Tommy and Grizel
Copyright© 2026 by J. M. Barrie
Chapter 34: A Way Is Found for Tommy
The moment for which he had tried to prepare himself was come, and Tommy gulped down his courage, which had risen suddenly to his mouth, leaving his chest in a panic. Outwardly he seemed unmoved, but within he was beating to arms. “This is the test of us!” all that was good in him cried as it answered his summons.
They began by shaking hands, as is always the custom in the ring. Then, without any preliminary sparring, Lady Pippinworth immediately knocked him down; that is to say, she remarked, with a little laugh: “How very stout you are getting!”
I swear by all the gods that it was untrue. He had not got very stout, though undeniably he had got stouter. “How well you are looking!” would have been a very ladylike way of saying it, but his girth was best not referred to at all. Those who liked him had learned this long ago, and Grizel always shifted the buttons without comment.
Her malicious Ladyship had found his one weak spot at once. He had a reply ready for every other opening in the English tongue, but now he could writhe only.
Who would have expected to meet her here? he said at last feebly. She explained, and he had guessed it already, that she was again staying with the Rintouls; the castle, indeed, was not half a mile from where they stood.
“But I think I really came to see you,” she informed him, with engaging frankness.
It was very good of her, he intimated stiffly; but the stiffness was chiefly because she was still looking in an irritating way at his waist.
Suddenly she looked up. To Tommy it was as if she had raised the siege. “Why aren’t you nice to me?” she asked prettily.
“I want to be,” he replied.
She showed him a way. “When I saw you steaming towards the castle so swiftly,” she said, dropping badinage, “the hope entered my head that you had heard of my arrival.”
She had come a step nearer, and it was like an invitation to return to the arbour. “This is the test of us!” all that was good in Tommy cried once more to him.
“No, I had not heard,” he replied, bravely if baldly. “I was taking a smart walk only.”
“Why so smart as that?”
He hesitated, and her eyes left his face and travelled downward.
“Were you trying to walk it off?” she asked sympathetically.
He was stung, and replied in words that were regretted as soon as spoken: “I was trying to walk you off.”
A smile of satisfaction crossed her impudent face.
“I succeeded,” he added sharply.
“How cruel of you to say so, when you had made me so very happy! Do you often take smart walks, Mr. Sandys?”
“Often.”
“And always with me?”
“I leave you behind.”
“With Mrs. Sandys?”
Had she seemed to be in the least affected by their meeting it would have been easy to him to be a contrite man at once; any sign of shame on her part would have filled him with desire to take all the blame upon himself. Had she cut him dead, he would have begun to respect her. But she smiled disdainfully only, and stood waking. She was still, as ever, a cold passion, inviting his warm ones to leap at it. He shuddered a little, but controlled himself and did not answer her.
“I suppose she is the lady of the arbour?” Lady Pippinworth inquired, with mild interest.
“She is the lady of my heart,” Tommy replied valiantly.
“Alas!” said Lady Pippinworth, putting her hand over her own.
But he felt himself more secure now, and could even smile at the woman for thinking she was able to provoke him.
“Look upon me,” she requested, “as a deputation sent north to discover why you have gone into hiding.”
“I suppose a country life does seem exile to you,” he replied calmly, and suddenly his bosom rose with pride in what was coming. Tommy always heard his finest things coming a moment before they came. “If I have retired,” he went on windily, “from the insincerities and glitter of life in town,”—but it was not his face she was looking at, it was his waist, —”the reason is obvious,” he rapped out.
She nodded assent without raising her eyes.
Yet he still controlled himself. His waist, like some fair tortured lady of romance, was calling to his knighthood for defence, but with the truer courage he affected not to hear. “I am in hiding, as you call it,” he said doggedly, “because my life here is such a round of happiness as I never hoped to find on earth, and I owe it all to my wife. If you don’t believe me, ask Lord or Lady Rintoul, or any other person in this countryside who knows her.”
But her Ladyship had already asked, and been annoyed by the answer.
She assured Tommy that she believed he was happy. “I have often heard,” she said musingly, “that the stout people are the happiest.”
“I am not so stout,” he barked.
“Now I call that brave of you,” said she, admiringly. “That is so much the wisest way to take it. And I am sure you are right not to return to town after what you were; it would be a pity. Somehow it”—and again her eyes were on the wrong place—”it does not seem to go with the books. And yet,” she said philosophically, “I daresay you feel just the same?”
“I feel very much the same,” he replied warningly.
“That is the tragedy of it,” said she.
She told him that the new book had brought the Tommy Society to life again. “And it could not hold its meetings with the old enthusiasm, could it,” she asked sweetly, “if you came back? Oh, I think you act most judiciously. Fancy how melancholy if they had to announce that the society had been wound up, owing to the stoutness of the Master.”
Tommy’s mouth opened twice before any words could come out. “Take care!” he cried.
“Of what?” said she, curling her lip.
He begged her pardon. “You don’t like me, Lady Pippinworth,” he said, watching himself, “and I don’t wonder at it; and you have discovered a way of hurting me of which you make rather unmerciful use. Well, I don’t wonder at that, either. If I am—stoutish, I have at least the satisfaction of knowing that it gives you entertainment, and I owe you that amend and more.” He was really in a fury, and burning to go on—”For I did have the whip-hand of you once, madam,” etc., etc.; but by a fine effort he held his rage a prisoner, and the admiration of himself that this engendered lifted him into the sublime.
