More William (20 page)

The house on the other side was a much smaller one, and was occupied by Mr Gregorius Lambkin. Mr Gregorius Lambkin was a very shy and rather elderly bachelor. He issued from his front door every
morning at half past eight holding a neat little attaché case in a neatly gloved hand. He spent the day in an insurance office and returned, still unruffled and immaculate, at about half
past six. Most people considered him quite dull and negligible, but he possessed the supreme virtue in William’s eyes of not objecting to William. William had suffered much from unsympathetic
neighbours who had taken upon themselves to object to such innocent and artistic objects as catapults and pea-shooters, and cricket balls. William had a very soft spot in his heart for Mr Gregorius
Lambkin. William spent a good deal of his time in Mr Lambkin’s garden during his absence, and Mr Lambkin seemed to have no objection. Other people’s gardens always seemed to William to
be more attractive than his own – especially when he had no right of entry into them.

There was quite an excitement in the neighbourhood when the empty house was let. It was rumoured that the newcomer was a Personage. She was the President of the Society of Ancient Souls. The
Society of Ancient Souls was a society of people who remembered their previous existence. The memory usually came in a flash. For instance, you might remember in a flash when you were looking at a
box of matches that you had been Guy Fawkes. Or you might look at a cow and remember in a flash that you had been Nebuchadnezzar. Then you joined the Society of Ancient Souls, and paid a large
subscription, and attended meetings at the house of its President in costume. And the President was coming to live next door to William. By a curious coincidence her name was Gregoria – Miss
Gregoria Mush. William awaited her coming with anxiety. He had discovered that one’s next-door neighbours make a great difference to one’s life. They may be agreeable and not object to
mouth organs and whistling and occasional stone-throwing, or they may not. They sometimes – the worst kind – go to the length of writing notes to one’s father about one, and then,
of course, the only course left to one is one of Revenge. But William hoped great things from Miss Gregoria Mush. There was a friendly sound about the name. On the evening of her arrival he climbed
up on the roller and gazed wistfully over the fence at the territory that had once been his, but from which he was now debarred. He felt like Moses surveying the Promised Land.

Miss Gregoria Mush was walking in the garden. William watched her with bated breath. She was very long, and very thin, and very angular, and she was reading poetry out loud to herself as she
trailed about in her long draperies.

‘ “Oh, moon of my delight . . .” ’ she declaimed, then her eyes met William’s. The eyes beneath her pince-nez were like little gimlets.

‘How dare you stare at me, you rude boy?’ she said.

William gasped.

‘I shall write to your father,’ she said fiercely, and then proceeded still ferociously, ‘ “. . . that knows no wane”.’

‘Crumbs!’ murmured William, descending slowly from his perch.

She did write to his father, and that note was the first of many. She objected to his singing, she objected to his shouting, she objected to his watching her over the wall, and she objected to
his throwing sticks at her cat. She objected both verbally and in writing. This persecution was only partly compensated for by occasional glimpses of meetings of the Ancient Souls. For the Ancient
Souls met in costume, and sometimes William could squeeze through the hole in the fence and watch the Ancient Souls meeting in the dining-room. Miss Gregoria Mush arrayed as Mary, Queen of Scots
(one of her many previous existences) was worth watching. And always there was the garden on the other side. Mr Gregorius Lambkin made no objections and wrote no notes. But clouds of Fate were
gathering round Mr Gregorius Lambkin. William first heard of it one day at lunch.

‘I saw the old luny talking to poor little Lambkin today,’ said Robert, William’s elder brother.

‘HOW DARE YOU STARE AT ME, YOU RUDE BOY?’ SHE SAID.

In these terms did Robert refer to the august President of the Society of Ancient Souls.

And the next news Robert brought home was that ‘poor little Lambkin’ had joined the Society of Ancient Souls, but didn’t seem to want to talk about it. He seemed very vague as
to his previous existence, but he said that Miss Gregoria Mush was sure that he had been Julius Caesar. The knowledge had come to her in a flash when he raised his hat and she saw his bald
head.

There was a meeting of the Ancient Souls that evening, and William crept through the hole and up to the diningroom window to watch. A gorgeous scene met his eye. Noah conversed agreeably with
Cleopatra in the window seat, and by the piano Napoleon discussed the Irish question with Lobengula. As William watched, his small nose flattened against a corner of the window, Nero and Dante
arrived, having shared a taxi from the station. Miss Gregoria Mush, tall and gaunt and angular, presided in the robes of Mary, Queen of Scots, which was her favourite previous existence. Then Mr
Gregorius Lambkin arrived. He looked as unhappy as it is possible for man to look. He was dressed in a toga and a laurel wreath. Heat and nervousness had caused his small waxed moustache to droop.
His toga was too long and his laurel wreath was crooked. Miss Gregoria Mush received him effusively. She carried him off to a corner seat near the window, and there they conversed, or, to be more
accurate, she talked and he listened. The window was open and William could hear some of the things she said.

‘Now you are a member you must come here often . . . you and I, the only Ancient Souls in this vicinity . . . we will work together and live only in the Past. . . . Have you remembered any
other previous existence?. . . No? Ah, try, it will come in a flash any time . . . I must come and see your garden . . . I feel that we have much in common, you and I . . . We have much to talk
about . . . I have all my past life to tell you of . . . What train do you come home by? . . . We must be friends – real friends . . . I’m sure I can help you much in your life as an
Ancient Soul . . . Our names are almost the same . . . Fate in some way unites us . . .’

