To WILBERFORCE LECHWORTHY, Esquire,
Justice of the Peace and Member of Parliament
for South Loamshire,
on the Occasion of his Retirement from
that Business
which his Genius and his Untiring Industry
have with the Blessing of the Almighty
Created.
The presentation of this rather portentous volume was to take place on a Saturday evening. On the afternoon of that day every employee of the company was invited to tea by Lechworthy. A number of vast marquees were erected for the purpose on the cricket-field; and the return match between Setton Park and the Hanley Wanderers was in consequence postponed. The Evening News headed its paragraph on the subject: “Lechworthy packing—who made the portmanteau?” But the paragraph itself dealt seriously with statistics supplied by the firm of caterers, informing the curious how many hams or how many pats of butter had been thought sufficient. The Setton Park Band performed on the occasion. The antique show of Punch and Judy was to be seen freely, and swings were prevalent. Wilberforce Lechworthy went from one marquee to another, joined in the audience that witnessed the flagrant immoralities of Mr Punch, and chatted with the crowds that waited for their turn at the swings. He displayed a king-like memory for faces and the geniality of a headmaster on Speech-day. The presentation of the address took place some hours later in a hall which, though it was the largest at the company’s disposal, could not provide seating accommodation for one third of its workers. Heads of departments had tickets, and seniority of service counted. For those who were of necessity omitted, Mr Lechworthy had provided a fine display of fireworks. Inside the hall the Bishop of Merspool was in the chair, Mr Albert Grice, M.P., was ready to speak, and the address was to be presented by Mr Hutchinson, supported by speeches from Mr Wallis, Mr Salter and Mr Bailey. In spite of this, either from altruism or from want of thought, several of the privileged workmen offered their tickets freely to comrades who had otherwise to be content with the display of fireworks; nor were these offers invariably accepted. Some observations by the Bishop on the influences of religion in our commercial life occupied five lines in the papers next morning, concluding, “The presentation then took place.” The Morning Guide was more explicit and gave nearly a column. It reported the Bishop, Mr Grice, and Mr Hutchinson; it summarised Mr Wallis and Mr Salter, and asserted that Mr Bailey (who had spoken for twenty-five minutes) “added a few words of graceful eulogy.” All it said of Mr Lechworthy was the bald statement that he returned thanks. Thus, indeed, had Mr Lechworthy directed.
None of the papers noted the presence on the platform of Miss Hilda Auriol, the niece of Mr Lechworthy, nor can it be pretended that she constituted an item of public interest. But, for the idle purposes of this story, something must be said of her, even if, in consequence, it become necessary to suppress any detailed account of Mr Bailey’s words of graceful eulogy, or of the Bishop’s rediscovery that it is better to be good.
Wilberforce Lechworthy, childless and a widower, had been glad to adopt Hilda Auriol, one of his married sister’s very numerous family. At the age of six he professed to have detected in her a decided character. She was now twenty-three, and her uncle was very fond of her, but she was perhaps the only person of whom he was much afraid. Let it not be supposed that her temper was either sour or dictatorial. She was sunniness itself, and her criticism of life—including her uncle—was fresh and breezy. Her perspicacity detected and her soul abhorred anything that was specious and plausible; in practical politics and in the conduct of a great modern business the specious and the plausible have unfortunately their place, and Wilberforce did occasionally say things after which he experienced a momentary reluctance to meet his niece’s eye. She had a sense of humour and she was by nature a fighter. Her uncle himself was not a keener politician, and it was perhaps fortunate that in most respects their politics were identical. If she had asserted her independence she had not lost her femininity; she did take much thought as to the wherewithal she should be clothed, and she liked admiration. And she got it. If she had not already refused six offers of marriage, it was merely because she had not allowed six men to go quite as far as they had intended. Heart-whole, she had not yet met a man who much interested her, nor was she trying to arrange the meeting. She paid no great attention to athletics, but she could swim a mile, could sit a horse, and was a really good shot with a revolver. Of the last item her uncle had not entirely approved. “Why not?” said Hilda. “It’s a question of instinct. Instinct wouldn’t let me play football or smack a policeman’s face, but it does let me learn to shoot and want to vote.” She explained that she was only ready to use violence if it were not her own violence but the violence of the other sex. “For instance, when young Bruce Chalmers had the cheek to try to address your men, I would not have thrown stones myself, but—if I had been there—I would have encouraged the men who did throw them.”
“For goodness’ sake don’t say that,” said her uncle. “It was a lamentable occurrence, and it was most unfortunate that it was a woman who was hurt. It has done us more harm than good.”
Hilda laughed. She had a rather disconcerting laugh.
At the presentation she had looked charming. In the afternoon she had made friends with a dozen babies and played games with them, and she still wore her afternoon dress. But she looked fresh, cool, unruffled, delicately tended. Her mutinous little mouth remained firm and quiet, but a wicked brightness came into her eyes whenever a speaker achieved unconscious humour—and this was a calamity which occurred to most of the speakers. On the other hand, when Mr Grice recalled “an intensely amusing anecdote related to me by an old Scottish lady,” Hilda sighed gently and seemed to be thinking of far-off sad things. To such an extent may feminine perversity be carried.
Mr Grice, Mr Hutchinson and Mr Wallis were all directors of the company, and returned to London in Mr Lechworthy’s special saloon carriage. The express stopped at Setton Park by arrangement to pick it up. The Bishop had already spread his ecclesiastical wings in another direction. Supper was served at a little flower-decked table in the carriage for the party of eight. The three who have not already been mentioned were Lechworthy’s elderly unmarried sister, who was nervous and good-natured; Burton, his secretary, who had obligingly taken a short-hand note; and Mr Harmer, quite recently of Corpus, Oxford, and at present a leader-writer on the Morning Guide. Mr Harmer wore at first the air of a man who had got the little party together and meant to be kind to them, even if they did not quite reach his level. Later he had a brief conversation with Hilda Auriol, to whom he wished to say complimentary things; Hilda, metaphorically speaking, smote him between the eyes, and thereafter he wore the air of a dead rabbit. Yet she addressed her uncle’s secretary as Tommy, and went into fits of laughter over his excellent but irreverent imitation of the Bishop of Merspool, done for her private delectation. She was polite and charming to Mr Hutchinson and Mr Wallis, who admired her intensely; and to Mr Grice, who admired her quite as much as a married and middle-aged Member of Parliament had any business to do. Altogether, it was a cheerful little party. Mr Lechworthy, his sister and his niece did not touch the dry champagne to which the others did justice; but Mr Lechworthy’s ginger-ale, taken in a champagne-glass, presented a colourable imitation of festivity. At the moment of the cigarette, Miss Lechworthy and her niece retired to rest with instructions that they were not to be called before London.
In the little saloon, when the supper-table had been cleared, the men sat round and chatted, Mr Harmer alone being taciturn—which was unusual with him. If the conversation was now more serious it was quite optimistic. Mr Grice removed a faded malmaison from his button-hole, jerked it into the outer darkness, and remarked that it must be difficult for a man of Mr Lechworthy’s splendid energy to get himself to take a holiday at all.
Mr Lechworthy was smoking the briar pipe which he permitted himself after dark. His figure was lean, and at this late hour of night did not show any sign of fatigue. He sat upright. His hair was grey, but he had no tendency to baldness. He did not wear spectacles or false teeth. He certainly seemed for a man of his age unusually strong and healthy. But he made his customary observation that he was not as young as he had been. He spoke of his holiday plans.