rearrange them a little before
turning to smile at the suspicious Ernestina.
"Did he bring them
himself?"
"No, miss."
"Where is Mr.
Charles?"
"Doan know, miss. I
didn' ask'un." But her mouth was pressed too tightly together,
as if she wanted to giggle.
"But I heard you
speak with the man."
"Yes, miss."
"What about?"
"'Twas just the
time o' day, miss."
"Is that what made
you laugh?"
"Yes, miss. 'Tis
the way 'e speaks, miss."
The Sam who had
presented himself at the door had in fact borne very little
resemblance to the mournful and indignant young man who had stropped
the razor. He had thrust the handsome bouquet into the mischievous
Mary's arms. "For the bootiful young lady hupstairs." Then
dexterously he had placed his foot where the door had been about to
shut and as dexterously produced from behind his back, in his other
hand, while his now free one swept off his a la mode near-brimless
topper, a little posy of crocuses.
"And for the heven
more lovely one down." Mary had blushed a deep pink; the
pressure of the door on Sam's foot had mysteriously lightened. He
watched her smell the yellow flowers; not politely, but genuinely, so
that a tiny orange smudge of saffron appeared on the charming,
impertinent nose.
"That there bag o'
soot will be delivered as bordered." She bit her lips, and
waited. "Hon one condition. No tick. Hit must be a-paid for at
once."
"'Ow much would'er
cost then?"
The forward fellow eyed
his victim, as if calculating a fair price; then laid a finger on his
mouth and gave a profoundly unambiguous wink. It was this that had
provoked that smothered laugh; and the slammed door.
Ernestina gave her a
look that would have not disgraced Mrs. Poulteney. "You will
kindly remember that he comes from London."
"Yes, miss."
"Mr. Smithson has
already spoken to me of him. The man fancies himself a Don Juan."
"What's that then,
Miss Tina?"
There was a certain
eager anxiety for further information in Mary's face that displeased
Ernestina very much.
"Never mind now.
But if he makes advances I wish to be told at once. Now bring me some
barley water.
And
be more discreet in future."
There passed a tiny
light in Mary's eyes, something singularly like a flash of defiance.
But she cast down her eyes and her flat little lace cap, bobbing a
token curtsy, and left the room. Three flights down, and three
flights up, as Ernestina, who had not the least desire for Aunt
Tranter's wholesome but uninteresting barley water, consoled herself
by remembering.
But Mary had in a sense
won the exchange, for it reminded Ernestina, not by nature a domestic
tyrant but simply a horrid spoiled child, that soon she would have to
stop playing at mistress, and be one in real earnest. The idea
brought pleasures, of course; to have one's own house, to be free of
parents . . . but servants were such a problem, as everyone said.
Were no longer what they were, as everyone said. Were tiresome, in a
word. Perhaps Ernestina's puzzlement and distress were not far
removed from those of Charles, as he had sweated and stumbled his way
along the shore. Life was the correct apparatus; it was heresy to
think otherwise; but meanwhile the cross had to be borne, here and
now.
It was to banish such
gloomy forebodings, still with her in the afternoon, that Ernestina
fetched her diary, propped herself up in bed and once more turned to
the page with the sprig of jasmine.
In London the beginnings
of a plutocratic stratification of society had, by the mid-century,
begun. Nothing of course took the place of good blood; but it had
become generally accepted that good money and good brains could
produce artificially a passable enough facsimile of acceptable social
standing. Disraeli was the type, not the exception, of his times.
Ernestina's grandfather may have been no more than a well-to-do
draper in Stoke Newington when he was young; but he died a very rich
draper--much more than that, since he had moved commercially into
central London, founded one of
turning to smile at the suspicious Ernestina.
"Did he bring them
himself?"
"No, miss."
"Where is Mr.
Charles?"
"Doan know, miss. I
didn' ask'un." But her mouth was pressed too tightly together,
as if she wanted to giggle.
"But I heard you
speak with the man."
"Yes, miss."
"What about?"
"'Twas just the
time o' day, miss."
"Is that what made
you laugh?"
"Yes, miss. 'Tis
the way 'e speaks, miss."
The Sam who had
presented himself at the door had in fact borne very little
resemblance to the mournful and indignant young man who had stropped
the razor. He had thrust the handsome bouquet into the mischievous
Mary's arms. "For the bootiful young lady hupstairs." Then
dexterously he had placed his foot where the door had been about to
shut and as dexterously produced from behind his back, in his other
hand, while his now free one swept off his a la mode near-brimless
topper, a little posy of crocuses.
"And for the heven
more lovely one down." Mary had blushed a deep pink; the
pressure of the door on Sam's foot had mysteriously lightened. He
watched her smell the yellow flowers; not politely, but genuinely, so
that a tiny orange smudge of saffron appeared on the charming,
impertinent nose.
"That there bag o'
soot will be delivered as bordered." She bit her lips, and
waited. "Hon one condition. No tick. Hit must be a-paid for at
once."
"'Ow much would'er
cost then?"
The forward fellow eyed
his victim, as if calculating a fair price; then laid a finger on his
mouth and gave a profoundly unambiguous wink. It was this that had
provoked that smothered laugh; and the slammed door.
Ernestina gave her a
look that would have not disgraced Mrs. Poulteney. "You will
kindly remember that he comes from London."
"Yes, miss."
"Mr. Smithson has
already spoken to me of him. The man fancies himself a Don Juan."
"What's that then,
Miss Tina?"
There was a certain
eager anxiety for further information in Mary's face that displeased
Ernestina very much.
"Never mind now.
But if he makes advances I wish to be told at once. Now bring me some
barley water.
And
be more discreet in future."
There passed a tiny
light in Mary's eyes, something singularly like a flash of defiance.
But she cast down her eyes and her flat little lace cap, bobbing a
token curtsy, and left the room. Three flights down, and three
flights up, as Ernestina, who had not the least desire for Aunt
Tranter's wholesome but uninteresting barley water, consoled herself
by remembering.
But Mary had in a sense
won the exchange, for it reminded Ernestina, not by nature a domestic
tyrant but simply a horrid spoiled child, that soon she would have to
stop playing at mistress, and be one in real earnest. The idea
brought pleasures, of course; to have one's own house, to be free of
parents . . . but servants were such a problem, as everyone said.
Were no longer what they were, as everyone said. Were tiresome, in a
word. Perhaps Ernestina's puzzlement and distress were not far
removed from those of Charles, as he had sweated and stumbled his way
along the shore. Life was the correct apparatus; it was heresy to
think otherwise; but meanwhile the cross had to be borne, here and
now.
It was to banish such
gloomy forebodings, still with her in the afternoon, that Ernestina
fetched her diary, propped herself up in bed and once more turned to
the page with the sprig of jasmine.
In London the beginnings
of a plutocratic stratification of society had, by the mid-century,
begun. Nothing of course took the place of good blood; but it had
become generally accepted that good money and good brains could
produce artificially a passable enough facsimile of acceptable social
standing. Disraeli was the type, not the exception, of his times.
Ernestina's grandfather may have been no more than a well-to-do
draper in Stoke Newington when he was young; but he died a very rich
draper--much more than that, since he had moved commercially into
central London, founded one of
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