The Tale of Lal / A Fantasy

by Raymond Paton

CHAPTER IV

PREPARING FOR A VISITOR

Upon the third day after bidding good-bye to their strange friend, the children felt they had every reason to be excited as to what events the day would bring forth, to say nothing of endless speculations as to the manner in which their most uncommon visitor might choose to appear to them.

Consequently after Ridgwell had opened his birthday presents the first thing in the morning, he held a sort of council of war with Christine.

"You see, Chris, fortunately the house hasn't any underneath part," explained Ridgwell, "so that we can keep watch, both of us, all on one floor so to speak. You take guard of the French windows in the drawing-room where you can see the greater part of the garden, and I will watch the windows of the dining-room, where I can see the road both ways up to the house."

"Shan't we get tired of always looking at the same spot?" objected
Christine.

"I have thought of a plan for that, Chris. When either of us want a change, just shout out, 'Sister Ann, sister Ann, do you see anybody coming?'"

"I see," nodded Christine, "everybody will only think we are playing a game."

"Then," pursued Ridgwell, full of inspiration, "if Lal isn't looming in sight anywhere, the other will shout out, 'Not a sail in the offing,' then we change over rooms."

"Anyway Lal couldn't sail, could he?" queried Christine.

"You don't know how he might come," whispered Ridgwell. "He might even come in a motor car, and anyway it's only so that other people shan't understand."

"It seems to me," remarked Christine logically, "that people won't understand him anyway, and less when they see him than when they don't."

"It's an anxious time, isn't it, Chris?"

"Very," assented Christine, "and anyhow we shall have to drop Cookie a hint, because you see her window in the kitchen looks over a part of the garden that we can't see from the drawing-room."

"Of course," mused Ridgwell, "the weak spot about Cookie is that she gets shocks so quickly."

"She's sure to get one to-day," commenced Christine hopefully, "when
Lal comes."

"Very well then, we'll give her a sort of hint," suggested Ridgwell.

Now Cookie, beloved of the children, to say nothing of the household generally, was a fat person, with very red cheeks, and very good-humoured rolling green eyes that somehow always looked as if they had been originally intended for gooseberries, which had boiled and bubbled during her many cooking operations and had never been permitted to simmer.

"What do you children want in the kitchen?" commenced Cookie. "Master Ridgie, you know quite well that your birthday cake ain't to be ready till tea-time."

"But, Cookie dear," commenced Ridgwell insinuatingly.

Cookie dear continued the mystic rights over which she presided as high priestess, her vermilion red hands and arms continued to splash about in a very big basin, where she contrived to throw up little waves of very white flour as if she were about to take a morning dip in it, yet hesitated before taking the plunge. These mysterious rites having been accomplished and the flour having as it were received a final blessing from Cookie's hands, Cookie commenced to beat up eggs.

"I know you've come wheedling for something," objected Cookie, "and you ain't going to 'ave it, Master Ridgie. Why, you've only just finished your breakfast."

"I don't want anything to eat," announced Ridgwell.

Cookie eyes boiled and rolled ominously, whilst a sort of faint concern appeared upon the surface of them. "If you can't eat, Master Ridgie, then you must be ill and want some medicine."

"No, no," hastily interposed Ridgwell, "I don't want any medicine, we only came in to ask you a question."

"Well, you can't ask me any of your questions now, I'm busy," asserted
Cookie. "Ain't got no time."

"Oh, Cookie dear, you can listen whilst you beat up an egg," expostulated Ridgwell.

"Egg!" shouted Cookie indignantly, "three blessed eggs for your cake, and 2 1/2d. each, new laid too, and I only bought a dozen of 'em."

"Yes, yes, Cookie dear. I meant three eggs, the number doesn't matter, and it won't take a minute for us to tell you. It's just this. Suppose a great big beautiful Lion came and sat in the middle of the raspberry canes just outside your kitchen door, what would you do?"

"Is this a conundrum?" demanded Cookie. "If so, I don't know no answer to it, Master Ridgie."

"It isn't a riddle, Cookie, at all. If a Lion really came to see you, what would you do?"

"I should fetch a policeman at once," announced Cookie.

