SAVING THE NATION.
On a fine afternoon Jack Rock stood smoking his pipe on the pavement of
High Street. His back was towards the road, his face turned to his own
shop-window, where was displayed a poster of such handsome dimensions
that it covered nearly the whole of the plate glass, to the prejudice of
Jack's usual display of mutton and beef. He took no account of that; he
was surveying the intruding poster with enormous complacency. It
announced that there would be held, under the auspices of the Meriton
Conservative and Unionist Association, an open-air Public Meeting that
evening on Fyfold Green. Chairman--The Rt. Hon. Lord Meriton (his
lordship was rarely "drawn;" his name indicated a great occasion).
Speakers--William Foot, Esq., K. C., M. P. (very large letters); Henry
Belfield, Esq., Prospective Candidate etc. (letters not quite so large);
and Andrew Hayes, Esq. (letters decidedly smaller, but still easily
legible from across the street). Needless to say that it was the sight
of the last name which caused Mr. Jack Rock's extreme complacency. He
had put up the stakes; now he was telling himself that the "numbers"
were up for the race. Andy was in good company--too good, of course, for
a colt like him on the present occasion; but in Jack's mind the race
comprised more than one meeting. There was plenty of time for the colt
to train on! Meanwhile there he was, on a platform with Lord Meriton,
with Mr. Foot, King's Counsel, Member of Parliament (Jack's thoughts
rehearsed these titles--the former of which Billy had recently
achieved--at full length, for all the world like the toastmaster at a
public dinner), and Mr. Henry Belfield, Prospective Candidate etc. Mr.
Rock hurled at himself many contemptuous and opprobrious epithets when
he recollected the career which he had once offered for the grateful
acceptance of Andrew Hayes, Esq. To him the poster was a first and
splendid dividend on the three thousand pounds which Miss Doris Flower
had so prettily extracted from his pocket. Here was his return; he
willingly left to Andy the mere pecuniary fruits of the investment.
Thus immensely gratified, Jack refused to own that he was surprised. The
autumn campaign had now been in progress nearly three weeks, and,
although Andy had not been heard before in Meriton, reports of his
doings had come in from outlying villages with which Jack had business
dealings. Nay, Mr. Belfield of Halton himself, who had braved the
evening air by going to one meeting to hear his son, found time to stop
at the shop and tell Jack that he had been favourably impressed by Andy.
"No flowers of rhetoric, Jack," he said with twinkling eyes, "such as my
boy indulges in, but good sound sense--knows his facts. I shouldn't
wonder if the labourers like that better. He knows what their bacon
costs 'em, and how many loaves a week go to a family of six, and so on.
I heard one or two old fellows saying 'Aye, that's right!' half a dozen
times while he was speaking. I wish our old friend at the grammar school
could have heard him!"
"Yes, Mr. Belfield; the old gentleman would have been proud, wouldn't
he?"
"And you've a right to be proud, Jack. I know what you've done for the
lad."
"He's a good lad, sir. He comes to supper with me every Sunday,
punctual, when he's in Meriton."
"You've every reason to hope he'll do very well--a sensible steady
fellow! It'd be a good thing if there were more like him."
Then Chinks and the Bird had made an excursion on their bicycles to hear
Andy, and brought back laudatory accounts--this though Chinks was
suspected of Radical leanings, which he was not allowed by his firm to
obtrude. And old Cox had heard him and pronounced the verdict that,
though he might be no flyer like Mr. Harry, yet he had the makings of a
horse in him. "Wants work, and can stand as much as you give him," said
Mr. Cox.
Immersed in a contemplation of the placard and in the reflections it
evoked, Mr. Rock stepped backwards into the road in order to get a new
view of the relative size of the lettering. Thereby he nearly lost his
life, and made Andy present possessor of a tidy bit of money for which,
in the natural course, he would have to wait many years. (This is
trenching on old Jack's darling secret.) The agitated hoot of a
motor-car sent him on a jump back to the pavement, just in time. The car
came to a standstill.
"I didn't come all this way on purpose to kill you, Mr. Rock!"
Jack had turned round already, in order to swear at his all but
murderer, who might reasonably have pleaded contributory negligence.
Angry words died away. A small figure, enveloped in a dust cloak,
wrapped about the head with an infinite number of yards of soft fabric,
sat alone in the back of the car. The driver yawned, surveying Meriton
with a scornful air, appearing neither disturbed by Mr. Rock's danger
nor gratified by his escape.
"It's so convenient," the small figure proceeded to observe, "when
people have their names written over their houses. Still I think I
should have known you without that. Andy has described you to me, you
see."
