Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “But Nanny went to Heaven for all that,” my little 372 maid told me. “Jean says people can go to Heaven though they are not Auld Lichts, but she says it takes them all their time. Would you like me to tell you a story about my mother putting glass on the manse dike? Well, my mother and my father is very fond of each other, and once they was in the garden, and my father kissed my mother, and there was a woman watching them over the dike, and she cried out — something naughty.”

  “It was Tibbie Birse,” I said, “and what she cried was, ‘Mercy on us, that’s the third time in half an hour!’ So your mother, who heard her, was annoyed, and put glass on the wall.”

  “But it’s me that is telling you the story. You are sure you don’t know it? Well, they asked father to take the glass away, and he wouldn’t; but he once preached at mother for having a white feather in her bonnet, and another time he preached at her for being too fond of him. Jean told me. That’s all.”

  No one seeing Babbie going to church demurely on Gavin’s arm could guess her history. Sometimes I wonder whether the desire to be a gypsy again ever comes over her for a mad hour, and whether, if so, Gavin takes such measures to cure her as he threatened in Caddam Wood. I suppose not; but here is another story:

  “THERE WAS A WOMAN WATCHING THEM OVER THE DIKE.”

  “When I ask mother to tell me about her once being a gypsy she says I am a bad ‘quisitive little girl, and to put on my hat and come with her to the prayer-meeting; and when I asked father to let me see mother’s gypsy frock he made me learn Psalm forty-eight by heart. But once I see’d it, and it was a long time ago, as long as a week ago. Micah Dow gave me rowans to put in my hair, and I like Micah because he calls me Miss, and so I woke in my bed because there was noises, and I ran down to the parlor, and there was my mother in her gypsy frock, and my rowans was in 373 her hair, and my father was kissing her, and when they saw me they jumped; and that’s all.”

  “Would you like me to tell you another story? It is about a little girl. Well, there was once a minister and his wife, and they hadn’t no little girls, but just little boys, and God was sorry for them, so He put a little girl in a cabbage in the garden, and when they found her they were glad. Would you like me to tell you who the little girl was? Well, it was me, and, ugh! I was awful cold in the cabbage. Do you like that story?”

  “Yes; I like it best of all the stories I know.”

  “So do I like it, too. Couldn’t nobody help loving me, ‘cause I’m so nice? Why am I so fearful nice?”

  “Because you are like your grandmother.”

  “It was clever of my father to know when he found me in the cabbage that my name was Margaret. Are you sorry grandmother is dead?”

  “I am glad your mother and father were so good to her and made her so happy.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “But when I am happy I laugh.”

  “I am old, you see, and you are young.”

  “I am nearly six. Did you love grandmother? Then why did you never come to see her? Did grandmother know you was here? Why not? Why didn’t I not know about you till after grandmother died?”

  “I’ll tell you when you are big.”

  “Shall I be big enough when I am six?”

  “No, not till your eighteenth birthday.”

  “But birthdays comes so slow. Will they come quicker when I am big?”

  “Much quicker.”

  On her sixth birthday Micah Dow drove my little maid to the schoolhouse in the doctor’s gig, and she crept beneath the table and whispered —

  374

  “Grandfather!”

  “Father told me to call you that if I liked, and I like,” she said when I had taken her upon my knee. “I know why you kissed me just now. It was because I looked like grandmother. Why do you kiss me when I look like her?”

  “Who told you I did that?”

  “Nobody didn’t tell me. I just found out. I loved grandmother too. She told me all the stories she knew.”

  “Did she ever tell you a story about a black dog?”

  “No. Did she know one?”

  “Yes, she knew it.”

  “Perhaps she had forgotten it?”

  “No, she remembered it.”

  “Tell it to me.”

  “Not till you are eighteen.”

  “But will you not be dead when I am eighteen? When you go to Heaven, will you see grandmother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will she be glad to see you?”

  My little maid’s eighteenth birthday has come, and I am still in Thrums, which I love, though it is beautiful to none, perhaps, save to the very done, who lean on their staves and look long at it, having nothing else to do till they die. I have lived to rejoice in the happiness of Gavin and Babbie; and if at times I have suddenly had to turn away my head after looking upon them in their home surrounded by their children, it was but a moment’s envy that I could not help. Margaret never knew of the dominie in the glen. They wanted to tell her of me, but I would not have it. She has been long gone from this world; but sweet memories of her still grow, like honeysuckle, up the white walls of the manse, smiling in at the parlor window and beckoning from the door, and for some filling all the air with fragrance. It was not she who raised the barrier 375 between her and me, but God Himself; and to those who maintain otherwise, I say they do not understand the purity of a woman’s soul. During the years she was lost to me her face ever came between me and ungenerous thoughts; and now I can say, all that is carnal in me is my own, and all that is good I got from her. Only one bitterness remains. When I found Gavin in the rain, when I was fighting my way through the flood, when I saw how the hearts of the people were turned against him — above all, when I found Whamond in the manse — I cried to God, making promises to Him, if He would spare the lad for Margaret’s sake, and he spared him; but these promises I have not kept.

