William The Outlaw (17 page)

‘No,’ promised the purple and silver vision.

‘I’ll tell you what you might do,’ said Ethel. ‘Go and let old Jenkins see you. I think he’s in the greenhouse. I told him you were going as a fourteenth century
lady and he said, ‘Eh, her’ll look rare prutty. I wish I could see her’ – so he’d be so bucked if you would.’

‘All right,’ said Moyna, ‘I’ll just finish this ruffle and then I’ll go out to him.’

‘And I’ll be as quick as I can,’ said Ethel, ‘but you know what she is.’

William went quietly out of doors. His face was bright with inspiration and stern with resolve. First of all he satisfied himself that old Jenkins really was in the greenhouse.

Jenkins turned upon him as soon as he saw him in the doorway. Between old Jenkins and young William no love was lost.

‘You touch one of my grapes, Master William,’ he said threateningly, ‘an’ I’ll tell your pa the minute he comes home tonight, I will. I grow these grapes for your
ma an’ pa – not you.’

‘I don’ want any of your grapes, Jenkins,’ said William with a short laugh expressive of amused surprise at the idea. ‘Good gracious, what should
I
want with your
ole grapes?’

Whereupon he departed with a swagger leaving old Jenkins muttering furiously, and went to join Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough who was comfortably ensconced in a deck chair at the further end of the
lawn wooing sleep. He had almost wooed it when William appeared and sat down noisily at his feet, and said in a tone that put any further wooing of sleep entirely out of the question:

‘Hello, Mr Cranborough.’

Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough greeted William shortly and without enthusiasm. He did not want William. He did not like William. His interest in William began and ended with the special fees which he
hoped William’s parents might be induced to pay him – ‘special’ in quite a different sense from the one in which Mrs Brown understood it. He had been quite happy without
William and he meant his manner to convey this fact to William. But William was not sensitive to fine shades of manner.

‘I’ve been thinkin’,’ he said slowly, ‘’bout what you said this mornin’.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough, touched despite himself and thinking what a gift for dealing with the young he must possess to have made an impression upon such unpromising
material as this boy’s mind, and how one should never despair of material however unpromising.

‘About what, my boy?’ he said with interest, ‘the History? the French? the Arithmetic?’

‘No,’ said William simply, ‘the ghost.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough, ‘but – er – you should not allow your mind to
run
on such subjects, my boy.’

‘No,’ said William, ‘it’s not runnin’ on ’em. But I’ve just remembered somethin’ about this house.’

‘What?’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

William carefully selected a juicy blade of grass and began to chew it.

‘Oh, it’s prob’ly nothin’,’ he said carelessly, ‘but what you said this mornin’ made me think of it, that’s all.’

William was adept at whetting people’s curiosity.

‘But what
was
it?’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough irritably, ‘what
was
it?’

‘Well, p’raps I’d better not mention it,’ said William, ‘you said we oughtn’t to let it run on our minds.’

‘I insist on your telling me,’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

‘Oh, it’s nothin’ much,’ said William again, ‘only a sort of
story
about this house.’

‘
What
sort of a story?’ insisted Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

‘Well,’ said William as though reluctantly, ‘some folks say that an ole house use to be here jus’ where this house is now an’ that a lady of the fourteenth century
was killed in it once an’ some folks say they’ve seen her. I don’ b’lieve it,’ he ended carelessly, ‘
I’ve
never seen her.’

Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough’s interest was aroused.

‘What is this – this lady supposed to look like, my boy?’ he said.

‘She’s dressed in purple and silver,’ said William, ‘with a long train an’ a ruffle thing round her neck an’ very black hair, and she’s s’posed to
walk out of that window over there,’ and he pointed to the drawing-room window, ‘and then go across the lawn behind those trees,’ he pointed to the trees which hid the greenhouse
from view.

‘And you say that people profess to have
seen
her?’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

‘Oh, yes,’ said William.’

‘And what does her coming portend?’

‘Uh?’ said William.

‘What – what
happens
to those who see her?’ repeated Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough impatiently.

At that moment Miss Moyna Greene, having finished and donned the ruffle, stepped out of the drawing-room window on to the lawn in all her glory of purple and silver. Mr
Cranthorpe-Cranborough gazed at her and his jaws dropped open.

‘Look!’ he gasped to William, ‘who’s that?’

‘Who’s what?’ said William gazing around innocently.

Miss Moyna Greene passed slowly to the middle of the lawn. Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough’s eyes, bulging with amazement, followed her. So did his trembling forefinger.

‘There . . .’ he hissed, ‘just there.’

William stared straight at Miss Moyna Greene.

‘I don’t see anyone,’ he said.

Drops of perspiration stood out on Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough’s brow. He took out a large silk handkerchief and mopped it. The figure of Miss Moyna Greene crossed the lawn and disappeared
behind the trees. . . .

Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough gave a gasp.

‘Er – what did you say the – er – the sight of the vision is supposed to portend, William?’ he said faintly. ‘What – what
happens
to those who
see it?’

‘Oh, I don’ suppose anyone’s really seen it,’ said William carelessly. ‘I never have. I think they’ve simply made it up – purple dress an’ ruffle
an’ all – but it’s
s’posed
to mean very bad luck for the one who sees it.’

