The Raft
window ahead, the loft-window behind the ivy, which spied on the garden.
He had always expected to see a man's face there. It was to be a face
about which the hair hung long and lank, with the mouth pendulous and
the eyes cavernous.--What would Kay think if she could see him now?
He raised the latch of the door which led into the yard. He looked
round, hesitating on the threshold. His imagination told him he would be
clutched forward. Nothing happened.
In the stable it was dark as death. He set his burdens down before
entering, so that he might be ready for a hasty exit. He stood still,
his left hand pressed against the door-post; if he had to run, he
would push himself off with a flying start. He was even afraid of Uncle
Waffles now.
Heavy breathing! Where was it? He called. He heard something whirr,
and jumped back. The same instant he recognized the sound: it was
the turning of a pedal on its ball-bearings. From beneath the tandem
tricycle, with many groans and curses, a man emerged.
“Bruised all over. That's what I am.--Hulloa! You there, Peter? Oh damn!
That's another on the forehead. Disfigured for life, I am. Nice way
you've got of treating your poor old uncle.”
He pulled himself up by his hands. Even in the dusk he looked crushed
and sheepish. But every situation, however shameful, had to be made an
occasion for jest. “Wonder how I came here! Tandem trikes make strange
bedfellows. You must excuse my language. Your Aunt Jehane always told
this little boy he must never swear.”
As his uncle approached him, zigzagging and groping for support
uncertainly, Peter became again aware of the stale smell of alcohol.
He did not need to be told why his uncle had proved such an inferior
climber.
“Why, I brought you here last night--I and Mr. Grace together.--Did you
hurt yourself when you fell?”
“Fell! Did I fall? I'm used to falling these days. I'm a li'le
bird tumbled out of its nest. Broke to the wide, I am. And nobody
cares--nobody cares.”
Peter, hearing his weak self-pitying sobbing, overcame his momentary
physical repulsion. “But I care, Uncle. I _do_ care. Glory cares.”
“Where's the good o' your caring, dear old chap? You're only a boy and
Glory's only a girl--you can't help me.”
“But I can.” He pulled at his uncle's trembling hands. “I'm going to
hide you in the loft till they've all forgotten to look for you, and
then----”
“But, chappie, I've got to be fed and my money's all spent.”
“I'll get food for you.”
Uncle Waffles bent above Peter, trying to catch his eyes.
“You'll get food for me--but from where? Whose food?--You mean you're
going to steal for me. No, Peter, you shan't do that.”
Peter was perplexed. “If I don't, you'll go hungry. People aren't good
to you. I won't steal, I'll--I'll just borrow. When you're safe, I'll
tell them and pay it all back.”
“That's what I said, 'I'll just borrow.' That's why I'm here. I can't
bear to let you do anything wrong for me.”
“But if I don't they'll take you away and lock you up. My heart would
break if that should happen.”
Ocky sat down on a box and drew Peter to his knee in the darkness,
putting his arm about him. “I've never been loved like that; if I
had I'd have been a better man. If I let you do this I want to make a
promise. Whether I'm caught or not, for your sake I'm going to be good
in the future.--You don't know what I am--how foolish and bad. I was
drunk last night--I got drunk to forget my terror. Do you think I'm
worth doing wrong for, chappie?”
Peter drew the unshaven face down to his shoulder. “You poor, poor
uncle! It wouldn't be doing wrong if you became good because I stole,
now would it?--You'll let me do it?”
They stood up. “What you got there?”
“Food. We must hurry. If we don't they'll find out.--And here's some
money.”
“Did you steal that?”
“I saved it for Christmas. I want you to take care of it. Now, here's
the way we go upstairs.”
Peter tried to laugh. He showed his uncle where to find a foothold in
the wall and, by pushing and whispering instructions, got him through
the trap-door into the room overhead. Then he handed up the results of
his foraging and followed.
The loft was big and cheerless, thick with dust and hung with cobwebs.
Across the roof went rafters; where they joined the wall sparrows had
built their nests. Over the stalls were holes in the floor through which
hay could be pitch-forked down. There was only one window at the far
end, which looked out into the garden; several of the panes were broken
and let in the wintry air.
Ocky shivered. For comfort he fell back on his pipe and began to fumble
in his pocket for a match. When he struck it Peter saw for the first
time what he was doing. He snatched it from him and blew it out. “But
you mustn't do that.”
“Why not?”
“They might see you from the house.”
“Not if I'm careful.”
“You never are careful,” said Peter wisely.
“But baccy's all I've got.”
“You've got me. I'll come as often as I can.”
As he was going, Uncle Waffles hesitated and called him back. “Could you
manage to let me see Jehane and Glory? Couldn't you coax 'em into
the garden? I'm longing for a sight of them. They'd never know I was
watching.--It's an odd Christmas I'm going to have.”
Peter had no idea that the time had flown so fast. As he passed up the
garden, the sun was swinging above the house-tops like a smoky lantern.
He could see the mold beneath the bushes, glistening and frosty, chapped
and broken into little hollows and cracks. In one of the top bedrooms a
light sprang up; it was Riska's--she must be examining her stocking.
He had hoped to creep into the house undetected, but at the door he was
met by Cookie.
“So that's it, is h'it? There's no tellin' wot you'll be h'up to next.
I was just goin' ter count the forks. I thought as we'd 'ad beargulars.
Awright Grice, it's the young master been h'out for a h'early mornin's
h'airing.” He ran past her, but she caught him. “Lor', yer cold, boy.
