THE FÊTE--AND FORTUNE
William took a fancy to Miss Tabitha Croft as soon as he saw her. She
was small and inoffensive-looking. She didn’t look the sort of person
to write irate letters to William’s parents. William was a great judge
of character. He could tell at a glance who was likely to object to
him, who was likely to ignore him, and who was likely definitely to
encourage him. The last was a very rare class indeed. Most people
belonged to the first class. But as he sat on the wall and watched Miss
Tabitha Croft timidly and flutteringly superintending the unloading of
her furniture at her little cottage gate, he came to the conclusion
that she would be very inoffensive indeed. He also came to the
conclusion that he was going to like her. William generally got on well
with timid people. He was not timid himself. He was small and freckled
and solemn and possessed of great tenacity of purpose for his eleven
years.
Miss Tabitha, happening to look up from the débris of a small table
which one of the removers had carelessly and gracefully crushed against
the wall, saw a boy perched on her wall, scowling at her. She did not
know that the scowl was William’s ordinary normal expression. She
smiled apologetically.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
“Arternoon,” said William.
There was silence for a time while another of the removers took the
door off its hinges with little or no effort by means of a small piano
which he then placed firmly upon another remover’s foot. Then the
silence was broken. During the breaking of silence, William’s scowl
disappeared and a rapt smile appeared on his face.
“Can’t they think of things to _say_?” he said delightedly to Miss
Tabitha when a partial peace was restored.
Miss Tabitha raised a face of horror and misery.
“Oh, dear!” she said in a voice that trembled, “it’s simply dreadful!”
William’s chivalry (that curious quality) was aroused. He leapt heavily
from the wall.
“I’ll help,” he said airily. “Don’t you worry.”
He helped.
He staggered from the van to the house and from the house to the
van. He worked till the perspiration poured from his freckled brow.
He broke two candlesticks, a fender, a lamp, a statuette, and most
of a breakfast service. After each breakage he said, “Never mind,”
comfortingly to Miss Tabitha and put the pieces tidily in the dustbin.
When he had filled the dustbin he arranged them in a neat pile by the
side of it. He was completely master of the situation. Miss Tabitha
gave up the struggle and sat on a packing-case in the kitchen with some
sal-volatile and smelling-salts. One of the removers gave William a
drink of cold tea--another gave him a bit of cold sausage. William was
blissfully, riotously happy. The afternoon seemed to fly on wings. He
tore a large hole in his knickers and upset a tin of paint, which he
found on a window sill, down his jersey. At last the removers departed
and William proudly surveyed the scene of his labours and destruction.
“Well,” he said, “I bet things would have been a lot different if I
hadn’t helped.”
“I’m sure they would,” said Miss Tabitha with perfect truth.
“Seems about tea time, doesn’t it?” went on William gently.
Miss Tabitha gave a start and put aside the sal-volatile.
“Yes; _do_ stay and have some here.”
“Thanks,” said William simply, “I was thinking you’d most likely ask
me.”
Over the tea (to which he did full justice in spite of his previous
repast of cold tea and sausage) William waxed very conversational.
He told her of his friends and enemies (chiefly enemies) in the
neighbourhood--of Farmer Jones who made such a fuss over his old
apples, of the Rev. P. Craig who entered into a base conspiracy with
parents to deprive quite well-meaning boys of their Sunday afternoon
freedom. “If Sunday school’s so _nice_ an’ _good for folks_ as they
say it is,” said William bitterly, “why don’t _they_ go? I wun’t mind
_them_ going.”
He told her of Ginger’s air-gun and his own catapult, of the dead rat
they found in the ditch and the house they had made of branches in the
wood, of the dare-devil career of robber and outlaw he meant to pursue
as soon as he left school. In short, he admitted her unreservedly into
his friendship.
And while he talked, he consumed large quantities of bread and jam and
butter and cakes and pastry. At last he rose.
“Well,” he said, “I s’pose I’d better be goin’.”
Miss Tabitha was bewildered but vaguely cheered by him.
