The Raft
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