A pause. Peter knew she was on her knees before him, kissing his hands. It was as though he could see her doing it. “But you did mean to do it, Cherry.” It was the Faun Man speaking deliberately and coldly. “You did it on purpose. It was stupid and babyish of you. It didn’t do her any harm, and it didn’t do you any good. I don’t want to see you, and I don’t like you any longer.”
A passionate voice declared, “If you say that again, I’ll kill myself.”
Again a pause. The door overhead opened; a wild thing came tearing down the stairs. Peter had a vision of something in skirts, something with an intense white face, tragic gray eyes and a mass of black flying hair. He was bumped into. In stepping backward he tripped against a chair. When he picked himself up and looked out into the garden she had disappeared—all he heard was the running of her swift feet growing fainter and fainter.
He gazed about the room, wondering what he ought to do. Should he steal back quietly to where he had left Kay and Harry, and pretend that he had seen nothing? His attention was arrested. So that was what had caused the disturbance? Every portrait of the golden woman had been torn from its place on the wall and trampled. While he hesitated, he heard the Faun Man descending. It was too late to go now.
The Faun Man entered without seeing him. His face was stern; two deep lines stretched like cuts from the nostrils to the corners of his mouth. He looked leaner than ever. He was already stooping over the ruined portraits when Peter addressed him. “Won’t you ever forgive her? Please do. Never to forgive a person, not forever and forever, seems so dreadful.”
The Faun Man jumped; his eyes, when they turned on Peter, were the eyes of a stranger. “And where did you come from? And who asked you for your opinion? You’d better get out.”
When he came to the plank which crossed the little river, Peter halted. Down Friday Lane he could hear the mouth-organ and, looking, could see Harry beating time with one hand while Kay danced to it. No, he didn’t want to join them. Harry would laugh at him for paying heed to one of the Faun Man’s moods. And Kay—why, if she guessed that he was unhappy, of course she’d become unhappy, too——. And that girl—she’d said that she was going to kill herself. He ran across the meadow to the Haunted Wood. She must be there. She shouldn’t do it.
Just where he entered, he stooped and picked up something white. She had dropped her handkerchief, so he knew that he was on the right track. He followed on tiptoe, afraid lest, if he overtook her suddenly, he might scare her. In the stealth of the pursuit a novel excitement came upon him. His eyes were glowing. His breath came and went pantingly. He had removed his cap; his curly hair lay ruffled on his forehead. He went forward timidly, half-minded to turn back, ashamed lest he might find her looking at him. As he penetrated deeper, the stillness grew and magnified ievery sound. Overhead the branches were woven closer together, shutting the sunlight out. An air of secrecy gathered round him. Birds, hopping out of his path under bushes, looked back at him knowingly. They knew what he did not know himself.
Out of sight, beyond him, there was the sound of moving. Leaves rustled; silence settled down. They rustled again. He followed. Then he heard the voice of the river—a little voice which grew louder. It sang to itself softly. It seemed to be trying to say something. Did it sing in lurement or warning? Now it seemed to be saying, “Turn back, turn back, turn back”; and now——. But he couldn’t make out the words.
He lifted his face above a clump of shrub-oak and found his eyes peering into hers. She was too startled to jump back from him; she gazed wide-eyed, with lips parted and one hand plucking at her breast. She saw a boy, swift and straight as an arrow, a boy who seemed to stand tiptoe with eagerness, who had the grace and strength of a Greek runner and the smooth skin and gentle mouth of a girl.