“It makes you feel that they’re Real People—just like you and me,” Barbara continued dreamily. “Perhaps, even now, they’re having breakfast together—just like us, only grander, of course—and feeling happy and pleased, just like us.”
Arthur agreed again. It was quite possible, he reflected, that Their Majesties were breakfasting together—quite possible. The fact that he could not believe they ever did anything so mundane was probably due to his lack of imagination. He could not—by any manner or means—visualize the scene; but, no doubt, that was his misfortune since Barbara obviously could.
“Do you think His Majesty has his bacon and eggs in a gold dish?” inquired Barbara, with a faraway look in her eyes.
“No,” said Arthur promptly.
“Why not?”
“Because it wouldn’t be nice. Bacon in a gold dish would be simply disgusting,” said Arthur with conviction, “and I’m sure His Majesty is far too sensible to have it.”
The Abbotts were breakfasting at a late hour, and in a leisurely manner, because they had decided not to go up to town and see the procession, but to reserve their energies for the bonfire and the fireworks which were due to take place in Chevis Park after dusk. Arthur was quite glad that they were not going to London to see the procession—quite glad but somewhat surprised. He had been sure that Barbara would want to see it; so sure, that he had taken tickets for seats in a stand in St. James’s Street—Barbara always wanted to go everywhere and see everything—but Barbara had elected not to go. She had pointed out that it would be frightfully hot and tiring, and that they would be so exhausted when they returned that they would not enjoy the bonfire. It was quite true, of course, but, somehow or other, it did not ring true in Arthur’s ears, and he could not help feeling, at the back of his mind, that there was another reason for Barbara’s decision; a much more cogent reason; a reason that she had not explained. Arthur had no idea what the reason was—none at all—it was just a feeling he had.
The tickets were not wasted, of course, for Arthur presented them to Sam and Jerry—who were now known to be man and wife by everybody in Wandlebury, and who were living together at Ganthorne Lodge in a state of bliss—and Sam and Jerry had accepted the tickets with delight, and had promised to come and have dinner at The Archway House, and tell Uncle Arthur and Barbara “all about it.” Monkey had also been invited to dine, and, after dinner, the whole party would walk over to Chevis Place for the bonfire and other celebrations.
Arthur and Barbara spent a quiet morning in the garden. It was beautiful. The weather was perfect—real Jubilee weather—and the garden was gay with spring flowers, and joyous with the song of birds. Arthur and Barbara sat in deck chairs, in the shadow of a huge beech tree, and talked and read in a desultory manner. The afternoon, though equally fine, was not so quiet, for all Wandlebury had been to town and seen the procession in the morning, and all Wandlebury decided to visit the Abbotts in the afternoon and tell them all that they had missed. By dinnertime the Abbotts had heard so much about the procession that they felt exactly as if they had seen it—and almost as tired. They knew exactly who was in every carriage and what they had worn, how gracious and regal Their Majesties had appeared and how sweet and pretty the Duchesses of York and Kent. They knew all about the immense crowds—so thick that you could have walked on their shoulders over half London. They knew all about the blocked roads and the gaily decorated streets. Even the ceremony in the abbey was no closed book to them, for Sir Lucian Agnew had been there, and came in to tea at The Archway House on purpose to tell the Abbotts about it. He had already composed a poem on the subject, and it needed very little persuasion on Barbara’s part to induce him to recite it to them over the teacups.
Monkey Wrench and the young Abbotts came to dinner as had been arranged. Sam and Jerry were full of all they had seen and done, but they had not much opportunity of telling the others of their experiences. For one thing Arthur and Barbara were already well versed in the day’s events, and were even slightly bored with the subject; and, for another, Monkey Wrench had so much to say that it was difficult for anyone else to get a word in edgeways. Monkey dominated the dinner table—Barbara had never heard him talk so much—and his conversation was entirely concerned with the Wandlebury Bonfire.
