Peter Pan
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. 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.
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 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, thus
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 Jane, “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 mermaids’ 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.
THE END