I
It next happened that Denry began to suffer from the ravages of a malady
which is almost worse than failure--namely, a surfeit of success. The
success was that of his Universal Thrift Club. This device, by which
members after subscribing one pound in weekly instalments could at once
get two pounds' worth of goods at nearly any large shop in the district,
appealed with enormous force to the democracy of the Five Towns. There
was no need whatever for Denry to spend money on advertising. The first
members of the Club did all the advertising and made no charge for doing
it. A stream of people anxious to deposit money with Denry in exchange
for a card never ceased to flow into his little office in St. Luke's
Square. The stream, indeed, constantly thickened. It was a wonderful
invention, the Universal Thrift Club. And Denry ought to have been
happy, especially as his beard was growing strongly and evenly, and
giving him the desired air of a man of wisdom and stability. But he was
not happy. And the reason was that the popularity of the Thrift Club
necessitated much book-keeping, and he hated book-keeping.
He was an adventurer, in the old honest sense, and no clerk. And he
found himself obliged not merely to buy large books of account, but to
fill them with figures; and to do addition sums from page to page; and
to fill up hundreds of cards; and to write out lists of shops, and to
have long interviews with printers whose proofs made him dream of
lunatic asylums; and to reckon innumerable piles of small coins; and to
assist his small office-boy in the great task of licking envelopes and
stamps. Moreover, he was worried by shopkeepers; every shopkeeper in
the district now wanted to allow him twopence in the shilling on the
purchases of Club members. And he had to collect all the subscriptions,
in addition to his rents; and also to make personal preliminary
inquiries as to the reputation of intending members. If he could have
risen every day at 4 A.M. and stayed up working every night till 4 A.M.
he might have got through most of the labour. He did as a fact come
very near to this ideal. So near that one morning his mother said to
him, at her driest:
"I suppose I may as well sell your bedstead, Denry?"
And there was no hope of improvement; instead of decreasing the work
multiplied.
What saved him was the fortunate death of Lawyer Lawton. The aged
solicitor's death put the town into mourning and hung the church with
black. But Denry as a citizen bravely bore the blow because he was able
to secure the services of Penkethman, Lawyer Lawton's eldest clerk, who,
after keeping the Lawton books and writing the Lawton letters for
thirty-five years, was dismissed by young Lawton for being over fifty
and behind the times. The desiccated bachelor was grateful to Denry.
He called Denry "sir." Or rather he called Denry's suit of clothes
"sir," for he had a vast respect for a well-cut suit. On the other
hand, he maltreated the little office-boy, for he had always been
accustomed to maltreating little office-boys, not seriously, but just
enough to give them an interest in life. Penkethman enjoyed desks,
ledgers, pens, ink, rulers, and blotting-paper. He could run from bottom
to top of a column of figures more quickly than the fire-engine could
run up Oldcastle Street; and his totals were never wrong. His gesture
with a piece of blotting-paper as he blotted off a total was
magnificent. He liked long hours; he was thoroughly used to overtime,
and his boredom in his lodgings was such that he would often arrive at
the office before the appointed hour. He asked thirty shillings a week,
and Denry in a mood of generosity gave him thirty-one. He gave Denry
his whole life, and put a meticulous order into the establishment.
Denry secretly thought him a miracle, but up at the Club at Porthill he
was content to call him "the human machine." "I wind him up every
Saturday night with a sovereign, half a sovereign, and a shilling," said
Denry, "and he goes for a week. Compensated balance adjusted for all
temperatures. No escapement. Jewelled in every hole. Ticks in any
position. Made in England."
This jocularity of Denry's was a symptom that Denry's spirits were
rising. The bearded youth was seen oftener in the streets behind his
mule and his dog. The adventurer had, indeed, taken to the road again.
After an emaciating period he began once more to stouten. He was the
image of success. He was the picturesque card, whom everybody knew and
everybody had pleasure in greeting. In some sort he was rather like the
flag on the Town Hall.
And then a graver misfortune threatened.
