The Raft
blue glimpses of heaven laughing up at him. He would take her in his
arms, promising her, because she could not understand a word he said,
that for her sake he would try not to take so much “medicine.”
“Medicine,” as a means to bolstering up his courage, was a habit which
grew upon him.
Peter, who was the third effort of the angels, noticed a change
every time he visited Uncle Waffles. On those walks across the lonely
sand-hills, Uncle Waffles no longer pretended that he drank the
“medicine” for his health.
“You're a ha'penny marvel, Peter--that's what you are. You get me to
tell you everything. It's 'cause I have to tell somebody, and I know you
won't split on me. Now about this 'medicine'; I'm taking more and
more of it. And why? Because it's my only way of being happy. Before I
married the Duchess I hardly ever touched it. I had my mother then. I
wish you'd known her, Peter; she was a rare one for laughing. I only
feel like laughing now when I've taken more 'medicine' than's good for
me. Not that I was ever drunk in my life. It never goes to my head--only
legs.”
He had usually had too much when he made these confessions. Peter knew
he had by the way in which he said, “I got a nacherly strong stomick.
It's a gif from God, I reckon.”
Peter kept these disclosures to himself and walked his uncle about till
it was safe to return to Madeira Lodge. Ocky would retire as soon as
they entered, saying that he had a bad headache. They became of such
frequent occurrence that Jehane began to be suspicious.
During the next three years Ocky's visits to Topbury were periodic.
Barrington could usually calculate his advent to a nicety. One
night there would be a ring at the bell and Mr. Waffles would enter
unheralded. While others were present he would joke with his old
abandon, as though he hadn't a care in the world. Then Barrington would
turn to him, “Shall we go upstairs to my study for a chat?”
The fiction was kept up that Ocky's visits were of a friendly and family
nature. The constant fear at Topbury was that the servants might guess
and the scandal would leak out.
When the study door had shut behind them, Barrington would give vent to
his indignation.
“How much this time?”
“I've had hard luck.”
“You mean you want me to clear off your debts and pay back the money
you've taken?”
“It won't happen again, Billy. Just this once.”
“You said that last time and the time before that, and every time as far
back as I can remember. D'you remember what I said?”
Before the anger in Barrington's eyes Ocky began to crouch. “It won't
happen again. I swear it. I've learnt my lesson.”
Barrington knew his answers before they were uttered. “I've told you
each time,” he said, “that, if you repeated your thefts, you'd have to
take the consequences. Last time I meant it.”
Then would follow from Ocky a series of pleadings and arguments. That
exposure would entail disgrace all round. That he would be arrested.
That his family would be ruined. That the story would get into the
papers and would reflect discreditably on Barrington. When these failed,
Ocky would appeal to their friendship and the common memories they
shared. The scene would usually close with a warning from Barrington
that this was really the last time he would come to his rescue; then the
debts would be added up and the check book would be brought out.
The threat of Ocky became a nightmare to Barrington and Nan--the
children were not supposed to know about it. The finding of so much
money was an intolerable burden, and they were never safe from its
recurrence. On several occasions Barrington had to sell some of his
pictures to meet these sudden demands for ready cash. To add to their
anxiety was the fact that they had so far refrained from telling Jehane,
out of fear that her resentment against her husband would make matters
worse. So her letters still arrived punctually, singing his praises and
saying how splendidly he was making progress.
But the day was fast approaching when the shoring up of Ocky Waffles had
to end. It ended when Barrington discovered that his cousin was tapping
other sources for his borrowing.
On a trip to Oxford with reference to a manuscript, he surprised Ocky
leaving the Professor's house. Nan, when calling on the Misses Jacobite,
recognized an envelope addressed in Ocky's hand.
The next time he made his visit to Topbury, Barrington kept his promise.
Ocky was shown directly into the study without any preliminaries of
family enquiries. He was not asked to sit down. Barrington faced him,
standing with his back to the fire.
“I've been expecting you. My mind's made up. I don't want to hear what
you've come for or any of your excuses. You've lied to me. I know all
about the Professor and the Misses Jacobite. Doubtless there are others.
You can go to jail this time, and I hope it'll cure you. I've been a
fool to try and save you. You're rotten throughout.”
Since the accidental meeting at Oxford, Ocky had been prepared for some
such explosion. He had fortified himself with drink for the encounter.
But he was stunned by this unexpected air of judicial finality. He began
to pour out feverish words. Barrington cut him short.
“For three years you've poisoned my life. You've blackmailed me with the
fear that your disgrace would be made known. You yourself have made that
fear certain by applying to my friends. The scandal can become public as
soon as it likes. That's all I have to say. Good-night.”
The game was up. Ocky straightened himself to meet the blow. He ceased
to be cringing and humble. The drink helped him to be bold; so did his
desperate sense of the world's injustice.
“You say I'm rotten throughout. Perhaps I am. But who made me like that?
I wasn't rotten when we were boys together, and I wasn't rotten when my
mother was with me. Who made me rotten? You and clever people like you.
You never let me forget that I wasn't clever.
