Читать книгу Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 21

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So, the child had a spirit and a temper of her own, but, unlike her mother, she could lose her temper passionately and with tears. Well, thank God for that! James Slade had never known Mrs. Pomeroy to weep. Sorry for herself she might have been, but with a cold and acid indignation that seemed to eat into life without consuming it. The affront to her pride and her prejudices had been so dastardly that she seemed to be incapable of forgetting or forgiving.

“To persecute me seems to be her pleasure,” thought the cleaner of stair-rods.

And having collected those scattered sweets and carried them downstairs, he was torn by a swift temptation. He wanted to go out into Caroline Gardens and find the child, take her on his knees and comfort her. But would not such intervention be disastrous, and expose both the child and himself to other indignation?

Arriving in the kitchen with that coal-scoop, and looking ashamed of it, he found Eliza, and Floe and May in conclave. Florence had overheard the fracas above, and darting up the area steps had seen Rose racing for the shrubbery.

“What’s that, Dad?”

“Sweets,” said Mr. Slade, looking apologetic.

“What’s the idea?”

“I have orders to burn them.”

Eliza made a clucking noise rather like an indignant hen.

“Well, I—never! Why shouldn’t she have a few goodies?”

“Sweets seem to be forbidden.”

“Because Mrs. Else gave ’em to her, I suppose. Petty, I call it. She’s going the wrong way about it with that child.”

Mr. Slade stood shame-faced holding the coal-scoop. Surely these women must despise him? He—a man——!

“You give me that coal-shovel, Dad,” said Eliza.

Mr. Slade looked at her piteously.

“I have to tell—her—I’ve burned them.”

“Well, go and tell her. She’s asking for lies persecuting the child like that. I’ll keep the sweets for her.”

Mr. Slade surrendered the shovel to Eliza.

“I don’t like telling lies, Eliza.”

“No, I know you don’t, Dad, but you can put it down to me.”

“I wish,” said Mr. Slade, and hesitated.

“Yes, Dad?”

“I wish someone could go out and find the child, and comfort her.”

Florence volunteered.

“I will. I’ll just shove on a hat and coat. I don’t care tuppence about her temper. I’m marryin’ Joe after Christmas, so what do I care?”

“Thank you, Florence,” said Mr. Slade.

Florence was as good as her word, nor was her short absence from duty noticed by Mrs. Pomeroy. Mr. Slade, reclimbing the stairs with the empty coal-scoop and moistening dry lips in preparation for that verbal inexactitude, met Mr. Truslove on the landing. Mr. Truslove had heard all that had passed between mother and child, and poor old Pinch-Me. Also, he had seen Rose in flight for the gardens, and Mr. Truslove had put on his hat, and was bent for the gardens. He gave one glance at poor Slade’s suffering face, and at the humiliation that seemed to express itself even in the droop of the coal-scoop.

“Well, James; lovely day. I’ve got another pair of trousers for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Best creaser of trousers, James, I know. Conscientious fellow.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Did my medicine come?”

“I put it in your room, sir.”

“I must be getting blind. You would do. Don’t know what I should do without you, James.”

“You’re always very welcome, sir.”

Mr. Truslove gave a pat to his hat, and went jauntily down the stairs. His voice had been clear and emphatic. That damned virago might just as well know that No. 1 regarded James Slade as a person of value. A most peculiar and provoking situation this! When a woman like Clara Pomeroy nursed a grievance it seemed to become like a poisonous snake. Mr. Truslove went forth in search of the child. He would bring her a pound of sweets, and make the present public, and Mrs. P. could swallow her temper, and be damned to her. Meanwhile, Mr. Slade knocked at his mistress’s door.

“The coal-scoop, madam.”

“You can bring it in, Slade.”

James carried it in, and slipped it into place at the back of the coal-box.

“Have you carried out my orders?”

“Yes, madam.”

“That was Mr. Truslove, I think.”

“It was, madam. Just going out.”

“I should like to suggest, Slade, that you are apt to be too familiar with the visitors.”

“I’m sorry, madam, but when a gentleman speaks to me——”

“Don’t argue, Slade. Go and finish cleaning the stair-rods.”