CHAPTER XIII
WILLIAM AND THE ANCIENT SOULS
The house next William's had been unoccupied for several months, andWilliam made full use of its garden. Its garden was in turns a jungle,a desert, an ocean, and an enchanted island. William invited selectparties of his friends to it. He had come to look upon it as his ownproperty. He hunted wild animals in it with Jumble, his trusty hound;he tracked Red Indians in it, again with Jumble, his trusty hound; andhe attacked and sank ships in it, making his victims walk the plank,again with the help and assistance of Jumble, his trusty hound.Sometimes, to vary the monotony, he made Jumble, his trusty hound,walk the plank into the rain tub. This was one of the many unpleasantthings that William brought into Jumble's life. It was only hisintense love for William that reconciled him to his existence. Jumblewas one of the very few beings who appreciated William.
The house on the other side was a much smaller one, and was occupiedby Mr. Gregorius Lambkin. Mr. Gregorius Lambkin was a very shy andrather elderly bachelor. He issued from his front door every morningat half-past eight holding a neat little attache case in aneatly-gloved hand. He spent the day in an insurance office andreturned, still unruffled and immaculate, at about half past six. Mostpeople considered him quite dull and negligible, but he possessed thesupreme virtue in William's eyes of not objecting to William. Williamhad suffered much from unsympathetic neighbours who had taken uponthemselves to object to such innocent and artistic objects ascatapults and pea-shooters, and cricket balls. William had a very softspot in his heart for Mr. Gregorius Lambkin. William spent a good dealof his time in Mr. Lambkin's garden during his absence, and Mr.Lambkin seemed to have no objection. Other people's gardens alwaysseemed to William to be more attractive than his own--especially whenhe had no right of entry into them.
There was quite an excitement in the neighbourhood when the emptyhouse was let. It was rumoured that the newcomer was a Personage. Shewas the President of the Society of Ancient Souls. The Society ofAncient Souls was a society of people who remembered their previousexistence. The memory usually came in a flash. For instance, you mightremember in a flash when you were looking at a box of matches that youhad been Guy Fawkes. Or you might look at a cow and remember in aflash that you had been Nebuchadnezzar. Then you joined the Society ofAncient Souls, and paid a large subscription, and attended meetingsat the house of its President in costume. And the President was comingto live next door to William. By a curious coincidence her name wasGregoria--Miss Gregoria Mush. William awaited her coming with anxiety.He had discovered that one's next-door neighbours make a greatdifference to one's life. They may be agreeable and not object tomouth organs and whistling and occasional stone-throwing, or they maynot. They sometimes--the worst kind--go to the length of writing notesto one's father about one, and then, of course, the only course leftto one is one of Revenge. But William hoped great things from MissGregoria Mush. There was a friendly sound about the name. On theevening of her arrival he climbed up on the roller and gazed wistfullyover the fence at the territory that had once been his, but from whichhe was now debarred. He felt like Moses surveying the Promised Land.
Miss Gregoria Mush was walking in the garden. William watched her withbated breath. She was very long, and very thin, and very angular, andshe was reading poetry out loud to herself as she trailed about in herlong draperies.
"'Oh, moon of my delight....'" she declaimed, then her eye metWilliam's. The eyes beneath her pince-nez were like little gimlets.
"How dare you stare at me, you rude boy?" she said.
William gasped.
"HOW DARE YOU STARE AT ME, YOU RUDE BOY?" SHE SAID.]
"I shall write to your father," she said fiercely, and then proceededstill ferociously, "'... that knows no wane.'"
"Crumbs!" murmured William, descending slowly from his perch.
She did write to his father, and that note was the first of many. Sheobjected to his singing, she objected to his shouting, she objected tohis watching her over the wall, and she objected to his throwingsticks at her cat. She objected both verbally and in writing. Thispersecution was only partly compensated for by occasional glimpses ofmeetings of the Ancient Souls. For the Ancient Souls met in costume,and sometimes William could squeeze through the hole in the fence andwatch the Ancient Souls meeting in the dining-room. Miss Gregoria Musharrayed as Mary, Queen of Scots (one of her many previous existences)was worth watching. And always there was the garden on the other side.Mr. Gregorius Lambkin made no objections and wrote no notes. Butclouds of Fate were gathering round Mr. Gregorius Lambkin. Williamfirst heard of it one day at lunch.
"I saw the old luny talking to poor little Lambkin to-day," saidRobert, William's elder brother.
In these terms did Robert refer to the august President of the Societyof Ancient Souls.
And the next news Robert brought home was that "poor little Lambkin"had joined the Society of Ancient Souls, but didn't seem to want totalk about it. He seemed very vague as to his previous existence, buthe said that Miss Gregoria Mush was sure that he had been JuliusCaesar. The knowledge had come to her in a flash when he raised his hatand she saw his bald head.
