He turned the bend of the road – and ran into her so violently that he almost knocked her down. She was not alone, however. She was with the tall, elderly, aristocratic-looking aunt who had arrived yesterday to spend Christmas at the Hall.
William apologised profusely. Diana smiled at him sweetly. The aunt looked down her aristocratic nose.
‘This is William,’ said Diana.
‘How do you do?’ said the aunt, holding out an aristocratic hand.
‘Very well, thank you,’ said William, placing his grimy hand within it.
The aunt took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped a smear of mud from her grey kid gloves.
They passed on. Diana darted back.
‘William,’ she whispered, ‘come round to the Hall’s quick as you can. I’ll be in the shrubbery. I want you to do something for me.’
William’s heart expanded in a warm glow of knight-errantry. At last his dreams were coming true. She wanted him to do something for her . . .
He imagined himself killing dragons for her, fighting a thousand robbers single-handed, putting to flight hordes of savage beasts. He was in the act of slaying an imaginary dragon in the middle of the road when the other Outlaws came upon him. Somewhat sheepishly he abandoned his pugnacious attitude and picked up the stick with which he had just lunged at the invisible beast.
‘What are you doing?’ inquired Ginger.
‘Jus’ walkin’ along,’ replied William coldly.
‘Well, come on an’ play Red Indians.’
‘I can’t,’ said William. ‘I’m afraid I’m busy this afternoon.’
‘But you said you were coming.’
‘Well, I’ve changed my mind,’ said William. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Never mind,’ said William. ‘I’m busy.’
He walked on. Sadly they watched him turn into the field path that led to the Hall shrubbery.
‘Red Indians is no fun without him,’ said Henry.
‘It’s that girl,’ said Ginger, shaking his head gloomily. ‘It’s that girl.’
They walked slowly on towards the woods. William, too, walked on a little more soberly. The meeting with the Outlaws had brought his soaring imagination back to earth. He realised that Diana could not possibly want him to kill a dragon or fight robbers and wild beasts. He realised this with regret, for he had always felt that he would distinguish himself in such contests.
He reached the shrubbery and waited there patiently, concealed in the bushes. After some time Diana returned from her walk with her aunt and joined him.
‘Oh, there you are, William. I’m so glad. I knew you’d come.’
The note of admiration in her voice was gratifying.
‘OH, THERE YOU ARE, WILLIAM. I’M SO GLAD.’
‘’Course I’d come,’ he said, swaggering as well as he could, considering that he was closely hemmed in by laurel bushes on all sides. ‘What d’you want me to do? I bet there’s no one in the world I can’t fight.’
‘Oh, I don’t want you to fight anyone, William,’ she said.
His face fell. Even though it couldn’t be dragons or wild beasts, he’d rather hoped it might be Hubert Lane or Bertie Franks or one of their gang.
‘What d’you want me to do, then?’ he said.
She drew nearer and sank her voice to a confidential whisper.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘It’s Aunt Alex’s Christmas present to me. It’s a doll. I found it in one of her drawers, tied up in a parcel with “To my dear little niece” written on it. And I hate dolls. I wanted a train.’
William looked at her, bewildered. ‘Yes, but what can I do?’ he said.
‘I want you to steal it,’ said Diana. ‘Then she’ll find it gone tomorrow, and it’ll be too late to buy anything else, so she’ll have to give me money, and I’ll buy the train myself.’
He gaped at her.
‘But—’ he began.
She interrupted him.
‘I can’t steal it. She’d be sure to see me coming out of her room with it. Or somebody would. Besides, I don’t like telling really big stories, and it would be a really big story to say I didn’t know anything about it if I’d done it myself, and it would only be a little story to say I didn’t know anything about it if you’d done it.’
William considered this point of view. There was certainly something to be said for it. Still – he looked up without enthusiasm at the enormous fortress-like house into which he was expected to make a felonious entrance – he’d far rather have fought someone . . .
‘Tell you what,’ he suggested at last. ‘You go up an’ get it and throw it out of the window to me, an’ I’ll take it away.’
