by J. M. Barrie
XXV. The Cricket Match
I think there has not been so much on a cricket match since the day whenSir Horace Mann walked about Broad Ha'penny agitatedly cutting down thedaisies with his stick. And, be it remembered, the heroes of Hambledonplayed for money and renown only, while David was champion of a lady. Alady! May we not prettily say of two ladies? There were no spectators ofour contest except now and again some loiterer in the Gardens who littlethought what was the stake for which we played, but cannot we conceiveBarbara standing at the ropes and agitatedly cutting down the daisiesevery time David missed the ball? I tell you, this was the historicmatch of the Gardens.
David wanted to play on a pitch near the Round Pond with which he isfamiliar, but this would have placed me at a disadvantage, so I insistedon unaccustomed ground, and we finally pitched stumps in the Figs. Wecould not exactly pitch stumps, for they are forbidden in the Gardens,but there are trees here and there which have chalk-marks on themthroughout the summer, and when you take up your position with a batnear one of these you have really pitched stumps. The tree we selectedis a ragged yew which consists of a broken trunk and one branch, andI viewed the ground with secret satisfaction, for it falls slightlyat about four yards' distance from the tree, and this exactly suits mystyle of bowling.
I won the toss and after examining the wicket decided to take firstknock. As a rule when we play the wit at first flows free, but on thisoccasion I strode to the crease in an almost eerie silence. David hadtaken off his blouse and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and his teeth wereset, so I knew he would begin by sending me down some fast ones.
His delivery is underarm and not inelegant, but he sometimes tries around-arm ball, which I have seen double up the fielder at square leg.He has not a good length, but he varies his action bewilderingly, andhas one especially teasing ball which falls from the branches just asyou have stepped out of your ground to look for it. It was not, however,with his teaser that he bowled me that day. I had notched a three andtwo singles, when he sent me down a medium to fast which got me in twominds and I played back to it too late. Now, I am seldom out on a reallygrassy wicket for such a meagre score, and as David and I changed placeswithout a word, there was a cheery look on his face that I found verygalling. He ran in to my second ball and cut it neatly to the on for asingle, and off my fifth and sixth he had two pretty drives for three,both behind the wicket. This, however, as I hoped, proved the undoing ofhim, for he now hit out confidently at everything, and with his score atnine I beat him with my shooter.
The look was now on my face.
I opened my second innings by treating him with uncommon respect, forI knew that his little arm soon tired if he was unsuccessful, and thenwhen he sent me loose ones I banged him to the railings. What cared Ithough David's lips were twitching.
When he ultimately got past my defence, with a jumpy one which brokeawkwardly from the off, I had fetched twenty-three so that he neededtwenty to win, a longer hand than he had ever yet made. As I gave himthe bat he looked brave, but something wet fell on my hand, and then asudden fear seized me lest David should not win.
At the very outset, however, he seemed to master the bowling, and soonfetched about ten runs in a classic manner. Then I tossed him a Yorkerwhich he missed and it went off at a tangent as soon as it had reachedthe tree. "Not out," I cried hastily, for the face he turned to me wasterrible.
Soon thereafter another incident happened, which I shall always recallwith pleasure. He had caught the ball too high on the bat, and I justmissed the catch. "Dash it all!" said I irritably, and was about toresume bowling, when I noticed that he was unhappy. He hesitated, tookup his position at the wicket, and then came to me manfully. "I am acad," he said in distress, "for when the ball was in the air I prayed."He had prayed that I should miss the catch, and as I think I havealready told you, it is considered unfair in the Gardens to pray forvictory.
My splendid David! He has the faults of other little boys, but he hasa noble sense of fairness. "We shall call it a no-ball, David," I saidgravely.
I suppose the suspense of the reader is now painful, and therefore Ishall say at once that David won the match with two lovely fours, theone over my head and the other to leg all along the ground. When I cameback from fielding this last ball I found him embracing his bat, andto my sour congratulations he could at first reply only with hystericalsounds. But soon he was pelting home to his mother with the gloriousnews.
And that is how we let Barbara in.
