Colonel Parsons and his wife had wished no function to celebrate the home-coming of James; but gave in to the persuasions of Mary and of Mr. Dryland, the curate, who said that a public ceremony would be undoubtedly a stimulus to the moral welfare of Little Primpton. No man could escape from his obligations, and Captain Parsons owed it to his fellow-countrymen of Little Primpton to let them show their appreciation of his great deed.

The Vicar went so far as to assert that a hearty greeting to the hero would be as salutory to the parishioners as a sermon of his own, while it would awaken James, a young man and possibly thoughtless, to a proper sense of his responsibilities. But the sudden arrival of James had disturbed the arrangements, and Mr. Dryland, in some perplexity, went to see Mary.

“What are we to do, Miss Clibborn? The school children will be so disappointed.”

The original plan had been to meet the hero as he drove towards Primpton House from the station, and the curate was unwilling to give it up.

“D’you think Captain Parsons would go into Tunbridge Wells and drive in at two o’clock, as if he were just arriving?”

“I’m afraid he wouldn’t,” replied Mary, doubtfully, “and I think he’d only laugh if I asked him. He seemed glad when he thought he had escaped the celebration.”

“Did he, indeed? How true it is that real courage is always modest! But it would be an eternal disgrace to Little Primpton if we did not welcome our hero, especially now that everything is prepared. It must not be said that Little Primpton neglects to honour him whom the Empire has distinguished.”

After turning over many plans, they decided that the procession should come to Primpton House at the appointed hour, when Captain Parsons would receive it from the triumphal arch at the gate.... When the servant announced that the function was ready to begin, an announcement emphasised by the discordant notes of the brass band, Mary hurriedly explained to James what was expected of him, and they all made for the front door.

Primpton House faced the green, and opposite the little village shops were gay with bunting; at the side, against the highroad that led to Groombridge, the church and the public-house stood together in friendly neighbourhood, decorated with Union Jacks. The whole scene, with its great chestnut-trees, and the stretch of greenery beyond, was pleasantly rural, old-fashioned and very English; and to complete it, the sun shone down comfortably like a good-natured, mild old gentleman. The curate, with a fine sense of order, had arranged on the right the school-boys, nicely scrubbed and redolent of pomatum; and on the left the girls, supported by their teachers. In the middle stood the choir, the brass band, and Mr. Dryland. The village yokels were collected round in open-mouthed admiration. The little party from the house took their places under the triumphal arch, the Clibborns assuming an expression of genteel superciliousness; and as they all wore their Sunday clothes, they made quite an imposing group.

Seeing that they were ready, Mr. Dryland stepped forward, turned his back so as to command the musicians, and coughed significantly. He raised above his head his large, white clerical hand, stretching out the index-finger, and began to beat time. He bellowed aloud, and the choir, a bar or so late, followed lustily. The band joined in with a hearty braying of trumpets.

“See, the conquering Hero comes,
Sound the trumpets; beat the drums.”

But growing excited at the music issuing from his throat, the curate raised the other hand which held his soft felt hat, and beat time energetically with that also.

At the end of the verse the performers took a rapid breath, as though afraid of being left behind, and then galloped on, a little less evenly, until one by one they reached the highly-decorated Amen.

When the last note of the last cornet had died away on the startled air, Mr. Dryland made a sign to the head boy of the school, who thereupon advanced and waved his cap, shouting:

“Three cheers for Capting Parsons, V.C.!”

Then the curate, wiping his heated brow, turned round and cleared his throat.

“Captain Parsons,” he said, in a loud voice, so that none should miss his honeyed words, “we, the inhabitants of Little Primpton, welcome you to your home. I need not say that it is with great pleasure that we have gathered together this day to offer you our congratulations on your safe return to those that love you. I need not remind you that there is no place like home. ("Hear, hear!” from the Vicar.) We are proud to think that our fellow-parishioner should have gained the coveted glory of the Victoria Cross. Little Primpton need not be ashamed now to hold up its head among the proudest cities of the Empire. You have brought honour to yourself, but you have brought honour to us also. You have shown that Englishmen know how to die; you have shown the rival nations of the Continent that the purity and the godliness of Old England still bear fruit. But I will say no more; I wished only to utter a few words to welcome you on behalf of those who cannot, perhaps, express themselves so well as I can. I will say no more. Captain Parsons, we hope that you will live long to enjoy your honour and glory, side by side with her who is to shortly become your wife. I would only assure you that your example has not been lost upon us; we all feel better, nobler, and more truly Christian. And we say to you, now that you have overcome all dangers and tribulation, now that you have returned to the bosom of your beloved family, take her who has also given us an example of resignation, of courage, and of-and of resignation. Take her, we say, and be happy; confident in the respect, esteem, and affection of the people of Little Primpton. James Brown, who has the honour to bear the same Christian name as yourself, and is also the top boy of the Parish School, will now recite a short poem entitled ‘Casabianca.’

