The Raft
lady's husband. They were sitting on the river-bank, screened from the
windows of the house by bushes, when they heard the sound of running.
It was the servant; she spoke loudly with excitement and seemed out
of breath. The funny man's face became grave; he rose and left Peter
without a word.
After that, all kinds of people came hurrying; they banged on the door
and went swiftly up the stairs--swiftly and softly. No one paid him any
heed and, strange to say, they were equally careless of Glory. He was
glad of that, for he loved Glory; it made him happy to have her to
himself. All that day they played among the flowers, he following the
shining of her little golden head. When she fell asleep tired, he sat
solemnly beside her, holding her crumpled hand.
That night they were hastily undressed by a stranger and tumbled into
the same bed. She was so strange that she did not know that she ought to
hear them say their prayers. It was Peter who reminded her.
Lying awake in the darkness, he was sensitive that something unusual was
happening. Up and down the creaking stairs many footsteps came and went;
dresses rustled; voices muttered in whispered consultation. In intervals
between doors opening and shutting, there were long periods of silence.
During one of these he heard a sound so curious that he sat up in bed--a
weak, thin wailing which was new to him and, had he known it, new to the
world. He gathered the bed-clothes to his mouth and listened. Voices on
the stairs grew bolder--almost glad. Peter was conscious of relief from
suspense; night itself grew less black.
Again a door opened on the lower landing; there were footsteps. A man
spoke cheerfully. “It's all over and successfully. Thank God for that.”
And the smacking lady's husband roared, “A little nipper all my own, by
Gad!”
Peter didn't understand, but they let him see next morning--a puckered
thing, wrapt in blue flannel, with the tiniest of hands, lying very
close to Aunt Jehane's breast. It was the funny man who showed him,
lifting him up so he could look down on it. The funny man was happy.
Did he start asking questions at once, or does he only imagine it?
Perhaps someone tried to explain things to him--it may have been his
friend, the funny man. It may have been that he overheard conversations
and misconstrued them. At all events, he knew that the baby was a girl
and that she had come several weeks before she was expected. Someone
said that Master Peter would never have been there had they known
that this was going to happen.--So babies came from somewhere
suddenly--somebody sent them! This was the beginning of his longing to
have a baby all to himself--but how?
One fine morning the treacherous Grace arrived, not one little bit
abashed. She told him that his mother was coming back to Topbury.
“Then am I the goodest little boy in the world?”
She thumped her great arms round him; he might have been her drum she
was playing. “You can be when you like; and, my word, I believe you are
now.”
He learnt before he left that the new baby was to be called “Riska”; and
he noticed this much, that its hair and eyes were black.
His mother had lost her whiteness. Her face and hands were brown; only
her hair was the old sweet color. He had not been long with her when he
made his request. “Mummy, get Peterkins a baby.”
She was sitting sewing by the window. She looked up from the little
garment she was making, holding the needle in her hand.
“What a funny present! Why does little Peter ask for that?”
“Mummy, where does babies come from?”
She laid aside her work and took him into her lap. “From God, dearie.”
“Who brings them, mummikins?”
“Angels.”
“How does they know to bring them?”
She laughed nervously; then checked herself, seeing how serious was the
child's expression. “People ask God, darling; he tells the angels. They
bring the babies all wrapt up warmly in their softy wings and feathers.”
“Could a little boy ask him?”
“Anyone could ask him.”
“Would he send me one for my very ownest?”
“Some day--perhaps.”
“And you asked God to send me, muvver?”
“I and your Daddy together.”
He lay so quietly in her arms that she thought his questions were at
an end. She did not take up her work, but sat smiling with dreamy eyes,
humming and resting her chin on his curly head. He clambered down
from her knee, satisfied and laughing, “Ask him again--you and Daddy
together.”
Just then Barrington entered. “What's Daddy to ask for now?” Then, “Why
Nancy, tears in your eyes! What's Peter been doing?”
She held her husband very closely, looking shy and happy. “He's been
asking for the thing we've prayed for.”
“Eh! What's that?”
“A baby.”
“A baby? Funny little beggar! Extraordinary!”
“And sweet!” whispered Nan.
“Come here, young fellow.” His father was solemn, but his eyes were
laughing. He held Peter between his knees, so their faces nearly met.
“If your mother asks God for a baby sister, will you always be good to
her--the truliest, goodest little brother in the world?”
And Peter nodded emphatically. His father shook his chubby hand, sealing
the bargain.
Peter watched hourly for her coming--he never doubted it would be a
_her._ He would inquire several times daily, “Will it be soon?” There
was always the same answer, “Peterkins, Peterkins presently.”
One night he heard the same sounds that had amazed him at the smacking
lady's house--whispers, running on the stairs, doors opening and
shutting. He waited for the weak, thin wailing; but that did not follow.
Nevertheless, he was sure it had happened: wrapt up warmly, in softy
angel-feathers, God had sent him a sister for himself.
It was very late when Grace came to bed. Peter pretended to be asleep;
he feared she would be angry. Slowly he raised himself on the pillow,
his eyes clear and undrowsy.
“Why, Master Peter!”
