# Mixed Grill/The Rest Cure

pp. 218-241.

### XIV THE REST CURE

“Knew you'd like it, dear,” said Mr. Gleeson confidently. “I declared the moment I saw the place, 'Now this,' I said to myself, 'this will suit the dear wife down to the ground.' Just look at that bit over there. (Wait a moment, driver.) Isn't that simply——”
He gave a gesture which meant that the English language provided no adequate words. His wife, with one hand upon his shoulder, offered an “Ah!” of content.
“You must paint this,” he went on, recovering powers of speech. “You must bring your easel and your white umbrella some morning when I'm busy, and try to get this effect. See the top of the church spire above the trees?”
“That there's a oast house,” interrupted the driver.
“You will not forget that I shall have my duties in the village,” she reminded him. “We are going to make life brighter, you know, for everybody.”
“True!” he admitted. “It will require discretion.”
“And diplomacy.”
“Still, we're not exactly amateurs. We bring something like a ripe experience to the task. This will be child's play after London. Think of the difference in numbers. Driver, how many inhabitants are there in Murford Green?”
“Can't say as I ever counted 'em.”
“But speaking approximately.”
“Well,” said the driver, with deliberation, “speaking approximately, I should say they was no better than they ought to be. And you'll excuse me, but I've got to get back to meet the five-eight, and if you and your lady could give me what you may call permission to go on now without any more pulling up, I shall jest do it. Otherwise I shan't, and then Miss Bulwer won't let me never hear the last of it. That's what she won't!”
“Who is Miss Bulwer?”
“Look 'ere,” argued the driver, half turning in his seat. “I've answered a pretty tidy number of questions sence we started from the railway station, and I'm beginning to lose my voice, and I'm not far off from losing my temper. But in reference to your question concerning, or regarding, or affecting Miss Bulwer, my answer is, you'll jolly soon find out! Is that good enough for you, or isn't it?”
“Merely a surface manner,” explained Mr. Gleeson, as the open fly trundled on again. “You don't know these people, my dear. A certain veneer of brusqueness, but underneath that good pure gold. Simple natures, I admit, but as honest and straightforward—— Wonder,” dropping his voice, “wonder how much he expects for this journey?”
“Pay him well,” suggested young Mrs. Gleeson, also in a whisper. “We must make a good impression at the start. Say eighteenpence.”
“Fortunately,” resuming ordinary tones, “both you and I will be protected and saved by our keen sense of humour.” He smiled. “I expect our arrival will flutter Murford Green pretty considerably. On an even surface the slightest ripple shows.”
Both stood up in the open carriage on finding that the prophecy seemed to receive full justification. Twenty or thirty men and lads were rushing across the triangle of green, shouting wildly; in their hands they carried stout hammers and long-handled axes; women cheered from doorways of cottages. A few were distracted temporarily by sight of the station fly, but, reproved by the others, they went on, atoning for the slight delay by shrieking more loudly than the rest.
“Anything on, driver?”
“Something coming off,” answered the man. “I said what'd 'appen when people began to lock up gates that'd been open for gen'rations and gen'rations. I warned 'em, but they wouldn't take no notice. And I ain't of'en wrong, neither,” concluded the driver.
“Don't be frightened, dear,” urged Mr. Gleeson. “I'll go out presently and set it to rights. One wise word from an impartial person, and it will all be over.”
The driver said at the destination that, times without number, he had received three and six for the service, paid willingly; if the gentleman had no more silver he supposed he would have to be content with three shillings. In reply to contentions, the driver asked whether Mr. Gleeson was aware of the price being asked, at the present moment, for oats, and Mr. Gleeson having to admit that his knowledge on this subject was incomplete, the driver retorted, “Very well then, what's the use of arguing? Why not pay up and look pleasant over it?” The fare obeyed the first part of this recommendation. The two maids (sent on in advance from Kensington) stood inside the gate, and caught the driver's farewell remark.
“Really, ma'am,” said the elder primly, “the manners of these people! I thought I knew something about language, but I've learnt something the three days we've been down here. Had a pleasant journey? Me and Sarah have both been feeling humpish. I told her it would be all right soon as ever you and the master came.”
