'I can't conceive any domestic occurrence which would be more
distressing or generally inconvenient, mother dear. You do interrupt a
fellow so! I forgot where I was now--oh, the manager, ah yes! Well, the
manager said, "We shall be very happy to have the stones made in any
design you may select"--jewellery, by the way, seems to exercise a most
refining influence upon the manners: this man had the deportment of a
duke--"you may select," he said; "but of course I need not tell you that
none of these stones are genuine."'
'Not genuine!' cried Aunt Margarine excitedly. 'They must be--he was
lying!'
'West-end jewellers never lie,' said Dick; 'but naturally, when he said
that, I told him I should like to have some proof of his assertion.
"Will you take the risk of testing?" said he. "Test away, my dear man!"
said I. So he brought a little wheel near the emerald--"whizz!" and away
went the emerald! Then he let a drop of something fall on the ruby--and
it fizzled up for all the world like pink champagne. "Go on, don't mind
_me_!" I told him, so he touched the diamond with an electric
wire--"phit!" and there was only something that looked like the ash of a
shocking bad cigar. Then the pearls--and they popped like so many
air-balloons. "Are you satisfied?" he asked.
'"Oh, perfectly,"' said I, "you needn't trouble about the horse-shoe pin
now. Good evening," and so I came away, after thanking him for his very
amusing scientific experiments.'
'And do you believe that the jewels are all shams, Dick?--do you
really?'
'I think it so probable that nothing on earth will induce me to offer a
single one for sale. I should never hear the last of it at the bank. No,
mater, dear little Priscilla's sparkling conversation may be unspeakably
precious from a moral point of view, but it has no commercial value.
Those jewels are bogus--shams every stone of them!'
Now, all this time our heroine had been sitting unperceived in a corner
behind a window-curtain, reading 'The Wide, Wide World,' a work which
she was never weary of perusing. Some children would have come forward
earlier, but Priscilla was never a forward child, and she remained as
quiet as a little mouse up to the moment when she could control her
feelings no longer.
'It isn't true!' she cried passionately, bursting out of her retreat and
confronting her cousin; 'it's cruel and unkind to say my jewels are
shams! They are real--they are, they _are_!'
'Hullo, Prissie!' said her abandoned cousin; 'so you combine
jewel-dropping with eaves-dropping, eh?'
'How dare you!' cried Aunt Margarine, almost beside herself, 'you odious
little prying minx, setting up to teach your elders and your betters
with your cut and dried priggish maxims! When I think how I have petted
and indulged you all this time, and borne with the abominable litter you
left in every room you entered--and now to find you are only a little,
conceited, hypocritical impostor--oh, _why_ haven't I words to express
my contempt for such conduct--why am I dumb at such a moment as this?'
'Come, mother,' said her son soothingly, 'that's not such a bad
beginning; I should call it fairly fluent and expressive, myself.'
'Be quiet, Dick! I'm speaking to this wicked child, who has obtained our
love and sympathy and attention on false pretences, for which she ought
to be put in prison--yes, in _prison_, for such a heartless trick on
relatives who can ill afford to be so cruelly disappointed!'
'But, aunt!' expostulated poor Priscilla, 'you always said you only kept
the jewels as souvenirs, and that it did you so much good to hear me
talk!'
'Don't argue with _me_, miss! If I had known the stones were wretched
tawdry imitations, do you imagine for an instant----?'
'Now, mother,' said Dick, 'be fair--they were uncommonly good
imitations, you must admit that!'
'Indeed, indeed I thought they were real, the fairy never told me!'
'After all,' said Dick, 'it's not Priscilla's fault. She can't help it
if the stones aren't real, and she made up for quality by quantity
anyhow; didn't you, Prissie?'
'Hold your tongue, Richard; she _could_ help it, she knew it all the
time, and she's a hateful, sanctimonious little stuck-up viper, and so I
tell her to her face!'
Priscilla could scarcely believe that kind, indulgent, smooth-spoken
Aunt Margarine could be addressing such words to her; it frightened her
so much that she did not dare to answer, and just then Cathie and Belle
came into the room.
'Oh, mother,' they began penitently, 'we're _so_ sorry, but we couldn't
find dear Prissie anywhere, so we haven't picked up anything the whole
afternoon!'
'Ah, my poor darlings, you shall never be your cousin's slaves any more.
