Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  She knew now how good, how forbearing, he had been to the little girl, and that it was partly because he was acquainted with her touching history. The grave courtesy with which he had always treated her — and which had sometimes given her as a girl a secret thrill of delight, it was so sweet to Grizel to be respected — she knew now to be less his natural manner to women than something that came to him in her presence because he who knew her so well thought her worthy of deference; and it helped her more, far more, than if she had seen it turn to love. Yet as she received him in her parlor now — her too spotless parlor, for not even the ashes in the grate were visible, which is a mistake — she was not very friendly. He had discovered what Tommy was, and as she had been the medium she could not blame him for that, but how could he look as calm as ever when such a deplorable thing had happened?

  “What you say is true; I knew it before I asked you to go to him, and I knew you would find it out; but please to remember that he is a man of genius, whom it is not for such as you to judge.”

  That was the sort of haughty remark she held ready for him while they talked of other cases; but it was never uttered, for by and by he said:

  “And then, there is Mr. Sandys’s ankle. A nasty accident, I am afraid.”

  Was he jesting? She looked at him sharply. “Have you not been to see him yet?” she asked.

  He thought she had misunderstood him. He had been to see Mr. Sandys twice, both last night and this morning.

  And he was sure it was a sprain?

  Unfortunately it was something worse — dislocation; further mischief might show itself presently.

  “Haemorrhage into the neighbouring joint on inflammation?” she asked scientifically and with scorn.

  “Yes.”

  Grizel turned away from him. “I think not,” she said.

  Well, possibly not, if Mr. Sandys was careful and kept his foot from the ground for the next week. The doctor did not know that she was despising him, and he proceeded to pay Tommy a compliment. “I had to reduce the dislocation, of course,” he told her, “and he bore the wrench splendidly, though there is almost no pain more acute.”

  “Did he ask you to tell me that?” Grizel was thirsting to inquire, but she forbore. Unwittingly, however, the doctor answered the question. “I could see,” he said, “that Mr. Sandys made light of his sufferings to save his sister pain. I cannot recall ever having seen a brother and sister so attached.”

  That was quite true, Grizel admitted to herself. In all her recollections of Tommy she could not remember one critical moment in which Elspeth had not been foremost in his thoughts. It passed through her head, “Even now he must make sure that Elspeth is in peace of mind before he can care to triumph over me,” and she would perhaps have felt less bitter had he put his triumph first.

  His triumph! Oh, she would show him whether it was a triumph. He had destroyed for ever her faith in David Gemmell. The quiet, observant doctor, who had such an eye for the false, had been deceived as easily as all the others, and it made her feel very lonely. But never mind; Tommy should find out, and that within the hour, that there was one whom he could not cheat. Her first impulse, always her first impulse, was to go straight to his side and tell him what she thought of him. Her second, which was neater, was to send by messenger her compliments to Mr. and Miss Sandys, and would they, if not otherwise engaged, come and have tea with her that afternoon? Not a word in the note about the ankle, but a careful sentence to the effect that she had seen Dr. Gemmell to-day, and proposed asking him to meet them.

  Maggy Ann, who had conveyed the message, came back with the reply. Elspeth regretted that they could not accept Grizel’s invitation, owing to the accident to her brother being very much more serious than Grizel seemed to think. “I can’t understand,” Elspeth added, “why Dr. Gemmell did not tell you this when he saw you.”

  “Is it a polite letter?” asked inquisitive Maggy Ann, and Grizel assured her that it was most polite. “I hardly expected it,” said the plain-spoken dame, “for I’m thinking by their manner it’s more than can be said of yours.”

  “I merely invited them to come to tea.”

  “And him wi’ his leg broke! Did you no ken he was lying on chairs?”

  “I did not know it was so bad as that, Maggy Ann. So my letter seemed to annoy him, did it?” said Grizel, eagerly, and, I fear, well pleased.

  “It angered her most terrible,” said Maggy Ann, “but no him. He gave a sort of a laugh when he read it.”