“You must come again....” she said.
“Oh, yes,” said William cheerfully. “I’ll come again lots ... an’ let
me know when you’re movin’ again--I’ll come an’ help again.”
Miss Tabitha shuddered slightly.
“Thank you _so_ much,” she said.
* * * * *
He arrived the next afternoon.
“I’ve just come to see,” he said, “how you’re gettin’ on.”
Miss Tabitha was seated at a little table--with a row of playing cards
spread out in front of her.
She flushed slightly.
“I’m--I’m just telling my fortune, William,” she said.
“Oh,” said William. He was impressed.
“It _does_ sometimes come true,” she said eagerly, “I do it nearly
every day. It’s curious--how it grows on one.”
She began to turn up the covered cards and study them intently. William
sat on a chair opposite her and watched with interest.
“There was a letter in my cards yesterday,” she said, “and it came this
morning. Sometimes it comes true like that, but often,” she sighed, “it
doesn’t.”
“Wot’s in it to-day?” said William, scowling at the cards.
“A death,” said Miss Tabitha in a sepulchral whisper, “and a letter
from a dark man and jealousy of a fair woman and a present from across
the sea and legal business and a legacy--but they’re none of them the
sort of thing that comes true. I don’t know though,” she went on
dreamily, “the Income Tax man might be dark--I don’t know--and I may
hear from him soon. It’s wonderful really--I mean that any of it should
come out. It’s quite an absorbing pursuit. Shall I do yours?”
“’Um,” said William graciously.
“You must wish first.”
William wished with his eyes screwed up in silent concentration.
“I’ve done it,” he said.
Miss Tabitha dealt out the cards. She shook her head sorrowfully.
“You’ll be treated badly by a fair woman,” she said.
William agreed gloomily.
“That’ll be Ethel--my sister,” he said. “She thinks that jus’ ’cause
she’s grown-up....” He relapsed into subterranean mutterings.
“And you’ll have your wish,” she said.
William brightened. Then his eye roved round the room to a photograph
on a bureau by the window.
“Who’s he?” he said.
Miss Tabitha flushed again.
“He was once going to marry me,” she said. “And he went away and he
never came back.”
“’Speck he met someone he liked better an’ married her,” suggested
William cheerfully.
“I expect he did,” said Miss Tabitha.
He surveyed her critically.
“Perhaps he didn’t like your hair not being curly,” he proceeded. “Some
don’t. My brother Robert he says if a girl’s hair doesn’t curl she
oughter curl it. P’raps you didn’t curl it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“My sister Ethel does, but she gets mad if I tell folks, an’ she gets
mad when I use her old things for makin’ holes in apples and cardboard
an’ things. She’s an awful fuss,” he ended contemptuously.
[Illustration: “YOU’LL BE TREATED BADLY BY A FAIR WOMAN,” SHE SAID.
WILLIAM AGREED GLOOMILY. “THAT’LL BE ETHEL,” HE SAID.]
When he got home he stood transfixed on the dining-room threshold, his
mouth open, his eyes wide.
“Crumbs!” he ejaculated.
He had wished that there might be ginger cake for tea.
And there was.
At tea was the Vicar’s wife. The Vicar’s wife was afflicted with
the Sale of Work mania. It is a disease to which Vicars’ wives are
notoriously susceptible. She was always thinking out the next but one
Sale of Work before the next one was over. She was always praised in
the local press and she felt herself to be a very happy woman.
“I’m going to call the next one a Fête,” she said. “It will seem more
of a change.”
“Fake?” said William with interest.
She murmured “Dear boy,” vaguely.
“We’ll advertise it widely. I’m thinking of calling it the King of
Fêtes. Such an _arresting_ title. We’ll have donkey rides and cocoanut
shies, so _democratic_--and we ought to have fortune-telling. One
doesn’t--h’m--of course, _believe_ in it--but it’s what people expect.
Some quite _harmless_ fortune-telling--by cards, for instance----”
William gasped.
“She did mine--_wonderful_,” he said excitedly, “it came--just wot I
wished. There was it for tea!”