"Why, it's never--?" The broadest smile spread on Jack Rock's face.
"Oh yes, it is! I always keep my word. I'm taking a holiday, and I
thought I'd combine my visit to you with--" She suddenly broke off her
sentence, and gave a gurgle. Jack thought it a curiously pleasant sound.
"Why, there it is!" the Nun gurgled, pointing a finger at the wonderful
placard in Jack's window.
"You're--you're Miss Flower?" gasped Jack.
"Yes, yes--but look at it! Those three boys! Billy, and Harry--and Andy!
Andy! Well, of course, one knows they do do things, but somehow it's so
hard to realise. I shall certainly stay for the meeting! Seymour, let me
out!"
Seymour got down in a leisurely fashion, hiding a yawn with one hand and
a cigarette in the other. "I suppose there isn't a hotel in this place,
Miss Flower?" he remarked. (Seymour always called the Nun "Miss Flower,"
never merely "Miss.")
"Oh yes; the Lion, Seymour. Excellent hotel, isn't it, Mr. Rock? Kept by
Mr. Dove, who's got a son named the Bird; and the Bird's got a friend
named Chinks, and--"
"Well, you do beat creation!" cried Jack. "How do you--?"
"Secret sources of information!" said the Nun gravely. "Have I got to go
to the Lion, Mr. Rock? Or--or what time do you have tea?"
"You'll have tea with me, miss?" cried Jack.
"At what hour will you require the car, Miss Flower?" asked Seymour.
"You're goin' to the meetin', miss? Tell the young chap to be round at
six, and mind he's punctual."
"Do as Mr. Rock says, Seymour," smiled the Nun. It was part of the day's
fun to hear Seymour ordered about--and called a young chap!--by the
butcher of Meriton. But she could not get into the house without another
look at the poster. "Billy, Harry--and Andy! I wonder if those boys
really imagine that what they say or think matters!"
Miss Flower was already a privileged person. Jack had no rebuke for her
profanity. She took his arm, saying,
"I want to see the shop. You wanted Andy to have the shop, didn't you?"
"I was an old fool. I--I meant it well, Miss Flower."
The Nun squeezed his arm.
"Were these nice animals when they were alive, Mr. Rock?"
"Prime uns, alive or dead!" chuckled Jack. "You come back to supper,
after the meetin', miss, and taste; but maybe you'll be goin' back to
London, or takin' your supper at Halton?"
"I'm sorry, but I've promised to take Billy Foot back to town. Oh, but
tea now, Mr. Rock!"
Not even the messenger boy whom she had sent enjoyed Jack Rock's tea
more than the Nun herself. For a girl of her inches, she ate immensely;
even more heartily she praised. Jack could hardly eat at all, she was so
daintily wonderful, her being there at all so amazing. Seeking
explanation of the marvel, the simple affectionate old fellow could come
only on one. She must be very fond of Andy! She had written to plead for
Andy; she came and had tea with the old butcher--because he had given
Andy help. And now she was lauding Andy, telling him in her quiet way
that his lad was much thought of by her and her smart friends in London.
Jack had, of course, a very inadequate realisation of what "smartness"
in London really meant--a view which some might have called both
inadequate and charitable.
"Yes, he's a fine lad, miss. I say, the girl as gets Andy'll be lucky!"
(That "as" always tripped Jack up in moments of thoughtlessness.)
The Nun deliberately disposed of a piece of plum cake and a sip of
tea--the latter to wash the former down.
"I don't fall in love myself," she observed, in a tone decided yet
tolerant--as though she had said, "I don't take liqueurs myself--but if
you like to risk it!"
"You miss the best thing in life, miss," Jack cried.
"And most of the worst too," added the Nun serenely.
"Don't say it, miss. It don't come well from your pretty lips."
"Have I put you on your mettle? I meant to, of course, Mr. Rock."
Old Jack slapped his thigh, laughing immensely. Now wasn't this
good--that she should be here, having tea, getting at him like that?
It was a happy conjuncture, for the Nun was hardly less well pleased.
She divided her life into two categories; one was "the mill," the other
was "fun." The mill included making a hundred and eighty pounds by
singing two silly songs eight times each every week, being much adored,
and eating meals at that restaurant; "fun" meant anything rather
different. Having tea with Jack Rock, the Meriton butcher, was rather
different, and Miss Flower (as Seymour called her--almost the only
person who did) was enjoying herself.
"I should like to take a walk along the street before we go to the
meeting, Jack."
"Jack," casually dropped, with no more than a distant twinkle, finished
Mr. Rock.
"Your letter was pretty good, but you, miss--!"
