H ‘I’m a better man than you are,” said Mr. Grace.

“In wot respeck?” asked Mr. Somp.

“In h’every respeck,” said Mr. Grace. “Nice wye yer’ve got o’ h’arsking fer me darter’s ‘and.”

Mr. Somp rubbed his nose, finished off his beer and winked at the barmaid. Then he turned with a smile of tolerant patronage to his future father-in-law. ‘Any’ow, Cockie, h’I didn’t need to h’arsk yer. Yer must allaws remember that you come in on the second h’act.”

“Wot d’yer mean?”

“H’I mean the curtain was h’up and the play’d began when you h’entered.”

“H’information ter me—I’m larnin’.” Mr. Grace tossed off his pot to show his supreme contempt and signed for another. Having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he spoke reflectively. “So I h’entered when the bloomin’ curtain was h’up! Now I h’allaws thought as I wuz be’ind the scenes and ‘elped ter mike ‘er.”

“A peep be’ind the scenes,” chirped the barmaid; “read a book called that once. Mr. Grice this ‘ouse is respeckable. If you ain’t careful you’ll get chucked h’out.”

Mr. Somp looked deeply shocked. “That ain’t no subjeck to mention before ladies—birth ain’t a matter ter be discussed in publick. It ‘appens to h’all of us, but people as is well brought h’up tries to ferget it.”

Glancing round and seeing that opinion was against him, Mr. Grace retreated a step in the argument. “You said as h’I came in on the second h’act. As ‘ow?”

“H’after I’d h’arsked yer darter and she’d said ‘yus.’ In ‘igh society h’it’s considered perlite to h’arsk the purmission o’ the parent.”

“‘Igh society be blowed. Pooh!”

“Well, and ‘avn’t I been purmoted?” said Mr. Somp importantly, scenting an affront.

Mr. Grace was surprised into an expression of astonishment. Then, in an effort to recover lost ground, “Wot mug purmoted you?” To the barmaid he said, “H’I’ll be King’s jockey if h’I wite long enough.”

Mr. Somp swelled out his chest. “H’I got purmotion fer nabbin’ that bloke Waffles. Wot d’yer sye ter me proposal now?”

An audience of tap-room loafers had gathered; there was a reputation to be won. “H’I sye wot h’I’ve awready said. H’I’m a better man than you are and me darter’s better.”

“In wot respeck?” Mr. Somp was tenacious.

“She’s a h’orator as yer’ll soon find h’out if yer marry ‘er.”

The policeman gazed at the cabman sombrely. “That don’t mike ‘er no better; h’it mikes ‘er wuss. H’I’ve found that h’out. It’s my h’opinion that wimen should be seen and not ‘eard.”

“So yer’ve found it h’out, ‘ave yer?” Into Mr. Grace’s voice had crept a sudden warmth of fellow-feeling and friendliness.

“Ter my regret,” sighed Grace’s policeman, wagging a mournful head. “If I’d knowed before h’I got ter love ‘er—— Ah, well! It don’t mend matters ter talk abart it.”

Mr. Grace heaved himself off the bench. “Shike ‘ands, old pal; yer goin’ ter suffer.”

Mr. Somp gloomily accepted the proffered hand, looking at the barmaid. “H’I’m afraid I h’am.”

“Then why not taik me?” asked the barmaid cheerily.

“And why not? That’s the question. My dear, you might mike me suffer wuss.”

“And I mightn’t ‘ave you,” she said coyly. “Any’ow, Mr. Somp had no sympathy with the Salvation Army old top, try me next. Yours truly, Gertie, h’always ready ter oblige a friend.”

It was the day after the honeymoon, which had consisted of a steamer-trip to Greenwich, that Mr. Somp confided to Mr. Grace, “Too much religion abart your gel.” At that hour Mr. Somp and Grace’s father became friends.