XXVI. The Dedication
It was only yesterday afternoon, dear reader, exactly three weeks afterthe birth of Barbara, that I finished the book, and even then it wasnot quite finished, for there remained the dedication, at which I setto elatedly. I think I have never enjoyed myself more; indeed, it is myopinion that I wrote the book as an excuse for writing the dedication.
"Madam" (I wrote wittily), "I have no desire to exult over you, yet Ishould show a lamentable obtuseness to the irony of things were I notto dedicate this little work to you. For its inception was yours, andin your more ambitious days you thought to write the tale of the littlewhite bird yourself. Why you so early deserted the nest is not for meto inquire. It now appears that you were otherwise occupied. In fine,madam, you chose the lower road, and contented yourself with obtainingthe Bird. May I point out, by presenting you with this dedication, thatin the meantime I am become the parent of the Book? To you the shadow,to me the substance. Trusting that you will accept my little offering ina Christian spirit, I am, dear madam," etc.
It was heady work, for the saucy words showed their design plainlythrough the varnish, and I was re-reading in an ecstasy, when, withoutwarning, the door burst open and a little boy entered, dragging in afaltering lady.
"Father," said David, "this is mother."
Having thus briefly introduced us, he turned his attention to theelectric light, and switched it on and off so rapidly that, as was veryfitting, Mary and I may be said to have met for the first time to theaccompaniment of flashes of lightning. I think she was arrayed in littleblue feathers, but if such a costume is not seemly, I swear there were,at least, little blue feathers in her too coquettish cap, and that shewas carrying a muff to match. No part of a woman is more dangerous thanher muff, and as muffs are not worn in early autumn, even by invalids, Isaw in a twink, that she had put on all her pretty things to wheedle me.I am also of opinion that she remembered she had worn blue in the dayswhen I watched her from the club-window. Undoubtedly Mary is an engaginglittle creature, though not my style. She was paler than is her wont,and had the touching look of one whom it would be easy to break. Idaresay this was a trick. Her skirts made music in my room, but perhapsthis was only because no lady had ever rustled in it before. It wasdisquieting to me to reflect that despite her obvious uneasiness, shewas a very artful woman.
With the quickness of David at the switch, I slipped a blotting-padover the dedication, and then, "Pray be seated," I said coldly, but sheremained standing, all in a twitter and very much afraid of me, and Iknow that her hands were pressed together within the muff. Had therebeen any dignified means of escape, I think we would both have taken it.
"I should not have come," she said nervously, and then seemed to waitfor some response, so I bowed.
"I was terrified to come, indeed I was," she assured me with obvioussincerity.
"But I have come," she finished rather baldly.
"It is an epitome, ma'am," said I, seeing my chance, "of your wholelife," and with that I put her into my elbow-chair.
She began to talk of my adventures with David in the Gardens, and ofsome little things I have not mentioned here, that I may have done forher when I was in a wayward mood, and her voice was as soft as her muff.She had also an affecting way of pronouncing all her r's as w's, just asthe fairies do. "And so," she said, "as you would not come to me to bethanked, I have come to you to thank you." Whereupon she thanked me mostabominably. She also slid one of her hands out of the muff, and thoughshe was smiling her eyes were
wet.
"Pooh, ma'am," said I in desperation, but I did not take her hand.
"I am not very strong yet," she said with low cunning. She said this tomake me take her hand, so I took it, and perhaps I patted it a little.Then I walked brusquely to the window. The truth is, I begun to thinkuncomfortably of the dedication.
I went to the window because, undoubtedly, it would be easier to addressher severely from behind, and I wanted to say something that would stingher.
"When you have quite done, ma'am," I said, after a long pause, "perhapsyou will allow me to say a word."
I could see the back of her head only, but I knew, from David's face,that she had given him a quick look which did not imply that she wasstung. Indeed I felt now, as I had felt before, that though shewas agitated and in some fear of me, she was also enjoying herselfconsiderably.
In such circumstances I might as well have tried to sting a sand-bank,so I said, rather off my watch, "If I have done all this for you, whydid I do it?"
