"Good old Krooger's dead.He cut 'is throatWi' a piece o' soap.Good old Krooger's dead."
"I'll drink one more glass o' ale afore I go homealong. Yes, my respectable, church-goin' friends, we be on the eve o' such battles as never was. And I couldn't hold up head amongst proper men, if I thought old England'd keep out o' the scrap. I practises what I preaches. I've three big sons—fair whoppers. If wanted, I'll see to it that they be amongst the first to go, and wi' all my honest, generous soul I wish I could go along wi' en."
The publican, William Saint, who served the ale, said sharply:
"Your sons, Uncle, may have something to say about that."
Uncle stared at him disdainfully. William Saint was of Nether-Applewhite, but he had begun a prosperous career as a footman at Pomfret Court. Uncle despised lackeys in his heart. And he detested what he termed "quality talk" from people who were not quality. William Saint spoke mincingly, which indicated cant and prosperity. He was accused, not without reason, of holding radical views, although, being a time-server, he voted Conservative in accordance with the Squire's wishes. Nevertheless, Saint was not a man to be ignored or taken lightly. His tavern, theSir John Barleycorn, did not engross all his activities. He had many small irons in the fire, bought and sold horses, dealt in corn and hay, and farmed a few acres of land. In appearance, he somewhat resembled Napoleon: the same massive jaw, the thin lips, the pale complexion and brooding brow. Under his management a small ale-house was becoming a rival of the principal inn, thePomfret Arms. He catered for a better class of customer than his predecessor. And he saw possibilities in a tavern, happily situated in the middle of the village, overlooking the Avon, a comfortable house of call, clean outwardly and within, heavily-thatched, picturesque enough to catch the eye and beguile the fancy of the ubiquitous motorist.
Uncle drank his ale before he answered Saint. The mighty draught restored his good-humour.
"May be. I listens to all men, and suffers fools and knaves as gladly as King Solomon. The Kayser be spoiling for a big fight wi' we. You be on the side o' peace, William Saint, and there's many to keep 'ee company. I don't blame 'ee. 'Tis your ignorance. The country be full o' just such men as you, wi' their eyes glued to their own tills, and counters, mindin' their own business, pore souls! and puffed up wi' conceit." He paused and concluded impressively: "We be tee-totally unprepared, and there be millions over yonder a-waiting and a-longing to stick us like so many fat hogs. I wish 'ee, one and all, good-night."
Uncle cocked his bowler—a genuine Billy Coke hat, with Lock's historical name on a much-soiled lining (the bowler had belonged to Captain Davenant)—at a martial angle, and strode to his cottage, whistling Garryowen. When out with the fox-hounds, he wore a stained red coat, another sometime hartog of the Captain's, surmounting well-cut breeches and gaiters, once again part of a generous employer's wardrobe. He was wearing the breeches and gaiters to-day, but his mind had wandered from sport to war. Tremendous military ardour possessed him. By the luck of things, on leaving the ale-house, he encountered Lionel Pomfret returning from fishing. Lionel had a great affection for Uncle, although he knew him to be a poacher on the sly. Uncle hailed him with respectful geniality, reasonably assured that five minutes' talk with t'young Squire meant more war news and a shining half-crown. On such occasions he employed a formula, rarely known to fail to open either hearts or purses.
"How well 'ee look, Master Lionel! And Lard bless 'ee, I was thinkin' of 'ee as you turned carner. Any fish this fine evening?"
Lionel Pomfret opened his creel and displayed a nice brace and a half. But Uncle was in no mood to talk of trout. He had more notable fish to fry.
"What be they Frenchies doing, sir?"
Lionel answered gravely:
"I hear that twenty thousand Germans have been repulsed at Nancy, but I don't believe it, Uncle."
"No more don't I, Master Lionel. These be troublous times."
Lionel nodded.
"Be we coming in?"
"Damn it, we can't keep out."
"What I says exzactly. The Rads be kickin' up a fine hullabaloo—a very dirty, timorsome lot. And bound to crawl down the pole bimeby."
"France is invaded," said Lionel.
"Quick work, sir."
"Quick? After forty years' elaborate preparation? This thing is horribly serious, Uncle. I'm wondering what they think about it in the village."
"I can tell 'ee, no man better. 'Tis none o' their business, they thinks. Such shameless ignerunce makes wiser folk value their wisdom. I happened into theSir John Barleycornjust afore seein' you, sir. I'd a matter o' business wi' William Saint."
Not for wealth untold would Uncle have admitted that he visited an ale-house to drink ale. Lionel smiled. He knew his man.
"Very thirsty evening, too, Uncle."
"I bain't denying that, Master Lionel. And I did take a glass o' what they calls ale there for the good o' the house. We fell to talkin'. I made bold to tell 'em what me and Lord Roberts felt about that there Kayser. And it miffed 'em. I could see that. And the less they pore souls says the more they thinks. They be chewin' my cud now. But what do 'ee really think, sir?"
Lionel laughed, not wholeheartedly. He was a six months' bridegroom.
"I think, Uncle, that inside of a fortnight I shall be at my depot in Winchester, drilling recruits."
"Lard save us! And you wi' so young and be-utiful a wife!"
"Sir Geoffrey thinks as I do. There is going to be a terrific strain on the manhood of this country. Will it stand that strain?"
"I thinks it will, Master Lionel, so be as they chin-wobblin' politicians keeps their dirty fingers out o' pie. I'd like to march wi' 'ee to Winchester, and overseas, too, by Jo'!"
Lionel nodded. A minute later Uncle strode on his way with the expected half-crown snug in his breeches' pocket. He told himself that he had earned it.
When he reached his cottage, he found George, the youngest of his three sons, just back from the woods, where he worked as a hurdler at this time of year. The other sons were married and established in cottages of their own. Jane Mucklow was busy preparing the eight o'clock hot supper. An agreeable odour filled the kitchen. Uncle kicked the dust off his boots and entered the house, with George at his heels. The good smell of baked pork provoked, as usual, a pleasant word. Indeed, Habakkuk Mucklow had discovered very early in life that soft words do butter parsnips.
"Well, Mother, you looks very sanitary, and what a colour!"
"Got, as you well knows, from stewin' over a fire. Been painting your nose wi' ale, or worse, I reckons."
Uncle stroked his nose.
"'Tis a very handsome feature, Jane, and allers a true friend to your good cookin'. I met Master Lionel in village street, and let 'un know what a wise man was thinking about the times. Agreed wi' every word, he did. I told 'un he'd be called to jine up again in Winchester inside o' fortnit. Like as not Garge here'll be wearin' out shoe-leather in some barrack-yard afore he's much older."
Mrs. Mucklow stared at him, paralysed by astonishment. George, being the most interested party, said heavily:
"Not if I knows meself."
"I say, Garge, as you'll enlist if they want 'ee."
"They won't want the likes o' me."
Jane Mucklow said sharply:
"Don't you go upsettin' the boy wi' your ridiculous war-talk, Father. He come nigh on leavin' us to freeze to death in Canady. Why should we fight to save they Frenchies?"
Uncle grinned and chuckled.
"Ah-h-h! I've a notion about that. I told 'un to the old Captain, and he said 'twas a very notable remark. Fight we shall and must to save our own souls and bodies."
George opened a wide mouth; his mother laughed scornfully.
"Never heard o' the British Fleet, I suppose?"