  THE END

  SENTIMENTAL TOMMY

  THE STORY OF HIS BOYHOOD

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CHAPTER XXIX

  CHAPTER XXX

  CHAPTER XXXI

  CHAPTER XXXII

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  CHAPTER XXXV

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  CHAPTER I

  TOMMY CONTRIVES TO KEEP ONE OUT

  The celebrated Tommy first comes into view on a dirty London stair, and he was in sexless garments, which were all he had, and he was five, and so though we are looking at him, we must do it sideways, lest he sit down hurriedly to hide them. That inscrutable face, which made the clubmen of his later days uneasy and even puzzled the ladies while he was making love to them, was already his, except when he smiled at one of his pretty thoughts or stopped at an open door to sniff a potful. On his way up and down the stair he often paused to sniff, but he never asked for anything; his mother had warned him against it, and he carried out her injunction with almost unnecessary spirit, declining offers before they were made, as when passing a room, whence came the smell of fried fish, he might call in, “I don’t not want none of your fish,” or “My mother says I don’t not want the littlest bit,” or wistfully, “I ain’t hungry,” o
r more wistfully still, “My mother says I ain’t hungry.” His mother heard of this and was angry, crying that he had let the neighbors know something she was anxious to conceal, but what he had revealed to them Tommy could not make out, and when he questioned her artlessly, she took him with sudden passion to her flat breast, and often after that she looked at him long and woefully and wrung her hands.

  The only other pleasant smell known to Tommy was when the water-carts passed the mouth of his little street. His street, which ended in a dead wall, was near the river, but on the doleful south side of it, opening off a longer street where the cabs of Waterloo station sometimes found themselves when they took the wrong turning; his home was at the top of a house of four floors, each with accommodation for at least two families, and here he had lived with his mother since his father’s death six months ago. There was oilcloth on the stair as far as the second floor; there had been oilcloth between the second floor and the third — Tommy could point out pieces of it still adhering to the wood like remnants of a plaster.

  This stair was nursery to all the children whose homes opened on it, not so safe as nurseries in the part of London that is chiefly inhabited by boys in sailor suits, but preferable as a centre of adventure, and here on an afternoon sat two. They were very busy boasting, but only the smaller had imagination, and as he used it recklessly, their positions soon changed; sexless garments was now prone on a step, breeches sitting on him.

  Shovel, a man of seven, had said, “None on your lip. You weren’t never at Thrums yourself.”

  Tommy’s reply was, “Ain’t my mother a Thrums woman?”

  Shovel, who had but one eye, and that bloodshot, fixed it on him threateningly.

  “The Thames is in London,” he said.

  “‘Cos they wouldn’t not have it in Thrums,” replied Tommy.

  “‘Amstead ‘Eath’s in London, I tell yer,” Shovel said.

  “The cemetery is in Thrums,” said Tommy.

  “There ain’t no queens in Thrums, anyhow.”

  “There’s the auld licht minister.”

  “Well, then, if you jest seed Trafalgar Square!”

  “If you jest seed the Thrums townhouse!”

  “St. Paul’s ain’t in Thrums.”

  “It would like to be.”

  After reflecting, Shovel said in desperation, “Well, then, my father were once at a hanging.”

  Tommy replied instantly, “It were my father what was hanged.”

  There was no possible answer to this save a knockdown blow, but though Tommy was vanquished in body, his spirit remained stanch; he raised his head and gasped, “You should see how they knock down in Thrums!” It was then that Shovel sat on him.

  Such was their position when an odd figure in that house, a gentleman, passed them without a word, so desirous was he to make a breath taken at the foot of the close stair last him to the top. Tommy merely gaped after this fine sight, but Shovel had experience, and “It’s a kid or a coffin.” he said sharply, knowing that only birth or death brought a doctor here.

  Watching the doctor’s ascent, the two boys strained their necks over the rickety banisters, which had been polished black by trousers of the past, and sometimes they lost him, and then they saw his legs again.

  “Hello, it’s your old woman!” cried Shovel. “Is she a deader?” he asked, brightening, for funerals made a pleasant stir on the stair.

  The question had no meaning for bewildered Tommy, but he saw that if his mother was a deader, whatever that might be, he had grown great in his companion’s eye. So he hoped she was a deader.

