WILLIAM AND THE ANCIENT SOULS
The house next William's had been unoccupied for several months, and
William made full use of its garden. Its garden was in turns a jungle,
a desert, an ocean, and an enchanted island. William invited select
parties of his friends to it. He had come to look upon it as his own
property. He hunted wild animals in it with Jumble, his trusty hound;
he tracked Red Indians in it, again with Jumble, his trusty hound; and
he attacked and sank ships in it, making his victims walk the plank,
again with the help and assistance of Jumble, his trusty hound.
Sometimes, to vary the monotony, he made Jumble, his trusty hound,
walk the plank into the rain tub. This was one of the many unpleasant
things that William brought into Jumble's life. It was only his
intense love for William that reconciled him to his existence. Jumble
was one of the very few beings who appreciated William.
The house on the other side was a much smaller one, and was occupied
by Mr. Gregorius Lambkin. Mr. Gregorius Lambkin was a very shy and
rather elderly bachelor. He issued from his front door every morning
at half-past eight holding a neat little attaché case in a
neatly-gloved hand. He spent the day in an insurance office and
returned, still unruffled and immaculate, at about half past six. Most
people considered him quite dull and negligible, but he possessed the
supreme virtue in William's eyes of not objecting to William. William
had suffered much from unsympathetic neighbours who had taken upon
themselves to object to such innocent and artistic objects as
catapults and pea-shooters, and cricket balls. William had a very soft
spot in his heart for Mr. Gregorius Lambkin. William spent a good deal
of his time in Mr. Lambkin's garden during his absence, and Mr.
Lambkin seemed to have no objection. Other people's gardens always
seemed to William to be more attractive than his own--especially when
he had no right of entry into them.
There was quite an excitement in the neighbourhood when the empty
house was let. It was rumoured that the newcomer was a Personage. She
was the President of the Society of Ancient Souls. The Society of
Ancient Souls was a society of people who remembered their previous
existence. The memory usually came in a flash. For instance, you might
remember in a flash when you were looking at a box of matches that you
had been Guy Fawkes. Or you might look at a cow and remember in a
flash that you had been Nebuchadnezzar. Then you joined the Society of
Ancient Souls, and paid a large subscription, and attended meetings
at the house of its President in costume. And the President was coming
to live next door to William. By a curious coincidence her name was
Gregoria--Miss Gregoria Mush. William awaited her coming with anxiety.
He had discovered that one's next-door neighbours make a great
difference to one's life. They may be agreeable and not object to
mouth organs and whistling and occasional stone-throwing, or they may
not. They sometimes--the worst kind--go to the length of writing notes
to one's father about one, and then, of course, the only course left
to one is one of Revenge. But William hoped great things from Miss
Gregoria Mush. There was a friendly sound about the name. On the
evening of her arrival he climbed up on the roller and gazed wistfully
over the fence at the territory that had once been his, but from which
he was now debarred. He felt like Moses surveying the Promised Land.
Miss Gregoria Mush was walking in the garden. William watched her with
bated breath. She was very long, and very thin, and very angular, and
she was reading poetry out loud to herself as she trailed about in her
long draperies.
"'Oh, moon of my delight....'" she declaimed, then her eye met
William's. The eyes beneath her pince-nez were like little gimlets.
"How dare you stare at me, you rude boy?" she said.
William gasped.
[Illustration: "HOW DARE YOU STARE AT ME, YOU RUDE BOY?" SHE SAID.]
"I shall write to your father," she said fiercely, and then proceeded
still ferociously, "'... that knows no wane.'"
"Crumbs!" murmured William, descending slowly from his perch.
She did write to his father, and that note was the first of many. She
objected to his singing, she objected to his shouting, she objected to
his watching her over the wall, and she objected to his throwing
sticks at her cat. She objected both verbally and in writing. This
persecution was only partly compensated for by occasional glimpses of
meetings of the Ancient Souls. For the Ancient Souls met in costume,
and sometimes William could squeeze through the hole in the fence and
watch the Ancient Souls meeting in the dining-room. Miss Gregoria Mush
arrayed as Mary, Queen of Scots (one of her many previous existences)
was worth watching. And always there was the garden on the other side.
Mr. Gregorius Lambkin made no objections and wrote no notes. But
clouds of Fate were gathering round Mr. Gregorius Lambkin. William
first heard of it one day at lunch.
"I saw the old luny talking to poor little Lambkin to-day," said
Robert, William's elder brother.
In these terms did Robert refer to the august President of the Society
of Ancient Souls.
