WILLIAM THE MATCH-MAKER
William was feeling disillusioned. He had received, as a birthday
present, a book entitled “Engineering Explained to Boys,” and had read
it in bed at midnight by the light of a lamp which he had “borrowed”
from his elder brother’s photographic apparatus for the purpose. The
book had convinced William that it would be perfectly simple with the
aid of a little machinery, to turn a wooden packing case into a motor
boat. He spent two days on the work. He took all the elastic that
he could find in his mother’s work drawer. He disembowelled all the
clockwork toys that he possessed. To supplement this he added part of
the works of the morning-room clock. He completely soaked himself and
his clothes in oil. Finally the thing was finished and William, stern
and scowling and tousled and oily, deposited the motor boat on the edge
of the pond, stepped into it and pushed off boldly. It shot into the
middle of the pond and promptly sank.... So did William. He returned
home wet and muddy and oily and embittered, to meet a father who, with
a grown-up’s lack of sense of proportion, was waxing almost lyrical
over the disappearance of the entrails of the morning-room clock.
It had been for William a thoroughly unpleasant day. He was still
dwelling moodily on the memory of it.
“How was I to know the book was wrong?” he muttered indignantly as
he walked down the road, his hands deep in his pockets. “Blamin’ me
because the book was wrong!”
If William had not been in this mood of self-pity he would never have
succumbed to the overtures of Violet Elizabeth. William at normal times
disliked Violet Elizabeth. He disliked her curls and pink-and-white
complexion and blue eyes and lisp and frills and flounces and
imperiousness and tears. His ideal of little-girlhood was Joan, dark
haired and dark-eyed and shy. But Joan was away on her holidays and
William’s sense of grievance demanded sympathy--feminine sympathy for
preference.
“Good morning, William,” said Violet Elizabeth.
“G’ mornin’,” said William without discontinuing his moody scowl at the
road and his hunched-up onward march.
Violet Elizabeth joined him and trotted by his side.
“You feelin’ sad, William?” she said sweetly.
“Anyone’d feel sad,” burst out William. “How was I to know a book din’
know what it was talkin’ about? You’d think a book’d know, wun’t you?
Blamin’ me because a book din’ know what it was talkin’ about! ’S’nough
to make anyone feel sad! Well, you’d think a book about machinery’d
know jus’ a bit about machinery, wun’t you?... Sinkin’ me in a mucky
ole pond an’ then when you’d think they’d be a bit sorry for me, goin’
on’s if it was _my_ fault, ’s if _I’d_ wrote the book!”
This somewhat involved account of his wrongs seemed to satisfy Violet
Elizabeth. She slipped a hand in his and for once William, the stern
unbending despiser of girls, did not repel her.
“_Paw_ William!” said Violet Elizabeth sweetly. “I’m tho thorry!”
Although William kept his stern frown still fixed on the road and gave
no sign of his feelings, the dulcet sympathy of Violet Elizabeth was
balm to his wounded soul.
“Play gamth with me,” went on Violet Elizabeth soothingly.
William looked up and down the road. No one was in sight. After all,
one must do something.
“What sort of games?” said William suspiciously transferring his stern
frown from the road to Violet Elizabeth and, contrary to his usual
custom, forbearing to mimic her lisp.
“Play houth, William,” said Violet Elizabeth eagerly. “Ith suth a nith
game. You an’ me be married.”
“Red Indians an’ you a squaw?” said William with a gleam of interest.
“No,” said Violet Elizabeth with distaste, “_not_ Red Indianth.”
“Pirates?” suggested William.
“Oh _no_, William,” said Violet Elizabeth. “They’re tho _nathty_. Juth
a nordinary thort of married. You go to the offith and me go thopping
and to matineeth and thee to the dinner and that sort of thing.”
William’s dignity revolted from the idea.
“’F you think I’d play a game like that----” he began coldly.
“Pleath do, William,” said Violet Elizabeth in a quivering voice. The
blue eyes, fixed pleadingly on William, swam suddenly with tears.
Violet Elizabeth exerted her sway over her immediate circle of friends
and relations solely by this means. Even at that tender age she
possessed the art, so indispensable to her sex, of making her blue eyes
swim with tears at will. She had, on more than one occasion, found that
it was the only suasion to which the stern and lordly William would
yield.