It arose out of the fact that, though Denry was a financial genius, he
was in no sense qualified to be a Fellow of the Institute of Chartered
Accountants. The notion that an excess of prosperity may bring ruin had
never presented itself to him, until one day he discovered that out of
over two thousand pounds there remained less than six hundred to his
credit at the bank. This was at the stage of the Thrift Club when the
founder of the Thrift Club was bound under the rules to give credit.
When the original lady member had paid in her L2 or so, she was entitled
to spend L4 or so at shops. She did spend L4 or so at shops. And Denry
had to pay the shops. He was thus temporarily nearly L2 out of pocket,
and he had to collect that sum by trifling instalments. Multiply this
case by five hundred, and you will understand the drain on Denry's
capital. Multiply it by a thousand, and you will understand the very
serious peril which overhung Denry. Multiply it by fifteen hundred and
you will understand that Denry had been culpably silly to inaugurate a
mighty scheme like the Universal Thrift Club on a paltry capital of two
thousand pounds. He had. In his simplicity he had regarded two thousand
pounds as boundless wealth.
Although new subscriptions poured in, the drain grew more distressing.
Yet he could not persuade himself to refuse new members. He stiffened
his rules, and compelled members to pay at his office instead of on
their own doorsteps; he instituted fines for irregularity. But nothing
could stop the progress of the Universal Thrift Club. And disaster
approached. Denry felt as though he were being pushed nearer and nearer
to the edge of a precipice by a tremendous multitude of people. At
length, very much against his inclination, he put up a card in his
window that no new members could be accepted until further notice,
pending the acquisition of larger offices and other rearrangements.
For the shrewd, it was a confession of failure, and he knew it.
Then the rumour began to form, and to thicken, and to spread, that
Denry's famous Universal Thrift Club was unsound at the core, and that
the teeth of those who had bitten the apple would be set on edge.
And Denry saw that something great, something decisive, must be done and
done with rapidity.
II
His thoughts turned to the Countess of Chell. The original attempt to
engage her moral support in aid of the Thrift Club had ended in a
dangerous fiasco. Denry had been beaten by circumstances. And though
he had emerged from the defeat with credit, he had no taste for defeat.
He disliked defeat even when it was served with jam. And his
indomitable thoughts turned to the Countess again. He put it to himself
in this way, scratching his head:
"I 've got to get hold of that woman, and that's all about it!"
The Countess at this period was busying herself with the policemen of
the Five Towns. In her exhaustless passion for philanthropy, bazaars,
and platforms, she had already dealt with orphans, the aged, the blind,
potter's asthma, creches, churches, chapels, schools, economic cookery,
the smoke-nuisance, country holidays, Christmas puddings and blankets,
healthy musical entertainments, and barmaids. The excellent and
beautiful creature was suffering from a dearth of subjects when the
policemen occurred to her. She made the benevolent discovery that
policemen were overworked, underpaid, courteous and trustworthy public
servants, and that our lives depended on them. And from this discovery
it naturally followed that policemen deserved her energetic assistance.
Which assistance resulted in the erection of a Policemen's Institute at
Hanbridge, the chief of the Five Towns. At the Institute policemen
would be able to play at draughts, read the papers, and drink everything
non-alcoholic at prices that defied competition. And the Institute also
conferred other benefits on those whom all the Five Mayors of the Five
Towns fell into the way of describing as "the stalwart guardians of the
law." The Institute, having been built, had to be opened with due
splendour and ceremony. And naturally the Countess of Chell was the
person to open it, since without her it would never have existed.
The solemn day was a day in March, and the hour was fixed for three
o'clock, and the place was the large hall of the Institute itself,
behind Crown Square, which is the Trafalgar Square of Hanbridge. The
Countess was to drive over from Sneyd. Had the epoch been ten years
later she would have motored over. But probably that would not have
made any difference as to what happened.
In relating what did happen I confine myself to facts, eschewing
imputations. It is a truism that life is full of coincidences, but
whether these events comprised a coincidence, or not, each reader must
decide for himself according to his cynicism or his faith in human
nature.
