THE PINK HAT

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1847, 31 July 1907, Page 23

THE PINK HAT

(By Mrs Smart.) The sun streamed brightly in at the windows of a room on the first floor of a hotel in the Rue de Rivoli. The outside shutters had been, closed all the morning, but the French maid had just thrown them open for a special purpose —a very special purpose. “Ah, madame, but it is charming—ravissant! The colour de rose does so well become madame,” the little Frenchwoman said as she clapped her hands with the exuberant -rapture of her nation. Hilda Trevelyan turned slowly round in front of the large mirror, and used the hand-glass so as to obtain the best, view of her delicately cut profile. "Yes, 1 think it will do,” she said slowly as she _ put down the glass with a sigh of content. "After all,, where does one buy hats as you find them in the Rue de la Paix? Eugenie is a veritable artiste; she deserves to be canonised in the Chronicles of Millinery. It was a very good idea of yours, Marie, to think of buying some hats to take back with us to England—stupid old England !”

"Ah! ze English are a leetle —’ow one say it? —’eavy, like their roast-bif and plum-pudding;” and the maid laughed merrily. ‘"They cannot create like Eugenie ; they only trim ze ’at. But, madame!” striking an attitude of reverent admiration, "c’est charmant vraiment, le chapeau, et pour le Grand Prix —ze very zing;” and she laughed merrily again. "Yes,” said Mrs Trevelyan, "we will decide on that, and the black toque, I think; and I may as well.-have these two little travelling things. The otheis can g'o back. You bad better pack them up quickly, Marie, and let Eugenie know when to send for them, and then you must dress me. I told Mr Trevelyan I should be ready to go for a drive in the Bois directly after lunch.” Hilda Trevelyan had been married only two months,, the greater part of which was pent honeymooning in Italy. It sometimes occurred to her, lazily—for she was an extremely indolent woman —that she had been extraordinarily fortunate. Her wedding was quite one of the most noticeable of the early London season. She had —after several London seasons —made what was supposed to be a brilliant match in marrying the junior partner of a wealthy city firm; she, the penniless niece of Lord GresiLaui, 7, no, it was well known, had told her when he paid the cheque for her ••••riding and trousseau expenses that in future she must look to her husband to provide those luxuries and necessaries of hie with which he had grudgingly provided her for a considerable number of years. And Arthur Trevelyan more than acted up to his promises; he had loaded liis lovely - bride with every conceivable tiling her wide-rang-ing fancy could think of. Yes, slie was a fortunate woman. It made her shiver to think of others less happily situated: her old schoolfellow, Rosalie Chiene, for instance, whom slie met yesterday in the hotel vestibule, the poor, ill-paid, nerve-driven companion of a penurious old maid. But why think of disagreeable things? The day was fine; the sun shone witn the br’Pmncc of June; she was married to Arthur Trevelyan, the best man in the world; she was in Paris —gay, beautiful Paris —and had just found the most lovely hat possible for the Grand Prix. What could heart desire more? Her cup of happiness was full, and with a sigh of content she again turned to the mirror and for the third time tried the effect of the pink hat. A knock was heard on the door. "Come in,” she called out, and turned round to see, as she expected, her busband. “Is it not sweet?” she cried gaily as she ran towards him and kissed him "Have you ever seen a prettier hat, Arthur?” Trevelyan, disengaged himself from her embrace and stood for a moment looking au ins wife. She made truly a graceful picture, this well-born, well-dressed woman, with the love-light shining in her eyes. Was it for him, this gleam of sunshine, this manifestation of affection? Was it for him, or was it for the pink hat and huo-i-liko material tilings he had Hitherto -'on able to give her? "Send Marie away,” he said in a hoarse voice which sounded unnatu-al to the summer-day, wife, who had only known him in his moments of sunr.h.me. "'Why, Arthur?” she asked with wideeyed surprise. "She had to pack these hats to go oack to Eugenie. Look, we are going to keep four —the rink, of course, and the black, and these two little travelling things ” "And they cost?” he said with a note of anxiety in his voice totally foreign to her. "Oh, what does that matter?” she said petulantly. “I think it is about four or five hundred frans altogether.” "Send them all back,” he said, again in that hard, dry voice. "Arthur! Why, thank of the Grand Prix, and Ascot coming on! A did \ ant to have that pink hat for Ascot. What has happened to change you ao?”^ Marie had discreetly withdrawn. With the ferret-like instinct of a Fremhwoman, she had "smelt a rat,” as she graphically put it to herself, and she retired to her bedroom, where die immediately consulted the Paris edition of the "New York Herald” as to "Situations V acant.”

