Читать книгу Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 23

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Miss Hotham’s school walked out each afternoon in caterpillar formation, sometimes taking the road along the cliffs or passing along Caroline Place to descend the pier hill and turn westwards along the parade. Miss Hotham did not favour walks in the old town, for rude boys had been known to mock or mimic the young ladies, and such impertinence could not be tolerated. To begin with, Rose had headed the procession with Elsie Dosset from No. 12, and assuredly Rose’s prettiness should have been a provocation to any boy. Mr. Slade would try and create some excuse to justify him in poking his head above the area railings about the time when the procession might be expected to pass. He would be just visible above the euonymus hedge, but not aggressively so, and even Miss Julia Hotham with her quick, beady black eyes did not appear to notice Mr. Slade, and Miss Julia missed little that could seduce the school’s sedateness.

“She’s the pick of the bunch,” was Mr. Slade’s verdict, and it did not apply to Miss Julia.

But as the months went by Rose and Elsie ceased to lead the promenade. Legs were lengthening, and so were skirts, and Rose walked in the second file, the third, the fourth. She was growing fast. She promised to be one of those lithe, willowy young women with lily necks and graceful movements, a figure that floated where others seemed to amble. She held her head high, her face slightly tilted like the face of a flower. Her hair was amber, and she had dark eyes, which was strange. There was wilfulness in that chin, veiled mischief in her dark glances.

“You pretty creature,” thought James Slade. “How I wonder——”

And sometimes the passing of youth’s parade would leave him very sad.

Moreover, nursery days were over, and Rose and her mother took their meals together at a table in the corner of the dining-room. It was James Slade’s pleasure or his pain to wait upon mother and daughter, and to be addressed as “Slade” by the child.

“Slade, I’d like some more custard.” Or “Slade, I’d like a mince pie.”

“Yes, Miss.”

But even in the matter of the girl’s healthy appetite the mother was possessive and interfering. There would be little arguments about sugar and jam and pastry. Rose would be ordered to refrain from too much sweet stuff, and warned that she would develop spots. Spots indeed! Mr. Slade was certain that no girl had ever possessed a more perfect and unblemished skin.

“No second helpings, Slade.”

“No, madam——”

“But, mother, I could eat——”

“You are being greedy. I won’t have your complexion spoilt.”

Was a pure complexion a social asset? Apparently it was. And it seemed to James Slade that Mrs. Pomeroy was collecting and hoarding social assets. Rose was property, and perhaps in her own hard way Clara Pomeroy cherished the child as the most precious of her social assets. James Slade could observe those proud and domineering glances, the critical watchfulness over hair and teeth and costume. Rose Pomeroy was more lavishly dressed than any other girl in Miss Hotham’s school. In winter she had her fur tippet and her muff, and a little Polish fur cap with a blue plume in it. Vanity of vanities! James Slade both approved and disapproved. Was Clara going to spoil the child, turn her into a piece of pretty conceit and selfish artifice? And yet was Rose, so sweet a child—odalisque fated to bask in her mother’s paradise of prosperity? She had a spirit of her own, a quick colour, flashes of light in her dark eyes.

Yes, there were clashes.

Already Rose was attracting boyish devotion. Charlie Richmond was her admirer, and of that James Slade approved. Charles was a wholesome, sturdy yet sensitive lad, the son of his mother and his father.

But there were others.

For the moment young Dosset was the chosen hero, a loud and boastful young beast with an aggressive tuft of sandy hair. Mr. Slade did not like young Dosset, nor did Rose’s mother. The Dossets were not up to standard. Mr. Dosset was a provision merchant in the city, whose tie was threaded through a diamond ring, and whose hat was set at a rather vulgar angle.

The particular clash was caused by young Fred Dosset.

“Where are you going, Rose?”

“Only for a walk.”

“I think not, my dear.”

“But, mother——”

“Yes, I know. That boy is waiting over by the railings. I have told you before, you are not going out with young Dosset. Go and take your things off.”

Rose flew into one of her tempers.

“Yes I am. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because I say no.”

“I am going.”

“You are not.”

James Slade was putting the silver away in one of the drawers of the sideboard. He heard the scuffle on the stairs. It descended to the hall. Mrs. Pomeroy was locking the front door, and before he realized his position James Slade was involved in the fracas.

“Slade.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Take this key, and be ready to unlock the door for visitors.”

“Yes, madam.”

“And go down and lock the area door.”

“Yes, madam.”

“And keep the key.”

Poor Mr. Slade! He heard the passionate protests and tears reascend the stairs. Was he the daughter’s keeper as well as the mother’s slave? How cleverly Clara had counted upon his helpless co-operation! He finished putting away the silver, after going below and locking the area door. Was Clara acting with wisdom in this locking of doors? And yet, in the matter of young Dosset, he agreed with her.

Mr. Slade, half concealed by a curtain, looked out of one of the dining-room windows. Master Dosset was still there, lounging against the iron railings of Caroline Gardens. A crude, bumptious young animal! Mr. Slade stroked his chin, and in spite of a gentle spirit he did lust after an authority that would justify him in crossing the road and giving young Dosset his marching orders. “Now, young man, no use hanging about there. Go and take some of the stuffing out of that tuft.” And no doubt young Dosset would have cheeked him.

Well, his business was to remain at a window and watch for any visitor who might wish to enter, or listen for anyone who might wish to go out, and presently he did hear someone on the stairs, and that someone was coming down with a suggestion of secrecy. Mr. Slade, going out into the hall, saw Rose on the last step but one. She was dressed for the adventure.

“Unlock the door, please, Slade.”

Mr. Slade was, for the moment, speechless.

“No, my dear. I think—your mother——”

“I—am—going—out.”

She was very pale with the young anger of her revolt. Her chin was tilted, her eyes bright.

“Better not, my dear.”

“Slade, give me the key.”

He shook his head at her, feeling piteous.

“No, Miss Rose. I think your mother is right about that boy.”

“Beast.”

James Slade blinked like a man who had been hit in the face.

“I’m sorry, my dear, but sometimes it is better to be a beast.”

She gave a flick of the head, stood quivering and hesitant, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

“No, I didn’t mean that. You’re not a beast. It’s Mother who——”

“Don’t say that, my dear. She may be doing what she thinks best. You are rather precious—to us all—Rose.”

Her face was level with his, and suddenly she closed her wet eyes, and seemed to droop to him like a flower.

“I’m sorry. Kiss me, Mr. Slade, and say you know I didn’t mean it.”

James Slade kissed her on the forehead.

“Thank you, my dear. I never want to be a beast to you.”