WILLIAM--THE GREAT ACTOR
It was announced in the village that the Literary Society was going to
give a play on Christmas Eve. It was a tradition that a play should be
given in the village every Christmas Eve. It did not much matter who
gave it or what it was about or what it was in aid of, but the village
had begun to expect a play of some sort on Christmas Eve. William’s
sister Ethel and her friends had at first decided to do scenes from
“As You Like It,” but this had fallen through partly because Ethel had
succumbed to influenza as soon as the cast was arranged, and partly
because of other complications too involved to enter into.
So the Literary Society had stepped into the breach, and had announced
that it was going to act a play in aid of its Cinematograph Fund.
The Literary Society was trying to collect enough money to buy a
cinematograph. Cinematographs, the President said, were so educational.
But that was not the only reason. Membership of the Literary Society
had lately begun to fall alarmingly, chiefly because, as everyone
freely admitted, the meetings were so dull. They had heard Miss
Greene-Joanes read her paper on “The Influence of Browning” five
times, and they had had the Debate on “That the Romantic School has
contributed more to Literature than the Classical School” three times,
and they’d had a Sale of Work and a Treasure Hunt and a picnic and
there didn’t seem to be anything else to do in the literary line. Mrs.
Bruce Monkton-Bruce, the Secretary, said that it wasn’t her fault.
She’d written to ask Bernard Shaw, Arnold Bennett, E. Einstein, M. Coué
and H. G. Wells to come down to address them and it wasn’t her fault
that they hadn’t answered. She’d enclosed a stamped addressed envelope
in each case. More than once they’d tried reading Shakespeare aloud,
but it only seemed to send the members to sleep and then they woke up
cross.
But the suggestion of the cinematograph had put fresh life into the
Society. There had been nearly six new members (the sixth hadn’t quite
made up her mind) since the idea was first mooted. The more earnest
ones had dreams of watching improving films, such as those depicting
Sunrise on the Alps or the Life of a Kidney Bean from the cradle to the
grave, while the less earnest ones considered that such films as the
“Three Musketeers” and “Monsieur Beaucaire” were quite sufficiently
improving. So far they had had a little “Bring and Buy Sale” in aid of
it, and had raised five and elevenpence three farthings, but as Mrs.
Bruce Monkton-Bruce had said that was not nearly enough because they
wanted a really good one.
The play was the suggestion of one of the new members, a Miss Gwladwyn.
“That ought,” she said optimistically, “to bring us in another pound or
two.”
The tradition of the Christmas Eve plays in the village included a
silver collection at the door, but did not include tickets. It was
rightly felt that if the village had to pay for its tickets, it would
not come at all. The silver collection at the door, too, was not as
lucrative as one would think because the village had no compunction
at all about walking past the plate as if it did not see it even if
it was held out right under its nose. It was felt generally that “a
pound or two” was a rather too hopeful estimate. But still a pound,
as Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce so unanswerably pointed out, was a pound,
and anyway it would be good for the Literary Society to get up a
play. It would, she said, with her incurable optimism, “draw them
together.” As a matter of fact, experience had frequently proved the
acting of a play to have precisely the opposite effect.... They held
a meeting to discuss the nature of the play. There was an uneasy
feeling that they ought to do one of Shakespeare’s or Sheridan’s, or,
as Miss Formester put it, vaguely, “something of Shelley’s or Keats’,”
but the more modest ones thought that though literary, they were not
quite as literary as that, and the less modest ones, as represented
by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, said quite boldly and openly that though
those authors had doubtless suited their own generations, things had
progressed since then. She added that she’d once tried to read “She
Stoops to Conquer,” and hadn’t been able to see what people saw in it.
“Of course,” admitted Miss Georgine Hemmersley, “the men characters
will be the difficulty.” (The membership of the Literary Society was
entirely feminine). “I have often thought that perhaps it would be
a good thing to try to interest the men of the neighbourhood in our
little society.”
“I don’t know,” said Miss Featherstone doubtfully, thinking of those
pleasant little meetings of the Literary Society, which were devoted
to strong tea, iced cakes, and interchanges of local scandal. “I don’t
know. Look at it how you will as soon as you begin to have men in
a thing, it complicates it at once. I’ve often noticed it. There’s
something _restless_ about men. And they aren’t literary. It’s no good
pretending they are.”
The Society sighed and agreed.
“Of course it has its disadvantages at a time like this,” went on Miss
Featherstone, “not having any men, I mean, because, of course, it means
that we can’t act any modern plays. It means we have to fall back on
plays of historical times. I mean wigs and things.”
“I know,” said Miss Gwladwyn demurely, “a perfectly sweet little
historical play.”
“What period is it, dear?” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.
“It’s the costume period,” said Miss Gwladwyn simply. “You know. Wigs
and ruffles and swords. Tudor. Or is it Elizabethan? It’s about the
Civil War, anyway, and it’s really awfully sweet.”
“What’s the plot of it?” said the Literary Society with interest.
“Well,” said Miss Gwladwyn, “the heroine” (a certain modest bashfulness
in Miss Gwladwyn’s mien at this moment showed clearly that she expected
to be the heroine), “the heroine is engaged to a Roundhead, but she
isn’t really in love with him. At least she thinks she is, but she
isn’t. And a wounded Cavalier comes to her house to take refuge in a
terrible storm, and she takes him in meaning to hand him over to her
_fiancé_, you know. Her father’s a Roundhead, of course, you see. And
then she falls in love with him, with the Cavalier, I mean, and hides
him, and then the _fiancé_ finds him and she tells him that she doesn’t
love him, but she loves the other. That’s an awfully sweet scene.
