“But——.” Peter allowed himself to be drawn into the arms of the man who had always stood between him and the world. “But when the time comes, I don’t want to fail like——,” he was going to have said like Uncle Waffles, but he said instead, “like some people.” And then, after a pause, “I feel so unprepared.”
“We’ve all felt that way, sonny. Somehow we get the strength. You’ll get it.”
Peter sighed contentedly. He was again in the nest with the creeper-covered walls about him. The strained note had gone out of his voice when he spoke now. “There’s so much to learn. It seems so strange to think that one day I’ll have to grow up, like you, and marry, and earn money, and have little boys and girls.”
His father laughed huskily. “Very strange! Strange even to me, Peter—and I’ve done it: And, d’you know, there are times when even a man looks back and is surprised that he’s grown up. He feels just what you’re feeling—the wonder of it. It seems only the other day that I was as small as you are; and only the other day that I was frightened of life and what it meant. Are you frightened?”
For answer Peter stood up. “Not so much frightened as puzzled.”
His father rose and led him out from beneath the leaves, which crowded above their heads. He pointed up past the roofs of houses. “We couldn’t see them under there,” he said. “Every night they come to their places and stand, shining. Some one sends them. Some one sent you and me, Peter. We don’t know why. There are people who sit always under trees and never look up. They’ll tell you that there aren’t any stars overhead. We’re not like that. We know that whoever is careful enough to hang lamps on the clouds, is careful enough to watch over us. So we needn’t be afraid of living, need we, old chap?”
Peter pressed his father’s hand. “I’ll try to remember.”
That night, when the house was all silent, he crept out of bed. Leaning from the open window, he looked down on London, stretching for miles and miles, with its huddled roofs spread over its huddled personalities. Why were things as they were? If some one lit lamps in the heavens and followed each life with care, why did four women, who loved children, sit forever with their arms empty, while one sang of the sweet fields of Eden; and why did Uncle Waffles——-? The questions were unanswerable and endless. And then, in defiant contrast, there came bounding into his memory the courageous figure of the Faun Man, with his cavalier attitudes and strong determination to make of life a laughing affair. The night quickened; the ghostly feet of a little breeze tiptoed across the tree-tops, causing their leaves to rustle. From the far distance, the throb of belated traffic reached him like the beat of a muffled drum. He heard London marching to the martial music of struggle; his heart was stirred. Life was a fight—well, what of it? When his time came, he must be ready. He looked again at the stars, remembering what his father had said. One need not be frightened. And then he looked away into the blackness; somewhere over there the houses ended and the wide peace of the country commenced. Somewhere over there was Cherry.
He waited impatiently for his next half-holiday, when he would be free to tricycle out. When he went, she was not in the Haunted Wood; nor the next time, nor the next. He wanted to ask the Faun Man, but postponed through shyness; he was afraid his secret would be guessed. He was always hoping and hoping that he would find her behind the green wall of leaves, where the little river ran. One afternoon, when tea was ended and Kay and Harry had gone out, he asked, “Does the girl who broke your pictures never come here now?”
The Faun Man looked up sharply and stared, trying to guess behind the question.