The Raft
certainly something the matter.
“Well, Peter, I'll forgive you before you tell me. Now speak up like a
little knight. The bravest thing in all the world is to tell the whole
truth when it's easy to lie.--Queer things have been happening lately.
It's about those Christmas presents, now, isn't it?”
Peter stood erect with his hands behind him, his curly head thrown back
and his knickerbockered legs close together. “You mustn't be kind to me,
father. It makes it harder. I'm going to hurt you.”
Barrington had never felt prouder of his son. He rested his chin on his
fingers and nodded. “Go on.”
In a low, tremulous voice he told him all, keeping the tears back
bravely. When he paused, his father waited; he wanted to hear Peter's
own story without frightening him by interruption. He had had an
important engagement that evening, but he let it slide. As the account
progressed he saw that here was something really serious. And yet how
Peterish it was to feel so poignantly the unjust punishing of Romance!
The humor of it all vanished when Peter told how Uncle Waffles had been
arrested.
“And then,” he said, “I came straight home to tell you. I don't suppose
you'll want me to live here any longer. It wouldn't be good for Kay; I'm
too wicked. I'm almost too bad for anybody. Kay--Kay'll never be able to
love me any more.”
They gazed at each other in silence. Barrington did not dare to trust
himself to talk; he knew that his voice would be unsteady. He was
frightened he would sink below Peter's standard and give way to crying.
He had to keep his eyes quite still for fear the tears would fall. And
he recalled the last confession that this room had heard--it was from
Ocky. He compared it with Peter's.
The minutes dragged on. Peter watched his father's face; he saw there
the worst thing of all--sorrow.
A coal falling in the grate took their attention for a moment from
themselves.
Barrington leant further forward. “What made you do it, Peter?”
“I loved him.”
“But what made you love him when you came to know all?”
“Because nobody else loved him.” Peter caught his voice tripping on a
sob and stopped.
“But he made other people unhappy. Just think for a minute: Aunt
Jehane's homeless and so are all your cousins.”
“I know. But it seemed so dreadful for him to be lonely, wandering
about--wandering about at Christmas.”
“But wasn't it his own fault?”
Peter bit his lip--he'd never thought of not loving people just because
they'd done wrong. Things were all so tangled. He remembered Jesus and
the dying thief on the cross. Surely that, too, was the thief's own
fault? But he knew that people rarely quoted the Bible except on
Sundays--so he just looked at his father and said nothing.--Again the
minutes dragged on.
There was a tap at the door. Glory entered shyly. “I'm going to bed,
Uncle. May I kiss you and Peter goodnight?”
Barrington nodded. “Come here, little girl; but first close the door.”
As she stooped over him, he slipped his arm round her and drew her to
his knee. “Peter isn't going to kiss you to-night. He thinks he isn't
worthy.”
“Peter not worthy!” She shook back the hair from her eyes and gazed from
Peter to her uncle incredulously.
“He doesn't think he's worthy to be loved by any of us. He expects he
won't live here much longer.”
“But why? Why?--Peter can't have done anything wicked.”
“I'm going to ask him to tell you what he's done, just as he told me.
And then I want you to say what you think of him.”
It was hard to have to repeat his confession, but Peter did it. While
he spoke, his father could feel how Glory's body stiffened and trembled.
Sometimes her eyes were unexcited, as though she were listening to an
old story. Sometimes they were like stars, fixed and glistening. When
the end was reached, she bowed her head on her uncle's shoulder, shaken
with deep sobbing. “Poor father! Oh, poor father!”
As she grew quiet, Barrington turned her face toward his. “And that,” he
said, “is why Peter thinks he isn't worthy. He's waiting, Glory. You've
not told him yet what you think of him.”
She looked toward Peter, dazed, as though not fully understanding. Then
she saw how alone and upright he was standing; it dawned on her that he
was really waiting for her to pronounce his sentence. She rose to her
feet; her uncle's arm still about her.
“Why--why, I think Peter's the most splendiferous boy in the world.”
Barrington laughed. “D'you know, I didn't dare to say it; but that's
just what I've been thinking all evening.”
It was only when Glory's arms went about him that Peter sank below his
standard of courage.
“I guessed it all the while,” she whispered; “I was waiting for you to
tell me. Why wouldn't you let me help you?”
Ah, why, why? How often in years to come would she ask him that
question, not with her lips as now, but with her gravely following eyes!
CHAPTER XXIV--THE TRICYCLE MAKES A DISCOVERY
H'I'm a better man than you are,” said Mr. Grace.
“In wot respeck?” asked Mr. Somp.
“In h'every respeck,” said Mr. Grace. “Nice wye yer've got o' h'arsking
fer me darter's 'and.”
Mr. Somp rubbed his nose, finished off his beer and winked at the
barmaid. Then he turned with a smile of tolerant patronage to his future
father-in-law. 'Any'ow, Cockie, h'I didn't need to h'arsk yer. Yer must
allaws remember that you come in on the second h'act.”
“Wot d'yer mean?”
“H'I mean the curtain was h'up and the play'd began when you h'entered.”
“H'information ter me--I'm larnin'.” Mr. Grace tossed off his pot to
show his supreme contempt and signed for another. Having wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand, he spoke reflectively. “So I h'entered when
the bloomin' curtain was h'up! Now I h'allaws thought as I wuz be'ind
the scenes and 'elped ter mike 'er.”
“A peep be'ind the scenes,” chirped the barmaid; “read a book called
that once. Mr. Grice this 'ouse is respeckable. If you ain't careful
you'll get chucked h'out.”