"I'm considered attractive on a postcard. It costs a penny," said the
Nun, rising, fully refreshed, from the table. "Take me to the Lion,
please. I must see that Seymour isn't dissatisfied. He's a gentleman by
birth, you know, and a chauffeur by profession. So he rather alarms me,
though his manner is always carefully indifferent." This remark of hers
suddenly pleased the Nun. She gurgled; her own rare successes always
gratified her--witness that somewhat stupid story about the two ladies
and Tommy, told a long while ago.
Accompanied by proud Jack Rock, she traversed Meriton High Street,
greatly admiring the church, the grammar school, and that ancient and
respectable hostelry, the Lion. Indeed she fell so much in love with the
Lion that she questioned Jack as to the accommodation it provided, and
was assured that it boasted a private sitting-room, with oak panelling
and oak beams across the ceiling (always supposed to be irresistible
attractions to London visitors), and bedrooms sufficient in case she and
Miss Dutton should be minded to spend a part of their holiday there.
Room also for a maid--and for Seymour and the motor. "It's rather a nice
idea. I'll think it over," she said.
Then it was time to think about the meeting; and Jack must come with her
in the car, sit with her, and tell her all about it. "Oh yes, you must!"
"I shall never hear the last of it, long as I live!" Jack protested,
half in delight, half in a real shyness.
Behold them, then, thus installed on the outskirts of the meeting, with
a good view of the platform where "the boys" were seated, together with
Wellgood, supporting the great Lord Meriton. Vivien and Isobel also had
chairs at the back. The Nun produced a field-glass from a pocket in the
car, and favoured these ladies with a steady inspection. "Which did you
say was Harry's?" she asked.
"The fair one, miss--that's Miss Wellgood."
"The other's quite good-looking too," the Nun pronounced.
The salient features of Mr. Foot's oratory have been indicated on a
previous occasion. This evening he surpassed himself in epigram and
logic; no doubt he desired to overcome the Nun's obstinate scepticism as
to his career, no less than to maintain his popularity in Meriton. For
the Nun he had a special treat--a surprise. He told them her story of
Tommy and the two ladies, slightly adapting it to the taste of a general
audience; the cheques were softened down to invitations to _tete-a-tete_
dinners, couched in highly affectionate language. In Billy's apologue
the Ministry was Tommy, one of the ladies was Liberalism, the other
Socialism. The apologue took on very well; Billy made great play with
Tommy's double flirtation, and the Ministry's double flirtation, ending
up, "Yes, gentlemen, there will be only one tip to pay the waiter, but
that'll be a tip-over, if I'm not much mistaken!" (Cheers and laughter.)
The Nun was smiling all over her face. "That really was rather clever of
Billy." She felt herself shining with reflected glory.
But Billy--astute electioneerer--meant to get more out of the Nun than
just that Tommy story. When he had finished a wonderful peroration, in
which he bade Meriton decide once and for all--it would probably never
have another chance before it was too late--between Imperial greatness
and Imperial decay, he slipped from the platform, and made his way round
the skirts of the meeting to her motor-car. Lord Meriton's compliments,
and would Miss Flower oblige him and delight the meeting by singing the
National Anthem at the close of the proceedings? The Nun was so agitated
by this request that she lost most of Andy's speech; he was sandwiched
in between the more famous orators. As Andy--from what she did
hear--appeared to be talking about loaves, and sugar, and bacon, and
things of that sort, she was of opinion that she was not missing very
much, and was surprised to see the men listening and the bareheaded
women nodding approvingly and nudging one another in the ribs. "He's
jolly good! Upon my word, he is," said Billy Foot suddenly, and old Jack
chuckled delightedly. When Andy sat down, without any peroration, she
said to Billy, "Was he good? It sounded rather dull to me. Yours was
fine, Billy!"
"Awfully glad you liked it. But they'll forget my jokes; they'll talk
about old Andy's figures when they get home. Every woman in the place'll
want to prove 'em right or wrong. Gad, how he must have mugged all that
up!"
Then came Harry; to him she listened, at him she looked. Whatever the
difficulties of his private life might be, they did not avail to spoil
his speaking; it is conceivable that they improved it, since nerves on
the strain sometimes result in brilliant flashes. And he looked so
handsome, with pale, eager, excited face. He could fall in love with a
subject almost as deeply, almost as quickly, as with a woman, and for
the moment be hardly less devoted to it, heart and soul. Perhaps he was
a little over the heads of most of his audience, but they knew that it
was a fine performance and were willing to take for granted some things
which they did not understand.
"That's talking, that is!" said a man near the car. "Mr. Harry's the one
to give ye that."