  “A laugh!”

  “Ay, and syne she says, ‘It is most heartless of Grizel; she does not even ask how you are to-day; one would think she did not know of the accident’; and she says, ‘I have a good mind to write her a very stiff letter.’ And says he in a noble, melancholic voice, ‘We must not hurt Grizel’s feelings,’ he says. And she says, ‘Grizel thinks it was nothing because you bore it so cheerfully; oh, how little she knows you!’ she says; and ‘You are too forgiving,’ she says. And says he, ‘If I have anything to forgive Grizel for, I forgive her willingly.’ And syne she quieted down and wrote the letter.”

  Forgive her! Oh, how it enraged Grizel! How like the Tommy of old to put it in that way. There never had been a boy so good at forgiving people for his own crimes, and he always looked so modest when he did it. He was reclining on his chairs at this moment, she was sure he was, forgiving her in every sentence. She could have endured it more easily had she felt sure that he was seeing himself as he was; but she remembered him too well to have any hope of that.

  She put on her bonnet, and took it off again; a terrible thing, remember, for Grizel to be in a state of indecision. For the remainder of that day she was not wholly inactive. Meeting Dr. Gemmell in the street, she impressed upon him the advisability of not allowing Mr. Sandys to move for at least a week.

  “He might take a drive in a day or two,” the doctor thought, “with his sister.”

  “He would be sure to use his foot,” Grizel maintained, “if you once let him rise from his chair; you know they all do.” And Gemmell agreed that she was right. So she managed to give Tommy as irksome a time as possible.

  But next day she called. To go through another day without letting him see how despicable she thought him was beyond her endurance. Elspeth was a little stiff at first, but Tommy received her heartily and with nothing in his manner to show that she had hurt his finer feelings. His leg (the wrong leg, as Grizel remembered at once) was extended on a chair in front of him; but instead of nursing it ostentatiously as so many would have done, he made humourous remarks at its expense. “The fact is,” he said cheerily, “that so long as I don’t move I never felt better in my life. And I daresay I could walk almost as well as either of you, only my tyrant of a doctor won’t let me try.” “He told me you had behaved splendidly,” said Grizel, “while he was reducing the dislocation. How brave you are! You could not have endured more stoically though there had been nothing the matter with it.”

  “It was soon over,” Tommy replied lightly. “I think Elspeth suffered more than I.”

  Elspeth told the story of his heroism. “I could not stay in the room,” she said; “it was too terrible.” And Grizel despised too tender-hearted Elspeth for that; she was so courageous at facing pain herself. But Tommy had guessed that Elspeth was trembling behind the door, and he had called out, “Don’t cry, Elspeth; I am all right; it is nothing at all.”

  “How noble!” was Grizel’s comment, when she heard of this; and then Elspeth was her friend again, insisted on her staying to tea, and went into the kitchen to prepare it. Aaron was out.

  The two were alone now, and in the circumstances some men would have given the lady the opportunity to apologize, if such was her desire. But Tommy’s was a more generous nature; his manner was that of one less sorry to be misjudged than anxious that Grizel should not suffer too much from remorse. If she had asked his pardon then and there, I am sure he would have replied, “Right willingly, Grizel,” and begged her not to give another
thought to the matter. What is of more importance, Grizel was sure of this also, and it was the magnanimity of him that especially annoyed her. There seemed to be no disturbing it. Even when she said, “Which foot is it?” he answered, “The one on the chair,” quite graciously, as if she had asked a natural question.

  Grizel pointed out that the other foot must be tired of being a foot in waiting. It had got a little exercise, Tommy replied lightly, last night and again this morning, when it had helped to convey him to and from his bed.

  Had he hopped? she asked brutally.

  No, he said; he had shuffled along. Half rising, he attempted to show her humourously how he walked nowadays — tried not to wince, but had to. Ugh, that was a twinge! Grizel sarcastically offered her assistance, and he took her shoulder gratefully. They crossed the room — a tedious journey. “Now let me see if you can manage alone,” she says, and suddenly deserts him.