She turned from the mirror so startled that, as she spoke, the hair-pins
fell from her mouth.
53
“What a fright you give me! I thought your peepers 'ad been glued tight
for hours h'and hours.”
“Has she come? Has she come? Did a lady-angel bring her?”
“Lor' bless the boy, he's dreamin'! Now lie down, little Round Tummy.
Grice won't be long; then she'll hold you in 'er arms all comfy.”
“But Grace, she's downstairs, a teeny weeny one--just big enough for
Peter to carry.”
“Now, look 'ere, you just stop it, Master Peter. It's no time for
talkin'; you'll 'ear soon enough. You and your teeny weeny ones!”
Peter lay down, his little heart choking. Why wouldn't Grace tell him?
“But, Grace------”
“Shut up. I'm a-sayin' of me prayers.”
In the morning the hushed suspense still hung about the house. When
he raised his piping voice, Grace shook him roughly. At breakfast his
father's brows were puckered--he wasn't a bit happy like the funny man.
When the table had been cleared, he laid aside his paper and sat Peter
on his knee before him. “Something happened last night, sonny. You've
got a little brother.”
“Not a sister, Daddy?”
Peter cried at that; no wonder they were all so sad. “But we asked God
for a sister partickerlarly.”
All day as he played in a whisper by himself, he tried to think things
out. God had become confused at the last moment, or the angel had: the
wrong baby had been brought to their house. But where was the right one?
That evening the angel remembered his error and took the baby back.
Peter was being undressed for bed and Grace was crying terribly. She had
just slipped him into his long, pink nightgown when his father came in
hurriedly. He caught him up, wrapping a blanket round him and ran with
him downstairs. The door of the room which he had watched all day was
opened by a man in black. The room was in darkness, save for a shaded
lamp. There were several people present; all of them whispered and
walked on tiptoe. He raised himself up in his father's arms. On the bed
his mother lay weak and listless; her eyes were blue and vacant. She
seemed to have shrunk and tears stole down her cheeks unheeded. Her hair
seemed heavy for her head and lay across the pillow in two broad plaits.
In her arms was a little bundle. The man in black commenced to talk
huskily. No one answered; everyone listened to what he said. Suddenly
he stooped to take the bundle from his mother, but her arms tightened.
“I'll keep him as long as God lets me.”
So the man drew aside the wrappings; Peter saw the face of a tiny
stranger already tired of the world. The man in black spoke some words
more loudly and touched the stranger's face with water. Peter shuddered;
it was cruel to wet his face like that. They all stood silent in the
shadows--all except Peter, who cuddled against his father's shoulder.
Someone said, “He's gone,” and the sobbing commenced.
That night Peter slept in his mother's bedroom--she would have it. She
seemed frightened that an angel so careless might carry him away as
well. So they set up his cot by the side of her bed; as she lay on her
pillows she could watch him.
Mummikins got happy slowly; she seemed disappointed in God. Gradually
Peter learnt that, although the baby had been left at the wrong house,
they had given him a name and had called him Philip. But the old
question worried Peter--the one which no one seemed able to answer:
where was the sister God had meant to send and which his father had
promised? Since everyone treated him with reticence, he took the matter
up with God himself. Often, when his mother bent above him and thought
him sleeping, he was talking with God inside his head. As a result the
strange thing happened.
In his room, to the left of his bed, was a large powder-cupboard, even
in the day-time full of shadows. One night he had been praying out
loud to himself, but his voice was growing weary and his eyelids kept
falling. As he lay there, coming from the cupboard, very softly, very
distant, he heard a sound of whistling. It was a little air, happy and
haunting, trilled over and over. He sat up and listened, not at all
frightened. He thrust himself up with his elbows, his head bent forward,
in listening ecstasy. His father could whistle, but not like that. A
man's whistling was shrill and strong. This was gentle and glad, like
a violin played high up--ah yes, like his mother's whistling. Then,
somehow, he knew that a girl's lips formed that sound.
He slipped out of bed in the darkness and tiptoed to the cupboard. He
opened the door; it stopped.
When he was safe in bed it again commenced, as though it were saying,
“I'm coming. I'm coming, little Peterkins. Don't be impatient.”
It was trying to say more than that, and he racked his brains to
understand. When he lay quiet and was almost asleep, the picture formed.
He saw a girl-angel, standing in a garden, watching God at his work. And
what was God doing? He was making a little sister for Peter, stitching
her together. And every time the angel stopped whistling, God's needle
dropped. And every time she recommenced, God laughed and plucked
feathers from her softy wings to make garments for the little sister.
Peter named her the Whistling Angel. One day, when she and God were
ready, she would bring his little sister to him.
The last thing he heard, as his sleepy eyes closed on the pillow, was
that happy haunting little air, like a tune played high up on a violin,
faintly, faintly.
“I'm coming. I'm coming, little Peterkins. Don't be impatient.”
It was like the rustle of wind in an angel's wings who had already set
out on the journey.
CHAPTER VIII--“COMING. COMING, PETERKINS”
Peter took all the credit to himself--she was his baby. And why not?
Nobody, not even his mother or father, had had anything to do with her
advent. For many months after Philip's short sojourn, his mother had