“Hilda,” said Arthur Trevelyan a<he put a cold hand on hers —“can you bear it, Hilda? We are ruined. Do you hear what I say —ruined? She still gazed at him with these wideopen eyes, which seemed to see uothing. "The firm has smashed,” he went doggedly on. “Roper has been speculating, and has absconded with the money. We have nothing, or almost nothing, left, Hilda. For God’s sake, say something, or I shall go mad!” “I don’t understand, she answered at length in a voice which .-.eemed to

belong to somebody else, “What are we to do? I don’t understand, iiow are we to live?” "Cpd knows!” he said Hopelessly. “Tli (re will be a lew hundreds left when thing? are settled up. Wo must think—think ”; and he pressed Iris band to his brow. "It: is for you— for you—that I feel it, Hilda. For mercy’s sake tell me you still love me; , that ic was .Lot only for money” —his voice stuck in his throat—"that you married me!” one was silent. How could sne be ■otherwise? Hoi beautiful castle life had tumbled to pieces, and the rains were represented by a pile of open bandboxes and a pink hat. “I don’t knew,” she said petulantly. "What is the good of asking n e questions like that just now, when we don’t know iiow we are going to live?” room. The maid had discreetly re-entered th/a room. ,‘A r ou may send all the hats back to Madame Elugenm, Marie,” her mistress said. "I—l do not require any of them —just now—and I shall not drive today.” "Oui, madame,” Marie replied demurely.

Ten years later The rain dripped drearily in Hereford Square, Bayswater. It had rained all the morning, and the soot on the window-panes was dissolved into black tears. A tall, handsome, woman stood in the back sitting-room of a dingy London boarding-house. She had just come in from her daily shopping, whereby she supplied the corporeal needs of the "paying guests” at No. 9 Hereford Square, and put up her hands to remove her shabby black hat. As she did so the gesture seemed oddly familiar to a man who lounged, smoking,-'in the ragged armchair by the fireside. In a moment his memory went back to a sunshiny May day in Paris, a laughing girl in a summer frock and a pink hat. Could this worn, broken-down-looking woman be the same Hilda? She placed the shabby hat beside a pair of mended gloves ana a worn, leanlooking purse on the table, and commenced to take off her sodden shoes. "I'm afraid you’ve got wet,” the man said, as he looked up from his paper. " Wet! I should think so,” she replied. "My feet are soaking through and through. There is a hole in my shoe you could put your fist into.” "'Why don’t you have it mended, or buy a new pair ?” asked her husband. "Why don’t I do iots of things? "'he usual reason: want of money, she replied, with a short, unmirthful laugh. “Poor girl, it's too bad!” he said he tilled'riis pipe. “Yes, it is too bad,” she replied, turning furiously round. “Why can’t you make a little money, instead of leaving us to be entirely dependent on the whims of a few crotchety women here —” “My dear Hilda, you forget I have tried, and can get nothing to do.” "Tried!” she said in a tone of bitter scorn. “However, there’s no use breaking my heart over it. I must just y on, as 1 have done, till the end of tht chapter, I suppose;” and she commencedf to jot down her purchases in a little note-book. "Please, m’m’’ —and a grimy head appeared at trio door—“I forgot to tell you, but the bacon's finished, and the gasman called for the money for last quarter’s bill when you were out.” Hilda turned round angrily, and vented her fury on the woman. "Why didn’t you tell me in the morning? How do you expect me to go out again in this pouring rain? You—you’ll just have to go without, that’s all.” "Very well, m’m, it’s not my busi. ness; but the boarders will have their bacon.” Mro Trevelyan sighed assent, and began wearily to put on the soaking shoe® again. "Couldn’t I go?” said the man from the arm-chair. "I suppose you could,” she said dryly; "but they’d cheat you; they always do.” "Oh, very well;’’ and he resumed hi« paper. An angular lady of uncertain years waylaid Mrs Trevelyan in the passage. “J wish to tell you I am going on Monday,” she said. "I am sorry,” Hilda replied, with some truth, for His was her best-paying boarder, who could ill be spared. "Yes; your establishment is too mixed for me, Mrs Trevelyan. I cannot forget that my great uncle was Lord Mayor of London; and when you introduce persons like Miss Pringle into your circle, I feel it is time for me to go. Besides, the fish-sauce at dinner last night wa# distinctly burnt, and I believe —I do really believe—the lamb was foreign!" "It is very difficult to provide everything of the best for the terms I ask, Miss Jones,” Hilda replied meekly; "<and as for Miss Pringle, she works, it is true, for her living in a milliner’s shop, but she is of good birth. I happen to know her antecedents, and to work for one’s daily broad is surely no crime ?” “I prefer to go,” the lady said with a snap of her jaw. "I do not know Miss Pringle’s antecedents, and I am not accustomed to associating with shopgirls”; and she flounced upstairs. Hilda smiled grimly when she remembered her own many titled relations and their complete neglect of her since her misfortunes. "It is retribution,” she said bitterly as she went out into the blinding rain. "I forgot others in my days of prosperity, and now others forget me.” She bought the bacon, after a furious dispute ovei 8. penny in the purchase price, and aetnmed with it tucked under her coat. An Italian child wifh a barrel-organ smiled at her as she passed, and she could not resist giving him the disputed penny.. His face brought back to her that glad time ten years aj p, and the dark Italian faces which clu tered round thedr carriage to beg fo*r alms as they drove through the Chiaia at Naples or the Corso in Rome, through the fresh greenness of the Casc-iue at Florence.

