THE DEMON-ANGELS

Evening Star, Issue 20060, 28 December 1928, Page 2

THE DEMON-ANGELS

[All Rights Reserved.] [By Owen Oliver.] It was a few afternoons before Christmas. Playfair and I sat in the studio, drinking afternoon tea and smoking. cigarettes. We were in a reminiscent mood and were congratulating ourselves upon the change in our fortunes since we came to these cheap attics ome three years previously. In those days ho was an artist who never sold a picture, and I was an author who never sold a story. Now he was offered more commissions than he could execute, and I had published two successful novels, and found a fine demand for my short fiction. Nevertheless, we had stayed on in the attics, taking in a couple more of them to make up a suite. Ho liked the light up there, and I liked the ijuiet: and wo enjoyed carrying out an old vow to turn our dingy rooms into a palace of luxury. The studio was his province, ami he decreed that it should be Eastern. It had linoleum that aped a marble floor, and a fountain that was really marble. There were Eastern couches and costly mgs and palms, and curiosities that we had gathered in our annual holida-s abroad. Our dining room was Gothic, with handsome old oak. My study was Tudor, since my lino was Elizabethan romance. Iho hall was Norman, with old weapons hung ail over the wall, and two suits of armour. Visitors gaped when they came for the first time. We were the richest attic dwellers in the world, ne were telling each other with chuckles, when wo heard a curious rapping at the outer door, as if someone had banged it with a stick. “The demon-angels!” Playfair prophesied. ' The demon-angels lived in the three small attics which completed the top floor. Their title was a compromise between their character and their appearance. They were two small imscajs of boys who looked like cherubs. They lived with two Sisters whom we called the dragon-angels. This term was also a compromise between behaviour and looks. They were pretty, proud girls, who had evidently been better off, and considered attic neighbours beneath their notice. They had frozen our attempts at friendliness, and even kept the boys from communion with ns. 1 found no need to open the door. I hoard the demon-angels run, and 1 saw a letter on the mat. 1 carried it off to the studio, and Playfair and I road it together. “ Pleas men in the uthor aticks, wil you play uro pcimaner loud, cos wc hero it in our bedrum; wo go to bed at ale; it is too erly; if yon bang we can hero; we like funy songs; the wuu abowt Caroline is best. “ Wo mussent spoke to you cos they think yure vulger, cos you ware a velvy cote; an wunce they sore the nthcr in shurt slccl's and sing komie songes; but they diddent say wo mussent rite. Don’t tel them. “ Hopping you arc wel as it lecfs us, “ Yure afechuniit frens, “Tommy Spencer. “ Bon Spencer.”

We laughed a bit, but I think wo saw a pathetic side to tho letter. I know 1 did; and_ Playfair wasn t the sort of chap to miss it. “ The kids are a bit lonely, without playmates,” he said. “ I suppose their Wfrooiii Is next to yours, and thev hear the piano when the door is open.’ “We’ll shift it to the doorway tonight,” 1 proposed. . “ Yes," ho 1 agreed. ‘ those girls don’t appreciate the difference between a man and his coal.” “Or his absence of coat, tho demons knocked at our door and ran away, and I went out to chase them. That was when tho dragon-angels saw me. Oh, well! it’s rough on them to come down to attics—if you come down when you go up to the 1 don’t boar them any malice.” “Of course not,” Playfair agreed. “They’re too deuced pretty!” We gave tho boys a good concert that night. The next afternoon another letter was put through the slot. “It was jolly good. Thanks. “ Tho demon-angels arc gentlemen, I observed. . “ Yes,” Playfair agreed; “and the dragon-angels are ladies, 100 much ladies!” .. “Oh, I don t know, I said. “ They’re down on their luck, and they feel it. I saw them this morning. Th. didn’t deign to 'sec mo, I laughed. “ They’re most uncommonly pretty, old man! ” “Yes,” he agreed. . I played again that evening for the benetit of our young friends. ' the next morning I met them when I went out. They were leaning over the staircase trying to drop small bits of coal on the porter. I pulled their cars playfully. . . ~ T “ I suppose I can speak to you, i said. “If you drop things down here, you’ll get in trouble. By tho wav, you mustn’t tie tin cans on our cat. It you do he’ll hide inside the piano, and it won’t play. See? ” , . They rubbed their ears and grinned at me, and I inserted a coin in each dirty hand. I had another note in the afternoon. „ , . t , “ Wo don’t belefe about the cat but we wont do it wich sings Caroline its funv -thanks orfly.