Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “Jerry,” he said, and tried to stop himself, with the result that he added, “dear little Jerry!” (“What am I doing!” he groaned.)

  She understood now. “You don’t mean—” she began, in amazement.

  “Yes,” he cried passionately. “I love you. Will you be my wife?” (“I am lost!”)

  “Gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Jerry; and then, on reflection, she became indignant. “I would not have believed it of you,” she said scornfully. “Is it my money, or what? I am not at all clever, so you must tell me.”

  With Tommy, of course, it was not her money. Except when he had Elspeth to consider, he was as much a Quixote about money as Pym himself; and at no moment of his life was he a snob.

  “I am sorry you should think so meanly of me,” he said with dignity, lifting his hat; and he would have got away then (which, when you come to think of it, was what he wanted) had he been able to resist an impulse to heave a broken-hearted sigh at the door.

  “Don’t go yet, Mr. Sandys,” she begged. “I may have been hasty. And yet — why, we are merely acquaintances!”

  He had meant to be very careful now, but that word sent him off again. “Acquaintances!” he cried. “No, we were never that.”

  “It almost seemed to me that you avoided me.”

  “You noticed it!” he said eagerly. “At least, you do me that justice. Oh, how I tried to avoid you!”

  “It was because—”

  “Alas!”

  She was touched, of course, but still puzzled. “We know so little of each other,” she said.

  “I see,” he replied, “that you know me very little, Mrs. Jerry; but you — oh, Jerry, Jerry! I know you as no other man has ever known you!”

  “I wish I had proof of it,” she said helplessly.

  Proof! She should not have asked Tommy for proof. “I know,” he cried, “how unlike all other women you are. To the world you are like the rest, but in your heart you know that you are different; you know it, and I know it, and no other person knows it.”

  Yes, Mrs. Jerry knew it, and had often marvelled over it in the seclusion of her boudoir; but that another should have found it out was strange and almost terrifying.

  “I know you love me now,” she said softly. “Only love could have shown you that. But — oh, let me go away for a minute to think!” And she ran out of the room.

  Other suitors have been left for a space in Tommy’s state of doubt, but never, it may be hoped, with the same emotions. Oh, heavens! if she should accept him! He saw Elspeth sickening and dying of the news.

  His guardian angel, however, was very good to Tommy at this time; or perhaps, like cannibals with their prisoner, the god of sentiment (who has a tail) was fattening him for a future feast; and Mrs. Jerry’s answer was that it could never be.

  Tommy bowed his head.

  But she hoped he would let her be his very dear friend. It would be the proudest recollection of her life that Mr. Sandys had entertained such feelings for her.

  Nothing could have been better, and he should have found difficulty in concealing his delight; but this strange Tommy was really feeling his part again. It was an unforced tear that came to his eye. Quite naturally he looked long and wistfully at her.

  “Jerry, Jerry!” he articulated huskily, and whatever the words mean in these circumstances he really meant; then he put his lips to her hand for the first and last time, and so was gone, broken but brave. He was in splendid fettle for writing that evening. Wild animals sleep after gorging, but it sent this monster, refreshed, to his work.

  Nevertheless, the incident gave him some uneasy reflections. Was he, indeed, a monster? was one that he could dodge, as yet; but suppose Mrs. Jerry told his dear Elspeth of what had happened? She had said that she would not, but a secret in Mrs. Jerry’s breast was like her pug in her arms, always kicking to get free. “Elspeth,” said Tommy, “what do you say to going north and having a sight of Thrums again?”

  He knew what she would say. They had been talking for years of going back; it was the great day that all her correspondence with old friends in Thrums looked forward to.

  “They made little of you, Tommy,” she said, “when we left; but I’m thinking they will all be at their windows when you go back.”

  “Oh,” replied Thomas, “that’s nothing. But I should like to shake Corp by the hand again.”

  “And Aaron,” said Elspeth. She was knitting stockings for Aaron at that moment.

