"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.
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