He looked at her in dismay.
“All right,” he said hastily. “All right. Come on!”
After all there was nothing else to do and one might as well do this as
nothing.
Together they went into the field where was the old barn.
“Thith muth be the houth,” said Violet Elizabeth, her tears gone, her
pink and white face wreathed in smiles. “An’ now you go to the offith,
darlin’ William, an’ I’ll thee to thingth at home. Good-bye an’ work
hard an’ make a lot of money ’cauth I want a loth of new cloth. I’ve
thimply nothing fit to wear. The offith ith the corner of the field.
You thtay there an’ count a hundred and then come back to your dinner
an’ bring me a box of chocolath an’ a large bunch of flowerth.”
“’F you _think_----” began William, hoarse with indignant surprise.
“I don’ mean real onth, William,” said Violet Elizabeth meekly. “I mean
pretend onth. Thticks or grath or anything’ll do.”
“Or _won’t!_” said William sternly. “’F you think I’m goin’ even to
_pretend_ to give presents to an ole girl----!”
“But I’m your wife, William,” said Violet Elizabeth. There was the
first stage--a suspicion of moisture--of the swimming tears in the blue
eyes and William hastily retreated.
“All right, I’ll _see_,” he capitulated. “G’bye.”
“Aren’t you going to kith me?” said Violet Elizabeth plaintively.
“No,” said William, “I won’t kiss you. I’m ’fraid of givin’ you some
sort of germ. I don’t think I’d better. G’bye.”
He departed hastily for the corner of the field before the tears had
time to swim. He was already regretting the rash impulse that had made
him stoop to this unmanly game. He waited in the corner of the field
and counted fifty. He could see Violet Elizabeth cleaning the window
of the barn with a small black handkerchief, then sallying forth with
languid dignified gait to interview imaginary trades-people.
Then William suddenly espied a frog in the field beyond the hedge.
He scrambled through in pursuit and captured it and spent a pleasant
quarter of an hour teaching it tricks. He taught it, as he fondly
imagined, to know and love him and to jump over his hands. It showed
more aptitude at jumping over his hands than at knowing and loving him.
It responded so well to his teaching in jumping that it finally managed
to reach the ditch where it remained in discreet hiding from its late
discoverer and trainer.
William then caught sight of an old nest in the hedge and went
to investigate it. He decided that it must have been a robin’s
nest and took it to pieces to see how it was made. He came to the
conclusion that he could make as good a one himself and considered the
possibilities of making nests for birds during the winter and putting
them ready for them in the hedges in the Spring. Then he noticed that
the ditch at the further end of the field was full and went there to
see if he could find any water creatures. He soaked his boots and
stockings, caught a newt, but, having no receptacle in which to keep it
(other than his cap which seemed to hold water quite well but only for
a short time) he reluctantly returned it to its native element.
Then he remembered his wife and returned slowly and not very eagerly to
the barn.
Violet Elizabeth was seated in the corner on an old box in a state of
majestic sulks.
“You’ve been at the offith for more’n a day. You’ve been there for
monthth and yearth an’ I hate you!”
“Well, I forgot all about you,” William excused himself, “An’ anyway
I’d a lot of work to do at the office----”
“An’ I kept waiting an’ waiting and thinking you’d come back every
minute and you didn’t!”
“Well, how could I?” said William. “How could I come back every
minute? How could anyone come back every minute? And anyway,” as he saw
Violet Elizabeth working up her all-powerful tears, “it’s lunch time
and I’m going home.”
* * * * *
William’s mother was out to lunch and Ethel was her most objectionable
and objecting. She objected to William’s hair and to William’s hands
and to William’s face.
“Well, I’ve washed ’em and I’ve brushed it,” said William firmly. “I
don’ see what you can do more with faces an’ hair than wash’ em an’
brush it. ’F you don’ like the colour they wash an’ brush to I can’t
help that. It’s the colour they was born with. It’s their nat’ral
colour. I can’t do more than wash ’em an’ brush it.”
“Yes, you can,” said Ethel unfeelingly. “You can go and wash them and
brush it again.”
Under the stern eye of his father who had lowered his paper for the
express purpose of displaying his stern eye William had no alternative
but to obey.
