“Uncle A., there’s a friend of mine wants to come and see me. Can I ask
him to look in, one evening?”
“Say about nine o’clock--after supper.” Uncle Alfred did not stress the
point, but Rose perfectly understood his reservation. “Yes, if you want
to. Who is the young man?”
“It’s not a young man. It’s Lord Charlesbury. He’s a friend of the
Aviolets.”
“You needn’t tell me that. You didn’t pick up a lord off your own bat,
my girl, and it wouldn’t speak any the better for you if you had. What
are his intentions?”
“Uncle! You don’t understand. It isn’t that sort of thing at all. I
never _heard_ any one so old-fashioned as you are. He just wants to
call on me.”
“Rose, you know what the Apostle Paul says as to the conduct of widows.
At the same time, I should be the first person to rejoice if you were
to find a good husband, and a man who would be a father--and a better
father--to your boy. And the aristocracy of this country are such----”
“Don’t fly off like that, Uncle,” Rose besought him. She was not
embarrassed, only mildly anxious to restrain the pawnbroker’s
imaginative flights.
“I’m not thinking of marrying anybody--if you remember, poor Jim wasn’t
the sort of husband that would make me want another of the same kind in
a hurry--and I don’t believe Lord Charlesbury is, either.”
“Has he been married?”
“Yes. He’s a widower.”
“So much the more suitable,” said the indomitable Mr. Smith decisively.
Rose shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m going downstairs, Uncle, to give Felix Menebees a hand with the
silver. He does work, that boy.”
“No boy who didn’t work would remain in my service,” said Uncle Alfred
simply, and, as Rose knew, quite truly.
They went downstairs, the old man to confer with Artie Millar in the
private pledge-office at the back of the shop, and Rose to put on an
apron, an old pair of gloves, and join Felix at his apparently endless
task of cleaning the stock of silver, plate, and brass.
She reflected joyously, as she took her place on a cane-bottomed chair
and smiled at the pallid Felix, astride a wooden stool:
“This is better than hanging about the hall at Squires, hearing Pug
snorting, and waiting for the next meal.”
“Chuck me over some of that stuff, Felix, will you? My, what a lot
you’ve done! I was late down, this morning.”
“I could always manage, Mrs. Aviolet,” the boy said shyly. “It’s very
good of you to do this, but there isn’t any need. The windows take
a lot of time, of course, but if I allow two hours for them and the
supports, it’s as much as I want. And then there’s practically all the
rest of the day for cleaning the stuff.”
“You do lots of other things as well, Felix--fetching the milk, for
one.”
“Oh, I enjoy that. It makes a break. Mrs. Aviolet, have you ever wanted
adventures?”
“Heaps of times,” said Rose heartily.
“So have I,” said Felix wistfully. “I often think what it’d be like, if
I went out as a cowboy, or something, to the Wild West, or even if I
went in for seeing life a bit in London, the way Mr. Millar does.”
He looked at Rose with a strange gleam in his pallid eyes.
“Have you ever read ‘Frank Belloment, the Gentleman Crook’? I don’t
suppose you have. I know ladies don’t care for that kind of reading,
but it’s great, really it is.”
“I’m fond of a good murder, myself,” Rose admitted. She had shared with
her mother, from a very early age, an impassioned interest in the more
sensational items of police-court news as reported in the illustrated
press.
“Belloment doesn’t go in for murders, only big jewel hauls, or
financial _coups_. As a matter of fact, the book makes out that this
Belloment, that I’m telling you about, he never took things from poor
people, but only from the rich, that have more than they want. That’s
why they call him the Gentleman Crook. And he goes into Society, too,
and that’s where he finds out about people’s jewellery.”
“Where is this book?” Rose demanded.
Felix produced from his pocket a paper volume. “There’s one comes out
every week. And sometimes they have a story about fellows going out
gold-digging, or convicts escaping from prison, and once there was a
boy ran away from a shop and went to sea, and I couldn’t help thinking
it might very well all be true. Didn’t Mr. Millar go to sea once?”
