Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘In a sense you may be glad that you don’t miss him in the way I do.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’

  ‘Goodnight, Robert.’

  ‘Goodnight, dear.’

  He is alone now. He stands fingering the fishingrods tenderly, then wanders back into the ingle-nook. In the room we could scarcely see him, for it has gone slowly dark there, a grey darkness, as if the lamp, though still burning, was becoming unable to shed light. Through the greyness we see him very well beyond it in the glow of the fire. He sits on the settle and tries to read his paper. He breaks down. He is a pitiful lonely man.

  In the silence something happens. A well-remembered voice says, ‘Father.’ Mr. Don looks into the greyness from which this voice comes, and he sees his son. We see no one, but we are to understand that, to Mr. Don, Dick is standing there in his habit as he lived. He goes to his boy.

  ‘Dick!’

  ‘I have come to sit with you for a bit, father.’

  It is the gay, young, careless voice.

  ‘It’s you, Dick; it’s you!’

  ‘It’s me all right, father. I say, don’t be startled, or anything of that kind. We don’t like that.’

  ‘My boy!’

  Evidently Dick is the taller, for Mr. Don has to look up to him. He puts his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

  ‘How am I looking, father?’

  ‘You haven’t altered, Dick.’

  ‘Rather not. It’s jolly to see the old studio again!’ In a cajoling voice, ‘I say, father, don’t fuss. Let us be our ordinary selves, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try, I’ll try. You didn’t say you had come to sit with me, Dick? Not with me!’

  ‘Rather!’

  ‘But your mother — —’

  ‘It’s you I want.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘We can only come to one, you see.’

  ‘Then why me?’

  ‘That’s the reason.’ He is evidently moving about, looking curiously at old acquaintances. ‘Hello, here’s your old jacket, greasier than ever!’

  ‘Me? But, Dick, it is as if you had forgotten. It was your mother who was everything to you. It can’t be you if you have forgotten that. I used to feel so out of it; but, of course, you didn’t know.’

  ‘I didn’t know it till lately, father; but heaps of things that I didn’t know once are clear to me now. I didn’t know that you were the one who would miss me most; but I know now.’

  Though the voice is as boyish as ever, there is a new note in it of which his father is aware. Dick may not have grown much wiser, but whatever he does know now he seems to know for certain.

  ‘Me miss you most? Dick, I try to paint just as before. I go to the club. Dick, I have been to a dinner-party. I said I wouldn’t give in.’

  ‘We like that.’

  ‘But, my boy — —’

  Mr. Don’s arms have gone out to him again. Dick evidently wriggles away from them. He speaks coaxingly.

  ‘I say, father, let’s get away from that sort of thing.’

  ‘That is so like you, Dick! I’ll do anything you ask.’

  ‘Then keep a bright face.’

  ‘I’ve tried to.’

  ‘Good man! I say, put on your old greasy; you are looking so beastly clean.’

  The old greasy is the jacket, and Mr. Don obediently gets into it.

  ‘Anything you like. No, that’s the wrong sleeve. Thanks, Dick.’

  They are in the ingle-nook now, and the mischievous boy catches his father by the shoulders.

  ‘Here, let me shove you into your old seat.’

  Mr. Don is propelled on to the settle.

  ‘How’s that, umpire!’

  ‘Dick,’ smiling, ‘that’s just how you used to butt me into it long ago!’

  Dick is probably standing with his back to the fire, chuckling.

  ‘When I was a kid.’

  ‘With the palette in my hand.’

  ‘Or sticking to your trousers.’

  ‘The mess we made of ourselves, Dick.’

  ‘I sneaked behind the settle and climbed up it.’

  ‘Till you fell off.’

  ‘On top of you and the palette.’

  It is good fun for a father and son; and the crafty boy has succeeded in making the father laugh. But soon,

  ‘Ah, Dick.’

  The son frowns. He is not going to stand any nonsense.

  ‘Now then, behave! What did I say about that face?’

  Mr. Don smiles at once, obediently.

  ‘That’s better. I’ll sit here.’

  We see from his father’s face which is smiling with difficulty that Dick has plopped into the big chair on the other side of the ingle-nook. His legs are probably dangling over one of its arms.

