POLLYOOLY PLAYS THE GOOD SAMARITAN
Mr. Wilkinson had departed, a sadder but very little wiser man, and
taken his detective with him; Mrs. Brown had been thanked, paid, and
dismissed; and Pollyooly, having sufficiently fondled and kissed the
irresponsive but unresisting Lump, went into the kitchen and set about
getting ready the Honourable John Ruffin's tea.
She had lighted the gas under the kettle and taken the bread and butter
from the cupboard, when he came into the kitchen, wearing an air of the
most earnest purpose, and said impressively:
"Genius, Pollyooly--genius is the art of taking infinite pains."
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly politely.
"That is why you are unsurpassed in the art of grilling bacon; you take
infinite pains with it," he went on with the same earnestness.
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly with more understanding.
"And now I am going to instruct you in the art of making tea," he said
proudly. "I only learned yesterday that it was an art. Till then I
believed that you merely poured boiling water on tea, and there you
were. I have learned that it is not so. Also I have learned that that
vegetable which comes from India and Ceylon, and is called tea by those
who sell it, is not really tea at all. Tea only comes from China; and
I have bought some."
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly with the air of one receiving information
gratefully.
"And now I will teach you the art of making it exactly as it was taught
to me," he said with a very schoolmasterly air.
Thereupon, under his instructions, Pollyooly warmed the tea-pot and
stood by the tea-caddy ready to put in two teaspoonfuls of tea (one for
him, one for the pot) the moment the kettle boiled. The moment it did
boil, following his instructions, she put the tea into the pot, and
then, tilting the kettle without taking it from the stove, she poured
the still boiling water on to it. Then she inverted the little glass
egg-boiler and stood ready to bring the infusing tea into his
sitting-room as soon as the upper half of it was nearly empty of sand.
Then he said in raised and sonorous tones of profound satisfaction:
"That is the art of making tea. Now that you have once learnt it, I
know,--I am sure that very soon you will be not only the finest griller
of bacon in England, but also the finest maker of tea."
"I'll try, sir," said Pollyooly cheerfully. "It doesn't seem very
difficult."
"To genius nothing is _very_ difficult," said the Honourable John
Ruffin impressively. "The difficulty is to stick to it--to go on
getting the thing right every time. But you can do it with bacon: why
not with tea?"
When the sand had nearly all run out of the upper part of the glass,
she took the tray into the sitting-room; he poured out a cup of tea,
and declared that it was tea fit for the gods.
Pollyooly smiled at his satisfaction, and then said:
"Please, sir: I should like a note to Madame Correlli to say that I
couldn't go to my dancing yesterday because I had to go into the
country. She is so particular."
"Certainly; I will write it after tea," said the Honourable John Ruffin
amiably.
After he had finished his tea he wrote the note and gave it to her.
Then she paid a proud visit to the Post Office Savings Bank and added
to her fattening account the sum of twelve pounds. Undoubtedly the
Osterley family were valuable acquaintances.
Fortified by the exculpatory note from the Honourable John Ruffin,
Pollyooly went next morning to her dancing class with an easy mind.
It had been clear to her friends that the career of housekeeper,
admirably as she discharged its duties, was far inferior to her
abilities; it did not give them nearly full scope. Those friends were
young, and they were alive, keenly alive, to the fact that there is a
steady demand for angels in that sphere of British and German industry
curiously known as musical comedy. They could not conceive that, since
she had to work for a living, Pollyooly's natural grace and the agility
she had acquired in her earlier childhood, at the village of Muttle
Deeping, and still retained, could be put to more agreeable and
profitable use than that of helping to supply this demand for angels,
and so help to raise the British ideal of womanly beauty.
For three mornings in the week therefore, Pollyooly, taking the Lump
with her, went to Madame Correlli's dancing class in Soho; and thanks
to her active early life at Muttle Deeping, was esteemed by that
accomplished lady one of her most promising pupils. It is no wonder
that Pollyooly and her young friend and fiancé Lord Ronald
Ricksborough, the heir of the Duke of Osterley, looked forward with
confidence to the day when she should be a shining light of musical
comedy and the proper wife for a British nobleman.
Madame Correlli read the Honourable John Ruffin's note with indulgence,
accepted the excuse, and set Pollyooly to work.
Pollyooly was disinclined to make friends, close friends, of the other
little girls in her class. She was indeed very civil to them, like the
well-mannered child she was; but they did not greatly attract her.