  “And Gavinia,” Tommy said, “and the Dominie.”

  “And Ailie.”

  And then came an awkward pause, for they were both thinking of that independent girl called Grizel. She was seldom discussed. Tommy was oddly shy about mentioning her name; he would have preferred Elspeth to mention it: and Elspeth had misgivings that this was so, with the result that neither could say “Grizel” without wondering what was in the other’s mind. Tommy had written twice to Grizel, the first time unknown to Elspeth, but that was in the days when the ladies of the penny numbers were disturbing him, and, against his better judgment (for well he knew she would never stand it), he had begun his letter with these mad words: “Dear Little Woman.” She did not answer this, but soon afterwards she wrote to Elspeth, and he was not mentioned in the letter proper, but it carried a sting in its tail. “P.S.,” it said “How is Sentimental Tommy?”

  None but a fiend in human shape could have written thus, and Elspeth put her protecting arms round her brother. “Now we know what Grizel is,” she said. “I am done with her now.”

  But when Tommy had got back his wind he said nobly: “I’ll call her no names. If this is how she likes to repay me for — for all my kindnesses, let her. But, Elspeth, if I have the chance, I shall go on being good to her just the same.”

  Elspeth adored him for it, but Grizel would have stamped had she known. He had that comfort.

  The second letter he never posted. It was written a few months before he became a celebrity, and had very fine things indeed in it, for old Dr. McQueen, Grizel’s dear friend, had just died at his post, and it was a letter of condolence. While Tommy wrote it he was in a quiver of genuine emotion, as he was very pleased to feel, and it had a specially satisfying bit about death, and the world never being the same again. He knew it was good, but he did not send it to her, for no reason I can discover save that postscripts jarred on him.

  * * *

  CHAPTER IV

  GRIZEL OF THE CROOKED SMILE

  To expose Tommy for what he was, to appear to be scrupulously fair to him so that I might really damage him the more, that is what I set out to do in this book, and always when he seemed to be finding a way of getting round me (as I had a secret dread he might do) I was to remember Grizel and be obdurate. But if I have so far got past some of his virtues without even mentioning them (and I have), I know how many opportunities for discrediting him have been missed, and that would not greatly matter, there are so many more to come, if Grizel were on my side. But she is not; throughout those first chapters a voice has been crying to me, “Take care; if you hurt him you will hurt me”; and I know it to be the voice of Grizel, and I seem to see her, rocking her arms as she used to rock them when excited in the days of her innocent childhood. “Don’t, don’t, don’t!” she cried at every cruel word I gave him, and she, to whom it was ever such agony to weep, dropped a tear upon each word, so that they were obliterated; and “Surely I knew him best,” she said, “and I always loved him”; and she stood there defending him, with her hand on her heart to conceal the gaping wound that Tommy had made.

  Well, if Grizel had always loved him there was surely something fine and rare about Tommy. But what was it, Grizel? Why did you always love him, you who saw into him so well and demanded so much of men? When I ask that question the spirit that hovers round my desk to protect Tommy from me rocks her arms mournfully, as if she did not know the answer; it is only when I seem to see her as she so often was in life, before she got that wound and after, bending over some little chi
ld and looking up radiant, that I think I suddenly know why she always loved Tommy. It was because he had such need of her.

  I don’t know whether you remember, but there were once some children who played at Jacobites in the Thrums Den under Tommy’s leadership. Elspeth, of course, was one of them, and there were Corp Shiach, and Gavinia, and lastly, there was Grizel. Had Tommy’s parents been alive she would not have been allowed to join, for she was a painted lady’s child; but Tommy insisted on having her, and Grizel thought it was just sweet of him. He also chatted with her in public places, as if she were a respectable character; and oh, how she longed to be respectable! but, on the other hand, he was the first to point out how superbly he was behaving, and his ways were masterful, so the independent girl would not be captain’s wife; if he said she was captain’s wife he had to apologize, and if he merely looked it he had to apologize just the same.