The facts are: First, that Denry called one day at the house of Mrs.
Kemp a little lower down Brougham Street, Mrs. Kemp being friendly with
Mrs. Machin, and the mother of Jock, the Countess's carriage-footman,
whom Denry had known from boyhood. Second, that a few days later, when
Jock came over to see his mother, Denry was present, and that
subsequently Denry and Jock went for a stroll together in the Cemetery,
the principal resort of strollers in Bursley. Third, that on the
afternoon of the opening ceremony the Countess's carriage broke down in
Sneyd Vale, two miles from Sneyd and three miles from Hanbridge. Fourth,
that five minutes later Denry, all in his best clothes, drove up behind
his mule. Fifth, that Denry drove right past the breakdown, apparently
not noticing it. Sixth, that Jock touching his hat to Denry as if to a
stranger (for, of course, while on duty a footman must be dead to all
human ties) said:
"Excuse me, sir," and so caused Denry to stop.
These are the simple facts.
Denry looked round with that careless half-turn of the upper part of the
body which drivers of elegant equipages affect when their attention is
called to something trifling behind them. The mule also looked
round--it was a habit of the mule's--and if the dog had been there the
dog would have shown an even livelier inquisitiveness; but Denry had
left the faithful animal at home.
"Good afternoon, Countess," he said, raising his hat, and trying to
express surprise, pleasure, and imperturbability all at once.
The Countess of Chell, who was standing in the road, raised her lorgnon,
which was attached to the end of a tortoiseshell pole about a foot long,
and regarded Denry. This lorgnon was a new device of hers, and it was
already having the happy effect of increasing the sale of long-handled
lorgnons throughout the Five Towns.
"Oh! It's you, is it?" said the Countess. "I see you 've grown a
beard."
It was just this easy familiarity that endeared her to the district. As
observant people put it, you never knew what she would say next, and yet
she never compromised her dignity.
"Yes," said Denry. "Have you had an accident?"
"No," said the Countess bitterly: "I 'm doing this for idle amusement."
The horses had been taken out, and were grazing by the roadside like
common horses. The coachman was dipping his skirts in the mud as he bent
down in front of the carriage and twisted the pole to and fro and round
about and round about. The footman, Jock, was industriously watching
him.
"It's the pole-pin, sir," said Jock.
Denry descended from his own hammer-cloth. The Countess was not smiling.
It was the first time that Denry had ever seen her without an efficient
smile on her face.
"Have you got to be anywhere particular?" he asked. Many ladies would
not have understood what he meant. But the Countess was used to the
Five Towns.
"Yes," said she. "I have got to be somewhere particular. I 've got to
be at the Police Institute at three o'clock particular, Mr. Machin. And
I shan't be. I 'in late now. We 've been here ten minutes."
The Countess was rather too often late for public ceremonies. Nobody
informed her of the fact. Everybody, on the contrary, assiduously
pretended that she had arrived to the very second. But she was well
aware that she had a reputation for unpunctuality. Ordinarily, being
too hurried to invent a really clever excuse, she would assert lightly
that something had happened to her carriage. And now something in truth
had happened to her carriage--but who would believe it at the Police
Institute?
"If you 'll come with me I 'll guarantee to get you there by three
o'clock," said Denry.
The road thereabouts was lonely. A canal ran parallel with it at a
distance of fifty yards, and on the canal a boat was moving in the
direction of Hanbridge at the rate of a mile an hour. Such was the only
other vehicle in sight. The outskirts of Knype, the nearest town, did
not begin until at least a mile further on; and the Countess, dressed
for the undoing of mayors and other unimpressionable functionaries,
could not possibly have walked even half a mile in that rich dark mud.
She thanked him, and without a word to her servants took the seat beside
him.
III
Immediately the mule began to trot the Countess began to smile again.