Uncle smiled. Such a smile might have been seen upon the face of Ulysses after his wanderings, when Penelope asked foolish question.
"Mother, I've seen they mighty ships o' war, which is what you can't brag on. But more'n our Fleet were wanted afore, in the days o' Bonaparty, and will be again. You mind that bit o' pork, and leave young Garge to me."
He gave undivided attention to George; the pleasant smile faded from his face. His likeness to his sister came out.
"Be you afeard, Garge?"
George pulled himself together.
"I be bold as brass, except wi' maids."
"That any son o' mine should own up to that! Afeard wi' maids! What a gert booby! I be afeardformaids, if so be as they Proosians come rampin' into France. And 'tis true they be over the line a'ready."
"How do 'ee know that?" asked his wife.
"Never you mind, Mother. I picks up my information as you does, here and there. I told Master Lionel as how France was invaded, and he gave me half-a-crown, he did."
Uncle produced the half-crown as confirmation strong. George was much impressed.
"You earns money in wondersome ways, Father."
"I do. Now, Garge, I tell 'ee, fair and square, the likes o' you'll be wanted bad, and, mark my words, my lad, if you don't go willin' they'll take 'ee whether or no. I forgot to mention it to Master Lionel, but talk o' conscription be in the air."
"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Mucklow.
Uncle, fully alive to the advantage of leaving people to chew the cud of his wisdom, went outside to smoke a pipe before supper. He walked down the village street, carrying a high head and assuming the port of Mars. Bugles sounded in his ears, and the steady tramp of marching men. He had picked up the significant and terrifying word "conscription" from Captain Davenant, who asked for nothing better. Uncle had agreed with the Captain heartily, being very sensible of what drill had accomplished for himself, much as he hated it at the time. He thought of George as clay to the hand of a sergeant, not as cannon fodder. "Afeard wi' maids!" What a confession!
He was not in the mood to engage others in talk, lumping all his neighbours together as a flock of silly snivelling sheep, sadly in need of a shepherd. For the first time in his life he paid the penalty of being a prophet, and felt strangely alone and unhonoured.
Suddenly he bethought him of his sister Susan. He had half-an-hour to spare before supper. She would be busy in her kitchen, but never too busy to exchange a word with him. Alfred would be still on the road. He strode along more briskly. Susan was the one person living with whom Uncle was really himself, at best or worst a very simple, straightforward soul. He had never posed before her and—what a tribute to her character!—in her rather austere presence he avoided those whimsical perversions of the truth which so exasperated his wife. To a woman of brains he bowed the knee. Also, he was gratefully aware of Susan's enduring affection for him.
He wondered how she would take his news, for news it would be, that the Squire and Master Lionel were grimly confronting the certainty of England declaring war upon Germany. Susan read herDaily Mail, but not with any great faith in what newspaper men said. Having a singularly retentive memory, she prided herself upon collating contradictory statements made by irresponsible writers. Such critical powers were not exercised upon the Bible. Apparent discrepancies in the Holy Book could be, and were (so she held) reconciled by surpliced commentators.
Susan, so Uncle reflected, would deal out strong doses of commonsense, which her brother, after due absorption, could in his turn distribute generously amongst the weak-kneed. There were moments when pity for his fellow-men overbrimmed in Uncle's heart, and filled him with an amorphous, inherent melancholy. He could rise to giddy heights of mirth and fall from them into unplumbed depths of depression. Susan, as he knew, stood solidly between these extremes.
He was in the melancholy mood when he entered her kitchen.
"Well, Susan, there be a nice bit o' pork frizzlin' in our oven, but I be in sore need o' spiritual nourishment."
"Whatever ails 'ee, Habakkuk?"
"'Tis the crool thought o' weepin' maids and mothers throughout the land, as robs me o' my appetite."
For the moment Uncle spoke with absolute sincerity. The thought of a nation in mourning had not entered his mind till he crossed the threshold of the Yellam cottage. But he accepted it as illuminating. And, instantly, his imagination draped the idea in deepest crêpe.
"Be you speaking o' French maids and mothers?"
"Being the man I am, I counts 'em all in wi' us. 'Tis cut-and-dried, as the saying goes. Old England takes the field."
Susan Yellam said drily:
"Old England takes the field. Well, dearie, you take a chair and tell us all about it."
Incredulity was written plain upon her face. Uncle opened fire at point-blank range.
"Sir Gaffrey says so, Susan. Master Lionel be hot-foot for Winchester, to drill recruities."
The shot went home. Mrs. Yellam's florid face paled. She had deliberately put from her the dreadful possibility. But if Sir Geoffrey said so, it was so. The blood left her face, because her first thought had been for the gracious lady of the Manor, and the young wife, two women very dear to her. As the colour came back to her cheeks, she reflected that she, personally, was not involved in these fearful issues. Mr. Lionel was a professional soldier. Wife or no wife, a Pomfret would do his duty. England's army might have to fight side by side with the French, and England's army was invincible.
She said gravely:
"We be in God A'mighty's hands."
Uncle sat down, assuming a funereal expression which sat oddly upon his somewhat comical countenance. He did not share his sister's faith in an All-wise and Merciful Providence. Strong ale, perhaps, had weakened it, and over-indulgence in flesh-pots. But he dared not contradict his sister.
He fired another shot.
"Captain Davenant be sartain sure that our noble army be too small for such a tremenjous affair. He goes further than that, Susan. I wouldn't deceive 'ee or try to frighten 'ee for a barrel o' ale, but he be flustratingly positive that we be drawn into the bloodiest war as never was, and he do say that God A'mighty fights on the side o' the biggest army. His tarr'ble words, Susan, not mine. There be millions o' Proosians marchin' into France this very day, and the Captain says they Frenchies bain't ready for 'em."
He expected a cooling stream of comfort and a rebuttal of what the Captain said. If anybody could stand up against so redoubtable a personage it would be Susan Yellam. She said slowly:
"The Captain says that our army be too small! The King'll have to call for—millions?"
Uncle nodded dolorously. To his utter amazement and confounding, Susan raised her apron, and covered her face with it.
The abomination of coming desolation overwhelmed both of them.
Uncle was quick, like all practised orators, to realise the effect of his words not only upon a sister, but upon himself. He emerged from the depths, as a swimmer after a dive, shaking his head and opening his mouth to the ambient air. A happy thought occurred to him.
"Susan," he said, in a more cheerful voice, "I be mazed as you be, but things bain't so dark as they seem, and I've Squire's own word for it that figures lie to beat Satan hisself."
Mrs. Yellam looked at him interrogatively.
"I be allers, so to speak, a very calkilatin' man, rampaged by Fortin into makin' sixpence do duty for a shillin'. Now, I asks you this, and I means to put the question, fair and square, to Captain Davenant to-morrer marning. 'Tis a common saying that one Englishman be so good as ten Frenchies in a stand-up fight. That be a very comfortsome thought, old girl."
"Which I don't hold wi', for one."
"Don't 'ee? I wager the half-crown Master Lionel gi' me that you be the equal o' ten Frenchwomen, and, old as I be, I'd fair scorn to turn back on any 'arf-dozen furriners. If so be as my calkilatin' ain't out o' whack, our noble army o' two hundred thousand valiant souls be more'n equal o' two million Frenchies. And, if that be so, the Germans be up agen four millions in all. Leastways, if I bain't out in my figurin'."