— Tommy an Bob.” We hejird them on the landing later, and took out some chocolates. Wo put our fingers 'to onr lips. So did they. “ Ho sings ‘ Caroline,’ ” I whispered, pointing to Playfair, “ I only sing * Sta>' of live,’ and things like that. The next afternoon there was a tapping at our door. The two urchins stood there, laughing and unabashed. “The girls ’said, both began at once. Then Tommy told Bob to ‘ shut up.” “ They said, if you spoke to us, wo could answer politely,” Tommy continned, “but if you gave us sweets we ought to give them back. ihcy s both laughed. , “ We’d eaten them, ’fore they found out! ” Bob explained. “He told them! ” Tommy said, wrathfully. “ He’s a silly kid!”' “ Why did you tell them? ” I asked. “They saw the boxes,” ho apologised. , “ And ho wasn't very well,” said Tommy. “He gobbled them up too fast. He’s a beastly pig! ” “Pig yourself I” retorted Bob. A tight seemed . imminent, so I stepped” between. r “ Como in, I suggested, and wo J 1 speak to you, and you can answer politely. Hi, Playfair! Two gentlemen want some polite conversation I” I ushered them into the studio, and Playfair shook hands and took Bob on his knee. He’s fond of children. So am I. “So we mustn’t give / you anything? ” he remarked, when I had explained the situation. “She only said sweets,” Tommy pointed out. .. _ , “ That was Marg’ret,” Bob qualified, “ Sis uaul anyfink.” , “ Shut up! lominv ordered, ‘we can’t have two to mind;; and Marg’ret’s the oldest. I shall mind’ her—this time.” . '■ „ “Then,” Playfair ■ proposed, - perhaps you’ll have some tea? ” tie rang the bell and ordered up a selection of pastries. They .kepk a,.sort. of,restaurant hr the fiats, and ffe had all pur meals from it., , .

The demon-angels explored our rooms, and admired our treasures. They dressed up in our rugs, and put on a selection of weapons from our curios. They wished to don the aits of armour, but tho arrival of tea made a welcome diversion at that point. After tea- I'played the piano, and Plavfair sang ‘ Caroline ’ several times (by" request)'. Tho boys joined lustily in the chorus, which related how Caroline, when married, was found to have false hair, false teeth, a glass eye, a cork arm, a wooden leg, but “ a temper of her own! ” “ Girls have awful tempers,” Tommy observed, “ Sis nearly boxed our ears yesterday, Vos wo took tho sweets! “ An’ eated them,” said Bob, grinning cheerfully. “ ’Specks she wanted some herself. Wo don’t care. .11 they hit you they can't hurt.” % “’Roll ” said Tommy. “ They could if they wanter to. They don’t really try. They’re all right.” You ought to have saved them some of the sweets,” I suggested. “Yon are greedy young pigs!" “ We’re hot,” cried Tommy indignantly. “ They wouldn’t eat your sweets, an’ it wasn’t any good saving I them. We always give them some of our own.” . “ Yes,” Bub corroborated. B e ro going to give them a Santa Claus. We’ve saved up. It’s a secret.” “ Marg’rot is going to buy Sis’s for us,” Tommy added, “ and Sis is going to get Marg’rot’s. Hatpins.” He sighed. “ Hatpins aren’t much,” ho apologised. “ You sec, wo haven’t any father now. He used to. give us tho money.” “ lie’s gone to Heaven,” said Bob, solemnly. “1 ’.specks mother wanted him. She’s been there a long time.” “Of course,” said Tommy, “we wanted him, too.” Ho sighed again. “Do you think ” —he lowered his voice— 5 * Santa Glaus is quite fair? ” T looked at Playfair, and Playfair looked at me. Wo saw the point. “ I rather think,” I said, “ that Santa Claus isn’t quite so rich as ho used to be. You see, there are such a lot of children nowadays.” “Yes,” Tommy agreed; “but lie ought to bring the host things to those who haven’t any father—f menu only in heaven. They can’t buy presents there.” “ Why not? ” Boh queried. ' “ ’l'llere aren’t any shops.” “ They might send an angel down to the stores,” 13ob suggested. “ He could fly in at tho windows at night and bring the presents down our chimney. You wouldn’t call it stealing, if an angel took