“Who? What?” said the Vicar’s wife.
“The new one--at the cottage--I did all her furniture for her an’ got
paint on my clothes an’ she told me about him not coming back ’cause of
her hair p’raps an’ I got some of her things broke but not many an’ she
gave me tea an’ said to come again.”
Gradually they elicited details.
“I’ll call,” said the Vicar’s wife. “It would be so nice to have
someone one _knows_ to do it--someone _respectable_. Fortune-tellers
are so often not _quite_--you know what I mean, dear,” she cooed to
William’s mother.
“Of course,” murmured William abstractedly “it mayn’t have been her
hair. It may have been jus’ anything....”
* * * * *
William was having a strenuous time. Fate was making one of her
periodic assaults on him. Everything went wrong. Miss Drew, his form
mistress at school, had taken an altogether misguided and unsympathetic
view of his zeal for nature study. In fact, when the beetle which
William happened to be holding lovingly in his hand as he did his sums
by her desk, escaped and made its way down her neck, her piercing
scream boded no good to William. The further discovery of a caterpillar
and two woodlice in his pencil-box, a frog in his satchel, and earwigs
in his pocket, annoyed her still more, and William stayed in school
behind his friends to write out one hundred times, “I must not bring
insects into school.” His addition “because they friten Miss Drew,”
made relations still more strained. He met with no better luck at home.
His unmelodious and penetrating practices on a mouth-organ in the early
hours of the morning had given rise to a coldness that changed to
actual hostility when it was discovered that he had used Ethel’s new
cape as the roof of his wigwam in the garden and Robert’s new expensive
brown shoe polish to transform himself to a Red Indian chief. He was
distinctly unpopular at home. There was some talk of not allowing him
to attend the King of Fêtes, but as the rest of the family were going
and the maids had refused to be left with William on the premises it
was considered safer to allow him to go.
“But any of your _tricks_----” said his father darkly, leaving the
sentence unfinished.
The day of the King of Fêtes was fine. The stalls were bedecked in
the usual bright and inharmonious colours. A few donkeys with their
attendants surveyed the scene contemptuously. Ethel was wearing the
new cape (brushed and cleaned to a running accompaniment of abuse of
William), Mrs. Brown was presiding at a stall. Robert, wearing a large
buttonhole, with his shoes well browned (with a new tin of polish
purchased with William’s pocket-money) presided at a miniature rifle
range. William, having been given permission to attend, and money for
his entrance, hung round the gateway glaring at them scornfully. He
always disliked his family intensely upon public occasions. He had not
yet paid his money and was wondering whether it was worth it after all,
and it would not be wiser to spend it on bulls’ eyes and gingerbreads,
and his afternoon in the fields as a solitary outlaw and hunter of
cats or whatever other live prey Fate chose to send him. In a tent at
the farther end of the Fête ground was Miss Tabitha Croft, arrayed in
a long and voluminous garment covered with strange signs. They were
supposed to be mystic Eastern signs, but were in reality the invention
of the Vicar’s wife, suggested by the freehand drawing of her youngest
son, aged three. It completely enveloped Miss Tabitha from head to
foot, leaving only two holes for her eyes and two holes for her arms.
She had shown it to William the day before.
“I don’t _quite_ like it,” she had confessed. “I hope there’s
nothing--blasphemous about it. But she ought to know--being a Vicar’s
wife she ought to know. I only hope,” she went on, shaking her head,
“that I’m not tampering with the powers of darkness--even for the cause
of the church organ.”
Outside was a large placard: “Fortune Telling by the Woman of Mystery,
2s. 6d. each.” Inside the Woman of Mystery sat trembling with
nervousness in front of a table on which reposed her little well-worn
pack of cards, each with a neat hieroglyphic in the corner to show
whether it meant a death or a wedding or a legacy or anything else.
William, surveying this scene from the gateway became aware of a figure
coming slowly down the road. It was a man--a very tall man who stooped
slightly as he walked. As he came to William he became suddenly aware
in his turn of William’s scowling regard. He lifted his hat.