Ridgwell smiled. "A policeman wouldn't be any good, Cookie! Really, you know, he couldn't do anything."

"Then I should fetch two policemen," said Cookie, shortly and conclusively. Cookie, at this point in the argument, beat the three new-laids at such a furious rate, that the foam of them whirled round and round very much like the agitated thoughts of Cookie herself at being confronted with such an outrageous problem the first thing in the morning.

"'Owever," amended Cookie, "afore I went to fetch them policemen, I'd throw all the boiling green water over him, from the window first, and see if that wouldn't shift 'im."

Both Ridgwell and Christine laughed outright, the idea was too ridiculous. To think of their friendly and Pleasant-Faced Lal coming to make a society call and having boiling cabbage water thrown over his stately head, was altogether too much for their gravity.

"How indignant he would be," laughed Ridgwell. "Oh! Chris only think how hurt he would feel as he shook the stuff off his mane and whiskers!"

This imaginary picture, however, seemed to be too much for Christine, so she determined to speak seriously to Cookie.

"Cookie," said Christine in her most earnest manner, "a lion may arrive outside this door (pointing to the article in question in a most impressive fashion) at any moment to-day."

"Yes," added Ridgwell, "and we only want you to be prepared."

Cookie's eyes seemed to boil a little faster for a moment, appeared to swell in fact and be altogether overdone, as she fixed her orbs upon the door in question, then up went Cookie's apron over her head, and alas! down went the three new-laid at 2 1/2d. each, all spilled upon the floor, and the cup broken as well.

At this moment the children instinctively realised that discretion was sometimes the better part of valour, and made speedy preparations to vacate in favour of other quarters of the house, not, however, before they could hear Cookie moaning beneath her apron:

"Escaped I s'pose, oh! mighty 'Eavens! escaped from the Crystal Palace, or the Zoo, or a circus or somethink, oh, it ain't safe living in England! Blowed if I don't bolt the kitchen door, and nobody warned me or told me it was in the morning papers. Thank goodness I've taken in the milk, and them three eggs all spoiled. Only nine left now," moaned Cookie, "and cutlets and pancakes for lunch too."

"Come, Chris," whispered Ridgwell. "You see we can't expect much support from Cookie."

"No," agreed Christine, as they departed for the dining-room. "How about Mother? Let's hear what she says."

"Yes," assented Ridgwell. "You see Mother is very nice and kind always to anybody who calls, and perhaps if she spoke to Lal and welcomed him a bit when he comes, he might feel at home at once."

"I can't think where we are going to ask him to sit, can you, Ridgie? You see," explained Christine, "it's so inhospitable to leave him in the hall, and if he walks into the drawing-room and swishes his tail even contentedly, all the china would go over at once."

"No, Chris, Lal is much too well mannered to do anything like that, but I'm afraid the only place for him will be the hearth-rug in front of the fire. Stop a minute, Chris, I've got it. Of course, the sofa in the drawing-room. Nobody must sit on the sofa at all to-day, then it will be all ready for him when he comes, and we shall only have to tuck him in a bit at the sides if he's too big."

Matters were not much better understood in the drawing-room, for a lady visitor had just called and was waiting for Mother to come down. Mrs. Tallcat was a lady who always deemed it her duty to call once a week upon everybody, whether people wished to see her or whether they did not wish to see her.

Had a census of opinion been taken concerning Mrs. Tallcat's calls, Mrs. Tallcat would have found, much to her astonishment no doubt, that she possessed very few votes, and no votes at all from children.

"Would you very much mind if you didn't sit upon the sofa?" commenced
Ridgwell gently.

Mrs. Tallcat, always inclined towards huffiness at a moment's notice, consequently selected a chair.

"Is the sofa likely to give way?" inquired Mrs. Tallcat suspiciously.

"No," explained Christine, "it is because it is so strong and firm on its legs that we have chosen it."

"I never allow my boy to play upon the sofa," sniffed Mrs. Tallcat, as if she were referring to a piano.

"It isn't to play upon," remarked Ridgwell, "but we are expecting a very, very solid visitor."

Mrs. Tallcat sniffed for the second time. "I never allow my boy to make any remarks whatever upon visitors who call," responded Mrs. Tallcat icily.

