Peter’s Christmas cab! Why a cab? What had he brought back in it and where had he hidden it? It must be something very grand and splendid to demand a cab. Kay coaxed him to give her just one little hint as to what it was: she went through all her love-tricks without success, rubbing her silky hair against his cheek and kissing his eyes while she clasped his neck. It was useless for him to declare that he had bought no presents; she snuggled against him laughing—she knew her Peter better than that.

In the high spirits that surrounded him Peter was very miserable. He was wondering whether Uncle Waffles had hurt himself when he tumbled into the yard from the top of the doors. He was wondering whether such a timid climber had been able to find his way into the loft. He was wondering how he could help him to escape to safety. Mr. Grace might not be willing to assist a second time; he had said that Uncle Waffles “weren’t worf it.” But he was; he was.

Wild plans were forming in Peter’s brain. Would it be possible to put his uncle on the tandem tricycle and ride off in the night undetected? Would it be possible to——?

And then there was another thought. Ever since he was quite a tiny boy he had had a secret dread of the loft after nightfall—a fear which he knew Kay shared. It was all right in the day when the sun was shining; there was nothing to be afraid of then. But his strong imagination made him suspect that the loft was used by tramps, hungry, fierce-eyed tramps, when darkness fell—tramps who climbed over the wall, just as Uncle Waffles had done. If that should be true and one of them should find his uncle there——. Peter shuddered.

“Peter, little man, you’ve been getting too excited,” his father said; “we don’t want you ill to-morrow. Don’t you think you’d better go to bed?”

And Peter was glad of the excuse to get away to where no one would observe him. He felt an outlaw. He had taken sides against his father and his family. He wasn’t at all sure that he hadn’t committed a criminal offence; the police, if they knew, might lay their hands on him and lock him up with Uncle Waffles. What would Kay think of her brother then?

In the darkness of his room he lay awake, listening to footsteps in the downstairs part of the house. The servants came up and the gas on the landing was lowered to a jet. Then he heard the rustling of paper, and his mother and father whispering together.

“That’s for Glory.”

“It won’t go into her stocking.”

“Oh, yes, it will at a stretch.”

“And who’s this for?”

“That’s for Peter, old silly; go and lay it on his bed.” Through half-closed eyes Peter saw his father enter, straight and tall, with his cropped hair and direct way of walking, so much like a soldier-man. He came on tiptoe, trying to be stealthy; but he stumbled against a chair.

Nan came hurrying noiselessly. “Oh Billy, darling, you’re a rotten Santa Claus. Have you wakened him now?”

They listened. When Peter did not stir, his father whispered, “It’s all right, kiddy; the little chap sleeps soundly. By Jove, he’s not hung up his stocking!”

They examined the end of the bed. Then his mother spoke. “No, he hasn’t. He couldn’t have been feeling well. He’s been worrying, I’m sure he has, all this last month.”

“A boy of his age oughtn’t to worry. What about?”

Nan hesitated. “Our Peter’s very compassionate—— He loved Ocky. I’ve looked through his eyes often lately; I’m sure he’s condemning us.”

“Us! Poor little Peterkins! It must hurt—— Well, he doesn’t understand.”

They bent over him, kissing him, thinking he slept.

“Peter always fancies that everyone must be good whom he loves.”

And Nan answered, “You can make anyone good by love—don’t you think so, Billy?”

He slipped his arm about her and leant his face against her hair. “I know you made me better, dearest.”

The gas was extinguished and their feet died out on the stairs.

One! Two! Three! The grandfather-clock in the hall struck out the hours. Peter could not bear it. He must tell someone. He threw back the clothes and crept to the door; his parents’ room was under his—they must not hear him. A board creaked. He halted, his fingers on his mouth, his heart drumming. No one stirred; through the heavy silence came the light breathing of sleepers.

Pressing his hand against the wall to steady himself, he tiptoed along the passage, past Riska’s room, past Grace’s, till he came to the door of the room in which Glory and Kay lay together. He looked in; a shaft of moonlight fell across their faces on the pillow. He was struck with how alike they were: the same narrow penciled eyebrows; the same sensitive bowed mouth, just a little short in the upper lip; the same streaming honey-colored hair.