Don't go near her, she's a naughty, deceitful wretch; her jewels are
false, my sweet loves, false! She has imposed upon us all, she does not
deserve to associate with you!'
'I always said Prissie's jewels looked like the things you get on
crackers!' said Belle, tossing her head.
'Now we shall have a little rest, I hope,' chimed in Cathie.
'I shall send her home to her parents this very night,' declared Aunt
Margarine; 'she shall not stay here to pervert our happy household with
her miserable _gewgaws_!'
Here Priscilla found her tongue. 'Do you think I _want_ to stay?' she
said proudly; 'I see now that you only wanted to have me here
because--because of the horrid jewels, and I never knew they were false,
and I let you have them all, every one, you know I did; and I wanted you
to mind what I said and not trouble about picking them up, but you
_would_ do it! And now you all turn round upon me like this! What have I
done to be treated so? What have I done?'
'Bravo, Prissie!' cried Dick. 'Mother, if you ask me, I think it serves
us all jolly well right, and it's a downright shame to bullyrag poor
Prissie in this way!'
'I _don't_ ask you,' retorted his mother, sharply; 'so you will kindly
keep your opinions to yourself.'
'Tra-la-la!' sang rude Dick, 'we are a united family--we are, we are, we
_are_!'--a vulgar refrain he had picked up at one of the burlesque
theatres he was only too fond of frequenting.
But Priscilla came to him and held out her hand quite gratefully and
humbly. 'Thank you, Dick,' she said; '_you_ are kind, at all events. And
I am sorry you couldn't have your horse-shoe pin!'
'Oh, _hang_ the horse-shoe pin!' exclaimed Dick, and poor Priscilla was
so thoroughly cast down that she quite forgot to reprove him.
She was not sent home that night after all, for Dick protested against
it in such strong terms that even Aunt Margarine saw that she must give
way; but early on the following morning Priscilla quitted her aunt's
house, leaving her belongings to be sent on after her.
She had not far to walk, and it so happened that her way led through the
identical lane in which she had met the fairy. Wonderful to relate,
there, on the very same stone and in precisely the same attitude, sat
the old lady, peering out from under her poke-bonnet, and resting her
knotty old hands on her crutch-handled stick!
Priscilla walked past with her head in the air, pretending not to
notice her, for she considered that the fairy had played her a most
malicious and ill-natured trick.
'Heyday!' said the old lady (it is only fairies who can permit
themselves such old-fashioned expressions nowadays). 'Heyday, why,
here's my good little girl again! Isn't she going to speak to me?'
'No, she's not,' said Priscilla--but she found herself compelled to
stop, notwithstanding.
'Why, what's all this about? You're not going to sulk with me, my dear,
are you?'
'I think you're a very cruel, bad, unkind old woman for deceiving me
like this!'
'Goodness me! Why, didn't the jewels come, after all?'
'Yes--they came, only they were all horrid artificial ones--and it is a
shame, it _is_!' cried poor Priscilla from her bursting heart.
'Artificial, were they? that really is very odd! Can you account for
that at all, now?'
'Of course I can't! You told me that they would drop out whenever I said
anything to improve people--and I was _always_ saying _something_
improving! Aunt had a bandbox in her room quite full of them.'
'Ah, you've been very industrious, evidently; it's unfortunate your
jewels should all have been artificial--most unfortunate. I don't know
how to explain it, unless'--(and here the old lady looked up queerly
from under her white eyelashes), 'unless your goodness was artificial
too?'
'How do you mean?' asked Priscilla, feeling strangely uncomfortable.
'I'm sure I've never done anything the least bit naughty--how can my
goodness possibly be artificial?'
'Ah, that I can't explain; but I know this--that people who are really
good are generally the last persons to suspect it, and the moment they
become aware of it and begin to think how good they are, and how bad
everybody else is, why, somehow or other, their goodness crumbles away
and leaves only a sort of outside shell behind it. And--I'm very old,
and of course I may be mistaken--but I think (I only say I _think_,
mind) that a little girl so young as you must have some faults hidden
about her somewhere, and that perhaps on the whole she would be better
employed in trying to find them out and cure them before she attempted
to correct those of other people. And I'm sure it can't be good for any
child to be always seeing herself in a little picture, just as she likes
to fancy other people see her. Very many pretty books are written about
good little girls, and it is quite true that children may exercise a
great influence for good--more than they can ever tell, perhaps--but
only just so long as they remain natural and unconscious, and not
unwholesome little pragmatical prigesses; for then they make themselves
and other people worse than they might have been. But of course, my
dear, you never made such a mistake as that!'
