The Raft
scolding. The injustice was spreading. He examined the stain on his
heart in much the same way that Lady Macbeth looked at the stain on her
hands. Would it ever be clean again? “Never,” he told himself in his
desperation, “never.”
As he turned to go back to his room he was alarmed by the sudden scurry
of naked feet. A flash of white disappeared round the corner and a
mattress creaked. Glory had been watching.
When his mother bent over him that night he told another lie--he feigned
that he slept. As her fluffy hair touched his cheek he longed to drag
her down to him and tell her all. She would stretch herself beside him
in the darkness, holding him tightly, as she had done so often when he
had had something to confess. He denied himself the luxury.--That night
as he lay awake and listened, the angel in the cupboard whistled very
softly, very distantly, as though she were carrying Kay far away from
him.
When he had offered his uncle a change of lodging, his uncle had said,
“Depends on the family.” Peter had only one family to suggest; he didn't
at all know whether the family would accept Uncle Waffles. Gentlemen for
whom the law is searching are not popular as guests.
During breakfast, despite frowns from Barrington, all Aunt Jehane's
conversation had to do with the shock she had suffered by reason of
Grace's folly. When Barrington banged his cup in his saucer, she lost
her temper. “Well, I don't see why I shouldn't talk about it. I had to
put up with the worry of it.”
“My good Jehane, haven't you any sense? You can say anything you like,
except before the children.”
“Goodness!” Jehane replied pettishly. “The children were here and saw
it.”
Peter slipped out. Through the white snow-strewn fields he hurried and
through Topbury Park where the snow was trodden black, till he came to
a quiet street and a tall house with stone steps leading up to it. Miss
Madge, the fat and jolly Miss Jacobite, answered his knock.
“What a long face for a little boy to wear!”
“If you please, I'd like to speak to Miss Florence.” Miss
Florence was the sister who was tall and reserved; she managed
everything and everybody.
“Won't I do, Peter? She's busy at present.”
“Please, I've got to speak to her.”
Miss Madge ruffled his hair--she had seen his mother do that. “What a
strange little boy you are this morning! You look almost stern.”
She wanted to show him into the faded dining-room where a meager fire
was burning; but he said that he preferred to wait in the hall. She
looked back and laughed at him as she mounted the stairs. He did not
reply to her friendliness. Then she ran; he had some trouble which he
would not tell her.
He stood there on the mat twisting his cap. From the varnished paper on
the wall a portrait of old Mr. Jacobite looked fiercely down. It seemed
to say to him, “Little coward, coming to a pack of women! Learn to bear
your own burdens.”
But where else could he go? Even if other friends were willing to help
him, they kept servants and had people in and out of their houses.
At the Misses Jacobite, provided he kept away from the windows, Uncle
Waffles might hide for a twelve-month and never be caught.
Eerily, from the second floor, came the sound of Miss Leah singing. Her
song never varied and never quite came to an end. Peter could picture
how she sat staring straight before her through her red-rimmed eyes, her
empty hands folded in her lap.
“On the other side of Jordan
In the sweet fields of Eden
Where the Tree of Life is growing
There is rest for me.”
It almost made him cry to hear her. He was beginning to know just a
little of that need for rest.
A door opened. The singing came out. To his astonishment Peter saw
Miss Leah approaching. Up to now she had never left her room to his
knowledge. She beckoned. Then she spoke in that hoarse voice of hers. “I
heard her tell Florence that you're in trouble. You're too young to know
sorrow. That comes surely. But for you not yet.”
She placed her thin hand on his shoulder and drew him with her into
the room where the blinds were always lowered. Closing the door, she
searched his face. “You have the look. Sorrow! Sorrow! I have suffered
and can understand. Don't be afraid. Tell me.”
And he told her--he never knew why or how. She listened, rocking to and
fro in her chair, with her dim eyes fixed upon him. When he paused for
a word she nodded encouragement, pulling her woolen shawl tighter round
her narrow shoulders.
“And in spite of that you love him?--You're like a woman, Peter. You
love people for their faults and in defiance of common sense. And you
refuse to think he's bad?”
“He's not really,” said Peter. “The world's not been good to him.”
“Not really!” She spoke reflectively, as though she groped beneath the
words. “No, we're never bad really--only seem bad to other people till
they make us seem bad to ourselves.--Yes, you can bring him.”
But to bring him Peter needed Mr. Grace's help, and Mr. Grace had been
so candid in saying that “'e weren't worf it.”
When he reached the cab-stand, Mr. Grace wasn't there. He had waited an
hour before he saw Cat's Meat crawl out of the traffic.
“Well?” said Mr. Grace, with an instinctive fore-knowledge.
He let Peter explain his errand without comment till he came to the
account of the part played by Grace's policeman.
“'Oly smoke! 'Fraid, was 'e?--But wot yer tellin' me h'all this for?
H'out wiv it?”
“I want you to drive down the mews to-night and take us round to the
Misses Jacobite.”
Mr. Grace became very emphatic and solemn. “Cawn't be done. H'I wash me
'ands of 'im. Plottin' ag'in the law. Too daingerous.”
“Mr. Grace,” asked Peter, softly, “who's afraid now?”
“H'I'm not. Me afraid o' Grice's young man! Was that wot yer was
h'insinooating?”
“But aren't you?”
“No, I ain't.”
“Then prove it.”
“'Ow?”
“By doing what I've asked you.”
Mr. Grace stared between Cat's Meat's ears, twisting a straw in his
mouth. The ears were pricked up. He nudged Peter. “D'yer see that? The
'oss is a-listenin'. 'E ain't much ter look h'at, but 'e's won'erful
h'intelligent. When h'I'm drunk 'e just walks by h'every pub and pays
no h'attention to my pullin'. 'E's like a mother, that 'oss is, ter me.
