THE INEVITABLE ENSUES
Yes! The world became a changed place to Jenny Liddon from the moment
when Anthony Churchill stood up to take her tray, and to say "Thank you"
in that indescribably feeling voice. That very moment it was, and she
never marked it in her calendar.
"The hour has struck, though I heard not the bell!"
Very seldom do we hear the bell. And therefore we are not really so
silly as we seem. Jenny was quite unaware that she had fallen in love as
suddenly as you would fall downstairs if you did not look where you were
going; being the most proper little heroine that ever lived in a proper
family story the idea of such a thing would have covered her with shame.
Oh, she would have died sooner than so forget herself! She was merely
conscious of some new, sweet scent in the atmosphere of life, some
light ether in the brain, some--but what's the use of trying to
describe what everybody understands already?
When the hero had ceased to watch her out of the corner of his eye, had
vacated his basket-chair and vanished from the scene, the tea-room
became a place of dreams, and not a place of business. She took the
orders of customers with an empty, far-away, idiotic smile; she drifted
about with plates and teapots like an active sleep-walker. Oh, how
handsome he was! How big and strong! How considerate and kind! What
perfect courtesy--taking her tray from her, and thanking her in that
way, as if she were a condescending queen! How thoroughly one's ideal of
a gentleman and a man! These impassioned thoughts absorbed her.
She went down to St. Kilda in the evening, and sat upon the pier. It was
absolutely necessary to have the sea to commune with, under the
circumstances--darkness and the sea.
"You're tired, duckie," the old mother said, aware of a difference and
vaguely anxious. "Oh, don't deny it--I can see you are quite done up."
"My legs do ache," the girl confessed, with a tear and a trembling lip
and an ecstatic smile. "Running after so many customers. I am not going
to complain of that. Let me sit here and rest, while you and Sarah walk
up and down. _Your_ legs want stretching."
They thought not, but she was sure of it. "Go, go, dears--_do_ go; I am
all right--I am quite happy by myself--I _like_ it!"
They wrapped her up and left her; and while they perambulated the
pleasant platform, talking of their commercial successes, and how dear
Joey would come round when he heard of them, she sat quite still and
stared at the sea. It murmured musically in the cold, clear night, full
of sympathy for her.
All at once she seemed to catch an inkling of the truth. She turned hot
and cold, sat bolt upright and shook herself, and inwardly exclaimed,
with a gust of rage, "Oh, what a _fool_ I am!" then walked home briskly
to give renewed attention to business.
Business prospered as well as heart could wish. The little push given by
the powerful Churchill family to her humble enterprise, without which it
might have struggled and languished like so many worthy enterprises,
floated it into fashion within a week; and, though she had plenty of
hard work, insomuch that the basket-maker's wife's niece had to be hired
to wash cups and saucers and hand the teapots round the screen, all
anxiety as to income was set at rest. Nothing remained to make the
tea-room a sound concern but to "keep it up" as it had begun; and she
and her mother were resolute to do that. Not a pot of ill-made tea nor a
defective scone was ever placed before a customer by those conscientious
tradeswomen. Mrs. Liddon, who was happily of a tough and active
constitution, laboured to sift her fine flour and test the temperature
of her oven, as if each batch of scones was to compete for a prize in an
agricultural show. They were not large, substantial scones, like those
of the common restaurant, but no bigger than the top of a wineglass, and
of a marvellous puffy lightness. She never made more than an ovenful at
a time, mixing and cutting one batch while the previous one was baking;
and this rapid treatment of the dough, with her previous elaborate
siftings, and a leavening of her own composition, produced the perfect
article for which she became justly famous. Two scones were put before
each customer, and if only one was eaten the other was not wasted.
Churchill & Son soon began to provide the tea, which was of the best
quality, at a price no storekeeper could buy it for; and the very
boiling of the water was watched and regulated, that the freshness
should not boil out of it before it was used. The principle on which
this establishment was conducted was to do little, and to do that little
well--an admirable system, too rarely observed in the commercial world;
but, as Jenny had not unjustly boasted, she had the instincts of a good
woman of business in her. She resisted all her mother's pleadings for
coffee and cakes, when the number of customers seemed to call for larger
transactions. Coffee and tea, she said, would be too much upon their
minds (since coffee as well as tea must be absolutely perfect), and
cakes could be bought anywhere. Let them be content to know, and have it
known, that for tea and scones that were always good they were to be
invariably depended on. So Mrs. Liddon sifted and baked till eleven in
the morning, while Sarah prepared the trays and Jenny washed the
tea-room floor; and then the latter, having tidied her dainty person,
trotted about with hardly a pause till seven at night, while the
bent-backed sister received the little stream of coin that steadily
poured in, and dreamed all day of growing rich enough to go to Europe
and do things.
Jenny had no fears about the success of her undertaking; it seemed
almost too successful sometimes, when her back was aching and her legs
too tired to carry her; but she had one constant and ever-increasing
anxiety, which beset her every morning, after keeping her more or less
awake through the night. This was lest Mr. Anthony Churchill should not
come to the tea-room during the day.
His stepmother never took him again, after the first visit; and she
herself lost interest in the place, which had been but the fad of an
hour or two. She could get a cup of tea whenever she wanted, without
paying for it, or putting herself out of the way; and the Little Collins
Street premises were very stuffy as the summer came on. They were too
crowded for comfort--_i.e._, for a sentimental _tete-a-tete_; and the
girl was too good-looking to expose Tony to, with his absurd ideas of
her being a lady. So Mrs. Churchill gave the tea-room up.