things, would you? Why mustn’t yon pray about Santa, Claus? ” “ You only pray for what yon don’t want, silly,” Tommy explained; “ tu be a good boy, and things like that. Yon call to Santa Clans up tho chimney.” “ What have you called for? ” Playfair asked. _ . “ 1 ” they both began excitedly. “ One at a "time,” Playfair interposed. “ Tommy first, because he’s the uiggest.” “ ] called for a box of paints and a gun to tiro darts, and orange and candy,” said Tommy. “ That was the proper call, when Marg’rct and Sis were there. They said he .vusii't rich enough to bring any more, tun ” “ It’s my turn,” Boh uiterrupted. “ I called for a box of soldiers, and a sword, and an orange, and candy. They thought he’d bring them.” “ Wo had another call by ourselves,” Tommy added, “ but wo didn't know if ho was there. I asked for a fort and lots and lots of soldiers and a concertina; and Boh ashed tor a box of real bricks to build houses, and a gun to tire them down with.” “ And wc put it in our prayers, too,” Hob confessed, “ when Marg’ret and Sis wasn’t there.” “ Weren’t,” Tommy corrected.' “There's no needto bo a vulgar little boy because you live in an attic.” Playfair and I smiled at each other. Wc recognised that the remark was a quotation. “Do you link he’ll bring them?” Bobby inquired, anxiously. Playfair patted his head. “ He’ll bring the ‘ proper call,’ ” ho pronounced, with a little twitch of his kind old month—there never was a softer-hearted chap than old Playfair. “ But, you see, old man, Santa Clans is a bit poor, and—l’ve heard that ho Inis to get the fathers to help him. 1 expect your father used to; and now— I dare say your sisters would help him, if they could; but 1 expect it takes a lot of money to buy you nice clothes and hoots.” Tommy nodded. “I ’speet it’s that,” he agreed. “We wear out a lot of things. When Bob burnt his best coat ” “It was your •fault,” Bob cried. “ Yon said burns would eomo out with soap.’’’ “ Well,” said Tommy, scornfully, “you were a foo! to think I meant it, Sis cried.” “I should think so!” I rum arsed. “ If yon want to try experiments with lire, Bob, you come and ask us first. We know all about it.” “ I expect you know a lot of things,” said Boh admiringly. “ A lot,” .1 agreed. “Do you know Santa Claus? Tommy demanded. “Slightly,” I confessed; “just slightly.” Playfair and I looked at each other again. “ I’m afraid not,” he said. I wish ho would, old chap—l very much wish ho would.” He made the same remark to mo when tho urchins had gone home, with sundry small coins in their pockets, under a strict pledge of secrecy. “ I suppose there’s no way of doing it? ” ho remarked. “ Tho dragon-angols would send them back,” I said, shaking my head. “Think so? They would if they intercepted them on the road, Ho doulu.; but, if they’d once got into the children's hands? I gather they’re fond of tho little rascals, and good to them. I scarcely think they’d take the toys away, if we gave them to the boys. Wouldn’t tho young scamps be delighted? ” “ And wouldn’t tho girls bo hurt? ” I reminded him. “ I remember times when you and I were a bit sensitive over our poverty, Charlie.” He nodded. “Do you recollect,” he asked, “ when we first knew each other, hew we each tried to stand the other a dinner? The price of two dinners was about as much as either had.’! I .nodded too. “ It’s the sorb of thing one doesn’t forget,” I said. “ Funny thing, tho queer bits of memory chat one picks out, and makes up a ‘life’ with! There’s a lot will go before that, old man.” “Yes,” ho agreed. “Yes. And there’s the memory of those little chaps' talking about Santa Claus. You’re the ingenious member of our partnership, Dick. Isn’t there any way of doing it? Couldn’t, we send the things so that they wouldn’t be traced to us? ” I considered. “The difficulty,”' I pointed out, “is that they’ll probably send them straight back, unless tho boys get them in their hands before they know; and if we put them in the boys’ hands, wo can’t escape conviction. They’ll drop on us, and probably feel desperately insulted, and leave here, You see, they; ■can’t help taking some notice of the matter, if tho toys are openly given by .US." , “ No,” said Playfair. “.No. If we could get them into the boys’ hands anonymously, so to speak? Tney might ■suspect us, and- they might even leave here, but they wouldn't gave to recognise that jvo did it.”

