"We've caught you smuggling!" William said severely."We've caught you smuggling!" William said severely.
"Fancy you bein' a smuggler all the time!" he said with righteous indignation in his voice.
"Take away that—er—nasty gun, little boy," pleaded his captive plaintively.
"You—ah—don't understand it. It—er—might go off."
William was not a boy to indulge in half measures. He meant to carry the matter off with a high hand.
"I'll shoot you dead," he said dramatically, "if you don't do jus' what I tell you."
Mr. Percival Jones wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"Where did you get that rifle, little boy?" he asked in a voice he strove to make playful. "Is it—ah—is it loaded? It's—ah—unwise, little boy. Most unwise. Er—give it to me to—er—take care of. It—er—might go off, you know."
William moved the muzzle of his weapon, and Mr. Percival Jones shuddered from head to foot. William was a brave boy, but he had experienced a moment of cold terror when first he had approached his captive. The first note of the quavering high-pitched voice had, however, reassured him. He instantly knew himself to be the better man. His captive's obvious terror of his pop-gun almost persuaded him that he held in his hand some formidable death-dealing instrument. As a matter of fact Mr. Percival Jones was temperamentally an abject coward.
"You walk up to the seats," commanded William. "I've took you prisoner for smugglin' an'—an'—jus' walk up to the seats."
Mr. Percival Jones obeyed with alacrity.
"Don't—er—pressanything, little boy," he pleaded as he went. "It—ah—might go off by accident. You might do—ah—untold damage."
Peggy, armed with the wastepaper basket and the skin, followed open-mouthed.
At the seat William paused.
"Peggy, you put the basket over his head an' pin his arms down—case he struggles, an' tie the skin wot I shot round him, case he struggles."
Peggy stood upon the seat and obeyed. Their victim made no protest. He seemed to himself to be in some horrible dream. The only thing of which he was conscious was the dimly descried weapon that William held out at him in the darkness. He was hardly aware of the wastepaper basket thrust over his head. He watched William anxiously through the basket-work.
"Be careful," he murmured. "Be careful, boy!"
He hardly felt the skin which was fastened tightly round his unresisting form by Peggy, the tail tied to one front paw. Unconsciously he still clasped a bottle of brandy in each arm.
Then came the irate summons of Peggy's nurse through the dusk.
"Oh, William," she said panting with excitement, "I don't want to leave you. Oh, William, he mightkillyou!"
"You go on. I'm all right," he said with conscious valour. "He can't do nothin' 'cause I've got a gun an' I can shoot him dead,"—Mr. Percival Jones shuddered afresh,—"an' he's all tied up an' I've took him prisoner an' I'm goin' to take him home."
"Oh, William, you are brave!" she whispered in the darkness as she flitted away to her nurse.
William blushed with pride and embarrassment.
Mr. Percival Jones was convinced that he had to deal with a youthful lunatic, armed with a dangerous weapon, and was anxious only to humour him till the time of danger was over and he could be placed under proper restraint.
Unconscious of his peculiar appearance, he walked before his captor, casting propitiatory glances behind him.
"It's all right, little boy," he said soothingly, "quite all right. I'm—er—your friend. Don't—ah—get annoyed, little boy. Don't—ah—get annoyed. Won't you put your gun down, little man? Won't you let me carry it for you?"
William walked behind, still pointing his pop-gun.
"I've took you prisoner for smugglin'," he repeated doggedly. "I'm takin' you home. You're my prisoner. I've took you."
They met no one on the road, though Mr. Percival Jones threw longing glances around, ready to appeal to any passer-by for rescue. He was afraid to raise his voice in case it should rouse his youthful captor to murder. He saw with joy the gate of his boarding-house and hastened up the walk and up the stairs. The drawing-room door was open. There was help and assistance, there was protection against this strange persecution. He entered, followed closely by William. It was about the time he had promised to read his "little effort" on the Coming of Spring to his circle of admirers. A group of elderly ladies sat round the fire awaiting him. Ethel was writing. They turned as he entered and a gasp of horror and incredulous dismay went up. It was that gasp that called him to a realisation of the fact that he was wearing a wastepaper basket over his head and shoulders, and that a mangy fur rug was tied round his arms.