Mr. Gleeson set out, immediately after a meal, to arrange the question that was troubling Murford Green. He had changed into a Norfolk suit, and as a further concession smoked a briar pipe; with a thick walking-stick he prodded at dock-leaves on the green. Near one corner of the triangle a meeting was being held, with a large-faced man shouting excitedly from a Windsor chair. Mr. Gleeson, crossing over, added himself to the audience.
“Well spoke,” sang the crowd, as the large man appeared to finish. “Very well putt!”
“There's my shop 'cross there,” shouted the orator, pointing to windows that had “Crutchley, Butcher,” in marble letters overhead. “If any one thinks I've broke the law, that's where they can serve a summons.”
The crowd looked around at the village constable. The constable frowned with the air of a man who had not entirely succeeded in making up his mind.
“We've got our rights,” the butcher went on, “and I defy any one to say the contrairy. If there's anybody here who don't agree with me, now's the time for him to step up and express his opinion. Free speech is our motto and—— What name, please?”
“My name is Gleeson,” announced the newcomer, “and I should like to say a few words.”
“For the agitation, may I ask, or against?”
“My attitude,” said Mr. Gleeson, “is that of a peace-maker.”
The crowd grumbled; the butcher called for order. Mr. Gleeson ascended the chair.
When, at the end of ten minutes, he stepped down, only the constable was there to give him a hand. The constable accounted for the dispersal of the crowd by pointing out that supper time was near, and on Mr. Gleeson asking whether he thought the words spoken had produced any effect, replied, cautiously, that it was difficult to say. The constable, as one who had looked on at many struggles, gave the opinion that you could not do better than let the parties fight it out and, this done, then possibly, but not certainly, came the moment for you to interfere. Mr. Gleeson felt bound, in reply, to mention that he had in his time been called to the bar; intimated that, in circumstances such as these, it seemed more fitting that he should give advice than take it.
“Now,” admitted the constable, “now you're putting a different light, sir, on the matter. To tell the truth, I wasn't quite aweer who I was talking to. I look on your arrival here, sir, as particular fortunate, because you can back me up in any action I see fit to take.”
“Any correct action.”
“That's the only way I've got of doing things. I've never yet made a blunder, and I don't suppose now I ever shall.”
“We are all of us liable to err,” pointed out Mr. Gleeson.
“Being liable to do a thing,” retorted the constable judicially, “and actually doing it, is two entirely different matters. Shall I tell you, sir, what idea has just come into my head?”
Permission given.
“This is the way I get 'old of notions,” went on the other self-exultantly. “I may be walking along a quiet lane, or standing here, as I am now, and all at once they come into my noddle like a—well, more like a flash of lightning than anything else. It's won'erful. Gives me quite a turn for the moment. Guess what the notion is that I've just thought of.”
The gentleman from London excused himself from making the attempt, and found his arm hooked confidentially by the handle of the policeman's stick.
“I'll bring over to your 'ouse this very evening two of the leaders of this movement, or agitation, or whatever you like to call it. You take down their evidence and to-morrow you go and call on Miss Bulwer. She's the lady who's been trying to stop up this path. You talk it over with her, you do, and settle it, and then announce your decision. As easy,” concluded the policeman, detecting hesitation, “as easy as saying the A.B.C.”
Two days later the constable, on receiving news from Crutchley, Butcher, that the affair had been amicably settled, was able to state that the village could reckon itself once more in debt to him, and mentioned the case of a colleague at Middlesham who had recently been presented by grateful inhabitants with a bicycle. Later came information that Miss Bulwer had discharged her housemaid, with a month's wages in lieu of notice; the driver of the station fly, in the course of a chat with his fare, ascertained the cause for her dismissal was that Miss Bulwer had understood her (the housemaid) to say, before the Londoner's call, that she believed Mr. Gleeson was a bachelor, whereas the departing housemaid declared she had only mentioned that he was clean-shaven. All the same the decision of the arbitrator stood; Miss Bulwer was declared to be the owner of the right of way, but graciously permitted the inhabitants to use it. Few of the villagers had walked along the path before the locked gate was placed there, and no one showed any anxiety to do so now that it was thrown open.
“A most satisfactory beginning,” said Mr. Gleeson to his young wife. “Nothing could be more auspicious. Now, we are about to take up the task of breaking down some barriers on our own account. Your help, dear, will be specially needed.”
