I sometimes met David in public places such as the Kensington Gardens,
where he lorded it surrounded by his suite and wearing the blank face
and glass eyes of all carriage-people. On these occasions I always
stalked by, meditating on higher things, though Mary seemed to think me
very hardhearted, and Irene, who had become his nurse (I forget how,
but fear I had something to do with it), ran after me with messages,
as, would I not call and see him in his home at twelve o'clock, at which
moment, it seemed, he was at his best.
No, I would not.
“He says tick-tack to the clock,” Irene said, trying to snare me.
“Pooh!” said I.
“Other little 'uns jest says 'tick-tick,'” she told me, with a flush of
pride.
“I prefer 'tick-tick,'” I said, whereat she departed in dudgeon.
Had they had the sense to wheel him behind a tree and leave him, I would
have looked, but as they lacked it, I decided to wait until he could
walk, when it would be more easy to waylay him. However, he was a
cautious little gorbal who, after many threats to rise, always seemed to
come to the conclusion that he might do worse than remain where he was,
and when he had completed his first year I lost patience with him.
“When I was his age,” I said to Irene, “I was running about.” I
consulted them casually about this matter at the club, and they had all
been running about at a year old.
I made this nurse the following offer: If she would bring the dilatory
boy to my rooms and leave him there for half an hour I would look at
him. At first Mary, to whom the offer was passed on, rejected it with
hauteur, but presently she wavered, and the upshot was that Irene,
looking scornful and anxious, arrived one day with the perambulator.
Without casting eyes on its occupant, I pointed Irene to the door: “In
half-an-hour,” I said.
She begged permission to remain, and promised to turn her back, and so
on, but I was obdurate, and she then delivered herself of a passionately
affectionate farewell to her charge, which was really all directed
against me, and ended with these powerful words: “And if he takes off
your socks, my pretty, may he be blasted for evermore.”
“I shall probably take off her socks,” I said carelessly to this.
Her socks. Do you see what made Irene scream?
“It is a girl, is it not?” I asked, thus neatly depriving her of
coherent speech as I pushed her to the door. I then turned round to--to
begin, and, after reflecting, I began by sitting down behind the hood of
his carriage. My plan was to accustom him to his new surroundings before
bursting on the scene myself.
I had various thoughts. Was he awake? If not, better let him
wake naturally. Half-an-hour was a long time. Why had I not said
quarter-of-an-hour? Anon, I saw that if I was to sit there much longer I
should have said an hour, so I whistled softly; but he took no notice.
I remember trying to persuade myself that if I never budged till Irene's
return, it would be an amusing triumph over Mary. I coughed, but still
there was no response. Abruptly, the fear smote me. Perhaps he is not
there.
I rose hastily, and was striding forward, when I distinctly noticed a
covert movement somewhere near the middle of the carriage, and heard a
low gurgle, which was instantly suppressed. I stopped dead at this sharp
reminder that I was probably not the only curious person in the room,
and for a long moment we both lay low, after which, I am glad to
remember, I made the first advance. Earlier in the day I had arranged
some likely articles on a side-table: my watch and chain, my bunch of
keys, and two war-medals for plodding merit, and with a glance at these
(as something to fall back upon), I stepped forward doggedly, looking
(I fear now) a little like a professor of legerdemain. David was sitting
up, and he immediately fixed his eyes on me.
It would ill become me to attempt to describe this dear boy to you,
for of course I know really nothing about children, so I shall say only
this, that I thought him very like what Timothy would have been had he
ever had a chance.
I to whom David had been brought for judgment, now found myself being
judged by him, and this rearrangement of the pieces seemed so natural
that I felt no surprise; I felt only a humble craving to hear him
signify that I would do. I have stood up before other keen judges and
deceived them all, but I made no effort to deceive David; I wanted to,
but dared not. Those unblinking eyes were too new to the world to be
hooded by any of its tricks. In them I saw my true self. They opened for
me that pedler's pack of which I have made so much ado, and I found
that it was weighted less with pretty little sad love-tokens than with
ignoble thoughts and deeds and an unguided life. I looked dejectedly at
David, not so much, I think, because I had such a sorry display for him,
as because I feared he would not have me in his service. I seemed to
know that he was making up his mind once and for all.
And in the end he smiled, perhaps only because I looked so frightened,
but the reason scarcely mattered to me, I felt myself a fine fellow at
once. It was a long smile, too, opening slowly to its fullest extent (as
if to let me in), and then as slowly shutting.
Then, to divert me from sad thoughts, or to rivet our friendship, or
because the time had come for each of us to show the other what he could
do, he immediately held one foot high in the air. This made him slide
down the perambulator, and I saw at once that it was very necessary to
replace him. But never before had I come into such close contact with
a child; the most I had ever done was, when they were held up to me, to
shut my eyes and kiss a vacuum. David, of course, though no doubt he
was eternally being replaced, could tell as little as myself how it
was contrived, and yet we managed it between us quite easily. His
body instinctively assumed a certain position as I touched him, which
compelled my arms to fall into place, and the thing was done. I felt
absurdly pleased, but he was already considering what he should do next.
He again held up his foot, which had a gouty appearance owing to
its being contained in a dumpy little worsted sock, and I thought he
proposed to repeat his first performance, but in this I did him an
injustice, for, unlike Porthos, he was one who scorned to do the same
feat twice; perhaps, like the conjurors, he knew that the audience were
more on the alert the second time.