"Mr.Jones!" they gasped.
He gave a wrench to his shoulders and the rug fell to the floor, revealing a bottle of brandy clasped in either arm.
"Mr.Jones!" they repeated.
"I caught him smugglin'" said William proudly. "I caught him smugglin' beer by the sea an' he was drinking those two bottles he'd smuggled an' he had thousands an'thousandsof cigars all over him, an' I caught him, an' he's a smuggler an' I brought him up here with my gun. He's a smuggler an' I took him prisoner."
Mr. Jones, red, and angry, his hair awry, glared through the wickerwork of his basket. He moistened his lips. "This is an outrage," he spluttered.
Horrified elderly eyes stared at the incriminating bottles.
"He was drinkin' 'em by the sea," said William.
"Mr.Jones!" they chorused again.
He flung off his wastepaper basket and turned upon the proprietress of the establishment who stood by the door.
"I will not brook such treatment," he stammered in fury. "I leave your roof to-night. I am outraged—humiliated. I—I disdain to explain. I—leave your roof to-night."
"Mr.Jones!" they said once more.
"I caught him smuggling," William explained proudly. "He had thousands an' thousands of cigars and that beer!""I caught him smuggling," William explained proudly. "He had thousands an' thousands of cigars and that beer!"
Mr. Jones, still clasping his bottles, withdrew, pausing to glare at William on his way.
"Youwickedboy! You wicked little,untruthfulboy," he said.
William looked after him. "He's my prisoner an' they've let him go," he said aggrievedly.
Ten minutes later he wandered into the smoking room. Mr. Brown sat miserably in a chair by a dying fire beneath a poor light.
"Is he still bleating there?" he said. "Is this still the only corner where I can be sure of keeping my sanity? Is he reading his beastly poetry upstairs? Is he——"
"He's goin'," said William moodily. "He's goin' before dinner. They've sent for his cab. He's mad 'cause I said he was a smuggler. He was a smuggler 'cause I saw him doin' it, an' I took him prisoner an' he got mad an' he's goin'. An' they're mad at me 'cause I took him prisoner. You'd think they'd be glad at me catchin' smugglers, but they're not," bitterly. "An' Mother says she'll tell you an' you'll be mad too an'——"
Mr. Brown raised his hand.
"One minute, my son," he said. "Your story is confused. Do I understand that Mr. Jones is going and that you are the cause of his departure?"
"Yes, 'cause he got mad 'cause I said he was a smuggler an' he was a smuggler an' they're mad at me now, an'——"
Mr. Brown laid a hand on his son's shoulder.
"There are moments, William," he said, "when I feel almost affectionate towards you."
To William the idea of reform was new and startling and not wholly unattractive. It originated with the housemaid whose brother was a reformed burglar now employed in a grocer's shop.
"'E's got conversion," she said to William. "'E got it quite sudden-like, an' 'e give up all 'is bad ways straight off. 'E's bin like a heavenly saint ever since."
William was deeply interested. The point was all innocently driven in later by the Sunday-school mistress. William's family had no real faith in the Sunday-school as a corrective to William's inherent wickedness, but they knew that no Sabbath peace or calm was humanly possible while William was in the house. So they brushed and cleaned and tidied him at 2.45 and sent him, pained and protesting, down the road every Sunday afternoon. Their only regret was that Sunday-school did not begin earlier and end later.
Fortunately for William, most of his friends' parents were inspired by the same zeal, so that he met his old cronies of the week-days—Henry, Ginger, Douglas and all the rest—and together they beguiled the monotony of the Sabbath.
