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CHAPTER VII
Scarcely had he fallen asleep when a stealthy figure emerged from the gloom of night and sought out the place where Will o'Dreams lay sleeping. The stealthy figure proved to be none other than Mr. Literal; and after he had stood looking down upon the sleeping band an instant, he kicked the Giant's foot warily.
The giant was up in an instant. His first thought was that his services were needed. There was no hint of resentment in his heart; and he proved his gentle qualities by moving carefully, so that the others would not be disturbed.
He bent his head above Mr. Literal to hear what he had to say.
"Follow me!" said Mr. Literal coldly; and without more ado he turned and led the way into the depths of the forest, the giant following him wonderingly.
They came before long to an old house with all the blinds drawn save at one window, through which the beams of a lamp shone dimly.
Mr. Literal opened the front door, which creaked angrily. He lighted a hall lamp so that he and the giant might find their way up a flight of stairs in safety. A musty odor filled the giant's nostrils, causing him to wrinkle his nose slightly. But he said nothing.
Up the stairway they proceeded, and into a study. It was in this room that a lamp had been left burning.
Mr. Literal approached a table and drew forth two chairs. "Sit down," he said, still without looking at the giant. And Will o'Dreams seated himself in one of the chairs and waited for Mr. Literal to explain his somewhat peculiar behavior.
As an immediate explanation did not seem to be forthcoming, he employed his spare time in looking about the room. There was dust everywhere, and frayed rugs and faded hangings. But there were a number of busts which were really a delight to the eye: of Shakespeare, of Burns, of Victor Hugo, of Dickens and of others. And there were book cases filled to overflowing with books—all dust-covered, as if they had not been touched for years.
Mr. Literal took a seat at last; and for a moment there was silence in the room and throughout the old house, save that a window rattled somewhere in the night breezes. Then Mr. Literal leaned forward deliberately, his finger tips fitted together and his lips drawn into very prim lines. And at last he spoke.
"Listen to me, Mr. Will o'Dreams : I know you!" His tone was triumphant, merciless.
But the giant only nodded politely and said, "Very well, Mr. Literal; and I know you, too!"
"At least," said Mr. Literal icily, "I do not go about under an assumed name!"
"Nor do I," replied the other.
"It is false!" exclaimed Mr. Literal. "I know you too well. You are that evil creature, Imagination."
"I am sometimes called so," admitted the giant candidly. "The name has a somewhat formidable sound. I prefer to be known as Will o'Dreams—that is all."
"You are trying to evade the truth," declared Mr. Literal. "Well do you know that if you were to make your real name known, honest folk would shun you."
The giant only waved his hand lightly. "I will not argue with you," he said.
"But I have something else to say to you," said Mr. Literal. "Your statement to those children on the road—that was false too."
"What statement?" inquired the giant, his brows lifting slightly.
"You informed them that you were looking for masterpieces; yet you know well that your real purpose was to becloud the young minds of those children—to turn them from the quest of Truth. Dare you deny this?"
"I do indeed. I assert again: I was looking for masterpieces."
"Masterpieces indeed!—in a forest! There are masterpieces"—and he pointed to the bookcases. "But you were not even looking for my house."
"I was not thinking of books," admitted the giant.
"I grant, there are other kinds of masterpieces," said Mr. Literal; "but they are not to be found in a forest."
"Ah, Mr. Literal!" cried the giant. "I would that I might open your eyes. Believe me, the forest is filled with masterpieces of such perfection as the hand of man can never know."
"So—then name me one!"
"The tiniest leaf that falls from its stem. Not all the human race could duplicate it. The humblest plant. The human eye has no power to take in all its marvels. And as for the trees—what has the world produced that can match them?"
Mr. Literal was flushing uncomfortably. "That is a large boast," he said. "The world has produced Karnac; it has produced the Petit Trianon, and St. Peter's and St. Paul's."
"But my dear sir," cried the giant warmly, "cannot you see that the most labored structure of man is crude and clumsy and artificial, when compared with any tree in all the world? Houses are dead, pathetic things. They begin to decay the moment they are built. Rightly seen they are hideous, save when they are considered in relation to some simple human need. They keep the wind and rain away—for which, God knows, we should be the better sometimes. They have no beauty save the spirit of human striving that is within them—and that too often is a tarnished thing. But a tree! There are fairies under the trees, truly! True aspirations hover about them, and beautiful dreams." He lowered his voice and said reverently, "The Holy Spirit is all about them."
"They are simply trees," said Mr. Literal harshly.
"Yes," agreed the giant, nodding and smiling, "they are simply trees."
But Mr. Literal hitched his chair forward angrily. "We are talking nonsense," he declared. "It is your plan to divert me from my purpose. But you shall not do so. Listen: I forbid you to associate with those innocent children. You would corrupt them. It shall be my duty to expose you if you do not cease from following after them. Do you hear?"
The giant bowed his head thoughtfully. "You ask too much," he said. "I know I have done evil in my time. But I am repentant. Come, believe me when I say that I would be only a friendly companion to those children. I would add to their innocent joys and take from their sorrows. You do not know me, really. I have no wish to offend you; but I tell you you ask too much when you bid me turn aside from that pleasant company."
He arose and turned toward the door.
"You are warned," said Mr. Literal. "Persist in your present course and I shall bring you to your knees."
"Abandon Everychild?" said the giant musingly. And he shook his head. "No," he said. Then, wishing to conciliate the old man, he looked about him to where the busts reposed. "They are all friends of mine," he said with a pleasant smile.
"They are all dead," said Mr. Literal coldly.
"What!—Shakespeare dead?" cried the giant in amazement. But he did not remain for other words. Mr. Literal was staring stupidly at nothing. He went out into the hall and closed the door behind him. He would have descended the stairs then, but some one brushed against him lightly and whispered, "Why do you waste your time in there?"
"I went in against my will," said the giant.
The stranger said in glad tones, "I know you well."
The giant replied, "My name is Will o'Dreams."
"Yes, yes," said the other. "My name is Will, too. Though certain well-meaning persons have always preferred to refer to me as William. I used to write plays, you know."
The giant gazed at him in the dim light. "Of course," he said.
"I used to live beside the Avon," said the other.
The giant's heart grew soft. "It is a beautiful stream," he said. "And children play along its banks, just as in the old days, and men and women passing that way are the happier because you once dwelt there."
But the other held up a cautioning finger. His eyes twinkled mischievously in the dim light. "Not so loud," he said. "Old Mr. Literal will hear you—and you know he doesn't know I am here!"
They parted then; and the giant went back to his place where the children lay asleep.