They are well under weigh, and with a little luck we might now hear their views on various passing problems of the day, such as the neglect of science in our public schools. But in comes the Haggerty Woman, and spoils everything. She is attired, like them, in her best, but the effect of her is that her clothes have gone out for a walk, leaving her at home.
They are well under weigh, and with a little luck we might now hear their views on various passing problems of the day, such as the neglect of science in our public schools. But in comes the Haggerty Woman, and spoils everything. She is attired, like them, in her best, but the effect of her is that her clothes have gone out for a walk, leaving her at home.
MRS. MICKLEHAM, with deep distaste, ‘Here’s that submarine again.’
The Haggerty Woman cringes to them, but gets no encouragement.
The Haggerty Woman cringes to them, but gets no encouragement.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘It’s a terrible war.’
MRS. TWYMLEY.‘Is that so?’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘I wonder what will happen when it ends?’
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘I have no idea.’
The intruder produces her handkerchief, but does not use it. After all, she is in her best.
The intruder produces her handkerchief, but does not use it. After all, she is in her best.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘Are they not back yet?’
Perfect ladies must reply to a direct question.
Perfect ladies must reply to a direct question.
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘No,’ icily. ‘We have been waiting this half hour. They are at the theatre again.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘You tell me! I just popped in with an insignificant present for him, as his leave is up.’
MRS. TWYMLEY.‘The same errand brought us.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘My present is cigarettes.’
They have no intention of telling her what their presents are, but the secret leaps from them.
They have no intention of telling her what their presents are, but the secret leaps from them.
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘So is mine.’
MRS. TWYMLEY.‘Mine too.’
Triumph of the Haggerty Woman. But it is short-lived.
Triumph of the Haggerty Woman. But it is short-lived.
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘Mine has gold tips.’
MRS. TWYMLEY.‘So has mine.’
The Haggerty Woman need not say a word. You have only to look at her to know that her cigarettes are not gold-tipped. She tries to brazen it out, which is so often a mistake.
The Haggerty Woman need not say a word. You have only to look at her to know that her cigarettes are not gold-tipped. She tries to brazen it out, which is so often a mistake.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘What care I? Mine is Exquisytos.’
No wonder they titter.
No wonder they titter.
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty (if that’s your name), but the word is Exquiseetos.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘Much obliged’ (weeps).
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘I think I heard a taxi.’
MRS. TWYMLEY.‘It will be her third this week.’
They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is forgotten.
They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is forgotten.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘What is she in?’
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘A new astrakhan jacket he gave her, with Venus sleeves.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘Has she sold her gabardine coat?’
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘Not her! She has them both at the theatre, warm night though it is. She’s wearing the astrakhan, and carrying the gabardine, flung careless-like over her arm.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘I saw her strutting about with him yesterday, looking as if she thought the two of them made a procession.’
MRS. TWYMLEY.‘Hsh!’ peeping. ‘Strike me dead, if she’s not coming mincing down the stair, hooked on his arm!’
Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had seen shadows lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to Kenneth to impress the visitors. She is quite capable of it.Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when he emerged from the bathroom and found the old trembler awaiting his inspection. Here are the muff and the gloves and the chiffon, and such a kind old bonnet that it makes you laugh at once; I don’t know how to describe it, but it is trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she steps out of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, there is no doubt about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? Above all, has she style? The answer is in a stout affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time he has had to go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He has thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; but for some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that he will never do that.
Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had seen shadows lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to Kenneth to impress the visitors. She is quite capable of it.
Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when he emerged from the bathroom and found the old trembler awaiting his inspection. Here are the muff and the gloves and the chiffon, and such a kind old bonnet that it makes you laugh at once; I don’t know how to describe it, but it is trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she steps out of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, there is no doubt about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? Above all, has she style? The answer is in a stout affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time he has had to go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He has thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; but for some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that he will never do that.
MRS. DOWEY.‘Kenneth,’ affecting surprise, ‘we have visitors!’
DOWEY.‘Your servant, ladies.’
He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is this Private Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, like one who knows that for jolly company you cannot easily beat charwomen. The pleasantries that he and they have exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. The wit of Mrs. Mickleham’s retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing like it since you took the countess in to dinner.
He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is this Private Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, like one who knows that for jolly company you cannot easily beat charwomen. The pleasantries that he and they have exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. The wit of Mrs. Mickleham’s retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing like it since you took the countess in to dinner.
MRS. TWYMLEY.‘We should apologise. We’re not meaning to stay.’
MRS. DOWEY.‘You are very welcome. Just wait’—the ostentation of this!—‘till I get out of my astrakhan—and my muff—and my gloves—and’ (it is the bonnet’s turn now) ‘my Excelsior.’
At last we see her in the merino (a triumph).
At last we see her in the merino (a triumph).