But this Sunday the tall, pale lady who, for her sins, essayed to lead William and his friends along the straight and narrow path of virtue, was almost inspired. She was like some prophetess of old. She was so emphatic that the red cherries that hung coquettishly over the edge of her hat rattled against it as though in applause.
"We must allstart afresh," she said. "We must all beturned—that's whatconversionmeans."
William's fascinated eye wandered from the cherries to the distant view out of the window. He thought suddenly of the noble burglar who had turned his back upon the mysterious, nefarious tools of his trade and now dispensed margarine to his former victims.
Opposite him sat a small girl in a pink and white checked frock. He often whiled away the dullest hours of Sunday-school by putting out his tongue at her or throwing paper pellets at her (manufactured previously for the purpose). But to-day, meeting her serious eye, he looked away hastily.
"And we must allhelp someone," went on the urgent voice. "If we haveturnedourselves, we must help someone else toturn...."
Determined and eager was the eye that the small girl turned upon William, and William realised that his time had come. He was to be converted. He felt almost thrilled by the prospect. He was so enthralled that he received absent-mindedly, and without gratitude, the mountainous bull's-eye passed to him from Ginger, and only gave a half-hearted smile when a well-aimed pellet from Henry's hand sent one of the prophetess's cherries swinging high in the air.
After the class the pink-checked girl (whose name most appropriately was Deborah) stalked William for several yards and finally cornered him.
"William," she said, "are you going toturn?"
"I'm goin' to think about it," said William guardedly.
"William, I think you ought to turn. I'll help you," she added sweetly.
William drew a deep breath. "All right, I will," he said.
She heaved a sigh of relief.
"You'll beginnow, won't you?" she said earnestly.
William considered. There were several things that he had wanted to do for some time, but hadn't managed to do yet. He had not tried turning off the water at the main, and hiding the key and seeing what would happen; he hadn't tried shutting up the cat in the hen-house; he hadn't tried painting his long-suffering mongrel Jumble with the pot of green paint that was in the tool shed; he hadn't tried pouring water into the receiver of the telephone; he hadn't tried locking the cook into the larder. There were, in short, whole fields of crime entirely unexplored. All these things—and others—must be done before the reformation.
"I can't beginjus'yet," said William. "Say day after to-morrow."
She considered this for a minute.
"Very well," she said at last reluctantly, "day after to-morrow."
The next day dawned bright and fair. William arose with a distinct sense that something important had happened. Then he thought of the reformation. He saw himself leading a quiet and blameless life, walking sedately to school, working at high pressure in school, doing his homework conscientiously in the evening, being exquisitely polite to his family, his instructors, and the various foolish people who visited his home for the sole purpose (apparently) of making inane remarks to him. He saw all this, and the picture was far from unattractive—in the distance. In the immediate future, however, there were various quite important things to be done. There was a whole normal lifetime of crime to be crowded into one day. Looking out of his window he espied the gardener bending over one of the beds. The gardener had a perfectly bald head. William had sometimes idly imagined the impact of a pea sent violently from a pea-shooter with the gardener's bald head. Before there had been a lifetime of experiment before him, and he had put off this one idly in favour of something more pressing. Now there was only one day. He took up his pea-shooter and aimed carefully. The pea did not embed itself deeply into the gardener's skull as William had sometimes thought it would. It bounced back. It bounced back quite hard. The gardener also bounced back with a yell of anger, shaking his fist at William's window. But William had discreetly retired. He hid the pea-shooter, assumed his famous expression of innocence, and felt distinctly cheered. The question as to what exactly would happen when the pea met the baldness was now for ever solved. The gardener retired grumbling to the potting shed, so, for the present, all was well. Later in the day the gardener might lay his formal complaint before authority, but later in the day was later in the day. It did not trouble William. He dressed briskly and went down to breakfast with a frown of concentration upon his face. It was the last day of his old life.
