‘Nothing to speak of,’ said Robert, who could not bear to forfeit the note of sympathy in her voice.
‘That’s all right,’ said the beloved, dismissing the note of sympathy from her voice. ‘I think a sore throat always makes people sound as if they were drunk, don’t you?’
Robert hastily assumed a treble voice and said that he hadn’t got a sore throat at all. The beloved, losing interest in the subject, demanded again where they were going that afternoon.
‘Where would you like to go?’ said Robert again, carefully retaining his clear treble voice.
‘I do wish you had a few ideas,’ said the beloved. ‘You never seem to have any. I never knew anyone with so few ideas.’
Robert searched feverishly in his head for ideas.
‘What about going down by the river?’ he said at last. ‘It’s always nice by the river. It’s never too hot or too cold there, you know.’
‘Of course it’s too hot and too cold there sometimes,’ said the beloved. ‘It depends on the weather not the place.’
‘No, but it ought to be all right there to-day,’ said Robert meekly.
Robert’s home circle, among whom Robert liked to show himself of a proud and haughty spirit, would have been surprised at his meekness when alone with the beloved.
‘All right,’ said the beloved without enthusiasm. ‘I suppose one might as well go there as anywhere.’
They went down to the river bank and settled themselves comfortably on the grass beneath a tree, and there the hauteur of the beloved began to melt as Robert told her not for the first time what a difference her coming into his life had made to it, how the thought of her had roused noble feelings and aspirations to which formerly he had been a stranger. Robert said that to all his lady loves in succession, and sincerely meant it in each case. For Robert, as I have said, was no idle philanderer. Each infatuation was, in its turn, the One True Love of his life. And, as he talked, the stormy feelings aroused by his rencontre with William faded from his breast and peace stole into it. Here, at least, he was far enough away from the little wretch. Here, at least, the little wretch couldn’t come ruining his life. He glanced up at the tree above him, and became aware of a curious phenomenon. The light and shade on the leaves had at one point taken on a curious and striking likeness to William’s face. He shuddered at the horrible fancy and looked quickly away, answering rather absently the beloved’s question as to when exactly he’d first begun to feel like that about her. Then, realising her question, he answered with enthusiasm. From the first time he met her. The very first. He remembered the first time he met her. There was a certain horrible fascination about that curious effect of light and shade in the tree above. He had to look to see if it were still there. He raised his head and threw a quick, half-apprehensive glance. Yes, it was still there. It seemed to give an exact reproduction of William’s face—only making it black instead of white. Most curious, most unpleasant. Just when he wanted to forget the little wretch and how he’d nearly ruined his life.
‘I don’t believe you really care for me a bit,’ the beloved was saying. ‘You don’t sound as if you do. You say those things as if you had to say them and didn’t mean them a bit.’
‘I do mean them,’ protested Robert, casting another fascinated glance into the tree to see if the phenomenon were still there. It was.
‘Whatever do you keep looking at up in the tree?’ said the beloved, craning her neck, too, to look up into the branches.
It was at this moment that Robert realised with a shock of horror beyond mortal power of description that the face in the tree above him was not a trick of light and shade but was actually the face of William, smeared with some black substance, looking down at him. The sight of the beloved, craning her head in order to see this monstrous sight, increased his horror to nightmare proportions.
‘Look,’ he said sharply, pointing across the river. ‘Look there!’
The beloved’s eyes descended hastily from the tree and followed the direction of his pointing finger.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘what is it?’
Robert gazed at the spot where he had pointed. There was nothing but the grass-covered bank of the opposite side on the river. He smiled a ghastly smile, and put up a hand as if to loosen his collar.
‘I—I thought I saw something,’ he said. ‘I—I thought I saw something over there.’
‘What did you think you saw?’ said the beloved.
‘I—I don’t know,’ said Robert. ‘I—I just thought I saw something.’
‘Well, I wish you wouldn’t,’ said the beloved coldly. ‘You gave me quite a start shouting out “Look!” like that, as if someone had fallen in or something.’ Then her manner softened and she said:
‘When was it you said you first began to feel like that about me?’
