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.