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.
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.
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.
“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.
And Peter was his name, etc.
“He sailed the trackless waste
With hair the colourÃâû 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.”