Chapter 6
THE LITTLE HOUSE
Foolish Tootles was
standing like a conqueror over Wendy's body when the other
boys sprang, armed, from their trees.
"You are too late,"
he cried proudly, "I have shot the Wendy. Peter will be so
pleased with me."
Overhead Tinker Bell
shouted "Silly ass!" and darted into hiding. The others did
not hear her. They had crowded round Wendy, and as they
looked a terrible silence fell upon the wood. If Wendy's
heart had been beating they would all have heard it.
Slightly was the
first to speak. "This is no bird," he said in a scared
voice. "I think this must be a lady."
"A lady?" said
Tootles, and fell a-trembling.
"And we have killed
her," Nibs said hoarsely.
They all whipped off
their caps.
"Now I see," Curly
said: "Peter was bringing her to us." He threw himself
sorrowfully on the ground.
"A lady to take care
of us at last," said one of the twins, "and you have killed
her!"
They were sorry for
him, but sorrier for themselves, and when he took a step
nearer them they turned from him.
Tootles' face was
very white, but there was a dignity about him now that had
never been there before.
"I did it," he said,
reflecting. "When ladies used to come to me in dreams, I
said, 'Pretty mother, pretty mother.' But when at last she
really came, I shot her."
He moved slowly
away.
"Don't go," they
called in pity.
"I must," he
answered, shaking; "I am so afraid of Peter."
It was at this
tragic moment that they heard a sound which made the heart
of every one of them rise to his mouth. They heard Peter
crow.
"Peter!" they cried,
for it was always thus that he signalled his return.
"Hide her," they
whispered, and gathered hastily around Wendy. But Tootles
stood aloof.
Again came that
ringing crow, and Peter dropped in front of them.
"Greetings, boys," he cried, and mechanically they saluted,
and then again was silence.
He frowned.
"I am back," he said
hotly, "why do you not cheer?"
They opened their
mouths, but the cheers would not come. He overlooked it in
his haste to tell the glorious tidings.
"Great news, boys,"
he cried, "I have brought at last a mother for you all."
Still no sound,
except a little thud from Tootles as he dropped on his
knees.
"Have you not seen
her?" asked Peter, becoming troubled. "She flew this way."
"Ah me!" once voice
said, and another said, "Oh, mournful day."
Tootles rose.
"Peter," he said quietly, "I will show her to you," and when
the others would still have hidden her he said, "Back,
twins, let Peter see."
So they all stood
back, and let him see, and after he had looked for a little
time he did not know what to do next.
"She is dead," he
said uncomfortably. "Perhaps she is frightened at being
dead."
He thought of
hopping off in a comic sort of way till he was out of sight
of her, and then never going near the spot any more. They
would all have been glad to follow if he had done this.
But there was the
arrow. He took it from her heart and faced his band.
"Whose arrow?" he
demanded sternly.
"Mine, Peter," said
Tootles on his knees.
"Oh, dastard hand,"
Peter said, and he raised the arrow to use it as a dagger.
Tootles did not
flinch. He bared his breast. "Strike, Peter," he said
firmly, "strike true."
Twice did Peter
raise the arrow, and twice did his hand fall. "I cannot
strike," he said with awe, "there is something stays my
hand."
All looked at him in
wonder, save Nibs, who fortunately looked at Wendy.
"It is she," he
cried, "the Wendy lady, see, her arm!"
Wonderful to relate
[tell], Wendy had raised her arm. Nibs bent over her and
listened reverently. "I think she said, 'Poor Tootles,'" he
whispered.
"She lives," Peter
said briefly.
Slightly cried
instantly, "The Wendy lady lives."
Then Peter knelt
beside her and found his button. You remember she had put it
on a chain that she wore round her neck.
"See," he said, "the
arrow struck against this. It is the kiss I gave her. It has
saved her life."
"I remember kisses,"
Slightly interposed quickly, "let me see it. Ay, that's a
kiss."
Peter did not hear
him. He was begging Wendy to get better quickly, so that he
could show her the mermaids. Of course she could not answer
yet, being still in a frightful faint; but from overhead
came a wailing note.
"Listen to Tink,"
said Curly, "she is crying because the Wendy lives."
Then they had to
tell Peter of Tink's crime, and almost never had they seen
him look so stern.
"Listen, Tinker
Bell," he cried, "I am your friend no more. Begone from me
for ever."
She flew on to his
shoulder and pleaded, but he brushed her off. Not until
Wendy again raised her arm did he relent sufficiently to
say, "Well, not for ever, but for a whole week."
Do you think Tinker
Bell was grateful to Wendy for raising her arm? Oh dear no,
never wanted to pinch her so much. Fairies indeed are
strange, and Peter, who understood them best, often cuffed
[slapped] them.
But what to do with
Wendy in her present delicate state of health?
"Let us carry her
down into the house," Curly suggested.
"Ay," said Slightly,
"that is what one does with ladies."
"No, no," Peter
said, "you must not touch her. It would not be sufficiently
respectful."
"That," said
Slightly, "is what I was thinking."
"But if she lies
there," Tootles said, "she will die."
"Ay, she will die,"
Slightly admitted, "but there is no way out."
"Yes, there is,"
cried Peter. "Let us build a little house round her."
They were all
delighted. "Quick," he ordered them, "bring me each of you
the best of what we have. Gut our house. Be sharp."
In a moment they
were as busy as tailors the night before a wedding. They
skurried this way and that, down for bedding, up for
firewood, and while they were at it, who should appear but
John and Michael. As they dragged along the ground they fell
asleep standing, stopped, woke up, moved another step and
slept again.
"John, John,"
Michael would cry, "wake up! Where is Nana, John, and
mother?"
And then John would
rub his eyes and mutter, "It is true, we did fly."
You may be sure they
were very relieved to find Peter.
"Hullo, Peter," they
said.
"Hullo," replied
Peter amicably, though he had quite forgotten them. He was
very busy at the moment measuring Wendy with his feet to see
how large a house she would need. Of course he meant to
leave room for chairs and a table. John and Michael watched
him.
"Is Wendy asleep?"
they asked.
"Yes."
"John," Michael
proposed, "let us wake her and get her to make supper for
us," but as he said it some of the other boys rushed on
carrying branches for the building of the house. "Look at
them!" he cried.
"Curly," said Peter
in his most captainy voice, "see that these boys help in the
building of the house."
"Ay, ay, sir."
"Build a house?"
exclaimed John.
"For the Wendy,"
said Curly.
"For Wendy?" John
said, aghast. "Why, she is only a girl!"
"That," explained
Curly, "is why we are her servants."
"You? Wendy's
servants!"
"Yes," said Peter,
"and you also. Away with them."
The astounded
brothers were dragged away to hack and hew and carry.
"Chairs and a fender [fireplace] first," Peter ordered.
"Then we shall build a house round them."
"Ay," said Slightly,
"that is how a house is built; it all comes back to me."
Peter thought of
everything. "Slightly," he cried, "fetch a doctor."
"Ay, ay," said
Slightly at once, and disappeared, scratching his head. But
he knew Peter must be obeyed, and he returned in a moment,
wearing John's hat and looking solemn.
"Please, sir," said
Peter, going to him, "are you a doctor?"
The difference
between him and the other boys at such a time was that they
knew it was make-believe, while to him make-believe and true
were exactly the same thing. This sometimes troubled them,
as when they had to make-believe that they had had their
dinners.
If they broke down
in their make-believe he rapped them on the knuckles.
"Yes, my little
man," Slightly anxiously replied, who had chapped knuckles.
"Please, sir," Peter
explained, "a lady lies very ill."
She was lying at
their feet, but Slightly had the sense not to see her.
"Tut, tut, tut," he
said, "where does she lie?"
"In yonder glade."
"I will put a glass
thing in her mouth," said Slightly, and he made-believe to
do it, while Peter waited. It was an anxious moment when the
glass thing was withdrawn.
"How is she?"
inquired Peter.
"Tut, tut, tut,"
said Slightly, "this has cured her."
"I am glad!" Peter
cried.
"I will call again
in the evening," Slightly said; "give her beef tea out of a
cup with a spout to it;" but after he had returned the hat
to John he blew big breaths, which was his habit on escaping
from a difficulty.
In the meantime the
wood had been alive with the sound of axes; almost
everything needed for a cosy dwelling already lay at Wendy's
feet.
"If only we knew,"
said one, "the kind of house she likes best."
"Peter," shouted
another, "she is moving in her sleep."
"Her mouth opens,"
cried a third, looking respectfully into it. "Oh, lovely!"
"Perhaps she is
going to sing in her sleep," said Peter. "Wendy, sing the
kind of house you would like to have."
Immediately, without
opening her eyes, Wendy began to sing:
"I wish I had a pretty house,
The littlest ever seen,
With funny little red walls
And roof of mossy green."
They gurgled with
joy at this, for by the greatest good luck the branches they
had brought were sticky with red sap, and all the ground was
carpeted with moss. As they rattled up the little house they
broke into song themselves:
"We've built the little walls and roof
And made a lovely door,
So tell us, mother Wendy,
What are you wanting more?"
To this she answered
greedily:
"Oh, really next I think I'll have
Gay windows all about,
With roses peeping in, you know,
And babies peeping out."
With a blow of their
fists they made windows, and large yellow leaves were the
blinds. But roses—?
"Roses," cried Peter
sternly.
Quickly they
made-believe to grow the loveliest roses up the walls.
Babies?
To prevent Peter
ordering babies they hurried into song again:
"We've made the roses peeping out,
The babes are at the door,
We cannot make ourselves, you know,
'cos we've been made before."
Peter, seeing this
to be a good idea, at once pretended that it was his own.
The house was quite beautiful, and no doubt Wendy was very
cosy within, though, of course, they could no longer see
her. Peter strode up and down, ordering finishing touches.
Nothing escaped his eagle eyes. Just when it seemed
absolutely finished:
"There's no knocker
on the door," he said.
They were very
ashamed, but Tootles gave the sole of his shoe, and it made
an excellent knocker.
Absolutely finished
now, they thought.
Not of bit of it.
"There's no chimney," Peter said; "we must have a chimney."
"It certainly does
need a chimney," said John importantly. This gave Peter an
idea. He snatched the hat off John's head, knocked out the
bottom [top], and put the hat on the roof. The little house
was so pleased to have such a capital chimney that, as if to
say thank you, smoke immediately began to come out of the
hat.
Now really and truly
it was finished. Nothing remained to do but to knock.
"All look your
best," Peter warned them; "first impressions are awfully
important."
He was glad no one
asked him what first impressions are; they were all too busy
looking their best.
He knocked politely,
and now the wood was as still as the children, not a sound
to be heard except from Tinker Bell, who was watching from a
branch and openly sneering.
What the boys were
wondering was, would any one answer the knock? If a lady,
what would she be like?
The door opened and
a lady came out. It was Wendy. They all whipped off their
hats.
She looked properly
surprised, and this was just how they had hoped she would
look.
"Where am I?" she
said.
Of course Slightly
was the first to get his word in. "Wendy lady," he said
rapidly, "for you we built this house."
"Oh, say you're
pleased," cried Nibs.
"Lovely, darling
house," Wendy said, and they were the very words they had
hoped she would say.
"And we are your
children," cried the twins.
Then all went on
their knees, and holding out their arms cried, "O Wendy
lady, be our mother."
"Ought I?" Wendy
said, all shining. "Of course it's frightfully fascinating,
but you see I am only a little girl. I have no real
experience."
"That doesn't
matter," said Peter, as if he were the only person present
who knew all about it, though he was really the one who knew
least. "What we need is just a nice motherly person."
"Oh dear!" Wendy
said, "you see, I feel that is exactly what I am."
"It is, it is," they
all cried; "we saw it at once."
"Very well," she
said, "I will do my best. Come inside at once, you naughty
children; I am sure your feet are damp. And before I put you
to bed I have just time to finish the story of Cinderella."
In they went; I
don't know how there was room for them, but you can squeeze
very tight in the Neverland. And that was the first of the
many joyous evenings they had with Wendy. By and by she
tucked them up in the great bed in the home under the trees,
but she herself slept that night in the little house, and
Peter kept watch outside with drawn sword, for the pirates
could be heard carousing far away and the wolves were on the
prowl. The little house looked so cosy and safe in the
darkness, with a bright light showing through its blinds,
and the chimney smoking beautifully, and Peter standing on
guard. After a time he fell asleep, and some unsteady
fairies had to climb over him on their way home from an
orgy. Any of the other boys obstructing the fairy path at
night they would have mischiefed, but they just tweaked
Peter's nose and passed on.
Chapter 7
THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND
One of the first
things Peter did next day was to measure Wendy and John and
Michael for hollow trees. Hook, you remember, had sneered at
the boys for thinking they needed a tree apiece, but this
was ignorance, for unless your tree fitted you it was
difficult to go up and down, and no two of the boys were
quite the same size. Once you fitted, you drew in [let out]
your breath at the top, and down you went at exactly the
right speed, while to ascend you drew in and let out
alternately, and so wriggled up. Of course, when you have
mastered the action you are able to do these things without
thinking of them, and nothing can be more graceful.
But you simply must
fit, and Peter measures you for your tree as carefully as
for a suit of clothes: the only difference being that the
clothes are made to fit you, while you have to be made to
fit the tree. Usually it is done quite easily, as by your
wearing too many garments or too few, but if you are bumpy
in awkward places or the only available tree is an odd
shape, Peter does some things to you, and after that you
fit. Once you fit, great care must be taken to go on
fitting, and this, as Wendy was to discover to her delight,
keeps a whole family in perfect condition.
Wendy and Michael
fitted their trees at the first try, but John had to be
altered a little.
After a few days'
practice they could go up and down as gaily as buckets in a
well. And how ardently they grew to love their home under
the ground; especially Wendy. It consisted of one large
room, as all houses should do, with a floor in which you
could dig [for worms] if you wanted to go fishing, and in
this floor grew stout mushrooms of a charming colour, which
were used as stools. A Never tree tried hard to grow in the
centre of the room, but every morning they sawed the trunk
through, level with the floor. By tea-time it was always
about two feet high, and then they put a door on top of it,
the whole thus becoming a table; as soon as they cleared
away, they sawed off the trunk again, and thus there was
more room to play. There was an enormous fireplace which was
in almost any part of the room where you cared to light it,
and across this Wendy stretched strings, made of fibre, from
which she suspended her washing. The bed was tilted against
the wall by day, and let down at 6:30, when it filled nearly
half the room; and all the boys slept in it, except Michael,
lying like sardines in a tin. There was a strict rule
against turning round until one gave the signal, when all
turned at once. Michael should have used it also, but Wendy
would have [desired] a baby, and he was the littlest, and
you know what women are, and the short and long of it is
that he was hung up in a basket.
It was rough and
simple, and not unlike what baby bears would have made of an
underground house in the same circumstances. But there was
one recess in the wall, no larger than a bird-cage, which
was the private apartment of Tinker Bell. It could be shut
off from the rest of the house by a tiny curtain, which
Tink, who was most fastidious [particular], always kept
drawn when dressing or undressing. No woman, however large,
could have had a more exquisite boudoir [dressing room] and
bed-chamber combined. The couch, as she always called it,
was a genuine Queen Mab, with club legs; and she varied the
bedspreads according to what fruit-blossom was in season.
Her mirror was a Puss-in-Boots, of which there are now only
three, unchipped, known to fairy dealers; the washstand was
Pie-crust and reversible, the chest of drawers an authentic
Charming the Sixth, and the carpet and rugs the best (the
early) period of Margery and Robin. There was a chandelier
from Tiddlywinks for the look of the thing, but of course
she lit the residence herself. Tink was very contemptuous of
the rest of the house, as indeed was perhaps inevitable, and
her chamber, though beautiful, looked rather conceited,
having the appearance of a nose permanently turned up.
I suppose it was all
especially entrancing to Wendy, because those rampagious
boys of hers gave her so much to do. Really there were whole
weeks when, except perhaps with a stocking in the evening,
she was never above ground. The cooking, I can tell you,
kept her nose to the pot, and even if there was nothing in
it, even if there was no pot, she had to keep watching that
it came aboil just the same. You never exactly knew whether
there would be a real meal or just a make-believe, it all
depended upon Peter's whim: he could eat, really eat, if it
was part of a game, but he could not stodge [cram down the
food] just to feel stodgy [stuffed with food], which is what
most children like better than anything else; the next best
thing being to talk about it. Make-believe was so real to
him that during a meal of it you could see him getting
rounder. Of course it was trying, but you simply had to
follow his lead, and if you could prove to him that you were
getting loose for your tree he let you stodge.
Wendy's favourite
time for sewing and darning was after they had all gone to
bed. Then, as she expressed it, she had a breathing time for
herself; and she occupied it in making new things for them,
and putting double pieces on the knees, for they were all
most frightfully hard on their knees.
When she sat down to
a basketful of their stockings, every heel with a hole in
it, she would fling up her arms and exclaim, "Oh dear, I am
sure I sometimes think spinsters are to be envied!"
Her face beamed when
she exclaimed this.
You remember about
her pet wolf. Well, it very soon discovered that she had
come to the island and it found her out, and they just ran
into each other's arms. After that it followed her about
everywhere.
As time wore on did
she think much about the beloved parents she had left behind
her? This is a difficult question, because it is quite
impossible to say how time does wear on in the Neverland,
where it is calculated by moons and suns, and there are ever
so many more of them than on the mainland. But I am afraid
that Wendy did not really worry about her father and mother;
she was absolutely confident that they would always keep the
window open for her to fly back by, and this gave her
complete ease of mind. What did disturb her at times was
that John remembered his parents vaguely only, as people he
had once known, while Michael was quite willing to believe
that she was really his mother. These things scared her a
little, and nobly anxious to do her duty, she tried to fix
the old life in their minds by setting them examination
papers on it, as like as possible to the ones she used to do
at school. The other boys thought this awfully interesting,
and insisted on joining, and they made slates for
themselves, and sat round the table, writing and thinking
hard about the questions she had written on another slate
and passed round. They were the most ordinary
questions—"What was the colour of Mother's eyes? Which was
taller, Father or Mother? Was Mother blonde or brunette?
