum; four bob to anyone else. Am I - kind to ‘im? I loves ‘im like me own darter.—See yer - ter-morrow, Master Peter.—Gee, up there. Gee up, I tell yer.” - </p> - <p> - Peter sought out Grace’s policeman on his beat and made him the same - request with respect to Kay. Then he saw the Misses Jacobite and warned - them. Having done his best for her safety in his absence, he hurried home. - </p> - <p> - The evening went all too fast—seven, eight, nine, ten. Every hour - the clock struck he felt something between a thrill and a shiver (a - “shrill” he called it) run up and down his spine. “<i>The - end. The end. The end</i>,” the clock seemed to be saying over and - over, so that he wanted to get up and shriek to stop it. Oh, that a little - boy could seize the spokes and stay the wheels of time! - </p> - <p> - “Tired, Peter? Hadn’t you better——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, not yet! Please, just another five minutes.” - </p> - <p> - “The dustman’s come to my Peterkin’s eyes,” his - mother murmured. - </p> - <p> - He sat up, valiantly trying to look wakeful. - </p> - <p> - They had not the heart to cut short his respite—it was such an - eternity till Christmas. His head sank against his mother’s knees - and his eyes closed tightly, tightly. - </p> - <p> - “Poor little fellow,” his father said. - </p> - <p> - “My darling little Peterkins”—that was his mother. - </p> - <p> - They carried him up to bed. On the half-landing, outside the nursery door, - they halted, remembering how their dreams had shaped his character long - before God had made his body. - </p> - <p> - Next morning, soon after breakfast, Mr. Grace drove up to the door as he - had promised. He drove all the best people of Topbury to their - battlefields of joy or sorrow. He was Topbury’s herald of change, - and had learnt to control his emotions under the most trying - circumstances. But this morning, when the straight little figure came - bravely down the steps, something happened to Mr. Grace’s eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye, darlingest mother. Good-bye, little kitten Kay. Good-bye. - Good-bye. Good-bye.” - </p> - <p> - “Jump in, old man,” his father said. - </p> - <p> - The door banged. - </p> - <p> - “Yer awright?” asked Mr. Grace. - </p> - <p> - “We’re all right,” said Peter’s father. - </p> - <p> - “Kum up.” Mr. Grace tugged savagely on the reins. “Kum - up, carn’t yer?” He had to vent his feelings some way. - </p> - <p> - “Dammitall,” he growled as his “keb” crawled down - the Terrace, “dammitall. It’ll taik more ‘an this fare’s - worf to wash me mouf out this time. It’s got inter me froat. ‘Ope - I ain’t goin’ to blub. Dammit!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV—PETER IN EGYPT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>iss Lydia Rufus - was a prim person. Judging from her appearance one would have said that in - her case virtue was compulsory through lack of opportunity. And yet she - had had her “accident”—that was how she referred to it - in conversations with her Maker. No one in Sandport, save herself and God, - knew about it. It had happened ten years before Peter became her pupil. - The “accident” had been born anonymously, as one might say, - and had been brought up <i>incognito</i>. After the first unavoidable - preliminaries for which her presence was indispensable, she and the - “accident” had separated. She hardly ever dared to see it, for - she was alone in the world and had her living to earn—to do that one - must appear respectable. - </p> - <p> - For a woman of such bristling righteousness to have been so yielding as to - have had an “accident” was almost to her credit: it was in the - nature of a <i>tour de force</i>, like sword-swallowing, passing a camel - through the eye of a needle or any other form of occult acrobatics. It was - a miracle in heart-magic. And often in the night her heart went out in - longing for the child whom she dared not acknowledge. In her soul, which - most people regarded as an ice-house, a sanctuary was established with an - altar of mother-love, on which the candles of yearning were kept burning. - This chapter in her secret history would never have been mentioned had she - not made Peter the proxy of her “accident,” because he was ten - and because he was handsome. - </p> - <p> - It was lucky for Peter. Her usual attitude toward children was one of - condemnation. She expiated her own sin by uprooting the old Adam from the - hearts of her pupils. In her vigor and diligence she often uprooted - flowers. For the rest, she was a High Church woman, wore elastic-sided - boots and never permitted anything to be placed on a Bible. Her system of - education was one of moral straight-jackets. - </p> - <p> - Peter found himself in a cramped new house, in a raw new street, on the - outskirts of a jerry-built town. The wind seemed always to be blowing and, - in whichever direction he walked, he always came to sand. It was as though - this place had been planted in a desert that escape might be impossible. - Twenty other little boys, about his own age, were his fellow-captives. - When the school was marched out, walking two abreast, with Miss Rufus - sternly bringing up the tail of the procession, he would meet other - crocodiles of boys and girls, sedately parading, followed by their - warders. These public promenades were a part of the school’s - advertisement; deportment was strictly observed. Sandport, as Peter knew - it, was a settlement for convict-children. - </p> - <p> - Miss Rufus soon formed the habit of keeping him to walk with her. At first - this caused him embarrassment. Little by little—how was it?—he - became aware that with him she was different. As the mood took her, she - spoke to him sharply, was merely forbidding, or was so kind that he forgot - the sourness of her corrugated countenance and the ugly color of her hair. - It was instinctive with him to treat all women as he did his mother, with - quaint chivalry and forethought. An attitude of gallantry in a pupil was - something new to Miss Rufus. - </p> - <p> - When they came to the miles of beach, all tawny like a golden mantle - spread out with a thread of silver in the far, far distance where the sea - washed its hem, instead of going to romp with the other boys he sat - himself down beside her. - </p> - <p> - “Go and play,” she told him. - </p> - <p> - “But you’d be alone, mam.” - </p> - <p> - “I was always alone before you came.” - </p> - <p> - “But I’m here now.” - </p> - <p> - He stood before her laughing, with his cap in his hand and the wind in his - hair. He showed no fear of her—that was not his way with strangers. - She gazed in his face—the gray eyes, the flushed cheeks, the red - mouth. This was not the sullen little slave of her normal experience. In - spite of herself, his bright intelligence and willingness to be loved - stirred something in her breast. If she had not cared what people had - thought of her—if she had been brave, her child might have been like - that. Her chapped, coarse-grained features grew wistful. Peter, looking at - her, saw only a disagreeable, faded woman with red hair. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t like me, do you?” - </p> - <p> - “Us’ally I like everyone,” said Peter; “I don’t - know you yet.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m a cross old woman. If you don’t mind losing your - play, you can come and sit beside me.” - </p> - <p> - And Peter sat down. It was dull for him. Across the sands boats on wheels - raced with spread sails, dashing toward the silver thread. Ponies, which - you could hire for a few pennies, were galloping up and down. Across the - flat beach, like a monstrous centipede, with trestles for legs, the long - pier crawled with its head in the sea and its tail on land. And the pier - had its own delirious excitements: on show, in the casino at the end, was - a troop of performing fleas who drove one another in the tiniest of - hansom-cabs. Peter knew because a lady-flea, named Ethel, had been lost; a - reward for her recovery was advertised all over Sandport. Ten shillings - were offered and hundreds of fleas had been submitted for inspection. - Peter had a wild dream that he might find Ethel: with ten shillings he - could escape to London from this Egypt of exile in the sand. - </p> - <p> - Miss Rufus broke in on his reverie. She had been wondering how anyone who - had the right to Peter could be so foolish as to do without him. - </p> - <p> - “Why did they send you?” - </p> - <p> - “Send me to you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Because I made Kay cry about heaven.” - </p> - <p> - “Humph! D’you know what it says about heaven in the Bible?—that - there’s no marriage. Was that what she cried about?” - </p> - <p> - “Kay wouldn’t cry about a thing like that. She’s my - little sister—littler than me—and she’s never going to - marry. We’re going to live together always and have chipped potatoes - and sausages for breakfast.” - </p> - <p> - A smile twisted the thin straight lips of the sallow woman; it was the - first that Peter had seen there. It was almost tender—like a thing - forgotten coming back. - </p> - <p> - He laughed—he was always ready to laugh at himself. “You think - that’s funny? Father thinks it’s funny, too. He says, ‘Peterkins, - Peterkins, time’ll change all that.’ But it won’t you - know, ‘cause we mean it truly.” - </p> - <p> - “But wouldn’t it be very sad not to marry? Wouldn’t you - like one day to have a little boy just like yourself?” - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. “I’m an awful worry. No, I don’t - think so. But I’d like to have a little girl like Kay—and I’ll - have her, anyhow.” - </p> - <p> - The arm of the sallow woman stole round his shoulder. “Who says you’re - an awful worry?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s why I’m here, you know. I worried them with my - queer questions. When I’m the same as other people, they’ll - let me come back.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t think you’re a worry. I hope you’ll never - be like anyone else.” - </p> - <p> - “But you mustn’t say that, ‘cause you’re to change - me. I’m glad you like me.” - </p> - <p> - “Then be glad I love you,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - The lonely woman’s heart opened to Peter. He told her all about Kay - and Grace and Romance; he thought she ought to know everything since she - was to cure him. But instead of curing him she almost—almost made - him worse. - </p> - <p> - There was a strange furtiveness in their relation; the other boys must not - suspect. Miss Rufus despised favoritism; she tried to be very hard on - Peter in lesson-hours. He understood and smiled to himself. - </p> - <p> - He was terribly homesick. He wanted Kay badly. He wanted to hear her - laughter. He marked each hour by what they were doing at Topbury. Now they - were sitting down to breakfast; now Kay was going with his mother - shopping; now the dinner was being set and his father’s key was - grating in the latch. Sounds and smells would bring sudden and stabbing - remembrance. He would hear the garden with the dead leaves rustling, see - the nursery gleaming in the firelight and a little girl being made ready - for bed. Oh, she must be frightened without Peter, at the top of that tall - dark house! - </p> - <p> - At night, when Miss Rufus broke her rule against favoritism and, stealing - to his room, pressed his head against her bony breast while he said his - prayers, it was then that he thought of his mother with most poignancy. - </p> - <p> - But he was to be a little knight, so those weekly letters which commenced - “<i>My Beloveds</i>,” were written stoutheartedly. They must - never guess. But Nan saw the tremble in the sprawling hand and the blots, - where diluted ink had spread. - </p> - <p> - “Billy boy, we must have him back, I can’t bear it.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense, darling. The chap’s quite happy.” - </p> - <p> - “He isn’t. He isn’t. And you know it. Kay wants him—she’s - fretting. I want him, and you want him as much as any of us. I want to - hear his footsteps on the stairs, to see his clothes lying about, and—and——” - </p> - <p> - “But it isn’t what we want, little Nan; it’s what’s - best for him. He’s as nervous as a cat—always has been. Give - him a year of sea-air.” - </p> - <p> - Nan missed him terribly. No merry voice awoke her in the morning. The - ceiling above her bed never shook with childish prancing. Kay, by herself, - was very quiet. She was always asking where was Peter: had he gone to - heaven? - </p> - <p> - But it was when she came home at nightfall along the Terrace that Nan’s - longing was most intense. Childhood would be all too short at best. Too - soon the years would take him from her. One day she would give anything - for just one evening of the joy that she now might have. Who could tell - what the future held? An old woman, grayheaded, she would sit and whisper - to herself, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - “Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - To see the nursery lighted and the children’s table spread; - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - ‘Mother, mother, mother!’ the eager voices calling, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - ‘The baby was so sleepy that she had to go to bed!’” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Thinking these thoughts, Nan would sink her face in her hands, foretasting - the solitude that was surely coming. - </p> - <p> - But it was for Peter’s good, his father said. He looked very - intently at the Dutch landscape by Cuyp, seeking quiet from it, when he - said it. - </p> - <p> - As for curing him, Miss Rufus was the wrong person to do that. Peter was - aware of it. He had made her as bad as himself. He had set her loving. He - must look for help elsewhere. - </p> - <p> - On Saturdays Mr. Waffles called for him—quite a splendid Mr. Waffles - with soaped mustaches and rather shabby spats. He was taken to Madeira - Lodge, shiny with its newly purchased highly polished furniture. In the - afternoons he walked with Mr. Waffles to Birchdale, where the dunes - stretched away in billows of sand and the air was always blowy. In the - evenings he played with his cousins till it was time to return to Miss - Rufus. Across the road from Madeira Lodge was a Methodist Chapel and - beside it a plot of waste land. To this place he would escape when he got - the chance. The grass grew rank; it was easy to hide among the withered - evening-primroses. He had come to a great conclusion: no one but God could - cure him. There, behind the Methodist Chapel, he argued with God about it, - praying for Kay’s sake that he might be made well. Nothing happened—perhaps - because Glory found him and, having found him, was always following him to - his place of hiding. He pledged her to secrecy, told her his trouble and - asked her advice about it. But she only stared with dumb love in her eyes - and shook her quiet head. - </p> - <p> - Of his longing to return he did not dare to speak to Miss Rufus—she - was too fond of him. Nor must he mention it in his letters. Aunt Jehane—ah, - well, she spoke of his parents as though they were entirely mistaken about - everything. She was always trying to prove to him how much more - broad-minded, clever and generous she and Uncle Waffles were. Her jealous - nature prompted her to steal the boy’s heart by every expedient of - kindness and flattery. She told him scandal about her neighbors. She spoke - of love between boys and girls. She made him kiss Glory and laughed at his - awkwardness. She gave him special treats at his meals. She boasted about - her husband, saying how well he was getting on and how much he would do - for Peter. And she did all this that Peter might tell her that he was - happier at Sandport than at Topbury. - </p> - <p> - Peter couldn’t tell her that. He had commenced her acquaintance with - a prejudice. He could never forget that she had once been the smacking - lady. He watched her with his cousins, how she was foolishly lenient or - foolishly severe, but wise never. She allowed herself to punish them - unjustly; but if anyone, even their father, blamed them, they were “My - Eustace” and “My girls.” Especially was this the case - with Glory, in whose making Mr. Waffles could claim no share. She could - always humble his uncle by speaking regretfully of Captain Spashett. - </p> - <p> - For Uncle Waffles Peter had a fellow sympathy; it was to him he turned. On - those walks among the sand-hills they had fine talks together. - </p> - <p> - “Old son, I did a big stroke of business this week. Oh yes, I tell - you, this little boy knows his way about town. Had two more acres offered - me, and borrowed money for the purchase. They’re a long way out, but - Sandport’ll grow to them. Now what d’you know about that?” - </p> - <p> - Uncle Waffles was often confessional with Peter and always exuberant. He - asked his opinion on business affairs as though his opinion mattered. He - seemed to keep nothing back, even touching on things domestic. - </p> - <p> - “You mustn’t think I’m complaining of the Duchess. She’s - a snorter. But, you know, she’s never understood me. I’m - taking her in hand though, and educating her up to my standard. When first - I knew her, she seemed to think that loving was wicked. Now what d’you - know about that?” - </p> - <p> - Peter watched for the results of the educating and was disappointed. When - Uncle Waffles tried to kiss Aunt Je-hane, she still drew aside her head, - saying, “Don’t be silly, Ocky.” She left the room when - he began to tell his latest funny story. It was odd, if he was really - successful, that she should always treat him like that. - </p> - <p> - And there were other secrets Peter learnt—that his uncle had an - obscure disease which no one must mention. His uncle was very brave and - laughed about it. It could be kept in check, so long as he took his - “medicine” regularly. His “medicine” could be - obtained at any public house and was frequently obtained on those Saturday - excursions to and from Birchdale. When Glory accompanied them, Uncle - Waffles contrived to do without it. - </p> - <p> - At Christmas Peter was put in charge of the guard and returned to Topbury. - The month that followed was epoch-making—a bitter pleasure. Like a - man living on his capital, he was always reckoning how much was left. And - then the respite ended and the exile in Egypt recommenced. - </p> - <p> - He clenched his hands. He would not cry. And yet——. - </p> - <p> - It was Kay he wanted. His whole life was wrapt up in her. - </p> - <p> - The first day back at school he noticed that one of his companions was - absent. The second and the third day passed; then the news leaked out that - he was dead. It dawned on Peter that death was a peril that threatened - everybody. No amount of care on the part of Mr. Grace or the policeman - could shield Kay from it. The thought became a nightmare. Miss Rufus - discovered that he was unhappy; he cried at night in bed. She was hurt; - but, when he told her, she was more gentle with him than ever. - </p> - <p> - Midway through the term a telegram arrived. Its message was broken to him - by Uncle Waffles. Kay was dangerously ill and calling for him; he was to - go back. - </p> - <p> - A drizzling rain hung over London. The streets were clogged with mud, and - gas-lamps shone drearily through the drifting murk. Throughout the long - and dismal journey he had sat pale-faced; in the intervals between praying - he had told himself that, were she to die, he would never forgive his - father for having separated him from her. He was stunned and yet fiercely - rebellious. In spite of his desperate hope, he was prepared for the worst. - </p> - <p> - At the station Grace met him. Indiscreet through grief, she told him how - from the first of her three days’ illness his little sister had - never ceased calling for him. - </p> - <p> - “‘Er temp’rature’s runned up with fretting, poor - lamb; but you was allaws h’able to quiet ‘er, Master Peter.” - </p> - <p> - Before the cab had halted on the Terrace, Peter was up the steps. Someone - had been behind the blinds, watching; the door opened almost before he had - rung the bell. His father stood before him. In his hot anger Peter dodged - beneath his arm and commenced to mount the stairs. If he had been there, - he felt sure, this would not have happened. - </p> - <p> - From the room in which she had been born came the heavy smell of - eucalyptus. Peter opened the door; a fire was burning, as when he had - first found her there. A cot was drawn up to the fire and from it came a - ceaseless tired wailing. In the wailing he made out his name, uttered over - and over. As he ran forward, his mother rose to put her arms about him. He - rushed past her: she did not count. Bending over the cot, he gazed into - the flushed face. The hoarse voice stopped. The lips, cracked with fever, - pressed against his mouth. - </p> - <p> - “Little Kay, it’s truly Peter. He’s never going to leave - you.” - </p> - <p> - From the moment he touched her, she began to mend. - </p> - <p> - Some days later, when relief from suspense left leisure for attention to - other matters, Mr. Barrington wrote to Miss Rufus, saying that his son - would not return. In reply he received a curious confidence. She had - advertised her school for sale, and it was Peter’s doing. Peter had - taught her that, except love, nothing mattered. - </p> - <p> - Peter’s father had seen Miss Rufus; he thought that love on her lips - was an odd word. Couldn’t one love and still keep a school? It was - very <i>Peterish</i> of Peter to make a lady with a corrugated countenance - do a thing like that. Something lay behind the letter. Later, when the - scandal had become public, Jehane informed them what that something was. - </p> - <p> - Peter’s father felt penitent. He took his son between his knees, - resting his hand on his curly head, and gazed at him intently as though - for the first time he was beginning to know him. - </p> - <p> - “Have you forgiven me, little chap?” Then, “I was - mistaken about you. Your mother was right. Go on being <i>Peterish</i> to - your heart’s content. We love you best like that.” - </p> - <p> - To Nan he said, “You should have seen that woman. She was barbed - wire all round—impregnable. Absolutely. But Peter—well! We’ve - got a queer little shrimp for our son and heir.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV—MARRIED LIFE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>eter went laughing - through the spring-world—it had become all kindness. In some strange - way he had saved Kay’s life. Everybody said so. He did not know how. - And now she was strong and well—more his than ever. - </p> - <p> - “‘Appy, Master Peter? H’always ‘appy,” Mr. - Grace would say when they met on the cab-stand. - </p> - <p> - Yes, Peter was always happy now. His eyes were blue torches of joy which - burnt up other people’s sadness. His golden little motherkins forgot - her dread of when he would become a man; she held him tightly in the nest - at Topbury, surrounding him with her gentle love. His father showed his - affection in a man’s fashion by making Peter his friend. And Kay, - racing down the garden-path and dancing with the flowers in the sunshine, - put the feeling which they all experienced into words, “The joy’s - gone into my feet, Peter; I’m so glad.” - </p> - <p> - Never again would anyone suspect him of harming her. He could gather her - to him and tell her tales to his heart’s content. And what games of - pretending they played together! The old-fashioned garden became a forest - of limitless expanse and the house a castle. Kay was a princess in danger - and Peter was a knight who came to her rescue. Peter taught his mother and - father his pretence-language, so that they might play their part as king - and queen of the castle. Peter’s father learnt that he did not go to - business in the morning, but to the wars. In the evening, when he - returned, he would sometimes see two merry faces watching for him from the - top-windows—the top-windows were the battlements. Then he felt that, - grown man though he was, he ought to prance up the Terrace, as his legs - would have done had they been really those of a royal charger. - </p> - <p> - Peter had brought back the spirit of fun-making to Top-bury. In the garden - by day, where the wind whispered round the walls, and the trees let in - glimpses of high-flying clouds, and in the nursery at twilight, where the - laburnum leant her arms on the window-sill to listen, nodding her golden - tassels, he created his imaginary world. Here the king and queen would - join them almost shyly, as if they feared that their presence might - disturb. They came hand-in-hand on tiptoe. Peter noticed how different - they were from Aunt Jehane and Uncle Waffles: they were never tired of - being lovers. - </p> - <p> - “Please, Peter, we want to be your little boy and girl. May we hear - your story?” - </p> - <p> - The invisible arms of the threatened death had drawn them very near - together. Like the spring about them, their hearts were emotional with - exultant tenderness. - </p> - <p> - Like all children, Kay and Peter had their place of hiding, where they - lived their most secret world. It was the loft above the unused stable. - One had to climb up boxes and scramble through a hole in the ceiling to - get to it. It was thick in dust and cob-webs, but they cleaned a space - where they could sit and pretend it was their house and that they were - married. There was only one window, smothered in ivy, looking out on the - garden. From here they could observe whether anyone was coming. There were - chinks in the floor which served as spy-holes; through one of them they - could see the stall in which the tandem-tricycle was kept. They planned to - explore all manner of countries when Kay’s legs were long enough to - reach the pedals. - </p> - <p> - “Can’t think where you kiddies get to,” their father - said; “I believe it’s somewhere in the stable. I’ve been - calling and calling’.” - </p> - <p> - And Peter laughed, for he knew that grown people were far too sensible to - think of climbing into the loft in search of them. Only one grown person - was so adventurous—but that comes later. - </p> - <p> - When letters arrived from Sandport they were usually addressed to Nan; as - a rule the first post brought them, and she would read out extracts as - they sat at breakfast. - </p> - <p> - They were curious letters, written in a jealous spirit, but intended to - create an impression of contentment. They were in the nature of veiled - retorts which said, “So you see, my husband’s as good as - yours.” Without knowing it, they betrayed envy. If Nan had given - news concerning the doings of herself, Billy or her children, Jehane would - reply with parallel details concerning her family. Just as in conversation - she spoke of her husband as Mr. Waffles, as though the very name were a - title inspiring awe, so in correspondence she quoted his opinions, as a - loving wife would the sayings of a man she worshiped. Jehane wrote less - and less in the mood of spontaneous friendship; if she had nothing better - to say, one wondered that she took the trouble to write at all. Probably - she did it out of habit and, perhaps, in order to hoodwink herself. - </p> - <p> - And she was evasive. Questions as to how Ocky’s enterprise was - progressing were left unanswered—in place of answers were loose - optimistic statements. A letter from Sandport usually brought with it an - atmosphere of annoyance. Nan exercised her tact in selecting portions to - be read aloud. It was in keeping with Ocky’s character that, even - when Barrington had written himself, Jehane did the replying, saying that - her husband was very busy at present with new developments. - </p> - <p> - One morning Nan passed a letter down the table without comment. Barrington’s - brows drew together in a frown; halfway through reading it he flung it - from him. - </p> - <p> - “Another! Well, I must say they might have waited until they knew - whether they could afford——” - </p> - <p> - Nan interrupted him quietly. “Billy, not before——” - </p> - <p> - She glanced at the children. - </p> - <p> - When they were supposed to have forgotten what their father had said, Kay - and Peter were informed—Aunt Je-hane had another little girl. - </p> - <p> - That evening the king and queen of the castle talked together after the - knight and the princess had been put to bed. - </p> - <p> - “They’ve no right to do a thing like that—bringing - another child into the world. Jehane doesn’t love him. It’s my - belief she never has. The thing’s sordid. What chance will the - little beggar have? It puts the whole business of marriage on a level with - the animals. Ugh!” - </p> - <p> - They were sitting beneath the mulberry in the cool dusk. From far away, - like waves lapping against the walls of a precipice in a cranny of which - they had found shelter, the weary complaint of London reached them. Within - his own house, with his wife and children, Barrington felt lifted high - above all that. He hated this intrusion of strife and ugliness. - </p> - <p> - Nan’s arm stole round his neck; she had never lost the shyness with - which she had given him her first caress. “Billy, old boy, you mustn’t - be angry with them—only sorry. Don’t you know we’re - exceptional.” - </p> - <p> - “Not so exceptional as all——” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—as all that. How many wives and husbands are lovers after - they’ve been married ten years?” - </p> - <p> - “Never tried to count.” - </p> - <p> - “How many then would choose one another again if they could begin - afresh?” - </p> - <p> - “Begin afresh, with full knowledge of everything that was to happen?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Not many.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, who are we to judge? We should just be thankful for ourselves - and sorry for——” - </p> - <p> - “But it’s the children I’m thinking of—children - who aren’t wanted, begotten by parents who don’t want one - another.” - </p> - <p> - The silence was broken by Nan. “Perhaps, Jehane was a child like - that. I’ve often thought it. She’s always been so hungry—hungry - for affection.” - </p> - <p> - “Hungry—but jealous. She doesn’t go the right way to - work to get it.” - </p> - <p> - “She hasn’t learnt; no one ever taught her. She’s - married; yet she’s still on the raft.—Billy, I want you to do - something for her.” - </p> - <p> - “Me—for her?” - </p> - <p> - “I want you to ask her, as soon as she’s well, to come here to - Topbury with the baby. She’s tired. I can feel it in her letters. I’d - like to help her.” - </p> - <p> - “She’ll only misconstrue your help—you know that. She’ll - bore us to tears by boasting about Ocky.” - </p> - <p> - “And won’t that be to her credit?” - </p> - <p> - “To her credit, but beastly annoying. If she’d only believe in - him to his face and cease shamming that she’s proud of him behind - his back, matters might mend. She won’t let us make her affairs our - business. Some day, when it’s too late, she may have to. That’s - what I’m afraid of.” - </p> - <p> - But, when Jehane came, she set that fear at rest. It was impossible not to - believe that Ocky’s feet were on the upward ladder: she was better - dressed, happier and had money to spend. She wore presents of jewelry - which her husband had given her—so she said. The money, she told - them, was the result of speculations which Ocky had made for her with the - little capital left by Captain Spashett. She spoke with enthusiasm of his - cleverness. And the happiness—that was because Barrington had - invited her personally. Naturally she kept this knowledge to herself. - </p> - <p> - Nan had planned to encompass her with the atmosphere of affection. Little - gifts from Jehane, received in her girlhood, were set about the bedroom to - awaken memories—to let her know how well she was remembered. Jehane - noticed the carefully thought out campaign—the efforts that were - made to win her. She wondered what it all meant; then she realized and was - touched. - </p> - <p> - Nan sat wistfully beside her friend, watching the baby being put to bed. - She kissed its little limbs with a kind of reverence and ministered humbly - to its helplessness. When Jehane pressed its eager lips against her - breast, Nan’s eyes filled with tears. Jehane looked up - questioningly. - </p> - <p> - “I shall never have another,” Nan said. - </p> - <p> - Jehane stretched out her hand and drew Nan to her. She could be - magnanimous when for once she found her lot coveted. When the baby had - been fed and was being laid in its cot, Nan slipped to the window and - leant out, gazing across the roofs of Holloway to Hampstead where the sun - hung red. - </p> - <p> - There was no warning. She felt lips on her cheeks, lips violently kissing - her ears and neck. She turned with a throaty laugh. “You haven’t - done that for ages.” - </p> - <p> - “Not kissed you? Of course I have.” - </p> - <p> - Nan shook her head. “Not like that, as though you wanted to. You - haven’t done it since we were girls.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane, half-ashamed of her impulsiveness, looked away. “We’ve - been too busy to make a fuss. But the feeling’s been there.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t call that making a fuss—and it isn’t - because we’ve been busy. We’ve been drifting apart—playing - a game of hide and seek with one another.” Then, before Jehane could - become casual, “I do so want to be friends.” - </p> - <p> - “And aren’t we friends?” - </p> - <p> - “Not in the old sense. We’re hard and suspicious, and doubt - one another.” - </p> - <p> - “Then let’s be friends in the old sense, you dear little Nan.” - </p> - <p> - Like Peter, when Nan had made up her mind to be tender, no one could - resist her. She treated Jehane with sweet envy, because of the baby on her - breast. She made believe that Jehane was fragile, and kept her in bed for - breakfast. After Barrington had been seen off to business, she went up to - help her dress. It was in this hour that Jehane was most confessional. She - recalled the dreamy Oxford days, with their desperate dreams of love, when - life was unexperienced. She even spoke of the great disillusion that had - followed; she spoke in general terms to include all wives and husbands. - She spoke of Waffles as he had been, only that she might praise him as he - had become. Her fierce loyalty to him, her wilful consistency in shutting - her eyes to his faults, was a form of self-respect which never faltered. - Nan found a difficulty in pretending that he was all that was claimed for - him; they both knew that he was not. Still, she was convinced that he was - mending. - </p> - <p> - Barrington, noticing the change in Jehane, said, “There are only two - things that could do it: money or love. It isn’t love, so we have to - believe that it’s——” - </p> - <p> - But it was love—love for Barrington and the effect of being near - him. Even she herself wondered at how the old infatuation had lasted. Her - very bitterness had been a form of love. Now that he went out of his way - to be kind to her all the passion in her responded—but she had to - disguise its response. - </p> - <p> - At night, with another man’s child in her arms, she lay awake. In - the darkness and silence she told herself stories, juggling with - circumstances. - </p> - <p> - Once she heard a tapping on her door. She crouched against the wall, - shuddering. - </p> - <p> - The handle turned. Nan stood on the threshold. “I thought I heard - you moving.” - </p> - <p> - Guilty and angry, Jehane said nothing. Nan groped her way toward the bed - and found it empty. - </p> - <p> - “Jehane, Janey,” she called. - </p> - <p> - Then she saw her, stooped to her and caught her in her arms, begging for - an explanation. Just as once, when she had asserted, “Jehane I <i>did</i>, - I <i>did</i> play fair,” so now she got no answer—only, - “I’m stupid, dear; I’ll be better in the morning.” - </p> - <p> - Cold with alarm, Nan crept downstairs and hid herself in Billy’s - arms. He was too sleepy to give the matter much attention. “She’s - odd, darling. Never understood her. Poor old Ocky!” - </p> - <p> - The intoxication and the madness were gone. Fear had come. Any moment they - might guess. With fear came contrition: she would idolize her husband - more, till he became for her the man he was not. Next morning she - surprised Nan by announcing that she was homesick for Ocky, that her - things were packed and she would return to Sand-port at once. There was no - dissuading her. In her heart she had determined to wipe out her - faithlessness by educating her husband into largeness by love. - </p> - <p> - When the train had moved out of the station Billy stared at Nan puzzled. - “Really does look as if she’d grown fond of him! Eh what?” - </p> - <p> - Nan squeezed his arm. “Perhaps she always was fond of him and we - were sceptics.” - </p> - <p> - “She may be now. She wasn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it because he’s got money?” - </p> - <p> - “Does make a difference, doesn’t it?” - </p> - <p> - Nan pressed against him and looked up laughing. “Between you and me - it wouldn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “Think not?” - </p> - <p> - “Never.” - </p> - <p> - Hidden in a cab, he caught her to him. “You darling!” She held - him from her, blushing. “But why now? What’s this for?” - </p> - <p> - “Jehane makes me thankful for what I’ve got.” - </p> - <p> - That evening a man moved along the Terrace, halted as though he were - minded to turn back, moved on and at last knocked at Barrington’s - door. While he waited he mopped his forehead; his manner was furtive. - </p> - <p> - Once inside the hall he became important, handing his card with a - flourish. Left alone while the maid announced his presence, he fiddled - with his necktie and twisted his soaped mustaches. - </p> - <p> - Barrington burst in on him. “Anything the matter, old man?” - </p> - <p> - “Matter? ‘Course not.” - </p> - <p> - “Didn’t you know that Jehane went home this morning?” - </p> - <p> - “Got your telegram just as I was leaving. Had business in London. - Couldn’t put it off.” - </p> - <p> - “Must have been important. She’ll be disappointed.” - </p> - <p> - “It was.” - </p> - <p> - “Suppose it’s too late for you to start to-night?” - Barrington pulled out his watch. “Humph! Stop with us, won’t - you?—Had dinner?—All right. Let’s go out. Nan’s in - the garden.” - </p> - <p> - What was it that had brought him? Barrington kept asking himself that - question. As usual, Ocky was voluble and plausible, but—— His - high spirits were forced; he avoided the eye when watched. He rattled on - about the possibilities of Sandport. He talked of the friends he had made—men - whom Barrington guessed to be of no importance. He repeated his friends’ - hilarious stories, “Here’s a good one John told me——” - It was Ocky who discovered the humor in the story and laughed. - </p> - <p> - Trees grew more dense against the dark. Lights in houses were - extinguished. The roar of London, like a voice wearied of quarreling, - which mumbled vexatiously in a last retort, sank away into silence. But - this tireless voice at his side went on, babbling of nothing, talking and - talking. - </p> - <p> - Nan rose. “I’m sleepy. You’ll excuse me, won’t - you? Billy, darling, don’t be long.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky refilled his foul pipe—with a pipe between his teeth he felt - fortified. - </p> - <p> - Barrington waited for him to reach his point—there <i>was</i> a - point he felt sure. Ocky’s visits always had an ulterior motive. - </p> - <p> - “Everything all right at Madeira Lodge?” - </p> - <p> - “Topping.” - </p> - <p> - “And the land investment?” - </p> - <p> - “Fine.” - </p> - <p> - “Then what brought you?” - </p> - <p> - Ocky was as shocked as if a gun had been fired in his face. The question - was unkind. He’d tried to be sociable and to stave off - unpleasantness—and this was the thanks he got. He squirmed uneasily; - the wicker-chair creaked, betraying his agitation. - </p> - <p> - “That’s a rotten thing to say to a fellow, Billy. What brought - me, indeed!” - </p> - <p> - It was Barrington’s turn to shift in his chair. He hated to be - called Billy by Waffles. The offence was repeated. - </p> - <p> - “You’re confoundedly direct, Billy. Whenever I visit you, you - always think I’ve come to get something.” - </p> - <p> - “And haven’t you?” Barrington’s voice was hard. - “Well, I have, now you mention it.” - </p> - <p> - A pause. - </p> - <p> - Barrington lost patience. “Why can’t you get it out like a - man? You’ve done something while Jehane’s been away—something - that made you afraid to meet her. Haven’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “Jehane!—— In a sense it’s her doing. Don’t - see why she should make me afraid.” - </p> - <p> - “Her doing! In what way?” - </p> - <p> - Ocky struck a match; finding his pipe empty, he held the match till it - burnt his fingers. “I’m not blaming Jehane, but it <i>is</i> - her doing up to a point. She wants money to dress her girls up to the - nines. She wants money to make the house look stylish. If it hadn’t - been for Jehane, I should never have left old Wagstaff’s office. - Mind, I’m not blaming her. But where was the money to come from?” - </p> - <p> - “You let her believe you were making it.” - </p> - <p> - “Eh? So I was. So I shall if I can only get time.” - </p> - <p> - “Where’d you get the money she’s already had?” - </p> - <p> - “It’s her money that I invested for her.” - </p> - <p> - “You’ve been living on the principal—is that it? On the - money that should have gone to Glory.” - </p> - <p> - The tension proved too great for Ocky. A joke might relieve the situation. - “Seems to me that’s where it’s gone.” When no - laugh followed he hastened to add, “Financial pressure. Of course I’m - sorry.” Then, “I want you to lend me enough to tide me over.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve been tiding you over all your life. You’ll have to - tell her. When you’ve told her, I’ll see what I can do once - more.” - </p> - <p> - For the first time that evening the foolish tone of banter went out of the - weak man’s voice. - </p> - <p> - “For God’s sake! Don’t make me do that. You don’t - know what a punishment you’re inventing. D’you know what that’d - do to her?—kill what little love she has for me. She’d hate - me. She’d despise me even more than she does already. I’ve got - to live with her. Oh, my God!” - </p> - <p> - Barrington drew back into the shadow. He was deeply moved, and ashamed of - it. - </p> - <p> - The other man, goaded deeper into sincerity by his silence, continued, - pleading brokenly. - </p> - <p> - “You can’t understand. Between you and Nan it’s always - been different. You’re strong and she’s so tender. But I—I’m - weak. I try to do right, but I’m everlastingly in the wrong. I’ve - had to crawl for every scrap of love my wife ever gave me. She’s - thrown it at me like a bone to a dog. I’m a poor flimsy devil. I - know it. We never ought to have married—she’s too splendid. - But she’s all I’ve got. I thought—I thought if I could - take her money and double it, she’d respect me at last—believe - me clever. I did make money for her at first. I saw what a difference it - made. Then I lost. I was afraid to tell her, so went on. I thought I’d - win if I tried again. And she—after the first time, she expected the - extra money from me. Little by little it all went. But don’t make me - tell her.” - </p> - <p> - “Then it wasn’t lost in land speculation?” - </p> - <p> - “Part, but most in stocks bought on margins. My life’s been - hell for the past six months. Don’t make me tell her.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington rose. “It’s late. I’ll let you know - to-morrow. You must give me a complete list of your indebtedness. Whatever - I decide, I think you ought not to deceive Je—— And, by the - way, say the thing you mean when we talk of this to-morrow. Say <i>give</i>, - instead of <i>lend</i>. I prefer frankness.” - </p> - <p> - That “whatever I decide” told Ocky his battle was won. One - night’s sleep placed all his dread behind him. His lack of - self-respect permitted him to recuperate rapidly. Early in the morning he - was up and in the garden, whistling cheerfully as though he had suffered - no humiliation. Peter heard him and ran to greet him. For an hour before - breakfast they exchanged secrets and Peter, in a burst of confidence, - initiated his uncle into the mystery of the loft. - </p> - <p> - “A fine place to hide, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - “Rather.” - </p> - <p> - “And you never told anyone before?” - </p> - <p> - “No one.” - </p> - <p> - “And you told me! Well, what d’you know about that? You must - be somehow fond of this poor old uncle.” - </p> - <p> - Peter’s father heard them laughing and was annoyed. His night had - been restless. He was still more irritated when, on entering the stable, - he found Ocky with his arm round Peter’s shoulder. In the sunlight - he saw at a glance how his cousin had deteriorated. His gait was more - slouchy, his expression more furtive, his teeth more broken with constant - biting on the pipe. His attempts at smartness—the soaped mustaches - and the dusty spats—were wretchedly offensive; they were so - ineffectually pretentious. - </p> - <p> - The weak man’s hand commenced to fumble in his pocket as Barrington’s - eyes searched him. - </p> - <p> - “Where’s my baccy? Must have dropped it. Seen my pouch - anywhere, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - “It’s in your hand, uncle.” Peter went off into a peal - of laughter. - </p> - <p> - “Surely you can do without smoking till after breakfast.” - </p> - <p> - Peter’s laugh stopped, cut short by the sternness in his father’s - voice. - </p> - <p> - In his study, an hour later, Barrington asked, “You’re sure - there’s nothing else? There’s no good in my giving you - anything unless you make a clean breast to me. And mind, this is - absolutely the last time I save you. From this moment you’ve got to - go on your own.” - </p> - <p> - “On my honor, Billy, there’s nothing.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky had a constitutional weakness for lies; so he told one now when it - hindered his purpose. - </p> - <p> - Barrington eyed him doubtfully. “If you’ve not told me the - truth, Jehane shall know all.” - </p> - <p> - “Can’t pledge you more than my honor, Billy.” - </p> - <p> - The check was signed. He had gained a new lease on life. His contrition - left him, expelled by his fatal optimism. He was again a facetious dog, - whose paltry mistakes lay in the distant past. At parting he tipped Peter - a pound, with characteristic careless generosity. As he walked down the - Terrace, he tilted his hat to a more jaunty angle. On his way to the - station he bought some flashy jewelry for Jehane and the children. Long - before he reached Sand-port, he had so far risen in his own estimation - that he thought of himself as a bold financier, who had done a most - excellent stroke of business in an incredibly short space of time. As for - Barrington—oh, he’d always been narrowminded. The money was a - loan that he’d soon pay back. - </p> - <p> - As he approached Madeira Lodge, Jehane was watering flowers in the garden. - He hailed her from a distance, “Hulloa, Duchess!” - </p> - <p> - She, being penitent for a treachery of which he had no knowledge, - restrained her disgust at the detested nickname. She was going to be a - good and faithful wife—she had quite made up her mind. The - street-door had scarcely shut behind them, when she flung her arms about - him. He was taken by surprise. - </p> - <p> - “I was lonely without you, Ocky—that’s why I came back.” - </p> - <p> - “Lonely! Lonely for me?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Why—why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Dun’ know. Sounds odd from you, old lady.” - </p> - <p> - “From me? From your wife? Didn’t you feel the house—feel - it empty with me away?” - </p> - <p> - His hands clutched at her shoulders. “And when you were not away - sometimes. Old gel, I’ve always been lonely for you.” - </p> - <p> - She brought her face down to his. “Hold me close, Ocky—close, - as you’re doing now—always.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVI—THE ANGELS AND OCKY WAFFLES - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>cky was like the - jerry-built houses in which most of his life was spent: the angels who - made him had had good intentions, but they had scamped their work. - Consequently he was in continual need of repair. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0149.jpg" alt="0149m " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0149.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - If someone had had time to spend a lot of love about him his defects could - have been patched up so as to be scarcely noticeable. As it was people - only came to his help when he was on the point of tumbling down. They - shored him up hurriedly and left him; but no one cared enough to give him - new foundations. The right kind of woman could have rebuilt him throughout—the - kind of woman who knows how to love a man for his faults as well as for - his virtues. But few women are architects where their husbands are - concerned—only those who marry to give more than they get. Nan could - have done it; but she was married to Barrington. Glory could have done it; - but she was only a little girl.—So the angels had to watch their - good intentions crumble. - </p> - <p> - Ocky knew quite well what was the matter with him—heart-hunger: he - required a wife who would sit on his knee and ruffle his hair, and call - him the funniest old dear in the world. Such a wife he would have had to - carry through life; her dependence would have educated his strength. A - wife who was censorious made him weakly obstinate and foolishly daring. If - he had been patted and hugged, he would have been a good man. His mother - had done that; but Jehane—ah, well, she did her best. - </p> - <p> - Barrington, when he signed the check, had made Ocky promise to return to - Jehane the thousand pounds she had lent. It wasn’t her thousand - pounds, but Glory’s, held in trust for her till she married. Ocky - had pledged his word to give it back on one condition—that Jehane - was to be kept in ignorance of the transaction. At the time he had quite - intended to carry out the agreement; but so much can be done with a - thousand pounds and an ingenious mind can invent so many excuses for - dishonesty. - </p> - <p> - The morning after his home-coming he hung about the house instead of going - to his office. Already his methods of holding her closely were getting on - Jehane’s nerves. His shiftless easy affection tried her patience - beyond endurance. - </p> - <p> - “Aren’t you going yet?” - </p> - <p> - “Presently, old gel. I want to have a good look at you first.” - </p> - <p> - “I think you ought to go. You’ll have all your life to look at - me—and I’ve got my work, if you haven’t.” - </p> - <p> - “All right, old gel.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish you wouldn’t ‘old gel’ me so much. It’s - vulgar and silly.” - </p> - <p> - Lighting his pipe, he strolled into the hall and picked up his hat. He - stood there fumbling with it. Only when she followed him did he set it on - his head, retreating toward the door. With the street at his back, he - turned. - </p> - <p> - “I say, about your money.” - </p> - <p> - “For goodness sake, go. We can talk about that at lunch.” - </p> - <p> - He glanced across his shoulder at the sunlit street; his flight would be - unimpeded. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t lose your wool, old—— I mean, Jehane. I’ve - something to tell you. Had a nice little stroke o’ luck. Made thirty - pounds for you.” - </p> - <p> - The flame of hostility sank at the mention of money. They stood gazing at - one another. Each was aware that, within twelve hours of peace being - declared, the old feud had all but broken out. Jehane was frightened by - the knowledge and self-scornful at her lapse into temper. Ocky was - congratulating himself on the dexterous lie with which the crash had been - averted. - </p> - <p> - “Thirty pounds! And you kept it so quiet!” - </p> - <p> - He twirled his mustaches fiercely, straddling the doormat, all boldness - and bullying self-righteousness now. “This little boy may be vulgar - sometimes, but he isn’t silly—far from it.” - </p> - <p> - “But how did you do it?” She leant against him with both her - hands on his arm, trying to make his eyes meet hers. - </p> - <p> - “You wouldn’t understand. Watched the market, yer know. Sold - out just in time—last moment in fact.” - </p> - <p> - “You <i>are</i> clever—that’s what I kept telling Billy - and Nan.” - </p> - <p> - “Think so? I’ve sometimes thought so myself.” He held - his face away from hers as she pushed to the door and put her arms about - his neck. “And yet you were treating me like a fool just now. You’re - too ready at calling me silly and vulgar. I get tired of it.” As he - spoke he had in mind the firm way in which a masterful person like - Barrington would act. “You’ve got to stop it, Jehane. It’s - the last time I mention it.” - </p> - <p> - “I know I’m unfair—unfair to you, to myself, to all of - us. Oh, Ocky, be patient with me; I do so want to be better.” - </p> - <p> - She hid her face against his shoulder in contrition and unhappiness. Ocky - was a generous enemy. He found it easy to forgive, being a sinner himself. - </p> - <p> - “There, there! That’s awright, Duchess. Don’t cry about - it—— But I brought this matter up ‘cause I think you - ought to have your money back.” - </p> - <p> - She stared at him in surprise. “Ought to! Why, what d’you - mean? Is it a punishment? I don’t understand.” He set his hat - far back on his forehead. - </p> - <p> - “I’m not trying to hurt your feelin’s; but you don’t - trust me. Never have. It’s anxious work handling the money of a - woman who don’t trust you. If I were to make a mistake, you’d - give me hell—I mean, the warmest time I’ve ever had. I’d - rather—much rather—you took your money back.” - </p> - <p> - He was drifting away from her—already she had pushed him from her. - Something must be done. - </p> - <p> - “It’s you who don’t trust me, if you think that.” - Her tones quivered with reproach as she said it. - </p> - <p> - “Then you want me to go on investing for you?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re sure of it?” - </p> - <p> - “Quite, <i>quite</i> sure of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Then always remember, I tried to make you take it back and you - wouldn’t. Isn’t that so?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I wouldn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “Awright, I’ll do my best; but I do it under protest, don’t - forget.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Ocky, everything that we have we share.” - </p> - <p> - He kissed her and passed out into the street with alacrity; she might get - to considering his motives. But at the garden gate he hesitated, dawdled, - and came back. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, I don’t want Barrington nosing into my affairs. If - I do this for you it’s between ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - “I shouldn’t think of telling Barrington.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, if you breathe a word to Nan I’ll stop dead, and you - can manage your investments yourself.” - </p> - <p> - So he kept to the letter of his agreement with Barrington—and he - kept to Jehane’s capital. And he accomplished this by that small lie - about the thirty pounds. - </p> - <p> - When Mr. Playfair had chosen Ocky Waffles to be office-manager of the - Sandport Real Estate Concern, he had shown remarkable cunning. He was - tricky himself and he required a subordinate who was no more scrupulous, - yet a subordinate who could give to smart transactions an appearance of - honesty. Mr. Playfair’s finances were scanty; in order to extend his - credit it was necessary to pose in the eyes of Sandport as a civic - benefactor. Outside investors were attracted by a not too truthful, but - undoubtedly clever, series of advertisements for which Ocky was - responsible, such as:— - </p> - <p> - “<i>Houses Built on Sand!</i> We all remember the Bible parable of - the foolish man who built his house upon sand: when the winds blew and the - floods came, it fell. Houses built at Sandport are the exception. We have - a lower death rate here, etc., etc. OUR HOUSES STAND.” - </p> - <p> - This was all very well, but several important facts were omitted from the - advertisements: that a number of the land lots offered for sale were too - inaccessible to be of practical value and that those marked as <i>sold</i>, - which connected them up with the town, were actually still on the market; - and, again, that many of the immediate and promised developments, which - would increase the value of the property, would be indefinitely postponed - by lack of capital; and, again, that, in certain cases, building would be - impossible by reason of fresh-water springs which undermined the sand. - </p> - <p> - In the promotion of a shaky enterprise Ocky was in his element. He could - not have brought the same cleverness to bear on an honest transaction. The - school of life from which he had graduated was one of shifts, evasions and - shams. Even his experiences with Jehane kept his hand expert. He was so - plausible in his gilding of falsity that he made it appear like the truth - itself. - </p> - <p> - But if Playfair in selecting Ocky had shown his cunning, he had also shown - his lack of business shrewdness, for Ocky was not the person to trust with - money. And he had to trust him, so that he might make him the scape-goat - if any infringment of the law should be found out. Some of the money which - Barrington had given Ocky had gone toward the straightening of the - Sandport Real Estate Concern’s accounts, before Playfair should - discover that they had been juggled. Ocky had not meant to steal; he never - meant to do anything improper. He borrowed the firm’s money to - support his private speculations. While Jehane’s affection could - only be purchased, he was continually tempted to borrow. He fully intended - to pay back. He always fully intended. - </p> - <p> - The angels made three desperate efforts to prevent Ocky from crumbling. - They gave him Glory. A curious sympathy had grown up between him and the - child of Jehane’s first marriage. Perhaps it was that they both - suffered from the unevenness of Jehane’s temper. At any rate, he - much preferred her to his own long-lashed, slant-eyed little daughter. - Riska, though she was only seven, had learnt to be both vain and selfish; - at the same time, when there was anything she wanted, she knew how to be - attractive. She was her mother’s favorite and belonged to her mother’s - camp. And Madeira Lodge tended to become more and more divided into two - silently hostile parties. Ocky had the unpleasant feeling that Riska was - amused by the outbreaks which occurred, and turned them to her own profit. - Whereas Glory—— - </p> - <p> - Already at ten, Glory was a woman in her forethought for him. She would - follow after him, hanging up his coat and hat, rectifying his habitual - untidiness, and stamping out the sparks which were so often the beginnings - of domestic conflagrations. Her gray eyes were always kind when they - looked at him and she was never impatient under his caresses. “Poor - little father,” she would whisper, putting her soft arms about him, - “I’m sure mother didn’t mean to say that.” - </p> - <p> - And the angels gave him his baby-girl. Mary they called her, which was - contracted to Moggs as she grew older. But Riska called her the M. L. O., - which stood for Ma’s Left Over, because she was so small that it - seemed as though Jehane had run short of material when she made her. Ocky - was very glad of Moggs; Moggs was too young to judge him. Even Eustace - judged him, saying, “You’s been naughty, Daddy; Mumma’s - vewy angwy.” There was no pity in the little boy’s tone when - he said it—only sorrowful accusation. - </p> - <p> - Sitting by Moggs’s cradle, Ocky would wonder whether the day would - come when she, learning what a fool she had for a father, would turn - against him. In the midst of his wondering, she would wake and he would - see two blue glimpses of heaven laughing up at him. He would take her in - his arms, promising her, because she could not understand a word he said, - that for her sake he would try not to take so much “medicine.” - </p> - <p> - “Medicine,” as a means to bolstering up his courage, was a - habit which grew upon him. - </p> - <p> - Peter, who was the third effort of the angels, noticed a change every time - he visited Uncle Waffles. On those walks across the lonely sand-hills, - Uncle Waffles no longer pretended that he drank the “medicine” - for his health. - </p> - <p> - “You’re a ha’penny marvel, Peter—that’s what - you are. You get me to tell you everything. It’s ‘cause I have - to tell somebody, and I know you won’t split on me. Now about this - ‘medicine’; I’m taking more and more of it. And why? - Because it’s my only way of being happy. Before I married the - Duchess I hardly ever touched it. I had my mother then. I wish you’d - known her, Peter; she was a rare one for laughing. I only feel like - laughing now when I’ve taken more ‘medicine’ than’s - good for me. Not that I was ever drunk in my life. It never goes to my - head—only legs.” - </p> - <p> - He had usually had too much when he made these confessions. Peter knew he - had by the way in which he said, “I got a nacherly strong stomick. - It’s a gif from God, I reckon.” - </p> - <p> - Peter kept these disclosures to himself and walked his uncle about till it - was safe to return to Madeira Lodge. Ocky would retire as soon as they - entered, saying that he had a bad headache. They became of such frequent - occurrence that Jehane began to be suspicious. - </p> - <p> - During the next three years Ocky’s visits to Topbury were periodic. - Barrington could usually calculate his advent to a nicety. One night there - would be a ring at the bell and Mr. Waffles would enter unheralded. While - others were present he would joke with his old abandon, as though he hadn’t - a care in the world. Then Barrington would turn to him, “Shall we go - upstairs to my study for a chat?” - </p> - <p> - The fiction was kept up that Ocky’s visits were of a friendly and - family nature. The constant fear at Topbury was that the servants might - guess and the scandal would leak out. - </p> - <p> - When the study door had shut behind them, Barrington would give vent to - his indignation. - </p> - <p> - “How much this time?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve had hard luck.” - </p> - <p> - “You mean you want me to clear off your debts and pay back the money - you’ve taken?” - </p> - <p> - “It won’t happen again, Billy. Just this once.” - </p> - <p> - “You said that last time and the time before that, and every time as - far back as I can remember. D’you remember what I said?” - </p> - <p> - Before the anger in Barrington’s eyes Ocky began to crouch. “It - won’t happen again. I swear it. I’ve learnt my lesson.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington knew his answers before they were uttered. “I’ve - told you each time,” he said, “that, if you repeated your - thefts, you’d have to take the consequences. Last time I meant it.” - </p> - <p> - Then would follow from Ocky a series of pleadings and arguments. That - exposure would entail disgrace all round. That he would be arrested. That - his family would be ruined. That the story would get into the papers and - would reflect discreditably on Barrington. When these failed, Ocky would - appeal to their friendship and the common memories they shared. The scene - would usually close with a warning from Barrington that this was really - the last time he would come to his rescue; then the debts would be added - up and the check book would be brought out. - </p> - <p> - The threat of Ocky became a nightmare to Barrington and Nan—the - children were not supposed to know about it. The finding of so much money - was an intolerable burden, and they were never safe from its recurrence. - On several occasions Barrington had to sell some of his pictures to meet - these sudden demands for ready cash. To add to their anxiety was the fact - that they had so far refrained from telling Jehane, out of fear that her - resentment against her husband would make matters worse. So her letters - still arrived punctually, singing his praises and saying how splendidly he - was making progress. - </p> - <p> - But the day was fast approaching when the shoring up of Ocky Waffles had - to end. It ended when Barrington discovered that his cousin was tapping - other sources for his borrowing. - </p> - <p> - On a trip to Oxford with reference to a manuscript, he surprised Ocky - leaving the Professor’s house. Nan, when calling on the Misses - Jacobite, recognized an envelope addressed in Ocky’s hand. - </p> - <p> - The next time he made his visit to Topbury, Barrington kept his promise. - Ocky was shown directly into the study without any preliminaries of family - enquiries. He was not asked to sit down. Barrington faced him, standing - with his back to the fire. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve been expecting you. My mind’s made up. I don’t - want to hear what you’ve come for or any of your excuses. You’ve - lied to me. I know all about the Professor and the Misses Jacobite. - Doubtless there are others. You can go to jail this time, and I hope it’ll - cure you. I’ve been a fool to try and save you. You’re rotten - throughout.” - </p> - <p> - Since the accidental meeting at Oxford, Ocky had been prepared for some - such explosion. He had fortified himself with drink for the encounter. But - he was stunned by this unexpected air of judicial finality. He began to - pour out feverish words. Barrington cut him short. - </p> - <p> - “For three years you’ve poisoned my life. You’ve - blackmailed me with the fear that your disgrace would be made known. You - yourself have made that fear certain by applying to my friends. The - scandal can become public as soon as it likes. That’s all I have to - say. Good-night.” - </p> - <p> - The game was up. Ocky straightened himself to meet the blow. He ceased to - be cringing and humble. The drink helped him to be bold; so did his - desperate sense of the world’s injustice. - </p> - <p> - “You say I’m rotten throughout. Perhaps I am. But who made me - like that? I wasn’t rotten when we were boys together, and I wasn’t - rotten when my mother was with me. Who made me rotten? You and clever - people like you. You never let me forget that I wasn’t clever. - </p> - <p> - “You never did anything but humiliate me by reminding me that I was - on a lower level. Your gifts were always bitter because they were given - without kindness, to get rid of me or in self-defence; and, in return, I - was expected to admire you. Oh, you hard good man! You couldn’t make - me clever just by saying to me, ‘Be clever,’ or good just by - saying, ‘Be good’——— You say I lied to you. - Of course I lied—lied as a child will to escape punishment. You - never understood me. Even before I went crooked you were ashamed of me - because I hadn’t the brains to think your thoughts and to speak your - language. Your intellect despised me. Yes, and you taught my wife to - despise me. Didn’t you call me an ‘ass’ before company - on the very night I became engaged to her. She remembered that and took - her tone from you. You were her standard. From the first she was - discontented with me because I wasn’t you and couldn’t give - her the home you’d given Nan—— So I tried to be rich, - because to be rich is to be clever. I gambled with what didn’t - belong to me to get money to buy my wife’s respect. And now, because - <i>you, you, you</i> were always there setting the pace for me with your - success, I’ve lost everything. But if I’d won by my - sharp-practise, you and Jehane would have been the first to say that I was - a clever chap—I wasn’t born bad. What you and my wife have - thought about me has made me what I am. Damn you. I wouldn’t touch a - farthing of your charity now. I want to go to the dogs where both of you’ve - sent me and to make as big a scandal as I can.” - </p> - <p> - He was trembling with hysteric anger; his voice was thick and hoarse with - passion. His weak and genial features were absurdly in contrast with the - violence of what he said. His soaped mustaches and white spats made him a - comic figure at any time, but doubly comic in the rôle of an accusing - prophet. - </p> - <p> - Barrington eyed him quietly without the quiver of a muscle or the flicker - of a lash. He had hardened his heart beforehand against the appeal of such - a theatric outburst. “Is that all?” - </p> - <p> - Ocky hung his head; the fire of his self-pity was quenched by the - restrained ridicule of the man who addressed him. He wiped the - perspiration from his eyes with his tired hands. “That’s all.” - </p> - <p> - As he was passing into the hall, Peter looked over the banisters and saw - him. - </p> - <p> - “Kay. Kay. Here’s dear old uncle,” he called and - commenced running down the stairs. - </p> - <p> - At the landing his father stopped him. “Not to-night, my boy.” - </p> - <p> - Peter laughed and tried to wriggle past him; but his father held him - firmly, saying, “I meant what I said.” - </p> - <p> - Looking down, Peter saw the face of his friend glance back at him; it was - lined and tortured. Then the front door closed with a bang. - </p> - <p> - Barrington re-entered his study. Now that he had accomplished the - difficult cruelty his mind was in doubt. If Peter loved Ocky, there must - be some good left in him—— - </p> - <p> - But he had used that argument with himself before. As he sat, pictures - began to form of Ocky as he had been. He saw him about Peter’s age, - the weakly schoolboy whose battles he had had to fight because he was - strong. He recalled that term when he had had to take him to the doctor - with his poisoned hand. He remembered how Ocky’s mother had always - said of him that he was the most careful and dearest son in the world—— - No, he hadn’t been always bad. - </p> - <p> - His thoughts became unbearable; he needed approval for his act. Stepping - out on to the landing he called, “Nan, Nan.” - </p> - <p> - When she came he was again seated in his chair. The lights were out and a - log of ship’s wood, spluttering on the coals, burnt violet and - yellow, making the shadows wag accusing fingers. She curled herself up on - the floor, leaning her head against his knees, like a small child at the - story hour, before it goes to bed. - </p> - <p> - Nan always brought an atmosphere of kindness with her—of innocence - and goodness. Her ways were those of a young girl, who walks on tiptoe - with hands upon her breast, listening for life to call her. Barrington - watched her shining head and how the fire glinted against the column of - her throat. If Ocky had had a wife like Nan———- - </p> - <p> - It was some time before she spoke. Then, “Dearest?” - </p> - <p> - “I had to be a brute and I hate myself. I kicked him out.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think you did right?” - </p> - <p> - “If I didn’t, I shouldn’t have done it. The thing had to - end.” - </p> - <p> - “And what next?” - </p> - <p> - “We’ve got to think of Jehane and her children. I’m - wondering how much she knows or suspects.” - </p> - <p> - “She’ll never tell—— I wonder will she stand by - him?” - </p> - <p> - There was silence. - </p> - <p> - Barrington spoke. “Ocky hinted at something to-night. It might be - true—something that I never thought about. It explains those letters - of Jehane’s. It explains why they’ve never got on together. I’ve - always said that a little love would have made Ocky a better man.” - </p> - <p> - “Dear, what was it?” - </p> - <p> - “It dates a long way back. He said that Jehane had made our home and - my love for you the standard of what she expected from——” - </p> - <p> - “I understand. And it <i>is</i> true, Billy. She wanted a man like - you from the first.” - </p> - <p> - Silence. - </p> - <p> - Nan said, “Once she used to talk about the penal servitude of - spinsterhood.” - </p> - <p> - “And now,” said Barrington, “she’ll have to learn - about the penal servitude of marriage. Whatever happens, unless he - ill-treats her, he’ll be her husband to the end.” - </p> - <p> - “But—— But can’t we stop this dreadful something?” - </p> - <p> - Barrington stooped and took her hand. - </p> - <p> - “Little woman, we’ve been trying to stop it all these years. - We can’t stop it; we can only postpone it and give him more time to - drag Jehane and the children lower down. We’ve reached the point - where things have got to be at their worst before they can grow better. It’s - a question now of how many of them we can rescue. Ocky has to be allowed - to sink for the sake of the rest.” - </p> - <p> - Nan’s forehead puckered at the cruelty of such logic. “But I - don’t understand. It seems so horrible that we should sit here, with - a fire burning and everything comfortable, saying things like that.” - </p> - <p> - “It is horrible. It’s so horrible that, if I were to give him - everything I have, he’d still go to the devil. He’s a drowning - man and he’ll drag down everyone who tries to drag him out.” - </p> - <p> - She clung to her husband aghast at this painful glimpse of reality. - “But I still don’t understand. Why—— Why should he - be like that? He’s kind, and he’s gentle, and he makes - children love him.” - </p> - <p> - “You want to know? And you won’t be hurt if I say something - very terrible?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t mind being hurt—I’m that already.” - </p> - <p> - “I think it’s because of Jehane—because of what she’s - left undone. She never brought any song to her marriage—never made - any joy for him or happiness.” - </p> - <p> - “And because of that he’s to——” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Because of that he’s to be allowed to go under. It’s - chivalry, not justice. At sea one saves the women and children first. He’s - a man.” - </p> - <p> - In quick revulsion from this ugliness of other people’s sordidness, - he bent over her, brushing his lips against her cheek and hair. “Shall - I ever grow tired of kissing you, I wonder, my own little Nan?” - </p> - <p> - And so, in one another’s arms, for a moment they shut out the memory - of tragedy. - </p> - <p> - But the angels had not done with Ocky Waffles yet. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVII—A HOUSE BUILT ON SAND - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here was one more - letter from Jehane. She wrote that Ocky had just returned from London, - where he had been on important business. She understood that he had been - too hurried to be able to visit Topbury. He was working very hard—too - hard for his health. He was overambitious. While she was writing he had - come in to tell her that he was off again to London. Then followed - domestic chatter: how Glory was taking music-lessons so that she might - play to her father when she grew older; and how Eustace had a new - tricycle; and how Riska already had an eye for the boys. This was the last - letter, very foolish and very brave—then silence and suspense. - </p> - <p> - The days dragged by. Nights stayed long and the sun rose late. In the - mornings the fields, which lay in front of the Terrace, were blanketed in - sulphurous mist through which bare trees loomed spectral. Railings and - walls and pavements were damp as though fear had caused them to sweat. - </p> - <p> - All night Nan and Barrington, lying side by side, feigned sleep or slept - restlessly. Both were afraid to voice their dread lest, when spoken, it - should seem more actual. Once, when a hansom jingled out of the distance - and halted outside their house, they started up together listening. The - fare alighted and walked a few doors down; again they drew breath. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Nan, little lady, did I wake you?” - </p> - <p> - “No, I was awake. I thought—— I thought it was I who had - made you rouse.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve not slept a wink since I lay down.” - </p> - <p> - “Neither have I.” - </p> - <p> - As he clasped her in the dark, he could feel her trembling. He held her - tightly to him, laying his face against hers on the pillow. Again they - both were listening. - </p> - <p> - “What makes you so frightened?” - </p> - <p> - He whispered the question. - </p> - <p> - “Always thinking, always thinking—— of the future and - what may happen.” - </p> - <p> - She commenced to sob, pressing her forehead against his breast. - </p> - <p> - He tried to soothe her. “You mustn’t, Pepperminta. You mustn’t - really; it hurts. I’ll think for you. I always have. Now close your - eyes and get some rest.” - </p> - <p> - And she closed her eyes and lay very tense. Hours and hours later London - began to growl. Presently the door of the servants’ bedroom opened; - the stairs creaked; the house was filled with stealthy sounds. At last she - drowsed. - </p> - <p> - When her husband had tiptoed out to his bath, she rose hastily and - commenced to dress. She must get down before him. He must be spared if the - message was there; she must read it first. - </p> - <p> - The dining-room was in dusk these November mornings. At the end of the - room the fire burnt red and before it Kay and Peter warmed their hands. - Not until she had run through the letters did she greet them. Then, for - their sakes, she tried to appear cheerful. Barrington, on entering, cast - one swift look in her direction and realized that the end was not yet. - Absentmindedly they took their places at the table, scarcely thankful for - this respite from certainty. - </p> - <p> - The children soon apprehended that all was not well; their high clear - voices were hushed—they spoke in whispers. Peter was fourteen; he - had guessed the meaning of blank spaces on the walls from which some of - the favorite pictures had vanished. The Dutch landscape by Cuyp was still - there above the blue couch, against the background of dark oak-paneling. - Across its glass the flickering reflection of the fire danced, lighting up - the placid burgher as he walked with his ladies on the bank of the gray - canal. Peter noticed how his father’s eyes rested on it—a sure - sign that he was troubled. - </p> - <p> - Almost by stealth Peter would push back his chair and nudge his sister. - Miss Effie Jacobite gave her lessons in the mornings; on his way to school - he had to leave Kay at her house. Shouldering his satchel, he would lead - her out into the misty streets; then at last he would dare to raise his - voice in laughter. - </p> - <p> - At the departure of the children, Barrington would break off from the - train of thought he had been following, and was incessantly following: <i>had - he done right by Ocky?</i> The door would bang; through the long dark day - Nan would sit alone, and speculate and wonder. - </p> - <p> - What was happening? Had the smash been postponed? Had Ocky wriggled round - the corner by borrowing secretly from other people’s friends? Billy - searched the faces of his business acquaintances and Nan the faces of - their Topbury circle in an effort to make them tell. - </p> - <p> - Toward afternoon the fog would roll up from the city, dense and yellow. - Footsteps on the Terrace would come suddenly out of nowhere; their makers - were shadows. Nan, rising uneasily, would go to the window; they might be - footsteps of pursuers or of bringers of bad tidings. Even Grace’s - policeman filled her with panic when he paused for an instant outside the - house. His tread was the tread of Justice, ponderous and unescapable. - </p> - <p> - With the return of the children her oppression lifted. Later Billy’s - key would grate in the latch. She was in the hall to meet him before he - had crossed the threshold. “Any news?” The servants must not - hear her; she spoke beneath her breath. - </p> - <p> - “Nothing. Nothing yet.” - </p> - <p> - The children no longer called to one another as they went about their - play. They tiptoed and looked up anxiously when addressed. No urging was - necessary to send them to bed—bed was escape to a less ominous - world. - </p> - <p> - Muffled, muffled! Everything was cloaked and muffled. - </p> - <p> - As Peter put two and two together, pain grew into his eyes; even when - others seemed to have forgotten, the expression in his eyes was judging. - </p> - <p> - Only Romance was unaffected by the sense of foreboding. The servants felt - it and discussed it in the kitchen, wondering whether the master was - losing money. But Romance, with cat-like self-satisfaction, went on - bearing kittens and so did her daughter, Sir Walter Scott, who came by her - name through an accident regarding her sex. - </p> - <p> - A month had gone by. - </p> - <p> - “Should I write to Jehane?” she asked her husband. - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn’t. If you do, we shall have Ocky back on our hands. - Perhaps he may pull things together now that he knows that he stands by - himself. If he does, it’ll make a man of him. Anyhow, if she finds - out and needs our help, she’ll send for us.” - </p> - <p> - But the silence proved too much for Nan. One morning, on the spur of the - impulse, she packed a bag, left a note for her husband and set off for - Sandport. On the journey through sodden country and mud-splashed towns, - she fought for courage, straining out into eternity to pluck the hem of - God’s mantle which, when her faith had touched, was continually - withdrawn beyond reach of her hand. - </p> - <p> - She had rung the bell and stood waiting on the steps of Madeira Lodge. No - one answered. She thought she heard the pit-a-pat of feet on the other - side of the door. She rang again and took a pace back to glance up at the - front of the house. As she did so, she saw a curtain move before a window—move - almost imperceptibly. A minute later the door was flung open by Jehane; - Nan saw the children grouped behind her in the passage. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - The tone of her voice was flat and unfriendly. - </p> - <p> - “I thought I’d come and see you, Janey. Only made up my mind - this morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you? What made you do that?” - </p> - <p> - Nan flushed and her voice faltered. She had not expected this hardness and - defiance. She had come full of pity. “I came because I was nervous. - You hadn’t written for more than a month. I hope—— I - hope,——” - </p> - <p> - “Come inside,” said Jehane. “I can’t talk to you - out there. You can stop your hoping.” - </p> - <p> - Once inside, the appearance of the house told its story. It looked bare. - From the sideboard the silver—mostly presents of Jehane’s - first marriage—had vanished. The walls were stripped of all - ornaments which had a negotiable value. In the drawing-room there was an - empty space where there had once been a piano. Only the carefully - curtained windows kept up the pretence of trim prosperity. Jehane led Nan - from room to room without a word and the children, shuffling behind, - followed. - </p> - <p> - “Now you’ve seen for yourself,” she said, “and a - nice fool you must think me after my letters. I’ve lied for him and - sold my jewelry for him. I’ve done without servants. I’ve - crept out at night like a thief to the pawnbrokers, when there wasn’t - any money and there were debts to be settled. And the last thing I heard - before he left was that he’d stolen the thousand pounds I lent him. - And this—— this is what I get.” - </p> - <p> - “Before he left?” - </p> - <p> - “A month ago, after my last letter to you. You needn’t pretend - to be surprised, because you’re not. You suspected. That’s - what brought you.” - </p> - <p> - Nan felt faint with the shock of the realization. She tottered and - stretched out her hands to save herself. Glory ran forward and put her arm - round her. “Dear Auntie.” Nan drew Glory’s head against - her shoulder, sobbing. “Oh my dear, my poor little girl!” - </p> - <p> - Jehane looked on unmoved, merely saying in her hard flat voice, “If - there’s any crying or fainting to be done, seems to me I’m the - person to do it. But I’m past all that.” - </p> - <p> - Nan quieted herself. “It so shocked me. I—I didn’t mean - to make a fuss. But won’t you tell me how it all happened?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing to tell. It’s just Ocky with his lies and promises.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t say that before the children about their father.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll say what I like; they’re my children. They’ve - seen everything.” - </p> - <p> - Nan looked round and saw sympathy only in the eyes of Glory. Moggs, - balancing herself by her mother’s skirts, piped up and spoke for the - rest, “Farver’s a naughty man.” Even her mother was - startled by the candor of this endorsement; turning sharply, she caused - Moggs to tumble on the floor with a bump. Moggs began to yell. - </p> - <p> - Grateful for a diversion in any form, Nan knelt and comforted the little - girl. Jehane watched her indifferently, as though all capacity for - kindness had left her. - </p> - <p> - When peace was restored, Nan said, “You’re coming home with - me, all of you.” - </p> - <p> - “We’re not.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “My husband may return. If he doesn’t, I must stay here and - keep up appearances till he gets safely out of the country. Heaven knows - what he’s done!—— And it’s likely that I’d - come to Topbury to be laughed at! <i>You</i> may want me, but what about - Billy? You’ve both known this for a month, and you couldn’t - even send me a line. Come to Topbury! No, thank you!” - </p> - <p> - There was so much to be explained and explanations were so tangled. Nan - saw nothing for it but to make a clean breast. When she told Jehane of the - years of borrowing that had been going on behind her back, she was - justifiably angry. - </p> - <p> - “So you knew all the time! And for three years it was practically - you and Billy who were running this house! And you kept me in ignorance! I - must say, you’ve a queer way of showing friendship!” - </p> - <p> - “We did it because—because we were afraid, if you knew, you - wouldn’t love him. And then matters would have been worse.” - </p> - <p> - “Love him! I’ve not loved him since we married. He started - playing the fool directly after the wedding before the train moved out of - the station. I knew then that I’d have to be ashamed of him always. - I knew what I’d done for myself. He killed my love within an hour of - making me his wife—— But how you must have amused yourselves, - knowing what you did, when you received my letters about his getting on in - the world—<i>his progress!