“Yes, but I bet he doesn’t like talking about it,” said Rose shrewdly.
“He’s done well for himself, since those days.”
“I suppose so,” said Felix, but the lust for romance still lingered in
his pale face and whole attenuated person.
“Do you want to go abroad, Felix?”
“It’s the dream of my life,” Felix said earnestly.
“Where were you, before you came into the shop?”
“In an orphanage. I was brought up there. At one time, I had hopes
of making some interesting discovery regarding my birth, which was
irregular, if you’ll excuse me mentioning such a thing. But it appeared
that it was only too well known whose son I was, and there was never
any question of its being a foreign nobleman who was responsible, or
any one like that.”
Rose was breathless with entirely unfeigned interest.
“Then who was it?”
“A travelling salesman, who lodged at the house where my mother was a
servant-girl. He travelled in tombstones, I believe. It was suitable,
in a way, because she died, when I was born, at the Union. She was only
sixteen, and I believe he was turned out of the town and never dared
show his face there again.”
“Served him right! Then was Menebees your mother’s name?”
“That’s right, Mrs. Aviolet. And they had me christened Felix because
they’d come to the letter F, and Frank and Frederick, and the common
names like that, had already been given. I think I was in luck there,”
said the youth complacently.
“And how did you get out of the Union?”
“The people of the house where Mother’d been were very kind, and the
story got round in the town, and her having been so young and all,
and a good girl till this fellow came along, made people sorry, and a
subscription was got up. So I was sent to St. Olave’s Orphanage, and
brought up well. That’s where the old governor found me, him being a
director, and he wanted a boy to work in the shop, and applied there,
and I got sent. I always say I’m lucky,” repeated Felix.
“I think it was Uncle Alfred who was lucky, if you ask me.”
Felix blushed with gratification. “I’m sure it’s very kind of you to
say so. And when I talk about going out to look for adventures, and
travelling, and the like, it’s only in the way of a day-dream, like,
Mrs. Aviolet, because I needn’t say I wouldn’t think of leaving the
governor, without he wanted me to go. But it’s a kind of diversion, to
pretend to myself that I’m off on the Long Trail, with nothing but my
gun and my right arm between me and death.”
“I know, Felix, fast enough. I’ve played that sort of game myself,”
Rose acknowledged.
“But everything you wanted, like that, would come true, I should
think!” Felix cried, looking at her with all his naïve admiration in
his face. “And you’ve seen the world and been to the East. I suppose
you often ‘hear the East a-calling’?”
“Not I,” said Mrs. Aviolet with emphasis. “Or if I did, I shouldn’t
listen. I’m glad I went, in a way, because it opens one’s eyes a bit,
but I don’t ever want to go back. Give me old London, and the smell of
the gas, every time.”
If Felix were slightly disillusioned by this candid admission, his
loyalty did not betray the fact.
He and Rose exchanged their views indefatigably over the silver
cleaning, and Rose frequently reflected that, for all the outrageous
extravagances of fancy so innocently laid bare by Felix, he was a
very much more interesting companion than her amiable, unimaginative,
standard-bound sister-in-law, Diana.
“The fact is,” she told herself, with her usual unsparing determination
that spades should be spades, “the fact is, this is the kind of place
where I fit in. Not beautiful houses in the country, with everybody
half asleep, and only waking up to drivel about the bulbs, or the
horses, or who so-and-so was before she married somebody else’s first
cousin’s sister’s uncle. The shop’s the place for me, right enough,
only I must say, I’d like to see a few more people.”
The company of Uncle Alfred’s frequenters was not, indeed, exhilarating.
Artie Millar, whom Rose had once found attractive, now failed to
satisfy her taste, unconsciously trained to other standards. He had
grown fat, and was inclined to arrive in the mornings with a slightly
yellow appearance, and a muttered complaint aside to Felix Menebees as
to the “head” brought on by the avocations of the previous night.