Priscilla turned very red, and began to scrape one of her feet against
the other; she was thinking, and her thoughts were not at all pleasant
ones.
'Oh, fairy,' she said at last, 'I'm afraid that's just what I _did_ do.
I was always thinking how good I was and putting everybody--papa, mamma,
Alick, Betty, Aunt Margarine, Cathie, Belle, and even poor cousin
Dick--right! I have been a horrid little hateful prig, and that's why
all the jewels were rubbish. But, oh, shall I have to go on talking sham
diamonds and things all the rest of my life?'
'That,' said the fairy, 'depends entirely on yourself. You have the
remedy in your own hands--or lips.'
'Ah, you mean I needn't talk at all? But I must--sometimes. I couldn't
bear to be dumb as long as I lived--and it would look so odd, too!'
'I never said you were not to open your lips at all. But can't you try
to talk simply and naturally--not like little girls or boys in any
story-books whatever--not to "show off" or improve people; only as a
girl would talk who remembers that, after all, her elders are quite as
likely as she is to know what they ought or ought not to do and say?'
'I shall forget sometimes, I know I shall!' said Priscilla
disconsolately.
'If you do, there will be something to remind you, you know. And by and
by, perhaps, as you grow up you may, quite by accident, say something
sincere and noble and true--and then a jewel will fall which will really
be of value!'
'No!' cried Priscilla, 'no, _please_! Oh, fairy, let me off that! If I
_must_ drop them, let them be false ones to punish me--not real. I don't
want to be rewarded any more for being good--if I ever am really good!'
'Come,' said the fairy, with a much pleasanter smile, 'you are not a
hopeless case, at all events. It shall be as you wish, then, and perhaps
it will be the wisest arrangement for all parties. Now run away home,
and see how little use you can make of your fairy gift.'
Priscilla found her family still at breakfast.
'Why,' observed her father, raising his eyebrows as she entered the
room, 'here's our little monitor--(or is it _monitress_, eh,
Priscilla?)--back again. Children, we shall all have to mind our p's and
q's--and, indeed, our entire alphabet, now!'
'I'm sure,' said her mother, kissing her fondly, 'Priscilla knows we're
all delighted to have her home!'
'_I'm_ not,' said Alick, with all a boy's engaging candour.
'Nor am I,' added Betty, 'it's been ever so much nicer at home while
she's been away!'
Priscilla burst into tears as she hid her face upon her mother's
protecting shoulder. 'It's true!' she sobbed, 'I don't deserve that you
should be glad to see me--I've been hateful and horrid, I know--but, oh,
if you'll only forgive me and love me and put up with me a little, I'll
try not to preach and be a prig any more--I will truly!'
And at this her father called her to his side and embraced her with a
fervour he had not shown for a very long time.
* * * * *
I should not like to go so far as to assert that no imitation diamond,
ruby, pearl, or emerald ever proceeded from Priscilla's lips again.
Habits are not cured in a day, and fairies--however old they may be--are
still fairies; so it _did_ occasionally happen that a mock jewel made an
unwelcome appearance after one of Priscilla's more unguarded utterances.
But she was always frightfully ashamed and abashed by such an accident,
and buried the imitation stones immediately in a corner of the garden.
And as time went on the jewels grew smaller and smaller, and frequently
dissolved upon her tongue, leaving a faintly bitter taste, until at last
they ceased altogether and Priscilla became as pleasant and unaffected a
girl as she who may now be finishing this history.
Aunt Margarine never sent back the contents of that bandbox; she kept
the biggest stones and had a brooch made of them, while, as she never
mentioned that they were false, no one out of the family ever so much
as suspected it.
But, for all that, she always declared that her niece Priscilla had
bitterly disappointed her expectations--which was perhaps the truest
thing that Aunt Margarine ever said.
_A MATTER OF TASTE_
PART I
It is a little singular that, upon an engagement becoming known and
being discussed by the friends and acquaintances of the persons
principally concerned, by far the most usual tone of comment should be a
sorrowing wonder. That particular alliance is generally the very last
that anybody ever expected. 'What made him choose _her_, of all people,'
and 'What on earth she could see in _him_,' are declared insoluble
problems. It is confidently predicted that the engagement will never
come to anything, or that, if such a marriage ever does take place, it
is most unlikely to prove a success.