“Some people,” he remarked bitterly to the stair carpet as he went
upstairs, “don’ care how often they make other people go up an’
downstairs, tirin’ themselves out. I shun’t be surprised ’f I die a
good lot sooner than I would have done with all this walkin’ up an’
downstairs tirin’ myself out--an’ all because my face an’ hands an’
hair’s nat’rally a colour she doesn’t like!”
Ethel was one of William’s permanent grievances against Life.
But after lunch he felt cheered. He went down to the road and there
was Joan--Joan, dark-eyed and dark-haired and adorable--back from her
holidays.
“Hello, William!” she said.
William’s stern freckled countenance relaxed almost to a smile.
“Hello, Joan,” he replied.
“What you doing this afternoon, William?”
“Nothing particular,” replied William graciously.
“Let’s go to the old barn and see if Ginger or any of the others are
there. I’m so glad to be back, William. I hated being away. I kept
thinking about you and the others and wondering what you were doing ...
you especially.”
William felt cheered and comforted. Joan generally had a soothing
effect upon William....
As they neared the stile that led to the field, however, William’s
spirits dropped, for there, looking her most curled and cleaned and
possessive, was Violet Elizabeth.
“Come on, William, and play houth again,” she called imperiously.
“Well, an’ I’m not goin’ to,” said William bluntly. “An’ I’m not goin’
to be married to you any more an’ ’f I play house I’m goin’ to have
Joan.”
“You can’t do that,” said Violet Elizabeth calmly.
“Can’t do what?”
“Can’t change your wife. Ith divorth if you do an’ you get hung for it.”
This nonplussed William for a moment. Then he said:
“I don’ believe it. You don’ know. You’ve never been married so you
don’ know anything about it.”
“I _do_ know. Hereth Ginger and Douglath and Hubert Lane. You athk
them.”
Ginger and Douglas and Hubert Lane, all loudly and redolently sucking
Bulls’ Eyes, were coming down the road. Hubert Lane was a large fat
boy with protruding eyes, a superhuman appetite and a morbid love
of Mathematics who was only tolerated as a companion by Ginger and
Douglas on account of the bag of Bulls’ Eyes he carried in his pocket.
He had lately much annoyed the Outlaws--by haunting the field they
considered theirs and, in spite of active and passive discouragement,
thrusting his unwelcome comradeship upon them.
[Illustration: “I SAY, MR. MARCH,” YELLED WILLIAM, “IS IT DIVORCE OR
BIGAMY IF YOU CHANGE YOUR WIFE?”]
“Hi!” William hailed them loudly from the top of the stile. “Is it
divorce if you change your wife an’ do you get hung for it? She says it
is! ’S all _she_ knows!”
The second trio gathered round the first to discuss the matter.
“’S called bigamy not divorce,” said Ginger authoritatively. “I know
’cause our cousin’s gardener did it an’ you get put in prison.”
“’S _not_ big--what you said,” said Violet Elizabeth firmly. “Ith
divorth. I know ’cauth a friend of mine’th uncle did it. Tho _there!_”
The rival champions of divorce and bigamy glared at each other and the
others watched with interest.
“D’you think,” said Ginger, “that I don’ know what my own cousin’s
gardener did?”
“An’ d’you think,” said Violet Elizabeth, “that I don’t know what my
own friendth uncle did?”
“Here’s Mr. March comin’,” said Douglas. “Let’s ask him.”
[Illustration: “HA, HA!” LAUGHED MR. MARCH. “EXCELLENT! WHICH OF YOU IS
NOT SATISFIED WITH HIS SPOUSE?”]
Mr. March was a short stumpy young man with a very bald head and short
sight. He lived in a large house at the other end of the village and
rather fancied himself as a wit. He was extraordinarily conceited and
not overburdened by any superfluity of intellect.
“I say, Mr. March,” yelled William as he approached. “Is it divorce or
bigamy if you change your wife?”
“An’ do you get hung for it or put in prison?” added Ginger.
Mr. March threw back his head and roared.
“Ha, ha!” he bellowed, “Which of you wants to change his wife? Which of
you is not satisfied with his spouse? Excellent! Ha, ha!”
He went on down the road chuckling to himself.
“He’s a bit cracked,” commented Ginger in a tone of kind impartiality.