Of course the Nun was persuaded in the matter of the National Anthem.
Billy led her round to the platform, where Lord Meriton welcomed her,
and introduced her to the meeting as Miss Doris Flower, the famous
London singer, who had kindly consented to sing the National Anthem. For
once in her life the Nun was very nervous, but she sang. Her sweet voice
and her remarkable prettiness stormed the meeting. They would have
another song. The applause brought back her confidence. Before she had
become a nun or a Quaker she had once been, in early days, a Cameron
Highlander. A couple of martial and patriotic ditties remained in her
memory; she gave them one, and excited enthusiasm. They cried for
more--more! An encore was insisted upon. In spite of the brilliant
speakers, the Nun was the heroine of the evening. She bowed, she smiled,
she fell altogether in love with Meriton. Thoughts of the Lion rose
strongly in her mind.
"A great success, and we owe a great deal of it to you, Miss Flower,"
said the noble chairman. "You just put the crown on it all. I wish we
could have you here at election time!"
The whole platform besought the Nun to come down at election time with
more patriotic songs. Most urgent was the pretty, slight, fair girl who
was Harry Belfield's _fiancee_. Her eyes were so friendly and gentle
that the Nun could refuse her nothing.
"At one bound, Doris, you've become a personage in Meriton," laughed
Billy Foot.
"She's a personage wherever she goes," said Andy in frank and
affectionate admiration.
The Nun gurgled happily. But where was her old friend Harry with his
congratulations? He had greeted her, but not with much enthusiasm; he
was now talking to the other girl--Miss Vintry--in a low voice, with a
frown on his face; he looked weary and spent. She moved over to him and
laid her hand on his arm; he started violently.
"I'll never laugh at you about your speeches again, Harry. But, poor old
fellow, how done up you look!"
"Doing this sort of thing every night's pretty tiring."
"Besides all the other things you have to do just now! I think I must
come and stay at the Lion and look after you."
Harry looked at her with an expression that puzzled her; it almost
seemed like resentment, though the idea was surely absurd. Miss Vintry
said nothing; she stood by in silent composure.
"You're thinking of--of coming to Meriton?"
"I had an idea of it, for a week or two. I'm doing nothing, you know.
Sally would come with me."
"I should think you'd find it awfully dull," said Harry.
The Nun could not make him out. Was he ashamed of her? Did he not want
her to know Miss Wellgood, his _fiancee_? It almost looked like that.
The Nun was a little hurt. She was aware that certain people held
certain views; but Harry was an old, old friend. "Well, if I do come and
find it dull, you needn't feel responsible. You haven't pressed me, have
you?" and with a little laugh she went back to more expansive friends.
"That'd make another of them, and she's infernally sharp!" Harry said to
Isobel Vintry, in that low careful voice to which he was nowadays so
much addicted.
"Oh well, we can't keep it up this way long anyhow," she answered, and
sauntered off to join Vivien.
With Billy, with Andy, as with old Jack, the Nun found enthusiasm enough
and to spare.
"How perfectly ripping an idea!" cried Billy. "Because Harry's governor
had asked me to stay a fortnight at Halton, and do half a dozen more
meetings; and I'm going to. And Andy'll be down here too. Why, we shall
all be together! You come, Doris!"
Her hurt feelings found expression. "Harry didn't seem to want me when I
spoke to him about it."
Billy Foot looked at her curiously. "Oh, didn't he?" Andy had moved off
with Jack Rock. "It's a funny thing, but I don't think he wants me at
Halton. He was far from enthusiastic. If you ask me, Doris, there's
something wrong with him. Overworked, I suppose. Oh, but he can't be;
these little meetings are no trouble."
"If I want to come, I shall. Only one doesn't like the idea that one's
friends are ashamed--"
"Oh, rot, it can't be that! That's not a bit like Harry."
"He's engaged now, you know."
"Well, I can't see why that should make any difference. He's got the
blues over something or other; never mind him. You come, you and Sally."
She lowered her voice. "Can it be because of poor old Sally?"
"Oh, I don't think so. He's always been awfully kind about that wretched
old business."
"It's something," she persisted with a vexed frown.
Vivien Wellgood came up to them with Andy. "Mr. Hayes tells me you may
possibly come to Meriton for a stay, Miss Flower. I do hope you will.
The Lion's quite good, and we'll all do all we can to amuse you, if only
you'll sing to us just now and then. Do say you'll come; don't only
think about it!"
"Your being so kind makes me want to come more," said the Nun. "Oh, and
I do congratulate you, Miss Wellgood. I hope you'll be ever so happy."
