The Raft
thought that she could feel so cruel toward anybody. As she crossed the
meadows she looked back. Peter and the girl, pigmy figures now, were
still waving. Jehane and Billy had waved to her like that, standing near
together. The old pang! And then she looked at Glory, walking quietly
with her head bent, never turning. In a flash little memories, trifles
in themselves, sprang up and became significant, each one pointing in
the same direction. She stole forward and took Glory's hand.
Hardcastle and Riska had vanished; their punt was gone from the landing.
Upstream the river was lost to view in a slow bend. No one was in sight.
An atmosphere of secrecy had settled down. From arbors of the inn and
tufted places along the banks came the indistinct murmur of voices. The
country looked uninhabited, stretching away for miles in squares and
triangles of meadows, each one different in coloring from the next.
Through the green panorama of trees and hedges the winding of the river
was traceable by the flowered freshness that it left. Overhead, casting
fantastic shadows, drifted white unwieldy clouds.
Peter helped her in, arranged the cushions for her and pushed off from
the bank. He had expected to say so much to her to-day; now the silence
was more happy. The day was running out; the veiled radiance of a
summer's evening crept across the landscape. A little breeze sprang up,
blew through his hair and stooped the reeds to the water's surface. She
lay curled up and contented, humming to herself; he could just hear
her voice above the splash of his pole and the lapping of the river.
Sometimes she would raise her eyes and smile down the distance of the
punt that separated them. When he wasn't looking she gazed more intently
at his tall, flanneled figure, noticing his tanned arms, with the
sleeves rolled back, and the upright litheness of his body. Did his eyes
catch hers unexpectedly, she veiled them in inscrutable innocence. The
waterway was narrowing, becoming choked with weeds and bulrushes.
“Your mother,” he stopped punting and turned at the sound of her high,
clear voice; “your mother didn't like me. You may tell her that she
needn't be frightened.”
What did she mean? She spoke gently, without resentment. “Not like you,
little Cherry! No one could help----.”
“Oh, yes. She didn't like me.” She raised herself on her elbow. “And she
was right. Won't you please stop caring for me; then we can be friends.
She saw what I told you from the first: that I'm not your sort--quite
different, Peter.”
He swung the nose of the punt round, so that it crunched into a tall,
green wilderness that sprang up and closed behind their passage. He laid
aside the pole and looked down the length of their refuge, regarding her
intently.
“Stop caring for you!” He laughed shortly. “As though I could--the
matter's out of my hands. I never had a chance not to care for you. If
I didn't believe that a day was coming when--when you'd be kinder to me,
Cherry, I'd not want to go any further--I mean with living. I'm not good
at saying things in words; you're everything to me.”
She avoided his glance, turning her head away so that he watched her
side-face. She spoke in a low voice, with concentrated vehemence. “It's
terrible to feel like that. People are sure to disappoint you. You've
no right to allow yourself to depend on someone else for all your
happiness.”
“But if I don't mind? If I'm willing to take my chance?”
She lifted up her face appealingly. “Then it isn't fair to me, Peter.
You force me to become responsible. It isn't that I don't like you. I
admire you; that isn't love. You don't know your own mind yet; there are
heaps and heaps of better girls.--And then, there's Lorie. I tell you,
Peter, I'm not your sort--please, please stop caring for me.”
The gladness died in him. It was as though the lamps behind his eyes
had guttered out. His voice trembled. His face had grown lean and sad.
“Don't say that, Cherry--it keeps us separate. You don't love me now,
perhaps; but one day you'll need me. I'm waiting till you need me, and
then----. You are my sort, Cherry; but I'll never be good enough for
you. All the time I'm trying, ever since I've known you I've been trying
to become better. It's like yesterday: whenever I'm losing the race and
getting slack I hear you calling. Then I say to myself, 'I have to be
fine for her.' I think you must be my sort, Cherry, if you can do that.
Love was meant not to make people perfect, but to make them believe
always in the best. If you do that for me, Cherry----.”
She put her hands before her eyes and slipped back against the cushions,
as though she had become very tired. He stole down the punt noiselessly
and knelt beside her.
“Don't you like to be loved, Cherry?”
She spoke, still with her eyes covered. “Of course I like to be loved.
Every girl likes to know that some man cares for her.”
“Then, why----?”
Her voice came wearily. “Because it would be selfish, when I don't
intend to marry you. But--but I wish I didn't have to keep away from
you.”
He leant forward and kissed her cool cheek. “Then don't keep away from
me.”
“You mustn't kiss me, Peter. If only you wouldn't kiss me directly we're
alone----. Why do you?”
Why did he? That she could ask such a question told him so much. She was
like a beautiful statue; he could stir no life in her.
“Everybody's done it,” he said simply; “everybody since the world began.
You can't help it when you love anybody.”
She withdrew her hand from her eyes and looked at him wonderingly. How
quickly she could change from sad to gay! All of a sudden, from seeming
listless and spent, she had become radiant and virile. Her face was
tender and wore an amused expression. She stooped toward him and touched
him. “Still a little boy! For the first time I feel older than you--so
much older. What good times you and I could have if only we didn't think
ahead.”
He slipped his arm about her. “Dear little Cherry, you want to be loved,
but you won't believe that I'm your man. You won't let yourself love
me--that's all that's the matter. When I kiss you you turn your face
away, as if you were only enduring me.”
