They handed up their tickets, and passed into the air of an irregular
little street--low disjointed shops and houses, where the tramcars tinkled
through a slacker tide of humanity than the Londoners were accustomed to.
"This way," said Esther. "This is the way to the Rye."
"Then Jackie lives at the Rye?"
"Not far from the Rye. Do you know East Dulwich?"
"No, I never was here before."
"Mrs. Lewis (that's the woman who looks after him) lives at East Dulwich,
but it ain't very far. I always gets out here. I suppose you don't mind a
quarter of an hour's walk."
"Not when I'm with you," William replied gallantly, and he followed her
through the passers-by.
The Rye opened up like a large park, beginning in the town and wending far
away into a country prospect. At the Peckham end there were a dozen
handsome trees, and under them a piece of artificial water where boys were
sailing toy boats, and a poodle was swimming. Two old ladies in black came
out of a garden full of hollyhocks; they walked towards a seat and sat
down in the autumn landscape. And as William and Esther pursued their way
the Rye seemed to grow longer and longer. It opened up into a vast expanse
full of the last days of cricket; it was charming with slender trees and a
Japanese pavilion quaintly placed on a little mound. An upland background
in gradations, interspaced with villas, terraces, and gardens, and steep
hillside, showing fields and hayricks, brought the Rye to a picturesque
and abrupt end.
"But it ain't nearly so big as Chester race-course. A regular cockpit of a
place is the Chester course; and not every horse can get round it."
Turning to the right and leaving the Rye behind them, they ascended a
long, monotonous, and very ugly road composed of artificial little houses,
each set in a portion of very metallic garden. These continued all the way
to the top of a long hill, straggling into a piece of waste ground where
there were some trees and a few rough cottages. A little boy came running
towards them, stumbling over the cinder heaps and the tin canisters with
which the place was strewn, and William felt that that child was his.
"That child will break 'is blooming little neck if 'e don't take care," he
remarked tentatively.
She hated him to see the child, and to assert her complete ownership she
clasped Jackie to her bosom without a word of explanation, and she
questioned the child on matters about which William knew nothing.
William stood looking tenderly on his son, waiting for Esther to introduce
them. Mother and child were both so glad in each other that they forgot
the fine gentleman standing by. Suddenly the boy looked towards his
father, and she repented a little of her cruelty.
"Jackie," she said, "do you know who this gentleman is who has come to see
you?"
"No, I don't."
She did not care that Jackie should love his father, and yet she could not
help feeling sorry for William.
"I'm your father," said William.
"No, you ain't. I ain't got no father."
"How do you know, Jackie?"
"Father died before I was born; mother told me."
"But mother may be mistaken."
"If my father hadn't died before I was born he'd 've been to see us before
this. Come, mother, come to tea. Mrs. Lewis 'as got hot cakes, and they'll
be burnt if we stand talking."
"Yes, dear, but what the gentleman says is quite true; he is your father."
Jackie made no answer, and Esther said, "I told you your father was dead,
but I was mistaken."
"Won't you come and walk with me?" said William.
"No, thank you; I like to walk with mother."
"He's always like that with strangers," said Esther; "it is shyness; but
he'll come and talk to you presently, if you leave him alone."
Each cottage had a rough piece of garden, the yellow crowns of sunflowers
showed over the broken palings, and Mrs. Lewis's large face came into the
windowpane. A moment later she was at the front door welcoming her
visitors. The affection of her welcome was checked when she saw that
William was with Esther, and she drew aside respectfully to let this fine
gentleman pass. When they were in the kitchen Esther said----
"This is Jackie's father."
"What, never! I thought--but I'm sure we're very glad to see you." Then
noticing the fine gold chain that hung across his waistcoat, the cut of
his clothes, and the air of money which his whole bearing seemed to
represent, she became a little obsequious in her welcome.
"I'm sure, sir, we're very glad to see you. Won't you sit down?" and
dusting a chair with her apron, she handed it to him. Then turning to
Esther, she said--
"Sit yourself down, dear; tea'll be ready in a moment." She was one of
those women who, although their apron-strings are a good yard in length,
preserve a strange agility of movement and a pleasant vivacity of speech.
"I 'ope, sir, we've brought 'im up to your satisfaction; we've done the
best we could. He's a dear boy. There's been a bit of jealousy between us
on his account, but for all that we 'aven't spoilt him. I don't want to
praise him, but he's as well behaved a boy as I knows of. Maybe a bit
wilful, but there ain't much fault to find with him, and I ought to know,
for it is I that 'ad the bringing up of him since he was a baby of two
months old. Jackie, dear, why don't you go to your father?"
He stood by his mother's chair, twisting his slight legs in a manner that
was peculiar to him. His dark hair fell in thick, heavy locks over his
small face, and from under the shadow of his locks his great luminous eyes
glanced furtively at his father. Mrs. Lewis told him to take his finger
out of his mouth, and thus encouraged he went towards William, still
twisting his legs and looking curiously dejected. He did not speak for
some time, but he allowed William to put his arm round him and draw him
against his knees. Then fixing his eyes on the toes of his shoes he said
somewhat abruptly, but confidentially--
"Are you really my father? No humbug, you know," he added, raising his
eyes, and for a moment looking William searchingly in the face.
"I'm not humbugging, Jack. I'm your father right enough. Don't you like
me? But I think you said you didn't want to have a father?"
Jackie did not answer this question. After a moment's reflection, he said,
"If you be father, why didn't you come to see us before?"
William glanced at Esther, who, in her turn, glanced at Mrs. Lewis.
"I'm afraid that's rather a long story, Jackie. I was away in foreign
parts."
Jackie looked as if he would like to hear about "foreign parts," and
William awaited the question that seemed to tremble on the child's lips.
But, instead, he turned suddenly to Mrs. Lewis and said--
"The cakes aren't burnt, are they? I ran as fast as I could the moment I
saw them coming."
The childish abruptness of the transition made them laugh, and an
unpleasant moment passed away. Mrs. Lewis took the plate of cakes from the
fender and poured out their tea. The door and window were open, and the
dying light lent a tenderness to the tea table, to the quiet solicitude of
the mother watching her son, knowing him in all his intimate habits; to
the eager curiosity of the father on the other side, leaning forward
delighted at every look and word, thinking it all astonishing, wonderful.
Jackie sat between the women. He seemed to understand that his chance of
eating as many tea-cakes as he pleased had come, and he ate with his eyes
fixed on the plate, considering which piece he would have when he had
finished the piece he had in his hand. Little was said--a few remarks
about the fine weather, and offers to put out another cup of tea. By their
silence Mrs. Lewis began to understand that they had differences to
settle, and that she had better leave them. She took her shawl from the
peg, and pleaded that she had an appointment with a neighbour. But she
wouldn't be more than half-an-hour; would they look after the house till
her return? And William watched her, thinking of what he would say when
she was out of hearing. "That boy of ours is a dear little fellow; you've
been a good mother, I can see that. If I had only known."
"There's no use talking no more about it; what's done is done."
The cottage door was open, and in the still evening they could see their
child swinging on the gate. The moment was tremulous with responsibility,
and yet the words as they fell from their lips seemed accidental.