The History of Mr. Polly

“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 quiet 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 today.”

“’E won’t turn ’isself round,” said the old gentleman, “anyow.  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-clé 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!...”