Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  And at first it really seemed as if Tommy had found a way. They did not go to the Den four in a line or two abreast — nothing so common as that. In the wild spirits that mastered him he seemed to be the boy incarnate, and it was always said of Tommy by those who knew him best that if he leaped back into boyhood they had to jump with him. Those who knew him best were with him now. He took command of them in the old way. He whispered, as if Black Cathro were still on the prowl for him. Corp of Corp had to steal upon the Den by way of the Silent Pool, Grizel by the Queen’s Bower, Elspeth up the burnside, Captain Stroke down the Reekie Brothpot. Grizel’s arms rocked with delight in the dark, and she was on her way to the Cuttle Well, the trysting-place, before she came to and saw with consternation that Tommy had been ordering her about.

  She was quite a sedate young lady by the time she joined them at the well, and Tommy was the first to feel the change. “Don’t you think this is all rather silly?” she said, when he addressed her as the Lady Griselda, and it broke the spell. Two girls shot up into women, a beard grew on Tommy’s chin, and Corp became a father. Grizel had blown Tommy’s pretty project to dust just when he was most gleeful over it; yet, instead of bearing resentment, he pretended not even to know that she was the culprit.

  “Corp,” he said ruefully, “the game is up!” And “Listen,” he said, when they had sat down, crushed, by the old Cuttle Well, “do you hear anything?”

  It was a very still evening. “I hear nocht,” said Corp, “but the trickle o’ the burn. What did you hear?”

  “I thought I heard a baby cry,” replied Tommy, with a groan. “I think it was your baby, Corp. Did you hear it, Grizel?”

  She understood, and nodded.

  “And you, Elspeth?”

  “Yes.”

  “My bairn!” cried the astounded Corp.

  “Yours,” said Tommy, reproachfully; “and he has done for us. Ladies and gentlemen, the game is up.”

  Yes, the game was up, and she was glad, Grizel said to herself, as they made their melancholy pilgrimage of what had once been an enchanted land. But she felt that Tommy had been very forbearing to her, and that she did not deserve it. Undoubtedly he had ordered her about, but in so doing had he not been making half-pathetic sport of his old self — and was it with him that she was annoyed for ordering, or with herself for obeying? And why should she not obey, when it was all a jest? It was as if she still had some lingering fear of Tommy. Oh, she was ashamed of herself. She must say something nice to him at once. About what? About his book, of course. How base of her not to have done so already! but how good of him to have overlooked her silence on that great topic!

  It was not ignorance of its contents that had kept her silent. To confess the horrid truth, Grizel had read the book suspiciously, looking as through a microscope for something wrong — hoping not to find it, but peering minutely. The book, she knew, was beautiful; but it was the writer of the book she was peering for — the Tommy she had known so well, what had he grown into? In her heart she had exulted from the first in his success, and she should have been still more glad (should she not?) to learn that his subject was woman; but no, that had irritated her. What was perhaps even worse, she had been still more irritated on hearing that the work was rich in sublime thoughts. As a boy, he had maddened her most in his grandest moments. I can think of no other excuse for her.

  She would not accept it as an excuse for herself now. What she saw with scorn was that she was always suspecting the worst of Tommy. Very probably there was not a thought in the book that had been put in with his old complacent waggle of the head. “Oh, am I not a wonder!” he used to cry, when he did anything big; but that was no reason why she should suspect him of being conceited still. Very probably he really and truly felt what he wrote — felt it not only at the time, but also next morning. In his boyhood Mr. Cathro had christened him Sentimental Tommy; but he was a man now, and surely the sentimentalities in which he had dressed himself were flung aside for ever, like old suits of clothes. So Grizel decided eagerly, and she was on the point of telling him how proud she was of his book, when Tommy, who had thus far behaved so well, of a sudden went to pieces.

  He and Grizel were together. Elspeth was a little in front of them, walking with a gentleman who still wondered what they meant by saying that they had heard his baby cry. “For he’s no here,” Corp had said earnestly to them all; “though I’m awid for the time to come when I’ll be able to bring him to the Den and let him see the Jacobites’ Lair.”

