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.
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 thehauteurof 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? JustI 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’Iamcrusty 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.”
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.
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!