The Raft
“So you knew all the time! And for three years it was practically you
and Billy who were running this house! And you kept me in ignorance! I
must say, you've a queer way of showing friendship!”
“We did it because--because we were afraid, if you knew, you wouldn't
love him. And then matters would have been worse.”
“Love him! I've not loved him since we married. He started playing
the fool directly after the wedding before the train moved out of the
station. I knew then that I'd have to be ashamed of him always. I knew
what I'd done for myself. He killed my love within an hour of making me
his wife---- But how you must have amused yourselves, knowing what
you did, when you received my letters about his getting on in the
world--_his progress!_ My God! how you must have laughed, the two of
you! Every time he gave me a present it was your money.”
All this before the children!
She threw herself down on a couch and gave way to hysterics, wrenched
with sobs, screaming with unhappy merriment, clutching at her breast and
throwing back her head. The children began to cry, hiding in corners
of the room, terrified. Only Glory kept her nerve and, following Nan's
directions, fetched water to bathe her mother's face and hands.
When the insane laughter had spent itself, Jehane lay still with eyes
closed, panting. Shame took the place of harshness. Nan asked whether
there were any stimulants in the house; when a half-emptied bottle was
brought from the cupboard, Jehane gesticulated it away with disgust.
“I couldn't touch it. It's Ocky's.” It was all that was left of his
“medicine.”
Nan persuaded Glory to take the children out of the room. She seated
herself by the couch in silence, stroking Jehane's forehead.
Presently the bitter woman's eyes opened. They regarded her companion
steadily, with an expression of sad wonder. “You're still beautiful. I'm
old already.”
Nan began to protest in little birdlike whispers; she was so nervous
lest she should give offence. She was interrupted. “Even your voice is
young. People who don't want to love you have to---- And I always longed
to be loved.” She raised herself on her elbow, brushing back the false
hair. “You've had the goodness of life; I've had the falseness. Things
aren't fair.”
151
“No, they're not fair,” Nan assented. “God's been hard on you, poor old
girl.”
“God! Oh, yes!” Jehane spoke the words gropingly, as though
recollecting. “Ah, yes! God! He and I haven't been talking to one
another lately. The cares of this world---- the cares of this world----
What is that passage I'm trying to remember?”
“It's about the sower who sows the good seed, but the cares of this
world rise up and choke it unless it falls on fruitful land. It's
something like that.”
Jehane looked at Nan vaguely, only half-comprehending. “Fruitful land!
That's the difficulty. I was never fruitful land---- Tell me, why did
you marry Billy?”
“Why? I never thought about it.”
“Think about it now. Why was it?”
“I suppose because I loved him and wanted to help him.”
Jehane's elbow slipped from under her. She lay back, staring at the
ceiling, looking gaunt and faded, as though she had passed through a
long illness. “To help him! When I loved I wanted to be helped. God's
not been hard on me, little Nan; I've been hard on myself. I'm a hard
woman. I've got what I deserved. And Ocky---- He was a fool. He had no
mind--never read anything. He was clumsy and liked vulgar people best.
But, perhaps, he's my doing. Perhaps!”
Seeing that she had grown passive, Nan stole out to give the children
their supper and to put them to bed. That night, the first time since
Cassingland, she and Jehane slept together. The light had been put out
for some time and Nan was growing drowsy, when Jehane spoke.
“Madeira Lodge! It's funny. A house built on sand! A house built on----
That's what we came here to do for other people; we've done it for
ourselves. O God, spare my little children, my----”
Nan took her in her arms and soothed her.
CHAPTER XVIII--PETER TO THE RESCUE
It was all up. A warrant was out for the arrest of Ocky. Accusers came
forward from all directions--people whom glib promises had kept silent
and people who had kept themselves silent because they were friends of
Barrington. Now that silence had lost its virtue, they shouted. Their
numbers and the noise they made were a revelation and testimonial of a
sort to Ocky's enterprising character. He must have been skating
over thin ice for years. He had almost established a record. Such a
performance, so dexterous and long protracted, had required a kind of
gay courage that is rarely given to honest men. And Ocky was honest by
tradition, if not in practice. His nerve was admirable. No wonder he
drank.
He was wanted on many charges. There were checks which he had cashed
through tradesmen, drawn on banks where he had no effects. With his
habitual folly, he had left tracks by negotiating some of these
in London since his flight, using letters of a family nature from
Barrington to inspire confidence. These began to be presented five weeks
after his departure from Sandport. It seemed as though he had been doing
himself well and his supplies were exhausted. His name found its
way into the papers, largely because he was Barrington's cousin. So
everything became public.
The day before the reports occurred in the press, a man of his
appearance had enquired at Cook's in Ludgate Circus about the
exchange rates for French money. The Channel boats had been watched in
consequence; but he must have taken warning and altered his plans.
“He's ineffectual even in his sinning,” said Barrington. “Why couldn't
the fool have skipped the country earlier and saved us the humiliation
of a trial?”
The Sandport Real Estate Concern had gone into bankruptcy. Its affairs
would not bear inspection. Mr. Playfair had vanished with all the
odds and ends that Ocky had spared. Both of them were badly wanted.