There was a meeting of the Ancient Souls that evening, and Williamcrept through the hole and up to the dining-room window to watch. Agorgeous scene met his eye. Noah conversed agreeably with Cleopatra inthe window seat, and by the piano Napoleon discussed the Irishquestion with Lobengula. As William watched, his small nose flattenedagainst a corner of the window, Nero and Dante arrived, having shareda taxi from the station. Miss Gregoria Mush, tall and gaunt andangular, presided in the robes of Mary, Queen of Scots, which was herfavourite previous existence. Then Mr. Gregorius Lambkin arrived. Helooked as unhappy as it is possible for man to look. He was dressed ina toga and a laurel wreath. Heat and nervousness had caused his smallwaxed moustache to droop. His toga was too long and his laurel wreathwas crooked. Miss Gregoria Mush received him effusively. She carriedhim off to a corner seat near the window, and there they conversed,or, to be more accurate, she talked and he listened. The window wasopen and William could hear some of the things she said.
"Now you are a member you must come here often ... you and I, the onlyAncient Souls in this vicinity ... we will work together and live onlyin the Past.... Have you remembered any other previous existence?...No? Ah, try, it will come in a flash any time.... I must come and seeyour garden.... I feel that we have much in common, you and I.... Wehave much to talk about.... I have all my past life to tell you of ...what train do you come home by?... We must be friends--realfriends.... I'm sure I can help you much in your life as an AncientSoul.... Our names are almost the same.... Fate in some way unitesus...."
And Mr. Lambkin sat, miserable and dejected and yet with a certainpathetic resignation. For what can one do against Fate? Then thePresident caught sight of William and approached the window.
MR. LAMBKIN SAT, MISERABLE AND DEJECTED, AND YET WITH ACERTAIN PATHETIC RESIGNATION.]
"Go away, boy!" she called. "You wicked, rude, prying boy, go away!"
Mr. Lambkin shot a wretched and apologetic glance at William, butWilliam pressed his mouth to the open slit of the window.
"All right, Mrs. Jarley's!" he called, then turned and fled.
William met Mr. Lambkin on his way to the station the next morning.Mr. Lambkin looked thinner and there were lines of worry on his face.
"I'm sorry she sent you away, William," he said. "It must have beeninteresting to watch--most interesting to watch. I'd much rather havewatched than--but there, it's very kind of her to take such aninterest in me. _Most_ kind. But I--however, she's very kind, _very_kind. She very kindly presented me with the costume. Hardlysuitable, perhaps, but _very_ kind of her. And, of course, there _may_be something in it. One never knows. I _may_ have been Julius Caesar,but I hardly think--however, one must keep an open mind. Do you knowany Latin, William?"
"Jus' a bit," said William, guardedly. "I've _learnt_ a lot, but Idon't _know_ much."
"Say some
to me. It might convey something to me. One never knows. Sheseems so sure. Talk Latin to me, William."
"Hic, haec, hoc," said William obligingly.
Julius Caesar's reincarnation shook his head.
"No," he said, "I'm afraid it doesn't seem to mean anything to me."
"Hunc, hanc, hoc," went on William monotonously.
"I'm afraid it's no good," said Mr. Lambkin. "I'm afraid it provesthat I'm not--still one may not retain a knowledge of one's formertongue. One must keep an open mind. Of course, I'd prefer not to--butone must be fair. And she's kind, very kind."
Shaking his head sadly, the little man entered the station.
That evening William heard his father say to his mother:
"She came down to meet him at the station to-night. I'm afraid hisdoom is sealed. He's no power of resistance, and she's got her eye onhim."
"Who's got her eye on him?" said William with interest.
"Be quiet!" said his father with the brusqueness of the male parent.
But William began to see how things stood. And William liked Mr.Lambkin.
One evening he saw from his window Mr. Gregorius Lambkin walking withMiss Gregoria Mush in Miss Gregoria Mush's garden. Mr. GregoriusLambkin did not look happy.
William crept down to the hole in the fence and applied his ear to it.
They were sitting on a seat quite close to his hole.
"Gregorius," the President of the Society of Ancient Souls was saying,"when I found that our names were the same I knew that our destinieswere interwoven."
"Yes," murmured Mr. Lambkin. "It's so kind of you, so kind. But--I'mafraid I'm overstaying my welcome. I must----"
"No. I must say what is in my heart, Gregorius. You live on the Past,I live in the Past. We have a common mission--the mission of bringingto the thoughtless and uninitiated the memory of their former lives.Gregorius, our work would be more valuable if we could do it together,if the common destiny that has united our nomenclatures could unitealso our lives."
"It's so _kind_ of you," murmured the writhing victim, "so kind. I amso unfit, I----"
"No, friend," she said kindly. "I have power enough for both. Thehuman speech is so poor an agent, is it not?"
A door bell clanged in the house.
"Ah, the Committee of the Ancient Souls. They were coming from townto-night. Come here to-morrow night at the same time, Gregorius, and Iwill tell you what is in my heart. Meet me here--at thistime--to-morrow evening."
William here caught sight of a stray cat at the other end of thegarden. In the character of a cannibal chief he hunted the white man(otherwise the cat) with blood-curdling war-whoops, but felt no realinterest in the chase. He bound up his scratches mechanically with anink-stained handkerchief. Then he went indoors. Robert was conversingwith his friend in the library.
"Well," said the friend, "it's nearly next month. Has she landed himyet?"
"By Jove!" said Robert. "First of April to-morrow!" He looked atWilliam suspiciously. "And if you try any fool's tricks on me you'lljolly well hear about it."
