The Raft
thankful that his watch was ended. Peter sat on by the open window,
imagining and questioning. The wide white moon rode quietly at anchor;
dusk-gray roofs were vague as an ocean bed. Not a sound. Nothing
stirred.
But yes. Behind stone walls of a college garden a recluse nightingale
commenced to warble: little notes at first, as though a child threw back
the counterpane of darkness and muttered to itself; then a cry--a
full, clear stream of song that fell like silver showered through the
tree-tops. Peter closed his eyes; imprisoned love was speaking with
its throat outstretched. In the shadows a heart was pouring forth its
yearning; the world slept. Was love always like that--a bird in a hidden
garden, with none to listen, setting dreams to music?
A sash was raised. It was across the street and further down. The sound
came from the Professor's house. It might be Glory. Odd, if they two
were keeping watch together! Should he call to her? If he remembered,
he would question her to-morrow. His eyes grew dusty; he folded his arms
beneath his head.
Someone entered. Morning! He was drenched with sunlight. A voice
addressed him discreetly, apologetically, “Overdoin' it a bit last
night? Shall I pour out your bath, sir? It'll pull you together.”
Peter laughed gaily, then a little shamefully when he realized what
the scout had meant. “I'm having brekker out. My bath--no, it doesn't
matter.”
Picking up a towel, he ran down to the barges through the glistening
meadows. What a splendid world, dazzling and dew-wet! Stripping, he
dived into the river. Shaking his head like a dog as he rose to the
surface, he drifted down stream, turned, fought his way back and climbed
out glowing. A day with her! She had promised.
He had to breakfast with the Professor--all his family were to be there;
and, after that------. His father might have plans. It would be ages
before he could be alone with her. The clocks of the city were striking
eight--big and little voices together. Could he manage it? There was
time for just a word.
He was panting when he came to Hell Passage and entered the courtyard.
Her window was wide. He called to her. She didn't answer. He plucked a
rose and tossed it in the air; it landed on her window-ledge. When she
wakened she might find it and guess that he had been there.
Professor Usk was in his moral mood that morning. “A great pity--a great
pity that young Oxford drinks to excess.”--He was trying to impress his
wife with his own extreme temperance.
Hardcastle was a guest. Riska was seated next to him; beneath the
surface of what others were saying, they carried on a softly spoken
conversation, private to themselves. Riska's piquant face was alive with
interest. Every now and then she laughed and clapped her hands, shaking
her head incredulously, stooping her shoulders and glancing sideways at
Hardcastle. They might have been old friends. Her color came and went
when she found herself observed; behind her apparent artlessness there
lay a calm and determined self-possession.
Peter took his place between Kay and his mother. “Happy Peterkins,” Kay
whispered; “your face is--is a lamp.” She squeezed his hand.
He was silent and excited, impatient for the next two hours to end.
Sometimes his thoughts were in the sun-swept street, hurrying to a
little courtyard, where a window stood wide and the echoes of Oxford ran
together. Sometimes his attention was caught by a remark, as when the
Professor turned to his wife, who had just sat down, and said, “Oh,
Agnes, while you're up----” and she replied, “But, Benares, I'm not up.”
His mother watched him, noticing the gladness in his eyes. She wondered
what it meant. Glory, lifting her face to his, gazed at him furtively
from beneath her lashes.
They had gone upstairs to the room from which Jehane had looked down on
Barrington. Peter had said, “There was a nightingale singing. Did any of
you hear it?” and Glory was about to answer, when the prancing of hoofs
drew them crowding to the window--it was a coach setting out for London.
On the box sat the Faun Man, reining in and steadying the chestnut
four-in-hand. The roof was a garden--river-hats and girls' faces; every
seat was taken. As they came clattering up the cobbled street, the horn
was blowing merrily. Peter took one glance, and was racing down the
stairs. The watchers at the window saw him dash out, sprint hatless to
the corner and vanish.
The Faun Man pulled up. “Hulloa, Peter! Searched for you all over
college. They said you'd gone out to brekker. Want to come with us?
We'll find room for you.”
Peter wasn't looking at the Faun Man, nor at Harry, who sat behind
him. He wasn't looking at the golden woman, who was trying to catch his
attention. He was looking at Cherry. Her place was on the box, to the
right of the Faun Man. She returned his gaze with laughter at first;
then, because he didn't laugh back, she turned away her head. And
Peter--he was puzzled and hurt. Why was she escaping? She had promised.
And why, when she was escaping, did she wear his rose against her
breast?
“Going to London!” he said slowly. “No, I can't join you.”
He swung round and was walking away. Harry called after him, “We're not
going to London, you chump. We're only going as far as High Wycombe to
look at a house. Climb aboard, and buck up.”
The golden woman added her persuasion. “For my sake, Peter. It's
Tree-Tops--the house we're going to look at. Sounds almost as fine as
the Happy Cottage, doesn't it? Lorie's going to live there, perhaps.”
Harry thought he had spotted the trouble. “We'll be in Oxford before
nightfall--catch a train back.”
Peter answered shortly. “Sorry. I can't. I've got my people with me.”
He waved his hand and stepped from the road to the pavement.