“Good afternoon,” he said courteously.
“Afternoon,” said William brusquely.
“Do you know,” went on the man, “whether a--Miss Croft lives in the
village?”
He pointed down the hill to the cluster of roofs.
“I think,” said William slowly, “I’ve seen your photo--only you wasn’t
so old when you had it took.”
“Where have you seen my photo?” said the man.
“In her house--wot I helped her to remove to,” said William proudly.
The man’s kind, rather weak face lit up.
“Could you show me her house? You see,” he went on simply, “I’m a
very unhappy man. I went away, but I’ve carried her in my heart all
the time, but it’s taken me a long, long time to find her. I’m a very
tired, unhappy man.”
William looked at him with some scorn.
“You was soft,” he said. “P’raps it was ’cause of her hair not curlin’?”
“Where is she?” said the man.
“In there,” said William pointing to the enclosure sacred to the King
of Fêtes. “I’ll get her if you like.”
“Thank you,” said the man.
William, still grudging his entrance money, walked round the enclosure
till he found a weak spot in the hedge behind a tent. Through this he
scrambled with great difficulty, leaving his cap _en route_, blackening
and scratching his face, tearing his knickers in two places, and his
jersey in three. But William, who could not see himself, fingering
tenderly the price of admission in his pocket, felt that it had been
trouble well expended. He met the Vicar’s wife. She was raffling a
tea-cosy highly decorated with red and yellow and purple tulips on a
green ground. She wore her Sale of Work smile. William accosted her.
“He wants her. He’s come back. Could you get her?” he said. “He’s had
the right one in his inside all the time. He said so....”
But she had no use for William. William did not look as if he was good
for a one-and-six raffle ticket for a tea-cosy.
“Sweet thing!” she murmured vaguely, and effusively caressed his
disordered hair as she passed.
William made his way towards the tent of the Woman of Mystery. But
there was an ice-cream stall on his way and William could not pass it.
Robert and Ethel, glasses of fashion and moulds of form, passed at
the minute. At the sight of William with torn coat and jersey, dirty
scratched face, no cap and tousled hair, consuming ice-cream horns
among a crowd of his social inferiors, a shudder passed through both
of them. They felt that William was a heavy handicap to them in Life’s
race.
“Send him home,” said Robert.
“I simply wouldn’t be seen speaking to him,” replied Ethel.
William, having satisfied his craving for ice-cream with the greater
part of his entrance money, wandered on towards the tent of the Woman
of Mystery. He entered it by crawling under the canvas at the back.
The Woman of Mystery happened to be having a slack time. The tent was
empty.
[Illustration: AT THE SIGHT OF WILLIAM A SHUDDER PASSED THROUGH BOTH
OF THEM. THEY FELT THAT WILLIAM WAS A HEAVY HANDICAP TO THEM IN LIFE’S
RACE.]
“He’s come,” announced William. “He’s waiting outside.”
“Who?” said the Woman of Mystery.
“The one wot you’ve got a photo of. You know. He’s jus’ by the gate.”
“Oh, dear!” gasped the Woman of Mystery. “Does he want me?”
“’Um,” said William.
“Oh, dear!” fluttered the Woman of Mystery. “I must go--yet how can I
go? People will be coming for their fortunes.”
William waved aside the objection.
“Oh, I’ll see to that,” he said.
“But--can you tell fortunes, dear?” she asked.
“I dunno,” said William. “I’ve never tried yet.”
The Woman of Mystery drew off her curious gown.
“I must go,” she said.
With that she fled--through the back opening of the tent.
William slowly and deliberately arrayed himself. He put on the gown and
arranged it so that his eyes came to the two eye-holes and his hands
out of the two arm-holes. Then he lifted the hassock on which the Woman
of Mystery had disposed her feet, on to the chair, and took his seat
upon it, carefully hiding it with the gown. At that moment the flap
of the tent opened and a client entered. She put half a crown on the
table, and sat down on the chair opposite William.