Mrs. Yellam smiled faintly.
"Your figures, Habakkuk, be Satan's figures. I allows that one true Englishman can down three Frenchies, not more. Men'll be wanted—and soon."
Uncle remarked mournfully:
"Such talk takes away my appetite for cracklin'. I go my ways, dear, leavin' this mossel o' comfort behind me: they won't be askin' for widows' only sons. Good-night to 'ee."
After Uncle's departure Mrs. Yellam busied herself with her work, pausing now and again to sigh deeply. If Sir Geoffrey Pomfret said that England was coming in, why, England was in. A doubtful hypothesis became certainty. And some widows' sons, if she knew her countrymen, would fight for England, tooth and nail, even if they were not directly asked to do so.
Presently Alfred appeared, sharp-set after a good day's business. He repeated the gossip of the market-place. Russia was going to surprise the world. England must come in. A greengrocer, on intimate terms with a lady of quality, had told him as a secret that the Guards were already embarking for Belgium. Alfred concluded cheerfully:
"In Salisbury, Mother, 'tis agreed that six weeks'll see the end on't."
"Captain Davenant be talkin' o' conscription, Alferd."
"Let him talk. He's a sour man. I put my faith in God Almighty, not in the likes of him."
"Ah-h-h!"
"I say to myself, in all Christian humility, that God Almighty in His wisdom is fair fed up with the Proosians. Such talk as they use, all spitting and choking, is quite enough to sicken ordinary folks. 'Tis the swelled head that this Kayser has. However, wiser men prophesy a rare uplifting move in trade."
"Alferd—don't talk o' that. 'Tis more than I can bear to hear o' folks makin' money out o' the miseries o' others."
He stared at her, noticing at last her drawn expression.
"You ain't got the headache, Mother?"
"No."
"Wouldn't own up to it, if you had. Something's gnawing at you."
Very gravely she told him about the young Squire. Alfred's face fell, thinking of Joyce Pomfret, and then of Fancy. What would that pretty dear be feeling, if her Alfred was on the march? The light faded from his rubicund face. Till that moment the possibility of going had never occurred to him. If England did take a hand in the mighty game, surely her Army and Fleet would suffice for all eventualities. Suddenly, he banged the table with his clenched fist, startling his mother.
"Alferd—!" she exclaimed irritably.
Alfred hastened to apologise. A confounding thought had begotten a thoughtless action. He said earnestly:
"Fancy is a oner for telling fortunes with cards."
Mrs. Yellam frowned. Cards she held to be playthings of Satan, expressly invented by him together with strong drink and bad women. Alfred continued hastily:
"A lady in Salisbury, real quality, Mother, told Fancy's fortune."
"Did she? Better be using her needle, I says."
"No doubt. 'Tis a very odd thing, and food for sober thought, but the lady did foretell as Fancy'd marry a soldier."
"A very foolish, mischievous notion to put i' the maid's head."
Alfred nodded. Then he said portentously:
"It might come true, Mother, if the pessimists be right."
"Pessimists?"
"'Tis a new word to me, and means—crokers, as looks on the dark side of the cloud."
"Well, what do they tell 'ee?"
"'Twas a solitary he. A shoemaker by trade, and a radical. The smell of leather be enough to account for his politics and gloomy views. When I take shoes to him, we always pass time o' day, and I come away thinking 'tis just before dawn on a cold, drizzling, November morning. He says to me: 'My lad, these Proosians may be drinking ale in Salisbury before this war's over.' I laughed at him. And he told me I'd laugh t'other side of my face in six months."
Mrs. Yellam made no comment, a strange abstention. Her firm jaws set beneath strongly-marked brows, her eyes glowered into the future. Mother and son finished the meal in silence.
These things were talked over on Monday, the 2nd of August.
On the Wednesday all England knew that we were at war with Germany.
The first effect of this stupendous happening was comical. The banks were closed; many people found themselves without money and unable to borrow it. Fishpingle, the bailiff at the Home Farm, had to lend Lionel Pomfret five pounds to take him to Winchester. Some pessimists predicted a financial panic. The foreign stock exchanges transacted no business. All this affected Nether-Applewhite but mildly; tongues wagged a little faster than usual; very few believed that an Expeditionary Force would be sent to France. Sir Geoffrey Pomfret walked down to the village and talked with his people. His jolly face and hearty voice indicated immense relief. He—and thousands like him—had been tormented by the fear that a nation stigmatised as shopkeepers would place self-interest before honour. He writhed when he recalled the cynical gibe of the Russian to England's ambassador at a time when England did "keep out." Old Captain Davenant and the Squire were types of men whom the more Radical press derided as reactionary and fire-eaters. Let the verdict of history speak for such after the war. Few, to-day, will deny that the privileged classes with most at stake stood shoulder to shoulder in their determination to scrap everything except scraps of paper bearing England's sign-manual.
The villagers listened agape to Sir Geoffrey and Captain Davenant. Then each went his way perfectly satisfied that others would dance to war's pipings and alarums, whilst they "carried on" as before.
Old Gilbert Parish, a great-granfer, was convinced that war had been declared with the hereditary foe. He asked Mr. Hamlin shrilly, holding hand to ear:
"What I wants to know, Pa'son, be this—whatever shall we do wi' they Frenchies when us have beat'h 'em?"
Mr. Hamlin answered gravely: "I suppose we shall have to eat them, Master Gilbert."
Thenonagenariandisplayed toothless gums.
"Ah-h-h! That's what the Dook said at Waterloo. 'Up, Guards, and eat 'en,' he says.And they did!"
"Was you there, Granfer, on that notable day?" asked a bystander.
The old fellow cackled joyously.
"'Tis so far back along, I disremembers. To speak sober truth, my lad, the Dook won that gert battle wi'out me. 'Tis a fact beyond gainsayin' that I be here, and hale and hearty, because, maybe, I was not there."
His humour so tickled him that he hobbled forthwith to theSir John Barleycornto wet a still serviceable whistle. Many followed his example; the two taverns sold much ale.
In a miraculously short time village life ambled on as before. The small boys played at soldiers; some of the more prescient mothers laid in stores. Lionel Pomfret returned from Winchester with the assurance, hot from the mouth of the officer commanding the dépôt, that every regular would be sent abroad. The Squire was absorbed in the details. Each officer would be allowed thirty pounds of kit, such kit to be snugly packed in a pale-green carry-all. It comprised one change, two blankets, a few surgical dressings, a folding-lamp, a pair of wire-cutters, and under-linen. The Territorials and Yeomanry would defend our shores. According to experts, invasion might be deemed practicable, if unlikely. Next day Lionel went to London, to the War Office. He came back with a Captain's commission.
The Government had taken over the railroads, and, at first, trains were inconveniently belated. Liège was covering herself with imperishable glory, holding up hordes of Germans. In the rural districts the comforting impression prevailed that the All-Highest War Lord had gone stark, staring mad, and that a peace-loving nation would kick him and his out of the country. Hamlin, reading feverishly papers and reviews, neglecting, for the first time in his life, parochial duties, rejoiced in the premature conclusion that there burned no hate in English hearts against the German people to whom civilisation owed so much. He adumbrated peace before Christmas, and believed that a world-war would end war. For a parish priest, he might be reckoned, intellectually, far above the average. Men of keener and bigger brains shared his views. Sir Geoffrey Pomfret, as might be expected, thought otherwise. There is no pessimist like your optimist when he finds that the prognostications of his less robust moments have come to pass. He said almost truculently to his wife:
"It is some comfort to reflect, my dear Mary, thatwewere right, and all these axe-grinding demagogues wrong. I could hang Haldane with my own hand. And I feel in my bones that this is going to be a long business—a full year at least."
