Jill pulled her mother's hand fiercely inside her arm. The presence of
the angry, upright girl had a sobering effect on the older women. A dim
sense of shame and distress was stealing over her. She made violent
efforts to keep from tottering, and, raising one powerful but shaking
hand, tried to straighten her bonnet.
Jill walked past Mrs Stanley's flat, without stopping to fetch her
basket of flowers. When she reached the top landing of the house she
slipped her hand into her mother's pocket, took out the key which by
then, and opened the door which led into the little flat. The flat
consisted of two rooms and a narrow passage.
Still holding her mother by the arm, Jill went into the outer room. She
found a box of matches, and, striking one, lit a candle which was placed
on the round table.
"Now, mother, sit down," she said, in a tender voice. "Here's your own
chair. Sit right down and rest a bit. I'll be no time boiling the
kettle, and then we'll have a cup o' tea both on us together; you'll
feel a sight better when you have had your tea, mother."
The woman sat on the edge of the chair which Jill had pulled forward,
she loosened her bonnet-strings, and let her untidy, disorderly bonnet
fall off her head of thick black hair.
"I'll never go and do it any more, Jill," she said, after a pause. "The
pain's better now, and next time it comes I'll bear it. I know I'm
tipsy now, but, sure as my name's Poll Robinson, you'll see, Jill, as
I'll never go and do it again."
"To be sure you won't, mother. Don't you fret. Forget all about it--
forget as you were tipsy jest now in the street. You'll soon be as
right as ever you wor. I'll fetch some cold water to bathe your face
and hands, then you'll feel prime. You cheer up, mother, darlin', and
forget what you 'as done."
"But you won't forget it, Jill. I've shamed you before the folk in the
street, you can't go and forget it, it's contrary to nature."
"Why I'se forgot it, mother, already; you sit quiet, and let me tend
you."
While Jill spoke she bustled about, placed the kettle of water on the
little gas-stove to boil, and, going out into the passage, filled a
basin fall of cold water from a tap. Bringing it back, she tenderly
washed her mother's hot face and hands, combed back her disordered hair,
coiled it deftly round her comely head, and then, bending down, kissed
the broad, low forehead.
"Now you're like yourself, so sweet; why you look beautiful; you're as
handsome as a picter. We'll forget all about that time in the street.
See! the kettle's boiling, we'll both be real glad of our tea." The
woman began to cheer up under the girl's bright influence; her head
ceased to reel, her hand to shake; she felt instinctively, however, that
she had better keep silence, for her brain was still too confused for
her to talk sensibly.
The tea was made strong and fragrant. Jill stood by the little
mantelpiece while she sipped hers. Her eager eyes watched her mother
with an affectionate and sad solicitude.
"Now, mother, you must go to bed at once, and have a good sleep," she
said, when the meal was over.
"I didn't mean to go and done it," said the woman again.
"Course you didn't, mother, and you'll never do it no more. Go and lie
down now."
"Where are the lads, Jill?"
"They'll be in presently. It's all right. You lie down; you look awful
spent and worn."
"But the pain's better, my gal."
"That's right. You sleep while you're easy."
"Jill, don't you 'ate your poor wicked old mother?"
"No, mother. I love you better than all the rest of the world put
together. Now lie down, and don't fret yourself. I has a sight of fine
things to tell you in the morning; but go to sleep now, do!"
The exhausted woman was only too glad to obey. The moment her head
touched the pillow, her tired eyes closed and she went off into
dreamless slumber.
Jill stole softly from the room, closing the door behind her.
She had scarcely done so before a shuffling, lumbering sound was heard
on the landing; the outer door was banged vigorously from without, and
rough boys' voices called to Jill to open and let them in.
She flung the door open without a minute's delay.
"Come in," she said, "and take off your boots, and be quiet ef you can,
for mother's not well, and I won't have her woke to please anybody.
You're both shameful late, and I've half a mind to let you sleep in the
passage all night. There's your supper; and now _do_ try to be quiet."
The elder boy, called Bob, pulled off his heavy boots and stole across
the room. The younger followed his example.
"There's your supper," said Jill. She pointed to two plates, on which
some lumps of cold suet pudding were placed. "Do be quick," she said,
speaking petulantly for the first time, "for I'm so tired myself I'm fit
to drop."
"Is it true that mother's bad, Jill?" asked the youngest boy, peering up
at his sister half anxiously, half wickedly.
"Yes, of course it's true. Mother's often bad. Why do you ask?"
"But old Hastie down in the street, he said that she had gone and--why,
what's the matter, Jill? You look so fierce that you quite take the
heart out of a fellow."
"You shut up," said Jill. "You whisper in this room one word of what
Hastie said, and you'll feel my fist, I can tell you."
"Only it's true, Jill, and you know it," said Bob, putting down his
plate, and coming up and standing by his younger brother's side. "You
needn't beat the life out of poor Tom for telling the truth. You know
that Hastie only spoke the solemn truth, Jill, and you has no call to
round on Tom."
"Hastie told a lie," said Jill; "and when Tom quotes his words to me, he
tells lies."
"Then mother hasn't been out this evening."
"No; she's been in her bed since two o'clock, orful bad with pain.
You're dreadful cruel boys even to doubt her. She's the best mother on
this earth. Oh, let _me_ see Hastie, and I'll give him a spice of my
mind. Now go and lie down, the pair on yer. I'm shamed of yer bringing
up them lies."
The boys slouched off, frightened at their sister's blazing cheeks and
fiery words. They lay down side by side in an old press bed at one end
of the kitchen, and Jill, opening the door, slipped softly down to fetch
her flowers from Mrs Stanley. The old woman was still up. She looked
at the girl anxiously.
"You found her then, honey?"
"Oh, yes; quite easy. She was out for a little bit of exercise. She's
in bed and asleep a long time back."
"Where you ought to be, Jill. You look fit to drop."
"I ain't then; I'm quite fresh. Where are my flowers?"
"There, dearie. Good-night to you, Jill Robinson."
"Good-night, Mrs Stanley. Thank yer for keeping the flowers."
Jill took up her basket and departed. In the passage which belonged to
her mother's flat she spent some little time watering her flowers,
removing the withered ones, and making her basket look trim and fresh
for the morrow.
The clock which belonged to a neighbouring church had struck one long
before she laid her head on her pillow.