Sometimes, in the case of female friends, this tone is even perceptible
under their warmest felicitations, and through the smiling mask of
compliment shine eyes moist with the most irritating quality of
compassion. 'So glad! so delighted! But why, _why_ didn't you consult
_me_?'--this complicated expression might be rendered: 'I could have
saved you from this--I _was_ so pleased to hear of it!'
And yet, in the majority of cases, these unions are not found to turn
out so very badly after all, and the misguided couple seem really to
have gauged their own hearts and their possibilities of happiness
together more accurately than the most clear-sighted of their
acquaintances.
The announcement that Ella Hylton had accepted George Chapman provoked
the customary sensation and surprise in their respective sets, and
perhaps with rather more justification than usual.
Miss Hylton had undeniable beauty of a spiritual and rather _exalte_
type, and was generally understood to be highly cultivated. She had
spent a year at Somerville, though she had gone down without trying for
a place in either 'Mods.' or 'Greats,' thereby preserving, if not
increasing, her reputation for superiority. She had lived all her life
among cultured people; she was devoted to music and regularly attended
the Richter Concerts, though she could seldom be induced to play in
public; she had a feeling for art, though she neither painted nor drew;
a love of literature strong enough to deter her from all amateur efforts
in that direction. In art, music and literature she was impatient of
mediocrity; and, while she was as fond as most girls of the pleasures
which upper middle-class society can offer, she reverenced intellect,
and preferred the conversation of the plainest celebrity to the
platitudes of the mere dancing-man, no matter how handsome of feature
and perfect of step he might be.
George Chapman was certainly not a mere dancing-man, his waltzing being
rather conscientious than dreamlike, and he was only tolerably
good-looking. On the other hand, he was not celebrated in any way, and
even his mother and sisters had never considered him brilliant. He had
been educated at Rugby and Trinity, Cambridge, where he rowed a fairly
good oar, on principle, and took a middle second in the Moral Science
Tripos. Now he was in a solicitor's office, where he was receiving a
good salary, and was valued as a steady, sensible young fellow, who
could be thoroughly depended upon. He was fond of his profession, and
had acquired a considerable knowledge of its details; apart from it he
had no very decided tastes; he lived a quiet, regular life, and dined
out and went to dances in moderation; his manner, though he was nearly
twenty-six, was still rather boyishly blunt.
What there was in him that had found favour in Ella Hylton's fastidious
eyes the narrator is not rash enough to attempt to particularise. But it
may be suggested that the most unlikely people may possess their fairy
rose and ring which render them irresistible to at least one heart, if
they only have faith to believe in and luck to perceive their power.
So, early in the year, George had plucked up courage to propose to Miss
Hylton, after meeting and secretly adoring her for some months past, and
she, to the general astonishment, had accepted him.
He had a private income--not a large one--of his own, and had saved out
of it. She was entitled under her grandmother's will to a sum which made
her an heiress in a modest way, and thus there was no reason why the
engagement should be a long one, and, though no date had been definitely
fixed for the marriage, it was understood that it should take place at
some time before the end of the summer.
Soon after the engagement, however, an invalid aunt with whom Ella had
always been a great favourite was ordered to the south of France, and
implored her to go with her; which Ella, who had a real affection for
her relative, as well as a strong sense of duty, had consented to do.
This was a misfortune in one of two ways: it either curtailed that most
necessary and most delightful period during which _fiances_ discover one
another's idiosyncrasies and weaknesses, or it made it necessary to
postpone the marriage.
George naturally preferred the former, as the more endurable evil; but
Ella's letters from abroad began to hint more and more plainly at delay.
Her aunt might remain on the Continent all the summer, and she could not
possibly leave her; there was so much to be done after her return that
could not be done in a hurry; they had not even begun to furnish the
pretty little house on Campden Hill that was to be their new home--it
would be better to wait till November, or even later.
The mere idea was alarming to George, and he remonstrated as far as he
dared; but Ella remained firm, and he grew desperate.
He might have spared himself the trouble. About the middle of June
Ella's aunt--who, of course, had had to leave the Riviera--grew tired of
travelling, and Ella, to George's intense satisfaction, returned to her
mother's house in Linden Gardens, Notting Hill.