It did not add to Rose’s admiration that she intuitively knew Artie
Millar to be a thoroughly steady-going young man, of sober and
respectable tendencies, whose wildest excesses never led to his
arriving later than nine o’clock in the morning at the Ovington Street
shop.
The pastiness of his complexion, from which the youthful tan that
had captivated her fancy had long ago faded, she matter-of-factly
attributed to his dislike of exercise and to the lack of fresh air in
the shop.
Representatives of Foreign Missions occasionally called upon Uncle
Alfred, and after short and earnest conversations with him in the
upstairs sitting-room, usually departed, with subdued elation
discernible in the tones of their farewells. They generally left on the
table, or sometimes on the counter of the front shop, sodden-looking
leaflets that bore, beneath a title that Rose described to herself
generically as “The-Good-Work-in-Far-Timbuctoo,” an illustration of a
black-coated missionary affectionately embracing the shoulders of a
sable African, who was always suitably decked in a little vest and a
pair of shorts. These pamphlets, and _The Pawnbrokers’ Gazette_, formed
Uncle Alfred’s evening literature. From time to time, he received a
visit from some contemporary of his own, but no one was ever asked to
supper, although Mr. Smith permitted Rose to institute the appearance
of a tea-tray, with cups and saucers, and a brew of very black, strong
tea, at half-past nine every evening. When there was a caller, Rose
added a plate of biscuits of the variety called “Fancy” by Uncle Alfred
and “Squashed-fly” by his niece.
Further than this, Mr. Smith’s ideas of hospitality did not go.
Rose was not without doubts of her own wisdom in suggesting a visit
from Lord Charlesbury. It never occurred to her to feel ashamed of the
shop, but she did experience much vicarious wrath and disgust at the
absence of hospitality that she considered her uncle displayed in his
entertainment of a guest.
“I should have thought, Uncle A., I must say, that we could rise to a
decent set-out of coffee, and I could quite well show the girl how to
bring it in.”
“How to bring it in!” ejaculated Mr. Smith. “There’s only one way of
carrying a tray, as far as I know, unless you want her to balance it on
her head like a heathen. I can see plainly that the pomps and vanities
of this wicked world are taking a hold on your mind, Rose. ‘Better
a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and discontent
withal.’”
His cat-like eyes gleamed upon her, and he shook his finger.
“There is something particularly displeasing to the Lord about display,
Rose,” said Uncle Alfred, with his habitual assumption of being his
Creator’s mouthpiece.
“I wonder what He thinks of the shop-window, then!” retorted Rose, with
her tolerant, unmalicious tartness of repartee. “Well, Uncle A., if you
won’t have coffee--and I suppose you won’t have whisky----”
(“I am ashamed of you,” said Uncle Alfred parenthetically.)
“--we shall have to do the best we can with tea, but I’m going to get
some decent tea myself, and not that beastly black stuff that’s all
twigs, and strangers-coming-from-overseas, and goodness knows what all.”
“If you choose to waste your money on tea, I cannot prevent it,”
complacently said Mr. Smith.
“I suppose the Lord’ll look the other way, if it’s me and not you,
that’s doing the display,” Rose observed, giggling.
It delighted her that Uncle Alfred should be obliged to pretend not to
have heard her, in order to avoid the necessity of finding a reply.
“There’s one thing, it’s a lovely room,” said Rose to herself. “Of
course the furniture isn’t like Squires, and never will be, but it’s
good of its kind--that I will say. The upholstery is good, and I like
crimson myself. That plant would do with a scrubbing, though.”
She pounced upon the aspidistra, and sent the little maid for soap and
water and an old tooth-brush.
“I’d like it to look nice, Gladys, because a friend of mine is coming
round this evening,” she explained.
