Читать книгу The Passionate Quest - Edward Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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Sunday, always an uncomfortable day for the younger inmates of Sion House, proved more than usually tedious on the morrow, both as an institution and in the slow monotony of its drawn-out hours. Rosina alone faced her uncle at breakfast, and, beyond the customary morning greeting, no word was spoken between the two until the school bell began to ring harshly at nine o'clock. Benjamin rose at once to his feet.

"Have you arranged for your class?" he asked.

"I shall teach it myself," Rosina replied. "I can speak to Mrs. Haslem then about some one to take it over."

He left the room without any further word. Rosina added to her simple yellow and white cotton frock a straw hat trimmed with buttercups, and made her way through the private gate, across the asphalt pavement, to the dreary schoolroom whose whitewashed walls were hung with texts and pictorial representations of Scriptural happenings. She bore her part in the attempted instruction of a dozen or more ungainly, unprepossessing and unimaginative children, spoke a few kindly words to them of farewell, without evoking, however, the slightest trace of any feeling save one of curiosity as to a possible successor. She was forced to use more than her usual tact in avoiding the attentions of the male teachers, frock-coated and silk-hatted youths of anemic complexion and artificial ways. The pastor himself, an older and somewhat more robust replica of the species, stopped her at the door. He was a young man of goodly qualities and narrow vision, who had, however, an honest belief in himself and his work. His parentage was Scotch.

"This is ill news I am hearing from your uncle, Miss Vonet," he said, shaking hands with her and forgetting to release her fingers. "I am glad of the opportunity of a word with you on the subject."

Rosina was not in the least inclined to submit to outside admonitions. Besides, she had had quite enough of the Reverend Donald Stuart and his far-away love-making.

"I don't think that it can be very ill news for any one," she replied. "Personally, I am delighted at the idea of leaving Norchester, and I can't think that it matters very much to any one else whether I go or stay."

"There's more than that about it," the young man said earnestly. "Mind, I'm not agreeing with you. There are others besides your uncle who will miss you. It's not only that, however. London is no place for young women, especially young women not properly protected. It's a city that's full of snares and pitfalls."

"I think I shall rather like places like that," Rosina told him ingenuously. "I am very tired of Norchester."

"It does not become a man or woman or child, desiring to live a Christian life, to speak with levity of the paths that lead to sin," the pastor continued gravely. "If the conditions of your life here have not provided you with the happiness you desire, remember that they may at any time be changed."

"I don't see how," Rosina replied. "My uncle wouldn't even let me join the tennis club."

"If that were all," the young man declared, with some eagerness, "perhaps something might be arranged. The tennis club to which you allude is frequented by the more frivolous portion of the community in this district, and your uncle's objection to it is entirely justified. It is in my mind, however, to start something of the sort in connection with the chapel. If every care were exercised as to membership, I do not believe that your uncle would have any objection to your joining. It is my hope, indeed, that he may afford us financial assistance."

"Very nice for you all, I'm sure," Rosina remarked, "but I should think a tennis club limited to the members of your congregation would be terribly dull. Besides, I don't know of any one who can play."

"We could learn," he suggested humbly.

Rosina laughed at him pleasantly.

"I only mentioned the tennis club allegorically, Mr. Stuart," she said. "You wouldn't understand my reasons, for wishing to go to London, and if you did, you wouldn't approve of them. Besides, everything now is definitely arranged."

She moved forward but he still blocked the way. He was a short man, with curly flaxen hair, and even now, in his youthful days, inclined to corpulence. From his point of view, Rosina was a sister in grievous danger. She also appealed to him in another, and altogether unsisterly fashion.

"There is something I had made up my mind to say to you, Miss Vonet," he announced, "which might possibly have weight with you in considering this matter."

"Mr. Stuart," she replied, looking into his narrow but very earnest blue eyes, "nothing that you could possibly say would make the slightest difference."

"Your uncle," he began—

She shook her head.

"My uncle," she interrupted, "belongs to the world I am leaving. We have bidden one another farewell. He is a good and just man, I have no doubt, but to me he is simply a granite image. Please do not quote my uncle."