Tony, however, did not give it up. Several days elapsed between his
first visit and the second, because it was so difficult to go and sit
down there and ask Miss Liddon to wait on him. He quite agreed with Mary
that men should not be admitted. A girl like that, brought up as she had
been, ought not to be at the beck and call of those coarse creatures.
Nevertheless, as men did go, he wanted to be one of them. As
representing the firm with which her father had been so closely and for
so long connected, it was only right that he should keep an eye on her,
and lend her a helping hand if she seemed to need it.
He said nothing of his purpose to Mrs. Oxenham, who continued to refresh
herself with the admirable tea and scones at hours that could be fairly
calculated upon and avoided. The first she heard of his having gone to
the tea-room on his own account was from her little half-sisters, who
did not happen to mention it to their mother. These children were much
attached to him, and he to them, and one day he took them to the Royal
Park, and treated them to tea and scones on their way home. He thought
scones were better for them than sweets, he said, and he was able to get
them milk instead of tea. Mary commended him for his fatherly care of
their digestions, and thought no more of the matter.
The fact was that he had given the small creatures an outing on purpose
that they might introduce him to the tea-room. It seemed so much easier
to appear before Miss Liddon on their behalf than on his own, and their
presence was calculated to attract that notice and interest which he did
not imagine he would receive for his own sake. He was not desperately
anxious to see Miss Liddon, but he was curious. What he had seen of her,
and what Mary and his father had told him (particularly about the
hundred pounds that had been offered and refused), had struck his fancy;
that was all--at present.
When he appeared at the door of the yellow chamber, with a
Liberty-sashed, granny-bonneted mite clinging to either hand, Jenny saw
him at once, and experienced that strange shock of leaping blood which
makes heart shake and eyes dim for an ecstatic moment--such as we all
understand much better than we can describe it. For days she had been
aching for a sight of him, despite her savage mortification that it
should be so; and here he was at last in the charming guise of a man
loving and caring for little children, which, as every woman knows, is a
guarantee of goodness that never proves false.
It was after six o'clock, when people were thinking of dinner rather
than tea--when little Grace and Geraldine should have been on their way
to Toorak, where their nursery meal awaited them--and the tea-room crowd
had thinned to half a dozen, all of whom had their plates and brown pots
beside them. This also he had in a measure anticipated. Jenny was free,
and came forward a step or two to meet him, glancing at the children
with a soft, maternal look, as it seemed to him.
"I hope these little people will not be troublesome," he said, bowing
with his best politeness. "They have been to see the lions and tigers
fed, and I think it has made them hungry."
"Oh, yes," said Jenny flutteringly. "I will get them some scones--not
quite the newest ones. And--and don't you think they are too young for
tea? May I get them some milk instead?"
"Thank you--thank you very much--if you are sure you can spare it. I
daresay it would be better for them."
"I am sure it would, and we have plenty. It is very good milk."
She set the children into chairs, took off their smart bonnets, tucked
napkins (napkins were kept for occasions, though not for general use)
round their little chins, and put two scones into their hands; Anthony
watching her with eyes that she felt piercing like two gimlets through
the back of her head. He was noticing what fine, bright hair she had,
and what delicate skin, and remembering that her father had been an Eton
boy.
"I am awfully sorry to give you so much trouble," he mumbled.
"It is no trouble at all," she replied. "Now I will get them some milk."
She dared to glance up at him. "You, sir--will you have some tea for
yourself?"
"Oh, if you please--if it won't be troubling you. It's such perfectly
delicious tea."
Jenny danced off--trying not to dance--and was back in a twinkling, with
the tray in her arms. Her trays were light, and did not drag her into
ungraceful attitudes, but he objected to see her carrying one for him.
As before, he took it from her! and the little courtesy made her cheeks
flush and her heart swell.
"Only he," she said to herself, "would do that."
And he would not sit to drink his tea, while she stood by, as she did,
to wait upon the children--to see that they didn't butter their sashes
and slop milk down their frocks; and under the circumstances it was
impossible not to talk to her.
"Will you allow me to introduce myself?" he ventured to say, during a
pause in her ministrations, when she seemed uncertain whether to go or
stay. "I am Anthony Churchill--of the firm, you know. I hope I am not
taking a liberty, but your father was such an old friend. I grieve
indeed to hear--I knew nothing about it when I came the other day----"
Jenny flushed and fluttered, and, because she was physically weary,
could not bear to be reminded of her father, who used to take such
tender care of her. For an instant her eyes glistened, warning him to
hurry from the subject.
"I think it is so brave of you to do what you are doing. My sister has
been telling me about it."
"Oh, thank you--but my mother and sister do more than I do, in
proportion to their strength. My sister is delicate; I'm afraid it is
not good for her to sit here all day." After a pause, she added, "Mrs.
Oxenham has been very, very kind to me; your father too."
"I am sure they were only too glad, if they had the chance. I wish--I
wish I were privileged to be some help."
"Oh, thank you! The only help we wish for is for people to come and
drink our tea, and show themselves satisfied with it."
"May I come and drink it sometimes? I feel as if men were out of place
here; I am sure you would rather not have them--but I am a very quiet
fellow, and I have a woman's passion for tea." He had nothing of the
sort, but that didn't matter.
"Anyone has a right to come who chooses," she answered, turning from
him to attend to little Grace.
The words were discouraging, but he thought the tone was not; and he
determined to come again, and alone, at the earliest opportunity.