  Rather sharply, ‘Got your pipe?’

  ‘I don’t — I don’t seem to care to smoke nowadays, Dick.’

  ‘Rot! Just because I am dead! You that pretend to be plucky! I won’t have it, you know. You get your pipe, and look slippy about it.’

  ‘Yes, Dick,’ the old man says obediently. He fills his pipe from a jar on the mantelshelf. We may be sure that Dick is watching closely to see that he lights it properly.

  ‘Now, then, burn your thumb with the match — you always did, you know. That’s the style. You’ve forgotten to cock your head to the side. Not so bad. That’s you. Like it?’

  ‘It’s rather nice, Dick. Dick, you and me by the fire!’

  ‘Yes, but sit still. How often we might have been like this, father, and weren’t.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Face. How is Fido?’

  ‘Never a dog missed her master more.’

  ‘Oh,’ frowning. ‘She doesn’t want to go and sit on my grave, or any of that tosh, does she? As if I were there!’

  ‘No, no,’ hastily; ‘she goes ratting, Dick.’

  ‘Good old Fido!’

  ‘Dick, here’s a good one. We oughtn’t to keep a dog at all because we are on rations now; but what do you think Fido ate yesterday?’

  ‘Let me guess. The joint?’

  ‘Almost worse than that. She ate all the cook’s meat tickets.’

  They laugh, together, but when Dick says light-heartedly, ‘That dog will be the death of me.’ his father shivers. Dick does not notice this; his eyes have drawn him to the fishingrods.

  ‘Hullo!’

  ‘Yes, those are your old fishingrods.’

  ‘Here’s the little hickory! Do you remember, father, how I got the seven-pounder on a burn-trout cast? No, you weren’t there. That was a day. It was really only six and three-quarters. I put a stone in its mouth the second time we weighed it!’

  ‘You loved fishing, Dick.’

  ‘Didn’t I? Why weren’t you oftener with me? I’ll tell you a funny thing, When I went a soldiering I used to pray — just standing up, you know — that I shouldn’t lose my right arm, because it would be so awkward for casting.’ He cogitates as he returns to the ingle-nook. ‘Somehow I never thought I should be killed. Lots of fellows thought that about themselves, but I never did. It was quite a surprise to me.’

  ‘Oh, Dick!’

  ‘What’s the matter? Oh, I forgot. Face!’ He is apparently looking down at his father wonderingly. ‘Haven’t you got over it yet, father? I got over it so long ago. I wish you people would understand what a little thing it is.’

  ‘Tell me,’ very humbly; ‘tell me, Dick.’

  ‘All right.’ He is in the chair again.

  ‘Mind, I can’t tell you where I was killed; it’s against the regulations.’

  ‘I know where.’

  Curiously, ‘You got a wire, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s always a wire for officers, even for 2nd Lieutenants. It’s jolly decent of them.’

  ‘Tell me, Dick, about the — the veil. I mean the veil that is drawn between the living and the —— .’

  ‘The dead? Funny how you ji
b at that word.’

  ‘I suppose the veil is like a mist?’

  ‘The veil’s a rummy thing, father. Yes, like a mist. But when one has been at the Front for a bit, you can’t think how thin the veil seems to get; just one layer of it. I suppose it seems thin to you out there because one step takes you through it. We sometimes mix up those who have gone through with those who haven’t. I daresay if I were to go back to my old battalion the living chaps would just nod to me.’

  ‘Dick!’

  ‘Where’s that pipe? Death? Well, to me, before my day came, it was like some part of the line I had heard a lot about but never been in. I mean, never been in to stay, because, of course, one often popped in and out.’

  ‘Dick, the day that you — —’

  ‘My day? I don’t remember being hit, you know. I don’t remember anything till the quietness came. When you have been killed it suddenly becomes very quiet; quieter even than you have ever known it at home. Sunday used to be a pretty quiet day at my tutor’s, when Trotter and I flattened out on the first shady spot up the river; but it is quieter than that. I am not boring you, am I?’

  ‘My boy!’

