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diff --git a/1376-0.txt b/1376-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f3c9cf --- /dev/null +++ b/1376-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6829 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1376 *** + +THE LITTLE WHITE BIRD + +OR ADVENTURES IN KENSINGTON GARDENS + +By J.M. Barrie + + + + +CONTENTS + + I. David and I Set Forth Upon a Journey + II. The Little Nursery Governess + III. Her Marriage, Her Clothes, Her Appetite, and an + Inventory of Her Furniture. + IV. A Night-Piece + V. The Fight For Timothy + VI. A Shock + VII. The Last of Timothy + VIII. The Inconsiderate Waiter + IX. A Confirmed Spinster + X. Sporting Reflections + XI. The Runaway Perambulator + XII. The Pleasantest Club in London + XIII. The Grand Tour of the Gardens + XIV. Peter Pan + XV. The Thrush's Nest + XVI. Lock-Out Time + XVII. The Little House + XVIII. Peter's Goat + XIX. An Interloper + XX. David and Porthos Compared + XXI. William Paterson + XXII. Joey + XXIII. Pilkington's + XXIV. Barbara + XXV. The Cricket Match + XXVI. The Dedication + + + + +THE LITTLE WHITE BIRD + + + + +I. David and I Set Forth Upon a Journey + +Sometimes the little boy who calls me father brings me an invitation +from his mother: “I shall be so pleased if you will come and see me,” + and I always reply in some such words as these: “Dear madam, I decline.” + And if David asks why I decline, I explain that it is because I have no +desire to meet the woman. + +“Come this time, father,” he urged lately, “for it is her birthday, and +she is twenty-six,” which is so great an age to David, that I think he +fears she cannot last much longer. + +“Twenty-six, is she, David?” I replied. “Tell her I said she looks +more.” + +I had my delicious dream that night. I dreamt that I too was twenty-six, +which was a long time ago, and that I took train to a place called +my home, whose whereabouts I see not in my waking hours, and when I +alighted at the station a dear lost love was waiting for me, and we went +away together. She met me in no ecstasy of emotion, nor was I surprised +to find her there; it was as if we had been married for years and parted +for a day. I like to think that I gave her some of the things to carry. + +Were I to tell my delightful dream to David's mother, to whom I have +never in my life addressed one word, she would droop her head and raise +it bravely, to imply that I make her very sad but very proud, and she +would be wishful to lend me her absurd little pocket handkerchief. And +then, had I the heart, I might make a disclosure that would startle her, +for it is not the face of David's mother that I see in my dreams. + +Has it ever been your lot, reader, to be persecuted by a pretty woman +who thinks, without a tittle of reason, that you are bowed down under +a hopeless partiality for her? It is thus that I have been pursued for +several years now by the unwelcome sympathy of the tender-hearted and +virtuous Mary A----. When we pass in the street the poor deluded soul +subdues her buoyancy, as if it were shame to walk happy before one she +has lamed, and at such times the rustle of her gown is whispered words +of comfort to me, and her arms are kindly wings that wish I was a little +boy like David. I also detect in her a fearful elation, which I am +unaware of until she has passed, when it comes back to me like a faint +note of challenge. Eyes that say you never must, nose that says why +don't you? and a mouth that says I rather wish you could: such is the +portrait of Mary A---- as she and I pass by. + +Once she dared to address me, so that she could boast to David that I +had spoken to her. I was in the Kensington Gardens, and she asked would +I tell her the time please, just as children ask, and forget as they +run back with it to their nurse. But I was prepared even for this, and +raising my hat I pointed with my staff to a clock in the distance. She +should have been overwhelmed, but as I walked on listening intently, I +thought with displeasure that I heard her laughing. + +Her laugh is very like David's, whom I could punch all day in order to +hear him laugh. I dare say she put this laugh into him. She has been +putting qualities into David, altering him, turning him forever on a +lathe since the day she first knew him, and indeed long before, and all +so deftly that he is still called a child of nature. When you release +David's hand he is immediately lost like an arrow from the bow. No +sooner do you cast eyes on him than you are thinking of birds. It is +difficult to believe that he walks to the Kensington Gardens; he always +seems to have alighted there: and were I to scatter crumbs I opine he +would come and peck. This is not what he set out to be; it is all the +doing of that timid-looking lady who affects to be greatly surprised by +it. He strikes a hundred gallant poses in a day; when he tumbles, which +is often, he comes to the ground like a Greek god; so Mary A---- has +willed it. But how she suffers that he may achieve! I have seen him +climbing a tree while she stood beneath in unutterable anguish; she had +to let him climb, for boys must be brave, but I am sure that, as she +watched him, she fell from every branch. + +David admires her prodigiously; he thinks her so good that she will be +able to get him into heaven, however naughty he is. Otherwise he would +trespass less light-heartedly. Perhaps she has discovered this; for, as +I learn from him, she warned him lately that she is not such a dear as +he thinks her. + +“I am very sure of it,” I replied. + +“Is she such a dear as you think her?” he asked me. + +“Heaven help her,” I said, “if she be not dearer than that.” + +Heaven help all mothers if they be not really dears, for their boy +will certainly know it in that strange short hour of the day when every +mother stands revealed before her little son. That dread hour ticks +between six and seven; when children go to bed later the revelation has +ceased to come. He is lapt in for the night now and lies quietly there, +madam, with great, mysterious eyes fixed upon his mother. He is summing +up your day. Nothing in the revelations that kept you together and +yet apart in play time can save you now; you two are of no age, no +experience of life separates you; it is the boy's hour, and you have +come up for judgment. “Have I done well to-day, my son?” You have got to +say it, and nothing may you hide from him; he knows all. How like your +voice has grown to his, but more tremulous, and both so solemn, so +unlike the voice of either of you by day. + +“You were a little unjust to me to-day about the apple; were you not, +mother?” + +Stand there, woman, by the foot of the bed and cross your hands and +answer him. + +“Yes, my son, I was. I thought--” + +But what you thought will not affect the verdict. + +“Was it fair, mother, to say that I could stay out till six, and then +pretend it was six before it was quite six?” + +“No, it was very unfair. I thought--” + +“Would it have been a lie if I had said it was quite six?” + +“Oh, my son, my son! I shall never tell you a lie again.” + +“No, mother, please don't.” + +“My boy, have I done well to-day on the whole?” + +Suppose he were unable to say yes. + +These are the merest peccadilloes, you may say. Is it then a little +thing to be false to the agreement you signed when you got the boy? +There are mothers who avoid their children in that hour, but this will +not save them. Why is it that so many women are afraid to be left alone +with their thoughts between six and seven? I am not asking this of +you, Mary. I believe that when you close David's door softly there is a +gladness in your eyes, and the awe of one who knows that the God to whom +little boys say their prayers has a face very like their mother's. + +I may mention here that David is a stout believer in prayer, and has had +his first fight with another young Christian who challenged him to the +jump and prayed for victory, which David thought was taking an unfair +advantage. + +“So Mary is twenty-six! I say, David, she is getting on. Tell her that I +am coming in to kiss her when she is fifty-two.” + +He told her, and I understand that she pretended to be indignant. When I +pass her in the street now she pouts. Clearly preparing for our meeting. +She has also said, I learn, that I shall not think so much of her when +she is fifty-two, meaning that she will not be so pretty then. So little +does the sex know of beauty. Surely a spirited old lady may be the +prettiest sight in the world. For my part, I confess that it is they, +and not the young ones, who have ever been my undoing. Just as I was +about to fall in love I suddenly found that I preferred the mother. +Indeed, I cannot see a likely young creature without impatiently +considering her chances for, say, fifty-two. Oh, you mysterious girls, +when you are fifty-two we shall find you out; you must come into the +open then. If the mouth has fallen sourly yours the blame: all the +meannesses your youth concealed have been gathering in your face. But +the pretty thoughts and sweet ways and dear, forgotten kindnesses linger +there also, to bloom in your twilight like evening primroses. + +Is it not strange that, though I talk thus plainly to David about his +mother, he still seems to think me fond of her? How now, I reflect, what +sort of bumpkin is this, and perhaps I say to him cruelly: “Boy, you are +uncommonly like your mother.” + +To which David: “Is that why you are so kind to me?” + +I suppose I am kind to him, but if so it is not for love of his mother, +but because he sometimes calls me father. On my honour as a soldier, +there is nothing more in it than that. I must not let him know this, for +it would make him conscious, and so break the spell that binds him and +me together. Oftenest I am but Captain W---- to him, and for the best of +reasons. He addresses me as father when he is in a hurry only, and never +have I dared ask him to use the name. He says, “Come, father,” with an +accursed beautiful carelessness. So let it be, David, for a little while +longer. + +I like to hear him say it before others, as in shops. When in shops he +asks the salesman how much money he makes in a day, and which drawer he +keeps it in, and why his hair is red, and does he like Achilles, of whom +David has lately heard, and is so enamoured that he wants to die to meet +him. At such times the shopkeepers accept me as his father, and I cannot +explain the peculiar pleasure this gives me. I am always in two minds +then, to linger that we may have more of it, and to snatch him away +before he volunteers the information, “He is not really my father.” + +When David meets Achilles I know what will happen. The little boy will +take the hero by the hand, call him father, and drag him away to some +Round Pond. + +One day, when David was about five, I sent him the following letter: +“Dear David: If you really want to know how it began, will you come and +have a chop with me to-day at the club?” + +Mary, who, I have found out, opens all his letters, gave her consent, +and, I doubt not, instructed him to pay heed to what happened so that he +might repeat it to her, for despite her curiosity she knows not how +it began herself. I chuckled, guessing that she expected something +romantic. + +He came to me arrayed as for a mighty journey, and looking unusually +solemn, as little boys always do look when they are wearing a great +coat. There was a shawl round his neck. “You can take some of them off,” + I said, “when we come to summer.” + +“Shall we come to summer?” he asked, properly awed. + +“To many summers,” I replied, “for we are going away back, David, to see +your mother as she was in the days before there was you.” + +We hailed a hansom. “Drive back six years,” I said to the cabby, “and +stop at the Junior Old Fogies' Club.” + +He was a stupid fellow, and I had to guide him with my umbrella. + +The streets were not quite as they had been in the morning. For +instance, the bookshop at the corner was now selling fish. I dropped +David a hint of what was going on. + +“It doesn't make me littler, does it?” he asked anxiously; and then, +with a terrible misgiving: “It won't make me too little, will it, +father?” by which he meant that he hoped it would not do for him +altogether. He slipped his hand nervously into mine, and I put it in my +pocket. + +You can't think how little David looked as we entered the portals of the +club. + + + + +II. The Little Nursery Governess + +As I enter the club smoking-room you are to conceive David vanishing +into nothingness, and that it is any day six years ago at two in the +afternoon. I ring for coffee, cigarette, and cherry brandy, and take my +chair by the window, just as the absurd little nursery governess comes +tripping into the street. I always feel that I have rung for her. + +While I am lifting the coffee-pot cautiously lest the lid fall into the +cup, she is crossing to the post-office; as I select the one suitable +lump of sugar she is taking six last looks at the letter; with the aid +of William I light my cigarette, and now she is re-reading the delicious +address. I lie back in my chair, and by this time she has dropped the +letter down the slit. I toy with my liqueur, and she is listening to +hear whether the postal authorities have come for her letter. I scowl at +a fellow-member who has had the impudence to enter the smoking-room, and +her two little charges are pulling her away from the post-office. When +I look out at the window again she is gone, but I shall ring for her +to-morrow at two sharp. + +She must have passed the window many times before I noticed her. I know +not where she lives, though I suppose it to be hard by. She is taking +the little boy and girl, who bully her, to the St. James's Park, as +their hoops tell me, and she ought to look crushed and faded. No doubt +her mistress overworks her. It must enrage the other servants to see her +deporting herself as if she were quite the lady. + +I noticed that she had sometimes other letters to post, but that +the posting of the one only was a process. They shot down the slit, +plebeians all, but it followed pompously like royalty. I have even seen +her blow a kiss after it. + +Then there was her ring, of which she was as conscious as if it rather +than she was what came gaily down the street. She felt it through her +glove to make sure that it was still there. She took off the glove and +raised the ring to her lips, though I doubt not it was the cheapest +trinket. She viewed it from afar by stretching out her hand; she stooped +to see how it looked near the ground; she considered its effect on the +right of her and on the left of her and through one eye at a time. Even +when you saw that she had made up her mind to think hard of something +else, the little silly would take another look. + +I give anyone three chances to guess why Mary was so happy. + +No and no and no. The reason was simply this, that a lout of a young man +loved her. And so, instead of crying because she was the merest nobody, +she must, forsooth, sail jauntily down Pall Mall, very trim as to her +tackle and ticketed with the insufferable air of an engaged woman. At +first her complacency disturbed me, but gradually it became part of my +life at two o'clock with the coffee, the cigarette, and the liqueur. Now +comes the tragedy. + +Thursday is her great day. She has from two to three every Thursday for +her very own; just think of it: this girl, who is probably paid several +pounds a year, gets a whole hour to herself once a week. And what does +she with it? Attend classes for making her a more accomplished person? +Not she. This is what she does: sets sail for Pall Mall, wearing all her +pretty things, including the blue feathers, and with such a sparkle +of expectation on her face that I stir my coffee quite fiercely. On +ordinary days she at least tries to look demure, but on a Thursday she +has had the assurance to use the glass door of the club as a mirror in +which to see how she likes her engaging trifle of a figure to-day. + +In the meantime a long-legged oaf is waiting for her outside the +post-office, where they meet every Thursday, a fellow who always wears +the same suit of clothes, but has a face that must ever make him free of +the company of gentlemen. He is one of your lean, clean Englishmen, +who strip so well, and I fear me he is handsome; I say fear, for your +handsome men have always annoyed me, and had I lived in the duelling +days I swear I would have called every one of them out. He seems to be +quite unaware that he is a pretty fellow, but Lord, how obviously Mary +knows it. I conclude that he belongs to the artistic classes, he is +so easily elated and depressed; and because he carries his left thumb +curiously, as if it were feeling for the hole of a palette, I have +entered his name among the painters. I find pleasure in deciding that +they are shocking bad pictures, for obviously no one buys them. I feel +sure Mary says they are splendid, she is that sort of woman. Hence the +rapture with which he greets her. Her first effect upon him is to make +him shout with laughter. He laughs suddenly haw from an eager exulting +face, then haw again, and then, when you are thanking heaven that it is +at last over, comes a final haw, louder than the others. I take them to +be roars of joy because Mary is his, and they have a ring of youth +about them that is hard to bear. I could forgive him everything save his +youth, but it is so aggressive that I have sometimes to order William +testily to close the window. + +How much more deceitful than her lover is the little nursery governess. +The moment she comes into sight she looks at the post-office and sees +him. Then she looks straight before her, and now she is observed, and he +rushes across to her in a glory, and she starts--positively starts--as +if he had taken her by surprise. Observe her hand rising suddenly to her +wicked little heart. This is the moment when I stir my coffee violently. +He gazes down at her in such rapture that he is in everybody's way, and +as she takes his arm she gives it a little squeeze, and then away they +strut, Mary doing nine-tenths of the talking. I fall to wondering what +they will look like when they grow up. + +What a ludicrous difference do these two nobodies make to each other. +You can see that they are to be married when he has twopence. + +Thus I have not an atom of sympathy with this girl, to whom London is +famous only as the residence of a young man who mistakes her for someone +else, but her happiness had become part of my repast at two P.M., and +when one day she walked down Pall Mall without gradually posting a +letter I was most indignant. It was as if William had disobeyed orders. +Her two charges were as surprised as I, and pointed questioningly to +the slit, at which she shook her head. She put her finger to her eyes, +exactly like a sad baby, and so passed from the street. + +Next day the same thing happened, and I was so furious that I bit +through my cigarette. Thursday came, when I prayed that there might +be an end of this annoyance, but no, neither of them appeared on that +acquainted ground. Had they changed their post-office? No, for her eyes +were red every day, and heavy was her foolish little heart. Love had put +out his lights, and the little nursery governess walked in darkness. + +I felt I could complain to the committee. + +Oh, you selfish young zany of a man, after all you have said to her, +won't you make it up and let me return to my coffee? Not he. + +Little nursery governess, I appeal to you. Annoying girl, be joyous as +of old during the five minutes of the day when you are anything to me, +and for the rest of the time, so far as I am concerned, you may be as +wretched as you list. Show some courage. I assure you he must be a very +bad painter; only the other day I saw him looking longingly into the +window of a cheap Italian restaurant, and in the end he had to crush +down his aspirations with two penny scones. + +You can do better than that. Come, Mary. + +All in vain. She wants to be loved; can't do without love from morning +till night; never knew how little a woman needs till she lost that +little. They are all like this. + +Zounds, madam, if you are resolved to be a drooping little figure till +you die, you might at least do it in another street. + +Not only does she maliciously depress me by walking past on ordinary +days, but I have discovered that every Thursday from two to three she +stands afar off, gazing hopelessly at the romantic post-office where she +and he shall meet no more. In these windy days she is like a homeless +leaf blown about by passers-by. + +There is nothing I can do except thunder at William. + +At last she accomplished her unworthy ambition. It was a wet Thursday, +and from the window where I was writing letters I saw the forlorn soul +taking up her position at the top of the street: in a blast of fury I +rose with the one letter I had completed, meaning to write the others in +my chambers. She had driven me from the club. + +I had turned out of Pall Mall into a side street, when whom should I +strike against but her false swain! It was my fault, but I hit out at +him savagely, as I always do when I run into anyone in the street. Then +I looked at him. He was hollow-eyed; he was muddy; there was not a haw +left in him. I never saw a more abject young man; he had not even the +spirit to resent the testy stab I had given him with my umbrella. But +this is the important thing: he was glaring wistfully at the post-office +and thus in a twink I saw that he still adored my little governess. +Whatever had been their quarrel he was as anxious to make it up as she, +and perhaps he had been here every Thursday while she was round the +corner in Pall Mall, each watching the post-office for an apparition. +But from where they hovered neither could see the other. + +I think what I did was quite clever. I dropped my letter unseen at his +feet, and sauntered back to the club. Of course, a gentleman who finds +a letter on the pavement feels bound to post it, and I presumed that he +would naturally go to the nearest office. + +With my hat on I strolled to the smoking-room window, and was just in +time to see him posting my letter across the way. Then I looked for +the little nursery governess. I saw her as woe-begone as ever; then, +suddenly--oh, you poor little soul, and has it really been as bad as +that! + +She was crying outright, and he was holding both her hands. It was a +disgraceful exhibition. The young painter would evidently explode if he +could not make use of his arms. She must die if she could not lay her +head upon his breast. I must admit that he rose to the occasion; he +hailed a hansom. + +“William,” said I gaily, “coffee, cigarette, and cherry brandy.” + + +As I sat there watching that old play David plucked my sleeve to ask +what I was looking at so deedily; and when I told him he ran eagerly to +the window, but he reached it just too late to see the lady who was to +become his mother. What I told him of her doings, however, interested +him greatly; and he intimated rather shyly that he was acquainted with +the man who said, “Haw-haw-haw.” On the other hand, he irritated me by +betraying an idiotic interest in the two children, whom he seemed to +regard as the hero and heroine of the story. What were their names? How +old were they? Had they both hoops? Were they iron hoops, or just wooden +hoops? Who gave them their hoops? + +“You don't seem to understand, my boy,” I said tartly, “that had I not +dropped that letter, there would never have been a little boy called +David A----.” But instead of being appalled by this he asked, sparkling, +whether I meant that he would still be a bird flying about in the +Kensington Gardens. + +David knows that all children in our part of London were once birds in +the Kensington Gardens; and that the reason there are bars on nursery +windows and a tall fender by the fire is because very little people +sometimes forget that they have no longer wings, and try to fly away +through the window or up the chimney. + +Children in the bird stage are difficult to catch. David knows that many +people have none, and his delight on a summer afternoon is to go with me +to some spot in the Gardens where these unfortunates may be seen trying +to catch one with small pieces of cake. + +That the birds know what would happen if they were caught, and are even +a little undecided about which is the better life, is obvious to every +student of them. Thus, if you leave your empty perambulator under the +trees and watch from a distance, you will see the birds boarding it and +hopping about from pillow to blanket in a twitter of excitement; they +are trying to find out how babyhood would suit them. + +Quite the prettiest sight in the Gardens is when the babies stray from +the tree where the nurse is sitting and are seen feeding the birds, not +a grownup near them. It is first a bit to me and then a bit to you, +and all the time such a jabbering and laughing from both sides of the +railing. They are comparing notes and inquiring for old friends, and so +on; but what they say I cannot determine, for when I approach they all +fly away. + +The first time I ever saw David was on the sward behind the Baby's Walk. +He was a missel-thrush, attracted thither that hot day by a hose which +lay on the ground sending forth a gay trickle of water, and David was on +his back in the water, kicking up his legs. He used to enjoy being told +of this, having forgotten all about it, and gradually it all came back +to him, with a number of other incidents that had escaped my memory, +though I remember that he was eventually caught by the leg with a long +string and a cunning arrangement of twigs near the Round Pond. He never +tires of this story, but I notice that it is now he who tells it to me +rather than I to him, and when we come to the string he rubs his little +leg as if it still smarted. + +So when David saw his chance of being a missel-thrush again he called +out to me quickly: “Don't drop the letter!” and there were tree-tops in +his eyes. + +“Think of your mother,” I said severely. + +He said he would often fly in to see her. The first thing he would do +would be to hug her. No, he would alight on the water-jug first, and +have a drink. + +“Tell her, father,” he said with horrid heartlessness, “always to have +plenty of water in it, 'cos if I had to lean down too far I might fall +in and be drownded.” + +“Am I not to drop the letter, David? Think of your poor mother without +her boy!” + +It affected him, but he bore up. When she was asleep, he said, he would +hop on to the frilly things of her night-gown and peck at her mouth. + +“And then she would wake up, David, and find that she had only a bird +instead of a boy.” + +This shock to Mary was more than he could endure. “You can drop it,” + he said with a sigh. So I dropped the letter, as I think I have already +mentioned; and that is how it all began. + + + + +III. Her Marriage, Her Clothes, Her Appetite, and an Inventory of Her +Furniture + +A week or two after I dropped the letter I was in a hansom on my way to +certain barracks when loud above the city's roar I heard that accursed +haw-haw-haw, and there they were, the two of them, just coming out of +a shop where you may obtain pianos on the hire system. I had the merest +glimpse of them, but there was an extraordinary rapture on her face, and +his head was thrown proudly back, and all because they had been ordering +a piano on the hire system. + +So they were to be married directly. It was all rather contemptible, +but I passed on tolerantly, for it is only when she is unhappy that +this woman disturbs me, owing to a clever way she has at such times of +looking more fragile than she really is. + +When next I saw them, they were gazing greedily into the window of the +sixpenny-halfpenny shop, which is one of the most deliciously dramatic +spots in London. Mary was taking notes feverishly on a slip of paper +while he did the adding up, and in the end they went away gloomily +without buying anything. I was in high feather. “Match abandoned, +ma'am,” I said to myself; “outlook hopeless; another visit to the +Governesses' Agency inevitable; can't marry for want of a kitchen +shovel.” But I was imperfectly acquainted with the lady. + +A few days afterward I found myself walking behind her. There is +something artful about her skirts by which I always know her, though +I can't say what it is. She was carrying an enormous parcel that might +have been a bird-cage wrapped in brown paper, and she took it into +a bric-a-brac shop and came out without it. She then ran rather than +walked in the direction of the sixpenny-halfpenny shop. Now mystery +of any kind is detestable to me, and I went into the bric-a-brac +shop, ostensibly to look at the cracked china; and there, still on the +counter, with the wrapping torn off it, was the article Mary had sold +in order to furnish on the proceeds. What do you think it was? It was a +wonderful doll's house, with dolls at tea downstairs and dolls going to +bed upstairs, and a doll showing a doll out at the front door. Loving +lips had long ago licked most of the paint off, but otherwise the thing +was in admirable preservation; obviously the joy of Mary's childhood, it +had now been sold by her that she might get married. + +“Lately purchased by us,” said the shopwoman, seeing me look at the toy, +“from a lady who has no further use for it.” + +I think I have seldom been more indignant with Mary. I bought the doll's +house, and as they knew the lady's address (it was at this shop that I +first learned her name) I instructed them to send it back to her with +the following letter, which I wrote in the shop: “Dear madam, don't be +ridiculous. You will certainly have further use for this. I am, etc., +the Man Who Dropped the Letter.” + +It pained me afterward, but too late to rescind the order, to reflect +that I had sent her a wedding present; and when next I saw her she had +been married for some months. The time was nine o'clock of a November +evening, and we were in a street of shops that has not in twenty years +decided whether to be genteel or frankly vulgar; here it minces in the +fashion, but take a step onward and its tongue is in the cup of the +ice-cream man. I usually rush this street, which is not far from my +rooms, with the glass down, but to-night I was walking. Mary was in +front of me, leaning in a somewhat foolish way on the haw-er, and they +were chatting excitedly. She seemed to be remonstrating with him for +going forward, yet more than half admiring him for not turning back, and +I wondered why. + +And after all what was it that Mary and her painter had come out to do? +To buy two pork chops. On my honour. She had been trying to persuade +him, I decided, that they were living too lavishly. That was why she +sought to draw him back. But in her heart she loves audacity, and that +is why she admired him for pressing forward. + +No sooner had they bought the chops than they scurried away like two +gleeful children to cook them. I followed, hoping to trace them to their +home, but they soon out-distanced me, and that night I composed the +following aphorism: It is idle to attempt to overtake a pretty young +woman carrying pork chops. I was now determined to be done with her. +First, however, to find out their abode, which was probably within easy +distance of the shop. I even conceived them lured into taking their +house by the advertisement, “Conveniently situated for the Pork +Emporium.” + +Well, one day--now this really is romantic and I am rather proud of +it. My chambers are on the second floor, and are backed by an anxiously +polite street between which and mine are little yards called, I think, +gardens. They are so small that if you have the tree your neighbour has +the shade from it. I was looking out at my back window on the day +we have come to when whom did I see but the whilom nursery governess +sitting on a chair in one of these gardens. I put up my eye-glass to +make sure, and undoubtedly it was she. But she sat there doing nothing, +which was by no means my conception of the jade, so I brought a +fieldglass to bear and discovered that the object was merely a lady's +jacket. It hung on the back of a kitchen chair, seemed to be a furry +thing, and, I must suppose, was suspended there for an airing. + +I was chagrined, and then I insisted stoutly with myself that, as it +was not Mary, it must be Mary's jacket. I had never seen her wear such +a jacket, mind you, yet I was confident, I can't tell why. Do clothes +absorb a little of the character of their wearer, so that I recognised +this jacket by a certain coquetry? If she has a way with her skirts that +always advertises me of her presence, quite possibly she is as cunning +with jackets. Or perhaps she is her own seamstress, and puts in little +tucks of herself. + +Figure it what you please; but I beg to inform you that I put on my +hat and five minutes afterward saw Mary and her husband emerge from the +house to which I had calculated that garden belonged. Now am I clever, +or am I not? + +When they had left the street I examined the house leisurely, and a +droll house it is. Seen from the front it appears to consist of a door +and a window, though above them the trained eye may detect another +window, the air-hole of some apartment which it would be just like +Mary's grandiloquence to call her bedroom. The houses on each side of +this bandbox are tall, and I discovered later that it had once been +an open passage to the back gardens. The story and a half of which it +consists had been knocked up cheaply, by carpenters I should say rather +than masons, and the general effect is of a brightly coloured van that +has stuck for ever on its way through the passage. + +The low houses of London look so much more homely than the tall ones +that I never pass them without dropping a blessing on their builders, +but this house was ridiculous; indeed it did not call itself a house, +for over the door was a board with the inscription “This space to be +sold,” and I remembered, as I rang the bell, that this notice had been +up for years. On avowing that I wanted a space, I was admitted by an +elderly, somewhat dejected looking female, whose fine figure was not +on scale with her surroundings. Perhaps my face said so, for her first +remark was explanatory. + +“They get me cheap,” she said, “because I drink.” + +I bowed, and we passed on to the drawing-room. I forget whether I have +described Mary's personal appearance, but if so you have a picture of +that sunny drawing-room. My first reflection was, How can she have found +the money to pay for it all! which is always your first reflection when +you see Mary herself a-tripping down the street. + +I have no space (in that little room) to catalogue all the whim-whams +with which she had made it beautiful, from the hand-sewn bell-rope which +pulled no bell to the hand-painted cigar-box that contained no cigars. +The floor was of a delicious green with exquisite oriental rugs; green +and white, I think, was the lady's scheme of colour, something cool, you +observe, to keep the sun under. The window-curtains were of some rare +material and the colour of the purple clematis; they swept the floor +grandly and suggested a picture of Mary receiving visitors. The piano +we may ignore, for I knew it to be hired, but there were many dainty +pieces, mostly in green wood, a sofa, a corner cupboard, and a most +captivating desk, which was so like its owner that it could have sat +down at her and dashed off a note. The writing paper on this desk had +the word Mary printed on it, implying that if there were other Marys +they didn't count. There were many oil-paintings on the walls, mostly +without frames, and I must mention the chandelier, which was obviously +of fabulous worth, for she had encased it in a holland bag. + +“I perceive, ma'am,” said I to the stout maid, “that your master is in +affluent circumstances.” + +She shook her head emphatically, and said something that I failed to +catch. + +“You wish to indicate,” I hazarded, “that he married a fortune.” + +This time I caught the words. They were “Tinned meats,” and having +uttered them she lapsed into gloomy silence. + +“Nevertheless,” I said, “this room must have cost a pretty penny.” + +“She done it all herself,” replied my new friend, with concentrated +scorn. + +“But this green floor, so beautifully stained--” + +“Boiling oil,” said she, with a flush of honest shame, “and a +shillingsworth o' paint.” + +“Those rugs--” + +“Remnants,” she sighed, and showed me how artfully they had been pieced +together. + +“The curtains--” + +“Remnants.” + +“At all events the sofa--” + +She raised its drapery, and I saw that the sofa was built of packing +cases. + +“The desk--” + +I really thought that I was safe this time, for could I not see the +drawers with their brass handles, the charming shelf for books, the +pigeon-holes with their coverings of silk? + +“She made it out of three orange boxes,” said the lady, at last a little +awed herself. + +I looked around me despairingly, and my eye alighted on the holland +covering. “There is a fine chandelier in that holland bag,” I said +coaxingly. + +She sniffed and was raising an untender hand, when I checked her. +“Forbear, ma'am,” I cried with authority, “I prefer to believe in that +bag. How much to be pitied, ma'am, are those who have lost faith in +everything.” I think all the pretty things that the little nursery +governess had made out of nothing squeezed my hand for letting the +chandelier off. + +“But, good God, ma'am,” said I to madam, “what an exposure.” + +She intimated that there were other exposures upstairs. + +“So there is a stair,” said I, and then, suspiciously, “did she make +it?” + +No, but how she had altered it. + +The stair led to Mary's bedroom, and I said I would not look at that, +nor at the studio, which was a shed in the garden. + +“Did she build the studio with her own hands?” + +No, but how she had altered it. + +“How she alters everything,” I said. “Do you think you are safe, ma'am?” + +She thawed a little under my obvious sympathy and honoured me with some +of her views and confidences. The rental paid by Mary and her husband +was not, it appeared, one on which any self-respecting domestic could +reflect with pride. They got the house very cheap on the understanding +that they were to vacate it promptly if anyone bought it for building +purposes, and because they paid so little they had to submit to the +indignity of the notice-board. Mary A---- detested the words “This space +to be sold,” and had been known to shake her fist at them. She was as +elated about her house as if it were a real house, and always trembled +when any possible purchaser of spaces called. + +As I have told you my own aphorism I feel I ought in fairness to record +that of this aggrieved servant. It was on the subject of art. “The +difficulty,” she said, “is not to paint pictures, but to get frames for +them.” A home thrust this. + +She could not honestly say that she thought much of her master's work. +Nor, apparently, did any other person. Result, tinned meats. + +Yes, one person thought a deal of it, or pretended to do so; was +constantly flinging up her hands in delight over it; had even been +caught whispering fiercely to a friend, “Praise it, praise it, praise +it!” This was when the painter was sunk in gloom. Never, as I could well +believe, was such a one as Mary for luring a man back to cheerfulness. + +“A dangerous woman,” I said, with a shudder, and fell to examining a +painting over the mantel-shelf. It was a portrait of a man, and had +impressed me favourably because it was framed. + +“A friend of hers,” my guide informed me, “but I never seed him.” + +I would have turned away from it, had not an inscription on the picture +drawn me nearer. It was in a lady's handwriting, and these were the +words: “Fancy portrait of our dear unknown.” Could it be meant for me? I +cannot tell you how interested I suddenly became. + +It represented a very fine looking fellow, indeed, and not a day more +than thirty. + +“A friend of hers, ma'am, did you say?” I asked quite shakily. “How do +you know that, if you have never seen him?” + +“When master was painting of it,” she said, “in the studio, he used to +come running in here to say to her such like as, 'What colour would you +make his eyes?'” + +“And her reply, ma'am?” I asked eagerly. + +“She said, 'Beautiful blue eyes.' And he said, 'You wouldn't make it +a handsome face, would you?' and she says, 'A very handsome face.' And +says he, 'Middle-aged?' and says she, 'Twenty-nine.' And I mind him +saying, 'A little bald on the top?' and she says, says she, 'Not at +all.'” + +The dear, grateful girl, not to make me bald on the top. + +“I have seed her kiss her hand to that picture,” said the maid. + +Fancy Mary kissing her hand to me! Oh, the pretty love! + +Pooh! + +I was staring at the picture, cogitating what insulting message I could +write on it, when I heard the woman's voice again. “I think she has +known him since she were a babby,” she was saying, “for this here was a +present he give her.” + +She was on her knees drawing the doll's house from beneath the sofa, +where it had been hidden away; and immediately I thought, “I shall slip +the insulting message into this.” But I did not, and I shall tell you +why. It was because the engaging toy had been redecorated by loving +hands; there were fresh gowns for all the inhabitants, and the paint on +the furniture was scarcely dry. The little doll's house was almost ready +for further use. + +I looked at the maid, but her face was expressionless. “Put it back,” + I said, ashamed to have surprised Mary's pretty secret, and I left the +house dejectedly, with a profound conviction that the little nursery +governess had hooked on to me again. + + + + +IV. A Night-Piece + +There came a night when the husband was alone in that street waiting. He +can do nothing for you now, little nursery governess, you must fight it +out by yourself; when there are great things to do in the house the man +must leave. Oh, man, selfish, indelicate, coarse-grained at the best, +thy woman's hour has come; get thee gone. + +He slouches from the house, always her true lover I do believe, +chivalrous, brave, a boy until to-night; but was he ever unkind to her? +It is the unpardonable sin now; is there the memory of an unkindness +to stalk the street with him to-night? And if not an unkindness, still +might he not sometimes have been a little kinder? + +Shall we make a new rule of life from tonight: always to try to be a +little kinder than is necessary? + +Poor youth, she would come to the window if she were able, I am sure, +to sign that the one little unkindness is long forgotten, to send you +a reassuring smile till you and she meet again; and, if you are not to +meet again, still to send you a reassuring, trembling smile. + +Ah, no, that was for yesterday; it is too late now. He wanders the +streets thinking of her tonight, but she has forgotten him. In her great +hour the man is nothing to the woman; their love is trivial now. + +He and I were on opposite sides of the street, now become familiar +ground to both of us, and divers pictures rose before me in which Mary +A---- walked. Here was the morning after my only entry into her house. +The agent had promised me to have the obnoxious notice-board removed, +but I apprehended that as soon as the letter announcing his intention +reached her she would remove it herself, and when I passed by in the +morning there she was on a chair and a foot-stool pounding lustily at it +with a hammer. When it fell she gave it such a vicious little kick. + +There were the nights when her husband came out to watch for the +postman. I suppose he was awaiting some letter big with the fate of a +picture. He dogged the postman from door to door like an assassin or a +guardian angel; never had he the courage to ask if there was a letter +for him, but almost as it fell into the box he had it out and tore it +open, and then if the door closed despairingly the woman who had been at +the window all this time pressed her hand to her heart. But if the news +was good they might