complimums." Mary spoke in a dialect notorious for its contempt
of pronouns and suffixes.
"Place them on my dressing
table. I do not like them so close."
Mary obediently removed them
there and disobediently began to 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.
of pronouns and suffixes.
"Place them on my dressing
table. I do not like them so close."
Mary obediently removed them
there and disobediently began to 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.
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