‘Er—yes,’ murmured Mrs. Brown, obviously much perplexed by the conversation, ‘er—yes. Of course.’
‘And we weave everything that we wear,’ went on Mrs. Pennyman earnestly, ‘we weave everything that we wear with our own hands. You see we’re going back to the simple life.’
‘But don’t you think,’ suggested Mrs. Brown tentatively, ‘that the more modem life’s the simpler one? When you don’t have to make everything yourself?’
This point of view horrified Mrs. Pennyman.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Oh no. Certainly not. Simplicity consists in—in making things yourself. You see, Adolphus and I feel that we have a mission. We want to begin in this little country village, and once the fire is set alight here it will spread like a—like a network throughout England. And we want your support, dear Mrs. Brown, in setting it alight.’
Mrs. Brown looked about her desperately, as if for escape, but all she could see was William gazing at the visitor, with fascinated eyes drinking in her every word. The circle of upstanding hair round his face gave him a startled and slightly sinister look. The sight did not reassure Mrs. Brown, and she wished that her son had given to this visitor as wide a berth as he usually gave to visitors. She tried to turn the conversation on to the weather, but Mrs. Pennyman repeated earnestly:
‘May we count on your support, dear Mrs. Brown?’
Mrs. Brown gave a non-committal murmur that evidently satisfied her visitor.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘Every disciple helps . . .’
Then she discovered that it was time to go to change into her flowing robes to receive Adolphus.
‘I always like him to find me dressed in them when he returns from his work. It’s so much more pleasant for him. It takes him at once back into the morning of the world.’
When she had gone, Mrs. Brown looked about for William, but William was not there.
The episode had revived all his interest in the new-comers, and he was behind his screen of laurel watching the returned Mrs. Pennyman, dressed in the classical robe again, struggling with strings of dough that ought to have gone into macaroni but hadn’t.
The reformers launched their campaign the next week. They arranged classes in hand-weaving, and they got a lecturer down to speak on ‘The Reform of Dress,’ but both were sparsely attended. In fact, the only audience in the latter was a stone deaf old man of Scotch descent, who was only there because he attended on principle every village function to which no entrance fee was charged. Next, Mrs. Pennyman gave a lecture on making macaroni, but as drying in the sun was an essential part of the process, and as there wasn’t any sun to dry it in, that, too, was a failure, and the mixture had to be made into a loaf which proved too hard for human consumption.
Nothing daunted, the Pennymans got a speaker to lecture upon vegetarianism. The local butcher was the only male member of the audience at this, and he attended in no hostile spirit, but simply because he was curious to see the Pennymans, of whom he had heard so much. He had never seen them before, because in their passage through the village they always made a quarter of a mile détour in order to avoid passing his shop.
William, though his life was too full to allow him to attend the lectures, kept an interested eye upon the proceedings, and still paid frequent unofficial visits to the Hall in order to watch Mr. and Mrs. Pennyman engaged in living the simple life. He did, as a matter of fact, attend one lecture. It was a lecture given by Mr. Pennyman on ‘The Evils of Modern Life.’ He discoursed among other things on the modern tendency of having one’s entertainments provided for one, and the joy of entertaining oneself. As an example of this, Mr. Pennyman played to them on his flute, explaining quite unnecessarily that he had never had any lessons, but had picked it up entirely himself. All the audience, except William, crept out one by one during the recital.
William was present at his unofficial point of observation when the Pennymans sadly decided that they were not getting on with their self-imposed task of Handing on the Torch as fast as they’d hoped to get on, and that they must compromise again.
‘Like all reformers we have tried to go too quickly,’ said Mrs. Pennyman, who was engaged in weaving on her loom a shade of purple that cried aloud to the heavens, ‘We must compromise. We must meet them half-way. We evidently can’t take them straight back to the morning of the world. We must find some intermediate position and take them there first.’
‘I know,’ said Mr. Pennyman, laying aside his hammer (he was engaged this evening in hand beating hand-beaten copper. The sound was rather more tuneful than that of his flute playing). ‘Merrie England. Let’s take them back first to Merrie England.’
