_ 'Equisite, 1s. 11d.'
These singular signs were being painted in shiny black on an
unrectangular parallelogram of white cardboard by Constance one
evening in the parlour. She was seated, with her left side to the
fire and to the fizzing gas, at the dining-table, which was
covered with a checked cloth in red and white. Her dress was of
dark crimson; she wore a cameo brooch and a gold chain round her
neck; over her shoulders was thrown a white knitted shawl, for the
weather was extremely cold, the English climate being much more
serious and downright at that day than it is now. She bent low to
the task, holding her head slightly askew, putting the tip of her
tongue between her lips, and expending all the energy of her soul
and body in an intense effort to do what she was doing as well as
it could be done.
"Splendid!" said Mr. Povey.
Mr. Povey was fronting her at the table; he had his elbows on the
table, and watched her carefully, with the breathless and divine
anxiety of a dreamer who is witnessing the realization of his
dream. And Constance, without moving any part of her frame except
her head, looked up at him and smiled for a moment, and he could
see her delicious little nostrils at the end of her snub nose.
Those two, without knowing or guessing it, were making history--
the history of commerce. They had no suspicion that they were the
forces of the future insidiously at work to destroy what the
forces of the past had created, but such was the case. They were
conscious merely of a desire to do their duty in the shop and to
the shop; probably it had not even occurred to them that this
desire, which each stimulated in the breast of the other, had
assumed the dimensions of a passion. It was ageing Mr. Povey, and
it had made of Constance a young lady tremendously industrious and
preoccupied.
Mr. Povey had recently been giving attention to the question of
tickets. It is not too much to say that Mr. Povey, to whom heaven
had granted a minimum share of imagination, had nevertheless
discovered his little parcel of imagination in the recesses of
being, and brought it effectively to bear on tickets. Tickets ran
in conventional grooves. There were heavy oblong tickets for
flannels, shirting, and other stuffs in the piece; there were
smaller and lighter tickets for intermediate goods; and there were
diamond-shaped tickets (containing nothing but the price) for
bonnets, gloves, and flimflams generally. The legends on the
tickets gave no sort of original invention. The words 'lasting,'
'durable,' 'unshrinkable,' 'latest,' 'cheap,' 'stylish,'
'novelty,' 'choice' (as an adjective), 'new,' and 'tasteful,'
exhausted the entire vocabulary of tickets. Now Mr. Povey attached
importance to tickets, and since he was acknowledged to be the
best window-dresser in Bursley, his views were entitled to
respect. He dreamed of other tickets, in original shapes, with
original legends. In brief, he achieved, in regard to tickets, the
rare feat of ridding himself of preconceived notions, and of
approaching a subject with fresh, virginal eyes. When he indicated
the nature of his wishes to Mr. Chawner, the wholesale stationer
who supplied all the Five Towns with shop-tickets, Mr. Chawner
grew uneasy and worried; Mr. Chawner was indeed shocked. For Mr.
Chawner there had always been certain well-defined genera of
tickets, and he could not conceive the existence of other genera.
When Mr. Povey suggested circular tickets--tickets with a blue and
a red line round them, tickets with legends such as
'unsurpassable,' 'very dainty,' or 'please note,' Mr. Chawner
hummed and hawed, and finally stated that it would be impossible
to manufacture these preposterous tickets, these tickets which
would outrage the decency of trade.
If Mr. Povey had not happened to be an exceedingly obstinate man,
he might have been defeated by the crass Toryism of Mr. Chawner.
But Mr. Povey was obstinate, and he had resources of ingenuity
which Mr. Chawner little suspected. The great, tramping march of
progress was not to be impeded by Mr. Chawner. Mr. Povey began to
make his own tickets. At first he suffered as all reformers and
inventors suffer. He used the internal surface of collar-boxes and
ordinary ink and pens, and the result was such as to give
customers the idea that Baineses were too poor or too mean to buy
tickets like other shops. For bought tickets had an ivory-tinted
gloss, and the ink was black and glossy, and the edges were very
straight and did not show yellow between two layers of white.
Whereas Mr. Povey's tickets were of a bluish-white, without gloss;
the ink was neither black nor shiny, and the edges were
amateurishly rough: the tickets had an unmistakable air of having
been 'made out of something else'; moreover, the lettering had not
the free, dashing style of Mr. Chawner's tickets.
And did Mrs. Baines encourage him in his single-minded enterprise
on behalf of HER business? Not a bit! Mrs. Baines's attitude, when
not disdainful, was inimical! So curious is human nature, so blind
is man to his own advantage! Life was very complex for Mr. Povey.