"Oh, Lal doesn't mind," said Christine cheerfully.

"Who is Lal?" inquired Mrs. Tallcat, "a gentleman friend of your father's?"

"No," said Ridgwell, "Lal is a lion, and Father doesn't know him yet."

"Tut, tut, tut," snapped Mrs. Tallcat crossly. "Directly my boy begins to talk nonsense I send him straight to bed."

"It's bad for the health to go to bed at the wrong time," suggested
Ridgwell pensively.

"My boy always does as he's told," announced Mrs. Tallcat triumphantly; "if he doesn't, he is whipped."

At this point a new idea suddenly struck Ridgwell. "Chris," he whispered audibly, "we must somehow get the old cat out of the way."

Mrs. Tallcat instantly bridled, and her face became inflamed with anger. "How dare you!" commenced the indignant lady.

"I mean the other cat," explained Ridgwell, "our own cat."

The explanation, although convincing, was perhaps ambiguous. It was undoubtedly fortunate that Mother timed her appearance at this point to a nicety, and so prevented any further complications.

"Dreadful time her boy must have, don't you think, eh, Chris?" asked
Ridgwell.

Christine nodded.

"Only fancy, Chris," pursued Ridgwell, "calling her little boy Tom. Tom Tallcat; why, he'll be chaffed no end at school. I do feel sorry for him; and then the way she dresses him, coloured velvet and a brigand's hat with a feather in it, just as if he was part of a circus. I'm glad Mother doesn't dress me like that. The other day I met him and he'd got a bow and arrow. She'd actually sent him into the street with a bow and arrow. I said 'Hullo, Robin Hood,' not meaning anything, and he began to cry; it was awkward, and I'm sure he feels it. Father said that the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Children ought to interfere, but I think that was perhaps only one of Father's jokes."

"I think," suggested Mother, who had caught audible fragments of this conversation, "I think you children had better run away now and play."

The morning appeared to go quite quickly up to the cutlets and the pancake stage.

The late afternoon shadows threw their creeping patterns over both lawns, and still there was no sign whatever of their eccentric friend Lal.

Tea-time came and passed, and then the shadows grew deeper, first blue, then violet, then black, the trees and shrubs could scarcely be distinguished at all; and, as ill luck would have it, there was no moon.

At length the time arrived when the family not unreasonably suggested that the blinds of the house should be pulled down. Here was a dilemma. How was it possible to warn the household of the Pleasant-Faced Lion's approach if the blinds were pulled down? When Ridgwell found, in spite of much lingering, that the last crumb of cake had been consumed, to say nothing of the last currant which he had made last quite a long time, and that the third summons to go to bed must have some sort of notice taken of it, he resigned himself to the inevitable, and with a hopeless look at Christine, prepared to talk to Father.

Father was reading quite quietly, and apparently deeply engrossed in a book, and somehow that didn't help matters.

"Please, Father, would you mind very much if the hall door and the back door were both left wide open all night?"

Father considered this somewhat odd request for a space, then inquired with a stray gleam of amusement in his eyes, "Do you consider the house stuffy? Or have you suddenly adopted one of the Futurist ideas concerning Health?"

"No, it isn't that, but Chris and I expect somebody; no, I mean something, and we should be so disappointed if it, no, I mean he didn't come."

"Rather a late visitor," said Father, "and rather an inconsiderate one if this quite Eastern welcome of him includes us all catching our death of cold. No, Ridgie, I'm afraid he will have to knock."

"But, Father, I'm not sure he can knock."

"Then ring," suggested their parent, "nice new electric bell I've just had fixed up. He's only got to push the button."

"Perhaps he doesn't understand about electric bells," objected Ridgwell.

"Your friend seems a trifle old-fashioned," observed Father, good-naturedly.

"And then," said Ridgwell, "his paw is so big he might never find the bell-push."

"I see; a dog, eh?"

"No, bigger than a dog, much."

"Well, then, say a donkey."

"No, Father, bigger than a dog, and not so big as a donkey."

"I give it up," said Father, "but I promise whatever he is he shall be attended to and entertained if possible."

"I cannot think what you will say to him," debated Ridgwell anxiously.