So Jehane's scornful loyalty in stopping on at Madeira Lodge, that her
husband's retreat might be covered, no longer served any good purpose.
Moreover, every thing in the house was seized by creditors--even her own
possessions were no longer hers because they had passed as Ocky's. She
and her children found themselves penniless.
Her father, when applied to, presented her with a list of the sums he
had already advanced, unbeknown to her. He laid pedantic emphasis on
his early objections to the hurry of her second marriage. She had always
been wayward. He offered to take Glory and Riska to live with him for
a time, but couldn't put up with the younger children. Her independence
had been her undoing; it must be her making now. She must work. The
first Homeric scholar in Europe couldn't afford to have his peace of
mind disturbed. He was sorry.
Against her will Jehane was forced to accept the charity of the man whom
she both loved and hated. She came to him a fortnight before Christmas
with her four children--it was the first Christmas she had spent at
Topbury since her engagement to the unfortunate Mr. Waffles.
Barrington's relations with 'Jehane were painfully strained. He hated
the intrusion of her sordid problems on the sheltered quiet of his
family. He was aware that she had grown careless of refinement in
the vulgarity of her experience. She was no longer the Oxford don's
daughter, soft in speech and lively eyed, but a woman inclined to be
loud-voiced and nagging. He blamed her, was sorry for her and wanted
to be kind to her; but it was difficult to be kind to Jehane when her
feelings were raw and wounded. She refused pity and was as hurt by the
comfort which he permitted her to share as if it were something of
which he had robbed her. She spoke continually of “my poor children,”
betraying jealousy for the lot of Kay and Peter.
An additional cause of grievance was found in Eustace; he was an amiable
mild boy, dull and fond of being petted, the miniature of his father.
Barrington knew he was unjust, but his repulsion was physical: he could
not restrain his dislike of the child whose sole offence was his strong
resemblance to the man who had caused this misery. Jehane was cut to the
quick; being forced to be humble, she sulked.
Nan tried to play the part of peacemaker. She was proud of the nobility
of her husband; she understood his occasional flashes of temper. He was
overburdened; he was doing far more for Jehane than she had any right
to expect. He had made himself responsible for all the swindles in which
his name had been employed as an inducement. To fulfil these obligations
he was sacrificing many of his art-treasures; even the landscape by Cuyp
was threatened.
And she also understood Jehane's predicament. She was too gentle to
resent her seeming ingratitude. Looking back over the long road from
girlhood, she marveled at her friend's fortitude--that she could still
lift up her head proudly and, in spite of bludgeonings, plan for the
future. Jehane might scold and grumble to her when Barrington's back was
turned; it made no difference to her unvarying tenderness.
And there were times when Jehane was ashamed of her ferocity and, laying
her head on Nan's shoulder, confessed her folly.
“I'm cruel,” she wept; “all the sweetness in me is turned to acid. I
shall grow worse and worse, till at last I shall be quite impenitent. I
can't help it. Life won't grow easier for me---- If you told the truth,
you'd write over me, 'Here lies a mother who loved too much and a wife
who loved too little.' I'm spoiling my children with my fondness and
filling their heads with vanity---- And I shall often hurt you, little
Nan. But you'll stick by me, won't you?”
Barrington was suspicious that violent scenes took place in his absence;
manlike, he was irritated and could not comprehend their necessity. He
was furious that his wife should be upset and forbade the name of Ocky
to be mentioned in his presence.
Peter overheard much of the abuse which was showered on his uncle by
both Jehane and her children. His eyes became flames when harsh things
were said; quarrels were the result. The quarrels were for the most part
with Riska. He could not believe that anyone he loved was really bad.
Glory shared his grieved anger; a defensive alliance in the interest of
Ocky was formed between her and himself. It was the first compact he
had ever made with Glory. But she was too mild for Peter--too much of a
Saint Teresa and not enough of a Joan of Arc. Glory knew that she could
not be valiant; in secret she cried her heart out because he despised
her cowardice.
Barrington might forbid the mention of Ocky's name, but outside on the
Terrace there was a perpetual reminder.
A tall man, with a straight back and wooden way of walking, watched the
house. He pretended not to be watching and, when anyone saw him from
the window, would stroll carelessly away as though he were just taking
a breath of air; but he always returned. He got so much on Barrington's
nerves that he finally made up his mind to accost him.
“What are you doing here, always hanging round? I won't have it.”
The man, who had tried to avoid him, finding himself cornered, answered
respectfully “Sorry, sir. H'it's orders.”
“But what _are_ you? A plain-clothes man?”
“That's not for me to say, sir.”
Barrington slipped him a sovereign, saying, “Come, speak out You're safe
with me. I won't tell. You know, it's a bit thick, having you out here.
The ladies are upset.” The man scratched his head. “It ain't the ladies
I'm after. It's 'im. You've got 'is missis and kids in there. 'E was
allaws fond of 'is kids, so they tell us. We calkilate that since 'e
cawn't get out o' the country, 'e'll turn up 'ere sooner or later. These