“You never did anything but humiliate me by reminding me that I was on
a lower level. Your gifts were always bitter because they were given
without kindness, to get rid of me or in self-defence; and, in return, I
was expected to admire you. Oh, you hard good man! You couldn't make me
clever just by saying to me, 'Be clever,' or good just by saying, 'Be
good'------ You say I lied to you. Of course I lied--lied as a child
will to escape punishment. You never understood me. Even before I went
crooked you were ashamed of me because I hadn't the brains to think your
thoughts and to speak your language. Your intellect despised me. Yes,
and you taught my wife to despise me. Didn't you call me an 'ass' before
company on the very night I became engaged to her. She remembered that
and took her tone from you. You were her standard. From the first she
was discontented with me because I wasn't you and couldn't give her the
home you'd given Nan---- So I tried to be rich, because to be rich is to
be clever. I gambled with what didn't belong to me to get money to buy
my wife's respect. And now, because _you, you, you_ were always there
setting the pace for me with your success, I've lost everything. But if
I'd won by my sharp-practise, you and Jehane would have been the first
to say that I was a clever chap--I wasn't born bad. What you and my
wife have thought about me has made me what I am. Damn you. I wouldn't
touch a farthing of your charity now. I want to go to the dogs where
both of you've sent me and to make as big a scandal as I can.”
He was trembling with hysteric anger; his voice was thick and hoarse
with passion. His weak and genial features were absurdly in contrast
with the violence of what he said. His soaped mustaches and white spats
made him a comic figure at any time, but doubly comic in the rôle of an
accusing prophet.
Barrington eyed him quietly without the quiver of a muscle or the
flicker of a lash. He had hardened his heart beforehand against the
appeal of such a theatric outburst. “Is that all?”
Ocky hung his head; the fire of his self-pity was quenched by the
restrained ridicule of the man who addressed him. He wiped the
perspiration from his eyes with his tired hands. “That's all.”
As he was passing into the hall, Peter looked over the banisters and saw
him.
“Kay. Kay. Here's dear old uncle,” he called and commenced running down
the stairs.
At the landing his father stopped him. “Not to-night, my boy.”
Peter laughed and tried to wriggle past him; but his father held him
firmly, saying, “I meant what I said.”
Looking down, Peter saw the face of his friend glance back at him; it
was lined and tortured. Then the front door closed with a bang.
Barrington re-entered his study. Now that he had accomplished the
difficult cruelty his mind was in doubt. If Peter loved Ocky, there must
be some good left in him----
But he had used that argument with himself before. As he sat, pictures
began to form of Ocky as he had been. He saw him about Peter's age,
the weakly schoolboy whose battles he had had to fight because he was
strong. He recalled that term when he had had to take him to the doctor
with his poisoned hand. He remembered how Ocky's mother had always said
of him that he was the most careful and dearest son in the world---- No,
he hadn't been always bad.
His thoughts became unbearable; he needed approval for his act. Stepping
out on to the landing he called, “Nan, Nan.”
When she came he was again seated in his chair. The lights were out and
a log of ship's wood, spluttering on the coals, burnt violet and yellow,
making the shadows wag accusing fingers. She curled herself up on the
floor, leaning her head against his knees, like a small child at the
story hour, before it goes to bed.
Nan always brought an atmosphere of kindness with her--of innocence and
goodness. Her ways were those of a young girl, who walks on tiptoe
with hands upon her breast, listening for life to call her. Barrington
watched her shining head and how the fire glinted against the column of
her throat. If Ocky had had a wife like Nan-------
It was some time before she spoke. Then, “Dearest?”
“I had to be a brute and I hate myself. I kicked him out.”
“Do you think you did right?”
“If I didn't, I shouldn't have done it. The thing had to end.”
“And what next?”
“We've got to think of Jehane and her children. I'm wondering how much
she knows or suspects.”
“She'll never tell---- I wonder will she stand by him?”
There was silence.
Barrington spoke. “Ocky hinted at something to-night. It might be
true--something that I never thought about. It explains those letters
of Jehane's. It explains why they've never got on together. I've always
said that a little love would have made Ocky a better man.”
“Dear, what was it?”
“It dates a long way back. He said that Jehane had made our home and my
love for you the standard of what she expected from----”
“I understand. And it _is_ true, Billy. She wanted a man like you from
the first.”
Silence.
Nan said, “Once she used to talk about the penal servitude of
spinsterhood.”
“And now,” said Barrington, “she'll have to learn about the penal
servitude of marriage. Whatever happens, unless he ill-treats her, he'll
be her husband to the end.”
“But---- But can't we stop this dreadful something?”
Barrington stooped and took her hand.
“Little woman, we've been trying to stop it all these years. We can't
stop it; we can only postpone it and give him more time to drag Jehane
and the children lower down. We've reached the point where things have
got to be at their worst before they can grow better. It's a question
now of how many of them we can rescue. Ocky has to be allowed to sink
for the sake of the rest.”
Nan's forehead puckered at the cruelty of such logic. “But I don't