The morning of the bazaar was radiantly fine, so that one fear at least
was banished from the hearts of the anxious stall-holders. No excuse
now for patrons living at a distance! No room for written regrets,
enclosing minute postal-orders. Any one who wanted to come, _could_
come, and woe betide the contents of their purse!
Mrs Hilliard's stall was placed in the centre of the hall, and in
accordance with her own directions had been made in the shape of a great
round table, within the hollowed centre of which she and her girl
helpers could be protected from the crowd, while without attendant
sprites in the persons of the two young men hovered about ready to do
their bidding.
Not a single article of needlework appeared upon the stall; not a
solitary pincushion, nor handkerchief sachet, nor nightdress bag, not
even so much as an inoffensive tray cloth. There was pottery from
Portugal, and pottery from France, pottery from Switzerland in the shape
of jam and marmalade jars, originally purchased for twopence apiece, and
offered for sale at an alarming sacrifice for a shilling. There were
beads from Venice, and tiles from Holland, and fans from Spain, and a
display of Venetian glass especially provided for the entrapment of
county families. There was dainty English china (on sale or return),
and flagons of Eau de Cologne, and white and blue Della Noblia plaques
from Florence, and a dozen other dainty and perishable treasures.
"Everything!" exclaimed Pixie proudly, as she stood with arms akimbo to
view the completed stall, "everything can break! Not one single thing
that you couldn't smash in a twinkling, and no bother about it. It's
what I call a most _considerate_ stall, the most considerate I've ever
seen!"
Esmeralda laughed with complacent understanding, but the two men stared
aghast.
"Is it the object of purchasers to get rid of their purchases as soon as
they are made? Then why do they bother to--"
"It is, and they have to. It's expected of them, and they can't escape,
but you need to be soft-hearted and live in a poor neighbourhood to
understand the horror of the bazaar habit. I'll tell you a story to the
point." Pixie's eyes danced, she preened herself for prospective
enjoyment.
"There was once a rich old lady, and she sent a pink satin cushion as a
contribution to my sister Bridgie's stall at a military bazaar three
years ago. 'Twas a violent pink, with sprays of dog roses and a frill
of yellow lace, and not a soul would look at it if they had been paid
for the trouble. 'Twas tossed about the stall for two whole days, and
on the third, just at the closing, the Colonel's wife came in with five
pounds in her pocket which had arrived by post for the cause. She
wandered about like a lost sheep from one stall to another, looking for
anything that would be of any use to anybody in the world, and it was an
ageing process to get rid of four pounds five. Then she stuck. In the
whole room there was not one thing she'd have been paid to buy.
"And then 'twas Bridgie's chance, and she beguiled her with the cushion
for fifteen shillings, saying the down itself was worth it. So she
bought it to make weight, and sent it to the Major's wife, with her dear
love, for Christmas. The Major's wife wore it on the sofa for a whole
afternoon when the Colonel's wife came to tea, and then packed it away
in the spare room wardrobe till a young curate brought back a bride, and
then she shook it up and ironed the lace and sent it, with all best
wishes, for a wedding present. The curate's wife wore it for one
afternoon, just in the same way, and then _she_ packed it away, and when
Christmas came round she said to her husband that the Colonel's wife had
been so kind and helpful, and wouldn't it be nice to make a slight
return if it were within their means, and what about the cushion? So on
the very next Christmas the Colonel's wife got a nice fat parcel, and
when it was opened, there, before her eyes--"
"Ha, ha ha!"
"Ho, ho, ho!"
The two young men anticipated the point with roars of laughter, and
Pixie whisked round to the other side of the stall to cock her head at a
pyramid of green pottery, and move the principal pieces an inch to the
right, a thought to the left, with intent to improve the _coup d'oeil_.