Answer all three questions if possible." "(A) Write an essay
of not less than 40 words on How I spent my last Holidays,
or The Characters of Father and Mother compared. Only one of
these to be attempted." Or "(1) Describe Mother's laugh; (2)
Describe Father's laugh; (3) Describe Mother's Party Dress;
(4) Describe the Kennel and its Inmate."
They were just
everyday questions like these, and when you could not answer
them you were told to make a cross; and it was really
dreadful what a number of crosses even John made. Of course
the only boy who replied to every question was Slightly, and
no one could have been more hopeful of coming out first, but
his answers were perfectly ridiculous, and he really came
out last: a melancholy thing.
Peter did not
compete. For one thing he despised all mothers except Wendy,
and for another he was the only boy on the island who could
neither write nor spell; not the smallest word. He was above
all that sort of thing.
By the way, the
questions were all written in the past tense. What was the
colour of Mother's eyes, and so on. Wendy, you see, had been
forgetting, too.
Adventures, of
course, as we shall see, were of daily occurrence; but about
this time Peter invented, with Wendy's help, a new game that
fascinated him enormously, until he suddenly had no more
interest in it, which, as you have been told, was what
always happened with his games. It consisted in pretending
not to have adventures, in doing the sort of thing John and
Michael had been doing all their lives, sitting on stools
flinging balls in the air, pushing each other, going out for
walks and coming back without having killed so much as a
grizzly. To see Peter doing nothing on a stool was a great
sight; he could not help looking solemn at such times, to
sit still seemed to him such a comic thing to do. He boasted
that he had gone walking for the good of his health. For
several suns these were the most novel of all adventures to
him; and John and Michael had to pretend to be delighted
also; otherwise he would have treated them severely.
He often went out
alone, and when he came back you were never absolutely
certain whether he had had an adventure or not. He might
have forgotten it so completely that he said nothing about
it; and then when you went out you found the body; and, on
the other hand, he might say a great deal about it, and yet
you could not find the body. Sometimes he came home with his
head bandaged, and then Wendy cooed over him and bathed it
in lukewarm water, while he told a dazzling tale. But she
was never quite sure, you know. There were, however, many
adventures which she knew to be true because she was in them
herself, and there were still more that were at least partly
true, for the other boys were in them and said they were
wholly true. To describe them all would require a book as
large as an English-Latin, Latin-English Dictionary, and the
most we can do is to give one as a specimen of an average
hour on the island. The difficulty is which one to choose.
Should we take the brush with the redskins at Slightly
Gulch? It was a sanguinary [cheerful] affair, and especially
interesting as showing one of Peter's peculiarities, which
was that in the middle of a fight he would suddenly change
sides. At the Gulch, when victory was still in the balance,
sometimes leaning this way and sometimes that, he called
out, "I'm redskin to-day; what are you, Tootles?" And
Tootles answered, "Redskin; what are you, Nibs?" and Nibs
said, "Redskin; what are you Twin?" and so on; and they were
all redskins; and of course this would have ended the fight
had not the real redskins fascinated by Peter's methods,
agreed to be lost boys for that once, and so at it they all
went again, more fiercely than ever.
The extraordinary
upshot of this adventure was—but we have not decided yet
that this is the adventure we are to narrate. Perhaps a
better one would be the night attack by the redskins on the
house under the ground, when several of them stuck in the
hollow trees and had to be pulled out like corks. Or we
might tell how Peter saved Tiger Lily's life in the
Mermaids' Lagoon, and so made her his ally.
Or we could tell of
that cake the pirates cooked so that the boys might eat it
and perish; and how they placed it in one cunning spot after
another; but always Wendy snatched it from the hands of her
children, so that in time it lost its succulence, and became
as hard as a stone, and was used as a missile, and Hook fell
over it in the dark.
Or suppose we tell
of the birds that were Peter's friends, particularly of the
Never bird that built in a tree overhanging the lagoon, and
how the nest fell into the water, and still the bird sat on
her eggs, and Peter gave orders that she was not to be
disturbed. That is a pretty story, and the end shows how
grateful a bird can be; but if we tell it we must also tell
the whole adventure of the lagoon, which would of course be
telling two adventures rather than just one. A shorter
adventure, and quite as exciting, was Tinker Bell's attempt,
with the help of some street fairies, to have the sleeping
Wendy conveyed on a great floating leaf to the mainland.
Fortunately the leaf gave way and Wendy woke, thinking it
was bath-time, and swam back. Or again, we might choose
Peter's defiance of the lions, when he drew a circle round
him on the ground with an arrow and dared them to cross it;
and though he waited for hours, with the other boys and
Wendy looking on breathlessly from trees, not one of them
dared to accept his challenge.
Which of these
adventures shall we choose? The best way will be to toss for
it.
I have tossed, and
the lagoon has won. This almost makes one wish that the
gulch or the cake or Tink's leaf had won. Of course I could
do it again, and make it best out of three; however, perhaps
fairest to stick to the lagoon.
Chapter 8
THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON
If you shut your
eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a shapeless
pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness; then
if you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take
shape, and the colours become so vivid that with another
squeeze they must go on fire. But just before they go on
fire you see the lagoon. This is the nearest you ever get to
it on the mainland, just one heavenly moment; if there could
be two moments you might see the surf and hear the mermaids
singing.
The children often
spent long summer days on this lagoon, swimming or floating
most of the time, playing the mermaid games in the water,
and so forth. You must not think from this that the mermaids
were on friendly terms with them: on the contrary, it was
among Wendy's lasting regrets that all the time she was on
the island she never had a civil word from one of them. When
she stole softly to the edge of the lagoon she might see
them by the score, especially on Marooners' Rock, where they
loved to bask, combing out their hair in a lazy way that
quite irritated her; or she might even swim, on tiptoe as it
were, to within a yard of them, but then they saw her and
dived, probably splashing her with their tails, not by
accident, but intentionally.
They treated all the
boys in the same way, except of course Peter, who chatted
with them on Marooners' Rock by the hour, and sat on their
tails when they got cheeky. He gave Wendy one of their
combs.
The most haunting
time at which to see them is at the turn of the moon, when
they utter strange wailing cries; but the lagoon is
dangerous for mortals then, and until the evening of which
we have now to tell, Wendy had never seen the lagoon by
moonlight, less from fear, for of course Peter would have
accompanied her, than because she had strict rules about
every one being in bed by seven. She was often at the
lagoon, however, on sunny days after rain, when the mermaids
come up in extraordinary numbers to play with their bubbles.
The bubbles of many colours made in rainbow water they treat
as balls, hitting them gaily from one to another with their
tails, and trying to keep them in the rainbow till they
burst. The goals are at each end of the rainbow, and the
keepers only are allowed to use their hands. Sometimes a
dozen of these games will be going on in the lagoon at a
time, and it is quite a pretty sight.
But the moment the
children tried to join in they had to play by themselves,
for the mermaids immediately disappeared. Nevertheless we
have proof that they secretly watched the interlopers, and
were not above taking an idea from them; for John introduced
a new way of hitting the bubble, with the head instead of
the hand, and the mermaids adopted it. This is the one mark
that John has left on the Neverland.
It must also have
been rather pretty to see the children resting on a rock for
half an hour after their mid-day meal. Wendy insisted on
their doing this, and it had to be a real rest even though
the meal was make-believe. So they lay there in the sun, and
their bodies glistened in it, while she sat beside them and
looked important.
It was one such day,
and they were all on Marooners' Rock. The rock was not much
larger than their great bed, but of course they all knew how
not to take up much room, and they were dozing, or at least
lying with their eyes shut, and pinching occasionally when
they thought Wendy was not looking. She was very busy,
stitching.
While she stitched a
change came to the lagoon. Little shivers ran over it, and
the sun went away and shadows stole across the water,
turning it cold. Wendy could no longer see to thread her
needle, and when she looked up, the lagoon that had always
hitherto been such a laughing place seemed formidable and
unfriendly.
It was not, she
knew, that night had come, but something as dark as night
had come. No, worse than that. It had not come, but it had
sent that shiver through the sea to say that it was coming.
What was it?
There crowded upon
her all the stories she had been told of Marooners' Rock, so
called because evil captains put sailors on it and leave
them there to drown. They drown when the tide rises, for
then it is submerged.
Of course she should
have roused the children at once; not merely because of the
unknown that was stalking toward them, but because it was no
longer good for them to sleep on a rock grown chilly. But
she was a young mother and she did not know this; she
thought you simply must stick to your rule about half an
hour after the mid-day meal. So, though fear was upon her,
and she longed to hear male voices, she would not waken
them. Even when she heard the sound of muffled oars, though
her heart was in her mouth, she did not waken them. She
stood over them to let them have their sleep out. Was it not
brave of Wendy?
It was well for
those boys then that there was one among them who could
sniff danger even in his sleep. Peter sprang erect, as wide
awake at once as a dog, and with one warning cry he roused
the others.
He stood motionless,
one hand to his ear.
"Pirates!" he cried.
The others came closer to him. A strange smile was playing
about his face, and Wendy saw it and shuddered. While that
smile was on his face no one dared address him; all they
could do was to stand ready to obey. The order came sharp
and incisive.
"Dive!"
There was a gleam of
legs, and instantly the lagoon seemed deserted. Marooners'
Rock stood alone in the forbidding waters as if it were
itself marooned.
The boat drew
nearer. It was the pirate dinghy, with three figures in her,
Smee and Starkey, and the third a captive, no other than
Tiger Lily. Her hands and ankles were tied, and she knew
what was to be her fate. She was to be left on the rock to
perish, an end to one of her race more terrible than death
by fire or torture, for is it not written in the book of the
tribe that there is no path through water to the happy
hunting-ground? Yet her face was impassive; she was the
daughter of a chief, she must die as a chief's daughter, it
is enough.
They had caught her
boarding the pirate ship with a knife in her mouth. No watch
was kept on the ship, it being Hook's boast that the wind of
his name guarded the ship for a mile around. Now her fate
would help to guard it also. One more wail would go the
round in that wind by night.
In the gloom that
they brought with them the two pirates did not see the rock
till they crashed into it.
"Luff, you lubber,"
cried an Irish voice that was Smee's; "here's the rock. Now,
then, what we have to do is to hoist the redskin on to it
and leave her here to drown."
It was the work of
one brutal moment to land the beautiful girl on the rock;
she was too proud to offer a vain resistance.
Quite near the rock,
but out of sight, two heads were bobbing up and down,
Peter's and Wendy's. Wendy was crying, for it was the first
tragedy she had seen. Peter had seen many tragedies, but he
had forgotten them all. He was less sorry than Wendy for
Tiger Lily: it was two against one that angered him, and he
meant to save her. An easy way would have been to wait until
the pirates had gone, but he was never one to choose the
easy way.
There was almost
nothing he could not do, and he now imitated the voice of
Hook.
"Ahoy there, you
lubbers!" he called. It was a marvellous imitation.
"The captain!" said
the pirates, staring at each other in surprise.
"He must be swimming
out to us," Starkey said, when they had looked for him in
vain.
"We are putting the
redskin on the rock," Smee called out.
"Set her free," came
the astonishing answer.
"Free!"
"Yes, cut her bonds
and let her go."
"But, captain—"
"At once, d'ye
hear," cried Peter, "or I'll plunge my hook in you."
"This is queer!"
Smee gasped.
"Better do what the
captain orders," said Starkey nervously.
"Ay, ay." Smee said,
and he cut Tiger Lily's cords. At once like an eel she slid
between Starkey's legs into the water.
Of course Wendy was
very elated over Peter's cleverness; but she knew that he
would be elated also and very likely crow and thus betray
himself, so at once her hand went out to cover his mouth.
But it was stayed even in the act, for "Boat ahoy!" rang
over the lagoon in Hook's voice, and this time it was not
Peter who had spoken.
Peter may have been
about to crow, but his face puckered in a whistle of
surprise instead.
"Boat ahoy!" again
came the voice.
Now Wendy
understood. The real Hook was also in the water.
He was swimming to
the boat, and as his men showed a light to guide him he had
soon reached them. In the light of the lantern Wendy saw his
hook grip the boat's side; she saw his evil swarthy face as
he rose dripping from the water, and, quaking, she would
have liked to swim away, but Peter would not budge. He was
tingling with life and also top-heavy with conceit. "Am I
not a wonder, oh, I am a wonder!" he whispered to her, and
though she thought so also, she was really glad for the sake
of his reputation that no one heard him except herself.
He signed to her to
listen.
The two pirates were
very curious to know what had brought their captain to them,
but he sat with his head on his hook in a position of
profound melancholy.
"Captain, is all
well?" they asked timidly, but he answered with a hollow
moan.
"He sighs," said
Smee.
"He sighs again,"
said Starkey.
"And yet a third
time he sighs," said Smee.
Then at last he
spoke passionately.
"The game's up," he
cried, "those boys have found a mother."
Affrighted though
she was, Wendy swelled with pride.
"O evil day!" cried
Starkey.
"What's a mother?"
asked the ignorant Smee.
Wendy was so shocked
that she exclaimed. "He doesn't know!" and always after this
she felt that if you could have a pet pirate Smee would be
her one.
Peter pulled her
beneath the water, for Hook had started up, crying, "What
was that?"
"I heard nothing,"
said Starkey, raising the lantern over the waters, and as
the pirates looked they saw a strange sight. It was the nest
I have told you of, floating on the lagoon, and the Never
bird was sitting on it.
"See," said Hook in
answer to Smee's question, "that is a mother. What a lesson!
The nest must have fallen into the water, but would the
mother desert her eggs? No."
There was a break in
his voice, as if for a moment he recalled innocent days
when—but he brushed away this weakness with his hook.
Smee, much
impressed, gazed at the bird as the nest was borne past, but
the more suspicious Starkey said, "If she is a mother,
perhaps she is hanging about here to help Peter."
Hook winced. "Ay,"
he said, "that is the fear that haunts me."
He was roused from
this dejection by Smee's eager voice.
"Captain," said
Smee, "could we not kidnap these boys' mother and make her
our mother?"
"It is a princely
scheme," cried Hook, and at once it took practical shape in
his great brain. "We will seize the children and carry them
to the boat: the boys we will make walk the plank, and Wendy
shall be our mother."
Again Wendy forgot
herself.
"Never!" she cried,
and bobbed.
"What was that?"
But they could see
nothing. They thought it must have been a leaf in the wind.
"Do you agree, my bullies?" asked Hook.
"There is my hand on
it," they both said.
"And there is my
hook. Swear."
They all swore. By
this time they were on the rock, and suddenly Hook
remembered Tiger Lily.
"Where is the
redskin?" he demanded abruptly.
He had a playful
humour at moments, and they thought this was one of the
moments.
"That is all right,
captain," Smee answered complacently; "we let her go."
"Let her go!" cried
Hook.
"'Twas your own
orders," the bo'sun faltered.
"You called over the
water to us to let her go," said Starkey.
"Brimstone and
gall," thundered Hook, "what cozening [cheating] is going on
here!" His face had gone black with rage, but he saw that
they believed their words, and he was startled. "Lads," he
said, shaking a little, "I gave no such order."
"It is passing
queer," Smee said, and they all fidgeted uncomfortably. Hook
raised his voice, but there was a quiver in it.
"Spirit that haunts
this dark lagoon to-night," he cried, "dost hear me?"
Of course Peter
should have kept quiet, but of course he did not. He
immediately answered in Hook's voice:
"Odds, bobs, hammer
and tongs, I hear you."
In that supreme
moment Hook did not blanch, even at the gills, but Smee and
Starkey clung to each other in terror.
"Who are you,
stranger? Speak!" Hook demanded.
"I am James Hook,"
replied the voice, "captain of the JOLLY ROGER."
"You are not; you
are not," Hook cried hoarsely.
"Brimstone and
gall," the voice retorted, "say that again, and I'll cast
anchor in you."
Hook tried a more
ingratiating manner. "If you are Hook," he said almost
humbly, "come tell me, who am I?"
"A codfish," replied
the voice, "only a codfish."
"A codfish!" Hook
echoed blankly, and it was then, but not till then, that his
proud spirit broke. He saw his men draw back from him.
"Have we been
captained all this time by a codfish!" they muttered. "It is
lowering to our pride."
They were his dogs
snapping at him, but, tragic figure though he had become, he
scarcely heeded them. Against such fearful evidence it was
not their belief in him that he needed, it was his own. He
felt his ego slipping from him. "Don't desert me, bully," he
whispered hoarsely to it.
In his dark nature
there was a touch of the feminine, as in all the great
pirates, and it sometimes gave him intuitions. Suddenly he
tried the guessing game.
"Hook," he called,
"have you another voice?"
Now Peter could
never resist a game, and he answered blithely in his own
voice, "I have."
"And another name?"
"Ay, ay."
"Vegetable?" asked
Hook.
"No."
"Mineral?"
"No."
"Animal?"
"Yes."
"Man?"
"No!" This answer
rang out scornfully.
"Boy?"
"Yes."
"Ordinary boy?"
"No!"
"Wonderful boy?"
To Wendy's pain the
answer that rang out this time was "Yes."
"Are you in
England?"
"No."
"Are you here?"
"Yes."
Hook was completely
puzzled. "You ask him some questions," he said to the
others, wiping his damp brow.
Smee reflected. "I
can't think of a thing," he said regretfully.
"Can't guess, can't
guess!" crowed Peter. "Do you give it up?"
Of course in his
pride he was carrying the game too far, and the miscreants
[villains] saw their chance.
"Yes, yes," they
answered eagerly.
"Well, then," he
cried, "I am Peter Pan."
Pan!
