It was all up. A warrant was out for the arrest of Ocky. Accusers came
forward from all directions--people whom glib promises had kept silent
and people who had kept themselves silent because they were friends of
Barrington. Now that silence had lost its virtue, they shouted. Their
numbers and the noise they made were a revelation and testimonial of a
sort to Ocky's enterprising character. He must have been skating
over thin ice for years. He had almost established a record. Such a
performance, so dexterous and long protracted, had required a kind of
gay courage that is rarely given to honest men. And Ocky was honest by
tradition, if not in practice. His nerve was admirable. No wonder he
drank.
He was wanted on many charges. There were checks which he had cashed
through tradesmen, drawn on banks where he had no effects. With his
habitual folly, he had left tracks by negotiating some of these
in London since his flight, using letters of a family nature from
Barrington to inspire confidence. These began to be presented five weeks
after his departure from Sandport. It seemed as though he had been doing
himself well and his supplies were exhausted. His name found its
way into the papers, largely because he was Barrington's cousin. So
everything became public.
The day before the reports occurred in the press, a man of his
appearance had enquired at Cook's in Ludgate Circus about the
exchange rates for French money. The Channel boats had been watched in
consequence; but he must have taken warning and altered his plans.
“He's ineffectual even in his sinning,” said Barrington. “Why couldn't
the fool have skipped the country earlier and saved us the humiliation
of a trial?”
The Sandport Real Estate Concern had gone into bankruptcy. Its affairs
would not bear inspection. Mr. Playfair had vanished with all the
odds and ends that Ocky had spared. Both of them were badly wanted.
So Jehane's scornful loyalty in stopping on at Madeira Lodge, that her
husband's retreat might be covered, no longer served any good purpose.
Moreover, every thing in the house was seized by creditors--even her own
possessions were no longer hers because they had passed as Ocky's. She
and her children found themselves penniless.
Her father, when applied to, presented her with a list of the sums he
had already advanced, unbeknown to her. He laid pedantic emphasis on
his early objections to the hurry of her second marriage. She had always
been wayward. He offered to take Glory and Riska to live with him for
a time, but couldn't put up with the younger children. Her independence
had been her undoing; it must be her making now. She must work. The
first Homeric scholar in Europe couldn't afford to have his peace of
mind disturbed. He was sorry.
Against her will Jehane was forced to accept the charity of the man whom
she both loved and hated. She came to him a fortnight before Christmas
with her four children--it was the first Christmas she had spent at
Topbury since her engagement to the unfortunate Mr. Waffles.
Barrington's relations with 'Jehane were painfully strained. He hated
the intrusion of her sordid problems on the sheltered quiet of his
family. He was aware that she had grown careless of refinement in
the vulgarity of her experience. She was no longer the Oxford don's
daughter, soft in speech and lively eyed, but a woman inclined to be
loud-voiced and nagging. He blamed her, was sorry for her and wanted
to be kind to her; but it was difficult to be kind to Jehane when her
feelings were raw and wounded. She refused pity and was as hurt by the
comfort which he permitted her to share as if it were something of
which he had robbed her. She spoke continually of “my poor children,”
betraying jealousy for the lot of Kay and Peter.
An additional cause of grievance was found in Eustace; he was an amiable
mild boy, dull and fond of being petted, the miniature of his father.
Barrington knew he was unjust, but his repulsion was physical: he could
not restrain his dislike of the child whose sole offence was his strong
resemblance to the man who had caused this misery. Jehane was cut to the
quick; being forced to be humble, she sulked.
Nan tried to play the part of peacemaker. She was proud of the nobility
of her husband; she understood his occasional flashes of temper. He was
overburdened; he was doing far more for Jehane than she had any right
to expect. He had made himself responsible for all the swindles in which
his name had been employed as an inducement. To fulfil these obligations
he was sacrificing many of his art-treasures; even the landscape by Cuyp
was threatened.
And she also understood Jehane's predicament. She was too gentle to
resent her seeming ingratitude. Looking back over the long road from
girlhood, she marveled at her friend's fortitude--that she could still
lift up her head proudly and, in spite of bludgeonings, plan for the
future. Jehane might scold and grumble to her when Barrington's back was
turned; it made no difference to her unvarying tenderness.
And there were times when Jehane was ashamed of her ferocity and, laying
her head on Nan's shoulder, confessed her folly.