  “If it’s only a kid,” Shovel began, with such scorn that Tommy at once screamed, “It ain’t!” and, crossexamined, he swore eagerly that his mother was in bed when he left her in the morning, that she was still in bed at dinner-time, also that the sheet was over her face, also that she was cold.

  Then she was a deader and had attained distinction in the only way possible in that street. Shovel did not shake Tommy’s hand warmly, the forms of congratulation varying in different parts of London, but he looked his admiration so plainly that Tommy’s head waggled proudly. Evidently, whatever his mother had done redounded to his glory as well as to hers, and somehow he had become a boy of mark. He said from his elevation that he hoped Shovel would believe his tales about Thrums now, and Shovel, who had often cuffed Tommy for sticking to him so closely, cringed in the most snobbish manner, craving permission to be seen in his company for the next three days. Tommy, the upstart, did not see his way to grant this favor for nothing, and Shovel offered a knife, but did not have it with him; it was his sister Ameliar’s knife, and he would take it from her, help his davy. Tommy would wait there till Shovel fetched it. Shovel, baffled, wanted to know what Tommy was putting on hairs for. Tommy smiled, and asked whose mother was a deader. Then Shovel collapsed, and his wind passed into Tommy.

  The reign of Thomas Sandys, nevertheless, was among the shortest, for with this question was he overthrown: “How did yer know she were cold?”

  “Because,” replied Tommy, triumphantly, “she tell me herself.”

  Shovel only looked at him, but one eye can be so much more terrible than two, that plop, plop, plop came the balloon softly down the steps of the throne and at the foot shrank pitifully, as if with Ameliar’s knife in it.

  “It’s only a kid arter all!” screamed Shovel, furiously. Disappointment gave him eloquence, and Tommy cowered under his sneers, not understanding them, but they seemed to amount to this, that in having a baby he had disgraced the house.

  “But I think,” he said, with diffidence, “I think I were once one.”

  Then all Shovel could say was that he had better keep it dark on that stair.

  Tommy squeezed his fist into one eye, and the tears came out at the other. A good-natured impulse was about to make Shovel say that though kids are undoubtedly humiliations, mothers and boys get used to them in time, and go on as brazenly as before, but it was checked by Tommy’s unfortunate question, “Shovel, when will it come?”

  Shovel, speaking from local experience, replied truthfully that they usually came very soon after the doctor, and at times before him.

  “It ain’t come before him,” Tommy said, confidently.

  “How do yer know?”

  “‘Cos it weren’t there at dinner-time, and I been here since dinner-time.”

  The words meant that Tommy thought it could only enter by way of the stair, and Shovel quivered with delight. “H’st!” he cried, dramatically, and to his joy Tommy looked anxiously down the stair, instead of up it.

  “Did you hear it?” Tommy whispered.

  Before he could control himself Shovel blurted out: “Do you think as they come on their feet?”

  “How then?” demanded Tommy; but Shovel had exhausted his knowledge of the subject. Tommy, who had begun to descend to hold the door, turned and climbed upwards, and his tears were now but the drop left in a cup too hurriedly dried. Where was he off to? Shovel called after him; and he answered, in a determined whisper: “To shove of it out if it tries to come in at the winder.”

  This was enough for the more knowing urchin, now so full of good things that with another added he must spill, and away he ran for an audience, which could also help him to bait Tommy, that being a game most sportive when there are several to fling at once. At the door he knocked over, and was done with, a laughing little girl who had strayed from a more fashionable street. She rose solemnly, and kissing her muff, to reassure it if it had got a fright, toddled in at the first open door to be out of the way of unmannerly boys.

  Tommy, climbing courageously, heard the door slam, and looking down he saw — a strange child. He climbed no higher. It had come.

  After a long time he was one flight of stairs nearer it. It was making itself at home on the bottom step; resting, doubtless, before it came hopping up. Another dozen steps, and — It was beautifully dressed in one piece of yellow and brown that reached almost to its feet, with a bit l
eft at the top to form a hood, out of which its pert face peeped impudently; oho, so they came in their Sunday clothes. He drew so near that he could hear it cooing: thought itself as good as upstairs, did it!

  He bounced upon her sharply, thinking to carry all with a high hand.

  “Out you go!” he cried, with the action of one heaving coals.

  She whisked round, and, “Oo boy or oo girl?” she inquired, puzzled by his dress.

  “None of your cheek!” roared insulted manhood.

  “Oo boy,” she said, decisively.

  With the effrontery of them when they are young, she made room for him on her step, but he declined the invitation, knowing that her design was to skip up the stair the moment he was off his guard.