Chapter 35 The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls by L. T. Meade
THEIR QUARTER'S ALLOWANCE
"Two letters," said Daisy, holding them up in her hand; "actually two letters; one for Primrose—oh, yes! of course that must be from Mr. Danesfield; and one for Jasmine—oh! Jasmine's is such a funny-looking letter, quite thick and interesting, and with a darling little picture on the back. What can the picture be?—oh! some little bells, and The Joy-bell written over them."
"Give it to me," said Jasmine, her face suddenly turning crimson. "Oh, Daisy! why do you examine my letters so curiously? This was meant to be quite private. Oh, oh, oh! how my fingers tremble."
"We are all alone, you know, Jasmine," said Daisy; "dear Primrose is not in. She went to her continual reading nearly an hour ago. Dear Primrose! she sometimes looks quite pale and tired. Perhaps the letter is about our secret, Jasmine; please do read it to me—please do."
But by this time Jasmine had torn the envelope open, and was oblivious to all Daisy's comments. Her eager eyes devoured the contents of an official-looking sheet of paper, then she danced up and down the room, then she tossed the paper up to the ceiling, and finally caught Daisy in her arms, and covered her little face with kisses.
"Oh, Daisy, it's too good!—I'm so happy, I could almost cry. Daisy, darling, he wants to see me about my story—he thinks it's very fine—he says there are masterly bits in it—I'm to go and see him as soon as possible."
"Him?" repeated Daisy; "but who is he, Jasmine?"
"He's the editor of one of the most powerful of all our magazines," said Jasmine; "the magazine is called The Joy-bell—hasn't it a delicious title? Oh, Daisy! I must go at once to see him."
"Take me with you," said Daisy, coming up close to her sister—"take me with you, darling, dear Jasmine. I'm much better, I've nearly lost my cough, and the spring is coming; the air feels quite warm to-day—do take me, Jasmine, for it is our own secret, and then, after you've got your money—for I suppose you'll get a lot of money—we can both tell Primrose to-night."
Jasmine hesitated, but the sun was shining warmly, and Daisy's little face was very pleading—Jasmine felt so happy at this moment that she greatly longed to give happiness.
"Yes," she said, suddenly, "I don't suppose Primrose will really mind, and you must wrap up well; only there's just one thing, Daisy, we'll have to call for Poppy. I would not on any account go to the publisher's without Poppy."
As Jasmine and Daisy were hurrying quickly down the street to catch the first omnibus which went in the direction of the Edgware Road, Daisy suddenly clutched her sister's hand, the color left her pretty face, and she began to hurry forward at a very rapid pace.
"What is the matter, Daisy?" said Jasmine: "you have quite hurt my hand; has anything frightened you? have you seen any one?"
"Oh, it's nothing—I mean I'm subject to starts," said poor little Daisy, in a sad voice. "I'll be better when I get into the omnibus with you, Jasmine; and please, Jasmine, may I sit very close to you? and may I hold your hand?"
"You poor little darling!" said Jasmine, affectionately, "you are not a bit strong yet—you must have some more chemical food; I am told there is nothing so good for starts as chemical food."
Daisy gave another start and a very gentle sigh. She knew well in her little breast that no amount of chemical food would take away the terror which inspired her when she saw the face of Mr. Dove. She had seen him just now, although Jasmine had not—he was standing with several other men at the corner of the road, and his blood-shot eyes had seemed to look through her, and as she passed by he had raised his hand, and shaken it at her in a truly menacing manner.
Dove had not forgotten Daisy, as Daisy had fondly hoped. Daisy Mainwaring meant to him a certain amount of money. Dove was not the sort of man to allow the chance of gaining money dishonestly to go by. As to earning money, and coming by it as the sweet fruits of honest toil, that did not at all suit his idea. When he saw the child going out with her sister he recollected, with much pleasure, that quarter-day was about due. Feeling in his own pockets, he confessed they were unpleasantly light and empty, and then he wondered if he might find any agreeable little pickings in the girls' trunks. He had subjugated poor little Daisy so completely that he would have ventured to rob even in her presence, but of course he preferred doing his burglary work alone.