“Signora bella, bellissima !” she could hear again the soft Southern voices Bay. What would they call her now? she thought as she stood before the mirror in her dingy bedroom. Often she lacked the courage to look her reflection in the face; but to-day she took almost a cruel pleasure in doing so. It was a tired face which looked back at her; the pencils of care and poverty had drawn deeply under the suffering eyes; already some gray was plainly visible in the nut-brown hair, once—in the days of Marie—so shining and beautifully coiffee, now so dull and uncared for. Her husband had entered the room as she stood before the mirror. He came up to her and put his arm round her waist. “Poor Hilda," he said, “it has been hard for you!” .“Has been? Is, you mean—will he till the end of time. Oh. Arthur! do you remember that Sappy time long ago in Paris., and the pink hat? I took you 'for better, for worse/ but it has been mostly worse, hasn't it?" “Never mind, dear; per ha us you will hayo the better again now." _ “How? Have you got something to do?” she asked quickly, starting back so as to see hie face. “Took"; and he shewed her an open letter. Trembling, she commenced to read: “Dear Sir, —We write to inform you that your late unrie. Mr Beniamin Smith, of whose demise you are pmbri''' aware, has died intestate, and that liie ertahe reverts to you. being nearest of kin. “We should be glad to be favoured h v a call from you, at vour earlv convenience. so as to receive vonr. instructions. "We belmve the amount of propertv is considerable.—We are dear sir, yours faithfully, . GRAHAM AND STOKES” “Dh, Arthur!” sVe Ra id s h e wept in Me arms -Prom sheer relief. "I ea” ,f hob*ev e if. No more worries with ers, or bacon, or gas-bills! Oh, is it not lovefv to tb/nk we shall be well off again? But I have been so horrid,” she continued in a tone of regret. “I have rebelled—bitterly rebelled—ever since" that dav of the pink hat ” “And now von shall have the best pink hat to he had in London to make up for that one," he said as he dried her i teers.