And so the Merrie England campaign was launched.
It was launched of course with reservations. There wasn’t to be any ale (because the Pennymans had very decided views about the effect of strong drink upon the liver), and there wasn’t to be any beef. But there was to be milk and nut cutlets. And, of course, there was to be country dancing, accompanied by Mr. Pennyman on his flute. Mrs. Pennyman made smocks and presented them to all the agricultural labourers in the district. Mr. Pennyman made a shepherd’s crook of beaten copper, and presented it to the man who looked after the sheep at Jenks’ farm. There was quite a large attendance at the first few country dancing classes, but after that a deputation waited upon Mr. and Mrs. Pennyman suggesting that for the remaining classes of the course they should hire a jazz band from the neighbouring country town, and take lessons in the Charleston and the Blues. Mrs. Pennyman fainted over her loom at the suggestion, and Mr. Pennyman nearly swallowed his flute.
‘Never!’ said Mr. Pennyman dramatically, and Mrs. Pennyman said, still more dramatically, ‘NEVER!’
So the deputation went away and made arrangements to go into the neighbouring country town once a week to take lessons in ball-room dancing. There were still a fair number left in the country dancing class, however, because there had been rumours of a supper to which all the members were to be invited at the end of the course. They were of that noble kind who had in their childhood doggedly endured the weekly Sunday School for the sake of the annual ‘treat.’ But even the Pennymans realised that their campaign lacked ‘go’; and William, who still could not resist the fascination of the Hall drawing-room, with Mrs. Pennyman weaving and Mr. Pennyman fluting, again formed the unofficial audience when they discussed the situation.
‘Things,’ said Mr. Pennyman, taking the flute from his lips, ‘aren’t progressing as quickly as I’d hoped they would, my dear.’
Mrs. Pennyman stooped to disengage her sandal from a clinging mass of soon-to-be hand-woven material. Mrs. Pennyman occasionally got rather tied up in her weaving.
‘You are right, Adolphus. We must give them a fillip.’
‘Have you seen any of the farm labourers wearing the smocks you sent them?’
‘I have not, Adolphus. Nor has Jakes once taken out the crook with him as far as I can learn.’
‘And the country dancing class is smaller than it should be. Everyone in the village should belong to it.’
‘Have you told them so, Adolphus?’
‘I have.’
‘Then tell them again.’
‘I have told them again.’
‘It all comes back to the same thing. We must give them a fillip.’
‘But how, Euphemia?’
For a moment Mrs. Pennyman paced the room in silent thought. In order to assist her meditations Mr. Pennyman raised his flute to his lips and drew from it an unmelodious strain. Mrs. Pennyman silenced him with a gesture.
‘I think best in silence, Adolphus,’ she said. ‘Music distracts me.’
She paced the room in silence several times, watched anxiously by Mr. Pennyman. Then suddenly she stopped and said:
‘Of course! I have it! I have it. May Day.’
‘Yes, my dear,’ said Mr. Pennyman, looking at her still more anxiously.
‘May Day. The first of May. Next month. We must cel
ebrate it. Country dances. A maypole. Morris dancing. A masque. It will give the whole movement a fillip. It will spread from it throughout the whole of England. May Day! The heart and soul of Merrie England!’
Mr. Pennyman rose to his feet reverently and clasped her hand.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you have a wonderful brain.’
And so the May Day campaign was launched.
There was to be country dancing, morris dancing, a maypole and a masque. And there were to be free refreshments for the performers. Hearing of the latter the village offered its services in a body. New life and soul entered into the movement. The village green was mown and rolled in preparation for the great day.