And now, when our story opens, George, who had managed to get away from
office-work two hours before his usual time, was hurrying towards Linden
Gardens as fast as a hansom could take him, to see his betrothed for the
first time after their long separation.
He was eager, naturally, and a little nervous. Would Ella still persist
in her wish for delay? or would he be able to convince her that there
were no obstacles in the way? He felt he had strong arguments on his
side, if only--and here was the real seat of his anxiety--if only her
objections were not raised from some other motive! She might have been
trying to prepare him for a final rupture, and then--'Well,' he
concluded, with his customary good sense, 'no use meeting trouble
halfway--in five minutes I shall know for certain!'
* * * * *
At the same moment Mrs. Hylton and her daughter Flossie, a vivacious
girl in the transitionary sixteen-year-old stage, were in the
drawing-room at Linden Gardens. It was the ordinary double drawing-room
of a London house, but everything in it was beautiful and harmonious.
The eye was vaguely rested by the delicate and subdued colour of walls
and hangings; cabinets, antique Persian pottery, rare bits of china, all
occupied the precise place in which their decorative value was most
felt; a room, in short, of exceptional individuality and distinction.
Flossie was standing at the window, from which a glimpse could just be
caught of fresh green foliage and the lodge-gates, with the bustle of
the traffic in the High Street beyond; Mrs. Hylton was writing at a
Flemish bureau in the corner.
'I suppose,' said Flossie meditatively, as she fingered a piece of old
stained glass that was hanging in the window, 'we shall have George here
this afternoon.'
Mrs. Hylton raised her head. She had a striking face, tinted a clear
olive, with a high wave of silver hair crowning the forehead; her
eyebrows were dark, and so were the brilliant eyes; the nose was
aquiline, and the thin, well-cut mouth a little hard. She was a woman
who had been much admired in her time, and who still retained a certain
attraction, though some were apt to find her somewhat cold and
unsympathetic. Her daughter Ella, for example, was always secretly a
little in awe of her mother, who, however, had no terrors for audacious,
outspoken Flossie.
'If he comes, Flossie, he will be very welcome,' she said, 'but I hardly
expect him yet. George is not likely to neglect his duties, even for
Ella.'
Flossie pursed her mouth rather scornfully: 'Oh, George is immaculate!'
she murmured.
'If he was, it would hardly be a reproach,' said her mother, catching
the word; 'but, at all events, George has thoroughly good principles,
and is sure to succeed in the world. I have every reason to be pleased.'
'Every reason?--ah! but _are_ you pleased? Mother, dear, you know he's
as dull as dull!'
'Ella does not find him so--and, Flossie, I don't like to hear you say
such things, even in Ella's absence.'
'Oh, I never abuse him to Ella; it wouldn't be any use: she's firmly
convinced that he's perfection--at least she was before she went away.'
'Why? do you mean that she has altered?--have you seen any sign of it,
Flossie?'
Mrs. Hylton made this inquiry sharply, but not as if such a circumstance
would be altogether displeasing to her.
'Oh, no; only she hasn't seen him for so long, you know. Perhaps, when
she comes to look at him with fresh eyes, she'll notice things more. Ah,
here _is_ George, just getting out of a hansom--so he has played truant
for once! There's one thing I _do_ think Ella might do--persuade him to
shave off some of those straggly whiskers. I wonder why he never seems
to get a hat or anything else like other people's!'
Presently George was announced. He was slightly above middle height,
broad-shouldered and fresh-coloured; the obnoxious whiskers did indeed
cover more of his cheeks than modern fashion prescribes for men of his
age, and had evidently never known a razor; he wore a turn-down collar
and a necktie of a rather crude red; his clothes were neat and well
brushed, but not remarkable for their cut.
'Well, my dear George,' said Mrs. Hylton, 'we have seen very little of
you while Ella has been away.'
'I know,' he said awkwardly; 'I've had a lot of things to look after in
one way and another.'
'What? after your work at the office was over!' cried Flossie
incredulously.
'Yes--after that; it's taken up my time a good deal.'
'And so you couldn't spare any to call here--I see!' said Flossie.
'George,' she added, with a sudden diversion, 'I wonder you aren't
afraid of catching cold! How _can_ you go about in such absurdly thin
boots as those?'
