“This is the night before the battle of Agincourt, nearly five hundred years ago,” said grandfather, looking around over his spectacles. “And it might be today, in South Africa at this very moment, since the sun rises upon almost the same line of longitude. Before I begin, boys, just think that, five hundred years ago, Englishmen who were a-bed in England then, are, through the children of their children’s children, acting much to-day as they were then. The Turneys,” he said, taking off his glasses, “were yeomen farming land then, as they are farming land today, some of it the same land.”
“Surely, sir,” interrupted Hubert Cakebread, who resembled his father in some ways, “a generation of farmers who farm their land while lying in bed, do not last for so long, as farmers I mean?”
Everybody laughed at the courteous gravity of the question, including Tom Turney.
“How right you are, m’boy! I was thinking of another speech of King Harry’s, about gentlemen lying a-bed in England on St. Crispin’s day. However, this is before the battle. Imagine the scene: the dark night, the camp-fires winking in the valley, the horses at the picket lines, the sentries moving up and down. But listen to Shakespeare——
Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark——
Sarah, I think it would be better by candlelight, let’s turn the gas out, shall we? Sit still everyone. Have you a candle handy?”
“There’s one on the kitchen chimney-piece, Tom.”
“Fetch it, will ye, Hetty, like a good girl.”
Hugh got up off the floor, and opened the door for his sister.
“All these interruptions are bad for your aesthetic nerve, sir,” his voice said gravely. “Besides, the form of the entertainment is not classical.”
“What do you mean by that expression, m’boy?”
“The best turns go on last, not first, sir,” replied Hugh. “The incomparable beauty and precision of the passage you are to read us, to our lasting benefit no doubt, should follow, not precede, the rougher, rowdier elements of any show. So with your permission, while footlights are being arranged, I will entertain the company on the banjo. Then your lines, sir, with their sublimity and appositeness, will suitably crown the evening.”
The Cakebread boys approved this. “Good old Uncle Hugh!”
They could now wriggle, and talk freely. They had heard Uncle play and sing often enough, and always with the keenest delight. Hugh Turney, had his anxiety and versatility not overborne him, might have been a success on the halls in the character of his simple self, with banjo or violin. He had a dry wit, and his manner of speaking was in the nature of parody of himself in the character of a gentleman of culture and education. He enjoyed making his gravely humorous, slightly pedantic little speeches; and his audience, including his father and brothers-in-law, enjoyed the fun with him. Richard was surprised at this aspect of Hugh Turney.
“My respected parent, and pater of paters, happily fondling his duodecimo, to the consternation of the worm that channels in the binding, having agreed to assume his rightful place in the programme, the top of the bill, I will now proceed to tell you, in music, how I came to take the Queen’s shilling and to wear the Widow of Windsor’s uniform, in conjunction with my respected colleague and brother-in-law, Sidney Puddingtart, Esquire——”
They all laughed, and seeing Father laugh, Phillip wanted to show him how he could make him laugh too, at jokes, and jumping up, he shouted, “Sidney Baconfish!” and bobbing down, promptly disappeared under the table, overcome by the enormity of what he had done.
Encouraged by the laughter, he tried again. “Sidney Cheese-bone!” And withdrew once more to think out more funny names.
“No more, Sonny, that’s enough!” said Hetty, not wanting him to excite himself too much. Besides, he might very well use some of the crude expressions he had picked up from boys on the Hill lately.
However, once started, Phillip was not to be restrained. Jerking up head and shoulders, he shouted, “Sidney Sherrysoup.” Announcing to all and sundry, “I love jokes!” he vanished but to reappear with “Sidney Sugarsalt!” and going back to his retreat, bumped his head on the edge of the table and collapsed for the second time that evening with the tears of pain.
“There, you see,” remarked Richard, with a glance at Hetty, as though it were her fault because she had not spoken sternly enough to the boy.
Hughie had his banjo, and was testing the pitch of the strings. Mrs. Bigge leaned over and said something to Richard, but he did not catch what it was. Hughie struck a chord.
“I beg your pardon?” said Richard.
“I said, ‘Boys will be boys’, Mr. Maddison.”
“Oh, yes,” he replied, airily. Mrs. Bigge nodded her head several times, glancing around to indicate sympathy for all concerned.
The room, with its undrawn plum-coloured curtains hanging on brass rings from poles above the windows was filled with the throb of the banjo. Hughie struck an attitude as he put on a straw hat, and began the song which had swept all London.
“When you’ve shouted ‘Rule Brittania’—when you’ve sung ‘God Save the Queen’—
When you’ve finished killing Kruger with your mouth—
Will you kindly drop a shilling in my little tambourine
For a gentleman in khaki ordered south?
