The Little Blue Devil/Alison's Victory

Alison stopped reading and regarded the brown face opposite her. Tony was up now. For the last two days he had been promoted to a lounge in his own room; with the help of crutches even made little tours about, from window to door and back again, Alison smiling encouragement from her corner. But for the bad weather he would have been out of doors; that was still a joy to come.

“No more reading, Tony. I’m tired.”

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have gone on so long. I shouldn’t have let you.”

“You shouldn’t have let me! What next? So you think you can begin ordering me about, do you, Impertinence?”

“Does the Professor order you about?”

“Of course he doesn’t. What would be the use? Besides, I have my hands full, ordering him. Husbands are dreadfully troublesome, Tony.”

“Are they? Aren’t wives worse?”

“How dare you, you very naughty boy!”

“You don’t mind really, do you?”

(It made him feel about ten years older, to talk nonsense with the woman beside him. He looked at her thoughtfully, considering that he was really very much older than this laughing girl. “It isn’t years that count. She can’t be much over twenty, anyway.”)

Alison broke in on his meditations.

“Do you think it’s respectful, to talk so to an old woman, young man?”

“How old are you?” ​“Twenty-four.”

“You don’t look as much as that. . . . You must have been very young when you married the Professor.”

“I was.”

Alison’s eyes grew dreamy, and silence fell. Thoughts and feelings surged through Tony’s mind which he despised and fought against, but could not drive away. He set his teeth, but his eyes never left the unconscious Alison’s face. What crinkly hair she had! . . .

Alison was miles away in a little garden crammed with roses, up in the hills where she and Winthrop had spent their honeymoon. How Winthrop had laughed at everything she said and did! How she had laughed at nothing at all! And some people were bored on their honeymoons. . . . She sighed, and smiled, and came back to Tony.

“What are you thinking about, Little Boy?”

“I’m not so very little.”

“Oh, darling, don’t be in a hurry to grow up! You skipped most of your childhood, so you’d better start it again now. What a good plan!”

She leant forward quickly and stroked his cheek with one finger—a favourite caress of hers. She was so sure of him now that she had quite forgotten to be cautious, and was horrified—almost angry—when at her touch his brows suddenly contracted and he shrank back, as if she had given him a blow.

“Tony, what a horrid little boy you are, after all!” she said slowly. Tony said nothing, but stared at her from beneath frowning brows.

“You don’t like me to do that? Why mayn’t I touch you?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

“Then why do you draw back as if I had hurt you? You hurt me, Tony—very much.” ​He controlled his voice with an effort, and, leaning forward, said:

“Go on. I didn’t mean to draw away. You may do what you like.”

“No, I don’t want to, now.” Alison was hurt, and would not look at him. When she did look, it was her turn to draw away—not outwardly—she remained calm and almost severe, for her, but inwardly she was much disturbed. It was her eyes that fell before the boy’s, and since the situation, absurd though it was, seemed uncomfortably strained, and its very unexpectedness had destroyed her ability to cope with it, she made some excuse about housekeeping matters and went away. Once outside the door, she drew a deep breath and gave herself a little shake.

“Oh, dear! Surely it’s not going to be that? The absurd boy—he’s the merest child. Oh, no, no, no, it would be too annoying—for me to work so hard and get so many rebuffs, and then to get on so nicely, only to end like this! Who would ever dream—How Winthrop would tease me! I certainly won’t tell him a word about it. . . . Oh, little baby that I wanted to cuddle, surely you’re not going to spoil everything like this?—surely not. Oh, Tony dear, how ridiculous of you! Did I imagine it all? No, I couldn’t have—I honestly never thought of such a thing. How badly he wanted actually to kiss me, poor darling!”

An irresistible laugh bubbled up.

“Well, I said I’d make him like me!—but no, it isn’t funny at all—it’s too bad, and I’m very, very annoyed about it. He’ll just have to get over it, that’s all—but now I’ll have to begin to be careful all over again, and for quite a different reason. I do think it’s too bad. And Winthrop won’t be a bit sympathetic. I shan’t tell him, anyway. . . . Oh, Tony, Tony!—you silly little boy!”

​Alison had no Tony—anecdotes for the Professor that evening, until finally he asked her, “What’s the news of that boy of yours to-day? You haven’t told me anything about him to-night.”