Grace’s husband had no sympathy with the Salvation Army—he didn’t feel the need of conversion; and Grace, for her part, had no patience with men who refused to sign the pledge. Mr. Somp took revenge for domestic wrongs in his official capacity, by moving his wife along when he found her beating her drum at street corners. Mrs. Somp punished him by keeping him awake at night while, to use his own words, she sneaked to God abart him. She even addressed God in the highways on this intensely private matter, when she saw her husband approaching. She followed St. Paul’s advice by being urgent in season and out in her rebuking, long-suffering, teaching and exhorting. Her lofty sense of right and wrong depressed him; he grew slack, lost his standing in the force and gradually ceased to work. His self-confidence melted before her superior morality.

So she went back to the Barringtons by the day to do charring and to give extra help. That was how Peter came to know all about her intimate matrimonial problems. He heard the other side from Mr. Grace and Mr. Somp, who now had a common grievance—they wanted to drink and Grace tried to prevent them. “Don’t you never marry a good woman,” they both advised him; “good wimen is bad.”

Grace, on the other hand, despite her frequent complaints, held that her husband was a very decent man, but bone-lazy. Having proved prayer useless, she could think of only one other remedy. “If I was ter die, father’d be sorry and my ‘usband ‘ad ‘ave ter work; but I ain’t got the ‘eart ter do it.”

To which Cookie would reply, “I’m sure yer ‘aven’t, dearie. It’s them as should do the dyin’.”

After Ocky’s arrest a period of flatness followed. The uncertainty which had kept the household nervous and hoping for the best no longer buoyed them up. Until they heard that Waffles had been sentenced, they could make no plans for Jehane’s future. Barrington placed money at his disposal for his defence and went to see him once. He never disclosed what happened; but his face was ashen when he returned. All that evening, when anyone spoke to him, he seemed to have to wake before he could answer. Next morning he told Jehane, “Ocky wants to see you.” She shook her head. “He’s dragged me low enough. I never intend to see him again.”

“If that’s the way you feel, you couldn’t help him; it’s better that you shouldn’t visit him.”

She looked into the shrewd gray eyes fiercely. She wanted to find anger there—she could resent anger; she found only quiet judgment. “You don’t mean that you actually expected me to go to him?”

“I expected nothing, but he’s in trouble. You’ve given him children—he’s your husband. In all your years together there must have been some hours that are sweet to remember. I did rather hope that, now that he’s in trouble, you might have remembered them.”

“Well, I don’t. I’m ashamed that I ever had them.”

“All right. It’s strange; but I think I understand. He still loves you, Jehane, and you could have helped the chap.”

“Love! What’s the value of his love?”

“I think its value once was whatever you cared to make it.”

Later in the day he said to her, “And you wouldn’t let Glory see him, I suppose? He mentioned her.”

“No, I wouldn’t. He’s not her father. Captain Spashett was a gentleman.”

The children were never told what occurred at the trial; all they knew was that the man who had laughed and played with them, who had loved the sunshine so carelessly, was to be locked up for a time so long that it seemed like the “ever and forever” of the Bible. It was like burying someone who was not dead—they seemed to hear him tapping. And they must not go to him; they must pretend they had not heard. He was a thing to be shunned and forgotten.

Jehane was anxious to earn her living. But how? She had been trained to do nothing. Barrington bought her a little cottage near Southgate, which at this time was still in the country. Gradually he got into the habit of letting her do a little outside reading for his firm—he did it to enable her to pretend that she was self-supporting. To his surprise she developed a faculty for the work and he began to trust her judgment. She had inherited a literary instinct of which, during her married life, she had remained unaware. It was a feeble instinct, but in the end it proved sufficiently rewarding. She took to writing sentimental novelettes, which found a market. Whatever her faults of heart, she had always been capable and gifted with a strong sense of duty; so, now that she had found a means of making money, she worked hard with her pen, stinting herself and treating her children with foolish liberality.

Her chief regret was that Ocky had spoilt the marriage chances of her girls; she tried to rub out this social stain by creating the impression that her husband was dead. She had two extravagances—the purchase of hair-tonics and a mania for visiting fortune-tellers. She had one great hope—that in the future she might re-marry. This would entail Ocky’s death; but she was not so cruel as to reason that out. She had one great mission—to teach her daughters to catch men. Her chief theme of conversation with her children was the wickedness of their father and the heroic loyalty of her own conduct. No doubt there were times when her conscience troubled her.

