Chapter 6 Jill: A Flower Girl by L. T. Meade
It seemed but a moment later that Poll opened her eyes, to find herself lying on a hard horse-hair sofa close to an open window. The chemist was bending over her, holding her wrist between his finger and thumb, and looking into her face with professional interest.
“Ah, that’s nice,” he said, “you are better now; you’ll do fine, if you’ll just lie still for a minute or two. Take a sip of this water. It was the close air of the shop. You are much too ill to be going about in this fashion, you know.”
Poll put her hand to her forehead, gave the chemist a dazed glance, saw Mrs Peters winding in the background, and struggled to her feet.
“Stay still, you are not fit to move yet,” repeated the chemist. “This woman – she is your friend, I suppose? – will look after you, while I go back to attend to my customers. I’m going to shut up shop in a moment, and then I shall return to you. I want to speak to you before you go.”
He left the little room, and Betsy Peters, who had been crying, came up to Poll. “My poor dear,” she said.
“I’m weak yet,” said Poll. “I suppose I fainted. I never did that sort of thing before.” Then she glanced down at the front of her dress, which was open and disarranged. “What did he do that for?” she asked in white anger.
“To let in the air. You was werry bad, Poll.”
“Then he found out – ”
“He found out, my poor dear.”
“And you know it, Betsy Peters?”
“Oh, Poll, Poll, it’s the will of the Lord.”
“Don’t come over me with your cant. I’m goin’ out now. I’d like a drop of the medicine ef what you tells me about it is true, but I’ll not wait. Good-night, neighbour; I must be goin’ home to Jill.”
“The chemist said as he’d speak to you, neighbour, and he seems a kind sort o’ a man. You oughtn’t to go away without seeing him.”
“I don’t want to see him; let me pass.”
Poll approached the door of the little room. It was opened from behind, and the chemist came back.
“I am glad you are better,” he said.
Poll dropped a curtsey.
“Yes, sir, and I’m obleeged to you. I’ll be goin’ home now.”
“I should like to speak to you, first. Perhaps this woman would wait in the shop.”
“No, she needn’t do that,” said Poll. “Jeanie will want you, Betsy. You’d best be goin’ back to her. Good-night.”
Mrs Peters turned away with the meek expression habitual to her. Poll and the chemist found themselves alone.
“Now, sir,” she said, “I know you has found out what’s up with me, but I don’t want it talked over. Words won’t mend it. Ef that stuff you sell is good for pain like mine I’ll pay yer for a bottle o’ it, and there’s an end of the matter.”
“The medicine I sell is good for a great many things, but it won’t reach your pain. There is only one thing for you to do, my poor woman.”
“Thank you, sir, I know that.”
“Then you are going – ”
“To the public-house round the corner? Yes, sir.”
“Good heavens! how dreadful! The ease you get from drink only aggravates your suffering afterwards. It promotes fever, and undermines your strength.”
“I’d give a deal this minute for three or four hours’ ease,” said Poll. “I’d drink a power of gin to get the ease, whether it were right or wrong.”
“Look here,” said the chemist. “I’ll give you something to give you relief for the night. You can take it away with you, and when you drink it you will sleep sound, and your pain will go. To-morrow you must go into a hospital; you can be cured there – cured, I say.”
Poll laughed discordantly.
“I believe a deal o’ that sort of talk,” she said. “No, they cuts you up to bits in the ’ospital, that’s what they does.”
“You show your ignorance when you speak in that way. I tell you plainly that the only chance you have is to get into a hospital as fast as ever you can, and to stop drinking gin. If you go on as you are doing, at present you will not live many months, and your death will be accompanied by fearful suffering. Now do be sensible; believe that doctors only mean your best good. Here, take this little bottle, of medicine with you. It will give you a good-night.”
Poll thanked the chemist and walked out of the shop. Should she go a little farther to the public-house just at the corner, whose brilliant lights she could see from where she stood? No. For once she would be prudent; she would obey the chemist’s directions, and trust to the medicine which she had put into her pocket giving her a night’s relief.
