William—the good

IT was announced in the village that the Literary Society was going to give a play on Christmas Eve. It was a tradition that a play should be given in the village every Christmas Eve. It did not much matter who gave it or what it was about or what it was in aid of, but the village had begun to expect a play of some sort on Christmas Eve. William’s sister Ethel and her friends had at first decided to do scenes from “As You Like It,” but this had fallen through partly because Ethel had succumbed to influenza as soon as the cast was arranged, and partly because of other complications too involved to enter into.

So the Literary Society had stepped into the breach, and had announced that it was going to act a play in aid of its Cinematograph Fund. The Literary Society was trying to collect enough money to buy a cinematograph. Cinematographs, the President said, were so educational. But that was not the only reason. Membership of the Literary Society had lately begun to fall alarmingly, chiefly because, as everyone freely admitted, the meetings were so dull. They had heard Miss Greene-Joanes read her paper on “The Influence of Browning” five times, and they had had the Debate on “That the Romantic School has contributed more to Literature than the Classical School” three times, and they’d had a Sale of Work and a Treasure Hunt and a picnic and there didn’t seem to be anything else to do in the literary line. Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, the Secretary, said that it wasn’t her fault. She’d written to ask Bernard Shaw, Arnold Bennett, E. Einstein, M. Coué and H. G. Wells to come down to address them and it wasn’t her fault that they hadn’t answered. She’d enclosed a stamped addressed envelope in each case. More than once they’d tried reading Shakespeare aloud, but it only seemed to send the members to sleep and then they woke up cross.

But the suggestion of the cinematograph had put fresh life into the Society. There had been nearly six new members (the sixth hadn’t quite made up her mind) since the idea was first mooted. The more earnest ones had dreams of watching improving films, such as those depicting Sunrise on the Alps or the Life of a Kidney Bean from the cradle to the grave, while the less earnest ones considered that such films as the “Three Musketeers” and “Monsieur Beaucaire” were quite sufficiently improving. So far they had had a little “Bring and Buy Sale” in aid of it, and had raised five and elevenpence three farthings, but as Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce had said that was not nearly enough because they wanted a really good one.

The play was the suggestion of one of the new members, a Miss Gwladwyn. “That ought,” she said optimistically, “to bring us in another pound or two.”

The tradition of the Christmas Eve plays in the village included a silver collection at the door, but did not include tickets. It was rightly felt that if the village had to pay for its tickets, it would not come at all. The silver collection at the door, too, was not as lucrative as one would think because the village had no compunction at all about walking past the plate as if it did not see it even if it was held out right under its nose. It was felt generally that “a pound or two” was a rather too hopeful estimate. But still a pound, as Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce so unanswerably pointed out, was a pound, and anyway it would be good for the Literary Society to get up a play. It would, she said, with her incurable optimism, “draw them together.” As a matter of fact, experience had frequently proved the acting of a play to have precisely the opposite effect.... They held a meeting to discuss the nature of the play. There was an uneasy feeling that they ought to do one of Shakespeare’s or Sheridan’s, or, as Miss Formester put it, vaguely, “something of Shelley’s or Keats’,” but the more modest ones thought that though literary, they were not quite as literary as that, and the less modest ones, as represented by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, said quite boldly and openly that though those authors had doubtless suited their own generations, things had progressed since then. She added that she’d once tried to read “She Stoops to Conquer,” and hadn’t been able to see what people saw in it.

“Of course,” admitted Miss Georgine Hemmersley, “the men characters will be the difficulty.” (The membership of the Literary Society was entirely feminine). “I have often thought that perhaps it would be a good thing to try to interest the men of the neighbourhood in our little society.”

“I don’t know,” said Miss Featherstone doubtfully, thinking of those pleasant little meetings of the Literary Society, which were devoted to strong tea, iced cakes, and interchanges of local scandal. “I don’t know. Look at it how you will as soon as you begin to have men in a thing, it complicates it at once. I’ve often noticed it. There’s something restless about men. And they aren’t literary. It’s no good pretending they are.”

The Society sighed and agreed.

“Of course it has its disadvantages at a time like this,” went on Miss Featherstone, “not having any men, I mean, because, of course, it means that we can’t act any modern plays. It means we have to fall back on plays of historical times. I mean wigs and things.”

“I know,” said Miss Gwladwyn demurely, “a perfectly sweet little historical play.”

“What period is it, dear?” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

“It’s the costume period,” said Miss Gwladwyn simply. “You know. Wigs and ruffles and swords. Tudor. Or is it Elizabethan? It’s about the Civil War, anyway, and it’s really awfully sweet.”

“What’s the plot of it?” said the Literary Society with interest.