Belonging to hard-working, dancing families, they talked a great deal
in their high-pitched, twanging voices about their friends and
relations who danced at the Varolium, Panjandrum, and other music
halls, friends of whom, since she herself aspired to higher things,
Pollyooly had but a poor opinion. Moreover, many of them powdered
their little faces, penciled their eyebrows, and deepened the roses in
their cheeks with rose-carmine or rouge; and to Pollyooly, a daughter
of Muttle Deeping, these practices were repugnant.
But she had formed one friendship among them, a friendship born of her
protective instinct, with Millicent Saunders, a frail, pale wisp of a
child, whose black eyes looked very big indeed in her thin face, framed
in a mass of black hair. The other pupils were apt to look down on
Millicent, because, though few of them ran to finery, Millicent was
shabby indeed. Pollyooly was quite unaffected by this, for in the days
when she had lived in the dreadful fear that she and the Lump might be
driven by necessity into the workhouse, she had gone shabby herself.
She knew that Millicent's mother, who had once been a dancer, was now a
charwoman, often out of work, and in feeble health. It was Millicent's
perpetual complaint that she herself was so slow growing up to the age
at which she would be earning money and supporting her ailing mother.
Down the vista of the future she saw a splendid vision in which her
mother should always have a bloater with her tea. To Pollyooly
Millicent always looked hungry.
It was Millicent's great pleasure to sit with the Lump on her knee in
the intervals of their work, mothering him as long as he would suffer
it; and it was her privilege to take his left hand as Pollyooly led him
from Soho, across the dangerous crossings to the safe stretch of the
embankment from Charing-Cross to the Temple. As they went Pollyooly
and Millicent talked of the price of provisions and the trials of
housekeeping.
But for the whole week before Pollyooly's trip to Devon Millicent had
not been to the class. Pollyooly enquired and Madame Correlli enquired
the reason for her absence, but none of the other pupils could tell
them. It was now ten days since Pollyooly had seen her, and she was
feeling anxious indeed about her.
Then, after the class was over, as she was leading the Lump down St.
Martin's Lane on their way to the embankment he projected an arm and
broke his placid and perpetual silence with one of his rare, but
pregnant grunts. Pollyooly looked where he pointed, saw Millicent on
the island in the middle of the roadway, and called to her.
Millicent turned her head and looked at them with somewhat dazed eyes.
Her face did not as usual light up at the sight of the Lump. She
crossed the road to them feebly.
"How are you? Why haven't you come to the classes for so long?" said
Pollyooly.
"Mother's dead," said Millicent dully; and her big eyes which had been
so dull, shone suddenly bright with tears.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" said Pollyooly pitifully; and as she gazed
anxiously at Millicent's seared and miserable face, her eyes grew moist
with tears of sympathy.
Millicent stooped and kissed the Lump listlessly, almost mechanically.
"And what are you going to do?" said Pollyooly with grave anxiety.
She understood fully the seriousness of Millicent's plight.
"I'm going to the workhouse," said Millicent dully.
Pollyooly clutched her arm. It was impossible for her to turn pale for
she was always of a clear, camelia-like pallor; but that pallor grew a
little dead as she cried in a tone of horror:
"Oh, no! You can't go to the workhouse! You mustn't!"
Millicent looked at her with the lack-lustre eyes of the vanquished,
and said in the same dull, toneless voice:
"I've got to. There's nowhere else for me to go to."
The tears in Pollyooly's eyes brimmed over in her dismay and horror at
this dreadful fate of her friend; and she, the dauntless, Spartan
heroine of a hundred fights with the small boys of Alsatia, was fairly
crying.
"You mustn't go! You mustn't!" she cried.
"I didn't want to. I was trying not to," said Millicent slowly.
"After mother's funeral yesterday Mrs. Baker, that's our landlady, said
the relieving officer was coming round this morning to take me to the
workhouse; and I ran away."
"Yes: that was the right thing to do," said Pollyooly in firm approval.
"Yes: I got up very early--just when it was light," said Millicent; and
her voice grew a little firmer. "And I packed my clothes"--she gave
the little bundle she was carrying a shake--"and then I sneaked
down-stairs and out of the house. And oh, the trouble the front door
gave me! You wouldn't believe! First it wouldn't open; and then when
it did, it made noise enough to wake the whole house."
Pollyooly nodded with an air of ripe experience.
"I made sure they'd wake up and catch me and stop me. But they didn't;
and I got out and ran hard out of the street. Then I walked about and
then I sat on the embankment trying to think what to do and where to
go. And two coppers wanted to know what I was doing all alone on my
own."
"They would," said Pollyooly in a tone of deep hostility to the police
force of London.