“For I so far forgot myself,” said Tommy, in a glow, “as to try to make you love me. You were beautiful and cold; no man had ever stirred you; my one excuse is that to be loved by such as you was no small ambition; my fitting punishment is that I failed.” He knew he had not failed, and so could be magnanimous. “I failed utterly,” he said, with grandeur. “You were laughing at me all the time; if proof of it were needed, you have given it now by coming here to mock me. I thought I was stronger than you, but I was ludicrously mistaken, and you taught me a lesson I richly deserved; you did me good, and I thank you for it. Believe me, Lady Pippinworth, when I say that I admit my discomfiture, and remain your very humble and humbled servant.”
Now was not that good of Tommy? You would think it still better were I to tell you what part of his person she was looking at while he said it.
He held out his hand generously (there was no noble act he could not have performed for her just now), but, whatever her Ladyship wanted, it was not to say good-bye. “Do you mean that you never cared for me?” she asked, with the tremor that always made Tommy kind.
“Never cared for you!” he exclaimed fervently. “What were you not to me in those golden days!” It was really a magnanimous cry, meant to help her self-respect, nothing more; but it alarmed the good in him, and he said sternly: “But of course that is all over now. It is only a sweet memory,” he added, to make these two remarks mix.
The sentiment of this was so agreeable to him that he was half thinking of raising her hand chivalrously to his lips when Lady Pippinworth said:
“But if it is all over now, why have you still to walk me off?”
“Have you never had to walk me off?” said Tommy, forgetting himself, and, to his surprise, she answered, “Yes.”
“But this meeting has cured me,” she said, with dangerous graciousness.
“Dear Lady Pippinworth,” replied Tommy, ardently, thinking that his generosity had touched her, “if anything I have said—--”
“It is not so much what you have said,” she answered, and again she looked at the wrong part of him.
He gave way in the waist, and then drew himself up. “If so little a thing as that helps you—--” he began haughtily.
“Little!” she cried reproachfully.
He tried to go away. He turned. “There was a time,” he thundered.
“It is over,” said she.
“When you were at my feet,” said Tommy.
“It is over,” she said.
“It could come again!”
She laughed a contemptuous No.
“Yes!” Tommy cried.
“Too stout,” said she, with a drawl.
He went closer to her. She stood waiting disdainfully, and his arms fell.
“Too stout,” she repeated.
“Let us put it in that way, since it pleases you,” said Tommy, heavily. “I am too stout.” He could not help adding, “And be thankful, Lady Pippinworth, let us both be thankful, that there is some reason to prevent my trying.”
She bowed mockingly as he raised his hat. “I wish you well,” he said, “and these are my last words to you”; and he retired, not without distinction. He retired, shall we say, as conscious of his waist as if it were some poor soldier he was supporting from a stricken field. He said many things to himself on the way home, and he was many Tommies, but all with the same waist. It intruded on his noblest reflections, and kept ringing up the worst in him like some devil at the telephone.
No one could have been more thankful that on the whole he had kept his passions in check. It made a strong man of him. It turned him into a joyous boy, and he tingled with hurrahs. Then suddenly he would hear that jeering bell clanging, “Too stout, too stout.” “Take care!” he roared. Oh, the vanity of Tommy!
He did not tell Grizel that he had met her Ladyship. All she knew was that he came back to her more tender and kind, if that were possible, than he had gone away. His eyes followed her about the room until she made merry over it, and still they dwelt upon her. “How much more beautiful you are than any other woman I ever saw, Grizel!” he said. And it was not only true, but he knew it was true. What was Lady Pippinworth beside this glorious woman? what was her damnable coldness compared to the love of Grizel? Was he unforgivable, or was it some flaw in the making of him for which he was not responsible? With clenched hands he asked himself these questions. This love that all his books were about—what was it? Was it a compromise between affection and passion countenanced by God for the continuance of the race, made beautiful by Him where the ingredients are in right proportion, a flower springing from a soil that is not all divine? Oh, so exquisite a flower! he cried, for he knew his Grizel. But he could not love her. He gave her all his affection, but his passion, like an outlaw, had ever to hunt alone.
Was it that? And if it was, did there remain in him enough of humanity to give him the right to ask a little sympathy of those who can love? So Tommy in his despairing moods, and the question ought to find some place in his epitaph, which, by the way, it is almost time to write.
On the day following his meeting with Lady Pippinworth came a note from Lady Rintoul inviting Grizel and him to lunch. They had been to Rintoul once or twice before, but this time Tommy said decisively, “We sha’n’t go.” He guessed who had prompted the invitation, though her name was not mentioned in it.
“Why not?” Grizel asked. She was always afraid that she kept Tommy too much to herself.
“Because I object to being disturbed during the honeymoon,” he replied lightly. Their honeymoon, you know, was never to end. “They would separate us for hours, Grizel. Think of it! But, pooh! the thing is not to be thought of. Tell her Ladyship courteously that she must be mad.”
But though he could speak thus to Grizel, there came to him tempestuous desires to be by the side of the woman who could mock him and then stand waiting.
Had she shown any fear of him all would have been well with Tommy; he could have kept away from her complacently. But she had flung down the glove, and laughed to see him edge away from it. He knew exactly what was in her mind. He was too clever not to know that her one desire was to make him a miserable man; to remember how he had subdued and left her would be gall to Lady Pippinworth until she achieved the same triumph over him. How confident she was that he could never prove the stronger of the two again! What were all her mockings but a beckoning to him to come on? “Take care!” said Tommy between his teeth.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.