“But my mother says he’s awful rich,” said Douglas.
“An’ he’s gone on your sister,” said Ginger to William.
“Then he _mus’_ be cracked!” said William bitterly.
“Anyway,” said Violet Elizabeth. “It _ith_ divorth an’ I don’ care if
it ithn’t. ’F you don’ play houth with me, I’ll thcream n’ thcream till
I’m thick. I can,” she added with pride.
William looked at her helplessly.
“Will you play house with me, Joan?” said Hubert, who had been fixing
admiring eyes upon Joan.
“All right,” said Joan pacifically, “and we’ll live next door to you,
William.”
Violet Elizabeth had gone to prepare the barn and Joan and Hubert now
followed her. William glared after them fiercely.
“That ole Hubert,” he said indignantly, “comin’ messin’ about in our
field! I votes we chuck him out ... jus’ sim’ly chuck him out.”
“Yes,” objected Ginger, “an’ he’ll tell his mother an’ she’ll come
fussin’ like what she did last time an’ tellin’ our fathers an’
’zaggeratin’ all over the place.”
“Well, let’s think of a plan, then,” said William.
Five minutes later William approached Hubert with an unnatural
expression of friendliness on his face. Hubert was politely asking
Violet Elizabeth to “have a Bulls’ Eye” and Violet Elizabeth was
obligingly taking three.
“I say, Hubert,” whispered William to Hubert, “We’ve gotter a secret.
You come over here ’n we’ll tell you.”
Hubert put a Bulls’ Eye into his mouth, pocketed the packet and
accompanied William to where Ginger and Douglas were, his goggle eyes
still more a-goggle with excitement. Joan and Violet Elizabeth were
busying themselves in transforming the interior of the barn into two
semi-detached villas with great exercise of handkerchief-dusters and
imagination.
“Douglas,” whispered William confidentially, “’s found out a secret
about this field. He got it off a witch.” Hubert was so surprised that
his spectacles fell off. He replaced them and listened open-mouthed.
“There’s a grass in this field that if you tread on it makes you
invisible. Now we’re jus’ goin’ to tread about a bit to see ’f we can
find it an’ we don’ want to leave you out of it so you can come an’
tread about a bit with us case we find it.”
Hubert was thrilled and flattered.
“I bet I find it first,” he squeaked excitedly.
They tramped about in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly William said
in a voice of great concern.
“I say, where’s Hubert gone.”
“I’m here,” said Hubert, a shade of anxiety in his voice.
William looked at him and through him.
“Where’s Hubert gone?” he said again, “He was here a minute ago.”
“I’m here!” said Hubert again plaintively.
Ginger and Douglas looked first at and through Hubert and then all
around the field.
“Yes, he seems to have gone,” said Ginger sadly. “I’m ’fraid he mus’
have found the grass!”
“I’-I’m here!” squeaked Hubert desperately, looking rather pale.
“I’ll jus’ see if he’s hidin’ over there,” said William and proceeded
literally to walk through Hubert. Hubert got the worst of the impact
and sat down suddenly and heavily.
“Boo-hoo!” he wailed rising to his feet. He was promptly walked into by
Ginger and sat down again with another yell.
“’S mos’ mysterious where he’s got to,” said William. “Let’s call him!”
They yelled “Hubert!” about the field, callously disregarding that
youth’s sobbing replies. Whenever he rose to his feet one of them
walked through him and he sat down again with a bump and a yell.
“Did the witch say anything about makin’ them visible again?” said
William anxiously.
“No,” said Douglas sadly, “I’m ’fraid he’ll always be invisible now and
he’ll die slow of starvation ’cause no one’ll ever see him to give him
anything to eat.”
Hubert began to bellow unrestrainedly. He rose to his feet, dodged both
Ginger and Douglas who made a dart in his direction, and ran howling
towards the stile.
“Boo-hoo! I’m going home. Boo-hoo! I don’ wanter die!”
As soon as he reached the stile, Ginger and Douglas and William gave a
shout.
“Why, _there’s_ Hubert at the stile.”
Hubert ceased his tears and hung over the stile.
“Can you see me now?” he said anxiously. “Am I all right now?”
He wiped his tears and began to clean his spectacles and straighten his
collar. He was a tidy boy.