  ‘When I came to, the veil was so thin that I couldn’t see it at all; and my first thought was, Which side of it have I come out on? The living ones lying on the ground were asking that about themselves, too. There we were, all sitting up and asking whether we were alive or dead; and some were one, and some were the other. Sort of fluke, you know.’

  ‘I — I — oh, Dick!’

  ‘As soon as each had found out about himself he wondered how it had gone with his chums, I halloo’d to Johnny Randall, and he halloo’d back that he was dead, but that Trotter was living. That’s the way of it. A good deal of chaff, of course. By that time the veil was there, and getting thicker, and we lined up on our right sides. Then I could only see the living ones in shadow and hear their voices from a distance. They sang out to us for a while; but just at first, father, it was rather lonely when we couldn’t hear their tread any longer. What are you fidgeting about? You needn’t worry; that didn’t last long; we were heaps more interested in ourselves than in them. You should have heard the gabbling! It was all so frightfully novel, you see; and no one quite knew what to do next, whether all to start off together, or wait for some one to come for us. I say, what a lot I’m talking!’

  ‘What happened, Dick?’

  ‘Oh!’ a proud ring coming into the voice, ‘Ockley came for us. He used to be alive, you know — the Ockley who was keeper of the fives in my first half. I once pointed him out to mother. I was jolly glad he was the one who came for us. As soon as I saw it was Ockley I knew we should be all right.’

  ‘Dick, I like that Ockley.’

  ‘Rather. I wish I could remember something funny to tell you though. There are lots of jokes, but I am such a one for forgetting them.’

  He laughs boisterously. We may be sure that he flings back his head. You remember how Dick used to fling back his head when he laughed? — No, you didn’t know him.

  ‘Father, do you remember little Wantage who was at my private and came on to Ridley’s house in my third half? His mother was the one you called Emily.’

  ‘Emily Wantage’s boy.’

  ‘That’s the card. We used to call him Jemima, because he and his mother were both caught crying when lock-up struck, and she had to clear out.’

  ‘She was very fond of him, Dick.’

  ‘Oh, I expect no end. Tell her he’s killed.’

  ‘She knows.’

  ‘She had got a wire. That isn’t the joke, though. You see he got into a hopeless muddle about which side of the veil he had come out on; and he went off with the other ones, and they wouldn’t have him, and he got lost in the veil, running up and down it, calling to us; and just for the lark we didn’t answer.’ He chuckles, ‘I expect he has become a ghost!’ With sudden consideration, ‘Best not tell his mother that.’

  Mr. Don rises, wincing, and Dick also is at once on his feet, full of compunction.

  ‘Was that shabby of me? Sorry, father. We are all pretty young, you know, and we can’t help having our fun still.’

  ‘I’m glad you still have your fun,’ the father says, once more putting his hands on Dick’s shoulders. ‘Let me look at you again, Dick. There is such a serenity about you now.’

  ‘Serenity, that’s the word! None of us could remember what the word was. It’s a ripping good thing to have. I should be awfully bucked if you would have it, too.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘I say, how my tongue runs on! But, after all, it was my show. Now, you tell me some things.’

  ‘What about, Dick? The war?’

  ‘No,’ almost in a shout. ‘We have a fine for speaking about the war. And you know, those fellows we were fighting — I forget who they were?’

  ‘The Germans.’

  ‘Oh yes. Some of them were on the same side of the veil with us, and they were rather decent; so we chummed up in the end and Ockley took us all away together. They were jolly lucky in getting Ockley. There I go again! Come on, it’s your turn. Has the bathroom tap been mended yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is — just tied up with that string still, Dick. It works all right.’

  ‘It only needs two screw-nails, you know.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Do you know whether any one at my tutors got his fives choice this half?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dick, but — —’

  ‘Or who is the captain of the boats?’

  ‘No, I — —’

  ‘Whatever have you been doing?’ He is moving about the room. ‘Hullo, here’s mother’s workbox! Is mother all right?’

  ‘Very sad about you, Dick.’

  ‘Oh, I say, that isn’t fair. Why doesn’t she cheer up?’

  ‘It isn’t so easy, my boy.’