There’s a snow-storm. I’ve forgotten exactly how the snow-storm comes
in, but I know that there is one, and it’s awfully effective. You do it
with tiny bits of paper dropped from above. It makes an awfully sweet
scene. There are heaps of characters too,” she went on eagerly, “we
could _all_ have quite good parts. There’s a comic aunt and a comic
uncle and awfully sweet parts for my--I mean her parents and quite a
lot of servants with really _good_ parts. There’d be parts and to spare
for _everyone_. Some of us could even take two. It’s an awfully sweet
thing altogether.”
Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce looked doubtful.
“Is it _literary_ enough, do you think,” she said uncertainly.
“Oh _yes_,” said Miss Gwladwyn, earnestly. “It _must_ be. If it’s
historical it _must_ be literary, mustn’t it? I mean, it _follows_,
doesn’t it?”
Apparently the majority of the Literary Society thought it did.
“Anyway,” said Miss Gwladwyn brightly, “I’ll get the book and we’ll
have a reading and then vote on it. All I can say is that I’ve _seen_
it and I’ve seen a good many of Shakespeare’s plays too, and I consider
this a much sweeter thing than any of Shakespeare’s, and if that
doesn’t prove that it’s Literary I don’t know what does.”
Again the Society seemed to find the logic unassailable and the meeting
broke up (after tea and iced cake, a verbatim account of what Mrs.
Jones said to Mrs. Robinson when they’d quarrelled last week, and a
detailed description of the doctor’s wife’s new hat), arranging to meet
the next week and read Miss Gwladwyn’s play.
“I _know_ that you’ll like it,” was Miss Gwladwyn’s final assurance as
she took her leave. “It’s such an awfully sweet little thing.”
* * * * *
The meeting took place early the next week. Miss Gwladwyn opened it by
artlessly suggesting that as she’d seen the play before she should read
the heroine’s part. It was generally felt that as she had introduced
the play to them, this was only her due.
The first scene was read fairly briskly. It abounded, however, in such
stage directions as “When door opens howling of wind is heard outside.”
“Crash of thunder without,” and such remarks as: “Hark how the storm
does rage to-night,” and: “Hear the beating of the rain upon the
window-panes.” “Listen! Do you not hear the sound of horses’ hoofs?”
At the end of the scene Miss Georgine Hemmersley (who was a notorious
pessimist) remarked:
“It will be very difficult to get those noises made.”
“Those who aren’t on the stage must make them,” said Miss Gwladwyn.
“But we’re all on the stage in this scene,” objected Miss Georgine
Hemmersley.
“Then we must have a special person to make them,” said Miss Gwladwyn.
Miss Georgine Hemmersley threw her eye over the stage directions.
“They’ll be very difficult to make,” she said, “especially the wind.
How does one make the sound of wind?”
“A sort of whistle, I suppose,” said Miss Gwladwyn doubtfully.
“Y-yes,” said Miss Georgine Hemmersley, “but _how_? I mean, _I_
couldn’t do it, for instance.”
At that moment William passed down the street outside.
William was whistling--not his usual piercing blast of a whistle,
but a slow, mournful, meditative whistle. As a matter of fact he was
not aware that he was whistling at all. His mind was occupied with a
deep and apparently insoluble problem--the problem of how to obtain
a new football with no money or credit at his disposal. Only such an
optimist as William would have tackled the problem at all. But William
walking down the street, hands in pockets, scowling gaze fixed on the
ground mechanically and unconsciously emitting a tuneless monotonous
undertone of a whistle, was convinced that there must be a solution of
the problem if only he could think of it.... If only he could think
of it.... He passed by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s open window and his
whistle fell upon a sudden silence within.
“What’s that?” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.
Miss Georgine Hemmersley went to the window.
“It’s just a boy,” she said.
Miss Gwladwyn followed her.
“It’s that rough-looking boy one sees about so much,” she said.
Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce joined them at the window.
“It’s William Brown,” she said.
They stood at the open window while William, wholly unconscious of
their regard, still grappling mentally with his insoluble problem,
passed on his way. His faint tuneless strain floated back to them.
“It--it _does_ sound like the wind,” said Miss Gwladwyn.
On an impulse Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce put her head out of the window.
“William Brown!” she called sharply. “Come here.”
William turned and scowled at her aggressively.
“I’ve not done nothin’,” he said. “It wasn’t _me_ you saw chasin’ your
cat yesterday.”
“Come in here, William,” she said. “We want to ask you something.”
William stood hesitating, not sure whether to obey or whether to show
his contempt of her by continuing his thoughtful progress down the
street.
They probably only wanted him in to make a fuss about something he’d
not done. Well, not _meant_ to do anyway; well, not worth making a fuss
about anyway. On the other hand it might be something else and if he
went on he’d never know what they’d wanted him for. His curiosity won
the day.
Taking a piece of chewing-gum, which he had absently been carrying in
his mouth, from his mouth to his pocket, he proceeded to hoist himself
up to the window sill whence he had been summoned.
“_Not_ that way, William!” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce sternly. “Come
in by the front door, please, in the usual way.”
[Illustration: “WILLIAM BROWN,” MRS. MONKTON-BRUCE CALLED SHARPLY.
“COME HERE!”]
[Illustration: WILLIAM SCOWLED AGGRESSIVELY. “I’VE NOT DONE NOTHIN’,”
HE SAID.]
William lowered himself to the street again, put the chewing-gum back
into his mouth, stood for a minute obviously wondering whether it was
worth while to go in by the front door in the usual way, decided
apparently that though it probably wasn’t, still there was just a
chance that it might be, then, very, very slowly (as if to prove his
complete independence, despite his show of obedience), went round to
the front door.