“But you’ve just come back from interviewing him yourself.”

“My dear, you know that isn’t generally any reason for———”

“I know! I’ve just remembered what I was going to tell you. I was reading to him to-day—Oh, Winthrop, isn’t he just exactly like the ‘Little Blue Devil’?”

“I don’t recognise———” began the Professor.

“Yes you do. You know, Kipling’s ‘Little Blue Devil’:

Isn’t he just like that?”

“H’m, yes,” the Professor agreed. “‘For myself, I swam’—yes, that’s Tony. He seemed a bit grumpy tonight. We didn’t do much work.”

“He’s tired, poor child!” Alison was up in arms at once. “You know it’s only the second day he’s been up. Of course, he finds it tiring.”

“When is he to be allowed out?”

“The minute it’s fine, and that will probably be tomorrow; there are quite a lot of stars out.”

It was fine next day, and Tony, with lounge, crutches, and books, was duly installed on a little balcony in front of the house. Books were a good deal neglected that day though, for was it not sufficiently absorbing to be out of doors once more—to lie out in the sun and breeze, and to watch the people in the street below? . . . There was ​plenty of room, too, for Alison’s chair on the little balcony, and there she established herself directly after luncheon. She had been out all the morning, shopping, and in the intervals of choosing ties for her husband and an evening gown for herself she had reasoned herself into a different point of view with regard to yesterday’s disturbing little incident. She must remember that Tony was really not like other boys. She had not known him for long, after all, and he probably was subject to all sorts of moods and fancies, any of which might explain his behaviour simply enough. Why, then, insist on assigning a sentimental reason?—it was quite absurd of her. Poor, dear boy!—he was only fifteen, and, of course, he was fond of her. It was only that he had taken such a long time about showing it, and didn’t show it now in quite the way she had expected. But there were boys and boys, and anyway she was going to sit with him till it was time to go to the Wallaces’ tea, and be just the same as usual.

Accordingly it was the same frank, friendly Alison who appeared as soon as luncheon was over and cried joyfully, “Oh, Tony, isn’t it grand to see you out of doors again? What have you done all the morning?”

Not much but watch what went on in the street, Tony told her.

“I’ve got an hour I can spend with you now, Little Boy, so we can watch together. You can stay out as long as the sun’s up, or till you are tired. What about books? Did you finish Richard III?”

They talked about books for a time—a safe topic—but surely it was ridiculous to worry about safe topics, for Tony was perfectly normal. Only a little brighter and happier-looking than usual; that was the fresh air and being out of doors.

“Isn’t this a dear little balcony, Tony? So nice and high up, one is away from the dust and too much noise. I wish ​we had a garden for you to sit in, but very soon you’ll be able to go for drives. We’ll go some little expeditions together, Tony—won’t that be fun?”

“Great fun.”

(Really, Tony, don’t look like that! Alison gave herself a shake, and seized upon the balcony again.)

“I’ve always been sorry I didn’t make more use of this little place—I’ve often planned to. It’s so convenient being able to get to it just through the box-room, without disturbing anybody. Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do?—make a little garden here, in boxes, you know. Winthrop only made fun of that idea when I proposed it to him, but I do think we could have a dear little garden up here; lots of things grow beautifully in boxes. Tony, will you help me to make a garden?—when you’re well again, of course. We’ll do it all together, as a surprise for Winthrop. It will be delightful to bring him up here when everything is all a-growing and a-blowing, and say ‘I told you so!’ Shall we?”

Yes, Tony would help her, of course; but not with the conversation, apparently. She tried again, asking him a question or two about his life in New Zealand and his droving days. He was quite loquacious some days, and told her many of his varied adventures, but not to-day. He was not inclined to talk, evidently, though he looked more content than she had seen him yet.

Tony did not want to talk; it was enough to lie there, watching Alison’s sweet, changing face, enfolded in peace such as he had never known before. He felt soothed and quieted all over. She had said that no man was much good unless he had some kind of softness in him. . . . She made him soft—but very strong and tender too, somehow. He felt as if he could take care of her, and . . . Well, that was absurd, of course, but———

Alison’s voice interrupted him.

