THE next morning saw the beginning of a chain of epoch-making
events in the history of S. Gedge Antiques.
Shortly before eight o’clock Mrs. Runciman turned up as usual after her
day off. With a most businesslike promptitude, however, she was given
her quietus. In dispensing with her services, from now on, Uncle Si
took a real pleasure in what he called “telling her off.” Many times
had he warned her that she would play the trick once too often. And
now that his prophecy had come true, he was able to say just what he
thought of her, of her ancestry, and of her sex in general. She would
greatly oblige him by not letting him see her face again.
Mrs. Runciman, for her part, professed a cheerful willingness to take
her late employer at his word. There was plenty of work to be had; and
she departed on a note of dignity which she sustained by informing him
in a voice loud enough for the neighbours to hear that “he was a miser,
and a screw, and that he would skin a flea for its feathers.”
On the top of this ukase to the char, the old man held a short private
conversation with his niece. June had begun very well; and if she
continued to behave herself, got up in the morning without being
called, was not afraid of hard work, and had the breakfast ready by a
quarter to eight she would receive, in addition to board and lodging,
two shillings a week pocket money, and perhaps a small present at
Christmas.
As far as it went this was very well. “But,” said June, “there’s my
clothes, Uncle Si.”
“Clothes!” The old man scratched his cheek. “You’ve money of your own,
haven’t you?”
“Only twenty pounds.”
“We’ll think about clothes when the time comes to buy some.”
S. Gedge, however, admitted to William privately that he had hopes of
the niece. “But let me tell you this, boy: it’s asking for trouble to
have a young female sleeping in the house. Old ones are bad enough,
even when they sleep out; young ones sleeping in may be the very
mischief.”
In fact, the old man deemed it wise to reinforce these observations
with a solemn warning. “Understand, boy, there must be no carrying on
between you and her.”
“Carrying on, sir!” Such innocence might have touched the heart of King
Herod.
“That’s what I said. I can trust you; in some ways you hardly know
you’re born; but with a woman, and a young one at that, it’s another
pair o’ shoes. Women are simply the devil.”
William’s blank face showed a fleck of scarlet; yet the true inwardness
of these Menander-like words were lost upon him; and he was rebuked for
being a perfect fool in things that mattered. However, the arrangement
was merely temporary. If the girl behaved herself, well and good; if
she didn’t behave herself, niece or no niece, she would have to go.
But--touching wood!--there was nothing to complain of so far.
William quite agreed, yet he dare not say as much to his master. In
his opinion, there was no ground for comparison between the dethroned
goddess of whom he had always been a little in awe, and the creature of
grace and charm, of fine perception and feminine amenity who slept the
other side the “studio” wall. For all that, in the sight of this young
man, one aspect of the case was now a matter of concern.
“Miss June,” he said on the evening of the second day, “do you mind if
I get up early to-morrow and do a few odd jobs about the house?”
“What sort of jobs?” Miss June’s air of suspicion was tinged with
sternness. Now that she reigned in Mrs. Runciman’s stead she could not
help feeling rather important.
“If you’ll show me where the brushes are kept, I’ll blacklead the
kitchen grate.”
“Please don’t come interfering.” In June’s manner was a touch of
hauteur.
Beneath the tan of East Anglia, the young man coloured. “But you’ll
spoil your hands,” he ventured.
“My hands are no affair of yours,” said June, a little touched, and
trying not to show it.
“Let me take over the kitchen grate for the future. And if you don’t
mind, I’ll scrub the shop floor.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to do?” said June, with amused scorn.
“I’d like to do all the really rough jobs if I may.”
“For why?”
The Sawney had given his reason already, and, in spite of a growing
embarrassment, he stuck to his guns.
Said June sternly: “You mustn’t come interfering.” Yet the light in
her eyes was not anger. “You’ve got your department and I’ve got mine.
Windmills are your department. Blackleading kitchen grates and cleaning
floors won’t help you to find windmills. Besides, you have the shop to
look after, and you have to go out and find things for Uncle Si, and
study art, and talk to customers, and goodness knows what you haven’t
got to do.”
“Well, if you don’t mind,” said William tenaciously, “I’ll get in the
coal, anyway.”
June shook her head. “No interference,” was her last word.
Nevertheless, the following morning saw a division of labour within
the precincts of No. 46, New Cross Street. When June came downstairs
at a quarter to seven, she found a young man on his knees vigorously
polishing the kitchen grate. He was sans coat, waistcoat and collar;
there was a smudge on the side of his nose, and as the temper of a lady
is apt to be short at so early an hour, it was no wonder that he was
rebuked crushingly.
“Didn’t I say I wouldn’t have interference? I don’t come into your
studio and look for windmills, do I?”
William, still on his knees, had penitently to own that she didn’t.
“It’s--it’s a great liberty,” said June, hotly.
He looked up at her with an air to disarm the Furies. “Oh--please--no!”
“What is it then?” Secretly she was annoyed with herself for not being
as much annoyed as the case demanded. “What is it then? Coming into my
kitchen with your interference.”
“I’m ever so sorry, but----”
“But what?”
“I simply can’t bear to think of your spoiling your beautiful hands.”
June’s eyes were fire; her cheek flamed like a peony. “Go and look for
your beautiful windmills, and leave my hands alone.”
But the owner of the beautiful hands was now fettered by the knowledge
that she was beginning to blush horribly.