He stood looking down at them. Since he had noticed this, he felt a new kindness for Glory. Kay turned on her side and the paper on the presents at the foot of the bed crackled. Should he—should he tell Glory? She looked so gentle. No, it would be selfish; he must endure the burden of his knowledge himself. And yet——. He was very troubled.

Up the frosty silence, tremulous and distant, climbed the sound of music—a harp and a violin playing. His brain set the playing to words:

“It came upon the midnight clear

That glorious song of old,

From angels bending near the earth

To touch their harps of gold.”

Its beauty quieted his dreads, lifting his spirit to the world of legend. It hushed, halted and again commenced. It was like the feet of Jesus on the London house-tops, bringing safety to sinful men. Perhaps Uncle Waffles heard it.

It ceased. A man’s voice rang out: “Fine and frosty. Three o’clock in the morning. A Happy Christmas. All’s well.”

Peter had turned his eyes to the window where the moon sat balanced on a cloud; now that the stillness was again unbroken, he looked down at the faces on the pillow. The eyes of Glory were wide open. She showed no surprise at seeing him there. How long had she been watching?

He stooped over her and whispered, “It was the waits, Glory.”

Her arms reached up and dragged him down. “Peter, Peter, you don’t hate me, do you? I can’t help being a coward.”

“Shish! We’ll wake Kitten Kay. Of course I don’t hate you. I try to love everybody.”

“And me just as one with the rest? Not even with the rest, Peter.—No, no, kiss me now.”

He kissed her; it was almost like kissing Kay. She held him so tightly that she took away his breath. He drew back, a little thrilled and startled. He looked down. Kay’s eyes were closed; Glory’s were smiling up at him, timid with puzzled longing. Years later he was to remember that. Then, yet more distant, the waits re-commenced, like the feet of Jesus bringing peace to sinful men. And that also he would remember.

Back in bed he lay very still. The fear had gone out of him; once again the world seemed kind and gentle. “Christ was born this morning,” he whispered; “Christ was born this morning. Oh Jesus, who came into the world a little boy just like Peter, you can understand. I’m so troubled. Oh Jesus——” But sleep was sent in answer to his prayer.

It was dark when he awoke. What was it he had been dreaming? Ah yes!—He rose stealthily and dressed. The morning was chilly. His teeth chattered and shivers ran through him; that wasn’t all due to coldness. Without looking at the packages on his bed, he stole across the landing and down the stairs. Outside the servants’ room he listened. One of them was snoring loudly; that was reassuring. As he drew further away from the bedrooms, he moved more hurriedly. All the time he was expecting to hear a door open and to see a head peering over the banisters. Having reached the hall, he ran down into the basement, taking less care to make no sound. His feet on the stone flags of the kitchen seemed as loud as those of a procession marching. Something brushed against his legs. He jumped aside with a cry of terror. It came again, a shadow following. Then he saw that it was only Romance.

What was it he must get? It was difficult to think; a hammer was knocking, in his temples. He felt along the dresser; sent a pan clattering; stood tense, listening; found what he sought; struck a match and lit the gas The light helped him to think more clearly, but it also convicted him of wrong doing. Everything he saw, even Romance looking up at him unblinking, seemed to say, “I shall tell. I shall tell.”

Things looked cheerless. Chairs were pushed back from the table, just as they had been left by the servants. The grate was choked with ashes, in which a few coals glowered red. But he must hurry. What was it he must get?

In the pantry there were sausage-rolls—so many that no one would miss a few of them. There were loaves of bread, an uncut ham from which Peter took some slices, a jug of milk from which he took a glassful, making up the deficit with water, and a dish of baked apples. He helped himself, feeling horribly thief-like. Then he thought of how cold it was out there. He crept upstairs to the cloakroom and unhooked one of his father’s coats from its peg. He returned and took a cushion from Cookie’s favorite chair in which the cane was broken and sagging. Thus loaded, he unlocked the door into the garden, closing it behind him, and shuffled out.