  There was nothing startling in this remark, so far as Grizel could discover; but she saw that it had an immediate and incomprehensible effect on Tommy. First, he blundered in his talk as if he was thinking deeply of something else; then his face shone as it had been wont to light up in his boyhood when he was suddenly enraptured with himself; and lastly, down his cheek and into his beard there stole a tear of agony. Obviously, Tommy was in deep woe for somebody or something.

  It was a chance for a true lady to show that womanly sympathy of which such exquisite things are said in the first work of T. Sandys: but it merely infuriated Grizel, who knew that Tommy did not feel nearly so deeply as she this return to the Den, and, therefore, what was he in such distress about? It was silly sentiment of some sort, she was sure of that. In the old days she would have asked him imperiously to tell her what was the matter with him; but she must not do that now — she dare not even rock her indignant arms; she could only walk silently by his side, longing fervently to shake him.

  He had quite forgotten her presence; indeed, she was not really there, for a number of years had passed, and he was Corp Shiach, walking the Den alone. Tomorrow he was to bring his boy to show him the old Lair and other fondly remembered spots; tonight he must revisit them alone. So he set out blithely, but, to his bewilderment, he could not find the Lair. It had not been a tiny hollow where muddy water gathered; he remembered an impregnable fortress full of men whose armour rattled as they came and went; so this could not be the Lair. He had taken the wrong way to it, for the way was across a lagoon, up a deep-flowing river, then by horse till the rocky ledge terrified all four-footed things; no, up a grassy slope had never been the way. He came night after night, trying different ways; but he could not find the golden ladder, though all the time he knew that the Lair lay somewhere over there. When he stood still and listened he could hear the friends of his youth at play, and they seemed to be calling: “Are you coming, Corp? Why does not Corp come back?” but he could never see them, and when he pressed forward their voices died away. Then at last he said sadly to his boy: “I shall never be able to show you the Lair, for I cannot find the way to it.” And the boy was touched, and he said: “Take my hand, father, and I will lead you to the Lair; I found the way long ago for myself.”

  It took Tommy about two seconds to see all this, and perhaps another half-minute was spent in sad but satisfactory contemplation of it. Then he felt that, for the best effect, Corp’s home life was too comfortable; so Gavinia ran away with a soldier. He was now so sorry for Corp that the tear rolled down. But at the same moment he saw how the effect could be still further heightened by doing away with his friend’s rude state of health, and he immediately jammed him between the buffers of two railway carriages, and gave him a wooden leg. It was at this point that a lady who had kept her arms still too long rocked them frantically, then said, with cutting satire: “Are you not feeling well, or have you hurt yourself? You seem to be very lame.” And Tommy woke with a start, to see that he was hobbling as if one of his legs were timber to the knee.

  “It is nothing,” he said modestly. “Something Corp said set me thinking; that is all.”

  He had told the truth, and if what he imagined was twenty times more real to him than what was really there, how could Tommy help it? Indignant Grizel, however, who kept such a grip of facts, would make no such excuse for him.

  “Elspeth!” she called.

  “There is no need to tell her,” said Tommy. But Grizel was obdurat
e.

  “Come here, Elspeth,” she cried vindictively. “Something Corp said a moment ago has made your brother lame.”

  Tommy was lame; that was all Elspeth and Corp heard or could think of as they ran back to him. When did it happen? Was he in great pain? Had he fallen? Oh, why had he not told Elspeth at once?

  “It is nothing,” Tommy insisted, a little fiercely.

  “He says so,” Grizel explained, “not to alarm us. But he is suffering horribly. Just before I called to you his face was all drawn up in pain.”

  This made the sufferer wince. “That was another twinge,” she said promptly. “What is to be done, Elspeth?”

  “I think I could carry him,” suggested Corp, with a forward movement that made Tommy stamp his foot — the wooden one.

  “I am all right,” he told them testily, and looking uneasily at Grizel.

  “How brave of you to say so!” said she.