“Well,” said Miss Gwladwyn, “the heroine” (a certain modest bashfulness in Miss Gwladwyn’s mien at this moment showed clearly that she expected to be the heroine), “the heroine is engaged to a Roundhead, but she isn’t really in love with him. At least she thinks she is, but she isn’t. And a wounded Cavalier comes to her house to take refuge in a terrible storm, and she takes him in meaning to hand him over to her fiancé, you know. Her father’s a Roundhead, of course, you see. And then she falls in love with him, with the Cavalier, I mean, and hides him, and then the fiancé finds him and she tells him that she doesn’t love him, but she loves the other. That’s an awfully sweet scene. There’s a snow-storm. I’ve forgotten exactly how the snow-storm comes in, but I know that there is one, and it’s awfully effective. You do it with tiny bits of paper dropped from above. It makes an awfully sweet scene. There are heaps of characters too,” she went on eagerly, “we could all have quite good parts. There’s a comic aunt and a comic uncle and awfully sweet parts for my—I mean her parents and quite a lot of servants with really good parts. There’d be parts and to spare for everyone. Some of us could even take two. It’s an awfully sweet thing altogether.”

Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce looked doubtful.

“Is it literary enough, do you think,” she said uncertainly.

“Oh yes,” said Miss Gwladwyn, earnestly. “It must be. If it’s historical it must be literary, mustn’t it? I mean, it follows, doesn’t it?”

Apparently the majority of the Literary Society thought it did.

“Anyway,” said Miss Gwladwyn brightly, “I’ll get the book and we’ll have a reading and then vote on it. All I can say is that I’ve seen it and I’ve seen a good many of Shakespeare’s plays too, and I consider this a much sweeter thing than any of Shakespeare’s, and if that doesn’t prove that it’s Literary I don’t know what does.”

Again the Society seemed to find the logic unassailable and the meeting broke up (after tea and iced cake, a verbatim account of what Mrs. Jones said to Mrs. Robinson when they’d quarrelled last week, and a detailed description of the doctor’s wife’s new hat), arranging to meet the next week and read Miss Gwladwyn’s play.

“I know that you’ll like it,” was Miss Gwladwyn’s final assurance as she took her leave. “It’s such an awfully sweet little thing.”

The meeting took place early the next week. Miss Gwladwyn opened it by artlessly suggesting that as she’d seen the play before she should read the heroine’s part. It was generally felt that as she had introduced the play to them, this was only her due.

The first scene was read fairly briskly. It abounded, however, in such stage directions as “When door opens howling of wind is heard outside.” “Crash of thunder without,” and such remarks as: “Hark how the storm does rage to-night,” and: “Hear the beating of the rain upon the window-panes.” “Listen! Do you not hear the sound of horses’ hoofs?”

At the end of the scene Miss Georgine Hemmersley (who was a notorious pessimist) remarked:

“It will be very difficult to get those noises made.”

“Those who aren’t on the stage must make them,” said Miss Gwladwyn.

“But we’re all on the stage in this scene,” objected Miss Georgine Hemmersley.

“Then we must have a special person to make them,” said Miss Gwladwyn.

Miss Georgine Hemmersley threw her eye over the stage directions.

“They’ll be very difficult to make,” she said, “especially the wind. How does one make the sound of wind?”

“A sort of whistle, I suppose,” said Miss Gwladwyn doubtfully.

“Y-yes,” said Miss Georgine Hemmersley, “but how? I mean, I couldn’t do it, for instance.”

At that moment William passed down the street outside.

William was whistling—not his usual piercing blast of a whistle, but a slow, mournful, meditative whistle. As a matter of fact he was not aware that he was whistling at all. His mind was occupied with a deep and apparently insoluble problem—the problem of how to obtain a new football with no money or credit at his disposal. Only such an optimist as William would have tackled the problem at all. But William walking down the street, hands in pockets, scowling gaze fixed on the ground mechanically and unconsciously emitting a tuneless monotonous undertone of a whistle, was convinced that there must be a solution of the problem if only he could think of it.... If only he could think of it.... He passed by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s open window and his whistle fell upon a sudden silence within.

“What’s that?” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

Miss Georgine Hemmersley went to the window.

“It’s just a boy,” she said.

Miss Gwladwyn followed her.

“It’s that rough-looking boy one sees about so much,” she said.

Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce joined them at the window.

“It’s William Brown,” she said.

They stood at the open window while William, wholly unconscious of their regard, still grappling mentally with his insoluble problem, passed on his way. His faint tuneless strain floated back to them.

“It—it does sound like the wind,” said Miss Gwladwyn.

On an impulse Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce put her head out of the window.

“William Brown!” she called sharply. “Come here.”

William turned and scowled at her aggressively.

“I’ve not done nothin’,” he said. “It wasn’t me you saw chasin’ your cat yesterday.”

“Come in here, William,” she said. “We want to ask you something.”

William stood hesitating, not sure whether to obey or whether to show his contempt of her by continuing his thoughtful progress down the street.

They probably only wanted him in to make a fuss about something he’d not done. Well, not meant to do anyway; well, not worth making a fuss about anyway. On the other hand it might be something else and if he went on he’d never know what they’d wanted him for. His curiosity won the day.

Taking a piece of chewing-gum, which he had absently been carrying in his mouth, from his mouth to his pocket, he proceeded to hoist himself up to the window sill whence he had been summoned.

“Not that way, William!” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce sternly. “Come in by the front door, please, in the usual way.”