Peter was just fifteen and Kay was nearly nine when all this happened. It made a deep impression on both of them, but especially on Peter. For months the crushed shoulders and sunken face of Uncle Waffles haunted his memory, so that it seemed a crime to be happy. He could not bear to enter the stable; he was always expecting to hear a hoarse voice addressing him in a whisper from the loft, calling him a ha’penny marvel or enquiring whether he knew the story of the husband whose wife had black hair. Often in the street he would turn sharply at the sight of some shabby outcast, shuffling through the crowd with bowed head. He would run to the window, hardly daring to own what he expected, when he heard the mournful singing along the Terrace of a group of out-of-works:

“We’ve got no work to do,

We’ve got no work to do;

We’re all thrown out, poor labourin’ men,

And we’ve got no work to do.”

Sooner or later he would recognize, he knew, in one of the tattered singers his Uncle Waffles. Peter was suffering from a suddenly awakened social conscience; he did not know enough to call it that.

It was partly because Barrington had observed and was distressed by his boy’s sadness, that he granted his desire. He granted it to give him a new interest. Peter had always dreamt of a day when he should polish up the tandem tricycle, put Kay on the back seat and ride off with her into the country.

“Well, Peter, I’ll let you do it if you’ll promise to be very careful.”

It was early summer when these splendid adventures commenced. Peter had to do all the work—Kay’s legs were too short to reach the pedals. But what did he care? Just to have his little sister all to himself, London dropping away behind and the world growing greener before him—what more could a boy ask to make him happy?

The tandem trike was a clumsy solid-tired affair—desperately heavy and beyond belief old-fashioned. Peter managed to accomplish six miles an hour on it. The way out, along Green Lanes to Wood Green and up Jolly Butcher’s Hill, would have been full of ignominy for anybody less light-hearted. Kay’s flying hair and plunging legs would have attracted attention had the tricycle been ever so new and handsome.

Errand-boys stood still and whistled after them. Tradesmen followed them in their carts, offering to race them and grinning ridicule. Very frequently insult set itself to the words of a street song then in fashion:

“It won’t be a stylish marriage;

For I can’t afford a carriage;

But you’ll look sweet with your two little feet

On a tricycle made for two.”

What did Peter care? Ill-nature failed to touch him. Little boys who pulled faces at him from the pavements, made long noses at him or stuck out their tongues, did it in envy. He wished he could take them too. So he and Kay turned their heads and threw back laughter. It was fun—all fun. And then there was the anticipation of lunch; two shillings between two people can buy so much.

Shortly after Jolly Butcher’s Hill the country began. At Southgate they would stop to see their cousins. Riska affected to despise their means of traveling. She was shooting up into a tall girl, like her mother; she was darkly handsome and carried herself with a gipsy slouch. Jehane’s philosophy, of teaching her girls how to catch men, was already beginning to take effect. Outside the cottage-gate she had a little table from which she sold ginger-beer to Cockney cyclists. She did it to make pocket-money; even as a child, by this means of introduction she gathered about her a group of boy-lovers. She was learning early how to attract when she cared. Her mother was pleased by her foolish conquests—in the rose-scented air of the cottage garden they seemed very guileless and humorous. In the presence of men, whatever their years, Riska invariably tried to fascinate.

“It’s an instinct with her, the little puss,” said Barrington; “she even tries to make love to her old uncle.”

It was a subject for laughter in the family.

On these short visits Kay and Peter saw hardly anything of Glory—she was doing the work. Just as they were going she would come out from the kitchen, untying her apron, or would pop her head out of a bedroom window to shake a duster and smile at them. Then, as the pedals began to turn, Riska would sing half-tauntingly, and Eustace and Moggs would join in with her pipingly:

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true,

I ‘m half-crazy, all for the love of you.

It won’t be a stylish marriage,

For I can’t afford a carriage,

But you’ll look sweet-”

The words would be lost as the tricycle lumbered into the sunshine between the hedges.