We stared at. tlie dome of tho study for a time; and suddenly I laughed and pointed to it. . “ Let’s get out on tne roof, I suggested. “ and put them douu the chimney! ” .. . “ Dick,” said Playfair, “ you’re supposed to he a genius, but I always felt that you were an impostor. Now 1 know." How the deuce arc we goum to tell which is their chimney? And how are you going to get a fort down it? You old—idiot! ” “ In half a minute,” I declared, “ you will apologise. The chimney is next to mine. I shall burn paper in mine, and you will go on tho roof, and sec which pot the smoke comes out of I Tho fort must be one which takes to pieces and can bo done up in convenient parcels. Wo shall let them down with a double string, and pull it out by one end afterwards.” "“I apologise,” ho said promptly; “ but suppose the stove is shut? ” “ We’ll advise the boys to leave it open,” I said, “ and to look there on Christinas morning. Any more criticism ? ” “ Only that you have mistaken your v cation,” he said, “You ought to have been an inventor. You would have made millions! ” The next clay was Christmas rive. Wo spent a pleasant hour at tho stores buying a fort which could be. taken to pieces and packed in small parcels, soldiers, stone bricks (also in small boxes), a diminutive concertina, and a variety of gnus. We added a toy lift and a clockwork figure that danced. We saw the hoys in the afte.vnc.on and advised them about Santa -Tins. “ 1 suppose," I said, “ yon opened the thing on lop of tho fire before you .called up? ” “ Rather! ” said Tommy. “ Mind it’s open to-night, so that lie can put tho things down it,” I advised. “ Do you think ho'Jl come dc wn there? ” Tommy wanted to know. “ Sure to,” I declared. “ Always does,” Playfair conoboratocl. “If the things aren't under your stockings ” “ Socks,” Bob corrected. “ Von look in the morning to sec if anything has stuck in 'he fine.” “ Yes,” cried both boys at once. Wc feasted them, and sent them oil'. Then wo went out to dinner. When we returned wo found four Christmas cards on our mat, one frhin ouch boy to each of n.s. They were cheap little things; hut wo gave them a place of honour on our mantelshelf. “ They make rather a difficulty," Playfair said. “ if wc don’t send tho cloiiiou-angcls cards they’ll ho hurt, if wo do, tho dragon-angels will suspect ns of tho other things.” “ My clear chap,” 1 retorted, “ they’ll suspect ns anyhow! I dare Say they’ll call and pitch into us. _ I vote wo go out early in the morning and don’t eomo back! Then they can't return tho things.” (Wo were going out to dinner anyhow). “ Wc must send cards.” Wo sent them. After this wo played billiards till late. When wc returned homo wo sat talking till 2, to give tho “ angels ” —both sorts—time to go io sleep. At 2 in tho morning wo got up to tho dome of the studio with a pair of stops, and out on the roof. We identified my chimney by tho smoko test, and made a number of perilous journeys, on our hands and knees, and lowered our parcels down its neighbour. It was a vary dark night, luckily, and nobody observed ns on the roof; or, if they did, wo never heard of it. Wo required much washing and brushing beforo wo went to bed. Wo laughed a good deal. “ But it won’t he a laughing matter if wo have to face the dragon-angols,” 1 said. “ What a pretty creature the dark one is! ” “ Yos,” Playfair agreed; “hut the fair one is prettier. Reminds mo of a lady-swan. I’m always trying to jaint her.” 1 dug him in the ribs, “I know,” I said. “ I recognised ‘ The Enchantress.’ If you want to appreciate my tact, remember that 1 never said a word about your doing tho face without a model! ” Ho grinned. “ I made no comment upon a stjv\ entitled 1 The Distant Lady,’ ” he reminded me. “ The distance will have increased by to-morrow,” I remarked. “ Well, wo aren’t hoys to lose our hearts to every pretty girl wc meet on tho stairs. Have a peg'beforc yon turn in, old man. Here’s to the angels; both lots. God bless, ’em! ” Wo heard distant sounds of angels early the next morning. The playing of > concertina in the room next to mine woke me. 1 went into Playfair’s room to tell him. “ They’ve got the toys,” 1 said; and he came back with mo to hear the terrible sounds. Tommy had not the remotest notion of the way to play a concertina. “ I wonder what their sisters thought,” ho chuckled, “ when they heard that concertina 1 1 can fancy them bouncing in! ” “ They can’t send it hack new,” I stated. "“The boys would mutiny.” They didn’t send hack the concertina, or any of the things; but wo found on the door mat, among a heap of Christmas cards, an unaddressed envelope. There was no letter in it—nothing but two golden coins. I shrugged my shoulders. Playfair pushed his breakfast aside and stared at it. “ I wonder,” ho said at last, “ what they will have to go without.” He touched the two coins that lay upon tho table. “ Yon see, I think if they could have spared the money without great privation, they’d have bought the things the hoys wanted. God knows what those girls may suffer for these.” He touched the coins again almost reverently. I nodded, and said nothing. “ We can’t Jet them,” ho went on. “I’ll go alongj if yon like; but you’re a writer, and you’ve got the gift of the gab ” Ho looked at