“Yes, Hubert,” said the Outlaws. “It’s all right now. We can see you
now. You mus’ have jus’ trod on the grass. But it’s all right now.
Aren’t you comin’ back to play?”
Hubert placed one foot cautiously over the stile.
“Ginger!” said William excitedly, “I believe he’s beginning to
disappear again.”
With a wild yell, Hubert turned and fled howling down the road.
“Well, we’ve got rid of _him_,” said William complacently, “and if I’m
not clever I don’ know who _is_!”
Over-modesty was not one of William’s faults.
“Well, I bet you’re not quite as clever as you _think_ you are,” said
Ginger pugnaciously.
“How’ d’you know that?” said William rising to the challenge. “How
d’you know how clever I think I am? You mus’ think yourself jolly
clever ’f you think you know how clever I think I am!”
The discussion would have run its natural course to the physical
conflict that the Outlaws found so exhilarating if Joan and Violet
Elizabeth had not at this moment emerged from the barn.
“You _have_ been making a noith!” said Violet Elizabeth disapprovingly.
“Wherth the boy with the Bullth Eyth?”
“Heth gonth awath,” said William unfeelingly.
“I want a Bullth Eye. You’re a nathty boy to let him go away when I
want a Bullth Eye.”
“Well, you can go after himth,” said William, less afraid of her tears
now that he was surrounded by his friends. But Violet Elizabeth was too
angry for tears.
“Yeth and I thall!” she said. “You’re a nathty rude boy an’ I don’t
love you and I don’t want you for a huthband. I want the boy with the
Bullth Eyth!”
“What about divorce or big or whatever it is?” said William, taken
aback by her sudden and open repudiation of him. “What about that? What
about being hung?”
“If anyone trith to hang me,” said Violet Elizabeth complacently, “I’ll
thcream and thcream and thcream till I’m thick. I can.”
Then she put out her tongue at each of the Outlaws in turn and ran
lightly down the road after the figure of Hubert which could be seen in
the distance.
“Well, we’ve got rid of _her_ too,” said William, torn between relief
at her departure and resentment at her scorn of him, “and she can play
her silly games with him. I’ve had enough of them. Let’s go an’ sit on
the stile and see who can throw stones farthest.”
They sat in a row on the stile. It counted ten to hit the telegraph
post and fifteen to reach the further edge of the opposite field.
Ethel who had been to the village to do the household shopping came
past when the game was in full swing.
“I’ll tell father,” she said grimly to William. “He said you oughtn’t
to throw stones.”
William looked her up and down with his most inscrutable expression.
“’F it comes to that,” he said distantly, “he said you oughtn’t to wear
high heels.”
Ethel flushed angrily, and walked on.
William’s spirits rose. It wasn’t often he scored over Ethel and he
feared that even now she would have her revenge.
He watched her go down the road. Coming back along the road was Mr.
March. As he met Ethel a deep flush and a sickly smile overspread his
face. He stopped and spoke to her, gazing at her with a sheep-like air.
Ethel passed on haughtily. He had recovered slightly when he reached
the Outlaws, though traces of his flush still remained.
“Well,” he said with a loud laugh, “Divorce or bigamy? Which is it to
be? Ha, ha! Excellent!”
He put his walking stick against Ginger’s middle and playfully pushed
him off the stile backwards. Then he went on his way laughing loudly.
“I said he was cracked!” said Ginger climbing back to his perch.
“He’d jus’ about suit Ethel then,” said William bitterly.
They sat in silence a few minutes. There was a far-away meditative look
in William’s eyes.
“I say,” he said at last, “’f Ethel married him she’d go away from our
house and live in his, wun’t she?”
“U-hum,” agreed Ginger absently as he tried to hit the second tree to
the left of the telegraph post that counted five.
“I wish there was some way of makin’ them fall in love with each
other,” said William gloomily.
“Oh, there is, William,” said Joan. “We’ve been learning it at school.
Someone called Shakespeare wrote it. You keep saying to both of them
that the other’s in love with them and they fall in love and marry. I
know. We did it last term. One of them was Beatrice and I forget the
other.”
“You said it was Shakespeare,” said William.
“No, he’s the one that tells about it.”
“Sounds a queer sort of tale to me,” said William severely. “Couldn’t
you write to him and get it a bit plainer what to do?”