Kay used to say, when she was very little, that the gladness went into her feet when she was happy. On these expeditions it went everywhere, into her feet, her eyes, her lips, her hands. She did the things that boys do, and yet she had the sweetness of a girl. She ran like a boy and she swam like a boy. She was a darling and a puzzle to Peter; he could never make her out. He was always trying to put her dearness into words and always failing.

“Your voice is like the laughter of birds,” he said. “But why do you love me so much, Peter?”

He slanted his eyes. “Because I borned you.” He knew better than that now.

Sometimes they spoke of their cousins.

“I did something horrid this morning.”

“Don’t believe it.”

“Oh, but yes. I was brushing the dust off my shoes in the kitchen, and what do you think I found?”

“Hurry up and tell me.”

“That Glory hadn’t had time to eat her breakfast and that some of the dust had gone into her plate of porridge.”

“Oh, Peter! How careless! Did you tell her?”

“She came in and saw it. You’d never guess what she said.—‘Never mind, old boy. One’s got to eat a peck o’ dirt before one dies. So mother says.’ And she took a spoon and——-”

“And ate it?”

Peter nodded, trying to look penitent, but laughing.

Then Kay became grave-eyed and asked one of her questions. “But do you?”

“Do you what?”

“Have to eat a peck of dirt before you die?”

Peter wriggled his toes in his shoes and looked down to see them moving. “Don’t know. You and I don’t. But that’s what Glory says.”

Having learnt to walk like a boy, Kay learnt to whistle. One hot summer’s afternoon they had ridden out and were lying on their backs in a field tall with grass, nearly ready for cutting. Peter had almost drowsed with the heavy smell of the wild flowers, when he sat up suddenly and seized his sister by the arm quite roughly. She was only whistling a little tune softly and was surprised at the strength he used.

“Peterkins, what’s the matter? You’re hurting. I’m sure you’ve made a bruise.”

He paid no attention to her protest. “Where’d you learn that?”

“What?”

“That tune you were whistling?”

“Don’t know. Just made it up, I suppose. I never heard it.”

“But you must have.”

“But I haven’t, Peter.” She was frightened by his earnestness, mistaking it for anger.

“Did you never hear it in the cupboard in the bedroom—the one that was yours and mine?”

She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I’m in dead seriousness.”

The tears came. “I’m telling the truth. I never knew it till this moment.”

“Whistle it again.”

“I can’t. I forget it.”

As the children’s legs grew stronger they went further afield, conquering new territory, exploring all kinds of dusty lanes and by-roads. They had turned off from Potter’s Bar to Northaw, working round through Gough’s Oak to Cheshunt when they were hailed by a freckled boy, about Peter’s age, who sat astride a gate, playing a mouth-organ.

“Hey, kids! Want to buy anything?”

They jammed on the brakes and addressed him from the trike. “Got anything to sell?”

“Nope. Just wanted to talk and had to say something.”

“But who are you?”

“I’ve lived in America and now I’m living here in Friday Lane. I’ve often seen you go by.”

They looked round to discover Friday Lane; on every side was a sweep of country, rolling away in sun-dazzled fields and basking woodlands.

“But—but it’s lonely here.”

“Yup. But it’s lonelier where I come from. Nothing but Indians and prairie.”

Even Indians didn’t turn them aside; they were trying to unravel the mystery of Friday Lane.

“Is this road the Lane?”

“That’s the Lane.” The boy pointed with a brown hand to a grass-grown field-track starting from the gate on which he sat and vanishing between a line of tall oaks—oaks which had probably been standing when the land was part of the royal chase.

“But there aren’t any houses.”

The boy laughed. “Oh, aren’t there? There’s our house, right over there, out of sight.”

“And who are you?” Kay and Peter asked together.

“I’m Harry Arran and the house belongs to my brother. He’s the Faun Man; I kind o’ look after him and keep him straight. He’s a wonder; you’d be lucky if you knew him.”

“We’d like to know him. We’d both like to know him very much.” Again they spoke together.

The boy thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed them.

“Don’t know so much about that. I’m very particular about my brother. I don’t let him know just anybody.”

He twisted round on the gate, turning his back on them, and re-commenced playing, giving them plainly to understand that their too eager interest in his family affairs had made conversation undesirable.