‘The first time I saw you,’ said Robert, speaking in a low whisper so that the words should not reach the listening William.
‘Do speak up, I can’t hear what you say. Tell me again, anyway, how did it make you feel?’
Robert swallowed. He felt like a man in the throes of a nightmare. The knowledge of William above listening to every word of the conversation was the culmination of the horror.
‘Let’s go further up the bank, shall we?’ he said. ‘It’s not very nice here, is it?’
‘Oh, it’s all right,’ said the beloved, ‘I can’t be fagged to move any more. What’s the matter with you this afternoon? You’re very restless. Thinking you see things and always wanting to move on. Go on with what you were telling me. You said that after you knew me you felt that your life had been wasted up to then. How did you feel that your life had been wasted?’
Robert opened and closed his mouth like an expiring fish without emitting any sound.
‘You said yesterday that it made you feel you wanted to be kind to everyone for the rest of your life . . .’
Robert coughed loudly to prevent further confidences reaching the listening William. He had had sinister proof of William’s retentive memory in such circumstances.
‘What an awful cough,’ said the beloved without much sympathy. ‘Is that your throat again?’
‘Yes,’ he said faintly, ‘I think it’s a bit damp here. Let’s move on a bit, shall we?’
‘It’s not a bit damp,’ snapped the beloved. ‘I can’t think what’s the matter with you. What on earth do you keep staring up at the tree for? What is there—’
She turned her face up again to examine the branches above her.
‘Look!’ said Robert wildly, pointing again to the empty expanse of grass on the opposite bank.
The beloved started and once more followed the direction of his pointing finger.
‘Well, I don’t see anything,’ she said. ‘What on earth’s the matter with you? Anyone would think you’d gone potty. Why—’
It was at this minute that William, who had completely forgotten that he was a bandit and was trying to conceal himself more thoroughly in the branches in order to hear the rest of this intriguing conversation that seemed likely to supply him with weapons against Robert for many years to come, overbalanced and came crashing down from the tree at the feet of the beloved. There he sat up and rubbed his head. The beloved, speechless with amazement, gazed for some moments at his mud-covered hair and face.
Then she said faintly:
‘Good heavens! What an awful boy. Who is he?’ She looked at the crimson-faced Robert as if for enlightenment.
And then, Robert, acting on the spur of the moment, made his great mistake.
‘I’ve never seen him before,’ he said faintly.
William continued to rub his head in silence, waiting till the situation should make further demands upon him.
Robert, still crimson-faced, was gazing in front of him with a fixed glassy stare. The silence—of amazement on Miss Barlow’s part, of caution on William’s, and of sheer horror on Robert’s—seemed unending. It was broken at last by Miss Barlow.
‘Why were you up tha
t tree?’ she said sternly to William.
William considered this question for some time, and finally said:
‘GOOD HEAVENS! WHAT AN AWFUL BOY!’ EXCLAIMED MISS BARLOW. ‘WHO IS HE?’
‘Well, I’ve gotter be somewhere, haven’t I?’
Miss Barlow seemed rather impressed by the logic of this retort.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but why should you be up a tree? I mean, why can’t you be—’ she seemed to consider the places where William might be, and finally said, ‘well, at home?’
William emitted a bitter laugh.
‘You wun’t ask me that if you knew what sort of a home I’ve got.’
In saying this he glanced at Robert for the first time—a glance devoid of any sort of expression whatsoever.
Miss Barlow’s curiosity was roused.
‘Why, what sort of a home have you got?’ she said. ‘Aren’t they kind to you?’
William again emitted the bitter laugh.
‘Kind to me!’ he repeated ironically. ‘If I told you how they treat me you’d hardly believe it.’
WILLIAM RUBBED HIS HEAD IN SILENCE TILL THE SITUATION SHOULD MAKE FURTHER DEMANDS ON HIM.
‘What a shame!’ said Miss Barlow indignantly. ‘Who is it? Your father?’
