Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “Tease him! The consideration I show that poor old man, Grizel, while I know all the time that he is plotting to diddle me! You should see me when it is he who is fidgeting to know why the piano has stopped. He stretches his head to listen, and does something to his ear that sends it another inch nearer the door; he chuckles and groans on the sly; and I — I notice nothing. Oh, he is becoming quite fond of me; he thinks me an idiot.”

  “Why not tell him that you want it as much as he?”

  “He would not believe me. Aaron is firmly convinced that I am too jealous of Elspeth’s affection to give away a thimbleful of it. He blames me for preventing her caring much even for him.”

  “At any rate,” said Grizel, “he is on our side, and it is because he sees it would be so much the best thing for her.”

  “And, at the same time, such a shock to me. That poor old man, Grizel! I have seen him rubbing his hands together with glee and looking quite leery as he thought of what was coming to me.”

  But Grizel could not laugh now. When Tommy saw so well through Aaron and David, through everyone he came in contact with, indeed, what hope could there be that he was deceived in Elspeth?

  “And yet she knows what takes him there; she must know it!” she cried.

  “A woman,” Tommy said, “is never sure that a man is in love with her until he proposes. She may fancy — but it is never safe to fancy, as so many have discovered.”

  “She has no right,” declared Grizel, “to wait until she is sure, if she does not care for him. If she fears that he is falling in love with her, she knows how to discourage him; there are surely a hundred easy, kind ways of doing that.”

  “Fears he is falling in love with her!” Tommy repeated. “Is any woman ever afraid of that?”

  He really bewildered her. “No woman would like it,” Grizel answered promptly for them all, because she would not have liked it. “She must see that it would result only in pain to him.”

  “Still — —” said Tommy.

  “Oh, but how dense you are!” she said, in surprise. “Don’t you understand that she would stop him, though it were for no better reasons than selfish ones? Consider her shame if, in thinking it over afterwards, she saw that she might have stopped him sooner! Why,” she cried, with a sudden smile, “it is in your book! You say: ‘Every maiden carries secretly in her heart an idea of love so pure and sacred that, if by any act she is once false to that conception, her punishment is that she never dares to look at it again.’ And this is one of the acts you mean.”

  “I had not thought of it, though,” he said humbly. He was never prouder of Grizel than at that moment. “If Elspeth’s outlook,” he went on, “is different — —”

  “It can’t be different.”

  “If it is, the fault is mine; yes, though I wrote the passage that you interpret so nobly, Grizel. Shall I tell you,” he said gently, “what I believe is Elspeth’s outlook exactly, just now? She knows that the doctor is attracted by her, and it gives her little thrills of exultation; but that it can be love — she puts that question in such a low voice, as if to prevent herself hearing it. And yet she listens, Grizel, like one who would like to know! Elspeth is pitifully distrustful of anyone’s really loving her, and she will never admit to herself that he does until he tells her.”

  “And then?”

  Tommy had to droop his head.

  “I see you have still no hope!” she said.

  “It would be so easy to pretend I have,” he replied, with longing, “in order to cheer you for the moment. Oh, it would even be easy to me to deceive myself; but should I do it?”

  “No, no,” she said; “anything but that; I can bear anything but that,” and she shuddered. “But we seem to be treating David cruelly.”

  “I don’t think so,” he assured her. “Men like to have these things to look back to. But, if you want it, Grizel, I have to say only a word to Elspeth to bring it to an end. She is as tender as she is innocent, and — but it would be a hard task to me,” he admitted, his heart suddenly going out to Elspeth; he had never deprived her of any gratification before. “Still, I am willing to do it.”

  “No!” Grizel cried, restraining him with her hand. “I am a coward, I suppose, but I can’t help wanting to hope for a little longer, and David won’t grudge it to me.”

  It was but a very little longer that they had to wait. Tommy, returning home one day from a walk with his old school-friend, Gav Dishart (now M.A.), found Aaron suspiciously near the parlour keyhole.

