The Raft
Crescent walk your horse. Understand?”
Shops were closing. Girls and men were pouring out on to the pavement,
meeting with a quick flash of eyes and strolling away together. Some of
them boarded trams, going up to Highgate to breathe the evening air. The
sun was setting.
The horse slowed down. At the corner a crowd was gathered about a band.
People were singing. Peter caught the words:
“If you won't come to Heaven
Then you'll have to go to Hell;
For the Devil he is waiting,
But with Jesus all is well.
Though your sins be as scarlet,
He will wash them in His blood;
So hurry up to Jesus
And He'll make you good.
Hallelujah!”
Grace was standing in the middle of the circle banging on her drum, her
mouth wide open in her big poke-bonnet. On the cab-stand, lolling on his
box, pretending to be half asleep, sat Mr. Grace. His daughter's eyes
were on him.
Peter scanned the crowd. It was composed of idlers, onlookers and
scoffers, with a sprinkling of converts. The converts were noticeable by
their pale, indignant enthusiasm.
At first he saw no one who attracted his attention, and then----. A
man with dejected shoulders was crouching in the gateway of a house. He
seemed to be trying to be unobserved. His clothes were shabby--out of
fashion. His linen was soiled. It was the dirty white spats above his
unshone boots that made Peter notice. He told the cabby to wait for him.
He walked by the man once. In passing he noted the total slovenliness of
his appearance, the unkempt hands, the defeated air and the hat jammed
down to hide the close-cropped hair. He turned back and was repassing.
Like a whipped dog the man raised his eyes; then instantly lowered them.
Peter held out his hand; his throat was too choked to say anything. The
man seemed about to take it; then slunk back.
“You don't want to know me.”
“I do. If I hadn't, I shouldn't have come. I'm----I'm awfully sorry.”
“If you won't come to Heaven, then you'll have to go to hell,” sang
Grace and her followers; it sounded as though they were passing
sentence.
To the driver's amazement, Peter helped him into the hansom. “Trot us
round for an hour or two,” he said.
“If you won't come to Heaven, then you'll have to go to hell.” The
singing hurled itself after them--seemed to be running and to grow out
of breath as they drew into the distance.
They set off through Holloway. They reached the foot of Highgate Hill
and had not spoken. Ahead blazed the dome of St. Joseph's, catching the
redness of the sinking sun. The cabby asked for further instructions.
“Go up the hill and out to Hampstead.”
Waterlow Park brought a breath of country; children were laughing and
playing there. The sternness of the city, like the brutality of just
judgments, was dropping away behind them. Streets took on a village
aspect. Over to the left, within sound of the living children, lay the
stone-garden where little Philip rested. The horse clambered slowly to
the top of the ascent.
Peter touched the knee of the man beside him. “I'm glad you sent for me.
It's--it's a long time since we met. I mean--what I mean to say is, you
might have forgotten me. I'm glad you didn't.”
“A long time since we met!” The dull eyes stared at him as lifelessly as
through a pair of smoked glasses. “I've been buried. They'd better have
dug a hole for me.”
The man paused and looked from side to side stealthily. He had the
hoarse prison voice which whispered and cracked. It was painful to
see how he cringed and shrank. He pulled himself together and laughed
huskily. “They didn't let us speak in there.” He spoke reflectively, as
if to himself. “Silent for more than four years! Strange to be back!”
They were bowling down a smooth road. To the right were cricket-fields
and boys at the nets. Across the blue stillness of evening came the
sharp “click” of balls against bats.
“So this is Uncle Waffles! So this is Uncle Waffles!” Peter kept saying
to himself. His thoughts searched back, trying to trace a resemblance
between the irrepressible, joking companion of his childhood and this
mutilated scrap of humanity. The low-pitched voice crawled on like the
sound of dragging footsteps. “I couldn't have done anything bad enough
to deserve that. If I'd only known that someone outside was caring.
There were no letters, no--no anything. Just to get up in the morning
and to work, and then to go back to bed. Sundays were the worst--there
wasn't any work.--And then they opened the gates and shoved me out. I
couldn't think of anyone but you, Peter.”
Peter made an attempt to cheer him. “You could have thought of someone
else.”
The man shook his head.
“Oh, yes, but you could. There was Glory.”
“Glory!” He showed no animation. “She's eighteen, isn't she? No, Glory
wouldn't care. But Jehane, how is she?”
Peter had feared that question. “She's well.”
The man looked away. “She won't want to see me. She never loved me.
D'you think she'd let me see her, Peter?”
“I'm afraid--afraid she wouldn't. She's thinking of Eustace, and Moggs
and Riska. But Glory--I'm sure Glory-----”
“Ah, Glory! She's forgotten me. And Jehane, she never thought of me; it
was always of the children.”
His voice fell slack with utter hopelessness. Peter remembered Cherry's
words, “It's always one who allows and one who loves.” Jehane hadn't
even allowed; the ruin at his side was her handiwork.
The hansom halted. Hampstead Heath was all about them, falling away
in gorse and bracken and yellow earth. A little farther on was the
Flagstaff Pond. Toy yachts were scudding across it; excited boys ran
round its edges to retrim their sails and send their craft on fresh
adventures. A dog jumped into the water, barking; they could see his
head bobbing as he swam. To their left, between the trees of the Vale
of Heath, London lay like a sunken rock with the surf of smoke breaking
over it.
The cabby spoke, “Look 'ere, young gentleman, my 'orse is tired. H'I've
got to be gettin' back. 'Ow abart a rest at The Spaniards?”
They returned over the way they had come. The tall firs of the Seven
Sisters stood up black and weather-beaten before them. In the yard of
The Spaniards they stepped out. The cabby climbed down and began to
unharness. Behind his hand he said to Peter, “Rum old party you've got
there, mister.” And then, glancing up at the labels on the bag, “Been to
'Enley, 'av'n't yer? 'Ad luck?”
At the bar Peter ordered supper in a private room. He noticed that, when
they had sat down, his uncle still kept his hat on. When he reminded him
of it his uncle glanced at the door furtively and whispered, “Daren't
take it off. They may guess.”
He fell upon his food ravenously. In his eating, as in his way of
talking, there was something inhuman, something--yes, lonely was the
word. Slowly it was coming home to Peter that through all these years,
while he had been housed, and safeguarded, and attended with affection,
this man had been used like an animal. He was repelled and filled with
compassion. He wanted to escape; he was unmanned.
The dusk was falling. “I'll be back in a moment. Order what you like,”
he said.
In the fragile darkness he clenched his hands. Last night he had been so
happy! How had he dared to be happy? He recalled the jolly buffoonery of
Henley--the songs they had sung, the swaying of lanterns, the swan-like
gliding of punts, the muffled laughter, the hint of stolen kisses. And
all the while this man had been lonely; and his chief fault had been the
fault of others--that he had not been allowed to love.
Peter found himself walking across the Heath, following no path. Now and
then the rough ground tripped him and he stumbled. He couldn't bear
the reproach of that--that thing that had once been a man, that had no
courage left to accuse anybody. Peter felt as though he himself were
responsible, as though he had done it. He lifted his eyes to the stars.
Indifferent and placid, stretched out on the blue-black couch of heaven,
they stared back at him and told him cantingly:
“God's in His Heaven,
All's right with the world.”
He shook his fist at them. That was the trouble. God was too much in His
Heaven. He felt that he could never again be happy.
The image of Cherry grew up--Cherry with her red mouth. God had made
her, as well. He unclenched his hands and stood puzzled. God had made
her, as well! The golden panes of the inn shone and winked at him; he
retraced his steps.
The man still wore his hat, but----. Alcohol had changed him from a
thing limp and hopeless into Ocky Waffles. As Peter entered he staggered
to his feet with both hands held out.
“Why, if it isn't the ha'penny marvel. God bless me, how he's grown.
Quite a man, Peter! Quite a man!” He put his lips against Peter's ear.
“Mustn't tell anybody. They wouldn't understand. Have to keep it on.”
He pointed to his hat. “Been away for a rest cure--you and I know where.
Had brain fever. Had to cut my hair. It isn't pretty.” Then, in a lower
voice, “Mustn't tell anybody. You won't split on me?”
For the first time Peter was delighted to find his uncle drunk. He
assured him that he wouldn't split on him.
“Shake hands, old son; it's a compack. Cur'ous! Here's all this great
world and only I and you know about it. Makes me laugh. Our little joke,
isn't it?”
Peter took the whisky bottle from him. “You don't want any more of
that.”
The trembling hand groped after it; the weak mouth quivered. “Just to
forget. Just to make me forget. Don't be hard on poor old Ocky Waffles.
Everyone's been hard on Ocky Waffles.”
For a moment Peter wavered; then poured an inch more of liquid courage
into the empty glass. “That's the last for to-night; we've got to plan
for your future.”
“My future!” Ocky Waffles twisted his unwaxed mustaches and spread his
arms across the table. “My future! Oh, yes. I've got a great future.”
Peter tapped him on the hand. “Not a great future; but a future. There
are two people who care for you. That's something.”
“Two people? There's you, but don't count me in on it. This little boy
isn't very fond of himself.”
“There's me and there's Glory.”
“Glory!” Ocky Waffles smiled grimly. Then he seemed ashamed of himself
and repeated in an incredulous whisper, “Glory!”
“She cares more than I do,” Peter said. “She and I and you, all working
together--do you understand?--she and I and you are going to make you
well. We're going to show everybody that you're a strong, good man; and
we're going to work in secret until we can prove it.”
“A strong, good man!” The subject of this wonderful experiment looked
down at himself contemptuously. “A strong, good man, I think you said.
Likely, isn't it? I've started by getting drunk.”
With sudden loathing and concentrated will power he swept the glass of
whisky from him. It fell to the floor with a crash. He had become sober
and rose to his feet solemnly. “Not a strong, good man. I could have
been once. I'm a jail-bird. I've got my memories. My memories!--Good
God, I wouldn't tell you! You're young. I can only try to be decent now,
if that's enough. And--and I'd like to try, Peter, if you'll help me.”
As they drove back to Topbury the fumes of the drink overcame him. He
fell asleep with his head rolling against Peter's shoulder. Even in his
sleep he seemed to remember his shame, and how he must keep it hidden
from the world. His hand kept traveling to his hat, when a jerk of the
cab threatened to remove it.
What to do with him! As the night fled by him Peter planned. No one
but Peter would have thought out a plan so humanely idiotic. The silver