We had been together, we three,
in my rooms, David telling me
about the fairy language and
Porthos lolling on the sofa listening,
as one may say. It is his favourite
place of a dull day, and under
him were some sheets of newspaper,
which I spread there at such
times to deceive my housekeeper,
who thinks dogs should lie on
the floor.
Fairy me tribber is what you
say to the fairies when you want
them to give you a cup of tea,
but it is not so easy as it looks,
for all the r's should be pronounced
as w's, and I forget this so
often that David believes I should
find difficulty in making myself
understood.
"What would you say," he asked
me, "if you wanted them to turn
you into a hollyhock?" He thinks
the ease with which they can
turn you into things is their
most engaging quality.
The answer is Fairy me lukka,
but though he had often told
me this I again forgot the lukka.
"I should never dream," I said
(to cover my discomfiture), "of
asking them to turn me into anything.
If I was a hollyhock I should
soon wither, David."
He himself
had provided me with this objection
not long
before, but now he seemed to
think it merely silly. "Just
before the time to wither begins," he
said airily, "you say to them
Fairy me bola."
Fairy me bola
means "Turn me
back again," and David's discovery
made me uncomfortable, for I
knew he had hitherto kept his
distance of the fairies mainly
because of a feeling that their
conversions are permanent.
So I returned him to his home.
I send him home from my rooms
under the care of Porthos. I
may walk on the other side unknown
to them, but they have no need
of me, for at such times nothing
would induce Porthos to depart
from the care of David. If anyone
addresses them he growls softly
and shows the teeth that crunch
bones as if they were biscuits.
Thus amicably the two pass on
to Mary's house, where Porthos
barks his knock-and-ring bark
till the door is opened. Sometimes
he goes in with David, but on
this occasion he said good-bye
on the step. Nothing remarkable
in this, but he did not return
to me, not that day nor next
day nor in weeks and months.
I was a man distraught; and David
wore his knuckles in his eyes.
Conceive it, we had lost our
dear Porthos-- at least--well--something
disquieting happened. I don't
quite know what to think of it
even now. I know what David thinks.
However, you shall think as you
choose.
My first hope was that Porthos
had strolled to the Gardens and
got locked in for the night,
and almost as soon as Lock-out
was over I was there to make
inquiries. But there was no news
of Porthos, though I learned
that someone was believed to
have spent the night in the Gardens,
a young gentleman who walked
out hastily the moment the gates
were opened. He had said nothing,
however, of having seen a dog.
I feared an accident now, for
I knew no thief could steal him,
yet even an accident seemed incredible,
he was always so cautious at
crossings; also there could not
possibly have been an accident
to Porthos without there being
an accident to something else.
David in the middle of his
games would suddenly remember
the great blank and step aside
to cry. It was one of his qualities
that when he knew he was about
to cry he turned aside to do
it and I always respected his
privacy and waited for him. Of
course being but a little boy
he was soon playing again, but
his sudden floods of feeling,
of which we never spoke, were
dear to me in those desolate
days.
We had a favourite haunt, called
the Story-seat, and we went back
to that, meaning not to look
at the grass near it where Porthos
used to squat, but we could not
help looking at it sideways,
and to our distress a man was
sitting on the acquainted spot.
He rose at our approach and took
two steps toward us, so quick
that they were almost jumps,
then as he saw that we were passing
indignantly I thought I heard
him give a little cry.
I put him down for one of your
garrulous fellows who try to
lure strangers into talk, but
next day, when we found him sitting
on the Story-seat itself, I had
a longer scrutiny of him. He
was dandiacally dressed, seemed
to tell something under twenty
years and had a handsome wistful
face atop of a heavy, lumbering,
almost corpulent figure, which
however did not betoken inactivity;
for David's purple hat (a conceit
of his mother's of which we were
both heartily ashamed) blowing
off as we neared him he leapt
the railings without touching
them and was back with it in
three seconds; only instead of
delivering it straightway he
seemed to expect David to chase
him for it.
You have introduced
yourself to David when you
jump the railings
without touching them, and William
Paterson (as proved to be his
name) was at once our friend.