  “There’s a better fire in the other end,” Aaron said, luring him into the kitchen. So desirous was he of keeping Tommy there, fixed down on a stool, that “I’ll play you at the dambrod,” he said briskly.

  “Anyone with Elspeth?”

  “Some womenfolk you dinna like,” replied Aaron.

  Tommy rose. Aaron, with a subdued snarl, got between him and the door.

  “I was wondering, merely,” Tommy said, pointing pleasantly to something on the dresser, “why one of them wore the doctor’s hat.”

  “I forgot; he’s there, too,” Aaron said promptly; but he looked at Tommy with misgivings. They sat down to their game.

  “You begin,” said Tommy; “you’re black.” And Aaron opened with the Double Corner; but so preoccupied was he that it became a variation of the Ayrshire lassie, without his knowing. His suspicions had to find vent in words: “You dinna speir wha the womenfolk are?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think I’m just pretending they’re there?” Aaron asked apprehensively.

  “Not at all,” said Tommy, with much politeness, “but I thought you might be mistaken.” He could have “blown” Aaron immediately thereafter, but, with great consideration, forbore. The old man was so troubled that he could not lift a king without its falling in two. His sleeve got in the way of his fingers. At last he sat back in his chair. “Do you ken what is going on, man?” he demanded, “or do you no ken? I can stand this doubt no longer.”

  A less soft-hearted person might have affected not to understand, but that was not Tommy’s way. “I know, Aaron,” he admitted. “I have known all the time.” It was said in the kindliest manner, but its effect on Aaron was not soothing.

  “Curse you!” he cried, with extraordinary vehemence, “you have been playing wi’ me a’ the time, ay, and wi’ him and wi’ her!”

  What had Aaron been doing with Tommy? But Tommy did not ask that.

  “I am sorry you think so badly of me,” he said quietly. “I have known all the time, Aaron, but have I interfered?”

  “Because you ken she winna take him. I see it plain enough now. You ken your power over her; the honest man that thinks he could take her frae you is to you but a divert.”

  He took a step nearer Tommy. “Listen,” he said. “When you came back he was on the point o’ speiring her; I saw it in his face as she was playing the piano, and she saw it, too, for her hands began to trem’le and the tune wouldna play. I daursay you think I was keeking, but if I was I stoppit it when the piano stoppit; it was a hard thing to me to do, and it would hae been an easy thing no to do, but I wouldna spy upon Elspeth in her great hour.”

  “I like you for that, Aaron,” Tommy said; but Aaron waved his likes aside.

  “The reason I stood at the door,” he continued, “was to keep you out o’ that room. I offered to play you at the dambrod to keep you out. Ay, you ken that without my telling you, but do you ken what makes me tell you now? It’s to see whether you’ll go in and stop him; let’s see you do that, and I’ll hae some hope yet.” He waited eagerly.

  “You do puzzle me now,” Tommy said.

  “Ay,” replied the old man, bitterly, “you’re dull in the uptak’ when you like! I dinna ken, I suppose, and you dinna ken, that if you had the least dread o’ her taking him you would be into that room full bend to stop it; but you’re so sure o’ her, you’re so michty sure, that you can sit here and lauch instead.”

  “Am I laughing, Aaron? If you but
knew, Elspeth’s marriage would be a far more joyful thing to me than it could ever be to you.”

  The old warper laughed unpleasantly at that. “And I’se uphaud,” he said, “you’re none sure but what shell tak’ him! You’re no as sure she’ll refuse him as that there’s a sun in the heavens, and I’m a broken man.”

  For a moment sympathy nigh compelled Tommy to say a hopeful thing, but he mastered himself. “It would be weakness,” was what he did say, “to pretend that there is any hope.”

