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.
Chapter Three
About four o’clock on the following morning Mrs Robinson stirred, opened her eyes and looked around her.
The light was streaming full into the little bedroom. It was clean and fresh, for Jill would permit nothing else. There were no cobwebs to be seen on the walls, and the floor was white with constant scrubbing. The glass in the one small window was washed until it shone, and the little blind, which was neatly pinned across was fresh, and in perfect order.
Poll Robinson lay in bed and gazed around her. The scene of the night before bed passed completely from her memory and her mind now was altogether absorbed in wondering how she could outstrip Jill and smuggle some stale flowers, which she had hidden the night before under her bed, into her basket Jill never held with these doings, but Poll thought them perfectly justifiable. The way to do a thriving business was to mix the stale goods discriminately with the fresh, and to sell one with the other. Jill would not hear of it, and Poll had to own that Jill by her honesty and method, and by her own bright and spruce appearance, had gained a very tidy connection.
But though Poll liked the money which now flowed in regularly, she sighed more than once for the good old days when she need not scrub her sitting-room nor polish her windows, nor worry herself about her unsold flowers.
The flowers did very well thrust under the bed in the old times, and they sold very well, too, mixed up with fresh bunches the next day.
The neighbouring clock struck a quarter past four, and Mrs Robinson, with a profound sigh, raised herself on her elbow, and looked at her sleeping daughter.
There was a good deal of resemblance between the mother and child. Both were dark, and had big, brilliant eyes, and masses of raven hair.
The face of the older woman looked young enough this morning. The lines of care, pain, and dissipation had vanished with her last night’s sleep. A high colour, partly caused by an inward fever and ache, which scarcely ever left her, gave a false beauty to Poll Robinson’s face.
She stooped, kissed Jill on her forehead, and getting out of bed began to dress. She saw that the girl looked tired, and she determined to go to Covent Garden for the fresh flowers herself.
She hastily put on her clothes, and slipping her flowers from under the bed, went out into the kitchen. The boys were snoring loudly in their press bedstead. Poll went across the room, and shook Tom vigorously.
“Look yere,” she said, “you tell Jill that I’m fetching the flowers this morning. Tell her to lie easy, and take her sleep out. Do you hear me, you good-for-naught? Do you hear what I’m saying? or are ye too sleepy to take it all in?”
“I hear right enough, mother,” replied Tom, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “Are you better this morning, mother?”
“Yes, to be sure; why shouldn’t I be?”
Tom looked down at Bob, who was asleep. Then he glanced towards the open door of the bedroom. He was not at all afraid of his mother; but he had a wholesome dread of Jill.
“Look yere,” he said: “is it true what Hastie says?”
“What did Hastie say?”
Mrs Robinson placed her arms akimbo.
“He said as you were real bad last night, – real bad – and out in the street, you mind.”
“Well, and what ef I wor?”
“Only, Jill says it’s a lie. She said she’ll smack Hastie for saying it.”
Mrs Robinson’s face underwent a quick, queer change.
“Bless Jill,” she said. “You lie down and go to sleep, Tom, and don’t bother me.”
The boy slipped at once under the bed-clothes. He pretended to sleep, but he watched his mother furtively. Seen now in her fresh trim morning dress she was a presentable, and even handsome woman. She put on a coloured apron of the same pattern and design as Jill’s, twisted a turban round her head, and taking up her basket prepared to go out.
First of all, however, she went to an old bureau, and pulled open one of the small top drawers. In this drawer she and Jill kept their loose pence and silver. She was looking now for the money to buy the flowers with which she must stock her basket.
She knew that this time yesterday there were three shillings in pence and silver in the drawer. Now when she opened it, nothing whatever in the shape of money was to be seen. A piece of gay print, with which she intended to make an apron for herself, had also vanished.
Poll stood before the empty drawer with astonishment and confusion. Where had the money gone?
She thrust her hand into her pocket. Had she by any chance put it there when she went out to buy drink? If so, it was gone. Her pocket was quite destitute of the smallest coin. Could she have left the door open when she went out? No, she was quite confident on that point.