mo. “ Como oh! ” I said. “ I don’t know that we’ll do any good, but we’re bound to try.” 1 “ We’d better think it out carefully,” ho suggested, “ what we’ll say.” “ No,” I contradicted. “ No thinking! Truth, hot from tho press, is the only thing that can do any good, Charlie. Como on, old chap!” We went. Tommy rushed to greet us, and Bob followed. They held on to us, and flourished their toys, and both talked at onco. Tommy had rammed his concertina into my hands and was beseeching me to show him how to play it, when his*elder sister appeared—the tall, pale, stately “ swan lady,” as Playfair called her. Her face was grave and imperturbable. She bowed when I asked for a moment’s conversation. Tho pretty, dark sister stood behind her.' She was grave—but not imperturbable. Her big, black eyes were a-trifle moist. I think she felt that we meant well. They led the way in to their sitting room —which contrasted painfully with our luxurious apartment—and we followed them. We stood and looked at one another. . , “ I want to suggest,” I said, “ that children aren’t like grown-ups. They have a sort of claim on the universe, and people who like them—we are fond of .your little chaps—can do trifling tliiligs for them without any question of—of imposing an obligation. If you could take that view, you would relieve Mr Playfair and myself of—of a very distressing feeling.” “ An extremely distressing feeling," I Playfair added.' i if JVe did not cfeate the distressing

.situation,” tho queenly Margaret stated. “Wo appreciate your intentions, but—charity from strangers is charity from strangers. It was humiliating to us.” Her sister touched her arm gently, and looked a pica for us. “That is what f feel,” Margaret insisted. “ Yon can speak for yourself, Lucy, of course. 1 understood that yon felt as I do.” “ 1 fed tho humiliation,” dear, dark little Lucy said; “ but 1 feel the kindness, too. Bo so very good as to let ns pay for tho presents. It is ior us to do what is proper for the boys, and You see, wo shall he move comfortable that way. Wo ” —her voice shook—” we are proud because—because wc arc poor.” “ Since you levee us to confess it,” said Margaret, in a freeing voice, that suddenly melted. “ I beg your pardon for saying that. You did not wish to make us say it, I am sure. You know it, and that was why you Please keep the—tho envelope. Wo can’t take it.” “My dear lady,” I remonstrated, “ I understand your feelings, because, when wc came here, wo were poor—desperately poor! Sometimes hungry. It hurts my pride to say that. You see, if you make us take it back, we shall feel that wo have forced a burden on yon, by our—our liking for your little chaps, it was a foolish way to do it, but after we’d heard them talk about —well, you know pretty well what they’d say—wc had to do it, just to please ourselves. It is you who will confer the favour. We had no other thought; no idea of forcing our acquaintance upon yon. If you like we’ll leave here, though wo love the old place; or if we stay, yon needn’t notice us when we pass on the stairs. You’ll give us a very unhappy Christmas il we feel that wo have forced you to .spend what you did not ice) able to afford. Do you think wo don’t know that you’d have bought the things il you could have .spared the money without actual privation ? _ Accept our apologies, and—and believe that wo are gentlemen; and that—that tho desiro to make your acquaintance, which wc frankly admit—— ” “Yes,” said Playfair. “Shull not molest you.” Margaret hesitated, hut Lucy looked Una frankly in tho face, ami held out her hand. I took it. “ Is that tho end or the beginning of onr acquaintance?” I asked; and she Imigied sm denly. “ It’s so funny! ” she cried evasively. “The boys haven’t a chimney! Yon put tho toys down ours; and they humped and bumped; and wo thought it was burglars! ” In tho roar of laughter which followed many things happened. I whispered “ beginning,” and Lucy said “ Yes” Playfair and Margaret shook hands. Then I shook hands with her, and ho shook hands with Lucy. “Wo thought how delighted our scamps would be,” Margaret said, “ and wo just couldn’t send tho toys hack. Of course, now we know you, there's no need to, if—l will learn generosity from you—you wish to give them. Thank you ! ” “ No need at all,” said Playfair and I at once. “This is very jolly! A merry Christmas! ” We all wished caeli other a merry Christmas. “ Let’s make it merry,” I proposed. “ We’ll have a dinner party to-night. Yon really must come—to clear your character for sternness. Do yon know wo called yob the dragon-angels? ” “And tlie boys the demon-angels! ” Playfair added. We all laughed again. Laughter seemed to cement our acquaintance. “ I ampifraid,” said Lucy, “ men are rather like boys; except tho angel part! ” 1 wanted to say that men get that by marriage; but I am discreet. So I merely assured her that we were “ angels of sorts.” “ The husband sort,” I told her, a week later, and she accepted the definition. Margaret accepted Playfair in the same capacity. That was nearly two years ago, out wo try to live up to the name. A little angel-angel has eomo to Playfair and Margaret, and another—the most angelic baby that ever was—to Lucy and me. The demon-angels are very proud of them 1