emerge presently and strut off arm in arm in the +direction of the pork emporium. + +One last picture. On summer evenings I had caught glimpses of them +through the open window, when she sat at the piano singing and playing +to him. Or while she played with one hand, she flung out the other for +him to grasp. She was so joyously happy, and she had such a romantic +mind. I conceived her so sympathetic that she always laughed before he +came to the joke, and I am sure she had filmy eyes from the very start +of a pathetic story. + +And so, laughing and crying, and haunted by whispers, the little nursery +governess had gradually become another woman, glorified, mysterious. I +suppose a man soon becomes used to the great change, and cannot recall a +time when there were no babes sprawling in his Mary's face. + +I am trying to conceive what were the thoughts of the young husband on +the other side of the street. “If the barrier is to be crossed to-night +may I not go with her? She is not so brave as you think her. When she +talked so gaily a few hours ago, O my God, did she deceive even you?” + +Plain questions to-night. “Why should it all fall on her? What is the +man that he should be flung out into the street in this terrible hour? +You have not been fair to the man.” + +Poor boy, his wife has quite forgotten him and his trumpery love. If she +lives she will come back to him, but if she dies she will die triumphant +and serene. Life and death, the child and the mother, are ever meeting +as the one draws into harbour and the other sets sail. They exchange a +bright “All's well” and pass on. + +But afterward? + +The only ghosts, I believe, who creep into this world, are dead young +mothers, returned to see how their children fare. There is no other +inducement great enough to bring the departed back. They glide into the +acquainted room when day and night, their jailers, are in the grip, and +whisper, “How is it with you, my child?” but always, lest a strange face +should frighten him, they whisper it so low that he may not hear. They +bend over him to see that he sleeps peacefully, and replace his sweet +arm beneath the coverlet, and they open the drawers to count how many +little vests he has. They love to do these things. + +What is saddest about ghosts is that they may not know their child. They +expect him to be just as he was when they left him, and they are easily +bewildered, and search for him from room to room, and hate the unknown +boy he has become. Poor, passionate souls, they may even do him an +injury. These are the ghosts that go wailing about old houses, and +foolish wild stories are invented to explain what is all so pathetic and +simple. I know of a man who, after wandering far, returned to his early +home to pass the evening of his days in it, and sometimes from his chair +by the fire he saw the door open softly and a woman's face appear. +She always looked at him very vindictively, and then vanished. Strange +things happened in this house. Windows were opened in the night. The +curtains of his bed were set fire to. A step on the stair was loosened. +The covering of an old well in a corridor where he walked was cunningly +removed. And when he fell ill the wrong potion was put in the glass by +his bedside, and he died. How could the pretty young mother know that +this grizzled interloper was the child of whom she was in search? + +All our notions about ghosts are wrong. It is nothing so petty as lost +wills or deeds of violence that brings them back, and we are not nearly +so afraid of them as they are of us. + +One by one the lights of the street went out, but still a lamp burned +steadily in the little window across the way. I know not how it +happened, whether I had crossed first to him or he to me, but, after +being for a long time as the echo of each other's steps, we were +together now. I can have had no desire to deceive him, but some reason +was needed to account for my vigil, and I may have said something that +he misconstrued, for above my words he was always listening for other +sounds. But however it came about he had conceived the idea that I was +an outcast for a reason similar to his own, and I let his mistake pass, +it seemed to matter so little and to draw us together so naturally. +We talked together of many things, such as worldly ambition. For long +ambition has been like an ancient memory to me, some glorious day +recalled from my springtime, so much a thing of the past that I must +make a railway journey to revisit it as to look upon the pleasant fields +in which that scene was laid. But he had been ambitious yesterday. + +I mentioned worldly ambition. “Good God!” he said with a shudder. + +There was a clock hard by that struck the quarters, and one o'clock +passed and two. What time is it now? Twenty past two. And now? It is +still twenty past two. + +I asked him about his relatives, and neither he nor she had any. “We +have a friend--” he began and paused, and then rambled into a not very +understandable story about a letter and a doll's house and some unknown +man who had bought one of his pictures, or was supposed to have done so, +in a curiously clandestine manner. I could not quite follow the story. + +“It is she who insists that it is always the same person,” he said. “She +thinks he will make himself known to me if anything happens to her.” His +voice suddenly went husky. “She told me,” he said, “if she died and I +discovered him, to give him her love.” + +At this we parted abruptly, as we did at intervals throughout the night, +to drift together again presently. He tried to tell me of some things +she had asked him to do should she not get over this, but what they were +I know not, for they engulfed him at the first step. He would draw back +from them as ill-omened things, and next moment he was going over them +to himself like a child at lessons. A child! In that short year she had +made him entirely dependent on her. It is ever thus with women: their +first deliberate act is to make their husband helpless. There are few +men happily married who can knock in a nail. + +But it was not of this that I was thinking. I was wishing I had not +degenerated so much. + +Well, as you know, the little nursery governess did not die. At eighteen +minutes to four we heard the rustle of David's wings. He boasts about +it to this day, and has the hour to a syllable as if the first thing he +ever did was to look at the clock. + +An oldish gentleman had opened the door and waved congratulations to +my companion, who immediately butted at me, drove me against a wall, +hesitated for a second with his head down as if in doubt whether to toss +me, and then rushed away. I followed slowly. I shook him by the hand, +but by this time he was haw-haw-hawing so abominably that a disgust of +him swelled up within me, and with it a passionate desire to jeer once +more at Mary A-- + +“It is little she will care for you now,” I said to the fellow; “I +know the sort of woman; her intellectuals (which are all she has to +distinguish her from the brutes) are so imperfectly developed that she +will be a crazy thing about that boy for the next three years. She has +no longer occasion for you, my dear sir; you are like a picture painted +out.” + +But I question whether he heard me. I returned to my home. Home! As if +one alone can build a nest. How often as I have ascended the stairs +that lead to my lonely, sumptuous rooms, have I paused to listen to +the hilarity of the servants below. That morning I could not rest: I +wandered from chamber to chamber, followed by my great dog, and all were +alike empty and desolate. I had nearly finished a cigar when I thought +I heard a pebble strike the window, and looking out I saw David's father +standing beneath. I had told him that I lived in this street, and I +suppose my lights had guided him to my window. + +“I could not lie down,” he called up hoarsely, “until I heard your news. +Is it all right?” + +For a moment I failed to understand him. Then I said sourly: “Yes, all +is right.” + +“Both doing well?” he inquired. + +“Both,” I answered, and all the time I was trying to shut the window. +It was undoubtedly a kindly impulse that had brought him out, but I was +nevertheless in a passion with him. + +“Boy or girl?” persisted the dodderer with ungentlemanlike curiosity. + +“Boy,” I said, very furiously. + +“Splendid,” he called out, and I think he added something else, but by +that time I had closed the window with a slam. + + + + +V. The Fight For Timothy + +Mary's poor pretentious babe screamed continually, with a note of +exultation in his din, as if he thought he was devoting himself to a +life of pleasure, and often the last sound I heard as I got me out of +the street was his haw-haw-haw, delivered triumphantly as if it were +some entirely new thing, though he must have learned it like a parrot. I +had not one tear for the woman, but Poor father, thought I; to know that +every time your son is happy you are betrayed. Phew, a nauseous draught. + +I have the acquaintance of a deliciously pretty girl, who is always +sulky, and the thoughtless beseech her to be bright, not witting wherein +lies her heroism. She was born the merriest of maids, but, being a +student of her face, learned anon that sulkiness best becomes it, and so +she has struggled and prevailed. A woman's history. Brave Margaret, when +night falls and thy hair is down, dost thou return, I wonder, to thy +natural state, or, dreading the shadow of indulgence, sleepest thou even +sulkily? + +But will a male child do as much for his father? This remains to be +seen, and so, after waiting several months, I decided to buy David a +rocking-horse. My St. Bernard dog accompanied me, though I have always +been diffident of taking him to toy-shops, which over-excite him. +Hitherto the toys I had bought had always been for him, and as we durst +not admit this to the saleswoman we were both horribly self-conscious +when in the shop. A score of times I have told him that he had much +better not come, I have announced fiercely that he is not to come. He +then lets go of his legs, which is how a St. Bernard sits down, making +the noise of a sack of coals suddenly deposited, and, laying his head +between his front paws, stares at me through the red haws that make his +eyes so mournful. He will do this for an hour without blinking, for he +knows that in time it will unman me. My dog knows very little, but what +little he does know he knows extraordinarily well. One can get out of my +chambers by a back way, and I sometimes steal softly--but I can't +help looking back, and there he is, and there are those haws asking +sorrowfully, “Is this worthy of you?” + +“Curse you,” I say, “get your hat,” or words to that effect. + +He has even been to the club, where he waddles up the stairs so exactly +like some respected member that he makes everybody most uncomfortable. +I forget how I became possessor of him. I think I cut him out of an old +number of Punch. He costs me as much as an eight-roomed cottage in the +country. + +He was a full-grown dog when I first, most foolishly, introduced him +to toys. I had bought a toy in the street for my own amusement. It +represented a woman, a young mother, flinging her little son over her +head with one hand and catching him in the other, and I was entertaining +myself on the hearth-rug with this pretty domestic scene when I heard +an unwonted sound from Porthos, and, looking up, I saw that noble and +melancholic countenance on the broad grin. I shuddered and was for +putting the toy away at once, but he sternly struck down my arm with +his, and signed that I was to continue. The unmanly chuckle always +came, I found, when the poor lady dropped her babe, but the whole thing +entranced him; he tried to keep his excitement down by taking huge +draughts of water; he forgot all his niceties of conduct; he sat in holy +rapture with the toy between his paws, took it to bed with him, ate it +in the night, and searched for it so longingly next day that I had to go +out and buy him the man with the scythe. After that we had everything of +note, the bootblack boy, the toper with bottle, the woolly rabbit +that squeaks when you hold it in your mouth; they all vanished as +inexplicably as the lady, but I dared not tell him my suspicions, for he +suspected also and his gentle heart would have mourned had I confirmed +his fears. + +The dame in the temple of toys which we frequent thinks I want them +for a little boy and calls him “the precious” and “the lamb,” the while +Porthos is standing gravely by my side. She is a motherly soul, but +over-talkative. + +“And how is the dear lamb to-day?” she begins, beaming. + +“Well, ma'am, well,” I say, keeping tight grip of his collar. + +“This blighty weather is not affecting his darling appetite?” + +“No, ma'am, not at all.” (She would be considerably surprised if +informed that he dined to-day on a sheepshead, a loaf, and three +cabbages, and is suspected of a leg of mutton.) + +“I hope he loves his toys?” + +“He carries them about with him everywhere, ma'am.” (Has the one we +bought yesterday with him now, though you might not think it to look at +him.) + +“What do you say to a box of tools this time?” + +“I think not, ma'am.” + +“Is the deary fond of digging?” + +“Very partial to digging.” (We shall find the leg of mutton some day.) + +“Then perhaps a weeny spade and a pail?” + +She got me to buy a model of Canterbury Cathedral once, she was so +insistent, and Porthos gave me his mind about it when we got home. He +detests the kindergarten system, and as she is absurdly prejudiced in +its favour we have had to try other shops. We went to the Lowther Arcade +for the rocking-horse. Dear Lowther Arcade! Ofttimes have we wandered +agape among thy enchanted palaces, Porthos and I, David and I, David and +Porthos and I. I have heard that thou art vulgar, but I cannot see how, +unless it be that tattered children haunt thy portals, those awful yet +smiling entrances to so much joy. To the Arcade there are two entrances, +and with much to be sung in laudation of that which opens from the +Strand I yet on the whole prefer the other as the more truly romantic, +because it is there the tattered ones congregate, waiting to see the +Davids emerge with the magic lamp. We have always a penny for them, +and I have known them, before entering the Arcade with it, retire (but +whither?) to wash; surely the prettiest of all the compliments that are +paid to the home of toys. + +And now, O Arcade, so much fairer than thy West End brother, we are told +that thou art doomed, anon to be turned into an eating-house or a hive +for usurers, something rankly useful. All thy delights are under notice +to quit. The Noah's arks are packed one within another, with clockwork +horses harnessed to them; the soldiers, knapsack on back, are kissing +their hands to the dear foolish girls, who, however, will not be left +behind them; all the four-footed things gather around the elephant, who +is overful of drawing-room furniture; the birds flutter their wings; the +man with the scythe mows his way through the crowd; the balloons tug +at their strings; the ships rock under a swell of sail, everything is +getting ready for the mighty exodus into the Strand. Tears will be shed. + +So we bought the horse in the Lowther Arcade, Porthos, who thought it +was for him, looking proud but uneasy, and it was sent to the bandbox +house anonymously. About a week afterward I had the ill-luck to meet +Mary's husband in Kensington, so I asked him what he had called his +little girl. + +“It is a boy,” he replied, with intolerable good-humour, “we call him +David.” + +And then with a singular lack of taste he wanted the name of my boy. + +I flicked my glove. “Timothy,” said I. + +I saw a suppressed smile on his face, and said hotly that Timothy was as +good a name as David. “I like it,” he assured me, and expressed a hope +that they would become friends. I boiled to say that I really could not +allow Timothy to mix with boys of the David class, but I refrained, and +listened coldly while he told me what David did when you said his toes +were pigs going to market or returning from it, I forget which. He +also boasted of David's weight (a subject about which we are uncommonly +touchy at the club), as if children were for throwing forth for a wager. + +But no more about Timothy. Gradually this vexed me. I felt what a +forlorn little chap Timothy was, with no one to say a word for him, and +I became his champion and hinted something about teething, but withdrew +it when it seemed too surprising, and tried to get on to safer ground, +such as bibs and general intelligence, but the painter fellow was so +willing to let me have my say, and knew so much more about babies than +is fitting for men to know, that I paled before him and wondered why the +deuce he was listening to me so attentively. + +You may remember a story he had told me about some anonymous friend. +“His latest,” said he now, “is to send David a rocking-horse!” + +I must say I could see no reason for his mirth. “Picture it,” said he, +“a rocking-horse for a child not three months old!” + +I was about to say fiercely: “The stirrups are adjustable,” but thought +it best to laugh with him. But I was pained to hear that Mary had +laughed, though heaven knows I have often laughed at her. + +“But women are odd,” he said unexpectedly, and explained. It appears +that in the middle of her merriment Mary had become grave and said to +him quite haughtily, “I see nothing to laugh at.” Then she had kissed +the horse solemnly on the nose and said, “I wish he was here to see +me do it.” There are moments when one cannot help feeling a drawing to +Mary. + +But moments only, for the next thing he said put her in a particularly +odious light. He informed me that she had sworn to hunt Mr. Anon down. + +“She won't succeed,” I said, sneering but nervous. + +“Then it will be her first failure,” said he. + +“But she knows nothing about the man.” + +“You would not say that if you heard her talking of him. She says he is +a gentle, whimsical, lonely old bachelor.” + +“Old?” I cried. + +“Well, what she says is that he will soon be old if he doesn't take +care. He is a bachelor at all events, and is very fond of children, but +has never had one to play with.” + +“Could not play with a child though there was one,” I said brusquely; +“has forgotten the way; could stand and stare only.” + +“Yes, if the parents were present. But he thinks that if he were alone +with the child he could come out strong.” + +“How the deuce--” I began + +“That is what she says,” he explained, apologetically. “I think she will +prove to be too clever for him.” + +“Pooh,” I said, but undoubtedly I felt a dizziness, and the next time +I met him he quite frightened me. “Do you happen to know any one,” he +said, “who has a St. Bernard dog?” + +“No,” said I, picking up my stick. + +“He has a St. Bernard dog.” + +“How have you found that out?” + +“She has found it out.” + +“But how?” + +“I don't know.” + +I left him at once, for Porthos was but a little way behind me. The +mystery of it scared me, but I armed promptly for battle. I engaged +a boy to walk Porthos in Kensington Gardens, and gave him these +instructions: “Should you find yourself followed by a young woman +wheeling a second-hand perambulator, instantly hand her over to the +police on the charge of attempting to steal the dog.” + +Now then, Mary. + +“By the way,” her husband said at our next meeting, “that rocking-horse +I told you of cost three guineas.” + +“She has gone to the shop to ask?” + +“No, not to ask that, but for a description of the purchaser's +appearance.” + +Oh, Mary, Mary. + +Here is the appearance of purchaser as supplied at the Arcade:--looked +like a military gentleman; tall, dark, and rather dressy; fine Roman +nose (quite so), carefully trimmed moustache going grey (not at all); +hair thin and thoughtfully distributed over the head like fiddlestrings, +as if to make the most of it (pah!); dusted chair with handkerchief +before sitting down on it, and had other oldmaidish ways (I should like +to know what they are); tediously polite, but no talker; bored face; age +forty-five if a day (a lie); was accompanied by an enormous yellow dog +with sore eyes. (They always think the haws are sore eyes.) + +“Do you know anyone who is like that?” Mary's husband asked me +innocently. + +“My dear man,” I said, “I know almost no one who is not like that,” and +it was true, so like each other do we grow at the club. I was pleased, +on the whole, with this talk, for it at least showed me how she had +come to know of the St. Bernard, but anxiety returned when one day from +behind my curtains I saw Mary in my street with an inquiring eye on +the windows. She stopped a nurse who was carrying a baby and went into +pretended ecstasies over it. I was sure she also asked whether by any +chance it was called Timothy. And if not, whether that nurse knew any +other nurse who had charge of a Timothy. + +Obviously Mary suspicioned me, but nevertheless, I clung to Timothy, +though I wished fervently that I knew more about him; for I still met +that other father occasionally, and he always stopped to compare notes +about the boys. And the questions he asked were so intimate, how Timothy +slept, how he woke up, how he fell off again, what we put in his bath. +It is well that dogs and little boys have so much in common, for it was +really of Porthos I told him; how he slept (peacefully), how he woke +up (supposed to be subject to dreams), how he fell off again (with one +little hand on his nose), but I glided past what we put in his bath +(carbolic and a mop). + +The man had not the least suspicion of me, and I thought it reasonable +to hope that Mary would prove as generous. Yet was I straitened in +my mind. For it might be that she was only biding her time to strike +suddenly, and this attached me the more to Timothy, as if I feared she +might soon snatch him from me. As was indeed to be the case. + + + + +VI. A Shock + +It was on a May day, and I saw Mary accompany her husband as far as the +first crossing, whence she waved him out of sight as if he had boarded +an Atlantic-liner. All this time she wore the face of a woman happily +married who meant to go straight home, there to await her lord's +glorious return; and the military-looking gentleman watching her with a +bored smile saw nothing better before him than a chapter on the Domestic +Felicities. Oh, Mary, can you not provide me with the tiniest little +plot? + +Hallo! + +No sooner was she hid from him than she changed into another woman; she +was now become a calculating purposeful madam, who looked around her +covertly and, having shrunk in size in order to appear less noticeable, +set off nervously on some mysterious adventure. + +“The deuce!” thought I, and followed her. + +Like one anxious to keep an appointment, she frequently consulted her +watch, looking long at it, as if it were one of those watches that do +not give up their secret until you have made a mental calculation. Once +she kissed it. I had always known that she was fond of her cheap little +watch, which he gave her, I think, on the day I dropped the letter, but +why kiss it in the street? Ah, and why then replace it so hurriedly in +your leather-belt, Mary, as if it were guilt to you to kiss to-day, or +any day, the watch your husband gave you? + +It will be seen that I had made a very rapid journey from light thoughts +to uneasiness. I wanted no plot by the time she reached her destination, +a street of tawdry shops. She entered none of them, but paced slowly +and shrinking from observation up and down the street, a very figure of +shame; and never had I thought to read shame in the sweet face of Mary +A----. Had I crossed to her and pronounced her name I think it would +have felled her, and yet she remained there, waiting. I, too, was +waiting for him, wondering if this was the man, or this, or this, and I +believe I clutched my stick. + +Did I suspect Mary? Oh, surely not for a moment of time. But there +was some foolishness here; she was come without the knowledge of her +husband, as her furtive manner indicated, to a meeting she dreaded and +was ashamed to tell him of; she was come into danger; then it must be +to save, not herself but him; the folly to be concealed could never have +been Mary's. Yet what could have happened in the past of that honest boy +from the consequences of which she might shield him by skulking here? +Could that laugh of his have survived a dishonour? The open forehead, +the curly locks, the pleasant smile, the hundred ingratiating ways +which we carry with us out of childhood, they may all remain when the +innocence has fled, but surely the laugh of the morning of life must go. +I have never known the devil retain his grip on that. + +But Mary was still waiting. She was no longer beautiful; shame had +possession of her face, she was an ugly woman. Then the entanglement +was her husband's, and I cursed him for it. But without conviction, for, +after all, what did I know of women? I have some distant memories of +them, some vain inventions. But of men--I have known one man indifferent +well for over forty years, have exulted in him (odd to think of it), +shuddered at him, wearied of him, been willing (God forgive me) to +jog along with him tolerantly long after I have found him out; I know +something of men, and, on my soul, boy, I believe I am wronging you. + +Then Mary is here for some innocent purpose, to do a good deed that were +better undone, as it so scares her. Turn back, you foolish, soft heart, +and I shall say no more about it. Obstinate one, you saw the look on +your husband's face as he left you. It is the studio light by which he +paints and still sees to hope, despite all the disappointments of his +not ignoble ambitions. That light is the dower you brought him, and he +is a wealthy man if it does not flicker. + +So anxious to be gone, and yet she would not go. Several times she made +little darts, as if at last resolved to escape from that detestable +street, and faltered and returned like a bird to the weasel. Again she +looked at her watch and kissed it. + +Oh, Mary, take flight. What madness is this? Woman, be gone. + +Suddenly she was gone. With one mighty effort and a last terrified look +round, she popped into a pawnshop. + +Long before she emerged I understood it all, I think even as the door +rang and closed on her; why the timid soul had sought a street where she +was unknown, why she crept so many times past that abhorred shop before +desperately venturing in, why she looked so often at the watch she might +never see again. So desperately cumbered was Mary to keep her little +house over her head, and yet the brave heart was retaining a smiling +face for her husband, who must not even know where her little treasures +were going. + +It must seem monstrously cruel of me, but I was now quite light-hearted +again. Even when Mary fled from the shop where she had left her watch, +and I had peace of mind to note how thin and worn she had become, as +if her baby was grown too big for her slight arms, even then I was +light-hearted. Without attempting to follow her, I sauntered homeward +humming a snatch of song with a great deal of fal-de-lal-de-riddle-o in +it, for I can never remember words. I saw her enter another shop, baby +linen shop or some nonsense of that sort, so it was plain for what +she had popped her watch; but what cared I? I continued to sing most +beautifully. I lunged gayly with my stick at a lamp-post and missed +it, whereat a street-urchin grinned, and I winked at him and slipped +twopence down his back. + + +I presume I would have chosen the easy way had time been given me, but +fate willed that I should meet the husband on his homeward journey, and +his first remark inspired me to a folly. + +“How is Timothy?” he asked; and the question opened a way so attractive +that I think no one whose dull life craves for colour could have +resisted it. + +“He is no more,” I replied impulsively. + +The painter was so startled that he gave utterance to a very oath of +pity, and I felt a sinking myself, for in these hasty words my little +boy was gone, indeed; all my bright dreams of Timothy, all my efforts to +shelter him from Mary's scorn, went whistling down the wind. + + + + +VII. The Last of Timothy + +So accomplished a person as the reader must have seen at once that I +made away with Timothy in order to give his little vests and pinafores +and shoes to David, and, therefore, dear sir or madam, rail not overmuch +at me for causing our painter pain. Know, too, that though his sympathy +ran free I soon discovered many of his inquiries to be prompted by a +mere selfish desire to save his boy from the fate of mine. Such are +parents. + +He asked compassionately if there was anything he could do for me, and, +of course, there was something he could do, but were I to propose it I +doubted not he would be on his stilts at once, for already I had reason +to know him for a haughty, sensitive dog, who ever became high at the +first hint of help. So the proposal must come from him. I spoke of the +many little things in the house that were now hurtful to me to look +upon, and he clutched my hand, deeply moved, though it was another house +with its little things he saw. I was ashamed to harass him thus, but he +had not a sufficiency of the little things, and besides my impulsiveness +had plunged me into a deuce of a mess, so I went on distastefully. Was +there no profession in this age of specialism for taking away children's +garments from houses where they were suddenly become a pain? Could I +sell them? Could I give them to the needy, who would probably dispose of +them for gin? I told him of a friend with a young child who had already +refused them because it would be unpleasant to him to be reminded of +Timothy, and I think this was what touched him to the quick, so that he +made the offer I was waiting for. + +I had done it with a heavy foot, and by this time was in a rage with +both him and myself, but I always was a bungler, and, having adopted +this means in a hurry, I could at the time see no other easy way out. +Timothy's hold on life, as you may have apprehended, was ever of the +slightest, and I suppose I always knew that he must soon revert to the +obscure. He could never have penetrated into the open. It was no life +for a boy. + +Yet now, that his time had come, I was loath to see him go. I seem +to remember carrying him that evening to the window with uncommon +tenderness (following the setting sun that was to take him away), and +telling him with not unnatural bitterness that he had got to leave me +because another child was in need of all his pretty things; and as the +sun, his true father, lapt him in its dancing arms, he sent his love to +a lady of long ago whom he called by the sweetest of names, not knowing +in his innocence that the little white birds are the birds that never +have a mother. I wished (so had the phantasy of Timothy taken possession +of me) that before he went he could have played once in the Kensington +Gardens, and have ridden on the fallen trees, calling gloriously to me +to look; that he could have sailed one paper-galleon on the Round Pond; +fain would I have had him chase one hoop a little way down the laughing +avenues of childhood, where memory tells us we run but once, on a long +summer-day, emerging at the other end as men and women with all the fun +to pay for; and I think (thus fancy wantons with me in these desolate +chambers) he knew my longings, and said with a boy-like flush that the +reason he never did these things was not that he was afraid, for he +would have loved to do them all, but because he was not quite like other +boys; and, so saying, he let go my finger and faded from before my eyes +into another and golden ether; but I shall ever hold that had he been +quite like other boys there would have been none braver than my Timothy. + +I fear I am not truly brave myself, for though when under fire, so far +as I can recollect, I behaved as others, morally I seem to be deficient. +So I discovered next day when I attempted to buy David's outfit, +and found myself as shy of entering the shop as any Mary at the +pawnbroker's. The shop for little garments seems very alarming when you +reach the door; a man abruptly become a parent, and thus lost to a +finer sense of the proprieties, may be able to stalk in unprotected, but +apparently I could not. Indeed, I have allowed a repugnance to entering +shops of any kind, save my tailor's, to grow on me, and to my tailor's I +fear I go too frequently. + +So I skulked near the shop of the little garments, jeering at myself, +and it was strange to me to reflect at, say, three o'clock that if I had +been brazen at half-past two all would now be over. + +To show what was my state, take the case of the very gentleman-like man +whom I detected gazing fixedly at me, or so I thought, just as I had +drawn valiantly near the door. I sauntered away, but when I returned +he was still there, which seemed conclusive proof that he had smoked +my purpose. Sternly controlling my temper I bowed, and said with icy +politeness, “You have the advantage of me, sir.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said he, and I am now persuaded that my words +turned his attention to me for the first time, but at the moment I was +sure some impertinent meaning lurked behind his answer. + +“I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance,” I barked. + +“No one regrets it more than I do,” he replied, laughing. + +“I mean, sir,” said I, “that I shall wait here until you retire,” and +with that I put my back to a shop-window. + +By this time he was grown angry, and said he, “I have no engagement,” + and he put his back to the shop-window. Each of us was doggedly +determined to tire the other out, and we must have looked ridiculous. We +also felt it, for ten minutes afterward, our passions having died away, +we shook hands cordially and agreed to call hansoms. + +Must I abandon the enterprise? Certainly I knew divers ladies who would +make the purchases for me, but first I must explain, and, rather +than explain it has ever been my custom to do without. I was in this +despondency when a sudden recollection of Irene and Mrs. Hicking +heartened me like a cordial, for I saw in them at once the engine and +decoy by which David should procure his outfit. + +You must be told who they were. + + + + +VIII. The Inconsiderate Waiter + +They were the family of William, one of our club waiters who had been +disappointing me grievously of late. Many a time have I deferred dining +several minutes that I might have the attendance of this ingrate. His +efforts to reserve the window-table for me were satisfactory, and I +used to allow him privileges, as to suggest dishes; I have given him +information, as that someone had startled me in the reading-room by +slamming a door; I have shown him how I cut my finger with a piece +of string. William was none of your assertive waiters. We could have +plotted a murder safely before him. It was one member who said to him +that Saucy Sarah would win the Derby and another who said that Saucy +Sarah had no chance, but it was William who agreed with both. The +excellent fellow (as I thought him) was like a cheroot which may be +smoked from either end. + +I date his lapse from one evening when I was dining by the window. I had +to repeat my order “Devilled kidney,” and instead of answering brightly, +“Yes, sir,” as if my selection of devilled kidney was a personal +gratification to him, which is the manner one expects of a waiter, he +gazed eagerly out at the window, and then, starting, asked, “Did you +say devilled kidney, sir?” A few minutes afterward I became aware that +someone was leaning over the back of my chair, and you may conceive my +indignation on discovering that this rude person was William. Let me +tell, in the measured words of one describing a past incident, what next +took place. To get nearer the window he pressed heavily on my shoulder. +“William,” I said, “you are not attending to me!” + +To be fair to him, he shook, but never shall I forget his audacious +apology, “Beg pardon, sir, but I was thinking of something else.” + +And immediately his eyes resought the window, and this burst from him +passionately, “For God's sake, sir, as we are man and man, tell me if +you have seen a little girl looking up at the club-windows.” + +Man and man! But he had been a good waiter once, so I pointed out the +girl to him. As soon as she saw William she ran into the middle of Pall +Mall, regardless of hansoms (many of which seemed to pass over her), +nodded her head significantly three times and then disappeared (probably +on a stretcher). She was the tawdriest little Arab of about ten years, +but seemed to have brought relief to William. “Thank God!” said he +fervently, and in the worst taste. + +I was as much horrified as if he had dropped a plate on my toes. “Bread, +William,” I said sharply. + +“You are not vexed with me, sir?” he had the hardihood to whisper. + +“It was a liberty,” I said. + +“I know, sir, but I was beside myself.” + +“That was a liberty again.” + +“It is my wife, sir, she--” + +So William, whom I had favoured in so many ways, was a married man. I +felt that this was the greatest liberty of all. + +I gathered that the troublesome woman was ailing, and as one who likes +after dinner to believe that there is no distress in the world, I +desired to be told by William that the signals meant her return to +health. He answered inconsiderately, however, that the doctor feared the +worst. + +“Bah, the doctor,” I said in a rage. + +“Yes, sir,” said William. + +“What is her confounded ailment?” + +“She was allus one of the delicate kind, but full of spirit, and you +see, sir, she has had a baby-girl lately--” + +“William, how dare you,” I said, but in the same moment I saw that this +father might be useful to me. “How does your baby sleep, William?” I +asked in a low voice, “how does she wake up? what do you put in her +bath?” + +I saw surprise in his face, so I hurried on without waiting for an +answer. “That little girl comes here with a message from your wife?” + +“Yes, sir, every evening; she's my eldest, and three nods from her means +that the missus is a little better.” + +“There were three nods to-day?” + +“Yes, sir. + +“I suppose you live in some low part, William?” + +The impudent fellow looked as if he could have struck me. “Off Drury +Lane,” he said, flushing, “but it isn't low. And now,” he groaned, +“she's afeared she will die without my being there to hold her hand.” + +“She should not say such things.” + +“She never says them, sir. She allus pretends to be feeling stronger. +But I knows what is in her mind when I am leaving the house in the +morning, for then she looks at me from her bed, and I looks at her from +the door--oh, my God, sir!” + +“William!” + +At last he saw that I was angry, and it was characteristic of him to beg +my pardon and withdraw his wife as if she were some unsuccessful dish. +I tried to forget his vulgar story in billiards, but he had spoiled +my game, and next day to punish him I gave my orders through another +waiter. As I had the window-seat, however, I could not but see that the +little girl was late, and though this mattered nothing to me and I had +finished my dinner, I lingered till she came. She not only nodded three +times but waved her hat, and I arose, having now finished my dinner. + +William came stealthily toward me. “Her temperature has gone down, sir,” + he said, rubbing his hands together. + +“To whom are you referring?” I asked coldly, and retired to the +billiard-room, where I played a capital game. + +I took pains to show William that I had forgotten his maunderings, but +I observed the girl nightly, and once, instead of nodding, she shook her +head, and that evening I could not get into a pocket. Next evening +there was no William in the dining-room, and I thought I knew what had +happened. But, chancing to enter the library rather miserably, I +was surprised to see him on a ladder dusting books. We had the room +practically to ourselves, for though several members sat on chairs +holding books in their hands they were all asleep, and William descended +the ladder to tell me his blasting tale. He had sworn at a member! + +“I hardly knew what I was doing all day, sir, for I had left her so +weakly that--” + +I stamped my foot. + +“I beg your pardon for speaking of her,” he had the grace to say. “But +Irene had promised to come every two hours; and when she came about +four o'clock and I saw she was crying, it sort of blinded me, sir, and +I stumbled against a member, Mr. B----, and he said, 'Damn you!' Well, +sir, I had but touched him after all, and I was so broken it sort of +stung me to be treated so and I lost my senses, and I said, 'Damn you!'” + +His shamed head sank on his chest, and I think some of the readers +shuddered in their sleep. + +“I was turned out of the dining-room at once, and sent here until the +committee have decided what to do with me. Oh, sir, I am willing to go +on my knees to Mr. B----” + +How could I but despise a fellow who would be thus abject for a pound a +week? + +“For if I have to tell her I have lost my place she will just fall back +and die.” + +“I forbid your speaking to me of that woman,” I cried wryly, “unless you +can speak pleasantly,” and I left him to his fate and went off to +look for B----. “What is this story about your swearing at one of the +waiters?” I asked him. + +“You mean about his swearing at me,” said B----, reddening. + +“I am glad that was it,” I said, “for I could not believe you guilty of +such bad form. The version which reached me was that you swore at each +other, and that he was to be dismissed and you reprimanded.” + +“Who told you that?” asked B----, who is a timid man. + +“I am on the committee,” I replied lightly, and proceeded to talk of +other matters, but presently B----, who had been reflecting, said: “Do +you know I fancy I was wrong in thinking that the waiter swore at me, +and I shall withdraw the charge to-morrow.” + +I was pleased to find that William's troubles were near an end without +my having to interfere in his behalf, and I then remembered that he +would not be able to see the girl Irene from the library windows, +which are at the back of the club. I was looking down at her, but +she refrained from signalling because she could not see William, and +irritated by her stupidity I went out and asked her how her mother was. + +“My,” she ejaculated after a long scrutiny of me, “I b'lieve you are +one of them!” and she gazed at me with delighted awe. I suppose William +tells them of our splendid doings. + +The invalid, it appeared, was a bit better, and this annoying child +wanted to inform William that she had took all the tapiocar. She was to +indicate this by licking an imaginary plate in the middle of Pall +Mall. I gave the little vulgarian a shilling, and returned to the club +disgusted. + +“By the way, William,” I said, “Mr. B---- is to inform the committee +that he was mistaken in thinking you used improper language to him, so +you will doubtless be restored to the dining-room to-morrow.” + +I had to add immediately, “Remember your place, William.” + +“But Mr. B---- knows I swore,” he insisted. + +“A gentleman,” I replied stiffly, “cannot remember for many hours what a +waiter has said to him.” + +“No, sir, but--” + +To stop him I had to say, “And--ah--William, your wife is decidedly +better. She has eaten the tapioca--all of it.” + +“How can you know, sir?” + +“By an accident.” + +“Irene signed to the window?” + +“No.” + +“Then you saw her and went out and--” + +“How dare you, William?” + +“Oh, sir, to do that for me! May God bl--” + +“William.” + +He was reinstated in the dining-room, but often when I looked at him I +seemed to see a dying wife in his face, and so the relations between us +were still strained. But I watched the girl, and her pantomime was so +illuminating that I knew the sufferer had again cleaned the platter on +Tuesday, had attempted a boiled egg on Wednesday (you should have seen +Irene chipping it in Pall Mall, and putting in the salt), but was in a +woful state of relapse on Thursday. + +“Is your mother very ill to-day, Miss Irene?” I