A summer’s afternoon in London! The gold-gray majesty of the Embankment, basking in sunlight; the silver-gray flowing of the Thames beneath its many bridges; smoke, bidding a casual good-by to chimneys, sauntering off a truant into the quiet blue; trees, bravely green and a-flutter; a steamer swerving in to the landing at Westminster! His decision came suddenly. She had asked him to visit her. Perhaps—perhaps, she could tell him what had happened to Cherry.

He jumped off the bus, crossed the road at a run, sprang down the steps and thrust his money through the hole in the ticket-window. “A return to Kew.”

The man in the box was ostentatiously slow in counting out the change. These young bloods made him bitter. With all the years before them, they were always late and always in a hurry. He sold them their passports to cool green places; he himself was left permanently behind by that streak of gleaming river.

“‘Eaps o’ time,” he grumbled. “Yes, that’s your one.” Then, having at last handed over the change and a ticket, “Best skip lively, or you’ll lose ‘er.”

Peter skipped lively; to the man’s disappointment, he scrambled aboard just as the steamer was casting loose. She shot out into the current, panting and splashing, kicking up a merry white wake. The Houses of Parliament grew tall and, at last, spectral in the distance. The dome of St. Paul’s lay, a black bubble swollen to bursting, on the lip of the horizon. The smoke of London trembled like a thin flag, waving back the encroaching sky. The groan of creeping traffic was stilled; stone-palaces of labor sank and sank, shorn of their height and supremacy. This was the road to Arcady, the flowing road to the land of birds and grass pavements. They were on the outskirts of that land already; everybody felt it. A red-nosed minstrel drew his harp between his knees and fumbled at the strings. He assured his public tunefully that he had dreamt that he dwelt in marble halls. It was difficult to believe him; he didn’t look a soulful fellow. Nevertheless, in his decrepit person, he echoed the hopes of incredible romance. The crowd grew careless of appearances and jaunty. Cockney swains cuddled their girls more closely; the girls, rather proud than abashed, tittered.

Battersea Park drifted by, a green mist of trees and romping children. Against the red-brick background of Chelsea, scarlet-coated soldiers strolled, unwarriorlike, keeping pace with pram-trundling nurse-maids. The steamer seemed to stand still; it was the banks, on either side, that traveled.

The harpist, having tried his nose at romance, came back to reality. Perhaps, it was because he sang so much through it, that his nose was so long and red.

“Sez I, ‘Be Mrs. ‘Awkins, Mrs. ‘Enery ‘Awkins,

Or acrost the seas I’ll roam.

So ‘elp me, Bob, I’m crazy,

Liza, yer a daisy—

Won’t yer share my ‘umble ‘ome?”’

In vulgar language he gave exact utterance to Peter’s emotions. Not that he had any home for Cherry to share. He wasn’t likely to have for a long time to come. He had to go to Oxford first, there to be drilled for his tussle with the world. And yet, unreasonably, too previously, against all laws of caution and common sense, he wanted to hear her say that she cared for him.

He had every reason to believe the contrary. He had written to her, and had received only a line in answer, “Let’s forget. For your sake it would be better.” After that his many letters had been returned to him unopened, indicating that the address was unknown. He had tried to get into touch with the Faun Man and Harry, but they were on the Continent, roving. Then, he had thought of the golden woman. She had been kind to him. She had asked him to visit her. She and Cherry were scarcely friends, but she might tell him where he could find her.

“Let’s forget.” The words rang in his ears. They tormented him. They made him both sad and angry. They seemed to treat all love as a flirtation, as a stroll beneath the stars which must end. He didn’t want an ending—couldn’t conceive that it was possible. Was she heartless or—or had she mistaken him? Was it that she didn’t understand love’s finality? Or that she did understand, and was frightened? Or—and this was the doubt that haunted him most—that she didn’t really like him?

Putney! Mortlake! Racing-shells skimming the surface of the water! Bridges wading from bank to bank! Bathing boys who stood up naked, waving to the passing steamer! Then Kew, green and somnolent, with its plumed trees and low-browed houses. Peter landed. The crowd melted, breaking up into couples who wandered off, purposeless and happy. They had only escaped from London that they might be alone together. Should they go to the Botanical Gardens? Oh, yes. Anywhere—it didn’t matter. Anywhere, so long as they could sit together and hold hands.