Come and warm yerself. If you h'ate meat three times a day the same h'as
I do yer wouldn't get blue like that.”
Cookie's one claim to distinction, which she invariably introduced into
conversation, was that she was a great meat-eater. It made her different
from other people and, having no beauty with which to attract, afforded
her a topic with which to draw attention to herself.
“You need some 'ot chockerlit, that's wot yer want. Not but wot meat 'ad
be better; but there, that's where h'I'm pecooliar. 'Never was such a
gel for eatin' meat. Lor, 'ow yer runs my bills h'up!' that's wot my ma
used to say abart me. She's dead, Gawd rest 'er bones.--Now, drink that
h'up, yer little sinner. Thought h'it was summer, did yer? Went h'out
to 'ear the pretty burds. I'm only pecooliar abart meat; but, the divil
take me, if you ain't pecooliar all over.”
Cookie sat down in her favorite chair; the cane burst under her. Her
legs shot up and her arms waved wildly. “'Elp! 'Elp me, Master Peter.
For good luck's sake!”
Peter helped her.
“H'it's a wonder I didn't break no bones. Bones is brittle this weather.
But where's me cushion? If that cat's 'ad it----”
Peter escaped and slipped into the cloak-room. Hidden behind the coats,
he listened to Cookie stamping up and down, breathing threatening and
slaughter against all cats--especially cats who stole cushions.
In her search for the lost cushion she began to make discoveries.
“Where's them sorsage-rolls? There was twenty. And 'oo's been cuttin'
the 'am? She was allaws a wery honest cat. Can't understand it. Never
knew a cat to cut 'am. Cats ain't us'ally fond o' h'apples--leastwise no
cat I h'ever 'eard of.--Shish, yer warmint! Shish! Get along wi' yer.”
Something was thrown. There was a loud me-ow. Romance, followed by Sir
Walter Scott, followed by Cookie, fled upstairs. Peter was pained
that others should be blamed--even though they were only cats--for his
wrongdoing. Anything like injustice hurt him. And Romance knew that he
was the thief! How could he ever face her again, and how could she ever
love him? If a cat could steal a cushion and cut ham, she could also
take a coat. Would they blame her for that?
He was in his bedroom, finishing the postponed odds and ends of his
dressing, when Kay called him. He pretended not to hear her. At last
he had to answer, “Coming.” He went to her shame-faced, like a guest
without a wedding-garment: he had no present.
She was kneeling up in bed in her white night-gown. The gas was lit and
the floor was strewn with paper from unwrapping her discoveries.
“Merry Christmas, Peterkins. Oh, come and look! This is what Grandpa
sent me from Cassingland. And this is what Aunt Jehane gave me. And
this---- But why didn't you come sooner? I've been calling and calling.”
Peter hung his head. Glory was looking at him. Was it just wonder in her
eyes or a question? Had she guessed? Would everybody guess?
“I didn't come, Kitten Kay, because I haven't anything for you.”
She gazed at him incredulously. Her face fell with disappointment. “But
the cab, Peter? The Christmas cab!”
“There was nothing in it. I've not got anything for anybody.”
She couldn't understand it; he could see that. She was saying to
herself, “Did Peter forget me?” But her face brightened bravely. “I've
something for you.”
“I couldn't take it, Kay. No, really.”
He was nearly crying with mortification. “I've nothing for you, little
Kay; and, yet, I love you better than anyone in all the world.”
She held out her arms to him with the divine magnanimity of childhood.
“Dear, dear Peter. Softy me. It'll do just as well.”
He returned to his room while she dressed. He sat on the edge of his bed
with the gas unlighted. He did not open the parcels which his father
and mother had left. He did not deserve them. He had nothing to give
in exchange. He would be ashamed to look them in the face at
breakfast--especially to meet Riska, who was certain to show what she
thought of his meanness. In the darkness he reflected how wise he
had been to give that money to Uncle Waffles before the temptation
commenced.
Kay entered. “Coming downstairs?”
He took her hand. She pressed his and laughed up at him, trying to make
him smile back.
It was their custom to go to their parents' bedroom first thing on
Christmas morning. Outside the door Peter hung back, but Kay dragged him
forward.
Billy sat up, throwing back the counterpane, pretending to be terribly
excited at the thought of what they had brought him. Kay held up a
parcel. “What is it?” he asked. “Let me have it. What is it?”
“Guess. Father's got to guess, hasn't he, mother?”
“A fishing-rod?”
“Don't be silly, father. How could a fishing-rod be as small as that?”
The guessing went on--such absurd guessing!--until the paper was torn
off and a match-box was revealed.
“And now, what's Peter brought me?”
“Nothing, father. I haven't got anything for anybody. So, please, I
don't think I ought to take any of your presents.”
Billy looked at Nan; this explained the absence of the Christmas
stocking. “But, old boy, what became of your money?”
“I--I gave it away, father.”
“Last night? To a beggar?”
“Not--not exactly a beggar.”
“But to someone who needed it badly?”
“Yes, badly. I couldn't give it to--to them and buy presents as well.”
Peter swallowed. He hated lies and would tell the truth at all costs.
“And it wasn't last night. It was this morning.”
His father regarded him gravely. “To someone in the house?”
“Not exactly.”
“I can't see how it can be both in the house and out of it. It must be
exactly one or the other.” Silence. “You don't want to tell?”
“I can't tell. But I want to so badly.”
His mother leant out and caught his empty hands, pressing them to her