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘You’ve given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.’
DOWEY.‘It’s her that has given it to me, missis.’
MRS. DOWEY.‘Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me,’ waggling her fists. ‘The Lord forgive us, but this being the last night, we had a sit-down supper at a restaurant!’ Vehemently: ‘I swear by God that we had champagny wine.’ There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well what it means, she has even prepared for it: ‘And to them as doubts my word—here’s the cork.’
She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the table.
She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the table.
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘I’m sure!’
MRS. TWYMLEY.‘I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a word against my Alfred.’
MRS. DOWEY.‘Me!’
DOWEY.‘Come, come, ladies,’ in the masterful way that is so hard for women to resist; ‘if you say another word, I’ll kiss the lot of you.’
There is a moment of pleased confusion.
There is a moment of pleased confusion.
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘Really, them sodgers!’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘The kilties is the worst!’
MRS. TWYMLEY.‘I’m sure,’ heartily, ‘we don’t grudge you your treats, Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.’
DOWEY.‘Yes, it’s the end,’ with a troubled look at his old lady; ‘I must be off in ten minutes.’
The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She hurries into the pantry and shuts the door.
The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She hurries into the pantry and shuts the door.
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘Poor thing! But we must run, for you’ll be having some last words to say to her.’
DOWEY.‘I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less time to say them in.’
He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a public-house.
He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a public-house.
MRS. TWYMLEY.‘It’s the best way.’ In the important affairs of life there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman. ‘Just a mere nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.’
All three present him with the cigarettes.
All three present him with the cigarettes.
MRS. MICKLEHAM.‘A scraping, as one might say.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.‘The heart,’ enigmatically, ‘is warm though it may not be gold-tipped.’
DOWEY.‘You bricks!’
THE LADIES.‘Good luck, cocky.’
DOWEY.‘The same to you. And if you see a sodger man up there in a kilt, he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not to come down, but—but to give me till the last minute, and then to whistle.’
It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to do next. He tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. He says ‘Hell!’ to himself, but it is equally ineffective. Then he opens the pantry door and calls.‘Old lady.’She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off a blow.‘Is it time?’An encouraging voice answers her.‘No, no, not yet. I’ve left word for Dixon to whistle when go I must.’‘All is ended.’‘Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one another.’‘Yes, Kenneth.’‘It’s bad for me, but it’s worse for you.’‘The men have medals to win, you see.’‘The women have their medals too.’ He knows she likes him to order her about, so he tries it again.‘Come here. No, I’ll come to you.’ He stands gaping at her wonderingly. He has no power of words, nor does he quite know what he would like to say. ‘God!’‘What is it, Kenneth?’‘You’re a woman.’‘I had near forgot it.’He wishes he was at the station with Dixon. Dixon is sure to have a bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song presently. But in the meantime—there is that son business. Blethers, the whole thing, of course—or mostly blethers. But it’s the way to please her.‘Have you noticed you have never called me son?’‘Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on probation.’‘And so you were. Well, the probation’s ended.’ He laughs uncomfortably.‘The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.’‘Kenneth, will I do?’‘Woman,’ artfully gay, ‘don’t be so forward. Wait till I have proposed.’‘Propose for a mother?’‘What for no?’ In the grand style, ‘Mrs. Dowey, you queer carl, you spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the most important question a neglected orphan can ask of an old lady?’She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a way with him.‘None of your sauce, Kenneth.’‘For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of my sonnish feelings for you.’‘Wait till I get my mop to you!’‘And if you’re not willing to be my mother, I swear I’ll never ask another.’The old divert pulls him down to her and strokes his hair.‘Was I a well-behaved infant, mother?’‘Not you, sonny, you were a rampaging rogue.’‘Was I slow in learning to walk?’‘The quickest in our street. He! he! he!’ She starts up. ‘Was that the whistle?’‘No, no. See here. In taking me over you have, in a manner of speaking, joined the Black Watch.’‘I like to think that, Kenneth.’‘Then you must behave so that the ghost piper can be proud of you. ’Tion!’ She stands bravely at attention. ‘That’s the style. Now listen. I’ve sent in your name as being my nearest of kin, and your allowance will be coming to you weekly in the usual way.’‘Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?’‘I’ll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, I want you to be safeguarded in case anything hap——’‘Kenneth!’‘’Tion! Have no fear. I’ll come back, covered with mud and medals. Mind youhave that cup of tea waiting for me.’ He is listening for the whistle. He pulls her on to his knee.‘Hey! hey! hey! hey!’‘What fun we’ll have writing to one another! Real letters this time!’‘Yes.’‘It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as soon as I’ve gone.’‘I will.’‘I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.’‘You may be sure.’He ties his scarf round her neck.‘You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.’‘Away with you!’‘That scarf sets you fine.’‘Blue was always my colour.’The whistle sounds.‘Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.’She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but she does somethingthat makes Private Dowey take off his bonnet. Then he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is he laughing coarsely with Dixon.We have one last glimpse of the old lady—a month or two after Kenneth’s death in action. It would be rosemary to us to see her in her black dress, of which she is very proud; but let us rather peep at her in the familiar garments that make a third to her mop and pail. It is early morning, and she is having a look at her medals before setting off on the daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering them, and on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black frock, which she carries in her arms like a baby. Then her War Saving Certificates, Kenneth’s bonnet, a thin packet of real letters, and the famous champagne cork. She kisses the letters, but she does not blub over them. She strokes the dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and presses the bonnet to hercheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old ’un; yet she exults, for she owns all these things, and also the penny flag on her breast. She puts them away in the drawer, the scarf over them, the lavender on the scarf. Her air of triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and the mop, and slouches off gamely to the day’s toil.