She thrust her face forward with sweet demureness. “Try again.--I didn't
turn away then.--You're so persistent, Peter. No, that's'enough.”
He pushed out from the rushes. The sun was tumbling into bed, spreading
his gold hair on the pillow and dragging his scarlet bed-clothes over
him. The river was dull as tarnished silver, but it flared crimson
where, in its windings, the west smote it.
“And to-morrow, Cherry?”
“To-morrow! Does it ever come? I'm leaving to-night. I promised you
to-day; you've had it.”
“But I want to-morrow as well.”
She shook her head, laughing. “If I gave you to-morrow, you'd ask for
the day after. You're a greedy little boy, never contented.”
“But why must you go?” he asked.
“Because I'm expected. Lorie's thinking of buying a place called
Tree-Tops; it's at Curious Corner, near a village called Whitesheaves.
He's heard all kinds of splendid things about it. It's only thirty miles
from Oxford, so----.”
“So we'll meet quite often?”
She crouched her face against her shoulder and kept him waiting. “If you
don't try to kiss me,” she said. And then, seeing that he was going to
be melancholy, “You never know your luck. Cheer up!”
At the barges, when they had stepped out, Peter remembered. He turned to
the barge-man, “Mr. Hardcastle back? I don't see his punt.”
“'Asn't returned as I know of, Mr. Barrington. 'Ad a lady with 'im,
didn't 'e? Any message for 'im when 'e comes?”
Peter shook his head. It was growing dusk. Walking up through the
meadows, Cherry let him take her hand.
When they had fetched her luggage from the house in the little
courtyard, and he had seen her off at the station, he hurried down to
Folly Bridge and along the tow-path. Staring across the river to the
Calvary Barge, he could see someone moving. He called. A punt put out;
when it came alongside, the man looked up through the darkness.
“Can't take you across to-night, sir. Wouldn't be no use; the
meadow-gates is shut.”
“It's not that,” said Peter; “I only wanted to find out if Mr.
Hardcastle's come back.”
The man scratched his head. “Not yet, sir. Reckon he must 'a left 'is
punt higher up--by Magdalen Bridge, perhaps.”
“Perhaps. Well, it doesn't matter.”
He strolled away thoughtfully.
CHAPTER XL--MR. GRACE GOES ON THE BUST
Mr. Grace rose by stealth. Dawn had not yet broken. He groped his way
into his clothes in the darkness; he did not dare to light the gas.
Clutching his boots against his breast, with ridiculous caution for so
fat a man, he tiptoed down the stairs. In the passage he listened and
looked up, half expecting to see a head in curl-papers surveying him
from across the banisters. He heaved a sigh of relief. That fine bass
sound, like a trombone thrust out violently to its full length, was
his son-in-law, the ex-policeman; those flute-like notes, tremulous
and heart-stirrings were his daughter's musical contributions from
dreamland. All was well. He had not roused them.
In the stable he stuffed up the window with a sack and lit a lamp. Cat's
Meat raised his head and winked at him--winked at him solemnly. It was
a solemn occasion--they both felt it, this setting of a daughter at
defiance, while horse and master went on the bust.
The preliminary preparations of the past few days had awakened
suspicion. For one thing, Mr. Grace had repainted his cab: the wheels
were a bright mustard and the body was a deep blue--the color which
is usually associated with Oxford. For years--too many to count--Cat's
Meat's harness had done service, tied together with bits of rope and
string where the leather had worn out. But to-day his harness was brand
new--of a vivid tan. Yesterday, and the day before, Cat's Meat and his
master had indulged in a rest--that alone gave material for conjecture.
Grace and her ex-policeman had conjectured. What was the old boy
planning? Was he contemplating marriage? “And at his time o' life!” they
said scornfully. At any rate, they were snoring now.
As he led Cat's Meat out, he growled in his ear, “Not a drop o' drink,
old hoss, till this here is h'ended. And then---.” He smacked his lips;
the lean tail flirted across the bony haunches in assent. Mr. Grace
rubbed the nose of his friend, “Go by h'every pub till h'it's h'ended,
old pal, and then----. Understand?”
He had harnessed up and was tying the last of the blue rosettes to Cat's
Meat's bridle, when he was startled by a window flung up. He glanced
round--the curl-papers he dreaded!
“Now, then, father, you just come up 'ere and tell me. You just----.”
“Be blowed if h'I will.”
The curl-papers vanished; feet were coming down the stairs. Scrambling
on to his box, he jerked at the reins and lumbered out into the cold
March dusk. A shrill voice calling! She was in the stable, coming down
the street after him. What had she on, or rather what hadn't she? “My
word,” he muttered, “wot a persistent hussy!” He cracked his whip. Cat's
Meat broke into a stiff-kneed gallop.
At a cabman's shelter near Trafalgar Square he halted for breakfast. The
glory of his appearance attracted attention. “'Ere comes Elijah in 'is
bloomin' chariot.”
“Wot-ho, old mustard-pot! 'Ot stuff!”
Mr. Grace conducted himself with gravity. “I'm h'off ter the races. Got
a friend o' mine rowin'.”
“Oh, you 'ave, 'ave yer? A reg'lar Sol Joel, that's wot you are.”
He left his friends with a flourish. It was almost as though his youth
had returned--almost as though he hadn't a red nose and a daughter who
tried to convert him. He felt young and smart this blowy morning. He
didn't want to see a reflection of himself; he wanted to pretend that he