The Raft
gravel-path, with fresh-plucked flowers in her hands, he could see his
little sister, her gold hair blowing. A tap fell upon his door. A maid,
rustling in a starched dress, entered. “It's just come, Master Peter.”
“For me? A telegram!”
He slit it open and read: “_At Henley with 'The Skylark! Can't you come
for Regatta? Cherry with me._”
Cherry with him! It was signed Lorenzo Arran. So he was keeping his
promise! But why should Cherry be with him? And where had she been
hiding all those long four years? So the Faun Man had taken his
houseboat to Henley! It would be rather jolly to join him; but, after
all, He ought to stick to his work. And this girl--did he want to see
her?
The maid was waiting. A telegram at Topbury was a rarity in these days.
It cost sixpence at the cheapest; therefore its use was restricted to
the announcement of the extremes of joy and sorrow--births, deaths and
financial losses. She showed relief when he looked up cheerily and said,
“Tell the boy no answer.”
When she had gone he stood up, walked about the room excitedly and
halted by the window. He wouldn't go, of course; it would run his father
into expense. Then, again he read the words, “Cherry with me.” It would
be amusing to see her. He began to wonder--did she know that the
Faun Man had sent for him? If she did----? His thoughts flew back across
the years: he was in the Haunted Wood. The little river was singing,
“Turn back, turn back, turn back.” He refused to turn back, and
followed; suddenly, across the scrub-oak, he found himself gazing
into the gray eyes of a girl. It was the grayness of her eyes and the
whiteness of her feet that he remembered.
He leant over the table and closed the book with its unreal love-legends
of gods and goddesses. “By Jove, but I'd like to go,” he said aloud.
The maid had spread the news of the unusual happening. As he entered
the breakfast-room all eyes examined him. They waited for him to be
communicative. At last his father said, “Had a telegram?”
Peter drew it from his pocket and passed it.
His father looked up. “'Cherry with me.' What does he mean by that?”
Peter raised his eyebrows, as much as to say “How can I tell?”
His father handed it back. “Are you going?”
“Costs money, and I've too much work.”
It was the mention of work that roused his mother. She smiled gently,
and glanced down the table at her husband. “It would do him good,
Billy.”
“Yes, it would do you good,” his father said. “Why don't you go, old
chap?”
“Yes, why don't you go?” Kay echoed.
His things were quickly packed. In a flannel suit, with his straw hat
in his hand, he was saying good-by on the doorstep. His father bethought
him. “Here, wait a second, Peter; I'll walk with you to the end of
the Terrace.” While walking he delivered his warning, “This man
Arran--personally I like him and I know he's your friend, but----. I've
nothing against him, but he's a queer fellow --clever as the dickens and
all that. The fact is, curious tales are told about him--all of them too
far-fetched to be true. You know the saying about no smoke without fire,
well----. It may be that he's only different; but he strikes people as
being fast and dangerous. Be careful; I'd trust you anywhere. Have a
good time. I've got it off my chest--my sermon's ended.”
At the bottom of the Crescent, to his great relief, Peter found that
Cat's Meat's master was not on the stand. He wouldn't have hurt Mr.
Grace's feelings for the world. He was free to jump into a spanking
hansom. Cat's Meat may have seen him; but Cat's Meat couldn't tell.
Surely, at his age, he must have been glad to escape the long crawl to
Paddington. The younger horse in the hansom stepped out gaily, making
his hoofs ring smartly against the cobblestones. “Cherry, Cherry,
Cherry,” they seemed to be saying. Taking short-cuts by side-roads, now
following gleaming tram-lines, now dashing through mean streets, past
public houses in plenty, they sped till they struck Paddington and drew
up in the glass-roofed station. And then the drifting motion of the
train and the unbelievable greenness of the country--the glimpses of
silver water, quiet meadows and cottages in which people were born and
died, and never traveled! And the holiday crowds on the platforms! The
girls in summer dresses--the superb cleanness and coolness of them, and
the happiness! It was exciting. The wheels beneath his carriage drummed
out one word, “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.” He didn't know even yet whether
he wanted to see her.
The train achieved the surprise of the century--it arrived early. He
examined the expectant faces of the people; neither Harry nor the Faun
Man was there. He refused to hang about; his legs ached to be moving.
Picking up his bag, he set out to walk, hoping he would meet them.
Streets were garish--flowers in gardens, foamy toilets of women, college
blazers and rowing colors, and, over all, swift white clouds and the
fiercely gleaming sun. From under wide river-hats girls laughed up into
men's tanned faces. Everyone was young or, because the world was golden,
seemed to be young. Peter wanted some one to laugh with. Walking down
the middle of the street, the crowd moved in pairs, a man and a woman
together, almost invariably. The old gray town, like Peter, looked
lonely in this hubbub of jostling love and merriment.
As he came in sight of the Catherine Wheel, a distant cheering
commenced. Feet moved faster. Men caught at women's arms, and women
caught up their dresses; the army of pleasure-seekers commenced to run.