He crossed the bridge; stopped a stranger and asked a question; turned along the bank and came to a house, little more than a cottage—a nest tucked away amid shrubs and trees, with the river in view.

Like the frill on a woman’s dress, a green verandah ran round it. Everything was cool and neat and hushed. The bushes were trim and orderly. The gravel-path had been smoothly raked—not a stone was awry. Flowers stood sweetly demure, in rows like school-girls awaiting a good conduct prize and trying to forget that they had ever been hoydens. On the lawn an automatic sprinkler was at work, revolving slowly and throwing up a cloud of spray.

As he approached the porch, misty with wistaria and passion-flowers, he searched the windows for signs of life. They were so clear that they seemed to be without panes, giving direct entrance to the pleasant rooms inside. They seemed to say, “We have nothing to hide—nothing.” Brasses shone as brightly as a more precious metal. The door lent a virginal touch of whiteness.

He rang the bell and heard a faint tinkle, then the rustling of skirts, accompanied by prim footsteps. A severely attired maid admitted him. He gazed round the room into which he was shown. Books, artistically bound, lay on the table. Everything gave evidence of fastidiousness and taste—of a certain remoteness from the everyday jostle of life. Above an inlaid desk stood a portrait, silverframed. Out of curiosity Peter tiptoed over; the Faun Man gazed out at him with laughing eyes. Lying open on the desk was a well-thumbed volume, small and bound like a Bible. A passage was underscored, which read, “Thou must be lord and master of thine own actions, and not a slave or hireling.” Turning to the title-page, he found that it was The Imitation of Christ.

A voice behind him said, “Ah, so you’ve discovered me!”

He drew himself up, afraid she might suspect him of spying. “I—I was interested by the words you’d underlined. I wanted to see who wrote them. I oughtn’t to have——”

She laughed softly, shrugging her shoulders. She was all in white—lazy, splendid and vital. “My Loo-ard! Don’t apologize. You were surprised. I don’t blame you.” She nodded her head like a knowing child. “Oh, yes, Peter, the golden woman reads books like that sometimes.”

She took his hands in hers and drew him over to a sofa, making him sit down beside her. “And now, what have you come to tell me?”

He recovered from his confusion and surrendered, as all men did, to her graciousness. “That it’s ripping to see you. But—but how did you know I called you the golden woman?”

“Lorie—he tells me everything.” She leant back her long fine throat, pillowing her head against the cushions. “You must never trust him with any of your secrets, if you don’t want me to—— Now, what is it that you’ve come to tell me?”

“Then, you know——?” He hesitated. The confession to him was sacred; there was amusement in her eyes. “Then you know about me and Cherry?” He was sure she did. She had greeted him as though his visit had been long expected.

She placed her cool fingers about his wrist and bent her head nearer. Her voice was low, and caressing—the voice of one who breaks bad news gently. “I know. You told her that you loved her.—— Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

She was looking sorry for him. “Why sooner?” he questioned.

“Because she’s gone away.”

It was almost as though she had told him that Cherry had died. “Away? Where to?”

“I don’t know. Lorie didn’t say; he took her. Perhaps, to the convent. Poor little girl, you—you frightened her, Peter.”

He was all amazement. What a contrast there was between these two! The boy so inexperienced and crestfallen; the golden woman so wise and quiet. “Yes, you, Peter. You’re so natural and uncivilized. You were too sudden with her. You told her that you loved her just as a child would—directly you felt it. You wanted to kiss her without waste of time. You galloped too fast, Peter; you tried to take all the fences at one stride.” Her voice grew more tender; she folded her hands in her lap, looking away from him, straight before her. “You’re—you’re the sort of lover we older women dream of when the hour’s gone by. The men who come to us are too cautious; they watch for the lines in our faces. They’ve learnt to play safe. But you, with your glorious youth——! And she didn’t recognize it—didn’t know what you were offering.” The blue eyes came back slowly to his face. She ended, “And so, she’s gone away.”

Peter felt unhappy and yet comforted. She had envied him something of which he had been ashamed—the unavoidable indiscretion of his lack of age. She had called it glorious; she hadn’t thought it foolish. “But what must I do? Will she—will she come back again? Will she understand, one day, the way you do?”