​“Tony, you’ve made up your mind to stay with us after your leg is well, haven’t you?”

“Yes, thank you. I talked it over with the Professor. You’re—quite sure I won’t be in the way?”

“I’m quite sure I should be very much disappointed if you went away for a long, long while yet. Winthrop is ever so pleased with the way you do his copying, and I should be very grieved to lose my little brother. And then, Tony, I think you owe it to yourself to take every chance of education you can get. You’ve had so few advantages in that way so far, and as you know, Winthrop is never so happy as when he has someone to teach—I’ve been a great disappointment to him in that way! But he can cram things into you all he wants; indeed, I’ve often thought he must have been giving you too much to think about while you were ill.”

“Oh no, he never has. I’ve been awfully glad of it.”

“That’s quite settled then.”

It is doubtful, all the same, whether Tony would have accepted the Straines’ invitation to stay with them for six months at least if it had not been for a little windfall which he had just received, in the shape of £32, the wages owing to him for his last eighteen months at Paranui, less £7 he had spent on various small things during the first few months of his pay. There never had been much temptation to spend at Paranui. He had written to the post office at San Francisco, hoping that a letter from Robertson might be awaiting him there. There was one, enclosing the cheque which made him feel for the time being quite independent. A certain amount of money of one’s own is a wonderful thing; it means “backbone” and “spring” and “go,” and various other essentials.

“A quarter to three,” Alison announced as a neighbouring clock chimed. “It’s really time for me to go and dress for my tea-party.”

​“Oh, are you going out again?”

“Yes, in a few minutes I must.”

“Don’t go.”

“Oh, but I’ve promised, Tony.”

“Do you want to go?”

“No—yes! That’s very rude of me. Yes, I do want to go, because they’re nice people, and I’ve got a new hat that’s rather becoming, but you know I would rather stay here with you and talk.”

“Then don’t go. It’s quite easy.”

“I’m afraid I must, dear. I’m sorry, but it is more amusing for you out here than if I were leaving you in bed with nothing to look at, isn’t it? You’ve been awfully good, Little Boy, all the time—so patient—and I know how dull it has been for you.”

“No, it hasn’t. I’ve learnt a lot.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, but you’ll learn even more now you’re beginning to get about again. I shall find out from Dr. Wakeham to-morrow just how soon you may go for a drive; you don’t know Philadelphia a bit yet, do you?—so I shall take you in charge, and we’ll go to everything there is that’s interesting. Shall you like that?”

“Yes, thank you, very much.”

(He could not say less, and his tone was quite expressionless; yet she knew he would like it very much indeed. However, she had resolved not to let her imagination run away with her, and it was nearly three o’clock.)

“Now, old man, I really must go and dress.”

“Don’t go.” He spoke just as stolidly as before, but now his eyes beseeched her. She said hurriedly:

“I truly must, dear. The Wallaces are real friends of mine, and they’re expecting me and have people coming they want me to meet.”

“Well—” this with an effort which gave it weight and ​drove it home—“I’m sure that no one there will be as glad to see you as I am sorry to have you go.”

Alison could not resist this.

“Do you know that’s the very first nice thing you’ve ever said to me, Tony?”

“Is it? That’s funny!”

“Do you really want me to stay so much?”

“Well, considering I’ve asked you three times to stay, I should think you’d know I wanted you to.”

Alison hardened her heart. “I’m very sorry. I’d like to stay, but I can’t. Good-bye for a while. Mary will bring you your tea, and I think you had better go in again—then she will give you an arm. Good-bye.”

She weakly paused in the doorway to add:

“You can see the front steps from where you are, you know. Look out when you hear me shut the door and I’ll wave you good-bye.”

She disappeared, in a turmoil. Tony lay and called himself hard names. He listened for the clang of the front door, and when it came, doggedly lay still, gazing in the opposite direction, and would not turn his head to see the promised waved farewell. But as soon as he judged that Alison was well on her way down the street, he dragged himself up to watch her till she was out of sight. Turning away sharply, he hurt his leg, and swore with disproportionate anger for fully two minutes, his vocabulary being as varied as his opportunities for acquiring it had been.