How unfriendly and treacherous everything was! Even the kind old mulberry, stripped of its leaves, seemed to scowl and threaten to reach down and clutch him. The laburnum, which in summer was a slim gold girl, pointed thin derisive fingers at him. Across neighboring walls came an icy breeze, which whispered, “Cut off his head. Cut off his head.” As he tiptoed down the path, the gravel turned beneath his tread. Dead leaves rustled. His breath came pantingly and steamed through the shadows.

He hoped Uncle Waffles would come to meet him. And yet he dreaded. He could still feel the shaking of his uncle’s clammy hand as he had felt it last night in the darkness of the cab. Sometimes he fancied that he saw him crouched beneath the bushes.

He paused irresolute. Should he go forward or——?

He glanced back. The windows were wells of blackness—hollow sockets from which the sight had been gouged out. He fixed his gaze on the window ahead, the loft-window behind the ivy, which spied on the garden. He had always expected to see a man’s face there. It was to be a face about which the hair hung long and lank, with the mouth pendulous and the eyes cavernous.—What would Kay think if she could see him now?

He raised the latch of the door which led into the yard. He looked round, hesitating on the threshold. His imagination told him he would be clutched forward. Nothing happened.

In the stable it was dark as death. He set his burdens down before entering, so that he might be ready for a hasty exit. He stood still, his left hand pressed against the door-post; if he had to run, he would push himself off with a flying start. He was even afraid of Uncle Waffles now.

Heavy breathing! Where was it? He called. He heard something whirr, and jumped back. The same instant he recognized the sound: it was the turning of a pedal on its ball-bearings. From beneath the tandem tricycle, with many groans and curses, a man emerged.

“Bruised all over. That’s what I am.—Hulloa! You there, Peter? Oh damn! That’s another on the forehead. Disfigured for life, I am. Nice way you’ve got of treating your poor old uncle.”

He pulled himself up by his hands. Even in the dusk he looked crushed and sheepish. But every situation, however shameful, had to be made an occasion for jest. “Wonder how I came here! Tandem trikes make strange bedfellows. You must excuse my language. Your Aunt Jehane always told this little boy he must never swear.”

As his uncle approached him, zigzagging and groping for support uncertainly, Peter became again aware of the stale smell of alcohol. He did not need to be told why his uncle had proved such an inferior climber.

“Why, I brought you here last night—I and Mr. Grace together.—Did you hurt yourself when you fell?”

“Fell! Did I fall? I’m used to falling these days. I’m a li’le bird tumbled out of its nest. Broke to the wide, I am. And nobody cares—nobody cares.”

Peter, hearing his weak self-pitying sobbing, overcame his momentary physical repulsion. “But I care, Uncle. I do care. Glory cares.”

“Where’s the good o’ your caring, dear old chap? You’re only a boy and Glory’s only a girl—you can’t help me.”

“But I can.” He pulled at his uncle’s trembling hands. “I’m going to hide you in the loft till they’ve all forgotten to look for you, and then——”

“But, chappie, I’ve got to be fed and my money’s all spent.”

“I’ll get food for you.”

Uncle Waffles bent above Peter, trying to catch his eyes.

“You’ll get food for me—but from where? Whose food?—You mean you’re going to steal for me. No, Peter, you shan’t do that.”

Peter was perplexed. “If I don’t, you’ll go hungry. People aren’t good to you. I won’t steal, I’ll—I’ll just borrow. When you’re safe, I’ll tell them and pay it all back.”

“That’s what I said, ‘I’ll just borrow.’ That’s why I’m here. I can’t bear to let you do anything wrong for me.”

“But if I don’t they’ll take you away and lock you up. My heart would break if that should happen.”