She answered evasively. “One day! We women all understand one day.”

He repeated his question, “But what must I do?”

She put her arm about his shoulder. “Wait. It’s all that either of us can do.”

Why did she include herself? The room was very silent. In its patient preparedness, it must have spent years in waiting. The garden outside seemed to listen, tiptoe. The door was white, as if little used. The sunlight on the lawn crept slowly. Everything watched; yet nothing was wideawake. For whom were they all expectant? Always there is one who allows, and one who loves. Was that the explanation?

Above the open volume of cloistered consolation, with its disillusioned counsels of timid patience, the Faun Man smiled from his silver frame. Peter had always thought——.

So, after all, was it the Faun Man who had delayed?

And Cherry loved him! Had that anything to do with it? He crushed the suspicion down—and yet it survived.

“And you don’t know——. You couldn’t tell me where to write?”

The golden woman shook her head. “Who can say? You don’t know much about love, Peter. It’s a continual hoping for something which never happens—or which, when it happens, is something different. People say it’s a state of heart—it’s really a state of mind. I think—and you’ll hate me for saying it—I think true love is always on one side and is always disappointed. Did you ever hear about the green tree and the bird in the morn? You didn’t?

“A bird in the morn

To a green tree was calling:

‘Come over. Come over.

Night’s vanished. Day’s born.

And I’m weary—I want you, green tree, for my lover;

Through clouds I am falling,

A-flutter, a-flutter.

I’m lonely,

Here only.

And heard your leaves mutter.

Night’s vanished. Day’s born.

So run out and fold me, green tree, in the morn.’

“The bird in the morn

Heard a distant tree sighing:

I cannot come over—

Night’s vanished. Day’s born.

I am rooted. But haste, oh sweet bird, to your lover;

So freely you’re flying,

A-flutter, a-flutter.

Sink hither,

Not thither.

Hark how my leaves mutter,

Night’s vanished. Love’s born.’

The bird flew—ah, whither? The tree was forlorn.”

She stroked his hand. “In true love,” she said, “there’s always one who could but won’t, and one who would but cannot.”

“Not always,” he denied. He spoke confidently, remembering his mother and father.

“How certain you are!” She watched him mockingly. “Ah, you know of an exception! Believe me, Peter, winged birds and rooted trees are by far the more common.”

She made him feel that she shared his dilemma—that she reckoned herself, with him, among the trees which are rooted. The bond of sympathy was established.

“We,” she whispered, “you and I, Peter, we must wait for our winged birds to visit us. We can’t go to them, however we try.”

She sprang up with a quick change of expression; in a flash she was radiant. “My Loo-ard, but we needn’t be tragic.”

Running to the window, she flung it wide. “Look out there. The sun, the river, the grass—they’re happy. What do they care? It’s our hearts that are unhappy. We won’t have any hearts, Peter.”

He crossed the room to her. With the freedom of a sister, she put her arm about him, leaning so that her hair just touched his face. She seemed to be excusing her action. “You’re only a boy. How old shall we say. Just fourteen, perhaps. Why, little Peter, you’re too young to be in love.—— Do you remember the saying, that every load has two handles: one by which it can be carried; one by which it cannot? You and I are going to find the handle by which it can be carried—is that a bargain? I’ll show you the handle—it’s not to take yourself or anyone too seriously. You’re making a face, Peter, as though I’d given you nasty medicine. You were determined to be most awfully wretched over Cherry, weren’t you? Well, you mustn’t. Wait half a second.”

Her half-seconds were half-hours to other people. When she reappeared, she was clad girlishly in a white dress, which hung above her ankles. At her breast was a yellow rose. Her golden hair was wrapped in bands about her head. There swung from her hand a broad river-hat. Peter thought that, if the Faun Man could see her now, he wouldn’t wait much longer. But it was contradictory—this that she had told him; he had always supposed that it was she who had kept the Faun Man waiting. For himself he was wishing that she were Cherry.

Before the mirror, over the empty fireplace, she stooped to adjust her hat. Her arms curved up to her shining head, the loose sleeves falling back from them; they looked like handles of ivory on a gold-rimmed goblet. The motive of the attitude was lost on Peter; he only took in the general effect. Her eyes, watching him from the glass, saw that. He was thinking how naïve she was to have taken thirty minutes over dressing, and then to pretend that she had hurried by coming down with her hat in her hand.

