The room was in half darkness and the conjurer was just producing a white rabbit from his left toe, so that few noticed William's quiet exit by the window followed by that of the blindly obedient Joan.
"You wait!" he whispered in the darkness of the garden. She waited, shivering in her little white muslin dress, till he returned from the stable wheeling a hand-cart, consisting of a large packing case on wheels and finished with a handle. He wheeled it round to the open French window that led into the dining-room. "Come on!" he whispered again.
[Illustration: FEW NOTICED WILLIAM'S EXIT BY THE WINDOW, FOLLOWED BY THE BLINDLY OBEDIENT JOAN.]
Following his example, she began to carry the plates of sandwiches, sausage rolls, meat pies, bread and butter, cakes and biscuits of every variety from the table to the hand-cart. On the top they balanced carefully the plates of jelly and blanc-mange and dishes of trifle, and round the sides they packed armfuls of crackers.
At the end she whispered softly, "What's it for, William?"
"It's the secret," he said. "The crorse-me-throat secret I told you."
"Am I going to help?" she said in delight.
He nodded.
"Jus' wait a minute," he added, and crept from the dining-room to the hall and upstairs.
He returned with a bundle of clothing which he proceeded to arrange in the garden. He first donned his own red dressing gown and then wound a white scarf round his head, tying it under his chin so that the ends hung down.
"I'm makin' believe I'm Father Christmas," he deigned to explain. "An'
I'm makin' believe this white stuff is hair an' beard. An' this is for you to wear so's you won't get cold."
He held out a little white satin cloak edged with swansdown.
"Oh, how _lovely_, William! But it's not my cloak! It's Sadie Murford's!"
"Never mind! you can wear it," said William generously.
Then, taking the handles of the cart, he set off down the drive. From the drawing-room came the sound of a chorus of delight as the conjurer produced a goldfish in a glass bowl from his head. From the kitchen came the sound of the hilarious laughter of the maids. Only in the dining-room, with its horrible expanse of empty table, was silence.
They walked down the road without speaking till Joan gave a little excited laugh.
"This is _fun_, William! I do wonder what we're going to do."
"You'll see," said William. "I'd better not tell you yet. I promised a crorse-me-throat promise I wouldn't tell anyone."
"All right, William," she said sweetly. "I don't mind a bit."
The evening was dark and rather foggy, so that the strange couple attracted little attention, except when passing beneath the street lamps. Then certainly people stood still and looked at William and his cart in open-mouthed amazement.
At last they turned down a back street towards a door that stood open to the dark, foggy night. Inside the room was a bare table at which sat a little girl, her blue, anxious eyes fixed on the open door.
"I hope he gets here before Dad," she said. "I wouldn't like Dad to come and find it not ready!"
The woman on the bed closed her eyes wearily.
"I don't think he'll come now, dearie. We must just get on without it."
The little girl sprang up, her pale cheek suddenly flushed.
"Oh, _listen_!" she cried; "_something's_ coming!"
They listened in breathless silence, while the sound of wheels came down the street towards the empty door. Then--an old hand-cart appeared in the doorway and behind it William in his strange attire, and Joan in her fairy-like white--white cloak, white dress, white socks and shoes--her bright curls clustered with gleaming fog jewels.
The little girl clasped her hands. Her face broke into a rapt smile.
Her blue eyes were like stars.
[Illustration: FIRST THE JELLIES AND BLANC MANGES--THEN THE MEAT PIES AND TRIFLES.]
"Oh, oh!" she cried. "It's Father Christmas and a fairy!"
Without a word William pushed the cart through the doorway into the room and began to remove its contents and place them on the table.
First the jellies and trifles and blanc-manges, then the meat pies, pastries, sausage rolls, sandwiches, biscuits, and cakes--sugar-coated, cream-interlayered, full of plums and nuts and fruit. William's mother had had wide experience and knew well what food most appealed to small boys and girls. Moreover she had provided plentifully for her twenty guests.
The little girl was past speech. The woman looked at them in dumb wonder. Then:
"Why, you're the boy she was talkin' to," she said at last. "It's real kind of you. She was gettin' that upset. It 'ud have broke her heart if nothin' had come an' I couldn't do nothin'. It's real kind of yer, sir!" Her eyes were misty.
Joan placed the last cake on the table, and William, who was rather warm after his exertions, removed his scarf.
The child gave a little sobbing laugh.
"Oh, isn't it _lovely_? I'm so happy! You're the funny boy, aren't you, dressed up as Father Christmas? Or did Father Christmas send you?
Or were you Father Christmas all the time? May I kiss the fairy? Would she mind? She's so beautiful!"
Joan came forward and kissed her shyly, and the woman on the bed smiled unsteadily.
"It's real kind of you both," she murmured again.
Then the door opened, and the lord and master of the house entered after his six months' absence. He came in no sheepish hang-dog fashion. He entered cheerily and boisterously as any parent might on returning from a hard-earned holiday.
"'Ello, Missus! 'Ello, Kid! 'Ello! Wot's all this 'ere?" His eyes fell upon William. "'Ello young gent!"
"Happy Christmas," William murmured politely.
"Sime to you an' many of them. 'Ow are you, Missus? Kid looked arter you all right? That's _right_. Oh, I _sye_! Where's the grub come from? Fair mikes me mouth water. I 'aven't seen nuffin' like _this_--not fer _some_ time!"
There was a torrent of explanations, everyone talking at once. He gave a loud guffaw at the end.
"Well, we're much obliged to this young gent and this little lady, and now we'll 'ave a good ole supper. This is all _right_, this is! Now, Missus, you 'ave a good feed. Now, 'fore we begin, I sye three cheers fer the young gent and little lady. Come on, now, 'Ip, 'ip, 'ip, '_ooray_! Now, little lady, you come 'ere. That's fine, that is! Now 'oo'll 'ave a meat pie? 'Oo's fer a meat pie? Come on, Missus! That's right. We'll _all_ 'ave meat pies! This 'ere's sumfin _like_ Christmas, eh? We've not 'ad a Christmas like this--not for many a long year. Now, 'urry up, Kid. Don't spend all yer time larfin'. Now, ladies an' gents, 'oo's fer a sausage roll? All of us? Come on, then!
I mustn't eat too 'eavy or I won't be able to sing to yer aterwards, will I? I've got some fine songs, young gent. And Kid 'ere 'll dance fer yer. She's a fine little dancer, she is! Now, come on, ladies an'
gents, sandwiches? More pies? Come on!"
They laughed and chattered merrily. The woman sat up in bed, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. To William and Joan it was like some strange and wonderful dream.
And at that precise moment Mrs. Brown had sunk down upon the nearest dining-room chair on the verge of tears, and twenty pairs of hungry horrified eyes in twenty clean, staring, open-mouthed little faces surveyed the bare expanse of the dining-room table. And the cry that went up all round was:--
"_Where's William?_"