The H.G. Wells Reader (86 page)

“Steady, you idiot. Stead-y!” cried Mr. Voules, and then over his shoulder: “I brought that rice! I like old customs! Whoa! Stead-y.”

The dog cart swerved violently, and then, evoking a shout of groundless alarm from a cyclist, took a corner, and the rest of the wedding party was hidden from Mr. Polly's eyes.

“We'll get the stuff into the house before the old gal comes along,” said Mr. Voules, “if you'll hold the hoss.”

“How about the key?” asked Mr. Polly.

“I got the key, coming.”

And while Mr. Polly held the sweating horse and dodged the foam that dripped from its bit, the house absorbed Miriam and Mr. Voules altogether. Mr. Voules carried in the various hampers he had brought with him, and finally closed the door behind him.

For some time Mr. Polly remained alone with his charge in the little blind alley outside the Larkins' house, while the neighbours scrutinised him from behind their blinds. He reflected that he was a married man, that he must look very like a fool, that the head of a horse is a silly shape and its eye a bulger; he wondered what the horse thought of him, and whether it really liked being held and patted on the neck or whether it only submitted out of contempt. Did it know he was married? Then he wondered if the clergyman had thought him much of an ass, and then whether the individual lurking behind the lace curtains of the front room next door was a man or a woman. A door opened over the way, and an elderly gentleman in a kind of embroidered fez appeared smoking a pipe with a quite satisfied expression. He regarded Mr. Polly for some time with mild but sustained curiosity. Finally he called: “Hi!”

“Hullo!” said Mr. Polly.

“You needn't 'old that 'orse,” said the old gentleman.

“Spirited beast,” said Mr. Polly. “And,”—with some faint analogy to ginger beer in his mind—“he's up to-day.”

“ 'E won't turn 'isself round,” said the old gentleman, “anyhow. And there ain't no way through for 'im to go.”

“Verbum sap,” said Mr. Polly, and abandoned the horse and turned to the door. It opened to him just as Mrs. Larkins on the arm of Johnson, followed by Annie, Minnie, two friends, Mrs. Punt and her son and at a slight distance Uncle Pentstemon, appeared round the corner.

“They're coming,” he said to Miriam, and put an arm about her and gave her a kiss.

She was kissing him back when they were startled violently by the shying of two empty hampers into the passage. Then Mr. Voules appeared holding a third.

“Here! you'll 'ave plenty of time for that presently,” he said, “get these hampers away before the old girl comes. I got a cold collation here to make her sit up. My eye!”

Miriam took the hampers, and Mr. Polly under compulsion from Mr. Voules went into the little front room. A profuse pie and a large ham had been added to the modest provision of Mrs. Larkins, and a number of select-looking bottles shouldered the bottle of sherry and the bottle of port she had got to grace the feast. They certainly went better with the iced wedding cake in the middle. Mrs. Voules, still impassive, stood by the window regarding these things with a faint approval.

“Makes it look a bit thicker, eh?” said Mr. Voules, and blew out both his cheeks and smacked his hands together violently several times. “Surprise the old girl no end.”

He stood back and smiled and bowed with arms extended as the others came clustering at the door.

“Why, Un-cle Voules!” cried Annie, with a rising note.

It was his reward.

And then came a great wedging and squeezing and crowding into the little room. Nearly everyone was hungry, and eyes brightened at the sight of the pie and the ham and the convivial array of bottles. “Sit down everyone,” cried Mr. Voules, “leaning against anything counts as sitting, and makes it easier to shake down the grub!”

The two friends from Miriam's place of business came into the room among the first, and then wedged themselves so hopelessly against Johnson in an attempt to get out again and take off their things upstairs that they abandoned the attempt. Amid the struggle, Mr. Polly saw Uncle Pentstemon relieve himself of his parcel by giving it to the bride. “Here!” he said and handed it to her. “Weddin' present,” he explained, and added with a confidential chuckle, “I never thought I'd 'ave to give you one—ever.”

“Who says steak and kidney pie?” bawled Mr. Voules. “Who says steak and kidney pie? You 'ave a drop of old Tommy, Martha. That's what you want to steady you. . . . Sit down everyone and don't all speak at once. Who says steak and kidney pie? . . .”

“Vocificeratious,” whispered Mr. Polly. “Convivial vocificerations.”