'These?' he said, inspecting them doubtfully--they were strong, sensible
boots with notched and projecting soles of ponderous thickness--'why,
what's the matter with them, Flossie, eh? Don't you think they're strong
enough for walking in?'
'No, George; they're the very things for an afternoon dance, and quite a
lot of couples could dance in them, you see. But for walking--ah, I'm
afraid you sacrifice too much to appearances.'
'I don't, really!' George protested in all good faith; 'now _do_ I, Mrs.
Hylton?'
'Flossie is making fun of you, George; you mustn't mind her
impertinence.'
'Oh, is that all? Do you know, I really thought for the moment that she
meant they were too small for me! You like getting a rise out of me,
Flossie, don't you?'
And he laughed with such genuine and good-natured amusement that the
young lady felt somehow a little small, and almost ashamed, although it
took the form of suppressed irritation. 'He really ought not to come
here in such things,' she said to herself; 'and I don't believe that,
even now, he sees what I meant.'
Just at this point Ella came in, with the least touch of shyness,
perhaps, at meeting him before witnesses after so long an absence; but
she only looked the more charming in consequence, and, demure as her
greeting was, her pretty eyes had a sparkle of pleasure that scattered
all George Chapman's fears to the winds. Even Flossie felt instinctively
that straggly-whiskered, red-necktied, thick-booted George had lost
none of his divinity for Ella.
They did not seem to have much to say to one another, notwithstanding;
possibly because Ella was called upon to dispense the tea which had just
been brought in. George sat nursing the hat which Flossie found so
objectionable, while he balanced a teacup with the anxious eye of a
juggler out of practice, and the conversation flagged. At last, under
pretence of renewing his tea, most of which he had squandered upon a
Persian rug, he crossed to Ella: 'I say,' he suggested, 'don't you think
you could come out for a little while? I've such lots to tell you
and--and I want you to go somewhere with me.'
Mrs. Hylton made no objection, beyond stipulating that Ella must not be
allowed to tire herself after her journey, and so, a few minutes later,
Miss Hylton came down in her pretty summer hat and light cape, and she
and George were allowed to set out.
Once outside the house, he drew a long breath of mingled relief and
pleasure: 'By Jove, Ella, I am glad to get you back again! I say, how
jolly you do look in that hat! Now, do you know where I'm going to take
you?'
'It will be quietest in the Gardens,' said Ella.
'Ah, but that's not where you're going now,' he said with a delicious
assumption of authority; 'you're coming with me to see a certain house
on Campden Hill you may have heard of.'
'That will be delightful. I do want to see our dear little house again
very much. And, George, we will go carefully over all the rooms, and
settle what can be done with each of them. Then we can begin directly;
we haven't too much time.'
'Perhaps,' he said with a conscious laugh, 'it won't take so much time
as you think.'
'Oh, but it _must_--to do properly. And while I've been away I've had
some splendid ideas for some of the rooms--I've planned them out so
beautifully. You know that delightful little room at the back?--the one
I said should be your own den, with the window all festooned with
creepers and looking out on the garden--well----?'
'Take my advice,' he said, 'and don't make any plans till you see it.
And as for plans, these furnishing fellows do all that--they don't care
to be bothered with plans.'
'They will have to carry out ours, though. I shall love settling how it
is all to be--it will be such fun.'
'You wouldn't call it fun if you knew what it was like, I can tell you.'
'But I _do_ know. Mother and I rearranged most of the rooms at home only
last year--so you see I have some experience. And what experience can
_you_ have had, if you please?'
Ella had a mental vision as she spoke of the house in Dawson Place when
George lived with his mother and sisters--a house in which furniture and
everything else were commonplace and _bourgeois_ to the last degree,
and where nothing could have been altered since his boyhood; indeed she
had often secretly pitied him for having to live in such surroundings,
and admired the filial patience that had made him endure them so long.
'I've had my share, Ella, and I should be very sorry for you to have all
the worry and bother I've been through over it!'
'But when, George? How? I don't understand.'
'Ah, that's my secret!' he said provokingly; 'and you know, Ella, if we
began furnishing now, it would take no end of a time, with all these
wonderful plans of yours, and--and I couldn't stand having to wait till
next November for you--I couldn't do it!'
'Mother thinks the marriage need not be put off now,' said Ella simply,
'and we shall have six weeks till then; the house can be quite ready for
us by the time we want it.'
