Complete Story. Satin and Silver.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVII, Issue XXII, 30 November 1901, Page 1016

Complete Story. Satin and Silver.

Bv

A. M. SHERMAN.

The little shop bore, over its window. the name of "Mrs Perkins," spelt with the homely “i” that proud people (like Mrs Perkins genteel cousin, who was a lady’s-maid in the West) transmuted into “y.” Mrs Perkins, of 100 a, Hinton-street, \ ittoria, sold ladies’ wardrobes, and arranged these in all their faded splendour in her little shop window, displaying a nice taste in the selection of those garments that would be appropriate to the weather that she thought likely to prevail during the day.

The shutters were taken down every morning at eight o’clock sharp by a small Jill-of-all-Trades, and then it was Mrs Perkins' habit to step to the door and cast a comprehensive glance round the horizon — what she could see of it—and up at the sky. Prom weather signs thus gathered she would determine the character of the garments to be exhibited that day: rainy weather brought out semi-stylish “tailormades’ - and crumpled circular mackintoshes: frosty weather demanded moth-worn furs and dejected capes. Sometimes, in a shameless spirit of frivolity, regardless of all climatic portents, the good woman would bedeck her window with robes that had once fretted their brief hour in the ball-rooms of the great; and these would still be so impregnated with the essence of the society in which they had originally moved, that, even in that small show-win-dow. they would spread out their trains haughtily, and exercise an awful fascination over the slender work girls, as they passed the window to their work each morning. When the evening gowns were displayed the little work girls were more in danger of being late for their work than usual, and their giddy heads would be full, all the day after, of fair dreams of a time when they might perhaps call a “Perkins’ ” costume their very own.

As a rule Mrs Perkins did not get her gowns first hand from their aristocratic original wearers; she would have had no market for so much lovely freshness. No, they filtered down to her through gradations of “second-hand” shops, from the elaborate “wardrobe houses” in Shaftesbury Avenue, through Notting Hill and Kensington, and so to Victoria.

We might take a look in at Mrs Perkins’ one December morning, frosty and cold, when the very air outdoors seemed to chatter crisply of dances and all manner of winter festivities. Inside, however, you would not observe a like gaiety of aspect. With the best intentions in the world to be brave and careless, “secondhand things” have a depressed look about them; their spirit being broken by the dreary vicissitudes they have been forced to encounter since they were born. spotless and radiant, in a West End atelier. They had started life with such high hopes and aspirations, resolved so to enhance the charms of their mistress that, in gratitude for their good services. she would finally lay them away in lavender, so that, long years after. their quaint-scented folds would be shaken out by tender hands, and some fresh voice would exclaim: “Oh. wasn’t this a dear, funny old dress that Great Grandmamma used to wear!”

Such things have been, as even se-cond-hand garments know. How, otherwise, ean there still be extant those old robes and gowns that some of them had seen at exhibitions and so forth that they had visited with their mistresses? So, living in hopes of a like kindly fate, they rustle and

trail and shimmer with all the grace with which their creator has endowed them; Only, alas! alas! to awaken, as old age draws nigh, to the sad knowledge that this is an iconoclastic epoch, and that it is futile to hope for honourable retirement in scented cupboards, for tender consideration as a reward for services rendered in the past. Down, down, ever downsink to that final stage of degradation over which we can but draw a kindly veil. Mrs Perkins was the Woman to put heart even into second-hand garments, if such a thing were possible, and 1 ad carefully arranged her window that frosty December morning with a mothy mink cape, a little old Russian coat that had been very smart two or three seasons ago, and a costume or so that she thought would be suitable for December weather. She had even graced the stands that bore these costumes with hats to match, but though her arrangements looked to her tasty enough. Mrs Perkins was still far from feeling satisfied; for there was no hiding the fact that business had been by no means brisk lately. “I want somethin’ startlin’,” Mrs Perkins decided, as she sat behind her counter and waited for the customer who did not seem disposed to put in a appearance. She remembered regretfully a certain flame-colour-ed velvet robe, embroidered with huge, tarnished gold flowers, that had made a sensation in her window some time back, and had unquestionably brought her quite a number of customers.