In a moment Hook was
himself again, and Smee and Starkey were his faithful
henchmen.
"Now we have him,"
Hook shouted. "Into the water, Smee. Starkey, mind the boat.
Take him dead or alive!"
He leaped as he
spoke, and simultaneously came the gay voice of Peter.
"Are you ready,
boys?"
"Ay, ay," from
various parts of the lagoon.
"Then lam into the
pirates."
The fight was short
and sharp. First to draw blood was John, who gallantly
climbed into the boat and held Starkey. There was fierce
struggle, in which the cutlass was torn from the pirate's
grasp. He wriggled overboard and John leapt after him. The
dinghy drifted away.
Here and there a
head bobbed up in the water, and there was a flash of steel
followed by a cry or a whoop. In the confusion some struck
at their own side. The corkscrew of Smee got Tootles in the
fourth rib, but he was himself pinked [nicked] in turn by
Curly. Farther from the rock Starkey was pressing Slightly
and the twins hard.
Where all this time
was Peter? He was seeking bigger game.
The others were all
brave boys, and they must not be blamed for backing from the
pirate captain. His iron claw made a circle of dead water
round him, from which they fled like affrighted fishes.
But there was one
who did not fear him: there was one prepared to enter that
circle.
Strangely, it was
not in the water that they met. Hook rose to the rock to
breathe, and at the same moment Peter scaled it on the
opposite side. The rock was slippery as a ball, and they had
to crawl rather than climb. Neither knew that the other was
coming. Each feeling for a grip met the other's arm: in
surprise they raised their heads; their faces were almost
touching; so they met.
Some of the greatest
heroes have confessed that just before they fell to [began
combat] they had a sinking [feeling in the stomach]. Had it
been so with Peter at that moment I would admit it. After
all, he was the only man that the Sea-Cook had feared. But
Peter had no sinking, he had one feeling only, gladness; and
he gnashed his pretty teeth with joy. Quick as thought he
snatched a knife from Hook's belt and was about to drive it
home, when he saw that he was higher up the rock that his
foe. It would not have been fighting fair. He gave the
pirate a hand to help him up.
It was then that
Hook bit him.
Not the pain of this
but its unfairness was what dazed Peter. It made him quite
helpless. He could only stare, horrified. Every child is
affected thus the first time he is treated unfairly. All he
thinks he has a right to when he comes to you to be yours is
fairness. After you have been unfair to him he will love you
again, but will never afterwards be quite the same boy. No
one ever gets over the first unfairness; no one except
Peter. He often met it, but he always forgot it. I suppose
that was the real difference between him and all the rest.
So when he met it
now it was like the first time; and he could just stare,
helpless. Twice the iron hand clawed him.
A few moments
afterwards the other boys saw Hook in the water striking
wildly for the ship; no elation on the pestilent face now,
only white fear, for the crocodile was in dogged pursuit of
him. On ordinary occasions the boys would have swum
alongside cheering; but now they were uneasy, for they had
lost both Peter and Wendy, and were scouring the lagoon for
them, calling them by name. They found the dinghy and went
home in it, shouting "Peter, Wendy" as they went, but no
answer came save mocking laughter from the mermaids. "They
must be swimming back or flying," the boys concluded. They
were not very anxious, because they had such faith in Peter.
They chuckled, boylike, because they would be late for bed;
and it was all mother Wendy's fault!
When their voices
died away there came cold silence over the lagoon, and then
a feeble cry.
"Help, help!"
Two small figures
were beating against the rock; the girl had fainted and lay
on the boy's arm. With a last effort Peter pulled her up the
rock and then lay down beside her. Even as he also fainted
he saw that the water was rising. He knew that they would
soon be drowned, but he could do no more.
As they lay side by
side a mermaid caught Wendy by the feet, and began pulling
her softly into the water. Peter, feeling her slip from him,
woke with a start, and was just in time to draw her back.
But he had to tell her the truth.
"We are on the rock,
Wendy," he said, "but it is growing smaller. Soon the water
will be over it."
She did not
understand even now.
"We must go," she
said, almost brightly.
"Yes," he answered
faintly.
"Shall we swim or
fly, Peter?"
He had to tell her.
"Do you think you
could swim or fly as far as the island, Wendy, without my
help?"
She had to admit
that she was too tired.
He moaned.
"What is it?" she
asked, anxious about him at once.
"I can't help you,
Wendy. Hook wounded me. I can neither fly nor swim."
"Do you mean we
shall both be drowned?"
"Look how the water
is rising."
They put their hands
over their eyes to shut out the sight. They thought they
would soon be no more. As they sat thus something brushed
against Peter as light as a kiss, and stayed there, as if
saying timidly, "Can I be of any use?"
It was the tail of a
kite, which Michael had made some days before. It had torn
itself out of his hand and floated away.
"Michael's kite,"
Peter said without interest, but next moment he had seized
the tail, and was pulling the kite toward him.
"It lifted Michael
off the ground," he cried; "why should it not carry you?"
"Both of us!"
"It can't lift two;
Michael and Curly tried."
"Let us draw lots,"
Wendy said bravely.
"And you a lady;
never." Already he had tied the tail round her. She clung to
him; she refused to go without him; but with a "Good-bye,
Wendy," he pushed her from the rock; and in a few minutes
she was borne out of his sight. Peter was alone on the
lagoon.
The rock was very
small now; soon it would be submerged. Pale rays of light
tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be
heard a sound at once the most musical and the most
melancholy in the world: the mermaids calling to the moon.
Peter was not quite
like other boys; but he was afraid at last. A tremour ran
through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on the
sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of
them, and Peter felt just the one. Next moment he was
standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his
face and a drum beating within him. It was saying, "To die
will be an awfully big adventure."
Chapter 9
THE NEVER BIRD
The last sound Peter
heard before he was quite alone were the mermaids retiring
one by one to their bedchambers under the sea. He was too
far away to hear their doors shut; but every door in the
coral caves where they live rings a tiny bell when it opens
or closes (as in all the nicest houses on the mainland), and
he heard the bells.
Steadily the waters
rose till they were nibbling at his feet; and to pass the
time until they made their final gulp, he watched the only
thing on the lagoon. He thought it was a piece of floating
paper, perhaps part of the kite, and wondered idly how long
it would take to drift ashore.
Presently he noticed
as an odd thing that it was undoubtedly out upon the lagoon
with some definite purpose, for it was fighting the tide,
and sometimes winning; and when it won, Peter, always
sympathetic to the weaker side, could not help clapping; it
was such a gallant piece of paper.
It was not really a
piece of paper; it was the Never bird, making desperate
efforts to reach Peter on the nest. By working her wings, in
a way she had learned since the nest fell into the water,
she was able to some extent to guide her strange craft, but
by the time Peter recognised her she was very exhausted. She
had come to save him, to give him her nest, though there
were eggs in it. I rather wonder at the bird, for though he
had been nice to her, he had also sometimes tormented her. I
can suppose only that, like Mrs. Darling and the rest of
them, she was melted because he had all his first teeth.
She called out to
him what she had come for, and he called out to her what she
was doing there; but of course neither of them understood
the other's language. In fanciful stories people can talk to
the birds freely, and I wish for the moment I could pretend
that this were such a story, and say that Peter replied
intelligently to the Never bird; but truth is best, and I
want to tell you only what really happened. Well, not only
could they not understand each other, but they forgot their
manners.
"I—want—you—to—get—into—the—nest," the bird called, speaking
as slowly and distinctly as possible,
"and—then—you—can—drift—ashore,
but—I—am—too—tired—to—bring—it—any—nearer—so—you—must—try
to—swim—to—it."
"What are you
quacking about?" Peter answered. "Why don't you let the nest
drift as usual?"
"I—want—you—" the
bird said, and repeated it all over.
Then Peter tried
slow and distinct.
"What—are—you—quacking—about?" and so on.
The Never bird
became irritated; they have very short tempers.
"You dunderheaded
little jay," she screamed, "Why don't you do as I tell you?"
Peter felt that she
was calling him names, and at a venture he retorted hotly:
"So are you!"
Then rather
curiously they both snapped out the same remark:
"Shut up!"
"Shut up!"
Nevertheless the
bird was determined to save him if she could, and by one
last mighty effort she propelled the nest against the rock.
Then up she flew; deserting her eggs, so as to make her
meaning clear.
Then at last he
understood, and clutched the nest and waved his thanks to
the bird as she fluttered overhead. It was not to receive
his thanks, however, that she hung there in the sky; it was
not even to watch him get into the nest; it was to see what
he did with her eggs.
There were two large
white eggs, and Peter lifted them up and reflected. The bird
covered her face with her wings, so as not to see the last
of them; but she could not help peeping between the
feathers.
I forget whether I
have told you that there was a stave on the rock, driven
into it by some buccaneers of long ago to mark the site of
buried treasure. The children had discovered the glittering
hoard, and when in a mischievous mood used to fling showers
of moidores, diamonds, pearls and pieces of eight to the
gulls, who pounced upon them for food, and then flew away,
raging at the scurvy trick that had been played upon them.
The stave was still there, and on it Starkey had hung his
hat, a deep tarpaulin, watertight, with a broad brim. Peter
put the eggs into this hat and set it on the lagoon. It
floated beautifully.
The Never bird saw
at once what he was up to, and screamed her admiration of
him; and, alas, Peter crowed his agreement with her. Then he
got into the nest, reared the stave in it as a mast, and
hung up his shirt for a sail. At the same moment the bird
fluttered down upon the hat and once more sat snugly on her
eggs. She drifted in one direction, and he was borne off in
another, both cheering.
Of course when Peter
landed he beached his barque [small ship, actually the Never
Bird's nest in this particular case in point] in a place
where the bird would easily find it; but the hat was such a
great success that she abandoned the nest. It drifted about
till it went to pieces, and often Starkey came to the shore
of the lagoon, and with many bitter feelings watched the
bird sitting on his hat. As we shall not see her again, it
may be worth mentioning here that all Never birds now build
in that shape of nest, with a broad brim on which the
youngsters take an airing.
Great were the
rejoicings when Peter reached the home under the ground
almost as soon as Wendy, who had been carried hither and
thither by the kite. Every boy had adventures to tell; but
perhaps the biggest adventure of all was that they were
several hours late for bed. This so inflated them that they
did various dodgy things to get staying up still longer,
such as demanding bandages; but Wendy, though glorying in
having them all home again safe and sound, was scandalised
by the lateness of the hour, and cried, "To bed, to bed," in
a voice that had to be obeyed. Next day, however, she was
awfully tender, and gave out bandages to every one, and they
played till bed-time at limping about and carrying their
arms in slings.
Chapter 10
THE HAPPY HOME
One important result
of the brush [with the pirates] on the lagoon was that it
made the redskins their friends. Peter had saved Tiger Lily
from a dreadful fate, and now there was nothing she and her
braves would not do for him. All night they sat above,
keeping watch over the home under the ground and awaiting
the big attack by the pirates which obviously could not be
much longer delayed. Even by day they hung about, smoking
the pipe of peace, and looking almost as if they wanted
tit-bits to eat.
They called Peter
the Great White Father, prostrating themselves [lying down]
before him; and he liked this tremendously, so that it was
not really good for him.
"The great white
father," he would say to them in a very lordly manner, as
they grovelled at his feet, "is glad to see the Piccaninny
warriors protecting his wigwam from the pirates."
"Me Tiger Lily,"
that lovely creature would reply. "Peter Pan save me, me his
velly nice friend. Me no let pirates hurt him."
She was far too
pretty to cringe in this way, but Peter thought it his due,
and he would answer condescendingly, "It is good. Peter Pan
has spoken."
Always when he said,
"Peter Pan has spoken," it meant that they must now shut up,
and they accepted it humbly in that spirit; but they were by
no means so respectful to the other boys, whom they looked
upon as just ordinary braves. They said "How-do?" to them,
and things like that; and what annoyed the boys was that
Peter seemed to think this all right.
Secretly Wendy
sympathised with them a little, but she was far too loyal a
housewife to listen to any complaints against father.
"Father knows best," she always said, whatever her private
opinion must be. Her private opinion was that the redskins
should not call her a squaw.
We have now reached
the evening that was to be known among them as the Night of
Nights, because of its adventures and their upshot. The day,
as if quietly gathering its forces, had been almost
uneventful, and now the redskins in their blankets were at
their posts above, while, below, the children were having
their evening meal; all except Peter, who had gone out to
get the time. The way you got the time on the island was to
find the crocodile, and then stay near him till the clock
struck.
The meal happened to
be a make-believe tea, and they sat around the board,
guzzling in their greed; and really, what with their chatter
and recriminations, the noise, as Wendy said, was positively
deafening. To be sure, she did not mind noise, but she
simply would not have them grabbing things, and then
excusing themselves by saying that Tootles had pushed their
elbow. There was a fixed rule that they must never hit back
at meals, but should refer the matter of dispute to Wendy by
raising the right arm politely and saying, "I complain of
so-and-so;" but what usually happened was that they forgot
to do this or did it too much.
"Silence," cried
Wendy when for the twentieth time she had told them that
they were not all to speak at once. "Is your mug empty,
Slightly darling?"
"Not quite empty,
mummy," Slightly said, after looking into an imaginary mug.
"He hasn't even
begun to drink his milk," Nibs interposed.
This was telling,
and Slightly seized his chance.
"I complain of
Nibs," he cried promptly.
John, however, had
held up his hand first.
"Well, John?"
"May I sit in
Peter's chair, as he is not here?"
"Sit in father's
chair, John!" Wendy was scandalised. "Certainly not."
"He is not really
our father," John answered. "He didn't even know how a
father does till I showed him."
This was grumbling.
"We complain of John," cried the twins.
Tootles held up his
hand. He was so much the humblest of them, indeed he was the
only humble one, that Wendy was specially gentle with him.
"I don't suppose,"
Tootles said diffidently [bashfully or timidly], "that I
could be father."
"No, Tootles."
Once Tootles began,
which was not very often, he had a silly way of going on.
"As I can't be
father," he said heavily, "I don't suppose, Michael, you
would let me be baby?"
"No, I won't,"
Michael rapped out. He was already in his basket.
"As I can't be
baby," Tootles said, getting heavier and heavier and
heavier, "do you think I could be a twin?"
"No, indeed,"
replied the twins; "it's awfully difficult to be a twin."
"As I can't be
anything important," said Tootles, "would any of you like to
see me do a trick?"
"No," they all
replied.
Then at last he
stopped. "I hadn't really any hope," he said.
The hateful telling
broke out again.
"Slightly is
coughing on the table."
"The twins began
with cheese-cakes."
"Curly is taking
both butter and honey."
"Nibs is speaking
with his mouth full."
"I complain of the
twins."
"I complain of
Curly."
"I complain of
Nibs."
"Oh dear, oh dear,"
cried Wendy, "I'm sure I sometimes think that spinsters are
to be envied."
She told them to
clear away, and sat down to her work-basket, a heavy load of
stockings and every knee with a hole in it as usual.
"Wendy,"
remonstrated [scolded] Michael, "I'm too big for a cradle."
"I must have
somebody in a cradle," she said almost tartly, "and you are
the littlest. A cradle is such a nice homely thing to have
about a house."
While she sewed they
played around her; such a group of happy faces and dancing
limbs lit up by that romantic fire. It had become a very
familiar scene, this, in the home under the ground, but we
are looking on it for the last time.
There was a step
above, and Wendy, you may be sure, was the first to
recognize it.
"Children, I hear
your father's step. He likes you to meet him at the door."
Above, the redskins
crouched before Peter.
"Watch well, braves.
I have spoken."
And then, as so
often before, the gay children dragged him from his tree. As
so often before, but never again.
He had brought nuts
for the boys as well as the correct time for Wendy.
"Peter, you just
spoil them, you know," Wendy simpered [exaggerated a smile].
"Ah, old lady," said
Peter, hanging up his gun.
"It was me told him
mothers are called old lady," Michael whispered to Curly.
"I complain of
Michael," said Curly instantly.
The first twin came
to Peter. "Father, we want to dance."
"Dance away, my
little man," said Peter, who was in high good humour.
"But we want you to
dance."
Peter was really the
best dancer among them, but he pretended to be scandalised.
"Me! My old bones
would rattle!"
"And mummy too."
"What," cried Wendy,
"the mother of such an armful, dance!"
"But on a Saturday
night," Slightly insinuated.
It was not really
Saturday night, at least it may have been, for they had long
lost count of the days; but always if they wanted to do
anything special they said this was Saturday night, and then
they did it.
"Of course it is
Saturday night, Peter," Wendy said, relenting.
"People of our
figure, Wendy!"
"But it is only
among our own progeny [children]."
"True, true."
So they were told
they could dance, but they must put on their nighties first.
"Ah, old lady,"
Peter said aside to Wendy, warming himself by the fire and
looking down at her as she sat turning a heel, "there is
nothing more pleasant of an evening for you and me when the
day's toil is over than to rest by the fire with the little
ones near by."
"It is sweet, Peter,
isn't it?" Wendy said, frightfully gratified. "Peter, I
think Curly has your nose."
"Michael takes after
you."
She went to him and
put her hand on his shoulder.
"Dear Peter," she
said, "with such a large family, of course, I have now
passed my best, but you don't want to [ex]change me, do
you?"
"No, Wendy."
Certainly he did not
want a change, but he looked at her uncomfortably, blinking,
you know, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep.
"Peter, what is it?"
"I was just
thinking," he said, a little scared. "It is only
make-believe, isn't it, that I am their father?"
"Oh yes," Wendy said
primly [formally and properly].
"You see," he
continued apologetically, "it would make me seem so old to
be their real father."
"But they are ours,
Peter, yours and mine."
"But not really,
Wendy?" he asked anxiously.
"Not if you don't
wish it," she replied; and she distinctly heard his sigh of
relief. "Peter," she asked, trying to speak firmly, "what
are your exact feelings to [about] me?"
