It may have been an hour later when I heard the sound of
voices and the stopping of a heavy vehicle before the house. I
stole to the front window, and, peeping under the shelter of the
vines, saw a char-a-bancs, on the way from Great Belvern to the
Beacon. It held three gentlemen, two ladies, and four children, and
everything had worked precisely as I intended. The driver had seen
the watering-trough, the gentlemen had seen the tea-sign, the
children had seen the flowers and the canaries, and the ladies had
seen the baby. I went to the back window to call an encouraging
word to Mrs. Bobby, but to my horror I saw that worthy woman
disappearing at the extreme end of the lane in full chase of our
cow, that had broken down the fence, and was now at large with some
of our neighbour's turnip-tops hanging from her mouth.
Chapter XXIV. An unlicensed victualler.
Ruin stared us in the face. Were our cherished plans to be
frustrated by a marauding cow, who little realised that she was
imperilling her own means of existence? Were we to turn away three,
five, nine thirsty customers at one fell swoop? Never! None of
these people ever saw me before, nor would ever see me again. What
was to prevent my serving them with tea? I had on a pink cotton
gown, - that was well enough; I hastily buttoned on a clean painting
apron, and seizing a freshly laundered cushion cover lying on the
bureau, a square of lace and embroidery, I pinned it on my hair for
a cap while descending the stairs. Everything was right in the
kitchen, for Mrs. Bobby had flown in the midst of her preparations.
The loaf, the bread-knife, the butter, the marmalade, all stood on
the table, and the kettle was boiling. I set the tea to draw, and
then dashed to the door, bowed appetisingly to the visitors, showed
them to the tables with a winning smile (which was to be extra),
seated the children maternally on the steps and laid napkins before
them, dashed back to the kitchen, cut the thin bread-and-butter, and
brought it with the marmalade, asked my customers if they desired
cream, and told them it was extra, went back and brought a tray with
tea, boiling water, milk, and cream. Lowering my voice to an
English sweetness, and dropping a few h's ostentatiously as I
answered questions, I poured five cups of tea, and four mugs for the
children, and cut more bread-and-butter, for they were all eating
like wolves. They praised the butter. I told them it was a
specialty of the house. They requested muffins. With a smile of
heavenly sweetness tinged with regret, I replied that Saturday was
our muffin day; Saturday, muffins; Tuesday, crumpets; Thursday,
scones; and Friday, tea-cakes. This inspiration sprang into being
full grown, like Pallas from the brain of Zeus. While they were
regretting that they had come on a plain bread-and-butter day, I
retired to the kitchen and made out a bill for presentation to the
oldest man of the party.
s. d.
Nine teas . . . . 3 6
Cream . . . . 3
Bread-and-butter . . 1 0
Marmalade . . . . 6
- - -
5 3
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.