“I wish I ’ad something like that again!” she sighed, and then—“Dor’ sakes!” she exclaimed. “Who ever can it be?” For a cab had stopped directly outside her door, and someone was getting out. Before her curiosity had time, however. to become unpleasantly acute, she discovered that it was her genteel cousin who had alighted from the cab. and was paying the driver his fare with a languid haughtiness that Mrs Perkins felt sure was a very good copy of high society manners.

“Why. it’s Hemma.” she said admiringly. “My. she do know ’ow to do the proper thing!” She hastened around from her counter and met Miss Emma Perkyns in the doorway. That lady was very tastefully attired, but the dignity of her appearance was a trifle marred by the big brown-

paper parcel with which her arms were cumbered.

"Well, I’m glad to see you, Hemma!” said Mrs Perkins warmly. “It’s ever so long since you’ve been to look at me!”

“We’ve been away in the country,” explained Miss Perkyns, “and haven’t been very long back in town.” “How’s your lady?” asked Mrs Perkins, who took a keen interest in her cousin’s mistress since she had seen the portrait of the pretty, fair creature that Emma had once brought to show her.

Emma shook her head mysteriously. “Poor dear, thereby ’angs a tale!” she said, and laid a hand upon the brown-paper parcel, which was now reposing upon the counter. Mrs Perkins’ interest was vividly aroused. “Lor", Hemma. you don’t say! What is it?”

“I have something to show you, Maria,” returned her cousin. “Can you leave the shop for a little while?” “Yes, of course —’ere, Milly, come and set in ’ere a while!” she called 4° the Jill-of-all-Trades, who was busy in the back premises. So mop-haired Milly arranged herself on Mrs Perkins’ seat behind the counter, and tried to look important, while the two ladies adjourned to the parlour. Emma removed her gloves, turned up her veil, and loosened her neat black coat; then she cut the string of the parcel she had brought into the room with her, and revealed a white cardboard dress-box, from which she carefully lifted a gown, that Mrs Perkins greeted with many “ohs” and “ahs” of admiration.

Her enthusiasm was certainly not misplaced; it was really poem of a gown, all snowy white satin, with multitudes of little soft frothy frills about the hem, and a beautiful flight of silver butterflies all across its front. There was more silver and softness about the decollete bodice, and dainty suggestions of turquoise blue, and trails of delicate Neapolitan violets.

“Isn’t it just too lovely? and quite new, too, isn’t it?” asked Mrs Perkins, longing yet afraid to handle the white richness of the fabric. “Came over from Paris last week, and only worn once. Them butterflies is ’and-embroidered,” said Emma gloomily, reverting to her original mode of speech in the emotion of the moment.

“But what’s the matter with it? What ’ave you brought it ’ere for?” questioned Mrs Perkins very naturally.

Again Emma shook her head mysteriously. “ ‘Take it out of my sight, Rosa; don’t let me see it again,’ says my lady; and here it is!” “Yes, but why? You mightn’t be so close, Hemma!” cried Mrs Perkins, vexedly. “’Ave a cup of tea, and tell me all about it, like a good gal!” Tea was always a temptation to Emma (Rosa) Perkyns, so while the balmy liquid was brewing she removed her hat and coat, covered the satin gown with tissue paper, and sat down.

“It’s my opinion as how my lady is very unhappy,” she began. "Lor, the poor young thing!” exclaimed Mrs Perkins, pausing in the act of buttering toast.

“Yes, we women ’as a lot. to put up

with,” sighed Emma. “It’s a man, of course.” Mrs Perkins’ attention was riveted. “My lady met ’im at Osborne when we was there for the yachting; the Hon. Mr Arthur Verrinder he is, such a ’andsome man! And ever since we have been meeting him heverywhere. I know my lady likes him, for she has been ever so bright and ’appy since Osborne.”