"I'm not thinkin' of you," said William crushingly. "I'm not goin' totrouble with _you_!"
"Has she landed him?" said the friend.
"Not yet, and I heard him saying in the train that he was leaving townon the 2nd and going abroad for a holiday."
"Well, she'll probably do it yet. She's got all the 1st."
"It's bedtime, William," called his Mother.
"Thank heaven!" said Robert.
William sat gazing into the distance, not seeing or hearing.
"_William_!" called his mother.
"All right," said William irritably. "I'm jus' thinkin' somethingout."
* * * * *
William's family went about their ways cautiously the next morning.They watched William carefully. Robert even refused an egg atbreakfast because you never knew with that little wretch. But nothinghappened.
"Fancy your going on April Fool's day without making a fool ofanyone," said Robert at lunch.
"It's not over, is it?--not yet," said William with the air of asphinx.
"But it doesn't count after twelve," said Robert.
William considered deeply before he spoke, then he said slowly:
"The thing what I'm going to do counts whatever time it is."
* * * * *
Reluctantly, but as if drawn by a magnet, Mr. Lambkin set off to thePresident's house. William was in the road.
"She told me to tell you," said William unblushingly, "that she wasbusy to-night, an' would you mind not coming."
The tense lines of Mr. Lambkin's face relaxed.
"Oh, William," he said, "it's a great relief. I'm going away earlyto-morrow, but I was afraid that to-night----" he was almosthysterical with relief. "She's so kind, but I was afraid that--well,well, I can't say I'm sorry--I'd promised to come, and I couldn'tbreak it. But I was afraid--and I hear she's sold her house and isleaving in a month, so--but she's kind--_very_ kind."
He turned back with alacrity.
"Thanks for letting me have the clothes," said William.
"Oh, quite welcome, William. They're nice things for a boy to dress upin, no doubt. I can't say I--but she's _very_ kind. Don't let her seeyou playing with them, William."
William grunted and returned to his back garden.
"GREGORIUS," SAID THE PRESIDENT. "HOW DEAR OF YOU TOCOME IN COSTUME!" THE FIGURE MADE NO MOVEMENT.]
For some time silence reigned over the three back gardens. Then MissGregoria Mush emerged and came towards the seat by the fence. A figurewas already seated there in the half dusk, a figure swathed in a togawith the toga drawn also over its drooping head.
"Gregorius!" said the President. "How dear of you to come in costume!"
The figure made no movement.
"You know what I have in my heart, Gregorius?"
Still no answer.
"Your heart is too full for words," she said kindly. "The thought ofhaving your destiny linked with mine takes speech from you. But havecourage, dear Gregorius. You shall work for me. We will do greatthings together. We will be married at the little church."
Still no answer.
"Gregorius!" she murmured tenderly:
She leant against him suddenly, and he yielded beneath the pressurewith a sudden sound of dissolution. Two cushions slid to the ground,the toga fell back, revealing a broomstick with a turnip fixed firmlyto the top. It bore the legend:
APRIL FOOL]
And from the other side of the fence came a deep sigh of satisfactionfrom the artist behind the scenes.
CHAPTER XIV
WILLIAM'S CHRISTMAS EVE
It was Christmas. The air was full of excitement and secrecy. William,whose old-time faith in notes to Father Christmas sent up the chimneyhad died a natural death as the result of bitter experience, hadthoughtfully presented each of his friends and relations with a listof his immediate requirements.
Things I want for Crismus 1. A Bicycle. 2. A grammerfone. 3. A pony. 4. A snake. 5. A monkey. 6. A Bugal 7. A trumpit 8. A red Injun uniform 9. A lot of sweets. 10. A lot of books.
He had a vague and not unfounded misgiving that his family would beginat the bottom of the list instead of the top. He was not surprised,therefore, when he saw his father come home rather later than usualcarrying a parcel of books under his arm. A few days afterwards heannounced casually at breakfast:
"Well, I only hope no one gives me 'The Great Chief,' or 'The PirateShip,' or 'The Land of Danger' for Christmas."
His father started.
"Why?" he said sharply.
"Jus' 'cause I've read them, that's all," explained William with abland look of innocence.
The glance that Mr. Brown threw at his offspring was not altogetherdevoid of suspicion, but he said nothing. He set off after breakfastwith the same parcel of books under his arm and returned with another.This time, however, he did
not put them in the library cupboard, andWilliam searched in vain.
The question of Christmas festivities loomed large upon the socialhorizon.
"Robert and Ethel can have their party on the day before ChristmasEve," decided Mrs. Brown, "and then William can have his on ChristmasEve."
William surveyed his elder brother and sister gloomily.
"Yes, an' us eat up jus' what they've left," he said with bitterness."_I_ know!"
Mrs. Brown changed the subject hastily.
"Now let's see whom we'll have for your party, William," she said,taking out pencil and paper. "You say whom you'd like and I'll make alist."
"Ginger an' Douglas an' Henry and Joan," said William promptly.
"Yes? Who else?"
"I'd like the milkman."
"You can't have the milkman, William. Don't be so foolish."