And Mr Lambkin sat, miserable and dejected and yet with a certain pathetic resignation. For what can one do against Fate? Then the President caught sight of William and approached the
window.

‘Go away, boy!’ she called. ‘You wicked, rude, prying boy, go away!’

Mr Lambkin shot a wretched and apologetic glance at William, but William pressed his mouth to the open slit of the window.

‘All right, Mrs Jarley!’ he called, then turned and fled.

William met Mr Lambkin on his way to the station the next morning. Mr Lambkin looked thinner and there were lines of worry on his face.

‘I’m sorry she sent you away, William,’ he said. ‘It must have been interesting to watch – most interesting to watch. I’d much rather have watched than
– but there, it’s very kind of her to take such an interest in me.
Most
kind. But I – however, she’s very kind,
very
kind. She very kindly presented me with
the costume. Hardly suitable, perhaps, but
very
kind of her. And, of course, there
may
be something in it. One never knows. I
may
have been Julius Caesar, but I hardly –
think however, one must keep an open mind. Do you know any Latin, William?’

‘Jus’ a bit,’ said William, guardedly. ‘I’ve
learnt
a lot, but I don’t
know
much.’

‘Say some to me. It might convey something to me. One never knows. She seems so sure. Talk Latin to me, William.’

‘Hie, haec, hoc,’ said William obligingly.

Julius Caesar’s reincarnation shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t seem to mean anything to me.’

‘Hunc, hanc, hoc,’ went on William monotonously.–

‘I’m afraid it’s no good,’ said Mr Lambkin. ‘I’m afraid it proves that I’m not – still one may not retain a knowledge of one’s former
tongue. One must keep an open mind. Of course, I’d prefer not to – but one must be fair. And she’s kind, very kind.’

MR LAMBKIN SAT, MISERABLE AND DEJECTED, AND YET WITH A CERTAIN PATHETIC RESIGNATION.

Shaking his head sadly, the little man entered the station.

That evening William heard his father say to his mother:

‘She came down to meet him at the station tonight. I’m afraid his doom is sealed. He’s no power of resistance, and she’s got her eye on him.’

‘Who’s got her eye on him?’ said William with interest.

‘Be quiet!’ said his father with the brusqueness of the male parent.

But William began to see how things stood. And William liked Mr Lambkin.

One evening he saw from his window Mr Gregorius Lambkin walking with Miss Gregoria Mush in Miss Gregoria Mush’s garden. Mr Gregorius Lambkin did not look happy.

William crept down to the hole in the fence and applied his ear to it.

They were sitting on a seat quite close to his hole.

‘Gregorius,’ the President of the Society of Ancient Souls was saying, ‘when I found that our names were the same I knew that our destinies were interwoven.’

‘Yes,’ murmured Mr Lambkin. ‘It’s so kind of you, so kind. But – I’m afraid I’m overstaying my welcome. I must—’

‘No. I must say what is in my heart, Gregorius. You live in the Past, I live in the Past. We have a common mission – the mission of bring to the thoughtless and uninitiated the
memory of their former lives. Gregorius, our work would be more valuable if we could do it together, if the common destiny that has united our nomenclatures could unite also our lives.’

‘It’s so
kind
of you,’ murmured the writhing victim, ‘so kind. I am so unfit, I—’

‘No, friend,’ she said kindly. ‘I have power enough for both. The human speech is so poor an agent, is it not?’

A doorbell clanged in the house.

‘Ah, the Committee of the Ancient Souls. They were coming from town tonight. Come here tomorrow night at the same time, Gregorius, and I will tell you what is in my heart. Meet me here
– at this time – tomorrow evening.’

William here caught sight of a stray cat at the other end of the garden. In the character of a cannibal chief he hunted the white man (otherwise the cat) with bloodcurdling war-whoops, but felt
no real interest in the chase. He bound up his scratches mechanically with an ink stained handkerchief. Then he went indoors. Robert was conversing with his friend in the library.

‘Well,’ said the friend, ‘It’s nearly next month. Has she landed him yet?’

‘By Jove!’ said Robert. ‘First of April tomorrow!’ He looked at William suspiciously. ‘And if you try any fool’s tricks on me you’ll jolly well hear
about it.’

‘I’m not thinkin’ of you,’ said William crushingly. ‘I’m not goin’ to trouble with
you
!’

‘Has she landed him?’ said the friend.

‘Not yet, and I heard him saying on the train that he was leaving town on the second and going abroad for a holiday.’

‘Well, she’ll probably do it yet. She’s got all the first.’

‘It’s bedtime, William,’ called his mother.

‘Thank heaven!’ said Robert.

William sat gazing into the distance, not seeing or hearing.

‘
William!
’ called his mother.

All right,’ said William irritably. ‘I’m jus’ thinkin’ something out.’

William’s family went about their ways cautiously the next morning. They watched William carefully. Robert even refused an egg at breakfast because you never knew with
that little wretch. But nothing happened.

‘Fancy your going on April Fool’s day without making a fool of anyone,’ said Robert at lunch.

‘It’s not over, is it? Not yet,’ said William with the air of a sphinx.

‘But it doesn’t count after twelve,’ said Robert.

William considered deeply before he spoke, then he said slowly:

‘The thing what I’m going to do counts whatever time it is.’

Reluctantly, but as if drawn by a magnet, Mr Lambkin set off to the President’s house. William was in the road.

‘She told me to tell you,’ said William unblushingly, ‘that she was busy tonight, an’ would you mind not coming.’