by Unknown
“Sit down for a moment, Grizel, and let me look at you. I want to write something most splendiferous to-day, and I am sure to find it in your face. I have ceased to be an original writer; all the purple patches are cribbed from you.”
He made a point of taking her head in his hands and looking long at her with thoughts too deep for utterance; then he would fall on his knees and kiss the hem of her dress, and so back to his book again.
And in time it was all sweet to Grizel. She could not be deceived, but she loved to see him playing so kind a part, and after some sadness to which she could not help giving way, she put all vain longings aside. She folded them up and put them away like the beautiful linen, so that she might see more clearly what was left to her and how best to turn it to account.
He did not love her. “Not as I love him,” she said to herself,—”not as married people ought to love; but in the other way he loves me dearly.” By the “other way” she meant that he loved her as he loved Elspeth, and loved them both just as he had loved them when all three played in the Den.
“He would love me if he could.” She was certain of that. She decided that love does not come to all people, as is the common notion; that there are some who cannot fall in love, and that he was one of them. He was complete in himself, she decided.
“Is it a pity for him that he married me? It would be a pity if he could love some other woman, but I am sure he could never do that. If he could love anyone it would be me, we both want it so much. He does not need a wife, but he needs someone to take care of him — all men need that; and I can do it much better than any other person. Had he not married me he never would have married; but he may fall ill, and then how useful I shall be to him! He will grow old, and perhaps it won’t be quite so lonely to him when I am there. It would have been a pity for him to marry me if I had been a foolish woman who asked for more love than he can give; but I shall never do that, so I think it is not a pity.
“Is it a pity for me? Oh, no, no, no!
“Is he sorry he did it? At times, is he just a weeny bit sorry?” She watched him, and decided rightly that he was not sorry the weeniest bit. It was a sweet consolation to her. “Is he really happy? Yes, of course he is happy when he is writing; but is he quite contented at other times? I do honestly think he is. And if he is happy now, how much happier I shall be able to make him when I have put away all my selfish thoughts and think only of him.”
“The most exquisite thing in human life is to be married to one who loves you as you love him.” There could be no doubt of that. But she saw also that the next best thing was the kind of love this boy gave to her, and she would always be grateful for the second best. In her prayers she thanked God for giving it to her, and promised Him to try to merit it; and all day and every day she kept her promise. There could not have been a brighter or more energetic wife than Grizel. The amount of work she found to do in that small house which his devotion had made so dear to her that she could not leave it! Her gaiety! Her masterful airs when he wanted something that was not good for him! The artfulness with which she sought to help him in various matters without his knowing! Her satisfaction when he caught her at it, as clever Tommy was constantly doing! “What a success it has turned out!” David would say delightedly to himself; and Grizel was almost as jubilant because it was so far from being a failure. It was only sometimes in the night that she lay very still, with little wells of water on her eyes, and through them saw one — the dream of woman — whom she feared could never be hers. That boy Tommy never knew why she did not want to have a child. He thought that for the present she was afraid; but the reason was that she believed it would be wicked when he did not love her as she loved him. She could not be sure — she had to think it all out for herself. With little wells of sadness on her eyes, she prayed in the still night to God to tell her; but she could never hear His answer.
She no longer sought to teach Tommy how he should write. That quaint desire was abandoned from the day when she learned that she had destroyed his greatest work. She had not destroyed it, as we shall see; but she presumed she had, as Tommy thought so. He had tried to conceal this from her to save her pain, but she had found it out, and it seemed to Grizel, grown distrustful of herself, that the man who could bear such a loss as he had borne it was best left to write as he chose.
“It was not that I did not love your books,” she said, “but that I loved you more, and I thought they did you harm.”
“In the days when I had wings,” he answered, and she smiled. “Any feathers left, do you think, Grizel?” he asked jocularly, and turned his shoulders to her for examination.
“A great many, sir,” she said, “and I am glad. I used to want to pull them all out, but now I like to know that they are still there, for it means that you remain among the facts not because you can’t fly, but because you won’t.”
“I still have my little fights with myself,” he blurted out boyishly, though it was a thing he had never meant to tell her, and Grizel pressed his hand for telling her what she already knew so well.
The new book, of course, was “The Wandering Child.” I wonder whether any of you read it now? Your fathers and mothers thought a great deal of that slim volume, but it would make little stir in an age in which all the authors are trying who can say “damn” loudest. It is but a reverie about a child who is lost, and his parents’ search for him in terror of what may have befallen. But they find him in a wood singing joyfully to himself because he is free; and he fears to be caged again, so runs farther from them into the wood, and is running still, singing to himself because he is free, free, free. That is really all, but T. Sandys knew how to tell it. The moment he conceived the idea (we have seen him speaking of it to the doctor), he knew that it was the idea for him. He forgot at once that he did not really care for children. He said reverently to himself, “I can pull it off,” and, as was always the way with him, the better he pulled it off the more he seemed to love them.
“It is myself who is writing at last, Grizel,” he said, as he read it to her.