William lowered himself to the street again, put the chewing-gum back into his mouth, stood for a minute obviously wondering whether it was worth while to go in by the front door in the usual way, decided apparently that though it probably wasn’t, still there was just a chance that it might be, then, very, very slowly (as if to prove his complete independence, despite his show of obedience), went round to the front door.

“You may open the door and come in,” called Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce from the window, “and don’t forget to wipe your feet.”

William opened the door and came in. He wiped his feet with a commendable and very lengthy thoroughness (whose object was to keep them waiting for him as long as possible), transferred his chewing-gum from his mouth to his pocket again, carefully arranged his cap between the horns of the stuffed head of an antelope which was hanging on the wall, thought better of it and transferred it to the stuffed head of a fox, which was hanging on the opposite wall, gazed critically for a long time at a stuffed owl in a cage, absently broke off a piece of a fern that grew in a plant pot next to the hat-stand, and finally entered the drawing-room. He stood in the doorway facing them, still scowling aggressively and scattering bits of fern upon the carpet. His mind went quickly over the more recent events of his career in order to account for the summons. He was already regretting having obeyed it. He decided to take the offensive. Fixing a stern and scowling gaze upon Miss Greene-Joanes, he said:

“When you saw me in your garden yesterday I was jus’ gettin’ a ball of mine that’d gone over the wall into your garden. I was simply tryin’ to save you trouble by goin’ an’ gettin’ it myself, ’stead of troublin’ you goin’ to the front door. An’ that apple was one what I found lyin’ under your tree an’ I thought I’d pick it up for you jus’ to help you tidy up the place ’cause it looks so untidy with apples lyin’ about under the trees all over the place.”

“William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, “we did not ask you to come in in order to discuss your visit to Miss Greene-Joanes’ garden——”

William turned his steely eye upon her and pursued his policy of taking the offensive.

“Those stones you saw me throwin’ at your tree,” he said, “was jus’ to kill grubs ’n’ things what might be doin’ it harm. I thought I’d help you keep your garden nice by throwin’ stones at your tree to kill the grubs ’n’ things on it for you ’cause they were eatin’ away the bark or somethin’.”

“We didn’t bring you in to talk about that either, William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce. Then, clearing her throat, she said: “You were whistling as you went down the road, were you not?”

William’s stern and freckled countenance expressed horror and amazement.

“Well!” he said. “Well! I bet I was hardly makin’ any noise at all. ’Sides”—aggressively—“there’s nothin’ to stop folks jus’ whistlin’, is there? In the street. If they want to. I wasn’t doin’ you any harm, was I? Jus’ whistlin’ in the street. If you’ve gotta headache or anythin’ an’ don’ want me to I won’t not till I get into the nex’ street where you won’t hear me. Not now I know. You needn’t’ve brought me in jus’ to say that. If you’d jus’ shouted it out of the window I’d’ve heard all right. But I don’t see you can blame me jus’ for——”

Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce held out a hand feebly to stem the tide of his eloquence.

“It’s not that, William,” she said faintly. “Do stop talking for two minutes, and let me speak. We—we were interested in your whistle. Would you—would you kindly repeat it in here—just to let us hear again what it sounds like?”

William was proud of his whistle and flattered to be thus asked to perform in public. He paused a minute to gather his forces together, drew in his breath, then emitted a sound that would have done credit to a factory syren.

Miss Georgine Hemmersley screamed. Miss Gwladwyn, who was poised girlishly on the arm of her chair, lost her balance and fell on to the floor. Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce clapped her hands to her ears with a moan of agony and Miss Greene-Joanes lay back in her chair in a dead faint, from which, however, as no one took any notice of her, she quickly recovered. William, immensely flattered by this reception of his performance, murmured modestly:

“I can do a better one still this way,” and proceeded to put a finger into each corner of his mouth and to draw in his breath for another blast.

With great presence of mind, Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce managed to put her hand across his face just in time.

“No, William,” she said brokenly, “not like that—not like that——”

“I warn you,” said Miss Greene-Joanes, in a shrill, trembling voice, “I shall have hysterics if he does it again. I’ve already fainted,” she went on, in a reproachful voice, “but nobody noticed me. I won’t be answerable for what happens to me if that boy stays in the room a minute longer.”

“Send him away,” moaned Miss Featherstone, “and let’s imagine the wind.”

“Let’s leave it to chance,” pleaded Miss Greene-Joanes. “I can’t bear it again. There—there may be a natural wind that night. It’s quite possible.”

“William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce weakly, “it was a gentle whistle we wanted to hear. A whistle like—like—like the wind in the distance. A long way in the distance, William.”

William emitted a gentle, drawn-out, mournful whistle. It represented perfectly the distant moaning of the wind. His stricken audience recovered and gave a gasp of amazement and delight.

“That was very nice,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

William, cheered and flattered by her praise, said: “I’ll do it a bit nearer than that now,” and again gathered his forces for the effort.

“No, William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce again stopping him just in time. “That’s as near as we want. That’s just what we want.... Now, William, we are going to get up a little play, and during the play the wind is supposed to be heard right in the distance—a long, long way in the distance, William. The wind is supposed to be a very distant one indeed, William. Perhaps for a very great treat we’ll let you make that wind, William.”