  “It is just like him,” Elspeth said, pleased with Grizel’s remark.

  “I am sure it is,” Grizel said, so graciously.

  It was very naughty of her. Had she given him a chance he would have explained that it was all a mistake of Grizel’s. That had been his intention; but now a devil entered into Tommy and spoke for him.

  “I must have slipped and sprained my ankle,” he said. “It is slightly painful; but I shall be able to walk home all right, Corp, if you let me use you as a staff.”

  I think he was a little surprised to hear himself saying this; but, as soon as it was said, he liked it. He was Captain Stroke playing in the Den again, after all, and playing as well as ever. Nothing being so real to Tommy as pretence, I daresay he even began to feel his ankle hurting him. “Gently,” he begged of Corp, with a gallant smile, and clenching his teeth so that the pain should not make him cry out before the ladies. Thus, with his lieutenant’s help, did Stroke manage to reach Aaron’s house, making light of his mishap, assuring them cheerily that he should be all right tomorrow, and carefully avoiding Grizel’s eye, though he wanted very much to know what she thought of him (and of herself) now.

  There were moments when she did not know what to think, and that always distressed Grizel, though it was a state of mind with which Tommy could keep on very friendly terms. The truth seemed too monstrous for belief. Was it possible she had misjudged him? Perhaps he really had sprained his ankle. But he had made no pretence of that at first, and besides, — yes, she could not be mistaken, — it was the other leg.

  She soon let him see what she was thinking. “I am afraid it is too serious a case for me,” she said, in answer to a suggestion from Corp, who had a profound faith in her medical skill, “but, if you like,” — she was addressing Tommy now,—”I shall call at Dr. Gemmell’s, on my way home, and ask him to come to you.”

  “There is no necessity; a night’s rest is all I need,” he answered hastily.

  “Well, you know best,” she said, and there was a look on her face which Thomas Sandys could endure from no woman. “On second thoughts,” he said, “I think it would be advisable to have a doctor. Thank you very much, Grizel. Corp, can you help me to lift my foot on to that chair? Softly — ah! — ugh!”

  His eyes did not fall before hers. “And would you mind asking him to come at once, Grizel?” he said sweetly. She went straight to the doctor.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VII

  THE BEGINNING OF THE DUEL

  It was among old Dr. McQueen’s sayings that when he met a man who was certified to be in no way remarkable he wanted to give three cheers. There are few of them, even in a little place like Thrums; but David Gemmell was one.

  So McQueen had always said, but Grizel was not so sure. “He is very good-looking, and he does not know it,” she would point out. “Oh, what a remarkable man!”

  She had known him intimately for nearly six years now, ever since he became the old doctor’s assistant on the day when, in the tail of some others, he came to Thrums, aged twenty-one, to apply for the post. Grizel had even helped to choose him; she had a quaint recollection of his being submitted to her by McQueen, who told her to look him over and say whether he would do — an odd position in which to place a fourteen-year-old girl, but Grizel had taken it most seriously, and, indeed, of the two men only Gemmell dared to laugh.

  “You should not laugh when it is so important,” she said gravely; and he stood abashed, although I believe he chuckled again when he retired to his room for the night. She was in that room next morning as soon as he had left it, to smell the curtains (he smoked), and see whether he folded his things up neatly and used both the brush and the comb, but did not use pomade, and slept with his window open, and really took a bath instead of merely pouring the water into it and laying the sponge on top (oh, she knew them!) — and her decision, after some days, was that, though far from perfect, he would do, if he loved her dear darling doctor sufficiently. By this time David was openly afraid of her, which Grizel noticed, and took to be, in the circumstances, a satisfactory sign.