They worked together cheerfully, and Gladys told Mrs. Aviolet all
about the baker’s young man, who was becoming ever so attentive. Rose
listened and ejaculated with an absorbed and impassioned interest,
which Gladys, though pleased and flattered, obviously regarded as
entirely natural. And Rose told herself that this was a good deal
better than trying to pump interesting details about the engagement of
Ford and Diana out of her mother-in-law.
“Shall you wear your white silk blouse with the ruffle, ’m, this
evening?” Gladys inquired shyly.
“Do you think it’s pretty? Prettier than my blue?”
“It’s more stylish, ’m, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps it is,” said Rose thoughtfully.
She went upstairs that evening, tried on both the blouses, gazed at
herself critically for a long while, rubbed some additional rouge into
her face, and smeared her mouth with lip-salve, and finally went
down to supper wearing the white blouse with the ruffle and her best
navy-blue skirt.
Uncle Alfred gazed at her sharply, but Millar and Felix Menebees were
both in the room and he said nothing.
As soon as supper was over Artie Millar went away and Felix retired to
the performance of some one of the innumerable menial tasks that he
always accepted as being part of his duty.
When the bell rang, Rose went half-way downstairs.
It was Felix who opened the door, Gladys having stipulated that she
should not be required to announce Lord Charlesbury by name, as “titles
upset her,” and Rose having indignantly retorted that a Lordship
couldn’t be introduced with the customary formula of “a gentleman to
see you.”
She had finally compromised with an undertaking from Felix Menebees
to open the door himself, and usher Lord Charlesbury as far as the
staircase, where Rose was to come and meet him.
She heard his deep, pleasant voice speaking to Felix, and a tremulous
monosyllable from Felix in return, and then she ran down to meet him.
“I’m very glad to see you again,” said Lord Charlesbury, although Rose
was only too well aware that he could hardly see her at all, in the
absence of all but absolutely necessary illumination insisted upon by
Uncle Alfred. “How are you?”
“I’m quite well, thank you,” Rose replied, in the literal formula
taught her long ago by her mother. “Won’t you come up?”
Uncle Alfred was not in the sitting-room, to the relief of his niece,
and she and her visitor sat down each in a plush-covered armchair upon
either side of the small gas-fire. A beaded footstool, with curly
legs, and a fire-screen, its dingy white-wood panel bearing a sprawled
painting of yellow and pink roses, stood between them.
Rose looked at Charlesbury.
She had not seen him very often, but she had thought about him a great
deal, and felt that strange fear, which is common to all those who have
outgrown very early youth, lest the reality of a remembered presence
should prove disappointing. He smiled at her, his grave, attractive
smile.
“How’s your boy, and how are they all at Squires?”
“Ces is very well, and he likes Hurst all right. I saw your Hugh, when
I was down there last.”
“Did you? I’m hoping to go and see him myself, to-morrow. They tell me
he’s a born cricketer. Is Cecil keen on that?”
“No,” said Rose baldly, unable to think of any form of phraseology that
should soften the unpleasant admission. She felt instinctively that
Charlesbury would think Cecil’s lack a regrettable one.
“I daresay it’ll come later, or more probably football absorbs all his
energies, unless he hasn’t any to spare for lessons. Hugh is far too
one-idea’d. I hope the lads have made friends?”
It struck Rose, as she heard the question, that Cecil had no particular
friends amongst his school-fellows, and the thought roused again the
never deeply dormant anxiety that lay always in her mind.
She made no answer, because she could not think of anything to say,
but before the silence had become embarrassing to her, Lord Charlesbury
said:
“What about yourself, Mrs. Aviolet? I’m delighted to hear from Ford
that there’s every chance of meeting you at Squires in the holidays.”
“Oh, yes, they always want Ces, and I shall be there part of the time,
anyway. But I’m really by way of looking out for some sort of a job
myself up here.”
“A job?”
“I haven’t got any money, except what Jim’s people allow me, and I’ve
had to come to an arrangement with my uncle here, but I’d like to do
something besides cleaning the silver in the shop,” said Rose.
