CHAPTER XXXII--IF YOU WON'T COME TO HEAVEN, THEN----

The train swung down the shining rails and rumbled into Paddington.

Passengers pulled down their parcels from the racks, jumped out and

disappeared in the crowd. Peter sat on. This carriage at least had known

her; she had looked in through its window and had waved her hand. Out

there in the stone-paved wilderness of London there was nothing they had

shared.

A porter looked in at the door. “Train don't go no further, sir. Lend

you a 'and? Want a keb?”

In the cab, Peter closed his eyes, shutting out the cheerful grime

of streets, the nipped impertinence of Cockney faces, the monotonous

anonymity of the ceaseless procession--the stench of this vast human

stable where lives were stalled and broken. He was trying to get back to

green banks, to a river molten in the sunset, and to a redlipped girl.

Was she thinking of him? If they thought of one another at the same

moment, could their thoughts meet and interchange?--But she didn't love

him. Oh, the things he had left unsaid--the things he would say to

make her love him now, if she sat beside him!--She had spoken

truly--happiness had to be paid for with sorrow. His share of the paying

had commenced, and hers----? Would she dodge payment by forgetting? The

law of change was cruel; it diminished all things, even the most sacred,

to mere incidents in a passing pageant. A pigmy charioteer, with the

futile hands of imagination, he was making the old foolish endeavor to

rein in Time's stallions.

He pictured himself as painted on a frieze with her in the moment of

their supreme elation--the moment when attainment had been certain,

just before it was realized. The frieze should represent a meadow in

the early morning, a river with mists rising from off it, and a boy,

stooping his lips over the naked feet of a girl. Someone else had

uttered the same fancy:

“Fair Youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal--yet do not grieve!

She cannot fade-”

_She cannot fade_. Already it seemed that the sharp edges of his

memories were lost to him. How was it that her face lit up? How did

her voice shudder and slur from sudden piping notes into tenderness?

How----? Things grew vague--he had meant to treasure them so poignantly.

Like a dream from which, against his will, he was waking, Illusion

gathered in her skirts from his clutching hands, growing faint against

the background of reality.

The waking had commenced before he left Henley. On his return to _The

Skylark_ he had found a note waiting him. It had been forwarded from

Topbury. His name and address were printed, evidently to disguise the

hand of the sender. Inside, on a half sheet of note-paper, was scrawled:

“_For God's sake meet me. Seven o'clock at the bottom of the Crescent.

I'm lonely.”_

It was signed with the initials, O. W.

So he was out of jail! Looking at the date of the postmark, Peter had

discovered that for two nights the man who was lonely had waited. In the

four and a half years since he had vanished from the living world his

name had been scarcely mentioned. At Topbury the effort had been made to

blot out disgrace by forgetting. Jehane, when she had left Sandport,

had purposely dropped her old acquaintance and had passed among recent

friends as a widow. The fiction had been so earnestly cultivated that

it had seemed almost true that Ocky Waffles was dead--true even to Peter

and Glory. Now, like the remembered tragedy about a death-bed, when the

hands had been long since folded, flowers placed upon the breast and

the coffin carried out, the dead man had come back to die afresh. To say

that Peter resented his return would be an exaggeration. But he shrank

from the intrusion of the sordid past upon the golden poetry of

the present--shrank from it as he would shrink from meeting someone

hideously marred in a gay spring woodland.

The cab wheels caught in the tram-lines and jerked him into

consciousness of his whereabouts. They had turned into the High Street.

In three minutes they would be at Topbury Cock, and then----. Already in

the distance he could see where the plane-trees in the Fields commenced.

What should he do if his uncle were standing there? His father's house?

No. He raised the trap in the roof. “When you come to the bottom of the

Crescent walk your horse. Understand?”

Shops were closing. Girls and men were pouring out on to the pavement,

meeting with a quick flash of eyes and strolling away together. Some of

them boarded trams, going up to Highgate to breathe the evening air. The

sun was setting.

The horse slowed down. At the corner a crowd was gathered about a band.

People were singing. Peter caught the words:

“If you won't come to Heaven

Then you'll have to go to Hell;

For the Devil he is waiting,

But with Jesus all is well.

Though your sins be as scarlet,

He will wash them in His blood;

So hurry up to Jesus

And He'll make you good.

Hallelujah!”

Grace was standing in the middle of the circle banging on her drum, her

mouth wide open in her big poke-bonnet. On the cab-stand, lolling on his

box, pretending to be half asleep, sat Mr. Grace. His daughter's eyes

were on him.