She made no answer in words, but seemed to grow taller in the chair, sothat I could see her shoulders, and I knew from this that she was nowholding herself conceitedly and trying to look modest. "Not a bit of it,ma'am," said I sharply, "that was not the reason at all."
I was pleased to see her whisk round, rather indignant at last.
"I never said it was," she retorted with spirit, "I never thought fora moment that it was." She added, a trifle too late in the story,"Besides, I don't know what you are talking of."
I think I must have smiled here, for she turned from me quickly, andbecame quite little in the chair again.
"David," said I mercilessly, "did you ever see your mother blush?"
"What is blush?"
"She goes a beautiful pink colour."
David, who had by this time broken my connection with the head office,crossed to his mother expectantly.
"I don't, David," she cried.
"I think," said I, "she will do it now," and with the instinct of agentleman I looked away. Thus I cannot tell what happened, but presentlyDavid exclaimed admiringly, "Oh, mother, do it again!"
As she would not, he stood on the fender to see in the mantel-glasswhether he could do it himself, and then Mary turned a most candid faceon me, in which was maternity rather than reproach. Perhaps no lookgiven by woman to man affects him quite so much. "You see," she saidradiantly and with a gesture that disclosed herself to me, "I canforgive even that. You long ago earned the right to hurt me if you wantto."
It weaned me of all further desire to rail at Mary, and I felt anuncommon drawing to her.
"And if I did think that for a little while--," she went on, with anunsteady smile.
"Think what?" I asked, but without the necessary snap.
"What we were talking of," she replied wincing, but forgiving me again."If I once thought that, it was pretty to me while it lasted and itlasted but a little time. I have long been sure that your kindness to mewas due to some other reason."
"Ma'am," said I very honestly, "I know not what was the reason. Myconcern for you was in the beginning a very fragile and even a selfishthing, yet not altogether selfish, for I think that what first stirredit was the joyous sway of the little nursery governess as she walkeddown Pall Mall to meet her lover. It seemed such a mighty fine thing toyou to be loved that I thought you had better continue to be loved for alittle longer. And perhaps having helped you once by dropping a letterI was charmed by the ease with which you could be helped, for you mustknow that I am one who has chosen the easy way for more than twentyyears."
She shook her head and smiled. "On my soul," I assured her, "I can thinkof no other reason."
"A kind heart," said she.
"More likely a whim," said I.
"Or another woman," said she.
I was very much taken aback.
"More than twenty years ago," she said with a soft huskiness in hervoice, and a tremor and a sweetness, as if she did not know that intwenty years all love stories are grown mouldy.
On my honour as a soldier this explanation of my early solicitude forMary was one that had never struck me, but the more I pondered it now--.I raised her hand and touched it with my lips, as we whimsical oldfellows do when some gracious girl makes us to hear the key in the lockof long ago. "Why, ma'am," I said, "it is a pretty notion, and there maybe something in it. Let us leave it at that."
But there was still that accursed dedication, lying, you remember,beneath the blotting-pad. I had no longer any desire to crush her withit. I wished that she had succeeded in writing the book on which herlongings had been so set.
"If only you had been less ambitious," I said, much troubled that sheshould be disappointed in her heart's desire.
"I wanted all the dear delicious things," she admitted contritely.
"It was unreasonable," I said eagerly, appealing to her intellect."Especially this last thing."
"Yes," she agreed frankly, "I know." And then to my amazement she addedtriumphantly, "But I got it."
I suppose my look admonished her, for she continued apologetically butstill as if she really thought hers had been a romantic career, "I knowI have not deserved it, but I got it."
"Oh, ma'am," I cried reproachfully, "reflect. You have not got the greatthing." I saw her counting the great things in her mind, her wondroushusband and his obscure success, David, Barbara, and the other triflingcontents of her jewel-box.
"I think I have," said she.
"Come, madam," I cried a little nettled, "you know that there is lackingthe one thing you craved for most of all."
