Thus it was, that among the successful competitors who lined up by the
bandstand at six o'clock to receive awards of merit from the fair hands
of Mrs. Alderman Munt, was her son-in-law Mr. William Hollis.
Wonders never cease to happen in a world of wonders. When in a moment
of sheer bravado Bill Hollis had paid the necessary shilling and had
entered the choicest bloom in his garden for the Annual Show he would
have staked his davy that he stood about as much chance of walking
off with the Special Prize as he did of going to heaven in a golden
chariot. The Old Un himself would see to that.
Taken on its merits, this pure white rose that had come as the crown of
many years of loving labor would be hard to beat. But, as Bill Hollis
knew, things are not taken on their merits by the a priori school of
criticism. He knew that its judgments are conditioned by many things
and that intrinsic worth is apt to weigh least in the scale. He had
shown his bloom in pride and defiance; he had not expected to get
anything by it; and now that the despised Committee had acted better
than itself he was inclined to regret that it had not lived up to its
reputation.
The table containing the prizes had been carried out on to the grass.
Beside it stood Mrs. Alderman Munt, white-gloved and anxious, her eyes
not unlike those of a frightened rabbit. And yet lurking somewhere in
the folds of a rather redundant frame was a certain dignity, as there
is bound to be in one who has given four children to the state; in
one, moreover, who has accompanied such a mate as Josiah step by step
in his steady rise to wealth and power. Beside Mrs. Munt stood the
secretary of the society, an important pince-nezed gentleman, with a
scroll in his hand bearing the names of the prize winners; immediately
behind these, on a row of chairs, were various notabilities, among whom
Alderman Munt was conspicuously foremost; and then facing them, in a
curious, rather impressed semicircle, were the members of that general
public which not for worlds would miss anything in the nature of a
giving of prizes by the wife of a real live alderman.
The proprietor of the Duke of Wellington sat glaring fiercely from
under his white billycock hat, clutching a little convulsively the
knob of his sun umbrella. A ruthless eye raked the distant corps of
successful competitors, as one by one they came round the corner of the
bandstand and converged upon the timid lady whose task it was publicly
to reward their skill. All were awkward, some were abashed, some tried
to hide their feelings by an ill-timed facetiousness.
There he was, the little dog! Josiah's grip tightened on the knob
of the sun umbrella. If the little cur had "had a drop," as he most
probably had, he was very likely to insult Maria--it was such a great,
such a golden, opportunity. Josiah was not troubled as a rule by
vain regrets, but as the Secretary in his far flung voice announced,
"President's Special Prize for best Single Bloom, winner Mr. W.
Hollis," and there came an expectant hush in which the meager form
of Mr. W. Hollis emerged into the full glare of the public gaze, his
father-in-law would have paid a substantial sum to be able to rescind
his recent verdict. The little Stoat could not be expected to bear
himself like a gentleman.
Aunt Gerty, standing prim and tense at the back of the invertebrate
Maria, grew as white as if she had seen a ghost. But she drew in her
thin lips sternly and, great warrior as she was, literally transfixed
poor Melia's declassé husband with her tortoiseshell folders. How
common he was! It was really very stupid of Josiah to let him have a
prize in such circumstances. It was very stupid, indeed! He was just
the kind of man who might be tempted to indulge in some form of cheap
revenge.
As Melia's husband shuffled across the grass Josiah held himself ready
to spring upon him. Public or no public he would certainly do so if the
little beast made any sign of insulting Maria. But as Bill Hollis came
slowly and doggedly into the picture he was visited by a reluctant
grace. Half way across the grass, midway between the bandstand and the
alderman's lady, he took his shabby hands from his shabby pockets; a
little farther on several degrees of slouch passed from the unpleasing
curve of his narrow shoulders. And finally, as the silver gilt goblet
was bestowed upon him by a pair of trembling hands, he ducked solemnly,
the best he could do in the way of a bow, and then retired modestly,
silently, respectfully, the trophy under his arm.
Josiah and Aunt Gerty breathed again. Great was their relief. And
so intensely had they been preoccupied with the bearing of Melia's
husband, that, very luckily for Maria, they were not able to notice
hers. It was well this was so. For the alderman's lady had disgraced
herself on an important public occasion by allowing her eyes to fill
with tears.