“I am a fool,” he told himself then—“a little fool. I wish she’d keep separate too. . . . It’s rather a good thing I’m not ten years older—(first time I’ve ever felt that!) Things might be—rather awkward. For this is play, I suppose. . . . If she was only a little older herself! I must try and remember I’m only fifteen—it’s hard to do that—I am more really. At fifteen English and American boys are at school, thinking of cricket and baseball and look​ing up to the senior boys. I can’t help it—I feel older than the seniors. When you’ve worked with men for five years you’re more like an undersized man than a boy. . . . Well, I must work here, and take what I’m being given; it’s good—it is good, and I’ll never lose the books again, and I don’t think of her (much) when I’m working. . . . Only I wish she wouldn’t be so tantalising. If I were a man I could hit back, and I’m afraid I would, but I can’t do anything as things are. When she kisses me in the dark it’s all right—I feel like a soft baby, and it is a dream, and she’s all the mothers that ever were. But when she touches my cheek—so lightly—all the blood in my body races up to meet her fingers . . . et, mon Dieu! n’est ce pas que je suis Français? . . . Why does it feel so different? It is the silliest thing I ever knew.”

He frowned, and settled himself to write to Robertson. He explained briefly how it happened that he was staying with the Straines for so long, but he found it impossible to write much of his reasons for leaving Paranui.

“I shall come back to N.Z. sometime and then perhaps I shall tell you more about why I left, it is too new now. I am glad Baldwin has gone, I hated him worse than the others did, but they all hated him, there would have been a row at Paranui some day; I know he was a good manager, but he nagged more than he was worth. There nearly was a row the night I left, and probably if I had been a few years older there would have been one. It feels a very long time since I have seen you, supposing you had such a thing as a photograph you might send me one, I would rather have it than most things.”

Alison was rather abstracted at the Wallaces’. She could not forget the brown face with the imploring eyes, the boyish voice, a little gruff with earnestness as he begged ​her to stay. It was no use shutting her eyes to the facts of the case—the plain truth was that the absurd child had fallen very much in love with her. Well, she did love to be loved, there was no doubt about that, but her mind was filled with very conflicting emotions—delight at the completeness of her victory—dismay at the form it had taken. Yes, she was much more annoyed than pleased. She did want something she could pet and play with to her heart’s content—little brother or big baby, it didn’t matter which—and now all her plans were thwarted by this silly child of fifteen. How provoking and uncertain men were, even from the time when they weren’t men at all, but the merest children!

“Yes, Mrs. Bowen, he is still with us, and ever so much better, thank you. We’ve put him out on the balcony to-day.”

“I never heard of such a pair of philanthropists as you and Professor Straine,” declared Mrs. Bowen; “you’ve positively adopted the boy, I hear.”

“Not quite, though indeed we should be very glad to, we’ve both grown so fond of him. . . . Good-bye, Mrs. Wallace. No, I must get back. Winthrop will be home at six, and there’s my small invalid to be attended to.”

Alison made her farewells, and walked home, stopping on the way at a bookshop. No poetry for Tony to-day, however; she turned with great deliberation to the boys’ books Tony must remember that he was only a boy still. She came back armed with Treasure Island and Kidnapped, and left them with him on her way up to dress.

Tony read as long as the light lasted, then, too lazy to stretch out his hand to the electric light, he lay and thought over his book.

I like Alan Breck, but I don’t think I can be a bit Scotch—I feel so different to David Balfour.” A sudden suspicion leapt out. “She has never given me books of ​that kind before—they’ve been poetry and plays mostly—grown-up things. She’s so anxious to keep me fifteen though! I hope—no, she couldn't know. Oh, my God, don’t let her know! If she laughed . . . I can laugh at it, but if anyone else did . . .

“Oh, damn it—damn it all! What does it matter? I don’t care if she does know what a fool I am—at least, while she’s here I feel as if I wanted her to know, and as quick as she goes away, I feel I’d rather die. . . . I’ve seen a lot of men in love, and it took them in all sorts of ways, but I don’t suppose anybody was ever such an ass as this before. I might at least have waited till I was eighteen; I used to think eighteen was grown up. . . . Well, it won’t last, of course. It feels like the stars and the sea, but then I suppose it always does that. I thought last night I’d go away, but I won’t unless they get tired of me. I want to see her and hear her speak. . . . I wonder how soon it will stop. . . .”