“You are, actually, living here?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I see,” said Charlesbury reflectively.
He put up his single eyeglass and gazed round the room.
“Of course, it isn’t exactly like Squires, but I’ve never been keen on
the country, myself, and I like this much better.”
“You’re not lonely?”
“Dear me, no,” said Rose, surprised. “My Uncle Alfred is very good
company in his own way, provided you don’t pay too much attention to
him when he gets on the religious tack, and that boy that opened the
door to you in the shop, Felix Menebees, he’s as nice as can be, and a
great friend of mine. The other assistant is all right--Millar--but not
exciting. And I see Dr. Lucian, too, pretty often. You remember him, at
Squires?”
“The doctor at Squires? Oh, yes, I remember him quite well.”
There was nothing at all derogatory in Charlesbury’s tone, but neither
was there any enthusiasm.
Why, indeed, should there be, Rose inquired of herself, in resentment
at a slight feeling of disappointment.
“But do forgive me,” Charlesbury smiled at her frankly, “if I ask
whether you don’t sometimes long to find yourself in a--a more
congenial setting? For instance, we know that at Squires Lady Aviolet
is really rather lonely since Ford’s marriage, and would simply love to
have you.”
“Oh, no, she wouldn’t,” said Rose.
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“Quite. But, anyway, I don’t want to go back there, except when I can’t
help it, for the sake of being with Ces. I was bored stiff at Squires.
Surely you remember that,” said Rose naïvely.
“Yes?--well, I’m sorry. After all, that was some little while ago, and
perhaps I’d hoped that time--and distance--might have softened your
prejudice.”
Rose was beginning a vigorous protest at this description of her own
attitude towards Squires when Mr. Smith came into the room.
“Uncle A., this is Lord Charlesbury--my uncle, Mr. Smith,” said Rose,
stammering a little.
Uncle Alfred bowed, Lord Charlesbury stood up and held out his hand,
and they exchanged greetings.
“How d’you do,” said Lord Charlesbury.
“Good evening, my lord. I am very well, I thank you,” said Uncle
Alfred. “Sit down again, if you please. Am I intruding?”
“In your own house, Uncle A.? Whatever next, I wonder?” muttered
his niece. She pushed forward the old man’s chair and they all three
sat down. The three-cornered conversation that ensued was remarkable
neither for smoothness nor for spontaneity.
Charlesbury alone spoke with an effect of being at his ease, and Rose
uneasily suspected that this was rather the result of the habit of good
breeding, than from any natural affinity with his present audience.
Uncle Alfred said “my lord” a great many times, but kept a wary and
distrustful eye upon his guest, and from time to time transferred his
glance to Rose, as though reviewing the two in conjunction.
They talked about politics, and Rose was silent, from ignorance of
the subject and from a complete lack of interest in it. They tried to
talk about Squires, and Uncle Alfred became Scriptural, and alluded to
the pomps and vanities of this world, whereat Lord Charlesbury became
strangely unresponsive.
It was a relief to Mrs. Aviolet when a prolonged clatter of china and a
timid knock outside the door heralded the entrance of the little maid
Gladys.
“Tea,” said Rose, and was shocked at the blatancy of her own extreme
relief at the interruption.
She poured out the tea, glad of an occupation, and with her eyes dared
Uncle Alfred to comment upon the unusual elegance of the white fringed
tea-cloth thrown over the tray, the best cups and saucers, and a
display of Osborne biscuits in place of the “Squashed-flies.”
“Tea is less harmful to the nerves than coffee,” said Uncle Alfred
sententiously, “but women are far too much addicted to both.”
“You’re fond of a cup of tea yourself, Uncle. We always have it after
supper,” said Rose to Lord Charlesbury.
“It used to be usual everywhere. I can’t remember those days myself,
but I can quite well remember my grandfather telling about the times
when dinner was at five or six o’clock, and tea was brought into the
drawing-room afterwards.”
