The Call of the Town Part 23

Customers at the Post Office were all condemned to a delightfully exaggerated account of the "lit'ry gent from Lunnon" who was to grace the village with his presence and suffuse Henry Charles with reflected glory, though it seemed a difficult thing to conceive the pride of Hampton as in need of glorifying. But the customers were as keen for Edward John's gossip as he to purvey it, and it is more than probable that several ounces of s.h.a.g were bought that day by persons who stood in no immediate need of them, but were glad of an excuse for a chat with the postmaster. Even the snivelling Miffin shuffled across with such an excuse for a chat, and returned to tell his apprentice that he could see no reason for all this "'ow d'y' do."

"S'possin' there was a railway haccident! Stranger things 'ave 'appened, merk moi werds," said he, with a waggle of his forefinger in the direction of his junior, who, though much in use as an object for Miffin's addressing, seldom had the courage to comment upon his employer's opinions.

At the "Wings and Spur," as the afternoon wore on, there was also the unusual excitement of despatching a creaky old gig to the station to bring up the travellers, and Edward John must needs wander down to exchange opinions with his friend Mr. Jukes as the vehicle was being got ready.

Even the aged vicar was among the callers at the Post Office, inquiring if it was certain that Henry would be at home for the next Sunday, as that day was to be memorable by the preaching of Mr. G.o.dfrey Needham's farewell sermon, and nothing would please him better than to see among his congregation "one over whom he had watched with interest and admiration from his earliest years."

Time had dealt severely with the once quaint and sprightly figure of this good man. Since Eunice had taken him in hand he had lost his old eccentric touches of habit, but year by year age had slackened his gait and slowed him down to a grey-haired, tottering figure, who, when we first saw him, took the village street like the rising wind. He had now decided to give up the hard work of his parish and his pulpit, and this was to devolve upon an alert young curate who had recently been appointed.

"We need new blood, Mr. Charles, even in the pulpit. And we old men must make way for the younger generation," he said sadly to his faithful paris.h.i.+oner.

"Aye, Mr. Needham, none o' us can stand up again' Natur'. But you're good for many a year yet to come, and I hope I am too."

"You are hale as ever, but I can say with the Psalmist: 'My days are like a shadow that declineth; and I am withered like gra.s.s.'"

"True, Mr. Needham, all flesh is gra.s.s, but it is some comfort to the gra.s.s that's withering to see the new blades a-growing around it"--a speech Edward John recalled in later years as one of his happiest efforts in the art of conversation.

"Yes, if the old gra.s.s knows that the new is its seedling. You are happy, Mr. Charles, in that way."

Edward John hitched at his uncomfortable collar and modestly fingered his necktie, while Mr. Needham proceeded to sound the praises of Henry.

"But I confess," the vicar went on to say, "I am at times troubled in my mind as to how his faith has withstood the shocks it must receive in the buffetings of City life. I trust the good seed which I strove to plant in his heart as a boy has grown up unchoked by the thistles which the distractions of the world so often sow there."

"Oh, 'is 'eart's all right, Mr. Needham," said the postmaster cheerily, as the vicar shook hands with him, and moved slowly away towards his home.

Despite the excitement of preparation both at the Post Office and the inn, and the beguilement of gossip which brought the most improbable stories into circulation among the village folk, as, for example, that Mrs. Charles had borrowed a silver teapot from the wife of the estate agent to Sir Henry Birken; a story devoid of fact, for Edward John had paid in hard cash at Birmingham for that article, as well as a cream jug to match, making a special journey for the purpose the previous day, and thus carrying out a twenty-five-year-old promise to his patient wife--despite these excellent reasons for speeding the time, the hours wore slowly on, and the postmaster must have covered a mile or two in his wanderings between his shop door and the corner of the street, from which a distant view of the returning vehicle might be had. It was expected back by four o'clock, and when on the stroke of five it had not returned, Mrs. Charles was sitting in gloom, with terrible pictures of railway accidents pa.s.sing before her mind, gazing in a sort of mental morgue upon her dead boy.

Soon after five o'clock the gig pulled up before the door at a moment when the vigilance of the postmaster had been relaxed, and Henry had stepped into the shop before his father was there to greet him; but it had been Dora's good fortune to see him arrive while giving some finis.h.i.+ng touches to his bedroom upstairs, and the clatter of her descent brought the whole group about him in a twinkling.

In the excitement of the moment Henry's expected companion was forgotten, until his father asked suddenly: "And where's your lit'ry friend?"

"Oh, I've missed him somehow. He didn't turn up at St. Pancras this morning, and I've no idea what's become of him."

The news fell among them like a thunderbolt, and all but Henry immediately thought of that silver teapot and other preparations for the distinguished visitor. Edward John secretly regretted his journey to Birmingham; but Mrs. Charles was glad she had the teapot, visitor or no visitor.

Henry was not altogether sorry, if he had spoken his mind, for he had never quite reconciled himself to his friend's proposal. But he did not speak his mind, and he endeavoured to sympathise with his father's regrets at the absence of Adrian Grant, as Mrs. Charles had been straining every nerve to provide a meal worthy of the man.

"P'raps he'll be to-morrow," said Edward John "Poor old Jukes 'll feel a bit left. He'd been building on 'aving 'im."

"I'm sorry for the trouble he has caused you all, and I hope he may yet turn up so that you won't be disappointed."