asked, as soon as I had +drawn her out of range of the club-windows. + +“My!” she exclaimed again, and I saw an ecstatic look pass between her +and a still smaller girl with her, whom she referred to as a neighbour. + +I waited coldly. William's wife, I was informed, had looked like nothing +but a dead one till she got the brandy. + +“Hush, child,” I said, shocked. “You don't know how the dead look.” + +“Bless yer!” she replied. + +Assisted by her friend, who was evidently enormously impressed by +Irene's intimacy with me, she gave me a good deal of miscellaneous +information, as that William's real name was Mr. Hicking, but that he +was known in their street, because of the number of his shirts, as Toff +Hicking. That the street held he should get away from the club before +two in the morning, for his missus needed him more than the club needed +him. That William replied (very sensibly) that if the club was short of +waiters at supper-time some of the gentlemen might be kept waiting for +their marrow-bone. That he sat up with his missus most of the night, and +pretended to her that he got some nice long naps at the club. That what +she talked to him about mostly was the kid. That the kid was in another +part of London (in charge of a person called the old woman), because +there was an epidemic in Irene's street. + +“And what does the doctor say about your mother?” + +“He sometimes says she would have a chance if she could get her kid +back.” + +“Nonsense.” + +“And if she was took to the country.” + +“Then why does not William take her?” + +“My! And if she drank porty wine.” + +“Doesn't she?” + +“No. But father, he tells her 'bout how the gentlemen drinks it.” + +I turned from her with relief, but she came after me. + +“Ain't yer going to do it this time?” she demanded with a falling face. +“You done it last time. I tell her you done it”--she pointed to her +friend who was looking wistfully at me--“ain't you to let her see you +doing of it?” + +For a moment I thought that her desire was another shilling, but by a +piece of pantomime she showed that she wanted me to lift my hat to her. +So I lifted it, and when I looked behind she had her head in the air and +her neighbour was gazing at her awestruck. These little creatures are +really not without merit. + +About a week afterward I was in a hired landau, holding a newspaper +before my face lest anyone should see me in company of a waiter and his +wife. William was taking her into Surrey to stay with an old nurse of +mine, and Irene was with us, wearing the most outrageous bonnet. + +I formed a mean opinion of Mrs. Hicking's intelligence from her pride in +the baby, which was a very ordinary one. She created a regrettable scene +when it was brought to her, because “she had been feared it would not +know her again.” I could have told her that they know no one for years +had I not been in terror of Irene, who dandled the child on her knees +and talked to it all the way. I have never known a bolder little hussy +than this Irene. She asked the infant improper questions, such as “Oo +know who gave me this bonnet?” and answered them herself. “It was +the pretty gentleman there,” and several times I had to affect sleep, +because she announced, “Kiddy wants to kiss the pretty gentleman.” + +Irksome as all this necessarily was to a man of taste, I suffered +still more acutely when we reached our destination, where disagreeable +circumstances compelled me to drink tea with a waiter's family. William +knew that I regarded thanks from persons of his class as an outrage, yet +he looked them though he dared not speak them. Hardly had he sat down +at the table by my orders than he remembered that I was a member of the +club and jumped up. Nothing is in worse form than whispering, yet again +and again he whispered to his poor, foolish wife, “How are you now? +You don't feel faint?” and when she said she felt like another woman +already, his face charged me with the change. I could not but conclude +from the way she let the baby pound her that she was stronger than she +pretended. + +I remained longer than was necessary because I had something to say to +William which I feared he would misunderstand, but when he announced +that it was time for him to catch a train back to London, at which his +wife paled, I delivered the message. + +“William,” I said, backing away from him, “the head-waiter asked me to +say that you could take a fortnight's holiday. Your wages will be paid +as usual.” + +Confound him. + +“William,” I cried furiously, “go away.” + +Then I saw his wife signing to him, and I knew she wanted to be left +alone with me. + +“William,” I cried in a panic, “stay where you are.” + +But he was gone, and I was alone with a woman whose eyes were filmy. Her +class are fond of scenes. “If you please, ma'am!” I said imploringly. + +But she kissed my hand; she was like a little dog. + +“It can be only the memory of some woman,” said she, “that makes you so +kind to me and mine.” + +Memory was the word she used, as if all my youth were fled. I suppose I +really am quite elderly. + +“I should like to know her name, sir,” she said, “that I may mention her +with loving respect in my prayers.” + +I raised the woman and told her the name. It was not Mary. “But she has +a home,” I said, “as you have, and I have none. Perhaps, ma'am, it would +be better worth your while to mention me.” + + +It was this woman, now in health, whom I intrusted with the purchase of +the outfits, “one for a boy of six months,” I explained to her, “and one +for a boy of a year,” for the painter had boasted to me of David's rapid +growth. I think she was a little surprised to find that both outfits +were for the same house; and she certainly betrayed an ignoble curiosity +about the mother's Christian name, but she was much easier to brow-beat +than a fine lady would have been, and I am sure she and her daughter +enjoyed themselves hugely in the shops, from one of which I shall never +forget Irene emerging proudly with a commissionaire, who conducted her +under an umbrella to the cab where I was lying in wait. I think that was +the most celestial walk of Irene's life. + +I told Mrs. Hicking to give the articles a little active ill-treatment +that they might not look quite new, at which she exclaimed, not being in +my secret, and then to forward them to me. I then sent them to Mary and +rejoiced in my devilish cunning all the evening, but chagrin came in the +morning with a letter from her which showed she knew all, that I was her +Mr. Anon, and that there never had been a Timothy. I think I was never +so gravelled. Even now I don't know how she had contrived it. + +Her cleverness raised such a demon in me that I locked away her letter +at once and have seldom read it since. No married lady should have +indited such an epistle to a single man. It said, with other things +which I decline to repeat, that I was her good fairy. As a sample of the +deliberate falsehoods in it, I may mention that she said David loved me +already. She hoped that I would come in often to see her husband, who +was very proud of my friendship, and suggested that I should pay him my +first visit to-day at three o'clock, an hour at which, as I happened to +know, he is always away giving a painting-lesson. In short, she wanted +first to meet me alone, so that she might draw the delicious, respectful +romance out of me, and afterward repeat it to him, with sighs and little +peeps at him over her pocket-handkerchief. + +She had dropped what were meant to look like two tears for me upon the +paper, but I should not wonder though they were only artful drops of +water. + +I sent her a stiff and tart reply, declining to hold any communication +with her. + + + + +IX. A Confirmed Spinster + +I am in danger, I see, of being included among the whimsical fellows, +which I so little desire that I have got me into my writing-chair to +combat the charge, but, having sat for an unconscionable time with pen +poised, I am come agitatedly to the fear that there may be something in +it. + +So long a time has elapsed, you must know, since I abated of the ardours +of self-inquiry that I revert in vain (through many rusty doors) for the +beginning of this change in me, if changed I am; I seem ever to see this +same man until I am back in those wonderful months which were half of +my life, when, indeed, I know that I was otherwise than I am now; no +whimsical fellow then, for that was one of the possibilities I put to +myself while seeking for the explanation of things, and found to be +inadmissible. Having failed in those days to discover why I was driven +from the garden, I suppose I ceased to be enamoured of myself, as of +some dull puzzle, and then perhaps the whimsicalities began to collect +unnoticed. + +It is a painful thought to me to-night, that he could wake up glorious +once, this man in the elbow-chair by the fire, who is humorously known +at the club as a “confirmed spinster.” I remember him well when his +years told four and twenty; on my soul the proudest subaltern of my +acquaintance, and with the most reason to be proud. There was nothing he +might not do in the future, having already done the biggest thing, this +toddler up club-steps to-day. + +Not, indeed, that I am a knave; I am tolerably kind, I believe, and most +inoffensive, a gentleman, I trust, even in the eyes of the ladies who +smile at me as we converse; they are an ever-increasing number, or so it +seems to me to-night. Ah, ladies, I forget when I first began to notice +that smile and to be made uneasy by it. I think I understand it now, and +in some vague way it hurts me. I find that I watch for it nowadays, but +I hope I am still your loyal, obedient servant. + +You will scarcely credit it, but I have just remembered that I once had +a fascinating smile of my own. What has become of my smile? I swear I +have not noticed that it was gone till now; I am like one who revisiting +his school feels suddenly for his old knife. I first heard of my smile +from another boy, whose sisters had considered all the smiles they knew +and placed mine on top. My friend was scornful, and I bribed him to +mention the plebiscite to no one, but secretly I was elated and amazed. +I feel lost to-night without my smiles. I rose a moment ago to look for +it in my mirror. + +I like to believe that she has it now. I think she may have some other +forgotten trifles of mine with it that make the difference between that +man and this. I remember her speaking of my smile, telling me it was my +one adornment, and taking it from me, so to speak, for a moment to let +me see how she looked in it; she delighted to make sport of me when she +was in a wayward mood, and to show me all my ungainly tricks of voice +and gesture, exaggerated and glorified in her entrancing self, like a +star calling to the earth: “See, I will show you how you hobble round,” + and always there was a challenge to me in her eyes to stop her if I +dared, and upon them, when she was most audacious, lay a sweet mist. + +They all came to her court, as is the business of young fellows, to +tell her what love is, and she listened with a noble frankness, having, +indeed, the friendliest face for all engaged in this pursuit that can +ever have sat on woman. I have heard ladies call her coquette, not +understanding that she shone softly upon all who entered the lists +because, with the rarest intuition, she foresaw that they must go away +broken men and already sympathised with their dear wounds. All wounds +incurred for love were dear to her; at every true utterance about love +she exulted with grave approval, or it might be a with a little “ah!” or +“oh!” like one drinking deliciously. Nothing could have been more fair, +for she was for the first comer who could hit the target, which was her +heart. + +She adored all beautiful things in their every curve and fragrance, so +that they became part of her. Day by day, she gathered beauty; had she +had no heart (she who was the bosom of womanhood) her thoughts would +still have been as lilies, because the good is the beautiful. + +And they all forgave her; I never knew of one who did not forgive her; +I think had there been one it would have proved that there was a flaw in +her. Perhaps, when good-bye came she was weeping because all the pretty +things were said and done with, or she was making doleful confessions +about herself, so impulsive and generous and confidential, and so devoid +of humour, that they compelled even a tragic swain to laugh. She made a +looking-glass of his face to seek wofully in it whether she was at all +to blame, and when his arms went out for her, and she stepped back so +that they fell empty, she mourned, with dear sympathy, his lack of +skill to seize her. For what her soft eyes said was that she was always +waiting tremulously to be won. They all forgave her, because there was +nothing to forgive, or very little, just the little that makes a dear +girl dearer, and often afterward, I believe, they have laughed fondly +when thinking of her, like boys brought back. You ladies who are +everything to your husbands save a girl from the dream of youth, have +you never known that double-chinned industrious man laugh suddenly in +a reverie and start up, as if he fancied he were being hailed from +far-away? + +I hear her hailing me now. She was so light-hearted that her laugh is +what comes first across the years; so high-spirited that she would have +wept like Mary of Scots because she could not lie on the bare plains +like the men. I hear her, but it is only as an echo; I see her, but it +is as a light among distant trees, and the middle-aged man can draw no +nearer; she was only for the boys. There was a month when I could have +shown her to you in all her bravery, but then the veil fell, and from +that moment I understood her not. For long I watched her, but she was +never clear to me again, and for long she hovered round me, like a dear +heart willing to give me a thousand chances to regain her love. She was +so picturesque that she was the last word of art, but she was as young +as if she were the first woman. The world must have rung with gallant +deeds and grown lovely thoughts for numberless centuries before she +could be; she was the child of all the brave and wistful imaginings of +men. She was as mysterious as night when it fell for the first time upon +the earth. She was the thing we call romance, which lives in the little +hut beyond the blue haze of the pine-woods. + +No one could have looked less elfish. She was all on a noble scale, +her attributes were so generous, her manner unconquerably gracious, her +movements indolently active, her face so candid that you must swear her +every thought lived always in the open. Yet, with it all, she was a wild +thing, alert, suspicious of the lasso, nosing it in every man's hand, +more curious about it than about aught else in the world; her quivering +delight was to see it cast for her, her game to elude it; so mettlesome +was she that she loved it to be cast fair that she might escape as it +was closing round her; she scorned, however her heart might be beating, +to run from her pursuers; she took only the one step backward, which +still left her near them but always out of reach; her head on high now, +but her face as friendly, her manner as gracious as before, she is yours +for the catching. That was ever the unspoken compact between her and the +huntsmen. + +It may be but an old trick come back to me with these memories, but +again I clasp my hands to my brows in amaze at the thought that all this +was for me could I retain her love. For I won it, wonder of the gods, +but I won it. I found myself with one foot across the magic circle +wherein she moved, and which none but I had entered; and so, I think, I +saw her in revelation, not as the wild thing they had all conceived +her, but as she really was. I saw no tameless creature, nothing wild +or strange. I saw my sweet love placid as a young cow browsing. As I +brushed aside the haze and she was truly seen for the first time, she +raised her head, like one caught, and gazed at me with meek affrighted +eyes. I told her what had been revealed to me as I looked upon her, and +she trembled, knowing she was at last found, and fain would she have +fled away, but that her fear was less than her gladness. She came to me +slowly; no incomprehensible thing to me now, but transparent as a pool, +and so restful to look upon that she was a bath to the eyes, like banks +of moss. + +Because I knew the maid, she was mine. Every maid, I say, is for him +who can know her. The others had but followed the glamour in which she +walked, but I had pierced it and found the woman. I could anticipate her +every thought and gesture, I could have flashed and rippled and mocked +for her, and melted for her and been dear disdain for her. She would +forget this and be suddenly conscious of it as she began to speak, when +she gave me a look with a shy smile in it which meant that she knew I +was already waiting at the end of what she had to say. I call this the +blush of the eye. She had a look and a voice that were for me alone; her +very finger-tips were charged with caresses for me. And I loved even her +naughtinesses, as when she stamped her foot at me, which she could +not do without also gnashing her teeth, like a child trying to look +fearsome. How pretty was that gnashing of her teeth! All her tormentings +of me turned suddenly into sweetnesses, and who could torment like this +exquisite fury, wondering in sudden flame why she could give herself to +anyone, while I wondered only why she could give herself to me. It may +be that I wondered over-much. Perhaps that was why I lost her. + +It was in the full of the moon that she was most restive, but I brought +her back, and at first she could have bit my hand, but then she came +willingly. Never, I thought, shall she be wholly tamed, but he who knows +her will always be able to bring her back. + +I am not that man, for mystery of mysteries, I lost her. I know not how +it was, though in the twilight of my life that then began I groped for +reasons until I wearied of myself; all I know is that she had ceased to +love me; I had won her love, but I could not keep it. The discovery came +to me slowly, as if I were a most dull-witted man; at first I knew only +that I no longer understood her as of old. I found myself wondering what +she had meant by this and that; I did not see that when she began to +puzzle me she was already lost to me. It was as if, unknowing, I had +strayed outside the magic circle. + +When I did understand I tried to cheat myself into the belief that there +was no change, and the dear heart bleeding for me assisted in that poor +pretence. She sought to glide to me with swimming eyes as before, but it +showed only that this caressing movement was still within her compass, +but never again for me. With the hands she had pressed to her breast she +touched mine, but no longer could they convey the message. The current +was broken, and soon we had to desist miserably from our pretences. +She could tell no more than I why she had ceased to love me; she was +scarcely less anxious than I that I should make her love me again, and, +as I have said, she waited with a wonderful tolerance while I strove +futilely to discover in what I was lacking and to remedy it. And when, +at last, she had to leave me, it was with compassionate cries and little +backward flights. + +The failure was mine alone, but I think I should not have been so +altered by it had I known what was the defect in me through which I let +her love escape. This puzzle has done me more harm than the loss of her. +Nevertheless, you must know (if I am to speak honestly to you) that I do +not repent me those dallyings in enchanted fields. It may not have been +so always, for I remember a black night when a poor lieutenant lay down +in an oarless boat and let it drift toward the weir. But his distant +moans do not greatly pain me now; rather am I elated to find (as the +waters bring him nearer) that this boy is I, for it is something to +know that, once upon a time, a woman could draw blood from me as from +another. + +I saw her again, years afterward, when she was a married woman playing +with her children. She stamped her foot at a naughty one, and I saw the +gleam of her teeth as she gnashed them in the dear pretty way I can't +forget; and then a boy and girl, fighting for her shoulders, brought +the whole group joyously to the ground. She picked herself up in the old +leisurely manner, lazily active, and looked around her benignantly, +like a cow: our dear wild one safely tethered at last with a rope of +children. I meant to make her my devoirs, but, as I stepped forward, the +old wound broke out afresh, and I had to turn away. They were but a +few poor drops, which fell because I found that she was even a little +sweeter than I had thought. + + + + +X. Sporting Reflections + +I have now told you (I presume) how I became whimsical, and I fear it +would please Mary not at all. But speaking of her, and, as the cat's +light keeps me in a ruminating mood, suppose, instead of returning Mary +to her lover by means of the letter, I had presented a certain clubman +to her consideration? Certainly no such whimsical idea crossed my mind +when I dropped the letter, but between you and me and my night-socks, +which have all this time been airing by the fire because I am subject to +cold feet, I have sometimes toyed with it since. + +Why did I not think of this in time? Was it because I must ever remain +true to the unattainable she? + +I am reminded of a passage in the life of a sweet lady, a friend of +mine, whose daughter was on the eve of marriage, when suddenly her lover +died. It then became pitiful to watch that trembling old face trying to +point the way of courage to the young one. In time, however, there came +another youth, as true, I dare say, as the first, but not so well known +to me, and I shrugged my shoulders cynically to see my old friend once +more a matchmaker. She took him to her heart and boasted of him; like +one made young herself by the great event, she joyously dressed her pale +daughter in her bridal gown, and, with smiles upon her face, she cast +rice after the departing carriage. But soon after it had gone, I chanced +upon her in her room, and she was on her knees in tears before the +spirit of the dead lover. “Forgive me,” she besought him, “for I am old, +and life is gray to friendless girls.” The pardon she wanted was for +pretending to her daughter that women should act thus. + +I am sure she felt herself soiled. + +But men are of a coarser clay. At least I am, and nearly twenty years +had elapsed, and here was I burdened under a load of affection, like a +sack of returned love-letters, with no lap into which to dump them. + +“They were all written to another woman, ma'am, and yet I am in hopes +that you will find something in them about yourself.” It would have +sounded oddly to Mary, but life is gray to friendless girls, and +something might have come of it. + +On the other hand, it would have brought her for ever out of the wood of +the little hut, and I had but to drop the letter to send them both back +there. The easiness of it tempted me. + +Besides, she would tire of me when I was really known to her. They all +do, you see. + +And, after all, why should he lose his laugh because I had lost my +smile? + +And then, again, the whole thing was merely a whimsical idea. + +I dropped the letter, and shouldered my burden. + + + + +XI. The Runaway Perambulator + +I sometimes met David in public places such as the Kensington Gardens, +where he lorded it surrounded by his suite and wearing the blank face +and glass eyes of all carriage-people. On these occasions I always +stalked by, meditating on higher things, though Mary seemed to think me +very hardhearted, and Irene, who had become his nurse (I forget how, +but fear I had something to do with it), ran after me with messages, +as, would I not call and see him in his home at twelve o'clock, at which +moment, it seemed, he was at his best. + +No, I would not. + +“He says tick-tack to the clock,” Irene said, trying to snare me. + +“Pooh!” said I. + +“Other little 'uns jest says 'tick-tick,'” she told me, with a flush of +pride. + +“I prefer 'tick-tick,'” I said, whereat she departed in dudgeon. + +Had they had the sense to wheel him behind a tree and leave him, I would +have looked, but as they lacked it, I decided to wait until he could +walk, when it would be more easy to waylay him. However, he was a +cautious little gorbal who, after many threats to rise, always seemed to +come to the conclusion that he might do worse than remain where he was, +and when he had completed his first year I lost patience with him. + +“When I was his age,” I said to Irene, “I was running about.” I +consulted them casually about this matter at the club, and they had all +been running about at a year old. + +I made this nurse the following offer: If she would bring the dilatory +boy to my rooms and leave him there for half an hour I would look at +him. At first Mary, to whom the offer was passed on, rejected it with +hauteur, but presently she wavered, and the upshot was that Irene, +looking scornful and anxious, arrived one day with the perambulator. +Without casting eyes on its occupant, I pointed Irene to the door: “In +half-an-hour,” I said. + +She begged permission to remain, and promised to turn her back, and so +on, but I was obdurate, and she then delivered herself of a passionately +affectionate farewell to her charge, which was really all directed +against me, and ended with these powerful words: “And if he takes off +your socks, my pretty, may he be blasted for evermore.” + +“I shall probably take off her socks,” I said carelessly to this. + +Her socks. Do you see what made Irene scream? + +“It is a girl, is it not?” I asked, thus neatly depriving her of +coherent speech as I pushed her to the door. I then turned round to--to +begin, and, after reflecting, I began by sitting down behind the hood of +his carriage. My plan was to accustom him to his new surroundings before +bursting on the scene myself. + +I had various thoughts. Was he awake? If not, better let him +wake naturally. Half-an-hour was a long time. Why had I not said +quarter-of-an-hour? Anon, I saw that if I was to sit there much longer I +should have said an hour, so I whistled softly; but he took no notice. +I remember trying to persuade myself that if I never budged till Irene's +return, it would be an amusing triumph over Mary. I coughed, but still +there was no response. Abruptly, the fear smote me. Perhaps he is not +there. + +I rose hastily, and was striding forward, when I distinctly noticed a +covert movement somewhere near the middle of the carriage, and heard a +low gurgle, which was instantly suppressed. I stopped dead at this sharp +reminder that I was probably not the only curious person in the room, +and for a long moment we both lay low, after which, I am glad to +remember, I made the first advance. Earlier in the day I had arranged +some likely articles on a side-table: my watch and chain, my bunch of +keys, and two war-medals for plodding merit, and with a glance at these +(as something to fall back upon), I stepped forward doggedly, looking +(I fear now) a little like a professor of legerdemain. David was sitting +up, and he immediately fixed his eyes on me. + +It would ill become me to attempt to describe this dear boy to you, +for of course I know really nothing about children, so I shall say only +this, that I thought him very like what Timothy would have been had he +ever had a chance. + +I to whom David had been brought for judgment, now found myself being +judged by him, and this rearrangement of the pieces seemed so natural +that I felt no surprise; I felt only a humble craving to hear him +signify that I would do. I have stood up before other keen judges and +deceived them all, but I made no effort to deceive David; I wanted to, +but dared not. Those unblinking eyes were too new to the world to be +hooded by any of its tricks. In them I saw my true self. They opened for +me that pedler's pack of which I have made so much ado, and I found +that it was weighted less with pretty little sad love-tokens than with +ignoble thoughts and deeds and an unguided life. I looked dejectedly at +David, not so much, I think, because I had such a sorry display for him, +as because I feared he would not have me in his service. I seemed to +know that he was making up his mind once and for all. + +And in the end he smiled, perhaps only because I looked so frightened, +but the reason scarcely mattered to me, I felt myself a fine fellow at +once. It was a long smile, too, opening slowly to its fullest extent (as +if to let me in), and then as slowly shutting. + +Then, to divert me from sad thoughts, or to rivet our friendship, or +because the time had come for each of us to show the other what he could +do, he immediately held one foot high in the air. This made him slide +down the perambulator, and I saw at once that it was very necessary to +replace him. But never before had I come into such close contact with +a child; the most I had ever done was, when they were held up to me, to +shut my eyes and kiss a vacuum. David, of course, though no doubt he +was eternally being replaced, could tell as little as myself how it +was contrived, and yet we managed it between us quite easily. His +body instinctively assumed a certain position as I touched him, which +compelled my arms to fall into place, and the thing was done. I felt +absurdly pleased, but he was already considering what he should do next. + +He again held up his foot, which had a gouty appearance owing to +its being contained in a dumpy little worsted sock, and I thought he +proposed to repeat his first performance, but in this I did him an +injustice, for, unlike Porthos, he was one who scorned to do the same +feat twice; perhaps, like the conjurors, he knew that the audience were +more on the alert the second time. + +I discovered that he wanted me to take off his sock! + +Remembering Irene's dread warnings on this subject I must say that I +felt uneasy. Had he heard her, and was he daring me? And what dire thing +could happen if the sock was removed? I sought to reason with him, but +he signed to me to look sharp, and I removed the sock. The part of him +thus revealed gave David considerable pleasure, but I noticed, as a +curious thing, that he seemed to have no interest in the other foot. + +However, it was not there merely to be looked at, for after giving me +a glance which said “Now observe!” he raised his bare foot and ran his +mouth along the toes, like one playing on a barbaric instrument. He then +tossed his foot aside, smiled his long triumphant smile and intimated +that it was now my turn to do something. I thought the best thing I +could do would be to put his sock on him again, but as soon as I tried +to do so I discovered why Irene had warned me so portentously against +taking it off. I should say that she had trouble in socking him every +morning. + +Nevertheless I managed to slip it on while he was debating what to do +with my watch. I bitterly regretted that I could do nothing with it +myself, put it under a wine-glass, for instance, and make it turn into +a rabbit, which so many people can do. In the meantime David, occupied +with similar thoughts, very nearly made it disappear altogether, and I +was thankful to be able to pull it back by the chain. + +“Haw-haw-haw!” + +Thus he commented on his new feat, but it was also a reminder to me, a +trifle cruel, that he was not my boy. After all, you see, Mary had not +given him the whole of his laugh. The watch said that five and twenty +minutes had passed, and looking out I saw Irene at one end of the street +staring up at my window, and at the other end Mary's husband staring up +at my window, and beneath me Mary staring up at my window. They had all +broken their promise. + +I returned to David, and asked him in a low voice whether he would give +me a kiss. He shook his head about six times, and I was in despair. Then +the smile came, and I knew that he was teasing me only. He now nodded +his head about six times. + +This was the prettiest of all his exploits. It was so pretty that, +contrary to his rule, he repeated it. I had held out my arms to him, and +first he shook his head, and then after a long pause (to frighten me), +he nodded it. + +But no sooner was he in my arms than I seemed to see Mary and her +husband and Irene bearing down upon my chambers to take him from me, and +acting under an impulse I whipped him into the perambulator and was off +with it without a license down the back staircase. To the Kensington +Gardens we went; it may have been Manitoba we started for, but we +arrived at the Kensington Gardens, and it had all been so unpremeditated +and smartly carried out that I remember clapping my hand to my head in +the street, to make sure that I was wearing a hat. + +I watched David to see what he thought of it, and he had not yet made +up his mind. Strange to say, I no longer felt shy. I was grown +suddenly indifferent to public comment, and my elation increased when +I discovered that I was being pursued. They drew a cordon round me near +Margot Meredith's tree, but I broke through it by a strategic movement +to the south, and was next heard of in the Baby's Walk. They held both +ends of this passage, and then thought to close on me, but I slipped +through their fingers by doubling up Bunting's Thumb into Picnic Street. +Cowering at St. Govor's Well, we saw them rush distractedly up the Hump, +and when they had crossed to the Round Pond we paraded gaily in the +Broad Walk, not feeling the tiniest bit sorry for anybody. + +Here, however, it gradually came into David's eyes that, after all, I +was a strange man, and they opened wider and wider, until they were the +size of my medals, and then, with the deliberation that distinguishes +his smile, he slowly prepared to howl. I saw all his forces gathering +in his face, and I had nothing to oppose to them; it was an unarmed man +against a regiment. + +Even then I did not chide him. He could not know that it was I who had +dropped the letter. + +I think I must have stepped over a grateful fairy at that moment, for +who else could have reminded me so opportunely of my famous manipulation +of the eyebrows, forgotten since I was in the fifth form? I alone of +boys had been able to elevate and lower my eyebrows separately; when +the one was climbing my forehead the other descended it, like the two +buckets in the well. + +Most diffidently did I call this accomplishment to my aid now, and +immediately David checked his forces and considered my unexpected +movement without prejudice. His face remained as it was, his mouth open +to emit the howl if I did not surpass expectation. I saw that, like the +fair-minded boy he has always been, he was giving me my chance, and +I worked feverishly, my chief fear being that, owing to his youth, +he might not know how marvellous was this thing I was doing. It is an +appeal to the intellect, as well as to the senses, and no one on earth +can do it except myself. + +When I paused for a moment exhausted he signed gravely, with unchanged +face, that though it was undeniably funny, he had not yet decided +whether it was funny enough, and, taking this for encouragement, at it +I went once more, till I saw his forces wavering, when I sent my left +eyebrow up almost farther than I could bring it back, and with that I +had him, the smile broke through the clouds. + +In the midst of my hard-won triumph I heard cheering. + +I had been vaguely conscious that we were not quite alone, but had not +dared to look away from David; I looked now, and found to my annoyance +that I was the centre of a deeply interested gathering of children. +There was, in particular, one vulgar little street-boy-- + +However, if that damped me in the moment of victory, I was soon to +triumph gloriously in what began like defeat. I had sat me down on one +of the garden-seats in the Figs, with one hand resting carelessly on the +perambulator, in imitation of the nurses, it was so pleasant to assume +the air of one who walked with David daily, when to my chagrin I saw +Mary approaching with quick stealthy steps, and already so near me that +flight would have been ignominy. Porthos, of whom she had hold, bounded +toward me, waving his traitorous tail, but she slowed on seeing that I +had observed her. She had run me down with my own dog. + +I have not mentioned that Porthos had for some time now been a visitor +at her house, though never can I forget the shock I got the first time +I saw him strolling out of it like an afternoon caller. Of late he has +avoided it, crossing to the other side when I go that way, and rejoining +me farther on, so I conclude that Mary's husband is painting him. + +I waited her coming stiffly, in great depression of spirits, and noted +that her first attentions were for David, who, somewhat shabbily, gave +her the end of a smile which had been begun for me. It seemed to relieve +her, for what one may call the wild maternal look left her face, and +trying to check little gasps of breath, the result of unseemly running, +she signed to her confederates to remain in the background, and turned +curious eyes on me. Had she spoken as she approached, I am sure her +words would have been as flushed as her face, but now her mouth puckered +as David's does before he sets forth upon his smile, and I saw that she +thought she had me in a parley at last. + +“I could not help being a little anxious,” she said craftily, but I must +own, with some sweetness. + +I merely raised my hat, and at that she turned quickly to David--I +cannot understand why the movement was so hasty--and lowered her face +to his. Oh, little trump of a boy! Instead of kissing her, he seized her +face with one hand and tried to work her eyebrows up and down with the +other. He failed, and his obvious disappointment in his mother was as +nectar to me. + +“I don't understand what you want, darling,” said she in distress, and +looked at me inquiringly, and I understood what he wanted, and let +her see that I understood. Had I been prepared to converse with her, I +should have said elatedly that, had she known what he wanted, still she +could not have done it, though she had practised for twenty years. + +I tried to express all this by another movement of my hat. + +It caught David's eye and at once he appealed to me with the most +perfect confidence. She failed to see what I did, for I shyly gave her +my back, but the effect on David was miraculous; he signed to her to go, +for he was engaged for the afternoon. + +What would you have done then, reader? I didn't. In my great moment I +had strength of character to raise my hat for the third time and walk +away, leaving the child to judge between us. I walked slowly, for I knew +I must give him time to get it out, and I listened eagerly, but that +was unnecessary, for when it did come it was a very roar of anguish. I +turned my head, and saw David fiercely pushing the woman aside, that he +might have one last long look at me. He held out his wistful arms and +nodded repeatedly, and I faltered, but my glorious scheme saved me, +and I walked on. It was a scheme conceived in a flash, and ever since +relentlessly pursued, to burrow under Mary's influence with the boy, +expose her to him in all her vagaries, take him utterly from her and +make him mine. + + + + +XII. The Pleasantest Club in London + +All perambulators lead to the Kensington Gardens. + +Not, however, that you will see David in his perambulator much longer, +for soon after I first shook his faith in his mother, it came to him to +be up and doing, and he up and did in the Broad Walk itself, where he +would stand alone most elaborately poised, signing imperiously to the +British public to time him, and looking his most heavenly just before he +fell. He fell with a dump, and as they always laughed then, he pretended +that this was his funny way of finishing. + +That was on a Monday. On Tuesday he climbed the stone stair of the +Gold King, looking over his shoulder gloriously at each step, and +on Wednesday he struck three and went into knickerbockers. For the +Kensington Gardens, you must know, are full of short cuts, familiar to +all who play there; and the shortest leads from the baby in long +clothes to the little boy of three riding on the fence. It is called the +Mother's Tragedy. + +If you are a burgess of the gardens (which have a vocabulary of their +own), the faces of these quaint mothers are a clock to you, in which you +may read the ages of their young. When he is three they are said to wear +the knickerbocker face, and you may take it from me that Mary assumed +that face with a sigh; fain would she have kept her boy a baby longer, +but he insisted on his rights, and I encouraged him that I might notch +another point against her. I was now seeing David once at least every +week, his mother, who remained culpably obtuse to my sinister design, +having instructed Irene that I was to be allowed to share him with her, +and we had become close friends, though the little nurse was ever a +threatening shadow in the background. Irene, in short, did not improve +with acquaintance. I found her to be high and mighty, chiefly, I think, +because she now wore a nurse's cap with streamers, of which the little +creature was ludicrously proud. She assumed the airs of an official +person, and always talked as if generations of babies had passed through +her hands. She was also extremely jealous, and had a way of signifying +disapproval of my methods that led to many coldnesses and even +bickerings between us, which I now see to have been undignified. I +brought the following accusations against her: + +That she prated too much about right and wrong. + +That she was a martinet. + +That she pretended it was a real cap, with real streamers, when she knew +Mary had made the whole thing out of a muslin blind. I regret having +used this argument, but it was the only one that really damped her. + +On the other hand, she accused me of spoiling him. + +Of not thinking of his future. + +Of never asking him where he expected to go to if he did such things. + +Of telling him tales that had no moral application. + +Of saying that the handkerchief disappeared into nothingness, when it +really disappeared into a small tin cup, attached to my person by a +piece of elastic. + +To this last charge I plead guilty, for in those days I had a pathetic +faith in legerdemain, and the eyebrow feat (which, however, is entirely +an affair of skill) having yielded such good results, I naturally cast +about for similar diversions when it ceased to attract. It lost its hold +on David suddenly, as I was to discover was the fate of all of them; +twenty times would he call for my latest, and exult in it, and the +twenty-first time (and ever afterward) he would stare blankly, as if +wondering what the man meant. He was like the child queen who, when the +great joke was explained to her, said coldly, “We are not amused,” and, +I assure you, it is a humiliating thing to perform before an infant who +intimates, after giving you ample time to make your points, that he is +not amused. I hoped that when David was able to talk--and not merely +to stare at me for five minutes and then say “hat”--his spoken verdict, +however damning, would be less expressive than his verdict without +words, but I was disillusioned. I remember once in those later years, +when he could keep up such spirited conversations with himself that he +had little need for any of us, promising him to do something exceedingly +funny with a box and two marbles, and after he had watched for a long +time he said gravely, “Tell me when it begins to be funny.” + +I confess to having received a few simple lessons in conjuring, in a +dimly lighted chamber beneath a shop, from a gifted young man with a +long neck and a pimply face, who as I entered took a barber's pole from +my pocket, saying at the same time, “Come, come, sir, this will never +do.” Whether because he knew too much, or because he wore a trick shirt, +he was the most depressing person I ever encountered; he felt none of +the artist's joy, and it was