Diana shook her head.
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t want to do anything myself. You see, I want to pretend to myself that I don’t know anything about it, and of course I can’t do that if I’ve thrown it out of the window to you.’
‘No, I suppose you can’t,’ said William, once more turning his eye upon the stately mansion and wishing it had been a dragon. ‘Well, how can I get it?’
‘It’s quite easy,’ said Diana. ‘You can go up that fire-escape staircase to the room at the corner there – the one with the green curtains. That’s her sitting-room, and the bedroom’s next door to it. The present’s in the drawer in the wardrobe. It’s a square parcel with “To my dear little niece” written on it. You must get it and go back to the sitting-room and come down the fire-escape again. It’s quite easy.’
‘Y-yes,’ agreed William doubtfully. ‘Er – s’pose she’s in her sitting-room.’
‘She won’t be,’ said Diana. ‘And if she is you can hide behind the curtains. They’re long curtains that come right down to the ground.’
‘Y-yes,’ said William again, still more doubtfully. ‘Y-yes. An’ s’pose she comes into the bedroom while I’m getting it.’
‘You must just make a dash for it,’ said Diana. ‘It’s quite easy. Of course,’ – her manner became rather chilly – ‘if you’re afraid . . .’
‘I’m not afraid,’ said William indignantly. ‘At least,’ as the memory of the tall, elderly, aristocratic-looking aunt returned to him, ‘I’m not afraid of robbers or wild beasts or that sort of thing. I say,’ he continued, after a thoughtful pause, ‘what’s your aunt like when she’s angry?’
‘She’s awful,’ said Diana darkly. ‘Awful. But don’t worry. She won’t catch you if you’re quick.’
‘No, of course not,’ said William, and repeated, as if to reassure himself, ‘Of course not.’ After another thoughtful pause he continued, ‘P’raps I’d better not do it. For your sake, I mean,’ he added hastily. ‘I mean, if she catches me you’ll get into a row for setting me on to it.’
Diana looked at him with large surprised eyes.
‘Oh, no, I won’t,’ she assured him. ‘I shall say that I’d no idea that you were going to do it, and even if you say I told you to do it I shall say I didn’t. Because, you see, I’m pretending to myself that I don’t know anything about it. So you needn’t be afraid of me getting into a row.’
‘N-no,’ said William, and, in spite of the removal of this anxiety, he looked strangely despondent. ‘N-no. I’m jolly glad about that, of course.’ Again he considered deeply and finally remarked, ‘You know it might be an awfully nice doll.’
‘I hate dolls.’
‘Yes, but I mean, if you tried playing with this one you might like it. Lots of girls do like dolls, you know.’
Again she looked at him coldly.
‘If you don’t want to do a little thing like this for me . . .’ she said, and added reproachfully, ‘I thought you liked me.’
‘I do,’ said William earnestly. ‘Honest, I do.’ The coldness and reproach of the little girl’s glance spurred him on to superhuman daring. ‘I’ll go ’n’ get it now. Just watch me. I’ll be done with it in two shakes.’
Without waiting to consider, he hurried through the sh
rubbery, up the fire-escape, and in at the open window where the green curtains swayed in the breeze. Then he drew a deep breath and looked about him. It was a pleasant, fair-sized sitting-room, fortunately empty. From it a door led into the next room, which was presumably the bedroom. William, still upheld by his impulse of daring, was just making his way across the room to this door when he heard the sound of voices approaching and the handle of the door was turned. Swift as lightning he returned to the shelter of the curtains and stood concealed behind them. The aunt entered, accompanied by her Pekinese and a visitor.
‘Yes,’ said the aunt, ‘it’s a nice little room. A nice view, too.’
They came over to the window and stood so close to William that he thought they must hear his heart beating.
