RECRUITING
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 Vicarage _au 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 the _Sir John Barleycorn_ Uncle 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.
"'Twas a notable evening, neighbours, but not a thing fresh to me, you
understand? Me and Squire went over his so heart-stirrin' remarks two
days ago, and me and old Captain had talk together this very marning.
Far be it from me to say as they used my own words egzactly; I bain't a
scollard, although I can an' do hold me own wheresomedever I finds
myself. And I tell 'ee, just as Squire did to-night, 'tis our duty to
cry 'Forrard' and keep on a-hollerin' so long as breath be left in our
dear bodies. We got to jine in the hunt, boys, and roll our big buck
over in open. I means, some way, to be in at death, and 'twould be a
grand privilege to slit his royal throat. I tell 'ee, one and all, that
the eyes o' the world be on Nether-Applewhite."
Uncle drank some ale, amidst much applause. An old gaffer piped up:
"Neighbours and true friends, this be a wondersome time, but I makes
bold to say that we country fellers bain't properly esteemed in Lunnon
town. I minds me when I jined what they called a deppitation to that
gert city. I'd no stomach to go along, seein' as I'd no better clothes
than I stands up in to-day. But I was out-talked, sonnies, as has
happened to me by my own wife, time and time agen. We marched very
proper down such a noble street as I'd reckoned might be found in
Kingdom Come and nowheres else. And marchin' along so proud and joyous
as never was, a tremenjous, red-faced man, a-settin' top side of a 'bus,
wi' the reins in his hand, sings out: 'Halt!' Well, neighbours, we comes
to a full stop, a-lookin' up at he, and, dang me, if he don't ask a very
ridic'lous and shameless question."
The old man paused solemnly, looking about him. Some had heard the story
before; one of the others said curiously:
"Whatever did he say?"
"He says this, sonnies, loud and clear: 'Tell me this,' he says, 'how do
they keep the crows off the wheat when you fellers comes to town?'
Neighbours, they was his words. And it struck me all of a heap as we
wasn't, so to speak, properly esteemed in Lunnon town; and, more, 'tis
hard to believe that what Habakkuk Mucklow here says is true. There be
too much i' the world, neighbours all, for it to be gapin' at we."
Uncle felt that he had overstrained a figure of speech. But he dealt
faithfully with his aged interrupter.
"What did 'ee up and reply to 'un, Granfer?"
The old gaffer gazed around.
"Ah-h-h! I says nothing at the time, Habakkuk Mucklow, but a very
forcible remark comes into my mind just one week too late, when I was
makin' spars in Hollywell Wood. I could ha' downscrambled 'un. 'Twas in
the month o' November that we marched so gay adown that there Regency
Street. And in November ther bain't no wheat to keep crows off. 'Twas a
shameless and very ignerunt remark."
He cackled joyously as a good Samaritan refilled his glass. William
Saint, feeling cautiously the pulse of his customers, hazarded a remark:
"The likely young fellers sat together at the end of the room, and they
kept together afterwards. I see none of them here with us to-night. What
does that mean?"
"I'll tell 'ee," replied Uncle promptly, "and in duty bound, being so
moral a man, I means to tell Squire to-morrow marning. They be afeard,
as my Garge was, till I talked to 'un. Such talk as mine, soul-stirrin',
upliftin' words, be wanted bad in Nether-Applewhite. The young fellers
has got to fight for they as brought 'un into this wicked world. I
fought in my time, as you all knows."
"Where?" asked William Saint.
Uncle replied scornfully:
"Never you mind where, Willum Saint. I can fight still, let me tell 'ee.
If you doubts that, take off your coat and come wi' me to stable-yard."
William Saint declined politely the invitation.
"Why, Uncle, I meant no offence. We all want to fight the Germans, not
to quarrel amongst ourselves. You have a glass o' ale with me."
Harmony was restored. Those present, who could hardly be expected to
fight, agreed cordially that others must do the job for them. The
youngsters needed encouragement.
"Wi' the end of a boot," concluded Uncle.
The lecture had taken place at seven. At nine the port circulated round
Sir Geoffrey's mahogany. Hamlin was present and Lionel Pomfret. How
sadly one recalls the chatter of those early days, the high hopes, the
confidence that Might would crumble away against Right, the belief in
the steam-roller--Russia. On paper, a swift result seemed assured. The
Squire had thrown off London vapours. His own words had intoxicated him.