  She watched him narrowly for the next year, and after that she ceased to watch him at all. She was like a congregation become so sure of its minister’s soundness that it can risk going to sleep. To begin with, he was quite incapable of pretending to be anything he was not. Oh, how unlike a boy she had once known! His manner, like his voice, was quiet. Being himself the son of a doctor, he did not dodder through life amazed at the splendid eminence he had climbed to, which is the weakness of Scottish students when they graduate, and often for fifty years afterwards. How sweet he was to Dr. McQueen, never forgetting the respect due to gray hairs, never hinting that the new school of medicine knew many things that were hidden from the old, and always having the sense to support McQueen when she was scolding him for his numerous naughty ways. When the old doctor came home now on cold nights it was not with his cravat in his pocket, and Grizel knew very well who had put it round his neck. McQueen never had the humiliation, so distressing to an old doctor, of being asked by patients to send his assistant instead of coming himself. He thought they preferred him, and twitted David about it; but Grizel knew that David had sometimes to order them to prefer the old man. She knew that when he said goodnight and was supposed to have gone to his lodgings, he was probably off to some poor house where, if not he, a tired woman must sit the long night through by a sufferer’s bedside, and she realized with joy that his chief reason for not speaking of such things was that he took them as part of his natural work and never even knew that he was kind. He was not specially skilful, he had taken no honours either at school or college, and he considered himself to be a very ordinary young man. If you had said that on this point you disagreed with him, his manner probably would have implied that he thought you a bit of an ass.

  When a new man arrives in Thrums, the women come to their doors to see whether he is good-looking. They said No of Tommy when he came back, but it had been an emphatic Yes for Dr. Gemmell. He was tall and very slight, and at twenty-seven, as at twenty-one, despite the growth of a heavy moustache, there was a boyishness about his appearance, which is, I think, what women love in a man more than anything else. They are drawn to him by it, and they love him out of pity when it goes. I suppose it brings back to them some early, beautiful stage in the world’s history when men and women played together without fear. Perhaps it lay in his smile, which was so winning that wrinkled old dames spoke of it, who had never met the word before, smiles being little known in Thrums, where in a workaday world we find it sufficient either to laugh or to look thrawn. His dark curly hair was what Grizel was most suspicious of; he must be vain of that, she thought, until she discovered that he was quite sensitive to its being mentioned, having ever detested his curls as an eyesore, and in his boyhood clipped them savagely to the roots. He had such a firm chin, if there had been another such chin going a-begging, I should have liked to clap it on to Tommy Sandys.

  Tommy Sandys! All this time we have been neglecting that brave sufferer, and while we talk his ankle is
swelling and swelling. Well, Grizel was not so inconsiderate, for she walked very fast and with an exceedingly determined mouth to Dr. Gemmell’s lodgings. He was still in lodgings, having refused to turn Grizel out of her house, though she had offered to let it to him. She left word, the doctor not being in, that he was wanted at once by Mr. Sandys, who had sprained his ankle.

  Now, then, Tommy!

  For an hour, perhaps until she went to bed, she remained merciless. She saw the quiet doctor with the penetrating eyes examining that ankle, asking a few questions, and looking curiously at his patient; then she saw him lift his hat and walk out of the house.

  It gave her pleasure; no, it did not. While she thought of this Tommy she despised, there came in front of him a boy who had played with her long ago when no other child would play with her, and now he said, “You have grown cold to me, Grizel,” and she nodded assent, and little wells of water rose to her eyes and lay there because she had nodded assent.

  She had never liked Dr. Gemmell so little as when she saw him approaching her house next morning. The surgery was still attached to it, and very often he came from there, his visiting-book in his hand, to tell her of his patients, even to consult her; indeed, to talk to Grizel about his work without consulting her would have been difficult, for it was natural to her to decide what was best for everybody. These consultations were very unprofessional, but from her first coming to the old doctor’s house she had taken it as a matter of course that in his practice, as in affairs relating to his boots and buttons, she should tell him what to do and he should do it. McQueen had introduced his assistant to this partnership half-shamefacedly and with a cautious wink over the little girl’s head; and Gemmell fell into line at once, showing her his new stethoscope as gravely as if he must abandon it at once should not she approve, which fine behaviour, however, was quite thrown away on Grizel, who, had he conducted himself otherwise, would merely have wondered what was the matter with the man; and as she was eighteen or more before she saw that she had exceeded her duties, it was then, of course, too late to cease doing it.