‘It’s my big brother chiefly,’ said William, with another expressionless glance at the still purple-faced Robert. ‘You’d hardly believe how he treats me.’
‘Is he—really unkind to you?’ said Miss Barlow. ‘I mean does he actually ill-treat you?’
‘He ill-treats me something dreadful,’ said William, ‘knocks me about and take my things off me an’—an’ if ever I have any money he takes that off me too.’
‘Why?’
‘Jus’ for spite. Las’ week someone gave me a mouth organ an’ I was learning some nice tunes on it—some nice quiet tunes—an’ jus’ for spite ’cause he was jealous of me bein’ able to play nice tunes on it when he couldn’t he took it off me an’threw it away.’
‘He sounds horrid, I think,’ said Miss Barlow sympathetically. Then she turned to Robert, and said, ‘don’t you?’
Robert again opened and closed his mouth soundlessly like an expiring fish.
‘An’ not long ago,’ went on William, ‘I’d got a lovely Indian head thing with feathers an’ he took it from me an’ threw it into the fire.’
Here Robert found his voice.
‘Perhaps you’d put a tin-tack on his chair for him to sit on,’ he suggested hoarsely.
‘Me?’ said William, and Miss Barlow said coldly:
‘I’m sure he’d never do a thing like that. To me he looks terribly neglected. Look at his face and hair and clothes. He looks as if no one had ever troubled to wash him since he was born.’
‘He was perfectly clean this morning,’ said Robert. ‘He gets like that in about five minutes. It’s impossible to keep him clean.’
‘I thought you’d never seen him before,’ said Miss Barlow.
‘I haven’t,’ said Robert. ‘I—I mean he looks like that sort of a boy to me.’
‘I think you’re very unkind,’ said Miss Barlow distantly. ‘The poor boy’s neglected and ill-treated. You might, at least, show a little sympathy. Tell me more about your home, dear,’ she said to William, ‘are your father and mother unkind to you too?’
‘No, it’s mostly this brother,’ said William. ‘He’s awful to me. Never leaves me alone. Always on at me.’
‘What a shame,’ said Miss Barlow again.
Robert unable to restrain himself broke in furiously. ‘Who completely spoilt my razor last week fooling about with it so that it’s never been any use since?’ he said sternly.
‘How on earth should he know who spoilt your razor?’ said Miss Barlow coldly.
‘I—I thought perhaps he might,’ said Robert, lamely.
‘Why should he?’ said Miss Barlow.
‘I don’t know,’ said Robert.
She turned to William again.
‘Do you live near here?’
‘Only about three miles off,’ said William.
‘Who are your people?’ said Miss Barlow.
Robert had a sudden fit of coughing that bordered on apoplexy, during which he threw at William a glance that hovered between menace and appeal.
William met it with his blankest stare.
‘I think you must be tubercular,’ said Miss Barlow to Robert. ‘I hope I haven’t caught it from you.’
‘I’m not,’ Robert assured her earnestly. ‘I’m most healthy. I always have been most healthy.’
‘This brother I was tellin’ you about,’ said William, ‘once he thought he’d drunk poison because there was poison on the bottle and he said he’d got most awful pains and was dying till he found that it was only liquorice water and someone’d forgot to wash the label off.’
‘That was years ago,’ said the unhappy Robert, and added hastily, ‘at least, I should imagine so.’
‘Why? Do you know his brother?’ said Miss Barlow.
‘Er-no, no, of course I don’t,’ said Robert.
‘Because, if you do, you ought to have protected the poor little chap,’ went on Miss Barlow, ‘and stopped him being so ill-treated.’
‘No, of course I don’t know him,’ sputtered Robert.
‘Well, I hope if you did you’d have protected the poor little chap,’ went on Miss Barlow compassionately. Robert made an inarticulate sound that might have meant either that he would have protected the poor little chap or that he’d have murdered the poor little chap, and William continued: ‘This brother I told you about,’ he said casually, ‘he’s always goin’ about with girls!’
‘Girls?’ said Miss Barlow. ‘Do you mean with different girls?’
