Читать книгу The Call of the Town: A Tale of Literary Life - Sir John Alexander Hammerton - Страница 7

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It had been ever the habit of Edward John Charles that when he made up his mind to do a thing, that thing was as good as done. How else would it have been possible for a man to rise to the onerous and honoured position of postmaster at Hampton Bagot? For some time he had been tending to the conclusion that Henry would soon require to make a move if he was ever to rise in the world. Not that the postmaster was influenced by the opinions of the village gossips, brutally frank and straightforward though these were. He prided himself on being above such trifles, though, if the truth be told, the Post Office was the veritable centre of the local gossip-mongering.

But the last encounter with Mr. Needham, and Henry's shyly audacious offer to stand an examination at the hands of the vicar, confirmed the portly Mr. Charles in the opinion that his youthful prodigy had outgrown all the possibilities of Hampton Bagot. Had not Mr. Page confessed there was really nothing more he could teach the studious Henry? Did he not admit that after a few lessons in Latin Henry shot ahead so fast he soon outstripped the learning of his tutor? Surely, then, further delay in starting him upon the battle of life were only wasting his sweetness on the desert air of Hampton Bagot, as Mr. Charles, in one of his literary moods, would say. Besides, the supposed laziness of the youth was a growing scandal to the community; and after all, even the postmaster could not afford altogether to ignore public opinion.

It will have been gathered by now that although to every outward appearance an intensely commonplace, podgy personality, Edward John Charles possessed within his ample bosom the qualities which made him curiously different from the ruck of village humanity. It would be a fair assumption that in all the countless hamlets of sweet Ardenshire there lived not another parent who could contemplate with equanimity a bookish strain in the blood of any of his offspring.

The literary taste has ever been discouraged in these parts of the green Midlands, and such stray books as the postmaster sold to the village folk were bought chiefly for the gilt on their covers, which rendered them eyeable objects for the parlour table. He himself had not read a dozen books in all his prosperous life, and perhaps his loud interest in literature was nothing better than affectation, springing from the accident of his becoming the most convenient agent for supplying the "county people" in the neighbourhood with their literary goods. Beginning in affectation, his pretended admiration of books and bookmen had fostered a serious love for them in his son, and Edward John was just the man to boldly face the consequences.

When his mind was made up on the necessity of translating Henry to a new field in which his dazzling qualities could radiate with ampler freedom than in the narrow confines of Hampton Bagot, his thoughts turned to his friend, Mr. Ephraim Griggs, who represented literature in the very stronghold of its greatest captain, and already he saw Henry a busy assistant in the well-known second-hand book-shop at Stratford-on-Avon. A word from him to Mr. Griggs, and the golden gates of Bookland would swing wide open to the glittering Henry!

So, without a hint of his mission and its weighty issues, the carrier's waggon creaked with the added weight of Edward John Charles a few mornings later, on its way to Stratford.

For all who are willing to work without monetary reward there is no lack of opportunity, and Mr. Griggs readily consented to receive Henry into his business as a second assistant. The die was cast, and in the evening the postmaster returned mysteriously happy. Although an inveterate gossip, he could be tantalisingly silent when it suited his mood, and as he surveyed the village street from his accustomed post that evening, there was nothing but the usual serenity of his face and the satisfactory cock of his coat-tails to give a clue to the sweet thoughts dancing in his brain.

When the entire Charles family were seated at the supper-table, the auspicious moment had arrived for Edward John to disclose his hand. Whatever he thought fit to arrange would be good. Mrs. Charles, a thin little person, who worshipped her ample husband from afar, and spent her life in cleaning the five living rooms which constituted their household, never removing the curl-papers from her hair until after tea, was certain to applaud his every opinion, while the three girls, the eldest of whom bore the burden of the business on her shoulders, could be depended upon for reserve support.

When Mr. Charles had detailed the arrangements he had made, whereby Henry was to enter the business of Mr. Ephraim Griggs, there was unanimous approval.

"I've always said, 'Enry, that you'd 'ave your chance, and 'ere it is," said Mr. Charles, brushing some crumbs of cheese from his whisker. "There is no sayin' what this may lead to. Some of the greatest men in the world 'ave started lower down the ladder than that."

"Yes, dad," responded the delighted Henry. "Why, Shakespeare himself used to hold horses for gentlemen in London."

"Just look at that," beamed Mr. Charles on his worshipping family. "Shakespeare uster 'old 'osses. You'll never need to do that, my boy."

"And his father was only a woolstapler, dad!" panted the youth.

"A common woolstapler! Think on't! And me in the book-line—in a small way, p'raps—but in the book-line, for all that."

And the thought that a woolstapler's son who had been fain to tend horses for a penny, and in the end had achieved deathless fame which brought admirers from the ends of the earth to his humble birthplace in Stratford-on-Avon, made Edward John look around his own little house, and wonder how many years it would be before the world was trooping to Hampton Bagot to gaze on the early home of Henry Charles. Hampton was only a few miles from Stratford, and Henry would never be so low as the holding of horses.