Ocky sat down on a box and drew Peter to his knee in the darkness, putting his arm about him. “I’ve never been loved like that; if I had I’d have been a better man. If I let you do this I want to make a promise. Whether I’m caught or not, for your sake I’m going to be good in the future.—You don’t know what I am—how foolish and bad. I was drunk last night—I got drunk to forget my terror. Do you think I’m worth doing wrong for, chappie?”

Peter drew the unshaven face down to his shoulder. “You poor, poor uncle! It wouldn’t be doing wrong if you became good because I stole, now would it?—You’ll let me do it?”

They stood up. “What you got there?”

“Food. We must hurry. If we don’t they’ll find out.—And here’s some money.”

“Did you steal that?”

“I saved it for Christmas. I want you to take care of it. Now, here’s the way we go upstairs.”

Peter tried to laugh. He showed his uncle where to find a foothold in the wall and, by pushing and whispering instructions, got him through the trap-door into the room overhead. Then he handed up the results of his foraging and followed.

The loft was big and cheerless, thick with dust and hung with cobwebs. Across the roof went rafters; where they joined the wall sparrows had built their nests. Over the stalls were holes in the floor through which hay could be pitch-forked down. There was only one window at the far end, which looked out into the garden; several of the panes were broken and let in the wintry air.

Ocky shivered. For comfort he fell back on his pipe and began to fumble in his pocket for a match. When he struck it Peter saw for the first time what he was doing. He snatched it from him and blew it out. “But you mustn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“They might see you from the house.”

“Not if I’m careful.”

“You never are careful,” said Peter wisely.

“But baccy’s all I’ve got.”

“You’ve got me. I’ll come as often as I can.”

As he was going, Uncle Waffles hesitated and called him back. “Could you manage to let me see Jehane and Glory? Couldn’t you coax ‘em into the garden? I’m longing for a sight of them. They’d never know I was watching.—It’s an odd Christmas I’m going to have.”

Peter had no idea that the time had flown so fast. As he passed up the garden, the sun was swinging above the house-tops like a smoky lantern. He could see the mold beneath the bushes, glistening and frosty, chapped and broken into little hollows and cracks. In one of the top bedrooms a light sprang up; it was Riska’s—she must be examining her stocking.

He had hoped to creep into the house undetected, but at the door he was met by Cookie.

“So that’s it, is h’it? There’s no tellin’ wot you’ll be h’up to next. I was just goin’ ter count the forks. I thought as we’d ‘ad beargulars. Awright Grice, it’s the young master been h’out for a h’early mornin’s h’airing.” He ran past her, but she caught him. “Lor’, yer cold, boy. Come and warm yerself. If you h’ate meat three times a day the same h’as I do yer wouldn’t get blue like that.”

Cookie’s one claim to distinction, which she invariably introduced into conversation, was that she was a great meat-eater. It made her different from other people and, having no beauty with which to attract, afforded her a topic with which to draw attention to herself.

“You need some ‘ot chockerlit, that’s wot yer want. Not but wot meat ‘ad be better; but there, that’s where h’I’m pecooliar. ‘Never was such a gel for eatin’ meat. Lor, ‘ow yer runs my bills h’up!’ that’s wot my ma used to say abart me. She’s dead, Gawd rest ‘er bones.—Now, drink that h’up, yer little sinner. Thought h’it was summer, did yer? Went h’out to ‘ear the pretty burds. I’m only pecooliar abart meat; but, the divil take me, if you ain’t pecooliar all over.”

Cookie sat down in her favorite chair; the cane burst under her. Her legs shot up and her arms waved wildly. “‘Elp! ‘Elp me, Master Peter. For good luck’s sake!”

Peter helped her.

“H’it’s a wonder I didn’t break no bones. Bones is brittle this weather. But where’s me cushion? If that cat’s ‘ad it——”

Peter escaped and slipped into the cloak-room. Hidden behind the coats, he listened to Cookie stamping up and down, breathing threatening and slaughter against all cats—especially cats who stole cushions.

