“Not bees,” he announced, entering the room. “No! My dear, just send the maids to the kitchen.”
The girls went.
“A primitive custom,” he explained, “with which I was not previously acquainted. It seems a retired farmer living at the house in question lost his wife three months ago.”
“Surely a strange way of expressing sympathy.”
“That is not exactly the idea. The retired farmer has married again—married the nurse, and the village thinks it not quite right.”
“It isn’t right,” she declared warmly. “I consider the villagers are quite justified in their action.”
“I don’t agree with you, dear.”
“If I died,” she contended, “and you married again in such a short time, I should be very much gratified in looking down to find that people—”
“Why do you say ‘down’?” The contention in the Gleesons’ house rivalled the demonstration in the roadway.
Mutual apologies having been made the next morning—
“I spoke without thinking of what I was saying, my love.”
“I suppose, dear, I am too sensitive.”
—The great task came up before them to be tackled. Mr. Gleeson made a short speech to his wife on the subject, calling it a scheme for welding the village into one harmonious whole, and they were both gratified by this neat way of putting the case. One harmonious whole, echoed Mrs. Gleeson. One harmonious whole, he repeated firmly.
So the two set out, furnished with cards, to call upon residents; an undertaking the more necessary and excusable because residents had made no attempt to call upon them. They divided the task, arranging to meet two hours later and report progress of affairs, and meanwhile said farewell in an affectionate style outside the house; two little girls, looking on with a scandalised air, prepared to run off to tell their respective mothers.
“Good luck, dear,” said Mrs. Gleeson.
“Bon voyage, ma cherie,” he replied. They kissed again.
At the time appointed she returned with satisfaction and triumph announced on her attractive young features. Her husband had not arrived, and she strolled across to some children who were fixing wickets for a game; they drew the stumps and retired to another corner of the green.
“Shy little things,” remarked Mrs. Gleeson.
She flag-signalled with a lace handkerchief to her husband, who could be seen walking slowly in the distance, but he was gazing at the dusty road in a thoughtful manner and did not respond; she ran to meet him and to take his arm.
“Well?” he asked shortly.
Everybody had said yes, she answered with enthusiasm. No sooner had she given the invitation than they accepted. The vicar, the Congregationalist minister, the auctioneer (who was also insurance agent, and local representative for Chipley’s Celebrated Guanos), the schoolmaster, Crutchley, the postman, two labourers, and the man who usually stood outside the Three Bells with a wisp of straw between his teeth—every one ofthese and others she had secured, every one had made careful note of the date.
“And you?” she asked.
Mr. Gleeson confessed his record was not so excellent. Miss Bulwer delayed him for thirty-five minutes, and, a grievance still rankling, managed in that time to intimate that she bossed the village.
“Her own phrase,” he said excusingly.
Miss Bulwer flattered herself she performed the task well, and certainly did not propose to allow new-comers to interfere. Miss Bulwer agreed that the barriers of class should be broken down; she came of a Liberal stock, and her father sat in Parliament once for nearly a year, but rather than meet Crutchley or any of his set on friendly terms, she would willingly be burnt at the stake.
“But surely, dear, it was an error, if you don’t mind my saying so, to tell her that we had invited anybody else.”
“Thought it fairer,” he replied.
“I said nothing of the kind to some of mine.”
“You should have done.”
“Pardon me,” said Mrs. Gleeson, “but perhaps you will admit that my plan proved more successful.”
“Those two sisters, the dressmakers, are coming,” he went on, declining to argue the point, “and three other women accepted and promised to be with us providing nothing better turned up in the meantime. Singularly frank and open in their speech,” he remarked, with a sigh. “They went so far as to ask me what we expected to make out of it.”
“I like people to be genuine.”
“There are limits,” he said, “which should not be exceeded. Let us go in and reckon up the number of guests.”
The two small girls who had seen them kiss each other took up a position near the fence, watching with undisguised curiosity as Mr. and Mrs. Gleeson sat at the window completing arrangements. As these proceeded Mr. Gleeson regained something of his early enthusiasm. He intended to make a speech to the company, once the visitors were assembled, and his wife suggested that if his mind was made up in this regard, he had better rehearse; he walked up and down the room, using appropriate gestures, the while the two little spectators held on to the fence in their anxiety to miss nothing.
“Did you remember to telegraph to the Stores?” he demanded, breaking off.
“I did.”
“And have the things arrived?”