  ‘It’s pretty hard lines on me, you know.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘If you are sad, I have to be sad. That’s how we have got to work it off. You can’t think how we want to be bright.’

  ‘I’ll always remember that, and I’ll tell your mother. Ah, but she won’t believe me, Dick; you will have to tell her yourself.’

  ‘I can’t do that, father. I can only come to one.’

  ‘She should have been the one; she loved you best, Dick.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Do you ever,’ with a slight hesitation, ‘see Laura now?’

  ‘She is staying with us at present.’

  ‘Is she? I think I should like to see her.’

  ‘If Laura were to see you — —’

  ‘Oh, she wouldn’t see me. She is not dressed in black, is she?’

  ‘No, in white.’

  ‘Good girl! I suppose mother is in black?’

  ‘Surely, Dick.’

  ‘It’s too bad, you know.’

  ‘You weren’t exactly — engaged to Laura, were you, Dick?’ A bold question from a father, but the circumstances were unusual. Apologetically, ‘I never rightly knew.’

  ‘No!’ Dick has flung back his head again. Confidentially, ‘Father, I sometimes thought of it, but it rather scared me! I expect that is about how it was with her, too.’

  ‘She is very broken about you now.’

  Irritated, ‘Oh, hang!’

  ‘Would you like her to forget you, Dick?’

  ‘Rather not. But she might help a fellow a bit. Hullo!’

  What calls forth this exclamation, is the little table at which the seance had taken place. The four chairs are still standing round it, as if they were guarding something.

  ‘Here’s something new, father; this table.’

  ‘Yes, It is usually in the drawingroom.’

  ‘Of course. I remember.’

  Mr. Don sets his teeth. ‘Does that table suggest anything to you, Dick?’

  ‘To me? Let me think. Yes, I used to play backgammon on it. What is it doing here?’

  ‘Your mother brought i
t in.’

  ‘To play games on? Mother!’

  ‘I don’t — know that it was a game, Dick.’

  ‘But to play anything! I’m precious glad she can do that. Was Laura playing with her?’

  ‘She was helping her.’

  ‘Good for Laura.’ He is looking at some slips of paper on the table. ‘Are those pieces of paper used in the game? There is writing on them: “The first letter is H — the second letter is A — the third letter is R.” What does it mean?’

  ‘Does it convey no meaning to you, Dick?’

  ‘To me? No; why should it?’

  Mr. Don is enjoying no triumph. ‘Let us go back to the fire, my boy.’

  Dick follows him into the ingle-nook. ‘But, why should it convey a meaning to me? I was never much of a hand at indoor games.’ Brightly, ‘I bet you Ockley would be good at it.’ After a joyous ramble, ‘Ockley’s nickname still sticks to him!’

  ‘I don’t think I know it.’

  ‘He was a frightful swell, you know. Keeper of the field, and played against Harrow the same year. I suppose it did go just a little to his head.’

  They are back in their old seats, and Mr. Don leans forward in gleeful anticipation. Probably Dick is leaning forward in the same way, and this old father is merely copying him.

  ‘What did you nickname him, Dick?’

  ‘It was his fags that did it!’

  ‘I should like to know it. I say, do tell me, Dick.’

  ‘He is pretty touchy about it now, you know.’

  ‘I won’t tell any one. Come on, Dick.’

  ‘His fags called him K.C.M.G.’

  ‘Meaning, meaning, Dick?’

  ‘Meaning “Kindly Call Me God!”’

  Mr. Don flings back his head; so we know what Dick is doing. They are a hilarious pair, perhaps too noisy, for suddenly Mr. Don looks at the door.

  ‘I think I heard some one, Dick!’

  ‘Perhaps it’s mother!’

  ‘She may,’ nervously, ‘have heard the row.’

  Dick’s eyes must be twinkling. ‘I say, father, you’ll catch it!’

  ‘I can’t believe, Dick,’ gazing wistfully into the chair, ‘that she won’t see you.’

  It is a sadder voice than his own for the moment that answers, ‘Only one may see me.’

  ‘You will speak to her, Dick. Let her hear your voice.’

  ‘Only one may hear me. I could make her the one; but it would mean your losing me.’