Will you believe me that I had to tell her what it was? And when I hadtold her she exclaimed with extraordinary callousness, "The book? Ihad forgotten all about the book!" And then after reflection she added,"Pooh!" Had she not added Pooh I might have spared her, but as it wasI raised the blotting-pad rather haughtily and presented her with thesheet beneath it.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Ma'am," said I, swelling, "it is a Dedication," and I walkedmajestically to the window.
There is no doubt that presently I heard an unexpected sound. Yet ifindeed it had been a laugh she clipped it short, for in almost thesame moment she was looking large-eyed at me and tapping my sleeveimpulsively with her fingers, just as David does when he suddenly likesyou.
"How characteristic of you," she said at the window.
"Characteristic," I echoed uneasily. "Ha!"
"And how kind."
"Did you say kind, ma'am?"
"But it is I who have the substance and you who have the shadow, as youknow very well," said she.
Yes, I had always known that this was the one flaw in my dedication,but how could I have expected her to have the wit to see it? I was verydepressed.
"And there is another mistake," said she.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but that is the only one."
"It was never of my little white bird I wanted to write," she said.
I looked politely incredulous, and then indeed she overwhelmed me. "Itwas of your little white bird," she said, "it was of a little boy whosename was Timothy."
She had a very pretty way of saying Timothy, so David and I went intoanother room to leave her alone with the manuscript of this poor littlebook, and when we returned she had the greatest surprise of the day forme. She was both laughing and crying, which was no surprise, for all ofus would laugh and cry over a book about such an interesting subjectas ourselves, but said she, "How wrong you are in thinking this book isabout me and mine, it is really all about Timothy."
At first I deemed this to be uncommon nonsense, but as I considered Isaw that she was probably right again, and I gazed crestfallen at thisvery clever woman.
"And so," said she, clapping her hands after the manner of David when hemakes a great discovery, "it proves to be my book after all."
"With all your pretty thoughts left out," I answered, properly humbled.
She spoke in a lower voice as if David must not hear. "I had onlyone pre
tty thought for the book," she said, "I was to give it a happyending." She said this so timidly that I was about to melt to her whenshe added with extraordinary boldness, "The little white bird was tobear an olive-leaf in its mouth."
For a long time she talked to me earnestly of a grand scheme on whichshe had set her heart, and ever and anon she tapped on me as if to getadmittance for her ideas. I listened respectfully, smiling at this youngthing for carrying it so motherly to me, and in the end I had to remindher that I was forty-seven years of age.
"It is quite young for a man," she said brazenly.
"My father," said I, "was not forty-seven when he died, and I rememberthinking him an old man."
"But you don't think so now, do you?" she persisted, "you feel youngoccasionally, don't you? Sometimes when you are playing with David inthe Gardens your youth comes swinging back, does it not?"
"Mary A----," I cried, grown afraid of the woman, "I forbid you to makeany more discoveries to-day."
But still she hugged her scheme, which I doubt not was what had broughther to my rooms. "They are very dear women," said she coaxingly.
"I am sure," I said, "they must be dear women if they are friends ofyours."
"They are not exactly young," she faltered, "and perhaps they are notvery pretty--"
But she had been reading so recently about the darling of my youth thatshe halted abashed at last, feeling, I apprehend, a stop in her mindagainst proposing this thing to me, who, in those presumptuous days, hadthought to be content with nothing less than the loveliest lady in allthe land.
My thoughts had reverted also, and for the last time my eyes saw thelittle hut through the pine wood haze. I met Mary there, and we cameback to the present together.
I have already told you, reader, that this conversation took place nolonger ago than yesterday.
"Very well, ma'am," I said, trying to put a brave face on it, "I willcome to your tea-parties, and we shall see what we shall see."
It was really all she had asked for, but now that she had got what shewanted of me the foolish soul's eyes became wet, she knew so well thatthe youthful romances are the best.
It was now my turn to comfort her. "In twenty years," I said, smilingat her tears, "a man grows humble, Mary. I have stored within me a greatfund of affection, with nobody to give it to, and I swear to you, on theword of a soldier, that if there is one of those ladies who can be gotto care for me I shall be very proud." Despite her semblance of delightI knew that she was wondering at me, and I wondered at myself, but itwas true.