CHAPTER V
HE MEETS THE HEROINE
"Polly, come and have a look round, and give me your advice, will you? My fellow says he's got all the luggage up, and he wants to know where to put some of the new things."
Mr. Anthony Churchill would have felt himself insulted if you had called his "fellow" a valet. Australian gentlemen don't keep valets. The person in question had certainly filled that office in England, where his master had picked him up, but was now merely a sort of private male housemaid of superior quality, who waited on his employer in the East Melbourne chambers, and made him more comfortable than anybody else could have done. When he was away travelling, Maude took on his servant as an extra footman, in order to guard him against the seductions of other wealthy bachelors who were known to covet him; but when Tony was at home, Jarvis was his indispensable attendant. Mary Oxenham used to say that Jarvis was the main cause of that celibacy which she could not but deplore in a man of thirty-five, who could so well afford a wife and family.
"Yes, dear," she said, in response to his proposal; "I shall be delighted." She rose from the Toorak luncheon-table to dress for the expedition.
"Oh, Tony, you are not going away?" cried Mrs. Churchill, prettily aghast. "When I have hardly had a word with you! And when you know it is my day at home, and I can't come with you! Mary, it's very nasty and selfish of you, to carry him off and keep him all to yourself – especially when he has been in town the whole morning."
"I'll come back to dinner," he said soothingly. "And we'll have a game of billiards together in the evening, if you like."
"But I want you now, Tony! All the world is coming this afternoon, just on purpose to see you, and I did so want to show you off."
"The very reason, madam, why I go. I don't like being shown off."
"But you know what I mean, Tony – you can do exactly what you like – go away and smoke, or anything. And there are several new girls – pretty girls – whom you haven't seen before."
"Pretty girls have ceased to interest me very much. I've seen such a lot of them."
"You are a nasty, horrid, disagreeable boy! I suppose I have ceased to interest you – that's what you'd like to say if you weren't too polite."
"I'd cut my tongue out before I'd say such a thing."
He smiled down upon her, strong, calm, amused, indifferent, as if she were a kitten frisking. He was always interested in her, if only because he had to be always on his guard to keep her from making a fool of herself. She looked up at him, with a pout and a laugh, and proceeded to make hay while the sun shone – to make the most of the little time that Mary gave her for the enjoyment of his company.
Brother and sister departed as soon as the latter was ready, preferring the homely tram to the carriage that Mrs. Churchill desired to order for them; and spent a quiet hour together in Tony's chambers, where Jarvis had left nothing to find fault with. There were pictures for Mrs. Oxenham to see, and a multitude of pretty things that Tony had brought out to adorn his rooms, or as presents for his friends; and these were very interesting to a lady of modern culture, as she was, secretly proud of and confident in her discriminating artistic sense. And she much enjoyed an uninterrupted gossip with her brother, he and she having been close comrades for many years before Maude was heard of. They had a great deal to say that they didn't care to say when she was present.
Jarvis offered tea, but it was declined. "No, thank you," said Mary. "There's a little place where I make a point of having tea whenever I am in town – kept by some people whom I am interested in. And it isn't good for me to drink too much. I think, Tony, I'll be going, as I have a commission to do for Maude."
"I'll go with you," said Tony, "if you'll just let me finish my pipe. It's the sweetest pipe I have had for a long time. After all" – with a luxurious sigh – "there's no place like home."
"Don't call this a home," his sister retorted.
He cast a complacent eye around the handsome room, which had witnessed so many masculine symposiums. "I might go further and fare worse," he said, with a comfortable laugh. "Do you remember the man in Punch who didn't marry because he was so domesticated? I think I am like him. I love a quiet life. I like my armchair and my fireside of an evening." He puffed meditatively, while Mary drew on her gloves. "What's your errand for Maude?" he asked abruptly.
"She wants me to tell Mrs. Earl something."
"I could have sworn it. Now, if I had a wife who thought of nothing but her clothes – "
"Who wants you to have a wife who thinks of nothing but her clothes? Do you suppose they are all Maudes? Come along, and don't aggravate me."
He heaved himself out of his deep chair, retired to take off his smoking-jacket, and escorted her to the tram and to Collins Street.
"If you are going to be long," he said, at Mrs. Earl's door, "I'll look into the club for a few minutes."
"I'm not going to be a second, but don't wait for me," she answered, "Go to your club, old fogey, but be home in good time for dinner."
However, when she had done her errand, which was only to deliver an urgent message concerning the trimming of a Cup gown – to which Mrs. Earl was not likely to pay the least attention, knowing her business better than any lady could teach her – there was Tony on the pavement, still in devoted attendance.
"Where do you want to go now, Polly?" he asked, as if clubs were nothing to him.
"Oh, nowhere – except just to get my tea. Don't wait, dear boy."
"Where do you go for your tea?"
"To a room in Little Collins Street."
"What an extraordinary place to have one's tea in!" He signalled for a hansom. "I'll go with you."
"Oh, no; don't you bother. It's not a place for men."
"I'll take you to the door, at any rate."
He took her to the door, and the outside of the basket-maker's premises made him curious to see the inside, and he begged to be allowed to escort her upstairs. "If only to see that you are not robbed and murdered," he said.
"No fear of that," she returned, laughing. "You go and amuse yourself at the club. This is a ladies' place."
"Men prohibited?"
"Not prohibited, but they don't want them."
"All right. I'll leave the cab for you."
He went to his club, and she to her tea and scones (the room was satisfactorily full, and Jenny too busy to be talked to); and they met again at Toorak in time to entertain Maude for half an hour before she had to dress.