The Squire was sorely taken aback, when Lord Kitchener trebled this estimate. He cursed politicians of his own party when Namur fell. Indeed, he blamed politicians and publicists of every colour and creed, pinning his faith to Army and Navy, sorely disgruntled with the Foreign Office and the Diplomatic Service. No more unhappy man gazed across his broad acres wondering miserably whether they would be his in three years' time.
There ensued, as will be remembered, an amazing epidemic of national apathy, which aroused trenchant criticism in neutral countries. People bought maps and pins, and forgot to move the pins. Small things became again of paramount importance. The King had demanded half a million more regulars. But business went on as usual. A famous scribe has chronicled the supreme event of this transition period. Carpentier defeated Bombadier Wells! Possibly, the general indifference, an indifference largely due to ignorance, was superficial. It is significant that thousands of holiday-makers returned quietly to their own homes.
Lionel Pomfret and his wife moved to Winchester, where Lionel was kept busy at the dépôt. For the moment, his own battalion of the Rifle Brigade was in India. Another battalion had joined the Expeditionary Force. Lionel might be called upon to join it at twenty-four hours' notice. Joyce Pomfret, his wife, perceived that he wanted to do so.
An American, with the liveliest powers of observation, visiting Nether-Applewhite, and talking, let us say, to Mrs. Yellam and Fancy, would have gone away convinced that both these women, each the antithesis of the other, were unconcerned with the war. Really the thought of it obsessed them night and day. But they rarely spoke of it. Mrs. Yellam deliberately put from her the possibility of losing her son, partly because she had a positive assurance from the Parson that Alfred, as a public carrier, would be exempted from military service if conscription became necessary, and partly because the fact that she tended four graves in the churchyard must surely be taken into account by an All-wise and Merciful Providence. Like most of us, she had constructed her own particular statute of limitations and liabilities. She had endured more than her proper share of bludgeonings. Accordingly, her mind dwelt upon the war as affecting others. She grieved for Lady Pomfret and the Squire. If Master Lionel were taken—! The only son and heir to such a fine property—!
Fancy, sister of a beloved brother serving in a battleship, fell a prey to more intimate and poignant considerations. As the child of a delicate mother who had died in giving her birth, pre-natal influence, perhaps, had endowed her with sensibilities common to all women who are physically weaker than they should be, with minds and imaginations more active than their bodies. From her tenderest years Fancy had indulged in meditations concerning angels. Her father habitually spoke of his wife as an angel hovering close to one whom she had never held in her arms. Fancy believed him absolutely. Darkness had no terrors for the child, when she went to bed, because, in addition to her mother, the four evangelists guarded her cot. She was quite positive that she had seen her mother, clothed in shining tissues, with wings like a dove. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John became personal friends with whom the mite affirmed solemnly that she talked and played. Her father, a dreamer rather than a doer, encouraged these fancies, which justified his selection of her Christian name in obstinate defiance of the wishes of his family.
The first effect of the war upon Fancy, apart from her sisterly anxieties, was a tightening of the bond between master and maid. Mr. Hamlin held strong democratic opinions, a source of friction between himself and Sir Geoffrey Pomfret. He desired ardently a more equable distribution, not merely of wealth, but of health and intelligence. He believed absolutely in the equality of souls before God, and he recognised with ever-increasing satisfaction the potentialities of bodies and minds, if taken in hand early in life. His disabilities as a teacher shewed themselves in a too direct manner of speech, an abruptness caused by an excess rather than a lack of sympathy and perception. As Man and Priest, he shunned those easy by-paths beloved by many of us when we have disagreeable duties to perform. He marched straight to his objectives, regardless of objections.
At first sight, Mr. Hamlin recognised in his parlourmaid qualities of which she herself was delightfully unconscious. As parson of a country parish which outwardly and inwardly had changed but little since the eighteenth century, he had fought desperately against the mental and spiritual apathy of his flock, seizing any weapon that lay to his hand. He worked with people for people, using Peter to convert Paul, constantly disappointed but rarely discouraged. He had been offered preferment; his sermons challenged interest outside Nether-Applewhite but he had no personal ambition beyond the consuming desire to help those whom he knew and loved to help themselves. Sir Geoffrey Pomfret supported him in this, but Parson and Squire worked upon diametrically opposing lines. All the instincts of the lord of the manor were protective. To that end he had made and was prepared to go on making personal sacrifices of leisure, pleasure and money. According to Hamlin, this encouraged helplessness and ignorance. Poverty held out eager hands for doles, displaying that comical form of gratitude which has been defined as a lively sense of favours to come.
Hamlin, in common with most sincere reformers, divided the world into two classes—the helpers and hinderers. Between these lay, of course, a No Man's Land, where each class wandered aimlessly; the helpers, like the Squire, became hinderers and hinderers, like Uncle, might become, unexpectedly, helpers. Fancy, he acclaimed as a helper in or out of the debateable territory. Insensibly, her refinement and modesty would raise the tone in his kitchen, and radiate purer beams from a house hospitably accessible to all his congregation. From time to time, when he was alone at meals, he would ask the maid odd questions, and listen attentively to her replies. Such questions were disconcerting to Fancy, but, as was intended, they provoked intelligence to answer them. Ever since ordination, Hamlin had realised the almost insuperable barriers interposed by tradition, by training, by a thousand and one conditions and consequences, between the privileged and unprivileged classes. From the first he had set himself the task of breaking down such barriers. He candidly admitted that most of his parishioners were liars and hypocrites when it came to dealing with them frankly as between man and man, and still more so as between man and woman. They said, respectfully, what each felt that the Parson wished them to say, repeating the old shibboleths and sesames which opened, possibly, purses but not hearts.
After the fall of Namur, he said to Fancy:
"Do you feel patriotic?"
The question of patriotism had been raised (and not laid) by a publicist in one of the current reviews, but the writer had presented a point of view coloured and discoloured by intimate knowledge of industrial England. He had not touched upon his theme as it affected the rural districts.
"I hope so, sir," replied Fancy.
"How far, I wonder, would your patriotism carry you?"
He knew that Fancy was engaged to Alfred Yellam, and had congratulated her sincerely. He knew, also, that she had no intention of getting married for some time to come.
Fancy stood at attention, much perplexed, but flattered. She had wit enough to realise that her master put the question in certain faith that she would endeavour to answer it truthfully.
"I can't tell," she faltered. "Sounds silly, don't it, sir?"
"Not at all. I am wondering how far my patriotism would carry me. What is patriotism, Fancy?"
"Love of country, sir."
"Why do we feel it?"
His keen eyes rested quietly on hers.
Fancy grappled with this, struggling to rise adequately to the occasion.
"I suppose 'tis gratitude, sir."