The pea did not embed itself into the gardener's skull as William had sometimes thought it would. It bounced back. The gardener also bounced back.The pea did not embed itself into the gardener's skull as William had sometimes thought it would. It bounced back. The gardener also bounced back.
No one else was in the dining-room. It was the work of a few minutes to remove the bacon from beneath the big pewter cover and substitute the kitten, to put a tablespoonful of salt into the coffee, and to put a two-days'-old paper in place of that morning's. They were all things that he had at one time or another vaguely thought of doing, but for which he had never yet seemed to have time or opportunity. Warming to his subject he removed the egg from under the egg cosy on his sister's plate and placed in its stead a worm which had just appeared in the window-box in readiness for the early bird.
He surveyed the scene with a deep sigh of satisfaction. The only drawback was that he felt that he could not safely stay to watch results. William possessed a true strategic instinct for the right moment for a retreat. Hearing, therefore, a heavy step on the stairs, he seized several pieces of toast and fled. As he fled he heard through the open window violent sounds proceeding from the enraged kitten beneath the cover, and then the still more violent sounds proceeding from the unknown person who removed the cover. The kitten, a mass of fury and lust for revenge, came flying through the window. William hid behind a laurel bush till it had passed, then set off down the road.
School, of course, was impossible. The precious hours of such a day as this could not be wasted in school. He went down the road full of his noble purpose. The wickedness of a lifetime was somehow or other to be crowded into this day. To-morrow it would all be impossible. To-morrow began the blameless life. It must all be worked off to-day. He skirted the school by a field path in case any of those narrow souls paid to employ so aimlessly the precious hours of his youth might be there. They would certainly be tactless enough to question him as he passed the door. Then he joined the main road.
The main road was empty except for a caravan—a caravan gaily painted in red and yellow. It had little lace curtains at the window. It was altogether a most fascinating caravan. No one seemed to be near it. William looked through the windows. There was a kind of dresser with crockery hanging from it, a small table and a little oil stove. The further part was curtained off but no sound came from it, so that it was presumably empty too. William wandered round to inspect the quadruped in front. It appeared to be a mule—a mule with a jaundiced view of life. It rolled a sad eye towards William, then with a deep sigh returned to its contemplation of the landscape. William gazed upon caravan and steed fascinated. Never, in his future life of noble merit, would he be able to annex a caravan. It was his last chance. No one was about. He could pretend that he had mistaken it for his own caravan or had got on to it by mistake or—or anything. Conscience stirred faintly in his breast, but he silenced it sternly. Conscience was to rule him for the rest of his life and it could jolly well let him alonethisday. With some difficulty he climbed on to the driver's seat, took the reins, said "Gee-up" to the melancholy mule, and the whole equipage with a jolt and faint rattle set out along the road.
William did not know how to drive, but it did not seem to matter. The mule ambled along and William, high up on the driver's seat, the reins held with ostentatious carelessness in one hand, the whip poised lightly in the other was in the seventh heaven of bliss. He was driving a caravan. He was driving a caravan. He was driving a caravan. The very telegraph posts seemed to gape with envy and admiration as he passed. What ultimately he was going to do with his caravan he neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was, it was a bright sunny morning, and all the others were in school, and he was driving a red and yellow caravan along the high road. The birds seemed to be singing a pæon of praise to him. He was intoxicated with pride. It washiscaravan,hisroad,hisworld. Carelessly he flicked the mule with the whip. There are several explanations of what happened then. The mule may not have been used to the whip; a wasp may have just stung him at that particular minute; a wandering demon may have entered into him. Mules are notoriously accessible to wandering demons. Whatever the explanation, the mule suddenly started forward and galloped at full speed down the hill. The reins dropped from William's hands; he clung for dear life on to his seat, as the caravan, swaying and jolting along the uneven road, seemed to be doing its utmost to fling him off. There came a rattle of crockery from within. Then suddenly there came another sound from within—a loud, agonised scream. It was a female scream. Someone who had been asleep behind the curtain had just awakened.