"Well, I said I was going to my aunt in Southwark. I had an aunt in
Southwark once--only she's dead. But I couldn't think of anywhere to
go--there didn't seem to be anywhere. So I thought I'd better go back
to Mrs. Baker's and let them take me to the workhouse. At any rate
she'll give me something to eat."
Pollyooly's tears had dried as she listened to her friend's tale; she
wore an alert and able air which went but ill with her delicate beauty.
She said quickly:
"Haven't you had anything to eat either?"
Millicent shook her head and said somewhat faintly:
"Not since supper last night. And I didn't eat much then--I wasn't
hungry--not after the funeral."
"You wouldn't be," said Pollyooly sympathetically.
"And I hadn't any money. The funeral took all the money," Millicent
added.
"Then the first thing to do is to get a bun," said Pollyooly in a tone
of relief at seeing her way to do something. "Then you can come and
have dinner with us."
"Thank you," said Millicent.
Her lips worked, as a hungry child's will, at the thought of food; and
a faint colour came into her white cheeks.
Pollyooly started across the road with the Lump, and Millicent took his
other hand.
On the other side of the road Pollyooly said firmly:
"You can't go to the workhouse. You mustn't. But we'll wait till we
get home before we talk about that. But there must be some way for you
not to go to it. We didn't."
They led the Lump down to the Strand; and at the first confectioner's
shop Pollyooly bought Millicent a bun. The hungry child ate the first
two mouthfuls ravenously; then she paused to break off a piece and give
it to the Lump.
"No, no!" said Pollyooly quickly. "You eat it all yourself. You want
it. He'll have his dinner as soon as he gets home."
"Oh, let me give him just a little piece," said Millicent.
"No: you're to eat it all," said Pollyooly firmly.
Most children of three would have burst into a roar on hearing this
cruel prohibition. The placidity of the Lump was proof even against so
severe a blow. He merely went on his way with a saddened air.
Millicent ate the rest of the bun with eager thankfulness, brightening
a little as the food heartened her.
They went down Villiers Street to the safe stretch of the embankment;
and then Pollyooly, her brow knitted in a thoughtful frown, began to
talk of Millicent's plight. The workhouse was so burning a subject
that she could not wait to discuss it at home.
"You can't go to the workhouse; you can't really," she said. "If you
could stay with us for a little while, you might find something to do.
But it's for Mr. Ruffin to say whether you can stay with us. We live
in his chambers, you know. I'm his housekeeper."
"Oh, if I could!" said Millicent wistfully.
"He might let you. He's very kind," said Pollyooly hopefully. "And if
he did, I wonder what kind of a job you could get. What kind of work
can you do?"
"I can do housework," said Millicent eagerly. "I always did our
room--all of it. And I cooked all our meals. Mother went out such a
lot, you know."
"It's something," said Pollyooly soberly. "But I expect you've got a
lot to learn. You see I learnt a lot at Muttle Deeping. Aunt Hannah
had a whole house there--before she lost all her savings in a gold mine
and came to London. And she had everything like the gentry
have--pictures, and plate, and brass candle-sticks--only not so much of
them; and I learnt to clean them all. But I expect you'd learn too
quickly enough."
"I'm sure I'd try," said Millicent.
"Yes. If Mr. Ruffin would let you stay for a week or two, I could
teach you a lot," said Pollyooly hopefully.
For the rest of the way to the Temple they discussed in detail
Millicent's accomplishments. They were few and limited; but to her
willingness to work there were no bounds.
As soon as they reached the Temple they set about getting dinner.
Fortunately Pollyooly had in her larder half a cold chicken; for, as
was his practice, the Honourable John Ruffin had three days before
ordered a cold chicken from the kitchen of the Inner Temple, had made a
pretence of eating some of it at his breakfast, and then had bidden her
never let him see it again. This was one of his ways of making sure
that she and the Lump were properly fed, without weakening her
independence by sapping her belief that she really supported the two of
them.
Accordingly Millicent made an excellent meal; and it restored her
strength and her spirits. She was surprised by the fact that the Lump
had a whole mugful of milk with his dinner, for she was unused to this
lavishness with that luxury in a child's diet. Pollyooly explained
that it had been an article of faith with her Aunt Hannah that a young
child needed a pint of milk a day; therefore the Lump always had one.
Millicent was deeply impressed: this was indeed affluence.
She helped Pollyooly wash up after their dinner; and then Pollyooly
suggested that it would be well for her to look very clean indeed when
she was presented to Mr. Ruffin.