“I haven't your tact.”
“You have something better, my love,” he replied gallantly. “You have charm. Together we ought to do a great work.”
“The place is beautifully quiet now,” she remarked.
“'If there's peace to be found in the world,'” quoted Mr. Gleeson, “'a heart that is humble may hope for it here.'”
“The girls are complaining.”
“They will soon become accustomed to the village and its surroundings. It takes time for a Londoner to settle down. The silence,” he went on, going to the window, “is to me most impressive.”
“It appears to strike them as being dull.”
That evening, when the two were consulting the local directory, taking down names and perfecting arrangements, a sudden uproar started near the open windows, and the servants came hurrying in to make protest against the noise; Mary and Emma urged that the master ought to go out and see what was happening. Looking through the open window the group could see that every man, every lad, every woman carried articles capable of producing clamour: some bore dustpans, some toy drums, some fire-irons. Mr. Gleeson felt able to give an explanation to the affrighted woman. It had, he believed, to do with bees; not quite certain about details, he felt sure it concerned bees—swarming or something of the kind.
“I don't want to be stung,” said cook nervously. “Wasps always make straight for me!”
The crowd stopped at a house facing the green, and there the hullabaloo increased to such an extent that Mr. Gleeson, finding his cap, announced an intention of putting a stop to the row without further delay. The women expected the turmoil would cease directly he reached the scene; they observed that he spoke to one or two, remonstrating with them; the folk seemed to be making an explanation, and he again used argumentative gestures; they appeared to order him to go away and, after one or two further efforts, he retired. The uproar continued.
“Not bees,” he announced, entering the room. “No! My dear, just send the maids to the kitchen.”
The girls went.
“A primitive custom,” he explained, “with which I was not previously acquainted. It seems a retired farmer living at the house in question lost his wife three months ago.”
“Surely a strange way of expressing sympathy.”
“That is not exactly the idea. The retired farmer has married again—married the nurse, and the village thinks it not quite right.”
“It isn't right,” she declared warmly. “I consider the villagers are quite justified in their action.”
“I don't agree with you, dear.”
“If I died,” she contended, “and you married again in such a short time, I should be very much gratified in looking down to find that people——”
“Why do you say 'down'?” The contention in the Gleesons' house rivalled the demonstration in the roadway.
Mutual apologies having been made the next morning——
“I spoke without thinking of what I was saying, my love.”
“I suppose, dear, I am too sensitive.”
—The great task came up before them to be tackled. Mr. Gleeson made a short speech to his wife on the subject, calling it a scheme for welding the village into one harmonious whole, and they were both gratified by this neat way of putting the case. One harmonious whole, echoed Mrs. Gleeson. One harmonious whole, he repeated firmly.
So the two set out, furnished with cards, to call upon residents; an undertaking the more necessary and excusable because residents had made no attempt to call upon them. They divided the task, arranging to meet two hours later and report progress of affairs, and meanwhile said farewell in an affectionate style outside the house; two little girls, looking on with a scandalised air, prepared to run off to tell their respective mothers.
“Good luck, dear,” said Mrs. Gleeson.
“Bon voyage, ma chèrie,” he replied. They kissed again.
At the time appointed she returned with satisfaction and triumph announced on her attractive young features. Her husband had not arrived, and she strolled across to some children who were fixing wickets for a game; they drew the stumps and retired to another corner of the green.
“Shy little things,” remarked Mrs. Gleeson.
She flag-signalled with a lace handkerchief to her husband, who could be seen walking slowly in the distance, but he was gazing at the dusty road in a thoughtful manner and did not respond; she ran to meet him and to take his arm.
“Well?” he asked shortly.
Everybody had said yes, she answered with enthusiasm. No sooner had she given the invitation than they accepted. The vicar, the Congregationalist minister, the auctioneer (who was also insurance agent, and local representative for Chipley's Celebrated Guanos), the schoolmaster, Crutchley, the postman, two labourers, and the man who usually stood outside the Three Bells with a wisp of straw between his teeth—every one of these and others she had secured, every one had made careful note of the date.
“And you?” she asked.
Mr. Gleeson confessed his record was not so excellent. Miss Bulwer delayed him for thirty-five minutes, and, a grievance still rankling, managed in that time to intimate that she bossed the village.