“Ready,” she said. “Do you like me in this dress? If you don’t, I’ll change it.”

“If I took you at your word——. But would you really? I’m almost tempted to put you to the test.”

“I would really,” she said.

“I do like you.” He spoke with boyish downrightness. “You know jolly well that you look splendid in anything.”

She pretended to be abashed and hurried into the garden, singing just above her breath,

“I like you in satin,

I like you in fluff.”

She seemed to forget the words and hummed; but, as she came to the end of the air, she crouched her chin against her shoulder, looking back at him naughtily,

“I love you and like you

In—oh, anything at all.”

They walked by the muffled river; trees were reflected so clearly on its surface that it was easy to mistake illusion for reality. Everything was asleep or listless in the summer sun. They came to a point where they ferried across. They entered Kew Gardens and sauntered into the Palace for coolness. They didn’t care where their feet led them; all the while they talked—about life, love, men and women, but really, under the disguise of words, about Cherry and the Faun Man. In her company he had found a sudden relief from suspense.

She was so smiling, so generous, and at times so anxious to be reckless, like a clever child saying slant-eyed things of which the meaning was half-guessed. He was elated to be seen with her; she was rare and beautiful.

Toward evening he turned back from the land of stately trees and grass-pavements to the clamor of the perturbed and narrow city. The river was a thread of gold; the sun foundered red in a crimson sea of cloud. The thread of gold broadened as bridges grew more frequent; black wharfs took the place of meadows and sat huddled along the banks like homeless beggars. But it was the majesty, not the meanness of London, that impressed him. His eyes were on the horizon, where the lace-work tower of Westminster shot up, sculptured and ethereal, and still further beyond where, above herded roofs, the dome of St. Paul’s protruded like a woman’s breast.

He landed at Westminster Bridge and ran up the steps. What a different world! How many hours was it since he had been there? He had recovered his sense of life’s magic.

The tethered man in the ticket-office eyed him gloomily. “Still in a hurry,” he thought, “and with all the years of life before him. Ugh!”

That afternoon was the pattern of many that followed. He came from London to Kew, simply and solely that he might speak about Cherry, and always with the hope that he might gain some news of her. Subtly the golden woman would lead the conversation round to herself. It was only at parting that he would discover this. Once he said, laughingly, “Why, we’ve spent all our time in talking about you!” Then he stopped, for he saw that he had not pleased her. “Next time it shall be all about Cherry,” he told himself; but it wasn’t.

He had never had a woman consult him before about her dress and the styles of doing her hair. The golden woman did; she made him tell her just what he preferred. When he met her, she came to express a part of his personality.

In the intimacy which grew up between them, the small reserves of pride and reticence were broken down. They spoke their minds aloud.

“I’m getting old, Peter,” she would say. But this was only on the days when she looked youngest.

If he had no money, he would tell her; then, she would either pay or they would make their pleasures inexpensive. He regarded her as a sister older than himself.

“What shall I call you?” he asked her. “Haven’t you noticed that I have no name for you?”

She slipped her arm into his. “The golden woman. I like that. It’s you—it has the touch of poetry.”

“I gave you that name,” he said, “the moment I saw you—years ago, at the Happy Cottage.”

She opened her eyes wide, pretending to be offended. “Years ago! How cruel! Years ago to you; but to me not so long ago—four years, wasn’t it? Why do you say things that make me feel ancient?”

“When you’re beautiful——.” He got no farther; his tongue stumbled at compliments. He was going to have said that, when you were very beautiful, years didn’t matter.

She caught at his words. “Then you think I’m beautiful?”

“Think, indeed!”

“As beautiful as Cherry?”

He avoided answering, saying instead, “See how everyone turns to look after you.”

She fell silent, only to return to the topic long after he had forgotten it. “Yes, they look after me and go away. That isn’t like having someone with you always.”

She could make him feel very unhappy—more unhappy than anyone he had ever met. She could say such lonely things, and almost as though he were to blame for her loneliness. She could talk exquisitely of love and little children. He wondered why the Faun Man hadn’t married her.

