There was no withstanding his questions. Peter had to be told why: it
was because he was too Peterish. He was going for the good of Kay. All
these years in trying so hard to love her, he had been harming her--it
amounted to that as he understood it. He was being sent to school that
he might learn to be like other children--like Riska and Eustace, for
instance.
“When I'm quite like them, can I come home?”
Ah, that was in the future.
Unknowingly he had committed an indiscretion, the penalty for which
was exile--the indiscretion was called “'magination.” He felt horribly
ashamed, even though Grace did assure him that some of the very greatest
people had been guilty of the same mistake.
“Why, Master Peter, you're gettin' orf lightly, that you are. There was
once a young fellah as dreamed dreams about sheaves bowin' down to 'im,
and the moon and stars makin' a basin for 'im. D'yer know wot 'appened?”
“I think that's silly,” said Peter. “How could the moon and stars make a
basin?”
“'Tain't silly neither, 'cause it says it in the Bible. Any-'ow, when
'e told 'is dreams d'yer know wot 'appened? 'Is h'eleven brethren, they
chucked 'im in a pit--yes, they did. And there 'e'd 'ave stayed for
keeps if it 'adn't been for a passin' circus as saw 'e was queer and put
'im in their show, and took 'im away into Egypt. Oh my, for a boy wiv
'magination, you're gettin' orf light.”
“What did he do in the circus? Did he ever come home again?”
“'E grew to be a ruler in h'Egypt and saved 'is pa and ma and eleven
brethren, when they wuz starvin'.”
“P'raps I'll do that for all of you one day.”
“Yer silly little monkey! There yer go again wiv yer queer sayin's.”
Peter had been to the Agricultural Hall in Islington and had seen people
in side-shows without arms and legs: bearded women; elastic-skinned
men; horrid persons with one body and two heads or with a little twin,
without even one head, growing out of their chests and waggling their
pitiful legs. He wasn't like that in his body; but he supposed he must
be something like it inside his head. The belief that he was somehow
deformed made him too humble, too abashed to protest; anything that was
for his little sister's sake must be right. But he wished that
someone had warned him earlier; only in this did he feel himself
betrayed.--Anyhow, never in his wildest fancies had he supposed that the
moon and stars could make basins--and that boy Joseph had turned out all
right. Now he was going to his particular Egypt to get cured.
Taking him on his knee, his father had explained matters. He was to be
a little knight and not to cry. He was to ride out into the world alone
for the good of the lady he loved best. One day he would return to her,
and then----.
With his mother it was different; she wept and quite evidently expected
him to weep too. She didn't want him to go. It was not her doing. She
loved him to be Peterish; she would not have him otherwise. To her he
could confess.
“It's here, mother,” tapping his breast; “I can't help it really. But
I'll try.”
No, he couldn't help it--that was the worst of it--any more than he
could help hearing the whistling angel. He could pretend that he wasn't
Peter, just as he had pretended not to hear the angel whistle. But he
would not be able to change; he could only learn to wear a disguise. If
school could teach him to do that, years hence he might prove worthy to
live again at Topbury. Because he felt that he was to blame, he strove
to be very brave; if his eyes filled with tears sometimes, it wasn't
because he wanted them to.
The respite shortened. Letters passed to and fro between his father
and Uncle Waffles, between his mother and Aunt Jehane. Their contents,
discussed at the breakfast table, cast a gloom over all the day. Many
schools were offered, but the best for Peter's particular case was one
kept by Miss Lydia Rufus. Aunt Jehane would look after his clothes, and
he could spend his Saturdays at Madeira Lodge.
Madeira Lodge! That was the house at Sandport which sheltered Uncle
Waffles. It was stamped in red letters at the top of his note-paper and
proclaimed magnificence. It rather tickled Peter's father's sense of
humor.
“Anything from Madeira Lodge 'smorning?” he would say, with a twinkle,
as he sorted out the letters. “But why stop half-way in intemperance?
Why not Port Wine Terrace, Moselle Park, in the town of Champagne?
Ocky's too modest.”
Or he would say, “Lord Sauterne of Beer Castle informs his nephew that
Miss Rufus's pupils require a Bible, an Eton suit and two pairs of
house-shoes.”