</i> My God! how you must have laughed, - the two of you! Every time he gave me a present it was your money.” - </p> - <p> - All this before the children! - </p> - <p> - She threw herself down on a couch and gave way to hysterics, wrenched with - sobs, screaming with unhappy merriment, clutching at her breast and - throwing back her head. The children began to cry, hiding in corners of - the room, terrified. Only Glory kept her nerve and, following Nan’s - directions, fetched water to bathe her mother’s face and hands. - </p> - <p> - When the insane laughter had spent itself, Jehane lay still with eyes - closed, panting. Shame took the place of harshness. Nan asked whether - there were any stimulants in the house; when a half-emptied bottle was - brought from the cupboard, Jehane gesticulated it away with disgust. - “I couldn’t touch it. It’s Ocky’s.” It was - all that was left of his “medicine.” - </p> - <p> - Nan persuaded Glory to take the children out of the room. She seated - herself by the couch in silence, stroking Jehane’s forehead. - </p> - <p> - Presently the bitter woman’s eyes opened. They regarded her - companion steadily, with an expression of sad wonder. “You’re - still beautiful. I’m old already.” - </p> - <p> - Nan began to protest in little birdlike whispers; she was so nervous lest - she should give offence. She was interrupted. “Even your voice is - young. People who don’t want to love you have to—— And I - always longed to be loved.” She raised herself on her elbow, - brushing back the false hair. “You’ve had the goodness of - life; I’ve had the falseness. Things aren’t fair.” - </p> - <h3> - 151 - </h3> - <p> - “No, they’re not fair,” Nan assented. “God’s - been hard on you, poor old girl.” - </p> - <p> - “God! Oh, yes!” Jehane spoke the words gropingly, as though - recollecting. “Ah, yes! God! He and I haven’t been talking to - one another lately. The cares of this world—— the cares of - this world—— What is that passage I’m trying to - remember?” - </p> - <p> - “It’s about the sower who sows the good seed, but the cares of - this world rise up and choke it unless it falls on fruitful land. It’s - something like that.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane looked at Nan vaguely, only half-comprehending. “Fruitful - land! That’s the difficulty. I was never fruitful land—— - Tell me, why did you marry Billy?” - </p> - <p> - “Why? I never thought about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Think about it now. Why was it?” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose because I loved him and wanted to help him.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane’s elbow slipped from under her. She lay back, staring at the - ceiling, looking gaunt and faded, as though she had passed through a long - illness. “To help him! When I loved I wanted to be helped. God’s - not been hard on me, little Nan; I’ve been hard on myself. I’m - a hard woman. I’ve got what I deserved. And Ocky—— He - was a fool. He had no mind—never read anything. He was clumsy and - liked vulgar people best. But, perhaps, he’s my doing. Perhaps!” - </p> - <p> - Seeing that she had grown passive, Nan stole out to give the children - their supper and to put them to bed. That night, the first time since - Cassingland, she and Jehane slept together. The light had been put out for - some time and Nan was growing drowsy, when Jehane spoke. - </p> - <p> - “Madeira Lodge! It’s funny. A house built on sand! A house - built on—— That’s what we came here to do for other - people; we’ve done it for ourselves. O God, spare my little - children, my——” - </p> - <p> - Nan took her in her arms and soothed her. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVIII—PETER TO THE RESCUE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was all up. A - warrant was out for the arrest of Ocky. Accusers came forward from all - directions—people whom glib promises had kept silent and people who - had kept themselves silent because they were friends of Barrington. Now - that silence had lost its virtue, they shouted. Their numbers and the - noise they made were a revelation and testimonial of a sort to Ocky’s - enterprising character. He must have been skating over thin ice for years. - He had almost established a record. Such a performance, so dexterous and - long protracted, had required a kind of gay courage that is rarely given - to honest men. And Ocky was honest by tradition, if not in practice. His - nerve was admirable. No wonder he drank. - </p> - <p> - He was wanted on many charges. There were checks which he had cashed - through tradesmen, drawn on banks where he had no effects. With his - habitual folly, he had left tracks by negotiating some of these in London - since his flight, using letters of a family nature from Barrington to - inspire confidence. These began to be presented five weeks after his - departure from Sandport. It seemed as though he had been doing himself - well and his supplies were exhausted. His name found its way into the - papers, largely because he was Barrington’s cousin. So everything - became public. - </p> - <p> - The day before the reports occurred in the press, a man of his appearance - had enquired at Cook’s in Ludgate Circus about the exchange rates - for French money. The Channel boats had been watched in consequence; but - he must have taken warning and altered his plans. - </p> - <p> - “He’s ineffectual even in his sinning,” said Barrington. - “Why couldn’t the fool have skipped the country earlier and - saved us the humiliation of a trial?” - </p> - <p> - The Sandport Real Estate Concern had gone into bankruptcy. Its affairs - would not bear inspection. Mr. Playfair had vanished with all the odds and - ends that Ocky had spared. Both of them were badly wanted. So Jehane’s - scornful loyalty in stopping on at Madeira Lodge, that her husband’s - retreat might be covered, no longer served any good purpose. Moreover, - every thing in the house was seized by creditors—even her own - possessions were no longer hers because they had passed as Ocky’s. - She and her children found themselves penniless. - </p> - <p> - Her father, when applied to, presented her with a list of the sums he had - already advanced, unbeknown to her. He laid pedantic emphasis on his early - objections to the hurry of her second marriage. She had always been - wayward. He offered to take Glory and Riska to live with him for a time, - but couldn’t put up with the younger children. Her independence had - been her undoing; it must be her making now. She must work. The first - Homeric scholar in Europe couldn’t afford to have his peace of mind - disturbed. He was sorry. - </p> - <p> - Against her will Jehane was forced to accept the charity of the man whom - she both loved and hated. She came to him a fortnight before Christmas - with her four children—it was the first Christmas she had spent at - Topbury since her engagement to the unfortunate Mr. Waffles. - </p> - <p> - Barrington’s relations with ‘Jehane were painfully strained. - He hated the intrusion of her sordid problems on the sheltered quiet of - his family. He was aware that she had grown careless of refinement in the - vulgarity of her experience. She was no longer the Oxford don’s - daughter, soft in speech and lively eyed, but a woman inclined to be - loud-voiced and nagging. He blamed her, was sorry for her and wanted to be - kind to her; but it was difficult to be kind to Jehane when her feelings - were raw and wounded. She refused pity and was as hurt by the comfort - which he permitted her to share as if it were something of which he had - robbed her. She spoke continually of “my poor children,” - betraying jealousy for the lot of Kay and Peter. - </p> - <p> - An additional cause of grievance was found in Eustace; he was an amiable - mild boy, dull and fond of being petted, the miniature of his father. - Barrington knew he was unjust, but his repulsion was physical: he could - not restrain his dislike of the child whose sole offence was his strong - resemblance to the man who had caused this misery. Jehane was cut to the - quick; being forced to be humble, she sulked. - </p> - <p> - Nan tried to play the part of peacemaker. She was proud of the nobility of - her husband; she understood his occasional flashes of temper. He was - overburdened; he was doing far more for Jehane than she had any right to - expect. He had made himself responsible for all the swindles in which his - name had been employed as an inducement. To fulfil these obligations he - was sacrificing many of his art-treasures; even the landscape by Cuyp was - threatened. - </p> - <p> - And she also understood Jehane’s predicament. She was too gentle to - resent her seeming ingratitude. Looking back over the long road from - girlhood, she marveled at her friend’s fortitude—that she - could still lift up her head proudly and, in spite of bludgeonings, plan - for the future. Jehane might scold and grumble to her when Barrington’s - back was turned; it made no difference to her unvarying tenderness. - </p> - <p> - And there were times when Jehane was ashamed of her ferocity and, laying - her head on Nan’s shoulder, confessed her folly. - </p> - <p> - “I’m cruel,” she wept; “all the sweetness in me is - turned to acid. I shall grow worse and worse, till at last I shall be - quite impenitent. I can’t help it. Life won’t grow easier for - me—— If you told the truth, you’d write over me, ‘Here - lies a mother who loved too much and a wife who loved too little.’ I’m - spoiling my children with my fondness and filling their heads with vanity—— - And I shall often hurt you, little Nan. But you’ll stick by me, won’t - you?” - </p> - <p> - Barrington was suspicious that violent scenes took place in his absence; - manlike, he was irritated and could not comprehend their necessity. He was - furious that his wife should be upset and forbade the name of Ocky to be - mentioned in his presence. - </p> - <p> - Peter overheard much of the abuse which was showered on his uncle by both - Jehane and her children. His eyes became flames when harsh things were - said; quarrels were the result. The quarrels were for the most part with - Riska. He could not believe that anyone he loved was really bad. Glory - shared his grieved anger; a defensive alliance in the interest of Ocky was - formed between her and himself. It was the first compact he had ever made - with Glory. But she was too mild for Peter—too much of a Saint - Teresa and not enough of a Joan of Arc. Glory knew that she could not be - valiant; in secret she cried her heart out because he despised her - cowardice. - </p> - <p> - Barrington might forbid the mention of Ocky’s name, but outside on - the Terrace there was a perpetual reminder. - </p> - <p> - A tall man, with a straight back and wooden way of walking, watched the - house. He pretended not to be watching and, when anyone saw him from the - window, would stroll carelessly away as though he were just taking a - breath of air; but he always returned. He got so much on Barrington’s - nerves that he finally made up his mind to accost him. - </p> - <p> - “What are you doing here, always hanging round? I won’t have - it.” - </p> - <p> - The man, who had tried to avoid him, finding himself cornered, answered - respectfully “Sorry, sir. H’it’s orders.” - </p> - <p> - “But what <i>are</i> you? A plain-clothes man?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s not for me to say, sir.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington slipped him a sovereign, saying, “Come, speak out You’re - safe with me. I won’t tell. You know, it’s a bit thick, having - you out here. The ladies are upset.” The man scratched his head. - “It ain’t the ladies I’m after. It’s ‘im. - You’ve got ‘is missis and kids in there. ‘E was allaws - fond of ‘is kids, so they tell us. We calkilate that since ‘e - cawn’t get out o’ the country, ‘e’ll turn up - ‘ere sooner or later. These things is allaws painful for the family. - That chap was a mug; ‘e should ‘a planned things better.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington thought for a minute. Then he asked, “Are you a married - man?” - </p> - <p> - “Married, and five nippers, Gawd bless ‘em.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, look here, put it to yourself: how’d you like to have - your wife made ill and your kiddies sent frightened to bed, because a - stranger was always staring in at their windows?” - </p> - <p> - “Shouldn’t like it. I’d get damned peevish, I can tell - yer.” - </p> - <p> - “Good. Then you’ll understand what I’m going to say. I’m - a gentleman and you can trust my word. If the man you’re after comes - here, I’ll hold him for you. In return I want you to be a little - less obvious in your detective work. I can’t have my family scared. - Go further away, and watch from a distance. Is it a bargain?” - </p> - <p> - Just then Barrington turned and saw Peter standing with his satchel across - his shoulder. How much had he heard? He was awkward under his boy’s - eyes; he often wondered what thoughts went on behind them. - </p> - <p> - “Run along, Peter. I’ll be with you in a second.” - </p> - <p> - Then to the man, “Is it a bargain?” - </p> - <p> - “It ain’t reg’lar,” said the man. - </p> - <p> - “But under the circumstances, you’ll do it. I’m not - trying to interfere with your duty.” - </p> - <p> - “My orders were——. Awright, sir, ‘cause of the - wife and kids I’ll do it.” - </p> - <p> - That night Peter thought matters out. It was he and his Uncle Waffles - against the world. He did not accuse anybody, neither his father, nor Aunt - Jehane; but there was a mistake somewhere. They did not understand. - Whatever Uncle Waffles had done, to Peter he was still a good man. - </p> - <p> - Peter crept out of bed and across the landing to a window in the front of - the house. He peered into the blackness. By the railing of the fields, at - a point mid-way between two gas-lamps where shadows lay deepest, he could - see a figure watching. He must save Uncle Waffles from that. - </p> - <p> - School had broken up. It was the twenty-fourth of December. There was - still no news of Ocky. In their anxiety they had almost forgotten that - to-morrow would be Christmas. - </p> - <p> - That morning Barrington dawdled over his breakfast, postponing his - departure for business. His wife glanced down the table at him, trying to - conjecture the motive of his dallying. Presently he signaled her with his - eyes, raising his brows at the children. When she had excused them, he - turned to her and Jehane. “Whatever’s happened or is going to - happen, we don’t want to rob the kiddies of their pleasure, do we? - We’ve got to pull ourselves together and pretend to forget and try - to be cheerful. What d’you say, Nan?” - </p> - <p> - “I’d thought of that. But I didn’t like to mention it. - Janey and I, working together, can get things ready.” - </p> - <p> - “All right, then. And I’ll see to the presents.” - </p> - <p> - He rose and laid his hand on Jehane’s shoulder. “Come, Jehane, - things are never so bad but what they may mend. I’ve not always been - considerate of you. Let’s be friends.” - </p> - <p> - It was one of those patched-up truces which, like milestones, were to dot - the road of their latent enmity. - </p> - <p> - Kay’s and Peter’s money-boxes were brought out; their savings - for the year were counted. Nan gave to Jehane’s children an equal - sum with which to go out and buy presents. Peter was kept running all - morning on errands; in the afternoon he was busy decorating with mistletoe - and holly. The preparations were so belated that everyone was pressed into - service. Tea was over and the dark had fallen when he set out to do his - own shopping. - </p> - <p> - “Be careful, Peter, and come back quickly,” his mother called - from the doorway. And Kay, thrusting her vivid little face under her - mother’s arm, piped up, “Don’t be ‘stravagant, - Peter. Don’t buy too much. ‘Member birfdays is coming.” - </p> - <p> - Peter felt happy. It was as though a long sickness had ended and a life - that had been despaired of had been restored to them. He knew that nothing - for the better had really happened; but, because people had laughed, it - seemed as if it had. Down in the Vale of Holloway the bells of the Chapel - of Ease were ringing. They seemed to be saying, over and over, “Peace - and good-will to men.” - </p> - <p> - Far away, at the bottom of the Crescent, he could see the spume of - gas-light flung against the dusk. All the shops were there and the crowds - of jaded people who had become for one night extraordinarily young and - compassionate. He began to calculate how far his money would go in buying - gifts for the family. Formerly there had been just his mother, and father, - and Kay, and Grace to buy for. Now there were how many? He counted. With - his cousins and Aunt Jehane there were nine people. He would divide his - money into ten shares; Kay should have two of them. He was passing the - gateway of an empty house; a hand stretched out of the dark and grabbed - him. - </p> - <p> - “Peter. Peter.” The voice was hoarse and terrified at its own - sound. - </p> - <p> - Peter broke away and jumped into the road that he might have room to run. - He turned and looked back. He could see nothing—only the walls of - the garden, the gateway and the wooden sign hanging over it, with the - words, <i>To Let.</i> - </p> - <p> - “Don’t do that,” came the hoarse voice, “they may - see you.” - </p> - <p> - “Who are you?” asked Peter, peering into the shadows. - </p> - <p> - “You know who I am,” came the voice; “this little boy - can’t have changed as much as that.” - </p> - <p> - <i>This little boy!</i> - </p> - <p> - “Look out. Someone’s coming.” - </p> - <p> - A heavy tread was heard. Grace’s policeman approached with the - plain-clothes man. Peter bent down to the pavement and pretended to be - searching. - </p> - <p> - “Hulloa!” said Grace’s policeman. “Who’s - there?” - </p> - <p> - “It’s Peter. How are you?” He continued his searching, - moving away from the gate. - </p> - <p> - “Wot yer doing?” asked the plain-clothes man. - </p> - <p> - “Dropped some money. Oh well, I can’t see it. It was only - sixpence.” - </p> - <p> - He straightened up. - </p> - <p> - “Cawn’t we help?” asked Grace’s policeman. - </p> - <p> - “It doesn’t matter. To-morrow’s Christmas and I’ll - get more than that.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s more’n the price of a pot o’ beer,” - said Grace’s policeman. “If you can afford to lose it, we can. - Goodnight.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-night,” said Peter, “and a Merry Christmas.” - </p> - <p> - When they were out of sight he stole back. “Uncle! Uncle! What can I - do? Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - “They’re after me. I’ve nowhere to sleep. I just want to - see my kids and Jehane before they get me. That’s why I’ve - come.” - </p> - <p> - “They shan’t get you,” said Peter firmly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but they will. I once said, ‘They shan’t get me’; - but when you’re cold and hungry——” - </p> - <p> - “You stop there. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” - </p> - <p> - Peter ran down the Crescent. It was he and Uncle Waffles against the - world; but there was one man who might help—a man who wasn’t - good enough to be hard and judging. Peter looked ahead as he ran, shaping - his plan. Yes, there he was, dropping the reins on his horse’s back - from driving his last fare. - </p> - <p> - Peter tugged at his arm as Mr. Grace heaved himself down from the seat to - the pavement. - </p> - <p> - “None O’ that, me boy, or I’ll tear yer bloomin’ - tripes h’out—— Oh, beg parding; h’it’s you, - Master Peter.” - </p> - <p> - “I want to speak to you, Mr. Grace, somewhere where we can’t - be seen or heard.” - </p> - <p> - “Yer do, do yer? Wot abart the pub?” - </p> - <p> - “Not the pub, people’d wonder to see me there.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace was offended; no one ever wondered to see him there. “Not - respeckable enough! That’s it, is h’it. Ah well, you take my - advice. You’re young. If yer want to live ter be my age, pickle yer - guts. Yer’ll ‘ave a darter one day, don’t yer worry. - Gawd pity a man wiv a disrespekful hussy—— Suppose yer think I’m - drunk?” - </p> - <p> - The situation required tact. “Not drunk, Mr. Grace; you don’t - run your words together. You’re just Christmasy, I expect.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace threw a rug over his horse’s back and fetched out the - nose-bag. When this was done, he addressed Peter solemnly, steadying - himself against the shafts. “I am drunk. Yer know I’m drunk. I - know I’m drunk. Old Cat’s Meat knows I’m drunk. Where’s - the good o’ argify-ing and tellin’ lies abart it? Let’s - settle the point at once. I’m damn well drunk and I’m goin’ - ter be drunker.” - </p> - <p> - The minutes were flying; there was no more time to fence. “Mr. - Grace, I want you to help me. There’s no one else in the world I - would ask.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace cocked his eye at Peter, a blind kind of eye like an oyster on - the half-shell. - </p> - <p> - “‘Elp! ‘Elp ‘oo? ‘Elp wot? Me ‘elp! I - need ‘elp me-self; I kin ‘ardly stand up.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh please, not so loud! I’m serious. Something dreadful’s - happening and you’re my friend—— You are my friend, aren’t - you?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace clapped his heavy paw on Peter’s shoulder. “S’long - h’as Gawd gives me breaf.” - </p> - <p> - “Then let’s sit in the cab, so no one will see us and I’ll - tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “Strange h’as it may seem ter yer, Master Peter, I don’t - fancy the h’inside o’ me own keb. Know too much abart it. - There wuz a bloke I druv ter the ‘orspital t’other day wrapped - up in blankits. ‘E died o’ smallspecks. But anythin’ ter - h’oblidge a friend.” - </p> - <p> - The door closed behind them. - </p> - <p> - “‘Ere, darn wiv that winder, young ‘un. I feel crawlly - wivout air. Sye, don’t yer tell yer pa wot I said abart me keb.” - </p> - <p> - Peter seized the cabman’s hairy hand and held it firmly; he had to - anchor him somehow. “Has Grace told you anything about my Uncle - Waffles?” - </p> - <p> - “Swiped somefing, didn’t ‘e?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Wise bloke. Honesty’s been my ruin. H’I allaws returns - the numbrella’s wot’s left in me keb. I might ‘a been a - rich man; there’s lots o’ money in numbrellas.—— - Wot did ‘e swipe? ‘Andkerchiefs or jewels?” - </p> - <p> - “He swiped money; but he meant to give it back.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace made an explosive sound, followed by innumerable gurglings, like - the blowing of a bung out of a beer barrel. “Yer make me larf. Wot d’yer - taik me for? I ain’t no chicken—— Oh, me tripes and - onions! He meant to give it back! Ha-ha-ha!—— Now come, Master - Peter, no uncle o’ yours ‘ud be such a fool as that.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, anyway, he didn’t give it back and they’re after - him.” - </p> - <p> - “Oo? The cops?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Grace’s policeman.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace sat up with such violence that the cab groaned in its ancient - timbers. “The devil, ‘e is! A nice, h’amiable man, my - Grice’s policeman! ‘E’s allaws makin’ h’enmity - ‘tween me and my darter. ‘E watches the pubs and tells ‘er - abart me, and ‘im no better ‘imself. H’I ‘ate’ - im. So ‘e’s after yer uncle?” - </p> - <p> - “He and a tall thin man who’s been watching our house for a - fortnight. My uncle’s up the Crescent hiding in the front garden of - an empty house. You’ve got to help me to get him away and hide him.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace laid his finger against his bulbous nose. “Daingerous - work, Peter! Daingerous work! H’its against traffic reg’lations - to h’aid and h’abet a h’escapin’ criminal. Wot yer - goin’ ter do wiv ‘im if I lends yer me keb?” - </p> - <p> - Peter bent his head and whispered. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace chuckled, slapping his fat thighs. “Blime! Lord love us! - That ain’t ‘alf bad. That’s one in the h’eye for - me darter’s young feller. H’I’m on, me lad.” - </p> - <p> - An irascible old gentleman who had been stamping his feet on the pavement, - looking for the driver, now rattled his stick on the side of the cab. - </p> - <p> - “‘Ere, don’t yer do that. Yer’ll knock the paint h’orf.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve been waiting out here for half an hour. It’s - disgraceful. Drive me to Paddington.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace waddled out of the cab and shut the door behind him, leaving - Peter inside. “I’m h’engaged,” he said. - </p> - <p> - While he removed the nose-bag from Cat’s Meat’s head and - gathered up the reins, the old gentleman addressed a few remarks, the - purport of which was that Mr. Grace would find himself without a license. - </p> - <p> - As the cab turned to climb the Crescent, Mr. Grace made an effort to outdo - this burst of eloquence. - </p> - <p> - “None o’ yer lip, old bladder o’ lard. I know your sort. - Yer the sort ‘as ain’t got no change fer a tip and feels un-’appy - as ‘ell abart payin’ a fare.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIX—THE CHRISTMAS CAB - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>s they neared the - empty house, Peter was about to thrust his head out of the window. He had - the words on the tip of his tongue to say, “Stop here, Mr. Grace.” - So much were they on the tip of his tongue that he almost believed he had - said them. But he darted back, crouching in the darkest corner of the - fusty cab. At a little distance, watching the gate, he had caught sight of - a man. - </p> - <p> - Cat’s Meat crawled on, ascending the hill. At the top, where the - Terrace began, Mr. Grace halted. “‘Ere, young ‘un, where - are we goin’? You’ll be ‘ome direckly.” - </p> - <p> - “Turn the corner,” Peter whispered from inside the growler; - “turn the corner quickly.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace turned and lumbered on a little way. Again he halted. “‘Arf - a mo’, Peter. Wot’s the gime? Tell us.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you see that tall lean man, standing outside the garden of the - empty house?” - </p> - <p> - “May a’ done. Thought h’I saw two on ‘em, but - maybe I’m seein’ double—- H’oh yes, h’I saw - old Tapeworm.” - </p> - <p> - “He’s the plain-clothes man. I know, ‘cause I heard him - talking with my father. My father said he’d give my uncle up, if the - plain-clothes man would trust him and not make mother nervous.” - </p> - <p> - “And wery friendly o’ your pa, h’I’m sure. Let - family love kintinue—— But where’s this uncle o’ - yours as did the swipin’? Come darn to facts, me friend. Where h’is - ‘e nar?” - </p> - <p> - Peter’s answer was like the beating wings of a moth, rapid but - making hardly any sound. “He’s hidden in the garden of the - empty house.” - </p> - <p> - “Jee-rusalem!” Mr. Grace whistled, cleared his throat once or - twice and spat. Then he started laughing. “Leave ‘im ter me, - me ‘earty. I’ll settle wiv the spotter.” - </p> - <p> - He pulled his horse round. But when Peter saw what was happening, he gave - a small imploring whisper. “Oh, Mr. Grace, please, please don’t - go back yet; we’ve got to think something out.” - </p> - <p> - “Think somefing h’out! Crikey! I’ve thought. H’I’m - drunk, me lad, and when h’I’m drunk h’I think quicklike. - You get under the seat and think o’ somefing sad, somefing as’ll - keep yer quiet—think o’ the chap as died o’ - small-specks.” - </p> - <p> - Peter took his friend’s advice. Oh, what a Christmas Eve he was - having! He had known Mr. Grace both drunk and sober—sober, t’is - true, very rarely. But sobriety is a relative term, according to your man. - Mr. Grace sober was afraid of the law; Mr. Grace drunk was game for - anything. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace jerked on the reins. Cat’s Meat flung his legs apart, fell - forward, fell backward, came to rest and grunted. He was for all the world - like a chair giving way and making a desperate effort to hold together; - only Cat’s Meat was always successful in dodging disruption—a - chair in collapse isn’t. - </p> - <p> - “I see yer, Mr. Piece o’ Sucked Thread. I see yer. Yer cawn’t - ‘ide from a man as sees double. Come h’out o’ that there - shadder. Come h’out inter the blessed light. ‘No shadders - yonder, no temptations there,’ as they sing in the H’Army o’ - Salwashun.” - </p> - <p> - When there was no answer, Mr. Grace continued his harangue. “Blokey, - yer ain’t got a chawnce in the world. I knows yer by yer ‘ang-dawg - h’air. Yer wanted by the cops, I’ll bet a tanner. It’s - Christmas h’Eve, blokey, so I won’t be ‘ard on yer; but - yer’ve got ter pay fer ridin’ in me keb. Every bloke ‘as, - or else I whacks ‘im on the snout.” - </p> - <p> - “Shish! Wot’s the matter?” The shadow by the wall spoke - and stirred. - </p> - <p> - “Wot’s s’matter! I’ll let yer know wot’s s’matter - if yer don’t pay me my fare. H’I druv yer from the Terrace and - yer wuz goin’ ter King’s Cross, yer were. And yer opened the - door by the pub darn there and jumped h’out.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re drunk, me man. H’I’m lookin’ fer the - very chap yer blatherin’ about. Where did ‘e jump h’out?” - </p> - <p> - The detective stepped into the road so that the lights of the cab shone on - him. - </p> - <p> - “Kum up, Cat’s Meat. I see nar; ‘e ain’t the - feller.” Cat’s Meat came up one weary step and the wheels - protested. - </p> - <p> - “No, yer don’t.” The detective caught hold of the reins. - “Where’d this chap jump h’out?” - </p> - <p> - “‘Ands h’orf.” Mr. Grace rose up on his box - threateningly, his whip raised as if about to bring it down. “‘Ands - h’orf, I sye. Leave me prancin’ steed to ‘is own - dewices, le’go o’ me gallopin’ charger.” - </p> - <p> - “Where’d this chap jump out? If yer don’t tell me, I’ll - arrest you instead.” - </p> - <p> - “Awright, yer Royal ‘Ighness! Don’t lose yer ‘air. - Why didn’t yer sye yer was a cop at fust. H’I’m lookin’ - fer ‘im as much as you are. I want ‘im wery bad. You and me’s - friends.” - </p> - <p> - “Friends! I choose me own friends. I’m a respeckable man, I - am. Tell me quickly, where’d ‘e jump out?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace removed his hat and scratched his head. “Of h’all - the fiery blokes I h’ever met, you taik the biscuit, me chap. - ‘E h’excused hisself darn there by the pub and the trams. I - ‘ears the door o’ me keb a-bangin’. I looks round and, - lo, ‘e’d wanished in the crards.” - </p> - <p> - The detective waited to hear no more, but set off running down the - Crescent. As he dwindled in the darkness, Mr. Grace called after him, - “Me and Cat’s Meat’ll miss yer—so agreeable yer - were. Merry Christmas, ole pal.” Then, in a lower voice to Peter, - “Yer kin forget the smallspecks, young ‘un. Yer——” - </p> - <p> - But Peter had leapt to the pavement and slipped through the gateway under - the sign <i>To Let</i>. “Uncle. Uncle. He’s gone. Hurry.” - </p> - <p> - He listened. The shrubbery about him rustled. He looked up at the empty - windows, wondering if Uncle Waffles had got inside the house. He was a - little frightened; the darkness was so desperate and lonely. He called - more loudly. “Uncle. Uncle. Make haste.” - </p> - <p> - Then he heard a sound of shuffling and something stirred beneath the - steps. He ran forward and seized the man’s coat—it was sodden—dragging - him through the garden toward the road. It was strange that so small a boy - should take command of a grown man. - </p> - <p> - “You won’t give me up, Peter, will you?” - </p> - <p> - Give him up! That was likely! Fancy Peter allowing anyone to suffer if he - could prevent it! Why, Peter, when Romance’s kittens were to be - drowned, would steal them away and hide them. He couldn’t bear that - anything should be wounded or dead. He pushed his uncle into the cab and, - before following, held a whispered consultation with Mr. Grace. - </p> - <p> - “You remember my plan—what I told you?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace digressed. He twisted round on the box, craning his neck to look - in at the window. “‘E don’t strike me as much ter make a - fuss abart.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s ‘cause you don’t know him.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I ain’t pining’ fer an introduction.” - </p> - <p> - “But you’re not going back on me, Mr. Grace! He doesn’t - look very grand; but he’s kind and gentle.” Peter was dismayed - by this sudden coolness. - </p> - <p> - “H’I’m not the chap ter go back on ‘is friends. - Hook inter the keb. I remember wot yer told me.” - </p> - <p> - At the top of the Crescent they turned to the left, crawled a hundred - yards and then turned to the right, going down the mews which ran behind - the Terrace. The mews was unlighted and humpy. On one side stood the high - closed doors of stables; on the other, rubbish heaps and the backs of - jerry-built houses not yet finished building. - </p> - <p> - The man at Peter’s side said nothing. Every now and then he shivered - and seemed to hug himself. Once or twice he twitched and muttered below - his breath. There was the stale smell of alcohol and wet clothes about - him. To Peter it was all so terrible that he could not put his comfort - into words. This man, who swayed weakly with each jerk of the cab and - crouched away from him, was a stranger—not a bit like the - irresponsible joking person he had known as his Uncle Waffles. - </p> - <p> - The cab stopped. Mr. Grace waddled down and blew out his lamps. Then he - tapped on the window. “‘Ere we are, Master Peter. H’I’ve - counted the doors; this ‘ere’s the back o’ yer ‘ouse.” - </p> - <p> - Peter stretched out his hand gropingly in the blackness and touched his - uncle’s. “I’m going to hide you so you’ll never be - found.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky’s voice came in a hopeless whisper. “Are you, Peter? But - how—— how?” - </p> - <p> - “You remember the loft above the stable I told you about? No one - goes there but Kay and myself—it’s our secret. It’s too - cold for Kay to go there now. Mr. Grace and I are going to help you over - the wall; then you must climb into the loft the way I once showed you and - lie quiet. To-morrow I’ll come to you as soon as I can and bring you - whatever I can get.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re a good boy, Peter. You’re a ha’penny - marvel; I always said you were.” - </p> - <p> - The whisper was hoarse, but no longer hopeless. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly the door was jerked open irritably. “‘Ere, make - ‘aste. Come h’out of it, you in there.” - </p> - <p> - When Peter and his uncle had obeyed orders, the cab was backed up against - the tall doors which gave entrance to the yard of the stable. - </p> - <p> - “Get h’up on the roof o’ me keb, climb onter the top o’ - the doors and see if yer kin drop h’over.” Mr. Grace spoke - gruffly. - </p> - <p> - Ocky did as he was bidden but, either through timidity or weakness, failed - to scramble from the cab on to the top of the doors. Mr. Grace growled - impatiently and muttered something explosive at each failure. Now that he - was in mid-act of contriving against the law, he was anxious to be rid of - the adventure. - </p> - <p> - Ocky excused himself humbly. “I’m not the man I was. I’ve - had my troubles.” - </p> - <p> - “To ‘ell with yer troubles! They cawn’t be no worse’n - mine; if yer want ter know wot trouble is, taik a week o’ bein’ - father ter my darter—— Kum on, Peter, you and me’s got - ter chuck ‘im h’over.” - </p> - <p> - Standing on the roof of the cab, they each caught hold of a leg and - hoisted. Ocky protested, but up he went, till in desperation he clutched - at the doors and sat balancing astride them. - </p> - <p> - Now that he had something to do, Mr. Grace’s cheerfulness returned. - “Like bringin’ ‘ome the family wash, ain’t it, - Peter?” Then, to Ocky threateningly, “Nar Bill Sykes, yer’ve - got ter tumble darn t’other side; I’m goin’ ter drar - awye me keb.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky said he’d break his legs—he might need them, so he didn’t - want to do that. He lay along the narrow ledge like a man unused to - riding, clinging to a horse’s neck. - </p> - <p> - “Awright, yer force me to it.” Mr. Grace spoke sadly with a - kind of it-hurts-me-more than-it-does-you air. Peter was told to get down. - Mr. Grace having driven away a few paces, dropped the reins and stepped on - to the roof, whip in hand. - </p> - <p> - “Me and Peter is good pals. Peter says ter me, ‘My uncle’s - swiped somefing. The cops is after ‘im.’ ‘Righto,’ - I says. Now h’it appears yer don’t want ter be saved; but h’I’ve - give me word and h’I’m goin’ ter do it.—— - Are yer going’ h’over?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace brought his whip down lightly across Ocky’s legs; his - humor made him a humane man. Ocky squirmed, lost his balance and - disappeared, all except his hands which clung desperately. Once again the - whip came down and a muffled thud was heard. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace took his seat on the box and gathered up the reins. “Any - more h’orders, sir?” he asked of Peter. “Keb. Keb. Keb.—— - Thirsty work, Master Peter. Poor chap lost ‘is nerve; ‘e - needed a little stimerlant. We h’all do sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - But when Peter tried to pay Mr. Grace, he refused indignantly. “H’I - h’ain’t like some folks as would rob a work ‘ouse child - o’ its breakfust. Wot I done I done fer love o’ you, Master - Peter. You buy that little gal o’ yours a present.” Then, - because he didn’t want to be thought a good man, he spoke angrily. - “H’I’ve got ter be drunk ter-night. Yer’ve wasted - enough o’ me time awready. Kum h’up ‘ere beside me h’at - once and I’ll drive yer ‘ome.” - </p> - <p> - So they drove round the mews to the Terrace and halted this time in front - of the house. When Peter had rung the bell, his friend beckoned him back. - “Sonny, ‘e weren’t worf it. ‘E weren’t - reelly.” - </p> - <p> - Before Peter could answer, the door opened and he heard his mother’s - voice saying, “Why, it’s Peter in a Christmas cab! Oh, how - kind of Mr. Grace to bring you back! Were you so loaded down with - presents, Peter?” And he entered empty-handed. He would need all his - Christmas money to help Uncle Waffles. Kay came running to meet him and - halted in bewilderment. “But, Mummy, where are Peter’s - presents?” - </p> - <p> - Grace’s mind was taken up with another subject; from the steps she - had caught her father’s eye and had seen that it was glazed. As she - passed her mistress she sought sympathy, whispering, “Pa’s - drunk as usual, Mam. Ain’t it sick’ning? Fat lot o’ good - me prayin’!” - </p> - <p> - But Mr. Grace, pottering down the Terrace, felt a Christmas warmth about - his heart. It wasn’t because he had saved a man from Justice; he was - happy because Peter had told him that he was the only friend in the world - from whom he could have asked help.—— Grace might call him a - drunkard, and to-night he intended to be very drunk; but he must be - something better as well, or else Peter wouldn’t have talked like - that. - </p> - <p> - So, because he was happy, he sang as he pottered down the Terrace. It wasn’t - exactly a Christmas carol, but it served his purpose. It expressed - devil-may-care contempt for public opinion—and that was how he felt. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Darn our narbor’ood, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Darn our narbor’ood, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Darn the plaice where I’m a-livin’ nar, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Why, the gentry in our street - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - In the cisterns wash their feet, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - In the narbor’ood where I’m a-livin’ nar.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace very rarely sang, because he was very seldom happy. Cat’s - Meat quickened his step; he knew what that sound meant. It meant no more - work. - </p> - <p> - In the distance the lights of the public-house grew up. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XX—THE HIDING OF OCKY WAFFLES - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>eter’s - Christmas cab! Why a cab? What had he brought back in it and where had he - hidden it? It must be something very grand and splendid to demand a cab. - Kay coaxed him to give her just one little hint as to what it was: she - went through all her love-tricks without success, rubbing her silky hair - against his cheek and kissing his eyes while she clasped his neck. It was - useless for him to declare that he had bought no presents; she snuggled - against him laughing—she knew her Peter better than that. - </p> - <p> - In the high spirits that surrounded him Peter was very miserable. He was - wondering whether Uncle Waffles had hurt himself when he tumbled into the - yard from the top of the doors. He was wondering whether such a timid - climber had been able to find his way into the loft. He was wondering how - he could help him to escape to safety. Mr. Grace might not be willing to - assist a second time; he had said that Uncle Waffles “weren’t - worf it.” But he was; <i>he was</i>. - </p> - <p> - Wild plans were forming in Peter’s brain. Would it be possible to - put his uncle on the tandem tricycle and ride off in the night undetected? - Would it be possible to——? - </p> - <p> - And then there was another thought. Ever since he was quite a tiny boy he - had had a secret dread of the loft after nightfall—a fear which he - knew Kay shared. It was all right in the day when the sun was shining; - there was nothing to be afraid of then. But his strong imagination made - him suspect that the loft was used by tramps, hungry, fierce-eyed tramps, - when darkness fell—tramps who climbed over the wall, just as Uncle - Waffles had done. If that should be true and one of them should find his - uncle there——. Peter shuddered. - </p> - <p> - “Peter, little man, you’ve been getting too excited,” - his father said; “we don’t want you ill to-morrow. Don’t - you think you’d better go to bed?” - </p> - <p> - And Peter was glad of the excuse to get away to where no one would observe - him. He felt an outlaw. He had taken sides against his father and his - family. He wasn’t at all sure that he hadn’t committed a - criminal offence; the police, if they knew, might lay their hands on him - and lock him up with Uncle Waffles. What would Kay think of her brother - then? - </p> - <p> - In the darkness of his room he lay awake, listening to footsteps in the - downstairs part of the house. The servants came up and the gas on the - landing was lowered to a jet. Then he heard the rustling of paper, and his - mother and father whispering together. - </p> - <p> - “That’s for Glory.” - </p> - <p> - “It won’t go into her stocking.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, it will at a stretch.” - </p> - <p> - “And who’s this for?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s for Peter, old silly; go and lay it on his bed.” - Through half-closed eyes Peter saw his father enter, straight and tall, - with his cropped hair and direct way of walking, so much like a - soldier-man. He came on tiptoe, trying to be stealthy; but he stumbled - against a chair. - </p> - <p> - Nan came hurrying noiselessly. “Oh Billy, darling, you’re a - rotten Santa Claus. Have you wakened him now?” - </p> - <p> - They listened. When Peter did not stir, his father whispered, “It’s - all right, kiddy; the little chap sleeps soundly. By Jove, he’s not - hung up his stocking!” - </p> - <p> - They examined the end of the bed. Then his mother spoke. “No, he - hasn’t. He couldn’t have been feeling well. He’s been - worrying, I’m sure he has, all this last month.” - </p> - <p> - “A boy of his age oughtn’t to worry. What about?” - </p> - <p> - Nan hesitated. “Our Peter’s very compassionate—— - He loved Ocky. I’ve looked through his eyes often lately; I’m - sure he’s condemning us.” - </p> - <p> - “Us! Poor little Peterkins! It must hurt—— Well, he - doesn’t understand.” - </p> - <p> - They bent over him, kissing him, thinking he slept. - </p> - <p> - “Peter always fancies that everyone must be good whom he loves.” - </p> - <p> - And Nan answered, “You can make anyone good by love—don’t - you think so, Billy?” - </p> - <p> - He slipped his arm about her and leant his face against her hair. “I - know you made me better, dearest.” - </p> - <p> - The gas was extinguished and their feet died out on the stairs. - </p> - <p> - One! Two! Three! The grandfather-clock in the hall struck out the hours. - Peter could not bear it. He must tell someone. He threw back the clothes - and crept to the door; his parents’ room was under his—they - must not hear him. A board creaked. He halted, his fingers on his mouth, - his heart drumming. No one stirred; through the heavy silence came the - light breathing of sleepers. - </p> - <p> - Pressing his hand against the wall to steady himself, he tiptoed along the - passage, past Riska’s room, past Grace’s, till he came to the - door of the room in which Glory and Kay lay together. He looked in; a - shaft of moonlight fell across their faces on the pillow. He was struck - with how alike they were: the same narrow penciled eyebrows; the same - sensitive bowed mouth, just a little short in the upper lip; the same - streaming honey-colored hair. - </p> - <p> - He stood looking down at them. Since he had noticed this, he felt a new - kindness for Glory. Kay turned on her side and the paper on the presents - at the foot of the bed crackled. Should he—should he tell Glory? She - looked so gentle. No, it would be selfish; he must endure the burden of - his knowledge himself. And yet——. He was very troubled. - </p> - <p> - Up the frosty silence, tremulous and distant, climbed the sound of music—a - harp and a violin playing. His brain set the playing to words: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “It came upon the midnight clear - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - That glorious song of old, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - From angels bending near the earth - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - To touch their harps of gold.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Its beauty quieted his dreads, lifting his spirit to the world of legend. - It hushed, halted and again commenced. It was like the feet of Jesus on - the London house-tops, bringing safety to sinful men. Perhaps Uncle - Waffles heard it. - </p> - <p> - It ceased. A man’s voice rang out: “Fine and frosty. Three o’clock - in the morning. A Happy Christmas. All’s well.” - </p> - <p> - Peter had turned his eyes to the window where the moon sat balanced on a - cloud; now that the stillness was again unbroken, he looked down at the - faces on the pillow. The eyes of Glory were wide open. She showed no - surprise at seeing him there. How long had she been watching? - </p> - <p> - He stooped over her and whispered, “It was the waits, Glory.” - </p> - <p> - Her arms reached up and dragged him down. “Peter, Peter, you don’t - hate me, do you? I can’t help being a coward.” - </p> - <p> - “Shish! We’ll wake Kitten Kay. Of course I don’t hate - you. I try to love everybody.” - </p> - <p> - “And me just as one with the rest? Not even with the rest, Peter.—No, - no, kiss me now.” - </p> - <p> - He kissed her; it was almost like kissing Kay. She held him so tightly - that she took away his breath. He drew back, a little thrilled and - startled. He looked down. Kay’s eyes were closed; Glory’s were - smiling up at him, timid with puzzled longing. Years later he was to - remember that. Then, yet more distant, the waits re-commenced, like the - feet of Jesus bringing peace to sinful men. And that also he would - remember. - </p> - <p> - Back in bed he lay very still. The fear had gone out of him; once again - the world seemed kind and gentle. “Christ was born this morning,” - he whispered; “Christ was born this morning. Oh Jesus, who came into - the world a little boy just like Peter, you can understand. I’m so - troubled. Oh Jesus——” But sleep was sent in answer to - his prayer. - </p> - <p> - It was dark when he awoke. What was it he had been dreaming? Ah yes!—He - rose stealthily and dressed. The morning was chilly. His teeth chattered - and shivers ran through him; that wasn’t all due to coldness. - Without looking at the packages on his bed, he stole across the landing - and down the stairs. Outside the servants’ room he listened. One of - them was snoring loudly; that was reassuring. As he drew further away from - the bedrooms, he moved more hurriedly. All the time he was expecting to - hear a door open and to see a head peering over the banisters. Having - reached the hall, he ran down into the basement, taking less care to make - no sound. His feet on the stone flags of the kitchen seemed as loud as - those of a procession marching. Something brushed against his legs. He - jumped aside with a cry of terror. It came again, a shadow following. Then - he saw that it was only Romance. - </p> - <p> - What was it he must get? It was difficult to think; a hammer was knocking, - in his temples. He felt along the dresser; sent a pan clattering; stood - tense, listening; found what he sought; struck a match and lit the gas The - light helped him to think more clearly, but it also convicted him of wrong - doing. Everything he saw, even Romance looking up at him unblinking, - seemed to say, “I shall tell. I shall tell.” - </p> - <p> - Things looked cheerless. Chairs were pushed back from the table, just as - they had been left by the servants. The grate was choked with ashes, in - which a few coals glowered red. But he must hurry. What was it he must - get? - </p> - <p> - In the pantry there were sausage-rolls—so many that no one would - miss a few of them. There were loaves of bread, an uncut ham from which - Peter took some slices, a jug of milk from which he took a glassful, - making up the deficit with water, and a dish of baked apples. He helped - himself, feeling horribly thief-like. Then he thought of how cold it was - out there. He crept upstairs to the cloakroom and unhooked one of his - father’s coats from its peg. He returned and took a cushion from - Cookie’s favorite chair in which the cane was broken and sagging. - Thus loaded, he unlocked the door into the garden, closing it behind him, - and shuffled out. - </p> - <p> - How unfriendly and treacherous everything was! Even the kind old mulberry, - stripped of its leaves, seemed to scowl and threaten to reach down and - clutch him. The laburnum, which in summer was a slim gold girl, pointed - thin derisive fingers at him. Across neighboring walls came an icy breeze, - which whispered, “Cut off his head. Cut off his head.” As he - tiptoed down the path, the gravel turned beneath his tread. Dead leaves - rustled. His breath came pantingly and steamed through the shadows. - </p> - <p> - He hoped Uncle Waffles would come to meet him. And yet he dreaded. He - could still feel the shaking of his uncle’s clammy hand as he had - felt it last night in the darkness of the cab. Sometimes he fancied that - he saw him crouched beneath the bushes. - </p> - <p> - He paused irresolute. Should he go forward or——? - </p> - <p> - He glanced back. The windows were wells of blackness—hollow sockets - from which the sight had been gouged out. He fixed his gaze on the window - ahead, the loft-window behind the ivy, which spied on the garden. He had - always expected to see a man’s face there. It was to be a face about - which the hair hung long and lank, with the mouth pendulous and the eyes - cavernous.—What would Kay think if she could see him now? - </p> - <p> - He raised the latch of the door which led into the yard. He looked round, - hesitating on the threshold. His imagination told him he would be clutched - forward. Nothing happened. - </p> - <p> - In the stable it was dark as death. He set his burdens down before - entering, so that he might be ready for a hasty exit. He stood still, his - left hand pressed against the door-post; if he had to run, he would push - himself off with a flying start. He was even afraid of Uncle Waffles now. - </p> - <p> - Heavy breathing! Where was it? He called. He heard something whirr, and - jumped back. The same instant he recognized the sound: it was the turning - of a pedal on its ball-bearings. From beneath the tandem tricycle, with - many groans and curses, a man emerged. - </p> - <p> - “Bruised all over. That’s what I am.—Hulloa! You there, - Peter? Oh damn! That’s another on the forehead. Disfigured for life, - I am. Nice way you’ve got of treating your poor old uncle.” - </p> - <p> - He pulled himself up by his hands. Even in the dusk he looked crushed and - sheepish. But every situation, however shameful, had to be made an - occasion for jest. “Wonder how I came here! Tandem trikes make - strange bedfellows. You must excuse my language. Your Aunt Jehane always - told this little boy he must never swear.” - </p> - <p> - As his uncle approached him, zigzagging and groping for support - uncertainly, Peter became again aware of the stale smell of alcohol. He - did not need to be told why his uncle had proved such an inferior climber. - </p> - <p> - “Why, I brought you here last night—I and Mr. Grace together.—Did - you hurt yourself when you fell?” - </p> - <p> - “Fell! Did I fall? I’m used to falling these days. I’m a - li’le bird tumbled out of its nest. Broke to the wide, I am. And - nobody cares—nobody cares.” - </p> - <p> - Peter, hearing his weak self-pitying sobbing, overcame his momentary - physical repulsion. “But I care, Uncle. I <i>do</i> care. Glory - cares.” - </p> - <p> - “Where’s the good o’ your caring, dear old chap? You’re - only a boy and Glory’s only a girl—you can’t help me.” - </p> - <p> - “But I can.” He pulled at his uncle’s trembling hands. - “I’m going to hide you in the loft till they’ve all - forgotten to look for you, and then——” - </p> - <p> - “But, chappie, I’ve got to be fed and my money’s all - spent.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll get food for you.” - </p> - <p> - Uncle Waffles bent above Peter, trying to catch his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “You’ll get food for me—but from where? Whose food?—You - mean you’re going to steal for me. No, Peter, you shan’t do - that.” - </p> - <p> - Peter was perplexed. “If I don’t, you’ll go hungry. - People aren’t good to you. I won’t steal, I’ll—I’ll - just borrow. When you’re safe, I’ll tell them and pay it all - back.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s what I said, ‘I’ll just borrow.’ - That’s why I’m here. I can’t bear to let you do anything - wrong for me.” - </p> - <p> - “But if I don’t they’ll take you away and lock you up. - My heart would break if that should happen.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky sat down on a box and drew Peter to his knee in the darkness, putting - his arm about him. “I’ve never been loved like that; if I had - I’d have been a better man. If I let you do this I want to make a - promise. Whether I’m caught or not, for your sake I’m going to - be good in the future.—You don’t know what I am—how - foolish and bad. I was drunk last night—I got drunk to forget my - terror. Do you think I’m worth doing wrong for, chappie?” - </p> - <p> - Peter drew the unshaven face down to his shoulder. “You poor, poor - uncle! It wouldn’t be doing wrong if you became good because I - stole, now would it?—You’ll let me do it?” - </p> - <p> - They stood up. “What you got there?” - </p> - <p> - “Food. We must hurry. If we don’t they’ll find out.—And - here’s some money.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you steal that?” - </p> - <p> - “I saved it for Christmas. I want you to take care of it. Now, here’s - the way we go upstairs.” - </p> - <p> - Peter tried to laugh. He showed his uncle where to find a foothold in the - wall and, by pushing and whispering instructions, got him through the - trap-door into the room overhead. Then he handed up the results of his - foraging and followed. - </p> - <p> - The loft was big and cheerless, thick with dust and hung with cobwebs. - Across the roof went rafters; where they joined the wall sparrows had - built their nests. Over the stalls were holes in the floor through which - hay could be pitch-forked down. There was only one window at the far end, - which looked out into the garden; several of the panes were broken and let - in the wintry air. - </p> - <p> - Ocky shivered. For comfort he fell back on his pipe and began to fumble in - his pocket for a match. When he struck it Peter saw for the first time - what he was doing. He snatched it from him and blew it out. “But you - mustn’t do that.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “They might see you from the house.” - </p> - <p> - “Not if I’m careful.” - </p> - <p> - “You never are careful,” said Peter wisely. - </p> - <p> - “But baccy’s all I’ve got.” - </p> - <p> - “You’ve got me. I’ll come as often as I can.” - </p> - <p> - As he was going, Uncle Waffles hesitated and called him back. “Could - you manage to let me see Jehane and Glory? Couldn’t you coax ‘em - into the garden? I’m longing for a sight of them. They’d never - know I was watching.—It’s an odd Christmas I’m going to - have.” - </p> - <p> - Peter had no idea that the time had flown so fast. As he passed up the - garden, the sun was swinging above the house-tops like a smoky lantern. He - could see the mold beneath the bushes, glistening and frosty, chapped and - broken into little hollows and cracks. In one of the top bedrooms a light - sprang up; it was Riska’s—she must be examining her stocking. - </p> - <p> - He had hoped to creep into the house undetected, but at the door he was - met by Cookie. - </p> - <p> - “So that’s it, is h’it? There’s no tellin’ - wot you’ll be h’up to next. I was just goin’ ter count - the forks. I thought as we’d ‘ad beargulars. Awright Grice, it’s - the young master been h’out for a h’early mornin’s h’airing.” - He ran past her, but she caught him. “Lor’, yer cold, boy. - Come and warm yerself. If you h’ate meat three times a day the same - h’as I do yer wouldn’t get blue like that.” - </p> - <p> - Cookie’s one claim to distinction, which she invariably introduced - into conversation, was that she was a great meat-eater. It made her - different from other people and, having no beauty with which to attract, - afforded her a topic with which to draw attention to herself. - </p> - <p> - “You need some ‘ot chockerlit, that’s wot yer want. Not - but wot meat ‘ad be better; but there, that’s where h’I’m - pecooliar. ‘Never was such a gel for eatin’ meat. Lor, ‘ow - yer runs my bills h’up!’ that’s wot my ma used to say - abart me. She’s dead, Gawd rest ‘er bones.—Now, drink - that h’up, yer little sinner. Thought h’it was summer, did - yer? Went h’out to ‘ear the pretty burds. I’m only - pecooliar abart meat; but, the divil take me, if you ain’t pecooliar - all over.” - </p> - <p> - Cookie sat down in her favorite chair; the cane burst under her. Her legs - shot up and her arms waved wildly. “‘Elp! ‘Elp me, - Master Peter. For good luck’s sake!” - </p> - <p> - Peter helped her. - </p> - <p> - “H’it’s a wonder I didn’t break no bones. Bones is - brittle this weather. But where’s me cushion? If that cat’s - ‘ad it——” - </p> - <p> - Peter escaped and slipped into the cloak-room. Hidden behind the coats, he - listened to Cookie stamping up and down, breathing threatening and - slaughter against all cats—especially cats who stole cushions. - </p> - <p> - In her search for the lost cushion she began to make discoveries. “Where’s - them sorsage-rolls? There was twenty. And ‘oo’s been cuttin’ - the ‘am? She was allaws a wery honest cat. Can’t understand - it. Never knew a cat to cut ‘am. Cats ain’t us’ally fond - o’ h’apples—leastwise no cat I h’ever ‘eard - of.—Shish, yer warmint! Shish! Get along wi’ yer.” - </p> - <p> - Something was thrown. There was a loud me-ow. Romance, followed by Sir - Walter Scott, followed by Cookie, fled upstairs. Peter was pained that - others should be blamed—even though they were only cats—for - his wrongdoing. Anything like injustice hurt him. And Romance knew that he - was the thief! How could he ever face her again, and how could she ever - love him? If a cat could steal a cushion and cut ham, she could also take - a coat. Would they blame her for that? - </p> - <p> - He was in his bedroom, finishing the postponed odds and ends of his - dressing, when Kay called him. He pretended not to hear her. At last he - had to answer, “Coming.” He went to her shame-faced, like a - guest without a wedding-garment: he had no present. - </p> - <p> - She was kneeling up in bed in her white night-gown. The gas was lit and - the floor was strewn with paper from unwrapping her discoveries. - </p> - <p> - “Merry Christmas, Peterkins. Oh, come and look! This is what Grandpa - sent me from Cassingland. And this is what Aunt Jehane gave me. And this—— - But why didn’t you come sooner? I’ve been calling and calling.” - </p> - <p> - Peter hung his head. Glory was looking at him. Was it just wonder in her - eyes or a question? Had she guessed? Would everybody guess? - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t come, Kitten Kay, because I haven’t anything - for you.” - </p> - <p> - She gazed at him incredulously. Her face fell with disappointment. “But - the cab, Peter? The Christmas cab!” - </p> - <p> - “There was nothing in it. I’ve not got anything for anybody.” - </p> - <p> - She couldn’t understand it; he could see that. She was saying to - herself, “Did Peter forget me?” But her face brightened - bravely. “I’ve something for you.” - </p> - <p> - “I couldn’t take it, Kay. No, really.” - </p> - <p> - He was nearly crying with mortification. “I’ve nothing for - you, little Kay; and, yet, I love you better than anyone in all the world.” - </p> - <p> - She held out her arms to him with the divine magnanimity of childhood. - “Dear, dear Peter. Softy me. It’ll do just as well.” - </p> - <p> - He returned to his room while she dressed. He sat on the edge of his bed - with the gas unlighted. He did not open the parcels which his father and - mother had left. He did not deserve them. He had nothing to give in - exchange. He would be ashamed to look them in the face at breakfast—especially - to meet Riska, who was certain to show what she thought of his meanness. - In the darkness he reflected how wise he had been to give that money to - Uncle Waffles before the temptation commenced. - </p> - <p> - Kay entered. “Coming downstairs?” - </p> - <p> - He took her hand. She pressed his and laughed up at him, trying to make - him smile back. - </p> - <p> - It was their custom to go to their parents’ bedroom first thing on - Christmas morning. Outside the door Peter hung back, but Kay dragged him - forward. - </p> - <p> - Billy sat up, throwing back the counterpane, pretending to be terribly - excited at the thought of what they had brought him. Kay held up a parcel. - “What is it?” he asked. “Let me have it. What is it?” - </p> - <p> - “Guess. Father’s got to guess, hasn’t he, mother?” - </p> - <p> - “A fishing-rod?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t be silly, father. How could a fishing-rod be as small - as that?” - </p> - <p> - The guessing went on—such absurd guessing!—until the paper was - torn off and a match-box was revealed. - </p> - <p> - “And now, what’s Peter brought me?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing, father. I haven’t got anything for anybody. So, - please, I don’t think I ought to take any of your presents.” - </p> - <p> - Billy looked at Nan; this explained the absence of the Christmas stocking. - “But, old boy, what became of your money?” - </p> - <p> - “I—I gave it away, father.” - </p> - <p> - “Last night? To a beggar?” - </p> - <p> - “Not—not exactly a beggar.” - </p> - <p> - “But to someone who needed it badly?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, badly. I couldn’t give it to—to them and buy - presents as well.” Peter swallowed. He hated lies and would tell the - truth at all costs. “And it wasn’t last night. It was this - morning.” - </p> - <p> - His father regarded him gravely. “To someone in the house?” - </p> - <p> - “Not exactly.” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t see how it can be both in the house and out of it. It - must be exactly one or the other.” Silence. “You don’t - want to tell?” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t tell. But I want to so badly.” - </p> - <p> - His mother leant out and caught his empty hands, pressing them to her - mouth. What a strange little conscience this son of hers had. “I’m - sure he did what seemed to him more generous. Now here’s what mother’s - got for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Darling motherkins, I do love you—all of you. But I mustn’t - take anything this Christmas.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense,” said his father. - </p> - <p> - “I mean it,” said Peter proudly. - </p> - <p> - At breakfast the thing happened which Peter had expected. Riska was too - outspoken. Eustace had asked her a question in a whisper. She replied, so - everyone might hear her, with mocking eyes slanted at Peter, “Because - he spent it all last night in driving about in cabs.” - </p> - <p> - There was another shock when his father remarked that the milk was rather - thin this morning. - </p> - <p> - When they walked down the Terrace on the way to the Christmas service, - they passed the lean man. He was watching: he was there when they came - back. - </p> - <p> - Billy noticed that his little son was furtive and restless; he was always - going to the window, when no one seemed to be looking, and peeping out - into the garden. When the coat was found missing and word was brought of - Cookie’s lost cushion, he noticed that Peter got red. - </p> - <p> - He called him aside that evening. “What is it? Can’t you trust - me? Can’t you tell me, little Peter?” - </p> - <p> - How he longed to tell. But he looked up with troubled eyes. “I can’t - even tell you, father.” - </p> - <p> - During the days that followed food was continually disappearing. Every - morning, as a habit now, they glanced out to see if the lean man was - there. Then the eyes of the elders signaled to one another, “So he’s - not caught yet.” Peter’s responsibilities were increasing. He - found it more and more difficult to go on supplying the wants of his uncle - without betraying his secret. Moreover, Ocky himself was getting tired of - his confinement; a loft has few diversions. It has no refinements: he had - not shaved for many days and his appearance was terrifying. The mustaches - had come unwaxed. The white spats were gray with dust and climbing. Still, - when Peter visited him, he was unconquerably cheerful. He was only - depressed when Peter had again failed to persuade Glory or Jehane to come - into the garden. “I want a sight of ‘em, sonny. A ha’penny - marvel like you ought to be able to manage that.” - </p> - <p> - Frequently he discussed marriage with Peter, warning him against it and - tracing his own downfall to it. “It’s awright if you meet the - right girl. But you never do—that’s my experience. People - think you have; but you know you haven’t. I knew a chap; his wife - had black hair. They seemed so happy that folk called ‘em the - love-birds. Well, this chap used to get drunk. Not often, you know, but - just as often as was sensible. Well, when he was drunk, he’d give - himself away, oh, entirely—let all his bitterness out. He’d - always hoped that he’d marry a girl with yellow hair. His wife was - awright except for that; but he couldn’t forget it. Of course he - never told her. But there’s always something like that in marriage—something - that rankles and that you keep to yourself. That little something wrong - spoils all the rest. Then one day there’s a row. Chaps have killed - their girls for less than that.—Ah, yes, and folk called ‘em - the love-birds!” - </p> - <p> - Or he would say, “Love’s a funny thing, Peter. Some men fall - in love with the slope of a throat or the shape of a nose, and marry a - girl for that. Now there was a chap I once knew——- Umph! Did I - ever tell you? This chap and his wife were known as the love-birds and his - wife had black hair.” Then out would come the same old story. - </p> - <p> - Jehane had black hair. Peter wondered whether ‘the chap’ was - Uncle Waffles. And he wondered more than that; he was surprised that Uncle - Waffles should keep on forgetting that he’d told him the story - already. He supposed it was because he sat there all alone, brooding for - hours and hours. - </p> - <p> - “Mustn’t mind if I’m queer, Peter. I’d be awright - if you’d let me have some baccy.” - </p> - <p> - But Peter wouldn’t let him have it; it would increase the risk of - discovery. - </p> - <p> - One night he ceased to be surprised at his uncle’s lapses of memory. - His father and mother had gone out to dinner. The younger children had - been put to bed. Jehane and Glory were sitting by the dining-room fire, - darning socks and whispering of the future. Peter took his opportunity, - slipped into the garden and down to the stables. - </p> - <p> - Snow was on the ground; every footstep showed like a blot of ink on white - paper. He was surprised to see that someone had crossed the flower-beds. - Then he was startled by a thought. Perhaps the police, or the man whom Mr. - Grace called ‘the spotter,’ had guessed. He listened. No - sound. He entered the yard; the footprints led into the stable. He called - softly, “Are you there?” No one answered. With fear in his - heart he climbed into the loft: Uncle Waffles had vanished. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXI—STRANGE HAPPENINGS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>ad they caught - him? Ever since the beginning of the adventure Peter had wondered - interminably how it would end. He hadn’t been able to see any - ending. It had seemed to him that, if nothing was found out, Uncle Waffles - might go on hiding in the loft forever and he might go on pilfering for - him. - </p> - <p> - Peter had watched his uncle carefully; he knew much more about him now. He - knew that he was a great disreputable child, much younger than himself, - who would always be dependent on somebody. He came to realize that through - all those years of large talking his uncle had never been a man—never - would be now; that he was just a large self-conscious boy, boastful, - affectionate and unreliable, whose sins were not wickedness but - naughtiness. The odd strain of maternity in Peter, which prompted him - always to shelter things weaker than himself, made him love his uncle the - more for this knowledge. And now he was distracted, like a bantam hen - which has hatched out a swan and lost it. - </p> - <p> - He set to work searching in the coach-house, under the tandem tricycle, in - the harness-room. He went out into the yard, following the footprints. - They led through the door into the garden, under the pear trees, across a - flower-bed to a neighbor’s wall and there terminated abruptly. What - could have happened? - </p> - <p> - The night about him was spectacular and glistening as a picture on a - Christmas card. Everything in sight was draped in exaggerated purity. Like - cotton-wool, sprinkled with powdered glass, snow lay along the arms of - trees and sparkled in festoons on withered creepers. The march of those - countless London feet, that invisible hurrying army, always weary, yet - never halting, came to him muffled as though it moved across a heavy - carpet. “Be quiet. Be quiet,” said the golden windows, - mounting in a barricade of houses against the stars. “Be quiet. Be - quiet,” whispered the shrouded trees, as their burdened branches - creaked and lowered. But he could not be quiet. Cold as it was, sweat - broke out on his forehead. What had happened? - </p> - <p> - A crunching sound—a mere rumor, seeming infinitely distant! A head - appeared above the wall, right over him. A man lumbered across and fell - with a gentle thud almost at his feet. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how could you? How could you do that?” - </p> - <p> - The voice which answered was thick and truculent. It made no pretence at - being secret. “And why shouldn’t I? That’s what I ask. I - was tired of sticking up there. It’s no joke, I can tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “Shish! Where’ve you been?” - </p> - <p> - “Found a way out four gardens down—the wall’s lower. No - danger of breaking one’s legs—not like the way you brought me.” - </p> - <p> - Peter was a little staggered by this hostile manner; it was as though he - were being charged with having done something wilfully unfair and cruel. - “But to-morrow they’ll see that somebody’s been there. - They’ll follow your tracks from garden to garden and then———” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t care. Let ‘em. You’d never do anything I - ask you. You wouldn’t let me see Jehane and Glory. They’re my - flesh and blood; and who are you? You wouldn’t give me any baccy. - You gave me nothing. Buried me alive, that’s what you did for me. So - I just slipped off by myself.” - </p> - <p> - It was like an angry child talking. Ocky pulled a bottle from his pocket, - drew the cork with his teeth and tilted the neck against his mouth. - “Must have my medicine. Ah!” - </p> - <p> - Peter watched him. He was thinking fast, remembering past queernesses of - temper. “You’ve done this before?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. And not ashamed of it either. I’ll do it again as - soon as I get thirsty. It’s cold up there.” He jerked his - thumb toward the loft. “Has it ever struck you?” - </p> - <p> - Peter disregarded the question. “You did it with my money—the - money that was to help you.” - </p> - <p> - “And isn’t it helping me?” Another long draught. “Ah! - That’s better!—You gave it me to take care of—I’m - taking care of it. See? You ought to know by now that I’m not to be - trusted.” - </p> - <p> - Peter saw that nothing was to be gained by arguing. He helped his uncle to - scramble into the loft. “We’ll be lucky if you’re not - caught by morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Think so? What’s the odds? Couldn’t be worse off. Now - shut up scolding; you’re as bad as Jehane. Let’s be social. - Did I ever tell you that story about the chap whose wife had black hair?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you did. I know now that you’d been drinking every time - you told it.” - </p> - <p> - “Hic! Really! Awright, you needn’t get huffy. It’s a - good story.” - </p> - <p> - Peter had at last hit on a plan. “Will you promise to stop here - to-night, if I promise to find you a better place to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - “Now you’re talking. Reg’lar ha’penny marvel, that’s - what you are. Before I promise I must hear more. Where is it?” He - spoke with the <i>hauteur</i> of a townsman engaging seaside lodgings. He - was Ocky Waffles Esquire, capitalist, who wasn’t to be beaten at a - bargain. - </p> - <p> - “Well, it’ll probably be in a family.” - </p> - <p> - “Depends on the family.” - </p> - <p> - “Then promise me you won’t go out again to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “Shan’t be able when I’ve polished off this bottle.” - </p> - <p> - Peter appreciated the unblushing honesty of that prophecy. Before he went - he said, “It’s my fault. I ought to have thought how lonely it - was for you.” - </p> - <p> - Uncle Waffles tried to get up, but found that he maintained his dignity - better in a sitting posture. “Don’t take it to heart, sonny. - Forgive and forget—that’s my motto.” He reached up his - hand to Peter with a fine air of Christian charity. Peter just touched it - with the tips of his fingers. - </p> - <p> - That night, knowing that her mistress was out, Grace had done a thing - which was forbidden. There was a passage running by the side of the house, - ending in a door which gave access to the Terrace. During the day it was - kept on the latch for the use of the children, the dustman, the gardener - and all persons of secondary importance. It saved continual answering of - the front-door and prevented muddy boots from tramping through the hall. - At night it was locked and the key was hung up outside the diningroom, - where anyone would be heard who tried to get it. Grace had borrowed the - key and admitted her policeman. She very rarely got the chance, and always - had to do it in secret. Barrington was firm regarding kitchen company. - “I won’t have strange men lolling in my house without my - knowledge. That’s how burglaries happen. The servants can meet their - friends on their nights out. I may seem harsh, but it’s none of my - business to supply ‘em with opportunities for getting married.” - </p> - <p> - So Grace had to do her love-making on one evening a week, walking the - pavements with the object of her passion. Now and then she contrived - stolen interviews after nightfall, standing on the steps which led up from - the area and talking across the railings. Cookie sympathized with her and - helped her. “It’s a burnin’ shime,” she said, - “cagin’ us h’up like h’animals. H’it’s - a wonder ter me as we h’ever get married. The master thinks that, - ‘cause we’re servants, we ain’t got no pashuns.” - </p> - <p> - This evening when Grace had stopped her lover on his beat, Cookie had - suggested that they should borrow the key and let him into the kitchen by - the side-passage. That was why Peter heard a man’s voice when he - crept stealthily into the basement. The sound was so unexpected that he - paused to listen without any intention of eavesdropping. - </p> - <p> - “It started Christmas mornin’, didn’t it, Grice?” - It was Cookie speaking. “The door was h’on the latch, the milk - was watered, the sorsage-rolls and me cushion was gone. We blimed the cat - at first. H’I was that h’angry, I threw a broom at ‘er. - Not but wot I might ‘a known as no cat could water milk if I’d - ‘a stopped ter thought. And then Master Peter, ‘im that’s - so ginerous, ‘e forgets to give anyone ‘is Christmas presents. - H’it beats creation, so it does. And h’ever since then, though - I h’ain’t said much abart it, ‘cause I didn’t want - ter git ‘is pa h’angry, h’ever since then h’its - been goin’ h’on. One day h’it’s h’eggs - missin’. ‘Nother day h’it’s beef—little - nibbles like h’all round. And yer may taik my word for h’it, - the little master’s h’at the bottom h’of it. What d’yer - sye abart that, Mr. Somp? Yer ‘andle crimes, don’t yer? Wot’s - yer sudgestion?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Somp was the name of Grace’s policeman. Mr. Somp thought. - “Kid’s got a h’appetite, ain’t ‘e?” he - procrastinated. “I ‘ad a h’appetite once.—But h’I - wouldn’t ‘a believed it h’of ‘im.” - </p> - <p> - Grace giggled. She had evidently felt the pressure of a burly arm. “Not - so frisky, cop. You ‘old too ‘ard. I ain’t a drunk and - disorderly.” Then, taking up the thread of the conversation, “A - fine policeman you are! ‘Ow could a little boy h’eat Cookie’s - cushion?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Somp growled. Peter could imagine how he threw out his hands as he - said with all the weight of the noncommittal law, “Ah, there yer - are!” - </p> - <p> - “Come h’orf it, dearie. Yer don’t know nothing.” - Grace tittered. - </p> - <p> - “H’if that’s so, h’I’d best be goin’.” - </p> - <p> - Cookie laughed. “Ain’t ‘e the boy for losin’ - ‘is ‘air? And me cookin’ ‘im a h’om’let? - Yer’ll ‘ave a ‘andful ter manage, Grice, when yer marry. - ‘Is temper’s nawsty.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Somp must have changed his mind at the mention of the omelet, for he - postponed his departure. - </p> - <p> - In the dining-room Peter found Glory alone. - </p> - <p> - “Where’s Aunt Jehane?” - </p> - <p> - “Mother’s got a headache. She’s gone to lie down.” - Peter took his place on the hearth-rug, his legs apart, his back to the - fire, in unconscious imitation of his father. Glory bowed her head, hiding - her face, and went on with her darning. Peter watched her. How slight she - was! How lonely she looked in the great arm-chair. Then it struck him that - she was always working, and that Aunt Jehane very frequently had - headaches. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you ever want to play, Glory?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, I want.” - </p> - <p> - “Why d’you say it like that? Just <i>I want</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Where’s the good of wanting?” - </p> - <p> - The head bowed lower. The firelight shone in her hair. Her face was more - than ever hidden from him. - </p> - <p> - “But you’re such a little girl—a whole year younger than - I am. When I want to play I do it.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you?” - </p> - <p> - It was always like that when Peter took notice of Glory—short - questions and short answers which led no further. - </p> - <p> - Peter leant over her and stayed her hands. “I don’t like to - see you work so hard.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s sweet to hear you say so, Peter.” He felt - something splash and run down his fingers. “I love to hear you say - that. But you see, there’s no one to care for us now. I’ve got - to do it. I always shall have to do it, more and more.” - </p> - <p> - “Not when I’m a man.” - </p> - <p> - “When you’re a man, Peter? What then?” - </p> - <p> - “When I’m a man no one shall be sorry. I’ll make people - ashamed of prisons and of letting other people be poor. No one shall go - hungry. No one shall go unhappy. I’ll build happy houses everywhere. - And, oh Glory, I’ll take all the little children with no shoes on - their feet out into the country to where the grass is soft.” - </p> - <p> - She looked up at him with her grave gray eyes—eyes so much older - than her years. “When you’re a man, Peter, you’ll be - splendid.” - </p> - <p> - “But I didn’t say it to make you say that. I said it because I - wanted you to know that there’s a day coming when—when instead - of making you cry, dear Glory, I’ll make you laugh.” - </p> - <p> - “Just me, Peter, all by myself?” - </p> - <p> - She tilted back her head, gazing up at him, so that her hair rippled back - across her shoulders and her throat stretched white and long, like a - mermaid’s looking up through water, Peter thought. - </p> - <p> - “Just me only, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - He couldn’t understand why she should always want him to do things - for her only. She wasn’t selfish like Riska. He was puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “Why I’ll make you laugh and Kay laugh and everybody, because - you know, Glory, we all ought to be happy.” - </p> - <p> - Her face fell. The eager gladness was dying out of it, so he added - hurriedly, “And most especially I want to help Uncle Waffles.” - </p> - <p> - Was he going to have told her? Probably he did not know himself. There was - a sound of running feet in the hall; Grace burst in on them breathlessly. - “Oh, mum, can I ‘ave a word with you? There’s a light in - the winder of the—— Where’s yer ma, Miss Glory? Quick, - tell me.” - </p> - <p> - “She’s gone to lie down with Moggs. Her head—— But - what’s happened?” - </p> - <p> - Grace was gone. As she climbed the house they heard her calling. Out in - the hall they found the policeman standing, with his baton in his hand; he - was trying to appear very brave, as though saying, “Fear nothing. I - am the law. I will protect you.” - </p> - <p> - Peter took one swift glance at Glory. Did she understand? He almost - fancied—— - </p> - <p> - “Keep them here as long as you can,” he whispered; “I’m - going out.” - </p> - <p> - The last sight he had was of Aunt Jehane coming down the stairs. She was - in her night-gown with a counterpane flung round her. Moggs was in her - arms, crying against her shoulder. Eustace was clinging stupidly to her - nightgown. Aunt Jehane’s ‘mat’ was off. Her forehead - looked surprised and her scant hair straggled away from it. Grace was - explaining vociferously. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve called in the policeman, mum. Luckily ‘e was - passin’.” - </p> - <p> - “But what’s he wasting time for?” Aunt Jehane asked - tartly. “If you didn’t imagine the light, they’re still - there in the loft and he can catch them.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Somp spoke up for himself. “H’I was waitin’ your h’orders.” - </p> - <p> - Peter flew down the path. The window was in darkness. Directly he entered - the stables he knew what had happened, for the air was heavy with the - smell of tobacco. - </p> - <p> - “Uncle! Uncle!” - </p> - <p> - “Here, sonny.” - </p> - <p> - “Quick. Come down. Grace saw you strike a match in the dark and a - policeman’s coming to catch you.” - </p> - <p> - Peter had to go up after him, for Ocky’s wits were clouded. He shook - him, saying, “Make haste. Can’t you understand? Surely you don’t - want to be caught.” - </p> - <p> - The fear, in Peter’s voice pierced through the fog of alcohol and - reached Ocky’s intellect. “But what’s to be done?” - </p> - <p> - “There’s an empty tank in the yard—you know it? If you - can get in there before they come, they mayn’t find you.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky woke to life. Stumbling and hurrying he dropped down through the - trap-door. As they ran across the yard, they heard the grumbling of voices - approaching. Ocky climbed on the tank, keeping low so as not to be seen - from the garden, and vanished. - </p> - <p> - “Whatever you do, don’t make a sound,” Peter warned him. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Waffles replied disgustedly, “It isn’t empty. The water’s - up to me ankles.” - </p> - <p> - Peter had hoped to get out of the stable before the search began; it would - look suspicious if they should find him. It was too late for that. The - voices were near enough for him to hear what was being said. - </p> - <p> - “Nothin’ ‘ere, me gal. You must ‘ave h’imagined - it.” - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t imagine it, neither. And don’t call me ‘me - gal’ as though h’I was nothin’ to yer.” - </p> - <p> - “I calls you ‘me gal’ in me h’official capacity.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t care abart yer capacity, h’official or - defficial, I won’t ‘ave it.” - </p> - <p> - “My, but yer crusty, Grice!” - </p> - <p> - “H’I <i>am</i> crusty and h’I tell yer for wot. Yer - doubt my word—throw h’aspersions on it. I did see a light, I - tell yer.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, it ain’t there now. The chap’s gone.” - </p> - <p> - “Ow d’you know ‘e’s gone without lookin’?” - </p> - <p> - “By a kind o’ h’inkstink one dewelopes by bein’ in - the police force.” - </p> - <p> - “D’you know wot I’m thinkin’?—Yer funky.” - </p> - <p> - “Funky, h’am I? H’awright—h’it’s h’all - over between us. Never tell me h’again that you loves me.” - </p> - <p> - They had been talking in loud voices from the start—quite loud - enough to warn any burglar. Now that they had quarreled their voices cut - the still night air in anger. Not a word was lost. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly they paused. “Wot’s that?” Grace asked the - question in a sharp whisper. - </p> - <p> - “Footsteps or I’m no cop.” - </p> - <p> - Peter heard the click of Mr. Somp’s lantern; it must have struck - against his buttons as he bent to examine. “Footsteps. Someone’s - been a-climbin’ this ‘ere wall.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, ain’t yer goin’ ter do nothin’?” - </p> - <p> - “You stand there, Grice, while I go for’ard. The chap may fire - h’on us. Good-bye, Grice. H’if anythin’ should ‘appen, - remember I died a-doin’ o’ me dooty.” - </p> - <p> - “Yer shan’t. I’ll come with yer. If ‘e shoots we’ll - die together.” - </p> - <p> - “Grice, h’I commands yer in the nime o’ the law ter stay - where yer h’are.” - </p> - <p> - But when the door into the yard opened cautiously, - </p> - <p> - Grace was clinging to her lover’s arm. They both looked frightened - and ready to withdraw. Slowly, slowly the bull’s-eye swept the - surface of the snow. - </p> - <p> - “More footsteps!” - </p> - <p> - The ray of light followed along the tracks till it fell on Peter. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I’ll be blessed. Of h’all the—— I’ll - be blowed if ‘e aren’t!” - </p> - <p> - Peter laughed. “It looked so lovely I couldn’t stop indoors.” - </p> - <p> - “Yer’ve given us a nice scare, young master.” - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t mean to. And when I heard that Grace thought it was - a burglar, I thought it would be such a lark to let you find me—just - Peter.” - </p> - <p> - “That boy’s dotty,” said Grace’s policeman; - “a little bit h’orf.” - </p> - <p> - “Yer come ter bed h’at once,” said Grace severely. - “I’ll tell yer pa. See if I don’t.” - </p> - <p> - She caught him roughly by the arm. Then Peter did something mean—he - hated himself while he did it. “If you do, I’ll tell that you - had Mr. Somp in the kitchen. Father’ll say you’re not to be - trusted.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said Grace’s policeman. “There’s - somethin’ in that.” - </p> - <p> - “Ain’t he artful?” said Grace. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” asked Peter, “will you keep quiet if I do? Is it - a bargain?” - </p> - <p> - “We didn’t find nothink,” said Grace’s policeman. - “We was mistooken.” - </p> - <p> - “It must ‘a been the snow reflected in the winder,” said - Grace. “Cur’ous, ‘ow the snow deceives yer!—But - oh, Master Peter, I never thought this h’of yer. I reelly didn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “Until to-night I never thought it of myself,” said Peter a - little sadly. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” sighed Grace’s policeman. But to himself he - thought, “More in this than meets the h’eye. I’ll be - danged if there aren’t.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXII—CAT’S MEAT LOOKS ROUND - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>eter kept awake - for his parents’ home-coming. Long before the cab drew up he heard - the jingle of the horse’s harness and was out of bed. The key grated - in the front door; in the silence it sounded to Peter as though the old - house cleared its throat, getting ready to tell. Leaning out across the - banisters with bare feet shivering against the cold linoleum, he lost - little of what was said. - </p> - <p> - Grace met his father and mother in the hall. “Why, Grace, you ought - to have been asleep two hours. I thought I told you not to wait up for us.” - </p> - <p> - “And you did, mam. So you did. But after the disturbance that we’ve - ‘ad——” Her voice sank to a mumbling monotone. - </p> - <p> - Then his father spoke. “I never heard anything more absurd.—Can’t - be away for a single evening without a stupid affair like this happening. - Lights in the stable, indeed! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And you - a grown woman! I wonder what next!” - </p> - <p> - Grace was boo-hooing. “H’I’ll never do it again. I did - think I saw ‘em. No one’ll know abart it. Mr. Somp won’t - tell.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, go upstairs. The children’ll be frightened for months - now.” - </p> - <p> - Peter heard Grace come up to bed sobbing. Where would his wrong-doing end? - Romance had had a broom thrown at her; Grace had received a scolding. The - injustice was spreading. He examined the stain on his heart in much the - same way that Lady Macbeth looked at the stain on her hands. Would it ever - be clean again? “Never,” he told himself in his desperation, - “never.” - </p> - <p> - As he turned to go back to his room he was alarmed by the sudden scurry of - naked feet. A flash of white disappeared round the corner and a mattress - creaked. Glory had been watching. - </p> - <p> - When his mother bent over him that night he told another lie—he - feigned that he slept. As her fluffy hair touched his cheek he longed to - drag her down to him and tell her all. She would stretch herself beside - him in the darkness, holding him tightly, as she had done so often when he - had had something to confess. He denied himself the luxury.—That - night as he lay awake and listened, the angel in the cupboard whistled - very softly, very distantly, as though she were carrying Kay far away from - him. - </p> - <p> - When he had offered his uncle a change of lodging, his uncle had said, - “Depends on the family.” Peter had only one family to suggest; - he didn’t at all know whether the family would accept Uncle Waffles. - Gentlemen for whom the law is searching are not popular as guests. - </p> - <p> - During breakfast, despite frowns from Barrington, all Aunt Jehane’s - conversation had to do with the shock she had suffered by reason of Grace’s - folly. When Barrington banged his cup in his saucer, she lost her temper. - “Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t talk about it. I had - to put up with the worry of it.” - </p> - <p> - “My good Jehane, haven’t you any sense? You can say anything - you like, except before the children.” - </p> - <p> - “Goodness!” Jehane replied pettishly. “The children were - here and saw it.” - </p> - <p> - Peter slipped out. Through the white snow-strewn fields he hurried and - through Topbury Park where the snow was trodden black, till he came to a - quiet street and a tall house with stone steps leading up to it. Miss - Madge, the fat and jolly Miss Jacobite, answered his knock. - </p> - <p> - “What a long face for a little boy to wear!” - </p> - <p> - “If you please, I’d like to speak to Miss Florence.” - Miss - </p> - <p> - Florence was the sister who was tall and reserved; she managed everything - and everybody. - </p> - <p> - “Won’t I do, Peter? She’s busy at present.” - </p> - <p> - “Please, I’ve got to speak to her.” - </p> - <p> - Miss Madge ruffled his hair—she had seen his mother do that. “What - a strange little boy you are this morning! You look almost stern.” - </p> - <p> - She wanted to show him into the faded dining-room where a meager fire was - burning; but he said that he preferred to wait in the hall. She looked - back and laughed at him as she mounted the stairs. He did not reply to her - friendliness. Then she ran; he had some trouble which he would not tell - her. - </p> - <p> - He stood there on the mat twisting his cap. From the varnished paper on - the wall a portrait of old Mr. Jacobite looked fiercely down. It seemed to - say to him, “Little coward, coming to a pack of women! Learn to bear - your own burdens.” - </p> - <p> - But where else could he go? Even if other friends were willing to help - him, they kept servants and had people in and out of their houses. At the - Misses Jacobite, provided he kept away from the windows, Uncle Waffles - might hide for a twelve-month and never be caught. - </p> - <p> - Eerily, from the second floor, came the sound of Miss Leah singing. Her - song never varied and never quite came to an end. Peter could picture how - she sat staring straight before her through her red-rimmed eyes, her empty - hands folded in her lap. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “On the other side of Jordan - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - In the sweet fields of Eden - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Where the Tree of Life is growing - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - There is rest for me.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It almost made him cry to hear her. He was beginning to know just a little - of that need for rest. - </p> - <p> - A door opened. The singing came out. To his astonishment Peter saw Miss - Leah approaching. Up to now she had never left her room to his knowledge. - She beckoned. Then she spoke in that hoarse voice of hers. “I heard - her tell Florence that you’re in trouble. You’re too young to - know sorrow. That comes surely. But for you not yet.” - </p> - <p> - She placed her thin hand on his shoulder and drew him with her into the - room where the blinds were always lowered. Closing the door, she searched - his face. “You have the look. Sorrow! Sorrow! I have suffered and - can understand. Don’t be afraid. Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - And he told her—he never knew why or how. She listened, rocking to - and fro in her chair, with her dim eyes fixed upon him. When he paused for - a word she nodded encouragement, pulling her woolen shawl tighter round - her narrow shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “And in spite of that you love him?—You’re like a woman, - Peter. You love people for their faults and in defiance of common sense. - And you refuse to think he’s bad?” - </p> - <p> - “He’s not really,” said Peter. “The world’s - not been good to him.” - </p> - <p> - “Not really!” She spoke reflectively, as though she groped - beneath the words. “No, we’re never bad really—only seem - bad to other people till they make us seem bad to ourselves.—Yes, - you can bring him.” - </p> - <p> - But to bring him Peter needed Mr. Grace’s help, and Mr. Grace had - been so candid in saying that “‘e weren’t worf it.” - </p> - <p> - When he reached the cab-stand, Mr. Grace wasn’t there. He had waited - an hour before he saw Cat’s Meat crawl out of the traffic. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” said Mr. Grace, with an instinctive fore-knowledge. - </p> - <p> - He let Peter explain his errand without comment till he came to the - account of the part played by Grace’s policeman. - </p> - <p> - “‘Oly smoke! ‘Fraid, was ‘e?—But wot yer - tellin’ me h’all this for? H’out wiv it?” - </p> - <p> - “I want you to drive down the mews to-night and take us round to the - Misses Jacobite.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace became very emphatic and solemn. “Cawn’t be done. H’I - wash me ‘ands of ‘im. Plottin’ ag’in the law. Too - daingerous.” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Grace,” asked Peter, softly, “who’s afraid - now?” - </p> - <p> - “H’I’m not. Me afraid o’ Grice’s young man! - Was that wot yer was h’insinooating?” - </p> - <p> - “But aren’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “No, I ain’t.” - </p> - <p> - “Then prove it.” - </p> - <p> - “‘Ow?” - </p> - <p> - “By doing what I’ve asked you.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace stared between Cat’s Meat’s ears, twisting a straw - in his mouth. The ears were pricked up. He nudged Peter. “D’yer - see that? The ‘oss is a-listenin’. ‘E ain’t much - ter look h’at, but ‘e’s won’erful h’intelligent. - When h’I’m drunk ‘e just walks by h’every pub and - pays no h’attention to my pullin’. ‘E’s like a - mother, that ‘oss is, ter me. ‘E’s more kind than a - darter, which ain’t sayin’ much.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “Well wot? Oh, yes. H’am I goin’ to ‘elp yer - stink-pot of a h’uncle? Ter be frank wiv yer, I h’am.” - </p> - <p> - Cat’s Aleat frisked his tail. Again Mr. Grace nudged Peter. “See - that? ‘E likes h’adwentures. Won’erful h’intelligent - h’animal, but not much ter look h’at!” - </p> - <p> - With the falling of dusk they met. Peter heard the wheels coming down the - mews; slipping the bars from the stable door, he let his uncle out. - </p> - <p> - “Yer a nice old cup o’ tea,” growled Mr. Grace, - addressing Ocky, “a reg’lar mucker. Tell yer wot yer oughter - do—yer oughter sign the pledge. ‘Ope yer ain’t got much - luggage; me keb ain’t as strong as it were.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky retreated into the darkness of the interior. He had promised Peter he - would become a good man and for once was ashamed of himself. - </p> - <p> - Seated by his side, Peter felt after his hand. “Don’t mind - what he says.” - </p> - <p> - “But I am. It’s true. I’ve been a mucker to you from - first to last.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky coughed; the water in the tank had given him a cold on the chest. - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure you haven’t. Anyhow, you’re going to be - better now.” - </p> - <p> - “Going to try till I bust.” - </p> - <p> - As the cab lumbered out on to the Terrace a man saw it. He scratched his - head, thought twice, then began to run and follow. Coming up behind he did - what street-urchins do—he stole a ride on the springs, crouching low - so as to be unobserved. - </p> - <p> - Cat’s Meat alone was aware that something wrong had happened. He - felt the extra weight and halted. - </p> - <p> - “Kum up.” - </p> - <p> - He refused to come up. - </p> - <p> - “Kum up, won’t yer?” - </p> - <p> - No, he wouldn’t. He planted his feet firmly. There was something - that had to be explained to him first. - </p> - <p> - Very reluctantly Mr. Grace got out his whip—it was there for - ornament; he rarely used it. “Nar, look ‘ere old friend, h’I - don’t wanter do it.” But he had to. - </p> - <p> - Cat’s Meat shook his head sorrowfully and looked round. His feelings - were hurt. When his master was drunk he accepted worse punishment than - that without resentment, but his master wasn’t drunk now. Mr. Grace - laid the whip again across his back. Cat’s Meat shrugged his - shoulders and snorted, as much as to say, “Don’t blame me. - Never say I didn’t warn yer.” Then he moved slowly forward. - </p> - <p> - “Now h’I wonder wot was the meanin’ o’ that?” - reflected Mr. Grace. “Don’t like ‘is cargo, h’I - bet. Well, h’I don’t, either. Won’erful h’intelligent - h’of ‘im!” - </p> - <p> - Inside the cab Peter was asking, “But if you don’t like the - ‘medicine,’ why do you take it?” - </p> - <p> - “Life’s dull for a chap,” said Ocky. He would have said - more, but was shaken by a fit of coughing. - </p> - <p> - They crawled along by ill-lighted streets purposely, avoiding main - thoroughfares. As they drew up outside the Misses Jacobite’s house, - Peter saw the slits of the Venetian blinds turned and guessed that four - tremulous ladies were watching. He opened the door for his uncle to get - out As Mr. Waffles alighted, a man jumped from behind the cab. - </p> - <p> - “Yer caught, Cockie. Come along quiet.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace heaved himself round. “Wot the devil!” He was - blinking into the eyes of Grace’s policeman. - </p> - <p> - “We can walk to the station,” said Grace’s policeman, - “but h’if you’d care to drive us—— Yer seem - kind o’ fond o’ conductin’ this party round.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll drive ‘im, but I’ll be ‘anged h’if - I’ll drive you, yer great fat mutton ‘ead.” - </p> - <p> - “Mutton ‘ead yerself.” - </p> - <p> - Peter jumped into the gap. “Oh, do drive them, Mr. Grace. Don’t - let him be dragged there in public.” - </p> - <p> - “If that’s the wye yer feel abart it—— Anythin’ - fer you, Master Peter.” - </p> - <p> - “Look ‘ere,” said Grace’s policeman, “h’I’m - in love with yer darter—as good as one o’ the family. We don’t - need to sye nothink abart the keb.” - </p> - <p> - “Get in, mutton ‘ead.” - </p> - <p> - They got in. - </p> - <p> - Cat’s Meat shook his harness as much as to say, “Now you’re - sorry, I suppose. What did I tell you?” - </p> - <p> - Peter, as the cab grew dim in the distance, leant against the wall - sobbing. The door at the top of the steps opened timidly and Miss Leah - looked out. “Peter. Peter.” But he couldn’t bear to face - her. - </p> - <p> - As he stole home through the unreal shadows, he tried to persuade himself - that it hadn’t happened. It must be his old disease—his - ‘magination. It was as though he had been playing with fear all this - while and now he experienced its actuality. It hadn’t happened, hadn’t—— - Then the pity of the pinched unshaven face, the huddled shoulders and the - iron hardness of the world overwhelmed him. - </p> - <p> - And Uncle Waffles hadn’t said a word when he was taken—he hadn’t - even coughed. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIII—AND GLORY SAID - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>eter asked to see - his father alone. They went up together to the study. Barrington knew that - a confession was coming. He was curious. Peter’s sins were so - extraordinary; they were hardly ever breaches of the decalogue. His - sensitive conscience had framed a lengthier code of commandments, which no - one but he would dream of observing. Barrington struggled to keep his face - grave and long; inwardly he was laughing. He drew up his big chair to the - fire—his soldier’s chair the children called it. He put out - his knee invitingly. “Sit down, little son. What’s the - trouble?” - </p> - <p> - “I’d rather stand, father. You’ll never want to speak to - me again when I’ve told you.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington observed Peter’s pallor and the way his hands kept - folding and unfolding. - </p> - <p> - “It can’t be as bad as that, old man. Nothing could be.” - </p> - <p> - “But it is, father. I’m a thief and a liar, and I expect I’ll - be arrested before morning.” - </p> - <p> - Peter’s tense sincerity carried conviction. This time there was - certainly something the matter. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Peter, I’ll forgive you before you tell me. Now speak - up like a little knight. The bravest thing in all the world is to tell the - whole truth when it’s easy to lie.—Queer things have been - happening lately. It’s about those Christmas presents, now, isn’t - it?” - </p> - <p> - Peter stood erect with his hands behind him, his curly head thrown back - and his knickerbockered legs close together. “You mustn’t be - kind to me, father. It makes it harder. I’m going to hurt you.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington had never felt prouder of his son. He rested his chin on his - fingers and nodded. “Go on.” - </p> - <p> - In a low, tremulous voice he told him all, keeping the tears back bravely. - When he paused, his father waited; he wanted to hear Peter’s own - story without frightening him by interruption. He had had an important - engagement that evening, but he let it slide. As the account progressed he - saw that here was something really serious. And yet how Peterish it was to - feel so poignantly the unjust punishing of Romance! The humor of it all - vanished when Peter told how Uncle Waffles had been arrested. - </p> - <p> - “And then,” he said, “I came straight home to tell you. - I don’t suppose you’ll want me to live here any longer. It - wouldn’t be good for Kay; I’m too wicked. I’m almost too - bad for anybody. Kay—Kay’ll never be able to love me any more.” - </p> - <p> - They gazed at each other in silence. Barrington did not dare to trust - himself to talk; he knew that his voice would be unsteady. He was - frightened he would sink below Peter’s standard and give way to - crying. He had to keep his eyes quite still for fear the tears would fall. - And he recalled the last confession that this room had heard—it was - from Ocky. He compared it with Peter’s. - </p> - <p> - The minutes dragged on. Peter watched his father’s face; he saw - there the worst thing of all—sorrow. - </p> - <p> - A coal falling in the grate took their attention for a moment from - themselves. - </p> - <p> - Barrington leant further forward. “What made you do it, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - “I loved him.” - </p> - <p> - “But what made you love him when you came to know all?” - </p> - <p> - “Because nobody else loved him.” Peter caught his voice - tripping on a sob and stopped. - </p> - <p> - “But he made other people unhappy. Just think for a minute: Aunt - Jehane’s homeless and so are all your cousins.” - </p> - <p> - “I know. But it seemed so dreadful for him to be lonely, wandering - about—wandering about at Christmas.” - </p> - <p> - “But wasn’t it his own fault?” - </p> - <p> - Peter bit his lip—he’d never thought of not loving people just - because they’d done wrong. Things were all so tangled. He remembered - Jesus and the dying thief on the cross. Surely that, too, was the thief’s - own fault? But he knew that people rarely quoted the Bible except on - Sundays—so he just looked at his father and said nothing.—Again - the minutes dragged on. - </p> - <p> - There was a tap at the door. Glory entered shyly. “I’m going - to bed, Uncle. May I kiss you and Peter goodnight?” - </p> - <p> - Barrington nodded. “Come here, little girl; but first close the - door.” - </p> - <p> - As she stooped over him, he slipped his arm round her and drew her to his - knee. “Peter isn’t going to kiss you to-night. He thinks he - isn’t worthy.” - </p> - <p> - “Peter not worthy!” She shook back the hair from her eyes and - gazed from Peter to her uncle incredulously. - </p> - <p> - “He doesn’t think he’s worthy to be loved by any of us. - He expects he won’t live here much longer.” - </p> - <p> - “But why? Why?—Peter can’t have done anything wicked.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m going to ask him to tell you what he’s done, just - as he told me. And then I want you to say what you think of him.” - </p> - <p> - It was hard to have to repeat his confession, but Peter did it. While he - spoke, his father could feel how Glory’s body stiffened and - trembled. Sometimes her eyes were unexcited, as though she were listening - to an old story. Sometimes they were like stars, fixed and glistening. - When the end was reached, she bowed her head on her uncle’s - shoulder, shaken with deep sobbing. “Poor father! Oh, poor father!” - </p> - <p> - As she grew quiet, Barrington turned her face toward his. “And that,” - he said, “is why Peter thinks he isn’t worthy. He’s - waiting, Glory. You’ve not told him yet what you think of him.” - </p> - <p> - She looked toward Peter, dazed, as though not fully understanding. Then - she saw how alone and upright he was standing; it dawned on her that he - was really waiting for her to pronounce his sentence. She rose to her - feet; her uncle’s arm still about her. - </p> - <p> - “Why—why, I think Peter’s the most splendiferous boy in - the world.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington laughed. “D’you know, I didn’t dare to say - it; but that’s just what I’ve been thinking all evening.” - </p> - <p> - It was only when Glory’s arms went about him that Peter sank below - his standard of courage. - </p> - <p> - “I guessed it all the while,” she whispered; “I was - waiting for you to tell me. Why wouldn’t you let me help you?” - </p> - <p> - Ah, why, why? How often in years to come would she ask him that question, - not with her lips as now, but with her gravely following eyes! - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIV—THE TRICYCLE MAKES A DISCOVERY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span> ‘I’m - a better man than you are,” said Mr. Grace. - </p> - <p> - “In wot respeck?” asked Mr. Somp. - </p> - <p> - “In h’every respeck,” said Mr. Grace. “Nice wye - yer’ve got o’ h’arsking fer me darter’s ‘and.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Somp rubbed his nose, finished off his beer and winked at the barmaid. - Then he turned with a smile of tolerant patronage to his future - father-in-law. ‘Any’ow, Cockie, h’I didn’t need to - h’arsk yer. Yer must allaws remember that you come in on the second - h’act.” - </p> - <p> - “Wot d’yer mean?” - </p> - <p> - “H’I mean the curtain was h’up and the play’d - began when you h’entered.” - </p> - <p> - “H’information ter me—I’m larnin’.” - Mr. Grace tossed off his pot to show his supreme contempt and signed for - another. Having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he spoke - reflectively. “So I h’entered when the bloomin’ curtain - was h’up! Now I h’allaws thought as I wuz be’ind the - scenes and ‘elped ter mike ‘er.” - </p> - <p> - “A peep be’ind the scenes,” chirped the barmaid; “read - a book called that once. Mr. Grice this ‘ouse is respeckable. If you - ain’t careful you’ll get chucked h’out.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Somp looked deeply shocked. “That ain’t no subjeck to - mention before ladies—birth ain’t a matter ter be discussed in - publick. It ‘appens to h’all of us, but people as is well - brought h’up tries to ferget it.” - </p> - <p> - Glancing round and seeing that opinion was against him, Mr. Grace - retreated a step in the argument. “You said as h’I came in on - the second h’act. As ‘ow?” - </p> - <p> - “H’after I’d h’arsked yer darter and she’d - said ‘yus.’ In ‘igh society h’it’s - considered perlite to h’arsk the purmission o’ the parent.” - </p> - <p> - “‘Igh society be blowed. Pooh!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, and ‘avn’t I been purmoted?” said Mr. Somp - importantly, scenting an affront. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace was surprised into an expression of astonishment. Then, in an - effort to recover lost ground, “Wot mug purmoted you?” To the - barmaid he said, “H’I’ll be King’s jockey if h’I - wite long enough.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Somp swelled out his chest. “H’I got purmotion fer nabbin’ - that bloke Waffles. Wot d’yer sye ter me proposal now?” - </p> - <p> - An audience of tap-room loafers had gathered; there was a reputation to be - won. “H’I sye wot h’I’ve awready said. H’I’m - a better man than you are and me darter’s better.” - </p> - <p> - “In wot respeck?” Mr. Somp was tenacious. - </p> - <p> - “She’s a h’orator as yer’ll soon find h’out - if yer marry ‘er.” - </p> - <p> - The policeman gazed at the cabman sombrely. “That don’t mike - ‘er no better; h’it mikes ‘er wuss. H’I’ve - found that h’out. It’s my h’opinion that wimen should be - seen and not ‘eard.” - </p> - <p> - “So yer’ve found it h’out, ‘ave yer?” Into - Mr. Grace’s voice had crept a sudden warmth of fellow-feeling and - friendliness. - </p> - <p> - “Ter my regret,” sighed Grace’s policeman, wagging a - mournful head. “If I’d knowed before h’I got ter love - ‘er—— Ah, well! It don’t mend matters ter talk - abart it.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace heaved himself off the bench. “Shike ‘ands, old pal; - yer goin’ ter suffer.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Somp gloomily accepted the proffered hand, looking at the barmaid. - “H’I’m afraid I h’am.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why not taik me?” asked the barmaid cheerily. - </p> - <p> - “And why not? That’s the question. My dear, you might mike me - suffer wuss.” - </p> - <p> - “And I mightn’t ‘ave you,” she said coyly. “Any’ow, - Mr. Somp had no sympathy with the Salvation Army old top, try me next. - Yours truly, Gertie, h’always ready ter oblige a friend.” - </p> - <p> - It was the day after the honeymoon, which had consisted of a steamer-trip - to Greenwich, that Mr. Somp confided to Mr. Grace, “Too much - religion abart your gel.” At that hour Mr. Somp and Grace’s - father became friends. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0227.jpg" alt="0227m " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0227.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - Grace’s husband had no sympathy with the Salvation Army—he - didn’t feel the need of conversion; and Grace, for her part, had no - patience with men who refused to sign the pledge. Mr. Somp took revenge - for domestic wrongs in his official capacity, by moving his wife along - when he found her beating her drum at street corners. Mrs. Somp punished - him by keeping him awake at night while, to use his own words, she sneaked - to God abart him. She even addressed God in the highways on this intensely - private matter, when she saw her husband approaching. She followed St. - Paul’s advice by being urgent in season and out in her rebuking, - long-suffering, teaching and exhorting. Her lofty sense of right and wrong - depressed him; he grew slack, lost his standing in the force and gradually - ceased to work. His self-confidence melted before her superior morality. - </p> - <p> - So she went back to the Barringtons by the day to do charring and to give - extra help. That was how Peter came to know all about her intimate - matrimonial problems. He heard the other side from Mr. Grace and Mr. Somp, - who now had a common grievance—they wanted to drink and Grace tried - to prevent them. “Don’t you never marry a good woman,” - they both advised him; “good wimen is bad.” - </p> - <p> - Grace, on the other hand, despite her frequent complaints, held that her - husband was a very decent man, but bone-lazy. Having proved prayer - useless, she could think of only one other remedy. “If I was ter - die, father’d be sorry and my ‘usband ‘ad ‘ave ter - work; but I ain’t got the ‘eart ter do it.” - </p> - <p> - To which Cookie would reply, “I’m sure yer ‘aven’t, - dearie. It’s them as should do the dyin’.” - </p> - <p> - After Ocky’s arrest a period of flatness followed. The uncertainty - which had kept the household nervous and hoping for the best no longer - buoyed them up. Until they heard that Waffles had been sentenced, they - could make no plans for Jehane’s future. Barrington placed money at - his disposal for his defence and went to see him once. He never disclosed - what happened; but his face was ashen when he returned. All that evening, - when anyone spoke to him, he seemed to have to wake before he could - answer. Next morning he told Jehane, “Ocky wants to see you.” - She shook her head. “He’s dragged me low enough. I never - intend to see him again.” - </p> - <p> - “If that’s the way you feel, you couldn’t help him; it’s - better that you shouldn’t visit him.” - </p> - <p> - She looked into the shrewd gray eyes fiercely. She wanted to find anger - there—she could resent anger; she found only quiet judgment. “You - don’t mean that you actually expected me to go to him?” - </p> - <p> - “I expected nothing, but he’s in trouble. You’ve given - him children—he’s your husband. In all your years together - there must have been some hours that are sweet to remember. I did rather - hope that, now that he’s in trouble, you might have remembered them.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I don’t. I’m ashamed that I ever had them.” - </p> - <p> - “All right. It’s strange; but I think I understand. He still - loves you, Jehane, and you could have helped the chap.” - </p> - <p> - “Love! What’s the value of his love?” - </p> - <p> - “I think its value once was whatever you cared to make it.” - </p> - <p> - Later in the day he said to her, “And you wouldn’t let Glory - see him, I suppose? He mentioned her.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I wouldn’t. He’s not her father. Captain Spashett - was a gentleman.” - </p> - <p> - The children were never told what occurred at the trial; all they knew was - that the man who had laughed and played with them, who had loved the - sunshine so carelessly, was to be locked up for a time so long that it - seemed like the “ever and forever” of the Bible. It was like - burying someone who was not dead—they seemed to hear him tapping. - And they must not go to him; they must pretend they had not heard. He was - a thing to be shunned and forgotten. - </p> - <p> - Jehane was anxious to earn her living. But how? She had been trained to do - nothing. Barrington bought her a little cottage near Southgate, which at - this time was still in the country. Gradually he got into the habit of - letting her do a little outside reading for his firm—he did it to - enable her to pretend that she was self-supporting. To his surprise she - developed a faculty for the work and he began to trust her judgment. She - had inherited a literary instinct of which, during her married life, she - had remained unaware. It was a feeble instinct, but in the end it proved - sufficiently rewarding. She took to writing sentimental novelettes, which - found a market. Whatever her faults of heart, she had always been capable - and gifted with a strong sense of duty; so, now that she had found a means - of making money, she worked hard with her pen, stinting herself and - treating her children with foolish liberality. - </p> - <p> - Her chief regret was that Ocky had spoilt the marriage chances of her - girls; she tried to rub out this social stain by creating the impression - that her husband was dead. She had two extravagances—the purchase of - hair-tonics and a mania for visiting fortune-tellers. She had one great - hope—that in the future she might re-marry. This would entail Ocky’s - death; but she was not so cruel as to reason that out. She had one great - mission—to teach her daughters to catch men. Her chief theme of - conversation with her children was the wickedness of their father and the - heroic loyalty of her own conduct. No doubt there were times when her - conscience troubled her. - </p> - <p> - Peter was just fifteen and Kay was nearly nine when all this happened. It - made a deep impression on both of them, but especially on Peter. For - months the crushed shoulders and sunken face of Uncle Waffles haunted his - memory, so that it seemed a crime to be happy. He could not bear to enter - the stable; he was always expecting to hear a hoarse voice addressing him - in a whisper from the loft, calling him a ha’penny marvel or - enquiring whether he knew the story of the husband whose wife had black - hair. Often in the street he would turn sharply at the sight of some - shabby outcast, shuffling through the crowd with bowed head. He would run - to the window, hardly daring to own what he expected, when he heard the - mournful singing along the Terrace of a group of out-of-works: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “We’ve got no work to do, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - We’ve got no work to do; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - We’re all thrown out, poor labourin’ men, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And we’ve got no work to do.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Sooner or later he would recognize, he knew, in one of the tattered - singers his Uncle Waffles. Peter was suffering from a suddenly awakened - social conscience; he did not know enough to call it that. - </p> - <p> - It was partly because Barrington had observed and was distressed by his - boy’s sadness, that he granted his desire. He granted it to give him - a new interest. Peter had always dreamt of a day when he should polish up - the tandem tricycle, put Kay on the back seat and ride off with her into - the country. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Peter, I’ll let you do it if you’ll promise to be - very careful.” - </p> - <p> - It was early summer when these splendid adventures commenced. Peter had to - do all the work—Kay’s legs were too short to reach the pedals. - But what did he care? Just to have his little sister all to himself, - London dropping away behind and the world growing greener before him—what - more could a boy ask to make him happy? - </p> - <p> - The tandem trike was a clumsy solid-tired affair—desperately heavy - and beyond belief old-fashioned. Peter managed to accomplish six miles an - hour on it. The way out, along Green Lanes to Wood Green and up Jolly - Butcher’s Hill, would have been full of ignominy for anybody less - light-hearted. Kay’s flying hair and plunging legs would have - attracted attention had the tricycle been ever so new and handsome. - </p> - <p> - Errand-boys stood still and whistled after them. Tradesmen followed them - in their carts, offering to race them and grinning ridicule. Very - frequently insult set itself to the words of a street song then in - fashion: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “It won’t be a stylish marriage; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - For I can’t afford a carriage; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - But you’ll look sweet with your two little feet - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - On a tricycle made for two.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - What did Peter care? Ill-nature failed to touch him. Little boys who - pulled faces at him from the pavements, made long noses at him or stuck - out their tongues, did it in envy. He wished he could take them too. So he - and Kay turned their heads and threw back laughter. It was fun—all - fun. And then there was the anticipation of lunch; two shillings between - two people can buy so much. - </p> - <p> - Shortly after Jolly Butcher’s Hill the country began. At Southgate - they would stop to see their cousins. Riska affected to despise their - means of traveling. She was shooting up into a tall girl, like her mother; - she was darkly handsome and carried herself with a gipsy slouch. Jehane’s - philosophy, of teaching her girls how to catch men, was already beginning - to take effect. Outside the cottage-gate she had a little table from which - she sold ginger-beer to Cockney cyclists. She did it to make pocket-money; - even as a child, by this means of introduction she gathered about her a - group of boy-lovers. She was learning early how to attract when she cared. - Her mother was pleased by her foolish conquests—in the rose-scented - air of the cottage garden they seemed very guileless and humorous. In the - presence of men, whatever their years, Riska invariably tried to - fascinate. - </p> - <p> - “It’s an instinct with her, the little puss,” said - Barrington; “she even tries to make love to her old uncle.” - </p> - <p> - It was a subject for laughter in the family. - </p> - <p> - On these short visits Kay and Peter saw hardly anything of Glory—she - was doing the work. Just as they were going she would come out from the - kitchen, untying her apron, or would pop her head out of a bedroom window - to shake a duster and smile at them. Then, as the pedals began to turn, - Riska would sing half-tauntingly, and Eustace and Moggs would join in with - her pipingly: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - I ‘m half-crazy, all for the love of you. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - It won’t be a stylish marriage, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - For I can’t afford a carriage, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - But you’ll look sweet-” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The words would be lost as the tricycle lumbered into the sunshine between - the hedges. - </p> - <p> - Kay used to say, when she was very little, that the gladness went into her - feet when she was happy. On these expeditions it went everywhere, into her - feet, her eyes, her lips, her hands. She did the things that boys do, and - yet she had the sweetness of a girl. She ran like a boy and she swam like - a boy. She was a darling and a puzzle to Peter; he could never make her - out. He was always trying to put her dearness into words and always - failing. - </p> - <p> - “Your voice is like the laughter of birds,” he said. “But - why do you love me so much, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - He slanted his eyes. “Because I borned you.” He knew better - than that now. - </p> - <p> - Sometimes they spoke of their cousins. - </p> - <p> - “I did something horrid this morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t believe it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but yes. I was brushing the dust off my shoes in the kitchen, - and what do you think I found?” - </p> - <p> - “Hurry up and tell me.” - </p> - <p> - “That Glory hadn’t had time to eat her breakfast and that some - of the dust had gone into her plate of porridge.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Peter! How careless! Did you tell her?” - </p> - <p> - “She came in and saw it. You’d never guess what she said.—‘Never - mind, old boy. One’s got to eat a peck o’ dirt before one - dies. So mother says.’ And she took a spoon and——-” - </p> - <p> - “And ate it?” - </p> - <p> - Peter nodded, trying to look penitent, but laughing. - </p> - <p> - Then Kay became grave-eyed and asked one of her questions. “But do - you?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you what?” - </p> - <p> - “Have to eat a peck of dirt before you die?” - </p> - <p> - Peter wriggled his toes in his shoes and looked down to see them moving. - “Don’t know. You and I don’t. But that’s what - Glory says.” - </p> - <p> - Having learnt to walk like a boy, Kay learnt to whistle. One hot summer’s - afternoon they had ridden out and were lying on their backs in a field - tall with grass, nearly ready for cutting. Peter had almost drowsed with - the heavy smell of the wild flowers, when he sat up suddenly and seized - his sister by the arm quite roughly. She was only whistling a little tune - softly and was surprised at the strength he used. - </p> - <p> - “Peterkins, what’s the matter? You’re hurting. I’m - sure you’ve made a bruise.” - </p> - <p> - He paid no attention to her protest. “Where’d you learn that?” - </p> - <p> - “What?” - </p> - <p> - “That tune you were whistling?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t know. Just made it up, I suppose. I never heard it.” - </p> - <p> - “But you must have.” - </p> - <p> - “But I haven’t, Peter.” She was frightened by his - earnestness, mistaking it for anger. - </p> - <p> - “Did you never hear it in the cupboard in the bedroom—the one - that was yours and mine?” - </p> - <p> - She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. “You’re joking.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m not. I’m in dead seriousness.” - </p> - <p> - The tears came. “I’m telling the truth. I never knew it till - this moment.” - </p> - <p> - “Whistle it again.” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t. I forget it.” - </p> - <p> - As the children’s legs grew stronger they went further afield, - conquering new territory, exploring all kinds of dusty lanes and by-roads. - They had turned off from Potter’s Bar to Northaw, working round - through Gough’s Oak to Cheshunt when they were hailed by a freckled - boy, about Peter’s age, who sat astride a gate, playing a - mouth-organ. - </p> - <p> - “Hey, kids! Want to buy anything?” - </p> - <p> - They jammed on the brakes and addressed him from the trike. “Got - anything to sell?” - </p> - <p> - “Nope. Just wanted to talk and had to say something.” - </p> - <p> - “But who are you?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve lived in America and now I’m living here in Friday - Lane. I’ve often seen you go by.” - </p> - <p> - They looked round to discover Friday Lane; on every side was a sweep of - country, rolling away in sun-dazzled fields and basking woodlands. - </p> - <p> - “But—but it’s lonely here.” - </p> - <p> - “Yup. But it’s lonelier where I come from. Nothing but Indians - and prairie.” - </p> - <p> - Even Indians didn’t turn them aside; they were trying to unravel the - mystery of Friday Lane. - </p> - <p> - “Is this road the Lane?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s the Lane.” The boy pointed with a brown hand to - a grass-grown field-track starting from the gate on which he sat and - vanishing between a line of tall oaks—oaks which had probably been - standing when the land was part of the royal chase. - </p> - <p> - “But there aren’t any houses.” - </p> - <p> - The boy laughed. “Oh, aren’t there? There’s our house, - right over there, out of sight.” - </p> - <p> - “And who are you?” Kay and Peter asked together. - </p> - <p> - “I’m Harry Arran and the house belongs to my brother. He’s - the Faun Man; I kind o’ look after him and keep him straight. He’s - a wonder; you’d be lucky if you knew him.” - </p> - <p> - “We’d like to know him. We’d both like to know him very - much.” Again they spoke together. - </p> - <p> - The boy thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed them. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t know so much about that. I’m very particular - about my brother. I don’t let him know just anybody.” - </p> - <p> - He twisted round on the gate, turning his back on them, and re-commenced - playing, giving them plainly to understand that their too eager interest - in his family affairs had made conversation undesirable. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXV—THE HAPPY COTTAGE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the way in - which the boy had said “just anybody.” Peter gazed beyond the - gate into the green mysterious depth of country—an Eden from which - he was excluded by that hostile back. His eyes followed Friday Lane: it - ran on, trees, sunshine and shadows, tremulous with the wings of birds, a - canopied track, across fields, into the heart of wooded fairyland. What - promises lay over there? A voice of ecstasy kept calling. - </p> - <p> - Reluctantly he set his feet against the pedals, glanced across his - shoulder to Kay and was going to have said— - </p> - <p> - Something that glistened shot down her cheek and swiftly vanished. - </p> - <p> - Very deliberately he dismounted. Yankee-Doodle, or a tune not unlike it, - was being played at the moment. He thumped the student of the mouth-organ - in the place from which Eve was created. Kay, all legs, flushed face and - blown hair, watched from the back seat of the trike the novel sight of her - brother being violent. - </p> - <p> - The boy tumbled from his perch, putting the gate between himself and - Peter. Yankee-Doodle ended abruptly—the mouth-organ slipped from his - hand. The freckled good humor of his face changed to an expression of - amused and fierce intelligence. It was his way to be amused when he was - angry or in danger—Kay and Peter were to learn that later. He bobbed - in the grass, recovered his fallen treasure, rubbed it on his sleeve, - stuffed it into his knickerbockers’ pocket and grimaced across the - rail. - </p> - <p> - “You’re a fresh kid.” - </p> - <p> - Peter removed his cap; his curly hair fell about his forehead. “You’ve - made my sister cry,” he said. His hands were clenched. - </p> - <p> - One leg hopped over the gate; then another. “I haven’t,” - the boy denied stoutly. - </p> - <p> - “You have. You called her ‘just anybody.’” - </p> - <p> - The boy stepped into the road—a pugnacious little figure. “Pshaw! - What of it? Girls cry for nothing.” - </p> - <p> - Peter drew himself erect. “My sister doesn’t.” - </p> - <p> - The boy raised his eyes and met Kay’s. Ashamed of himself, but more - ashamed of showing it, he spoke stubbornly, “She’s doing it - now.” - </p> - <p> - There was silence. A small strained voice, which sounded not at all like - Peter’s, said, “I never hurt people. I never fought in my - life. But if I did ever fight, I’d like to punch your head. And—and - I think I could do it.” - </p> - <p> - The boy lost his shame and became happy. “Guess you can’t. - Anyhow, why don’t you have a shot at it?” - </p> - <p> - Without waiting for a reply, he commenced to take off his coat and to roll - up his shirt-sleeves. He did it with an air of competence which was - calculated to intimidate. All the while he carried on a monologue. “So - he’d like to punch my head—<i>my</i> head. Why, I could get - his goat by just looking at him. In America I’ve licked boys twice - his size, and they hadn’t curly hair, either.” He faced Peter, - doubling his fore-arm, and inviting him to feel his muscle. “See - that. Say, kid, I’m sorry for you.—Ready?” - </p> - <p> - Peter nodded; before his nod had ended something hit him on the nose. He - threw up his arms to defend himself, but the something seemed all about - him. Always smiling into his own was the freckled face of a pleasant - looking boy—so pleasant that it was hard to believe that it was he - who was doing the hurting. And Peter—he hit back valiantly; but - somewhere at the back of his brain he kept on seeing pictures of the boy - dead. It was disconcerting; every now and then, when he should have - pressed home his advantage, he shortened his blows intentionally, with the - strong weakness of the humanitarian. - </p> - <p> - A bird rose twittering out of a hedge. From a meadow across the road, a - cow hung its mild head over, looked shocked, switched its tail - disapprovingly, mooed loudly, swung round and lumbered away uncertainly, - like a distressed old lady with gathered skirts, in a futile endeavor to - bring help. - </p> - <p> - Peter saw it all. His faculties were unnaturally and desperately alert. It - was odd how time lengthened its minutes—how much he saw and heard: - the deep blue stillness of sky-lagoons, the foam and wash of traveling - clouds, the erect and listening quiet of tree-sentinels and hedges, and, - somewhere out of sight, the sigh-sigh-sighing of wind in distant country. - </p> - <p> - There was a cry behind him. How long had he been fighting? He could not - guess. Between himself and the boy rushed a little girl. Her small hands - commenced to beat the boy furiously. She could not speak; she was choked - with sobbing. The boy’s arms fell to his side; he let her aim her - puny blows at his impudent face, making no attempt to stop her. Suddenly - she swayed and sank into the flowers at the side of the road. Peter - stooped; his arms went about her. The boy looked on, gazing from these - strange invaders to the waiting trike. It was he who was excluded now. He - wanted to say something—opened his mouth several times and halted. - At last he stumbled out the words. - </p> - <p> - “I’m—I’m sorry. And you’re not just anybody.” - And then, “I say, you’re plucky ‘uns—won’t - you shake hands?” - </p> - <p> - The bird came back to the hedge and dropped into its nest. The cow, having - sought help in vain, looked distractedly into the road and saw a boy - pushing open a gate, while another boy, a little bruised and battered, - pushed an ancient tandem tricycle into a meadow, and a small girl, with - flushed face and blowy corn-colored hair, dabbed her eyes furtively with - the hem of her dress. - </p> - <p> - The trike had to be hidden. It was unlikely, but always possible, that it - might be coveted by tramps. Friday Lane lay before them. The boy turned to - them with abrupt frankness. “Here, what your names?” - </p> - <p> - “Mine’s Peter, and my sister’s is Kay.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, Peter, I guess I hit harder than I meant. But—but I - reckon you could have punched my head if you’d chosen. Didn’t - get warmed up to the work before she stopped us—was that it?” - </p> - <p> - They were up to their knees in the meadow-world; the air was full of kind - new fragrances. Peter’s eyes were dreamy. The boy rambled on, - leading deeper into the avenue of oaks, so that already the first - straggling fringe of woods commenced. “My brother’s like that. - In Alaska, when the dogs took to fighting, he’d just stand still and - laugh and holler at them. Then, all of a sudden, when he saw that they - were eating one another, he’d go clean mad and wade in among ‘em - and lay ‘em out with the butt of his rifle. He’s a wonder, my - brother.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure he is,” said Peter, and Kay, trotting closely - by his side, repeated his words to show her interest. - </p> - <p> - The boy, flattered by the attention of his audience, with the treachery of - the born story-teller, sharpened their appetite by suspense. He wagged his - head mysteriously. “I could tell you heaps about him if you were to - come here often.” - </p> - <p> - He waited to see what effect that would have. Kay had been hiding behind - her brother, clinging to his hand. Now she came level with him, bending - her face across him so that she could meet the eyes of the boy. She asked, - “May we, Peter? Do you think we can?” - </p> - <p> - “Not often,” said Peter guardedly; “but as often as we - can.” - </p> - <p> - The boy held out a further inducement. “One day I might show him to - you. He’s like that with dogs and—and especially with girls: - laughs at ‘em, hollers at ‘em, and then——-. He’s - the most glad-eyed chap that ever came down the pike, I reckon. That’s - what gives me all my trouble.” - </p> - <p> - Neither Kay nor Peter knew exactly what was meant. So Peter said, “You’ve - been everywhere, haven’t you? And we—we just tricycle out and——” - </p> - <p> - The boy had drawn his mouth-organ from his pocket and was playing, - stamping his feet and swaying his body. Suddenly he stopped and his voice - took up the air: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “I’ve been shipwrecked off Patagonia, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Home and Colonia, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Antipodonia; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - I’ve shot cannibals, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Funny looking animals, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Top-knot coons; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - I’ve bought diamonds twenty a penny there, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - I’ve been somewhere, nowhere, anywhere— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And I’m the wise, wise man of the - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Wide, wide world.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - They gazed at him wide-eyed in the hushed summer woodland. Then they beat - their hands together, crying, “Oh, again, again, please.” - </p> - <p> - The boy smiled tantalizingly. “Can you climb?” He shot the - question out. The next moment he was scrambling up a tall oak. Sometimes - his body was lost in leaves. Sometimes it sounded as though he were - tumbling, tumbling through the branches to the ground. At last, from a - bough high up where the sky commenced, his impish face gazed down on them. - First they heard the mouth-organ, then the voice, singing of somewhere, - nowhere, anywhere—of the splendidly imagined No-Man’s-Land - through which every child has longed to wander. - </p> - <p> - And they believed his song, as though it were autobiography. In a - picture-flash they saw the world, beautiful, tumultuous, full of terrors—saw - it as a vast balloon, swimming through eternal clouds, painted with the - dreams of young desire: islands in sun-drenched seas, where palms stood - motionless, pointing to the skies with silent hands; countries of yellow - men, small and crafty, who lived in paper houses and fed on flowers; - enfeebled cities, dazzlingly white, whose eyes had been burnt out by the - door of hell left open in the iron heavens; and snow-deserts where the - frost carved Titans with his breath. - </p> - <p> - This freckled pugnacious master of the mouth-organ, - </p> - <p> - This pugnacious master of the mouth organ, caroling a street song in the - tree-turrets of Friday Lane, became for them the embodied soul of - adventure. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0243.jpg" alt="0243m " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0243.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - The boy came slithering down. Kay watched him, how he dangled by his arms, - caught on with his legs, dug in with his toes, got himself completely - dirty and always saved himself at the last moment from falling. - </p> - <p> - He dropped breathless at their feet. “It’s fine up there. - Different from down here. Up there it belongs to anybody.” - </p> - <p> - Kay wasn’t quite sure that she approved of him. He had ripped his - coat, and it didn’t seem quite kind to give his mother so much work. - She spoke reproachfully. “D’you like tearing your clothes?” - </p> - <p> - He gazed at her out of the corners of his eyes with a sly expression. - “I don’t mind. Don’t need to mind—my clothes are - magic. They mend themselves.” - </p> - <p> - “Mend themselves!” She tugged at Peter, to see in what spirit - he was accepting this amazing assertion. “Why, how wonderful!” - And then, reluctant to show doubt, “But—but how can they?” - </p> - <p> - The boy grinned broadly. “Not really, you know—just pretence. - I—I mend them myself. I’m an awful liar. Come on now.” - </p> - <p> - Confession had made him self-conscious; he darted ahead. Kay and Peter - followed slowly. He turned. “Aren’t you coming?” - </p> - <p> - It was Peter who answered. “But to where?” - </p> - <p> - “To where I live—the Happy Cottage.” - </p> - <p> - Was this also pretence? The name sounded too good to be true—and yet - it was the kind of name you tried to believe, despite yourself. - </p> - <p> - The boy left the grassy avenue and broke into the undergrowth of woods. He - went in front, parting the branches for Kay. He explained to them, “Friday - Lane’s shorter, you know; but this other way’s heaps jollier.” - </p> - <p> - Presently above the rustle of their passage they heard a little singing - sound. Sometimes it grew quite loud and near them; sometimes it died away - into the merest breath. - </p> - <p> - It was like someone who was almost asleep, humming over and over the first - two notes of a tune that refused to be remembered. Kay snuggled her hand - into Peter’s; she was a little scared. Everything was so dark and - eerie. The sound drew near and seemed to slip away from under her very - feet. She cried out; it was as though someone had touched her and had - vanished before she could turn round. - </p> - <p> - The boy heard her cry and looked back. He nodded reassuringly. “It’s - always doing that—plays no end of pranks. You needn’t be - frightened; it won’t hurt you.” - </p> - <p> - “But what is it? What won’t hurt you?” Peter asked - almost angrily. - </p> - <p> - The boy laid his finger on his lips. “The wood’s haunted. That’s - the queen fairy calling. There are all kinds of fairies hidden about here. - When you see them, they turn into rabbits and birds, and——” - Because Kay had covered her face, he stopped. “I’m—I’m - an ass. It isn’t really, you know. I just tell myself that.” - </p> - <p> - “Then what is it?” asked Peter, slightly awed, for the voice - kept on singing. - </p> - <p> - The boy laughed. “It’s the tiniest little river that’s - lost itself. It creeps about under the bushes and wriggles through the - leaves on its tummy, trying to find a way out.” - </p> - <p> - “And does it find it?” asked Kay, plucking up her courage. - </p> - <p> - “You bet you. Wait till we get to the Happy Cottage.” And all - of a sudden they got there. It was as though the little river had led - them, for just where they broke out into the sunlight it rushed past them, - flashing silver and singing merrily, with all the words of its song - remembered. At first they saw a green, green stretch of grass, over which - the yellow of cowslips drifted like blown gold-dust. Then they saw Friday - Lane, with its tall oaks holding back the woods, like big policemen - marshaling a crowd when a procession is expected. And then they saw the - Happy Cottage—a bee-hive, with low-thatched roof, set down in a - refuge of flowers. It had one chimney, from which smoke was lazily - ascending; and it must be logs that the fire was burning, for the air was - filled with the indescribable homey smell that sets one dreaming of all - the country cottages, tucked away in gardens, and all the summer happiness - he has ever chanced on. - </p> - <p> - They followed the little stream right up to the high hedge which went - about the Happy Cottage; they crossed it by a plank, pushed open a gate - and entered. Flowers, flowers everywhere and the banjo-music of bees - humming. A red-tiled path, moss-grown and edged with box, led through a - wilderness of beauty, comfortably untrimmed and neglected. The door of the - cottage stood open; across its threshold lay a Great Dane, which rose up - and growled at sound of their footsteps. The boy called to him, “All - right, Canute, old dog. Come here, old fellow.” - </p> - <p> - Canute came with the solemn suspicion of majesty, ignoring the strangers, - and placed his great head against his master’s breast, gazing up - attentively. - </p> - <p> - “Canute, this is Kay and this is Peter. They’re my friends. - You’ve got to look after them. D’you understand?” - </p> - <p> - The dog blinked his eyes and turned away indifferently, as much as to say, - “Your friends! Humph! We’ll see. Very sudden!” - </p> - <p> - “He’s always like that with newcomers,” said the boy. - “He’s very particular about my brother. Guess he’s - thinking what I said, that he don’t let the Faun Man know just - anybody.” Fearful lest he should have given offence, he made haste - to add, “But you’re not just anybody any longer.” - </p> - <p> - The door opened without ceremony directly into the living-room. The leaded - windows were pushed back; roses stared in and bent inquisitively across - the sills, spilling their petals. The house was silent; it was like - stealing into someone’s heart when the soul was absent. Guns on the - walls, brilliant little sketches, golf-sticks in a corner, old oak - furniture, a mandolin lying in a chair—everything betrayed the room’s - habitation by a strong and alluring personality. Peter, looking round, - became conscious of a spirit of loneliness and yearning. On the walls were - pictures of many beautiful women, but in the house itself were no signs of - a woman’s hands. - </p> - <p> - The boy explained. “He’s not here to-day. He’s gone to - town. This is where we play; it’s upstairs that he works.” He - volunteered no information concerning the task at which the Faun Man - worked. Casting his eyes round the walls, he said, “Those are all - his girls. Pretty! Oh, yes. But they give me an awful lot of trouble. Want - some tea? Yes?” - </p> - <p> - He went out into the kitchen at the back. He let the children follow him, - but refused their offers of help. “I’m a rare little cook, I - can tell you. Had to be on our ranch in America—there was no one - else. You just watch me.” - </p> - <p> - But Kay had been thinking. She had supposed that there were mothers - everywhere—that every boy had a——. She said, “Where - are your mother and sisters?” - </p> - <p> - He looked up from toasting some bread. “Haven’t any.” - </p> - <p> - She laid her hand on his arm. “But—but didn’t you ever - have any?” - </p> - <p> - He answered cheerfully, not at all sorry for himself, “Nope. Not - that I remember.” - </p> - <p> - She glanced at her brother. “Peter and I’ve always been - together.” - </p> - <p> - Peter added, “So that’s why you thought girls cried for - nothing? You don’t know anything about them. I shouldn’t have - been angry.” - </p> - <p> - The boy winked joyfully. “Oh, don’t I know anything! Leave - that to the Faun Man. I know just as much as I want to. But say, I’d - have liked to have had your sister for my sister. I really would have.” - </p> - <p> - Kay leant over his shoulder as he knelt before the fire. “If I were - your sister, d’you know what I’d do for you? I’d tell - you not to climb trees and, if you did do it, I’d mend your clothes - for you.” - </p> - <p> - He told them something of his history as they sat at table. How he’d - left England with his brother when he was so little that he couldn’t - remember. How he’d lived on a cattle ranch and knew how to ride - anything. He tried to make them understand the freedom and the - solitariness of his life in those wide stretches, where there weren’t - any street lamps but only stars, and where one gazed on green-gray grass - for miles and never saw a single house. And he told them of the places he - had been to—the queerly natural ghost corners of the earth, Alaska, - Mexico and the South Sea Islands. Every now and then his imagination would - gallop away with him. Then he’d twist his head and stoop forward, as - if listening for the first expression of doubt. Before it came, he would - try to forestall it by saying, “You know, that last part’s not - really.” - </p> - <p> - When he had said it several times Kay laughed softly. The boy looked up, a - little offended. “What is it?” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes were dancing with happiness. “You’re—you’re - a very pretence person, aren’t you? Peter and I, we’re - pretence persons. We’re always going to one place and telling - ourselves we’re going somewhere else.” - </p> - <p> - The boy sank his head between his hands. His words came timidly. “It - makes one happy to pretend, especially when one’s always been - lonely. It’s like climbing a tall tree—it belongs to anyone up - there.” He turned slowly, staring at his guests. They wondered what - was in his mind. At last he said, “I wish—I wish you’d - call me Harry. And please don’t tell me where you come from. Let’s - be pretence persons—— I’d like to be your friend.” - </p> - <p> - With the quaint solemnity of childhood, they clasped hands. Outside the - bees played their banjo-music, the flowers whispered, laying their faces - close together, and the stream ran singing past the cottage, with all the - words of its song remembered. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVI—THE HAUNTED WOOD - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ife at its - beginning and its end is bounded by a haunted wood. When no one is - watching, children creep back to it to play with the fairies and to listen - to the angels’ footsteps. As the road of their journey lengthens, - they return more rarely. Remembering less and less, they build themselves - cities of imperative endeavor. But at night the wood comes marching to - their walls, tall trees moving silently as clouds and little trees - treading softly. The green host halts and calls—in the voice of - memory, poetry, religion, legend or, as the Greeks put it, in the faint - pipes and stampeding feet of Pan. - </p> - <p> - We have all heard it. Out of fear of ridicule we do not talk about it. Do - we revisit the wood, it is when sleep, or the dream of death, has claimed - us and made us again children. - </p> - <p> - Because secrecy adds to happiness, Kay and Peter told no one of their - discovery. In the early morning they would tricycle out through red-brick - suburbs, where nurse-girls wheeled fretful babies in prams and wondered - what love meant. Having spent their day in fairyland, they would tricycle - back through those same brick suburbs where tethered people found romance - in twilit reality. They almost feared to speak aloud of their doings, lest - speech should break the spell—lest, were they to tell, they might - search in vain for Friday Lane, Canute, and Harry of the mouth-organ, and - find them vanished. - </p> - <p> - On their first visits they did not meet the Faun Man; in proportion as - they failed to meet him, they grew more curious about him. Sometimes they - were quite certain he was there, but Harry—— He was strangely - reluctant to share him—as reluctant as Peter was to share his - sister. And yet, in-all the rest of his secrets he was generous. He showed - them how to find beneath stones in the river the homes of fishes—tiny - fellows, who darted away with agitated tails the moment you took the roofs - off their houses. And he showed them how you could make whistles out of - boughs, if you chose the right ones. He taught them to mimick the notes of - birds, so that they would follow through the woods, answering and hopping, - twisting from side to side their perky heads. He was the Pied Piper of the - open world, and willing to make them his confederates. “Where—where - did you learn?” They asked him. Sometimes he looked away from them, - narrowing his eyes; sometimes he answered, “The Faun Man—he - taught me.” So the Faun Man became a kind of god, whose handiwork - was seen in many wonders, but who never showed himself. - </p> - <p> - It was a scorching afternoon. In London water-carts were going up and - down; the less refined portion of mankind had removed their collars and - had knotted handkerchiefs about their necks. Along Green Lanes and as far - as Jolly Butcher’s Hill, costers tempted villadom to extravagance, - crying, “Strarberries. Fresh strarberries,” in voices grown - cracked from over-use and thirst. It made one’s throat dry to listen - to them. The tricycle seemed to feel its weight of years; despite frequent - oiling, it insisted on running heavily. At Aunt Jehane’s house they - halted for a rest; then, on again. The country drowsed: big trees in the - meadows seemed to fold their hands; birds had hidden themselves; there was - scarcely a sound. - </p> - <p> - When they came to the gate leading into Friday Lane, Harry wasn’t - there. Pushing the machine behind a hedge, they went in search of him. - They called his name and paused to listen. He had tricked them before, - trying to make them believe that they wouldn’t find him, then - startling them into laughter by playing his mouth-organ in a tree right - above their heads. They persuaded themselves that that was what was - happening now. Every few steps they would stop and look up into the - boughs, shouting, “We’ve found you. We know where you’re - hiding. You may as well come down.” If he heard them, he refused to - fall into their trap. - </p> - <p> - They came to the Haunted Wood and entered. In its dark green shadows, - where all things trod softly, they dared not shout. They whispered their - assertion that they had guessed his whereabouts. Only the little river - answered, now mocking them secretly, now babbling hoarsely, alarmed that - it would never get out. They began to tiptoe. Fear of the silence seized - them. A branch cracked; they only just saved themselves from running. It - seemed as though a magician had waved his wand, casting a spell; - everything slept. Everything except the river—and at last, because - its voice was solitary, it became terrible, like that of a dying man in a - shuttered room, who muttered deliriously and tossed upon his bed. - </p> - <p> - The green stretch of grass, with the cowslips scattered over it, brought - relief to their suspense. But, here again, there was no welcome. Bees - hummed above the flowers, quite indifferent to their presence. The - bee-hive cottage stood with door and windows wide, as though its - inhabitants had been called away suddenly and would never return. Beneath - the smiling of the summer stillness lay the threat that something evil had - happened. Even Canute had vanished. - </p> - <p> - They stole round the house and at last crossed the threshold. Everything - was as they remembered it, even to the mandolin lying across the chair. - They listened. Voices! Yes, certainly. Then laughter, clear and pleasant; - it broke off in the middle, as if someone paused for breath. It came from - the Faun Man’s room overhead, which Harry had never invited them to - enter. Hand-in-hand they’ climbed the stairs—steep and narrow - stairs, which ended abruptly in a white door. They tapped. A man answered. - Peter raised the latch. - </p> - <p> - The ceiling sloped down from the centre, giving to the room the appearance - of a tent. There were two lattice-windows, on opposite sides, which opened - outward on to the thatch. Against one of them stood a desk, littered with - papers, from which a rush-bottomed chair had been pushed back. A pen, - lying on a sheet of partly written foolscap, had rolled across it, leaving - blots, as if the writer had put it down and turned hastily at the sound of - someone’s entrance. In one corner of the room there was a - high-peaked saddle and on the walls a strange collection of memories and - travel—a study of a girl’s head by Rossetti, old Indian - muskets used in frontier warfares, a pair of sabres, a college oar with - the names of the crew gilded on it, and everywhere the faces of women. - Among them one face occurred often—Peter had noticed its frequence - on the walls downstairs. And now he saw the living woman before him. - </p> - <p> - She was dressed in white, lying on a rose-colored couch, stretched out - carelessly full-length, with her small feet crossed. Her age might have - been anywhere from twenty upward. It didn’t matter—one forgot - years and only thought of youth in looking at her. Was not Helen past - mid-life when two continents went to war for her beauty? Somehow she - reminded one of Helen—was it the way in which experience mixed with - artlessness in her expression? The mind went back. Dr. Faustus might have - addressed his sonorous lines to her: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Was this the face that launched a thousand ships? - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Her lips suck forth my soul, see where it flies: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - She was golden, splendidly negligent of what was happening about her, - insolently languid with a lazy ease that seemed to take all the world into - her confidence and actually shut all the world out. She was a lonely tower - of snow and ice, rosy in the sunlight, luring, cold and inaccessible. Her - eyes were intensely blue and innocent. She had fine teeth and an almost - childish mouth, which was contradicted by the powerful molding of her chin - and throat, and the capability of her hands. One wondered what difference - it would make to her if she were ever to be roused by love or anger. She - was built on heroic lines, long and full and gracious, yet she seemed to - prefer to be treated as a plaything. One arm was curled beneath her golden - head, the other hung down listlessly and was held by a man who was - pressing the hand to his mouth. Peter noticed in a flash how the woman - paid no attention to what the man was doing. And the man—— - </p> - <p> - Peter had never seen anyone quite like him. He was tall and strong and - slender. Even though he was kneeling, Peter knew that he must be of great - height. His face was smooth, lean and tanned. His lips were thin—unusually - red and delicate for a man’s. His nose was straight and arched at - the nostrils. His ears were set far back and pointed. But it was by his - eyes that Peter recognized him as the Faun Man. They were brown and filmed - over with blue like a dog’s, showing scarcely any white. They had a - dumb appeal in them, a hunger and melancholy because of something which - was never found, which the eager happiness of the rest of his appearance - disguised. They had a trick of veiling themselves, of becoming dull and - focusless, as though the spirit, whose windows they were, had drawn down - the blinds and lay drugged with sleep and satiety. Then suddenly they - would flash, become torches, all enthusiasm, crying out that there was no - truce in the forward march of desire. At such times the face became - extremely young—as young as his long fine hands. Only the black - hair, brushed straight back from the forehead without a parting, betrayed - his age by the gray which grew about the temples. - </p> - <p> - The golden woman withdrew her hand from his, and raised herself on her - elbow at the children’s entrance. She gazed at them doubtfully, like - a young pantheress disturbed. Her red mouth pouted. Her blue eyes feigned - a laughing shyness. Only one small foot, tapping against the other, told - of her impatience. “Oh, it isn’t—— I thought it - was Harry. Who are they, Lorie?” - </p> - <p> - Her voice was soft and caressing. She spoke in the “little language” - which mothers learn in the nursery. In her way of talking there was a - guttural quality which marked her foreign parentage. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man, unabashed by the unexpected company, bent toward her and - kissed her arm. “I don’t know,” he laughed. Then he - turned with a smile that was all courtesy and kindness, “Won’t - you tell us? Who are you?” - </p> - <p> - Peter didn’t answer at once. He was fascinated. He had never seen a - man’s ears move like that. As the Faun Man had asked his question, - his ears had pricked up as a dog’s do when he pays attention. And - then there was something about his voice—— It was so sad and - intense. - </p> - <p> - It hurt by its longing. It didn’t seem right to meet this man in a - house. Peter both distrusted and liked him—the way we do nature. - </p> - <p> - The white room became a blur as he gazed into the soft brown eyes. Woods - and meadows, seen distant in the sunlight, became flat like painted - canvases hung across the windows. Real things grew vague, or took on the - aspect of artificiality. The question came again. “Tell us, little - chap. Who are you?” - </p> - <p> - Peter’s brain cleared. “If you please, we’re friends of - Harry, the boy with the mouth-organ.” - </p> - <p> - The golden woman leant forward, resting her hand intimately on the Faun - Man’s shoulder. She was interested and her face became gentle. - “Harry’s friends! But we’re in disgrace with Harry. He’s - run away with Canute because—because he’s jealous. He wants - his big brother all to himself—— What shall we do with them, - Lorie? I think we’ll have to make them our pals.” - </p> - <p> - Kay had been hiding behind Peter in the doorway. She looked round him - timidly, still ready for escape. “But—but will Harry come - back?” - </p> - <p> - The concern in her voice made the woman clap her hands. “He always - comes back. Men always do come back, don’t they, Lorie?” She - slipped her feet off the couch and came across the room. “What a - dear little girl!” - </p> - <p> - Kay looked up at her, willing to be frightened. Then her arms reached up - and the woman stooped over her. “You’re nice,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Have you been here often?” It was the Faun Man speaking. - </p> - <p> - Peter thought. He tried to reckon. “Not often, but several times.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man took him by the shoulders, looking down on him. Seen that - way, from below, he seemed tremendously high. “You needn’t be - afraid, young ‘un; I’m not angry. You won’t get Harry - into a row. Where d’you come from?” - </p> - <p> - “Come from!” Peter laid his fingers on the thin brown hand. - “Would you mind very much if I didn’t tell? You see, Harry - doesn’t know. It’s such fun—we’re just pretence - people. We tricycle out from—from nowhere on a tandem, Kay and I. - And then we meet Harry and leave the trike behind a hedge and go into the - Haunted Wood together. You see, if Harry doesn’t know who we are, it’s - almost as though we were fairies, and as though he were a fairy, and we—— - You know what I mean: we meet in fairyland, and can do what we like with - the world.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man turned his head. “Eve, did you hear that? He wants to - do what he likes with the world. He’s one of us.” - </p> - <p> - But Eve had Kay on her lap and her lips were in her silky hair. Something - had happened to her—something difficult to express. She had melted. - With the child pressed against her bosom, she looked a mother—very - young and good. As the Faun Man watched her, his eyes became tender—oddly - tender. - </p> - <p> - “Eve. Eve.” - </p> - <p> - He went over to her and took her hand. She lifted her face to his. “If - you hadn’t kept me waiting——” He got no further. - </p> - <p> - There was a pause. - </p> - <p> - “I was thinking the same,” she said; “and yet——” - </p> - <p> - “And yet?” he questioned. - </p> - <p> - She drew Kay nearer to her. “Where’s the good of talking. We’ve - talked so often—so often.” - </p> - <p> - He went to the open window and stared out. A butterfly flew in and - alighted on his forehead. He took no notice; he stood rigid like a man of - stone. A little muscle in his cheek kept twitching; his arms hung straight - down and the fingers worked against the palms of his hands. Seen on either - side of him, in two narrow strips, was the basking unimprisoned country, - which rolled on marvelously, this visible landscape building into the - next, and the next into all the others that lay beyond the horizon, - continents, seas and wonderlands, like a carpet of ever-changing pattern - wrapped about the world for his feet to tread. And he, without bonds, was - a prisoner. - </p> - <p> - He swung round. To Peter’s surprise he was laughing. His dark face - was narrow in mockery. “Come on, young ‘un,” he said; - “let’s get out.” - </p> - <p> - He had to double himself up to pass down the low-ceilinged stairway. Peter - followed; in leaving the room, he glanced back. The golden woman had - raised her eyes—the eyes of a child who has been selfish and has - wounded itself. She was fondling Kay, as though she thought that her - kindness to the little girl would atone for her unkindness to the man. - </p> - <p> - As he crossed the living-room, the Faun Man picked up the mandolin from - the chair. He did not walk through the garden; he walked into it. That was - his way with everything. Leaving the path, he pressed waist-deep through - roses and fuchsias, scattering their blooms and petals. Like soldiers - approving his lawlessness, sunflowers swayed their golden heads and - nodded. Swarms of winged insects, whose homes he had disturbed, rose up in - busy protest. His face was wrinkled with determination to be glad—to - be glad whatever might lie in the future. In the heart of the fragrant - nature-world he halted, and sat down on the hard-baked earth. He looked - like a great supple hound with his legs crouched under him. Through the - walls of their house of leaves and blossoms they could see the window of - the room they had left. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man commenced to tune his mandolin. “Ever been in love, - Peter?” - </p> - <p> - The boy reddened. He didn’t know why he reddened. Perhaps he was - proud that he should be asked such a question. Perhaps he was a little - angry because—well, because everyone he had ever met seemed a little - ashamed of love—everyone except the Faun Man. So he answered, - “Only with my little sister.” - </p> - <p> - The man laughed. “That isn’t what I meant. That’s - different. Love’s something that burns and freezes. It fills you and - leaves you hungry. It makes you forget all other affections and keeps you - always remembering itself. It makes you kindest when it’s most - cruel. It demands everything you possess; and you’re most eager to - give when it gives you nothing back. It’s hell and it’s - heaven. No, I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a small child - pulling the wings off a fly, and then crying because it’s sorry, and - didn’t know what it was doing. Ah, Peter, Peter, you haven’t - met love yet.” He bent forward and tapped him on the arm. “Be - wise. Run away when you see love coming.” - </p> - <p> - Peter felt embarrassed. The Faun Man closed one eye and watched him—watched - how the sun splashed through the creeping shadows and fell on the boy’s - flushed face and curly hair. “Here’s a little song about love,” - he said. “A very high class song, written not improbably by the poet - Shelley.” - </p> - <p> - He struck the strings of the mandolin, playing a little jingling - introduction and then commenced, lifting his long face to the window in - the thatch, singing through his nose and burlesquing all that had - happened: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “If yer gal ain’t all yer thought ‘er, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And fer everyfing yer’ve bought ‘er - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - She don’t seem to care a ‘appenny pot o’ glue; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - If she tells yer she won’t miss yer - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And she doesn’t want ter kiss yer, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Though yer’ve cuddled ‘er from ‘Ammersmif ter Kew; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - If yer little side excurshiums - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - To lands of pink nasturtiums - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Don’t make ‘er ‘arf so soft as they make you, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Why, never get down-’earted, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - For that’s the way love started— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Adam ended wery ‘appy—and that’s true.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - He had scarcely finished, when the golden woman came to the lattice in the - thatch. She stood framed there, with the whiteness of the room as a - background. Her hands were crossed upon her breast. The shining masses, - wrapped about her head and forehead, accentuated her vivid paleness. She - looked as idealized as a girl on canvas, put there by her lover in a bid - for immortality. She glanced this way and that to discover the Faun Man. - She leant out, listening and searching. She could not detect him. - </p> - <p> - “Lorie,” she cried, addressing the garden, “you’re - unkind. I hate you when you’re flippant.” She waited for him - to answer. Nothing but silence, and the little river whispering to itself - beyond the hedge. “Lorie, I suppose you think I’ve got no - right to talk about being flippant, because—— But I’m - not flippant. I like you, and—— But I can’t help myself - if God made me as I am.” Again she waited. “Lorie, I’ll - be awfully nice to you if you’ll only show yourself. I do so want to - see——” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man stood up ecstatically, with his arms stretched out to her. It - was absurd to call him a man. The pollen of flowers had smirched his face - and hands. His head was bare, and the hair had fallen forward over his - forehead. - </p> - <p> - “I’m crying for the moon,” he chanted, “and - because she won’t come down to me I’m calling her names—saying - that she’s a Gorgonzola cheese flying through the heavens.” - </p> - <p> - “My Lord,” laughed the golden woman—she pronounced it - Looard, in her most foreign accent; “what an imagination you have!” - </p> - <p> - “Jump down,” urged the Faun Man; “I’ll catch you, - little Eve. I’d catch you and carry you anywhere.” - </p> - <p> - She thought and slowly shook her head, as if she had been considering his - suggestion as a feasible, if unconventional, plan of descent. “I’d - rather trust the stairs.” - </p> - <p> - “You’d rather trust anything than trust me,” he said - ruefully; “but I don’t care, so long as you do come down.” - She was leaving the window, when she turned back. “What was that - silly song you were singing?” - </p> - <p> - He answered her promptly. “Words by Shelley. Accompanied by Lorenzo - Arran. Title, ‘A Bloke and ‘is ‘Arriet.’ Scene - laid in London. All rights reserved.” She pulled a face, exceedingly - provocative and naughty. “Words by Shelley, indeed! But I can - believe all the rest.” - </p> - <p> - She vanished. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man turned to Peter. “You see, young fellow, it’s as - I told you. Love’s always like that. It comes to a window and looks - down at you. You hold out your arms to it and say, I want you.’ Love - came to the window that you might say that; but the moment you say it, - love shakes its head. If you told it to walk decently down the stairs to - you, it would immediately fling itself over the sill and toboggan down the - thatch. You’re fool enough to say to it, ‘Slide down the - thatch,’ and it immediately walks decently down the stairs. If I - were you, Peter, I’d never fall in love with anybody.” - </p> - <p> - Then Peter surprised himself; he mimicked something he had just heard. - “My Looard!” he said, “I’m never going to.