The Complete Novels of J. M. Barrie - All 14 Books in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). J. M. Barrie

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      It got into the papers that he had fled from the wax policeman at Tussaud's (half-a-crown).

      More than once he sold his body in advance to the doctors, and was never able to buy it out.

      It would be a labour, thankless as impossible, to recover now all the devices by which Andrew disgraced his manhood during these weeks rather than die. As well count the "drinks" an actor has in a day.

      It is not our part to climb down into the depths after him. He re-appeared eventually, or this record would never have been written.

      During this period of gloom, Clarrie wrote him frequently long and tender epistles.

      More strictly, the minister wrote them, for he had the gift of beautiful sentiment in letters, which had been denied to her.

      She copied them, however, and signed them, and they were a great consolation.

      The love of a good girl is a priceless possession, or rather, in this case, of a good minister.

      So long as you do not know which, it does not make much difference.

      At times Andrew's reason may have been unhinged, less on account of his reverses than because no one spoke to him.

      There were days and nights when he rushed all over London.

      In the principal streets the stolid-faced Scotchman in a straw hat became a familiar figure.

      Strange fancies held him. He stood for an hour at a time looking at his face in a shop-window.

      The boot-blacks pointed at him and he disappeared down passages.

      He shook his fist at the 'bus-conductors, who would not leave him alone.

      In the yellow night policemen drew back scared, as he hurried past them on his way to nowhere.

      In the day-time Oxford Street was his favourite thoroughfare. He was very irritable at this time, and could not leave his fellow wayfarers alone.

      More than once he poked his walking-stick through the eyeglass of a brave young gentleman.

      He would turn swiftly round to catch people looking at him.

      When a small boy came in his way, he took him by the neck and planted him on the curb-stone.

      If a man approached simpering, Andrew stopped and gazed at him. The smile went from the stranger's face; he blushed or looked fierce. When he turned round, Andrew still had his eye on him. Sometimes he came bouncing back.

      "What are you so confoundedly happy about?" Andrew asked.

      When he found a crowd gazing in at a "while you wait" shop-window, or entranced over the paving of a street—

      "Splendid, isn't it?" he said to the person nearest him.

      He dropped a penny, which he could ill spare, into the hat of an exquisite who annoyed him by his way of lifting it to a lady.

      When he saw a man crossing the street too daintily, he ran after him and hit him over the legs.

      Even on his worst days his reasoning powers never left him. Once a mother let her child slip from her arms to the pavement.

      She gave a shriek.

      "My good woman," said Andrew, testily, "what difference can one infant in the world more or less make?"

      We come now to an eccentricity, engendered of loneliness, that altered the whole course of his life. Want had battered down his door. Truth had been evolved from despair. He was at last to have a flash into salvation.

      To give an object to his walks abroad he would fasten upon a wayfarer and follow him till he ran him to his destination. Chance led to his selecting one quarry rather than another. He would dog a man's footsteps, struck by the glossiness of his boots, or to discover what he was in such a hurry about, or merely because he had a good back to follow. Probably he seldom knew what attracted him, and sometimes when he realised the pursuit he gave it up.

      On these occasions there was one person only who really interested him. This was a man, somewhat over middle age, of singularly noble and distinguished bearing. His brow was furrowed with lines, but they spoke of cares of the past. Benevolence had settled on his face. It was as if, after a weary struggle, the sun had broken through the heavy clouds. He was attired in the ordinary dress of an English gentleman; but once, when he raised his head to see if it rained, Andrew noticed that he only wore a woollen shirt, without a necktie. As a rule, his well-trimmed, venerable beard hid this from view.

      He seemed a man of unostentatious means. Andrew lost him in Drury Lane and found him again in Piccadilly. He was generally alone, never twice with the same person. His business was scattered, or it was his pleasure that kept him busy. He struck the observer as always being on the outlook for someone who did not come.

      Why attempt to account for the nameless fascination he exercised over the young Scotchman? We speak lightly of mesmeric influence, but, after all, there is only one mesmerist for youth—a good woman or a good man. Depend upon it, that is why so many "mesmerists" have mistaken their vocation. Andrew took to prowling about the streets looking for this man, like a dog that has lost its master.

      The day came when they met.

      Andrew was returning from the Crystal Palace, which he had been viewing from the outside. He had walked both ways. Just as he rounded the upper end of Chancery Lane, a man walking rapidly struck against him, whirled him aside, and hurried on.

      The day was done, but as yet the lamps only dimmed the streets.

      Andrew had been dreaming, and the jerk woke him to the roar of London.

      It was as if he had taken his fingers from his ears.

      He staggered, dazed, against a 'bus-horse, but the next moment he was in pursuit of the stranger. It was but a continuation of his dream. He felt that something was about to happen. He had never seen this man disturbed before.

      Chancery Lane swarmed with lawyers, but if they had not made way Andrew would have walked over them.

      He clove his way between those walking abreast, and struck down an arm extended to point out the Law Courts. When he neared the stranger, he slightly slackened his pace, but it was a stampede even then.

      Suddenly the pursued came to a dead stop and gazed for twenty minutes in at a pastry-cook's window. Andrew waited for him. Then they started off again, much more leisurely.

      They turned Chancery Lane almost together. All this time Andrew had failed to catch sight of the other's face.

      He stopped twice in the Strand for a few minutes.

      At Charing Cross he seemed for a moment at a loss. Then he sprang across the street, and went back the way he came.

      It was now for the first time that a strange notion illumined Andrew's brain. It bewildered him, and left him in darkness the next moment. But his blood was running hot now, and his eyes were glassy.

      They СКАЧАТЬ