Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl by L. T. Meade (the lemonade war series .txt) 📗

Flower’s utter and fearless indifference to even the possibility of danger had much the same effect on Mrs. Jones that it had upon her son. They both owned to a latent feeling of uneasiness in her presence. Had she showed the least trace of fear; had she dreaded them, or tried in any way to soften them, they would have known how to manage her. But Flower addressed them much as she would have done menials in her kitchen at home. The mother, as well as the son, muttered under her breath—“Never see’d such a gel!” She dropped the baby into Flower’s outstretched arms, and answered her query in a less surly tone than usual.

“For sure night air is bad for babes, and this little ’un is young. Yes, werry young and purty.”

The woman pulled aside the white fluffy shawl; two soft clear brown eyes looked up at her, and a little mouth was curved to a radiant smile.

“Fore sure she’s purty,” said the woman. “Look, Patrick. She minds me o’—well, never mind. Missy, it ain’t good for a babe like that to be out in the night air. You’re best in the house, and so is the babe. The dawgs shan’t touch yer. Come into the house, and I’ll give yer what supper’s going, and the babe, pretty crittur, shall have a drink of milk.”

“I would not injure the baby,” said Flower. She held both arms firm round it, and entered the smoky, dismal hut.

The wife of Micah Jones moved a stool in front of the fire, pushed Flower rather roughly down on it, and then proceeded to cut thick hunches of sour bread and cheese. This was quite the coarsest food Flower had ever eaten, and yet she never thought anything more delicious. While she ate the woman sat down opposite her.

“I’ll take the babe now and feed it,” she said. “The pretty dear must be hungry.”[Pg 107]

It was not little Pearl’s way to cry. It was her fashion to look tranquilly into all faces, and to take calmly every event, whether adverse or otherwise. When she looked at Flower she smiled, and she smiled again into the face of the rough woman who, in consequence, fed her tenderly with the best she had to give.

“Is the soup done?” said the rough man, suddenly coming forward. “It’s soup I’m arter. It’s soup as’ll put life into Miss, and give her a mind to walk them miles to the nearest town.”

The woman laughed back at her son.

“The soup’s in the pot,” she said. “You can give it a stir, Pat, if you will. Nathaniel will be in by-and-by, and he’ll want his share. But you can take a bowl now, if you like, and give one to Missy.”

“Ay,” said the man, “soup’s good; puts life into a body.”

He fetched two little yellow bowls filled one for Flower, stirring it first with a pewter spoon.

“This’ll put life into you, Miss,” he said.

He handed the bowl of soup to the young girl. All this time the woman was bending over the baby. Suddenly she raised her head.

“’Tis a bonny babe,” she said. “Ef I was you, Pat, I wouldn’t stir Missy’s soup. I’d give her your own bowl. I has no quarrel with Miss, and the babe is fair. Give her your own soup, Patrick.”

“It’s all right, mother, Miss wouldn’t eat as much as in my bowl. You ain’t ’ungry enough for that, be you, Miss?”

“I am very hungry,” said Flower, who was gratefully drinking the hot liquid. “I could not touch this food if I was not very hungry. If I want more soup I suppose I can have some more from the pot where this was taken. What is the matter, woman? What are you staring at me for?”

“I think nought at all of you,” said the woman, frowning, and drawing back, for Flower’s tone was very rude. “But the babe is bonny. Here, take her back, she’s like—but never mind. You’ll be sleepy, maybe, and ’ud like to rest a bit. I meant yer no harm, but Patrick’s powerful, and he and Nat, they does what they likes. They’re the sons of Micah Jones, and he was a strong man in his day. You’d like to sleep, maybe, Missy. Here, Patrick, take the bowl from the girl’s hand.”

“I do feel very drowsy,” said Flower. “I suppose it is from being out all day. This hut is smoky and dirty, but I’ll just have a doze for five minutes. Please, Patrick, wake me at the end of five minutes, for I must, whatever happens, reach the nearest town before night.”

As Flower spoke her eyes closed, and the woman, laying her back on some straw, put the baby into her arms.

“She’ll sleep sound, pretty dear,” she said. “Ef I was you I wouldn’t harm her, just for the sake of the babe,” she concluded.

“Why, mother, what’s took you? I won’t hurt Missy. It’s her own fault ef she runs away, and steals the baby. That baby belongs to the doctor what lives in the Hollow; it’s nought special, and you needn’t be took up with it. Ah, here comes Nathaniel. Nat, I’ve found a lass wandering on the moor, and I brought her home, and now the mother don’t want us to share the booty.”

Nathaniel Jones was a man of very few words indeed. He had a fiercer, wilder eye than his brother, and his evidently was the dominant and ruling spirit.

“The moon’s rising,” he said; “she’ll be at her full in half an hour. Do your dooty, mother, for we must be out of this, bag and baggage, in half an hour.”

Without a word or a sigh, or even a glance of remorse, Mrs. Jones took the cap from Flower’s head, and feeling around her neck discovered the gold chain which held the little bag of valuables. Without opening this she slipped it into her pocket. Flower’s dainty shoes were then removed, and the woman looked covetously at the long, fine, cloth dress, but shook her head over it.

“I’d wake her if I took it,” she said.

“No, you wouldn’t, I drugged the soup well,” said Pat.

“Well, anyhow, I’ll leave her her dress. There’s nought more but a handkerchief with a bit of lace on it.”

“Take the baby’s shawl,” said Nathaniel, “and let us be off. If the moon goes down we won’t see the track. Here, mother, I’ll help myself to the wrap.”

“No, you won’t,” said the woman. “You don’t touch the babe with the pale face and the smile of Heaven. I’m ready; let’s go.”

The dogs were called, and the entire party strode in single file along a narrow path, which led away in a westerly direction over Peg-Top Moor.