sad to see one so well calculated to give +pleasure to thousands not caring a dump about it. + +The barber's pole I successfully extracted from David's mouth, but the +difficulty (not foreseen) of knowing how to dispose of a barber's pole +in the Kensington Gardens is considerable, there always being polite +children hovering near who run after you and restore it to you. The +young man, again, had said that anyone would lend me a bottle or a +lemon, but though these were articles on which he seemed ever able to +lay his hand, I found (what I had never noticed before) that there is +a curious dearth of them in the Gardens. The magic egg-cup I usually +carried about with me, and with its connivance I did some astonishing +things with pennies, but even the penny that costs sixpence is +uncertain, and just when you are saying triumphantly that it will +be found in the egg-cup, it may clatter to the ground, whereon some +ungenerous spectator, such as Irene, accuses you of fibbing and +corrupting youthful minds. It was useless to tell her, through clenched +teeth, that the whole thing was a joke, for she understood no jokes +except her own, of which she had the most immoderately high opinion, +and that would have mattered little to me had not David liked them also. +There were times when I could not but think less of the boy, seeing +him rock convulsed over antics of Irene that have been known to every +nursemaid since the year One. While I stood by, sneering, he would give +me the ecstatic look that meant, “Irene is really very entertaining, +isn't she?” + +We were rivals, but I desire to treat her with scrupulous fairness, and +I admit that she had one good thing, to wit, her gutta-percha tooth. In +earlier days one of her front teeth, as she told me, had fallen out, but +instead of then parting with it, the resourceful child had hammered it +in again with a hair-brush, which she offered to show me, with the dents +on it. This tooth, having in time passed away, its place was supplied by +one of gutta-percha, made by herself, which seldom came out except when +she sneezed, and if it merely fell at her feet this was a sign that the +cold was to be a slight one, but if it shot across the room she knew she +was in for something notable. Irene's tooth was very favourably known +in the Gardens, where the perambulators used to gather round her to hear +whether it had been doing anything to-day, and I would not have grudged +David his proprietary pride in it, had he seemed to understand that +Irene's one poor little accomplishment, though undeniably showy, was +without intellectual merit. I have sometimes stalked away from him, +intimating that if his regard was to be got so cheaply I begged to +retire from the competition, but the Gardens are the pleasantest club in +London, and I soon returned. How I scoured the Gardens looking for him, +and how skilful I became at picking him out far away among the trees, +though other mothers imitated the picturesque attire of him, to Mary's +indignation. I also cut Irene's wings (so to speak) by taking her to a +dentist. + +And David did some adorable things. For instance, he used my pockets as +receptacles into which he put any article he might not happen to want +at the moment. He shoved it in, quite as if they were his own pockets, +without saying, By your leave, and perhaps I discovered it on reaching +home--a tin-soldier, or a pistol--when I put it on my mantle-shelf +and sighed. And here is another pleasant memory. One day I had been +over-friendly to another boy, and, after enduring it for some time David +up and struck him. It was exactly as Porthos does, when I favour other +dogs (he knocks them down with his foot and stands over them, looking +very noble and stern), so I knew its meaning at once; it was David's +first public intimation that he knew I belonged to him. + +Irene scolded him for striking that boy, and made him stand in disgrace +at the corner of a seat in the Broad Walk. The seat at the corner of +which David stood suffering for love of me, is the one nearest to the +Round Pond to persons coming from the north. + +You may be sure that she and I had words over this fiendish cruelty. +When next we met I treated her as one who no longer existed, and at +first she bridled and then was depressed, and as I was going away she +burst into tears. She cried because neither at meeting nor parting had +I lifted my hat to her, a foolish custom of mine, of which, as I now +learned to my surprise, she was very proud. She and I still have our +tiffs, but I have never since then forgotten to lift my hat to Irene. +I also made her promise to bow to me, at which she affected to scoff, +saying I was taking my fun of her, but she was really pleased, and I +tell you, Irene has one of the prettiest and most touching little bows +imaginable; it is half to the side (if I may so express myself), which +has always been my favourite bow, and, I doubt not, she acquired it by +watching Mary. + +I should be sorry to have it thought, as you may now be thinking, that I +look on children as on puppy-dogs, who care only for play. Perhaps that +was my idea when first I tried to lure David to my unaccustomed arms, +and even for some time after, for if I am to be candid, I must own that +until he was three years old I sought merely to amuse him. God forgive +me, but I had only one day a week in which to capture him, and I was +very raw at the business. + +I was about to say that David opened my eyes to the folly of it, but +really I think this was Irene's doing. Watching her with children I +learned that partial as they are to fun they are moved almost more +profoundly by moral excellence. So fond of babes was this little mother +that she had always room near her for one more, and often have I seen +her in the Gardens, the centre of a dozen mites who gazed awestruck at +her while she told them severely how little ladies and gentlemen behave. +They were children of the well-to-pass, and she was from Drury Lane, but +they believed in her as the greatest of all authorities on little ladies +and gentlemen, and the more they heard of how these romantic creatures +keep themselves tidy and avoid pools and wait till they come to a gate, +the more they admired them, though their faces showed how profoundly +they felt that to be little ladies and gentlemen was not for them. You +can't think what hopeless little faces they were. + +Children are not at all like puppies, I have said. But do puppies care +only for play? That wistful look, which the merriest of them sometimes +wear, I wonder whether it means that they would like to hear about the +good puppies? + +As you shall see, I invented many stories for David, practising the +telling of them by my fireside as if they were conjuring feats, while +Irene knew only one, but she told it as never has any other fairy-tale +been told in my hearing. It was the prettiest of them all, and was +recited by the heroine. + +“Why were the king and queen not at home?” David would ask her +breathlessly. + +“I suppose,” said Irene, thinking it out, “they was away buying the +victuals.” + +She always told the story gazing into vacancy, so that David thought it +was really happening somewhere up the Broad Walk, and when she came +to its great moments her little bosom heaved. Never shall I forget the +concentrated scorn with which the prince said to the sisters, “Neither +of you ain't the one what wore the glass slipper.” + +“And then--and then--and then--,” said Irene, not artistically to +increase the suspense, but because it was all so glorious to her. + +“Tell me--tell me quick,” cried David, though he knew the tale by heart. + +“She sits down like,” said Irene, trembling in second-sight, “and she +tries on the glass slipper, and it fits her to a T, and then the prince, +he cries in a ringing voice, 'This here is my true love, Cinderella, +what now I makes my lawful wedded wife.'” + +Then she would come out of her dream, and look round at the grandees of +the Gardens with an extraordinary elation. “Her, as was only a kitchen +drudge,” she would say in a strange soft voice and with shining eyes, +“but was true and faithful in word and deed, such was her reward.” + +I am sure that had the fairy godmother appeared just then and touched +Irene with her wand, David would have been interested rather than +astonished. As for myself, I believe I have surprised this little girl's +secret. She knows there are no fairy godmothers nowadays, but she hopes +that if she is always true and faithful she may some day turn into a +lady in word and deed, like the mistress whom she adores. + +It is a dead secret, a Drury Lane child's romance; but what an amount of +heavy artillery will be brought to bear against it in this sad London of +ours. Not much chance for her, I suppose. + +Good luck to you, Irene. + + + + +XIII. The Grand Tour of the Gardens + +You must see for yourselves that it will be difficult to follow our +adventures unless you are familiar with the Kensington Gardens, as they +now became known to David. They are in London, where the King lives, and +you go to them every day unless you are looking decidedly flushed, but +no one has ever been in the whole of the Gardens, because it is so soon +time to turn back. The reason it is soon time to turn back is that you +sleep from twelve to one. If your mother was not so sure that you sleep +from twelve to one, you could most likely see the whole of them. + +The Gardens are bounded on one side by a never-ending line of omnibuses, +over which Irene has such authority that if she holds up her finger +to any one of them it stops immediately. She then crosses with you in +safety to the other side. There are more gates to the Gardens than one +gate, but that is the one you go in at, and before you go in you speak +to the lady with the balloons, who sits just outside. This is as near to +being inside as she may venture, because, if she were to let go her hold +of the railings for one moment, the balloons would lift her up, and she +would be flown away. She sits very squat, for the balloons are always +tugging at her, and the strain has given her quite a red face. Once she +was a new one, because the old one had let go, and David was very sorry +for the old one, but as she did let go, he wished he had been there to +see. + +The Gardens are a tremendous big place, with millions and hundreds of +trees, and first you come to the Figs, but you scorn to loiter there, +for the Figs is the resort of superior little persons, who are forbidden +to mix with the commonalty, and is so named, according to legend, +because they dress in full fig. These dainty ones are themselves +contemptuously called Figs by David and other heroes, and you have a key +to the manners and customs of this dandiacal section of the Gardens when +I tell you that cricket is called crickets here. Occasionally a rebel +Fig climbs over the fence into the world, and such a one was Miss Mabel +Grey, of whom I shall tell you when we come to Miss Mabel Grey's gate. +She was the only really celebrated Fig. + +We are now in the Broad Walk, and it is as much bigger than the other +walks as your father is bigger than you. David wondered if it began +little, and grew and grew, till it was quite grown up, and whether the +other walks are its babies, and he drew a picture, which diverted +him very much, of the Broad Walk giving a tiny walk an airing in a +perambulator. In the Broad Walk you meet all the people who are worth +knowing, and there is usually a grown-up with them to prevent their +going on the damp grass, and to make them stand disgraced at the corner +of a seat if they have been mad-dog or Mary-Annish. To be Mary-Annish +is to behave like a girl, whimpering because nurse won't carry you, or +simpering with your thumb in your mouth, and it is a hateful quality, +but to be mad-dog is to kick out at everything, and there is some +satisfaction in that. + +If I were to point out all the notable places as we pass up the Broad +Walk, it would be time to turn back before we reach them, and I simply +wave my stick at Cecco's Tree, that memorable spot where a boy called +Cecco lost his penny, and, looking for it, found twopence. There has +been a good deal of excavation going on there ever since. Farther up the +walk is the little wooden house in which Marmaduke Perry hid. There is +no more awful story of the Gardens by day than this of Marmaduke Perry, +who had been Mary-Annish three days in succession, and was sentenced to +appear in the Broad Walk dressed in his sister's clothes. He hid in +the little wooden house, and refused to emerge until they brought him +knickerbockers with pockets. + +You now try to go to the Round Pond, but nurses hate it, because they +are not really manly, and they make you look the other way, at the Big +Penny and the Baby's Palace. She was the most celebrated baby of the +Gardens, and lived in the palace all alone, with ever so many dolls, so +people rang the bell, and up she got out of her bed, though it was past +six o'clock, and she lighted a candle and opened the door in her nighty, +and then they all cried with great rejoicings, “Hail, Queen of England!” + What puzzled David most was how she knew where the matches were kept. +The Big Penny is a statue about her. + +Next we come to the Hump, which is the part of the Broad Walk where all +the big races are run, and even though you had no intention of running +you do run when you come to the Hump, it is such a fascinating, +slide-down kind of place. Often you stop when you have run about +half-way down it, and then you are lost, but there is another little +wooden house near here, called the Lost House, and so you tell the man +that you are lost and then he finds you. It is glorious fun racing down +the Hump, but you can't do it on windy days because then you are not +there, but the fallen leaves do it instead of you. There is almost +nothing that has such a keen sense of fun as a fallen leaf. + +From the Hump we can see the gate that is called after Miss Mabel Grey, +the Fig I promised to tell you about. There were always two nurses with +her, or else one mother and one nurse, and for a long time she was a +pattern-child who always coughed off the table and said, “How do you +do?” to the other Figs, and the only game she played at was flinging a +ball gracefully and letting the nurse bring it back to her. Then one +day she tired of it all and went mad-dog, and, first, to show that she +really was mad-dog, she unloosened both her boot-laces and put out her +tongue east, west, north, and south. She then flung her sash into a +puddle and danced on it till dirty water was squirted over her frock, +after which she climbed the fence and had a series of incredible +adventures, one of the least of which was that she kicked off both her +boots. At last she came to the gate that is now called after her, out of +which she ran into streets David and I have never been in though we have +heard them roaring, and still she ran on and would never again have been +heard of had not her mother jumped into a bus and thus overtaken her. +It all happened, I should say, long ago, and this is not the Mabel Grey +whom David knows. + +Returning up the Broad Walk we have on our right the Baby Walk, which is +so full of perambulators that you could cross from side to side stepping +on babies, but the nurses won't let you do it. From this walk a passage +called Bunting's Thumb, because it is that length, leads into Picnic +Street, where there are real kettles, and chestnut-blossom falls into +your mug as you are drinking. Quite common children picnic here also, +and the blossom falls into their mugs just the same. + +Next comes St. Govor's Well, which was full of water when Malcolm the +Bold fell into it. He was his mother's favourite, and he let her put her +arm round his neck in public because she was a widow, but he was also +partial to adventures and liked to play with a chimney-sweep who had +killed a good many bears. The sweep's name was Sooty, and one day when +they were playing near the well, Malcolm fell in and would have been +drowned had not Sooty dived in and rescued him, and the water had washed +Sooty clean and he now stood revealed as Malcolm's long-lost father. So +Malcolm would not let his mother put her arm round his neck any more. + +Between the well and the Round Pond are the cricket-pitches, and +frequently the choosing of sides exhausts so much time that there is +scarcely any cricket. Everybody wants to bat first, and as soon as he +is out he bowls unless you are the better wrestler, and while you are +wrestling with him the fielders have scattered to play at something +else. The Gardens are noted for two kinds of cricket: boy cricket, which +is real cricket with a bat, and girl cricket, which is with a racquet +and the governess. Girls can't really play cricket, and when you +are watching their futile efforts you make funny sounds at them. +Nevertheless, there was a very disagreeable incident one day when some +forward girls challenged David's team, and a disturbing creature called +Angela Clare sent down so many yorkers that--However, instead of telling +you the result of that regrettable match I shall pass on hurriedly to +the Round Pond, which is the wheel that keeps all the Gardens going. + +It is round because it is in the very middle of the Gardens, and when +you are come to it you never want to go any farther. You can't be good +all the time at the Round Pond, however much you try. You can be good in +the Broad Walk all the time, but not at the Round Pond, and the reason +is that you forget, and, when you remember, you are so wet that you may +as well be wetter. There are men who sail boats on the Round Pond, +such big boats that they bring them in barrows and sometimes in +perambulators, and then the baby has to walk. The bow-legged children +in the Gardens are these who had to walk too soon because their father +needed the perambulator. + +You always want to have a yacht to sail on the Round Pond, and in the +end your uncle gives you one; and to carry it to the Pond the first +day is splendid, also to talk about it to boys who have no uncle is +splendid, but soon you like to leave it at home. For the sweetest +craft that slips her moorings in the Round Pond is what is called a +stick-boat, because she is rather like a stick until she is in the water +and you are holding the string. Then as you walk round, pulling her, +you see little men running about her deck, and sails rise magically and +catch the breeze, and you put in on dirty nights at snug harbours which +are unknown to the lordly yachts. Night passes in a twink, and again +your rakish craft noses for the wind, whales spout, you glide over +buried cities, and have brushes with pirates and cast anchor on coral +isles. You are a solitary boy while all this is taking place, for two +boys together cannot adventure far upon the Round Pond, and though you +may talk to yourself throughout the voyage, giving orders and executing +them with dispatch, you know not, when it is time to go home, where you +have been or what swelled your sails; your treasure-trove is all locked +away in your hold, so to speak, which will be opened, perhaps, by +another little boy many years afterward. + +But those yachts have nothing in their hold. Does anyone return to this +haunt of his youth because of the yachts that used to sail it? Oh, no. +It is the stick-boat that is freighted with memories. The yachts are +toys, their owner a fresh-water mariner, they can cross and recross +a pond only while the stick-boat goes to sea. You yachtsmen with your +wands, who think we are all there to gaze on you, your ships are only +accidents of this place, and were they all to be boarded and sunk by the +ducks the real business of the Round Pond would be carried on as usual. + +Paths from everywhere crowd like children to the pond. Some of them are +ordinary paths, which have a rail on each side, and are made by men +with their coats off, but others are vagrants, wide at one spot and at +another so narrow that you can stand astride them. They are called Paths +that have Made Themselves, and David did wish he could see them doing +it. But, like all the most wonderful things that happen in the Gardens, +it is done, we concluded, at night after the gates are closed. We have +also decided that the paths make themselves because it is their only +chance of getting to the Round Pond. + +One of these gypsy paths comes from the place where the sheep get their +hair cut. When David shed his curls at the hair-dresser's, I am told, he +said good-bye to them without a tremor, though Mary has never been quite +the same bright creature since, so he despises the sheep as they run +from their shearer and calls out tauntingly, “Cowardy, cowardy custard!” + But when the man grips them between his legs David shakes a fist at him +for using such big scissors. Another startling moment is when the man +turns back the grimy wool from the sheeps' shoulders and they look +suddenly like ladies in the stalls of a theatre. The sheep are so +frightened by the shearing that it makes them quite white and thin, and +as soon as they are set free they begin to nibble the grass at once, +quite anxiously, as if they feared that they would never be worth +eating. David wonders whether they know each other, now that they are +so different, and if it makes them fight with the wrong ones. They are +great fighters, and thus so unlike country sheep that every year they +give Porthos a shock. He can make a field of country sheep fly by merely +announcing his approach, but these town sheep come toward him with no +promise of gentle entertainment, and then a light from last year breaks +upon Porthos. He cannot with dignity retreat, but he stops and looks +about him as if lost in admiration of the scenery, and presently he +strolls away with a fine indifference and a glint at me from the corner +of his eye. + +The Serpentine begins near here. It is a lovely lake, and there is a +drowned forest at the bottom of it. If you peer over the edge you can +see the trees all growing upside down, and they say that at night there +are also drowned stars in it. If so, Peter Pan sees them when he is +sailing across the lake in the Thrush's Nest. A small part only of the +Serpentine is in the Gardens, for soon it passes beneath a bridge to +far away where the island is on which all the birds are born that become +baby boys and girls. No one who is human, except Peter Pan (and he is +only half human), can land on the island, but you may write what you +want (boy or girl, dark or fair) on a piece of paper, and then twist +it into the shape of a boat and slip it into the water, and it reaches +Peter Pan's island after dark. + +We are on the way home now, though, of course, it is all pretence that +we can go to so many of the places in one day. I should have had to be +carrying David long ago and resting on every seat like old Mr. Salford. +That was what we called him, because he always talked to us of a lovely +place called Salford where he had been born. He was a crab-apple of +an old gentleman who wandered all day in the Gardens from seat to seat +trying to fall in with somebody who was acquainted with the town of +Salford, and when we had known him for a year or more we actually did +meet another aged solitary who had once spent Saturday to Monday in +Salford. He was meek and timid and carried his address inside his hat, +and whatever part of London he was in search of he always went to the +General Post-office first as a starting-point. Him we carried in triumph +to our other friend, with the story of that Saturday to Monday, and +never shall I forget the gloating joy with which Mr. Salford leapt at +him. They have been cronies ever since, and I notice that Mr. Salford, +who naturally does most of the talking, keeps tight grip of the other +old man's coat. + +The two last places before you come to our gate are the Dog's Cemetery +and the chaffinch's nest, but we pretend not to know what the Dog's +Cemetery is, as Porthos is always with us. The nest is very sad. It +is quite white, and the way we found it was wonderful. We were having +another look among the bushes for David's lost worsted ball, and instead +of the ball we found a lovely nest made of the worsted, and containing +four eggs, with scratches on them very like David's handwriting, so we +think they must have been the mother's love-letters to the little ones +inside. Every day we were in the Gardens we paid a call at the nest, +taking care that no cruel boy should see us, and we dropped crumbs, +and soon the bird knew us as friends, and sat in the nest looking at us +kindly with her shoulders hunched up. But one day when we went, there +were only two eggs in the nest, and the next time there were none. The +saddest part of it was that the poor little chaffinch fluttered about +the bushes, looking so reproachfully at us that we knew she thought we +had done it, and though David tried to explain to her, it was so +long since he had spoken the bird language that I fear she did not +understand. He and I left the Gardens that day with our knuckles in our +eyes. + + + + +XIV. Peter Pan + +If you ask your mother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was a +little girl she will say, “Why, of course, I did, child,” and if you +ask her whether he rode on a goat in those days she will say, “What +a foolish question to ask; certainly he did.” Then if you ask your +grandmother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was a girl, she +also says, “Why, of course, I did, child,” but if you ask her whether he +rode on a goat in those days, she says she never heard of his having a +goat. Perhaps she has forgotten, just as she sometimes forgets your name +and calls you Mildred, which is your mother's name. Still, she could +hardly forget such an important thing as the goat. Therefore there was +no goat when your grandmother was a little girl. This shows that, in +telling the story of Peter Pan, to begin with the goat (as most people +do) is as silly as to put on your jacket before your vest. + +Of course, it also shows that Peter is ever so old, but he is really +always the same age, so that does not matter in the least. His age +is one week, and though he was born so long ago he has never had a +birthday, nor is there the slightest chance of his ever having one. The +reason is that he escaped from being a human when he was seven days' +old; he escaped by the window and flew back to the Kensington Gardens. + +If you think he was the only baby who ever wanted to escape, it shows +how completely you have forgotten your own young days. When David heard +this story first he was quite certain that he had never tried to escape, +but I told him to think back hard, pressing his hands to his temples, +and when he had done this hard, and even harder, he distinctly +remembered a youthful desire to return to the tree-tops, and with that +memory came others, as that he had lain in bed planning to escape as +soon as his mother was asleep, and how she had once caught him half-way +up the chimney. All children could have such recollections if they would +press their hands hard to their temples, for, having been birds before +they were human, they are naturally a little wild during the first few +weeks, and very itchy at the shoulders, where their wings used to be. So +David tells me. + +I ought to mention here that the following is our way with a story: +First, I tell it to him, and then he tells it to me, the understanding +being that it is quite a different story; and then I retell it with his +additions, and so we go on until no one could say whether it is more +his story or mine. In this story of Peter Pan, for instance, the bald +narrative and most of the moral reflections are mine, though not all, +for this boy can be a stern moralist, but the interesting bits about the +ways and customs of babies in the bird-stage are mostly reminiscences +of David's, recalled by pressing his hands to his temples and thinking +hard. + +Well, Peter Pan got out by the window, which had no bars. Standing +on the ledge he could see trees far away, which were doubtless the +Kensington Gardens, and the moment he saw them he entirely forgot that +he was now a little boy in a nightgown, and away he flew, right over the +houses to the Gardens. It is wonderful that he could fly without wings, +but the place itched tremendously, and, perhaps we could all fly if we +were as dead-confident-sure of our capacity to do it as was bold Peter +Pan that evening. + +He alighted gaily on the open sward, between the Baby's Palace and the +Serpentine, and the first thing he did was to lie on his back and kick. +He was quite unaware already that he had ever been human, and thought he +was a bird, even in appearance, just the same as in his early days, and +when he tried to catch a fly he did not understand that the reason he +missed it was because he had attempted to seize it with his hand, which, +of course, a bird never does. He saw, however, that it must be past +Lock-out Time, for there were a good many fairies about, all too busy +to notice him; they were getting breakfast ready, milking their cows, +drawing water, and so on, and the sight of the water-pails made him +thirsty, so he flew over to the Round Pond to have a drink. He stooped, +and dipped his beak in the pond; he thought it was his beak, but, of +course, it was only his nose, and, therefore, very little water came up, +and that not so refreshing as usual, so next he tried a puddle, and he +fell flop into it. When a real bird falls in flop, he spreads out his +feathers and pecks them dry, but Peter could not remember what was +the thing to do, and he decided, rather sulkily, to go to sleep on the +weeping beech in the Baby Walk. + +At first he found some difficulty in balancing himself on a branch, but +presently he remembered the way, and fell asleep. He awoke long before +morning, shivering, and saying to himself, “I never was out in such a +cold night;” he had really been out in colder nights when he was a bird, +but, of course, as everybody knows, what seems a warm night to a bird +is a cold night to a boy in a nightgown. Peter also felt strangely +uncomfortable, as if his head was stuffy, he heard loud noises that made +him look round sharply, though they were really himself sneezing. There +was something he wanted very much, but, though he knew he wanted it, he +could not think what it was. What he wanted so much was his mother to +blow his nose, but that never struck him, so he decided to appeal to the +fairies for enlightenment. They are reputed to know a good deal. + +There were two of them strolling along the Baby Walk, with their arms +round each other's waists, and he hopped down to address them. The +fairies have their tiffs with the birds, but they usually give a civil +answer to a civil question, and he was quite angry when these two ran +away the moment they saw him. Another was lolling on a garden-chair, +reading a postage-stamp which some human had let fall, and when he heard +Peter's voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip. + +To Peter's bewilderment he discovered that every fairy he met fled from +him. A band of workmen, who were sawing down a toadstool, rushed away, +leaving their tools behind them. A milkmaid turned her pail upside down +and hid in it. Soon the Gardens were in an uproar. Crowds of fairies +were running this away and that, asking each other stoutly, who was +afraid, lights were extinguished, doors barricaded, and from the grounds +of Queen Mab's palace came the rubadub of drums, showing that the royal +guard had been called out. A regiment of Lancers came charging down +the Broad Walk, armed with holly-leaves, with which they jog the enemy +horribly in passing. Peter heard the little people crying everywhere +that there was a human in the Gardens after Lock-out Time, but he never +thought for a moment that he was the human. He was feeling stuffier and +stuffier, and more and more wistful to learn what he wanted done to his +nose, but he pursued them with the vital question in vain; the timid +creatures ran from him, and even the Lancers, when he approached them up +the Hump, turned swiftly into a side-walk, on the pretence that they saw +him there. + +Despairing of the fairies, he resolved to consult the birds, but now he +remembered, as an odd thing, that all the birds on the weeping beech had +flown away when he alighted on it, and though that had not troubled him +at the time, he saw its meaning now. Every living thing was shunning +him. Poor little Peter Pan, he sat down and cried, and even then he did +not know that, for a bird, he was sitting on his wrong part. It is a +blessing that he did not know, for otherwise he would have lost faith +in his power to fly, and the moment you doubt whether you can fly, you +cease forever to be able to do it. The reason birds can fly and we can't +is simply that they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have +wings. + +Now, except by flying, no one can reach the island in the Serpentine, +for the boats of humans are forbidden to land there, and there +are stakes round it, standing up in the water, on each of which a +bird-sentinel sits by day and night. It was to the island that Peter now +flew to put his strange case before old Solomon Caw, and he alighted on +it with relief, much heartened to find himself at last at home, as the +birds call the island. All of them were asleep, including the sentinels, +except Solomon, who was wide awake on one side, and he listened quietly +to Peter's adventures, and then told him their true meaning. + +“Look at your night-gown, if you don't believe me,” Solomon said, +and with staring eyes Peter looked at his night-gown, and then at the +sleeping birds. Not one of them wore anything. + +“How many of your toes are thumbs?” said Solomon a little cruelly, and +Peter saw to his consternation, that all his toes were fingers. The +shock was so great that it drove away his cold. + +“Ruffle your feathers,” said that grim old Solomon, and Peter tried most +desperately hard to ruffle his feathers, but he had none. Then he rose +up, quaking, and for the first time since he stood on the window-ledge, +he remembered a lady who had been very fond of him. + +“I think I shall go back to mother,” he said timidly. + +“Good-bye,” replied Solomon Caw with a queer look. + +But Peter hesitated. “Why don't you go?” the old one asked politely. + +“I suppose,” said Peter huskily, “I suppose I can still fly?” + +You see, he had lost faith. + +“Poor little half-and-half,” said Solomon, who was not really +hard-hearted, “you will never be able to fly again, not even on windy +days. You must live here on the island always.” + +“And never even go to the Kensington Gardens?” Peter asked tragically. + +“How could you get across?” said Solomon. He promised very kindly, +however, to teach Peter as many of the bird ways as could be learned by +one of such an awkward shape. + +“Then I sha'n't be exactly a human?” Peter asked. + +“No.” + +“Nor exactly a bird?” + +“No.” + +“What shall I be?” + +“You will be a Betwixt-and-Between,” Solomon said, and certainly he was +a wise old fellow, for that is exactly how it turned out. + +The birds on the island never got used to him. His oddities tickled them +every day, as if they were quite new, though it was really the birds +that were new. They came out of the eggs daily, and laughed at him at +once, then off they soon flew to be humans, and other birds came out +of other eggs, and so it went on forever. The crafty mother-birds, when +they tired of sitting on their eggs, used to get the young one to break +their shells a day before the right time by whispering to them that now +was their chance to see Peter washing or drinking or eating. Thousands +gathered round him daily to watch him do these things, just as you watch +the peacocks, and they screamed with delight when he lifted the crusts +they flung him with his hands instead of in the usual way with the +mouth. All his food was brought to him from the Gardens at Solomon's +orders by the birds. He would not eat worms or insects (which they +thought very silly of him), so they brought him bread in their beaks. +Thus, when you cry out, “Greedy! Greedy!” to the bird that flies away +with the big crust, you know now that you ought not to do this, for he +is very likely taking it to Peter Pan. + +Peter wore no night-gown now. You see, the birds were always begging him +for bits of it to line their nests with, and, being very good-natured, +he could not refuse, so by Solomon's advice he had hidden what was left +of it. But, though he was now quite naked, you must not think that he +was cold or unhappy. He was usually very happy and gay, and the reason +was that Solomon had kept his promise and taught him many of the bird +ways. To be easily pleased, for instance, and always to be really doing +something, and to think that whatever he was doing was a thing of vast +importance. Peter became very clever at helping the birds to build their +nests; soon he could build better than a wood-pigeon, and nearly as well +as a blackbird, though never did he satisfy the finches, and he made +nice little water-troughs near the nests and dug up worms for the young +ones with his fingers. He also became very learned in bird-lore, and +knew an east-wind from a west-wind by its smell, and he could see the +grass growing and hear the insects walking about inside the tree-trunks. +But the best thing Solomon had done was to teach him to have a glad +heart. All birds have glad hearts unless you rob their nests, and so as +they were the only kind of heart Solomon knew about, it was easy to him +to teach Peter how to have one. + +Peter's heart was so glad that he felt he must sing all day long, +just as the birds sing for joy, but, being partly human, he needed an +instrument, so he made a pipe of reeds, and he used to sit by the shore +of the island of an evening, practising the sough of the wind and the +ripple of the water, and catching handfuls of the shine of the moon, and +he put them all in his pipe and played them so beautifully that even the +birds were deceived, and they would say to each other, “Was that a fish +leaping in the water or was it Peter playing leaping fish on his pipe?” + and sometimes he played the birth of birds, and then the mothers would +turn round in their nests to see whether they had laid an egg. If you +are a child of the Gardens you must know the chestnut-tree near the +bridge, which comes out in flower first of all the chestnuts, but +perhaps you have not heard why this tree leads the way. It is because +Peter wearies for summer and plays that it has come, and the chestnut +being so near, hears him and is cheated. + +But as Peter sat by the shore tootling divinely on his pipe he sometimes +fell into sad thoughts and then the music became sad also, and the +reason of all this sadness was that he could not reach the Gardens, +though he could see them through the arch of the bridge. He knew he +could never be a real human again, and scarcely wanted to be one, but +oh, how he longed to play as other children play, and of course there +is no such lovely place to play in as the Gardens. The birds brought him +news of how boys and girls play, and wistful tears started in Peter's +eyes. + +Perhaps you wonder why he did not swim across. The reason was that he +could not swim. He wanted to know how to swim, but no one on the island +knew the way except the ducks, and they are so stupid. They were quite +willing to teach him, but all they could say about it was, “You sit down +on the top of the water in this way, and then you kick out like that.” + Peter tried it often, but always before he could kick out he sank. What +he really needed to know was how you sit on the water without sinking, +and they said it was quite impossible to explain such an easy thing as +that. Occasionally swans touched on the island, and he would give them +all his day's food and then ask them how they sat on the water, but as +soon as he had no more to give them the hateful things hissed at him and +sailed away. + +Once he really thought he had discovered a way of reaching the Gardens. +A wonderful white thing, like a runaway newspaper, floated high over +the island and then tumbled, rolling over and over after the manner of a +bird that has broken its wing. Peter was so frightened that he hid, but +the birds told him it was only a kite, and what a kite is, and that it +must have tugged its string out of a boy's hand, and soared away. After +that they laughed at Peter for being so fond of the kite, he loved it +so much that he even slept with one hand on it, and I think this was +pathetic and pretty, for the reason he loved it was because it had +belonged to a real boy. + +To the birds this was a very poor reason, but the older ones felt +grateful to him at this time because he had nursed a number of +fledglings through the German measles, and they offered to show him how +birds fly a kite. So six of them took the end of the string in their +beaks and flew away with it; and to his amazement it flew after them and +went even higher than they. + +Peter screamed out, “Do it again!” and with great good-nature they did +it several times, and always instead of thanking them he cried, “Do it +again!” which shows that even now he had not quite forgotten what it was +to be a boy. + +At last, with a grand design burning within his brave heart, he begged +them to do it once more with him clinging to the tail, and now a hundred +flew off with the string, and Peter clung to the tail, meaning to drop +off when he was over the Gardens. But the kite broke to pieces in the +air, and he would have drowned in the Serpentine had he not caught hold +of two indignant swans and made them carry him to the island. After this +the birds said that they would help him no more in his mad enterprise. + +Nevertheless, Peter did reach the Gardens at last by the help of +Shelley's boat, as I am now to tell you. + + + + +XV. The Thrush's Nest + +Shelley was a young gentleman and as grown-up as he need ever expect to +be. He was a poet; and they are never exactly grown-up. They are people +who despise money except what you need for to-day, and he had all that +and five pounds over. So, when he was walking in the Kensington Gardens, +he made a paper boat of his bank-note, and sent it sailing on the +Serpentine. + +It reached the island at night: and the look-out brought it to Solomon +Caw, who thought at first that it was the usual thing, a message from a +lady, saying she would be obliged if he could let her have a good one. +They always ask for the best one he has, and if he likes the letter he +sends one from Class A; but if it ruffles him he sends very funny ones +indeed. Sometimes he sends none at all, and at another time he sends a +nestful; it all depends on the mood you catch him in. He likes you to +leave it all to him, and if you mention particularly that you hope he +will see his way to making it a boy this time, he is almost sure to send +another girl. And whether you are a lady or only a little boy who wants +a baby-sister, always take pains to write your address clearly. You +can't think what a lot of babies Solomon has sent to the wrong house. + +Shelley's boat, when opened, completely puzzled Solomon, and he took +counsel of his assistants, who having walked over it twice, first with +their toes pointed out, and then with their toes pointed in, decided +that it came from some greedy person who wanted five. They thought this +because there was a large five printed on it. “Preposterous!” cried +Solomon in a rage, and he presented it to Peter; anything useless which +drifted upon the island was usually given to Peter as a play-thing. + +But he did not play with his precious bank-note, for he knew what it +was at once, having been very observant during the week when he was an +ordinary boy. With so much money, he reflected, he could surely at last +contrive to reach the Gardens, and he considered all the possible ways, +and decided (wisely, I think) to choose the best way. But, first, he had +to tell the birds of the value of Shelley's boat; and though they were +too honest to demand it back, he saw that they were galled, and they +cast such black