He admitted that recruiting might hang fire in villages like Ocknell,
but not amongst _his_ people. Lionel backed him up. Lady Pomfret and
Joyce said nothing. The Parson hoped that it would be so. When Sir
Geoffrey had said everything to be said, twice over, he turned as usual
to his wife for an approving nod strangely withheld.
"Well, my dear Mary, you agree with me?"
"About the necessity of getting men--yes. But I am not so sanguine as
you, Geoffrey, about the patriotism in our village."
"Bless my soul!"
"I think Mr. Hamlin shares my apprehensions."
"I do," admitted the Parson gravely.
Lady Pomfret continued gently:
"I was talking, this afternoon, with Susan Yellam. She looks ahead. She
faces facts, as we do. But she knows the village better than we do."
"My dear----!"
"I have been talking, too, with Ben."
"So have I, Mary; so have I."
Lady Pomfret smiled.
"Are you quite sure, Geoffrey, that you have been talking with Ben, and
not at him? He is too courteous to interrupt you and too kind to
contradict you."
"What does old Ben say to you?"
"What Susan Yellam says. The villagers, generally, believe that our
present army and navy can beat a world in arms against us. You disabused
them of that this evening, but Captain Davenant undid some of your
stitches."
The Squire fumed a little.
"The old boy let them have it straight from the shoulder."
"Exactly. Personally, I deplore such methods."
"Sheep have to be yapped into the fold."
"I wonder if Mr. Hamlin thinks so?"
Thus challenged, Hamlin spoke--tentatively.
"I have never been able to regard men and women as animals. I admit a
superficial similarity. Dogs are nearest to us, but what an Atlantic
stretches between us and them! Would any training turn a Pekinese into a
pointer? Or a pug into a greyhound? But you can train any child, of any
nationality, into what you reasonably please, provided always that you
are dealing with a sound mind in a sound body. Sheep, under certain
conditions, have to be yapped into folds, because they are sheep. The
Prussian system yaps men into the ranks. I would sooner try other
methods."
The Squire inclined his handsome head.
"Try your own methods, Hamlin, and good luck to you."
He answered quietly: "I shall try them next Sunday."
"You don't say so? From the pulpit?"
"Why not?"
"I approve with all my heart."
For the moment it rested there. Lionel began to talk of his coming
campaign. The elder men and both the women, wife and mother, listened to
his young, eager voice. How keen he was! How sure of himself and of his
men, particularly the men. He talked persistently of Mr. Thomas Atkins,
of his artful divagations in peace and his whole-souled valour in war.
Hamlin reflected that it was good to listen to such talk, good to be
young and valiant, at such a time, good even to die, if the supreme
sacrifice were demanded, clean of limb and mind, leaping joyously
upward, unfettered by disease or vice, _fit_--to use the boy's own
word--for the greatest adventure of all.
He heard his own boy speaking, just such another! Britain had thousands
of them, the fine flower of careful training, of a courtesy constantly
exercised, of a courage sharpened to finest edge by the grindstone of
games and sports, of an intelligence not quite so keenly tempered, but
alert enough in moments of stress, of a "morale" which nothing could
dismay.
Surely they would be invincible?
When Lionel waxed anecdotal, Hamlin's thoughts wandered to the women. He
had been a stalwart champion of the "Cause," till the militant
suffragettes took to smashing windows and smacking policemen. One effect
of the war, and no inconsiderable national asset, was the subsidence of
these tempestuous petticoats, never to flutter again, so he hoped. From
women this essentially virile parson had always expected and exacted
great things. The true prosperity of any country, so he held, flowed
from them and culminated in them. He had recognised, even at college,
their immeasurable potentialities--a favourite word of his. To ignore
their claims, politically, he contended in and out of print, was a
colossal blunder. But, quite apart from the granting or withholding of
female suffrage, he desired ardently to see women doing intelligently
and thoroughly the work peculiarly their own, whether as matrons or
spinsters. The death-rate amongst babies appalled him; the physique of
young girls overworked in over-crowded, over-heated factories and shops
roused this austere parish priest to fever-heat. He had marvelled at the
astigmatic insight displayed by sincere statesmen and philanthropists,
an insight ludicrously so-called, which overlooked women as the
mightiest lever to raise and regenerate a nation.
