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.