Just William Part 22

On entering Mrs. Brown's drawing-room, she saw a little boy, dressed very neatly, with a clean face and well-brushed hair, sitting quietly on a low chair in a corner reading a book.

"The little dear!" she murmured as she shook hands with Mrs. Brown.

William's face darkened.

Mrs. de Vere Carter floated over to him.

"Well, my little man, and how are you?"

Her little man did not answer, partly because Mrs. de Vere Carter had put a hand on his head and pressed his face against her perfumed, befrilled bosom. His nose narrowly escaped being impaled on the thorn of a large rose that nestled there.

"I adore children," she cooed to his mother over his head.

William freed his head with a somewhat brusque movement and she took up his book.

"Scott!" she murmured. "Dear little laddie!"

Seeing the expression on William's face his mother hastily drew her guest aside.

"_Do_ come and sit over here," she said nervously. "What perfect weather we're having."

William walked out of the room.

"You know, I'm _frightfully_ interested in social work," went on her charming guest, "especially among children. I _adore_ children! Sweet little dear of yours! And I _always_ get on with them. Of course, I get on with most people. My personality, you know! You've heard perhaps that I've taken over the Band of Hope here, and I'm turning it into _such_ a success. The pets! Yes, three lumps, please. Well, now, it's here I want you to help me. You will, dear, won't you? You and your little mannikin.

I want to get a different cla.s.s of children to join the Band of Hope.

Such a sweet name, isn't it? It would do the village children such a lot of good to meet with children of _our_ cla.s.s."

Mrs. Brown was flattered. After all, Mrs. de Vere Carter was one of _the_ Randalls.

"For instance," went on the flute-like tones, "when I came in and saw your little treasure sitting there so sweetly," she pointed dramatically to the chair that had lately been graced by William's presence, "I thought to myself, 'Oh, I _must_ get him to come.' It's the refining influence of children in _our_ cla.s.s that the village children need.

What delicious cakes. You will lend him to me, won't you? We meet once a week, on Wednesday afternoons. May he come? I'll take great care of him."

Mrs. Brown hesitated.

"Er--yes," she said doubtfully. "But I don't know that William is really suited to that sort of thing. However----"

"Oh, you can't put me off!" said Mrs. de Vere Carter shaking a playful bejewelled finger. "Don't I _know_ him already? I count him one of my dearest little friends. It never takes me long to know children. I'm a _born_ child-lover."

William happened to be pa.s.sing through the hall as Mrs. de Vere Carter came out of the drawing-room followed by Mrs. Brown.

"_There_ you are!" she said. "I _thought_ you'd be waiting to say good-bye to me."

She stretched out her arm with an encircling movement, but William stepped back and stood looking at her with a sinister frown.

"I _have_ so enjoyed seeing you. I hope you'll come again," untruthfully stammered Mrs. Brown, moving so as to block out the sight of William's face, but Mrs de Vere Carter was not to be checked. There are people to whom the expression on a child's face conveys absolutely nothing. Once more she floated towards William.

"Good-bye, w.i.l.l.y, dear. You're not too old to kiss me, are you?"

Mrs. Brown gasped.

At the look of concentrated fury on William's face, older and stronger people than Mrs. de Vere Carter would have quailed, but she only smiled as, with another virulent glare at her, he turned on his heel and walked away.

"The sweet, shy thing!" she cooed. "I _love_ them shy."

Mr. Brown was told of the proposal.

"Well," he said slowly, "I can't quite visualise William at a Band of Hope meeting; but of course, if you want him to, he must go."

"You see," said Mrs. Brown with a worried frown, "she made such a point of it, and she really is very charming, and after all she's rather influential. She was one of _the_ Randalls, you know. It seems silly to offend her."

"Did William like her?"

"She was sweet with him. At least--she meant to be sweet," she corrected herself hastily, "but you know how touchy William is, and you know the name he always hates so. I can never understand why. After all, lots of people are called w.i.l.l.y."

The morning of the day of the Band of Hope meeting arrived. William came down to breakfast with an agonised expression on his healthy countenance. He sat down on his seat and raised his hand to his brow with a hollow groan.

Mrs. Brown started up in dismay.

"Oh, William! What's the matter?"

"Gotter sick headache," said William in a faint voice.

"Oh, dear! I _am_ sorry. You'd better go and lie down. I'm so sorry, dear."

"I think I will go an' lie down," said William's plaintive, suffering voice. "I'll jus' have breakfast first."

"Oh, I wouldn't. Not with a sick headache."

William gazed hungrily at the eggs and bacon.

"I think I could eat some, mother. Jus' a bit."

"No, I wouldn't, dear. It will only make it worse."

Very reluctantly William returned to his room.

Mrs. Brown visited him after breakfast.

No, he was no better, but he thought he'd go for a little walk. Yes, he still felt very sick. She suggested a strong dose of salt and water. He might feel better if he'd been actually sick. No, he'd hate to give her the trouble. Besides, it wasn't _that_ kind of sickness. He was most emphatic on that point. It wasn't _that_ kind of sickness. He thought a walk would do him good. He felt he'd like a walk.

Well wrapped up and walking with little, unsteady steps, he set off down the drive, followed by his mother's anxious eyes.

Then he crept back behind the rhododendron bushes next to the wall and climbed in at the larder window.

The cook came agitatedly to Mrs. Brown half an hour later, followed by William, pale and outraged.

"'E's eat nearly everything, 'm. You never saw such a thing. 'E's eat the cold 'am and the kidney pie, and 'e's eat them three cold sausages an' 'e's eat all that new jar of lemon cheese."

"_William!_" gasped Mrs. Brown, "you _can't_ have a sick headache, if you've eaten all that."