"Well, I'd like to have Fisty Green. He can whistle with his fingersin his mouth."
"He's a butcher's boy, William! You _can't_ have him?"
"Well, who _can_ I have?"
"Johnnie Brent?"
"I don't like him."
"But you must invite him. He asked you to his."
"Well, I didn't want to go," irritably, "you made me."
"But if he asks you to his you must ask him back."
"You don't want me to invite folks I don't _want_?" William said inthe voice of one goaded against his will into exasperation.
"You must invite people who invite you," said Mrs. Brown firmly,"that's what we always do in parties."
"Then they've got to invite you again and it goes on and on and _on_,"argued William. "Where's the _sense_ of it? I don't like Johnnie Brentan' he don't like me, an' if we go on inviting each other an' ourmothers go on making us go, it'll go on and on and _on_. Where's the_sense_ of it? I only jus' want to know where's the _sense_ of it?"
His logic was unanswerable.
"Well, anyway, William, I'll draw up the list. You can go and play."
William walked away, frowning, with his hands in his pockets.
"Where's the _sense_ of it?" he muttered as he went.
He began to wend his way towards the spot where he, and Douglas, andGinger, and Henry met daily in order to wile away the hours of theChristmas holidays. At present they lived and moved and had theirbeing in the characters of Indian Chiefs.
As William walked down the back street, which led by a short cut totheir meeting-place, he unconsciously assumed an arrogant strut,suggestive of some warrior prince surrounded by his gallant braves.
"Garn! _Swank_!"
He turned with a dark scowl.
On a doorstep sat a little girl, gazing up at him with blue eyesbeneath a tousled mop of auburn hair.
William's eye travelled sternly from her Titian curls to her barefeet. He assumed a threatening attitude and scowled fiercely.
"You better not say _that_ again," he said darkly.
"Why not?" she said with a jeering laugh.
"Well, you'd just better _not_," he said with a still more ferociousscowl.
"What'd you do?" she persisted.
He considered for a moment in silence. Then: "You'd see what I'd do!"he said ominously.
"Garn! _Swank_!" she repeated. "Now do it! Go on, do it!"
"I'll--let you off _this_ time," he said judicially.
"Garn! _Softie_. You can't do anything, you can't! You're a softie!"
"I could cut your head off an' scalp you an' leave you hanging on atree, I could," he said fiercely, "an' I will, too, if you go oncalling me names."
"_Softie! Swank!_ Now cut it off! Go on!"
He looked down at her mocking blue eyes.
"You're jolly lucky I don't start on you," he said threateningly."Folks I do start on soon get sorry, I can tell you."
"GARN! SWANK!" WILLIAM TURNED WITH A DARK SCOWL.]
"What you do to them?"
He changed the subject abruptly.
"What's your name?" he said.
"Sheila. What's yours?"
"Red Hand--I mean, William."
"I'll tell you sumpthin' if you'll come an' sit down by me."
"What'll you tell me?"
"Sumpthin' I bet you don't know."
"I bet I _do_."
"Well, come here an' I'll tell you."
He advanced towards her suspiciously. Through the open door he couldsee a bed in a corner of the dark, dirty room and a woman's white faceupon the pillow.
"Oh, come _on_!" said the little girl impatiently.
He came on and sat down beside her.
"Well?" he said condescendingly, "I bet I knew all the time."
"No, you didn't! D'you know," she sank her voice to a confidentialwhisper, "there's a chap called Father Christmas wot comes downchimneys Christmas Eve and leaves presents in people's houses?"
He gave a scornful laugh.
"Oh, that _rot_! You don't believe _that_ rot, do you?"
"Rot?" she repeated indignantly. "Why, it's _true_--_true_ as _true_!A boy told me wot had hanged his stocking up by the chimney an' in themorning it was full of things an' they was jus' the things wot he'dwrote on a bit of paper an' thrown up the chimney to this 'ereChristmas chap."
"Only _kids_ believe that rot," persisted William. "I left offbelievin' it years and _years_ ago!"
Her face grew pink with the effort of convincing him.
"But the boy _told_ me, the boy wot got things from this 'ere chap wotcomes down chimneys. An' I've wrote wot I want an' sent it up thechimney. Don't you think I'll get it?"
William looked down at her. Her blue eyes, big with apprehension, werefixed on him, her little rosy lips were parted. William's heartsoftened.
"I dunno," he said doubtfully. "You might, I s'pose. What d'you wantfor Christmas?"
"You won't tell if I tell you?"
"No."
"Not to no one?"
"No."
"Say, 'Cross me throat.'"
William complied with much interest and stored up the phrase forfuture use.
"Well," she sank her voice very low and spoke into his ear.
"Dad's comin' out Christmas Eve!"
She leant back and watched him, anxious to see the effect of thisstupendous piece of news. Her face expressed pride and delight,William's merely bewilderment.
"Comin' out?" he repeated. "Comin' out of where?"
Her expression changed to one of scorn.
"_Prison_, of course! _Silly_!"
William was half offended, half thrilled.
"Well, I couldn't _know_ it was prison, could I? How could I _know_ itwas prison without bein' told? It might of been out of anything.What--" in hushed curiosity and awe--"what was he in prison for?"