The Wandlebury Bonfire was Monkey’s obsession. Archie Cobbe had given the making of it into Monkey’s hands, and had allowed him to construct it on a small eminence in Chevis Park known locally as the Beacon Hill. Monkey had taken his responsibility as the designer of the Wandlebury Bonfire in no frivolous spirit; he had determined that it should be as good as, if not better than any bonfire in the British Isles. He had gone to work in a scientific manner, had ransacked the old library at Chevis Place for information as to how a bonfire should be built, and had amassed a considerable number of interesting and relevant facts about bonfires and beacons during his research.
Barbara was delighted that Monkey had the bonfire to occupy his mind. It had been an excellent idea of Archie’s to entrust him with it. After the death of Lady Chevis Cobbe, Monkey had been wretched and miserable, for he hated losing a patient at any time, and her ladyship had been so ill (and so exacting) for so long, that when she departed this life and had no more need of his services, he felt that there was nothing left for him to do. If there had been an epidemic of influenza—or even of chicken pox—in Wandlebury the doctor would not have missed his august patient to anything like the same extent (for he would have had no time to grieve, and mope, and review the case for any possible mistake or omission he might have made in dealing with it), but the Wandleburians were a healthy community, and the weather had been so glorious that even chronic invalids and dyed-in-the-wool hypochondriacs had pulled up their socks—so to speak—and had been so busy decorating their houses with bunting, and making arrangements to see the procession, that they had no time to ring up Dr. Wrench and tell him about their pains.
It was for these reasons that the bonfire was such a godsend to Monkey; and Monkey had thrown himself into its preparation with such vim and vigor that he had almost forgotten that he was a doctor and had become, for the time being, a sort of modern Guy Fawkes.
“In the old days,” said Monkey seriously, “everybody knew the right way to construct a bonfire—or a beacon. It was necessary that they should, for it was the means of communication in times of danger (take for instance the bonfires which were lighted to warn England of the approach of the Armada, and those prepared as signals of alarm in the time of Napoleon Bonaparte). Bonfires in those days were not only lighted on occasions of national rejoicings. But, now, nobody knows much about them—the oldest man in the world is too young—isn’t that queer? I’m sure that a great many bonfires which have been erected for tonight’s celebrations will either flare up and burn themselves to ashes in an hour, or else they’ll smolder and go out. Now my bonfire,” said Monkey earnestly, “is a rightly constructed bonfire. It will burn from the top, of course, and will burn for hours—flames and smoke,” said Monkey, “tar barrels and hempen rope.” He stacked his knives and forks to demonstrate the correct and incorrect manner of laying the wood, and used Arthur’s silver table-napkin ring to demonstrate the correct position of the essential barrel of tar; he commended the Boy Scouts who had aided him in his task and Archie Cobbe for the public-spirited way in which he had given wood and tar and had lent carts for the conveyance of the same. “The site is ideal, of course,” he continued. “Simply couldn’t be better. It has obviously been used for beacons and bonfires in the past—hence its name, the Beacon Hill. Personally I shouldn’t be surprised if the hill was used for fires of alarm in the Druids’ time,” said Monkey. “In the time of the Roman occupation,” continued Monkey. “All down the centuries.”
From the particular, he diverged to the general; he gave them a history of bonfires and the occasions upon which they had been used. He explained that the name was derived from “bone-fire” and
that it had originally been a fire of bones. Other authorities—so Monkey said—had declared that the name was derived from “boon-fire,” the suggestion being that all the landowners in the neighborhood contributed material for the fire, as a gift to propitiate some deity, or in obedience to some superstition.
Barbara loved bonfires, but even she had had enough of the subject by the time that dinner was finished. She was quite glad when Monkey rose and said that he really must go.
“Just in case of anything,” said Monkey, anxiously. “It would be so awful if anything went wrong now. I’ll see you later,” he added. “Don’t be late, will you?”
“No, of course not,” Barbara assured him.
“It will be worth seeing,” said Monkey. “I can promise you that. There may be bigger bonfires in the country tonight, but there will be no better bonfire than mine,” he added with supreme confidence.
***
It was a glorious evening, still and warm. The sun sank slowly as if it were reluctant to depart; as if it were reluctant to look its last upon the day of rejoicing, reluctant to look its last upon the flags, the streamers, the gay decorations, and the happy throng of holidaymakers, upon whom it had smiled for so many crowded hours.
