Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl by L. T. Meade (rooftoppers .TXT) 📖

preparing her crust for the pie. She succeeded fairly well, although the water with which she mixed her dough would run all over the board, and her nice fresh butter stuck in the most provoking way to the rolling-pin. Still, the pie was made, after a fashion, and Polly felt very happy, as she amused herself cutting out little ornamental leaves from what remained of[Pg 40] her pastry to decorate it. It was a good-sized tart, and when she had crowned it with a wreath of laurel leaves she thought she had never seen anything so handsome and appetizing. Alas, however, for poor Polly, the making of this pie was her one and only triumph.

The morning had gone very fast, while she was walking to the village securing her purchases, and coming home again. She was startled when she looked at the kitchen clock to find that it pointed to a quarter past twelve. At the same time she discovered that the kitchen fire was nearly out, and that the oven was cold. Father always liked the early dinner to be on the table sharp at one o’clock; it would never, never do for Polly’s first dinner to be late. She must not wait any longer for that naughty Maggie; she must put coals on the fire herself, and wash the potatoes, and set them on to boil.

This was scarcely the work of an ordinary lady-like housekeeper; but Polly tried to fancy she was in Canada, or in even one of the less civilized settlements, where ladies put their hands to anything, and were all the better for it.

She had a great hunt to find the potatoes, and when she had washed them—which it must be owned she did not do at all well—she had still greater difficulty in selecting a pot which would hold them. She found one at last, and with some difficulty placed it on the kitchen-range. She had built up her fire with some skill, but was dismayed to find that, try as she would, she could get no heat into the oven. The fact was, she had not the least idea how to direct the draught in the right direction; and although the fire burned fiercely, and the potatoes soon began to bubble and smoke, the oven, which was to cook poor Polly’s tart, remained cold and irresponsive.

Well, cold as it was, she would put her pie in, for time was flying as surely it had never flown before and it was dreadful to think that there would be nothing at all for dinner but potatoes.

Oh, why did not that wicked Maggie come! Really Polly did not know that any one could be quite so depraved and heartless as Maggie was turning out. She danced about the kitchen in her impatience, and began to think she understood something of the wickedness of those cities described in the Bible, which were destroyed by fire on account of their sins, and also of the state of the world before the Flood came.

“They were all like Maggie,” she said to herself. “I really never heard of any one before who was quite so hopelessly bad as Maggie.”

The kitchen clock pointed to the half hour, and even to twenty minutes to one. It was hopeless to think of pancakes now—equally hopeless to consider the possibilities of a beefsteak pudding. They would be very lucky if they had steak in any form. Still, if Maggie came at once that might be[Pg 41] managed, and nice potatoes, beef-steak, apple-tart and cream would be better than no dinner at all.

Just at this moment, when Polly’s feelings were almost reduced to despair, she was startled by a queer sound, which gradually came nearer and nearer. It was the sound of some one sobbing, and not only sobbing, but crying aloud with great violence. The kitchen door was suddenly burst open, and dishevelled, tear-stained, red-faced Maggie rushed in, and threw herself on her knees at Polly’s feet.

“I has gone and done it, Miss Polly,” she exclaimed. “I was distraught-like, and my poor little bit of a brain seemed to give way all of a sudden. Mother’s in a heap of trouble, Miss Polly. I went round to see her, for it was quite a short cut to Watson’s, round by mother’s, and mother she were in an awful fixing. She hadn’t nothing for the rent, Miss Polly, ’cause the fruit was blighted this year; and the landlord wouldn’t give her no more grace, ’cause his head is big and his heart is small, same as ’tis other way with me, Miss Polly, and the bailiffs was going to seize mother’s little bits of furniture, and mother she was most wild. So my head it seemed to go, Miss Polly, and I clutched hold of the half-sovereign in the butcher’s pocket, and the half-sovereign in the grocer’s pocket, and I said to mother, ‘Miss Polly’ll give ’em to you, ’cause it’s a big heart as Miss Polly has got. They was meant for the family dinner, but what’s dinner compared to your feelings.’ So mother she borrowed of the money, Miss Polly, and I hasn’t brought home nothink; I hasn’t, truly, miss.”

Maggie’s narrative was interspersed with very loud sobs, and fierce catches of her breath, and her small eyes were almost sunken out of sight.

“Oh, I know you’re mad with me,” she said, in conclusion. “But what’s dinner compared with mother’s feelings. Oh, Miss Polly, don’t look at me like that!”

“Get up,” said Polly, severely. “You are just like the people before the Flood; I understand about them at last. I cannot speak to you now, for we have not a moment to lose. Can you make the oven hot? There are only potatoes for dinner, unless the apple tart can be got ready in time.”

“Oh, lor’! Miss Polly, I’ll soon set that going—why, you has the wrong flue out, Miss. See now, the heat’s going round it lovely. Oh, what an elegant pie you has turned out, Miss Polly! Why, it’s quite wonderful! You has a gift in the cookery line, Miss. Oh, darling Miss Polly, don’t you be a-naming of me after them Flooders; it’s awful to think I’m like one of they. It’s all on account of mother, Miss Polly. It would have gone to your heart, Miss Polly, if you seen mother a-looking at the eight-day clock and thinking of parting from it. Her tears made channels on her cheeks, Miss Polly, and it was ’eart-piercing to view her. Oh, do take back them words, Miss Polly. Don’t say as I’m a Flooder.”

Polly certainly had a soft heart, and although nothing could have mortified her more than the present state of affairs, she made up her mind to screen Maggie, and to be as little severe to her as she could.