“Not yet. But they never fail.”
“Find a man,” he ordered, “the one outside the Three Bells, and send him off at once. Unless I see to everything, there is always a muddle!”
Full justification for the issuing of this command was found when the man returned with the case; it had duly arrived by the mid-day train and would, he reported, have remained at the station until goodness knew when if he had not been sent to fetch it. The man offered to prise open the lid, and on seeing the contents made the announcement that the two shops of the village would not be best pleased to hear that goods similar to those which might have been purchased at their establishments had been imported from town. Asked by the anxious young hostess to give his own opinion, the man said he was all for liberty and freedom, and letting people do as they liked, but he felt bound to say that home industries ought to be patronised. He had often argued this in the Three Bells, and felt he ought notto say behind people’s backs anything he did not dare to speak in front of their faces.
“All the same,” he added, accepting the shilling, “I shall pop round in good time this evening. You can rely upon me. My word’s as good as me bond.”
Now the two maids began to fly to and fro. Now Mr. Gleeson set out chairs on the lawn at the back in preparation for an overflow meeting. Now furniture was moved and the pianoforte opened. Now one of the maids ran across to hire twenty cups and saucers, and returned from the shop with the message that only regular customers were obliged in this way; the cups and saucers could be purchased, or they could be let alone, but no third alternative existed. Mr. Gleeson went over his speech once more and, on the suggestion of his wife, introduced a more pronounced tone of geniality, leaving out some of the sterner views concerning the value of friendship. Mrs. Gleeson’s sketches were set in a good position. Mr. Gleeson tried “I am a Jolly Mariner,” and decided he had found himself in worse voice. At seven o’clock they were ready for the thirty-five guests, and Mr. Gleeson snatched a few moments to practise a smileof welcome, one that would indicate gratification without degenerating into a broad grin.
“We shall find them rather difficult at first,” he mentioned. “I must get you to help me, my dear, to make them feel thoroughly at home from the very outset. Wish you had thought to order some crackers.”
“Sorry!”
“In Stepney, if you remember, the pulling of these and the wearing of paper caps at once put everybody at their ease. What’s the time now?”
She exhibited her watch.
“Mary asked the constable just now whether anything of the kind had ever been arranged before and he said ‘No.’”
“Did he say anything else?” asked Mr. Gleeson.
“He added ‘And never won’t again, neither.’”
“The ability of peering into the future,” he remarked, nettled, “is a gift denied even to the village policeman. He seems to have the idea that no one can do right excepting himself.”
“There’s a knock.”
Please, ma’am (announced Mary), Mr.Crutchley, the butcher, has sent over to know whether we want a joint for Sunday, because if so we had better say so in good time. Ask the messenger (replied Mrs. Gleeson) to tell Crutchley that we shall only trouble him in the case of chops and steaks; the larger orders have been placed in town. Very well, ma’am. Mary, returning three minutes later, apologised for the message she had now to deliver; Crutchley sent word that where the Gleesons procured their joints there they could procure their chops and steaks; Crutchley told the messenger to add that he was not in the habit of being under an obligation to any one.
“I disliked the man,” declared Mr. Gleeson warmly, “from the very first. Understand, my dear, please, that not another penny of mine is to be spent in his shop—not another halfpenny.”
Another ring, and Mary, with a look of greater satisfaction, announced the vicar.
“Ah,” said the visitor, entering breezily, “Liberty Hall, Liberty Hall. This is extremely satisfactory. How are we this evening? Settling down to country life? That’s good. Before I forget it, there are two orthree funds under my control, the finances of which are in rather—what shall I say?”
“Low water.”
“Capital!” declared the vicar, with enthusiasm. “The very phrase! Now I’m not going to bother you, and hate above all things any suspicion of begging, but if you have your cheque-book handy— How very, very kind of you! A great day, for Murford Green—here’s a fountain pen—for Murford Green when you two delightful people decided to take up your residence here. Thank you so much: I’ll blot it. Equally divided, shall we say? A thousand obligations. I have a number of letters to write; will you forgive me if I run off? Pray give my sincere regards to all the dear people. All the dear people. The dear people. Dear people. People.” The voice disappeared in the manner of a ventriloquist’s entertainment.
