The Tale of Lal Part 26

"And I'm proud of you, Dad," was the Writer's answer.

"Goodness alive," declared the old man, as he turned and beamed upon Ridgwell and Christine by turns, "do you children know, those were the very words this rascal here used sixteen years ago, when he deposited a lot of ridiculous prizes that n.o.body ever wanted to read in my lap when I was asleep in front of the fire in my library. Bless me, history does repeat itself."

"And prophecies come true," added the Writer.

"Tut, tut," said Sir Simon, "there was one prophecy our friend Lal made that never came true. How about that absurd statement of his that you would find d.i.c.k Whittington? That was all a lot of riddle-me-ree, as you may say, thrown in like the cheap-jack's patter to mystify all of us."

"You haven't opened the second parcel," quietly remarked the Writer; "but when I read in some of the papers three years ago that you had started collecting valuable old china, I always determined you should have this piece."

"It all sounds very mysterious," replied the old gentleman, as he gingerly prepared to take off the outside wrappings.

It was at this point that Ridgwell could contain himself no longer, for he felt as if he were present upon a Christmas Day before the gifts were opened.

"It's worth more than a hundred guineas," shouted Ridgwell.

"Then it is simply disgraceful extravagance," replied Sir Simon, "and I shall certainly not accept it."

"I am sure you will," ventured Christine, "it is the thing that he values most of anything he has got."

The last wrapping was undone, and the beautifully coloured and modelled d.i.c.k Whittington was disclosed to view. There was not even a spot or trace of ink anywhere upon his enamelled coat, the tree-stump, the milestone or the three-cornered hat, he had been washed and cleaned for the cabinet with a vengeance, and looked as beautiful and as spick and span as the day the artist had turned him out to an admiring world.

"Bless my heart!" exclaimed Sir Simon, as he viewed the treasure with the keen admiration of a connoisseur. "Why, it is perfect; I don't believe there is another one in existence like it. Where did you get it, and who is it meant to be?"

"Why, d.i.c.k Whittington, of course, Dad; so you see Lal was right after all."

Sir Simon placed the little figure carefully upon the table, and folding his hands regarded the Writer severely. "Do you happen to know that it was this particular piece of Lal's nonsense that has worried me more than anything else all these years?"

"It worried me for a long time until I found out his trick," confessed the Writer.

"Yes, but mine is a most disheartening story," declared Sir Simon, "and nearly succeeded in alienating me from all my friends; and as for Mum, I dare not so much as mention Lal's name to her for fear of having my nose snapped off; she never did and never will believe in him, declares that the whole thing is a preposterous lot of nonsense, and declines even to discuss the subject with me at all. You know, my dear boy, that Mum is very sensible upon other points, but about Lal she is openly scornful and secretly adamantine; in fact, the mere mention of Lal is like poison to her, and he was entirely responsible for the only difference we have ever had in our married lives."

"Light a cigar, Dad, before you start; and what will you have by way of a drink?"

The Writer had opened other compartments in the mysterious old oak cabinet that seemed to possess more doors than a Chinese temple.

"These Coronas I remembered you used to smoke, so I got some."

"Excellent," declared Sir Simon, "and, let me see, why, bless me what a lot of bottles you have there. I hope you don't drink them all. Some of that green stuff, my dear boy, if you please, Creme-de-Menthe; yes, I think a couple of liqueurs of that would be most beneficial to me after the most indigestible banquet we all partook of at the Mansion House to-day. The stuff is largely made up of peppermint, I'm sure; and, of course, peppermint, when it is tastily got up like this liqueur, is very good for indigestion, isn't it?"

The Writer lighted the old gentleman's cigar, and placing the Creme-de-Menthe upon the table, filled a tiny liqueur gla.s.s to the brim.

"Of course," commenced Sir Simon, "from the very first nothing would induce Mum to believe that the Pleasant-Faced Lion, our old friend Lal, ever had anything to do with my life, or ever influenced me in any way.

You know, my boy, it is one of women's weaknesses to invariably believe that they do more than they really do. She declared that everything in my life was owing to your influence and to hers."

"Mine?" asked the Writer in astonishment.

"So Mum always insisted, and so she always undoubtedly believed, and when the time came that you ran away,--yes, you dog, for you did run away, don't deny it,--well, what with sorrow for the loss of you, and trouble with your mother, for she declared I had driven you from home by not encouraging you to write, and women are most illogical and unreasonable when they once get a fixed idea into their heads,--well, between one and the other of you I had a very bad time. The fact remained that you were gone, never gave us any address, and I got all the blame for it. But the thing that annoyed Mum more than anything else was my everlasting habit of going to the Pantomimes."

The Writer laughed. "Well, I never knew before, Dad, that Pantomimes were a special weakness of yours."