  He looked rather helplessly across the room. Few sights are so pathetic as the strong man of yesterday feeling that the chair by the fire is a distant object to-day. Tommy knew how pathetic it was, but Grizel did not seem to know.

  “Try it,” she said encouragingly; “it will do you good.”

  “And clung to it, his teeth set.”

  He got as far as the table, and clung to it, his teeth set. Grizel clapped her hands. “Excellently done!” she said, with fell meaning, and recommended him to move up and down the room for a little; he would feel ever so much the better for it afterwards.

  The pain — was — considerable, he said. Oh, she saw that, but he had already proved himself so good at bearing pain, and the new school of surgeons held that it was wise to exercise an injured limb.

  Even then it was not a reproachful glance that Tommy gave her, though there was some sadness in it. He moved across the room several times, a groan occasionally escaping him. “Admirable!” said his critic. “Bravo! Would you like to stop now?”

  “Not until you tell me to,” he said determinedly, but with a gasp.

  “It must be dreadfully painful,” she replied coldly, “but I should like you to go on.” And he went on until suddenly he seemed to have lost the power to lift his feet. His body swayed; there was an appealing look on his face. “Don’t be afraid; you won’t fall,” said Grizel. But she had scarcely said it when he fainted dead away, and went down at her feet.

  “Oh, how dare you!” she cried in sudden flame, and she drew back from him. But after a moment she knew that he was shamming no longer — or she knew it and yet could not quite believe it; for, hurrying out of the room for water, she had no sooner passed the door than she swiftly put back her head as if to catch him unawares; but he lay motionless.

  The sight of her dear brother on the floor paralyzed Elspeth, who could only weep for him, and call to him to look at her and speak to her. But in such an emergency Grizel was as useful as any doctor, and by the time Gemmell arrived in haste the invalid was being brought to. The doctor was a practical man who did not ask questions while there was something better to do. Had he asked any as he came in, Grizel would certainly have said: “He wanted to faint to make me believe he really has a bad ankle, and somehow he managed to do it.” And if the doctor had replied that people can’t faint by wishing, she would have said that he did not know Mr. Sandys.

  But, with few words, Gemmell got his patient back to the chairs, and proceeded to undo the bandages that were round his ankle. Grizel stood by, assisting silently. She had often assisted the doctors, but never before with that scornful curl of her lip. So the bandages were removed and the ankle laid bare. It was very much swollen and discoloured, and when Grizel saw this she gave a little cry, and the ointment she was holding slipped from her hand. For the first time since he came to Thrums, she had failed Gemmell at a patient’s side.

  “I had not expected it to be — like this,” she said in a quivering voice, when he looked at her in surprise.

  “It will look much worse tomorrow,” he assured them, grimly. “I can’t understand, Miss Sandys, how this came about.”

  “Miss Sandys was not in the room,” said Grizel, abjectly, “but I was, and I—”

  Tommy’s face was begging her to stop. He was still faint and in pain, but all thought of himself left him in his desire to screen her. “I owe you an apology, doctor,” he said quickly, “for disregarding your instructions. It was entirely my own fault; I would try to walk.”

  “Every step must have been agony,” the doctor rapped out; and Grizel shuddered.

  “Not nearly so bad as that,” Tommy said, for her sake.

  “Agony,” insisted the doctor, as if, for once, he enjoyed the word. “It was a mad thing to do, as surely you could guess, Grizel. Why did you not prevent him?”

  “She certainly did her best to stop me,” Tommy said hastily; “but I suppose I had some insane fit on me, for do it I would. I am very sorry, doctor.”

  His face was wincing with pain, and he spoke jerkily; but the doctor was still angry. He felt that there was something between these two which he did not understand, and it was strange to him, and unpleasant, to find Grizel unable to speak for herself. I think he doubted Tommy from that hour. All he said in reply, however, was: “It is unnecessary to apologize to me; you yourself are the only sufferer.”