Cherry had said nothing. She let her clear eyes rest on him. The horses
were getting restive with standing and the passengers impatient. The
Faun Man shook out his whip; the leaders jumped forward. “Well, if you
can't, you can't,” he said.
Suddenly Cherry spoke. “I'm not going. Please let me down.”
The Faun Man whistled. “So that's the way the wind's blowing!”
The ladder was brought out. Peter helped her to descend.
“Good-bye and good Luck.”
The horn sounded. As the coach rolled on its way, every head was turned,
looking back. It grew dim in the dust of its journey. They were left
alone in the sharp sunlight, embarrassed in each other's presence.
It was she who spoke first, in a little caressing voice which mocked its
own sincerity. “That wasn't nice of me. And yet I didn't intend----. I
didn't really, Peter--not at first. I thought--we all thought you'd be
one of the party. And then--because I wanted to go, I forgot all about
you. D'you forgive me?”
“If you wanted to go, I'm----.”
She broke in on him. “There, instead of making things better, I've made
them worse. I shouldn't have come to Oxford--I've hurt you.”
Shouldn't have come to Oxford! She was threatening to go out of his life
again, just when he'd refound her. “Cherry,” he said, “I'm willing to be
hurt by you every day, if only I may see you. Don't you remember? Can't
you understand? I'd rather be hurt by you than loved by any other woman
in the world.”
“I know that.”
In silence they walked back to the Professor's house. At the corner of
the street, before they came into view, he asked, “D'you mind spending
the morning with my people? They're returning to London this afternoon;
then we can be by ourselves.”
The faces were still at the window, looking out; he was very conscious
of the curiosity he aroused. When he had climbed the stairs and
entered the room, he explained, as though it were the most natural of
happenings, “I've brought Cherry with me.”
His father relieved the awkwardness by asking, “What are we going to
do?”
“Why not the river?” Hardcastle suggested.
They set out in two punts from the barges. The Professor and his wife
had excused themselves, saying that they had to work. Hardcastle
took charge of Glory and Riska; Peter of the rest. They turned up the
Cherwell, past the Botanical Gardens, through Mesopotamia, coming at
last to Parsons' Pleasure. The sound of bathers on the other side of
the island warned them. The ladies got out, while the men drew the punts
across the rollers, taking them round to the farther landing. Barrington
accompanied Nan by the footpath.
Directly they were alone she turned to him, “Is there anything between
them?”
“Between who?”
“That girl and Peter?”
Her husband laughed and held her arm more firmly, “Between her and
Peter! What an idea! Match-maker!”
Nan leant against him, as if seeking his protection. “Match-maker?
Not that. I dread it. I want to keep them with us, Kay and Peter,
always--always.”
Tears were in her eyes. He remembered; once before in this place he had
seen her like that. “Have you forgotten?” he said. “It was here that it
all began--everything between us. It was after we three had met--a rainy
day, with the sun coming out. I left you to take the punt round the
island, and Jehane said something behind my back--something that brought
tears. It was when I saw you crying, Pepperminta, that I loved you.”
She uttered the wonderfully obvious, linking up his memory with the
present. “We little thought of Peter then.”
By the Parks the river was dense with row-boats, punts and Canaders.
Girls lay back on cushions under sunshades--sweethearts and sisters.
Men, in college colors and flannels, shouted to one another, “Look
ahead, sir.” Here and there a Blue showed up or a Leander, occasioning
respect and whispered explanations. The great men of the undergraduate
world were pointed out. Peter was recognized as the stroke-oar of
Calvary. He didn't notice the heads that were turned--didn't care. His
eyes rested on Cherry as often as they dared. Before his parents she
treated him casually. There were times when he spoke to her and she paid
him no attention. He was unhappy--did she dislike him? Then, as though
she felt that she was overdoing it, a secret flash would pass between
them and his fears were quieted.
“Don't forget,” his father reminded him; “we leave for London this
afternoon.”
Hardcastle, with his lighter burden, was pushing on ahead. Peter looked
at his watch, “It's almost one now. And I don't like to----.” He stooped
to whisper to his father; then straightened up. “Cherry knows why. I
don't like to let Hardcastle out of my sight--not with Riska. He isn't
the sort of man----. We'll have to follow. If I can't punt you back, you
can lunch at the inn at Marston Ferry and catch a tram. That'll get you
to the station in time.”
To Nan that day was like the repetition of an old story. Once
before--how long ago was it?--once before she had drifted up this quiet
stream, between gnarled trees and whispering rushes, to the gray inn
where a crisis in her life had threatened. She recalled Jehane, dark
and tragic, with trailing hands. She could see Billy, gay and careless.
Peter was like him, and Kay was very much what she had been then.--Her
eyes fell on Cherry; she examined her slightness, the frailty of her
throat, her astonishing gray eyes looking out of a face of pallor, the
delicate mist of hair sweeping across the whiteness of her forehead. Not
the girl for Peter! There wasn't a girl good enough. And then she tried
to believe that she was foolish. It hadn't happened to him yet--not yet.
And the parting--it was the same as long ago. Everything was repeating
itself. She and Kay and Billy stepped aboard the ferry. At the last
moment Glory said she would accompany them. The man pulled on the
rope; the ferry lumbered out into the stream. Peter and the girl, and
Hardcastle and Riska were waving to them from the bank. Nan had never