"Those of a devoted
son, Wendy."
"I thought so," she
said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme end of the
room.
"You are so queer,"
he said, frankly puzzled, "and Tiger Lily is just the same.
There is something she wants to be to me, but she says it is
not my mother."
"No, indeed, it is
not," Wendy replied with frightful emphasis. Now we know why
she was prejudiced against the redskins.
"Then what is it?"
"It isn't for a lady
to tell."
"Oh, very well,"
Peter said, a little nettled. "Perhaps Tinker Bell will tell
me."
"Oh yes, Tinker Bell
will tell you," Wendy retorted scornfully. "She is an
abandoned little creature."
Here Tink, who was
in her bedroom, eavesdropping, squeaked out something
impudent.
"She says she
glories in being abandoned," Peter interpreted.
He had a sudden
idea. "Perhaps Tink wants to be my mother?"
"You silly ass!"
cried Tinker Bell in a passion.
She had said it so
often that Wendy needed no translation.
"I almost agree with
her," Wendy snapped. Fancy Wendy snapping! But she had been
much tried, and she little knew what was to happen before
the night was out. If she had known she would not have
snapped.
None of them knew.
Perhaps it was best not to know. Their ignorance gave them
one more glad hour; and as it was to be their last hour on
the island, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad
minutes in it. They sang and danced in their night-gowns.
Such a deliciously creepy song it was, in which they
pretended to be frightened at their own shadows, little
witting that so soon shadows would close in upon them, from
whom they would shrink in real fear. So uproariously gay was
the dance, and how they buffeted each other on the bed and
out of it! It was a pillow fight rather than a dance, and
when it was finished, the pillows insisted on one bout more,
like partners who know that they may never meet again. The
stories they told, before it was time for Wendy's good-night
story! Even Slightly tried to tell a story that night, but
the beginning was so fearfully dull that it appalled not
only the others but himself, and he said happily:
"Yes, it is a dull
beginning. I say, let us pretend that it is the end."
And then at last
they all got into bed for Wendy's story, the story they
loved best, the story Peter hated. Usually when she began to
tell this story he left the room or put his hands over his
ears; and possibly if he had done either of those things
this time they might all still be on the island. But
to-night he remained on his stool; and we shall see what
happened.
Chapter 11
WENDY'S STORY
"Listen, then," said
Wendy, settling down to her story, with Michael at her feet
and seven boys in the bed. "There was once a gentleman—"
"I had rather he had
been a lady," Curly said.
"I wish he had been
a white rat," said Nibs.
"Quiet," their
mother admonished [cautioned] them. "There was a lady also,
and—"
"Oh, mummy," cried
the first twin, "you mean that there is a lady also, don't
you? She is not dead, is she?"
"Oh, no."
"I am awfully glad
she isn't dead," said Tootles. "Are you glad, John?"
"Of course I am."
"Are you glad,
Nibs?"
"Rather."
"Are you glad,
Twins?"
"We are glad."
"Oh dear," sighed
Wendy.
"Little less noise
there," Peter called out, determined that she should have
fair play, however beastly a story it might be in his
opinion.
"The gentleman's
name," Wendy continued, "was Mr. Darling, and her name was
Mrs. Darling."
"I knew them," John
said, to annoy the others.
"I think I knew
them," said Michael rather doubtfully.
"They were married,
you know," explained Wendy, "and what do you think they
had?"
"White rats," cried
Nibs, inspired.
"No."
"It's awfully
puzzling," said Tootles, who knew the story by heart.
"Quiet, Tootles.
They had three descendants."
"What is
descendants?"
"Well, you are one,
Twin."
"Did you hear that,
John? I am a descendant."
"Descendants are
only children," said John.
"Oh dear, oh dear,"
sighed Wendy. "Now these three children had a faithful nurse
called Nana; but Mr. Darling was angry with her and chained
her up in the yard, and so all the children flew away."
"It's an awfully
good story," said Nibs.
"They flew away,"
Wendy continued, "to the Neverland, where the lost children
are."
"I just thought they
did," Curly broke in excitedly. "I don't know how it is, but
I just thought they did!"
"O Wendy," cried
Tootles, "was one of the lost children called Tootles?"
"Yes, he was."
"I am in a story.
Hurrah, I am in a story, Nibs."
"Hush. Now I want
you to consider the feelings of the unhappy parents with all
their children flown away."
"Oo!" they all
moaned, though they were not really considering the feelings
of the unhappy parents one jot.
"Think of the empty
beds!"
"Oo!"
"It's awfully sad,"
the first twin said cheerfully.
"I don't see how it
can have a happy ending," said the second twin. "Do you,
Nibs?"
"I'm frightfully
anxious."
"If you knew how
great is a mother's love," Wendy told them triumphantly,
"you would have no fear." She had now come to the part that
Peter hated.
"I do like a
mother's love," said Tootles, hitting Nibs with a pillow.
"Do you like a mother's love, Nibs?"
"I do just," said
Nibs, hitting back.
"You see," Wendy
said complacently, "our heroine knew that the mother would
always leave the window open for her children to fly back
by; so they stayed away for years and had a lovely time."
"Did they ever go
back?"
"Let us now," said
Wendy, bracing herself up for her finest effort, "take a
peep into the future;" and they all gave themselves the
twist that makes peeps into the future easier. "Years have
rolled by, and who is this elegant lady of uncertain age
alighting at London Station?"
"O Wendy, who is
she?" cried Nibs, every bit as excited as if he didn't know.
"Can it be—yes—no—it
is—the fair Wendy!"
"Oh!"
"And who are the two
noble portly figures accompanying her, now grown to man's
estate? Can they be John and Michael? They are!"
"Oh!"
"'See, dear
brothers,' says Wendy pointing upwards, 'there is the window
still standing open. Ah, now we are rewarded for our sublime
faith in a mother's love.' So up they flew to their mummy
and daddy, and pen cannot describe the happy scene, over
which we draw a veil."
That was the story,
and they were as pleased with it as the fair narrator
herself. Everything just as it should be, you see. Off we
skip like the most heartless things in the world, which is
what children are, but so attractive; and we have an
entirely selfish time, and then when we have need of special
attention we nobly return for it, confident that we shall be
rewarded instead of smacked.
So great indeed was
their faith in a mother's love that they felt they could
afford to be callous for a bit longer.
But there was one
there who knew better, and when Wendy finished he uttered a
hollow groan.
"What is it, Peter?"
she cried, running to him, thinking he was ill. She felt him
solicitously, lower down than his chest. "Where is it,
Peter?"
"It isn't that kind
of pain," Peter replied darkly.
"Then what kind is
it?"
"Wendy, you are
wrong about mothers."
They all gathered
round him in affright, so alarming was his agitation; and
with a fine candour he told them what he had hitherto
concealed.
"Long ago," he said,
"I thought like you that my mother would always keep the
window open for me, so I stayed away for moons and moons and
moons, and then flew back; but the window was barred, for
mother had forgotten all about me, and there was another
little boy sleeping in my bed."
I am not sure that
this was true, but Peter thought it was true; and it scared
them.
"Are you sure
mothers are like that?"
"Yes."
So this was the
truth about mothers. The toads!
Still it is best to
be careful; and no one knows so quickly as a child when he
should give in. "Wendy, let us [let's] go home," cried John
and Michael together.
"Yes," she said,
clutching them.
"Not to-night?"
asked the lost boys bewildered. They knew in what they
called their hearts that one can get on quite well without a
mother, and that it is only the mothers who think you can't.
"At once," Wendy
replied resolutely, for the horrible thought had come to
her: "Perhaps mother is in half mourning by this time."
This dread made her
forgetful of what must be Peter's feelings, and she said to
him rather sharply, "Peter, will you make the necessary
arrangements?"
"If you wish it," he
replied, as coolly as if she had asked him to pass the nuts.
Not so much as a
sorry-to-lose-you between them! If she did not mind the
parting, he was going to show her, was Peter, that neither
did he.
But of course he
cared very much; and he was so full of wrath against
grown-ups, who, as usual, were spoiling everything, that as
soon as he got inside his tree he breathed intentionally
quick short breaths at the rate of about five to a second.
He did this because there is a saying in the Neverland that,
every time you breathe, a grown-up dies; and Peter was
killing them off vindictively as fast as possible.
Then having given
the necessary instructions to the redskins he returned to
the home, where an unworthy scene had been enacted in his
absence. Panic-stricken at the thought of losing Wendy the
lost boys had advanced upon her threateningly.
"It will be worse
than before she came," they cried.
"We shan't let her
go."
"Let's keep her
prisoner."
"Ay, chain her up."
In her extremity an
instinct told her to which of them to turn.
"Tootles," she
cried, "I appeal to you."
Was it not strange?
She appealed to Tootles, quite the silliest one.
Grandly, however,
did Tootles respond. For that one moment he dropped his
silliness and spoke with dignity.
"I am just Tootles,"
he said, "and nobody minds me. But the first who does not
behave to Wendy like an English gentleman I will blood him
severely."
He drew back his
hanger; and for that instant his sun was at noon. The others
held back uneasily. Then Peter returned, and they saw at
once that they would get no support from him. He would keep
no girl in the Neverland against her will.
"Wendy," he said,
striding up and down, "I have asked the redskins to guide
you through the wood, as flying tires you so."
"Thank you, Peter."
"Then," he
continued, in the short sharp voice of one accustomed to be
obeyed, "Tinker Bell will take you across the sea. Wake her,
Nibs."
Nibs had to knock
twice before he got an answer, though Tink had really been
sitting up in bed listening for some time.
"Who are you? How
dare you? Go away," she cried.
"You are to get up,
Tink," Nibs called, "and take Wendy on a journey."
Of course Tink had
been delighted to hear that Wendy was going; but she was
jolly well determined not to be her courier, and she said so
in still more offensive language. Then she pretended to be
asleep again.
"She says she
won't!" Nibs exclaimed, aghast at such insubordination,
whereupon Peter went sternly toward the young lady's
chamber.
"Tink," he rapped
out, "if you don't get up and dress at once I will open the
curtains, and then we shall all see you in your negligee
[nightgown]."
This made her leap
to the floor. "Who said I wasn't getting up?" she cried.
In the meantime the
boys were gazing very forlornly at Wendy, now equipped with
John and Michael for the journey. By this time they were
dejected, not merely because they were about to lose her,
but also because they felt that she was going off to
something nice to which they had not been invited. Novelty
was beckoning to them as usual.
Crediting them with
a nobler feeling Wendy melted.
"Dear ones," she
said, "if you will all come with me I feel almost sure I can
get my father and mother to adopt you."
The invitation was
meant specially for Peter, but each of the boys was thinking
exclusively of himself, and at once they jumped with joy.
"But won't they
think us rather a handful?" Nibs asked in the middle of his
jump.
"Oh no," said Wendy,
rapidly thinking it out, "it will only mean having a few
beds in the drawing-room; they can be hidden behind the
screens on first Thursdays."
"Peter, can we go?"
they all cried imploringly. They took it for granted that if
they went he would go also, but really they scarcely cared.
Thus children are ever ready, when novelty knocks, to desert
their dearest ones.
"All right," Peter
replied with a bitter smile, and immediately they rushed to
get their things.
"And now, Peter,"
Wendy said, thinking she had put everything right, "I am
going to give you your medicine before you go." She loved to
give them medicine, and undoubtedly gave them too much. Of
course it was only water, but it was out of a bottle, and
she always shook the bottle and counted the drops, which
gave it a certain medicinal quality. On this occasion,
however, she did not give Peter his draught [portion], for
just as she had prepared it, she saw a look on his face that
made her heart sink.
"Get your things,
Peter," she cried, shaking.
"No," he answered,
pretending indifference, "I am not going with you, Wendy."
"Yes, Peter."
"No."
To show that her
departure would leave him unmoved, he skipped up and down
the room, playing gaily on his heartless pipes. She had to
run about after him, though it was rather undignified.
"To find your
mother," she coaxed.
Now, if Peter had
ever quite had a mother, he no longer missed her. He could
do very well without one. He had thought them out, and
remembered only their bad points.
"No, no," he told
Wendy decisively; "perhaps she would say I was old, and I
just want always to be a little boy and to have fun."
"But, Peter—"
"No."
And so the others
had to be told.
"Peter isn't
coming."
Peter not coming!
They gazed blankly at him, their sticks over their backs,
and on each stick a bundle. Their first thought was that if
Peter was not going he had probably changed his mind about
letting them go.
But he was far too
proud for that. "If you find your mothers," he said darkly,
"I hope you will like them."
The awful cynicism
of this made an uncomfortable impression, and most of them
began to look rather doubtful. After all, their faces said,
were they not noodles to want to go?
"Now then," cried
Peter, "no fuss, no blubbering; good-bye, Wendy;" and he
held out his hand cheerily, quite as if they must really go
now, for he had something important to do.
She had to take his
hand, and there was no indication that he would prefer a
thimble.
"You will remember
about changing your flannels, Peter?" she said, lingering
over him. She was always so particular about their flannels.
"Yes."
"And you will take
your medicine?"
"Yes."
That seemed to be
everything, and an awkward pause followed. Peter, however,
was not the kind that breaks down before other people. "Are
you ready, Tinker Bell?" he called out.
"Ay, ay."
"Then lead the way."
Tink darted up the
nearest tree; but no one followed her, for it was at this
moment that the pirates made their dreadful attack upon the
redskins. Above, where all had been so still, the air was
rent with shrieks and the clash of steel. Below, there was
dead silence. Mouths opened and remained open. Wendy fell on
her knees, but her arms were extended toward Peter. All arms
were extended to him, as if suddenly blown in his direction;
they were beseeching him mutely not to desert them. As for
Peter, he seized his sword, the same he thought he had slain
Barbecue with, and the lust of battle was in his eye.
Chapter 12
THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF
The pirate attack
had been a complete surprise: a sure proof that the
unscrupulous Hook had conducted it improperly, for to
surprise redskins fairly is beyond the wit of the white man.
By all the unwritten
laws of savage warfare it is always the redskin who attacks,
and with the wiliness of his race he does it just before the
dawn, at which time he knows the courage of the whites to be
at its lowest ebb. The white men have in the meantime made a
rude stockade on the summit of yonder undulating ground, at
the foot of which a stream runs, for it is destruction to be
too far from water. There they await the onslaught, the
inexperienced ones clutching their revolvers and treading on
twigs, but the old hands sleeping tranquilly until just
before the dawn. Through the long black night the savage
scouts wriggle, snake-like, among the grass without stirring
a blade. The brushwood closes behind them, as silently as
sand into which a mole has dived. Not a sound is to be
heard, save when they give vent to a wonderful imitation of
the lonely call of the coyote. The cry is answered by other
braves; and some of them do it even better than the coyotes,
who are not very good at it. So the chill hours wear on, and
the long suspense is horribly trying to the paleface who has
to live through it for the first time; but to the trained
hand those ghastly calls and still ghastlier silences are
but an intimation of how the night is marching.
That this was the
usual procedure was so well known to Hook that in
disregarding it he cannot be excused on the plea of
ignorance.
The Piccaninnies, on
their part, trusted implicitly to his honour, and their
whole action of the night stands out in marked contrast to
his. They left nothing undone that was consistent with the
reputation of their tribe. With that alertness of the senses
which is at once the marvel and despair of civilised
peoples, they knew that the pirates were on the island from
the moment one of them trod on a dry stick; and in an
incredibly short space of time the coyote cries began. Every
foot of ground between the spot where Hook had landed his
forces and the home under the trees was stealthily examined
by braves wearing their mocassins with the heels in front.
They found only one hillock with a stream at its base, so
that Hook had no choice; here he must establish himself and
wait for just before the dawn. Everything being thus mapped
out with almost diabolical cunning, the main body of the
redskins folded their blankets around them, and in the
phlegmatic manner that is to them, the pearl of manhood
squatted above the children's home, awaiting the cold moment
when they should deal pale death.
Here dreaming,
though wide-awake, of the exquisite tortures to which they
were to put him at break of day, those confiding savages
were found by the treacherous Hook. From the accounts
afterwards supplied by such of the scouts as escaped the
carnage, he does not seem even to have paused at the rising
ground, though it is certain that in that grey light he must
have seen it: no thought of waiting to be attacked appears
from first to last to have visited his subtle mind; he would
not even hold off till the night was nearly spent; on he
pounded with no policy but to fall to [get into combat].
What could the bewildered scouts do, masters as they were of
every war-like artifice save this one, but trot helplessly
after him, exposing themselves fatally to view, while they
gave pathetic utterance to the coyote cry.
Around the brave
Tiger Lily were a dozen of her stoutest warriors, and they
suddenly saw the perfidious pirates bearing down upon them.
Fell from their eyes then the film through which they had
looked at victory. No more would they torture at the stake.
For them the happy hunting-grounds was now. They knew it;
but as their father's sons they acquitted themselves. Even
then they had time to gather in a phalanx [dense formation]
that would have been hard to break had they risen quickly,
but this they were forbidden to do by the traditions of
their race. It is written that the noble savage must never
express surprise in the presence of the white. Thus terrible
as the sudden appearance of the pirates must have been to
them, they remained stationary for a moment, not a muscle
moving; as if the foe had come by invitation. Then, indeed,
the tradition gallantly upheld, they seized their weapons,
and the air was torn with the war-cry; but it was now too
late.
It is no part of
ours to describe what was a massacre rather than a fight.
Thus perished many of the flower of the Piccaninny tribe.
Not all unavenged did they die, for with Lean Wolf fell Alf
Mason, to disturb the Spanish Main no more, and among others
who bit the dust were Geo. Scourie, Chas. Turley, and the
Alsatian Foggerty. Turley fell to the tomahawk of the
terrible Panther, who ultimately cut a way through the
pirates with Tiger Lily and a small remnant of the tribe.
