JUST WILLIAM'S LUCK
WILLIAM had accompanied his mother on a visit to Aunt Ellen. Mrs. Brown
was recovering from an attack of influenza, and the doctor had ordered
a change.
William did not accompany her because his presence was in any way
likely to help her convalescence. On the contrary it was warranted
to reduce any person of normal health to a state of acute nervous
breakdown. He accompanied her solely because the rest of the family
refused to be left in charge of him.
As his grown-up brother Robert somewhat ungraciously put it, "Mother's
ill already, and William can't make her much worse. It's no use getting
the whole lot of us knocked up. Besides, Mother _likes_ William." He
made the last statement in the tone of voice in which one makes a
statement that is almost incredible, but true.
William was an entirely well-meaning boy. That fact must be realised in
any attempt to estimate his character, but Fate had a way of putting
him into strange situations, and the world in general had a way of
misunderstanding him. At least, so it always seemed to William....
William was _bored_ by Aunt Ellen, and Aunt Ellen's house, and Aunt
Ellen's garden, and Aunt Ellen's cat, and Aunt Ellen's conversation,
and Aunt Ellen's powers of entertainment.
Aunt Ellen had suggested many ways in which he might spend his first
afternoon with her while his mother rested. He might sit in the garden
and read. She'd rather he didn't go outside the garden alone, because
he might meet rough boys, and she was sure his dear mother was most
particular whom he met. So she gave him a book called "Little Peter,
The Sunshine of the Home," and put a chair for him in the garden.
"It's a beautiful book, William," she said, "and I think will do you
good. It's a true book, written by the boy's mother, as the preface
tells you. He is a beautiful character. I _love_ the book, myself.
We'll have a nice little talk about it when you've read it. It might
prove the turning-point in your life. I'm sure you'll wish you knew
Peter and his dear mother."
William, after reading a few pages, began, as she had predicted, to
wish he knew Peter and his mother. He wished he knew Peter in order
to take the curl out of that butter-coloured hair and the fatuous
smile from the complacent little mouth that stared at him from every
illustration. Driven at last to fury, he dropped Peter down the well,
and began to look for more congenial occupations.
He tried to play with the cat, but the cat, not being used to
William's method of playing, scratched him on the cheek and escaped
under the bicycle shed, whither William could not follow him. William
next climbed the apple-tree, but, like the rest of Aunt Ellen's
establishment, the apple-tree was not "used to boys," and the first
branch upon which William took his stand precipitated him on to
the lawn, and almost down the well, to join his victim, "Peter,
the Sunshine of the Home." Next he took up a few of Aunt Ellen's
cherished chrysanthemums to compare the length of their roots at
different stages, replanting them when he heard Aunt Ellen's footsteps
approaching----
"William, darling," she said reproachfully, "have you finished the
book?"
"Umph," answered William non-committally.
"You must read very quickly, darling. I'll get you another. I have
another book about Peter, you'll be glad to hear."
William coughed politely.
"Thanks," he said, "I don't jus' feel like any more readin'. I'd like
more to _do_ somethin'. I'm tired of doin' nothin'."
She looked at him helplessly.
"But what do you _want_ to do, William darling?"
"Dunno. Any sort of a game would do," he said graciously.
The only game in Aunt Ellen's house was an old archery set, a relic of
her Victorian youth. She brought it down for William.
"You see, you shoot at the target, darling," she explained.
"Thanks," said William, brightening considerably. "You needn't bother
lending me the target."
Aunt Ellen retreated upstairs to continue her interrupted nap.
It was only when William, in a perfectly laudable attempt to shoot an
apple down from the apple-tree, had broken the landing window, driven
the cat into a hysterical state of fury, and landed an arrow full in
the back of the next-door gardener, that Aunt Ellen raised herself
once more from the bed that was usually the scene of such untroubled
rest. She rescued William, in a state of indignation, from the cat and
gardener, and suggested a little walk. She felt, somehow, less sure of
the contaminating influence of the outside world on William's character.
"Everyone's got to _practise_," said William indignantly. "Well, I was
only _practising_. I'd have got my eye in soon. I hadn't got my eye in
when I hit 'em. Everyone's got to practise. No one's born with their
eye in. If I went on about five minutes longer, I wouldn't be hittin'
anythin' 'cept wot I wanted to. And then," he added darkly, with a
vague mental vision of the world in general, and Peter and the cat and
the gardener in particular, at his mercy, "then some folks had better
look out."
Aunt Ellen shuddered.
"Darling, don't you think a little walk would do you good?"
"I don't mind," said William. "May I take the bow and arrows?"