'E's more kind than a darter, which ain't sayin' much.”
“Well?”
“Well wot? Oh, yes. H'am I goin' to 'elp yer stink-pot of a h'uncle? Ter
be frank wiv yer, I h'am.”
Cat's Aleat frisked his tail. Again Mr. Grace nudged Peter. “See that?
'E likes h'adwentures. Won'erful h'intelligent h'animal, but not much
ter look h'at!”
With the falling of dusk they met. Peter heard the wheels coming down
the mews; slipping the bars from the stable door, he let his uncle out.
“Yer a nice old cup o' tea,” growled Mr. Grace, addressing Ocky, “a
reg'lar mucker. Tell yer wot yer oughter do--yer oughter sign the
pledge. 'Ope yer ain't got much luggage; me keb ain't as strong as it
were.”
Ocky retreated into the darkness of the interior. He had promised Peter
he would become a good man and for once was ashamed of himself.
Seated by his side, Peter felt after his hand. “Don't mind what he
says.”
“But I am. It's true. I've been a mucker to you from first to last.”
Ocky coughed; the water in the tank had given him a cold on the chest.
“I'm sure you haven't. Anyhow, you're going to be better now.”
“Going to try till I bust.”
As the cab lumbered out on to the Terrace a man saw it. He scratched his
head, thought twice, then began to run and follow. Coming up behind he
did what street-urchins do--he stole a ride on the springs, crouching
low so as to be unobserved.
Cat's Meat alone was aware that something wrong had happened. He felt
the extra weight and halted.
“Kum up.”
He refused to come up.
“Kum up, won't yer?”
No, he wouldn't. He planted his feet firmly. There was something that
had to be explained to him first.
Very reluctantly Mr. Grace got out his whip--it was there for ornament;
he rarely used it. “Nar, look 'ere old friend, h'I don't wanter do it.”
But he had to.
Cat's Meat shook his head sorrowfully and looked round. His feelings
were hurt. When his master was drunk he accepted worse punishment than
that without resentment, but his master wasn't drunk now. Mr. Grace laid
the whip again across his back. Cat's Meat shrugged his shoulders and
snorted, as much as to say, “Don't blame me. Never say I didn't warn
yer.” Then he moved slowly forward.
“Now h'I wonder wot was the meanin' o' that?” reflected Mr. Grace.
“Don't like 'is cargo, h'I bet. Well, h'I don't, either. Won'erful
h'intelligent h'of 'im!”
Inside the cab Peter was asking, “But if you don't like the 'medicine,'
why do you take it?”
“Life's dull for a chap,” said Ocky. He would have said more, but was
shaken by a fit of coughing.
They crawled along by ill-lighted streets purposely, avoiding main
thoroughfares. As they drew up outside the Misses Jacobite's house,
Peter saw the slits of the Venetian blinds turned and guessed that four
tremulous ladies were watching. He opened the door for his uncle to get
out As Mr. Waffles alighted, a man jumped from behind the cab.
“Yer caught, Cockie. Come along quiet.”
Mr. Grace heaved himself round. “Wot the devil!” He was blinking into
the eyes of Grace's policeman.
“We can walk to the station,” said Grace's policeman, “but h'if you'd
care to drive us---- Yer seem kind o' fond o' conductin' this party
round.”
“I'll drive 'im, but I'll be 'anged h'if I'll drive you, yer great fat
mutton 'ead.”
“Mutton 'ead yerself.”
Peter jumped into the gap. “Oh, do drive them, Mr. Grace. Don't let him
be dragged there in public.”
“If that's the wye yer feel abart it---- Anythin' fer you, Master
Peter.”
“Look 'ere,” said Grace's policeman, “h'I'm in love with yer darter--as
good as one o' the family. We don't need to sye nothink abart the keb.”
“Get in, mutton 'ead.”
They got in.
Cat's Meat shook his harness as much as to say, “Now you're sorry, I
suppose. What did I tell you?”
Peter, as the cab grew dim in the distance, leant against the wall
sobbing. The door at the top of the steps opened timidly and Miss Leah
looked out. “Peter. Peter.” But he couldn't bear to face her.
As he stole home through the unreal shadows, he tried to persuade
himself that it hadn't happened. It must be his old disease--his
'magination. It was as though he had been playing with fear all
this while and now he experienced its actuality. It hadn't happened,
hadn't---- Then the pity of the pinched unshaven face, the huddled
shoulders and the iron hardness of the world overwhelmed him.
And Uncle Waffles hadn't said a word when he was taken--he hadn't even
coughed.
CHAPTER XXIII--AND GLORY SAID
Peter asked to see his father alone. They went up together to the
study. Barrington knew that a confession was coming. He was curious.
Peter's sins were so extraordinary; they were hardly ever breaches of
the decalogue. His sensitive conscience had framed a lengthier code of
commandments, which no one but he would dream of observing. Barrington
struggled to keep his face grave and long; inwardly he was laughing.
He drew up his big chair to the fire--his soldier's chair the children
called it. He put out his knee invitingly. “Sit down, little son. What's
the trouble?”
“I'd rather stand, father. You'll never want to speak to me again when
I've told you.”
Barrington observed Peter's pallor and the way his hands kept folding
and unfolding.
“It can't be as bad as that, old man. Nothing could be.”
“But it is, father. I'm a thief and a liar, and I expect I'll be
arrested before morning.”
Peter's tense sincerity carried conviction. This time there was