Читать книгу Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 10

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Mr. Slade had been given leave to go out. Florrie had brought him the gracious permission from above-stairs, and also a sheet of notepaper in an envelope upon which Mrs. Pomeroy had recorded the hotel’s decalogue, so far as he was concerned. On this first evening he was to be allowed his freedom, such as it was, because neither his boots nor his coat were quite suitable for waiting at table.

Mr. Slade put on his bowler hat, and left the hotel by the area steps. He understood that he was not to appear above-stairs, save when on duty. Finding himself in the broad roadway between the terrace and Caroline Gardens, Mr. Slade was attracted to the gardens, only to find that the gate was guarded by a gardener in a green coat and red waistcoat.

“Ticket, please.”

Mr. Slade explained that he was not a ticket-holder, but that he came from the Caroline Hotel.

“That’s good enough. Mrs. P’s. a subscriber. All residents are admitted, sir.”

The gardener swung the iron gate open, and Mr. Slade entered with a “Thank you”, and a gentle and secret chuckle. So, authority had taken him for a resident! He found himself in a broad alleyway between hollies and laurestinus, with seats tucked away in green recesses. It was a warm June evening, and Mr. Slade, discovering an empty seat, sat down to read Mrs. Pomeroy’s table of the law.

He was to be allowed one free afternoon and evening a fortnight.

He was to return punctually at ten.

All public houses were forbidden him. Well—that was a superfluous precaution as he had no money in his pocket, and wages had not been mentioned.

He was not to smoke.

On Sundays he would attend evening service at St. John’s Church.

He was to rise at six each morning; and go to bed at ten.

He was not to waste candles by reading in bed.

His laundry would be charged to the hotel.

He would take his meals in the staff kitchen, but he would not be allowed to loiter there. When not on duty he would remain in his own room.

Mr. Slade, having read the rules of his new prison-house, folded up the paper, and tucked it away in his pocket. Well, well, well, he might be a free man on probation, but Clara’s supervision promised to be more stringent than that of the Law. Yet could he blame her? Life had taught James Slade to be chary of attributing blame to poor humanity. So often it could not help itself, but blundered and floundered towards disaster, just as he had done. Moreover, Clara had fought her fight, and like some indomitable Amazon, beaten off the assaults of bitter misfortune. She had a home, property, a prosperous business of her own creating, and Rose. Mr. Slade sat with a little shimmery smile on his face, and meditated upon the amazing reality of Rose.

There would be pain here, and secret pangs, and a surrender and sinking of self that might fill him with a feeling of starved frustration. However much he might yearn over the child, it was right and inevitable that she should never know, or have her future in this most respectable world clouded by the consciousness of shame. Even the fictitious Mr. Pomeroy was dead, as dead as Dickens.