  Aaron gave him an ugly look, and was about to leave the house; but Tommy would not have it. “If one of us must go, Aaron,” he said, with much gentleness, “let it be me”; and he went out, passing the parlour door softly, so that he might not disturb poor David. The warper sat on by the fire, his head sunk miserably in his shoulders. The vehemence had passed out of him; you would have hesitated to believe that such a listless, shrunken man could have been vehement that same year. It is a hardy proof of his faith in Tommy that he did not even think it worth while to look up when, by and by, the parlour door opened and the doctor came in for his hat. Elspeth was with him.

  They told Aaron something.

  They told Aaron something.

  It lifted him off his feet and bore him out at the door. When he made up on himself he knew he was searching everywhere for Tommy. A terror seized him, lest he should not be the first to convey the news.

  Had he been left a fortune? neighbours asked, amazed at this unwonted sight; and he replied, as he ran, “I have, and I want to share it wi’ him!”

  It was his only joke. People came to their doors to see Aaron Latta laughing.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXII

  GRIZEL’S GLORIOUS HOUR

  Elspeth was to be his wife! David had carried the wondrous promise straight to Grizel, and now he was gone and she was alone again.

  Oh, foolish Grizel, are you crying, and I thought it was so hard to you to cry!

  “Me crying! Oh, no!”

  Put your hand to your cheeks, Grizel. Are they not wet?

  “They are wet, and I did not know it! It is hard to me to cry in sorrow, but I can cry for joy. I am crying because it has all come right, and I was so much afraid that it never would.”

  Ah, Grizel, I think you said you wanted nothing else so long as you had his love!

  “But God has let it all come right, just the same, and I am thanking Him. That is why I did not know that I was crying.”

  She was by the fireplace, on the stool that had always been her favourite seat, and of course she sat very straight. When Grizel walked or stood her strong, round figure took a hundred beautiful poses, but when she sat it had but one. The old doctor, in experimenting moods, had sometimes compelled her to recline, and then watched to see her body spring erect the moment he released his hold. “What a dreadful patient I should make!” she said contritely. “I would chloroform you, miss,” said he.

  She sat thus for a long time; she had so much for which to thank God, though not with her lips, for how could they keep pace with her heart? Her heart was very full; chiefly, I think, with the tears that rolled down unknown to her.

  She thanked God, in the name of the little hunted girl who had not been taught how to pray, and so did it standing. “I do so want to be good; oh, how sweet it would be to be good!” she had said in that long ago. She had said it out loud when she was alone on the chance of His hearing, but she had not addressed Him by name because she was not sure that he was really called God. She had not even known that you should end by saying “Amen,” which Tommy afterwards told her is the most solemn part of it.

  How sweet it would be to be good, but how much sweeter it is to be good! The woman that girl had grown into knew that she was good, and she thanked God for that. She thanked Him for letting her help. If He had said that she had not helped, she would have rocked her arms and replied almost hotly: “You know I have.” And He did know: He had seen her many times in the grip of inherited passions, and watched her fighting with them and subduing them; He had seen ugly thoughts stealing upon her, as they crawl towards every child of man; ah, He had seen them leap into the heart of the Painted Lady’s daughter, as if a nest already made for them must be there, and still she had driven them away. Grizel had helped. The tears came more quickly now.

  She thanked God that she had never worn the ring. But why had she never worn it, when she wanted so much to do so, and it was hers? Why had she watched herself more carefully than ever of late, and forced happiness to her face when it was not in her heart, and denied herself, at fierce moments, the luxuries of grief and despair, and even of rebellion? For she had carried about with her the capacity to rebel, but she had hidden it, and the reason was that she thought God was testing her. If she fell He would not give her the thing she coveted. Unworthy reason for being good, as she knew, but God overlooked it, and she thanked Him for that.

