THE WRITER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE
There had been a certain amount of excitement when Father and Mother
had started for their holidays abroad, but nothing in any way to be
compared to the excitement of the day when the Writer made his first
appearance.
Ridgwell and Christine distinctly heard themselves being asked for by a
visitor, one day when the sitting-room door was open, and to be
inquired for personally was at least something of an event. "I want to
see the children," a voice had said, and there was no mistaking the
significance of the words. Without any undue delay, Ridgwell and
Christine immediately presented themselves.
The stranger was led in captive, one upon either side of him, and being
placed upon the sofa was regarded steadfastly for some little while.
During a very thorough scrutiny the prisoner smiled affably, produced a
pipe which he lighted carefully and puffed at steadily, and then
inquired casually if they both thought he would do.
"You look jolly," announced Ridgwell, "only I can't make out who you
are; but you know Father and Mother very well, don't you?"
"Rather," said the stranger, "great friends of mine."
"But we've never seen you, have we?" added Christine.
"No," replied the stranger, "but I thought it was quite time I made
your acquaintance, so I thought I would call upon you. Sorry I haven't
got a card, but you can supply something in its place which will be
quite as good. Where does Father keep his books?" was the sudden and
somewhat unexpected question.
"It just depends," debated Ridgwell, "what particular lot you want.
Biography, Philosophy, Romance or Poetry."
"I think the Romance and Poetry department," suggested the stranger.
"This way," said Ridgwell; "I will show you."
The stranger ran his finger over the well-stocked orderly shelves, then
he paused at four volumes side by side about the middle of the second
shelf.
"Of course you both read?" inquired the stranger.
"Not those sort of books," explained Ridgwell. "We haven't quite got
up to those sort of books yet."
"Anyway you can read the author's name upon the back of each of them."
The children nodded.
"That's me," confessed the stranger. "I have the misfortune to write
books that you don't read."
"Father does," Ridgwell hastened to explain; "I've often heard him talk
about you. Why, you're quite famous, aren't you?"
"I hope not," said the Writer.
"Anyway," concluded Ridgwell, "Father said you wrote jolly good stuff,
only it was over the heads of the people, but Father said one of these
days when you woke up, you would knock 'em, and I've heard him say that
anyway it was better than some of the drivel a lot of people wrote
nowadays. He hoped you'd reform, though."
The Writer laughed. "A very candid opinion, Master Ridgwell, and I
really must reform and mend my ways."
"Don't you write fairy tales as well?" inquired Christine upon the way
back to the dining-room.
"Sometimes," agreed the Writer.
Without more ado, Christine drew three chairs invitingly round the
fire, almost by way of an invitation to recount some upon the spot.
The fire was really very cheerful in spite of the fact that it was late
spring. The daffodils nodded their yellow heads quite contentedly, and
filled the bowls upon mantelshelf and table with colour, and the little
room with fragrance, at one and the same time. The coloured crocuses
peeped in from the window boxes outside, whilst the sparrows chirped
and hopped about and hoped that the Writer had something pleasant to
say about them. It was all very peaceful with the sunlight stealing
into the room through the lattice panes, making little patterns upon
the floor, the flickering red of the fire playing at hide and seek with
the diamond patterns and never quite catching each other; the yellow
flowers nodding drowsily over the two childish heads that were now
regarding the Writer most earnestly. The clock upon the mantelpiece
chimed its mellow notes. Three o'clock it said. The afternoon had
seemed almost dull up to that time, but now it all appeared to have
changed in some curious way, ever since the Writer had made his
appearance.
"I wonder," commenced Ridgwell, "if by any chance you could have been
sent to us; you know we were faithfully promised that a Writer should
come and see us and write down for us something we particularly want to
remember. I wonder if you are the man," ended Ridgwell, quizzically.
"Shouldn't wonder at all," murmured the Writer; "delighted if I have
had the honour to be chosen for the mission, and it really sounds to me
like one of Lal's very rash promises."
"What!!!" It was a shriek from two children at once. Two pairs of
arms were suddenly flung around the Writer's neck, two pairs of arms
that were almost hugging him to death.
The Writer endured this onslaught throughout in the most becoming
manner.
"Lal _did_ send you then," shouted Ridgwell. "I knew it. How lovely!
Fancy your knowing him! Tell us all about it."
The Writer smiled. "I have known Lal almost as many years as I can
remember; he is one of my oldest and very dearest friends."
"Ridgie," said Christine solemnly, at this point, "do you remember the
motto of the cracker we pulled last night? It said--
"I'll whisper on this little page
A secret unto you:
The greatest wonder of the age
Shall suddenly come true."
But Ridgwell was beyond crackers, and beyond poetry; he felt, not
unreasonably, amidst the development of this new wonder, that he was in
possession of the real thing.
"I think," said the Writer, "I had better tell you all about it from
the very beginning, but you know really it is quite a long story."
Ridgwell and Christine arranged themselves comfortably to listen;
sometimes they looked at the fire, but more often at the face of the
Writer, but they never missed one word of his story.
"I expect," commenced the Writer, "my story is going to be very
different from anything you children may have imagined; in fact, my
life has turned out so utterly different from anything it promised to
be in the early beginning, that at times upon looking back it seems to
be like some wonderful fairy tale--utterly unlike the ordinary fairy
tales, however, one reads in books.
"The only two good fairies in my case were first and foremost our good
old friend Lal, and, secondly, a gentleman who in the early stages of
my life was always called the Miser, but who since has become one of
the wealthiest, most generous and notable personages in the City of
London. As a rule, whenever I think of my early childhood it is with a
shudder, for I was running about the streets of London minus any shoes
or stockings, with hardly any food save of the smallest and coarsest
description, selling newspapers in the streets until late at night, and
invariably soundly beaten if I did not take back some miserable coppers
at the end of the day.
"I may say that these pence I had procured with so much toil were
always expended in the public-house by both the man and his wife who
were supposed at that time to provide me with the weird accommodation
they were pleased to call home. My particular portion of this edifice
was a dirty mat by way of a bed, which I shared with a rough-haired
terrier dog called Sam. We two, Sam and I, were roofed in with many
panes of broken glass in a species of outhouse which may at one time
have formed a small conservatory. It must have been a hopeless
failure, I am sure, as a conservatory, for I cannot imagine anything
growing in it at all.