“You may open the door and come in,” called Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce
from the window, “and don’t forget to wipe your feet.”
William opened the door and came in. He wiped his feet with a
commendable and very lengthy thoroughness (whose object was to keep
them waiting for him as long as possible), transferred his chewing-gum
from his mouth to his pocket again, carefully arranged his cap between
the horns of the stuffed head of an antelope which was hanging on the
wall, thought better of it and transferred it to the stuffed head of
a fox, which was hanging on the opposite wall, gazed critically for a
long time at a stuffed owl in a cage, absently broke off a piece of
a fern that grew in a plant pot next to the hat-stand, and finally
entered the drawing-room. He stood in the doorway facing them, still
scowling aggressively and scattering bits of fern upon the carpet. His
mind went quickly over the more recent events of his career in order to
account for the summons. He was already regretting having obeyed it. He
decided to take the offensive. Fixing a stern and scowling gaze upon
Miss Greene-Joanes, he said:
“When you saw me in your garden yesterday I was jus’ gettin’ a ball of
mine that’d gone over the wall into your garden. I was simply tryin’ to
save you trouble by goin’ an’ gettin’ it myself, ’stead of troublin’
you goin’ to the front door. An’ that apple was one what I found lyin’
under your tree an’ I thought I’d pick it up for you jus’ to help you
tidy up the place ’cause it looks so untidy with apples lyin’ about
under the trees all over the place.”
“William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, “we did not ask you to come
in in order to discuss your visit to Miss Greene-Joanes’ garden----”
William turned his steely eye upon her and pursued his policy of taking
the offensive.
“Those stones you saw me throwin’ at your tree,” he said, “was jus’ to
kill grubs ’n’ things what might be doin’ it harm. I thought I’d help
you keep your garden nice by throwin’ stones at your tree to kill the
grubs ’n’ things on it for you ’cause they were eatin’ away the bark or
somethin’.”
“We didn’t bring you in to talk about that either, William,” said Mrs.
Bruce Monkton-Bruce. Then, clearing her throat, she said: “You were
whistling as you went down the road, were you not?”
William’s stern and freckled countenance expressed horror and amazement.
“_Well!_” he said. “_Well!_ I bet I was hardly makin’ any noise at all.
’Sides”--aggressively--“there’s nothin’ to stop folks jus’ _whistlin’_,
is there? In the _street_. If they _want_ to. I wasn’t doin’ you any
_harm_, was I? Jus’ _whistlin’_ in the _street_. If you’ve gotta
headache or anythin’ an’ don’ want me to I won’t not till I get into
the nex’ street where you won’t hear me. Not now I know. You needn’t’ve
brought me _in_ jus’ to say that. If you’d jus’ shouted it out of the
window I’d’ve heard all right. But I don’t see you can blame me jus’
for----”
Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce held out a hand feebly to stem the tide of his
eloquence.
“It’s not that, William,” she said faintly. “Do stop talking for two
minutes, and let me speak. We--we were _interested_ in your whistle.
Would you--would you kindly repeat it in here--just to let us hear
again what it sounds like?”
William was proud of his whistle and flattered to be thus asked to
perform in public. He paused a minute to gather his forces together,
drew in his breath, then emitted a sound that would have done credit
to a factory syren.
Miss Georgine Hemmersley screamed. Miss Gwladwyn, who was poised
girlishly on the arm of her chair, lost her balance and fell on to the
floor. Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce clapped her hands to her ears with a
moan of agony and Miss Greene-Joanes lay back in her chair in a dead
faint, from which, however, as no one took any notice of her, she
quickly recovered. William, immensely flattered by this reception of
his performance, murmured modestly:
“I can do a better one still this way,” and proceeded to put a finger
into each corner of his mouth and to draw in his breath for another
blast.
With great presence of mind, Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce managed to put
her hand across his face just in time.
“No, William,” she said brokenly, “not like that--not like that----”
“I warn you,” said Miss Greene-Joanes, in a shrill, trembling voice,
“I shall have hysterics if he does it again. I’ve already fainted,”
she went on, in a reproachful voice, “but nobody noticed me. I won’t
be answerable for what happens to me if that boy stays in the room a
minute longer.”
“Send him away,” moaned Miss Featherstone, “and let’s _imagine_ the
wind.”
“Let’s leave it to chance,” pleaded Miss Greene-Joanes. “I can’t bear
it again. There--there may be a _natural_ wind that night. It’s quite
possible.”
“William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce weakly, “it was a gentle
whistle we wanted to hear. A whistle like--like--like the wind in the
distance. A _long_ way in the distance, William.”
William emitted a gentle, drawn-out, mournful whistle. It represented
perfectly the distant moaning of the wind. His stricken audience
recovered and gave a gasp of amazement and delight.
“That was _very_ nice,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.
William, cheered and flattered by her praise, said: “I’ll do it a bit
nearer than that now,” and again gathered his forces for the effort.
“No, William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce again stopping him just in
time. “That’s as near as we want. That’s _just_ what we want.... Now,
William, we are going to get up a little play, and during the play the
wind is supposed to be heard right in the distance--a long, _long_ way
in the distance, William. The wind is supposed to be a _very_ distant
one indeed, William. Perhaps for a very great treat we’ll let you make
that wind, William.”
William’s mind worked quickly. The apparently insoluble problem was
still with him. He saw a means, not to solve it indeed, but to make it
a little less insoluble. Assuming his most sphinx-like expression he
said unblushingly, unblinkingly:
“Well, of course--that’ll take up a good deal of my time. I dunno
_quite_ as I can spare all that time.”