“Can you?” said Rose, inwardly furious at her own inanity.
“Rose, my dear, call Felix Menebees. A cup of tea will do him good,”
said Uncle Alfred blandly.
His niece turned startled eyes upon him. The suggestion was not quite
unprecedented, but it was very nearly so, and she had certainly never
contemplated its being made on the evening of Lord Charlesbury’s visit.
A sense of reluctance was followed by angry remorse. Why on _earth_
shouldn’t she want Felix?
Rose got up, flung open the door and called down the stairs for Felix
in tones that lacked none of her habitual vigour.
Then she went back and poured out a fresh cup of tea, adding carefully
the three lumps of sugar that Felix liked, with her usual precautions
against allowing Uncle Alfred to perceive the extravagance.
The conversation was actually a little easier when Felix,
self-conscious but not embarrassed, had joined them, seating himself
upon the extreme edge of a chair, and balancing his cup and saucer
between his knees.
Lord Charlesbury talked about America, and Felix at least asked
questions, whereas Uncle Alfred confined himself to ejaculating
comments, mostly of a disparaging nature.
“Uncle A.’s taken against him, that’s clear enough,” reflected Rose.
She held a high opinion of Uncle A.’s shrewdness, and the thought
depressed her.
She looked at Charlesbury, wondering whether he reciprocated the
pawnbroker’s lack of sympathy, and was forced to the conclusion that
he did. His manner was admirable, and his courtesy quite unforced, but
there was a certain bewilderment apparent beneath his kindly suavity,
and Rose felt sure that he would be profoundly relieved when the
evening came to an end.
“Well, we all bite off more than we can chew sometimes, I suppose,” she
thought to herself with gloomy philosophy, but it was not until she
was actually preceding Charlesbury down the stairs to the front door
that it occurred to her to apply to him, as well as to herself, her
favourite descriptive idiom.
Had Charlesbury, likewise, bitten off more than he could chew? It was
a great deal more likely that he was now, perhaps for the first time,
cautiously eyeing the size of the projected bite before attempting it.
“Won’t you let me come and take you out to dinner one night?” he asked
as they parted.
“I don’t know,” said Rose in a worried way. She was quite incapable of
coquetry, and her reply was prompted by sheerest indecision.
“Why not?” asked Charlesbury, smiling.
“Oh, lots of reasons. I haven’t got a frock, for one thing.
Good-night,” said Rose abruptly.
He did not pursue the question of his invitation, but said good-night
to her gently and cordially.
Rose went upstairs again, strangely inclined to burst into tears, and
very angry with herself for the inclination.
She bounced into the sitting-room, with a movement habitual to the late
Mrs. Smith.
Uncle Alfred was reading _The Pawnbrokers’ Gazette_ and Felix was
tidily replacing the cups upon the tea-tray.
Rose helped him in silence, glancing out of the corners of her eyes
at the imperturbable Mr. Smith, and affecting unconcern by humming a
little tune.
When Felix had departed downstairs with the tray, Rose observed in a
detached tone of voice, with her head rather upon one side:
“Well, not one of our successes, on the whole, was it? Of course, Uncle
A., I shouldn’t think of saying a word to you, but at the same time----”
“That will do, Rose. Say nothing in a hurry. Remember what James has
written on the subject of bridling that unruly member, the tongue, and
hold your peace. I have only one piece of advice for you, my girl:
Ask yourself whether you want to spend the rest of your life in your
natural element, or out of it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Rose declared, knowing only too well.
“I shan’t bear you a grudge, if you take the chance of bettering
yourself, and it might be a very good thing for your boy. But it’ll
be the parting of the ways for you and me, and for you and any other
friends you may have in your own walk of life; so if you go into it,
you must go into it with your eyes open, that’s all. That titled friend
of yours is all very well--I haven’t a word to say against him--but
you mark my words, Rose, he’s not a mixer, and he never will be. Now
if it was that doctor friend of yours, it would be another thing
altogether----”
“Oh,” Rose became suddenly reflective.