Because Peter was by himself he forged ahead and found a place on the
bridge where people stood yelling and jammed, shoulder to shoulder. At
first he could make out hardly anything, because of the sea of hats and
backs in front of him. Then the crowd swayed; he took advantage of it
and found himself leaning over the crumbling stone balustrade, gazing
down on one of the most gallant sights in England. Through a steep bank
of posies, made up of river gardens, house-boats and human faces, ran a
silver thread. Approaching, with what seemed incredible slowness, were
two specks about the size of matches. As the sun caught them, one
saw the flash of blades, whipping the water with the regularity of
clockwork. Stealthily, with infinite labor, one stole ahead. The garden
of faces on either side of the silver thread trembled; a roar went up
which gathered volume as it drew from out the distance. Peter pressed
his lips against a man's ear--a complete stranger--and shouted, “What is
it?”
The man stared at him despisingly, “The Diamond Sculls. Roy Hardcastle
again the Australian.” He turned away and paid Peter no more attention.
Peter, though not much wiser, at once became a partisan and screamed the
one name he knew, “Hardcastle! Hardcastle! Hardcastle!” till his throat
felt as if it had burst.
And now they were well in sight--two men with bent backs and arms that
worked like levers, each seated in a machine as narrow as a needle, with
long wooden legs which stuck out on either side, striding the water and
keeping the balance. They looked like human egg-beaters gone mad. The
river rose to its feet; the winning-post was nearing. The channel of
free water seemed to narrow as skiffs, gigs, punts, dingeys and every
kind of craft pressed closer to the booms which marked the course.
Something happened. Both men drooped inertly forward over trailing
sculls. It was dramatic, this immediate transition from frantic energy
to listless collapse. Hats were tossed up. Launches shrieked and
whistled. Everyone tried to make more noise than his neighbor, Peter
with the rest. “Well rowed. Well rowed, sir. Well rowed.”
When the clamor had died down he turned to where the man had been
standing. “Who won?” And then, “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
He was gazing into the amused face of a girl with gray eyes and
brown-black hair, that swept like a cloud across a Clear white forehead.
“Who won! Roy Hardcastle, of course. England's not beaten yet.”
He wasn't thinking of England's honor; the race--it had never happened.
He was looking at her mouth. They called her Cherry, because her lips
were red.
She was going from him. How straight she was! How slender! Like a slim
spring flower--a narcissus, perhaps. He went after her and raised his
hat. “Forgive me for speaking to you. Just a minute before a man was
standing there, and---”
“That's all right,” she said; “I understand.”
Again she was on the point of leaving. He had to make certain. “Since
I've been so rude already, would you mind if I asked you one more
question?”
She looked him over casually and seemed more satisfied that she was
willing to admit to anyone but herself. “Not at all.”
He straightened his necktie nervously. “Then, can you tell me where I'll
find _The Skylark?_ It's a house-boat belonging to Lorenzo Arran.”
She laughed softly and stood with her eyes cast down, tapping the
pavement with her foot. He was sure now. She looked up. “Where have
I seen you? Somehow you're familiar. It's annoying; you knew me in a
flash.”
“You're Cherry?”
“Only to a few of my dearest friends.”
He glanced away from her. “You were Cherry to me once for about an hour;
you've been Cherry to me ever since then.”
There was a long pause. “And yet I don't know you,” she said. “You must
be the friend Mr. Arran was expecting down from London.”
Peter nodded.
“He and Harry went to meet you. You must have missed each other at the
station. If you like, I'll show you the way to _The Skylark_; I'm going
there. They'll be wondering whether you've come. We'd better hurry.”
“Oh, please not yet.”
“But why not?” she asked, puzzled.
“Because I'm--I don't know. My pride's touched that you don't know me.
Would you think it awfully cheeky if I were to ask you to come and have
tea with me first?”
She opened her parasol, gaining time while she made her mind up; and
then, “I'm game. I haven't had much adventure lately. I'm just out of a
convent school in France.”
He opened his eyes wide. “Ah, so that was it!”
They entered the Red Lion and walked through into the garden. They
ordered tea at a small table from which they could see the river.
“Why did you say that?” she asked.
“What did I say?”
“You said, 'Ah, so that was it!' You opened your mouth so wide when you
said it that I thought you'd gape your head off. When I was a little
girl in America we had a colored cook with a decapitating smile--it
nearly met at the back of her neck. Well, your 'Ah' was a decapitating
'Ah.' Now tell me?”
“Because I've waited four years to find out where you've been hiding.”
“Four years!” She tried to think back.
He leant his elbows on the table, his face between his hands. “Seems a
long while, doesn't it? In four years one can grow up. Last time we were
together you made me a promise--you said we'd meet again often in the
same place. I went there and went there--you didn't keep your word.”
She laughed. “I suppose it's a trifle too late to say I'm sorry. I don't
suppose you minded much.” She waited for him to contradict that; when
he didn't she continued, “How much do you know about me? For instance,
what's my real name?”
He laughed in return. “You've got me there. All you told me was that
people called you Cherry, because your lips were red.”
She sank her head between her shoulders; then she looked up flushing and
pursing her lips together, like a child who wants to extract a favor
by being loved. “Be a sportsman. You're awfully tantalizing. Give me a
pointer that'll help me to guess. You know, I ought to know who you are;
it isn't good form for a girl to take tea with a strange young man.”
“Well,” he said, speaking slowly, “do you remember a day when you