To the masculine eye it did not seem possible that such infinitesimal
touches could have the slightest effect, but then bazaars are intended
primarily for the entrapment of women, and Pixie knew very well that
with them first impressions were all important. Every shopkeeper
realises as much, which is the reason why he labels his goods just a
farthing beneath the ultimate shilling. The feminine conscience might
possibly shy at paying a whole three shillings for a bauble which could
be done without, but, let the eye catch sight of an impressive _Two_,
and the small eleven three-farthings is swallowed at a gulp!
At two o'clock the bazaar was formally opened in a ceremony which took
exactly ten minutes, and was so dull that it appeared to have lasted a
long half-hour.
Geoffrey Hilliard, as squire of the village, gave an elaborate
explanation of the pressing need of a parish nurse, which his hearers
already understood far better than he did himself; the wife of a
neighbouring squire said that she had found a parish nurse a great
acquisition in her own village, and she had very much pleasure in
declaring the bazaar open, and the vicar returned thanks to the
neighbouring squire's wife for her kindness in "being present among us
to-day," and then every one clapped feebly, and the bazaar had begun.
The few county people who were present sauntered round Esmeralda's
stall, bought trophies of china and glass, and promptly whirled away in
their motors, feeling that they had nobly discharged a duty. There was
no denying the fact that it was a dull occasion, and an arduous one into
the bargain for sales-women who wanted to get rid of their wares.
The hall was sparsely filled, and the good ladies who were present had
come with a certain amount of money in their purses, and a fixed idea of
the manner in which they intended to spend it. They would pay for
admission, they would pay for tea, they would pay for the concert--
conceivably they might even indulge in a second tea--they would purchase
buttonholes of hot-house flowers, patronise side shows, and possibly
expend a few shillings at the grocery stall ("Should have to buy them in
any case, my dear!") but there the list of their expenditure came to an
end. Even when Honor and Pixie were driven out of their fastness, and
walked boldly to and fro, hawking tempting selections from the stall,
they met with but little success, for if there is no money left in the
purse, the best will in the world cannot produce it.
"Wouldn't you like to buy this lovely little plaque of Della Robbia,
from Florence?" inquired Pixie genially of a group of portly matrons.
"Reduced to seven and six. Ten shillings at the beginning of the
afternoon. Less than cost price!"
"Very pretty!" murmured the ladies, and the portliest of them went a
step further and added: "_And_ cheap!" but no one showed the faintest
disposition to buy.
"It would look so well in the dark corner of the drawing-room!"
suggested Pixie, drawing a bow at a venture, and the three faces
instantly became thoughtful and intent.
"That's true. It might do that. Does it hang?"
"It is made to hang," Pixie exhibited the holes pierced in the china,
"but I should _prefer_ it on a bracket! A bracket nailed across a
corner at just the right height, and the plaque put across it, so that
you could see it from all parts of the room.--Is your drawing-room
blue?"
"Pale blue."
"How charming! It would just set off this darker shade."
"Mine is not blue. It is pink."
"But think of the contrast! Blue and pink! What could be sweeter? It
would look perfect against your walls! Shall I make it up safely in a
box? We have a special parcels department."
"Not to-day, thank you," said the owner of the blue drawing-room. "I'll
think of it," said the owner of the pink. The silent third asked
tentatively: "Could you make it five?"
The next group were more hopeless still. They didn't like Della Robbia.
Common, they called it, that bright yellow and blue. Pixie was
informed that if she offered the plaque for nothing it would be
declined. She carried it dejectedly back to the stall, piled a tray
with marmalade jars, gave it to Stanor to carry, and started off on
another promenade.
"Marmalade jars! Fine marmalade jars! Who will buy my marmalade jars?"
chanted the young man loudly, and the audience giggled, and listened
with indulgent looks, even went so far as to finger the jars themselves,
admire the design, and marvel how they could have been made for the
price, but not a single one of the number had a vacancy for such an
article in the home. Even when Stanor suggested that the jars were not
dedicated to marmalade alone, but might be used for jam, for honey, for
syrup, the supply seemed ridiculously out of proportion to the demand,
and half an hour's exercise of his own pleading, seconded by Pixie's
beguilements, brought in a total result of three shillings, which, to
say the least of it, seemed inadequate.