William was only vaguely interested in all this. It was the idea of the masque that had gripped his fancy. On hearing it he had had pleasant mental pictures of a gathering of people all wearing comic masks. When he heard that the word meant in this case a play in dumb show his interest waned only to increase to fever point when he heard that it was to represent the fight between St. George and the dragon. He gathered that from a conversation that he overheard between Mr. Pennyman and the Vicar. Mr. Pennyman had caught the Vicar as he was slinking into the Vicarage gates with obvious intent of avoiding him. The Pennymans had been grieved to find that the Vicar was not quite ‘sound’ on the Merrie England question. He had refused even to promise to be present at the May Day celebrations. He always fled in terror on sight of either of the Pennymans. But this time Mr. Pennyman caught him very neatly just as he was entering his gate and stood in his path, giving him no chance of escape.
‘We hope to see you at our May Day celebrations, Vicar,’ began Mr. Pennyman very firmly.
The vicar looked about him in a hunted fashion, but, finding that Mr. Pennyman barred the only possible way of escape, said:
‘Er!—thank you so much, Mr. Pennyman. Delightful, I’m sure. I’m sure it will be delightful. I’m afraid, though, that I may be unable to attend as I may have to go to town to—er—to see—to some urgent business that day. Unfortunate. Most unfortunate. But time and tide, you know. Well, well, I must be—’
‘But we shall expect you there, Vicar,’ said Mr. Pennyman firmly. ‘We shall be most disappointed if you fail us. It is to be the beginning of great things for the village.’
‘I’m sure it will. I’m sure it will,’ said the Vicar, vainly trying to edge his way past him. ‘I’m er—quite sure it will. Maypole dancing, is it not?’
‘That’s a part of it,’ said Mr. Pennyman.
‘And a May Queen?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Pennyman, ‘my wife will be the May Queen, of course.’
‘Er-yes. Delightful,’ said the Vicar faintly, ‘simply delightful. I’m so sorry that I shall unfortunately be unable to attend.’
‘Oh, but you must be present, Vicar,’ said Mr. Pennyman, moving slightly to the left because he saw that the Vicar was trying to get past him on that side. ‘There’s going to be a masque as well as the dancing.’ ‘A masque?’ said the Vicar, interested despite himself, because he hadn’t heard anything about the masque.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Pennyman, ‘a medieval masque. A representation of the fight between St. George and the dragon. I am to be St. George, of course. As a matter of fact I have a suit of armour in which I once went to a fancy dress dance in that very character. There will be a certain suitability too in my taking the part of St. George that I think most people will recognise, because I am giving my life to the struggle against the dark forces of modern life and to bringing back the morning to the world.’
‘Er-yes,’ murmured the Vicar. ‘Delightful,’ and he edged slightly to the right, but Mr. Pennyman edged also to the right, so the Vicar surrendered himself to fate once more, and said:
‘And what about the dragon?’
‘I can obtain,’ said Mr. Pennyman, ‘a very fine dragon. I refer, of course, to a dragon skin such as is used in pantomimes. Some friends of mine once had it for a child’s performance of St. George and the dragon. It may be a little small of course, in comparison with my suit of armour, but I think that it will be quite effective.’
‘And who,’ said the Vicar, ‘will be the dragon?’
‘There must be two of them, of course,’ said Mr. Pennyman. ‘Two boys, as the thing was made for boys. I haven’t really thought about it yet. My nephew who is coming to stay with us for the celebration will be one, of course, and I suppose I must get some local boy to be the other.’
At this point the Vicar suddenly noticed William, who, enthralled by the conversation, had drawn so near that he was practically standing between them.
‘What do you want, boy?’ he snapped irritably.
‘Please can you tell me the time?’ said William, with admirable presence of mind.
‘No, I can’t,’ snapped the Vicar. The incident had thrown Mr. Pennyman off his guard, and the Vicar slipped past him with a murmured farewell, and sped up the drive into the Vicarage with so patent an air of flight that one almost expected to hear him bolt and bar the Vicarage door as soon as he had closed it behind him.
Mr. Pennyman turned and walked up the road to the Hall in the gathering dusk followed by William. Mr. Pennyman was thinking that it didn’t really matter if the Vicar didn’t turn up for the May Day celebrations. There was nothing medieval or picturesque or romantic about him. You couldn’t, for instance, dress him in a smock or give him a shepherd’s crook. No, if the Vicar wanted to go up to town on May Day, he could. They could manage perfectly well without him. Better than with him probably. He walked up the drive of the Hall, unaware that William was still following closely on his heels, entered the front door and closed it behind him. He joined his wife in the drawing-room. She threw him a pained look.