We often found him waiting for
us at the Story-seat, and the
great stout fellow laughed and
wept over our tales like a three-year-old.
Often he said with extraordinary
pride, "You are telling the story
to me quite as much as to David,
ar'n't you?" He was of an innocence
such as you shall seldom encounter,
and believed stories at which
even David blinked. Often he
looked at me in quick alarm if
David said that of course these
things did not really happen,
and unable to resist that appeal
I would reply that they really
did. I never saw him irate except
when David was still sceptical,
but then he would say quite warningly "He
says it is true, so it must be
true." This brings me to that
one of his qualities, which at
once gratified and pained me,
his admiration for myself. His
eyes, which at times had a rim
of red, were ever fixed upon
me fondly except perhaps when
I told him of Porthos and said
that death alone could have kept
him so long from my side. Then
Paterson's sympathy was such
that he had to look away. He
was shy of speaking of himself
so I asked him no personal questions,
but concluded that his upbringing
must have been lonely, to account
for his ignorance of affairs,
and loveless, else how could
he have felt such a drawing to
me?
I remember
very well the day when the
strange, and surely
monstrous, suspicion first made
my head tingle. We had been blown,
the three of us, to my rooms
by a gust of rain; it was also,
I think, the first time Paterson
had entered them. "Take the sofa,
Mr. Paterson," I said, as I drew
a chair nearer to the fire, and
for the moment my eyes were off
him. Then I saw that, before
sitting down on the sofa, he
was spreading the day's paper
over it. "Whatever makes you
do that?" I asked, and he started
like one bewildered by the question,
then went white and pushed the
paper aside.
David had noticed nothing,
but I was strangely uncomfortable,
and, despite my efforts at talk,
often lapsed into silence, to
be roused from it by a feeling
that Paterson was looking at
me covertly. Pooh! what vapours
of the imagination were these.
I blew them from me, and to prove
to myself, so to speak, that
they were dissipated, I asked
him to see David home. As soon
as I was alone, I flung me down
on the floor laughing, then as
quickly jumped up and was after
them, and very sober too, for
it was come to me abruptly as
an odd thing that Paterson had
set off without asking where
David lived.
Seeing them
in front of me, I crossed the
street and followed.
They were walking side by side
rather solemnly, and perhaps
nothing remarkable happened until
they reached David's door. I
say perhaps, for something did
occur. A lady, who has several
pretty reasons for frequenting
the Gardens, recognised David
in the street, and was stooping
to address him, when Paterson
did something that alarmed her.
I was too far off to see what
it was, but had he growled "Hands
off!" she could not have scurried
away more precipitately. He then
ponderously marched his charge
to the door, where, assuredly,
he did a strange thing. Instead
of knocking or ringing, he stood
on the step and called out sharply, "Hie,
hie, hie!" until the door was
opened.
The whimsy, for it could be
nothing more, curtailed me of
my sleep that night, and you
may picture me trying both sides
of the pillow.
I recalled other queer things
of Paterson, and they came back
to me charged with new meanings.
There was his way of shaking
hands. He now did it in the ordinary
way, but when first we knew him
his arm had described a circle,
and the hand had sometimes missed
mine and come heavily upon my
chest instead. His walk, again,
might more correctly have been
called a waddle.
There were his perfervid thanks.
He seldom departed without thanking
me with an intensity that was
out of proportion to the little
I had done for him. In the Gardens,
too, he seemed ever to take the
sward rather than the seats,
perhaps a wise preference, but
he had an unusual way of sitting
down. I can describe it only
by saying that he let go of himself
and went down with a thud.
I reverted to the occasion
when he lunched with me at the
Club. We had cutlets, and I noticed
that he ate his in a somewhat
finicking manner; yet having
left the table for a moment to
consult the sweets-card, I saw,
when I returned, that there was
now no bone on his plate. The
waiters were looking at him rather
curiously.
David was very partial to him,
but showed it in a somewhat singular
manner, used to pat his head,
for instance. I remembered, also,
that while David shouted to me
or Irene to attract our attention,
he usually whistled to Paterson,
he could not explain why.