“Is Dr. Lucian what you’d call a good mixer, Uncle?”
“Certainly. Both by nature and in consequence of his profession. And
though I’m not saying you’d not be doing very well for yourself in
marrying him, it wouldn’t be the same thing as taking upon yourself the
responsibilities of joining up with titled folk, Rose.”
“Jim was Lord Charlesbury’s class, you know.”
“I do know, indeed. And a deplorable business you and he made of your
marriage, from all accounts. His death was a merciful release for you.”
“Well, he was a bad lot,” Rose pointed out, without acrimony.
“And this Lord Charlesbury is not. But you have many times complained
to me of your inability to feel at home with the Aviolets and their
friends, and your disinclination for their mode of life. Ask yourself,
therefore, whether you would find it any easier to do yourself credit
as the wife of Lord Charlesbury, or any other lord?”
Rose did indeed ask herself this question in the days that ensued.
She saw Lord Charlesbury again, a few days later, when he asked her
to lunch with him at a very quiet little restaurant, of which Rose
had never heard before, in a quarter of London which she had always
supposed to be an unfashionable one. On that occasion he made no
reference whatever to his visit to Ovington Street, but again suggested
indirectly that Mrs. Aviolet should seek more congenial surroundings
for herself.
“But you don’t understand,” said Rose at last. “It’s at Squires, and
places like that, that I’m such a fish out of water. The shop, and all
that, is my home.”
She looked at him as she spoke, and a horrible sense of finality came
over her, although not a muscle of his face had altered.
“I’ve got a headache,” said Rose abruptly. “I’m going home.”
He took her back to Ovington Street.
Rose had neither the training nor the temperament conducive to
self-command. In the taxi, to her own unutterable dismay, she began to
cry.
“It is my headache,” she lied desperately, the tears streaming down her
face. “I often get like this--the pain is _dreadful_!”
“I’m so sorry,” said Charlesbury. His face and his voice alike showed a
deep concern.
At the door he looked at her rather wistfully, holding her hand
in farewell. “Are you quite, quite certain that you don’t need a
change--that you’re all right here?”
Rose nodded.
Her gaze took in the mean little street and the door leading into the
dark shop, and the angle of the wall which discreetly hid the three
golden balls that protruded behind.
Rose Aviolet mopped at her wet eyes with a screwed-up handkerchief and
then spoke, clearly enough in spite of the choke in her voice.
“I’m quite, quite certain that this is the right place for me, except
just when I’ve got to be at Squires for the sake of Ces. Uncle Alfred
is my relation, and him and me understand one another all right. It was
me and the Aviolets that didn’t. And it would always be the same, with
anybody of their sort, and anybody of mine.”
Felix Menebees opened the door.
“Good-bye,” said Rose, and went into the shop.
* * * * *
Rose Aviolet shed no more tears over her abortive romance. “No use
crying over spilt milk” had been a favourite aphorism of Mrs. Smith’s,
and it was one which had always recommended itself to Rose.
She did not allow Uncle Alfred any opportunity of remarking that his
advice had been taken, but wrote to Dr. Lucian with a request for work.
“And it seems fair to tell you that what I once hinted about myself
won’t ever come off now. And I’m not going to marry anybody ever. I’ve
got enough to do thinking about Ces, and if there’s any spare time, I
can put it in over the job you’re going to get me.”
He found her a job, in connection with a large children’s hospital, and
after a few weeks, Rose was invited to occupy a room there.
“I’ll do it,” she decided; “it’s better than Squires, and I’ve got
to make some sort of a life for myself. And it’s not long till the
holidays anyway.”
At the thought of Cecil her heart lightened again.
“Hurst does seem to be doing him good,” she thought. “It was worth
meeting Lord Charlesbury, after all, if only because he told me about
Hurst for Cecil.”