“Her own phrase,” he said excusingly.
Miss Bulwer flattered herself she performed the task well, and certainly did not propose to allow new-comers to interfere. Miss Bulwer agreed that the barriers of class should be broken down; she came of a Liberal stock, and her father sat in Parliament once for nearly a year, but rather than meet Crutchley or any of his set on friendly terms, she would willingly be burnt at the stake.
“But surely, dear, it was an error, if you don't mind my saying so, to tell her that we had invited anybody else.”
“Thought it fairer,” he replied.
“I said nothing of the kind to some of mine.”
“You should have done.”
“Pardon me,” said Mrs. Gleeson, “but perhaps you will admit that my plan proved more successful.”
“Those two sisters, the dressmakers, are coming,” he went on, declining to argue the point, “and three other women accepted and promised to be with us providing nothing better turned up in the meantime. Singularly frank and open in their speech,” he remarked, with a sigh. “They went so far as to ask me what we expected to make out of it.”
“I like people to be genuine.”
“There are limits,” he said, “which should not be exceeded. Let us go in and reckon up the number of guests.”
The two small girls who had seen them kiss each other took up a position near the fence, watching with undisguised curiosity as Mr. and Mrs. Gleeson sat at the window completing arrangements. As these proceeded Mr. Gleeson regained something of his early enthusiasm. He intended to make a speech to the company, once the visitors were assembled, and his wife suggested that if his mind was made up in this regard, he had better rehearse; he walked up and down the room, using appropriate gestures, the while the two little spectators held on to the fence in their anxiety to miss nothing.
“Did you remember to telegraph to the Stores?” he demanded, breaking off.
“I did.”
“And have the things arrived?”
“Not yet. But they never fail.”
“Find a man,” he ordered, “the one outside the Three Bells, and send him off at once. Unless I see to everything, there is always a muddle!”
Full justification for the issuing of this command was found when the man returned with the case; it had duly arrived by the mid-day train and would, he reported, have remained at the station until goodness knew when if he had not been sent to fetch it. The man offered to prise open the lid, and on seeing the contents made the announcement that the two shops of the village would not be best pleased to hear that goods similar to those which might have been purchased at their establishments had been imported from town. Asked by the anxious young hostess to give his own opinion, the man said he was all for liberty and freedom, and letting people do as they liked, but he felt bound to say that home industries ought to be patronised. He had often argued this in the Three Bells, and felt he ought not to say behind people's backs anything he did not dare to speak in front of their faces.
“All the same,” he added, accepting the shilling, “I shall pop round in good time this evening. You can rely upon me. My word's as good as me bond.”
Now the two maids began to fly to and fro. Now Mr. Gleeson set out chairs on the lawn at the back in preparation for an overflow meeting. Now furniture was moved and the pianoforte opened. Now one of the maids ran across to hire twenty cups and saucers, and returned from the shop with the message that only regular customers were obliged in this way; the cups and saucers could be purchased, or they could be let alone, but no third alternative existed. Mr. Gleeson went over his speech once more and, on the suggestion of his wife, introduced a more pronounced tone of geniality, leaving out some of the sterner views concerning the value of friendship. Mrs. Gleeson's sketches were set in a good position. Mr. Gleeson tried “I am a Jolly Mariner,” and decided he had found himself in worse voice. At seven o'clock they were ready for the thirty-five guests, and Mr. Gleeson snatched a few moments to practise a smile of welcome, one that would indicate gratification without degenerating into a broad grin.
“We shall find them rather difficult at first,” he mentioned. “I must get you to help me, my dear, to make them feel thoroughly at home from the very outset. Wish you had thought to order some crackers.”
“Sorry!”
“In Stepney, if you remember, the pulling of these and the wearing of paper caps at once put everybody at their ease. What's the time now?”
She exhibited her watch.
“Mary asked the constable just now whether anything of the kind had ever been arranged before and he said 'No.'”
“Did he say anything else?” asked Mr. Gleeson.
“He added 'And never won't again, neither.'”
“The ability of peering into the future,” he remarked, nettled, “is a gift denied even to the village policeman. He seems to have the idea that no one can do right excepting himself.”
“There's a knock.”
