They wrote to say that they would like, if it were possible, to see the statues “before coming to a final decision.” This was a most reasonable request. Frampton would have been pleased, if they had shown a wish to see them early in the proceedings. Still, better late than never. He had the things in his big bare room downstairs. He wrote to say that he would be delighted. Old Bert Fist and four others, making a Committee of the fine arts, would come to lunch to see them and settle the matter.
They came to lunch, which was certainly well worth coming for. Old Bert and the others were jovial company at lunch; they cast wondering eyes at Frampton’s frescoes, but did not let them interfere with enjoyment. At the end of the lunch, Mr. Fist made a merry speech and drank Frampton’s health. Presently, they moved out to see the bronzes, saw them, and were soon tempted back to try some more of Frampton’s brandy.
They wondered a little, that the bronzes were not of St. George killing a dragon, nor of a Tatshire man in uniform, with a handkerchief tied round his brow, standing at bay. Still, these things were art, and you never could tell with art what was art. One member said that they would look very well at the bridge-ends when the leaves were out on the trees, so as to take the eyes away. That was the feeling of most of them, that the leaves would set them off and take people’s eyes away. Anyhow, it was most kind of Mr. Mansell, or Mr. Mansold, as old Fist always called him, it was most kind of Mr. Mansold to offer such valuable things to the town. They would remember the lunch and meeting with Mr. Mansold and Mr. Mansold’s brandy; it had been a red-letter day to all of them. As to the bronzes, they would send a formal letter of grateful acceptance as soon as they got back to the office.
Frampton suggested that they should all have a little more brandy to clinch the bargain, and at the end of the brandy hoped that old Mr. Bert would sing them one of his songs. Old Mr. Bert gladly sang; then they had a little more brandy. Then they were all the best of good friends; happy that Stubbington had so good a friend so near, proud that the old bridge was to have so find an addition to its beauties, and resolved that if there was one thing that Stubbington needed, it was a little more art, and now Mr. Frampton was going to give it. When should he give it? Well, when the leaves were out, when it was warm in the sun and people wouldn’t mind standing about. The middle of May would be a good time. They could get somebody down to speak. The Lord-Lieutenant might be unable, but the Bishop would come; and, of course, the Member; a detachment of the Tatshires would come and a good band. Would Mr. Frampton unveil the figures?
Frampton said: “No, I want the figures to be unveiled, the one by a mother who lost a son, the other by a woman who lost her lover in the War. You have plenty of both in Stubbington. I feel those are the people to do the unveiling.”
There was a hush after this; the party went away. The letter of acceptance was sent that night and was received by Frampton the next morning.
It chanced that a few days later, Faringdon came down to see the site. He was much pleased with it; he had liked the old bridge, which had been built in days when the Hen Marsh stretched beyond the little river. He liked the amendment which Stubbington had made of it. As Frampton and he were walking back from the site, they turned from the bridge to a little space on the river-bank, where people could hire canoes and punts.
“This is a pretty little patch, with the pub there,” Faringdon said.
“It is, isn’t it?” Frampton said. “And it’s famous in Stubbington history. You ought to do a bronze of King Stubba, to go there.”
“Who was King Stubba?” Faringdon asked.
“Who was King Arthur?” Frampton answered. “I don’t swear that he existed, but Stubba is the local hero, who gave his name to the town, Stubba’s town. He is said to have driven out the enemy here. The enemy were in the town, sacking it, and had set fire to the bridge. Stubba galloped up to save the town, rode over the burning bridge, which collapsed just as he got across, and so had to fight the whole lot of them single-handed until his men could swim or ford across to help him. It would be a fine theme for you, Stubba on a war-horse, just at this point, and a plinth with a relief all round it, of the fight just here. It won’t all have happened, but something of it happened, and at this very place.”
Faringdon looked at the place with a kindling eye.
“I wish he’d a prettier name,” he said. “It would be a pretty good place to put something.”
“Well, what d’ye think about it?”
“I think yes about it, if you mean it and these chaps would give the site.”
“I’ll see them about it.”