Miss Lydia Rufus was a prim person. Judging from her appearance one would have said that in her case virtue was compulsory through lack of opportunity. And yet she had had her “accident”—that was how she referred to it in conversations with her Maker. No one in Sandport, save herself and God, knew about it. It had happened ten years before Peter became her pupil. The “accident” had been born anonymously, as one might say, and had been brought up incognito. After the first unavoidable preliminaries for which her presence was indispensable, she and the “accident” had separated. She hardly ever dared to see it, for she was alone in the world and had her living to earn—to do that one must appear respectable.

For a woman of such bristling righteousness to have been so yielding as to have had an “accident” was almost to her credit: it was in the nature of a tour de force, like sword-swallowing, passing a camel through the eye of a needle or any other form of occult acrobatics. It was a miracle in heart-magic. And often in the night her heart went out in longing for the child whom she dared not acknowledge. In her soul, which most people regarded as an ice-house, a sanctuary was established with an altar of mother-love, on which the candles of yearning were kept burning. This 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.”