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 Jan, "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.
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