Читать книгу Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 8

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Mr. Truslove, leaning over the rail of the balcony, observed with some interest the person and behaviour of Mrs. Pomeroy’s new man-of-all-work. In bending down to recover the parcels Mr. Slade’s bowler hat fell off and rolled against the railings. He put down one parcel to recover the hat, replaced it, and was stooping once again for the parcel when Mrs. Pomeroy’s voice came out of the house.

“Slade.”

His mistress’s voice appeared to confuse and agitate the new employee. Once more his hat fell off, and wobbled about like some inebriated and ridiculous receptacle. Mr. Truslove chuckled. Rather a fumbling and ineffectual fellow—this! If he played the French clown with dishes and plates as he was playing it with his hat and those parcels, there would be disaster in the dining-room.

“Slade.”

James Slade left his hat there and carried in the parcels.

“Yes, madam.”

They were alone together in the hotel hall, and Mrs. Pomeroy spoke to him in a strange, fierce whisper.

“Pull yourself together, you fool.”

Slade blinked at her. His lips trembled, but no sound came from them. He placed the parcels on a chair, and went out to recover his hat, bag, and the remaining parcels. Meanwhile Tom Swaine was waiting to be paid, and observing with sardonic relish the rather futile activities of Mrs. P’s. new member of the staff. Funny old bloke—this, regular fumble-fist. Seemed scared of something. Mrs. P. might be a bit of a terror, but why lose your head and your hat because a woman was sharp with you?

“Slade.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Pay the cabman. Here is half a crown.”

“Yes, madam.”

Slade deposited his bag and parcels in the hall, took the half-crown and carried it out to Tom Swaine.

“Here’s your fare.”

“Thank ’ee,” said Tom, giving Mr. Slade an ironic wink. “Two bob for the job and sixpence for love. If you want a bit of advice I’d say—keep yer hat on.”

Mrs. Pomeroy was waiting in the hall. She had sent the child upstairs, and her immediate concern was the disposal of this rather agitated man. She had been observing him with dispassionate curiosity. Only to think——! And how she had waited for this day, with a kind of calm ferocity, and a self-love that did not forgive. Clara Pomeroy was one of those women in whom the more human emotions seem to freeze, to be replaced by an inexorable love of power, and an acquisitive eagerness in possessing that which was hers and more than hers. She was what is known as a good hater. She did not despise compassion, perhaps—because it was alien to her, and she did not understand it.

“I will show you your room, Slade. Bring your bag.”

Her dominance seemed complete. She intended it to be so, and it pleased her. She had much to remember, and she did not forget what she had suffered in her pride, both of purse and of position. She had always said to herself that some day someone should pay in personal penance for the humiliation she had endured; and life had given her this inevitable and inexorable opportunity. She held the scourge, and the meek back was at her service.

“This way—Slade.”

She went ahead of him down the stairs into the basement. In a dark and narrow passage she opened one door, and then another.

“This is your room. Put your bag down.”

Slade appeared to take one quick look around the tiny room like a timid animal exploring a cage. The window looked out on a white-washed wall, but the upper panes were patterned with a fringe of flowers. There was an iron bedstead, an old painted chest of drawers with one leg missing, a strip of old carpet, a washhand-stand and basin, a cane-bottomed chair. Over the chest of drawers was pinned a text—“I will repay” saith the Lord. Slade blinked at it. Had the warning been placed there for his especial benefit?

“Here—is your pantry.”

Shelves, cupboards, a lead-lined sink, a brass tap. Mrs. Pomeroy opened a drawer.

“The silver is here. You will see—there is a list fastened on that cupboard door. I have checked it. You—will be responsible.”

“Yes, madam.”

“The glass is in this cupboard, cleaning materials in that other drawer. Behind the door you will find a green baize apron.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Have you slippers?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I will buy you a pair of slippers. You will wear them—when you are working about the house. Not, of course, when you are waiting at table.”

“No, madam.”

“Now, you had better unpack. Supper is at seven. For the first day or two Florence had better help you with your duties.”