"One thing I am very certain of, I should never have grown either, but
should most likely have withered and died in it had I remained, like my
possible predecessors the plants, a few blackened and withered sticks
of which could still be seen in some broken red flower-pots upon a
shelf out of my reach. How these people came to have charge of me I
shall never know, but I have sometimes believed, from odds and ends of
conversation they let drop when they were quarrelling, which they were
always doing, that my real father and mother had died when I was a tiny
mite.
"The woman, who seemed at one time to have been better off, was left a
sum of money to bring me up, as no relations appeared to claim me. At
this time the woman was single, and had not met the man she afterwards
married, the man who used to beat me so cruelly. Whether she spent all
the money left for me, or whether they both spent it, appears to be of
little consequence; anyway, once it was gone I was regarded with black
looks as an encumbrance, and turned out into the streets to make some
money, or do something for my board and lodging, as they expressed it.
I have already told you what the lodging was like. Well, the board
part of it corresponded to the rest of the picture in every way.
Crusts of old dry bread, which they couldn't eat themselves, did for me
and the dog, sometimes a little milk, varied by an occasional awful
form of hard cake which the woman cooked, and which was impossible to
eat unless first soaked in something. In the long hours of waiting
between selling the newspapers I learned to spell, and then to read,
very slowly at first, but still I learned. Then one of the men
employed at the newspaper office I collected papers from, although I
should imagine a very poor man himself, found a few pence every week to
have me taught to write and spell, together with arithmetic, grammar,
history and other things. This rather uncertain method of education
went on for about two years. I was getting on fine, and absorbing
everything I was taught with great rapidity, when my one friend, who
had provided the night school education, departed to another world
where I always hope he found the conditions easier than the one he had
left. I might have been at my miserable home in the slums with the man
and woman for years after this, only a curious form of providence was
working upon my behalf.
"It had been a bad night for selling papers, I had a few coppers only,
and my heart sank down when I approached the hovel where we all lived.
The man and woman were quarrelling violently. As I slunk in white of
face and with a terrible quaking feeling inside me, I saw at once the
man was worse than he had ever been, and as I entered the door of the
squalid room he struck the woman an awful blow, then he saw me. He
grabbed me, and I think might have killed me that night, but I wrenched
myself away after he had given me the first blows; he pursued me,
catching at my coat, which at the best of times was only rags; he tore
part of the coat away, which was left in his hand, and I ran for dear
life. The man was mad and didn't know what he was doing, maybe, but
the only thing he could lay his hands upon was a broken brandy bottle;
he hurled this at my head. It struck me as I reached the street and
cut the back of my head open. Although I was hurt I staggered on. I
was dizzy and sick and the blood was dripping all over my shirt, but
though I swayed about I never stopped, I would go anywhere away from
the horror of that place. I never meant to go back there again.
"The next thing I remember was some sort of Square, which I had never
seen until then, for I had never gone so far West in London before.
There was nobody about, and I sank down beside a sort of stone thing
and held my head, which hurt me horribly, and began to cry, I think.
"I was only about ten or eleven years old at that time, if as much, for
no record of my age had ever been kept. Whether it was the pain, or
simply fright because the few clothes I had were covered in blood from
the wound in my head where the bottle had cut me, I don't know, but
there is no doubt that I lost consciousness, probably for some
considerable time. When I came to myself and woke up, it must have
been very late at night. It was a fairly cold night, but the moon was
shining, and the Square where I was sitting all looked like polished
silver, and the clock of a big church at the side of the Square boomed
out one.
"I looked about me, and raised myself up painfully upon one elbow and
tried to think.
"Here I was outside everything--no shelter, no home, alone in London
with a vengeance. True the other place had been a hateful home, yet at
the very worst it had been a shelter, and, moreover, the rough-haired
dog Sam and I had somehow squeezed together to keep ourselves warm, and
Sam was the only thing that was in any way fond of me, and Sam was
really good company.
"As the thought of him came across my mind, and how I had lost him for
good now, I think I was about to start crying again, when a rather
gruff but quite kindly voice just over my head called out--
"'Now then, stop that.'
"Of course I was only a very common Cockney little street boy at that
time, and I couldn't either speak the Queen's English properly or spell
it correctly, so when the voice said 'Stop that,' I said 'Wot?' 'Going
to cry,' said the voice."
Here Ridgwell was so overcome with excitement by reason of a strange
coincidence that he interrupted. "Why, that is exactly what Lal first
said to me, and I can guess what the next thing was that he said to
you--wasn't it 'Here, jump up'?"
The Writer smiled. "Yes," he said, "it is really very wonderful how
history repeats itself. That is exactly what he said, but what I said
is perhaps even more singular.
"I raised myself slowly and looked up gradually, for my head still
ached and throbbed horribly, and when I saw it was a big bronze lion
that was speaking to me and looking quite pleasant, all I said was--
"'Lor lummy, if it ain't a bloomin' lion a-talking to me. 'Alf a
jiffey, cocky,' I said, 'an' I'll 'ave a climb up atween them paws of
yours.'
"'You mustn't call me cocky,' remarked the Lion, reprovingly, when I
had once landed up safe and sound; 'you must call me Lal.'
"'Right oh!' ses I. 'Can I sleep 'ere safe without a bloomin' copper
a-coming and diggin' of me art 'alf-way through my nap?'
"'Yes, of course,' said Lal. 'Sleep here comfortably, and cover
yourself over with the policemen's capes. You'll find three of them
beside you. Hitherto they have always annoyed me by placing them
there, but upon this occasion I am really grateful to them, as they
will be useful for you to keep yourself warm with.'
"'I fits in 'ere fine,' ses I, 'and so 'elp me I think ye're a stunner.
But I never knowed as lions talked afore.'
