The Raft
garden. He hailed her from a distance, “Hulloa, Duchess!”
She, being penitent for a treachery of which he had no knowledge,
restrained her disgust at the detested nickname. She was going to be a
good and faithful wife--she had quite made up her mind. The street-door
had scarcely shut behind them, when she flung her arms about him. He was
taken by surprise.
“I was lonely without you, Ocky--that's why I came back.”
“Lonely! Lonely for me?”
“Yes. Why--why not?”
“Dun' know. Sounds odd from you, old lady.”
“From me? From your wife? Didn't you feel the house--feel it empty with
me away?”
His hands clutched at her shoulders. “And when you were not away
sometimes. Old gel, I've always been lonely for you.”
She brought her face down to his. “Hold me close, Ocky--close, as you're
doing now--always.”
CHAPTER XVI--THE ANGELS AND OCKY WAFFLES
Ocky was like the jerry-built houses in which most of his life was
spent: the angels who made him had had good intentions, but they had
scamped their work. Consequently he was in continual need of repair.
If someone had had time to spend a lot of love about him his defects
could have been patched up so as to be scarcely noticeable. As it was
people only came to his help when he was on the point of tumbling down.
They shored him up hurriedly and left him; but no one cared enough to
give him new foundations. The right kind of woman could have rebuilt him
throughout--the kind of woman who knows how to love a man for his faults
as well as for his virtues. But few women are architects where their
husbands are concerned--only those who marry to give more than they get.
Nan could have done it; but she was married to Barrington. Glory could
have done it; but she was only a little girl.--So the angels had to
watch their good intentions crumble.
Ocky knew quite well what was the matter with him--heart-hunger: he
required a wife who would sit on his knee and ruffle his hair, and call
him the funniest old dear in the world. Such a wife he would have had to
carry through life; her dependence would have educated his strength. A
wife who was censorious made him weakly obstinate and foolishly daring.
If he had been patted and hugged, he would have been a good man. His
mother had done that; but Jehane--ah, well, she did her best.
Barrington, when he signed the check, had made Ocky promise to return to
Jehane the thousand pounds she had lent. It wasn't her thousand pounds,
but Glory's, held in trust for her till she married. Ocky had pledged
his word to give it back on one condition--that Jehane was to be kept in
ignorance of the transaction. At the time he had quite intended to carry
out the agreement; but so much can be done with a thousand pounds and an
ingenious mind can invent so many excuses for dishonesty.
The morning after his home-coming he hung about the house instead of
going to his office. Already his methods of holding her closely were
getting on Jehane's nerves. His shiftless easy affection tried her
patience beyond endurance.
“Aren't you going yet?”
“Presently, old gel. I want to have a good look at you first.”
“I think you ought to go. You'll have all your life to look at me--and
I've got my work, if you haven't.”
“All right, old gel.”
“I wish you wouldn't 'old gel' me so much. It's vulgar and silly.”
Lighting his pipe, he strolled into the hall and picked up his hat. He
stood there fumbling with it. Only when she followed him did he set it
on his head, retreating toward the door. With the street at his back, he
turned.
“I say, about your money.”
“For goodness sake, go. We can talk about that at lunch.”
He glanced across his shoulder at the sunlit street; his flight would be
unimpeded.
“Don't lose your wool, old---- I mean, Jehane. I've something to tell
you. Had a nice little stroke o' luck. Made thirty pounds for you.”
The flame of hostility sank at the mention of money. They stood gazing
at one another. Each was aware that, within twelve hours of peace being
declared, the old feud had all but broken out. Jehane was frightened
by the knowledge and self-scornful at her lapse into temper. Ocky was
congratulating himself on the dexterous lie with which the crash had
been averted.
“Thirty pounds! And you kept it so quiet!”
He twirled his mustaches fiercely, straddling the doormat, all boldness
and bullying self-righteousness now. “This little boy may be vulgar
sometimes, but he isn't silly--far from it.”
“But how did you do it?” She leant against him with both her hands on
his arm, trying to make his eyes meet hers.
“You wouldn't understand. Watched the market, yer know. Sold out just in
time--last moment in fact.”
“You _are_ clever--that's what I kept telling Billy and Nan.”
“Think so? I've sometimes thought so myself.” He held his face away from
hers as she pushed to the door and put her arms about his neck. “And yet
you were treating me like a fool just now. You're too ready at calling
me silly and vulgar. I get tired of it.” As he spoke he had in mind the
firm way in which a masterful person like Barrington would act. “You've
got to stop it, Jehane. It's the last time I mention it.”
“I know I'm unfair--unfair to you, to myself, to all of us. Oh, Ocky, be
patient with me; I do so want to be better.”
She hid her face against his shoulder in contrition and unhappiness.
Ocky was a generous enemy. He found it easy to forgive, being a sinner
himself.
“There, there! That's awright, Duchess. Don't cry about it---- But
I brought this matter up 'cause I think you ought to have your money
back.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Ought to! Why, what d'you mean? Is it
a punishment? I don't understand.” He set his hat far back on his
forehead.