William’s mind worked quickly. The apparently insoluble problem was still with him. He saw a means, not to solve it indeed, but to make it a little less insoluble. Assuming his most sphinx-like expression he said unblushingly, unblinkingly:

“Well, of course—that’ll take up a good deal of my time. I dunno quite as I can spare all that time.”

They were amazed at his effrontery and at the same time his astounding and unexpected reluctance to accept the post of wind-maker increased the desirability of his whistle in their eyes.

“Of course, William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce in cold reproach, “if you don’t want to help in a good cause like this——” Wisely she kept the exact nature of the good cause vague.

“Oh, I don’ mind helpin’,” said William; “all I meant was that it’d probably be takin’ up a good deal of my time when I might be doin’ useful things for other people. F’rinstance, I often pump up my uncle’s motor tyres for him.” William’s face became so expressionless as to border on the imbecile as he added: “He always gives me sixpence for doing that.”

There was a short silence and then Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce said with great dignity:

“We will, of course, be pleased to give you sixpence for being the wind and any other little noises that may come into the play, William.”

“Thank you,” said William, concealing his delight beneath a tone of calm indifference. Sixpence ... it was something to start from. William was such an optimist that with the first sixpence the whole fund seemed suddenly to be assured to him.... He could do something else for someone else and get another sixpence and that would be a shilling, and, well, if he kept on doing things for people for sixpence he’d soon have enough money to buy the football. Optimistically he ignored the fact that most people expected him to do things for them for nothing....

It was arranged that William should attend the next reading of the play in order to be the wind and whatever other noises might be necessary, and then William, transferring his chewing-gum from his pocket to his mouth and scattering bits of fern absently to mark his path as he went, disappeared into the hall, took his cap from the fox’s head, pulled a face at the stuffed owl, then, seeming annoyed by its equanimity, pulled another, absently plucked off another spray of Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s cherished fern, and made his devastating way into the street. His piercing and unharmonious whistle shattered the quiet of countless peaceful homes as he strode onwards, cheered and invigorated by his visit, looking forward with equal joy to his rôle as wind-maker and his possession of the sixpence that was to be the nucleus of his football fund.

The members of the Literary Society heaved sighs of relief as the sounds of his departure faded into the distance.

“Don’t you think,” said Miss Greene-Joanes pathetically, “that we could find a quieter type of boy.”

“But it was,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, “it was a very good imitation of the wind. I mean, of course, when he did it softly.”

“But wouldn’t a quieter type of boy do?” persisted Miss Greene-Joanes. “For instance, there’s that dear little Cuthbert Montgomery.”

“But he can’t whistle,” objected Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce. “I’m afraid that you’d always find that the quiet type of boy couldn’t do such a good whistle.”

So reluctantly the Literary Society decided to appoint William as the wind.

William put in an early appearance at the next rehearsal. It was in fact a little too early for Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, at whose house it was held. He arrived half an hour before the time at which it was to begin and spent the half-hour sitting in her drawing-room cracking nuts and practising his whistle. Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce said that it gave her a headache that lasted for a week.

“William,” she said sternly when she entered the drawing-room, “if you don’t learn to do a quiet whistle we won’t have you at all.”

“Wasn’t that quiet?” said William, surprised. “It seemed to me to be such a quiet sort of whistle that I’m surprised you heard it at all.”

“Well, I did,” she snapped, “and it’s given me a headache, and don’t do it any more.”

“Sorry,” said William succinctly, transferring his whole attention to his nuts.

Her tone had conveyed to him that his position as wind-maker was rather precarious, so when the other members of the cast arrived he made his wind whistle so low that they had to request him to do it a leetle—just a very leetle—louder. Even then it sounded very faint and far away. William had decided not to risk either his sixpence or his place in the cast by whistling too loudly at rehearsals. The actual performance of course would be quite a different matter. His gentle whistle endeared him to them. They unbent to him. He was turning out, Miss Featherstone confided to Miss Gwladwyn in a whisper, a nicer type of boy than she had feared he would at first. He had helpful suggestions too about the other noises. He knew how to make the sound of horses’ hooves. You did it with a coco-nut. And he knew how to make thunder. You did it with a tin tray. And he could make revolver shots by letting off caps or squibs or something. Anyway, he could do it somehow.... They thought that perhaps he’d better not try those things till nearer the time. He’d better confine himself to the wind—so he confined himself to the wind, a gentle, anæmic sort of wind which he despised in his heart, but which he felt was winning him the confidence of his new friends. They unbent to him more and more. He was rather annoyed that he was not to have the snow-storm. Miss Gwladwyn said that her nephew would manage the snow-storm. She said that her nephew was a dear little boy with beautiful manners, who she admitted regretfully could not whistle, and might not be able to manage the other noises, but would, she was sure, manage the snow-storm perfectly.

William went home fortified by their praise of his distant whistle and two buns given him by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce. On the way he met Douglas and Henry and Ginger.

“Hello,” they said, “where’ve you been?”

“I’ve been to a rehearsal,” said William with his own inimitable swagger. “I’m actin’ in a play.”

They were as impressed as even William could wish them to be.

