The Raft
“Humph! D'you know what it says about heaven in the Bible?--that there's
no marriage. Was that what she cried about?”
“Kay wouldn't cry about a thing like that. She's my little
sister--littler than me--and she's never going to marry. We're going
to live together always and have chipped potatoes and sausages for
breakfast.”
A smile twisted the thin straight lips of the sallow woman; it was the
first that Peter had seen there. It was almost tender--like a thing
forgotten coming back.
He laughed--he was always ready to laugh at himself. “You think that's
funny? Father thinks it's funny, too. He says, 'Peterkins, Peterkins,
time'll change all that.' But it won't you know, 'cause we mean it
truly.”
“But wouldn't it be very sad not to marry? Wouldn't you like one day to
have a little boy just like yourself?”
He shook his head. “I'm an awful worry. No, I don't think so. But I'd
like to have a little girl like Kay--and I'll have her, anyhow.”
The arm of the sallow woman stole round his shoulder. “Who says you're
an awful worry?”
“That's why I'm here, you know. I worried them with my queer questions.
When I'm the same as other people, they'll let me come back.”
“I don't think you're a worry. I hope you'll never be like anyone else.”
“But you mustn't say that, 'cause you're to change me. I'm glad you like
me.”
“Then be glad I love you,” she whispered.
The lonely woman's heart opened to Peter. He told her all about Kay and
Grace and Romance; he thought she ought to know everything since she
was to cure him. But instead of curing him she almost--almost made him
worse.
There was a strange furtiveness in their relation; the other boys must
not suspect. Miss Rufus despised favoritism; she tried to be very hard
on Peter in lesson-hours. He understood and smiled to himself.
He was terribly homesick. He wanted Kay badly. He wanted to hear her
laughter. He marked each hour by what they were doing at Topbury. Now
they were sitting down to breakfast; now Kay was going with his mother
shopping; now the dinner was being set and his father's key was
grating in the latch. Sounds and smells would bring sudden and stabbing
remembrance. He would hear the garden with the dead leaves rustling, see
the nursery gleaming in the firelight and a little girl being made ready
for bed. Oh, she must be frightened without Peter, at the top of that
tall dark house!
At night, when Miss Rufus broke her rule against favoritism and,
stealing to his room, pressed his head against her bony breast while he
said his prayers, it was then that he thought of his mother with most
poignancy.
But he was to be a little knight, so those weekly letters which
commenced “_My Beloveds_,” were written stoutheartedly. They must never
guess. But Nan saw the tremble in the sprawling hand and the blots,
where diluted ink had spread.
“Billy boy, we must have him back, I can't bear it.”
“Nonsense, darling. The chap's quite happy.”
“He isn't. He isn't. And you know it. Kay wants him--she's fretting.
I want him, and you want him as much as any of us. I want to hear his
footsteps on the stairs, to see his clothes lying about, and--and----”
“But it isn't what we want, little Nan; it's what's best for him. He's
as nervous as a cat--always has been. Give him a year of sea-air.”
Nan missed him terribly. No merry voice awoke her in the morning.
The ceiling above her bed never shook with childish prancing. Kay, by
herself, was very quiet. She was always asking where was Peter: had he
gone to heaven?
But it was when she came home at nightfall along the Terrace that Nan's
longing was most intense. Childhood would be all too short at best. Too
soon the years would take him from her. One day she would give anything
for just one evening of the joy that she now might have. Who could
tell what the future held? An old woman, grayheaded, she would sit and
whisper to herself,
“Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling,
To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread;
'Mother, mother, mother!' the eager voices calling,
'The baby was so sleepy that she had to go to bed!'”
Thinking these thoughts, Nan would sink her face in her hands,
foretasting the solitude that was surely coming.
But it was for Peter's good, his father said. He looked very intently at
the Dutch landscape by Cuyp, seeking quiet from it, when he said it.
As for curing him, Miss Rufus was the wrong person to do that. Peter was
aware of it. He had made her as bad as himself. He had set her loving.
He must look for help elsewhere.
On Saturdays Mr. Waffles called for him--quite a splendid Mr. Waffles
with soaped mustaches and rather shabby spats. He was taken to Madeira
Lodge, shiny with its newly purchased highly polished furniture. In
the afternoons he walked with Mr. Waffles to Birchdale, where the dunes
stretched away in billows of sand and the air was always blowy. In the
evenings he played with his cousins till it was time to return to Miss
Rufus. Across the road from Madeira Lodge was a Methodist Chapel and
beside it a plot of waste land. To this place he would escape when
he got the chance. The grass grew rank; it was easy to hide among the
withered evening-primroses. He had come to a great conclusion: no one
but God could cure him. There, behind the Methodist Chapel, he argued
with God about it, praying for Kay's sake that he might be made well.
Nothing happened--perhaps because Glory found him and, having found
him, was always following him to his place of hiding. He pledged her
to secrecy, told her his trouble and asked her advice about it. But she
only stared with dumb love in her eyes and shook her quiet head.