  One night the Painted Lady died in the Den, and then it would have gone hard with the lonely girl had not Dr. McQueen made her his little housekeeper, not out of pity, he vowed (she was so anxious to be told that), but because he was an old bachelor sorely in need of someone to take care of him. And how she took care of him! But though she was so happy now, she knew that she must be very careful, for there was something in her blood that might waken and prevent her being a good woman. She thought it would be sweet to be good.

  She told all this to Tommy, and he was profoundly interested, and consulted a wise man, whose advice was that when she grew up she should be wary of any man whom she liked and mistrusted in one breath. Meaning to do her a service, Tommy communicated this to her; and then, what do you think? Grizel would have no more dealings with him! By and by the gods, in a sportive mood, sent him to labour on a farm, whence, as we have seen, he found a way to London, and while he was growing into a man Grizel became a woman. At the time of the doctor’s death she was nineteen, tall and graceful, and very dark and pale. When the winds of the day flushed her cheek she was beautiful; but it was a beauty that hid the mystery of her face. The sun made her merry, but she looked more noble when it had set; then her pallor shone with a soft, radiant light, as though the mystery and sadness and serenity of the moon were in it. The full beauty of Grizel came out only at night, like the stars.

  I had made up my mind that when the time came to describe Grizel’s mere outward appearance I should refuse her that word “beautiful” because of her tilted nose; but now that the time has come, I wonder at myself. Probably when I am chapters ahead I shall return to this one and strike out the word “beautiful,” and then, as likely as not, I shall come back afterwards and put it in again. Whether it will be there at the end, God knows. Her eyes, at least, were beautiful. They were unusually far apart, and let you look straight into them, and never quivered; they were such clear, gray, searching eyes, they seemed always to be asking for the truth. And she had an adorable mouth. In repose it was, perhaps, hard, because it shut so decisively; but often it screwed up provokingly at one side, as when she smiled, or was sorry, or for no particular reason; for she seemed unable to control this vagary, which was perhaps a little bit of babyhood that had forgotten to grow up with the rest of her. At those moments the essence of all that was characteristic and delicious about her seemed to have run to her mouth; so that to kiss Grizel on her crooked smile would have been to kiss the whole of her at once. She had a quaint way of nodding her head at you when she was talking. It made you forget what she was saying, though it was really meant to have precisely the opposite effect. Her voice was rich, with many inflections. When she had much to say it gurgled like a stream in a hurry; but its cooing note was best worth remembering at the end of the day. There were times when she looked like a boy. Her almost gallant bearing, the poise of her head, her noble frankness — they all had something in them of a princely boy who had never known fear.

  I have no wish to hide her defects; I would rather linger over them, because they were part of Grizel, and I am sorry to see them go one by one. Thrums had not taken her to its heart. She was a proud-purse, they said, meaning that she had a haughty walk. Her sense of justice was too great. She scorned frailties that she should have pitied. (How strange to think that there was a time when pity was not the feeling that leaped to Grizel’s bosom first!) She did not care for study. She learned French and the pianoforte to please the doctor; but she preferred to be sewing or dusting. When she might have been reading, she was perhaps making for herself one of those costumes that annoyed every lady of Thrums who employed a dressmaker; or, more probably, it was a delicious garment for a baby; for as soon as Grizel heard that there was a new baby anywhere, all her intellect deserted her, and she became a slave. Books often irritated her because she disagreed with the author; and it was a torment to her to find other people holding to their views when she was so certain that hers were right. In church she sometimes rocked her arms; and the old doctor by her side knew that it was because she could not get up and contradict the minister. She was, I presume, the only young lady who ever dared to say that she hated Sunday because there was so much sitting still in it.

