Читать книгу Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 14

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In a recess in Mrs. Pomeroy’s private room and office stood her safe. Perched upon a stout oak stool, and draped with a kind of altar-cloth of red velvet, it did not look like a safe, but few things in the Caroline Hotel looked like what man and nature had intended them to be. The ladies wore bustles, Mrs. Pomeroy a very pronounced one, a strange fashion at a period when no physical bulge or curve below the neck was recognized in polite society. Everything was draped, the mirror, the mantelpiece, the tables; it was an age of valences, antimacassars, bric-a-brac, ormolu. Moreover, if an article of furniture could not be draped, it might be painted. Coal-boxes had their lids decorated with bouquets of roses; bullrushes and water-flags were painted upon mirrors. Pampas grass speared out of tall vases. Artifice was more than artifice. It was an abomination and a curse to those who had to dust it.

Mrs. Pomeroy turned back her red velvet altar-cloth, and unlocked her safe. It was—in fact—her holy of holies. With strong, plump, deliberate hands she withdrew from the safe a small black deed-box and a cashbox. She placed them upon the centre table almost with the solemnity of a priest placing the sacrificial emblems on the altar. Then, she rang the bell.

Bells were to prove one of the most prevalent problems in James Slade’s new world. A whole row of them hung in the passage outside his pantry. Each bell had a letter or a number painted in white upon it, D. for dining-room, P. for parlour or drawing-room, O. for office, No. 1 for Mr. Truslove. You might hear a bell ring, but by the time you had bolted into the passage its metallic voice might have died away. You had to spot the still-vibrating bell, and so identify it. Moreover, it was an age when everyone rang bells on the slightest provocation, if coal was needed on the fire, if a book had been mislaid, even if some old lady had dropped her knitting.

Mr. Slade was cleaning the silver when he heard that particular bell. It might not be his business to answer it but he had been warned of the sanctity of bells, and of the immediate response that was to be expected. Also, the swiftness of the response might depend upon the eminence of the particular bell which called for service. No. 1 was to be answered instantly. No. 19 might be dallied with, even ignored.

Mr. Slade, a tablespoon in one hand, a leather in the other, hurried out to identify the claimant. O was still in a state of motion. Mr. Slade’s mouth rounded itself to an expressive O!—Oh—Clara! Was that for him? If so, he had been expecting it.

Putting spoon and leather aside, he slipped into his jacket, and feeling a little breathless, climbed the stairs.

Mr. Slade knocked at Mrs. Pomeroy’s door.

“Yes, madam?”

The door was opened by Mrs. Pomeroy herself. She did not utter a word, but waved him in with an imperious sweep of the hand, and then closed the door upon him. Mr. Slade stood meekly on the hearthrug, and memory stood with him upon just some other day. Mrs. Pomeroy had turned the key. She walked to the table, opened the cashbox, took out two sovereigns and laid them on the table.

“Boots and an alpaca jacket. Chignell’s in the High Street for the jacket.”

Almost it was like a game of Dumb Crambo, a silent show, and had anybody been eavesdropping they would have been none the wiser. Mrs. P. opened the deed box, removed a package from it, and replaced it on the table. It was tied with red tape, and under the tape lay a photograph, a very revealing picture. Mrs. Pomeroy waved a hand over the exhibit. The gesture said—“It is all there, the complete dossier. You will do well to remember it.” Mr. Slade smiled a little wincing smile, and nodded.

“Yes, madam.”

Mrs. Pomeroy turned and took a sheet of paper from her desk. She handed it to James Slade and her eyes said—“Read, mark, and inwardly digest.”

Mr. Slade read what she had written.

“You will not speak to the child.

“I claim restitution in full.

“You will consider it generous of me to give you a home, and an opportunity to reform yourself.”

Mr. Slade’s hand trembled slightly as he held the paper.

“I quite understand, madam, but——”

“There are no buts, Slade.”

She took the paper from him, and returned it to her desk, to be converted later into ash. James Slade moistened his lips. He had something to say.

“About wages, madam? You see—I——”

“That will depend upon the satisfaction you give. I will allow you to retain tips.”

“Thank you, madam.”

She pointed to the two sovereigns.

“Go out and buy boots and a jacket. If there is any money left over I will allow you to keep it. You will help Florence to-day in the dining-room. Watch what she does and educate yourself. That is all.”

“Thank you, madam.”

She unlocked the door, and as he passed out she spoke to him in a voice of authority.

“Those will be your duties, Slade. Are you quite clear about them?”

“Yes, madam.”