"I will do my best, Ridgwell; but from your description I should imagine the conversation will be a little one-sided. However," remarked Father drily, "perhaps he can be persuaded to smoke, or drink."

"No, Father, he never smokes, and he only drinks water."

"Ah! very abstemious," murmured Father; "perhaps he is a vegetarian as well, sounds like it, and they are always the most difficult people to entertain."

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door, and immediately the new electric bell sounded throughout the house. Ridgwell and Christine nearly tumbled over one another in order to get to the hall door first.

"It's Lal after all," shouted Ridgwell.

"Sure to be," chimed in Christine.

At length in the struggle the hall door was opened, but it wasn't the form of the Pleasant-Faced Lion who greeted them, only Mr. Jollyface, a friend of Father's and a happy, jolly old bachelor, who loved both of the children.

"Anybody with you?" inquired Ridgwell anxiously, as he peered either side of Mr. Jollyface's portly form.

"No, only me," chuckled Mr. Jollyface. "Whom are you expecting? Glad to find you children up; I've got something for you in my pocket, Master Ridgie; your birthday, isn't it?"

"Yes," confessed Ridgwell, but it could be plainly seen that his former enthusiasm had died a sudden death. "But do tell me, Mr. Jollyface, did you see anything as you came along?"

"Lots of things," replied Mr. Jollyface, cheerily.

"A lion?" whispered Ridgwell mysteriously.

"No," debated Mr. Jollyface, "no, I think I may say that a lion was the only thing I didn't see."

"Oh, Mr. Jollyface, are you sure?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Jollyface gravely, "I can really be quite certain upon that point."

"If you had seen a great lion, Mr. Jollyface, what would you have done?"

"I think," debated Mr. Jollyface, as he prepared to disencumber himself of his great-coat, "I think I should have wished him good-evening and passed politely, like the—ahem—Levite, on the opposite side of the way."

"Oh, Mr. Jollyface," sighed Ridgwell, "if you only knew we have waited all day long for a lion."

"Now, that's very funny," whispered Mr. Jollyface, "for I have actually brought one for you in my pocket, I have really. Here it is," announced the imperturbable Mr. Jollyface, as he produced a parcel from his pocket and thrust it into Ridgwell's hand.

"No, no, not that sort of lion," remonstrated Ridgwell.

"Well, perhaps this one would do," suggested Mr. Jollyface. "It's the best sort of lion, you know, really, and made of the very finest chocolate, too."

Here a well-known voice was heard to remark: "If I have to speak to you children once more about going to bed there will be trouble."

"Scamper off," exclaimed the good-natured Mr. Jollyface; then he added, "you know you can eat chocolate in bed quite as well as you can anywhere else. I used to enjoy it as a boy more than I should have done upon a plate in the dining-room. Off you go; good-night, kids."

Thereupon Father claimed Mr. Jollyface, and as the children slowly mounted the stairs they could hear him saying: "So it was you the children were waiting for, and the animal friend they expected was a chocolate lion, eh?"

"Very likely," agreed Mr. Jollyface. "Ha! ha! ha! so they have been puzzling you, my old friend, eh?"

"Well, children's riddles are very difficult to guess," said Father, "and yet they are always so simple."

"Chris," observed Ridgwell dejectedly, as they reached their room and turned the handle of the door, "they none of them understand; isn't it dreadful? and they are grown up, too, and really ought to know."

"We've waited and waited, Ridgie, and there's nothing else to be done;
Lal won't come now, and he's never broken his word before, has he?"

"He might come, Chris; let's roll up the blind."

"No, the garden looks the same as it always does; there isn't a thing in sight. Suppose we don't go to sleep just yet and keep awake a bit; Lal might come and throw a stone at the window."

"Let's eat the chocolate," suggested Chris, who was occasionally practical, "while we wait."

Ridgwell untied the small parcel, a wooden box, about half the size of one of Father's cigar-boxes, and appeared to be made of the same kind of brown wood.

Disclosed to view at length, the birthday present was seen to be a fairly large chocolate lion lying upon a pedestal. The entire sweet-meat model was covered in thick golden paper; this was quickly stripped off, and Ridgwell did the honours as possessor.

"I'll eat his head half, Chris, and give you the other half; I think that's a fair division."