"I think not," said Aunt Ellen.
"All right," said William despondently.
* * * * *
William started off down the road. Aunt Ellen returned once more to her
slumbers. Peace reigned once more over the house. But not over William.
William walked slowly and dejectedly, his hands in his pockets. A
week of sheer boredom lay before him--of a garden arranged purely for
the grown-up world, of books containing obnoxious Peters, of irate
gardeners, of spiteful cats. He didn't think that he was going to enjoy
himself. He didn't think that there was going to be anything to do. He
didn't think that his walk that afternoon would contain anything of the
least interest. He didn't know any boys here. He didn't want to know
any boys in a place like this. They were probably all Peters. He felt a
burning hatred of Peter. He wouldn't mind meeting Peter....
He was tired of walking along the high road. He crawled through a hole
in the hedge and found himself in someone's garden. He didn't care. He
was in the reckless mood of the outlaw. He walked along the lawn and up
to the house. He didn't care. He'd like to see anyone try to turn him
out. That ole gardener--that ole cat--that ole Peter. Then he stopped
suddenly----
Through an open window he could see a room, and a man sitting at a
writing-desk. On the writing-desk was a pile of books: "What to do
with Baby," "Hints on the Upbringing of Children," "Every Mother's
Reference Book," and others of the same nature. There were also several
type-written manuscripts and several copies of a magazine, "The Monthly
Signal: A Magazine for Mothers."
But it was not on these that William fastened his scowling gaze. It was
on a book, or rather a pile of books, from whose covers the simpering,
curly-haired face of the hateful Peter looked out upon the world.
The man who sat at the desk was reading a letter. There was a look of
fear upon his face. Suddenly he looked up and met William's unflinching
gaze. They stared at each other for a few moments, then the man put
down the letter and ran from the room. Obviously it was the sight
of William that had moved him. In a less defiant mood towards the
world in general William might have taken to his heels. Now he stood
his ground, frowning ferociously at the man as he came out of the
front-door. But his ferocity was not needed.
"I say," began the man, "do you live near here?"
William's frown did not relax.
"Stayin' here," he admitted ungraciously.
"I say," said the man again, "could you help me? Just for this
afternoon. I'll give you everything you want--a shilling, two
shillings, ten shillings," he went on wildly, "_anything_. You can
come to this garden any day you like as long as you stay here. You
can birds'-nest in the wood. I've got a boy's tricycle you can have
and--you can do anything you like in the garden--there's a pond behind
the house----"
"Can I have all those things you said, and do all those things you
said?" said William guardedly.
"Yes--yes--if you'll do what I tell you just for this afternoon."
"I'd do _anything_ for those things," said William simply.
"Come in," said the man nervously. "There's not much time. She'll be
here any moment."
"When she comes," said the man quickly--"she'll be here any minute
now--I want you to pretend you're called Peter and I'm your mother--do
you see?"
William was outraged.
"Me--Peter--_that boy_?" At his tone of contempt the man's eyes blinked.
"But he's a charming boy," he said indignantly. "_Everyone_ says so--I
could show you letters----"
Only at the mental vision of the pond, the tricycle, the wood, the
garden, the ten shillings, did William's conscience allow him to pocket
his pride.
"He's more like a monkey out of the Zoo than a boy," he said bitterly.
"But I'll do it if you'll never tell anyone I pretended to be him."
The man's pride was evidently wounded by William's attitude.
"I should have thought it an honour--I've had most flattering notices.
I could show you letters. However, there's no time to argue--as I
said, she may be here any minute. I shan't be here--you must see her
alone--say you're Peter--I'm afraid you're the wrong type," sadly.
"Your hair doesn't curl and it's the wrong colour, and you're too big,
and your expression's wrong--not sensitive enough, or gentle enough, or
wistful enough----"
William was rather sensitive about his personal appearance. He accepted
it with resignation, as the subject of numberless jokes from his own
family, but he resented comments on it from outsiders.
"All right," he said coldly, "if all that's wrong with me, you'd better
get someone else wot's got his soft, silly face."
"No, no," said the man wildly. "I didn't mean anything--and there's no
time, I'm afraid, to procure a more sympathetic type. She may be here
any minute--all I want is you to meet her and pretend to be Peter--I
shan't be here--you must say that this is your home, and your mother's
in bed with a bad headache, and is sorry she can't receive her--then
she'll go away--come and tell me when she's gone away--see?"
"Umph," agreed William.
A tall, angular figure was coming up the drive.
The man fled into the house with a groan.
