The Bazaar and Other Stories (20 page)

²

She made what we wanted without comment; blamelessly

³
she
carried out our mistakes in taste. Dresses seen in our dreams came to
us complete from her fingers lifeless: to become happy in them took
as long as the making burn up of a fire in a stone-cold grate. We
were to ask one another, after her death, what could have held us to
her so long. Of course, it was the establishment that had cast the
spell.

Her establishment had been in a cathedral town; in a street, she
said, five minutes’ walk from the Close. This had been in the last
years of Queen Victoria. The street had a high wall on its other side,
above this appearing only a row of poplars: the establishment was
thus not overlooked. The street was quiet: soon you came to recog
nise every step. Carriages entered only to stop at the establishment
door. Miss Mettishaw built up a good connection, and could soon
refuse

⁴
any customer she did not wish. The best ladies recom
mended her to the other best ladies; soon she withdrew from the
window her engraved card for fear of drawing someone unknown
in. The establishment was as an establishment from the day she
hired her second seamstress, Rose. The first was Harriet: both were
dependable. Miss Mettishaw extended her premises down to the
front ground floor room of the house, though the sewing rooms
remained on the second floor. At rush times, such as before a ball or
wedding, she herself would take a hand with the girls: she preferred
this to employing an outside person. She allowed no sewing to leave
the house.

Into the front ground floor room she had introduced a gas
chandelier; and from the first of October to the middle of April a
coal fire had been always burning. She had divided the room in two,
into back and front, by means of a red velvet curtain along a rod:
this rod was kept greased, so that the rings ran smooth. In the back,
behind the curtain, had stood the cheval mirror for trying on, a
shamrock-shaped table for the hand mirror and pins, and a sofa on
which to lay out the dresses. In the front there had been a sofa, two
chairs and a circular walnut table for fashion papers: this table was
beautiful, having an inlaid top which always shone like satin, and
carved feet. Against the lace of the window hung a cascade fern that
she always watered herself.

Talking above our machine in her toneless voice she made us
vibrate in the heat of the coal fire, and hear the slippery fashion
plates turn over on the waxed table-top. Light, the not bright but
intense light of the past, was reflected back from the wall across the
street: against the lace of the window we saw a lady under a prowlike hat sitting intensely forward on the sofa. All the clientele of
Miss Mettishaw came to seem to us to have been like swans.

They were the ladies of the County and of the Close.

⁵
No lady
was admitted to the front half while in the back another was at a
fitting. That would have never done. The discretion of the estab
lishment was complete: you would call it now a mystery factory.
Neither Rose nor Harriet ever talked. Therefore no one of Miss
Mettishaw’s ladies knew, till she confronted another at a social
occasion, what the other would wear. Miss Mettishaw knew how to
wean a lady away from a shade already selected by any other. To all
this the establishment owed its tone.

In summer there had been the garden parties and in winter there
had been the County balls. There was also always a Regiment,
which not only attended functions but itself entertained. If a dress
coming downstairs and a dress going up brushed against one
another, they did not whisper.

The establishment, ever-real to Miss Mettishaw, became, you can
see, ever-real to us. In fact it became magnetic, so we were drawn by
it across the line between now and then. Sound of pins in a tray or
smell of dress stuffs conjured it up. Diving our way up into our cold
clinging, half-made dresses, we in our senses expected to come out
near the heavy velvet red of the curtain, opposite the cheval mirror,
under the chandelier. In its timelessness the establishment had no
story: its only story was its untimely end. The idea of the fall was
necessary to the idea of the height. The height of the establishment
had been moral. To be high really means to be high or nothing. The
establishment there one day was gone the next.