To what extent Hook
is to blame for his tactics on this occasion is for the
historian to decide. Had he waited on the rising ground till
the proper hour he and his men would probably have been
butchered; and in judging him it is only fair to take this
into account. What he should perhaps have done was to
acquaint his opponents that he proposed to follow a new
method. On the other hand, this, as destroying the element
of surprise, would have made his strategy of no avail, so
that the whole question is beset with difficulties. One
cannot at least withhold a reluctant admiration for the wit
that had conceived so bold a scheme, and the fell [deadly]
genius with which it was carried out.
What were his own
feelings about himself at that triumphant moment? Fain
[gladly] would his dogs have known, as breathing heavily and
wiping their cutlasses, they gathered at a discreet distance
from his hook, and squinted through their ferret eyes at
this extraordinary man. Elation must have been in his heart,
but his face did not reflect it: ever a dark and solitary
enigma, he stood aloof from his followers in spirit as in
substance.
The night's work was
not yet over, for it was not the redskins he had come out to
destroy; they were but the bees to be smoked, so that he
should get at the honey. It was Pan he wanted, Pan and Wendy
and their band, but chiefly Pan.
Peter was such a
small boy that one tends to wonder at the man's hatred of
him. True he had flung Hook's arm to the crocodile, but even
this and the increased insecurity of life to which it led,
owing to the crocodile's pertinacity [persistance], hardly
account for a vindictiveness so relentless and malignant.
The truth is that there was a something about Peter which
goaded the pirate captain to frenzy. It was not his courage,
it was not his engaging appearance, it was not—. There is no
beating about the bush, for we know quite well what it was,
and have got to tell. It was Peter's cockiness.
This had got on
Hook's nerves; it made his iron claw twitch, and at night it
disturbed him like an insect. While Peter lived, the
tortured man felt that he was a lion in a cage into which a
sparrow had come.
The question now was
how to get down the trees, or how to get his dogs down? He
ran his greedy eyes over them, searching for the thinnest
ones. They wriggled uncomfortably, for they knew he would
not scruple [hesitate] to ram them down with poles.
In the meantime,
what of the boys? We have seen them at the first clang of
the weapons, turned as it were into stone figures,
open-mouthed, all appealing with outstretched arms to Peter;
and we return to them as their mouths close, and their arms
fall to their sides. The pandemonium above has ceased almost
as suddenly as it arose, passed like a fierce gust of wind;
but they know that in the passing it has determined their
fate.
Which side had won?
The pirates,
listening avidly at the mouths of the trees, heard the
question put by every boy, and alas, they also heard Peter's
answer.
"If the redskins
have won," he said, "they will beat the tom-tom; it is
always their sign of victory."
Now Smee had found
the tom-tom, and was at that moment sitting on it. "You will
never hear the tom-tom again," he muttered, but inaudibly of
course, for strict silence had been enjoined [urged]. To his
amazement Hook signed him to beat the tom-tom, and slowly
there came to Smee an understanding of the dreadful
wickedness of the order. Never, probably, had this simple
man admired Hook so much.
Twice Smee beat upon
the instrument, and then stopped to listen gleefully.
"The tom-tom," the
miscreants heard Peter cry; "an Indian victory!"
The doomed children
answered with a cheer that was music to the black hearts
above, and almost immediately they repeated their good-byes
to Peter. This puzzled the pirates, but all their other
feelings were swallowed by a base delight that the enemy
were about to come up the trees. They smirked at each other
and rubbed their hands. Rapidly and silently Hook gave his
orders: one man to each tree, and the others to arrange
themselves in a line two yards apart.
Chapter 13
DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?
The more quickly
this horror is disposed of the better. The first to emerge
from his tree was Curly. He rose out of it into the arms of
Cecco, who flung him to Smee, who flung him to Starkey, who
flung him to Bill Jukes, who flung him to Noodler, and so he
was tossed from one to another till he fell at the feet of
the black pirate. All the boys were plucked from their trees
in this ruthless manner; and several of them were in the air
at a time, like bales of goods flung from hand to hand.
A different
treatment was accorded to Wendy, who came last. With
ironical politeness Hook raised his hat to her, and,
offering her his arm, escorted her to the spot where the
others were being gagged. He did it with such an air, he was
so frightfully DISTINGUE [imposingly distinguished], that
she was too fascinated to cry out. She was only a little
girl.
Perhaps it is
tell-tale to divulge that for a moment Hook entranced her,
and we tell on her only because her slip led to strange
results. Had she haughtily unhanded him (and we should have
loved to write it of her), she would have been hurled
through the air like the others, and then Hook would
probably not have been present at the tying of the children;
and had he not been at the tying he would not have
discovered Slightly's secret, and without the secret he
could not presently have made his foul attempt on Peter's
life.
They were tied to
prevent their flying away, doubled up with their knees close
to their ears; and for the trussing of them the black pirate
had cut a rope into nine equal pieces. All went well until
Slightly's turn came, when he was found to be like those
irritating parcels that use up all the string in going round
and leave no tags [ends] with which to tie a knot. The
pirates kicked him in their rage, just as you kick the
parcel (though in fairness you should kick the string); and
strange to say it was Hook who told them to belay their
violence. His lip was curled with malicious triumph. While
his dogs were merely sweating because every time they tried
to pack the unhappy lad tight in one part he bulged out in
another, Hook's master mind had gone far beneath Slightly's
surface, probing not for effects but for causes; and his
exultation showed that he had found them. Slightly, white to
the gills, knew that Hook had surprised [discovered] his
secret, which was this, that no boy so blown out could use a
tree wherein an average man need stick. Poor Slightly, most
wretched of all the children now, for he was in a panic
about Peter, bitterly regretted what he had done. Madly
addicted to the drinking of water when he was hot, he had
swelled in consequence to his present girth, and instead of
reducing himself to fit his tree he had, unknown to the
others, whittled his tree to make it fit him.
Sufficient of this
Hook guessed to persuade him that Peter at last lay at his
mercy, but no word of the dark design that now formed in the
subterranean caverns of his mind crossed his lips; he merely
signed that the captives were to be conveyed to the ship,
and that he would be alone.
How to convey them?
Hunched up in their ropes they might indeed be rolled down
hill like barrels, but most of the way lay through a morass.
Again Hook's genius surmounted difficulties. He indicated
that the little house must be used as a conveyance. The
children were flung into it, four stout pirates raised it on
their shoulders, the others fell in behind, and singing the
hateful pirate chorus the strange procession set off through
the wood. I don't know whether any of the children were
crying; if so, the singing drowned the sound; but as the
little house disappeared in the forest, a brave though tiny
jet of smoke issued from its chimney as if defying Hook.
Hook saw it, and it
did Peter a bad service. It dried up any trickle of pity for
him that may have remained in the pirate's infuriated
breast.
The first thing he
did on finding himself alone in the fast falling night was
to tiptoe to Slightly's tree, and make sure that it provided
him with a passage. Then for long he remained brooding; his
hat of ill omen on the sward, so that any gentle breeze
which had arisen might play refreshingly through his hair.
Dark as were his thoughts his blue eyes were as soft as the
periwinkle. Intently he listened for any sound from the
nether world, but all was as silent below as above; the
house under the ground seemed to be but one more empty
tenement in the void. Was that boy asleep, or did he stand
waiting at the foot of Slightly's tree, with his dagger in
his hand?
There was no way of
knowing, save by going down. Hook let his cloak slip softly
to the ground, and then biting his lips till a lewd blood
stood on them, he stepped into the tree. He was a brave man,
but for a moment he had to stop there and wipe his brow,
which was dripping like a candle. Then, silently, he let
himself go into the unknown.
He arrived
unmolested at the foot of the shaft, and stood still again,
biting at his breath, which had almost left him. As his eyes
became accustomed to the dim light various objects in the
home under the trees took shape; but the only one on which
his greedy gaze rested, long sought for and found at last,
was the great bed. On the bed lay Peter fast asleep.
Unaware of the
tragedy being enacted above, Peter had continued, for a
little time after the children left, to play gaily on his
pipes: no doubt rather a forlorn attempt to prove to himself
that he did not care. Then he decided not to take his
medicine, so as to grieve Wendy. Then he lay down on the bed
outside the coverlet, to vex her still more; for she had
always tucked them inside it, because you never know that
you may not grow chilly at the turn of the night. Then he
nearly cried; but it struck him how indignant she would be
if he laughed instead; so he laughed a haughty laugh and
fell asleep in the middle of it.
Sometimes, though
not often, he had dreams, and they were more painful than
the dreams of other boys. For hours he could not be
separated from these dreams, though he wailed piteously in
them. They had to do, I think, with the riddle of his
existence. At such times it had been Wendy's custom to take
him out of bed and sit with him on her lap, soothing him in
dear ways of her own invention, and when he grew calmer to
put him back to bed before he quite woke up, so that he
should not know of the indignity to which she had subjected
him. But on this occasion he had fallen at once into a
dreamless sleep. One arm dropped over the edge of the bed,
one leg was arched, and the unfinished part of his laugh was
stranded on his mouth, which was open, showing the little
pearls.
Thus defenceless
Hook found him. He stood silent at the foot of the tree
looking across the chamber at his enemy. Did no feeling of
compassion disturb his sombre breast? The man was not wholly
evil; he loved flowers (I have been told) and sweet music
(he was himself no mean performer on the harpsichord); and,
let it be frankly admitted, the idyllic nature of the scene
stirred him profoundly. Mastered by his better self he would
have returned reluctantly up the tree, but for one thing.
What stayed him was
Peter's impertinent appearance as he slept. The open mouth,
the drooping arm, the arched knee: they were such a
personification of cockiness as, taken together, will never
again, one may hope, be presented to eyes so sensitive to
their offensiveness. They steeled Hook's heart. If his rage
had broken him into a hundred pieces every one of them would
have disregarded the incident, and leapt at the sleeper.
Though a light from
the one lamp shone dimly on the bed, Hook stood in darkness
himself, and at the first stealthy step forward he
discovered an obstacle, the door of Slightly's tree. It did
not entirely fill the aperture, and he had been looking over
it. Feeling for the catch, he found to his fury that it was
low down, beyond his reach. To his disordered brain it
seemed then that the irritating quality in Peter's face and
figure visibly increased, and he rattled the door and flung
himself against it. Was his enemy to escape him after all?
But what was that?
The red in his eye had caught sight of Peter's medicine
standing on a ledge within easy reach. He fathomed what it
was straightaway, and immediately knew that the sleeper was
in his power.
Lest he should be
taken alive, Hook always carried about his person a dreadful
drug, blended by himself of all the death-dealing rings that
had come into his possession. These he had boiled down into
a yellow liquid quite unknown to science, which was probably
the most virulent poison in existence.
Five drops of this
he now added to Peter's cup. His hand shook, but it was in
exultation rather than in shame. As he did it he avoided
glancing at the sleeper, but not lest pity should unnerve
him; merely to avoid spilling. Then one long gloating look
he cast upon his victim, and turning, wormed his way with
difficulty up the tree. As he emerged at the top he looked
the very spirit of evil breaking from its hole. Donning his
hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his cloak around him,
holding one end in front as if to conceal his person from
the night, of which it was the blackest part, and muttering
strangely to himself, stole away through the trees.
Peter slept on. The
light guttered [burned to edges] and went out, leaving the
tenement in darkness; but still he slept. It must have been
not less than ten o'clock by the crocodile, when he suddenly
sat up in his bed, wakened by he knew not what. It was a
soft cautious tapping on the door of his tree.
Soft and cautious,
but in that stillness it was sinister. Peter felt for his
dagger till his hand gripped it. Then he spoke.
"Who is that?"
For long there was
no answer: then again the knock.
"Who are you?"
No answer.
He was thrilled, and
he loved being thrilled. In two strides he reached the door.
Unlike Slightly's door, it filled the aperture [opening], so
that he could not see beyond it, nor could the one knocking
see him.
"I won't open unless
you speak," Peter cried.
Then at last the
visitor spoke, in a lovely bell-like voice.
"Let me in, Peter."
It was Tink, and
quickly he unbarred to her. She flew in excitedly, her face
flushed and her dress stained with mud.
"What is it?"
"Oh, you could never
guess!" she cried, and offered him three guesses. "Out with
it!" he shouted, and in one ungrammatical sentence, as long
as the ribbons that conjurers [magicians] pull from their
mouths, she told of the capture of Wendy and the boys.
Peter's heart bobbed
up and down as he listened. Wendy bound, and on the pirate
ship; she who loved everything to be just so!
"I'll rescue her!"
he cried, leaping at his weapons. As he leapt he thought of
something he could do to please her. He could take his
medicine.
His hand closed on
the fatal draught.
"No!" shrieked
Tinker Bell, who had heard Hook mutter about his deed as he
sped through the forest.
"Why not?"
"It is poisoned."
"Poisoned? Who could
have poisoned it?"
"Hook."
"Don't be silly. How
could Hook have got down here?"
Alas, Tinker Bell
could not explain this, for even she did not know the dark
secret of Slightly's tree. Nevertheless Hook's words had
left no room for doubt. The cup was poisoned.
"Besides," said
Peter, quite believing himself "I never fell asleep."
He raised the cup.
No time for words now; time for deeds; and with one of her
lightning movements Tink got between his lips and the
draught, and drained it to the dregs.
"Why, Tink, how dare
you drink my medicine?"
But she did not
answer. Already she was reeling in the air.
"What is the matter
with you?" cried Peter, suddenly afraid.
"It was poisoned,
Peter," she told him softly; "and now I am going to be
dead."
"O Tink, did you
drink it to save me?"
"Yes."
"But why, Tink?"
Her wings would
scarcely carry her now, but in reply she alighted on his
shoulder and gave his nose a loving bite. She whispered in
his ear "You silly ass," and then, tottering to her chamber,
lay down on the bed.
His head almost
filled the fourth wall of her little room as he knelt near
her in distress. Every moment her light was growing fainter;
and he knew that if it went out she would be no more. She
liked his tears so much that she put out her beautiful
finger and let them run over it.
Her voice was so low
that at first he could not make out what she said. Then he
made it out. She was saying that she thought she could get
well again if children believed in fairies.
Peter flung out his
arms. There were no children there, and it was night time;
but he addressed all who might be dreaming of the Neverland,
and who were therefore nearer to him than you think: boys
and girls in their nighties, and naked papooses in their
baskets hung from trees.
"Do you believe?" he
cried.
Tink sat up in bed
almost briskly to listen to her fate.
She fancied she
heard answers in the affirmative, and then again she wasn't
sure.
"What do you think?"
she asked Peter.
"If you believe," he
shouted to them, "clap your hands; don't let Tink die."
Many clapped.
Some didn't.
A few beasts hissed.
The clapping stopped
suddenly; as if countless mothers had rushed to their
nurseries to see what on earth was happening; but already
Tink was saved. First her voice grew strong, then she popped
out of bed, then she was flashing through the room more
merry and impudent than ever. She never thought of thanking
those who believed, but she would have like to get at the
ones who had hissed.
"And now to rescue
Wendy!"
The moon was riding
in a cloudy heaven when Peter rose from his tree, begirt
[belted] with weapons and wearing little else, to set out
upon his perilous quest. It was not such a night as he would
have chosen. He had hoped to fly, keeping not far from the
ground so that nothing unwonted should escape his eyes; but
in that fitful light to have flown low would have meant
trailing his shadow through the trees, thus disturbing birds
and acquainting a watchful foe that he was astir.
He regretted now
that he had given the birds of the island such strange names
that they are very wild and difficult of approach.
There was no other
course but to press forward in redskin fashion, at which
happily he was an adept [expert]. But in what direction, for
he could not be sure that the children had been taken to the
ship? A light fall of snow had obliterated all footmarks;
and a deathly silence pervaded the island, as if for a space
Nature stood still in horror of the recent carnage. He had
taught the children something of the forest lore that he had
himself learned from Tiger Lily and Tinker Bell, and knew
that in their dire hour they were not likely to forget it.
Slightly, if he had an opportunity, would blaze [cut a mark
in] the trees, for instance, Curly would drop seeds, and
Wendy would leave her handkerchief at some important place.
The morning was needed to search for such guidance, and he
could not wait. The upper world had called him, but would
give no help.
The crocodile passed
him, but not another living thing, not a sound, not a
movement; and yet he knew well that sudden death might be at
the next tree, or stalking him from behind.
He swore this
terrible oath: "Hook or me this time."
Now he crawled
forward like a snake, and again erect, he darted across a
space on which the moonlight played, one finger on his lip
and his dagger at the ready. He was frightfully happy.
Chapter 14
THE PIRATE SHIP
One green light
squinting over Kidd's Creek, which is near the mouth of the
pirate river, marked where the brig, the JOLLY ROGER, lay,
low in the water; a rakish-looking [speedy-looking] craft
foul to the hull, every beam in her detestable, like ground
strewn with mangled feathers. She was the cannibal of the
seas, and scarce needed that watchful eye, for she floated
immune in the horror of her name.
She was wrapped in
the blanket of night, through which no sound from her could
have reached the shore. There was little sound, and none
agreeable save the whir of the ship's sewing machine at
which Smee sat, ever industrious and obliging, the essence
of the commonplace, pathetic Smee. I know not why he was so
infinitely pathetic, unless it were because he was so
pathetically unaware of it; but even strong men had to turn
hastily from looking at him, and more than once on summer
evenings he had touched the fount of Hook's tears and made
it flow. Of this, as of almost everything else, Smee was
quite unconscious.
A few of the pirates
leant over the bulwarks, drinking in the miasma [putrid
mist] of the night; others sprawled by barrels over games of
dice and cards; and the exhausted four who had carried the
little house lay prone on the deck, where even in their
sleep they rolled skillfully to this side or that out of
Hook's reach, lest he should claw them mechanically in
passing.
Hook trod the deck
in thought. O man unfathomable. It was his hour of triumph.