She quickly retraced her steps in the direction of her home. She was anxious to be back before Jill and young Carter returned.
She had just time to accomplish this purpose. Her bonnet and shawl were off, and a little paraffin lamp was burning brightly in the neat sitting-room when the two young people came in.
Jill went straight up to her mother and kissed her; then taking Nat’s hand, she said, in a low, sweet voice which thrilled right into the heart of the older woman.
“We has it all settled, mother. He’ll be my mate, and I’ll be his. We’re to be husband and wife in less than three weeks now, till death us do part; that’s what the Bible says, ain’t it, Nat?”
“I was wed in a church, long, long years ago,” answered Poll, “and they said words o’ that sort. You ain’t going to take my gel afore the registrar, be you, Nat?”
“I’ll do as Jill pleases,” replied Nat. “I ain’t one for churches. I never did ’old by what you call religious folk. To be honest and upright and sober, that wor religion enough for me. To be sober and honest, and to speak the truth allers, that’s my creed. But ef Jill wants the church and the parson, why she may have ’em; I’m agreeable.”
“I want the words, ‘Till death us do part,’” said Jill. “Do they say them words at a Registry Office, Nat?”
“Not as I know on, my gel.”
“Well, mother looks as ef she’d drop. We can settle that matter another time. Perhaps you’d best be goin’ home now, Nat. I see as Susy has left already.”
“Yes,” said Poll, “I sent her home. I said it wor weary work waiting for lovers. Well, good-night, Nat Carter. You’ll be good to Jill.”
“I hope I will, Mrs Robinson. Ef love can make me good to her, then she’s safe enough.”
“She’s the sweetest gel man ever took to wife,” continued Poll. “She’s sound as a nut through and through, both mind and body. See you treat her well, or I’ll give you my curse.”
“Mother!” said Jill, in a voice of pain.
Poll pushed Jill aside with a fierce gesture.
“Let me be, gel,” she said. “I must have my say out. Don’t you suppose as it gives me pain to hand you over to another, even though it is Nat Carter, who I think well on? And I don’t mind saying to his face that ef he treats you bad my curse’ll foller him wherever he is. It ain’t a light thing to have the curse of a mother on you, young man, so you’d best be careful.”
Poll’s words came out with such sudden force and venom that Jill turned pale, and going up to her lover, hid her face against his shoulder.
Nat was silent for a moment in his astonishment; then, throwing his strong arm round Jill, he said with a faint, sweet smile.
“And ef I treat her well, even half as well as she deserves, you’ll bless me, won’t you, Mrs Robinson?”
“Ay, lad, that’s true enough. I’ll give you my blessing for what it’s worth. I don’t fear but you’ll be upright, Nat; but yours is a hard creed, and may be it’ll turn you a bit ’ard, by-and-bye.”
“I don’t know what you mean by my having a ’ard creed. A feller wouldn’t be worth his salt what wasn’t sober, honest, and truthful.”
“Right you are, lad.” Poll laughed bitterly. “Well, good-night to you, and think on my words.” Jill accompanied Nat into the passage.
“Mother’s werry tired,” she said, “and she ain’t as well as I’d like to see her. She suffers a good bit of pain now and then, and she feels me giving myself to you. You mustn’t take agen her words, Nat.”
“You may be sure I won’t do that, sweet-heart, seein’ as she’s your mother. But ef she’s not well, Jill, oughtn’t she to go to a ’orspital?”
“No, no, she’ll never do that. Good-night, Nat, good-night.”
“Be sure you keep that bit of money I give you to take care on safe, Jill. It’s for my mate, Joe Williams, and I’ll have to give it up to him on Saturday night. It’s a load off my mind you having it, for I don’t like the lodgings I’m in now a bit. I don’t think the folks are straight, and five pounds is a goodish lump of money.”
“I’ll put it into the stocking with my own savings,” said Jill. “Good-night, Nat.”