“I'm cruel,” she wept; “all the sweetness in me is turned to acid. I
shall grow worse and worse, till at last I shall be quite impenitent. I
can't help it. Life won't grow easier for me---- If you told the truth,
you'd write over me, 'Here lies a mother who loved too much and a wife
who loved too little.' I'm spoiling my children with my fondness and
filling their heads with vanity---- And I shall often hurt you, little
Nan. But you'll stick by me, won't you?”
Barrington was suspicious that violent scenes took place in his absence;
manlike, he was irritated and could not comprehend their necessity. He
was furious that his wife should be upset and forbade the name of Ocky
to be mentioned in his presence.
Peter overheard much of the abuse which was showered on his uncle by
both Jehane and her children. His eyes became flames when harsh things
were said; quarrels were the result. The quarrels were for the most part
with Riska. He could not believe that anyone he loved was really bad.
Glory shared his grieved anger; a defensive alliance in the interest of
Ocky was formed between her and himself. It was the first compact he
had ever made with Glory. But she was too mild for Peter--too much of a
Saint Teresa and not enough of a Joan of Arc. Glory knew that she could
not be valiant; in secret she cried her heart out because he despised
her cowardice.
Barrington might forbid the mention of Ocky's name, but outside on the
Terrace there was a perpetual reminder.
A tall man, with a straight back and wooden way of walking, watched the
house. He pretended not to be watching and, when anyone saw him from
the window, would stroll carelessly away as though he were just taking
a breath of air; but he always returned. He got so much on Barrington's
nerves that he finally made up his mind to accost him.
“What are you doing here, always hanging round? I won't have it.”
The man, who had tried to avoid him, finding himself cornered, answered
respectfully “Sorry, sir. H'it's orders.”
“But what _are_ you? A plain-clothes man?”
“That's not for me to say, sir.”
Barrington slipped him a sovereign, saying, “Come, speak out You're safe
with me. I won't tell. You know, it's a bit thick, having you out here.
The ladies are upset.” The man scratched his head. “It ain't the ladies
I'm after. It's 'im. You've got 'is missis and kids in there. 'E was
allaws fond of 'is kids, so they tell us. We calkilate that since 'e
cawn't get out o' the country, 'e'll turn up 'ere sooner or later. These
things is allaws painful for the family. That chap was a mug; 'e should
'a planned things better.”
Barrington thought for a minute. Then he asked, “Are you a married man?”
“Married, and five nippers, Gawd bless 'em.”
“Well, look here, put it to yourself: how'd you like to have your wife
made ill and your kiddies sent frightened to bed, because a stranger was
always staring in at their windows?”
“Shouldn't like it. I'd get damned peevish, I can tell yer.”
“Good. Then you'll understand what I'm going to say. I'm a gentleman and
you can trust my word. If the man you're after comes here, I'll hold
him for you. In return I want you to be a little less obvious in your
detective work. I can't have my family scared. Go further away, and
watch from a distance. Is it a bargain?”
Just then Barrington turned and saw Peter standing with his satchel
across his shoulder. How much had he heard? He was awkward under his
boy's eyes; he often wondered what thoughts went on behind them.
“Run along, Peter. I'll be with you in a second.”
Then to the man, “Is it a bargain?”
“It ain't reg'lar,” said the man.
“But under the circumstances, you'll do it. I'm not trying to interfere
with your duty.”
“My orders were----. Awright, sir, 'cause of the wife and kids I'll do
it.”
That night Peter thought matters out. It was he and his Uncle Waffles
against the world. He did not accuse anybody, neither his father, nor
Aunt Jehane; but there was a mistake somewhere. They did not understand.
Whatever Uncle Waffles had done, to Peter he was still a good man.
Peter crept out of bed and across the landing to a window in the front
of the house. He peered into the blackness. By the railing of the
fields, at a point mid-way between two gas-lamps where shadows lay
deepest, he could see a figure watching. He must save Uncle Waffles from
that.
School had broken up. It was the twenty-fourth of December. There was
still no news of Ocky. In their anxiety they had almost forgotten that
to-morrow would be Christmas.
That morning Barrington dawdled over his breakfast, postponing his
departure for business. His wife glanced down the table at him, trying
to conjecture the motive of his dallying. Presently he signaled her with
his eyes, raising his brows at the children. When she had excused them,
he turned to her and Jehane. “Whatever's happened or is going to happen,
we don't want to rob the kiddies of their pleasure, do we? We've got to
pull ourselves together and pretend to forget and try to be cheerful.
What d'you say, Nan?”
“I'd thought of that. But I didn't like to mention it. Janey and I,
working together, can get things ready.”