"Good. But gratitude is imponderable." For an instant he had forgotten that he was talking to his parlourmaid. Beholding a wrinkle, he said quickly: "I mean, that gratitude is not easy to weigh or measure. It is immense," he smiled at her, "when it marches hand in hand with self-interest. It shrinks horribly when self-interest marches or runs in the opposite direction. Do you follow me?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me," he said, with a touch of irritation. He continued quietly: "We must all try to weigh our patriotism, because every one of us will be asked to exercise it. Leaving out the men able to bear arms, I am thinking for the moment of the women, young and old. An immense burden is about to be imposed on them. That is why I am speaking to you. I held the mistaken view that this war would soon be over. But it is plain that we are fighting an enemy overwhelmingly strong, who is setting all laws, human and divine, at defiance. I want to measure our patriotism, my own, yours, everybody's; but I do so in fear and trembling."
Fancy, outwardly calm, presenting the impassive mask of the well-trained servant, became conscious of tingling and throbbing pulses. A strong man appeals most strenuously to the sympathy of a woman, when he permits her to have a glimpse of his weakness. She spoke impulsively, quite forgetting her "place," as she told herself afterwards.
"You be thinking of Mr. Edward."
It was a flash of intuition.
The Parson had four stout sons, but Teddy, the youngest, was his Benjamin. Teddy and Joyce had inherited from Mrs. Hamlin joyous temperaments. The other sons resembled their father. All of them were "doing well" in a worldly sense. The eldest was a don at Cambridge, Fellow and Tutor of his College. The others were in business, climbing hand over hand the commercial ladder. Teddy, with not so good a start as his brothers, had entered the Railway Service. Since Fancy's arrival at the Vicarage he had spent a too short holiday at home. His jolly, unaffected ways captivated Fancy instantly. Life, as the maids put it, entered a dull house and filled it with sunshine. Teddy brought with him to Nether-Applewhite wonderful news. He had been offered and had accepted a billet worth four hundred a year—startling advancement for so young a man. His unaffected joy in his own good fortune warmed all sympathetic hearts.
The Parson looked up sharply.
"Yes," he answered curtly. He had finished breakfast, but still sat at table. Fancy saw that he was nervously crumbling a small piece of bread.
"But Mr. Edward won't have to go, sir."
Hamlin hesitated. But, inviting confidence, he was not the man to withhold it churlishly. He said slowly:
"Between ourselves, Fancy, Mr. Edward wishes to go. I have a letter from him this morning, asking for my advice on the subject. It means, for him and me, a great sacrifice."
Fancy gasped.
"Oh, dear! You'll never let him go—surely?"
Hamlin rose, a tall, gaunt figure.
"My patriotism," he said grimly, "is not quite so lively, Fancy, as it was last night."
He went out of the room. Fancy began to clear away the breakfast things, much troubled, sorely perplexed, alive to her finger-tips with the dismal consciousness that life had become suddenly confoundingly difficult. If Alfred took a notion to enlist, and if he consulted her about it, as surely he would, to what sort of strain would her patriotism be subjected? She, too, approached the question in fear and trembling. At the moment "things," as she vaguely expressed it, were going better and better for Alfred. War seemed to have oiled all commercial wheels. On Sundays her happy swain soared into an empyrean of prosperity and opulence where he sat enthroned high above her, talking exuberantly of a future she dared not envisage. The good fellow assured her that the Germans would soon be on the run, with English sabres hewing them down, with English bayonets in their fat backs. Would such a man, travelling at excess speed into Tom Tiddler's Ground, fingering daily larger and ever larger pieces of silver and gold, stop suddenly and abandon everything?
He might.
If patriotism seized him, as it had seized Mr. Edward, the strangling grip would choke ambition, self-interest, and woman's love.
She told herself miserably that Mr. Edward would go. More, his father would not raise a finger to stop him. As the Parson left the dining-room, she guessed that his decision had been made already.
Within a week it became common knowledge in the village that Mr. Edward Hamlin had enlisted in the Guards. He would appear amongst his father's parishioners in a private's kit, and salute respectfully his old friend, Captain Pomfret.
He was the first "gentleman" in those parts to relinquish fortune at the call of duty. And his shining example, so his father perceived, had moved mountains of too solid flesh. As yet the great recruiting campaign had not begun.
Two days afterwards George Mucklow followed the parson's son into the ranks.
August—with its stupefying surprises, disappointments, and acrimonies—drew to a close. The black Sunday, at the end of the month, will never be forgotten by those who happened to be in London at the time. For a few terrible hours it was said that our Expeditionary Force had been annihilated. In the evening an official contradiction lifted the town out of a pea-soup fog of despair.
Day by day, the Hun hordes advanced. Sir Geoffrey devoured his morning papers, talked over the immeasurable possibilities with his wife and Fishpingle, and finally determined to tap fresh information at its source. He went up to London, spent three days at his clubs, and returned to Nether-Applewhite an angry and disillusioned man. Having many friends in high places, some of them old schoolfellows and kinsmen, who had become pale and anxious Cabinet Ministers, he buttonholed them all, demanding the truth in his jovial, autocratic fashion.
"A damned lot of Mandarins," he told his wife, "nodding their confounded heads and saying nothing. At the club, by Jove! I felt as if I were in a submarine with the periscope shot away. Every other fellow I met was 'credibly informed' about something or t'other, and I could have made a pot of money, my dear, laying odds against their precious bits of information. The Government is scared stiff, at the mercy of the Labourites. Out of the welter of talk and twaddle I collared this conviction: the England we love has vanished never to return. Kitchener says that we shall be bled white, and the best will be the first to go."
Lady Pomfret smiled faintly.
"George Mucklow has gone."
"Has he? I shall give Uncle a sovereign. Now, Mary, sick as I feel about the incompetence and crass stupidity of the people who have got us into this mess, I shall carry a stiff tail in the village."
"I am sure you will, dear."
"Yes. I asked 'em at the War Office what I could do. Get recruits, they told me. I shall mug up a lecture, dealing with military terminology. My people don't know the difference between a brigade and an army-corps. Coming down in the train, I thought out some useful diagrams. And, Mary, unless a miracle happens, the slaughter will be appalling. We must turn our dear old house into a Red Cross Hospital."
"I had thought of that, Geoffrey. We are quite ready."
"Get your staff together, a competent, professional nurse, and the pick of the women in the village."
"Susan Yellam has promised to help."
"None better! The sooner we get to work and stop jawing and fuddling our wits over newspapers, the less miserable we shall be."
"Yes, yes."
After dinner, the autocrat of Nether-Applewhite felt less unhappy.
Upon the following morning, bright and early, Squire and Parson put their heads together at the Vicarage. Since the marriage of Hamlin's daughter to Lionel Pomfret, the somewhat strained relations between the two fathers had pleasantly relaxed. Hamlin had this advantage over the Squire. He could see and understand the autocrat's lordly point of view. The Squire was, and always would be, incapable of standing in the Parson's shoes. Possibly, the war had modified their extreme opinions. The Squire read and approved the leading articles inThe Morning Post; the Parson readomnivorouslypapers and reviews, but he would have admitted candidly thatThe Westminster Gazetteembodied most accurately his ideas and judgments.
Both men were uncomfortably conscious that grave blunders had been perpetrated by Authority.
When they had lit their after-breakfast pipes, Sir Geoffrey laid before Hamlin a synopsis of what he had gleaned in London, and his impressions thereon, but he spoke temperately, perceiving whimsical gleams in his Parson's eyes.