William's hair stood on end. He almost forgot to cling to the seat. For not one scream came but many. They rent the still summer air, mingled with the sound of breaking glass and crockery. The mule continued his mad career down the hill, his reins trailing in the dust. In the distance was a little gipsy's donkey cart full of pots and pans. William found his voice suddenly and began to warn the mule.
William's hair stood on end. He almost forgot to cling to the seat. For not one scream came but many, mingled with the sound of breaking glass and crockery.William's hair stood on end. He almost forgot to cling to the seat. For not one scream came but many, mingled with the sound of breaking glass and crockery.
"Look out, you ole softie!" he yelled. "Look out for the donk, you ole ass."
But the mule refused to be warned. He neatly escaped the donkey cart himself, but he crashed the caravan into it with such force that the caravan broke a shaft and overturned completely on to the donkey cart, scattering pots and pans far and wide. From within the caravan came inhuman female yells of fear and anger. William had fallen on to a soft bank of grass. He was discovering, to his amazement, that he was still alive and practically unhurt. The mule was standing meekly by and smiling to himself. Then out of the window of the caravan climbed a woman—a fat, angry woman, shaking her fist at the world in general. Her hair and face were covered with sugar and a fork was embedded in the front of her dress. Otherwise she, too, had escaped undamaged.
The owner of the donkey cart arose from themêléeof pots and pans and turned upon her fiercely. She screamed at him furiously in reply. Then along the road could be seen the figure of a fat man carrying a fishing rod. He began to run wildly towards the caravan.
"Ach! Gott in Himmel!" he cried as he ran, "my beautiful caravan! Who has this to it done?"
He joined the frenzied altercation that was going on between the donkey man and the fat woman. The air was rent by their angry shouts. A group of highly appreciative villagers collected round them. Then one of them pointed to William, who sat, feeling still slightly shaken, upon the bank.
"It was 'im wot done it," he said, "it was 'im that was a-drivin' of it down the 'ill."
With one wild glance at the scene of devastation and anger, William turned and fled through the wood.
"Ach! Gott in Himmel!" screamed the fat man, beginning to pursue him. The fat woman and the donkey man joined the pursuit. To William it was like some ghastly nightmare after an evening's entertainment at the cinematograph.
Meanwhile the donkey and the mule fraternised over thedébrisand the villagers helped themselves to all they could find. But the fat man was very fat, and the fat woman was very fat, and the donkey man was very old, and William was young and very fleet, so in less than ten minutes they gave up the pursuit and returned panting and quarrelling to the road. William sat on the further outskirts of the wood and panted. He felt on the whole exhilarated by the adventure. It was quite a suitable adventure for his last day of unregeneration. But he felt also in need of bodily sustenance, so he purchased a bun and a bottle of lemonade at a neighbouring shop and sat by the roadside to recover. There were no signs of his pursuers.
He felt reluctant to return home. It is always well to follow a morning's absence from school by an afternoon's absence from school. A return in the afternoon is ignominious and humiliating. William wandered round the neighbourhood experiencing all the thrill of the outlaw. Certainly by this time the gardener would have complained to his father, probably the schoolmistress would have sent a note. Also—someone had been scratched by the cat.
William decided that all things considered it was best to make a day of it.
William's spirits sank a little as he approached the gate. He could see through the trees the fat caravan-owner gesticulating at the door.William's spirits sank a little as he approached the gate. He could see through the trees the fat caravan-owner gesticulating at the door.
He spent part of the afternoon in throwing stones at a scarecrow. His aim was fairly good, and he succeeded in knocking off the hat and finally prostrating the wooden framework. Followed—an exciting chase by an angry farmer.
It was after tea-time when he returned home, walking with careless bravado as of a criminal who has drunk of crime to its very depth and flaunts it before the world. His spirits sank a little as he approached the gate. He could see through the trees the fat caravan-owner gesticulating at the door. Helped by the villagers, he had tracked William. Phrases floated to him through the summer air.