"Never mind, 'Enry, my lad, it's you we want in the first place, and right glad we are to see you. The vicar was in asking for you this afternoon. You'll know a difference on the old man. Going down the 'ill, he is. But we're all growing older every day, as the song says. You're filling out now, and that's good. I said you were growing all to legs last time. Aye, aye, 'ere you are again."

"You haven't been troubled with your chest, Henry, I hope," said Mrs.

Charles, taking advantage of a moment when her husband did not seem to have a question to ask.

"Chest! dear no, mother; always wear flannel next the skin, you know,"

her son replied lightly.

Mrs. Charles sighed, and her lips tightened as in pain.

"What books has Mr. Grant written?" Dora asked, _a propos_ of nothing.

"Some novels which I don't advise you to read," said Henry.

"Why that? I'm growing quite literary," his sister returned. "Eunice has infected me; she's a great reader now."

At mention of the name, Henry coloured a little.

"Indeed!" he said. "She always had good taste, I think; but really I'm sick of books and writing. I think you used to do pretty well without them."

"Hearken at that," said his father. "Sick of books! It's the same all over. Old Brag the butcher used to say, leave a cat free for a night in the shop to eat all it could get, and it was safe to leave the beef alone ever after. I'm sick o' postage stamps, but we've got to sell 'em."

"I'm not so tired of my work as all that," Henry went on, "but down here I'm glad to get away from it."

We know this was scarcely true, as he had brought down his unfinished ma.n.u.script of "that book" to work at it if he felt the mood come on. He spoke chiefly to divert the conversation from the topic of Adrian Grant's novels, which he felt he could not frankly discuss in this home of simple life.

"I must call on Mr. Needham before Sunday," he added inconsequently to his father.

"Eunice is at home just now, but she's going away on a visit to her aunt at Tewksbury next week," said Dora, and Mrs. Charles watched the face of her son anxiously as his sister spoke.

"Oh, indeed!" said Henry, without betraying any feeling.

CHAPTER XXIII

A TRAGIC ENDING

IT was on a Friday that Henry arrived at Hampton. He had expected a telegram from Adrian Grant that evening, explaining his failure to join him at St. Pancras, but no word was received. Nor did Sat.u.r.day morning bring a note. But it brought the morning papers and tragic news.

Henry was seated in the garden behind his father's house--a real old-world garden, with rudely-made paths and a charming tangle of flowers--gigantic hollyhocks, bright calceolarias, sweet-smelling jasmine, stocks, early asters and chrysanthemums, growing in rich profusion and in the most haphazard manner. The jasmine climbed over the trellis-work of the summer-seat, made long years ago by the hands of Edward John before he had grown stout and lazy, and now creaking aloud to be repaired.

He had come out here with a Birmingham morning paper in his hand--a paper which made his journalistic blood boil when he thought how intolerably dull and self-sufficient it was--and he had only opened it at the London letter when he saw a name that made him fumble the sheets quickly into small compa.s.s for close reading--Adrian Grant!

A new book by him? a bit of personal gossip? No. He read:

"The literary world will be shocked this morning to hear of the tragic death of Mr. Adrian Grant, the celebrated author of 'Ashes' and other novels, which have achieved great success in this country and America. As is well known, the name of the novelist is an a.s.sumed one, his own cognomen being the somewhat curious one of Phineas Puddephatt. He was a gentlemen of private means, and peculiar in his habits. There is probably no other living writer of his eminence about whose private life less is known. He was frequently absent from this country for long periods, and cared little for the usual attractions of literary life in London. This morning (Friday) he was found dead in his apartments at Gloucester Road, Kensington, under mysterious circ.u.mstances. He had intended leaving to-day for a short stay in the country, but as he did not appear at breakfast at the usual hour, and gave no response when summoned, the door of his bedroom was opened, and he was not there, nor had his bed been slept in. Entering his study, which adjoined the bedroom, the domestics were shocked to find Mr. Grant--to give him the name he is best known by--seated on a chair, with the handle of his 'cello in his left hand and the bow held in his right, in the very act of drawing it across the strings. He was dead; and the extraordinary life-likeness of the pose added greatly to the tragic nature of the discovery. At present no explanation is forthcoming, and an inquest will be held. The deceased novelist was an accomplished performer on the 'cello, and those who knew him describe him even as a master of that instrument, and capable of having achieved as great, if not greater, distinction as a musician than as a novelist. He is believed to have been just about forty years of age."

It seemed but yesterday that Henry read in the _Weekly Review_ a paragraph about the ident.i.ty of Adrian Grant, and now--this! The stabs of Fate come fast and ruthless to the young man, to rid him of youth's illusion of immortality. He sees men rise up suddenly into fame, and dreams that one day he shall do so too. Then a brief year or two glides by, and the hea.r.s.e draws up at the door of Fame's latest favourite, and youth begins to understand that the bright game of life must now be played with a blinking eye on the end of all things mortal. If he also understands that the end is in truth the beginning, that "the best is yet to be," then he may be happy no less. If not, he is booked for cynicism and things unlovely.

Adrian Grant dead! Fame, fortune his, and but half-way through life.

Dead, and "mysteriously." Henry sat dumb, struck thoughtless with amazement.

"'Ow d'you like them 'olly'ocks, 'Enry; ain't they tremenjous?"

The voice of his father recalled him, and the good human ring of it was sweet in his ears.