A note from the schoolmaster. The schoolmaster was sorry, but he had only just ascertained that the Rev. Mr. Barton, Congregationalist minister, had been asked, and in these circumstances the schoolmaster begged to be excused. A note from Mr. Barton. Mr. Barton, having ascertained that theschoolmaster had been invited, felt it impossible to meet that gentleman until he had withdrawn certain remarks concerning Passive Resisters, and hoped Mrs. Gleeson would permit him to defer his visit. The postman called at the back door to say that he could have spared an hour, and would have spared an hour, but talk was going on in the village, and until this received contradiction it was more than his position, as a Government official, was worth to set foot inside the house. Mary, answering her master’s impatient reprimand, declared she had asked for further particulars; the postman, with a deep blush, assured her it was not a subject he could discuss with a single young woman; on Mary insisting, he referred her to a Mrs. Larch, living in one of a row of cottages not far away. The Gleesons, greatly disturbed, requested the maid to fly in that direction and obtain details. As Mary went out of the front gate they noticed the two invited labourers, dressed in black suits.
“Beg pardon, missy,” they heard one of them say, “but if it ent a rude question, is there going to be any beer purvided at this affair what’s to come off this evening?” The maid gave an answer and ran on.“Not?” they echoed amazedly. “Very well then! No bloomin’ beer; no bloomin’ us!”
Other excuses came. The odd man of the Three Bells alone remained unaccounted for, and he arrived, pulling at the garden gate, which he should have pushed, and solving the difficulty by climbing over. Approaching the open window, he lurched across the flower-bed, took off his hat to Mr. Gleeson, blew a clumsy kiss to Mrs. Gleeson.
“Not coming in,” he said, with a wink. “No fear! Not me! Got my rep’tation to consider. I sh’d never ’old up my ’ead again. Warm lot, you Londoners. Thank goodness I was born ’n bred in the country. Honest man, that’s what I am, and I don’t care who says I’m not. You never catch me ’ugging a girl in middle of the roadway. Not me!”
A council was held so soon as the maid came back. Mary had assured Mrs. Larch that her master and her mistress were married, for she herself was present at the wedding, and the lady offered two suggestions: one that Mary’s eyesight was defective, the other that people only used a foreign language when they desired to say something that could notbe spoken in decent English. Mary, having delivered the news, stood back and waited.
“Have you no suggestion to make, my dear?” asked the worried Mr. Gleeson. His wife shook her head despondently.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the maid, with respect, “but me and Emma have been talking it over, and as she says the doctor ordered you quiet, and you haven’t yet succeeded in letting the house at Kensington, what’s to prevent us from—”
“Get the A.B.C.,” he ordered. “We’ll find out what time there’s a train back to town in the morning.”
TheCommittee gave Mr. Mayor the time to put on, with the aid of his man, the official garments. One member asked who was looking after Enderby, and the agitated young secretary ran into the largest room in the Town Hall, returned with the satisfactory assurance that the man was seated in the front row, well guarded by friends.
“These brave chaps,” remarked the member who had put the alarming inquiry, “often have a peculiar strain of—er—modesty in their disposition. You can never quite depend upon them as you would on ordinary people. Mr. Secretary, what’s the programme for the afternoon? Have you drawn up an agenda? Don’t call on me, if you can help it, but if it’s absolutely necessary, of course—”
Mr. Secretary exhibited the sheet of foolscappaper; members of the Committee whose names figured there expressed approval; the rest mentioned a fear that they might not be able to stay until the end.
“Mr. Mayor!”
His Worship came forward to be greeted by those acquainted with him, to be introduced to others. Everybody said it was good of the Mayor to give up so much of his time, and he declared it was good of them to do so.
“But some one,” he went on, with determination, “some one must give me a sort of a notion of an idea of what I’m supposed to talk about. I want a few facts pencilled down, just to go on with, as it were.” The secretary produced a type-written document, tendered a case containing a medal. “I see!” nodding as he glanced at the sheet. “Jumped in at risk of life. Brought child to bank. Persuaded with difficulty to give name and address. Very fine, indeed. Capital. First-rate. Now, how long shall I take? Thirty minutes?”
“Less than that, Mr. Mayor, if you like.”
“As you please,” said his Worship, rather nettled. “I’m never a believer in long speechifying. Time we made a start, isn’tit? Look in, and tell them I’m coming, and they’ll be ready to applaud. What’s the chap’s name again? Enderby. George Enderby. Right you are!”