"A lot of fools believe that Russians are pouring through this country. An old pal and myself tried to investigate on our own. We went to Euston. By Jove! we dropped on to a porter who swore that he'd seen thousands of 'em passing through Willesden, big bearded men in queer uniforms, at dead o' night. To show the ignorance of these fellows, Hamlin, I'll repeat to you what was said in answer to my questions. The porter affirmed positively that he had seen six hundred thousand of 'em!Six hundred thousand!I asked him, then, if he knew how many soldiers could be packed into one train. He scratched his head at that. Finally, he admitted that he could swear to three trains full of these bearded warriors. When I told him, as an old soldier, that three trains might carry three thousand troops he absquatulated. A man at the War Office, whose name I can't mention, told me, next day, that no Russians from Russia were passing through England. A few, coming from America to Russia, have aroused this ridiculous gossip."
Hamlin nodded.
"I told my wife last night that knowledge is simply unachievable, because the biggest men don't know yet the temper of the country. Nobody knows. But I'll tell you this: the Government is afraid of the Industrials, terrified of strikes, terrified of Ireland, terrified, of course, of being kicked out. A sort of mental palsy has 'em by the throat. They are putting out feelers, tentatively approaching everybody. It's a sorry business. The bright spot is the response from our Colonies; India is behaving well. That must be a rare sell for the Kayser. Well, well; I've let off a little steam. Let's consider ourselves and what we can do. Men must be got. In this village your dear boy has set a glorious example."
"George Mucklow enlisted three days ago."
"So my wife tells me. I propose to give a lecture in the school-house on elementary military dispositions, so that our people will be able to read their papers with some sort of intelligence."
"They don't read papers—much."
"I want you to fill the school-house for me."
"With pleasure."
"We shall open a Red Cross Hospital as soon as may be, at the Court."
Hamlin promised cordial co-operation. He had never doubted the Squire's willingness or capacity to "do his bit." And very mournfully he told himself that, making due allowance for Sir Geoffrey's reactionary sentiments and hatred of politicians the indictment brought by him against the Mandarins was in the main justified. He said quietly:
"Most of my considered judgments are in the melting-pot."
"Bless my soul! I never expected to hear you say that. So are mine. The main question for all of us is this: will the country rise to this stupendous emergency? I suppose the mere mention of conscription gives you a fit?"
"I carry an open mind about it."
"You amaze me, Hamlin. We were both 'blue-water school' men."
"Yes. You use the past tense. I am humbly sensible that what I have felt and acted upon, principles and theories essentially rooted in peace and for peace, is of the past. I shall leave them there. The needs of the present are obsessing." He paused a moment; when he spoke again his voice held conviction: "Out of the darkness, I see light."
Sir Geoffrey asked eagerly:
"What light?"
"The light of a happier civilisation, of a broader and more sympathetic internationalism. The ashes of this conflagration may fertilise anew the whole earth. It must be so."
He had surprised Sir Geoffrey a moment back; it was the Squire's turn to surprise him. Hamlin expected a wail from the many-acred lord of the manor, a Jeremiad personal and embittered. Inevitably the men of large estates, with little outside their domains to support them, must suffer cruelly. It was difficult, indeed, to envisage the Squire of Nether-Applewhite without his shooting and hunting, with a much-reduced establishment, constrained to cheese-paring, entertaining wounded Tommies instead of county magnates. Sir Geoffrey answered as humbly as the Parson:
"God send it may be so, Hamlin. This is a war between autocracy and democracy; and I don't believe in democracies, as you know."
Hamlin remained silent. The Squire continued, more vehemently:
"Can you mention one country that is a democracy? Is America a democracy?"
"We shall know soon."
"Is it a democracy to-day? Uncle Sam says so. But isn't America governed by the few and for the few? Do you call France a democracy after the revelations of this Caillaux trial? Are we a democracy, in the true sense? Perhaps Switzerland comes nearer the standard mark, but I know nothing about Switzerland. I have always distrusted profoundly the mob."
"That may be at the root of the trouble. Distrust breeds distrust. If this war should open all eyes, if men should learn to see each other as they are—much alike in the mass—and not, not, as they blindly believe, essentially different, why, then this war will not have been waged in vain."
Sir Geoffrey wrestled valiantly with these words.
"I grope, Hamlin, I grope. It sounds humiliating when one is past sixty."
Hamlin nodded. He was groping, too, but he had greater faith in human nature. He said hesitatingly:
"The result of all wars, according to history, has been this: the poor emerge poorer; the rich richer. I hope that it will not be so after this world-war. And our energies should be directed to that end, Pomfret:—a more generous distribution of material wealth, a happier understanding between all classes, a breaking-down of barriers everywhere, not only as between man and man, but as between nation and nation."
Sir Geoffrey jumped up, holding out his hand.
"You are a good fellow, Hamlin, sound at core. I have often misjudged you in the past. Forgive me! The past, as we knew it, is dead. We will work together in the present."
Hamlin rose quickly, grasping the outstretched hand. After discussing practical details concerning the lecture, they separated. The Squire strode on to the village, much heartened. The Parson sat down at his desk to write the Sunday morning sermon. For a time, he put no pen to paper. He leaned head upon hand, thinking deeply. Out of the dump-heap which was left of his pet theories, he tried to piece together some sort of mosaic pavement upon which he could stand. It was difficult to realise the change in himself, more difficult to realise the change in the Squire. But the change had taken place. What would be the effect on his parishioners? Who would help? Who would hinder? If this war meant the regeneration and reconstruction of the world, all were involved. He thought of the dead Pope, who had passed away without exciting a ripple of excitement outside the Vatican. What part would his successor play? Would the Church of England grasp a tremendous opportunity? Would theNonconformistsgird up their loins for the spiritual battle?
Consider Armageddon how he might and did, from every point of view which presented itself to an active and prescient brain,—the material outlook of diplomatists struggling to adjust the balance of European powers, of monarchs gazing at tottering thrones, of politicians still grabbing loaves and fishes, of business men thinking of their tills, of the rank and file in all countries working apathetically for their daily bread,—this thought rose up and dominated others. To him and men like him, ardently concerned with the potentialities of souls, ordained teachers of God's Word, called upon to interpret, so far as they could, the mysterious designs of Omnipotence, the issues shone clearly forth. Evil was arrayed against Good. The pomps and vanities of the world were marshalled against the powers of the Spirit.
And, in the end, the Spirit would triumph.
He began his sermon.
The Squire, meanwhile, was approaching theSir John Barleycorntavern, intending to have a word with William Saint, and, later on, with Susan Yellam and others, whom he regarded as aides-de-camp. Not being a very judicious reader of character, indolently disposed (because he was so busy himself) to accept his own people as they appeared to be, he regarded William Saint as a respectable, intelligent publican, who had been an excellent servant as first footman at the Court. He counted upon William as a likely "whipper-in" in the hunt for recruits. The Boniface of thePomfret Arms, the larger of the two Nether-Applewhite taverns, happened to be stout and scant o' breath. He seldom stirred out of his snug bar-parlour. William Saint scoured thecountryside, a very energetic, enterprising fellow.
"Morning, William."
"Good morning, Sir Geoffrey."
The Squire removed his hat and wiped an ample brow. He had found Saint in the sanded tap-room, overhauling supplies. He noted the man's drab complexion, and wondered whether he consumed too much of his own beer. The publican asked his old master deferentially if he would drink a glass of ale. Time was when the Squire never refused such invitations. To-day, he declined the ale, saying trenchantly:
"No, no. We shall have to tighten our belts, William. Take my word for it. You must reckon with being hit. We shall all be hit in our purses and our stomachs."