looks at Solomon, who was rather vain of his cleverness, +that he flew away to the end of the island, and sat there very depressed +with his head buried in his wings. Now Peter knew that unless Solomon +was on your side, you never got anything done for you in the island, so +he followed him and tried to hearten him. + +Nor was this all that Peter did to gain the powerful old fellow's good +will. You must know that Solomon had no intention of remaining in office +all his life. He looked forward to retiring by-and-by, and devoting his +green old age to a life of pleasure on a certain yew-stump in the Figs +which had taken his fancy, and for years he had been quietly filling his +stocking. It was a stocking belonging to some bathing person which had +been cast upon the island, and at the time I speak of it contained a +hundred and eighty crumbs, thirty-four nuts, sixteen crusts, a pen-wiper +and a boot-lace. When his stocking was full, Solomon calculated that he +would be able to retire on a competency. Peter now gave him a pound. He +cut it off his bank-note with a sharp stick. + +This made Solomon his friend for ever, and after the two had consulted +together they called a meeting of the thrushes. You will see presently +why thrushes only were invited. + +The scheme to be put before them was really Peter's, but Solomon did +most of the talking, because he soon became irritable if other people +talked. He began by saying that he had been much impressed by the +superior ingenuity shown by the thrushes in nest-building, and this +put them into good-humour at once, as it was meant to do; for all the +quarrels between birds are about the best way of building nests. Other +birds, said Solomon, omitted to line their nests with mud, and as a +result they did not hold water. Here he cocked his head as if he had +used an unanswerable argument; but, unfortunately, a Mrs. Finch had come +to the meeting uninvited, and she squeaked out, “We don't build nests to +hold water, but to hold eggs,” and then the thrushes stopped cheering, +and Solomon was so perplexed that he took several sips of water. + +“Consider,” he said at last, “how warm the mud makes the nest.” + +“Consider,” cried Mrs. Finch, “that when water gets into the nest it +remains there and your little ones are drowned.” + +The thrushes begged Solomon with a look to say something crushing in +reply to this, but again he was perplexed. + +“Try another drink,” suggested Mrs. Finch pertly. Kate was her name, and +all Kates are saucy. + +Solomon did try another drink, and it inspired him. “If,” said he, “a +finch's nest is placed on the Serpentine it fills and breaks to pieces, +but a thrush's nest is still as dry as the cup of a swan's back.” + +How the thrushes applauded! Now they knew why they lined their nests +with mud, and when Mrs. Finch called out, “We don't place our nests on +the Serpentine,” they did what they should have done at first: chased +her from the meeting. After this it was most orderly. What they had been +brought together to hear, said Solomon, was this: their young friend, +Peter Pan, as they well knew, wanted very much to be able to cross to +the Gardens, and he now proposed, with their help, to build a boat. + +At this the thrushes began to fidget, which made Peter tremble for his +scheme. + +Solomon explained hastily that what he meant was not one of the cumbrous +boats that humans use; the proposed boat was to be simply a thrush's +nest large enough to hold Peter. + +But still, to Peter's agony, the thrushes were sulky. “We are very busy +people,” they grumbled, “and this would be a big job.” + +“Quite so,” said Solomon, “and, of course, Peter would not allow you +to work for nothing. You must remember that he is now in comfortable +circumstances, and he will pay you such wages as you have never been +paid before. Peter Pan authorises me to say that you shall all be paid +sixpence a day.” + +Then all the thrushes hopped for joy, and that very day was begun the +celebrated Building of the Boat. All their ordinary business fell into +arrears. It was the time of year when they should have been pairing, but +not a thrush's nest was built except this big one, and so Solomon soon +ran short of thrushes with which to supply the demand from the mainland. +The stout, rather greedy children, who look so well in perambulators +but get puffed easily when they walk, were all young thrushes once, and +ladies often ask specially for them. What do you think Solomon did? He +sent over to the house-tops for a lot of sparrows and ordered them to +lay their eggs in old thrushes' nests and sent their young to the ladies +and swore they were all thrushes! It was known afterward on the island +as the Sparrows' Year, and so, when you meet, as you doubtless sometimes +do, grown-up people who puff and blow as if they thought themselves +bigger than they are, very likely they belong to that year. You ask +them. + +Peter was a just master, and paid his workpeople every evening. They +stood in rows on the branches, waiting politely while he cut the paper +sixpences out of his bank-note, and presently he called the roll, and +then each bird, as the names were mentioned, flew down and got sixpence. +It must have been a fine sight. + +And at last, after months of labor, the boat was finished. Oh, the +deportment of Peter as he saw it growing more and more like a great +thrush's nest! From the very beginning of the building of it he slept by +its side, and often woke up to say sweet things to it, and after it was +lined with mud and the mud had dried he always slept in it. He sleeps in +his nest still, and has a fascinating way of curling round in it, for it +is just large enough to hold him comfortably when he curls round like a +kitten. It is brown inside, of course, but outside it is mostly green, +being woven of grass and twigs, and when these wither or snap the walls +are thatched afresh. There are also a few feathers here and there, which +came off the thrushes while they were building. + +The other birds were extremely jealous and said that the boat would not +balance on the water, but it lay most beautifully steady; they said the +water would come into it, but no water came into it. Next they said that +Peter had no oars, and this caused the thrushes to look at each other +in dismay, but Peter replied that he had no need of oars, for he had a +sail, and with such a proud, happy face he produced a sail which he had +fashioned out of his night-gown, and though it was still rather like a +night-gown it made a lovely sail. And that night, the moon being full, +and all the birds asleep, he did enter his coracle (as Master Francis +Pretty would have said) and depart out of the island. And first, he knew +not why, he looked upward, with his hands clasped, and from that moment +his eyes were pinned to the west. + +He had promised the thrushes to begin by making short voyages, with them +to his guides, but far away he saw the Kensington Gardens beckoning to +him beneath the bridge, and he could not wait. His face was flushed, but +he never looked back; there was an exultation in his little breast that +drove out fear. Was Peter the least gallant of the English mariners who +have sailed westward to meet the Unknown? + +At first, his boat turned round and round, and he was driven back to the +place of his starting, whereupon he shortened sail, by removing one of +the sleeves, and was forthwith carried backward by a contrary breeze, to +his no small peril. He now let go the sail, with the result that he was +drifted toward the far shore, where are black shadows he knew not the +dangers of, but suspected them, and so once more hoisted his night-gown +and went roomer of the shadows until he caught a favouring wind, which +bore him westward, but at so great a speed that he was like to be broke +against the bridge. Which, having avoided, he passed under the bridge +and came, to his great rejoicing, within full sight of the delectable +Gardens. But having tried to cast anchor, which was a stone at the end +of a piece of the kite-string, he found no bottom, and was fain to hold +off, seeking for moorage, and, feeling his way, he buffeted against a +sunken reef that cast him overboard by the greatness of the shock, and +he was near to being drowned, but clambered back into the vessel. There +now arose a mighty storm, accompanied by roaring of waters, such as he +had never heard the like, and he was tossed this way and that, and +his hands so numbed with the cold that he could not close them. Having +escaped the danger of which, he was mercifully carried into a small bay, +where his boat rode at peace. + +Nevertheless, he was not yet in safety; for, on pretending to disembark, +he found a multitude of small people drawn up on the shore to contest +his landing, and shouting shrilly to him to be off, for it was long past +Lock-out Time. This, with much brandishing of their holly-leaves, and +also a company of them carried an arrow which some boy had left in the +Gardens, and this they were prepared to use as a battering-ram. + +Then Peter, who knew them for the fairies, called out that he was not an +ordinary human and had no desire to do them displeasure, but to be their +friend; nevertheless, having found a jolly harbour, he was in no temper +to draw off therefrom, and he warned them if they sought to mischief him +to stand to their harms. + +So saying, he boldly leapt ashore, and they gathered around him with +intent to slay him, but there then arose a great cry among the women, +and it was because they had now observed that his sail was a baby's +night-gown. Whereupon, they straightway loved him, and grieved that +their laps were too small, the which I cannot explain, except by saying +that such is the way of women. The men-fairies now sheathed their +weapons on observing the behaviour of their women, on whose intelligence +they set great store, and they led him civilly to their queen, who +conferred upon him the courtesy of the Gardens after Lock-out Time, and +henceforth Peter could go whither he chose, and the fairies had orders +to put him in comfort. + +Such was his first voyage to the Gardens, and you may gather from the +antiquity of the language that it took place a long time ago. But Peter +never grows any older, and if we could be watching for him under the +bridge to-night (but, of course, we can't), I daresay we should see +him hoisting his night-gown and sailing or paddling toward us in the +Thrush's Nest. When he sails, he sits down, but he stands up to paddle. +I shall tell you presently how he got his paddle. + +Long before the time for the opening of the gates comes he steals back +to the island, for people must not see him (he is not so human as all +that), but this gives him hours for play, and he plays exactly as real +children play. At least he thinks so, and it is one of the pathetic +things about him that he often plays quite wrongly. + +You see, he had no one to tell him how children really play, for the +fairies were all more or less in hiding until dusk, and so know nothing, +and though the birds pretended that they could tell him a great deal, +when the time for telling came, it was wonderful how little they really +knew. They told him the truth about hide-and-seek, and he often plays +it by himself, but even the ducks on the Round Pond could not explain to +him what it is that makes the pond so fascinating to boys. Every night +the ducks have forgotten all the events of the day, except the number of +pieces of cake thrown to them. They are gloomy creatures, and say that +cake is not what it was in their young days. + +So Peter had to find out many things for himself. He often played ships +at the Round Pond, but his ship was only a hoop which he had found on +the grass. Of course, he had never seen a hoop, and he wondered what +you play at with them, and decided that you play at pretending they +are boats. This hoop always sank at once, but he waded in for it, and +sometimes he dragged it gleefully round the rim of the pond, and he was +quite proud to think that he had discovered what boys do with hoops. + +Another time, when he found a child's pail, he thought it was for +sitting in, and he sat so hard in it that he could scarcely get out of +it. Also he found a balloon. It was bobbing about on the Hump, quite as +if it was having a game by itself, and he caught it after an exciting +chase. But he thought it was a ball, and Jenny Wren had told him that +boys kick balls, so he kicked it; and after that he could not find it +anywhere. + +Perhaps the most surprising thing he found was a perambulator. It was +under a lime-tree, near the entrance to the Fairy Queen's Winter Palace +(which is within the circle of the seven Spanish chestnuts), and Peter +approached it warily, for the birds had never mentioned such things to +him. Lest it was alive, he addressed it politely, and then, as it gave +no answer, he went nearer and felt it cautiously. He gave it a little +push, and it ran from him, which made him think it must be alive after +all; but, as it had run from him, he was not afraid. So he stretched out +his hand to pull it to him, but this time it ran at him, and he was so +alarmed that he leapt the railing and scudded away to his boat. You must +not think, however, that he was a coward, for he came back next night +with a crust in one hand and a stick in the other, but the perambulator +had gone, and he never saw another one. I have promised to tell you also +about his paddle. It was a child's spade which he had found near St. +Govor's Well, and he thought it was a paddle. + +Do you pity Peter Pan for making these mistakes? If so, I think it +rather silly of you. What I mean is that, of course, one must pity him +now and then, but to pity him all the time would be impertinence. He +thought he had the most splendid time in the Gardens, and to think you +have it is almost quite as good as really to have it. He played without +ceasing, while you often waste time by being mad-dog or Mary-Annish. He +could be neither of these things, for he had never heard of them, but do +you think he is to be pitied for that? + +Oh, he was merry. He was as much merrier than you, for instance, as you +are merrier than your father. Sometimes he fell, like a spinning-top, +from sheer merriment. Have you seen a greyhound leaping the fences of +the Gardens? That is how Peter leaps them. + +And think of the music of his pipe. Gentlemen who walk home at night +write to the papers to say they heard a nightingale in the Gardens, but +it is really Peter's pipe they hear. Of course, he had no mother--at +least, what use was she to him? You can be sorry for him for that, but +don't be too sorry, for the next thing I mean to tell you is how he +revisited her. It was the fairies who gave him the chance. + + + + +XVI. Lock-Out Time + +It is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies, and almost +the only thing known for certain is that there are fairies wherever +there are children. Long ago children were forbidden the Gardens, and +at that time there was not a fairy in the place; then the children were +admitted, and the fairies came trooping in that very evening. They can't +resist following the children, but you seldom see them, partly because +they live in the daytime behind the railings, where you are not allowed +to go, and also partly because they are so cunning. They are not a bit +cunning after Lock-out, but until Lock-out, my word! + +When you were a bird you knew the fairies pretty well, and you remember +a good deal about them in your babyhood, which it is a great pity you +can't write down, for gradually you forget, and I have heard of children +who declared that they had never once seen a fairy. Very likely if they +said this in the Kensington Gardens, they were standing looking at a +fairy all the time. The reason they were cheated was that she pretended +to be something else. This is one of their best tricks. They usually +pretend to be flowers, because the court sits in the Fairies' Basin, +and there are so many flowers there, and all along the Baby Walk, that +a flower is the thing least likely to attract attention. They dress +exactly like flowers, and change with the seasons, putting on white when +lilies are in and blue for blue-bells, and so on. They like crocus and +hyacinth time best of all, as they are partial to a bit of colour, but +tulips (except white ones, which are the fairy-cradles) they consider +garish, and they sometimes put off dressing like tulips for days, so +that the beginning of the tulip weeks is almost the best time to catch +them. + +When they think you are not looking they skip along pretty lively, but +if you look and they fear there is no time to hide, they stand quite +still, pretending to be flowers. Then, after you have passed without +knowing that they were fairies, they rush home and tell their mothers +they have had such an adventure. The Fairy Basin, you remember, is all +covered with ground-ivy (from which they make their castor-oil), with +flowers growing in it here and there. Most of them really are flowers, +but some of them are fairies. You never can be sure of them, but a good +plan is to walk by looking the other way, and then turn round sharply. +Another good plan, which David and I sometimes follow, is to stare them +down. After a long time they can't help winking, and then you know for +certain that they are fairies. + +There are also numbers of them along the Baby Walk, which is a +famous gentle place, as spots frequented by fairies are called. Once +twenty-four of them had an extraordinary adventure. They were a girls' +school out for a walk with the governess, and all wearing hyacinth +gowns, when she suddenly put her finger to her mouth, and then they +all stood still on an empty bed and pretended to be hyacinths. +Unfortunately, what the governess had heard was two gardeners coming to +plant new flowers in that very bed. They were wheeling a handcart with +the flowers in it, and were quite surprised to find the bed occupied. +“Pity to lift them hyacinths,” said the one man. “Duke's orders,” + replied the other, and, having emptied the cart, they dug up the +boarding-school and put the poor, terrified things in it in five rows. +Of course, neither the governess nor the girls dare let on that they +were fairies, so they were carted far away to a potting-shed, out of +which they escaped in the night without their shoes, but there was a +great row about it among the parents, and the school was ruined. + +As for their houses, it is no use looking for them, because they are +the exact opposite of our houses. You can see our houses by day but you +can't see them by dark. Well, you can see their houses by dark, but you +can't see them by day, for they are the colour of night, and I never +heard of anyone yet who could see night in the daytime. This does not +mean that they are black, for night has its colours just as day has, +but ever so much brighter. Their blues and reds and greens are like ours +with a light behind them. The palace is entirely built of many-coloured +glasses, and is quite the loveliest of all royal residences, but the +queen sometimes complains because the common people will peep in to see +what she is doing. They are very inquisitive folk, and press quite hard +against the glass, and that is why their noses are mostly snubby. The +streets are miles long and very twisty, and have paths on each side made +of bright worsted. The birds used to steal the worsted for their nests, +but a policeman has been appointed to hold on at the other end. + +One of the great differences between the fairies and us is that they +never do anything useful. When the first baby laughed for the first +time, his laugh broke into a million pieces, and they all went skipping +about. That was the beginning of fairies. They look tremendously busy, +you know, as if they had not a moment to spare, but if you were to ask +them what they are doing, they could not tell you in the least. They are +frightfully ignorant, and everything they do is make-believe. They have +a postman, but he never calls except at Christmas with his little box, +and though they have beautiful schools, nothing is taught in them; the +youngest child being chief person is always elected mistress, and when +she has called the roll, they all go out for a walk and never come back. +It is a very noticeable thing that, in fairy families, the youngest +is always chief person, and usually becomes a prince or princess; and +children remember this, and think it must be so among humans also, and +that is why they are often made uneasy when they come upon their mother +furtively putting new frills on the basinette. + +You have probably observed that your baby-sister wants to do all sorts +of things that your mother and her nurse want her not to do: to stand up +at sitting-down time, and to sit down at standing-up time, for instance, +or to wake up when she should fall asleep, or to crawl on the floor when +she is wearing her best frock, and so on, and perhaps you put this down +to naughtiness. But it is not; it simply means that she is doing as +she has seen the fairies do; she begins by following their ways, and +it takes about two years to get her into the human ways. Her fits of +passion, which are awful to behold, and are usually called teething, +are no such thing; they are her natural exasperation, because we don't +understand her, though she is talking an intelligible language. She is +talking fairy. The reason mothers and nurses know what her remarks mean, +before other people know, as that “Guch” means “Give it to me at once,” + while “Wa” is “Why do you wear such a funny hat?” is because, mixing so +much with babies, they have picked up a little of the fairy language. + +Of late David has been thinking back hard about the fairy tongue, with +his hands clutching his temples, and he has remembered a number of their +phrases which I shall tell you some day if I don't forget. He had heard +them in the days when he was a thrush, and though I suggested to him +that perhaps it is really bird language he is remembering, he says not, +for these phrases are about fun and adventures, and the birds talked of +nothing but nest-building. He distinctly remembers that the birds used +to go from spot to spot like ladies at shop-windows, looking at the +different nests and saying, “Not my colour, my dear,” and “How would +that do with a soft lining?” and “But will it wear?” and “What hideous +trimming!” and so on. + +The fairies are exquisite dancers, and that is why one of the first +things the baby does is to sign to you to dance to him and then to cry +when you do it. They hold their great balls in the open air, in what +is called a fairy-ring. For weeks afterward you can see the ring on the +grass. It is not there when they begin, but they make it by waltzing +round and round. Sometimes you will find mushrooms inside the ring, and +these are fairy chairs that the servants have forgotten to clear away. +The chairs and the rings are the only tell-tale marks these little +people leave behind them, and they would remove even these were they not +so fond of dancing that they toe it till the very moment of the opening +of the gates. David and I once found a fairy-ring quite warm. + +But there is also a way of finding out about the ball before it takes +place. You know the boards which tell at what time the Gardens are to +close to-day. Well, these tricky fairies sometimes slyly change the +board on a ball night, so that it says the Gardens are to close at +six-thirty for instance, instead of at seven. This enables them to get +begun half an hour earlier. + +If on such a night we could remain behind in the Gardens, as the famous +Maimie Mannering did, we might see delicious sights, hundreds of +lovely fairies hastening to the ball, the married ones wearing their +wedding-rings round their waists, the gentlemen, all in uniform, holding +up the ladies' trains, and linkmen running in front carrying winter +cherries, which are the fairy-lanterns, the cloakroom where they put +on their silver slippers and get a ticket for their wraps, the flowers +streaming up from the Baby Walk to look on, and always welcome because +they can lend a pin, the supper-table, with Queen Mab at the head of it, +and behind her chair the Lord Chamberlain, who carries a dandelion on +which he blows when Her Majesty wants to know the time. + +The table-cloth varies according to the seasons, and in May it is made +of chestnut-blossom. The ways the fairy-servants do is this: The men, +scores of them, climb up the trees and shake the branches, and the +blossom falls like snow. Then the lady servants sweep it together by +whisking their skirts until it is exactly like a table-cloth, and that +is how they get their table-cloth. + +They have real glasses and real wine of three kinds, namely, blackthorn +wine, berberris wine, and cowslip wine, and the Queen pours out, but the +bottles are so heavy that she just pretends to pour out. There is bread +and butter to begin with, of the size of a threepenny bit; and cakes to +end with, and they are so small that they have no crumbs. The fairies +sit round on mushrooms, and at first they are very well-behaved and +always cough off the table, and so on, but after a bit they are not so +well-behaved and stick their fingers into the butter, which is got +from the roots of old trees, and the really horrid ones crawl over the +table-cloth chasing sugar or other delicacies with their tongues. When +the Queen sees them doing this she signs to the servants to wash up and +put away, and then everybody adjourns to the dance, the Queen walking in +front while the Lord Chamberlain walks behind her, carrying two little +pots, one of which contains the juice of wall-flower and the other the +juice of Solomon's Seals. Wall-flower juice is good for reviving dancers +who fall to the ground in a fit, and Solomon's Seals juice is for +bruises. They bruise very easily and when Peter plays faster and faster +they foot it till they fall down in fits. For, as you know without my +telling you, Peter Pan is the fairies' orchestra. He sits in the middle +of the ring, and they would never dream of having a smart dance nowadays +without him. “P. P.” is written on the corner of the invitation-cards +sent out by all really good families. They are grateful little people, +too, and at the princess's coming-of-age ball (they come of age on their +second birthday and have a birthday every month) they gave him the wish +of his heart. + +The way it was done was this. The Queen ordered him to kneel, and then +said that for playing so beautifully she would give him the wish of his +heart. Then they all gathered round Peter to hear what was the wish of +his heart, but for a long time he hesitated, not being certain what it +was himself. + +“If I chose to go back to mother,” he asked at last, “could you give me +that wish?” + +Now this question vexed them, for were he to return to his mother they +should lose his music, so the Queen tilted her nose contemptuously and +said, “Pooh, ask for a much bigger wish than that.” + +“Is that quite a little wish?” he inquired. + +“As little as this,” the Queen answered, putting her hands near each +other. + +“What size is a big wish?” he asked. + +She measured it off on her skirt and it was a very handsome length. + +Then Peter reflected and said, “Well, then, I think I shall have two +little wishes instead of one big one.” + +Of course, the fairies had to agree, though his cleverness rather +shocked them, and he said that his first wish was to go to his +mother, but with the right to return to the Gardens if he found her +disappointing. His second wish he would hold in reserve. + +They tried to dissuade him, and even put obstacles in the way. + +“I can give you the power to fly to her house,” the Queen said, “but I +can't open the door for you. + +“The window I flew out at will be open,” Peter said confidently. “Mother +always keeps it open in the hope that I may fly back.” + +“How do you know?” they asked, quite surprised, and, really, Peter could +not explain how he knew. + +“I just do know,” he said. + +So as he persisted in his wish, they had to grant it. The way they gave +him power to fly was this: They all tickled him on the shoulder, and +soon he felt a funny itching in that part and then up he rose higher and +higher and flew away out of the Gardens and over the house-tops. + +It was so delicious that instead of flying straight to his old home he +skimmed away over St. Paul's to the Crystal Palace and back by the river +and Regent's Park, and by the time he reached his mother's window he had +quite made up his mind that his second wish should be to become a bird. + +The window was wide open, just as he knew it would be, and in he +fluttered, and there was his mother lying asleep. Peter alighted softly +on the wooden rail at the foot of the bed and had a good look at her. +She lay with her head on her hand, and the hollow in the pillow was like +a nest lined with her brown wavy hair. He remembered, though he had +long forgotten it, that she always gave her hair a holiday at night. How +sweet the frills of her night-gown were. He was very glad she was such a +pretty mother. + +But she looked sad, and he knew why she looked sad. One of her arms +moved as if it wanted to go round something, and he knew what it wanted +to go round. + +“Oh, mother,” said Peter to himself, “if you just knew who is sitting on +the rail at the foot of the bed.” + +Very gently he patted the little mound that her feet made, and he could +see by her face that she liked it. He knew he had but to say “Mother” + ever so softly, and she would wake up. They always wake up at once if it +is you that says their name. Then she would give such a joyous cry +and squeeze him tight. How nice that would be to him, but oh, how +exquisitely delicious it would be to her. That I am afraid is how Peter +regarded it. In returning to his mother he never doubted that he was +giving her the greatest treat a woman can have. Nothing can be more +splendid, he thought, than to have a little boy of your own. How proud +of him they are; and very right and proper, too. + +But why does Peter sit so long on the rail, why does he not tell his +mother that he has come back? + +I quite shrink from the truth, which is that he sat there in two minds. +Sometimes he looked longingly at his mother, and sometimes he looked +longingly at the window. Certainly it would be pleasant to be her boy +again, but, on the other hand, what times those had been in the Gardens! +Was he so sure that he would enjoy wearing clothes again? He popped off +the bed and opened some drawers to have a look at his old garments. They +were still there, but he could not remember how you put them on. The +socks, for instance, were they worn on the hands or on the feet? He was +about to try one of them on his hand, when he had a great adventure. +Perhaps the drawer had creaked; at any rate, his mother woke up, for +he heard her say “Peter,” as if it was the most lovely word in the +language. He remained sitting on the floor and held his breath, +wondering how she knew that he had come back. If she said “Peter” again, +he meant to cry “Mother” and run to her. But she spoke no more, she +made little moans only, and when next he peeped at her she was once more +asleep, with tears on her face. + +It made Peter very miserable, and what do you think was the first +thing he did? Sitting on the rail at the foot of the bed, he played a +beautiful lullaby to his mother on his pipe. He had made it up himself +out of the way she said “Peter,” and he never stopped playing until she +looked happy. + +He thought this so clever of him that he could scarcely resist wakening +her to hear her say, “Oh, Peter, how exquisitely you play.” However, as +she now seemed comfortable, he again cast looks at the window. You must +not think that he meditated flying away and never coming back. He had +quite decided to be his mother's boy, but hesitated about beginning +to-night. It was the second wish which troubled him. He no longer meant +to make it a wish to be a bird, but not to ask for a second wish seemed +wasteful, and, of course, he could not ask for it without returning to +the fairies. Also, if he put off asking for his wish too long it might +go bad. He asked himself if he had not been hardhearted to fly away +without saying good-bye to Solomon. “I should like awfully to sail in my +boat just once more,” he said wistfully to his sleeping mother. He quite +argued with her as if she could hear him. “It would be so splendid to +tell the birds of this adventure,” he said coaxingly. “I promise to come +back,” he said solemnly and meant it, too. + +And in the end, you know, he flew away. Twice he came back from the +window, wanting to kiss his mother, but he feared the delight of it +might waken her, so at last he played her a lovely kiss on his pipe, and +then he flew back to the Gardens. + +Many nights and even months passed before he asked the fairies for his +second wish; and I am not sure that I quite know why he delayed so long. +One reason was that he had so many good-byes to say, not only to his +particular friends, but to a hundred favourite spots. Then he had his +last sail, and his very last sail, and his last sail of all, and so on. +Again, a number of farewell feasts were given in his honour; and another +comfortable reason was that, after all, there was no hurry, for his +mother would never weary of waiting for him. This last reason displeased +old Solomon, for it was an encouragement to the birds to procrastinate. +Solomon had several excellent mottoes for keeping them at their work, +such as “Never put off laying to-day, because you can lay to-morrow,” + and “In this world there are no second chances,” and yet here was Peter +gaily putting off and none the worse for it. The birds pointed this out +to each other, and fell into lazy habits. + +But, mind you, though Peter was so slow in going back to his mother, +he was quite decided to go back. The best proof of this was his caution +with the fairies. They were most anxious that he should remain in the +Gardens to play to them, and to bring this to pass they tried to trick +him into making such a remark as “I wish the grass was not so wet,” and +some of them danced out of time in the hope that he might cry, “I do +wish you would keep time!” Then they would have said that this was his +second wish. But he smoked their design, and though on occasions he +began, “I wish--” he always stopped in time. So when at last he said +to them bravely, “I wish now to go back to mother for ever and always,” + they had to tickle his shoulders and let him go. + +He went in a hurry in the end because he had dreamt that his mother was +crying, and he knew what was the great thing she cried for, and that a +hug from her splendid Peter would quickly make her to smile. Oh, he felt +sure of it, and so eager was he to be nestling in her arms that this +time he flew straight to the window, which was always to be open for +him. + +But the window was closed, and there were iron bars on it, and peering +inside he saw his mother sleeping peacefully with her arm round another +little boy. + +Peter called, “Mother! mother!” but she heard him not; in vain he beat +his little limbs against the iron bars. He had to fly back, sobbing, to +the Gardens, and he never saw his dear again. What a glorious boy he had +meant to be to her. Ah, Peter, we who have made the great mistake, how +differently we should all act at the second chance. But Solomon was +right; there is no second chance, not for most of us. When we reach the +window it is Lock-out Time. The iron bars are up for life. + + + + +XVII. The Little House + +Everybody has heard of the Little House in the Kensington Gardens, which +is the only house in the whole world that the fairies have built for +humans. But no one has really seen it, except just three or four, and +they have not only seen it but slept in it, and unless you sleep in it +you never see it. This is because it is not there when you lie down, but +it is there when you wake up and step outside. + +In a kind of way everyone may see it, but what you see is not really +it, but only the light in the windows. You see the light after Lock-out +Time. David, for instance, saw it quite distinctly far away among the +trees as we were going home from the pantomime, and Oliver Bailey saw +it the night he stayed so late at the Temple, which is the name of +his father's office. Angela Clare, who loves to have a tooth extracted +because then she is treated to tea in a shop, saw more than one light, +she saw hundreds of them all together, and this must have been the +fairies building the house, for they build it every night and always +in a different part of the Gardens. She thought one of the lights was +bigger than the others, though she was not quite sure, for they jumped +about so, and it might have been another one that was bigger. But if it +was the same one, it was Peter Pan's light. Heaps of children have seen +the light, so that is nothing. But Maimie Mannering was the famous one +for whom the house was first built. + +Maimie was always rather a strange girl, and it was at night that she +was strange. She was four years of age, and in the daytime she was +the ordinary kind. She was pleased when her brother Tony, who was a +magnificent fellow of six, took notice of her, and she looked up to him +in the right way, and tried in vain to imitate him and was flattered +rather than annoyed when he shoved her about. Also, when she was batting +she would pause though the ball was in the air to point out to you +that she was wearing new shoes. She was quite the ordinary kind in the +daytime. + +But as the shades of night fell, Tony, the swaggerer, lost his contempt +for Maimie and eyed her fearfully, and no wonder, for with dark there +came into her face a look that I can describe only as a leary look. +It was also a serene look that contrasted grandly with Tony's uneasy +glances. Then he would make her presents of his favourite toys (which +he always took away from her next morning) and she accepted them with a +disturbing smile. The reason he was now become so wheedling and she so +mysterious was (in brief) that they knew they were about to be sent to +bed. It was then that Maimie was terrible. Tony entreated her not to do +it to-night, and the mother and their coloured nurse threatened her, but +Maimie merely smiled her agitating smile. And by-and-by when they were +alone with their night-light she would start up in bed crying “Hsh! what +was that?” Tony beseeches her! “It was nothing--don't, Maimie, don't!” + and pulls the sheet over his head. “It is coming nearer!” she cries; +“Oh, look at it, Tony! It is feeling your bed with its horns--it is +boring for you, oh, Tony, oh!” and she desists not until he rushes +downstairs in his combinations, screeching. When they came up to whip +Maimie they usually found her sleeping tranquilly, not shamming, you +know, but really sleeping, and looking like the sweetest little angel, +which seems to me to make it almost worse. + +But of course it was daytime when they were in the Gardens, and then +Tony did most of the talking. You could gather from his talk that he +was a very brave boy, and no one was so proud of it as Maimie. She would +have loved to have a ticket on her saying that she was his sister. And +at no time did she admire him more than when he told her, as he often +did with splendid firmness, that one day he meant to remain behind in +the Gardens after the gates were closed. + +“Oh, Tony,” she would say, with awful respect, “but the fairies will be +so angry!” + +“I daresay,” replied Tony, carelessly. + +“Perhaps,” she said, thrilling, “Peter Pan will give you a sail in his +boat!” + +“I shall make him,” replied Tony; no wonder she was proud of him. + +But they should not have talked so loudly, for one day they were +overheard by a fairy who had been gathering skeleton leaves, from which +the little people weave their summer curtains, and after that Tony was a +marked boy. They loosened the rails before he sat on them, so that down +he came on the back of his head; they tripped him up by catching his +boot-lace and bribed the ducks to sink his boat. Nearly all the nasty +accidents you meet with in the Gardens occur because the fairies have +taken an ill-will to you, and so it behoves you to be careful what you +say about them. + +Maimie was one of the kind who like to fix a day for doing things, +but Tony was not that kind, and when she asked him which day he was to +remain behind in the Gardens after Lock-out he merely replied, “Just +some day;” he was quite vague about which day except when she asked +“Will it be to-day?” and then he could always say for certain that it +would not be to-day. So she saw that he was waiting for a real good +chance. + +This brings us to an afternoon when the Gardens were white with snow, +and there was ice on the Round Pond, not thick enough to skate on but +at least you could spoil it for to-morrow by flinging stones, and many +bright little boys and girls were doing that. + +When Tony and his sister arrived they wanted to go straight to the pond, +but their ayah said they must take a sharp walk first, and as she said +this she glanced at the time-board to see when the Gardens closed that +night. It read half-past five. Poor ayah! she is the one who laughs +continuously because there are so many white children in the world, but +she was not to laugh much more that day. + +Well, they went up the Baby Walk and back, and when they returned to the +time-board she was surprised to see that it now read five o'clock for +closing time. But she was unacquainted with the tricky ways of the +fairies, and so did not see (as Maimie and Tony saw at once) that they +had changed the hour because there was to be a ball to-night. She said +there was only time now to walk to the top of the Hump and back, and as +they trotted along with her she little guessed what was thrilling their +little breasts. You see the chance had come of seeing a fairy ball. +Never, Tony felt, could he hope for a better chance. + +He had to feel this, for Maimie so plainly felt it for him. Her eager +eyes asked the question, “Is it to-day?” and he gasped and then nodded. +Maimie slipped her hand into Tony's, and hers was hot, but his was cold. +She did a very kind thing; she took off her scarf and gave it to him! +“In case you should feel cold,” she whispered. Her face was aglow, but +Tony's was very gloomy. + +As they turned on the top of the Hump he whispered to her, “I'm afraid +Nurse would see me, so I sha'n't be able to do it.” + +Maimie admired him more than ever for being afraid of nothing but their +ayah, when there were so many unknown terrors to fear, and she said +aloud, “Tony, I shall race you to the gate,” and in a whisper, “Then you +can hide,” and off they ran. + +Tony could always outdistance her easily, but never had she known him +speed away so quickly as now, and she was sure he hurried that he might +have more time to hide. “Brave, brave!” her doting eyes were crying when +she got a dreadful shock; instead of hiding, her hero had run out at the +gate! At this bitter sight Maimie stopped blankly, as if all her lapful +of darling treasures were suddenly spilled, and then for very disdain +she could not sob; in a swell of protest against all puling cowards she +ran to St. Govor's Well and hid in Tony's stead. + +When the ayah reached the gate and saw Tony far in front she thought her +other charge was with him and passed out. Twilight came on, and scores +and hundreds of people passed out, including the last one, who always +has to run for it, but Maimie saw them not. She had shut her eyes tight +and glued them with passionate tears. When she opened them something +very cold ran up her legs and up her arms and dropped into her heart. +It was the stillness of the Gardens. Then she heard clang, then from +another part clang, then clang, clang far away. It was the Closing of +the Gates. + +Immediately the last clang had died away Maimie distinctly heard a voice +say, “So that's all right.” It had a wooden sound and seemed to come +from above, and she looked up in time to see an elm tree stretching out +its arms and yawning. + +She