"Dear young lady!” breathed Mrs Perkins, sympathetically. “And now 'as somethin’ gone wrong between ’em, Emma?” “I’m afeered so,” said Emma, sorrowfully. “We came up to town on Monday last week, and there was a big dance night before last at Lady Dawton’s, in Belgrave Square; Mr Verrinder called soon after we got to London, and saw my lady, and I knew he was going to that dance, because she was so set on wearing her Paris gown. She looked just beautiful when I dressed her, and so happy! I says to Mrs Baker—that’s our housekeeper, you know—“lf she don't come ’ome engaged to Mr Verrinder, my name ain’t Emma Perkyns,’ and she quite agreed with me. But when my lady was back from the dance that night she didn’t look so bright!” Mrs Perkins interrupted with a sympathetic gasp: “Did she ery, Hemma ?”

“Cry? Not for me to see; the quality don’t. But she looked pale and quiet, and all yesterday she was the same, till someone —1 don’t know who it was—called in the afternoon, and after she 'ad gone, my lady came up to the boodoor with two red spots on 'er eheeks, and found me mending a little bit of frill on this skirt. She looked at it, just as though she couldn’t bear the sight of it, and presently, when I says something about it, she tells me to take it right away.”

"What are you goin’ to do with it, Hemma?” asked Mrs Perkins, looking at the rich gown with yearning eyes.

“Take it to Mademoiselle as usual, I suppose; she’ll ’ave to give me a better price than usual, though, seeing as it’s next to quite new.” “Don’t you feel like you would like to do me a good turn, Hemma?” suggested Mrs Perkins insinuatingly; for it had occurred to her that the sil-vered-embroidered gown was just the “sensation” of which she stood in need.

“What is it?” asked Emma, guardedly, though the tea, and her cousin’s interest in her story, had done much to mellow her.

“Only to let me show that there gown for one day,” said Mrs Perkins.

"Business is that bad, Emma, you can’t think, and it wants something like this to perk it up! You could have it latex- to take to your Mademoiselle.”

“Well, 1 don’t mind if 1 do let you have it,” answered Emma, magnanimously, after- a moment’s thought. "Mademoiselle won’t ever know it’s been shown here, and you’d take every care of it.”

"Every care of it. Indeed, you may promise yourself that,” cried Mrs Perkins, enraptured at hex- good fortune, and already seeing visions of the brave show that her window would make on the morrow.

So when Emma Perkyns had gone away she sent Milly out for several yards of cheap pale pink sateen, and, behind her closed shutters, after business hours, stretchexl it as a covering over all the floor and walls of her

“window,” so that it blushed palely, as though surprised at its own sudden beauty. And she hardly slept all night for thinking how lovely the gown would look against this delicate pink setting.

As a matter of fact, it did look well when Mrs Perkins had very carefully arranged it on her best stand in the window, and spread posies of old Parma violets upon the floor about it, and hung an ancient cream lace shawl (not "real," of course) ovex- one portion of the pink sateen background. No wonder the little workgirls paused outside the window longer than usual that morning as so much unaccustomed ami elegant splendour burst upon them; the winter sun glinted on the silver butterflies, so that they seemed to sparkle with life and brilliancy, and the

foamy frills looketl as pure as newfallen snow xxpon the tender pink lining of the window.

Mrs Perkins’ success was assured with that lovely lure in the foreground. and it impressed her numerous customers when she casually mentioned that she had got it firsthand from a lady who had worn it only a night or two back in Belgrave Square.

The good creature had just contentedly consumed her belated djinner (for business, hail kept her well employed that morning), and was back again at her perch in the shop, when she noticed a cab very suddenly arrested outside her portion of pavement, and a top-hat—yes, actually a top-hat—jump out and walk straight to her window.