He’s an absent-minded beggar and his weaknesses are great—
But we and Paul must take him as we find him—
He is out on active service, wiping something off a slate—
And he’s left a lot o’ little things behind him!
“Now chorus—you all know it, ladies and gentlemen!”
Duke’s son—cook’s son—son of a hundred kings—
(Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)
Each of ’em doing his country’s work (and who’s to look after their things?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake, and pay—pay—pay!”
Phillip was enthralled. He had forgotten the crushed finger nail turning red, and the bump on his head. He did not know what all the words meant, but one here and another there, in the throbbing pulse of Uncle Hugh’s music, gave him pictures. Horses, men marching, bands playing, people cheering; wonderful!
“There are families by thousands, far too proud to beg or speak—
And they’ll put their sticks and bedding up the spout——”
Phillip saw silent women pushing hundreds of sticks and pillows and bedclothes ever so quickly up all the pipes of houses to stop the water from coming down.
“And they’ll live on half o’nothing paid ’em punctual once a week
’Cause the man that earned the wage is ordered out.
He’s an absent-minded beggar, but he heard his country’s call
And his reg’ment didn’t need to send to find him:
He chucked his job and joined it—so the job before us all
Is to help the home that Tommy’s left behind him.”
People coming down the Hill were stopping outside the gate, listening. When Hugh had finished, and the last chorus was sung, Sidney said,
“Now’s the time to pass round the hat, and give the collection to the local fund,” but at once he saw that it was impracticable.
Hetty and Sarah had brought back two candles, for Tom’s sight was not what it was.
“One more song,” said Hughie, strumming the guitar. With the straw hat on the back of his head, he sang:
“Goodbye my Bluebell, farewell to you,
I shall be dreaming of your eyes so blue,
’Mid camp fires gleaming, ’mid shot and shell,
I shall be thinking of my own Bluebell.”
Phillip thought this was sad and lovely. He wanted Uncle Hugh to go on singing and playing for ever. Theodora watched the intense eagerness in his face, the boy’s complete absorption, and thought that he might have a musical talent. And during the last verse of the song, which Hugh sang with a wistful
melancholy, she glanced at Sidney, and knew that his feelings were as her own. The shock made her neck and forehead flush hotly. She lowered her gaze. The years between had made no change.
At last Mr. Turney, with two candles alight at his elbow, began reading.
“Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds.”
Tom peered over his spectacles at the faces, and went on slowly and impressively.
“That the fix’d sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other’s watch;
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face;
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.”
At this point the speaker blew out one of the candles, and went on in slow, sonorous tones.
“The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice,
And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp
So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate
The morning’s danger, and their gesture sad
Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts. O! now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruined band
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head’
For forth he goes and visits all his host,
Bids them good-morrow with a modest smile,
And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night;
But freshly looks and overbears attaint
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;
That every wretch, pining and pale before,
Behold him, plucks comfort from his looks.
A largess universal like the sun
His liberal eye doth give to every one,
Thawing cold fear. Then mean and gentle all,
Behold, as may unworthiness define.
A little touch of Harry in the night.
And so our scene must to the battle fly;
Where, O for pity! we shall much disgrace
With four or five most vile and ragged foils,
Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous,
The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see;
Minding true things by what their mockeries be.”
Tom Turney laid down the book, and relit the other candle at the flame of its fellow.
*
“Well, my children,” he said, “that is William Shakespeare. And it is true to-day as it was in the times of which he wrote.”
“Thank you, sir, for reading the passage,” said Sidney.
“It was most impressive, Mr. Turney,” quavered old Mr. Newman.
“Yes, yes,” murmured Mr. Bigge.
“There’ll never be another like him,” remarked Hugh.
“Beautiful language, beautiful!” cried Hetty.
Sarah wiped away a tear; and held her daughter Dorrie’s hand.
“Well, boys, what did ye think of it, eh?”
“Oh, we learn it at school, Gran’pa,” said Hubert. “But it sounds better in the dark from you, sir.”
“The Elizabethan spirit, will it ever visit England again, Mr. Turney?” said Theodora.
Richard was thinking, not of the scene Mr. Turney had read, but of the hypocrisy of the old man: that he could not, being what he was, possibly understand the passage. He was bogus, a sentimentalist, enjoying the sound of his own voice, and extracting the feelings of Shakespeare, as though they were his own. Even so, he could not altogether spoil the beauty of the phrases, which were a revelation. Richard had never seen a Shakespearean play, and had only dull memories of trying to learn by heart certain passages in his private school at Slough.