Please, ma'am (announced Mary), Mr. Crutchley, the butcher, has sent over to know whether we want a joint for Sunday, because if so we had better say so in good time. Ask the messenger (replied Mrs. Gleeson) to tell Crutchley that we shall only trouble him in the case of chops and steaks; the larger orders have been placed in town. Very well, ma'am. Mary, returning three minutes later, apologised for the message she had now to deliver; Crutchley sent word that where the Gleesons procured their joints there they could procure their chops and steaks; Crutchley told the messenger to add that he was not in the habit of being under an obligation to any one.
“I disliked the man,” declared Mr. Gleeson warmly, “from the very first. Understand, my dear, please, that not another penny of mine is to be spent in his shop—not another halfpenny.”
Another ring, and Mary, with a look of greater satisfaction, announced the vicar.
“Ah,” said the visitor, entering breezily, “Liberty Hall, Liberty Hall. This is extremely satisfactory. How are we this evening? Settling down to country life? That's good. Before I forget it, there are two or three funds under my control, the finances of which are in rather—what shall I say?”
“Low water.”
“Capital!” declared the vicar, with enthusiasm. “The very phrase! Now I'm not going to bother you, and hate above all things any suspicion of begging, but if you have your cheque-book handy—— How very, very kind of you! A great day, for Murford Green—here's a fountain pen—for Murford Green when you two delightful people decided to take up your residence here. Thank you so much: I'll blot it. Equally divided, shall we say? A thousand obligations. I have a number of letters to write; will you forgive me if I run off? Pray give my sincere regards to all the dear people. All the dear people. The dear people. Dear people. People.” The voice disappeared in the manner of a ventriloquist's entertainment.
A note from the schoolmaster. The schoolmaster was sorry, but he had only just ascertained that the Rev. Mr. Barton, Congregationalist minister, had been asked, and in these circumstances the schoolmaster begged to be excused. A note from Mr. Barton. Mr. Barton, having ascertained that the schoolmaster had been invited, felt it impossible to meet that gentleman until he had withdrawn certain remarks concerning Passive Resisters, and hoped Mrs. Gleeson would permit him to defer his visit. The postman called at the back door to say that he could have spared an hour, and would have spared an hour, but talk was going on in the village, and until this received contradiction it was more than his position, as a Government official, was worth to set foot inside the house. Mary, answering her master's impatient reprimand, declared she had asked for further particulars; the postman, with a deep blush, assured her it was not a subject he could discuss with a single young woman; on Mary insisting, he referred her to a Mrs. Larch, living in one of a row of cottages not far away. The Gleesons, greatly disturbed, requested the maid to fly in that direction and obtain details. As Mary went out of the front gate they noticed the two invited labourers, dressed in black suits.
“Beg pardon, missy,” they heard one of them say, “but if it ent a rude question, is there going to be any beer purvided at this affair what's to come off this evening?” The maid gave an answer and ran on. “Not?” they echoed amazedly. “Very well then! No bloomin' beer; no bloomin' us!”
Other excuses came. The odd man of the Three Bells alone remained unaccounted for, and he arrived, pulling at the garden gate, which he should have pushed, and solving the difficulty by climbing over. Approaching the open window, he lurched across the flower-bed, took off his hat to Mr. Gleeson, blew a clumsy kiss to Mrs. Gleeson.
“Not coming in,” he said, with a wink. “No fear! Not me! Got my rep'tation to consider. I sh'd never 'old up my 'ead again. Warm lot, you Londoners. Thank goodness I was born 'n bred in the country. Honest man, that's what I am, and I don't care who says I'm not. You never catch me 'ugging a girl in middle of the roadway. Not me!”
A council was held so soon as the maid came back. Mary had assured Mrs. Larch that her master and her mistress were married, for she herself was present at the wedding, and the lady offered two suggestions: one that Mary's eyesight was defective, the other that people only used a foreign language when they desired to say something that could not be spoken in decent English. Mary, having delivered the news, stood back and waited.
“Have you no suggestion to make, my dear?” asked the worried Mr. Gleeson. His wife shook her head despondently.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the maid, with respect, “but me and Emma have been talking it over, and as she says the doctor ordered you quiet, and you haven't yet succeeded in letting the house at Kensington, what's to prevent us from——”
“Get the A.B.C.,” he ordered. “We'll find out what time there's a train back to town in the morning.”