The Little White Bird; Or, Adventures in Kensington Gardens

by J. M. Barrie

  XXI. William Paterson

  We had been together, we three, in my rooms, David telling me about thefairy language and Porthos lolling on the sofa listening, as one maysay. It is his favourite place of a dull day, and under him were somesheets of newspaper, which I spread there at such times to deceive myhousekeeper, who thinks dogs should lie on the floor.

  Fairy me tribber is what you say to the fairies when you want them togive you a cup of tea, but it is not so easy as it looks, for all ther's should be pronounced as w's, and I forget this so often that Davidbelieves I should find difficulty in making myself understood.

  "What would you say," he asked me, "if you wanted them to turn youinto a hollyhock?" He thinks the ease with which they can turn you intothings is their most engaging quality.

  The answer is Fairy me lukka, but though he had often told me this Iagain forgot the lukka.

  "I should never dream," I said (to cover my discomfiture), "of askingthem to turn me into anything. If I was a hollyhock I should soonwither, David."

  He himself had provided me with this objection not long before, butnow he seemed to think it merely silly. "Just before the time to witherbegins," he said airily, "you say to them Fairy me bola."

  Fairy me bola means "Turn me back again," and David's discovery mademe uncomfortable, for I knew he had hitherto kept his distance ofthe fairies mainly because of a feeling that their conversions arepermanent.

  So I returned him to his home. I send him home from my rooms under thecare of Porthos. I may walk on the other side unknown to them, but theyhave no need of me, for at such times nothing would induce Porthos todepart from the care of David. If anyone addresses them he growls softlyand shows the teeth that crunch bones as if they were biscuits. Thusamicably the two pass on to Mary's house, where Porthos barks hisknock-and-ring bark till the door is opened. Sometimes he goes inwith David, but on this occasion he said good-bye on the step. Nothingremarkable in this, but he did not return to me, not that day nor nextday nor in weeks and months. I was a man distraught; and David worehis knuckles in his eyes. Conceive it, we had lost our dear Porthos--atleast--well--something disquieting happened. I don't quite know what tothink of it even now. I know what David thinks. However, you shall thinkas you choose.

  My first hope was that Porthos had strolled to the Gardens and gotlocked in for the night, and almost as soon as Lock-out was over I wasthere to make inquiries. But there was no news of Porthos, thoughI learned that someone was believed to have spent the night in theGardens, a young gentleman who walked out hastily the moment the gateswere opened. He had said nothing, however, of having seen a dog. Ifeared an accident now, for I knew no thief could steal him, yet even anaccident seemed incredible, he was always so cautious at crossings; alsothere could not possibly have been an accident to Porthos without therebeing an accident to something else.

  David in the middle of his games would suddenly remember the great blankand step aside to cry. It was one of his qualities that when he knewhe was about to cry he turned aside to do it and I always respected hisprivacy and waited for him. Of course being but a little boy he wassoon playing again, but his sudden floods of feeling, of which we neverspoke, were dear to me in those desolate days.

  We had a favourite haunt, called the Story-seat, and we went back tothat, meaning not to look at the grass near it where Porthos used tosquat, but we could not help looking at it sideways, and to our distressa man was sitting on the acquainted spot. He rose at our approach andtook two steps toward us, so quick that they were almost jumps, thenas he saw that we were passing indignantly I thought I heard him give alittle cry.

  I put him down for one of your garrulous fellows who try to lurestrangers into talk, but next day, when we found him sitting on theStory-seat itself, I had a longer scrutiny of him. He was dandiacallydressed, seemed to tell something under twenty years and had a handsomewistful face atop of a heavy, lumbering, almost corpulent figure, whichhowever did not betoken inactivity; for David's purple hat (a conceit ofhis mother's of which we were both heartily ashamed) blowing off as weneared him he leapt the railings without touching them and was back withit in three seconds; only instead of delivering it straightway he seemedto expect David to chase him for it.

  You have introduced yourself to David when you jump the railings withouttouching them, and William Paterson (as proved to be his name) was atonce 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 athree-year-old. Often he said with extraordinary pride, "You are tellingthe story to me quite as much as to David, ar'n't you?" He was of aninnocence such as you shall seldom encounter, and believed stories atwhich even David blinked. Often he looked at me in quick alarm if Davidsaid that of course these things did not really happen, and unable toresist that appeal I would reply that they really did. I never saw himirate except when David was still sceptical, but then he would say quitewarningly "He says it is true, so it must be true." This brings me tothat one of his qualities, which at once gratified and pained me, hisadmiration for myself. His eyes, which at times had a rim of red, wereever fixed upon me fondly except perhaps when I told him of Porthos andsaid that death alone could have kept him so long from my side. ThenPaterson's sympathy was such that he had to look away. He was shy ofspeaking of himself so I asked him no personal questions, but concludedthat his upbringing must have been lonely, to account for his ignoranceof affairs, and loveless, else how could he have felt such a drawing tome?

  I remember very well the day when the strange, and surely monstrous,suspicion first made my head tingle. We had been blown, the three ofus, to my rooms by a gust of rain; it was also, I think, the first timePaterson had entered them. "Take the sofa, Mr. Paterson," I said, asI drew a chair nearer to the fire, and for the moment my eyes were offhim. Then I saw that, before sitting down on the sofa, he was spreadingthe day's paper over it. "Whatever makes you do that?" I asked, and hestarted like one bewildered by the question, then went white and pushedthe paper aside.