William Saint agreed politely. He had no intention of being hit in either place, but he kept that to himself. Already he was secretly enrolled amongst the would-be profiteers, and resolutely determined to extract good from an ill wind. Sir Geoffrey stated the nature of his errand. The village must set an example to less beatified hamlets, such as Ocknell, for example. Did William think the younger men would come forward with enthusiasm? William was doubtful about the enthusiasm. With discreet pressure from Authority, they might be induced to follow the example of George Mucklow. The Squire slapped his thigh.
"I am very pleased with George Mucklow. A snug billet shall be kept for him."
William smiled, not very pleasantly.
"His father, Sir Geoffrey, used pressure."
"Did he, b'Jove? And very proper, too. Uncle is one of the right sort. Even his weaknesses are endearing. The truth is, William, in such damnable times as these we must keep an eye peeled for the good in our fellow-men, and wink the other discreetly."
Perhaps William profited by this advice, and winked the eye farthest from Sir Geoffrey. After more conversation, dealing strictly with recruiting methods to be applied to a community essentially peace-loving, Sir Geoffrey walked off and on, very well satisfied with his talk with an old servant. William apostrophised his diminishing figure in language never printed nowadays.
As the Squire walked down village he, too, like the Parson, thought seriously of what he should say to his people when he met them in the school-house. He was not concerned with spiritual issues. As a former M.F.H., he went a-hunting recruits with the same ardour and resource formerly consecrated to foxes. With profoundest sincerity he wished that he were of an age to bear arms. Indeed, he had offered himself, as an ex-Guardsman, quite ready to tackle a new drill-manual, to an old schoolfellow, now a general at the War Office. Sound advice had been tendered him.
"You can serve your country, Pomfret, on your own pitch. We shall want men and food. Food may become the more difficult problem."
Hence the allusion to tightened belts.
Sir Geoffrey walked briskly, reflecting complacently upon his excellent physical condition. He might be slightly dazed in mind, but fit as a fiddle in body. An odd expression that! What constituted a "fit" fiddle? Obviously, an instrument tuned to the right pitch. He felt taut all over. What had kept him fit at an age when many men of his acquaintance were falling into the sere and yellow stage of life? Sport. To scrap sport filled him with apprehension. So far, sport in England went on as usual. When he visited Euston to make enquiries concerning Russians, he had seen many cheery-looking fellows on their way north, bent on slaying grouse and stags, reasonably convinced in their own simple minds that, Germans or no Germans, the world must wag on as before. Sir Geoffrey was not so optimistic. He knew much better. Already the supreme sacrifice of an only son had been demanded of him and made instantly. Other sacrifices bulked larger and larger in the immediate future. Standing in his fine hall, with the portraits of dead-and-gone Pomfrets looking down upon him, he had smelt anticipatingly the pungent odours of carbolic acid and iodoform. The stately saloon must be turned into a ward—! The mere thought was hateful, but he never flinched from it. Let the poor boys come! He would welcome them with courtesy and geniality. A Mandarin predicted a five-shilling-in-the-pound income tax! The Squire had responded generously to the Prince of Wales's Fund.
The situation could be summed up in one all-embracing word—Hell!
Little girls curtsied, small boys touched their caps, as the Autocrat of Nether-Applewhite passed them by with a kindly word and glance for each. He reflected: "The little 'uns are out of it, bless 'em!" He wondered whether respectful salutations would last his time. They were dear to him, outward and visible signs of the respect paid to Authority. Would they be scrapped? The Government had taken over the railroads. If the Labourites came into power, the land might be grabbed ruthlessly.
Sir Geoffrey walked less briskly, as the possibility obtruded itself.
He stopped first at Uncle's cottage. Mrs. Mucklow received him. Uncle, it appeared, was at work, thatching a dormer window, which exacted his particular skill. Yes, George, poor boy, had gone for a soldier. His father had insisted upon it.
"Quite right," said the Squire heartily.
Jane Mucklow sniffed. She dared not contradict the Squire, but a sour face betrayed her feelings. The Squire laid a sovereign on the mantelpiece, saying that it was for Uncle, with the donor's compliments. Jane thanked him, wondering whether the piece of gold could be despatched, surreptitiously, to George. Always, Uncle got credit for what more deserving individuals accomplished. An exasperating thought! A recital of her own aches and pains, however, provoked the promise of a bottle of port. Sir Geoffrey shook hands with his former cook on leaving, and said graciously:
"Now, remember, Jane, if George gets leave and comes home, I want to see him. Send him up to the Hall."
"Thank you kindly, sir."
Sir Geoffrey went his way. As he approached the Yellam cottage, he muttered half audibly:
"Good people. Good people."
If he had known the truth—! At this moment Jane Mucklow was reviling him, because she laid her George's approaching death at the Squire's door. She made quite sure—and so did George—that he would be killed in his first action. With much reluctance we present these two old servants of the Autocrat smiling deferentially to his face and cursing him behind his back! And he believed so absolutely in their honesty and sincerity.
Five minutes later, Mrs. Yellam dusted a chair which needed no dusting. The Squire sat down upon it. He liked and respected Susan Yellam, and she—you may be sure—was well aware of that. No insincerity lurked behind her welcoming smile. But, in justice to the unhappy Jane Mucklow, it must be stated that Susan happened to be independent of the Autocrat. Many times and oft had Uncle been "behindhand" with his rent. More than once Sir Geoffrey had remitted that rent altogether, simply because Uncle was so knowledgeable about foxes and deer, and such a wrath-disarming scallywag even in his cups. Mrs. Yellam paid her rent punctually, and possessed independent means. She had never been in service. She exercised brains, rare in any village, which enabled her to apprehend something withheld from the unprivileged classes, to wit:—that position carried with it crushing responsibilities and disabilities. Mr. Fishpingle, so near and dear to Sir Geoffrey, a friend and servant of fifty years, had often pointed out to her the sacrifices made by the Squire for his people. And she had kept eyes and ears open to these, deducing inferences from them.
For some minutes Sir Geoffrey talked about the Red Cross Hospital, enlisting Susan's sympathies. Co-operation had been promised already to Lady Pomfret.
"My lady be none too strong," observed Mrs. Yellam.
The Squire was not of Mrs. Yellam's opinion, but he didn't say so. He mentioned his proposed lecture, and solemnly invited her considered views on the recruiting campaign. She was not enthusiastic.
"Be they wanted real bad, Sir Geoffrey?"
"Of course they are."
"Wanted as soldiers more than they be wanted on the land?"
The Squire frowned. He had not weighed the pros and cons of a question hardly raised as yet even by far-seeing men.
"Lord Kitchener asks for them."
"I be afeard they'll hang back. 'Tain't easy to believe that us is at war. My Alferd be doing wonnerful well; trade stimulated as never was."
"I hear that Alfred is engaged to be married. Tell me all about it."
At such moments the Squire was at his best, keenly interested, avid for details, always ready to assume sponsorial obligations for the unborn, and promising five pounds if the little strangers appeared in couples. Mrs. Yellam spoke of Fancy.
"Bless my soul! She opened the Vicarage door to me this morning. A very pretty girl, on the thin side, but modest and intelligent. I shall congratulate her. Your Alfred is a very sterling fellow. He deserves the right sort of wife. By the way, we shan't want him. You can tell him so from me."