"Stealin'."
Her pride was unmistakable. William looked at her in disapproval.
"Stealin's wicked," he said virtuously.
"Huh!" she jeered, "you _can't_ steal! You're too soft! _Softie_! You_can't_ steal without bein' copped fust go, you can't."
"I _could_!" he said indignantly. "And, any way, he got copped di'n'the? or he'd not of been in prison, _so there_!"
"He di'n't get copped fust go. It was jus' a sorter mistake, he said.He said it wun't happen again. He's a jolly good stealer. The copssaid he was and _they_ oughter know."
"Well," said William changing the conversation, "what d'you want forChristmas?"
"I wrote it on a bit of paper an' sent it up the chimney," she saidconfidingly. "I said I di'n't want no toys nor sweeties nor nuffin'. Isaid I only wanted a nice supper for Dad when he comes out ChristmasEve. We ain't got much money, me an' Mother, an' we carn't get 'immuch of a spread, but if this 'ere Christmas chap sends one fer 'im,it'll be--_fine_!"
Her eyes were dreamy with ecstasy. William stirred uneasily on hisseat.
"I tol' you it was _rot_," he said. "There isn't any Father Christmas.It's jus' an' ole tale folks tell you when you're a kid, an' you findout it's not true. He won't send no supper jus' cause he isn'tanythin'. He's jus' nothin'-
-jus' an ole tale----"
"Oh, shut _up!_" William turned sharply at the sound of the shrillvoice from the bed within the room. "Let the kid 'ave a bit ofpleasure lookin' forward to it, can't yer? It's little enough she 'as,anyway."
William arose with dignity.
"All right," he said. "Go'-bye."
He strolled away down the street.
"_Softie!_"
It was a malicious sweet little voice.
"_Swank_!"
William flushed but forbore to turn round.
That evening he met the little girl from next door in the road outsideher house.
"Hello, Joan!"
"Hello, William!"
In these blue eyes there was no malice or mockery. To Joan William wasa god-like hero. His very wickedness partook of the divine.
"Would you--would you like to come an' make a snow man in our garden,William?" she said tentatively.
William knit his brows.
"I dunno," he said ungraciously. "I was jus' kinder thinkin'."
She looked at him silently, hoping that he would deign to tell her histhoughts, but not daring to ask. Joan held no modern views on thesubject of the equality of the sexes.
"Do you remember that ole tale 'bout Father Christmas, Joan?" he saidat last.
She nodded.
"Well, s'pose you wanted somethin' very bad, an' you believed that oletale and sent a bit of paper up the chimney 'bout what you wanted verybad and then you never got it, you'd feel kind of rotten, wouldn'tyou?"
She nodded again.
"I did one time," she said. "I sent a lovely list up the chimney and Inever told anyone about it and I got lots of things for Christmas andnot _one_ of the things I'd written for!"
"Did you feel awful rotten?"
"Yes, I did. Awful."
"I say, Joan," importantly, "I've gotter secret."
"_Do_ tell me, William!" she pleaded.
"Can't. It's a crorse-me-throat secret!"
She was mystified and impressed.
"How _lovely_, William! Is it something you're going to do?"
He considered.
"It might be," he said.
"I'd love to help." She fixed adoring blue eyes upon him.
"Well, I'll see," said the lord of creation. "I say, Joan, you comin'to my party?"
"Oh, _yes_!"
"Well, there's an awful lot comin'. Johnny Brent an' all that lot. I'mjolly well not lookin' forward to it, I can _tell_ you."
"Oh, I'm so sorry! Why did you ask them, William?"
William laughed bitterly.
"Why did I invite them?" he said. "_I_ don't invite people to myparties. _They_ do that."
In William's vocabulary "they" always signified his immediate familycircle.
William had a strong imagination. When an idea took hold upon hismind, it was almost impossible for him to let it go. He was quiteaccustomed to Joan's adoring homage. The scornful mockery of hisauburn-haired friend was something quite new, and in some strangefashion it intrigued and fascinated him. Mentally he recalled herexcited little face, flushed with eagerness as she described theexpected spread. Mentally also he conceived a vivid picture of thelong waiting on Christmas Eve, the slowly fading hope, the finalbitter disappointment. While engaging in furious snowball fights withGinger, Douglas, and Henry, while annoying peaceful passers-by withwell-aimed snow missiles, while bruising himself and most of hisfamily black and blue on long and glassy slides along the gardenpaths, while purloining his family's clothes to adorn variousunshapely snowmen, while walking across all the ice (preferablycracked) in the neighbourhood and being several times narrowly rescuedfrom a watery grave--while following all these light holiday pursuits,the picture of the little auburn-haired girl's disappointment was evervividly present in his mind.
The day of his party drew near.
"_My_ party," he would echo bitterly when anyone of his familymentioned it. "I don't _want_ it. I don't _want_ ole Johnnie Brent an'all that lot. I'd just like to un-invite 'em all."
"But you want Ginger and Douglas and Henry," coaxed his Mother.
"I can have them any time an' I don't like 'em at parties. They're notthe same. I don't like _anyone_ at parties. I don't _want_ a party!"