Relief and content were painted upon her handsome features. Denry soon
learnt that she knew all about mules--or almost all. She told him how
she had ridden hundreds of miles on mules in the Apennines, where there
were no roads, and only mules, goats, and flies could keep their feet on
the steep stony paths. She said that a good mule was worth forty pounds
in the Appenines, more than a horse of similar quality. In fact, she
was very sympathetic about mules. Denry saw that he must drive with as
much style as possible, and he tried to remember all that he had picked
up from a book concerning the proper manner of holding the reins. For
in everything that appertained to riding and driving the Countess was an
expert. In the season she hunted once or twice a week with the North
Staffordshire Hounds, and the _Signal_ had stated that she was a
fearless horsewoman. It made this statement one day when she had been
thrown and carried to Sneyd senseless.
The mule, too, seemingly conscious of its responsibilities and its high
destiny, put its best foot foremost and behaved in general like a mule
that knew the name of its great-grandfather. It went through Knype in
admirable style, not swerving at the steam-cars nor exciting itself
about the railway bridge. A photographer who stood at his door
manoeuvring a large camera startled it momentarily, until it remembered
that it had seen a camera before. The Countess, who wondered why on
earth a photographer should be capering round a tripod in a doorway,
turned to inspect the man with her lorgnon.
They were now coursing up the Cauldon Bank towards Hanbridge. They were
already within the boundaries of Hanbridge, and a pedestrian here and
there recognised the Countess. You can hide nothing from the quidnunc
of Hanbridge. Moreover, when a quidnunc in the streets of Hanbridge
sees somebody famous or striking or notorious, he does not pretend that
he has seen nobody. He points unmistakably to what he has observed, if
he has a companion, and if he has no companion he stands still and
stares with such honest intensity that the entire street stands and
stares too. Occasionally you may see an entire street standing and
staring without any idea of what it is staring at. As the equipage
dashingly approached the busy centre of Hanbridge, the region of fine
shops, public-houses, hotels, halls, and theatres, more and more of the
inhabitants knew that Iris (as they affectionately called her) was
driving with a young man in a tumble-down little victoria behind a mule
whose ears flapped like an elephant's. Denry being far less renowned in
Hanbridge than in his native Bursley, few persons recognised him. After
the victoria had gone by people who had heard the news too late rushed
from shops and gazed at the Countess's back as at a fading dream until
the insistent clanging of a car-bell made them jump again to the
footpath.
At length Denry and the Countess could see the clock of the Old Town
Hall in Crown Square, and it was a minute to three. They were less than
a minute off the Institute.
"There you are!" said Denry proudly. "Three miles if it's a yard, in
seventeen minutes. For a mule it's none so dusty."
And such was the Countess's knowledge of the language of the Five Towns
that she instantly divined the meaning of even that phrase "none so
dusty."
They swept into Crown Square grandly.
And then, with no warning, the mule suddenly applied all the automatic
brakes which a mule has, and stopped.
"Oh, Lor!" sighed Denry. He knew the cause of that arresting.
A large squad of policemen, a perfect regiment of policemen, was moving
across the north side of the square in the direction of the Institute.
Nothing could have seemed more reassuring, less harmful, than that band
of policemen, off duty for the afternoon and collected together for the
purpose of giving a hearty and policemanly welcome to their benefactress
the Countess. But the mule had his own views about policemen. In the
early days of Denry's ownership of him, he had nearly always shied at
the spectacle of a policeman. He would tolerate steam-rollers, and even
falling kites, but a policeman had ever been antipathetic to him. Denry
by patience and punishment had gradually brought him round almost to the
Countess's view of policemen--namely, that they were a courteous and
trustworthy body of public servants, not to be treated as scarecrows or
the dregs of society. At any rate, the mule had of late months
practically ceased to set his face against the policing of the Five
Towns. And when he was on his best behaviour he would ignore a
policeman completely.
But there were several hundreds of policemen in that squad, the majority
of all the policemen in the Five Towns. And clearly the mule considered
that Denry, in confronting him with several hundred policemen
simultaneously, had been presuming upon his good nature.
