I have always been very fond and proud of my niece Celia. With an
exceptionally attractive appearance and a personal fascination that is
irresistible she combines the sweetest and most unselfish nature it has
ever been my good fortune to meet. Indeed, she has so excessive a
consideration for the feelings of everybody but herself that she drifts
into difficulties which she might have avoided by a little more
firmness. As, for example, in the case of Jillings. Celia and Jack have
been married six years; he is about twelve years older than she, and a
capital good fellow, though he is said to have rather a violent temper.
But he has never shown it with Celia--nobody could, had left the Army on
his marriage and settled down in a pretty little place in Surrey, but of
course rejoined the Service as soon as the War broke out. So long as he
was in training with his regiment she took rooms in the neighbourhood,
but when he was ordered to the Front about a year ago she and the
children returned to the Surrey home, and it was then that Celia engaged
Jillings as parlourmaid. I saw her shortly afterwards when I went down
to stay for a night, and was struck by the exuberant enthusiasm with
which she waited--not over efficiently--at table. Celia remarked
afterwards that Jillings was a little inexperienced as yet, but so
willing and warm-hearted, and with such a sensitively affectionate
disposition that the least hint of reproof sufficed to send her into a
flood of tears.
I had no idea then--nor had Celia--how much inconvenience and
embarrassment can be produced by a warm-hearted parlour-maid. Jillings'
devotion did not express itself in a concrete form until Celia's
birthday, and the form it took was that of an obese and unimaginably
hideous pincushion which mysteriously appeared on her dressing-table.
Old and attached servants are in the habit of presenting their employers
on certain occasions with some appropriate gift, and no one would be
churlish enough to discourage so kindly a practice. But Jillings, it
must be owned, was beginning it a bit early. However, Celia thanked her
as charmingly as though she had been longing all her life for exactly
such a treasure. Still, it was not only unnecessary but distinctly
unwise to add that it should be placed in her wardrobe for safety, as
being much too gorgeous for everyday use. Because all she gained by this
consummate tact was another pincushion, not quite so ornate perhaps, but
even cruder in colour, and this she was compelled to assign a prominent
position among her toilet accessories.
These successes naturally encouraged Jillings to further efforts. Celia
had the misfortune one day to break a piece of valuable old porcelain
which had stood on her drawing-room mantelpiece, whereupon the faithful
Jillings promptly replaced the loss by a china ornament purchased by
herself. Considered merely as an article of _vertu_ it was about on a
par with the pincushions, but Celia accepted it in the spirit with which
it had been offered. And, warned by experience, she did not lock it up
in the obscurity of a cabinet, nor contrive that some convenient
accident should befall it, wisely preferring "to bear those ills she had
than fly to others," etc. And so it still remains a permanent eyesore on
her mantelshelf.
Then it seemed that Jillings, who, by the way, was not uncomely, had
established friendly relations with one of the gardeners at the big
house of the neighbourhood--with the result that Celia found her
sitting-rooms replenished at frequent intervals with the most
magnificent specimens of magnolia, tuberose, stephanotis and gardenia.
Unfortunately she happens to be one of those persons whom any strongly
scented flowers afflict with violent headache. But she never mentioned
this for fear of wounding Jillings' susceptibilities. Luckily, Jillings
and the under-gardener fell out in a fortnight.
As was only to be expected, the other servants, being equally devoted to
their mistress, could not allow Jillings to monopolize the pride and
glory of putting her under an obligation. Very soon a sort of
competition sprang up, each of them endeavouring to out-do the other in
giving Celia what they termed, aptly enough, "little surprises," till
they hit upon the happy solution of clubbing together for the purpose.
Thus Celia, having, out of the kindness of her heart, ordered an
expensive lace hood for the baby from a relation of the nurse's at
Honiton, was dismayed to discover, when the hood arrived, that it was
already paid for and was a joint gift from the domestics. After that she
felt, being Celia, that it would be too ungracious to insist on
refunding the money.
It was not until I was staying with her last Spring that I heard of all
these excesses. But at breakfast on Easter Sunday not only did Celia,
Tony and the baby each receive an enormous satin egg filled with
chocolates, but I was myself the recipient of one of these seasonable
tokens, being informed by the beaming Jillings that "we didn't want
_you_, Sir, to feel you'd been forgotten." By lunch-time it became clear
that she had succeeded in animating at least one of the local tradesmen
with this spirit of reckless liberality. For when Celia made a mild
inquiry concerning a sweetbread which she had no recollection of having
ordered Jillings explained, with what I fear I must describe as a
self-conscious smirk, that it was "a little Easter orfering from the
butcher, Madam." I am bound to say that even Celia was less scrupulous
about hurting the butcher's feelings--no doubt from an impression that
his occupation must have cured him of any over-sensitiveness.
As soon as we were alone she told me all she had been enduring, which it
seemed she had been careful not to mention in her letters to Jack. "I
simply can't tell you, Uncle," she concluded pathetically, "how wearing
it is to be constantly thanking somebody for something I'd ever so much
rather be without. And yet--what else can I do?"
I suggested that she might strictly forbid all future indulgence in
these orgies of generosity, and she supposed meekly that she should
really have to do something of that sort, though we both knew how
extremely improbable it was that she ever would.
This morning I had a letter from her. Jack had got leave at last and she
was expecting him home that very afternoon, so I must come down and see
him before his six days expired. "I wish now," she went on, "that I had
taken your advice, but it was so difficult somehow. Because ever since I
told Jillings and the others about Jack's coming home they have been
going about smiling so importantly that I'm horribly afraid they're
planning some dreadful surprise, and I daren't ask them what. Now I must
break off, as I must get ready to go to the station with Tony and meet
dear Jack...."
Then followed a frantic postscript. "I know _now_! They've dressed poor
Tony up in a little khaki uniform that doesn't even fit him! And, what's
worse, they've put up a perfectly terrible triumphal arch over the front
gate, with 'Hail to our Hero' on it in immense letters. They all seem so
pleased with themselves--and anyway there's no time to alter anything
now. But I don't know what Jack will say."
I don't either, but I could give a pretty good guess. I shall see him
and Celia to-morrow. But I shall be rather surprised if I see Jillings.