"But you _must_ have a party, William, to ask back people who askyou."
William took up his previous attitude.
"Well, where's the _sense_ of it?" he groaned.
As usual he had the last word, but left his audience unconvinced. Theybegan on him a full hour before his guests were due. He was brushedand scrubbed and scoured and cleaned. He was compressed into an Etonsuit and patent leather pumps and finally deposited in thedrawing-room, cowed and despondent, his noble spirit all but broken.
The guests began to arrive. William shook hands politely with threestrangers shining with soap, brushed to excess, and clothed inceremonial Eton suits--who in ordinary life were Ginger, Douglas, andHenry. They then sat down and gazed at each other in strained andunnatural silence. They could find nothing to say to each other.Ordinary topics seemed to be precluded by their festive appearance andthe formal nature of the occasion. Their informal meetings wereusually celebrated by impromptu wrestling matches. This beingdebarred, a stiff, unnatural atmosphere descended upon them. Williamwas a "host," they were "guests"; they had all listened to finalmaternal admonitions in which the word "manners" and "politeness"recurred at frequent intervals. They were, in fact, for the timebeing, complete strangers.
Then Joan arrived and broke the constrained silence.
"Hullo, William! Oh, William, you do look _nice_!"
William smiled with distant politeness, but his heart warmed to her.It is always some comfort to learn that one has not suffered in vain.
"How d'you do?" he said with a stiff bow.
Then Johnnie Brent came and after him a host of small boys and girls.
William greeted friends and foes alike with the same icy courtesy.
Then the conjurer arrived.
Mrs. Brown had planned the arrangement most carefully. The supper waslaid on the big dining room table. There was to be conjuring for anhour before supper to "break the ice." In the meantime, while theconjuring was going on, the grown-ups who were officiating at theparty were to have their meal in peace in the library.
William had met the conjurer at various parties and despised himutterly. He despised his futile jokes and high-pitched laugh and heknew his tricks by heart. They sat in rows in front of him--shining-faced,well-brushed little boys in dark Eton suits and gleaming collars, anddainty white-dressed little girls with gay hair ribbons. William sat inthe back row near the window, and next him sat Joan. She gazed at hisset, expressionless face in mute sympathy. He listened to the monotonousvoice of the conjurer.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will proceed to swallow these threeneedles and these three strands of cotton and shortly to bring outeach needle threaded with a strand of cotton. Will any lady stepforward and examine the needles? Ladies ought to know all aboutneedles, oughtn't they? You young gentlemen don't learn to sew atschool, do you? Ha! Ha! Perhaps some of you young gentlemen don't knowwhat a needle is? Ha! Ha!"
William scowled, and his thoughts flew off to the little house in thedirty back street. It was Christmas Eve. Her father was "comin' out."She would be waiting, watching with bright, expectant eyes for the"spread" she had demanded from Father Christmas to welcome herreturning parent. It was a beastly shame. She was a silly little ass,anyway, not to believe him. He'd told her there wasn't any FatherChristmas.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will bring out the three needlesthreaded with the three strands of cotton. Watch carefully, ladies andgentlemen. There! One! Two! Three! Now, I don't advise you youngladies and gentlemen to try this trick. Needles are very indigestibleto some people. Ha! Ha! Not to me, of course! I can digestanything--needles, or marbles, or matches, or glass bowls--as you willsoon see. Ha! Ha! Now to proceed, ladies and gentlemen."
William looked at the clock and sighed. Anyway, t
here'd be suppersoon, and that was a jolly good one, 'cause he'd had a look at it.
Suddenly the inscrutable look left his countenance. He gave a suddengasp and his whole face lit up. Joan turned to him.
"Come on!" he whispered, rising stealthily from his seat.
The room was in half darkness and the conjurer was just producing awhite rabbit from his left toe, so that few noticed William's quietexit by the window followed by that of the blindly obedient Joan.
"You wait!" he whispered in the darkness of the garden. She waited,shivering in her little white muslin dress, till he returned from thestable wheeling a hand-cart, consisting of a large packing case onwheels and finished with a handle. He wheeled it round to the openFrench window that led into the dining-room. "Come on!" he whisperedagain.
FEW NOTICED WILLIAM'S EXIT BY THE WINDOW, FOLLOWED BYTHE BLINDLY OBEDIENT JOAN.]
Following his example, she began to carry the plates of sandwiches,sausage rolls, meat pies, bread and butter, cakes and biscuits ofevery variety from the table to the hand-cart. On the top theybalanced carefully the plates of jelly and blanc-mange and dishes oftrifle, and round the sides they packed armfuls of crackers.
At the end she whispered softly, "What's it for, William?"
"It's the secret," he said. "The crorse-me-throat secret I told you."
"Am I going to help?" she said in delight.
He nodded.
"Jus' wait a minute," he added, and crept from the dining-room to thehall and upstairs.
He returned with a bundle of clothing which he proceeded to arrange inthe garden. He first donned his own red dressing gown and then wound awhite scarf round his head, tying it under his chin so that the endshung down.
"I'm makin' believe I'm Father Christmas," he deigned to explain. "An'I'm makin' believe this white stuff is hair an' beard. An' this is foryou to wear so's you won't get cold."