One afternoon he had stopped longer than usual. They had walked through Kew Gardens, and had sat in a teagarden watching the trippers. It had been one of their gay days, when they had built up absurd philosophies. She had told him that all that any woman could love was the sixth part of any man—all the other five-sixths were distasteful. Her idea was that every woman should be allowed to have six husbands; then, by taking what she liked out of each of them, she would have one perfect man. They had dawdled in the tea-garden out of compassion, rescuing wasps with teaspoons from drowning in the jam. When they rose to go, evening was gathering. On the bridge they paused, gazing down at the gray creeping of the river and the slow drifting of the boats. Suddenly she reverted from gay to sad.

“If I were old, Peter, you wouldn’t come to see me so often. One day, though I try to fight it off, one day I shall be old.” At the gate, in the wistful twilight, she lifted up her face. “If I were to ask you to kiss me, would you?”

“I think I would.”

But she didn’t ask him.

A strange summer made up of waiting, visits to Kew and interludes of work! In those interludes he studied hard, putting the finishing touches to his preparation for Oxford. The first question he always asked the golden woman—asked her breathlessly—was, “Is there any news of her?” The answer was always the same—a negative. Sometimes she would read him portions of letters which she had received from the Faun Man. There was never any mention of Cherry. He grew sick at heart with waiting. The golden woman alone shared his secret; he could not bring himself to speak of it at home.

His holiday was short that year—three weeks in Surrey. On his return Glory came to stay at Topbury. How she had escaped his memory! He was a little surprised by her quiet beauty; his surprise wore off as he got used to her. She laid so little emphasis on herself. People were only aware that she had been there when she had gone—an atmosphere of kindness was lacking. Then they looked up, were puzzled and remembered, “Oh yes, Glory. Where’s she vanished? Thought she was here.” She only once penetrated into Peter’s world—then only for a few hours. A boy in love can think only of one woman.

That once occurred on a rainy morning, in the study which had been his nursery. He had just sat down and had his nose in his books. Someone touched him.

“Peter, you don’t mind, do you? If you’re busy now, I’ll come again later.”

He looked up, his head between his hands, his hair all ruffled. “Sorry. Didn’t see that you were there. Anything you want me to do?”

The sensitive face flushed. He noticed that. The white hands fluttered against her breast. “You know about father.” Her voice was timid. It strove and sank like a spent bird. “Nobody’s told me. So, Peter, I came to you.”

“That’s a shame. He used to be our secret. What d’you want to know about him, Glory?”

She faltered like a girl much younger. “I want you to take me to him.”

That afternoon on the top of a bus they set off to Soho together. What that excursion meant to her, what thoughts tiptoed to and fro inside her head, he never knew. He never guessed how proud she was to be seen alone with him in public. Her thoughts tiptoed for that reason—so that no one might ever guess. They found Uncle Waffles, waxed mustaches and dingy spats, seated in a dingy shop. They had to descend a step to enter. The riot of dirt distressed Glory. She wanted to busy herself with a duster, until her stepfather discouraged her, telling her that it was no use—it would be as bad to-morrow; in fact, in his line of trade, dirt was a kind of advertisement.

Just as they were sitting down to tea, Mr. Widow, the murderer, joined them. They found him a very severe old gentleman, with chop-whiskers and an eye to other people’s imperfections. Prison seemed to have strengthened his moral views. Once he referred to “my poor wife,” in a tone which implied that she had died respectably of bloodpoisoning or cancer.

Before they left, Uncle Waffles took Peter aside and borrowed two-and-sixpence in a whisper. So the tea was quite expensive. Perhaps the ease with which he had contrived to borrow had something to do with the heartiness of his invitation that they should drop in whenever they were passing.

That evening, when Glory came to bid Peter good-night, she asked, “You’ll take me again, won’t you. He’s—I don’t think he’s happy.”

Peter dragged his thoughts away from his work. “Don’t you? Perhaps Mr. Widow isn’t tremendously cheerful company. Of course I’ll take you.”

His eyes were going back to his books. Glory hesitated at the door, saw that he had forgotten her and slipped out. There was a song about a rooted tree and a winged bird; had he looked up at that moment and seen her expression, he might have remembered it.