“You belong to the Helpful Ministry, I can see,” said the lady, “by whatever name you may call yourself; and you have received quite the customary thanks and pay. My name is Wentworth, and I love girls, and am glad to find any who need mothering; and just now you need not only a mother’s love, but a mother’s skill also. Come with me.”
The Basket Woman sighed, and glanced at the kind face beside her. But the next moment she grew frightened, and answered hastily, “Oh, no, I cannot do that. Thank you so much, but I would rather go to my lodging.”
“Very well, I will help you,” said Miss Wentworth, for it was she. “No? I must not do that? Ah! I quite understand. But you may trust me. Here is my card. Will you promise to come and see me? If not, I shall not leave until I know where to find you.”
It was very tiresome, the Basket Woman thought; but she took the card, and gave the promise, and then crept back to her lodging, and went at once to her bed, where she remained for some days, with ample time and opportunity for testing the efficacy of her own medicines. Truth to tell, while enduring considerable pain and weakness, she much wished that she could have accepted the kind invitation of Miss Wentworth; but afterwards she was glad she had not. As soon as she was able she called on that lady, but was relieved to find that she was out. And then she gave herself afresh to her work. Paradise Grove was her own “happy hunting-ground,” and, therefore, she had taken two rooms, and thoroughly whitewashed and cleaned them, and lived among the people. She was glad to find that the ill-feeling which had been roused against her seemed all to have died out, and, as there never had been any in her heart, she went on with her work as if nothing had happened. She was needed just then for a bad case of sickness, and before that duty was through an incident occurred in connection with Fanny Burton that gave the Basket Woman great joy.
It was Sunday, and Paradise Grove was less savoury than usual. It was also more active, for most of the cleaning and washing were done on that day. Sunday, too, was the grand cooking-day of the week; everybody in the Grove tried to get a little hot meat on the Sunday. Often it was not possible, for in the Grove were many of the victims of London’s cruel sweating system, and many a woman worked fourteen hours a day for less than a shilling. Considering this terrible fight for life, and the environments of these people, the wonder was that they were not worse than they were. Happily, however, the system was doomed, for England was determined not to endure it, and public opinion was so severe on the sweaters themselves that their number became less every month. There was in process of formation a new Volunteer Corps, which already numbered thousands of employers of labour, who were sworn to abolish slavery in London, and set every man, woman, and child free. The Basket Woman, like many others, was preparing the way for this consummation.
Fanny Burton was busy on Sunday morning. First she helped her mother scrub the floor of the living room, and then she washed and ironed a pair of cuffs and a pocket handkerchief; next she brushed her Sunday dress, putting a stitch here and there to make it tidy. The fact was that Fanny was going out. George Green had invited her, and she had consented, to take a walk to Harleigh Furze; and, as she herself would have said, she was “counting on it,” not altogether for George’s sake, but still more for the sake of the flowers and the ferns; for this poor, uneducated girl, who spent the greater part of her life in a close factory, had the love of flowers born with her.
“Hurry on the dinner, mother,” she said; “I want to go out.”
“Very well; you must get it ready yourself, then,” was the curt reply. “Nobody else can please you.”
After dinner Fanny hastened from the Grove to the appointed rendezvous to meet George. He was not there, and the girl waited nearly half an hour before he appeared. When he came there was a sheepish look on his face. “How are you, Fan? You won’t mind, will you, if Drom Jones goes with us? She asked me to take her, and I couldn’t say we wouldn’t have her. And we won’t go to the Furze. Drom wants to go to Addington Park instead, because it’s nearer.”
A look of scorn came into Fanny’s eyes. Andromeda Jones (the Paradise Grove people were fond of fine names) was no favourite of hers, and George knew that.