“All right, then. And I'll see to the presents.”
He rose and laid his hand on Jehane's shoulder. “Come, Jehane,
things are never so bad but what they may mend. I've not always been
considerate of you. Let's be friends.”
It was one of those patched-up truces which, like milestones, were to
dot the road of their latent enmity.
Kay's and Peter's money-boxes were brought out; their savings for the
year were counted. Nan gave to Jehane's children an equal sum with
which to go out and buy presents. Peter was kept running all morning
on errands; in the afternoon he was busy decorating with mistletoe and
holly. The preparations were so belated that everyone was pressed into
service. Tea was over and the dark had fallen when he set out to do his
own shopping.
“Be careful, Peter, and come back quickly,” his mother called from the
doorway. And Kay, thrusting her vivid little face under her mother's
arm, piped up, “Don't be 'stravagant, Peter. Don't buy too much. 'Member
birfdays is coming.”
Peter felt happy. It was as though a long sickness had ended and a
life that had been despaired of had been restored to them. He knew that
nothing for the better had really happened; but, because people had
laughed, it seemed as if it had. Down in the Vale of Holloway the bells
of the Chapel of Ease were ringing. They seemed to be saying, over and
over, “Peace and good-will to men.”
Far away, at the bottom of the Crescent, he could see the spume of
gas-light flung against the dusk. All the shops were there and the
crowds of jaded people who had become for one night extraordinarily
young and compassionate. He began to calculate how far his money would
go in buying gifts for the family. Formerly there had been just his
mother, and father, and Kay, and Grace to buy for. Now there were how
many? He counted. With his cousins and Aunt Jehane there were nine
people. He would divide his money into ten shares; Kay should have two
of them. He was passing the gateway of an empty house; a hand stretched
out of the dark and grabbed him.
“Peter. Peter.” The voice was hoarse and terrified at its own sound.
Peter broke away and jumped into the road that he might have room to
run. He turned and looked back. He could see nothing--only the walls of
the garden, the gateway and the wooden sign hanging over it, with the
words, _To Let._
“Don't do that,” came the hoarse voice, “they may see you.”
“Who are you?” asked Peter, peering into the shadows.
“You know who I am,” came the voice; “this little boy can't have changed
as much as that.”
_This little boy!_
“Look out. Someone's coming.”
A heavy tread was heard. Grace's policeman approached with the
plain-clothes man. Peter bent down to the pavement and pretended to be
searching.
“Hulloa!” said Grace's policeman. “Who's there?”
“It's Peter. How are you?” He continued his searching, moving away from
the gate.
“Wot yer doing?” asked the plain-clothes man.
“Dropped some money. Oh well, I can't see it. It was only sixpence.”
He straightened up.
“Cawn't we help?” asked Grace's policeman.
“It doesn't matter. To-morrow's Christmas and I'll get more than that.”
“It's more'n the price of a pot o' beer,” said Grace's policeman. “If
you can afford to lose it, we can. Goodnight.”
“Good-night,” said Peter, “and a Merry Christmas.”
When they were out of sight he stole back. “Uncle! Uncle! What can I do?
Tell me.”
“They're after me. I've nowhere to sleep. I just want to see my kids and
Jehane before they get me. That's why I've come.”
“They shan't get you,” said Peter firmly.
“Oh, but they will. I once said, 'They shan't get me'; but when you're
cold and hungry----”
“You stop there. I'll be back in ten minutes.”
Peter ran down the Crescent. It was he and Uncle Waffles against the
world; but there was one man who might help--a man who wasn't good
enough to be hard and judging. Peter looked ahead as he ran, shaping
his plan. Yes, there he was, dropping the reins on his horse's back from
driving his last fare.
Peter tugged at his arm as Mr. Grace heaved himself down from the seat
to the pavement.
“None O' that, me boy, or I'll tear yer bloomin' tripes h'out---- Oh,
beg parding; h'it's you, Master Peter.”
“I want to speak to you, Mr. Grace, somewhere where we can't be seen or
heard.”
“Yer do, do yer? Wot abart the pub?”
“Not the pub, people'd wonder to see me there.”
Mr. Grace was offended; no one ever wondered to see him there. “Not
respeckable enough! That's it, is h'it. Ah well, you take my advice.
You're young. If yer want to live ter be my age, pickle yer guts.
Yer'll 'ave a darter one day, don't yer worry. Gawd pity a man wiv a
disrespekful hussy---- Suppose yer think I'm drunk?”