was about to say, “I never knew you could speak!” when a metallic +voice that seemed to come from the ladle at the well remarked to the +elm, “I suppose it is a bit coldish up there?” and the elm replied, “Not +particularly, but you do get numb standing so long on one leg,” and he +flapped his arms vigorously just as the cabmen do before they drive off. +Maimie was quite surprised to see that a number of other tall trees were +doing the same sort of thing, and she stole away to the Baby Walk and +crouched observantly under a Minorca Holly which shrugged its shoulders +but did not seem to mind her. + +She was not in the least cold. She was wearing a russet-coloured pelisse +and had the hood over her head, so that nothing of her showed except her +dear little face and her curls. The rest of her real self was hidden far +away inside so many warm garments that in shape she seemed rather like a +ball. She was about forty round the waist. + +There was a good deal going on in the Baby Walk, when Maimie arrived in +time to see a magnolia and a Persian lilac step over the railing and set +off for a smart walk. They moved in a jerky sort of way certainly, but +that was because they used crutches. An elderberry hobbled across the +walk, and stood chatting with some young quinces, and they all had +crutches. The crutches were the sticks that are tied to young trees and +shrubs. They were quite familiar objects to Maimie, but she had never +known what they were for until to-night. + +She peeped up the walk and saw her first fairy. He was a street boy +fairy who was running up the walk closing the weeping trees. The way +he did it was this, he pressed a spring in the trunk and they shut +like umbrellas, deluging the little plants beneath with snow. “Oh, you +naughty, naughty child!” Maimie cried indignantly, for she knew what it +was to have a dripping umbrella about your ears. + +Fortunately the mischievous fellow was out of earshot, but the +chrysanthemums heard her, and they all said so pointedly “Hoity-toity, +what is this?” that she had to come out and show herself. Then the whole +vegetable kingdom was rather puzzled what to do. + +“Of course it is no affair of ours,” a spindle tree said after they had +whispered together, “but you know quite well you ought not to be here, +and perhaps our duty is to report you to the fairies; what do you think +yourself?” + +“I think you should not,” Maimie replied, which so perplexed them that +they said petulantly there was no arguing with her. “I wouldn't ask it +of you,” she assured them, “if I thought it was wrong,” and of +course after this they could not well carry tales. They then said, +“Well-a-day,” and “Such is life!” for they can be frightfully sarcastic, +but she felt sorry for those of them who had no crutches, and she said +good-naturedly, “Before I go to the fairies' ball, I should like to take +you for a walk one at a time; you can lean on me, you know.” + +At this they clapped their hands, and she escorted them up to the Baby +Walk and back again, one at a time, putting an arm or a finger round +the very frail, setting their leg right when it got too ridiculous, and +treating the foreign ones quite as courteously as the English, though +she could not understand a word they said. + +They behaved well on the whole, though some whimpered that she had not +taken them as far as she took Nancy or Grace or Dorothy, and others +jagged her, but it was quite unintentional, and she was too much of a +lady to cry out. So much walking tired her and she was anxious to be off +to the ball, but she no longer felt afraid. The reason she felt no more +fear was that it was now night-time, and in the dark, you remember, +Maimie was always rather strange. + +They were now loath to let her go, for, “If the fairies see you,” they +warned her, “they will mischief you, stab you to death or compel you +to nurse their children or turn you into something tedious, like an +evergreen oak.” As they said this they looked with affected pity at an +evergreen oak, for in winter they are very envious of the evergreens. + +“Oh, la!” replied the oak bitingly, “how deliciously cosy it is to stand +here buttoned to the neck and watch you poor naked creatures shivering!” + +This made them sulky though they had really brought it on themselves, +and they drew for Maimie a very gloomy picture of the perils that faced +her if she insisted on going to the ball. + +She learned from a purple filbert that the court was not in its usual +good temper at present, the cause being the tantalising heart of the +Duke of Christmas Daisies. He was an Oriental fairy, very poorly of a +dreadful complaint, namely, inability to love, and though he had tried +many ladies in many lands he could not fall in love with one of them. +Queen Mab, who rules in the Gardens, had been confident that her girls +would bewitch him, but alas, his heart, the doctor said, remained cold. +This rather irritating doctor, who was his private physician, felt the +Duke's heart immediately after any lady was presented, and then always +shook his bald head and murmured, “Cold, quite cold!” Naturally Queen +Mab felt disgraced, and first she tried the effect of ordering the court +into tears for nine minutes, and then she blamed the Cupids and decreed +that they should wear fools' caps until they thawed the Duke's frozen +heart. + +“How I should love to see the Cupids in their dear little fools' caps!” + Maimie cried, and away she ran to look for them very recklessly, for the +Cupids hate to be laughed at. + +It is always easy to discover where a fairies' ball is being held, +as ribbons are stretched between it and all the populous parts of the +Gardens, on which those invited may walk to the dance without wetting +their pumps. This night the ribbons were red and looked very pretty on +the snow. + +Maimie walked alongside one of them for some distance without meeting +anybody, but at last she saw a fairy cavalcade approaching. To her +surprise they seemed to be returning from the ball, and she had just +time to hide from them by bending her knees and holding out her arms and +pretending to be a garden chair. There were six horsemen in front and +six behind, in the middle walked a prim lady wearing a long train held +up by two pages, and on the train, as if it were a couch, reclined a +lovely girl, for in this way do aristocratic fairies travel about. She +was dressed in golden rain, but the most enviable part of her was her +neck, which was blue in colour and of a velvet texture, and of course +showed off her diamond necklace as no white throat could have glorified +it. The high-born fairies obtain this admired effect by pricking their +skin, which lets the blue blood come through and dye them, and you +cannot imagine anything so dazzling unless you have seen the ladies' +busts in the jewellers' windows. + +Maimie also noticed that the whole cavalcade seemed to be in a passion, +tilting their noses higher than it can be safe for even fairies to tilt +them, and she concluded that this must be another case in which the +doctor had said “Cold, quite cold!” + +Well, she followed the ribbon to a place where it became a bridge over a +dry puddle into which another fairy had fallen and been unable to climb +out. At first this little damsel was afraid of Maimie, who most kindly +went to her aid, but soon she sat in her hand chatting gaily and +explaining that her name was Brownie, and that though only a poor street +singer she was on her way to the ball to see if the Duke would have her. + +“Of course,” she said, “I am rather plain,” and this made Maimie +uncomfortable, for indeed the simple little creature was almost quite +plain for a fairy. + +It was difficult to know what to reply. + +“I see you think I have no chance,” Brownie said falteringly. + +“I don't say that,” Maimie answered politely, “of course your face is +just a tiny bit homely, but--” Really it was quite awkward for her. + +Fortunately she remembered about her father and the bazaar. He had gone +to a fashionable bazaar where all the most beautiful ladies in London +were on view for half-a-crown the second day, but on his return home +instead of being dissatisfied with Maimie's mother he had said, “You +can't think, my dear, what a relief it is to see a homely face again.” + +Maimie repeated this story, and it fortified Brownie tremendously, +indeed she had no longer the slightest doubt that the Duke would choose +her. So she scudded away up the ribbon, calling out to Maimie not to +follow lest the Queen should mischief her. + +But Maimie's curiosity tugged her forward, and presently at the seven +Spanish chestnuts, she saw a wonderful light. She crept forward until +she was quite near it, and then she peeped from behind a tree. + +The light, which was as high as your head above the ground, was composed +of myriads of glow-worms all holding on to each other, and so forming +a dazzling canopy over the fairy ring. There were thousands of little +people looking on, but they were in shadow and drab in colour compared +to the glorious creatures within that luminous circle who were so +bewilderingly bright that Maimie had to wink hard all the time she +looked at them. + +It was amazing and even irritating to her that the Duke of Christmas +Daisies should be able to keep out of love for a moment: yet out of love +his dusky grace still was: you could see it by the shamed looks of the +Queen and court (though they pretended not to care), by the way darling +ladies brought forward for his approval burst into tears as they were +told to pass on, and by his own most dreary face. + +Maimie could also see the pompous doctor feeling the Duke's heart and +hear him give utterance to his parrot cry, and she was particularly +sorry for the Cupids, who stood in their fools' caps in obscure +places and, every time they heard that “Cold, quite cold,” bowed their +disgraced little heads. + +She was disappointed not to see Peter Pan, and I may as well tell you +now why he was so late that night. It was because his boat had got +wedged on the Serpentine between fields of floating ice, through which +he had to break a perilous passage with his trusty paddle. + +The fairies had as yet scarcely missed him, for they could not dance, so +heavy were their hearts. They forget all the steps when they are sad +and remember them again when they are merry. David tells me that fairies +never say “We feel happy”: what they say is, “We feel dancey.” + +Well, they were looking very undancey indeed, when sudden laughter broke +out among the onlookers, caused by Brownie, who had just arrived and was +insisting on her right to be presented to the Duke. + +Maimie craned forward eagerly to see how her friend fared, though she +had really no hope; no one seemed to have the least hope except Brownie +herself, who, however, was absolutely confident. She was led before his +grace, and the doctor putting a finger carelessly on the ducal heart, +which for convenience sake was reached by a little trapdoor in his +diamond shirt, had begun to say mechanically, “Cold, qui--,” when he +stopped abruptly. + +“What's this?” he cried, and first he shook the heart like a watch, and +then put his ear to it. + +“Bless my soul!” cried the doctor, and by this time of course the +excitement among the spectators was tremendous, fairies fainting right +and left. + +Everybody stared breathlessly at the Duke, who was very much startled +and looked as if he would like to run away. “Good gracious me!” the +doctor was heard muttering, and now the heart was evidently on fire, for +he had to jerk his fingers away from it and put them in his mouth. + +The suspense was awful! + +Then in a loud voice, and bowing low, “My Lord Duke,” said the physician +elatedly, “I have the honour to inform your excellency that your grace +is in love.” + +You can't conceive the effect of it. Brownie held out her arms to the +Duke and he flung himself into them, the Queen leapt into the arms of +the Lord Chamberlain, and the ladies of the court leapt into the arms of +her gentlemen, for it is etiquette to follow her example in everything. +Thus in a single moment about fifty marriages took place, for if you +leap into each other's arms it is a fairy wedding. Of course a clergyman +has to be present. + +How the crowd cheered and leapt! Trumpets brayed, the moon came out, and +immediately a thousand couples seized hold of its rays as if they were +ribbons in a May dance and waltzed in wild abandon round the fairy ring. +Most gladsome sight of all, the Cupids plucked the hated fools' caps +from their heads and cast them high in the air. And then Maimie went +and spoiled everything. She couldn't help it. She was crazy with delight +over her little friend's good fortune, so she took several steps forward +and cried in an ecstasy, “Oh, Brownie, how splendid!” + +Everybody stood still, the music ceased, the lights went out, and all in +the time you may take to say “Oh dear!” An awful sense of her peril +came upon Maimie, too late she remembered that she was a lost child in a +place where no human must be between the locking and the opening of the +gates, she heard the murmur of an angry multitude, she saw a thousand +swords flashing for her blood, and she uttered a cry of terror and fled. + +How she ran! and all the time her eyes were starting out of her head. +Many times she lay down, and then quickly jumped up and ran on again. +Her little mind was so entangled in terrors that she no longer knew +she was in the Gardens. The one thing she was sure of was that she must +never cease to run, and she thought she was still running long after she +had dropped in the Figs and gone to sleep. She thought the snowflakes +falling on her face were her mother kissing her good-night. She thought +her coverlet of snow was a warm blanket, and tried to pull it over her +head. And when she heard talking through her dreams she thought it was +mother bringing father to the nursery door to look at her as she slept. +But it was the fairies. + +I am very glad to be able to say that they no longer desired to mischief +her. When she rushed away they had rent the air with such cries as “Slay +her!” “Turn her into something extremely unpleasant!” and so on, but the +pursuit was delayed while they discussed who should march in front, +and this gave Duchess Brownie time to cast herself before the Queen and +demand a boon. + +Every bride has a right to a boon, and what she asked for was Maimie's +life. “Anything except that,” replied Queen Mab sternly, and all the +fairies chanted “Anything except that.” But when they learned how Maimie +had befriended Brownie and so enabled her to attend the ball to their +great glory and renown, they gave three huzzas for the little human, and +set off, like an army, to thank her, the court advancing in front +and the canopy keeping step with it. They traced Maimie easily by her +footprints in the snow. + +But though they found her deep in snow in the Figs, it seemed impossible +to thank Maimie, for they could not waken her. They went through the +form of thanking her, that is to say, the new King stood on her body and +read her a long address of welcome, but she heard not a word of it. They +also cleared the snow off her, but soon she was covered again, and they +saw she was in danger of perishing of cold. + +“Turn her into something that does not mind the cold,” seemed a good +suggestion of the doctor's, but the only thing they could think of +that does not mind cold was a snowflake. “And it might melt,” the Queen +pointed out, so that idea had to be given up. + +A magnificent attempt was made to carry her to a sheltered spot, but +though there were so many of them she was too heavy. By this time all +the ladies were crying in their handkerchiefs, but presently the Cupids +had a lovely idea. “Build a house round her,” they cried, and at once +everybody perceived that this was the thing to do; in a moment a hundred +fairy sawyers were among the branches, architects were running round +Maimie, measuring her; a bricklayer's yard sprang up at her feet, +seventy-five masons rushed up with the foundation stone and the Queen +laid it, overseers were appointed to keep the boys off, scaffoldings +were run up, the whole place rang with hammers and chisels and turning +lathes, and by this time the roof was on and the glaziers were putting +in the windows. + +The house was exactly the size of Maimie and perfectly lovely. One of +her arms was extended and this had bothered them for a second, but they +built a verandah round it, leading to the front door. The windows were +the size of a coloured picture-book and the door rather smaller, but it +would be easy for her to get out by taking off the roof. The fairies, as +is their custom, clapped their hands with delight over their cleverness, +and they were all so madly in love with the little house that they could +not bear to think they had finished it. So they gave it ever so many +little extra touches, and even then they added more extra touches. + +For instance, two of them ran up a ladder and put on a chimney. + +“Now we fear it is quite finished,” they sighed. But no, for another two +ran up the ladder, and tied some smoke to the chimney. + +“That certainly finishes it,” they cried reluctantly. + +“Not at all,” cried a glow-worm, “if she were to wake without seeing a +night-light she might be frightened, so I shall be her night-light.” + +“Wait one moment,” said a china merchant, “and I shall make you a +saucer.” + +Now alas, it was absolutely finished. + +Oh, dear no! + +“Gracious me,” cried a brass manufacturer, “there's no handle on the +door,” and he put one on. + +An ironmonger added a scraper and an old lady ran up with a door-mat. +Carpenters arrived with a water-butt, and the painters insisted on +painting it. + +Finished at last! + +“Finished! how can it be finished,” the plumber demanded scornfully, +“before hot and cold are put in?” and he put in hot and cold. Then an +army of gardeners arrived with fairy carts and spades and seeds and +bulbs and forcing-houses, and soon they had a flower garden to the +right of the verandah and a vegetable garden to the left, and roses and +clematis on the walls of the house, and in less time than five minutes +all these dear things were in full bloom. + +Oh, how beautiful the little house was now! But it was at last finished +true as true, and they had to leave it and return to the dance. They +all kissed their hands to it as they went away, and the last to go was +Brownie. She stayed a moment behind the others to drop a pleasant dream +down the chimney. + +All through the night the exquisite little house stood there in the Figs +taking care of Maimie, and she never knew. She slept until the dream +was quite finished and woke feeling deliciously cosy just as morning was +breaking from its egg, and then she almost fell asleep again, and then +she called out, “Tony,” for she thought she was at home in the nursery. +As Tony made no answer, she sat up, whereupon her head hit the roof, +and it opened like the lid of a box, and to her bewilderment she saw all +around her the Kensington Gardens lying deep in snow. As she was not in +the nursery she wondered whether this was really herself, so she pinched +her cheeks, and then she knew it was herself, and this reminded her +that she was in the middle of a great adventure. She remembered now +everything that had happened to her from the closing of the gates up to +her running away from the fairies, but however, she asked herself, had +she got into this funny place? She stepped out by the roof, right over +the garden, and then she saw the dear house in which she had passed the +night. It so entranced her that she could think of nothing else. + +“Oh, you darling, oh, you sweet, oh, you love!” she cried. + +Perhaps a human voice frightened the little house, or maybe it now knew +that its work was done, for no sooner had Maimie spoken than it began to +grow smaller; it shrank so slowly that she could scarce believe it +was shrinking, yet she soon knew that it could not contain her now. It +always remained as complete as ever, but it became smaller and smaller, +and the garden dwindled at the same time, and the snow crept closer, +lapping house and garden up. Now the house was the size of a little +dog's kennel, and now of a Noah's Ark, but still you could see the smoke +and the door-handle and the roses on the wall, every one complete. +The glow-worm light was waning too, but it was still there. “Darling, +loveliest, don't go!” Maimie cried, falling on her knees, for the little +house was now the size of a reel of thread, but still quite complete. +But as she stretched out her arms imploringly the snow crept up on all +sides until it met itself, and where the little house had been was now +one unbroken expanse of snow. + +Maimie stamped her foot naughtily, and was putting her fingers to her +eyes, when she heard a kind voice say, “Don't cry, pretty human, don't +cry,” and then she turned round and saw a beautiful little naked boy +regarding her wistfully. She knew at once that he must be Peter Pan. + + + + +XVIII. Peter's Goat + +Maimie felt quite shy, but Peter knew not what shy was. + +“I hope you have had a good night,” he said earnestly. + +“Thank you,” she replied, “I was so cosy and warm. But you”--and she +looked at his nakedness awkwardly--“don't you feel the least bit cold?” + +Now cold was another word Peter had forgotten, so he answered, “I think +not, but I may be wrong: you see I am rather ignorant. I am not exactly +a boy, Solomon says I am a Betwixt-and-Between.” + +“So that is what it is called,” said Maimie thoughtfully. + +“That's not my name,” he explained, “my name is Peter Pan.” + +“Yes, of course,” she said, “I know, everybody knows.” + +You can't think how pleased Peter was to learn that all the people +outside the gates knew about him. He begged Maimie to tell him what they +knew and what they said, and she did so. They were sitting by this time +on a fallen tree; Peter had cleared off the snow for Maimie, but he sat +on a snowy bit himself. + +“Squeeze closer,” Maimie said. + +“What is that?” he asked, and she showed him, and then he did it. They +talked together and he found that people knew a great deal about him, +but not everything, not that he had gone back to his mother and been +barred out, for instance, and he said nothing of this to Maimie, for it +still humiliated him. + +“Do they know that I play games exactly like real boys?” he asked very +proudly. “Oh, Maimie, please tell them!” But when he revealed how he +played, by sailing his hoop on the Round Pond, and so on, she was simply +horrified. + +“All your ways of playing,” she said with her big eyes on him, “are +quite, quite wrong, and not in the least like how boys play!” + +Poor Peter uttered a little moan at this, and he cried for the first +time for I know not how long. Maimie was extremely sorry for him, and +lent him her handkerchief, but he didn't know in the least what to do +with it, so she showed him, that is to say, she wiped her eyes, and then +gave it back to him, saying “Now you do it,” but instead of wiping his +own eyes he wiped hers, and she thought it best to pretend that this was +what she had meant. + +She said, out of pity for him, “I shall give you a kiss if you like,” + but though he once knew he had long forgotten what kisses are, and he +replied, “Thank you,” and held out his hand, thinking she had offered to +put something into it. This was a great shock to her, but she felt she +could not explain without shaming him, so with charming delicacy she +gave Peter a thimble which happened to be in her pocket, and pretended +that it was a kiss. Poor little boy! he quite believed her, and to this +day he wears it on his finger, though there can be scarcely anyone who +needs a thimble so little. You see, though still a tiny child, it was +really years and years since he had seen his mother, and I daresay the +baby who had supplanted him was now a man with whiskers. + +But you must not think that Peter Pan was a boy to pity rather than to +admire; if Maimie began by thinking this, she soon found she was very +much mistaken. Her eyes glistened with admiration when he told her of +his adventures, especially of how he went to and fro between the island +and the Gardens in the Thrush's Nest. + +“How romantic,” Maimie exclaimed, but it was another unknown word, and +he hung his head thinking she was despising him. + +“I suppose Tony would not have done that?” he said very humbly. + +“Never, never!” she answered with conviction, “he would have been +afraid.” + +“What is afraid?” asked Peter longingly. He thought it must be some +splendid thing. “I do wish you would teach me how to be afraid, Maimie,” + he said. + +“I believe no one could teach that to you,” she answered adoringly, but +Peter thought she meant that he was stupid. She had told him about Tony +and of the wicked thing she did in the dark to frighten him (she knew +quite well that it was wicked), but Peter misunderstood her meaning and +said, “Oh, how I wish I was as brave as Tony.” + +It quite irritated her. “You are twenty thousand times braver than +Tony,” she said, “you are ever so much the bravest boy I ever knew!” + +He could scarcely believe she meant it, but when he did believe he +screamed with joy. + +“And if you want very much to give me a kiss,” Maimie said, “you can do +it.” + +Very reluctantly Peter began to take the thimble off his finger. He +thought she wanted it back. + +“I don't mean a kiss,” she said hurriedly, “I mean a thimble.” + +“What's that?” Peter asked. + +“It's like this,” she said, and kissed him. + +“I should love to give you a thimble,” Peter said gravely, so he gave +her one. He gave her quite a number of thimbles, and then a delightful +idea came into his head! “Maimie,” he said, “will you marry me?” + +Now, strange to tell, the same idea had come at exactly the same time +into Maimie's head. “I should like to,” she answered, “but will there be +room in your boat for two?” + +“If you squeeze close,” he said eagerly. + +“Perhaps the birds would be angry?” + +He assured her that the birds would love to have her, though I am not so +certain of it myself. Also that there were very few birds in winter. +“Of course they might want your clothes,” he had to admit rather +falteringly. + +She was somewhat indignant at this. + +“They are always thinking of their nests,” he said apologetically, “and +there are some bits of you”--he stroked the fur on her pelisse--“that +would excite them very much.” + +“They sha'n't have my fur,” she said sharply. + +“No,” he said, still fondling it, however, “no! Oh, Maimie,” he said +rapturously, “do you know why I love you? It is because you are like a +beautiful nest.” + +Somehow this made her uneasy. “I think you are speaking more like a bird +than a boy now,” she said, holding back, and indeed he was even +looking rather like a bird. “After all,” she said, “you are only a +Betwixt-and-Between.” But it hurt him so much that she immediately +added, “It must be a delicious thing to be.” + +“Come and be one then, dear Maimie,” he implored her, and they set off +for the boat, for it was now very near Open-Gate time. “And you are not +a bit like a nest,” he whispered to please her. + +“But I think it is rather nice to be like one,” she said in a woman's +contradictory way. “And, Peter, dear, though I can't give them my fur, I +wouldn't mind their building in it. Fancy a nest in my neck with little +spotty eggs in it! Oh, Peter, how perfectly lovely!” + +But as they drew near the Serpentine, she shivered a little, and said, +“Of course I shall go and see mother often, quite often. It is not as +if I was saying good-bye for ever to mother, it is not in the least like +that.” + +“Oh, no,” answered Peter, but in his heart he knew it was very like +that, and he would have told her so had he not been in a quaking fear +of losing her. He was so fond of her, he felt he could not live without +her. “She will forget her mother in time, and be happy with me,” he kept +saying to himself, and he hurried her on, giving her thimbles by the +way. + +But even when she had seen the boat and exclaimed ecstatically over its +loveliness, she still talked tremblingly about her mother. “You know +quite well, Peter, don't you,” she said, “that I wouldn't come unless +I knew for certain I could go back to mother whenever I want to? Peter, +say it!” + +He said it, but he could no longer look her in the face. + +“If you are sure your mother will always want you,” he added rather +sourly. + +“The idea of mother's not always wanting me!” Maimie cried, and her face +glistened. + +“If she doesn't bar you out,” said Peter huskily. + +“The door,” replied Maimie, “will always, always be open, and mother +will always be waiting at it for me.” + +“Then,” said Peter, not without grimness, “step in, if you feel so sure +of her,” and he helped Maimie into the Thrush's Nest. + +“But why don't you look at me?” she asked, taking him by the arm. + +Peter tried hard not to look, he tried to push off, then he gave a great +gulp and jumped ashore and sat down miserably in the snow. + +She went to him. “What is it, dear, dear Peter?” she said, wondering. + +“Oh, Maimie,” he cried, “it isn't fair to take you with me if you think +you can go back. Your mother”--he gulped again--“you don't know them as +well as I do.” + +And then he told her the woful story of how he had been barred out, and +she gasped all the time. “But my mother,” she said, “my mother”-- + +“Yes, she would,” said Peter, “they are all the same. I daresay she is +looking for another one already.” + +Maimie said aghast, “I can't believe it. You see, when you went away +your mother had none, but my mother has Tony, and surely they are +satisfied when they have one.” + +Peter replied bitterly, “You should see the letters Solomon gets from +ladies who have six.” + +Just then they heard a grating creak, followed by creak, creak, all +round the Gardens. It was the Opening of the Gates, and Peter jumped +nervously into his boat. He knew Maimie would not come with him now, and +he was trying bravely not to cry. But Maimie was sobbing painfully. + +“If I should be too late,” she called in agony, “oh, Peter, if she has +got another one already!” + +Again he sprang ashore as if she had called him back. “I shall come and +look for you to-night,” he said, squeezing close, “but if you hurry away +I think you will be in time.” + +Then he pressed a last thimble on her sweet little mouth, and covered +his face with his hands so that he might not see her go. + +“Dear Peter!” she cried. + +“Dear Maimie!” cried the tragic boy. + +She leapt into his arms, so that it was a sort of fairy wedding, and +then she hurried away. Oh, how she hastened to the gates! Peter, you may +be sure, was back in the Gardens that night as soon as Lock-out sounded, +but he found no Maimie, and so he knew she had been in time. For long +he hoped that some night she would come back to him; often he thought he +saw her waiting for him by the shore of the Serpentine as his bark drew +to land, but Maimie never went back. She wanted to, but she was afraid +that if she saw her dear Betwixt-and-Between again she would linger with +him too long, and besides the ayah now kept a sharp eye on her. But she +often talked lovingly of Peter and she knitted a kettle-holder for him, +and one day when she was wondering what Easter present he would like, +her mother made a suggestion. + +“Nothing,” she said thoughtfully, “would be so useful to him as a goat.” + +“He could ride on it,” cried Maimie, “and play on his pipe at the same +time!” + +“Then,” her mother asked, “won't you give him your goat, the one you +frighten Tony with at night?” + +“But it isn't a real goat,” Maimie said. + +“It seems very real to Tony,” replied her mother. + +“It seems frightfully real to me too,” Maimie admitted, “but how could I +give it to Peter?” + +Her mother knew a way, and next day, accompanied by Tony (who was really +quite a nice boy, though of course he could not compare), they went to +the Gardens, and Maimie stood alone within a fairy ring, and then her +mother, who was a rather gifted lady, said, + + “My daughter, tell me, if you can, + What have you got for Peter Pan?” + +To which Maimie replied, + + “I have a goat for him to ride, + Observe me cast it far and wide.” + +She then flung her arms about as if she were sowing seed, and turned +round three times. + +Next Tony said, + + “If P. doth find it waiting here, + Wilt ne'er again make me to fear?” + +And Maimie answered, + + “By dark or light I fondly swear + Never to see goats anywhere.” + +She also left a letter to Peter in a likely place, explaining what she +had done, and begging him to ask the fairies to turn the goat into one +convenient for riding on. Well, it all happened just as she hoped, for +Peter found the letter, and of course nothing could be easier for the +fairies than to turn the goat into a real one, and so that is how Peter +got the goat on which he now rides round the Gardens every night playing +sublimely on his pipe. And Maimie kept her promise and never frightened +Tony with a goat again, though I have heard that she created another +animal. Until she was quite a big girl she continued to leave presents +for Peter in the Gardens (with letters explaining how humans play with +them), and she is not the only one who has done this. David does it, for +instance, and he and I know the likeliest place for leaving them in, and +we shall tell you if you like, but for mercy's sake don't ask us before +Porthos, for were he to find out the place he would take every one of +them. + +Though Peter still remembers Maimie he is become as gay as ever, and +often in sheer happiness he jumps off his goat and lies kicking merrily +on the grass. Oh, he has a joyful time! But he has still a vague memory +that he was a human once, and it makes him especially kind to the +house-swallows when they revisit the island, for house-swallows are the +spirits of little children who have died. They always build in the eaves +of the houses where they lived when they were humans, and sometimes they +try to fly in at a nursery window, and perhaps that is why Peter loves +them best of all the birds. + +And the little house? Every lawful night (that is to say, every night +except ball nights) the fairies now build the little house lest there +should be a human child lost in the Gardens, and Peter rides the marshes +looking for lost ones, and if he finds them he carries them on his goat +to the little house, and when they wake up they are in it and when they +step out they see it. The fairies build the house merely because it +is so pretty, but Peter rides round in memory of Maimie and because he +still loves to do just as he believes real boys would do. + +But you must not think that, because somewhere among the trees the +little house is twinkling, it is a safe thing to remain in the Gardens +after Lock-out Time. If the bad ones among the fairies happen to be out +that night they will certainly mischief you, and even though they are +not, you may perish of cold and dark before Peter Pan comes round. He +has been too late several times, and when he sees he is too late he runs +back to the Thrush's Nest for his paddle, of which Maimie had told him +the true use, and he digs a grave for the child and erects a little +tombstone and carves the poor thing's initials on it. He does this at +once because he thinks it is what real boys would do, and you must have +noticed the little stones and that there are always two together. He +puts them in twos because it seems less lonely. I think that quite the +most touching sight in the Gardens is the two tombstones of Walter +Stephen Matthews and Phoebe Phelps. They stand together at the spot +where the parishes of Westminster St. Mary's is said to meet the parish +of Paddington. Here Peter found the two babes, who had fallen unnoticed +from their perambulators, Phoebe aged thirteen months and Walter +probably still younger, for Peter seems to have felt a delicacy about +putting any age on his stone. They lie side by side, and the simple +inscriptions read + + +-----------+ +-----------+ + | | | | + | W | | 13a. | + | | | P.P. | + | St. M | | 1841 | + | | | | + +-----------+ +-----------+ + +David sometimes places white flowers on these two innocent graves. + +But how strange for parents, when they hurry into the Gardens at the +opening of the gates looking for their lost one, to find the sweetest +little tombstone instead. I do hope that Peter is not too ready with his +spade. It is all rather sad. + + + + +XIX. An Interloper + +David and I had a tremendous adventure. It was this, he passed the night +with me. We had often talked of it as a possible thing, and at last Mary +consented to our having it. + +The adventure began with David's coming to me at the unwonted hour of +six P.M., carrying what looked like a packet of sandwiches, but proved +to be his requisites for the night done up in a neat paper parcel. We +were both so excited that, at the moment of greeting, neither of us +could be apposite to the occasion in words, so we communicated our +feelings by signs; as thus, David half sat down in a place where there +was no chair, which is his favourite preparation for being emphatic, and +is borrowed, I think, from the frogs, and we then made the extraordinary +faces which mean, “What a tremendous adventure!” + +We were to do all the important things precisely as they are done every +evening at his own home, and so I am in a puzzle to know how it was such +an adventure to David. But I have now said enough to show you what an +adventure it was to me. + +For a little while we played with my two medals, and, with the delicacy +of a sleeping companion, David abstained on this occasion from asking +why one of them was not a Victoria Cross. He is very troubled because I +never won the Victoria Cross, for it lowers his status in the Gardens. +He never says in the Gardens that I won it, but he fights any boy of +his year who says I didn't. Their fighting consists of challenging each +other. + +At twenty-five past six I turned on the hot water in the bath, and +covertly swallowed a small glass of brandy. I then said, “Half-past +six; time for little boys to be in bed.” I said it in the matter-of-fact +voice of one made free of the company of parents, as if I had said it +often before, and would have to say it often again, and as if there was +nothing particularly delicious to me in hearing myself say it. I tried +to say it in that way. + +And David was deceived. To my exceeding joy he stamped his little foot, +and was so naughty that, in gratitude, I gave him five minutes with a +matchbox. Matches, which he drops on the floor when lighted, are the +greatest treat you can give David; indeed, I think his private heaven is +a place with a roaring bonfire. + +Then I placed my hand carelessly on his shoulder, like one a trifle +bored by the dull routine of putting my little boys to bed, and +conducted him to the night nursery, which had lately been my private +chamber. There was an extra bed in it tonight, very near my own, +but differently shaped, and scarcely less conspicuous was the new +mantel-shelf ornament: a tumbler of milk, with a biscuit on top of it, +and a chocolate riding on the biscuit. To enter the room without seeing +the tumbler at once was impossible. I had tried it several times, +and David saw and promptly did his frog business, the while, with an +indescribable emotion, I produced a night-light from my pocket and +planted it in a saucer on the wash-stand. + +David watched my preparations with distasteful levity, but anon made a +noble amend by abruptly offering me his foot as if he had no longer +use for it, and I knew by intuition that he expected me to take off his +boots. I took them off with all the coolness of an old hand, and then +I placed him on my knee and removed his blouse. This was a delightful +experience, but I think I remained wonderfully calm until I came +somewhat too suddenly to his little braces, which agitated me +profoundly. + +I cannot proceed in public with the disrobing of David. + +Soon the night nursery was in darkness, but for the glimmer from the +night-light, and very still save when the door creaked as a man peered +in at the little figure on the bed. However softly I opened the door, an +inch at a time, his bright eyes turned to me at once, and he always made +the face which means, “What a tremendous adventure!” + +“Are you never to fall asleep, David?” I always said. + +“When are you coming to bed?” he always replied, very brave but in +a whisper, as if he feared the bears and wolves might have him. When +little boys are in bed there is nothing between them and bears and +wolves but the night-light. + +I returned to my chair to think, and at last he fell asleep with +his face to the wall, but even then I stood many times at the door, +listening. + +Long after I had gone to bed a sudden silence filled the chamber, and I +knew that David had awaked. I lay motionless, and, after what seemed +a long time of waiting, a little far-away voice said in a cautious +whisper, “Irene!” + +“You are sleeping with me to-night, you know, David,” I said. + +“I didn't know,” he replied, a little troubled but trying not to be a +nuisance. + +“You remember you are with me?” I asked. + +After a moment's hesitation he replied, “I nearly remember,” and +presently he added very gratefully, as if to some angel who had +whispered to him, “I remember now.” + +I think he had nigh fallen asleep again when he stirred and said, “Is it +going on now?” + +“What?” + +“The adventure.” + +“Yes, David.” + +Perhaps this disturbed him, for by-and-by I had to inquire, “You are not +frightened, are you?” + +“Am I not?” he answered politely, and I knew his hand was groping in the +darkness, so I put out mine and he held on tightly to one finger. + +“I am not frightened now,” he whispered. + +“And there is nothing else you want?” + +“Is there not?” he again asked politely. “Are you sure there's not?” he +added. + +“What can it be, David?” + +“I don't take up very much room,” the far-away voice said. + +“Why, David,” said I, sitting up, “do you want to come into my bed?” + +“Mother said I wasn't to want it unless you wanted it first,” he +squeaked. + +“It is what I have been wanting all the time,” said I, and then without +more ado the little white figure rose and flung itself at me. For the +rest of the night he lay on me and across me, and sometimes his feet +were at the bottom of the bed and sometimes on the pillow, but he always +retained possession of my finger, and occasionally he woke me to say +that he was sleeping with me. I had not a good night. I lay thinking. + +Of this little boy, who, in the midst of his play while I undressed him, +had suddenly buried his head on my knees. + +Of the woman who had been for him who could be sufficiently daring. + +Of David's dripping little form in the bath, and how when I essayed to +catch him he had slipped from my arms like a trout. + +Of how I had stood by the open door listening to his sweet breathing, +had stood so long that I forgot his name and called him Timothy. + + + + +XX. David and Porthos Compared + +But Mary spoilt it all, when I sent David back to her in the morning, by +inquiring too curiously into his person and discovering that I had put +his combinations on him with the buttons to the front. For this I +wrote her the following insulting letter. When Mary does anything +that specially annoys me I send her an insulting letter. I once had a +photograph taken of David being hanged on a tree. I sent her that. You +can't think of all the subtle ways of grieving her I have. No woman with +the spirit of a crow would stand it. + +“Dear Madam [I wrote], It has come to my knowledge that when you walk +in the Gardens with the boy David you listen avidly for encomiums of him +and of your fanciful dressing of him by passers-by, storing them in your +heart the while you make vain pretence to regard them not: wherefore +lest you be swollen by these very small things I, who now know David +both by day and by night, am minded to compare him and Porthos the +one with the other, both in this matter and in other matters of graver +account. And touching this matter of outward show, they are both very +lordly, and neither of them likes it to be referred to, but they endure +in different ways. For David says 'Oh, bother!' and even at times hits +out, but Porthos droops his tail and lets them have their say. Yet is he +extolled as beautiful and a darling ten times for the once that David is +extolled. + +“The manners of Porthos are therefore prettier than the manners of +David, who when he has sent me to hide from him behind a tree sometimes +comes not in search, and on emerging tamely from my concealment I find +him playing other games entirely forgetful of my existence. Whereas +Porthos always comes in search. Also if David wearies of you he scruples +not to say so, but Porthos, in like circumstances, offers you his paw, +meaning 'Farewell,' and to bearded men he does this all the time (I +think because of a hereditary distaste for goats), so that they conceive +him to be enamoured of them when he is only begging them courteously to +go. Thus while the manners of Porthos are more polite it may be argued +that those of David are more efficacious. + +“In gentleness David compares ill with Porthos. For whereas the one +shoves and has been known to kick on slight provocation, the other, who +is noisily hated of all small dogs by reason of his size, remonstrates +not, even when they cling in froth and fury to his chest, but carries +them along tolerantly until they drop off from fatigue. Again, +David will not unbend when in the company of babies, expecting them +unreasonably to rise to his level, but contrariwise Porthos, though +terrible to tramps, suffers all things of babies, even to an exploration +of his mouth in an attempt to discover what his tongue is like at +the other end. The comings and goings of David are unnoticed by +perambulators, which lie in wait for the advent of Porthos. The strong +and wicked fear Porthos but no little creature fears him, not the +hedgehogs he conveys from place to place in his mouth, nor the sparrows +that steal his straw from under him. + +“In proof of which gentleness I adduce his adventure with the rabbit. +Having gone for a time to reside in a rabbit country Porthos was elated +to discover at last something small that ran from him, and developing +at once into an ecstatic sportsman he did pound hotly in pursuit, though +always over-shooting the mark by a hundred yards or so and wondering +very much what had become of the rabbit. There was a steep path, from +the top of which the rabbit suddenly came into view, and the practice of +Porthos was to advance up it on tiptoe, turning near the summit to +give me a knowing look and then bounding forward. The rabbit here did +something tricky with a hole in the ground, but Porthos tore onwards in +full faith that the game was being played fairly, and always returned +panting and puzzling but glorious. + +“I sometimes shuddered to think of his perplexity should he catch the +rabbit, which however was extremely unlikely; nevertheless he did catch +it, I know not how, but presume it to have been another than the one of +which he was in chase. I found him with it, his brows furrowed in the +deepest thought. The rabbit, terrified but uninjured, cowered beneath +him. Porthos gave me a happy look and again dropped into a weighty frame +of mind. 