Peter asked to see his father alone. They went up together to the
study. Barrington knew that a confession was coming. He was curious.
Peter's sins were so extraordinary; they were hardly ever breaches of
the decalogue. His sensitive conscience had framed a lengthier code of
commandments, which no one but he would dream of observing. Barrington
struggled to keep his face grave and long; inwardly he was laughing.
He drew up his big chair to the fire--his soldier's chair the children
called it. He put out his knee invitingly. “Sit down, little son. What's
the trouble?”
“I'd rather stand, father. You'll never want to speak to me again when
I've told you.”
Barrington observed Peter's pallor and the way his hands kept folding
and unfolding.
“It can't be as bad as that, old man. Nothing could be.”
“But it is, father. I'm a thief and a liar, and I expect I'll be
arrested before morning.”
Peter's tense sincerity carried conviction. This time there was
certainly something the matter.
“Well, Peter, I'll forgive you before you tell me. Now speak up like a
little knight. The bravest thing in all the world is to tell the whole
truth when it's easy to lie.--Queer things have been happening lately.
It's about those Christmas presents, now, isn't it?”
Peter stood erect with his hands behind him, his curly head thrown back
and his knickerbockered legs close together. “You mustn't be kind to me,
father. It makes it harder. I'm going to hurt you.”
Barrington had never felt prouder of his son. He rested his chin on his
fingers and nodded. “Go on.”
In a low, tremulous voice he told him all, keeping the tears back
bravely. When he paused, his father waited; he wanted to hear Peter's
own story without frightening him by interruption. He had had an
important engagement that evening, but he let it slide. As the account
progressed he saw that here was something really serious. And yet how
Peterish it was to feel so poignantly the unjust punishing of Romance!
The humor of it all vanished when Peter told how Uncle Waffles had been
arrested.
“And then,” he said, “I came straight home to tell you. I don't suppose
you'll want me to live here any longer. It wouldn't be good for Kay; I'm
too wicked. I'm almost too bad for anybody. Kay--Kay'll never be able to
love me any more.”
They gazed at each other in silence. Barrington did not dare to trust
himself to talk; he knew that his voice would be unsteady. He was
frightened he would sink below Peter's standard and give way to crying.
He had to keep his eyes quite still for fear the tears would fall. And
he recalled the last confession that this room had heard--it was from
Ocky. He compared it with Peter's.
The minutes dragged on. Peter watched his father's face; he saw there
the worst thing of all--sorrow.
A coal falling in the grate took their attention for a moment from
themselves.
Barrington leant further forward. “What made you do it, Peter?”
“I loved him.”
“But what made you love him when you came to know all?”
“Because nobody else loved him.” Peter caught his voice tripping on a
sob and stopped.
“But he made other people unhappy. Just think for a minute: Aunt
Jehane's homeless and so are all your cousins.”
“I know. But it seemed so dreadful for him to be lonely, wandering
about--wandering about at Christmas.”
“But wasn't it his own fault?”
Peter bit his lip--he'd never thought of not loving people just because
they'd done wrong. Things were all so tangled. He remembered Jesus and
the dying thief on the cross. Surely that, too, was the thief's own
fault? But he knew that people rarely quoted the Bible except on
Sundays--so he just looked at his father and said nothing.--Again the
minutes dragged on.
There was a tap at the door. Glory entered shyly. “I'm going to bed,
Uncle. May I kiss you and Peter goodnight?”
Barrington nodded. “Come here, little girl; but first close the door.”
As she stooped over him, he slipped his arm round her and drew her to
his knee. “Peter isn't going to kiss you to-night. He thinks he isn't
worthy.”
“Peter not worthy!” She shook back the hair from her eyes and gazed from
Peter to her uncle incredulously.
“He doesn't think he's worthy to be loved by any of us. He expects he
won't live here much longer.”
“But why? Why?--Peter can't have done anything wicked.”
“I'm going to ask him to tell you what he's done, just as he told me.
And then I want you to say what you think of him.”
It was hard to have to repeat his confession, but Peter did it. While
he spoke, his father could feel how Glory's body stiffened and trembled.
Sometimes her eyes were unexcited, as though she were listening to an
old story. Sometimes they were like stars, fixed and glistening. When
the end was reached, she bowed her head on her uncle's shoulder, shaken
with deep sobbing. “Poor father! Oh, poor father!”
As she grew quiet, Barrington turned her face toward his. “And that,” he
said, “is why Peter thinks he isn't worthy. He's waiting, Glory. You've
not told him yet what you think of him.”
She looked toward Peter, dazed, as though not fully understanding. Then
she saw how alone and upright he was standing; it dawned on her that he
was really waiting for her to pronounce his sentence. She rose to her
feet; her uncle's arm still about her.
“Why--why, I think Peter's the most splendiferous boy in the world.”
Barrington laughed. “D'you know, I didn't dare to say it; but that's
just what I've been thinking all evening.”
It was only when Glory's arms went about him that Peter sank below his
standard of courage.
“I guessed it all the while,” she whispered; “I was waiting for you to
tell me. Why wouldn't you let me help you?”
Ah, why, why? How often in years to come would she ask him that
question, not with her lips as now, but with her gravely following eyes!