IX

At five o'clock Maria and Aunt Gerty arrived on the scene.

Blackhampton's future mayoress had been taken very firmly in hand by

her step-sister who was fully determined that the social credit of

Alderman Munt should not be lowered in the sight of the world. Gerty

had really taken enormous pains with a naturally timid and weakly

constituted member of society.

After a battle royal, in which tears had been shed, the hapless Maria

had been compelled to renounce a pair of old-fashioned stays which

on common occasions foreshortened her figure to the verge of the

grotesque, in favor of sinuous, long-lined, straight-fronted corsets.

With such ruthless art had outlying and overlapping portions of Maria

been folded away within their fashionable confines, that, as she

breathlessly remarked to her torturer as she looked in the glass, "She

didn't know herself, she didn't really."

Maria could hardly breathe as she waddled across the parched expanse of

Jubilee Park. She was more miserably self-conscious than she had ever

been in the whole course of a miserably self-conscious existence. Her

corsets, she was sure, filled the world's eye. At her time of life to

take such liberties with the human form was hardly decent, it wasn't

really. Moreover Gerty had perched a great hat on the top of her,

almost a flower show in itself, the sort that was worn, Gerty assured

her, by the local duchess on public occasions; and it was kept in place

on a miraculous new-fangled coiffure by a white veil with black spots.

Then her comfortable elastic-sided boots, the stand-bys of a fairly

long and very honorable life, had gone by the board at the instance

of the ruthless Gerty. She had to submit to patent leathered, buckled

affairs, that could only be coaxed on to the human foot by a shoehorn.

No wonder that Mrs. Alderman Munt walked with great delicacy across the

baking expanse of Jubilee Park. And the intensely respectable black

kid gloves that for more than half a century had served her so well

for chapel goings, prayer meetings, weddings, funerals, christenings

and the concerts of the Philharmonic Society had been forced to yield

to a pair whose virgin whiteness in Maria's opinion carried fashion to

the verge of immodesty. Nor did even these complete the catalogue of

Gerty's encroachments. There was also a long-handled black and white

parasol.

As Maria and Gerty debouched across the grass, Josiah arose from his

chair in the midst of the committee and strutted impressively past the

bandstand to receive them.

"Why, Mother, I hardly knew you." There was high approval in the

greeting. "Up to the knocker, what!" He offered a cordial hand to his

heroically beaming sister-in-law, "How are you, Gert?"

The ladies had been careful to have tea before they came but this

precaution did not avail. Josiah insisted on their going into the

special tent labeled "Refreshments." Here they had to sit on a form

rickety and uncomfortably narrow which promised at any moment either to

lay them prone beneath the tea urn or enable them to form a parabola

over against the patent bread-cutter at the other end of the table.

The tea was lukewarm and undrinkable, the bread and butter was thick

and so uninviting that both ladies were sure it was margarine, but

after a moment's hesitation in which she felt the stern eye of Josiah

upon her, the heroic Gerty dexterously removed one white glove and came

to grips with a plate of buttered buns. In the buns were undeniable

currants, and their genial presence enabled Gerty to make a spirited

bluff at consuming them.

Where Gerty walked, Maria must not fear to tread. The ladies got

somehow through their second tea and then they were haled into the

open, past the bandstand and through the crowd surrounding it, to the

large tent containing the exhibits. Here, in a select corner, draped

with festoons of red cloth, were the prizes which Maria, half an hour

hence, would be called upon to distribute with her own white-gloved

hands to the victorious competitors.

The heat in the tent being unbearable the President's party had it to

themselves. Therefore Maria's audible groan at the sight of the task

before her was heard by none save her lord.

"Bear up, Mother," Josiah's tone was a highly judicious blend of

sternness, banter and persuasion. "It's not as if you had to make a

speech, you know. And if you did have there's nobody here who'd bite

you. I'd see to that."

This was encouraging, yet certain gyrations of the black and white

parasol betrayed to the lynx-eyed Gerty the sinister presence of stage

fright. "Maria," said the inexorable monitress, "you must show Spirit.

Hold your sunshade as I've shown you. Keep your chin up. And try to

smile."

This counsel of perfection was, at the moment, clearly beyond Maria.

But the President's nod approved it, and Gerty, one of those powerful

spirits that loves to do with public affairs, proceeded on a flute-like

note, "Dear me, what lovely prizes!"

It was hyperbole to speak of the prizes as lovely, but it was, of

course, the correct thing to say, and in the ear of Josiah the correct

thing was said in the correct way. It would have been difficult for the

duchess herself to have bettered that pure note of lofty enthusiasm.

"Not so bad, Gert, are they? What do you think o' that little vawse?

Presented by Coppin, the jeweler."

To assess the gift of Coppin, the jeweler, it was necessary for Miss

Preston to bring into action her famous tortoiseshell folders. She had

no need for glasses at all. But Lawyer Mossop's aunt, the late Miss

Selina Gregg, had aroused in her a passion for their use on appropriate

occasions. "A ducky little vahse!" That vexed word was pronounced after

the manner of the late Miss Gregg, from whose practice there was no

appeal.

"Not so bad--for Coppin. Better anyway than his silver-plated eggstand

last year."

Gerty made an admiring survey of the bounty of the patrons of the

Blackhampton Rose Growers' Association. "And here, I see, is the

President's special prize." She had kept in reserve her appreciation

of this _chef d'oeuvre_ of public munificence, a much beribboned

silver gilt goblet to which a card was attached, "President's Special

Prize for Rose of Purest Color. Donor Alderman Munt J.P." It was the

first thing her eye had lit on, but she had worked up to it slowly,

via the lesser gifts of lesser men, so that anything in the nature of

anticlimax might be avoided.

