Part 34 (2/2)
It didn't take much settling, between three people who saw no difficulties anywhere, but said simply, ”Let us do this,” and did it, as children do. But such plans as they thought desirable they made, then parted.
”I shall tell Denis,” said Lucy, ”I must do that. I'll explain to him all I can, and leave the rest. But not yet. I shall tell him on Sunday night.”
”Yes,” Peter agreed, simply, while the shadow fell again momentarily on his vision. ”You must do that, of course....”
He left it at that; for Denis he had no words.
Lucy got up, and laid Thomas in Peter's arms.
”How much I've talked and talked, Peter. I've never talked so much before, have I? And I s'pose I never will again. But it had to be all said out once. I'm tired of only thinking things, even though I knew you understood. Saying things makes them alive. They're alive now, and always will be. So good-bye.”
They stood and looked at one another for a moment in silence, then turned and took their opposite ways.
Peter didn't go back to London till the late afternoon. He had things to show Thomas on this his first day in the country. So he took him a long walk, and Thomas sat in meadows and got a near view of cows and sheep, and saw Peter paddle in a stream and try to catch minnows in an old tin pot that he found.
Another thing that he found, or rather that found them, was a disreputable yellow dog. He was accompanying a tramp and his wife along the road. When the tramp sat down and untied a handkerchief full of apple pie and cold potatoes (tramps have delightful things to eat as a rule) the dog came near and asked for his share, and was violently removed to a distance by the tramp's boot. He cried and ran through the hedge and came upon Peter and Thomas, who were sitting on the other side, in a field. Peter looked over the hedge and said, ”Is he yours?” and was told, ”Mine! No, 'e ain't. 'E's been follerin' us for miles, and the more I kick 'im the more 'e follers. Wish someone'd pison 'im. I'm sick of 'im.”
His wife, who had the weary, hopeless, utterly resigned face of some female tramps, said, ”'E'll do for 'im soon, my man will,” without much interest.
”I'll take him with me,” said Peter, and drew the disreputable creature to him and gently rubbed his bruised side, and saw that he had rather a nice face, meant to be cheerful, and friendly and hopeful eyes. Indeed, he must be friendly and hopeful to have followed such companions so far.
”Will you be our dog?” said Peter to him. ”Will you come walking with us in future, and have a little bit of whatever we get? And shall we call you San Francesco, because you like disreputable people and love your brother, the sun, and keep company with your little sisters, the fleas?
Very good, then. This is Thomas, and you may lick his face very gently, but remember that he is smaller than you and has to be tenderly treated lest he break.”
San Francesco stayed with them through the afternoon, and accompanied them back to London, smuggled under a seat, because Peter couldn't afford a ticket for him. He proved a likeable being on further acquaintance, with a merry grin and an amused c.o.c.k of the eye; obviously one who took the world's vagaries with humorous patience. Peter conveyed him from Paddington to Mary Street with some difficulty, and bought a bone for him from a cat's-meat-what-orfers man, and took him up to the bright and beautiful sitting-room. Then he told his landlady that he was about to leave her.
”It isn't that I'm not satisfied, you know,” he added, fearing to hurt her, ”but I'm going to give up lodgings altogether. I'm going abroad, to Italy, on Monday.”
”_I_ see.” Mrs. Baker saw everything in a moment. Her young gentleman had obviously been over-spending his income (all these new things must have cost a pretty penny), and had discovered, what many discover, that flight was the only remedy.
”About the rent,” she began, ”and the bills ...”
Peter said, ”Oh, I'll pay you the rent and the bills before I go. I promise I will. But I can't pay much else, you know, Mrs. Baker. So when people come to dun me, tell them I've gone no one knows where. I'm awfully sorry about it, but I've simply no money left.”
His smile, as always, softened her, and she nodded.
”I'll deal with 'em, sir ... I knew you was over-spending yourself, as it were; I could have told you, but I didn't like. You'd always lived so cheap and quiet till the day before yesterday; then all these new things so suddenly. Ader and I said as you must 'ave come in for some money, or else as (you'll excuse me, sir) you was touched in the 'ead.”
”I wasn't,” said Peter. ”Not in the least. I wanted the things, so I got them. But now I come to think of it, I shan't want most of them any more, as I'm going away, so I think I'll just return them to the shops they came from. Of course they won't be pleased, but they'll prefer it to losing the money _and_ the things, I suppose, won't they. And we haven't spoiled them a bit, except that cus.h.i.+on Francesco has just walked over, and that can be cleaned, I expect. I had to have them, you know, just when I wanted them; I couldn't have borne not to; but I don't really need them any more, because I'm going to have other things now. Oh, I'm talking too much, and you want to be cooking the supper, don't you, and I want to put Thomas to bed.”
CHAPTER XX
THE LAST LOSS
Three days later it was Easter Day. In the evening, about half-past nine, when Thomas lay sleeping and Peter was packing the rugs and cus.h.i.+ons and pictures he hadn't paid for into brown paper parcels (a tedious job), Rodney came in. Peter hadn't seen him for some time.
”What on earth,” said Rodney, lighting his pipe and sitting down, ”are you doing with all that upholstery? Has someone been sending you Easter presents? Well, I'm glad you're getting rid of them as speedily as may be.”
Peter said ruefully, because he was tired of the business, ”The stupid things aren't paid for. So I'm packing them up to be sent back directly the shops open again. I can't afford them, you see. Already most of my belongings are in p.a.w.n.”
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