‘W-w-what kind of bad luck?’ stammered Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough, whose ruddy countenance had faded to a dull grey.

‘Well,’ said William confidentially, ‘it’s s’posed to be seen by one of two people together an’ the one what
sees
it is s’posed to be goin’
to have some
very
bad luck
through
the other – the one what was with him when he saw it, but what didn’t see it. The bad luck’s s’posed always to come
through
the one what doesn’t see it but what’s
with
the one what
does.
’

Through the trees William spied the figure of Miss Moyna Greene who had evidently left Jenkins and was returning to the drawing-room.

‘An’ folks
say
,’ added William carelessly, ‘that it’s worst of
all
if you see it twice – once going from the house and once comin’ to
it.’

The figure of Miss Moyna Greene emerged from the trees and passed slowly on to the lawn. Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough watched it in stricken silence. Then he said to William with an unconvincing
attempt at nonchalance:

MR CRANTHORPE-CRANBOROUGH GAZED ACROSS THE LAWN AND HIS JAW DROPPED. ‘LOOK!’ HE GASPED TO WILLIAM. ‘WHO’S THAT?’

Again William looked straight at Miss Moyna Greene.

‘No,’ he said innocently. ‘There ain’t no one there.’

Miss Moyna Greene disappeared through the drawing-room window.

‘All the bad luck,’ repeated William artlessly, ‘s’posed to come
from
the one they’re with when they see it, but I don’ b’lieve anyone ever
has
seen it if you ask me.

He looked up at Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough. Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough was still yellow and still perspiring. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

THE FIGURE OF MISS GREENE CROSSED THE LAWN AND DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE TREES.

Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough brought his eyes with an effort from the direction in which Miss Moyna Greene had vanished to William. And his expression changed. He seemed to realise for the first
time the full import of his vision.

‘Yes, William,’ he said with fear and shrinking in his manner. ‘You can – er – you can fetch me a railway timetable, my dear boy, if you’ll be so
good.’

William and Ethel and Robert had gone to bed.

Mr and Mrs Brown sat in the drawing-room alone.

‘He went very suddenly, didn’t he?’ said Mr Brown, ‘I thought I’d find him here tonight.’

‘I can’t understand it,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘he behaved most
strangely. Suddenly
came in and said he was going. Gave no reason and was most
peculiar
in his
manner.’

‘And you didn’t arrange anything about William going there?’

‘I tried to. I said should we consider it settled, but he said he was afraid he’d have no room for William, after all. I suggested putting him on a waiting list, but he said
he’d no room on his waiting list either. He wouldn’t even stay to discuss it. He went off to the station at once though I told him he’d have to wait half an hour for a train. And
the last thing he said was that he was sorry but he’d
no
room for William. He said it several times. So strange after his offering to take him at a special price.’

‘Very strange,’ said Mr Brown slowly. ‘He was – all right at lunch you say?’

‘Quite. He was talking then as if William were going.’

‘And what did he do after lunch?’

‘He went into the garden to rest. ‘

‘And who was with him?’

‘No one – Oh, except William for a few minutes.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Brown, and remembered the sphinxlike look upon William’s face when he said Goodnight to him. ‘I’d give a good deal to have been present at those few
minutes – but the secret, whatever it was, will die with William, I suppose. William possesses the supreme gift of being able to keep his own counsel.’

‘Are you sorry, dear, that William’s not going to a boarding-school?’

‘I don’t think I am,’ said Mr Brown.

‘I should have thought you’d have found it so nice and quiet without him.’

‘Doubtless I should. But it would also have been extremely dull.’

CHAPTER 7

W
ILLIAM had been to watch the sheep dog trials at a neighbouring Agricultural Show and had been much thrilled by the spectacle. It had seemed,
moreover, perfectly simple. Just a dog and some sheep and anyone could do it. He had a dog, of course – Jumble, his beloved mongrel who had filled many and various rôles since he had
joined William’s
ménage.
He had been a walking dog and a dancing dog and a talking dog. He had even on one occasion represented a crowd in a play organised by William. It cannot
be claimed that Jumble brought any great brilliance to bear on the fulfilment of these rôles. He was essentially passive, rather than active, in his representation of them. He walked and
danced perforce, because William on these occasions held his front paws and he could do nothing else. His ‘talking’ was his natural reaction of excitement to William’s softly
whispered ‘rats!’ It did not really represent that almost superhuman intelligence that William claimed for it. Jumble himself took no pride in his accomplishments. When he heard the
word ‘trick’ he slunk off as quickly as he could, but if escape were impossible he yielded to the inevitable, and suffered the humiliation of walking or dancing with an air of
supercilious boredom.

After breakfast on the morning after the sheep trials, William walked slowly and thoughtfully into the garden. There he was greeted effusively by Jumble who tried to convey to him by barks and
leaps and whirlwind rushes that it was just the morning for a walk in the wood, where perhaps – perhaps – with luck one might meet a rabbit or two. But William was not in a rabbit mood.
He was in a sheep dog mood. He had definitely decided to train Jumble to be a sheep dog. It might be objected that with truth Jumble was not a sheep dog, to which objection it might with equal
truth be replied that Jumble was as much a sheep dog as he was any other sort of dog. The sorts of dog in Jumble were so thoroughly mixed that there was no sort of dog you could definitely say he
wasn’t.