The Abbotts walked over to Chevis Place, for there was no need to hurry, the bonfire would not be lighted until dusk. The younger couple walked in front, and the older couple some yards behind.
“How happy they are!” Barbara remarked.
“No happier than we,” declared Arthur, squeezing the hand that was tucked inside his arm.
Barbara returned the pressure. “It’s turned out all right after all,” she said contentedly. “Things usually do, somehow. You worry and fuss and try to make things go the way you think they should, and then you find that the other way was best. I’m going to try not to worry about things anymore.”
Arthur thought this was an excellent plan, but he was doubtful whether Barbara would be able to carry it out. Her disposition was so benevolent that she could not bear to see things going awry. She loved putting her fingers into other people’s pies, and improving them (a good many people had reason to thank Barbara for the way she had improved their pies). The pies—as Barbara had indicated—rarely turned out quite as she had hoped or expected, but they were usually satisfactory. Barbara had had her fingers in a great many pies in Silverstream, and had improved them all—though not always in the way she had intended—and the Wandlebury pie was a success, too—so Arthur reflected—for Sam and Jerry were undoubtedly happier and more useful at Ganthorne Lodge than they would have been at Chevis Place, and Archie Cobbe had got what he had been wanting for years.
As they neared Chevis Place they found streams of cars and pedestrians converging from all directions; everybody for miles round Wandlebury had heard about the wonderful bonfire, and had decided to be there and see it alight.
The site chosen for the bonfire was—as Monkey had said—an ideal site. It was a flat-topped hill, covered with heather and boulders, about a quarter of a mile from the house. From here a fine view of the surrounding country could be obtained, and, incidentally, the surrounding country could obtain a fine view of the bonfire. The Abbotts were early on the scene, and were able to secure a good position on a pile of boulders. Arthur spread a rug over the boulders and they all sat down. Before them towered the dark mass of the bonfire, with trickles of black tar seeping out between the carefully packed wood. Monkey was hurrying about, full of last-minute instructions to his assistants. A donkey appeared with a huge crate of fireworks on its back, and the crate was unloaded by the Boy Scouts and secreted behind a rock. People were arriving fast by this time; groups formed and reformed. There was talk and laughter as friends met and recounted their experiences of the morning.
“There’s Mrs. Sittingbourne!” exclaimed Arthur suddenly—he had almost forgotten what her real name was, for Barbara’s choice seemed to suit her so much better.
“Where?” demanded Barbara eagerly. “Oh yes, I see her now. Oh dear, I am so glad she’s better.”
“Monkey says it wasn’t appendicitis after all.”
“I never thought it was.”
“Would you like to go and talk to her?” Arthur asked.
“No,” replied Barbara firmly. “No, let’s just stay where we are—I’m enjoying it all frightfully.”
Arthur was surprised. Barbara had been so odd, so mysterious, over Mrs. Dance’s sudden indisposition that he had been quite worried over it. He had never succeeded in getting to the bottom of that queer faint turn that had assailed Barbara when she heard that Mrs. Dance (or Mrs. Sittingbourne) was ill. It was so unlike Barbara to be mysterious. Arthur turned the whole thing over in his mind (his eyes fixed upon the good lady’s toothy smile and predatory expression, as she pursued various people that she knew and engaged them in conversation). I can’t believe that Barbara is really so very fond of her, he thought, she isn’t Barbara’s style at all. If Barbara likes her so much why doesn’t she see the good lady more often? And if Barbara doesn’t like her much, why was she so upset to hear she was ill?
Arthur’s reflections on the subject were interrupted by the arrival of Archie Cobbe—or Archie Chevis Cobbe, as he was now to be called—who was accompanied by a tall, nice-looking man with one sleeve pinned to his breast. Archie moved about among the crowd, talking and laughing in a friendly manner, and inviting all and sundry to come down to Chevis Place “after the show” and partake of light refreshments. Gradually he made his way over to the pile of boulders where the Abbotts were sitting and greeted them cordially.