‘Yes,’ said William. ‘He never likes one for long. Las’ month he was going about with a girl called Dolly Clavis.’
‘I know her,’ said Miss Barlow. ‘A very plain girl with red hair.’
‘He said she was the mos’ beautiful girl he’d ever met in all his life,’ said William. ‘He said that he’d never call any girl really beautiful again what hadn’t red hair. He said she made all girls with fair hair look washed out.’
Miss Barlow tossed her fair head. ‘I can’t say I think much of his taste,’ she said coldly.
‘No, I don’t, either,’ said William ingratiatingly. I like fair-haired girls.’
‘And he really thinks Dolly Clavis beautiful?’ said Miss Barlow.
‘Yes. At least, he did,’ said William, ‘but he’s going about with another girl now.’
‘Who’s he going about with now?’ said Miss Barlow.
At this point the unhappy Robert had a fit of choking so violent and prolonged that further conversation was for some minutes quite impossible. When at last he had to stop choking from sheer lack of breath, Miss Barlow gazed at him coldly and said: ‘I think you ought to see a specialist.’
‘No, I’m perfectly all right,’ Robert assured her breathlessly, ‘perfectly all right. Absolutely all right.’
‘Well, I don’t think you are,’ said Miss Barlow. ‘I think you’ve got what they call galloping consumption. I’ve heard of it coming on suddenly like this. It seems to have come on since we started out.’
‘I haven’t got it,’ protested Robert. ‘I haven’t got anything. It was just a—a sort of spasm.’
‘This brother I’m telling you about,’ said William, ‘he’s gotter awful temper that comes on suddenly like that.’
‘The one who’s so unkind to you?’ said Miss Barlow.
‘Yes,’ said William, ‘and the one that said that all fairhaired girls looked washed out.’
‘I think he sounds awful,’ said Miss Barlow. ‘I wonder if I’ve ever met him. What’s his name?’
At this point William felt something small and hard and round pushed into his hand by Robert. A sixpence. He pocketed it thoughtfully. The possibilities of the situation were beginning to dawn on him. He had looked upon it solely as a situa
tion that would enable him to get his own back on Robert. Now he saw it as a situation that might retrieve his fallen fortunes.
‘Well, I don’t know that I ought to tell you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know that it’s quite fair on him. I mean, what I’ve told you might sort of put you against him so’s if you met him you mightn’t like him—’
‘I certainly shouldn’t like him,’ said Miss Barlow with spirit.
‘Well, then it seems sort of mean to tell you his name,’ said William.
‘I don’t think so at all,’ said Miss Barlow earnestly. ‘I think you ought to. I think that it isn’t fair to let a person go about without people knowing what he’s really like. I think it isn’t fair to people. I mean, people ought to know what a person’s like. I might meet him and—well, he might seem all right and of course I’d not know that he was the one that was so unkind to you and thinks Dolly Clavis the most beautiful girl in the world.’
‘I don’t think Dolly Clavis the most beautiful girl in the world,’ put in the goaded Robert.
‘Who said you did?’ said Miss Barlow, ‘we’re talking about the boy’s brother. You seem very self-centred this afternoon.’
‘I—I think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world,’ said Robert.
But Miss Barlow’s whole interest was centred on William.
‘Do tell me your brother’s name,’ she said. ‘I think you really ought to. Is he nice looking?’
‘No; very ugly,’ said William emphatically.
Robert choked in impotent fury.
‘Well, I think that people ought to know what he’s really like and, of course, if you just meet a person in the ordinary way you often never find out.’
‘Y-yes,’ said William thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I ought to.’
As he spoke, he moved his hand nearer Robert’s, and something passed quickly between them. William fingered it tentatively. A shilling.
‘No, I don’t think I’d better,’ he said, slipping it into his pocket; ‘it doesn’t seem fair to him. Seems as if I’d set people against him.’
‘But if he’s so unkind to you—’
‘Oh, yes, he’s jolly well that,’ said William.
William the Bad Page 9