"'My good little boy, there are many things that you do not know,'
answered the Lion, 'one of them being that you do not know how to speak
English correctly. I am afraid you are quite ignorant.'
"''Ere, 'old on, Mister,' ses I, 'I've been to school, yer know.'
"'The wrong schools, I fear,' replied the Lion; 'and would you oblige
me by not calling me Mister; in future always call me Lal.'
"'Do them other three lions talk, Lal?' I asked.
"'No, I am the only one that talks.'
"'Then I should say as 'ow you're the best of the 'ole bunch,' I
remarked.
"Lal sighed deeply. 'How dreadfully wrong,' he said; 'imagine a bunch
of lions! No, you certainly cannot speak at all correctly, so I think
perhaps you had better go to sleep instead.'
"Well, before I went to sleep I remembered at the night school I had
gone to they always said people ought to say their prayers, so I
thought to myself for a minute, and I'm afraid this is something in the
nature of what I said--
"'Please send me as soon as you 'ave it, a goodish-sized lump o' bread
and drippin', or a big baked 'tater, cos' I am as empty as ever I can
'ang together. I don't want nothink tasty, but jist somethink fillin'.
I'm very grateful for lions wot talk and 'elps yer like a pal; and
please don't let no blighted coppers a see me, and lock me up. Don't
forget the drippin'--any sort, beef, mutton, or pork. Amen.'
"'Humph!' remarked the Lion, when I concluded, 'that is a most singular
petition; to whom is it addressed?'
"'Up there, Lal,' I answered, looking into the sky; 'they say you gits
everythink from there.'
"'Dear me,' replied the Lion, 'really most singular. I notice you did
not describe the manner in which you expected these provisions to
arrive.'
"'I'll get 'em, Lal; if not ter-night, ter-morrer.'
"The Lion looked down at me quite kindly I thought. 'What is your
name?' he asked.
"'Ain't got no name that I knows of 'cept Skylark.'
"The Lion purred softly. 'You will have a name some day,' he said,
'and a great name, too. Why are you called Skylark now?'
"''Cos I sings and whistles, t'other blokes in the streets calls me
that.'
"I was just starting to show him how I could whistle, and had done a
bit, when we heard pitter-patter, pitter-patter, and the sound of
flying padded feet over the stone Square.
"The Lion sniffed. 'It's a dog. What is he doing here to-night? I
suppose he is lost.'
"I looked out between his paws, and I gave a shout of delight; I was
answered by loud yelps of gladness.
"'It's Sam,' I shouted. 'Oh, Sam, 'ole cockie, 'ere I is; jump up wiv
me and Lal.'
"'Is he all right?' asked Lal.
"'Yus,' I yelled, 'a friend, a fust-class friend. 'Ere, Sam, I'll 'elp
yer up by yer paws,' and he scrambled up and licked my face. Then he
looks at the Lion.
"'He'll do,' said Lal. 'Tell him not to attract attention by barking
or making any more of that noise. You must both go to sleep; and I
must say that you are a remarkably strange pair. However, here you
are, and here you must stay.'
"When I woke up in the morning it was just beginning to be daylight. I
spoke to Lal, but he wouldn't answer, he was cold and still, and didn't
look as if he had ever spoken or moved in his life, and never would
again. I folded the policemen's aprons up tight and thin like
truncheons in case they missed them, clambered down, followed by Sam,
and had a wash in one of the basins of the fountains, and got fairly
clean and respectable, except my coat, all torn in half, which I
couldn't help, and then I set out to see what I could find. It was Sam
who nosed out something like a breakfast.
"Two stale buns in a bag. I should think some child had thrown them
away--penny buns they were. I never tasted anything better, and Sam
had some of them, and he thought they were all right.
"I made twopence that day, carrying a bag. The man who gave me the job
gave me the unnecessary caution at the same time, not to run away with
it, just as if such a thing was likely. Why, I could hardly lift it,
and I couldn't have run two steps with it.
"He was an inquisitive man too, wanted to know if I had stolen the dog.
I said no, I didn't steal. 'Well,' he asked, 'if you don't steal, how
do you get a living?' I said, 'I'm getting it now.' He said it must
be a hard job. I replied, 'Golly, you're right, governor, this 'ere
bag is that 'eavy it drags me vitals out; wot's it got inside of
it--bricks?' Then he drove me off and said I was a cheeky little
devil, but he gave me twopence. Sam and I went to an eating-house and
got two big lumps of pudding on the strength of it, and that fed us
bang up for that day.
"I waited around at night with Sam, and directly I saw the Square was
deserted, I hopped up into my old place and Sam after me.
"'Hullo!' said Lal, 'you two have turned up again, have you?'
"'Yuss,' I replied; 'it's the only 'ome we've got, yer know, Lal.'
"'I must see what I can do for you,' mused the Lion. 'There is a man I
know who could give you work and help you at once, only his heart is
very hard at the present time; unfortunately success hasn't softened
him--he is a miser.'
"'Ain't a miser a bloke 'oo grabs all wot 'ee gits?' I suggested; 'if
so 'ee wouldn't do nothink 'ansome for Sam and me; the only copper as
we would git art of 'im would be the ones 'eed call up ter give us in
charge. A miser don't seem no good to us, as they wants change out o'
nothing.'
"'My dear little boy,' said Lal, 'your language may be pithy, but it is
so incorrect; your metaphors, moreover, are so mixed. I think,' said
the Lion, 'it is high time I took the Miser in hand; he is capable of
better things, and if success cannot give him the milk of human
kindness, I must try what sterner measures can effect. Get down now,'
continued the Lion, 'and both of you slip round the other side of the
pedestal and hide yourselves. I expect the Miser to pass this way
shortly, and you are not to interrupt on any account, or come back
until he has gone away, you understand.'
"'Yuss, Lal, anyfink to oblige. Come on, Sam, and may 'is 'eart
soften,' I said.
