The Complete Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Frances Hodgson Burnett

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СКАЧАТЬ then I’m goin’ to get sumethin’ ‘earty to carry to Polly. She ain’t no good, pore thing!”

      “Who is she?”

      Stopping a moment to drag up the heel of her dreadful shoe, she answered him with an unprejudiced directness which might have been appalling if he had been in the mood to be appalled.

      “Ain’t eighteen, an’ tryin’ to earn ‘er livin’ on the street. She ain’t made for it. Little country thing, allus frightened to death an’ ready to bust out cryin’. Gents ain’t goin’ to stand that. A lot of ‘em wants cheerin’ up as much as she does. Gent as was in liquor last night knocked ‘er down an’ give ‘er a black eye. ‘Twan’t ill feelin’, but he lost his temper, an’ give ‘er a knock casual. She can’t go out tonight, an’ she’s been ‘uddled up all day cry in’ for ‘er mother.”

      “Where is her mother?”

      “In the country—on a farm. Polly took a place in a lodgin’-‘ouse an’ got in trouble. The biby was dead, an’ when she come out o’ Queen Charlotte’s she was took in by a woman an’ kep’. She kicked ‘er out in a week ‘cos of her cryin’. The life didn’t suit ‘er. I found ‘er cryin’ fit to split ‘er chist one night—corner o’ Apple Blossom Court—an’ I took care of ‘er.”

      “Where?”

      “Me chambers,” grinning; “top loft of a ‘ouse in the court. If anyone else ‘d ‘ave it I should be turned out. It’s an ‘ole, I can tell yer—but it’s better than sleepin’ under the bridges.”

      “Take me to see it,” said Antony Dart, “I want to see the girl.”

      The words spoke themselves. Why should he care to see either cockloft or girl? He did not. He wanted to go back to his lodgings with that which he had come out to buy. Yet he said this thing. His companion looked up at him with an expression actually relieved.

      “Would yer tike up with ‘er?” with eager sharpness, as if confronting a simple business proposition. “She’s pretty an’ clean, an’ she won’t drink a drop o’ nothin’. If she was treated kind she’d be cheerfler. She’s got a round fice an’ light ‘air an’ eyes. ‘Er ‘air’s curly. P’raps yer’d like ‘er.”

      “Take me to see her.”

      “She’d look better tomorrow,” cautiously, “when the swellin’s gone down round ‘er eye.”

      Dart started—and it was because he had for the last five minutes forgotten something.

      “I shall not be here tomorrow,” he said. His grasp upon the thing in his pocket had loosened, and he tightened it.

      “I have some more money in my purse,” he said deliberately. “I meant to give it away before going. I want to give it to people who need it very much.”

      She gave him one of the sly, squinting glances.

      “Deservin’ cases?” She put it to him in brazen mockery.

      “I don’t care,” he answered slowly and heavily. “I don’t care a damn.”

      Her face changed exactly as he had seen it change on the bridge when she had drawn nearer to him. Its ugly hardness suddenly looked human. And that she could look human was fantastic.

      “‘Ow much ‘ave yer?” she asked. “‘Ow much is it?”

      “About ten pounds.”

      She stopped and stared at him with open mouth.

      “Gawd!” she broke out; “ten pounds ‘d send Apple Blossom Court to ‘eving. Leastways, it’d take some of it out o’ ‘ell.”

      “Take me to it,” he said roughly. “Take me.”

      She began to walk quickly, breathing fast. The fog was lighter, and it was no longer a blinding thing.

      A question occurred to Dart.

      “Why don’t you ask me to give the money to you?” he said bluntly.

      “Dunno,” she answered as bluntly. But after taking a few steps farther she spoke again.

      “I’m cheerfler than most of ‘em,” she elaborated. “If yer born cheerfle yer can stand things. When I gets a job nussin’ women’s bibles they don’t cry when I ‘andles ‘em. I gets many a bite an’ a copper ‘cos o’ that. Folks likes yer. I shall get on better than Polly when I’m old enough to go on the street.”

      The organ of whose lagging, sick pumpings Antony Dart had scarcely been aware for months gave a sudden leap in his breast. His blood actually hastened its pace, and ran through his veins instead of crawling—a distinct physical effect of an actual mental condition. It was produced upon him by the mere matter-of-fact ordinariness of her tone. He had never been a sentimental man, and had long ceased to be a feeling one, but at that moment something emotional and normal happened to him.

      “You expect to live in that way?” he said.

      “Ain’t nothin’ else fer me to do. Wisht I was better lookin’. But I’ve got a lot of ‘air,” clawing her mop, “an’ it’s red. One day,” chuckling, “a gent ses to me—he ses: ‘Oh! yer’ll do. Yer an ugly little devil—but ye are a devil.’”

      She was leading him through a narrow, filthy back street, and she stopped, grinning up in his face.

      “I say, mister,” she wheedled, “let’s stop at the cawfee-stand. It’s up this way.”

      When he acceded and followed her, she quickly turned a corner. They were in another lane thick with fog, which flared with the flame of torches stuck in costers’ barrows which stood here and there—barrows with fried fish upon them, barrows with secondhand-looking vegetables and others piled with more than secondhand-looking garments. Trade was not driving, but near one or two of them dirty, illused looking women, a man or so, and a few children stood. At a corner which led into a black hole of a court, a coffee-stand was stationed, in charge of a burly ruffian in corduroys.

      “Come along,” said the girl. “There it is. It ain’t strong, but it’s ‘ot.”

      The girl held out her hand cautiously—the piece of gold lying upon its palm.

      The girl held out her hand cautiously—the piece of gold lying upon its palm.

      She sidled up to the stand, drawing Dart with her, as if glad of his protection.

      “‘Ello, Barney,” she said. “‘Ere’s a gent warnts a mug o’ yer best. I’ve ‘ad a bit o’ luck, an’ I wants one meself.”

      “Garn,” growled Barney. “You an’ yer luck! Gent may want a mug, but y’d show yer money fust.”

      “Strewth! I’ve got it. Y’ ain’t got the chinge fer wot I ‘ave in me ‘and ‘ere. ‘As ‘e, mister?”’

      “Show it,” taunted the man, and then turning СКАЧАТЬ