It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to do next. He tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. He says ‘Hell!’ to himself, but it is equally ineffective. Then he opens the pantry door and calls.
‘Old lady.’
She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off a blow.
‘Is it time?’
An encouraging voice answers her.
‘No, no, not yet. I’ve left word for Dixon to whistle when go I must.’
‘All is ended.’
‘Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one another.’
‘Yes, Kenneth.’
‘It’s bad for me, but it’s worse for you.’
‘The men have medals to win, you see.’
‘The women have their medals too.’ He knows she likes him to order her about, so he tries it again.
‘Come here. No, I’ll come to you.’ He stands gaping at her wonderingly. He has no power of words, nor does he quite know what he would like to say. ‘God!’
‘What is it, Kenneth?’
‘You’re a woman.’
‘I had near forgot it.’
He wishes he was at the station with Dixon. Dixon is sure to have a bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song presently. But in the meantime—there is that son business. Blethers, the whole thing, of course—or mostly blethers. But it’s the way to please her.
‘Have you noticed you have never called me son?’
‘Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on probation.’
‘And so you were. Well, the probation’s ended.’ He laughs uncomfortably.
‘The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.’
‘Kenneth, will I do?’
‘Woman,’ artfully gay, ‘don’t be so forward. Wait till I have proposed.’
‘Propose for a mother?’
‘What for no?’ In the grand style, ‘Mrs. Dowey, you queer carl, you spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the most important question a neglected orphan can ask of an old lady?’
She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a way with him.
‘None of your sauce, Kenneth.’
‘For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of my sonnish feelings for you.’
‘Wait till I get my mop to you!’
‘And if you’re not willing to be my mother, I swear I’ll never ask another.’
The old divert pulls him down to her and strokes his hair.
‘Was I a well-behaved infant, mother?’
‘Not you, sonny, you were a rampaging rogue.’
‘Was I slow in learning to walk?’
‘The quickest in our street. He! he! he!’ She starts up. ‘Was that the whistle?’
‘No, no. See here. In taking me over you have, in a manner of speaking, joined the Black Watch.’
‘I like to think that, Kenneth.’
‘Then you must behave so that the ghost piper can be proud of you. ’Tion!’ She stands bravely at attention. ‘That’s the style. Now listen. I’ve sent in your name as being my nearest of kin, and your allowance will be coming to you weekly in the usual way.’
‘Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?’
‘I’ll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, I want you to be safeguarded in case anything hap——’
‘Kenneth!’
‘’Tion! Have no fear. I’ll come back, covered with mud and medals. Mind youhave that cup of tea waiting for me.’ He is listening for the whistle. He pulls her on to his knee.
‘Hey! hey! hey! hey!’
‘What fun we’ll have writing to one another! Real letters this time!’
‘Yes.’
‘It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as soon as I’ve gone.’
‘I will.’
‘I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.’
‘You may be sure.’
He ties his scarf round her neck.
‘You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.’
‘Away with you!’
‘That scarf sets you fine.’
‘Blue was always my colour.’
The whistle sounds.
‘Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.’
She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but she does somethingthat makes Private Dowey take off his bonnet. Then he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is he laughing coarsely with Dixon.
We have one last glimpse of the old lady—a month or two after Kenneth’s death in action. It would be rosemary to us to see her in her black dress, of which she is very proud; but let us rather peep at her in the familiar garments that make a third to her mop and pail. It is early morning, and she is having a look at her medals before setting off on the daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering them, and on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black frock, which she carries in her arms like a baby. Then her War Saving Certificates, Kenneth’s bonnet, a thin packet of real letters, and the famous champagne cork. She kisses the letters, but she does not blub over them. She strokes the dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and presses the bonnet to hercheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old ’un; yet she exults, for she owns all these things, and also the penny flag on her breast. She puts them away in the drawer, the scarf over them, the lavender on the scarf. Her air of triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and the mop, and slouches off gamely to the day’s toil.