“What play?” demanded Ginger.

“One the Lit’ry Society’s gettin’ up,” said William airily.

“What’s it called?” said Douglas.

William did not know what it was called, so he said with an air of careless importance:

“That’s a secret. I’ve not got to tell anyone that.”

“Well, what are you actin’ in it?” said Henry.

William’s swagger increased.

“I’m the most important person in it,” he said. “They jolly well couldn’t do it at all without me.”

“You the hero?” said Ginger incredulously.

“Um,” admitted William. “That’s what I am.”

After all, he thought, surely in a play where you were continually hearing and talking about the wind, the wind might be referred to as the hero. Anyway, he soothed his conscience by telling it that as he was the only man in the piece, he must be the hero.

“They’re all women,” he continued carelessly, “so of course they had to get a man in from somewhere to be the hero.”

The Outlaws were not quite convinced, and yet there was something about William’s swagger....

“Well,” said Ginger, “I s’pose if you’re the hero you’ll be havin’ rehearsals with ’em?”

“Yes,” said William. “Course I will!”

“All right,” challenged Ginger. “Tell us where you’re havin’ the nex’ one an’ we’ll see.”

“At Mrs. Bruce’s nex’ Tuesday afternoon at three,” said William promptly.

“All right,” said the Outlaws, “an’ we’ll jolly well see.”

So next Tuesday at three o’clock they jolly well saw. Hidden in the bushes in Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s (let us call her by her full name. She hated to hear it as she said “murdered”) garden they saw the cast of “A Trial of Love” arrive one by one at the front door. And with them arrived William—the only male character—swaggering self-consciously but quite obviously as an invited guest up Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s front drive. He was fully aware of the presence of his friends in the bushes, though he appeared not to notice them. His swagger as he walked in at the front door is indescribable.

The Outlaws crept away silent and deeply impressed. It was true. William must be the hero of the play. They were torn between envy of their leader and pride in him. Though all of them would have liked to be the hero of a play, still they could shine in William’s reflected glory. Their walk as they went away from Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s front gate reflected something of William’s swagger. William was a hero in a play. Well, people’d have to treat them all a bit diff’rent after that.

The rehearsal was on the whole a great success. William, afraid that his friends might be listening at the window and not wishing them to guess the comparative insignificance of his rôle, reduced his whistle to a mere breath. Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce said encouragingly: “Just a leetle louder, William,” but Miss Greene-Joanes said hastily: “Well, perhaps it would be as well to keep it like that for rehearsals, dear, and to bring it out just a leetle bit louder on the night.”

So William, still afraid that the Outlaws were crouched intently outside the window, kept it like that.

It was decided at the end that William need not attend all the rehearsals. The cast found his stare demoralising, and his habit of transferring his piece of chewing-gum (he’d had it for three weeks now) from his mouth to his pocket and from his pocket to his mouth disconcerting. Also he would at intervals take a nut from another pocket and crack it with much noise and facial contortion. He always made a very ostentatious show of collecting all the shells and putting them into yet another pocket, but Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s horrified gaze watched a little heap of broken nutshells steadily growing upon her precious carpet by William’s feet. William himself fondly imagined that he was behaving in an exemplary way. He had even offered each of them one of his nuts and had been secretly much relieved at their refusal. They could not, he thought, expect him to offer them a chew of his chewing-gum.... But he was supremely bored and was not sorry when informed that it would be best for them to rehearse the play without wind and thunder till they were a little more accustomed to it.

He was not summoned to another rehearsal for a fortnight. The play was, as Miss Georgine Hemmersley said, “taking shape beautifully.” Miss Georgine Hemmersley as a Cavalier looked quite dashing, despite her forty-odd years, and Miss Featherstone as the Roundhead looked also very fine, though she too had passed her first youth. It was, however, as she said, only fair that those who had been in the society longest should have the best parts.... Miss Gwladwyn, they all agreed, made a sweetly pretty heroine.

William arrived with all his paraphernalia of coco-nuts and squibs and tin tray, and, he considered, put up the best show of all of them. True, the rest of the cast seemed a little irritable. They kept saying: “Quietly, William.” “William, not so loud.” “William, we can’t hear ourselves speak.” “William, stop making that deafening noise. Well, there isn’t any wind now.” At the end Miss Greene-Joanes, who had seemed strangely excited all the time, burst out:

“Now, I’ve got some news for you all.... William, you needn’t stay.” William began to make elaborate and protracted preparations for his departure, but, intensely curious, lingered within earshot. “I didn’t tell you before we began, because I knew it would make you too excited to act. It did me. You’ll never guess who’s staying in the village.”

“Who?” chorused the cast breathlessly.

“Sir Giles Hampton.”

The cast uttered screams of excitement. The Cavalier said, “What for?” and the Roundhead said, “Who told you?” and the comic aunt and uncle said simultaneously, “Good heavens!”

“He’s had a nervous breakdown,” said Miss Greene-Joanes, “and he’s staying at the inn here because of the air, and he’s supposed to be incognito, but of course people recognise him. As a matter of fact, he’s telling people who he is because he’s not really keen on being incognito. Actors never are really. They feel frightfully mad if people don’t recognise them.”