He held out a little white satin cloak edged with swansdown.
"Oh, how _lovely_, William! But it's not my cloak! It's SadieMurford's!"
"Never mind! you can wear it," said William generously.
Then, taking the handles of the cart, he set off down the drive. Fromthe drawing-room came the sound of a chorus of delight as the conjurerproduced a goldfish in a glass bowl from his head. From the kitchencame the sound of the hilarious laughter of the maids. Only in thedining-room, with its horrible expanse of empty table, was silence.
They walked down the road without speaking till Joan gave a littleexcited laugh.
"This is _fun_, William! I do wonder what we're going to do."
"You'll see," said William. "I'd better not tell you yet. I promised acrorse-me-throat promise I wouldn't tell anyone."
"All right, William," she said sweetly. "I don't mind a bit."
The evening was dark and rather foggy, so that the strange coupleattracted little attention, except when passing beneath the streetlamps. Then certainly people stood still and looked at William and hiscart in open-mouthed amazement.
At last they turned down a back street towards a door that stood opento the dark, foggy night. Inside the room was a bare table at whichsat a little girl, her blue, anxious eyes fixed on the open door.
"I hope he gets here before Dad," she said. "I wouldn't like Dad tocome and find it not ready!"
The woman on the bed closed her eyes wearily.
"I don't think he'll come now, dearie. We must just get on withoutit."
The little girl sprang up, her pale cheek suddenly flushed.
"Oh, _listen_!" she cried; "_something's_ coming!"
They listened in breathless silence, while the sound of wheels camedown the street towards the empty door. Then--an old hand-cartappeared in the doorway and behind it William in his strange attire,and Joan in her fairy-like white--white cloak, white dress, whitesocks and shoes--her bright curls clustered with gleaming fog jewels.
The little girl clasped her hands. Her face broke into a rapt smile.Her blue eyes were like stars.
FIRST THE JELLIES AND BLANC MANGES--THEN THE MEAT PIESAND TRIFLES.]
"Oh, oh!" she cried. "It's Father Christmas and a fairy!"
Without a word William pushed the cart through the doorway into theroom and began to remove its contents and place them on the table.First the jellies and trifles and blanc-manges, then the meat pies,pastries, sausage rolls, sandwiches, biscuits, and cakes--sugar-coated,cream-interlayered, full of plums and nuts and fruit. William's motherhad had wide experience and knew well what food most appealed to smallboys and girls. Moreover she had provided plentifully for her twentyguests.
The little girl was past speech. The woman looked at them in dumbwonder. Then:
"Why, you're the boy she was talkin' to," she said at last. "It's realkind of you. She was gettin' that upset. It 'ud have broke her heartif nothin' had come an' I couldn't do nothin'. It's real kind of yer,sir!" Her eyes were misty.
Joan placed the last cake on the table, and William, who was ratherwarm after his exertions, removed his scarf.
The child gave a little sobbing laugh.
"Oh, isn't it _lovely_? I'm so happy! You're the funny boy, aren'tyou, dressed up as Father Christmas? Or did Father Christmas send you?Or were you Father Christmas all the time? May I kiss the fairy? Wouldshe mind? She's so beautiful!"
Joan came forward and kissed her shyly, and the woman on the bedsmiled unsteadily.
"It's real kind of you both," she murmured again.
Then the door opened, and the lord and master of the house enteredafter his six months' absence. He came in no sheepish hang-dogfashion. He entered cheerily and boisterously as any parent might onreturning from a hard-earned holiday.
"'Ello, Missus! 'Ello, Kid! 'Ello! Wot's all this 'ere?" His eyes fellupon William. "'Ello young gent!"
"Happy Christmas," William murmured politely.
"Sime to you an' many of them. 'Ow are you, Missus? Kid looked arteryou all right? That's _right_. Oh, I _sye_! Where's the grub comefrom? Fair mikes me mouth water. I 'aven't seen nuffin' like_this_--not fer _some_ time!"
There was a torrent of explanations, everyone talking at once. He gavea loud guffaw at the end.
"Well, we're much obliged to this young gent and this little lady, andnow we'll 'ave a good ole supper. This is all _right_, this is! Now,Missus, you 'ave a good feed. Now, 'fore we begin, I sye three cheersfer the young gent and little lady. Come on, now, 'Ip, 'ip, 'ip,'_ooray_! Now, little lady, you come 'ere. That's fine, that is! Now'oo'll 'ave a meat pie? 'Oo's fer a meat pie? Come on, Missus! That'sright. We'll _all_ 'ave meat pies! This 'ere's sumfin _like_Christmas, eh? We've not 'ad a Christmas like this--not for many along year. Now, 'urry up, Kid. Don't spend all yer time larfin'. Now,ladies an' gents, 'oo's fer a sausage roll? All of us? Come on, then!I mustn't eat too 'eavy or I won't be able to sing to yer aterwards,will I? I've got some fine songs, young gent. And Kid 'ere 'll dancefer yer. She's a fine little dancer, she is! Now, come on, ladies an'gents, sandwiches? More pies? Come on!"
They laughed and chattered merrily. The woman sat up in bed, her eyesbright and her cheeks flushed. To William and Joan it was like somestrange and wonderful dream.