They were amazed at his effrontery and at the same time his astounding
and unexpected reluctance to accept the post of wind-maker increased
the desirability of his whistle in their eyes.
“Of course, William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce in cold reproach,
“if you don’t want to help in a good cause like this----” Wisely she
kept the exact nature of the good cause vague.
“Oh, I don’ mind _helpin’_,” said William; “all I meant was that it’d
probably be takin’ up a good deal of my time when I might be doin’
useful things for other people. F’rinstance, I often pump up my uncle’s
motor tyres for him.” William’s face became so expressionless as to
border on the imbecile as he added: “He always gives me sixpence for
doing that.”
There was a short silence and then Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce said with
great dignity:
“We will, of course, be pleased to give you sixpence for being the wind
and any other little noises that may come into the play, William.”
“Thank you,” said William, concealing his delight beneath a tone of
calm indifference. Sixpence ... it was something to start from. William
was such an optimist that with the first sixpence the whole fund seemed
suddenly to be assured to him.... He could do something else for
someone else and get another sixpence and that would be a shilling,
and, well, if he kept on doing things for people for sixpence he’d soon
have enough money to buy the football. Optimistically he ignored the
fact that most people expected him to do things for them for nothing....
It was arranged that William should attend the next reading of the play
in order to be the wind and whatever other noises might be necessary,
and then William, transferring his chewing-gum from his pocket to his
mouth and scattering bits of fern absently to mark his path as he went,
disappeared into the hall, took his cap from the fox’s head, pulled
a face at the stuffed owl, then, seeming annoyed by its equanimity,
pulled another, absently plucked off another spray of Mrs. Bruce
Monkton-Bruce’s cherished fern, and made his devastating way into the
street. His piercing and unharmonious whistle shattered the quiet of
countless peaceful homes as he strode onwards, cheered and invigorated
by his visit, looking forward with equal joy to his rôle as wind-maker
and his possession of the sixpence that was to be the nucleus of his
football fund.
The members of the Literary Society heaved sighs of relief as the
sounds of his departure faded into the distance.
“Don’t you think,” said Miss Greene-Joanes pathetically, “that we could
find a _quieter_ type of boy.”
“But it _was_,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, “it _was_ a _very_ good
imitation of the wind. I mean, of course, when he did it softly.”
“But wouldn’t a quieter type of boy do?” persisted Miss Greene-Joanes.
“For instance, there’s that dear little Cuthbert Montgomery.”
“But he can’t whistle,” objected Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce. “I’m afraid
that you’d always find that the quiet type of boy couldn’t do such a
good whistle.”
So reluctantly the Literary Society decided to appoint William as the
wind.
* * * * *
William put in an early appearance at the next rehearsal. It was in
fact a little too early for Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, at whose house it
was held. He arrived half an hour before the time at which it was to
begin and spent the half-hour sitting in her drawing-room cracking nuts
and practising his whistle. Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce said that it gave
her a headache that lasted for a week.
“William,” she said sternly when she entered the drawing-room, “if you
don’t learn to do a _quiet_ whistle we won’t have you at all.”
“_Wasn’t_ that quiet?” said William, surprised. “It seemed to me to be
such a quiet sort of whistle that I’m surprised you heard it at all.”
“Well, I _did_,” she snapped, “and it’s given me a headache, and don’t
do it any more.”
“Sorry,” said William succinctly, transferring his whole attention to
his nuts.
Her tone had conveyed to him that his position as wind-maker was
rather precarious, so when the other members of the cast arrived he
made his wind whistle so low that they had to request him to do it
a _leetle_--just a _very leetle_--louder. Even then it sounded very
faint and far away. William had decided not to risk either his sixpence
or his place in the cast by whistling too loudly at rehearsals. The
actual performance of course would be quite a different matter. His
gentle whistle endeared him to them. They unbent to him. He was turning
out, Miss Featherstone confided to Miss Gwladwyn in a whisper, a nicer
type of boy than she had feared he would at first. He had helpful
suggestions too about the other noises. He knew how to make the sound
of horses’ hooves. You did it with a coco-nut. And he knew how to make
thunder. You did it with a tin tray. And he could make revolver shots
by letting off caps or squibs or something. Anyway, he could do it
somehow.... They thought that perhaps he’d better not try those things
till nearer the time. He’d better confine himself to the wind--so he
confined himself to the wind, a gentle, anæmic sort of wind which he
despised in his heart, but which he felt was winning him the confidence
of his new friends. They unbent to him more and more. He was rather
annoyed that he was not to have the snow-storm. Miss Gwladwyn said that
her nephew would manage the snow-storm. She said that her nephew was a
dear little boy with beautiful manners, who she admitted regretfully
could not whistle, and might not be able to manage the other noises,
but would, she was sure, manage the snow-storm perfectly.
William went home fortified by their praise of his distant whistle
and two buns given him by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce. On the way he met
Douglas and Henry and Ginger.
“Hello,” they said, “where’ve you been?”
“I’ve been to a rehearsal,” said William with his own inimitable
swagger. “I’m actin’ in a play.”
They were as impressed as even William could wish them to be.
“What play?” demanded Ginger.
“One the Lit’ry Society’s gettin’ up,” said William airily.
“What’s it called?” said Douglas.
William did not know what it was called, so he said with an air of
careless importance:
“That’s a secret. I’ve not got to tell anyone that.”
“Well, what are you actin’ in it?” said Henry.
William’s swagger increased.
“I’m the most important person in it,” he said. “They jolly well
couldn’t do it at all without me.”
“You the _hero_?” said Ginger incredulously.
“Um,” admitted William. “That’s what I am.”