"Well, about a quarter of an hour afterwards, sure enough, a tall,
thin, elderly gentleman, with grey hair, in a top hat and frock coat,
came along, and he paused when he got to Lal, and looking round first
to see that he was not observed, he stopped beside Lal, and greeted him
with, 'Well, my old friend, and how are you this evening? do you feel
inclined to converse with me, or will you remain immovable, silent and
cold as you sometimes choose to be? Indeed I hope you feel disposed to
talk kindly to me, for I am far from happy, in fact it never entered
into my calculations that a highly successful man could ever be quite
so miserable.' After saying so much as this the elderly gentleman
paused, and observing that Lal had not taken any notice of his remarks
whatever, added in a lower tone, as if speaking to himself, 'Ah, not
communicable to-night, only bronze and stone, eh?'
"Then the Lion spoke. 'I am not the only thing of bronze and stone.
Have you ever thought how the definition might perhaps apply to
yourself, for instance, Alderman Simon Gold?'
"The tall thin gentleman appeared to be slightly taken aback by the
Lion's words.
"'You have a front of bronze,' continued the Lion, 'and as hard; you
have a heart of stone and as useless.'
"'It seems to me, my old friend,' replied the tall thin gentleman,
'that you have some grievance against me by the hard words you are
giving me. I came to you for comfort, but you don't seem to have
anything of the sort to bestow. However, I suppose all of us have our
ill humours.'
"'True,' assented the Lion, 'save that some of us never change that ill
humour, but continue with it all through life. You yourself are one of
those people.'
"'Humph! I certainly have displeased you,' vouchsafed the tall thin
gentleman; 'how I really cannot imagine.'
"'I will tell you,' replied the Lion. 'Listen, therefore, carefully.
Let us go back to the very beginning of our acquaintance. I am correct
in stating that you were a homeless, ragged little urchin prowling the
streets of London.' The tall thin man nodded. 'I gave you the only
shelter you knew; others have used it since, all of them models of
gratitude compared with yourself. My friendship did not stop there.
You wanted work, a home, a name and riches. Who directed you to the
City? who told you how to start, and where you would find all those
things so long as you worked hard and were honest?'
"'I did all those things,' interrupted the tall thin man; 'I did work
hard, I got a home, name, riches, and I have been honest.'
"'Until to-day,' purred the Lion, 'until to-day, Alderman Gold.'
"'To-day,' echoed the Alderman, but he started slightly.
"'Those shares you bought in the City to-day, a very great number, do
you call that transaction honest?'
"The Alderman's eyes sought the ground.
"'Three people will be ruined in that transaction if you keep to it.'
"'Think of the money.'
"'Think of your name.'
"'I must have money.'
"The Lion laughed. 'You have heaps more than you require. Can you
name one good thing you have done with your money or your influence
since I plainly pointed the way out to you how to acquire them?'
"There was no answer.
"'Will you still decide to acquire those shares dishonestly?'
"'Anybody in the City or on 'Change would do the same thing, it is done
every day.'
"'Because burglaries may be committed every night, is it any reason why
you should commit one?'
"'The world is the world,' replied the Alderman. 'I have to live in
it, and I have to fight it with its own weapons.'
"'You have no wife.'
"'No, Lal.'
"'No child.'
"'No.'
"'No single soul your wealth can do any good for.'
"'I need it all for myself.'
"'You are hoarding money fast.'
"'I shall need it all when I can no longer work; the value of money
decreases day by day. What is a fortune now will only be a pittance a
very few years hence.'
"'All for yourself?'
"'Yes.'
"'Nothing will change you?'
"'Why should it? I have only myself to consider, and I mean to make
more and more, and more, and never stop; there shall be no limit to
what I shall acquire, it is the only thing I care about now in life.'
"'In addition,' said the Lion, 'you are cutting down every little
comfort and every luxury you might enjoy because you are becoming
frightened at every small expense.'
"'Yes, growing expenses are the worries of my life.'
"'In fact, you are becoming daily, slowly and surely, a miser.'
"'It's not a nice word.'
"'It is the truth. Your clerks are the most ill-paid of any in the
City of London. Only last week you cut down your office boy's tiny
salary from ten shillings a week to seven shillings, although you know
he has to pay two shillings a week for fares to and from your office.'
"'How can I help his living out of town?'
"'You know he has to live with his mother and brothers and sisters,
five of them in addition to himself. He only takes home five shillings
every week, but he _gives_ it all up; he is happier than you are.'
"'Any way, I know how to arrange my own business,' snapped the
Alderman. 'I have prospered so far, and I intend to go on and prosper;
I am not going to change a single thing in my life or my methods of
business. I have prospered up to now, I shall prosper even more.'
"'And hoard more?' inquired Lal gently.
"'Yes, you call it hoarding. I call it amassing, and I shall strain
every nerve to amass more and more; it is too late in my life to alter
now.'
"'We shall see,' said the Lion. 'I was going to ask you to do
something for me, something for some one who is as penniless as you
were once yourself; but if I did ask you a favour now I should only
waste time.'
"'I have no time for charity,' said the Alderman. 'I heartily begrudge
the subscriptions we have to give from time to time in the City, yet
one is compelled to assist some of those for the sake of business; but
as for any outside charity, pooh! it's all rot, it's been proved long
ago they are all frauds. I shall always decline absolutely to give
anything or do anything for any outside charity. Life is too short.'
"'We shall see,' said the Lion. 'Good-night.'
"When Lal's friend from the City had departed, I came out from the
corner where I had been waiting, and Sam and I clambered up into our
old place out of sight. At that time I considered the City Alderman a
very horrid mean old man, and remembering Lal's words that he was a
miser, I made a mental resolution that although this was the first
specimen of the kind I had ever encountered, I never wished to meet
another of the same sort.
"'Well?' inquired Lal, as I lay and looked up into his face before
settling down for the night. 'What do you think of him?'
"''Ard-hearted, ain't 'e?' I replied.
"'Humph! yes, at present,' mused Lal.
"'Wot will yer give 'im ter take for it?' I asked.
"Lal smiled. 'Oh, a little prescription of my own.'
"'That bloke wot's just gone won't do nothink fer me. Can't yer
suggest somethink else, Lal, somebody as I could go to as would give me
some work?'