"Well, I never did!” ejaculated Mrs Perkins, noting that the hat was beautifully shiny. “What hever can a gent want to look at a dress for, and, well 1 sure! Coming in, too!”

The little shrill bell on the dooxwas jangling as she spoke, and a gentleman entered. Perturbed though she was, Mrs Perkins was albe to remark how handsome and manly the newcomer looked.

“That dress in the window,” he said, I want to buy it.”

"Yes, my Lord, Sir. is it for yourself?” asked Mrs Perkins, too startled to be either coherent ox - sensible.

The gentleman smiled. “1 don't want to wear the dress myself, of course, but I want to have it, nevertheless; what would be the price?— £2O, £30?”

Mrs Perkins was in a quandary; she had no idea what Emma would get from Mademoiselle in the ordinary way fox- such a toilette, fox- the pos-

sibility of a customer for it in Hintonstreet had occurred to neither of the Perkins ladies. “It really isn’t mine to sell, sir; someone left it with me just for a day, and didn’t mention a price.” "Not a lady?” asked the customer a nxiously. “No, sir, a lady’s maid that I know." "Ah. you couldn’t tell me the lady's name, could you?” asked the gentleman. with a most persuasive glance from a handsome pair of blue-grey eyes. Mrs Perkins wasn’t proof against their appeal, though it was clearly unprofessional to mention a client’s name. "It was Lady Marjorie Fyvian’s dress, sir.” “I thought so; what did she ? But no matter; 1 must have the dress. Tell me the price, like a good soul, and if you find that it was not enough according to its present owner’s estimation. 1 will send you the rest.” He placed a card upon the counter, and, quite as she expected, Mrs Perkins real I upon it the name of the "Hon. Arthur Verrinder,” together with his address. "I will say £2O, sir, and hope L am not making a mistake,” she said. “That’s right; then take it out of the window at once.” "1 will send it to you, sir?” said Mrs Perkins conventionally, though she was very unconventionally trying to imagine the story that appeared to lie between the dress, its mistress, and the man. "No. I'm going to take it with me," the Hon. Arthur stated decisively; so Mrs Perkins, not a little sorrowfully, destroyed the attractive aspect of hexwindow, removed the dainty gown from off the stand, and began to fold

