Feeling five and threepence to be an absurdly small charge for five adult and four infant teas, I destroyed this immediately, and made out another, putting each item fourpence more, and the bread-and-butter at one-and-six. I also introduced ninepence for extra teas for the children, who had had two mugs apiece, very weak. This brought the total to six shillings and tenpence, and I was beset by a horrible temptation to add a shilling or two for candles; there was one young man among the three who looked as if he would have understood the joke.
The father of the family looked at the bill, and remarked quizzically, “Bond Street prices, eh?”
“Bond Street service,” said I, curtsying demurely.
He paid it without flinching, and gave me sixpence for myself. I was very much afraid he would chuck me under the chin; they are always chucking barmaids under the chin in old English novels, but I have never seen it done in real life. As they strolled down to the gate, the second gentleman gave me another sixpence, and the nice young fellow gave me a shilling; he certainly had read the old English novels and remembered them, so I kept with the children. One of the ladies then asked if we sold flowers.
“Certainly,” I replied.
“What do you ask for roses?”
“Fourpence apiece for the fine ones,” I answered glibly, hoping it was enough, “thrippence for the small ones; sixpence for a bunch of sweet peas, tuppence apiece for buttonhole carnations.”
Each of the ladies took some roses and mignonette, and the gentlemen, who did not care for carnations in the least, weakened when I approached modestly to pin them in their coats, a la barmaid.
At this moment one of the children began to tease for a canary.
“Have you one for sale?” inquired the fond mother.
“Certainly, madam.” (I was prepared to sell the cottage by this time.)
“What do you ask for them?”
Rapid calculation on my part, excessively difficult without pencil and paper. A canary is three to five dollars in America,—that is, from twelve shilling to a pound; then at a venture, “From ten shillings to a guinea, madam, according to the quality of the bird.”
“Would you like one for your birthday, Margaret, and do you think you can feed it and take quite good care of it?”
“Oh yes, mamma!”
“Have you a cage?” to me inquiringly.
“Certainly, madam; it is not a new one, but I shall only charge you a shilling for it.” (Impromptu plan: not knowing whether Mrs. Bobby had any cages, or if so where she kept them, to remove the canary in Mrs. Bobby’s chamber from the small wooden cage it inhabited, close the windows, and leave it at large in the room; then bring out the cage and sell it to the lady.)
“Very well, then, please select me a good singer for about twelve shillings; a very yellow one, please.”
I did so. I had no difficulty about the colour; but as the birds all stopped singing when I put my hand into the cages, I was somewhat at a loss to choose a really fine performer. I did my best, with the result that it turned out to be the mother of several fine families, but no vocalist, and the generous young man brought it back for an exchange some days afterwards; not only that, but he came three times during the next week and nearly ruined his nervous system with tea.
The party finally mounted the char-a-bancs, just as I was about to offer the baby for twenty-five pounds, and dirt cheap at that. Meanwhile I gave the driver a cup of lukewarm tea, for which I refused absolutely to accept any remuneration.
I had cleared the tables before Mrs. Bobby returned, flushed and panting, with the guilty cow. Never shall I forget that good dame’s astonishment, her mild deprecations, her smiles—nay, her tears—as she inspected my truly English account and received the silver.
I told her I regretted deeply putting down the marmalade so low as sixpence; but as they had not touched it, it did not matter so much, as the entire outlay for the entertainment had been only about a shilling. On that modest investment, I considered one pound three shillings a very fair sum to be earned by an inexperienced ‘licensed victualler’ like myself, particularly as I am English only by adoption, and not by birth.
Chapter XXV. Et ego in Arcadia vixit
I essayed another nap after this exciting episode. I heard the gate open once or twice, but a single stray customer, after my hungry and generous horde, did not stir my curiosity, and I sank into a refreshing slumber, dreaming that Willie Beresford and I kept an English inn, and that I was the barmaid. This blissful vision had been of all too short duration when I was awakened by Mrs. Bobby’s apologetic voice.
“It is too bad to disturb you, miss, but I’ve got to go and patch up the fence, and smooth over the matter of the turnips with Mrs. Gooch, who is that snorty I don’t know ‘ow ever I can pacify her. There is nothing for you to do, miss, only if you’ll kindly keep an eye on the customer at the yew-tree table. He’s been here for ‘alf an hour, miss, and I think more than likely he’s a foreigner, by his actions, or may be he’s not quite right in his ‘ead, though ‘armless. He has taken four cups of tea, miss, and Billy saw him turn two of them into the ‘olly’ocks. He has been feeding bread-and-butter to the dog, and now the baby is on his knee, playing with his fine gold watch. He gave me a ‘alf-a-crown and refused to take a penny change; but why does he stop so long, miss? I can’t help worriting over the silver cream-jug that was my mother’s.”
Mrs. Bobby disappeared. I rose lazily, and approached the window to keep my promised eye on the mysterious customer. I lifted back the purple clematis to get a better view.
It was Willie Beresford! He looked up at my ejaculation of surprise, and, dropping the baby as if it had been a parcel, strode under the window.
I (gasping). “How did you come here?”
He. “By the usual methods, dear.”
I. “You shouldn’t have come without asking. Where are all your fine promises? What shall I do with you? Do you know there isn’t an hotel within four miles?”
He. “That is nothing; it was four hundred miles that I couldn’t endure. But give me a less grudging welcome than this, though I am like a starving dog that will snatch any morsel thrown to him! It is really autumn, Penelope, or it will be in a few days. Say you are a little glad to see me.”
(The sight of him so near, after my weeks of loneliness, gave me a feeling so sudden, so sweet, and so vivid that it seemed to smite me first on the eyes, and then in the heart; and at the first note of his convincing voice Doubt picked up her trailing skirts and fled for ever.)
I. “Yes, if you must know it, I am glad to see you; so glad, indeed, that nothing in the world seems to matter so long as you are here.”
He (striding a little nearer, and looking about involuntarily for a ladder). “Penelope, do you know the penalty of saying such sweet things to me?”
I. “Perhaps it is because I know the penalty that I’m committing the offence. Besides, I feel safe in saying anything in this second-story window.”
He. “Don’t pride yourself on your safety unless you wish to see me transformed into a nineteenth-century Romeo, to the detriment of Mrs. Bobby’s creepers. I can look at you for ever, dear, in your pink gown and your purple frame, unless I can do better. Won’t you come down?”