NO DEAL
The insolence of the housekeeper made Zita for a while very angry. It
followed so speedily on the scene in the van with Ephraim Beamish.
Her cheek burned as though it had been struck, and her pulses throbbed.
She would like to have beaten Mrs. Tunkiss with one of the flails; but
with creatures of that sort it is best not to bandy words, certainly
not to give them the advantage by losing temper and acting with
violence.
Zita did not long harbour her resentment. She had other matters to
occupy her mind beside Mrs. Tunkiss.
The air was fresh and bracing to the spirits as well as to the body.
Zita walked on with elastic tread, for she had recovered her good
humour. She wore a neat white straw bonnet trimmed with black, and a
white kerchief was drawn over her shoulders and bosom. Her gown was
black. She looked remarkably handsome. She had been accustomed to wear
her gowns short, and her neat ankles were in white stockings. She was
strongly shod; the snow brushed all the gloss off her shoes, but it
was not whiter than her stockings. She walked along with a swing of
the shoulders and a toss of the head that were peculiar to her, and
characteristic of her self-confidence. The winter sun was setting, and
sent its red fire into her face; it made her hair blaze, and brought
out the apricot richness of her complexion.
When she reached the brick platform of Red Wings, Wolf did not bark,
but ran to her, wagging his tail. She had not forgotten him. From her
pocket she produced some bread. Then, in acknowledgment, he uttered
a couple of sharp barks, and thrust his head against her hand for a
caress.
Kerenhappuch, hearing the barks, came out and saluted Zita cordially.
'That's fine,' said she. 'Step inside. I was just going to brew some
tea.'
'I'm here on business,' answered Zita. 'Let me sit down on one side of
the fire and we'll talk about it. Let's deal.'
'Deal? What do you mean?'
Zita drew a stool to the fireside. The turf glowed red. The stool was
low; when she seated herself, her knees were as high as her bosom. She
folded her arms round them and closed her hands, lacing her fingers
together and looking smilingly over her knees at Kainie, with a gleam
in her face of expectant triumph. Kainie knelt at the hearth and put on
the kettle. She turned her head and watched Zita, whose features were
illumined by the fire glow, as they had been shortly before by that of
the setting sun. Kerenhappuch could not refrain from saying, 'What an
uncommon good-looking girl you are!'
'Yes, so most folks say,' responded Zita, with indifference; 'and I
suppose I am that.'
Kainie was somewhat startled at this frank acceptance of homage. She
pursed up her lips and offered no further compliments.
'I suppose Pip Beamish is sweet on you,' said Zita,—'tremenjous?'
'Poor fellow!' sighed the girl of the mill. 'Perhaps he is, but it
is no good. He has not got even a mill to look after now, and I have
barely enough wage to keep me alive. What is more, the Commissioners
are against him, and won't let him get any work in the fen any more.'
'Then let him go out of the fen?'
'Out of the fen?' exclaimed Kainie. 'How you talk! As if a fen-man
could do that! You don't find frogs on top of mountains, nor grow
bulrushes in London streets. That ain't possible.'
'But there are fens elsewhere.'
'Where?'
'I do not know. In America, I suppose. There is all sorts of country
there, to suit all sorts of people. I'd go there if I were he.'
'If there are fens in America, that's another matter. But what is it
you want with me, now, partick'ler?'
Zita settled herself in her seat.
'I've come to have a deal with you,' she said chirpily. 'That is what I
have come about.'
'But—what do you want of me?'
'We will come to that presently,' said the Cheap Jack girl, and with
her usual craft or experience she added, 'I will let you know what my
goods are before I name the price.'
'Price—money? I have no money.'
'It is not money I want.'
'I do not fancy there's anything I require,' said Kerenhappuch. 'And
that is fortunate, for I have not only no money to buy with, but no
place where I could stow away a purchase.'
'Nobody knows what they wants till they see things or hear about
them,' said Zita. 'Bless you! if you were as well acquainted with the
British public as father and me, you'd say that. Take it as a rule,
folks always set their heads on having what they never saw before,
didn't know the use of, and don't know where to put 'em when they have
'em. I'm telling you this, though it is not to my advantage. Now, what
do you say to a ream of black-edged paper and mourning envelopes to
match?—that's twenty quires, you know.'
'I write to nobody. I have no relations but my Uncle Drownlands, and he
never speaks to me—won't notice me. I am not likely to write letters
to him.'
'Then what do you say to a garden syringe? If you have a pail of
soapsuds, it is first-rate for green-fly. Father sold several to
gentlefolks with conservatories.'
'But I don't belong to the gentlefolks, nor have I got a conservatory.'
'No,' said Zita, rearranging herself on her seat. 'But if you wanted to
keep folks off your platform, you could squirt dirty water over them.'
'I have Wolf. He is sufficient.'
'Well,' said Zita, with a slight diminution of buoyancy in her spirits
and of confidence in her tone, 'then I'll offer you what I would not
give every one the chance of having. I offer it to you as a particular
friend. It's an epergne.'
'An epergne? What's that?'
'It is a sort of an ornament for a dinner-table. I will not tell you
any lies about it. Father got it in a job lot, and cheap considering
how splendid it is. It is not the sort of goods we go in for. It lies
rather outside our line of business; and yet there's no saying whether
it might not hit the fancy of General Jackass—I mean the public—that
was father's way of talking of it. You really can't tell what won't go
down with him. Will you have the epergne?'
'I'm not General Jackass, and I won't have it.'
'But consider—if you was to give a dinner-party, and'—
'What? in the mill?'
'No; When you marry a rich man.'
'If I have any man, it will be a poor one.'
'Then,' said Zita in a caressing tone, 'I know what you really must
have, and what there is no resisting. It is the beautifullest little
lot of perfumes. They're all in a glass box, with cotton wool,
and blue ribbons round their necks. There's Jockey Club—there's
Bergamot—there's Frangipani—there's New-mown Hay—there's White
Heliotrope, and there's Lavender too. I am sure there is yet another;
yes, Mignonette. One for every day of the week. Think of that! You can
scent yourself up tremenjous, and a different scent every day of the
week. You cannot refuse that.'
'But,' said Kainie, with a wavering in her tone, a token of relaxation
in resistance to the allurements presented to her imagination, 'what do
you want for this?'
'One thing only.'
'What is that?'
'Give up Mark.'
'Mark Runham?'
'Yes. Mark Runham. Is it a deal between us? Now listen.' Zita held up
one hand, and began again with the catalogue of perfumes. 'There is
Jockey Club for Sunday;' she touched her thumb. 'There is Bergamot
for Monday;' she touched the first finger. 'There is Frangipani for
Tuesday, and New-mown Hay for Wednesday'—
'Give up Mark?' Kainie interrupted the list. 'What do you mean?'
'What I mean is this,' said Zita: 'Mark told me that he was tied to you
somehow.'
'He did? It is true.'
'But I want you to throw him up. Let him go free. Say that there is no
bond between you. Think how you will smell, if you do! White Heliotrope
on Thursday, then Lavender on Friday, and Mignonette on Saturday.'
'Did Mark say how we were tied—bound?'
'No; he only told me there was such a tie.'
'And Mark—did he set you to ask this?'
'No, not exactly. It is my idea. Now do. You shall have all the
perfumes. Consider how on Sunday you will make the Baptist Chapel smell
of Jockey Club!'
'Give up Mark? Break the bond? I can't. I could not, even if I would.'