Peter would greet his father's jokes with a strained but gallant little
smile. “We men must keep up the women's courage,” his father had told
him.
It was hard to keep up other people's courage when your own was down to
zero.
By the time they left the cottage in North Wales everything had been
arranged. There was just one short fortnight left in which to get
Peter's wardrobe together, mark his linen and finish off his mending
and sewing. The mornings were spent in visits to shops, where boots and
gloves and suits were fitted on and purchased. A knight when he rides
into the world alone must set out duly caparisoned.
And Peter was thankful for the rush and muddle; he found it increasingly
difficult not to cry, especially when his mother strained him to her
breast and gazed down on him lovingly with her dear wet eyes. He was
glad that people should have so much to do, for he hardly knew how to
conduct himself since the discovery of his awful blemish. He was afraid
to show his affection for his little sister in the old fond ways, and he
could think of no new ways of showing it.
He had come to the last day. It was one of those days when summer droops
her eyes and confesses that she has grown old. There was just a hint
of tears in the sky--a blue film of vapor which softened the valiant
smiling of grass and leaves decaying. In the garden the last of the
roses were falling and Virginia creeper lay like crusted blood upon the
walls. It was as though summer, like a spendthrift woman, put red upon
her cheeks to pretend she was not dying. Peter, in his sensitive way,
was conscious of the sadness of this vain pretending, this mimicking a
beauty that was gone. He was doing the same: preparing for to-morrow
and at the same time trying to persuade himself that the present was
forever--that to-morrow would never dawn.
He ran up and down the house trying to seem merry and excited, watching
his boxes being corded, laughing and chattering--talking of when
he would return for Christmas. “We men must keep up the women's
courage”--one of the women was Kay. He was doing his best to be a little
knight; it hurt sometimes, especially when his mother looked up from
fitting socks and shoes into odd corners of his boxes, unhappy and
surprised. She must think him hard-hearted; she should never guess.
After lunch, having watched his opportunity, he slipped out of the house
without letting anyone know where he was going. His face was set in a
solemn expression of serious determination. He scuttled down the Terrace
and down the Crescent, till he came within sight of the cab-stand; he
was relieved to find that Mr. Grace, as he called Grace's father, was
disengaged. Mr. Grace was a fat, red-faced man, and like many fat and
red-faced men had his grievance. His appearance was against him. People
judged him circumstantially and said that he drank. Even Grace said it.
His stand was suspiciously near Topbury Cock. But most cab-stands are
near to some public house. Peter had become his very dear friend and to
him Mr. Grace had opened his heart, denying all charges and imputing the
redness of his countenance to the severity of his calling and exposure
to the weather.
Mr. Grace was asleep on his box, his face stuffed deep in his collar,
the reins sagging from his swollen hands as if at any minute he might
drive off. When Peter spoke to him, he jumped himself together. “Keb,
sir. Right y'are, sir. H'I'm ready------ Well, I'm blessed! Strike me
blind, if it ain't the little master.”
Peter spread apart his legs, thrusting his hands deep in his
knickerbocker pockets. “I'm going to be sent away, Mr. Grace, and I'm
worried.”
Mr. Grace twisted his head, as if trying to lengthen his fat neck;
finding that impossible, he shifted his ponderous body nearer to the
edge of the seat and regarded Peter with his kind little pig's eyes.
“Worried, Mr. Peter? Well, I never!”
“I'm worried for Kay--I shan't be here to take care of her.” His voice
fluttered, then steadied itself as he lifted up his head and finished
bravely.
“We'll do that, Master Peter. You kin rely on an old friend.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grace; that was what I was going to ask you. If anyone
was to run away with her, they'd come to you to drive them. Wouldn't
they?”
“Not a shadder of a doubt. I drives all the best people in Topbury.”
“These wouldn't be 'zactly the best people--not if they were stealing
Kay.”
“All the better; the easier for me to spot 'em. Any par-tickler pusson
you suspeck of 'aving wicked designs upon 'er?”
“No one in particular, Mr. Grace. I was just frightened that I might
come home and find her gone.”
“What one might call a prickcaution?”
“I think that's what I meant.”
Mr. Grace's neck had become sore with looking down, so he tempted Peter
to come on the box. Puffing and blowing, he gave him a hand to help him.
