chapter in her secret history would never have been mentioned had she

not made Peter the proxy of her “accident,” because he was ten and

because he was handsome.

It was lucky for Peter. Her usual attitude toward children was one of

condemnation. She expiated her own sin by uprooting the old Adam from

the hearts of her pupils. In her vigor and diligence she often uprooted

flowers. For the rest, she was a High Church woman, wore elastic-sided

boots and never permitted anything to be placed on a Bible. Her system

of education was one of moral straight-jackets.

Peter found himself in a cramped new house, in a raw new street, on the

outskirts of a jerry-built town. The wind seemed always to be blowing

and, in whichever direction he walked, he always came to sand. It was

as though this place had been planted in a desert that escape might

be impossible. Twenty other little boys, about his own age, were his

fellow-captives. When the school was marched out, walking two abreast,

with Miss Rufus sternly bringing up the tail of the procession, he would

meet other crocodiles of boys and girls, sedately parading, followed

by their warders. These public promenades were a part of the school's

advertisement; deportment was strictly observed. Sandport, as Peter knew

it, was a settlement for convict-children.

Miss Rufus soon formed the habit of keeping him to walk with her. At

first this caused him embarrassment. Little by little--how was it?--he

became aware that with him she was different. As the mood took her,

she spoke to him sharply, was merely forbidding, or was so kind that he

forgot the sourness of her corrugated countenance and the ugly color of

her hair. It was instinctive with him to treat all women as he did his

mother, with quaint chivalry and forethought. An attitude of gallantry

in a pupil was something new to Miss Rufus.

When they came to the miles of beach, all tawny like a golden mantle

spread out with a thread of silver in the far, far distance where the

sea washed its hem, instead of going to romp with the other boys he sat

himself down beside her.

“Go and play,” she told him.

“But you'd be alone, mam.”

“I was always alone before you came.”

“But I'm here now.”

He stood before her laughing, with his cap in his hand and the wind in

his hair. He showed no fear of her--that was not his way with strangers.

She gazed in his face--the gray eyes, the flushed cheeks, the red mouth.

This was not the sullen little slave of her normal experience. In spite

of herself, his bright intelligence and willingness to be loved stirred

something in her breast. If she had not cared what people had thought

of her--if she had been brave, her child might have been like that. Her

chapped, coarse-grained features grew wistful. Peter, looking at her, saw

only a disagreeable, faded woman with red hair.

“You don't like me, do you?”

“Us'ally I like everyone,” said Peter; “I don't know you yet.”

“I'm a cross old woman. If you don't mind losing your play, you can come

and sit beside me.”

And Peter sat down. It was dull for him. Across the sands boats on

wheels raced with spread sails, dashing toward the silver thread.

Ponies, which you could hire for a few pennies, were galloping up and

down. Across the flat beach, like a monstrous centipede, with trestles

for legs, the long pier crawled with its head in the sea and its tail

on land. And the pier had its own delirious excitements: on show, in the

casino at the end, was a troop of performing fleas who drove one another

in the tiniest of hansom-cabs. Peter knew because a lady-flea, named

Ethel, had been lost; a reward for her recovery was advertised all over

Sandport. Ten shillings were offered and hundreds of fleas had been

submitted for inspection. Peter had a wild dream that he might find

Ethel: with ten shillings he could escape to London from this Egypt of

exile in the sand.

Miss Rufus broke in on his reverie. She had been wondering how anyone

who had the right to Peter could be so foolish as to do without him.

“Why did they send you?”

“Send me to you?”

“Yes.”

“Because I made Kay cry about heaven.”

“Humph! D'you know what it says about heaven in the Bible?--that there's

no marriage. Was that what she cried about?”

“Kay wouldn't cry about a thing like that. She's my little

sister--littler than me--and she's never going to marry. We're going

to live together always and have chipped potatoes and sausages for

breakfast.”

A smile twisted the thin straight lips of the sallow woman; it was the

first that Peter had seen there. It was almost tender--like a thing

forgotten coming back.

He laughed--he was always ready to laugh at himself. “You think that's

funny? Father thinks it's funny, too. He says, 'Peterkins, Peterkins,

time'll change all that.' But it won't you know, 'cause we mean it

truly.”

“But wouldn't it be very sad not to marry? Wouldn't you like one day to

have a little boy just like yourself?”

He shook his head. “I'm an awful worry. No, I don't think so. But I'd

like to have a little girl like Kay--and I'll have her, anyhow.”

The arm of the sallow woman stole round his shoulder. “Who says you're

an awful worry?”

“That's why I'm here, you know. I worried them with my queer questions.

When I'm the same as other people, they'll let me come back.”

“I don't think you're a worry. I hope you'll never be like anyone else.”

“But you mustn't say that, 'cause you're to change me. I'm glad you like

me.”

“Then be glad I love you,” she whispered.