"Neither were they, my boy, but as sure as ever Christmas came, and the inevitable Pantomimes also, so did I go to every one; not only in London, but every city of the United Kingdom." Here Sir Simon, as if overcome with emotion, groaned aloud. "My boy, pity me; I believe I am the only person still alive who has ever sat out every single Pantomime that has been written for ten years, and oh! what twaddle they were."

"But what on earth did you go to them for?" asked the Writer, aghast.

"To find you."

"Me? Good heavens, at a Pantomime? Dad, were you dreaming?"

"Yes," answered old Sir Simon, shaking his white head at the recollection. "I was dreaming of what Lal had prophesied--that you would make your name and fortune when you met d.i.c.k Whittington, and then you would come back to us. And the more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that there was only one possible way of meeting d.i.c.k Whittington in the world to-day, and that would be when some lady--and they were always ladies, plain, fair, ugly, tall, lean, fat, pretty--who appeared as that character--met you whilst impersonating d.i.c.k. You rascal, I believed that you would meet one of these female d.i.c.k Whittingtons, would ever after write the rubbishy Pantomimes in which she appeared every Christmas season, train up your children to be Pantaloons and Harlequins, and have the audacity to appeal to me to keep the family after having christened the eldest child after me.

There is not one single lady," continued the Lord Mayor, as he mopped the perspiration from his face, "from here to Aberdeen, and back to Liverpool and Manchester, who has ever played d.i.c.k Whittington that I have not treated to either port wine or champagne (for those were the refreshments they all seemed to favour most) in the hope of finding you; I have spent more than ten times the reputed worth of that d.i.c.k Whittington inkstand, in railway fares and buying stalls and programmes. Yet the worst of all to relate is, that when Mum saw the programmes underlined upon my return, she accused me of being enamoured of these extraordinary ladies who stalked the stage in the most indescribable costumes, accompanied by cats. My boy, I know every ridiculous speech, every stupid gag spoken by every Lord Mayor in all those Pantomimes by heart, and the one dread of my life is that I shall one day come out with some of it in one of my speeches at either the Guildhall or the Mansion House."

The Writer lay back in his chair and roared with laughter.

"Poor old Dad, I had no idea you were undergoing such an awful penance!"

"You think it funny, do you?" asked the Lord Mayor indignantly.

"I think it is the funniest thing I have ever heard, but I am sure that all the blame rests with Lal for playing us such a trick."

"Humph! Well, Mum didn't think so, and every time Christmas came there was a coldness between us. Perhaps she will be convinced when I take her this inkstand and explain what it is," wound up Sir Simon triumphantly; "she will believe in Lal then, and believe in me at the same time."

Some two hours later Ridgwell and Christine, having viewed the Lord Mayor in his state robes, were safely despatched home in a carriage with the Writer's housekeeper in charge, but not before old Sir Simon had promised to send one of his state coaches, attended by servants in livery, to fetch them to the Mansion House Children's Ball.

Upon taking his departure, Ridgwell had inquired most particularly if the state coach would drive up to their door for them. The Lord Mayor a.s.sured him that this would be the case.

"I believe," declared Ridgwell, as he said good-bye and made his departure, "that all the neighbours will believe we have something to do with fairies."

"I shouldn't wonder," chuckled Sir Simon, "and I will get the Lady Mayoress to send you both two costumes that will help the illusion enormously."

"I do wonder what they will be like," mused Christine; "I do so love dressing up."

"So does the Lady Mayoress, my dear," laughed Sir Simon, "so I am sure both of you will get on capitally together, and really she is the life and soul of a children's gathering. I don't know how I should get on without her."

"It certainly seems very strange," remarked Sir Simon, when at length he and the Writer were left alone, "that Lal has not given any sort of sign; this is undoubtedly the night of all nights that he ought to show he is pleased."

Sir Simon helped himself to a third cigar, and a second Creme-de-Menthe, and after drawing back the curtains, looked anxiously down into Trafalgar Square for at least the twentieth time that evening.

The lights of London twinkled gaily, lighting the Square up in fairy-like brilliancy of colours. Signs were to be seen in plenty; they burst from the tall roofs of houses, in coloured electric lights, which worked out advertis.e.m.e.nts for Foods, Patent Medicines, brands of Cigarettes, brands of Whisky; nearly everything, in fact, that one could not be reasonably in need of at that time of night; but still the Pleasant-Faced Lion remained obdurate and made no sign at all of ever having been alive.

"There is one thing that both Mum and I insist upon," commenced Sir Simon.

"What's that, Dad?"

"Directly we leave the Mansion House, and I may say at once that although it is undoubtedly very stately, and all that sort of thing, we neither of us feel at home there, and for my part, I would as soon live in the British Museum--directly we leave, I insist that you come back to your old home and live with us, and complete the old happy party we three used to make."

"All right, Dad, I'll do that, I promise you."

"And now that you have made a name and fortune for yourself in spite of my doing everything I could to prevent you----"