“What’s he like to look at?” said the comic aunt breathlessly.

“Tall and important-looking and rather handsome with very bushy eyebrows.”

“Do you think he’ll come?” said all the cast simultaneously.

“I don’t know but—— William, will you go home and stop dropping nutshells on the carpet.”

There was a silence while all the cast waited impatiently for William to take his leave. With great dignity William took it. He was annoyed at his unceremonious ejection. Thinking such a lot of themselves and their old play, and where would they be, he’d like to know, without the wind and the thunder and the horses’ hooves and all the rest of it?... Treating the most important person in the play the way they treated him....

He walked down the road scowling morosely, absent-mindedly cracking nuts and scattering nutshells about him as he went.... At the end of the road he collided with a tall man with bushy eyebrows.

“You should look where you’re going, my little man,” said the stranger.

“Come to that, so should you,” remarked William, who was still feeling embittered.

The tall man blinked.

“Do you know who I am?” he said majestically.

“No,” said William simply, “an’ I bet you don’t know who I am either.”

“I’m a very great actor,” said the man.

“So’m I,” said William promptly.

“So great,” went on the man, “that when they want me to play a part they give me any money I choose to ask for it.”

“I’m that sort, too,” said William, thrusting his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “I asked for sixpence an’ they gave it me straight off. It’s goin’ to a new football.”

“And do you know why I’m here, my little man?” said the stranger.

“No,” said William without much interest and added: “I’m here because I live here.”

“I’m here,” said the man, “because of my nerves. Acting has exhausted my vitality and impaired my nervous system. I’m an artist, and like most other artists am highly strung. Do you know that sometimes before I go on to the stage I tremble from head to foot.”

“I don’t,” said William coolly. “I never feel like that when I’m actin’.”

“Ah!” smiled the man, “but I’m always the most important person in the plays I act in.”

“So’m I,” retorted William. “I’m like that. I’m the most important person in the play I’m in now.”

“Would you like to see the programme of the play I’ve just been acting in in London?” continued the actor, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket.

William looked at it with interest. It contained a list of names in ordinary-sized print; then an “and” and then “Giles Hampton” in large letters.

“Yes,” said William calmly, “that’s the way my name’s goin’ to be printed in our play.”

“What play is it?” said the man yielding at last to William’s irresistible egotism.

“It’s called ‘The Trial of Love,’” said William. “It’s for my football an’ their cinematograph.”

“Ha-ha!” said the man. “And may—may—ah—distinguished strangers come to it?”

“Yes,” said William casually, “anyone can come to it. You’ve gotter pay at least. Everyone’s gotter pay.”

“Well, I must certainly come,” said the distinguished stranger. “I must certainly come and see you play the hero.”

The dress rehearsal was not an unqualified success, but as Miss Featherstone said that was always a sign that the real performance would go off well. In all the most successful plays, she said, the dress rehearsal went off badly. William quite dispassionately considered them the worst-tempered set of people he’d ever come across in his life. They snapped at him if he so much as spoke. They said that his wind was far too loud, though it was in his opinion so faint and distant a breeze that it was hardly worth doing at all. They objected also to his thunder and his horses’ hooves. They said quite untruly that they were deafening. A deep disgust with the whole proceedings was growing stronger and stronger in William’s breast. He felt that it would serve them right if he washed his hands of the whole thing and refused to make any of their noises for them. The only reason why he did not do this was that he was afraid that if he did they’d find someone else to do it in his place. Moreover he was feeling worried about another matter. He was aware that he did not take in the play such an important part as he had given his friends to understand. He had given them to understand that he took the principal part and was on the stage all the time, whereas, though he quite honestly considered that he took the principal part, he wasn’t on the stage at all. Then there was that man with bushy eyebrows he’d met in the village. He’d probably come, and William had quite given him to understand that he had his name on the programme in big letters and took a principal part....

“Thunder, William,” said Miss Gwladwyn irritably, interrupting his meditations. “Why don’t you keep awake and follow where we are!”

William emitted a piercing whistle.

“Not wind,” she snapped. “Thunder.”

William beat on his tin tray.

Miss Greene-Joanes groaned.

“That noise,” she said, “goes through and through my head. I can’t bear it!”

“Well, thunder is loud,” said William coldly. “It’s nachrally loud. I can’t help thunder bein’ nachrally loud.”

“Thunder more gently, William,” commanded Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

Just to annoy them William made an almost inaudible rumble of thunder, but to his own great annoyance it didn’t annoy them at all. “That’s better, William,” they said; and gloomily William returned to his meditation. He’d seen the programme and had hardly been able to believe his eyes when he saw that his name wasn’t on it at all. They hadn’t even got his name down as the wind or the thunder or the horses’ hooves or anything.... If it hadn’t been for that sixpence he’d certainly have chucked up the whole thing....

They’d got to the snow-storm scene now. The curtains were half drawn across and in the narrow aperture appeared Miss Gwladwyn, the heroine. It was a very complicated plot, but at this stage of it she’d been turned out of her home by her cruel Roundhead father and was wandering in search of her lost Cavalier lover.