'What is the next thing one does?' was obviously the puzzle +with him, and the position was scarcely less awkward for the rabbit, +which several times made a move to end this intolerable suspense. +Whereupon Porthos immediately gave it a warning tap with his foot, and +again fell to pondering. The strain on me was very great. + +“At last they seemed to hit upon a compromise. Porthos looked over his +shoulder very self-consciously, and the rabbit at first slowly and then +in a flash withdrew. Porthos pretended to make a search for it, but you +cannot think how relieved he looked. He even tried to brazen out his +disgrace before me and waved his tail appealingly. But he could not +look me in the face, and when he saw that this was what I insisted on he +collapsed at my feet and moaned. There were real tears in his eyes, and +I was touched, and swore to him that he had done everything a dog could +do, and though he knew I was lying he became happy again. For so long as +I am pleased with him, ma'am, nothing else greatly matters to Porthos. I +told this story to David, having first extracted a promise from him that +he would not think the less of Porthos, and now I must demand the same +promise of you. Also, an admission that in innocence of heart, for which +David has been properly commended, he can nevertheless teach Porthos +nothing, but on the contrary may learn much from him. + +“And now to come to those qualities in which David excels over +Porthos--the first is that he is no snob but esteems the girl Irene +(pretentiously called his nurse) more than any fine lady, and envies +every ragged boy who can hit to leg. Whereas Porthos would have every +class keep its place, and though fond of going down into the kitchen, +always barks at the top of the stairs for a servile invitation before +he graciously descends. Most of the servants in our street have had +the loan of him to be photographed with, and I have but now seen him +stalking off for that purpose with a proud little housemaid who is +looking up to him as if he were a warrior for whom she had paid a +shilling. + +“Again, when David and Porthos are in their bath, praise is due to the +one and must be withheld from the other. For David, as I have noticed, +loves to splash in his bath and to slip back into it from the hands that +would transfer him to a towel. But Porthos stands in his bath drooping +abjectly like a shamed figure cut out of some limp material. + +“Furthermore, the inventiveness of David is beyond that of Porthos, who +cannot play by himself, and knows not even how to take a solitary +walk, while David invents playfully all day long. Lastly, when David is +discovered of some offence and expresses sorrow therefor, he does +that thing no more for a time, but looks about him for other offences, +whereas Porthos incontinently repeats his offence, in other words, he +again buries his bone in the backyard, and marvels greatly that I know +it, although his nose be crusted with earth. + +“Touching these matters, therefore, let it be granted that David excels +Porthos; and in divers similar qualities the one is no more than a match +for the other, as in the quality of curiosity; for, if a parcel comes +into my chambers Porthos is miserable until it is opened, and I have +noticed the same thing of David. + +“Also there is the taking of medicine. For at production of the vial all +gaiety suddenly departs from Porthos and he looks the other way, but if +I say I have forgotten to have the vial refilled he skips joyfully, +yet thinks he still has a right to a chocolate, and when I remarked +disparagingly on this to David he looked so shy that there was revealed +to me a picture of a certain lady treating him for youthful maladies. + +“A thing to be considered of in both is their receiving of punishments, +and I am now reminded that the girl Irene (whom I take in this matter +to be your mouthpiece) complains that I am not sufficiently severe with +David, and do leave the chiding of him for offences against myself to +her in the hope that he will love her less and me more thereby. Which we +have hotly argued in the Gardens to the detriment of our dignity. And I +here say that if I am slow to be severe to David, the reason thereof is +that I dare not be severe to Porthos, and I have ever sought to treat +the one the same with the other. + +“Now I refrain from raising hand or voice to Porthos because his great +heart is nigh to breaking if he so much as suspects that all is not well +between him and me, and having struck him once some years ago never can +I forget the shudder which passed through him when he saw it was I +who had struck, and I shall strike him, ma'am, no more. But when he is +detected in any unseemly act now, it is my stern practice to cane my +writing table in his presence, and even this punishment is almost more +than he can bear. Wherefore if such chastisement inflicted on David +encourages him but to enter upon fresh trespasses (as the girl Irene +avers), the reason must be that his heart is not like unto that of the +noble Porthos. + +“And if you retort that David is naturally a depraved little boy, and +so demands harsher measure, I have still my answer, to wit, what is the +manner of severity meted out to him at home? And lest you should shuffle +in your reply I shall mention a notable passage that has come to my +ears. + +“As thus, that David having heard a horrid word in the street, uttered +it with unction in the home. That the mother threatened corporal +punishment, whereat the father tremblingly intervened. That David +continuing to rejoice exceedingly in his word, the father spoke darkly +of a cane, but the mother rushed between the combatants. That the +problematical chastisement became to David an object of romantic +interest. That this darkened the happy home. That casting from his +path a weeping mother, the goaded father at last dashed from the house +yelling that he was away to buy a cane. That he merely walked the +streets white to the lips because of the terror David must now be +feeling. And that when he returned, it was David radiant with hope who +opened the door and then burst into tears because there was no cane. +Truly, ma'am, you are a fitting person to tax me with want of severity. +Rather should you be giving thanks that it is not you I am comparing +with Porthos. + +“But to make an end of this comparison, I mention that Porthos is ever +wishful to express gratitude for my kindness to him, so that looking +up from my book I see his mournful eyes fixed upon me with a passionate +attachment, and then I know that the well-nigh unbearable sadness which +comes into the face of dogs is because they cannot say Thank you to +their masters. Whereas David takes my kindness as his right. But for +this, while I should chide him I cannot do so, for of all the ways David +has of making me to love him the most poignant is that he expects it of +me as a matter of course. David is all for fun, but none may plumb the +depths of Porthos. Nevertheless I am most nearly doing so when I lie +down beside him on the floor and he puts an arm about my neck. On my +soul, ma'am, a protecting arm. At such times it is as if each of us knew +what was the want of the other. + +“Thus weighing Porthos with David it were hard to tell which is the +worthier. Wherefore do you keep your boy while I keep my dog, and so we +shall both be pleased.” + + + + +XXI. William Paterson + +We had been together, we three, in my rooms, David telling me about the +fairy language and Porthos lolling on the sofa listening, as one may +say. It is his favourite place of a dull day, and under him were some +sheets of newspaper, which I spread there at such times to deceive my +housekeeper, who thinks dogs should lie on the floor. + +Fairy me tribber is what you say to the fairies when you want them to +give you a cup of tea, but it is not so easy as it looks, for all the +r's should be pronounced as w's, and I forget this so often that David +believes I should find difficulty in making myself understood. + +“What would you say,” he asked me, “if you wanted them to turn you +into a hollyhock?” He thinks the ease with which they can turn you into +things is their most engaging quality. + +The answer is Fairy me lukka, but though he had often told me this I +again forgot the lukka. + +“I should never dream,” I said (to cover my discomfiture), “of asking +them to turn me into anything. If I was a hollyhock I should soon +wither, David.” + +He himself had provided me with this objection not long before, but +now he seemed to think it merely silly. “Just before the time to wither +begins,” he said airily, “you say to them Fairy me bola.” + +Fairy me bola means “Turn me back again,” and David's discovery made +me uncomfortable, for I knew he had hitherto kept his distance of +the fairies mainly because of a feeling that their conversions are +permanent. + +So I returned him to his home. I send him home from my rooms under the +care of Porthos. I may walk on the other side unknown to them, but they +have no need of me, for at such times nothing would induce Porthos to +depart from the care of David. If anyone addresses them he growls softly +and shows the teeth that crunch bones as if they were biscuits. Thus +amicably the two pass on to Mary's house, where Porthos barks his +knock-and-ring bark till the door is opened. Sometimes he goes in +with David, but on this occasion he said good-bye on the step. Nothing +remarkable in this, but he did not return to me, not that day nor next +day nor in weeks and months. I was a man distraught; and David wore +his knuckles in his eyes. Conceive it, we had lost our dear Porthos--at +least--well--something disquieting happened. I don't quite know what to +think of it even now. I know what David thinks. However, you shall think +as you choose. + +My first hope was that Porthos had strolled to the Gardens and got +locked in for the night, and almost as soon as Lock-out was over I was +there to make inquiries. But there was no news of Porthos, though +I learned that someone was believed to have spent the night in the +Gardens, a young gentleman who walked out hastily the moment the gates +were opened. He had said nothing, however, of having seen a dog. I +feared an accident now, for I knew no thief could steal him, yet even an +accident seemed incredible, he was always so cautious at crossings; also +there could not possibly have been an accident to Porthos without there +being an accident to something else. + +David in the middle of his games would suddenly remember the great blank +and step aside to cry. It was one of his qualities that when he knew +he was about to cry he turned aside to do it and I always respected his +privacy and waited for him. Of course being but a little boy he was +soon playing again, but his sudden floods of feeling, of which we never +spoke, were dear to me in those desolate days. + +We had a favourite haunt, called the Story-seat, and we went back to +that, meaning not to look at the grass near it where Porthos used to +squat, but we could not help looking at it sideways, and to our distress +a man was sitting on the acquainted spot. He rose at our approach and +took two steps toward us, so quick that they were almost jumps, then +as he saw that we were passing indignantly I thought I heard him give a +little cry. + +I put him down for one of your garrulous fellows who try to lure +strangers into talk, but next day, when we found him sitting on the +Story-seat itself, I had a longer scrutiny of him. He was dandiacally +dressed, seemed to tell something under twenty years and had a handsome +wistful face atop of a heavy, lumbering, almost corpulent figure, which +however did not betoken inactivity; for David's purple hat (a conceit of +his mother's of which we were both heartily ashamed) blowing off as we +neared him he leapt the railings without touching them and was back with +it in three seconds; only instead of delivering it straightway he seemed +to expect David to chase him for it. + +You have introduced yourself to David when you jump the railings without +touching them, and William Paterson (as proved to be his name) was at +once our friend. We often found him waiting for us at the Story-seat, +and the great stout fellow laughed and wept over our tales like a +three-year-old. Often he said with extraordinary pride, “You are telling +the story to me quite as much as to David, ar'n't you?” He was of an +innocence such as you shall seldom encounter, and believed stories at +which even David blinked. Often he looked at me in quick alarm if David +said that of course these things did not really happen, and unable to +resist that appeal I would reply that they really did. I never saw him +irate except when David was still sceptical, but then he would say quite +warningly “He says it is true, so it must be true.” This brings me to +that one of his qualities, which at once gratified and pained me, his +admiration for myself. His eyes, which at times had a rim of red, were +ever fixed upon me fondly except perhaps when I told him of Porthos and +said that death alone could have kept him so long from my side. Then +Paterson's sympathy was such that he had to look away. He was shy of +speaking of himself so I asked him no personal questions, but concluded +that his upbringing must have been lonely, to account for his ignorance +of affairs, and loveless, else how could he have felt such a drawing to +me? + +I remember very well the day when the strange, and surely monstrous, +suspicion first made my head tingle. We had been blown, the three of +us, to my rooms by a gust of rain; it was also, I think, the first time +Paterson had entered them. “Take the sofa, Mr. Paterson,” I said, as +I drew a chair nearer to the fire, and for the moment my eyes were off +him. Then I saw that, before sitting down on the sofa, he was spreading +the day's paper over it. “Whatever makes you do that?” I asked, and he +started like one bewildered by the question, then went white and pushed +the paper aside. + +David had noticed nothing, but I was strangely uncomfortable, and, +despite my efforts at talk, often lapsed into silence, to be roused from +it by a feeling that Paterson was looking at me covertly. Pooh! what +vapours of the imagination were these. I blew them from me, and to prove +to myself, so to speak, that they were dissipated, I asked him to +see David home. As soon as I was alone, I flung me down on the floor +laughing, then as quickly jumped up and was after them, and very sober +too, for it was come to me abruptly as an odd thing that Paterson had +set off without asking where David lived. + +Seeing them in front of me, I crossed the street and followed. They were +walking side by side rather solemnly, and perhaps nothing remarkable +happened until they reached David's door. I say perhaps, for something +did occur. A lady, who has several pretty reasons for frequenting the +Gardens, recognised David in the street, and was stooping to address +him, when Paterson did something that alarmed her. I was too far off +to see what it was, but had he growled “Hands off!” she could not have +scurried away more precipitately. He then ponderously marched his +charge to the door, where, assuredly, he did a strange thing. Instead of +knocking or ringing, he stood on the step and called out sharply, “Hie, +hie, hie!” until the door was opened. + +The whimsy, for it could be nothing more, curtailed me of my sleep that +night, and you may picture me trying both sides of the pillow. + +I recalled other queer things of Paterson, and they came back to me +charged with new meanings. There was his way of shaking hands. He now +did it in the ordinary way, but when first we knew him his arm had +described a circle, and the hand had sometimes missed mine and come +heavily upon my chest instead. His walk, again, might more correctly +have been called a waddle. + +There were his perfervid thanks. He seldom departed without thanking me +with an intensity that was out of proportion to the little I had done +for him. In the Gardens, too, he seemed ever to take the sward rather +than the seats, perhaps a wise preference, but he had an unusual way of +sitting down. I can describe it only by saying that he let go of himself +and went down with a thud. + +I reverted to the occasion when he lunched with me at the Club. We had +cutlets, and I noticed that he ate his in a somewhat finicking manner; +yet having left the table for a moment to consult the sweets-card, +I saw, when I returned, that there was now no bone on his plate. The +waiters were looking at him rather curiously. + +David was very partial to him, but showed it in a somewhat singular +manner, used to pat his head, for instance. I remembered, also, that +while David shouted to me or Irene to attract our attention, he usually +whistled to Paterson, he could not explain why. + +These ghosts made me to sweat in bed, not merely that night, but often +when some new shock brought them back in force, yet, unsupported, +they would have disturbed me little by day. Day, however, had its +reflections, and they came to me while I was shaving, that ten minutes +when, brought face to face with the harsher realities of life, we see +things most clearly as they are. Then the beautiful nature of Paterson +loomed offensively, and his honest eyes insulted over me. No one come to +nigh twenty years had a right to such faith in his fellow-creatures. He +could not backbite, nor envy, nor prevaricate, nor jump at mean motives +for generous acts. He had not a single base story about women. It all +seemed inhuman. + +What creatures we be! I was more than half ashamed of Paterson's faith +in me, but when I saw it begin to shrink I fought for it. An easy task, +you may say, but it was a hard one, for gradually a change had come over +the youth. I am now arrived at a time when the light-heartedness had +gone out of him; he had lost his zest for fun, and dubiety sat in the +eyes that were once so certain. He was not doubtful of me, not then, but +of human nature in general; that whilom noble edifice was tottering. He +mixed with boys in the Gardens; ah, mothers, it is hard to say, but how +could he retain his innocence when he had mixed with boys? He heard your +talk of yourselves, and so, ladies, that part of the edifice went down. +I have not the heart to follow him in all his discoveries. Sometimes +he went in flame at them, but for the most part he stood looking on, +bewildered and numbed, like one moaning inwardly. + +He saw all, as one fresh to the world, before he had time to breathe +upon the glass. So would your child be, madam, if born with a man's +powers, and when disillusioned of all else, he would cling for a moment +longer to you, the woman of whom, before he saw you, he had heard so +much. How you would strive to cheat him, even as I strove to hide my +real self from Paterson, and still you would strive as I strove after +you knew the game was up. + +The sorrowful eyes of Paterson stripped me bare. There were days when I +could not endure looking at him, though surely I have long ceased to be +a vain man. He still met us in the Gardens, but for hours he and I would +be together without speaking. It was so upon the last day, one of those +innumerable dreary days when David, having sneezed the night before, +was kept at home in flannel, and I sat alone with Paterson on the +Story-seat. At last I turned to address him. Never had we spoken of what +chained our tongues, and I meant only to say now that we must go, for +soon the gates would close, but when I looked at him I saw that he was +more mournful than ever before; he shut his eyes so tightly that a drop +of blood fell from them. + +“It was all over, Paterson, long ago,” I broke out harshly, “why do we +linger?” + +He beat his hands together miserably, and yet cast me appealing looks +that had much affection in them. + +“You expected too much of me,” I told him, and he bowed his head. “I +don't know where you brought your grand ideas of men and women from. I +don't want to know,” I added hastily. + +“But it must have been from a prettier world than this,” I said: “are +you quite sure that you were wise in leaving it?” + +He rose and sat down again. “I wanted to know you,” he replied slowly, +“I wanted to be like you.” + +“And now you know me,” I said, “do you want to be like me still? I am a +curious person to attach oneself to, Paterson; don't you see that even +David often smiles at me when he thinks he is unobserved. I work very +hard to retain that little boy's love; but I shall lose him soon; even +now I am not what I was to him; in a year or two at longest, Paterson, +David will grow out of me.” + +The poor fellow shot out his hand to me, but “No,” said I, “you have +found me out. Everybody finds me out except my dog, and that is why the +loss of him makes such a difference to me. Shall we go, Paterson?” + +He would not come with me, and I left him on the seat; when I was far +away I looked back, and he was still sitting there forlornly. + +For long I could not close my ears that night: I lay listening, I knew +not what for. A scare was on me that made me dislike the dark, and I +switched on the light and slept at last. I was roused by a great to-do +in the early morning, servants knocking excitedly, and my door opened, +and the dear Porthos I had mourned so long tore in. They had heard his +bark, but whence he came no one knew. + +He was in excellent condition, and after he had leaped upon me from all +points I flung him on the floor by a trick I know, and lay down beside +him, while he put his protecting arm round me and looked at me with the +old adoring eyes. + +But we never saw Paterson again. You may think as you choose. + + + + +XXII. Joey + +Wise children always choose a mother who was a shocking flirt in +her maiden days, and so had several offers before she accepted their +fortunate papa. The reason they do this is because every offer refused +by their mother means another pantomime to them. You see you can't trust +to your father's taking you to the pantomime, but you can trust to +every one of the poor frenzied gentlemen for whom that lady has wept a +delicious little tear on her lovely little cambric handkerchief. It is +pretty (but dreadfully affecting) to see them on Boxing Night gathering +together the babies of their old loves. Some knock at but one door and +bring a hansom, but others go from street to street in private 'buses, +and even wear false noses to conceal the sufferings you inflict upon +them as you grew more and more like your sweet cruel mamma. + +So I took David to the pantomime, and I hope you follow my reasoning, +for I don't. He went with the fairest anticipations, pausing on the +threshold to peer through the hole in the little house called “Pay +Here,” which he thought was Red Riding Hood's residence, and asked +politely whether he might see her, but they said she had gone to the +wood, and it was quite true, for there she was in the wood gathering a +stick for her grandmother's fire. She sang a beautiful song about the +Boys and their dashing ways, which flattered David considerably, but she +forgot to take away the stick after all. Other parts of the play were +not so nice, but David thought it all lovely, he really did. + +Yet he left the place in tears. All the way home he sobbed in the +darkest corner of the growler, and if I tried to comfort him he struck +me. + +The clown had done it, that man of whom he expected things so fair. He +had asked in a loud voice of the middling funny gentleman (then in the +middle of a song) whether he thought Joey would be long in coming, and +when at last Joey did come he screamed out, “How do you do, Joey!” and +went into convulsions of mirth. + +Joey and his father were shadowing a pork-butcher's shop, pocketing the +sausages for which their family has such a fatal weakness, and so when +the butcher engaged Joey as his assistant there was soon not a sausage +left. However, this did not matter, for there was a box rather like an +ice-cream machine, and you put chunks of pork in at one end and turned +a handle and they came out as sausages at the other end. Joey quite +enjoyed doing this, and you could see that the sausages were excellent +by the way he licked his fingers after touching them, but soon +there were no more pieces of pork, and just then a dear little Irish +terrier-dog came trotting down the street, so what did Joey do but pop +it into the machine and it came out at the other end as sausages. + +It was this callous act that turned all David's mirth to woe, and drove +us weeping to our growler. + +Heaven knows I have no wish to defend this cruel deed, but as Joey told +me afterward, it is very difficult to say what they will think funny and +what barbarous. I was forced to admit to him that David had perceived +only the joyous in the pokering of the policeman's legs, and had called +out heartily “Do it again!” every time Joey knocked the pantaloon down +with one kick and helped him up with another. + +“It hurts the poor chap,” I was told by Joey, whom I was agreeably +surprised to find by no means wanting in the more humane feelings, “and +he wouldn't stand it if there wasn't the laugh to encourage him.” + +He maintained that the dog got that laugh to encourage him also. + +However, he had not got it from David, whose mother and father and nurse +combined could not comfort him, though they swore that the dog was still +alive and kicking, which might all have been very well had not David +seen the sausages. It was to inquire whether anything could be done to +atone that in considerable trepidation I sent in my card to the clown, +and the result of our talk was that he invited me and David to have tea +with him on Thursday next at his lodgings. + +“I sha'n't laugh,” David said, nobly true to the memory of the little +dog, “I sha'n't laugh once,” and he closed his jaws very tightly as we +drew near the house in Soho where Joey lodged. But he also gripped my +hand, like one who knew that it would be an ordeal not to laugh. + +The house was rather like the ordinary kind, but there was a convenient +sausage-shop exactly opposite (trust Joey for that) and we saw a +policeman in the street looking the other way, as they always do look +just before you rub them. A woman wearing the same kind of clothes as +people in other houses wear, told us to go up to the second floor, and +she grinned at David, as if she had heard about him; so up we went, +David muttering through his clenched teeth, “I sha'n't laugh,” and as +soon as we knocked a voice called out, “Here we are again!” at which a +shudder passed through David as if he feared that he had set himself an +impossible task. In we went, however, and though the voice had certainly +come from this room we found nobody there. I looked in bewilderment at +David, and he quickly put his hand over his mouth. + +It was a funny room, of course, but not so funny as you might expect; +there were droll things in it, but they did nothing funny, you could +see that they were just waiting for Joey. There were padded chairs +with friendly looking rents down the middle of them, and a table and a +horse-hair sofa, and we sat down very cautiously on the sofa but nothing +happened to us. + +The biggest piece of furniture was an enormous wicker trunk, with a very +lively coloured stocking dangling out at a hole in it, and a notice on +the top that Joey was the funniest man on earth. David tried to pull the +stocking out of the hole, but it was so long that it never came to an +end, and when it measured six times the length of the room he had to +cover his mouth again. + +“I'm not laughing,” he said to me, quite fiercely. He even managed not +to laugh (though he did gulp) when we discovered on the mantelpiece a +photograph of Joey in ordinary clothes, the garments he wore before he +became a clown. You can't think how absurd he looked in them. But David +didn't laugh. + +Suddenly Joey was standing beside us, it could not have been more +sudden though he had come from beneath the table, and he was wearing his +pantomime clothes (which he told us afterward were the only clothes he +had) and his red and white face was so funny that David made gurgling +sounds, which were his laugh trying to force a passage. + +I introduced David, who offered his hand stiffly, but Joey, instead of +taking it, put out his tongue and waggled it, and this was so droll that +David had again to save himself by clapping his hand over his mouth. +Joey thought he had toothache, so I explained what it really meant, +and then Joey said, “Oh, I shall soon make him laugh,” whereupon the +following conversation took place between them: + +“No, you sha'n't,” said David doggedly. + +“Yes, I shall.” + +“No, you sha'n't not.” + +“Yes, I shall so.” + +“Sha'n't, sha'n't, sha'n't.” + +“Shall, shall, shall.” + +“You shut up.” + +“You're another.” + +By this time Joey was in a frightful way (because he saw he was getting +the worst of it), and he boasted that he had David's laugh in his +pocket, and David challenged him to produce it, and Joey searched his +pockets and brought out the most unexpected articles, including a duck +and a bunch of carrots; and you could see by his manner that the simple +soul thought these were things which all boys carried loose in their +pockets. + +I daresay David would have had to laugh in the end, had there not been a +half-gnawed sausage in one of the pockets, and the sight of it reminded +him so cruelly of the poor dog's fate that he howled, and Joey's heart +was touched at last, and he also wept, but he wiped his eyes with the +duck. + +It was at this touching moment that the pantaloon hobbled in, also +dressed as we had seen him last, and carrying, unfortunately, a +trayful of sausages, which at once increased the general gloom, for he +announced, in his squeaky voice, that they were the very sausages that +had lately been the dog. + +Then Joey seemed to have a great idea, and his excitement was so +impressive that we stood gazing at him. First, he counted the sausages, +and said that they were two short, and he found the missing two up the +pantaloon's sleeve. Then he ran out of the room and came back with the +sausage-machine; and what do you think he did? He put all the sausages +into the end of the machine that they had issued from, and turned the +handle backward, and then out came the dog at the other end! + +Can you picture the joy of David? + +He clasped the dear little terrier in his arms; and then we noticed that +there was a sausage adhering to its tail. The pantaloon said we must +have put in a sausage too many, but Joey said the machine had not worked +quite smoothly and that he feared this sausage was the dog's bark, which +distressed David, for he saw how awkward it must be to a dog to have its +bark outside, and we were considering what should be done when the dog +closed the discussion by swallowing the sausage. + +After that, David had the most hilarious hour of his life, entering +into the childish pleasures of this family as heartily as if he had been +brought up on sausages, and knocking the pantaloon down repeatedly. You +must not think that he did this viciously; he did it to please the old +gentleman, who begged him to do it, and always shook hands warmly and +said “Thank you,” when he had done it. They are quite a simple people. + +Joey called David and me “Sonny,” and asked David, who addressed him as +“Mr. Clown,” to call him Joey. He also told us that the pantaloon's name +was old Joey, and the columbine's Josy, and the harlequin's Joeykin. + +We were sorry to hear that old Joey gave him a good deal of trouble. +This was because his memory is so bad that he often forgets whether it +is your head or your feet you should stand on, and he usually begins the +day by standing on the end that happens to get out of bed first. Thus +he requires constant watching, and the worst of it is, you dare not draw +attention to his mistake, he is so shrinkingly sensitive about it. No +sooner had Joey told us this than the poor old fellow began to turn +upside down and stood on his head; but we pretended not to notice, and +talked about the weather until he came to. + +Josy and Joeykin, all skirts and spangles, were with us by this time, +for they had been invited to tea. They came in dancing, and danced off +and on most of the time. Even in the middle of what they were saying +they would begin to flutter; it was not so much that they meant to +dance as that the slightest thing set them going, such as sitting in a +draught; and David found he could blow them about the room like pieces +of paper. You could see by the shortness of Josy's dress that she was +very young indeed, and at first this made him shy, as he always is when +introduced formally to little girls, and he stood sucking his thumb, and +so did she, but soon the stiffness wore off and they sat together on the +sofa, holding each other's hands. + +All this time the harlequin was rotating like a beautiful fish, and +David requested him to jump through the wall, at which he is such an +adept, and first he said he would, and then he said better not, for the +last time he did it the people in the next house had made such a fuss. +David had to admit that it must be rather startling to the people on the +other side of the wall, but he was sorry. + +By this time tea was ready, and Josy, who poured out, remembered to ask +if you took milk with just one drop of tea in it, exactly as her mother +would have asked. There was nothing to eat, of course, except sausages, +but what a number of them there were! hundreds at least, strings of +sausages, and every now and then Joey jumped up and played skipping rope +with them. David had been taught not to look greedy, even though he felt +greedy, and he was shocked to see the way in which Joey and old Joey +and even Josy eyed the sausages they had given him. Soon Josy developed +nobler feelings, for she and Joeykin suddenly fell madly in love with +each other across the table, but unaffected by this pretty picture, Joey +continued to put whole sausages in his mouth at a time, and then rubbed +himself a little lower down, while old Joey secreted them about his +person; and when David wasn't looking they both pounced on his sausages, +and yet as they gobbled they were constantly running to the top of the +stair and screaming to the servant to bring up more sausages. + +You could see that Joey (if you caught him with his hand in your plate) +was a bit ashamed of himself, and he admitted to us that sausages were a +passion with him. + +He said he had never once in his life had a sufficient number of +sausages. They had maddened him since he was the smallest boy. He told +us how, even in those days, his mother had feared for him, though fond +of a sausage herself; how he had bought a sausage with his first penny, +and hoped to buy one with his last (if they could not be got in any +other way), and that he always slept with a string of them beneath his +pillow. + +While he was giving us these confidences, unfortunately, his eyes came +to rest, at first accidentally, then wistfully, then with a horrid gleam +in them, on the little dog, which was fooling about on the top of the +sausage-machine, and his hands went out toward it convulsively, whereat +David, in sudden fear, seized the dog in one arm and gallantly clenched +his other fist, and then Joey begged his pardon and burst into tears, +each one of which he flung against the wall, where it exploded with a +bang. + +David refused to pardon him unless he promised on wood never to look in +that way at the dog again, but Joey said promises were nothing to him +when he was short of sausages, and so his wisest course would be to +present the dog to David. Oh, the joy of David when he understood that +the little dog he had saved was his very own! I can tell you he was now +in a hurry to be off before Joey had time to change his mind. + +“All I ask of you,” Joey said with a break in his voice, “is to call him +after me, and always to give him a sausage, sonny, of a Saturday night.” + +There was a quiet dignity about Joey at the end, which showed that he +might have risen to high distinction but for his fatal passion. + +The last we saw of him was from the street. He was waving his tongue at +us in his attractive, foolish way, and Josy was poised on Joeykin's hand +like a butterfly that had alighted on a flower. We could not exactly see +old Joey, but we saw his feet, and so feared the worst. Of course they +are not everything they should be, but one can't help liking them. + + + + +XXIII. Pilkington's + +On attaining the age of eight, or thereabout, children fly away from the +Gardens, and never come back. When next you meet them they are ladies +and gentlemen holding up their umbrellas to hail a hansom. + +Where the girls go to I know not, to some private place, I suppose, to +put up their hair, but the boys have gone to Pilkington's. He is a man +with a cane. You may not go to Pilkington's in knickerbockers made +by your mother, make she ever so artfully. They must be real +knickerbockers. It is his stern rule. Hence the fearful fascination of +Pilkington's. + +He may be conceived as one who, baiting his hook with real +knickerbockers, fishes all day in the Gardens, which are to him but a +pool swarming with small fry. + +Abhorred shade! I know not what manner of man thou art in the flesh, +sir, but figure thee bearded and blackavised, and of a lean tortuous +habit of body, that moves ever with a swish. Every morning, I swear, +thou readest avidly the list of male births in thy paper, and then are +thy hands rubbed gloatingly the one upon the other. 