"'If you have patience,' answered Lal, 'and look around and get a few
odd jobs, and a little grub for yourself and Sam every day for a little
while, like the small London sparrow that you are--I beg your pardon, I
should have said Skylark--I shall be able very shortly to bring our
friend to a better frame of mind; at the present moment his sense of
proportion is all wrong.'
"'Wot's sense of proportion, Lal?' I inquired.
"'If,' replied Lal, 'you persisted in thinking that you were as big as
I am, for instance, your sense of proportion would be bad; if I
imagined that I was as great as St. Martin's Church yonder, my sense of
proportion would be worse.'
"'Lor' lummy, don't I jist wish I was as big as you.'
"'Why?' asked Lal.
"''Cos I'd 'ave a bit more weight to do fings wiv. There ain't no
doubt that strength tells in the end.'
"Lal only chuckled at what I said, and I again went sound to sleep, as
upon former occasions, in my strange roosting-place.
"The Alderman was in the habit of crossing Trafalgar Square every
evening upon his way home, although I had never observed him until the
night Lal had pointed him out to me; consequently, a few evenings
afterwards, I first noticed how strangely he was beginning to walk. I
can only describe it as a sort of zigzag from side to side, and
occasionally a sort of stumble, as if he was not quite certain where he
was going.
"Now I had often noticed the man who used to beat me, and from whom I
had run away, walk something like that, and yet I knew at once it was
not owing to the same reason, and I was rather puzzled to account for
it, as the Alderman had never walked like that before, and had always
been so upright and brisk.
"As the different evenings went on he grew worse and worse, until one
night I found him slowly groping his way across the Square, with his
hands stretched out in front of him, as if he was frightened of running
into something at every step: that was the first evening I led him
across the Square and over the road the other side; he seemed to
dislike the idea of the steps, and always avoided them, I noticed.
"I did this for several evenings, and he never gave me anything, but as
he was an old friend of Lal's I did it more for Lal's sake than for the
Miser's, as I now called him; yet he seldom even thanked me for
assisting him, although it was only too evident that he ought not to be
walking by himself. A few days went by with nothing in particular to
remember about them, until the evening arrived that was to be the
turning-point in two people's lives, but at the time I knew nothing of
this, for my small mind was overwhelmed with the first great childish
grief of my life. I hadn't earned even one copper that day, and Sam
and I had not had a crumb to eat. I think we must have both looked
very thin and white. I know that Sam's bones could be seen plainer
than ever through his dear, shaggy old brown coat; but Sam never
complained, he stuck to me closer than ever; nobody ever had a better
friend than he was.
"As ill luck would have it, Sam and I were crossing the wide street
where the traffic is always heaviest, before turning in at our old
quarters for the night. One of the many omnibuses passed, and somebody
either dropped or threw a small bag of biscuits over the side of it;
some rolled in the road, but a lot were left in the bag.
"Sam, who was the finest dog for spotting grub I have ever known, went
for it like lightning; he had got it in his mouth, and was scurrying
back to me in triumph with his old ears back, full of the importance of
his find, when a two-horsed mail van struck him down in the road and
went over him. I went in between all the maze of wheels and got him
out; he was whimpering like a hurt child. I didn't wait for anything,
I carried him along towards the old place by Lal; but he only gave me a
lick, and died in my arms before I got there.
"I couldn't climb up to Lal with Sam in my arms, and I wouldn't leave
him, so I don't know how long it was I crouched down in the shadow and
cried over Sam--bitter tears I wept, I know. I was alone and utterly
wretched, and Sam wouldn't ever speak to me again, would never do any
more of his tricks. When I noticed that even in his death he hadn't
released the bag of biscuits from his mouth, my tears flowed anew, and
I couldn't somehow have touched one of them if I had been twice as
hungry as I was. My grief at the death of Sam was so great that I
didn't seem to want to tell Lal about it, so I lay huddled up by the
corner of the pedestal where the shadow is darkest for what must have
been some considerable time. Then I heard feet groping about and the
voice of Alderman Gold talking.
"For a long time I didn't care to listen to what he was talking to Lal
about. I heard the man say mockingly, 'Well, I suppose I'm beaten, and
you have been right all the time, my old wise Lion. What cannot be
endured, however, can sometimes be cured, so here's your health.'
"I heard a low angry growl from Lal, unlike any sound I had ever heard
him make before, then Lal raised his paw and knocked something out of
the Alderman's hand that fell with a tinkling sound of broken glass.
"I came slowly out of my corner to see what it was all about, and in
time to hear Lal say, 'You fool, oh! you fool, when will your eyes ever
be opened?'
"'I was going to close them for ever. What's the good of having them
open _when I cannot see_?'
"The Miser seemed to be angry as well as Lal, for his voice was
trembling with passion. 'Why,' continued the Miser, 'should I remain
_blind_ to please you, in order that all your prophecies may come true?
Why destroy the stuff I had bought just when I had need of it?'
"The Lion regarded the Miser steadily with those fine great eyes of
his, somehow he seemed to look the Miser right through; then the Lion
sniffed thrice, very contemptuously.
"'Do you know _why_ you are blind?' he asked the Miser.
"'No,' answered the man, 'to be going blind is terrible enough without
asking the reason of it; what matter what this or that theory may be,
when the thing is there to speak for itself? I know I cannot see, and
that being the case my life is finished.'
"'Or perhaps beginning,' ventured the Lion contemplatively. 'You
cannot see, Alderman Gold, because your eyes are filled with the colour
of the thing you have made your God all through your life; it is the
gold dust that has blinded you. The dazzling golden hoard you desired
through life, watched, kept, gloated over. This love that tinged all
your life and thoughts and feelings has poisoned you, has permeated
with its fatal colour everything so that you cannot any longer see the
beauty of the blue sky, the ripple of the moving waters, the tender
bloom of blossoming flowers and trees. Remove the terrible gold-dust
from your eyes that you have worshipped and you will see again, perhaps
better than you have ever really seen before.'
"'Cease! cease!' broke in the Miser; 'you are only mocking my misery
now, and even if what you say is true, it is too late now to help me.'
