Читать книгу Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 12

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The bed which Mrs. Pomeroy had provided for him was a hard one, but James Slade was accustomed to harder beds than this, and he accepted it as a couch of his own making, but before going to bed he kneeled down by it and read by candle-light a portion of his Bible. The passage happened to contain that saying—“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth”, and though James Slade meditated upon that text after blowing out his candle, he did not foresee himself inheriting anything. Even a dog would be denied him in a place such as this; as for the child—Mr. Slade could not bring himself to think too much of her. She was no more than a pretty thing in a picture hung well out of reach, and he knew that Clara would keep it out of reach.

James Slade was very tired. The very strangeness of it all had tired him, and he slept like a child, but he did not wake like a child. Urgent responsibilities were upon him, and they sat up with him in bed. The subterranean window of his monk’s cell was an open eye, and James Slade, having no watch to advise him, threw the clothes back and emerged. Six o’clock was the official hour. Was it six o’clock yet? Assuredly he must persuade his mistress to allow him a watch, though it might be only a five shilling Waterbury. Mr. Slade, still in his nightshirt, opened the door, and stood listening. Was the house awake yet? He could not hear any movement in it, but to make safety doubly sure he slipped into socks, shirt and trousers and crept out in search of a clock. From somewhere came the sound of solemn and deliberate ticking, and Mr. Slade, having located the sound, pursued it. The clock was in the kitchen. It stood on the mantelshelf. It had a large white face, and below it the picture of a windmill standing in a patch of greenness against a very blue sky. It was a supercilious, bare-faced snob of a clock, and it seemed to stare contemptuously at Mr. Slade.

“Tick-tock, it’s only half-past five, you silly old fool.”

Mr. Slade went back to his room to wash and shave himself. Cold water had to serve for that operation. Had he been more bold he might have tried the tap of the kitchen boiler, but on this first morning he was very meek.

Eliza and the other maids slept in the basement, with iron bars at their windows to discourage burglars, and to preserve their morals. Mr. Slade had no bars to his window, but there were other and inpalpable bars confining his soul. He put on his green baize apron, took a broom, and moved towards the kitchen stairs. It was more than probable that Mrs. Pomeroy might be up and about to satisfy herself that Slade was beginning his new life with punctuality and precision, and James was still very much in awe of Clara. She held him like a little old mannikin in the hollow of her hand. Mr. Slade’s inspiration was to begin work by sweeping the doorsteps and the paved paths between the little gardens. Should Mrs. P. poke her head out of her window she would see him at work below. Mr. Slade had reached the foot of the basement stairs and had begun to ascend them when he heard other footsteps coming from above. So quick and soft and tumultuous were they that James Slade was puzzled. Could Florrie or May or Bertha be coming down like this? Besides—— But he was allowed no time to meditate upon the significance of these fluttering feet. A small, vague figure poured down the stairs upon him in the half-light, tried to stop, overbalanced, and was caught in James Slade’s arms. He had dropped his broom in time for the complete embrace.

“Hold up, my dear.”

For a second the child seemed frightened.

“Oh—who are you?”

The little warm figure in its nightdress went rigid and hard.

“I’m the new—man.”

“Oh, of course. You’re Slade.”

“Yes, just Slade.”

He felt the child relax. She let him set her on the stairs.

“I’ve just come down to see Eliza. You won’t tell, will you, Slade?”

“No, my dear.”

“Eliza lets me get into her bed. She keeps a box of goodies——”

Mr. Slade nodded his head at her and smiled.

“I see. Goodies——”

“Yes, mother won’t let me have sweets. She says it is bad for my teeth.”

“You have pretty teeth, my dear. I don’t think that Eliza’s sweets will do much harm.”

The child smiled back at him.

“I think I like you.”

“That’s good, my dear. Go on liking old Slade. Now, hadn’t you better go to Eliza. Supposing——?”

“No. Perhaps I had better go back upstairs.”

“And pop back into bed. Yes, I think I should.”

“What are you going to do?”

“A little bit of tidying up.”

The child turned and scurried back up the stairs, and Mr. Slade, having watched her little pink feet disappearing, ascended and unlocked and unbolted the front door. He had a sudden strange feeling that other doors had been unbolted for him. Well, well, well! He whistled softly as he looked at the morning, and began to sweep the steps and paths. The flowers in the small garden were wet with dew, and there was this other dewy thing so near him in this new world. Clara might be her mother, but somehow the child might be nearer to him than she was to Clara.

Mr. Slade bent over the railings and put his nose to the wet flowers.