And the next news Robert brought home was that "poor little Lambkin"
had joined the Society of Ancient Souls, but didn't seem to want to
talk about it. He seemed very vague as to his previous existence, but
he said that Miss Gregoria Mush was sure that he had been Julius
Cæsar. The knowledge had come to her in a flash when he raised his hat
and she saw his bald head.
There was a meeting of the Ancient Souls that evening, and William
crept through the hole and up to the dining-room window to watch. A
gorgeous scene met his eye. Noah conversed agreeably with Cleopatra in
the window seat, and by the piano Napoleon discussed the Irish
question with Lobengula. As William watched, his small nose flattened
against a corner of the window, Nero and Dante arrived, having shared
a taxi from the station. Miss Gregoria Mush, tall and gaunt and
angular, presided in the robes of Mary, Queen of Scots, which was her
favourite previous existence. Then Mr. Gregorius Lambkin arrived. He
looked as unhappy as it is possible for man to look. He was dressed in
a toga and a laurel wreath. Heat and nervousness had caused his small
waxed moustache to droop. His toga was too long and his laurel wreath
was crooked. Miss Gregoria Mush received him effusively. She carried
him off to a corner seat near the window, and there they conversed,
or, to be more accurate, she talked and he listened. The window was
open and William could hear some of the things she said.
"Now you are a member you must come here often ... you and I, the only
Ancient Souls in this vicinity ... we will work together and live only
in the Past.... Have you remembered any other previous existence?...
No? Ah, try, it will come in a flash any time.... I must come and see
your garden.... I feel that we have much in common, you and I.... We
have much to talk about.... I have all my past life to tell you of ...
what train do you come home by?... We must be friends--real
friends.... I'm sure I can help you much in your life as an Ancient
Soul.... Our names are almost the same.... Fate in some way unites
us...."
And Mr. Lambkin sat, miserable and dejected and yet with a certain
pathetic resignation. For what can one do against Fate? Then the
President caught sight of William and approached the window.
[Illustration: MR. LAMBKIN SAT, MISERABLE AND DEJECTED, AND YET WITH A
CERTAIN PATHETIC RESIGNATION.]
"Go away, boy!" she called. "You wicked, rude, prying boy, go away!"
Mr. Lambkin shot a wretched and apologetic glance at William, but
William pressed his mouth to the open slit of the window.
"All right, Mrs. Jarley's!" he called, then turned and fled.
William met Mr. Lambkin on his way to the station the next morning.
Mr. Lambkin looked thinner and there were lines of worry on his face.
"I'm sorry she sent you away, William," he said. "It must have been
interesting to watch--most interesting to watch. I'd much rather have
watched than--but there, it's very kind of her to take such an
interest in me. _Most_ kind. But I--however, she's very kind, _very_
kind. She very kindly presented me with the costume. Hardly
suitable, perhaps, but _very_ kind of her. And, of course, there _may_
be something in it. One never knows. I _may_ have been Julius Cæsar,
but I hardly think--however, one must keep an open mind. Do you know
any Latin, William?"
"Jus' a bit," said William, guardedly. "I've _learnt_ a lot, but I
don't _know_ much."
"Say some to me. It might convey something to me. One never knows. She
seems so sure. Talk Latin to me, William."
"Hic, haec, hoc," said William obligingly.
Julius Cæsar's reincarnation shook his head.
"No," he said, "I'm afraid it doesn't seem to mean anything to me."
"Hunc, hanc, hoc," went on William monotonously.
"I'm afraid it's no good," said Mr. Lambkin. "I'm afraid it proves
that I'm not--still one may not retain a knowledge of one's former
tongue. One must keep an open mind. Of course, I'd prefer not to--but
one must be fair. And she's kind, very kind."
Shaking his head sadly, the little man entered the station.
That evening William heard his father say to his mother:
"She came down to meet him at the station to-night. I'm afraid his
doom is sealed. He's no power of resistance, and she's got her eye on
him."
"Who's got her eye on him?" said William with interest.
"Be quiet!" said his father with the brusqueness of the male parent.
But William began to see how things stood. And William liked Mr.
Lambkin.
One evening he saw from his window Mr. Gregorius Lambkin walking with
Miss Gregoria Mush in Miss Gregoria Mush's garden. Mr. Gregorius
Lambkin did not look happy.
William crept down to the hole in the fence and applied his ear to it.
They were sitting on a seat quite close to his hole.
"Gregorius," the President of the Society of Ancient Souls was saying,
"when I found that our names were the same I knew that our destinies
were interwoven."