He very quickly made up his mind to pay a visit that very day to the girls' new rooms in Miss Egerton's house. He made an excuse to get away from his companions, and then, walking quickly in the direction of Miss Egerton's house, he took his bearings carefully. At this hour Miss Egerton was busy with her school and Bridget was employed in the kitchen. He might do what he liked, therefore, in that part of the house which the girls called the Palace Beautiful. He knew a way by which he could get on the roof—from the roof there was an easy entrance to the girls' rooms. By the time Jasmine, Daisy, and Poppy were joyously driving towards the city Dove had taken possession of their nice bright rooms. When he got in he locked the outer door, and then he felt quite comfortable, and at leisure to look around him.
The first thing he saw was the letter directed to Primrose on the sitting-room table. He took it up, and examined it closely. He could spell out—for he was by no means a proficient reader—the word Rosebury on one of the post-marks; that was enough for him; the letter was tucked neatly into his pocket, and then he went round the room in search of fresh spoil.
He found very little, for the Palace Beautiful showed none of its charms to his eyes; in Dove's opinion it was a poor sort of place—clean, certainly, but what of that? Dove considered that cleanliness meant poverty. Dove's tastes lay in the direction of rooms thickly carpeted; he liked two or three carpets, one on the top of the other, on a floor; he liked the rooms to be well crowded with furniture—furniture of the good old mahogany type, heavy and dark—and the windows draped with thick merino. A room so furnished would, as Dove expressed it, look solid, and mean a heavy purse, and perhaps a nice little nest-egg laid by tidily in one of the drawers or bureaus. Such a room would be very interesting to examine, but this sitting-room, with its crimson drugget, and its white flooring, its one or two choice engravings on the walls, and its little book-case filled with good and valuable books, was, Dove considered, very shabby indeed. He found nothing more worth taking, and having given the Pink a kick by way of a parting blessing, he left the room, made his exit again by the roof, and so departed unperceived. He had Primrose's letter in his pocket, and he thought himself very lucky to have so nicely secured her quarter's allowance. He returned to his own house in Eden Street, and in the privacy of his back parlor opened Mr. Danesfield's letter. It was a short letter, and, as it happened was not written by Mr. Danesfield at all. Dove, however, by patient spelling and peering, presently mastered its contents.
"The Bank,
"High Street, Rosebury,
"April 21.
"MADAM,
"In Mr. Danesfield's absence, I send you a cheque for £17 10s., according to his orders. The cheque will require your signature at the back, and if you will kindly sign it you, or any one else, can obtain cash for the amount at the Metropolitan Bank, Strand.
"I expect Mr. Danesfield home in about six weeks; he has been wintering abroad.
"Yours faithfully,
"JOHN DAVIS."
Dove took the greater part of an hour to make this letter out; next he fingered the cheque, turning it backwards and forwards; then his face grew very blank—for, unsigned, that cheque was valueless. He was a violent man, and he uttered some strong expressions, and his wife, on hearing them, took good care to keep out of his way. She could not make out why Dove sat so long in the back parlor, and why he refused to eat his dinner, which was very hot and tasty. After a time, with a sigh of relief, she heard him go out.
Dove had hastily fastened up the letter, trusting to no one's noticing that it had been opened. Again he reached Miss Egerton's house; again he made his way from the roof to the upper landing, and from the upper landing to the girls' rooms; the letter was not placed on the table, but was skilfully slipped down between some books which lay in a pile on Jasmine's little writing-table. It might have been put there by any one who was dusting the room, and it might have lain in its present position unseen for many days. Dove hoped no one would perceive it; he scowled at the poor little Pink, who crouched away from him, and turning on his heel again, left the room.