Short Fiction by Arthur Machen (ebook reader .txt) 📕

got something to do with a big business in Conduit Street. But I only gave thirty-five and six. To measure? Of course; look at the cut, man.”

Darnell was astonished at so low a price.

“And, by the way,” Wilson went on, pointing to his new brown boots, “you know where to go for shoe-leather? Oh, I thought everybody was up to that! There’s only one place. Mr. Bill, in Gunning Street⁠—nine and six.”

They were walking round and round the garden, and Wilson pointed out the flowers in the beds and borders. There were hardly any blossoms, but everything was neatly arranged.

“Here are the tuberous-rooted Glasgownias,” he said, showing a rigid row of stunted plants; “those are Squintaceæ; this is a new introduction, Moldavia Semperflorida Andersonii; and this is Prattsia.”

“When do they come out?” said Darnell.

“Most of them in the end of August or beginning of September,” said Wilson briefly. He was slightly annoyed with himself for having talked so much about his plants, since he saw that Darnell cared nothing for flowers; and, indeed, the visitor could hardly dissemble vague recollections that came to him; thoughts of an old, wild garden, full of odours, beneath grey walls, of the fragrance of the meadowsweet beside the brook.

“I wanted to consult you about some furniture,” Darnell said at last. “You know we’ve got a spare room, and I’m thinking of putting a few things into it. I haven’t exactly made up my mind, but I thought you might advise me.”

“Come into my den,” said Wilson. “No; this way, by the back”; and he showed Darnell another ingenious arrangement at the side door whereby a violent high-toned bell was set pealing in the house if one did but touch the latch. Indeed, Wilson handled it so briskly that the bell rang a wild alarm, and the servant, who was trying on her mistress’s things in the bedroom, jumped madly to the window and then danced a hysteric dance. There was plaster found on the drawing-room table on Sunday afternoon, and Wilson wrote a letter to the Fulham Chronicle, ascribing the phenomenon “to some disturbance of a seismic nature.”

For the moment he knew nothing of the great results of his contrivance, and solemnly led the way towards the back of the house. Here there was a patch of turf, beginning to look a little brown, with a background of shrubs. In the middle of the turf, a boy of nine or ten was standing all alone, with something of an air.

“The eldest,” said Wilson. “Havelock. Well, Lockie, what are ye doing now? And where are your brother and sister?”

The boy was not at all shy. Indeed, he seemed eager to explain the course of events.

“I’m playing at being Gawd,” he said, with an engaging frankness. “And I’ve sent Fergus and Janet to the bad place. That’s in the shrubbery. And they’re never to come out any more. And they’re burning for ever and ever.”

“What d’you think of that?” said Wilson admiringly. “Not bad for a youngster of nine, is it? They think a lot of him at the Sunday-school. But come into my den.”

The den was an apartment projecting from the back of the house. It had been designed as a back kitchen and washhouse, but Wilson had draped the “copper” in art muslin and had boarded over the sink, so that it served as a workman’s bench.

“Snug, isn’t it?” he said, as he pushed forward one of the two wicker chairs. “I think out things here, you know; it’s quiet. And what about this furnishing? Do you want to do the thing on a grand scale?”

“Oh, not at all. Quite the reverse. In fact, I don’t know whether the sum at our disposal will be sufficient. You see the spare room is ten feet by twelve, with a western exposure, and I thought if we could manage it, that it would seem more cheerful furnished. Besides, it’s pleasant to be able to ask a visitor; our aunt, Mrs. Nixon, for example. But she is accustomed to have everything very nice.”

“And how much do you want to spend?”

“Well, I hardly think we should be justified in going much beyond ten pounds. That isn’t enough, eh?”

Wilson got up and shut the door of the back kitchen impressively.

“Look here,” he said, “I’m glad you came to me in the first place. Now you’ll just tell me where you thought of going yourself.”

“Well, I had thought of the Hampstead Road,” said Darnell in a hesitating manner.

“I just thought you’d say that. But I’ll ask you, what is the good of going to those expensive shops in the West End? You don’t get a better article for your money. You’re merely paying for fashion.”

“I’ve seen some nice things in Samuel’s, though. They get a brilliant polish on their goods in those superior shops. We went there when we were married.”

“Exactly, and paid ten percent more than you need have paid. It’s throwing money away. And how much did you say you had to spend? Ten pounds. Well, I can tell you where to get a beautiful bedroom suite, in the very highest finish, for six pound ten. What d’you think of that? China included, mind you; and a square of carpet, brilliant colours, will only cost you fifteen and six. Look here, go any Saturday afternoon to Dick’s, in the Seven Sisters Road, mention my name, and ask for Mr. Johnston. The suite’s in ash, ‘Elizabethan’ they call it. Six pound ten, including the china, with one of their ‘Orient’ carpets, nine by nine, for fifteen and six. Dick’s.”

Wilson spoke with some eloquence on the subject of furnishing. He pointed out that the times were changed, and that the old heavy style was quite out of date.

“You know,” he said, “it isn’t like it was in the old days, when people used to buy things to last hundreds of years. Why, just before the wife and I were married, an uncle of mine died up in the North and left