* * * * *
Mr. Monkton Graham was a literary man. That is to say, he wrote "The
Mothers' Page" for "The Monthly Signal: A Magazine for Mothers." He
signed it "Peter's Mother." The page always centred round Peter.
"Peter's Mother" told how she dealt with Peter's measles and
whooping-cough, and clothes, and temper (though Peter's disposition
was really angelic), and how she arranged Peter's parties and treats
and daily routine, and lessons and holidays, and how she influenced
him for good with her sweet unselfishness and motherly wisdom, and
what sweet things Peter did and said and thought. Peter was a decided
cult. Mothers wrote to "Peter's Mother, care of The Office, 'Monthly
Signal,'" for advice about John, or Henry, or Jimmie, or even Ann.
Mr. Monkton Graham was thinking of starting a Joan. Mothers sent
flowers and photographs of John and Henry and Jimmie to him. Someone
had even sent a tricycle to Peter. Mr. Monkton Graham had written
a letter of thanks in a round and childish hand. They asked for
photographs of Peter. Mr. Monkton Graham possessed an old photograph of
a nephew of his. He had this "touched up" and sent it out to Peter's
admirers. It appeared in the magazine. The nephew was in South Africa,
and would hardly have recognised it in any case. It created quite a
furore.
At first Mr. Monkton Graham's work had not been laborious. It had
consisted of reading a paragraph in a standard reference book on the
rearing of children, expanding it, Peterising it and adding the
ineffably "sweet" touch of "Peter's Mother" that earned him his six
guineas a week. But success went to his head.
He wrote a book about Peter. It was wildly popular. He wrote another.
It was still more wildly popular. He received letters and presents and
photographs innumerable. They voted him a second "Dearest" and Peter
a second "Fauntleroy." He knew fame--even though a strictly incognito
fame--at last. He always replied to his admirers--"sweet" little
letters, breathing the very spirit of "Peter's Mother."
But last week, after a good dinner when he saw the world through a
rosy mist, his usual discretion had deserted him. He had written to
an admirer of Peter giving the name of the village and house where he
lived. He had at the time not realised the significance of what he
was doing. It only occurred to him the next morning when the letter
was posted and the rosy mist had faded. The horrible thing had really
happened. The woman had written to say that she was coming to see
"darling Peter's darling mother" that day. The letter had come by the
midday post, and the visitor might be there any minute.
"We are not strangers, darling," ran the letter; "even as I write,
though I have never seen you, I can see your fair curly hair--Peter's
hair--and your dear blue eyes--Peter's eyes. When I think that I am
going actually to see you two darlings, whom I feel I know so well, I
can hardly believe my happiness. A kiss to you and darling Peter."
As he had raised his anguished eyes from this letter, he had met the
strange scowling face of a boy just outside his window. A gleam of
hope came into his heart. The situation might yet be saved. He might
yet escape being held up to the scorn and ridicule of the readers of
"The Monthly Signal: A Magazine for Women." Looking again at the face
of the boy, he had distinct misgivings, but he decided to try....
William remained at the front-door till the tall, angular figure
reached it. Then they stared at each other. William had a gift for
staring. People who tried to stare him out soon realised their
inferiority in the art.
"Good morning, little boy," said the visitor.
"Umph," replied William.
He was determined to earn that tricycle and pond and wood and
birds'-nests and ten-shillings, and he felt that the less he committed
himself to any definite statements outside his _rôle_ the better.
"What's your name, dear?"
William inspected her. She looked harmless enough. She had a weak,
good-natured face and greying hair and kind short-sighted eyes behind
spectacles. She ought to be easy to make a mug of, thought William, out
of the vast store of his knowledge of human nature.
"Peter," he said.
The disappointment upon the good-natured face made William feel
slightly annoyed.
"Peter? Surely not!" she quavered.
"That curly hair wot I had," he explained, swallowing his annoyance,
"all came off--got clawered off by a monkey at the Zoo." His
imagination was coming to his aid as usual. "I went too near the cage
an' it stuck out its clawer an' clawered it all off--every bit. They
took me home bald an' the nex' day it grew again but a bit different."
"How terrible!" the visitor murmured, shutting her eyes. "Wasn't your
dear mother sad when it grew that colour?"
"No," said William, coldly, "she likes this colour."
"That's so like her," said the lady tenderly, "to pretend to you that
she likes it."
William began to dislike the lady. He waited for her to continue the
conversation.
"Somehow you're quite different in every way from what I expected,"
she went on, with a distinct note of regret in her voice which William
felt to be far from flattering. "You're taller and stouter, and your
expression ... yes, that's QUITE different."