We can but dimly realise the joy with which Henry received the news of the opening his father had made for him. To a lad of his temperament he already saw himself a chartered libertine in the realms of literature, roving from book to book on the crowded shelves of Mr. Griggs; here following the doughty deeds of some of Sir Walter's heroes, taking a hand, perchance, in the rescue of his heroines, and anon communing with such glorious company as Addison and Lamb and Hazlitt. Had he not read and re-read, and remembered every chapter of that classic work of which his father had sold as many as seven copies in six months to the Hamptonians—"Famous Boyhoods," by Uncle Jim? Within the gold-encrusted covers of that enchanting book had he not learned how Charles Dickens used to paste labels on jam-pots before he found fame and fortune in a bottle of ink? Was not he aware that Robert Burns had been a ploughman, and were not ploughmen in Hampton Bagot as common as hay-ricks and as poor as mice? Had not Oliver Goldsmith been hard put to it often to find a dinner, while Henry Charles had never lacked a meal? And had not Dr. Johnson, who received a ludicrously large sum of money for making a dictionary, lived in a garret? Emphatically, Henry Charles had reason to look the future in the face clear-eyed, and to bless Uncle Jim for giving him those inspiring facts. Moreover, a famous author had said: "In the lexicon of youth there is no such word as fail." Had not Henry copied these lines in atrocious handwriting till they swam before his eyes, and had not his schoolmaster assured him his penmanship was the worst he had ever witnessed, and were not all great authors wretched penmen? True, he still had doubts as to what "the lexicon of youth" might be.

Unlike his father, Henry was not a talkative person, and, indeed, it was one of the black marks against him in popular opinion that he did not make himself as sociable as he might have done with the lads of Hampton. But weighted with such news, the need to noise it abroad was pressing, and as soon as he could slip away from the supper-table he was publishing the intelligence wherever a chance opening could be found.

In five minutes it had the village by the ears, and the inefficient Miffin, ironing a coat at the moment it reached him, paused in his operation to deliver himself of a sceptical sniff and some adverse opinions on puffed-up fools who were eternally talking of book-larnin' and things quite above them, instead of attending to their business.

"In moi opinion," and he stated it with engaging frankness, "Edward John would do a sight better to let his long-legged lout stick at 'ome and sell nibs and sealin'-wex and postage-stemps, like his fifteen-stone father."

But really, Miffin's opinion did not count for much, although on this occasion it cost him dear, as he had left the heated iron lying on the coat, to its eternal destruction.

Elated with the prospect which the magic wand of his father had swung open to his sight—those fields of fair renown through which he was about to wander—Henry had soon exhausted the possibilities of the village, and found himself tramping the field-path towards Little Flixton, in the hope of meeting some returning villagers, to whom he could unbosom the startling news at first hand, and have the joy of surprising them into congratulations.

The meadows had been lately cut, and the smell of new-mown hay hung sensuously in the air. Never would he forget that evening in all the years that were to be. Although the hay-fields had been to him a commonplace of life since he could toddle, they would never smell as they did that night, and would never be so sweet again. After all, it is our sense of smell that treasures for us most vividly the impressions of our life. The memory of all our great moments is aided largely by our nostrils.

In one of these meadows, sloping down from a wooded mound, Henry espied a white-frocked girlish figure seated among the hay in the soft gloaming. It was Eunice Lyndon, the grand-daughter of old Carne, the sexton, who, as he told you himself, had held that post for "two-an'-forty year." Eunice's mother, old Carne's only daughter, whom many remembered as the "Rose of Hampton," had died of consumption, and there were some who thought that the shadow of this dread complaint hung over the girl also.

Now, as a rule, Henry had a poor opinion of girls. They were all very well in their way, of course, but could never hope to shine in the world like men. This evening, however, he was so brimful of his news that he was glad to tell it to anybody. He had even told Maggs, the blacksmith, though the latter had been over-free with cider at the "Wings and Spur."

Henry crossed the slope of the meadow towards Eunice, who held a long stalk of grass in her hand, and was intent upon watching a green caterpillar worming its way up it.

"Oh, Henry," she cried out, a pretty blush mounting to her cheeks as he approached, "just look at this fellow!"

Henry glanced down disdainfully at the caterpillar. Such trifles were altogether beneath his notice in that great hour.

"Listen, Eunice," he began, flinging himself down beside her. "I have news for you."

"News!" she echoed, still intent upon the caterpillar. "Isn't it a lovely green?"

"I'm going away."

She raised her head, and two violet eyes, with a puzzled expression, were dreamily fixed upon him, half-questioning.

"Going away! Where to?... Oh, there, I've lost it!" as the caterpillar fell among the grass.