  David had noticed nothing, but I was strangely uncomfortable, and,despite my efforts at talk, often lapsed into silence, to be roused fromit by a feeling that Paterson was looking at me covertly. Pooh! whatvapours of the imagination were these. I blew them from me, and to proveto myself, so to speak, that they were dissipated, I asked him tosee David home. As soon as I was alone, I flung me down on the floorlaughing, then as quickly jumped up and was after them, and very sobertoo, for it was come to me abruptly as an odd thing that Paterson hadset off without asking where David lived.

  Seeing them in front of me, I crossed the street and followed. They werewalking side by side rather solemnly, and perhaps nothing remarkablehappened until they reached David's door. I say perhaps, for somethingdid occur. A lady, who has several pretty reasons for frequenting theGardens, recognised David in the street, and was stooping to addresshim, when Paterson did something that alarmed her. I was too far offto see what it was, but had he growled "Hands off!" she could not havescurried away more precipitately. He then ponderously marched hischarge to the door, where, assuredly, he did a strange thing. Instead ofknocking 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 thatnight, and you may picture me trying both sides of the pillow.

  I recalled other queer things of Paterson, and they came back to mecharged with new meanings. There was his way of shaking hands. He nowdid it in the ordinary way, but when first we knew him his arm haddescribed a circle, and the hand had sometimes missed mine and comeheavily upon my chest instead. His walk, again, might more correctlyhave been called a waddle.

  There were his perfervid thanks. He seldom departed without thanking mewith an intensity that was out of proportion to the little I had donefor him. In the Gardens, too, he seemed ever to take the sward ratherthan the seats, perhaps a wise preference, but he had an unusual way ofsitting down. I can describe it only b
y saying that he let go of himselfand went down with a thud.

  I reverted to the occasion when he lunched with me at the Club. We hadcutlets, 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. Thewaiters were looking at him rather curiously.

  David was very partial to him, but showed it in a somewhat singularmanner, used to pat his head, for instance. I remembered, also, thatwhile David shouted to me or Irene to attract our attention, he usuallywhistled to Paterson, he could not explain why.

  These ghosts made me to sweat in bed, not merely that night, but oftenwhen some new shock brought them back in force, yet, unsupported,they would have disturbed me little by day. Day, however, had itsreflections, and they came to me while I was shaving, that ten minuteswhen, brought face to face with the harsher realities of life, we seethings most clearly as they are. Then the beautiful nature of Patersonloomed offensively, and his honest eyes insulted over me. No one come tonigh twenty years had a right to such faith in his fellow-creatures. Hecould not backbite, nor envy, nor prevaricate, nor jump at mean motivesfor generous acts. He had not a single base story about women. It allseemed inhuman.

  What creatures we be! I was more than half ashamed of Paterson's faithin 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 overthe youth. I am now arrived at a time when the light-heartedness hadgone out of him; he had lost his zest for fun, and dubiety sat in theeyes that were once so certain. He was not doubtful of me, not then, butof human nature in general; that whilom noble edifice was tottering. Hemixed with boys in the Gardens; ah, mothers, it is hard to say, but howcould he retain his innocence when he had mixed with boys? He heard yourtalk of yourselves, and so, ladies, that part of the edifice went down.I have not the heart to follow him in all his discoveries. Sometimeshe 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 breatheupon the glass. So would your child be, madam, if born with a man'spowers, and when disillusioned of all else, he would cling for a momentlonger to you, the woman of whom, before he saw you, he had heard somuch. How you would strive to cheat him, even as I strove to hide myreal self from Paterson, and still you would strive as I strove afteryou knew the game was up.

  The sorrowful eyes of Paterson stripped me bare. There were days when Icould not endure looking at him, though surely I have long ceased to bea vain man. He still met us in the Gardens, but for hours he and I wouldbe together without speaking. It was so upon the last day, one of thoseinnumerable dreary days when David, having sneezed the night before,was kept at home in flannel, and I sat alone with Paterson on theStory-seat. At last I turned to address him. Never had we spoken of whatchained our tongues, and I meant only to say now that we must go, forsoon the gates would close, but when I looked at him I saw that he wasmore mournful than ever before; he shut his eyes so tightly that a dropof blood fell from them.

  "It was all over, Paterson, long ago," I broke out harshly, "why do welinger?"

  He beat his hands together miserably, and yet cast me appealing looksthat had much affection in them.

  "You expected too much of me," I told him, and he bowed his head. "Idon't know where you brought your grand ideas of men and women from. Idon't want to know," I added hastily.

  "But it must have been from a prettier world than this," I said: "areyou 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 acurious person to attach oneself to, Paterson; don't you see that evenDavid often smiles at me when he thinks he is unobserved. I work veryhard to retain that little boy's love; but I shall lose him soon; evennow 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 havefound me out. Everybody finds me out except my dog, and that is why theloss 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 faraway I looked back, and he was still sitting there forlornly.

  For long I could not close my ears that night: I lay listening, I knewnot what for. A scare was on me that made me dislike the dark, and Iswitched on the light and slept at last. I was roused by a great to-doin the early morning, servants knocking excitedly, and my door opened,and the dear Porthos I had mourned so long tore in. They had heard hisbark, but whence he came no one knew.

  He was in excellent condition, and after he had leaped upon me from allpoints I flung him on the floor by a trick I know, and lay down besidehim, while he put his protecting arm round me and looked at me with theold adoring eyes.

  But we never saw Paterson again. You may think as you choose.