Was it burned down? You could say so. But not by fire.
Mrs. P., a sister-in-law of the bishop, followed custom by bringing
her daughter to be dressed on the day of the young lady’s leaving
the schoolroom. Miss Annabelle P.’s figure was quite formed: she
had a small waist and nice ballgown shoulders, and a somewhat too
short though milk white neck. Her freckles were under treatment by
lemon, and she was forbidden boating parties for fear of more. Pink
for her, of any shade, was out of the question, owing to her fine
head of hair being red. Apart from this she was unlike other young
ladies only in that at fittings she stood still: from the first she stood
like a statue or you might say a dummy, looking in her own eyes in
the glass in a trance. What was draped upon her she did not care or
see. They, of course, do say still waters run deep, but you do not
think of everything at the time. She was the only child and would
be the heiress: Mrs. P. ordered a whole outfit for Miss Annabelle.
While this was still in the workroom there was an increase: Mrs. P.
announced the daughter’s engagement to marry Sir Peel B., which
now meant the trousseau. Sir Peel B., being a neighbour of Mrs. P.’s,
must have been only waiting for Miss Annabelle to mature. Just with
all this pending, it had been really too bad about Rose. Rose, being
as you will remember the second seamstress, had always coughed
but now began spitting blood. She had been a handsome girl, but
you would

⁶
never know: she was now all great big eyes and with a
flush. She beseeched not to go, saying in that case what should she
do then, and indeed she could hardly be done without. But every
day now delicate dress stuff bales were coming heaping into the
workroom. Rose promised she would take every care.

 

Sir Peel B. once or twice accompanied Mrs. P. and her daughter
to the establishment door. When the ladies had entered he could be
seen to step back and cast a glance up the front. He was on into
years, but quite looked the baronet that he was.
⁷
It was understood
that Sir Peel would have preferred the trousseau to wait for Paris,
which was to be the scene of the honeymoon; but Mrs. P. was in a
position to talk him down, herself not favouring finicking French
fashions. Mrs. P. kindly let it be known that she preferred the estab
lishment to abroad. This being so, and with all the wedding guest
orders, they were kept working to midnight, six days of the week,
that summer. Rose used to fancy the gas made the workroom hot.

 

At the height of this, everything was brought to a standstill by
Miss Annabelle’s becoming irregular at her fittings, on from the day
after the Regimental ball. Three, no, four times she never came at
all; and there was no word. Sir Peel B. was in London, and Mrs. P.
had many other things on her mind. Each time, a maid called for
Miss Annabelle at the establishment, only of course to find her not
there. Miss Mettishaw finally reached the point of wondering if she
ought to write and ask. All the overtime sewing looked likely to go
for nothing. Then, though, Miss Annabelle did come running in –
no appointment, no maid, no parasol, no explanation, nothing. It
was shocking how she had burned and freckled; and the flounces of
her skirt were stained green with grass.
⁸
She sang and smiled as she
prepared for the fitting.

 

But when she had been got in front of the mirror and the curtains
drawn, she shivered, though it was a hot day. She crossed her now
bare arms across her bosom.
⁹
She was standing like this when Rose
came in through the curtain, bearing the
eau de nil
dress. Suddenly
she and Miss Annabelle stared right at each other, in the mirror. It
was not right, and it was noticeable. It was as though the illness
made Rose forget her place. Miss Mettishaw said, “That will do,
Rose.” Rose dropped the curtain and went out, and Miss Annabelle
was put into the dress. It was really lovely. Miss Mettishaw was just
fitting the waist when Miss Annabelle stooped and plucked up a fold
of the skirt in front, and cried out, “Why, who has hurt themselves?”
There was a blood spot. Small, but that meant the whole front
length had to come out. That settled Rose’s having to go.

 

When told, Rose had made no remark, simply tidied her table
and put her hat on. With only a quite inexperienced new girl there
in Rose’s place, Miss Mettishaw had to oversee every stitch herself.
And at what a time, of all times! She had enough on her mind
without the officer walking past the window. No sooner was Miss
Annabelle in for a fitting than outside his step would again be heard.
To attempt to fit a dress on her at this time was as much good as
attempting to fit a dress on a puff of wind. Also each time a dress
was brought through the curtain Miss Annabelle expected to see
Rose. Anything to do with a young lady is so delicate, and you
never know how a mother will take a thing. Should or should not
Miss Mettishaw have mentioned the matter to Mrs. P.? From never
knowing whether she should or should not, Miss Mettishaw became
unable to sleep at night. And meanwhile the wedding was in a
month.

