The cabby spoke, “Look ‘ere, young gentleman, my ‘orse is tired. H’I’ve got to be gettin’ back. ‘Ow abart a rest at The Spaniards?”
They returned over the way they had come. The tall firs of the Seven Sisters stood up black and weather-beaten before them. In the yard of The Spaniards they stepped out. The cabby climbed down and began to unharness. Behind his hand he said to Peter, “Rum old party you’ve got there, mister.” And then, glancing up at the labels on the bag, “Been to ‘Enley, ‘av’n’t yer? ‘Ad luck?”
At the bar Peter ordered supper in a private room. He noticed that, when they had sat down, his uncle still kept his hat on. When he reminded him of it his uncle glanced at the door furtively and whispered, “Daren’t take it off. They may guess.”
He fell upon his food ravenously. In his eating, as in his way of talking, there was something inhuman, something—yes, lonely was the word. Slowly it was coming home to Peter that through all these years, while he had been housed, and safeguarded, and attended with affection, this man had been used like an animal. He was repelled and filled with compassion. He wanted to escape; he was unmanned.
The dusk was falling. “I’ll be back in a moment. Order what you like,” he said.
In the fragile darkness he clenched his hands. Last night he had been so happy! How had he dared to be happy? He recalled the jolly buffoonery of Henley—the songs they had sung, the swaying of lanterns, the swan-like gliding of punts, the muffled laughter, the hint of stolen kisses. And all the while this man had been lonely; and his chief fault had been the fault of others—that he had not been allowed to love.
Peter found himself walking across the Heath, following no path. Now and then the rough ground tripped him and he stumbled. He couldn’t bear the reproach of that—that thing that had once been a man, that had no courage left to accuse anybody. Peter felt as though he himself were responsible, as though he had done it. He lifted his eyes to the stars. Indifferent and placid, stretched out on the blue-black couch of heaven, they stared back at him and told him cantingly:
“God’s in His Heaven,
All’s right with the world.”
He shook his fist at them. That was the trouble. God was too much in His Heaven. He felt that he could never again be happy.