William the Fourth Read Free Page B

Adolphus Crane, who was on her way to
William’s house to pay him a surprise visit. She recognised him and addressed to him a kindly, affectionate remark. Of course, if he had had time to think over the matter from all points of
view, he might have conceived the idea of swallowing the water before he answered. But, as he afterwards explained, he had no time to think. The worst of it was that the painful incident was
witnessed by almost all William’s family from the drawing-room window. Mrs Adolphus Crane’s visit on that occasion was a very short one. She seemed slightly distant. It was felt
strongly that something must be done to win back her favour. William disclaimed all responsibility.
    ‘Well, I can’t help it. I can’t help it. I don’t mind. Honestly I don’t mind if she doesn’t like me. Well, I don’t mind if she doesn’t come
again, either.’
    ‘But, William, she’s your godmother.’
    ‘Well,’ said the goaded William. ‘I can’t help that. I didn’t do that. ’
    When Mrs Adolphus Crane’s birthday came, William’s mother attacked him again.
    ‘You ought to give her something William, you know, especially after the way you treated her the last time she came over.’
    ‘I’ve nothin’ to give her,’ said William simply. ‘She can have that book Uncle George gave me, if she likes. Yes, she can have that.’ He warmed to the
subject. ‘You know. The one about Ancient Hist’ry. I don’t mind her having it a bit.’
    ‘But you haven’t read it.’
    ‘I don’t mind not readin’ it,’ said William generously. ‘I – I’d like her to have it,’ he went on.
    But it was Mrs Brown who had the great inspiration.
    ‘We’ll have William’s photograph taken for her.’
    It was quite simple to say that, and it was quite simple to make an appointment at the photographer’s, but it was another matter to provide an escort for him. Mrs Brown happened to have a
bad cold; Mr Brown was at the office; Robert, William’s grown-up brother, flatly refused to go with him. So, after a conversation that lasted almost an hour, William’s elder sister
Ethel was induced, mainly by bribery and corruption, to go with William to the photographer’s. But she took a friend with her to act as a buffer state.
    William, at the appointed hour, was in a state of suppressed fury. To William the lowest depth of humiliation was having his photograph taken. Mrs Brown had expended much honest toil upon him.
He had been washed and brushed and combed and manicured till his spirits had sunk below zero. To William, complete cleanliness was quite incompatible with happiness. He had been encased in his
‘best suit’ – a thing of hard, unbending cloth; with that horror of horrors, a stiff collar.
    ‘Won’t a jersey do?’ he had asked plaintively. ‘It’ll probably make me ill – give me a sore throat or somethin’ – this tight thing at my neck,
an’ I wouldn’t like to be ill – ’cause of giving you trouble,’ he ended piously
    Mrs Brown was touched – she was the one being in the world who never lost faith in William.
    ‘But you wear it every Sunday, dear,’ she protested.
    ‘Sundays is different,’ he said. ‘Everyone wears silly things on Sundays – but, but s’pose I met someone on my way there.’ His horror was pathetic.
    ‘Well, you look very nice, dear. Where are your gloves?’
    ‘Gloves?’ he said indignantly.
    ‘Yes – to keep your hands clean till you get there.’
    ‘Is anyone goin’ to give me anythin’ for doin’ all this?’
    She sighed.
    ‘No, dear. It’s to give pleasure to your godmother. I know you like to give people pleasure.’ William was silent, cogitating over this entirely new aspect of his character.
    He set off down the road with Ethel and her friend Blanche. Bosom friends of his, with jerseys, with normal dirty hands and faces, passed him and stared at him in amazement.
    He acknowledged their presence only by a cold stare. On ordinary days he