Peter kept awake for his parents’ home-coming. Long before the cab drew up he heard the jingle of the horse’s harness and was out of bed. The key grated in the front door; in the silence it sounded to Peter as though the old house cleared its throat, getting ready to tell. Leaning out across the banisters with bare feet shivering against the cold linoleum, he lost little of what was said.

Grace met his father and mother in the hall. “Why, Grace, you ought to have been asleep two hours. I thought I told you not to wait up for us.”

“And you did, mam. So you did. But after the disturbance that we’ve ‘ad——” Her voice sank to a mumbling monotone.

Then his father spoke. “I never heard anything more absurd.—Can’t be away for a single evening without a stupid affair like this happening. Lights in the stable, indeed! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And you a grown woman! I wonder what next!”

Grace was boo-hooing. “H’I’ll never do it again. I did think I saw ‘em. No one’ll know abart it. Mr. Somp won’t tell.”

“Oh, go upstairs. The children’ll be frightened for months now.”

Peter heard Grace come up to bed sobbing. Where would his wrong-doing end? Romance had had a broom thrown at her; Grace had received a scolding. The injustice was spreading. He examined the stain on his heart in much the same way that Lady Macbeth looked at the stain on her hands. Would it ever be clean again? “Never,” he told himself in his desperation, “never.”

As he turned to go back to his room he was alarmed by the sudden scurry of naked feet. A flash of white disappeared round the corner and a mattress creaked. Glory had been watching.

When his mother bent over him that night he told another lie—he feigned that he slept. As her fluffy hair touched his cheek he longed to drag her down to him and tell her all. She would stretch herself beside him in the darkness, holding him tightly, as she had done so often when he had had something to confess. He denied himself the luxury.—That night as he lay awake and listened, the angel in the cupboard whistled very softly, very distantly, as though she were carrying Kay far away from him.

When he had offered his uncle a change of lodging, his uncle had said, “Depends on the family.” Peter had only one family to suggest; he didn’t at all know whether the family would accept Uncle Waffles. Gentlemen for whom the law is searching are not popular as guests.

During breakfast, despite frowns from Barrington, all Aunt Jehane’s conversation had to do with the shock she had suffered by reason of Grace’s folly. When Barrington banged his cup in his saucer, she lost her temper. “Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t talk about it. I had to put up with the worry of it.”

“My good Jehane, haven’t you any sense? You can say anything you like, except before the children.”

“Goodness!” Jehane replied pettishly. “The children were here and saw it.”

Peter slipped out. Through the white snow-strewn fields he hurried and through Topbury Park where the snow was trodden black, till he came to a quiet street and a tall house with stone steps leading up to it. Miss Madge, the fat and jolly Miss Jacobite, answered his knock.

“What a long face for a little boy to wear!”

“If you please, I’d like to speak to Miss Florence.” Miss

Florence was the sister who was tall and reserved; she managed everything and everybody.

“Won’t I do, Peter? She’s busy at present.”

“Please, I’ve got to speak to her.”

Miss Madge ruffled his hair—she had seen his mother do that. “What a strange little boy you are this morning! You look almost stern.”

She wanted to show him into the faded dining-room where a meager fire was burning; but he said that he preferred to wait in the hall. She looked back and laughed at him as she mounted the stairs. He did not reply to her friendliness. Then she ran; he had some trouble which he would not tell her.

He stood there on the mat twisting his cap. From the varnished paper on the wall a portrait of old Mr. Jacobite looked fiercely down. It seemed to say to him, “Little coward, coming to a pack of women! Learn to bear your own burdens.”

But where else could he go? Even if other friends were willing to help him, they kept servants and had people in and out of their houses. At the Misses Jacobite, provided he kept away from the windows, Uncle Waffles might hide for a twelve-month and never be caught.

Eerily, from the second floor, came the sound of Miss Leah singing. Her song never varied and never quite came to an end. Peter could picture how she sat staring straight before her through her red-rimmed eyes, her empty hands folded in her lap.

“On the other side of Jordan

In the sweet fields of Eden

Where the Tree of Life is growing

There is rest for me.”

It almost made him cry to hear her. He was beginning to know just a little of that need for rest.

A door opened. The singing came out. To his astonishment Peter saw Miss Leah approaching. Up to now she had never left her room to his knowledge. She beckoned. Then she spoke in that hoarse voice of hers. “I heard her tell Florence that you’re in trouble. You’re too young to know sorrow. That comes surely. But for you not yet.”

She placed her thin hand on his shoulder and drew him with her into the room where the blinds were always lowered. Closing the door, she searched his face. “You have the look. Sorrow! Sorrow! I have suffered and can understand. Don’t be afraid. Tell me.”

And he told her—he never knew why or how. She listened, rocking to and fro in her chair, with her dim eyes fixed upon him. When he paused for a word she nodded encouragement, pulling her woolen shawl tighter round her narrow shoulders.

“And in spite of that you love him?—You’re like a woman, Peter. You love people for their faults and in defiance of common sense. And you refuse to think he’s bad?”

“He’s not really,” said Peter. “The world’s not been good to him.”

“Not really!” She spoke reflectively, as though she groped beneath the words. “No, we’re never bad really—only seem bad to other people till they make us seem bad to ourselves.—Yes, you can bring him.”

But to bring him Peter needed Mr. Grace’s help, and Mr. Grace had been so candid in saying that “‘e weren’t worf it.”

When he reached the cab-stand, Mr. Grace wasn’t there. He had waited an hour before he saw Cat’s Meat crawl out of the traffic.

“Well?” said Mr. Grace, with an instinctive fore-knowledge.

He let Peter explain his errand without comment till he came to the account of the part played by Grace’s policeman.

