CHAPTER VIII
WHAT GRIZEL'S EYES SAID
To be the admired of women--how Tommy had fought for it since first hedrank of them in Pym's sparkling pages! To some it seems to be easy,but to him it was a labour of Sisyphus. Everything had been againsthim. But he concentrated. No labour was too Herculean; he wasprepared, if necessary, to walk round the world to get to the otherside of the wall across which some men can step. And he did take aroundabout way. It is my opinion, for instance, that he wrote his bookin order to make a beginning with the ladies.
That as it may be, at all events he is on the right side of the wallnow, and here is even Grizel looking wistfully at him. Had she admiredhim for something he was not (and a good many of them did that) hewould have been ill satisfied. He wanted her to think him splendidbecause he was splendid, and the more he reflected the more clearlyhe saw that he had done a big thing. How many men would have had thecourage to wrick their foot as he had done? (He shivered when hethought of it.) And even of these Spartans how many would have let thereward slip through their fingers rather than wound the feelings of agirl? These had not been his thoughts when he made confession; he hadspoken on an impulse; but now that he could step out and have a lookat himself, he saw that this made it a still bigger thing. He wasmodestly pleased that he had not only got Grizel's admiration, butearned it, and he was very kind to her when next she came to see him.No one could be more kind to them than he when they admired him. Hehad the most grateful heart, had our Tommy.
When next she came to see him! That was while his ankle still nailedhim to the chair, a fortnight or so during which Tommy was at hisbest, sending gracious messages by Elspeth to the many who called toinquire, and writing hard at his new work, pad on knee, so like abrave soul whom no unmerited misfortune could subdue that it wouldhave done you good merely to peep at him through the window. Grizelcame several times, and the three talked very ordinary things, mostlyreminiscences; she was as much a plain-spoken princess as ever, butoften he found her eyes fixed on him wistfully, and he knew what theywere saying; they spoke so eloquently that he was a little nervouslest Elspeth should notice. It was delicious to Tommy to feel thatthere was this little unspoken something between him and Grizel; hehalf regretted that the time could not be far distant when she mustput it into words--as soon, say, as Elspeth left the room; anexquisite moment, no doubt, but it would be the plucking of theflower.
Don't think that Tommy conceived Grizel to be in love with him. On mysacred honour, that would have horrified him.
Curiously enough, she did not take the first opportunity Elspeth gaveher of telling him in words how much she admired his brave confession.She was so honest that he expected her to begin the moment the doorclosed, and now that the artistic time had come for it, he wanted it;but no. He was not hurt, but he wondered at her shyness, and castabout for the reason. He cast far back into the past, and caught alittle girl who had worn this same wistful face when she admired himmost. He compared those two faces of the anxious girl and the serenewoman, and in the wistfulness that sometimes lay on them both theylooked alike. Was it possible that the fear of him which the years haddriven out of the girl still lived a ghost's life to haunt the woman?
At once he overflowed with pity. As a boy he had exulted in Grizel'sfear of him; as a man he could feel only the pain of it. There was noone, he thought, less to be dreaded of a woman than he; oh, so sureTommy was of that! And he must lay this ghost; he gave his whole heartto the laying of it.
Few men, and never a woman, could do a fine thing so delicately as he;but of course it included a divergence from the truth, for to Tommyafloat on a generous scheme the truth was a buoy marking sunken rocks.She had feared him in her childhood, as he knew well; he thereforeproceeded to prove to her that she had never feared him. She hadthought him masterful, and all his reminiscences now went to show thatit was she who had been the masterful one.
"You must often laugh now," he said, "to remember how I feared you.The memory of it makes me afraid of you still. I assure you, I joukitback, as Corp would say, that day I saw you in church. It was theinstinct of self-preservation. 'Here comes Grizel to lord it over meagain,' I heard something inside me saying. You called me masterful,and yet I had always to give in to you. That shows what a gentle,yielding girl you were, and what a masterful character I was!"
His intention, you see, was, without letting Grizel know what he wasat, to make her think he had forgotten certain unpleasant incidents intheir past, so that, seeing they were no longer anything to him, theymight the sooner become nothing to her. And she believed that he hadforgotten, and she was glad. She smiled when he told her to go onbeing masterful, for old acquaintance had made him like it. Hers,indeed, was a masterful nature; she could not help it; and if the timeever came when she must help it, the glee of living would be gone fromher.