The mule's ears were saying agitatedly:
"A line must be drawn somewhere, and I have drawn it where my forefeet
now are."
The mule's ears soon drew together a little crowd.
It occurred to Denry that if mules were so wonderful in the Apennines
the reason must be that there are no policemen in the Apennines. It also
occurred to him that something must be done to this mule.
"Well?" said the Countess inquiringly.
It was a challenge to him to prove that he and not the mule was in
charge of the expedition.
He briefly explained the mule's idiosyncrasy, as it were apologising for
its bad taste in objecting to public servants whom the Countess
cherished.
"They 'll be out of sight in a moment," said the Countess. And both she
and Denry tried to look as if the victoria had stopped in that special
spot for a special reason and that the mule was a pattern of obedience.
Nevertheless, the little crowd was growing a little larger.
"Now," said the Countess encouragingly. The tail of the regiment of
policemen had vanished towards the Institute.
"Tchk! Tchk!" Denry persuaded the mule. No response from those
forefeet!
"Perhaps I 'd better get out and walk," the Countess suggested. The
crowd was becoming inconvenient and had even begun to offer unsolicited
hints as to the proper management of mules. The crowd was also saying
to itself, "It's her! It's her! It's her!" Meaning that it was the
Countess.
"Oh, no!" said Denry. "It's all right."
And he caught the mule "one" over the head with his whip.
The mule, stung into action, dashed away, and the crowd scattered as if
blown to pieces by the explosion of a bomb. Instead of pursuing a right
line the mule turned within a radius of its own length, swinging the
victoria round after it as though the victoria had been a kettle
attached to it with string. And Countess, Denry, and victoria were rapt
with miraculous swiftness away--not at all towards the Policemen's
Institute, but down Longshaw Road, which is tolerably steep. They were
pursued, but ineffectually. For the mule had bolted and was winged.
They fortunately came into contact with nothing except a large barrow of
carrots, turnips, and cabbages which an old woman was wheeling up
Longshaw Road. The concussion upset the barrow, half filled the
victoria with vegetables, and for a second stayed the mule; but no real
harm seemed to have been done, and the mule proceeded with vigour. Then
the Countess noticed that Denry was not using his right arm, which swung
about rather uselessly.
"I must have knocked my elbow against the barrow," he muttered. His
face was pale.
"Give me the reins," said the Countess.
"I think I can turn the brute up here," he said.
And he did in fact neatly divert the mule up Birches Street, which is
steeper even than Longshaw Road. The mule for a few instants pretended
that all gradients, up or down, were equal before its angry might. But
Birches Street has the slope of a house-roof. Presently the mule
walked, and then it stood still. And half Birches Street emerged to
gaze. For the Countess's attire was really very splendid.
"I 'll leave this here, and we 'll walk back," said Denry. "You won't
be late--that is, nothing to speak of. The Institute is just round the
top here."
"You don't mean to say you 're going to let that mule beat you!"
exclaimed the Countess.
"I was only thinking of your being late," said he.
"Oh, bother!" said she. "Your mule may be ruined." The horse-trainer
in her was aroused.
"And then my arm?" said Denry.
"Shall I drive back?" the Countess suggested.
"Oh, do!" said Denry. "Keep on up the street, and then to the left."
They changed places, and two minutes later she brought the mule to an
obedient rest in front of the Police Institute, which was all newly red
with terra-cotta. The main body of policemen had passed into the
building, but two remained at the door, and the mule haughtily tolerated
them. The Countess despatched one to Longshaw Road to settle with the
old woman whose vegetables they had brought away with them. The other
policeman who, owing to the Countess's philanthropic energy, had
received a course of instruction in first aid, arranged a sling for
Denry's arm. And then the Countess said that Denry ought certainly to
go with her to the inauguration ceremony. The policeman whistled a boy
to hold the mule. Denry picked a carrot out of the complex folds of the
Countess's rich costume. And the Countess and her saviour entered the
portico and were therein met by an imposing group of important male
personages, several of whom wore mayoral chains. Strange tales of what
had happened to the Countess had already flown up to the Institute, and
the chief expression on the faces of the group seemed to be one of
astonishment that she still lived.