"'Not too late,' returned the Lion, more gently, I thought, than he had
spoken hitherto; 'just in time, I think, just in time.' Then he called
me. 'Skylark,' said the Lion, 'come here.'
"I came out from my hiding-place, still hugging the body of poor Sam
close to me. The Miser peered at me curiously, though he couldn't see
me very well, or what I was holding, judging from the expression of his
face.
"'I suppose,' said the Miser, 'this is the ragged little wretch who is
always hanging about here.'
"'He is very ragged now,' said the Lion patiently, 'but he will be very
great one day.'
"The Miser laughed his harsh, unpleasant laugh, and peered down to see
what I was carrying so carefully, then he put out his hand and touched
Sam's coat.
"I pushed his hand away with my own dirty and grubby paw, but in a very
determined way.
"'Don't yer touch 'im,' I cried.
"'It's a dog,' said the Miser, 'and it's dead; a dead dog isn't of much
use to any one,' and he laughed again. I felt when he laughed that my
blood was boiling.
"'Look 'ere, if 'ee's dead, 'ee's gone straight to 'Eaven, which is 'is
proper place, an' where 'e'll 'ave fields an' the country and rabbits
to chase, an' all them fings wot 'e ought ter 'ave 'ad in his life
'ere, an' 'e'll a wait fer me there sure as 'e always waited fer me
'ere, an' don't you say nothink agin Sam, 'cos in 'is life 'e was a
damned sight better than wot you are, so there.'
"By this time my outraged feelings had so overcome me that I was
shouting at the Miser, who stood stock still saying nothing, for the
suddenness, to say nothing of the impudence, of my attack seemed to
have rendered him speechless.
"'Steady, Skylark, steady,' said the Lion; 'try and behave a little
more respectfully, and cease to use that distressing street language;'
then Lal added by way of an afterthought, 'Come, climb up here, I want
to talk to you.'
"I laid Sam down for the first time and complied with his request.
"'Now,' said Lal, 'what shall I do with Alderman Simon Gold?'
"''Im?' I asked, pointing to the Miser.
"'Precisely.'
"'Well, can't yer jist blow that there gold dust out of 'is eyes wot
seems to be a-choking of 'em as you sed 'e 'ad? You can do most fings,
Lal; 'ave a go, and see if 'e don't get better.'
"The Lion smiled his very wisest smile, then he asked me, 'Little
Skylark, what have you got round your neck?'
"'Only rags, Lal, but I can't 'elp them, you knows that.'
"'Look again, little Skylark.'
"'Lor lummy,' I said, 'wot is it?' for I was startled by the
unexpectedness of the thing I saw. Something seemed hanging round my
neck that glowed and glistened and sparkled like ever so many jewels.
The sort of gems that had made me wink my eyes whenever I had seen them
in the shop-windows.
"'Lal, wot is it? 'ow did it get there?'
"'It is the Order of Imagination,' said Lal solemnly, 'and oh! little
Skylark, there are only a few, such a few in the world who have ever
worn it, even for a few minutes. You will think of this some day, you
will remember my words always. Take it off your neck, Skylark, and put
it over the neck of Alderman Simon Gold for an instant, for he is only
just worthy to wear it. Look, there are two tears in his eyes, tears
of pity, the first he has ever shed in his life, and tears of pity,
little Skylark, are the keys that open the Golden Gates of Heaven.'
"I did as Lal bid me, and I shall never forget. Simon Gold's face
became radiant.
"'I can see,' he gasped, 'can see! Oh, Lal, what a brute I have been!
What have I been thinking about? Why am I so different? Why do I feel
that I want to give something to all the world? Why, Lal, I want to
give, I insist upon giving. Lal, why am I a different man, with
different feelings, with a _heart_?'
"Once again Lal smiled that wise smile of his.
"'The Order of Imagination does many things,' said Lal. 'If you want
to give, why not give with all your heart now and as long as you live?
Everybody, however, has to make a start. Well, start by giving the
Skylark a home, a good education, help him towards being the great man
that I say he will one day become. You will have found a faithful,
loving, lifelong friend, something as faithful and devoted as the
friend whose life he himself mourns to-night.'
"'Poor old dog,' said Alderman Gold, 'I can't help him now, I wish I
could, but I'll help the other, by Jove, I will; of course I'll see he
has a good home, I'll see he's educated.'
"'I think he will repay you for all the money you will spend upon his
education,' said the Lion, significantly.
"'And I mean to spend money,' said the Alderman. 'I've been a beastly
miser, that's what I've been, but I shall never have that taunt flung
at me again.'
"'Good,' nodded the Lion. 'Help him bury his pet in the big garden of
your London house, and bury at the same time all the past you want to
forget.'
"'I will,' said the Alderman. 'Here, come along and get fed. Here,
what's your name?'
"'Skylark,' prompted the Lion.
"'Skylark? A very good name,' said the Alderman; 'it suggests Spring,
and--and----'
"'Going steadily upward,' prompted the Lion.
"'By Jove, Lal, you're wonderful,' exclaimed the Alderman. 'How can I
thank you for giving me my sight again, for making a different man of
me? and, good gracious, now I come to think of it clearly and
reasonably, every single thing you have told me has always been true.'
"'If you believe that,' said the Lion, 'listen attentively to the last
thing I tell you, even more upon account of it being the last time I
shall actually _speak_ to either of you.'
"'Say on, Lal, we cannot do without your help; I know I can't, and I
thought I could do most things.'
"'You may consider it most inconsequent of me to mention such a
childishly fabled person to you as Dick Whittington, and yet strangely
enough that hero of a nursery legend will have a great deal in common
with both of you in your future lives.'
"'Shall I be Lord Mayor of London three times?' laughed the Alderman,
who had appeared suddenly to have discovered how to laugh, and it
sounded strange to hear him.
"'I won't say _three_ times,' said the Lion, 'but you will be one of
the greatest Lord Mayors of London in about fourteen years from now;
you will be knighted, and you will become one of the most beloved and
benevolent men in the whole City of London.'
"'That sounds fine,' said the Alderman; 'how about Master Skylark?'