Mrs. Yellam said gravely:
"Alferd be my only son, and I tells him that others should go first."
"Um! What does he say to that?"
"Nothing—not a word."
"Well, Susan, I want Alfred to help me. As a carrier he is constantly meeting young men and young women. Let him talk to both."
"Yes, Sir Geoffrey. Alferd be a very forcible man, wi' plenty o' brave words and thoughts. Certainly this war be a marrer-stirring affair. I hopes as how Master Lionel be enjoyin' good health, and his dear lady?"
Sir Geoffrey chuckled.
"Captain, Susan, Captain. And only yesterday, I remember, he came sneaking in here, always sure of a bull's-eye." He glanced at his watch. "Time, confound it, is always hurrying on. I'm due at the Home Farm. Before I go, one word in your faithful ear. It will travel no further for the present, hey?"
"You knows that, Sir Geoffrey."
They both stood up, a fine couple. The Squire patted Mrs. Yellam's substantial shoulder. Then he lowered his jolly voice:
"You asked about Mrs. Pomfret. After Christmas I am expecting the sort of present I want badly. You understand——?"
"Lard bless 'ee, Sir Geoffrey, and her too. Tis gert news."
"Isn't it? But mum's the word!"
He went on to the Home Farm, whither we need not follow him. But it may be added, incidentally, that the translation of Benoni Fishpingle from the position of butler at Pomfret Court to the more responsible post of Bailiff had worked greatly to the Squire's advantage and happiness. He returned home to luncheon in reasonably high spirits, having prodded the sides of many fat bullocks. He found Lady Pomfret on the terrace facing the park. From her face he divined instantly that something of importance had happened. She came up to him, with her slow, measured walk, holding out a telegram. It was from Lionel.
"Expect Joyce and me to-night. I go to France this day week."
The Squire's lecture was an immense success. The village school-house overbrimmed with his "people." With a big blackboard behind him, and chalk in hand, the lecturer talked simply and convincingly upon a subject at that time unfamiliar to his audience, a subject vital to any understanding of military movements. He explained the nature of platoons, companies, battalions, brigades, divisions and army corps. He presented, in short, an army in being. Loud applause greeted this first half of the lecture. The second half was devoted to the urgent cause of recruiting, and was not, perhaps, quite so enthusiastically acclaimed. The Squire, abandoning chalk and blackboard, thrust his hands in his pockets, and spoke trenchantly. We need not chronicle what he said. Men like him, all over the country, used the same arguments, almost exactly the same words. Such speakers forgot what had been said by Tweedledum and Tweedledee during the piping times of peace. Men and women, herded together, were invited to scrap the slow judgments and convictions of their lives. They had been assured again and again by politicians of variegated complexions that a mighty navy was fully adequate to defend our Empire against attack. Need it be added that such assurance, embodying as it did the accumulated wisdom and experience of generations, could not be cast incontinently as rubbish to the void. English politicians—using the word in the strongest antithesis to statesmen—have never realised the temper of the country towards themselves, the curious and striking indifference of the average man, engrossed in his own avocation, to any policy that he has not the wits or leisure to assimilate thoroughly. The confidence of this average man in the government of the moment has always been poignantly touching, a confidence stolidly based upon a belief in the fundamental common sense of the nation as a whole. Upset that belief, and the average man becomes at once helplessly befogged.
After the Squire had spoken, old Captain Davenant said a few words in a more Cambyses' vein. Unhappily, the Captain lacked the geniality and persuasiveness of Sir Geoffrey. He believed in the choleric word, snapped out viciously. He spoke as he had often spoken in the barrack-yard, or in the hunting-field when some heavy-witted yokel had headed a fox. Probably he was shrewd enough to realise that this fox of recruiting might be headed, and governed himself accordingly. The Captain read the lessons on Sunday in the same peremptory tones, raising a rasping voice and glaring at the congregation—a very mirth-provoking performance. Uncle embodied the Nether-Applewhite verdict on such readings of the Scriptures:
"'Tis a rare lark to hear 'un!"
Fancy and Alfred attended the lecture together, and Alfred accompanied his sweetheart to the Vicarageau clair de la lune. They had sat at the back of the school-house amongst the younger people, and had listened attentively to sundry comments. Alfred, of course, accepted as gospel whatever the lord of so goodly a manor might be gracious enough to say. Being a carrier, and passing daily through many manors, he had made obvious comparisons between his Squire and others to the advantage of Sir Geoffrey Pomfret. Remember, also, that as yet, although he kept silence on the point, he had not considered the possibility of England wanting him, a widow's only son, actively engaged in the prosecution of a business vital to the needs and necessities of a prosperous village. He hadn't a doubt in his mind, after listening to a burning harangue, that the younger men ought to down tools of peace and shoulder rifles at the word of command. Some of the half-whispered comments disturbed him.
"Are they cowards?" he demanded of Fancy.
"Oh, I can't think that, Alfie."
"You heard them growling like a lot of cantankerous hounds. I'd a strong notion to speak my mind, I had. 'Twas lucky for them that Uncle Habakkuk was sitting quiet and peaceful amongst the quality. I'll be bound he picked up a shilling or two, being the happy father of the hero. George, pore soul, stands higher than I ever expected to see him. 'Tis a sad pity the boy ain't able to hear the brave words as was said to-night by Squire and Captain. He's standing on a giddy pinnacle, to be sure, and I mind me, in cricket-field, how he'd shut both eyes when a ball came at his legs. I see him like that, quavering, on the field of battle."
Alfred chuckled. Fancy squeezed his arm, whispering fears not for George Mucklow, but for a better man:
"Alfie, please don't joke about that."
"Ah, well, Fancy, 'tis a fact that many of our boys are like George. Shifting manure's their proper job, and they do that so slow that I get weary watching 'em. Young Master Teddy is the real right sort. What he's done, giving up a grand position, fills me nose-high with pride. And too little was said about him,—a very notable oversight."
"That was because Mr. Teddy is quality."
"You're right, my pretty maid. Are you aware, Miss Broomfield, that your fingers are playing the piano on my ribs?"
Love-making put to flight the less agreeable theme.
Mrs. Yellam and Jane Mucklow went home side by side. Jane, as the mother of the hero, maintained an aggressive silence. Susan Yellam said, with a faint inflection of interrogation:
"You be a proud 'ooman to-night, Jane?"
"You be wrong, as usual. I bain't nothing of the sart."
"Squire and old Captain spoke up so handsome about your Garge."
"Be I the old fool they takes me for? 'Twas soft soap, Susan, ladled out in a big spoon; flimflam I calls it. Habakkuk can ha' the pride, and welcome. He be fair swollen wi' that and ale as Garge is payin' for."
"I listen to no ill talk about my brother, Jane."
"Then you'd better walk wi' some one else, Susan Yellam. You sees God A'mighty's hand i' this; I don't."
She stamped along home in a silence Mrs. Yellam was too wise to break. Jane was a Christian and a churchgoer. But chronic dyspepsia seemed to have affected her conscience and principles.
She had predicted aright. At theSir John BarleycornUncle was drinking much ale paid for, indirectly, by the hero of the hour. The gaffers and married men, including George's married brothers, listened approvingly. Uncle "understudied" the Squire as he addressed his friends, thrusting his hands into his pockets and standing very upright.