Of his longing to return he did not dare to speak to Miss Rufus--she was
too fond of him. Nor must he mention it in his letters. Aunt Jehane--ah,
well, she spoke of his parents as though they were entirely mistaken
about everything. She was always trying to prove to him how much more
broad-minded, clever and generous she and Uncle Waffles were. Her
jealous nature prompted her to steal the boy's heart by every expedient
of kindness and flattery. She told him scandal about her neighbors.
She spoke of love between boys and girls. She made him kiss Glory and
laughed at his awkwardness. She gave him special treats at his meals.
She boasted about her husband, saying how well he was getting on and how
much he would do for Peter. And she did all this that Peter might tell
her that he was happier at Sandport than at Topbury.
Peter couldn't tell her that. He had commenced her acquaintance with
a prejudice. He could never forget that she had once been the smacking
lady. He watched her with his cousins, how she was foolishly lenient
or foolishly severe, but wise never. She allowed herself to punish them
unjustly; but if anyone, even their father, blamed them, they were “My
Eustace” and “My girls.” Especially was this the case with Glory, in
whose making Mr. Waffles could claim no share. She could always humble
his uncle by speaking regretfully of Captain Spashett.
For Uncle Waffles Peter had a fellow sympathy; it was to him he turned.
On those walks among the sand-hills they had fine talks together.
“Old son, I did a big stroke of business this week. Oh yes, I tell you,
this little boy knows his way about town. Had two more acres offered
me, and borrowed money for the purchase. They're a long way out, but
Sandport'll grow to them. Now what d'you know about that?”
Uncle Waffles was often confessional with Peter and always exuberant. He
asked his opinion on business affairs as though his opinion mattered. He
seemed to keep nothing back, even touching on things domestic.
“You mustn't think I'm complaining of the Duchess. She's a snorter. But,
you know, she's never understood me. I'm taking her in hand though, and
educating her up to my standard. When first I knew her, she seemed to
think that loving was wicked. Now what d'you know about that?”
Peter watched for the results of the educating and was disappointed.
When Uncle Waffles tried to kiss Aunt Je-hane, she still drew aside her
head, saying, “Don't be silly, Ocky.” She left the room when he began
to tell his latest funny story. It was odd, if he was really successful,
that she should always treat him like that.
And there were other secrets Peter learnt--that his uncle had an obscure
disease which no one must mention. His uncle was very brave and laughed
about it. It could be kept in check, so long as he took his “medicine”
regularly. His “medicine” could be obtained at any public house and was
frequently obtained on those Saturday excursions to and from Birchdale.
When Glory accompanied them, Uncle Waffles contrived to do without it.
At Christmas Peter was put in charge of the guard and returned to
Topbury. The month that followed was epoch-making--a bitter pleasure.
Like a man living on his capital, he was always reckoning how much was
left. And then the respite ended and the exile in Egypt recommenced.
He clenched his hands. He would not cry. And yet----.
It was Kay he wanted. His whole life was wrapt up in her.
The first day back at school he noticed that one of his companions was
absent. The second and the third day passed; then the news leaked
out that he was dead. It dawned on Peter that death was a peril that
threatened everybody. No amount of care on the part of Mr. Grace or the
policeman could shield Kay from it. The thought became a nightmare. Miss
Rufus discovered that he was unhappy; he cried at night in bed. She was
hurt; but, when he told her, she was more gentle with him than ever.
Midway through the term a telegram arrived. Its message was broken to
him by Uncle Waffles. Kay was dangerously ill and calling for him; he
was to go back.
A drizzling rain hung over London. The streets were clogged with mud,
and gas-lamps shone drearily through the drifting murk. Throughout the
long and dismal journey he had sat pale-faced; in the intervals between
praying he had told himself that, were she to die, he would never
forgive his father for having separated him from her. He was stunned and
yet fiercely rebellious. In spite of his desperate hope, he was prepared
for the worst.
At the station Grace met him. Indiscreet through grief, she told him how
from the first of her three days' illness his little sister had never
ceased calling for him.
“'Er temp'rature's runned up with fretting, poor lamb; but you was
allaws h'able to quiet 'er, Master Peter.”
Before the cab had halted on the Terrace, Peter was up the steps.
Someone had been behind the blinds, watching; the door opened almost
before he had rung the bell. His father stood before him. In his hot
anger Peter dodged beneath his arm and commenced to mount the stairs. If
he had been there, he felt sure, this would not have happened.
From the room in which she had been born came the heavy smell of
eucalyptus. Peter opened the door; a fire was burning, as when he had
first found her there. A cot was drawn up to the fire and from it came
a ceaseless tired wailing. In the wailing he made out his name, uttered
over and over. As he ran forward, his mother rose to put her arms about
him. He rushed past her: she did not count. Bending over the cot, he
gazed into the flushed face. The hoarse voice stopped. The lips, cracked
with fever, pressed against his mouth.
“Little Kay, it's truly Peter. He's never going to leave you.”
From the moment he touched her, she began to mend.
Some days later, when relief from suspense left leisure for attention to
other matters, Mr. Barrington wrote to Miss Rufus, saying that his son
would not return. In reply he received a curious confidence. She had