"To Stratford first," Henry answered in a lordly way; "afterwards—London, I daresay."

Eunice was profoundly impressed. London! Wasn't that a risky undertaking? She knew it to be a wonderful place when one got there, but had heard it was crowded with people who did terrible things. Mr. Jukes, the landlord of the "Wings and Spur," had been to London on some law business not long ago, and could talk of nothing else since. Indeed, Edward John Charles had felt Mr. Jukes's rivalry very keenly; for the innkeeper's visit being of later date than his, the glory of it was fresher to the Hampton mind.

Henry, conscious that he had taken her breath away, gathered up his knees and fell to dreaming of London. The shadows of evening crept softly upon them as they sat there; the trees on the high ground behind them rustled gently in the light summer breeze; and somehow, the whole scene—the sloping meadow, the darkening hedgerows, the shadowy outline of the country beyond—mingled strangely with his dreams of the future. Years afterwards, when the quiet, peaceful life of Hampton was a dear thing of the past to him, the scent of new-mown hay recreated that evening in every detail, and he saw again the rose-flushed lass who had sat in silent wonder by his side.

Mr. Charles was of opinion that the sooner his son was started on his upward course the better. Henry, therefore, was withdrawn from school, and immediate preparations made for his departure—preparations in which Edward John took no manual part, but which, judging by the poise of his coat-tails, went forward to his mind. Mrs. Charles even forgot to take the curl-papers out of her hair for two whole days before the eventful morning.

On the eve of the day appointed for Henry's departure Mr. Page called in to wish him good-bye. A little later the vicar flashed for a moment into the dingy interior of the shop and shook hands with him.

"Remember, my dear Henry, labor omnia vincit improbus, as the Latinists say," using one of his few but favourite Latin phrases, and rolling it lovingly like a chocolate-cream 'twixt tongue and palate. "And remember also, my dear Henry, that les belles actions cachées sont les plus estimables," pronouncing atrociously a phrase he had picked up a few hours before, "which means, my dear young friend, that you should do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame."

Henry blushed forthwith.

"And let me present you with a little keepsake. It is a copy of my new book, my poem on Queen Victoria, which the Midland Agricultural News has described in terms of praise that I hope I am too modest to quote. I have signed it with my autograph, and I trust you will lay to heart its lessons."

The poem in question was a sixteen-page pamphlet in a gaudy cover. It enjoyed a large circulation by gratuitous distribution. To the vicar's great regret, he had found at the end of a dictionary the French phrase about beautiful actions too late to be incorporated in his verses.

Henry was profoundly moved, but like all great people in their great moments, he was deplorably commonplace.

"I thank you, sir," was all his genius prompted. He was gravelled for a Latin snatch to cap the vicar's, and the Rev. Godfrey Needham stood supreme.

"Eh, but tempus do fugit, passon," Edward John broke in at this juncture. "It's only loike yesterday that 'Enry was a-startin' school, and 'ere 'e's a-goin' out into the great world to carve out a name for hisself—'oo knows 'e ain't?"

"With youth all things are possible." returned Mr. Needham. "We shall be proud of Henry yet. He certainly has my best wishes for his success. Sursum corda, my friend, as the Latin hath it. And to you, Henry, Deus vobiscum. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, and thank you, sir," said the overwhelmed Henry.

In a moment more the white-socked calipers had carried Mr. Needham out of Henry's life for some years to come.

When the great morning arrived, the whole house was turned upside down. The village itself was agitated. Henry was quite the hero of the moment, despite the sniffing disapproval of Miffin. But one can't destroy a coat and retain a friendly feeling for the cause of the catastrophe.

"Merk moi werds," he said to his apprentice, as together they watched from behind the door the preparations across the street. "Young Che'les will never do nowt. He'll come to a bed end, and Ed'ard John will rue this day. Merk moi werds." And he emphasised his wisdom with a skinny forefinger.

Henry's mother cried over him a little, and impressed upon him that the three pots of blackberry jam—her own making—were at the bottom of his trunk, away from the shirts and linen, in case of accident. His sisters, one by one, threw their arms around him, and said commonplace things to him to hide the less common thoughts in their mind.

At length Henry took his seat on the carrier's waggon, after receiving a luminous impression of London—modern London, not the Edward-John London—from Mr. Jukes of the "Wings and Spur," and drove away, turning his face from his friends to avoid a silly inclination to cry. As the carrier cracked his whip while his horses gathered pace down the street, his passenger looked back to the old familiar house and signalled to the group still standing by the door; but for all the high hopes that beckoned him along this road that ran to London he was sorry to go.

When they were passing the cottage of old Carne, and a sweet face lit by two violet eyes looked out between the dimity curtains, while a girl's hand rattled pleasantly on the window, Henry smiled and waved his arm. But he was dimly conscious he had lost something he could not define. It had to do with tears on a woman's wrinkled face.