"'Too early to prophesy,' said the Lion, 'with certainty, but I may say
this; I think when he has also found another Dick Whittington, and one
ever so different from yourself, he will become great almost by
accident, but he has to find this Dick Whittington first. He will
never part with Dick Whittington when he has found him, but as a result
of sitting in front of him day by day in great perplexity, he will
suddenly do the first thing that will make his name. You will only
_resemble_ Dick Whittington in your career, the Skylark will _find_
Dick Whittington.'
"'By Jove,' said the Alderman, 'that is a pretty difficult riddle, Lal,
and as I shall never solve it we can only wait and see.'
"The Lion smiled.
"'I believe you thoroughly love a riddle, Lal, you old Sphinx. Well,
anything else? Tell me, how much more of the future do you see?'
"'Oh, a lot of things,' answered Lal, 'a very great many of them you
would not understand now, even if I explained them to you, which I
shall not think of doing. For instance, I see a very happy, cheerful
and prosperous elderly gentleman--ahem!--whose acquaintance you will
one day make, and whose amiable personality you in common with others
will thoroughly appreciate. I see a future charming Lady Mayoress
whose--ahem!--friendship you will be most glad of. I see two old
friends falling out about a certain matter of business in all
likelihood, and the _younger_ of the two will be absolutely in the
right. I see an estrangement that doesn't last more than a few years,
then a joyful reconciliation, perhaps all the more joyful on account of
the former separation. Then,' said the Lion, 'I see
something--ahem!--a series of most painful incidents, most unbecoming
to myself as well as yourself.'
"'Good gracious,' said the Alderman, 'I wonder whatever that can be?'
"'Like most other things about which there is a great fuss and
commotion, it will rise from a simple cause. There will be a great
meeting held in a public building, and the result of that meeting will
be in your favour.'
"'In my favour,' echoed the astonished Alderman.
"'Distinctly in your favour, and it will make the whole of England
laugh.'
"'At me?' inquired the Alderman, with an apprehensive note in his voice
of quite pardonable nervousness.
"'No,' said the Lion, 'the laugh will be rather upon your side, I
think.'
"'Indeed,' said the Alderman; 'well, that sounds a bit better.'
"'Moreover,' continued the Lion, 'for my own part I regret to say I
shall be taken in a triumphant procession through the streets of
London, guarded upon all sides by the police, and the whole proceedings
throughout will be sufficiently ridiculous to cause me the acutest
discomfort, all of which will be most undeserved and brought upon me by
the extravagant adulation of my would-be admirers. However, I shall
have to comfort myself in that time to come by considering that I am
not the only victim who has been sacrificed from the same cause.'
"'Apart from the deep mystery attached to your strange prophecies,'
observed the Alderman, 'which I do not pretend at present to
understand, but which nevertheless I know will all come true, I am
truly concerned about one thing. Are you really serious, Lal, in your
intention of never speaking to me again? I feel the loss will be
irreparable, for you have always been my wisest councillor from my
boyhood upwards, and I only wish I had profited by your wisdom before
and listened more attentively to your counsels in the past, whatever
alterations I make in my life for the future.'
"'I shall never actually speak with either of you again,' replied Lal,
'but you will be able to live all your youthful days over again in
him;' here Lal pointed to me. 'You can help him to avoid all the
mistakes you have made yourself; yet do not misunderstand me, I shall
give both of you a sign, and an unmistakable sign, to show how pleased
I am if you fulfil all the expectations I shall have cherished about
you.'
"'What sort of sign?' asked the Alderman.
"'I shall not tell you now, and you will both have to do an awful lot
before I show you the sign that I am satisfied with you eventually.'
"Now let me see,' mused the Alderman, 'isn't there any little thing we
could do for you to show that we hadn't forgotten you?'
"'You know what I expect of you,' retorted the Lion, 'keep your
promises.'
"'Apart from that,' suggested the Alderman, 'some sort of memento, some
sort of recognition.'
"'Oh, no,' hastily interposed Lal, 'no recognition, please, it is the
one thing I dread most in the world owing to the curious position I
occupy in public life. However, in the years to come, if you can
reasonably and truthfully look back upon all you have accomplished with
a certain amount of justifiable pride and satisfaction, you can come
here quietly one night and place a big wreath of water-lilies; lay them
as an offering between my paws; on no account hang them round my neck
like the other terrible people do upon Trafalgar Day, it only makes me
look ridiculous.'
"'Why water-lilies?' asked the Alderman.
"'My favourite flower,' sighed the Lion, 'and, moreover, the one I
never see. You see, the fountains splash about so incessantly that
there is no peaceful place where they can grow, and you wouldn't
believe,' added the Lion earnestly, 'how I sometimes long for those
irritating fountains to stop, and for beautiful water-lilies to grow
there instead.'
"'It shall all be done as you say, and I will ponder over every single
thing you have mentioned,' promised the Alderman.
"'Good-bye till then,' said the Lion in his most sepulchral voice, and
then the Lion smiled at me and said, 'Good-bye, little Skylark.'
"For my own part I had stood by quite silent without saying a word, but
I somehow realized that if I wasn't going to see and speak to my old
friend Lal any more, there were several things I wanted to say, and a
good many more things I wanted to ask.
"'Ere, 'old on 'arf a mo', cocky,' I shouted.
"'Oh, _don't_ call me cocky,' entreated Lal, 'and what _do_ you mean by
that expression "hold on"? Is not my whole life a perpetual exhibition
of "_holding on_"?'
"'You've been a first-class, tip-top pal to me, Lal, an' I wants ter
know first where that there ring wot shined like blazes, and wot 'ung
round my neck and then round 'is, 'as a-gone to? Ain't I to 'ave it no
more?'
"'You will have the memory of it,' replied Lal; 'you have possessed it
once, and I think you will have quite enough imagination left all
through your life without it; in fact, in the future, at times you will
have rather too much imagination for the comfort of your other
fellow-creatures.'
"''Ave I got to go with 'im?' I asked; ''ave I got to say good-bye to
you?'