She said: “How cold it is! Heaven, wilt thou show me any pity?” and turned her face up to the sky, and tiny snow-flakes began to fall upon her face. The tiny snow-flakes were tiny bits of paper dropped down through a tiny opening in the ceiling by her well-mannered little nephew. He did it very nicely. William did not pay much attention to it. He was beginning to consider the whole thing beneath his contempt.

It was the evening of the performance. The performers were making frenzied preparations behind the scenes. Mr. Fleuster was to draw the curtain, Miss Featherstone’s sister was to prompt, and William was to hand out programmes. Mr. Fleuster has not come into this story before, but he had been trying to propose to Miss Gwladwyn for the last five years and had not yet been able to manage it. Both Miss Gwladwyn and Miss Gwladwyn’s friends had given him ample opportunities, but opportunities only seemed to make him yet more bashful. When he had not an opportunity he longed to propose, and when an opportunity of proposing came he lost his head and didn’t do it. Miss Gwladwyn had done everything a really nice woman can do; that is to say, she had done everything short of actually proposing herself. Her friends had arranged for him to draw the curtain in the hopes that it would bring matters to a head. Not that they really expected that it would. It would, of course, be a good opportunity, and as such would fill him with terror and dismay.

Mr. Fleuster, large and perspiring, stood by the curtain, pretending not to see that Miss Gwladwyn was standing quite near him and that no one else was within earshot, and that it was an excellent opportunity.

William stood sphinx-like at the door distributing programmes. His cogitations had not been entirely profitless. He had devised means by which he hoped to vindicate his position as hero. For one thing he had laboriously printed out four special programmes which he held concealed beneath the ordinary programmes, and which were to be distributed to Ginger, Douglas, Henry, and the actor, if the actor should come. He had copied down the dramatis personæ from the ordinary programme, but at the end he had put an “and” and then in gigantic letters:

Seeing Ginger coming he hastily got one of his home-made programmes out and assuming his blankest expression handed it to him.

“Good ole William,” murmured Ginger as he took it.

Then Henry came, and Henry also was given one.

“Why aren’t you changin’ into your things?” said Henry.

“I don’t ackshully come on to the stage,” admitted William. “I’m the most important person in the play as you’ll soon jolly well see, but I don’t ackshully come on to the stage.”

He was glad to have got that confession off his chest.

Then Douglas came. He handed the third of his privately printed programmes to Douglas with an air of impersonal officialism, as if he were too deeply occupied in his duties to be able to recognise his friends.

There was only one left. That was for the actor. If the actor came. William peered anxiously down the road. The room was full. It was time to begin.

“William Brown!” an exasperated voice hissed down the room. William swelled with importance. Everyone would know now that they couldn’t begin without him. He continued to gaze anxiously down the road. There he was at last.

“William Brown!”

The actor was almost at the door. He carried a parcel under his arm.

“William Brown,” said someone in the back row obligingly, “they want you.”

“William—Brown!” hissed Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s face, appearing frenzied and bodiless like the Cheshire cat between the curtains.

The actor entered the hall. William thrust his one remaining programme into his hand.

“Thought you were the hero,” said the actor, gazing at him sardonically.

William met his sardonic gaze unblinkingly.

“So I am,” he said promptly, “but the hero doesn’t always come on to the stage. Not in the newest sort of plays, anyway.” He pointed to the large-lettered part of the programme. “That’s me,” he said modestly. “All of it’s me.”

With this he hastened back behind the curtain, leaving the actor reading his programme at the end of the room.

He was received with acrimony by a nerve-racked cast.

“Keeping us all waiting all this time.”

“Didn’t you hear us calling?”

“It’s nearly twenty-five to.”

“It’s all right,” said William in a superior manner that maddened them still further. “You can begin now.”

Miss Featherstone’s sister took her prompt-book, Mr. Fleuster seized the curtain-strings, the cast entered the stage, William took his seat behind, and the play began.

Now William’s plans for making himself the central figure of the play did not stop with the programmes. He considered that the noises he had been allowed to make at the rehearsals had been pitifully inadequate, and he intended to-night to produce a storm more worthy of his powers. Who ever heard of the wind howling in a storm the way they’d made him howl all these weeks? He knew what the wind howling in a storm sounded like and he’d jolly well make it sound like that. There was his cue. Someone was saying:

“Hark how the storm rages. Canst hear the wind?”

At the ensuing sound the prompter dropped her book and the heroine lost her balance and brought down the property mantelpiece on to the top of her. William had put a finger into each corner of his mouth in order to aid nature in the rendering of the storm. The sound was even more piercing than he had expected it to be. That, thought William, complacently noticing the havoc it played with both audience and cast, was something like a wind. That would show ’em whether he was the hero of the play or not. With admirable presence of mind the cast pulled itself together and continued. William’s next cue was the thunder.

“List,” said the heroine, “how the thunder rages in the valley.”

The thunder raged and continued to rage. For some minutes the cast remained silent and motionless—except for facial contortions expressive of horror and despair—waiting for the thunder to abate, but as it showed no signs of stopping they tried to proceed. It was, however, raging so violently that no one could hear a word, so they had to stop again.

