“I spoke without thinking of what I was saying, my love.”
“I suppose, dear, I am too sensitive.”
—The great task came up before them to be tackled. Mr. Gleeson made a
short speech to his wife on the subject, calling it a scheme for welding
the village into one harmonious whole, and they were both gratified by
this neat way of putting the case. One harmonious whole, echoed Mrs.
Gleeson. One harmonious whole, he repeated firmly.
So the two set out, furnished with cards, to call upon residents; an
undertaking the more necessary and excusable because residents had made
no attempt to call upon them. They divided the task, arranging to meet
two hours later and report progress of affairs, and meanwhile said
farewell in an affectionate style outside the house; two little girls,
looking on with a scandalised air, prepared to run off to tell their
respective mothers.
“Good luck, dear,” said Mrs. Gleeson.
“Bon voyage, ma cherie,” he replied. They kissed again.
At the time appointed she returned with satisfaction and triumph
announced on her attractive young features. Her husband had not arrived,
and she strolled across to some children who were fixing wickets for a
game; they drew the stumps and retired to another corner of the green.
“Shy little things,” remarked Mrs. Gleeson.
She flag-signalled with a lace handkerchief to her husband, who could be
seen walking slowly in the distance, but he was gazing at the dusty road
in a thoughtful manner and did not respond; she ran to meet him and to
take his arm.
“Well?” he asked shortly.
Everybody had said yes, she answered with enthusiasm. No sooner had she
given the invitation than they accepted. The vicar, the
Congregationalist minister, the auctioneer (who was also insurance agent,
and local representative for Chipley’s Celebrated Guanos), the
schoolmaster, Crutchley, the postman, two labourers, and the man who
usually stood outside the Three Bells with a wisp of straw between his
teeth—every one of these and others she had secured, every one had made
careful note of the date.
“And you?” she asked.
Mr. Gleeson confessed his record was not so excellent. Miss Bulwer
delayed him for thirty-five minutes, and, a grievance still rankling,
managed in that time to intimate that she bossed the village.
“Her own phrase,” he said excusingly.
Miss Bulwer flattered herself she performed the task well, and certainly
did not propose to allow new-comers to interfere. Miss Bulwer agreed
that the barriers of class should be broken down; she came of a Liberal
stock, and her father sat in Parliament once for nearly a year, but
rather than meet Crutchley or any of his set on friendly terms, she would
willingly be burnt at the stake.
“But surely, dear, it was an error, if you don’t mind my saying so, to
tell her that we had invited anybody else.”
“Thought it fairer,” he replied.
“I said nothing of the kind to some of mine.”
“You should have done.”
“Pardon me,” said Mrs. Gleeson, “but perhaps you will admit that my plan
proved more successful.”
“Those two sisters, the dressmakers, are coming,” he went on, declining
to argue the point, “and three other women accepted and promised to be
with us providing nothing better turned up in the meantime. Singularly
frank and open in their speech,” he remarked, with a sigh. “They went so
far as to ask me what we expected to make out of it.”
“I like people to be genuine.”
“There are limits,” he said, “which should not be exceeded. Let us go in
and reckon up the number of guests.”
The two small girls who had seen them kiss each other took up a position
near the fence, watching with undisguised curiosity as Mr. and Mrs.
Gleeson sat at the window completing arrangements. As these proceeded
Mr. Gleeson regained something of his early enthusiasm. He intended to
make a speech to the company, once the visitors were assembled, and his
wife suggested that if his mind was made up in this regard, he had better
rehearse; he walked up and down the room, using appropriate gestures, the
while the two little spectators held on to the fence in their anxiety to
miss nothing.
“Did you remember to telegraph to the Stores?” he demanded, breaking off.
“I did.”
“And have the things arrived?”
“Not yet. But they never fail.”
“Find a man,” he ordered, “the one outside the Three Bells, and send him
off at once. Unless I see to everything, there is always a muddle!”
Full justification for the issuing of this command was found when the man
returned with the case; it had duly arrived by the mid-day train and
would, he reported, have remained at the station until goodness knew when
if he had not been sent to fetch it. The man offered to prise open the
lid, and on seeing the contents made the announcement that the two shops
of the village would not be best pleased to hear that goods similar to
those which might have been purchased at their establishments had been
imported from town. Asked by the anxious young hostess to give his own
opinion, the man said he was all for liberty and freedom, and letting
people do as they liked, but he felt bound to say that home industries
ought to be patronised. He had often argued this in the Three Bells, and
felt he ought not to say behind people’s backs anything he did not dare
to speak in front of their faces.
“All the same,” he added, accepting the shilling, “I shall pop round in
good time this evening. You can rely upon me. My word’s as good as me
bond.”
Now the two maids began to fly to and fro. Now Mr. Gleeson set out
chairs on the lawn at the back in preparation for an overflow meeting.
Now furniture was moved and the pianoforte opened. Now one of the maids
ran across to hire twenty cups and saucers, and returned from the shop
with the message that only regular customers were obliged in this way;
the cups and saucers could be purchased, or they could be let alone, but
no third alternative existed. Mr. Gleeson went over his speech once more
and, on the suggestion of his wife, introduced a more pronounced tone of
geniality, leaving out some of the sterner views concerning the value of
friendship. Mrs. Gleeson’s sketches were set in a good position. Mr.
