To you I owns h’up; I ‘as me little failin’s, especially since Cat’s Meat———He could never mention Cat’s Meat without wiping his eyes. “But if I ‘as me little failin’s, that ain’t no reason for callin’ me Judas His Chariot and h’other scripture nimes. She’s a dustpot, that’s wot she is, my darter Grice.”
“A what?” asked Peter.
Mr. Grice was surprised that a man just down from Oxford shouldn’t know the word; he was flattered to find himself in a position to explain.
“A dustpot,” he repeated. “That means a child wot sits on ‘er father’s ‘ead.”
“Oh, a despot!”
Mr. Grace had learnt to be patient under correction. “Now, Master Peter, ain’t that wot I said? I sez, ‘She’s a dustpot’; then you sez, ‘Oh, a dustpot!’ ‘Owever yer calls it, that’s wot I calls ‘er.”
They were sitting in an empty cab in the stable from which Mr. Grice hired his conveyance. Peter touched the old man’s hand affectionately. “I’ve been wondering—thinking about you. You know, I’m going traveling with Kay. My friend, the Faun Man, left me a thousand pounds to buy what he called ‘a year of youngness.’ He was great on youngness, was the Faun Man.”
Mr. Grace nodded. His eyes twinkled. “Remember that night, Peter, and the song ‘e made h’up about yer?
‘Oh, Peter wuz ‘is nime,
So Peterish wuz ‘e,
‘E wept the sun’s h’eye back agen,
Lest ‘e should never see.‘=
H’I orften ‘um it ter the ‘osses when h’I’m a-groomin’ of ‘em. Sorter soothes ‘em—maikes ‘em stand quiet.”
“I remember,” said Peter; “but here’s what I was going to say: you hav’n’t had an awful lot of youngness in your life and yet you’re—how old, Mr. Grace? Seventy? I should have guessed sixty. Well, it doesn’t seem fair that I——.”
“Nar then, Master Peter! H’it’s fair enough. Don’t you go a-wastin’ o’ yer h’imagination. I don’t need no pityin’.”
“But it doesn’t seem fair, really; so I’m going to make you an offer—a very queer offer. How’d you like to live in the country and get away from Grace?”
“‘Ow’d I like it? ‘Ow’d a fly like ter git h’out o’ the treacle? ‘Ow’d a dawg like ter find ‘isself rid o’ fleas? ‘Ow’d a——? Gawd bless me soul—meanin’ no prefanity —wot a bloomin’ silly quesching!” He paused reflectively. “But a dawg, Master Peter, gits sorter useter ‘is fleas, and a fly might kinder miss the treacle. H’I’d like it well enough; but if there warn’t nothink ter taik me thoughts h’orf o’ meself, I’d feel lonesome wivout ‘er naggin’.”
Peter laughed. “I’ll give you something to do with your thoughts. My Uncle Ocky——.”
Mr. Grace woke up, turned ponderously and surveyed Peter. “That’s h’it, is h’it? That awright. Rum old card, yer uncle! H’I never fancied as h’I’d let h’anyone taik the plaice wot Cat’s Meat ‘eld in me h’affections. ‘E ‘as. Tells me h’all ‘is troubles, ‘e does. Life’s gone ‘ard wiv ‘im since Mr. Widder sent ‘im packin.’ My fault—I’m not denyin’ h’it. We ‘as our glass tergether and we both ‘ates wimmen—or sez we does. ‘E borrers a bit from me nar and then. Mr. Waffles and me is good pals—we ‘as lots in common. You, for h’instance.”
Peter inquired from Mr. Grace where he would be likeliest to find his uncle.
“Likeliest! H’if yer puts it that waie, h’I should saie yer’d be likeliest ter find ‘im in a pub.”
Out of the tail of his eye Ocky saw Peter entering.
“Horrid stuff,” he said loudly; then in a whisper to the barmaid, “Give me another three penn’orth.—— Why, hulloa, old son!”
Peter led him into a private room and said he’d pay for it. “D’you remember that night at the Trocadero—you know, when Glory was with us. I told you what I’d do for you if I ever had money. Suppose I could give you a chance to pull straight, what would you do with it?”