The lonely woman's heart opened to Peter. He told her all about Kay and

Grace and Romance; he thought she ought to know everything since she

was to cure him. But instead of curing him she almost--almost made him

worse.

There was a strange furtiveness in their relation; the other boys must

not suspect. Miss Rufus despised favoritism; she tried to be very hard

on Peter in lesson-hours. He understood and smiled to himself.

He was terribly homesick. He wanted Kay badly. He wanted to hear her

laughter. He marked each hour by what they were doing at Topbury. Now

they were sitting down to breakfast; now Kay was going with his mother

shopping; now the dinner was being set and his father's key was

grating in the latch. Sounds and smells would bring sudden and stabbing

remembrance. He would hear the garden with the dead leaves rustling, see

the nursery gleaming in the firelight and a little girl being made ready

for bed. Oh, she must be frightened without Peter, at the top of that

tall dark house!

At night, when Miss Rufus broke her rule against favoritism and,

stealing to his room, pressed his head against her bony breast while he

said his prayers, it was then that he thought of his mother with most

poignancy.

But he was to be a little knight, so those weekly letters which

commenced “_My Beloveds_,” were written stoutheartedly. They must never

guess. But Nan saw the tremble in the sprawling hand and the blots,

where diluted ink had spread.

“Billy boy, we must have him back, I can't bear it.”

“Nonsense, darling. The chap's quite happy.”

“He isn't. He isn't. And you know it. Kay wants him--she's fretting.

I want him, and you want him as much as any of us. I want to hear his

footsteps on the stairs, to see his clothes lying about, and--and----”

“But it isn't what we want, little Nan; it's what's best for him. He's

as nervous as a cat--always has been. Give him a year of sea-air.”

Nan missed him terribly. No merry voice awoke her in the morning.

The ceiling above her bed never shook with childish prancing. Kay, by

herself, was very quiet. She was always asking where was Peter: had he

gone to heaven?

But it was when she came home at nightfall along the Terrace that Nan's

longing was most intense. Childhood would be all too short at best. Too

soon the years would take him from her. One day she would give anything

for just one evening of the joy that she now might have. Who could

tell what the future held? An old woman, grayheaded, she would sit and

whisper to herself,

“Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling,

To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread;

'Mother, mother, mother!' the eager voices calling,

'The baby was so sleepy that she had to go to bed!'”

Thinking these thoughts, Nan would sink her face in her hands,

foretasting the solitude that was surely coming.

But it was for Peter's good, his father said. He looked very intently at

the Dutch landscape by Cuyp, seeking quiet from it, when he said it.

As for curing him, Miss Rufus was the wrong person to do that. Peter was

aware of it. He had made her as bad as himself. He had set her loving.

He must look for help elsewhere.

On Saturdays Mr. Waffles called for him--quite a splendid Mr. Waffles

with soaped mustaches and rather shabby spats. He was taken to Madeira

Lodge, shiny with its newly purchased highly polished furniture. In

the afternoons he walked with Mr. Waffles to Birchdale, where the dunes

stretched away in billows of sand and the air was always blowy. In the

evenings he played with his cousins till it was time to return to Miss

Rufus. Across the road from Madeira Lodge was a Methodist Chapel and

beside it a plot of waste land. To this place he would escape when

he got the chance. The grass grew rank; it was easy to hide among the

withered evening-primroses. He had come to a great conclusion: no one

but God could cure him. There, behind the Methodist Chapel, he argued

with God about it, praying for Kay's sake that he might be made well.

Nothing happened--perhaps because Glory found him and, having found

him, was always following him to his place of hiding. He pledged her

to secrecy, told her his trouble and asked her advice about it. But she

only stared with dumb love in her eyes and shook her quiet head.

Of his longing to return he did not dare to speak to Miss Rufus--she was

too fond of him. Nor must he mention it in his letters. Aunt Jehane--ah,

well, she spoke of his parents as though they were entirely mistaken

about everything. She was always trying to prove to him how much more

broad-minded, clever and generous she and Uncle Waffles were. Her

jealous nature prompted her to steal the boy's heart by every expedient

of kindness and flattery. She told him scandal about her neighbors.

She spoke of love between boys and girls. She made him kiss Glory and

laughed at his awkwardness. She gave him special treats at his meals.

She boasted about her husband, saying how well he was getting on and how

much he would do for Peter. And she did all this that Peter might tell

her that he was happier at Sandport than at Topbury.

Peter couldn't tell her that. He had commenced her acquaintance with

a prejudice. He could never forget that she had once been the smacking

lady. He watched her with his cousins, how she was foolishly lenient

or foolishly severe, but wise never. She allowed herself to punish them

unjustly; but if anyone, even their father, blamed them, they were “My

Eustace” and “My girls.” Especially was this the case with Glory, in

whose making Mr. Waffles could claim no share. She could always humble

his uncle by speaking regretfully of Captain Spashett.