it carefully. The gentleman pulled a •gold; n-brown moustache thoughtfully as hr watched the proceedings. *’ £2O. sir. thank you,” said Mrs Perkins when the dress was packed, and she bustled out to the cab herself, ami laid the box on one half of the seat; then watched the Hon. Arthur Verrinder drive away. “What did he want to go and buy that dress for?” she wondered. “A gent like ’e! It fairly beats me; what will Emma say? I do ’ope as how she didn't want more money for it! I’d better write and tell 'er all about it; she will be rare and surprised!” Later that day when, the shutters being up. Mrs Perkins was busy writing her letter of explanation to Emma, a man and a woman were standing in the flower-perfumed conservatory of a big London house, where a “crush” was in progress. “I cannot pretend to understand what ‘explanation' can be necessary between us. Mr Verrinder,” the lady was saying rather formally; she was a graceful, supple creature in soft, dusky black. against which the white of her flesh and the gold of her hair shone very effectively. “Don’t be hard, Marjorie,” the man pleaded, “after all that has passed between us you cannot mean it in your dear, gentle lieart, so do not force yourself to play a part!” “Really, Mr Verrinder, I think you are quite forgetting yourself this evening!” answered Laxly Marjorie Fyvian, drawing herself up and speaking stingingly. “If you have nothing more interesting- to talk about than the past, perhaps you will kindly take me back to the reception rooms.” “When 1 have asked and told you several things. 1 will.” said Arthur Verrinder. very patiently. “Tell me. have you ever seen this note before?” lie held out a little three-cornered t wist of paper as he spoke. Lady Marjorie took it. “No, but I see it is addressed to me. where did you get it? Why, it is directed by yourself?” She was about to open it. when Arthur stayed her hand by laying his own over it. “No. not yet. let me explain; I found it in the hem of your ‘butterfly’ dress—you know, the one you looked so sweet in at Lady Dawton's?” Lady Marjorie felt intensely be wildcred. “My dress? Hut where—how could yon —?” “It is a long story and I will tell you presently; hut first about this note. You reinember at Lady Dawton's that night how anxious I was to get you alone? And how there ne\er seemed to be the least opportunity: if it wasn't Mrs Hammond close at hand, there was always someone else to interfere, do you remember?” “Did she remember!” Yes. for she had thought she knew why he was so anxious to speak to her alone those words that his unremitted attention had made it her right to hear; she had been more than a little vexed herself that no fitting solitude had presented itself that evening; and, later, bad been hurt that he had allowed three whole days to pass without making the occasion to see her and put into words the love that his eyes seemed so plainly to speak. She bowed her head now in answer to his (lucstion. “You know after that last dance of ours we sat out on the stairs, and Mrs Hammond and her partner came and sat quite near?” “Yes?'’ “And you dropped your handkerchief. and I picked it up?” “Yes. while a couple were waiting to pass us.” “Well, in its folds I placed this note as I picked it up. hoping you would feel it in your pocket presently. and make an opportunity to read it before your left.” “I !»<•. er knew that there was a note!” said Lady Marjorie hastily “I never felt it.” ’ “No. it must i ni media t ely have •dipped through a loose seam in your gown, for I found it lying (dose to the hem this afternoon. Now read Ladv Marjorie did as v e was bid “Sweetheart” (ran the pencilled note): “You know so well what I

have been longing to tell you all the evening; 1 love you, sweet! If there is any hope for me, will you say—’Good night, Mr Verrinder, I hope you are coming to see us soon?” when i put you and your mother into your carriage. I can't be happy to-night without this comfort to help me through. “Your lover. “ARTHUR.” Marjorie put out her hand with a swift gesture. “And 1 never said a word! Oh. I am so sorry!” “So was I, beloved, and you were so strange and cold when I met you afterwards!” said Arthur, as he held the hand very closely. “I was angry, and Mrs Hammond called the next day and said you were notoriously such a flirt.” whispered Marjorie contritely. “.Jealous old horror! But you don't really think me one now?” Arthur’s c hest nut-brown head was very near Marjorie's gold, and a glance from her bright blue eyes was !.is sufficient answer. “Would you have asked me about the note if it hadn’t been found in that wonderful way?” questioned Lady Marjorie, after an interlude. “I am afraid I shouldn't, my beastly pride—l beg your pardon, darling mightn't have let me!” “Then I am so glad you bought my dress!” said Lady Marjorie softly. “Why did you, dear?” “It reminded me so much of you. and of all my fond hopes that night, that I couldn't bear to see it exposed in that mean little window; so 1 had to dash into the shop and buy it, and take it home with me. I think I smoothed it and stroked it a little when I opened it there!” admitted Arthur, rather shame-facedly. “And I am glad I did, for it was then that 1 felt the note and knew how your apparent cruelty was to be explained.” “I am so glad I gave Rosa the dress,” cooed Marjorie happily. ‘ I felt I hated it. for. honestly. 1 had expected to be so happy that night when I wore it. and. instead, everything went wrong. But now f shall love it! You will let me have if back. Arthur?” “But not to wear of course, dearest?” “Oh, no, I shall keep it as my greatest treasure!” And that is how it will come about, that, in years to be born. Lady Marjorie Verrinder’s descendants will find a time-yellowed satin gown, across which tarnished silver butterflies take their formal flight, preserved in the scented recesses of a sandal-wood cabinet, as though it were some precious and costly talisman. As, indeed, it was the talisman which brought back love to two lives that appeared fated to drift apart.