The Raft
Behind the house-boat the sun was setting; in patches, where water lay
most still among rushes, the river shone blood-red. Sometimes, beneath
the window, they heard the dip of oars and a boat drifted past. They
were miles from reality, in a hushed and painted world. They had become
little children for the moment, though the Faun Man had called it “being
vulgar.” They had become immensely serious over a thing which didn't
matter. There were the words of the songs to learn, and then the tunes.
After that there were the cretonnes to cut out and run together into
burlesque night-gowns, extremely ample so as to cover their proper
dresses. The golden woman had surprised a prim widow in Hart Street by
asking for “The ugliest materials you have in your shop.” She had
met with success; no materials could have been uglier. One had a
straw-colored background, strewn with gigantic poppies; across another
floated, in a kind of sky-blue gravy, the unbarbered heads of bodyless
angels. The Faun Man and Peter, when their needles lost the thread,
gave up sewing and fastened theirs together with paper pins. And all the
while beneath the absurdity of it there was an atmosphere of tenderness,
as if folly had brought them all nearer. The Faun Man kept watching the
golden woman; and Cherry the Faun Man; and Peter, Cherry. As for Harry,
he was the only one whose eyes were free to take in everybody.
When night had fallen they slipped on their masks and stepped into the
punt. Harry took the pole and pushed off from _The Skylark_. The Faun
Man sat next to the golden woman, humming snatches of song beneath his
breath, to which he picked out an accompaniment on the mandolin. She lay
back gazing up at him.
Above a wooded knoll the moon rose, setting the river a-silver. Trees
knelt along the banks like cattle, stooping to drink. In the distance
the bridge leapt the chasm of darkness and lights of the town sprang
up. Like a fleet of dreams against green wharfs of fairyland, illumined
houseboats shone fantastic. Chains of lamps, strung through boughs of
gardens, gleamed like jewels on the throat of the dusk. The river sang
incoherently, in a voice that was half asleep. Peter slipped his hand
into Cherry's; her hand seemed quite unconscious of what he was doing.
And now they drew near to the crowd of pleasure-craft, which jostled one
another and beat the water like a run of salmon in shallows. Harry laid
aside the pole and took to the paddle. They lit their candles and flew
their heraldry. In their disguises no one would know them; with the
restraint of their identities lifted from them they scarcely recognized
themselves. The Faun Man gave the word; the punt was allowed to drift.
They all struck up:
“Go h'on away. Go h'on away.
Mind yer, I'm meanin' wot I say.
My 'air and 'at-pin's gone astray--
Stop yer messin'.
A pound a week yer earn yer say--
Oh, I don't fink!- Two bob a day's
More like. I loves yer. Yer can stay,
Yer bloomin' blessin'.”
They tickled the people's fancy; they were so obviously out for a lark
and so evidently intended to have it. When “My bloke's a moke” was sung,
from bank to bank the chorus was taken up; even the strollers, hanging
over the bridge, caught the swing of it.
“For yer cawn't be 'appy when yer 'alf in love--
Yer must taik one road or the other;
Yer can maike o' life an up'ill shove,
Or marry a bloke wot ain't yer brother.”
The Faun Man turned to the golden woman and addressed the words to her
shamelessly. He put his arm about her, and drew her head down against
his shoulder. Through the slits in her mask her eyes gleamed up. Peter,
watching, wondered why it was that she would only be kind to him in
fun; he had noticed that, when the Faun Man was in earnest, she never
responded.
They had been singing for an hour, pushed this way and that, too jammed
to attempt steering. Their punt had drifted near a house-boat, all
a-swing with lanterns and steep with flowers. Through the windows they
could see that a dinner had just ended; tall young men in evening dress
sprawled back in chairs. Corks were still popping.
The Faun Man whispered, “They're one of the crews breaking training.
What'll we give 'em? Oh, yes, this'll do. Tune up.” So they tuned up:
“If yer gal ain't all yer thought 'er,
And for everyfing yer've bought 'er
She don't seem to care a 'appenny pot o' glue;
If she tells yer she won't miss yer,
And she doesn't want ter kiss yer,
Though yer've cuddled 'er from 'Ammersmif ter Kew;
If yer little side excurshiums
To lands of pink nasturtiums
Don't make 'er 'arf so soft as they make you,
Why, never be down'earted,
For that's the way love started--
Adam ended wery 'appy--and that's true.”
The young men had come out. They were slightly unsteady; some of them
found difficulty in keeping their cigars in their mouths. They held one
another's arms and laughed loudly. Their faces were flushed and their
hair ruffled. But, for all that, because they were young and had done
their work gamely that afternoon, they seemed in keeping with the
atmosphere of carnival. A voice on the edge of the darkness shouted one
word, “Hardcastle.” The crowd stood up in their boats, and commenced to
cheer. From the group of crewmen one tall fellow was pushed forward and
lifted on a chair. He looked slim as a girl in his evening-dress; his
thin, rather handsome face, wore a weak, inconsequential expression.
When the babel of voices had died down he spoke thickly and
hesitatingly. “Yes, I won. I dunno. Did I win? I can't remember. Suppose
I must have. One of you chaps tell me to-morrow.--Anyway, if I did win,
here's to the losers. Plucky devils!”
Cherry had been leaning forward; her mask had slipped aside in her
eagerness. Hardcastle saw her. He stared--made an effort to pull his
wits together. In a second he had jumped from the chair, had caught
her by the hand, was helping her aboard the house-boat. She held on
to Peter, laughing and dragging him after her. The others followed
reluctantly--after all, they were out for adventure.
As soon as he had entered the cabin, Hardcastle slipped his arms about
her and swung her up on to the table amid the clatter of breaking
glasses. “Sing, you little beauty. Sing something.”
The Faun Man pushed his way forward; the matter was going beyond a
joke--his intention was to stop it. The golden woman clutched him,
“Don't make a row, Lorie, They don't know who we are. We've let
ourselves in for it; let's go through with it like sports.”
Cherry seemed not at all offended; the spirit of bacchanalia possessed
her. Her usually pale face had a pretty flush. She stood tiptoe, her red
lips pouting, watching through the slits in her mask these fine young
animals whom the river had applauded. Her eyes came back to Hard-castle.
“I don't want to sing.” It was like a shy child talking. “If you like,
I'll dance.”
In a trice Hardcastle had lifted her again in his arms. To balance
herself she had to cling to his neck and shoulders. “Clear the table,”
he shouted.
With his free hand he commenced tugging at the cloth. Others helped him.
With a jangle and smash that could be heard across the river, silver,
glass and lighted candles were swept to the floor. He set her back on
the polished surface and ran to the piano in the corner, crying, “I'll
tickle the ivories--you dance.”
With his head turned, he played and watched her. From the ruin she had
caught up a red rose and held it between her red lips by the stalk. Her
feet began to move, slowly at first--then wildly. She swayed and tossed,
glided stealthily, bent and shot upward like a dart. Her breath was
coming fast--all the while her gray eyes sought the man's who
watched her across his shoulder. The other men were infected by her
madness--they took hands and circled the table, singing whatever came
into their heads. To Peter it was torture. He thought that she knew it.
He guessed that she had done it on purpose. He had wearied her with his
respect He remembered one of the Faun Man's sayings, “No woman likes to
be respected; she prefers to be loved, even by a man whom she doesn't
want.”
The piano stopped. Hardcastle leapt up. “Here, I want to see her.”
“No. No,” cried Cherry.
“I do, and I will,” he retorted. He had stumbled against the table and
caught her by the knees; his hands were groping up to tear aside her
mask. An arm shot out; he staggered. Another blow struck him between the
eyes. He measured his length on the floor. Peter dragged Cherry to him,
pressing her against him. All was hubbub. The Faun Man and Harry were
on either side of him, forming a guard. Of a sudden the lights went
out--some one had knocked over the lamps. In the darkness the sound of
scuffling subsided. The Faun Man's voice was heard, saying, “Look here,
you chaps, that wasn't very decent of Hardcastle. He's drunk, so we'll
say no more about it. But you're gentlemen. Let us out. We're going.”
As they stepped into the night, Cherry felt warm lips touch her
forehead. She heard protesting voices, and one which whispered, “You get
off with her. We'll follow.” The punt stole out into the darkness of
the river. When she lifted her head from the cushions she found that
the ripples on the water were a-silver, and that a solitary figure was
seated in the stern, paddling.
CHAPTER XXXI--A NIGHT WITH THE MOON
He was taking her in the wrong direction. Why? To reach the Red Lion he
should have steered upstream. Far behind, chiseled out by the moonlight,
the town stood sharp against the star-strewn sky--sagging roofs,
twisted chimney-pots and tall spires. From its walls came the shouts
of roisterers and the sound of discordant singing, which broke off
abruptly, only to commence again more faintly.
She was inclined to be penitent. She was both annoyed and amused with
herself for what she had done. On the spur of the moment she was always
doing wild things like that to people she cared for--doing them that she
might measure their love by her power to hurt them. She wondered whether
he blamed her, and how long he would keep silent.
The river had become a pathway of ebony, inlaid with silver by the
moonlight. Along its banks illuminations smoldered, scorching red wounds
in the shadows. Here and there a candle flared, sank and died, like
a heart which had broken itself with longing. Craft drifted like logs
through the blackness. They seemed deserted, unpiloted; yet they bore
with them the sense of lips that whispered against other lips and of
hands that touched. “To-morrow!” everything seemed to say. “To-morrow!
But there is still to-night.”
To-morrow lovers would have vanished. Faces, which in the past week one
had learnt to recognize, about which one had built up fancies, would be
seen no more. The haunting poignancy of parting was in the night, the
memory of things exquisite and unlasting.
And Peter, he couldn't understand what had happened to him. It seemed a
dream from which he was waking; he wanted to sleep again and recapture
the illusion. From the first he had recognized an atmosphere of danger
in her presence. She was so foreign to his experience; it was scarcely
likely that a friendship with her would lead to happiness. And yet he
could not do without her. On those sunlit mornings aboard _The Skylark_,