The rehearsal was, on the whole, a failure.
"William Brown, don't hold the train so high. No, not quite so low.
Don't stand so near the Queen, William Brown. No, not so far away--you'll pull the train off. Walk when the Queen walks, William Brown, don't stand still. Sing up, please, train bearer. No, not quite so loud. That's deafening and not melodious."
In the end he was degraded from the position of train-bearer to that of ordinary "swain." The "swains" were to be dressed in smocks and the "maidens" in print dresses, and the Maypole dance was to be performed round Evangeline Fish, who was to stand in queenly attire by the pole in the middle. All the village was to be invited.
At the end of the rehearsal William came upon Bettine, once more gazing wistfully at Evangeline Fish, who was coquetting (with many tosses of the fair ringlets) before a crowd of admirers.
"Isn't it lovely for her to be May Queen?" said Bettine.
"She's a rotten one," said William. "I'm jolly glad _I've_ not to hold up her rotten ole train an' listen to her narsy squeaky voice singin'
close to, an' I'll give you a present to-morrow."
He did. He found a centipede in the garden and pressed it into her hand on the way to school.
"They're jolly int'restin'," he said. "Put it in a match-box and make holes for its breath and it'll live ever so long. It won't bite you if you hold it the right way."
And because she loved William she took it without even a shudder.
Evangeline Fish began to pursue William. She grudged him bitterly to Bettine. She pirouetted near him in her sky-blue garments, she tossed her ringlets about him. She ogled him with her pale blue eyes.
And in the long school hours during which he dreamed at his desk, or played games with his friends, while highly-paid instructors poured forth their wisdom for his benefit, William evolved a plan.
Unfortunately, like most plans, it required capital, and William had no capital. Occasionally William's elder brother Robert would supply a few shillings without inconvenient questions, but it happened that Robert was ignoring William's existence at that time. For Robert had (not for the first time) discovered his Ideal, and the Ideal had been asked to lunch the previous week. For days before Robert had made William's life miserable. He had objected to William's unbrushed hair and unmanicured hands, and untidy person, and noisy habits. He had bitterly demanded what She would think on being asked to a house where she might meet such an individual as William; he had insisted that William should be taught habits of cleanliness and silence before She came; he had hinted darkly that a man who had William for a brother was hampered considerably in his love affairs because She would think it was a queer kind of family where anyone like William was allowed to grow up. He had reserved some of his fervour for the cook. She must have a proper lunch--not stews and stuff they often had--there must be three vegetables and there must be cheese straws. Cook must learn to make better cheese straws. And William, having swallowed insults for three whole days, planned vengeance. It was a vengeance which only William could have planned or carried out. For only William could have seized a moment just before lunch when the meal was dished up and cook happened to be out of the kitchen to carry the principal dishes down to the coal cellar and conceal them beneath the best nuts.
It is well to draw a veil over the next half-hour. Both William and the meal had vanished. Robert tore his hair and appealed vainly to the heavens. He hinted darkly at suicide. For what is cold tongue and coffee to offer to an Ideal? The meal was discovered during the afternoon in its resting-place and given to William's mongrel, Jumble, who crept about during the next few days in agonies of indigestion.
Robert had bitterly demanded of William why he went about the world spoiling people's lives and ruining their happiness. He had implied that when William met with the One and Only Love of his Life he need look for no help or assistance from him (Robert), because he (William) had dashed to the ground his (Robert's) cup of happiness, because he'd never in his life met anyone before like Miss Laing, and never would again, and he (William) had simply condemned him to a lonely and miserable old age, because who'd want to marry anyone that asked them to lunch and then gave them coffee and cold tongue, and he'd never want to marry anyone else, because it was the One and Only Love of his Life, and he hoped he (William) would realise, when he was old enough to realise, what it meant to have your life spoilt and your happiness ruined all through coffee and tongue, because someone you'd never speak to again had hidden the lunch. Whence it came that William, optimist though he was, felt that any appeal to Robert for funds would be inopportune, to say the least of it.
But Providence was on William's side for once. An old uncle came to tea and gave William five shillings.
"Going to dance at a Maypole, I hear?" he chuckled.
"P'raps," was all William said.
His family were relieved by his meekness with regard to the May Day festival. Sometimes William made such a foolish fuss about being dressed up and performing in public.
"You know, dear," said his mother, "it's a dear old festival, and quite an honour to take part in it, and a smock is quite a nice manly garment."
"Yes, Mother," said William.
The day was fine--a real May Day. The Maypole was fixed up in the field near the school, and the little performers were to change in the schoolroom.
William went out with his brown paper parcel of stage properties under his arm and stood gazing up the road by which Evangeline Fish must come to the school. For Evangeline Fish would have to pass his gate.
Soon he saw her, her pale blue radiant in the sun.
"'Ullo!" he greeted her.
She simpered. She had won him at last.
"Waitin' to walk to the school with me, William?" she said.
He still loitered.
"You're awful early."
"Am I? I thought I was late. I meant to be late. I don't want to be too early. I'm the most 'portant person, and I want to walk in after the others, then they'll all look at me."
She tossed her tightly-wrought curls.
"Come into our ole shed a minute," said William. "I've got a present for you."
She blushed and ogled.
"Oh, _William_!" she said, and followed him into the wood-shed.
"Look!" he said.
[Illustration: "HAVE A LOT," SAID WILLIAM. "THEY'RE ALL FOR YOU. GO ON. EAT 'EM ALL. YOU CAN EAT AN' EAT AN' EAT."]
His uncle's five shillings had been well expended. Rows of cakes lay round the shed, pastries, and sugar cakes, and iced cakes, and currant cakes.
"Have a lot," said William. "They're all for you. Go on! Eat 'em all.
You can eat an' eat an' eat. There's lots an' lots of time and they can't begin without you, can they?"
"Oh, _William_!" she said.
She gloated over them.
"Oh, may I?"
"There's heaps of time," said William. "Go on! Eat them all!"
Her greedy little eyes seemed to stand out of her head.
"Oo!" she said in rapture.
She sat down on the floor and began to eat, lost to everything but icing and currants and pastry. William made for the door, then he paused, gazed wistfully at the feast, stepped back, and, grabbing a cream bun in each hand, crept quietly away.
Bettine in her print frock was at the door of the school.
"Hurry up!" she said anxiously. "You're going to be late. The others are all out. They're waiting to begin. Miss Dewhurst's out there.
They're all come but you an' the Queen. I stayed 'cause you asked me to stay to help you."
He came in and shut the door.
"You're goin' to be May Queen," he announced firmly.
"_Me?_" she said in amazement.