‘Adolphus,’ she said, ‘do go and change out of those horrible clothes. You don’t look like my Adolphus in them . . .’
‘I will in a minute, dearest,’ he said apologetically. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I saw the Vicar—’
‘WHAT DO YOU WANT, BOY?’ THE VICAR ASKED IRRITABLY.
The housemaid entered and said:
‘There’s a boy wants to see you, sir.’
‘A boy?’ said Mr. Pennyman. ‘What sort of a boy? What does he want?’
‘He says he’s come about the dragon, sir.’
‘The what?’ said Mr. Pennyman.
‘That’s what he said, sir,’ said the maid dispassionately. ‘He said he’d come about the dragon.’
‘What dragon?’
‘He didn’t say, sir. He just said he’d come about the dragon.’
‘How mysterious!’ said Mrs. Pennyman. ‘You’d better show him in.’
Almost immediately William entered. He wore his most ferocious scowl.
‘I’ve come about the dragon,’ he began unceremoniously.
‘What dragon?’ said Mr. Pennyman.
‘The dragon you’re going to have. I want to be its front legs.’
‘Oh-er, I see. But who told you about it?’
Mr. Pennyman who was short-sighted did not recognise William as the boy who had asked the Vicar the time.
‘Oh, I—I jus’ sort of heard,’ said William.
Mr. and Mrs. Pennyman had drawn nearer to William and were looking at him critically. Then, one on each side of him, they discussed him over his head, William staring in front of him with a completely expressionless face.
‘He’s—not quite the type we want, surely, dear,’ said Mr. Pennyman anxiously.
‘His face won’t show,’ said his wife.
‘True,’ said Mr. Pennyman, ‘true. Of course his face won’t show.’
‘And of course his motives are very important. If he does it in the right spirit, and—of course, his face won’t show. Why do you want to take the part, boy? Is it because you want to help in the task of taking back this village to Merrie England, and thence to the morning of the world.’
‘Yes,’ said William.
‘It’s an excellent motive, of co
urse,’ said Mr. Pennyman. ‘It seems a pity not to encourage it. My little nephew Pelleas has offered to take one of the parts of the animal. He may want the front legs. Perhaps you would take the back?’
‘I’d rather take the front,’ said William very firmly, and still with a face expressionless to the verge of imbecility, added: ‘’Cause of what you said just now about the morning in the world and such-like.’
Mrs. Pennyman was touched.
‘Clouds of glory!’ she said. ‘How wonderful! Probably in spite of his face he has a beautiful soul. But of course Pelleas too understands and appreciates our message. Pelleas will be with us to-morrow, dear boy. So will you come here then at four o’clock, and we will decide between you.’
William arrived at the Hall promptly the next afternoon and was shown into the drawing-room. Pelleas was there with Mrs. Pennyman. Pelleas was about William’s age and height, but he was dressed in a Kate Greenaway suit, and his hair was too long. Mrs. Pennyman waved her hand towards William, and said to Pelleas: ‘This is the boy who’s going to be the other half of the dragon, Pelleas.’
Pelleas subjected William to a lengthy scrutiny.
‘I don’t like him,’ he said at length. ‘He’s ugly.’
‘But, darling,’ said Mrs. Pennyman, ‘his face won’t show, you know.’
‘It will to me if we’re both inside the dragon.’
‘It won’t, darling, because it’ll be dark.’
‘Well I don’t like him, anyway,’ said Pelleas firmly, ‘and I don’t want to be a dragon with him.’
PELLEAS SUBJECTED WILLIAM TO A LONG SCRUTINY, ‘I DON’T LIKE HIM,’ HE SAID AT LENGTH. ‘HE’S UGLY.’
‘We’ll see what your uncle says,’ said Mrs. Pennyman vaguely.
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