The History of Mr. Polly by H. G. Wells (online e reader TXT) 📕

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 interests of the Best Man.⁠ ⁠…

All feasts come to an end at last, and the breakup 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 stummik. 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 gadabout grinny, she is, if ever was. A gadabout grinny. Mucked up my mushroom bed to rights, she did, and I ’aven’t forgot it. Got the feet of a centipede, she ’as⁠—ll 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—nohow.

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

VIII

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.

“Off!” The train moved out of the station.

Mr. Polly remained waving his hat and Mrs. Polly her handkerchief until they were hidden under the bridge. The dominating figure to the last was Mr. Voules. He had followed them along the platform waving the equestrian grey hat and kissing his hand to the bride.

They subsided into their seats.

“Got a compartment to ourselves anyhow,” said Mrs. Polly after a pause.

Silence for a moment.

“The rice ’e must ’ave bought. Pounds and pounds!”

Mr. Polly felt round his collar at the thought.

“Ain’t you going to kiss me, Elfrid, now we’re alone together?”

He roused himself to sit forward hands on knees, cocked his hat over one eye, and assumed an expression of avidity becoming to the occasion.

“Never!” he said. “Ever!” and feigned to be selecting a place to kiss with great discrimination.

“Come here,” he said, and drew her