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man held his sides and threw back his head, laughing loudly. That - was how the golden woman found him when she came with her arm about Kay’s - neck. She halted on the path, six feet away, smiling at him across the - barricade of flowers. She cuddled the little girl closer to her. “Aren’t - men funny, Kay?” And then, slanting her face and stooping with her - neck, “Lorie, you queer boy, what’s the matter now?” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man waded through the roses to her, catching her by the shoulders - and bending over her. “Peter’s the matter. I was telling him - never to fall in love with anybody, because—well, because love’s - cruel and only looks out of a window in order to go away and leave the - window vacant. And what d’you think he said? I’m never going - to.’ He said it sharply like that, as if I’d been telling him - never to be a pickpocket. Fancy a little boy having made up his mind never - to walk in the sunlight because the sunlight scorches.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, but he did not mean it.” She spoke as though Peter had - been unkind, and had said that he would not love her. “But he did - not mean it,” she repeated, tilting Peter’s face up in her - hollowed hand. “And love isn’t cruel—he mustn’t - believe what Lorie says. Love is the flowers and the dusk falling, and the - sound of birds and rivers, and the dearness of little children. Love is—— - How shall I put it? Love is eyes in the head. Without love one can see - nothing.” - </p> - <p> - Peter gazed into her eyes. She was charming. He felt as though he had hurt - her. And he felt that, if he had hurt her, he ought to go all across the - world on his knees and hands till he obtained her forgiveness. He - remembered afterward that, when her eyes were on his, he saw nothing but - blue—just her eyes and nothing else. - </p> - <p> - “He didn’t mean it, did he?” she coaxed. - </p> - <p> - In a very small voice he answered, “I did mean it. You see, there’s - Kay; I have to love her.” - </p> - <p> - “But some man may love Kay presently—may take her away from - you. What then?” - </p> - <p> - Peter had never thought of that. He wouldn’t think of it now, just - as years later he refused to face up to it. “Kay would never allow - anyone to take her. Would you, Kay?” Kay shook her head. “I - only want Peter.” - </p> - <p> - She freed herself from the golden woman and went and stood beside her - brother with her arm about him—an arm so small that it wouldn’t - come all the way round. - </p> - <p> - The man and woman stared at them. Here was something outside their - experience. They had found hard knocks in the world and occasional stolen - glimpses of tenderness—not a tenderness which one could carry about - as a thing expected, could arrange life by, and refer to as to a timepiece - in the pocket. Both were conscious of a hollowness in their living. And - the woman—she had dreaded permanency in affection lest it should - become a chain to gall her. - </p> - <p> - A shadowy hurdler, very distant as yet, over trees and fields and hedges, - evening came vaulting. No one could hear his footsteps, only the panting - of his breath. He was racing from the great red door in the west, from - which he had slipped out—racing, with his head turned across his - shoulder, as though he feared to see a presence on the burning threshold - and to hear a voice that would call him. The small applauding hands of - leaves moved gently. The red door sank lower. Snared in the branches of - the Haunted Wood, it came to rest. - </p> - <p> - Far away and out of sight, deep-toned and mellow, came the lowing of - cattle and the staccato barking of a dog, driving the herd to the milking. - One by one live things of the country-side commenced to wake and stir. - Rabbits hopped out among the cowslips and nibbled at the turf. Birds, like - children put to bed and frightened of being left, called “Good-night. - Good-night. Good-night,” over and over. From watch-towers of tall - trees mother-birds answered, “Good-night. Good-night. Good-night.” - The world had become maternal. The spirit of life’s brevity, of - parting, of remembrance, of regret, of happiness withheld was in the air. - The golden woman felt her loneliness. Looking at the children, so defiant - in their sureness of one another, she recalled her lost opportunities. - </p> - <p> - An arm stole about her. A brown hand covered hers. She leant back her head - so that it lay against the Faun Man’s jacket. So many things seemed - worth the seeking in this world—so few worth the keeping when found. - For the moment she liked to fancy that her search was at an end. - </p> - <p> - Peter spoke. “If you please, I think we must be going. I’ve - got to get Kay back, you know. Even now, I’ll have to light the - lamps.” - </p> - <p> - “But—but we haven’t seen Harry.” - </p> - <p> - A light woke in the golden woman’s eyes. She was about to speak; the - Faun Man pressed his hand against her mouth. “You can see him - to-morrow, little girl, if Peter will bring you.” - </p> - <p> - “But where is he?” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man swept the horizon. “Somewhere over there. He’s - gone away into the wood with Canute, because we hurt his feelings.” - </p> - <p> - “But what’s he doing?” Kay insisted. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man looked at the golden woman; his eyes asked, “Shall we - tell?” They turned back to Kay. “What’s he doing? - Sitting with his head in his hands. Crying, perhaps—— Do boys - cry, Peter? He doesn’t like his brother and this little woman to be - together. The poor old chap doesn’t think we do each other any good.” - </p> - <p> - “And do we?” The golden woman spoke softly. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man became very solemn. His voice was husky. “We don’t. - But we could.” - </p> - <p> - She twisted round in his embrace so that she met him breast to breast. - “Ah, there’s the voice of every tragedy! We don’t. But - we could—— And we know we could; and yet we don’t.” - </p> - <p> - Down the garden, over the plank-bridge, across the meadow, through the - Haunted Wood they went together: the boy and girl, like lovers with arms - encircling; the man and woman, like brother and sister, holding hands, - brushing shoulders, and following. As they entered into Friday Lane, Kay - looked back. At the foot of a big oak Canute was lying, his nose between - his fore-paws, his eyes red-rimmed with vigilance. - </p> - <p> - She tugged on Peter’s arm. “Why he must be up there. Oh, do - let’s be nice to him. Just one minute. Let’s.” - </p> - <p> - But when they approached, the dog’s back bristled and he growled. He - lifted his black lip, showing the whiteness of his fangs. His sullen eyes - were on the golden woman. Like one embittered, who had ceased to believe - that virtue could be found anywhere, he regarded all four of them in - anger. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man shrugged his shoulders. “When he climbs trees that - means he’s getting better. There’s no sense in worrying him; - he won’t come down till he’s ready.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-night,” Kay called to him with piping shrillness. - </p> - <p> - “Good-night,” called Peter. - </p> - <p> - And again, when the tree was growing small in the distance, Kay shouted, - “Good-night, Harry. We’ve missed you.” - </p> - <p> - From up in the clouds, very faint and little, came the sound of a - mouth-organ playing the wander-tune of romance: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “I’ve been ship-wrecked off Patagonia, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Home and Colonia - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Antipodonia; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - I’ve shot cannibals, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Funny-looking animals, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Top-knot coons. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - I’ve bought diamonds...” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Their memories set the tune to words. - </p> - <p> - The old tandem trike was trundled out from its hiding place behind the - hedge. The Faun Man lifted Kay on to her seat at the back; Peter mounted. - All was ready. - </p> - <p> - “So you’re riding away from fairyland,” sighed the - golden woman. “Foolish! Foolish! It’s so easy to do that—— - And when you’ve gone and until you come again, there won’t be - any fairyland. It’s so easy to ride away; so difficult to come back.” - </p> - <p> - Kay thought that a doubt was being cast on Peter’s cleverness. - “It isn’t difficult at all,” she protested; “not - if you have a tandem tricycle and a big brother like Peter.” - </p> - <p> - The golden woman laughed with her hand against her throat. “But I - hav’n’t a tandem tricycle, and I hav’n’t a big - brother like Peter.” - </p> - <p> - Kay knew she hadn’t; she wondered what made the golden woman say - that, and—— yes, why she choked at the end of her words. - </p> - <p> - “Good-by till we come again.” - </p> - <p> - They rang their bells as a parting salutation. The wheels began to turn. - They disappeared between the hedges down the road, a vision of plunging - legs, bent backs and flying hair. - </p> - <p> - The man and woman were left alone on the highway between the Haunted Wood - and the town, to both of which these children had such ready access. - </p> - <p> - Slowly, slowly the sun was vanishing; once a ball of fire; now the - boldness of sight on which an eye-lid was closing; at last a glory to be - taken on faith and conjecture. The country became vague as though seen - through water. Its greenness had a coolness which was more than color; - which had to be realized by a spiritual sense. The evening dimness, like - the hand of death, removed sharp temporary edges from the landscape and - revealed an expression which was timeless, which had been always there. - Birds had ceased calling. The moon floated out—the soul of the - night, high-lifted and inspired. Trees sought to touch her with their - fingers; she slipped by them, unhurried by their effort. - </p> - <p> - He had said so much to her in the past with his eager lips and words. Now, - for some time, he had been saying everything, while seeming to say - nothing. - </p> - <p> - He held her pressed against him. “Ah dearest——” - </p> - <p> - She stirred. “But I’m not good.” - </p> - <p> - “You are. But you’re not kind to me often.” - </p> - <p> - “Not often,” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - He stooped; in the darkness he could say it—the old, old question - which, through repetition, had lost its generosity and splendor. “Am - I never going to make you love me?” - </p> - <p> - She turned her face away, so that his kiss fell on her neck. “I don’t - know, don’t know, Lorie? How should I? I don’t want to hurt - you. You do believe me when I say that? But I’m fickle. I’m - not at all what you think me. I’m all wrong somewhere inside—cold - and bad-hearted.” - </p> - <p> - He laid his cheek against hers, holding her more tightly. “Little - Eve. Please! You shan’t accuse yourself. It wounds.” - </p> - <p> - She broke away, but only that she might return of herself. She caught him - by the lapels of his coat and tiptoed against him. “But I am. Harry’s - quite right to hate me. I send you on long journeys, and you can’t - forget me. I won’t love you myself, and I keep you from loving - another woman. You offer me your soul, and I allow you to go thirsty. I - torture you, and give you nothing.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke very gently, for the first time honest. “I can put it in - fewer words: you want to be loved; you won’t pay the price of - loving. Isn’t that it?” - </p> - <p> - She pressed her golden head against his shoulder in ashamed assent. Behind - her shuttered eyes she had the vision of a long white road leading up to a - city, of a curly-headed boy and an elfin-girl steering through the traffic - beneath street lamps. She wanted to have the palm without the dust, to be - a mother without the sacrifice of having children. Seeing the vision of - children going from her, and knowing that he would understand, she - whispered, “One day I shall be old—and I shall have missed all - that.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor little Eve! Poor little girl!” - </p> - <p> - He picked her up in his arms and commenced to walk through the twilight, - across fields, to the cottage. - </p> - <p> - She raised her hand and touched his cheek. “You wonderful, strong - Faun Man.” - </p> - <p> - He halted in his stride and bent over her; then went on into the shadows. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVII—PETER FINDS A FAIRY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t the Faun Man’s - birth an angel and a witch attended. The angel brought him the supreme - gift of making people love him. The witch made the gift fatal, by wishing - that he might be loved not as a man, but as a woman is loved—with - jealousy. So his friends were all enemies to each other because they had - to share him. Even Canute was like that; he had to be chained when - admirers were calling. - </p> - <p> - Strange company invaded the Happy Cottage. Women predominated—women - who tried to treat the Faun Man as their property. They wore fluffy gowns - and had fluffy manners; even their voices were fluffy. Their attitude was - that of princesses who had journeyed into the wilderness to borrow - something. They were a little annoyed by the country, and found it dirty. - Very few of them addressed him as Mr. Arran; each invented a pet-name for - him, which seemed to make him hers peculiarly. They were all consumed with - a desire to touch him and to go on touching him, beating about him like - birds about a lighthouse which shines out hospitably, but permits no - entrance. Most of them mingled with their admiration a concerned and - respectful sorrow. His lonely manner of living moved them to the depths. - They formed individual and brilliant plans for the glorious reconstruction - of his future—plans which these female geographers handed to him - boastfully, as though they were maps of fascinating lands which awaited - his exploring. For satisfactory exploration the presence of the female - geographer was necessary. - </p> - <p> - Peter was usually forewarned that an invasion was in progress by the - crescendo cackling which rushed out from doors and windows into the - basking stillness of the garden. Then he would hear the mild protest of - the Faun Man, “But, my dear lady, my dear lady—but really——” - Harry would meet him by the hedge, his face flushed and his mouth sulky. - Jerking his thumb across his shoulder he would whisper, “The Hissing - Geese! Hark at ‘em! Ain’t it sickening?” Sometimes he’d - call them the H. G. for brevity. He called them that because of the way in - which they sat round his brother with their necks stretched out, all - making sounds. He hated them unreasonably, and hated them to excess when - they tried to curry favor with him by kissing. And yet, it was silly of - him; with a few years added to his age, he would have found most of them - pretty and quite suitable for loving. - </p> - <p> - Surliness on these occasions gave Harry a strong sympathy for Canute. If - he had been a dog and unrestrained by chivalry, nothing would have pleased - him better than to have bitten the ladies’ legs. He felt that it was - unjust to chain Canute up as a reward for his loyalty. So usually, when - Kay and Peter had arrived, the three of them would sneak round the cottage - to the kennel and attempt a rescue. Then came the exciting escape through - the garden, crouching low and stealing behind the flowers so as not to be - observed, holding on to the collar of the Great Dane for fear he should - break away and glut his anger. Sometimes they were heard above the rattle - of tea-cups and the ladies would bunch themselves in the cottage window, - like a nosegay, with the Faun Man in their centre. Then would follow a - series of high-pitched questions and exclamations, fired off for the sake - of noise. “What dear children! Is that your sister? Are they both - your brothers? What a perfectly sweet dog!” - </p> - <p> - The “perfectly sweet dog” would growl and show his fangs, as - much as to say, “Leave me out of it. Look after your legs. I wish I - had half a chance of showing you how perfectly sweet I am.” - </p> - <p> - Where did they all come from, these amorous butterfly excursionists? Harry - kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to tell, only—— - Well, he hinted that they might be insincere experiments of the golden - woman, sent to supplant her—sent because she knew they couldn’t - do it. “And jolly good care she takes not to send the right one. - Trust her.” Harry said it in a growl which he copied from Canute. - </p> - <p> - It wasn’t until they had entered the Haunted Wood and the green wall - of bushes and make-believe had shut out intruders, that his ruffled spirit - regained its levity. Then he’d light a fire, and play at Indians who - had taken their revenge in scalps. Presently, if the Faun Man had been - lucky in getting rid of his worries, he would join them. They would boil a - kettle and have tea in the open, after which the Faun Man would light his - pipe and smoke it, lying flat on his back. They knew what to expect. Soon - he would sit up, press his tobacco down with a lean finger, pluck a twig - out of the fire and use it as a match. Then, very deliberately, he would - begin, “I remember, once upon a time.” - </p> - <p> - What a lot of magnificent things had happened once upon a time that he - could remember! He had chased cattle thieves across the border and had - come up with them, intending to shoot if necessary, only to find them such - human fellows that he’d parted friends. “Human” was his - word for describing the kind of people he liked, many of whom were - disreputable. One night, when camping in the Canadian Rockies, a hundred - miles from anywhere, a stranger had crept from the forest and shared his - supper and blanket. They had talked of London, London street-songs and - Leicester Square, till the stars were going out. Next morning he was - wakened by a member of the North West Mounted Police who was hunting a - murderer. The fugitive had already vanished. “A pity he’d - killed some one,” said the Faun Man; “he was one of the most - charmin’ chaps I ever met. Oh yes, he was caught and hanged.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man had played hide-and-seek with death in many quaint corners of - the world—getting his “liver into whack,” he called it, - and gathering “local color.” What local color might be, and - why anyone should want to gather it, Peter didn’t understand. But he - learnt that its gathering took you down into Mexico in search of secret - gold, where Indians hid behind rocks and potted at you with poisoned - arrows, and that it took you up to Fort Mackenzie with dogs to the very - edge of the Arctic. While he listened to these stories of adventure, the - shadows of the Haunted Wood lengthened, the river sang more boldly, - evening fell, and the fire, from a pyramid of leaping flames, became a - hollow land of scarlet which grew slowly gray, fluttering with little - tufts of ashen moss and ashen feathers, until it at last lay charred and - dead. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man captured Peter’s imagination and affections. He filled - him with strange new longings. He sent his spirit reaching out after - unattainable perfections, whose lure and desire are both the glamour and - torture of childhood. He made Peter want to be a man, so that he might be - like him. The Faun Man was a stained-glass window which, when looked - through, tinted and intensified life’s values. Peter was going - through the experience of hero-worship which comes to most boys when sex - is dawning, and they have not yet realized that its sole and splendid - meaning is that woman shares the same world. - </p> - <p> - And yet there were moments when Peter almost feared his friend; his - character was a sand-desert in which the track followed yesterday was soon - wiped out. One day he would cry, “Ah, I know him!” and the - next, “I know nothing.” The whole passionate urgency of a - child’s heart in friendship is to know everything. - </p> - <p> - But the Faun Man was too big and elusive to be known by one person. Four - walls could not contain him. He came into a house like a half-tamed animal—but - where had he been, where had he come from? He had tricks, curious tricks, - which linked him to the creatures which make their homes in the leaves and - holes of the earth. He seldom sat on chairs, but huddled himself on the - floor while he talked to you. He could sit for an hour, saying nothing. In - the middle of a conversation he would jump up and go out without apology, - as if he heard a voice which you had not heard. And he had. The sound of - the wind told him something, the altered note of a thrush, the little - shudder, scarcely perceptible, that ran through the flowers; to him they - all said something. If you asked him what they said, he could not tell - you. So it was no good wanting him to belong to you; he belonged out - there. - </p> - <p> - To Peter, who had always been smiled at for his compassion, it was - comforting to find some one as compassionate as himself. It removed the - dread of abnormality. There was a nightingale which used to come every - evening to sing in an apple-tree near the Happy Cottage. They used to wait - for the romance of its silver voice slanting across the velvet dusk, as - though it were a thing to be seen rather than heard. One night they - waited; it did not come. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man grew nervous. He could not rest; at last he went in search of - it with Peter. Beneath the apple-tree they found it still warm, with its - wings stretched out. And then the unexpected happened. Kneeling in the - twilight beside the dead singer, as though music had departed forever from - the earth, the Faun Man wept. - </p> - <p> - And yet the same man could be harsh in anger—that was how Peter - found the fairy. On entering the cottage one afternoon he heard the sound - of sobbing upstairs and a voice protesting, “I didn’t mean to - do it. She drove me mad—you and she together. You don’t care - for me—don’t care for me; and I love you better than anything - in the world. Oh, do forgive me, kind Faun Man.” - </p> - <p> - A pause. Peter knew she was on her knees before him, kissing his hands. It - was as though he could see her doing it. “But you did mean to do it, - Cherry.” It was the Faun Man speaking deliberately and coldly. - “You did it on purpose. It was stupid and babyish of you. It didn’t - do her any harm, and it didn’t do you any good. I don’t want - to see you, and I don’t like you any longer.” - </p> - <p> - A passionate voice declared, “If you say that again, I’ll kill - myself.” - </p> - <p> - Again a pause. The door overhead opened; a wild thing came tearing down - the stairs. Peter had a vision of something in skirts, something with an - intense white face, tragic gray eyes and a mass of black flying hair. He - was bumped into. In stepping backward he tripped against a chair. When he - picked himself up and looked out into the garden she had disappeared—all - he heard was the running of her swift feet growing fainter and fainter. - </p> - <p> - He gazed about the room, wondering what he ought to do. Should he steal - back quietly to where he had left Kay and Harry, and pretend that he had - seen nothing? His attention was arrested. So that was what had caused the - disturbance? Every portrait of the golden woman had been torn from its - place on the wall and trampled. While he hesitated, he heard the Faun Man - descending. It was too late to go now. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man entered without seeing him. His face was stern; two deep - lines stretched like cuts from the nostrils to the corners of his mouth. - He looked leaner than ever. He was already stooping over the ruined - portraits when Peter addressed him. “Won’t you ever forgive - her? Please do. Never to forgive a person, not forever and forever, seems - so dreadful.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man jumped; his eyes, when they turned on Peter, were the eyes of - a stranger. “And where did you come from? And who asked you for your - opinion? You’d better get out.” - </p> - <p> - When he came to the plank which crossed the little river, Peter halted. - Down Friday Lane he could hear the mouth-organ and, looking, could see - Harry beating time with one hand while Kay danced to it. No, he didn’t - want to join them. Harry would laugh at him for paying heed to one of the - Faun Man’s moods. And Kay—why, if she guessed that he was - unhappy, of course she’d become unhappy, too——. And that - girl—she’d said that she was going to kill herself. He ran - across the meadow to the Haunted Wood. She must be there. She shouldn’t - do it. - </p> - <p> - Just where he entered, he stooped and picked up something white. She had - dropped her handkerchief, so he knew that he was on the right track. He - followed on tiptoe, afraid lest, if he overtook her suddenly, he might - scare her. In the stealth of the pursuit a novel excitement came upon him. - His eyes were glowing. His breath came and went pantingly. He had removed - his cap; his curly hair lay ruffled on his forehead. He went forward - timidly, half-minded to turn back, ashamed lest he might find her looking - at him. As he penetrated deeper, the stillness grew and magnified ievery - sound. Overhead the branches were woven closer together, shutting the - sunlight out. An air of secrecy gathered round him. Birds, hopping out of - his path under bushes, looked back at him knowingly. They knew what he did - not know himself. - </p> - <p> - Out of sight, beyond him, there was the sound of moving. Leaves rustled; - silence settled down. They rustled again. He followed. Then he heard the - voice of the river—a little voice which grew louder. It sang to - itself softly. It seemed to be trying to say something. Did it sing in - lurement or warning? Now it seemed to be saying, “Turn back, turn - back, turn back”; and now——. But he couldn’t make - out the words. - </p> - <p> - He lifted his face above a clump of shrub-oak and found his eyes peering - into hers. She was too startled to jump back from him; she gazed - wide-eyed, with lips parted and one hand plucking at her breast. She saw a - boy, swift and straight as an arrow, a boy who seemed to stand tiptoe with - eagerness, who had the grace and strength of a Greek runner and the smooth - skin and gentle mouth of a girl. - </p> - <p> - And Peter in looking at her saw a white face, sensitive as a flower’s; - and a mouth, red as a cherry, long and drooping and curved; and two great - gray eyes, clear and wistful in expression; and over the eyes, dark brows, - like a bird’s wings spread for flight. Her black hair had broken - loose and hung about her shoulders, giving her a touch of wildness. Across - the whiteness of her forehead it brooded like a cloud. In the green church - of the wood she seemed sacred to Peter. - </p> - <p> - She laughed throatily, breaking the suspense. “Oh, it’s only - you.” - </p> - <p> - Peter stepped out of the underbrush. Then he saw that she had removed her - shoes and stockings, and was standing on the edge of the little river. Her - feet were wet and as small as her hands. They looked cold as marble in the - green dusk. Why was it? More than anything else, the sight of her feet - made him unhappy for her, made him want to care for her, made him want to - bring a smile to her mouth. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it’s only me,” he said; “but—but I - wish it wasn’t. I’m sorry.” - </p> - <p> - She tossed her head, as though she were indignant with him for being - sorry, but she looked at him slantingly, curiously and kindly. “Why - should you be sorry? You don’t know who I am? You’re not - sorry; you only say that.” - </p> - <p> - He protested. “But I am. I didn’t mean to overhear; but, you - know, I heard what you said—— I was afraid you’d do it.” - </p> - <p> - She sat down, trailing her feet in the water. She was smiling now, - secretly and to herself, as if she didn’t want him to know it. - “It’s too little,” she pouted. “I couldn’t - drown in that.” - </p> - <p> - Peter seated himself at her side, with his knees drawn up to his chin. - When he spoke, it was with an air of grave confession. “I’m - awfully glad it was too little.” - </p> - <p> - She turned her head, looking at him from under her long lashes - provocatively; but he was staring straight before him with vacant eyes, as - if something very sweet and awful were happening. She reached out her hand - and touched him; she noticed how he trembled. “And if it hadn’t - been too little, it wouldn’t have mattered—not to you.” - </p> - <p> - He didn’t answer her immediately. When he spoke it was slowly, as if - each word hurt as he dragged it out. “It would have mattered, - because then you wouldn’t have been in the world.” - </p> - <p> - “But you didn’t know that I was in the world this morning.” - </p> - <p> - He shook his head, as much as to tell her that her objection was quite - beside the question. “I know that. But I think I should have missed - you just the same, without knowing exactly what I was missing.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed outright, swaying against him and burying her hands in the - green things growing. “You are funny—yes, and dear. I never - met a boy like you. You didn’t really think——?” - </p> - <p> - He gazed at her wonderingly. Each time he looked at her, he found - something new that was beautiful. It was her throat this time, long and - delicate like a Lent lily. As he watched it, he could see how the laughter - bubbled up inside it; he longed, with the instinct of a child, to lay his - fingers on it. - </p> - <p> - “You didn’t really think——?” - </p> - <p> - He nodded. “That you were going to kill yourself? Yes—and - weren’t you?” - </p> - <p> - She ceased laughing. “I don’t think so. I’m such a - coward. And then,” she commenced laughing again, “killing - yourself is such a worry—you can only do it once and, if you’re - not careful, you don’t look pretty. I always want to look pretty. Do—do - you think I’m pretty?” - </p> - <p> - He choked and swallowed. His mouth was dry. He couldn’t bring his - voice to the surface. She drooped her face away from him, pretending to - take offense. “You don’t. I can see that. You needn’t - tell me.” - </p> - <p> - His words came with a rush. “I do! I do! I think, when God made you, - He must have said to Himself, ‘I’ll make the most beautiful - person—the most beautiful person I ever made.’ It was - something like that He said.” - </p> - <p> - His quivering earnestness made her solemn. She hadn’t meant to stir - him so deeply. “What an odd way of saying things you have. I don’t - suppose God cared much about my making. He just had me manufactured with - the rest.” - </p> - <p> - A warm hand slipped into hers and a shy voice whispered, “He made - you Himself. I’m certain.” - </p> - <p> - She gazed at him, at the narrow sloping shoulders and the shining curly - head. She felt very much a woman at the moment—years older than the - handful of months which at most must separate them. She laid her cheek - against his and slid her arm about him. “I’m so glad you’re - not a man.” - </p> - <p> - He stared straight before him. “I shall be soon.” - </p> - <p> - “How old are you?” - </p> - <p> - “Sixteen next birthday.” - </p> - <p> - She drew him nearer to her. He was so young as that! “How old d’you - think I am?” - </p> - <p> - He searched her face, trying to make her as near his own age as possible, - and not to be mistaken. “Sixteen?” he suggested. - </p> - <p> - “Almost seventeen,” she said; “I’ll soon be - twenty, And then——” - </p> - <p> - “And then,” he interrupted, “I’ll be eighteen—almost - a man.” - </p> - <p> - She withdrew her face from his. “Stupid. I don’t want you to - be a man. When you’re a man, I shan’t like you; you’ll - become hard and masterful like... like the rest.” - </p> - <p> - “I shan’t.” - </p> - <p> - She relented. “No. I don’t think you will. But then it’ll - be all different.” - </p> - <p> - Yes, it would all be different. Peter had been a child when, in the early - summer, he had stumbled on the Happy Cottage. Until then he would have - been perfectly contented to have gone on living at Topbury and to have - been fifteen forever. It had scarcely occurred to him that childhood was a - preparation which would soon be ended. He had never looked ahead—never - realized that he, with all the generations of boys who had lived before - him, must one day be a man. In a vague way he had known that once his - father and mother had been young and protected, as he and Kay were young - and protected. But it had seemed a fanciful legend. And now the great - change, which formerly he would have dreaded, he yearned for. The - ignorance and inexperience of being young, the habit grown people had of - treating him as a person of no serious importance, galled him. It had - begun with the Faun Man and his desire to be like him. It was ridiculous - when he imagined his own appearance, but he wanted to be respected. These - longings had not come home to him before—they had been a gradual - growth of weeks and months. It was contact with a vitalizing personality - that had done it, and listening to talks of strange lands and the doings - of strong men. And now this girl——. To her he was no more than - amusing. She could do and say to him things that she would never do or say - to men. Yes, when he was older it would all be different. She had wakened - him forever from the long and irrecoverable sleep of childhood. He might - dose again, but he could never sink back into its deep unruffled calm and - indifference. Was it this that the river had tried to tell him, when he - had heard it singing, “Turn back, turn back, turn back”? It - still sang, going round the white feet of the girl in little waves and - eddies, but its voice was indistinct, like that of an old prophet, who - mumbles a forgotten and disregarded message. - </p> - <p> - The girl at his side stirred. “What do they call you?” - </p> - <p> - And he returned the question. She leant her head away from him on her - shoulder. “What do you think they call me? What name would suit me - best? But you’d never guess. They call me Cherry, because my lips - are red.” - </p> - <p> - Cherry, because her lips were red! And who were <i>they</i>, who had - called her that? He felt jealous of them. <i>They</i> knew so much about - her; he knew nothing. And here was the supreme marvel, that for years she - had been walking in the same world and, until now, he had found no hint of - her. He might have passed her in the street—might have come often - within touching distance of her. Some of this he tried to say to her; she - listened with a faint smile about her mouth. He fell silent, fearing that - he had amused her by his sentiment. - </p> - <p> - She patted his hand. “D’you know, you’re rather - wonderful? You put such private thoughts into words. Do you always think - behind things like that?” Without waiting for him to reply, she - continued, “But you never passed me in the street. You couldn’t - have met me any earlier, because I’ve lived always in America. I was - born there. That’s where I met——.” She did not - name the Faun Man, but her face clouded. “I must be getting back,” - she ended vaguely. - </p> - <p> - Outside the wood he would lose her—lose her because she had belonged - to other people first. He would become again a schoolboy, tricycling out - into the country with Kay. It would take years to become a man. - </p> - <p> - She stood up. “You must go now.” - </p> - <p> - How sweet and slight she looked, like a tall white flower swaying in the - shadows. He had read in books of spirit-women who, in the bygone days of - romance, had lifted up their faces from amid the bracken to lure knights - aside from their quest; and the knights, having once kissed them, had lost - them and hungered for their lips forever. He wanted to speak—wanted - to say something true, wanted to tell her of this dynamic change that she - had worked for him. All that he could say was, “Cherry”; and - then, “But how shall I find you?” - </p> - <p> - “Find me!” she laughed, tiptoeing on her bare feet with her - hands clasped behind her head. “Oh, you’ll find me,” she - nodded. - </p> - <p> - “But promise.” - </p> - <p> - She half-closed her eyes, as though tired by his urgency. Then she threw - her hands to her side. “I like you, Peter. I promise.” - </p> - <p> - Picking up her shoes and stockings she pushed back the bushes. “You’re - not to follow.” - </p> - <p> - He listened. Was she standing there, hidden by the screen of leaves? He - had not heard the rustle of her going. Suddenly the branches were thrust - back, and again he saw her. Her eyes were alight with merriment and her - mouth was puckered. “Oh, little Peter, if you’d only been - older——” - </p> - <p> - Like a secret door in a green wall closing, the branches swished back. The - wood muttered to itself as she went from him, and then fell so silent that - it seemed to stand with its finger pressed against its mouth. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVIII—WAKING UP - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he world is a - mirror into which we gaze and see the reflection of ourselves. So far to - Peter it had been a foreground of small boys and their sisters, with a - background of occasional adult relatives. But now, like a fledgling which - has grown to strength lying snugly in its nest, he had looked out and seen - the leafy distance below him. His curiosity was roused; the commonplace - was a wonderland. What went on down there? Where did the parent birds go, - and how did they find their way back? What was the meaning of this - sun-and-shadow landscape that people called “living”? Because - he was young, when he looked out of the nest, the distance below him - seemed full of youngness. All that had happened up to now, the collapse of - Aunt Jehane’s fortunes, the imprisonment of Uncle Waffles, his - father’s problems and the marriage of Grace to her policeman, were - mere stories which he had heard reported. There was a battle called life, - going on somewhere, in which he had never participated. He was tired of - being told about it. He wanted to feel the rush of wind under his - outspread wings; this afternoon, in a gust of vivid and personal - experience, he thought he had felt it. What was it? By what name should he - call it? Because he was only fifteen, love sounded too large a word. And - yet——- If it wasn’t love, what was it? - </p> - <p> - All along the dusty summer road, through the golden evening, as he - tricycled back to London, he argued with himself. Kay interrupted - occasionally and he answered, but his thoughts were elsewhere. They had - discovered the gray-built city of Reality, and went from door to door - tapping, demanding entrance. Ignorance had kept him unadventurous and - contented; his contentedness was breaking down—he was glad of it. - The urgent need was on him to explain creation and his presence in the - world. How were people born? Why did they marry? How did they get money? - The child’s mind, like the philosopher’s, goes back to - fundamentals. All this outward pageant which had passed before his eyes - for fifteeen years as a sight to be expected, had suddenly become packed - with hidden significance. What was the meaning of this being born, this - getting and spending, this disastrous and glorious loving, struggling and - being buried? There was no one to whom he dared go for an answer; he must - find the explanation within himself. In the isolation of that thought he - felt a great gulf opening between himself and his little sister, between - himself and everyone he loved. Whether he liked it or not, one day he must - grow into a man; he was elated and terrified by the certainty. And all the - while, set to the creaking music of the lumbering tricycle, one word sung - itself over and over, “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0283.jpg" alt="0283m " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0283.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - No one, looking at his childish face, would have guessed the grave - suspicions and wild hazards that walked in the desperate loneliness of his - imagination. It was the key to existence that he sought. He had arrived at - that crisis of soul and body, when every child is driven out, a John the - Baptist, into the wilderness of conjecture, there to live on the locusts - and wild honey of hearsay, till he finds the fruit of the Tree of - Knowledge. - </p> - <p> - As they neared the suburbs, a stream of bicyclists—city clerks - riding out with their sweethearts—met, engulfed and gave them - passage. After all, it was a merry, laughing world! Above the tinkling of - bells, evening birds were calling. All these people, how did they live? - Where did they come from? Had they, too, slept and been awakened - questioning, because a girl had touched them? - </p> - <p> - Down the road he saw his aunt’s cottage. Riska would be there by the - gate, sitting behind her table spread with cakes, mineral-waters and - glasses. He recalled all the things he had heard said of her, things to - which he had paid no attention—that she was a born flirt and that - her mother was teaching her to catch men. As they came up, she lifted her - soft eyes and let them rest on him with contemptuous affection. Why did - she do that? Why did she always seem to despise and tolerate men and boys? - A bicyclist, who had ridden past, turned his head, caught sight of her and - came back slowly. Peter felt that it was not thirst, but Riska’s - prettiness that had recalled him. He felt angry with Riska—unreasonably - angry, for she had said and done nothing. - </p> - <p> - “We’re late,” he told her; “we can’t stop.” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. She didn’t care. Her whole attitude seemed to tell Peter - that he wasn’t worth wasting time on. Just as the pedals had begun - to turn, Glory came out and stood in the porch. She waved to him and - shouted something. He called to her that they were in a hurry. Further - down the road, he turned his head; her eyes followed him. - </p> - <p> - It was nearly dark when they reached Topbury. Lamps stood like marigold - splashes on the dusk in a quivering line along the Terrace. In the garden - he found his parents, sitting close together beneath the mulberry-tree - like lovers. They drew apart as Kay ran up to them. - </p> - <p> - “You’re late, children.” It was his mother talking. - “We were getting nervous.” - </p> - <p> - He kissed her; for a moment, the old sense of security returned. - </p> - <p> - “It’s time Kay was in bed.” - </p> - <p> - She crossed the gravel path with her arm about the little girl, and - disappeared up the white stone steps to the house. - </p> - <p> - Far away, as of old, like waves about the foot of a cliff, the roar of - London threatened. It seemed to be telling him that he would not be always - sheltered—that one day he would have to launch out, steering in - search of the unknown future by himself. It was not the boldness, but the - loneliness of the adventure that now impressed him. - </p> - <p> - “Father.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” The voice came to him out of the darkness. “What - does it feel like to become a man?” - </p> - <p> - “Feel like, Peter! I don’t understand.” - </p> - <p> - “To have to—to have to fight for oneself?” - </p> - <p> - His father leant out and touched him. “Have you begun to think of - that already? Fight for yourself! You won’t have to do that for a - long while yet.” - </p> - <p> - “But——.” Peter allowed himself to be drawn into - the arms of the man who had always stood between him and the world. - “But when the time comes, I don’t want to fail like——,” - he was going to have said like Uncle Waffles, but he said instead, “like - some people.” And then, after a pause, “I feel so unprepared.” - </p> - <p> - “We’ve all felt that way, sonny. Somehow we get the strength. - You’ll get it.” - </p> - <p> - Peter sighed contentedly. He was again in the nest with the - creeper-covered walls about him. The strained note had gone out of his - voice when he spoke now. “There’s so much to learn. It seems - so strange to think that one day I’ll have to grow up, like you, and - marry, and earn money, and have little boys and girls.” - </p> - <p> - His father laughed huskily. “Very strange! Strange even to me, Peter—and - I’ve done it: And, d’you know, there are times when even a man - looks back and is surprised that he’s grown up. He feels just what - you’re feeling—the wonder of it. It seems only the other day - that I was as small as you are; and only the other day that I was - frightened of life and what it meant. Are you frightened?” - </p> - <p> - For answer Peter stood up. “Not so much frightened as puzzled.” - </p> - <p> - His father rose and led him out from beneath the leaves, which crowded - above their heads. He pointed up past the roofs of houses. “We - couldn’t see them under there,” he said. “Every night - they come to their places and stand, shining. Some one sends them. Some - one sent you and me, Peter. We don’t know why. There are people who - sit always under trees and never look up. They’ll tell you that - there aren’t any stars overhead. We’re not like that. We know - that whoever is careful enough to hang lamps on the clouds, is careful - enough to watch over us. So we needn’t be afraid of living, need we, - old chap?” - </p> - <p> - Peter pressed his father’s hand. “I’ll try to remember.” - </p> - <p> - That night, when the house was all silent, he crept out of bed. Leaning - from the open window, he looked down on London, stretching for miles and - miles, with its huddled roofs spread over its huddled personalities. Why - were things as they were? If some one lit lamps in the heavens and - followed each life with care, why did four women, who loved children, sit - forever with their arms empty, while one sang of the sweet fields of Eden; - and why did Uncle Waffles——-? The questions were unanswerable - and endless. And then, in defiant contrast, there came bounding into his - memory the courageous figure of the Faun Man, with his cavalier attitudes - and strong determination to make of life a laughing affair. The night - quickened; the ghostly feet of a little breeze tiptoed across the - tree-tops, causing their leaves to rustle. From the far distance, the - throb of belated traffic reached him like the beat of a muffled drum. He - heard London marching to the martial music of struggle; his heart was - stirred. Life was a fight—well, what of it? When his time came, he - must be ready. He looked again at the stars, remembering what his father - had said. One need not be frightened. And then he looked away into the - blackness; somewhere over there the houses ended and the wide peace of the - country commenced. Somewhere over there was Cherry. - </p> - <p> - He waited impatiently for his next half-holiday, when he would be free to - tricycle out. When he went, she was not in the Haunted Wood; nor the next - time, nor the next. He wanted to ask the Faun Man, but postponed through - shyness; he was afraid his secret would be guessed. He was always hoping - and hoping that he would find her behind the green wall of leaves, where - the little river ran. One afternoon, when tea was ended and Kay and Harry - had gone out, he asked, “Does the girl who broke your pictures never - come here now?” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man looked up sharply and stared, trying to guess behind the - question. - </p> - <p> - “I wasn’t very decent to you that day, was I? And I was - beastly to her.” - </p> - <p> - “I think she was sorry,” said Peter softly. “I wish you’d - let her——. Does she never come here now?” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man leant forward across the table, with his face between his - long brown hands. “Did you like her, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Very much?” - </p> - <p> - Peter lowered his eyes. “Very much.” - </p> - <p> - When he dared to glance up, he found that the Faun Man wasn’t - laughing. He reached out his hand to Peter. “You’re young,” - he said. “Fifteen, isn’t it? Well, she’s a year older. - It’s dangerous to like a girl very much—especially a little - wild thing like Cherry. I’m a man and I know, because I, too, like - some one very much; and it doesn’t always make me happy. You’ll - like heaps of girls, Peter, before you find the right one.” He felt - that Peter’s hand had grown smaller in his own and was withdrawing. - “You think it isn’t true?” he questioned. “You - think it wasn’t kind of me to say that? And you want to see her?” - Peter gazed out of the cottage window to where sunlight fell aslant the - Haunted Wood. Why should he want to see her more than anyone in the world? - But he did. And he knew that because he was so young, most people would - consider his desire absurd. But the Faun Man, who found so much to laugh - at, was regarding him seriously. “And you want to see her?” - </p> - <p> - Peter whispered, “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man’s eyes filmed over in that curious way they had. He - said: “I want you to trust me. There are reasons why you can’t - see her. I’ve sent her away because I think that it’s best. I - can’t tell you why or where I’ve sent her; or what right I - have to send her. But I want you to know that I don’t smile at you - for liking her. It doesn’t matter how old or young we are; when love - comes, it always hurts. And it seems just as serious whether it comes late - or early. But some day I’ll let you see her. To you at fifteen, some - day seems very far from now. But if you wait, and still think you care for - her, I’ll let you see her when the time comes. I don’t think - we ought to speak of this again till then. We’ll keep it a secret - which we never discuss; but we’ll each remember. Is that a bargain?” - </p> - <p> - Peter had no other choice than to accept. They shook hands. - </p> - <p> - Shortly after this Kay and Peter went away to a farm in North Wales for - their summer holidays. Their first intention on their return was to visit - the Faun Man and Harry. On going to the stable, they found that the - tricycle was no longer there. Their father was very mysterious and - unconcerned when they told him; evidently he knew what had happened. - “All right,” he said, “just wait a day or two. You’ll - see—it’ll come back.” - </p> - <p> - And one morning it did come back, ridden by a man with a face all smudges, - who presented a bill for payment. It had entirely transformed itself, like - a widow-lady who had been brisked up by an unexpected offer of marriage. - From a sober, old-fashioned tricycle it had taken on an appearance almost - modern and festive. Its handle-bars had been replated; its framework - re-enameled; its tall wheels cut down; its solid tires removed and - replaced by pneumatics. It sparkled in the sun, as though defying - butcher-boys to jeer at it. The man, with the face all smudges, wheeled it - through the stable into the garden; he left it beneath the mulberry-tree, - and there the children, on arriving home from school, found it. - </p> - <p> - “Why, it’s a new tricycle!” - </p> - <p> - Peter looked it over, “No, it isn’t, Kitten Kay. It’s - the old one altered.” - </p> - <p> - Their mother, hearing their shouts, came out into the garden, nearly as - excited herself. They had visions of spinning out to the Happy Cottage at - the breakneck speed of eight miles an hour. While they clambered on to it, - examined it and spotted new improvements in the way of a lamp and saddles, - she explained to them how it had happened. “It’s your father’s - doing. He meant it as a surprise. He thought the old tires made it too - heavy, so——.” - </p> - <p> - Kay interrupted. “Oh, Peter, do let’s take it out on to the - Terrace and try it.” - </p> - <p> - As they wheeled it down the gravel path between the geranium beds, they - chattered of how they would surprise Harry. But Harry was fated never to - see it. On the Terrace, when they had mounted, while their mother watched - them from the window, they found that everything was not well. The man - with the face all smudges had been wise in demanding his money before his - handiwork was tested. He had cut the wheels so low that, where the road - was uneven, the pedals bumped against the ground. Life had, indeed, become - serious for Peter; through his father’s well-intentioned kindness, - his means of communication between reality and fairyland had been - annihilated. For a time it looked as though so small an accident as the - indiscreet remodeling of a tricycle had lost for him forever the new - friendships formed at the Happy Cottage. - </p> - <p> - But one evening a dinner was given by Mr. Barrington to a famous man whose - work he was anxious to publish. Kay and Peter were allowed to see him - after dessert. - </p> - <p> - The moment Peter’s head appeared round the door the famous man rose - up and shouted, “Hulloa, young ‘un, so at last I’ve - found you! Where the dickens have you been hiding?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Barrington lay back in his chair, his arms hanging limp on either - side, the image of amazement. He heard his son explaining: “It was - the tandem trike. Father wanted to be kind to us and——. Well, - after he’d had it improved, it wouldn’t work. And so, you see, - there was no way of getting to you.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man spread out his long legs, laughing uproariously; until the - appearance of the children, he’d been most scrupulously conventional - and polite. “But, Peter, an immortal friendship like ours cut short - by a tandem trike! You little donkey, why didn’t you write?” - </p> - <p> - Kay rose up in her brother’s defence. “He isn’t a little - donkey. We were all to be pretence people, don’t you remember? We - didn’t know your address.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man stroked his chin and lengthened his face. “If you’d - left me alone much longer,” he said, “you wouldn’t have - found me; I’m moving into London.” - </p> - <p> - Then their parents began to ask questions; the story of Friday Lane and - the mouth-organ boy came out. - </p> - <p> - That evening, after Lorenzo Arran had said good-by, he turned back to his - host, just as the door was closing. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I say! One minute, Barrington. That matter we were discussing - yesterday—let’s consider it settled.” - </p> - <p> - Barrington watched the tall, lean figure go striding down the Terrace. He - was so taken up with watching, that he didn’t know that Nan had - stolen up behind him until she touched his hand. He turned; his mouth was - crooked with amusement. “Did you hear that? He agrees—I’m - to publish for him. And it’s Peter’s doing. One never knows - where that boy won’t turn up.” - </p> - <p> - And Peter, snuggled cosily in bed, was wondering whether, now that he’d - found the Faun Man, he’d refind Cherry. He reflected that when life - could play such tricks on you, a lifetime of it wouldn’t be half - bad. He was no longer frightened to remember that, whether he liked it or - not, he must grow up. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIX—A GOLDEN WORLD - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nd he refound her, - when he had almost forgotten her. In those four long years, which stretch - like a magic ocean between the island of boyhood and the misty coasts of - early manhood, it is so easy to forget. Those years, between fifteen and - nineteen, are the longest in life, perhaps. - </p> - <p> - They had been spent by Peter among books, watching, as in a wizard’s - crystal, the dead world-builders at work; they had risen from their graves - in the dusk of his imagination, stretched themselves, gathered strength - and marched anew to the downfall of Troy and the conquest of befabled - empires. How real those poignant religions were, telling of the loves of - ruffianly gods for perishable earth-maidens—so real to him that he - had paid little heed to the present. - </p> - <p> - In his outward life nothing had much altered; things were called by - different names. They spoke of him as nearly a man now—servants - addressed him as “sir”; they had never doubted that he was a - boy once. Kay stood a few inches higher on her legs. Romance had retired - from active business, leaving to her children the unthankful task of - having kittens. - </p> - <p> - Just as Peter was said to be nearly a man and hadn’t changed, so the - nursery was said to be his study, though it was almost the same in - appearance. A student’s lamp had replaced the old gas-jet. Shelves, - which had held fairy-tale volumes in which truth was depicted with a - laughing countenance, now supported serious lexicons from which truth - stared out with austerity. But his study retained reminders of those - tremulous days when it was still a nursery, and hadn’t grown up—when - it was the dreaming place of a girl whose arms were empty, in whose heart - had begun to echo the patter of tiny footsteps. The tall guard stood - before the fireplace, as though it feared that the long youth, who sat - continually poring over a book with his eyes shaded by his hand, might - shrink into the curly-headed urchin who hadn’t known that live coals - burned. The laburnum still leant her arms upon the window-sill and - tap-tap-tapped, shedding her golden tassels; she gazed in upon him with - the same indiscretion as when he was a newcomer, with ungovernable arms - and legs, who had to be tubbed night and morning. And she saw the same - mother, who had sung him to sleep, peer in at the door on her way to bed, - tiptoe across the threshold, ruffle his hair and whisper, “Peter, - darling, you can’t learn everything between now and morning. Won’t - you get some rest?” - </p> - <p> - He had exchanged tandem tricycles for lexicons as a means of locomotion to - the land of adventure. His little sister could no longer accompany him; - but the desire for wisdom had left room for the heart of tenderness. When - his lamp shone solitary in the darkened house, he would straighten his - shoulders and listen, fancying he heard the angel’s whistle. - </p> - <p> - In four months he was going up to Oxford, to live in gray cloisters where - boys at once become men. His father shared his anticipation generously. - “You’re going to recover my lost chances. Lucky chap!” - </p> - <p> - It was summer. He had risen early and sat by his study window reading the - Iliad. The house was full of lazy morning sounds—bath-water running, - breakfast being prepared, doors opening and shutting, footsteps on the - stairs. Outside in the garden the sun dropped golden balls, which tumbled - through the trees and rolled across the turf. Birds, hopping in and out - the rose-bushes, were industriously foraging. Tripping up the gravel-path, - with fresh-plucked flowers in her hands, he could see his little sister, - her gold hair blowing. A tap fell upon his door. A maid, rustling in a - starched dress, entered. “It’s just come, Master Peter.” - </p> - <p> - “For me? A telegram!” - </p> - <p> - He slit it open and read: “<i>At Henley with ‘The Skylark! Can’t - you come for Regatta? Cherry with me.</i>” - </p> - <p> - Cherry with him! It was signed Lorenzo Arran. So he was keeping his - promise! But why should Cherry be with him? And where had she been hiding - all those long four years? So the Faun Man had taken his houseboat to - Henley! It would be rather jolly to join him; but, after all, He ought to - stick to his work. And this girl—did he want to see her? - </p> - <p> - The maid was waiting. A telegram at Topbury was a rarity in these days. It - cost sixpence at the cheapest; therefore its use was restricted to the - announcement of the extremes of joy and sorrow—births, deaths and - financial losses. She showed relief when he looked up cheerily and said, - “Tell the boy no answer.” - </p> - <p> - When she had gone he stood up, walked about the room excitedly and halted - by the window. He wouldn’t go, of course; it would run his father - into expense. Then, again he read the words, “Cherry with me.” - It would be amusing to see her. He began to wonder—did she know that - the Faun Man had sent for him? If she did——? His thoughts flew - back across the years: he was in the Haunted Wood. The little river was - singing, “Turn back, turn back, turn back.” He refused to turn - back, and followed; suddenly, across the scrub-oak, he found himself - gazing into the gray eyes of a girl. It was the grayness of her eyes and - the whiteness of her feet that he remembered. - </p> - <p> - He leant over the table and closed the book with its unreal love-legends - of gods and goddesses. “By Jove, but I’d like to go,” he - said aloud. - </p> - <p> - The maid had spread the news of the unusual happening. As he entered the - breakfast-room all eyes examined him. They waited for him to be - communicative. At last his father said, “Had a telegram?” - </p> - <p> - Peter drew it from his pocket and passed it. - </p> - <p> - His father looked up. “‘Cherry with me.’ What does he - mean by that?” - </p> - <p> - Peter raised his eyebrows, as much as to say “How can I tell?” - </p> - <p> - His father handed it back. “Are you going?” - </p> - <p> - “Costs money, and I’ve too much work.” - </p> - <p> - It was the mention of work that roused his mother. She smiled gently, and - glanced down the table at her husband. “It would do him good, Billy.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it would do you good,” his father said. “Why don’t - you go, old chap?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, why don’t you go?” Kay echoed. - </p> - <p> - His things were quickly packed. In a flannel suit, with his straw hat in - his hand, he was saying good-by on the doorstep. His father bethought him. - “Here, wait a second, Peter; I’ll walk with you to the end of - the Terrace.” While walking he delivered his warning, “This - man Arran—personally I like him and I know he’s your friend, - but——. I’ve nothing against him, but he’s a queer - fellow —clever as the dickens and all that. The fact is, curious - tales are told about him—all of them too far-fetched to be true. You - know the saying about no smoke without fire, well——. It may be - that he’s only different; but he strikes people as being fast and - dangerous. Be careful; I’d trust you anywhere. Have a good time. I’ve - got it off my chest—my sermon’s ended.” - </p> - <p> - At the bottom of the Crescent, to his great relief, Peter found that Cat’s - Meat’s master was not on the stand. He wouldn’t have hurt Mr. - Grace’s feelings for the world. He was free to jump into a spanking - hansom. Cat’s Meat may have seen him; but Cat’s Meat couldn’t - tell. Surely, at his age, he must have been glad to escape the long crawl - to Paddington. The younger horse in the hansom stepped out gaily, making - his hoofs ring smartly against the cobblestones. “Cherry, Cherry, - Cherry,” they seemed to be saying. Taking short-cuts by side-roads, - now following gleaming tram-lines, now dashing through mean streets, past - public houses in plenty, they sped till they struck Paddington and drew up - in the glass-roofed station. And then the drifting motion of the train and - the unbelievable greenness of the country—the glimpses of silver - water, quiet meadows and cottages in which people were born and died, and - never traveled! And the holiday crowds on the platforms! The girls in - summer dresses—the superb cleanness and coolness of them, and the - happiness! It was exciting. The wheels beneath his carriage drummed out - one word, “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.” He didn’t know even - yet whether he wanted to see her. - </p> - <p> - The train achieved the surprise of the century—it arrived early. He - examined the expectant faces of the people; neither Harry nor the Faun Man - was there. He refused to hang about; his legs ached to be moving. Picking - up his bag, he set out to walk, hoping he would meet them. - </p> - <p> - Streets were garish—flowers in gardens, foamy toilets of women, - college blazers and rowing colors, and, over all, swift white clouds and - the fiercely gleaming sun. From under wide river-hats girls laughed up - into men’s tanned faces. Everyone was young or, because the world - was golden, seemed to be young. Peter wanted some one to laugh with. - Walking down the middle of the street, the crowd moved in pairs, a man and - a woman together, almost invariably. The old gray town, like Peter, looked - lonely in this hubbub of jostling love and merriment. - </p> - <p> - As he came in sight of the Catherine Wheel, a distant cheering commenced. - Feet moved faster. Men caught at women’s arms, and women caught up - their dresses; the army of pleasure-seekers commenced to run. Because - Peter was by himself he forged ahead and found a place on the bridge where - people stood yelling and jammed, shoulder to shoulder. At first he could - make out hardly anything, because of the sea of hats and backs in front of - him. Then the crowd swayed; he took advantage of it and found himself - leaning over the crumbling stone balustrade, gazing down on one of the - most gallant sights in England. Through a steep bank of posies, made up of - river gardens, house-boats and human faces, ran a silver thread. - Approaching, with what seemed incredible slowness, were two specks about - the size of matches. As the sun caught them, one saw the flash of blades, - whipping the water with the regularity of clockwork. Stealthily, with - infinite labor, one stole ahead. The garden of faces on either side of the - silver thread trembled; a roar went up which gathered volume as it drew - from out the distance. Peter pressed his lips against a man’s ear—a - complete stranger—and shouted, “What is it?” - </p> - <p> - The man stared at him despisingly, “The Diamond Sculls. Roy - Hardcastle again the Australian.” He turned away and paid Peter no - more attention. - </p> - <p> - Peter, though not much wiser, at once became a partisan and screamed the - one name he knew, “Hardcastle! Hardcastle! Hardcastle!” till - his throat felt as if it had burst. - </p> - <p> - And now they were well in sight—two men with bent backs and arms - that worked like levers, each seated in a machine as narrow as a needle, - with long wooden legs which stuck out on either side, striding the water - and keeping the balance. They looked like human egg-beaters gone mad. The - river rose to its feet; the winning-post was nearing. The channel of free - water seemed to narrow as skiffs, gigs, punts, dingeys and every kind of - craft pressed closer to the booms which marked the course. - </p> - <p> - Something happened. Both men drooped inertly forward over trailing sculls. - It was dramatic, this immediate transition from frantic energy to listless - collapse. Hats were tossed up. Launches shrieked and whistled. Everyone - tried to make more noise than his neighbor, Peter with the rest. “Well - rowed. Well rowed, sir. Well rowed.” - </p> - <p> - When the clamor had died down he turned to where the man had been - standing. “Who won?” And then, “Oh, I beg your pardon.” - </p> - <p> - He was gazing into the amused face of a girl with gray eyes and - brown-black hair, that swept like a cloud across a Clear white forehead. - </p> - <p> - “Who won! Roy Hardcastle, of course. England’s not beaten yet.” - </p> - <p> - He wasn’t thinking of England’s honor; the race—it had - never happened. He was looking at her mouth. They called her Cherry, - because her lips were red. - </p> - <p> - She was going from him. How straight she was! How slender! Like a slim - spring flower—a narcissus, perhaps. He went after her and raised his - hat. “Forgive me for speaking to you. Just a minute before a man was - standing there, and—-” - </p> - <p> - “That’s all right,” she said; “I understand.” - </p> - <p> - Again she was on the point of leaving. He had to make certain. “Since - I’ve been so rude already, would you mind if I asked you one more - question?” - </p> - <p> - She looked him over casually and seemed more satisfied that she was - willing to admit to anyone but herself. “Not at all.” - </p> - <p> - He straightened his necktie nervously. “Then, can you tell me where - I’ll find <i>The Skylark?</i> It’s a house-boat belonging to - Lorenzo Arran.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed softly and stood with her eyes cast down, tapping the pavement - with her foot. He was sure now. She looked up. “Where have I seen - you? Somehow you’re familiar. It’s annoying; you knew me in a - flash.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re Cherry?” - </p> - <p> - “Only to a few of my dearest friends.” - </p> - <p> - He glanced away from her. “You were Cherry to me once for about an - hour; you’ve been Cherry to me ever since then.” - </p> - <p> - There was a long pause. “And yet I don’t know you,” she - said. “You must be the friend Mr. Arran was expecting down from - London.” - </p> - <p> - Peter nodded. - </p> - <p> - “He and Harry went to meet you. You must have missed each other at - the station. If you like, I’ll show you the way to <i>The Skylark</i>; - I’m going there. They’ll be wondering whether you’ve - come. We’d better hurry.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, please not yet.” - </p> - <p> - “But why not?” she asked, puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “Because I’m—I don’t know. My pride’s - touched that you don’t know me. Would you think it awfully cheeky if - I were to ask you to come and have tea with me first?” - </p> - <p> - She opened her parasol, gaining time while she made her mind up; and then, - “I’m game. I haven’t had much adventure lately. I’m - just out of a convent school in France.” - </p> - <p> - He opened his eyes wide. “Ah, so that was it!” - </p> - <p> - They entered the Red Lion and walked through into the garden. They ordered - tea at a small table from which they could see the river. - </p> - <p> - “Why did you say that?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “What did I say?” - </p> - <p> - “You said, ‘Ah, so that was it!’ You opened your mouth - so wide when you said it that I thought you’d gape your head off. - When I was a little girl in America we had a colored cook with a - decapitating smile—it nearly met at the back of her neck. Well, your - ‘Ah’ was a decapitating ‘Ah.’ Now tell me?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I’ve waited four years to find out where you’ve - been hiding.” - </p> - <p> - “Four years!” She tried to think back. - </p> - <p> - He leant his elbows on the table, his face between his hands. “Seems - a long while, doesn’t it? In four years one can grow up. Last time - we were together you made me a promise—you said we’d meet - again often in the same place. I went there and went there—you didn’t - keep your word.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed. “I suppose it’s a trifle too late to say I’m - sorry. I don’t suppose you minded much.” She waited for him to - contradict that; when he didn’t she continued, “How much do - you know about me? For instance, what’s my real name?” - </p> - <p> - He laughed in return. “You’ve got me there. All you told me - was that people called you Cherry, because your lips were red.” - </p> - <p> - She sank her head between her shoulders; then she looked up flushing and - pursing her lips together, like a child who wants to extract a favor by - being loved. “Be a sportsman. You’re awfully tantalizing. Give - me a pointer that’ll help me to guess. You know, I ought to know who - you are; it isn’t good form for a girl to take tea with a strange - young man.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he said, speaking slowly, “do you remember a day - when you knocked down and walked over, oh, let’s say about twenty - photographs of the same lady?” - </p> - <p> - “Do I remember!” She sniffed a little scornfully. “‘Tisn’t - likely I’d forget; that was why the Faun Man sent me to a convent.” - </p> - <p> - She had said rather more than she intended. She was provoked with herself - and with Peter, for the moment, because he had drawn her out. She twisted - round on her chair, so that he could see only her shoulders. - </p> - <p> - Not realizing that he was being snubbed, he pushed the subject further, - “What an unfair punishment! That doesn’t sound like the Faun - Man. But, perhaps, you liked it. What did you do at the convent?” - </p> - <p> - “Always praying,” she answered, with her shoulders still - toward him. “And, look here, don’t you say that the Faun Man - was unfair. He wasn’t. He didn’t send me away only for - breaking his pictures.” And then, inconsequently, “If it wasn’t - too childish I’d go and smash them all afresh.” - </p> - <p> - Suddenly she swung round, “I know who you are. Hurray! You’re - Peter. You see, I remember the name. Shall I give myself away and tell you - why I remember?” - </p> - <p> - “Do. Do,” he urged. - </p> - <p> - The answer came promptly. “Because you paid me compliments. You - thought that God said to Himself when He made me, ‘I’ll make - the most beautiful person I’ve ever made.’—Hulloa! You - don’t like that. It wasn’t quite what you expected. What did - you expect? Until you tell me I won’t speak to you.” - </p> - <p> - Compelled by her silence, he confessed, “I did hope that you might - have remembered me for something—something more romantic. You see, - we met in the Haunted Wood, and there was the river, and you were going to - drown yourself. You’d taken off your shoes and stockings as a first - step, which was very economical of you. And I—I saw your feet, and——” - </p> - <p> - She waved her handkerchief at him, her eyes a-sparkle. “I know. I - know. Very pretty and very foolish!” She rose. “We ought to be - going.” - </p> - <p> - Outside the Red Lion, she turned toward the river; “I left my boat - at one of the landings.” - </p> - <p> - When they had found it and he had helped her in, she said, “You can - row, I suppose? All right, then, I’ll steer; you take the sculls.” - </p> - <p> - They drifted down with the stream, the gray bridge, spanning the river, - growing more distant behind them; the wooded hills swimming up on every - side to form a green cup, against which the sky stooped its lips. They - floated by lazy craft, in which women lay back on cushions beneath - sunshades and men with bare arms clasped about their knees watched them. - Snatches of laughter reached them, to which the murmur of voices droned an - accompaniment. On green lawns, beneath dreaming garden trees, little - groups of brightly attired people clustered. From houseboats along the - river-bank stole music, one air creeping into another as they passed, - fashioning a medley—coon songs from America, Victorian ballads of - sentiment, a wild scrap of Dvorak and the latest impertinence from London. - Of all that they saw and heard, they alone were constant in the shifting - landscape. - </p> - <p> - “After four years!” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - He stopped rowing and gazed at her wonderingly, repeating her words, - “After four years!” - </p> - <p> - Then a familiar voice leapt out at them from a sky-blue house-boat, with - sky-blue curtains fluttering in the windows and a rim of scarlet geraniums - running round it in boxes. The voice lent the touch of humor to their - tenderness, which saves sentiment from sadness and makes it ecstatic. It - sang to the twinkling tones of a mandolin, struck sharply: - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Come, tickle me here; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - For I ain’t what you thought me— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - I ain’t so ‘igh and so ‘aughty, my dear. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - But there’s right times for lovin’, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And cooin’ and dovin’, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And wrong ways of flirtin’ - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - That’s woundin’ and hurtin’— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - I’m a lydy, d’you hear? - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - But just under the neck, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Peck ever so softly— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - I allow that, my dear. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Not my lips—you’re too near. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Come along, lovey; come along, duckie; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Tickle me, tickle me here.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXX—HALF IN LOVE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Faun Man looked - up from his writing. Peter had been with him on <i>The Skylark</i> for - five days—five gorgeous days. He had found to his surprise that the - golden woman was of the party. So far as outward appearances went, the - picture-smashing incident might never have happened; Cherry conducted - herself as a good comrade and the golden woman called her “dear.” - They had to act as friends, since the Faun Man had taken rooms for them at - the same hotel that they might chaperone each other. The men slept on - board the house-boat. - </p> - <p> - It was nearly six. The last of the Finals had been rowed; the Regatta was - ended. Far up the course one could still hear the distant cheering from - the lawn where prizes were being distributed. The most sensational race of - the afternoon had been the Diamond Sculls, in which Hardcastle had won by - a bare half-length. Peter still tingled with the madness of the - excitement, the splendid grit of the contested fight and the wildness of - the applause. He had seen a slight young hero lifted out of his shell and - carried shoulder-high; he wanted something like that to happen to himself - so that Cherry might approve of him. He had just come from accompanying - her back to The Red Lion; in an hour, when she had changed for dinner, he - was going to fetch her. He had one more night before him—the gayest - of them all, when the crews broke training, and then——. How - often would he see her again? The gray old town would recover from its - invasion, and settle back into routine and eventless quiet. Would - something similar happen to his life? Nevertheless, he had one more night. - </p> - <p> - As he climbed aboard <i>The Skylark</i> and entered, the Faun Man looked - up. “Peter, i’m tired of being respectable—I want to be - vulgar.” - </p> - <p> - Peter threw himself into a creaking wicker-chair. “That’s not - difficult; it’s chiefly a matter of clothes.” - </p> - <p> - “And accent,” the Faun Man added; “refined speech is the - soap and water of good manners.” - </p> - <p> - Peter chuckled. “Then don’t tub.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man stood up and stretched himself. “I haven’t. I’ve - written a love-lyric that never saw a nailbrush. It’s called <i>The - Belle of Shoreditch</i>. When I’ve sung it to you I’ll tell - you why I wrote it. Isn’t this a ripping tune?” He tinkled it - over; then sat down crosslegged on the floor and commenced to drawl the - words out: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “My bloke’s a moke - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And ‘e cawn’t tell me why; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - But the fust time ‘e spoke - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - ‘Twas no more than a sigh. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Says I, ‘Don’t mind me; we’ll soon be dead.’ - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Says ‘e, ‘If yer dies, I’ll break me ‘ead.’ - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Says I, ‘Why not yer ‘eart instead, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Yer quaint old moke?’ - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “For yer cawn’t be ‘appy when yer ‘alf in love—! - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Yer must taik one road or the other; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Yer can maike o’ life an up’ill shove, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Or marry a bloke wot ain’t yer brother.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “Chorus, Peter. Pick it up.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man nodded the time, swaying from the hips and rolling his head. - </p> - <p> - “For yer cawn’t be ‘appy when yer ‘alf in love.” - </p> - <p> - He laid his mandolin aside. “Catchy, isn’t it? There mayn’t - be much soap about the dialect, but there’s plenty of philosophy in - the sense. More than one person in this party is half in love. Take - example from me, Peter; don’t make a fool of yourself.” - </p> - <p> - Peter’s face went red. He didn’t think he’d been so - obvious. To escape further pursuit, he turned the corner rapidly, “When - are you going to start being vulgar?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes!” The Faun Man came back. He struck a pose, his left - hand resting on his hip, his right beating against his breast. “To-night,” - he said. “To-night I lose my identity. I cease to be Lorenzo Arran - and become Bill Willow, with his performing troupe of eccentric minstrels. - I wear a red nose. My clothes might have been picked out of any - ash-barrel.” - </p> - <p> - Peter interrupted. “From where do you get the eccentric minstrels?” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man grabbed him by the shoulder, as though he feared he might - dash away when the full glory of the project was divulged. “My boy, - you’re one of them. You operate upon a bun-bag folded over a - hair-comb. You wear—let me see? You wear a sheet, with holes cut in - it for your eyes and mouth. Your nose may remain incognito; I’ve - seen better. In a word, you play the ghost to my Hamlet.” - </p> - <p> - “And Harry and the girls?” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man passed his hand over his forehead and reflected. “Let - me see! Harry blacks his physiognomy; the mouth-organ disguises the rest - of him—it always does. And as for the girls—they hang their - hair before their faces and sing through it. Believe me, nothing alters a - woman’s appearance so much as letting down her hair; that’s - why all divorces occur after marriage. Now, with me it’s different; - I look my best in bed. Of course I can’t ask anyone to see me there—that’s - why I’m a bachelor.—But to get back to vulgarity; we start - to-night in a punt. We’ll wait till it’s dusk, and we’ll - have lanterns. We’ll collect money for the private insane asylums of - Alaska. I’ll make a little speech explaining our philanthropy. Young - feller, Bill Willow and his minstrels are going to make this Old Regatta - rememberable for years to come.” - </p> - <p> - “You mean it?” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man grinned; all the boy in him was up. - </p> - <p> - “Peter, don’t look so pop-eyed; of course I mean it—I - mean it just as truly as Martin Luther did when he said, ‘Here I - take my stand, because I’ve got nowhere to sit down.’ A - profound utterance! I’m tired of watching all these people spooning - under trees, wearing Leander ties, comparing their girls’ eyes to - the stars and being afraid to touch each other. They’re too much of - ladies and gentlemen; even we are. To-night I’m going to be a - ruffian. Cut along and fetch the girls. I’ve got to write another - song and it’s almost time for rehearsal.” - </p> - <p> - “A dress rehearsal?” - </p> - <p> - “In spots,” said the Faun Man. - </p> - <p> - When Peter broke the news to the golden woman she covered her face and - laughed through her hands. She had a trick of treating Cherry and Peter - like children, although she looked no more than twenty herself. She put - her arms round their shoulders, drawing their faces close together, on - either side of hers. She was so happy and beautiful it would have been - difficult not to love her. “My Loo-ard!” she said, “I’d - do a skirt-dance to-night if it wasn’t for the water under the punt. - I’m all against getting wet, aren’t you, Cherry?” - </p> - <p> - Peter looked knowing. “The first thing she’d do if she knew - she was going to drown, would be to take off her shoes and stockings.” - </p> - <p> - The golden woman pinched the girl’s cheek. “Hulloa! Secrets - already!—But I don’t like Lorie’s idea for disguising - us. Let’s see what we can do with five minutes’ shopping.” - </p> - <p> - When they rowed up to <i>The Skylark</i> they were met by a mysterious - silence. Lifting out their parcels, they tiptoed into the cabin. Harry was - bending over a table-cloth, with a tooth-brush in his hand and a bottle of - blacking at his elbow. The Faun Man was melting the bottoms of candles and - making them stick to the bottoms of empty jam-jars. - </p> - <p> - “What are you doing?” - </p> - <p> - They both looked up. - </p> - <p> - “I’m getting the illuminations ready,” said the Faun - Man. - </p> - <p> - “And I’m making our flag,” said Harry, scrubbing hard at - the table-cloth. “Blacking’s awful stuff; it’s so - smudgy.” They crowded round him to inspect his handiwork and read: - </p> - <h3> - BILL WILLOW’S - </h3> - <h3> - IMPROMPTU TROUPE OF ECCENTRIC MINSTRELS - </h3> - <h3> - NO FUN WITHOUT FOLLY ENVY THE POOR MAD - </h3> - <p> - The Faun Man affixed his last candle. “Now, then, you crazy people, - rehearsal’s in five minutes. Let’s fortify our tummies.” - </p> - <p> - Behind the house-boat the sun was setting; in patches, where water lay - most still among rushes, the river shone blood-red. Sometimes, beneath the - window, they heard the dip of oars and a boat drifted past. They were - miles from reality, in a hushed and painted world. They had become little - children for the moment, though the Faun Man had called it “being - vulgar.” They had become immensely serious over a thing which didn’t - matter. There were the words of the songs to learn, and then the tunes. - After that there were the cretonnes to cut out and run together into - burlesque night-gowns, extremely ample so as to cover their proper - dresses. The golden woman had surprised a prim widow in Hart Street by - asking for “The ugliest materials you have in your shop.” She - had met with success; no materials could have been uglier. One had a - straw-colored background, strewn with gigantic poppies; across another - floated, in a kind of sky-blue gravy, the unbarbered heads of bodyless - angels. The Faun Man and Peter, when their needles lost the thread, gave - up sewing and fastened theirs together with paper pins. And all the while - beneath the absurdity of it there was an atmosphere of tenderness, as if - folly had brought them all nearer. The Faun Man kept watching the golden - woman; and Cherry the Faun Man; and Peter, Cherry. As for Harry, he was - the only one whose eyes were free to take in everybody. - </p> - <p> - When night had fallen they slipped on their masks and stepped into the - punt. Harry took the pole and pushed off from <i>The Skylark</i>. The Faun - Man sat next to the golden woman, humming snatches of song beneath his - breath, to which he picked out an accompaniment on the mandolin. She lay - back gazing up at him. - </p> - <p> - Above a wooded knoll the moon rose, setting the river a-silver. Trees - knelt along the banks like cattle, stooping to drink. In the distance the - bridge leapt the chasm of darkness and lights of the town sprang up. Like - a fleet of dreams against green wharfs of fairyland, illumined houseboats - shone fantastic. Chains of lamps, strung through boughs of gardens, - gleamed like jewels on the throat of the dusk. The river sang - incoherently, in a voice that was half asleep. Peter slipped his hand into - Cherry’s; her hand seemed quite unconscious of what he was doing. - </p> - <p> - And now they drew near to the crowd of pleasure-craft, which jostled one - another and beat the water like a run of salmon in shallows. Harry laid - aside the pole and took to the paddle. They lit their candles and flew - their heraldry. In their disguises no one would know them; with the - restraint of their identities lifted from them they scarcely recognized - themselves. The Faun Man gave the word; the punt was allowed to drift. - They all struck up: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Go h’on away. Go h’on away. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Mind yer, I’m meanin’ wot I say. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - My ‘air and ‘at-pin’s gone astray— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Stop yer messin’. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A pound a week yer earn yer say— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Oh, I don’t fink!- Two bob a day’s - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - More like. I loves yer. Yer can stay, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Yer bloomin’ blessin’.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - They tickled the people’s fancy; they were so obviously out for a - lark and so evidently intended to have it. When “My bloke’s a - moke” was sung, from bank to bank the chorus was taken up; even the - strollers, hanging over the bridge, caught the swing of it. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “For yer cawn’t be ‘appy when yer ‘alf in love— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Yer must taik one road or the other; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Yer can maike o’ life an up’ill shove, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Or marry a bloke wot ain’t yer brother.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man turned to the golden woman and addressed the words to her - shamelessly. He put his arm about her, and drew her head down against his - shoulder. Through the slits in her mask her eyes gleamed up. Peter, - watching, wondered why it was that she would only be kind to him in fun; - he had noticed that, when the Faun Man was in earnest, she never - responded. - </p> - <p> - They had been singing for an hour, pushed this way and that, too jammed to - attempt steering. Their punt had drifted near a house-boat, all a-swing - with lanterns and steep with flowers. Through the windows they could see - that a dinner had just ended; tall young men in evening dress sprawled - back in chairs. Corks were still popping. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man whispered, “They’re one of the crews breaking - training. What’ll we give ‘em? Oh, yes, this’ll do. Tune - up.” So they tuned up: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “If yer gal ain’t all yer thought ‘er, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And for everyfing yer’ve bought ‘er - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - She don’t seem to care a ‘appenny pot o’ glue; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - If she tells yer she won’t miss yer, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And she doesn’t want ter kiss yer, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Though yer’ve cuddled ‘er from ‘Ammersmif ter Kew; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - If yer little side excurshiums - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - To lands of pink nasturtiums - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Don’t make ‘er ‘arf so soft as they make you, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Why, never be down’earted, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - For that’s the way love started— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Adam ended wery ‘appy—and that’s true.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The young men had come out. They were slightly unsteady; some of them - found difficulty in keeping their cigars in their mouths. They held one - another’s arms and laughed loudly. Their faces were flushed and - their hair ruffled. But, for all that, because they were young and had - done their work gamely that afternoon, they seemed in keeping with the - atmosphere of carnival. A voice on the edge of the darkness shouted one - word, “Hardcastle.” The crowd stood up in their boats, and - commenced to cheer. From the group of crewmen one tall fellow was pushed - forward and lifted on a chair. He looked slim as a girl in his - evening-dress; his thin, rather handsome face, wore a weak, - inconsequential expression. When the babel of voices had died down he - spoke thickly and hesitatingly. “Yes, I won. I dunno. Did I win? I - can’t remember. Suppose I must have. One of you chaps tell me - to-morrow.—Anyway, if I did win, here’s to the losers. Plucky - devils!” - </p> - <p> - Cherry had been leaning forward; her mask had slipped aside in her - eagerness. Hardcastle saw her. He stared—made an effort to pull his - wits together. In a second he had jumped from the chair, had caught her by - the hand, was helping her aboard the house-boat. She held on to Peter, - laughing and dragging him after her. The others followed reluctantly—after - all, they were out for adventure. - </p> - <p> - As soon as he had entered the cabin, Hardcastle slipped his arms about her - and swung her up on to the table amid the clatter of breaking glasses. - “Sing, you little beauty. Sing something.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man pushed his way forward; the matter was going beyond a joke—his - intention was to stop it. The golden woman clutched him, “Don’t - make a row, Lorie, They don’t know who we are. We’ve let - ourselves in for it; let’s go through with it like sports.” - </p> - <p> - Cherry seemed not at all offended; the spirit of bacchanalia possessed - her. Her usually pale face had a pretty flush. She stood tiptoe, her red - lips pouting, watching through the slits in her mask these fine young - animals whom the river had applauded. Her eyes came back to Hard-castle. - “I don’t want to sing.” It was like a shy child talking. - “If you like, I’ll dance.” - </p> - <p> - In a trice Hardcastle had lifted her again in his arms. To balance herself - she had to cling to his neck and shoulders. “Clear the table,” - he shouted. - </p> - <p> - With his free hand he commenced tugging at the cloth. Others helped him. - With a jangle and smash that could be heard across the river, silver, - glass and lighted candles were swept to the floor. He set her back on the - polished surface and ran to the piano in the corner, crying, “I’ll - tickle the ivories—you dance.” - </p> - <p> - With his head turned, he played and watched her. From the ruin she had - caught up a red rose and held it between her red lips by the stalk. Her - feet began to move, slowly at first—then wildly. She swayed and - tossed, glided stealthily, bent and shot upward like a dart. Her breath - was coming fast—all the while her gray eyes sought the man’s - who watched her across his shoulder. The other men were infected by her - madness—they took hands and circled the table, singing whatever came - into their heads. To Peter it was torture. He thought that she knew it. He - guessed that she had done it on purpose. He had wearied her with his - respect He remembered one of the Faun Man’s sayings, “No woman - likes to be respected; she prefers to be loved, even by a man whom she - doesn’t want.” - </p> - <p> - The piano stopped. Hardcastle leapt up. “Here, I want to see her.” - </p> - <p> - “No. No,” cried Cherry. - </p> - <p> - “I do, and I will,” he retorted. He had stumbled against the - table and caught her by the knees; his hands were groping up to tear aside - her mask. An arm shot out; he staggered. Another blow struck him between - the eyes. He measured his length on the floor. Peter dragged Cherry to - him, pressing her against him. All was hubbub. The Faun Man and Harry were - on either side of him, forming a guard. Of a sudden the lights went out—some - one had knocked over the lamps. In the darkness the sound of scuffling - subsided. The Faun Man’s voice was heard, saying, “Look here, - you chaps, that wasn’t very decent of Hardcastle. He’s drunk, - so we’ll say no more about it. But you’re gentlemen. Let us - out. We’re going.” - </p> - <p> - As they stepped into the night, Cherry felt warm lips touch her forehead. - She heard protesting voices, and one which whispered, “You get off - with her. We’ll follow.” The punt stole out into the darkness - of the river. When she lifted her head from the cushions she found that - the ripples on the water were a-silver, and that a solitary figure was - seated in the stern, paddling. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXI—A NIGHT WITH THE MOON - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e was taking her - in the wrong direction. Why? To reach the Red Lion he should have steered - upstream. Far behind, chiseled out by the moonlight, the town stood sharp - against the star-strewn sky—sagging roofs, twisted chimney-pots and - tall spires. From its walls came the shouts of roisterers and the sound of - discordant singing, which broke off abruptly, only to commence again more - faintly. - </p> - <p> - She was inclined to be penitent. She was both annoyed and amused with - herself for what she had done. On the spur of the moment she was always - doing wild things like that to people she cared for—doing them that - she might measure their love by her power to hurt them. She wondered - whether he blamed her, and how long he would keep silent. - </p> - <p> - The river had become a pathway of ebony, inlaid with silver by the - moonlight. Along its banks illuminations smoldered, scorching red wounds - in the shadows. Here and there a candle flared, sank and died, like a - heart which had broken itself with longing. Craft drifted like logs - through the blackness. They seemed deserted, unpiloted; yet they bore with - them the sense of lips that whispered against other lips and of hands that - touched. “To-morrow!” everything seemed to say. “To-morrow! - But there is still to-night.” - </p> - <p> - To-morrow lovers would have vanished. Faces, which in the past week one - had learnt to recognize, about which one had built up fancies, would be - seen no more. The haunting poignancy of parting was in the night, the - memory of things exquisite and unlasting. - </p> - <p> - And Peter, he couldn’t understand what had happened to him. It - seemed a dream from which he was waking; he wanted to sleep again and - recapture the illusion. From the first he had recognized an atmosphere of - danger in her presence. She was so foreign to his experience; it was - scarcely likely that a friendship with her would lead to happiness. And - yet he could not do without her. On those sunlit mornings aboard <i>The - Skylark</i>, when he had opened his eyes to hear the river tapping, had - looked out of his window to see the breeze whipping the water and the - plumed trees nodding, there had been no rest in the day’s gladness - till he had heard her tripping footsteps. She had crept into his blood. - All past things were unremembered—past ambitions and past loyalties. - Every beauty grouped itself about her. The grayness of her eyes drew his - soul out. The soft, slurring notes of her voice were for him the finest - music. Had he been offered the joy of one month with her, for which all - the years of his life should be forfeit, he would willingly have accepted. - The thought of marriage had already occurred to him. That he should be - only nineteen was a tragedy. Would she wait for him? With no more than a - week’s acquaintance by which to judge he knew that she would wait - for no one. She was elusive—one moment a child, the next a woman. - And she sat there gazing at him through the shadows, her hands folded - meekly on her breast—a nunlike trick which she had learnt at the - convent. It gave her an appearance of piety, which the red defiance of her - mouth and gray challenge of her eyes negatived. She was the first woman he - had loved. He loved her uncalculatingly, with his soul and body, as a man - loves but once, when he is young. - </p> - <p> - They had passed <i>The Skylark</i> and were nearing the island. All the - other boats were left behind. Her voice came to him throbbingly, like a - harp fingered softly. “You’re disappointed in me. You’ll - often be disappointed.” - </p> - <p> - He could not bear that she should blame herself. He drew in his paddle. - “I’m not, only——” - </p> - <p> - “Only what? A man always says ‘only’ when he’s - trying to deceive himself.” - </p> - <p> - “Only, why did you do it?” - </p> - <p> - She didn’t answer his question. How could she tell why? Because she - was young; because she knew that she was pretty. “You looked - splendid,” she said, “when you struck him.” And then she - mentioned the one thing concerning which he, as a man, would have kept - silent. “You kissed me, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - His blood quickened. Was she reproaching him or simply saying, “You - love me; we’re alone together?” She was leaning forward now, - looking away from him, her throat resting against the back of her hand. He - crept toward her, knelt at her feet and pressed his lips against her - dress. - </p> - <p> - Her eyes came back to him. “You’d better go away and forget - me.” - </p> - <p> - He slipped his arm about her body, drawing her to him. “Do you want - me to go away—to go out of your life forever?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” The word was whispered and slowly uttered. She touched - him gently, patting his hand. “Peter, I’m not your sort. You - know that.” - </p> - <p> - “But you are my sort, or else how could I feel—feel what I am - feeling? You’ll learn to love me, Cherry.” - </p> - <p> - She took it without a tremor, this declaration which had cost him such - effort. She shook her head. “The Faun Man tells Eve that every time - they’re together. I wonder how many men have said it. Love comes in - an instant. You can’t learn it.” - </p> - <p> - “But why not?” - </p> - <p> - She bent over him like a mother. Her mouth was rounded; no wonder they - called her Cherry. She was adorable in compassion. “You don’t - know me. I’m not at all what you think. Ask the Faun Man. Don’t - you remember at the Happy Cottage? It wasn’t for breaking his - pictures that he sent me to the convent.” - </p> - <p> - “But I’ll make you love me,” he insisted. “You don’t - know what I’d do for you. I’d die for you, Cherry. There’s - nothing about you that I don’t worship. You’re so long and - sweet—and———” He laid his face against her - cold, white cheek and caught his breath. She was like marble; he could - feel no stir in her—and his every nerve was throbbing. “Don’t - you like to be loved?” - </p> - <p> - She seemed to marvel at his passion, as if it were a thing which she did - not understand, by which she was puzzled. Oddly, to his way of thinking, - she showed no terror of him. Her eyes dwelt on him with clear and kindly - interest. “Every girl likes to be loved. But that’s different. - I don’t think you’ll ever teach me, Peter. And yet——. - Hadn’t we better be getting back?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, not yet.” He felt that he was going to lose her—lose - her forever. Surely, surely he could rouse her to a sense of the poetry - and drama which was burning in his blood. It was impossible that she - should not feel it. She had been sleeping, as he had been sleeping, - letting love go by with its banners and drums. “Oh, not yet,” - he pleaded; “all these years we’ve lived—we’ve - hardly ever been together.” - </p> - <p> - She broke the suspense by laughing. “What’s your favorite - hymn, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - He was puzzled. “Haven’t got one. Never thought about it. What - makes you ask?” - </p> - <p> - She wriggled her shoulders. “Because mine’s ‘Yield not - to temptation.’” - </p> - <p> - He didn’t catch the significance of her remark. She saw that. - “Still a little boy, aren’t you? A little boy of nineteen, who - thinks he’s in love. There are heaps of other girls in the world.—Yes, - I’ll come.” - </p> - <p> - He piled the cushions for her; then took the paddle and seated himself so - he could face her. Their conversation was carried on by fits and starts, - with long pauses. - </p> - <p> - “He was a beast.” She spoke reflectively. - </p> - <p> - “Who was?” - </p> - <p> - “Hardcastle.” - </p> - <p> - “But I thought—I was afraid you liked him.” - </p> - <p> - She trailed her hand in the black water, watching how it slipped through - her fingers. “I did like him for the moment. That proves I’m - not nice. Women often like men who are beasts.” - </p> - <p> - “But you don’t like him now?” - </p> - <p> - She teased him, keeping him waiting. “I’m glad you struck him.” - </p> - <p> - Presently she said, “Peter, I’ve been thinking, why can’t - we have good times together? We could be friends and—nothing - serious, but more than exactly friends. Lots of girls do it.” - </p> - <p> - Peter stopped paddling. “I should have to love you. I should be - always hoping that——” - </p> - <p> - “Then it wouldn’t be fair to you,” she said. - </p> - <p> - He had been silent for some minutes. “Where did you learn so much - about men? I know nothing about women.” - </p> - <p> - “Where did I learn?” she laughed. “Girls know without - learning. Until to-night no man ever kissed me—not the way you - kissed me. So you needn’t be jealous.” - </p> - <p> - The punt nosed its way among rushes and came to rest. He crouched against - her feet, holding her hands, trembling at her nearness. The deep stillness - of the night enfolded them. Reeds stood up tall on every side, shutting - out the world. Above their heads a flock of fleecy clouds wandered, with - unseen shepherds swinging stars for lanterns. The man in the moon looked - out of his window with a tolerant smile on his mouth. She lay against the - cushions, white and impassive, her long, fine throat stretched back. - </p> - <p> - “Peter,” she said, “look up there; those clouds, they - don’t know where they’re going. Someone’s driving them - from one world to another, like sheep to pasture. We’re like that; - someone’s driving us—and we don’t know where we’re - going.” And then, “You love me, with all your heart—yes, - I believe that; and I—I love someone else. We each love someone who - doesn’t care; and I have to let you do it—I, who know the pain - of it. Poor Peter, what a pity God didn’t make us so that we could - love each other.” - </p> - <p> - And again, “I don’t know any man in the world with whom I’d - trust myself to do what we’re doing. Oh, I don’t want to hurt - you, Peter. If ever I should hurt you, you’ll remember?” - </p> - <p> - He couldn’t speak—didn’t want to speak. He and she were - awake and together, while all the world slept—that was sufficient. - </p> - <p> - How still it was! He could hear the soft intake of her breath and the - rustle of her dress. “So this is love!” he kept saying to - himself. It wasn’t at all what he had expected. It wasn’t a - wild rush of words and an eager clutching of hands. It wasn’t an - extravagance of actions and language. It was just tenderness. He unbent - her fingers, marveling at their frailness. He pressed the palm of her hand - against his mouth. He felt like a little child as he sat beside this - silent girl. - </p> - <p> - Cherry lifted herself on the cushions. She gave him both her hands. - </p> - <p> - “What is it?” - </p> - <p> - She seemed afraid. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “When two - people are married, is it always one who allows and one who loves? You don’t - know; you can’t tell me. If both don’t love it must be - terrible. I couldn’t bear only to give everything; and only to take - everything, that would be worse. Oh, Peter, I have to tell you. It was - like that with my mother. She couldn’t give everything to my father, - and then—she found someone else. My father worshiped her—just - as you’d worship me, Peter; when he knew that she was going away - from him he—he kept her.” She covered her face. “He was - hanged for it. And that’s why the Faun Man——. He was his - friend. Oh, I’m afraid of myself; I almost wish we’d never - met.” - </p> - <p> - He held her to him; she was shaken with sobbing. Suddenly he recalled how - he had first seen her, rushing out of the Happy Cottage, with her - brown-black hair tumbled about her white face and her gray eyes wide with - tragedy. She was so wilful, and she so needed protection. - </p> - <p> - “Cherry, Cherry. Don’t be frightened. Don’t cry, dear. I - love you. Nothing like that could ever happen to us.” - </p> - <p> - She stared at him. “Nothing like that could ever happen! I expect - they said that.” - </p> - <p> - <i>They! They!</i> And was it they who had called her Cherry, because her - lips were red? - </p> - <p> - Her eyes closed. Her lashes were wet; beneath them were shadows. He gazed - on her, clasping her to him tenderly, as though she were a bewildered bird - which had flown blindly into his breast. Her breath came softly. He - thought her sleeping and kissed her mouth; her hand sought his and lay - there trustingly. - </p> - <p> - What pictures he had of her! He saw her dancing before the flushed and - foolish faces of those men; he saw her as he had met her on the bridge in - her cool, blowy summer dress; he saw her in the Haunted Wood, where the - little river ran, bidding him turn back. Because of what she had just told - him, he felt that he had never loved her until now. - </p> - <p> - Like a counterpane tucking in the sleepy stars, the mist of dawn crept up. - Near into the bank, behind the wall of rushes, a moor-hen was splashing. - The countryside whispered with creature sounds. A bird was calling. How - long had it been calling? An owl flew over his head, in haste to keep pace - with the retreat of darkness. Along the east, above the spears of the - reeds, a little redness spread. A thrush tried over a few staves. Before - he had burst in song a perky blackbird was piping valiantly. The fields - fluttered, as though a messenger ran through them, telling wild-flowers to - raise their heads. The east smoldered higher; conflagration smoked - sideways and upward. A door opened in a cloud; the sun stepped out. Like - the unhurried crash of an orchestra the world shouted. It happened every - morning while men slept. It was stupendous—appalling. - </p> - <p> - How white she was! He bent over her. Her eyes opened. She gave his arm a - little hug. “Were you kissing me, Peter? You mustn’t, mustn’t - love me like that.” - </p> - <p> - Ah, mustn’t! It was too late to forbid him. The insanity of the - night was all forgotten; only its sweetness was left. From his window the - man in the moon looked down; his mouth seemed to droop at the corners. He - would watch for them next night, and they would not come. He might never - know the end of their story. He was despondent; he had to go to bed. - </p> - <p> - Peter was chafing her hands. - </p> - <p> - “How good you are!” - </p> - <p> - “Not good. Only in love.” - </p> - <p> - And she, “I dreamt of you. We were in the Haunted Wood. My feet were - bare, and——” - </p> - <p> - He held her eyes earnestly. “I wish I had been there. All these - years it was the grayness of your eyes and—and something else that I - remembered.” - </p> - <p> - “What else? No, tell me.” - </p> - <p> - “The whiteness of your feet,” he whispered. - </p> - <p> - Again they were in fairyland. Yellow as a topaz set in turquoise the sun - stood free in the heavens. Inhabitants of the fearless morning went busily - about their tasks. Clear as a mirror, through the perfumed stillness of - meadows the river ran. Mists curled from ofif its surface and hung white - in tree-tops. Within hand-stretch fish leapt; peering over the side of the - punt, they could follow their retreat through waving weeds and black - willow-stumps. Only a magpie noticed their passage and became interested, - fluttering from bough to bough and asking them, “What d’you - want? What d’you want?” Dragon-flies ventured forth as the sun’s - heat strengthened; butterflies and the teeming insect world rose out of - water-lilies and foxgloves—out of the destructible homes which - Nature builds for their brief and perishable existence. He and she, - drifting through the golden quiet with clasped hands, seized their moment - unquestioningly, and were thankful for it. - </p> - <p> - Ahead they saw swans; then cattle wading knee-deep. Rounding a bend, they - came in sight of a trellised garden, with green tables set out on a - close-cut lawn. Boats swung idly in the stream, tethered to a landing. In - the background was a thatched house, from whose chimney smoke waved back - in a thin plume. When they came near enough they made out a white post, - with a sign swinging from it. On the sign was depicted a brown bird, - fluttering its wings in a golden cage; painted over it were the words, <i>The - Winged Thrush.</i> In lifting their eyes to read the sign they caught - sight of the faint moon, weakly smiling, as though saying, “I’ve - got to go. They won’t let me stay. Goodbye, and good luck.” - </p> - <p> - They landed, leaving their foolish disguises in the punt. Through the - dew-drenched wistfulness of summer roses they approached the inn, and - entered. The room was strewn with sawdust, and stale with the smell of - beer and tobacco. An ostler-like person, with a full-blown face and little - blue pig’s eyes, met them. They asked for breakfast. He knew his - business well enough to suggest that missie would prefer to have it in an - arbor. - </p> - <p> - While they ate he hovered round them, continually inventing excuses to - interrupt their privacy. He reminded them of the magpie in his frank - display of curiosity. He informed them that trade was wery bad. He’d - ‘arf a mind to try ‘is luck in Australy. If it weren’t - for the young bloods from Henley, he’d ‘ardly take a ‘appeny - from month to month. Did they know of anyone, an artist chap for h’instance, - who’d like to combine pleasure with business by tryin’ his - ‘and at runnin’ a nice pub? An artist chap could paint that - bloomin’ bird out, and call the place The White Hart or somethin’ - h’attractive. Whoever ‘eard of an inn payin’ which was - called The Winged Thrush? People didn’t want their meals messed - about by a bloomin’ poet. Not but what the sitiyation was so - pleasant that he’d tried to write poetry ‘isself—love-poetry - for the most part. His verses allaws came to ‘im when ‘e were - groomin’ the ‘orses. If things didn’t brisk up, ‘e’d - give Australy a chance, as ‘e’d many times promised. - </p> - <p> - At last he left them. Cherry gazed out dreamily across the river. “I - wonder, is it true that one has always to pay with sorrow for happiness?” - </p> - <p> - Peter shivered. How old she could be when she chose to borrow other people’s - disillusions! He tried to restore her to cheerfulness. “What a pagan - notion! It’s the old idea of the gods being jealous. You shouldn’t - think such thoughts.” - </p> - <p> - “But happiness does bring sorrow,” she insisted. “We - shall have to pay for this to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice trailed off, giving him a vision of all the tomorrows when he - would be without her. And he wasn’t sure of her. She had told him - that she didn’t love him. He drew her closer. “But a sorrow’s - crown of sorrows is to have no happier things to remember—to be old - and never to have been young, to be lonely and never to have been loved. - You mournful little person, do you think you’d be any happier - because you’d never known happiness?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders with a touch - of defiance. “I’m not clever; I can’t argue.” - Then, her face clearing as suddenly as it had clouded, “I can’t - think why you like me, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - He laughed gladly. “And I can’t tell you, Cherry. It’s - as though I’d waited for you always, without knowing for whom I was - waiting. I was a kind of winged thrush in a golden cage; but you’ve - opened the door, now you’ve come.” His explanation wasn’t - sufficient. She snuggled her chin against the back of her hand and watched - him seriously, as though she suspected him of hiding something. “But - what is it that you like most about me?” - </p> - <p> - He tried to discover; he dug back into his own sensations. What was it - that he liked most about her? For the life of him he couldn’t put it - into language. Then he thought he might find out by examining the white - face, with the red lips and tragic eyes, of the girl-woman who had asked - the question. What an uncanny faculty she had for stillness! A sunbeam, - falling from the leaves above, crept up her slender throat and nestled in - her hair. - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. “It’s just you, Cherry. Your voice, your - eyes, the way you walk, the way you try to be sad. It’s just you and - your sweetness, Cherry. I think if I didn’t love you so much I could - say it better.” - </p> - <p> - She stood up. “You poor boy, you’ve said it well enough. I - wish I could feel like that.—And now we should be going.” They - had stepped outside the arbor; they halted at the sound of voices. Coming - round the bend was a scratch eight, the oars striking the water raggedly. - The men were joking and laughing; the cox, a pipe hanging from his mouth, - was urging them to spurt with humorous insults. Having landed, they - tumbled into their sweaters and came strolling through the garden. They - were discussing the previous night in careless voices. - </p> - <p> - “Did you hear about Hardcastle?—When he isn’t in - training he’s always like that. Ugh! At six o’clock a hero—by - midnight a swine you wouldn’t care to touch.” - </p> - <p> - The voices passed out of earshot. - </p> - <p> - Cherry turned to Peter, “And I let him touch me. I’d have - known by instinct if I’d been nice. Oh, Peter, you mustn’t - love me.” - </p> - <p> - When he attempted to kiss her she refused to allow it, saying, “I’m - not your sort.” - </p> - <p> - Paddling back between flowering banks, where trees cast deep shadows and - birds sang full-throatedly, she again became tender. “Life’s - just a yesterday, Peter—a continual bidding good-bye and coming back - from pleasures.” - </p> - <p> - Her sadness hurt him. She knew it; she told herself that it would always - hurt him. He didn’t want ever to say good-bye to her. And she, she - felt sure that their comradeship would be always finding a new ending. - </p> - <p> - “Cherry, darling,” he reproached her, “don’t go in - search of unhappiness. Life’s a to-morrow as well as a yesterday; it’s - full of splendid things—things which aren’t expected. We’ve - all the to-morrows before us.” - </p> - <p> - She trailed her hand in the water, snatching at the lilies, as if by an - effort so slight she could delay their progress and prolong the present. - She didn’t lift her eyes when she whispered, “I was thinking - of that—of all the to-morrows before us.” - </p> - <p> - Again her words brought a vision of the long road of future days, down - which he would walk without her. There was nothing to be said. Surely she - would learn to love him! Reluctantly he paddled forward to their place of - parting. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXII—IF YOU WON’T COME TO HEAVEN, THEN—— - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he train swung - down the shining rails and rumbled into Paddington. Passengers pulled down - their parcels from the racks, jumped out and disappeared in the crowd. - Peter sat on. This carriage at least had known her; she had looked in - through its window and had waved her hand. Out there in the stone-paved - wilderness of London there was nothing they had shared. - </p> - <p> - A porter looked in at the door. “Train don’t go no further, - sir. Lend you a ‘and? Want a keb?” - </p> - <p> - In the cab, Peter closed his eyes, shutting out the cheerful grime of - streets, the nipped impertinence of Cockney faces, the monotonous - anonymity of the ceaseless procession—the stench of this vast human - stable where lives were stalled and broken. He was trying to get back to - green banks, to a river molten in the sunset, and to a redlipped girl. - </p> - <p> - Was she thinking of him? If they thought of one another at the same - moment, could their thoughts meet and interchange?—But she didn’t - love him. Oh, the things he had left unsaid—the things he would say - to make her love him now, if she sat beside him!—She had spoken - truly—happiness had to be paid for with sorrow. His share of the - paying had commenced, and hers——? Would she dodge payment by - forgetting? The law of change was cruel; it diminished all things, even - the most sacred, to mere incidents in a passing pageant. A pigmy - charioteer, with the futile hands of imagination, he was making the old - foolish endeavor to rein in Time’s stallions. - </p> - <p> - He pictured himself as painted on a frieze with her in the moment of their - supreme elation—the moment when attainment had been certain, just - before it was realized. The frieze should represent a meadow in the early - morning, a river with mists rising from off it, and a boy, stooping his - lips over the naked feet of a girl. Someone else had uttered the same - fancy: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Fair Youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Though winning near the goal—yet do not grieve! - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - She cannot fade-” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - <i>She cannot fade</i>. Already it seemed that the sharp edges of his - memories were lost to him. How was it that her face lit up? How did her - voice shudder and slur from sudden piping notes into tenderness? How——? - Things grew vague—he had meant to treasure them so poignantly. Like - a dream from which, against his will, he was waking, Illusion gathered in - her skirts from his clutching hands, growing faint against the background - of reality. - </p> - <p> - The waking had commenced before he left Henley. On his return to <i>The - Skylark</i> he had found a note waiting him. It had been forwarded from - Topbury. His name and address were printed, evidently to disguise the hand - of the sender. Inside, on a half sheet of note-paper, was scrawled: - </p> - <p> - “<i>For God’s sake meet me. Seven o’clock at the bottom - of the Crescent. I’m lonely.”</i> - </p> - <p> - It was signed with the initials, O. W. - </p> - <p> - So he was out of jail! Looking at the date of the postmark, Peter had - discovered that for two nights the man who was lonely had waited. In the - four and a half years since he had vanished from the living world his name - had been scarcely mentioned. At Topbury the effort had been made to blot - out disgrace by forgetting. Jehane, when she had left Sandport, had - purposely dropped her old acquaintance and had passed among recent friends - as a widow. The fiction had been so earnestly cultivated that it had - seemed almost true that Ocky Waffles was dead—true even to Peter and - Glory. Now, like the remembered tragedy about a death-bed, when the hands - had been long since folded, flowers placed upon the breast and the coffin - carried out, the dead man had come back to die afresh. To say that Peter - resented his return would be an exaggeration. But he shrank from the - intrusion of the sordid past upon the golden poetry of the present—shrank - from it as he would shrink from meeting someone hideously marred in a gay - spring woodland. - </p> - <p> - The cab wheels caught in the tram-lines and jerked him into consciousness - of his whereabouts. They had turned into the High Street. In three minutes - they would be at Topbury Cock, and then——. Already in the - distance he could see where the plane-trees in the Fields commenced. What - should he do if his uncle were standing there? His father’s house? - No. He raised the trap in the roof. “When you come to the bottom of - the Crescent walk your horse. Understand?” - </p> - <p> - Shops were closing. Girls and men were pouring out on to the pavement, - meeting with a quick flash of eyes and strolling away together. Some of - them boarded trams, going up to Highgate to breathe the evening air. The - sun was setting. - </p> - <p> - The horse slowed down. At the corner a crowd was gathered about a band. - People were singing. Peter caught the words: - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “If you won’t come to Heaven - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Then you’ll have to go to Hell; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - For the Devil he is waiting, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - But with Jesus all is well. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Though your sins be as scarlet, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - He will wash them in His blood; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - So hurry up to Jesus - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And He’ll make you good. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Hallelujah!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Grace was standing in the middle of the circle banging on her drum, her - mouth wide open in her big poke-bonnet. On the cab-stand, lolling on his - box, pretending to be half asleep, sat Mr. Grace. His daughter’s - eyes were on him. - </p> - <p> - Peter scanned the crowd. It was composed of idlers, onlookers and - scoffers, with a sprinkling of converts. The converts were noticeable by - their pale, indignant enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - At first he saw no one who attracted his attention, and then——. - A man with dejected shoulders was crouching in the gateway of a house. He - seemed to be trying to be unobserved. His clothes were shabby—out of - fashion. His linen was soiled. It was the dirty white spats above his - unshone boots that made Peter notice. He told the cabby to wait for him. - </p> - <p> - He walked by the man once. In passing he noted the total slovenliness of - his appearance, the unkempt hands, the defeated air and the hat jammed - down to hide the close-cropped hair. He turned back and was repassing. - Like a whipped dog the man raised his eyes; then instantly lowered them. - Peter held out his hand; his throat was too choked to say anything. The - man seemed about to take it; then slunk back. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t want to know me.” - </p> - <p> - “I do. If I hadn’t, I shouldn’t have come. I’m——I’m - awfully sorry.” - </p> - <p> - “If you won’t come to Heaven, then you’ll have to go to - hell,” sang Grace and her followers; it sounded as though they were - passing sentence. - </p> - <p> - To the driver’s amazement, Peter helped him into the hansom. “Trot - us round for an hour or two,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “If you won’t come to Heaven, then you’ll have to go to - hell.” The singing hurled itself after them—seemed to be - running and to grow out of breath as they drew into the distance. - </p> - <p> - They set off through Holloway. They reached the foot of Highgate Hill and - had not spoken. Ahead blazed the dome of St. Joseph’s, catching the - redness of the sinking sun. The cabby asked for further instructions. - “Go up the hill and out to Hampstead.” - </p> - <p> - Waterlow Park brought a breath of country; children were laughing and - playing there. The sternness of the city, like the brutality of just - judgments, was dropping away behind them. Streets took on a village - aspect. Over to the left, within sound of the living children, lay the - stone-garden where little Philip rested. The horse clambered slowly to the - top of the ascent. - </p> - <p> - Peter touched the knee of the man beside him. “I’m glad you - sent for me. It’s—it’s a long time since we met. I mean—what - I mean to say is, you might have forgotten me. I’m glad you didn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “A long time since we met!” The dull eyes stared at him as - lifelessly as through a pair of smoked glasses. “I’ve been - buried. They’d better have dug a hole for me.” - </p> - <p> - The man paused and looked from side to side stealthily. He had the hoarse - prison voice which whispered and cracked. It was painful to see how he - cringed and shrank. He pulled himself together and laughed huskily. - “They didn’t let us speak in there.” He spoke - reflectively, as if to himself. “Silent for more than four years! - Strange to be back!” - </p> - <p> - They were bowling down a smooth road. To the right were cricket-fields and - boys at the nets. Across the blue stillness of evening came the sharp - “click” of balls against bats. - </p> - <p> - “So this is Uncle Waffles! So this is Uncle Waffles!” Peter - kept saying to himself. His thoughts searched back, trying to trace a - resemblance between the irrepressible, joking companion of his childhood - and this mutilated scrap of humanity. The low-pitched voice crawled on - like the sound of dragging footsteps. “I couldn’t have done - anything bad enough to deserve that. If I’d only known that someone - outside was caring. There were no letters, no—no anything. Just to - get up in the morning and to work, and then to go back to bed. Sundays - were the worst—there wasn’t any work.—And then they - opened the gates and shoved me out. I couldn’t think of anyone but - you, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - Peter made an attempt to cheer him. “You could have thought of - someone else.” - </p> - <p> - The man shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, but you could. There was Glory.” - </p> - <p> - “Glory!” He showed no animation. “She’s eighteen, - isn’t she? No, Glory wouldn’t care. But Jehane, how is she?” - </p> - <p> - Peter had feared that question. “She’s well.” - </p> - <p> - The man looked away. “She won’t want to see me. She never - loved me. D’you think she’d let me see her, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m afraid—afraid she wouldn’t. She’s - thinking of Eustace, and Moggs and Riska. But Glory—I’m sure - Glory——-” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Glory! She’s forgotten me. And Jehane, she never thought - of me; it was always of the children.” - </p> - <p> - His voice fell slack with utter hopelessness. Peter remembered Cherry’s - words, “It’s always one who allows and one who loves.” - Jehane hadn’t even allowed; the ruin at his side was her handiwork. - </p> - <p> - The hansom halted. Hampstead Heath was all about them, falling away in - gorse and bracken and yellow earth. A little farther on was the Flagstaff - Pond. Toy yachts were scudding across it; excited boys ran round its edges - to retrim their sails and send their craft on fresh adventures. A dog - jumped into the water, barking; they could see his head bobbing as he - swam. To their left, between the trees of the Vale of Heath, London lay - like a sunken rock with the surf of smoke breaking over it. - </p> - <p> - The cabby spoke, “Look ‘ere, young gentleman, my ‘orse - is tired. H’I’ve got to be gettin’ back. ‘Ow abart - a rest at The Spaniards?” - </p> - <p> - They returned over the way they had come. The tall firs of the Seven - Sisters stood up black and weather-beaten before them. In the yard of The - Spaniards they stepped out. The cabby climbed down and began to unharness. - Behind his hand he said to Peter, “Rum old party you’ve got - there, mister.” And then, glancing up at the labels on the bag, - “Been to ‘Enley, ‘av’n’t yer? ‘Ad - luck?” - </p> - <p> - At the bar Peter ordered supper in a private room. He noticed that, when - they had sat down, his uncle still kept his hat on. When he reminded him - of it his uncle glanced at the door furtively and whispered, “Daren’t - take it off. They may guess.” - </p> - <p> - He fell upon his food ravenously. In his eating, as in his way of talking, - there was something inhuman, something—yes, lonely was the word. - Slowly it was coming home to Peter that through all these years, while he - had been housed, and safeguarded, and attended with affection, this man - had been used like an animal. He was repelled and filled with compassion. - He wanted to escape; he was unmanned. - </p> - <p> - The dusk was falling. “I’ll be back in a moment. Order what - you like,” he said. - </p> - <p> - In the fragile darkness he clenched his hands. Last night he had been so - happy! How had he dared to be happy? He recalled the jolly buffoonery of - Henley—the songs they had sung, the swaying of lanterns, the - swan-like gliding of punts, the muffled laughter, the hint of stolen - kisses. And all the while this man had been lonely; and his chief fault - had been the fault of others—that he had not been allowed to love. - </p> - <p> - Peter found himself walking across the Heath, following no path. Now and - then the rough ground tripped him and he stumbled. He couldn’t bear - the reproach of that—that thing that had once been a man, that had - no courage left to accuse anybody. Peter felt as though he himself were - responsible, as though he had done it. He lifted his eyes to the stars. - Indifferent and placid, stretched out on the blue-black couch of heaven, - they stared back at him and told him cantingly: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “God’s in His Heaven, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - All’s right with the world.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - He shook his fist at them. That was the trouble. God was too much in His - Heaven. He felt that he could never again be happy. - </p> - <p> - The image of Cherry grew up—Cherry with her red mouth. God had made - her, as well. He unclenched his hands and stood puzzled. God had made her, - as well! The golden panes of the inn shone and winked at him; he retraced - his steps. - </p> - <p> - The man still wore his hat, but——. Alcohol had changed him - from a thing limp and hopeless into Ocky Waffles. As Peter entered he - staggered to his feet with both hands held out. - </p> - <p> - “Why, if it isn’t the ha’penny marvel. God bless me, how - he’s grown. Quite a man, Peter! Quite a man!” He put his lips - against Peter’s ear. “Mustn’t tell anybody. They wouldn’t - understand. Have to keep it on.” He pointed to his hat. “Been - away for a rest cure—you and I know where. Had brain fever. Had to - cut my hair. It isn’t pretty.” Then, in a lower voice, “Mustn’t - tell anybody. You won’t split on me?” - </p> - <p> - For the first time Peter was delighted to find his uncle drunk. He assured - him that he wouldn’t split on him. - </p> - <p> - “Shake hands, old son; it’s a compack. Cur’ous! Here’s - all this great world and only I and you know about it. Makes me laugh. Our - little joke, isn’t it?” - </p> - <p> - Peter took the whisky bottle from him. “You don’t want any - more of that.” - </p> - <p> - The trembling hand groped after it; the weak mouth quivered. “Just - to forget. Just to make me forget. Don’t be hard on poor old Ocky - Waffles. Everyone’s been hard on Ocky Waffles.” - </p> - <p> - For a moment Peter wavered; then poured an inch more of liquid courage - into the empty glass. “That’s the last for to-night; we’ve - got to plan for your future.” - </p> - <p> - “My future!” Ocky Waffles twisted his unwaxed mustaches and - spread his arms across the table. “My future! Oh, yes. I’ve - got a great future.” - </p> - <p> - Peter tapped him on the hand. “Not a great future; but a future. - There are two people who care for you. That’s something.” - </p> - <p> - “Two people? There’s you, but don’t count me in on it. - This little boy isn’t very fond of himself.” - </p> - <p> - “There’s me and there’s Glory.” - </p> - <p> - “Glory!” Ocky Waffles smiled grimly. Then he seemed ashamed of - himself and repeated in an incredulous whisper, “Glory!” - </p> - <p> - “She cares more than I do,” Peter said. “She and I and - you, all working together—do you understand?—she and I and you - are going to make you well. We’re going to show everybody that you’re - a strong, good man; and we’re going to work in secret until we can - prove it.” - </p> - <p> - “A strong, good man!” The subject of this wonderful experiment - looked down at himself contemptuously. “A strong, good man, I think - you said. Likely, isn’t it? I’ve started by getting drunk.” - </p> - <p> - With sudden loathing and concentrated will power he swept the glass of - whisky from him. It fell to the floor with a crash. He had become sober - and rose to his feet solemnly. “Not a strong, good man. I could have - been once. I’m a jail-bird. I’ve got my memories. My memories!—Good - God, I wouldn’t tell you! You’re young. I can only try to be - decent now, if that’s enough. And—and I’d like to try, - Peter, if you’ll help me.” - </p> - <p> - As they drove back to Topbury the fumes of the drink overcame him. He fell - asleep with his head rolling against Peter’s shoulder. Even in his - sleep he seemed to remember his shame, and how he must keep it hidden from - the world. His hand kept traveling to his hat, when a jerk of the cab - threatened to remove it. - </p> - <p> - What to do with him! As the night fled by him Peter planned. No one but - Peter would have thought out a plan so humanely idiotic. The silver - moonlight fell between clumped trees and flooded all the meadows. Houses - became more frequent. Above the trotting of the horse the grumble of - traffic was heard. They were descending High-gate Hill; Peter put his arm - about his companion to prevent his slipping forward. He stirred and - muttered, “Poor old Ocky! Too bad! Too bad, going and getting drunk! - Just out of prison and all that.” - </p> - <p> - Peter bit his lips and drew his brows together. Life—how strange it - was! How slender, and fierce, and pantherlike and cruel! And yet how - beautiful at times and splendid! Who could foresee anything? Last night he - and the same moon had gazed on romance—to-night on disillusion. At - the bottom of the hill lay London, like an immense quarry, tunneled, - lamplit, treacherous, industrious, carved out of the precipice of - darkness. It seemed a clay modeling of a more huge world, placed there for - his inspection. Down there this man at his side had been crushed; they had - cast him out. They had told him, “If you won’t come to Heaven, - then you’ll have to go to——” Well, he’d been - to hell, and now they’d got to take him back. In his heart Peter - dared them to refuse him. - </p> - <p> - He spoke to the cabby and gave him an address. The man complained of the - lateness of the hour. A reward persuaded him. - </p> - <p> - They were jingling through side-streets now. They came out on to a broad - road, with trees on either side and houses standing in gardens, with steps - going up to them. The horse halted and the cabman blew his nose loudly. - “Nice little jaunt you’ve ‘ad.” - </p> - <p> - The house was all in darkness. Peter rang the bell. On the second story a - blind was raised; someone saw the lamps of the hansom. Feet descended the - stairs. The door opened timidly. Miss Florence stood there, her hair in - curl-papers, with a candle in her hand. She looked extraordinarily angular - and elderly. Behind her, peering over the banisters, were Miss Effie, Miss - Leah and Miss Madge, with petticoats thrown over their shoulders. Peter - entered the old-fashioned hall and explained his errand. “You were - going to do it once; he needs it more than ever now.” - </p> - <p> - “Bring him in,” Miss Florence said. - </p> - <p> - In an odd old-maidish room he undressed his uncle and slipped him into one - of the late Mr. Jacobite’s night-shirts. - </p> - <p> - The situation was not without its humor. Before he left he promised to be - round early. - </p> - <p> - It was nearly midnight when he arrived home at Topbury Terrace. Only his - father was up. He opened the door to him. “You’re late, Peter. - We thought something had happened.” - </p> - <p> - Peter waited until the door had closed behind him. “It has. I met - Uncle Waffles. You’re tired; don’t let’s talk about it - now. He’s all right for a little while, anyhow.” - </p> - <p> - His father drew a long breath. Peter knew what he was thinking: “So - the dead man has come back to die afresh!” They put out the lights - in silence and climbed the stairs. In the darkness his father laid his - hand on his shoulder. “You were always fond of Ocky; so was I once. - Poor fellow! I tried to be just.” - </p> - <p> - “You were just,” said Peter; “you had to be just. But it - isn’t justice that he’s needing now; it’s—it’s - kindness.” - </p> - <p> - His father’s voice became grave—a little stern, perhaps. - “For years he had the kindness; he was dragging us all down. He lied - to me so often. Well——. Humph! Can’t be helped. Do what - you can. Good night, son.” - </p> - <p> - As Peter entered his bedroom something fluttered. He struck a match. It - was a sheet of paper, written on in a round, girlish hand and pinned - against the door-panel. It read, “<i>Welcome home, Peterkins. All - the time I’ve been thinking of you. I’ve missed you most - awfully. I wanted to sit up, but they wouldn’t let me. With love and - ten thousand kisses, Kay</i>.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0335.jpg" alt="0335m " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0335.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - His heart reproached him. Little Kitten Kay! In the last week he hadn’t - thought much of her, and once—once she had been his entire world. He - had promised her once that he was never going to marry. And now there was - Cherry. It was Cherry he thought of as his eyes were closing—Cherry - and her saying that there are those who allow and those who love. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXIII—THE WORLD AND OCKY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>henever Peter - thought of the Misses Jacobite, the picture that formed was of four - lean-breasted women, who spoke in whispers and sat forever in a room with - the blinds down. They seemed to have no passions, no desires, no grip on - reality, no sense of life’s supreme earnestness. They were waiting, - always waiting for something to return—something which had once been - theirs: youth, the hope of motherhood, love, the admiration of men. The - day of their opportunity had gone by them; they could not forget. It was - odd to remember that these gentlewomen, prematurely aged, had once been - high-stepping and courted—the belles of Topbury. One of them sang, - day in, day out, of the rest to be found on the other side of Jordan; it - was all that she had to hope for now. Directly the front door opened you - could hear her. The sound of her singing sent shivers down your back. It - made you think of a mourner, sitting beside the dead; only the dead was - not in the house. It had never come to birth. It was something once - expected, that no one dared speak about. - </p> - <p> - When Peter called next morning he was aware of a changed atmosphere. The - sense of folded hands had vanished. The singing was no longer heard; - instead, there came to his ears a number of busy, orderly sounds—doors - softly opening and shutting, feet making discreet haste upon the stairs, - the clink of dishes in the basement and the sizzling of cooking. - </p> - <p> - As he had passed through the hall, with its varnished wall-paper, to the - drawing-room in which he waited, the portrait of old Mr. Jacobite had - gazed fiercely down. Quite evidently the old gentleman disapproved of the - use being made of his night-shirt. - </p> - <p> - Peter didn’t seat himself; it would have been impossible to do so - without causing havoc. Every chair had its antimacassar, spread at its - correct old-maidish angle. He stood by the window, looking out into the - cool little garden—a green, shy sanctuary for birds, across which - the July sunlight fell. Overhead was the room in which Uncle Waffles had - slept—he hoped he had behaved himself. The chandelier shook; several - people were very industrious up there. And Peter wondered. Old Mr. - Jacobite—had he always disapproved of men where his daughters were - concerned? Had he kept them from marriage? Had the tall and reserved Miss - Florence ever been kissed by a man? In the light of his own romantic - experience he pitied all people who hadn’t been kissed and married. - Life was wasted if that hadn’t happened; it was meant for that. - </p> - <p> - The handle turned. It was Miss Effie, the little and talkative Miss - Jacobite, who entered. She was smiling and lifted to Peter a face all - a-flutter, thanking him with her eyes, as though he had given her a - present. - </p> - <p> - “How is he?” Peter asked. “I oughtn’t to have - brought him here at all—let alone at such an hour. Only you see—you - see there was nowhere else to bring him.” - </p> - <p> - She seated herself on the edge of a chair, patting out her dress. “He’s - tired.” She spoke with an air of concern. “He wasn’t - very well. We made him stay in bed. We’re going to keep him there; - he needs feeding.” - </p> - <p> - She was flustered. Her hands kept clasping and unclasping. She seemed - afraid of being accused of immodesty. She raised her eyes shyly. “It’s - so nice to have a man in the house. Not since poor dear father——. - I wonder what he’d have said.” - </p> - <p> - Peter didn’t wonder. He thought it was high time that he made - matters clearer. “Of course, I’m not going to leave him on - your hands. I only brought him for a night because——” - </p> - <p> - She interrupted anxiously. “Oh, please, until he’s better. He’s - so run down. They made him work so hard in—in there.” - </p> - <p> - So he had brought his derelict uncle to the one spot on earth where he was - regarded as a treasure! He was so amazed at Miss Effie’s attitude - that he doubted whether she was in full possession of the facts. - </p> - <p> - “But—but,” he faltered, “didn’t Miss - Florence tell you where he’s come from—where it was that he - had to work?” - </p> - <p> - She answered in a low voice. “We’ve all done wrong.” It - seemed she could get no further. She sank her head, gazing straight before - her, tracing out the great red roses in the carpet. Peter thought of her - sister, Leah, the shadow-woman; he knew what she meant. She raised her - eyes to his with an effort. “We’ve all done wrong; I think to - have done wrong makes one more gentle. It makes one willing—not to - remember.” - </p> - <p> - Miss Florence opened the door and looked in on them. “He’s - ready to see you now.” She hated scenes. Because she saw that one - was in preparation, she made her voice and manner perfunctory. “You’d - better go alone. You’d better go on tiptoe. I wouldn’t stop - too long; he’s got a bad head.” - </p> - <p> - Peter couldn’t help smiling as he climbed the stairs, and yet it was - a tender sort of smiling. Didn’t these innocent ladies know that too - much whisky invariably left a bad head? Or, with their divine faculty for - forgetting, were they willing to forget the whisky and only to remember to - cure the bad head? - </p> - <p> - It was a white room—a woman’s room most emphatically. The - pictures on the walls were triumphs of sentimentality. Gallants were - kissing their ladies’ hands and clutching them to their breasts in - an agony of parting, or looking meltingly at a flower which they had left. - The seats of the chairs wore linen covers to prevent their upholstery from - getting shabby. The window was wide; on the sill crumbs had been - scattered. Sparrows chattered and, grown bold from habit, flew in on to - the carpet and preened their feathers. - </p> - <p> - On the bed, the sheets drawn close up under his chin, lay Uncle Waffles. - He had the look that invalids sometimes have, of being made to appear more - ill by too much attention. He had not shaved—his cheeks were - grizzled; that help to make him look worse. The atmosphere of a sickroom - was completed by a table placed beside the counterpane, on which lay an - open Bible and some freshly plucked wall-flowers. Peter had never seen his - uncle in bed—for the moment he was embarrassed. He drew up a chair. - “How are you? Getting rested?” - </p> - <p> - Uncle Waffles hitched himself higher on the pillow, reached out and took - Peter’s hand. A glint of the old love of fun-making crept into his - eyes. “I’ve not been treated like this since my mother—not - since I was married. They’re pretending I’m ill because they - want to nurse me. Carried off my trousers, they did, to prevent me from - getting dressed. What’s the matter with them? Don’t they know - who I am?” - </p> - <p> - “They know.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why are they doing it?” - </p> - <p> - “Because they’ve suffered themselves.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky tightened his grip on Peter’s hand. “One of them been to—to - where I’ve been, you mean? Which one?” Peter shook his head. - “They’ve all been to prison in a sense—not the kind you - speak of. They had a big tragedy, when everything looked happy. Since then——. - Well, since then people have pitied and cut them. They’ve been left. - They’re glad you’ve come, partly because life’s been - cruel to you, and partly——. Look here, I don’t want you - to laugh!—partly because you’re a man.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky pulled the late Mr. Jacobite’s night-shirt tighter across his - shoulders. It was much too large for him—as voluminous as a - surplice. “Not much of a man,” he muttered; “not much of - a man. Arrived here—you know how. Before that had been hanging about - street corners, watched by the police and jostled into the gutter. My own - wife won’t look at me; and yet you tell me these strangers——.” - </p> - <p> - His voice shook. “I don’t understand—can’t see why——.” - </p> - <p> - Peter spoke after an interval. “You—you haven’t often - been surprised by too much kindness, have you? Comes almost like a blow at - first?” - </p> - <p> - “Almost. It kind of hurts. But it’s the right kind of hurting. - It makes me want to be good. Never thought I’d want to be that.” - </p> - <p> - “What did you think?” - </p> - <p> - For a moment a fierce look came into his eyes. “What does an animal - think of when it’s trapped? It thinks of all the ways in which it - can get back at the people who put it there. But now——.” - He picked up the wall-flowers and smelt them. “She brought them this - morning—the littlest one, with the gray hair and tiny hands. They - were all wet with dew when she brought them. You need to go to prison, - Peter, to know what flowers can mean to a chap.” - </p> - <p> - There was a tap at the door. Miss Madge entered, bringing some beef-tea. - When she had gone Ocky said, “They take it in turns.” - </p> - <p> - Peter remembered how, going always into separate rooms with them, they’d - taken turns in owning himself and Kay when they were children. How rarely - life had allowed them to love anything! - </p> - <p> - Uncle Waffles’ thoughts seemed to have been following the same - track. He paused, with the cup half-way to his mouth. “Those women - ought to have married.—Been in prison most of their lives, you said? - But I don’t know; marriage can be a worse hell.” He turned to - Peter. “D’you remember at Sandport how she’d never let - me kiss her? It was like that from the first. She kept me hungry. I stole - to make her love me. She was always talking about her first husband and - making me jealous. And yet——.” - </p> - <p> - He stopped and gazed vacantly across the room to where sparrows fluttered - on the sill and sunlight fell. Peter supposed that he had forgotten what - he was going to have said. Suddenly his face became all purpose and - pleading. He flung back the bedclothes and leant out, gripping Peter’s - shoulders till they hurt. “I’d steal again to-morrow to get - one day of her bought affection. My God, how I’ve longed for her! - Make her come to me. You must, Peter. You shall. Don’t tell her who - I am. Oh, don’t refuse me.” - </p> - <p> - The sharp agony and desperate determination of a man so drifting and - careless took Peter aback. He recalled those days when he had hidden him - in the stable—it had been the same then. He had always been urging - that Je-hane should be persuaded to walk in the garden that he might catch - a glimpse of her. The one strong loyalty of his weak existence had been - the love of this woman. - </p> - <p> - “Get her to come to you!” Peter said. “But how? She - wouldn’t. She——” Ocky burried his face in the - pillow. How thin he was and listless! How spent! How——. What - was the word? How smashed! It was as though in the human quarry some - chance stone of calamity had fallen on him, making him a moral cripple. He - was what he was through the sort of accident that might happen to any man—to - the Faun Man, if Eve refused to love him; even to Peter himself. - </p> - <p> - The boy pulled the clothes back over the man. “Somehow—I don’t - know how—somehow I’ll do it. I promise.” - </p> - <p> - After that, whenever Peter entered the white room, he saw how his uncle - watched for someone to follow. - </p> - <p> - The Misses Jacobite had found a doctor who supported their opinion that - their guest must be kept in bed. The prison fare and long confinement had - broken down his constitution. The doctor didn’t know what had done - it; he advised food and rest. - </p> - <p> - From time to time Peter brought visitors to the room overlooking the - garden. His father came and was shocked by the wasted look of the man who, - in earlier years, had been his friend. It was of those earlier years that - they chose to speak, by an instinctive courtesy; they, at least, had been - happy territory. They recalled together their schoolday pranks—the - canings they had earned, the football matches they had lost or won, the - holidays when they had broken boundaries, going on some secret adventure. - But, when Barrington rose to go, Ocky said, “Don’t come again, - Billy. You used to hate to hear me call you Billy; you’ll dislike it - just as much when I’m better. We’ve both been forgetting what - I am, and what I’ve done. If you come again we may remember. For - years I’ve worried you; well, that’s ended. But—you’re - a man of the world, and you understand. I’m a jail-bird—and I - don’t want to spoil the memory of this hour. Good-bye, old man.” - </p> - <p> - It turned out that Mr. Grace hadn’t slept on his box so soundly that - evening of Peter’s return—at least, not so soundly as to keep - his eyes shut. - </p> - <p> - “All swank on my part, Mr. Peter,” he said; “she’s - been h’at me for years, my darter Grice ‘as, and I don’t - mean to get conwerted. H’I’m not a-goin’ ter come ter - ‘eaven, so long as ‘er voice is the only voice as calls me. - ‘Eaven ‘ud be ‘ell, livin’ wiv ‘er in the - same ‘ouse, if I wuz ter do that. We’d be for h’everlastin’ - prayin’ and floppin’. Not but wot religion ‘as its uses; - but not for me in ‘er sense. That’s why I shut me h’eyes - when she was a-bellowin’ at the corner. But I saw yer. ‘Ow is - the old bloke nar? Your uncle, I mean, meanin’ no disrespeck. I’ve - h’often thought that if we ‘ad met under ‘appier h’auspices—h’auspices - is one of my Grice’s words—we might ‘ave been pals.” - </p> - <p> - Peter brought about the ‘appier h’auspices. One afternoon Cat’s - Meat halted before the house and Mr. Grace climbed down from his box, a - bag of apples in one hand and his whip in the other. He was very red in - the face and embarrassed; he had anything but a sick-room appearance, - though he often drove in funeral processions. He was immensely careful - about the wiping of his feet. Peter tried to coax him to leave his whip in - the hall; he wouldn’t. He seemed to think that it lent him dignity, - and explained his status in the world. So it was clutching a bag of apples - and clasping his whip against his chest, that he entered the white room - where the birds hopped in and out. - </p> - <p> - Ocky Waffles, shifting his position on the bed, caught sight of the - weather-beaten, alcoholic figure. Before he could say a word, in a thick, - husky voice Mr. Grace offered his apologies. - </p> - <p> - “‘Ere. ‘Ave ‘em. I ‘ear you ain’t - well.” He swung the bag of apples on to the bed. “Bought - ‘em from a gal off a barrer” He paused awkwardly. - </p> - <p> - “That was good of you,” said Ocky. “Come and sit down.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace scratched his head. “I dunno as I want to sit down. I - dunno as you and me is friends. Remember the last time we met and h’all - the trouble we ‘ad? You wuz a nice old cough-drop in them days. I - ‘ad to ‘it yer wiv this ‘ere whip—the wery same - one—to make yer let go o’ the top o’ the gate and fall - inter the stable. Well, I ‘it yer in kindness; but it’s - because I ‘it yer that I dunno whether you and me is friends.” - </p> - <p> - “We’re friends,” said Ocky. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace sat down. It was most curious, all this. He hadn’t got his - bearings. This chap, lying in a decent bed and waited on hand and foot by - ladies, was Mr. Waffles, if you please. But he had been an old cock who - climbed walls to avoid policemen, and rode about at night in philanthropic - cabs. He turned to him gruffly. “Eat one o’ them there apples. - Bought ‘em from a gal off a barrer.—Did h’I tell yer - that h’already?” It was a sign that the truce was established. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace became a frequent caller. An odd friendship grew up between - these two men, both broken on the wheel of feminine perversity. They - exchanged notes on their experiences. Ocky spoke to the old cabby with - greater freedom than to anyone, save Peter. Jehane had always said of him - that he found it easy to be sociable with underlings and ostlers. In this - case he found it easy because of the wide charity of the underling’s - personal laxity. Sometimes Miss Effie would steal in and read to them of a - man who chose his companions from among publicans and sinners. Mr. Grace - would pay her the closest attention and ask her to repeat certain - passages; he was picking up pointers, with which to challenge his daughter’s - confident assertions concerning God’s unvarying severity. - </p> - <p> - And then Jehane! She came one afternoon to Topbury to visit Nan. She had - heard nothing; nothing was told her. Peter waited for an opportunity to - get her to himself. In the garden after dinner the others contrived to - leave them together. - </p> - <p> - “Going up to Oxford, Peter? Oh, well, it’s good to have - opportunities and a father with money. My poor Eustace, he’ll never - have that. I might, while you’re there——.” - </p> - <p> - She paused; the thought had just occurred to her—a new plan for - marrying off her girls “I might let Glory and Riska visit my father - and mother while you’re there. It would be pleasant for all of you. - Would you like that?” - </p> - <p> - “Splendid,” said Peter. - </p> - <p> - She eyed him, suspecting the sincerity of his enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - “Of course, if you don’t want your cousins—-.” - </p> - <p> - “I do,” he assured her. “I’m going to Calvary - College; that’s just opposite Professor Usk’s house. I’ll - be able to see plenty of them.” Then, knowing how she liked to be - appealed to as a person with superior knowledge, “I wish you’d - tell me some of the things I mustn’t do; Oxford etiquette’s so - full of <i>mustn’ts</i>.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed; the hard lines softened about her mouth. Talking about Oxford - made her think of her girlhood, when to be the daughter of a don was to be - something akin to an aristocrat. Those days were sufficiently far removed - for her to have forgotten their dread of spinsterhood, and for her to - remember only their glamour. “You must never use tongs to your - sugar,” she said; “only freshers do that—you must help - yourself with your fingers. And, let me see! You must never wear your cap - and gown unless it’s positively necessary. You mustn’t speak - to a second or third-year man unless he speaks to you first.—Oh, - there are so many <i>mustn’ts</i> at Oxford; it would take all - evening.” - </p> - <p> - And then, “Did your mother ever tell you the story of how we first - met Billy? It had been raining, and we were waiting to go on the river. I - put my head out of the window to see if the storm was over, and there was - your father looking up at me. I used to tease your mother by pretending - that I was in love with him. I shouldn’t wonder—I expect she - still believes I wanted him. You see, Nan and I were inseparable as girls. - We used to be horribly scared of not marrying—we didn’t know - as much about marriage then. We used to think that girls were born on a - raft and that only a man could come to their rescue. Funny idea, wasn’t - it?” - </p> - <p> - “And if the man didn’t come?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, if the man didn’t come, we believed girls missed - everything—believed they got blown out to sea, out of sight of land - and starved with thirst. That was what made your mother so jealous, when I - pretended to be in love with Billy. She was afraid she’d lose her - one and only chance of getting safe ashore to the land of matrimony.” - That was Jehane’s public version of how love had miscarried between - herself and Barrington. - </p> - <p> - So she ran on, remembering and remembering, as they walked the garden path - from the mulberry to the pear trees, forth and back, back and forth, while - the sunset reddened the creepers on the walls and the loft-window, from - which Ocky had watched in vain for her coming, looked down on them - emptily. - </p> - <p> - When it was time for her to be getting on her way, Peter volunteered to - accompany her to the station. They chose the Lowbury Station instead of - the Topbury, because it would take longer and they could continue their - conversation about Oxford, her Promised Land of the past. “You must - have had good times as a girl.” - </p> - <p> - Good times! Hadn’t she? She painted for him the joys of Eights’ - Week, the excitement of the Toggers, the tremendous elations of a young - and vivid ‘Varsity world. She painted them for him as romantic - realities which she had lived to the full and lost. And the odd thing was - that she believed that she had been happy then. All her life it had been - <i>then</i> that she had been happy. Her Eldorados had always been behind - her—never in the To-days or the To-morrows. When she pitied herself, - her otherwise barren nature blossomed into a tragic luxuriance that was - almost noble, and entirely picturesque. - </p> - <p> - She hadn’t noticed where Peter was leading her. She found herself in - a broad and quiet street, through which little traffic passed. The - pavements, on either side of it, were lined with plane-trees. Houses stood - far back from the road in gardens, with stone steps climbing up to them. - </p> - <p> - She slipped her hand into Peter’s arm. Now that Nan wasn’t - there to be pleased by it, she was willing to let him know that she was - proud of him. In the silver twilight, when one sees with the imagination - rather than with the eyes, she found his face like to one which had looked - up at her suddenly and held her spell-bound in the gray blur of an Oxford - street. - </p> - <p> - “Is this the right way, Peter? Is it a short-cut? Are you taking me - out of my way to lengthen our talk?” - </p> - <p> - He laughed, rather excitedly she thought. “I like to hear you - telling of the old days—— Hulloa! Why here’s the Misses - Jacobite’s house! You remember what you said about women being on a - raft—I think that explains them. No one came out from the land to - take them off. Let’s step inside and cheer them up.” - </p> - <p> - “But Peter, my train——.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, there are plenty of trains—we needn’t stop more - than a second.” - </p> - <p> - “You rascal!” She gave his arm a little hug. “I believe - you had this in mind from the start.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I had.” - </p> - <p> - When they were safe inside the hall and the door had closed behind them, - his manner altered. She was conscious of it in a second. He no longer - laughed, and he was more excited. - </p> - <p> - “There’s someone here who wants to meet you,” he - informed her. - </p> - <p> - “But who? Why didn’t you tell me?” - </p> - <p> - “I wanted to give you a surprise.” - </p> - <p> - She looked annoyed and yet curious. “You must tell me. Is it a man - or a woman?” - </p> - <p> - He didn’t dare to let her know that it was her husband. - </p> - <p> - “You’ll see presently.” - </p> - <p> - She was beginning to protest; Miss Florence entered. Under her attempt at - cordiality her face betrayed dismay, and something still less comfortable—judgment. - Peter employed her entrance as an excuse for his own rapid exit. He soon - returned. “They want to see you now.” - </p> - <p> - Making the best of an awkward situation, Jehane exclaimed, “They! So - there are several of them! It was only ‘someone’ at first.” - </p> - <p> - She followed him up the stairs, trying to catch up with and question him; - he was careful to keep sufficiently far ahead to prevent conversation. He - opened a door on the landing—the door which led into the white room. - He made as if he were going to accompany her, but, as she crossed the - threshold, stepped back and closed the door. - </p> - <p> - “You!” - </p> - <p> - The man held out his arms. When she stood rigid and did not stir, he - dragged himself across the bed, as if to come to her. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice was sudden like a whip cracked. - </p> - <p> - His arms fell to his side. After all these years of absence, her stronger - will lashed down his desire. He began ramblingly, shame-facedly, hinting - at what he meant, not having the audacity to finish his sentences. “I - had to——. I made Peter promise. When they let me out, I was - thinking of you. All the time in there, for four years, I was thinking of——. - Jehane, I’ve been punished enough. Isn’t it possible that——? - Jehane, I love you. I always have. I always shall.” - </p> - <p> - He was aching to touch her. Through the mist of twilight that drifted - through the room, he fed his eyes on every detail of this woman who had - once been familiar to him. She hadn’t changed much; it was he who - was altered. She also made her sternly pitiful estimate—the shrunken - body, the loose-lipped, purposeless mouth, the hair growing thin and gray - about the temples. - </p> - <p> - He stretched out his arms. “I love you.” - </p> - <p> - She shuddered; it was as though a man from the grave had called to her. - </p> - <p> - “Love me!” Her voice was so low that his ears were strained to - catch what she said. “No. You never loved me; you weren’t - strong enough for that. It was all a mistake; we never belonged to each - other. If you had loved me, you wouldn’t have—— But we - won’t talk about it. I’m not bitter; but we must go our own - ways now.” - </p> - <p> - He was lying across the edge of the bed, threatening to reach across the - gulf that spread between them. The nearer he came, the more she saw what - had happened. He was old—a senile, night-robed caricature of the man - she had married. In the half-light her fear of his claim on her made him - ghastly. - </p> - <p> - He was moving—he was getting out of bed. She opened the door, - running as she would have run from a skeleton. He was following her down - the stairs. She fancied that he touched her. It seemed that he leapt - through the air. Something fell. In the hall people tried to stay her. She - was in the street where the plane-trees rustled; how she managed to get - there she could not tell. She ran on, fearing that he still followed. - </p> - <p> - She halted for want of breath. Where was she? Lighted trams were passing. - She jumped on the first, giving no thought to its direction. Not until she - was safe aboard and moving, did she dare to look back. - </p> - <p> - Nothing was there, nothing gaunt and hungry—only saunterers and - girls with their lovers, drifting dreamlike through the shadows under - lamps against whose glare moths hurled their fragile bodies, beating their - lives out flutteringly. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXIV—THE BENEVOLENT DELILAHS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>espite the Misses - Jacobite’s efforts to keep him ill, Ocky insisted on getting better. - His cork-like nature refused to be submerged by adversity; it was - warranted un-sinkable. - </p> - <p> - At first, after repeated and urgent requests, he was allowed to sit by the - window in a dressing-gown. Then he was allowed to get partly dressed and - to ramble about the house in carpet-slippers. At last he was permitted to - venture into the garden. There, for some days, his adventures ended. His - four benevolent Delilahs had the felicity of watching their captive-man, - pottering in the sunshine, watering the grass and tying up the flowers, - while leaves tapped against the walls and birds flew over him. - </p> - <p> - They were terribly afraid that presently he would contemplate an exodus. - It was so very long since they had had anything to do with men—they - had almost forgotten what things amused them. In those far-off days when - the world was young and lovers were frequent, they had played and sung a - little. But the drawing-room was faded, their songs were out of date, the - piano was out of tune, and their voices——. Perhaps those - lovers had never really cared for their singing; appearing to care had - afforded an excuse for sitting close to the singers, as they turned the - pages of their music. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Waffles mustn’t be allowed to get dull—that would be - fatal. They asked him if he would be so good as to keep an eye on the cats—to - see that they didn’t pounce on any of the birds who made a home in - their garden. Mr. Waffles promised. But the cats still stole along the - wall and crept through the bushes, unmolested by the weary gentleman in - carpet-slippers. - </p> - <p> - Something had to be done. The case grew desperate. The four gray sisters - hunted through their father’s library and searched out books—Dickens’ - novels in paper-covers, issued in parts at a time when a new character - from Boz was more exciting than a new comet hurled through the night from - the unseen shores of eternity. Dickens left Mr. Waffles cold; his tastes - were not literary. He fell asleep with <i>David Copperfield</i> face-down - beside his chair, while the sunlight played leap-frog with the shadows - across the lawn. - </p> - <p> - He had to be amused. Providence sent a diversion. Seated beneath the apple - tree, where the shrubbery began, Miss Florence was assuring her Samson for - the hundredth time of how glad she and her sisters were to have him with - them. To enforce the sincerity of her words, she had stretched out her - hand to touch him—had almost touched him—when a shocked voice - exclaimed, “What the devil! What the devil! Poor father! Oh, dear! - Oh, dear!” - </p> - <p> - Miss Florence jumped back from Mr. Waffles. Had he accused her? She saw - that his lips were not moving—that in fact, he was as surprised as - herself. Both looked slowly round. Their astonished glances found nothing - more perturbing than the innocent greenness of the garden and the - noiseless hopping of birds. - </p> - <p> - The voice came again, maliciously strident. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! - What the devil! What the devil!” - </p> - <p> - Overhead, perched on a branch, was a gray and scarlet parrot. From whom - had it escaped? How long had it been there? All they knew was that, while - taking refuge in their garden, it was not above reviling them. At night it - formed the habit of roosting in the apple tree. Before anyone was out of - bed, it could be heard profaning the early morning. - </p> - <p> - The energies of the entire household were now directed toward the - effecting of its capture. Ingenious plans were concocted. A topic of - conversation was never lacking. - </p> - <p> - The four elderly ladies placed themselves under their guest’s - protection. What would the neighbors think if they were to hear a constant - stream of blasphemy issuing from their walls? And, besides, the parrot in - a cage could be taught better manners and made an attractive pet. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace, on a visit, learnt of the situation and volunteered to lend a - hand. He and Mr. Waffles were provided with bags of grain and - butterfly-nets. They were instructed to creep with the stealth of poachers - behind ambuscades of trees and flowers, following the gray and scarlet - peril till it settled, and then—— - </p> - <p> - But the triumphant moment was continually postponed; for, whenever they - approached the parrot, no matter how warily, it spread its wings, mocking - them and crying, “What the devil!”—or something even - worse. - </p> - <p> - Ocky’s days were fully occupied now. He had a morning-to-evening - interest. The Misses Jacobite urged on him the importance of his task—the - safeguarding of their reputation. - </p> - <p> - But even a trust so sacred and incessant failed to content Mr. Waffles. - Peter made this discovery when his uncle asked him for the loan of a - shilling. “Voluntary contributions thankfully borrowed,” was - Ocky’s motto. No one ever gave him anything. It was always lent. Now - money implied an excursion into the larger world; Peter wondered what - might be its purpose. He knew next morning; his uncle had a sixpenny pipe - in his mouth and a tin of cheap tobacco in his pocket. He was stoking up - to renew life’s battle; with a pipe between his teeth, Ocky Waffles - was a man. - </p> - <p> - He led Peter down the garden to the shrubbery, behind which were two - cane-chairs. The shrubbery was convenient for hiding the fact that he was - smoking. - </p> - <p> - “Peter,” he said, jerking his head across his shoulder, - “I’ve been noticing. They can’t afford it. I’ve - got to go to work, old chap.