In her search for the lost cushion she began to make discoveries. “Where’s them sorsage-rolls? There was twenty. And ‘oo’s been cuttin’ the ‘am? She was allaws a wery honest cat. Can’t understand it. Never knew a cat to cut ‘am. Cats ain’t us’ally fond o’ h’apples—leastwise no cat I h’ever ‘eard of.—Shish, yer warmint! Shish! Get along wi’ yer.”

Something was thrown. There was a loud me-ow. Romance, followed by Sir Walter Scott, followed by Cookie, fled upstairs. Peter was pained that others should be blamed—even though they were only cats—for his wrongdoing. Anything like injustice hurt him. And Romance knew that he was the thief! How could he ever face her again, and how could she ever love him? If a cat could steal a cushion and cut ham, she could also take a coat. Would they blame her for that?

He was in his bedroom, finishing the postponed odds and ends of his dressing, when Kay called him. He pretended not to hear her. At last he had to answer, “Coming.” He went to her shame-faced, like a guest without a wedding-garment: he had no present.

She was kneeling up in bed in her white night-gown. The gas was lit and the floor was strewn with paper from unwrapping her discoveries.

“Merry Christmas, Peterkins. Oh, come and look! This is what Grandpa sent me from Cassingland. And this is what Aunt Jehane gave me. And this—— But why didn’t you come sooner? I’ve been calling and calling.”

Peter hung his head. Glory was looking at him. Was it just wonder in her eyes or a question? Had she guessed? Would everybody guess?

“I didn’t come, Kitten Kay, because I haven’t anything for you.”

She gazed at him incredulously. Her face fell with disappointment. “But the cab, Peter? The Christmas cab!”

“There was nothing in it. I’ve not got anything for anybody.”

She couldn’t understand it; he could see that. She was saying to herself, “Did Peter forget me?” But her face brightened bravely. “I’ve something for you.”

“I couldn’t take it, Kay. No, really.”

He was nearly crying with mortification. “I’ve nothing for you, little Kay; and, yet, I love you better than anyone in all the world.”

She held out her arms to him with the divine magnanimity of childhood. “Dear, dear Peter. Softy me. It’ll do just as well.”

He returned to his room while she dressed. He sat on the edge of his bed with the gas unlighted. He did not open the parcels which his father and mother had left. He did not deserve them. He had nothing to give in exchange. He would be ashamed to look them in the face at breakfast—especially to meet Riska, who was certain to show what she thought of his meanness. In the darkness he reflected how wise he had been to give that money to Uncle Waffles before the temptation commenced.

Kay entered. “Coming downstairs?”

He took her hand. She pressed his and laughed up at him, trying to make him smile back.

It was their custom to go to their parents’ bedroom first thing on Christmas morning. Outside the door Peter hung back, but Kay dragged him forward.

Billy sat up, throwing back the counterpane, pretending to be terribly excited at the thought of what they had brought him. Kay held up a parcel. “What is it?” he asked. “Let me have it. What is it?”

“Guess. Father’s got to guess, hasn’t he, mother?”

“A fishing-rod?”

“Don’t be silly, father. How could a fishing-rod be as small as that?”

The guessing went on—such absurd guessing!—until the paper was torn off and a match-box was revealed.

“And now, what’s Peter brought me?”

“Nothing, father. I haven’t got anything for anybody. So, please, I don’t think I ought to take any of your presents.”

Billy looked at Nan; this explained the absence of the Christmas stocking. “But, old boy, what became of your money?”

“I—I gave it away, father.”

“Last night? To a beggar?”

“Not—not exactly a beggar.”

“But to someone who needed it badly?”

“Yes, badly. I couldn’t give it to—to them and buy presents as well.” Peter swallowed. He hated lies and would tell the truth at all costs. “And it wasn’t last night. It was this morning.”

His father regarded him gravely. “To someone in the house?”

“Not exactly.”

“I can’t see how it can be both in the house and out of it. It must be exactly one or the other.” Silence. “You don’t want to tell?”

“I can’t tell. But I want to so badly.”

His mother leant out and caught his empty hands, pressing them to her mouth. What a strange little conscience this son of hers had. “I’m sure he did what seemed to him more generous. Now here’s what mother’s got for you.”