'Six weeks!' he said impatiently, 'what's six weeks? You've no idea what
these chaps are, Ella! And then there are all your own things to get,
and they would take up most of your time. No, we should have had to put
it off, whatever you may say. And that would mean another
separation--for, of course, you would go away in August, and I should
have to stay in town: the office wouldn't give me my fortnight twice
over--honeymoon or no honeymoon!'
Ella looked completely puzzled. 'But what are you trying to prove
_now_, George?'
'I was only showing you that, even though you have come back earlier, we
couldn't possibly have got things ready in time, if I hadn't----' but
here he stopped. 'No, I want that to be a surprise for you, Ella; you'll
see presently,' he added.
Ella's delicate eyebrows contracted. 'I like to be prepared for my
surprises, please, George. Tell me now.'
They had turned up one of the quiet streets leading to the hill. They
were so near the house that George thought he might abandon further
mystery, not to mention that he was only too anxious to reveal his
secret.
'Well, then, Ella, if you must have it,' he said triumphantly, 'the
house is very nearly ready _now_--what do you think of that?'
'Do you mean that--that it is furnished, George?'
'Papered, painted, decorated, furnished--everything, from top to bottom!
I thought that would surprise you, Ella!'
'I think,' she answered slowly, 'you might have told me you were doing
it.'
'What! before it was all done? That would have spoilt it all, dear. I
should have written, though, if you hadn't been coming home so soon. And
now it's finished I must say it looks uncommonly jolly. I'm sure you'll
be pleased with it--it looks quite a different place.'
She tried to smile: 'And did you do it all yourself, George?'
'Well, no--not exactly. I flatter myself I know how to see that the
work's properly done, and all that; but there are some things I don't
pretend to be much of a hand at, so I got certain ladies to give me some
wrinkles.'
Ella felt relieved. She was disappointed, it is true--hurt, even, at
having been deprived of any voice in the matter. She had been looking
forward so much to carrying out her pet schemes, to enjoying her
friends' admiration of the wonders wrought by her artistic invention.
And she had never thought of George, somehow, as likely to have any
strikingly original ideas on the subject of decoration, although she
liked him none the less for that.
But it was something that he had had the good sense to take her mother
and Flossie into his confidence: she knew she could trust them to
preserve him from any serious mistakes.
'You see,' said George, half apologetically, 'I would ever so much
rather have waited till you came back, only I couldn't tell when that
would be. I really couldn't help myself. You're sure you don't mind
about it? If you only knew how I worked over it, rushing about from one
place to another, as soon as I could get away from the office, picking
up bits of furniture here and there, standing over those beggars of
painters and keeping 'em at it, and working out estimates and seeing
foremen and managers and all kinds of chaps! I used to get home
dead-tired of an evening; but I didn't mind that: I felt it was all
bringing you nearer to me, darling, and that made everything a
pleasure!'
There was such honest affection in his look and voice; he had so
evidently intended to please her, and had been in such manifest dread of
any further separation from her, that she was completely disarmed.
'Dear George,' she said gently, 'I am so sorry you took all the trouble
on yourself; it was very, very good of you to care so much, and I know I
shall be delighted with the house.'
'Well,' said George, 'I'm not much afraid about that, because I expect
our tastes are pretty much the same in most things.'
They were by this time at the house, and George, after a little fumbling
with his as yet unfamiliar latchkey, threw open the door with a flourish
and said, 'There you are, little woman! Walk in and you'll see what you
shall see!'
No sooner was Ella inside the hall than her heart sank: 'Looks neat and
nice, doesn't it?' said George cheerfully. 'You'd almost take that paper
for real marble, wouldn't you? See how well they've done those veins. I
like this yellowish colour better than green, don't you? It looks so
cool in summer. That's a good strong hall-lamp--not what you call high
art, exactly--but gives a rattling good light, and that's the main
thing. Here, I'll light it up for you--confound it! they haven't turned
the gas on yet. However, there's too much sunshine for it to show much,
if they had. This linoleum is a capital thing: you might scrub as long
as you liked and you'd never get _that_ pattern out!'
'No,' Ella agreed, with a tragic little smile, 'it--it looks as if it
would last.'
'Last! I should just think so! And here's a hatstand--you could almost
swear it was carved wood of some sort, but it's only cast-iron painted;
indestructible, you see; they told me that was the latest
dodge--wonderful how cheaply they turn them out, isn't it?'
