Harry didn’t approve of it; but he was the mouth-organ boy and the adventure was in keeping with the night. The rope of sheets was flung out. For a moment Peter balanced on the sill; then he slipped down, hand-over-hand, into the blackness.
“All right.”
The rope was withdrawn.
The street was intensely quiet—empty of all sound. Houses slept. Not a shadow stirred. A cool breeze blew upon his forehead. He had the world to himself. He felt immensely young and exultant.
He began to run stealthily and on tiptoe, keeping close to the wall. There was never any telling—someone might come round a corner suddenly and take him unawares.
As he passed Professor Usk’s house, he thought for a moment of Glory. In one of those prim rooms she was lying safe in bed—she and Riska. He’d seen Riska laughing with Hardcastle on the barge. Who the dickens had introduced her? She was quite capable of having introduced herself. Then he forgot everything and everyone but Cherry and the purpose of his errand.
He came out on to High Street, flowing in a slow curve past churches and ancient doorways. As he went by All Souls he had the sense of still gardens and cool turf, lying steeped in moonlight. He wanted to laugh, wanted to shout to the silent city that he would soon be talking with her.
He turned down by Hell Passage and dived under an archway into a little court, where a lamp smoldered in an iron bracket and echoes played hide-and-seek behind his footsteps. There was an uncared for garden. In one corner stood a public house, with all the lights extinguished. Along one side, hugging the wall of a low-roofed house, ran the narrow path. He stepped back and looked up at the windows; that must be hers to the left.
He whispered her name, “Cherry. Cherry.”
Was she awake? He fancied that he heard her stir. He picked up some earth and threw it against the panes. He had startled her; something creaked, as though she sat up sharply.