"Then may I speak for myself?" he persisted.

"I am sorry," Rosina replied, "but if you do I am sure I shall laugh. I don't want to do that—I know that it wouldn't be respectable. There are so many well-behaved and nice young women in your congregation. Save up what you were going to say, please, for one of them."

She took advantage of a sudden movement on his part and flitted by him. The elderly vice-superintendent of the schools, who had been waiting for her, made an effort to cut off her retreat. Rosina, however, by a strategic move, avoided him by returning to the house instead of directly entering the chapel. She found Matthew deep in thought in the ugly and shiny parlour. He was engaged in making some calculations on the back of an envelope, and he looked at her in surprise.

"Hello," he exclaimed, "I thought you were going to chapel?"

"So I am presently," she replied. "I've come in to take cover for a moment. Am I looking rather nice this morning, Matthew?"

He looked at her with stolid and level scrutiny. There was something in his eyes, however, which escaped her.

"You are always attractive, Rosina," he said. "These summery clothes may not be altogether to the liking of the chapel folk, but they suit you."

"Oh, the chapel folk are liking me all right!" she laughed. "I've just had to use all my ingenuity to stop Mr. Stuart proposing to me. Then I discovered Mr. Holmes lurking about with danger in his eye."

"A widower grocer with six children!" Matthew scoffed.

"A human being, I suspect, although a Sunday-school vice-superintendent!" Rosina remarked, looking at herself in the mirror. "Of course, these people ought not to admire my type at all, but they seem to. There would be a lot of trouble if I were staying here much longer! What are you figuring out so carefully, Matthew?"

"I am going into the subject of my finances," Matthew said, with a frown. "I don't mind telling you that I am disappointed. I confidently expected a farewell gift of some sort or another from Uncle Benjamin."

"You've got your hundred pounds," she reminded him.

"The hundred pounds was not a gift at all," he declared. "It was a legacy to which I had a right. I am the only one of the three who has been any real use to him, and I do not understand his reason for giving you two fifty pounds and me nothing."

"I would rather he had given neither of us anything," Rosina confessed. "We could do without the money easily, and it only increases our sense of indebtedness."

"No one can do without money," Matthew said sternly. "I am surprised to hear you talk like that, Rosina. That fifty pounds would have put my finances in much better shape."

"I'm willing to divide, if Philip is," Rosina suggested.

"I may take advantage of your offer," Matthew replied, with a covetous gleam in his eyes. "I shall consider the matter."

"In the meantime, do look out and see if the coast is clear for me, there's a dear," Rosina begged. "I don't want to go in too late, it makes uncle so cross, but another attempted proposal before service would make me hysterical."

Matthew rose to his feet and looked out of the window.

"Mr. Holmes has just gone inside," he announced. "There is no one else there except a few women and the verger."

"Then here goes!" she exclaimed, as she left the room.

Rosina sat by her uncle's side in the front pew of the chapel, prayed when he prayed, sang when he sang, and composed herself as comfortably as might be in the hard, pinewood seat, to listen to the words of exhortation addressed by Mr. Stuart to his congregation. She recognised the fact more than once that she was in the preacher's mind. He spoke of the joy of the safe places, the spiritual discomfort of worldly wanderings, the impossibility of touching pitch without becoming defiled. He spoke of the beauty of Christian love, and the holy and satisfying beauty of living in one's appointed spot. Rosina yawned. When it was over, she left the chapel with light, eager footsteps. Her uncle, as she well knew, must remain to count the offertory.

"In my heart," she murmured, as she crossed the asphalt pavement, "I know that I am religious, only it isn't that sort."

There was the savour of hot meat and cooked vegetables in the house when Rosina returned, and there followed a dreary meal, a trial more abundant than usual on account of Mr. Stuart's presence and Philip's absence. The harsh clanging of the Sunday-school bell found her in a state of insurrection. She abandoned her class and shut herself up in her room to pack, a task to which she devoted herself with so much fervour that the hours slipped by without her noticing them. The tea bell remained unanswered. Philip, who had returned from the country, brought her a cup into her room. Afterwards, he sat for a few moments on her trunk and talked to her.

