The Raft
with the result that a position was offered as packer in a publisher's
establishment. Ocky refused it. “Got something better.”
The “something better” was at last divulged. One afternoon Peter found
his uncle up the apple-tree, trying to balance a box in its branches.
In the box was scattered the kind of food best calculated to tempt the
appetite of a parrot. The box had a flap-door leading into it, propped
open by a stick from which a string dangled. If an ill-natured bird were
to enter the box and a lady beneath the tree were to pull on the string,
thus dragging away the stick, the door would shut and the ill-natured
bird would be a captive. Gathered under the tree were the four Misses
Jacobite, looking very weepy and calling up warnings to their guest,
please not to fall and to be careful.
Peter knew what it meant--these were the last offices of gratitude which
preceded departure.
When the adventurous gentleman had clambered down, it was seen that he
wore his shabby spats and that his mustaches were pointed with wax. He
led Peter aside and winked at him solemnly. It was the return from Elba;
after exile, he was going forth to conquer the world afresh.
“Well?” said Peter.
“Well?” said Ocky.
“Leaving?” asked Peter.
“'S'afternoon,” said Ocky. Then, after a silence, which heightened
the suspense, came the revelation. “There's a fellow, I know, a Mr.
Widow--we were in the coop together. A nice fellow! He oughtn't to have
been there. Seems he was in the second-hand business and dressed like
a parson to inspire confidence. Well, his wife was a gadabout woman and
always jeering at him. One day, quite quietly, in a necessary sort of
manner, without losing his temper, so he told me, he up and clumped her
over the head. He went out to a sale, never thinking he'd done any more
than was his duty; when he came back she was dead. He's a nice, kind
sort of chap, is Jimmie Widow, and religious. Not a bit like a murderer.
If you didn't start with a prejudice, you'd like him, Peter. I met him
a fortnight ago. He's opened a little place in Soho and wants me to join
him. I'm to mind shop while he's out. There's heaps of money to be made
in the second-hand business. You see, I'll surprise you all and die a
rich man yet.”
“Oh, yes,” said Peter, “I--I hope so.”
Mr. Grace thought it just as well that his friend should enter on his
new adventure with the appearance of prosperity. He offered him a free
ride in his cab. So Ocky took leave of his benevolent Delilahs not as a
pedestrian but, as he had arrived--a carriage-gentleman.
Shortly after his exit, the parrot was pounced on and eaten by a cat.
With the first money that he earned, Ocky made up for the loss with the
gift of a pair of love-birds. The Misses Jacobite named one Ocky and
the other Waffles. Which was the husband-bird and which the lady was a
matter in continual dispute between the sisters. Miss Florence insisted
that Waffles was the husband, because it had the more considerate
habits. The other she thought of as Jehane, and disliked.
The question was still undecided, when a hawker of goldfish happened to
call. No gold-fish were required; but the conversation veered round to
the sex of love-birds. The peddler confessed that in his spare moments
'e did a bit in poultry and bulldogs. He was at once invited to enter,
with all the deference that is due to an expert. Having inspected Ocky
and Waffles, he announced as his verdict that them bloomin' love-birds
wuz either both cocks or both 'ens; but, whether cocks or 'ens, even he,
with a vast experience be'ind him, could not tell.
When he had departed, a silver cruet-stand was missed from the
sideboard. And there the perplexing problem rested.
CHAPTER XXXV--WINGED BIRDS AND ROOTED TREES
A summer's afternoon in London! The gold-gray majesty of the
Embankment, basking in sunlight; the silver-gray flowing of the Thames
beneath its many bridges; smoke, bidding a casual good-by to chimneys,
sauntering off a truant into the quiet blue; trees, bravely green and
a-flutter; a steamer swerving in to the landing at Westminster!
His decision came suddenly. She had asked him to visit her.
Perhaps--perhaps, she could tell him what had happened to Cherry.
He jumped off the bus, crossed the road at a run, sprang down the steps
and thrust his money through the hole in the ticket-window. “A return to
Kew.”
The man in the box was ostentatiously slow in counting out the change.
These young bloods made him bitter. With all the years before them, they
were always late and always in a hurry. He sold them their passports to
cool green places; he himself was left permanently behind by that streak
of gleaming river.
“'Eaps o' time,” he grumbled. “Yes, that's your one.” Then, having at
last handed over the change and a ticket, “Best skip lively, or you'll
lose 'er.”
Peter skipped lively; to the man's disappointment, he scrambled aboard
just as the steamer was casting loose. She shot out into the current,
panting and splashing, kicking up a merry white wake. The Houses of
Parliament grew tall and, at last, spectral in the distance. The dome
of St. Paul's lay, a black bubble swollen to bursting, on the lip of the
horizon. The smoke of London trembled like a thin flag, waving back
the encroaching sky. The groan of creeping traffic was stilled;
stone-palaces of labor sank and sank, shorn of their height and
supremacy. This was the road to Arcady, the flowing road to the land
of birds and grass pavements. They were on the outskirts of that land
already; everybody felt it. A red-nosed minstrel drew his harp between
his knees and fumbled at the strings. He assured his public tunefully
that he had dreamt that he dwelt in marble halls. It was difficult
to believe him; he didn't look a soulful fellow. Nevertheless, in his
decrepit person, he echoed the hopes of incredible romance. The crowd
grew careless of appearances and jaunty. Cockney swains cuddled their
girls more closely; the girls, rather proud than abashed, tittered.
