IT was three months after the funeral of the Village Hero. Now I come
to think of it, I haven’t mentioned the funeral before.
The hero, a porter at the little railway station, enlisted very early
in the campaign. Our village—in the main—did nobly in the way of early
enlistment.
A quiet, retiring young fellow, he had never singled himself out for
any sort of notoriety, though I, personally, had always remarked on his
unvarying courtesy and his willingness to do everything he could to
assist passengers.
The news of his death was the first thing to bring the War actually
home to our isolated corner of the world.
People had known he was ill, because his wife had been summoned to a
military hospital some weeks before, when his condition was pronounced
critical. But no one had really anticipated the worst—till it came. And
then the word passed quickly from cottage to cottage: “Poor Aleck’s
gone!”
“Ay! You don’t say so! Ain’t it just like they Huns to go and kill off
the best of the bunch,” said one woman who never had a good word for
the lad during his lifetime.
One and all agreed forthwith that proper respect must be shown to “the
remains”; and those who didn’t intend to inconvenience themselves by
fighting, felt they were serving their country nobly by seeing that
poor Aleck had a handsome funeral.
The news of his death reached the village on Friday. On Saturday the
older members of the family selected the spot for his grave in the
little churchyard, as, of course, he must be buried near his home.
By Sunday all the relatives to the remotest generation wore deep
mourning to church—thanks to the superhuman efforts of the village
dressmaker, and numerous ready-mades purchased in the nearest town.
The Rector was in a nursing-home in London at the time, but the curate,
though only newly arrived, preached a moving sermon, extolling the
courage of the young man who had died “with his face to the foe,
braving the falling shells and raining bullets in order to defend his
country.”
The sentiment was right—Aleck was willing to do all that; but in
reality he never got beyond a training camp on the east coast, where,
the air proving too bleak for him after the mildness of the west,
he had gone down with pneumonia. The new curate didn’t know that,
however, and everybody said it was a beautiful sermon, and went and
told the poor mother about it, as she had been too grief-stricken to go
to church.
So far the widow had not written herself; but that wasn’t surprising;
she would be too broken down with trouble. Willing heads and hands did
all they could, however, to anticipate her wishes.
They telegraphed to the former curate (now the vicar of a crowded
Lancashire parish) and asked if he would conduct the funeral; he had
known the deceased from boyhood. He wired back: “Yes; send day and
hour.”
They sent to uncles and aunts and cousins throughout Great Britain: all
who could arrived post haste on Monday. And what a gathering it was
of outstanding members of the clan! Those who hadn’t recognised each
other’s existence for years now forgot their ancient feuds, while one
and all discovered such good qualities in the poor lad, and were so
anxious to insist on the nearness of their relationship, that his death
did not seem altogether in vain.
I myself wrote a note to the widow, only waiting to post it till I
could get her address.
Miss Bretherton, the Rector’s niece, hurried home from London to do
what she could to comfort the parents, who were aloof from the general
excitement and knew only the sorrow of the occasion.
While waiting for further details to arrive, people made wreaths, and
discussed how best the engine could be draped in black.
As there was no letter by Tuesday morning, and the vicar in Lancashire
had again asked for particulars, the self-constituted committee of
management decided to send a wire to the widow. After composing—and
then discarding—twenty-six different messages, till the post-office was
threatened with a famine in telegram forms, the post-mistress came to
their assistance, and suggested that the wording should be as brief and
as straightforward as possible, to save misunderstanding—and expense.
Eventually they were all persuaded to agree to the following:
“What train will the coffin come by? Reply paid.”
In about an hour the widow answered:
“Whose coffin? Don’t know what you mean. Aleck nearly well.”
* * * * *
The whole village has had three points under discussion ever since.