by J. M. Barrie
XXIV. Barbara
Another shock was waiting for me farther down the story.
For we had resumed our adventures, though we seldom saw Bailey now. Atlong intervals we met him on our way to or from the Gardens, and, ifthere was none from Pilkington's to mark him, methought he looked at ussomewhat longingly, as if beneath his real knickerbockers a morsel ofthe egg-shell still adhered. Otherwise he gave David a not unfriendlykick in passing, and called him "youngster." That was about all.
When Oliver disappeared from the life of the Gardens we had loftedhim out of the story, and did very well without him, extending ouroperations to the mainland, where they were on so vast a scale that wewere 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 someother child of the Gardens, divers of David's year having soughtelection, 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 thoughI had always suspicioned Mary A---- as one who harboured the craziestambitions when she looked most humble, of such presumption as this I hadnever thought her capable.
I wandered across the Broad Walk to have a look at Irene, and she waswearing an unmistakable air. It set me reflecting about Mary'shusband and his manner the last time we met, for though I have had noopportunity to say so, we still meet now and again, and he has evendined with me at the club. On these occasions the subject of Timothy isbarred, and if by any unfortunate accident Mary's name is mentioned, weimmediately look opposite ways and a silence follows, in which I feelsure he is smiling, and wonder what the deuce he is smiling at. Iremembered now that I had last seen him when I was dining with him athis club (for he is become member of a club of painter fellows, andMary is so proud of this that she has had it printed on his card), whenundoubtedly 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 atmyself, for, on my soul, I had been thinking well of Mary of late.Always foolishly inflated about David, she had been grudging him even tome during these last weeks, and I had forgiven her, putting it down to amother's love. I knew from the poor boy of unwonted treats she had beengiving him; I had seen her embrace him furtively in a public place, herevery act, in so far as they were known to me, had been a challenge towhoever dare assert that she wanted anyone but David. How could I, notbeing a woman, have guessed that she was really saying good-bye to him?
Reader, picture to yourself that simple little boy playing about thehouse at this time, on the understanding that everything was going onas usual. Have not his toys acquired a new pathos, especially the engineshe bought him yesterday?
Did you look him in the face, Mary, as you gave him that engine? I envyyou not your feelings, ma'am, when with loving arms he wrapped you roundfor it. That childish confidence of his to me, in which unwittingly hebetrayed you, indicates that at last you have been preparing him for thegreat change, and I suppose you are capable of replying to me that Davidis still happy, and even interested. But does he know from you what itreally means to him? Rather, I do believe, you are one who would notscruple to give him to understand that B (which you may yet find standsfor Benjamin) is primarily a gift for him. In your heart, ma'am, what doyou think of this tricking of a little boy?
Suppose David had known what was to happen before he came to you, areyou sure he would have come? Undoubtedly there is an unwritten compactin such matters between a mother and her first-born, and I desire topoint out to you that he never breaks it. Again, what will the otherboys 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 towait and let him run the gauntlet at Pilkington's.
You think your husband is a great man now because they are beginning totalk of his foregrounds and middle distances in the newspaper columnsthat nobody reads. I know you have bought him a velvet coat, and thathe has taken a large, airy and commodious studio in Mews Lane, where youare to be found in a soft material on first and third Wednesdays. Timesare changing, but shall I tell you a story here, just to let you seethat I am acquainted with it?
Three years ago a certain gallery accepted from a certain artist apicture which he and his wife knew to be monstrous fine. But no onespoke of the picture, no one wrote of it, and no one made an offer forit. Crushed was the artist, sorry for the denseness of connoisseurs washis 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 wasnot the buyer. He came to me at once to make sure of this, and remainedto walk the floor gloriously as he told me what recognition means togentlemen of the artistic callings. O, the happy boy!