These ghosts made me to sweat
in bed, not merely that night,
but often when some new shock
brought them back in force, yet,
unsupported, they would have
disturbed me little by day. Day,
however, had its reflections,
and they came to me while I was
shaving, that ten minutes when,
brought face to face with the
harsher realities of life, we
see things most clearly as they
are. Then the beautiful nature
of Paterson loomed offensively,
and his honest eyes insulted
over me. No one come to nigh
twenty years had a right to such
faith in his fellow-creatures.
He could not backbite, nor envy,
nor prevaricate, nor jump at
mean motives for generous acts.
He had not a single base story
about women. It all seemed inhuman.
What creatures we be! I was
more than half ashamed of Paterson's
faith in me, but when I saw it
begin to shrink I fought for
it. An easy task, you may say,
but it was a hard one, for gradually
a change had come over the youth.
I am now arrived at a time when
the light-heartedness had gone
out of him; he had lost his zest
for fun, and dubiety sat in the
eyes that were once so certain.
He was not doubtful of me, not
then, but of human nature in
general; that whilom noble edifice
was tottering. He mixed with
boys in the Gardens; ah, mothers,
it is hard to say, but how could
he retain his innocence when
he had mixed with boys? He heard
your talk of yourselves, and
so, ladies, that part of the
edifice went down. I have not
the heart to follow him in all
his discoveries. Sometimes he
went in flame at them, but for
the most part he stood looking
on, bewildered and numbed, like
one moaning inwardly.
He saw all, as one fresh to
the world, before he had time
to breathe upon the glass. So
would your child be, madam, if
born with a man's powers, and
when disillusioned of all else,
he would cling for a moment longer
to you, the woman of whom, before
he saw you, he had heard so much.
How you would strive to cheat
him, even as I strove to hide
my real self from Paterson, and
still you would strive as I strove
after you knew the game was up.
The sorrowful eyes of Paterson
stripped me bare. There were
days when I could not endure
looking at him, though surely
I have long ceased to be a vain
man. He still met us in the Gardens,
but for hours he and I would
be together without speaking.
It was so upon the last day,
one of those innumerable dreary
days when David, having sneezed
the night before, was kept at
home in flannel, and I sat alone
with Paterson on the Story-seat.
At last I turned to address him.
Never had we spoken of what chained
our tongues, and I meant only
to say now that we must go, for
soon the gates would close, but
when I looked at him I saw that
he was more mournful than ever
before; he shut his eyes so tightly
that a drop of blood fell from
them.
"It was all over, Paterson,
long ago," I broke out harshly, "why
do we linger?"
He beat his hands together
miserably, and yet cast me appealing
looks that had much affection
in them.
"You expected too much of me," I
told him, and he bowed his head. "I
don't know where you brought
your grand ideas of men and women
from. I don't want to know," I
added hastily.
"But it must have been from
a prettier world than this," I
said: "are you quite sure that
you were wise in leaving it?"
He rose and
sat down again. "I
wanted to know you," he replied
slowly, "I wanted to be like
you."
"And now you know me," I said, "do
you want to be like me still?
I am a curious person to attach
oneself to, Paterson; don't you
see that even David often smiles
at me when he thinks he is unobserved.
I work very hard to retain that
little boy's love; but I shall
lose him soon; even now I am
not what I was to him; in a year
or two at longest, Paterson,
David will grow out of me."
The poor fellow
shot out his hand to me, but "No," said I, "you
have found me out. Everybody
finds me out except my dog, and
that is why the loss of him makes
such a difference to me. Shall
we go, Paterson?"
He would not come with me,
and I left him on the seat; when
I was far away I looked back,
and he was still sitting there
forlornly.
For long I could not close
my ears that night: I lay listening,
I knew not what for. A scare
was on me that made me dislike
the dark, and I switched on the
light and slept at last. I was
roused by a great to-do in the
early morning, servants knocking
excitedly, and my door opened,
and the dear Porthos I had mourned
so long tore in. They had heard
his bark, but whence he came
no one knew.
He was in excellent condition,
and after he had leaped upon
me from all points I flung him
on the floor by a trick I know,
and lay down beside him, while
he put his protecting arm round
me and looked at me with the
old adoring eyes.
But we never saw Paterson again.
You may think as you choose.
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