"Yes," said William, still anxious to carry out his part of the
bargain. "I've changed a lot since I had those pictures took. Got a bit
older, you know, an' had some awful illnesses."
"Really," said the lady, in sympathy. "Your dear mother never told me
in her letters."
"She never knew," said William. "I never told her, so as not to worry
her. I jus' went about as usual, an' she never knew. But it made me
look different afterwards."
"It would," said the lady, with a bewildered air. "Well, shall we go in
to your dear mother? She expects me, I believe. My name is Miss Rubina
Strange."
"Oh," said William, "she's ill. She said I was to tell you. She can't
see you. She's very ill."
"Ill? I am so sorry. But I would like to go to her. Perhaps I could do
something for her."
"No you can't," said William, "no one can. It's too late."
"But--have you had the doctor?"
"Yes--he says it's too late to do anything."
"Good Heavens! She's not----?"
"Yes, she's dyin' all right," said William.
"But can't anything be done? This is dreadful! I feel absolutely
heart-broken. I must just come into the house. There's surely something
I can do!"
William followed her into the house. Mr. Monkton Graham had not
expected this. He was standing by the window of his study waiting till
Miss Rubina Strange should depart. When he saw her about to enter the
room, he did the only possible thing. He disappeared.
Miss Rubina Strange looked round the room with the air of a pilgrim
visiting a holy place.
"And is this, dear Peter," she said in a hushed whisper, "where she
writes those wonderful words?"
"Umph," answered William.
"Oh, my dear! To think that I see it with my poor unworthy eyes. I have
imagined it so often!"
Then she raised her long, thin nose, and sniffed.
"Peter, dear, there's just a faint smell of it ... surely your dear
mother doesn't smoke cigarettes?"
"No," said William, absently, "it was a pipe he was smoking."
"Who?"
"Him," said William, who was beginning to tire of the whole thing. It
was the thought of the tricycle alone that upheld him.
"Your poor mind is unhinged," said Miss Rubina, soothingly. "I
expect you are worrying over your mother's illness, which I'm sure
you exaggerate, darling. I'm sure she'd have written to tell me if
she'd been really ill. Is this the pen she writes with? And is this
blotting-paper she's actually used? Peter, dear, do you think I could
take just a corner of it--just a corner, just to remember my visit by
for always?"
Mr. Monkton Graham was growing uncomfortable. There was not really room
under that table for a full-sized man to dispose his limbs. He stirred
uneasily, and Miss Rubina Strange turned startled eyes to William,
placing her finger on her lips.
Then, snatching up the sacred pen she wrote on the sacred paper,
"Peter, there is a man underneath the table. Don't be alarmed. I am
going to deal with him. Above all, do nothing to disturb your dear
mother."
William said nothing. He felt that the affair had got beyond him. Miss
Rubina Strange crept cautiously about the room. She took a long narrow
table cloth from an occasional table, she took a length of picture-cord
which she found in a drawer of the sacred writing desk, she took an
ornamental dagger from a cabinet, she took a cushion from an arm-chair.
Then she whispered to William, "No noise or disturbance. Remember your
mother is ill!"
Just as the innocent Mr. Graham was trying to ease the ache in his neck
by resting his head on his knee, he felt a sudden and violent attack
in the rear. He was dragged out forcibly by a tall, thin female, who
was nevertheless evidently possessed of unusual strength. Before he
could remonstrate his feet were firmly tied together with a tablecloth,
and he was half dragged, half helped to a sitting position on a chair.
Then, leaning over him threateningly, with the dagger in one hand, the
woman spoke.
"Make a sound," she said in a low, hissing voice, "utter one word, and
I will strike. There is a sick woman in this house, and I will stick
at nothing to protect her. You have come to rob a woman who is a dear
friend of mine, and of every woman and, if necessary, I will take
extreme measures----"
[Illustration: THE INNOCENT MR. GRAHAM WAS DRAGGED OUT FORCIBLY FROM
HIS HIDING-PLACE BY A TALL, THIN FEMALE OF UNUSUAL STRENGTH.]
Mr. Graham looked apprehensively at the dagger. It had, as he knew, a
nasty sharp point. He therefore obeyed her orders. He made no sound and
uttered no word while she tied the cushion over his face and pinioned
his arms to his side with the picture-cord. Then she turned to William.
William had for the moment lost all power of action. Things were moving
too fast for him.
* * * * *
"She must know," whispered Miss Rubina Strange. "I'll break it to
her gently. Don't let him move till I come back. I'll find out if
she wishes to prosecute. Which is her bedroom?" He stared at her
open-mouthed. "Never mind," she went on. "I'll soon find her."