But months afterward, rummaging at his home in a closet that is usuallykept locked, he discovered the picture, there hidden away. His wifebacked into a corner and made trembling confession. How could she submitto see her dear's masterpiece ignored by the idiot public, and her dearhimself plunged into gloom thereby? She knew as well as he (for hadthey not been married for years?) how the artistic instinct hungersfor recognition, and so with her savings she bought the great workanonymously and stored it away in a closet. At first, I believe, the manraved furiously, but by-and-by he was on his knees at the feet of thislittle darling. You know who she was, Mary, but, bless me, I seem to bepraising you, and that was not the enterprise on which I set out. WhatI intended to convey was that though you can now venture on smallextravagances, 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 Idid conceive my final triumph over Mary, at which I have scarcely as yetdared to hint, lest by discovering it I should spoil my plot. For therehas been a plot all the time.
For long I had known that Mary contemplated the writing of a book, myinformant being David, who, because I have published a little volumeon 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 donethis on his own initiative, but it is also quite possible that in herdesperation she urged him to it; he certainly implied that she hadtaken to book-writing because it must be easy if I could do it. Shealso informed him (very inconsiderately), that I did not print my booksmyself, and this lowered me in the eyes of David, for it was for theprinting he had admired me and boasted of me in the Gardens.
"I suppose you didn't make the boxes neither, nor yet the labels," hesaid to me in the voice of one shorn of belief in everything.
I should say here that my literary labours are abstruse, the tokenwhereof is many rows of boxes nailed against my walls, each labelledwith a letter of the alphabet. When I take a note in A, I drop its intothe A box, and so on, much to the satisfaction of David, who likes todrop them in for me. I had now to admit that Wheeler & Gibb made theboxes.
"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 Ipresumed it to be, and I said to him with easy brutality, "Tell herabout the boxes, David, and that no one can begin a book until they areall 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 becauseDavid loses his footing when he descends to the practical, and perhapsstill more because he found me unsympathetic. But when he blurted outthe 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 littledaughter Mary would fain have had. Somehow I had always known that shewould like to have a little daughter, she was that kind of woman, andso long as she had the modesty to see that she could not have one, Isympathised with her deeply, whatever I may have said about her book toDavid.
In those days Mary had the loveliest ideas for her sad little book, andthey came to her mostly in the morning when she was only three-partsawake, but as she stepped out of bed they all flew away like startledbirds. I gathered from David that this depressed her exceedingly.
Oh, Mary, your thoughts are much too pretty and holy to show themselvesto anyone but yourself. The shy things are hiding within you. If theycould come into the open they would not be a book, they would be littleBarbara.
But that was not the message I sent her. "She will never be able towrite it," I explained to David. "She has not the ability. Tell her Isaid that."
I remembered now that for many months I had heard nothing of herambitious project, so I questioned David and discovered that it wasabandoned. 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 momentall my sympathy with Mary was spilled, and I searched for some means ofexulting over her until I found it. It was this. I decided, unknown evento David, to write the book "The Little White Bird," of which she hadproved herself incapable, and then when, in the fulness of time, sheheld her baby on high, implying that she had done a big thing, I was tohold up the book. I venture to think that such a devilish revenge wasnever 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 toan abrupt end. "And it really is the end this time, David," I saidseverely. (I always say that.)
It ended on the coast of Patagonia, whither we had gone to shoot thegreat Sloth, known to be the largest of animals, though we found hissize to have been under-estimated. David, his father and I had flungour 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, atthe pretty creature.
The night was absolutely still save for the roaring of the Sloths in thedistance.
By-and-by Irene came to the entrance of our cave, where by the light ofher torch we could see her exploring a shark that had been harpooned byDavid earlier in the day.
Everything conduced to repose, and a feeling of gentle peace crept overus, 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 ofboots, a newspaper, which she had discovered in the interior of theshark. What was our surprise to find in the newspaper intelligence ofthe utmost importance to all of us. It was nothing less than this, thebirth 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, andnext morning we set sail for England. Soon we came within sight of thewhite cliffs of Albion. Mary could not sit down for a moment, so hot wasshe 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. Shekept putting her head out of the window and calling to the cabby to goquicker, quicker. How he lashed his horse! At last he drew up at yourhouse, and then your mother, springing out, flew up the steps and beatwith 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, andnext 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 wouldhave suited him quite well, but he put self aside altogether and waspertinaciously 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 agreedto 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.