“This is Major Macfarlane,” he said, introducing his one-armed companion. “He’s going to try and teach me how to run the estate. I’m awfully lucky to have him.”
“Nonsense,” said the Major. “I’m lucky to have the job—and you haven’t much to learn as far as I can see.”
“You’re all to come to Chevis Place afterward,” Archie continued. “You will, won’t you? It’s to be a sort of house-warming. We’ve laid in provisions enough for a regiment—haven’t we, Macfarlane? And beer, and tea, and coffee enough to float the Queen Mary—and I want you, especially, Jerry, to do hostess for me.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jerry promised. “But you know I’m not much use at that sort of thing.”
They chatted for a few minutes, and then Archie moved on, in his squire-like manner, to greet Mrs. Thane and Candia, who had just arrived on the scene. Barbara voiced all their thoughts when she exclaimed in a surprised voice:
“Isn’t it queer? Archie seems to have grown.”
Archie really did seem to have grown. He seemed taller and broader, and his personality had expanded in the warm sun of his changed fortunes.
“Prosperity suits some people,” said Monkey Wrench, who had come up to speak to them and had overheard Barbara’s remark.
“Yes,” agreed Jerry. “You can’t think how kind and considerate he is now, and he’s so anxious to do the right thing for Chevis Place—Mr. Tupper was quite wrong,” she added thoughtfully.
“All he needs now is the right wife,” said Arthur, who had succeeded in obtaining that most desirable possession for himself.
“We shall have to find him one,” Barbara agreed, quite forgetting that she had decided never to meddle in the affairs of her neighbors again.
It was now almost dark, and Monkey—who had been hopping with excitement for the last half-hour—decided to light his bonfire.
“It isn’t quite time,” he admitted, looking at his watch, and putting it to his ear to see if by any chance it could have stopped.
“It isn’t quite time yet, but it may take a minute or two to get going, so I think I shall light up.”
A ladder was brought and reared against the bonfire, and Monkey mounted with a flaming torch in his hand. Everybody had stopped talking and watched breathlessly
. He laid the torch on the top of the bonfire and climbed down. For a few moments it looked as if the torch would go out, and the bonfire remain unlighted, but only for a few moments. Gradually the top of the erection caught fire; flames ran round the edge, licking the wood, then they shot upward in a pyramid of fire; volumes of smoke ascended into the darkening sky, and the whole bonfire leaped into life with a sound of crackling and hissing.
The glare of the flames shone, with a lurid light, upon the upturned faces of the spectators, and murmurs of approval and delight were heard on every side. Monkey’s bonfire was a tremendous success.
“It’s wonderful,” said Barbara in admiration.
“Oh wonderful, wonderful,” exclaimed a deep sonorous voice just behind her. “And most wonderful, wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and, after that, out of all whooping.”
Barbara had no need to look behind her to see who it was that had thus extolled Monkey’s bonfire, but look behind her she did. There stood Mr. Marvell, large and majestic as ever, wrapped like a Roman emperor in his voluminous black cloak. His head was bare, and his luxuriant wavy hair gleamed in the ruddy glow of the flames. Around him were grouped, like satellites, his family and dependents: Mrs. Marvell, Lancreste, Trivona and Ambrose, Miss Foddy, and the two maids. It was an elevating sight.
“Look at them, Arthur,” Barbara whispered, nudging Arthur and chuckling a little with pure delight. “Aren’t they marvelous? And isn’t he exactly like the Colossus of Rhodes?”
Arthur was forced to agree. There was something really noble about the little group, outlined against the darkness of the sky, and nobody could behold it without perceiving that the dominant figure in it was, indeed, more than life-size.
The night wore on. Bonfires could be seen all round, on nearly every hill. Some were large and flaming, and some were small and smoldering, but none of them (everybody agreed) was nearly as good as the Wandlebury bonfire. When the interest in the bonfire began to wane the crate of fireworks was opened, and Archie let off rockets and roman candles and fairy lights. It was a splendid entertainment. Barbara liked the rockets best; away they went into the sky; they burst with a bang, and the green and red and yellow stars hung for a moment among their quiet silver brethren and then fell, light as thistledown, through the still air.
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