"Mine beautiful caravan....Ach.... Gott in Himmel!"
He could see the gardener smiling in the distance. There was a small blue bruise on his shining head. William judged from the smile that he had laid his formal complaint before authority. William noticed that his father looked pale and harassed. He noticed, also, with a thrill of horror, that his hand was bound up, and that there was a long scratch down his cheek. He knew the cat had scratchedsomebody, but ... Crumbs!
A small boy came down the road and saw William hesitating at the open gateway.
"You'llcatch it!" he said cheerfully. "They've wrote to say you wasn't in school."
William crept round to the back of the house beneath the bushes. He felt that the time had come to give himself up to justice, but he wanted, as the popular saying is, to be sure of "getting his money's worth." There was the tin half full of green paint in the tool shed. He'd had his eye on it for some time. He went quietly round to the tool shed. Soon he was contemplating with a satisfied smile a green and enraged cat and a green and enraged hen. Then, bracing himself for the effort, he delivered himself up to justice. When all was said and done no punishment could be really adequate to a day like that.
Dusk was falling. William gazed pensively from his bedroom window. He was reviewing his day. He had almost forgotten the stormy and decidedly unpleasant scene with his father. Mr. Brown's rhetoric had been rather lost on William, because its pearls of sarcasm had been so far above his head. And William had not been really loth to retire at once to bed. After all, it had been a very tiring day.
Now his thoughts were going over some of its most exquisite moments—the moments when the pea and the gardener's head met and rebounded with such satisfactory force; the moment when he swung along the high road, monarch of a caravan and a mule and the whole wide world; the moment when the scarecrow hunched up and collapsed so realistically; the cat covered with green paint.... After all it was his last day. He saw himself from to-morrow onward leading a quiet and blameless life, walking sedately to school, working at high pressure in school, doing his homework conscientiously in the evening, being exquisitely polite to his family and instructors—and the vision failed utterly to attract. Moreover, he hadn't yet tried turning off the water at the main, or locking the cook into the larder, or—or hundreds of things.
There came a gentle voice from the garden.
"William, where are you?"
William looked down and met the earnest gaze of Deborah.
"Hello," he said.
"William," she said. "You won't forget that you're going to start to-morrow, will you?"
William looked at her firmly.
"I can't jus' to-morrow," he said. "I'm puttin' it off. I'm puttin' it off for a year or two."
The house next William's had been unoccupied for several months, and William made full use of its garden. Its garden was in turns a jungle, a desert, an ocean, and an enchanted island. William invited select parties of his friends to it. He had come to look upon it as his own property. He hunted wild animals in it with Jumble, his trusty hound; he tracked Red Indians in it, again with Jumble, his trusty hound; and he 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 unpleasant things that William brought into Jumble's life. It was only his intense love for William that reconciled him to his existence. Jumble was one of the very few beings who appreciated William.
The house on the other side was a much smaller one, and was occupied by Mr. Gregorius Lambkin. Mr. Gregorius Lambkin was a very shy and rather elderly bachelor. He issued from his front door every morning at half-past eight holding a neat little attaché case in a neatly-gloved hand. He spent the day in an insurance office and returned, still unruffled and immaculate, at about half past six. Most people considered him quite dull and negligible, but he possessed the supreme virtue in William's eyes of not objecting to William. William had suffered much from unsympathetic neighbours who had taken upon themselves to object to such innocent and artistic objects as catapults and pea-shooters, and cricket balls. William had a very soft spot in his heart for Mr. Gregorius Lambkin. William spent a good deal of his time in Mr. Lambkin's garden during his absence, and Mr. Lambkin seemed to have no objection. Other people's gardens always seemed to William to be more attractive than his own—especially when he had no right of entry into them.