When they were seated side by side, Mr. Grace looked fondly at the curly
head and straight little body. “I shall miss yer.”
“And I shall miss you. It's nice to be missed by somebody.”
“I shall miss yer 'cause you've been my prickcaution.”
“I?”
“Yas, you. You've been my prickcaution against my darter, Grace. She's
thought better o' me since we've been friends. And then----”
“I'm glad she's thought better of you. And then, what?”
“Well, you kep me informed as to 'er nights out, so I could h'escape.”
Peter regarded his friend in surprise. “Escape! But she wouldn't hurt
you.”
“Not h'intendin' to, Master Peter; not h'intendin' to. It's me feelin's
h'I refer to. You don't know darters. 'Ow should yer?--She thinks I
drink, like all the rest of 'em 'cept you. On 'er nights h'out she
brings 'er blooming Salvaition Band to this 'ere corner, h'aimin' at my
con-wersion. It's woundin' and 'umiliatin', Master Peter, for a pa as
don't need no conwersion. She makes me blush all through, and that makes
things wuss for a man wi' a red compleckshon. So yer see, you wuz my
prickcaution.”
“But you don't drink, Mr. Grace, do you?”
“No more 'an will wash me mouf out same as a 'orse. It's cruel 'ard to
be suspickted o' wot yer don't do.”
Peter looked miserably into the kind little pig's eyes. “I'm suspected
too. That's why I'm being sent away.”
“O' wot?”
“They call it 'magination.”
“Ah!”
“Why do you say _ah_ like that?”
“'Cause it's wuss'n drink--much wusser. But take no more'n will wash yer
mouf out and yer'll be awright. That's my principle in everythin'----
Master Peter, this makes us close friends, don't it? We're both
misonderstood. I----”
Just then a fare came up--an old lady, very full in the skirt, with
parcels dangling from her arms in every direction.
“Keb, keb, keb. Oh yes, my 'orse is wery safe. No, 'e don't bite and 'e
won't run away. Eh? Oh, I'm a wery good driver. Eh? Three to you, mum;
four bob to anyone else. Am I kind to 'im? I loves 'im like me own
darter.--See yer ter-morrow, Master Peter.--Gee, up there. Gee up, I
tell yer.”
Peter sought out Grace's policeman on his beat and made him the same
request with respect to Kay. Then he saw the Misses Jacobite and warned
them. Having done his best for her safety in his absence, he hurried
home.
The evening went all too fast--seven, eight, nine, ten. Every hour the
clock struck he felt something between a thrill and a shiver (a “shrill”
he called it) run up and down his spine. “_The end. The end. The end_,”
the clock seemed to be saying over and over, so that he wanted to get up
and shriek to stop it. Oh, that a little boy could seize the spokes and
stay the wheels of time!
“Tired, Peter? Hadn't you better----”
“Oh, not yet! Please, just another five minutes.”
“The dustman's come to my Peterkin's eyes,” his mother murmured.
He sat up, valiantly trying to look wakeful.
They had not the heart to cut short his respite--it was such an eternity
till Christmas. His head sank against his mother's knees and his eyes
closed tightly, tightly.
“Poor little fellow,” his father said.
“My darling little Peterkins”--that was his mother.
They carried him up to bed. On the half-landing, outside the nursery
door, they halted, remembering how their dreams had shaped his character
long before God had made his body.
Next morning, soon after breakfast, Mr. Grace drove up to the door as
he had promised. He drove all the best people of Topbury to their
battlefields of joy or sorrow. He was Topbury's herald of change, and
had learnt to control his emotions under the most trying circumstances.
But this morning, when the straight little figure came bravely down the
steps, something happened to Mr. Grace's eyes.
“Good-bye, darlingest mother. Good-bye, little kitten Kay. Good-bye.
Good-bye. Good-bye.”
“Jump in, old man,” his father said.
The door banged.
“Yer awright?” asked Mr. Grace.
“We're all right,” said Peter's father.
“Kum up.” Mr. Grace tugged savagely on the reins. “Kum up, carn't yer?”
He had to vent his feelings some way.
“Dammitall,” he growled as his “keb” crawled down the Terrace,
“dammitall. It'll taik more 'an this fare's worf to wash me mouf out
this time. It's got inter me froat. 'Ope I ain't goin' to blub. Dammit!”