A good audience had assembled, and several ladies, subscribers to the gift, were present. Two were talking deferentially to a puffed-faced man in the front row; they scuttled off to their seats as the platform people arrived. The man inspected his boots, shifting them uneasily. Mr. Mayor rapped the table with an ebony hammer, and said, in his most genial manner, that of all the duties imposed upon him during his year of office not one had given so much pleasure as this. They were probably acquainted with the facts and he would give them briefly. George Enderby, residing at 42, William Street, by occupation a house decorator, but at present out of work, was walking near the canal on the evening of Friday, the seventeenth of June. Some children were playing near the bank, and, in the endeavour to reach a piece of wood that was floating on the water, one little girl of six years of age suddenly slipped and—. Mr. Mayor read the type-written sheet to the end, took off his pince-nez.
“Let George Enderby,” he ordered, “be kind enough to step up on the platform.”
The friends of the puffed-faced man took him by the elbows; he resisted their efforts and was heard to say that he would see everybody hanged before he made a public exhibition of himself. An awkward delay occurred; the Mayor repeated his directions. The secretary hurried down from the platform, and induced George Enderby to consider afresh his decision. He went up the steps with every sign of reluctance, and stood there, turning cap in hands.
“Enderby,” said the Mayor, with an air of heavy benevolence, “kindly answer one or two questions. In what condition of mind were you when you performed this gallant act?”
“I wasn’t boozed,” replied the man defensively, “if that’s what you’re driving at. I’d had a glass or two, but I wasn’t abs’lutely oiled!”
“That is not quite what I mean. What I want to find out is, were you thinking at the time of the value of human life, and how necessary it is that it should be preserved at all costs?”
“If you must know, I waddent thinking nothing of the kind. Don’t worry myself about such matters.”
“I see!” said the Mayor, slightly taken aback. “And—forgive my curiosity—but what were your sensations when you brought the child ashore? What was uppermost, so to speak, in your thoughts?”
“I was wondering whether I sh’d catch a nasty cold!”
“No, no!” said the Mayor, reproving the audience. “This worthy fellow is answering my questions to the best of his ability. Tell me, now,” turning again to the man on the platform, “have you performed many gallant actions of this kind in your life before?”
“I ain’t.”
“Never, perhaps, had the opportunity?”
“Plenty of opportunities,” retorted Enderby, “but not fool enough to take advantage of ’em!”
It was so clear he was becoming nettled that the secretary whispered to Mr. Mayor; his Worship proceeded to speak, at some length, on the subject of bravery, making allusions to the boy who stood on the burning deck, to Grace Darling, and to others. Eventually, and to the obvious relief of Enderby, he presented the purse, handed over the medal, and allowed the man to return to the front row. There Enderby and his friends madeno attempt to conceal restiveness during the remainder of the speeches. The occupants of seats at the reporters’ table sent a note to the young secretary, reminding him that the recipient had not acknowledged the rewards.
“No,” replied Enderby, with resolution, “I jolly well won’t. Made myself quite conspicuous enough as it is, and if I tried to talk from the platform I sh’d only make myself more conspicuouser than before. I may also add it’s dry work listening to all this cackle.”
“Don’t lose the medal.”
“You take charge of it for me,” he requested. “May overlook it somewhere if I take it with me now!”
It was the secretary’s first essay in management of public affairs and he congratulated himself, in leaving the Town Hall, on the fact that everything had gone well; the Mayor had said at the end, “Very smooth and satisfactory!” The case with the medal bulged the inside pocket of his coat, and this would not have mattered only that he was going, later, to see a young woman whom he loved, and give to her a full report. Wherefore he stepped on a tram-car and was conveyed to William Street.
“May be back at any moment,” said the neighbours. “What’s to-day? Tuesday? Well, she has to be at Willesden by seven in the morning, and she usually gets home, comparatively speaking, early. Other days its quite late before she— Here she is!”
Mrs. Enderby was grateful to the secretary for bringing the medal, and said so. She wished he had also brought the money that had been collected, but this, she knew, was an extravagant aspiration. Mrs. Enderby admitted it was difficult, at times, to make ends meet; thanks be, she had fair health and strength. Six children, all living, and no one could say they ever wanted for food. Yes, it did seem a pity Enderby was out of a job, but, after all (cheerfully), it made very little difference at home, because if he earnt money he spent it all himself. How long? Oh, a matter of eleven years or so. Good afternoon, sir, and thank you.
“Now, I wonder,” remarked the young secretary to himself, “I wonder if they were right in puttinghisname on that medal!”
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