There was quite an excitement in the neighbourhood when the empty house was let. It was rumoured that the newcomer was a Personage. She was the President of the Society of Ancient Souls. The Society of Ancient Souls was a society of people who remembered their previous existence. The memory usually came in a flash. For instance, you might remember in a flash when you were looking at a box of matches that you had been Guy Fawkes. Or you might look at a cow and remember in a flash that you had been Nebuchadnezzar. Then you joined the Society of Ancient Souls, and paid a large subscription, and attended meetings at the house of its President in costume. And the President was coming to live next door to William. By a curious coincidence her name was Gregoria—Miss Gregoria Mush. William awaited her coming with anxiety. He had discovered that one's next-door neighbours make a great difference to one's life. They may be agreeable and not object to mouth organs and whistling and occasional stone-throwing, or they may not. They sometimes—the worst kind—go to the length of writing notes to one's father about one, and then, of course, the only course left to one is one of Revenge. But William hoped great things from Miss Gregoria Mush. There was a friendly sound about the name. On the evening of her arrival he climbed up on the roller and gazed wistfully over the fence at the territory that had once been his, but from which he was now debarred. He felt like Moses surveying the Promised Land.
Miss Gregoria Mush was walking in the garden. William watched her with bated breath. She was very long, and very thin, and very angular, and she was reading poetry out loud to herself as she trailed about in her long draperies.
"'Oh, moon of my delight....'" she declaimed, then her eye met William'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."How dare you stare at me, you rude boy?" she said.
"I shall write to your father," she said fiercely, and then proceeded still 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. She objected to his singing, she objected to his shouting, she objected to his watching her over the wall, and she objected to his throwing sticks at her cat. She objected both verbally and in writing. This persecution was only partly compensated for by occasional glimpses of meetings of the Ancient Souls. For the Ancient Souls met in costume, and sometimes William could squeeze through the hole in the fence and watch the Ancient Souls meeting in the dining-room. Miss Gregoria Mush arrayed 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. But clouds of Fate were gathering round Mr. Gregorius Lambkin. William first heard of it one day at lunch.
"I saw the old luny talking to poor little Lambkin to-day," said Robert, William's elder brother.
In these terms did Robert refer to the august President of the Society of 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 to talk about it. He seemed very vague as to his previous existence, but he said that Miss Gregoria Mush was sure that he had been Julius Cæsar. The knowledge had come to her in a flash when he raised his hat and she saw his bald head.
There was a meeting of the Ancient Souls that evening, and William crept through the hole and up to the dining-room window to watch. A gorgeous scene met his eye. Noah conversed agreeably with Cleopatra in the window seat, and by the piano Napoleon discussed the Irish question with Lobengula. As William watched, his small nose flattened against a corner of the window, Nero and Dante arrived, having shared a taxi from the station. Miss Gregoria Mush, tall and gaunt and angular, presided in the robes of Mary, Queen of Scots, which was her favourite previous existence. Then Mr. Gregorius Lambkin arrived. He looked as unhappy as it is possible for man to look. He was dressed in a toga and a laurel wreath. Heat and nervousness had caused his small waxed moustache to droop. His toga was too long and his laurel wreath was crooked. Miss Gregoria Mush received him effusively. She carried him off to a corner seat near the window, and there they conversed, or, to be more accurate, she talked and he listened. The window was open and William could hear some of the things she said.
"Now you are a member you must come here often ... you and I, the only Ancient Souls in this vicinity ... we will work together and live only in the Past.... Have you remembered any other previous existence?... No? Ah, try, it will come in a flash any time.... I must come and see your garden.... I feel that we have much in common, you and I.... We have 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—real friends.... I'm sure I can help you much in your life as an Ancient Soul.... Our names are almost the same.... Fate in some way unites us...."
And Mr. Lambkin sat, miserable and dejected and yet with a certain pathetic resignation. For what can one do against Fate? Then the President caught sight of William and approached the window.