Peter scanned the crowd. It was composed of idlers, onlookers and

scoffers, with a sprinkling of converts. The converts were noticeable by

their pale, indignant enthusiasm.

At first he saw no one who attracted his attention, and then----. A

man with dejected shoulders was crouching in the gateway of a house. He

seemed to be trying to be unobserved. His clothes were shabby--out of

fashion. His linen was soiled. It was the dirty white spats above his

unshone boots that made Peter notice. He told the cabby to wait for him.

He walked by the man once. In passing he noted the total slovenliness of

his appearance, the unkempt hands, the defeated air and the hat jammed

down to hide the close-cropped hair. He turned back and was repassing.

Like a whipped dog the man raised his eyes; then instantly lowered them.

Peter held out his hand; his throat was too choked to say anything. The

man seemed about to take it; then slunk back.

“You don't want to know me.”

“I do. If I hadn't, I shouldn't have come. I'm----I'm awfully sorry.”

“If you won't come to Heaven, then you'll have to go to hell,” sang

Grace and her followers; it sounded as though they were passing

sentence.

To the driver's amazement, Peter helped him into the hansom. “Trot us

round for an hour or two,” he said.

“If you won't come to Heaven, then you'll have to go to hell.” The

singing hurled itself after them--seemed to be running and to grow out

of breath as they drew into the distance.

They set off through Holloway. They reached the foot of Highgate Hill

and had not spoken. Ahead blazed the dome of St. Joseph's, catching the

redness of the sinking sun. The cabby asked for further instructions.

“Go up the hill and out to Hampstead.”

Waterlow Park brought a breath of country; children were laughing and

playing there. The sternness of the city, like the brutality of just

judgments, was dropping away behind them. Streets took on a village

aspect. Over to the left, within sound of the living children, lay the

stone-garden where little Philip rested. The horse clambered slowly to

the top of the ascent.

Peter touched the knee of the man beside him. “I'm glad you sent for me.

It's--it's a long time since we met. I mean--what I mean to say is, you

might have forgotten me. I'm glad you didn't.”

“A long time since we met!” The dull eyes stared at him as lifelessly as

through a pair of smoked glasses. “I've been buried. They'd better have

dug a hole for me.”

The man paused and looked from side to side stealthily. He had the

hoarse prison voice which whispered and cracked. It was painful to

see how he cringed and shrank. He pulled himself together and laughed

huskily. “They didn't let us speak in there.” He spoke reflectively, as

if to himself. “Silent for more than four years! Strange to be back!”

They were bowling down a smooth road. To the right were cricket-fields

and boys at the nets. Across the blue stillness of evening came the

sharp “click” of balls against bats.

“So this is Uncle Waffles! So this is Uncle Waffles!” Peter kept saying

to himself. His thoughts searched back, trying to trace a resemblance

between the irrepressible, joking companion of his childhood and this

mutilated scrap of humanity. The low-pitched voice crawled on like the

sound of dragging footsteps. “I couldn't have done anything bad enough

to deserve that. If I'd only known that someone outside was caring.

There were no letters, no--no anything. Just to get up in the morning

and to work, and then to go back to bed. Sundays were the worst--there

wasn't any work.--And then they opened the gates and shoved me out. I

couldn't think of anyone but you, Peter.”

Peter made an attempt to cheer him. “You could have thought of someone

else.”

The man shook his head.

“Oh, yes, but you could. There was Glory.”

“Glory!” He showed no animation. “She's eighteen, isn't she? No, Glory

wouldn't care. But Jehane, how is she?”

Peter had feared that question. “She's well.”

The man looked away. “She won't want to see me. She never loved me.

D'you think she'd let me see her, Peter?”

“I'm afraid--afraid she wouldn't. She's thinking of Eustace, and Moggs

and Riska. But Glory--I'm sure Glory-----”

“Ah, Glory! She's forgotten me. And Jehane, she never thought of me; it

was always of the children.”

His voice fell slack with utter hopelessness. Peter remembered Cherry's

words, “It's always one who allows and one who loves.” Jehane hadn't

even allowed; the ruin at his side was her handiwork.

The hansom halted. Hampstead Heath was all about them, falling away

in gorse and bracken and yellow earth. A little farther on was the

Flagstaff Pond. Toy yachts were scudding across it; excited boys ran

round its edges to retrim their sails and send their craft on fresh

adventures. A dog jumped into the water, barking; they could see his

head bobbing as he swam. To their left, between the trees of the Vale

of Heath, London lay like a sunken rock with the surf of smoke breaking

over it.

The cabby spoke, “Look 'ere, young gentleman, my 'orse is tired. H'I've

got to be gettin' back. 'Ow abart a rest at The Spaniards?”

They returned over the way they had come. The tall firs of the Seven

Sisters stood up black and weather-beaten before them. In the yard of

The Spaniards they stepped out. The cabby climbed down and began to

unharness. Behind his hand he said to Peter, “Rum old party you've got

there, mister.” And then, glancing up at the labels on the bag, “Been to

'Enley, 'av'n't yer? 'Ad luck?”

At the bar Peter ordered supper in a private room. He noticed that, when

they had sat down, his uncle still kept his hat on. When he reminded him

of it his uncle glanced at the door furtively and whispered, “Daren't

take it off. They may guess.”

He fell upon his food ravenously. In his eating, as in his way of

talking, there was something inhuman, something--yes, lonely was the

word. Slowly it was coming home to Peter that through all these years,

while he had been housed, and safeguarded, and attended with affection,

this man had been used like an animal. He was repelled and filled with

compassion. He wanted to escape; he was unmanned.

The dusk was falling. “I'll be back in a moment. Order what you like,”

he said.

In the fragile darkness he clenched his hands. Last night he had been so

happy! How had he dared to be happy? He recalled the jolly buffoonery of

Henley--the songs they had sung, the swaying of lanterns, the swan-like

gliding of punts, the muffled laughter, the hint of stolen kisses. And

all the while this man had been lonely; and his chief fault had been the

fault of others--that he had not been allowed to love.

Peter found himself walking across the Heath, following no path. Now and

then the rough ground tripped him and he stumbled. He couldn't bear

the reproach of that--that thing that had once been a man, that had no

courage left to accuse anybody. Peter felt as though he himself were

responsible, as though he had done it. He lifted his eyes to the stars.

Indifferent and placid, stretched out on the blue-black couch of heaven,

they stared back at him and told him cantingly:

“God's in His Heaven,

All's right with the world.”

He shook his fist at them. That was the trouble. God was too much in His

Heaven. He felt that he could never again be happy.

The image of Cherry grew up--Cherry with her red mouth. God had made

her, as well. He unclenched his hands and stood puzzled. God had made

her, as well! The golden panes of the inn shone and winked at him; he

retraced his steps.

The man still wore his hat, but----. Alcohol had changed him from a

thing limp and hopeless into Ocky Waffles. As Peter entered he staggered

to his feet with both hands held out.

“Why, if it isn't the ha'penny marvel. God bless me, how he's grown.

Quite a man, Peter! Quite a man!” He put his lips against Peter's ear.

“Mustn't tell anybody. They wouldn't understand. Have to keep it on.”

He pointed to his hat. “Been away for a rest cure--you and I know where.

Had brain fever. Had to cut my hair. It isn't pretty.” Then, in a lower

voice, “Mustn't tell anybody. You won't split on me?”

For the first time Peter was delighted to find his uncle drunk. He

assured him that he wouldn't split on him.

“Shake hands, old son; it's a compack. Cur'ous! Here's all this great

world and only I and you know about it. Makes me laugh. Our little joke,

isn't it?”

Peter took the whisky bottle from him. “You don't want any more of

that.”

The trembling hand groped after it; the weak mouth quivered. “Just to

forget. Just to make me forget. Don't be hard on poor old Ocky Waffles.

Everyone's been hard on Ocky Waffles.”

For a moment Peter wavered; then poured an inch more of liquid courage

into the empty glass. “That's the last for to-night; we've got to plan

for your future.”

“My future!” Ocky Waffles twisted his unwaxed mustaches and spread his

arms across the table. “My future! Oh, yes. I've got a great future.”

Peter tapped him on the hand. “Not a great future; but a future. There

are two people who care for you. That's something.”

“Two people? There's you, but don't count me in on it. This little boy

isn't very fond of himself.”

“There's me and there's Glory.”

“Glory!” Ocky Waffles smiled grimly. Then he seemed ashamed of himself

and repeated in an incredulous whisper, “Glory!”

“She cares more than I do,” Peter said. “She and I and you, all working

together--do you understand?--she and I and you are going to make you

well. We're going to show everybody that you're a strong, good man; and

we're going to work in secret until we can prove it.”

“A strong, good man!” The subject of this wonderful experiment looked

down at himself contemptuously. “A strong, good man, I think you said.