IV
Denry observed that the Countess was now a different woman. She had
suddenly put on a manner to match her costume, which in certain parts
was stiff with embroidery. From the informal companion and the tamer of
mules she had miraculously developed into the public celebrity, the
peeress of the realm, and the inaugurator-general of philanthropic
schemes and buildings. Not one of the important male personages but
would have looked down on Denry! And yet, while treating Denry as a
jolly equal, the Countess with all her embroidered and stiff politeness
somehow looked down on the important male personages--and they knew it.
And the most curious thing was that they seemed rather to enjoy it. The
one who seemed to enjoy it the least was Sir Jehoshophat Dain, a
white-bearded pillar of terrific imposingness.
Sir Jee--as he was then beginning to be called--had recently been
knighted, by way of reward for his enormous benefactions to the
community. In the _role_ of philanthropist he was really much more
effective than the Countess. But he was not young, he was not pretty,
he was not a woman, and his family had not helped to rule England for
generations--at any rate, so far as anybody knew. He had made more
money than had ever before been made by a single brain in the
manufacture of earthenware, and he had given more money to public causes
than a single pocket had ever before given in the Five Towns. He had
never sought municipal honours, considering himself to be somewhat above
such trifles. He was the first purely local man to be knighted in the
Five Towns. Even before the bestowal of the knighthood his sense of
humour had been deficient, and immediately afterwards it had vanished
entirely. Indeed, he did not miss it. He divided the population of the
kingdom into two classes--the titled and the untitled. With Sir Jee,
either you were titled, or you were n't. He lumped all the untitled
together; and to be just to his logical faculty, he lumped all the
titled together. There were various titles--Sir Jee admitted that--but
a title was a title, and therefore all titles were practically equal.
The Duke of Norfolk was one titled individual, and Sir Jee was another.
The fine difference between them might be perceptible to the titled, and
might properly be recognised by the titled when the titled were among
themselves, but for the untitled such a difference ought not to exist
and could not exist.
Thus for Sir Jee there were two titled beings in the group--the Countess
and himself. The Countess and himself formed one caste in the group,
and the rest another caste. And although the Countess, in her
punctilious demeanour towards him gave due emphasis to his title (he
returning more than due emphasis to hers), he was not precisely pleased
by the undertones of suave condescension that characterised her greeting
of him as well as her greeting of the others. Moreover, he had known
Denry as a clerk of Mr. Duncalf's, for Mr. Duncalf had done a lot of
legal work for him in the past. He looked upon Denry as an upstart, a
capering mountebank, and he strongly resented Denry's familiarity with
the Countess. He further resented Denry's sling, which gave to Denry an
interesting romantic aspect (despite his beard), and he more than all
resented that Denry should have rescued the Countess from a carriage
accident by means of his preposterous mule. Whenever the Countess, in
the preliminary chatter, referred to Denry or looked at Denry, in
recounting the history of her adventures, Sir Jee's soul squirmed, and
his body sympathised with his soul. Something in him that was more
powerful than himself compelled him to do his utmost to reduce Denry to
a moral pulp, to flatten him, to ignore him, or to exterminate him by
the application of ice. This tactic was no more lost on the Countess
than it was on Denry. And the Countess foiled it at every instance. In
truth, there existed between the Countess and Sir Jee a rather hot
rivalry in philanthropy and the cultivation of the higher welfare of the
district. He regarded himself, and she regarded herself, as the most
brightly glittering star of the Five Towns.
When the Countess had finished the recital of her journey, and the faces
of the group had gone through all the contortions proper to express
terror, amazement, admiration, and manly sympathy, Sir Jee took the
lead, coughed, and said in his elaborate style:
"Before we adjourn to the hall, will not your ladyship take a little
refreshment?"
"Oh, no, thanks!" said the Countess. "I 'm not a bit upset." Then she
turned to the enslinged Denry and with concern added, "But will you have
something?"