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke with his old swaggering confidence, as though the entire world - was waiting to engage his services. The carpet-slippers, which had been - Mr. Jacobite’s, chafed one against the other thoughtfully. - </p> - <p> - “Got to go to work,” he repeated reflectively, in a tone which - implied regret. “I think I know a fellow—— We were in - the coop together, and he said—— But I’m not going to - tell you till I’m more certain of my plans.” - </p> - <p> - Had he been burdened with the weightiest of financial secrets, he could - not have made them more mysterious. Peter tried not to smile; he was glad—this - was the muddling self-deceived uncle he remembered. - </p> - <p> - Ocky knocked the ashes out of his pipe, waiting for the bowl to cool - before he filled it. “I hadn’t an idea that they had so - little. It’s come home to me gradually—the worn carpets and - old things everywhere. And here have I been eating my head off. We’ll - have to pay ‘em back, Peter—have to pay ‘em back.” - </p> - <p> - Peter had reason to be sceptical about the paying back; he applauded the - intention. Except in imagination, his uncle had never been much of a - money-maker. He had always been unemployable; he was ten times more - unemployable now with a prison record. Peter spoke to his father, with the - result that a position was offered as packer in a publisher’s - establishment. Ocky refused it. “Got something better.” - </p> - <p> - The “something better” was at last divulged. One afternoon - Peter found his uncle up the apple-tree, trying to balance a box in its - branches. In the box was scattered the kind of food best calculated to - tempt the appetite of a parrot. The box had a flap-door leading into it, - propped open by a stick from which a string dangled. If an ill-natured - bird were to enter the box and a lady beneath the tree were to pull on the - string, thus dragging away the stick, the door would shut and the - ill-natured bird would be a captive. Gathered under the tree were the four - Misses Jacobite, looking very weepy and calling up warnings to their - guest, please not to fall and to be careful. - </p> - <p> - Peter knew what it meant—these were the last offices of gratitude - which preceded departure. - </p> - <p> - When the adventurous gentleman had clambered down, it was seen that he - wore his shabby spats and that his mustaches were pointed with wax. He led - Peter aside and winked at him solemnly. It was the return from Elba; after - exile, he was going forth to conquer the world afresh. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” said Peter. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” said Ocky. - </p> - <p> - “Leaving?” asked Peter. - </p> - <p> - “‘S’afternoon,” said Ocky. Then, after a silence, - which heightened the suspense, came the revelation. “There’s a - fellow, I know, a Mr. Widow—we were in the coop together. A nice - fellow! He oughtn’t to have been there. Seems he was in the - second-hand business and dressed like a parson to inspire confidence. - Well, his wife was a gadabout woman and always jeering at him. One day, - quite quietly, in a necessary sort of manner, without losing his temper, - so he told me, he up and clumped her over the head. He went out to a sale, - never thinking he’d done any more than was his duty; when he came - back she was dead. He’s a nice, kind sort of chap, is Jimmie Widow, - and religious. Not a bit like a murderer. If you didn’t start with a - prejudice, you’d like him, Peter. I met him a fortnight ago. He’s - opened a little place in Soho and wants me to join him. I’m to mind - shop while he’s out. There’s heaps of money to be made in the - second-hand business. You see, I’ll surprise you all and die a rich - man yet.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” said Peter, “I—I hope so.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace thought it just as well that his friend should enter on his new - adventure with the appearance of prosperity. He offered him a free ride in - his cab. So Ocky took leave of his benevolent Delilahs not as a pedestrian - but, as he had arrived—a carriage-gentleman. - </p> - <p> - Shortly after his exit, the parrot was pounced on and eaten by a cat. With - the first money that he earned, Ocky made up for the loss with the gift of - a pair of love-birds. The Misses Jacobite named one Ocky and the other - Waffles. Which was the husband-bird and which the lady was a matter in - continual dispute between the sisters. Miss Florence insisted that Waffles - was the husband, because it had the more considerate habits. The other she - thought of as Jehane, and disliked. - </p> - <p> - The question was still undecided, when a hawker of goldfish happened to - call. No gold-fish were required; but the conversation veered round to the - sex of love-birds. The peddler confessed that in his spare moments ‘e - did a bit in poultry and bulldogs. He was at once invited to enter, with - all the deference that is due to an expert. Having inspected Ocky and - Waffles, he announced as his verdict that them bloomin’ love-birds - wuz either both cocks or both ‘ens; but, whether cocks or ‘ens, - even he, with a vast experience be’ind him, could not tell. - </p> - <p> - When he had departed, a silver cruet-stand was missed from the sideboard. - And there the perplexing problem rested. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXV—WINGED BIRDS AND ROOTED TREES - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> summer’s - afternoon in London! The gold-gray majesty of the Embankment, basking in - sunlight; the silver-gray flowing of the Thames beneath its many bridges; - smoke, bidding a casual good-by to chimneys, sauntering off a truant into - the quiet blue; trees, bravely green and a-flutter; a steamer swerving in - to the landing at Westminster! His decision came suddenly. She had asked - him to visit her. Perhaps—perhaps, she could tell him what had - happened to Cherry. - </p> - <p> - He jumped off the bus, crossed the road at a run, sprang down the steps - and thrust his money through the hole in the ticket-window. “A - return to Kew.” - </p> - <p> - The man in the box was ostentatiously slow in counting out the change. - These young bloods made him bitter. With all the years before them, they - were always late and always in a hurry. He sold them their passports to - cool green places; he himself was left permanently behind by that streak - of gleaming river. - </p> - <p> - “‘Eaps o’ time,” he grumbled. “Yes, that’s - your one.” Then, having at last handed over the change and a ticket, - “Best skip lively, or you’ll lose ‘er.” - </p> - <p> - Peter skipped lively; to the man’s disappointment, he scrambled - aboard just as the steamer was casting loose. She shot out into the - current, panting and splashing, kicking up a merry white wake. The Houses - of Parliament grew tall and, at last, spectral in the distance. The dome - of St. Paul’s lay, a black bubble swollen to bursting, on the lip of - the horizon. The smoke of London trembled like a thin flag, waving back - the encroaching sky. The groan of creeping traffic was stilled; - stone-palaces of labor sank and sank, shorn of their height and supremacy. - This was the road to Arcady, the flowing road to the land of birds and - grass pavements. They were on the outskirts of that land already; - everybody felt it. A red-nosed minstrel drew his harp between his knees - and fumbled at the strings. He assured his public tunefully that he had - dreamt that he dwelt in marble halls. It was difficult to believe him; he - didn’t look a soulful fellow. Nevertheless, in his decrepit person, - he echoed the hopes of incredible romance. The crowd grew careless of - appearances and jaunty. Cockney swains cuddled their girls more closely; - the girls, rather proud than abashed, tittered. - </p> - <p> - Battersea Park drifted by, a green mist of trees and romping children. - Against the red-brick background of Chelsea, scarlet-coated soldiers - strolled, unwarriorlike, keeping pace with pram-trundling nurse-maids. The - steamer seemed to stand still; it was the banks, on either side, that - traveled. - </p> - <p> - The harpist, having tried his nose at romance, came back to reality. - Perhaps, it was because he sang so much through it, that his nose was so - long and red. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Sez I, ‘Be Mrs. ‘Awkins, Mrs. ‘Enery ‘Awkins, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Or acrost the seas I’ll roam. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - So ‘elp me, Bob, I’m crazy, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Liza, yer a daisy— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Won’t yer share my ‘umble ‘ome?”’ - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - In vulgar language he gave exact utterance to Peter’s emotions. Not - that he had any home for Cherry to share. He wasn’t likely to have - for a long time to come. He had to go to Oxford first, there to be drilled - for his tussle with the world. And yet, unreasonably, too previously, - against all laws of caution and common sense, he wanted to hear her say - that she cared for him. - </p> - <p> - He had every reason to believe the contrary. He had written to her, and - had received only a line in answer, “<i>Let’s forget. For your - sake it would be better.</i>” After that his many letters had been - returned to him unopened, indicating that the address was unknown. He had - tried to get into touch with the Faun Man and Harry, but they were on the - Continent, roving. Then, he had thought of the golden woman. She had been - kind to him. She had asked him to visit her. She and Cherry were scarcely - friends, but she might tell him where he could find her. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Let’s forget</i>.” The words rang in his ears. They - tormented him. They made him both sad and angry. They seemed to treat all - love as a flirtation, as a stroll beneath the stars which must end. He - didn’t want an ending—couldn’t conceive that it was - possible. Was she heartless or—or had she mistaken him? Was it that - she didn’t understand love’s finality? Or that she did - understand, and was frightened? Or—and this was the doubt that - haunted him most—that she didn’t really like him? - </p> - <p> - Putney! Mortlake! Racing-shells skimming the surface of the water! Bridges - wading from bank to bank! Bathing boys who stood up naked, waving to the - passing steamer! Then Kew, green and somnolent, with its plumed trees and - low-browed houses. Peter landed. The crowd melted, breaking up into - couples who wandered off, purposeless and happy. They had only escaped - from London that they might be alone together. Should they go to the - Botanical Gardens? Oh, yes. Anywhere—it didn’t matter. - Anywhere, so long as they could sit together and hold hands. - </p> - <p> - He crossed the bridge; stopped a stranger and asked a question; turned - along the bank and came to a house, little more than a cottage—a - nest tucked away amid shrubs and trees, with the river in view. - </p> - <p> - Like the frill on a woman’s dress, a green verandah ran round it. - Everything was cool and neat and hushed. The bushes were trim and orderly. - The gravel-path had been smoothly raked—not a stone was awry. - Flowers stood sweetly demure, in rows like school-girls awaiting a good - conduct prize and trying to forget that they had ever been hoydens. On the - lawn an automatic sprinkler was at work, revolving slowly and throwing up - a cloud of spray. - </p> - <p> - As he approached the porch, misty with wistaria and passion-flowers, he - searched the windows for signs of life. They were so clear that they - seemed to be without panes, giving direct entrance to the pleasant rooms - inside. They seemed to say, “We have nothing to hide—nothing.” - Brasses shone as brightly as a more precious metal. The door lent a - virginal touch of whiteness. - </p> - <p> - He rang the bell and heard a faint tinkle, then the rustling of skirts, - accompanied by prim footsteps. A severely attired maid admitted him. He - gazed round the room into which he was shown. Books, artistically bound, - lay on the table. Everything gave evidence of fastidiousness and taste—of - a certain remoteness from the everyday jostle of life. Above an inlaid - desk stood a portrait, silverframed. Out of curiosity Peter tiptoed over; - the Faun Man gazed out at him with laughing eyes. Lying open on the desk - was a well-thumbed volume, small and bound like a Bible. A passage was - underscored, which read, “Thou must be lord and master of thine own - actions, and not a slave or hireling.” Turning to the title-page, he - found that it was <i>The Imitation of Christ</i>. - </p> - <p> - A voice behind him said, “Ah, so you’ve discovered me!” - </p> - <p> - He drew himself up, afraid she might suspect him of spying. “I—I - was interested by the words you’d underlined. I wanted to see who - wrote them. I oughtn’t to have——” - </p> - <p> - She laughed softly, shrugging her shoulders. She was all in white—lazy, - splendid and vital. “My Loo-ard! Don’t apologize. You were - surprised. I don’t blame you.” She nodded her head like a - knowing child. “Oh, yes, Peter, the golden woman reads books like - that sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - She took his hands in hers and drew him over to a sofa, making him sit - down beside her. “And now, what have you come to tell me?” - </p> - <p> - He recovered from his confusion and surrendered, as all men did, to her - graciousness. “That it’s ripping to see you. But—but how - did you know I called you the golden woman?” - </p> - <p> - “Lorie—he tells me everything.” She leant back her long - fine throat, pillowing her head against the cushions. “You must - never trust him with any of your secrets, if you don’t want me to—— - Now, what is it that you’ve come to tell me?” - </p> - <p> - “Then, you know——?” He hesitated. The confession - to him was sacred; there was amusement in her eyes. “Then you know - about me and Cherry?” He was sure she did. She had greeted him as - though his visit had been long expected. - </p> - <p> - She placed her cool fingers about his wrist and bent her head nearer. Her - voice was low, and caressing—the voice of one who breaks bad news - gently. “I know. You told her that you loved her.—— Why - didn’t you come to me sooner?” - </p> - <p> - She was looking sorry for him. “Why sooner?” he questioned. - </p> - <p> - “Because she’s gone away.” - </p> - <p> - It was almost as though she had told him that Cherry had died. “Away? - Where to?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know. Lorie didn’t say; he took her. Perhaps, - to the convent. Poor little girl, you—you frightened her, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - He was all amazement. What a contrast there was between these two! The boy - so inexperienced and crestfallen; the golden woman so wise and quiet. - “Yes, <i>you</i>, Peter. You’re so natural and uncivilized. - You were too sudden with her. You told her that you loved her just as a - child would—directly you felt it. You wanted to kiss her without - waste of time. You galloped too fast, Peter; you tried to take all the - fences at one stride.” Her voice grew more tender; she folded her - hands in her lap, looking away from him, straight before her. “You’re—you’re - the sort of lover we older women dream of when the hour’s gone by. - The men who come to us are too cautious; they watch for the lines in our - faces. They’ve learnt to play safe. But you, with your glorious - youth——! And she didn’t recognize it—didn’t - know what you were offering.” The blue eyes came back slowly to his - face. She ended, “And so, she’s gone away.” - </p> - <p> - Peter felt unhappy and yet comforted. She had envied him something of - which he had been ashamed—the unavoidable indiscretion of his lack - of age. She had called it glorious; she hadn’t thought it foolish. - “But what must I do? Will she—will she come back again? Will - she understand, one day, the way you do?” - </p> - <p> - She answered evasively. “One day! We women all understand one day.” - </p> - <p> - He repeated his question, “But what must I do?” - </p> - <p> - She put her arm about his shoulder. “Wait. It’s all that - either of us can do.” - </p> - <p> - Why did she include herself? The room was very silent. In its patient - preparedness, it must have spent years in waiting. The garden outside - seemed to listen, tiptoe. The door was white, as if little used. The - sunlight on the lawn crept slowly. Everything watched; yet nothing was - wideawake. For whom were they all expectant? <i>Always there is one who - allows, and one who loves</i>. Was that the explanation? - </p> - <p> - Above the open volume of cloistered consolation, with its disillusioned - counsels of timid patience, the Faun Man smiled from his silver frame. - Peter had always thought——. - </p> - <p> - So, after all, was it the Faun Man who had delayed? - </p> - <p> - And Cherry loved him! Had that anything to do with it? He crushed the - suspicion down—and yet it survived. - </p> - <p> - “And you don’t know——. You couldn’t tell me - where to write?” - </p> - <p> - The golden woman shook her head. “Who can say? You don’t know - much about love, Peter. It’s a continual hoping for something which - never happens—or which, when it happens, is something different. - People say it’s a state of heart—it’s really a state of - mind. I think—and you’ll hate me for saying it—I think - true love is always on one side and is always disappointed. Did you ever - hear about the green tree and the bird in the morn? You didn’t? - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “A bird in the morn - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - To a green tree was calling: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - ‘Come over. Come over. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Night’s vanished. Day’s born. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And I’m weary—I want you, green tree, for my lover; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Through clouds I am falling, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - A-flutter, a-flutter. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I’m lonely, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Here only. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And heard your leaves mutter. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Night’s vanished. Day’s born. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - So run out and fold me, green tree, in the morn.’ - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “The bird in the morn - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Heard a distant tree sighing: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I cannot come over— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Night’s vanished. Day’s born. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I am rooted. But haste, oh sweet bird, to your lover; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - So freely you’re flying, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - A-flutter, a-flutter. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Sink hither, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Not thither. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Hark how my leaves mutter, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Night’s vanished. Love’s born.’ - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - The bird flew—ah, whither? The tree was forlorn.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - She stroked his hand. “In true love,” she said, “there’s - always one who could but won’t, and one who would but cannot.” - </p> - <p> - “Not always,” he denied. He spoke confidently, remembering his - mother and father. - </p> - <p> - “How certain you are!” She watched him mockingly. “Ah, - you know of an exception! Believe me, Peter, winged birds and rooted trees - are by far the more common.” - </p> - <p> - She made him feel that she shared his dilemma—that she reckoned - herself, with him, among the trees which are rooted. The bond of sympathy - was established. - </p> - <p> - “We,” she whispered, “you and I, Peter, we must wait for - our winged birds to visit us. We can’t go to them, however we try.” - </p> - <p> - She sprang up with a quick change of expression; in a flash she was - radiant. “My Loo-ard, but we needn’t be tragic.” - </p> - <p> - Running to the window, she flung it wide. “Look out there. The sun, - the river, the grass—they’re happy. What do they care? It’s - our hearts that are unhappy. We won’t have any hearts, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - He crossed the room to her. With the freedom of a sister, she put her arm - about him, leaning so that her hair just touched his face. She seemed to - be excusing her action. “You’re only a boy. How old shall we - say. Just fourteen, perhaps. Why, little Peter, you’re too young to - be in love.—— Do you remember the saying, that every load has - two handles: one by which it can be carried; one by which it cannot? You - and I are going to find the handle by which it can be carried—is - that a bargain? I’ll show you the handle—it’s not to - take yourself or anyone too seriously. You’re making a face, Peter, - as though I’d given you nasty medicine. You were determined to be - most awfully wretched over Cherry, weren’t you? Well, you mustn’t. - Wait half a second.” - </p> - <p> - Her half-seconds were half-hours to other people. When she reappeared, she - was clad girlishly in a white dress, which hung above her ankles. At her - breast was a yellow rose. Her golden hair was wrapped in bands about her - head. There swung from her hand a broad river-hat. Peter thought that, if - the Faun Man could see her now, he wouldn’t wait much longer. But it - was contradictory—this that she had told him; he had always supposed - that it was she who had kept the Faun Man waiting. For himself he was - wishing that she were Cherry. - </p> - <p> - Before the mirror, over the empty fireplace, she stooped to adjust her - hat. Her arms curved up to her shining head, the loose sleeves falling - back from them; they looked like handles of ivory on a gold-rimmed goblet. - The motive of the attitude was lost on Peter; he only took in the general - effect. Her eyes, watching him from the glass, saw that. He was thinking - how naïve she was to have taken thirty minutes over dressing, and then - to pretend that she had hurried by coming down with her hat in her hand. - </p> - <p> - “Ready,” she said. “Do you like me in this dress? If you - don’t, I’ll change it.” - </p> - <p> - “If I took you at your word——. But would you really? I’m - almost tempted to put you to the test.” - </p> - <p> - “I would really,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “I do like you.” He spoke with boyish downrightness. “You - know jolly well that you look splendid in anything.” - </p> - <p> - She pretended to be abashed and hurried into the garden, singing just - above her breath, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “I like you in satin, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - I like you in fluff.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - She seemed to forget the words and hummed; but, as she came to the end of - the air, she crouched her chin against her shoulder, looking back at him - naughtily, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “I love you and like you - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - In—oh, anything at all.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - They walked by the muffled river; trees were reflected so clearly on its - surface that it was easy to mistake illusion for reality. Everything was - asleep or listless in the summer sun. They came to a point where they - ferried across. They entered Kew Gardens and sauntered into the Palace for - coolness. They didn’t care where their feet led them; all the while - they talked—about life, love, men and women, but really, under the - disguise of words, about Cherry and the Faun Man. In her company he had - found a sudden relief from suspense. - </p> - <p> - She was so smiling, so generous, and at times so anxious to be reckless, - like a clever child saying slant-eyed things of which the meaning was - half-guessed. He was elated to be seen with her; she was rare and - beautiful. - </p> - <p> - Toward evening he turned back from the land of stately trees and - grass-pavements to the clamor of the perturbed and narrow city. The river - was a thread of gold; the sun foundered red in a crimson sea of cloud. The - thread of gold broadened as bridges grew more frequent; black wharfs took - the place of meadows and sat huddled along the banks like homeless - beggars. But it was the majesty, not the meanness of London, that - impressed him. His eyes were on the horizon, where the lace-work tower of - Westminster shot up, sculptured and ethereal, and still further beyond - where, above herded roofs, the dome of St. Paul’s protruded like a - woman’s breast. - </p> - <p> - He landed at Westminster Bridge and ran up the steps. What a different - world! How many hours was it since he had been there? He had recovered his - sense of life’s magic. - </p> - <p> - The tethered man in the ticket-office eyed him gloomily. “Still in a - hurry,” he thought, “and with all the years of life before - him. Ugh!” - </p> - <p> - That afternoon was the pattern of many that followed. He came from London - to Kew, simply and solely that he might speak about Cherry, and always - with the hope that he might gain some news of her. Subtly the golden woman - would lead the conversation round to herself. It was only at parting that - he would discover this. Once he said, laughingly, “Why, we’ve - spent all our time in talking about you!” Then he stopped, for he - saw that he had not pleased her. “Next time it shall be all about - Cherry,” he told himself; but it wasn’t. - </p> - <p> - He had never had a woman consult him before about her dress and the styles - of doing her hair. The golden woman did; she made him tell her just what - he preferred. When he met her, she came to express a part of his - personality. - </p> - <p> - In the intimacy which grew up between them, the small reserves of pride - and reticence were broken down. They spoke their minds aloud. - </p> - <p> - “I’m getting old, Peter,” she would say. But this was - only on the days when she looked youngest. - </p> - <p> - If he had no money, he would tell her; then, she would either pay or they - would make their pleasures inexpensive. He regarded her as a sister older - than himself. - </p> - <p> - “What shall I call you?” he asked her. “Haven’t - you noticed that I have no name for you?” - </p> - <p> - She slipped her arm into his. “The golden woman. I like that. It’s - you—it has the touch of poetry.” - </p> - <p> - “I gave you that name,” he said, “the moment I saw you—years - ago, at the Happy Cottage.” - </p> - <p> - She opened her eyes wide, pretending to be offended. “Years ago! How - cruel! Years ago to you; but to me not so long ago—four years, wasn’t - it? Why do you say things that make me feel ancient?” - </p> - <p> - “When you’re beautiful——.” He got no - farther; his tongue stumbled at compliments. He was going to have said - that, when you were very beautiful, years didn’t matter. - </p> - <p> - She caught at his words. “Then you think I’m beautiful?” - </p> - <p> - “Think, indeed!” - </p> - <p> - “As beautiful as Cherry?” - </p> - <p> - He avoided answering, saying instead, “See how everyone turns to - look after you.” - </p> - <p> - She fell silent, only to return to the topic long after he had forgotten - it. “Yes, they look after me and go away. That isn’t like - having someone with you always.” - </p> - <p> - She could make him feel very unhappy—more unhappy than anyone he had - ever met. She could say such lonely things, and almost as though he were - to blame for her loneliness. She could talk exquisitely of love and little - children. He wondered why the Faun Man hadn’t married her. - </p> - <p> - One afternoon he had stopped longer than usual. They had walked through - Kew Gardens, and had sat in a teagarden watching the trippers. It had been - one of their gay days, when they had built up absurd philosophies. She had - told him that all that any woman could love was the sixth part of any man—all - the other five-sixths were distasteful. Her idea was that every woman - should be allowed to have six husbands; then, by taking what she liked out - of each of them, she would have one perfect man. They had dawdled in the - tea-garden out of compassion, rescuing wasps with teaspoons from drowning - in the jam. When they rose to go, evening was gathering. On the bridge - they paused, gazing down at the gray creeping of the river and the slow - drifting of the boats. Suddenly she reverted from gay to sad. - </p> - <p> - “If I were old, Peter, you wouldn’t come to see me so often. - One day, though I try to fight it off, one day I shall be old.” At - the gate, in the wistful twilight, she lifted up her face. “If I - were to ask you to kiss me, would you?” - </p> - <p> - “I think I would.” - </p> - <p> - But she didn’t ask him. - </p> - <p> - A strange summer made up of waiting, visits to Kew and interludes of work! - In those interludes he studied hard, putting the finishing touches to his - preparation for Oxford. The first question he always asked the golden - woman—asked her breathlessly—was, “Is there any news of - her?” The answer was always the same—a negative. Sometimes she - would read him portions of letters which she had received from the Faun - Man. There was never any mention of Cherry. He grew sick at heart with - waiting. The golden woman alone shared his secret; he could not bring - himself to speak of it at home. - </p> - <p> - His holiday was short that year—three weeks in Surrey. On his return - Glory came to stay at Topbury. How she had escaped his memory! He was a - little surprised by her quiet beauty; his surprise wore off as he got used - to her. She laid so little emphasis on herself. People were only aware - that she had been there when she had gone—an atmosphere of kindness - was lacking. Then they looked up, were puzzled and remembered, “Oh - yes, Glory. Where’s she vanished? Thought she was here.” She - only once penetrated into Peter’s world—then only for a few - hours. A boy in love can think only of one woman. - </p> - <p> - That once occurred on a rainy morning, in the study which had been his - nursery. He had just sat down and had his nose in his books. Someone - touched him. - </p> - <p> - “Peter, you don’t mind, do you? If you’re busy now, I’ll - come again later.” - </p> - <p> - He looked up, his head between his hands, his hair all ruffled. “Sorry. - Didn’t see that you were there. Anything you want me to do?” - </p> - <p> - The sensitive face flushed. He noticed that. The white hands fluttered - against her breast. “You know about father.” Her voice was - timid. It strove and sank like a spent bird. “Nobody’s told - me. So, Peter, I came to you.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s a shame. He used to be our secret. What d’you - want to know about him, Glory?” - </p> - <p> - She faltered like a girl much younger. “I want you to take me to - him.” - </p> - <p> - That afternoon on the top of a bus they set off to Soho together. What - that excursion meant to her, what thoughts tiptoed to and fro inside her - head, he never knew. He never guessed how proud she was to be seen alone - with him in public. Her thoughts tiptoed for that reason—so that no - one might ever guess. They found Uncle Waffles, waxed mustaches and dingy - spats, seated in a dingy shop. They had to descend a step to enter. The - riot of dirt distressed Glory. She wanted to busy herself with a duster, - until her stepfather discouraged her, telling her that it was no use—it - would be as bad to-morrow; in fact, in his line of trade, dirt was a kind - of advertisement. - </p> - <p> - Just as they were sitting down to tea, Mr. Widow, the murderer, joined - them. They found him a very severe old gentleman, with chop-whiskers and - an eye to other people’s imperfections. Prison seemed to have - strengthened his moral views. Once he referred to “my poor wife,” - in a tone which implied that she had died respectably of bloodpoisoning or - cancer. - </p> - <p> - Before they left, Uncle Waffles took Peter aside and borrowed - two-and-sixpence in a whisper. So the tea was quite expensive. Perhaps the - ease with which he had contrived to borrow had something to do with the - heartiness of his invitation that they should drop in whenever they were - passing. - </p> - <p> - That evening, when Glory came to bid Peter good-night, she asked, “You’ll - take me again, won’t you. He’s—I don’t think he’s - happy.” - </p> - <p> - Peter dragged his thoughts away from his work. “Don’t you? - Perhaps Mr. Widow isn’t tremendously cheerful company. Of course I’ll - take you.” - </p> - <p> - His eyes were going back to his books. Glory hesitated at the door, saw - that he had forgotten her and slipped out. There was a song about a rooted - tree and a winged bird; had he looked up at that moment and seen her - expression, he might have remembered it. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXVI—THE SPREADING OF WINGS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e might have been - setting out for Australia or to explore Tibet, they made such a final - matter of his going. The way in which he was waited on, considered and - admired brought to his remembrance those early days when he had been sent - to Miss Rufus to be cured of his ‘magination. - </p> - <p> - “But motherkins, dearest, Oxford’s only sixty miles—a - two hours’ journey. I can write to you the last thing at night and - you can be reading me next morning at breakfast.” - </p> - <p> - Nan shook her head. “It’s the spreading of wings, Peter—the - first flight from the nest. You’ll come back, of course; but always - more rarely.” - </p> - <p> - She foresaw in this first departure, all the other departures that lay - ahead. The day was coming when she would be left alone. She pictured - herself as old and grayheaded, sitting listening to phantom footsteps of - memories which passed and repassed, but never brought the living presence. - Already she tasted the bitterness of the woman who, having been first, - must learn to be second in the affections of those who were part of her - body. Kay and Peter were growing up. They would soon have their secrets—their - interests which she could not share. They would marry and enter her house - as visitors. She pictured all that; the spreading of wings had commenced. - </p> - <p> - When Peter had been a little boy at Sandport, certain lines had driven the - tears into her eyes with their wistful yearning. They were often on her - lips now: - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - “Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - To see the nursery lighted and the children’s table spread; - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - ‘Mother, mother, mother!’ the eager voices calling, - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - ‘The baby was so sleepy that she had to go to bed.’” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Already the inexorable law of change had taken her babies from her, and - soon——. There would come a day when the rooms would be empty; - her home would become again what it was before she had entered it—merely - a house. - </p> - <p> - When Peter laughed at her tenderly, attempting to coax her into braver - thoughts, she clung to him, searching his face to discover the odd little - boy who had asked such curious questions. For his sake she would smile - through her tears, saying, “I’m just a silly woman, getting - old, Peter. Don’t think that I grudge you anything. I don’t, I - don’t, only—only it’s the first spreading of wings—the - struggling out of the nest.” - </p> - <p> - It was true—truer than she fancied; there was Cherry. - </p> - <p> - However late he worked in those last days, however noiseless he made his - feet upon the stairs, she heard him. Creeping from her room, she would - stand white-robed beside his bed, stoop above his face on the pillow and - tuck him up warmly. It wouldn’t be for much longer—he was - almost a man. - </p> - <p> - And Billy—he tried to laugh her out of a sentiment which he fought - down in himself. Manlike, he disguised his feelings. He took so much - interest in the preparations, that it might have been he, instead of - Peter, who was going up to Oxford. By day he pretended to be cheerful; but - at night, when she lay down beside him, after her excursions to Peter’s - bedroom, he would take her in his arms, whispering the old endearments, - “Golden little Nan,” and “Princess Pepperminta,” - just to let her understand that, whoever went from her, he would be left. - </p> - <p> - One October afternoon Mr. Grace, the herald of Topbury’s great - occasions, drew up against the pavement. Boxes were carried out. Cat’s - Meat shuffled away into the distance. At the end of the Terrace, Peter - leant from the window; they were still there, waving from the steps. He - had begged them not to come to the station; he knew they would break down. - He turned the corner—his flight had begun in earnest. While familiar - sights lasted, he was conscious not of adventure, but depression. Yes, - that was the house from the dusk of whose garden a hand had stretched out - to grasp him. Strange, and this was the same Christmas cab! Inanimate - things hadn’t changed; it was he who had altered. - </p> - <p> - Then came the excitement of Paddington—undergrads with golf-bags - slung across their shoulders; others who were spectacled and looked - learned; still others with ties of contrasting hues and secret - significance—a crowd superbly young and enthusiastic, which did its - best to appear blasé. And then the rush of the train, the exalted sense - of opportunity, the overwhelming consciousness of manhood, and that first - night of romantic speculation within the gray walls of Calvary College! - Bells, hanging so high and sounding so mellow that they seemed to swing - from clouds, struck out the hours. His mother had heard them, those same - bells, in her girlhood. By craning out, he could see the window from which - Jehane had caught first sight of his father and had called Nan’s - attention. He was beginning his journey at the spot where his parents’ - journey, halfway over, had commenced. Would he and Cherry tell their - children stories of where and how they had met? He and Cherry! It was of - her that he was thinking when Harry Arran entered and found him seated - among his partly opened boxes. - </p> - <p> - “Tried to reach you all summer,” Peter said. - </p> - <p> - Harry was taking stock of the room’s contents. “I say, old - boy, you’ve brought no end of furniture. You’ll be quite a - swell.—— What’s that? Tried to reach us with letters, - did you? We never got one of ‘em. Never knew our next address - ourselves. Just went wandering, you know. My brother’s such an - erratic chap.” - </p> - <p> - Peter turned away, so that his face would not be seen, and spoke in an - offhand manner. “Cherry with you?” - </p> - <p> - The question tickled Harry. He straddled his legs and watched his friend’s - back, tilting his head toward his shoulder with a magpie expression of - impertinent knowledge. “Cherry with us! No, jolly fear. She’s - a nice kid and all that, but we weren’t out for love-affairs. Fact - is, I was trying to make that silly ass brother of mine forget one woman. - We carried knapsacks and went almost in rags. But what made you ask?” - </p> - <p> - “I thought she was. The golden woman said——.” - </p> - <p> - Harry interrupted. “Oh, so you’ve been seeing <i>her!</i>” - He pronounced <i>her</i> with his old hostility. “I wouldn’t - see too much of her.” - </p> - <p> - Peter smiled quietly. How unjust Harry had always been to his brother’s - women friends! He was still the mouth-organ boy, only a little too old now - to climb trees to display his jealousy. Did he think that he could protect - the Faun Man forever from marrying? Didn’t it ever enter his head - that he might fall in love himself? And yet Peter sympathized with Harry, - for he had the same feelings with regard to Kay. He would hate any man who - tried to win her. That was a long way off—she was only thirteen at - present. His thoughts came back to Harry. “So, if you were me, you - wouldn’t see too much of her! Why not? I’ve been feeling—well, - rather sorry for her.” - </p> - <p> - “You have, have you?” Harry laughed tolerantly. “Sorry - for her! Pooh! People who begin by feeling sorry for Eve end by being - sorry for themselves. She always starts her affairs like that, by getting - people sorry for her. Don’t you know what’s the matter with - her? She’s selfish—a lap-dog kind of woman, born to be petted, - but of no use whatever in the world. She wants everyone to love her, and - gives nothing in return. She doesn’t play the game, Peter; she - expects to have a man always toddling after her, but she won’t marry - him because——. I don’t know; I suppose it would disturb - her to have children.” Harry paused, waiting for Peter to argue with - him. When his remarks were met without challenge, he continued, “She - doesn’t mean any harm—her sort never does; but she’s a - jolly sight more dangerous than if she were immoral. She gambles like an - expert as long as luck’s with her; the moment she loses, she - pretends to be a little child who doesn’t understand the rules. So - she wins all the time and never pays back. She’s kept my brother - feverish for years, loving him, and then, when it comes to the point, not - knowing whether she really loves him. Gives her a nice comfortable sense, - when anything goes wrong with her investments, to feel that he’s - always in the background. I’m sick of it. She’s a ship that’s - always setting sail for new lands and never coming to anchor. Lorie’s - too fine a chap to be kept dawdling his life away by a vain woman. Some - day she won’t be quite so pretty—she dreads that already; it’s - part of her shallowness. Then she’ll run to cover, if any man’ll - have her.—— You don’t believe me. Suppose you think - every woman’s wild to be married?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t think that.” In this particular Peter flattered - himself that he had had more experience than Harry. - </p> - <p> - Harry took him up shrewdly. “If you don’t think it, you wish - you did. You’ll see, if you live long enough. There are heaps of - well-bred women like Eve, with the greed of chorus-girls and the morals of - refrigerators. And here’s something else for your protection—Eve - can’t bear to see any woman loved except herself. Lorie knows all - this, and still he’s infatuated—plays Dante to her Beatrice. - She isn’t worth it. She tells him she isn’t worth it; that - makes him think she’s noble. She—she sucks men’s souls - out for the fun of doing it when she isn’t thirsty, and flings them - in the gutter like squeezed oranges.” - </p> - <p> - Peter’s case was so nearly similar to the Faun Man’s that he - couldn’t bear this conversation. It was as though Harry was - describing and accusing Cherry. <i>She sucks men’s souls out and - flings them in the gutter like squeezed oranges</i>. And Cherry hadn’t - been thirsty either; she had pretended that she hadn’t wanted to do - it. - </p> - <p> - “But Cherry,” he said, “do you know where she is and - anything about her?” - </p> - <p> - Harry looked at him squarely, a little pityingly. He sat down and crossed - his legs. “Yes. We took her abroad with us and dropped her at the - convent-school. She’s—— I don’t know. She’s - got a queer streak in her—she’s an exotic.” And then, - “I suppose you know that she thinks she’s in love with Lorie?” - </p> - <p> - Peter bit his lip; he drew his knee up with his hands clasped about it. - “I know that. And the Faun Man, does he care for her?” - </p> - <p> - Harry laughed. “On that score you don’t need to be jealous. He - wishes she wasn’t such a little donkey. He’s bored by it. It - complicates matters most frightfully; he’s her guardian. We had a - most awful job in shaking her. That’s why we left her at the - convent. Had a rotten scene in Paris—tears and hysterics. She’d - planned to make a third in our party. We weren’t on for it, you can - bet your hat.” - </p> - <p> - Peter grew impatient at Harry’s way of talking. He spoke shortly. - “So you know where she is? You can give me her address?” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t.” The grin of the mouth-organ boy, poking fun - at everything, accompanied the refusal. “The kid made us promise not - to tell you. She has her own idea of playing fair. Wish Eve had.” He - yawned. “By George, time I was off to bed. I’ve got to be up - bright and early to-morrow to call on Mr. Thing—the tutor-bird.” - </p> - <p> - Left alone in the stillness, Peter did not stir. In the street, below his - window, footsteps echoed at rare intervals. Now and then, as men parted in - the quadrangle, laughter burst on the night and voices shouted. Then, - again, he heard the bells, high up and spectral, telling him that time was - passing. He thought about Harry, envying him the cavalier cloak of - indifference behind which he hid his sensitiveness. He thought about the - Faun Man, with his fine faculty for loving wasted all these years by an - undecided woman. And he thought of Eve and how she had misled him, letting - him believe that the Faun Man had deserted her. Why had she done it? And - then he thought of Cherry, poor little Cherry, who was keeping out of his - way that she might play fair. - </p> - <p> - But he would make her love him. He would work day and night to make - himself splendid. He was nothing at present—had nothing to offer - her. But, one day——. And so, with the invincible optimism of - youth, he pulled himself together. He was a knight riding out on a quest, - wearing his lady’s badge to bring her honor. - </p> - <p> - Had he cared, he might have pictured to himself the other adventurers he - had known, who had ridden out in the same brave belief that life was - romantic: Jehane, who had looked from the window across the street and had - beckoned with her eyes, only to give a husband to another woman; Ocky - Waffles, who had come to her as the feeble substitute for the nobility she - had coveted; his mother and father for whom, despite its kindness, life - had proved a pedestrian affair. But, on his first night in this city of - dreamers, he saw, stretching away below him, wide landscapes of illusion. - There was so much to do, so much to experience, so much to dare. The - spreading of wings had brought him to a crag from which he viewed, not the - catastrophe of sunsets, but the riot of morning boiling up against - cloud-precipices and pouring ensaffroned and clamorous across the world. - He saw only the glory of its challenge, nothing of its threat. - </p> - <p> - In the weeks that followed his belief in the marvelousness of mere living - was quickened. The head and shoulders of the marvel were that, for the - first time, he was lord of his own existence. Like God, he could create - himself. Mr. Thing, the tutor-bird, advised him, in a sneering tone of - voice, that he had a chance of a first in Honor Mods. Mr. Thing had become - embittered by past experience with other brilliant students. “If you - don’t take to drink and to yowling like a cat of nights, you may do - it, Mr. Barrington. But I expect you’ll run wild like the rest.” - </p> - <p> - Peter was claimed by Roy Hardcastle, the captain of the boats. His breadth - and height, and slightness of hip marked him as a potential oarsman. Every - afternoon he ran down through the meadows to the barges, there to be - tubbed and sworn at by the coaches. He rowed in the Junior Fours as stroke - and won his race. He was chosen as stroke for the Toggers—after that - his career as an athlete was settled. Calvary men began to prophesy a - rowing future for him. He noticed that men, not of his own college, paused - on the bank to watch his style as his eight swung by. - </p> - <p> - The keenness of Oxford life awoke him to his powers; the contempt in which - slackers were held spurred him forward. He had never been called upon to - test his personality in competition with others. The experience took him - out of himself, but beneath externals he remained the same simple-hearted, - compassionate idealist. He was different from other men, and other men - knew it. Perhaps it was that he was uncivilized, as the golden woman had - told him—uncivilized in the sense of being unsophisticated and - intense. Perhaps it was that his standards were pitched high, and that he - was chivalrous in his attitude of cleanness toward himself. At all events, - it never entered his head that the sowing of wild oats was a legitimate - employment. Men stopped talking about certain adventures when he was - present. - </p> - <p> - Even Mr. Thing, the tutor-bird, felt it—this subtle atmosphere of - robust innocence, which Peter carried about with him, an innocence which - bore no resemblance to the lily-white priggishness of a Sir Galahad. Mr. - Thing was rather surprised; he had always felt virtue in a man to be - offensive and had compared it to a prim little maid attired for a party, - refusing to romp with bolder children for fear she should spoil her dress. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Thing was a don of the old school, a two-bottle man; not infrequently - about midnight he was intoxicated. It was said that under the influence of - wine his scholarship was ripest. He would recite rolling speeches from - Thucydides in the language of Athens, working himself up into fervor and - tears, declaiming in a voice which trembled with humanity and trumpeted - with valor. But when, after drinking to excess, he met Peter beneath the - stars in the shadowy quads, he seemed conscious that an excuse was - necessary. He invented a lie, this gray-haired scholar, beneath which to - hide his shame from clear-eyed youth. It was reported that he was getting - ready for the Judgment Day, that he might be letter-perfect in his apology - to his maker. - </p> - <p> - “Been to the fun’ral of a dear fr’end, Mr. Barrington—a - very dear fr’end. Been taking the sharp edge off my grief. You haven’t - losht a dear fr’end—not so dear as I have. So don’t you - do it.” - </p> - <p> - He showed drunken concern lest Peter should do it, and had to be reassured - many times. At last, shaking his head sceptically, he would permit Peter - to pilot him to his room. The boy’s erectness hurt him; it accused - him. It caused him to look back and remember another lad, who, beyond the - waste of misspent years, had been not unlike him. One night, made - carelessly sentimental by an extra bottle, he told the truth. “Wasn’t - always like this, Mr. Barrington. I was something like you—only a - little reckless. She said she’d wait for me, and then——. - So that’s why. Now you know it.” - </p> - <p> - Cakes and ale in the imagination of young Oxford are usually associated - with licence. To be abstemious is to be unpopular and entails persistent - ragging. Peter believed whole-heartedly in the consumption of cakes and - ale, so long as it wasn’t carried to the point of gluttony. He was - eager to taste life, and took part in all the fun that was going; only - always at the back of his mind lay the thought of Cherry—he must - make himself fine for her, so as to be worthy. - </p> - <p> - He got into frequent adventurous scrapes. He was present at the Empire - with Harry when a young lady, whose stockings were the most conspicuous - part of her clothing, came to the footlights and sang a song, each verse - of which ended with the question, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “Will you risk? - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - I’d risk it. - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Wouldn’t you?” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Harry couldn’t bear that she should go away unanswered. The courtesy - of the ‘Varsity was jeopardized. Moreover, she was pretty and only - the musicians separated him from the stage. The theme of the song was - kissing. He leapt the orchestra-rail, splashed his foot on the key-board - of the piano, seized her hand and hauled himself up beside her, shouting, - “Yes, I’ll risk it.” - </p> - <p> - She hadn’t intended her invitation to be taken so seriously. With - becoming modesty she broke away from him, just as he was about to prove - his assertion that he’d risk it. Harry followed her, in one wing and - out the other, to and fro across the stage. The theatre rose yelling, - watching this amorous game of hide-and-seek. Of a sudden the cry, “Proggins! - Proggins!” went up. The Proctor and his bulldogs entered. Harry - jumped from the stage into his seat. Some considerate person turned out - the lights and there was a rush of undergrads for the exits. Peter and - Harry burst into the night with the Proctor’s bulldogs close behind - them. Then came the long run; the brilliant plan, Peter’s invention, - that they should escape over walls instead of by thoroughfares; the - clambering and climbing, the dashes across gardens and the final escape - into freedom through the house of a startled old gentleman who threw his - slipper after them—but not for luck. - </p> - <p> - Harry, as a rule, was the initiator of their escapades; Peter championed - them to a finish gamely. The mouth-organ boy walked through the world with - a roving eye, seeking always new lands of innocent adventure. When he had - almost come to shipwreck on some wild coast of whimsical absurdity, it was - Peter who hurried to his rescue. The song which he had sung in the - tree-tops of Friday Lane had been a prophecy. He still sang it in the - austere city of gray walls and spires. It was a pæan of high spirits - and irrepressible youth: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “I’ve been shipwrecked off Patagonia, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Home and Colonia, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Antipodonia; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I’ve shot cannibals, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Funny-looking animals, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Top-knot coons; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I’ve bought diamonds twenty a penny there, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I’ve been somewhere, nowhere, anywhere— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And I’m the wise, wise man of the wide, wide world.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - When he sang it, he and Peter would look at one another, with eyes - laughing, and would talk of Kay—of how they had commenced their - friendship by fighting over her, and of how—of so many things that - were kind and golden, like memories of spring days when the wind is - blowing. Little Kay, with her delicate face and shining hair, she stood a - white flower in the shadow-wood of remembrance—a narcissus-shrine to - which their steps were continually returning. So, while undergraduates of - the Roy Hardcastle type shouted themselves hoarse on Saturday nights at - college wine-clubs, making a rowdy effort to be men, Peter and Harry, - without effort, remained boys and sat concocting fairy-tale letters to a - little girl at Topbury. They refused to credit the evidence of their eyes, - that she was growing up. They signed their letters jointly, filling them - with ridiculous tenderness. She received them every Monday morning at - breakfast, and was made to feel that she was still a sharer in their - lives. Because Cherry postponed her coming, Peter had to have some outlet - for his affection. In a curious way he made his little sister the - temporary substitute for the girl he loved. It did not occur to him to - inquire what motives prompted Harry’s epistolary philanthropy. - </p> - <p> - Jehane did not at once fulfil her promise to send her girls to stay with - Professor Usk. On his return home for Christmas Peter discovered the - reason. Riska was in the throes of her first romance. At Topbury shoulders - were shrugged. Of course girls of fifteen did have their flirtations, but - it was only among the lower-classes that they were openly acknowledged and - dignified into love-affairs. Jehane, however, took the matter seriously. - She explained why. The young fellow was a good catch and four years Riska’s - senior; he was the son of a speculative builder who was invading Southgate - with an army of jerry-built villas. The story of how Riska had effected - the young man’s capture proved that Jehane’s training had been - efficient. Riska had shown a fine faculty for seizing her strategic - opportunity. Barrington’s comment when he heard it was brief and to - the point, “Ought to be spanked. If she grows up this way, she’ll - make her face the dumping-ground for anybody’s kisses.” - </p> - <p> - That was just it; in her fear lest her girls should never marry, Jehane - had taught Riska, who was more apt a pupil than Glory, to welcome any - comer without fastidiousness. There was nothing heaven-sent about - marriage; it was a lucky-bag, into which you thrust your hand and grabbed; - or, to employ her old parable, maidenhood was a raft from which girls who - were wise escaped at the first opportunity, in cockle-boats, on boards and - even by swimming—the great object was to reach the land of matrimony - before the distance between the shore and the raft had lengthened. - Possibly one might get wet in the effort. One couldn’t be too nice - over an affair so desperate. It was anything to attain a marriage-song. - </p> - <p> - This was how Riska’s first excursion from the raft occurred. She had - been out riding her bicycle and a hat had blown by her. The hat must - belong to a head. She espied the head and liked it; therefore she chased - the hat. Having caught it, she waited for the owner to come up. She - accepted his thanks and indulged in a few minutes’ conversation. - Next day, riding along the same road at the same hour, she had encountered - the owner of the hat again. After that, good-luck and liking had taken a - hand in bringing them together. Soon he had been invited to tea at the - cottage. Jehane had made things easy for him. She had learnt that his - father was a self-made, ambitious man, who wore side-whiskers and hoped to - die a baronet. - </p> - <p> - “The Governor,” the boy had told her, “wants me to marry - well.” There lay the rub. Would his father consider Riska good - enough? The name of the young fellow was Bonaparte Triggers. - </p> - <p> - Jehane felt that it was absolutely necessary that young Triggers should be - socially impressed. She persuaded Barrington to allow Riska to bring her - suitor to Topbury. Before he came, she issued a careful warning that no - mention was to be made of Ocky Waffles. Closely questioned, she admitted - that, without deliberately lying, she had let the boy suppose that she was - a widow. - </p> - <p> - “But, if he’s seriously in love with Riska, you’ll have - to tell him,” Barrington objected. - </p> - <p> - Jehane’s face clouded. “That’s my affair. Who’d - marry the daughter of a convict? It’s easy for you to talk.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you mean that——? Look here, I’m not - criticizing; but don’t you think that this’ll look like - deception? Supposing he married Riska without knowing, he’d be bound - to find out after. Let Riska tell him. If he’s the right kind of a - chap, he’ll love her all the more for her honesty.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane lost her temper as far as she dared. “You’ve always - been against me—always. Of course, if you’re ashamed of us, - and don’t want Riska to bring him——.” - </p> - <p> - There was no arguing along these lines. Barrington gave his reluctant - consent. - </p> - <p> - Riska came, bringing with her Bonaparte Triggers, a flashy youth with a - cockney thinness of accent. The purpose of his visit was to be impressed; - he made it clear from the start that he had come to impress. He did not - belong to a world of culture and felt, as Ocky Waffles had felt before - him, that an effort was being made to rob him of his self-possession. He - resisted the effort by smoking innumerable cigarettes, and tried to parade - his own paces by accompanying himself on the piano while he sang - music-hall ditties of the latest hug-me-quick-and-not-too-delicately - order. His visit was not a success. He was jerry-built, like his father’s - villas. - </p> - <p> - After he had departed. Nan had the nervous desire to fling up all the - windows and to go through the house with a duster. It wasn’t - snobbishness on her part, but she was unaccustomed to see fingers squeezed - and kisses exchanged in public. Barrington found her in the drawing-room - and slipped his hand into hers. “It’s as I thought; Riska’s - not in love with him. Her mother’s trained her to believe that the - first man to come should be the first man accepted. And, d’you know, - Nan——?” - </p> - <p> - “What, Billy?” - </p> - <p> - “Didn’t you notice anything? She’s pretty and she’s - sweet, because she’s young; but already she’s getting hard and - calculating like Jehane. I’m afraid for her—she’s more - passion than her mother ever had. She’s ripe fruit, and not sixteen - yet; if she isn’t plucked, she’ll fall to the ground.—— - It’s a horrible thing to say of a young girl.” - </p> - <p> - And then, “I don’t like him; but I hope he marries her.” - </p> - <p> - He didn’t marry her; Peter and Glory were blamed for that. Without - telling anyone, they arranged to give Ocky a Christmas treat. What form - the treat was to take caused many secret discussions. They had to be - secret—all Glory’s dealings with her stepfather were secret; - the mention of his name was forbidden by her mother. - </p> - <p> - “How about a theatre?” Peter suggested. - </p> - <p> - Glory shook her quiet head. “He’s not very intellectual.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, a pantomime?” - </p> - <p> - Glory nodded. “I believe he’d like that.” - </p> - <p> - So once again she set out alone with her tall cousin on the top of a bus. - For a few brief hours he was to be hers entirely. In anticipating the - adventure, she had racked her brains to think of entertaining subjects to - talk about. She was terribly afraid she would bore him; she believed him - to be so extraordinarily clever. She needn’t have worried. He was a - big boy on that winter’s afternoon and not a man. Directly they were - out of sight of the Terrace, he took her arm. - </p> - <p> - “But Peter!” she protested, her face flushing. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t be a little silly,” he told her; “you’ll - slip on the snow and fall down.——— I say, Glory, you do - look ripping. How you have got yourself up! You’ve put on everything - except the parlor sofa.” - </p> - <p> - At Topbury Corner he wanted to take a hansom, but she insisted on a bus. - “No, really. I prefer it. I’ve a reason—yes. But I - wouldn’t tell you what it is for worlds.” - </p> - <p> - Her reason was that she was afraid to be left alone with him lest she - should grow self-conscious. It was easier to talk in crowds. And how they - did talk! Her little prepared speeches, her scraps of nervously gathered - information were all forgotten. They were two children sailing through a - Christmas world on a schooner of the London streets. House-tops were white - with snow; shops gay with decorations. In the murky grayness of the sky a - derelict sun wallowed, like a ship on fire. It was a happy day; their eyes - were bright to find something on every hand to laugh about. Now it was a - cutler’s window, merry with mistletoe and holly, all a-gleam with - gnashing knives and razors, across which was pasted the legend, “Remember - the Loved Ones at Home.” Now it was an undertaker’s, in which - stood a placard: - </p> - <h3> - DO IT NOW JOIN MY COFFIN CLUB - </h3> - <h3> - ANYONE CAN LIVE - </h3> - <h3> - MAKE SURE OF GETTING - </h3> - <h3> - BURIED A TACTFUL CHRISTMAS PRESENT - </h3> - <h3> - GIVE A YEAR’S SUBSCRIPTION - </h3> - <h3> - TO A FRIEND - </h3> - <p> - Glory grew out of her shyness; she snuggled her chin against her squirrel - muff, laughing and chatting, saying things which surprised herself. Peter - kept glancing at her side-long. She was tender-looking. Yes, she was like - Kay. He’d noticed that before. He noticed her for a day, and then - forgot her for months. It had always been like that. Was it his fault? She - was like a snow-drop—she had a knack of hiding herself. - </p> - <p> - They got off at Wardour Street, tunneling into dingy alleys from which - Italy watches strangers with sad brown eyes, dreaming of vineyards and - sun-baked towns. - </p> - <p> - Glory twitched his arm. “Down here. It’s a short cut.” - </p> - <p> - “Hulloa! You don’t mean to say that you’ve been here by - yourself?” - </p> - <p> - She looked guilty; then smiled up from beneath her lashes. She had nothing - to fear from Peter. “Often, since you first brought me. Once a week, - at least; but don’t tell mother. He’s got no one to love - except Mr. Widow. I—I’m sorry for him.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Widow certainly wasn’t much to love. The secondhand shop had a - cheerless aspect. On this winter’s day the door stood open; Mr. - Widow held that it was tempting to customers. Ocky crouched over a - coke-stove, rubbing his hands. The moment Glory entered, she hurried - toward him, putting her arms about his neck. His face lit up. “Why, - it’s Glory! Little Glory!” He ran his hands over her. “How - beautiful! But you oughtn’t to come. The Duchess’ll find out. - Oh yes, she will. She always finds out. Then, there’ll be a row.” - </p> - <p> - He caught sight of Peter. “Ha! Young Oxford to see his poor old - uncle! I went to Oxford once. Humph! Got married there. A bad day’s - work! A bad day’s work!” - </p> - <p> - They told him their plans. He wanted to ask Mr. Widow’s permission—Mr. - Widow didn’t approve of theatres. “Let him go hang,” - Peter said. - </p> - <p> - “That’s all very well.” Ocky shook his head - thoughtfully. “All very well! But he may let me go hang one fine - morning. What then?” - </p> - <p> - It was quite evident that Ocky was losing his pluck. He would have - forgotten his spats and would have forgotten to twirl his mustaches, if - Glory hadn’t been at hand to make him jaunty. - </p> - <p> - They popped him into a hansom and whirled him off to dinner at the - Trocadero. He sat between them, holding Glory’s hand and blinking at - the glaring shops; he was more accustomed to darkness. At the entrance to - the restaurant he clutched at Peter, “I don’t belong here, old - chap.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense. Glory and I——” - </p> - <p> - All through dinner Peter told his uncle what he and Glory were going to do - for him. By-and-bye he, Peter, would have money. When he had money, he - would buy a little house in the country. Ocky should live there with - Glory, and he, Peter, between the intervals of making more money, would - run down and visit them. It seemed almost true, almost possible, in that - brilliant room where the corks flew out of bottles and the music clashed. - It almost seemed that the world was generous—that it would give him - another chance. He gazed from the eager boy, so keen to convince him of - happiness, to the flower-face of his stepdaughter, which nodded and - nodded, insisting, “Yes. Yes. Yes,” to Peter’s optimism. - He asked if he might have whisky. When he got it, he tried to deceive - himself and others as to the quantity he was drinking. - </p> - <p> - “God bless my soul! I’ve made my whisky too strong.” - Then he would dilute it. “God bless my soul! I’ve made my - whisky too weak.” The alcohol whipped up his courage. Of course - there were good times coming. Peter would see to it; he never promised - anything that he didn’t accomplish. Then, again he caught sight of - the two young faces—but what had Peter to do with Glory? - </p> - <p> - They stepped into another hansom. Piccadilly Circus was a blazing jewel. - Streets were gun-metal, washed with liquid gold. People were silver - flowers. Peter would do it. - </p> - <p> - The curtain went up. He was a child again. He laughed at everything. How - long was it since he had laughed? He kept nudging his companions, afraid - lest they should miss the jokes. They were just the kind of jokes he used - to make—Mr. Widow was his only audience now. You couldn’t - expect a murderer to be a humorist—if he were a humorist he wouldn’t - be a murderer. - </p> - <p> - He had laughed rather louder than usual. Someone turned round in the row - just in front. A girl! He looked more closely. She was staring at him. Her - companion followed her eyes, seemed surprised, and nodded to Peter and - Glory. All through the evening the strange man kept turning round - stealthily—the girl, without seeming to do so, was trying to prevent - him. - </p> - <p> - Next day, when Glory returned from Topbury to Southgate, Riska met her - with clenched hands. - </p> - <p> - “Now you’ve done it.” - </p> - <p> - “Done what?” - </p> - <p> - “Lost him for me. He’s begun to suspect. He wants to know who - was that shabby man with you and Peter. Of course I daren’t tell - him. He says I look like him. You stupid! And last night I’m sure he - was going to have proposed to me.—And Ocky isn’t even your - father.” - </p> - <p> - It was all too true; Bonaparte Triggers had done with Riska. He sent her a - formal letter, breaking off everything. “My father,” he wrote, - “happens to know Lawyer Wagstaff, your father’s old employer. - At first I wouldn’t believe that you were his daughter. I wouldn’t - have minded, anyhow; I was in love with you. But you and your mother lied - to me about it. I could never trust you after that. The moment I saw that - man with your cousin and Glory I knew the truth.” - </p> - <p> - So ended Riska’s first attempt to plunge from the raft. She - clambered back, a little damp, but with her heart intact. Glory was blamed - for the catastrophe; in future she had to be more careful in meeting Ocky. - Barrington, after a stormy interview with Jehane in which Peter was - accused, shook his head, “Riska! Humph! Poor kiddy, I’m sorry. - She’s ripe fruit, Peter. Mark my words; if she isn’t plucked, - she’ll fall to the ground.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXVII—THE RACE - </h2> - <p> - “Get ready. Paddle.” - </p> - <p> - Peter’s oar gripped the water. The seven men behind him swung out. - For a second he raised his eyes from the boat, searching the faces on the - barge. She wasn’t there—Cherry. The Faun Man had promised to - bring her up to Oxford for the last great race of Eights’ Week. - Perhaps she had refused to come. Perhaps the train was late. Perhaps——. - </p> - <p> - On the roof of the barge he could see Kay, with Harry standing beside her. - His mother and father, most manifestly proud of him, were there. Glory—yes, - she was waving. But they—all of them together—they counted for - so little because Cherry was absent. It was his great week. He was proving - himself a man—more than a dreamer. Every night his eight had made - its bump. People said that it was the stroke-oar who had done it. He so - wanted her to see him. He was going to stroke Calvary to the head of the - river. It was the last night; only Christ Church was in front. - </p> - <p> - All along the bank to his right lay college barges, gay and animated with - girls and flowers. Behind still trees of the meadows, beneath which cattle - grazed, spires and domes soared dreamily against the deep horizon. - </p> - <p> - The others were working as one man behind him. The eight jumped forward as - though it were a live thing. How fit he felt! - </p> - <p> - Punts and canoes blocked their passage. - </p> - <p> - “Look ahead, sir. Look ahead.” - </p> - <p> - They had to halt. From the tow-path men shouted encouragement, “Calvary—up! - Up!” - </p> - <p> - They rang dinner-bells, banged gongs, twirled rattles, fired pistols. It - was deafening, maddening. - </p> - <p> - Other eights passed them, shooting down to Iffley to the lower stations. - Some were crews they had defeated on previous evenings. Then came Christ - Church, broad shoulders and tanned bodies swinging. They stopped rowing, - and rattled their oars in salute and challenge. - </p> - <p> - The red-headed cox, glancing at the rivals, leant forward and spoke to - Peter. “They’re top o’ their training. It’ll be a - long chase. We’ll catch ‘em by the barges.” - </p> - <p> - Peter nodded and squared his mouth doggedly. “By the barges, if not - earlier. Anyway, we’ll catch ‘em.” - </p> - <p> - Would she be there? Inside his head he was trying to picture her. How - would she be dressed? A year since they met! So long! - </p> - <p> - They came to their station. Astern lay the other boats, trailed out one - behind the other, pointing their noses upstream for the start. He turned - to look ahead; the Christ Church crew were pulling off their scarfs. - </p> - <p> - Hardcastle, who was rowing at seven, leant forward and touched him, - “For God’s sake, keep it long and steady.” - </p> - <p> - A deep boom, muttering and ominous. The minute-gun had sounded. Someone on - the bank, with a watch in his hand, commenced counting off the seconds. - College-bargemen eased the eight out into the river, maneuvering with - poles to get her prow at the right angle, so no time might be lost. - </p> - <p> - “Are you ready?” - </p> - <p> - The counting stopped. Peter brought his slide forward, bracing his feet - against the stretcher. A pause, still as death. The last gun sounded. - </p> - <p> - “Row, you devils. Pick it up. Six, you’re late. Steady coming - forward. Up, Calvary! Up!” - </p> - <p> - The blades whipped the water, the river boiled past them. From the bank - came the clamor of running feet and shouting, as if an asylum had been - freed for a holiday. - </p> - <p> - Peter saw nothing—only the red fiend of a cox, his mouth wide open, - screaming shrill oaths of rebuke or encouragement. He had stopped cursing. - He was giving them tens. - </p> - <p> - Peter quickened his stroke. From one to ten, over and over, the counting - went on. Would it never stop? He ached in every muscle. Could he never - slack off? He clenched his teeth and spurted. The boat responded. - </p> - <p> - “Back him up,” yelled the cox; “you’re gaining.” - </p> - <p> - Peter wondered whether they were; he longed to turn and see for himself. - </p> - <p> - “Now, then, for all you’re worth. Well rowed, Calvary. Well - rowed, indeed. Stick to it.” - </p> - <p> - Left to itself, his body would have crumbled. His back felt broken. There - was a buzzing in his head. Something stronger than will power—a - corporate spirit of honor, which the men behind him shared—kept him - going. - </p> - <p> - “Give her ten.” - </p> - <p> - The cox was counting again. His face was as flaming as his hair with - excitement; he was swinging with the oarsmen, as if the jerking of his - slight body could make the boat travel faster. - </p> - <p> - “Going up, Calvary. Half a length.” - </p> - <p> - Ha! The cox wasn’t lying now. Peter could feel the wash of the eight - they were pursuing. They were creeping up slowly. From the bank his name - was thundered. - </p> - <p> - “Barrington. Barrington. Well rowed, Barrington. Row like hell.” - </p> - <p> - By jingo, he would! He’d show ‘em! There shouldn’t be - anything left of him. And Cherry——. - </p> - <p> - Everything was growing dark. Sometimes the mist before his eyes parted; he - caught glimpses of the flaring head of the cox. Sometimes he could see - nothing, and heard only the endless shouting, bidding him row faster, - always faster. Where were they? Had the race only just commenced? He - seemed to have been struggling for hours. The dread grew up in him that he - would never reach the end. He would collapse. He——. But still - he went on. - </p> - <p> - Women’s voices! They must be passing the barges, racing down the - last of the course. When his sight cleared, he saw them—steep banks - of women’s faces, shining and nodding, and fluttering into the far - distance. - </p> - <p> - Christ Church! By Jove, they must be nearly on them. He could feel the - turmoil of the beaten water. They were rowing Christ Church down. - </p> - <p> - “Give her ten.” - </p> - <p> - The cox was counting hysterically. Peter tried to pick it up. He couldn’t. - He knew it. He was going to pieces. His stroke was flagging. And then——. - What was that? - </p> - <p> - “Peter. Peter. Peter.” - </p> - <p> - As the eight fled by he heard it—a girl’s voice frantically - urging him. And a man’s—he heard that, too. “Go it, - Peter. Well rowed, old top.” - </p> - <p> - Only the Faun Man would have called him old top. She was there to see him! - His last strength returned. He pulled himself together and swung out. The - oars behind him were getting in late; he could feel the boat dragging. It - didn’t matter; he’d take her to the head of the river, if he - were the only man left rowing. - </p> - <p> - Bedlam was all about him. The cox bent forward, shrieking at him, trying - to make himself heard above the racket. He caught what he said: “Only - a foot now.” - </p> - <p> - What was happening? A jerk! The boat paused and shuddered. It had touched - something. Then again it started forward. Someone was telling him to stop. - He wouldn’t stop; they’d wanted him to go on before. He was - going to make sure. By his side he saw something like a broken bird, - trailing in the water. Then he saw eight men, fallen forward, spent and - panting. People were cheering. On the bank they were dancing. The cox laid - his hands on his oar to stay him. He was grinning from ear to ear. “You - silly devil! Leave off!” - </p> - <p> - It dawned on him. They’d made their bump—gone ahead of the - river. And she’d been there to watch him! - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXVIII—A NIGHT OF IT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he college and its - guests were assembled. Peter and his eight, with members of the crews they - had defeated, were seated at the high table. The bump-supper was in - progress. Scarcely anyone was absolutely sober. For the first time in - history Calvary had gone up seven places and had finished head of the - river. - </p> - <p> - Stoop-shouldered dons, men who held themselves aloof with a scholar’s - shyness, broke their rule to-night and hobnobbed with undergraduates. The - dim old college hall was-uproarious with strong laughter and bass voices. - The animal splendor of youth, the rage of life, as seen that afternoon on - the river, had lured them away from cramped texts and grievous truths - contained in books—had opened their eyes to a more vigorous and - primitive conception of living. - </p> - <p> - A German Rhodes scholar, seated next to the college chaplain, was trying - to teach him that scandalous libel against all parsons, The Ballad of The - Parson’s Cow. The chaplain, who on more formal occasions would have - felt insulted, was doing his eager best to pick up the words and tune. He - kept assuring the German Rhodes scholar of his immense gratitude. He - compared The Ballad of The Parson’s Cow to Piers the Ploughman, and - affected to regard it as a literary pearl of great price. - </p> - <p> - Somewhere in the distance, behind clouds of tobacco smoke, Harry was - singing his latest. Dons said “Shish!” gazing round with - half-hearted severity. Nobody paid them much attention. Topsy-turvydom - ruled; discipline was at an end. Behind the clouds of tobacco smoke the - irrepressible voice sang on; other voices swelled the volume, taking up - the chorus: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Ever been born on a Friday? - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - What, never been born on a Friday! - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - What, never been born on a Friday yet, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - When your mother wasn’t at home!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Even Professor Benares Usk, the greatest Homeric scholar in Europe, let - himself go under the influence of wine. His bald egg-shaped head perspired - profusely. “I don’t mind telling you,” he kept saying. - He was one of those self-important pedants who never minded telling - anybody. He had made a corner in one fragment of human knowledge; - consequently the things which he didn’t mind telling people would - fill a library. Just at present he was explaining to Roy Hardcastle, with - a sugar bowl for a galley and forks for oars, the technique of Greek - rowing as revealed in Homer. Hardcastle repeatedly broke in on him with - skittish references to Olympian immoralities. He propounded the theory to - the Professor that the Iliad, in its day, had been no more than a bad boy’s - book of frisky stories. The Professor was sufficiently not himself to - contest the theory warmly. - </p> - <p> - Flushed faces, eager eyes, gusty laughter! From painted canvases, on - paneled walls, grim founders looked down on bacchanalia, some of them - sourly, others indifferently, and yet others with envy because, since - becoming angels, they could no longer enjoy a glass of port. - </p> - <p> - The air was getting stifling. Speeches were commencing. The grave old - warden was turning to Peter, and addressing him. Hardly a word was audible - above the cheers. Hardcastle, as captain of the rowing, rose to reply. - </p> - <p> - Outside, behind stained-glass windows, the cool dusk of summer drifted - noiselessly. Creepers rustled against crumbling masonry. The faint sweet - smell of bean fields, far-blown from wide hillsides, met the wistful - fragrance of imprisoned rose-gardens; they wandered together like ghostly - lovers through the shadowy quiet of the quads. - </p> - <p> - Peter wanted to be out there—wanted to go to her. For the first time - in a year he had seen her. Strange how little he had forgotten! He - half-closed his eyes, picturing and remembering: her nun-like trick of - carrying her hands against her breast; the way her voice slurred; her meek - appearance of gay piety, which the red defiance of her mouth and the - challenge of her eyes denied. She was a girl-woman, borrowing the - attitudes of sophistication, yet exquisitely young and poignantly ignorant - of the world. - </p> - <p> - He hadn’t been able to say much to her—only, “I heard - you, Cherry”; to which she, shy in the presence of his parents, had - replied, “I’m glad. I was afraid—so afraid that you - wouldn’t win the race.” - </p> - <p> - They had walked up through the meadows, all of them together; he, with his - mother and Kay on either side; she, between his father and the Faun Man. - He had heard her tripping footsteps following behind. At the college-gate - he had said, “I’ll see you again”; and she, “Perhaps.” - No more than that. He had not dared to appoint a place of meeting; his - parents didn’t know—they wouldn’t understand. Then he - had had to run off to change for dinner. - </p> - <p> - She might be leaving early to-morrow. Did she care for him? She had seemed - more sorry for him, more as though she were trying to be kind to him than - in love with him. She was non-committal, elusive. But she was in Oxford - to-night. Where, and with whom? - </p> - <p> - All down the long hall they were pushing back their chairs, struggling up - from tables and tumbling out into the cool twilight. Men were hurrying to - their rooms to put on their oldest clothes; there was going to be a - “rag.” A piano struck up; then ceased suddenly. A groping of - feet in the darkness of a wooden staircase! From one of the doorways a - jostling, shouting crowd emerged. The piano was set down in the open quad; - a chair was tossed out of a window. Harry took his seat at the key-board - and commenced jingling over the air of, “What, never been born on a - Friday yet, when your mother wasn’t at home!” Several of the - crew seized Peter and hoisted him on to the top of the piano. He stood - there an unwilling statue on a burlesque pedestal. They joined hands and - danced about him in a circle. Then came the old wander-song of his - childhood, bringing thoughts of her and of the Happy Cottage, “I’ve - been shipwrecked off Patagonia.” Harry shouldn’t have played - that. - </p> - <p> - A new diversion! They took him by the arms and ran him away: others - followed, staggering under the weight of the piano. Through a passage a - red glow grew up. In a neighboring quad a bon-fire had been kindled. It - wasn’t high enough, broad enough, big enough—wasn’t - worthy of the occasion. From windows, two and three stories up, men leant - out and hurled down furniture. Very often it wasn’t their furniture. - Who cared? The sky rained desks, and chairs, and tables. - </p> - <p> - Singing and shouting everywhere! An impromptu loving-cup was drunk, - composed of anything alcoholic that came handy. - </p> - <p> - “Barrington! Hardcastle! Barrington!” - </p> - <p> - He and Hardcastle had to make speeches to one another. - </p> - <p> - A rocket soared into the night and burst among the stars. A rocket from a - neighboring college answered the challenge. Soon the sky became a target - against which Oxford aimed burning arrows. - </p> - <p> - A dispute arose as to the details of the last great race. Hardcastle - insisted that there was nothing for it but to row it all afresh. With - grave solemnity the crewmen, as though they were taking their places in an - eight, were made to seat themselves in a line along the path. A rival - crew, selected from among the defeated oarsmen of other colleges, was - arranged ahead of them. Peter took his place at stroke in this sham - rehearsal of an event accomplished. A pistol was fired; with empty hands, - the eightsmen went through all the motions of rowing, to an accompaniment - of yells of encouragement. - </p> - <p> - It must be nearly twelve—the out-of-college men and guests were - departing. Peter wished he could follow them. Good-byes were being said - with exaggerated fervor, as if long journeys were in prospect. The last of - them had seized his gown and run. The porter was locking the gate of the - lodge. Big Tom boomed the hour. The college was closed; there would be no - more knocking in or out until to-morrow. And to-morrow she might be gone. - </p> - <p> - Peter caught Harry by the arm and led him aside. “Where’s she - staying?” - </p> - <p> - “Who?” - </p> - <p> - “Cherry, of course.” - </p> - <p> - Harry laughed slyly. “Cherry, of course! Who else? Staying! Lorie’s - taken a room for her in Bath Place. You know—between Holywell and - Hell Passage.” - </p> - <p> - “Which room?” - </p> - <p> - Harry became serious. “Look here, old chap, what d’you want to - know for?” - </p> - <p> - “Because i’m going to her.