Joking apart

It was first rumoured and then announced in the papers. By and by the full programme of events was published, and then invitations to this and that were issued. There was nothing unseemly about the Millport manœuvres before the great battle of Exclusive Rights. No one admitted that there had been, was, or would be any demand for invitations to anything; not even for the big garden-party where the King and Queen were to be present. There was a semi-private luncheon too, but that was a sacramental feast. No one spoke of it beforehand, any more than a duke would rush into his club, shouting, “I say! I’m going to get the Garter—are you?” No. One read about it in the paper next morning; that was all. But there was a wider choice of behaviour with regard to the other invitations. People behaved like the animals in the Ark, each one after his kind. The sort who are at their best early in the morning, and are therefore unpopular with liverish hosts, were in great spirits about the whole thing. They applied early for tickets for everything. The appointed day lay before them as a rosy picnic. But this was not the attitude of quite the best people. They did all their spade-work by moonlight, when the busy revellers were in bed, dreaming happy dreams, with medallions of their Majesties put out with the clean shirts for the morning. But in those dark hours the county families worked for promotion like heroes, appearing next day spruce and unconcerned as usual, with the suggestion, “Shall you be going to the garden-party? We might drive out together—Oh, haven’t you? How extraordinary! These things are frightfully badly managed. I expect they haven’t got half the invitations out yet; ours only came last week.” In the case of those whose midnight labours had been unblessed with cardboard fruit the formula was a little different. There was no pretending that the fruit was unpalatable and had been rejected. Millport is not so crude as all that. The formula was to the effect that invitations were being issued on a purely official basis, and mismanaged at that, and that there would be an awfully queer crowd there. How would they behave?

Reginald was on the committee of the hospital which the King and Queen were to visit, so, of course, Polly would be provided with a good place. One thing was quite clear, that the occasion asked for, if it did not actually demand, a new dress.

“My dearest life,” said Reginald, “to begin with, the Queen is short-sighted, and to go on with, you will be hidden by abler and stouter persons than yourself in the front row.”

Polly argued that there would be the tea afterwards, and, besides, anyhow——Reginald gave her a cheque at once, because when women begin saying, “besides, anyhow,” it is far wiser to give in. Such words never preface the truth, and the business of hearing what follows is generally very long and tedious. Polly had an almost new afternoon dress which, had it been a success, she would have worn; but it was not altogether right, and Mrs. Henry, whose husband was also on the committee, had been in the shop when she bought it, and would remember its age. Also she had since been given a hat which was not quite right with the dress. It would need all a woman’s life as a context to show up trifles like these so that they would figure as reasons before a husband’s mind. Therefore, we invent reasons which look solid, rather than bring forward the nebulous truth which would probably be met with contempt.

“I want a dress for the King’s visit, Miss Price,” said Polly, standing next day in a small room at the top of a dingy little house. Miss Price, very minute, very wizened, very commanding, stood beside a round table on which were a vase of artificial flowers, several photographs of worn, though cheerful, faces, and some fashion papers of remote date.

“I am afraid I shan’t be able to manage it, Mrs.—er—” she said, “I am so rushed already, I can hardly get through the orders I have.” Polly took no notice of this. “Are you making for a lot of people?” she asked with deep interest.

“There’s Mrs. Beehive,” began Miss Price. “She’s ordered a very nice dress.”

“Oh, has she?” said Polly, “what fun! I shall look out for it. Is it very new?”

“Well, no,” Miss Price said hesitatingly, “the new styles would hardly suit Mrs. Beehive. She is all shapes and sizes, you would think, according to the weather.”

Polly sopped this up like nectar, and retailed it to Reginald when she got home. “Great Scot!” he said, “I hope Beehive doesn’t go and look over my waistcoats at the tailor’s, and ask the fitter how much he has let out since last year. What curious creatures you are.”

“It’s all right,” said Polly, “I love to know beforehand what people are going to wear, and then I know what to avoid.”

“But I think you told me that Miss Price said she couldn’t make it?” said Reginald.

“Oh, that is just a little nervous habit of hers,” Polly assured him, “like nice-mannered people wanting to be pressed to a second helping. Would you believe it if your tailor said he hadn’t time to make you a new coat?”

“I never heard of any tailor saying such a thing,” Reginald replied.

“No, of course not,” retorted Polly contemptuously, “because you order your clothes in March, and they come home the year after next. I might undertake to make you a pair of boots if I could wait to deliver them until after you were dead. And I don’t suppose you ever complain, do you?”