At last even its maker tired of it and it died away. The play proceeded. Behind the scenes William smiled again to himself. That had been a jolly good bit of thunder. He’d really enjoyed that. And it would jolly well let them all know he was there even if he wasn’t dressed up and on the stage like the others. His next cue was the horses’ hooves, and William was feeling a little nervous about that. The sound of horses’ hooves is made with a coco-nut, and though William had managed to take his coco-nut (purchased for him by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce) about with him all the time the play was in rehearsal, he had as recently as last night succumbed to temptation and eaten it. He didn’t quite know what to do about the horses’ hooves. He hadn’t dared to tell anyone about it. But still he thought he’d be able to manage it. Here it was coming now.

“Listen,” Miss Gwladwyn was saying. “I hear the sound of horses’ hooves.”

Then in the silence came the sound of a tin tray being hit slowly, loudly, regularly. The audience gave a yell of laughter. William felt annoyed. He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. It wasn’t anything to laugh at, anyway. He showed his annoyance by another deafening and protracted thunderstorm.

When this had died away the play proceeded. William’s part in that scene was officially over. But William did not wish to withdraw from the public eye. It occurred to him that in all probability the wind and the thunder still continued. Yes, somebody mentioned again that it was a wild night to be out in. Come to that, the war must be going on all the time. There were probably battles going on all over the place. He’d better throw a few squibs about and make a bit more wind and thunder. He set to work with commendable thoroughness.

At last the end of the scene came. Mr. Fleuster drew the curtains and chaos reigned. Most of the cast attacked William, but some of them were attacking each other, and quite a lot of them were attacking the prompter. They had on several occasions forgotten their words and not once had the prompter come to their rescue. On one occasion they had wandered on to Act II. and stayed there a considerable time. The prompter’s plea that she’d lost her place right at the very beginning and hadn’t been able to find it again was not accepted as an excuse. Then Miss Hemmersley was annoyed with Miss Featherstone for giving her the wrong cues all the way through, and Miss Gwladwyn was annoyed with Miss Greene-Joanes for cutting into her monologue, and Miss Greene-Joanes was annoyed with Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce for standing just where she prevented the audience having a good view of her (Miss Greene-Joanes), and when they couldn’t find anyone else to be annoyed with they turned on William. Fortunately for William, however, there was little time for recrimination, as already the audience was clamouring for the second scene. This was the snow-storm scene. Miss Gwladwyn had installed her beautifully-mannered nephew in the loft early in the evening with a box of chocolate creams to keep him quiet. Miss Gwladwyn went on to the stage. The other actors retired to the improvised green-room, there to continue their acrimonious disputes and mutual reproaches. The curtain was slightly drawn. Miss Gwladwyn went into the aperture and leapt into her pathetic monologue, and William behind the scenes relapsed into boredom. He was roused from it by Miss Gwladwyn’s nephew who came down the steps of the loft carrying an empty chocolate box and looking green.

“William,” he said, “will you do my thing for me? I’m going to be sick.”

“All right,” said William distantly. “What do you do?”

William, not having been chosen as the snow-storm, had never taken the slightest interest in the snow-storm scene.

“You just get the bucket in the corridor and take it up to the loft and empty it over her slowly when she turns up her face.”

“A’ right,” said William with an air of graciousness, secretly not sorry to add the snow-storm to his repertoire. “A’ right. I’ll carry on. Don’ you worry. You go home an’ be sick.”

It was not William’s fault that someone had put the stage fireplace in the passage in such a position that it completely hid the bucket of torn-up paper and that the only bucket visible in the passage was the bucket of water thoughtfully placed there by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce in case of fire. William looked about him, saw what was apparently the only bucket in the passage, took it up and went to the stairs leading into the loft. It was jolly heavy. Water! Crumbs! He hadn’t realised it was water. He’d had an idea that it was torn-up paper for snow, but probably they’d changed their minds at the last minute and thought they’d have rain instead. Or perhaps they’d only had paper for the rehearsals, and had meant to have water for the real performance all along. Well, certainly it was a bit more exciting than paper. He took it very carefully up the stairs, then knelt over the little opening where he could see Miss Gwladwyn down below. He was only just in time. She was already saying:

“How cold it is! Heaven, wilt thou show me no pity?”

Then slowly and with a beautiful gesture of despair she raised her face towards the ceiling to receive full and square the entire contents of a bucket of water. William tried conscientiously to do it slowly, but it was a heavy bucket and he had to empty it all at once. He considered that he was rather clever in hitting her face so exactly. For a moment the audience enjoyed the spectacle of Miss Gwladwyn sitting on the floor, dripping wet and gasping and spluttering. Then Mr. Fleuster had the presence of mind to draw the curtain. After which he deliberately walked across to the dripping, spluttering, gasping Miss Gwladwyn and asked her to marry him. For five years he’d been trying to propose to a dignified and very correctly dressed and mannered Miss Gwladwyn, and he’d never had the courage, but as soon as he saw her gasping, spluttering, dripping on the floor like that he knew that now was the moment or never. And Miss Gwladwyn, still gasping, spluttering, dripping, said, “Yes.”