"Right," agreed Christine; "we can't eat more than that to-night, and the pedestal part will do for the morning."

"I can't understand Lal disappointing us to-night as he has done," said
Ridgwell, as he slowly munched his chocolate. "Can you, Chris?"

"No—isn't this chocolate good, Ridgie?"

"Yes, but fancy having to be contented with a chocolate lion when we know a real one! On my birthday too, and yet he promised faithfully we should see him again."

"He has forgotten us," confessed the children as they went to bed.

"Suppose he has too much to think of," said Ridgie; "he can't remember everything."

Christine never knew quite how long she had been asleep that night, before she distinctly heard muffled mutterings from her brother Ridgie's bed the other side of their little room. Surely Ridgie couldn't be saying his prayers at this time of night; then Christine was certain she heard half-smothered sobs.

"Ridgie, what's the matter; are you crying?" demanded Christine. The sobs became very audible now, and even an apparent effort to stifle them with the bed-clothes did not seem in any way to lessen them.

Christine pressed the button of the electric light, and in the sudden illumination regarded her brother across the room.

"Ridgie, why are you crying? are you in pain? have you eaten too much?"

"No," sobbed Ridgie, "no, but oh! Chrissie, I've—I've—we've eaten
Lal."

Christine sat up in bed.

"Ridgie," demanded Christine, "are you dreaming?"

"No," whispered Ridgie, between his sobs; "don't you remember—

Christian child or Pagan child
Which is my denomination?
Have I eaten dear old Lal
In my birthday celebration?

Here, overcome by recollections, Ridgwell broke down completely. "I have eaten him," moaned Ridgwell; "at least, we've eaten him, for you helped. He said we should eat him, and we've done it. That's how Lal meant to come to us; now, I remember, it was exactly like him. Just as—as he is in Trafalgar Square on his pedestal. Oh, Chris, after all the Christians have eaten a lion; he said we should; we aren't Christians any longer, we're Pagans, and—and," confessed Ridgwell with a final outburst, "I feel like a cannibal; it's beastly."

Christine had become quite pale during this recital; but she thought for awhile before replying.

"Perhaps, Ridgie, Lal meant us to eat him—I mean his likeness in chocolate—all the time, and most likely he isn't angry with us at all. He might have arranged it all as a joke."

"It isn't a joke at all," sniffed Ridgwell, "it's horrible. We have eaten one of our very best friends. Oh! if only the Order of Great Imagination hadn't been taken away from us!"

"I am not so sure, Ridgie," observed Christine, with feminine intuition, "that you have lost all your order of imagination; I think you have still a lot left, or you would never have discovered Lal's riddle."

It was Ridgwell's turn now to sit up in bed, and he asked eagerly—

"Do you really think it was only a riddle, Chris, and Lal meant only to have a joke with us?"

Christine nodded gravely.

"I feel very comforted with that," said Ridgwell, "so turn off the light, Chris, and we'll go to sleep again; but oh, won't I just tell Lal next time I pass him in Trafalgar Square!"

Some few moments afterwards in the darkness Christine answered—

"You hadn't better make any remarks to Lal in public; you know he cautioned us about attracting a crowd."

"Crowd or no crowd, I mean to tell him what I think of him," asserted
Ridgwell before he turned over and went to sleep.

* * * * *

The clock in the hall was just chiming twelve, and Mr. Jollyface was taking his departure.

Father and Mother were wishing him good-night and thanking him for bringing the chocolate lion for Ridgwell.

"It is really quite remarkable how I came to buy it," agreed Mr. Jollyface; "but I was passing through Trafalgar Square when I remembered that I hadn't bought Ridgie a present, and the sight of the corner lion, as I crossed the Square, made me remember a sweetstuff model of him I had seen in a chocolate shop in the Strand, so I went and bought it. But really the most wonderful thing about it is the almost uncanny intelligence of your children. Bless my soul! they couldn't have known I had bought it; and yet, would you believe it, they actually expected a lion, and asked me if I had brought one with me."

"Yes," agreed Father, "it's very wonderful; they were trying to describe a lion before you came in. I think at times children must have second sight, and that is why I am afraid we sometimes do not understand them. Good-night, Jollyface; come and see us again soon."