Next day Maude was determined to have her stepson for herself – especially as there was a dark rumour that he was going to desert her the day after for the superior attractions of Jarvis and his bachelor abode; and Anthony was quite willing to gratify her. Recognising that she would be de trop, Mary Oxenham chose to stay at home and amuse the children; and he and his pretty stepmother (seven years his junior) drove away after luncheon for the ostensible purpose of paying calls together.
They paid two calls, and then, being in East Melbourne, Maude proposed that they should go and have some tea.
"What!" exclaimed Tony. "Haven't you had enough tea for one afternoon?"
"It was horribly bad tea," said she, "and I know a place where you can get it exceptionally good. I am just dying for a cup."
"Where is your place?"
"In Little Collins Street. The funniest place you ever saw."
"Why, that must be the place Mary wouldn't take me to yesterday. She said men were not admitted."
"Oh, what a story!"
"Well, she said the people there didn't want them."
"Stuff! Of course they do. Didn't you hear Mrs. Bullivant say she was there yesterday with Captain what's-his-name, that charming new A.D.C.? No, you were flirting with Miss Baxter – oh, I saw you! – and had no eyes or ears for anybody else."
"Then I presume I may accompany you, and have some tea too?"
"Of course you may. You'll be charmed – everybody is. There are dear little chairs, in which you can actually rest yourself, and tables so high" – spreading her hand on a level with her knee. "And it's awfully retired and peaceful, if you want to talk. I only hope" – regardless of her previous efforts to compass that end – "that it won't get too well known. That would spoil it."
Anthony stalked through the basket-maker's shop (that customers passed that way, in view of his wares, was a consideration that largely affected the rent, to Mrs. Liddon's advantage), and knocked his head and his elbows on the dark staircase, and thought it was indeed the funniest place of its kind that he had ever seen. But when he reached the tea-room, and looked round with his cultured eyes upon its singular appointments, he was quite as charmed as Maude had expected him to be, and more surprised than charmed.
"How very extraordinary!" he ejaculated. "What an oasis in the howling desert of Little Collins Street!"
"Yes, isn't it?" returned Maude, jerking her head from side to side. "I knew you would like it. But, oh, do look how full it is! How tiresome of people to come flocking here, as if there were no other place in the whole town! There's hardly a table left. Oh, here's one! I'll get that girl to put it in the corner yonder. She knows me."
"It will do here," said Anthony, with a little peremptory air that she was quite accustomed to. "Sit down."
He dropped himself into a basket-chair, and it creaked ominously.
"What a very extraordinary place!" he repeated, as his stepmother drew off her gloves in preparation for prolonged repose and conversation. Then, as Jenny advanced, blushing a little – for she knew this was the junior partner, and he stared at her intently – "What a very – " He left that sentence unfinished.
"Tea and scones for two, if you please. Yes, she's quite a new type, isn't she? – like her tea-room. She's the daughter of old Liddon, who used to be in the office, and who was killed by being run over on the railway the other day. Mary says she's quite well educated."
"What!" cried Anthony. He sat bolt upright in his chair. "Old Liddon dead! Good heavens! And his daughter keeping a restaurant! Why, I thought they rather prided themselves on being gentlefolks. The old man used to tell me he was an Eton boy – quite true, too."
"He married his cook," said Mrs. Churchill – which was a libel, for poor old Mrs. Liddon's family was as "genteel" as her own – "and I suppose the girl takes after her. Mrs. Liddon's cooking talents are now exercised on the tea and scones that they sell here, and they do her credit, as you will see. I'm sure I wish to goodness I could find a good cook!"
"If that is Miss Liddon," said Anthony, who was watching the screen for her reappearance, "I think I ought to speak to her."
"Oh, no, you oughtn't, Tony. It would never do. Mary doesn't want men to talk to her. Mary is taking a great interest in her, you must know, and she'd like to keep men out of the room altogether – only she doesn't want to hinder custom – just for Miss Liddon's sake, for fear she should be taken liberties with, or annoyed in any way, as if she were a common waitress."
This was a very injudicious speech, but then Maude was nearly always injudicious.
"I don't annoy women," said her stepson severely; "and I am not 'men.' I am a partner of the firm that has lost her father's services – if we have lost them."
"Oh, yes; he was killed on the spot – all smashed to little bits."
"I would merely say a word – of sympathy, you know."
"Don't do it, Tony; it would be most improper. If you attempt to scrape acquaintance with her I'll never bring you here again. Mary would blame me, and make a dreadful fuss."
"Mary is so much in the habit of making a fuss, isn't she?"
"I assure you she would. You see she wouldn't let you come yesterday. You can make your condolences to the brother in the office."
So Anthony did not say anything to Miss Liddon, except "Thank you," in a very gentle tone. As she approached with the tea and scones, he rose and stood – her little head was not much above his elbow – and he took the tray from her hands. The unwonted courtesy brought a flush to Jenny's pale cheeks – they were pale with the weariness of being on her feet all day – and Mrs. Churchill had her first suspicion that the young person was pretty. She determined that she would not bring Tony to the tea-room again.
Nevertheless, being there, and very comfortable, she would have sat on with him indefinitely, had he allowed it; but he would not allow it. Her meal finished, she was taking the place and time of paying clients, as several others were doing, causing Jenny to wonder if she had not made a mistake in providing cushioned chairs. He proposed to call at the office for his father, and drive the old gentleman home – an attention from his charming wife that always gratified him; and Maude did not see her way to object. They returned to Toorak quite early, and Tony lit a pipe and went off with his sister for a saunter in the shrubberies (to get the history of the Liddons up to date), while his stepmother was hastily getting into a yellow satin tea-gown with a view to an ante-dinner tête-à-tête on her own account.
CHAPTER VI
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 tête-à-tête; 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.