And now, in the dim twilight of a world in gloom, he perceived a beacon
steadily shining. The women would have their opportunity. One could
adumbrate triumph or disaster by the effort, sustained or otherwise,
made by them. The men would play their part, if the inspiration of the
women lay behind them. And in the inevitable dislocations of all human
enterprise, both during and after the war, he beheld women stimulating
the men either upward or downward, for good or ill, according to the
spirit which burned within them.
He gazed at Lady Pomfret and his daughter Joyce, as their eyes dwelt
upon the son and husband about to sail for France. He could guess what
sensibilities lacerated their hearts. Outwardly, each remained calm.
They would be so when the moment of parting came, speeding their warrior
on his way with smiles, keeping back the tears till he was out of sight.
Hamlin walked home across the park, and let himself into the Vicarage
with his latch-key. It was past eleven, and, to his surprise, Fancy had
not gone to bed. As she lit his candle he chided her with the touch of
testiness which had ceased to frighten her.
She said quickly:
"I wanted to see you, sir."
"See me at nearly midnight? What about? Surely to-morrow morning would
do?"
"I wanted to sleep well to-night."
Without a word, he led the way into his study, and lighted two more
candles.
"Sit down," he commanded. "You look tired."
"I feel excited like, sir."
He examined her more attentively, noticing the dilation of her pupils,
so marked as to alter her expression. Big black eyes seemed to be
burning out of a white face, but he attributed this seeming pallor to an
ill-lit room.
"What excites you, Fancy?"
"I sat with Alfred Yellam at the back of school-house amongst the young
fellows."
"Well?"
"Before Alfred left me, he told me to tell you, sir, that the young
fellows was not too well pleased with what Captain Davenant said. Alfred
was real vexed at their remarks. He thought you did ought to know."
"I'm much obliged to Alfred for a timely hint. But couldn't this have
kept till the morning?"
"There's something else, sir."
"Out with it!" He smiled more encouragingly.
"After Alfred went, Molly told me as everybody in village was saying as
how George Mucklow's father _made_ him go, and that upset the other
young men.... And then...."
Her soft voice faltered and died away.
"And then...?"
"Molly and me fell to talking about Mr. Edward."
The sympathy in her voice was almost too much for the Parson. He shaded
his eyes with his hand. She continued in a lower tone:
"Excuse me, sir, for asking you something, but I do want to know so
bad."
"Ask your question, Fancy."
"Did you tell Mr. Edward to go?"
"No."
"Ah! He wanted to go, and you didn't raise a finger to prevent him. If
you had, maybe he'd have stayed."
"I--I don't think so."
The Parson's voice was not too steady. How sorely he had been tempted to
raise that finger none would ever know. Fancy went on, breathlessly:
"Molly and me thinks that those who can least be spared may have to go,
if--if the others hold back."
"I see. You are thinking of your Alfred?"
He lowered his hand, looking straight at her.
"If you please, sir. He be terrible put out at the others hanging back."
"I give my opinion for what it is worth, Fancy. In these deep matters
none can speak for another. I do not presume to speak for Alfred. But
Lord Kitchener, if he were here, would assure you that Alfred is
certainly not needed yet, nor likely to be for a long time."
"Thank you, sir. That does hearten me. But, if he should want to go, and
if--if he left it to me, what should I do? What ought I to do?"
Her big eyes were flaming with interrogation. The Parson dared not
temporise with her. All his thoughts concerning women seemed to have
become focussed on this individual case. All that the finest gentlewomen
in the Empire were feeling expressed itself poignantly from the mouth of
his parlourmaid. All his convictions concerning the potentialities of
the soul became fortified. They burst suddenly into full flower. Yet he
answered curtly, distrustful of sentiment when tremendous issues were at
stake.
"You will tell him, Fancy, to act according to the dictates of his own
conscience."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you mean that you will tell him that, regardless of your own
feelings?"
"Yes, sir."
She got up, begging his pardon for keeping him out of bed. As he rose
from his chair, he wondered what he could say to comfort her; some word
of solace that might woo sleep to her tired brain. They went together
into the small hall. He took her hand.
"Have courage and faith. Pray that these may be vouchsafed to you and to
all of us. Something tells me that you have both already. And if so,
Fancy, it is well with you. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."