'Tis fear of thee +and thy gown and thy cane, which are part of thee, that makes the +fairies to hide by day; wert thou to linger but once among their haunts +between the hours of Lock-out and Open Gates there would be left not one +single gentle place in all the Gardens. The little people would flit. +How much wiser they than the small boys who swim glamoured to thy crafty +hook. Thou devastator of the Gardens, I know thee, Pilkington. + +I first heard of Pilkington from David, who had it from Oliver Bailey. + +This Oliver Bailey was one of the most dashing figures in the Gardens, +and without apparent effort was daily drawing nearer the completion +of his seventh year at a time when David seemed unable to get beyond +half-past five. I have to speak of him in the past tense, for gone is +Oliver from the Gardens (gone to Pilkington's) but he is still a name +among us, and some lordly deeds are remembered of him, as that his +father shaved twice a day. Oliver himself was all on that scale. + +His not ignoble ambition seems always to have been to be wrecked upon +an island, indeed I am told that he mentioned it insinuatingly in his +prayers, and it was perhaps inevitable that a boy with such an outlook +should fascinate David. I am proud, therefore, to be able to state on +wood that it was Oliver himself who made the overture. + +On first hearing, from some satellite of Oliver's, of Wrecked Islands, +as they are called in the Gardens, David said wistfully that he supposed +you needed to be very very good before you had any chance of being +wrecked, and the remark was conveyed to Oliver, on whom it made +an uncomfortable impression. For a time he tried to evade it, but +ultimately David was presented to him and invited gloomily to say +it again. The upshot was that Oliver advertised the Gardens of his +intention to be good until he was eight, and if he had not been wrecked +by that time, to be as jolly bad as a boy could be. He was naturally so +bad that at the Kindergarten Academy, when the mistress ordered whoever +had done the last naughty deed to step forward, Oliver's custom had been +to step forward, not necessarily because he had done it, but because he +presumed he very likely had. + +The friendship of the two dated from this time, and at first I thought +Oliver discovered generosity in hasting to David as to an equal; he also +walked hand in hand with him, and even reproved him for delinquencies +like a loving elder brother. But 'tis a gray world even in the Gardens, +for I found that a new arrangement had been made which reduced Oliver to +life-size. He had wearied of well-doing, and passed it on, so to speak, +to his friend. In other words, on David now devolved the task of being +good until he was eight, while Oliver clung to him so closely that the +one could not be wrecked without the other. + +When this was made known to me it was already too late to break the +spell of Oliver, David was top-heavy with pride in him, and, faith, I +began to find myself very much in the cold, for Oliver was frankly bored +by me and even David seemed to think it would be convenient if I went +and sat with Irene. Am I affecting to laugh? I was really distressed and +lonely, and rather bitter; and how humble I became. Sometimes when the +dog Joey is unable, by frisking, to induce Porthos to play with him, +he stands on his hind legs and begs it of him, and I do believe I +was sometimes as humble as Joey. Then David would insist on my being +suffered to join them, but it was plain that he had no real occasion for +me. + +It was an unheroic trouble, and I despised myself. For years I had +been fighting Mary for David, and had not wholly failed though she was +advantaged by the accident of relationship; was I now to be knocked out +so easily by a seven year old? I reconsidered my weapons, and I fought +Oliver and beat him. Figure to yourself those two boys become as +faithful to me as my coat-tails. + +With wrecked islands I did it. I began in the most unpretentious way by +telling them a story which might last an hour, and favoured by many an +unexpected wind it lasted eighteen months. It started as the wreck of +the simple Swiss family who looked up and saw the butter tree, but soon +a glorious inspiration of the night turned it into the wreck of David +A---- and Oliver Bailey. At first it was what they were to do when they +were wrecked, but imperceptibly it became what they had done. I spent +much of my time staring reflectively at the titles of the boys' stories +in the booksellers' windows, whistling for a breeze, so to say, for +I found that the titles were even more helpful than the stories. We +wrecked everybody of note, including all Homer's most taking characters +and the hero of Paradise Lost. But we suffered them not to land. We +stripped them of what we wanted and left them to wander the high seas +naked of adventure. And all this was merely the beginning. + +By this time I had been cast upon the island. It was not my own +proposal, but David knew my wishes, and he made it all right for me with +Oliver. They found me among the breakers with a large dog, which had +kept me afloat throughout that terrible night. I was the sole survivor +of the ill-fated Anna Pink. So exhausted was I that they had to carry +me to their hut, and great was my gratitude when on opening my eyes, I +found myself in that romantic edifice instead of in Davy Jones's locker. +As we walked in the Gardens I told them of the hut they had built; and +they were inflated but not surprised. On the other hand they looked for +surprise from me. + +“Did we tell you about the turtle we turned on its back?” asked Oliver, +reverting to deeds of theirs of which I had previously told them. + +“You did.” + +“Who turned it?” demanded David, not as one who needed information but +after the manner of a schoolmaster. + +“It was turned,” I said, “by David A----, the younger of the two +youths.” + +“Who made the monkeys fling cocoa-nuts at him?” asked the older of the +two youths. + +“Oliver Bailey,” I replied. + +“Was it Oliver,” asked David sharply, “that found the cocoa-nut-tree +first?” + +“On the contrary,” I answered, “it was first observed by David, +who immediately climbed it, remarking, 'This is certainly the +cocos-nucifera, for, see, dear Oliver, the slender columns supporting +the crown of leaves which fall with a grace that no art can imitate.'” + +“That's what I said,” remarked David with a wave of his hand. + +“I said things like that, too,” Oliver insisted. + +“No, you didn't then,” said David. + +“Yes, I did so.” + +“No, you didn't so.” + +“Shut up.” + +“Well, then, let's hear one you said.” + +Oliver looked appealingly at me. “The following,” I announced, “is +one that Oliver said: 'Truly dear comrade, though the perils of these +happenings are great, and our privations calculated to break the +stoutest heart, yet to be rewarded by such fair sights I would endure +still greater trials and still rejoice even as the bird on yonder +bough.'” + +“That's one I said!” crowed Oliver. + +“I shot the bird,” said David instantly. + +“What bird?” + +“The yonder bird.” + +“No, you didn't.” + +“Did I not shoot the bird?” + +“It was David who shot the bird,” I said, “but it was Oliver who saw +by its multi-coloured plumage that it was one of the Psittacidae, an +excellent substitute for partridge.” + +“You didn't see that,” said Oliver, rather swollen. + +“Yes, I did.” + +“What did you see?” + +“I saw that.” + +“What?” + +“You shut up.” + +“David shot it,” I summed up, “and Oliver knew its name, but I ate it. +Do you remember how hungry I was?” + +“Rather!” said David. + +“I cooked it,” said Oliver. + +“It was served up on toast,” I reminded them. + +“I toasted it,” said David. + +“Toast from the bread-fruit-tree,” I said, “which (as you both remarked +simultaneously) bears two and sometimes three crops in a year, and also +affords a serviceable gum for the pitching of canoes.” + +“I pitched mine best,” said Oliver. + +“I pitched mine farthest,” said David. + +“And when I had finished my repast,” said I, “you amazed me by handing +me a cigar from the tobacco-plant.” + +“I handed it,” said Oliver. + +“I snicked off the end,” said David. + +“And then,” said I, “you gave me a light.” + +“Which of us?” they cried together. + +“Both of you,” I said. “Never shall I forget my amazement when I saw you +get that light by rubbing two sticks together.” + +At this they waggled their heads. “You couldn't have done it!” said +David. + +“No, David,” I admitted, “I can't do it, but of course I know that all +wrecked boys do it quite easily. Show me how you did it.” + +But after consulting apart they agreed not to show me. I was not shown +everything. + +David was now firmly convinced that he had once been wrecked on an +island, while Oliver passed his days in dubiety. They used to argue it +out together and among their friends. As I unfolded the story Oliver +listened with an open knife in his hand, and David who was not allowed +to have a knife wore a pirate-string round his waist. Irene in her usual +interfering way objected to this bauble and dropped disparaging remarks +about wrecked islands which were little to her credit. I was for defying +her, but David, who had the knack of women, knew a better way; he +craftily proposed that we “should let Irene in,” in short, should wreck +her, and though I objected, she proved a great success and recognised +the yucca filamentosa by its long narrow leaves the very day she joined +us. Thereafter we had no more scoffing from Irene, who listened to the +story as hotly as anybody. + +This encouraged us in time to let in David's father and mother, though +they never knew it unless he told them, as I have no doubt he did. They +were admitted primarily to gratify David, who was very soft-hearted and +knew that while he was on the island they must be missing him very much +at home. So we let them in, and there was no part of the story he liked +better than that which told of the joyous meeting. We were in need of +another woman at any rate, someone more romantic looking than Irene, and +Mary, I can assure her now, had a busy time of it. She was constantly +being carried off by cannibals, and David became quite an adept at +plucking her from the very pot itself and springing from cliff to cliff +with his lovely burden in his arms. There was seldom a Saturday in which +David did not kill his man. + +I shall now provide the proof that David believed it all to be as true +as true. It was told me by Oliver, who had it from our hero himself. I +had described to them how the savages had tattooed David's father, and +Oliver informed me that one night shortly afterward David was discovered +softly lifting the blankets off his father's legs to have a look at the +birds and reptiles etched thereon. + +Thus many months passed with no word of Pilkington, and you may be +asking where he was all this time. Ah, my friends, he was very busy +fishing, though I was as yet unaware of his existence. Most suddenly I +heard the whirr of his hated reel, as he struck a fish. I remember that +grim day with painful vividness, it was a wet day, indeed I think it has +rained for me more or less ever since. As soon as they joined me I saw +from the manner of the two boys that they had something to communicate. +Oliver nudged David and retired a few paces, whereupon David said to me +solemnly, + +“Oliver is going to Pilkington's.” + +I immediately perceived that it was some school, but so little did I +understand the import of David's remark that I called out jocularly, “I +hope he won't swish you, Oliver.” + +Evidently I had pained both of them, for they exchanged glances and +retired for consultation behind a tree, whence David returned to say +with emphasis, + +“He has two jackets and two shirts and two knickerbockers, all real +ones.” + +“Well done, Oliver!” said I, but it was the wrong thing again, and once +more they disappeared behind the tree. Evidently they decided that the +time for plain speaking was come, for now David announced bluntly: + +“He wants you not to call him Oliver any longer.” + +“What shall I call him?” + +“Bailey.” + +“But why?” + +“He's going to Pilkington's. And he can't play with us any more after +next Saturday.” + +“Why not?” + +“He's going to Pilkington's.” + +So now I knew the law about the thing, and we moved on together, Oliver +stretching himself consciously, and methought that even David walked +with a sedater air. + +“David,” said I, with a sinking, “are you going to Pilkington's?” + +“When I am eight,” he replied. + +“And sha'n't I call you David then, and won't you play with me in the +Gardens any more?” + +He looked at Bailey, and Bailey signalled him to be firm. + +“Oh, no,” said David cheerily. + +Thus sharply did I learn how much longer I was to have of him. Strange +that a little boy can give so much pain. I dropped his hand and walked +on in silence, and presently I did my most churlish to hurt him by +ending the story abruptly in a very cruel way. “Ten years have elapsed,” + said I, “since I last spoke, and our two heroes, now gay young men, +are revisiting the wrecked island of their childhood. 'Did we wreck +ourselves,' said one, 'or was there someone to help us?' And the other +who was the younger, replied, 'I think there was someone to help us, +a man with a dog. I think he used to tell me stories in the Kensington +Gardens, but I forget all about him; I don't remember even his name.'” + +This tame ending bored Bailey, and he drifted away from us, but David +still walked by my side, and he was grown so quiet that I knew a storm +was brewing. Suddenly he flashed lightning on me. “It's not true,” he +cried, “it's a lie!” He gripped my hand. “I sha'n't never forget you, +father.” + +Strange that a little boy can give so much pleasure. + +Yet I could go on. “You will forget, David, but there was once a boy who +would have remembered.” + +“Timothy?” said he at once. He thinks Timothy was a real boy, and is +very jealous of him. He turned his back to me, and stood alone and +wept passionately, while I waited for him. You may be sure I begged his +pardon, and made it all right with him, and had him laughing and happy +again before I let him go. But nevertheless what I said was true. David +is not my boy, and he will forget. But Timothy would have remembered. + + + + +XXIV. Barbara + +Another shock was waiting for me farther down the story. + +For we had resumed our adventures, though we seldom saw Bailey now. At +long intervals we met him on our way to or from the Gardens, and, if +there was none from Pilkington's to mark him, methought he looked at us +somewhat longingly, as if beneath his real knickerbockers a morsel of +the egg-shell still adhered. Otherwise he gave David a not unfriendly +kick in passing, and called him “youngster.” That was about all. + +When Oliver disappeared from the life of the Gardens we had lofted +him out of the story, and did very well without him, extending our +operations to the mainland, where they were on so vast a scale that we +were rapidly depopulating the earth. And then said David one day, + +“Shall we let Barbara in?” + +We had occasionally considered the giving of Bailey's place to some +other child of the Gardens, divers of David's year having sought +election, even with bribes; but Barbara was new to me. + +“Who is she?” I asked. + +“She's my sister.” + +You may imagine how I gaped. + +“She hasn't come yet,” David said lightly, “but she's coming.” + + +I was shocked, not perhaps so much shocked as disillusioned, for though +I had always suspicioned Mary A---- as one who harboured the craziest +ambitions when she looked most humble, of such presumption as this I had +never thought her capable. + +I wandered across the Broad Walk to have a look at Irene, and she was +wearing an unmistakable air. It set me reflecting about Mary's +husband and his manner the last time we met, for though I have had no +opportunity to say so, we still meet now and again, and he has even +dined with me at the club. On these occasions the subject of Timothy is +barred, and if by any unfortunate accident Mary's name is mentioned, we +immediately look opposite ways and a silence follows, in which I feel +sure he is smiling, and wonder what the deuce he is smiling at. I +remembered now that I had last seen him when I was dining with him at +his club (for he is become member of a club of painter fellows, and +Mary is so proud of this that she has had it printed on his card), when +undoubtedly he had looked preoccupied. It had been the look, I saw now, +of one who shared a guilty secret. + +As all was thus suddenly revealed to me I laughed unpleasantly at +myself, for, on my soul, I had been thinking well of Mary of late. +Always foolishly inflated about David, she had been grudging him even to +me during these last weeks, and I had forgiven her, putting it down to a +mother's love. I knew from the poor boy of unwonted treats she had been +giving him; I had seen her embrace him furtively in a public place, her +every act, in so far as they were known to me, had been a challenge to +whoever dare assert that she wanted anyone but David. How could I, not +being a woman, have guessed that she was really saying good-bye to him? + +Reader, picture to yourself that simple little boy playing about the +house at this time, on the understanding that everything was going on +as usual. Have not his toys acquired a new pathos, especially the engine +she bought him yesterday? + +Did you look him in the face, Mary, as you gave him that engine? I envy +you not your feelings, ma'am, when with loving arms he wrapped you round +for it. That childish confidence of his to me, in which unwittingly he +betrayed you, indicates that at last you have been preparing him for the +great change, and I suppose you are capable of replying to me that David +is still happy, and even interested. But does he know from you what it +really means to him? Rather, I do believe, you are one who would not +scruple to give him to understand that B (which you may yet find stands +for Benjamin) is primarily a gift for him. In your heart, ma'am, what do +you think of this tricking of a little boy? + +Suppose David had known what was to happen before he came to you, are +you sure he would have come? Undoubtedly there is an unwritten compact +in such matters between a mother and her first-born, and I desire to +point out to you that he never breaks it. Again, what will the other +boys say when they know? You are outside the criticism of the Gardens, +but David is not. Faith, madam, I believe you would have been kinder to +wait and let him run the gauntlet at Pilkington's. + +You think your husband is a great man now because they are beginning to +talk of his foregrounds and middle distances in the newspaper columns +that nobody reads. I know you have bought him a velvet coat, and that +he has taken a large, airy and commodious studio in Mews Lane, where you +are to be found in a soft material on first and third Wednesdays. Times +are changing, but shall I tell you a story here, just to let you see +that I am acquainted with it? + +Three years ago a certain gallery accepted from a certain artist a +picture which he and his wife knew to be monstrous fine. But no one +spoke of the picture, no one wrote of it, and no one made an offer for +it. Crushed was the artist, sorry for the denseness of connoisseurs was +his wife, till the work was bought by a dealer for an anonymous client, +and then elated were they both, and relieved also to discover that I was +not the buyer. He came to me at once to make sure of this, and remained +to walk the floor gloriously as he told me what recognition means to +gentlemen of the artistic callings. O, the happy boy! + +But months afterward, rummaging at his home in a closet that is usually +kept locked, he discovered the picture, there hidden away. His wife +backed into a corner and made trembling confession. How could she submit +to see her dear's masterpiece ignored by the idiot public, and her dear +himself plunged into gloom thereby? She knew as well as he (for had +they not been married for years?) how the artistic instinct hungers +for recognition, and so with her savings she bought the great work +anonymously and stored it away in a closet. At first, I believe, the man +raved furiously, but by-and-by he was on his knees at the feet of this +little darling. You know who she was, Mary, but, bless me, I seem to be +praising you, and that was not the enterprise on which I set out. What +I intended to convey was that though you can now venture on small +extravagances, you seem to be going too fast. Look at it how one may, +this Barbara idea is undoubtedly a bad business. + +How to be even with her? I cast about for a means, and on my lucky day I +did conceive my final triumph over Mary, at which I have scarcely as yet +dared to hint, lest by discovering it I should spoil my plot. For there +has been a plot all the time. + +For long I had known that Mary contemplated the writing of a book, my +informant being David, who, because I have published a little volume +on Military tactics, and am preparing a larger one on the same subject +(which I shall never finish), likes to watch my methods of composition, +how I dip, and so on, his desire being to help her. He may have done +this on his own initiative, but it is also quite possible that in her +desperation she urged him to it; he certainly implied that she had +taken to book-writing because it must be easy if I could do it. She +also informed him (very inconsiderately), that I did not print my books +myself, and this lowered me in the eyes of David, for it was for the +printing he had admired me and boasted of me in the Gardens. + +“I suppose you didn't make the boxes neither, nor yet the labels,” he +said to me in the voice of one shorn of belief in everything. + +I should say here that my literary labours are abstruse, the token +whereof is many rows of boxes nailed against my walls, each labelled +with a letter of the alphabet. When I take a note in A, I drop its into +the A box, and so on, much to the satisfaction of David, who likes to +drop them in for me. I had now to admit that Wheeler & Gibb made the +boxes. + +“But I made the labels myself, David.” + +“They are not so well made as the boxes,” he replied. + +Thus I have reason to wish ill to Mary's work of imagination, as I +presumed it to be, and I said to him with easy brutality, “Tell her +about the boxes, David, and that no one can begin a book until they are +all full. That will frighten her.” + +Soon thereafter he announced to me that she had got a box. + +“One box!” I said with a sneer. + +“She made it herself,” retorted David hotly. + +I got little real information from him about the work, partly because +David loses his footing when he descends to the practical, and perhaps +still more because he found me unsympathetic. But when he blurted out +the title, “The Little White Bird,” I was like one who had read the +book to its last page. I knew at once that the white bird was the little +daughter Mary would fain have had. Somehow I had always known that she +would like to have a little daughter, she was that kind of woman, and +so long as she had the modesty to see that she could not have one, I +sympathised with her deeply, whatever I may have said about her book to +David. + +In those days Mary had the loveliest ideas for her sad little book, and +they came to her mostly in the morning when she was only three-parts +awake, but as she stepped out of bed they all flew away like startled +birds. I gathered from David that this depressed her exceedingly. + +Oh, Mary, your thoughts are much too pretty and holy to show themselves +to anyone but yourself. The shy things are hiding within you. If they +could come into the open they would not be a book, they would be little +Barbara. + +But that was not the message I sent her. “She will never be able to +write it,” I explained to David. “She has not the ability. Tell her I +said that.” + +I remembered now that for many months I had heard nothing of her +ambitious project, so I questioned David and discovered that it was +abandoned. He could not say why, nor was it necessary that he should, +the trivial little reason was at once so plain to me. From that moment +all my sympathy with Mary was spilled, and I searched for some means of +exulting over her until I found it. It was this. I decided, unknown even +to David, to write the book “The Little White Bird,” of which she had +proved herself incapable, and then when, in the fulness of time, she +held her baby on high, implying that she had done a big thing, I was to +hold up the book. I venture to think that such a devilish revenge was +never before planned and carried out. + +Yes, carried out, for this is the book, rapidly approaching completion. +She and I are running a neck-and-neck race. + +I have also once more brought the story of David's adventures to +an abrupt end. “And it really is the end this time, David,” I said +severely. (I always say that.) + +It ended on the coast of Patagonia, whither we had gone to shoot the +great Sloth, known to be the largest of animals, though we found his +size to have been under-estimated. David, his father and I had flung +our limbs upon the beach and were having a last pipe before turning in, +while Mary, attired in barbaric splendour, sang and danced before us. +It was a lovely evening, and we lolled manlike, gazing, well-content, at +the pretty creature. + +The night was absolutely still save for the roaring of the Sloths in the +distance. + +By-and-by Irene came to the entrance of our cave, where by the light of +her torch we could see her exploring a shark that had been harpooned by +David earlier in the day. + +Everything conduced to repose, and a feeling of gentle peace crept over +us, from which we were roused by a shrill cry. It was uttered by Irene, +who came speeding to us, bearing certain articles, a watch, a pair of +boots, a newspaper, which she had discovered in the interior of the +shark. What was our surprise to find in the newspaper intelligence of +the utmost importance to all of us. It was nothing less than this, the +birth of a new baby in London to Mary. + +How strange a method had Solomon chosen of sending us the news. + +The bald announcement at once plunged us into a fever of excitement, and +next morning we set sail for England. Soon we came within sight of the +white cliffs of Albion. Mary could not sit down for a moment, so hot was +she to see her child. She paced the deck in uncontrollable agitation. + +“So did I!” cried David, when I had reached this point in the story. + +On arriving at the docks we immediately hailed a cab. + +“Never, David,” I said, “shall I forget your mother's excitement. She +kept putting her head out of the window and calling to the cabby to go +quicker, quicker. How he lashed his horse! At last he drew up at your +house, and then your mother, springing out, flew up the steps and beat +with her hands upon the door.” + +David was quite carried away by the reality of it. “Father has the key!” + he screamed. + +“He opened the door,” I said grandly, “and your mother rushed in, and +next moment her Benjamin was in her arms.” + +There was a pause. + +“Barbara,” corrected David. + +“Benjamin,” said I doggedly. + +“Is that a girl's name?” + +“No, it's a boy's name.” + +“But mother wants a girl,” he said, very much shaken. + +“Just like her presumption,” I replied testily. “It is to be a boy, +David, and you can tell her I said so.” + +He was in a deplorable but most unselfish state of mind. A boy would +have suited him quite well, but he put self aside altogether and was +pertinaciously solicitous that Mary should be given her fancy. + +“Barbara,” he repeatedly implored me. + +“Benjamin,” I replied firmly. + +For long I was obdurate, but the time was summer, and at last I agreed +to play him for it, a two-innings match. If he won it was to be a girl, +and if I won it was to be a boy. + + + + +XXV. The Cricket Match + +I think there has not been so much on a cricket match since the day when +Sir Horace Mann walked about Broad Ha'penny agitatedly cutting down the +daisies with his stick. And, be it remembered, the heroes of Hambledon +played for money and renown only, while David was champion of a lady. A +lady! May we not prettily say of two ladies? There were no spectators of +our contest except now and again some loiterer in the Gardens who little +thought what was the stake for which we played, but cannot we conceive +Barbara standing at the ropes and agitatedly cutting down the daisies +every time David missed the ball? I tell you, this was the historic +match of the Gardens. + +David wanted to play on a pitch near the Round Pond with which he is +familiar, but this would have placed me at a disadvantage, so I insisted +on unaccustomed ground, and we finally pitched stumps in the Figs. We +could not exactly pitch stumps, for they are forbidden in the Gardens, +but there are trees here and there which have chalk-marks on them +throughout the summer, and when you take up your position with a bat +near one of these you have really pitched stumps. The tree we selected +is a ragged yew which consists of a broken trunk and one branch, and +I viewed the ground with secret satisfaction, for it falls slightly +at about four yards' distance from the tree, and this exactly suits my +style of bowling. + +I won the toss and after examining the wicket decided to take first +knock. As a rule when we play the wit at first flows free, but on this +occasion I strode to the crease in an almost eerie silence. David had +taken off his blouse and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and his teeth were +set, so I knew he would begin by sending me down some fast ones. + +His delivery is underarm and not inelegant, but he sometimes tries a +round-arm ball, which I have seen double up the fielder at square leg. +He has not a good length, but he varies his action bewilderingly, and +has one especially teasing ball which falls from the branches just as +you have stepped out of your ground to look for it. It was not, however, +with his teaser that he bowled me that day. I had notched a three and +two singles, when he sent me down a medium to fast which got me in two +minds and I played back to it too late. Now, I am seldom out on a really +grassy wicket for such a meagre score, and as David and I changed places +without a word, there was a cheery look on his face that I found very +galling. He ran in to my second ball and cut it neatly to the on for a +single, and off my fifth and sixth he had two pretty drives for three, +both behind the wicket. This, however, as I hoped, proved the undoing of +him, for he now hit out confidently at everything, and with his score at +nine I beat him with my shooter. + +The look was now on my face. + +I opened my second innings by treating him with uncommon respect, for +I knew that his little arm soon tired if he was unsuccessful, and then +when he sent me loose ones I banged him to the railings. What cared I +though David's lips were twitching. + +When he ultimately got past my defence, with a jumpy one which broke +awkwardly from the off, I had fetched twenty-three so that he needed +twenty to win, a longer hand than he had ever yet made. As I gave him +the bat he looked brave, but something wet fell on my hand, and then a +sudden fear seized me lest David should not win. + +At the very outset, however, he seemed to master the bowling, and soon +fetched about ten runs in a classic manner. Then I tossed him a Yorker +which he missed and it went off at a tangent as soon as it had reached +the tree. “Not out,” I cried hastily, for the face he turned to me was +terrible. + +Soon thereafter another incident happened, which I shall always recall +with pleasure. He had caught the ball too high on the bat, and I just +missed the catch. “Dash it all!” said I irritably, and was about to +resume bowling, when I noticed that he was unhappy. He hesitated, took +up his position at the wicket, and then came to me manfully. “I am a +cad,” he said in distress, “for when the ball was in the air I prayed.” + He had prayed that I should miss the catch, and as I think I have +already told you, it is considered unfair in the Gardens to pray for +victory. + +My splendid David! He has the faults of other little boys, but he has +a noble sense of fairness. “We shall call it a no-ball, David,” I said +gravely. + +I suppose the suspense of the reader is now painful, and therefore I +shall say at once that David won the match with two lovely fours, the +one over my head and the other to leg all along the ground. When I came +back from fielding this last ball I found him embracing his bat, and +to my sour congratulations he could at first reply only with hysterical +sounds. But soon he was pelting home to his mother with the glorious +news. + +And that is how we let Barbara in. + + + + +XXVI. The Dedication + +It was only yesterday afternoon, dear reader, exactly three weeks after +the birth of Barbara, that I finished the book, and even then it was +not quite finished, for there remained the dedication, at which I set +to elatedly. I think I have never enjoyed myself more; indeed, it is my +opinion that I wrote the book as an excuse for writing the dedication. + +“Madam” (I wrote wittily), “I have no desire to exult over you, yet I +should show a lamentable obtuseness to the irony of things were I not +to dedicate this little work to you. For its inception was yours, and +in your more ambitious days you thought to write the tale of the little +white bird yourself. Why you so early deserted the nest is not for me +to inquire. It now appears that you were otherwise occupied. In fine, +madam, you chose the lower road, and contented yourself with obtaining +the Bird. May I point out, by presenting you with this dedication, that +in the meantime I am become the parent of the Book? To you the shadow, +to me the substance. Trusting that you will accept my little offering in +a Christian spirit, I am, dear madam,” etc. + +It was heady work, for the saucy words showed their design plainly +through the varnish, and I was re-reading in an ecstasy, when, without +warning, the door burst open and a little boy entered, dragging in a +faltering lady. + +“Father,” said David, “this is mother.” + +Having thus briefly introduced us, he turned his attention to the +electric light, and switched it on and off so rapidly that, as was very +fitting, Mary and I may be said to have met for the first time to the +accompaniment of flashes of lightning. I think she was arrayed in little +blue feathers, but if such a costume is not seemly, I swear there were, +at least, little blue feathers in her too coquettish cap, and that she +was carrying a muff to match. No part of a woman is more dangerous than +her muff, and as muffs are not worn in early autumn, even by invalids, I +saw in a twink, that she had put on all her pretty things to wheedle me. +I am also of opinion that she remembered she had worn blue in the days +when I watched her from the club-window. Undoubtedly Mary is an engaging +little creature, though not my style. She was paler than is her wont, +and had the touching look of one whom it would be easy to break. I +daresay this was a trick. Her skirts made music in my room, but perhaps +this was only because no lady had ever rustled in it before. It was +disquieting to me to reflect that despite her obvious uneasiness, she +was a very artful woman. + +With the quickness of David at the switch, I slipped a blotting-pad +over the dedication, and then, “Pray be seated,” I said coldly, but she +remained standing, all in a twitter and very much afraid of me, and I +know that her hands were pressed together within the muff. Had there +been any dignified means of escape, I think we would both have taken it. + +“I should not have come,” she said nervously, and then seemed to wait +for some response, so I bowed. + +“I was terrified to come, indeed I was,” she assured me with obvious +sincerity. + +“But I have come,” she finished rather baldly. + +“It is an epitome, ma'am,” said I, seeing my chance, “of your whole +life,” and with that I put her into my elbow-chair. + +She began to talk of my adventures with David in the Gardens, and of +some little things I have not mentioned here, that I may have done for +her when I was in a wayward mood, and her voice was as soft as her muff. +She had also an affecting way of pronouncing all her r's as w's, just as +the fairies do. “And so,” she said, “as you would not come to me to be +thanked, I have come to you to thank you.” Whereupon she thanked me most +abominably. She also slid one of her hands out of the muff, and though +she was smiling her eyes were wet. + +“Pooh, ma'am,” said I in desperation, but I did not take her hand. + +“I am not very strong yet,” she said with low cunning. She said this to +make me take her hand, so I took it, and perhaps I patted it a little. +Then I walked brusquely to the window. The truth is, I begun to think +uncomfortably of the dedication. + +I went to the window because, undoubtedly, it would be easier to address +her severely from behind, and I wanted to say something that would sting +her. + +“When you have quite done, ma'am,” I said, after a long pause, “perhaps +you will allow me to say a word.” + +I could see the back of her head only, but I knew, from David's face, +that she had given him a quick look which did not imply that she was +stung. Indeed I felt now, as I had felt before, that though she +was agitated and in some fear of me, she was also enjoying herself +considerably. + +In such circumstances I might as well have tried to sting a sand-bank, +so I said, rather off my watch, “If I have done all this for you, why +did I do it?” + +She made no answer in words, but seemed to grow taller in the chair, so +that I could see her shoulders, and I knew from this that she was now +holding herself conceitedly and trying to look modest. “Not a bit of it, +ma'am,” said I sharply, “that was not the reason at all.” + +I was pleased to see her whisk round, rather indignant at last. + +“I never said it was,” she retorted with spirit, “I never thought for +a moment that it was.” She added, a trifle too late in the story, +“Besides, I don't know what you are talking of.” + +I think I must have smiled here, for she turned from me quickly, and +became quite little in the chair again. + +“David,” said I mercilessly, “did you ever see your mother blush?” + +“What is blush?” + +“She goes a beautiful pink colour.” + +David, who had by this time broken my connection with the head office, +crossed to his mother expectantly. + +“I don't, David,” she cried. + +“I think,” said I, “she will do it now,” and with the instinct of a +gentleman I looked away. Thus I cannot tell what happened, but presently +David exclaimed admiringly, “Oh, mother, do it again!” + +As she would not, he stood on the fender to see in the mantel-glass +whether he could do it himself, and then Mary turned a most candid face +on me, in which was maternity rather than reproach. Perhaps no look +given by woman to man affects him quite so much. “You see,” she said +radiantly and with a gesture that disclosed herself to me, “I can +forgive even that. You long ago earned the right to hurt me if you want +to.” + +It weaned me of all further desire to rail at Mary, and I felt an +uncommon drawing to her. + +“And if I did think that for a little while--,” she went on, with an +unsteady smile. + +“Think what?” I asked, but without the necessary snap. + +“What we were talking of,” she replied wincing, but forgiving me again. +“If I once thought that, it was pretty to me while it lasted and it +lasted but a little time. I have long been sure that your kindness to me +was due to some other reason.” + +“Ma'am,” said I very honestly, “I know not what was the reason. My +concern for you was in the beginning a very fragile and even a selfish +thing, yet not altogether selfish, for I think that what first stirred +it was the joyous sway of the little nursery governess as she walked +down Pall Mall to meet her lover. It seemed such a mighty fine thing to +you to be loved that I thought you had better continue to be loved for a +little longer. And perhaps having helped you once by dropping a letter +I was charmed by the ease with which you could be helped, for you must +know that I am one who has chosen the easy way for more than twenty +years.” + +She shook her head and smiled. “On my soul,” I assured her, “I can think +of no other reason.” + +“A kind heart,” said she. + +“More likely a whim,” said I. + +“Or another woman,” said she. + +I was very much taken aback. + +“More than twenty years ago,” she said with a soft huskiness in her +voice, and a tremor and a sweetness, as if she did not know that in +twenty years all love stories are grown mouldy. + +On my honour as a soldier this explanation of my early solicitude for +Mary was one that had never struck me, but the more I pondered it now--. +I raised her hand and touched it with my lips, as we whimsical old +fellows do when some gracious girl makes us to hear the key in the lock +of long ago. “Why, ma'am,” I said, “it is a pretty notion, and there may +be something in it. Let us leave it at that.” + +But there was still that accursed dedication, lying, you remember, +beneath the blotting-pad. I had no longer any desire to crush her with +it. I wished that she had succeeded in writing the book on which her +longings had been so set. + +“If only you had been less ambitious,” I said, much troubled that she +should be disappointed in her heart's desire. + +“I wanted all the dear delicious things,” she admitted contritely. + +“It was unreasonable,” I said eagerly, appealing to her intellect. +“Especially this last thing.” + +“Yes,” she agreed frankly, “I know.” And then to my amazement she added +triumphantly, “But I got it.” + +I suppose my look admonished her, for she continued apologetically but +still as if she really thought hers had been a romantic career, “I know +I have not deserved it, but I got it.” + +“Oh, ma'am,” I cried reproachfully, “reflect. You have not got the great +thing.” I saw her counting the great things in her mind, her wondrous +husband and his obscure success, David, Barbara, and the other trifling +contents of her jewel-box. + +“I think I have,” said she. + +“Come, madam,” I cried a little nettled, “you know that there is lacking +the one thing you craved for most of all.” + +Will you believe me that I had to tell her what it was? And when I had +told her she exclaimed with extraordinary callousness, “The book? I +had forgotten all about the book!” And then after reflection she added, +“Pooh!” Had she not added Pooh I might have spared her, but as it was +I raised the blotting-pad rather haughtily and presented her with the +sheet beneath it. + +“What is this?” she asked. + +“Ma'am,” said I, swelling, “it is a Dedication,” and I walked +majestically to the window. + +There is no doubt that presently I heard an unexpected sound. Yet if +indeed it had been a laugh she clipped it short, for in almost the +same moment she was looking large-eyed at me and tapping my sleeve +impulsively with her fingers, just as David does when he suddenly likes +you. + +“How characteristic of you,” she said at the window. + +“Characteristic,” I echoed uneasily. “Ha!” + +“And how kind.” + +“Did you say kind, ma'am?” + +“But it is I who have the substance and you who have the shadow, as you +know very well,” said she. + +Yes, I had always known that this was the one flaw in my dedication, +but how could I have expected her to have the wit to see it? I was very +depressed. + +“And there is another mistake,” said she. + +“Excuse me, ma'am, but that is the only one.” + +“It was never of my little white bird I wanted to write,” she said. + +I looked politely incredulous, and then indeed she overwhelmed me. “It +was of your little white bird,” she said, “it was of a little boy whose +name was Timothy.” + +She had a very pretty way of saying Timothy, so David and I went into +another room to leave her alone with the manuscript of this poor little +book, and when we returned she had the greatest surprise of the day for +me. She was both laughing and crying, which was no surprise, for all of +us would laugh and cry over a book about such an interesting subject +as ourselves, but said she, “How wrong you are in thinking this book is +about me and mine, it is really all about Timothy.” + +At first I deemed this to be uncommon nonsense, but as I considered I +saw that she was probably right again, and I gazed crestfallen at this +very clever woman. + +“And so,” said she, clapping her hands after the manner of David when he +makes a great discovery, “it proves to be my book after all.” + +“With all your pretty thoughts left out,” I answered, properly humbled. + +She spoke in a lower voice as if David must not hear. “I had only +one pretty thought for the book,” she said, “I was to give it a happy +ending.” She said this so timidly that I was about to melt to her when +she added with extraordinary boldness, “The little white bird was to +bear an olive-leaf in its mouth.” + +For a long time she talked to me earnestly of a grand scheme on which +she had set her heart, and ever and anon she tapped on me as if to get +admittance for her ideas. I listened respectfully, smiling at this young +thing for carrying it so motherly to me, and in the end I had to remind +her that I was forty-seven years of age. + +“It is quite young for a man,” she said brazenly. + +“My father,” said I, “was not forty-seven when he died, and I remember +thinking him an old man.” + +“But you don't think so now, do you?” she persisted, “you feel young +occasionally, don't you? Sometimes when you are playing with David in +the Gardens your youth comes swinging back, does it not?” + +“Mary A----,” I cried, grown afraid of the woman, “I forbid you to make +any more discoveries to-day.” + +But still she hugged her scheme, which I doubt not was what had brought +her to my rooms. “They are very dear women,” said she coaxingly. + +“I am sure,” I said, “they must be dear women if they are friends of +yours.” + +“They are not exactly young,” she faltered, “and perhaps they are not +very pretty--” + +But she had been reading so recently about the darling of my youth that +she halted abashed at last, feeling, I apprehend, a stop in her mind +against proposing this thing to me, who, in those presumptuous days, had +thought to be content with nothing less than the loveliest lady in all +the land. + +My thoughts had reverted also, and for the last time my eyes saw the +little hut through the pine wood haze. I met Mary there, and we came +back to the present together. + +I have already told you, reader, that this conversation took place no +longer ago than yesterday. + +“Very well, ma'am,” I said, trying to put a brave face on it, “I will +come to your tea-parties, and we shall see what we shall see.” + +It was really all she had asked for, but now that she had got what she +wanted of me the foolish soul's eyes became wet, she knew so well that +the youthful romances are the best. + +It was now my turn to comfort her. “In twenty years,” I said, smiling +at her tears, “a man grows humble, Mary. I have stored within me a great +fund of affection, with nobody to give it to, and I swear to you, on the +word of a soldier, that if there is one of those ladies who can be got +to care for me I shall be very proud.” Despite her semblance of delight +I knew that she was wondering at me, and I wondered at myself, but it +was true. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Little White Bird, by J. M. Barrie + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1376 *** |