“Write to him!” jeered Ginger. “He’s dead. Fancy you not knowin’ that!
Fancy you not knowin’ Shakespeare’s dead!”
“Well, how was I to know he was dead? I can’t know everyone’s name
what’s dead, can I? I bet there’s lots of dead folks’ names what you
don’ know!”
“Oh, do you?” said Ginger. “Well, I bet I know more dead folks’ names
than you do!”
“He said that anyway,” interposed Joan hastily and pacifically. “He
said that if you keep on making up nice things and saying that the
other said it about them they fall in love and marry. It must be true
because it’s in a book.”
There was a look of set purpose in William’s eyes.
“It’ll take a bit of arrangin’,” was the final result of his frowning
meditation, “but it might come off all right.”
* * * * *
William’s part was more difficult than Joan’s. William’s part consisted
in repeating to Ethel compliments supposed to emanate from Mr. March.
If Ethel had had the patience to listen to them she would have realised
that they all bore the unmistakable imprint of William’s imagination.
William opened his campaign by approaching her when she was reading a
book in the drawing-room.
“I say, Ethel,” he began in a deep soulful voice, “I saw Mr. March this
afternoon.”
Ethel went on reading as if she had not heard.
“He says,” continued William mournfully, sitting on the settee next
to Ethel, “he says that you’re the apple of his life. He says that
he loves you with a mos’ devourin’ passion. He says that you’re
ab’s’lutely the mos’ beauteous maid he’s ever come across.”
“Be quiet and let me read!” said Ethel without looking up from her book.
“He says,” went on William in the same deep monotonous voice, “he says
that he doesn’t mind your hair bein’ red though he knows some people
think it’s ugly. That’s noble of him, you know, Ethel. He says----”
Ethel rose from the settee.
“If you won’t be quiet,” she said, “I’ll have to go into another room.”
She went into the dining-room and, sitting down in an armchair began to
read again.
After a short interval William followed and taking the armchair
opposite hers, continued:
“He says, Ethel, that he’s deep in love with you and that he doesn’t
mind you bein’ so bad-tempered. He likes it. Anyway he ’spects he’ll
get used to it. He says he’ adores you jus’ like what people do on the
pictures. He puts his hand on his stomach and rolls his eyes whenever
he thinks of you. He says----”
“Will--you--be--quiet?” said Ethel angrily.
“No, but jus’ listen, Ethel,” pleaded William. “He says----”
Ethel flounced out of the room. She went to the morning-room, locked
the door, and, sitting down with her back to the window, continued
to read. After a few minutes came the sound of the window’s being
cautiously opened and William appeared behind her chair.
“I say, Ethel, when I saw Mr. March he said----”
Ethel gave a scream.
“If you mention that man’s name to me once more, William, I’ll--I’ll
tell father that you’ve been eating the grapes in the hot-house.”
It was a random shot but with a boy of William’s many activities such
random shots generally found their mark.
He sighed and slowly retreated from the room by way of the window.
Ethel’s attitude made his task a very difficult one....
* * * * *
Joan’s task was easier. Joan had free access to her father’s study and
typewriter and Joan composed letters from Ethel to Mr. March. William
“borrowed” some of his father’s notepaper for her and she worked
very conscientiously, looking up the spelling of every word in the
dictionary and re-typing every letter in which she made a mistake. She
sent him one every day. Each one ended, “Please do not answer this or
mention it to me and do not mind if my manner to you seems different to
these letters. I cannot explain, but you know that my heart is full of
love for you.”
One letter had a p.s. “I would be grateful if you would give
half-a-crown to my little brother William when next you meet him. I am
penniless and he is such a nice good boy.”
Anyone less conceited than Mr. March would have suspected the
genuineness of the letters, but to Mr. March they seemed just such
letters as a young girl who had succumbed to his incomparable charm
might write.
It was William who insisted on the p.s. though Joan felt that it was
inartistic. It had effect, however. Mr. March met William on the road
the next morning and handed him a half-crown then, with a loud guffaw
and “Divorce or bigamy, eh?” pushed William lightly into a holly bush
and passed on. Mr. March’s methods of endearing himself to the young
were primitive.... But the half-crown compensated for the holly bush in
William’s estimation. He wanted to make the p.s. a regular appendage to
the letter but Joan firmly refused to allow it.