She did continue to be masterful--to a greater extent than Tommy, thusnobly behaving, was prepared for; and his shock came to him at thevery moment when he was modestly expecting to receive the prize. Shehad called when Elspeth happened to be out; and though now able tomove about the room with the help of a staff, he was still aninteresting object. He saw that she thought so, and perhaps it madehim hobble slightly more, not vaingloriously, but because he was suchan artist. He ceased to be an artist suddenly, however, when Grizelmade this unexpected remark:
"How vain you are!"
Tommy sat down, quite pale. "Did you come here to say that to me,Grizel?" he inquired, and she nodded frankly over her high collar offur. He knew it was true as Grizel said it, but though taken aback, hecould bear it, for she was looking wistfully at him, and he knew wellwhat Grizel's wistful look meant; so long as women admired him Tommycould bear anything from them. "God knows I have little to be vainof," he said humbly.
"Those are the people who are most vain," she replied; and he laugheda short laugh, which surprised her, she was so very serious.
"Your methods are so direct," he explained. "But of what am I vain,Grizel? Is it my book?"
"No," she answered, "not about your book, but about meaner things.What else could have made you dislocate your ankle rather than admitthat you had been rather silly?"
Now "silly" is no word to apply to a gentleman, and, despite hisforgiving nature, Tommy was a little disappointed in Grizel.
"I suppose it was a silly thing to do," he said, with just a touch ofstiffness.
"It was an ignoble thing," said she, sadly.
"I see. And I myself am the meaner thing than the book, am I?"
"Are you not?" she asked, so eagerly that he laughed again.
"It is the first compliment you have paid my book," he pointed out.
"I like the book very much," she answered gravely. "No one can be moreproud of your fame than I. You are hurting me very much by pretendingto think that it is a pleasure to me to find fault with you." Therewas no getting past the honesty of her, and he was touched by it.Besides, she did admire him, and that, after all, is the great thing.
"Then why say such things, Grizel?" he replied good-naturedly.
"But if they are true?"
"Still let us avoid them," said he; and at that she was mostdistressed.
"It is so like what you used to say when you were a boy!" she cried.
"You are so anxious to have me grow up," he replied, with properdolefulness. "If you like the book, Grizel, you must have patiencewith the kind of thing that produced it. That night in the Den, when Iwon your scorn, I was in the preliminary stages of composition. Atsuch times an author should be locked up; but I had got out, you see.I was so enamoured of my little fancies that I forgot I was with you.No wonder you were angry."
"I was not angry with you for forgetting me," she said sharply. (Therewas no catching Grizel, however artful you were.) "But you weresighing to yourself, you were looking as tragic as if some dreadfulcalamity had occurred--"
"The idea that had suddenly come to me was a touching one," he said.
"But you looked triumphan
t, too."
"That was because I saw I could make something of it." "Why did youwalk as if you were lame?"
"The man I was thinking of," Tommy explained, "had broken his leg. Idon't mind telling you that it was Corp."
He ought to have minded telling her, for it could only add to herindignation; but he was too conceited to give weight to that.
"Corp's leg was not broken," said practical Grizel.
"I broke it for him," replied Tommy; and when he had explained, hereyes accused him of heartlessness.
"If it had been my own," he said, in self-defence, "it should havegone crack just the same."
"Poor Gavinia! Had you no feeling for her?"
"Gavinia was not there," Tommy replied triumphantly. "She had run offwith a soldier."
"You dared to conceive that?"
"It helped."
Grizel stamped her foot. "You could take away dear Gavinia's characterwith a smile!"
"On the contrary," said Tommy, "my heart bled for her. Did you notnotice that I was crying?" But he could not make Grizel smile; so, toplease her, he said, with a smile that was not very sincere: "I wish Iwere different, but that is how ideas come to me--at least, all thosethat are of any value."
"Surely you could fight against them and drive them away?"
This to Tommy, who held out sugar to them to lure them to him! Butstill he treated her with consideration.
"That would mean my giving up writing altogether, Grizel," he saidkindly.
"Then why not give it up?"
Really! But she admired him, and still he bore with her.
"I don't like the book," she said, "if it is written at such a cost."
"People say the book has done them good, Grizel."