She thought (and you can guess whether she was right) that it was the book he loved rather than the children. She thought (and you can guess again) that it was not his ideas about children that had got into the book, but hers. But she did not say so; she said it was the sweetest of his books to her.
I have heard of another reading he gave. This was after the publication of the book. He had gone into Corp’s house one Sunday, and Gavinia was there reading the work to her lord and master, while little Corp disported on the floor. She read as if all the words meant the same thing, and it was more than Tommy could endure. He read for her, and his eyes grew moist as he read, for it was the most exquisite of his chapters about the lost child. You would have said that no one loved children quite so much as T. Sandys. But little Corp would not keep quiet, and suddenly Tommy jumped up and boxed his ears. He then proceeded with the reading, while Gavinia glowered and Corp senior scratched his head.
On the way home he saw what had happened, and laughed at the humour of it, then grew depressed, then laughed recklessly. “Is it Sentimental Tommy still?” he said to himself, with a groan. Seldom a week passed without his being reminded in some such sudden way that it was Sentimental Tommy still. “But she shall never know!” he vowed, and he continued to be half a hero.
His name was once more in many mouths. “Come back and be made of more than ever!” cried that society which he had once enlivened. “Come and hear the pretty things we are saying about you. Come and make the prettier replies that are already on the tip of your tongue; for oh, Tommy, you know they are! Bring her with you if you must; but don’t you think that the nice, quiet country with the thingumbobs all in bloom would suit her best? It is essential that you should run up to see your publisher, is it not? The men have dinners for you if you want them, but we know you don’t. Your yearning eyes are on the ladies, Tommy; we are making up theatre-parties of the old entrancing kind; you should see our new gowns
; please come back and help us to put on our cloaks, Tommy; there is a dance on Monday — come and sit it out with us. Do you remember the garden-party where you said — Well, the laurel walk is still there; the beauties of two years ago are still here, and there are new beauties, and their noses are slightly tilted, but no man can move them; ha, do you pull yourself together at that? We were always the reward for your labours, Tommy; your books are move one in the game of making love to us; don’t be afraid that we shall forget it is a game; we know it is, and that is why we suit you. Come and play in London as you used to play in the Den. It is all you need of women; come and have your fill, and we shall send you back refreshed. We are not asking you to be disloyal to her, only to leave her happy and contented and take a holiday.”
He heard their seductive voices, they danced around him in numbers.
He heard their seductive voices. They danced around him in numbers, for they knew that the more there were of them the better he would be pleased; they whispered in his ear and then ran away looking over their shoulders. But he would not budge.
There was one more dangerous than the rest. Her he saw before the others came and after they had gone. She was a tall, incredibly slight woman, with eyelashes that needed help, and a most disdainful mouth and nose, and she seemed to look scornfully at Tommy and then stand waiting. He was in two minds about what she was waiting for, and often he had a fierce desire to go to London to find out. But he never went. He played the lover to Grizel as before — not to intoxicate himself, but always to make life sunnier to her; if she stayed longer with Elspeth than the promised time, he became anxious and went in search of her. “I have not been away an hour!” she said, laughing at him, holding little Jean up to laugh at him. “But I cannot do without you for an hour,” he answered ardently. He still laid down his pen to gaze with rapture at her and cry, “My wife!”
She wanted him to go to London for a change, and without her, and his heart leaped into his mouth to prevent his saying No; yet he said it, though in the Tommy way.
“Without you!” he exclaimed. “Oh, Grizel, do you think I could find happiness apart from you for a day? And could you let me go?” And he looked with agonized reproach at her, and sat down, clutching his head.
“It would be very hard to me,” she said softly; “but if the change did you good — —”
“A change from you! Oh, Grizel, Grizel!”
“Or I could go with you?”
“When you don’t want to go!” he cried huskily. “You think I could ask it of you!”
He quite broke down, and she had to comfort him. She was smiling divinely at him all the time, as if sympathy had brought her to love even the Tommy way of saying things. “I thought it would be sweet to you to see how great my faith in you is now,” she said.
This was the true reason why generous Grizel had proposed to him to go. She knew he was more afraid than she of Sentimental Tommy, and she thought her faith would be a helping hand to him, as it was.
He had no regard for Lady Pippinworth. Of all the women he had dallied with, she was the one he liked the least, for he never liked where he could not esteem. Perhaps she had some good in her, but the good in her had never appealed to him, and he knew it, and refused to harbour her in his thoughts now; he cast her out determinedly when she seemed to enter them unbidden. But still he was vain. She came disdainfully and stood waiting. We have seen him wondering what she waited for; but though he could not be sure, and so was drawn to her, he took it as acknowledgment of his prowess and so was helped to run away.
To walk away would be the more exact term, for his favourite method of exorcising this lady was to rise from his chair and take a long walk with Grizel. Occasionally if she was occupied (and a number of duties our busy Grizel found to hand!) he walked alone, and he would not let himself brood. Someone had once walked from Thrums to the top of the Law and back in three hours, and Tommy made several gamesome attempts to beat the record, setting out to escape that willowy woman, soon walking her down and returning in a glow of animal spirits. It was on one of these occasions, when there was nothing in his head but ambition to do the fifth mile within the eleven minutes, that he suddenly met her Ladyship face to face.