The situation required tact. “Not drunk, Mr. Grace; you don't run your
words together. You're just Christmasy, I expect.”
Mr. Grace threw a rug over his horse's back and fetched out the
nose-bag. When this was done, he addressed Peter solemnly, steadying
himself against the shafts. “I am drunk. Yer know I'm drunk. I know I'm
drunk. Old Cat's Meat knows I'm drunk. Where's the good o' argify-ing
and tellin' lies abart it? Let's settle the point at once. I'm damn well
drunk and I'm goin' ter be drunker.”
The minutes were flying; there was no more time to fence. “Mr. Grace, I
want you to help me. There's no one else in the world I would ask.”
Mr. Grace cocked his eye at Peter, a blind kind of eye like an oyster on
the half-shell.
“'Elp! 'Elp 'oo? 'Elp wot? Me 'elp! I need 'elp me-self; I kin 'ardly
stand up.”
“Oh please, not so loud! I'm serious. Something dreadful's happening and
you're my friend---- You are my friend, aren't you?”
Mr. Grace clapped his heavy paw on Peter's shoulder. “S'long h'as Gawd
gives me breaf.”
“Then let's sit in the cab, so no one will see us and I'll tell you.”
“Strange h'as it may seem ter yer, Master Peter, I don't fancy the
h'inside o' me own keb. Know too much abart it. There wuz a bloke I
druv ter the 'orspital t'other day wrapped up in blankits. 'E died o'
smallspecks. But anythin' ter h'oblidge a friend.”
The door closed behind them.
“'Ere, darn wiv that winder, young 'un. I feel crawlly wivout air. Sye,
don't yer tell yer pa wot I said abart me keb.”
Peter seized the cabman's hairy hand and held it firmly; he had
to anchor him somehow. “Has Grace told you anything about my Uncle
Waffles?”
“Swiped somefing, didn't 'e?”
“Yes.”
“Wise bloke. Honesty's been my ruin. H'I allaws returns the numbrella's
wot's left in me keb. I might 'a been a rich man; there's lots o' money
in numbrellas.---- Wot did 'e swipe? 'Andkerchiefs or jewels?”
“He swiped money; but he meant to give it back.”
Mr. Grace made an explosive sound, followed by innumerable gurglings,
like the blowing of a bung out of a beer barrel. “Yer make me larf. Wot
d'yer taik me for? I ain't no chicken---- Oh, me tripes and onions! He
meant to give it back! Ha-ha-ha!---- Now come, Master Peter, no uncle o'
yours 'ud be such a fool as that.”
“Well, anyway, he didn't give it back and they're after him.”
“Oo? The cops?”
“Yes. Grace's policeman.”
Mr. Grace sat up with such violence that the cab groaned in its ancient
timbers. “The devil, 'e is! A nice, h'amiable man, my Grice's policeman!
'E's allaws makin' h'enmity 'tween me and my darter. 'E watches the pubs
and tells 'er abart me, and 'im no better 'imself. H'I 'ate' im. So 'e's
after yer uncle?”
“He and a tall thin man who's been watching our house for a fortnight.
My uncle's up the Crescent hiding in the front garden of an empty house.
You've got to help me to get him away and hide him.”
Mr. Grace laid his finger against his bulbous nose. “Daingerous work,
Peter! Daingerous work! H'its against traffic reg'lations to h'aid and
h'abet a h'escapin' criminal. Wot yer goin' ter do wiv 'im if I lends
yer me keb?”
Peter bent his head and whispered.
Mr. Grace chuckled, slapping his fat thighs. “Blime! Lord love us! That
ain't 'alf bad. That's one in the h'eye for me darter's young feller.
H'I'm on, me lad.”
An irascible old gentleman who had been stamping his feet on the
pavement, looking for the driver, now rattled his stick on the side of
the cab.
“'Ere, don't yer do that. Yer'll knock the paint h'orf.”
“I've been waiting out here for half an hour. It's disgraceful. Drive me
to Paddington.”
Mr. Grace waddled out of the cab and shut the door behind him, leaving
Peter inside. “I'm h'engaged,” he said.
While he removed the nose-bag from Cat's Meat's head and gathered up the
reins, the old gentleman addressed a few remarks, the purport of which
was that Mr. Grace would find himself without a license.
As the cab turned to climb the Crescent, Mr. Grace made an effort to
outdo this burst of eloquence.
“None o' yer lip, old bladder o' lard. I know your sort. Yer the sort
'as ain't got no change fer a tip and feels un-'appy as 'ell abart
payin' a fare.”