Likely, isn't it? I've started by getting drunk.”

With sudden loathing and concentrated will power he swept the glass of

whisky from him. It fell to the floor with a crash. He had become sober

and rose to his feet solemnly. “Not a strong, good man. I could have

been once. I'm a jail-bird. I've got my memories. My memories!--Good

God, I wouldn't tell you! You're young. I can only try to be decent now,

if that's enough. And--and I'd like to try, Peter, if you'll help me.”

As they drove back to Topbury the fumes of the drink overcame him. He

fell asleep with his head rolling against Peter's shoulder. Even in his

sleep he seemed to remember his shame, and how he must keep it hidden

from the world. His hand kept traveling to his hat, when a jerk of the

cab threatened to remove it.

What to do with him! As the night fled by him Peter planned. No one

but Peter would have thought out a plan so humanely idiotic. The silver

moonlight fell between clumped trees and flooded all the meadows. Houses

became more frequent. Above the trotting of the horse the grumble of

traffic was heard. They were descending High-gate Hill; Peter put his

arm about his companion to prevent his slipping forward. He stirred and

muttered, “Poor old Ocky! Too bad! Too bad, going and getting drunk!

Just out of prison and all that.”

Peter bit his lips and drew his brows together. Life--how strange it

was! How slender, and fierce, and pantherlike and cruel! And yet how

beautiful at times and splendid! Who could foresee anything? Last night

he and the same moon had gazed on romance--to-night on disillusion. At

the bottom of the hill lay London, like an immense quarry, tunneled,

lamplit, treacherous, industrious, carved out of the precipice of

darkness. It seemed a clay modeling of a more huge world, placed there

for his inspection. Down there this man at his side had been crushed;

they had cast him out. They had told him, “If you won't come to Heaven,

then you'll have to go to----” Well, he'd been to hell, and now they'd

got to take him back. In his heart Peter dared them to refuse him.

He spoke to the cabby and gave him an address. The man complained of the

lateness of the hour. A reward persuaded him.

They were jingling through side-streets now. They came out on to a broad

road, with trees on either side and houses standing in gardens, with

steps going up to them. The horse halted and the cabman blew his nose

loudly. “Nice little jaunt you've 'ad.”

The house was all in darkness. Peter rang the bell. On the second story

a blind was raised; someone saw the lamps of the hansom. Feet descended

the stairs. The door opened timidly. Miss Florence stood there, her hair

in curl-papers, with a candle in her hand. She looked extraordinarily

angular and elderly. Behind her, peering over the banisters, were Miss

Effie, Miss Leah and Miss Madge, with petticoats thrown over their

shoulders. Peter entered the old-fashioned hall and explained his

errand. “You were going to do it once; he needs it more than ever now.”

“Bring him in,” Miss Florence said.

In an odd old-maidish room he undressed his uncle and slipped him into

one of the late Mr. Jacobite's night-shirts.

The situation was not without its humor. Before he left he promised to

be round early.

It was nearly midnight when he arrived home at Topbury Terrace. Only

his father was up. He opened the door to him. “You're late, Peter. We

thought something had happened.”

Peter waited until the door had closed behind him. “It has. I met Uncle

Waffles. You're tired; don't let's talk about it now. He's all right for

a little while, anyhow.”

His father drew a long breath. Peter knew what he was thinking: “So

the dead man has come back to die afresh!” They put out the lights in

silence and climbed the stairs. In the darkness his father laid his

hand on his shoulder. “You were always fond of Ocky; so was I once. Poor

fellow! I tried to be just.”

“You were just,” said Peter; “you had to be just. But it isn't justice

that he's needing now; it's--it's kindness.”

His father's voice became grave--a little stern, perhaps. “For years he

had the kindness; he was dragging us all down. He lied to me so often.

Well----. Humph! Can't be helped. Do what you can. Good night, son.”

As Peter entered his bedroom something fluttered. He struck a match.

It was a sheet of paper, written on in a round, girlish hand and pinned

against the door-panel. It read, “_Welcome home, Peterkins. All the time

I've been thinking of you. I've missed you most awfully. I wanted to sit

up, but they wouldn't let me. With love and ten thousand kisses, Kay_.”

[Illustration: 0335]

His heart reproached him. Little Kitten Kay! In the last week he hadn't

thought much of her, and once--once she had been his entire world. He

had promised her once that he was never going to marry. And now there

was Cherry. It was Cherry he thought of as his eyes were closing--Cherry

and her saying that there are those who allow and those who love.