"Yes," murmured Mr. Lambkin. "It's so kind of you, so kind. But--I'm
afraid I'm overstaying my welcome. I must----"
"No. I must say what is in my heart, Gregorius. You live on the Past,
I live in the Past. We have a common mission--the mission of bringing
to the thoughtless and uninitiated the memory of their former lives.
Gregorius, our work would be more valuable if we could do it together,
if the common destiny that has united our nomenclatures could unite
also our lives."
"It's so _kind_ of you," murmured the writhing victim, "so kind. I am
so unfit, I----"
"No, friend," she said kindly. "I have power enough for both. The
human speech is so poor an agent, is it not?"
A door bell clanged in the house.
"Ah, the Committee of the Ancient Souls. They were coming from town
to-night. Come here to-morrow night at the same time, Gregorius, and I
will tell you what is in my heart. Meet me here--at this
time--to-morrow evening."
William here caught sight of a stray cat at the other end of the
garden. In the character of a cannibal chief he hunted the white man
(otherwise the cat) with blood-curdling war-whoops, but felt no real
interest in the chase. He bound up his scratches mechanically with an
ink-stained handkerchief. Then he went indoors. Robert was conversing
with his friend in the library.
"Well," said the friend, "it's nearly next month. Has she landed him
yet?"
"By Jove!" said Robert. "First of April to-morrow!" He looked at
William suspiciously. "And if you try any fool's tricks on me you'll
jolly well hear about it."
"I'm not thinkin' of you," said William crushingly. "I'm not goin' to
trouble with _you_!"
"Has she landed him?" said the friend.
"Not yet, and I heard him saying in the train that he was leaving town
on the 2nd and going abroad for a holiday."
"Well, she'll probably do it yet. She's got all the 1st."
"It's bedtime, William," called his Mother.
"Thank heaven!" said Robert.
William sat gazing into the distance, not seeing or hearing.
"_William_!" called his mother.
"All right," said William irritably. "I'm jus' thinkin' something
out."
* * * * *
William's family went about their ways cautiously the next morning.
They watched William carefully. Robert even refused an egg at
breakfast because you never knew with that little wretch. But nothing
happened.
"Fancy your going on April Fool's day without making a fool of
anyone," said Robert at lunch.
"It's not over, is it?--not yet," said William with the air of a
sphinx.
"But it doesn't count after twelve," said Robert.
William considered deeply before he spoke, then he said slowly:
"The thing what I'm going to do counts whatever time it is."
* * * * *
Reluctantly, but as if drawn by a magnet, Mr. Lambkin set off to the
President's house. William was in the road.
"She told me to tell you," said William unblushingly, "that she was
busy to-night, an' would you mind not coming."
The tense lines of Mr. Lambkin's face relaxed.
"Oh, William," he said, "it's a great relief. I'm going away early
to-morrow, but I was afraid that to-night----" he was almost
hysterical with relief. "She's so kind, but I was afraid that--well,
well, I can't say I'm sorry--I'd promised to come, and I couldn't
break it. But I was afraid--and I hear she's sold her house and is
leaving in a month, so--but she's kind--_very_ kind."
He turned back with alacrity.
"Thanks for letting me have the clothes," said William.
"Oh, quite welcome, William. They're nice things for a boy to dress up
in, no doubt. I can't say I--but she's _very_ kind. Don't let her see
you playing with them, William."
William grunted and returned to his back garden.
[Illustration: "GREGORIUS," SAID THE PRESIDENT. "HOW DEAR OF YOU TO
COME IN COSTUME!" THE FIGURE MADE NO MOVEMENT.]
For some time silence reigned over the three back gardens. Then Miss
Gregoria Mush emerged and came towards the seat by the fence. A figure
was already seated there in the half dusk, a figure swathed in a toga
with the toga drawn also over its drooping head.
"Gregorius!" said the President. "How dear of you to come in costume!"
The figure made no movement.
"You know what I have in my heart, Gregorius?"
Still no answer.
"Your heart is too full for words," she said kindly. "The thought of
having your destiny linked with mine takes speech from you. But have
courage, dear Gregorius. You shall work for me. We will do great
things together. We will be married at the little church."
Still no answer.
"Gregorius!" she murmured tenderly:
She leant against him suddenly, and he yielded beneath the pressure
with a sudden sound of dissolution. Two cushions slid to the ground,
the toga fell back, revealing a broomstick with a turnip fixed firmly
to the top. It bore the legend:
[Illustration: APRIL FOOL]
And from the other side of the fence came a deep sigh of satisfaction
from the artist behind the scenes.