“Bit of 'am with it,” shouted Mr. Voules, poising a slice of ham on his knife. “Anyone 'ave a bit of 'am with it? Won't that little man of yours, Mrs. Punt—won't 'e 'ave a bit of 'am? . . .”

“And now ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Voules, still standing and dominating the crammed roomful, “now you got your plates filled and something I can warrant you good in your glasses, wot about drinking the 'ealth of the bride?”

“Eat a bit fust,” said Uncle Pentstemon, speaking with his mouth full, amidst murmurs of applause. “Eat a bit fust.”

So they did, and the plates clattered and the glasses chinked.

Mr. Polly stood shoulder to shoulder with Johnson for a moment.

“In for it,” said Mr. Polly cheeringly. “Cheer up, O' Man, and peck a bit. No reason why
you
shouldn't eat, you know.”

The Punt boy stood on Mr. Polly's boots for a minute, struggling violently against the compunction of Mrs. Punt's grip.

“Pie,” said the Punt boy, “Pie!”

“You sit 'ere and 'ave 'am, my lord!” said Mrs. Punt, prevailing. “Pie you can't 'ave and you won't.”

“Lor bless my heart, Mrs. Punt!” protested Mr. Voules, “let the boy 'ave a bit if he wants it—wedding and all!”

“You 'aven't 'ad 'im 'sick 'on 'your 'ands, Uncle Voules,” said Mrs. Punt. “Else you wouldn't want to humour his fancies as you do. . . .”

“I can't help feeling it's a mistake, O' Man,” said Johnson, in a confidential undertone. “I can't help feeling you've been Rash. Let's hope for the best.”

“Always glad of good wishes, O' man,” said Mr. Polly. “You'd better have a drink of something. Anyhow, sit down to it.”

Johnson subsided gloomily, and Mr. Polly secured some ham and carried it off and sat himself down on the sewing machine on the floor in the corner to devour it. He was hungry, and a little cut off from the rest of the company by Mrs. Voules' hat and back, and he occupied himself for a time with ham and his own thoughts. He became aware of a series of jangling concussions on the table. He craned his neck and discovered that Mr. Voules was standing up and leaning forward over the table in the manner distinctive of after-dinner speeches, tapping upon the table with a black bottle. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Voules, raising his glass solemnly in the empty desert of sound he had made, and paused for a second or so. “Ladies and gentlemen,—The Bride.” He searched his mind for some suitable wreath of speech, and brightened at last with discovery. “Here's Luck to her!” he said at last.

“Here's Luck!” said Johnson hopelessly but resolutely, and raised his glass. Everybody murmured: “Here's luck.”

“Luck!” said Mr. Polly, unseen in his corner, lifting a forkful of ham.

“That's all right,” said Mr. Voules with a sigh of relief at having brought off a difficult operation. “And now, who's for a bit more pie?”

For a time conversation was fragmentary again. But presently Mr. Voules rose from his chair again; he had subsided with a contented smile after his first oratorical effort, and produced a silence by renewed hammering. “Ladies and gents,” he said, “fill up for the second toast:—the happy Bridegroom!” He stood for half a minute searching his mind for the apt phrase that came at last in a rush. “Here's (hic) luck to him,” said Mr. Voules.

“Luck to him!” said everyone, and Mr. Polly, standing up behind Mrs. Voules, bowed amiably, amidst enthusiasm.

“He may say what he likes,” said Mrs. Larkins, “he's got luck. That girl's a treasure of treasures, and always has been ever since she tried to nurse her own little sister, being but three at the time, and fell the full flight of stairs from top to bottom, no hurt that any outward eye 'as even seen, but always ready and helpful, always tidying and busy. A treasure, I must say, and a treasure I will say, giving no more than her due. . . .”

She was silenced altogether by a rapping sound that would not be denied. Mr. Voules had been struck by a fresh idea and was standing up and hammering with the bottle again.

“The third Toast, ladies and gentlemen,” he said; “fill up, please. The Mother of the bride. I—er. . . . Uoo. . . . Ere! . . . Ladies and gem, 'Ere's Luck to 'er! . . .”