"What does that matter, if it does you harm?" In her eagerness topersuade him, her words came pell-mell. "If writing makes you live insuch an unreal world, it must do you harm. I see now what Mr. Cathromeant, long ago, when he called you Senti----"
Tommy winced. "I remember what Mr. Cathro called me," he said, withsurprising hauteur for such a good-natured man. "But he does not callme that now. No one calls me that now, except you, Grizel."
"What does that matter," she replied distressfully, "if it is true? Inthe definition of sentimentality in the dictionary--"
He rose indignantly. "You have been looking me up in the dictionary,have you, Grizel?"
"Yes, the night you told me you had hurt your ankle intentionally."
He laughed, without mirth now. "I thought you had put that down tovanity."
"I think," she said, "it was vanity that gave you the courage to doit." And he liked one word in this remark.
"Then you do give me credit for a little courage?"
"I think you could do the most courageous things," she told him, "solong as there was no real reason why you should do them."
It was a shot that rang the bell. Oh, our Tommy heard it ringing. But,to do him justice, he bore no malice; he was proud, rather, ofGrizel's marksmanship. "At least," he said meekly, "it was courageousof me to tell you the truth in the end?" But, to his surprise, sheshook her head.
"No," she replied; "it was sweet of you. You did it impulsively,because you were sorry for me, and I think it was sweet. But impulseis not courage."
So now Tommy knew all about it. His plain-spoken critic had beenexamining him with a candle, and had paid particular attention to hisdefects; but against them she set the fact that he had done somethingchivalrous for her, and it held her heart, though the others were inpossession of the head. "How like a woman!" he thought, with apleased smile. He knew them!
Still he was chagrined that she made so little of his courage, and itwas to stab her that he said, with subdued bitterness: "I always had asuspicion that I was that sort of person, and it is pleasant to haveit pointed out by one's oldest friend. No one will ever accuse you ofwant of courage, Grizel."
She was looking straight at him, and her eyes did not drop, but theylooked still more wistful. Tommy did not understand the courage thatmade her say what she had said, but he knew he was hurting her; heknew that if she was too plain-spoken it was out of loyalty, and thatto wound Grizel because she had to speak her mind was a shame--yes, healways knew that.
But he could do it; he could even go on: "And it is satisfactory thatyou have thought me out so thoroughly, because you will not need tothink me out any more. You know me now, Grizel, and can have no morefear of me."
"When was I ever afraid of you?" she demanded. She was looking at himsuspiciously now.
"Never as a girl?" he asked. It jumped out of him. He was sorry assoon as he had said it.
There was a long pause. "So you remembered it all the time," she saidquietly. "You have been making pretence--again!" He asked her toforgive him, and she nodded her head at once. "But why did you pretendto have forgotten?"
"I thought it would please you, Grizel."
"Why should pretence please me?" She rose suddenly, in a white heat."You don't mean to say that you think I am afraid of you still?"
He said No a moment too late. He knew it was too late.
"Don't be angry with me, Grizel," he begged her, earnestly. "I am soglad I was mistaken. It made me miserable. I have been a terribleblunderer, but I mean well; I misread your eyes."
"My eyes?"
"They have always seemed to be watching me, and often there was such awistful look in them--it reminded me of the past."
"You thought I was still afraid of you! Say it," said Grizel, stampingher foot. But he would not say it. It was not merely fear that hethought he had seen in her eyes, you remember. This was still hiscomfort, and, I suppose, it gave the touch of complacency to his facethat made Grizel merciless. She did not mean to be merciless, but onlyto tell the truth. If some of her words were scornful, there wassadness in her voice all the time, instead of triumph. "For years andyears," she said, standing straight as an elvint, "I have been able tolaugh at all the ignorant fears of my childhood; and if you don'tknow why I have watched you and been unable to help watching you sinceyou came back, I shall tell you. But I think you might have guessed,you who write books about women. It is because I liked you when youwere a boy. You were often horrid, but you were my first friend whenevery other person was against me. You let me play with you when noother boy or girl would let me play. And so, all the time you havebeen away, I have been hoping that you were growing into a noble man;and when you came back, I watched to see whether you were the nobleman I wanted you so much to be, and you are not. Do you see now why myeyes look wistful? It is because I wanted to admire you, and I can't."
She went away, and the great authority on women raged about the room.Oh, but he was galled! There had been five feet nine of him, but hewas shrinking. By and by the red light came into his eyes.