Mykelborne lifted an imperious hand.
‘Mus Bailey,’ said Mykelborne, ‘twas at eight o’clock your mother brung ee forth, I’ll ’low?’
‘Eh?’ said Mr Bailey, over-acting his surprise a little. ‘Well, yes, I fancy you’re right.’
‘You fancy!’ said Mykelborne. ‘He fancies,’ he remarked to his neighbours with bitter sarcasm. ‘Now listee, Rasmus.’ He became a little stern. ‘You telled me, plain as plain, a week agoo today, that you was born at eight o’clock. Eight striken, says you. You was standen same as it might be there, and I was sitten as near as makes no matter where I be sitten now. At eight striken, Dick, you says, my mother brung me forth.’
‘You’re in the right of it, Dick,’ said Mr Bailey hastily. ‘Twas eight o’clock sartain sure. I remember well enough now.’
‘Ah,’ said Coachy, ‘then you’ve an owdacious good memory, Mus Bailey, young though you be.’
‘Eight o’clock striken,’ said Mykelborne with unction, ‘this day seventy-five year agoo.’
‘This very day? So tis,’ agreed Mr Bailey. ‘Bless me, how time flies, to be sure!’
‘Mus Bailey,’ said Mykelborne, half-rising,’ we’re all rough men here.’ But he broke off to explain in a confidential aside: ‘This bain’t the speech yet, Rasmus. Daun’t think ut. What I be sayen, and tis not in the speechifying way, is we’re all rough men here. But if so be your lady mistus would do us so proud as to come among us for five martal minutes, we’d take ut countable kind in she. Remember the weaker vessel to keep ut holy, as Postle Paul says. And he knawed, did old Postle.’
‘Certainly, Dick, certainly!’ Mr Bailey vanished into his private parlour, and so quickly returned with Mrs Bailey on his arm that it was clear she had needed no persuasion. She smiled radiantly on the company, and bowed in response to the gratified murmurs that welcomed her.
Mykelborne had by now possessed himself of the token, which he did his best to conceal behind his back, keeping his other hand free for such oratorical gestures as might be needed. ‘Mus Bailey and Mistus Bailey . . . What be the time, Abel Sweet?’ With this question he affirmed the importance and dignity of the occasion. Henceforward, due order must be observed, and every man perform his proper duty and no other: the spokesman was dedicated to speech, the timekeeper to observation of the clock.
‘He do want a minute yet,’ said Sweet.
That minute was the longest of the day. Bright beads appeared on the brow of the frustrated orator. Mr Bailey gazed unhappily at the floor, and Mrs Bailey’s smile grew wan. But at last, with dramatic emphasis, the hour of release struck. Eight o’clock.
Sweet counted each stroke. One . . . two . . . three . . .
‘Tis eight o’clock now, Mus Mykelborne,’ said Sweet.
‘He do knaw that, you gurt gummut!’ said Growcock. ‘He’ve a pair of ears, anta?’
‘Hush, my coneys,’ said Coachy Timms. ‘Take a deep drink, for there be the speech to come now, and no chance for swalleren.’
‘Mus Bailey and Mistus Bailey,’ said Mykelborne, ‘we be all rough folkses here and ignorant sinners, and you an owdacious eddicated man. But seeing you was born seventy-five year agoo at eight o’clock striken, as it might be this very minute——’
‘Nay, tis past the hour now, Mus Mykelborne,’ Sweet corrected him.
‘—as it might be this very minute, Abel Sweet. Might be, I said, dint I! And so, Mus Bailey, seeing you be seventy-five year old, we thine unworthy servants do bring thee humble and hearty thanks. Likewise a token. We’ve summered and wintered ye a dunnamany years now, and you’ve always and all days bin a true breencheese friend to us.’
‘So he has!’ said Growcock.
‘As sure as I sit here,’ corroborated Sweet.
‘Ay,’ said Coachy, nodding sagaciously, ‘he be a likely youngster, sure enough.’
‘And so, Mus Bailey, what with one thing and what with another thing, us have seen fit and praaper to purchase and procure a token for ee: which same token,’ said Mykelborne, suddenly, with a proud delighted smile, bringing forth his treasure, which he held dangling by the knot of the red handkerchief that covered it, ‘which same token us do now present. Do now present . . . And a countable genteel token tis, Mus Bailey, being one of they teapots same as the gentry has, to wish ee long life and happiness, because all flesh be grass, says Postle, and whatsumdever a man do sow, that same shall spring up in the day of moën and rippen . . . Here be thy token, Rasmus. Take ut and God bless.’
Mykelborne sat down, mopping his brow. He looked at Coachy, who nodded grave approval. ‘Now ut be his canter,’ said Coachy, indicating Mr Bailey with a nod. ‘God send he be brief about it. Twould be carnal folly to talk all night of teapots.’ He took a deep and pious drink of his beer.
‘My dear friends——’ began Mr Bailey.
‘Hushee!’ cried Sweet. ‘Hushee, Mus Bailey. Here be Master Hugh come amongst us.’
Hugh Marden stood hesitating in the doorway. Now he came forward. ‘Good evening, Bailey. Good evening, Mrs Bailey. My father asked me to bring you his good wishes, Bailey. You’re having a birthday, I hear.’
The Squire had sent his own son! It reminded Mr Bailey of something in the Bible: he did not remember quite what. ‘Tis a wonderful kindness in him, sir, and in yourself too, I’ll ’low. A wonderful condescension, I’m sure——’
The young man waved his protestations aside. ‘Oh, ah, and there’s this book for you, in token——’
‘Another token for ee, Mus Bailey!’ cried Sweet. ‘Tis a proud day we be maken of ut.’
With trembling hands Mr Bailey received his book: a small octavo volume, bound in marbled boards and half-leather. At its title-page he dared not look, for during the past few weeks he had heard rumours almost too beautiful for belief, and he lacked courage as yet to put his rapturous conjecture to the proof. But the words of the young gentleman fell like music on his dazed ears. ‘My father and some other gentlemen thought to gratify you by having it printed. A small edition: two hundred copies, I believe.’ So the title-page was no longer to be feared, and could no longer be resisted. Mr Bailey took one furtive peep and saw himself in all the glory that Caslon can invest a man with. The Poetical Works of Mr Erasmus Bailey. (That ‘Mr’ had been Brother Raphe’s thought, and it made all the difference.) He looked no further; one glimpse had translated him. The burden of his joy being too great for one alone to bear, his hand went seeking that of Lizzie, who stood comfortably near. Husband and wife exchanged a glance of pure happiness.
And now he must stammer his thanks to the young gentleman.
‘Sir——’
But the young gentleman was already gone.
‘He be pleased with Squire’s token, I’ll ’low,’ said Mykelborne.
‘I think a be so,’ agreed Sweet.
Mr Bailey, roused from ecstasy, remembered his guests and was suddenly ashamed for his neglect of them. ‘Neighbours,’ said he, ‘tis true that I be pleased with Squire’s token. But nothing today could have pleased me more than this elegant teapot you’ve given me. A teapot such as this teapot is a thing I’ve always hankered after——’
‘Ah,’ said Mykelborne. ‘D’ye mark that, Abel Sweet? Cobbler Sweet,’ he explained, ‘was for given ye a pair of bellowses, poor fellow.’