The dingy little room was stuffy and crowded to its utmost limit, and Mr. Polly's skies were dark with the sense of irreparable acts. Everybody seemed noisy and greedy and doing foolish things. Miriam, still in that unbecoming hat—for presently they had to start off to the station together—sat just beyond Mrs. Punt
and her son, doing her share in the hospitalities, and ever and again glancing at him with a deliberately encouraging smile. Once she leant over the back of the chair to him and whispered cheeringly: “Soon be together now. “Next to her sat Johnson, profoundly silent, and then Annie, talking vigorously to a friend. Uncle Pentstemon was eating voraciously opposite, but with a kindling eye for Annie. Mrs. Larkins sat next to Mr. Voules. She was unable to eat a mouthful, she declared, it would choke her, but ever and again Mr. Voules wooed her to swallow a little drop of liquid refreshment.

There seemed a lot of rice upon everybody, in their hats and hair and the folds of their garments.

Presently Mr. Voules was hammering the table for the fourth time in the interest of the Best Man. . . .

All feasts come to an end at last, and the break-up of things was precipitated by alarming symptoms on the part of Master Punt. He was taken out hastily after a whispered consultation, and since he had got into the corner between the fireplace and the cupboard, that meant everyone moving to make way for him. Johnson took the opportunity to say, “Well—so long,” to anyone who might be listening, and disappear. Mr. Polly found himself smoking a cigarette and walking up and down outside in the company of Uncle Pentstemon, while Mr. Voules replaced bottles in hampers and prepared for departure, and the womenkind of the party crowded upstairs with the bride. Mr. Polly felt taciturn, but the events of the day had stirred the mind of Uncle Pentstemon to speech. And so he spoke, discursively and disconnectedly, a little heedless of his listener as wise old men will.

“They do say,” said Uncle Pentstemon, “one funeral makes many. This time it's a wedding. But it's all very much of a muchness,” said Uncle Pentstemon. . . .

“ 'Am do get in my teeth nowadays,” said Uncle Pentstemon, “I can't understand it. 'Tisn't like there was nubbicks or strings or such in 'am. It's a plain food.

“That's better,” he said at last.

“You
got
to get married,” said Uncle Pentstemon. “Some has. Some hain't. I done it long before I was your age. It hain't for me to blame you. You can't 'elp being the marrying sort any more than me. It's nat'ral—like poaching or drinking or wind on the stummick. You can't 'elp it and there you are! As for the good of it, there ain't no particular good in it as I can see. It's a toss up. The hotter come, the sooner cold, but they all gets tired of it sooner or later. . . . I hain't no grounds to complain. Two I've 'ad and berried, and might 'ave 'ad a third, and never no worrit with kids—never. . . .”

“You done well not to 'ave the big gal. I will say that for ye. She's a gad-about grinny, she is, if ever was. A gad-about grinny. Mucked up my mushroom bed to rights, she did, and I 'aven't forgot it. Got the feet of a centipede, she 'as—all over everything and neither with your leave nor by your leave. Like a stray 'en in a pea patch. Cluck! cluck! Trying to laugh it off. I laughed 'er off, I did. Dratted lumpin baggage! . . .”

For a while he mused malevolently upon Annie, and routed out a reluctant crumb from some coy sitting-out place in his tooth.

“Wimmin's a toss up,” said Uncle Pentstemon. “Prize packets they are, and you can't tell what's in 'em till you took 'em 'ome and undone 'em. Never was a bachelor married yet that didn't buy a pig in a poke. Never. Marriage seems to change the very natures in 'em through and through. You can't tell what they won't turn into—no-how.

“I seen the nicest girls go wrong,” said Uncle Pentstemon, and added with unusual thoughtfulness, “Not that I mean you got one of the sort.”

He sent another crumb on to its long home with a sucking, encouraging noise.

“The wust sort's the grizzler,” Uncle Pentstemon resumed. “If ever I'd ad a grizzler I'd up and 'it 'er on the 'ed with sumpthin' pretty quick. I don't think I
could
abide a grizzler,” said Uncle Pentstemon. “I'd leifer 'ave a lump-about like that other gal. I would indeed. I lay I'd make 'er stop laughing after a bit for all 'er airs. And mind where her clumsy great feet went. . . .

“A man's got to tackle 'em, whatever they be,” said Uncle Pentstemon, summing up the shrewd observation of an old-world life time. “Good or bad,” said Uncle Pentstemon raising his voice fearlessly, “a man's got to tackle 'em.”

At last it was time for the two young people to catch the train for Waterloo en route for Fishbourne. They had to hurry, and as a concluding glory of matrimony they travelled second-class, and were seen off by all the rest of the party except the Punts, Master Punt being now beyond any question unwell.