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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Twelve.</h3> <h4>The Bazaar.</h4> 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...” <hr /> 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! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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