The Raft
Grace's mind was taken up with another subject; from the steps she had
caught her father's eye and had seen that it was glazed. As she passed
her mistress she sought sympathy, whispering, “Pa's drunk as usual, Mam.
Ain't it sick'ning? Fat lot o' good me prayin'!”
But Mr. Grace, pottering down the Terrace, felt a Christmas warmth about
his heart. It wasn't because he had saved a man from Justice; he was
happy because Peter had told him that he was the only friend in the
world from whom he could have asked help.---- Grace might call him a
drunkard, and to-night he intended to be very drunk; but he must be
something better as well, or else Peter wouldn't have talked like that.
So, because he was happy, he sang as he pottered down the Terrace.
It wasn't exactly a Christmas carol, but it served his purpose. It
expressed devil-may-care contempt for public opinion--and that was how
he felt.
“Darn our narbor'ood,
Darn our narbor'ood,
Darn the plaice where I'm a-livin' nar,
Why, the gentry in our street
In the cisterns wash their feet,
In the narbor'ood where I'm a-livin' nar.”
Mr. Grace very rarely sang, because he was very seldom happy. Cat's
Meat quickened his step; he knew what that sound meant. It meant no more
work.
In the distance the lights of the public-house grew up.
CHAPTER XX--THE HIDING OF OCKY WAFFLES
Peter's Christmas cab! Why a cab? What had he brought back in it and
where had he hidden it? It must be something very grand and splendid to
demand a cab. Kay coaxed him to give her just one little hint as to what
it was: she went through all her love-tricks without success, rubbing
her silky hair against his cheek and kissing his eyes while she clasped
his neck. It was useless for him to declare that he had bought no
presents; she snuggled against him laughing--she knew her Peter better
than that.
In the high spirits that surrounded him Peter was very miserable. He was
wondering whether Uncle Waffles had hurt himself when he tumbled into
the yard from the top of the doors. He was wondering whether such
a timid climber had been able to find his way into the loft. He was
wondering how he could help him to escape to safety. Mr. Grace might
not be willing to assist a second time; he had said that Uncle Waffles
“weren't worf it.” But he was; _he was_.
Wild plans were forming in Peter's brain. Would it be possible to put
his uncle on the tandem tricycle and ride off in the night undetected?
Would it be possible to----?
And then there was another thought. Ever since he was quite a tiny boy
he had had a secret dread of the loft after nightfall--a fear which he
knew Kay shared. It was all right in the day when the sun was shining;
there was nothing to be afraid of then. But his strong imagination
made him suspect that the loft was used by tramps, hungry, fierce-eyed
tramps, when darkness fell--tramps who climbed over the wall, just as
Uncle Waffles had done. If that should be true and one of them should
find his uncle there----. Peter shuddered.
“Peter, little man, you've been getting too excited,” his father said;
“we don't want you ill to-morrow. Don't you think you'd better go to
bed?”
And Peter was glad of the excuse to get away to where no one would
observe him. He felt an outlaw. He had taken sides against his father
and his family. He wasn't at all sure that he hadn't committed a
criminal offence; the police, if they knew, might lay their hands on him
and lock him up with Uncle Waffles. What would Kay think of her brother
then?
In the darkness of his room he lay awake, listening to footsteps in the
downstairs part of the house. The servants came up and the gas on the
landing was lowered to a jet. Then he heard the rustling of paper, and
his mother and father whispering together.
“That's for Glory.”
“It won't go into her stocking.”
“Oh, yes, it will at a stretch.”
“And who's this for?”
“That's for Peter, old silly; go and lay it on his bed.” Through
half-closed eyes Peter saw his father enter, straight and tall, with his
cropped hair and direct way of walking, so much like a soldier-man. He
came on tiptoe, trying to be stealthy; but he stumbled against a chair.
Nan came hurrying noiselessly. “Oh Billy, darling, you're a rotten Santa
Claus. Have you wakened him now?”
They listened. When Peter did not stir, his father whispered, “It's all
right, kiddy; the little chap sleeps soundly. By Jove, he's not hung up
his stocking!”
They examined the end of the bed. Then his mother spoke. “No, he hasn't.
He couldn't have been feeling well. He's been worrying, I'm sure he has,
all this last month.”
“A boy of his age oughtn't to worry. What about?”
Nan hesitated. “Our Peter's very compassionate---- He loved Ocky. I've
looked through his eyes often lately; I'm sure he's condemning us.”
“Us! Poor little Peterkins! It must hurt---- Well, he doesn't
understand.”
They bent over him, kissing him, thinking he slept.
“Peter always fancies that everyone must be good whom he loves.”
And Nan answered, “You can make anyone good by love--don't you think so,
Billy?”
He slipped his arm about her and leant his face against her hair. “I
know you made me better, dearest.”
The gas was extinguished and their feet died out on the stairs.
One! Two! Three! The grandfather-clock in the hall struck out the hours.
Peter could not bear it. He must tell someone. He threw back the clothes
and crept to the door; his parents' room was under his--they must not
hear him. A board creaked. He halted, his fingers on his mouth, his
heart drumming. No one stirred; through the heavy silence came the light
breathing of sleepers.