Oh, the relief of it! Hilda thought as she leaned back in the neat victoria and watched the gay crowd go by in the Pack. It had gone bv her for so long that now she seemed not to know anv of the ga.v butterflies of fashion. But that would all come—that would all cowe ! She knew her London well enough to understand that as flies gather round the jam-pot, so people congregate together where there is wealth. And they were rich—Arthur and she were positively rich. That very day they had signed the lease of a house in Mount Street, engaged a staff of servants, and command ed the purchase of a complete oarxda^ o outfit and suitable horses They still phelfe v ed in their Bay water wilderne-s It won id not do to burst upon the London world too sonn —until all was settled—though already ominous paragraph" had appeared in the society papers about a hostess formerly well-known in London societv who was to reappear tbri season and entertain on a glorified To-dav Hi 7 da had com" nut to- reconnoitre. A good firm supplied her modest pouipami • the coachman was unadorned bv a cockade and unaccompanied bv footman. To-dav she was only a lookermi at the scene where she persuaded rii" won LI soon be a personality. - Ptc looted at the crowds? of people ,/aik’pg. Thev crushed against the rail incs so as to get a better view of the carriages. She remembered the last fl she and Miss Pringle were here, on'-'' last mrvnfh. and how th« twooence for ci*ait\c had been simh a consideration that thev tacitly agreed not to rest Unless thev could find a vacant bench. Poor Mies Pringle. She must ask her to come for a drive—.some day. Oh, how delicious it all was—the scent of the horse-chestnuts, the fresh green of the leaves. th« gay crowd of well-dressed people! And for tlm last time she was W onlooker. A month—a week hence she would again be “in society." Oh, money ! The wonderful power of money ! Hr wonderful, wonderful power! Again the scene in the Paris hotel and the incident of the -nin 7 -' het to her. Had it ever her brato since it was branded there ten " ago? And fv . «r> years of poverty and hardship and sordid care She yrould soon forget rt.em; she and Arthur would start again as if th«wc years had -never Iwen. Ah! could they? Something lay on the sleeve of her neat, black dress. H T hat was it? A grey hair? Oh. nossibly the wind had blown it there—no-sibly. But nrobablyp Never mind- eK« would make up for the past in the future. She was stin r young woman: a woman of. thirty-five was quite a girl in these days, and she was not so very reach more. “Not if she has h*»d a life like yours.” whispered a voice in her ear. “All the more necessary to make up for that life.” she al- - mentally. Next time she drove out she must really have a comrwyP so as to make her feel more cheerin' and banish all these horrid thourtri' Tiiow wpr= her husband coming towa-w’ her. How handsome he looked in a we" cut frock coat! How different from the man who had lounged m the old armchair a month ago! lie came up to the carriage with a smile on his face. v_ “Had you forgotten we were to drive to Madame Jeanne's in Bond street to choose a pink hat?” “Oh, Arthur, you darling!” she said, ajs she timidly touched his arm. He gave the coachmou the address, and took his place beside her; he loved givinerther nrettv tlrugs—when it cost him no exertion or self-sacrifice to do 30. How bright Piccadilly looked, and how nice it was to - have an obsequious attendant to help you out of your carriage at a well-known, milliner’s door, instead of jumping off a penny ’bus and subsequently wrangling with the .shop woman Over the difference of a shilling in tin price of a hat{

“Madame wishes to see a pink hat? said the elegant saleswoman deferentially. “Mauve is more the mode just now, or hydrangea blue; but it must be pink? The gentleman wishes it so?’’ and she smiled indulgently at Arthur. “Here is a hat just newly come from Paris, an prlam e.—from Madame Eugenie, the great modiste in the Hue de la Paix. No, madam©; it goes so—so;’’ and she gently patted the hat into place. Hilda looked critically at her reflection in the mirror. The tone of pink in the hat accentuated the lines in her face and made the colour in her cheeks appear more faded; it was the hat of a young woman, and seemed to make her look years older. Or was it a nightmare born of her imagination? No, there was no doubt about it, and her eyes grew big with horror as she looked steadily in the glass. “Madame does not like it?” the woman asked anxiously. “No; take it off,” she gasped. “Why ” said her husband, who was standing behind and had not noticed the little tragedy. “It is all right, isn’t it 1 It is just the same colour as that one—you know ” “Yes; but that was ten years ago,” said Hilda as she swallowed her tears. — “Bring me something plainer; not- so bright, not so young,” she said with gulp. Yes, it was all true. Youth was gone; the poverty had passed away, but in cruel wake it had carried her youth wit it. Alas ! alas! “Perhaps madame might prefer the mauve ” said the saleswoman sympathetically.—“ Chambers's Journal.”