Peter had been removed for ever from his path, and all the
other boys were in the brig, about to walk the plank. It was
his grimmest deed since the days when he had brought
Barbecue to heel; and knowing as we do how vain a tabernacle
is man, could we be surprised had he now paced the deck
unsteadily, bellied out by the winds of his success?
But there was no
elation in his gait, which kept pace with the action of his
sombre mind. Hook was profoundly dejected.
He was often thus
when communing with himself on board ship in the quietude of
the night. It was because he was so terribly alone. This
inscrutable man never felt more alone than when surrounded
by his dogs. They were socially inferior to him.
Hook was not his
true name. To reveal who he really was would even at this
date set the country in a blaze; but as those who read
between the lines must already have guessed, he had been at
a famous public school; and its traditions still clung to
him like garments, with which indeed they are largely
concerned. Thus it was offensive to him even now to board a
ship in the same dress in which he grappled [attacked] her,
and he still adhered in his walk to the school's
distinguished slouch. But above all he retained the passion
for good form.
Good form! However
much he may have degenerated, he still knew that this is all
that really matters.
From far within him
he heard a creaking as of rusty portals, and through them
came a stern tap-tap-tap, like hammering in the night when
one cannot sleep. "Have you been good form to-day?" was
their eternal question.
"Fame, fame, that
glittering bauble, it is mine," he cried.
"Is it quite good
form to be distinguished at anything?" the tap-tap from his
school replied.
"I am the only man
whom Barbecue feared," he urged, "and Flint feared
Barbecue."
"Barbecue,
Flint—what house?" came the cutting retort.
Most disquieting
reflection of all, was it not bad form to think about good
form?
His vitals were
tortured by this problem. It was a claw within him sharper
than the iron one; and as it tore him, the perspiration
dripped down his tallow [waxy] countenance and streaked his
doublet. Ofttimes he drew his sleeve across his face, but
there was no damming that trickle.
Ah, envy not Hook.
There came to him a
presentiment of his early dissolution [death]. It was as if
Peter's terrible oath had boarded the ship. Hook felt a
gloomy desire to make his dying speech, lest presently there
should be no time for it.
"Better for Hook,"
he cried, "if he had had less ambition!" It was in his
darkest hours only that he referred to himself in the third
person.
"No little children
to love me!"
Strange that he
should think of this, which had never troubled him before;
perhaps the sewing machine brought it to his mind. For long
he muttered to himself, staring at Smee, who was hemming
placidly, under the conviction that all children feared him.
Feared him! Feared
Smee! There was not a child on board the brig that night who
did not already love him. He had said horrid things to them
and hit them with the palm of his hand, because he could not
hit with his fist, but they had only clung to him the more.
Michael had tried on his spectacles.
To tell poor Smee
that they thought him lovable! Hook itched to do it, but it
seemed too brutal. Instead, he revolved this mystery in his
mind: why do they find Smee lovable? He pursued the problem
like the sleuth-hound that he was. If Smee was lovable, what
was it that made him so? A terrible answer suddenly
presented itself—"Good form?"
Had the bo'sun good
form without knowing it, which is the best form of all?
He remembered that
you have to prove you don't know you have it before you are
eligible for Pop [an elite social club at Eton].
With a cry of rage
he raised his iron hand over Smee's head; but he did not
tear. What arrested him was this reflection:
"To claw a man
because he is good form, what would that be?"
"Bad form!"
The unhappy Hook was
as impotent [powerless] as he was damp, and he fell forward
like a cut flower.
His dogs thinking
him out of the way for a time, discipline instantly relaxed;
and they broke into a bacchanalian [drunken] dance, which
brought him to his feet at once, all traces of human
weakness gone, as if a bucket of water had passed over him.
"Quiet, you scugs,"
he cried, "or I'll cast anchor in you;" and at once the din
was hushed. "Are all the children chained, so that they
cannot fly away?"
"Ay, ay."
"Then hoist them
up."
The wretched
prisoners were dragged from the hold, all except Wendy, and
ranged in line in front of him. For a time he seemed
unconscious of their presence. He lolled at his ease,
humming, not unmelodiously, snatches of a rude song, and
fingering a pack of cards. Ever and anon the light from his
cigar gave a touch of colour to his face.
"Now then, bullies,"
he said briskly, "six of you walk the plank to-night, but I
have room for two cabin boys. Which of you is it to be?"
"Don't irritate him
unnecessarily," had been Wendy's instructions in the hold;
so Tootles stepped forward politely. Tootles hated the idea
of signing under such a man, but an instinct told him that
it would be prudent to lay the responsibility on an absent
person; and though a somewhat silly boy, he knew that
mothers alone are always willing to be the buffer. All
children know this about mothers, and despise them for it,
but make constant use of it.
So Tootles explained
prudently, "You see, sir, I don't think my mother would like
me to be a pirate. Would your mother like you to be a
pirate, Slightly?"
He winked at
Slightly, who said mournfully, "I don't think so," as if he
wished things had been otherwise. "Would your mother like
you to be a pirate, Twin?"
"I don't think so,"
said the first twin, as clever as the others. "Nibs, would—"
"Stow this gab,"
roared Hook, and the spokesmen were dragged back. "You,
boy," he said, addressing John, "you look as if you had a
little pluck in you. Didst never want to be a pirate, my
hearty?"
Now John had
sometimes experienced this hankering at maths. prep.; and he
was struck by Hook's picking him out.
"I once thought of
calling myself Red-handed Jack," he said diffidently.
"And a good name
too. We'll call you that here, bully, if you join."
"What do you think,
Michael?" asked John.
"What would you call
me if I join?" Michael demanded.
"Blackbeard Joe."
Michael was
naturally impressed. "What do you think, John?" He wanted
John to decide, and John wanted him to decide.
"Shall we still be
respectful subjects of the King?" John inquired.
Through Hook's teeth
came the answer: "You would have to swear, 'Down with the
King.'"
Perhaps John had not
behaved very well so far, but he shone out now.
"Then I refuse," he
cried, banging the barrel in front of Hook.
"And I refuse,"
cried Michael.
"Rule Britannia!"
squeaked Curly.
The infuriated
pirates buffeted them in the mouth; and Hook roared out,
"That seals your doom. Bring up their mother. Get the plank
ready."
They were only boys,
and they went white as they saw Jukes and Cecco preparing
the fatal plank. But they tried to look brave when Wendy was
brought up.
No words of mine can
tell you how Wendy despised those pirates. To the boys there
was at least some glamour in the pirate calling; but all
that she saw was that the ship had not been tidied for
years. There was not a porthole on the grimy glass of which
you might not have written with your finger "Dirty pig"; and
she had already written it on several. But as the boys
gathered round her she had no thought, of course, save for
them.
"So, my beauty,"
said Hook, as if he spoke in syrup, "you are to see your
children walk the plank."
Fine gentlemen
though he was, the intensity of his communings had soiled
his ruff, and suddenly he knew that she was gazing at it.
With a hasty gesture he tried to hide it, but he was too
late.
"Are they to die?"
asked Wendy, with a look of such frightful contempt that he
nearly fainted.
"They are," he
snarled. "Silence all," he called gloatingly, "for a
mother's last words to her children."
At this moment Wendy
was grand. "These are my last words, dear boys," she said
firmly. "I feel that I have a message to you from your real
mothers, and it is this: 'We hope our sons will die like
English gentlemen.'"
Even the pirates
were awed, and Tootles cried out hysterically, "I am going
to do what my mother hopes. What are you to do, Nibs?"
"What my mother
hopes. What are you to do, Twin?"
"What my mother
hopes. John, what are—"
But Hook had found
his voice again.
"Tie her up!" he
shouted.
It was Smee who tied
her to the mast. "See here, honey," he whispered, "I'll save
you if you promise to be my mother."
But not even for
Smee would she make such a promise. "I would almost rather
have no children at all," she said disdainfully
[scornfully].
It is sad to know
that not a boy was looking at her as Smee tied her to the
mast; the eyes of all were on the plank: that last little
walk they were about to take. They were no longer able to
hope that they would walk it manfully, for the capacity to
think had gone from them; they could stare and shiver only.
Hook smiled on them
with his teeth closed, and took a step toward Wendy. His
intention was to turn her face so that she should see they
boys walking the plank one by one. But he never reached her,
he never heard the cry of anguish he hoped to wring from
her. He heard something else instead.
It was the terrible
tick-tick of the crocodile.
They all heard
it—pirates, boys, Wendy; and immediately every head was
blown in one direction; not to the water whence the sound
proceeded, but toward Hook. All knew that what was about to
happen concerned him alone, and that from being actors they
were suddenly become spectators.
Very frightful was
it to see the change that came over him. It was as if he had
been clipped at every joint. He fell in a little heap.
The sound came
steadily nearer; and in advance of it came this ghastly
thought, "The crocodile is about to board the ship!"
Even the iron claw
hung inactive; as if knowing that it was no intrinsic part
of what the attacking force wanted. Left so fearfully alone,
any other man would have lain with his eyes shut where he
fell: but the gigantic brain of Hook was still working, and
under its guidance he crawled on the knees along the deck as
far from the sound as he could go. The pirates respectfully
cleared a passage for him, and it was only when he brought
up against the bulwarks that he spoke.
"Hide me!" he cried
hoarsely.
They gathered round
him, all eyes averted from the thing that was coming aboard.
They had no thought of fighting it. It was Fate.
Only when Hook was
hidden from them did curiosity loosen the limbs of the boys
so that they could rush to the ship's side to see the
crocodile climbing it. Then they got the strangest surprise
of the Night of Nights; for it was no crocodile that was
coming to their aid. It was Peter.
He signed to them
not to give vent to any cry of admiration that might rouse
suspicion. Then he went on ticking.
Chapter 15
"HOOK OR ME THIS TIME"
Odd things happen to
all of us on our way through life without our noticing for a
time that they have happened. Thus, to take an instance, we
suddenly discover that we have been deaf in one ear for we
don't know how long, but, say, half an hour. Now such an
experience had come that night to Peter. When last we saw
him he was stealing across the island with one finger to his
lips and his dagger at the ready. He had seen the crocodile
pass by without noticing anything peculiar about it, but by
and by he remembered that it had not been ticking. At first
he thought this eerie, but soon concluded rightly that the
clock had run down.
Without giving a
thought to what might be the feelings of a fellow-creature
thus abruptly deprived of its closest companion, Peter began
to consider how he could turn the catastrophe to his own
use; and he decided to tick, so that wild beasts should
believe he was the crocodile and let him pass unmolested. He
ticked superbly, but with one unforeseen result. The
crocodile was among those who heard the sound, and it
followed him, though whether with the purpose of regaining
what it had lost, or merely as a friend under the belief
that it was again ticking itself, will never be certainly
known, for, like slaves to a fixed idea, it was a stupid
beast.
Peter reached the
shore without mishap, and went straight on, his legs
encountering the water as if quite unaware that they had
entered a new element. Thus many animals pass from land to
water, but no other human of whom I know. As he swam he had
but one thought: "Hook or me this time." He had ticked so
long that he now went on ticking without knowing that he was
doing it. Had he known he would have stopped, for to board
the brig by help of the tick, though an ingenious idea, had
not occurred to him.
On the contrary, he
thought he had scaled her side as noiseless as a mouse; and
he was amazed to see the pirates cowering from him, with
Hook in their midst as abject as if he had heard the
crocodile.
The crocodile! No
sooner did Peter remember it than he heard the ticking. At
first he thought the sound did come from the crocodile, and
he looked behind him swiftly. They he realised that he was
doing it himself, and in a flash he understood the
situation. "How clever of me!" he thought at once, and
signed to the boys not to burst into applause.
It was at this
moment that Ed Teynte the quartermaster emerged from the
forecastle and came along the deck. Now, reader, time what
happened by your watch. Peter struck true and deep. John
clapped his hands on the ill-fated pirate's mouth to stifle
the dying groan. He fell forward. Four boys caught him to
prevent the thud. Peter gave the signal, and the carrion was
cast overboard. There was a splash, and then silence. How
long has it taken?
"One!" (Slightly had
begun to count.)
None too soon,
Peter, every inch of him on tiptoe, vanished into the cabin;
for more than one pirate was screwing up his courage to look
round. They could hear each other's distressed breathing
now, which showed them that the more terrible sound had
passed.
"It's gone,
captain," Smee said, wiping off his spectacles. "All's still
again."
Slowly Hook let his
head emerge from his ruff, and listened so intently that he
could have caught the echo of the tick. There was not a
sound, and he drew himself up firmly to his full height.
"Then here's to
Johnny Plank!" he cried brazenly, hating the boys more than
ever because they had seen him unbend. He broke into the
villainous ditty:
"Yo ho, yo ho, the frisky plank,
You walks along it so,
Till it goes down and you goes down
To Davy Jones below!"
To terrorize the
prisoners the more, though with a certain loss of dignity,
he danced along an imaginary plank, grimacing at them as he
sang; and when he finished he cried, "Do you want a touch of
the cat [o' nine tails] before you walk the plank?"
At that they fell on
their knees. "No, no!" they cried so piteously that every
pirate smiled.
"Fetch the cat,
Jukes," said Hook; "it's in the cabin."
The cabin! Peter was
in the cabin! The children gazed at each other.
"Ay, ay," said Jukes
blithely, and he strode into the cabin. They followed him
with their eyes; they scarce knew that Hook had resumed his
song, his dogs joining in with him:
"Yo ho, yo ho, the
scratching cat, Its tails are nine, you know, And when
they're writ upon your back—"
What was the last
line will never be known, for of a sudden the song was
stayed by a dreadful screech from the cabin. It wailed
through the ship, and died away. Then was heard a crowing
sound which was well understood by the boys, but to the
pirates was almost more eerie than the screech.
"What was that?"
cried Hook.
"Two," said Slightly
solemnly.
The Italian Cecco
hesitated for a moment and then swung into the cabin. He
tottered out, haggard.
"What's the matter
with Bill Jukes, you dog?" hissed Hook, towering over him.
"The matter wi' him
is he's dead, stabbed," replied Cecco in a hollow voice.
"Bill Jukes dead!"
cried the startled pirates.
"The cabin's as
black as a pit," Cecco said, almost gibbering, "but there is
something terrible in there: the thing you heard crowing."
The exultation of
the boys, the lowering looks of the pirates, both were seen
by Hook.
"Cecco," he said in
his most steely voice, "go back and fetch me out that
doodle-doo."
Cecco, bravest of
the brave, cowered before his captain, crying "No, no"; but
Hook was purring to his claw.
"Did you say you
would go, Cecco?" he said musingly.
Cecco went, first
flinging his arms despairingly. There was no more singing,
all listened now; and again came a death-screech and again a
crow.
No one spoke except
Slightly. "Three," he said.
Hook rallied his
dogs with a gesture. "'S'death and odds fish," he thundered,
"who is to bring me that doodle-doo?"
"Wait till Cecco
comes out," growled Starkey, and the others took up the cry.
"I think I heard you
volunteer, Starkey," said Hook, purring again.
"No, by thunder!"
Starkey cried.
"My hook thinks you
did," said Hook, crossing to him. "I wonder if it would not
be advisable, Starkey, to humour the hook?"
"I'll swing before I
go in there," replied Starkey doggedly, and again he had the
support of the crew.
"Is this mutiny?"
asked Hook more pleasantly than ever. "Starkey's
ringleader!"
"Captain, mercy!"
Starkey whimpered, all of a tremble now.
"Shake hands,
Starkey," said Hook, proffering his claw.
Starkey looked round
for help, but all deserted him. As he backed up Hook
advanced, and now the red spark was in his eye. With a
despairing scream the pirate leapt upon Long Tom and
precipitated himself into the sea.
"Four," said
Slightly.
"And now," Hook said
courteously, "did any other gentlemen say mutiny?" Seizing a
lantern and raising his claw with a menacing gesture, "I'll
bring out that doodle-doo myself," he said, and sped into
the cabin.
"Five." How Slightly
longed to say it. He wetted his lips to be ready, but Hook
came staggering out, without his lantern.
"Something blew out
the light," he said a little unsteadily.
"Something!" echoed
Mullins.
"What of Cecco?"
demanded Noodler.
"He's as dead as
Jukes," said Hook shortly.
His reluctance to
return to the cabin impressed them all unfavourably, and the
mutinous sounds again broke forth. All pirates are
superstitious, and Cookson cried, "They do say the surest
sign a ship's accurst is when there's one on board more than
can be accounted for."
"I've heard,"
muttered Mullins, "he always boards the pirate craft last.
Had he a tail, captain?"
"They say," said
another, looking viciously at Hook, "that when he comes it's
in the likeness of the wickedest man aboard."
"Had he a hook,
captain?" asked Cookson insolently; and one after another
took up the cry, "The ship's doomed!" At this the children
could not resist raising a cheer. Hook had well-nigh
forgotten his prisoners, but as he swung round on them now
his face lit up again.
"Lads," he cried to
his crew, "now here's a notion. Open the cabin door and
drive them in. Let them fight the doodle-doo for their
lives. If they kill him, we're so much the better; if he
kills them, we're none the worse."
For the last time
his dogs admired Hook, and devotedly they did his bidding.
The boys, pretending to struggle, were pushed into the cabin
and the door was closed on them.
"Now, listen!" cried
Hook, and all listened. But not one dared to face the door.
Yes, one, Wendy, who all this time had been bound to the
mast. It was for neither a scream nor a crow that she was
watching, it was for the reappearance of Peter.
She had not long to
wait. In the cabin he had found the thing for which he had
gone in search: the key that would free the children of
their manacles, and now they all stole forth, armed with
such weapons as they could find. First signing them to hide,
Peter cut Wendy's bonds, and then nothing could have been
easier than for them all to fly off together; but one thing
barred the way, an oath, "Hook or me this time." So when he
had freed Wendy, he whispered for her to conceal herself
with the others, and himself took her place by the mast, her
cloak around him so that he should pass for her. Then he
took a great breath and crowed.