Then they went to sit by the fire, leaving William in peace. But the peace was short-lived, for almost immediately the Pekinese discovered William’s feet, which protruded from the bottom of the curtain. He fell upon them with a ferocious growl and began to worry them. William managed with difficulty to strangle the ‘Ow!’ that was his natural reaction to this proceeding. The growls grew louder.
‘What’s the matter with Peky?’ said the visitor.
The aunt threw a careless glance over her shoulder.
‘Oh, he must have found his india-rubber bone. He’ll worry it like that by the hour, the darling!’
They returned to their conversation, and the Pekinese to his self-imposed task of tearing the socks from William’s skin, and the skin from his ankles. William had reached the point at which discovery was preferable to further torture, when the aunt and the visitor rose and went out, the aunt calling ‘Peky!’ over her shoulder.
William had the satisfaction of getting in a fairly good kick at his tormentor as it departed reluctantly, still snarling defiance at the two strange intruders who had appeared so unexpectedly beneath the curtain.
William heaved a sigh of relief as the door closed on them. The coast was clear at last. But the episode had shaken his nerve and destroyed the first fine careless rapture of bravado in which he had undertaken the adventure. He stayed for some minutes in the window embrasure, trying once more to screw up his courage to make the dash for the bedroom. He had just managed to screw it up – partially, at any rate – when he heard the sounds of the aunt and visitor returning, accompanied by the Pekinese. The aunt and the visitor he might have endured, but the thought of the Pekinese, who would, of course, immediately seek out again his late victims, completed the breaking of his nerve, and he climbed lightly out of the window, and proceeded farther up the fire-escape. It led to an open window which he regarded hopefully till he caught a glimpse of a maid arranging her cap before a mirror. He hurried on and found himself upon the roof.
It was a much-gabled roof, and he decided to explore it while he had the opportunity. He had reached the summit of the first gable when he was startled by the sound of voices and realised that the aunt and visitor had come out on to the balcony. He froze rigid on his gable.
‘Yes, I really ought to have shown you the view from here,’ the aunt was saying. ‘It’s a wonderful view.’
‘Wonderful,’ agreed the visitor vaguely. She gazed round till her eyes finally rested upon William. ‘What a quaint old gargoyle up there on the roof!’ she commented. ‘I’m short-sighted, of course, but to me from here it looks a delightfully quaint piece of work.’
William hastily slid down from his gable-point to a hollow of the roof. The aunt found her lorgnettes and slowly turned them on to the gable.
‘No, dear,’ she said at last. ‘It’s just a tree-top that you see.’
‘I suppose so,’ said the friend in rather a perplexed fashion. ‘Of course, I am very short-sighted . . . It certainly seems to have gone from where it was.’
‘It’s a tree-top moving in the wind,’ explained the aunt.
They disappeared into the house. So shattered was William’s nerve by this time that, though he had by no means abandoned the enterprise, he decided not to return to the fire-escape, but to try to make a less obtrusive entrance from the roof. After clambering about for some time he discovered a chimney that seemed to be large and smokeless and accommodating. He was just peering into it hopefully when a gust of sooty smoke caught him in the face. He withdrew, choking. Someone had evidently just lit the fire. He continued his exploration till he came to a skylight. He opened it and began to let himself down gently into the room below, receiving somewhat of a shock as he felt his legs dangling into a tank of ice-cold water. He wriggled away from it and at last dropped on to the ground clear of it, bruising himself considerably in the process. Limping slightly from the combined effect of the Pekinese and the fall, he went along a passage and down a staircase. Fortune seemed suddenly to favour him, for the staircase led to the landing just outside the sitting-room with the green curtains.
He darted into it and through the door into the bedroom. He opened the drawer, found the parcel, and dashed back into the sitting-room. Unfortunately a maid had just come in to put coals on the fire. She gazed at the limping, black-faced, dripping apparition, then gave a yell and fled. William slipped down the fire-escape, still clutching his parcel, and joined the little girl in the shrubbery.
‘Oh, William, how dreadful you look!’ she greeted him with distaste.
THE MAID GAVE A YELL AND FLED.