"'Certainly,' replied Lal in his most stately way; 'you are going to
have a very happy life; you are a fairly respectable kid now, but you
will become more and more respectable until one will hardly recognise
you at all. You are going to have a ready-made Father and Mother which
I have provided you with.'
"'Ain't 'eard nothink about no Muvver yet,' I said; 'where's the Muvver
come in?'
"'Ah! you wait and see,' whispered the Lion mysteriously.
"'Are you a-kiddin' me, Lal? if so, chuck it!'
"'Oh! dreadful, dreadful expressions!' lamented Lal. 'Undoubtedly the
next time I see you I believe your grammar will have improved, and your
vocabulary have become more select. I hope so!'
"It was at this point that something about Lal's eyes and attitude gave
me the idea he was going to shut up for good, so to speak, and my
feelings so overcame me, that without thinking I flung my arms round
Lal's neck, that is to say, as far as they would go, and hugged him.
"Lal opened his eyes again, and somehow I am sure that he was grinning,
such a pleasant-looking, happy grin, but he spoke in his severest
manner to me--
"You must really restrain these exhibitions of feeling in public; if a
policeman chanced to observe you I think there would be the greatest
difficulty in offering any adequate explanation.
"'No, Lal,' I answered; 'all I ses to the coppers when they ses anyfink
to me is "Rats"--always "Rats," and when I ses "Rats" they can fink
what they jolly well likes.'
"Lal sighed, and said, 'How like Dick Whittington!' and those were the
very last words I ever heard him speak, although I little dreamed how I
was to meet him again."
* * * * *
At this juncture Cookie appeared carrying a most wonderful silvern
tea-tray, whereon a bright gilded urn sizzled happily, and a most
inviting-looking pyramid of toasted muffins nestled in apparently
friendly rivalry with the choicest cakes of Cookie's own baking; even a
heaped-up crystal dish of whole strawberry jam could not conceal its
blushes as the firelight played upon it.
"Fairy tales," said Cookie, "I know; I've listened to them many a time
myself."
"No, Cookie, you are wrong," ventured Ridgwell in tones of rebuke; "it
is not a fairy tale, every word of it is true."
"That's what Cinderella always declared, Master Ridgwell," was Cookie's
imperturbable reply, as she prepared to depart.
The Writer chuckled quietly.
"Of course it is true, isn't it?" asked Ridgwell and Christine in
unison.
"Of course," said the Writer, "every word of it, and anyway if it isn't
it ought to be, like all romances."
"But you haven't finished," objected Ridgwell, whilst he munched a
muffin, and Christine poured out the tea.
"No," agreed the Writer, "I haven't finished yet, but I warned you that
it would be a very long story, didn't I?"
"Oh, but we are so anxious to know what happened to the Skylark and the
Miser, I mean the Alderman, for of course he wasn't a miser any more,
was he?"
"Well, you see," explained the Writer, as he took his tea contentedly,
which he really felt he stood in need of, apart from any consideration
of deserving it, "nobody is able to read a long book all at once, and I
propose to tell both of you the remainder of this extraordinary story
in a few days' time."
"Anyway, that's ripping," vouchsafed Ridgwell.
"I think myself," added the Writer mysteriously, "that the great events
Lal spoke of so long ago are about to happen."
"Do tell us when?" implored Ridgwell.
"I fancy very soon now; of course, you children don't read the papers,
do you?"
Ridgwell and Christine shook their heads.
"Well, in to-day's paper there was one paragraph that threw out a very
decided hint that the present Lord Mayor of London was going to be
knighted by the King, not only on account of his public worth, but
because the wonderful Home for London Children he has built is almost
completed."
"Of course, the new Lord Mayor is Alderman Gold?" inquired Christine.
"He was Alderman Gold," said the Writer, "but I think myself before
many days have passed it will be Sir Simon and Lady Gold."
"Who is Lady Gold? You never told us a word about Lady Gold," objected
Ridgwell.
"Ah," said the Writer, "that will all come in the second part of my
story. Any way, no name was ever more appropriate than hers. She is
absolutely gold all through, head and heart and everything. Lady Gold
is, I consider, an absolutely suitable name for her, although two
people I know always call her Mum; and, do you know, I think she will
prefer that title, even when she gets the other."
"Who are the two people who call her Mum?"
"That's telling in advance," observed the Writer, as he helped himself
to a fourth muffin; "and of course to tell in advance always spoils a
story. But I intend that both of you children shall hear and see the
story to an end. In three days' time from now I am coming to fetch you
both, and you will be able to see the Lord Mayor drive past in state,
for I am giving a tea to celebrate that great occasion and also another
great occasion at one and the same time. I will finish the story then,
and you will both meet the Lord Mayor of London."
"Will he have his robes on?" inquired Christine expectantly.
"I don't know that he will wear them, but perhaps I could induce him to
bring them with him to show us."
"That's fine," said Ridgwell. "Will you really come to fetch us?"
"Yes, in three days' time."
"Where do you live?" asked Ridgwell, unexpectedly.
The Writer pretended to be most mysterious all at once.
"Where do you suppose I live?" he asked Ridgwell; "I do not think you
will ever guess."
"Whitechapel?" hazarded Ridgwell.
The Writer pretended to look almost hurt.
"Peckham?" suggested Christine.
"Very bad guesses," laughed the Writer. "You are both wrong. I have a
set of chambers facing Trafalgar Square, where every morning of my life
I can look out of the front windows and see my dear old friend Lal."
Both the children gave a shout at this astounding piece of information.
"And we shall see the Lord Mayor go past in state from the windows?"
"Yes," said the Writer; "but if what I believe is coming to pass,
provided that the right time has come, and I think myself it has, we
shall all see the sign that Lal promised us he would give, so long ago."
"The sign," echoed Ridgwell breathlessly; "I say, that's something
like!"
"We shall see what we shall see, and as that is Chapter One of my story
I am going to take my departure."
After the Writer had left, Ridgwell turned to Christine.
"It's the jolliest afternoon we've had since Father and Mother left,
isn't it, Chris?"
Christine nodded; she was considering many things.