To the pirates it
was a voice crying that all the boys lay slain in the cabin;
and they were panic-stricken. Hook tried to hearten them;
but like the dogs he had made them they showed him their
fangs, and he knew that if he took his eyes off them now
they would leap at him.
"Lads," he said,
ready to cajole or strike as need be, but never quailing for
an instant, "I've thought it out. There's a Jonah aboard."
"Ay," they snarled,
"a man wi' a hook."
"No, lads, no, it's
the girl. Never was luck on a pirate ship wi' a woman on
board. We'll right the ship when she's gone."
Some of them
remembered that this had been a saying of Flint's. "It's
worth trying," they said doubtfully.
"Fling the girl
overboard," cried Hook; and they made a rush at the figure
in the cloak.
"There's none can
save you now, missy," Mullins hissed jeeringly.
"There's one,"
replied the figure.
"Who's that?"
"Peter Pan the
avenger!" came the terrible answer; and as he spoke Peter
flung off his cloak. Then they all knew who 'twas that had
been undoing them in the cabin, and twice Hook essayed to
speak and twice he failed. In that frightful moment I think
his fierce heart broke.
At last he cried,
"Cleave him to the brisket!" but without conviction.
"Down, boys, and at
them!" Peter's voice rang out; and in another moment the
clash of arms was resounding through the ship. Had the
pirates kept together it is certain that they would have
won; but the onset came when they were still unstrung, and
they ran hither and thither, striking wildly, each thinking
himself the last survivor of the crew. Man to man they were
the stronger; but they fought on the defensive only, which
enabled the boys to hunt in pairs and choose their quarry.
Some of the miscreants leapt into the sea; others hid in
dark recesses, where they were found by Slightly, who did
not fight, but ran about with a lantern which he flashed in
their faces, so that they were half blinded and fell as an
easy prey to the reeking swords of the other boys. There was
little sound to be heard but the clang of weapons, an
occasional screech or splash, and Slightly monotonously
counting—five—six—seven eight—nine—ten—eleven.
I think all were
gone when a group of savage boys surrounded Hook, who seemed
to have a charmed life, as he kept them at bay in that
circle of fire. They had done for his dogs, but this man
alone seemed to be a match for them all. Again and again
they closed upon him, and again and again he hewed a clear
space. He had lifted up one boy with his hook, and was using
him as a buckler [shield], when another, who had just passed
his sword through Mullins, sprang into the fray.
"Put up your swords,
boys," cried the newcomer, "this man is mine."
Thus suddenly Hook
found himself face to face with Peter. The others drew back
and formed a ring around them.
For long the two
enemies looked at one another, Hook shuddering slightly, and
Peter with the strange smile upon his face.
"So, Pan," said Hook
at last, "this is all your doing."
"Ay, James Hook,"
came the stern answer, "it is all my doing."
"Proud and insolent
youth," said Hook, "prepare to meet thy doom."
"Dark and sinister
man," Peter answered, "have at thee."
Without more words
they fell to, and for a space there was no advantage to
either blade. Peter was a superb swordsman, and parried with
dazzling rapidity; ever and anon he followed up a feint with
a lunge that got past his foe's defence, but his shorter
reach stood him in ill stead, and he could not drive the
steel home. Hook, scarcely his inferior in brilliancy, but
not quite so nimble in wrist play, forced him back by the
weight of his onset, hoping suddenly to end all with a
favourite thrust, taught him long ago by Barbecue at Rio;
but to his astonishment he found this thrust turned aside
again and again. Then he sought to close and give the
quietus with his iron hook, which all this time had been
pawing the air; but Peter doubled under it and, lunging
fiercely, pierced him in the ribs. At the sight of his own
blood, whose peculiar colour, you remember, was offensive to
him, the sword fell from Hook's hand, and he was at Peter's
mercy.
"Now!" cried all the
boys, but with a magnificent gesture Peter invited his
opponent to pick up his sword. Hook did so instantly, but
with a tragic feeling that Peter was showing good form.
Hitherto he had
thought it was some fiend fighting him, but darker
suspicions assailed him now.
"Pan, who and what
art thou?" he cried huskily.
"I'm youth, I'm
joy," Peter answered at a venture, "I'm a little bird that
has broken out of the egg."
This, of course, was
nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook that Peter
did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the
very pinnacle of good form.
"To't again," he
cried despairingly.
He fought now like a
human flail, and every sweep of that terrible sword would
have severed in twain any man or boy who obstructed it; but
Peter fluttered round him as if the very wind it made blew
him out of the danger zone. And again and again he darted in
and pricked.
Hook was fighting
now without hope. That passionate breast no longer asked for
life; but for one boon it craved: to see Peter show bad form
before it was cold forever.
Abandoning the fight
he rushed into the powder magazine and fired it.
"In two minutes," he
cried, "the ship will be blown to pieces."
Now, now, he
thought, true form will show.
But Peter issued
from the powder magazine with the shell in his hands, and
calmly flung it overboard.
What sort of form
was Hook himself showing? Misguided man though he was, we
may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end
he was true to the traditions of his race. The other boys
were flying around him now, flouting, scornful; and he
staggered about the deck striking up at them impotently, his
mind was no longer with them; it was slouching in the
playing fields of long ago, or being sent up [to the
headmaster] for good, or watching the wall-game from a
famous wall. And his shoes were right, and his waistcoat was
right, and his tie was right, and his socks were right.
James Hook, thou not
wholly unheroic figure, farewell.
For we have come to
his last moment.
Seeing Peter slowly
advancing upon him through the air with dagger poised, he
sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea. He
did not know that the crocodile was waiting for him; for we
purposely stopped the clock that this knowledge might be
spared him: a little mark of respect from us at the end.
He had one last
triumph, which I think we need not grudge him. As he stood
on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at Peter gliding
through the air, he invited him with a gesture to use his
foot. It made Peter kick instead of stab.
At last Hook had got
the boon for which he craved.
"Bad form," he cried
jeeringly, and went content to the crocodile.
Thus perished James
Hook.
"Seventeen,"
Slightly sang out; but he was not quite correct in his
figures. Fifteen paid the penalty for their crimes that
night; but two reached the shore: Starkey to be captured by
the redskins, who made him nurse for all their papooses, a
melancholy come-down for a pirate; and Smee, who henceforth
wandered about the world in his spectacles, making a
precarious living by saying he was the only man that Jas.
Hook had feared.
Wendy, of course,
had stood by taking no part in the fight, though watching
Peter with glistening eyes; but now that all was over she
became prominent again. She praised them equally, and
shuddered delightfully when Michael showed her the place
where he had killed one; and then she took them into Hook's
cabin and pointed to his watch which was hanging on a nail.
It said "half-past one!"
The lateness of the
hour was almost the biggest thing of all. She got them to
bed in the pirates' bunks pretty quickly, you may be sure;
all but Peter, who strutted up and down on the deck, until
at last he fell asleep by the side of Long Tom. He had one
of his dreams that night, and cried in his sleep for a long
time, and Wendy held him tightly.
Chapter 16
THE RETURN HOME
By three bells that
morning they were all stirring their stumps [legs]; for
there was a big sea running; and Tootles, the bo'sun, was
among them, with a rope's end in his hand and chewing
tobacco. They all donned pirate clothes cut off at the knee,
shaved smartly, and tumbled up, with the true nautical roll
and hitching their trousers.
It need not be said
who was the captain. Nibs and John were first and second
mate. There was a woman aboard. The rest were tars [sailors]
before the mast, and lived in the fo'c'sle. Peter had
already lashed himself to the wheel; but he piped all hands
and delivered a short address to them; said he hoped they
would do their duty like gallant hearties, but that he knew
they were the scum of Rio and the Gold Coast, and if they
snapped at him he would tear them. The bluff strident words
struck the note sailors understood, and they cheered him
lustily. Then a few sharp orders were given, and they turned
the ship round, and nosed her for the mainland.
Captain Pan
calculated, after consulting the ship's chart, that if this
weather lasted they should strike the Azores about the 21st
of June, after which it would save time to fly.
Some of them wanted
it to be an honest ship and others were in favour of keeping
it a pirate; but the captain treated them as dogs, and they
dared not express their wishes to him even in a round robin
[one person after another, as they had to Cpt. Hook].
Instant obedience was the only safe thing. Slightly got a
dozen for looking perplexed when told to take soundings. The
general feeling was that Peter was honest just now to lull
Wendy's suspicions, but that there might be a change when
the new suit was ready, which, against her will, she was
making for him out of some of Hook's wickedest garments. It
was afterwards whispered among them that on the first night
he wore this suit he sat long in the cabin with Hook's
cigar-holder in his mouth and one hand clenched, all but for
the forefinger, which he bent and held threateningly aloft
like a hook.
Instead of watching
the ship, however, we must now return to that desolate home
from which three of our characters had taken heartless
flight so long ago. It seems a shame to have neglected No.
14 all this time; and yet we may be sure that Mrs. Darling
does not blame us. If we had returned sooner to look with
sorrowful sympathy at her, she would probably have cried,
"Don't be silly; what do I matter? Do go back and keep an
eye on the children." So long as mothers are like this their
children will take advantage of them; and they may lay to
[bet on] that.
Even now we venture
into that familiar nursery only because its lawful occupants
are on their way home; we are merely hurrying on in advance
of them to see that their beds are properly aired and that
Mr. and Mrs. Darling do not go out for the evening. We are
no more than servants. Why on earth should their beds be
properly aired, seeing that they left them in such a
thankless hurry? Would it not serve them jolly well right if
they came back and found that their parents were spending
the week-end in the country? It would be the moral lesson
they have been in need of ever since we met them; but if we
contrived things in this way Mrs. Darling would never
forgive us.
One thing I should
like to do immensely, and that is to tell her, in the way
authors have, that the children are coming back, that indeed
they will be here on Thursday week. This would spoil so
completely the surprise to which Wendy and John and Michael
are looking forward. They have been planning it out on the
ship: mother's rapture, father's shout of joy, Nana's leap
through the air to embrace them first, when what they ought
to be prepared for is a good hiding. How delicious to spoil
it all by breaking the news in advance; so that when they
enter grandly Mrs. Darling may not even offer Wendy her
mouth, and Mr. Darling may exclaim pettishly, "Dash it all,
here are those boys again." However, we should get no thanks
even for this. We are beginning to know Mrs. Darling by this
time, and may be sure that she would upbraid us for
depriving the children of their little pleasure.
"But, my dear madam,
it is ten days till Thursday week; so that by telling you
what's what, we can save you ten days of unhappiness."
"Yes, but at what a
cost! By depriving the children of ten minutes of delight."
"Oh, if you look at
it in that way!"
"What other way is
there in which to look at it?"
You see, the woman
had no proper spirit. I had meant to say extraordinarily
nice things about her; but I despise her, and not one of
them will I say now. She does not really need to be told to
have things ready, for they are ready. All the beds are
aired, and she never leaves the house, and observe, the
window is open. For all the use we are to her, we might well
go back to the ship. However, as we are here we may as well
stay and look on. That is all we are, lookers-on. Nobody
really wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in
the hope that some of them will hurt.
The only change to
be seen in the night-nursery is that between nine and six
the kennel is no longer there. When the children flew away,
Mr. Darling felt in his bones that all the blame was his for
having chained Nana up, and that from first to last she had
been wiser than he. Of course, as we have seen, he was quite
a simple man; indeed he might have passed for a boy again if
he had been able to take his baldness off; but he had also a
noble sense of justice and a lion's courage to do what
seemed right to him; and having thought the matter out with
anxious care after the flight of the children, he went down
on all fours and crawled into the kennel. To all Mrs.
Darling's dear invitations to him to come out he replied
sadly but firmly:
"No, my own one,
this is the place for me."
In the bitterness of
his remorse he swore that he would never leave the kennel
until his children came back. Of course this was a pity; but
whatever Mr. Darling did he had to do in excess, otherwise
he soon gave up doing it. And there never was a more humble
man than the once proud George Darling, as he sat in the
kennel of an evening talking with his wife of their children
and all their pretty ways.
Very touching was
his deference to Nana. He would not let her come into the
kennel, but on all other matters he followed her wishes
implicitly.
Every morning the
kennel was carried with Mr. Darling in it to a cab, which
conveyed him to his office, and he returned home in the same
way at six. Something of the strength of character of the
man will be seen if we remember how sensitive he was to the
opinion of neighbours: this man whose every movement now
attracted surprised attention. Inwardly he must have
suffered torture; but he preserved a calm exterior even when
the young criticised his little home, and he always lifted
his hat courteously to any lady who looked inside.
It may have been
Quixotic, but it was magnificent. Soon the inward meaning of
it leaked out, and the great heart of the public was
touched. Crowds followed the cab, cheering it lustily;
charming girls scaled it to get his autograph; interviews
appeared in the better class of papers, and society invited
him to dinner and added, "Do come in the kennel."
On that eventful
Thursday week, Mrs. Darling was in the night-nursery
awaiting George's return home; a very sad-eyed woman. Now
that we look at her closely and remember the gaiety of her
in the old days, all gone now just because she has lost her
babes, I find I won't be able to say nasty things about her
after all. If she was too fond of her rubbishy children, she
couldn't help it. Look at her in her chair, where she has
fallen asleep. The corner of her mouth, where one looks
first, is almost withered up. Her hand moves restlessly on
her breast as if she had a pain there. Some like Peter best,
and some like Wendy best, but I like her best. Suppose, to
make her happy, we whisper to her in her sleep that the
brats are coming back. They are really within two miles of
the window now, and flying strong, but all we need whisper
is that they are on the way. Let's.
It is a pity we did
it, for she has started up, calling their names; and there
is no one in the room but Nana.
"O Nana, I dreamt my
dear ones had come back."
Nana had filmy eyes,
but all she could do was put her paw gently on her
mistress's lap; and they were sitting together thus when the
kennel was brought back. As Mr. Darling puts his head out to
kiss his wife, we see that his face is more worn than of
yore, but has a softer expression.
He gave his hat to
Liza, who took it scornfully; for she had no imagination,
and was quite incapable of understanding the motives of such
a man. Outside, the crowd who had accompanied the cab home
were still cheering, and he was naturally not unmoved.
"Listen to them," he
said; "it is very gratifying."
"Lots of little
boys," sneered Liza.
"There were several
adults to-day," he assured her with a faint flush; but when
she tossed her head he had not a word of reproof for her.
Social success had not spoilt him; it had made him sweeter.
For some time he sat with his head out of the kennel,
talking with Mrs. Darling of this success, and pressing her
hand reassuringly when she said she hoped his head would not
be turned by it.
"But if I had been a
weak man," he said. "Good heavens, if I had been a weak
man!"
"And, George," she
said timidly, "you are as full of remorse as ever, aren't
you?"
"Full of remorse as
ever, dearest! See my punishment: living in a kennel."
"But it is
punishment, isn't it, George? You are sure you are not
enjoying it?"
"My love!"
You may be sure she
begged his pardon; and then, feeling drowsy, he curled round
in the kennel.
"Won't you play me
to sleep," he asked, "on the nursery piano?" and as she was
crossing to the day-nursery he added thoughtlessly, "And
shut that window. I feel a draught."
"O George, never ask
me to do that. The window must always be left open for them,
always, always."
Now it was his turn
to beg her pardon; and she went into the day-nursery and
played, and soon he was asleep; and while he slept, Wendy
and John and Michael flew into the room.
Oh no. We have
written it so, because that was the charming arrangement
planned by them before we left the ship; but something must
have happened since then, for it is not they who have flown
in, it is Peter and Tinker Bell.
Peter's first words
tell all.
"Quick Tink," he
whispered, "close the window; bar it! That's right. Now you
and I must get away by the door; and when Wendy comes she
will think her mother has barred her out; and she will have
to go back with me."
Now I understand
what had hitherto puzzled me, why when Peter had
exterminated the pirates he did not return to the island and
leave Tink to escort the children to the mainland. This
trick had been in his head all the time.
Instead of feeling
that he was behaving badly he danced with glee; then he
peeped into the day-nursery to see who was playing. He
whispered to Tink, "It's Wendy's mother! She is a pretty
lady, but not so pretty as my mother. Her mouth is full of
thimbles, but not so full as my mother's was."
Of course he knew
nothing whatever about his mother; but he sometimes bragged
about her.
He did not know the
tune, which was "Home, Sweet Home," but he knew it was
saying, "Come back, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy"; and he cried
exultantly, "You will never see Wendy again, lady, for the
window is barred!"
He peeped in again
to see why the music had stopped, and now he saw that Mrs.
Darling had laid her head on the box, and that two tears
were sitting on her eyes.
"She wants me to
unbar the window," thought Peter, "but I won't, not I!"
He peeped again, and
the tears were still there, or another two had taken their
place.
"She's awfully fond
of Wendy," he said to himself. He was angry with her now for
not seeing why she could not have Wendy.
The reason was so
simple: "I'm fond of her too. We can't both have her, lady."
But the lady would
not make the best of it, and he was unhappy. He ceased to
look at her, but even then she would not let go of him. He
skipped about and made funny faces, but when he stopped it
was just as if she were inside him, knocking.
"Oh, all right," he
said at last, and gulped. Then he unbarred the window. "Come
on, Tink," he cried, with a frightful sneer at the laws of
nature; "we don't want any silly mothers;" and he flew away.
Thus Wendy and John
and Michael found the window open for them after all, which
of course was more than they deserved. They alighted on the
floor, quite unashamed of themselves, and the youngest one
had already forgotten his home.
"John," he said,
looking around him doubtfully, "I think I have been here
before."
"Of course you have,
you silly. There is your old bed."
"So it is," Michael
said, but not with much conviction.
"I say," cried John,
"the kennel!" and he dashed across to look into it.
"Perhaps Nana is
inside it," Wendy said.
But John whistled.
"Hullo," he said, "there's a man inside it."