Battersea Park drifted by, a green mist of trees and romping children.
Against the red-brick background of Chelsea, scarlet-coated soldiers
strolled, unwarriorlike, keeping pace with pram-trundling nurse-maids.
The steamer seemed to stand still; it was the banks, on either side,
that traveled.
The harpist, having tried his nose at romance, came back to reality.
Perhaps, it was because he sang so much through it, that his nose was so
long and red.
“Sez I, 'Be Mrs. 'Awkins, Mrs. 'Enery 'Awkins,
Or acrost the seas I'll roam.
So 'elp me, Bob, I'm crazy,
Liza, yer a daisy--
Won't yer share my 'umble 'ome?”'
In vulgar language he gave exact utterance to Peter's emotions. Not that
he had any home for Cherry to share. He wasn't likely to have for a long
time to come. He had to go to Oxford first, there to be drilled for his
tussle with the world. And yet, unreasonably, too previously, against
all laws of caution and common sense, he wanted to hear her say that she
cared for him.
He had every reason to believe the contrary. He had written to her, and
had received only a line in answer, “_Let's forget. For your sake it
would be better._” After that his many letters had been returned to him
unopened, indicating that the address was unknown. He had tried to get
into touch with the Faun Man and Harry, but they were on the Continent,
roving. Then, he had thought of the golden woman. She had been kind to
him. She had asked him to visit her. She and Cherry were scarcely
friends, but she might tell him where he could find her.
“_Let's forget_.” The words rang in his ears. They tormented him.
They made him both sad and angry. They seemed to treat all love as a
flirtation, as a stroll beneath the stars which must end. He didn't want
an ending--couldn't conceive that it was possible. Was she heartless
or--or had she mistaken him? Was it that she didn't understand love's
finality? Or that she did understand, and was frightened? Or--and this
was the doubt that haunted him most--that she didn't really like him?
Putney! Mortlake! Racing-shells skimming the surface of the water!
Bridges wading from bank to bank! Bathing boys who stood up naked,
waving to the passing steamer! Then Kew, green and somnolent, with its
plumed trees and low-browed houses. Peter landed. The crowd melted,
breaking up into couples who wandered off, purposeless and happy. They
had only escaped from London that they might be alone together. Should
they go to the Botanical Gardens? Oh, yes. Anywhere--it didn't matter.
Anywhere, so long as they could sit together and hold hands.
He crossed the bridge; stopped a stranger and asked a question; turned
along the bank and came to a house, little more than a cottage--a nest
tucked away amid shrubs and trees, with the river in view.
Like the frill on a woman's dress, a green verandah ran round it.
Everything was cool and neat and hushed. The bushes were trim and
orderly. The gravel-path had been smoothly raked--not a stone was awry.
Flowers stood sweetly demure, in rows like school-girls awaiting a good
conduct prize and trying to forget that they had ever been hoydens.
On the lawn an automatic sprinkler was at work, revolving slowly and
throwing up a cloud of spray.
As he approached the porch, misty with wistaria and passion-flowers,
he searched the windows for signs of life. They were so clear that they
seemed to be without panes, giving direct entrance to the pleasant rooms
inside. They seemed to say, “We have nothing to hide--nothing.” Brasses
shone as brightly as a more precious metal. The door lent a virginal
touch of whiteness.
He rang the bell and heard a faint tinkle, then the rustling of skirts,
accompanied by prim footsteps. A severely attired maid admitted him. He
gazed round the room into which he was shown. Books, artistically
bound, lay on the table. Everything gave evidence of fastidiousness and
taste--of a certain remoteness from the everyday jostle of life. Above
an inlaid desk stood a portrait, silverframed. Out of curiosity Peter
tiptoed over; the Faun Man gazed out at him with laughing eyes. Lying
open on the desk was a well-thumbed volume, small and bound like a
Bible. A passage was underscored, which read, “Thou must be lord and
master of thine own actions, and not a slave or hireling.” Turning to
the title-page, he found that it was _The Imitation of Christ_.
A voice behind him said, “Ah, so you've discovered me!”
He drew himself up, afraid she might suspect him of spying. “I--I was
interested by the words you'd underlined. I wanted to see who wrote
them. I oughtn't to have----”
She laughed softly, shrugging her shoulders. She was all in white--lazy,
splendid and vital. “My Loo-ard! Don't apologize. You were surprised.
I don't blame you.” She nodded her head like a knowing child. “Oh, yes,
Peter, the golden woman reads books like that sometimes.”
She took his hands in hers and drew him over to a sofa, making him sit
down beside her. “And now, what have you come to tell me?”
He recovered from his confusion and surrendered, as all men did, to her
graciousness. “That it's ripping to see you. But--but how did you know I
called you the golden woman?”
“Lorie--he tells me everything.” She leant back her long fine throat,
pillowing her head against the cushions. “You must never trust him with
any of your secrets, if you don't want me to---- Now, what is it that
you've come to tell me?”
“Then, you know----?” He hesitated. The confession to him was sacred;
there was amusement in her eyes. “Then you know about me and Cherry?” He
was sure she did. She had greeted him as though his visit had been long
expected.