Mr. Dryland had wished to compose an ode especially for the occasion. It would evidently have been effective to welcome the hero, to glorify his deed, and to point the moral in a few original verses; but, unhappily, the muse was froward, which was singular, since the elite of Little Primpton had unimpeachable morals, ideals of the most approved character, and principles enough to build a church with; nor was an acquaintance with literature wanting. They all read the daily papers, and Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, in addition, read the Church Times. Mary even knew by heart whole chunks of Sir Lewis Morris, and Mr. Dryland recited Tennyson at penny readings. But when inspiration is wanting, a rhyming dictionary, for which the curate sent to London, will not help to any great extent; and finally the unanimous decision was reached to give some well-known poem apposite to the circumstance. It shows in what charming unity of spirit these simple, God-fearing people lived, and how fine was their sense of literary excellence, that without hesitation they voted in chorus for “Casabianca.”

The head boy stepped forward-he had been carefully trained by Mr. Dryland-and with appropriate gestures recited the immortal verses of Felicia Hemans:

“The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but ’e ’ad fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck,
Shone round ’im o’er the dead.”

When he finished, amid the discreet applause of the little party beneath the archway, Mr. Dryland again advanced.

“Polly Game, the top girl of the Parish School, will now present Miss Clibborn with a bouquet. Step forward, Polly Game.”

This was a surprise arranged by the curate, and he watched with pleasure Mary’s look of delighted astonishment.

Polly Game stepped forward, and made a little speech in the ingenuous words which Mr. Dryland had thought natural to her character and station.

“Please, Miss Clibborn, we, the girls of Little Primpton, wish to present you with this bouquet as a slight token of our esteem. We wish you a long life and a ’appy marriage with the choice of your ’eart.”

She then handed a very stiff bunch of flowers, surrounded with frilled paper like the knuckle of a leg of mutton.

“We will now sing hymn number one hundred and thirty-seven,” said Mr. Dryland.

The verses were given vigorously, while Mrs. Clibborn, with a tender smile, murmured to Mrs. Parsons that it was beautiful to see such a nice spirit among the lower classes. The strains of the brass band died away on the summer breeze, and there was a momentary pause. Then the Vicar, with a discreet cough to clear his throat, came forward.

“Captain Parsons, ladies and gentlemen, parishioners of Little Primpton, I wish to take the opportunity to say a few words.”

The Vicar made an admirable speech. The sentiments were hackneyed, the observations self-evident, and the moral obvious. His phrases had the well-known ring which distinguishes the true orator. Mr. Jackson was recognised everywhere to be a fine platform speaker, but his varied excellence could not be appreciated in a summary, and he had a fine verbosity. It is sufficient to say that he concluded by asking for more cheers, which were heartily given.

James found the whole affair distasteful and ridiculous; and indeed scarcely noticed what was going on, for his thoughts were entirely occupied with his father. At first Colonel Parsons seemed too depressed to pay attention to the ceremony, and his eyes travelled every now and again to James, with that startled, unhappy expression which was horribly painful to see. But his age and weakness prevented him from feeling very intensely for more than a short while; time had brought its own good medicine, and the old man’s mind was easily turned. Presently he began to smile, and the look of pride and happiness returned to his face.

But James was not satisfied. He felt he must make active reparation. When the Vicar finished, and he understood that some reply was expected, it occurred to him that he had an opportunity of salving the bitter wound he had caused. The very hatred he felt at making open allusion to his feelings made him think it a just punishment; none knew but himself how painful it was to talk in that strain to stupid, curious people.

“I thank you very much for the welcome you have all given me,” he said.

His voice trembled in his nervousness, so that he could hardly command it, and he reddened. It seemed to James a frightful humiliation to have to say the things he had in mind, it made them all ugly and vulgar; he was troubled also by his inability to express what he felt. He noticed a reporter for the local newspaper rapidly taking notes.

“I have been very much touched by your kindness. Of course, I am extremely proud to have won the Victoria Cross, but I feel it is really more owing to my father than to any deed of mine. You all know my father, and you know what a brave and gallant soldier he was. It was owing to his fine example, and to his teaching, and to his constant, loving care, that I was able to do the little I did. And I should like to say that it is to him and to my mother that I owe everything. It is the thought of his unblemished and exquisite career, of the beautiful spirit which brightly coloured all his actions, that has supported me in times of difficulty. And my earnest desire has always been to prove myself worthy of my father and the name he has handed on to me. You have cheered me very kindly; now I should like to ask you for three cheers for my father.”