When she had gone, William turned his gaze to the figure in the chair.
All that could be seen above the pinioned arms was a large cushion.
The cushion began to move spasmodically, to shake convulsively, and to
utter muffled curses. The whole figure began to writhe in its bonds.
From what he could make out of the words that came from the cushion,
William instinctively felt that the monologue was one that his mother
would not wish him to hear. He therefore listened attentively, mouth
and ears wide open. The words appeared forcible if somewhat inaudible.
Just as Mr. Graham had bent down his invisible head to try to bite the
bonds round his knees through his cushion, Miss Strange, looking wild
and dishevelled, returned.
"She's GONE ..." she burst out. "She's not in the house, not in any of
the bedrooms.... What SHALL we do?"
At this point, with a bellow of rage, the man in the chair managed
to shake off his cushion. The face that emerged was hardly human.
Something violent had happened to its hair. Something violent had
happened to its collar. Something violent had happened to its
expression. Before he could utter anything that was in his mind, a
housemaid came into the room.
"Oooo----" she said, "it's the master. They're a-murdering of him!
Ooo-oo!" With which remark she fled.
"The master!" gasped Miss Strange. She turned to William, "I didn't
know your father was alive." Then she turned to the figure who was
obviously seeking words capable of expressing his feelings. "Where is
your wife?" she ended sternly. "Miserable man, where is your wife?"
"I haven't got any wife," he shouted.
"But who wrote----?"
"_I_ wrote," he yelled.
"Then Peter's mother----"
"There _isn't_ any Peter's mother----"
"My poor man, have I touched on painful ground?" She placed a kind hand
on William's head. "Poor little orphan Peter," she murmured softly.
"How long ago was it since she wrote to me?"
"There isn't any Peter," shouted the man, like one distraught. "There
isn't any Peter's mother. There isn't any Peter. There isn't any
Peter's mother. There's only ME, and you've nearly throttled me, and
you've nearly suffocated me, and you've nearly knifed me, and would you
mind going away? I don't know who the boy is," he went on, following
her gaze, "except that he's some young ruffian trespassing in my
garden, and who'll make my life a misery for the next few weeks till he
kills himself or me, or I kill him or myself----"
Miss Rubina Strange, baffled for the first time that afternoon, sat
down weakly.
"But I don't understand," she said.
When she did understand, she did not sweep out of the room in disgust
as he had hoped she would. Instead, she looked at him with bright eyes.
"But how _wonderful_ of you," she said. "Of course, I will keep your
dear secret. What sympathy and understanding of a woman's heart you
have shown! It's all the more wonderful that you are a man. And we
are friends, are we not?--old friends. We must have a chat." She
looked round the room. "Let me tidy up a little first. Ah, the room
needs a woman's touch.... Then we will have a talk. There are so many
things I want to ask and to tell you--ours will be a very beautiful
friendship...."
Mr. Monkton Graham threw a pathetic and pleading look at William.
"You may stay a little ..." he said.
"Thanks," he said coldly, "I'd rather go jus' now. You won't forget
those things you promised me, will you?"
"Er--no," said Mr. Graham, whose spirit was broken.
"My aunt's not got much of a garden," said William, "so I expect I
shall be here most days. I'll come for the tricycle and money after
tea."
"We mustn't be shy of each other," Miss Strange said in low,
confidential tones; "my friends call me Ruby...."
Mr. Monkton looked wildly from her to William. His face was the face of
a man in the depths of despair.
* * * * *
After tea, William's mother was anxious to know how William had spent
his afternoon.
"I met a man," he said casually, "who's going to let me play in his
garden an' he's given me a tricycle and some money."
"Where does he live, dear?" said Aunt Ellen.
"At the end of the road," replied William.
"Oh, I know," said Aunt Ellen, "it's a beautiful big garden. You're a
very lucky boy, William. But I can't think why----"
"He must have taken a fancy to William," said William's mother. "SOME
people do...."
"Now I must find you something to read," went on Aunt Ellen to
William's mother. "I've got some perfectly charming books that I know
you'll love."
"They're all about a little boy--such a dear--called Peter. They're
written by his mother. They're perfectly true. She tells you so in
the preface. They're so beautiful that they make me want to cry
whenever I read them. I lent one to William before he went out this
afternoon--'Peter, the Sunshine of the Home'--but he seems to have
mislaid it. However, I've got heaps more. She--the mother--writes
very beautiful little articles in one of the magazines. She must be a
charming woman--to say nothing of Peter." She threw William a smiling
glance. "There are some things our William might learn from Peter."
With all his faults, William knew when to keep his own counsel.
He merely winked at the cat.