If she could have foreseen the consequences of her question, she might
never have put it. Still, she might have put it just the same.
Denry paused an instant, and an old habit rose up in him.
"Oh, no, thanks!" he said, and turning deliberately to Sir Jee, he
added: "Will _you_?"
This of course was mere crude insolence to the titled philanthropic
white beard. But it was by no means the worst of Denry's behaviour. The
group, every member of the group, distinctly perceived a slight movement
of Denry's left hand toward Sir Jee. It was the very slightest
movement, a wavering, a nothing. It would have had no significance
whatever, but for one fact: Denry's left hand still held the carrot.
Everybody exhibited the most marvellous self-control. And everybody
except Sir Jee was secretly charmed, for Sir Jee had never inspired
love. It is remarkable how local philanthropists are unloved, locally.
The Countess without blenching gave the signal for what Sir Jee called
the "adjournment" to the hall. Nothing might have happened, yet
everything had happened.
V
Next, Denry found himself seated on the temporary platform which had
been erected in the large games hall of the Policemen's Institute. The
Mayor of Hanbridge was in the chair, and he had the Countess on his
right and the Mayoress of Bursley on his left. Other mayoral chains
blazed in the centre of the platform, together with fine hats of
mayoresses and uniforms of police-superintendents and captains of
fire-brigades. Denry's sling also contributed to the effectiveness; he
was placed behind the Countess. Policemen (looking strange without
helmets) and their wives, sweethearts, and friends, filled the hall to
its fullest; enthusiasm was rife and strident; and there was only one
little sign that the untoward had occurred. That little sign was an
empty chair in the first row near the Countess. Sir Jee, a prey to a
sudden indisposition, had departed. He had somehow faded away, while
the personages were climbing the stairs. He had faded away amid the
expressed regrets of those few who by chance saw him in the act of
fading. But even these bore up manfully. The high humour of the
gathering was not eclipsed.
Towards the end of the ceremony came the votes of thanks, and the
principal of these was the vote of thanks to the Countess, prime cause
of the Institute. It was proposed by the Superintendent of the
Hanbridge Police. Other personages had wished to propose it, but the
stronger right of the Hanbridge Superintendent, as chief officer of the
largest force of constables in the Five Towns, could not be disputed.
He made a few facetious references to the episode of the Countess's
arrival, and brought the house down by saying that if he did his duty he
would arrest both the Countess and Denry for driving to the common
danger. When he sat down, amid tempestuous applause, there was a hitch.
According to the official programme Sir Jehosophat Dain was to have
seconded the vote, and Sir Jee was not there. All that remained of Sir
Jee was his chair. The Mayor of Hanbridge looked round about, trying
swiftly to make up his mind what was to be done, and Denry heard him
whisper to another mayor for advice.
"Shall I do it?" Denry whispered, and by at once rising relieved the
Mayor from the necessity of coming to a decision.
Impossible to say why Denry should have risen as he did, without any
warning. Ten seconds before, five seconds before, he himself had not
the dimmest idea that he was about to address the meeting. All that can
be said is that he was subject to these attacks of the unexpected.
Once on his legs he began to suffer, for he had never before been on his
legs on a platform, or even on a platform at all. He could see nothing
whatever except a cloud that had mysteriously and with frightful
suddenness filled the room. And through this cloud he could feel that
hundreds and hundreds of eyes were piercingly fixed upon him. A voice
was saying inside him, "What a fool you are! What a fool you are! I
always told you you were a fool!" And his heart was beating as it had
never beat, and his forehead was damp, his throat distressingly dry, and
one foot nervously tap-tapping on the floor. This condition lasted for
something like ten hours, during which time the eyes continued to pierce
the cloud and him with patient, obstinate cruelty.
Denry heard some one talking. It was himself.
The Superintendent had said, "I have very great pleasure in proposing
the vote of thanks to the Countess of Chell."
And so Denry heard himself saying, "I have very great pleasure in
seconding the vote of thanks to the Countess of Chell."