"Josiah, tell me, who is the fortunate winner?" The archness of the

tone verged upon coquetry.

"Look and see, my gel." The response was unexpectedly gruff. But, as

soon as Gerty had looked and seen, the reason for the President's

austerity grew clear. On a second card, smaller but beribboned like

the first, was inscribed in a fair clerkly hand, "Presented to Mr. W.

Hollis for Exhibit 16."

X

Had a pin fallen in the tent at that moment, any one of those three

people might have expected to hear it do so. Gerty was too wise to ask

why the husband of the outcast Melia had come to enjoy the special

gift of his father-in-law; Maria simply dare not. In truth it was an

odd story. Josiah did his best to put a gloss on an incredible fact of

which he was rather ashamed; it looked so much like moral weakness, a

public giving in; but, as he informed Gerty with a half apologetic air,

Jannock was Jannock. In other words, fair play in the eyes of honest

men was a jewel.

There could be no question that, in point of color, the fairest bloom

sent in was Exhibit Sixteen. It was a rose of such a dazzling snowy

whiteness that it had caught and held the expert eye of the President

at the morning inspection. "An easy winner, Jennings," he had said, as

soon as he had seen it, "Nothing to put beside it, my boy."

The astute Jennings, a professional nurseryman along The Rise, made

no comment. He had taken the trouble to find out the name of the

grower before bringing a mature judgment to bear on the fruits of his

craft. "Sound" criticism is always a priori. Critics who value their

reputation are careful not to pronounce an opinion on any work of

art until they know who has produced it. Otherwise mistakes are apt

to occur. None knew better than Jennings that the grower of Exhibit

Sixteen could not hope to receive the President's prize; indeed

Jennings was amazed at the little tick's impudence in daring to compete

at all for his father-in-law's silver gilt goblet. It was an act of

bravado. Jennings, therefore, shook his head coldly. He declined to

show enthusiasm in the presence of what to the unsuspecting eye of the

President was an almost too obvious masterpiece.

"All over a winner, Jennings, that is."

Jennings shook the sober head of a professional expert. "To me," he

said, "Twenty-one 'as more quality."

"Rubbish, man!" The President threw up his head sharply, a favorite

trick when goaded by contradiction. "Twenty-one can't be mentioned on

the same day o' the week. What do you say, Penney?"

Before Mr. Councilor Penney, an acknowledged light of the a priori

school of criticism, ventured to express an opinion he winged a glance

at Nurseryman Jennings. And that glance, in the technical language of

experts, conveyed a clear request for "the office."

"The office" was given sotto voce behind the adroit hand of Jennings,

"Mester Munt--Twenty-one, Sixteen--Bill Hollis."

Thereupon Mr. Councilor Penney closed one eye and proceeded to examine

the competing blooms. "Well, Mester Munt," he said solemnly, "I am

bound to say, to my mind Twenty-one 'as it."

The impetuous president had a short way with the Councilor Penneys

of the earth. "Have you no eyes, man! Twenty-one can't live beside

Sixteen. Not the same class. Look at the color--look at the shape--look

at the size----"

It was realized now that it had become necessary to warn the President.

And the situation must be grappled with at once. The deeper the

President floundered, the more perilous the job of extrication. Rescue

was a man's work, but finally in response to a mute appeal from the

pusillanimous Jennings, Mr. Councilor Penney took his courage in his

hands. "Mr. Munt," he said warily, "don't you know that Twenty-one was

sent in by Joe Mellers, your own gardener?"

It was the best that Mr. Councilor Penney could muster in the way of

tact. But at all times a very great deal of tact was needed to handle

the President. Clearly the shot was not a lucky one. "Nowt to do with

it, Penney." The great man nearly bit off his head. "Ought to know

that. Sixteen's the best bloom on the bench."

"Sixteen's that Hollis!" It was an act of pure valor on the part of Mr.

Councilor Penney. Nurseryman Jennings held his breath.

"That Hollis!" The President repeated the words calmly. For a moment

it was not certain that human dignity could accept their implication.

But there was a world of meaning in the nervous frown of Mr. Councilor

Penney, in the tense furtiveness of Nurseryman Jennings.

Was it possible?... Was it possible that the little skunk had dared?...

Had dared to compete at this show of all shows?... Had dared to win

honestly that prize of all prizes?...

The story of Bill Hollis and Melia Munt was a commonplace with every

member of the Committee. They were familiar with all the circumstances;

and though there might be those among them who felt privately that

their august President carried family pride rather far, even these

could not help admiring the rigidity of his attitude. It meant enormous

strength of character; and character in the shrine at which the true

Briton worships. But now that the Committee was up against the problem

Bill Hollis had raised they keenly regretted that they had not taken

steps to disqualify him from the outset, or had not apprised the

President beforehand of the state of the case.

The pause that followed was rather irksome for all parties. It was

ended at last by Nurseryman Jennings. That practical expert, having

enjoyed an afternoon of free whisky at the President's expense, was now

able to clothe his judgment becomingly. "Don't suppose the little Snot

grew it hisself!" said Jennings.

Half the Committee saw at once that a way out had been found for the

President. But the President was not of the number. "Why don't you?" he

said curtly.

The practical expert was hardly prepared with reasons. Why should he

be? His doubts were inspired by the purest altruism. "Why don't you,

Jennings?" repeated the President.

Really there is no helping some people!

"Because I don't!" It was rather lame, but Jennings was doing his best

in extremely trying circumstances.

The longer, tenser pause that followed none was stout enough to break.

Up to a hundred might have been counted before the President said,

slowly and gruffly, as a large and shaggy bear endowed with a few

limited human vocables might have done, "Have the goodness, Jennings,

to mark Exhibit Sixteen for the President's Special."