“‘Oly smoke! ‘Fraid, was ‘e?—But wot yer tellin’ me h’all this for? H’out wiv it?”

“I want you to drive down the mews to-night and take us round to the Misses Jacobite.”

Mr. Grace became very emphatic and solemn. “Cawn’t be done. H’I wash me ‘ands of ‘im. Plottin’ ag’in the law. Too daingerous.”

“Mr. Grace,” asked Peter, softly, “who’s afraid now?”

“H’I’m not. Me afraid o’ Grice’s young man! Was that wot yer was h’insinooating?”

“But aren’t you?”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Then prove it.”

“‘Ow?”

“By doing what I’ve asked you.”

Mr. Grace stared between Cat’s Meat’s ears, twisting a straw in his mouth. The ears were pricked up. He nudged Peter. “D’yer see that? The ‘oss is a-listenin’. ‘E ain’t much ter look h’at, but ‘e’s won’erful h’intelligent. When h’I’m drunk ‘e just walks by h’every pub and pays no h’attention to my pullin’. ‘E’s like a mother, that ‘oss is, ter me. ‘E’s more kind than a darter, which ain’t sayin’ much.”

“Well?”

“Well wot? Oh, yes. H’am I goin’ to ‘elp yer stink-pot of a h’uncle? Ter be frank wiv yer, I h’am.”

Cat’s Aleat frisked his tail. Again Mr. Grace nudged Peter. “See that? ‘E likes h’adwentures. Won’erful h’intelligent h’animal, but not much ter look h’at!”

With the falling of dusk they met. Peter heard the wheels coming down the mews; slipping the bars from the stable door, he let his uncle out.

“Yer a nice old cup o’ tea,” growled Mr. Grace, addressing Ocky, “a reg’lar mucker. Tell yer wot yer oughter do—yer oughter sign the pledge. ‘Ope yer ain’t got much luggage; me keb ain’t as strong as it were.”

Ocky retreated into the darkness of the interior. He had promised Peter he would become a good man and for once was ashamed of himself.

Seated by his side, Peter felt after his hand. “Don’t mind what he says.”

“But I am. It’s true. I’ve been a mucker to you from first to last.”

Ocky coughed; the water in the tank had given him a cold on the chest.

“I’m sure you haven’t. Anyhow, you’re going to be better now.”

“Going to try till I bust.”

As the cab lumbered out on to the Terrace a man saw it. He scratched his head, thought twice, then began to run and follow. Coming up behind he did what street-urchins do—he stole a ride on the springs, crouching low so as to be unobserved.

Cat’s Meat alone was aware that something wrong had happened. He felt the extra weight and halted.

“Kum up.”

He refused to come up.

“Kum up, won’t yer?”

No, he wouldn’t. He planted his feet firmly. There was something that had to be explained to him first.

Very reluctantly Mr. Grace got out his whip—it was there for ornament; he rarely used it. “Nar, look ‘ere old friend, h’I don’t wanter do it.” But he had to.

Cat’s Meat shook his head sorrowfully and looked round. His feelings were hurt. When his master was drunk he accepted worse punishment than that without resentment, but his master wasn’t drunk now. Mr. Grace laid the whip again across his back. Cat’s Meat shrugged his shoulders and snorted, as much as to say, “Don’t blame me. Never say I didn’t warn yer.” Then he moved slowly forward.

“Now h’I wonder wot was the meanin’ o’ that?” reflected Mr. Grace. “Don’t like ‘is cargo, h’I bet. Well, h’I don’t, either. Won’erful h’intelligent h’of ‘im!”

Inside the cab Peter was asking, “But if you don’t like the ‘medicine,’ why do you take it?”

“Life’s dull for a chap,” said Ocky. He would have said more, but was shaken by a fit of coughing.

They crawled along by ill-lighted streets purposely, avoiding main thoroughfares. As they drew up outside the Misses Jacobite’s house, Peter saw the slits of the Venetian blinds turned and guessed that four tremulous ladies were watching. He opened the door for his uncle to get out As Mr. Waffles alighted, a man jumped from behind the cab.

“Yer caught, Cockie. Come along quiet.”

Mr. Grace heaved himself round. “Wot the devil!” He was blinking into the eyes of Grace’s policeman.

“We can walk to the station,” said Grace’s policeman, “but h’if you’d care to drive us—— Yer seem kind o’ fond o’ conductin’ this party round.”

“I’ll drive ‘im, but I’ll be ‘anged h’if I’ll drive you, yer great fat mutton ‘ead.”

“Mutton ‘ead yerself.”

Peter jumped into the gap. “Oh, do drive them, Mr. Grace. Don’t let him be dragged there in public.”

“If that’s the wye yer feel abart it—— Anythin’ fer you, Master Peter.”

“Look ‘ere,” said Grace’s policeman, “h’I’m in love with yer darter—as good as one o’ the family. We don’t need to sye nothink abart the keb.”

“Get in, mutton ‘ead.”

They got in.

Cat’s Meat shook his harness as much as to say, “Now you’re sorry, I suppose. What did I tell you?”

Peter, as the cab grew dim in the distance, leant against the wall sobbing. The door at the top of the steps opened timidly and Miss Leah looked out. “Peter. Peter.” But he couldn’t bear to face her.

As he stole home through the unreal shadows, he tried to persuade himself that it hadn’t happened. It must be his old disease—his ‘magination. It was as though he had been playing with fear all this while and now he experienced its actuality. It hadn’t happened, hadn’t—— Then the pity of the pinched unshaven face, the huddled shoulders and the iron hardness of the world overwhelmed him.

And Uncle Waffles hadn’t said a word when he was taken—he hadn’t even coughed.