He could not think of anything else to say. And there was a pause, a
real pause, not a pause merely in Denry's sick imagination.
Then the cloud was dissipated. And Denry himself said to the audience
of policemen, with his own natural tone, smile, and gesture,
colloquially, informally, comically:
"Now then! Move along there, please! I 'm not going to say any more!"
And for a signal he put his hands in the position for applauding. And
sat down.
He had tickled the stout ribs of every bobby in the place. The applause
surpassed all previous applause. The most staid ornaments of the
platform had to laugh. People nudged each other and explained that it
was "that chap Machin from Bursley," as if to imply that that chap
Machin from Bursley never let a day pass without doing something
striking and humorous. The Mayor was still smiling when he put the vote
to the meeting, and the Countess was still smiling when she responded.
Afterwards in the portico, when everything was over, Denry exercised his
right to remain in charge of the Countess. They escaped from the
personages by going out to look for her carriage and neglecting to
return. There was no sign of the Countess's carriage, but Denry's mule
and victoria were waiting in a quiet corner.
"May I drive you home?" he suggested.
But she would not. She said that she had a call to pay before dinner,
and that her brougham would surely arrive the very next minute.
"Will you come and have tea at the Sub Rosa?" Denry next asked.
"The Sub Rosa?" questioned the Countess.
"Well," said Denry, "that's what we call the new tea-room that's just
been opened round here." He indicated a direction. "It's quite a
novelty in the Five Towns."
The Countess had a passion for tea.
"They have splendid China tea," said Denry.
"Well," said the Countess, "I suppose I may as well go through with it."
At the moment her brougham drove up. She instructed her coachman to
wait next to the mule and victoria. Her demeanour had cast off all its
similarity to her dress: it appeared to imply that, as she had begun
with a mad escapade, she ought to finish with another one.
Thus the Countess and Denry went to the tea-shop, and Denry ordered tea
and paid for it. There was scarcely a customer in the place, and the few
who were fortunate enough to be present had not the wit to recognise the
Countess. The proprietress did not recognise the Countess. (Later, when
it became known that the Countess had actually patronised the Sub Rosa,
half the ladies of Hanbridge were almost ill from sheer disgust that
they had not heard of it in time. It would have been so easy for them
to be there, taking tea at the next table to the Countess, and observing
her choice of cakes, and her manner of holding a spoon, and whether she
removed her gloves or retained them in the case of a meringue. It was
an opportunity lost that would in all human probability never occur
again.)
And in the discreet corner which she had selected the Countess fired a
sudden shot at Denry.
"How did you get all those details about the state rooms at Sneyd?" she
asked.
Upon which opening the conversation became lively.
The same evening Denry called at the _Signal_ office and gave an order
for a half-page advertisement of the Five Towns Universal Thrift
Club--"patroness, the Countess of Chell." The advertisement informed
the public that the Club had now made arrangements to accept new
members. Besides the order for a half-page advertisement, Denry also
gave many interesting and authentic details about the historic drive
from Sneyd Vale to Hanbridge. The next day the _Signal_ was simply full
of Denry and the Countess. It had a large photograph, taken by a
photographer on Cauldon Bank, which showed Denry actually driving the
Countess, and the Countess's face was full in the picture. It
presented, too, an excellently appreciative account of Denry's speech,
and it congratulated Denry on his first appearance in the public life of
the Five Towns. (In parenthesis it sympathised with Sir Jee in his
indisposition.) In short, Denry's triumph obliterated the memory of his
previous triumphs. It obliterated, too, all rumours adverse to the
Thrift Club. In a few days he had a thousand new members. Of course,
this addition only increased his liabilities; but now he could obtain
capital on fair terms, and he did obtain it. A company was formed. The
Countess had a few shares in this company. So (strangely) had Jock and
his companion the coachman. Not the least of the mysteries was that
when Denry reached his mother's cottage on the night of the tea with the
Countess his arm was not in a sling and showed no symptom of having been
damaged.