Colonel Parsons looked at his son as he began to speak. When he realised Jamie’s meaning, tears filled his eyes and streamed down his cheeks-tears of happiness and gratitude. All recollection of the affront quickly vanished, and he felt an ecstatic joy such as he had never known before. The idea came to him in his weakness: “Now I can die happy!” He was too overcome to be ashamed of his emotion, and taking out his handkerchief, quite unaffectedly wiped his eyes.

The band struck up “Rule, Britannia” and “God Save the Queen”; and in orderly fashion, as Mr. Dryland had arranged, they all marched off. The group under the triumphal arch broke up, and the Jacksons and Colonel and Mrs. Clibborn went their ways.

Mary came into the house. She took Jamie’s hands, her eyes wet with tears.

“Oh, Jamie,” she said, “you are good! It was charming of you to speak as you did of your father. You don’t know how happy you’ve made him.”

“I’m very glad you are pleased,” he said gravely, and bending forward, put his arm round her waist and kissed her.

For a moment she leant her head against his shoulder; but with her emotion was a thing soon vanquished. She wished, above all things, to be manly, as befitted a soldier’s wife. She shook herself, and withdrew from Jamie’s arms.

“But I must be running off, or mamma will be angry with me. Good-bye for the present.”

James went into the dining-room, where his father, exhausted by the varied agitations of the day, was seeking composure in the leading articles of the morning paper. Mrs. Parsons sat on her usual chair, knitting, and she greeted him with a loving smile. James saw that they were both pleased with his few awkward words, which still rang in his own ears as shoddy and sentimental, and he tasted, somewhat ruefully, the delight of making the kind creatures happy.

“Has Mary gone?” asked Mrs. Parsons.

“Yes. She said her mother would be angry if she stayed.”

“I saw that Mrs. Clibborn was put out. I suppose because someone besides herself attracted attention. I do think she is the wickedest woman I’ve ever known.”

“Frances, Frances!” expostulated the Colonel.

“She is, Richmond. She’s a thoroughly bad woman. The way she treats Mary is simply scandalous.”

“Poor girl!” said the Colonel.

“Oh, Jamie, it makes my blood boil when I think of it. Sometimes the poor thing used to come here quite upset, and simply cry as if her heart was breaking.”

“But what does Mrs. Clibborn do?” asked James, surprised.

“Oh, I can’t tell you! She’s dreadfully unkind. She hates Mary because she’s grown up, and because she sometimes attracts attention. She’s always making little cruel remarks. You only see her when she’s on her good behaviour; but when she’s alone with Mary, Mrs. Clibborn is simply horrible. She abuses her; she tells her she’s ugly, and that she dresses badly. How can she dress any better when Mrs. Clibborn spends all the money on herself? I’ve heard her myself say to Mary: ’How stupid and clumsy you are! I’m ashamed to take you anywhere.’ And Mary’s the very soul of goodness. She teaches in the Sunday School, and she trains the choir-boys, and she visits the poor; and yet Mrs. Clibborn complains that she’s useless. I wanted Richmond to talk to Colonel Clibborn about it.”

“Mary particularly asked me not to,” said Colonel Parsons. “She preferred to bear anything rather than create unhappiness between her father and mother.”

“She’s a perfect angel of goodness!” cried Mrs. Parsons, enthusiastically. “She’s simply a martyr, and all the time she’s as kind and affectionate to her mother as if she were the best woman in the world. She never lets anyone say a word against her.”

“Sometimes,” murmured Colonel Parsons, “she used to say that her only happiness was in the thought of you, Jamie.”

“The thought of me?” said James; and then hesitatingly: “Do you think she is very fond of me, mother?”

“Fond of you?” Mrs Parsons laughed. “She worships the very ground you tread on. You can’t imagine all you are to her.”

“You’ll make the boy vain,” said Colonel Parsons, laughing.

“Often the only way we could comfort her was by saying that you would come back some day and take her away from here.”

“We shall have to be thinking of weddings soon, I suppose?” said Colonel Parsons, looking at James, with a bantering smile.

James turned white. “It’s rather early to think of that just yet.”

“We spoke of June,” said his mother.

“We must see.”

“You’ve waited so long,” said Colonel Parsons; “I’m sure you don’t want to wait any longer.”

“She will make you a good wife, Jamie. You are lucky to have found such a dear, sweet girl. It’s a blessing to us to think that you will be so happy.”

“As I was saying to Mary the other day,” added Colonel Parsons, laughing gently, “‘you must begin thinking of your trousseau, my dear,’ I said, ’If I know anything of Jamie, he’ll want to get married in a week. These young fellows are always impatient.’”

Mrs Parsons smiled.

“Well, it’s a great secret, and Mary would be dreadfully annoyed if she thought you knew; but when we heard you were coming home, she started to order things. Her father has given her a hundred pounds to begin with.”

They had no mercy, thought James. They were horribly cruel in their loving-kindness, in their affectionate interest for his welfare.