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, are you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, to-night. You know what she is—may be gone before - breakfast.” - </p> - <p> - “Here, you’d better come to bed.” - </p> - <p> - As they strolled across quad to Peter’s room, Harry asked him, - “Whatever put such a mad scheme into your head? You can’t get - out of college—the gate’s shut. If you did and got caught, you’d - be sent down for a certainty.” - </p> - <p> - When the door had closed behind them, Peter didn’t sit down—he - didn’t start to undress. He went to the window, threw it open and - leant out. “I’m going, Harry, and I shan’t get caught, - either. You’ve got to help. It’s a twenty-foot drop. If I knot - my sheets together they’ll be long enough. You wait here till I come - back and haul me up.” - </p> - <p> - Harry didn’t approve of it; but he was the mouth-organ boy and the - adventure was in keeping with the night. The rope of sheets was flung out. - For a moment Peter balanced on the sill; then he slipped down, - hand-over-hand, into the blackness. - </p> - <p> - “All right.” - </p> - <p> - The rope was withdrawn. - </p> - <p> - The street was intensely quiet—empty of all sound. Houses slept. Not - a shadow stirred. A cool breeze blew upon his forehead. He had the world - to himself. He felt immensely young and exultant. - </p> - <p> - He began to run stealthily and on tiptoe, keeping close to the wall. There - was never any telling—someone might come round a corner suddenly and - take him unawares. - </p> - <p> - As he passed Professor Usk’s house, he thought for a moment of - Glory. In one of those prim rooms she was lying safe in bed—she and - Riska. He’d seen Riska laughing with Hardcastle on the barge. Who - the dickens had introduced her? She was quite capable of having introduced - herself. Then he forgot everything and everyone but Cherry and the purpose - of his errand. - </p> - <p> - He came out on to High Street, flowing in a slow curve past churches and - ancient doorways. As he went by All Souls he had the sense of still - gardens and cool turf, lying steeped in moonlight. He wanted to laugh, - wanted to shout to the silent city that he would soon be talking with her. - </p> - <p> - He turned down by Hell Passage and dived under an archway into a little - court, where a lamp smoldered in an iron bracket and echoes played - hide-and-seek behind his footsteps. There was an uncared for garden. In - one corner stood a public house, with all the lights extinguished. Along - one side, hugging the wall of a low-roofed house, ran the narrow path. He - stepped back and looked up at the windows; that must be hers to the left. - </p> - <p> - He whispered her name, “Cherry. Cherry.” - </p> - <p> - Was she awake? He fancied that he heard her stir. He picked up some earth - and threw it against the panes. He had startled her; something creaked, as - though she sat up sharply. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t be frightened. It’s Peter,” he called - beneath his breath. - </p> - <p> - She was coming. Soon she would look out. He saw her, leaning down on him, - white clad, with her dark hair falling all about her face. - </p> - <p> - “I couldn’t stop away any longer, Cherry. I had to come to - you. I want you to promise that you’ll be here to-morrow. When I - asked you before you only said, ‘Perhaps.’ Only perhaps, - Cherry, after a year of waiting! Promise me, ‘Yes.’” - </p> - <p> - Was she laughing? Was she angry? He was whispering to her again. “They’d - locked all the doors. I was afraid that I’d never get out. I climbed - down, when everyone was in bed. I had to come to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Peter, Peter!” She wasn’t cross with him. She was - laughing. “You’re so persistent. It took you to do that.” - </p> - <p> - Silence again. - </p> - <p> - “But promise,” he urged. He wished that he might see her - clearly. They had called her Cherry because her lips were red. “But - promise. Won’t you say ‘Yes’?” - </p> - <p> - Her answer came so that he could scarcely hear it. “If I promise, - will you go now?” - </p> - <p> - He nodded like a child, to give emphasis. - </p> - <p> - “Then yes—but only if you go now at once.” - </p> - <p> - She waited to see him start. He turned away reluctantly. As he entered the - shadow of the archway he thought she kissed her hand. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXIX—ON THE RIVER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>ut had she? Had - she kissed her hand? And, if she had, did it mean anything? - </p> - <p> - Harry, having hauled him back into college, had crept away sleepily, - thankful that his watch was ended. Peter sat on by the open window, - imagining and questioning. The wide white moon rode quietly at anchor; - dusk-gray roofs were vague as an ocean bed. Not a sound. Nothing stirred. - </p> - <p> - But yes. Behind stone walls of a college garden a recluse nightingale - commenced to warble: little notes at first, as though a child threw back - the counterpane of darkness and muttered to itself; then a cry—a - full, clear stream of song that fell like silver showered through the - tree-tops. Peter closed his eyes; imprisoned love was speaking with its - throat outstretched. In the shadows a heart was pouring forth its - yearning; the world slept. Was love always like that—a bird in a - hidden garden, with none to listen, setting dreams to music? - </p> - <p> - A sash was raised. It was across the street and further down. The sound - came from the Professor’s house. It might be Glory. Odd, if they two - were keeping watch together! Should he call to her? If he remembered, he - would question her to-morrow. His eyes grew dusty; he folded his arms - beneath his head. - </p> - <p> - Someone entered. Morning! He was drenched with sunlight. A voice addressed - him discreetly, apologetically, “Overdoin’ it a bit last - night? Shall I pour out your bath, sir? It’ll pull you together.” - </p> - <p> - Peter laughed gaily, then a little shamefully when he realized what the - scout had meant. “I’m having brekker out. My bath—no, it - doesn’t matter.” - </p> - <p> - Picking up a towel, he ran down to the barges through the glistening - meadows. What a splendid world, dazzling and dew-wet! Stripping, he dived - into the river. Shaking his head like a dog as he rose to the surface, he - drifted down stream, turned, fought his way back and climbed out glowing. - A day with her! She had promised. - </p> - <p> - He had to breakfast with the Professor—all his family were to be - there; and, after that———. His father might have plans. - It would be ages before he could be alone with her. The clocks of the city - were striking eight—big and little voices together. Could he manage - it? There was time for just a word. - </p> - <p> - He was panting when he came to Hell Passage and entered the courtyard. Her - window was wide. He called to her. She didn’t answer. He plucked a - rose and tossed it in the air; it landed on her window-ledge. When she - wakened she might find it and guess that he had been there. - </p> - <p> - Professor Usk was in his moral mood that morning. “A great pity—a - great pity that young Oxford drinks to excess.”—He was trying - to impress his wife with his own extreme temperance. - </p> - <p> - Hardcastle was a guest. Riska was seated next to him; beneath the surface - of what others were saying, they carried on a softly spoken conversation, - private to themselves. Riska’s piquant face was alive with interest. - Every now and then she laughed and clapped her hands, shaking her head - incredulously, stooping her shoulders and glancing sideways at Hardcastle. - They might have been old friends. Her color came and went when she found - herself observed; behind her apparent artlessness there lay a calm and - determined self-possession. - </p> - <p> - Peter took his place between Kay and his mother. “Happy Peterkins,” - Kay whispered; “your face is—is a lamp.” She squeezed - his hand. - </p> - <p> - He was silent and excited, impatient for the next two hours to end. - Sometimes his thoughts were in the sun-swept street, hurrying to a little - courtyard, where a window stood wide and the echoes of Oxford ran - together. Sometimes his attention was caught by a remark, as when the - Professor turned to his wife, who had just sat down, and said, “Oh, - Agnes, while you’re up——” and she replied, “But, - Benares, I’m not up.” - </p> - <p> - His mother watched him, noticing the gladness in his eyes. She wondered - what it meant. Glory, lifting her face to his, gazed at him furtively from - beneath her lashes. - </p> - <p> - They had gone upstairs to the room from which Jehane had looked down on - Barrington. Peter had said, “There was a nightingale singing. Did - any of you hear it?” and Glory was about to answer, when the - prancing of hoofs drew them crowding to the window—it was a coach - setting out for London. On the box sat the Faun Man, reining in and - steadying the chestnut four-in-hand. The roof was a garden—river-hats - and girls’ faces; every seat was taken. As they came clattering up - the cobbled street, the horn was blowing merrily. Peter took one glance, - and was racing down the stairs. The watchers at the window saw him dash - out, sprint hatless to the corner and vanish. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man pulled up. “Hulloa, Peter! Searched for you all over - college. They said you’d gone out to brekker. Want to come with us? - We’ll find room for you.” - </p> - <p> - Peter wasn’t looking at the Faun Man, nor at Harry, who sat behind - him. He wasn’t looking at the golden woman, who was trying to catch - his attention. He was looking at Cherry. Her place was on the box, to the - right of the Faun Man. She returned his gaze with laughter at first; then, - because he didn’t laugh back, she turned away her head. And Peter—he - was puzzled and hurt. Why was she escaping? She had promised. And why, - when she was escaping, did she wear his rose against her breast? - </p> - <p> - “Going to London!” he said slowly. “No, I can’t - join you.” - </p> - <p> - He swung round and was walking away. Harry called after him, “We’re - not going to London, you chump. We’re only going as far as High - Wycombe to look at a house. Climb aboard, and buck up.” - </p> - <p> - The golden woman added her persuasion. “For my sake, Peter. It’s - Tree-Tops—the house we’re going to look at. Sounds almost as - fine as the Happy Cottage, doesn’t it? Lorie’s going to live - there, perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - Harry thought he had spotted the trouble. “We’ll be in Oxford - before nightfall—catch a train back.” - </p> - <p> - Peter answered shortly. “Sorry. I can’t. I’ve got my - people with me.” - </p> - <p> - He waved his hand and stepped from the road to the pavement. - </p> - <p> - Cherry had said nothing. She let her clear eyes rest on him. The horses - were getting restive with standing and the passengers impatient. The Faun - Man shook out his whip; the leaders jumped forward. “Well, if you - can’t, you can’t,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Cherry spoke. “I’m not going. Please let me down.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man whistled. “So that’s the way the wind’s - blowing!” - </p> - <p> - The ladder was brought out. Peter helped her to descend. - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye and good Luck.” - </p> - <p> - The horn sounded. As the coach rolled on its way, every head was turned, - looking back. It grew dim in the dust of its journey. They were left alone - in the sharp sunlight, embarrassed in each other’s presence. - </p> - <p> - It was she who spoke first, in a little caressing voice which mocked its - own sincerity. “That wasn’t nice of me. And yet I didn’t - intend——. I didn’t really, Peter—not at first. I - thought—we all thought you’d be one of the party. And then—because - I wanted to go, I forgot all about you. D’you forgive me?” - </p> - <p> - “If you wanted to go, I’m——.” - </p> - <p> - She broke in on him. “There, instead of making things better, I’ve - made them worse. I shouldn’t have come to Oxford—I’ve - hurt you.” - </p> - <p> - Shouldn’t have come to Oxford! She was threatening to go out of his - life again, just when he’d refound her. “Cherry,” he - said, “I’m willing to be hurt by you every day, if only I may - see you. Don’t you remember? Can’t you understand? I’d - rather be hurt by you than loved by any other woman in the world.” - </p> - <p> - “I know that.” - </p> - <p> - In silence they walked back to the Professor’s house. At the corner - of the street, before they came into view, he asked, “D’you - mind spending the morning with my people? They’re returning to - London this afternoon; then we can be by ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - The faces were still at the window, looking out; he was very conscious of - the curiosity he aroused. When he had climbed the stairs and entered the - room, he explained, as though it were the most natural of happenings, - “I’ve brought Cherry with me.” - </p> - <p> - His father relieved the awkwardness by asking, “What are we going to - do?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not the river?” Hardcastle suggested. - </p> - <p> - They set out in two punts from the barges. The Professor and his wife had - excused themselves, saying that they had to work. Hardcastle took charge - of Glory and Riska; Peter of the rest. They turned up the Cherwell, past - the Botanical Gardens, through Mesopotamia, coming at last to Parsons’ - Pleasure. The sound of bathers on the other side of the island warned - them. The ladies got out, while the men drew the punts across the rollers, - taking them round to the farther landing. Barrington accompanied Nan by - the footpath. - </p> - <p> - Directly they were alone she turned to him, “Is there anything - between them?” - </p> - <p> - “Between who?” - </p> - <p> - “That girl and Peter?” - </p> - <p> - Her husband laughed and held her arm more firmly, “Between her and - Peter! What an idea! Match-maker!” - </p> - <p> - Nan leant against him, as if seeking his protection. “Match-maker? - Not that. I dread it. I want to keep them with us, Kay and Peter, always—always.” - </p> - <p> - Tears were in her eyes. He remembered; once before in this place he had - seen her like that. “Have you forgotten?” he said. “It - was here that it all began—everything between us. It was after we - three had met—a rainy day, with the sun coming out. I left you to - take the punt round the island, and Jehane said something behind my back—something - that brought tears. It was when I saw you crying, Pepperminta, that I - loved you.” - </p> - <p> - She uttered the wonderfully obvious, linking up his memory with the - present. “We little thought of Peter then.” - </p> - <p> - By the Parks the river was dense with row-boats, punts and Canaders. Girls - lay back on cushions under sunshades—sweethearts and sisters. Men, - in college colors and flannels, shouted to one another, “Look ahead, - sir.” Here and there a Blue showed up or a Leander, occasioning - respect and whispered explanations. The great men of the undergraduate - world were pointed out. Peter was recognized as the stroke-oar of Calvary. - He didn’t notice the heads that were turned—didn’t care. - His eyes rested on Cherry as often as they dared. Before his parents she - treated him casually. There were times when he spoke to her and she paid - him no attention. He was unhappy—did she dislike him? Then, as - though she felt that she was overdoing it, a secret flash would pass - between them and his fears were quieted. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t forget,” his father reminded him; “we leave - for London this afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - Hardcastle, with his lighter burden, was pushing on ahead. Peter looked at - his watch, “It’s almost one now. And I don’t like to——.” - He stooped to whisper to his father; then straightened up. “Cherry - knows why. I don’t like to let Hardcastle out of my sight—not - with Riska. He isn’t the sort of man——. We’ll have - to follow. If I can’t punt you back, you can lunch at the inn at - Marston Ferry and catch a tram. That’ll get you to the station in - time.” - </p> - <p> - To Nan that day was like the repetition of an old story. Once before—how - long ago was it?—once before she had drifted up this quiet stream, - between gnarled trees and whispering rushes, to the gray inn where a - crisis in her life had threatened. She recalled Jehane, dark and tragic, - with trailing hands. She could see Billy, gay and careless. Peter was like - him, and Kay was very much what she had been then.—Her eyes fell on - Cherry; she examined her slightness, the frailty of her throat, her - astonishing gray eyes looking out of a face of pallor, the delicate mist - of hair sweeping across the whiteness of her forehead. Not the girl for - Peter! There wasn’t a girl good enough. And then she tried to - believe that she was foolish. It hadn’t happened to him yet—not - yet. - </p> - <p> - And the parting—it was the same as long ago. Everything was - repeating itself. She and Kay and Billy stepped aboard the ferry. At the - last moment Glory said she would accompany them. The man pulled on the - rope; the ferry lumbered out into the stream. Peter and the girl, and - Hardcastle and Riska were waving to them from the bank. Nan had never - thought that she could feel so cruel toward anybody. As she crossed the - meadows she looked back. Peter and the girl, pigmy figures now, were still - waving. Jehane and Billy had waved to her like that, standing near - together. The old pang! And then she looked at Glory, walking quietly with - her head bent, never turning. In a flash little memories, trifles in - themselves, sprang up and became significant, each one pointing in the - same direction. She stole forward and took Glory’s hand. - </p> - <p> - Hardcastle and Riska had vanished; their punt was gone from the landing. - Upstream the river was lost to view in a slow bend. No one was in sight. - An atmosphere of secrecy had settled down. From arbors of the inn and - tufted places along the banks came the indistinct murmur of voices. The - country looked uninhabited, stretching away for miles in squares and - triangles of meadows, each one different in coloring from the next. - Through the green panorama of trees and hedges the winding of the river - was traceable by the flowered freshness that it left. Overhead, casting - fantastic shadows, drifted white unwieldy clouds. - </p> - <p> - Peter helped her in, arranged the cushions for her and pushed off from the - bank. He had expected to say so much to her to-day; now the silence was - more happy. The day was running out; the veiled radiance of a summer’s - evening crept across the landscape. A little breeze sprang up, blew - through his hair and stooped the reeds to the water’s surface. She - lay curled up and contented, humming to herself; he could just hear her - voice above the splash of his pole and the lapping of the river. Sometimes - she would raise her eyes and smile down the distance of the punt that - separated them. When he wasn’t looking she gazed more intently at - his tall, flanneled figure, noticing his tanned arms, with the sleeves - rolled back, and the upright litheness of his body. Did his eyes catch - hers unexpectedly, she veiled them in inscrutable innocence. The waterway - was narrowing, becoming choked with weeds and bulrushes. - </p> - <p> - “Your mother,” he stopped punting and turned at the sound of - her high, clear voice; “your mother didn’t like me. You may - tell her that she needn’t be frightened.” - </p> - <p> - What did she mean? She spoke gently, without resentment. “Not like - you, little Cherry! No one could help——.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes. She didn’t like me.” She raised herself on her - elbow. “And she was right. Won’t you please stop caring for - me; then we can be friends. She saw what I told you from the first: that I’m - not your sort—quite different, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - He swung the nose of the punt round, so that it crunched into a tall, - green wilderness that sprang up and closed behind their passage. He laid - aside the pole and looked down the length of their refuge, regarding her - intently. - </p> - <p> - “Stop caring for you!” He laughed shortly. “As though I - could—the matter’s out of my hands. I never had a chance not - to care for you. If I didn’t believe that a day was coming when—when - you’d be kinder to me, Cherry, I’d not want to go any further—I - mean with living. I’m not good at saying things in words; you’re - everything to me.” - </p> - <p> - She avoided his glance, turning her head away so that he watched her - side-face. She spoke in a low voice, with concentrated vehemence. “It’s - terrible to feel like that. People are sure to disappoint you. You’ve - no right to allow yourself to depend on someone else for all your - happiness.” - </p> - <p> - “But if I don’t mind? If I’m willing to take my chance?” - </p> - <p> - She lifted up her face appealingly. “Then it isn’t fair to me, - Peter. You force me to become responsible. It isn’t that I don’t - like you. I admire you; that isn’t love. You don’t know your - own mind yet; there are heaps and heaps of better girls.—And then, - there’s Lorie. I tell you, Peter, I’m not your sort—please, - please stop caring for me.” - </p> - <p> - The gladness died in him. It was as though the lamps behind his eyes had - guttered out. His voice trembled. His face had grown lean and sad. “Don’t - say that, Cherry—it keeps us separate. You don’t love me now, - perhaps; but one day you’ll need me. I’m waiting till you need - me, and then——. You are my sort, Cherry; but I’ll never - be good enough for you. All the time I’m trying, ever since I’ve - known you I’ve been trying to become better. It’s like - yesterday: whenever I’m losing the race and getting slack I hear you - calling. Then I say to myself, ‘I have to be fine for her.’ I - think you must be my sort, Cherry, if you can do that. Love was meant not - to make people perfect, but to make them believe always in the best. If - you do that for me, Cherry——.” - </p> - <p> - She put her hands before her eyes and slipped back against the cushions, - as though she had become very tired. He stole down the punt noiselessly - and knelt beside her. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you like to be loved, Cherry?” - </p> - <p> - She spoke, still with her eyes covered. “Of course I like to be - loved. Every girl likes to know that some man cares for her.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, why——?” - </p> - <p> - Her voice came wearily. “Because it would be selfish, when I don’t - intend to marry you. But—but I wish I didn’t have to keep away - from you.” - </p> - <p> - He leant forward and kissed her cool cheek. “Then don’t keep - away from me.” - </p> - <p> - “You mustn’t kiss me, Peter. If only you wouldn’t kiss - me directly we’re alone——. Why do you?” - </p> - <p> - Why did he? That she could ask such a question told him so much. She was - like a beautiful statue; he could stir no life in her. - </p> - <p> - “Everybody’s done it,” he said simply; “everybody - since the world began. You can’t help it when you love anybody.” - </p> - <p> - She withdrew her hand from her eyes and looked at him wonderingly. How - quickly she could change from sad to gay! All of a sudden, from seeming - listless and spent, she had become radiant and virile. Her face was tender - and wore an amused expression. She stooped toward him and touched him. - “Still a little boy! For the first time I feel older than you—so - much older. What good times you and I could have if only we didn’t - think ahead.” - </p> - <p> - He slipped his arm about her. “Dear little Cherry, you want to be - loved, but you won’t believe that I’m your man. You won’t - let yourself love me—that’s all that’s the matter. When - I kiss you you turn your face away, as if you were only enduring me.” - </p> - <p> - She thrust her face forward with sweet demureness. “Try again.—I - didn’t turn away then.—You’re so persistent, Peter. No, - that’s’enough.” - </p> - <p> - He pushed out from the rushes. The sun was tumbling into bed, spreading - his gold hair on the pillow and dragging his scarlet bed-clothes over him. - The river was dull as tarnished silver, but it flared crimson where, in - its windings, the west smote it. - </p> - <p> - “And to-morrow, Cherry?” - </p> - <p> - “To-morrow! Does it ever come? I’m leaving to-night. I - promised you to-day; you’ve had it.” - </p> - <p> - “But I want to-morrow as well.” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head, laughing. “If I gave you to-morrow, you’d - ask for the day after. You’re a greedy little boy, never contented.” - </p> - <p> - “But why must you go?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Because I’m expected. Lorie’s thinking of buying a - place called Tree-Tops; it’s at Curious Corner, near a village - called Whitesheaves. He’s heard all kinds of splendid things about - it. It’s only thirty miles from Oxford, so——.” - </p> - <p> - “So we’ll meet quite often?” - </p> - <p> - She crouched her face against her shoulder and kept him waiting. “If - you don’t try to kiss me,” she said. And then, seeing that he - was going to be melancholy, “You never know your luck. Cheer up!” - </p> - <p> - At the barges, when they had stepped out, Peter remembered. He turned to - the barge-man, “Mr. Hardcastle back? I don’t see his punt.” - </p> - <p> - “‘Asn’t returned as I know of, Mr. Barrington. ‘Ad - a lady with ‘im, didn’t ‘e? Any message for ‘im - when ‘e comes?” - </p> - <p> - Peter shook his head. It was growing dusk. Walking up through the meadows, - Cherry let him take her hand. - </p> - <p> - When they had fetched her luggage from the house in the little courtyard, - and he had seen her off at the station, he hurried down to Folly Bridge - and along the tow-path. Staring across the river to the Calvary Barge, he - could see someone moving. He called. A punt put out; when it came - alongside, the man looked up through the darkness. - </p> - <p> - “Can’t take you across to-night, sir. Wouldn’t be no - use; the meadow-gates is shut.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s not that,” said Peter; “I only wanted to - find out if Mr. Hardcastle’s come back.” - </p> - <p> - The man scratched his head. “Not yet, sir. Reckon he must ‘a - left ‘is punt higher up—by Magdalen Bridge, perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps. Well, it doesn’t matter.” - </p> - <p> - He strolled away thoughtfully. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XL—MR. GRACE GOES ON THE BUST - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r. Grace rose by - stealth. Dawn had not yet broken. He groped his way into his clothes in - the darkness; he did not dare to light the gas. Clutching his boots - against his breast, with ridiculous caution for so fat a man, he tiptoed - down the stairs. In the passage he listened and looked up, half expecting - to see a head in curl-papers surveying him from across the banisters. He - heaved a sigh of relief. That fine bass sound, like a trombone thrust out - violently to its full length, was his son-in-law, the ex-policeman; those - flute-like notes, tremulous and heart-stirrings were his daughter’s - musical contributions from dreamland. All was well. He had not roused - them. - </p> - <p> - In the stable he stuffed up the window with a sack and lit a lamp. Cat’s - Meat raised his head and winked at him—winked at him solemnly. It - was a solemn occasion—they both felt it, this setting of a daughter - at defiance, while horse and master went on the bust. - </p> - <p> - The preliminary preparations of the past few days had awakened suspicion. - For one thing, Mr. Grace had repainted his cab: the wheels were a bright - mustard and the body was a deep blue—the color which is usually - associated with Oxford. For years—too many to count—Cat’s - Meat’s harness had done service, tied together with bits of rope and - string where the leather had worn out. But to-day his harness was brand - new—of a vivid tan. Yesterday, and the day before, Cat’s Meat - and his master had indulged in a rest—that alone gave material for - conjecture. Grace and her ex-policeman had conjectured. What was the old - boy planning? Was he contemplating marriage? “And at his time o’ - life!” they said scornfully. At any rate, they were snoring now. - </p> - <p> - As he led Cat’s Meat out, he growled in his ear, “Not a drop o’ - drink, old hoss, till this here is h’ended. And then—-.” - He smacked his lips; the lean tail flirted across the bony haunches in - assent. Mr. Grace rubbed the nose of his friend, “Go by h’every - pub till h’it’s h’ended, old pal, and then——. - Understand?” - </p> - <p> - He had harnessed up and was tying the last of the blue rosettes to Cat’s - Meat’s bridle, when he was startled by a window flung up. He glanced - round—the curl-papers he dreaded! - </p> - <p> - “Now, then, father, you just come up ‘ere and tell me. You - just——.” - </p> - <p> - “Be blowed if h’I will.” - </p> - <p> - The curl-papers vanished; feet were coming down the stairs. Scrambling on - to his box, he jerked at the reins and lumbered out into the cold March - dusk. A shrill voice calling! She was in the stable, coming down the - street after him. What had she on, or rather what hadn’t she? - “My word,” he muttered, “wot a persistent hussy!” - He cracked his whip. Cat’s Meat broke into a stiff-kneed gallop. - </p> - <p> - At a cabman’s shelter near Trafalgar Square he halted for breakfast. - The glory of his appearance attracted attention. “’Ere comes - Elijah in ‘is bloomin’ chariot.” - </p> - <p> - “Wot-ho, old mustard-pot! ‘Ot stuff!” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace conducted himself with gravity. “I’m h’off ter - the races. Got a friend o’ mine rowin’.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you ‘ave, ‘ave yer? A reg’lar Sol Joel, that’s - wot you are.” - </p> - <p> - He left his friends with a flourish. It was almost as though his youth had - returned—almost as though he hadn’t a red nose and a daughter - who tried to convert him. He felt young and smart this blowy morning. He - didn’t want to see a reflection of himself; he wanted to pretend - that he was a brisk young cabby, when cab-driving was an art and not a - creeping means of livelihood. Flower-girls were at the corners, shaking - daffodils and violets in the faces of the passing crowd. - </p> - <p> - “By the Lord Harry——!” - </p> - <p> - He signed to her with his whip—he felt affluent. He bought two - bunches, and leant down from his box while she pinned one in his - button-hole. The other he hid beneath the seat in Cat’s Meat’s - nose-bag. - </p> - <p> - “Good luck, me gal—and a ‘andsome ‘usband.” - </p> - <p> - “The sime ter you, old sport.” - </p> - <p> - She blew him a kiss. Ah, if he had been young! Not a bad lookin’ - gal! Not ‘arf! - </p> - <p> - He turned into Deane Street and crawled through Soho, that queer Chinese - puzzle of cramped dwellings, all with fronts that look like backs. He - pulled up outside the second-hand shop and entered with his whip, tied - with blue ribbon, held out before him. - </p> - <p> - “‘Ow’s tride s’mornin’, Mr. Waffles? Get - them ‘andker-chiefs, wot you call spats, on ter yer boots. Put a - little glue on yer bloomin’ whiskers. ‘Urry up.—Where - are we goin’? Yer’ll see presently.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky expostulated. The fear of Mr. Widow’s displeasure was heavy on - him. “But what’ll I tell him? How’ll I explain to him?” - </p> - <p> - “Tell ‘im yer’ve stroked yer wife’s ‘ead wiv - a poker. Tell ‘im she’s packed up sudden for a better land. - Tell ‘im yer taikin’ a ‘oliday on the strength of it. - Tell ‘im——.” - </p> - <p> - “Shish! He may hear. He’s sensitive.—All right. I’ll - come.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace had his own code of etiquette. He refused to let Ocky mount on - the box beside him. “Ain’t done,” he said. From the - nose-bag he produced the button-hole and presented it to his friend. - “Git in,” he commanded, opening the door of his cab. Before he - drove off he stooped and shouted in at the window, “Matey, this ain’t - no bloomin’ funeral. Wriggle a smile on ter yer mouth. Laugh at the - color of me bally keb.” - </p> - <p> - He cocked his hat to a jaunty angle and tugged on the reins, humming; - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Bill Higgs - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Useter feed the pigs, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Caress ‘em with ‘is ‘obnail boots, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Tum-tee-tum.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - He couldn’t remember what came next, so he contented himself with - whistling the opening bars over and over. He felt exceedingly merry. - </p> - <p> - Traffic seemed to be pouring all in one direction. Everyone was in high - spirits; cabbies and bus-drivers kept up a ceaseless stream of chaff. The - thud of hoofs on the wooden paving was the beat of a drum to which London - marched. Everything was moving. Overhead white clouds dashed against - sky-precipices. Window-boxes were rife with flowers. Parks and green - garden patches swam up to cheer the endless procession, stood stationary - and fluttered as it passed, then melted. Light blue and dark blue favors - showed wherever the eye rested. Newsboys climbed buses shouting, and ran - by the side of carriages, distributing their papers. At a halt, Mr. Grace - turned and shouted to Ocky, “I sye, old cock, d’yer know where - all us sports is goin’? We’re goin’ ter see yer nevvy.—Hi, - Cat’s Meat, kum up.” - </p> - <p> - Houses grew smaller, streets more narrow and old-fashioned. Then the - river, broad and full-flowing, like a vein swollen to bursting. On the - bridges black specks swarmed like ants. Along the bank crowds stood packed - against the parapet. Bets were being offered and taken. Ceaseless banter - and laughing. Jostling. Good-natured expostulation. A hat blew off. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace drew up against the curb. From the point which he had selected, - by standing on the roof, a glimpse could be obtained of the racing shells. - He rattled his whip against the door. - </p> - <p> - “‘Ere you, Old Bright-and-Early, come h’out.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky came out—came out twirling his mustaches. He had caught the - contagion of excitement. He felt himself to be more than a spectator. He - wanted to talk in a loud voice to Mr. Grace, so that bystanders might - overhear and know that he was an important person—young Barrington’s - uncle. Good heavens, half London had left its work to see just Peter, - stroking the Oxford boat against Cambridge. - </p> - <p> - During the next two hours while they waited, they swopped Peterish - stories. “And ‘e sez ter me, ‘Mr. Grice,’ ‘e - sez, ‘you’re my prickcaution. I’ve got somethink the - matter with me; ‘magination they calls it. I wants you to promise me - ter taik care of ‘er,’ ‘e sez. And I, willin’ ter - h’oblige ‘im, I sez—.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace sprang up. “‘Ulloa! Wot’s this? Strike me - blind, if they ain’t comin’!” - </p> - <p> - The box-seat wasn’t high enough. They scrambled on to the roof. The - crowd scrambled after them; the roof was thronged, without an inch to - spare. Cat’s Meat straightened his forelegs, trying to see above the - people’s heads. - </p> - <p> - “By gosh, they’re leading!” - </p> - <p> - “No such luck. They’re level.” - </p> - <p> - Eight men, crouched in a wooden groove as narrow as a pencil, with a ninth - in the stern to guide it! The pencil looked so narrow that it was a wonder - that it floated. The eight men moved as if by clock-work. Eight more - followed, a quarter of a length behind. Their colors were the dark blue of - Mr. Grace’s cab. The light blues of Cambridge were ahead. - </p> - <p> - “Oxford! Oxford! Oxford!” Mr. Grace thumped Ocky in the ribs - and bellowed, “There’s Peter. See ‘im?” - </p> - <p> - As though Peter had heard, he raised the stroke from thirty-four to - thirty-six, calling on his men for a spurt. They were creeping up—lifting - their boat through the water in a splendid effort. Men swore beneath their - breath; they tiptoed and clawed at one another, utterly selfish and - careless in their wild desire to gain a clearer view of those distant - streaks of energy, which bent forward and swung back mechanically in that - gray ribbon of beaten water. They were shooting under the bridge now, - police-boats and launches spluttering, hooting and following. The crowd - swayed, broke and ran. Men leapt down from lamp-posts and points of - vantage. - </p> - <p> - Something happened. Mr. Grace was pushed from behind—pushed off the - roof of his own cab. He picked himself up indignantly from the pavement - and tried to clamber back. It mightn’t have been his cab—it - was territory invaded and held by intruders. “’Ere you! Git - orf of it.” - </p> - <p> - He laid about him with his whip and clutched at coattails. Someone hit him - on the mouth. He hit back. A policeman came up. No time for explaining. He - was angry enough to fight the whole world. What was Peter doing? - </p> - <p> - “Leggo o’ me. It’s me own keb. A free country, indeed! - ‘Ere you, come orf of it.” - </p> - <p> - He battled his way to the box. For one moment he saw two disappearing - specks, and then——. A crack! A man was waist-deep in woodwork. - The invaders jumped down to save themselves. The policeman hopped into the - cab and levered the legs back. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace was purple. “Pushed me orf me keb, that’s wot they - did. And now I arsks yer ter h’inspeck that roof. ‘E wuz goin’ - to arrest me. Garn, puddin’ face. Yer daren’t.” - </p> - <p> - “Move along. Move along, me man.” - </p> - <p> - There was nothing for it. Mr. Grace picked up the reins. “Puddin’ - face,” he flung back across his shoulder. “Yes, h’it’s - you I’m meamn’. Puddin’ face—yer bally cop.” - </p> - <p> - It was only when he had turned a corner and climbed down to examine the - damage, that he realized that he had lost Mr. Waffles. - </p> - <p> - He trundled back to London—had got as far as Hyde Park Corner, when - a yelling boy rushed by him with a sheaf of papers. - </p> - <p> - “Hi, wot’s that?” - </p> - <p> - He snatched one and read: - </p> - <p> - “<i>Dark Blue Victory.</i> - </p> - <p> - “<i>Long Stern Chase.</i> - </p> - <p> - “<i>Barrington’s Great Spurt.</i> - </p> - <p> - “<i>Cambridge Beaten at the Winning Post</i>.” - </p> - <p> - What did it matter? What did anything matter, broken roofs or bruised - mouths. Peter had done the trick! Peter, the queer little tyke who had - been his prickcaution! He shouted the news to Cat’s Meat. He held up - the traffic, he and Cat’s Meat, and the dark blue cab. He must tell - somebody,—somebody who would understand. Mr. Waffles would - understand. He had a few drinks at a few pubs and arrived at Soho - hilarious. Mr. Widow informed him that Ocky had not returned. He wandered - off in search of the flower-girl. At the back of his mind the belief grew - up that she would be sympathetic. He found her, tucked her inside and - drove back to Soho. Mr. Widow didn’t approve of the flower-girl and - said that Ocky hadn’t come back. How many times did he halt before - the second-hand shop? How many pubs had he visited? What had become of - little Kiss-me-Quick, the flower-girl? She’d disappeared, and he - hadn’t any money in his pockets. Never mind, there was a hole in the - roof of his cab—his day’s work had given him something. - </p> - <p> - Night fell. Stars came out. Did he make up the song himself? Couldn’t - have. He found himself again before the second-hand shop, still on the box - of his cab. The shop was shut and he was singing to empty windows: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Oh, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Mr. Widow, though - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A murderer you be, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - You’re - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Sure, a very nice man— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A good enough pal for me.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Mr. Widow came out, sincerely grieved, and expostulated. Mr. Grace begged - his pardon profoundly. He told him that he’d always admired his - religious whiskers; wouldn’t hurt his feelings, however many wives - he’d murdered; wanted to be friends. He added, in a whisper, that he - had a daughter who’d be all the better for a poker brought down - smartly across her nut. She was religious, too, only she hadn’t got - whiskers. Then he insisted on shaking hands, and was at last allowed to on - condition that, if this token of esteem was granted, he would go away and - never, never more come back—at least, not till morning. - </p> - <p> - What to do now? The night was young. A return to the stable was not to be - contemplated; that daughter of his must be avoided. Some time, when he was - a very old man, he’d go home to her. But not yet. It wasn’t - every man who owned a blue and yellow cab with a hole in the roof of it. - </p> - <p> - Perhaps it was eleven—perhaps earlier. He was in Leicester Square, - affording himself the supreme luxury of refusing to be hired. Coming down - the steps of the Empire was a group of young men, broad-shouldered, slim - of hip and in evening dress. Their arms were linked. As soon as they - appeared, cheering began; a crowd gathered round. Someone commenced to - sing. Others took it up: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Mary had a little heart. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - She lent it to a feller, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Who swallowed it by h’axerdent - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And didn’t dare to tell ‘er. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - She asked it back and said she’d sue— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Away the feller ran. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Whatever will poor Mary do? - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - She’s lost both heart and man.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - They’d all gone mad. Pandemonium broke loose. Mr. Grace wondered - vaguely what it meant. Why were people dancing? Why were people shouting? - Then he saw that the maddest of the mad wore a dark blue badge. He heard - someone explain to a neighbor, “The winning crew.” - </p> - <p> - His brain cleared. He was off his box in a flash, struggling, panting, - fighting his way to that tall young chap who was in the centre. He was - wringing him by the hand. - </p> - <p> - “Why, by all that’s wonderful, it’s Mr. Grace! Where did - you spring from?” Before the question was answered, Peter was - introducing him, to the Faun Man, to Harry, to Hardcastle, to a host of - others. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace was both elated and abashed. “Want a keb? Sime old keb, - Mr. Peter—got it ‘ere a-witing for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Want a cab! I don’t know. You see, there are so many of us.” - </p> - <p> - “‘Ow many? There’s plenty o’ room, Mr. Peter, both - inside and h’out. There ain’t no charge. Put h’as many h’as - yer like on the roof, so long as Cat’s Meat can drar yer. I’ve - ‘ad a ole cut for yer legs on purpose.” - </p> - <p> - Harry laughed. “If Cat’s Meat can’t manage it, we’ll - shove.” - </p> - <p> - They piled in uproariously. The suggestion was made that Cat’s Meat - should be taken out and that Peter should be allowed to ride him. Mr. - Grace wouldn’t hear of it. “None o’ that, young gen’lemen. - Cruelty ter h’animiles. The keb ‘olds ‘im h’up.—Where - to?” - </p> - <p> - The Gilded Turtle was mentioned. - </p> - <p> - For all that there were four on the roof and six inside, Cat’s Meat - never made an easier journey—that was due to the singing mob of - undergraduates who lent a hand. And Mr. Grace—he reflected that it - wasn’t for naught that he had repainted his growler. He was the - proudest cabby in London that night—he was going to be prouder. - </p> - <p> - At the Gilded Turtle he was seated next to Peter and treated as an honored - guest. He had a misty impression that the waiters were stowed away beneath - tables and that their places were taken by Peter’s friends. He - believed and asserted to the day of his death that he made the speech of - the evening—something reminiscent about “prick-cautions,” - which meandered off into moral reflections about a person named - Kiss-Me-Quick and flower-girls in general. He distinctly remembered that, - more than once, he turned his pockets inside out, asking plaintively, - “What lydy done this?” Then the gentleman whose ears moved - like a dog’s sang a nonsense-song about Peter. They all joined in a - rousing chorus, clinking glasses: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “He kissed the moon’s dead lips, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - He googed the eye of the sun; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - But when we’ve crawled to the end of life, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - We’ll wonder we ever begun. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - CHORUS - </h3> - <p class="indent20"> - “And Peter was his name— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - So Peterish was he, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - He wept the sun’s eye back again, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Lest he should never see.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “He fought the pirate king, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Where stars fall down with a thud; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - But we, we even quake to hear - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Spring rhubarb break into bud. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - CHORUS - </h3> - <p class="indent20"> - And Peter was his name, etc. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “He sailed the trackless waste - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - With hair the colour» of blood; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - But we, we tramp the trampled streets - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - With souls the colour of mud. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “<br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> And - Peter was his name— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - So Peterish was he, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - He wept the sun’s eye back again, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Lest he should never see.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Where was Peter? Where were Harry and the Faun Man? He was out in the - streets—only the wildest of the young bloods remained with him. It - didn’t matter to this cab-driving Falstaff if they all went away and - only Cat’s Meat stayed, he was going to make a night of it. - </p> - <p> - Hardcastle was complaining that he’d never been arrested and taken - to Vine Street. He insisted that it ought to happen to every English - gentleman at least once. They drove back to Leicester Square to see if - they could find a policeman who’d make up this deficiency in their - education. They found three, only they chose the wrong side of the Square - and discovered that they were being taken to a less aristocratic station. - Then they explained their mistake, and their captors, being, as the Faun - Man would have said, “very human fellows,” accepted - compensation for wasted time, called them “My Lords,” and - allowed them to escape. - </p> - <p> - It was Mr. Grace who provided the final entertainment. They had grown a - little tired of his constant enquiry as to “What lydy done this?” - Being unwilling to lose their esteem as a humorist, he drove them down - side streets to a second-hand shop, which he had promised “never no - more to visit.” - </p> - <p> - The house was in complete darkness. He threw down the reins and stood up, - his whip clasped against his breast, his eyes lifted to the white moon - sailing in silence over sulky chimney-pots. Singing ran in his family; it - was from him that Grace inherited her talent. What his voice lacked in - sweetness it made up in volume. He startled the stillness lustily: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Oh, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Mister Widow, though - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A murderer you be, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - You’re - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Sure, a very nice man— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A good enough pal for me.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - If Mr. Widow had been a sportsman, he would have felt flattered that the - winning Oxford crew should take the trouble to greet him thus musically at - two o’clock in the morning. He wasn’t. A night-capped head - appeared at a window. The singing grew more hearty. The head vanished. The - street door opened. A gentleman, very hastily attired, carrying a pair of - white spats in his hand, shot out on to the pavement. A voice from the - darkened shop pursued him, “‘Ad enough of you. A man is known - by ‘is friends.” - </p> - <p> - The door closed as suddenly as it had opened. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace hailed the new arrival, “‘Ulloa, duckie! Been lookin’ - for you h’everywhere.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish you hadn’t,” growled Ocky. - </p> - <p> - Cat’s Meat shivered in his harness. Mr. Grace, aware that he was - somehow in error, picked up the reins. “Well, good night, young gen’lemen. - Me and Mr. Waffles is goin’ ‘ome ter bed. Kum up, Cat’s - Meat.” - </p> - <p> - But Cat’s Meat didn’t come up; he lolled between the shafts, - listless and dejected. Mr. Grace climbed down from the box to examine him. - “Wot’s matter, old pal? Got a ‘eadache?” - </p> - <p> - He stretched out his hand to pat him. Cat’s Meat shivered again, - lolled over a little farther and crashed to the ground. He flickered his - eye-lid just once, wearily and reproachfully, saying as plainly as was - possible for so dumb an animal, “Old man, we’ve been and gone - and done it.” - </p> - <p> - A hat was passed round. When its contents were presented to Mr. Grace he - pushed it away from him. He was sobbing. “H’it’s not - that; it ain’t the money. ‘E were the only man ‘as ever - understood me. ‘Is h’intellergence wuz a thing to marvel h’at. - A wonder of a ‘oss, ‘e were. I’ve often said h’it. - ‘E’d bring me ‘ome as drunk as a lord and as saife as a - baby. ‘E wuz a reg’lar mother ter me, ‘e were.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0009" id="linkimage-0009"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0421.jpg" alt="0421m " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0421.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - The revelers melted into the night down the shuttered street, leaving Mr. - Grace with the disregarded hat of money, the dead horse sprawled across - the broken shafts and a gentleman, from whose hand a pair of white spats - dangled, contemplating the ruin disconsolately. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XLI—TREE-TOPS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>ree-Tops stood - half-way up the hill, looking out across a terraced garden. At the foot of - the hill lay a plain, where hamlets nestled beneath the wings of trees, - and meadows washed about the shores of yellow wheat-lands like green - rivers in flood. In blue pastures, beyond the edge of the horizon, white - clouds wandered like browsing sheep. - </p> - <p> - The windows of Tree-Tops were latticed. The roof was thatched. It was no - more than a converted cottage. It blinked at you as though it wore - spectacles. - </p> - <p> - Behind it ran a Roman road, buried deep in the leaves of centuries. On the - brow of the hill was a legionaries’ camp. To show where the road - ended a white cross had been cut, by turning back the sod from the - underlying chalk. Gathered about the camp in a half-circle, spreading back - for miles through uplands, was a beech-forest whose leaves fluttered like - green butterflies crucified on boughs of silver. Clouds trailed slowly - over it, or hung snared in its topmost branches. - </p> - <p> - Over the shoulder of the hill, immediately behind the Faun Man’s - house, lay a golf-course with vivid squares of close-cropped turf from - which red flags waved angrily as poppies. Across the valley shone fields - of mustard, like sunlight falling in sudden patches. - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man puzzled Curious Corner. The village might have been named in - prophecy of his advent, with such extraordinary oddness did he conduct his - household. Like birds hopping in and out of a hedge, his visitors came and - went without knocking. Nobody tried to explain anybody; no one at - Tree-Tops thought explanation necessary. - </p> - <p> - The women were young and dashing; certainly they were not married to the - men. If they were wicked—which was never proved—they were - decidedly light-hearted. - </p> - <p> - By day they played golf and rode horseback. By night they sat in the - terraced garden, where fragrances wandered like old, sweet memories; - there, to the tinkling of banjos and mandolins, they sang till dusk had - brimmed the valleys and the moon sailed solitary. When their laughter had - grown tired, a light would spring up in a room beneath the thatch where - the Faun Man worked. Sometimes it would outstay the dawn. The villagers - watched these doings from a distance. They wagged their heads. - </p> - <p> - But if Tree-Tops had the reputation for being wild, there could be no - doubt that its master had money. He drove a four-in-hand from Oxford to - London. He rode a horse called Satan, which no one could manage; it had - killed two men already. And the money! He coined it with his pen—so - it was reported. - </p> - <p> - But the inhabitants of Curious Corner never guessed the motive of all this - frivolity: that the Faun Man wasn’t really living—was only - distracting himself, till a woman with golden hair should nod, when life - would commence. - </p> - <p> - And the golden woman! Peter saw her often: in Oxford; when he cycled out - with Harry to Tree-Tops; during his vacations in London. He couldn’t - believe what Harry told him—that she was cold and selfish. - Everything that she did was tender, from the caressing way she had of - speaking to the childish frankness with which she slipped her hand into - his own when she was happy. She made everyone love her and everyone - forgive her—everyone except Harry and Cherry. She had studied the - art of appearing adorable, so that what in others were faults in her took - on the glamour of attractions. She was so fond of the Faun Man—why - didn’t she marry him? Peter didn’t know. He gave it up—shrugged - his shoulders. Somewhere underground, as in his own life, the body of love - lay buried. In the stillness, did he listen, he could hear jealousy - gnawing—gnawing like a rat in the coffin of a dead princess. Once, - in reading one of the Faun Man’s books, he came across a jotting in - the margin, the thought of which had no bearing on the text. It was as - though thwarted longing had cried aloud, suddenly becoming aware of its - own tragedy. The sentence read: “Life is slipping away from us. I - have tried to make you love me. And yet——.” - </p> - <p> - The bond of sympathy which existed between himself and the golden woman - increased in strength and knowledge. He could talk to her of so many - things concerning which he was silent to other people. Being in love, he - had to talk to someone. She was so wise in the advice she gave him. By the - patience with which she listened, she seemed to tell him that she herself - had endured the same indifference. How that could be he did not - understand. She encouraged him to make confession. It became a habit. - Perhaps the trust which he placed in her flattered her. It may have been - that his capacity for being so sheerly young tantalized her—she - desired above all things to be always young herself. Without doubt his - implicit faith in her goodness helped to silence her self-despisings. - </p> - <p> - But she was not above using their friendship as a means of provoking the - Faun Man. She would slip her arm about Peter’s neck and say, “No - chance for you now, Lorie.” - </p> - <p> - Her lover’s eyes would rest on her broodingly and film over, hiding - his thoughts, “Oh, well, I have Cherry.” Even though Cherry - knew that it was said in pretence, her face would grow radiant. It hurt - Peter. He would willingly have given the best years of his life to make - her care for him like that. It was then that he listened, and heard within - himself the gnawing of the rat of jealousy. - </p> - <p> - Cherry—he made no progress with her. She seemed to like him, and she - held him off. She avoided being left alone with him. In company there were - times when she treated him with intimacy—times when she ignored him. - While all his actions told her plainly that in his life she was the - supreme interest, she seemed to go out of her way to inform him, without - words, that in hers he was secondary. Then, when he had grown tired and - had almost determined to cure himself, she would do something unexpected - and considerate which kept him hoping. Only at parting did she allow - herself to appear glad of him. She had the power of chilling him with her - graciousness, while with her gray eyes she allured him. Cherry! Cherry! - Her name set all his world to music. - </p> - <p> - One day he found her alone at Tree-Tops. She had fallen asleep in the - bay-window, which looked out over the plain where the meadows flowed - smoothly and the wheat-fields ripened. The others had left her—had - gone over the shoulder of the hill to play golf. He had cycled out from - Oxford without warning. Climbing through the steep garden, busy with the - stir of birds and insects, he espied her curled up like a kitten among the - cushions, her eyes fast shut and her breath coming softly. He stooped over - her, tempted by the redness of her mouth. Her eyes opened. She showed no - embarrassment—made no attempt to brush away her sleepiness. She did - not move, but lay there meeting his gaze quietly. - </p> - <p> - He broke the silence. “Cherry, why do you always avoid touching me? - We’re farther apart now than we were—were when we first met. I - can’t surprise you any longer by telling you that I love you. And - yet—and yet to me it’s still wonderful. Why do you always - treat me as though I were nothing?” - </p> - <p> - “Do I? I don’t mean to.” - </p> - <p> - He sat down beside her and took her hand. “Shall I go away? If I - went away you might learn to miss me.” - </p> - <p> - She turned toward him gently. “Please, please, Peter, don’t do - that.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you do want me—you would miss me? I never know what you - think of me. You never tell me—never betray yourself.” - </p> - <p> - She let her fingers nestle in his hand. “There’s only one - Peter. Of course I’d miss you. I don’t need to tell you that. - I like you very much, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - He looked away across the unheeding country. “Like! Yes, but liking - isn’t loving.” - </p> - <p> - Voices were heard and footsteps approaching. She sat up hurriedly, - smoothing out her dress. “I’d so much rather be friends. I’d - be such a good little friend to you, Peter, if you’d only be content - with that.” - </p> - <p> - Content with that! He shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “Cherry, I couldn’t.” - </p> - <p> - The Faun Man and the golden woman entered. They were laughing. “You - always treat me in public as if we were alone together. Really, Lorie, I - wish you——.” - </p> - <p> - Then she saw Peter seated close to Cherry. Her eyes saddened. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XLII—THE COACH-RIDE TO LONDON - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> wonder why he - doesn’t come!” - </p> - <p> - Peter stepped out of the college-lodge, gazing up and down the cobbled - street. - </p> - <p> - Harry, always undisturbed and good-natured, laughed. “One can never - be sure of Lorie. Looks as though it was going to rain. P’raps he’s - put it off because of that.” - </p> - <p> - “If he had,” said Peter, “he’d have sent us word.” - </p> - <p> - For two hours they’d been inventing excuses for the Faun Man. He had - told them to invite a party of their friends and he’d drive them to - London. To go to London without permission was against all rules; but to - ask permission would be useless, since most of the men, like Peter and - Harry, were sitting for their Finals within the next fortnight. That they - were taking a sporting chance of discovery lent a touch of daring to the - excursion. - </p> - <p> - All of them had risen early and had been ready for the start since nine. - It was nearly eleven. If the Faun Man didn’t turn up shortly they - wouldn’t have time to cover the sixty odd miles to London and to - catch the last train back. That last train back was very necessary. If - they weren’t in college or their lodgings by midnight when doors - were locked, there was no telling what would happen. Probably they’d - get sent down, which would mean that they’d miss their Finals, and - would either lose their degrees or have to wait a year before they were - examined. - </p> - <p> - They were getting fidgety, pulling out and consulting their watches. Some - of them were already saying that it was too late to risk it. A horn - sounded. Peter glanced back from the road into the lodge and shouted, - “Hi, you fellows! Here he comes.” - </p> - <p> - Round the corner swung the chestnut leaders, tossing their heads and - jingling their bridles. As the wheelers followed and the coach drew into - sight, an exclamation went up, “Why, he isn’t——” - </p> - <p> - They looked again to make certain. No, he wasn’t. Instead, a woman - sat on the box, erect and lonely, perched high up, governing the reins - with her small, thin hands. Her trim figure was clad in a dark blue suit, - close-fitting as a riding-habit, with pale blue facings. Her hair was - caught back into a loose knot against her neck and dressed so smoothly - that it shone like metal. The effort of controlling the horses had brought - a flush to her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with mischief at the sensation - she was creating. She reined in against the pavement, glancing down - provocatively at the group of young men. She looked a goddess, and had the - sense to know it. “Given up hoping for me,” she cried - cheerfully; “is that it?” - </p> - <p> - Peter nodded. “Pretty nearly. But where’s the Faun Man and - Cherry? Why are you driving?” - </p> - <p> - She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll tell you later. Scramble up.” - </p> - <p> - They scrambled up, filling the roof and joking, all their high spirits and - anticipation recovered. - </p> - <p> - “Ready.” - </p> - <p> - The guard sprang away from the leaders’ heads and clambered up - behind as the coach started forward. - </p> - <p> - It was a gray day, with patches of blue gleaming through it, like light - through holes in the roof of a tent. As they passed over Magdalen Bridge - the willows shuddered and stooped above the water, prophesying that rain - was coming. The moisture in the air made colors stand out sudden and - separate. Even sounds seemed accentuated. From farmlands, near and far, - live things called plaintively. Cocks bugled shrill alarms. Cattle waded - restlessly knee-deep in summer meadows. Birds fluttered out of hedges, as - if setting out on journeys; then thought better of it and hastily - returned. Fields lay hushed. In contrast, the sky was torn and rutted. - Clouds lurched forward, black and sullen, like artillery taking up - positions. Detached wisps of mist hurried hither and thither, like - isolated bands of cavalry. Through the brooding stillness the coach swayed - onward. The horses’ hoofs rattled as castanet accompaniment to the - laughter of conversation. - </p> - <p> - At the long, white inn of The Three Pigeons they changed horses, getting - ready for the climb out of the valley past Ashton Rowant. The golden woman - called to Peter to come and sit on the box beside her. She was a pleased - child, patting his hand and smiling down at him side-long as he took his - place. She treated him in public with the same affection that she used to - him in private; she had complained of the Faun Man for treating her like - that. Peter wondered.—Her eyes were immensely blue and wide this - morning. She seemed no older than on that first day when he had seen her - in the white room of the Happy Cottage. He watched her now, as she leant - out with her whip to catch the reins which the ostler tossed up. How - graceful she was, how determinedly young and buoyant! - </p> - <p> - He touched her. “You were going to tell me why Cherry and the Faun - Man didn’t——.” - </p> - <p> - She broke in upon him. “Was I? Perhaps later. Can’t you forget - Cherry just for once? I’m here and—and won’t you be - content with only me for a little while, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - She spoke lightly, with a pretence at wounded feelings, and yet——. - He had piqued her pride. He had noticed it before, especially of late—the - same flippancy of tone and quick turning away of the head when Cherry’s - name was mentioned. Harry explained it by saying that she was envious of - any affection given to another woman. - </p> - <p> - The new team was full of fire—it took all her attention. “So, - girl! So! Steady there. Steady!” - </p> - <p> - Peter knew these grays; he had heard the Faun Man speak of them, “Nervous - as cats. Take a devil of a lot of holding.” She handled them like a - veteran. - </p> - <p> - “Golden woman, you’re wonderful.” - </p> - <p> - She shrugged her shoulders coquettishly, raising her brows and laughing - silently. Her eyes were between the leaders’ ears on the road in - front of her. “I know. Can’t help it, Peter. It’s the - way I was made.” And then, “But what an awfully long while you’ve - taken to discover it.” - </p> - <p> - “I haven’t. But where was the good of my telling you? The Faun - Man let’s you know it every day of your life.” - </p> - <p> - She pouted. “He does. But—but that isn’t the same.” - Green pasture-lands of the valley were falling away behind. As they rose - higher, woods sprang up, standing tiptoe, drinking in the clouds. The - atmosphere grew more heavy and thunderous. The horses were walking now, - scrambling for a foothold and zigzagging from side to side as they took - the steep ascent. The men dropped off the coach to lighten it and went - ahead. - </p> - <p> - Harry caught hold of Peter’s arm. “Where’s Lorie? Did - she tell you?” - </p> - <p> - “No. When I ask her, she says, ‘Later, perhaps.’ Can’t - get another word out of her.” - </p> - <p> - Then Harry saw a great light. “I bet you I’ve guessed. - Something happened at the last minute to delay him. He’s coming over - from Tree-Tops to join us at High Wycombe. He’ll be there with - Cherry for lunch. It’s because of Cherry, to give you a surprise, - that she won’t tell you.” At the top of the hill Peter took - his place again beside the golden woman. He understood her air of mystery - now and played up to it. In an instant all his world had changed. He was - going to see Cherry. A new sparkle came into his eyes. The golden woman - noticed it. “Hulloa! Wakened? What’s happened?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>You’ve</i> happened,” he said. “You’re a - topper. You don’t mind my saying it, do you? You’re most - awfully kind.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him curiously. “Am I? What makes you say that?” - </p> - <p> - “I know what’s happened to the Faun Man and Cherry. You can - keep your secret; but I had to thank you.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank me!” She fell silent. - </p> - <p> - He talked on in high spirits; it must have been the horses that suggested - Mr. Grace. “He hasn’t been so bloomin’ prosp’rous - lately—that’s his way of putting it—not since Cat’s - Meat died. He has to hire his horse and cab now, and doesn’t seem to - make much profit out of it. ‘Bloodsuckers!’ he says. ‘I - ‘as ter give ‘em back all I earns—and that’s wot - they calls ‘iring. Bloodsuckers!’” - </p> - <p> - As they came down the hill by Dashwood’s into High Wycombe, he - ceased talking, casting his eyes ahead. He thought it just possible that - Cherry and the Faun Man might have walked out to meet them. The guard was - sounding his horn in long flourishes. They were in the town now, passing - by the Market-place. Now the coach was drawing up before the hotel. No one - was there to watch them descend except the ostler and some idlers. He hung - about while the horses were taken out; every now and then he stepped into - the road, trying to make himself believe that, if he waited long enough, - he would see the girl with the red lips and gray eyes hurrying down the - street toward him. - </p> - <p> - Harry came out. “Guessed wrong that time, didn’t I? Come along - in. We’re having lunch.” - </p> - <p> - It was absurd, this anxiety that he felt—all out of proportion. And - yet it was always like that when he was going to meet her—it was - always like the first time. He never lost the thrill of choking gladness - and surprise. Each time he discovered something new in her of sweetness, - leaving him amazed at his former blindness. - </p> - <p> - Harry was speaking to the golden woman. “So they’re not - coming?” - </p> - <p> - She crouched her chin against her shoulder, gazing at him innocently and - wide-eyed. “Who?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, my brother and Cherry. What’s the secret? Look here, - Eve, you ought to tell us. I’m certain he sent a message—some - sort of an explanation.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you?” She gave him a tantalizing smile; then turned to - Peter. “Peter shall know; perhaps before we reach London.” - </p> - <p> - There was a low rumble, followed by a crash. The rain came smashing - against the panes. They pushed back their chairs and ran to look out. In - an incredibly short time streets were flooded; gutters were turbulent with - muddy rivers. Rain thudded against the pavement and sprayed up in little - fountains. - </p> - <p> - “Doesn’t look to me,” said Harry, “as though we’ll - ever get as far as London.” - </p> - <p> - “Got to,” said the golden woman. - </p> - <p> - The deluge commenced to slacken, but the storm still hung above the - valley, moaning and grumbling. Rain swept like smoke across the - house-tops. - </p> - <p> - Harry laughed. “Got to! You can’t drive a four-inhand to - London through that. May as well make the best of it. We’ve to be - back in Oxford before midnight, or else——. Perhaps there’s - still time to do it. We’ll give it a chance.” - </p> - <p> - Some of the party burst into the room. “I say, you chaps, we’ve - discovered a regular circus. Such a rum old cock! Come out and talk to - him!” - </p> - <p> - The golden woman raised her head. “Why not bring him in here?” - </p> - <p> - “But we didn’t think you’d———.” - </p> - <p> - She lifted her hands and let them fall despairingly. “You men! How - selfish you are, keeping everything that’s vulgar to yourselves!” - </p> - <p> - Scuffling sounded in the passage and a voice booming protests, “Not - like this! It ain’t fitting. Not before a lady.” - </p> - <p> - A red-faced sailor, in the loose blouse and baggy trousers of the Royal - Navy, was pushed through the doorway. In a deep bass voice he immediately - commenced to excuse himself. “Not my fault, miss.” He tugged - at an imaginary lock on his forehead. “I’m Mr. Taylor, I am—‘ome - on a ‘oliday, tryin’ to find a nice gal wot’ll - appreciate my h’un-doubted fine qualities.” - </p> - <p> - The golden woman stretched back her neck, half-closed her eyes and - chuckled. “Are you sure you have any, Mr. Taylor?” - </p> - <p> - The man fumbled at his cap. “Used to ‘ave—used to sing - terrible.” - </p> - <p> - “Sing terribly for me now, won’t you?” - </p> - <p> - He struck an attitude, flattered by the request, and hitched up his - trousers. It was a ballad of betrayed maidenhood that he sang, solemn as a - dirge and intended to be hugely affecting. It told of the home-coming, - with her two babies, of a girl whose sweetheart had deserted her. It had a - chorus in which, with an unhappy wag of his head, the sailorman signed to - his audience to join: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Go ring those village bells, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Let all the people know, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - It was on a dark and stormy night, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - One, two, three—perished in the snow.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - When they came to the enumerating of precisely how many perished, they - stuck out their fingers three times. But some of them weren’t - content with only three deaths in one family; they wanted to go on - counting. Then the sailorman would stop singing and reprove them gently, - “You know, young gen’lemen, that ain’t right. It ain’t - fitting to joke on death.” - </p> - <p> - At last it occurred to him that something was amiss. “I’m - afraid I’m a-makin’ a fool of meself.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t mention it, Mr. Taylor,” they shouted. - </p> - <p> - Their answer didn’t reassure him, though they hurled it at him in - varying keys many times. He insisted on leaving, making his exit backward - because he had heard that a gentleman must always keep his face toward a - lady. - </p> - <p> - The rain was over. The sky had a sorry look for having been petulant. The - sun, though he still refused to come out, hung golden ladders from the - clouds. They stepped into the street, gazing up and feeling the air with - their hands. - </p> - <p> - “What about it?” asked Harry. - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course we’re going,” said the golden woman. Her - eyes met Peter’s; they seemed to beg him not to call off, but to - accompany her. Why was she so insistent about getting him to London? Who - was waiting there? Why wouldn’t she tell him anything about the Faun - Man or Cherry? He calculated how long the drive would take. They were not - quite half-way. If they continued the journey they’d barely catch - that last train back. Again he recognized the appeal in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “What about it? What do you say, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - “I? Why, I’m game. I’m going.” - </p> - <p> - Some of the men refused. The party was reduced to six when they started. - </p> - <p> - What a wet clean world they entered! It had all been made new and, - somehow, tender. The spray of rain was still in the air; it swept against - their faces coolly, vanished unexplained, and touched them again without - warning. In meadows and tree-tops there was a continual muffled patter, as - of little unseen people treading softly. From the back seats came bursts - of laughter and snatches of song, mimicking Mr. Taylor’s impressive - chorus: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “It was on a dark and stormy night, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - One, two, three—perished in the snow.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The golden woman bent her head aside, “Tryin’ to find a nice - gal wot’ll appreciate my undoubted fine qualities! That’s what - all you men are doing.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t know.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you are, from the minute you put on long trousers to the last - moment when you step into the grave. Men don’t find her often; when - they do, as likely as not she doesn’t want them.” - </p> - <p> - “I know a little about that,” said Peter; “so does - Lorie. Women aren’t very kind to the men who love them.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, aren’t they!” She flicked at the leaders so that - they leapt like stags. “You’re young; you need civilizing. You - don’t know nothin’, as that sailorman would say. How many - marriages are made for love? They’re made because women are kind. - Many a woman marries because she can listen to a man talking all about - himself without letting him see that she is bored by it. Happiness is the - only reality; and love—love’s almost, almost a delusion.” - </p> - <p> - Peter looked at her quietly. She could say jaded things like that when she - was made so beautifully—when everyone turned to look after her—when - the finest man in the world would give his life to save her from pain! - What had God done with the years of her life? She never looked any older. - And she wasn’t grateful. Perhaps, after all, Harry was right—all - her goodness had been put into the perfection of her body, and her soul - had suffered. - </p> - <p> - She was aware that his eyes rested on her in judgment. She tried to - refrain from the impulse. Turning, she flashed on him a sudden smile. - “Too bad to say things like that to you—you who hope for so - much from life! What’s the trouble?” - </p> - <p> - “I was thinking.” - </p> - <p> - “Thinking?” - </p> - <p> - He spoke slowly, “That love only seems a delusion to people who - refuse to be loving.” - </p> - <p> - A common-land sprang up; geese wandered across it. Evening was falling - early, washing colors from the landscape, blurring everything with its - watery light. The sky stooped near to earth, threatening to tumble, - monstrous with bulging clouds. - </p> - <p> - They drew up at the inn at Gerrard’s Cross. Peter climbed down to - stretch his legs while the horses were being changed. He found his friends - gathered about a timetable, peering over the shoulders of the man who held - it. - </p> - <p> - “We’re not going to manage it,” one was saying. “There’s - another storm brewing. Besides, we’re not making haste—going - as leisurely as if we had all the day before us. Nothing for it, we’ll - have to drop off and go back by train.” - </p> - <p> - “There’s a train leaving here in half an hour,” said the - man who held the time-table. “I’m going to catch it. Getting - sent down just before your Finals isn’t good enough.” Harry - interrupted. “Before we decide anything, we’d better go out - and speak to her.” - </p> - <p> - The case was explained to the golden woman. They were most awfully sorry. - It wasn’t very gallant conduct on their part; but what other choice - had they? Wouldn’t she leave the horses and the guard at the inn, - and come back with them to Oxford? Or could they see her on the train to - Paddington? Having told the guard to go on with the harnessing, she - listened to them quietly. When they had finished she said, “Peter - and I are going to drive to London. You’re willing to take a chance, - aren’t you, Peter?” - </p> - <p> - He broke into his boyish laugh. “It’ll be sport. I’ll - chance it.” - </p> - <p> - As the coach moved off he turned and waved to the others, who stood - watching from the common. The guard from his back seat, raising the horn, - gave them a farewell flourish. In his heart of hearts Peter wished that he - were among them. But——. Well, the golden woman had a secret. - She was going to tell it to him. It had something to do with Cherry. And - it wouldn’t have been decent to have left her to finish the drive - alone to London. He’d get the last train back from Paddington, - barring accidents. - </p> - <p> - She was speaking to him. “That’s better. At last we’re - alone together.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think we’ll do it?” he asked. . - </p> - <p> - “Do what?” - </p> - <p> - “Get there in time.” - </p> - <p> - She drew her brows together. “Peter, Peter, what does it matter? You - take life so seriously.” - </p> - <p> - They laughed. - </p> - <p> - “What are you going to do with it?” she asked. He looked - puzzled. “With life, I mean,” she added. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t know. It depends.” - </p> - <p> - “On what?” - </p> - <p> - “People,” he answered vaguely, taking care to avoid mentioning - Cherry. “I may travel for a year. Perhaps Kay will come with me. - After that I’m going into my father’s business.” - </p> - <p> - The golden woman’s face became grave; beneath its gravity was a - flame of excitement. Her voice trembled and reached him softly. “That’s - not what I meant. That’s not doing anything with life. Those things - are incidents—externals. I meant, are you going to live life, or are - you going to miss everything? Life’s an ocean, full of enduring, - dotted with a few islands. Are you going to be an explorer—or are - you going to miss everything?” - </p> - <p> - Odd that she, of all persons, should have asked him that! He remembered - how Harry had said that she was a ship, always setting sail for new lands - and never coming to anchor. - </p> - <p> - “An explorer! I’ll first see the islands.” - </p> - <p> - A strand of her hair broke loose and fluttered about her eyes. “I - can’t put it back,” she said. “I wish you’d do it.” - Her hands were occupied with the reins. He leant across her. As his face - came under hers, she held her breath. To him it was nothing. The horses, - feeling her hands go slack, broke into a gallop; for a moment she lost - control of them. When she had quieted them, she turned to him impulsively, - “Peter, you’re a darling.” Her eyes held his with an - expression of appeal and challenge; then faltered, as though they were - afraid to look at him. - </p> - <p> - Her excitement communicated itself. He was embarrassed. He didn’t - understand. He guessed that she was in trouble and was asking for his - kindness. “Golden woman, how easily you and I say things like that. - If Cherry had said it to me, or if you had said it to the Faun Man, how - much more——.” - </p> - <p> - She cut him short. “Don’t.” - </p> - <p> - They had traveled half a mile in silence, when she whispered, “It - wasn’t easily said.” - </p> - <p> - In the west, behind them, the sky began to burn. Little tongues of flame - licked the edges of black clouds. Mists writhed and drove across the - sinking sun. Peter stood up in his seat, looking back; it was a glimpse of - hell. He glanced ahead—everything over there was blackness. Trees - looked blasted; they bowed their heads. Roads and fields were empty. There - was no life, no color in the meadows. - </p> - <p> - “We’re in for it,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Rain began to patter, softly at first. Wind was getting up and breathed - across the country in a long sigh. He spread a coat across the golden - woman’s shoulders. She didn’t thank him. Gathering the reins - more firmly in her hands, she whipped up the horses. - </p> - <p> - Their heads were bent together. Behind them, out of ear-shot on the - back-seat, the guard huddled. She spoke. “We’re going to be - late. I intended we should be late. I wanted to get rid of the others. I - knew that you’d stick by me.” - </p> - <p> - And again she said, “You were talking of women not being kind.—— - Men aren’t kind to the women who love them.” - </p> - <p> - She had changed. Her face had sharpened out of its contentment. Usually - its expression was lazy and laughing, but now——. Pain had come - into it. It was intense and thin with purpose; it was purpose she had - always lacked. He tried to find a word for the new thing that he found in - her. Was it only the distortion that the storm was working? A flash of - lightning slit the heavens; it ripped the clouds like a red-hot blade. A - shattering crash! The dynamite of the gods exploding! Darkness came down. - Another flash! Trees leant forward, like fugitives with arms extended. And - she—her face was white and dominant. It looked beautiful and - Medusa-like—snakes of loosened hair blew about it. She no longer - crouched her head. She sat tall and defiant, the rain splashing down on - her. What strength she had in her hands! She held in the quivering horses, - speaking to them now harshly, now caressingly. They pricked up their ears, - listening for her voice. He found the word for the new thing that had come - to her. It was passion. - </p> - <p> - “Come nearer. What did you mean when you told me you had guessed my - secret?” - </p> - <p> - “The Faun Man——” - </p> - <p> - She took him up. “Yes, Lorie—he and I had our first quarrel - this morning. We’ve both wasted our lives, waiting for something—something - that could never happen.” - </p> - <p> - “Why never?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I can’t bring myself to—not in his way. He told - me this morning——. It doesn’t matter what he told me. It - hurt me to hear him speak like that, so strongly and quietly and sadly. - Lorie and I, we’ve drifted—let life slip by. We’ve - wakened; we’re tired.” Then, like a child, appealing against - injustice. “He said I hadn’t a heart—that I was made of - stone, not like other women. It’s not true that I’m different—is - it, Peter?” And again, “Is it, Peter?” And then, “It - hurt to be blamed for not giving—giving what would be his to take, - if he were the right man.” - </p> - <p> - “The right man! That’s what Cherry says. How does a woman know - who is the right man?” - </p> - <p> - She avoided a direct answer. “The right man is always born too late - or too early; or else he’s wasting himself on someone who doesn’t - want him.” - </p> - <p> - It was a city of the dead that they were entering. Rain swept the streets - in sudden and vindictive volleys. Lamps shone weakly; some were - extinguished. Few people were about. At Ealing they halted for their last - change. - </p> - <p> - “Won’t be goin’ any further?” the guard suggested. - </p> - <p> - When he was informed to the contrary, he glanced up at the drenched faces. - He seemed to see a thing that startled him. “Blime!” While he - hurried the ostlers with the harnessing, he tried not to look at those - white patches in the dusk; his eyes returned to them, unwillingly - fascinated. When he had released the leaders’ heads, he stepped back - and swung himself up behind as the coach lunged into the storm. - </p> - <p> - There was barely time to reach Paddington. Peter calculated. If he missed - the train, the consequences would be grave. He asked the golden woman to - hurry. She listened, but made no attempt to quicken their pace. She didn’t - seem at all disturbed by his dilemma. He almost suspected her of holding - in the horses. Too late to leave her now! As they trotted through the - premature night, he began to ask himself questions. Why had she been so - determined to finish the journey? Why had she shown such eagerness to be - alone with him? - </p> - <p> - He leant forward. “Where’s Lorie?” - </p> - <p> - “In London.” - </p> - <p> - “And Cherry?” - </p> - <p> - She tossed her head impatiently, “With you, it’s always - Cherry.” - </p> - <p> - “Well then, Lorie—is he going to meet us?” - </p> - <p> - “If he does, what difference will it make?” - </p> - <p> - “To me? Not much. But to you—you’ll know then, and you’ll - be happy.” - </p> - <p> - “Shall I?” - </p> - <p> - Her indifference spurred him into earnestness. From differing points of - view, the golden woman and Cherry used the same arguments. If he could - convince her, he could perhaps convince Cherry. In fighting for the Faun - Man, it was his own battle he was fighting. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t know yourself, golden woman—you don’t - know his value. He’s become a habit—you’ll miss him - terribly. He’s been too extravagant in the giving of himself. He’s - made you selfish. If you were to lose him, if suddenly from giving you - everything, he were to give you nothing——-” - </p> - <p> - Her voice reached him bitterly. “That’s what he threatens—to - starve me after giving me everything. He didn’t say it in those - words, but——. What do I care?” - </p> - <p> - “You do care. You’re caring now. All day long you’ve - been caring. If he isn’t there to meet us——.