“I'm not trying to hurt your feelin's; but you don't trust me. Never
have. It's anxious work handling the money of a woman who don't trust
you. If I were to make a mistake, you'd give me hell--I mean, the
warmest time I've ever had. I'd rather--much rather--you took your money
back.”
He was drifting away from her--already she had pushed him from her.
Something must be done.
“It's you who don't trust me, if you think that.” Her tones quivered
with reproach as she said it.
“Then you want me to go on investing for you?”
“Of course.”
“You're sure of it?”
“Quite, _quite_ sure of it.”
“Then always remember, I tried to make you take it back and you
wouldn't. Isn't that so?”
“Yes, I wouldn't.”
“Awright, I'll do my best; but I do it under protest, don't forget.”
“Oh, Ocky, everything that we have we share.”
He kissed her and passed out into the street with alacrity; she might
get to considering his motives. But at the garden gate he hesitated,
dawdled, and came back.
“Look here, I don't want Barrington nosing into my affairs. If I do this
for you it's between ourselves.”
“I shouldn't think of telling Barrington.”
“Well, if you breathe a word to Nan I'll stop dead, and you can manage
your investments yourself.”
So he kept to the letter of his agreement with Barrington--and he kept
to Jehane's capital. And he accomplished this by that small lie about
the thirty pounds.
When Mr. Playfair had chosen Ocky Waffles to be office-manager of the
Sandport Real Estate Concern, he had shown remarkable cunning. He was
tricky himself and he required a subordinate who was no more scrupulous,
yet a subordinate who could give to smart transactions an appearance
of honesty. Mr. Playfair's finances were scanty; in order to extend
his credit it was necessary to pose in the eyes of Sandport as a civic
benefactor. Outside investors were attracted by a not too truthful,
but undoubtedly clever, series of advertisements for which Ocky was
responsible, such as:--
“_Houses Built on Sand!_ We all remember the Bible parable of the foolish
man who built his house upon sand: when the winds blew and the floods
came, it fell. Houses built at Sandport are the exception. We have a
lower death rate here, etc., etc. OUR HOUSES STAND.”
This was all very well, but several important facts were omitted from
the advertisements: that a number of the land lots offered for sale
were too inaccessible to be of practical value and that those marked as
_sold_, which connected them up with the town, were actually still
on the market; and, again, that many of the immediate and promised
developments, which would increase the value of the property, would be
indefinitely postponed by lack of capital; and, again, that, in certain
cases, building would be impossible by reason of fresh-water springs
which undermined the sand.
In the promotion of a shaky enterprise Ocky was in his element. He could
not have brought the same cleverness to bear on an honest transaction.
The school of life from which he had graduated was one of shifts,
evasions and shams. Even his experiences with Jehane kept his hand
expert. He was so plausible in his gilding of falsity that he made it
appear like the truth itself.
But if Playfair in selecting Ocky had shown his cunning, he had also
shown his lack of business shrewdness, for Ocky was not the person to
trust with money. And he had to trust him, so that he might make him the
scape-goat if any infringment of the law should be found out. Some
of the money which Barrington had given Ocky had gone toward the
straightening of the Sandport Real Estate Concern's accounts, before
Playfair should discover that they had been juggled. Ocky had not meant
to steal; he never meant to do anything improper. He borrowed the firm's
money to support his private speculations. While Jehane's affection
could only be purchased, he was continually tempted to borrow. He fully
intended to pay back. He always fully intended.
The angels made three desperate efforts to prevent Ocky from crumbling.
They gave him Glory. A curious sympathy had grown up between him and the
child of Jehane's first marriage. Perhaps it was that they both suffered
from the unevenness of Jehane's temper. At any rate, he much preferred
her to his own long-lashed, slant-eyed little daughter. Riska, though
she was only seven, had learnt to be both vain and selfish; at the same
time, when there was anything she wanted, she knew how to be attractive.
She was her mother's favorite and belonged to her mother's camp. And
Madeira Lodge tended to become more and more divided into two silently
hostile parties. Ocky had the unpleasant feeling that Riska was amused
by the outbreaks which occurred, and turned them to her own profit.
Whereas Glory----
Already at ten, Glory was a woman in her forethought for him. She would
follow after him, hanging up his coat and hat, rectifying his habitual
untidiness, and stamping out the sparks which were so often the
beginnings of domestic conflagrations. Her gray eyes were always kind
when they looked at him and she was never impatient under his caresses.
“Poor little father,” she would whisper, putting her soft arms about
him, “I'm sure mother didn't mean to say that.”
And the angels gave him his baby-girl. Mary they called her, which was
contracted to Moggs as she grew older. But Riska called her the M. L.
O., which stood for Ma's Left Over, because she was so small that it
seemed as though Jehane had run short of material when she made her.
Ocky was very glad of Moggs; Moggs was too young to judge him. Even
Eustace judged him, saying, “You's been naughty, Daddy; Mumma's vewy
angwy.” There was no pity in the little boy's tone when he said it--only
sorrowful accusation.
Sitting by Moggs's cradle, Ocky would wonder whether the day would come
when she, learning what a fool she had for a father, would turn against
him. In the midst of his wondering, she would wake and he would see two