Tears came into Ocky’s eyes; he’d grown unused to kindness. “Is it the truth you’re wanting, Peter?—— If you gave me the chance to pull straight, I’d do what I’ve always done—mess it.”
Peter shook his head incredulously and smiled. “Don’t believe you. You’d pull straight fast enough if you knew that anyone cared for you.”
“No one does, except you, Peter.”
“Oh yes, there’s someone—someone whom you and I, yes, and I believe all of us, are always forgetting.”
0457m
Ocky looked up slowly. “You mean Glory.” He leant across the table, tapping with his trembling fingers. “Know why I went to hell?—it sounds weak to say it. I went to hell because I had no woman to hold me back with love. If I could have Glory—-. But she’ll be thinking of marrying. I’ve spoilt her chances enough already.”
“If you could have Glory,” Peter insisted, “and if you were to have, say, five hundred pounds, what would you do then?”
“The truth again?”
“Nothing else would be of any use, would it?”
“If I had five hundred pounds and Glory, I’d move into the country and buy a pub. I’ve lived to be over fifty, I’ve learnt only one bit of knowledge from life.”
“What is it?”
Ocky flushed. “To you I’m ashamed to say it.”
“Never mind. Say it.”
Ocky twirled his mustaches, covering his confusion, “To know good beer when I taste it.”
Peter leant back laughing, “That’s something to start on, isn’t it?”
Next day he told Glory, “They’re willing—both of ‘em.”
In searching the papers for advertisements, he came upon an announcement.
Near Henley, The Winged Thrush. Comfortable riverside hostelry; pleasantly situated; suitable for artist or poet, desirous of combining lucrative business with pleasure, etc. A bargain. Reason for selling, going to Australia.
He remembered—that last night of the regatta, the sun-swept morning, the glittering river, and the breakfast in the arbor with Cherry.
The purchase was arranged. Ocky, Glory and Mr. Grace went down to see the place. Mr. Grace was to look after the ‘osses—if there were any; if there weren’t, he was to help in serving customers. For a reason which he would not explain, Peter refused to accompany them on their tour of inspection.
During those last days, before he and Kay set out on their year of youngness, he saw Glory often. From her he learnt of Riska and her many love-affairs; how they always fell short of marriage because she carried on two at once or because of the deceit concerning her father. She was getting desperate; she had been taught that the sole purpose of her being was to catch a man—so far she had failed. She still had hope—there was Hardcastle. In a sly way, she saw a good deal of him. Exactly how and where, she had pledged Glory not to divulge.
And Peter learnt of Eustace. Eustace had gone to Canada, to take up farming with money lent by Barrington. Jehane, with her tragic knack of hanging her expectations on loosened nails, boasted that Eustace was to be her salvation. Perhaps he was careless, perhaps he had gained a distaste for the atmosphere of falsity which had formed his home environment; in any case, he wrote more and more rarely, and showed less and less desire for his mother to join him as the period of his absence lengthened. Jehane, as she had done with his father before him, invented good news when good news was lacking, bolstering her pride in public. Her children, despite her sacrifices for them, watched her with judging eyes and, directly they arrived at a reasoning age, began to detect her hollowness. Eustace was gone. Glory was going. Riska, failing another accident, would soon be married to Hardcastle. Only Moggs, Ma’s Left Over as they had called her because of her tininess, remained. She was a child of twelve, submissive in her ways, colorless in character and with Ocky’s weak affectionateness of temperament.
It was the morning of Kay’s and Peter’s departure. During breakfast, the last meal together, Barrington had sat looking at the landscape by Cuyp, as he always did in moments of crisis. The cab was at the door; the luggage had been carried out. The adventure in search of youngness had all but begun. The door bell rang and the knocker sounded. A telegram was handed in. Barrington opened it—glanced at the signature. “Ah, from Jehane!”
As he read it, his face grew grave. He passed it to Nan and led Peter aside. “Don’t tell Kay. It’s about Riska. She’s run off with that fellow Hardcastle. Whether she’s married to him or——. It doesn’t say.”
His own rendering of the situation was plain—“Ripe fruit, ready to fall to the ground.”
They entered the cab, driving into the great worldwideness. And Riska, with her impatient mouth and pretty face, she also, in her stormy way, had gone in quest of youngness.