For Uncle Waffles Peter had a fellow sympathy; it was to him he turned.

On those walks among the sand-hills they had fine talks together.

“Old son, I did a big stroke of business this week. Oh yes, I tell you,

this little boy knows his way about town. Had two more acres offered

me, and borrowed money for the purchase. They're a long way out, but

Sandport'll grow to them. Now what d'you know about that?”

Uncle Waffles was often confessional with Peter and always exuberant. He

asked his opinion on business affairs as though his opinion mattered. He

seemed to keep nothing back, even touching on things domestic.

“You mustn't think I'm complaining of the Duchess. She's a snorter. But,

you know, she's never understood me. I'm taking her in hand though, and

educating her up to my standard. When first I knew her, she seemed to

think that loving was wicked. Now what d'you know about that?”

Peter watched for the results of the educating and was disappointed.

When Uncle Waffles tried to kiss Aunt Je-hane, she still drew aside her

head, saying, “Don't be silly, Ocky.” She left the room when he began

to tell his latest funny story. It was odd, if he was really successful,

that she should always treat him like that.

And there were other secrets Peter learnt--that his uncle had an obscure

disease which no one must mention. His uncle was very brave and laughed

about it. It could be kept in check, so long as he took his “medicine”

regularly. His “medicine” could be obtained at any public house and was

frequently obtained on those Saturday excursions to and from Birchdale.

When Glory accompanied them, Uncle Waffles contrived to do without it.

At Christmas Peter was put in charge of the guard and returned to

Topbury. The month that followed was epoch-making--a bitter pleasure.

Like a man living on his capital, he was always reckoning how much was

left. And then the respite ended and the exile in Egypt recommenced.

He clenched his hands. He would not cry. And yet----.

It was Kay he wanted. His whole life was wrapt up in her.

The first day back at school he noticed that one of his companions was

absent. The second and the third day passed; then the news leaked

out that he was dead. It dawned on Peter that death was a peril that

threatened everybody. No amount of care on the part of Mr. Grace or the

policeman could shield Kay from it. The thought became a nightmare. Miss

Rufus discovered that he was unhappy; he cried at night in bed. She was

hurt; but, when he told her, she was more gentle with him than ever.

Midway through the term a telegram arrived. Its message was broken to

him by Uncle Waffles. Kay was dangerously ill and calling for him; he

was to go back.

A drizzling rain hung over London. The streets were clogged with mud,

and gas-lamps shone drearily through the drifting murk. Throughout the

long and dismal journey he had sat pale-faced; in the intervals between

praying he had told himself that, were she to die, he would never

forgive his father for having separated him from her. He was stunned and

yet fiercely rebellious. In spite of his desperate hope, he was prepared

for the worst.

At the station Grace met him. Indiscreet through grief, she told him how

from the first of her three days' illness his little sister had never

ceased calling for him.

“'Er temp'rature's runned up with fretting, poor lamb; but you was

allaws h'able to quiet 'er, Master Peter.”

Before the cab had halted on the Terrace, Peter was up the steps.

Someone had been behind the blinds, watching; the door opened almost

before he had rung the bell. His father stood before him. In his hot

anger Peter dodged beneath his arm and commenced to mount the stairs. If

he had been there, he felt sure, this would not have happened.

From the room in which she had been born came the heavy smell of

eucalyptus. Peter opened the door; a fire was burning, as when he had

first found her there. A cot was drawn up to the fire and from it came

a ceaseless tired wailing. In the wailing he made out his name, uttered

over and over. As he ran forward, his mother rose to put her arms about

him. He rushed past her: she did not count. Bending over the cot, he

gazed into the flushed face. The hoarse voice stopped. The lips, cracked

with fever, pressed against his mouth.

“Little Kay, it's truly Peter. He's never going to leave you.”

From the moment he touched her, she began to mend.

Some days later, when relief from suspense left leisure for attention to

other matters, Mr. Barrington wrote to Miss Rufus, saying that his son

would not return. In reply he received a curious confidence. She had

advertised her school for sale, and it was Peter's doing. Peter had

taught her that, except love, nothing mattered.

Peter's father had seen Miss Rufus; he thought that love on her lips

was an odd word. Couldn't one love and still keep a school? It was very

_Peterish_ of Peter to make a lady with a corrugated countenance do

a thing like that. Something lay behind the letter. Later, when the

scandal had become public, Jehane informed them what that something was.

Peter's father felt penitent. He took his son between his knees, resting

his hand on his curly head, and gazed at him intently as though for the

first time he was beginning to know him.

“Have you forgiven me, little chap?” Then, “I was mistaken about you.

Your mother was right. Go on being _Peterish_ to your heart's content.

We love you best like that.”

To Nan he said, “You should have seen that woman. She was barbed wire

all round--impregnable. Absolutely. But Peter--well! We've got a queer

little shrimp for our son and heir.”