“Oh yes,” said Reginald. “Haven’t you seen boys tearing along the Exchange with large cardboard boxes under their arms? If you got on to the Flags you would find the place littered with tissue paper, and Beehive, and Henry and I trying on each other’s trousers. That means that we complained of the delay and sent a boy to fetch the things at once.”

One rather sad feature of the traffic that went on in Miss Price’s dingy apartments was the immense pains which were taken by all the ladies to find out what was the very last word in fashion, and so attire themselves for the delight of their Sovereigns. Little did they suspect that a creation from the Rue de la Paix will avail a woman at the gates of Buckingham Palace no more than a pair of blue corsets will soften the heart of Peter. In both cases the facts would very likely be used against her. The desire to please nearly always contains elements of pathos.

The programme of the great day’s proceedings was dull enough reading. It not only left one with a strong belief in the divine right of kings, but also suggested that Providence went a step further and provided rulers who, though human in many respects, were fashioned of immortally tough material. We read about the woman’s heart beneath the queenly robe, of the home life of monarchs, and the birthday festivals of princes. The papers assure us that the King frequently expresses regret at the loss of his collar-stud, and that the Queen enjoys a chat with her intimate friends. Anecdotes are related of how an emperor once remarked to a gamekeeper whom he met traversing the park, “I expect you find plenty to do towards the middle of August,” and how the wife of a reigning Sovereign entered the cottage of an old woman and observed with a smile, “I see you have been peeling onions; you must remember not to cut your husband’s bread with the same knife.” All these incidents show, beyond any doubt, that the same heart beats alike for rich and poor. But there is one heaven-sent quality which distinguishes rulers from the common herd, and that is an insensibility to boredom and the pangs of platitude which transcends all mortal endowments. Human nature has the power to endure; the higher and royal nature, I hope and believe, does not mind.

How much the Imperial pair observed of all the labour which had been expended for their pleasure it is impossible to say. Whether it ever struck her Majesty that Polly’s sleeves were cut from a more exclusive design than Mrs. Henry’s, or whether she was startled by Mrs. Beehive’s superior knowledge of the habits of the Court, no one will ever know. But probably the fact that all sorts of hidden details had been attended to with enthusiasm by every one, that a spider on the roof of the hospital had been dislodged from his perch, that the chairman had given extra attention to the parting of what hair he possessed, that the matron had on her last new underbodice, and that the address which was to be delivered by the Recorder had been carefully prepared: all these trifles, if unrecognized separately, must yet have combined to express a general sense of happiness and welcome.

The morning of the great day dawned gloomy and cold, the first wet day there had been for three weeks. A chilly north-west wind brought, alternately, penetrating fine rain and short intervals of greeny-grey sky, through which the sun peeped without interest. On the first moment of these intervals macintoshes and umbrellas were eagerly put aside, the enthusiasts lining the streets emerging gay as a rainbow, until the fretful clouds gathered once more, and everybody with one voice exclaimed, “Dear me! What a pity!”

Inside the hospital there had been very little sleep for anybody. It would be interesting to know whether persons marooned on a desert island, with the whole day before them, begin to get in a hurry when the time comes to dish up what frugal meals are available—say, two bananas and a sweet biscuit. It is certain that the importance and extent of preparations to be made for an occasion have no bearing on the amount of time needed to complete them. There will be a scurry at the end, whether the occasion is the beanfeasting of a thousand people, or the getting off of one man and his papers for an early train. Whether we allow half an hour for the one (and make the beanfeast impromptu), or whether we prepare for the other six months beforehand (reminding him every hour that the time is getting on, and finally ourselves putting the tobacco-pouch in his pocket), the result will be the same; the thing will get done with equal hurry and impatience. Everything had been quite ready the day before this visit of the King and Queen; yet no one in the hospital went to bed, except the patients, who were in bed already, and they got very little sleep. The visit, which it was reckoned would take half an hour, was timed for eleven, and by nine o’clock the invalids were all washed and had ribbons in their hair; the wards were spotlessly tidy, and such windows as were to be occupied by guests were already nearly filled. There was to be a short reception in the hall when their Majesties arrived, and a few people were to be presented.

When the moment was over, and the royal couple had passed on their way through the wards; when they had been ushered past the fluttering windows; when they had re-entered their carriage, and disappeared, methodically bowing, along the glittering, bobbing, trotting, waving, cheering vista, which is to most of us the whole life of our King and Queen, then, happy and relieved, we returned to the official tea downstairs, and resumed our several natures.