‘Can’t help it,’ panted William. ‘It was a chimney and a water-tank . . . Here’s the parcel.’
She took it, and a smile of triumph dawned slowly on her face.
‘Oh, William, thank you,’ she said. ‘I knew you’d get it . . . and I’ve got a reward for you. I’ve asked aunt if you may come to tea, and she says you may. But you look awful, William. You’ll have to get tidy, or I know she won’t let you stay to tea. And the parcel . . . she mustn’t find that. What’ll we do with it?’
‘I know,’ said William. ‘Our gardner’s got a fire. I’ll go home an’ burn it an’ get tidy for comin’ to tea with you.’
‘Oh, yes, William,’ said the little girl eagerly. ‘Oh, William, you are clever. And you are brave, too. I shall never forget how you went straight up the fire-escape to get that parcel.’
‘Oh, that’s nothin’,’ murmured William complacently. ‘Nothin’ at all.’
‘Well, you’d better be quick, William,’ urged Diana. ‘It would be awful if aunt caught you all black and wet like that, and with the parcel.’
Realising this, William set off homeward as quickly as possible.
In about half an hour he returned, still limping, but spick and span and without the parcel.
‘I’ve burnt it,’ he said. ‘I’ve burnt it till there wasn’t anything at all of it left. An’ I’ve made myself jolly tidy, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, you have,’ said the little girl admiringly. ‘William, I think you’re wonderful!’
At this moment the aunt issued from the front door and came across the lawn to them. She was carrying a large parcel under her arm.
‘Is this the little friend you’re having to tea?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Diana.
The aunt looked at William rather coldly.
‘Well, don’t get rough,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back by teatime, but I just have to go to the post office.’ She turned to Diana. ‘I hope you don’t mind, dear. I’m afraid I shall have to send the train I’d got for you to your little cousin Dorita. I’d got a doll for her, but when I went to look for it just now it wasn’t there. I suppose I must have forgotten to bring it. So I’m sending her your train. I’m sure you won’t mind, dear, will you? I’ve got a nice book that I know you’d like instead. Stories from English History. I can’t send that to Dorita because I sent it to her last year. But I’m certain you’ll like it, and won’t grudge her your train. And you’ll play quietly till I come back, won’t you?’
She swept on down the drive. There was a tense silence.
Then the little girl turned on William, her small face pink with anger.
‘It’s all your fault, you hateful boy! You took it and burnt it, and now I’ve got to have a rotten old history book instead of my train . . . I hate you.’
William blinked at her in amazement.
‘B-b-but you told me to,’ he stammered.
The little girl stamped her foot.
‘Don’t keep arguing about it,’ she stormed. ‘It’s all your fault. You burnt the doll, and so I’ve got to have a rotten old history book instead of my train. I hope someone burns up all your presents like you’ve burnt up mine. And go away. I don’t want you. I don’t ever want to see you again as long as I live . . .’
The Outlaws, engaged in a not very successful game of Red Indians – for no game seemed fully successful when William was not there – were surprised and secretly relieved to see William coming through the wood to join them. He still limped slightly and looked tidier than usual, though already a good deal of the spick-and-spanness achieved for his visit to the little girl had fallen from him.
‘Hello,’ said Ginger. ‘Have you hurt your foot?’
‘No,’ said William. ‘I’m pretending to be a lame Red Indian that was nearly killed by a bear.’
‘IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT,’ DIANA STORMED. ‘I DON’T EVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN AS LONG AS I LIVE.’
‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ said Douglas.
William assumed an expression of rather cold surprise.
‘Not coming?’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t I be coming?’
‘I thought you were going to that girl.’
‘What girl?’ countered William.
‘Diana Blake,’ said Ginger.
William appeared to search deeply in his memory.
‘Oh, that girl,’ he said, as if a faint memory had emerged from the far distant past. ‘That girl. Good gracious, no! I’ve finished with her for ever. I’ve finished with all girls for ever . . . Come on. Let’s start playing Red Indians.’
William at Christmas Page 14