  Sitting still did not suit Grizel. At all other times she was happy; but then her mind wandered back to the thoughts that had lived too closely with her in the old days, and she was troubled. What woke her from these reveries was probably the doctor’s hand placed very tenderly on her shoulder, and then she would start, and wonder how long he had been watching her, and what were the grave thoughts behind his cheerful face; for the doctor never looked more cheerful than when he was drawing Grizel away from the ugly past, and he talked to her as if he had noticed nothing; but after he went upstairs he would pace his bedroom for a long time; and Grizel listened, and knew that he was thinking about her. Then, perhaps, she would run up to him, and put her arms around his neck. These scenes brought the doctor and Grizel very close together; but they became rarer as she grew up, and then for once that she was troubled she was a hundred times irresponsible with glee, and “Oh, you dearest, darlingest,” she would cry to him, “I must dance, — I must, I must! — though it is a fast-day; and you must dance with your mother this instant — I am so happy, so happy!” “Mother” was his nickname for her, and she delighted in the word. She lorded it over him as if he were her troublesome boy.

  How could she be other than glorious when there was so much to do? The work inside the house she made for herself, and outside the doctor made it for her. At last he had found for nurse a woman who could follow his instructions literally, who understood that if he said five o’clock for the medicine the chap of six would not do as well, who did not in her heart despise the thermometer, and who resolutely prevented the patient from skipping out of bed to change her pillow-slips because the minister was expected. Such tyranny enraged every sufferer who had been ill before and got better; but what they chiefly complained of to the doctor (and he agreed with a humourous sigh) was her masterfulness about fresh air and cold water. Windows were opened that had never been opened before (they yielded to her pressure with a groan); and as for cold water, it might have been said that a bath followed her wherever she went — not, mark me, for putting your hands and face in, not even for your feet; but in you must go, the whole of you, “as if,” they said indignantly, “there was something the matter with our skin.”

  She could not gossip, not even with the doctor, who liked it of an evening when he had got into his carpet shoes. There was no use telling her a secret, for she kept it to herself for evermore. She had ideas about how men should serve a woman, even the humblest, that made the men gaze with wonder, and the women (curiously enough) with irritation. Her greatest scorn was for girls who made themselves cheap with men; and she could not hide it. It was a physical pain to Grizel to hide her feelings; they popped out in her face, if not in words, and were always in advance of her self-control. To the doctor this impulsiveness was pathetic; he loved her for it, but it sometimes made him uneasy.

  He died in the scarlet-fever year. “I’m smitten,”
he suddenly said at a bedside; and a week afterwards he was gone.

  “We must speak of it now, Grizel,” he said, when he knew that he was dying.

  She pressed his hand. She knew to what he was referring. “Yes,” she said, “I should love you to speak of it now.”

  “You and I have always fought shy of it,” he said, “making a pretence that it had altogether passed away. I thought that was best for you.”

  “Dearest, darlingest,” she said, “I know — I have always known.”

  “And you,” he said, “you pretended because you thought it was best for me.”

  She nodded. “And we saw through each other all the time,” she said.

  “Grizel, has it passed away altogether now?”

  Her grip upon his hand did not tighten in the least. “Yes,” she could say honestly, “it has altogether passed away.”

  “And you have no more fear?”

  “No, none.”

  It was his great reward for all that he had done for Grizel.

  “I know what you are thinking of,” she said, when he did not speak. “You are thinking of the haunted little girl you rescued seven years ago.”

  “No,” he answered; “I was thanking God for the brave, wholesome woman she has grown into; and for something else, Grizel — for letting me live to see it.”

  “To do it,” she said, pressing his hand to her breast.

  She was a strange girl, and she had to speak her mind. “I don’t think God has done it all,” she said. “I don’t even think that He told you to do it. I think He just said to you, ‘There is a painted lady’s child at your door. You can save her if you like.’

  “No,” she went on, when he would have interposed; “I am sure He did not want to do it all. He even left a little bit of it to me to do myself. I love to think that I have done a tiny bit of it myself. I think it is the sweetest thing about God that He lets us do some of it ourselves. Do I hurt you, darling?”