*
All parties have to end, to the grief of little children dazed in enchantment. Up Hillside Road came the steady pecking of a horse’s hoofs; the crunching of iron wheel-rims on granite kerb-stones, the cry of “Whoa!”, the jingle of reins, a momentary silence in the night as the cabman descended.
His round face peered in the open window, to vanish again as Tom invited him in for a glass of punch. He came in, watery-eyed, hoarse-voiced, tarred bowler hat on his head. Cracked and thickened fingers enclosed the glass, and with a “Best respects”, the liquid went down his throat. A toast; and glasses refilled. Might the children have just a little sip? There was no harm in it; wait a minute, add more sugar and lemon and hot water to their glasses.
“The Queen, God bless her!”
They stood in the light of seven candles now burning on the chimney-piece. Then they held crossed hands, swung arms as they sang Should Auld Acquaintance be forgot.
Sarah was crying silently; so was Dorrie, and her sister Hetty. Tears filled old Mr. Newman’s eyes; the dead glimmered there. Mrs. Bigge smiled as her tears fell; even the cabby brushed the back of his hand across lashless lids. Richard, despite himself, moved to his sister Theodora and took her hand; for he could see how she was affected, and he admired Sidney Cakebread. The small boys were silent as bandoliers and slouch hats were put on, straps fastened under chins. The party was breaking up, the party was broken, it was night, the horse was turning round, the candles smoking in the carriage lamps, sparks arose from braked wheels sliding over flints of the road. The shoes of the horse struck sparks, too. Then down from the zenith of the sky slid a shooting star, towards the mass of the grammar school dark against the curious and pale horizon of the north-west.
And Phillip cried in his bed, because Uncle Hugh and Uncle Sidney had gone away and might never come back again. In the next room, equally silent upon her pillow, Theodora was weeping, too. There were other tears in the night; and when summer was gone, and leaves were fallen, and winter was come again with fogs and frost, Thomas Turney came in one morning, after Richard had left for the City, and said to his daughter, “I have bad news, a cable from Hugh. Sidney Cakebread has died of enteric fever. Will ye come with me, Hetty, and break the news to Dorrie?”
PART THREE
THE WAY
Chapter 20
COUNTRY COUSINS
“AUNTY BIGGE, Aunty Bigge, I am going holiday-making to my cousins at Beau Brickhill, before I go to the new school after Easter! The outside porter is coming up for our portmanteaux soon. And Grannie has given me a shilling; look, Aunty Bigge!”
Phillip was looking over the garden fence, which was low, since the Bigges’ gravelled back way was nearly two feet below the Maddisons’ back way. The six-foot fence was therefore only four feet high where Phillip was looking over.
Mrs. Bigge was watering some flower-pots on the shelves of her greenhouse, which enclosed an area from her back door. Spring was in the air, rooks in the row of elms beyond the bottom line of garden fences were cawing at their nests. This was, however, not entirely the spring the Bigges had looked forward to. A row of scaffolding had recently arisen beyond the rookery. It looked as though bricks and mortar were about to creep across the low
er levels of the Backfield, that waste of long grass and wilding thorns, which had been one of the attractions before the Bigges had moved to the desired solitude of Hillside Road.
“What, are you going all the way up to Scotland, dear?” Mrs. Bigge’s question was asked humorously, for Phillip’s face was almost entirely enclosed by a deerstalker hat.
“Oh no, Aunty Bigge. We are going to Cousin Percy’s.”
“Where did you get that wonderful hat, Phil? Did your father give it to you, dear?”
“No, Father didn’t give it to me. I found it. How are your ferns to-day?”
“There’s a nice boy to ask! They are very glad to be seeing the sun, dear.”
“I expect everything is, too. Isn’t it nice and warm to-day?”
“Yes. How long are you and your mummy and sisters going to be away in the country?”
“A fortnight, Aunty Bigge. Would you like me to send you a new picture post-card from Beau Brickhill? I have lots of money”
“Now that would be very kind of you, dear. But you mustn’t waste your pennies on an old woman like me, you know.”
“But I like you, Aunty Bigge, and you do not look like an old woman at all.”
“You little dear!” cried Mrs. Bigge. “I believe you mean it, too! Do you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bigge.”
“Then give us a kiss, ducks—or are you too big to be kissed, eh?”
By standing on his toes he could just reach the top of the fence with his chin; and as Mrs. Bigge’s side was so low, she had to fetch a box to stand on. She gave him three good kisses on his cheek. “You’re growing quite a big boy, aren’t you, dear?”
“Yes, Aunty Bigge, I am an inch higher on the door since I was eight. So I have grown an inch in one year!”
Hetty measured her children’s heights on the jamb of the sitting-room door, once a year on Phillip’s birthday, marking the lines with a knife.
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