Story of an Unsold Bonnet

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 409, 9 October 1889, Page 6

Story of an Unsold Bonnet

It was evening in Oxford street just before | the hour of lamp-lighting. ' The daylighb I colours had faded, and the twilight softness had not yet begun, so that the street picture was printed in unsoftenod black and white. Gas was beginning to twinkle, however, in some of the shop .windows , and upstahain the millinery showroom of Mr X a boy had just come in with a taper, and had leit a brilliant illumination behind him. The light fell upon two figures— a customer, doubtful and dissatisfied, and a young woman who stood before her, displaying bonnet after bonnet. ' These are quite new, ma'am : the very last thing from Paris. 5 ' ' Yes, 1 said the customer, hesitatingly. • Would you not try this on, ma'am I am sure it would suit you.' * I don't like a straw? 'We could make you one in velvet, ma'am.' •Velvet spoils so with the rain. Are you quite sure those are all the felts you have, that you showed me V 'All in brown, ma'am. We could get you one made any shape' you like to order.' 4 Oh, no ; I could not order one without seeing it,' said the lady. Then she took one which she had looked at already, poised and examined it, and finally tried it on, and decided for the second time that it would not do. 'It really is very extraordinary thai, you should not have one in brown,' she said in a tone of annoyance. For a moment the girl did not answer ; she had grown paler and her eyebrowa were drawn together with an expression of anxiety and apprehension. Mr X , walking up and down his range of showrooms, had again come into sight, and had paused, looking in. • We'd get you one, ma'am, I arc sure, in two or three days.' Now it - was the customer who did not answer. She began turning over the pile of untrimmed bonnets, while her pale attendant hovered about her throwing in propitiatory words. Mr X stood and looked in from the wide doorway. She could see the scowl on hi? face. At last the customer, finally refusing to take any other in place of tho bonnet which she really wanted, departed dissatisfied. The girl began, tremblingly, to put together the bonnets. Tears came to her eyes. She had tried her best to sell ; and she dreaded the wrath of her master. He had been in a bad temper all day ; why, oh, whj must this thing have happened "-just to-day ? Mr X moved away ; she saw him go to the cashier's desk in tho next room. He came back with a paper and a few shillincrs, which he threw down angrily. c 1 You'll just sign that it you please, Mis*.' It was an account of the wages due to her. She looked up at him in mute appeal ; the angry and overbearing face was answer enough. She put her name to the paper, and a tear fell on it. ' 2N T ow you can jusfc go and pack up your things and go this minute, 1 said he, roughly. ' I've no place for a young- lady that can't sell a bonnefc.' She gathered up the money and went meekly. She was a timid girl, with no gift either for complaints or for excuses ; and for girls of that kind the tyrants of this world have no mercy. She went upstairs to the bed-room which she shared vi ith two others. It was bare, clean, depressing ; about as homelike as a prison cell. She looked round it, half blinded by her tears, and wrung her hands. • What shall Ido ? Where shall I go ?' The room was quite brightly lighted now by the many larnpa in the street. She stood so for a minute, then wiped away her tears and began packing and arranging her few properties in her box. When this was done she must) go iorth into the evening and find herself a shelter for the night and for the morrow. To-morrow would begin the heart-breaking search for work, to continue who could guess how long ? And who could tell what char acter^Mr X— would give of her? And she had thirty shillings with which to face the world. Her tears began to fall again as she locked her trunk and arose from her knees. She was glad to hide her face \vir,h h*>v veil and to steal away, secretly fearing to meet anyone, lest the farewell should break down her courage. So she passed out into the evening and on to Oxford-street, the stony-hearted stepmother. Mr X meanwhile was going home, serene of conscience, to his wife and daughters ab Brixton, giving no second thought to the incident of the afternoon. It is a story thai happens every day. The stones of London, if they could only speak, the pavements of Piccadilly, the balustrades of the bridges, could tell you how it ends.—' Pall Mall Gazette.'