  Her hands pressed each other impulsively, as if at the shock of a sudden beautiful thought, and then perhaps she was thanking God for making her the one woman who could be the right wife for Tommy. She was so certain that no other woman could help him as she could; none knew his virtues as she knew them. Had it not been for her, his showy parts only would have been loved; the dear, quiet ones would never have heard how dear they were: the showy ones were open to all the world, but the quiet ones were her private garden. His faults as well as his virtues passed before her, and it is strange to know that it was about this time that Grizel ceased to cry and began to smile instead. I know why she smiled; it was because sentimentality was one of the little monsters that came skipping into her view, and Tommy was so confident that he had got rid at last of it! Grizel knew better! But she could look at it and smile. Perhaps she was not sorry that it was still there with the others, it had so long led the procession. I daresay she saw herself taking the leering, distorted thing in hand and making something gallant of it. She thought that she was too practical, too much given to seeing but one side to a question, too lacking in consideration for others, too impatient, too relentlessly just, and she humbly thanked God for all these faults, because Tommy’s excesses were in the opposite direction, and she could thus restore the balance. She was full of humility while she saw how useful she could be to him, but her face did not show this; she had forgotten her face, and elation had spread over it without her knowing. Perhaps God accepted the elation as part of the thanks.

  She thanked God for giving Tommy what he wanted so much — herself. Ah, she had thanked Him for that before, but she did it again. And then she went on her knees by her dear doctor’s chair, and prayed that she might be a good wife to Tommy.

  When she rose the blood was not surging through her veins. Instead of a passion of joy it was a beautiful calm that possessed her, and on noticing this she regarded herself with sudden suspicion, as we put our ear to a watch to see if it has stopped. She found that she was still going, but no longer either fast or slow, and she saw what had happened: her old serene self had come back to her. I think she thanked God for that most of all.

  And then she caught sight of her face — oh, oh! Her first practical act as an engaged woman was to wash her face.

  Engaged! But was she? Grizel laughed. It is not usually a laughing matter, but she could not help that. Consider her predicament. She could be engaged at once, if she liked, even before she wiped the water from her face, or she might postpone it, to let Tommy share. The careful reader will have noticed that this problem presented itself to her at an awkward moment. She laughed, in short, while her face was still in the basin, with the very proper result that she had to grope for the towel with her eyes shut.

  It was still a cold, damp face (Grizel was always in such a hurry) when she opened her most precious drawer and took from it a certain glove which was wrapped in silk paper, but was not perhaps quite so conceited as it had been, for, alas and alack! it was now used as a wrapper itself. The ring was inside it. If Grizel wanted to be engaged, absolutely and at once, all s
he had to do was to slip that ring upon her finger.

  It had been hers for a week or more. Tommy had bought it in a certain Scottish town whose merchant princes are so many, and have risen splendidly from such small beginnings, that after you have been there a short time you beg to be introduced to someone who has not got on. When you look at them they slap their trouser pockets. When they look at you they are wondering if you know how much they are worth. Tommy, one day, roaming their streets (in which he was worth incredibly little), and thinking sadly of what could never be, saw the modest little garnet ring in a jeweller’s window, and attached to it was a pathetic story. No other person could have seen the story, but it was as plain to him as though it had been beautifully written on the tag of paper which really contained the price. With his hand on the door he paused, overcome by that horror of entering shops without a lady to do the talking, which all men of genius feel (it is the one sure test), hurried away, came back, went to and fro shyly, until he saw that he was yielding once more to the indecision he thought he had so completely mastered, whereupon he entered bravely (though it was one of those detestable doors that ring a bell as they open), and sternly ordered the jeweller, who could have bought and sold our Tommy with one slap on the trouser leg, to hand the ring over to him.

  He had no intention of giving it to Grizel. That, indeed, was part of its great tragedy, for this is the story Tommy read into the ring: There was once a sorrowful man of twenty-three, and forty, and sixty. Ah, how gray the beard has grown as we speak! How thin the locks! But still we know him for the same by that garnet ring. Since it became his no other eye has seen it, and yet it is her engagement ring. Never can he give it to her, but must always carry it about with him as the piteous memory of what had never been. How innocent it looked in his hand, and with an innocence that never wore off, not even when he had reached his threescore years. As it aged it took on another kind of innocence only. It looked pitiable now, for there is but a dishonoured age for a lonely little ring which can never see the finger it was made to span.