Pollyooly. Edgar Jepson
quite the name for the housekeeper of a gentleman of—of—shall we say, rank and fashion. It is a position of dignity, you know."
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly gravely.
"And naturally the holder of a position of dignity should have a dignified name."
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly.
"Therefore I shall call you 'Mrs. Hooley,'" said the Honorable John Ruffin.
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly. "But my name isn't 'Hooley,' sir. It's Bride—like Aunt Hannah's; and my other name's 'Mary.'"
"The deuce it is!" said the Honorable John Ruffin in no little surprise. "I'd made up my mind that it was Hooley—pronounced '’Ooley' in the metropolitan fashion."
"No, sir. They always called me Pollyooly instead of plain Polly," said Pollyooly in a somewhat apologetic tone.
"Ah, I see: the 'ooly' is a diminutive affix expressive of affection," said the Honorable John Ruffin with an air of enlightenment.
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly politely, though she knew neither what a diminutive nor an affix was.
"Mary Bride—Mary Bride," said the Honorable John Ruffin in a tone of thoughtful approval. "It's an incredibly appropriate name for an angel child. Well, I shall call you 'Mrs. Bride.'"
"Aren't I rather young to be called 'Mrs.,' sir?" said Pollyooly in a doubtful tone.
"Undoubtedly. But housekeepers are always 'Mrs.' in the best families. We must follow the custom and ignore your youth," said the Honorable John Ruffin firmly.
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly.
The Honorable John Ruffin surveyed her thoughtfully; then he said in a somewhat rueful tone, "I feel that something ought to be done in the matter of your dress. But, alas! the exchequer (not the public exchequer, of which I intend to be one day chancellor), but my own private exchequer is empty."
Pollyooly looked ruefully down at her oft-washed blue print frock, which had grown uncommonly short in the skirt; and, a faint flush mantled her cheeks.
"Mrs. Brown is going to make me a new frock, sir, when I get the stuff," she said.
"I must get the stuff—as soon as something in the nature of a ship comes home," said the Honorable John Ruffin. "My mother used to give all the maids what, I believe, are called 'dress-lengths,' every Christmas; and we must not let the fact that Christmas has stolen several months' march on us cause any breach of a time-honored custom. Only the time is not yet."
"Thank you, sir," said Pollyooly. "And in the afternoon, sir, when I have done my work and you have visitors, I can wear my new black frock, the one that came out of the burial-money."
"Good," said the Honorable John Ruffin. "That will tide us over the present crisis."
He found no reason to regret that he had established Pollyooly and the Lump in his attic. He had been right in supposing that the Lump had gained his name from the enjoyment of a pacific nature. He never heard his voice raised in a wail or a whimper. Indeed, he seemed a noiseless child. It also pleased the Honorable John Ruffin greatly that he should be an authentic, but red-haired, cherub, the perfect match of his angel sister. The Honorable John Ruffin had a very strong sense of the fitness of things; and he would not for the world have had it ruffled.
Pollyooly was considerably surprised by his making, or rather trying to make, a change in his diet. At least once a week he would order in a cold roast chicken or a tongue, from Messrs. Spiers and Pond, with whom, for some quite inexplicable reason, his credit was good, and eat a scrap of it after his eggs at breakfast.
Always he said, as he laid down his knife and fork: "It is no use, Pollyooly. In vain I try to train myself to become a fine old English gentleman, one of the olden time. I can not bring myself to devour these solid meats at breakfast. Do not let my appetite be weakened by the sight of this severe dish again. Take it away and eat it up at the hours at which it is appropriate."
Pollyooly always thanked him gratefully. She needed to spend no money at all on solid foods, only on the Lump's milk. She found herself growing affluent in the midst of luxury.
She contrived to see very little of Mrs. Meeken. It was not only that she disliked the scent with which the air round that old-time type of English womanhood was laden, but also she shunned her because she brought back the painful memory of her dark hour. Sometimes Mr. Gedge-Tomkins passed her on the stairs, drawing aside the skirt of his barrister's robe, as if he feared it would be contaminated by brushing against her. That Pollyooly did not mind at all. She had never respected Mr. Gedge-Tomkins. Besides she was quite sure that were the deception to be practised again, for the Lump's sake she would practise it again.
She had been established some ten days in her new home, when one morning Mr. Gedge-Tomkins and the Honorable John Ruffin came out of the doors of their respective chambers at the same moment, on their way to the Law Courts. They greeted each other amicably enough, though either enjoyed something of the contempt for the other of the ant for the butterfly and of the butterfly for the ant Neither contempt was really well-grounded, for there was more of the ant in the Honorable John Ruffin and more of the butterfly in Mr. Gedge-Tomkins than either of them dreamed.
They walked down the stairs in the dignified fashion their robes demanded, talking, with the Englishman's passionate interest, of the weather.
But as they were crossing the King's Bench Walk, Mr. Gedge-Tomkins said, "I see that you've kept on that dishonest little girl, in spite of the way she tricked us about her aunt's death, as your laundress."
"No, not my laundress; she is my housekeeper—my resident housekeeper," said the Honorable John Ruffin coldly.
"Well, all I can say is, it's putting a premium on dishonesty," said Mr. Gedge-Tomkins in a firmly moral tone.
"I am quite sure that Pollyooly is as honest as the day," said the Honorable John Ruffin; and his eyes sparkled.
"Well, on deception then," said Mr. Gedge-Tomkins.
"As long as they do their work and do not rob him a gentleman has no concern whatever with the morals of his servants. I leave that kind of thing to the middle classes," said the Honorable John Ruffin haughtily.
"The morals of our servants concern us very deeply," said Mr. Gedge-Tomkins ponderously. "And mark my words: you'll live to regret having that child about—the deceitful little minx!"
"Evidently you have never come across a real minx, or you wouldn't call Pollyooly one. I hope you'll come across one very soon. She'd do you a world of good," said the Honorable John Ruffin amiably.
"That child will rob you to a dead certainty," said Mr. Gedge-Tomkins with solemn conviction.
"Well, if she does—not that I believe for an instant she will—I shall never know it. Pollyooly is very intelligent," said the Honorable John Ruffin flippantly. "At any rate she is not a perpetual torture to my olfactory nerve. She doesn't smell like an Indian village at Earl's Court."
"I attach far more importance to honesty," said Mr. Gedge-Tomkins even more ponderously.
"I hope you've got it," said the Honorable John Ruffin in a tone of considerable doubt. Then he added warmly, "Why, hang it all! If Pollyooly hadn't tried to keep her little brother out of the workhouse by concealing the fact that a blackguardly road-hog had run over her unfortunate aunt, I should have thought very poorly of her indeed."
"Ah, you're one of our unmoral aristocracy," said Mr. Gedge-Tomkins in a tone of sad indulgence. "I'm a plain Englishman."
"And you've got a plain Englishwoman—a devilish plain Englishwoman—for housekeeper. So if you're not happy, you ought to be," said the Honorable John Ruffin in the tone of one closing a discussion.
But though he had so firmly deprecated the retention of Pollyooly after her lack of openness, it is to be doubted that Mrs. Meeken brought true happiness to Mr. Gedge-Tomkins.