Gleeson tried “I am a Jolly Mariner,” and decided he had found himself in
worse voice. At seven o’clock they were ready for the thirty-five
guests, and Mr. Gleeson snatched a few moments to practise a smile of
welcome, one that would indicate gratification without degenerating into
a broad grin.
“We shall find them rather difficult at first,” he mentioned. “I must
get you to help me, my dear, to make them feel thoroughly at home from
the very outset. Wish you had thought to order some crackers.”
“Sorry!”
“In Stepney, if you remember, the pulling of these and the wearing of
paper caps at once put everybody at their ease. What’s the time now?”
She exhibited her watch.
“Mary asked the constable just now whether anything of the kind had ever
been arranged before and he said ‘No.’”
“Did he say anything else?” asked Mr. Gleeson.
“He added ‘And never won’t again, neither.’”
“The ability of peering into the future,” he remarked, nettled, “is a
gift denied even to the village policeman. He seems to have the idea
that no one can do right excepting himself.”
“There’s a knock.”
Please, ma’am (announced Mary), Mr. Crutchley, the butcher, has sent over
to know whether we want a joint for Sunday, because if so we had better
say so in good time. Ask the messenger (replied Mrs. Gleeson) to tell
Crutchley that we shall only trouble him in the case of chops and steaks;
the larger orders have been placed in town. Very well, ma’am. Mary,
returning three minutes later, apologised for the message she had now to
deliver; Crutchley sent word that where the Gleesons procured their
joints there they could procure their chops and steaks; Crutchley told
the messenger to add that he was not in the habit of being under an
obligation to any one.
“I disliked the man,” declared Mr. Gleeson warmly, “from the very first.
Understand, my dear, please, that not another penny of mine is to be
spent in his shop—not another halfpenny.”
Another ring, and Mary, with a look of greater satisfaction, announced
the vicar.
“Ah,” said the visitor, entering breezily, “Liberty Hall, Liberty Hall.
This is extremely satisfactory. How are we this evening? Settling down
to country life? That’s good. Before I forget it, there are two or
three funds under my control, the finances of which are in rather—what
shall I say?”
“Low water.”
“Capital!” declared the vicar, with enthusiasm. “The very phrase! Now
I’m not going to bother you, and hate above all things any suspicion of
begging, but if you have your cheque-book handy— How very, very kind of
you! A great day, for Murford Green—here’s a fountain pen—for Murford
Green when you two delightful people decided to take up your residence
here. Thank you so much: I’ll blot it. Equally divided, shall we say?
A thousand obligations. I have a number of letters to write; will you
forgive me if I run off? Pray give my sincere regards to all the dear
people. All the dear people. The dear people. Dear people. People.”
The voice disappeared in the manner of a ventriloquist’s entertainment.
A note from the schoolmaster. The schoolmaster was sorry, but he had
only just ascertained that the Rev. Mr. Barton, Congregationalist
minister, had been asked, and in these circumstances the schoolmaster
begged to be excused. A note from Mr. Barton. Mr. Barton, having
ascertained that the schoolmaster had been invited, felt it impossible to
meet that gentleman until he had withdrawn certain remarks concerning
Passive Resisters, and hoped Mrs. Gleeson would permit him to defer his
visit. The postman called at the back door to say that he could have
spared an hour, and would have spared an hour, but talk was going on in
the village, and until this received contradiction it was more than his
position, as a Government official, was worth to set foot inside the
house. Mary, answering her master’s impatient reprimand, declared she
had asked for further particulars; the postman, with a deep blush,
assured her it was not a subject he could discuss with a single young
woman; on Mary insisting, he referred her to a Mrs. Larch, living in one
of a row of cottages not far away. The Gleesons, greatly disturbed,
requested the maid to fly in that direction and obtain details. As Mary
went out of the front gate they noticed the two invited labourers,
dressed in black suits.
“Beg pardon, missy,” they heard one of them say, “but if it ent a rude
question, is there going to be any beer purvided at this affair what’s to
come off this evening?” The maid gave an answer and ran on. “Not?” they
echoed amazedly. “Very well then! No bloomin’ beer; no bloomin’ us!”
Other excuses came. The odd man of the Three Bells alone remained
unaccounted for, and he arrived, pulling at the garden gate, which he
should have pushed, and solving the difficulty by climbing over.
Approaching the open window, he lurched across the flower-bed, took off
his hat to Mr. Gleeson, blew a clumsy kiss to Mrs. Gleeson.
“Not coming in,” he said, with a wink. “No fear! Not me! Got my
rep’tation to consider. I sh’d never ’old up my ’ead again. Warm lot,
you Londoners. Thank goodness I was born ’n bred in the country. Honest
man, that’s what I am, and I don’t care who says I’m not. You never
catch me ’ugging a girl in middle of the roadway. Not me!”
A council was held so soon as the maid came back. Mary had assured Mrs.
Larch that her master and her mistress were married, for she herself was
present at the wedding, and the lady offered two suggestions: one that
Mary’s eyesight was defective, the other that people only used a foreign
language when they desired to say something that could not be spoken in
decent English. Mary, having delivered the news, stood back and waited.
“Have you no suggestion to make, my dear?” asked the worried Mr. Gleeson.
His wife shook her head despondently.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the maid, with respect, “but me and Emma have been
talking it over, and as she says the doctor ordered you quiet, and you
haven’t yet succeeded in letting the house at Kensington, what’s to
prevent us from—”
“Get the A.B.C.,” he ordered. “We’ll find out what time there’s a train
back to town in the morning.”