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall be glad.” - </p> - <p> - “You won’t.” He spoke eagerly. “You won’t. - To-night you may think you’ll be glad, but to-morrow—to-morrow - you’ll be without him. Just think, you’ve kept him marking - time all these years. He’s expected and expected. You’ve - banked on him—felt safe because of him. You’re foolish. You - can’t cheat at the game of life—you can’t even cheat - yourself; in the end you’re bound to play fair.” - </p> - <p> - She didn’t answer. - </p> - <p> - “You won’t be glad if he’s not there.” - </p> - <p> - Silence. - </p> - <p> - “Is he going to meet us?” - </p> - <p> - “If he doesn’t—— She went no further. - </p> - <p> - “Will Cherry be there?” - </p> - <p> - Her face flashed down on him, white and stabbing. “<i>Again</i>. - Always Cherry.” - </p> - <p> - Later she whispered, “Forgive me, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - Without a word, they passed through tunnels of muted houses. The sky - closed down on them. The rain drew a curtain about them. The slap of the - horses’ hoofs upon the paving started echoes. Traffic slipped by - them spectrelike, as if moving in another world. Now it was between - shuttered shops of Regent Street that they trotted. At last Trafalgar - Square, vast and chaotic, a pagan temple from which the roof had fallen! - </p> - <p> - They strained forward from the box, searching through the darkness. From - the entrance to The Métropole light streamed across the pavement. It - was the end of their journey. As the horn sounded, a man stepped out from - shelter. For a moment—but no; he had only been sent to take the - coach to the stables. As they clattered to a standstill, several guests - came out on to the steps of the hotel to watch them. The guard climbed - down and ran to the leaders’ heads. No one was there to greet them—no - one who was familiar. - </p> - <p> - She laughed high up, excitedly, “What did I tell you?” - </p> - <p> - “Not there,” he agreed reluctantly; “neither of them.” - She touched his hand and caught her breath. “As I said—neither - of them care. You and I—we’re still alone.” He was sorry - for her, guessing her disappointment. Had Lorie been there it would have - spelt forgiveness. Big Ben boomed ten. He started. “Hulloa! I’m - dished. I can’t get back.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re not going back? You don’t want to leave me? Say - you don’t.” - </p> - <p> - He was embarrassed. He didn’t know what to make of her. She was on - his hands; he ought to be in Oxford. Evidently she had been harder hit - than she acknowledged. He tried to speak cheerfully. “Look here, it’s - time we became sensible. That chap’s waiting for us to scramble down—he - wants to take the horses. Let’s go into the hotel. I’ll engage - a room for you—high time you got those wet things off. Nice little - mess we’ve made of it! When I’ve seen you settled, I’ll - toddle off to Topbury and spend the night with my people.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you?” - </p> - <p> - She glanced at him slantingly. To his immense surprise, she brought the - whip down smartly across the horses. As the leaders darted forward the - guard, taken unaware, was thrown off his balance. As Peter looked back - through the steaming mist, he saw him picking himself up from the - pavement, waving his arms and shouting. - </p> - <p> - Utterly bewildered by her shifting moods, he turned to her, “You’ve - left that chap behind.—— I wish you’d tell me what the - game is. I don’t want you to drive me to Topbury and, anyhow, the - Embankment’s all out of the direction.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m not driving you to Topbury, stupid.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke more sternly, “Seriously, you must tell me. You’ve - brought me to London and—by Jove, I almost believe you tried to make - me miss my train. It isn’t sporting. Why don’t you turn back - to The Métropole. I’ll get you a room and——.” - </p> - <p> - “Too many people to see us,” she said shortly. - </p> - <p> - He had only one means of stopping her—to catch hold of the reins. - Too risky! He gazed about him, wondering what to do. They were traversing - the Embankment—it was empty save for outcasts huddled on benches - like corpses. The night looked sodden. The river gleamed murkily. Lights - on bridges, hanging like chains, shone obscurely. - </p> - <p> - She was mocking him in low caressing tones. “You don’t want to - leave me? Say you don’t.” - </p> - <p> - The odd repetition of the question struck him. He had missed its first - significance. It couldn’t be! He pressed nearer, peering into her - face. He caught the hungry pleading in her eyes—the mad defiance. - “You mean——? You never meant——. Eve, you’re - too good a woman.” - </p> - <p> - She halted the horses, and gazed down on him smilingly. She shook her head - slowly, denying his assertion of her goodness. “You hadn’t - guessed?” - </p> - <p> - “Guessed!” He drew himself upright. The passion in her voice - appalled him. - </p> - <p> - Her arms went about him; cold wet lips were pressing his mouth. “You - dear boy-man! You dear boy-man!” - </p> - <p> - He thrust her from him. He was choking. Her lips—they scorched him. - He had seen in all women’s faces the likeness to his mother’s - and Kay’s. But now——. - </p> - <p> - A bedraggled creature, in tattered finery, with a broken plume nodding - evilly across her forehead, struggled from a bench, shuffled across the - pavement and whined up at him. He took no notice. He tried not to believe - what had been meant. Through their nervous silence trees shuddered; the - muffled skirmish of the rain thudded. - </p> - <p> - The golden woman was watching him. A gleam of hatred in her eyes at first—the - reflection of his own loathing. Then, as pity replaced his loathing, a - look of horror spread. She sank her face in her hands; her fingers locked - and twisted. She looked like one who had become sane, and remembered her - madness. “What am I? What have I done?” She whispered the - questions over and over; the storm beat down upon her shoulders. He sat - like one turned to stone, not daring to touch her, powerless to put his - pity into words.—— And of this the bedraggled street-walker, - whining up from the pavement, was sole witness. - </p> - <p> - A policeman tramped heavy-footed out of the distance. “‘Ere - you, none o’ that. ‘Urry along.” This to the - streetwalker. To the golden woman, “H’anything the matter with - the ‘osses, me lady?” - </p> - <p> - She came to herself. The street-walker was limping into the shadows. Her - eyes followed her with fascination. She felt for her purse; not finding - it, she commenced unfastening the brooch that was at her neck. Seeing her - intention, Peter put his hand in his pocket. She stayed him with an - impatient gesture. - </p> - <p> - Calling to the woman, she leant down from the box and said something. - </p> - <p> - The policeman waited stolidly. He repeated his question, “H’anything - the matter with the ‘osses, me lady?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - She swung the coach round. There was no explanation. - </p> - <p> - Of that wild drive back through the night Peter saved but a blurred - remembrance. Scarcely a word was spoken—there was nothing that could - be said. After they had struck the open country, they went at a gallop - most of the journey. Every now and then they drew up at a darkened inn. He - climbed down from the box and hammered on a closed door. A window opened. - A rapid explanation. Grumbling. Sleepy men appeared, only partly dressed, - carrying lanterns. Horses were taken out and a fresh team harnessed. As - the dawn came up, pale and haggard, he saw her face; it was hard-lipped - and ashen. He would never forget it. Every year showed. The golden hair - had broken loose; it was the only young thing left. She was no longer the - golden woman; he drove that night beside the figure of repentance. - </p> - <p> - Hills taken cruelly at a gallop! Cocks crowing! Unawakened towns! The - waking country! He pieced her into his experience. What was it that women - wanted? To be married and not to be married? To accept the flattery of - being loved and not to return it? Riska, his Aunt Jehane, Glory, Cherry—all - the women he had known—they passed before him. He tried to read - their eyes. Their heads were bowed; all that he could learn of them was - the pathetic frailty of their bodies. - </p> - <p> - Marching through the meadows came Oxford, its spires indomitably pointed - against the clouds. Now they were traveling the austere length of High - Street. At Carfax they turned. On Folly Bridge they drew up. - </p> - <p> - She had brought him back. He wanted to say something generous. - </p> - <p> - “Lorie, he loves you. If he asks you again——” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. “If he asks me,” she said brokenly. - </p> - <p> - He walked along the edge of the river, golden in the early summer’s - morning, silver with mists curling from off it. He plunged in at a point - opposite the Calvary barge. As he swam, he looked back. From the coach, - high on the arch of the bridge, her eyes followed him. Just before he - landed, she raised the whip; the horses strained forward. - </p> - <p> - Running through the meadows, he came to the wall which went about Calvary, - found a foothold and dropped safely over. After he had undressed, he hid - his dripping clothing. He was in bed and sleeping soundly, when later in - the morning his scout came to wake him. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XLIII—AN UNFINISHED POEM - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>trong sunlight - streamed across the foot of his bed. Below, in the quad, he could hear the - clatter of breakfast-dishes being cleared away. Fumbling beneath his - pillow, he pulled out his watch. Ten o’clock! Time he dressed and - got to work! Less than a fortnight till his Finals, and he’d lost a - day already! - </p> - <p> - A sound of running on the stairs! Someone was entering his outer room. - </p> - <p> - “Hulloa! I’m still in bed. Who is it?” - </p> - <p> - The bedroom door flew open. Harry stood panting on the threshold, holding - a London paper in his hand. For all his haste, he didn’t say a word. - He simply stared—stared rather weakly and stupidly, as though he’d - forgotten what he’d come about. His lips quivered. The twitching of - his fingers made the paper crackle. - </p> - <p> - Peter raised himself on his elbow. “Got back all right, old man. Why—.” - He saw Harry’s face clearly; it was drawn and ghastly. “Don’t - look like that. What is it? For God’s sake, tell me.” - </p> - <p> - “Dead.” - </p> - <p> - “Dead?” - </p> - <p> - He threw back the clothes, leapt out and snatched the paper. Standing in - the sunlight he caught the head-line, TO SAVE OTHERS. His eyes skipped the - matter below it, gathering the sense: “At the crowded hour—in - Hyde Park yesterday afternoon—lost control of his horse, Satan—bolted - to where children were playing—swerved aside—rode purposely - into an iron fence—thrown and broke his neck.” - </p> - <p> - The paper fell from his hand. He picked it up and reread it. Some mistake! - He wouldn’t believe it. The Faun Man dead! He’d been so - brimming with life. Never again to hear his mandolin strumming! Never - again to hear his gallant laughter! To walk through the roses at Tree-Tops—and - he would not be there! - </p> - <p> - Peter sat down on the edge of the bed, clenching his forehead in his - hands. The voice, the gestures, everything—everything that had been - so essentially the Faun Man he wanted to recall before he could forget. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “If yer gal ain’t all yer thought ‘er - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And for everyfing yer’ve bought ‘er - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - She don’t seem to care——-” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - He could see him bending over the strings slyly smiling. He had been of - such high courage that he could coin humor, out of his own unhappiness. - </p> - <p> - Then, like a minor air played softly, “Lorie, he loves you. If he - asks you again—-” and the golden woman’s broken assent, - “If he asks me.” - </p> - <p> - She had kept him waiting too long. He had asked her for the last time that - morning. He couldn’t ask her again, however much she desired it—couldn’t. - She’d blamed him for his first neglect of her—had made it an - excuse for her own unfaithfulness. He hadn’t met her. His neglect of - her had been simply that he was dead. - </p> - <p> - Word came two days later—they had brought him home to Tree-Tops. - That evening Peter gained leave of absence. - </p> - <p> - <i>Whitesheaves!</i> The name was embroidered in geraniums on the velvet - of the close-cut turf. The train halted long enough for him to alight, - then pulled out puffing laboriously. It seemed an affront that people - should be journeying when across the fields the Faun Man lay, his journey - forever at an end. Only one other passenger got out—a young chap, in - flannels and a straw-hat, who was instantly embraced by a radiant-faced - girl. They sauntered arm-inarm to where a dog-cart was standing and drove - away into the evening stillness, their heads bent together, their laughter - floating back in snatches. - </p> - <p> - Peter set out reluctantly by a short-cut through wheat-fields. He didn’t - want to prove to himself that it had happened. He was trying to imagine - that he had come on one of his surprise visits. He would find the Faun Man - dreaming, sprawled like a lean hound in the twilight of the terraced - garden. - </p> - <p> - The sun hung large and low in the west. A breeze swept the country with a - contented humming, bowing the heads of the corn. In the distance, above - Curious Corner, chiseled in the greenness of the hill the white cross - glistened. Through trees a spire shot up. Beneath boughs thatched roofs of - the village showed faintly. He rounded a bend; the house to which he was - going gazed down on him. It hadn’t the look of a house of death. Its - windows shone valiantly above the pallor of the rose-garden, out-staring - the splendor of the fading west. - </p> - <p> - He climbed the red-tiled path—came to the threshold. The door was - hospitably open. Like birds hopping in and out of a hedge, the breeze and - the fragrance of flowers came and went. He knocked. No one answered. He - tiptoed in. A breathless silence! Mounting the stairs, he came to the door - with the iron latch, which gave entrance to the Faun Man’s bedroom. - </p> - <p> - Flowers! He had always loved flowers. They were strewn on a bed - unnaturally white and unruffled. An unnatural peace was everywhere. The - sheet was turned back from the face; the brown slight hands stretched - straightly down. Each was held by a woman who knelt beside him with her - head bowed. The attitude of the women was tragic with jealousy. - </p> - <p> - How long and graceful he looked in death! How gaunt and tired! All the - striving, the brave pretending, the famished yearning which he had - disguised showed plainly now. A smile hung about the corners of his mouth—a - little mocking perhaps, yet tender. A bruise was on his forehead. He had - the look of one who, having been puzzled, understood life at last and was - content. - </p> - <p> - Peter felt that he had intruded. He had no right to stay there. Those - bowed heads reproached him. He felt what men often feel when death is - present: the body had been put out to usury; at the end of the trafficking - it belonged to women, as it had belonged to a woman before the trafficking - commenced. - </p> - <p> - He wandered out into the garden. Twilight weakened into darkness. His feet - were always coming back to the window; he stood beneath it, looking up to - where she knelt. If it were only for a moment, surely she would come to - him. Again he entered. No stir of life in the house. He peered into the - bedroom. She had not moved since he left. - </p> - <p> - Beyond her was the door which led into the Faun Man’s study. - Noiselessly he stole across to it and raised the latch. - </p> - <p> - The room was in darkness. Set against the open window was a desk. - Moonlight drifted in on it. A chair was pushed back from it. A pen lay - carelessly on the blotting-pad, waiting for the master to return. Here it - was possible to believe that the mind still lived and worked. - </p> - <p> - A movement! He stretched out his hand. Someone rose. Into the shaft of - moonlight came the face of a man. “Oh—oh, it’s you, - Harry!” - </p> - <p> - He struck a match and lit the lamp. They talked softly, in short whispered - sentences. On the floor, on tables, on chairs, books and manuscripts lay - scattered. The breeze blowing in at the window turned pages, as though an - invisible person were searching. A sheet of paper, lying uppermost on the - desk, fluttered across the room to where Harry sat. He stooped, picked it - up, ran his eye over it and handed it to Peter. “The last thing he - wrote. Thinking of her to the end.” - </p> - <p> - Peter took it and read, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “She came to me and the world was glad— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - ‘Twas winter, but hedges leapt white with May; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - With snow of flowers my fields were clad, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Madly and merrily passed each day, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And next day and next day— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - While all around - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - By others naught but the ice was found. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - ‘O ungrateful heart, were you ever sad? - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - She was coming to you from the first,’ I said. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - She turned to me her eager head, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Clutching at what my thoughts did say. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “She went from me and the world was sad— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - ‘Twas spring-time and hedges were all a-sway; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - With snow of winter my fields were clad, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Darkly and drearily passed each day, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And next day and next day— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - While all around - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - By others naught but spring-buds were found. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - ‘O foolish heart, were you ever glad? - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - She was going from you from the first,’ I said. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - She turned to me her eager head, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Clutching at what my thoughts did say.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “Like his life—an unfinished poem.” Peter leant out to - return it to Harry, but found that he had fallen asleep in his chair. - </p> - <p> - The lamp burnt itself out. The chill of dawn was in the air. Through the - window the sky was gathering color, like life coming back to the cheeks of - the dead. The door opened slowly. Stiff with long sitting he staggered to - his feet. “Cherry!” - </p> - <p> - Pressing her finger against her lips, she motioned him to be silent. - Glancing at Harry she whispered, “The first sleep in two days, poor - fellow.” - </p> - <p> - As he followed her across the dusk of the bed-chamber, a pool of gold - caught his attention; it glittered on the pillow by the face of the Faun - Man. The golden woman lay crouched like a pantheress beside the body, her - eyes half-shut and heavy with watching. - </p> - <p> - In the pallor of the rose-garden Cherry halted. She gave him both her - hands. “We can never be more to one another. Since this—I’m - quite certain now. I always wanted to be only friends.” - </p> - <p> - The heart of the waking world stopped beating. His hope was ended. - Clasping her hands against his breast, he drew her to him. She gave him - her cold lips. “For the last time.” She turned. He heard her - slow feet trailing up the stairs. - </p> - <p> - As he walked to the station through rustling wheat-fields the sun lifted - up his scarlet head, shaking free his hair, like a diver coming to the - surface at the end of a long plunge. Birds rose singing out of corn and - hedges, proclaiming that another summer’s day had commenced. But - Peter—he heard nothing, saw nothing of the gladness. He saw only the - final jest—the smile, half-mocking, half-tender, that hung about the - Faun Man’s mouth; and he heard Cherry’s words, “I always - wanted to be only friends.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XLIV—IN SEARCH OF YOUNGNESS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>o you I owns h’up; - I ‘as me little failin’s, especially since Cat’s Meat———He - could never mention Cat’s Meat without wiping his eyes. “But - if I ‘as me little failin’s, that ain’t no reason for - callin’ me Judas His Chariot and h’other scripture nimes. She’s - a dustpot, that’s wot she is, my darter Grice.” - </p> - <p> - “A what?” asked Peter. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grice was surprised that a man just down from Oxford shouldn’t - know the word; he was flattered to find himself in a position to explain. - </p> - <p> - “A dustpot,” he repeated. “That means a child wot sits - on ‘er father’s ‘ead.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, a despot!” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace had learnt to be patient under correction. “Now, Master - Peter, ain’t that wot I said? I sez, ‘She’s a dustpot’; - then you sez, ‘Oh, a dustpot!’ ‘Owever yer calls it, - that’s wot I calls ‘er.” - </p> - <p> - They were sitting in an empty cab in the stable from which Mr. Grice hired - his conveyance. Peter touched the old man’s hand affectionately. - “I’ve been wondering—thinking about you. You know, I’m - going traveling with Kay. My friend, the Faun Man, left me a thousand - pounds to buy what he called ‘a year of youngness.’ He was - great on youngness, was the Faun Man.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace nodded. His eyes twinkled. “Remember that night, Peter, - and the song ‘e made h’up about yer? - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - ‘Oh, Peter wuz ‘is nime, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - So Peterish wuz ‘e, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - ‘E wept the sun’s h’eye back agen, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Lest ‘e should never see.‘= - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - H’I orften ‘um it ter the ‘osses when h’I’m - a-groomin’ of ‘em. Sorter soothes ‘em—maikes - ‘em stand quiet.” - </p> - <p> - “I remember,” said Peter; “but here’s what I was - going to say: you hav’n’t had an awful lot of youngness in - your life and yet you’re—how old, Mr. Grace? Seventy? I should - have guessed sixty. Well, it doesn’t seem fair that I——.” - </p> - <p> - “Nar then, Master Peter! H’it’s fair enough. Don’t - you go a-wastin’ o’ yer h’imagination. I don’t - need no pityin’.” - </p> - <p> - “But it doesn’t seem fair, really; so I’m going to make - you an offer—a very queer offer. How’d you like to live in the - country and get away from Grace?” - </p> - <p> - “‘Ow’d I like it? ‘Ow’d a fly like ter git h’out - o’ the treacle? ‘Ow’d a dawg like ter find ‘isself - rid o’ fleas? ‘Ow’d a——? Gawd bless me soul—meanin’ - no prefanity —wot a bloomin’ silly quesching!” He paused - reflectively. “But a dawg, Master Peter, gits sorter useter ‘is - fleas, and a fly might kinder miss the treacle. H’I’d like it - well enough; but if there warn’t nothink ter taik me thoughts h’orf - o’ meself, I’d feel lonesome wivout ‘er naggin’.” - </p> - <p> - Peter laughed. “I’ll give you something to do with your - thoughts. My Uncle Ocky——.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace woke up, turned ponderously and surveyed Peter. “That’s - h’it, is h’it? That awright. Rum old card, yer uncle! H’I - never fancied as h’I’d let h’anyone taik the plaice wot - Cat’s Meat ‘eld in me h’affections. ‘E ‘as. - Tells me h’all ‘is troubles, ‘e does. Life’s gone - ‘ard wiv ‘im since Mr. Widder sent ‘im packin.’ My - fault—I’m not denyin’ h’it. We ‘as our glass - tergether and we both ‘ates wimmen—or sez we does. ‘E - borrers a bit from me nar and then. Mr. Waffles and me is good pals—we - ‘as lots in common. You, for h’instance.” - </p> - <p> - Peter inquired from Mr. Grace where he would be likeliest to find his - uncle. - </p> - <p> - “Likeliest! H’if yer puts it that waie, h’I should saie - yer’d be likeliest ter find ‘im in a pub.” - </p> - <p> - Out of the tail of his eye Ocky saw Peter entering. - </p> - <p> - “Horrid stuff,” he said loudly; then in a whisper to the - barmaid, “Give me another three penn’orth.—— Why, - hulloa, old son!” - </p> - <p> - Peter led him into a private room and said he’d pay for it. “D’you - remember that night at the Trocadero—you know, when Glory was with - us. I told you what I’d do for you if I ever had money. Suppose I - could give you a chance to pull straight, what would you do with it?” - </p> - <p> - Tears came into Ocky’s eyes; he’d grown unused to kindness. - “Is it the truth you’re wanting, Peter?—— If you - gave me the chance to pull straight, I’d do what I’ve always - done—mess it.” - </p> - <p> - Peter shook his head incredulously and smiled. “Don’t believe - you. You’d pull straight fast enough if you knew that anyone cared - for you.” - </p> - <p> - “No one does, except you, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh yes, there’s someone—someone whom you and I, yes, - and I believe all of us, are always forgetting.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0010" id="linkimage-0010"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0457.jpg" alt="0457m " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0457.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - Ocky looked up slowly. “You mean Glory.” He leant across the - table, tapping with his trembling fingers. “Know why I went to hell?—it - sounds weak to say it. I went to hell because I had no woman to hold me - back with love. If I could have Glory—-. But she’ll be - thinking of marrying. I’ve spoilt her chances enough already.” - </p> - <p> - “If you could have Glory,” Peter insisted, “and if you - were to have, say, five hundred pounds, what would you do then?” - </p> - <p> - “The truth again?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing else would be of any use, would it?” - </p> - <p> - “If I had five hundred pounds and Glory, I’d move into the - country and buy a pub. I’ve lived to be over fifty, I’ve - learnt only one bit of knowledge from life.” - </p> - <p> - “What is it?” - </p> - <p> - Ocky flushed. “To you I’m ashamed to say it.” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind. Say it.” - </p> - <p> - Ocky twirled his mustaches, covering his confusion, “To know good - beer when I taste it.” - </p> - <p> - Peter leant back laughing, “That’s something to start on, isn’t - it?” - </p> - <p> - Next day he told Glory, “They’re willing—both of ‘em.” - </p> - <p> - In searching the papers for advertisements, he came upon an announcement. - </p> - <p> - <i>Near Henley, The Winged Thrush. Comfortable riverside hostelry; - pleasantly situated; suitable for artist or poet, desirous of combining - lucrative business with pleasure, etc. A bargain. Reason for selling, - going to Australia.</i> - </p> - <p> - He remembered—that last night of the regatta, the sun-swept morning, - the glittering river, and the breakfast in the arbor with Cherry. - </p> - <p> - The purchase was arranged. Ocky, Glory and Mr. Grace went down to see the - place. Mr. Grace was to look after the ‘osses—if there were - any; if there weren’t, he was to help in serving customers. For a - reason which he would not explain, Peter refused to accompany them on - their tour of inspection. - </p> - <p> - During those last days, before he and Kay set out on their year of - youngness, he saw Glory often. From her he learnt of Riska and her many - love-affairs; how they always fell short of marriage because she carried - on two at once or because of the deceit concerning her father. She was - getting desperate; she had been taught that the sole purpose of her being - was to catch a man—so far she had failed. She still had hope—there - was Hardcastle. In a sly way, she saw a good deal of him. Exactly how and - where, she had pledged Glory not to divulge. - </p> - <p> - And Peter learnt of Eustace. Eustace had gone to Canada, to take up - farming with money lent by Barrington. Jehane, with her tragic knack of - hanging her expectations on loosened nails, boasted that Eustace was to be - her salvation. Perhaps he was careless, perhaps he had gained a distaste - for the atmosphere of falsity which had formed his home environment; in - any case, he wrote more and more rarely, and showed less and less desire - for his mother to join him as the period of his absence lengthened. - Jehane, as she had done with his father before him, invented good news - when good news was lacking, bolstering her pride in public. Her children, - despite her sacrifices for them, watched her with judging eyes and, - directly they arrived at a reasoning age, began to detect her hollowness. - Eustace was gone. Glory was going. Riska, failing another accident, would - soon be married to Hardcastle. Only Moggs, Ma’s Left Over as they - had called her because of her tininess, remained. She was a child of - twelve, submissive in her ways, colorless in character and with Ocky’s - weak affectionateness of temperament. - </p> - <p> - It was the morning of Kay’s and Peter’s departure. During - breakfast, the last meal together, Barrington had sat looking at the - landscape by Cuyp, as he always did in moments of crisis. The cab was at - the door; the luggage had been carried out. The adventure in search of - youngness had all but begun. The door bell rang and the knocker sounded. A - telegram was handed in. Barrington opened it—glanced at the - signature. “Ah, from Jehane!” - </p> - <p> - As he read it, his face grew grave. He passed it to Nan and led Peter - aside. “Don’t tell Kay. It’s about Riska. She’s - run off with that fellow Hardcastle. Whether she’s married to him or——. - It doesn’t say.” - </p> - <p> - His own rendering of the situation was plain—“Ripe fruit, - ready to fall to the ground.” - </p> - <p> - They entered the cab, driving into the great worldwideness. And Riska, - with her impatient mouth and pretty face, she also, in her stormy way, had - gone in quest of youngness. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XLV—LOVE KNOCKS AT KAY’S DOOR - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he castle stood - like a gleaming skull, balancing on the edge of a precipice. The centuries - had picked it clean. Through empty sockets, about which moss gathered, it - watched white wings of shipping flit mothlike across the blue waters of - the Gulf of Spezia. It had been the terror of sailors once—a - stronghold of pirates, Saracens and Genoese, fierce men who had built the - hunchback town that huddled against the rocks behind it. Now it was - nothing but a crumbling shell, picturesque and meaningless save to - tourists and artists. The tourists came because Byron had written <i>The - Corsair</i> in its shadow, and the artists——. - </p> - <p> - One of them had left his canvas on an easel in a broken archway. Kay - tripped across and looked at it—a wild piece of composition, all - white and green and orange, splashed in with vigor, with the fierce - Italian sky above it. It interpreted the spirit of the place—its - loneliness, its lawless past, its brooding sense of unsatisfied passion. - She turned away, awed by its power, a little frightened by its intensity. - It made her feel that, from behind tumbled mastery, eyes were gazing at - her. Climbing the splintered tower, she watched the sunset. In the great - stillness she could hear stones dropping down the sheer cliff into the - racing tide beneath. - </p> - <p> - She had forgotten how time was passing. That low bass humming! It was the - voice of the sea; it seemed as though the sun’s voice spoke to her. - Across the blue of the Mediterranean a golden track led up to the horizon. - At its end a fiery disc hung, like a gong against which the waves tapped - gently. - </p> - <p> - It had been a tumultuous day—a day of excited fears, winged hopes - and strategies. Harry was coming. Peter had received the astounding - telegram that morning. - </p> - <p> - “Queer chap! This was sent off from Genoa. He’s almost here by - now. Why on earth didn’t he let us know earlier?” - </p> - <p> - Why hadn’t he? Kay knew—because, if he had, there would have - been still time for her to turn him back. The persistent mouth-organ boy, - he was always quite certain that he had only to make up his mind and he’d - get his desire. She didn’t like him any the less for that, but——. - </p> - <p> - No, she wouldn’t be there to meet him. She had excused herself to - Peter and had accompanied him to the sun-baked pier, at which the steamer - called on its way from Lerici to Spezia. She had waved and waved till he - was nearly out of sight—then she had fled. - </p> - <p> - Why? She couldn’t say—couldn’t say exactly, but very - nearly. She had forbidden her mouth-organ boy to come—and he was - coming. She was secretly elated to find herself defied. After all, she - didn’t own Italy, and——. But Harry wasn’t making - the journey to see Italy, nor to see Peter. She was well aware of that—Peter - wasn’t. - </p> - <p> - So she had persuaded one of her fishermen friends to sail her across the - gulf to Porto Venere. Down there in the sleepy harbor he was waiting, his - brown eyes lazily watching, his ear-rings glittering, his fingers rolling - cigarettes, not at all perturbed but wondering, with a shrug of his - shoulders, why she so long delayed. - </p> - <p> - And Harry, he too would be wondering, thinking her unkind. Peter had - probably brought him back to San Terenzo by now. They would have been on - the lookout for her directly the steamer rounded the cypressed headland. - When they hadn’t found her on the pier, they would have made haste - to the yellow villa in which they lived, which had been Shelley’s. - And again, they hadn’t found her. She could imagine it all—just - what had happened: Peter’s discreet apologies, and Harry’s - amused suspicion that he was being punished. His laughter—she could - imagine that as well; he always laughed when he was hurt or annoyed. - </p> - <p> - Kay clasped her hands. It was rotten of her not to go to him. All day she - had wanted to be with him. He had traveled all the way from London to get - a glimpse of her. And yet, knowing that, she sat on in the ruined castle, - while the reluctant day, like a naughty child at bed-time, saffron skirts - held high, stepped lingeringly down the purple hills, keeping the sun - waiting. - </p> - <p> - She was trying to arrive at a conclusion. To Peter she was everything—more - than ever this past year had taught her that. He made no plans for the - future in which she was not to share. It was just as it had been when they - were girl and boy—he seemed to take it for granted that they were - always to live together. The thought that she should marry never entered - his head. Save for the mouth-organ boy, it would not have entered hers. - </p> - <p> - But the mouth-organ boy! Long ago, when she couldn’t see him, she - had heard him playing in the tree-tops. It was something like that now. - Since she had left England, his letters had followed her. Sometimes she - hadn’t answered them. Sometimes she had answered them casually. - Sometimes she had had fits of contrition and had written him volumes—compact - histories of her thoughts and doings. It made no difference whether she - was punctual or neglectful; like a familiar friend in unfamiliar places, - his handwriting was always ahead of her travels, waiting to greet her. - </p> - <p> - “What does he say?” Peter would ask her. - </p> - <p> - Then she would read him carefully edited extracts—nice polite - information, entirely innocuous. Peter hadn’t guessed. He mustn’t. - </p> - <p> - How preposterous it had seemed when Harry had first written her that he - loved her! She hadn’t regarded him in the aspect of a lover—didn’t - want to. It had seemed almost treachery to Peter. But now——. - Now it didn’t seem at all preposterous—only wonderful, and - true, and puzzling. - </p> - <p> - How long ago was it? Eight months since he had told her. She had been a - child then—seventeen, with cornflower eyes and blowy daffodil hair. - The knowledge that she was loved had startled her into womanhood. - </p> - <p> - She ought to be getting back. But Peter, Peter from whom she had no - secrets, didn’t know. She dared not tell him—and Harry was - there. Peter had given her so much—this year of romance; and yet, - with all his giving——. - </p> - <p> - He might give her his whole life; he couldn’t give her this - different thing that Harry offered. - </p> - <p> - She rose to go. Her attention was arrested. It couldn’t be! Gazing - sheer down, she leant out across the broken parapet. In the racing tide, - through its treacherous whirlpools, a man was swimming. She could see his - reddish hair and beard shine as they caught the sunset. As he lunged - forward, they sank beneath the surface. She held her breath. - </p> - <p> - He was keeping near in to the rocks—so near that, had she dropped a - stone, it would have struck him. With all his fighting, he was making - little progress. It was too far to the town to run for help—moreover, - none of the fishing-boats ever ventured there. She wanted to cry out - encouragement; she feared to distract him from his effort. Now, in - rounding a bend, he was lost to sight. Ah! There he was again. She saw - where he was going—to the weather-beaten steps which wound down the - precipice. He stretched out his hand and pulled himself up, dragging his - body across the rocks like a fly which had been all but drowned. He stood - up, white and magnificent, squeezing the water from his beard and hair. As - he commenced to climb the stair in the cliff-front, he vanished. - </p> - <p> - She couldn’t go now. Her curiosity was roused. What kind of a man - could be so foolhardy as to do a thing like that? Drawing back into the - shadow of the tower, she waited. - </p> - <p> - Whistling—faint at first! It was a gay little Neapolitan air. - Singing for a stave or two! It broke off—the whistling took up the - air. Gulls flew up, circling and screaming. Above the moldering ramparts, - red and gold against the red and gold of the sunset, came the valiant head - of a man who might have been the last of the pirates. His eyes shone like - blue fire. The wind was in his beard and hair. When he had lifted himself - on to the wall, he stood there, on the very edge, looking back perilously. - He was of extraordinary height and strength. The teeth, through which he - whistled, were strong and white—everything about him was powerful, - his hands, his shoulders, his courageous face. He seemed a survival of - ancient deity—a sea-god who, thinking himself unobserved, had landed - at the spot where, centuries ago, Venus had been worshiped by a forgotten - world. He looked solitary and irresponsible—a law to himself. - Because of his size and the remoteness of the place, Kay was filled with - lonely terror. - </p> - <p> - He walked slowly over to the easel in the broken archway. He was - bare-armed and bare-footed; his shirt was collarless and turned back at - the neck. Still whistling, he picked up the palette, pushed his thumb - through it, glanced across his shoulder seaward and commenced touching in - streaks of color. He worked carelessly, yet with rapid intensity. - Sometimes he left ofif whistling, stepped back from the canvas, his head - on one side, and surveyed his handiwork. The light was failings Kay prayed - that he had finished—but no. Driven to desperation, she thought she - could creep by him. Harry and Peter would be getting nervous. - </p> - <p> - She had drawn level with him. A stone turned beneath her foot. His head - twisted sharply. She commenced to run. Glancing back, she saw his eyes - following—he was laying down his brushes and palette. In her panic, - she had chosen the wrong direction; a wall rose in front, blocking her - exit. He was coming—she could hear his bare feet overtaking her. She - climbed the wall; below lay the sea, now orange, now sullen in patches. - There was no way of escape; she looked down. The space made her dizzy; she - groped with her hands as if to push back the distance. She felt like a - bird with its wings folded, falling, falling. Everything had gone black. - </p> - <p> - For a moment she was held out above the sea, her flight arrested. Blue - eyes bent over her laughing. She was swung back. She found herself lying - on the sun-scorched turf. The man was kneeling beside her, chafing her - hands and forehead. Her faintness left her. As she gazed up at him, he - smiled and said something in an unintelligible language. She sat up - bewildered, trying to appear brave. “I’m—I’m all - right, thank you. I’ll go now.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, a little English girl!” His voice was deep and pleasant. - </p> - <p> - She surveyed him with growing confidence. How concerned and gentle he was - for so large a creature! She scrambled to her feet. He was quick to take - her hand, but she withdrew it from him. “I’m really all right. - It was only dizziness. Good-by, Mr.—Mr. Neptune.” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Neptune!” He plucked at his red beard and planted himself - in front of her. His eyes twinkled. “Strange little English girl, - why do you call me that?” - </p> - <p> - “Because you came out of the sea. And d’you know, before I go - I want to tell you—I was awfully afraid you’d get drowned. Do - you always swim when you come to the castle?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Neptune placed his hands on her slight shoulders. They were large and - masterful hands, barbaric with vivid smudges of the colors he had been - using. She was conscious that, in his artist’s way, he was looking - not so much at her as at her body. - </p> - <p> - “Always swim to the castle! No. It was the first time. Your poet, - Byron, was the last to do it. Thought I’d try just for sport, as you - English call it.” - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn’t do it again,” she said wisely; “and - now I must really go.” - </p> - <p> - He didn’t budge from her path. She waited. He regarded her with - amusement. “Going! Not till you’ve promised to let me paint - your portrait.” - </p> - <p> - Kay was astounded and—yes, and flattered. He might be a great - artist; he had the air of a man who was important. But she was more - frightened than flattered: he looked so huge standing there in the yellow - twilight. - </p> - <p> - “Please, please,” she said, “you must let me go. My - brother’s waiting for me and he’ll be nervous.” - </p> - <p> - He made no sign that he had heard, but gazed down at her intently with his - bare arms folded. She hesitated. A sob rose in her throat. “Why—why - should you want to paint me?” - </p> - <p> - “Because,” he said, “you are beautiful. What is - beautiful dies, but I—I make it last for always.” Then, in a - gentler voice, “Because, little English girl, if I don’t paint - you, we may never meet again.” - </p> - <p> - It was the way in which he said it—the thrilling sadness of his - tone. She felt that she was flushing, and laughed to disguise her - embarrassment. “But, Mr. Neptune, I’ve thanked you and—and - it was your fault that we met—and isn’t it rather rude of you - to prevent me from——?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” he spoke deliberately, “not rude. You’re - adorable—too good to die. I want to make you live forever. If I were - Mr. Neptune, d’you know what I’d do? I’d swim off with - you, earth-maiden.” - </p> - <p> - Her words came quickly; she was afraid of what he might say or do. “I - promise. You shall paint me.” - </p> - <p> - She tried to pass him. He put his arm before her as a barrier. His eyes - flashed down on her, gladly and gravely. “When the English promise - anything, they shake hands on it. Is that not so?” - </p> - <p> - She slipped her small hand into his great one. She heard a footstep - behind; it was her fisherman who had at last come in search of her. She - nodded to let him know that she was coming. Now that she was not alone, - she lost her fear of the giant. She became interested in him. She almost - liked him. - </p> - <p> - “Where will you paint me?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Here, against the sky. It’s the color of your eyes. We’re - going to be friends—is it so?” He stepped aside. “Then, - little English girl, good-night.” - </p> - <p> - As she passed under the broken archway, she turned and waved. His blue - eyes still followed her through the yellow twilight. - </p> - <p> - Down through the hunchback town she went. Its streets were deformed, - steeply descending, scarcely more than a yard wide. It was eloquent with - memories of unrecorded fights, in which a handful had held Porto Venere - against armies. Beneath its close-packed roofs it was already night. - Before little shrines in the walls candles glistened. Sailor-men, with - gaudy sashes round their waists, bowed their heads and crossed themselves - reverently as they passed. In crooked doorways mothers sat suckling their - babies—madonnas with the oval faces and kind eyes that Raphael loved - to paint. To them the mystery of love was divulged; many of them no older - than Kay. - </p> - <p> - After her great fear she was strangely elated. She had seen admiration in - a man’s eyes. “Why should you want to paint me?” She - could hear his deep voice replying, “Because you are beautiful.” - Then came the wistful knowledge of life’s brevity, “What is - beautiful dies.” She had never thought of that—that she and - Harry and Peter, and all this world which was hers to-day must die. The - old town with its defaced magnificence, its battered heraldry, its - generations of lover-adventurers who had left not even their names behind - them—everything reminded her, “What is beautiful dies.” - She was consumed with a desire she had never known before—to - experience the rage of life. - </p> - <p> - Why was it? What had made her waken? Was it contact with a primitive and - virile personality? She had gained a new understanding of manhood. Would - Harry be like that, if he lived to-day as though it were a thousand years - ago? - </p> - <p> - She stepped into the boat, curling herself in the prow among nets where - she would be out of the way of the sail. Darkness was stealing across the - sky, a monstrous shadow-bird whose wings roofed in the gulf from shore to - shore. The sail began to bulge; the boat lay over on its side. Outlines of - wooded hills grew vague. To the north Spezia lay, a blazing jewel. At the - mast-heads of anchored men-of-war lanterns twinkled faintly. She trailed - her hand, watching how the water ran phosphorescent through her fingers. A - fisher-boat crept out of the dusk. A guitar was being played. A man’s - voice and a girl’s, singing full-throatedly! They faded voluptuously - into silence. - </p> - <p> - “Because you are beautiful.” Her young heart beat - flutteringly. Had others thought it and been afraid to tell her? She leant - back her head; stars gazed down on her, approvingly and placid-eyed. All - sounds and sights were touched with poetry. The whole of life before her! - Peter and Harry waiting! So much of youth to spend; so many choices! Yet, - only one choice—Peter. - </p> - <p> - A voice hailed her. “Hulloa! Is that you, Kay?” - </p> - <p> - So soon! She sat up. San Terenzo with its golden eyes! On the crazy quay - she made out two blurs of white. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Peter, it’s Kay. Is Harry with you?” - </p> - <p> - Before the boat had stopped, as it nosed its way along the side, Harry - leapt in. “At last! It’s you.” - </p> - <p> - His voice was strained and impetuous. For eight months he had waited; he - had been kept waiting an extra day—the longest of them all. - </p> - <p> - “Hush!” she whispered. “Peter—— I’ve - told him nothing. You shouldn’t have come, Harry; you really shouldn’t.” - </p> - <p> - She took a hand of each as they helped her to land. Walking back to the - villa, she gave them laughing glimpses of her adventure, “So it’s - not such a bad day’s work; he’s going to make me live forever - in a portrait.” - </p> - <p> - Good-nights had been said. From her window Kay had seen the lights blown - out in other bedrooms. The fishing-village, fringing the shore, had been - in darkness for two hours. She leant out, gazing across the bay to where - the headland of Lerici curved in like a horn. Life—that was what she - thought about. It was in this very room that Shelley had wakened and - recognized the cowled figure of his soul, and had heard it question, - “Art thou satisfied?” It was the same question that she asked - herself. - </p> - <p> - A knock upon the door! She started from the window and looked back. It - came again, so lightly that it seemed to say, “Only you and I are - meant to hear me.” - </p> - <p> - She threw a wrapper about her; her long bright hair fell shining across - her shoulders. It might be Peter. Again it came. - </p> - <p> - On the threshold Harry was standing. - </p> - <p> - “Let me speak to you.” - </p> - <p> - She hesitated. - </p> - <p> - “You gave me no chance to say anything. Am I to stay or—or to - go to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - He ought to go. She knew that. And yet——. - </p> - <p> - “I can wait, Kay. Though you send me away, I shall wait forever for - you.” - </p> - <p> - She was sorry for him—and more than sorry. This pleading of the - living voice was different—so different from the pleading of - letters. Dimly she heard within herself the echo of his clamor stirring. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Harry, I want you to stay—but to stay just as you were - always.” - </p> - <p> - He caught his breath. It was almost as though he laughed in the darkness. - “It was always as it is now. You didn’t know; it began that - first day when I fought Peter, showing off like a boy. So if it’s to - be as it was always——-.” - </p> - <p> - He looked so lonely standing there. He oughtn’t to be sad with her—it - hurt; they’d always been glad together. She took his hands - tremblingly, “Stay and be—be the mouth-organ boy. We’ll - have such good times, Harry, we three together. Don’t be my—anything - else. I’m too young for that, and—— - </p> - <p> - “And?” - </p> - <p> - “Peter hasn’t learnt to do without me. Lorie was the same with - you—you understand. So Harry, promise me that you won’t let - Peter know—won’t do anything to make him know, or to make him - unhappy.” - </p> - <p> - He put his arms about the narrow shoulders, stooping his head. “Trust - me.” - </p> - <p> - She leant her face aside sharply. “Not on my lips. They’re for - the man I marry.” - </p> - <p> - “But one day I——.” - </p> - <p> - She freed herself from him gently. “Neither of us can tell.” - </p> - <p> - In the days that followed, when they walked and swam and sailed together, - Harry recognized what Kay had meant when she said that Peter hadn’t - learnt to do without her. With the end of his hope of Cherry, all his - affections had flown homeward and had concentrated on the love of his - sister. It seemed as though he made an effort to find her sufficient for - his heart’s cravings. To all other women his eyes were blind. The - thought that any other woman should come into his life seemed never to - occur to him. - </p> - <p> - Glory—she wrote to him, as Harry had written to Kay, with - conscientious regularity. But he read her letters aloud, obviously without - editing; they were serious letters like her eyes, searching and quiet, - with a hint of need behind them, and with bursts of fun when she told of - the struggles of her stepfather and Mr. Grace to run The Winged Thrust - both genially and for profit. - </p> - <p> - And the man who lived to-day as though it were a thousand years ago—a - week after Kay had first met him, they sailed across the gulf to discover - him. They found him in the castle painting. - </p> - <p> - “Ha! The little English girl!” - </p> - <p> - He threw down his brushes and came toward her with his arms extended. He - gathered her hands together into his own and bent over her intently with - his eyes of blue fire, “I thought I’d lost my earth-maiden.” - </p> - <p> - That was all. So long as Harry and Peter were present he was no more than - a shaggy artist, a little self-important, a little shy. When they had - walked off to explore the town it was different. - </p> - <p> - He picked her up as though she were a child, and sat her on the broken - wall, where the blue sea swept behind her shoulders and the white clouds - raced through her corn-colored hair. For a while he was utterly silent, - touching in sketches of her, testing various poses. The smell of wild - thyme mingled with that of flowers, fermenting in the sunshine. From far - below the wash of waves rose coolly. - </p> - <p> - Presently he spoke. “You stopped a long while away. Every day I’ve - been here watching for you. I don’t often watch for anybody. If - people don’t come——,” he snapped his fingers, - “I begin again. I begin with someone who won’t keep me - waiting.” - </p> - <p> - His egotism seemed not conceit, but justified consciousness of power. Kay - was beginning to explain; he cut in upon her. “It’s all right. - For you I’d wait till—oh, till there wasn’t any castle—till - it was all swept into the sea by rain. But only for you—for other - people life’s too short.” He stopped sketching and looked up - at her. “Little English girl, life is very short. Phew!” He - blew out his cheeks. “Like that, and you are old. All the lovers are - gone. No one cares whether you live or die. With us men it’s the - same, only we—we search for the great secret. You have it in your - face. There’s so much to do; it’s not kind to keep us waiting.” - </p> - <p> - “The great secret! What is it?” - </p> - <p> - He appeared to take no notice of her question. Picking up his pencil, he - went back to his sketching. Then, while he worked, glancing occasionally - to her face where the radiance of the sunshine fell against her profile, - “The great secret! It’s hard to say. It’s why we’re - here, and from where we come, and where we go. It’s the knowledge of - life and the meaning of death; it’s everything that we call beauty. - I see it in your face. I paint it. How it came there, neither you nor I - can say.” - </p> - <p> - Next day he set to work on canvas. The picture grew. It wasn’t for - the picture that Kay went to him; it was for the things he said in the - loneliness, lifted high between the waste of tossing sea and restless sky. - He set her thinking; he made life more glad, more eager and, because of - its mystery, more poignant. The great secret! He didn’t hope to find - it; but he told her of the men who had sought. - </p> - <p> - In telling her, he brought the soul into her eyes and set it down on - canvas. A young girl with blowy hair, perched among things ancient, her - white hands folded, patient for the future, with the pain of joy in her - wide child’s eyes! That was what he painted. - </p> - <p> - And she—she was stirred by him. He gave her the freedom of his mind. - He treated her as a woman, teaching her knowledge and the sorrow of - knowledge—from all suspicion of which she had been guarded. She was - as much repelled as attracted by him; through him she learnt to love - Harry. She began to understand the suffering of love that is kept hungry. - She began to understand its urgency. At last she understood that such love - as Harry brought her must always stand first, sacrificing every other - affection. It was this that gave pain to her joy. - </p> - <p> - One day in early June, the man laid aside his brushes. “The last - touch. It’s finished.” - </p> - <p> - He lifted her down very gently and watched her as she stood before it. - Clasping and unclasping her hands, she gazed at her own reflection with an - odd mixture of wonder and ecstacy. “But—but it’s - beautiful.” - </p> - <p> - He put his arm about her shoulder, speaking softly, “And so are you.” - </p> - <p> - “But not so beautiful.” - </p> - <p> - “More. I couldn’t paint your voice.” - </p> - <p> - She stretched out her hands toward it. “Oh, I wish—I wish I - could have it.” - </p> - <p> - He tilted up her face. “Little English girl, it’s yours. I did - it for you. You’ll know now how you looked when your beauty dies.” - </p> - <p> - Tears came. It was like the world complaining against God’s - injustice. “But I don’t want it to die.” - </p> - <p> - He drew her head against him. “Kay—what an English name! - Little Kay, one thing will keep it alive.” She waited. “The - great secret,” he whispered; “it lies behind all life. For - other people your beauty will have vanished; a man who loves you will - always see it.” - </p> - <p> - Before she was aware, he had touched her lips. If was as though he had - stained her purity. - </p> - <p> - On the sail back to San Terenzo, as the darkness drew about them, she - crept closer to Harry. He felt her hand groping for his own. “Kiddy, - you’re burning—as hot as a coal. What is it? A touch of fever?” - </p> - <p> - She spoke chokingly. “Harry, my lips. They’re yours.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XLVI—THE ANGEL WHISTLES - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the longest - day in June. The room was stifling, filled with greenish light which fell - in stripes through the slats of the closed shutters. On the tiled floor - water had been sprinkled. Walls were stripped bare. A sheet, dipped in - disinfectants, was pinned across the open door. On the other side sat the - nun who had come to act as nurse. She sympathized with the jealousy that - kept them always at the bedside and only intruded when she was sent for, - or to give the medicines. This desperate clinging of flesh to flesh while - the soul was outgrowing the body—how often she had watched it! She - could not speak their language—didn’t understand anything but - the quivering tenderness of what was said. She was a little in awe of - these two young Englishmen who seemed so angry with God, and who sat day - and night guarding the dying girl lest, in an unheeded moment, God should - snatch her from them. Reckless of contagion, they bent above the pillow - where the flushed face tossed between the plaits of daffodil hair. - </p> - <p> - The fight was unequal; it couldn’t last much longer. It had been - going on for a week. Had they known in time that it was typhoid——. - By the time they knew it was too late for her to be removed. The - fishing-village had none of the necessities of nursing; the doctor had to - come from Spezia. - </p> - <p> - Someone had to go for him at this moment; she had had a relapse. Harry - looked at Peter. “I’ll go.” He spoke quietly, knowing - that she might not be there when he returned. - </p> - <p> - Peter touched Kay’s hand, attempting the cheerfulness which they had - feigned from the first, hoping that it might deceive even Death. - </p> - <p> - “Kitten Kay.” - </p> - <p> - She opened her eyes. She had gone back years as her strength had failed. - She spoke as she looked, like a slight child-girl far distant from - womanhood. - </p> - <p> - “Belovedest?” - </p> - <p> - They had been crowding the gentleness of a full life into the words - exchanged in those few days. - </p> - <p> - He started to speak; choked and had to start afresh. - </p> - <p> - “Harry’s off to Spezia to fetch the doctor—the man who’s - going to make you well.” - </p> - <p> - “Well!” - </p> - <p> - It was uttered deliberately, with a wise disbelieving smile. - </p> - <p> - “Harry! Harry!” - </p> - <p> - Her face grew troubled as she tried to recollect a name that was familiar. - </p> - <p> - Harry’s eyes filled with tears. He went on his knees beside her, - pressing her hand to his lips. - </p> - <p> - “Kay, don’t you know me—your mouth-organ boy?” - </p> - <p> - The puzzled look melted. A low laugh came to her parched lips. “My - dear, dear mouth-organ boy!” - </p> - <p> - At the door he gazed back longingly. Peter caught him by the arm. It was - the struggle not to be selfish—it had been going on through seven - days. - </p> - <p> - “You stay. Let me go.” - </p> - <p> - Harry shook his head. “She was yours before she was mine.” - </p> - <p> - He slipped out. His footsteps faded down the stairs. - </p> - <p> - In the house there was no sound—only her weary sighing. Everything - was hushed and shuttered. Outside waves dragged against the sand and broke - in long sparkling ripples. A pulley creaked as a fisherman hoisted sail. - Across the bay came the panting of the steamer from Lerici. It drew in - against the pier; boys’ laughter sounded and splashing as they dived - for money. Again the panting, wandering off into the distance. It rounded - the headland. - </p> - <h3> - 441 - </h3> - <p> - Silence——. So much of life in the world and none to spare for - her! And this had come at a time when her father was ill, so that neither - he nor her mother could come to her. - </p> - <p> - She threw back the sheet which was spread above her slender body. Her hand - groped out. “Peter, Peterkins, you hav’n’t left me?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll never leave you, and when you’re better——.” - </p> - <p> - Again the incredulous smile! He’ could get no further. Her voice, - quite near to him, reached him remotely. “If I should die—-.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke quickly. “You’re not going to.” - </p> - <p> - “But dearest, if I should——. You won’t be bitter—won’t - break your heart about me? If you did, I should know. I shouldn’t be - happy. Promise that you’ll still trust God and be happy.” - </p> - <p> - Against his belief he promised. - </p> - <p> - He thought her sleeping. Her lips moved. “God! No man hath seen——. - Beloved, we hav’n’t, have we?” - </p> - <p> - He was shaken with sobbing. He had to wait. “Dear little heart, you’ve - been God to me and—and to everybody.” - </p> - <p> - “Hold my hand, Peter.” He was holding it. “I’m so - tired. It’s night. Light the lamp. I want to see you.” - </p> - <p> - He unlatched the shutters. Across the dazzling blue of the gulf the sun - stared luridly, swinging low above the sea-line. - </p> - <p> - Her brain began to wander. She spoke unforgettable things—unforgettable - in their tenderness. It seemed that behind the confusion of her words her - spirit was preparing him. It was as though she turned the pages of memory - haphazard, chancing on phrases which summed up her short eighteen years of - existence. - </p> - <p> - “Peter in a Christmas cab!” There was what he had called the - laughter of birds in the way she said it. “Oh, it must be something - splendid.” - </p> - <p> - She came to a winter when she had nearly died—when Peter had been - sent for hurriedly from Sandport. “Peter! Peter! Peter!” She - wailed his name childishly. Then, as though she snuggled warmly against - one she trusted, “He’s never going to leave me. I shall get - well now.” - </p> - <p> - For some minutes she was silent. Of a sudden she sat up, crying, “I - don’t want to be a dead’un. I don’t want to be a dead’un.” - </p> - <p> - It all came back—his boyish attempt to explain heaven to her, and - her terror because there was no means of escape by trains or trams. As - then, so now, he failed to console her. She sank on the pillow exhausted - by her panic. - </p> - <p> - During those brief minutes while the sun fell lower, she re-enacted all - the joys and bewilderments which had been their childhood. Now they were - playing in the garden at Topbury. Now riding out to the Happy Cottage on - the tandem trike. Once it was a flowered meadow; she was trying to - whistle. His startled question of long ago went unspoken. Only her tearful - protest gave the clue to her wandering, “I never heard it, Peter—truly—never. - I made it up out of my own head.” - </p> - <p> - For one thing which she said he had no picture, “Not on my lips. - They’re for the man I marry.” - </p> - <p> - He buried his face. It was intolerable. “My God, I can’t bear - it.” Love and marriage—she spoke of them; she would never know - them. - </p> - <p> - Lying there so stilly, while death crept through her body, she seemed - uncannily sensitive to all that happened in his mind. She knew that - something she had said had hurt him. - </p> - <p> - Her delirium went from her. “Softy me, Peter, like you used to; I - shan’t be afraid then.” - </p> - <p> - He leant his face against her hair, his cheek touching hers. She lifted - her hand and stroked him comfortingly. - </p> - <p> - Was she wandering? He couldn’t tell. Her eyes were wide, gazing into - a great distance. “In heaven they are all—all serious.” - Feeling him touch her, she was filled with a wistful regret. “Beautiful - warm flesh and blood.” - </p> - <p> - She tried to turn her head. He raised himself over her. - </p> - <h3> - 449 - </h3> - <p> - It seemed that her sight had returned. He forced himself to smile lest she - should take fright at his crying. - </p> - <p> - “In heaven they are all—all——.” - </p> - <p> - He listened for her breath. - </p> - <p> - With unexpected strength, she fastened her arms about his neck and drew - herself up. - </p> - <p> - “Listen. Listen.” - </p> - <p> - She was staring through the open window to where a red spark smoldered on - the edge of the sea-line——. A sighing of wind across water! - From far away, whistling—a little air, happy and haunting, trilled - over and over! It was like a shepherd calling. - </p> - <p> - Her lips broke into a smile. “Beloved, I hear——.” - </p> - <p> - She drooped against his breast. The whistling grew fainter. The red spark - was quenched. The longest day was ended. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XLVII—“THEIR VIRGINS HAD NO MARRIAGE-SONGS; AND THEY - THAT COULD SWIM——” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n the first - stabbing sense of loss he hoped that he had caught the contagion and might - die. Life without her was unthinkable. Then, through very excess of grief, - his feelings became blunted. It seemed impossible that he would ever again - fear or expect. - </p> - <p> - He moved as in a shadow-world. Time had no significance. Days slipped by - uncounted. He was trying to understand life, searching behind the external - show for its secret meaning and purpose. Up till now, with the gay - generosity of a child, he had shared himself with those whom he loved and - by whom he was loved, concentrating and intensifying his affections. Now, - dimly at first, he began to view existence from the angle of - responsibility, as a river ever broadening and growing more adventurous, - pouring down from forgotten highlands to the conjectured sea. It was not - his journey that counted; it was the direction and journey of the total - river. If he suffered and had been glad, there were multitudes who were - glad and had suffered. What was the meaning of it—this alternating - sorrow and gladness? For the first time he asked himself how other people - thought, felt, endured—people like Jehane and Riska, like the golden - woman and Glory. - </p> - <p> - A month ago, had anyone told him that his sister would be taken from him, - he would have defied God by turning infidel. But now——. He - realized reluctantly how his very passion for her might have crippled her, - shutting out the natural and fine things that belong to every man and - woman. In giving her too much, he might have deprived her of what was most - splendid, giving her ultimate curtailment. How near he had come to doing - this he had learnt from Harry. - </p> - <p> - Her words were continually recurring in his memory, dragging him back from - despondency. “You won’t be bitter—won’t break your - heart about me? If you did, I should know. I shouldn’t be happy.” - The shame that he might be paining her was always with him. He had the - sure knowledge that, though he could not see her, she still lingered in - the house. Sitting with closed eyes, especially at twilight, he believed - he could hear her moving—moving gladly. The sound was always behind - him, even when he turned his head. He placed flowers about her room, - pretending she was alive; he liked to picture her surprise when she found - them. A white wraith of laughing mist, he imagined he saw her stoop above - them. In his mind he heard her voice, “Oh, Peterkins, how good you - still are to me!” The wind touched his cheek; it was her mouth. - </p> - <p> - While her body remained in the house his grief was inconsolable. Yet peace - came to him even before the mortal part, long and lily-white, was borne - through the sun-swept village to the garden on the hill gazing out to sea, - cypress-shadowed and quiet. - </p> - <p> - Through the first long night he sat beside her, fixing her features, - everything that had been her, indelibly in his mind. The swathed feet, - immobile as marble beneath the tall candles, brought back her saying, - “The joy goes into my feet when I’m glad.” - </p> - <p> - Wearied by watching, he slept. Again she was dying. He could hear her - voice, trying so hard to be patient. Someone entered, bringing a new body, - exactly like the old one but well. She rose and slipped into it, just as - if she were trying on a new dress. She caught him by the hand, laughing - excitedly. In their gladness, as they left the room, neither of them - remembered to look back to the bed; they had no pity for the abandoned - fleshly garment. - </p> - <p> - ——And was death no more than that to the dead—clothes - cast aside, outworn by the spirit? What a little to make a fuss about! - </p> - <p> - Through the open window dawn was breaking. In a chair Harry slept, his - chin fallen forward. Peter rose to his feet and tiptoed over to the still - face lying on the pillow, framed in the golden hair. He stood gazing down. - The morning wind walked the sea, like the feet of Jesus bringing peace to - sinful men. Far back he remembered another early morning when Kay’s - eyes had been closed and he had heard those same feet walking—snow - had lain on the ground. Another girl, strangely like her, with the same - bowed mouth and penciled brows, had been stretched beside her. While Kay’s - eyes were shuttered, the other eyes had opened. - </p> - <p> - As the days went by, the desire grew strong within him to see Glory—he - wanted to trace Kay’s likeness in the living features. And yet he - postponed. - </p> - <p> - It was September. Harry had left for London, called back by work. Letters - from Topbury implored his own return. He was afraid to abandon scenes - familiar; in losing them he might lose the sense of Kay’s spirit - presence. - </p> - <p> - Then to him, as to Harry, came the imperative cry of the need of the - world. - </p> - <p> - A telegram sent from Paris and forwarded on from Topbury reached him. Of - all persons it was from the golden woman. It bade him urgently to join - her. He took no notice. Another, saying that it was not she who wanted him - but someone whom he could help. A third, still more insistent. The first - he had suspected; this last was too pleading for insincerity. He packed up - and left. - </p> - <p> - In Paris she met him; even then she refused to tell him why she had sent - for him. She was a different golden woman, grave and quiet. The day after - his arrival, she took him out to a gray Normandy village. On the train - journey she had little to say; only once did she explain herself. A flight - of swallows was passing over a meadow going south, moving steadily as a - cloud. She met his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I’m different. The stork knoweth her appointed times, - and the turtle and the crane and the swallow, but——You - remember the passage. I didn’t know mine. I waited too long. - Foolish! Foolish!—— The winter came. My appointed time went by - me.” And a little later, “Don’t let that happen to you, - Peter.” - </p> - <p> - They walked down a white road and came to a cottage. She knocked. A voice, - which he ought to have recognized, told her to enter. Sitting in a low - chair, her foot rocking a cradle, was Riska. She rose, overcome with - surprise, lowering her face, awaiting his judgment. As he pressed her to - him, the baby began to cry. She stooped, picked him up and held him out to - Peter. - </p> - <p> - “Isn’t he sweet?” - </p> - <p> - The first words she had spoken—spoken without shame or apology, - almost with pride! It seemed impossible that a sin which had made a thing - so beautiful could need excusing. He met her eyes, reading in them - sacrifice. Where was the old Riska, impatient of restraint, eager to catch - men, with the petulant, fluttering mouth? The passion which should have - destroyed had purified, just as his grief which might have embittered had - made him more anxious to help. - </p> - <p> - On the way to England she told him of Hardcastle. “I got so tired of - trying and trying to get married. All the men found out something—father, - or my shallowness, or something. I don’t blame them. And all the - time, ever since I was a little girl, mother talked about the raft and - what happened if a girl didn’t escape from it. I grew desperate and - frightened. It was anything to catch a man. And then Roy——. He - said he’d marry me in Paris; afterwards he put off and put off. When - he’d deserted me, I didn’t like to write. After the baby came——. - I don’t know, it may be all wrong, but I wasn’t a bit ashamed - of myself. I didn’t write then because I couldn’t bear to - think of people despising him. If the golden woman hadn’t met me—— - Oh, well, I should have gone on somehow, earning money for baby with my - hands.——But, dear Peter, I’m so glad you found me. I - never understood you till now.” - </p> - <p> - At Topbury that first night, after a hurried reference to Kay, they didn’t - trust themselves to talk about her. They tortured themselves the more by - their reticence. Everything spoke so loudly of her absence. Nan sat with - Riska’s child in her arms—the child which should have been - unwelcome. It seemed to fill a gap in her life; they all knew what was - passing behind her eyes. The evening grew late. She and Riska went slowly - up to bed. - </p> - <p> - Peter turned to his father. For hours he had sat grimly watching the - landscape by Cuyp, where the comfortable burgher walked forever - unperturbed by the banks of the gray canal. - </p> - <p> - “Father.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “We’re not doing right.” - </p> - <p> - “Right!” He shrugged his shoulders. His gesture accused God - defiantly. - </p> - <p> - “No, father—not doing right. One of the last things she said - was that she’d know and be unhappy if we broke our hearts about her. - She does know, and—and I think we’ve been making her sad.” - </p> - <p> - For a long time his father sat brooding. He stretched out his hand, - “Your imagination, Peter—you’ve never outgrown it. But—but - we don’t want to make her sad.” - </p> - <p> - The house was hushed. It was some hours since they had climbed the stairs. - He crept out of his room into the one that had been hers. It was the same - as when, years ago, they two had shared it. He gazed across the lamp-lit - gulf to where Hampstead lay shrouded beneath the night. And he remembered: - the moon letting down her silver ladder and bidding him ascend; the - windows in streets he had never traversed, which had seemed to watch him - like the eyes of cats; the mysterious whistling from the powder-cupboard, - “Coming! Coming! Coming!” - </p> - <p> - He tried, as of old, to eliminate barriers by the magic of imagination. It - was true, surely, and he hadn’t grown up. Soon he would hear the - angel whistle. On the straight unruffled bed he would see the gentle - little body, with the tumbled honey-colored hair. - </p> - <p> - He forgot his promise not to break his heart about her. Throwing himself - down, he knelt beside the pillow, with his empty arms spread out. - </p> - <p> - A sound! Someone was holding him—someone who, coming on the same - errand, had discovered him. “Peterkins! Peterkins, don’t cry.” - </p> - <p> - His arms went about her neck. “Little mother, it’s long since - you called me that. I’m so tired—tired of pretending to be - brave and trying to be a man.” - </p> - <p> - They sent for Jehane next day and the next; at last they had to go and - fetch her. Her heart was hard because of the disgrace of what had - happened. She spoke with bitterness of her children. Glory’s joining - her stepfather at The Winged Thrush she construed as an act of treachery. - “A daughter of mine,” she said, “serving in a - public-house!” She had given up all hope that Eustace would ever ask - her to come to Canada. His infrequent letters had given her to understand - tacitly that she was not wanted. Only Moggs was left—a subdued - child, a little like Glory. Against disappointment from that quarter - Jehane forearmed herself by taking disappointment for granted. Her sense - of injustice centered in the paradox that Ocky was happy, despite his - mismanagement, while she, after all her painstaking rectitude, was sad. - </p> - <p> - Throughout the journey to Topbury she insisted vigorously that she would - never take Riska back. As she entered the hall of his house, Barrington - heard the last repetition of her assertion. “We don’t want you - to,” he said; “she and her child are going to live with us.” - Then Jehane saw Riska, and recognized the change; promptly she turned her - accusals against herself. She had been unwise. She had spoilt her life - both as wife and mother. Her calamities were her own doing. She needed - Riska—wanted her. “You’ll come with your mother, won’t - you?” - </p> - <p> - Riska shook her head gently—so gently that for a minute she looked - like Glory. “Mother dear, I can’t. I would if it were only - myself; I’ve baby to consider. You’d do for him just what you’ve - done——. You couldn’t help it. I’m going to stay - here with Aunt Nan and learn—learn to be like her—like Kay.” - </p> - <p> - Jehane covered her face with her hands. “I’m a bitter woman—yes, - and jealous. But that my own child should tell me—and should be able - to say it truly!” - </p> - <p> - She looked up. “If I were to try to be different, if I could prove - to you that I was different——.” - </p> - <p> - Riska put her arms about her mother’s neck, “That’s all - in the future. But, oh, I’m so sorry, so sorry. I know you’ve - done your best.” - </p> - <p> - “My best!” Her voice was full of self-despisings. “Oh, - well——!” - </p> - <p> - She had lost her last illusion—her faith in her own righteousness. - Barrington, watching the disillusioned woman, tried to trace in her - features the eager face, tell-tale of dreamings, that had beckoned to him - from a window on a summer’s afternoon in Oxford. He found no - resemblance. - </p> - <p> - He turned to Riska, who had played life’s game so recklessly, - plunging off the raft of maidenhood, swimming and drifting on chance-found - débris to the land of maternity, about which her mother was always - talking. - </p> - <p> - In searching Riska’s face he found Jehane’s dreamings come - true—self-fulfilment and mastery. Sacrifice, by the road of sin, had - accomplished them. He recollected how he had said of her, “Ripe - fruit—ready to fall to the ground.” He smiled wisely, - remembering his own unwisdom. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XLVIII—AND GLORY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span> e was late. It - didn’t matter; no one had been warned of his coming. - </p> - <p> - He punted down the last stretch of river. It had been Peterish, yet - appropriate of him to choose this means of travel. He had arrived in - Henley that morning. Had he gone by road, he could have been at The Winged - Thrush for lunch. Now, full behind him, spying beneath the bent arm of a - willow stooped the setting sun. - </p> - <p> - All day he had had the sense of things watching—memories, - associations of the past, hopes and dreads which had lost their power to - help or harm him. A new hope had become his companion; he gazed back, - taking a farewell glance at the old affections. - </p> - <p> - As he stole down the streak of silver, through ash-gray autumn meadows, he - had many thoughts. Cherry and the last time he had made that journey! The - Faun Man and himself—the way in which men mistake their love! - Withered reeds rustled with the motion of his passing. Fallen leaves, - scarlet and brown and yellow, starred the water’s surface. Thrusting - himself forward, he sang and hummed, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “I’ve been shipwrecked off Patagonia, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Home and Colonia, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Antipodonia-.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - He broke off, smiling whimsically. In a figurative sense his own - autobiography—almost a fulfilled prophecy! A brave song! He liked it—it - paid no heed to regret and recorded only the joy of pressing on. - </p> - <p> - Letting the punt drift, he stared back into the evening redness. It took - courage to learn what things to remember and how to forget. For some weeks - he had been trying to learn—this river-journey was the testing. - </p> - <p> - He rounded a bend. Ahead swans sailed placidly. Cattle stood knee-deep in - water. In the stream, tethered to a landing, boats swung idly. On a - close-cut lawn green tables were set out in the shadow of trees. - Everything stood hushed and huddled in the gilded quiet. - </p> - <p> - He stepped out and strolled up through the trellised garden. Finding no - one, he wandered round the inn to the back. From the stable-yard came the - splashing that water makes when a brush is plunged into a bucket; then a - droning sound, punctuated with the hissing of an ostler. Peter laughed - inwardly. - </p> - <p> - “Whoa there, boy! You ain’t a patch on Cat’s Meat. Call - yerself a ‘oss?—- Ah, would yer! Shish-shish-shish. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Oh Peter wuz ‘is nime, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - So Peterish wuz ‘e, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - ‘E wept the sun’s h’eye back agen - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Lest ‘e should never see.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “Hulloa, Mr. Grace!” - </p> - <p> - The old man started and overset his bucket. “Ho, me tripe and h’onions, - wot a fright yer did give me!—- Why, Master Peter, ‘oo’d - ‘ave thought ter see you ‘ere. Thought yer’d forgotten h’us - and wuz never comin’. H’I wuz just a-singin’ about yer. - H’I h’orften does when h’I’m a-groomin’ of a - ‘oss. Sorter soothes ‘im—maikes ‘im stand quiet.” - </p> - <p> - “Where’s Uncle Ocky?” - </p> - <p> - “Gone ter ‘Enley, white spats and h’all.” - </p> - <p> - “And Glory?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Grace caught the tremble in the question and glanced up sharply. - “And Glory!” He passed his hand in front of his mouth, “Miss - Glory, she——. H’it’s lonely for ‘er, a bit - of a gel, with two old codgers, like me and yer h’uncle. We does our - best, but——. Ho, yes! Where is she? On the river, maybe, - a-dreamin’. If yer’ll wite till h’I’ve finished - with this ‘ere ‘oss—— - </p> - <p> - “On the river!” Peter spoke quickly, to himself rather than to - his friend. “Couldn’t have passed her. Must be lower down.” - </p> - <p> - He was turning away. Mr. Grace called after him, “‘Alf a mo’! - Got somethink ter tell yer.” Peter halted. “H’it’s - abart me darter, Grice; h’unexpected like she’s——” - Peter waved his hand and passed out of ear-shot. Mr. Grace winked his eye - at the horse. “Ho, beg parding!” - </p> - <p> - The sun had sunk behind the trees; the moon was rising. A little breeze - shook the brittle leaves, laughing softly among them as they broke from - their anchorage and swooped like bats through the dusk. On the edge of the - lawn, overhanging the river, a white post stood ghostly. As he untied his - punt, Peter looked up and read the legend, <i>The Winged Thrush</i>. On - the sign was depicted a brown bird, fluttering its wings in a gilded cage. - He pushed off into the stream, creeping sharp-eyed between misty banks - through the twilight. - </p> - <p> - <i>And Glory!</i> Until the last few months his world had consisted of - other people—people who had seemed so important—and Glory. But - now—now that he could no longer follow the shining head of his - little sister, he had halted. Looking back, all through the years from - childhood he seemed to hear Glory, tiptoeing behind him. He had noticed - her so rarely. He remembered the time when he had told her to remain - seated on the garden wall, had forgotten her, had missed her and had - recollected her only to find her still waiting for him, crying in the - darkness. The terror seized him that to-night he might have remembered too - late—might have lost her. - </p> - <p> - Something tapped against the side of his punt. He leant out—a - floating oar! The stream was beginning to quicken; ahead rose the low - booming of water rushing across a weir. He gazed about him. Down the - shadowy river, darkly a-silver in moonlight, a black thing, like a log, - bobbed in the current. As he came up with it, a figure huddled in the - stern, called nervously to him, “Oh please, I’ve dropped my - oars; do help me.” He maneuvered alongside. “Why, Peter! Dear - Peter——!” - </p> - <p> - There was no time for talking. From bank to bank ahead of them the stream - leapt palely, like the white mane of a plunging horse. Putting his arm - about her, he lifted her rapidly into his punt. The empty boat hurried on - into the darkness. Working his way upstream, he ran into safety in a bed - of rushes. - </p> - <p> - “Glory, if I’d lost you!” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head laughing, “You couldn’t.” - </p> - <p> - He knelt beside her, clasping her hands. “But how——? - What were you doing?” - </p> - <p> - “Dreaming. Just wondering. While I drifted, they slipped from the - rowlocks.” - </p> - <p> - “Dreaming!” He stooped his face. “Of what—of whom?” - </p> - <p> - Her voice sank. “Must I tell?” - </p> - <p> - From his sky-window the man in the moon drew aside the curtain; he peered - out knowingly. - </p> - <p> - Peter had her in his arms. His lips touched hers in the dusk. His eyes met - hers—Kay’s eyes; even in the darkness he knew them. - </p> - <p> - “And you do care?—— You really want me?” - </p> - <p> - She drooped her head against his shoulder. “Oh, dearest, I always - wanted——. But I’m a girl, Peter; I didn’t dare——.” - </p> - <h3> - THE END - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Raft, by Coningsby Dawson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAFT *** - -***** This file should be named 50498-h.htm or 50498-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/4/9/50498/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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