'I thought you said you were helped?'
'Oh, I didn't want any help _here_--this is only the passage, you know!'
Yes, it was only the passage--and yet she had been picturing such a
charming entrance, with a draped arch, a graceful lamp, a fresh bright
paper, a small buffet of genuine old oak, and so on. She suppressed a
sigh as she passed on; after all, so long as the rooms themselves were
all right, it did not so very much matter, and she knew that her
mother's taste could be trusted.
But on the threshold of the dining-room she stopped aghast. The walls
had been distempered a particularly hideous drab; the curtains were
mustard yellow; the carpet was a dull brown; the mottled marble
mantelpiece, for which she had been intending to substitute one in
walnut wood with tiles, still shone in slabs of petrified brawn; there
was a huge mahogany sideboard of a kind she had only seen in
old-fashioned hotels.
'Comfortable, eh?' remarked George. 'Lots of wear in those curtains!'
Unhappily there was, as Ella was only too well aware. 'You did _this_
room yourself too, then, George?' she managed to say, without betraying
herself by her voice.
'Yes, I chose everything here. You see, Ella, we shall only use this
room for meals.'
'Only for meals, yes,' she acquiesced with a shudder; 'but--George,
surely you said mother had helped you with the rooms?'
'What! your mother? No, Ella; her notions are rather too grand for me.
It was Jessie and Carrie I meant. Just come and see what they've made of
my den.'
Ella followed. The window--which had commanded such a cheerful outlook
into one of the pretty gardens, with a pink thorn, a laburnum-tree or
two, and some sycamores which still flourish fresh and fair on Campden
Hill--was obscured now by some detestable contrivance in transparent
paper imitating stained glass.
'That was the girls' notion,' said George, following the direction of
her eyes; 'they fixed it all themselves--it was their present to me.
Pretty of them to think of it, wasn't it? I call it an immense
improvement, and, you see, it's stuck on with some patent cement
varnish, so it can't rub off. You get the effect better if you stand
here--_now_, see how well the colours come out in the sun!'
If only they _would_ come out! But what could she do but stand and
admire hypocritically? Her eyes, in spite of herself, seemed drawn to
that bright-hued sham intersected by black lines intended to represent
leading; of the room itself she only saw vaguely that it was not
unworthy of the window.
'Nothing to what they've done with the drawing-room!' said innocent
George, beaming; 'come along, darling, you'll scarcely know the place.'
And Ella, reduced to a condition of stony stupor, followed to the
drawing-room. She did not know the place, indeed. It was a
quaintly-shaped, irregular room, with French windows opening upon the
garden on one side and a deep bow-window on another; when she had last
seen it, the walls were covered with a paper so pleasing in tone and
design that she had almost decided to retain it. That paper was gone,
and in its place a gaudy semi-Chinese pattern of unknown birds, flying
and perching on sprawling branches laden with impossible flowers. And
then the furniture--the 'elegant drawing-room suite' in brilliant plush
and shiny satin, the cheap cabinets, and the ready-made black and gilt
overmantel, with its panels of swans, hawthorn-blossom, and landscapes
sketchily daubed on dead gold--surely it had all been transferred bodily
from the stage of some carelessly mounted farcical comedy!
Ella's horrified gaze gradually took in other features--the china
monkeys swinging on cords, the porcelain parrots hanging in great brass
rings, huge misshapen terra-cotta jars and pots, dead grass in bloated
drain-pipes, tambourines, beribboned and painted with kittens and
robins, enormous wooden _sabots_, gilded Japanese fans, a woolly white
rug and a bright Kidderminster carpet.
'_Oh_, George!' burst involuntarily from her lips.
'I knew you'd be pleased!' he said complacently; 'but I mustn't take all
the credit myself. It was like this, you see: I felt all right enough
about the other rooms, but the drawing-room--that's _your_ room, and I
was awfully afraid of not having it exactly as it ought to be. So I went
to the girls, and I said, "_You_ know all about these things--just make
it what you think Ella will like, and then we can't go wrong!" We had
that Grosvenor Gallery paper down first of all. "Choose something bright
and cheerful," I said, and I don't think they've chosen badly. Then the
pottery and china and all that--those are the girls' presents to _you_, with their best love.' |
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