Peering through his eye-holes William recognised Miss Drew.
He spread out a row of the playing-cards and began to whisper.
William’s whisper was such a little known quantity that it was not
recognised.
“You’ve got a bad temper,” he whispered.
“True!” sighed Miss Drew.
“You’ve got a cat and hens,” went on William.
“True.”
“You’ve been hard on a boy jus’ lately. He--he may not live very long.
You’ve time to make up to him.”
[Illustration: “YOU’VE BEEN HARD ON A BOY JUS’ LATELY. HE--HE MAY NOT
LIVE VERY LONG. YOU’VE TIME TO MAKE UP TO HIM.”]
Miss Drew started.
“That’s all.”
Miss Drew, looking bewildered and troubled, withdrew from the tent.
William was surprised on peering through his eye-holes to recognise
Ethel in his next visitor. He spread out the cards and began to whisper
again.
“You’ve got two brothers,” he whispered.
Ethel nodded.
“The small one won’t live long prob’ly. You better be kinder to him
while he lives. Give in to him more. That’s all.”
Ethel withdrew in an awed silence.
Robert entered next. William was beginning to enjoy himself.
“You’ve gotter brother,” he whispered. “Well, he’s not strong an’ he
may die soon. This is a warning for you. You’d better make him happy
while he’s alive. That’s all.”
Robert went slowly from the tent. At that moment the little Woman of
Mystery fluttered in from the back.
“Oh, thank you _so_ much, dear. Such a _wonderful_ thing has happened.
But I must return to my post. He’ll wait till the end, he says.”
Still talking breathlessly, she drew the robe of mystery from William
and put it on herself.
William wandered out again into the Fête ground. He visited the
ice-cream stall again, then wandered aimlessly around. The first person
to accost him was Miss Drew.
“Hello, William,” she said, gazing at him anxiously. “I’ve been looking
for you. Would you like some ice-cream?”
William graciously condescended to be fed with ice-cream.
“Would you like a box of chocolates?” went on Miss Drew. “Do you feel
all right, William, dear? You’ve been a bit pale lately.”
William accepted from her a large box of chocolates and three donkey
rides. He admitted that perhaps he hadn’t been feeling very strong
lately. When she departed he found Robert and Ethel looking for him.
They treated him to a large and very satisfying tea and several
more donkey rides. Both used an unusually tender tone of voice when
addressing him. Ethel bought him a pine-apple and another box of
chocolates, and Robert bought him a bottle of sweets and apologised for
his unreasonable behaviour about the shoe polish. When they went home
William walked between them and they carried his chocolates and sweets
and pine-apple for him. Feeling that too much could not be made of the
present state of affairs, he made Robert do his homework before he went
to bed. Up in his room he gave his famous imitation of a churchyard
cough that he had made perfect by practise and which had proved a great
asset to him on many occasions. Ethel crept softly upstairs. She held a
paper bag in her hand.
“William, darling,” she said, “I’ve brought this toffee for your
throat. It might do it good.”
William added it to his store of presents.
“Thank you,” he said with an air of patient suffering.
“And I’ll give you something to make your wigwam with to-morrow, dear,”
she went on.
“Thank you,” said William.
“And if you want to practise your mouth-organ in the mornings it
doesn’t matter a bit.”
“Thank you,” said William in a small, martyred voice.
* * * * *
The next evening William walked happily down the road. It had
been a very pleasant day. Miss Drew had done most of his work for
him at school. He had been treated at lunch by his family with a
consideration that was quite unusual. He had been entreated to have all
that was left of the trifle while the rest of the family had stewed
prunes.
In the garden of the little cottage was Miss Tabitha Croft and the
tall, stooping man.
“Oh, this is William,” said Miss Tabitha. “William is a _great_ friend
of mine!”
“I saw William yesterday,” said the man. “William must certainly come
to the wedding.”
“William,” said Miss Croft, “it was kind of you to take my place
yesterday. Did you manage all right?”
“Yes,” said William, after a moment’s consideration, “I managed all
right, thank you.”