And at that precise moment Mrs. Brown had sunk down upon the nearestdining-room chair on the verge of tears, and twenty pairs of hungryhorrified eyes in twenty clean, staring, open-mouthed little facessurveyed the bare expanse of the dining-room table. And the cry thatwent up all round was:--
"_Where's William?_"
And then:--
"_Where's Joan?_"
They searched the house and garden and stable for them in vain. Theysent the twenty enraged guests home supperless and aggrieved.
"Has William eaten _all_ our suppers?" they said.
"Where _is_ he? Is he dead?"
"People will never forget," wailed Mrs. Brown. "It's simply dreadful.And where _is_ William?"
They rang up police-stations for miles around.
"If they've eaten all that food--the two of them," said Mrs. Browna
lmost distraught, "they'll _die_! They may be dying in some hospitalnow! And I do wish Mrs. Murford would stop ringing up about Sadie'scloak. I've told her it's not here!"
Meantime there was dancing, and singing, and games, andcracker-pulling in a small house in a back street not very far away.
"I've never had such a _lovely_ time in my life," gasped the Kidbreathlessly at the end of one of the many games into which Williamhad initiated them. "I've never, never, _never_----"
"We won't ferget you in a 'urry, young man," her father added, "northe little lady neither. We'll 'ave many talks about this 'ere!"
Joan was sitting on the bed, laughing and panting, her curls alldisordered.
"I wish," said William wistfully, "I wish you'd let me come with youwhen you go stealin' some day!"
"I'm not goin' stealin' _no_ more, young gent," said his friendsolemnly. "I got a job--a real steady job--brick-layin', an' I'm goin'to stick to it."
All good things must come to an end, and soon William donned his reddressing-gown again and Joan her borrowed cloak, and they helped tostore the remnants of the feast in the larder--the remnants of thefeast would provide the ex-burglar and his family with food for manydays to come. Then they took the empty hand-cart and, after many fondfarewells, set off homeward through the dark.
Mr. Brown had come home and assumed charge of operations.
Ethel was weeping on the sofa in the library.
"Oh, dear little William!" she sobbed. "I do _wish_ I'd always beenkind to him!"
Mrs. Brown was reclining, pale and haggard, in the arm-chair.
"There's the Roughborough Canal, John!" she was saying weakly. "AndJoan's mother will always say it was our fault. Oh, _poor_ littleWilliam!"
"It's a good ten miles away," said her husband drily. "I don't thinkeven William----" He rang up fiercely. "Confound these brainless police!Hallo! Any news? A boy and girl and supper for twenty can't disappearoff the face of the earth. No, there had been _no_ trouble at home.There probably _will_ be when he turns up, but there was none before!If he wanted to run away, why would he burden himself with a supperfor twenty? Why--one minute!"
The front door opened and Mrs. Brown ran into the hall.
A well-known voice was heard speaking quickly and irritably.
"I jus' went away, that's all! I jus' thought of something I wanted todo, that's all! Yes, I _did_ take the supper. I jus' wanted it forsomething. It's a secret what I wanted it for, I----"
"WASN'T SHE A JOLLY LITTLE KID?" WILLIAM SAIDEAGERLY.]
"_William_!" said Mr. Brown.
Through the scenes that followed William preserved a dignifiedsilence, even to the point of refusing any explanation. Suchexplanation as there was filtered through from Joan's mother by meansof the telephone.
"It was all William's idea," Joan's mother said plaintively. "Joanwould never have done _anything_ if William hadn't practically _made_her. I expect she's caught her death of cold. She's in bed now----"
"Yes, so is William. I can't _think_ what they wanted to take _all_the food for. And he was just a common man straight from prison. It'sdreadful. I do hope they haven't picked up any awful language. Haveyou given Joan some quinine? Oh, Mrs. Murford's just rung up to see ifSadie's cloak has turned up. Will you send it round? I feel so _upset_by it all. If it wasn't Christmas Eve----"
The houses occupied by William's and Joan's families respectively weresemi-detached, but William's and Joan's bedroom windows faced eachother, and there was only about five yards between them.
"YES," A PAUSE, THEN--"WILLIAM, YOU DON'T LIKE HERBETTER THAN ME, DO YOU?"]
There came to William's ears as he lay drowsily in bed the sound of agentle rattle at the window. He got up and opened it. At the oppositewindow a little white-robed figure leant out, whose golden curls shonein the starlight.
"William," she whispered, "I threw some beads to see if you wereawake. Were your folks mad?"
"Awful," said William laconically.
"Mine were too. I di'n't care, did you?"
"No, I di'n't. Not a bit!"
"William, wasn't it _fun_? I wish it was just beginning again, don'tyou?"
"Yes, I jus' do. I say, Joan, wasn't she a jolly little kid and di'n'tshe dance fine?"
"Yes,"--a pause--then, "William, you don't like her better'n me, doyou?"
William considered.
"No, I don't," he said at last.
A soft sigh of relief came through the darkness.
"I'm so _glad_! Go'-night, William."
"Go'-night," said William sleepily, drawing down his window as hespoke.
More William Page 13
