“Now nobody else in all this London,” said the coal–merchant to the berries, “in all this mighty Baal, as the poet beautifully expresses it, especially if a young man, not over five–and–thirty, not so very bad–looking but experienced in life, and with great veneration for females, and a business, you may say, of three hundred a year clear of income–tax and increasing yearly, and a contract with the company, without no encumbrances, would ever go to think of letting that beautiful young lady enjoy the sweets of retirement in that most initing position, without plucking some of the pearls off, and no harm done or taken. And nothing at all pervents me, no consideration of the brockolo—could pay for it to–morrow morning—but my deepest respects, not having my best togs on, through a cruel haxident. Please pigs theyʼll come home to–morrow morning, and Iʼll do it on Monday, and lock up yard at four oʼclock, if tailor has made a job of it. Look nice indeed, and feel nice? I should like to know how she could help it!”
This explains why, when the wheels at the door proved to be not of the sprightly tax–cart, but a lumbering cab, Polly was disappointed. Neither was her displeasure removed when she saw a very pretty girl get out, and glide into the shop, with the loveliest damask spreading over the softest and clearest cheeks. Though Polly had made up her mind about Cradock as now a bad speculation, it was not likely that she should love yet any one who meant to have him.
Amy shrunk back as her nice clean skirt swept the grimy threshold. She was not by any means fidgety, but had a nervous dislike of dirt, as most upright natures have. Then she felt ashamed of herself, and coloured yet more deeply to think that a place good enough for Cradock should seem too sordid for her, indeed! And then her tears glanced in the gas–light, that Cradock should ever have come to this, and partly, no doubt, for her sake, though she never could tell how.
The little shop was afforested with Christmas–trees of all sorts and of every pattern, as large as ever could be squeezed, with a knuckle of root to keep them steady, into pots No. 32. The costermongers repudiate larger pots, because they take too much room on a truck, and involve the necessity of hiring a boy to push.
Aucuba, Irish yew, Portugal laurel, arbor vitæ, and bay–tree, but most of all—and for the purpose by far the most convenient, because of the hat–peg order—the stiff, self–confident, argumentative spruce. All these, when they have done their spiriting, and yielded long–remembered fun, will be fondly tended by gentle–hearted girls on some suburban balcony; they will be watered enough to kill lignum vitæ; patent compost will be bought at about the price of sugar; learned consultations will be held between Sylvia and Lucilla; and then, as the leaves grow daily more yellow, and papa is so provoking that he will only shake his head (too sagaciously to commit himself), an earnest appeal will be addressed to some of the gardening papers. Or perhaps the tree will be planted, with no little ceremony, in the centre of some grass–plot nearly as large as a counterpane; while the elder members of the family, though bland enough to drink its health, regard the measure as very unwise, because the house will be darkened so in a few short years.
Meanwhile the editorʼs reply arrives—“Possibly Sylviaʼs tree has no roots.” He is laughed to scorn for his ignorance, until little Charley falls to work with his Ramsgate spade unbidden. Factura nepotibus umbram! It has been chopped all round the bole with a hatchet, and is as likely to grow as a lucifer–match.
Through that Christmas Tabraca John Rosedew led his daughter, begging her at every step to be careful of the trees, whose claims upon her attention she postponed to those of her frock.
“Lor bless me, sir, is that you now, and your good lady along of you! How glad I am, to be sure!”
“Miss Ducksacre, this is my daughter, Miss Amy Rosedew, of whom you have heard me speak;” here John executed a flourish of great complacency with his hat; “my only child, but as good to me as any dozen could be. Will you allow her to stop here a minute, while I go up–stairs?”
Amy was trembling now, more and more every moment, and John would not ask how Cradock was, for fear of frightening his daughter.