"It's father!"
exclaimed Wendy.
"Let me see father,"
Michael begged eagerly, and he took a good look. "He is not
so big as the pirate I killed," he said with such frank
disappointment that I am glad Mr. Darling was asleep; it
would have been sad if those had been the first words he
heard his little Michael say.
Wendy and John had
been taken aback somewhat at finding their father in the
kennel.
"Surely," said John,
like one who had lost faith in his memory, "he used not to
sleep in the kennel?"
"John," Wendy said
falteringly, "perhaps we don't remember the old life as well
as we thought we did."
A chill fell upon
them; and serve them right.
"It is very careless
of mother," said that young scoundrel John, "not to be here
when we come back."
It was then that
Mrs. Darling began playing again.
"It's mother!" cried
Wendy, peeping.
"So it is!" said
John.
"Then are you not
really our mother, Wendy?" asked Michael, who was surely
sleepy.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed
Wendy, with her first real twinge of remorse [for having
gone], "it was quite time we came back."
"Let us creep in,"
John suggested, "and put our hands over her eyes."
But Wendy, who saw
that they must break the joyous news more gently, had a
better plan.
"Let us all slip
into our beds, and be there when she comes in, just as if we
had never been away."
And so when Mrs.
Darling went back to the night-nursery to see if her husband
was asleep, all the beds were occupied. The children waited
for her cry of joy, but it did not come. She saw them, but
she did not believe they were there. You see, she saw them
in their beds so often in her dreams that she thought this
was just the dream hanging around her still.
She sat down in the
chair by the fire, where in the old days she had nursed
them.
They could not
understand this, and a cold fear fell upon all the three of
them.
"Mother!" Wendy
cried.
"That's Wendy," she
said, but still she was sure it was the dream.
"Mother!"
"That's John," she
said.
"Mother!" cried
Michael. He knew her now.
"That's Michael,"
she said, and she stretched out her arms for the three
little selfish children they would never envelop again. Yes,
they did, they went round Wendy and John and Michael, who
had slipped out of bed and run to her.
"George, George!"
she cried when she could speak; and Mr. Darling woke to
share her bliss, and Nana came rushing in. There could not
have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it
except a little boy who was staring in at the window. He had
had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never
know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy
from which he must be for ever barred.
Chapter 17
WHEN WENDY GREW UP
I hope you want to
know what became of the other boys. They were waiting below
to give Wendy time to explain about them; and when they had
counted five hundred they went up. They went up by the
stair, because they thought this would make a better
impression. They stood in a row in front of Mrs. Darling,
with their hats off, and wishing they were not wearing their
pirate clothes. They said nothing, but their eyes asked her
to have them. They ought to have looked at Mr. Darling also,
but they forgot about him.
Of course Mrs.
Darling said at once that she would have them; but Mr.
Darling was curiously depressed, and they saw that he
considered six a rather large number.
"I must say," he
said to Wendy, "that you don't do things by halves," a
grudging remark which the twins thought was pointed at them.
The first twin was
the proud one, and he asked, flushing, "Do you think we
should be too much of a handful, sir? Because, if so, we can
go away."
"Father!" Wendy
cried, shocked; but still the cloud was on him. He knew he
was behaving unworthily, but he could not help it.
"We could lie
doubled up," said Nibs.
"I always cut their
hair myself," said Wendy.
"George!" Mrs.
Darling exclaimed, pained to see her dear one showing
himself in such an unfavourable light.
Then he burst into
tears, and the truth came out. He was as glad to have them
as she was, he said, but he thought they should have asked
his consent as well as hers, instead of treating him as a
cypher [zero] in his own house.
"I don't think he is
a cypher," Tootles cried instantly. "Do you think he is a
cypher, Curly?"
"No, I don't. Do you
think he is a cypher, Slightly?"
"Rather not. Twin,
what do you think?"
It turned out that
not one of them thought him a cypher; and he was absurdly
gratified, and said he would find space for them all in the
drawing-room if they fitted in.
"We'll fit in, sir,"
they assured him.
"Then follow the
leader," he cried gaily. "Mind you, I am not sure that we
have a drawing-room, but we pretend we have, and it's all
the same. Hoop la!"
He went off dancing
through the house, and they all cried "Hoop la!" and danced
after him, searching for the drawing-room; and I forget
whether they found it, but at any rate they found corners,
and they all fitted in.
As for Peter, he saw
Wendy once again before he flew away. He did not exactly
come to the window, but he brushed against it in passing so
that she could open it if she liked and call to him. That is
what she did.
"Hullo, Wendy,
good-bye," he said.
"Oh dear, are you
going away?"
"Yes."
"You don't feel,
Peter," she said falteringly, "that you would like to say
anything to my parents about a very sweet subject?"
"No."
"About me, Peter?"
"No."
Mrs. Darling came to
the window, for at present she was keeping a sharp eye on
Wendy. She told Peter that she had adopted all the other
boys, and would like to adopt him also.
"Would you send me
to school?" he inquired craftily.
"Yes."
"And then to an
office?"
"I suppose so."
"Soon I would be a
man?"
"Very soon."
"I don't want to go
to school and learn solemn things," he told her
passionately. "I don't want to be a man. O Wendy's mother,
if I was to wake up and feel there was a beard!"
"Peter," said Wendy
the comforter, "I should love you in a beard;" and Mrs.
Darling stretched out her arms to him, but he repulsed her.
"Keep back, lady, no
one is going to catch me and make me a man."
"But where are you
going to live?"
"With Tink in the
house we built for Wendy. The fairies are to put it high up
among the tree tops where they sleep at nights."
"How lovely," cried
Wendy so longingly that Mrs. Darling tightened her grip.
"I thought all the
fairies were dead," Mrs. Darling said.
"There are always a
lot of young ones," explained Wendy, who was now quite an
authority, "because you see when a new baby laughs for the
first time a new fairy is born, and as there are always new
babies there are always new fairies. They live in nests on
the tops of trees; and the mauve ones are boys and the white
ones are girls, and the blue ones are just little sillies
who are not sure what they are."
"I shall have such
fun," said Peter, with eye on Wendy.
"It will be rather
lonely in the evening," she said, "sitting by the fire."
"I shall have Tink."
"Tink can't go a
twentieth part of the way round," she reminded him a little
tartly.
"Sneaky tell-tale!"
Tink called out from somewhere round the corner.
"It doesn't matter,"
Peter said.
"O Peter, you know
it matters."
"Well, then, come
with me to the little house."
"May I, mummy?"
"Certainly not. I
have got you home again, and I mean to keep you."
"But he does so need
a mother."
"So do you, my
love."
"Oh, all right,"
Peter said, as if he had asked her from politeness merely;
but Mrs. Darling saw his mouth twitch, and she made this
handsome offer: to let Wendy go to him for a week every year
to do his spring cleaning. Wendy would have preferred a more
permanent arrangement; and it seemed to her that spring
would be long in coming; but this promise sent Peter away
quite gay again. He had no sense of time, and was so full of
adventures that all I have told you about him is only a
halfpenny-worth of them. I suppose it was because Wendy knew
this that her last words to him were these rather plaintive
ones:
"You won't forget
me, Peter, will you, before spring cleaning time comes?"
Of course Peter
promised; and then he flew away. He took Mrs. Darling's kiss
with him. The kiss that had been for no one else, Peter took
quite easily. Funny. But she seemed satisfied.
Of course all the
boys went to school; and most of them got into Class III,
but Slightly was put first into Class IV and then into Class
V. Class I is the top class. Before they had attended school
a week they saw what goats they had been not to remain on
the island; but it was too late now, and soon they settled
down to being as ordinary as you or me or Jenkins minor [the
younger Jenkins]. It is sad to have to say that the power to
fly gradually left them. At first Nana tied their feet to
the bed-posts so that they should not fly away in the night;
and one of their diversions by day was to pretend to fall
off buses [the English double-deckers]; but by and by they
ceased to tug at their bonds in bed, and found that they
hurt themselves when they let go of the bus. In time they
could not even fly after their hats. Want of practice, they
called it; but what it really meant was that they no longer
believed.
Michael believed
longer than the other boys, though they jeered at him; so he
was with Wendy when Peter came for her at the end of the
first year. She flew away with Peter in the frock she had
woven from leaves and berries in the Neverland, and her one
fear was that he might notice how short it had become; but
he never noticed, he had so much to say about himself.
She had looked
forward to thrilling talks with him about old times, but new
adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.
"Who is Captain
Hook?" he asked with interest when she spoke of the arch
enemy.
"Don't you
remember," she asked, amazed, "how you killed him and saved
all our lives?"
"I forget them after
I kill them," he replied carelessly.
When she expressed a
doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would be glad to see her he
said, "Who is Tinker Bell?"
"O Peter," she said,
shocked; but even when she explained he could not remember.
"There are such a
lot of them," he said. "I expect she is no more."
I expect he was
right, for fairies don't live long, but they are so little
that a short time seems a good while to them.
Wendy was pained too
to find that the past year was but as yesterday to Peter; it
had seemed such a long year of waiting to her. But he was
exactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring
cleaning in the little house on the tree tops.
Next year he did not
come for her. She waited in a new frock because the old one
simply would not meet; but he never came.
"Perhaps he is ill,"
Michael said.
"You know he is
never ill."
Michael came close
to her and whispered, with a shiver, "Perhaps there is no
such person, Wendy!" and then Wendy would have cried if
Michael had not been crying.
Peter came next
spring cleaning; and the strange thing was that he never
knew he had missed a year.
That was the last
time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For a little longer she
tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she felt
she was untrue to him when she got a prize for general
knowledge. But the years came and went without bringing the
careless boy; and when they met again Wendy was a married
woman, and Peter was no more to her than a little dust in
the box in which she had kept her toys. Wendy was grown up.
You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that
likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free
will a day quicker than other girls.
All the boys were
grown up and done for by this time; so it is scarcely worth
while saying anything more about them. You may see the twins
and Nibs and Curly any day going to an office, each carrying
a little bag and an umbrella. Michael is an engine-driver
[train engineer]. Slightly married a lady of title, and so
he became a lord. You see that judge in a wig coming out at
the iron door? That used to be Tootles. The bearded man who
doesn't know any story to tell his children was once John.
Wendy was married in
white with a pink sash. It is strange to think that Peter
did not alight in the church and forbid the banns [formal
announcement of a marriage].
Years rolled on
again, and Wendy had a daughter. This ought not to be
written in ink but in a golden splash.
She was called Jane,
and always had an odd inquiring look, as if from the moment
she arrived on the mainland she wanted to ask questions.
When she was old enough to ask them they were mostly about
Peter Pan. She loved to hear of Peter, and Wendy told her
all she could remember in the very nursery from which the
famous flight had taken place. It was Jane's nursery now,
for her father had bought it at the three per cents
[mortgage rate] from Wendy's father, who was no longer fond
of stairs. Mrs. Darling was now dead and forgotten.
There were only two
beds in the nursery now, Jane's and her nurse's; and there
was no kennel, for Nana also had passed away. She died of
old age, and at the end she had been rather difficult to get
on with; being very firmly convinced that no one knew how to
look after children except herself.
Once a week Jane's
nurse had her evening off; and then it was Wendy's part to
put Jane to bed. That was the time for stories. It was
Jane's invention to raise the sheet over her mother's head
and her own, this making a tent, and in the awful darkness
to whisper:
"What do we see
now?"
"I don't think I see
anything to-night," says Wendy, with a feeling that if Nana
were here she would object to further conversation.
"Yes, you do," says
Jane, "you see when you were a little girl."
"That is a long time
ago, sweetheart," says Wendy. "Ah me, how time flies!"
"Does it fly," asks
the artful child, "the way you flew when you were a little
girl?"
"The way I flew? Do
you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether I ever did really
fly."
"Yes, you did."
"The dear old days
when I could fly!"
"Why can't you fly
now, mother?"
"Because I am grown
up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the way."
"Why do they forget
the way?"
"Because they are no
longer gay and innocent and heartless. It is only the gay
and innocent and heartless who can fly."
"What is gay and
innocent and heartless? I do wish I were gay and innocent
and heartless."
Or perhaps Wendy
admits she does see something.
"I do believe," she
says, "that it is this nursery."
"I do believe it
is," says Jane. "Go on."
They are now
embarked on the great adventure of the night when Peter flew
in looking for his shadow.
"The foolish
fellow," says Wendy, "tried to stick it on with soap, and
when he could not he cried, and that woke me, and I sewed it
on for him."
"You have missed a
bit," interrupts Jane, who now knows the story better than
her mother. "When you saw him sitting on the floor crying,
what did you say?"
"I sat up in bed and
I said, 'Boy, why are you crying?'"
"Yes, that was it,"
says Jane, with a big breath.
"And then he flew us
all away to the Neverland and the fairies and the pirates
and the redskins and the mermaid's lagoon, and the home
under the ground, and the little house."
"Yes! which did you
like best of all?"
"I think I liked the
home under the ground best of all."
"Yes, so do I. What
was the last thing Peter ever said to you?"
"The last thing he
ever said to me was, 'Just always be waiting for me, and
then some night you will hear me crowing.'"
"Yes."
"But, alas, he
forgot all about me," Wendy said it with a smile. She was as
grown up as that.
"What did his crow
sound like?" Jane asked one evening.
"It was like this,"
Wendy said, trying to imitate Peter's crow.
"No, it wasn't,"
Jane said gravely, "it was like this;" and she did it ever
so much better than her mother.
Wendy was a little
startled. "My darling, how can you know?"
"I often hear it
when I am sleeping," Jane said.
"Ah yes, many girls
hear it when they are sleeping, but I was the only one who
heard it awake."
"Lucky you," said
Jane.
And then one night
came the tragedy. It was the spring of the year, and the
story had been told for the night, and Jane was now asleep
in her bed. Wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to
the fire, so as to see to darn, for there was no other light
in the nursery; and while she sat darning she heard a crow.
Then the window blew open as of old, and Peter dropped in on
the floor.
He was exactly the
same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that he still had all
his first teeth.
He was a little boy,
and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire not daring to
move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.
"Hullo, Wendy," he
said, not noticing any difference, for he was thinking
chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress
might have been the nightgown in which he had seen her
first.
"Hullo, Peter," she
replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as possible.
Something inside her was crying "Woman, Woman, let go of
me."
"Hullo, where is
John?" he asked, suddenly missing the third bed.
"John is not here
now," she gasped.
"Is Michael asleep?"
he asked, with a careless glance at Jane.
"Yes," she answered;
and now she felt that she was untrue to Jane as well as to
Peter.
"That is not
Michael," she said quickly, lest a judgment should fall on
her.
Peter looked.
"Hullo, is it a new one?"
"Yes."
"Boy or girl?"
"Girl."
Now surely he would
understand; but not a bit of it.
"Peter," she said,
faltering, "are you expecting me to fly away with you?"
"Of course; that is
why I have come." He added a little sternly, "Have you
forgotten that this is spring cleaning time?"
She knew it was
useless to say that he had let many spring cleaning times
pass.
"I can't come," she
said apologetically, "I have forgotten how to fly."
"I'll soon teach you
again."
"O Peter, don't
waste the fairy dust on me."
She had risen; and
now at last a fear assailed him. "What is it?" he cried,
shrinking.
"I will turn up the
light," she said, "and then you can see for yourself."
For almost the only
time in his life that I know of, Peter was afraid. "Don't
turn up the light," he cried.
She let her hands
play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a little
girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling
at it all, but they were wet eyed smiles.
Then she turned up
the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and when
the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms
he drew back sharply.
"What is it?" he
cried again.
She had to tell him.
"I am old, Peter. I
am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long ago."
"You promised not
to!"
"I couldn't help it.
I am a married woman, Peter."
"No, you're not."
"Yes, and the little
girl in the bed is my baby."
"No, she's not."
But he supposed she
was; and he took a step towards the sleeping child with his
dagger upraised. Of course he did not strike. He sat down on
the floor instead and sobbed; and Wendy did not know how to
comfort him, though she could have done it so easily once.
She was only a woman now, and she ran out of the room to try
to think.
Peter continued to
cry, and soon his sobs woke Jane. She sat up in bed, and was
interested at once.
"Boy," she said,
"why are you crying?"
Peter rose and bowed
to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.
"Hullo," he said.
"Hullo," said Jane.
"My name is Peter
Pan," he told her.
"Yes, I know."
"I came back for my
mother," he explained, "to take her to the Neverland."
"Yes, I know," Jane
said, "I have been waiting for you."
When Wendy returned
diffidently she found Peter sitting on the bed-post crowing
gloriously, while Jane in her nighty was flying round the
room in solemn ecstasy.
"She is my mother,"
Peter explained; and Jane descended and stood by his side,
with the look in her face that he liked to see on ladies
when they gazed at him.
"He does so need a
mother," Jane said.
"Yes, I know." Wendy
admitted rather forlornly; "no one knows it so well as I."
"Good-bye," said
Peter to Wendy; and he rose in the air, and the shameless
Jane rose with him; it was already her easiest way of moving
about.
Wendy rushed to the
window.
"No, no," she cried.
"It is just for
spring cleaning time," Jane said, "he wants me always to do
his spring cleaning."
"If only I could go
with you," Wendy sighed.
"You see you can't
fly," said Jane.
Of course in the end
Wendy let them fly away together. Our last glimpse of her
shows her at the window, watching them receding into the sky
until they were as small as stars.
As you look at
Wendy, you may see her hair becoming white, and her figure
little again, for all this happened long ago. Jane is now a
common grown-up, with a daughter called Margaret; and every
spring cleaning time, except when he forgets, Peter comes
for Margaret and takes her to the Neverland, where she tells
him stories about himself, to which he listens eagerly. When
Margaret grows up she will have a daughter, who is to be
Peter's mother in turn; and thus it will go on, so long as
children are gay and innocent and heartless.
THE END