"At this rate," said Esmeralda, "we shall have a van-load to take home!"
Honor, seated dejectedly on an inverted packing-chest, discoursed in a
thin, monotonous tone on the glories of charity sales in the States.
They were always crowded, it appeared; policemen stood at the doors to
prevent a crush; the buying was in the nature of a competition. Young
girls offering wares for sale found themselves surrounded by throngs of
millionaires, bidding against each other for the privilege of obtaining
any article which she was pleased to offer. Having accomplished a
purchase, it became the overwhelming desire of the purchaser to present
the article in question as a votive offering to the fair sales-woman
herself. ... Such a recital was hardly calculative to enliven the
occasion. Esmeralda frowned, and Pixie sighed, and for the first time
in her existence doubted the entire superiority of being born a Briton.
She remembered her rebuffs with the Della Robbia plaque and thought
wistfully of those millionaires!
The concert, however, was a success: the room was filled, the audience
was appreciative, and lovely little Jack in the character of an invalid
evoked storms of applause. The spirits of the performers were improved
by their success, but as the audience now cleared off rapidly on dinner
intent, there seemed no reason why Geoffrey, Stanor, and Robert Carr
should not follow their example. The suggestion was made, Esmeralda
vouchsafed a gracious permission, and went off herself to parley with
another stall-holder. The three men made for the door, with relief
written on every line of their figures, and the two girls remained on
duty seated on packing-cases.
"At home in the States," remarked Honor severely, "the men would not be
_paid_ to run off home to dine in comfort, leaving the girls alone to
work."
"On sandwiches!" supplemented Pixie sadly, "and stewed tea!" She was
hungry herself, and could have appreciated a well-cooked meal. "I'd
like to know some American men," she opined. "You must be longing to
get back to them, as they are so much more appreciative and polite than
our men over here!"
Honor blushed, and regarded the points of her neat little shoes.
"There are a great many things, Pat-ricia," she said slowly, "that a
girl ought to do if she were logical, and consistent, and acted up to
what she preached. But she isn't, and she don't. I'm not in a mite of
a hurry to get back..."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The hall was packed to overflowing for the evening concert, additional
chairs were placed down the aisles, and even after they were filled, a
number of people had to be content with standing places at the back.
The performers peeping round the corner of the stage felt a mingling of
nervousness and excitement, and vociferously instructed every one else
to pull his or her self together, and do his or her best.
It soon became apparent, however, that the audience was indulgent to the
point of boredom, applauding with consistency each item, good or bad,
and demanding thereto an encore. Esmeralda's entrance brought down the
house, Pixie's Irish ditties evoked shouts of applause, and the part
songs but narrowly escaped being turned into choruses. It was, indeed,
a village audience of the old-fashioned kind, assembled together in
pleasant, friendly spirit, with the object of being amused, and
determined that that object should be fulfilled.
The squire was a favourite, as he well deserved to be, and his beautiful
wife was regarded with a fervent admiration, which her very aloofness
had served to heighten. Other ladies might call round at cottage doors,
and talk intimately concerning book clubs, and Dorcas societies, but no
one expected such condescension from Mrs Geoffrey Hilliard. She
whizzed along in her great green car, or cantered past on her tall brown
horse, followed by a groom in livery, vouchsafing a gracious smile in
return for bows and curtseys. On Sundays she sat ensconced in the great
square pew, a vision of stately beauty. ... The good dames of the
village felt it the great privilege of this evening to see the squire's
lady without her hat, with diamonds flashing at her throat, smiling,
laughing, singing--a goddess descended from her pedestal to make merry
on their behalf.
And so at last in the midst of this simple happiness came the time for
the last item on the programme--that double tableau which every person
in the hall was fated to remember, to the last day of his life!