Mr. Somp looked deeply shocked. “That ain't no subjeck to mention before
ladies--birth ain't a matter ter be discussed in publick. It 'appens to
h'all of us, but people as is well brought h'up tries to ferget it.”
Glancing round and seeing that opinion was against him, Mr. Grace
retreated a step in the argument. “You said as h'I came in on the second
h'act. As 'ow?”
“H'after I'd h'arsked yer darter and she'd said 'yus.' In 'igh society
h'it's considered perlite to h'arsk the purmission o' the parent.”
“'Igh society be blowed. Pooh!”
“Well, and 'avn't I been purmoted?” said Mr. Somp importantly, scenting
an affront.
Mr. Grace was surprised into an expression of astonishment. Then, in an
effort to recover lost ground, “Wot mug purmoted you?” To the barmaid he
said, “H'I'll be King's jockey if h'I wite long enough.”
Mr. Somp swelled out his chest. “H'I got purmotion fer nabbin' that
bloke Waffles. Wot d'yer sye ter me proposal now?”
An audience of tap-room loafers had gathered; there was a reputation to
be won. “H'I sye wot h'I've awready said. H'I'm a better man than you are
and me darter's better.”
“In wot respeck?” Mr. Somp was tenacious.
“She's a h'orator as yer'll soon find h'out if yer marry 'er.”
The policeman gazed at the cabman sombrely. “That don't mike 'er no
better; h'it mikes 'er wuss. H'I've found that h'out. It's my h'opinion
that wimen should be seen and not 'eard.”
“So yer've found it h'out, 'ave yer?” Into Mr. Grace's voice had crept a
sudden warmth of fellow-feeling and friendliness.
“Ter my regret,” sighed Grace's policeman, wagging a mournful head. “If
I'd knowed before h'I got ter love 'er---- Ah, well! It don't mend
matters ter talk abart it.”
Mr. Grace heaved himself off the bench. “Shike 'ands, old pal; yer goin'
ter suffer.”
Mr. Somp gloomily accepted the proffered hand, looking at the barmaid.
“H'I'm afraid I h'am.”
“Then why not taik me?” asked the barmaid cheerily.
“And why not? That's the question. My dear, you might mike me suffer
wuss.”
“And I mightn't 'ave you,” she said coyly. “Any'ow, Mr. Somp had no
sympathy with the Salvation Army old top, try me next. Yours truly,
Gertie, h'always ready ter oblige a friend.”
It was the day after the honeymoon, which had consisted of a
steamer-trip to Greenwich, that Mr. Somp confided to Mr. Grace, “Too
much religion abart your gel.” At that hour Mr. Somp and Grace's father
became friends.
Grace's husband had no sympathy with the Salvation Army--he didn't feel
the need of conversion; and Grace, for her part, had no patience with
men who refused to sign the pledge. Mr. Somp took revenge for domestic
wrongs in his official capacity, by moving his wife along when he
found her beating her drum at street corners. Mrs. Somp punished him by
keeping him awake at night while, to use his own words, she sneaked to
God abart him. She even addressed God in the highways on this intensely
private matter, when she saw her husband approaching. She followed
St. Paul's advice by being urgent in season and out in her rebuking,
long-suffering, teaching and exhorting. Her lofty sense of right and
wrong depressed him; he grew slack, lost his standing in the force and
gradually ceased to work. His self-confidence melted before her superior
morality.
So she went back to the Barringtons by the day to do charring and to
give extra help. That was how Peter came to know all about her intimate
matrimonial problems. He heard the other side from Mr. Grace and Mr.
Somp, who now had a common grievance--they wanted to drink and Grace
tried to prevent them. “Don't you never marry a good woman,” they both
advised him; “good wimen is bad.”
Grace, on the other hand, despite her frequent complaints, held that
her husband was a very decent man, but bone-lazy. Having proved prayer
useless, she could think of only one other remedy. “If I was ter die,
father'd be sorry and my 'usband 'ad 'ave ter work; but I ain't got the
'eart ter do it.”
To which Cookie would reply, “I'm sure yer 'aven't, dearie. It's them as
should do the dyin'.”
After Ocky's arrest a period of flatness followed. The uncertainty which
had kept the household nervous and hoping for the best no longer buoyed
them up. Until they heard that Waffles had been sentenced, they could
make no plans for Jehane's future. Barrington placed money at his
disposal for his defence and went to see him once. He never disclosed
what happened; but his face was ashen when he returned. All that
evening, when anyone spoke to him, he seemed to have to wake before he
could answer. Next morning he told Jehane, “Ocky wants to see you.” She
shook her head. “He's dragged me low enough. I never intend to see him
again.”
“If that's the way you feel, you couldn't help him; it's better that you
shouldn't visit him.”
She looked into the shrewd gray eyes fiercely. She wanted to find anger
there--she could resent anger; she found only quiet judgment. “You don't
mean that you actually expected me to go to him?”
“I expected nothing, but he's in trouble. You've given him
children--he's your husband. In all your years together there must have
been some hours that are sweet to remember. I did rather hope that, now
that he's in trouble, you might have remembered them.”
“Well, I don't. I'm ashamed that I ever had them.”
“All right. It's strange; but I think I understand. He still loves you,
Jehane, and you could have helped the chap.”
“Love! What's the value of his love?”
“I think its value once was whatever you cared to make it.”
Later in the day he said to her, “And you wouldn't let Glory see him, I
suppose? He mentioned her.”
“No, I wouldn't. He's not her father. Captain Spashett was a gentleman.”
The children were never told what occurred at the trial; all they knew