"Matthew and I are not to put in an appearance again at the factory," he announced. "Uncle Benjamin has just made it very clear that the less he sees of any of us after breakfast to-morrow morning, the better he will be pleased."

"Well, that suits us, doesn't it?" Rosina remarked. "I'm simply aching in every limb to find myself in the train."

Philip nodded.

"I am with you entirely," he declared. "The only thing is that I ought to have tidied up a little down at the office. I'm afraid I left things in rather a muddle."

"Why don't you go down now and clear up?" Rosina suggested. "You have your key."

Philip slipped to the ground.

"An idea!" he exclaimed. "I'll go down and say good-by to the old shop."

He took his hat and stick, boarded a tramcar and rode to the principal industrial suburb of the town, where his uncle's factory was situated. The enterprise somewhat appealed to him. So many times he had found himself travelling in the same direction with a sense almost of nausea at the idea of his day's task, that this detached mission of his seemed to possess a flavour of originality. He looked at the grim factory, when he arrived at the end of the street where it was situated, with new eyes, swung open the heavy door, and looked into each of the long, ghostlike rooms as he ascended. He whistled softly to himself as he entered the office. The safe door was open, the cash box upon the table. It pleased his fancy to light a cigarette and smoke it in these hallowed precincts.

"I was certainly not meant to be a clerk," he remarked, as he looked around him. "I was afraid I hadn't put the cash box away."

He looked at it for a moment in puzzled fashion. There were several fat sheaves of Treasury notes lying in the top compartment. He took them up and counted them.

"I suppose it's all right," he muttered, as he held them in his hand before putting them away. "I thought there were eight of these packets," he added, running the notes through his fingers,—"fifty pounds each. Must have been seven."

He was in the act of locking the safe when he stopped short and listened. There was a sort of shuffling sound below, as though some one were descending the stairs stealthily. He hurried out and stood upon the landing.

"Hullo!" he shouted. "Who's there?"

There was no reply. The sound had ceased. Philip began to wonder whether he was a coward. His heart was beating more quickly. The ghostly silence of the place unnerved him.

"Hullo there!" he shouted, more loudly still.

Again no reply. Philip felt his forehead and found that it was wet.

"This is damned foolishness!" he muttered. "There can be no one in the place."

At that moment the outside door closed, not with a bang but with soft and stealthy deliberation. Philip hurried into the clicking room, on his way to the broad windows which commanded the street. The room, however, was divided into two by a partition, and the communicating door was locked. By the time he had made his way round and scrambled upon the bench to obtain a view of the street, there was nothing to be seen. He jumped down and shook the dust from his clothes.

"This is imagination," he decided. "There was no one there—there could have been no one there."

Thereupon he made a brave showing. He retraced his steps to the office, completed his task of leaving everything in order, helped himself to his old coat and cap, descended the stairs, let himself out and marched boldly up the street. For ever afterwards in his mind, however, he registered a dislike for empty buildings.

A few minutes later, Benjamin Stone sat in the chair which Philip had vacated. The cash box stood open before him, a small memorandum book was by his side. Three times he counted the little sheaves of notes, three times he turned back and compared them with the rough wage book. Then he abandoned his task. He sat very still, looking through the glass front of the office down the long, empty room beyond. An earnest and profound religious belief had helped him to find every crisis in life simple. For the first time he was assailed with doubts. For the first time he felt the grim despair of a man confronted with unimagined tragedy. He was a man who loved money, but it was not the loss of the fifty pounds which had brought the grey colour into his cheeks and that sense of horror into his whole being. It was the fact that the thief was one of those brought up under his own roof, for whose moral probity he was almost responsible. He picked up Philip's cigarette stump and threw it into the wastepaper basket, gazed at the empty peg from which the cap and coat had vanished. Then, with a little groan, his head sank upon his folded arms.