“Darling motherkins, I do love you—all of you. But I mustn’t take anything this Christmas.”

“Nonsense,” said his father.

“I mean it,” said Peter proudly.

At breakfast the thing happened which Peter had expected. Riska was too outspoken. Eustace had asked her a question in a whisper. She replied, so everyone might hear her, with mocking eyes slanted at Peter, “Because he spent it all last night in driving about in cabs.”

There was another shock when his father remarked that the milk was rather thin this morning.

When they walked down the Terrace on the way to the Christmas service, they passed the lean man. He was watching: he was there when they came back.

Billy noticed that his little son was furtive and restless; he was always going to the window, when no one seemed to be looking, and peeping out into the garden. When the coat was found missing and word was brought of Cookie’s lost cushion, he noticed that Peter got red.

He called him aside that evening. “What is it? Can’t you trust me? Can’t you tell me, little Peter?”

How he longed to tell. But he looked up with troubled eyes. “I can’t even tell you, father.”

During the days that followed food was continually disappearing. Every morning, as a habit now, they glanced out to see if the lean man was there. Then the eyes of the elders signaled to one another, “So he’s not caught yet.” Peter’s responsibilities were increasing. He found it more and more difficult to go on supplying the wants of his uncle without betraying his secret. Moreover, Ocky himself was getting tired of his confinement; a loft has few diversions. It has no refinements: he had not shaved for many days and his appearance was terrifying. The mustaches had come unwaxed. The white spats were gray with dust and climbing. Still, when Peter visited him, he was unconquerably cheerful. He was only depressed when Peter had again failed to persuade Glory or Jehane to come into the garden. “I want a sight of ‘em, sonny. A ha’penny marvel like you ought to be able to manage that.”

Frequently he discussed marriage with Peter, warning him against it and tracing his own downfall to it. “It’s awright if you meet the right girl. But you never do—that’s my experience. People think you have; but you know you haven’t. I knew a chap; his wife had black hair. They seemed so happy that folk called ‘em the love-birds. Well, this chap used to get drunk. Not often, you know, but just as often as was sensible. Well, when he was drunk, he’d give himself away, oh, entirely—let all his bitterness out. He’d always hoped that he’d marry a girl with yellow hair. His wife was awright except for that; but he couldn’t forget it. Of course he never told her. But there’s always something like that in marriage—something that rankles and that you keep to yourself. That little something wrong spoils all the rest. Then one day there’s a row. Chaps have killed their girls for less than that.—Ah, yes, and folk called ‘em the love-birds!”

Or he would say, “Love’s a funny thing, Peter. Some men fall in love with the slope of a throat or the shape of a nose, and marry a girl for that. Now there was a chap I once knew——- Umph! Did I ever tell you? This chap and his wife were known as the love-birds and his wife had black hair.” Then out would come the same old story.

Jehane had black hair. Peter wondered whether ‘the chap’ was Uncle Waffles. And he wondered more than that; he was surprised that Uncle Waffles should keep on forgetting that he’d told him the story already. He supposed it was because he sat there all alone, brooding for hours and hours.

“Mustn’t mind if I’m queer, Peter. I’d be awright if you’d let me have some baccy.”

But Peter wouldn’t let him have it; it would increase the risk of discovery.

One night he ceased to be surprised at his uncle’s lapses of memory. His father and mother had gone out to dinner. The younger children had been put to bed. Jehane and Glory were sitting by the dining-room fire, darning socks and whispering of the future. Peter took his opportunity, slipped into the garden and down to the stables.

Snow was on the ground; every footstep showed like a blot of ink on white paper. He was surprised to see that someone had crossed the flower-beds. Then he was startled by a thought. Perhaps the police, or the man whom Mr. Grace called ‘the spotter,’ had guessed. He listened. No sound. He entered the yard; the footprints led into the stable. He called softly, “Are you there?” No one answered. With fear in his heart he climbed into the loft: Uncle Waffles had vanished.