Pressing his hand against the wall to steady himself, he tiptoed along
the passage, past Riska's room, past Grace's, till he came to the door
of the room in which Glory and Kay lay together. He looked in; a shaft
of moonlight fell across their faces on the pillow. He was struck
with how alike they were: the same narrow penciled eyebrows; the same
sensitive bowed mouth, just a little short in the upper lip; the same
streaming honey-colored hair.
He stood looking down at them. Since he had noticed this, he felt a new
kindness for Glory. Kay turned on her side and the paper on the presents
at the foot of the bed crackled. Should he--should he tell Glory? She
looked so gentle. No, it would be selfish; he must endure the burden of
his knowledge himself. And yet----. He was very troubled.
Up the frosty silence, tremulous and distant, climbed the sound of
music--a harp and a violin playing. His brain set the playing to words:
“It came upon the midnight clear
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold.”
Its beauty quieted his dreads, lifting his spirit to the world of
legend. It hushed, halted and again commenced. It was like the feet of
Jesus on the London house-tops, bringing safety to sinful men. Perhaps
Uncle Waffles heard it.
It ceased. A man's voice rang out: “Fine and frosty. Three o'clock in
the morning. A Happy Christmas. All's well.”
Peter had turned his eyes to the window where the moon sat balanced on a
cloud; now that the stillness was again unbroken, he looked down at the
faces on the pillow. The eyes of Glory were wide open. She showed no
surprise at seeing him there. How long had she been watching?
He stooped over her and whispered, “It was the waits, Glory.”
Her arms reached up and dragged him down. “Peter, Peter, you don't hate
me, do you? I can't help being a coward.”
“Shish! We'll wake Kitten Kay. Of course I don't hate you. I try to love
everybody.”
“And me just as one with the rest? Not even with the rest, Peter.--No,
no, kiss me now.”
He kissed her; it was almost like kissing Kay. She held him so tightly
that she took away his breath. He drew back, a little thrilled and
startled. He looked down. Kay's eyes were closed; Glory's were smiling
up at him, timid with puzzled longing. Years later he was to remember
that. Then, yet more distant, the waits re-commenced, like the feet of
Jesus bringing peace to sinful men. And that also he would remember.
Back in bed he lay very still. The fear had gone out of him; once again
the world seemed kind and gentle. “Christ was born this morning,” he
whispered; “Christ was born this morning. Oh Jesus, who came into the
world a little boy just like Peter, you can understand. I'm so troubled.
Oh Jesus----” But sleep was sent in answer to his prayer.
It was dark when he awoke. What was it he had been dreaming? Ah yes!--He
rose stealthily and dressed. The morning was chilly. His teeth chattered
and shivers ran through him; that wasn't all due to coldness. Without
looking at the packages on his bed, he stole across the landing and
down the stairs. Outside the servants' room he listened. One of them was
snoring loudly; that was reassuring. As he drew further away from the
bedrooms, he moved more hurriedly. All the time he was expecting to hear
a door open and to see a head peering over the banisters. Having reached
the hall, he ran down into the basement, taking less care to make no
sound. His feet on the stone flags of the kitchen seemed as loud as
those of a procession marching. Something brushed against his legs. He
jumped aside with a cry of terror. It came again, a shadow following.
Then he saw that it was only Romance.
What was it he must get? It was difficult to think; a hammer was
knocking, in his temples. He felt along the dresser; sent a pan
clattering; stood tense, listening; found what he sought; struck a match
and lit the gas The light helped him to think more clearly, but it also
convicted him of wrong doing. Everything he saw, even Romance looking up
at him unblinking, seemed to say, “I shall tell. I shall tell.”
Things looked cheerless. Chairs were pushed back from the table, just as
they had been left by the servants. The grate was choked with ashes, in
which a few coals glowered red. But he must hurry. What was it he must
get?
In the pantry there were sausage-rolls--so many that no one would miss
a few of them. There were loaves of bread, an uncut ham from which Peter
took some slices, a jug of milk from which he took a glassful, making up
the deficit with water, and a dish of baked apples. He helped himself,
feeling horribly thief-like. Then he thought of how cold it was out
there. He crept upstairs to the cloakroom and unhooked one of his
father's coats from its peg. He returned and took a cushion from
Cookie's favorite chair in which the cane was broken and sagging. Thus
loaded, he unlocked the door into the garden, closing it behind him, and
shuffled out.
How unfriendly and treacherous everything was! Even the kind old
mulberry, stripped of its leaves, seemed to scowl and threaten to reach
down and clutch him. The laburnum, which in summer was a slim gold girl,
pointed thin derisive fingers at him. Across neighboring walls came an
icy breeze, which whispered, “Cut off his head. Cut off his head.” As he
tiptoed down the path, the gravel turned beneath his tread. Dead leaves
rustled. His breath came pantingly and steamed through the shadows.
He hoped Uncle Waffles would come to meet him. And yet he dreaded. He
could still feel the shaking of his uncle's clammy hand as he had felt
it last night in the darkness of the cab. Sometimes he fancied that he
saw him crouched beneath the bushes.
He paused irresolute. Should he go forward or----?
He glanced back. The windows were wells of blackness--hollow sockets
from which the sight had been gouged out. He fixed his gaze on the