 

Rose did not go to hospital where she should have gone. So
unfair of her, as this upset the workroom; the two others constantly
meeting her in the town. What was she hoping for? Until one day,
if you please, the establishment front door bell rang, and there was
Rose on the white step like a lady waiting, but with her hand to her
mouth. What a joke to play! “Is she fitting now, is she?” Rose said,
“ – Miss Annabelle?”

 

“What’s that to you, Rose?” said Miss Mettishaw, making to close
the door.

 

Whereupon she cried out, “Where she is, he is!”

 

Of course it had been talk in the workroom some time ago, Rose
and some officer; however, Miss Mettishaw always had made a point
of not taking notice, provided a girl of hers did not go too far. The
overtime summer work had since put a stop to that, and a good
thing! But
now
what a situation, really – the same officer! How it
could but lower Miss Annabelle to be succeeding Rose? Sir Peel B.
should now rightly look for a bride elsewhere – but what of the
wedding orders in hand? All might become a complete loss. Every
thing might reflect upon the establishment. Miss Mettishaw could
not feel called upon to open what was so shocking to Mrs. P.

 

The last time Rose was seen she was at the corner, one end of the
street. It was very sultry and thundery, in August. Miss Mettishaw
was in the act of showing a previous lady out when she observed
Rose, ever so still, waiting: the cathedral clock struck four, which
was to say that Miss Annabelle was now due for the wedding dress
fitting. Certain Rose meant some harm, Miss Mettishaw started off
down the street to tell Rose to be off, and however dared she. But
then round the corner at the other end came Mrs. P. and Miss
Annabelle; moreover, accompanied by Sir Peel B. Rather than be
found in the street hatless, Miss Mettishaw was compelled to hasten
back to receive them, leaving Rose out there at the one street corner
and the baronet, who had delivered the ladies on the doorstep,
vanishing round the other. Miss Annabelle was hurried behind the
curtain to prepare for the fitting, but Mrs. P. was still on the front
room sofa, regretting ever so graciously that she had been unable to
look in for so long, when the officer made his step heard by once
again sauntering past the window.

 

On account of the thundercloud Miss Mettishaw sent for a taper,
and was in the act of lighting the chandelier. The wedding dress
entered, like a bride itself wrapped up in muslin, and Miss Annabelle
was half way into the dress when the scream came from Rose there
in the street. Rose who had used to seem such a quiet girl. Miss
Annabelle, catching the diamond of the ring Sir Peel B. had given
her in the chiffon, tore the sleeve. And Mrs. P., already beside
herself with all she had done and must do, rated and railed, “Well,
Belle, how will you be married now?” Miss Mettishaw, needing, she
said, a needle of fine white silk to catch the tear up, withdrew. She
came over with palpitations. She ran to the street door.

 

Everyone had gone home, to await the storm. In another minute
there would be big drops, and the street was unnatural.
¹⁰
Nothing
would drive off Rose: she had stopped the officer, set on him, held
him, was not letting him by. The two stood. Rose saw Miss
Mettishaw, but did not see her: it was the officer turned his head.

 

So Miss Mettishaw looked in the face that spelled her ruin. That
face was human, and she did not forget it after her humanity was
gone. She carried the face with her into the room in our house: at it
her words stopped, but we saw what she saw. She had never con
sidered or noticed gentlemen, being a dressmaker for ladies: she did
not then, at that moment, consider the gentleman, only considered
ruin. She saw the hawk of her sky – and how could the establish
ment, and all ladies’ things, hope, when skies could be open to such
a hawk? She looked on the doom of her cascade fern and the
beautiful table, of the cheval mirror, the curtain and greased rod, of
propriety, of the establishment. Miss Annabelle’s bolting and Rose’s
choking death were still, at that moment, to come; but in that
moment Miss Mettishaw died of them – they had only to come,
they came, and by the time they did come she no longer felt any
more.

 

With no thoughts, she saw that fire-raising face. She could only
tell us that the officer who ruined the establishment was handsome