"Thank you. I hope so," said Vivien softly, her eyes assuming their
veiled look.
The car was waiting; Seymour was yawning and looking at his watch. The
Nun said her farewells, but not one to Harry Belfield, who had already
strolled off along the road. Not very polite of Harry!
"Did you like the speeches, Seymour?" she inquired.
"Mr. Foot, of course, is a good speaker. The other gentlemen did very
well for such a meeting as this, Miss Flower. Mr. Belfield is very
promising."
"Was I in good voice?"
"Very fair. But you had better not use it much in the open air. Not good
for the chords, Miss Flower."
Meanwhile he had skilfully tucked her in with Billy Foot, and off they
went, Billy comforting himself after his labours with a pull at his
flask and a very big cigar.
"I've made you do some work for the good cause to-night, Doris," he
remarked. "A song or two goes jolly well at a meeting."
"Thinking of enlisting me in your own service?" she asked.
"You'd be uncommon valuable. The man they're putting up against me has
got a pretty wife." Billy allowed himself a glance; it met with
inadequate appreciation.
"Oh, I'll come and sing for you if you ask me, Billy." Her voice sounded
absent. She was enjoying the motion and the air, but her thoughts were
with Vivien Wellgood, the girl who had been so kind, and whose eyes had
gone blank when the Nun wished her happiness.
"Yes, Harry's off colour," said Billy, puffing away with much enjoyment.
"He can't take anything right; didn't even like your story!"
"Why, you brought it in so cleverly, Billy!"
"Harry asked me what I thought they'd make of that kind of rot. It
seemed to me they took it all right. Rather liked it, didn't they?"
The Nun turned to him suddenly. "That girl isn't happy."
"There's something up!" Billy concluded.
"Do you know that Miss Vintry well?"
Billy took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at her. "You do jump to
conclusions."
"Oh, I know Harry better than any of you."
"Do you?" he asked, seeming just a little disturbed.
The Nun marked his disturbance with a side glance of amusement, but she
was not diverted from the main line of her thoughts. "He doesn't want me
to come to Meriton--"
"I say, Doris, did Harry Belfield ever try to--?"
"Tales out of school? I thought you knew me, Billy."
The reproach carried home to Billy. There had been one occasion when,
over-night, his career had seemed not so imperative, and Doris had
seemed very imperative indeed, demanding vows and protestations of high
fervour, bearing only one legitimate interpretation. This happened long
before Billy was K.C. or M.P., and when his income was still meagre. The
morning had brought back counsel, and thoughts of the career. Billy had
written a letter. The next time they met, she had taken occasion to
observe that she always burnt letters, just as she never fell in love.
The episode was not among Billy's proudest recollections. In telling
Andy that Billy had always pulled himself up on the brink, the Nun had
been guilty of just this one suppression. No tales out of school was
always her motto.
"If he does come to grief, it'll be over a woman," said Billy. He took a
big puff. "That's the only thing worth coming to grief over, either," he
added, looking into his companion's eyes.
"What about the great cause I sang for?" she asked, serenely evasive.
Sentiment in a motor-car at night really does not count.
Billy laughed. "I do my best for my client."
"But you believe it?"
"Honestly, I believe we've got, say, seven points out of ten. So we
ought to get the verdict."
"I suppose that's honest enough. You leave the other side to put their
three points?"
"That oughtn't to be over-straining them," Billy opined.
"Politics are rather curious. I might go to another meeting or two while
I'm at Meriton; but I won't sing out of doors any more. Seymour doesn't
approve of it."
"You're really going to take rooms there?"
"Yes, if Sally consents." She turned round to him. "Do you know what it
is to see somebody asking for help?"
"To me they always call it temporary assistance."
"Yes. Well, I think I saw that to-night." She was silent a minute, then
she gurgled. "And really they're all great fun, you know."
"I look forward to our stay at Meriton with the gravest apprehension,"
said Billy Foot.
The Nun looked at him, smiled, looked away, looked back once more.
"Well, I shall have nothing else to do--in the way of recreation," she
said.
A long silence followed. Billy threw away the stump of his cigar.
"Hang it, he's got the style, that fellow has!"
"Who's got what style?" asked the Nun. Her voice sounded drowsy.
"What the House likes--Andy."
"What house?" drawled the Nun, terribly and happily sleepy.
"Oh, you're a lively girl to drive home with in a motor at night!"
Her eyes were closed, her lips ever so little parted. Half asleep, still
she smiled. He made a trumpet of his hands and shouted into her ear.
"The House of Commons, stupid!"
"Don't tickle my ear," said the Nun. "And try if you can't be quiet!"