  But was Tommy the only sufferer? Gemmell left, and Elspeth followed him to listen to those precious words which doctors drop, as from a vial, on the other side of a patient’s door; and then Grizel, who had been standing at the window with head averted, turned slowly round and looked at the man she had wronged. Her arms, which had been hanging rigid, the fists closed, went out to him to implore forgiveness. I don’t know how she held herself up and remained dry-eyed, her whole being wanted so much to sink by the side of his poor, tortured foot, and bathe it in her tears.

  So, you see, he had won; nothing to do now but forgive her beautifully. Go on, Tommy; you are good at it.

  But the unexpected only came out of Tommy. Never was there a softer heart. In London the old lady who sold matches at the street corner had got all his pence; had he heard her, or any other, mourning a son sentenced to the gallows, he would immediately have wondered whether he might take the condemned one’s place. (What a speech Tommy could have delivered from the scaffold!) There was nothing he would not jump at doing for a woman in distress, except, perhaps, destroy his notebook. And Grizel was in anguish. She was his suppliant, his brave, lonely little playmate of the past, the noble girl of to-day, Grizel whom he liked so much. As through a magnifying-glass he saw her topheavy with remorse for life, unable to sleep of nights, crushed and ——

  He was not made of the stuff that could endure it. The truth must out. “Grizel,” he said impulsively, “you have nothing to be sorry for. You were quite right. I did not hurt my foot that night in the Den, but afterwards, when I was alone, before the doctor came. I wricked it here intentionally in the door. It sounds incredible; but I set my teeth and did it, Grizel, because you had challenged me to a duel, and I would not give in.”

  As soon as it was out he was proud of himself for having the generosity to confess it. He looked at Grizel expectantly.

  Yes, it sounded incredible, and yet she saw that it was true. As Elspeth returned at that moment, Grizel could say nothing. She stood looking at him only over her high collar of fur. Tommy actually thought that she was admiring him.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VIII

  WHAT GRIZEL’S EYES SAID

  To be the admired of women — how Tommy had fought for it since first he drank of them in Pym’s sparkling pages! To some it seems to be easy, but to him it was a labour of Sisyphus. Everything had been against him. But he concentrated. No labour was too Herculean; he was prepared, if necessary, to walk round the world to get to the other side of the wall across which some men can step. And he did take a roundabout way. It is my opinion, for instance, that he wrote his book in order to make a beginning with the ladies.

  That as it may be, at all events
he is on the right side of the wall now, and here is even Grizel looking wistfully at him. Had she admired him for something he was not (and a good many of them did that) he would have been ill satisfied. He wanted her to think him splendid because he was splendid, and the more he reflected the more clearly he saw that he had done a big thing. How many men would have had the courage to wrick their foot as he had done? (He shivered when he thought of it.) And even of these Spartans how many would have let the reward slip through their fingers rather than wound the feelings of a girl? These had not been his thoughts when he made confession; he had spoken on an impulse; but now that he could step out and have a look at himself, he saw that this made it a still bigger thing. He was modestly pleased that he had not only got Grizel’s admiration, but earned it, and he was very kind to her when next she came to see him. No one could be more kind to them than he when they admired him. He had the most grateful heart, had our Tommy.

  When next she came to see him! That was while his ankle still nailed him to the chair, a fortnight or so during which Tommy was at his best, sending gracious messages by Elspeth to the many who called to inquire, and writing hard at his new work, pad on knee, so like a brave soul whom no unmerited misfortune could subdue that it would have done you good merely to peep at him through the window. Grizel came several times, and the three talked very ordinary things, mostly reminiscences; she was as much a plain-spoken princess as ever, but often he found her eyes fixed on him wistfully, and he knew what they were saying; they spoke so eloquently that he was a little nervous lest Elspeth should notice. It was delicious to Tommy to feel that there was this little unspoken something between him and Grizel; he half regretted that the time could not be far distant when she must put it into words — as soon, say, as Elspeth left the room; an exquisite moment, no doubt, but it would be the plucking of the flower.