After a week of daily letters written by Joan and daily unsuccessful
attempts on the part of William to introduce imaginary compliments from
Mr. March into casual conversation with Ethel, both felt that it was
time for the dénouement.
The final letter was the result of a hard morning’s work by William and
Joan.
“DEAR GEORGE (May I call you George now?),
Will you meet me by the river near Fisher’s Lock to-morrow afternoon
at three o’clock? Will you wear a red carnation and I will wear a red
rose as gages of our love? I want to tell you how much I love you,
though I am sure you know. Let us be married next Monday afternoon. Do
not speak to me of this letter but just come wearing a red carnation
and I will come wearing a red rose as gages of our love. I hope you
will love my little brother William too. He is very fond of caramels.
Yours with love
ETHEL BROWN (soon I hope to be March).”
The reference to William had been the subject of much discussion, but
William had overborne Joan’s objections.
“I reely only want it put because it makes it seem more nat’ral. It’s
only nat’ral she should want him to be kind to her brother. I mean, not
knowin’ Ethel as well as I do, he’ll _think_ it nat’ral.”
The stage managing of the actual encounter was the most difficult
part of all. Ethel’s reception of her swain’s supposed compliments
had not been such as to make William feel that a request to meet him
at Fisher’s Lock would be favourably received. He was feeling just a
little doubtful about the working of Joan’s love charm in the case of
Ethel but with his usual optimism he was hoping for the best.
“Ethel,” he said at lunch. “Gladys Barker wants to see you this
afternoon. I met her this morning.”
“Did she say any time?” said Ethel.
“Soon after three,” said William.
“Why on earth didn’t you tell me sooner?” said Ethel.
The road to Gladys Barker’s house lay by the river past Fisher’s Lock.
“’S not tellin’ a story,” William informed his conscience. “I did meet
her this mornin’ an’ I don’ know that she doesn’t want to see Ethel
this afternoon. She prob’ly does.”
About quarter to three William came in from the garden carefully
holding a rose. He wore his most inscrutable expression.
“I thought you might like to wear this, Ethel,” he said, “It goes nice
with your dress.”
Ethel was touched.
“Thank you, William,” she said.
She watched him as he returned to the garden, humming discordantly.
She wondered if sometimes she misjudged William....
* * * * *
It was ten minutes past three. On the path by the river near Fisher’s
Lock stood Mr. March with a red carnation in his button hole. Concealed
in a tree just above his head were Ginger, Douglas, William and Joan.
Down the path by the river came Ethel wearing her red rose.
Mr. March started forward.
“Well, little girl?” he said with roguish tenderness.
Ethel stopped suddenly and stared at him in amazement.
“Ah!” said Mr. March, shaking a fat finger at her, “The time has come
to drop the mask of haughtiness. I know all now, you know, from your
own sweet lips, I mean your own sweet pen.... I know how your little
heart beats at the thought of your George. I know who is your ideal ...
your beloved knight ... your all those sweet things you wrote to me.
Now, don’t be frightened, little girl. I return your affection, but not
Monday afternoon! I don’t think we can manage it quite as soon as that.”
“Mr. March,” said Ethel, “are you ill?”
“Ill, my little precious?” ogled Mr. March. “No, well, my little
popsie! Your dear loving letters have made me well. I was so touched by
them, little Ethelkins!... You thinking me so handsome and clever and,
you know, I admire you, too.” He touched the red rose she was wearing
playfully, “the gage of your love, eh?”
[Illustration: “NOW, DON’T BE FRIGHTENED, LITTLE GIRL,” SAID MR. MARCH.
“I KNOW HOW YOUR LITTLE HEART BEATS AT THE THOUGHT OF YOUR GEORGE.”
“MR. MARCH!” EXCLAIMED ETHEL, “ARE YOU ILL?”]
“Mr. March,” said Ethel angrily, “You must be mad. I’ve never written
to you in my life.”
“Ah,” he replied, “Do not deny the fond impeachment.” He took a bundle
of type-written letters out of his pocket and handed them to her, “You
have seen these before.”
She took them and read them slowly one by one.
“I’ve never heard such rubbish,” she said at last. “I’ve never seen the
idiotic things before. You must be crazy.”