After all, he thought, surely in a play where you were continually
hearing and talking about the wind, the wind might be referred to as
the hero. Anyway, he soothed his conscience by telling it that as he
was the only man in the piece, he _must_ be the hero.
“They’re all women,” he continued carelessly, “so of course they had to
get a man in from somewhere to be the hero.”
The Outlaws were not quite convinced, and yet there was _something_
about William’s swagger....
“Well,” said Ginger, “I s’pose if you’re the hero you’ll be havin’
rehearsals with ’em?”
“Yes,” said William. “Course _I_ will!”
“All right,” challenged Ginger. “Tell us where you’re havin’ the nex’
one an’ we’ll _see_.”
“At Mrs. Bruce’s nex’ Tuesday afternoon at three,” said William
promptly.
“All _right_,” said the Outlaws, “an’ we’ll jolly well _see_.”
So next Tuesday at three o’clock they jolly well _saw_. Hidden in the
bushes in Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s (let us call her by her full name.
She hated to hear it as she said “murdered”) garden they saw the cast
of “A Trial of Love” arrive one by one at the front door. And with them
arrived William--the only male character--swaggering self-consciously
but quite obviously as an invited guest up Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s
front drive. He was fully aware of the presence of his friends in the
bushes, though he appeared not to notice them. His swagger as he walked
in at the front door is indescribable.
The Outlaws crept away silent and deeply impressed. It was true.
William must be the hero of the play. They were torn between envy of
their leader and pride in him. Though all of them would have liked to
be the hero of a play, still they could shine in William’s reflected
glory. Their walk as they went away from Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s
front gate reflected something of William’s swagger. William was a hero
in a play. Well, people’d have to treat them _all_ a bit diff’rent
after that.
The rehearsal was on the whole a great success. William, afraid that
his friends might be listening at the window and not wishing them to
guess the comparative insignificance of his rôle, reduced his whistle
to a mere breath. Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce said encouragingly: “Just a
_leetle_ louder, William,” but Miss Greene-Joanes said hastily: “Well,
perhaps it would be as well to keep it like that for rehearsals, dear,
and to bring it out just a _leetle_ bit louder on the night.”
So William, still afraid that the Outlaws were crouched intently
outside the window, kept it like that.
It was decided at the end that William need not attend all the
rehearsals. The cast found his stare demoralising, and his habit of
transferring his piece of chewing-gum (he’d had it for three weeks
now) from his mouth to his pocket and from his pocket to his mouth
disconcerting. Also he would at intervals take a nut from another
pocket and crack it with much noise and facial contortion. He always
made a very ostentatious show of collecting all the shells and putting
them into yet another pocket, but Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s horrified
gaze watched a little heap of broken nutshells steadily growing upon
her precious carpet by William’s feet. William himself fondly imagined
that he was behaving in an exemplary way. He had even offered each
of them one of his nuts and had been secretly much relieved at their
refusal. They could not, he thought, expect him to offer them a chew of
his chewing-gum.... But he was supremely bored and was not sorry when
informed that it would be best for them to rehearse the play without
wind and thunder till they were a little more accustomed to it.
He was not summoned to another rehearsal for a fortnight. The play was,
as Miss Georgine Hemmersley said, “taking shape beautifully.” Miss
Georgine Hemmersley as a Cavalier looked quite dashing, despite her
forty-odd years, and Miss Featherstone as the Roundhead looked also
very fine, though she too had passed her first youth. It was, however,
as she said, only fair that those who had been in the society longest
should have the best parts.... Miss Gwladwyn, they all agreed, made a
sweetly pretty heroine.
William arrived with all his paraphernalia of coco-nuts and squibs and
tin tray, and, he considered, put up the best show of all of them.
True, the rest of the cast seemed a little irritable. They kept saying:
“_Quietly_, William.” “William, not so _loud_.” “William, we can’t
hear ourselves speak.” “William, stop making that _deafening_ noise.
Well, there isn’t any wind now.” At the end Miss Greene-Joanes, who had
seemed strangely excited all the time, burst out:
“Now, I’ve got some news for you all.... William, you needn’t stay.”
William began to make elaborate and protracted preparations for his
departure, but, intensely curious, lingered within earshot. “I didn’t
tell you before we began, because I knew it would make you too excited
to act. It did me. You’ll never _guess_ who’s staying in the village.”
“_Who?_” chorused the cast breathlessly.
“Sir Giles Hampton.”
The cast uttered screams of excitement. The Cavalier said, “What for?”
and the Roundhead said, “Who told you?” and the comic aunt and uncle
said simultaneously, “Good _heavens_!”
“He’s had a nervous breakdown,” said Miss Greene-Joanes, “and he’s
staying at the inn here because of the air, and he’s supposed to be
incognito, but of _course_ people recognise him. As a matter of fact,
he’s telling people who he is because he’s not _really_ keen on being
incognito. Actors never are really. They feel frightfully mad if people
don’t recognise them.”
“What’s he like to look at?” said the comic aunt breathlessly.
“Tall and important-looking and rather handsome with very bushy
eyebrows.”
“Do you think he’ll _come_?” said all the cast simultaneously.
“I don’t know but---- William, _will_ you go home and stop dropping
nutshells on the carpet.”
There was a silence while all the cast waited impatiently for William
to take his leave. With great dignity William took it. He was annoyed
at his unceremonious ejection. Thinking such a lot of themselves and
their old play, and where would they be, he’d like to know, without the
wind and the thunder and the horses’ hooves and all the rest of it?...
Treating the most important person in the play the way they treated
him....
He walked down the road scowling morosely, absent-mindedly cracking
nuts and scattering nutshells about him as he went.... At the end of
the road he collided with a tall man with bushy eyebrows.
“You should look where you’re going, my little man,” said the stranger.
“Come to that, so should you,” remarked William, who was still feeling
embittered.
The tall man blinked.
“Do you know who I am?” he said majestically.
“No,” said William simply, “an’ I bet you don’t know who I am either.”
“I’m a very great actor,” said the man.
“So’m I,” said William promptly.
“So great,” went on the man, “that when they want me to play a part
they give me any money I choose to ask for it.”
“I’m that sort, too,” said William, thrusting his hands deep into his
trouser pockets. “I asked for sixpence an’ they gave it me straight
off. It’s goin’ to a new football.”
“And do you know why I’m here, my little man?” said the stranger.
“No,” said William without much interest and added: “I’m here because I
live here.”
“I’m here,” said the man, “because of my nerves. Acting has exhausted
my vitality and impaired my nervous system. I’m an artist, and like
most other artists am highly strung. Do you know that sometimes before
I go on to the stage I tremble from head to foot.”
“I don’t,” said William coolly. “I never feel like that when I’m
actin’.”
“Ah!” smiled the man, “but I’m always the most important person in the
plays I act in.”
“So’m I,” retorted William. “I’m like that. I’m the most important
person in the play I’m in now.”
“Would you like to see the programme of the play I’ve just been acting
in in London?” continued the actor, taking a piece of paper out of his
pocket.
William looked at it with interest. It contained a list of names in
ordinary-sized print; then an “and” and then “Giles Hampton” in large
letters.
“Yes,” said William calmly, “that’s the way my name’s goin’ to be
printed in our play.”
“What play is it?” said the man yielding at last to William’s
irresistible egotism.
“It’s called ‘The Trial of Love,’” said William. “It’s for my football
an’ their cinematograph.”
“Ha-ha!” said the man. “And may--may--ah--distinguished strangers come
to it?”
“Yes,” said William casually, “_anyone_ can come to it. You’ve gotter
pay at least. Everyone’s gotter pay.”
“Well, I must certainly come,” said the distinguished stranger. “I must
certainly come and see you play the hero.”
* * * * *
The dress rehearsal was not an unqualified success, but as Miss
Featherstone said that was always a sign that the real performance
would go off well. In all the most successful plays, she said,
the dress rehearsal went off badly. William quite dispassionately
considered them the worst-tempered set of people he’d ever come across
in his life. They snapped at him if he so much as spoke. They said that
his wind was far too loud, though it was in his opinion so faint and
distant a breeze that it was hardly worth doing at all. They objected
also to his thunder and his horses’ hooves. They said quite untruly
that they were deafening. A deep disgust with the whole proceedings
was growing stronger and stronger in William’s breast. He felt that
it would serve them right if he washed his hands of the whole thing
and refused to make any of their noises for them. The only reason why
he did not do this was that he was afraid that if he did they’d find
someone else to do it in his place. Moreover he was feeling worried
about another matter. He was aware that he did not take in the play
such an important part as he had given his friends to understand. He
had given them to understand that he took the principal part and was on
the stage all the time, whereas, though he quite honestly considered
that he took the principal part, he wasn’t on the stage at all. Then
there was that man with bushy eyebrows he’d met in the village. He’d
probably come, and William had quite given him to understand that he
had his name on the programme in big letters and took a principal
part....
“_Thunder_, William,” said Miss Gwladwyn irritably, interrupting his
meditations. “Why don’t you keep awake and follow where we are!”
William emitted a piercing whistle.
“Not _wind_,” she snapped. “_Thunder._”
William beat on his tin tray.
Miss Greene-Joanes groaned.
“That noise,” she said, “goes through and _through_ my head. I can’t
bear it!”
“Well, thunder is loud,” said William coldly. “It’s nachrally loud. I
can’t help thunder bein’ nachrally loud.”
“Thunder more gently, William,” commanded Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.
Just to annoy them William made an almost inaudible rumble of thunder,
but to his own great annoyance it didn’t annoy them at all. “That’s
better, William,” they said; and gloomily William returned to his
meditation. He’d seen the programme and had hardly been able to believe
his eyes when he saw that his name wasn’t on it at all. They hadn’t
even got his name down as the wind or the thunder or the horses’ hooves
or anything.... If it hadn’t been for that sixpence he’d certainly have
chucked up the whole thing....
They’d got to the snow-storm scene now. The curtains were half drawn
across and in the narrow aperture appeared Miss Gwladwyn, the heroine.
It was a very complicated plot, but at this stage of it she’d been
turned out of her home by her cruel Roundhead father and was wandering
in search of her lost Cavalier lover.
She said: “How cold it is! Heaven, wilt thou show me any pity?” and
turned her face up to the sky, and tiny snow-flakes began to fall
upon her face. The tiny snow-flakes were tiny bits of paper dropped
down through a tiny opening in the ceiling by her well-mannered little
nephew. He did it very nicely. William did not pay much attention to
it. He was beginning to consider the whole thing beneath his contempt.
* * * * *
It was the evening of the performance. The performers were making
frenzied preparations behind the scenes. Mr. Fleuster was to draw the
curtain, Miss Featherstone’s sister was to prompt, and William was to
hand out programmes. Mr. Fleuster has not come into this story before,
but he had been trying to propose to Miss Gwladwyn for the last five
years and had not yet been able to manage it. Both Miss Gwladwyn
and Miss Gwladwyn’s friends had given him ample opportunities, but
opportunities only seemed to make him yet more bashful. When he had
not an opportunity he longed to propose, and when an opportunity of
proposing came he lost his head and didn’t do it. Miss Gwladwyn had
done everything a really nice woman can do; that is to say, she had
done everything short of actually proposing herself. Her friends had
arranged for him to draw the curtain in the hopes that it would bring
matters to a head. Not that they really expected that it would. It
would, of course, be a good opportunity, and as such would fill him
with terror and dismay.
Mr. Fleuster, large and perspiring, stood by the curtain, pretending
not to see that Miss Gwladwyn was standing quite near him and that no
one else was within earshot, and that it was an excellent opportunity.
William stood sphinx-like at the door distributing programmes. His
cogitations had not been entirely profitless. He had devised means by
which he hoped to vindicate his position as hero. For one thing he had
laboriously printed out four special programmes which he held concealed
beneath the ordinary programmes, and which were to be distributed to
Ginger, Douglas, Henry, and the actor, if the actor should come. He had
copied down the dramatis personæ from the ordinary programme, but at
the end he had put an “and” and then in gigantic letters:
Wind Shots }
Rain And All }
Thunder Other Noises } William Brown.
Horses’ Hooves }
Seeing Ginger coming he hastily got one of his home-made programmes out
and assuming his blankest expression handed it to him.
“Good ole William,” murmured Ginger as he took it.
Then Henry came, and Henry also was given one.
“Why aren’t you changin’ into your things?” said Henry.
“I don’t _ackshully_ come on to the stage,” admitted William. “I’m the
most important person in the play as you’ll soon jolly well see, but I
don’t _ackshully_ come on to the stage.”
He was glad to have got that confession off his chest.
Then Douglas came. He handed the third of his privately printed
programmes to Douglas with an air of impersonal officialism, as if he
were too deeply occupied in his duties to be able to recognise his
friends.
There was only one left. That was for the actor. If the actor came.
William peered anxiously down the road. The room was full. It was time
to begin.
“William Brown!” an exasperated voice hissed down the room. William
swelled with importance. Everyone would know now that they couldn’t
begin without him. He continued to gaze anxiously down the road. There
he was at last.
“William _Brown_!”
The actor was almost at the door. He carried a parcel under his arm.
“William Brown,” said someone in the back row obligingly, “they want
you.”
“_William--Brown!_” hissed Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s face, appearing
frenzied and bodiless like the Cheshire cat between the curtains.
The actor entered the hall. William thrust his one remaining programme
into his hand.
“Thought you were the hero,” said the actor, gazing at him sardonically.
William met his sardonic gaze unblinkingly.
“So I am,” he said promptly, “but the hero doesn’t _always_ come on
to the stage. Not in the _newest_ sort of plays, anyway.” He pointed
to the large-lettered part of the programme. “That’s me,” he said
modestly. “All of it’s me.”
With this he hastened back behind the curtain, leaving the actor
reading his programme at the end of the room.
He was received with acrimony by a nerve-racked cast.
“Keeping us all waiting all this time.”
“Didn’t you _hear_ us calling?”
“It’s nearly twenty-five to.”
“It’s all right,” said William in a superior manner that maddened them
still further. “You can begin now.”
Miss Featherstone’s sister took her prompt-book, Mr. Fleuster seized
the curtain-strings, the cast entered the stage, William took his seat
behind, and the play began.
Now William’s plans for making himself the central figure of the play
did not stop with the programmes. He considered that the noises he had
been allowed to make at the rehearsals had been pitifully inadequate,
and he intended to-night to produce a storm more worthy of his powers.
Who ever heard of the wind howling in a storm the way they’d made him
howl all these weeks? He knew what the wind howling in a storm sounded
like and he’d jolly well make it sound like that. There was his cue.
Someone was saying:
“Hark how the storm rages. Canst hear the wind?”
At the ensuing sound the prompter dropped her book and the heroine
lost her balance and brought down the property mantelpiece on to the
top of her. William had put a finger into each corner of his mouth in
order to aid nature in the rendering of the storm. The sound was even
more piercing than he had expected it to be. _That_, thought William,
complacently noticing the havoc it played with both audience and cast,
was something like a wind. That would show ’em whether he was the hero
of the play or not. With admirable presence of mind the cast pulled
itself together and continued. William’s next cue was the thunder.
“List,” said the heroine, “how the thunder rages in the valley.”
The thunder raged and continued to rage. For some minutes the cast
remained silent and motionless--except for facial contortions
expressive of horror and despair--waiting for the thunder to abate,
but as it showed no signs of stopping they tried to proceed. It was,
however, raging so violently that no one could hear a word, so they had
to stop again.
At last even its maker tired of it and it died away. The play
proceeded. Behind the scenes William smiled again to himself. _That_
had been a jolly good bit of thunder. He’d really enjoyed that. And
it would jolly well let them all know he was there even if he wasn’t
dressed up and on the stage like the others. His next cue was the
horses’ hooves, and William was feeling a little nervous about that.
The sound of horses’ hooves is made with a coco-nut, and though William
had managed to take his coco-nut (purchased for him by Mrs. Bruce
Monkton-Bruce) about with him all the time the play was in rehearsal,
he had as recently as last night succumbed to temptation and eaten it.
He didn’t quite know what to do about the horses’ hooves. He hadn’t
dared to tell anyone about it. But still he thought he’d be able to
manage it. Here it was coming now.
“Listen,” Miss Gwladwyn was saying. “I hear the sound of horses’
hooves.”
Then in the silence came the sound of a tin tray being hit slowly,
loudly, regularly. The audience gave a yell of laughter. William felt
annoyed. He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. It wasn’t anything to
laugh at, anyway. He showed his annoyance by another deafening and
protracted thunderstorm.
When this had died away the play proceeded. William’s part in that
scene was officially over. But William did not wish to withdraw from
the public eye. It occurred to him that in all probability the wind and
the thunder still continued. Yes, somebody mentioned again that it was
a wild night to be out in. Come to that, the war must be going on all
the time. There were probably battles going on all over the place. He’d
better throw a few squibs about and make a bit more wind and thunder.
He set to work with commendable thoroughness.
At last the end of the scene came. Mr. Fleuster drew the curtains and
chaos reigned. Most of the cast attacked William, but some of them
were attacking each other, and quite a lot of them were attacking the
prompter. They had on several occasions forgotten their words and
not once had the prompter come to their rescue. On one occasion they
had wandered on to Act II. and stayed there a considerable time. The
prompter’s plea that she’d lost her place right at the very beginning
and hadn’t been able to find it again was not accepted as an excuse.
Then Miss Hemmersley was annoyed with Miss Featherstone for giving her
the wrong cues all the way through, and Miss Gwladwyn was annoyed
with Miss Greene-Joanes for cutting into her monologue, and Miss
Greene-Joanes was annoyed with Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce for standing
just where she prevented the audience having a good view of her
(Miss Greene-Joanes), and when they couldn’t find anyone else to be
annoyed with they turned on William. Fortunately for William, however,
there was little time for recrimination, as already the audience was
clamouring for the second scene. This was the snow-storm scene. Miss
Gwladwyn had installed her beautifully-mannered nephew in the loft
early in the evening with a box of chocolate creams to keep him quiet.
Miss Gwladwyn went on to the stage. The other actors retired to the
improvised green-room, there to continue their acrimonious disputes and
mutual reproaches. The curtain was slightly drawn. Miss Gwladwyn went
into the aperture and leapt into her pathetic monologue, and William
behind the scenes relapsed into boredom. He was roused from it by Miss
Gwladwyn’s nephew who came down the steps of the loft carrying an empty
chocolate box and looking green.
“William,” he said, “will you do my thing for me? I’m going to be sick.”
“All right,” said William distantly. “What do you do?”
William, not having been chosen as the snow-storm, had never taken the
slightest interest in the snow-storm scene.
“You just get the bucket in the corridor and take it up to the loft and
empty it over her slowly when she turns up her face.”
“A’ right,” said William with an air of graciousness, secretly not
sorry to add the snow-storm to his repertoire. “A’ right. I’ll carry
on. Don’ you worry. You go home an’ be sick.”
It was not William’s fault that someone had put the stage fireplace in
the passage in such a position that it completely hid the bucket of
torn-up paper and that the only bucket visible in the passage was the
bucket of water thoughtfully placed there by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce
in case of fire. William looked about him, saw what was apparently the
only bucket in the passage, took it up and went to the stairs leading
into the loft. It was jolly heavy. Water! Crumbs! He hadn’t realised
it was water. He’d had an idea that it was torn-up paper for snow, but
probably they’d changed their minds at the last minute and thought
they’d have rain instead. Or perhaps they’d only had paper for the
rehearsals, and had meant to have water for the real performance all
along. Well, certainly it _was_ a bit more exciting than paper. He took
it very carefully up the stairs, then knelt over the little opening
where he could see Miss Gwladwyn down below. He was only just in time.
She was already saying:
“How cold it is! Heaven, wilt thou show me no pity?”
Then slowly and with a beautiful gesture of despair she raised her face
towards the ceiling to receive full and square the entire contents of
a bucket of water. William tried conscientiously to do it slowly, but
it was a heavy bucket and he had to empty it all at once. He considered
that he was rather clever in hitting her face so exactly. For a moment
the audience enjoyed the spectacle of Miss Gwladwyn sitting on the
floor, dripping wet and gasping and spluttering. Then Mr. Fleuster had
the presence of mind to draw the curtain. After which he deliberately
walked across to the dripping, spluttering, gasping Miss Gwladwyn and
asked her to marry him. For five years he’d been trying to propose to
a dignified and very correctly dressed and mannered Miss Gwladwyn,
and he’d never had the courage, but as soon as he saw her gasping,
spluttering, dripping on the floor like that he knew that now was the
moment or never. And Miss Gwladwyn, still gasping, spluttering,
dripping, said, “Yes.”
[Illustration: SLOWLY, WITH A BEAUTIFUL GESTURE OF DESPAIR, MISS
GWLADWYN LOOKED UPWARD AT THE CEILING--TO RECEIVE, FULL AND SQUARE IN
HER FACE, THE CONTENTS OF WILLIAM’S BUCKET OF WATER.]
Then the entire cast began to look for William. Somehow it never
occurred to them to blame Miss Gwladwyn’s guileless nephew. They knew
by instinct who was responsible for the calamity. William, realising
also by instinct that he had made a mistake, slipped out into the
darkness.
He was stopped by a tall form that blocked his way.
“Ha!” said the tall man. “Going already? I realised, of course, the
last scene must be the _grande finale_. I had meant to present this to
you at the end, but pray accept it now.”
He went away chuckling, and William found himself clasping the most
magnificent football he had ever seen in his life.
And that was not all.
For the next day there arrived a magnificent cinematograph for the
Literary Society, sent by Sir Giles Hampton with a little note telling
them that their little play had completely cured his nervous breakdown,
that it would be a precious memory to him all the rest of his life, and
that he was going back to London cheered and invigorated.
And that was not all.
There arrived for William some weeks later a ticket for a box at a
London theatre.
William went, accompanied by his mother.
He came back and told his friends about it.
He said he’d seen a play called _Macbeth_, but he didn’t think much of
it, and he could have made a better storm himself.