"He's so particular about children being clean. Mr. Gedge-Tomkins
isn't nearly so particular," she said apologetically. "I work for him,
too, you know. He lives across the landing."
Millicent accepted the suggestion readily enough, for her mother had
been cleaner than her class. Pollyooly helped her wash and dry and
brush out her mass of silken hair, and lent her a clean frock of her
own. Presently, after the good meal on the top of her fast, Millicent
turned very sleepy, and Pollyooly let her sleep. She was still
sleeping when the Honourable John Ruffin returned home.
Pollyooly did not at once hurry to him with her news. She cut his
bread and butter very thin and nice, and followed his instructions
about the making of tea with scrupulous exactness. She carried the
tray into his sitting-room and set it beside him. Then she hesitated,
looking at him.
He looked up from the evening paper he was scanning, smiled his usual
smile of appreciation at her angel face, and said amiably:
"Well, Mrs. Bride: what is it?"
When he did not call her Pollyooly he called her "Mrs." Bride, because
they had decided that "Miss" Bride did not sound sufficiently dignified
a name for a housekeeper.
"Please, sir: I've got a little girl here," said Pollyooly in a
somewhat anxious, deprecating tone.
"A little girl?" said the Honourable John Ruffin in a natural surprise.
"Yes, sir. Her mother's dead; and they wanted to send her to the
workhouse; but she ran away," said Pollyooly quickly.
"Curious that England's little ones should fly from the home she offers
them," said the Honourable John Ruffin in his most amiable tone.
"Yes, sir. And she hadn't had anything to eat and she was very hungry,
so I brought her home to dinner," said Pollyooly still quickly.
"A very proper thing to do," said the Honourable John Ruffin.
"And I thought I'd ask you if she could stop here, sir--with me and the
Lump--till she gets some work to do. There'd be lots of room for her,
sir; and she wouldn't bother you at all," said Pollyooly in a tone of
anxious pleading.
"To get work might take a long time," said the Honourable John Ruffin
gravely.
"Yes, sir; it might," said Pollyooly no less gravely, for she knew well
the difficulty of getting work in London.
"And do you propose to keep her till she finds work?" said the
Honourable John Ruffin in the tone of one who finds it difficult to
believe his ears.
"Oh, yes, sir. She wouldn't eat much," said Pollyooly in a tone of
cheerful serenity.
"Out of the exiguous wages Mr. Gedge-Tomkins and I pay you?"
"Yes, sir. I can do it quite well," said Pollyooly confidently; and
then she added hopefully: "And perhaps it wouldn't be for long."
"On the other hand it may be for years and it may be forever," said the
Honourable John Ruffin in a despondent tone.
"Oh, no, sir: I'm sure it wouldn't be as long as that," said Pollyooly
confidently.
The Honourable John Ruffin looked at her earnest, anxious pleading face
for half a minute. Then he said:
"Let's get it quite exact: you want to saddle yourself with the
maintenance of a little girl for weeks, or it may be months, or even
years, just to save her from the chief of England's representative
institutions?"
Pollyooly's anxious frown grew deeper as she said:
"From the workhouse? Yes, sir."
"Where shall the watchful sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England my own?"
quoted the Honourable John Ruffin with deep feeling. Then he added
sententiously: "Well, we must by no means check the generous impulses
of the young. But before I decide I should like to see your protégée.
I take it that she does not rise to those heights of cleanliness at
which you maintain yourself and the Lump; but does she display
sufficient of our chief English virtue?"
"Oh, yes, sir: I couldn't have her about with the Lump if she wasn't,"
said Pollyooly firmly. "But I'll fetch her, sir." She paused,
hesitatingly, and added: "She isn't in mourning, sir. The funeral took
all the money."
"Then it can not be helped," said the Honourable John Ruffin sadly.
Pollyooly hurried up-stairs to Millicent, awoke her, and helped her
tidy her hair. She bade her be sure and curtsey nicely to the
Honourable John Ruffin, brought her into the sitting-room, and
presented her to him. Millicent's big eyes were shining brightly from
her sleep; her silken hair was prettily waved by its so recent washing;
and the excitement of this fateful meeting had flushed delicately her
pale cheeks. She appealed alike to the Honourable John Ruffin's
aesthetic and protective instinct. Only her strong London accent
distressed him: he feared lest it might corrupt the speech of Pollyooly
and the Lump, which, owing to the care of their Aunt Hannah, who had
for many years been housekeeper for Lady Constantia Deeping, was that
of gentle-folk.
However, he talked kindly and sympathetically to Millicent, questioned
her about her acquirements, and gave her leave to stay.