Mr. March’s mouth fell open.
“You--didn’t write them?” he said incredulously.
“Of course not!” snapped Ethel. “How could you be such a fool as to
think I did?”
He considered for a minute then his expression of bewilderment gave
place again to the roguish smile.
“Ah, naughty!” he said. “She’s being very coy! I know better! I
know----”
He took her hand. Ethel snatched it back and pushed him away angrily.
He was standing on the very edge of the river and at the push he swayed
for a second, clutching wildly at the air, then fell with a loud splash
into the stream.
“Oh, I say, Ethel,” expostulated William from his leafy hiding place.
“Don’t carry on like that ... drownin’ him after all the trouble we’ve
took with him! He’s gotter lot of money an’ a nice garden an’ a big
house. Anyone’d think you’d want to marry him ’stead of carryin’ on
like that!”
At the first sound of his voice, Ethel had gazed round open-mouthed,
then she looked up into the tree and saw William.
“You _hateful_ boy!” she cried. “I’m going straight home to tell
father!”
She turned on her heel and went off without looking back.
Meanwhile Mr. March was scrambling up the bank, spitting out water and
river weeds and (fortunately) inarticulate expletives.
“I’ll have damages off someone for this!” he said as he emerged on to
the bank. “I’ll make someone pay for this! I’ll have the law on them!
I’ll....”
He went off dripping and muttering and shaking his fist vaguely in all
directions....
Slowly the Outlaws climbed down from their tree.
“Well, you’ve made a nice mess of everything!” said Ginger
dispassionately.
“I’ve took a lot of trouble tryin’ to get her married,” said William,
“and this is how she pays me! Well, she needn’t blame me.” He looked at
the indignant figure of his pretty nineteen-year-old sister which was
still visible in the distance and added gloomily, “She’s turnin’ out an
old maid an’ it’s not my fault. I’ve done my best. Seems to me she’s
goin’ to go on livin’ in our house all her life till she dies, an’
that’s a nice look out for me, isn’t it? Seems to me that if she won’t
even get married when you practically fix it all up for her an’ save
her all the trouble like this, she won’t _ever_ marry an’ she needn’t
blame me ’cause she’s an old maid. I’ve done everythin’ I can. An’
you,” he transferred his stern eye to Joan. “Why don’ you read books
with a bit of _sense_ in them? This Shake man simply doesn’t know what
he’s talkin’ about. It’s a good thing for him he _is_ dead, gettin’ us
all into a mess like this!”
“What are you goin’ to do now?” said Douglas with interest.
“I’m goin’ fishin’,” said William, “an’ I don’ care if I don’t get home
till bed time.”
* * * * *
It was a week later. The excitement and altercations and retaliations
and dealing out of justice which had followed William’s abortive
attempt to marry Ethel were over.
Ethel had gone into the morning-room for a book. The Outlaws were
playing in the garden outside. Their strong young voices floated in
through the open window.
“Now let’s have a change,” William was saying. “Ginger be Mr. March an’
Joan be Ethel.... Now, begin ... go on.... Joan, come on ... walkin’
kind of silly like Ethel ... an’ Ginger go to meet her with a soft look
on your face.... That’s it ... now, start!”
“Well, little girl?” said Ginger in a shrill affected voice. “I know
how your little heart beats at me. I know I am your knight an’ all
that.”
“You’ve left a lot out,” said William. “You’ve left out where he said
he wouldn’t marry her on Monday. Now you go on, Joan.”
“Mr. March,” squeaked Joan in piercing hauteur, “are you mad?”
“No,” corrected William. “’Are you feelin’ ill?’ comes first. Let’s
start again an’ get it all right....”
Ethel flounced out of the room and slammed the door. She found her
mother in the dining-room darning socks.
“Mother,” she said, “can’t we _do_ anything about William? Can’t we
send him to an orphanage or anything?”
“No, darling,” said Mrs. Brown calmly. “You see, for one thing, he
isn’t an orphan.”
“But he’s so _awful!_” said Ethel. “He’s so unspeakably dreadful!”
“Oh, no, Ethel,” said Mrs. Brown still darning placidly. “Don’t say
things like that about your little brother. I sometimes think that when
William’s just had his hair cut and got a new suit on he looks quite
sweet!”