We have now come to the last fortnight of Tommy’s life.
CHAPTER XXXIV
A WAY IS FOUND FOR TOMMY
The moment for which he had tried to prepare himself was come, and Tommy gulped down his courage, which had risen suddenly to his mouth, leaving his chest in a panic. Outwardly he seemed unmoved, but within he was beating to arms. “This is the test of us!” all that was good in him cried as it answered his summons.
They began by shaking hands, as is always the custom in the ring. Then, without any preliminary sparring, Lady Pippinworth immediately knocked him down; that is to say, she remarked, with a little laugh: “How very stout you are getting!”
I swear by all the gods that it was untrue. He had not got very stout, though undeniably he had got stouter. “How well you are looking!” would have been a very ladylike way of saying it, but his girth was best not referred to at all. Those who liked him had learned this long ago, and Grizel always shifted the buttons without comment.
Her malicious Ladyship had found his one weak spot at once. He had a reply ready for every other opening in the English tongue, but now he could writhe only.
Who would have expected to meet her here? he said at last feebly. She explained, and he had guessed it already, that she was again staying with the Rintouls; the castle, indeed, was not half a mile from where they stood.
“But I think I really came to see you,” she informed him, with engaging frankness.
It was very good of her, he intimated stiffly; but the stiffness was chiefly because she was still looking in an irritating way at his waist.
Suddenly she looked up. To Tommy it was as if she had raised the siege. “Why aren’t you nice to me?” she asked prettily.
“I want to be,” he replied.
She showed him a way. “When I saw you steaming towards the castle so swiftly,” she said, dropping badinage, “the hope entered my head that you had heard of my arrival.”
She had come a step nearer, and it was like an invitation to return to the arbour. “This is the test of us!” all that was good in Tommy cried once more to him.
“No, I had not heard,” he replied, bravely if baldly. “I was taking a smart walk only.”
“Why so smart as that?”
He hesitated, and her eyes left his face and travelled downward.
“Were you trying to walk it off?” she asked sympathetically.
He was stung, and replied in words that were regretted as soon as spoken: “I was trying to walk you off.”
A smile of satisfaction crossed her impudent face.
“I succeeded,” he added sharply.
“How cruel of you to say so, when you had made me so very happy! Do you often take smart walks, Mr. Sandys?”
“Often.”
“And always with me?”
“I leave you behind.”
“With Mrs. Sandys?”
Had she seemed to be in the least affected by their meeting it would have been easy to him to be a contrite man at once; any sign of shame on her part would have filled him with desire to take all the blame upon himself. Had she cut him dead, he would have begun to respect her. But she smiled disdainfully only, and stood waking. She was still, as ever, a cold passion, inviting his warm ones to leap at it. He shuddered a little, but controlled himself and did not answer her.
“I suppose she is the lady of the arbour?” Lady Pippinworth inquired, with mild interest.
“She is the lady of my heart,” Tommy replied valiantly.
“Alas!” said Lady Pippinworth, putting her hand over her own.
But he felt himself more secure now, and could even smile at the woman for thinking she was able to provoke him.
“Look upon me,” she requested, “as a deputation sent north to discover w
hy you have gone into hiding.”
“I suppose a country life does seem exile to you,” he replied calmly, and suddenly his bosom rose with pride in what was coming. Tommy always heard his finest things coming a moment before they came. “If I have retired,” he went on windily, “from the insincerities and glitter of life in town,” — but it was not his face she was looking at, it was his waist,—”the reason is obvious,” he rapped out.
She nodded assent without raising her eyes.
Yet he still controlled himself. His waist, like some fair tortured lady of romance, was calling to his knighthood for defence, but with the truer courage he affected not to hear. “I am in hiding, as you call it,” he said doggedly, “because my life here is such a round of happiness as I never hoped to find on earth, and I owe it all to my wife. If you don’t believe me, ask Lord or Lady Rintoul, or any other person in this countryside who knows her.”
But her Ladyship had already asked, and been annoyed by the answer.
She assured Tommy that she believed he was happy. “I have often heard,” she said musingly, “that the stout people are the happiest.”
“I am not so stout,” he barked.
“Now I call that brave of you,” said she, admiringly. “That is so much the wisest way to take it. And I am sure you are right not to return to town after what you were; it would be a pity. Somehow it” — and again her eyes were on the wrong place—”it does not seem to go with the books. And yet,” she said philosophically, “I daresay you feel just the same?”
“I feel very much the same,” he replied warningly.
“That is the tragedy of it,” said she.
She told him that the new book had brought the Tommy Society to life again. “And it could not hold its meetings with the old enthusiasm, could it,” she asked sweetly, “if you came back? Oh, I think you act most judiciously. Fancy how melancholy if they had to announce that the society had been wound up, owing to the stoutness of the Master.”