Mr. Lambkin sat, miserable and dejected, and yet with a certain pathetic resignation.Mr. Lambkin sat, miserable and dejected, and yet with a certain pathetic resignation.
"Go away, boy!" she called. "You wicked, rude, prying boy, go away!"
Mr. Lambkin shot a wretched and apologetic glance at William, but William 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 been interesting to watch—most interesting to watch. I'd much rather have watched than—but there, it's very kind of her to take such an interest in me.Mostkind. But I—however, she's very kind,verykind. She very kindly presented me with the costume. Hardly suitable, perhaps, butverykind of her. And, of course, theremaybe something in it. One never knows. Imayhave been Julius Cæsar, but I hardly think—however, one must keep an open mind. Do you know any Latin, William?"
"Jus' a bit," said William, guardedly. "I'velearnta lot, but I don'tknowmuch."
"Say some to me. It might convey something to me. One never knows. She seems so sure. Talk Latin to me, William."
"Hic, haec, hoc," said William obligingly.
Julius Cæsar'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 proves that I'm not—still one may not retain a knowledge of one's former tongue. One must keep an open mind. Of course, I'd prefer not to—but one 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 his doom is sealed. He's no power of resistance, and she's got her eye on him."
"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 with Miss Gregoria Mush in Miss Gregoria Mush's garden. Mr. Gregorius Lambkin 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 destinies were interwoven."
"Yes," murmured Mr. Lambkin. "It's so kind of you, so kind. But—I'm afraid 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 bringing to 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 unite also our lives."
"It's sokindof you," murmured the writhing victim, "so kind. I am so unfit, I——"
"No, friend," she said kindly. "I have power enough for both. The human 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 town to-night. Come here to-morrow night at the same time, Gregorius, and I will tell you what is in my heart. Meet me here—at this time—to-morrow evening."
William here caught sight of a stray cat at the other end of the garden. In the character of a cannibal chief he hunted the white man (otherwise the cat) with blood-curdling war-whoops, but felt no real interest in the chase. He bound up his scratches mechanically with an ink-stained handkerchief. Then he went indoors. Robert was conversing with his friend in the library.
"Well," said the friend, "it's nearly next month. Has she landed him yet?"
"By Jove!" said Robert. "First of April to-morrow!" He looked at William suspiciously. "And if you try any fool's tricks on me you'll jolly well hear about it."
"I'm not thinkin' of you," said William crushingly. "I'm not goin' to trouble withyou!"
"Has she landed him?" said the friend.
"Not yet, and I heard him saying in the train that he was leaving town on 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' something out."
William's family went about their ways cautiously the next morning. They watched William carefully. Robert even refused an egg at breakfast because you never knew with that little wretch. But nothing happened.
"Fancy your going on April Fool's day without making a fool of anyone," said Robert at lunch.
"It's not over, is it?—not yet," said William with the air of a sphinx.
"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 the President's house. William was in the road.
"She told me to tell you," said William unblushingly, "that she was busy 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 early to-morrow, but I was afraid that to-night——" he was almost hysterical 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't break it. But I was afraid—and I hear she's sold her house and is leaving in a month, so—but she's kind—verykind."
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 up in, no doubt. I can't say I—but she'sverykind. Don't let her see you playing with them, William."
William grunted and returned to his back garden.
"Gregorius," said the president. "How dear of you to come in costume!" The figure made no movement."Gregorius," said the president. "How dear of you to come in costume!" The figure made no movement.
For some time silence reigned over the three back gardens. Then Miss Gregoria Mush emerged and came towards the seat by the fence. A figure was already seated there in the half dusk, a figure swathed in a toga with 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 of having your destiny linked with mine takes speech from you. But have courage, dear Gregorius. You shall work for me. We will do great things 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 pressure with a sudden sound of dissolution. Two cushions slid to the ground, the toga fell back, revealing a broomstick with a turnip fixed firmly to the top. It bore the legend: