WILLIAM THE REFORMER
WILLIAM'S regular attendance at church on Sunday mornings did not
betoken any deeply religious feeling on his part. It was rather the
result of pressure from without, weekly applied and resisted by William
with fresh indignation on each occasion. His church-going was a point
on which his family insisted. It was not that they hoped that any real
improvement of William would result from it. As a matter of fact, it
generally seemed to have the opposite effect upon him. But it meant
that those of his family who did not go to church had one morning
at least in the sure knowledge that William's strident voice could
not dispel their Sabbath peace and calm, nor could William, with his
curious genius for such things, spring any awkward situation suddenly
upon them, while those who went to church had the comfortable knowledge
that William, cowed, and brushed, and washed, and encased in his hated
best suit, and scowling at the vicar from the front pew, could do
little harm beside the strange scuffling with his feet that he seemed
able to produce without even moving them. Moreover, they "knew where he
was." It was something to "know where he was."
This Sunday the usual preliminaries took place.
"I'm not going to church this morning," Robert happened to say,
carrying a deck-chair into the garden.
"An' I'm not, either," said William, as he seized another chair. The
would-be light finality of his tone did not deceive even himself.
"You must go, dear," said his mother placidly. "You know you always do."
"Yes, but why me an' not him?" demanded William, pale with outrage.
"Why him not go an' me go?"
Robert calmly stated his position.
"If William's not going to church, I'm going, and if William's going to
church, I'm not. All I want is _peace_."
"I shun't make a noise if I stayed at home," said William in a tone of
righteous indignation at the idea. "I'd jus' sit qui'tly readin'. I
don't feel like bein' rough or anything like that. I'm not feelin' well
at all," he ended plaintively.
Mr. Brown came downstairs, tophatted and gloved.
"What's the matter?" he said.
"William's too ill to go to church," said Robert in an unfeeling tone
of voice.
William raised his healthy, ruddy countenance.
"I'd like to go to church," he explained to his father. "I'm
disappointed not to go. But I jus' don't feel well. I'm took ill
sudden. I'd jus' like to go an' lie down qui'tly--out of doors,"
he stipulated hastily. "I feel's if I went to church I might worry
everybody with bein' so ill. I feel"--his Pegasean imagination soared
aloft on daring wings--"I feel 's if I might _die_ if I went to church
this mornin' feelin' 's ill as I do now."
"If you're as bad as that," Mr. Brown said callously, as he brushed
his coat, "I suppose you might as well die in church as anywhere."
This remark deprived William of the power of speech for some time.
"Well," he said at last, darkly and bitterly, "I only hope you won't
be _too_ sorry afterwards--when you think of what you've done. I only
hope _that_--I only hope that when you think of what you've done
_afterwards_--you won't be _too_ sorry. When you----"
"Hurry up, dear," said his mother patiently. "Don't keep us all
waiting."
* * * * *
Sitting between Ethel and his mother in the front pew, William allowed
his thoughts to wander at their own sweet will. He found the Litany
very long and trying. Its monotony had been relieved only by a choirboy
who occasionally brightened William's existence by putting out his
tongue at him from behind the cover of his psalter. From that a contest
in grimaces had arisen, begun furtively, but growing reckless in the
heat of rivalry, till a choirman had intervened by digging the choirboy
from behind, while Mrs. Brown leant forward and frowned at William.
William retired from the contest feeling distinctly exhilarated. He
considered that most decidedly he had won. The choirboy could not have
capped that last one of his. In a half-hearted way he began to listen
to the sermon.
"We all owe our duty to others," the clergyman was saying. "We must all
try to save others beside ourselves. Not one of us must rest content
till we have recalled from evil ways at least one of those around us.
How many there are going down the broad path of evil who want just
the word to recall them to the path of virtue--just the word that the
youngest here could say...?"
William considered this view. He found it distinctly intriguing. He had
been so frequently urged to reform himself that the appeal had lost its
freshness. But to reform someone else. There was much more sense in
that; he wouldn't mind doing that. His spirits rose. He'd rather like
to try reforming someone else.
They stood up for the hymn. The choirboy was singing lustily. William
caught his eye and began to imitate his more open-mouthed efforts. This
led to a second contest in grimaces, checked for a second time when
at its height by the choirman and Mrs. Brown. William returned to his
meditations. Yes, it would be a noble deed to reform someone else, much
more interesting and less monotonous and possibly more successful than
the reforming of himself hitherto solely enjoined upon him.
But who? That was the question.
* * * * *
After due consideration that afternoon in the apple-tree (where William
did most of his deep thinking) he came to the reluctant conclusion
that he must exclude his family from the list of possible reformees.
This was not because he did not think that his family were in need of
reformation. It was not because he thought them beyond reformation,
though he certainly was of that opinion. It was rather because he
doubted whether any member of his family was sufficiently broad-minded
to receive reformation at his hands.
There is a certain proverb about a prophet in his own country. His
thoughts wandered over several masters at his school, whom he
considered to be in crying need of reformation, but the same applied
to them. When, finally, the tea-bell sounded forth its summons, he was
still undecided on whom to apply his latent powers of reformation.
His family, who had not passed so peaceful a Sunday afternoon for
weeks, looked at him in curiosity as he entered the dining-room.
"What have you been doing all afternoon, dear?" said his mother
solicitously.
"Jus' thinkin'," said William coldly. Meditation on his family's need
for reformation had made him realise afresh all he suffered at their
hands.
"Not dead yet?" said Robert jocularly.
"No," said William with a quelling glance, "though anyone _might_ be
with what I've got to put up with. It's a good thing I'm _strong_."
He then transferred his attention to a large piece of bread and butter
and the conversation drifted away from him. Idly he listened to it.
"It's so funny," Ethel, his grown-up sister, was saying, "to come
to a country place like this and take no part in the life. He's so
mysterious. He took Beechwood over a month ago and hardly a soul's seen
him. He never has anyone in and he never goes out."
"Of course," contributed Robert with the air of a man-of-the-world.
"A country place like this is an ideal place for murderers or other
criminals to hide in. That's notorious. Much safer than London."
"And hardly anyone's seen him," said Ethel.
"What does he look like?" said William excitedly.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," said Ethel.
"Don't listen to their nonsense, dear," said Mrs. Brown.
But William was afire. Here was someone to be reformed at his very
doors--no mere ordinary trivial wrong-doer, but a murderer, a criminal,
the real thing. He was longing to begin. He could hardly wait till he
had finished his bread and butter.
"May I go, mother?" he said hastily, swallowing a quarter of a slice of
bread as he spoke.
"You've had no cake, dear," said his mother in surprise.
William gave a look of set purposeful determination.
"I don't want _cake_ to-day," he said in the voice of one who
scornfully waves aside some trifle unworthy of him. With that he strode
frowning from the room.
"I do hope he's not ill," said Mrs. Brown uneasily. "He's been awfully
quiet to-day."
"He's given us the first peaceful Sunday we've had for years," said
Ethel.
"It's not over yet," said Robert, in a voice of warning.
* * * * *
William was already on his way to Beechwood. In the road he found
Ginger, his bosom friend on weekdays. On Sundays the two families,
inspired solely by a selfish desire for peace, tried to keep them as
far apart as possible.
"_Sunday!_" said Ginger, bitterly voicing unconsciously the grievance
of the majority of his countrymen. "There's nothing to _do!_"
"_I've_ jolly well got something to do, _I_ can tell you," said William
in a voice in which mystery and self-importance were mingled.
Ginger brightened.
"Lemme help!" he pleaded. "Lemme help an' I'll give you half the next
thing anyone gives me."
"S'pose it's something you can't make a half of?" said William
guardedly.
"Well, then, I'll let you have it in turn with me," said Ginger
generously.
"Fair turns?" said William.
"Rather!" said Ginger.
"All right, then," said William. "Come on!"
Ginger set off happily by his side.
"What you goin' to do, William?" he asked.
William sank his voice mysteriously.
"I'm going to _re_form" (William put the accent on the first syllable)
"a murderer--make him give up murdering--same as what he said in church
this mornin.'"
"Criky!" said Ginger, impressed.
* * * * *
They crept in at the open gates of Beechwood.
"How're you goin' to begin?" said Ginger in a sibilant whisper.
"Dunno yet," said William, who always trusted to the inspiration of the
moment.
"S'pose--s'pose he murders us?" whispered Ginger.
"If he does," said William grimly, still aggrieved by his family's
general attitude to him, "I know _some_ folks that'll p'raps be _sorry_
for _some_ things!"
Then suddenly----
"He's there!" said William excitedly. "Look! I can see him!"
They crept behind some bushes and watched. A man was digging in the
middle of the lawn. He stood up to his neck in a large hole and
was throwing up spadeful after spadeful of earth on to the edge.
Occasionally he stopped to wipe his brow. He was a thin, youngish man.
[Illustration: THEY CREPT ACROSS THE LAWN AND SUDDENLY OVERTURNED THE
HEAP OF FRESH-DUG EARTH OVER THE EDGE OF THE HOLE UPON ITS OCCUPANT.]
"Diggin' graves for dead folks he's murdered," explained William.
"Golly!" breathed Ginger, his eyes and mouth wide open. "How're you
goin' to stop him?"
"Get him in the hole," said William, "an' then--an' then--I dunno yet,"
he ended uncertainly.
The man bent down for another spadeful.
"Come on!" said William.
They crept across the lawn and suddenly overturned the heap of
fresh-dug earth that was on the edge of the hole upon its occupant,
using feet and hands and head and body. It all happened in a second.
The man, up to his neck in the sudden avalanche of damp garden soil,
looked up at them, sputtering anger and earth.
"I say! I say, you know," he said. "Look here!"
William leant over the edge of the hole.
"You jus' gotter _stop_ it," he said fiercely. "D'you see? You jus'
gotter _stop_ it!"
The young man gazed at him in amazement. He made no effort to arise. He
lay back on his earthen couch.
"You've jolly well winded me, you young devil!" he said, still ejecting
earth from his mouth as he spoke. "Stop what?"
"_You_ know," said William mysteriously, bending still farther over the
edge of the hole. "You jolly well _know_, doesn't he, Ginger? How'd you
like someone to do it to you--murderin' you an' buryin' you in back
gardens? Jus' think of that! Jus' think of how you'd like _other_ folk
doin' it to you, 'fore you start doin' it to other folks."
"I'll jolly well murder you, once I get out of here," said the man.
"I'll murder you and bury you ten times over. Don't you worry about
that."
"You oughter _re_form an' start again on the--what was it?--the path of
virt--virt something--now I've told you like what he said--with jus' a
_word_. Well, I've said the word, an' you oughter reform an'----"
"Just you wait, my son," said the young man grimly, beginning to
unearth himself.
But Ginger had made a discovery.
"Look, William," he said. "Look at this!"
"This" was a tin, containing curious earth-covered coins, at the edge
of the hole.
"He's a thief, too," said William indignantly. "Takin' folks' money as
well as buryin' them. He's goin' right down the broad evil path like
what he said. Well, he oughter stop. I've said it. I've said the word
like what he said, an' he oughter _re_form an' come back to the path of
virt--what he said."
The young man was fast unearthing himself. He looked a curious sight.
"Just you wait," he said again, as he began to climb out of the hole.
"Murder won't be in it."
Instinctively and throwing the zeal of the reformer to the winds,
William and Ginger took to their heels and fled--across the lawn, down
the drive, down the road--with fleetness of foot gained in many a
flight from irate farmers and landowners. Ginger still hugged to his
breast the tin of coins. The earthen young man followed, leaving a
trail of soil as he ran.
"Here!" he shouted. "Bring back that tin! Here! _Thieves!_"
They threw him off at the first turning, and made for William's house.
They fled panting up the drive.
"Look out!" said William breathlessly. "There's father!"
Mr. Brown, putting on his hat in the hall for a quiet evening stroll,
turned to see his son and his son's friend walking slowly and
demurely up the drive. The son's friend held an old tin clasped to
his breast. Both were red and breathless in spite of their slow and
demure progress. Mr. Brown looked at his son with a suspicion born of
experience.
"Where have you been?" he said.
"Jus' for a walk," said William meekly and with wide-eyed, appealing
innocence.
The two proceeded towards the stairs.
"Where are you going now?" said Mr. Brown, still more suspiciously.
"Jus' up to my room, father," said William.
Mr. Brown fastened his stern gaze upon the tin.
"What have you got there?" he demanded.
"Jus' some ole things we've found," floated in William's dulcet tones
from halfway upstairs.
"Crumbs!" said William upstairs, "I thought he was going to nab us."
"My sainted Aunt!" said William's father downstairs, "that boy's up to
_something_ again!"
* * * * *
William's father, however, soon forgot William. It was a perfect
evening. Sabbath calm reigned supreme over the countryside. The trees
were just beginning to turn from green to gold. The birds' song rang
through the still evening air. As Mr. Brown walked along, a sense
of peace and well-being descended upon him. He completely forgot
William. Then, suddenly, he turned a bend in the road and saw a curious
figure--so curious that Mr. Brown pinched himself to make sure he was
awake. Sabbath calm ceased to reign supreme over the countryside and
Mr. Brown's sense of peace deserted him. The figure was that of a
hatless, wild-eyed young man, covered to the neck in soil, and bearing
traces of it upon his face.
"I say," he began abruptly, "are you a resident of these parts?"
"Yes," admitted Mr. Brown, debating in his mind on the safest method of
dealing with an escaped lunatic.
"I've been robbed. Some most valuable coins. Simply robbed in broad
daylight."
"You'd better go to the police about it," said Mr. Brown soothingly.
"Come with me. I'll show you the way."
He thought the police-station the best receptacle for the strange
wanderer.
"I've taken Beechwood, you know," went on the excited young man,
"and I'm doing some excavating there on my own. I belong to the
Archæological Society. I've found traces of Roman occupation here.
I've had some experts down and there's no doubt that there was a Roman
villa on the site of Beechwood. I found some most valuable coins this
afternoon and I've been robbed of them. They're irreplaceable!"
"Who stole them?" said Mr. Brown. He was rather bored by the whole
proceeding. He was anxious to deposit the strange young man in the
police-station and continue his walk.
"Mere boys," said the young man. "Mere boys. They pushed earth in on me
and shouted some gibberish and made off with the coins. Probably some
rival collector heard of the thing and sent them."
"Probably," agreed Mr. Brown without interest. "Well, here's the
station. I'll say good-night and good luck."
He touched his hat and was on the point of proceeding with his walk,
but the young man was pathetically anxious to confide the whole tale.
"I've really no clue," he said sorrowfully. "The coins were in an old
tin--simply an old tin. Well, I suppose I'd better go in. Good-night."
Mr. Brown was standing motionless. He seemed to have lost all desire
to proceed with his walk. His smile had faded from his face. He was
seeing a sudden vision of two small boys, red-faced and breathless, but
wearing looks of innocence that blazoned guilt far and wide, creeping
cautiously upstairs. One of the boys had held an old tin in his
hand--simply an old tin. He turned to the young man. The young man had
already reached the door of the police-station.
"Here!" shouted Mr. Brown, "one minute!"
The man returned to him.
"You said boys," said Mr. Brown slowly. "What sort of boys? Could you
describe them?"
"One was freckled," said the young man. "He called the other one
Ginger."
Mr. Brown swallowed.
"I think," he said, "that I can help you--if you'll come home with me."
"Have you got a clue?" said the young man excitedly.
"I think," said Mr. Brown, "that I have."
* * * * *
The young man, dropping garden soil with every movement upon
Mrs. Brown's drawing-room carpet, clasped his tin box to his
breast--William, frowning and injured, stood before an accusing family
circle and defended himself.
[Illustration: WILLIAM DEFENDED HIMSELF. "WELL, HOW WAS I TO _KNOW?_ I
FOUND HIM DIGGIN' GRAVES FOR THE FOLKS HE'D MURDERED."]
"Well, how was I to _know_? I found him diggin' graves for the folks
he'd murdered. I was trying to reform him--like what he said in church.
How was I to _know_ that he wasn't diggin' graves for the folks he'd
murdered? I wanted to _re_form someone same as he said. He _said_ he
was a murderer too--he as near as near murdered Ginger an' me--how was
I to _know_?"
The young man interrupted, with a quick movement and another shower of
garden soil at which Mrs. Brown shut her eyes and breathed an inward
prayer.
"Look here!" he said, "it was all a misunderstanding. I say, suppose
you come to tea with me to-morrow and we bury the hatchet instead of
the murdered--eh? I say, I'd better go and change, hadn't I?"
"I'll see you down the road," said Mr. Brown.
The young man went off, happily clasping his tin and scattering earth
thickly around him.
The rest of the family turned up to William.
"Well, you've done it _now!_" said Ethel.
"I _said_ Sunday wasn't over!" said Robert.
"The carpet is simply _ruined!_" moaned Mrs. Brown.
"Well--how was I to _know?_" said William desperately.
"It's ever so long after your bed-time, William," said Mrs. Brown with
a sigh. "He's simply _trodden_ the stuff in besides putting it there."
"I advise you to go to bed before father comes back," said Robert with
a superior elder-brother air.
William inwardly agreed. There was something to be said for being in
bed and asleep when his father came home. Explanations, put off to the
following day, are apt to lose the keenness of their edge. He turned to
the door.
"Nothing I do ever seems to come out right," he said gloomily. "How was
I to _know_--diggin' away like that!"
"I daresay you didn't mean anything, dear," said Mrs. Brown, "but it
was only new last January."
William reached the bottom of the staircase, then had a sudden thought
and returned.
"Anyway," he said, putting his head round the drawing-room door, "if
you hadn't made me go to church when I was feelin' so ill, I wun't have
known anything about _re_forming folks."
"William," said Mrs. Brown wearily, "do go to bed."
William complied, but again only reached the foot of the staircase.
Here another thought struck him, and he returned.
"Anyway," he said, putting his head round the door again, "I bet _you_
wun't have gone right up to a murderer, diggin' a grave for the folks
he'd murdered, an' I bet if he _had_ been a real murderer an' I'd been
dead _an'_ buried by now, _you'd_ be feelin' a bit----"
"William," said Mrs. Brown, "are you going to bed?"
William again retired. This time he got halfway upstairs. Then a third
thought struck him and again he descended.
"Anyway," he said, and his family groaned as the familiar untidy shock
of hair and frowning freckled face once more appeared. "Didn't Ethel
say that he never had folks in, an' isn't he having me in to tea
to-morrow, so I bet you can't say I haven't _re_formed him."
"_William!_" said Mrs. Brown, "are--you--going--to--bed?"
William _was_. He had heard the click of the gate at the end of the
drive.
When William's father entered the house three minutes later, William
was in bed and asleep.