It might have been less complex had Bristol board and Chinese ink
been less expensive; with these materials he could have achieved
marvels to silence all prejudice and stupidity; but they were too
costly. Still, he persevered, and Constance morally supported him;
he drew his inspiration and his courage from Constance. Instead of
the internal surface of collar-boxes, he tried the external
surface, which was at any rate shiny. But the ink would not 'take'
on it. He made as many experiments as Edison was to make, and as
many failures. Then Constance was visited by a notion for mixing
sugar with ink. Simple, innocent creature--why should providence
have chosen her to be the vessel of such a sublime notion?
Puzzling enigma, which, however, did not exercise Mr. Povey! He
found it quite natural that she should save him. Save him she did.
Sugar and ink would 'take' on anything, and it shone like a
'patent leather' boot. Further, Constance developed a 'hand' for
lettering which outdid Mr. Povey's. Between them they manufactured
tickets by the dozen and by the score--tickets which, while
possessing nearly all the smartness and finish of Mr. Chawner's
tickets, were much superior to these in originality and
strikingness. Constance and Mr. Povey were delighted and
fascinated by them. As for Mrs. Baines, she said little, but the
modern spirit was too elated by its success to care whether she
said little or much. And every few days Mr. Povey thought of some
new and wonderful word to put on a ticket.
His last miracle was the word 'exquisite.' 'Exquisite,' pinned on
a piece of broad tartan ribbon, appeared to Constance and Mr.
Povey as the finality of appropriateness. A climax worthy to close
the year! Mr. Povey had cut the card and sketched the word and
figures in pencil, and Constance was doing her executive portion
of the undertaking. They were very happy, very absorbed, in this
strictly business matter. The clock showed five minutes past ten.
Stern duty, a pure desire for the prosperity of the shop, had kept
them at hard labour since before eight o'clock that morning!
The stairs-door opened, and Mrs. Baines appeared, in bonnet and
furs and gloves, all clad for going out. She had abandoned the
cocoon of crape, but still wore weeds. She was stouter than ever.
"What!" she cried. "Not ready! Now really!"
"Oh, mother! How you made me jump!" Constance protested. "What
time is it? It surely isn't time to go yet!"
"Look at the clock!" said Mrs. Baines, drily.
"Well, I never!" Constance murmured, confused.
"Come, put your things together, and don't keep me waiting," said
Mrs. Baines, going past the table to the window, and lifting the
blind to peep out. "Still snowing," she observed. "Oh, the band's
going away at last! I wonder how they can play at all in this
weather. By the way, what was that tune they gave us just now? I
couldn't make out whether it was 'Redhead,' or--"
"Band?" questioned Constance--the simpleton!
Neither she nor Mr. Povey had heard the strains of the Bursley
Town Silver Prize Band which had been enlivening the season
according to its usual custom. These two practical, duteous,
commonsense young and youngish persons had been so absorbed in
their efforts for the welfare of the shop that they had positively
not only forgotten the time, but had also failed to notice the
band! But if Constance had had her wits about her she would at
least have pretended that she had heard it.
"What's this?" asked Mrs. Baines, bringing her vast form to the
table and picking up a ticket.
Mr. Povey said nothing. Constance said: "Mr. Povey thought of it
to-day. Don't you think it's very good, mother?"
"I'm afraid I don't," Mrs. Baines coldly replied.
She had mildly objected already to certain words; but 'exquisite'
seemed to her silly; it seemed out of place; she considered that
it would merely bring ridicule on her shop. 'Exquisite' written
upon a window-ticket! No! What would John Baines have thought of
'exquisite'?
"'Exquisite!'" She repeated the word with a sarcastic inflection,
putting the accent, as every one put it, on the second syllable.
"I don't think that will quite do."
"But why not, mother?"
"It's not suitable, my dear."
She dropped the ticket from her gloved hand. Mr. Povey had darkly
flashed. Though he spoke little, he was as sensitive as he was
obstinate. On this occasion he said nothing. He expressed his
feelings by seizing the ticket and throwing it into the fire.
The situation was extremely delicate. Priceless employes like Mr.
Povey cannot be treated as machines, and Mrs. Baines of course
instantly saw that tact was needed.
"Go along to my bedroom and get ready, my pet," said she to
Constance. "Sophia is there. There's a good fire. I must just
speak to Maggie." She tactfully left the room.
Mr. Povey glanced at the fire and the curling red remains of the
ticket. Trade was bad; owing to weather and war, destitution was
abroad; and he had been doing his utmost for the welfare of the
shop; and here was the reward!
Constance's eyes were full of tears. "Never mind!" she murmured,
and went upstairs.
It was all over in a moment. _